Neighbours

by Sarah Bayen

Part Four

 

That visit set the tone for the next three days. Each morning, we would head off to the den, and John would quietly slip into his skirt, his knickers and his bra before coming in. We'd then have quite a general laugh and lark about much as we had done before Andrea had left. In fact, once or twice, I almost forgot about her. I also almost forgot that Charlotte was only a pretend girl, and judging by some of the things she said, I think Katy did as well.

John didn't raise one mutter of complaint. He just tagged along with us as we walked through the field and the forest, and then compliantly slipped into his girly clothes as if it was second nature. I still got a huge buzz every time I saw him put on his dainty little pink bra, and once or twice I found myself staring at his legs, stretching fetchingly out of his little skirt. I suppose I was hoping for a glimpse of his pretty knickers, but somehow he managed to sit ladylike enough to keep them from my eager eyes, and I only saw them going on and coming off. He would occasionally catch me staring at him, and look at me curiously, as if wondering why I found his legs so interesting suddenly. Then he would smile, and flash his brown eyes at me, fringed with their far too long lashes, and I would look away, blushing.

Katy did take me aside one day, and asked me how long he would have to keep pretending to be a girl. She still saw herself as his advocate, and assumed that this was some temporary initiation test or something. I feigned confusion, and told her that he would have to be a pretend girl forever, as if any other outcome was totally preposterous. She wasn't entirely pleased with this, but did not press the point. I think she was beginning to think he was more fun as Charlotte than he was as John. She certainly enjoyed going through the fashion pages in that week's magazine with him, and he showed more enthusiasm for them than Andrea or I ever had.

Then the day came for Katy to go off on holiday. John and I stood in the street, and waved her and her family off. Now this was the moment I had been waiting for, John and I on our own. I had more or less neutralised Katy as a stumbling block towards pressing him further into girlhood, but I hadn't forced the issue over the past few days, because I knew this day was coming. Sure, I had made a few comments, like asking him whether his periods were regular yet, or still painful. He was always 'she' to me, and although he occasionally looked at me pitifully when I called him Charlotte, he no longer flinched as he once had done.

As their car drove down the road off for their night flight, I turned to him and smiled. "Just you and me now Charlotte," I said, watching his face carefully for any reaction. He smiled nervously back. "Yes," he piped in his high-pitched voice.

"Well, it's late now," I went on. "But let's get ourselves off to the den early tomorrow. I'll call for you about eight if that's okay?"

"Fine," he replied, his brown eyes looking soft and watery at me.

"Did you get your clothes back off Katy before she went?" I asked him. "We don't want you to be without a skirt or anything do we?"

He blushed a little, and nodded. "Yes, she gave them to me," he confessed. "I'll bring them tomorrow."

"Good," I told him, smiling even wider at him, and looking down at his legs. "You look silly wearing trousers you know. I much prefer you in a skirt."

"I know you do," he said, a little querulously.

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

He shuffled from foot to foot for a moment before answering. "Well, just the way you keep looking at my legs. I guessed you liked me in a skirt because of the way you do that."

It was my turn to flush. How dare he suggest that I found his legs attractive in any way, or any part of him for that matter? I clenched my mouth tight together to stop myself from saying anything I might regret.

"I don't mind," he went on. "You can look if you want to."

I was confounded. "Thank you," I said at length. "I will."

He smiled at me, and did that thing he did with his eyelashes. I felt a shudder of excitement deep inside me, but suppressed it quickly. I was going to teach him a lesson; stealing Andrea's house, Katy's friendship, and then having the gall to try and ingratiate himself into our club. Well, we'd see about that!

"Right well I'll see you tomorrow at about eight," I managed to say, before rushing back to my own house, and quickly up the stairs to my room. I lay on the bed with my head spinning for a good hour, thinking about him, and his eyes, and the way he moved his eyelashes. I thought of his legs in his lovely little skirt, and didn't know quite how it made me feel. Somehow my feelings of absolute power were diminishing, and being replaced by something else. I had to get control of the situation again, and tomorrow was the perfect opportunity. I'd push him so far down the road of girlhood that he would have to object, and loose the game. By the time Katy got back from her two weeks away, there wouldn't be any pretend girls in the den any more. He'd either have become a full time one, or given up on the whole idea, and left us completely alone.

True to my word, I was knocking on his door at eight o'clock sharp. To my annoyance, he wasn't ready, and I had to spend the next ten minutes in the kitchen with his mother while he got himself dressed and pressed. Finally he announced himself at the kitchen door, and off we went. Both of us were carrying bags today; I knew his contained his clothes, although what mine had in it was a complete mystery to him. He did ask me, but I just smiled at him, and told him to wait.

We got to the clearing, and I made myself comfortable against a tree, ready for my daily treat of watching him put on his skirt, bra and knickers. He started by kicking off his shoes, which was unusual for him. He had got into the habit of putting his bra on first.

"What are you doing Charlotte?" I asked him. "Don't forget about your bra will you?"

He smiled coyly at me, and put his fingers to his lips to hush me. Then, still smiling, he lifted his dark blue T-shirt up a little, and I saw that he already had the bra on. The cheeky little devil had slipped into it at home before coming here! No wonder he had taken so long to get ready. I was cross with him. I enjoyed seeing him struggle with it every morning, especially with the fastenings at the back. Normally Katy had to help him with it, but with her off on holiday, I had rather been hoping that he would have to ask me.

My disappointment soon dissipated however, as he removed his jeans. He had his knickers on as well. I had never seen him in them, only them disappearing under his skirt, as he put them on expertly without revealing anything. Now, he was just standing there in them, smiling at me. My eyes were not drawn to his face, however, but to lower down, below his waist. The pink flimsy knickers covered him up nicely, and for a moment, I cursed the fact that the panel in the front wasn't as see-through as the rest of them. The waistband was gently frilled, with a small pink bow in the middle. There was a row of pretty lace trims too, I noticed, just as his pale hairless legs escaped from them. He turned around, and I saw that the back was plainer, just pink nylon, with the frills of the waistband. They looked really good on him; really good indeed.

"Do you like what you see?" I suddenly heard him say, and I tore my eyes away from his midriff. He was smiling, and tilting his head to one side.

"They're all right," I managed to blurt out. "Come on, get your skirt on. We've got things to do."

He rather petulantly walked, or rather swayed back to where he put the plastic bag, took out the skirt, and put it on. I found myself trembling for no apparent reason. I was in control here, I reminded myself. I was making a boy wear knickers bra and a skirt because I was in control. The fact that he was putting them on proved how weak he was, and how strong I was. Yet, somehow the sight of him in his knickers had made me feel weak and under his spell, rather than the other way around.

"I'm done," he said at last, his skirt now in place, and his trainers back on.

"Good," I managed to say. "Come on, let's go in."

I unlocked the padlock and in we went. He came in behind me, and sat himself down a little primly on one of the chairs, folding his legs in front of him, so his knickers wouldn't show. Clever little swine, taking lessons in how to sit from Katy no doubt!

"What are we going to do today?" he asked me eagerly, placing his hands on his knee, and smiling. "You were dead keen to get here early, so I guess you've got something special in mind."

"I don't know about that," I said, grabbing hold of the bag I had brought along. "I just thought it was time to help you out with your pretending to be a girl a bit more."

His face changed instantly, from delight to concern, and I felt a new surge of power. He was getting too comfortable and complacent with wearing his skirt, his bra and his knickers. I had decided that it was time to introduce something else. I pulled a little purse out of the bag, and threw it to him. He caught it in his lap.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's some stuff for your hair," I explained. "Don't get me wrong Charlotte," I went on. "You're doing quite well at being a girl, but your hair needs a bit of work."

His eyes fell on the purse, and with some trepidation, he pulled back the zip, and looked inside. "Hair slides?" he asked.

"Yes, that and some other stuff. Shall we see if we can make you pretty then?"

His big brown eyes gazed at me sorrowfully, and his eyelashes went up and down a few times before he finally replied. "If you want."

I stood up, and walked over to him. His hair was really too short for this sort of thing, but I was determined to do whatever damage I could to his masculine pride with it. I hadn't used the stuff in the bag for years myself. It was just a collection I had thrown together when I was about seven, and going through a phase of decorating my own hair.

I stood in front of him, and took the purse off him. I took a couple of elasticated rings, and, making his hair stand up in tufts, rather savagely twisted several of them into it. He looked preposterous, and he knew it. This was much more like it. The discomfort I had felt outside the shed was disappearing, and I was in control once more.

Once all the rings had been used up, I found myself a packet of little plastic butterfly clips in a range of pastel colours. He looked at them in my hand nervously, which made me smile again. One by one, I found bits of his hair into which I could attach them, and then stood back to look at the effect.

His eyes followed me, and looked dolefully up at me, as I considered my handiwork. "Not bad," I said at last, grinning. "You look a better girl now than you've ever done Charlotte."

"My hair's not really long enough for these sort of things," he said, in a rather simpering tone.

"Well don't worry about that," I told him. "Now you're a girl I'm sure you'll be letting it grow out, won't you?"

He pouted at me in response to this, which sent a shiver of glee through me. I wasn't finished yet, however. I took from the bag the final set of decorations I thought he should have; lovely little nylon braids in a range of colours, attached to hairpins. One by one in placed them carefully into his hair, so that they hung down by his ears and down his back fetchingly. They were pink, purple, silver and blonde, which looked vaguely odd against his brown mop of hair. Maybe it would have been better if they had all been the same colour, but beggars can't be choosers, I decided.

"There," I announced when I had finished. "You look much better now! Did you want to see Charlotte?" He looked at me admonishingly, but I just smiled back. "I'm sure you do!" I pulled a hand held mirror out of the bag, and handed it to him. For a second, he just let it lay on his lap, and I wondered if he was going to refuse in some way. Then, slowly, he lifted it up in front of him, and scrutinised his reflection carefully. I watched his face for any sign of emotion. He tilted his head this way and that, and moved the mirror around to get a better view.

"What do you think?" I asked him.

"It's all right," he responded, thoughtfully. "I suppose I do look a bit more like a girl now don't I?"

"Yes of course," I replied hoarsely.

"But it would be better if I could grow my own hair longer," he went on wistfully. "Then we could really decorate it properly."

I was disappointed. I don't know what I had been expecting; tears, or a sense of outrage that he had been made to do this, something like that; but his quiet acceptance rather took the sting of pleasure out of it for me. Damn him, he was supposed to be hating this! Still, the next phase might well get to him rather more.

"Well that's not all," I said, going back to my bag. "I've got this for you as well." I took another smaller bag out, and handed it to him. "It's full of make-up," I told him. "I thought you could wear some of that now." I didn't have any make-up of my own. I had stolen this bag from one of my mother's many handbags, and sneaked it out of the house to give to him. That act of theft somehow added to the thrill.

"I don't really know much about make-up," he said, nervously, looking in awe at the bag in the lap of his skirt.

"Well now's a good time to learn," I responded, a little impatiently.

His eyes flashed up from the bag to me. "Are you going to teach me then?" he said, hopefully.

"Good God no!" I nearly shouted. "I don't know anything about make-up. I never wear any. Katy does, but I don't."

"It's a pity she's not here then," he said, looking back to the bag.

"Well it can't be that difficult," I said, calming myself as I did so. "Just get some out, and try it to see how it looks."

He glanced at me again, then undid the bag, and began to examine the contents. "I don't know what half of this stuff is," he confessed, "much less how to put it on."

"Well you can at least try," I urged him. "It's the only way to learn."

He picked out what I knew to be mascara, and looked at it carefully, turning it round and around in his thin little fingers. He began to read to instructions on it, carefully absorbing the information. I began to get a little impatient with him, but he suddenly looked up at me, with a mischievous smile on his face, and his eyes flashing. "Shall I try it then?"

"Yes," I muttered, strange feelings filling me at the sight of him. He withdrew the brush with unnecessary delicateness from the tube, and then, as it popped out, looked at it, holding it a few inches from his face. "Go on!" I urged him again. "See what it looks like."

"Okay," he agreed, and very carefully began to wave it in the general direction of his eyes. "Oh," he said, with some surprise. "It tickles when it touches your lashes doesn't it?"

"I don't know," I replied, tensely.

Charlotte's first make-up session was, in retrospect, a disaster. He made a commendable effort with everything, but obviously his lack of expertise didn't lead to a very commendable result. His mascara smudged and smeared, and he managed to get his eyelashes clumped together. However much he tried, holding the mirror in front of him, he didn't seem to be able to balance his eye shadow, and probably chose the wrong colour for his deep brown eyes, selecting a rather bright blue.

Nevertheless, I found the experience of watching him put it on intoxicating. Here I was, watching a boy who I had made wear a skirt, bra and knickers, putting on my Mum's make-up to make himself even more feminine. Every little stroke of each brush sent shivers through me, and exquisite thrill of knowing that he was doing this because of me. I hated the thought of wearing make-up myself. It seemed so much fuss, and so false. I had watched Mum and Katy put it on in the past, but without much interest. Watching him do it know, I was riveted by the experience.

He fussed and fretted over his lipstick, pouting his lips out to paint them, and then rubbing them together, while intently looking at himself in the mirror he held in his left hand. He actually did a fair job with it, considering it was his first time, although he did look rather over painted by the time he had finished. Katy always seemed to make it look more subtle, although he had chosen a rather over red crimson. I watched his lips fill out, and become bee-sting like with fascination and increasing tension. He was doing this because of me, I reminded myself. He was turning himself into a girl because of me.

Eventually he decided he could do no more, and put the mirror down. He looked across at me, looking like some badly painted doll, and smiled. "What do you think?" he asked me.

I found it hard to speak. My breathing had gone all shallow and rapid. I steadied myself for a few moments before managing to get some words out of my mouth. "It's not bad," I said, feeling a flush coming to my face. "You need a bit more practice, but it's not bad. We'll keep the bag here so you can keep on trying."

"Katy's going to be surprised when she comes back from holiday then!" he said, too brightly for my taste. "I'll look as pretty as her when she sees me!" He giggled.

This rancoured me; as pretty as Katy indeed. Why did he think she was pretty?

To calm myself down, and to try and suppress some of the conflicting feelings that were coursing through me, I suggested we read some magazines, becoming my standard retreat it seemed, from situations I was uncomfortable with. We spent the next hour or so doing this. He interrupted a few times with trite comments about the articles he was reading, but I tried to make it clear that I wanted silence at that moment. I could hardly concentrate, with him sitting next to me, in his short little skirt, his face all made up, and all sorts of decorations in his thick lustrous hair. He seemed to be sitting deliberately with his legs stretched out together in front of him, occasionally pulling the hem of his skirt further down his thighs when it rode up a little. I could not help glancing every time he did so, hoping for a glimpse of his knickers, but he was too careful. I hated him for making me want to see them, and hated him for not allowing me a glimpse even more.

Eventually he put his magazine down, and I knew he was looking at me, waiting to say something. I decided to let him stew, although I had been on the same page for some ten minutes, surreptitiously looking at him. Finally he spoke. "Jen?" he said. "I've got a bit of a problem about tomorrow."

I was determined not to look up. "Oh yeah?" I said, feigning disinterest. "What's that then?"

He was silent for a few seconds, and then said. "Well promise you won't be cross first."

I looked up in surprise. "Cross? Why should I be cross?"

He was biting his lipstick covered bottom lip, and looking anxious. "Please Jen," he pleaded. "Say you won't be cross with me."

"How can I say that if I don't know what this problem is? You tell me, then I'll decide whether I'm cross or not."

He looked even more anxious about this, and turned away for a moment. "All right," he said at last. "It's about my knickers."

I felt myself flushing again at the thought of the pink gossamer things that he was wearing. Steadying myself, I managed to reply. "What about them?"

He looked down, and then cast his brown eyes helplessly up at me. "Well Katy's only given me one pair," he said, plaintively.

I stared at him. "So? They're nice enough."

"I know that," he went on. "But I've been wearing them a fair bit now. I think they should really have a wash before long. The bra and the skirt aren't so bad, but I really think the knickers should have a wash."

I stared at him. "Then wash them," I said with a shrug.

"But I can't!" he wailed. "I mean, I could, but I'd never get them dry enough to wear the next day, even if I could sneak them past my Mum!"

The idea of him sneakily having to wash such a feminine pair of knickers in his own house appealed to me greatly, and I nearly smiled.

"So I was wondering," he went on, hesitantly. "If I could be let off the knickers tomorrow, assuming we're coming back here to the den."

"No way!" I replied, almost instantaneously. "You have to wear girl's knickers to come in here, you know that."

He looked crestfallen. "Well then I won't be able to come tomorrow," he went on petulantly. "Not unless you can lend me some."

I couldn't believe what I had just heard! He had just asked me if he could borrow some of my knickers to wear! What a cheek! I thought about the underwear I owned. None of it was as electrically exciting as the pair Katy had given him. There was no way I wanted him in a pair of my thousand wash greys.

"No," I responded. "I can't do that. They wouldn't suit you."

"Well then I'm stuck," he announced, still petulant. "I'll have to wash them, and tomorrow's as good a day as any, so I won't be able to come here with you."

I thought about this. It was, in its way, a reasonable statement. It was also reasonable for both of us to have a day off from each other as well. I, or so I told myself, only tolerated his presence so I could humiliate him further. A day off would give me the chance to recover and regroup for my next onslaught on his masculinity. Then I remembered how I had felt watching him putting on his clothes in the little clearing outside, the energy that had flowed through my veins when I had first seen his knickers on him. A new plan began to formulate in my mind.

"Do you think boys are stronger than girls?" I asked him. He looked puzzled, as well he might, and shrugged before answering me.

"I suppose so," he said uncertainly. "Most of the time anyway."

"Well I tell you what we'll do," I went on. "We'll have a little competition." His big eyes gazed at me in confusion, his eyelashes looking even longer than usual, caked as they were in inexpertly applied mascara. "If you win, then you can come tomorrow wearing whatever you like."

"Whatever I like?" he said, cautiously. "Even trousers?"

I shrugged. "If that's what you want. But if I win, we go down to town and buy you some extra knickers, and anything else you might need."

His eyes widened as he stared at me. "You mean go shopping for girl's clothes? I'm not sure I want to do that."

I stared back at him, and shrugged. "Well, you won't have to if you win." He looked at me with his eyes sparkling. "Well it's up to you," I went on. "I would have thought you might have jumped at the chance to pretend to be a boy for once, Charlotte."

He continued to look at me, hoping to spot the trick. I kept my face as blank as I possibly could, and met his gaze. At length, the appeal of loosing his new found femininity got the better of him. "All right," he said. "Let's give it a go. What sort of competition did you have in mind?"

I grinned more broadly. "Arm wrestling!" I announced. He had fallen for it. Andrea and I had practiced arm wrestling almost continuously since we had discovered it about eighteen months before. I was never as good as her, but I was good enough. I could beat most of the boys in the school without a lot of difficulty, and looking at John's thin little arms, I had no doubt I could beat him too.

"Arm wrestling?" he said, with a note of alarm in his voice. "I'm not very good at that."

"Take it or leave it," I said curtly. "You told me you thought boys were stronger than girls, so you should feel quite confident."

He frowned at me, crumpling his bright blue eyelids as he did so. I could see that he knew he had been duped, but he could see no way out of it without loosing face.

"If you refuse," I went on. "It means you lost. That's the rules."

He pouted his bright red lips. "All right," he said at last. "Let's try it."

I stood up, and walked over to the tea chest that served as a table for us. I knelt down on one side of it, and put my right arm up and ready. With obvious reluctance, he got up too, and, smoothing the hem of his skirt as he lowered himself down, so that however hard I looked, I could not see his knickers.

We locked fingers, and I noticed how small and pale his were against mine. We looked into each other's eyes, gripped hands tighter, and began to push. I was surprised at how strong he was. My hand wobbled under the initial thrust, and I had to use most of my strength to stabilise it. His eyes closed with the effort, as he pushed harder and harder, and I could see the veins in his arm becoming more prominent. I maintained a constant pressure, hoping that soon he would tire, and allow me to go on the offensive.

He continued to press, however, lowering his head with the effort. I felt his arm begin to shake with the strain, and had to begin to press even harder to hold our locked arms steady. It was then that I decided to try a trick Andrea and I had dreamt up last summer, one that always seemed to fool the opposition.

"Right," I said, holding my voice as steady as I could. "Shall we start then?"

His eyes snapped open in surprise, just as I had hoped. Immediately I pushed much harder, and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, his arm began to topple. I pressed the advantage even harder now, breathing smoothly as I did so. His eyes began to look desperate as he lifted his head to face me.

Lower, lower, his arm went, until finally, I was able to press it right against the box. I held his hand down for a few seconds, and then relaxed my grip. He immediately lifted his arm, and began rubbing it. There were tears in his big brown eyes; whether that was from the pain in his arm, the shame of being beaten by a girl, or the realisation that he would have to go shopping for girl's clothes, I did not know, but a wave of triumph, swept over me. Standing, and moving around the tea chest in one easy movement, I caught his head in my hands, and kissed him hard on the forehead.

"So shopping it is!" I gloated.

He looked up at me sorrowfully, with his eyes still watering, and slowly nodded. "Okay," he conceded. "Shopping it is."

A whole range of feelings rushed in and out of my consciousness. Why had I kissed him? I had never kissed a boy before, and, although it was hardly a friendly gesture, I had felt compelled to make it. He stood up slowly, and smoothed his skirt down again, with the practiced hand of an expert. I felt an overwhelming desire to lift the hem of it there and then, and to gaze once more at his beautiful girl's knickers. Somehow I resisted the thought.

"We'd better get back now," I blurted out, wanting to escape all the cross currents of the emotions ravaging my soul. "Don't forget to bring plenty of money for the shopping trip tomorrow."

"I'll have to take all this off, and the make-up," he twittered.

There was no way I was going to be able to stay there, and wait while he removed his make up, his hair decorations, and his girl's clothes. It would be too much to bare. "Well I'll see you tomorrow then," I said to him. "You've got a key for the lock haven't you?"

He nodded. "Yes, Katy gave me hers."

"Right, well I'll see you here about ten o'clock," I continued, walking towards the door.

"Here?" he said, questioningly. "I thought we were going shopping."

"We are," I said to him. "But you'll want to get your skirt and things on first won't you?"

"You mean," he said, the realisation slowly dawning on him, "That you want me to go shopping as Charlotte?"

"Yes!" I replied, not even turning to see the reaction on his face. "It'll be easier for you won't it? Being a girl, while shopping for your girly clothes. You wouldn't want to do that as a boy would you?"

"I suppose not," he muttered, doubtfully. "All right, I'll see you here at ten tomorrow."

"Good," I replied, and rushed out of the shed before any more conflicting emotions could hit me. I ran through the forest, and across the field, back to our street, and rushed into my house, slamming the door behind me.

  

  

  

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