A Fresh StartChapter 59 Colonel Featherstone
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Crushed On The Inside By The Outside: Part One-Born At Thirteen free porn video
PLEASE NOTE - All characters in this story are fictional,
and thus any resemblance with real people is entirely
fictional, and I apologise in advance. I hope you enjoy
this tale, and please review when finished. I would love to
hear any comments. It has been broken into more digestible
chunks, making it easier read for some people.Anyway,
enough of this mindless banter, let us continue with the
story
CHAPTER ONE-SELF REALISATION
Black. Not even a colour. However it was this that was the
main contingency of my room. I lay on my bed with its black
and simply thought. I was a thirteen-year-old boy, I was
allowed to sit and think, I thought. I had even more right,
feeling I had the mind of an eighteen-year-old. After all,
being a social reject, there was nothing more to do than
sit up in my room, listen to music and absorb information
projected from the Internet. But on this day I thought
about my life, and my inside.
Living in a house with two women, I guess it is a wonder
why took up this outcast role in society. I would have been
more accepted, surely, if I had been a flamboyant and
overtly homosexual. At least the "in" crowd of girls would
accept me. However, I had only one real friend in my life.
Michelle was like me in many ways. Smart, black humoured
and very open minded. She also, like me, rarely contributed
in class, despite the fact we could answer all questions.
She simply talked quietly to me at the back about general
things. When we did make the brief foray into class
discussion, it was usually a sarcastic or satirical
comment, which the teacher dismissed, being it being too
far advanced for normal classes of our age. We talked after
school as well. It would be a budding romance, it not for
the pain inside of me craving to reveal itself.
I took a look at myself in the mirror over my desk, which
was clogged with rustic and ancient looking books, in
addition to the usual school books. The reflection staring
back at me was of a boy, with should length black hair. It
was dyed black, of course. My natural colour was actually
quite a rich blond. The hair was very stringy and quite
knotted, unmistakably masculine. I had not had a hair cut
and rarely condition the hair, leaving it in a state that
any girl would never let her own slip into. I had heavy
white foundation, thick black eyeliner, inexpertly done,
but this made it look even more masculine, heavily applied
black lipstick and several piercing placed sporadically
around my face. I was clothed in a black top, with straps
crossing at the front and mesh sleeves. My finger nails
were reasonably long, but unmanaged and painted black. This
make-up, I now thought, was part of my inner-self. While,
yes, still masculine makeup, it was still makeup. For I
knew what my inner self was.
My inner self was a girl. This was not solely my soul, my
spirit, but also my brain. I was a very sensitive,
understanding child. But this was hidden under the
masquerade I was portraying on the outside. However, I was
not, I felt, an outcast, rejected gothic teenage boy, but a
normal, feminine teenage girl. These thoughts had been
troubling me in some way ever since I emerged from the
womb. But they had taken a more prominent role in my life
when I was 8, and have in the past year become an essential
part of me-my passion and need to become the person I
really was.
CHAPTER 2-THE ACTIONS
As a great man once said "Drastic times call for drastic
measures" and I felt that in my time of need these words
would need to be taken on board. I remember what I wanted
to fulfil my dream. My first real conscious attempt at
crossdressing came when I was twelve years of age. As
previously mentioned, I lived in a house where I was the
only male. My mother was a beautiful woman in her time, but
age, the stress of working as an accountant and giving
birth to two children, along with her ever-spiralling
alcoholism had taken its toll. Her blond hair was slightly
out of condition, her eyes had constant black bags under
them and her face was descending in that of a labyrinth of
wrinkles.
She still dressed impeccably, in female suits and skirt,
and always with make up on, the try to hide the her ageing.
My sister was much like my mother. Amanda, or Mandy for
short, was a fifteen-year-old girl whose blond hair was
impressively styled. She was a thin teen; her hourglass
figure accentuated by the clothes that she wore. She took
great care in her appearance, spending hours each morning
ensuring she was hairless, and that her makeup was to an
acceptable standard.
Claire, my mother, worked as hard as she could and then
some, to ensure we were supported. She was addicted to
work, some would say, and would spend long hours in her
office. This left her children, Amanda and her son who they
had christened Liam, a name descending from my father's
Irish roots, a lot of time alone while left to their own
devices. It was on one such evening that I first tried on
female apparel.
I had spent ages in a corner of a room, apparently
disinterested, while my female family did their make up,
got dressed or styled their hair. I felt I became pretty
good at it. At that time my hair was pretty short so I
decided not to style it, or indeed do any makeup, as I was
not entirely sure when my mother or my sister would be
back. My sister was, as you probably would imagine, at
cheerleader practise, and she then was to back to a
friend's place. I had harboured thoughts that she might be
a lesbian, but never thought to follow it up. She had never
had a proper boyfriend, but seemed very close to her
friends, and spent a lot of time over their houses.
I crept into my sister's room and gently moved through her
drawers. I did not want to see anything fancy; I just
wanted to see what I looked like as a normal teenage girl.
I pulled on a bra I found, it was black and made of cotton
with a silk lining in the cut. I found a matching thong on
the floor and pulled it on. It fitted, but as I stood there
I noticed my testicles poking out at the front. I really
needed a way to stop that happening. I put on her black
dress that she used for special nights out. Her high
heeled, 3-inch shoes were in the corner. I put my feet into
them and moved towards her full-length mirror.
Although I had not hit the onset of puberty at the time, I
was still a little boy in a dress. My short hair, my non-
figure and a lack of breasts made it stand out. However, I
was impressed at my legs, which were hairless and quite
feminine. This inspired me to take more measures. Over the
weekends I would buy a selection of clothes and continued
to dress until I improved. But still, there was not
difference, no matter what I brought. I was still a boy in
a dress.
When puberty eventually did set it, I ceased these efforts
in a fit of depression. Hair was growing all over
uncontrollably and I didn't think to shave it off. My
voice, however, did not break-which I felt was an
advantage. In this time, I became more interested in the
occult- not the most appropriate subject for a thirteen
year old. But with Michelle and I becoming increasingly
closer and interested in the same things, it seemed a
natural progression from the harsh music I was listening
to.
I never thought that my first attempt at makeup application
would be as a guy would be, but there it was. That
confirmed my ghostly outward appearance and satisfied me in
some way inside, although I did not know what it was. But I
knew that my inner gender was gradually eating away at me
in the inside.
At this time, I again was sitting there on my bed,
thinking. I was naked. Unlike most teen of my fashion and
persuasion, I did not contemplate suicide. That would only
inflict more pain on the people around me, and would not
fulfil my ambition. Instead I sat there, a knife in my
hand, poised over the tip of my penis. That would solve all
my problems, if that prophetic phallus were ridded from my
groin. There were storied of people being given the sex of
their choice when genitalia injured occurred. Then I could
live the life I wanted to in peace, without bothering
anyone.
I lifted the knife above and closed my eyes. I could feel
tears welling up inside of them. Questions penetrated my
mind. How much would it hurt? How long before the bleeding
subsided? What would my mother say? Would she allow me to
be a girl? It was at this thought that I threw down my
knife in tears. I shrouded my body in my covered and sat
there whimpering, eventually crying myself to sleep, my
head bedded in my pillow.
That episode was permanent, had I gone through with it. Did
I want a permanent change? The answer to that was simply
yes. So I stand here now, now with my shirt taken off,
staring in the mirror at a chest bound by three thick rolls
of bandages.
CHAPTER 3- PARENTAL CONFESSION
I needed to tell my mother about the changes I had taken
upon my self over the past year or so. I had stolen her
credit card and securely ordered a set feminising hormones
via the Internet. She rarely checked the bill; she had no
time, and simply paid it off. The effects had taken visible
effects. It had stopped my hair growth on my legs and pubic
area- however I had not found the time to shave it off yet.
My waist had slightly increased, giving me a teenage
hourglass figure. My voice still had not broken, but with
my skills could make out that it had. The hair on my head
had grown more feminine- or it would have if I had taken
care of it.
The most apparent change, of course, was a budding pair of
teenage breasts. At first, a swelling around my nipples
occurred, followed by an increase in the flesh around it.
It could successfully fill a nice 28b cup, making it a lot
harder to constrict the breasts. I was not quite sure why
the effects had taken over so quickly, but inside I was
thankful that I did. Now it was the problem of how to tell
my mother. Although these effects were taking place, and I
was continuing to buy female clothes and accessories, I had
not actually dressed up fully as a girl. It may have been a
fear that maybe the cash had not been paid off fully, but I
felt that that was the way to break it to her.
I quietly left my room and went into the bathroom, ensuring
no-one saw me carrying a bag into there. I stripped leaving
only my y-fronts and breast constrictors on and stood in
front of the mirror. I took from my bag a razor and started
to get to work on my body hair. I steadied my hand,
realising that this would be the last time there would be
hair on my legs. I moved up and down my legs, making sure
every last hair was removed. I started on the back, moving
to my backside. I gently went over my face with it. Now
completely hairless to those looking at me, apart from my
head. I ran a bath and took down my underwear. I set my
faithful razor to work; again making sure I could get the
closest shave.
The water was still running. As I felt my body I was
relieved. I was a hairless, feminine woman from the head
down. With that thought in mind I held my small penis and
testicles in my hand (another effect of the hormones) and
tucked them back into my body. I pulled my penis back
between my legs and taped it down with some tape I found in
a class a school. I stepped in to the bath, now totally
flat and smooth in front and washed the hair from my body.
I submerged my head in the both and washed the black dye
from my hair. I shampooed it and for the first time
conditioned it. I stepped from the dark bath and dried
myself with an available towel. I brushed my hair and I sat
on a stool next to our mirror and styled my now-blond hair
as best I could. Eventually I found a well-held feminine
style, brushed and swept from one side. The natural
lowlights due to lack of light made it even more feminine.
I took out the make up box that I brought a week
previously. I went about applying a nice, natural
foundation to my face, hiding all of my blemishes on it. I
carefully took out dark eyeliner and neatly applied it. My
eyes were complete after a slight touch of mascara. I set
about working on my lips. I used lipliner, in a natural
colour, and then put an equally natural lipstick. I added
some gloss to give it a feminine shine. I repeated the
process for it to last, and I looked back at the face
staring back at me. It was the face of a young, teenage
girl. No longer the Goth at the back of the class they
called Liam. Now here was the birth of a beautiful girl by
the name of Louisa.
I raised and undid the bandages on my breast. They escaped
and bounced done in front of me, fresh and full. I touched
and felt them a couple of times, just to ensure everything
was all right. I felt in my bag for a new bra. It was white
with lace line, with flowers imbedded in the design. I
gently lowered my seemingly light legs into its matching
pair of panties. My ass gave a slight shake, which made me
feel proud. I pulled over my head a rather ticket white T-
shirt, which accentuated MY feminine features. I pulled on
a pair of flared jeans, which were a rich blue in colour. I
tightened them with a white studded belt, making them cling
to my bottom. I slipped steadily into some black pumps,
which opens toes.
I was finished. I stood silent, looking at myself in the
mirror. This was how my mother was going to see me. I could
hear music still coming from my room. The voice of Trent
Reznor sang.
Help me, I'm broke upon my inside.
Help me, I've got no soul to tell.
Help me, the only thing that works from me.
Help me get away from my self"
I steadied my breathing and said in my naturally high-
pitched voice: "Mom, I need to tell you something."
TO BE CONTINUED..
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