She Was Singing          by: Tom Cassanda and Ilean Anne Jerque

 

At the time, I was working for the City of Houston, Child Welfare Department. I was charged with supplemental care of welfare recipients, supplying them with detergent, personal hygiene stuff, homemaking supplies, clothing, and any other things that may have been donated and were taking up warehouse space at the office. This was an especially satisfying job for me because I not only didn't have to work hard and had holidays off, but I was also able to help people and occasionally indulge myself in my fantasy of feminizing boys.

The process was really quite simple, in the course of meeting clients, I would occasionally meet women, and even one man, with an adolescent son that they felt was quite attractive in a non-masculine way. Sometimes, though rarer, I would meet such a person that actually felt, even to the point of confiding in me, that their son was pretty, so pretty in fact that the parent often thought of the boy as a girl. Through the course of the interview process, and with a few questions that weren't in the book, I found that I could sift out these people and subsequently play on their thoughts and depressed financial state to bring about my desire to see their boy fully dressed as a girl. Such was the case with the Wilsons, Beverly and Steve.

I first met the Wilsons a few months after her husband, Steve Sr., had cleaned out their bank accounts and run off to Jamaica, with a very attractive and slender blonde that he had worked with, leaving mother and son destitute. This was severely devastating to Beverly as she was a rather plain looking woman who was also carrying at least 270 pounds on her five foot four frame. She was also the possessor of no social skills, no work skills, and a general inability to function normally in life at all. She did, however, have an abnormal fondness for her frail son, Steve, and thought him ever so pretty, a comment that she offered to me far before I would have expected it. The fact was that she offered it when I made only the slightest remark about the length of the boy's hair:

"Oh, yes," she said, "I know it's kind of long but it is so pretty. It's so thick and shiny, see?" She ran her fingers under the dark blonde mass and lifted it, allowing it to cascade down her hand, showing it's beauty. "Most girls would love to have hair as nice as his, and it frames his face so well." She parted it over his eyes, pulling it up from next to his cheeks, to give the impression of bangs. "He has incredible eyes, too."

For all of her inadequacies, she did have her son pegged. He not only had the hair of a girl, he also had eyes that were overly large, clear and pale green, and slanted slightly, giving a feline appearance. But that wasn't where his similarity to an adolescent girl stopped, for he also had high cheekbones and a wide mouth with surprisingly straight and white teeth. Further, there was almost no brow bossing at all and his nose could only be described as petite. That face, coupled with his skinny build, gave the lad the look of a pretty, fourteen year old girl.

It wasn't like he was a girl in boy's clothing, though, it was more as if he were a nothing in human form. He was quiet, far more introverted than a youngster would normally be, with no discernable personality at all. He appeared interested in nothing, neither alert nor depressed, and shared his mother's lack of social awareness. For a voyeur like myself, this was a ball of clay waiting to be molded into a feminine vase by the willing sculptor mother -- aided by my subtle direction, of course.

The ploy was simple, they needed clothes and I had clothes, but alas, I was only interested in supplying the lad with girl's clothes and perhaps some unisex items. As I explained it to them, boys clothing was more difficult to come by both because there were more boys in the system and because less boys items were donated to the department. These points were actually true but not to the point of a scarcity. Of course, it suited my desires to make it seem so. And so I offered a non-gender specific jacket, a pair of blue jeans, some shirts that were a bit girlish, green and pink plaid or rounded collar or some such, which I dug from a box in my van. At the same time, I would let the many boxes of female clothing be seen, loads of pretty dresses and blouses and shoes, and somewhere in the conversation I would offer that since boys' clothing was harder to come by that perhaps girls' clothes could be substituted for wear inside the house. Beverly bit into my plan easily.

At first she was a bit hesitant, "I suppose he could wear some girls' clothing around the house and save his normal clothes for when we go somewhere. He needs underwear and shoes. Do you have any of those?"

Heh, heh, heh. "I'm sorry, Ms. Wilson," I laid my plan, "I haven't any boys' shoes or underwear. I do have boxes and boxes of panties. Do you think Steve would wear them since they would be under his regular clothes?"

After a moment of thought she acquiesced, "I suppose he'll have to if there's nothing else available."

I casually pulled out the box of panties in the boy's size, grabbed a handful of the garments and transferred them to a bag. I felt so powerful at this point because fastened around every third pair or so of the panties was a matching bra. No matter how big the hand full, a couple of bras were sure to make it into the bag. I also blindly dumped from an upturned box, many pairs of girls' socks, doctored in much the same way as to assure that several pairs of nylons found their way into the bag. Then while mom was carrying the large bag of a few unisex items and lots of girls' stuff into the house, I would tote in a box of shoes and clothes, selected by the size and word "girl" on the side of the box, and would direct the mom to take whatever she chose from the box and return the rest to me later. There would be quite a selection in each box, from lace trimmed shorts to a lace bodiced, party dress, and from light, airy sandals to velvet high heels. Upon my next visit, I would always know how far to push the situation by seeing what the boy was wearing and by checking the unselected contents of the box. My second visit to the Wilson's the following month was so very delightful to me.

I was greeted at the door by Steve and I could hardly believe my eyes. He wore a khaki colored denim skirt and a pastel green blouse. Through the blouse's thin material, I could see the patterning of a bra. On his feet he wore a simple pair of canvas deck shoes without socks. His hair was pulled back into a pony tail. As I stood mouth agape and at the point of orgasm looking at him, he closed the door and spoke softly to me, "Mom made me wear this stuff. I hope it doesn't bother you that I look so much like a girl."

"No," I stammered out in all honesty, "in fact, you look very nice. Why, if you were a girl, I would even say that you were pretty."

He looked up at me from a corner of those female's eyes and smirked a bit, "I look like a girl, don't I?"

I had to agree, "Well, in those clothes, ahhh, well, yes."

He shook his head slightly, said nothing, and directed me to the couch. Sitting across from me, and in a most unlady like fashion, he crossed his legs at a forty-five degree angle, allowing me a view of the panties that matched the bra. It was then that I realized that his legs were totally hairless. I could almost feel my eyes pop from my head as the pre-cum oozed from my trapped erection. He had to read my shock because he said, "She made me shave my legs. She said that they looked terrible being so hairy. I think they look bony without the hair."

He didn't complain about the fact that the shaving of one's legs was a feminine thing to do, he complained that his legs looked bad. In my mind, this offered up a wonderful possibility that I couldn't pass up, "You are rather skinny. I have some pills that would help you gain some weight. Some of that would be bound to go to your legs. Would you like me to give them to you?"

He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, giving somewhat the impression of agreeing.

Securing the issue, I charged him quietly as I leaned forward, "Don't tell your mom about them. I think she would like you to stay skinny."

He nodded his head in agreement and we sat in silence until Beverly finally appeared. She waddled out from the bedroom in the same tentdress that she wore before and went on about how she couldn't find a job and so forth. Finally, the subject of Steve's attire was broached. She explained that the girl's clothes were so nice that it was a shame to only wear them when no one would see them. Then she added, "Do you want the boxes back?" She indicated the collapsed boxes behind the door.

There would be nothing returned. Somewhere in Steve's room were several very feminine dresses and shoes, of that I was sure. "Yes," I responded, "I'll take them. I do have a concern I'd like to address with you though, I'm worried about Steve's appearance."

She looked puzzled, "I thought that you thought he looked nice."

I quickly corrected her, "Oh, Beverly, he is pretty, but I'm talking about the color of his skin and the acne that he is beginning to get. I have some vitamins and herbs that should help his skin and color. Would you mind if he took them?"

"Oh, no," she answered, as I knew she would.

"Good," I offered, and proceeded to complete the interview and make an exit.

As I was leaving, she directed "Stevie" to go to my van and get the pills. He didn't put up any complaint, but walked outside, girlish and all, following me.

At the van, I dug into a box of bottles and retrieved several. Handing them to the skirt-clad lad, I gave him the directions for taking them as the bottles were only labeled with the generic name of the contents, "These big brown pills are vitamins. Take one a day. These white pills are nizoral, and taken with these little orange progestins, they will calm down your skin, one each before bed and with breakfast. These yellow ones are the ones that I told you about. Start with one at night and one in the morning. If you don't get any ringing in your ears after a few days, then start taking one in the afternoon, too."

He nodded understanding. I had more, "Here, let me give you two a box of personal supplies." He took the box and waved good-bye as he headed into the house.

It was a triple header. Not only did I give him a heavy dosage of premarin and progestins to bring out secondary female characteristics but also nizoral to block the effects of testosterone. But that was only first and second base, third was the box. Inside it was high quality shampoo and conditioners, some perfumes, a few basic make-up items, nail files and polishes, hair clips, bubble bath, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and feminine napkins. I was in ecstasy.

A month dragged by and finally I could return to see what effects the drugs were having. Again Steve met me at the door and again I was agog at his appearance. He was wearing a summer dress, pale blue with a flower print. His hair was pulled back from temples and secured at the back of his head with a bow covered hair clip, leaving the hair from behind his ears to fall in curls on his collar. It glistened like gold in the morning sun. His nails followed suite, painted metal flake gold and flashing in the light. Mascara enhanced his lashes and gloss wet his lips. His feet were shod in simple, white walking heels. His legs were slightly heavier, more shapely, and smooth as silk. Actually, all of his skin was. And he was white. The blotchy, mottling of his skin had been replaced with smooth, soft, white satin. I couldn't help but stare.

He looked up at me and almost grinned, "Mom's gone kinda nuts with all this girl stuff you gave us." Then he did a little pirouette, flinging his dress hem out and allowing his curls to fly free in the air. "I really look like a girl now, don't I?"

I nodded, "You seem to be enjoying it."

He shyly grinned, "All this dressing up can be kinda fun if you don't have anything else to do. Mom is having fun with it, too. She's lost ten pounds. Can you believe that?"

I was astonished, "Really. You know, I can't believe either one of you."

"Yeah," he grinned again. "Do you think that I look like whiter or something?"

I tried to connote ignorance, "Whiter? You mean, your skin?"

Biting seductively on his lower lip, he nodded and looked directly into my eyes.

For a moment I was transfixed. I had to struggle to take my mind from my aching erection pressing firmly against my pants, and come up with something to say. "Ahh," I said as I appraised his softening skin, "yeah. Those pills can do that to you. They may also cause your nipples to itch and swell a bit. It's one of the side effects. Sorry, I should have told you."

"It's OK," he turned toward the sofa and glided off, telling me to follow with a curling, gold pointed finger. Again he dropped into the seat but crossed his legs at the knee, "Mom told me that I gave you a beaver shot last time. I've been practicing crossing my legs at the knee, like a girl does. Mom said that that is how I have to do it when I wear a dress."

"She is right," I said, "I see she had you shave your legs again."

"No," he said simply, "I do that because I like the way they feel. Cool and smooth, you know?"

My erection was straining and I could feel the cold spread as pre-cum flowed into my jockeys.

He must have read my eyes because he stood abruptly and turned to the hallway, "I'll see what's keeping Mom."

I took one look at his gold curls bouncing away and I came in my pants. I've always hated that. It's such a mess and the smell is quite apparent.

Beverly entered and I conducted a shortened version of the regular interview. Hurrying to get out, I was stopped by Steve calling from the hallway, "Mr. Cassanda, have you got another box of clothes to spare?"

"Yes," I tried to be quick before they could detect the smell of fresh jissim in my pants.

"Stevie," Beverly chided him, "don't ask him for something that you don't need."

I jumped in to cut them short, "It's alright, Beverly. As I said before, I have a lot of girls clothes to spare. Besides, I didn't bring a refill of the vitamins in with me. Stevie can come get what he wants."

Hurrying out the door, I felt more secure in the downwind breeze. Steve followed me to the van and collected more of all three pills and a box of clothes and shoes. Again I scored a hit for I was able to slip some nice jewelry into the shoe box.

Case load and a month long lay-up from a car accident caused me to miss the next two months visit but I mailed the pills faithfully and was finally able to reschedule for the following week. About four days before my next scheduled visit, I received a phone call from the Wilsons. It was the boy, "Hi, Mr. Cassanda. It's Stevie Wilson. I wonder if when you come over on Thursday, could you stay for dinner? About eight?"

I agreed with great anticipation.

Come that Thursday, I took the precaution of sliding a rubber over my errant dick before I joined the Wilsons for dinner. Judging by the increasing femininity of the boy over the last two visits, I was afraid that I would orgasm at the door this time. I was almost right.

Arriving late in the evening, I again was greeted at the door by Stevie, however, the lights were bright in the house and I had to shield my night-eyes for a moment against the glare rather than take an immediate look at the girl-boy.

As my eyes adjusted, I first saw his feet graced in black patent leather heels, side less slippers of at least four inches in height. Nylons were barely detectable on the boy's shapely legs. The curve of his calves flowed up to a black silk dress that began a good four inches above knees that had become decidedly not knobby. Hips flared inside the lower dress and flowed into a tiny waist. Above this blossomed two rounded orbs, covered barely by an opaque triangle of material that served to enhance a definite cleavage. Floating above this were two feminine hands, the fingers slightly interlocked, showing two small rings and cranberry, inch long nails, the left index nail resting on the lower lip of matching color. The boy's face glowed in delicate color, his cheeks rich and full, supporting piercing green eyes that rippled with the slightest movement, framed by the raisin liner and long black lashes. Thin, well sculptured, woman's eyebrows were further defined by the wispy bangs that fluttered in the light breeze that wafted in the door. His deep golden hair was pulled into a french roll, from which beams of light scattered as he slightly, slowly tilted his head, allowing the tendril curls to catch attention away from the three fiery red gem studs in each ear lobe.

His hands lowered to just above his cleavage, exposing a single gold chain encircling a finely carved, alabaster neck. His cranberry lips parted and his white teeth shown as he spoke in a freshly forged, female voice, "Mr. Cassanda, why is it that you never say hello when you come into a house?"

I'm not sure of all that I said. I remember telling her that she had become the most incredibly beautiful young woman that I had ever seen. I remember moving toward her, reaching out and touching that velvet soft neck and pulling there with my finger tips until the cranberry lips disappeared below my nose and the green of her eyes completely filled my field of vision and the scent of her perfume invaded my brain. And we kissed, I don't know how long, but her lips were soft, sweet, succulent.

At some point I remember feeling her delicate fingers encasing my rubber stripped, drooling dick and I reached beneath that dress and found only a garter belt holding up the invisible stockings. I remember myself lifting her and impaling her firm rear on my straining rod. She was singing, singing as I pushed deeply, solidly inside her and shot forth my heat, my love that had been sitting dormant for those months.

Of course I remember the cops pulling me from her, and I did struggle some before that nightstick separated my mind from consciousness, but even after all these years in this prison, they cannot make me believe that she was screaming. She was singing. She was singing.

The End

 

(Author's Note : Tom Cassanda is a fictitious character)

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