Epiphany

by Sarah Bayen

Part Two

Revenge

 

The next morning, I decided, in spite of the fact I wasn't talking to him, I'd call for Limp. Once breakfast and stuff like that was out of the way, I walked over to his house, and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I walked around to the back, and found a little note with my name on it pined. He'd doodled a little picture of a bird and a flower on it as well, the prat!

"Dear Jenny," it said. "Hope the wedding went well. We've gone off in the caravan for a couple of days. I should be back Tuesday, see you then; Love William."

He never called himself Limp. Not really surprising I suppose. There was a little 'x' representing a kiss after his flamboyantly stylised signature. It was like a note from a girl, rather than a boy. Well bugger him! How was he supposed to notice that I wasn't talking to him, if he wasn't there to not talk to?

I was bored to tears for the next two days. I must have driven Mum to distraction, because she even suggested I went out on my skateboard. I didn't though, because I was still cross about the wedding, and the bloody bridesmaid's dress. Monday afternoon, things took a turn for the worse. Mike turned up in his car with the other bloody bridesmaid. They'd been passing, they said, and decided to drop in on us. He'd never dropped in on us before, even though I had been there. The girl wore a ridiculously short yellow flowery dress, and they spent the whole visit sitting next to each other on the sofa, holding hands. I asked Mike if he wanted to see my new Playstation game. He refused! I couldn't believe it, he was the one who had taught me to play Playstation games, and he refused to look at my new one, the one I was so good at!

Mum asked them to stay for tea, and they did. Whenever we had guests for tea, instead of a proper meal, we ended up having salad. I didn't mind cold meat, but you could eat a field of lettuce without getting full, and two slices of pork pie were enough for anyone.

I was half way through my second, when the insipid stupid girl said. "Gosh, what it must be like to not have to worry about your figure!"

"She'll be worrying about it soon enough!" my Mum replied, with false laughter.

They left about six, just as Limp and his family came back. I saw his father fussily park the car and the pathetic caravan in their drive as Mike and the monster drove away. Limp waved to me, and said he'd come around to see me in a minute. I stomped off upstairs, not sure whether I'd speak to him or not.

On my bed was a huge plastic bag. I picked it up and opened it. Inside were the instruments of the torture I had worn to the wedding; the dress, the basque, the stockings and the knickers. My Mum came in behind me.

"Oh," she said. "They came back from the dry cleaners today. We'll have a look at the dress tomorrow, if you like, and see if we can alter it a little. It'll make a lovely party dress if we make it a bit shorter. Just hang it up for now though."

I was furious. I thought I had seen the last of the bloody things. Now it seemed that they were mine to keep. Well I was a past master at avoiding wearing things like that. In spite of my Mum's resolve to turn the thing into a party dress, I was equally determined that it should go into the back of the wardrobe, and never be seen again. I had picked it up, to hide it in the place of no return, when Limp came skipping in.

"Hi," he said, brightly. "How's it going?" I shrugged. "We had a great time in Eastbourne!" he went on. What a prat! How could anyone have a great time in Eastbourne? He went on about the cliffs, and how he had managed to paint some seagulls flying over them. Well aren't you clever, I thought to myself, being able to paint seagulls. "How did the wedding go?" he suddenly asked me, peeking into the bag I was still holding. "That's the dress isn't it? Do you get to keep it then?"

"No," I replied sarcastically. "I'm sending it off to the needy in Africa."

He paid no attention to this. "Well if you get to keep it, maybe you could wear it again. To the school disco or something."

I was stunned by his lack of empathy. How could he stand there and suggest that I would ever want to wear the bloody thing again? "You can wear it to the school disco if you want," I spat at him. "I'm never going to touch the thing again."

He giggled. "I'd look a bit funny in it if you ask me."

"You seemed to think I looked funny in it the other day. You laughed at me."

"Yes," he said, wiping the smile off his face. "I'm sorry."

"So you bloody should be."
"It didn't actually look that bad," he went on, assuming this would appease me. Instead I was livid with him. "You looked quite pretty really," he went on, digging his own grave. I felt my nostrils flaring, as my fury mounted. "Can I have another look at it?" he asked.

I was about to retort that he could try it on if he was so bloody impressed with it, when an idea came to me. He could try it on, couldn't he? I could easily make him. He did more or less anything I told him to, and if push came to shove, I could just beat him up until he agreed. Yes, that would be a good way of paying him back for laughing at me. I could show him what it was like to be forced to wear a dress, and then be laughed at.

I was about to swing into action, when he spoke. "Well, it's a bit late," he observed. "I'd better get back and unpack. It's good to see you again Jenny."

He started to walk to the door, and I felt a growing sense of frustration. Then I had an idea. "What are you doing tomorrow?" I asked him, casually.

He shrugged. "Not a lot. My Mum and Dad are at work, so I'm all by myself. I was going to ask if you wanted to come around and listen to some records or something?"

I smiled both inwardly and outwardly. "Yes, all right. I will," I replied, hanging the dress and the rest of the stuff at the front of my wardrobe, rather than the hidden depths

He smiled and looked genuinely pleased. I felt extremely smug about my new plan. It was perfect, getting Limp to wear the dress! Somehow I felt as if this would act as a catharsis for all my anger. I could laugh at him, instead of being laughed at, and the constant pressure from my Mum for me to be more ladylike would dissipate. Yes, it was the perfect plan, and I slept soundly in anticipation.

I called for him early, having snuck out the back door so my Mum wouldn't see the huge plastic bag I had with me. He opened his front door, smiling eagerly to see me. He was my puppy after all. He stood aside to let me in, and immediately noticed the bag I was carrying. He evidently recognised it. "Oh," he said, in some surprise. "You've brought your dress round. Are you going to put it on again?"

He shut the door behind me, and I turned to smile at him. "No," I said, quietly. "I'm not. You are!"

His mouth fell open in surprise, and his eyes went wide and frightened. "I'm not sure I want to do that," he said, hastily.

"It doesn't matter what you want," I told him. "What I want, is for you to put it on."

"No Jenny!" he whined. "I don't want to wear a dress!"

"Tough! You shouldn't have laughed at me in it. Let's see how you like it, having to wear a stupid dress and then being laughed at!"

He pulled a face, and backed himself against the front door. I smiled again. "Come on, you said you wanted to see it again."

"There's a world of difference between wanting to see it and wanting to wear it!"

"Not in my book there isn't."

We stood there in the hall, facing each other. Him, with his back against the wooden door, cowering slightly, and me, standing tall, and holding the plastic bag out towards him. "Just bloody do it!" I said to him, through gritted teeth. "I don't want to have to make you."

He pouted a little. "Please Jenny," he said. "I'm sorry I laughed at you, really. But don't make me put it on!"

"It's too late for that now. You should have thought about that last week. Come on, we'll go through to the front room."

He grimaced, but I knew and he knew that if it came to a wrestling match, there was only going to be one winner. He held his head down. "All right," he said quietly. "I'll put it on, but only for a minute."

"You'll wear it as long as I tell you to!" I snapped at him. I was determined to get a good laugh at his expense with this dress. There was no way I was going to let him just slip it on and then off again. I stood to one side, so he could get past me, and through to the lounge. He trudged through, and immediately went to the window to draw the curtains.

I smiled again. "What's the matter? Don't you want the world to see you in your pretty dress?"

"No," he replied sullenly, as the room became murky. I walked over, and switched on the light. He stood by the sofa, looking across at me with a look of apprehension and fear. I smiled again, and reaching into the bag, grabbed hold of the dress, and threw it onto the floor between us. As I did so, the basque, which I had forgotten about, came out too, and fell by the side of the dress.

"What's that?" he asked, in horror, as it fell by his feet.

"It's a basque," I said, a new idea coming into my mind. I really hadn't thought to get him to wear that as well until then, but suddenly it seemed entirely appropriate. "You're going to wear that as well."

"No!" he said in horror.

"You are," I insisted. "Come on, get your shirt off." A memory of what my Mum had said to me when I had been forced into it came back to me, and I smiled again. "It'll give you a lovely ladylike figure!"

His eyes widened again. "I don't want a ladylike figure!"

"Well you haven't got much choice. Come on, get your shirt off!"

With extreme reluctance, and much hesitation, he pulled off his T-shirt, revealing his rather thin and bony chest. "Come over here," I said, and meekly, he complied. I turned him around, and slipped the basque under his arms, and round his front. I was now faced with the two hundred or so little hooks and eyes, and for a moment, wondered what to do.

"I don't like it," he grumbled.

"You're not supposed to like it," I replied, grabbing the elasticated material at the top, and with some effort, managing to fasten the topmost hook and eye.

"Ow," he complained. "It's too tight!"

"Bollocks," I replied unsympathetically. "It went round me, and I'm bigger than you."

Still, I secretly had to admit that he might have a point. I managed to do the next three or four hooks up, but each one was getting more difficult than the last, and the basque gaped open wildly at the bottom, almost daring me to try and do it up there. I decided to give it a go. If I could get the bottom half of it stable, then it should be easier to force the middle ones to close.

"God, this really hurts," he said, as I yanked the flapping ends of the basque together just above his bum.

"I know," I told him with a note of bitterness showing through.

"Did you wear it then?" He sounded surprised.

"Yes I did," I hissed. "I had it on when you laughed at me, if you want to know."

"Blimey!" he replied, as I got the bottom hook done up.

I hooked up five or six more, and then switched my attentions to the top. It was a lot easier now, with both ends fastened, and I made quick work, progressing towards the middle. I of course exaggerate when I say there were two hundred of the damn things, but it certainly felt like it.

"Can't you breathe in or something?" I asked him irritatedly. "This is difficult."

"Not when it's this tight," he moaned. As if I didn't know! But to his credit, he did manage to lift his ribcage a bit, which made the last few hooks in the middle easier to do up. Finally I had finished, and I stood back to admire my handiwork. The white monstrosity had him firmly in its grasp, from the top of his jeans up towards his shoulders. The satin on it glistened a bit in the light from the ceiling, and I could see the curvature of it emphasising his waist. God, it had made a difference as well! He was never very fat or anything, but from the back, he now had a real girly sort of waist, going in a good few inches above his hipbones.

"Turn around. Let's see what you look like at the front," I said, eventually, preparing myself to laugh.

When I saw him though, I didn't. He was pulling something of a face, and fussing with the top of it, but, my God, he looked good in it! Not only was in pinching in his little waist, but somehow the top of it was thrusting up the loose skin on his chest, and making it look as if he'd grown a pair of boobs! Between the little lace-covered cups, he even had what looked like a fair amount of cleavage. In spite of myself, I was fascinated by the transformation, and completely forgot to laugh.

"It's really uncomfortable Jenny," he said, still pulling about at the cups. "I don't know how you managed to wear this all day."

"Me neither," I replied, coming back to my senses.

He glanced up from his new boobs to me, and a puzzled look came across his face. "What's the matter?" he asked. "You look worried or something."

I shook my head, partly in answer, but also to clear the fog in it. He looked beautiful! "I'm all right," I said. "Come on, let's get your trousers off."

He pulled a face again. "Can't I keep them on? The dress'll fit over them all right."

"No," I said firmly. "I couldn't wear my jeans with it, so I don't see why you should. Then looking at the discarded clothes on the floor a new idea came to me. "Anyway, you've got to put some stockings on yet."

"Stockings!" he echoed, in horror.

"Yes, stockings!" I went across, and picked up the packet with the stockings I had been forced into. It had been another sudden impulse; seeing him in the basque, with its suspenders flapping and clacking down his legs, it seemed too good an opportunity to waste.

"Oh please Jenny!" he pleaded. "Don't make me wear them! It'll be horrible!"

I looked up at him. "I had to wear them, and you thought that was funny" I reminded him. "Now come on, get your jeans off."

Grumpily, he began to comply. I felt really odd. I had sort of thought I'd be enjoying myself by now, having a really good laugh at his expense. It wasn't like that though. He looked so damn cute in the bloody basque that it was hard to laugh. He looked even better once he had taken his jeans off. I had never really looked at his legs before. I mean, I had seen him in shorts, in the summer, and even in his swimming trunks, but I'd never really paid that much attention. They were a good shape, in a girly sort of way. Not too fat at the top, but well shaped down to his knees. And they were nearly bald, not like mine. That was part of the advantage of being blonde, I supposed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, with a querulous note to his voice. I lifted my eyes from his legs, and looked into his face. Why was I looking at him like that? I didn't want to answer the question even to myself, so I didn't bother to reply.

"Here," I said, handing him the stockings. "Get these on."

He took the packet reluctantly, and pulled the stockings out. "Oh God Jenny!" he exclaimed. "These are horrible! What's this pattern on them?"

"Bells and hearts," I responded, without sympathy. "It was a wedding, remember?"

A look of pained resignation came across his face, and he sighed. "How do you put them on?" he asked.

"Like a pair of socks," I explained. "Only they're longer. And mind you don't ladder them." He held one up by its lacy top, and very gingerly lifted his leg to step into it. "Not like that, you have to roll it up a bit," I said. He shook his head, mystified. "Give it here," I told him. "I'll do it."

To my surprise my hands were shaking a little as he handed the stocking back to me. I put it down to the memory of having to do it myself on the day of the wedding, when Chrissie and the other bridesmaids had kept giving me stupid little tips on how to dress myself.

I balled it up, leaving just the foot free, and handed it back to him. "Put your foot into it, and then pull it up your leg. Gently!" I added with emphasis. He did as he was asked, and I watched on in fascination. He really did have good legs, even down to his feet and ankles, which as I watched, were smothered by the white nylon of the stockings.

"Now pull it up," I told him, my voice oddly hoarse. He looked over at me, and stuck his tongue out, before doing what I asked. His calf disappeared first, turning into something else entirely, beautifully shaped, and elegant, even with the bizarre patterns. I was breathing oddly as well by now, which surprised me.

"Shall I do it up then?" he asked, as he pulled the stocking up his tender thigh. Unable to speak, I simply nodded, and watched as he, at first a little clumsily, hooked the suspenders onto the lace top of the stocking, back and front. His left leg looked gorgeous in it.

"They're not very comfortable are they?" he observed, looking down at himself with a thoughtful expression.

I tried to get a hold on myself, and the odd feelings he was causing me. "No," I managed to say, rather staccato. "They're not. Put the other one on. Come on."

He sighed again, and picked up the packet once more. He took the other stocking out, and carefully repeated the process with his other leg, which was, like its twin a few moments earlier, transformed into a thing of fascination and beauty before my very eyes. Looking at him as he fixed the suspenders into place, I was amazed at how the white of the basque, and the white of the stockings simply emphasised the little bit of flesh showing in between. My eyes then fell on comparatively boring white underpants. They would have to go.

"God it feels really weird!" he observed. "I feel like a trussed up chicken or something."

"You look all right," I managed to stutter.

"Do you think so?" he asked, turning around to try and see himself from the back. "I feel bizarre."

"Well you're supposed to," I said, trying to remind myself that this was his punishment for laughing at me. He began fiddling with the suspenders, to try and make them more comfortable. I knew from bitter experience that this was a fruitless task.

"Now stop preening yourself," I said, and he looked at me a little hurt. I tried to remember what my Mum had said to me, the first time I had put them on, so that I could say it to him, but my memory failed me.

"Right," I said firmly, and stepped forward to the bag. I rummaged around for a few seconds, and then found what I was looking for. Those hideous knickers they had made me wear. "Here," I said, handing them over to him. Curiously, I was blushing. "Put these on as well."

He took them, and then a horrified look came across his face. "Oh no Jenny!" he gasped. "I don't mind putting on the dress, but not knickers, please!"

"I had to wear them," I stated baldly. "So you have to as well. Come on, get them on!"

His face crumpled, and I thought for a moment he might burst into tears. "Please Jenny!" he pleaded again. "Don't make me wear knickers. It's horrible!"

"You don't have to tell me," I said bitterly.

"But you don't wear knickers like this!" he whined, holding the thin white things up. "Yours are much more sensible."

He was right. Normally I wore simple cotton briefs in as plain a colour as I could find. Still, I had been forced to wear these damn things for the wedding, so I was determined he should have the experience as well. Besides, I told myself, how did he know so much about what knickers I wore?

"Stop winging and put the bloody things on!" I snapped. "I had to wear them, and you thought it was funny if you remember."

"I didn't laugh at your knickers!" he protested. "I didn't even see them!"

"I don't care! Just put them on!"

His eyes looked pained, and pleaded silently for a moment. "Put them on," I said again, menacingly. Then I remembered what my Mum had told me, when I complained, much as he was, about those same knickers. "There's nothing like a bit of fancy lingerie to make you feel nice and feminine!" I said, in copy of my Mum. His eyes widened in surprise at my statement, and I smiled evilly at him. "Put them on, like a good girl!"

"I'm not a girl!" he said in protest.

"I don't care. Just get those knickers on as if you were!"

He looked at himself, and at the knickers in his hand, and bent down to step unwillingly into them. "What are you doing?" I asked in horror. "You can't put them on over your underpants!"

He stood up again. "Well I can't get my underpants off without undoing these stockings!" he protested.

I looked at him. He was right. I had forgotten to tell him to slip the suspenders through his pants. Apart from not being able to change his underwear, as he was, he wouldn't be able to pee properly. I impatiently pointed out his error, and got him to correct it. He suddenly became all coy. "Don't look at me while I'm doing this," he said, petulantly. Sighing, and throwing a theatrical glance to heaven, I turned my back on him.

It seemed to take him unnecessarily long to readjust his suspenders and change his underwear. I waited as patiently as I could, but eventually said. "Come on, what are you doing?"

"It's difficult!" I heard him complain

. "Well get a move on," I told him. "I want to get that dress on you, so I can have a good laugh."

"I'm doing my best!"

After another interminable wait, he announced that he was done. Holding my breath, and imagining what he might look like, I hesitated a moment before turning around. And there he was. My God, he looked fantastic! He had pulled the knickers up underneath the lip of the basque, and they were stretched tight across his front. I hadn't seen his willy for a few years, but it looked a lot larger than I remembered, and without thinking, my eyes fixed on it, its outline clearly visible under the see through nylon of the knickers.

"Don't look at me like that!" he protested coquettishly, placing his hands in front of himself.

"Mind your hands out of the way!" I snapped. He pouted at me, but left his hands in their protective pose. "Come on," I went on, a little more gently. "I want to see what you look like in knickers."

Slowly and reluctantly, he removed one hand, and then the other, letting them fall to his sides. My eyes fell onto the nylon again, with its faint bulge, and random bells and hearts picked out in silver. There was a seam down the front, which somehow, and much better than I had ever done, he had managed to get straight.

"Well?" he asked. "I bet I look a right prat don't I?"

"You look good enough," I said, feeling my breathing racing again. "Turn around. Let's have a look at the back as well."

He did as he was asked. "They don't feel quite as bad as I imagined," he admitted, as he turned. "I wouldn't say they were comfortable, but they're not too bad." What was he thinking of? Those knickers were as uncomfortable as sin!

"I glad you like them," I managed to say.

He turned slowly, and his rear came into view. I gulped. He looked wonderful, with the basque nipping in his little waist, and the sparkling white nylon of the knickers emphasising his bum. And what a bum it was. I had never noticed before. It wasn't big and flabby like some girls', but it was nicely rounded, and I felt an almost overwhelming desire to go and grope it, feel it through those lovely smooth nylon knickers. I resisted the desire however, and felt the blood rushing to my cheeks again.

"Is it all right?" he asked. "Have I put them on okay?"

"Yes," I managed to hiss. I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. "Right, now let's get you into the dress." He pulled a bit of a face at me, and shrugged.

"Well I might as well I suppose," he said. "Now I've got all this on."
My hands were shaking as I picked the voluminous dress up off the floor. I felt even heavier than I remembered. Mum, or the cleaners, had done up the zip on the back. "Hold this," I told him, thrusting the dress towards him. He hesitated, and then took it. "Hold it up high," I said, and then, with some difficulty, I managed to pull down the zip on the back of the pink nightmare.

"It's bloody heavy!" he observed, testing the weight of it with his hand.

"You wait until you've had it on for a few hours! Then you'll know how heavy it can be!"

"Oh come on Jenny!" he exclaimed. "I don't have to wear it for that long! I'm just going to put it on, let you have a laugh, and then take it off again, aren't I?" There was a pleading note to his voice.

"We'll see," I replied. "Now come on," I said, holding it out in front of him. "Just step into it, and I'll zip it up for you. And mind the petticoats."

"Petticoats?"

"Yes, they're built into the skirt bit. Now come on, step in!"

I held the neck of the dress apart, like a great gawping mouth, ready to swallow him up in its pinkness and frills. He sucked his lips, and stepped forward, slowly raising one stockinged leg, and placing it through.

"Once it's on the ground, put the other one in."

"How will I know when it's on the ground? I can't feel much through these stockings," he complained.

"You'll know," I replied, strangely conscious of him being so close. He shrugged, and slowly lowered his foot.

"I think that's it," he said, gazing down into the gaping mouth of the dress. "No, hang on," he corrected himself. "I'm standing on the, what did you call it? Petticoat."

"Well don't," I remonstrated. "Come on, my arms are beginning to ache."

He shuffled his foot around. "I think that's it. Yes. Now I put my other foot in?"

Why did he keep asking me? I might have had to wear the bloody thing, but I was no expert in putting long dresses on for God's sake! "Yes," I hissed impatiently. "Get a move on!"

He lifted his other leg in, and shuffled it around a bit. I tried to lift the dress, but it stuck. "You must be standing on the hem somewhere!" I told him impatiently.

"I don't think so," he said, looking down at himself, his bottom half being eaten by the pink cloud. "Oh yes!" he suddenly agreed. "You're right, hang on, that should be better."

I pulled at the dress again, and this time it lifted easily. Pulling the sleeves up, I thrust his skinny little arms into them, and ruffled up the little leg of mutton arrangements my Mum thought were so lovely. Holding the neck together, I grabbed the zip, down by his buttocks, and slowly brought it upwards until it reached the top. It did up quite easily on him. He was slightly thinner than me, but fortunately, the dress still fitted.

I took a step back, preparing to laugh. I tried, but the effect was hollow and forced. He didn't look funny, he looked beautiful, from the back at least. The dress clung tightly to his torso at the top, and then nipped in at his waist, before cascading away down to the floor.

"It feels a bit odd," he commented. "It's sort of cold and clingy."

"Turn around," I managed to say, my head swimming a little. "Let's see what you look like from the front."

I saw him shrug, and then turn around. There was a swishing sound as the dress swirled about his legs, and then he was facing me. His eyes looked nervously into mine, waiting for my reaction.

Jesus, he looked good in it. Better than me or the other bridesmaids at the wedding. You could still see the cleavage the basque had created for him above the frothy bodice of the dress, and his arms, thinner than mine, looked so elegant and dainty with the leg of mutton sleeves. He blinked a few times, and it looked for the world as if he was batting his eyelashes at me. "What do you think?" he asked. "Do I look funny?"

In a curious gesture, he picked up the side of the dress by his thigh, and held it out, six inches or so from his body. "It really is heavy isn't it? God, it must be awful to have to wear this for long!"

"You'll find out," I spluttered, still taking in the angelic appearance Limp had suddenly put on.

"No," he protested. "I'm taking it off in a minute. That's what we agreed."
"You need the shoes first," I said, going back to the bag, and glad of an excuse to take my eyes off him. I pulled them out, and threw them at his feet. He looked down at them petulantly, and bent down to pick one up.

"I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get these on," he said. "How does this strappy bit go?"

I was in a frenzy by now. It was imperative that he put the shoes on as quickly as possible, so I could see him dressed exactly as I had been for the wedding, and have my laugh; the laugh that was proving so elusive. "I'll do it," I snapped, and got down on my knees in front of him. "Lift your bloody skirt up, come on."

He dutifully hoisted the skirt on the dress up to reveal his feet and ankles. Seeing them again, with the white tights stretched across them set my heart fluttering, and my hands trembling. Nevertheless, I managed to get his foot into the shoe, and wrap the straps appropriately around his ankle. I repeated the process with his other foot, and then stood.

He looked at me plaintively, and I tried to laugh. Somehow he didn't look so much ridiculous in the dress as, well, pretty. I forced out a couple of 'ha ha's, but it didn't really give me much satisfaction. I decided to revert to parroting my Mum's comments to me.

"My oh my!" I said, with false emphasis. "Don't you look a proper young lady?"

He blushed, and looked down at the ground in response, which if nothing else, made my comment even more true. "I know it's nice that boys can wear jeans and things these days," I went on, remembering my mother's words. "But I do like to see them in a nice dress from time to time!"

His brows lowered themselves quizzically, and then lifted again in realisation. "Oh I see!" he said. "I bet that's what your Mum said when you tried it on!"

I nodded, and he poked his tongue out at me. He then, without warning, started swaying his hips, making the dress swish and swirl against his legs. "So what do you think?" he asked. "Do I make a good bridesmaid?"

"A better one than I did," I told him, which was true. He actually seemed to be enjoying the experience for a start, let alone that the dress looked better on him than me.

"It's a bit heavy," he mused to himself, "but actually it's not as bad to wear as I thought it would be."

"Speak for yourself," I retorted.
"It's not Jenny!" he insisted. "It feels quite nice in a strange sort of way."

"You wait until you've had it on for six hours!"

He pulled the dress out from his hip again, and looked, if anything, a little wistful. "Well perhaps you've got a point," he said. He let the dress fall again, and looked up at me, and smiled. "Well, shall I take it off now?"

I was a mess of emotions. I felt somehow cheated that the triumph I should have experienced had somehow never materialised. He looked good in the damn dress, and worse than that, rather than falling at my feet to apologise for laughing, and pleading with me to be allowed to take it off again, he seemed to be vaguely enjoying the experience. He even had a smile on his face! I needed to do something to wipe it off. I racked my brains for ideas. Then it hit me.

"I know what we should do!" I exclaimed, grinning so much that my mouth hurt at the thought. "Let's go and show my Mum what you look like in it!" This was brilliant. Once she saw how good Limp looked in a dress, she would stop hassling me to wear one.

"Your Mum?" he echoed, with concern replacing the smile on his face. "I don't think so."

I glared at him. "We have to." I said firmly. "She's always on at me to dress up pretty, so she should enjoy seeing you like that!"

His face crumpled. "No, Jenny," he pleaded. "She'll laugh at me!"

I sneered at him. "Good," I said. "Remember what you did to me that night?" I saw him squirm at this, and felt in control once more. "Come on, let's go," I said, moving across and taking him by the arm. He shook himself free of me.

"No, Jenny," he repeated again. "Let's not."

I genuinely smiled now. He was feeling uncomfortable again. So he should! "We're going to do it," I said, firmly and patiently. "So stop moaning, and come along!"

His face suddenly lit up. "We can't!" he exclaimed, looking pleased with whatever excuse had come into his mind. "You'll get into trouble if we do!"

"Why would I get into trouble? It's you wearing the dress!"

He smiled knowingly again. "Yes, but you'll get into trouble for making me put it on! I bet you didn't think of that!"

Blast him, he was right. My Mum might well think he looked pretty in it, but I was bound to get a rocket for forcing him to wear it. Sod, it had seemed such a good idea too, to get him to wander out of the house wearing that pink frock. Then another thought hit me. "It's all right," I said calmly. "We'll tell her it was your idea!"

His mouth fell open, and the self-satisfied smile left his face instantly. I grinned in triumph. "I'll say that you've been begging me to let you try it on since you first saw it! And that today was our first opportunity!"

He shook his head in horror. "No!" he exclaimed. "Don't do that!"

I smiled my most evil smile at him. "Oh I think I will!" I went on, grabbing his arm again. "I'll tell her you insisted that I bring it round!"

He shook himself free again. "She won't believe you!" he told me.

"She will if you back me up!" His eyes widened with shock. I grabbed his arm again, and this time held it firmly. "You're going to tell her that you've been dreaming about wearing it, ever since you first saw it!"

"No Jenny!" he pleaded, shaking his arm to no avail.

"You're going to say that you've always wanted to see what being a girl is like, and that you begged me to dress you up as one!"

"I won't," he said, in a self-righteous tone. "She'll think I'm odd!"

"No she won't," I assured him. "She'll think it's cute. Anyway, if I tell you to do it, then you will."

"Don't try and bully me!" he replied, pouting again. I smiled my evil smile again, and stood really close to him, so he got the full effect of me being three inches taller.

"I'm not bullying you," I told him, puffing out my chest, and making him take a step backwards. "I never bully you. I'm just asking you to do something for me as a friend." His eyes flashed concern and anxiety, and looked away from me. "You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you Limp? I am your bestest friend after all!"

I felt his arm shudder, and was pleased with myself. I knew I would win in the end. "So are you okay with that then? You know what you have to say?"

He looked at me with doleful eyes, and a trembling mouth. He stared back at him without blinking. He was a pushover in situations like this. "Please Jenny," he said, plaintively. I shook my head.

"Do you know what you have to say?" I asked again, digging my fingers into his arm.

"Ouch! Yes!" he shouted, and for the first time, I laughed. This was going to be brilliant! Not only would I be getting revenge on him for laughing at me, but I'd also be getting back at my Mum for all those taunts about me not being girly enough. I was a genius!

"Right let's go!" I said, and led him out into the hallway, and to the front door. He resisted a bit, and looked really pathetically at me, as I grabbed the handle to open it. The sunlight streaked through, onto him in his pink dress. I pulled the door ajar, and stood to one side. "Ladies first!" I said, with an exaggerated gesture for him to lead the way.

  

  

  

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