Public at Last Ch. 01

Author's Notes:

(1) Cross dressers are a strange lot, but they need and want things just like any other human, especially love. Sometimes this gets forgotten, even by the cross dresser.

(2) Cross dressers and the transgendered are the poorest understood group in the LGBTQ super group. But their time is coming. Try to understand, or at least, let them be themselves without fear of death by hate.

*****

Saturday had finally arrived. It was a week before Halloween and the skies were deep blue with fluffy clouds rushing by in the wind, dark on the bottom and frilly white on top. They looked cold, but there was a Chinook wind blowing in from the west, promising windy warm air for the day and through Sunday. It was perfect for what I had in mind for tonight, a trial run for Halloween. I had a plan, one that I had thought about for weeks. It was audacious and dangerous, a perfect blend of excitement and erotic adventure.

I am a cross dresser, but not a typical cross dresser; it is sexual in nature, and in fact, women's clothes are an irresistible fetish for me. I find that I am layered with, and perhaps burdened by, numerous other obsessions, the major one being bondage. And since I am single and have no one to tie me, I engage in self-bondage when it pleases me, the riskier the better, at least in terms of being caught, not starving to death alone in a room, unable to call for help. My ideal fantasy would be to dress up as a woman, go into a public area passing as a woman, then through chance or bad luck, be caught by a dominant woman and forced to remain a woman for her pleasure and my "punishment".

Whoa, you say! Ugh! This guy is sick. Perhaps, but I prefer to say that I am not normal, slightly eccentric, that's all. For I am good looking (but with androgynous features) , articulate, intelligent, funny, and could be standing beside you right now at the traffic light, or at a cocktail party, or at a professional convention, maybe sitting beside you at the dentist's office. Look at the one on the other side of the bus. Maybe it's me, or someone like me. You wouldn't know; I am anyone.

And if you find that spooky, then you are naïve and unaware. And you can choose now to either learn or remain critical. It's your choice: to read, or stop reading. Now.

And so it begins.

I stretched while still in bed, literally vibrating with excitement, but with apprehension as well, for I knew my entire plan had to be done right or it would all fall apart, and dangerously so. I deliberately planned to go slow. As I entered the shower, the hot water flattened the hair on my chest and legs, and I let the goosebumps from the morning chill gradually flatten on my skin in the hot water. I stood there for several minutes before I started shaving. Having never done this before, it excited me as the chest hair came off in stripes, dropping off the razor in the rinsing stream of water, on and on until it was all gone. Then my legs were treated to the same. It felt cool again now, like I had been burdened with fur before. I briefly debated shaving my underarms, but I didn't trust myself to do it with a steady hand.

Stepping out of the shower, the water ran off my hairless body in rivulets and I became reacquainted with the morning chill. Go slow, I said to myself. A plan like mine was like a house of cards; if anything went wrong, it all went wrong. I shaved my face extra close.

Today was my day to be a woman for the entire day, the first time ever, as I finally had all the pieces, the corset, the wig, the bra, all of it, and I wanted it to savor it, make it last forever. I wanted to walk around my house and just be Paula, to relax and suspend myself in her femininity, feeling the freedom and confines of the clothing, the odd paradox of female attire, how it restricted movement and at the same time gave freedom to be creative.

My chest was dry so I placed the double-sided adhesive pads on the large D-size silicone breast forms and applied them to my chest, holding and pressing them in place for a considerable amount of time to create the firm seal. Finally I let them go and they bounced slightly, pulling at my upper pectoral skin, first with a gentle tug, then with a persistent pull which I knew would start to be unpleasant after a time. I wanted that unpleasantness to start, so that I would need, actually need, a bra for support. I loved that feeling of dependence, as it made me feel more feminine.

Next I lubricated the stainless steel anal plug, bent over, and began to insert it into my proxy vagina. This was never easy, but today I felt totally relaxed and excited as the bulbous end slipped in quickly and found its resting place, snuggling up against my waiting prostate. Wiping the excess lubricant away, I did a few deep knee bends and sat on my make-up stool a few times to start the sexual stimulation. It momentarily took my breath away. At these times I always thought I might be able to orgasm with just those actions, but I never did and never could. I still could not today. And I knew it would just taunt me dreamily all day long, whispering under the lace, "Please...please..." It was delicious and self-administered torture.

I shook my head to snap myself back to reality, or a semblance of it. There it was, the first feeling of wanting a bra for support, that odd pulling feeling. I went to my top bureau drawer and chose a white support bra with molded cups and slipped my arms through the straps, reaching behind to do up the hook and eye closure. Then I leaned forward to let my breasts fall into the cups by gravity alone and settle themselves. Now I felt better, but I tested them, walking a few paces as they jiggled and bounced. My shoulders took the brunt of the weighty punishment and they would be sore by day's end.

I loved the next part. The corset, the beautiful corset. It had been extremely expensive, but it was worth every cent that I paid to the corsetiere company far away in Long Island. The measurements had been done and redone, and done again, as the beast took shape, a severely boned and contoured under bust corset with heavy duty eyelets and laces at the back and an extra strong busk fastening at the front. Those were the "bones" of it, but the outside was a beautiful brocade lace in deep purple and black. As I held it out to admire it, the six garters dangled and clinked together like tiny wind chimes.

First I slipped into the corset liner, a smooth, satiny and stretchy garment that hugged me from just below my breasts to just above my pubic area. I wrapped the corset around my waist and fastened the busk. It was already snug, and gathering the laces together behind my back, I backed up to the door, placing the correct loops around the door knob, and then leaned forward. The feeling was wonderful as it closed around me, pulling me in, enclosing me like an embrace. I adjusted some more laces at the top and repeated the lean outward, taking a step or two. This was repeated in many stages until I could see in the mirror that the laces were straight and almost closed at the back. My breathing was restricted now, and I resigned myself to taking smaller breaths for the rest of the day, and even smaller breaths when I would tighten it again later, to give me that perfect feminine hourglass figure.

Next I attached the black nylon stockings to the garters and pulled a small black panty girdle up over them, crushing my penis into femininity. The structural elements were now complete and I admired my figure in the mirror. It was extraordinary how the corset took care of my male figure, squishing and manipulating, changing it by the brute force of it. My stomach felt hard as I patted it with my hand, its normal slight bulge obliterated and even sent into full retreat, pushing inwards. I relaxed my muscles and nothing moved.

I had spent hours on the internet watching U-tube videos of transgendered people showing how to do makeup, and one thing that I noticed was the length of time they took with the eyes. I started now, first with a facial base and then camouflaging my thick eyebrows with various tricks, followed by shading and using eyeliner relentlessly to make just the right look, not too light, but not too dark like a drag queen either. It all had to be perfect, and I even erased it all at one point and started again. It took a full hour.

Finally, all the base makeup and shading was complete and I added the lip-liner and lipstick. I was pleased. Paula stared back at me and she batted her eyelashes, heavy with mascara, while I kissed her on the lips in the mirror, leaving a full rose-colored lip imprint on it like a clue on a wine glass at a murder scene. She smiled.

That had been the start. The transformation was there, and I had entered her world. It was relaxing and exciting at the same time, and I would be there for the day and all of the night, a thrilling thought.

I had bought a wig that suited me well, not a typical transgender fantasy wig that flowed down over my shoulders, but a cute, pixie cut one, with real brown hair and cute sweeping bangs, and when I placed it on my closely cropped head, it accented my delicate androgynous features perfectly. There was no need for overly dramatic feminization; it was already my curse. And now I used it to my advantage.

My stomach (as much as its corseted confines allowed) growled its discontent with having no breakfast as yet, so I decided to toast some English muffins and have a cup of coffee while reading the newspaper. It was a rush to open the front door and step outside in my bathrobe, showing off my nylon-encased legs, and feeling the cool air dance upward to my panty girdle. I retrieved the paper, glanced around the street defiantly in my feminine makeup and then retreated inside. That brief encounter with public exposure always thrilled me, but it would be nothing compared to what I had planned for tonight, nothing at all, and I shivered with anticipation.

As I ate, I noticed that even the slightest intake of food made the tightness at my waist increase. Or was it the excitement I felt? Regardless, I realized I would have to eat in small helpings this day and eat often. It was all part of the scene I had generated in my mind, and I reveled in it.

I read the newspaper from start to end this morning, sitting at the kitchen island, and the anal plug moved and stimulated, causing me to gyrate on the stool, my sphincter muscles tensing as I changed positions slightly, reaching for coffee or a muffin. When I finished I just stared out at the hole number eight green in the morning sunshine, watching four lady golfers who were just getting there after an earlier tee. They sported white and pink, cute little skirts, and their breasts bulged beautifully in the stretchy tops which were almost like uniforms, like a suit and tie for men downtown. They were so lucky to be able to wear such nice things and look the way they did, I thought to myself.

The coffee was cold, and as I put it to my lips, I spat it back in disgust. It spoiled the mood, so I decided to paint my nails, a long and arduous task that required a steady hand and a lot of patience, neither of which I had today. Many attempts and mistakes and corrections later, I waved my hands around trying to hasten the drying. If I was a woman, I think I might be a slob. It was hard work doing makeup, hair, nails, and skin, day after day after day. But then again, real women had the canvas to work with; I did not. Everything I did to look like a woman required a lot of work and trickery, all smoke and mirrors.

I looked at my hands. My fingers seemed so much longer with the nail polish on, and that made my already effeminate hands radiate femininity. I should have been a pianist, I thought.

The doorbell rang and seemed to echo off the hardwood floors and ricochet in my head. I froze in panic. I looked at the clock over the pantry. Who would come to see me at 10:30 in the morning? Carefully and quietly I glided over to the doorway and looked through the peephole. There was no one at first, and then a familiar redhead bounced into my view.

Heather. My God, it was my best friend-girl Heather! We had known each other since childhood and tried dating once back in high school. She was so pretty with her red flowing hair, freckles and bright green eyes, and she had only improved with age. But it didn't work out; she wanted a stud, like all girls did in high school, or maybe she was just so pretty that the studs believed she was a trophy, and they pursued her. Peer pressure and wanting to conform being what it was then, she of course dated them. I watched it all, and I was not that jock, with my gangly awkward frame and long feminine hands and fingers, an androgynous face and voice. She fell for a football player, then a guy in a rock band, and on and on, always breaking up with the stream of jocks, and always getting comfort from me, her favorite friend, because I listened. I listened because I loved her; I always did and always would.

Her laments about the men she dated were always the same, and centred around being told what to do, and always having to bend to the man's likes or dislikes. She would always come to me and ask me if there was something wrong with her. I would always say no, because she had to be herself, or what was the point? And being herself had always meant bossing me around when we were kids, and not submitting to anyone in any way in junior high or later. But that became her curse, and she had even turned to dating women, but that too wasn't working.

She looked slightly disheveled and distressed, pacing back and forth on the doorstep. She had probably just broken up with some other guy or girl last night, or got laid while in a drunken stupor, and wanted to talk about it. It hurt to listen to her sexual exploits. I wanted her, but could never have her.

I sneaked away and waited for Heather to get bored and leave. Then my phone buzzed with a text.

"Where are you?" it said, "I need you."

I ignored it, knowing my excuse would be a dead battery.

After several minutes, I went back to the door and she was gone, but a second message came through.

"Going to the Point and Feather tonight with a few friends. Need you to come."

She was referring to the local pub where we often watched sports and drank ourselves silly. I ignored the text again, and to be sure she wouldn't drop over later, I decided to ignore it for the day. She was a good friend, but because I was Paula today, I knew Heather wasn't THAT good of a friend. Nobody was; I had to bear being Paula alone, always alone. Funny that I could listen to her sexual experimentation, and yet I couldn't share mine with her. I think it was because she at least was having sex with other people; I was not. Other than Paula, that is.

Emergency over and handled, I strolled to my closet. On one side were the clothes that I would wear to work for the rest of the world to see. On the other side were Paula's clothes, the dozens of dresses and skirts and blouses. I bent over to sort through the pairs of high heeled shoes and boots on the floor, choosing a four inch sandal foot pair with elegant straps that I fastened around my ankles. I shivered with the feel of them, my heels forced up so high, and the forced strain on my calf muscles. I looked at the boots I planned on wearing tonight and started to shake with fear and excitement, and even lust. Wait, just wait, I told himself. I shivered again.

For the day, I chose a completely impractical and inappropriate ball gown that I had ordered on e-bay. Surprisingly it had fit me, mainly because it was a sequined stretchy style, with long sleeves scalloped and flared at the wrists, and a skirt that went to the floor, also flared at the ankles. Despite its clingy nature, it was a conservative dress, so that my breasts, upper chest and back and shoulders were all covered. There was a zipper up the back that I struggled with until I finally had it all the way up and the hook and eye closed at the top. The dress pressed against me like "bondage in a dress" and its satiny liner swished against my corset and nylons clingingly as I moved, a perfect lounging dress to caress me for the day.

God, I wanted to masturbate! But I tried to divert my attention from it by turning on the TV. I had hours to kill and I wanted to be excited and femininely tuned for the whole day. Orgasms were wonderful, but they ruined fantasies, disappearing abruptly like bursting balloons, and leaving the pervert behind. Paula would disappear, and the socially unacceptable man in drag staring at himself in the mirror would appear out of the carefully crafted smoke and mirrors. That could wait for the ultimate moment later in the day, at a time and place when and where there was no time to analyze or self-criticize. It would come, but not now.

The day was not how I thought it would be. All I could think about was the evening and the future adventure as Paula, and so I drank some wine with lunch to take the anticipatory edge off a bit. I thought about smoking a joint as well, but I decided to save that, maybe for the adventure, maybe for afterward. The day was figuratively a day of twiddling thumbs, wandering about luxuriating in the corset and dress and high heels, sometimes watching TV, sometimes reading, and eventually surfing the sites on the internet which pertained to my cravings. The internet proved to be the answer for passing the time, as the remainder of the day flew by while finding sites where cross dressers were forced to be slaves for their mistresses, and sometimes humiliated in public while dressed up. I never understood why all that would turn me on so much, but I had long since abandoned self-psychoanalysis, and instead embraced my peculiar tastes, using them as treats for stressful periods in my life.

Now the shadows were long and my excitement intensified to the point of extreme nervousness. Would I remember all the details? I had to. But I also drank wine to lessen the shakiness of my hands. I loved the lipstick prints on the wine glass. I had planned to have a pizza for supper, but my excitement was such that I could only eat two pieces.

Eventually I decided to do the final preparations. Going into the bedroom, I sadly removed my gown and hung it up in the closet. I pulled a more conservative black dress off a hanger and held it up to my body while looking in the mirror. It would be perfect, a long-sleeved satiny brocade dress which I knew would hug my body, and the hem that would reach down to my mid-thigh.

I looked outside. The sun was setting and the wind had died down to a whisper.

I took another sip of wine and felt the corset at my waist. There was room, so I untied it and re-attached the laces to the door knob and did a final tightening. This time I actually blew out my breath while leaning and stepping forward. When I tied it off, I could hardly breathe. Taking another drink of wine, I briefly debated with myself whether or not it was too tight. Then I laughed out loud; a too-tight corset would be like having too much fun...the state didn't exist in my mind.

For the final underwear touch, I removed my bra and pulled a black full-torso corselet out of my drawer and squirmed into it, pulling and tugging and wiggling, finally getting the bra over my breasts and the straps over my shoulders. Despite the tightness of it on my buttocks and lower abdomen below the corset, the straps were stretchy and allowed my breasts much more freedom, and every move I made created a slight bounce. But it wasn't painful, only pleasant and feminine. I often liked to add this over my corset because it smoothed my figure lines a bit more, so there were no edges of underwear showing, creating a smooth flowing silhouette.

The wine was having an effect on me I knew, but I had everything under control. I knew exactly what to do and when to do it. The plan was straightforward. So what if I was feeling the wine. So what.