Coming of Age

by Panty Girdle Kid

 

The bell went to signal the end of the visiting hour. As I stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of my skirt, he smiled at me and told me how I was becoming more beautiful with every passing year. I just smiled back and told him I'd be back to see him tomorrow.

I walked down the ward, knowing that he would be watching me and assessing me all the way, then sighed with relief as I turned left and headed down the stairs, finally out of his line of sight. More beautiful with every passing year! I'd bloody well hope so. I had spent virtually every evening and weekend of the last three years dressed and made-up as a girl. I think I'd had enough practice! A few people looked at me as I headed out of the building, but I barely registered them. Years ago, my heart would have leapt out of my chest every time I met someone's glance. Now, at the ripe old age of 17, I knew for a fact that I was completely convincing as a girl. I wish I had bulked up like some of the other guys at school. If I had ended up looking like a weightlifter in a dress, this all might have come to an end ages ago. But no such luck. At five foot ten and with a slim physique, I'd been cursed both with the ability to pass as a woman and with a deranged father who was determined that I make use of that talent to the maximum.

It was still a warm evening, so I didn't put on my jacket as I waited for the train. This meant I still got a few odd glances, particularly from women, as they saw my longline bra through my blouse, but that had long since stopped bothering me. They just thought I was a teenage girl with a strange taste in underwear, not a teenage boy pervert, so that was tolerable. On the journey to the hospital, I had changed clothes and put on my make-up in the toilet between the coaches, heading into the other coach afterwards so that no-one would notice. I intended to do my girl-to-boy transformation the same way on the journey back, but I sat day-dreaming so long that I only realised that I was still in a blouse and skirt as the train pulled in to the station. My immediate reaction was to head to the station toilets and change before going home, but this was impossible. The crowds of people waiting around in the concourse meant that I could hardly be seen going into the men's toilets dressed as a girl or coming out of the ladies' dressed as a boy. My heart started to pump a little faster as I slung the bag containing my jeans and sweatshirt over my shoulder and walked out the main door. For the first time since we had left to spend our first holiday as father and "daughter", I was outside in my home town dressed in girl's clothes. I wasn't as nervous as I would have expected to be, as I was now completely confident in my ability to pass as female. However, I did put my jacket on and zipped it up just enough to hide my bra - the less attention I drew to myself the better.

I headed home. I had now got the girl act off to a tee so I didn't expect any trouble. I looked like a girl, moved like a girl, behaved like a girl, and no-one took any notice of me. On the odd occasion when I caught someone's eye, I just smiled at them and they invariably smiled back then passed on. But as I turned the corner into the High Street, my biggest ever test came into view. Jim, Gordon and Andy, three of my closest friends (until my shame at wearing a girdle at school had made it unbearable for me to associate with other boys) were heading down the street and straight towards me. I swallowed nervously, and for the first time that day, fear of discovery started to gnaw at me. Even though I was in my final year at school, there were still many months to go, and it would be a long hellish winter if my classmates were to find out I was a cross-dresser. As we got closer, I could see Andy look at me, nudge Jim, and make some comment. They all started grinning, but I was determined to brazen this out. No sooner had they walked past than they started whistling and making all the usual stupid adolescent comments that teenage boys do when they see a pretty girl. I turned round, smiled demurely, then flicked them the finger. They screamed with laughter and headed on their way.

 

I walked down the street, grinning from ear to ear in satisfaction and sheer relief. I had got away with it! I had managed to convince my once closest friends that I was a girl. Then I stopped dead in my tracks and the smile disappeared from my face in an instant. What the hell was wrong with me? There I was, a 17 year old boy, standing in the middle of the street dressed from head to toe in women's clothes and laughing like a half-wit because I was getting away with it. Then another thought hit me. My lunatic father had been rushed to hospital yesterday afternoon to have an emergency appendectomy, yet even though I didn't put my blouse and skirt back on after the ambulance had left, I had still spent the evening in my bra and girdle - the same bra and girdle I had unthinkingly put on first thing this morning and worn all bloody day. I had spent almost every waking moment for over four years imprisoned in one girdle or other, and when the chance had come to escape, even if only for a short time, I had let it pass me by. As I thought about this, I became acutely aware of my foundations gripping me tightly, and all the girly bounce I had exhibited on my triumphant parade from the railway station evaporated. I started home again, occasionally breaking into a half-run. Then, as I turned into my street and our house came into view, I stopped short again. How could I risk going up to the door and letting myself in while dressed like this? I'd got lucky with the neighbours three years ago. I doubted if I'd be so lucky again.

I turned back, frantically thinking what I should do. The thought that he would be in hospital for a few days yet, and that I could spend all that time being myself - no wigs, no make-up, no skirts and definitely, most definitely, no bloody girdles - had got my heart racing. I looked up, saw the trees rising above the houses a couple of streets away, and with my pulse quickening even more, I headed towards them. We lived on the outskirts of the town, and there was a small wood just beyond our street. Small was definitely the operative word, but it was big enough to give me some seclusion. I headed into the wood, looking behind me every few steps to see if I would still be visible from any of the nearby houses. After a couple of minutes, I was out of sight. Just me and the trees. With my hands shaking, I took off my jacket, laid it beside my bag, then I dropped my wig on top of it. I kicked off my shoes, unbuttoned my skirt and let it fall to the ground while I removed my blouse. My blouse, skirt and shoes joined the wig on top of my jacket, leaving me standing there in the middle of the wood in only my bra, girdle and stockings.

Some people with a fear of heights say that they can't go near the edge without getting this insane urge to throw themselves over the precipice. I now understood what they meant. As I stood there in my foundations, terrified that someone might come past and see me, I felt this brief, near overwhelming, desire to just walk back down to the street and let everyone see me, let it all be over. I stood there for several minutes as if hypnotised, making no effort to cover myself up, almost willing someone to come down the path and see me.

And eventually someone did come. Fortunately, I heard the footsteps a few seconds before they appeared. This was enough to snap me out of my trance and fill me with the most intense fear I had ever known. I dropped into the long grass and lay in terror as Bill McDowall and Jenny Davis walked past, hand-in-hand. A year below me at school, they had been dating for a few weeks now and were sickening everyone with their lovey-dovey routine. The pile of clothes I had taken off were behind a small mound that ensured they would remain invisible from the path, but my bag lay in full view. If they saw it and came over to investigate, I would have no escape. But they walked on, thankfully so engrossed in each other that they paid no attention to anything else. They disappeared further into the woods and, once their voices had dimmed and vanished, I scuttled over, grabbed the bag, and took out my clothes. I had put one leg into the jeans before I realised that, yet again, I was still wearing a damn girdle when there was no need. I unzipped and unhooked it and briskly peeled it off, stockings still attached. This left me in my panties, but as I had no other underwear, I decided that I could live with it. The bra was also unhooked and removed, and the pile of female clothes was unceremoniously bundled into the bag. I dressed, pulled out some tissues and lotion and removed as much make-up as I could, then headed out of the woods and back home.

The feeling of freedom around my hips as I walked along the street and up to the front door was unfamiliar and astonishing. While bras, skirts and other items were never full-time wear (due to the fact that I had to go to school at least looking like a boy), the one constant in my life these last few years had been a girdle. To be out and about without one felt so utterly alien that, to my puzzlement, it actually felt wrong. Part of me felt undressed and self-conscious. I felt strangely unsettled as I unlocked the door and went into the house - I should have been delighted about all this, yet I was confused as hell. In the last 24 hours, I had been cross-dressed when there was no need, had shown signs of elation at successfully passing as a woman, and now, most disconcerting of all, was feeling edgy and uncomfortable about not being in a girdle - a girdle, for Christ's sake!.

As the evening passed, the feelings of guilt got worse. I struggled to make sense of it. Why the hell should I feel guilty about not wearing women's clothes? Was I so afraid of him that, even when there was no chance of him finding out what I was doing, I still compelled to dress as a girl? Could I really have been brainwashed to that extent? No matter how much I analysed, the bottom line was that the emotional turmoil and discomfort I felt now, with a pair of panties being the only female clothing on me, was almost as bad as the feelings I had on my 13'^th birthday as I spent my first ever day in a girdle.

I could hardly sleep that night. Every time I shut my eyes, all I could see were two images of myself - the first as a 13 year old, lying on my bed in my Christmas presents of a longline bra, open girdle and stockings, so shocked by the look and feel of it on me and horrified that it was to become a regular part of my life that I couldn't even cry, and the second from this afternoon in the High Street, again with a bra, girdle and stockings on, standing with a silly smirk on my face as my schoolmates wolf-whistled me.

I got up the next morning - another Monday, another schoolday - determined to put the previous night's silliness behind me. As I got dressed, I pulled on a pair of panties - I had no other underwear - but that was to be all. I put on my trousers and the rest of my uniform and headed downstairs for breakfast. My trousers were a little tight on me, as I had been wearing a girdle when I tried them on in the store, but it was bearable. I checked myself in the mirror at least a dozen times. Did I look fatter? Did my backside look different now it wasn't being smoothed out? Would anyone notice anything different? And all the time, the feelings of guilt and, it has to be said, panic were welling up inside me. After tidying up the breakfast dishes, I picked up my bag, opened the front door and stepped out, pulling it shut behind me.

A few seconds later, the door opened again and I headed upstairs.

I walked to school in a daze that morning, trying to understand what the hell what happening to me, what was going on in my head, and totally failing to do so. And I spend the rest of the day in the same state, the teacher's voice washing over me as I stared at my reflection in the window, slouched in my seat, hands in pockets, fingering the suspenders that attached my black lace-top stockings to my firm-control long-leg panty girdle.

 

 

 

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© 2003 by Panty Girdle Kid. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.