March of the Southern Belles Chapter One
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March Of The Southern Belles--Chapter Three free porn video
"March of the Southern Belles--Chapter Three"
by Heidi-Jo McGillicuddy
The parade had begun. "Stay in your rows, ladies!" I heard Gretchen
calling from somewhere.
As I stepped up across the slight grade of the parking lot, I lifted the
front of my dress to avoid tripping on it, before turning left onto Main
Street with the rest of the belles in my row. Then I smiled, raising
one gloved arm and revealing the lovely little lavender buttons at my
wrist, and began to wave at the assembled parade watchers.
What had happened to me this morning, anyway? It was all a delicious
blur... just a few short hours ago I had rolled out of bed, hopped into
the shower, sucked down a cup of coffee, yanked on a pair of jeans and a
t-shirt, and dropped off my girlfriend Lisa at the local community
center so she could get dressed up in antebellum finery to march in the
annual Heritage Day Parade.
It was a day off for me--I didn't even bother shaving. My plans for
this morning hadn't really proceeded past the idea that I would need to
somehow traverse the crowds of parade watchers quickly enough to be able
to keep up with Lisa and the rest of the Southern Belles in order to
take plenty of photographs.
Well... I had figured out a way to keep up with Lisa and her sisters,
all right--and all without having to fight the crowds. As I absently
put my hand down on my hoopskirt in an effort to keep it from swaying
too much as I walked, I realized that I was putting a greater and
greater distance between myself and my personal belongings, specifically
my male belongings--my pants, t-shirt, sneakers, keys and wallet,
everything male I owned was piled up in a dressing room back in the
community center.
Everything except for my tube socks, that is. I had those with me,
although not on my feet. Lisa had rolled them up and wedged them into
the bra cups of the tight corset I was wearing. Looking down at myself,
however, they now more closely resembled a feminine swell of bosom
underneath a row of ruffling that stretched across my bodice.
I raised my lavender-gloved arm again, looked over at the throng of
people lining Main Street, and waved at them, being sure to wave my hand
from side-to-side rather than up-and-down. Did any of them suspect I
was a boy? If they did, I saw no surprised glances or double takes that
would seem to indicate it. Mostly I just saw smiling faces; many of the
women in the crowd were waving back to us, their daughters jumping up
and down with glee at our pretty gowns, and the men, especially the
young men, simply seemed to be gawking at us. I knew what they were
thinking; every year I found this explosive display of femininity so
powerful that I could only gape and marvel at the young women who
projected it so effortlessly. I know the thought had never occurred to
me in years past that possibly there was a man in their midst.
Luckily it was a beautiful spring morning. As we continued walking, I
was grateful that there wasn't a cloud in the sky, as I doubted that the
little parasol I had cradled across my right arm would be able to
withstand even a modest drizzle. The summer humidity had yet to arrive,
and there was just enough breeze to keep me cool as I continued up Main
Street, waving and smiling all the way.
Of course part of the charm of hoopskirts is their impracticality, and
the logistics of three dozen of them unfurled in formation occasionally
caused some interesting distractions. Each of our dresses was wide
enough to where I could look down at the streets and see how we were
each taking up an entire lane of traffic--believe me, those petticoats
easily stretched from one set of lines painted on the pavement all the
way over to the next.
Underneath my gown I was wearing a pair of soft, satin, lavender
pantaloons that matched my dress. Every time I needed to pick up my
skirts for some reason, my ankles were clearly visible, ringed with
three rings of lace ruffles along with the flat-soled women's slippers I
was wearing. If wearing a ball gown wasn't girlish enough, if wearing a
wig and makeup wasn't girlish enough, if wearing long satin gloves that
went up past my elbows with little buttons at the wrist wasn't girlish
enough, well...the pantaloons definitely were the icing on the cake,
these frilly, long girlish pants that pretty much could only be worn
underneath a hoopskirt--they really served no other purpose, it seemed,
other than to offer an additional prissy layer of feminine modesty to a
southern belle with a sudden need to publicly adjust her hoops.
And the hoops did tend to require constant attention. At this point I
had been in my hoopskirt for well over an hour, quickly learning their
dos and don'ts out of sheer necessity. Sitting was tricky, although not
impossible; going through doors usually required a gentle squeezing of
hoops, and it was important to make sure all of my skirts were through
the door before it closed behind me. I had yet to walk up a flight of
stairs, although I knew that even a slight grade required a girl to
clutch one of her hoops and lift it--on a flat surface the gowns, even
with all of their material stretched across those five-foot hoops, still
reached the ground.
The hoops also mandated that I keep my elbows bent; letting my arms hang
down loosely only left my hands awkwardly buried in my skirts.
Fortunately keeping my lavender parasol in the crook of my right arm,
the frilly open canopy behind me, kept that arm occupied. As for my
left hand, when I wasn't waving at the masses, I tended to just let my
hover near my waistline, my hand hanging limply at the wrist, instead of
swinging my arms like, well, a man.
The fact of the matter was that wearing all of that female paraphernalia
forced me to move in a more feminine manner. Walking with smaller,
quicker steps proved more hoopskirt-friendly, as too much forward
momentum tended to cause the hoops to dip to the front. If I needed to
pick up my pace, however, I then needed to lift my dress in order to
quickly catch up with her, knowing that I was exposing my prissy, lacey-
ankled bloomers to dozens of spectators.
And yet, for all of that, I found myself in a state of sheer bliss. The
wholly sensual pleasure of wearing and displaying such feminine splendor
was profound. As we continued up Main Street, I began to feel slightly
out of breath, but that was due mostly to the corset I was wearing, and
I found that the enhanced feminine posture it provided me more than made
up for any discomfort. I felt an intense tingling from my satin-tipped
fingers all the way down to my slippers, and I realized as I marched
that I owed it all to my girlfriend, Lisa, who was three rows ahead of
me. It was she who had helped me with my wig and makeup and tied the
hat ribbon under my chin into a fetching floppy bow.
Conniving to dress me as a Southern Belle and slip into the parade was
entirely her doing. It seemed as though the longer I knew her, the more
she seemed to unlock within me. I had nagged her to sign up for the
parade, knowing that there was no way anybody would ever turn away her
natural, warm beauty from such an event, but also because I enjoyed the
fantasy of her wearing all of the accoutrements of a Southern Belle. If
I loved her, it was because she apparently seemed to somehow understand
that in participating in the parade would allow me to not only live out
one of my unspoken fantasies through her, but also because she was the
kind of girl who enjoyed being a girl, who enjoyed expressing herself as
a female, with all of the joys and experiences that went with it.
This is what attracted me to her; if she did wear pants, they were
typically something cute and cropped. She never wore sweats, and
although she wasn't afraid to wear something that flattered her curves,
she was never whorish in her attire. Indeed she worked in a private
club as a hostess, which required her to wear a skirt, hose and heels
every day, which she did without complaint, along with a soft, cream-
colored uniform blouse that I just loved. It had a high neck, yet was
just sheer enough to reveal just a hint of her camisole or bra--provided
she was not wearing the peach uniform jacket that matched her skirt. I
thought she looked marvelous in the suit--I loved the way she felt, all
soft and silky to the touch whenever I hugged her after a long day. I
also enjoyed it whenever she left for work with her hair swept up into a
glamorous twist, away from her face and neck and revealing the delicate
little buttons on the back of her blouse collar; sometimes she would ask
me to help her button all of those back buttons in the morning, and
after putting on all of her clothing and makeup, I was always jealous at
the womanly satisfaction that she projected when she would sit at her
vanity and indulge herself with one last spray of perfume before putting
on her final accessory--a gorgeous string of pearls that had belonged to
her grandmother, and looked even more beautiful when delicately draped
against the bodice of her soft, ivory blouse.
And of course, now, as she marched up in the second row, she looked
effortlessly radiant as she waved at the adoring crowd, not needing to
adjust her skirts as they instinctively accommodated her femininity
(unlike me--I was becoming more feminine to accommodate my skirts!) as
she flashed the crowd her brilliantly beautiful smile and waved
girlishly with a yellow-gloved hand, with the pretty little yellow
buttons at her wrist.
I snapped out of my reverie as I bumped the girl in front of me with my
hoopskirt yet again, which, of course, caused the girl behind me to bump
me with hers as well. Then the girl ahead of me suddenly picked up her
skirts and scurried to catch up with the rest of her row; I giggled,
lifted my hoops, and did the same. Then I glanced over at the crowd and
saw a sea of smiling faces and even a few cameras. They had probably
gotten pictures of my pantaloons just then. I smiled back and waved
with my left arm, my right arm still holding the parasol, its frilly
canopy resting on top of the back of my hoopskirt. I looked across at
the other side of Main Street and saw even more smiling faces, and I
smiled back some more and waved in that direction as well.
I could have marched in my ball gown all day, but alas, as we grew
closer and closer to 20th street and the end of the parade route, I knew
that one of the most thrilling experiences of my life was dwindling
away. I kept waving, however, determined to enjoy every last minute of
the occasion, and the ever-present crowds smiled and waved back. I
looked at all of my sisters around me, and they all looked so
breathtakingly beautiful and feminine...as I raised my arm to wave at a
cluster of little girls, I saw my own puffy little shoulder sleeve raise
in the air...I looked down at myself, at my wide lavender skirts with
all of the fluttering...I clutched my pretty parasol and felt the satin
on my legs...and suddenly I was feeling very...um...needy. Lisa was
only a few yards away, but dressed as we both were, I could only
fantasize about her for the time being...it seemed as though it had only
been a few short minutes since I had been in the men's room, my skirts
fortunately hoisted high...
And then, alas, the parade ended. For the Southern Belles, anyway.
Behind us the bands were still playing and the floats presumably still
rolling past the spectators, but as we went under the traffic light at
the intersection of 20th and Main, Gretchen was standing in front of the
police cars blocking the end of the parade route, frantically waving her
arms, directing us over to the park off to the left.
Our carefully assembled, color-coordinated formation began to fall apart
as we turned. Some of the girls sighed with relief, apparently with
fatigue. "How did you enjoy that?" Brandi, one of the girls in my row,
asked me.
"I loved it!" I exclaimed, and she just laughed.
"I'm just glad it's over with," she said, sounding weary.
Not me, I thought, as I lifted my dress to step up on the curb, and then
I saw Lisa. She was already standing in the grass on the other side of
the sidewalk, grinning broadly at me and twirling her yellow parasol.
Still clutching my skirts, I ran over to her and embraced her, our
hoopskirts askew as I held her as tightly as I could.
"Kiss me," she said.
"In front of everybody?" We were outdoors, after all.
"Oh, fiddle dee dee!" she cried, and suddenly planted her lips on mine.
Below all of my petticoats, my pantaloons stirred some more.
"I see London, I see France..." I heard one of the girls, probably
Carrie, singing. I looked down at my dress, pressed snugly against
Lisa, and realized that my hoops had lifted up in the back. How far, I
didn't know, but I loosened my embrace of Lisa and stepped back.
"I do declare," she announced, "that I need to rest a spell!"
I looked around. There were several park benches, but all of them were
already being used by other Southern Belles, and each bench barely
accommodated two hoopskirts.
Lisa was pulling my gloved hand with her own, and I followed her over to
a patch of bright green grass. I watched as she sank to the ground, her
dress gracefully collapsing in a perfect circle around her. I bent at
the knees as well, and as I lowered myself, I enjoyed the breeze as the
air trapped under my skirt slowly eased through the outer edges of my
petticoat, and the grass felt cool against my legs through the satin
pantaloons.
"How do I look?" I asked. "Is my makeup holding up?"
"Your nose needs powdering," Lisa said, pulling off her left glove.
"Literally?"
She laughed. "You look radiant," she told me.
"So do you," I said.
She dropped her eyes to the ground and blushed. "Thank you," she said.
I watched as she slowly peeled off her other glove, and then coyly
reached down into her cleavage and pulled out a compact. "Lean this
way," she said. I did, and she dabbed at my nose and cheeks with some
powder. "Much better," she said.
"Thank you," I said.
"One more thing," she said, producing a tube of lipstick. "Hold still,"
she said, before expertly tracing it around my lips. "There," she said.
"Thank you," I said. "This has been one of the best days of my life."
"You're welcome, sweetie," she said.
"How did you know?" I asked.
She giggled. "Oh, a girl can just tell," she said and winked.
"I can't wait to get you home," I said.
She opened her mouth and raised a hand to it in mock horror. Then she
smiled naughtily again. "Don't you want to get out of those petticoats,
first?"
"Maybe," I said.
"Maybe," she said.
"Maybe not," I said.
She giggled.
"How are we going to get back to the community center, anyway?" I asked.
"They're chartering a couple of buses."
"You don't think any less of me when you've seen me dressed like this?"
I asked.
She laughed and shook her head. "I think more of you than ever,
sweetie," she said. The sunshine splashed across her face at that
moment, and with that pretty yellow hat and the ribbon tied below her
chin, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. "You make a
beautiful Southern Belle," she said.
"THE BUS IS LEAVING, LADIES!" Gretchen was calling.
"Yikes," Lisa and I said in unison. As quickly as we could, we both got
back onto our feet, picked up our parasols and attempted to straighten
our skirts back out over our hoops.
"UNLESS YOU LADIES WANT TO WALK BACK!" Gretchen shouted.
I wouldn't have minded walking back, but for Lisa's sake I picked up my
skirts and followed her over to the waiting buses. The rest of the
girls were already on the buses, watching us, probably giggling at my
pantaloons.
"I'll need those parasols," Gretchen said, holding out her hand.
Lisa handed hers to Gretchen, and so did I. Reluctantly. She gave me a
sympathetic look and said, "There's two seats left in there," pointing
to the bus.
"Ladies first," I said to Lisa, and smiling she lifted her skirts and
pushed her way though the narrow door and up the steps onto the bus. I
followed, and as I lifted my skirts I noticed the driver idly staring at
my legs with an odd half-smile on his face, not even looking at my face.
Lisa had found a seat near to the center of the bus and her skirts were
ballooned around her, but I was able to scrunch mine in next to her as
the bus pulled away from the park.
"I can't wait to get back to that dressing room," I said to her quietly.
She lifted an eyebrow. "Why? You can't wait to take off your pretty
gown?"
"Not that," I said. "I can't want to be alone with you." My voice
dropped to a whisper. "I'm about to explode," I told her quietly.
Her mouth silently formed an O shape, before she licked her lips
carefully and whispered back, "Sweetie?"
"What?"
"I need to tell you something?"
"What?" I asked again.
"We're not going back to the community center."
"We're not?"
She shook her head. "Not yet," she said. "Right now they're taking us
over to the Ladies' Auxiliary for the annual Brunch with the Belles.
Remember?"
Suddenly I did. If I had written it off before, it was because the
brunch was an event to which I had not been invited. Apparently my
participation in the parade had changed all of that...
TO BE CONTINUED
Mikhaela
- 13.04.2020
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March of the Southern Belles Chapter Five
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March of the Southern Belles Chapter Four
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