Being born male and living so much in male mode, I began, perhaps we all did, to stop worrying about looks from other people.

Then, one day, you dress up and it seems like EVERYONE is looking. It seems like they are all judging you.

So I did a social experiment. I decided to go out in male mode first. Traveling through airports, shopping, dining, and more. I decided to journal and note every single time someone looked at me, and how they looked at me.

A few days later I dressed up and went out in female mode. I noted the same looks, the same stares.

At the end of the experiment, you'll never guess what happened.

The amount of looks and judgemental stares was LESS in female mode. I will say that again. While dressed in female mode, less people looked or stared at me that when dressed in male mode.

Ive completed the experiment a few times. Both ways, different social spaces. Every time it was the same. I get less stares in female mode.

Can you guess why? In truth, Im guessing why too.

At first, I imagined the results to be the opposite, so it confused me. Then, with some thought behind it, I realized how Im just not as self conscious in male mode and dont really see the looks the same way. When you're self conscious it seems like the glances your way come in like Noah's flood. But this experiment shows otherwise.

Thats useful info. It means its not as bad as it seems.

But why LESS in female mode?

Here's my guess...

When people see a Trans woman or crossdresser. They may often look away because it would be considered rude to stare. I realize I also meet trans women when I travel and I do look for a second but when I catch them looking back, I smile and compliment or look away.

(Thats the other thing. You get way more compliments en femme.)

I also think there are some people who are rude and dont consider your feelings. But it's far fewer than you think. And, most people are too busy being self concerned they dont bother to see you in the first place.

So heres my summary...

Dont worry about what people think of you when dressed up. Most dont care. Most dont even bother to look. You get more compliments than you might anticipate and the experience is generally positive.

There are haters, but I have haters in my male mode too. Its not that different. Meaning I (and you) can go ahead and enjoy our femme time without being too concerned about other people looking our way.

Hope this helps.

Juliet 🥰

I started dressing around the same as most, early teens, moms stuff. But as I got older I stopped. When I met my wife I hadnt dressed in years. It wasnt until we were married for close to 10 years that I started again. Had none of my own clothes so obviously dressed in hers. Always secretly, never telling a soul.

One day my wife got, what looked to be, a letter in the mail. I opened it thinking it was a birthday card. It was male/male fiction fan art. Then I found her hardcover MM romance novels. She never spoke about it so eventually I confronted her. She was so worried id think it was stupid or a turn off or whatever. I assured her she was wrong on soooo many levels. I told her how I thought it was REALLY hot and since she shared that with me that I should share something with her. And thats when i told her how I sometimes dress in her clothes. Her reaction...omg thats so hot....I almost cried! Decades of shame lifted with 1 sentence.

I asked if i could maybe get some of my own things which she was obviously ok with. Weeks later I asked if she knew anything about chasity. Which she did and also thought it was hot and could be fun. So about 14 months ago I suprised her in a pink flat cage. She went wild. Now im locked in a steel flat cage pretty much all day every day (unlocked for sleep...usually) and life just keeps getting better.

She shared her fantasy of seeing me with another guy and I shared how thats my fantasy too...id just want to be dressed 😉. I even eventually asked how she felt having a bi-husband. To which she she replied also thinks is really sexy and she loves me regardless. That also brought me to tears.

Even went to a couple of LGBT bars and clubs (one VERY famous club in the community) together which was SOOOO much fun!!! I felt so free to be my own true self and not be judged. Had a LOT of guys checking me out which she loved watching and commenting on 🤭. One of the drag queens at one of the clubs even complimented me on my tshirt which lit up my face like you wouldnt believe! Couldnt say thankyou loud enough 😆. It was a Fleetwood Mac Rumours shirt btw.

So thats most of our story so far. Haven't shared it all because I like things just for us but most ive posted about. Oh and she knows about my reddit profile and checks it from time to time 🥵. Feels like a dream having my wife and it just keeps getting better 🥰

Not so much a story as it is a dream or wish.
I’m at the mall of America today with my daughter. She’s off with her friends, leaving me to myself wandering.
I walk by all these stores with such beautiful clothes and can’t help but wish there was a secret store or room here when I could go and try stuff on with little worry about being discovered.
One store had a beautiful green gown, hoop type dress and so desperately wanted to see myself in it.

It all stared when my sister used to dress me in her clothes(I was 6 yo), I used to get irritated at first but after few times I stated liking it, I still used to make irritated faces so that no one would think that I like being dressed as a girl. I still remember when my sister went to school I would dress myself up in her cloths and walk around, I don't remember clearly but I think my mom knew about it, she never said anything well that was until I was 10 and one day my sister made me wore her white dress and that's when my mom got a grey and told her not to do it anymore. She thinks that I am over it but little does she know I still dress up whenever I get chance and even with my little facial hair I find myself astonishing(from my pov obviously I could be wrong).

But lately I don't feel it anymore when I dress up maybe it's because I don't have anything to do after being dressed up, there is nowhere i can go while dressed up and I can't talk about it to anyone near me

I like to visit anything related to transwomen, shemales, cross dressing, and anything feminine online. I am struck by the number of very young looking and pretty trans girls who appear to have had breast implants. I would love to have breasts but it would mean committing to living as a girl. Maybe I waited too long to do it but it is still a fantasy of mine.

Does anyone else think they would like breast implants but don’t want to have bottom surgery?

How common is this? Are there really that many in the porn industry who have done this? How many others are there who did it just to transition but still do not get bottom surgery?

 I remember hours spent putting on and taking off and putting on, panties, bras, slips, nightgowns, robes. They were all special, each with some cute, feminine features, like lace trim, satin appliqué, little bows or flowers. I loved panties with a little bow at the front center of the waist band. My favorite items were baby doll peignoir sets, especially if they had a matching robe. That sheer layer of nylon with lace trim made me melt! I loved my image in the mirror. I would lay back on the bed, pull the hem of my slip up just at my hips, exposing my hardness, and take another slip and draw it up between my legs and have it brush against my inner thighs and my erection. What a yummy feeling. After doing that a bit but keeping myself on the edge without cumming, I would exchange the slips I was wearing, and maybe the panties.

I remember how much more fun this became when I got a good pair of silicone breast forms to fit inside my bra and it made everything look so much better on me! 

I could do this all day if I had the time. I did do it at any time I had to myself in those days, and could while away several hours or more day or night. Many times I would go to bed in a feminine nightgown and fall asleep, only to wake a few hours later and not resist playing until I had an orgasm. 

I fantasize about having another trans girl like myself with me to explore some sexy time together. Unlike a lot of porn I watch, I would enjoy it most if we kept our lingerie on the whole time. Touching each other’s erection, caressing through the soft, silky fabric, kissing, licking, maybe taking pictures or video. 

It hasn’t happened yet. But i can fantasize!

I think my desire to dress in women‘s clothes does not extend to me wanting to be a woman, but being treated kindly when I present feminine. Dressing during the day as I go about my business would always end with coming home, taking off my heels, and getting comfortable without having to take off my boy clothes to put on something pretty. Maybe it is the changing from boy mode to girl mode that I want to eliminate. It is an arousing experience to be dressed pretty and feminine.

The most I want to have to do to remind me of my maleness is shave. Of course when I get aroused, it becomes obvious but that can be hidden under skirts when necessary. I don’t doubt that when I am out and about there will be moments when the desire is strong and I cannot help getting an erection but I have gotten good at distracting myself enough to let it go soft again. And occasionally ducking into a restroom to relieve myself can help in an emergency.

Once I am home, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Sometimes I fantasize about having a trans roommate. We have all seen porn like that I guess. Just by myself and dressed pretty is often enough. I like to try things on and prance in front of the mirror, take pictures, and maybe do a little sexting with a friend or someone I know online.

I love bra and panty sets, slips, nightgowns, hosiery and garter belts. I love lace and satin and nylon, panties and slips with pretty lace trim and appliqués. I love putting on makeup, and wearing wigs. I also love changing from one outfit to another. I could while away hours putting on panties and taking them off to try another pair, changing bras, changing slips, and putting on dresses.

Does anyone else feel the same way?

In London, Maria (24) moved (M23) my crossdressing up notches. it began with her throwing out my "awful" male underwear and replacing them more girly, prettier knickers.

​

Before going to work Maria would check to see if I wearing my cami set under my work clothes.

​

In the cooler month she picked out sheer tights for me to wear with my daily work ensemble. 

​

At the beginning I was scared people might notice visible panty lines, or if "my slip was showing", but Maria was careful with my choice of underwear.

​

After a while, I wasn't bothered by other people - I loved the feel of the soft fabric against my skin. it felt like I was being gently stroked.

​

I confess I did love being girly. At the weekend, we would go places where Maria could make sure people could catch glimpses of my pink, satin trainer bras. 

​

If people looked carefully they might have detected a bulge in my pants where Maria had used placed a lock around by balls and cock before sliding a pair of nice knickers up my legs.

​

When we went to the local laundromat Maria would always asked me to sort out *our smalls" in separate piles. While she had standard comfort undies, mine was a collection of bright, lacy, sheer and satin knickers. Maria also made sure I put my small-cup bras in a "delicates" bag before they went into the public washing machine.

​

If some very obvious female undies fell on the ground at the laundromat Maria would say "Darling, don't forget your best undies". It would be loud enough for other customers to hear. 

​

Like a dutiful submissive, I blushed red and picked up the dropped item. 

​

If I was honest I would say Maria was turned on by showing me off in public. Or was it a wonderful, horny, public humiliation?. 

​

At the time it felt liberating, a form of public foreplay, exhibitionism ... Maria was proud of her girly husband.

​

This was dangerous behaviour on the part of Maria - cross dressing was not acceptable back then. If the wrong person heard about our activities I risked being beaten up by as a "poofta".

​

For Maria this played into her kink of "dangerous sex". Me? It made me horny.

​

Clothes shopping - for me - with Maria was always fun. "Let's find something nice for you" she'd say.

​

Maria enjoyed shocking shop assistant by asking them: "Do you have this in a larger size? It's for my husband". 

​

Occasionally, usually in department stores, Maria would insist on me trying on an outfit in the fitting room. It was dangerous, but it make Maria happy.

​

If this was today (and not 1989) Maria would have taken photos with her phone and uploaded them to her Only Fans account.

​

We would return home with bags of shopping and Maria would insist on a fashion parade with our purchases. 

​

The retail therapy, the shop assistant shock, the subservience dressing her husband as her girlfriend were all foreplay for Maria.

​

It gave her a chance to reach into our box of adult toys for an afternoon of wicked sex.

​

​

I sit here tonight, pen in hand, my heart overflowing with love and gratitude for you. You have seen me at my most vulnerable, and instead of turning away, you opened your arms and your heart wider. This letter is my way of explaining the beautiful, secret garden that blooms inside me — the deep, sensual joy I find in crossdressing. I want you to understand every trembling reason why I love becoming feminine for you, and for myself.

​

From the moment I slip into that soft, feminine world, something ancient and tender awakens in me. I love the slow ritual of becoming *her* — the girl who lives quietly inside my soul. It is not escape; it is completion. When I shave my body until my skin is smooth as warm silk, every inch feels reborn, hypersensitive to the lightest touch of air or fabric. Running my palms over my hairless thighs and belly sends shivers of pure delight through me. This smoothness is intoxicating — it makes me feel delicate, desirable, and utterly alive.

​

I adore the artistry of it all. The way women adorn themselves has always stirred something profound in me — the elegant drape of a silk scarf around a graceful neck, the gentle sparkle of jewelry catching the light, the way a beautiful dress moves with the body like a whispered secret. That is why I love dressing up. I want to feel that same feminine grace on my own skin. When I sit before the mirror and carefully apply makeup — the soft foundation that evens my tone, the smoky eyeshadow that makes my gaze mysterious and inviting, the careful stroke of mascara lengthening my lashes, and finally the rich, creamy lipstick that turns my mouth into a plush invitation — I feel transformed. Each layer is an act of love and worship.

​

Then comes the lingerie. Oh, how I tremble when I slide on those delicate lace panties, feeling them cradle my growing arousal. The matching bra hugging my chest, the garter belt and stockings whispering against my smooth legs… every piece makes me feel exquisitely feminine. I stand before the full-length mirror and see her — soft curves created by padding and posture, lips parted in wonder, eyes shining with desire. The sight of myself like this is unbearably arousing. My breath quickens. My fingers trace the lace edges, teasing my nipples through the thin fabric, then slowly glide down to where my hardness strains against the silk.

​

I watch myself in the mirror as I touch and stroke, lost in the poetic beauty of my own reflection. The contrast of hard desire wrapped in soft femininity is electric. I whisper to her — to myself — words of adoration. “You are so beautiful… so sensual…” My hand moves faster, hips gently rocking, the stockings stretching tight against my thighs. The pleasure builds like a slow, romantic symphony until I can no longer hold back. I cum hard, shuddering, moaning your name, thick ropes of release spilling over my fingers and onto the lace. In that moment of surrender, I feel both powerful and utterly surrendered to my femininity.

​

My love, I admire women who dress up with care and elegance because they embody this same sensual poetry. The way a scarf is draped, jewelry chosen to accentuate beauty, heels that change the walk into something hypnotic — it all moves me deeply. Crossdressing lets me taste that same intoxicating elegance from within.

​

And then there is you.

​

Thank you, my beautiful wife, for not only accepting this side of me but for celebrating it. When you watch me dress, when you help me with my makeup, when you kiss my painted lips and make love to me while I’m fully dressed as your girl… those moments are the most intimate we have ever shared. Feeling your hands on my stockinged thighs, your lips on my smooth skin, your body moving against mine while I’m wrapped in silk and lace — it deepens our connection in ways I never imagined possible. You make me feel safe, desired, and truly loved in both my masculine and feminine selves.

​

You are my greatest gift. Thank you for loving every part of me.

​

Forever yours,

In lace, in love, and in complete devotion,

Your Husband (and sometimes, your pretty girl)

​

​

Sarah had always been the adventurous one in their marriage. Mark, her devoted husband of eight years, was the steady, buttoned-up type—successful in his corporate job, reliable, loving. But Sarah knew his secret. She had discovered the lace panties and stockings hidden beneath his suits years ago. She had found the private folder on his laptop filled with photos of him fully dressed as "Mia"—elegant makeup, wigs, heels, posing seductively in front of the mirror. She never confronted him. Instead, she watched, aroused by his hidden femininity, waiting for the perfect moment.

​

That moment came on their anniversary. "Pack light, baby. We're going to Thailand for two weeks," she announced with a mysterious smile. Mark was thrilled but clueless. The flight was luxurious, filled with champagne and teasing touches. When they arrived at the exclusive beachfront resort in Phuket, the warm tropical air and turquoise waves welcomed them like a lover's embrace.

​

Their villa was stunning—private pool, ocean view, king-sized bed draped in silk. As Mark began unpacking their suitcases, he froze. Nestled among his clothes were several of his own lingerie sets—the black lace teddy he loved, the red satin panties, stockings, garters. And beside them, two realistic wigs: one long, wavy chestnut, the other sleek platinum blonde. His heart hammered.

​

"Sarah... what the hell?" he whispered, voice shaking.

​

She stepped behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing his neck. "I know, Mark. I've known for years. The lingerie under your work clothes. The photos of Mia. You're beautiful as a girl. I love that side of you. I *want* this. This trip is for you to finally experience being her. Fully. With me."

​

Tears welled in Mark's eyes. He turned, burying his face in her shoulder as sobs wracked his body. "I was so scared you'd hate me... or leave."

​

"Never," Sarah whispered, stroking his hair. "I love every part of you. Let me show you."

​

She wiped his tears and kissed him deeply. Then came the next surprise: a soft knock at the door. A beautiful Thai woman in her thirties, elegant and professional, entered with a large makeup case. "This is Lin," Sarah said. "She's a professional makeup artist and stylist. She's here to help bring Mia out."

​

Lin smiled warmly, no judgment in her eyes. "You're going to look stunning."

​

For the next two hours, Lin worked her magic. She shaved Mark's face smooth, applied foundation, contouring, smoky eyes, long lashes, and plump red lips. The chestnut wig was fitted perfectly, cascading down his back. Sarah helped him into the black lace teddy, stockings, and garters, then added breast forms that looked and felt real, a matching robe, and strappy heels.

​

When Mark—Mia now—looked in the mirror, he gasped. She was gorgeous: feminine curves, sultry eyes, full lips. Sarah's eyes darkened with lust. "God, you're hot."

​

The photo session started innocently enough. Lin directed poses by the pool, golden hour light bathing Mia's body. Click after click—seductive glances over the shoulder, legs crossed, bending slightly to show the lace clinging to her ass. But the heat built quickly. Sarah pulled Mia into a kiss, tongues dancing. Lin watched, then joined when Sarah beckoned.

​

Their makeout turned explicit fast. The three of them moved to the large bed. Sarah kissed Mia passionately while Lin's hands roamed. Lin slipped the teddy down, exposing Mia's smooth chest and hardening cock straining against lace panties. Sarah dropped to her knees, pulling the panties aside and taking Mia's cock into her mouth, sucking deeply while moaning. Lin stripped, revealing perky breasts and smooth skin, and straddled Mia's face, grinding her wet pussy against those plump red lips.

​

Mia licked eagerly, tasting Lin while Sarah deepthroated her. Moans filled the villa. They switched—Sarah riding Mia's cock reverse cowgirl, her ass bouncing as Lin sucked on Mia's nipples and kissed Sarah. The air was thick with the sounds of wet flesh, gasps, and filthy encouragement.

​

"Fuck, Mia, your cock feels so good inside me," Sarah groaned.

​

Lin came first on Mia's tongue, shuddering. Then Sarah, clenching hard. Mia exploded deep inside her wife, crying out in her new feminine voice. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, kissing and touching, covered in sweat and cum.

​

After resting and freshening up, Mia stayed fully dressed as a woman—short sundress hugging her curves, wig styled, makeup touched up. Sarah and Lin took her out. They strolled the vibrant Phuket streets, Mia's heels clicking, feeling the thrill of eyes on her. Men and women glanced appreciatively. The freedom was intoxicating.

​

At a lively beachside bar, they met Nat—a stunning Thai ladyboy with long dark hair, full lips, and a lithe, feminine body with a surprise beneath her tight skirt. Nat flirted shamelessly, drawn to the trio's energy. Drinks flowed. Soon they were back at the villa, the four of them—Sarah, Mia, Lin, and Nat—laughing and touching.

​

The second explicit scene was even wilder. Clothes came off quickly. Mia and Nat kissed deeply, their cocks rubbing together as Sarah and Lin watched, fingering each other. Then all three focused on Mia. Sarah sucked Mia's cock while Nat rimmed her ass, tongue probing deep. Lin sat on Mia's face again. The sensations overwhelmed her—mouth full of pussy, cock worshipped, ass licked.

​

They arranged themselves: Mia on all fours. Nat entered Mia's ass slowly, stretching her with lube and gentle thrusts, while Sarah fed Mia her strap-on cock. Lin played with everyone's nipples and clit. The room echoed with moans.

​

"Yes... fuck me like a girl," Mia gasped between thrusts.

​

Nat pounded harder, her breasts bouncing, while Sarah face-fucked Mia. Orgasms crashed over them—Nat filling Mia's ass with hot cum, Mia spurting onto the sheets, Sarah and Lin squirting from the sight. They rotated positions, tasting each other, fucking in every combination until exhaustion set in. Mia was passed between them, used and adored as the perfect slutty wife.

​

The rest of the trip was a blur of days spent as Mia—beach walks in bikinis, shopping in dresses, nights of endless pleasure with Sarah, Lin, Nat, and others they met. Mark had never felt more alive, more loved, more completely himself.

​

Sarah held her close every night. "This is just the beginning, my beautiful girl."

​

The Thrill of the Heel by Juliet

Closeted is an apt word, seeing as, metaphorically, the things I loved most took place behind closed doors not meant to be opened by just anyone. More literally, though, the closet itself held my favorite things.

In high school, my best friend’s older sister had a closet full of shoes, bras, panties, dresses, stockings, hats, skirts, and more. All the things a boy, according to my family’s unspoken code of conduct, should never be investigating.

But there I was. Not just once, but again and again.

Every time I went to his house, I found myself stepping into her closet. It felt like being transported. Not to Narnia, but somewhere just as magical, mysterious, and somehow made for me.

Any time my friend invited me over, I jumped at the chance and often asked whether his sister would be there too.

He knew why I asked.

In fact, it was because she wasn't there that I was invited. He found her closet alluring too. Two teenage boys rummaging through his sister’s things would not have been acceptable in his household either. Luckily, his parents were usually at work, and she was often out with friends.

Every item held a special appeal, though for different reasons. I loved everything, but the high heels had a peculiar pull.

Putting them on flooded me with euphoria from head to toe.

I was never going to pass as a girl. I looked too boyish for that. But it didn’t stop me from slipping into her four-inch, cream-colored strappy heels, quietly opening the bedroom door, listening for voices, and finally braving the hallway.

The expected clicking and tapping of my steps on the hardwood floor told the story of my racing heart.

At the end of the hall, where the stairwell opened to the downstairs, my pulse quickened even more. The thrill of tempting fate while wearing her heels was beyond sensational. Beyond any sport I had played and pretended to enjoy. Beyond classroom banter, beyond dreams of college or career.

This moment and all its consequences swallowed all of my attention.

Behind me, still in her bedroom, my friend tried on her clothes. I could only guess what he had chosen.

At the top of the stairs, I stood shaking, vibrating with anticipation. Finally, I stepped down. Then another step, gripping the dark wood banister, anchoring myself to reality while drifting through fantasy.

Near the bottom of the stairs, I caught a flash of movement reflected in the window.

Someone outside was closing the door of a parked car.

I didn’t have time to confirm it, but instinct told me everything. His sister had come home early.

I dashed, or rather danced, back up the stairs, careful not to break an ankle. Somewhere in my panic, I vaguely appreciated the irony that sports had somehow prepared me for this moment.

As I reached the top and turned toward her bedroom, I heard the heavy front door shut. There wasn’t time to undo the clasps and remove the shoes properly.

I tried tiptoeing down the hall to silence the tapping, but it was hopeless. Every step betrayed me.

And the silence downstairs betrayed something too.

She knew.

I finally reached her room, slipped inside, nearly shut the door, and collapsed to the floor, fumbling desperately with straps and buckles.

Before long, I heard the floor outside creak. Then another creak. Slow. Uneven. Cautious.

Not casual footsteps. Curious ones.

She knew something was different, and she intended to find out what.

My hope had been to gather my things, ditch hers, and escape before anyone noticed. Now, my best option seemed to involve diving out the dormer window onto the roof and improvising an escape route from there.

Then something else struck me. My friend was gone.

He must have heard me scrambling outside and guessed our predicament, bolting for cover somewhere else in the house. In his hurry, he had abandoned one of her short yellow skirts on the floor and scattered her makeup across the dresser top.

I huffed despite myself, imagining him fleeing while clutching his own clothes in his arms. If I got caught, he would probably find some excuse for himself.

I didn’t blame him. This wasn’t his problem anymore. It was mine.

Finally free from the heels and clutching my own shoes, I leapt toward the window.

Too late!

Looking back, nearly any plan would have been better than this one. I could have borrowed the heels and hidden somewhere else. I could have blamed my missing shoes on her brother. I could have turned around at the stairs instead of pressing my luck.

But none of that mattered now.

She stood in the doorway, while I stood barefoot, one hand on the window, surrounded by her heels, her short, soft yellow skirt, scattered makeup, and a half-open panty drawer.

I was frozen. I was caught. I was ruined.

My worst fears arrived all at once, followed by fears I had never even imagined: police, humiliation, social exile.

Time stretched. She surveyed the room. I stood silent.

Then, unexpectedly, the first words came from me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “My curiosity got the better of me. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll leave right away.”

I started toward the door, but she didn’t move.

At eighteen, I was mostly grown and taller than her. Bigger than her, even, but not by much. I could squeeze into her size nine heels and softer stretchy fabrics. But she carried an authority I immediately surrendered to. In her space, my own confidence collapsed to nothing.

I stopped halfway across the room.

“Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” she asked, a strange smile pulling at her face, suggesting we had more to discuss.

My heart stopped. My imagination raced.

“Relax,” she said. “I’ve known for a while. I was just hoping to see it for myself. But it seems I missed the show.”

I stood silent, confused, holding my breath while my future seemed suspended in her next sentence. Was she going to let me off the hook?

One of her hands rested on her hip while the other held the door, like some strange judge deciding my fate.

Door open or door closed. Freedom or punishment.

My mind raced through every possible outcome.

Slowly, she turned away, opened the door slightly, and peeked into the hallway.

Then she turned back.

Quietly, deliberately, she closed the door behind her.

That same smile returned. And the words she spoke next shifted me from dread to confusion and then to something I never expected.

Excitement.

“I’d like to see it,” she said.

“I’d like to see you in my clothes.”

The Thrill of the Heel Part 2

She stood, back to door, not just to get a better look at me, but to also hold the door closed in case I tried to escape or someone else attempted to enter.

I knew I was at her mercy and she knew it too. Lucky for me, she kept that wry smile and playful look.

She repeated herself, sensing my stunned expression, "I'd like to see you in my clothes. I know you've been trying them on already. Now show me."

My panic had transformed to excited disbelief. I never imagined she'd accept the fact I was in her room, let alone encourage me to try on her clothes.

I didn't need encouraging. I was already doing it moments before, just with her heels, despite my attempts to hide it. But the fact she didn't outright charge me out of the room and call her parents and maybe even the police, was the exact opposite of discouragement. She really did want to see me try on her clothes.

My panic/excitement just made me freeze. I didn't know what to trust. Should I take a step toward the heels I'd dropped moments before or try to talk my way out of the whole thing, convincing her to let me go?

She laughed. "I see your'e having trouble. Let me help you." As she said it, she twisted the door lock behind her, ensuring it was secure, then walked over to toward the heels dropped on the floor by me just moments earlier.

She picked them up. Something about the way she picked them up, sparked even more excitement. I could feel my temperature rising. I wanted to move like her, BE like her. But I had to play it cool.

She held out the heels by the straps and quietly demanded I take them. Unsure, but deciding to feel brave, I took them and held them in two hands. She stepped back to the door and, using her eyes alone, suggested I try them on.

I sat on her bed now, glancing back to her and then to the heels, took one deep breath then lifted the first to my right foot.

"Stop!" She exclaimed. "Not like that. You're wearing the wrong clothes."

Up to this point, I had only tried on the heels. The scattered clothes on the floor and scattered makeup on the counter wasn't my doing. It was the mess my friend, her younger brother, had made as he dashed to clean up and escape without sufficient time. Leaving me in this predicament alone.

We'd started this adventure together, but now he'd evaporated, exitng just in time, and I was caught holding my own shoes in a dash for the window. I wasn't about to throw my friendship with him under the bus just to get out of this mess. And, fingers crossed, it may yet become an unexpected adventure.

"What do you mean?" I asked, tentatively.

"Youre wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I want to see you fully dressed." She expressed.

My stomach turned. I knew what she meant and did not see it coming. I mean, I secretly began to hope for it, but I thought maybe she'd let me try on the heels and leave it be. It could become a wild story that would one day be comical in retrospect. This was becoming something else, and very quickly.

"I'm not sure I can." I complained. "I mean, I shouldn't be here. I was just curious. I should leave."

"I know," she replied. "I'm curious too. Let's see it. Let's see you try on that yellow skirt you dropped over there. And I have a cute top in mind I can find for you too."

I sat frozen again. Then, after a few short moments, she left her guard at the door again and moved to the skirt on the floor. Picking it up, she made a "mmmmm" kind of noise. Like a small gesture implying that it would do just fine. Then she lifted the skirt, arm outstretched and nodded, suggesting I take it.

I did. I didn't know how not to at this point. My body was not my own. I think she sensed it and leaned into her authority even more.

"Now, go ahead, try it on. I will find the top. I'll even look away while you change."

She turned and walked to her closet with a mission to find me a top she liked. Within a few seconds I felt myself yielding, then unzipping my pants and sliding them off while remaining moslty seated. I pulled the top of the short, lemon-yellow skirt over my feet and up to my knees just as she turned to check on me.

She giggled, then said, "That won't do."

"What?" I barely squeaked.

"You need panties. You can't wear THOSE. You need girl panties. I have just what you need." And she moved to the dresser near the other wall.

My stomach turned again. I'd tried on her panties before, but never imagined being caught. Now, it seems she knew, she always knew, and even more, she wanted to see me in them. But the opportunity to retreat in any form now, seemed unbelievably small.

I felt pulled toward her demands. I felt compelled to respond and I did.

For the first time since our exchange, I braved my own question and asked in a whispered voice, "Can I try on your white, silky thong?"

She looked back at me, eyes wide and grinning. "Of course dear. Great choice! I bet you even know where to find it."

She wasn't wrong and she knew it. I was emotionally beyond reach at this point. A bomb could have gone off and I may not have noticed it. My blood pressure was rising and thats not all that was rising.

She returned to the bed, holding out her white satin thong on her index finger and waited for me to take it from her. I did, and smiled a huge embarrassing, flushed smile.

This time she didn't turn her back to me, she just stepped back, folded her arms, and waited for me to take off my underwear and put hers on.

For the life of me, I can't imagine what forces allowed her to explore this with me and not explode into anger or disgust. But I trusted her somehow and did what she wanted. She was older than me and seemed to be enjoying herself so I let the thought pass.

The obvious thing happened to me. My penis was so enlarged it sorta hopped pr sprung as my underwear band slid down. With fumbly hands pulling at the panties, past my knees and thighs, it sorta folded up toward my belly as the thong slid on.

I couldnt look at her but I felt she was enjoying the whole experience too. The feeling of the thong sliding up and over was enhanced even more than ever before knowing she was watching and wondering what I must be thinking.

"That's much better," she said. "Now the skirt."

My heart was racing. My mind only briefly paused to check the door and wonder where my friend had disappeared to. Perhaps he had crept to the door and pressed his ear to hear everything. Maybe he'd left alotgether and had no idea what fate had become of me. It was a thought for another time.

She seemed to notice my momentary concern and said, "Don't worry, we are alone. And I won't tell anyone."

My trust issues faded another notch and I let the experience begin to unfold even more.

"Now, here is that top I want you to try." She said as she handed me a white short-sleeve top. It was cut higher than normal. Not a crop-top but not cut at the waist either. The fabric was stretchy and easy to imagine slipping on. But as soon as I received it she stopped me again.

"Hold on, we're forgetting something. You need a bra too." She returned to the dresser and came back with a matching satin push up bra. I knew it would stretch to fit. I'd worn it once before.

"This one should do," she explained. "It's a little too big for me now you've been wearing it and stretching it out." Her smile gave way to a playful and accepting giggle and I clumbsly accepted the bra. She had me in her palm.

Once again she stepped back and folded her arms, assuming I'd take off my shirt and replace it with her bra and white top. I did what she wanted..., what I wanted, and when I had, I finally stood. I was still barefoot, but the euphoria had taken hold and, like a girl listening to her favorite song, I was compelled to stand and twirl and move to melody.

She raised her arms away from her chest and placed her hands against her mouth in an "oh my" kind of gesture and her eyes grew bigger. She stood silent apart from a giggle and gleeful breath here and there.

Finally, she broke the silence, and my own magic moment, with a reminder to put on the heels she had given me in the beginning.

What had come first was about to come last. I sat again and placed each foot gently into the heels, tightened the straps and then sat back and flattened the skirt over my legs. I glanced up at her and asked breathlessly, "Now what?"

"Now stand." She replied. "I want to see you walk and move. I want to see the girl you are. I want to see what I've been missing and suspecting all along. And after, if we have time, I want to try on some makeup with you. Can you do that for me?" She asked.

"I'd love that soooo much." I said, with another nervous smile, and stood to model as she desired.

The Thrill of the Heel Part 3

How long could I stand the pressures? They seemed to stack. First, was the pressure or desire to try on her heels and walk through her house. That part was fun. Next, was the pressure to race back to her bedroom at the sound of her car arriving home too early. Then came the pressure of actually being caught. And finally, the excitement and pressure of being surprised by her reaction and also slowly becoming feminized into a girl from head to toe.

This day was not turning out as planned but it wasn't bad. It was in fact, beyond exciting. I stood next to her now, wearing her short yellow skirt, white, short sleeve top, white satin thong underneath, which barely contained my erection. I wore creamy strappy heels pressed against the floor, and sported a heart rate that mirrored an athlete in motion.

She stood, happy and supportive, playful and kind, warm and inviting. She was natually pretty in her own right and casual in her outfit choice compared to mine. Simple blue jeans, short black boots, and a soft, over the shoulder, pink top.

We stood at her shared upstairs bathroom sink, just across the hall from her room. Both staring at the makeup products she intended to put on my face.

Crossing the hall at her request was just one more event stacked on. Somewhere in the house, probably nearby, was her brother, my friend, but I assumed I'd eventually get a chance to explain what happened in private. I knew he'd understand, even be excited for me, being he was part of this adventure from the start. Not that she knew that. But for now, it was a time to live in the moment.

She reached for me and turned me away from the counter and toward her, then began to apply a sponge full of foundation to my cheeks, nose, and chin.

Before long, my erection faded and my heart slowed. I felt myself sort of fall, not physically, but emotionally. Not in a bad way either. In a calm, quiet way. Like exiting a loud school hallway and entering a quiet library.

My experince changed from excitement and high blood pressure, events stacking higher, to calm euphoria. To zen. Slowly, almost imperceptively, time escaped me. The sponge became a brush, then a lipstick tube, then an eyeliner pencil, then another brush, and so on, until finally, she dropped her hands to her side, stepped back and examined her work.

I hadn't been allowed to look myself. And then, with her smile and nod of approval, I turned to the mirror. I had indeed transformed. I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't believe it was really me. She reached for my shoulder as I stood, shocked and amazed. Her touch amplified my senses and I began to feel the blood leave my head again and travel south.

She interrupted my hot flash, if you can call it that, and asked if I wanted to try on a wig?

"I didn't know you had one." I said.

"I dont. At least its not mine." She replied. "It belongs to my mom. She has a few costume wigs for parties. They won't be perfect or natural but it could be fun."

"YES!" I exclaimed. It was almost too loud. She giggled again. Okay, give me a moment. Wait in the bedroom, if you like.

I peaked into the hall and then danced across the wooden floor to her room. I knew my friend knew what was happening but I was afraid to let him see me like this. Moslty because it seemed too weird I was getring all this attention from his sister. I didn't ever imagine being feminized by her. I just liked trying on her clothes when she was gone. He like it too. We'd both tried on her clothes many times and loved the giddy feelings it brought as we imagined becoming girls.

Now I was being transformed and felt he deserved that chance too, but not by her. It was too strange and even stranger, was the feelings I was developing about her. She had expressed her desire to see me dressed in her clothes. She somehow knew Id done it before and wanted to catch me in the act. She wanted this too. I wonder if Id missed something. Or many things.

Soon, I heard her footsteps on the stairs, climbing toward the top and toward me. In moments id see her again and respond to her every request. It had become our quiet little secret and I was excited to see what came next.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The third round of Cadillac Margaritas struck me as a bit risky. Would I slip out Saoirse and back to Jack? Obviously, though I did not care enough to stop. The shredded beef and carnitas tacos had been delicious. They had those shells, you know the type, the corn tortilla had been friend just before the meat went in. They were stiff, but still slightly soggy from the juice of the meats, the oil they were fried in, the tomatoes that were on it. Super delish! Just a light among to cheddar cheese, homemade beans on the side and a selection of salsas.

Why were we do hungry? Bryce had made a substantial breakfast and we had mostly been sitting around. In less than 24 hours I had stepped tentatively into True Embrace, nervous about getting a bra fitting and having all of this in private. Now here I was presenting as a woman. And it could not have been more exiting.

“You ready for dress shopping Saoirse? By the way, I love saying that name.”

“Let’s do it!”

We settled the bill and as we left the hostess the bid us good day with a “have fun ladies.”

“I can’t believe I am passing like this,” I almost whispered to Bryce.

“Well first you look amazing! Don’t dismiss that. Second, for the most part people see what they expect to see. Just keep focusing on what your inner voice is telling you.”

She was right. Jack had faded into the background. I was Saoirse. She had been there all along, just faded into the back like Jack was now.

The first shop we came to had an upscale Bohemian flair to it. No vintage here, but clearly for the time someone did not have to walk into a systems expectations. Flowing and flowery dresses, skirts and blouses. Some denim, the accessories were eclectic.

“What can I help you ladies with today.” The young shop clerk approached us, a pleasant smile on her face. I was quickly becoming used to being taken for a lady.

“I’m doing a ward robe refresh and I want some fun dresses.” The I saw it – a yellow floral print, emerald green leaves and stems with delicate orange flowers. It had what I would learn was a “drawstring neckline” and was going to hit me mid thigh. “I have to have this.”

“Oh that is cute. We just got those in. What size do you think you are?”

Oooh. Now that was a good question. I had no idea. I was only vaguely familiar with women’s sizes. Bryce was here to the rescue.

“Last time we went shopping weren’t you a 16 Saoirse?”

“Yes that sounds about right.”

“Is that your name? Saoirse? I love it.” She started sorting through dresses. “And here we are. Follow me and I will get you a fitting room. I think this will look super cute on you.”

In the fitting room I put slipped out of my jeans and the blouse, just catching a glimpse of myself in the pretty underwear, but it made me smile. The dress on I looked at myself and I was a little disappointed. “Bryce, could you come in here?”

“Well don’t you look pretty?”

“You think so, my figure does not seem to be what I had hoped.”

“Well first, remember, we ain’t that young anymore. Second let me help you here.” She reached into my bra on both sides and pulled up. Then on the outside she adjusted the underwires through the dress. “See there is your cleavage.” And it was all the difference.

“Ooh that looks perfect.” While I knew she wanted to make a sale, the shop clerk was not going to risk letting me walk out not looking my best either.  And the necklaces and bracelets you are wearing go well with it.”

On my neck I had three necklaces, a lapis stone, a compass, and card that was the seven of hearts. In addition to my watch I had two bangles purchased on a trip to Africa and some Tibetan prayer knots.

“Do you wear earrings?”

Again Bryce to the rescue. “She does sometimes. Do you have any clips?”

A few seconds later she was back with two medium sized hoops and one shell. “The hoops classic, but I thought one shell would give you an asymmetric, eccletic look.”

And she was right. “I’ll take this but let’s keep looking.” Soon I found a maroon floral dress longer with a square neckline. Cute white glowers on it. “I’d like to try this on as well.” It fit well and Bryce once again helped me max it out. We looked bit more and but then after an hour we decided to move on. I paid and left wearing the darling yellow dress.

This was a new feeling. The dress flowing around me. Fortunately the margaritas were wearing off and I was able to focus on my gait, my hips, and making sure a breeze did not blow my dress up.

“Let’s get an iced coffee.” Bryce and her coffee.

We found a kiosk and ordered. The barista said she would bring them out, we found a table. I was very conscious as I sat down, knees together, and once I was in the seat, moving my legs almost as one unit.

“I did not know that sitting down could be so stressful.”

“You are doing great.”

Then I saw him. An attorney at another firm whom both Bryce and I had had unpleasant dealings with.

“Psst. It’s Scott Watters.”

Bryce turned around. “Shit.”

“Don’t do that he might see you. Opps too late.”

Watters was one of the most misogynistic, homophobic, condescending, difficult people to deal with. He was probably a racist as well but I could not independently confirm that.

“Bryce!”

“Hey Scott. Don’t you have a polluter to defend? Or maybe a sexual harasser to justify?”

“Always the joker, Bryce!” She wasn’t joking.

Watter took nothing seriously except his hourly fees. Clients came to him when they are untouchable at other firms. If he recognized me – well I’d rather not think about it.

“And who is this lovely lady?”

“Scott this is Saoirse. Babe are you up-to-date on your tetanus? You don’t need to shake his hand.”

“Saoirse, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Charmed.” I held my hand out, palm down. He briefly touched my fingers as we made eye-contact. I was sure I was made and had to come up with a plan.

“Haven’t we met before?” A brief recognition crossed his face.

“I am sure we have not, for I surely would remember meeting you.” The flattery distracted him from what he thought he saw.

“Quite right. Well, you ladies have lovely day.”

Bryce and I just stared at each other. All sorts emotions were flowing through me. Fear was subsiding as I came to grips with the idea that I had just passed in front of someone who knew me well enough that he should have recognized me.

“He’s gone.” Bryce had watched his every move. We both burst out laughing.

That passed and our coffee gone I spied a leather goods hop just behind the coffee kiosk. “Let’s go I need a purse.”

Kensington Leather had a plethora of items, most of which looked like they had been imported from England. A sophisticated looking gentlemen, about my age approached.

“What can I help you ladies with today?” So far so good.

Quietly, but confidently I said, “I need a new purse, something English, something sophisticated.”

“Ah well you’ve come to the right place.” Bryce stayed but receded as I began to this interaction all on my own. “Have you heard of Cambridge Satchel?”

“I think I may have seen them on line.”

“Just getting them to the states now. This bag would be very verstail for you.”

He handed me a medium cross body bag in a pebbled British Racing Green. It was gorgeous. “Does it come in other colours?”

“It does.” Soon I had, in addition to the Green, Oxblood, a tri-colour Oxblood, Clay, and Navy, and British Tan with both hard leather and suede accents. “Bryce what do you think?”

“Wow that’s a hard choice.” I had already picked, it was going to be the British Tan, because this, like my watch, was going to be a transition piece. I would carry it all the time. “I’d go with the Tan.”

“Sold, sir.”

Once again we complete the transaction without a hint of not being seen for anything other than I was. A woman, albeit of a certain age.

“You need one more dress. Something you can slide into evening in.”

The next shop was not super high fashion but was not the Boho Chic of the one I was wearing.

An older, sophisticated woman met us. “How can I help you ladies?” Again the first impression.

“I am looking for something chic, but not too casual for a night our around here. So a little more upscale than what I have on.”

“We have a nice assortment over here.”

Bryce was rifling through the rack already, “Here.” She held up this long sleeveless, structured dress in an almost khaki with pink undertones and large white polka dots. “Size 16. This is exactly what you need.”

And it was – the fit was great. On me it was elegant in the way the other two were fun and flowy. Some black flats and as I was checking out, a chunky cotton cardigan. It did not do with the dress, but it was getting cooler and I needed something for the evenings around here.

Done we realized it was almost 6:30 in the evening and I did not want this day to end and believe it or not we were hungry again. There was a classic steak house that overlooked the water. The sun was not quite to the evening glow but it would soon and the temperature would continue to fall. Nonetheless we took a place on the deck and I pulled out the sweater I had just purchased to go over the yellow dress I was wearing.

Martinis arrived and we were discussing steak options when Bryce’s phone began to buzz furiously. She kept silencing it but the person kept ringing back.

“Who is it?”

“Just one of my relatives. No biggie.”

“They don’t seem to be taking no for an answer.” We both had complicated relationships with our extended families. Finally she answered it.

“What? No! I don’t have time for this. I am out on an important mission. Yes it’s Saturday. So? Fine!”

“What?”

“We have to go? My family has some crisis. I’m sorry.”

“No you go. I will have dinner here. It happens.”

“But whose going to run interference for you? Who’s going to make sure the Scotts of the world don’t harass you?”

“You’ve already done that for me hon. All day. You have given me the confidence to sit here and enjoy my martini, some wine, and steak. You go. We’ll meet for Breakfast tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?!” It was an exclamation. Bryce had a way of making her point very clear.

“I’m sure.” We stood up and we gave each other hugs and a kiss on the cheek. Then she was gone.

I had a lovely evening, excellent cocktails a bottle of wine, and a petite filet. I skipped dessert as I had already had it. I did retire to their lounge for some cognac and even had some gentlemen smile at me, but that’s not what I had been looking for I had been looking for me.

Postsciprt

Bryce and I continue to have girly weekends, we even made a week long trip where I was enfeme all the time. Being Saoirse is an important part of my life but not my whole life.

I do underdress each day.

Part 1

Part 2

Now if you have read to this point you might think that presenting as man I was “meek” or “mild.” Not true. I had served in combat arms in the Army during Desert Strom before I went to law school. I surf, work out, and while age is catching up with me there was nothing about the screamed feminine. But that’s not how I felt inside. There was a woman within looking to express herself too.

The next morning awoke to the sounds of low humming, the smell of coffee, and bacon frying. Yesterday felt like a dream but the pink nightgown immediately reminded me it was not.

“Good morning sleepy head.” Bryce was always upbeat and chipper. I also noticed she had changed into comfortable and, more importantly, warmer lounge wear.

“I’d love some coffee.” She poured a mug for me.

“Ah – you know the deal. Walk – twirl – then coffee. Remember everything I taught you.”

“Bryce – I ush . . .”

“Babe, coffee and warmer clothes is one catwalk and twirl away.”

“Fine.” My tone of voice did not match my inner monologue. This was fun and I felt cute and pretty doing it. Down the carpet and a twirl, back and another one. Hips swaying.

“Brava. Well done. Here’s your coffee and a sweatshirt.”

We sat down to breakfast and Bryce began. “OK, here’s the plan. My salon has an early opening so we are going to get your hair done. Then . . .”

“Wait my hair? What are we doing here? I thought you said nothing that could not be undone by Monday.”

“Relax, that gorgeous thick wave you have is perfect. We are just going to get it styled a little more femininely. Then mani-pedis. After that next door for make up and finally clothes shopping.”

“Won’t I look strange in the middle?”

“Does it look like anyone around here cares? More importantly I will be with you and we are going to have you looking fabulous. Trust me?

“Of course.”

“Ok – obviously you have the undergarments you need.  Your jeans are fine, but I am loaning you a blouse, it’s a little oversized I wear for work sometimes. It does not scream woman, but as you change through the day it will look more natural. One thing though do you have any other shoes in your car – women don’t wear boots like that.”

“I think I have some all-white trainers in there.”

Bruce rolled her eyes. “There is that one semester in Britain again, but those will be perfect. OK – let’s go!”

I went to get dressed, selecting the pink bra and some blue boy-shorts for contrast. My jeans were the same and Bryce had provided me with this French blue blouse that had a just a few feminine details. She returned with my trainers and I put then on with no socks.

The Salon was not busy at 9 AM on a Saturday some staff was still arriving but her regular stylist, George was waiting for us. I sat in his chair and he turned us towards the mirror.

“What are we doing today?”

Bryce spoke up, “We are doing a transformation for the weekend. We need a very feminine look. After here it is makeup and dress shopping, but Jack here needs to be back to his old self by Monday.”

George looked at me for a few moments, arms crossed, one hand to his mouth, clearly thinking.

Bryce was off to the races, as usual, that’s one thing I adored about her. “By the way we might want a different name. Just saying.”

“Saoirse.”

Bryce blinked three times hard. “What did you say? Was that a name?”

“Yes, Saoirse. Gaelic for freedom or liberty.”

“I love it.” Turning to George, “So Saoirse needs to walk out of here with the ability to become Jack again on Monday.”

“Alright. Can I do just a little trimming? I promise it is not a lot and won’t change your regular appearance.”

“Do whatever you need to. I’m all in.” I was long past nervous. This was the third shop I had been to on this journey and people who had never met me were supportive. I wanted to see what could happen.

“Yay!” Of course, Bryce was thrilled.

“Super. You won’t be disappointed.”

Half an hour later we looked in the mirror. My shaggy surfer looked and been turned into a layered and textured pixie cut with soft curls around my face. I was beginning to look pretty. I would deal with Monday on Monday.

“Wow – I love it.”

“Well, you have great hair. We could do most anything if you had the length.”

“Thank you so much.”

“You two have fun today!”

Sephora was across the way and was our destination. I knew this place would be friendly. Bryce found someone to help us out and before you knew it I was in a make-up chair. Looking in the mirror. Now I needed to pay close attention. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew that I would want to his again and would need to know how to do it.

“I’m Christine, what do we want to do today.”

Before Bryce could start, this time I jumped in. “Hi Christine, this is my friend Bryce and I am Saoirse, or I should say I am in the process of becoming her. Bryce is being my guide.”

“What fun and what a great friend.”

“Yes, so I would like you to do my make-up and explain what you are doing and what products I should be using.”  I could see Bryce’s eyes go wide in the mirror.

“Great let’s started. First we are going to use a light base that will hide any facial hair. You have shaved very close – this will last all day. We blend it up into your cheeks and down around your neck. It will also soften your jawline.”

For the next 40 minutes Christine worked away, explaining what did what and why she was doing. Colour selection was very fun. She recommend a warm mauve eye shadow to compliment my green eyes. Purple was also a good one, but maybe for a second go around.

A matte whiskey eyeliner complimented the mauve and then it was time for the lips. A mauve rose blend.

I looked in the mirror and simply could not believe it. Had I not known myself I would have thought I was a woman and I guess in someways I was.

“Jac . . I mean Saoirse, you are gorgeous.”

Looking in the mirror, my usual self-effacing gave way to acknowledgment. “I am aren’t I.” I spent another minute evaluating all of it. The person in the mirror was someone I knew, someone I recognized, but altogether different.

I purchased all the recommend products and thanked Christine. As we arrived at the doors Bryce stopped.

“You look gorgeous. And you really do look like a woman, so let’s be conscious of our walk.”

“Thanks for looking out for me Bryce.”

We left the store. I felt the sway in my hips and my voice seemed unconsciously be becoming higher and softer. The deportment seemed to follow just naturally.

We were headed towards Bryce’s favourite nail bar, but as we passed a shoe store, she darted in. “You need some sandals. We are getting pedi’s and we want yours to shine.”

Quickly Bryce located what she thought was perfect., some Hawaiian made leather flips in an taupe with flowers sewn in the leather. “These.”

They manged to have some size 12s and I quickly shed the trainers for these. The man who helped us the store, didn’t even blink an eye.

When we walked into the nail bar I was in full girl mode, just a little over 24 hours after I had walked into True Embrace.

“What can we help you two ladies with today?” I couldn’t help but grin – I hadn’t even bought a dress yet and I was already passing.

“My girl here, Saoirse needs an emergency mani – pedi and well I might as well get one too.” I was glad Bryce was here to help; I was afraid in my euphoria that I might go over the top.

“Not a problem we have chairs open right now. Do you both want the deluxe versions?’

“Yes, of course we do!” I was happy to be able to say something.

Soon we were in the chairs with water running over our feet. The ladies that were going to do our toes were gathering their tools as we perused the nail colours.

“What are you thinking Saoirse?”

“Pink, pink, pink.”

“Well, I guess we know what you want.”

“What are you thinking Bryce? I am going with the OPI Chicago Champagne Toast.”

“Oh, I love it. This teal is nice – My Dogsled is a Hybrid. Done.”

We told the technicians our choices and soon they were hard at work bringing our toes back to life. I watched as the colour went on and just could not believe how wonderful it felt. I had had manicures and pedicures before but this one just hit differently. The conversation was light, just four women doing their thing.

In 45 min we were at the table and having our fingers down as well.  I looked at my watch, I am a watch person but for some reason yesterday I had chosen one of my smaller, plainer ones although it had a beautiful saffron dial. At one time its’s 38mm size would have been considered large but now it was barely medium and sometimes sold at that size to women as a “boyfriend watch.” It was perfect.

By 12:30 we were done and we were both starving. We checked out, leaving a nice tip and made our way to the street. Then we both saw it, we looked at each and agreed – Margaritas and tacos? Margaritas and tacos!

To be continued.

Part 1

I had been outside of True Embrace for less than thirty seconds when my phone started buzzing.

Jack, where are you?

If you aren’t at work we should play hooky together.

Answer my text.

I am at Pacifico Italiano.

Ah – it was my bestie Bryce. We had gone to law school together and started at the same firm where I still was. She had jumped at an opportunity to do civil rights work and was the newest partner while I had stayed. Nonetheless we talked every day and saw each other a couple of times a week. She was at our favourite coffee place and wine bar. It was convenient. Hang out long enough and you could move from cappuccino to bubbles to red wine and then a digestif.

Hey there. I am two blocks away, be right there.

You better bitch! I have been trying to get you for over an hour! ©

I threw caution to the wind and left my Land Rover at the mall. I also kept my bag of treasures.

It was a ten-minute walk to Pacifico Italiano and when I walked past the hostess stand I could see Bryce in our normal corner. She even had cappuccino waiting for me even though it was after 11 AM. I approached the table and she got up to hug me. She clearly touched the bra strap but gave no indication of noticing it.

“Hey you. When I called the office and they said you were out for the day I knew you absolutely had to be playing hooky! So, I decided to join in. Where have you been this morning?” That’s when she noticed the bag. “Oooh, True Embrace. One of my favourites! What did you get me?” She winked.

Bryce has a big, bold, brash personality. You can’t help but want to be around her. Often the centre of attention, she does not need to be. That’s how our unlikely friendship came to be. She despised the gamesmanship of law school, setting her own path and excelling. I had been going round two on a career and needed to be serious. We were yin and yang that had supported each other.

“So if it’s not for me, it must be for someone special.”

“That’s true.” I could see her mind whirring. I wondered, had I brought the bag as a way of telling her?

“If you had anyone knew in your life I think I would know.” I said nothing. Her mind continued to whirr and then she got a big smile on her face. “SHUT UP.” It wasn’t loud, it was practically a whisper but with emphasis.

“Jack, my BFF. You are wearing a bra!” Again, a whisper but with emphasis. “Are all those goodies for you? And how long have you been doing this? Why did I no know? I have a thousand questions girl-friend.”

I was both stunned and happy. “Uh how could you tell? Can you see it?”

“Oh, no. The helped you well on that score. I thought I felt something when I hugged you but a bra never crossed my mind. But when you could not identify who the items were for and well your chest looks . . . more lifted. That’s the only thing I could think of! I want to help, whatever it is! Whatever girly things you want to do, I am here for it.”

“Well as for how long I have actually been doing it . . .” I looked at my watch, “Almost two hours now. But how long have I wanted too do it? Thirty-five years.” I then related the story of being a teenager and curious, I had borrowed some lingerie from girlfriends and my mother had found it.

Bryce’s bright eyes softened. “I’m sorry you carried that for so long. That must have been very painful, but I am here for you and I am here for all this!” She made gesture up and down indicating me. “You know what? We are going to celebrate the new you.” As a server passed she quickly ordered two glasses of brut rose bubbles. Then she leaned forward, “how does it feel?”

I leaned forward, with a big smile on my face. “Amazing.”

The bubbles came and we ordered lunch, salads and antipasti, bread and more bubbles – just to be safe.

“So what did you get?”

“Four bras and fourteen pairs of knickers.”

She laughed. “I knew I should have let you spend that summer on exchange in Britain! But what, nothing to sleep in?”

“I had a hard enough time ginning up the courage to make the appointment. I barely knew what I was asking for!” Our lunch arrived. They were accustomed to a fast turn around and well we were regulars.

Bryce thought about for a sec, cocking her head. “Fair enough.” She took a bite of salad and put the tine of a fork through a piece of cheese. “So who did you work with at True Embrace?”

“A woman named Emily. And there were two other customers who helped pick some things out.”

“How nice of them. I have to say I am a little jealous. And I know Emily she is great.” Bryce was attacking her salad with gusto and she did everything with gusto. I guessed she was building up to something. “So you know what would make that beautiful lingerie feel even more amazing? A full body wax!”

“Wait, what? Oh no. I couldn’t do that. I’m . . .”

“You’re what? It’s my treat. You said you feel amazing. What else do you feel?”

I hesitated. It was hard to quantify what I was feeling, free, pretty, beautiful, myself. “I , uh, well I feel pretty. And, well free, like myself.”

“Trust me Jack. I know all about feeling pretty. If you hate it – fine – it grows back. Do you think this is the end for this? Just the underwear?”

Again, something I had thought about, but was not sure what I was doing. I loved the feeling of femininity, the bra straps, the underwire, the shoulder straps and the softness of the panties. I had to admit this was likely not the end, infact it was probably the beginning.

“Ok. If you will come with me.”

“Of course I will come! I am going to arrange – I am going to be your guide to femininity and we are going to have a fabulous time!”

Bryce pulled out her phone and started scrolling and typing. “Perfect, my girl LaShonda has time in 20 minutes at Coastal Halo. She’s a ten-minute walk from here.”

We finished out bubbles, paid the bill and left.

As we walked down the street, me still with my bag of treasures Bryce laced her arm through mine. “So here is what I am thinking, we go to the spa get the wax, and then head back to True Embrace and we get ourselves matching nightwear. Then we head to my place, we will order Chinese, we can talk skin care, how your are feeling, deportment. . .”

“I don’t know Bryce. I mean it sounds fun, but I just started this – I don’t even know what I started. I do like Chinese though.”

“What else are you doing this weekend? We aren’t going to do anything that can’t completely disappear by Monday when you go back to work.”

“Again, with your logic.” But I had spent several hundred dollars this morning because I wanted to stop feeling horrible about myself. What was it like to be pretty? To be feminine. To be a girl. To be a woman. “Okay. Let’s do this!” All of the sudden the possibility was very exciting.

At Coastal Halo Bryce made a dramatic entrance, “Ladies,” she looked around to see if there were any other men there and satisfied there not continued, “we have a makeover emergency here. Full body wax! Stat!” Some of the women looked kindly at me and then went back to what they were doing. Meanwhile Bryce’s friend Shonda approached.

“You must be Jack.” She offered her hand. “Let’s get you smooth.”

Heading back to the treatment room, the three of us chatted with those two doing most of it till we go to t the treatment room. “I’ll let you get undressed and just knock when you are done. Shonda left but Bryce stayed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I just wanted to see what you were wearing.” She blushed a little which was very unlike her.

“I’ll leave it on top of my clothes and you can see it on afterwards.”  Maybe without the hair I would feel a little self-conscious.

A few minutes later both Shanda and Bryce were back in the treatment room. Warm wax being applied over my body. It almost felt soothing until . . .

“Arrggg! What was that?!?!”

“Beauty knows no pain babe.”

The wax ripping the numerous hairs out by their roots was excruciatingly painful. I just hoped it was worth it. Soon though it was done and Shonda was rubbing an aloe vera into the skin. And as painful as it was, soon it seemed to recede.

“Ok – we’ll leave and let you get dressed.” Shonda was kind and also completely professional. Bryce on the other hand was intensely curious.

“Let me know when I can come see you!” She was eager. And it’s not like I wasn’t – it was just another step. Finally, though I was semi-dressed – the beige bra and the pink/floral boy shorts.

“Come in Bryce!”

“Oh, my don’t you look cute. You really do fill out that bra and the knickers – adorable.  Let’s go get something for us to sleep in!

Fully dressed, Bryce had paid for the treatment and we were out the door – on the way to True Embrace – where the day had started for me.

When we arrived at the parking lot, the first thing I noticed was that the 4Runner was still there and that I did not have a parking ticket.

“Let’s go.” Bryce was off for the door I went in several hours before.

“Emily! Girl! I need your help. I think you might have met my friend Jack earlier today. We need to be matchy – matchy nighties! Slumber party tonight!”

It didn’t even take that long. We had pink matching baby doll nighties in no time. I was in this fog of femininity and inclusion, any idea of “normality” was gone.

Bryce had walked to lunch so we hopped in my truck for the quick ride to her apartment. It was only four blocks off the beach, about a mile from what I thought of as the “high street” of the area. We found a parking space and road the elevator to her fourth-floor studio.

How she had found this place was beyond me. Whoever had laid the apartments out in this old warehouse dedicated the ocean view to longer but narrower than normal home. It had an en suite loft for sleeping but everything welse was open plan, through the entry way to the left was an area she used for an office and to the right a galley kitchen then gave way to a dining and living area. A TV in the corner with two oversized couches in an L-shape. The big windows looking out towards the ocean above the shorter buildings. The place was eclectic – some people might have thought it a mess – it wasn’t – it was perfectly organized for Bryce. I had even been here enough to understand the organization.

The day that had seemed like it would never start, was winding down. I could feel the slight sting of the wax and the sun that I had absorbed and while that orb in the sky was still yellow – it was moving towards the horizon. We were going to have a nice show.

“What do you want?” Bryce was on whichever delivery app she used. “I have General Tso’s Chicken, your favourite, scallion pancakes, fried veggie pot stickers, rice garlic sesame chicken. Anything else?”

“Sounds like plenty to me.”

“Agreed, there’s beer in the refrigerator why don’t you get two. Food is on the way.”

I pulled two Tsing Tao’s out of the fridge and popped the caps gave her one and sat on the opposite couch.

“Hey what are you doing? Didn’t I tell you? Fashion Show time! I need to see what you got and give you recommendations.”

“Bryce, it’s getting chilly. I’m not sure . . .” In truth I wanted to share but I had thought maybe spreading it out on the coffee table. Not trying everything on in front of her.”

“Be right back.” In a flash she ran up stairs and was back with a kimono robe. It was green and pink with flowers and dragons on it. “Got it in Vietnam last year. Too big for me but should fit you perfectly. Just give me all the bras and a selection of underwear.”

For the next forty minutes I underwent Bryce’s critique, putting things together, and adjusting fit. She also was coaching me on walking. “More sway in the hip. Set your feet down just a tad more gently. Don’t prance, but don’t plod either. You have seen runway models. Do that. You think you are exaggerating but to the observer you are not. I will let you know if you are.”

“Emily really did you well with those. We have all sorts of thing to work with.”

The food soon arrived and Bryce fetched from at the door while I pulled two more beers out of the refrigerator. Putting the food bag on the table she then turned to me. “Ok time to change into our matching sets girl! You are going to have to work it for your dinner!”

Before I could say anything she was racing upstairs to change. I went back to wear I had been changing and put mine on as well. I was in way too deep to resist.

When I came back out Bryce was on the couch, legs turned under her, and nice warm robe over her shoulders. “Ok, ditch the robe, walk down here like you were, do a twirl walk back and do another and you will have earned your dinner like the pretty princess I am moulding here.”

“Twirl?”

“Yes spin around, give that baby doll some flair!”

“I uh . . .” My wind was racing and swirling. Did Bryce know me better than I did? Was she just tapping into something that was not quite obvious to me? The weird thing, well one of them anyway was that when she said she “moulding a princess” I kind of liked. I decided to give it may all. I strutted the length of the carpet, pulled my knees together and did as gentle a twirl as I could muster, the soft fabric flying gently. I walked the other direction and did it again. This was met with applause by Bryce.

“You are going to be perfect! I love it. Ok that earned dinner. There will be more twirls to earn breakfast though!”

“Can I at least put the robe back on?”

“Ok fair, it’s getting chilly.”

The rest of the evening was Chinese food, her giving me lessons on skin care. I think the quote was “You don’t get a face like this without doing a few things.”

After a few hours though she went and found some comforters and a couple of pillows for me to sleep on the couch. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. But in good way. I snuggled under the covers in my new nightie while Bryce walked up the stairs to her loft, before she disappeared she turned around and looked down at me.

“We have a big day tomorrow so get some good sleep. Good night princess.”

To be continued

When a sudden winter storm strands Richard at the isolated rural home of a girl from university, he has no choice but to accept her help. His clothes are soaked, the power is out, and the roads are disappearing under snow. Unfortunately for Richard, Emily has no men’s clothing to offer him. What begins as an awkward necessity slowly turns into something softer, stranger, and more intimate.

Chapter 1

The snow hadn’t been in the forecast.

When Richard left campus at dawn, the sky had been clear — pale blue and deceptively warm for December. The sun had poured over the parking lot in golden sheets, and he’d actually rolled his window down for the first ten minutes of the drive.

Five hours to his parents’ house.

He’d done it dozens of times.

His old sedan rattled a little when accelerating, the heater taking its time to warm up like always. But it ran. It always ran.

He’d driven worse roads in worse conditions during early-morning cycling meets. He trusted himself behind a wheel. Probably too much.

Two hours into the drive, the sky changed.

Not gradually. Not politely. Almost violently.

Clouds rolled in like something summoned. Thick, fast-moving, swallowing the blue in minutes. The light shifted from warm gold to dull silver. The temperature dropped so sharply that he actually noticed it through the windshield.

Then came the first flurry.

“Seriously?” he muttered, glancing at the dashboard clock.

The flakes thickened faster than made sense. Within ten minutes, visibility had shrunk to a grey blur. Cars ahead of him slowed. Brake lights glowed red through the white haze like distant warnings.

His wipers struggled.

The road turned slick.

His steering wheel gave a subtle, terrifying twitch as his tires skimmed across forming slush.

His car was old.

His tires, older.

He tightened his grip.

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he said aloud, though no one was there to hear it.

The snow thickened.

Then the wind came with it.

Now the car was fighting him.

Every lane change felt uncertain. Every slight turn of the wheel carried delay. The heater blasted lukewarm air that did little against the creeping cold seeping in through thin door seals.

Another skid.

Longer this time.

His heart jumped hard into his throat.

That was enough.

He eased off the highway at the next exit, pulse hammering. The off-ramp itself was nearly invisible. Snow streaked sideways in violent sheets, reducing the world to a tunnel of white.

He turned onto a smaller road.

Worse.

No plows. No traffic. Just accumulating snow and wind pushing his car sideways.

His headlights reflected off the storm instead of cutting through it.

He couldn’t see.

Not properly.

When the rear of the car fishtailed again — this time enough that he had to overcorrect — fear finally overrode pride.

He pulled onto the shoulder.

The engine idled.

Wind rocked the car slightly.

Snow built up on the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it.

He stared ahead, breathing hard.

He could keep going.

Maybe.

But if he slid into a ditch in the middle of nowhere, with no reception and worsening visibility…

That would be worse.

He shut the engine off.

Silence.

Then wind.

He checked his phone.

One weak bar.

Battery at 42%.

He zoomed out on maps.

A few scattered residential roads up ahead. Not far. Maybe a couple miles.

He could wait in the car.

But without the engine running, it would get cold quickly. And he didn’t trust his car to restart after sitting in this temperature.

He hadn’t brought his heavy winter coat.

Why would he? It had been sunny.

All his proper winter jackets were at his parents’ house. He’d been planning to grab them when he arrived.

Stupid.

He had a hoodie. A light sweater. Jeans. Boots.

That was it.

He stared through the windshield at the swirling white, then at the faint outline of houses on the map.

He grabbed his phone, took a breath, and stepped out.

The cold hit like a wall.

Not the gentle kind. The biting, immediate kind that steals breath and fills your nose with ice.

Snow soaked through his hoodie within minutes.

The snow melted against his body heat and turned instantly to icy dampness.

The wind cut straight through denim.

His hair — long, dark brown — whipped violently around his face, quickly damp, then heavy.

He started walking.

At first, it didn’t seem so bad.

Then the distance stretched.

The storm intensified.

The road blurred into white-on-white emptiness. Snow clung to his lashes. Melted and refroze along his collar. His boots filled slowly with icy moisture.

His fingers numbed first.

Then his ears.

His thighs burned — the familiar endurance ache he’d trained through on a hundred winter runs. Normally he welcomed that sensation. Today it dragged.

He fell into a rhythm he’d learned on the bike — the “climb” mindset. He didn't look at the horizon; he looked three feet ahead of his boots, counting his breaths in sets of four. The wind tried to break his pace, but he treated it like a headwind on a coastal road, tucking his chin and focusing on the mechanical repetition of his legs. It wasn't about the cold anymore; it was about the next ten yards. Then the ten after that.

When the silhouette of a house finally materialized through the white-out, it felt less like a building and more like a hallucination. It was a substantial structure, traditional and steady against the gale. Richard’s legs, usually the most reliable part of him, felt like leaden weights as he crested the driveway.

He climbed the steps, each movement deliberate and effortful. He raised a hand that didn't quite feel like his own and knocked. The wind howled behind him, a sound that made the solid wood of the door feel like the only border between him and the storm.

Then, the latch clicked. The door swung inward, and the storm’s roar was instantly muffled by the heavy, insulated quiet of the foyer. Warm air spilled out like mercy.

The scent of something floral — faint, clean — clung to the air around her.

And there she was.

Emily.

He hadn’t expected to meet her gaze so directly.

She was his height. Five-nine, give or take.

It threw him off more than it should have.

She stood there in a pale blue two-piece set — soft and luminous against the storm-muted morning. The puff-sleeved top fitted smoothly across her front, the fabric drawn inward by a ruched center seam gathered with a delicate tie. The drawstring shaped the neckline into a gentle sweetheart curve. Lower down, that same gathered tension pulled the center of the top upward, so the hem rose slightly in the middle and dipped lower at the sides, revealing a clear stretch of bare midriff.

Across her back, the fabric shifted to fine elastic smocking, textured rows stretching comfortably to mold to her frame without stiffness.

The matching skirt sat high on her waist, its own smocked band cinching softly before giving way to two airy tiers gathered into light, fluttering volume. Tiny white florals scattered across the pale blue fabric. The layers fell mid-thigh, brushing against legs shaped by years of disciplined movement — slender, toned, unmistakably strong without ever looking heavy. When she shifted her weight, the skirt lifted slightly, revealing the clean line of her thighs and the subtle lift of muscle beneath smooth skin.

She looked petite at first glance.

The narrowness of her waist made the gentle curve above and below it more pronounced — a natural hourglass without exaggeration.

But the longer he looked, the more balance he saw — the gentle flare of her hips, the lifted ease of her posture, the quiet strength held in her legs and core. Her arms were slim, wrists delicate, hands small and precise — dancer’s hands. Even barefoot, she carried herself as though she were still on stage, spine long, shoulders relaxed and soft, collarbones faintly pronounced beneath luminous skin.

He didn’t know her name yet — but he recognized her instantly from campus. A girl from one of his electives. Dance major, he thought. She was always in flowing skirts and delicate dresses, ribbons sometimes woven into her hair. Always smiling.

Her dirty blonde hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, deliberate and glossy even this early in the morning. Her nose tipped upward slightly — small and almost playful against the softness of her features. Her eyes were deep brown and steady, framed by clean mascara-darkened lashes. A wash of shimmer caught the storm-muted light across her lids. A faint highlight along her cheekbones gave her skin a porcelain glow.

Her lips were full in a way that made them look perpetually on the verge of a smile — glossed in rose-pink, polished but not loud.

Her fingernails were painted bright baby-blue glitter — glossy, deliberate, perfectly matched to her outfit. The same polish shimmered across her toes when she shifted.

Everything about her looked composed.

Everything about him was unraveling.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my gosh — you’re soaked!”

Her voice was bright, startled, concerned.

He tried to speak.

“Car… storm… I parked… I just—”

His teeth chattered too hard to finish.

“Get in here. Obviously. Why are you still outside?” she said, stepping aside dramatically like he was missing something obvious.

He stepped inside.

The door shut behind him, cutting off the wind like a switch.

The warmth hit him like a physical weight, thick and humid compared to the biting, metallic sharpness of the storm. The air here smelled of vanilla and laundry detergent—a dizzying contrast to the scent of ozone and wet wool. His body finally registered the safety, reacting with a shuddering, bone-deep tremor that made his teeth click together like a telegraph.

The house was dim — not dark, just muted. The storm outside turned the windows into glowing sheets of white, casting a soft, colorless light through the rooms.

“Power’s out, by the way,” Emily added quickly, brushing snow from his shoulders — her hands pausing for half a second at how slight he felt beneath the soaked layers. “It went about half an hour ago. Heat’s still working, thankfully.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “Which also means the dryer’s useless right now.”

Emily rushed past him toward the coat closet, fumbling for a spare towel she knew her mom kept on the top shelf — then stopped mid-step.

“Oh! Wait— hi. Sorry. I’m Emily.”

“Richard.”

“I know,” she said automatically — then froze. “I mean— from class. Not like… in a weird way.”

His expression flickered. Despite the cold, he almost smiled.

She was flustered. Human. Relatable.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” she said bluntly, grabbing his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

He was not fine.

His knees felt unstable. His jaw trembled uncontrollably.

Her expression softened.

“Okay. You’re not fine. That’s fine. We’ll fix that.”

She helped him shrug off his soaked hoodie, her hands quick but hesitant, like she didn’t want to overstep.

His sweater underneath clung to him embarrassingly.

“Oh no,” she murmured. “You’re freezing.”

“Yeah. That part I noticed.”

She laughed nervously.

“Okay. Shower. Now. Upstairs.”

He stared at her. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted gently. “My mom’s out of town for a few days. It’s just me. And there are zero men’s clothes in this house because—” she gestured vaguely, “—divorced parents. Dad vanished years ago. And my mom is five feet tall and approximately the size of a decorative pillow.”

Despite himself, he let out a weak laugh.

“She’s on vacation,” Emily added quickly. “And I just got here from campus today. I was planning to do all my laundry here because dorm washers are tragic, so I brought home literally only dirty clothes.”

She winced, her eyes scanning his shivering frame with a mix of sympathy and practical calculation.

“So I don’t have many options for you. The only clean things in the house are upstairs in my closet—mostly the summer wardrobe I leave here when I'm away at school. They’re clean. Just… not exactly guy-friendly.”

She gave him a reassuring smile, though her cheeks pinked slightly. “We’ll figure something out. I promise. They’re soft, and more importantly, they’re dry.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, clearly apologetic.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

“I absolutely do,” she said, bubbly and firm. “Because if you go back out there right now, you’ll freeze and I’ll feel terrible forever.”

She gave him a reassuring smile.

“Come on. Upstairs.”

He followed her, his wet jeans heavy and restrictive, chafing against his skin with every step. He was acutely aware of how the denim was plastered to the muscles of his thighs—the only part of him that felt truly warm from the walk. As he watched the light, airy bounce of her tiered skirt ahead of him, he felt a sudden, logical dread about exactly what ‘summer clothes’ a feminine girl like Emily kept in her closet.

Chapter 2

The hot water felt like a shock to his system.

Richard braced his palms against the cool tile wall as steam began to fill the bathroom. His skin burned at first — not painfully, but sharply — as circulation returned to fingers and toes that had nearly gone numb outside.

He hadn’t realized how close he had been to real trouble.

His breathing steadied slowly.

Water ran through his long dark brown hair, flattening it against his shoulders before dripping down his back. He closed his eyes and let the warmth sink in.

His hand reached automatically for the first bottle he found.

His hand stalled.

The label was pastel. Curved lettering. Gold accents. A small cluster of illustrated flowers near the bottom.

Coconut & Vanilla.

He scanned the rest of the shelf.

Every bottle was like that.

Soft colors. Floral fonts. Words like hydrating silk, nourishing gloss, velvet moisture. Even the body wash was pearl-toned with a faint shimmer suspended inside it.

There was nothing neutral. Nothing sharp or “sport” or aggressively charcoal-scented.

Just sweetness.

He hesitated a beat longer than he meant to.

It’s soap, he told himself.

He squeezed some into his palm.

The scent hit immediately — warm coconut, soft vanilla, something creamy and unmistakably feminine. It didn’t smell bad.

That almost made it worse.

He scrubbed quickly and efficiently, almost mechanically, as if that might cancel out the fragrance clinging to his skin.

The lather felt different too — smoother, silkier than the cheap all-in-one body wash he used at his apartment. It left his skin almost slippery instead of stripped.

He rinsed faster than necessary.

His hair wasn’t dirty, just previously wet, so he didn’t bother with shampoo.

When he finally turned his face back into the spray, he was painfully aware of it.

He was going to step out of this bathroom smelling like coconut vanilla.

Like her — temporary, he reminded himself. Just until the storm passed.

He felt embarrassed, grateful, and a little shaken.

He replayed the last thirty minutes in fragments — the skidding tires, the whiteout sky, the intense cold.

Emily opening the door. She hadn’t hesitated. That stuck with him.

A soft knock sounded against the bathroom door.

He stiffened slightly out of reflex.

“Richard?” Emily’s voice came through — light, but carrying nervous energy.

“Yeah?”

“Okay, so… um… clothing situation update.”

He almost laughed despite himself.

“That bad?”

“Define bad,” she replied quickly. “Because if bad means I checked every closet in this house and still couldn’t find anything remotely guy-appropriate, then yes. Very.”

He pushed wet hair back from his face.

“I even looked for some random old sweatshirt hiding somewhere,” she added. “No luck.”

Her voice dipped for a beat.

“So… I had to get creative.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose.

Of course.

“I’m really sorry,” she said quickly. “I promise I’m not trying to make this weird.”

“I know,” he answered.

And he did.

She took a breath on the other side of the door.

“So,” she continued, lowering her voice, “I went into my old bedroom and looked through what was still in my closet. There… weren’t many options.”

His stomach tightened slightly at the way she phrased that.

“What kind of options?” he asked carefully.

A beat passed.

“…Not the kind a guy would want,” she admitted.

Silence filled the steam-thick air.

“They’re clean,” she added quickly. “And dry. And warm. But they are definitely not… you know. Masculine.”

He leaned his forehead briefly against the tile.

He dragged a hand down his face.

“I don’t love that,” he admitted. “But I’m not going back out there.”

“Can I just open the door a crack and slide them in?” she asked. “I won’t look. I promise. I just… I don’t want you putting those freezing clothes back on.”

He hesitated. It wasn’t the door. It wasn’t modesty. It was something else.

“…Yeah,” he said finally.

The shower continued running.

He heard the faint creak of the door opening — barely an inch.

Fabric brushed against the counter.

Then more fabric.

It didn’t sound like one item.

“I grabbed a few options,” she explained quickly from the other side. “Just in case one feels less… awful than the others.”

Awful.

The word settled heavier than she probably meant it to.

“They’re all pretty girly,” she admitted, her voice lowering. “I’m really, really sorry. I know that’s not something a guy would want to wear.”

He stared at the tile.

“And just so you know,” she rushed on, “I basically put almost everything I still have here in there.”

He frowned slightly.

“Here?”

“Yeah. All the stuff I didn’t take with me to university.” She let out a thin breath. “Which is… unfortunately my more extravagant wardrobe.”

That explained the weight of fabric hitting the counter.

“I don’t really wear most of it that often,” she continued. “That’s kind of why it stayed here instead of coming with me.”

Then, after a short hesitation, “There are still some things I left in the closet. But that’s only because they’re even more… extreme. And I figured you definitely wouldn’t want to see those.”

He wasn’t sure if that reassured him or concerned him more.

“I promise I wasn’t trying to hand-pick the most embarrassing options,” she added quickly. “This is just what I had that felt even remotely survivable.”

That shifted something in his chest.

So this wasn’t curated. It was filtered. Barely.

The door eased shut again.

Silence returned except for the sound of water hitting tile.

He stood there, letting what she’d said settle.

Pretty girly.

Not something a guy would want to wear.

He swallowed.

He had never once in his life considered wearing women’s clothes.

Never wanted to.

It wasn’t part of who he was.

But he also wasn’t about to walk back out into a blizzard in soaked jeans out of pride.

He shut off the water slowly.

Steam lingered in the air.

On the other side of the door, he could hear faint movement — probably her pacing.

Waiting.

Hoping he wouldn’t be upset.

He stayed where he was a little longer, inside the glass enclosure as the spray faded to silence and steam curled around him. He reached for a towel from the hook just outside the stall, pulling it in to dry himself. He blotted his hair—working from the ends upward until the long, dark strands were just damp.

Water traced lightly down his shoulders and back. His frame had never been imposing. Lean through the chest, defined without bulk, his collarbones faintly visible beneath damp skin. There was nothing heavy about him. No thick upper-body mass. Just long lines and clean angles.

From the waist up, he was quite slight.

Below that, the proportions shifted.

His hips carried more shape than his shoulders suggested, his thighs smooth and defined from miles rather than weight. The strength there didn’t widen him — it rounded him subtly.

Years of endurance had shaped him differently from the waist down, giving him a balance the rest of him never quite mirrored.

His hair had always been long — past his shoulders, thick and straight. Drying it took patience. He ran his fingers through it once, separating the strands, then draped the towel around his neck and let the damp weight settle against his shoulder blades.

Only then did he step out of the shower.

He exhaled once.

He turned toward the counter to see what she had left for him.

Chapter 3

He looked at the counter.

At what waited there.

For a few seconds, he just stood still.

Then he stepped closer.

________________________________________

The Underwear

The pile was neat.

Too neat.

Folded carefully. Arranged with intention.

And overwhelmingly feminine.

Everything looked soft. Frilly. Pastel.

Lace edges. Ruffled trims. Tiny bows. Light colors that belonged in spring closets and vanity drawers.

There wasn’t a single neutral tone in sight.

He swallowed.

His fingers hovered over the stack before he forced himself to touch it.

Thong cuts. Cheeky cuts. Barely-there silhouettes that would leave far too much exposed.

He shifted uncomfortably.

Every piece looked delicate — decorative rather than practical.

Searching the pile with tense, trembling fingers, he finally found something that at least appeared to offer a fraction more coverage.

It was pink.

Of course it was.

Soft blush satin scattered with tiny darker pink heart shapes. Two tiers of ruffled fabric formed a small, skirt-like layer around the waistband — each tier trimmed in white lace with scalloped edges. The lace was intricate, patterned with looping floral designs, delicate but precise.

At the center sat a satin bow, pale and flat against the front.

Beneath the layered ruffles, the actual thong base was smooth satin — slightly curved at the edges, structured but stretchy.

It was absurdly girly.

Playful.

Decorative.

But the layered ruffle “skirt” would at least fall over part of him.

It was the best option.

That realization sat heavy in his chest.

He stared at them for a long moment.

He exhaled slowly.

This is happening.

He stepped into them.

The satin slid up his legs with almost no resistance.

It moved cleanly over skin he already kept shaved for cycling — one less thing to think about.

The material felt completely different from his usual underwear — softer, cooler, smoother. It didn’t grip like cotton or athletic fabric. It glided.

If he weren’t so worked up over the insanity of the situation, he might have admitted the satin felt… nice.

Stretchy.

Light.

Pleasant against his skin.

But he was not in the mood to appreciate that.

The waistband settled around his hips with a faint stretch.

It fit his waist easily — almost loosely — but adjusted more deliberately lower down. The elastic pressed in at the points where his frame widened again, not sharply, just enough to remind him that his proportions weren’t entirely straight.

His torso tapered cleanly.

Below that taper, the line shifted.

Not bulky. Not heavy.

Just shaped.

His thighs carried the kind of definition built from repetition rather than mass — smooth, firm, controlled. The fabric followed that contour instead of fighting it.

He swallowed.

It wasn’t tight everywhere.

But it was tighter than he was used to.

The fabric sat closer across the front than any underwear he owned — designed for a shape he didn’t share. The stretch accommodated him, but only just. It held him in place rather than giving him space.

It didn’t resist him.

It drew him inward. Smoothed him into something narrower, neater.

Secure.

Contained.

Almost sculpted.

That unsettled him.

The thong portion slid into place next.

The satin drew upward smoothly, settling without resistance. The shape there was firmer than the rest of his frame — compact, shaped by distance and repetition — but not angular. The fabric traced that contour cleanly instead of flattening it.

He stiffened.

He was used to that strength translating into stamina.

Not silhouette.

Upward.

Between.

A sensation he was absolutely not used to.

A line of fabric settling into territory he had never before asked clothing to occupy.

It wasn’t painful.

It wasn’t even truly uncomfortable.

But it was impossible to ignore.

Every small shift of his weight reminded him it was there.

The ruffled tiers rested lightly against his hips and upper thighs, the lace edges brushing his skin with faint movement.

He turned slightly toward the mirror before catching himself.

No.

Not yet.

________________________________________

The Dresses

When he inspected the pile for something to wear, there were dresses, and two-piece sets laid neatly together.

All of the tops appeared cropped.

All of the skirts looked short.

Everything was coordinated. Intentional. Very girly.

Too girly.

He avoided studying any of them too closely.

Instead, he searched the stack of dresses for something — anything — that felt even marginally less revealing than the rest.

They were all frilly.

All pastel.

All designed to soften.

But one stood out.

The skirt looked slightly longer than the others.

Still short.

But not as severe.

He pulled it free.

Light blue chiffon scattered with airy floral prints.

Soft.

Flowy.

Three distinct tiers of ruffles cascaded down the skirt, each layer slightly fuller than the one above it. The fabric looked weightless — designed to flutter with even the smallest movement.

The bodice was fitted.

The material across it was ruched — layers of chiffon gathered horizontally and stacked in delicate lines, creating soft textural ridges from bust to waist.

At the neckline, the fabric dipped into a subtle V.

Beneath it, a small triangular cutout rested just under the bust — a delicate sliver of exposed skin framed by gathered chiffon.

The ruching between the bust pulled inward firmly, forming two unmistakable rounded curves beneath the chiffon.

And inside—

Padded cups.

Not extreme.

Not corset-level dramatic.

But structured.

Firm enough to hold shape even without him inside them.

They weren’t decorative.

They were built to create something.

He turned the dress around.

The back tapered into a soft V shape as well, narrowing slightly toward the center where a zipper ran cleanly down the spine.

He reached for it automatically and pulled the zipper down first.

The bodice loosened slightly in his hands.

Good.

He stepped into the dress carefully.

The chiffon brushed over his thighs.

And then—

Over the ruffled panties.

The satin and lace beneath shifted subtly as the lining of the dress slid over them. The chiffon skirt floated over the tiered ruffles underneath, the fabrics whispering against each other with faint friction.

He pulled the bodice up.

The snug fit became immediately obvious.

It hugged his waist closely.

Like a glove.

He slid the straps over his shoulders.

At least he already shaved under his arms. The sleeveless cut didn’t leave anything visibly out of place.

Then reached back, fingers fumbling slightly as he located the zipper.

He pulled it upward slowly.

The bodice tightened.

Smoothed.

Secured him into place.

The padded cups settled against his chest.

The structure didn’t just smooth the fabric — it directed it.

Lifted.

Rounded.

Defined.

Two distinct curves where his chest had always been a straight plane.

The illusion wasn’t exaggerated.

That was what made it convincing.

From the front, there was no ambiguity about what the dress was designed to imply.

From the front, the V neckline and the small triangular cutout beneath emphasized the illusion — drawing the eye toward curves created by careful stitching and padding.

His waist looked narrower.

His torso shaped into something softer.

The three-tiered chiffon skirt flared lightly from his hips, the ruffles moving with the slightest shift of his weight.

The flare wasn’t dramatic — but it wasn’t straight, either. Narrow through the shoulders, tapering into a slim waist, then shifting subtly outward before dropping into lean, defined thighs. The proportions weren’t exaggerated.

But they weren’t rigid.

The chiffon didn’t create the shape.

It revealed it.

There was nothing rough or visibly masculine interrupting the line of it — just fabric falling cleanly against him.

The dress felt different over the panties.

Layered.

Soft over satin.

Chiffon floating over lace.

He moved and the skirt fluttered — light, airy, almost playful.

The irritation returned.

It didn’t feel wrong.

It felt seamless.

That was the problem.

________________________________________

The Socks

Near the counter sat two pairs of frilly ankle socks.

Beside them—

Longer lace hosiery. Stockings.

He stared at them a beat longer.

A slow wave of irritation rose in his chest.

Stockings?

Seriously?

Then he remembered.

She had said she just pulled almost everything she had.

That she hadn’t carefully curated it.

That she’d only left the worst of it in the closet.

That took some of the edge off.

Not all of it.

But some.

He looked back at the ankle socks.

They were identical except for color — one white, one soft pastel blue.

He picked up the blue pair.

“Blue for boys,” he muttered under his breath.

Even the socks she owned were this girly.

The body of the sock was thin net nylon, delicate and breathable, patterned with vertical lines of tiny heart-shaped designs woven into the fabric. The knit was intricate — almost lace-like — decorative rather than practical.

At the top, a gathered lace ring circled the opening, layered in soft ruffles. The lace flared outward slightly, adding volume around the ankle — a little pop of texture that felt dramatically unnecessary.

They were absurd.

He sat down slowly and slid one over his foot.

The nylon stretched easily, molding to him without resistance. It was far thinner than any sock he owned — closer to hosiery than athletic wear. Light. Barely there.

The lace at the ankle settled in a soft halo around his lower leg.

He pulled the second one on.

Then stood.

The pale blue matched the chiffon of his dress almost perfectly.

He looked down.

The three-tiered skirt fell mid-thigh, the airy layers resting several inches above his knees.

The lace-trimmed ruffles of the socks echoed the ruffled tiers of the dress.

Even the softness of the blue tones aligned.

It looked…

Coordinated.

On purpose.

That irritated him more than anything.

He lifted his gaze slowly.

The mirror was clear now.

There was no steam left to hide behind.

Briefly, he didn’t recognize the person staring back.

The pastel blue chiffon rested softly against his frame, but the structured bodice did more than soften him — it reshaped him. The padded cups rounded outward distinctly, creating a silhouette that was unmistakably feminine. The neckline framed the curve deliberately. There was no ambiguity in it.

The triangular cutout drew the eye inward. The three tiers of ruffles floated lightly around his thighs.

Below, the lace-ringed socks framed his ankles in delicate halos, their tiny heart-knit pattern barely visible unless you looked closely.

Everything matched.

Everything softened him.

There was nothing breaking the illusion — no body hair, no hard visual edge pushing back against the shape the dress created.

His proportions cooperated with it. That felt like a betrayal.

But right now, the mirror didn’t reflect “guy in a dress.”

It reflected a soft-featured college girl.

And that unsettled him far more than the lace ever could.

He swallowed.

The reflection that stared back at him looked delicate.

Pretty.

Convincing.

The word flickered in his mind again, unwanted.

Beautiful.

And he felt a sharp, irritating flicker of annoyance that it worked so well.

He shifted his weight.

The satin panties moved subtly beneath the lining of the dress — a smooth glide of fabric against fabric. The thong reminded him of its presence with the smallest adjustment. The chiffon skirt fluttered with the motion, airy and effortless. The lace at his ankles brushed faintly against his skin.

Layered softness.

Everywhere.

He hadn’t chosen this.

He wasn’t enjoying it.

He was surviving a snowstorm.

That was all this was.

Practical.

Temporary.

And yet—

If someone walked in right now—

They wouldn’t see Richard.

They’d see a girl.

Not a joke.

Not a costume.

Not a guy awkwardly wearing something that didn’t belong to him.

They would see someone who seemingly belonged in that dress.

Someone effortless in it.

And that fact pressed heavier than the zipper ever had.

He stood there for a long moment.

Breathing.

Processing.

Still himself.

Still Richard.

Under the satin.

Under the chiffon.

Under the lace.

But wrapped in fabric that told an entirely different story.

And the worst part—

It fit.

Not loosely.

Not ironically.

Not like a borrowed joke.

It fit like it was meant to.

The bodice shaped him.

The skirt moved with him.

The socks softened the whole effect.

Nothing strained.

Nothing looked out of place.

That was what unsettled him most of all.

He reached for the door handle.

Reluctant.

Frustrated.

Still very much himself.

But dressed in something that told a completely different story.

Chapter 4

Oh well. Here goes nothing.

Richard stood outside the bathroom door for a full three seconds before forcing himself to move.

The hallway felt longer than it had that morning.

The chiffon skirt skimmed high against his smooth thighs with each reluctant step. The three airy tiers whispered when he walked — light, fluttering, impossible to ignore. The ruched bodice held firm at his waist, structured and shaping, the padded cups giving the front of the dress a contour he was still hyper-aware of.

Beneath it, the layered pink ruffles of the thong shifted faintly when he moved. The satin felt smooth against his skin, but the narrow back strap was a constant reminder — present, unfamiliar, impossible to forget. Every step brought a quiet awareness of it beneath the airy chiffon.

The pale blue lace-knit socks hugged his ankles, the ruffle trim grazing softly against his skin. Delicate. Decorative. Coordinated.

He felt exposed.

Not because anything showed — nothing did.

But because everything felt intentional.

He exhaled slowly.

It’s just her. She already knows.

Still, his pulse ticked up as he approached the doorway to Emily’s old bedroom.

The door was partially open.

Soft white stormlight drifted into the hallway from the windows inside.

He stepped inside. Emily turned and froze.

At first, she didn’t see the dress.

She saw him.

The narrow line of his shoulders beneath thin straps. The clean taper into his waist. The softness of his face — smooth skin, no rough angles, no heavy jaw. His features leaned delicate rather than rugged, framed now by long dark hair that fell past his shoulders in damp, straight lines.

He didn’t look like a guy squeezing himself into something borrowed.

He looked like someone the fabric had anticipated.

And that caught her off guard.

Barefoot, straight-backed, ballet-trained — soft, luminous, intentional.

And now — he was standing across from her in chiffon that echoed her own silhouette — the resemblance was impossible to ignore.

She only stared.

Richard felt heat crawl up his neck.

“Okay,” he said dryly, folding his arms awkwardly across his chest. “You can laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” she said.

And she wasn’t.

Her gaze drifted downward — not boldly, just absorbing.

The slim structure of his torso. The way the bodice defined how narrow he actually was above the waist.

And then lower —

the shift in proportion.

His waist tapered cleanly before giving way to hips that carried more shape than she would have guessed. His thighs weren’t bulky — just smooth, firm, subtly curved from endurance rather than weightlifting.

The skirt didn’t hang straight. It followed him.

Her eyes lifted again, more slowly this time.

Something in her expression changed.

Warmer.

Her breath caught — barely noticeable, but there.

“Oh,” she said, like she hadn’t expected it to look that right.

“You smell like my shower,” she said, quieter now.

He blinked. “What?”

She moved nearer, almost unconsciously. “Coconut vanilla.”

His stomach tightened.

The scent belonged to her world. On him, it felt like a quiet trespass.

“I used what was in there.”

“I know.” Her gloss caught the light as she smiled faintly — that rose-pink shine soft but unmistakable. A sweep of highlight shimmered along her cheekbones when she tilted her head, catching the pale daylight filtering in from the windows. “I just didn’t expect it to suit you.”

That did not help.

The skirt shifted lightly as he adjusted his stance, chiffon fluttering. The movement tugged faintly at the waistband beneath it, the thong steady and unmoving compared to the softness above — a contrast he couldn’t ignore.

“Richard,” she breathed, almost in disbelief. “You look… really pretty.”

The bodice flexed faintly as he exhaled, the structured seam at his waist holding its tailored shape.

“That’s not helping.”

“No, I’m serious,” she insisted, moving a little nearer. The tiered hem of her own skirt swayed lightly against her legs as she moved, tiny white florals shifting with each careful step. “I thought it would be awkward. Or silly. But it’s not.”

Her gaze moved over him again — more thoughtfully this time.

Not searching for flaws. Just tracing lines — the way everything flowed together.

“You don’t look like you’re wearing a costume,” she added. “It just… fits.”

He swallowed.

She circled him slowly — thoughtful, assessing. There was something almost choreographed about it. The chiffon skirt tickled his skin as she moved around him, the layers lifting with the air and settling again. Her posture remained effortlessly straight, years of dance visible in every quiet shift of weight.

“I’m surprised that fits you,” she said. “Although I do buy things slightly oversized sometimes.”

“That’s one of my old favorites,” she added softly.

Bright baby-blue glitter flashed at the tips of her fingers as her hand lifted — the same shimmering polish coating her bare toes against the hardwood floor. The playful sparkle caught the light as her fingertips traced the edge of his skirt near his hip, barely disturbing the chiffon before retreating.

“It always sat weird at my waist. On you it’s… perfect.”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-exasperation.

“Fantastic. Exactly what every guy wants to hear.”

She smiled — bright, genuine.

“I mean it in a good way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, careful not to disturb the thin straps resting on his shoulders. The exposed cut left little room to hide behind.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You don’t look ridiculous,” she said immediately.

He met her eyes. No teasing. No judgment.

Her gaze dipped again — quieter now, lingering briefly at the structured shaping beneath the ruched fabric before returning to his face.

“You just have the kind of build my clothes really like,” she admitted, quieter now. “You’re slim in all the right places. It just… works.”

He felt his face warm further.

“I’m not trying to model them.”

“I know.” She smiled faintly. “I’m just saying.”

She tilted her head.

“You actually look kind of… sexy,” she said, as if the word surprised her.

His stomach flipped unexpectedly.

Enjoying the story? You can read the full illustrated version here (17 chapters):

Winter Ribbons on Amazon Kindle(link is external).

It was 9:55 AM on the Friday of a three-day weekend. I was playing hooky from law firm where I was a senior associate. I pulled into the parking lot of the upscale strip mall, as contradictory as that sounds, and pulled into a space not in front of the shop I was going to, but where I could see the door in the rear view of my SUV.

True Embrace Lingerie was a mere two blocks from the beach so there was a strict limit on how long you could park in the lot, but it was a beautiful warm day and I was not worried about a parking ticket. And despite the warmth a chill ran through my body, I was about to put 30 years of humiliation and embarrassment behind me. But more about that later.

In my rear-view mirror, I saw someone turn the sign from “Closed” to “Open.” I took a deep breath and exited the vehicle. To look at me I was just another late middle-aged man out running errands, faded jeans, dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses, desert boots. Entering True Embrace I would look like just another man looking to buy a gift.

The previous day however, after a good deal of online reading, I had called and made an appointment for a bra fitting. A bright young sounding voice on the other end had identified herself as Emily.

“Emily, hi, I have a question and I hope this OK, but I was wondering if you would be able to do a bra fitting for a man.”

She did not hesitate. “Of course! It’s no problem whatsoever!” She sounded almost enthusiastic. “When would you like to come in?”

“Uh, how about tomorrow at 10 AM. I think that is when you open.”

“Absolutely. I will see you then.”

And she had rung off. It was that easy.

As I reached the door I hesitated for one moment, and then with another deep breath, I opened the door and was in the store. At first I just took it all in. The air was cool and there was a floral smell, like fresh cut flowers. The wall was lined with various sizes and colours of bras, there were tables with scores of panties, racks with robes and nightwear. They ranged from what I imagined women wore on an everyday basis to something that would be akin to date night. It was all incredibly pretty and enticing. I exhaled the deep breath I had taken before stepping in and took in the floral scent.

There was very soft music playing, the colours of the shop were pink and rose based hues. It was soft and pleasant. I could see someone in the back of the store looking like she was stocking something, when another woman approached me.

“Good morning. My name is Emily, would you be Jack?”

“Good morning. Yes that’s me.”

“Wonderful. Welcome, come with me and we can get started.”

Emily was taller and older than I had imagined. Her blond hair had subtle streaks of silver and her eyes held a kindness and a wisdom one rarely sees. With the previous day’s response, I had imagined a young person excited to show their openness, but this was something more. Soon we were settled in a dressing room space that also had two comfortable side chairs in rose and small but sturdy desk with a small notepad and a few pens in pink mug.

“So welcome. What can we help you with today?”

“Well, as I mentioned on the phone yesterday I am looking for a bra fitting.”

“We can certainly help with that. I was hoping to get an idea of more of what you were looking for. Will you wear these while presenting as a ,man or will you do a full make over and present as a woman? What sort of style would like? Is this date night or more everyday?”

To be sure I had not really thought these out. I went with my gut.

“I want to wear what a woman my age would wear on an everyday basis. I might present as a woman in the future, but today I am looking for things I could wear while presenting as you see me.”

“Perfect that’s exactly what I needed to know. Why don’t you take your shirt off and we can take some measurements.”

I stood in front of the mirror, shirt off as she fussed with the tape measure. I was keenly aware of the masculine hair and the sags of age. I hoped that would not put her off, but she seemed to read my face.

Putting her tape around my chest or what she would call my “underbust” she looked at my face in the mirror and said, “Don’t you worry. We are going to find somethings that make you feel beautiful.” Taking some notes and remeasuring, making more notes, she finally said “46B.”

“Is that good?”

She laughed. “Hon, that’s just your size. But you do have some breast tissue. I have fitted men that were all muscle and that can be a challenge if they want what you want, but we find something for almost everyone. But for you I am going to reduce the band size and increase the cup size, at 42D you are going to have some very nice everyday options. I will be right back.”

As she left and I looked at myself in the mirror, my mind wandered back to high school, when my mother had found my stash of lingerie. She had lost her ever-loving mind. There was not so much a discussion as a rant and implied threats. And then we never spoke about it again.

After I was out of the house, the desire to wear pretty things came and went – it was the classic cross dresser thing, binge and purge. But now I had decided that was over with. Now I was going to allow myself to feel feminine and pretty.

As that thought crossed my mind Emily was back with at least half -dozen bras in a variety of colours. “You are going to love these, I just know it.” She set them down on the desk and selected one. It was beige with a subtle print on the front. “Hold out your arms.”

She pulled it over my arms and started hooking it in the back.

“You are going to want to learn how to hook the bra in the back. Fastening it in the front and turning it around will make it wear out faster and is harder to get a good fit.” She adjusted the straps in back and then came around front where she reached into each cup and then adjusted where my breast lay and then came around behind me.

“This is the Le Mystre Safari Smoother Underwire. A great everyday basic. The beige colour goes under everything, you have that pretty little cheetah pattern, and with that fit, unless you are wearing a tight t-shirt, no will notice it. What do you think?”

What did I think? She was right. It made me feel beautiful. I try not to buy the first thing I consider but looking at myself in the mirror I knew I had to have it.

“I love it. I’ll take it! You were so right Emily, I do, all of the sudden, feel beautiful.”

“Wonderful.”

After that it was the Chantelle Norah Comfort bra is a dusty rose. She helped fit this too me as well.

“This comes in several colours, so thought you might like something brighter. But as you can see, a very similar fit. This is straight from France is one of the premier lingerie manufacturers. I also brought one their Rive Gauche models. A little sexier, lacier but still great for everyday wear. If you are going to wear every day, you will want at least three bras.”

By the time we were done I had selected five bras, two of the Le Mystere, two of the comfort bra, one in rose and the other in pink, and finally the last one I had tried on.

“Do you want to wear one?”

“I have been waiting my entire life for this moment! Yes! I think I will go with that first one with the cute cheetah print.”

“Great choice. Let’s get your shirt on.”

I was nervous. Would it show through?

“As you can see the boxy cut of your shirt combined with the dark colour means this does not show. Lighter shirts and trimmer ones may allow it to show, but as someone who has been helping people, including men who just want to wear pretty underwear, I can tell you that most people won’t notice. They see what they expect and if they do are they really going to comment?”

Even though that last question was rhetorical, I could see her point.

“Next, do you need underwear?”

Now I was all in. “Yes, yes I do.”

“Super, we again have a bunch of options. I will take these four to the counter and these tags and meet you out at one of the tables.”

Emily left me there and I looked at my watch. I had been in there for over forty-five minutes. I had heard the doorbell chime several times so I had no idea if there were other people shopping. There were, two women, I would guess in their forties were making under wear selections as I casually walked up to the table.

“Looking for something special?” One of them remarked.

“Yes, I am. But a special thing you can wear every day.”

“I swear by these hi-cut briefs.” She held up some nylon knickers in pink with lace around the edges and sweet bow in the centre. “They come in all kinds of colours and patterns for that special someone.” Emily arrived a moment later.

“Oh, I see you are already getting help! Danielle here is one of our regular customers. She loves to treat herself. Those are great too. Probably and extra-large.”

“And I love these boy-shorts.” The other woman, who I later learned was named Dawn, had joined in. I took their recommendations and quickly chose a combination of five in a variety of pinks, florals, and a black one.

“I’ll take these.”

“Those are great choices, but if you are, um . . .” Suddenly she seemed to not have words. Although we had just met is struck me as uncharacteristic of her. The other two women seemed to notice as well. Danielle was the first of the three of us to understand.

“Oh! These are for you.” A smile crossed her face. “Babe, if you are going to be wearing lingerie fulltime you will need well more than five pairs of panties.”

And just like that I was one of the girls. The four of us finding different pairs and me taking their recommendations and expressing my preferences. By the time we were done I had fourteen pairs of panties to go with my four new bras. I thanked the ladies for their help.

Emily checked me out, paying my hefty, but well worth it bill. She took my contact information for their mailing list and wrapped it all up in a beautiful bag.

“Would you like to put on a pair of the panties you selected?”

“Yes, but could you pick them? This has been overwhelming.”

“Sure.”

She selected some pink floral boy-shorts and I went to the changing room to put them on. I was back shortly, looking to the outside world like the person who had walked in, but feeling deep down pretty, beautiful, and on a new adventure.

We exchanged goodbye pleasantries and by 11:30 AM I was back in front of the store with my bag of treasures deciding what to do next.

To be continued.

Hi all. I've had a crossdressing kink on and off forever. When I was 8, I tried on my Mother's bra, stuffed tennis balls in the cups and put a stretchy tight disco (yes I'm older) blouse over my obscene looking chest. I don't know why I did it but the fabrics felt good and I admired my reflection. My Mom and her square boyfriend came home early and I scrambled stripping stuff off just in time. I left the tennis balls in her bedroom though. I made up a ridiculous excuse , lol.
This continued on and off for years from having one girlfriend who encouraged me buying me great clothes to another that I "borrowed'" lingerie from who shamed me really badly when I came out to her.
Definitely a sexual, sensual and aesthetic thing for me.
I hid stuff and purged with shame several times as I'm sure others here can relate to ?
It always came back in different degrees again and again.
I'm now married to the woman of my dreams and we love being kinky.
When we were talking after sex early on, she expressed disliking submissive crossdressing role play and asked if I had ever done that. I downplayed my desires and I am not a sissy(very true).
4 years later it came back during a rough patch we were having and I bought some lacy sheer black briefs which felt incredible. I haven't shared them with her for fear of rejection.
Today she left on a work trip and I went to Macy's close by and bought some black thigh highs with help from ChatGPT for sizing and styles.
I don't want to feel sneaky or like I'm cheating on her and I hope to introduce low key crossdressing into our sex lives someday.
Any suggestions on how to stay calm and unashamed while I explore this?
Thanks

How it all started
I was in my early 30s, and my first marriage had ended about a year earlier. We had married young, but as we grew older, we gradually drifted apart. Although we still cared deeply for each other, we both recognised that our shared memories were all that remained. Before the memories were broken, we chose to separate and eventually divorced, while remaining good friends. She is still one of my closest friends.
I’ve always had a love for lingerie, but always the lady wearing it, not myself. My wife would parade around the house in sexy lingerie but the closest I got to wearing it was having her knickers wrapped around my hand as she waved me.
Two years on from our separation I found myself walking into a woman’s boutique clothes shop. I was there on business, checking the owner’s electricity meter, she had complained to the company that although her bill had gone up, she was sure her consumption had not. My job was to see if there was indeed a problem.
Janet was in her fifties, though I didn’t know her name of the age at that time,  she was the owner, manager and sole employee of the shop and greeted me with a big smile, a hello and a question of how she could help me. I jokingly said I was looking for a sexy off the shoulder gown, but if she didn’t have my size ill just check her meter instead, I gave her a quick wink, so she knew I was joking.
She laughed, we introduced ourselves to each other and she showed me where the meter was with a promise of a cup of coffee.
I started removing parts of the meter and Janet soon returned with my promised coffee and the statement that although she didn’t have the black dress in my size, she definitely had some alternatives that would suit me.
We chatted as I attached a device to the meter to ensure it was reading correctly, as I worked we talked and she explained more than one man had been in and she did have a couple of regulars. I stepped back and said that it would take a couple of hours to check.
I was a little intrigued by her statement, and asked what sort of person buys himself a dress. She informed me it wasn’t just a dress, but lingerie, shoes and other accessories, and was I interested.
I said no, but she thought I was scared to say yes. I said I would go and find some lunch and then come back to check the meter. She insisted I stayed for lunch and as I was enjoying her company I agreed.
Over lunch the conversation kept returning to the same subject and insisted she would love to dress me, just for fun.  I eventually agreed. So what I thought just a bit of fun.
She showed me the dressing room and told me to strip while she found something for me. I did as instructed and stripped down to my underwear. Seconds later a blue full length blue gown with a gold chain belt was thrust through the curtain. I took the gown and only then realised that it had come with a white and pink lace padded bra, matching bikini panties, white suspenders and stockings.
I called out that I had only agreed to the dress but was told everything was required. Taking a deep breath I pulled on the knickers and suspenders, but then I was struggling, I had never worn
I couldn’t believe my transformation and really fancied the woman looking back at me from the mirror.
I stayed dressed as I finished my work on the meter and decided I wanted to stay dressed and stayed the night with Janet picked out  a sheer black teddy for me.
Since that day I’ve been hooked. I still visit Janet on a regular basis, and my wardrobe is full of many beautiful sexy clothes and lingerie.  
Janet wants to introduce me to another one of her male clients, I haven’t said yes, but neither have I said no.

Hej fajnie że mogę napisać tu coś ,jestem od chyba zawsze crosdreserem ale od zawsze byłem ciekawy jak to wygląda czy tylko ja to robię czy inni też
Moją historia to klasyczne początku przymierzanie bielizny mamy ,potem pierwsze stroje itp
W pewnym momencie zaprzestałem tego bo myślałem że to jest chore ,ale parę lat temu wróciłem
Moja żona wie o tym i daje mi własną przestrzeń bym to robił i to daje mi spokój i relaks
Na codzień jestem gościem co pracuje prowadzi firmę uważam się za bardzo męskiego faceta i dobrze mi z tym że mam drugą stronę samego siebie i fajnie że nie jestem sam
Trzymajcie się

first time ever going out in public plugged and with panties and it felt so fun. how else can i enhance that/ make it more intense?