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THE PUNISHMENT GAME by Cuirnoir The train would enter Paddington Station about ninety minutes late. An inauspicious start to my return home after my first term at University. I had timed my arrival so that my mother, who had offered to pick me up, did not have to hang around for too long in central London after work. Since we had quarrelled before my departure in October, I was anxious to avoid irritating her at the very beginning of the vacation. I had texted her, and she took the delay with good grace, but I expected that she wouldn't be at all pleased, so my plan had failed at the first stage. This hardly augured well for the future of our always tense relationship. Eventually, the train pulled slowly into the station, with a screeching of brakes which seemed at odds with the slow speed of travel. Passengers started hefting suitcases off the luggage racks, and struggling to pull on rucksacks. There was a cry as an over-enthusiastically wielded rucksack clipped a young woman struggling with a couple of young children. Toes were stepped on as too many people tried to struggle through the exit doors and tempers became frayed. Through the window of the carriage, I could see a thin drizzle falling in the chilly December night. The station concourse was crowded and noisy, but I eventually picked out my mother standing outside a coffee bar. She wore a black business suit with a short skirt and high heeled court shoes. Blood red lips contrasted with her pale complexion. I recognised her from a distance by her closely clipped cap of jet black hair. Always the professional, always dressed to intimidate an opponent or to impress a client, never sloppy or casual in anything she did. Not knowing whether I'd seen her, I suppose, she gave a perfunctory wave, her varnished nails flashing in the gloomy light. They were the same colour as her lips. I started to walk over to her. Perhaps unconsciously, she started to tap a foot on the ground - a characteristic gesture and a classic sign of impatience. Well, it would be understandable. We greeted each other formally. I called her "mother" (not mum), and she called me "Daniel" (not Dan or Danny). A peck on the cheek. She asked me what had caused the delay, and I told her. I asked her whether she'd been waiting a long time, and she gave me one of her looks. I suppose it was a glaringly stupid question. She had parked at a meter to avoid an exit queue in the car park, so we started walking up the long ramp leading out of the station, the wheels of my small suitcase making a squealing noise on the tarmac. She pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves as she walked. She was not wearing a coat, and I wondered whether she had been cold, but did not want to ask another obvious question. In almost complete silence, we crossed Praed Street, and found her car - a sleek, black Audi with leather seats - close to Norfolk Square. The orange lights flashed as she pressed the key button, and I manoeuvred the case into the boot. Under the streetlights, a covering of tiny droplets gave my mother's black hair a halo of silvery grey. Once in the car, she loosened up a little, and asked me about my time at university. I had started a law degree, and chosen the subject at least partly to please her. I was able to reassure her that my studies were progressing well and that my tutors were pleased with me. How was my social life? Fine. Girlfriend? Nothing serious. And how was her work (she was a partner in a solicitor's firm in Bedford Row)? Frantically busy, as always. We eased our way through the London traffic. Despite the weather, groups of revellers roamed the streets - young men in shirtsleeves, girls in impossibly skimpy clothes. Several people in Santa suits, and more carrying balloons or wearing felt antlers. I saw one girl who had made an attempt to dress as a Christmas tree. There was a lot of laughter, and the odd squeal as a passing bus or taxi drove through a puddle and soaked somebody. It was all, at this stage of the evening at any rate, good humoured. I wondered idly whether the atmosphere would be as peaceful at home. "Heard from dad?" I asked. She shook her head in annoyance. Her ex- husband lived in Australia with his new and much younger wife. He had settled a relatively generous divorce settlement on mother: she received the house and investments sufficient to keep her going until she got her resumed career of the ground again. Since his departure eight or so years before, he had kept in touch intermittently, principally by means of greetings cards at Christmas and family birthdays. An early invitation to visit him in Australia had never been followed up with a concrete plan - still less air tickets - and my memories of him were vague and confused, although I recalled him as a larger than life figure who laughed a lot. I had always called him "dad" rather than "father". My mother had kept on our large, north London house, although it was really too big for us (and it must certainly have been too big for her when I went away to university). She had not, to my knowledge, entered into another relationship, or even a close friendship with a man, declaring herself done with men forever. Nor, I thought, was she interested in the idea of a relationship with a woman, although there were several women - including some work colleagues - with whom she developed close and supportive friendships. They were invariably clever and witty, and by and large I got on well with them. When they visited us, the atmosphere at home became noticeably less tense. We pulled into the driveway. (The house was set back from a main road, and shielded from it by trees.) I carried the suitcase into the house, my feet crunching over the gravel drive. I couldn't help resenting the fact that the gravel prevented me from dragging the suitcase along on its tiny wheels, but resentment was futile and I put it out of my mind. There would probably be enough things to start being irritated by before long. Mother opened the door and flicked a switch, flooding the house with light. I blinked as my eyes accustomed themselves to the change, and I took my suitcase upstairs to my large, airy bedroom, which was at the back of the house. My mother called after me that she would prepare some food, and could I make sure I was down in half an hour. I mumbled something in reply. The house did not really have a unity of style. The kitchen and dining area were uncompromisingly modern, while the main living room was comfortable and lived-in, with soft sofas and chairs, a low coffee table, expensive-looking rugs, and long velvet curtains. The lighting was discreet and concealed, and there was a real fireplace, although it did not often contain a real fire. The hall was spacious and functional with wooden floors and a spacious coats cupboard. My bedroom was softly decorated with cream walls and a light grey carpet. The furniture - including a complete wall which had been provided with a fitted complex of wardrobes, cupboards, and drawers - was predominantly pale wood. I noticed without surprise that my mother had made the bed with pink linen and duvet. I shivered slightly, although not with the cold. There was a large window opposite the double bed, and I now drew the curtains back to look down the long back garden, but in the dark I could see little. Somewhere, not far away, a fox barked. A tawny owl, out hunting, hooted as if in reply. Sighing, I opened my suitcase and took out a black plastic bag containing dirty washing (something else to irritate mother). This I took into the bathroom (decorated blue, with sash windows, and a retro - but quite modern - bathroom suite including a huge bath and a shower) and dumped into the washing basket. Then I returned to my bedroom and started unpacking my few clean clothes and shoes. I opened the wardrobe, and a familiar array of clothes greeted me. As I hung up a pair of jeans, something unexpected caught my eye. On the floor, amongst a substantial collection of footwear, was a long pair of boots I had not seen before. Knee length, in beautiful soft black leather, with a four-inch heel and narrow toes. I unzipped the right boot: the lining was expensive looking pink leather with black stitching. I shivered once more and hastily put it back into the wardrobe with its pair. After a quick wash and a change of shirt I went downstairs. Mother was finishing off a pan of pasta. I heard a cork pop as I entered the dining area, and saw mother in the act of pouring herself a glass of red wine. She cocked an eyebrow in my direction and I nodded. A second glass was poured. Mother dealt out the pasta and placed the bowls on the table with a flourish. She added cheese to hers and started eating, and after a second or two I did the same. For a while, neither of us spoke. I was uncertain about my mother's mood, and hesitated to start a conversation. But in fact, the evening turned out, on the surface at least, to be perfectly cordial. We chatted some more about my experiences during my first term, and then about things which had happened at home, and about the life of her friends and colleagues. She asked whether I'd be seeing any of my friends at home, and I replied truthfully that my few close friends would either be on holiday with their families, or returning to college or university immediately after Christmas. I mainly kept in touch with them over Facebook, so I was able to give mother some news about them. She was surprised that all my friends appeared to be away (there were one or two that she actually liked), and asked me, almost accusingly, if I was sure that was the case, but in fact it was true. At this point she lapsed into silence. I cleared up the dishes from the meal, stacking them in the dishwasher, and scrubbing at a stubborn stain in the casserole in which the pasta sauce had been prepared. Afterwards, we sat together watching the 10 o'clock news (fighting in the Middle East, welfare cuts, a serious accident on the M1, and a particularly grisly murder case), after which I retrieved a book from my room, while my mother announced a headache and went to bed. I stayed up another hour or so before turning in myself. The evening was superficially at least a kind of triumph. Neither of us had lost our tempers. We had not quarrelled. We had exchanged news and views. Yet over everything hung something unspoken: a lack of real intimacy, and indefinable tension, a feeling that somewhere a storm was brewing. I told myself that I was imagining it, and that we were both tired after a long day, but I knew really that that was not true. As I prepared for bed, I sensed a familiar feeling of developing anticipation and apprehension. As always, I didn't know whether I was pleased or annoyed by it. +++++++++ The following day - a Thursday - was quiet. Mother left for work before I got up, and I spent the morning researching for a couple of essays I had to complete during the vacation. The afternoon I spent tidying my bedroom, uneasily checking my drawers and cupboards to see whether anything else new had appeared. There were indeed some changes, which pleased and unsettled me in equal measure. When would the dam burst? In fact, my mother that evening continued to wear an expression of determined friendliness, which we both knew to be concealing inner tension. My own sense of apprehension was almost tangible by now. I could almost taste it - a spicy, cloying flavour of delicious unease at the way we were drawing out the drama in which we both knew we were acting, but in which tension was hidden beneath a veneer of civility. At times, I could hear my heart beating. My mother, while perfectly polite to me, was restless and irritable, complaining at the lack of anything good to watch or read, and the fact that during the run-up to Christmas it was impossible to go out without being overwhelmed by drunk adolescents (her phrase). She walked round, tidying up, picking up and putting down ornaments and magazines, her heels clicking on the wooden floor of the dining area. Once, she stumbled over a rug, and swore at it angrily, giving me a look which suggested that it was somehow my fault that she had tripped. We were both exhausted by the time we went to bed. The quarrel started, as I half expected, the following evening as soon as my mother had returned to work. I had been in the living room reading and taking notes for my essay. My laptop was open on the coffee table, and papers with my notes were strewn about. Amongst them stood a pair of dirty coffee cups. "Can you clear that up Daniel?" Her voice was thin and clear and angry- sounding. She had evidently had a rough day. Or perhaps she had prepared for this moment. Or perhaps I had. After all, I knew well enough that she liked to come back to a tidy home. Any hint of a mess caused her to bang and clatter around, putting things away in cupboards and plumping up cushions. Somehow I always had the sense that these bursts of ill temper were personally directed at me, even if I had not been the cause of the mess. "In a minute, mother," I said with forced cheerfulness, "I just need to finish off this chapter." This approach was almost designed to fan the flames, and I knew it. "No, it needs to be cleared up now," she said irritably, "I want to pour myself a drink and sit down and relax." Mother was genuinely incapable of relaxing in an untidy room, but I thought her anger was simulated, and I knew all too well what was likely to be behind it. A delicious sense of anticipation. "Just a few more minutes. I'll have finished by the time you've changed and come downstairs." But instead of going upstairs to freshen up, she strode angrily into the living room. "When I say now, I mean now," she said. I stared at her for a moment, and then quite deliberately started reading again, head down. There was a short silence. "You're not too old to be punished." The words were spoken slowly and evenly, strung out quite deliberately. Something turned in my chest. She stood there, hands on hips, glaring at me. Despite her diminutive height, she was an intimidating figure, in her sharp suit (red today) and heels and lipstick. She tapped a foot for emphasis. I pressed myself back into my chair and looked at her defiantly. "You wouldn't," I said. Of course she would, but it was necessary to play out the scene properly. A certain amount of defiance was necessary, and expected. She looked at me for a long while, and touched her upper lip with the tip of a delicate pink tongue. Here sharp, perfectly even, white teeth contrasted with her scarlet lips. Not for the first time I was reminded of a carnivore, preparing to tear newly-killed flesh of the bones of its prey. "Just try me," she said - almost a snarl. Again, I slowly and deliberately turned back to my book. Ignoring her was the surest way to frustrate and provoke her, and caught up in the rhythm of the game, this is precisely what I wanted to do. Damn the consequences. "I'm giving you one more warning," she said, her voice almost a hiss. I continued to ignore her. "I'm waiting," she added after a few seconds. There was a theatrical pause while she pointedly waited for me to get up and start clearing things away, which of course I did not do. "Right, that does it," she said quietly, "go up to your bedroom and change." The tone was intended to convey more-in-sorrow-than-in- anger, but the eyes told a different story. In them was the glitter of a joyous victory, of a battle won, of a long-anticipated triumph consummated. She had waited for three months for this. As had I. I put my book down, rolled my eyes, and walked as slowly as I could towards the stairs. Breathing heavily, my mother sat down and with a theatrical gesture placed her head in her hands. As I climbed the stairs, I thought I heard a sigh which might have been relief or exasperation, but was probably something quite different. I entered my bedroom, and opened a wardrobe door. Inside there was a rack of dresses, skirts and tops. The delicious apprehension that I had been nurturing for two days was released, and what washed over me most of all was a feeling of relief. Two days after my return from university, we had played the Punishment Game again. When I left home at the beginning of term, I had been worried that we had played it for the last time. +++++++ The first time my mother had dressed me in girls' clothes had been shortly after my father had left home. Looking back now, it should not have been a surprise, although to my nine year-old self it was an astonishing shock. My mother had always wanted a daughter, and was wont to comment breathlessly on the strong bonds between mothers and daughters whenever she met a friend who had one. When she first bought an outfit of girls' clothes, she tried to make it a kind of dressing-up game, but I protested, precociously understanding how unnatural this was, and refusing to be cajoled into cooperating. In desperation, then, dressing up became a punishment, and my mother quelled any protests by threatening to send photographs of me in skirts to my friends. Punishments were imposed more and more frequently, and the excuses for them became flimsier and flimsier. There was one thing that was strange and unsettling. When I was dressed up, my mother would become calm and affectionate: I would be rewarded with treats if I took care over my appearance, and she would give me hugs and cuddles that I would never receive as a boy. I came to value those moments. And there was a gradual change in me and in my response to these pretended punishments as well. As time passed, I found myself furtively enjoying the dressing up itself. Later this became a sexual thing, but at the time I think it was the softness and silkiness of the clothes, and the difference and variety that a girl's wardrobe offered compared with the functional boys' outfits I wore. I could not of course admit this to anybody - my mother least of all - but there were I think times even from quite an early stage when I deliberately did things which I knew would annoy my mother so I could be sent away to change. As time went by, I came to be able to judge when mother wanted to play the Game, and was able to tune my behaviour finely to initiate it. As I became older, these punishments developed into a kind of ritual. Real naughtiness was no longer necessary (and as I became older became less easy to simulate). Instead we would start to quarrel over some trivial subject, and escalate the quarrel until my mother deemed it a suitable cause for punishment. The quarrel always had three stages: first, we would start to disagree about something, which might be important or trivial (and whether we really had opposing views on a subject was unimportant). The first stage of the argument would therefore establish the boundaries of the subject and the scope of our disagreement. Then my mother would raise the possibility of punishment (as she did on this occasion with the words, "you're not too old to be punished"). During the second stage of the argument, which could be lengthy, she would escalate her threats of punishment, whilst I would be defiant. Sometimes, I would be defiant and emollient by turns, carefully lengthening the argument and heightening the sense of anticipation that gripped us both. Occasionally, by timing my tactical retreats carefully, I could reduce her to a breathless, quivering heap, which was a victory of sorts, and which only strengthened the sense of relief for us both at the inevitable denouement. Once or twice, I engineered an argument which - by careful handling - remained unfinished by my bedtime, so that I could spend the night anticipating the inevitable resumption at breakfast time. The third, and shortest, stage of the game was when she gave me "one last chance" which, of course, I never took. This ritual had been enacted on myriads of occasions during my childhood. Mother once threatened to take me away for a weekend dressed as a girl, but bottled out at the last minute (years later, she confessed she had been worried that I'd blurt out that I was really a boy in some awkward situation, and we'd both get into trouble). There was a time during my mid-teens when I was sent to change less frequently - my mother perhaps sensing that the "little girl" image she had cultivated was becoming age- inappropriate - and then, about the time I turned 16, there was a revival. My girly clothes were gradually dispensed with, and mother started to accumulate for me a new wardrobe appropriate for an attractive teenager. These clothes were altogether more fashionable and sexy and I furtively adored them. Make-up, lingerie, and eventually breast forms and body shapers to conceal my masculine parts all became part of the package. The "forced" dressing up sessions then became more frequent. The two of us became more imaginative in inventing things to quarrel about. There had been a particular rash of occurrences just before I left for university. You might think that these behaviours were odd and unnecessary. Since my mother obviously wanted to dress me as a girl, why not just admit that I enjoyed it, and then we would both be happy. I could dress up without the accompanying stress and tension. But I could never quite bring myself to admit, even to myself, that I was happy to dress as a girl, despite taking increasing pains over my appearance, and experimenting with jewellery and make-up and clothes which became more stylish and sexy as I grew older. And my mother, while indulging this experimentation, would not say in so many words that what she really wanted was for me to dress as a girl. The ritual of the Game also, I think, became part of the pleasure for both of us. But the negative consequence of all this was that the only place I could dress was at home: I never went out dressed as a girl, for the simple reason that it would have been impossible to explain, particularly when I was 17 or 18 years old, that this was my mother's way of punishing me for an imaginary transgression. When I arrived at university, I left my girl wardrobe behind. I was living in a hall of residence, surrounded by other students, in a predominantly male corridor. Testosterone flowed, as it tends to when young men find themselves without parental restraint in mixed company for the first time. There was no question of me admitting to - still less pursuing - my secret passion. I did occasionally encounter boys dressed as girls at parties, or in giggling groups in student bars, but this was always presented as a great joke, a cause of good-natured ridicule, which rather removed the point for me. I was aware of a gay subculture under the surface (this was before the more liberated climate of the 21st century) where the possibility of cross-dressing certainly existed, but I had no real wish to be part of that world either. Nonetheless, after three months of enforced denial, I came home anguished and frustrated: at the same time, eager to resume my duels with mother, but apprehensive about the possible consequences. Once resumed, would I be able to control my (let's face it) addiction? And if I couldn't, what would be the consequences for my life, for possible future relationships, for my sanity? All these thoughts had run through my mind during that fateful journey home. ++++++ From my wardrobe I selected a short black skirt and a long-sleeved, round-necked top in burgundy silk, with cloth-covered buttons fastening off-centre at the front. The top was gently pleated and carefully tailored to enhance my figure. That was created by foundation garments which changed my body shape, and the breast forms to which I had become accustomed over the past two years. Black tights and the new boots I had found completed the outfit. As always when I had not dressed for some time, I could not resist a delicate shudder of anticipation before I started to tease on the garments I had chosen. I also had an erection, which must be dealt with, and after I had done that I started assembling my look. Breast forms, undergarments, tights, skirt, top. Then I zipped myself into my new black boots, which clung softly to my legs in a manner which pleased me. The sensuality of the tight black leather around my ankles and calves was a new feeling, and as I sat at my dressing table, I flexed my legs and stretched out my toes, watching the leather wrinkle and cling to my flesh. Next, hair, make-up, and jewellery. I had become quite expert in applying make-up, and this I now did, selecting a lip gloss and nail polish which matched the colour of my top. Careful attention to my cheekbones and eyes. Eyeliner, mascara. A pair of drop ear-rings for my pierced ears (replacing the discreet studs I normally wore), and a gold chain for my neck; a heavy ring with a red stone for the middle finger of my right hand. My preparation was slow and sensual, and took just under an hour. When I was satisfied with my appearance, I stole downstairs and across the hall, listening with approval to my high heels clattering on the wooden floor. My mother had also changed, as well as tidying the living room, whilst I had been upstairs. She was now wearing an indigo jumpsuit with a black zip up the front (and matching zips on pocket openings and cuffs) with a wide elastic belt, the trousers tucked into soft, slouchy boots. She was seated on the sofa, and beckoned me towards her as I entered the room. I sat down next to her. "You look lovely, darling," she said, kissing me gently on the cheek. I gripped her hand, entwining my fingers with hers. "Thank you mummy," I said (mummy was a term I used only when dressed). She smiled, and kissed me again. I snuggled into her warmth, and she gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. We sat for a few moments in friendly silence, and then started talking unhurriedly about this and that. Mum asked me again whether I was involved with anybody at university, and I repeated that although I'd had one or two encounters with girls ("Girls?" asked mum), I hadn't yet had a serious relationship. The truth was that my sexual interests were all focused on women: after all, I enjoyed dressing as one precisely because I was so obsessed with women and their bodies. But in the absence of opportunities to dress I had realised, perhaps for the first time, just how strong was my compulsion to do so. In those long first weeks away from home, I had longed to be sent upstairs to encase my body in a dress, to walk again in a pair of heels, and my 18 year-old self realised dimly that any serious partner would need to know about this yearning that was (not very far) in the background. And my 18 year-old self simply did not know how to have this conversation with a potential partner. And this raised another issue in my mind. Up until now, I had - at least so I told myself - dressed up only because my mother had forced me to. I was beginning to confront the reality that I had been avoiding, perhaps for years, that I needed to, ached to dress up for its own sake. I wanted to walk through fashion stores and look through racks of dresses and try them for myself (up until now, my mother had bought all my clothes for me), which meant that I would need to go out dressed, something I had never done before. And at some point, I realised that others would of necessity come to know of my habit - something that filled me with genuine fear. If friends - either in London or fellow students - came to know how I felt about this, would I lose them? Would they treat me as an object of ridicule? I had come home wondering whether, and if so how, to talk to my mother about this; and if so what her reaction might be. Would she give me helpful advice? Or would she dismiss my worries? Because she, too, had always taken refuge in the fact that dressing me up was a punishment, and no more, and perhaps she, too, had given no thought to what consequences the Punishment Game might have for my long term well-being. Or perhaps she didn't care. No, that was unjust. I knew that despite our differences, she did care for me. But we had never been able to express our care for each other honestly or directly. Perhaps the way through all this seems obvious to you; but to my confused adolescent mind, it was anything but. And in the warm glow of my first dressing experience for three months, I couldn't bring myself to mention the issue now. Our conversation went along comfortable, unthreatening lines, ignoring or avoiding the big thing that was on both our minds. We pottered around the kitchen together as I helped mum prepare supper (again, something that my boy-self never did), and ate in companiable silence. The evening passed - warm, calm, affectionate, joyful - and all too soon it was time for bed. I undressed with regret, crept under the bedding, and fell into a deep, contented sleep. ++++++ The following morning - Saturday, Christmas Eve - I slept until 9, and awoke to the sound of my mother clattering around downstairs. Still basking in the afterglow of the previous evening, it did not at first occur to me that the earlier tensions and frustrations had returned in force. To this day, I don't know why my mother was in such a bad mood that morning: perhaps it was a hangover from the previous evening: the thought that such a beautiful experience was always going to be temporary and abnormal. Or perhaps it was simply the thought of a busy day ahead. Because, as I thought about it, I remembered that she had said that we must make an early start. A trip to the supermarket and the shopping mall was first on the agenda, and then she had some other things (unspecified) to do in the afternoon. I went downstairs in my kimono (black and embroidered with golden dragons) and a pair of black velvet mules with a small but definite wedge. Mother had bought these garments for me, and they were the only vaguely feminine garments which, on the occasions when the mood took me, I wore voluntarily, although usually in the privacy of my bedroom. I made myself a cup of coffee and returned upstairs to the bathroom where I had planned a long and leisurely shower. I switched on the shower and slipped out of my kimono, contemplating my torso in the full-length mirror which hung from the wall. What I saw was a slim, smooth body, devoid of hair (I had little enough anyway, but took care to remove what there was). I was certainly fit and healthy, but wiry and athletic rather than muscular. Slim hands with long elegant fingers (I had allowed my fingernails to grow during the last two or three weeks of term, which added emphasis the frankly feminine delicacy of my hands), and small feet. My neck was slim and long, and above it stood a heart- shaped face, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, a pert chin, and rather full lips. My eyes were my most striking feature - a startling blue, with slightly hooded lids and an elegant, smooth arch. I shaped and trimmed my eyebrows with care to emphasize the effect. My hair was long, blonde, and straight, and again, I looked after it assiduously. Glossy and smooth, it hung to my shoulders, where I had had it cut straight, so that I could blow-dry it inwards into a sort of long bob. I was happy with my body, which, you will have guessed, I had cared for and husbanded so that it would look at its best as a girl. I had, in fact, taken particular trouble to ensure that it was at its best for my return home. This unwise, leisurely reverie was rudely interrupted by a hammering on the bathroom door. My mother's voice, harsh and angry, asked me just how long I thought I was going to be. I opened the bathroom door, and saw her dressed for going out (tight jeans, boots, black roll-necked sweater, gold chain, leather jacket held over her arm, carmine nails and lips). She looked taken aback when she saw me in my kimono and mules, so rarely worn in her presence. "You know we need to make an early start," she barked. "Yes - I'll be quick. Just fifteen minutes." She stiffened: this clearly wasn't good enough for her. She frowned at me, open-lipped, her expression a kind of angry snarl. "I'll do my best," I said. I really was trying to be emollient: after all, I understood that there was a lot to fit in that day; I knew - or thought I knew - that it couldn't be done if I were dressed as a girl; and after the way we had both emphatically enjoyed the previous evening, for once I did genuinely try to be pleasant. But my mother stood seething outside the bathroom, as if she wanted to watch me get ready, to make sure I didn't take too long. She tapped the pointed toe of her right boot impatiently on the wooden floor. I gave her what I hoped was a conciliatory smile. "Good God, boy, do you want to be punished again?" she said, almost screamed. I paused for a moment and looked at her. For the first time that morning, I saw just how wound up she was. A familiar feeling of dread and the most delicious anticipation started to uncurl itself in my stomach. I really should have tried to find some way to defuse the situation, but I couldn't help myself. "I said I'd try to be as quick as I can," I muttered, before adding mischievously, "but it will take as long as it takes. With the best will in the world, there are some things that can't be hurried." I could not have been more provocative if I had stepped out on to the landing and slapped her in the face. We went through one last warning and moved - mother breathing heavily and scarcely able to articulate the words - to the inevitable order to finish washing myself immediately and go to my room and get dressed (which clearly meant, as you will have guessed, as a girl). "Of course, if that's what you want mother," I said smoothly, "but I really don't see how that will get us to the shops quickly." For a moment, this gave my mother pause. She looked uncertain, realising perhaps just how far she'd lost control of her temper. To this day, I don't quite understand myself how that happened. There was silence for a few seconds while she digested the difficulty. "You've really done it this time," she said. There was a quiet menace in her tone. I shivered a little. "Given your behaviour, I suggest you pick out a smart skirt suitable for wearing out of doors." Her eyes blazed implacably at me. Instead of backpeddling, she had taken the Punishment Game to a new level. I was aghast. For once I had allowed myself to be dragged into the Game in a moment of carelessness and had ended up through lack of foresight ordered to dress as a girl genuinely against my will. I had not, as I said, ever before gone out in public in a dress, and the prospect of doing so close to home - where I might be seen by any passing neighbour or friend - terrified me. But one by one my objections were brushed aside. It was December and cold and I had no coat (as I had never been out before en femme I had never had need of one). "I'll buy a coat for you when we get to the mall. In the meantime you can wear my pashmina. It's high time you had an outfit for out of doors." Some of my friends might see me. "You said yourself that hardly any of your friends were in town this Christmas. In any case, if they do see you, they are unlikely to recognise you." A passerby might realise I was a boy dressed as a girl and make a fuss. "Nonsense. You are a perfectly convincing and attractive young girl. Even if someone does see through you, what's the worst that could happen? I'll be there to look after you." We might be involved in an accident or there might be some other emergency. "Unlikely. When did anything like that ever happen to us before? What's so different about today that makes an accident more likely?" Sod's law, I silently thought - but I didn't dare say so out loud. I slunk into my bedroom reluctantly. Despite everything, of course, there was part of me that was genuinely excited by the thought of going out dressed. But my main emotion was terror - sheer blind terror - at the prospect of getting into a situation where I might be recognised, and which might affect any number of friendships personally. I knew that most of my friends were supposed to be away, but were they? Or might the parent of a friend or some more distance acquaintance recognise me, and spread the word amongst my friends later? Once recognised, the story would be all over Facebook within an hour. The thought didn't bear thinking about. So it was in a state of delicious, overpowering horror that I left the house half an hour later. I had selected a pencil skirt in charcoal grey with a bold cream pinstripe. The hemline was just above the knee, but because of the tightness of the skirt there was a slit at the back. I punished myself for my carelessness by wearing black seamed stockings with an uncomfortable suspender belt, although the look was compromised slightly by my new long boots, which together with the knee length skirt meant that most of the seam was concealed. Above the waist I wore a sumptuous violet-coloured seater in the softest cashmere, with a huge cowl neck. A softer shade of lipstick and slightly more restrained eyes (colours selected to tone with the sweater). I could do nothing about my nails, which were still varnished in the blood red colour I had selected the previous evening. During the journey around the North Circular, I was convinced that all the drivers we passed were staring at me, and when we arrived at the mall and I alighted from the car, I felt a sensation of complete nakedness. I huddled myself together inside my black pashmina, folding clasping my arms together across my breast in a futile protective gesture. Mother put a reassuring hand through my arm, and we walked across the car park. I felt myself flinch as we passed a couple of young women, giggling together at some private joke which, of course, I interpreted as being about me. "Calm down," whispered mum, her good humour now restored, "you look fine. Just relax." Somehow I got across the car park without fainting, and shaking slightly walked through the automatic doors into the shopping complex. The hypermarket, where my mother wanted to go shopping for Christmas food and wine, was at the far end, so we walked along the ground floor passage, with my mother looking in shop windows, and pointing out likely places where we might buy me a coat. Once or twice she tried to pull me into a shop doorway, but I resisted. At length she said, "Look you can't refuse to go into every store we pass. What exactly is stopping you?" I shook my head: fear was stopping me. We walked on a little further, passing a couple more shops without comment. At length something caught my mother's eye. A shop window made from tinted glass had behind it a red sign with a white border. White letters in gothic script picked out the words "Pre-Christmas Bargains". The sign above the shop announced the name Second Skin. There was a sparse display consisting of an angle-length leather coat on a mannequin, a second mannequin wearing a pair of tight leather trousers and a biker style jacket, and an ingenious display of leather skirts of different colours mounted on a network of strings stretched between floor and ceiling. Behind the display a grey curtain hung from a brass pole. Small labels on the floor beneath each item suggested discounts of 30- 50%. My mother, always eager for a bargain, opened the door and shepherded me through: I accepted the inevitable. The shop was smallish and quietly lit. Racks of coats, trousers, and skirts stood against the walls, and a curtained-off compartment in the corner indicated a changing room. A spotlight illuminated a full-length mirror on one wall. Behind the counter stood a red-haired young - or perhaps, on second glance, not so young as her clothing and slim, elegant body made her appear - woman wearing, apparently, a leotard made of glossy black lycra, over which she had pulled on a pair of long boots reaching half-way above her thigh. The top of the boots, evidently made from soft, high-quality leather, were turned over slightly. A wide leather belt, decorated with metal bosses and a heavy brass buckle had been draped around her hips, and she wore a short leather jacket, like the one in the window, with the cuffs turned back. One wrist carried an assortment of heavy bangles in brass and silver, with jade and jet carbuncles set into them. An assortment of gold and silver chains hung round her neck. Her hair, which was certainly dyed, so bright was the red colour, was lengthy and unruly - a mass of undisciplined curls. Her lipstick more or less matched her hair, but her long nails had been painted black. She smiled as we walked through the door. The heady smell of new leather - always a favourite of mine - assailed us as we entered. For a moment, I felt dizzy. I walked over to the racks of clothes and started looking through them, head-down, trying to avoid being noticed, but mum, to the point as ever, strutted over to the counter and announced, "My daughter needs a new coat. She left her overcoat behind at university at the end of term. She'd like to try the one in the window, and anything else you might like to suggest." The shop girl walked over to a rack on the other side of the shop from where I was standing, and pulled out the twin of the coat in the window. "Perhaps you'd like to try these as well. We're offering 40% discounts on all of them at the moment." She walked towards where I was standing, next to the mirror, with three coats on hangers. I held my breath, wondering whether she'd realise that I was not, in fact, a girl, or ask me a question which I'd have to answer in my boy's voice. My mother had coached me that if I had to speak I should not try to talk in a high-pitched voice, but simply talk softly and modulate my words carefully, but I was not convinced that this would be enough to carry off our deception. But the girl simply handed me the first coat and gestured that I should try it on. Slightly breathless, I unwound the pashmina, and struggled into the ankle-length coat. It was rather heavy and, to my mind, did not really suit me, and I indicated that I'd like to try the others. The second coat was a shortish single- breasted reefer jacket with wide lapels. Four inches of my skirt stuck out below my coat creating a layered effect that didn't work, so I tried the third possibility. This turned out to be a belted double-breasted trench coat in beautiful soft leather, with epaulettes deep pockets. It reached to just below knee length, approximately to the top of my boots. I buttoned it up and fastened the belt, turning up the collar, and looked at in the mirror. I fell in love with it on the spot, but inevitably it turned out to be the most expensive of the three. I looked appealingly at my mother, who nodded, apparently happy with my choice. There was a brief conversation between her and the assistant, who carried the coat over to the counter and started to pull a large cardboard carrier with the shop's logo from underneath. But I hadn't finished yet. "Can I try on this skirt mummy," I said. Looking through the racks earlier, I had found a shortish black skirt made from soft leather. The label revealed it to be my size; it was tight and elegantly tailored, and I wanted it so much that I had forgotten my nervousness about speaking, and even that I was not supposed to acknowledge to my mother that there were girls' clothes that I wanted to wear. The same thought evidently struck her, because she stared at me open mouthed for a moment, before agreeing, in a breathy voice, that, yes, I could try it if I really liked it. After a few moments, I emerged from the changing cubicle, pleased with my choice. The skirt was a perfect fit, coming to mid-thigh, and I thought that it and my boots (and seamed stockings) displayed my legs to advantage. I pirouetted before the mirror, admiring my reflection, and mum evidently liked it too, because she agreed to buy it. The shopgirl picked out some tissue paper and started to fold up the coat, until mum remembered why we had bought it, interrupted her and said I'd wear it. So the girl found a smaller package, and started to wrap up the skirt, while I pulled on the coat, trying not to preen too much. The shopgirl glanced at me with a smile. "Of course," she said, "we'll be discounting more items from Boxing Day, if you are interested in coming in for the sales." "Oh, really?" said mum, flicking casually through a rack of leather jackets. "Anything special you'd recommend?" As I've said, mum had a real appetite for a bargain, but I think on this occasion, she was just asking out of politeness. We had, after all, spent a fair amount of money already that day. But the shopgirl responded, apparently with genuine enthusiasm. She was, as I've indicated, an enthusiastic wearer of the shop's products, and as I came to know over time, had a real sense of which items suited her customers. "Well, my favourite is this dress," she said, walking over to a rail and pulling out a hanger. From it hung a short dress with long sleeves, a biker-style collar, and multiple zips. "It's the best quality leather, it's ideal for clubbing or a party, and it will be on sale with a 50% discount. I'm going to buy one myself. It comes in several colours. I'll probably buy the red." I could see on the rail identical dresses in a dark burgundy red, indigo, a deliciously deep green, pink (yuk!), and white. The one she had pulled out was black. Mum took the hanger off her and unzipped the black dress carefully. The lining material was a rich red colour, the dress soft and luxurious, and the style achingly modish. I salivated quietly in the background, while mum examined it approvingly. "It would really suit your daughter," the shopgirl said. "If you like, I can put one aside, provided you come in early on Boxing Day. Otherwise, if another customer wants it, I'll have to let it go." Mum gave a frown, which she later told me was in response to the shopgirl's automatic assumption that the dress would be for me and not for her. "What do you think, darling," she asked. For a moment, I didn't trust myself to speak. I nodded, and silently mouthed 'yes, please'. "I think we will come in the day after tomorrow," said mum, "so yes, please, if you could keep one for us that would be great. I think in black, if you have one in a size twelve. Now," she added a little sharply, "we must complete our shopping if you'll excuse us." The shopgirl disappeared for a moment behind a curtain at the rear of the shop, carrying the dress, and emerged a moment later. Perhaps realising her mistake, she said to mum, "Of course, we've got lots of other stuff as well. There are some beautiful leather trousers that would really suit your figure, and leather jackets in lots of different styles." She plucked a black jacket from a rack, and held it up to show mum, stroking the fabric as if to emphasize its quality. The two women's eyes met, and something flashed between them which I didn't understand, and my mother's expression softened. "Well, I'll look forward to browsing your sale stock on Monday, then," she said, before turning decisively towards the door. I buttoned my new coat, fastened the belt, and took the carrier with my skirt. As we stepped out into the mall, I found myself walking with a straight back, looking defiantly back at any shopper who glanced at me. The coat had somehow given me a new confidence in my appearance, and I no longer felt fearful. I enjoyed the sound of my heels clattering on the marble floor. My mother walked alongside me, in thoughtful silence. I half expected her to comment on my request for a new skirt or about my enthusiasm for the dress we had been shown, but she did not. I realised later that she must have been absorbing the realisation that I had openly - if implicitly - acknowledged that I coveted those two items of clothing, and that therefore I had preferences about the girls' clothes that I wore, and that as a consequence of that I must to some extent at least enjoy wearing them. Whether at that moment she had decided to test the extent of my enthusiasm for dressing up I do not know, but I think that it was only then that the seed of what happened over the next two days was planted. If we had not plunged into that crazy argument over breakfast, what follows might never have happened. When we reached the supermarket, some of my nervousness returned: if we saw someone we knew, my mother would be bound to stop and talk, and I knew that I would not be able to escape close scrutiny. But although I undoubtedly felt apprehensive at the prospect of exposure (I had the odd feeling that I was walking through the supermarket completely naked), part of me was curious about how a friend of mum would react if they saw me. Would they immediately realise who I was? Or would they just assume that mother was out with a young girl? At first, as we walked round the shelves, I stepped around the end of each aisle cautiously, trying to assess who was in the next aisle before entering it. But after a while, when the shrieks and giggles I half expected from other shoppers failed to materialise, and I realised that people were not staring at me or whispering things behind my back, I relaxed again, and we finished our shopping calmly. My mother was matter of fact throughout, and we spoke only to discuss our purchases and their prices. At length, we reached the till, paid, and wheeled our trolley to the car. We unloaded the shopping, got in, and fastened our seatbelts. I heaved a sigh of relief - or was it triumph? Mum started the car, glanced at me, and smiled. "There," she said, "that wasn't too bad, was it?" Lost for a reply, I just giggled. The drive home was uneventful, and we quickly unloaded our shopping. After we had sorted out and put away the food, I grabbed the bag with the skirt in and made for the stairs. Mum raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to change," I said. "Who gave you permission to go back to being a boy," she said with a severity that her smile suggested she could not sustain. I think she was still too pleased by the choices I had made in Second Skin to be annoyed. And indeed, there was no reason for her to be. "I'm not," I said. "I just wanted to try on my new skirt again." "Oh," she said. The strange smile again, and then she shrugged good- humouredly and gestured me upstairs. As I walked I glanced over my shoulder to see her watching me with a curious expression on her face. Was she thinking carefully through the events of the morning and weighing up their significance? I certainly was. The rest of the day passed without incident. I remained fully dressed in my new sexy skirt and boots, and mum was friendly, even affectionate. After lunch, she went out to do some more shopping ("a few last minute Christmas purchases," she said), and we spent a quiet evening together. I dragged myself to bed quite early, undressing slowly and reluctantly as, in my mind, I transformed back into boy mode. The day had been a revelation, and I could only wonder what was to come. Would we play the punishment game tomorrow? Or had today's events somehow signalled a shift beyond that, but if so to what? My sleep was fitful and disturbed by dreams of me walking naked through the shopping mall. Mum ran up to me with various items of girls' clothing, which she tried to make me put on, whilst a circle of people - my closest friends mingled with variously threatening strangers - pointed at me and hooted. I cried and tried to run away, but my legs wouldn't carry me, and mum was always there, ahead of me, with the circle of onlookers around her, as I constantly and fruitlessly tried to flee. There was no hope of escape, but nor was there a resolution. I wanted to put on the clothes that my mother was offering me, but somehow the likely reaction of the crowd of friends and onlookers prevented me from doing so. Eventually, I awoke, bathed in perspiration, gasping for breath. For a moment I didn't know where I was. It was still dark, but I could hear mum downstairs pottering about, and I realised I was at home, and after a few moments, recalled the events of yesterday. They, together with the after-effects if the dream, left me feeling unsettled and uneasy. I switched on the light. On the bed lay an improvised Christmas stocking. It wasn't large, but it was filled with a multitude of small packages, wrapped in brightly coloured Christmas paper. I unwrapped one: it contained what turned out to be a bright tube of cherry red lipstick. As I shuffled through the contents of the stocking, I realised that most of the packages contained cosmetics. There was also a pair of glossy black tights and a soft package which contained a silky set of underwear in fuchsia-coloured satin. There was also an envelope with a card inside. I opened it: inside was a message: Happy Chrismas darling. Here are some little things to make you even more beautiful: I hope you enjoy using them. Let us not argue, today of all days, about what you should wear. One of your presents is a new outfit that I think you'll really like. Why don't you come down in your kimono so that you can try it on straight away? It doesn't always have to be a punishment, you know. Mummy PS. Today's number is 37. I fell back on to the pillow. The meaning of the note appeared only too clear, apart from the PS. It seemed that I was being invited to prepare for a dressing-up session, and for once there would be no precipitating quarrel. In effect, it was a test: would I voluntarily wear the new outfit - which surely had to be something feminine - or not? As for the PS, I was momentarily nonplussed, but then decided to look more carefully at the make-up that was by now strewn across the bed. As I suspected, each colour had its own designated number. Number 37, which came in a lipstick and nail polish, was described as "crimson dawn". I sat for a moment, and then, gathering together some underwear stole quietly out of my bedroom across the landing. The blue bathroom was warm, comfortable, welcoming. I realised I was holding my breath. Once again, I had an erection that required attention. I ran myself a bath and luxuriated in it for half an hour, before drying myself with a soft towel, and applying body cream, perfume, and talc. I lingered over my preparations. Having donned the items which added shape to my body, and dealt with my masculine parts, I selected a suspender belt, and pulled on a pair of stockings with leisurely, pleasurable movements. The new, silky underwear followed, and, as an afterthought, I added an aubergine-coloured camisole. I felt strangely calm in the almost dreamlike atmosphere. I slithered into my kimono and slipped my feet into my wedge-heeled black velvet slippers. Back in my bedroom, I sat down in front of my dressing table, and started to apply some make-up - foundation, eyeliner, mascara, colour on the eyelids, and the prescribed lip and nail colours. I now had to wait a while until my nail varnish dried. Much had happened in the last two days. I had, of course, played my part in provoking events, but my mother's response had been a revelation. I wondered a little at my own actions. My first term at university had given me time to think. After two months without the Punishment Game, I had developed a wholly unexpected ache to play it again. I had come to realise that, far from being released from a tense relationship, I missed the opportunity to dress in my girl mode. But, as I've already described, the circumstances in which the little cross-dressing I encountered were not to my taste. Moreover I was living in a hall of residence so dressing up - even if I had the clothes to wear, which I didn't - would be problematic: I certainly was not ready yet to dress in public. And dressing in the privacy of my bedroom would be a singularly unrewarding experience. I did, of course, have a student social life, and this included a number of sexual encounters, but none of them developed into a serious relationship. But the final such episode, with a student called Nadia, who was in the year above me, set me thinking even harder about my future. Nadia was an impossibly attractive girl in my faculty, who was popular with students of both sexes. She was rumoured to have had relationships with both men and women, and although I discounted some of this gossip (such stories are always circulating on campus) it was certainly the case that she was always at the centre of student social life. Because of the impossibly wide gulf which separates a boy of 18 from a girl of 20, I had no expectations that a circumstance would arise for me to become involved with her, but in fact it did. I had been to a party to celebrate a friend's birthday, and Nadia was also there. This was not a surprise: most people invited her to their parties, and she seemed to manage to attend an unfeasibly large number. For some reason, this particular party petered out quite early in the evening (it had started mid- afternoon), and Nadia decided to arrange a bar crawl to round off the day. Somehow, I got roped into this, and rather uncharacteristically I stayed to the end, as more and more people peeled off as their stomachs or their wallets reached the limits of their endurance. When there were half a dozen of us left, Nadia decided we should go back to her flat to finish off a bottle of Scotch that she had managed to acquire during the course of the evening. At some point, I must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because I awoke, stiff-necked, in the early hours. Nadia was clattering about in the kitchen, and it was obviously time for me to leave. I pulled on my jacket and prepared to go, but Nadia would have none of it. A storm was brewing outside, and besides it was a long walk home to hall. I can't remember now the details of our conversation, but somehow we ended up together in her bed. I recall Nadia's warm body curling around mine, but I think that I must have been too tired, or drunk, or both to respond, because the next thing I recall was waking up with a raging thirst and a strong desire to go to the bathroom. It was still dark, and the rain continued to pound on Nadia's bedroom window. I got up, found the bathroom, and then started groping my way towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. This meant navigating through the living room, and to do so without bumping into or tripping over furniture, I switched on the light. The first thing I noticed when my eyes became used to the glare was Nadia's leather jacket hanging on a hook in the entrance lobby. I had been admiring the jacket all evening: the fabric was sumptuously soft, it was achingly on trend, and it set off Nadia's already considerable sexual magnetism to its best effect. Without thinking, I walked into the hall and slipped it on. Nadia was about my height and the jacket clung to my naked flesh pleasingly. On the floor there stood a pair of expensive-looking knee-length boots, and with trembling hands I found myself zipping myself into them. They did not fit me quite so well - Nadia's feet must have been at least a size smaller than mine - but I managed to do them up without too much difficulty. The heels were quite high, and as I examined myself in the full-length mirror which had been intelligently hung next to the front door, I felt my penis hardening. With my long blonde hair and hairless body, with my non-existent breasts covered by the leather of the jacket, the reflection I saw was startlingly feminine. God, how I missed the Punishment Game! My reverie was interrupted by a noise from the bedroom, and I realised with horror that Nadia was moving around. I heard the bathroom door close and the toilet flushed. In a second, she would come to look for me, and I fumbled with the zips of the boots in a desperate ecstasy of panic to get them off before she found me. I just about succeeded, but I was still wearing the jacket when Nadia's naked form appeared in the doorframe. "Er," I said lamely, "I was getting myself a glass of water, and I felt cold." I made to take the jacket off. Whatever Nadia made of this ridiculous explanation, she walked towards me, and stayed my movement with a gesture of her hands. She held me at arms' length and looked at me. Her face was friendly. "No need to take it off," she said. "You look cute in it." I swallowed hard and said nothing. Nadia took my hand gently and led me back to the bedroom, where she pulled me down to the bed. With her right hand, she stroked my chest. "You have such smooth skin," she said, "just like a girl." She ran the back of her hand down my chest and across my stomach and along my now fully erect penis. "Just like a girl," she repeated. We kissed and our bodies melted together, and we found ourselves making love. I remember Nadia turning up the collar of the jacket, which I was still wearing, and caressing the back of my neck through the leather. I don't expect my lovemaking was very expert, but together we seemed to make up in enthusiasm what we lacked in technique, and subsided, panting warmly, into a companionable embrace. Nadia, who must have drunk at least as much alcohol as I had, started drifting off into a post-coital slumber, but before her eyes finally closed, she murmured gently, while stroking my hairless legs and stomach, "I just can't get over that beautiful, smooth skin." We didn't linger over farewells the following morning : we both had lectures to go to and in any case, as I was to find out, this wasn't Nadia's style. We didn't see much of each other for the rest of term - I had no illusions that the evening had given me any rights over Nadia, and I knew from others that Nadia disliked clingy men (or women) - but we did have a kiss and cuddle in a bar somewhere the night before I went home, so I guess I can't have offended her. The episode was, however, transformative in one way. It focused my thinking about my lifestyle, and particularly about my need to dress as a girl from time to time. I think that it was then that it came home to me that I wanted to find a way of dressing that did not involve arguments or punishment, and with that thought came the dim realisation that I would need to find a way of reconciling my habit with the rest of my personal life: it was unlikely that this was a habit that could be kept entirely secret. And while I did not consciously formulate a plan of action, I do think that if my encounter with Nadia had never taken place, I would not have been so forward in provoking my mother, and in particular in tacitly acknowledging to her that I wanted, I needed to dress up. My mother's response so far seemed to have been positive and life-affirming, although I expect that she, too, did not immediately come to terms with the new reality. But her message to me that Christmas morning seemed clear. Nonetheless, it was in a state of considerable nervousness that I descended the stairs. Might this not be a cruel joke on my mother's part? Her humour could undoubtedly be sharp at times. Or might this be the prelude to another, more subtle way of punishing me? At that stage, I was still at a loss to know for sure whether the satisfaction my mother had undoubtedly gained from our game was primarily to do with me dressing up, or with inflicting punishment. So although I was obeying her instructions in coming down dressed as I was, I had no idea what would follow. I could hear mum clattering about in the kitchen, so I walked towards the kitchen area, taking a last look at myself in the full-length mirror in the hall before entering the living room. I had deliberately ta