Author's note: About 12 months ago, my sister Pam called me into the little bedroom of her house in which she keeps her computer, activated her desk top and showed me a tg story that she swears she didn't download and suggested (well ordered me actually) to read it. Now I have written 3 novels and many short stories on a whole range of subjects with little success in terms of publication, still less in terms of remuneration, but writing is a hobby I enjoy. Pam is very broadminded as you will see in this story and she suggested I try my hand at writing some of these stories, saying that I could base some of them on my real life experiences. My experiences were private, I told her, but in her forthright manner she completely pooh-poohed that idea, and, as usual she got her own way.

Since that day and using my pen name I have had several stories posted, each one containing a snippet of truth taken from my personal experience and then padded up to form a readable but fictional tale I hoped the readers would like. I introduced some forced transvestism (only slightly true) and some totally fictitious characters. Around Christmas a comment was sent to me by a fellow TV and an e-mail friendship established as a result. I started to tell him/her a few truths from my real life story and he/she suggested I wrote it in full adding nothing and leaving nothing out. Pam agreed with him and so this is the result. Those of you who have read my other stories will recognise certain extracts that were doctored at the time for the purpose of writing a good story – this story is true, well 95% of it is.

 

Creating Donna

by Donna Dee

 

Chapter One

Part One

 

I was the youngest of three children, and the only boy. My two sisters were Beryl (9 years older) and Pam, (six and a half years older). Mother was a very attractive woman of independent means – she was a skilled dressmaker who ran two very busy factories, one making gowns for special occasions such as weddings etc., the other made soft furnishings, a business that employed around 30 women making curtains and cushions. I was almost seven when my story starts in 1959 because that is the first thing I can say with certainty that I really do remember. Father had left home some four years previously – he wasn't missed very much, but his regular payments to Mum plus her own income ensured we had a good lifestyle and what is more he had set his three children up with a very generous trust fund to ensure we would always be well provided for. I was a curly haired boy with the clearest blue eyes you ever saw, (Mum's words, not mine) and with a ready smile and a willingness to help where I could. Actually I ought to mention my hair – it was naturally curly and almost impossible to straighten without jars of hair cream. Several women told my mother they would have paid a lot of money to have curls like mine. It may have seemed short, but when it was wet it touched my shoulders. When it dried, however, the curls just went wild and would spring back into place leaving the back of my neck almost clear. I got used to it and the other kids at school had grown tired of taking the mickey, though it was largely because of their remarks that I developed an intense dislike of all things feminine and that included my sisters. Leastways, I thought I did.

That September coming my cousin was getting married and she had asked my mother to make her dress and the six bridesmaids dresses to go with it, and Mum agreed to make them herself. Mother loved to show off her skills with a needle and thread and got to work in good time. She made the wedding dress, then Beryl and Pam's bridesmaids' dresses before starting on the four smaller ones for various cousins and/or nieces at the beginning of July. Fittings for the bride who lived locally and for Beryl and Pam were simple enough to arrange, but the other four girls lived in the north east of England and this meant that a substitute was required. Since I was more or less the right size, guess who got picked to try the first dress on, and totally without warning at that!

The four of us were watching TV in the lounge when mother, who was busy sewing as usual, called me to her side. "Take your clothes off, Donnie," she commanded when I got to her chair. My sisters giggled, they must have been in the know.

"What, all of them?" I enquired

"You may keep your pants on," replied mother in an absentminded, disinterested kind of way to indicate it wasn't particularly important whether I did or not. Now one thing I must emphasise is that Mum ran a tight ship – we all did as we were told – but even so I asked, "What for? It's not bedtime yet." She was working on the first of the small dresses and, without looking up but nevertheless looking quite serious she said, "I didn't say it was, (bedtime), I want you to try on this dress so that I can check the hems are straight – it will only take a few minutes."

"I'm not wearing a dress," I stated emphatically; "I'm not a girl."

Mother glanced at me over the rim of her spectacles. "I know perfectly well that you are not a girl, Donnie, but there are some things I need to check and you are going to try this dress on for me so get yourself stripped, right here and right now. Don't be alarmed, no one will know."

"They will know," I said, pointing to my sisters.

"They don't count," answered mother, "and even if they did they wont say anything to anybody, will you girls?"

"No, Mummy," they smiled as they answered as one.

"Oh yes they will, didn't you see them laugh?"

"They will say nothing or risk me getting angry. Now then, before I get angry with you, get those clothes off."

Reduced to just my underpants I was even more horrified to see her produce four or five half petticoats and a full one, all frilly and fluffy at the hem to push the dress out like a crinoline. One by one these were slipped over my head and the spaghetti straps adjusted to my waist.

"Wouldn't it be better if he wore the proper panties, Mummy," said Pam, it would complete the look." She was grinning like a Cheshire cat as she spoke.

"Good idea, Pam, get them for me please." Quickly they were fetched and Mother reached up under the slips and with a quick jerk pulled down my pants and helped me step into the new panties that had row upon row of frilly, lacy trim stitched all over the bottom. When the adjustments had been made I am sure my ass must have stuck out 12-inches more than it should. When she was satisfied and under her direction, Beryl and Pam carefully lowered the dress over my head, my arms were threaded through the short puffed sleeves and the buttons fastened at the back. The dress was a heavy pale blue satin with lots of embroidery and dainty bows and it weighed a ton. Ask me now, (my having seen the photographs many times in recent years) and I'd tell you it was beautiful, but I didn't think so at the time. They put cardboard on the coffee table and stood me on it so that Mum could check over the dress properly, and my dear sisters kept on saying how lovely I looked, 'just like a real girl.' I vowed to hate the pair of them forever. I even had to put on a pair of Pam's shoes with a raised heel so that Mum could get a better perspective. It seemed to me that Mum fussed with that dress for an hour before she was satisfied and it was removed with equal care.

A week later the second dress was finished and the above scene repeated, except that I didn't protest so much – it would have got me nowhere. The third dress was followed by the fourth, but by this time my sisters had lost interest in my humiliation and gone out for the evening leaving Mum and I alone. As she adjusted the panties, the petticoats and the dress for what I hoped would be the very last time, she told me I looked far prettier in it than my sisters did in theirs. "Really?" I asked, excitedly but rather stupidly as it turned out.

"Yes, darling, honestly and truly you do. Come and see for yourself." I insisted this wasn't necessary, but she took me by the hand and led me up to her room, then stood me in front of her big mirror. At first I didn't think it was I standing there; I moved a hand once or twice to make sure. She was right about one thing – I really did look like a little girl. "Here," she said, "Let me try you in the bonnet." I moaned about that as she pulled strands of my hair out from under the edge and let them curl prettily, but to no avail. Then I saw her go to her cupboard and produce a pair of white shoes with a 2-inch heel – my protest went unheeded of course and the fact that they were too big by far was dismissed as irrelevant since I didn't have to walk anywhere, just put them on and stand still while she took my photograph. Up until then I had thought that things couldn't get much worse, but a photograph would be shown to every relation and every friend even though she promised she wouldn't. Even so it wasn't over.

Mum went back to her dressing table and picked something up. When she returned I saw it was a lipstick. "Oh no, Mum, not make up – please, please don't put make up on me."

"Of course not, honey, I have no intention of putting make up on that lovely face of yours, just a little bit of lipstick while I take your picture," she answered, smiling at me in her special way. "It's just to make your lips look shiny in the photo, look, there's hardly any colour in it," she insisted, showing it to me – and that much at least was true. "I promise I will wipe it off when I've done." Mum then proceeded to make me pull faces and stretch out my lips as I had seen her doing many times before when she was getting ready to go somewhere, and then she put more of the damn stuff on my mouth than she ever did on her own – well it seemed like it. I looked in the mirror again, she was right, I did look like a very pretty girl, and I hated it more as every minute passed.

"Just open your mouth a little, please darling and lick your lips for me to make them nice and wet and really shiny, that's it, a bit more please. Good girl, well done, that looks lovely."

The look of horror on her face when she realised she had called me a girl caused her to hug me fiercely and insist that she was sorry and that she'd never make that mistake again. Having apologised sincerely, she then forgot the matter completely and got on with taking the pictures.

Licking my lips was the weirdest sensation ever – they were so soft to my tongue and so very, very smooth, my tongue seemed to glide over them as easily a licking an ice-lolly. The taste was nice too though I'd never have admitted it. Several photographs were taken and then she said I could take the dress off now. I continued to look at myself in the mirror; I didn't like the bonnet so that came off straight away, but I confess to being fascinated by the image of the pretty curly headed girl reflected back at me.

"Come along Donnie, don't stand there daydreaming or I'll make you a dress of your own to wear at the wedding," she laughed.

If looks could kill she'd have dropped dead there and then. Over my dead body I remember thinking. She helped me get the lipstick off and change back into my own clothes. Thank the lord that was over. "All done now, Mum? I asked."

"Almost my darling, you've been a great help. The dresses are finished and now all I have to do is make your costume and everything will be finished." I must have shot up like a salmon jumping in a river as I did a double take and demanded, "MY COSTUME? What Costume?" I demanded, furiously.

"Oh! Didn't I tell you, darling, cousin Eva wants you to be her page boy?"

That was a laugh – didn't she tell me indeed? Not telling me until now had saved her from weeks of my moaning and pleading. Why oh why wouldn't the floor open up and swallow me? Protesting would be pointless, so I tried crying, but that didn't work either, she remained totally unmoved, even though I'd produced real tears. "What will I have to wear," I demanded.

"A blue suit and a little hat – that's all," she answered. I admitted to myself that that didn't sound too bad. Oh foolish me.

I went to bed just before nine just before Pam came home, she'd been to an early picture show with her friend Sylvia. I heard her moaning at mother because she'd let me take the dress off before she got home, "you know how I love to see him in dresses", she said.

My father had always worn a flannel nightshirt in bed and I had one too – except that mine was in cotton. Lying there in the evening light, I started to think about how I'd looked in that dress –what with my painted lips, I realised that I had indeed looked more like a girl than a boy, and as I thought of it, I had the strangest sensation as my little penis began to stiffen. It was most uncomfortable but I was too embarrassed to ask my Mum about it. I wondered if wearing that dress and lipstick had made this happen and I vowed I'd never do it again if it were going to make me so uncomfortable.

When I got home from school next day, Mum was working on her machine, stitching some pale blue velvet. I asked her what she was doing.

"I'm making your page boy suit," she smiled.

"You surely don't expect me to wear that," I said, horrified at the prospect. I had been expecting a smart suit like my Dad used to wear.

"Of course I do, Donnie, and you will wear it so no more arguments – you will look lovely when its finished." So saying she carried on stitching. Just what had I done to deserve being dressed up in a velvet suit? I thought, very briefly, that I'd rather have been a bridesmaid, because in that dress I was unrecognisable. In a blue velvet suit with a little round hat, every boy from my school that would be in the church choir – and there would be several – would instantly recognise me and I would have a terrible time trying to live it down.

Over the next two days I watched the material turn into a one-piece suit with a hidden zip from the neck to the crotch. The girls were there for the trying on ceremony and, as I might have expected with my mother making it, it fitted like a glove. The little pillbox hat was set into my curls and a wide elastic strap measured and fixed under my chin. She had even bought a pair of blue patent leather shoes – girls of course with a l-inch heel, and white socks.

"I think it would look nicer with a lace collar and cuffs," said Pam, helpfully. I made a dive in her direction intending to inflict grievous bodily harm upon her, but was captured just in time. You might know that mother agreed and these had been stitched into place by the next night. I felt a proper twit. There was, however, worse to come the day before the wedding.

Just why mother thought I needed to go to HER hairdresser I do not know. I can't count the times I nearly took a pair of scissors and cut lumps of my hair off so that I wouldn't have to go the bl**dy wedding, but I quite liked the compliments I got and so resisted the temptation. I didn't bargain for 'Mr Charles' fussing around little me whilst I was perched on a raised seat as he shampooed my hair. I nearly threw up when he began using curlers and wave clamps and then soaking it in some smelly scenty liquid before leaving me under the dryer for half an hour. He then had the temerity to suggest Mum put a net over my hair that night when I went to bed. It was so stiff – just like he'd used glue. I hated it more than I have ever hated anything in my life. Next morning I washed it all out under the shower for which I expected to get a fair walloping. Never mind, it would be worth it in the end, leastways I hoped it would. It wasn't worth it!

The girls and Mum re-set my hair as best they could and fixed my little hat. I was told to expect severe punishment after the wedding. Now I confess to being a little worried about this, I had never seen my mother so angry, so I behaved impeccably at the wedding and hoped she'd forget it. I would never suggest my Mum looked like an elephant, but she has a memory like one. She informed me I was grounded for the whole of the week and the coming weekend. Nothing more was said until the following Friday night when, with Pam's eager help she announced my punishment. I was to be dressed as girl for the whole weekend, make-up, perfume, hair ribbons, the lot, and I would be taken shopping on Saturday, and to church on Sunday. I could hardly believe she could be so cruel.

On Saturday morning I was ordered to bathe in some heavily scented water, dusted down with talcum powder and made to put on girls panties, a slip, a petticoat, some white ankle socks and a dress that hung down to just below my knee. A pair of Pam's shoes with a modest one-inch heel was put on my feet, my hair fluffed up more than usual, fixed firmly with a long hold hair spray and then I was doused in perfume. Three bracelets were put on each wrist, two necklaces of pretty beads, (I didn't think they were pretty, by the way) and some clip on earrings snapped firmly and painfully onto my ears. "There," said mother to Pam, "don't you think Donnie looks sweet?"

"Yes I do," smiled my sister, conspiratorially, "but we can't call him Donnie dressed like that."

"Good thinking, Pam, no we can't. What shall we call him – er call her?

"How about Donna," said my sister.

"Yes, I quite like Donna, I think we'll call her that all the time, don't you Pam?

"Oh goody," said Pam, now how about a bit of make-up, Mum."

"She's too young for make-up," replied Mother – though perhaps just a little pink lipstick would be nice." SHE! My mother called me SHE! Mother nodded as if in total agreement with herself and ordered my exceptionally willing sister to get a nice rose pink colour that would be pretty, but not too obvious, and only to use a little bit. Just looking at it made me feel ill and however little Pam intended to put on me it was still going to be too much. Then, bless them, they decided that a little powder to take the redness out of my blushing cheeks would be good as well. Obviously some of the powder adhered to my eye lashes. "While you are at it, Pam," said mother, winking at her conspiratorially, just brush his eye lashes, will you dear?"

I told you I had nice eyes – I still have, but I didn't mention my eyelashes, or did I? They were impossibly thick and full and, being totally naοve in these matters, I had no idea that Pam was brushing them with mascara – until it was too late and I could see how black they were, and how very beautiful they made my eyes. You really don't need me to tell you that she sneaked a little blue eye shadow on my lids either – do you, but she did – the bitch.

I was given a purse with a shoulder strap and then I had to walk between them, holding their hands, as we toured the fashion shops of the town. Several dresses were held against me to check the size, as if she intended to buy them, (thank the lord she didn't) and I was dreading that anyone from school might see me but I got away with it and, seemingly several hours later, we returned home. Mother was annoyed that no one had recognised me – it seemed she wanted to humiliate me as much as possible, and decreed that we would do the same again tomorrow at church.

I was made to wear a silk nightie instead of my nightshirt – (but that I did like even though I said I didn't.) "For Sunday," Pam suggested to my mother, "SHE should wear nude stockings, open toed sandals with an even higher heel – AND HAVE HER TOENAILS PAINTED! Mum, who was still annoyed that I'd avoided detection that day in town thought that was a brilliant idea and told Pam to paint them this very evening, and to do my fingers at the same time. I protested but it did no good and I knew better than to kick out at her while she did it. Next day I had a pink ribbon tied in my hair with a large bow and Pam took loads of photos of course. More lipstick was used than previously and I think they overdid it because once again I wasn't read – I looked at myself in the mirror and laughed to myself because I really did look like a girl, and no one was going to see the real me through that little lot. I have tried to destroy those photos so often, but I never got near the negatives. Later on Sunday evening, Pam got the nail polish off and I got ready for bed, once again I had to sleep in the nightie to finish off the weekend punishment. I was told what to expect if I misbehaved in future- that I'd be made to go to school in a dress – but secretly I thought it was better than the good hiding I'd have got otherwise.

In bed that night I got a little stiffie again as I realised that I really had enjoyed being dressed up like a girl, but it was wrong, very wrong, I should not have enjoyed dressing in girls clothes and I vowed it would never happen again, but as I lay in bed that night in my nightie and thought about just how pretty I really had looked – and felt - my penis got even stiffer, and I realised it was a promise I might not be able to keep.

 

 

Part Two

 

That really should have been the end of it and it would have been if I hadn't yielded to temptation. Life continued normally; Beryl left school shortly after the wedding, she was sixteen already and got a job at the local hair salon – and she was very good at it. Pam joined her three years later.

Four years passed quickly, my punishment weekend wasn't mentioned again and I had almost, (but not quite) forgotten about it. I was eleven when my Grandma was first taken ill. She lived at the seaside in a huge house at which we had always spent our holidays. She had local help of course, but Mum made the 120 mile round trip every Wednesday to see her, (Wednesday being Beryl's half day which enabled her to 'look after me' if Mum was late getting back. However, this week was half term and I was trusted to behave on the next day that Mum had to go to Gran's so that Beryl needn't lose time from work. Mum had been gone about ten minutes when the telephone rang. She had stopped a mile or two on her way and rung to tell me she had left a bag of old dresses on her bed and would I please give them to the neighbour to take to the church jumble sale. No problem, of course, so I went up to fetch them. As I went in I saw 'that dress' (my punishment dress, the one I'd worn to town that weekend) hanging up on the door to one of her wardrobes. I hadn't seen it for four years, but even so I recognised it at once; memories of that weekend came flooding back even though I thought I had forgotten all about it; but what surprised me the most was that they were largely pleasant memories. I lifted off the plastic cover and touched the fabric almost reverently. (Please remember that although I was only eleven and a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, as I write this I remember that feeling as if it were yesterday.) I studied the dress as if in a dream, I wanted to wear it again so badly that it hurt. Hung on the hook of the hanger were a petticoat and a pair of briefs – were they the same ones too? I pulled the plastic cover back down, picked up the bag for the neighbour and started towards the door to go back downstairs. I tried so hard not to look back at that dress – I was very close to yielding, but I knew that if I gave in now it would be harder still next time. But look back I did and there on the floor underneath the dress were the shoes I'd worn. Why I then moved across the room and looked on Mum's dresser I do not know, but I did and there was the tube of lipstick that had been used that weekend. What the hell was going on? Had this been planned? Was it a trap of some kind?

Our neighbour collected the clothes a few minutes later as I carried on with the few chores I had been left to do. I began to imagine myself in that dress in the role of my mother – I could see myself in an apron and medium heeled shoes as I flitted around with a duster. It wasn't long before I gave way to temptation and went back to Mum's bedroom where I stripped off completely. I found some self supporting stockings in one of her drawers and put them, the panties and the petticoat on. I slipped easily into the dress – it was several inches shorter of course, but otherwise it was fine. I even used the lipstick and found it tasted just as nice as before. It has to be said that I frightened myself – I shouldn't have these feelings – should I? But it didn't matter, I couldn't stop now and no one would ever know. I checked the time, Beryl wouldn't be home for another 2 hours at least, so I put on the shoes and wobbled my way downstairs to do some dusting, only this time I really did put the pinny on to protect my dress. (Did you hear what I said? I said MY dress?). I really enjoyed spending that morning 'en-femme,' (I had to replace the lipstick after half an hour because I'd licked it all off) and considered dressing up again the next chance I got. I even found I could walk quite easily in the high heeled shoes after a few minutes practice

I kept an eye on the clock and a few minutes before my sister was due home I changed back into my own clothes and put the dress and undies back on the coat hanger, as I'd found them. Next day when I looked through Mum's bedroom door the dress and underclothes were gone. Had they simply been put away? Was it a case of mission accomplished? Whatever it was I was both glad and sad that temptation had been taken away. I spent the rest of the day wondering where they had been put and whether or not I should look for them. I was worried about what I'd started and I knew it would be hard for me to forget how good I'd felt yesterday morning.

And then, as happened several times in my formative years, it was Beryl who was the voice of both caution and reason. Pam was my favourite sister even though she had been Mum's willing accomplice in dressing me up for my punishment weekend, (in fact she had made most of the suggestions that made it worse) but then she was pro feminine, she always seemed to know what I was thinking – what it was I wanted to do, and she encouraged me to do whatever I wanted. Beryl on the other hand was far more cautious. On the Sunday after my secret dressing up session, she suggested we took the dog for a walk into the park and after a while we sat close to the empty bandstand because she wanted to talk to me.

She told me she knew what I'd done last Wednesday, they all did, and asked me if I understood the difference between boys and girls; She wouldn't tell me how she knew and I guess my reply was pretty naff because it only covered the basics. I said girls had lovely hair and wore prettier clothes and as I went on she smiled at me indulgently. "There's a lot more to it than that, Donnie." The lesson she gave me was short and to the point – that there were physical differences too, differences that went far deeper than a change of clothing and a bit of make up. (I did know that even though I didn't understand why).

She admitted that my hair was fabulous, that I was certainly pretty enough to be a girl and that I'd looked really lovely on my punishment weekend – and if all I wanted was to do things like that now and again then everything would be fine, but I ought to realise that being a real girl was out of the question and one I couldn't even consider until I was 18. I was, after all, only a minor and I really wasn't old enough to make a decision of that magnitude. She said I should ignore what Pam said, that Pam hated boys and that one pervert in the family was enough without me joining in. She wouldn't explain what she meant and I didn't have a clue and she confirmed that Mum was not at all fazed by my wearing dresses, in fact she quite approved. The trouble was that only the day before, Pam had said the opposite to Beryl, that I should wear dresses if I wanted to, it was my business and she emphasised how great I looked in dresses.

Verbally I agreed with Beryl, I knew she was right – but deep inside was this yearning to wear dresses and make up that simply wouldn't go away. But, largely because of that conversation I realised it was going to be quite some time before I got dressed up again.

 

To be continued

  

  

  

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