Opera Follies

by Rosie

 

As we take our seats I begin to wonder again why I came at all. I don't really like opera. On the other hand, my sister is being nice enough to take me out and it's some light, modern piece. More like a musical than a real opera. Although we're sitting on the edge of the balcony, I'm still expected to show proper decorum. I look at her. She is, of course, wearing a comfortable pant suit and can sit practically any way she wants. I wish she would allow me to dress like that from time to time. Like always, I have to wear a skirt. It's a very pretty one, an evening A-line skirt that comes down to the middle of my calves. It's made of black satin with a wide white band at the hem. Even so, it's less comfortable than pants would be, as I have to keep my knees together at all times.

Naughtily, I rub her arm. Although it looks like a gesture of love and affection, in normal circumstances, this would trigger a chain reaction which would probably end up with her bending my arm behind my back. This time, something like that is out of the question.

»Behave yourself, Stanley,« she hisses.

I try not to show it, but my blood is curling. The name she uses for me shows that she's dead serious. She may be overly disciplinarian, but I have to admit that I have caused her more than a fair share of troubles. Still, at the end, it's her who has the last word. The way I'm dressed is a perfect proof of that.

 

We were orphaned when Laura, my sister was seventeen and I was nine. With for most people unimaginable determination, she worked herself through college and landed a good paying job in some bank. Now, she can easily afford to pay my college fees. The college and all the jobs she did at that time left her little time for my upbringing, which she replaced with strictness. Perhaps she was too strict with me, but as I said, I was no little lamb either. She mostly kept me in line with corporal punishment – spanking. As I grew though, I looked forward to the day when I would finally be bigger and stronger than her. I guess she anticipated that day as well, since at some point she began visiting the gym regularly. Eventually, though, it turned out that if that was the reason for her lithe, muscular constitution, it was completely unnecessary, as I never approached her height by less than two and a half inches and didn't quite develop the muscular structure she had to begin with. However, by the time that was obvious, she had a new way of keeping me in my place – dressing me as a girl. First it was her old clothes, but when she got the job at the bank, she could afford to buy me my own clothes and things really took a sharp turn from there. What had started out as a punishment – and sometimes a game, depending on the occasion – gradually took over all my life. It's been five years since she's had me dress like a girl full time. Well, in all honesty, to say merely dress like one is an understatement, if not a lie. I am a girl, even legally. All my I.D. says Sarah Rachel Barrows. And physically – from the waist up, no one could ever take me for a boy. Hormone treatment has given me smooth skin, wide womanly hips, real breasts that almost overfill a B cup bra and a slightly softer voice. Mother nature has given me a soft voice to begin with, a petite figure with thin hands and a pair of nice long legs. Actually, even from the waist down I resemble a girl very closely, except for my male genitalia.

 

The opera has begun. I shift in my seat a little, enjoying the satin rubbing against my pantied buttocks and nyloned legs. I take my little binoculars from my purse to see the stage more closely. A few actresses are quite attractive, matter of fact, they're hot. As they sing, their breasts seem to be just before spilling out of their low cut dresses. My penis which is nicely tucked down between my legs begins to swell. In order to accommodate it's new size, I cross my legs and examine my bright red nail polish as I rearrange my skirt.

 

Ah yes, my male genitalia. The source of most of my recent problems. I can't say that it's what got me in skirts in the firs place, but it surely isn't improving the situation. Living the life I live, it's hard to meet sexual partners. Mind you, I'm not a virgin, but still, it's not as easy if you dress like your own gender. Now, while I can't rightly deny that I enjoy dressing as a girl (I guess I've learnt to accept it over the years), I'm not gay. I like girls. And girls? Well, they usually like boys. Boys who look like boys, that is. Those girls, who like girls, like them to be girls all the way, not just to look like them. See what I mean? Fortunately, it's not that desperate. Like I said, I'm not a virgin. But, since I'm being honest with you today, I have to admit that all credit for that goes to my sister. No, I didn't have sex with her, I tell you that before you get any weird thoughts. The thing is, there are a lot of girls who like my type, but my type is hard to spot. So instead of looking them out by themselves, they are introduced to us by common acquaintances. I have had quite a number of girlfriends (well, to tell the truth, I was had by them), but it was always my sister (or one of her friends) that introduced us. Picking up a girl at the bar? Forget it.

 

Okay, my penis's size is way past funny. My sister doesn't like me helping myself and since it's been months since my last girlfriend has decided she no longer wanted me, my sexual energy levels are dangerously high. Apart from being easily excited, this means that I'm also less obedient as usual. In fact, one of the main reasons, that she introduced me to my first girlfriend, along with the completeness of my education, was that I was becoming impossible to handle. I really was a better boy when I was with Ashley, my first girlfriend. She was a sweet girl, very gentle. We were really in love, but after a year, she left to study abroad. It broke my heart. It's never been the same with the other girls. Most of them used me just for sex, anyway.

The main advantage of pushing my penis back between my legs is that even if it gets erect, it goes unnoticed, at least to the untrained eye. The disadvantage is that when erect, there is a considerable lump between your legs and it's difficult to be sitting down, especially when it gets to the size that it reaches the seat. Careful not to attract Laura's attention, I shift in my seat again, sliding down almost over the edge of it. I feel my testicles being squeezed inside my panties. Smoothing out my skirt the best that I can at the moment, I focus my sight on the elderly singer. That does the trick to some extent. After a while, I can slide back again and sit more comfortably, but I'm aware that it can't last for long.

Fortunately, the intermission starts before my troubles do. As we stand up, I think of squeezing and rubbing my penis with my thighs. Only briefly, though, I know from past experience that it is very hard, if not impossible, to climax that way, and even if I did – that would leave me in quite a mess, wouldn't it?

"There's some people from the bank", Laura says, "Want to come meet them with me?"

"Nah," I say, tucking a strand of my long black hair behind my ear, "I think I'll just walk around a little. I need to go to the ladies anyway."

"Fine, just don't be late," she warns me.

"Don't worry, I won't," I say and I slowly wander off.

Pacing around on my high heels (four inches. Flats are another thing along pants I probably won't ever be allowed to put on, at least on such occasions), something catches my eye. At first I think I'm mistaken but then I notice it again – some girl is wearing a skirt that looks exactly like mine. Curiously, I follow her with my gaze and soon enough she looks at me. I can't really know for sure but I think she's noticed my skirt as well. Slowly, I start walking toward her through the crowd. When I she she's moving in my direction too, I'm certain she's aware of the similarity (if not sameness) of our skirts. I look at her as we near each other – she's very pretty. Redish hair held neatly in place with a hairclip. Apart from the skirts, we're not dressed that differently, either. Well, at least we're wearing black, only that I'm in an angora sweater and she has a (black) diaphanous blouse over a silk tank top. Then again, the print on our black nylons are similar. Mine are white roses (with grey stalks) while hers appears to be, at least from the distance we're at, a random geometric pattern, though roughly, they look the same. I wonder if she's wearing pantyhose like most of the girls nowadays or stockings, like me.

"Hello," she says amusedly when we finally come together.

"Hi," I breathe.

"I like your skirt," she says and we giggle.

We appear to be of the same height, but only because her heels are lower than mine. She has nice brown eyes and as I gaze into them, a conversation starts developing seemingly on its own. Before I know it, we're walking away from the crowds to the restroom that's furthest away from the entrance of the concert hall. Once we're inside it, she softly closes the door behind us and smilingly approaches me, as I stand against the counter with the sinks in it. With one hand, she runs through my hair and softly caresses my breast with the other. I slide under her gauzy blouse and hold her sides through the silk T. We kiss. Gently at first, lips barely parting and after we stop, we both lick them, to taste each other's lipstick. For one insanely erotic moment we gaze into each other's eyes, then our lips are pressed together again, this time in a feverish kiss, our tongues exploring each other's mouths, wrestling, dancing, pushing and probing everywhere. I get even more excited as I feel the bumps of her suspenders through the silky fabric of her skirt. She breaks our kiss and reaches for the hem of my skirt. Alarmed, I take hold of her wrist, but I'm too turned on to stop. Even so, I guide her hand up only hesitatingly up my inner thigh and pause again when we reach the top of my stocking. She looks at me inquiringly and taking one deep breath, I let her feel the sausage like bulge stretching from my groin to my buttocks.

She looks surprised but not as much as I am surprised by her reaction. She smiles like a child who's given a much wanted toy and with her eyes gleaming, she bends down and pulls my panties to my ankles. My penis springs free and she giggles at the tent it is making in my skirt. She watches me with expectation as I step out of my panties, then she gathers up her skirt at her hips with both hands and pulls her own panties down, her skirt falling back in its place. Her smile tells me she's waiting for me and as I press into her, she back off, taking small steps since her panties are still around her ankles, until her back's pressed into the door of a toilet stall. While we're kissing, I put my right foot on her panties and lift her left leg out of them. She wraps her leg around me. Not stable enough, I always keep at least one hand on her shoulder while the other one is on her firm breasts. Eventually, the hems of our skirts are lifted up above our waists and I finally enter her. She feels so hot and moist and nice and pleasant and sights a soft little "Yes," each time I slam into her. I can't hold myself back and start spurting in a matter of minutes, but fortunately that's also all it takes her to reach an orgasm as well.

We remain embraced for a short while before we put our panties back on and start fixing our hair and makeup.

"Was that alright?" I ask after the doing the finishing touches with my lipstick.

"Oh, it was wonderful," she blissfully replies.

"No, I mean the consequences…" I begin.

"I'm negative, if that's what you mean," she interrupts me, "I know you don't really have any reason to believe me, but I'm certain that I am."

"So am I," I say, "But that's not what I meant."

"What did you -," she begins, "Oh, that. Well, it is only two days since my period ended, so there's no problem with that either."

"That's nice," I say casually, but truthfully, a massive wave of relief washes over me.

"I'm Cindy, by the way," she says.

"Hi. I'm Sarah, pleased to meet you," I reply and shake her hand. We laugh.

"Here," she hands me her number, as I'm already rummaging through my purse to do the same, "Call me sometime."

 

As we're walking back to the entrance, we pass a mirrored wall. In our identical skirts, we look as if we're wearing a uniform of some kind.

"Bye," I say, then we disappear into the crowd, each in our own direction.

I spot Laura by the entrance, chatting with some elegantly dressed guy. He goes away before I reach her.

"Just in time," she says and right at that moment, the bell goes off to call the patrons back inside.

The second part of the show is much more comfortable for me. I sit as comfortably as I can, keeping my knees together in a ladylike fashion like I'm supposed to. Halfway through it, I hold Laura's upper arm and rest my head on her shoulder. She can't help herself but to flex her muscles under my fingers. I know I could, at least at the time being, get away with pinching her in the arm, but resist the urge. Instead, I place my second arm on her hand and rub it lovingly. She is my big sister, after all.

 

The End.

  

  

  

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