Crystal's StorySite


Misty's Campfire Tales


Misty Dawn

Part 01

It Could Happen


As related around a campfire one night during scout camp while eating "Smores" and drinking Mountain Dew. It could happen...


From the first day of my first grade, I was the class rowdy.

Being the smallest boy in my class, I felt I had to be "Mister Macho" to be accepted. I was the first to fight. I was last to choose flight. It seemed I had to prove I was just as able, just as tough, and just as rough as any male in school. Sometime during my fourth grade, after Mom had her fill of being called to retrieve me from the Principal's office for another misdemeanor. Either that or she simply got tired of my room always being in a mess. Then again, maybe she got fed up with my 'the man of the house' attitude, or maybe it was because I wouldn't help with the 'woman's work' around the home she tried her best to provide me. I was typical boy, always trying to get out of doing chores.

One day just after I entered fourth, and she had been called to come get me again for being in a fight, Mom remarked, "God, Billy, I wish you were a girl!" following another round of 'discussion' concerning my fighting, she had started ragging on my room's 'deplorable' condition.

"Why do you wish I was a girl?" I asked in honest innocence.

"Because girls don't fight! Because girls keep their rooms tidy, and because girls help around the house."

Again, it boiled down to those three key issues. It seemed we were always at odds over them. Even at those tender ages I was a handful. I think I may have chuckled, but said nothing more and allowed her words of criticism to go in one ear and out the other. She was always accusing of being too pretty to be a boy and too small to be so ornery. Like I always did, I ignored it and simply forgot all about it.

After that day, from time to time, she began to stare intently at me.

"What?" I asked one day. The expression on her face was scary.

"Oh, I was just imagining what you would look like in a dress."

"That'll never happen!"

"Maybe it won't. Maybe it will."

"Not in this lifetime!"

"Don't be too sure, Billy."

"Never happen."

"It could happen."

Mom went out of my room with a smile, a weird little smirk, on her face. I sensed she was going to attempt something to change my disposition again. But I couldn't work out what it was and, when nothing too drastic happened in the next few days, I forgot all about it. Unbeknownst to me, she had decided then and there to turn me into a girl, to convert me from a rough, tough, street-wise little punk into a gentle, soft, frilly frock-wearing little girl.

The next morning, a Saturday while we were doing some early pumpkin carving for Halloween, she asked me if I'd like a cup of tea or cocoa with my breakfasts in the mornings—no way was she going to allow me the coffee that I suggested. I told her that I would like a cocoa. She started serving me a cup every morning. I appreciated it. It made getting up for another day at school a bit more agreeable. Around Easter, I noticed a few guy friends were developing, but I wasn't. I also noticed a lot of the others weren't, so I never gave it a lot of thought.

Because of my "I could care less" behavior and lackadaisical study habits, I failed sixth grade. At the end of the year, all my buddies were advanced to junior high school while I remained in the sixth. That summer it occurred to me that my chum's voices were breaking; that hair was growing on their legs, under their arms, and on their upper lips. But I was still the same. Impatiently, I began to look for the signs of my own maturity to appear.

My only real change that whole year was that Mom finally gave up on forcing me to the barber. By Christmas of my second sixth, I was wearing my hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. It about that same time that I noticed my skin seemed softer and smoother than other boys. My eyes seemed to sparkle and shimmer a lot. My lips filled out. I finally developed pubic hair, but it was soft and fine and the color of ripe peaches. I began to be mistaken as a girl an awful lot by waitresses, shopkeepers, bus drivers, etc.

The first suspicions of Mom's plans to feminize me asserted themselves about a year and a half after she had started the morning cocoa ritual, probably sometime during the middle of my second sixth. I looked in my drawer one morning and found six pair of soft cotton underpants there. They were simple plain briefs, no lace or anything. Nice colors too, navy blue and burgundy, fire engine red, midnight black, electric lime and lemon. In truth, they weren't too different from my regular underpants, just that they did not have the normal opening in the front. Most peculiar was that there was a matching "muscle" shirt with each.

When questioned, Mom just said that she had gone to buy me some new underwear and was told these were the newest styles and were all the rage with the RAVE set, so she bought them for me. These were the best she could get with the money she had to spend on my clothes.

"Mom, they're colored!"

"And boys don't wear colors?" she asked.

"No! Colors are for girls!"" I charged with some vehemence.

"Oh really!" she snarled and held out another package. It was plainly marked as Boy's Briefs. Inside the package was a pair identical to those in my drawer, except being bright electric blue… my favorite color! "I was saving those for your birthday, Billy!"

Though I was still a little unsure, but because of a sudden wave of guilt for spoiling her little surprise, I said I didn't mind and thanked her for buying them for me. It did thrill me that she cared.

"Besides, nobody will be able to see them to know they are colored," she said, then asked, "will they, dear?" in that gentle way all mothers have of suggesting to their child that they had better not be showing off their unders to others, or else.

"No ma'am. No one else will ever see them, Momma."

Actually, and this occurred to me only a bit later, these new articles of underwear were really quite comfortable, a lot more so than my regular boy jockey underpants, which had begun to wad up and rub me raw between the legs. It was because my underdeveloped manhood didn't fill out the pocket built to contain the male parts very well.

Within a couple of months, all my old 'out of style' underclothes disappeared, replaced with new RAVE colored underwear. Some were in what I considered very girly colors, pink, baby blue or pastel. Some even had trims, contrasting colored or white, and or piping along the edges. Some were made from cotton while some were soft, silky nylon material; I discovered I rather liked the feel of these slinky materials on my smooth soft skin.

I spent my second year as a sixth grader lonely and miserable, my chums were advanced and placed in different school across town. Because of this, we drifted apart. While they formed new cliques, I discovered they, as seventh graders, in junior high, wanted nothing to do with a lowly elementary student. The kids who had advanced from fifth and were my new classmates considered me something akin to a leper—"Yuh know yuh gotta be a real dummy to fail sixth grade" was often said behind me—and they would have nothing to do with me from the first day.

Once again, I wound up in the principal's office on several occasions and Momma came in to bail me out. It was not my best year. Finally I figured it out and with no distractions in the form of buddies, I actually listened in class and did my homework, such as it was for a second year sixth grader. Somehow I managed to knuckle down, and actually brought my GPA up and advanced to the seventh.

That year because of boredom, or so I thought, I started talking to mom more often and then, for reasons unknown, even began helping her with household chores, just because it was easier to talk while doing things together.

Other new style clothes followed: a pair of white joggers, then white ankle socks, instead of the over-the-calf style I preferred, and several pair of new blue jeans. But, just like the panties—by then I recognized the underpants for what they truly were—there was no too-overtly feminine characteristic about them, just the designs on the hip pockets were more fem. The new joggers were similar to my old ones, except for softer color trims.

The jeans I wore without argument because they fit me better than any other jeans I had ever worn. It occurred to me that I rather liked knowing that mom was taking an interest in what I wore and was buying me new "In" things. Still it was a bit disconcerting that more and more people were calling me miss, ma'am and young lady.

By then, the pattern had been set and I was a loner. Once more, I discovered myself more attentive in class and doing my homework. Rather than fight, I took flight and walked away. I became almost a recluse. I discovered it easier to talk to girls than to boys. It occurred to me on several occasions, usually after hearing a loud belch or other rude body noise made by a male, that boys were truly disgusting creatures. Because I dressed in a unisex style, even in class I was often mistaken for a girl.

I had two cousins living nearby, both girls, and somehow seemed to fit right in with them and their crowd of gigglers. I think most of them did not believe I was actually a boy, and we had fun terrorizing the local mall. More than a couple of times on wild-eyed shopping sprees we were scolded by security for being too noisy.

The summer following my seventh grade, I went to stay with my grandmother in Texas. Somehow, and to my surprise, enjoying it, I spent most of the time at her place learning to do housework and to do the cooking. To my greater surprise, and my grandmother's delight, I discovered I had a rather quick mind and grasped the knack of cooking rather easily and learned to produce some rather fancy meals.

When I returned home, I discovered my room had been made over. Though it was not done in pinks and satins, I knew that done over, completely in Early American, it was no longer a boy's bedroom. A state of the art computer with 24/7 online capabilities now dominated a spacious corner desk between the south and west windows of my room. Next to the desk, on window-seat bookshelves under the windows, where once had been shelved boyish mementos, there now sat a very impressive entertainment center.

The moment I pushed open the door and saw all those ruffles and flower patterns in the curtains and bedspread, I paused and tears filled my eyes. I think that is when I finally understood there had been many, and would be many more, changes made in my lifestyle. Though I was not yet ready to admit to myself that I liked the changes taking place, I no longer resisted them. I simply accepted them.

Momma presented me with a tall stack of CDs and tapes to listen to on the super sound system now dominating my old toy shelf. Some of the CDs were in plain wrappers, and I assumed pirated, but the groups were good and music great. Seeming somehow driven to listen to some more than others, I began leaving them to play on even as I slept.

About the time I entered the eighth grade, some five years and nine months after mom had begun her serving me a breakfast cocoa, I noticed that I was actually growing girl's breasts. When I asked her about it, if this was something I should be concerned about, Mom didn't seem to think it serious and this lack of concern just convinced me to put my developing breasts down as normal. Because she didn't seem to be worried, I wasn't worried; but Mom did start to buy me loose fitting, heavy sweaters and baggy shirts for the rest of the school year. Out of school, I began to wear sweatshirts and nobody seemed to notice anything different about me, maybe a few more called me Miss or ma'am. One morning I noticed my waist was thinner, my butt more rounded while my shoulder length auburn hair was thick, soft and shiny. I noticed I was looking more and more like a girl, instead of a boy, almost thirteen years old. It never even occurred me to think about why such things as this were happening to me. I was too caught up in the music and my schoolwork to ask bout my figure.

Though I drew a few strange looks, no one at school said anything about my appearance so I never worried about it. My grades were great and my teachers happy with my new attitude and the few friends I'd made laughed and giggled with me, not at me. Perhaps they were being kind. Perhaps they didn't notice. Perhaps they didn't care. At home, Mom didn't say anything, but she began to treat me in ways I imagined girls in other homes were being treated. I turned thirteen and graduated the eighth grade with a four-point-oh grade point average. Next year I would be a high school freshman!

The elementary grades were behind me, and summer vacation was upon me. That I was excited was an understatement. Because I had graduated with such high grades mom rented us a bungalow for us, to live in on the beach on the island below Galveston for the entire summer. And I was a teenager! A teenager on Galveston Island!

Over supper the day school let out for the summer, Mom told me that she'd bought new clothes for me to wear on our beach vacation. When I questioned her about them, Mom told me our things were packed and that the suitcases were in the back of the new Jeep Wagoneer she had recently bought. The next morning, I woke in a state of excitement; we were due to leave for the beach. Over breakfast, while still in my sleeper, Mom told me that she'd laid some of my new clothes out for me on my bed. Finished with breakfast, I rushed upstairs to find out what she'd gotten for me.

Spread atop the flowered spread now covering my bed was a pair of bright pink, too-feminine-to-be-denied girls' panties, a pink unicorn t-shirt, and a pair of khaki shorts. With a small, rueful shrug, I stripped out of my pajamas and slipped into the panties, which fitted perfectly. Then I pulled on the shorts, which surprised me with their side zipper. They were very loose-legged-they were what I later discovered were called culottes. The t-shirt was much tighter than what I'd been used to and it didn't hide the contours of my expanding chest. In fact, the shirt rather well displayed now undeniable girl's breasts. It was at that moment I realized I was more girl than boy, and that Momma knew it! More shocking was that I accepted this revelation without a whimper.

Looking in the mirror, many things, which had puzzled me for years, were suddenly very clear. Momma loved me, but hadn't wanted me as a rowdy boy. Staring at my reflection I saw looking back, with long, shiny hair, with breasts; only slightly protuberant, with long almost hairless legs; and in shorts that were shaped just like a skirt, what appeared completely a girl. I wanted to protest when Momma came into the room, but something deep within prevented me saying a word. Instead, I smiled and performed a thoroughly girlish pirouette. Suddenly I loved my mother and, if she wanted a girl, I would be the very best girl she could ever ask for!

"Oh Misty, how sweet you look."

My mouth fell open in a classic expression of surprise.

"But really, I do think you need something to prevent those adorable kissable lips of yours from chapping." She took some soft pink lip-gloss from a small clutch purse she carried-somehow I just knew that darling little pearl-beaded purse was for me-and carefully outlined, then filled in the area surrounding my still-open mouth; I could still say nothing in protest. And then, again retrieving the item from the little purse, she gently brushed pale blue eye shadow onto my eyelids. "Always remember, Misty, a little bit is more than enough. Yes, that will complement the color of your eyes and that pearl pink matches your top perfectly," she said. "This summer is going to be so much fun. Just you wait and see. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Momma."

"Then, let' go! We're wasting daylight," she said in her best Duke imitation.

****Fade to a strip of highway north of Galveston****

While we drove south toward Galveston, Momma explained everything and she told me she loved the way I had turned out, assured me that I would love being a girl. Later I discovered I was avidly reading the magazines Mom bought me when we stopped at a local Safeway for a few things to munch on as we drove. They were the typical girls' magazines, and I discovered I was more than a little concerned about clothes, pop groups, make-up, and boys. Suddenly it occurred to me that I since I looked like a girl, and boys liked girls, would I have to...?

"Momma,"-I'd been calling her Momma ever since I'd gotten dressed and looked in the mirror-"What would happen if..."

"Boys, Misty?" Momma had been calling me Misty ever since breakfast and I had made not a single note of protest. It seemed every time I thought of a protest; it simply slipped from my mind before I could voice it.

Unable to deny it even in my own mind, I looked at her and nodded vigorously. What was happening to me? I was looking forward to my first boy.

"Honey, boys are a big part of being a girl."

"But Momma, boys only want one thing from girls." Incredibly, I was saying things as a girl. I was thinking thoughts only a girl could think. I wanted to do things with boys only girls could do with boys.

"Yes, Misty, I know they do, but it is up to us girls to give that one thing only to boys we truly want to share ourselves with in love."

Putting further thought of what that could mean in the back of my mind was for some reason very difficult, and more so after we stopped at a service station for gas where a boy my age actually whistled. While I stood the blushing furiously, Momma said that I'd have to go with her into the ladies'. Only in a small part of my rapidly diminishing male mind was I even a little embarrassed now. Instead, I felt a twinge of feminine pride that a boy thought I was pretty enough to whistle at.

That tiny spark of masculinity still could not understand, could not fully accept, what was happening. I could no longer pretend that I was a boy. Sitting to pee, somehow today a reflex action, was a totally new experience, but one I sensed I would have to get used to doing. 'Girls sit to pee' flickered through my mind again and again.

Across the street from the service station was a small strip mall. When Momma saw it housed a junior miss boutique, she smiled a wide joy-filled smile. Giggling, she looked at me then back at the shop, and then said, "Let's go shopping, Misty!"

Impossibly the idea of shopping, and shopping with Momma, excited me. Some ten minutes later, I was browsing jeans and shorts when Momma handed me an item saying, "Misty, go try this on."

Entering a dressing cubicle, I locked the door and looked at the garment Momma had given me. It was a blue denim mini-skirt. Gad, the last vestige of masculinity was about to freak out when I eagerly slipped off my shorts and pulled on the too-short skirt. I did it up after a brief struggle with the zip in back. I finally spun the skirt around, zipped it closed and spun it back into proper place. With a girlish grin, I put the shorts in a small shopping bag that was hanging conveniently on the inside of the door. The too short skirt felt fine. Not as bad as I had thought. But, I told myself, I would have to be careful and not bend over, or sit without crossing my legs, or somebody might see my bright blue panties.

I left the cubicle. Mom was waiting for me. "Oh, Misty," she said, "that skirt looks lovely."

"Yes, Momma, I think it fits me perfectly," I said and hugged her close. "Are you going to miss Billy sometimes?"

"Honey, I think we will both miss him occasionally."

"Yes, it could happen, I suppose." Still, somehow, I didn't think I would miss that rowdy little boy much at all.




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