The Salon Solution

Peter’s mother visited Margo's Hair Salon every fortnight and as a result, knew the proprietor, Margo very well. As well as the usual soap operas, holidays, celebrity gossip and current affairs conversations, Peter himself is often the subject of their biweekly chats. Like many sixteen year old boys, he gets up to mischief once in a while, but since he got in with a certain 'crowd', his mother fears he's headed down the wrong path.

“When he was little I'd threaten him with a dress... which always did the trick.” she reminisces. “But he's too old for petticoating.”

“Petticoating?” Margo asks.

“You know... a naughty boy plus a pretty dress equals a good boy.” Peter’s mother replies.

“You put him in a dress when he was naughty?” Margo quizzes, clearly taken aback at the revelation.

“Yes, occasionally... more often than not just the threat of a dress would curb his behaviour.” she replied. “You must have heard of petticoating?”

“Well... I'm familiar with the concept, but haven't heard it called 'petticoating' before.” Margo replies, “...and I had no idea people actually did it.”

“Only when he was really naughty. He used to look quite sweet in a dress... obviously he hated it but...”

The door opened and a customer entered. Margo welcomed the lady and asked her to take a seat. Margo changed the conversation to one more 'mainstream' as she finished Peter’s mother's hair. Before long she was finished. Peter’s mother paid, booked her next appointment and left.

Petticoating for Schoolboys

I thought this Proactive Parenting guide was one of a kind...

But then I found this...

...a handy booklet by somebody who really knows what they're talking about.

Drenched

After three fantastic days camping with old friends, I faced the most miserable journey home. Yesterday evening the fine weather broke and having rained throughout the night and throughout today, I'm soaked, muddy and desperate for a lift. A good hitching place doesn't often have any shelter and this is no exception. I know I look a state and don't really blame those who'd rather not have me dripping in their car. But it's mid afternoon; I’ve had my thumb out for almost four hours and have travelled a measly 20 miles. 

The weather is getting worse and the chances of being seen, let alone getting a lift are becoming increasingly slim. Then, just as I’d given up hope, a pick-up truck begins to slow down and pull in. Even if he'd only take me a few miles I’d be happy to get out of the rain, but the miserable git put me in the back of his pick-up. Ten miles later he dropped me off at a remote roundabout. I wished I’d declined the lift when I realised the passing traffic at this location was near zero. 

The few cars that did pass weren't stopping, and if i knew the area I'd have walked to a better location. Unlike the traffic, the time slowly passed by and the rain lashed down rapidly.  I must have sat for a good two of three hours when a car not only appeared, but stopped.

A pretty woman a few years older than myself, possibly in her early twenties wound down the window and asked where I was going. I replied and not surprisingly, she wasn't going that far, but could take me up to junction 6; about 30 miles. “Well, if you're sure?” I replied half-heartedly, “I am in a bit of a state.” I added looking down at myself.

“Hop in... it's a bit of banger anyway.” she smiled, “Put your backpack in the boot.” she said, opening it remotely.

“Thanks for this.” I said as I climbed in the passenger seat. “I'm sorry about the state of me...” I added, drawing her attention my filthy clothing. “...my last lift was in the back of a builder's pick up.”

Growing up is hard to do

This story is Inspired by Jamie Vesta's 'Genderquake' over at Eves Rib, and in particular,
the post titled "You'll Wear What You're Told To Young Man"

Peter’s childhood was relatively normal; he played army with his friends, climbed trees, had a train set and loads of action figures and liked nothing more than his trusty old jeans with a hole in the knee, a zip up hoodie and his thoroughly worn in trainers.

His mother, Helen is an architect and his father worked part time in a biscuit factory. Helen often told her husband that he could give up work as her wage alone could easily support their family, but he was proud to work and wished he could get more hours and maybe even a promotion. But with more women in the boardroom, more women get promoted and as such, Peter's dad had been stuck on the shop floor for years whilst his mother's career went from strength to strength. When Peter was seven years old his father became permanently stuck to the shop floor when a section of racking collapsed, tragically killing him on the spot. Ever since that day, Peter has been raised solely by his mother.

With the support of his family and teachers, Peter faired relatively well with the loss of his father. The nearest thing Peter had to a father figure in his junior years was Ron Blakely; a widower in his fifties. Mum called him the handyman but mostly he Hoovers and irons, dusts and washes up. He used to be a proper handyman but as the work dried up for him, he diversified into a more domestic realm as that was one area which the women weren’t taking over. Even then, Ron found it hard to earn enough to support himself as more and more men were being laid off, leaving them plenty of time to tend to such chores. “In my day they used to call 'em kept men … if a bloke didn't have a job he was a sponger, too lazy to work ... these days they call 'em stay-at-home-husbands and it's supposed to be a good thing... times change lad... times change.” Ron said to an eight year old Peter.

Ron had to give up working altogether due to ill health and since then the ironing and laundry has been done by an agency; run by women, worked by men. Between the two of them, Peter and his mother kept on top of the hoovering and dusting.

Peter's mother gave him the freedom to strive to be all he could be and encouraged him to try his best, “Even if you're not very good at something, your best is good enough.” she used to tell him.

Tapped

Eleven year old Peter watches his older sister Sally practising her tap dancing in the back garden, and noticing he's intrigued, offers to teach him some steps. “Now the basic steps are...” his sister demonstrates, and Peter tries his best to do them. “That's really good Peter.” she says after ten minutes.

“No it isn't... I'm rubbish.” he replies. “I just went thump thump thump... but when you do it, it's tap tap tap.”

“That's because you're not wearing tap shoes.” she says, showing him the soles of her shoes. “But you can do the steps quite well for a beginner.” She gets him to try something a little more difficult, and again he gets the hang of it after a few minutes.

She's really impressed but he's less keen because when she does it, it sounds like tap dancing and when he does it it's just thump thump thump. Sally tells him to wait and disappears inside the house. Peter practises until she returns. “These are my old ones so they might fit you.” she says.

Peter sits down and removes his trainers, before squeezing his foot inside the black tap shoe. “I think they're too small.”

Jenny's Room

There is a prologue to this story, which isn't essential reading, set a few
months prior to these events as Peter's curiosity gets the better of him.
If you'd like to read why Peter began cross dressing, click here

 Image by Kimberley Wilder, used without permission but is the sole inspiration for this story.

“You shall remain dressed exactly as you are until I’ve decided what to do about this” my mother stated as her eye's dropped to see the semen dripping on to the floor. She turned to my sister and told her to go to the kitchen, before tuning back to me. “Right young man... come with me!”

Jenny's Room: prologue

I never understood my sister... or girls in general. It seemed as long as something was pink, they liked it. Growing up, my toys were trains and tanks, aircraft and spaceships. Action man, Batman, Spiderman, guns and skateboards and remote control cars. My sister however had dolls, a dolls house, and yet more dolls. She had a huge My Little Pony collection and a host of cute teddy bears. Her toys were all the same, all pink with flowers and love hearts whereas mine were all different, interesting and exciting. As we grew older, I stopped playing with toys and began building model kits and playing video games. My sister stopped playing with her dolls and began to spend all her pocket money on clothes, hair accessories, make-up and fashion magazines... but everything was still pink and frilly

Her bedroom made me feel sick, with its pink walls, princess bed and matching curtains. An ornate dressing table littered with lip-sticks and pungent perfume. Her bookshelves are home to the last of her dolls and teddy bears, books about clothes, hair and make-up along with stories of princesses and girls in boarding school having lame adventures. In one corner is a large pink framed mirror which she spends ages in front of, admiring her latest item of clothing or hairstyle. On the floor is a fluffy heart shaped rug... in pink of course. And perched on her chest of drawers is her TV & DVD player... in pink! 

On The First Day of Christmas, My Auntie Gave to Me...

It was early Christmas morning. My sister Susan and I sat in the sitting room, me in my pyjamas and Susan in her nightie. Mother sat by the Christmas tree and handed us our gifts one by one. I was already overwhelmed by all the gifts I'd received so far, and eagerly took the next parcel. “These are from Aunt May.” Mum said.

We both said “Thank you” as we read the gift tag before unwrapping them. The moment I saw the fabric I knew something was wrong. “Mum I think she got the name tags mixed up!” I said as I unwrapped the gift further and noticed it was definitely meant for a girl. “This must be Susan's present!”

Caught Red Handed: a very short story

A quick short story inspired by a photo that I found online... 

...apologies to the photographer and subject, I suspect you may not approve.

I stared at my stockinged lap guiltily and cursed every strand of nylon which clad my freshly shaved legs. No more than two minutes ago I felt fantastic... like these tights and this dress were made just for me. Like they were meant just for me. But now, as I sit with shame coursing through my veins I feel like an imposter. A fake. A fraud. A freak.

Mother let out a long audible sigh. I looked up towards her as she slid her underwear drawer shut before exhaling sharply through her nostrils as she closed her wardrobe doors. As she turned to look at me I returned my guilty gaze to my lap, unable to look her in the eye. “Well... let's have a look at you.”

I gulped and for the first time in god knows how many moments, our eyes met. I gulped again.

“Stand up.” she said. “I want to have a proper look.”

I cringed. All I want is to be left alone. Just for a moment. Just long enough to peel off this hateful outfit and...

“Please.” she insisted. “If you're going to borrow my clothes I at least want to see how they look.”

I removed my palms from beneath my lap and placed them flat on the mattress. I slowly and shamefully stood. I swear I felt myself physically shrink as my mother's eyes ate into me. Mother let out another sigh. I don't blame her. Words fail me too.

“Well stand up straight.” she asked. “I can hardly see what you look like stooping like that!”

I looked up at her, gulped and croaked an apology.

“I'm not looking for an apology Peter... I want to see what you look like... come on, head up.” she insisted in an almost chirpy tone.

I raised myself to my full height but still wanted nothing more than to shrivel and die. My eyes flicked between the middle distance and my mother. Her eyes flicked from my head to my feet and back again before something else caught her attention. “And I suppose you were planning on wearing these?” she asked knowingly as she crouched and picked up a pair of her shoes. Shoes which normally lived on the rack in the bottom of her wardrobe.

I gulped and nodded.

She sighed again. “Well I don't know whether to make you change or let you stew in your own juices.” she said in a disheartened tone. I murmured my preference, which I fully believe to be the most reasonable of the two options, but this only encouraged Mother to go the other way. “Well I think you should stew for a while.” she suggested. “Do these fit?” she asked, referring to the pair of black heeled sandals I’d selected.

I nodded. “Please mum.” I pleaded when she suggested I put them on. “I don't want to.”

“Well I assume you wanted to before I came home.” she retorted. “And you know how I feel about you doing things behind my back.” she added. “Now please Peter... put them on, and then we'll talk.” she insisted.

I told you it was short!

A-Z Story index 

Abigail's Party

“Peter!” shouted his mother from the foot of the stairs.

“What?” Peter shouted from his bedroom.

“I need to go into town to get some things for Abigail's party on Saturday.”

“OK.” he shouted back.

A moment later his mum shouted, “Well come on then, I haven't got all day.”

“Can't I stay here?” he replied from his room.

“No, you can help me choose a nice birthday present for her.”

“Oh mu-um.” he moaned, “I'm busy!”

“Busy playing that play station thing!” his mum retorted, “Now come on, I'm not leaving you in the house alone.”

“But I'm ten!” he replied.

“Well act like it and do as you're told!”

Peter turned off the play station and dawdled down the stairs to where his mother was impatiently waiting for him. “It's about time!” she said as he appeared, “Come on, we haven't got all day.”

His mum pulled out of the driveway and headed for the town centre. On the way she made small talk with her son but didn't get much of a response. “Oh give me some help Peter!” She blurted, “I'm only trying to think of something for her present, and seeing as you're the one who'll be giving it to her you really should help me choose something.”

Peter sighed impatiently, “Well I don't know what girls like.... a doll or something.” he suggested.

“I think she's a bit old for dolls love.” she replied, “She's the same age as you... you don't want Action Man any more do you?”

“I guess not.” Peter moaned.

“What about getting a pretty dress for the party?” his mum suggested.

“Whatever.” Peter replied unenthusiastically, paying more attention to the passing scenery that his mother's dulcet tones. “Girls like that sort of thing I s'pose.”

“Well that's settled then... do you want to choose one?” his mum smiled.

“What do I know about dresses?” he shrugged.

“Well I'll help you if you like.” she suggested.

“OK.” he moaned.

A Trip to Granny's

 

“But... you said...” he stammered as he looked fearfully at the panties. “...you only wanted to check the hem and then I could take it off!”

“Well if I’d said Let's see how your new dress looks you'd have run a mile.” I replied.

He stared at me in disbelief. Of course he'd have run a mile but now the dress is on, he's not running anywhere. His eyes dropped to the panties I held.

“Aren't they pretty?” I grinned. “They match your dress perfectly.”

A Suitable Punishment - part III

New to this story?
if you've missed part two, click here
if you missed part one, click here 

 

After spending most of the previous week dressed as a school girl,
Jon is finally allowed his own uniform back. He and his sister Mary head for school.

As they neared the school gates, Jon expected the jeers and taunts he'd received the previous week. Fortunately nobody batted an eyelid when he and his sister entered. However when Jon entered his form room a few of the kids taunted him. “Did you remember your gym-slip? You've got P.E this afternoon!” one laughed. “Did you shave your legs this morning?” asked another.

Jon ignored them, not wanting to get into trouble. The form teacher entered and scanned the classroom. On noticing Jon in his normal uniform she said. “Welcome back Jonathan... I trust you'll continue last week's good behaviour now you've got your trousers back?”

“Yes Miss.” Jon replied.

“Well let's hope so.” she added, knowing full well what he could be like.

The teacher in Jon's first lesson said pretty much the same thing, but added, “Although knowing you, you'll be back in your skirt before long.”

Jon impudently replied, “It's not my skirt Sir... it's my sister's!”

The teacher checked his watch before replying. “Hmm....” he frowned. “... it's not even 9.30 and your back-chat has started already....” some of the children giggled. “...maybe you'll be back in your skirt sooner than I thought.” he added, raising more giggles from the class.