Abby's Panties

I walked into the bedroom and opened my new lingerie drawer, the same drawer that had held my boxers and briefs, but now held panties and bras. I grabbed a bra and put it on. The bra elevated my breasts, hoisting them higher. I guess that's what bras did. My bra didn't take the weight of my breasts, the harness did that well enough.

Back in the kitchen I opened the next set of boxes. My dresses had arrived. Nine dresses in three different packages. I sorted the dresses by color, putting the three blue dresses together. The black dresses went into their own pile. Because I was wearing yellow panties, I opted to try a yellow dress first. I grabbed the largest one, figuring if it fit that would be fine, but if not, if it was too big, it would be easier to doff.

I shimmied into the dress. The waist was a little loose, but my faux breasts fit perfectly. I reached behind me only to struggle with the zipper. How many times had Abby asked me to "zip her up?" Hundreds? Thousands? Now I needed a free hand to help hoist my own zipper into place. I bent at the waist, pulled the dress half over my head until I could find the zipper, then dropped the dress again as I zipped myself up. There had to be an easier way. Maybe it only took practice. That sounded fun.

With the dress now zipped, I looked down. The dress covered my breasts fully, hiding that they were fake. My figure looked good. Skipping all those meals had left me skinny. The hem of the simple dress reached my knees. I swayed from side to side just to watch the hem of my dress wave like a flag on a windy day. I felt myself stirring in my panties with the pure adrenaline of arousal.

I walked into the bathroom to eye myself in the mirror. I could just see the strap of my bra beneath the thin fabric of my lovely yellow dress. The dress fit, though I thought it was maybe a little loose. Maybe I needed to try the size ten. No, I amended my thought, casting maybe aside. I wanted to try the next dress. I wanted to try them all.

I learned something. Just because two dresses are the same size does not mean they are the same size. In the yellow dress I needed the size ten. Both the black dress and the lovely blue one with delicate lacy trim I needed the twelve. Is that why women try everything on? Was the little tag telling the size a guideline and not etched in stone? In my jeans I wore the same size, the waist did not change from one manufacturer to another so why did it seem that my new dresses didn't follow that same law?

I suddenly wanted to go shopping even more. Staring at my face in the mirror I knew I wasn't ready for that. I looked very feminine from the neck down. My legs looked good; my breasts popped, but my face and hair were all mine. My brown hair was short and just a tad messy at the neck. I wasn't wearing any makeup and until I had my wig and I was good at doing my face, I would have to be content to wearing my new dresses over my new panties and my new, fake boobs.

I sat down to watch ESPN, grinning as I ran my hand over my ass to smooth my dress as I sat. My eyes kept glancing down, at my upturned breasts, at my bare legs sneaking from beneath the lacy hem of my dress. The only thing missing were heels but they would be here soon.

I gave up watching the highlights of the day. That the Vikings traded away their all-star outside linebacker to the Seahawks held no fascination. The only thing I could concentrate on was the way my legs looked and how the hem of my dress seemed to caress my knees in a most appreciative manner.

I turned off the television and returned to my laptop. I browsed for more dresses. I wasn't sure I wanted more, but before I went to bed, I had added another three dresses to my shopping cart and twice as many skirts. I couldn't help myself, but what had started out so innocently had somehow morphed into something increasingly erotic. I found a purple plaid mini skirt that would barely cover my ass. Of course, I had to add a white blouse and a tiny tie made of the same purple plaid. It was the sexualized costume of a schoolgirl and I couldn't wait to wear it. I was certain that no one would every see me wearing it.

But that was before I met Theresa.

(iii)

By Friday, every order I had placed had arrived save for the custom-made maid costume. My schoolgirl outfit was waiting for me when I arrived home on Friday night. For the fifth day in a row I had not been the last to leave. As I was starting my weekend, Alice gave me an appreciative nod. "Who is she?" Alice asked.

"Who? I don't understand."

She lifted her eyebrows to say she doubted me. "You've left earlier than ever this whole week," she said. She wasn't chiding me. She sounded genuinely happy, "so you've must've met someone. What's her name?"

Theresa was still a few weeks off. "I haven't met anyone," I said. "I've just decided to take some time for me."

"Well, good," she said. "See you Monday."

I wished her well and left the office, but her words stuck with me. "Who is she?" Alice had asked. Well, there was a new woman in my life and that woman was me. Well, I wasn't a woman and I had no desire to be one, but every day I'd race home, sometimes stopping for a deli sandwich, other times opting to order a small pizza just to nibble on a piece or two. The rest of the time I was practicing with my new makeup, adding color to my eyes, fluffing my eyelashes with a little curved stick, or tasting lipstick, finding the weight of it oddly enticing. I still wasn't as good as the dozen or so teenagers I was learning from, but I was getting better. When I started my foundation had looked as thick as spackle before the trowel was run through it. Now I was able to blend the cool liquid seamlessly. My lipstick started smeared and now when I blotted my lips against a piece of toilet paper the way Abby used to do, my lip prints came back without a trace of excess. I was able to use multiple shades on my eyelids now, blending blues and greens into a lovely third color that seemed to make my own eyes pop. It was time consuming and it was fun.

Friday, when I pulled into the driveway, the rest of my boxes were waiting on me. My heels had finally arrived. I had been looking forward to them the most. I ferreted everything inside and before doing anything else, before peeing, before turning on the television to hear about Jacksonville sitting their starting quarterback in lieu of losing, before grabbing a cold drink from the refrigerator, I was stripping down to my lingerie. I'd worn blue today, liking how everything felt, but loving the contrasting color against my skin. I was wearing a garter belt and stockings, too, loving how the stockings felt on my denuded legs and loving the tight pull of the garter belt straps against my thighs. I found myself crossing and uncrossing my legs constantly as my day progressed. How had I missed this all these years?

Standing in my kitchen in nothing but my panties, garter belt and stockings - Abby's panties were washed and folded in my panty drawer now - I started to open my newest treasures. I had a panty drawer, another drawer for bras and a third for my camisoles. The only thing masculine remaining in my dresser was a drawer full of socks, everything else had been replaced by my newer, more enticing hobby. With these new boxes even my socks may need to be relocated.

I opened the first box. A pair of heels stared back at me. I hoped they fit but I still wasn't ready to try my luck shopping out in public. I wasn't trying to embarrass myself or make a mockery of women. I was just being me, enjoying what I had stumbled into. I wanted to go out in public, but I'd only do that when I thought I looked enough like a woman that I wouldn't receive derision, mocking, or hatred. Those things would stifle my growing fascination with everything feminine and undo these past few days.

I examined the shoes. They were black with a pointed toe. A single strap wrapped around the ankle to buckle onto a golden latch. Another strap ran across the top of my foot. The heel was three inches, not horribly big, but larger than anything I'd ever worn before. Holding onto the center island, I put my foot in the shoe. Thanks to my stockings, my foot slid in easily. I leaned against the island and buckled the heel in place. I shifted and donned the other shoe.

I stood there, wobbling slightly on my new heels, staring at the pointed toe and the strap running across the top of my foot. It was invigorating and it took a considerable effort to keep my hand out of my panties. That would come later.

I walked across the kitchen, listening to my heels clicking against the tile. The sound gave me goosebumps and I my throat tightened in arousal. I kept walking, gaining confidence with every step. At first my ankles felt like they wanted to collapse inward but after a few minutes, each moment punctuated by the tremendous sound of my heels tapping against the floor, I was able to move easily around the room. I wasn't graceful, that would take practice, but I didn't think I was going to tear a muscle in my leg or break a bone in my ankle.

And I was hooked. The panties and stockings were amazing; I loved them, but the heels were on a whole new level. The way they made my legs look, the way they sounded as I clip-clop-clipped across the floor. The way they gave my hips a seductive, playful sway, all of it together had me as addicted as a junkie on crack. Suddenly I wanted more heels. I wanted to wear them everywhere. I'm sure it was the novelty of it, but that thought was overpowered by the sheer emotion of finding something so enamoring that you could think of nothing else.

But I had other things to think of. I had other boxes waiting to be opened. Other treasures to find but instead of digging on a hidden X, marked only by a cryptic map, I only needed a pair of scissors and the ability to stop gliding across the floor just to hear my heels sing against the tile.

I opened the next box. It was my schoolgirl outfit. It was naughty. It was indecent. And I needed to try it on.

I started with the purple plaid skirt. I stepped into it, holding onto a counter for support. I pulled the skirt up my legs. It fit fairly well and when I zipped the back it fit even better. The skirt was short, it did not quite cover the tops of my cobalt blue stockings. Glancing down I could see the little plastic tabs where my garter belt attached to the stockings. How much of my garter belt was visible when you looked straight on? How slutty was I? I trembled in arousal.

I wasn't wearing a bra or my breast forms, so I needed those before I tried on the white blouse that went with my outfit. I sashayed into the bedroom, loving how my heels sounded on the tile, loving how the hem of my pleated tiny skirt floated as I walked and how it tickled my thighs with each mincing step. I licked my lips only to realize I couldn't taste my lipstick; I would need that, too.

I opened my dresser drawer, my lingerie now put away. I had kept everything out at first, enjoying the sight of those frilly, feminine things watching me as I slept but as the week had progressed, and more and more things had arrived, I had bagged all my boxes and thrown them away to make room for my panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, camisoles and two soft nightgowns, one in pale pink, the other in a light green, the color of lime sherbet.

I put on my breast form harness and then added the bra that matched my panties. It was dark blue, with black lace decorating the top of the bra cups. I donned the bra and marched back into the kitchen.

I buttoned the tiny white shirt in place, all the way to the full, rounded Peter Pan collar. Sadly, I couldn't button the top button. The shirt stopped well above the waistband of my skirt, leaving a few inches of midriff bare. My breasts seemed huge now hidden behind my shirt, like the shirt magnified them somehow. I loved the illusion. The plaid tie came next. I tied it around my neck, tucking it beneath the collar of my sexy little shirt.

Dressed, I raced to the mirror to stare at my outfit. The skirt was shorter than I thought, leaving a good two inches of bare thigh revealed, the shaven skin only marred by the vertical strips of my garter belt. The shirt was tight, my fake breasts pushing at the buttons. The tie stopped just shy exposed belly button. God, I looked like a tart. And I loved it. Unable to control myself any longer, my hand went under my skirt and into my panties. I did what I did, enjoying myself far too quickly. I finished in the sink, loathe to soil my skirt or my lingerie.

With the sink rinsed clean I started on my makeup. My laptop was sitting in the bedroom but with the practice I'd had, I thought I wouldn't need it. Besides, with how I was dressed, maybe having my makeup done a little too heavily would make sense. I did my face, starting with my foundation. I painted my lips a deep cherry red. I added purple eyeshadow next, matching the color of my skirt. My mascara filled my eyelashes, making them pop. A little bit of color went on my cheeks. It wasn't perfect. Not even close, but it was passable. From my eyes down I looked like a saucy, slutty, walking wet dream. Only my hair and the rising tent in my skirt broke the illusion. I needed to do something about both. My wig was sitting in a box in the kitchen, but how could I control the part of me that was making this so much fun? The smile that had appeared from the moment I saw the boxes sitting on my front step had magically grown bigger. I had something else to research. Those searches lately had been fun. And expensive, but that, too, was part of the fun. I never spent money; I had only been focused on earning it.

I swayed into the kitchen, looking for my wig. I opened one large box and found a maids' outfit. I ran my fingers over the stiff fabric. It wasn't the wig, but I would be visiting it soon enough. The next larger box held my wig. I pulled the wig from the box. The hair was mostly red, maybe a bit lighter than dried blood. There were a few lighter streaks in it. The hair wasn't as soft as I would have liked but it was what I had. I carried the wig into the bathroom. In preparation, I had, of course, watched videos on how to don a wig. I did not own any bobby pins yet, but since I wore my hair short that wouldn't matter much. I bent at the waist, settled the wig against my scalp, and popped upright, sending the long, wavy hair backwards over my shoulders.

The effect was dramatic. There, in the mirror, was a slutty Catholic school girl with a bit too much makeup on her face. My cheeks were red, not from the blush I had added but from the excitement I felt. In the right light, maybe a dark street, or an equally dim club I might just pass as a real woman wearing a erotic costume and not a man. Sure, there were some things that would give me away. My Adam's apple, the faint stubble around my chin, but overall, I thought it was a great facsimile. With practice I could probably make it even better. A choker or a few necklaces could disguise my throat. I could have shaved closer and added more foundation, but I had been too excited to open the boxes that I had not taken time for that. Not that it mattered. I wasn't going out dressed as I was.

Yet.

I walked around the house, enjoying the way my tiny pleated skirt caressed my legs with each flouncy step. I ran my fingers through my hair. I played with my hair, making tiny coils with my hands. I sat on a chair and practiced crossing and uncrossing my legs, growing more aroused as my stocking clad legs slid against each other. It was all too much, too overwhelming, and once again, even though I was at an age where I did not reload so quickly, I found my hand under my skirt and inside my panties. It did not take long to finish but I was so on edge, so excited, that I couldn't hold back if I wanted. And I didn't want.

Sated and breathing heavy, I went back to the boxes. I pulled my maid's dress from the box. It was black with white trim. It had a white silk apron that tied in the back and a pair of petticoats, one black and one white, that when I pulled them from the box they puffed like the tail of a frightened cat. I hung the petticoats and the dress on a hanger, knowing that when I cleaned my house in the morning I'd be dressed as a proper maid. Suddenly I was glad I ordered the good one with the locks. The thought of it sounded decidedly kinky. Ideas ran through my head of hiding the key in my mailbox, forcing myself to mince, my heels slapping loudly against the concrete, to the end of the driveway, knowing that I was out in the public eye. It sounded terrifying and I couldn't wait to try it.

I opened the rest of the boxes. I hung my new dresses, skirts, and blouses. I had to take some suits

and carry them into a separate closet in the spare bedroom. It never even crossed my mind to use the spare bedroom for my dresses and skirts. Those somehow took precedence. They needed to be close. I hung my suits in the spare bedroom so that my new dresses could be in the master closet. Seeing the clothing hanging there reminded me of Abby. Before she left, starting my heartbreak long after she had nearly finished hers, her dresses had taken most of the closet, and now my dresses, skirts, and blouses was doing the same thing. My maid's dress I hung on the lone hook behind the closet door. I would need it in the morning.

I spent the rest of the evening browsing for ways to make the illusion better. I had a lump in my panties that I needed to hide. I learned about tucking and gaffs. The gaffs seemed interesting and if the photos were accurate, they would do what I needed them to do. I studiously examined everything I could fine before ultimately ordering what were basically panties with a pouch for that curious part of me. The panties were snug, almost like a girdle. The thick spandex and confining pouch would hold myself down and prevent any unwanted appearances. It sounded both uncomfortable wildly exciting.

I moved to the bedroom where I removed my little schoolgirl outfit, hanging it in the closet with my other dresses. Seeing it intermixed in with my newest treasures, and those all combined with my remaining suits, lit a fresh fire under me. Wearing nothing but my bra and breast forms, my panties, garter belt and stockings, I made another dozen trips from the master bedroom to the spare ones on the other side of the house. Load after load I carried my suits, slacks, t-shirts, and ties to the spare bedrooms until the master closet was left looking more than half empty. I had carried every masculine piece of clothing I owned out of my bedroom, leaving only my dresses, skirts, and blouses behind. It was obvious I needed to do some more shopping, but I wanted that to be out, in the real world. I wasn't quite ready for that, but it was a goal that would be fun to achieve.

After my clothes were ferreted away, I did the same to my shoes until only my new heels sat alone on the carpeted floor. I definitely needed more heels. The black ones I had were sexy, but I wanted more. I wanted higher heels, I wanted simple flats. I even wanted a pair of women's sneakers, wondering if I could wear them as myself just to see if I'd get away with it. I was already wearing panties to work, what else could I wear just to see if anyone noticed. What would happened if I replaced my normal working shoes with a pair of simple black flats? Would Alice notice? Would anyone? And why did I want to try?

I crawled under the covers still wearing my lingerie. My legs tingled in their stockings. Normally I slept on my stomach, but my breasts, jutted proudly beneath my bra, didn't have the give as real breasts so I found myself lying on my back, my breasts sitting atop my chest, demanding to be seen. And they were hard to miss.

(iv)