Marcia                 by: Marcia Spencer

 

Chapter 1

Mother was easily the most beautiful woman in the entire world. She wouldn’t admit it. Every time that I told her that, she would laugh in a very pleased tone of voice, and kiss me or brush my hair back. Sometimes she would cup my cheeks in her perfect fingers before she kissed me, and the blood red fingernail polish that she favored would contrast strikingly with the peachy smooth skin of my countenance.

I knew that she loved me and she lived for me. "Love demands sacrifices," she would say, sometimes in an irritated tone when she had to go out yet again in the evening. But, at other times, she would say the same words in a soft, soothing tone that communicated better than words how willingly she labored so hard for us.

I accepted it, but a part of me always protested; though I muffled the protest way down inside, for I knew that it would have saddened her for any lack of acceptance to peek out. I’m sure that she knew, however, for all my caution. Even though what little time we could spend together was somewhat diminished by her general fatigue, for she didn’t spare herself in any way to impress Ms. Washington, the owner of the agency, and to advance the business.

We both treasured even a quiet dinner at home together with a rented movie. These moments were all too rare, and usually Mother had just time to eat a hasty meal (which I strove to make as nourishing as possible), and to bathe and make yet another social engagement with a client or potential client. I often thought that there were just the two of us, but then I would correct myself, reminding myself, that all too often, there was just the one of us. At home, at least. And Mother trusted me a lot, much more than most thirteen-year-old boys could ever be trusted.

I’d been cooking and doing the laundry since I was ten. Actually, I had started doing the laundry even younger. I had started doing the shopping for groceries, as well: it was such a help to Mother. And how, you ask, could a boy of that age do the grocery shopping? Well, where there is a will, there is a way. Every two weeks I would call a taxi. It wasn’t that far, and if you stood and looked helplessly at the entire back seat and trunk full of groceries, the driver would usually help you take them in the house.

I cleaned as well and knew how to handle Mother’s delicate items in the laundry. Which needed to be hand washed, and the setting of the machines for the others. Was I embarrassed to be handling my Mother’s intimate apparel? Of course not! They were her one major indulgence on our budget, and she gained a lot of self- confidence and esteem from her carefully garnered elite treasures.

Besides, I had worn cotton panties as long as I could remember. At the age of five, I was beginning to manifest the first beginnings of the "bubble butt" that was a hereditary endowment from the males on my Father’s side of the family. As I grew older, I often questioned Mother about it.

"Did Daddy have a rump like mine, Mother?"

"Yes," she would reply.

She didn’t tell me until a great deal later that he wore panties as well. When he was taken from the crushed vehicle that claimed his life, he was wearing them under his suit. I think that my Grandfather wore them as well. But (if you want to think that this pun is intentional, please feel at liberty), I can tell you, from personal experience, that panties fit a very great deal better on the shape of my buttocks and hips than ordinary boy briefs would.

At the age of thirteen, I measured myself with a sewing tape, and so I can definitely say that my waist was twenty-three inches and my hips were thirty-four. That was the age I began to exercise to hold them down. I mean, really! So now, as I write this, they’ve been held with a great deal of effort to thirty-six. Because of this prominent feature of my anatomy, I was extremely self-conscious about wearing anything that was not loose and form-disguising. I adopted the "gym" look, opting for sweats that were at least two sizes too big. They draped over me and hung down in baggy folds. Most of the tops had hoods, and I grew rather adept at slipping about like a monk engaged in espionage. It was handy to wear Mother’s tennis shoes as well. Long hair meant fewer trips to the barbershop. My mother gave in to my desire to look like the popular singers of the day, and allowed me to grow it long. After a period of increasing neglect of my part, resulting in tangled strands and desultory attempts at shampooing, Mother took me to her hairdresser. A sweet and motherly woman, Nancy taught me how to take care of my hair. My hair grew quite long even for a girl, falling below my buttocks slightly.

In my grooming, I was guided by an ideal that was centered around my Mother. I’d watched her prepare herself to leave the house countless times, and the picture of her voluptuous figure perched on her dressing stool in front of her vanity is a picture I’ll always remember.

She was the very paragon of feminine pulchritude. Others may idealize movie stars and other celebrities, but I have never seen one that even came close to my Mother. I do admit to being slightly prejudiced.

Because I did the laundry and put things away, I frequently helped her dress. I could generally locate a given article of clothing a little quicker than she could. There was an innocence about this that may seem incongruous, but it wasn’t incestuous in any way. It was more comparable to a mother and daughter. As time went on, she leaned on my opinion of her appearance, and the times we got her ready to go out were precious times together. I was thirteen when I first tried on some of her silky panties. I was standing in the laundry room by the washing machine and had retrieved a pair when it occurred to me to wonder how they felt. I immediately acted upon this impulse, removing my lower sweat pants and my normal panties. I then stepped into hers and was an enthusiast for life, as simple as that.

I’d already been using Mother’s hair removal cream in the shower, not that I had much hair to lose. I liked the smooth feeling all over, and the bathing oils and bubble bath balls, which Mother used, kept my skin soft.

On the day that I tried on the pair of Mother’s panties, I ran up the stairs in that ridiculous sweatshirt and lace-paneled pair of full briefs that fitted me a little loosely, for Mother was a size larger in the rump than I. I wanted to experience the feeling of stockings on my legs. Choosing one of her garter belts (white), which were a little smaller than others, I drew it up and rolled up silky lace stockings to attach to the dangling ribbon and ruffled straps. It fit me to perfection and pleased me immensely. I then discarded the sweatshirt and tried one of Mother’s brassieres, a lacy, white, seamless creation that fit my shoulders just right without any adjustment of the shoulder straps. In spite of this, the rumpled bosom cups ruined the entire effect. I made an effort to fill them with other articles of lingerie, but wasn’t pleased with the effect. The imprint of my Mother’s beautiful bosom in her underwear was too firmly printed in my mind for me to be satisfied with this inadequate substitution. I removed the brassiere and donned a dressing gown. Slipping my feet into a pair of Mother’s everyday pumps, I went about my housework, and wondered what to do. If I passed a reflection from a mirror or the glass door that showed me from the waist down, I was quite pleased and constantly reveled in the silkiness, the tug of the garter and stockings, the feel of stepping on a toe and coming down on an elevated heel. I looked good and felt good - on the lower half of my body. I avoided looking at the top reflection.

When Mother came home for supper, I had on my usual sweats with a pair of her lavender tennis shoes. Underneath, her clothing was still all there, for I could not scarcely bear to remove it. After a while, when Mother had gone out again, I dressed as before and went to bed still wearing the lingerie with a beautiful white peignoir.

As usual, Mother did not check on me during the night and I awoke before her as usual. Slipping around in bed, I slipped my stocking-clad limbs into two-inch white satin mules that I’d placed there the night before. I then performed my personal toilet, attired in this way. Although I regretted to change, I dressed as at supper and prepared breakfast. That was the day that I found an unusual catalogue in Mother’s boxes of mail-order offerings. There was something about this printed material that was different from the rest. It aspired to supply the needs of mastectomy females, but I believe, in hindsight, that it was a discreet way to call attention to the desires of transvestites.

An expensive attention. A very expensive attention because at that time, they were over four hundred dollars for a pair. But what a description!

"Feel lifelike to the touch, with nipples that stiffen when moisture is applied to them. Nipples are connected to your natural anatomy with gentle clamps from the concave side. Watch battery is included. Attached with body adhesive. Included with removal solvent. Filled with semi-liquid silicone that accurately mimics the human bosom in every way. Order in the cup size of your choice: A, B, C, D, and DD."

I began to scheme. I already had over $310 that was the result of rigorous sacrifice. The objective of this hoard changed constantly, much to my Mother’s amusement. But, unbeknown to her, it ceased to vacillate at that moment, and I bent every effort toward squeezing the remaining amount out of the household allowance. It took a month, but finally the day came when I bought a postal money order for the correct amount and ordered the merchandise.

I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room of rocking chairs, for I kept seeing Mother get to the house and retrieve the mail before I could get there.

She would open this, and I could imagine her sating, "what isssss thissss?"

In one version of this, I, exempt from the laws of physics and matter, would actually sink through the floor to... Well, I don’t know where, but it would surely be supremely undesirable. In another scenario, I just dissolved away, rather like a vapor. But fortunately, this didn’t happen, for one day I discovered what surely had to be ‘The Box’ in our mail, and tossing all the other mail on the kitchen table, I fled to my room. There were no surprises because it was just as the catalogue had promised. They were so real in appearance, in touch - so... perfect that it made my eyes water.

They were mine, and it was too late to try them at that point because my Mother was due home shortly. Thrusting the package in my bureau drawer, I rushed downstairs and completed preparation of the meal. Mother was just a little early, and I had to rush upstairs again, thankful that the carpet on the stairs muffled the sound of my pumps.

Mother didn’t go out that night, and we watched a movie together. I was rather distracted, seeking surreptitious glances at her bosom, and indulging in flights of imagination, which I fervently hoped to soon realize. I could tell that Mother thought I did not care for the movie. I peeked at the wonderful parcel before I went to sleep.

Mid-morning found me ready to embark on a new form and shape. The day had dawned shining and gorgeous, the perfect weather for a young boy to don a woman’s bosom.

Said, privileged, young male, though with a decidedly feminine rump, was prepared to initiate the ritual. After housework, a thorough bathing with another application of Nair, which was hardly needed. Then, dressed appropriately in the lower extremities, I, the long-haired youth (with that hair wrapped in a beehive upon his head), carefully traced outline of the feathered edges of each breast form upon his slender little chest and under the arm of each side.

This was done with eyeshadow, and then the solvent was applied to the chest and the edges of each breast form. The first was finished and held in place the requisite time; then the second, and I resolutely refused to gaze into Mother’s vanity mirror until all was complete.

I was expecting to be impressed, but it went further than that. It was almost shocking - how my chest had... blossomed. The chest was full of bosom, ripe, swollen, and thrusting into a consummate maturity around the bursting little pink nipple of each breast. The weight was a surprise that had not been imagined, and the new width of my chest, as the bosom swelled under the armpit, was significantly bigger. I could not take my eyes off them. My nipples under the nipples of the breast form were firmly pinched by the padded alligator clamps. It was time for a brassiere, but then I found that I could not figure out how to capture my suddenly sprouted bosom in the cups of the underwear. In my awkward attempts, which would have been greatly comical to any objective observer, I finally hit on the technique of leaning forward and snugging my dangling bosom in the lacy cups of the brassiere. Then rising to my feet, I posed before a floor length mirror in Mother’s room and felt the thrill of complete satisfaction. I was ever bit as rounded and curvy as Mother.

The housework that day was a joy. Wearing one of Mother’s everyday dresses, a silky polka-dotted creation with a sweetly- pleated skirt, and wearing everyday office pumps with a three- inch heel, I flew through the tasks. I’d very carefully applied lipstick that morning at Mother’s dressing table, and I felt very finished, polished, and elegant. The beautiful young woman with the mature form had such a young face, I thought, as I ironed Mother’s blouses.

And then, just for the fun of it, I stepped out of the dress, admiring my reflection in the lacy slip, and slipped on a silk blouse, noting with approval the good fit and the suggestion of slip straps and brassiere beneath.

My panty line showed very faintly beneath the full skirt of the slip, and I smiled at the full roundedness of my buttocks. It would be a great joy to try everything in Mother’s closet - and she had such good taste! But duty called, so I donned the dress again and went back to ironing.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that the dilemma struck me. I couldn’t appear before Mother as I was now! The thought filled me with dismay. I most definitely didn’t want to remove my new bosom.

Already, the thought of doing so was assuming the proportions of having a mastectomy operation myself. The idea was so abhorrent! But... what to do?

Finally, I decided to duck the issue for the evening, at least, by leaving a note by Mother’s supper, pleading a headache and promising to do the dishes in the morning, and retiring early. Having reached this decision, I had the supreme satisfaction of slowly undressing before my floor length mirror. The junction of each breast form and my chest was so fine as to be nearly invisible in the early twilight, and I gave a shiver of excitement as I stood before the mirror in heels, stockings, garter belt, and panties, and pulled a silky nightie over myself. The nipples of the breasts poked against the cups of the nightgown, and caused me to shiver with pleasure. Once again, removing just the heels after carefully placing the bedroom mules beside the bed, I carefully slipped into bed, savoring each sensual feeling. And then I was surprised at the nature of my new bosom again, for my breasts flattened and spread just slightly toward the outsides of my chest. It was so unexpected and so sweetly beautiful that tears came to my eyes.

 

(continued)

 

© 2001
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