Sissy Bully

by Alana

 

I'm 6 foot 2, 16 years old, and I play Varsity football. I drive a motorcycle. I'm almost the best looking guy in school. I have seven girlfriends, two of them for intercourse, and the rest give me blow jobs. I'm very close to having a football scholarship to college. I'm tough. There's only a few guys in school can beat me up.

Yeah, and I also put on my sister's dresses every chance I get. And her pantyhose. And her bra, and her slip. I don't know why I am this way.

Don't think that I'm a beanpole who can fit into a size six dress or anything. It's rather that my sister is the size of a man. She wears a size fourteen. She's not fat, she's just a huge girl. She's as unpopular as I am popular.

My Mom keeps buying her these frilly satin and chiffon dresses that she never wears. Every time she comes home with a new one she shows it to my Dad and me, and I do my best to pretend I don't care, but I can't help but have an erection seeing it and thinking about how wonderful and frilly and feminine it is, and how incredible it will be to slip into it when everyone's gone.

The only time I can try on her dresses is Tuesday afternoon, when my sister stays after for French club, and I don't have scrimmage. I only have an hour for dressing up. I open her closet and slowly run my hand through all those lovely pink and blue and white and yellow dresses, feeling the skirts and getting excited. I always think of them as MY dresses. Some of them I've never even seen her wear.

Then I move as quickly as I can. I take off all my clothes and I put on a pair of her pink satin panties. And then the pantyhose. Large size, so large that I doubt I've ever stretched out any of them. It's not easy to put them on, and it took me awhile to figure it out, but now I know just how to get into them. And they feel wonderful. I look at my legs and think how much more beautiful they'll look and feel if I ever get to shave them. And one day I will, when I leave home.

My sister's bedroom faces the backyard, so I always spread the curtains and open the window, just a bit. I love to feel the breeze against my legs and feel it billow the skirt when I get her dress on.

I put on her bra, fastening it in front and then moving it around to the back. I put my arms through the straps. My rolled up socks will do for falsies.

And then, dressed in my sister's underwear, I rush to my parent's bedroom to get a girdle. Because my sister doesn't have any girdles, and I have to wear a girdle. No, I don't have to. I WANT to wear a girdle. I want to feel that girdle bite into my sides and give me a beautiful feminine figure.

I hurry out of my parent's room as quickly as I can, because it's visible from the street. But not before gazing longingly at my Mom's cosmetics. I know better than to think I could ever get away with putting on make-up, but I so want to.

I rush back to my sister's room and put on that girdle, and then I pull one of my sister's beautiful white satin slips over my head. I look at myself in the mirror. I run my hands down my body, feeling the slip. I pose in the mirror, turning this way and that.

And then I pick one of my dresses. I mean, my sister's dresses. My absolute favorite is the white silk chiffon dress with a pink sash that ties in a bow. It has long sleeves and a full skirt and lace about the bodice and cuffs and the hem. Before I put it on I like to just hold the dress close to me and let the skirt brush back and forth against my legs in nylons. I love to put on that dress and twirl and curtsey and walk back and forth and look at myself in the mirror. Just feeling that skirt brush against my fingers when I'm wearing it is incredible. I love to dance in that dress, and watch myself. The dress moves so beautifully about my body, it seems to have a life of its own. That dress dances more than I do.

Why doesn't my sister ever wear this dress? Who wouldn't want to feel this way, like a beautiful, magical creature? God often gives nuts to people with no teeth, I guess.

Sometimes I imagine myself dancing in a beautiful ballroom in that dress. But I don't ever ever imagine myself dancing with a guy.

I wish I could fit into my sister's high heels, or my Mom's. But I can't. When I'm wearing a dress I walk about on tip-toe and imagine that I'm wearing high heels. And someday I will wear them. Some day.

I had on my sister's white chiffon dress when I thought I saw, out of the corner of my eye, someone at the window. Before I had time to panic, he was gone. I rushed to the window and poked my head out. I saw him running away. Some little punk. I thought I knew his name. Johnny something. He lived nearby. Well, he wouldn't talk if he knew what was good for him.

The next day at school I was with my friends, and I saw Johnny something headed toward me. I grabbed him and yanked his shorts up out of the back of his pants. My friends all laughed. Then I pushed him down, just to show him who's boss.

My friends and I are always doing stuff like that. It's always good to terrorize those little punks whenever you can, just to remind 'em they're losers and we're winners. That's as it should be. The strong dominate the weak, just like in nature.

The next Tuesday I was wearing my pink satin dress. I mean, my sister's pink satin dress. I love the puffy sleeves and the cute little bow at the collar, which I have to tie just right. It doesn't have a belt, but it doesn't need one. It's a wonderfully tight-waisted dress with a beautiful flared skirt, and it has quite a shimmer to it. Whenever I wear it I always keep a close eye on the clock, because it's not easy to get on and off. It has three fabric-covered buttons in back, and the middle button is a killer. I have to reach way back and button myself up with the tips of my fingers.

I was looking at myself in the mirror in that pink satin dress, smiling and curtseying and standing on tip-toe, looking at my hair and wishing I had a wig, when I saw that kid again, at the window. And I heard the unmistakable sound of a camera.

One of those self-developing cameras that spits out the photo like a lizard sticking out its tongue. I headed to the window, but the kid was gone. I made it to the back door in time to see him running out of the backyard. I could've caught him, but I wasn't about to take a step outdoors in my sister's pink satin dress.

I was scared to death. I wasn't thinking too clearly. I made sure none of my clothes were left in my sister's bedroom, then I ran to my own bedroom and grabbed my jeans. I put them on over my dress. I mean, my sister's dress. I had a hard time with that full flared skirt, getting it tucked into my pants. At least I wasn't wearing her blue taffeta dress. It has petticoats sewn into the skirt.

I didn't bother with socks, just put on my sneakers. Then I put on my black motorcycle jacket, and zipped it up. I was in too much of a hurry to put on a shirt. I check myself in the mirror, and I saw with horror that the pink bow of the dress was visible, cascading out of the neck of my motorcycle jacket. I untied the bow and turned up the collar of my jacket. I looked okay, as long as I kept my arms crossed so no one could see that I was wearing a bra with two rolled up socks in it.

I did one smart thing before I left. I grabbed my red turtleneck sweater, figuring I could put it on later if I had to.

Then I ran out to my motorcycle, hopped on and started it up.

I was pretty sure I knew what street the little punk lived on, but I wasn't sure of the house. But as soon as I reached the street I saw him standing around in front of his house like he was waiting for me, which he was. I got off my cycle as fast as I could and ran up to him, carrying my sweater in one hand. He didn't run away. I grabbed him and shoved him against a car.

"Give me the photo, you little punk! Where it it?"

"None of your business."

I grabbed him by the neck. I was angry enough to choke him like a chicken.

"Where's the photo?"

"You're wearing a dress right now, aren't you?" he said.

I punched him in the stomach for that. He doubled over.

"You want some more of that? Where's the damn photo?"

He couldn't talk, so I waited for him to get his breath back.

"Not telling," he finally said. "You do that again, I'm showing the picture to all your friends. And then your parents."

I grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him up the steps toward his house. We went in the front door, and I had no problem finding his room. I pulled him inside and threw him down on the bed, and dropped my sweater on the floor.

"Where is it?"

"Someplace where you'll never find it."

I started pulling out all his drawers and throwing the contents on the bed. I looked behind furniture. I looked on top of all the shelves. I looked under the bed.

I tired myself out turning the room upside down. Finally, I sat down on his desk and rested. My girdle was killing me. I mean, my Mom's girdle.

"What do you want out of me, anyway?" I asked.

"I want you to stop picking on me. And don't let anyone else pick on me, either."

I didn't have the time or the patience to negotiate.

"OK," I said, "Anything else?"

"No."

"You'll turn over the photo, then?"

"We'll see."

I picked up my sweater, and decided I'd better put it on, now. I unzipped my leather jacket. Johnny saw my pink dress, I mean my sister's dress, and laughed.

I knew I couldn't grab him any more, so I came as close to him as I could and tried to look as menacing as I could.

"Listen, you little punk, I said I wouldn't pick on you and I won't, but if you laugh at me or make fun of me or even act like we're friends in school, our deal's off, you understand? Just because I'm protecting you doesn't mean you get to shoot your mouth off in front of me."

"Whatever."

I pulled my sweater over my head, then put my jacket back on and zipped it up and checked the mirror. Good, you couldn't see the swell of my fake breasts under my jacket.

I got out of there without another word to the punk. I hopped on my cycle and got back to my house as fast as I could. I was hoping and praying that I'd beat my parents home, but at the same time I knew that I was probably too late. Sure enough, there were their cars. They were home.

I was thinking I should run off into the woods and take off the dress and pantyhose and lingerie I was wearing, but I didn't think that until I was already halfway up the driveway.

I was scared. My heart was racing fast. I got into the house and got to the basement door without encountering anyone. I ran downstairs. My plan was to take off my dress, I mean my sister's dress, and her pantyhose and lingerie and leave it with the other dirty clothes to be washed. The dirty clothes chute emptied into an open wooden box about the size of a small toy chest, suspended a few feet below the ceiling. The bottom had a latch, so Mom could unlatch the bottom of the box and let the clothes fall right into her waiting arms, and put 'em right in the washing machine. I just had to take off my clothes and get out of this dress and the bra and girdle and slip and panties and pantyhose I was wearing, toss 'em into the top of the box, put my clothes back on, and I would be in the clear.

I took a quick look around to see if anyone was down there. I pulled my pants down, letting the full skirt of my sister's dress flow and swirl freely about me. I hated to see how wrinkled her dress had gotten.

I'd just started taking off my shoes when I heard my father coming down stairs.

"Larry?" he called.

In a panic I started pulling my pants back up, stuffing my sister's dress back in my pants as I did. I got them back up, and made sure my sweater covered up the dress. My leather jacket was still zipped up.

I looked around for some excuse for coming down. We had a small downstairs fridge, and I opened it and grabbed a can of beer and popped the top.

Dad came through the doorway and saw me taking a swig of beer. I acted like I was startled, and hid the can behind me. Dad smiled and held out his hand. He told me I was too young to be drinking. I surrendered the beer, and Dad wiped off the top of the can and took a swig. I knew he didn't give a damn if I drank or not. It was just something parents were supposed to say.

It turned out he only wanted to talk to me about the neighbor's complaints about my cycle, late at night. I tried to keep my arms folded in front of me as I listened. I was scared to death he could see my bra. I mean, my sister's bra. I promised I wouldn't ride after ten o'clock any more. He thanked me, and patted my shoulder, right above the brastrap. Thank God for my leather jacket.

I tried to stay downstairs, but my Dad wasn't having it, so I headed back upstairs ahead of him as quickly as I could. I went right to the bathroom. I had to get out of that dress. My sister was in her bedroom with the door shut, not far away from the bathroom. My Mom was in the kitchen, and I think Dad went in the living room. The dirty clothes chute was not four feet away from the bathroom door. If everyone just left me alone for ten minutes, I would be all right.

I went in the bathroom and locked the door. Just like before, I pulled down my pants and let the full skirt of that beautiful satin dress flow freely about my legs. I took off my shoes and my pants, then I took off my leather jacket and my sweater.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh, it was such a yummy dress. It was no white silk chiffon, but it was still so pretty and sexy and feminine. I had an urge to tie the bow again, but there would be no point to it, and I couldn't spare the time, anyway. I just didn't understand my sister. Why wouldn't anyone want to feel this way all the time?

I undid the top button, then reached back behind and undid the bottom button. Now the hard part. With my left hand I reached way behind my back and up, my fingers just barely brushing against the middle button. Damn it! This was hard enough to do when I wasn't scared to death! Out of all the dresses to get caught in, it would have to be this one.

This was so not fair. If I was a girl I could just walk right out in public and say to my Mom, "Could you help me with my dress?" And she'd unbutton me, and that would be it.

Finally I reached back far enough to unbutton my dress, I mean, my sister's dress. I let it drop to the floor. I didn't have time to be careful about wrinkles or anything else. I got out of my sister's slip, then her bra, noticing for the first time how damp and sweaty the lingerie was. I pulled off my mother's girdle, then took off my sister's pantyhose and panties. I put back on my own clothes, wearing my socks on my feet instead of stuffed inside a bra.

I hung the pantyhose on a curtain rod, next to my Mom's. Then I grabbed all the clothes I loved to wear so much, and went to the door. I put them in a heap behind me, so I wouldn't be caught with them in my arms. I unlocked and opened the door, and poked my head out.

My sister was still in her bedroom with the door closed, playing music. No sign of my parents. I just had to get to the dirty clothes chute without being seen. Just a few steps, and I'd be home free.

I turned around, and grabbed the clothes in my arms. I opened the door and rushed to the dirty clothes chute. I opened the little door, and shoved the dress down there. Then the lingerie. Then I closed the door.

It was over. I'd gotten away with it. I exhaled nervously and tried to calm down.

That evening, after dinner and a little homework, I went to see one of my blow-job girlfriends, I forget which one. I didn't have the time for fucking, and I thought a blow-job would relax me much better, after all I'd been through. As I lied there I thought how lucky I was, how popular. I was going to get a football scholarship, and I was going to get a degree in business. It didn't matter what I studied in college, really, as long as I passed. My Dad said businesses would be lining up to hire a blonde-haired blue-eyed All-American type like me, as long as I knew how to talk like a Republican. I'd make a six-figure salary, I'd marry a trophy wife, and with any luck I'd probably cheat on her every damn day. That was expected, for a guy like me.

I had a great life ahead of me, and no little punk with a photo of me in a dress would ever ruin it for me. I swore right then and there, just before I came, that I was never going to wear dresses ever again.

That night I had a bad dream.

I dreamed I was going into the boy's locker room to suit up for football practice, and I looked down at my clothes before I went through the door. I was wearing just jeans and a red plaid shirt. But as soon as I got inside, all the guys started pointing at me and laughing at me. I looked down.

"Why are you dressed like a little faggot?" one of them said.

I was wearing my white silk chiffon dress. I mean, my sister's dress, oh the hell with it, it's my dream, it's my dress. I tried to cover myself up, I tried to tell them it wasn't my fault, but they started surrounding me, calling me faggot and fairy, pulling at my dress. Then I heard one voice laughing harder than all the others. At the end of the hall I spotted that little punk with a camera, looking at me and laughing his ass off.

I pushed through all the other guys and started off after him. It was then that I looked down and noticed that I was wearing high heels. I'd had dreams about being seen in a dress before, but this was the first time I ever got to wear high heels in a dream. I was wearing tan-colored pantyhose, and my legs were shaved. They looked beautiful!

So I stopped trying to run, and I just walked gracefully in a straight line, one foot in front of the other, feeling what I imagined it was like to walk in heels. I was feeling elegant and feminine, keeping my balance like I was wearing skates. It was painful, but the pain was so worth it.

And then I woke up. Even though it was a bad dream, it had kind of a nice ending to it, and I woke up smiling.

That day at school, I had to protect little Johnny Something only a few times. In the morning I was walking down the hall with my friends, and I saw him headed right for us. One of my friends was about to hit him, and I grabbed his hand and told him to leave the little punk alone.

"Why?" he asked.

"He's not worth it," I said. My friend shrugged and hit someone else.

Then right after lunch I saw that a big thug had Johnny Something up against the wall and was about to knee him in the groin. I was going to pretend I didn't see him, but Johnny called out my name, so I had to go over. There weren't too many guys in school I couldn't beat up, but this bully was one of them. His name was Vince.

"Vinnie," I said, "Lemme talk to you a minute."

"Just a second."

"Do me a favor, let go of the punk, OK? I need to talk to you. Leave the punk alone."

"I'll be done in a second."

"Vinnie, just leave him alone, OK?"

"Why?"

"He's not worth it."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Vinnie, just do me a favor, let him go, OK?"

Vinnie considered.

"I'll let him go for a blow job from Marcia. How's that?"

"Sure." Marcia was one of my girlfriends.

Vinnie let Johnny go, and Johnny looked at me with a rotten little smirk that I would've loved to slap right off his puny little face. Then he strolled away.

"What did you want?" asked Vinnie.

"Just wanted you to leave him alone."

"What do you care? You friends with him or something?"

"Hell, no."

"So what's it to you?"

"Just do it, OK?"

I really didn't want a fight with Vinny, and he started looking at me like I was pissing him off.

"Listen," I said, "you'll get your blow job. What do you care?"

I didn't like how this was going. Fortunately the bell rang, and I had an excuse to get out of there.

I'd actually seen Vinnie in a dress, once. It was for the Homecoming sketches. They took the four toughest guys in school and had them dress up like girls and flounce and mince around. They'd asked me to be in it, but I was too scared.

I sat there watching the sketch, wishing I was in it. They got to wear make-up and pantyhose and high heels and everything. I'm so looking forward to the time when I get to wear high heels, for real. I sat watching the sketch, and I had a rock-hard erection.

I had practice after school, so I got home late. Everything seemed fine at home. No one suspected anything.

That night, I had another bad dream. Actually, it wasn't so much bad as just strange. I was in a beautiful mirrored ballroom. There was the punk again, sitting on a fancy upholstered chair with the camera on his lap. He had that same stupid smirk on his face.

I looked down, and I was wearing a beautiful dress, again, but this time it was one of my mother's. I can't fit into my mother's dresses. It was my favorite, a white beaded chiffon ballroom gown with long sleeves and a front walking slit, covered all over with sequins and glitter. This was the dream dress; the dress I could only wear in a dream.

I looked at myself in one of the mirrors. Not only shaved legs in pantyhose and high heels, but I had on a beautiful wig, and make-up! And lovely dangly earrings! I looked so pretty! I twirled and curtseyed, and didn't care in the least that the punk could see me.

Finally I crossed the room to where Johnny was sitting.

"Please, you've gotta give me back that photo," I said.

"Sit down," he said. "We'll talk about it."

He patted the chair next to him. I sat, tucking my skirts beneath me properly, and I crossed my legs. He smiled. I smiled back, and preened. It was so wonderful to have someone see me in this lovely dress, and to have someone appreciate how pretty I was. At least, that was what I thought in my dream.

Then Johnny put down the camera and stood up. He held out his hand to me, and all of a sudden the punk was bigger than I was! And wearing a tuxedo! I took his hand and stood up. The music started, and he took me in his manly arms and waltzed me across the floor. I felt my dress billowing about my legs, and it felt delicious! I surrendered to his touch.

"I love your dress," he said.

"Thank you," I said, and giggled.

"It's so pretty, and you look lovely in it."

"Thanks. I love wearing it. It's my favorite dress."

"Why don't you take it off?"

"Johnny! I couldn't do that! I'd be in just my panties and pantyhose, and my bra and slip."

"I'd love to see you in just your panties and pantyhose and bra and slip."

"Someone might come in!"

"Let's go to a motel room, then."

"I just couldn't!" I said coquettishly. But I knew I would do it if he just asked me one more time.

He dipped me, but accidentally let me go. I hit the floor with a thump, and that was when I woke up.

I woke happy, but I was also scared to death. My body was sweaty; my legs were tangled up in the sheets.

I'm gay, I thought.

No, that couldn't be it. It was just that that little punk had an ascendancy over me. He put me in a submissive position. That's what it was about. That's why I saw myself as a woman before him. That, and the fact that he'd seen me in a dress.

I had to get that photo from him. This had gone on long enough.

The next day at school, the word got out that I was his protector. No one asked me why, yet, but someone would get around to it, eventually. I had to come up with some kind of a reason, but I couldn't think of a thing.

I heard someone saying I saw Johnny's bitch. So I had to beat the guy up, after school. I know he wasn't really seriously saying he thought I was gay, but I couldn't let something like that go without a fight.

That evening I borrowed a car from a buddy of mine, and some other stuff, and I got things set up out in the woods. I had to put a stop to this.

Friday afternoon, I drove the car out to Johnny's house. I put on some gardening gloves, and I went right in the front door and into his bedroom. I grabbed him and dragged him out of the house.

"What are you doing?" he asked. But he wasn't scared. Not yet.

I didn't answer, just shoved him into the car. I had some nice handcuffs I'd stolen from a sex shop, and I cuffed him to the door.

"You are gonna be so sorry," he said. "What's your Dad gonna say when he sees you in a pink dress?"

I said nothing.

I got out to the woods, and I uncuffed the punk and dragged him out to the big oak tree I planned to use. I cuffed his hands behind him, then I tied his feet together. He was wriggling about like a worm about to go on a hook.

"What's in the tub?" he asked.

There was nothing in the tub but water. I threw the other end of the rope over the top of a big heavy branch, then I yanked the little twerp into the air and let him hang there, upside-down.

"Let me go!" yelled the punk.

I had pounded some bolts into the tree and bent them back a little, and I used them to tie off the rope. The punk dangled there while I got the tub full of water, and pulled it beneath him. I untied the rope and lowered him until he was close to the water.

"Where's the photo?"

"Go soak in your dress," he said.

I lowered him in head-first and let him wriggle around for awhile, then I yanked him back up.

"Where's the photo?"

"Am I supposed to think you're gonna kill me? You're not gonna kill me."

"Don't be so sure. Why do you think I'm wearing gloves?"

"'Cause they go with your dress?"

I let go and dropped him right in for that one. Then I hauled him out again.

"Where's the photo?"

"Your slip is showing."

I lowered him in and let him wriggle some more, but this time I kept him in until he stopped wriggling. When he was still and calm, I hauled him out and tied off the rope. I went over to him and slapped him awake.

He came to.

"Are you crazy?"

"Yes. Where's the photo?"

"It's hidden in the garage."

"Where?"

"There's a little hiding place in the corner, up near the roof."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes!"

"Funny, I don't think your telling me the truth."

"I'm telling the truth! I'll show you!"

There was the fear I wanted to hear in his voice. I lowered him to the ground and cut him free. I took off his cuffs as soon as we were back to the car.

We drove back to his house and went in the garage together. He got out the ladder and got the photo from the little hiding hole up near the roof. He handed it to me.

Damn. I almost killed this little twerp over this photo? My head wasn't even in the shot! You couldn't even see any details of my sister's bedroom. It could've been anywhere. Sure, it was clearly a boy in a dress, but I would've had no problem denying that it was me.

I took out my cigarette lighter and set the photo on fire. While it was burning I took it over to their trash barrel. I opened an empty milk carton and dropped the photo in there. I watched it burn for awhile, then I closed the milk carton and put it back in the trash.

Then I turned around and slugged that little creep in the stomach. Just a little taste of what was coming on Monday.

As I was leaving, he managed to gasp out, "Hey! Why do you wear dresses, anyway?"

I shrugged.

"I don't know," I said.

The next time I wore a dress I was twenty-two. But that's another story.

   

  

  

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