Blame Abba Ch. 01

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Well, I knew I was bound to be caught one day.
6.1k words
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Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 04/24/2012
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BethanyJ
BethanyJ
463 Followers

Transgender-themed stories which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!

***

Part 1 - Well, I knew I was bound to be caught one day ....

***

Thinking back - wow! So much, in such a short time, or at least it seems like that. When did it really start? I don't really remember the very first time, maybe when I was still in my late teens, I suppose, I was still at sixth-form college. Dad was at work all day, mother was doing her part time job in the shop. Living where we were it was a bit lonely for me.

In quite a small village and with only one other guy my age at that time, or nearly. Jeff was a bit older, nearly two years older, he'd left college the previous year. He was just about my only real friend, all the other kids were mush younger, 10 or 11, younger maybe. My elder sister was away at college, my elder brother Tom had moved away from home and was living with his girlfriend Mylene somewhere in the States.

I DO remember my first 'going out'. It was just into the yard at the back of the house. In late July, that I do recall, about three months after my eighteenth birthday. I had been ill with a summer cold or something and was feeling slightly better. It was the last day of term and my mother had decided not to risk it. I was to stay at home and not go to college.

It started at about eleven o'clock in the morning. I had been at home for six days on my own and I was fed up and very bored indeed. There was no day-time TV in those days, just me and some books. I didn't even have homework to keep me busy. But I had been watching a programme on TV the previous night while Mum and Dad were upstairs doing - well, you know. Dad was off on his business travels early the next morning so it was their last fling for a while.

The program was a rather progressive TV play, supposedly very trendy, liberated, new-age stuff. It was about a young girl on the make, a prostitute. I had no real experience of such events, not much of that sort of thing seemed to happen in our village. I don't remember the details of the story but I do remember the clothes, her in her undies, a guy 'making out' with her, having his way. But it was the clothes, the sexy underwear, the hair, big and bouffant etc. And the makeup, the nylons, the shoes. Oh those shoes! I was fascinated.

So the next morning, I went looking in my mother's drawers and in her wardrobe. I was looking for 'pretties', feminine stuff, just wondering what it would be like. And I struck lucky, there was a whole collection of stuff, not dirty, but pushed into the wash basket. I knew she wouldn't realise if I got it out. I imagined what I would look like - if I tried them on!

And try them on I did! And more! I still remember that first thrill I got from the stockings in the basket The black stockings. Looking back I suppose she wore them the night before to give Dad a turn-on. They certainly turned me on when I carefully rolled them up my legs as I'd seen the prostitute do on TV the night before. They were holdups, that I realise now, back then I just knew they stayed up. And knickers, black, silky, tight, snug, they covered my developing cock and gave me something of a sexual buzz.

And a bra, black again, obviously not the right size but the elasticated sides got round that. My first 'fantasy' took hold. Tits! I tripped through into my room and got my football socks, black with white hoops, then rolled them up and pushed them down into the cups. I looked in the mirror - I had boobs!

And it was then the fantasy really gripped me. Back in my parents' bedroom I opened the wardrobe. It was a disappointment to start with really, there was nothing like the tarty stuff I had seen on the TV. But pushed to one side, I had never seen mother wear it, was a dress, a mini-dress. I suppose she had got it because it had become the fashion, maybe then realising it was too young for her. But it wasn't too young for me. I reached out and pulled it off the hanger. I knew I had to be careful though, to look very carefully since it had to go back in exactly the right place.

It was the 'pop-art' type of dress, shiny, tight fitting, black with white patches on the top and the sides, and very short. I had to try it on. It really was just a little too tight. It must have been a size 10 though I didn't know about those things then, I was a bit broader. But I did get it on without too much trouble. And finally shoes, that I did know about. Mother was not very tall but did have quite big feet for a woman, size 7 ½. I managed to slide my only-slightly-larger feet into a pair of quite high heels, dressy shoes, black and ever so shiny.

I stood up, turned and looked in the big mirror. The first thought was again one of disappointment. I looked a fool. I looked stupid, like a boy in a dress. But then I looked more carefully, at my body and not at my face. The shape was there, the figure, the protruding breasts, the long legs, the gorgeous ankles and shoes. I was impressed. I was excited. This was fun!

Then the make-up boxes on my mother's dressing table caught my eye. Yes. That could be good too, maybe. Just how good-looking could I be? Could I really look like a girl? An attractive girl? A girl who could make men 'hot' with desire. Maybe I could look like the girls on the TV the night before, the prostitutes, the dancers, the girls who put themselves forward as objects of desire, who dressed provocatively and flaunted themselves? It would definitely be fun to try.

Since I was going to be on my own all day, maybe for another five hours, there was certainly enough time to try this out. I sat down at the dresser and inspected my mother's 'armoury'. Creams, powders, lipstick, mascara, eye make-up. And nail-varnish, wow.

'This could be fun,' I thought.

I was in a bit of a daze as I continued, taking care not to disturb things too much. I spent some time looking at the colours and feeling the textures, steadily building up a 'picture' on my face, foundation cream, blusher and so on. I was very careful with the eye-shadow, trying not to make it too heavy, but I loved the heavy black mascara, coating my own lashes, thickening and darkening them.

It took me an hour. I realised the time had flown as I stood up to inspect the results. Then I realised - I hadn't done my nails. So I did. I was a little wary at first, but I spotted Mother's varnish remover, a big bottle of, about half-way full. I was pretty sure she wouldn't notice if some was used up.

That was a real thrill, the rather sensuous feel of stroking the brush over my own nails. I watched them take up the deep red colour, the feel, the smell, the texture, it was so stimulating. And the end result was gorgeous, my nails were just about due for trimming. They weren't long, long enough for Don and looking quite good on - who? I realised a female name might be appropriate, but what? Doni? Donni? No, Donna. That was it. I looked in the mirror - at Donna.

And finally, when my nails were dry, I reached for the jewellery. Though most of Mum's earrings were for pierced ears she did have some old but rather gaudy clip-on earrings. I pressed them into place and gave my hair a good brush-through. It wasn't long but it was longish, down over my ears. As I pulled it across to the other side it fell and - remarkably - stayed, in a somewhat feminine style, holding itself out from my head and looking good, I thought. The thrill continued - I stood up and turned.

And this time I gasped! The difference! The person staring at me from the mirror was -- Donna! She had full lips that begged to be kissed, deep eyelids and long curly lashes which in some way brought out an innocence in her eyes, and her soft fluffy hair cried out to have fingers run through it. But it was to my eyes definitely a woman I was looking at. She looked soft, innocent, a woman to be cared for, caressed. I thought about the women on the TV play. She was an attractive woman - maybe even a woman to have sex with! Yet she was all me.

I felt great, I felt excited, I looked - female. Maybe even did look attractive. But in that dress, those shoes, with the makeup - definitely 'foxy'. I felt a stirring between my legs. I reached down and lifted my skirt to show my stocking tops and panties, and the stirring grew. I slid my fingers up, watched the red nails slide over the smooth black silk and - executed the quickest and easiest masturbation I had ever done. As I wanked, my prick protruding above my silky panties, the cum came spurting out in torrents. I shook, I shivered, I grunted in a most un-feminine way. And then I relaxed. The semen was all over the dressing table and my right hand. But I still felt fantastic.

It took me a few minutes to walk into the bathroom - I was surprised how well I managed in the shoes, and how good it felt - to collect some paper. I mopped up the semen, cleaned the surfaces and flushed the paper away. I still felt excited, not wanting to stop my adventure yet. I went downstairs and into the kitchen, intending to do a coffee. But instead I went in the lounge and opened up the drinks cabinet.

I wasn't into alcohol much in those days, just the occasional beer and so on. But I was really getting into my fantasy now and wanted to go further. I needed to try out the whole thing, seeing myself tarted up, with a drink, just to see what it felt like. Imagine myself in a pub, showing off, being looked at. By men. Of course.

In a pub? Little did I know the prescience in that thought.

And by men? Definitely of course. I didn't know a lot about sex at the time but I did know one thing. In some way I was different. Maybe a little weird. Maybe a queer. That's the word used at the time, not gay, that came later. I liked the look of men. I had never ever done anything about it though. I was still at college, still closeted, still supervised closely most of the day and night. OK, I did get out a bit on my own. Not very often but I knew enough to know I was different.

Actually now I know a lot better. It's called 'bisexual' now, someone who likes both sexes. I do that. In different ways of course, and it has taken me some time to sort it out in my head. Back then I just thought I was queer.

So I sat on a high stool in the kitchen with a gin-and-tonic in my hand and had one of mother's cigarettes, just fantasising about a man seeing me there.

"Hello there, darling. Would you like to come in?" I said, out loud.

Imagining myself being interrupted by a double-glazing salesman or someone similar. Imagining him feeling my leg, me getting him aroused. I posed for over an hour, sipping the drink slowly, going out to the back of the house, into the yard, feeling the breeze on my legs. Just feeling great. And not realising that only a few years later that whole fantasy would get revisited with a vengeance.

But time was getting on. I went back upstairs, changed back and got everything neatly away before mother came home. I am sure she never suspected anything. Over the next few years I did the same again, getting just as big a thrill every time out of my fantasy, and thoroughly enjoying my accompanying wank, which just got more and more ferocious every time.

It was silly to think I could go on without getting caught. It wasn't mother though, it was my sister who found me out. Big time. I was dressing regularly by then, and had been given a golden opportunity to indulge myself.

Mum and Dad had won a prize in one of those stupid magazine subscription competitions. They had won a trip round the world, no less!! They could never have afforded to do it themselves and had jumped at the prize rather than the cash equivalent. They had left the previous weekend, for six weeks. Six weeks! All that time to dress myself up, maybe even do it overnight once or twice, or for a full day. I had left college at the time, and taken a job for a year to decide whether to go to university or not. Jacqui was already living away from home, she wasn't due back for another week at the end of her term, and then only for a few days. She said she was going on holiday with someone she had met.

So there I was in the back yard again, tarted up as usual, showing off my legs - to no-one, just to myself. And kitted out to the hilt, by then I had actually bought quite a few clothes of my own. A black basque I had bought, too small for me really but I loved the tightness, the constriction - and what it did for my figure. Breast-forms too, I had ordered them mail order from a firm I saw advertised in a TV magazine which I had dared to get down from the top shelf in a newsagent.

And shoes, gorgeous shoes. I had, still have, something of a shoe fetish. I had discovered a factory shop in Birmingham, and had been in there for several pairs. Right then I had my favourites on, gorgeous 4" heel black stilettos. I was feeling good about myself, really hot, just thinking - as usual - about going out, about being seen, being talked to maybe. By a man. I was just about to reach down and pull my skirt up and start wanking.

Part 2 - Found out!

"Well, Don, don't you look - something else!"

I jumped, of course, and whirled round. Jacqui was not supposed to be here, she was at college, not due back for another week. I just didn't know where to look or what to do.

"Oh hell!" was all I managed to blurt out, as I started to try to run in my heels, past my sister, to get upstairs and change.

"Don. Please, Don. Calm down. Please. Don't worry. I have to admit I have suspected something like this for a while. And PLEASE don't worry. Remember, I've been at college for two years now. I am used to all sorts, straight, gay, weird, and indeed totally bonkers. You are not as exceptional as you might think."

I was still tempted to run, to get upstairs, to hide, but Jacqui was in the doorway. I just stood still.

"Right, Don, come inside my dear, let's just sit - and talk."

We sat at the kitchen table, my mind still reeling. I had never imagined Jacqui would come home. Or indeed, having seen what she had, that she would be so calm about it.

"Don - I have to say this. Really. I have met some pretty strange people in the past two years at college, some who look and dress really way out. But - this is the truth, honest, I have never seen a guy who looks as good in a dress as you do. Really. You look absolutely gorgeous. Now, tell be all about it. ALL about it."

So I did. It really was a relief in a way, just to unburden myself to someone. Jacqui made us coffee as I talked, she just listened. I told her the whole story, of my dressing-up experiences of the past couple of years.

"Don, I am amazed. Like I said I suspected something, mainly from little things, changes in my room over term-time, things moved and so on. But I never suspected you had gone so far. And yet not far enough. Listen, go up to your room, take that dress off and those shoes and stockings. Fishnets aren't really appropriate for hanging round the house. I'll come up to see you in a couple of minutes. Come on, scoot!"

I scooted. Five minutes later Jacqui came into my room carrying a hanger holding her college interview suit. It was deep grey and very smart.

"Wow, Don, you have a great figure!" she said, looking me up and down as I stood there, in basque and panties. "Have you any sort-of ordinary stockings? Just plain black. And some lower heels? Try this on for size, I'll be back."

I had only rarely tried on Jacqui's clothes, somehow they seemed more for her - it sounds daft I know. I did try on mother's stuff, at least I had before I started buying my own. But now she was inviting me to! I jumped at the chance. The so-called interview suit was just that, a slim deep blue suit, jacket and skirt, with a slightly silvery fleck throughout. It was really a very nice suit. Jacqui had worn it for her College interview, I couldn't recall any other occasion.

I picked out one of my long sleeved nylon blouses, a smooth silky 'George' item, and slipped it on. Then I sat on the bed and smoothly rolled on a pair of black stockings, really very sheer, as always I loved the feel of them. Then the skirt, it was short but not too short, and the slightly flared jacket. I would have loved to wear my ultra-high heels but no, Jacqui had said not, they were obviously too high for such an outfit. So it was 'only' 3" heels, but again black patent stilettos, with a silver buckle on the ankle strap.

I stood and looked in the mirror. Actually, though I had thought it should be redone, the makeup was OK. It was not too overt, the blues in my eye-shadow and mascara picked out the suit colour well. I was waiting for Jacqui to come back, nervous and wondering how she would react. I heard her on the phone downstairs, so I decided to go down to see her. I grabbed the black handbag I had been carrying.

As I went down the stairs she looked up, gasped and smiled.

"OK Mary, talk to you later, bye."

"Don, you look fabulous, Really. That outfit suits you far better than it does me. Really foxy, a young executive on the way up, that's you."

I smiled outwardly. Inside I was beaming rapturously. Jacqui was being so kind to me. I had to say something, I decided to try out my 'feminine' voice.

"Thank you, Jacqui. That's really kind of you."

"Don, you even sound feminine. Christ you could have fun. But we still need to talk. But later, come with me."

She picked up her own bag and went down the hall so I followed. She opened the front door. I froze.

"What's wrong?" asked Jacqui.

I couldn't believe she didn't know. But she didn't. And then she did.

"Don, I've just realised. You've never been out dressed. Have you? You've done this all on your own, just for yourself. Totally private, 'in the closet' as they say. Nobody has ever seen you like this. Have they?"

I was very hesitant. I had fantasised about being out, about being seen and treated as a woman, acknowledged as female, called 'Mrs.' or 'Miss'. But I had never dared do anything about it. Jacqui knew, at least now she did, she smiled very sympathetically.

"No, never."

"OK Don. I am sorry, I did not know. I mean, I didn't think you had, you know, well, gone very far but I did assume you had at least been out of the front door. You really could, you know. In fact you should, and you shall. We are going for a drive. Now. Nothing major, just maybe to a supermarket or somewhere. Don't worry, nobody will know. I promise you. You will not be looked at, I am sure, unless of course someone fancies you. You really do make a very attractive woman, you know."

I wasn't sure. Not sure at all. Did I want to? Hell, OF COURSE I did. I was just scared. But although Jacqui realised that, she also seemed to be sure I could get away with it. I realised she had 'faith' in me - around the town, in a shop or wherever, she would not want to be seen hanging round with somebody weird-looking. Therefore I didn't look weird. I MUST look female. In a way I had difficulty realising it, that though I had always pretended to myself that I looked the part, I REALLY did!

Before I could really think any more, get more scared, back out or whatever, Jacqui had urged me through the front door and shut it behind me. There was no way out now, I realised. I had my handbag, but I didn't have my keys, I had left them on the dresser when I changed. I had my lipstick of course, my cigarettes, my mascara, but not my keys.

"OK, come on now. Don't look so worried or people will start wondering why. Get in the car."

I did, rapidly. I'm not at all sure whether any of the neighbours would have put two and two together, me standing there briefly on the doorstep with Jacqui, but I was not hanging round to find out. I dashed round to the passenger door of Jacqui's car and got in. Hell, it was her convertible. And the top was down. Double hell. She drove off, I was still unsettled but I calmed down as we drove and Jacqui talked to me.

BethanyJ
BethanyJ
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