Coming of Age

by Panty Girdle Kid

 

Part 5

 

The secretary smiled at me as my eyes happened to meet hers while looking round the room. I returned her smile, then looked back down into the newspaper. But I was taking none of it in - my eyes simply skimmed across the page as I sat there, completely lost in my own thoughts. I had taken one of the biggest decisions of my life in coming here today, and there was no going back. My thoughts drifted back to the day I had told my father that I had been asked to attend an interview for a place at University...

I had deliberately cast my net far and wide in my efforts to ensure that, wherever I ended up, I would be far, far from home. Thanks to him, I had spent five years - nearly a third of my life so far - being forced to cross-dress at every opportunity. Five years of being imprisoned in a girdle nearly every waking moment. Five years of evenings and weekends in a bra. Four years of evenings and weekends dressed fully as a girl. And slowly, without me realizing it, I had started to get used to it. Where once I'd be in tears when getting dressed, unable to look at myself in the mirror, I'd got to a stage where I'd climb into a girdle most mornings without giving it a second thought, and check myself in the mirror while wearing the girliest of outfits without blushing even slightly. Christ, he had almost got me conditioned into accepting it as normal. Normal! It had taken that close encounter with my class-mates a few months ago to shake me out of this stupor and remind me just how warped my life was.

To try to get my head sorted out, I had made myself stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself in various stages of female dress - from blouse and a skirt down to my frilly petticoat and then down to my ever present foundations. I looked myself in the eye and asked some hard questions about how I really felt. Had I actually come to like this? All these years of forced cross-dressing had almost twisted my mind into accepting it as normal, but could I really, really have come to enjoy it? Definitely not! There were no doubts about that. Even after all this time, I could honestly say I got absolutely no pleasure at all from wearing women's clothes.

Well then, given that fact, did I really want to go into adult life pretending to be a woman? I would hardly be able to ask any girls out while dressed as one myself. Even if I only wore a girdle, it would only take the lightest of touches for her to figure out what I was wearing. What girl would want to date a pervert who wears women's underwear?

Just thinking about that scenario finally made me look away. The feelings of disgust that had lain dormant for so long were starting to well up again. I looked back slowly and, for the first time in years, really saw - really took in - what I looked like. I looked at my shaved legs in their sheer black stockings. I looked at the broad lacy stocking tops, hooked on to the suspenders of my firm open girdle. I looked at the panelling and stitching of the girdle, rising to meet with and be overlapped by my longline bra. I looked at the breast forms bulging in the cups of the bra, then up to the thick straps digging into my shoulders. Finally, I looked myself straight in the eye, tears streaming silently down my cheeks.

Since then, I had almost been counting the days till I could leave home and get my life back to something approaching normality. But I would never have any chance of a normal life if the behaviour that had screwed up my adolescent years continued into adulthood. And I would never be able to change things until I got away from him. Even so, I had started to try getting out of wearing my girdle at every opportunity. After all this time, he no longer checked up on me as he took it for granted that I'd have one on. Well, why not? That had been the way of it for years. Stopping had been surprisingly hard going, though. No-one at school had noticed anything, but I had been self-conscious beyond belief. The feeling of not having a girdle on was now so unfamiliar that I could hardly stop thinking about it. My first day at school with no girdle on was just as much of an ordeal as my first day in a girdle had been, five long years ago. And even though the chances of him finding out were virtually non-existent, I was still overcome by feelings of panic and guilt just thinking about what would happen if he knew. Guilt, for God's sake! As if I was doing something wrong! There were times in the early days of my rebellion that I would even sneak off to the toilets and put the damn girdle back on, feeling almost physically sick at my own cowardice. But, after a few weeks, schooldays returned to being a happy girdle-free existence. And he never suspected a thing.

And at last my passport to freedom arrived with the request to attend the interview. Get past this and I would be free of him and his insanity once and for all. When I told him, he congratulated me, told me how pleased he was, told me how it would be a formality - made all the normal fatherly comments that one would expect. And I waited. And, sure enough, the subject arose with almost laughable inevitability. In what was supposed to be a casual manner, he mentioned that I would now be able to dress full-time, even when attending the lectures. I could tell a little white lie and claim to be a transsexual and the University authorities would understand. Anyway it would be a form of discrimination if they refused me a place. I listened in amazement. Even by his own standards, this was fantasy of the first order. There was no point in trying to tell him that I didn't want to cross-dress even part-time - he had convinced himself long ago that I shared his bizarre fetish and proceeding down that path again would be an exercise in complete futility. So I explained that it would probably be best if I didn't go full-time as it would cause too many problems. I pointed out that I would still be able to take my corsetry with me and would still be able to wear my girdle, just like at school. I had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but I thought it would keep him sweet. He sat silently for a moment, then looked me straight in the eye and told me to "stop being so bloody cowardly". He then receded even further into the Twilight Zone, ranting at me about how lucky I was to be able to pass as a woman, how he would have jumped at the opportunity and how I should show some backbone and not let people force me into a lifestyle that would make me miserable. I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop myself screaming with hysterical laughter at that one. He stamped off, leaving me sitting there at the kitchen table, still trying to keep a straight face. Five years. Five fucking years! Once I had regained some degree of composure, I phoned up and confirmed the interview.

The next day, as I sat down to breakfast, he hit me with it. I knew he'd try something, and here it was. As I was too weak to make the right decision, he lectured, then he would have to do it for me. If I agreed to live as a woman at University, he would pay all my tuition fees and give me an allowance on top of that. If not, I would be on my own. This was unbelievable - he was trying to bribe me into it! No - that wasn't true. He was trying to blackmail me into it. He was threatening me with my own future, the sick, sick bastard...

Sitting in the waiting room nearly a month later, I still felt shocked that he could do such a thing. I shuffled in my seat, brushed some lint off my new suit and, aware the secretary was looking at me again, turned the page and continued to pretend to read while reliving the most important few weeks of my life...

He had given me a stark choice. I could go to University as a man and try to recover a normal life, but struggle financially and perhaps even have to give up on any hope of getting a degree and a decent career. Or I could go as a woman, be financially secure, but have to go public as a cross-dresser. I might be able to get away with the student population not knowing, but the University authorities would have to be told about Davina and have to give their permission. And, even if I went back to being David after graduation, the knowledge would be out and would follow me through the rest of my life. Every prospective employer who checked up my references would know. And, people being people, the knowledge would get out. It would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I lay in bed that night, almost glad that things had finally come to a head. I had been slowly cutting down on the cross-dressing over the previous few months, and now was my chance to bite the bullet, finally tell the old man to piss off, and get my life back on track. It would be hard, but I could try. If I adopted a frugal enough lifestyle, the repayments on the loans shouldn't be too crippling when I finished. And there were bound to be scholarships I could try for. But, even if it did mean living like a bum for a few years, I could finally be happy again. I looked across at the girdle and bra lying on the chair on the far side of the room. A few more months and I would never have to wear them again. Ever. As the man had said, all I had to do was show a little backbone...

 

I jumped as the secretary touched my shoulder and told me I could go in now. Well, this was it. I laid down the unread paper beside the undrunk cup of coffee, took out a handkerchief and dried my sweaty palms. Sensing my nervousness, she offered me a few words of encouragement as I stood up. I smiled and turned to check my reflection in the office window. This suit had cost a bit, but I looked the part. Now I just had to act the part too.

As I heard the office door open behind me, I took a deep breath, straightened my jacket, smoothed the creases out of my skirt, turned around and smiled.

 

 

 

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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.