Anthea s baby 1
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The Shivers free porn video
(Almost all of this story is true. The variety and quality of the
clothing and shoes is a fantasy, but the activities and sensations are
all based on real experiences.)
The Shivers
I always got the shivers about an hour before I was to be left alone.
They started in my backbone and shook me from my torso to my neck. I
must have appeared to be having an epileptic fit. In fact, I did get
mild seizures fairly often, but I don't know if they were related to the
shivers. All I'm sure of is that the shivers never failed to hit me when
I was close to having any decent amount of time by myself in our house.
Mom and dad would ask me if I was alright when they saw me shaking. It
was hard to speak in those moments, so I would just nod and smile.
My parents were very kind in trusting the house with me for short
periods soon after I turned twelve. I was the youngest, by far, of four
children. I suppose my parents knew how to judge whether or not I could
handle the responsibility. Mom and dad liked to dine out and they took
me along often, but they still enjoyed dinner for two after thirty years
of marriage. I was told that any breach of our informal "rules" would
bring a babysitter back immediately. I was a good kid, though. I had no
desire to tea the house apart in their absence.
One night in February, just a few weeks after my 12th birthday, mom and
dad went out for their anniversary dinner. They told me not to wait up
for them. They planned to eat, dance and then play it by ear after that.
I thought I knew what that meant, but I didn't really want to think
about it. I did know that they would be driving to their favorite
restaurant (I heard mom make reservations over the phone), which was
about an hour away from our town. I estimated I'd be alone at least four
hours; probably six or more. I always tried to plan for the low-end
estimate.
The shivers started that evening as usual. Mom and dad were dressing and
I was in the living room. I really wasn't watching the TV - I was
looking at it, but paying very little attention. Mom walked into the
room at one point and asked me what was playing. It took me what seemed
to be a minute to reply. My mind was entirely on what I had planned for
later. I sat there, shaking, and silently urged my parents to hurry the
hell up and be on their way.
At five-thirty mom and dad left the house, after giving me all of the
instructions and admonitions they did whenever they left me alone. Mom
had prepared some chicken earlier for my dinner and left it in the
refrigerator. When mom wasn't looking, dad slipped me a ten dollar bill
and told me to order a pizza. I knew I'd have the chicken and use the
money for video games at the mall over the weekend. Now, when I heard
the garage door close, I nearly ran to the front door and watched as our
car's tail lights disappeared at the end of our block. Freedom!
Even at that age, I was smart enough not to rush. After all, mom might
have forgotten something that would bring them back at any moment. Or
dad, for that matter. I figured that half an hour was enough time for
them to be committed to their trip. Waiting for thirty minutes was, of
course, torture. Looking back, I admire my self-discipline at what was
otherwise a very impatient, impulsive age. I sat back down in the couch
and watched the second half of a variety show. I paid no attention to
it.
At six p.m. I was ready for action. I left the TV on for noise and
walked back to mom and dad's bedroom. Our house wasn't very large. It
was one of several thousand split-level ranches built in our area in the
sixties to accommodate all of the city workers who were migrating to the
suburbs. The benefit to me of its size was that I could hear every noise
within it from any location inside. Mom and dad always used the garage
when they went out for anything by car, and the garage was directly
below our bedrooms. I knew that if they returned early I'd have enough
time to get to the bathroom and close the door.
My potential need for hiding was the only downside of my plans for
misbehavior. I planned my "alone time" as carefully as a bank robber
plots his next strike. I had to be careful: Getting caught in the act
would have been unbearable for me, and pretty troubling for my folks. I
was, therefore, methodical and hyper alert as I did what I had to do.
As a young boy I was fascinated by my older sister's clothing. Her
pantyhose, in particular. She had her own room - my brothers and I
shared the other bedroom - and it was never locked. When she was at
school, high school, I would wander away from mom and enter Jennifer's
room in search of things to wear. Jennifer had several pairs of hose.
I'd first seen them hanging from the shower rod to dry. I would take
them down, of course, and feel their silky texture against my hands. I'd
pull them up my arms and pretend I was wearing a fancy lady's gloves. I
had a hell of a time getting them back over the shower rod!
The first contacts with pantyhose in the bathroom whetted my appetite
for more. Soon, I was visiting Jennifer's room whenever I got the
chance. Mom and I spent most of the work/school hours alone together.
She would be engrossed in one of her soap operas and I'd slip away. In
Jennifer's room I would slowly open the sock and hose drawer and select
a pair of pantyhose with which to experiment. Most days I wore shorts,
so there was no need to remove anything other than my socks. I'd sit at
the edge of the bed and pull one leg of the hose up past my knee. The
feeling was too good to be true. I would either walk around the room
like that, or pull up both sides of the hose and wear them over my
shorts. There was plenty enough room in them to do it.
I honestly had no idea at that age that I was doing anything wrong.
Well, I knew it was wrong to go through my sister's things without her
knowledge or permission, but I figured that she wouldn't mind my doing
it. I tried always to put everything back exactly as I found it. I'm
sure I caused a few runs, but she never said anything, at least to me.
My sessions in hose only lasted a few minutes at a time, but those
minutes were pure bliss.
The end of that period of cross-dressing came to a close when mom walked
into Jennifer's room while I was in the middle of one of my walks. I
remember the incident pretty clearly, even though it occurred decades
ago. I was looking at myself and my pretty legs in Jennifer's full
length dressing mirror when I saw mom appear in the doorway. I think I
smiled at her.
"Oh no no no no no!" she said, a little loudly. She walked over to me
and took hold of my shoulders. "No. You sit down and take those things
off right now."
I was shocked, and I started to cry. Mom had me sit on the bed and she
removed the pantyhose from my legs.
"Little boys do NOT wear their sister's things. Do you understand?" she
asked with a stern look.
I nodded, sobbing.
"These are not for you to touch, or wear or anything from now on." She
rolled up the hose into a ball. "I'm not mad at you, but you have to
leave this room alone, okay?" I nodded again with floods of tears
soaking my cheek.
"I'm sorry, mom..." I whispered. "Please don't tell Jenny."
"I won't," she said, "and I won't tell your father, either." Mom put the
pantyhose back in the drawer. She then turned, crouched, and placed her
hands on my shoulders again. "Boys wear boy clothes only. That's just
the way it is. Boys and girls are different and they have their own,
different things to wear. This has to be the last time, okay?" She
hugged me as I swore I would never do it again. I believed it at that
point.
My period of "internal exile" began that day. I became a prisoner in my
own house, of my own body and mind. When I started school I did little
else but watch the little girls and long to be one of them. Their
dresses fascinated me. Their red and white and yellow tights fascinated
me. Their voices, and habits, and mannerisms - everything they did or
wore or talked about seemed wonderful to me. My world was bleak in
comparison. Blue jeans and a flannel shirt or polyester slacks and a
buttoned up short-sleeved shirt? No, thank you. I might as well have
been wearing burlap bags for all the comfort they gave me. The girls had
everything I wanted to wear. They did all of the things I longed to do.
I would mope my way home every school day and retreat into my room and
into my daydreams. My brothers, twins, started college in my
kindergarten year. I had the bedroom to myself for the first time. I had
no lack of toys and books, but they increasingly lost their value to me.
I enjoyed looking at picture books; all of mine, however, were filled
with animals or pirates or cartoon characters of the day. I wanted to
look at princesses and ballerinas. I wanted to BE a princess!
In our living room we had a set of small, hard-bound encyclopedia
volumes that were popular at the time. They were fairly short on
information, but filled with thousands of black and white photos and
illustrations. The "B" volume was my favorite. It contained a photo of a
male ballet dancer holding a ballerina by the waist. The ballerina was
poised on the toes of her left foot with her right leg extended
parallel to the stage. Even though I was only five or six, I felt a
wonderful tingling between my legs. I could never resist pushing my
little stiffy through my pants. Of course, I had no idea at all what was
happening; I just knew that it felt better than anything else.
I stopped entering Jennifer's room alone after mom caught me in there.
Jennifer would sometimes invite me in to talk or play, but I always felt
uncomfortable in there. I believed she knew about what had transpired in
her absence (she later told me she didn't). I felt a sense of guilt and
shame when I was around her that saddens me now. That was just the way
it was, though. Guilt, shame and desire mixed within me and made for a
lot of secret tears and unfulfilled longing.
As I reached the middle school years I tried my best to be a little man.
I still watched the girls very closely. To cover my interest in them, I
spent as much time as I could in team sports and general roughhousing
with the other boys. We spit and swore and arrived home covered in dirt
nearly every school day. I had my share of fist fights. Most of them
degenerated into clumsy wrestling matches that ended when one of us
cried uncle. I did make several good friends that way, though. Mom made
a show of being disgusted by her perpetually filthy, often-times bloody
boy, but I knew she was secretly glad that I appeared to be completely
masculine.
At eleven, things began to change for the better for me. Dad was working
sixteen hour days, often for six or seven days a week. He brought home
incredibly large paychecks, but I hardly ever saw him during the week.
Mom fixed breakfast for the three of us, then sent dad to work and me to
school. She wasn't working outside the home yet - dad's pay was more
than enough to cover our expenses - and she was always at home when I
returned from school. We would eat dinner together and then amuse
ourselves, separately more than not. Not long after I turned eleven, mom
started visiting her neighbor in the evenings for an hour or so, leaving
me home alone.
The old desires that had never really gone dormant in me returned with a
fury. That's when the shivers began. A typical afternoon would find me
home from school and in my room, reading one of my dozens of comic
books. Mom would let me know that she was going to Mrs. Morgan's house
for a little while. I'd acknowledge her and fight off the tremors that
invariably began. I would give mom five minutes to make the short walk
to Mrs. Morgan's, then I'd run to the front door to make sure she was
gone. After that, I ran back to her bedroom. I always left the door open
behind me.
Mom and dad's room was about twenty feet by fifteen. A king-sized bed
took up most of the floor space. There were two chests of drawers and
two nightstands. Mom's dresser was covered with jewelry boxes and makeup
kits. She had a large mirror atop it, to which two small spotlights had
been attached. The bed was close enough to the dresser for her to
comfortably reach it while she dressed. Mom had a large walk-in closet
in the far corner, while dad's was just large enough to hold his dozen
or so suits and shirts. A small bathroom was attached to the bedroom.
When mom was over at Mrs. Morgan's my habit was to enter her room and
take a seat on her side of the bed. If I wore socks, I'd shuck them off
and put them in my pockets. I knew that if she returned early I wouldn't
have time to waste in gathering up anything of mine. I would then take
off my pants or shorts, but leave my undershorts on. I'd fold my clothes
into a bundle on the bed. Next, I would open the top drawer.
The sight of the panties and the balled-up pantyhose was intoxicating.
There was a slight cedar scent that would waft out of the drawer, as
well. I still associate the smell of cedar with sexual arousal. I was,
as you can imagine, already hard by the time I opened the drawer. I
would select a pair of hose and carefully unravel them. I paid careful
attention to where everything was in the drawer, and to how each item
had been folded or rolled. I always understood that women have an eagle
eye for small details.
Having unrolled the hose, I would gently place my right foot into them.
I pulled the hose up to my knee. Then the left foot. I tugged both legs
of the pantyhose up to my thighs. I stood to get them up over my tented
shorts. Mom was still several inches taller than me at that point, so
there was plenty of slack in the hose. I was extremely careful not to
put too much stress on any part of them. I would regard myself in the
mirror and turn to each side to check my profile. There was always a
small, but noticeable, bulge in in front.
The feeling was beyond good. I would run my hands all over my thighs and
knees. I would sit and raise one leg and place it over the other. The
left and right legs traded places several times. I would swing my feet
and feel my thigh muscles squeeze my hardened penis delightfully. I
would stand, then crouch, then stand again and place my hands on my hips
in what I believed to be a provocative manner. I pouted and blew kisses
at myself and imagined that I was doing it to someone else. I did not
always have girls in mind....
Believe it or not, at that age I really had no idea of sex and I had
never masturbated. It felt terribly good to handle my privates, of
course, but I was content to settle for good feelings without achieving
ejaculation. When I dressed in mom's things I reached a plateau of
pleasure that lasted as long as I wanted it to; that is, as long as I
had to time to remain safely in her room. It was never long enough. I
tried to limit myself to twenty minutes. That was hard to do. Time
accelerated by leaps and bounds when I raided mom's drawer. I had to be
content to finish with a unrelieved hard-on and memories of the sensual
pleasure I'd just given myself.
As I mentioned, I was always extremely careful to replace whatever items
I handled or wore exactly as I found them. I didn't want to have to
answer any embarrassing questions later. It was hard enough to get the
usual "How was your day?" stuff every afternoon. I didn't want to hear
"Were you wearing my things?" over the dinner table. After putting my
pants back on I would smooth the bed covers and return to my room before
putting my socks back on my feet. Not once in the year or so of these
clandestine visits of mine did mom return home early.
On the night of mom and dad's anniversary dinner I was ecstatic to have
so much time in which to indulge myself. I was half-stripped by the time
I reached their room. Still, I bundled my clothes on the bed so that I
could run out of the room in a hurry if I needed to. I checked the
details of the room so as not to leave it in a disturbed state when I
was finished. I have a feeling that a lot of cross-dressers know exactly
what I mean. I'm sure we'd make good spies.
Having stripped down to nothing, I walked over to the dresser and
studied myself in the mirror. I saw a rather androgynous looking, long-
haired boy. I was a natural blonde. My hair fell way past my ears and
down to my neck in back. I parted my hair on the left and a long lock
diagonally bisected my forehead. I had pale blue eyes and a button nose
above a small mouth. My body was not yet affected by the growth hormones
that would flood it in a couple of years. I was five-five and one
hundred and ten pounds. There was still a little baby fat here and
there, but I was otherwise slender. All of my outdoor activities gave me
nice muscle tone. All of the anticipation of what I was about to do gave
me a nice, if small, erection.
I sat on the bed and opened the top drawer. I looked at the rows of
folded panties and picked the ones I wanted to wear. They were a cream
color and very lacy. I loved their silky material. I placed them on the
bed next to me. Next, I selected a frilly garter belt. It was one of
three mom had. This one was white. I placed it around my waist, fastened
it and turned it around front to back. Then I selected a pair of milky
white stockings. Pantyhose were nice enough to wear, but stockings were
at a much greater level of sexiness in my mind. I took my time slipping
them on. I smoothed each leg carefully. The touch of my fingers on my
stockinged legs nearly set off sparks. I fastened the stocking tops to
the garter tabs.
At that point I was right on the verge of an orgasm, though I didn't
know it that night. I mean that I didn't know that an orgasm was a thing
to be worked at and achieved. What can I say? I was naive. I'm sure I
had had night time ejaculations while I slept, but never one consciously
produced. Now, looking in the mirror and loving the view, it took all of
my willpower not to touch my privates.
I leaned over and stepped into the panties. I lifted them slowly. Ah,
such enjoyment! They fit me like a glove. The feel of them against my
penis was painfully good. When I walked to the closet door the friction
created against the panties was nearly more than I could bear. It didn't
help stop the shivers at all. I flicked on the closet light and looked
at the rows of dresses and underthings before me.
Mom loved to dress up. She spent a small fortune on clothes - or so dad
claimed - and she had very good taste. Her dresses ran the gamut in
sizes, colors, cuts, fabrics and patterns. Mom had something for every
possible occasion. I'd estimate that she had fifty dresses from which to
choose. There were also slips and nighties and nightgowns at the near
end of the closet. And the shoes! Rows of shoes along the floor and many
more hanging on a rack on the back of the door. There were heels, flats,
boots and sandals. Patent leather and suede. Everything I could possibly
want I had in front of me. I selected a cream colored slip and a mid-
length white dress. I knew nothing of color matching or proper dressing
technique - I just knew what I liked and what felt good.
The slip was quite loose on me but it felt wonderful. I had laid the
dress on the bed, as I had a few things to do before I put it on me. I
sat down on the bed again and looked at myself. I saw a young girl
dressed in her mother's slip. I fluffed my hair a bit and pulled my
forelock down over my eyes. I took one of mom's hair brushes and created
a center part, with my bangs pulled to each side. I left a few wisps
hanging in front.
I did not trust myself to use any makeup. I wanted to, badly. There was
plenty enough of it on the dresser top. I had watched mom put on her
face a few times. I was sure that I would make a mess of myself or,
worse, spill something all over the other products or onto the clothes
I wore. I did pick up a tube of dark red lipstick and run it over my
lips. In a few moments I had a perfect little cupid's bow mouth. Mascara
was a great temptation. If I thought I could get it all removed by the
time my parents got home I might have applied it, but that wasn't a sure
thing. I settled for just the lipstick.
Next, I opened one of the jewelry boxes and took out two clip-on
earrings. They featured a red gem stone against a silver setting. I
thought they matched my lips. I clipped them to my exposed ears and
turned my head from side to side to check for symmetry. I was cute! I
licked my lips seductively and air-kissed my own image. I was giddy with
happiness. From another box I selected a double-strand pearl necklace
and slipped it over my head. It fell to the upper edge of the slip. I
thought it might be the most feminine thing I wore.
Now, for the dress. I was as careful as I could be in handling it when I
stepped into it and pulled it up over my shoulders. The hem fell just
below my knees and the neckline was just above the edge of the slip. I
tugged up the zipper in back as far as I could. I didn't want to zip it
entirely closed, for fear of the zipper tab getting stuck. I pulled the
necklace over the front of the dress. It was time for another look at
myself.
The image before me as I stood there was astonishing. I had become a
young woman. Nothing I saw suggested any masculinity whatsoever. I
fingered my necklace and bit my lip, looking for any flaws in my
presentation. I couldn't find any. I was who I wanted to be. I giggled
and swirled and giggled again. The feel of the hardwood floor under my
stockinged feet was very nice, indeed.
It was time to select the shoes. I knew exactly the pair I wanted. Mom
had a pair in white satin with a three inch heel. Little pink bows
adorned the toes. Luckily for me, my feet were just a bit smaller than
mom's. I took the shoes down from the door rack and stepped into them. I
had to be careful walking in them, but I adjusted my steps and had no
difficulty in getting around safely. I became a graceful young lady in
heels, rather than a young ruffian in sneakers.
I went for a walk into the living room. I imagined myself entering the
room to meet one of several older boys in town I knew. How much would
they enjoy squiring such a beautiful young lady around town? How much
would I enjoy being on the arm of one of them? The female name I'd
chosen for myself was Christina. It was nowhere near my real name. I
wanted something entirely new and disconnected to my life as a boy. I
pictured Christina and Tony leaving for the prom, or Christina and
Richard, hand in hand, taking a stroll around the neighborhood. Of
course, a kiss occurred at some point in those fantasies.
Every so often I would crouch where I stood. Crouching put added
pressure on various of my parts and added to my general enjoyment. I
imagined myself taking a small child in my arms and carrying her around
a garden party. I imagined myself a blushing bride. These thoughts
passed through my mind as I headed back to the bedroom. I was dizzy with
sensual pleasure and emotional fulfillment. Almost every part of me
touched silk or nylon or lace.
It was time to remove the dress and the slip. I placed the dress along
the width of the head of the bed. Next, the slip, placed atop the dress.
I went back to the mirror. My hair was a little mussed by the removal of
the slip, but I thought it looked sexy. The sight of the taut garter
belt and the stockings was delightful. I placed a fingertip against my
lower lip and pouted. I wished I might have been able to paint my nails
- toes and fingers - but it was out of the question. I longed to be old
enough and in a position to do these things.
After more self-regard I turned and fell onto the bed. I loved doing
that, as the mashing of my penis under my weight sent jolts of pleasure
through me. I rolled over onto my back and lifted my sexy legs straight
up. I scanned both of them, stopping at the pink bows on the shoes. I
spread my legs as far as I comfortably could, then brought them back
together. I ran my hands over both legs from the feet to the hips. I
then drew my feet back to the edge of the bed. I lifted my midsection
slightly and pulled down my panties. I let them hang around my knees for
a moment, then pulled them entirely off.
My poor, engorged little penis twitched with anticipation. I had
tortured the little guy for quite a while. I closed my thighs against it
and rubbed them together. Wow! I reached over and grabbed mom's slip and
placed it down so that, bunched up, it covered my groin and fell between
my legs. I tried pulling it up along my penis and then letting it slide
back. My god, the feeling! Nothing in my previous experience was as good
as this! I quickly decided that more pressure down there might increase
the good feelings. I took the slip in both hands and made shorter,
faster rubbing movements with it. I placed the heels of my shoes on the
top of the bed and used the leverage to force myself upward into the
slip. My raw lust now held me fully in its grip. I bucked against the
slip with my penis until...
The ejaculation seemed to start in the small of my back and rush
forward. I nearly blacked out as the spasms rocked me. My head jerked
violently from side to side. I had needed no particular fantasy to
achieve orgasm, other than the images of that evening that remained
fresh in my brain. I was a beautiful, sexy young woman giving herself
the satisfaction she deserved. I pumped my penis against the slip until
I collapsed, drained, against the bedspread. I panted like a blown
horse. My heart beat against my ribcage. It took some time for me to
recover.
When I was back on earth, I regretfully decided that one session would
have to do for the evening. Every item of clothing I used meant one more
chance that I might be found out later. I'm proud now of my logic at
twelve years old. I re-hung the dress and the slip, taking care to
smooth them out and make sure they were aligned with the other hanging
garments. The shoes went back to their wire holders. I caressed them one
last time. I sat down and rolled off the stockings. They went back into
the drawer, followed by the panties. I checked and double-checked
everything for anything that might draw attention.
Lastly, I placed the necklace and earrings back in the right boxes. I
swore that I would own exact copies of them when I had the money and the
freedom to do so.
I went to the bathroom, taking my own clothes with me, and wiped as much
of the lipstick off as I could with facial tissues. I flushed the
stained tissues down the toilet. Several passes with water and more
tissues removed all traces of my formerly luscious lips. I brushed my
hair back into its usual style. I dressed in my own clothes.
A thorough inspection of my parent's bedroom followed. I had a mental
checklist of things to inspect and I made sure that the room looked
exactly as it did when mom and dad left the house. I smoothed the
bedspread twice and checked for any possible anomalies. I found none.
Satisfied that I had left the room in a pristine state, I went back to
the living room to watch TV and review the events of the evening. I was
exhausted. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep. Mom awoke me at midnight
and sent me to bed. I didn't awake again until well into mid-morning.
It's embarrassing for me now to admit the one mistake I had made when I
put the clothes away. I didn't really pay much attention the the slip
when I put it back on its hanger. I didn't think to look at it too
closely, at least not the inside, and I missed the little splotches of
semen that stained it. I had had my first "wet" ejaculation and didn't
even know it. The force of the ejaculation and the spent feeling I had
immediately afterward had dulled my observational skills just enough to
prevent me from discovering what had happened.
Mom was much more observant when next she wore the slip....
Aeryn
- 30.04.2022
- 11
- 0
