Spectacle 1
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Spectacle Part 2 free porn video
SPECTACLE (PART TWO)
Copyright Tracy Lane / Transfemme 2002/2003.
All rights reserved.
4
Reaching up, I took a black garter-belt off a clip-hanger.
It was an intricate web of midnight lace, woven into
complex floral patterns. Six adjustable suspenders hung
from the red-trimmed belt, their cleats covered with
precious scarlet bows. It was an extraordinary piece;
regular belts only have four garters, but my Mother has a
passion for the unusual. Needless to say, it was hauntingly
beautiful.
My breath caught in my throat as I fastened the luxurious
fragment into place. It sat taut against my nipped waist, a
translucent strip of sheer decadence. Cool, teasing fingers
seemed to drift over my naked flesh as I started toying
with the straps, stretching them down to mid-thigh, then
releasing them with a satisfyingly loud snap! Moistening my
lips, I sank into the depths of my fantasy. I could almost
feel my body change and melt beneath my gently probing
palms...
Surfacing for air a few minutes later, I selected a pair of
tan stockings from the chest of drawers. The choice of
colour was an impulse; I normally wore black denier when
indulging in one of my performances. But today was unique.
In some obscure way, I was crossing some sort of boundary;
one I'd never realised existed until now. Placing my right
foot on the padded stool, I slipped the hose over my toe
and drew it carefully up my calf.
Attaching the stockings was a complicated process
(particularly since the belt had an extra set of
suspenders). My hands shook as I adjusted the straps into
position. Cross-dressing is a kind of agony: a sweet,
sensuous torment that leaves you breathless with yearning.
The stockings seemed to soften the shape of my legs while
accentuating their natural curvature. I smoothed them out
against my thighs, tugging gently at the insubstantial
material.
The racks above me were slung with lingerie of every
description; slips and camies, basques and corselets,
French-cuts and bikinis. Rising up on tip-toe, I started
searching through the hangers for a matching set of bra and
briefs, one which would complement the garter belt
perfectly. A minute later, I found precisely what I wanted.
Placing the brassiere on top of the drawers, I paused to
study the underwear a little more closely. They were a pair
of wickedly high-cut thong panties; diaphanous black satin
edged with a brazen red trim. The triangle was a mass of
insolent scarlet frills; the waist band was encrusted with
tiny rose petals. They looked almost insufferably naughty
stretched between my fingers. And I couldn't wait a moment
longer to try them on!!
A huge smile stole across my face as I bent over and
stepped into the thong, wriggling my tushie as I slipped
them up my slender, stockinged thighs. The lace brushed
against the denier, sending a thrill through my entire
nervous system. I looked into the mirror, simmering with
rapture. This was the most wonderful part of my dressing
ritual. Drawing on a pair of panties was like assuming an
entirely new body. A soft, yielding body, pliant and
sensuous.
I ran my fingers over my stomach, tracing little circles
around my belly button. Lips parted in near-ecstasy, I
began to undulate slowly in the mirror, my hair spilling
down my chest like a blond avalanche. I closed my eyes,
caressing myself with gentle, questing strokes. And once
again, I experienced that sense of change - of
transformation - as if my form was shifting and running
beneath my fingers.
Long minutes rolled by. Time seemed to spin out into some
infinite blue void, where I drifted on a sea of
immeasurable joy. The whole world seemed to fold and bend
around me, and for one infinite moment, I felt as though I
were falling - falling so deep and fast that I would never
stop. Falling, perhaps, through the finely woven mesh of
the universe itself.
Drawing back from the brink of climax, I opened my eyes and
leaned against the wall. Hangers clashed and fell from the
rack; I ignored them. I was breathless with exhaustion.
Large indigo flowers seemed bloom across my field of
vision. I willed my pulse down to a more acceptable level,
gradually collecting my wits. What had just happened to me?
I'd visited the Alcove at least a dozen times over the last
two years, and although I'd often felt its subtle magic,
the sensation had never been this ... intense.
The mirror continued to hover beside the antique chest,
daring me to peer into its crystal depths one more time.
And I did.
I was beautiful.
More beautiful than I'd ever imagined, more beautiful than
a boy has the right to be. A delicate, rose tint suffused
my face, neck and shoulders. My lips looked darker than
black cherries. My eyes were wide, glittering emeralds
flecked with diamond highlights. My trim, girlish figure
seemed to have altered in the Alcove's muted atmosphere.
Arms a little rounder, waist a little thinner, hips a
little wider. Even my features - effeminate though they
already were - seemed to have softened into an ageless,
childlike pout.
Yes, beautiful.
If only I could look this way all the time, I thought
wistfully, picking up the brassiere and sliding my arms
through the straps. I'd wanted to be a girl most of my
life, and I would have traded almost anything to have my
wish granted. That was my concept of paradise, the image I
took to bed with me every night: to suddenly wake up young,
female and stunningly attractive. What more could a boy
possibly want?
Reaching back, I clipped the bra into place, then made some
minor adjustments across the chest and shoulders. Like the
panties, it was a tight fit - far more constrictive than
I'd expected. Mum wasn't a big lady by any means, although
she'd always worn a c-cup as far as I knew. Her bras
usually hung limp across my flat chest. By contrast, this
one felt at least two sizes too small.
Still watching myself in the mirror, I swept my hair back
over my shoulder to give myself an unobstructed view of the
brassiere - and everything else I was wearing, of course.
Striking a catwalk pose, I planted my hands on my hips and
admired my reflection from a variety of angles.
And was struck speechless by what I saw.
5
The girl looking back at me was utterly breathtaking.
Her long, shapely legs bent slightly inward at the knees,
their supple length exaggerated by the tense black
suspenders. The red lace trimming the garter belt was
garishly bright, as were the frills on her flimsy little
panties. And strangely, in the dim lamplight of the Alcove,
she seemed to have large, ripening breasts filling out the
low-cut bra she wore. It was an illusion of course, a trick
of the light and a feverish imagination. I was looking at a
pretty teenaged girl in her underwear. One with my face and
form
No, not exactly. There were differences, ones that should
have seemed obvious from the start. Her face was
captivating. Coy, tender, and totally innocent, the face of
a Botticelli Venus. Her eyes were pools of demure laughter.
She smiled, her teeth flashing brilliantly in the mirrored
gloom, and I suddenly knew she wasn't as innocent as I'd
first supposed. No: she was naughty, terribly naughty, and
she revelled in it. I watched, fascinated, as she dropped
me a teasing, little-girl wink, the kind that could bring a
grown man to his knees weeping tears of desire. She was the
most mischievous creature I'd ever seen, standing there in
her bra and panties and nebulous tan stockings.
I turned completely sideways, examining myself in profile.
And realised something was wrong.
No - not something.
Everything.
The girl in the mirror had breasts.
It wasn't a trick of the light; some hallucination sparked
by adolescent daydreams and a rush of endorphins. Two
large, perfectly formed breasts were straining the
underwire cups to the breaking point. Smooth, alabaster
flesh overflowed the flimsy black lace. My mouth gaped in
open astonishment; my hands flew up to confirm what my mind
simply couldn't accept. And suddenly, I understood why
Mum's bra had felt so tight.
I had breasts.
"Oh dear GOD!!" I cried in alarm, stepping away from the
mirror.
There was no mistake. My hands were fondling a pair of
lush, firm orbs; I could feel their engorged tips swelling
against my fingers. How could I have missed them before?! I
should have noticed while I was putting on the bra, easing
myself into the cups and re-adjusting the shoulder straps.
It wasn't the kind of thing a teenaged boy could ignore -
even a cross-dresser like myself. Breasts don't grow on
trees, and they certainly don't bloom on pubescent males,
no matter how effeminate they happen to be. My head was
reeling in confusion. This was crazy. I was crazy, I must
have been.
But I wasn't. Somehow, I knew I wasn't losing my sanity.
This was really happening. I had undergone some kind of
metamorphosis, right here in my Mother's dressing room. My
entire body had transformed, altered - right down to the
width of my hips, the texture of my skin, the contours of
my lips...
And a rather unpleasant thought occurred to me. A notion so
frightening that I could barely bring myself to consider
it.
"Mother of God," I whispered, looking down.
6
Standing closer to the make-up table, I lowered both hands
to my panties, gingerly hooking my thumbs through the hip
straps. There really was no other alternative. Sooner or
later, I would have to find out how extensive the
transition had been, whether I'd become completely female.
There were, of course, a thousand other questions crowding
my mind, but they'd have to wait. Right now, there was
nothing more important than this. I had to know.
Still, I hesitated. The implications were overwhelming.
What if my fears were right? What would I do? How could I
explain this to Mum (Mummy) when she returned from Aunt
Lizzie's (Liesa's)? Maybe she wouldn't even recognise me -
nobody would, I'd changed so much. No one would believe my
story, they'd call me a liar, a freakshow. I'd end up in a
padded cell! Things were happening too fast; I wasn't
prepared for this. Only five minutes before, I had wished
for just such a miracle (if only I could look this way all
the time), but right now, faced with the possibility that I
might be trapped in a female body...
I was afraid.
I wavered back and forth, trying to find a solution, and
alternative, a way out of this insurmountable paradox.
There was none. I was paralysed with fear, shaking on the
verge of tears. Why had this happened to me? All I'd wanted
was a holiday from myself, a chance to act out a few of my
idle fancies. I was a boy for God's sake, a boy! I didn't
want to be a girl!!
(yes, you do)
(no I DONT)
(yes you do: if only I could look this way all the time)
Inhaling a long, steadying breath, I stared into the mirror
and began to ease my panties down. My heart was thundering
in my throat (though with excitement or terror, I couldn't
tell). The frilled waistband slipped down my hips with
infinite slowness, revealing the truth an inch at a time.
The newly exposed skin was very pale, almost white. I could
see the traces of a bikini line curving down my lower
belly.
I stood very, very still, hardly daring to breath. An
inexplicable sense of calm was descending over me. I took
the panties down another inch, revealing a haze of silky,
blond pubic hair - so fine and downy as to be virtually
invisible. From this distance I looked nude, untouched.
Below this, the ivory flesh folded over into a tiny,
dimpled cleft - pure, pristine, and absolutely virginal.
And that was all I needed to see. I could already feel my
features tainting with a fine, pink blush.
I was a girl.
To be continued.
E-mail me for Part 3.
Avriella
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