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Marcia
Chapter 1
Mother was easily the most beautiful woman in the entire world.
She wouldn't admit it. Every time that I told her that, she would
laugh in a very pleased tone of voice, and kiss me or brush my
hair back. Sometimes she would cup my cheeks in her perfect
fingers before she kissed me, and the blood red fingernail polish
that she favored would contrast strikingly with the peachy smooth
skin of my countenance.
I knew that she loved me and she lived for me.
"Love demands sacrifices," she would say, sometimes in an
irritated tone when she had to go out yet again in the evening.
But, at other times, she would say the same words in a soft,
soothing tone that communicated better than words how willingly
she labored so hard for us.
I accepted it, but a part of me always protested; though I
muffled the protest way down inside, for I knew that it would
have saddened her for any lack of acceptance to peek out. I'm
sure that she knew, however, for all my caution. Even though what
little time we could spend together was somewhat diminished by
her general fatigue, for she didn't spare herself in any way to
impress Ms. Washington, the owner of the agency, and to advance
the business.
We both treasured even a quiet dinner at home together with a
rented movie. These moments were all too rare, and usually Mother
had just time to eat a hasty meal (which I strove to make as
nourishing as possible), and to bathe and make yet another social
engagement with a client or potential client.
I often thought that there were just the two of us, but then I
would correct myself, reminding myself, that all too often, there
was just the one of us. At home, at least. And Mother trusted me
a lot, much more than most thirteen-year-old boys could ever be
trusted.
I'd been cooking and doing the laundry since I was ten. Actually,
I had started doing the laundry even younger. I had started doing
the shopping for groceries, as well: it was such a help to
Mother. And how, you ask, could a boy of that age do the grocery
shopping? Well, where there is a will, there is a way.
Every two weeks I would call a taxi. It wasn't that far, and if
you stood and looked helplessly at the entire back seat and trunk
full of groceries, the driver would usually help you take them in
the house.
I cleaned as well and knew how to handle Mother's delicate items
in the laundry. Which needed to be hand washed, and the setting
of the machines for the others. Was I embarrassed to be handling
my Mother's intimate apparel? Of course not! They were her one
major indulgence on our budget, and she gained a lot of self-
confidence and esteem from her carefully garnered elite
treasures.
Besides, I had worn cotton panties as long as I could remember.
At the age of five, I was beginning to manifest the first
beginnings of the "bubble butt" that was a hereditary endowment
from the males on my Father's side of the family. As I grew
older, I often questioned Mother about it.
"Did Daddy have a rump like mine, Mother?"
"Yes," she would reply.
She didn't tell me until a great deal later that he wore panties
as well. When he was taken from the crushed vehicle that claimed
his life, he was wearing them under his suit. I think that my
Grandfather wore them as well. But (if you want to think that
this pun is intentional, please feel at liberty), I can tell you,
from personal experience, that panties fit a very great deal
better on the shape of my buttocks and hips than ordinary boy
briefs would.
At the age of thirteen, I measured myself with a sewing tape, and
so I can definitely say that my waist was twenty-three inches and
my hips were thirty-four. That was the age I began to exercise to
hold them down. I mean, really! So now, as I write this, they've
been held with a great deal of effort to thirty-six.
Because of this prominent feature of my anatomy, I was extremely
self-conscious about wearing anything that was not loose and
form-disguising. I adopted the "gym" look, opting for sweats that
were at least two sizes too big. They draped over me and hung
down in baggy folds. Most of the tops had hoods, and I grew
rather adept at slipping about like a monk engaged in espionage.
It was handy to wear Mother's tennis shoes as well.
Long hair meant fewer trips to the barbershop. My mother gave in
to my desire to look like the popular singers of the day, and
allowed me to grow it long. After a period of increasing neglect
of my part, resulting in tangled strands and desultory attempts
at shampooing, Mother took me to her hairdresser.
A sweet and motherly woman, Nancy taught me how to take care of
my hair. My hair grew quite long even for a girl, falling below
my buttocks slightly.
In my grooming, I was guided by an ideal that was centered around
my Mother. I'd watched her prepare herself to leave the house
countless times, and the picture of her voluptuous figure perched
on her dressing stool in front of her vanity is a picture I'll
always remember.
She was the very paragon of feminine pulchritude. Others may
idealize movie stars and other celebrities, but I have never seen
one that even came close to my Mother. I do admit to being
slightly prejudiced.
Because I did the laundry and put things away, I frequently
helped her dress. I could generally locate a given article of
clothing a little quicker than she could. There was an innocence
about this that may seem incongruous, but it wasn't incestuous in
any way. It was more comparable to a mother and daughter. As time
went on, she leaned on my opinion of her appearance, and the
times we got her ready to go out were precious times together.
I was thirteen when I first tried on some of her silky panties. I
was standing in the laundry room by the washing machine and had
retrieved a pair when it occurred to me to wonder how they felt.
I immediately acted upon this impulse, removing my lower sweat
pants and my normal panties. I then stepped into hers and was an
enthusiast for life, as simple as that.
I'd already been using Mother's hair removal cream in the shower,
not that I had much hair to lose. I liked the smooth feeling all
over, and the bathing oils and bubble bath balls, which Mother
used, kept my skin soft.
On the day that I tried on the pair of Mother's panties, I ran up
the stairs in that ridiculous sweatshirt and lace-paneled pair of
full briefs that fitted me a little loosely, for Mother was a
size larger in the rump than I. I wanted to experience the
feeling of stockings on my legs. Choosing one of her garter belts
(white), which were a little smaller than others, I drew it up
and rolled up silky lace stockings to attach to the dangling
ribbon and ruffled straps. It fit me to perfection and pleased me
immensely. I then discarded the sweatshirt and tried one of
Mother's brassieres, a lacy, white, seamless creation that fit my
shoulders just right without any adjustment of the shoulder
straps. In spite of this, the rumpled bosom cups ruined the
entire effect. I made an effort to fill them with other articles
of lingerie, but wasn't pleased with the effect.
The imprint of my Mother's beautiful bosom in her underwear was
too firmly printed in my mind for me to be satisfied with this
inadequate substitution. I removed the brassiere and donned a
dressing gown. Slipping my feet into a pair of Mother's everyday
pumps, I went about my housework, and wondered what to do. If I
passed a reflection from a mirror or the glass door that showed
me from the waist down, I was quite pleased and constantly
reveled in the silkiness, the tug of the garter and stockings,
the feel of stepping on a toe and coming down on an elevated
heel. I looked good and felt good - on the lower half of my body.
I avoided looking at the top reflection.
When Mother came home for supper, I had on my usual sweats with a
pair of her lavender tennis shoes. Underneath, her clothing was
still all there, for I could not scarcely bear to remove it.
After a while, when Mother had gone out again, I dressed as
before and went to bed still wearing the lingerie with a
beautiful white peignoir.
As usual, Mother did not check on me during the night and I awoke
before her as usual. Slipping around in bed, I slipped my
stocking-clad limbs into two-inch white satin mules that I'd
placed there the night before. I then performed my personal
toilet, attired in this way. Although I regretted to change, I
dressed as at supper and prepared breakfast.
That was the day that I found an unusual catalogue in Mother's
boxes of mail-order offerings. There was something about this
printed material that was different from the rest. It aspired to
supply the needs of mastectomy females, but I believe, in
hindsight, that it was a discreet way to call attention to the
desires of transvestites.
An expensive attention. A very expensive attention because at
that time, they were over four hundred dollars for a pair. But
what a description!
"Feel lifelike to the touch, with nipples that stiffen when
moisture is applied to them. Nipples are connected to your
natural anatomy with gentle clamps from the concave side. Watch
battery is included. Attached with body adhesive. Included with
removal solvent. Filled with semi-liquid silicone that accurately
mimics the human bosom in every way. Order in the cup size of
your choice: A, B, C, D, and DD."
I began to scheme. I already had over $310 that was the result of
rigorous sacrifice. The objective of this hoard changed
constantly, much to my Mother's amusement. But, unbeknown to her,
it ceased to vacillate at that moment, and I bent every effort
toward squeezing the remaining amount out of the household
allowance. It took a month, but finally the day came when I
bought a postal money order for the correct amount and ordered
the merchandise.
I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room of rocking
chairs, for I kept seeing Mother get to the house and retrieve
the mail before I could get there.
She would open this, and I could imagine her sating, "what isssss
thissss?"
In one version of this, I, exempt from the laws of physics and
matter, would actually sink through the floor to... Well, I
don't know where, but it would surely be supremely undesirable.
In another scenario, I just dissolved away, rather like a vapor.
But fortunately, this didn't happen, for one day I discovered
what surely had to be 'The Box' in our mail, and tossing all the
other mail on the kitchen table, I fled to my room.
There were no surprises because it was just as the catalogue had
promised. They were so real in appearance, in touch - so...
perfect that it made my eyes water.
They were mine, and it was too late to try them at that point
because my Mother was due home shortly. Thrusting the package in
my bureau drawer, I rushed downstairs and completed preparation
of the meal. Mother was just a little early, and I had to rush
upstairs again, thankful that the carpet on the stairs muffled
the sound of my pumps.
Mother didn't go out that night, and we watched a movie together.
I was rather distracted, seeking surreptitious glances at her
bosom, and indulging in flights of imagination, which I fervently
hoped to soon realize. I could tell that Mother thought I did not
care for the movie. I peeked at the wonderful parcel before I
went to sleep.
Mid-morning found me ready to embark on a new form and shape. The
day had dawned shining and gorgeous, the perfect weather for a
young boy to don a woman's bosom.
Said, privileged, young male, though with a decidedly feminine
rump, was prepared to initiate the ritual. After housework, a
thorough bathing with another application of Nair, which was
hardly needed. Then, dressed appropriately in the lower
extremities, I, the long-haired youth (with that hair wrapped in
a beehive upon his head), carefully traced outline of the
feathered edges of each breast form upon his slender little chest
and under the arm of each side.
This was done with eyeshadow, and then the solvent was applied to
the chest and the edges of each breast form. The first was
finished and held in place the requisite time; then the second,
and I resolutely refused to gaze into Mother's vanity mirror
until all was complete.
I was expecting to be impressed, but it went further than that.
It was almost shocking - how my chest had... blossomed. The
chest was full of bosom, ripe, swollen, and thrusting into a
consummate maturity around the bursting little pink nipple of
each breast. The weight was a surprise that had not been
imagined, and the new width of my chest, as the bosom swelled
under the armpit, was significantly bigger. I could not take my
eyes off them. My nipples under the nipples of the breast form
were firmly pinched by the padded alligator clamps.
It was time for a brassiere, but then I found that I could not
figure out how to capture my suddenly sprouted bosom in the cups
of the underwear. In my awkward attempts, which would have been
greatly comical to any objective observer, I finally hit on the
technique of leaning forward and snugging my dangling bosom in
the lacy cups of the brassiere. Then rising to my feet, I posed
before a floor length mirror in Mother's room and felt the thrill
of complete satisfaction. I was ever bit as rounded and curvy as
Mother.
The housework that day was a joy. Wearing one of Mother's
everyday dresses, a silky polka-dotted creation with a sweetly-
pleated skirt, and wearing everyday office pumps with a three-
inch heel, I flew through the tasks. I'd very carefully applied
lipstick that morning at Mother's dressing table, and I felt very
finished, polished, and elegant. The beautiful young woman with
the mature form had such a young face, I thought, as I ironed
Mother's blouses.
And then, just for the fun of it, I stepped out of the dress,
admiring my reflection in the lacy slip, and slipped on a silk
blouse, noting with approval the good fit and the suggestion of
slip straps and brassiere beneath.
My panty line showed very faintly beneath the full skirt of the
slip, and I smiled at the full roundedness of my buttocks. It
would be a great joy to try everything in Mother's closet - and
she had such good taste! But duty called, so I donned the dress
again and went back to ironing.
It wasn't until late afternoon that the dilemma struck me. I
couldn't appear before Mother as I was now! The thought filled me
with dismay. I most definitely didn't want to remove my new
bosom.
Already, the thought of doing so was assuming the proportions of
having a mastectomy operation myself. The idea was so abhorrent!
But... what to do?
Finally, I decided to duck the issue for the evening, at least,
by leaving a note by Mother's supper, pleading a headache and
promising to do the dishes in the morning, and retiring early.
Having reached this decision, I had the supreme satisfaction of
slowly undressing before my floor length mirror. The junction of
each breast form and my chest was so fine as to be nearly
invisible in the early twilight, and
I gave a shiver of excitement as I stood before the mirror in
heels, stockings, garter belt, and panties, and pulled a silky
nightie over myself. The nipples of the breasts poked against the
cups of the nightgown, and caused me to shiver with pleasure.
Once again, removing just the heels after carefully placing the
bedroom mules beside the bed, I carefully slipped into bed,
savoring each sensual feeling. And then I was surprised at the
nature of my new bosom again, for my breasts flattened and spread
just slightly toward the outsides of my chest. It was so
unexpected and so sweetly beautiful that tears came to my eyes.
Gert
- 19.11.2021
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