How It All Started - Part 1 free porn video

HOW IT ALL STARTED I - The Sewing Machine Sometimes the greatest changes have the smallest causes; sometimes, the big decisions in life seem to take themselves. Rarely, when we take what seems to be a small step, do we understand the huge consequences it can lead to. It is over a decade before I met you. I am sitting on the floor at home, occupied with a birthday gift. I can't now remember what it was, or who it was from, but it is taking up my time in a pleasant, congenial way and in any case the details are not important to this story. It is the first of September, a Sunday afternoon, and I have just turned twelve years old. My mother - elegant, absorbed - is sitting at the living room table working with her sewing machine. Our house is airy and bright on this cool September afternoon. It is quite a large detached house on the outskirts of town, with four bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms upstairs, a substantial kitchen-diner and a utility room. The two reception rooms are both chunky, square rooms, comfortably furnished in the slightly retro style my mother likes. French windows in the rear sitting room lead into a long, walled garden which, since my mother's divorce, has been kept up by a gardener who comes in twice a week. Her name is Lisa. My mother recruited this young woman as a student at the local college, since which time she has been appointed head gardener at a local National Trust property. She continues to work in our garden twice a week, I think out of a sense of obligation to my mother, who gave her a job when she was in some financial difficulty. Or perhaps she simply likes us or our garden. More of Lisa later. The peace of this fairly normal Sunday afternoon was suddenly interrupted by a snort of annoyance from my mother. The sewing machine clatters to a halt, and my mother's long, slim hands carefully draw some material towards her. With a pair of small scissors, she snips some thread. She shakes her head in irritation, running her fingers through her short, black hair: "I just can't get this seam right, and I don't understand why." She takes the garment she has been making in both hands and holds it up, surveying it critically. It is a blue dress for one of my cousins. Without doubt, there is some small fault in the craftsmanship. The dress hangs limply and a little lopsided, with one sleeve hanging differently from the other. Mother mutters and mumbles to herself. "I need a model," she says to herself. At this point, I am not taking very much notice. I had forgotten - or perhaps I never knew - that she lent her mannequin to a friend a day or two before, and it has not been returned. There is a pause, while she thinks. "David," she says, "I know you're going to hate this, but would you mind just trying this on. Melanie's the same size as you, more or less, and I can't think of any other way to work it out." I am, of course, dumbstruck. Without doubt, my mother could not have made a more unsettling request, and my instinct is to refuse point blank to cooperate. But she is gently insistent, and there is, after all, nobody else around. After making clear my outrage, my unwillingness ever to contemplate doing anything like this again, my expectation of being compensated and rewarded for my cooperation, and having extracted from mother a solemn promise that she would tell nobody else about it (as if she would!), I agree with quite unfeigned reluctance and dismay, to put on the dress. Mother fusses about for a minute, making mark with dressmakers' chalk, and inserting pins into the fabric. Eventually she sits back. "Well, I think I see how the seam should go, but it's still not quite hanging properly. Oh!" She stops and looks at me thoughtfully. She has noticed - she could hardly have avoided noticing - the erection that has overcome me in the few minutes I had been wearing the dress. I avoid her eye. "We'll take it off now," she said, "and I'll unpick the seam. Don't put on your clothes just yet, dear. I might need you to try it on again when I've finished, just to make sure it's right." I pull a face. She nods thoughtfully, as much to herself as to me, and returns to her machine. I have no idea what has happened. Something that should have been a humiliating duty has turned out to be an enormously shameful but nonetheless beguiling pleasure. I have no parallel experience with which to compare the excitement which thrills through me when I put on the dress. Nor can I explain the longing to wear it again. It is a perfectly ordinary dress - blue, with a flared, knee-length skirt, long sleeves, and a rounded collar. Fastened with a zip at the back, it is neither very tight nor very loose. The material is matt cotton, neither sleek nor smooth, and the dress is at present unlined. Nothing, then, at first sight to arouse that odd sexual excitement that has suddenly, piercingly, irrevocably erupted from the innermost core of my subconscious. I say nothing of this at the time, but in reality I do not need to. My mother who knows me better than anybody correctly interprets my awkward silence, and the furtive looks I give her as she works on the machine. But she is careful to keep her voice neutral when, once she has finished her repairs, she asks me to try on the dress again. "That's a little better," she says. "In fact, I think that's it. But just to be on the safe side, would you mind keeping it on for a while so that I can be sure. It's often only after you've been wearing something for a while that you see a problem with it." I can't now remember what, if anything, I say in reply to this. Perhaps I say nothing at all. At any rate, the dress goes on, and stays on. A few moments become an hour, two. I do not ask my mother to take it off, but whatever I have been doing before is forgotten. I am preoccupied by what I am wearing and the sensation it creates. Certainly, the visible effects are at first obvious, both to me and to her. And after a few moments, I skip into the hall to look at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs there. If I expect the sight of me to cure me of what was so suddenly but quite evidently an overwhelming compulsion, it does not. I turn this way and that looking at myself, at the dress, and what it does to me. My mother watches me carefully, but does not say anything. I think at one point I give her a wordless hug (it is unusual for boys to show open affection to their mothers at the age of 12 and I am no exception). She smiles, but still says nothing. I wear the dress for several hours, until bedtime comes. When I take it off, mother says only, "I'll have to iron this now." ++++++ My mother's hobby is dressmaking. She makes a lot of her own clothes, and very elegant they are too. She is tall, slim, a little under 35 years old. I am her only child. My father lives with another woman in a different town, and within a few months of leaving my mother his visits to me have ceased. Mother is a career woman in her own right - she holds a management position in a bank - and we do not suffer financially from the divorce. The dressmaking is a pleasure rather than a necessity. She makes clothes for herself, for friends, and, particularly, for her three nieces. The only person she does not seem to make clothes for is me. When asked about this, she is inclined to say, "The trouble is, men's clothes are so boring!" And if this seems odd to me when I first hear it, after the events just described, I quickly come to understand what she means. My mother has two sisters and their lives have been oddly parallel. Jean, my mother's twin, has a daughter about my age called Jill. Jean married in the same year as my mother, and divorced at about the same time. She is plumpish, easygoing, funny, and unremittingly friendly. Unlike my mother, however, she has no career to speak of, and struggles to make ends meet. Their elder sister Jacky has twin daughters herself. She is small, dark, and seemingly always busy. I think of her as a remote, slightly bad-tempered woman, but that perhaps is because like Jean she is currently going through financial difficulties arising from a divorce. But while Jean and Jill visit us often, we see Jacky and her daughters rarely, usually when they want to ask a favour. All three girls, like me, have birthdays in the autumn, and this year my mother has agreed - did she offer or was she asked? - to make as presents two dresses for each of them. Each girl is to have one smart dress for parties and one day dress for everyday wear, and the next few weekends are taken up with pattern cutting, tacking, sewing, and finishing off. Whether by accident or design, my mother contrives to complete each of them on a Sunday afternoon. "I think that's all done now," she would say. "It looks lovely, but I just wonder whether it's going to hang quite right..." pause "...David, would you just mind...?" I do not know, even now, whether my mother was giving me an opportunity to relive the excitement of that first time; whether she was fulfilling a long-held fantasy of having a daughter; or simply doing exactly what she said she was doing - making sure that the dresses she had made were perfect. At any rate, trying on a new dress becomes something of a Sunday afternoon ritual. I think I make a perfunctory protest on that first repetition; the second occasion - a sumptuous party dress in black velvet lined with deep red polyester - I say nothing; by the third time, I am having difficulty disguising how much I am looking forward to it, darting furtive glances at my mother while she is finishing the dress off, and trying not to hover to close by the sewing machine as the final stitches go in. "There you are, my little fashion model," she says. And then I become "my little Kate Moss"; then simply "Kate"; and finally "Katie". The name sticks. From this time onwards, this is what my mother calls me when I am wearing a dress. The dresses for the twins are all finished, and a parcel is sent off in time to reach them for their birthday at the end of September. I am glad they do not come with their mother to collect the dresses for themselves. When together, they are catty, spiteful girls. "Your mother makes dresses for us, but she doesn't make any clothes for you: she must love us more than she loves you," they would chorus. June, with her black hair and thin lips would pull a face, and Jenny - uniquely in my family, she had a mass of very curly, improbably bright ginger hair - would giggle scornfully. No, I am relieved that they do not visit us to collect their presents this year. My mother is now working on dresses for Jill. Jill is an altogether pleasanter character, with a calm smile, always happy to be with me, listening to music or surfing the computer, or playing out some childish fantasy. We hang around in my bedroom while the two sisters gossip downstairs. I look forward to her visits, and I think that she does too. The dresses my mother makes for Jill are indefinably more feminine - softer and sleeker in, I later realise, more expensive materials, and finished off much more elaborately. The impossible pleasure I experience when trying on dresses for the twins is redoubled when I try on the first of my mother's creations for her - a slim, short dress in fuscia pink, with a gold filigree paisley pattern running through it. The material glistens and shifts colour in different light: I am enchanted by it. I pose repeatedly before the mirror in the hall, fantasizing that I am Jill, and about to go to a party in my new dress. And at the end of the Sunday when I have tried it on, when I undress to go to bed, mother hangs it in my wardrobe. "Mine is rather full," she explains, "we'll keep it here for the time being." So there it hangs, a permanently tempting reminder of that impossible ecstasy. The next two Sundays produce another two dresses, and I begin to wonder whether I am losing count. But when Jill and auntie Jean visit us in early November for Jill's birthday it is those two dresses - a chocolate brown day dress and an iridescent green party dress - that she is given. Each is beautiful in its own way, but neither is to my eye so glorious as the fuscia pink dress hanging in my wardrobe. Jill is sent upstairs to try on her birthday presents and, having discarded her jeans and salmon pink T-shirt, comes downstairs wearing each of the dresses in turn. Dark-haired Aunt Jean, wearing tight jeans, boots, and a black sweater with a voluminous cowl neck which suits her ample curves, makes admiring noises, and Jill expresses her thanks in suitable terms. My mother, always elegant, is wearing quite a short dress in golden brown, with a dappled pattern vaguely reminiscent of autumn leaves. The dress nicely complements her light brown hair, which she has recently had streaked with blonde highlights. Tan boots with a heel and a mass of jangly gold bangles complete the look. I look admiringly at the two elegant women, and the girl, who even at that age will obviously become achingly beautiful in a few years. I think to myself about the opportunities for elegance and beauty that could have been mine but for the accident of my having been born a boy, and then I wonder obscurely whether there might, somehow, be ways of sharing in all that pleasure. The two women start talking about this and that, and Jill and I go upstairs to my bedroom, where we read, talk, listen to music, and surf the web. I find Jill's facebook page, which has a gushing entry about the dresses she is to be given for her birthday; later she will add photos of them. At one point, Jill notices the fuscia dress hanging in my wardrobe (I have thoughtlessly left the door ajar). "Who is that one for?" she asks. "I thought it was for you," I say. At this point my mother enters the room, to talk about arrangements for lunch. Hearing Jill and I talking, she says, "It was intended for you, Jill dear, but I realised it would clash with your lovely hair, so I will have to find another home for it." "Who will you give it to?" asks Jill, apparently genuinely interested. My mother looks directly at me and smiles gently. I feel myself blushing and look away, and then wonder whether I am reading into my mother's smile a significance that it does not have. Whatever the case, my penis chooses this moment to make itself erect under my clothing. But my mother turns to Jill and says, "I haven't decided yet. Maybe one of the twins for Christmas. Or I have a friend whose daughter needs a new dress." We troop downstairs, while I ponder on this last remark. I wonder whether my mother does mean to give the dress away, whether the story about it clashing with Jill's hair is the real reason for not giving it to her, and - rather guiltily - whether I can think of a pretext for trying it on again myself. I am suddenly obscurely distressed by the thought of anybody else having it, and struggle to think of a reason for us to keep it, which does not involve me admitting that I want it for myself. While I am engaged in this rather unproductive train of thought, the three women are chattering about how to spend the rest of the day. My mother offers to take us all out for a Pizza, and Jill asks whether she can keep on the brown dress. My mother agrees. Jill collects her jacket (short, bright red, which looks unexpectedly good with the brown dress); my mother pulls on a tan leather trenchcoat which matches her boots. Jean is wearing a short, black leather jacket. Conscious and rather resentful of the fact that my own look is clumsy and dowdy by comparison, I rather reluctantly struggle into a grey hooded top. In the restaurant, I find my eyes drawn to Jill and her brown dress, and remember my mother's request - anticipated but still somehow thrilling - for me to try it on, and the sensation of pulling myself into it, and the joy of wearing it. My mother, always perceptive in these matters, notices the direction of my furtive glances. She takes a sip of her red wine and leans over to me and whispers very softly, "Do you wish you were wearing that yourself?" My first reaction is the irritation of an adolescent boy that his mother should raise such an embarrassing thought in a public place, however discreetly. That an anxious look across the table reveals that neither my aunt nor my cousin, nor indeed any of the other diners in the restaurant could possibly have heard or guessed what my mother was talking about is scant comfort. I am suddenly and immensely terrified by the possibility that my mother might indiscreetly tell someone that I have been trying on girls' clothes, whatever the innocence of the reasons for it, and resolve impulsively never to agree to do this again. Nonetheless, I feel myself blushing. The moment passes, as such moments do, and meal continues pleasantly enough. After I have calmed down a little, I start to join in the conversation myself, although in a rather half-hearted way. Jill notices this and makes a joke about it. I am wondering all the time whether I really mean never to wear a dress again (after all, why should I) and whether I can keep to my resolve. Time seems to pass rapidly while I am pondering on this. We finish our pizza, Jean and my mother have coffee while Jill and I eat ice cream. The bill is called for. Jean offers to share the cost, but my mother insistently refuses. Table around us empty, and as the afternoon draws on, we walk in the park, where everything is normal. Families out walking together; children feeding the ducks on the lake; magnificent autumn foliage; a tired children's playground; the sound of vehicles on the roads surrounding the park. What could be more normal? But my mind is still in a whirl, thinking over and over again about my mother's question and its significance, and what I really felt. Perhaps, in truth, neither of us want to confront the truth. My mother is not ready to ask me directly to wear a dress, although later I would understand that it is as much a pleasure to her as to me when I do; and perhaps I do not want to admit explicitly - even to myself - that I really yearn to dress as a girl. Perhaps we are both worried about the other's reaction; or perhaps we are both just putting off an awkward moment. So when, after Jean and Jill had left for home, and I emerge from my usual Sunday evening bath towelled and relaxed, and pause before my open wardrobe to look at the fuscia-coloured dress that is still hanging there, and to feel its fabric between my fingers, I hear behind me the sound of my mother coming into the room, her tan high heeled boots clattering on the wooden floor, I say rather lamely, "I was just looking, mum." I turn around, but my mother does not reply, merely giving me an ambiguous smile. A pretext will have to be found. ++++++ It is the following Sunday. I am spending the afternoon with my friend Charles, one of the few friends from primary school who goes to my secondary school. Unlike me, Charles is muscular and strongly built, fond of football and rugby. And he has a dog, a small and lively Jack Russell which we have taken with us to the local park. It is a chilly afternoon, and a thin drizzle is falling, turning the heavily-trodden grass to treacherous mud. We keep warm by chasing the dog - which strongly appreciates the game - around the park. Inevitably, we slip and slide and both of us fall over several times. When we eventually stop, panting and laughing, both of us - and our clothes - are liberally streaked with mud. "Thank God for washing machines," says Charles. I know from experience that his mother does not mind rough play, and equips Charles accordingly. I am a little apprehensive about my own mother's reaction. My wardrobe is limited - my mother has never enjoyed shopping for boys' clothes - and I suspect that she will not welcome the appearance of an additional load of washing on a Sunday afternoon. We squelch back to Charles's house where his black-haired mother dries us off, and his father - to whom Charles bears a striking resemblance - makes us a hot drink. "I can't really do anything about those clothes," says Charles's mother, "I'm afraid your mum will have to wash the lot. I could lend you some of Charles's things, but I don't think they'll fit you very well." I shrug. "These will do until I get home," I say, hiding my nervousness. The brown dog barks encouragingly. It has been sponged down and is eating its supper rather noisily. At length I walk home. My mother's reaction when she sees me is not what I expect. She undresses me with resigned amusement, makes a remark to the effect that now all my clothes seem to be in the wash, and sends me upstairs to bathe. This afternoon she is wearing a beige jumpsuit, tightly belted, the legs tucked into baggy ankle boots. I haven't seen this outfit before and make some comment about it (mother's usual preferred wear consists of skirts and dresses, so covered legs are unusual). My mother is pleased: "It's nice when you take an interest in my clothes." And then she looks thoughtful, as if an idea has struck her, but she says nothing. The bath is hot and steamy, and I linger in it. The bathroom windows steam up, and it is starting to get dark. Outside the bathroom, I can hear my mother pottering about, opening and closing doors and drawers. Soon from downstairs comes the noise of the washing machine. I finally emerge from the bath and pad towards my bedroom. My mother is sitting on my bed, looking out of the window. "We have a problem," she says. For a moment, I am puzzled, since I don't see anything in particular that is out of place. I look at her enquiringly. "All your trousers are in the wash, and I don't want you to wear your school clothes this evening. And it's far too early to change into your pyjamas." She hesitates, and looks down at the floor. It is what she says next that stops me in my tracks. "I don't suppose - well, there's really nothing else to wear - that you want to put on that dress." She gestures towards the open wardrobe, which does indeed look empty apart from the fuscia-coloured dress hanging there. "You've worn it before," she goes on a little desperately. "Just this once," she adds, "it would be helpful, if you didn't mind." For a moment I say nothing, but the reaction of my penis struggling to become erect under the heavy towel betrays me. I can see my mother looking at my waist and I blush. Fearing an unsteady voice, I merely nod. At this, my mother starts bustling about efficiently. From somewhere she produces some girls' pants and a vest, and a pair of mauve ankle socks which match the colour of the dress surprisingly well. The dress is zipped on, and the outfit is completed with a pair of shiny black mary- janes. This is the first time I have worn any article of clothing to complement a dress, and I am too overwhelmed by my mother's briskness to protest or even to comment. I wonder, in retrospect, whether if I had not come home covered in mud, my mother would have found another subterfuge under which to dress me. But at the time, these thoughts were far away. I was bathing once more in the sensation of wearing that beautiful dress, and the sexual thrill that it brought to me. I don't remember exactly what we did for the remainder of the day. I remember it simply as an evening where I was gloriously relaxed and happy and contented, and fully at ease - perhaps for the first time - with my mother. Nothing more was said by either of us about my outfit or the reasons for wearing it, or about whether I might wear it again, when at bed time, I reluctantly took the dress off and hung it up. In fact, the issue was not mentioned over the next few days, until the following Sunday evening when, unaccountably, there seemed to be another washing crisis, and I found myself dressed up again. The week after that, the dress and its accessories were laid out for me on my bed when I emerged from my bath. It seemed natural, somehow. Things finally come to a head on the fourth week. I bathe as usual on a Sunday afternoon, and pad towards my bedroom fully expecting to wear the dress again. But on this occasion, nothing is laid out on the bed, and my mother is nowhere to be seen. Presumably she is downstairs. I open the wardrobe door, and the dress is indeed hanging there (and further searches reveal the underwear and shoes that go with it), but so also is a range of my boys' clothes. Horrified, I realise that there is no reason for me to put on the dress. I stand there transfixed for a while, and then reluctantly take down a pair of jeans and search in my drawers for a T-shirt. But then I hesitate. As if compelled, I return to the wardrobe, and run my fingers down the material of the dress. I unhook the hanger, and hold the dress against my body, and shimmy over to the mirror to look at my reflection. And then I find myself, fumbling slightly as my hands are trembling, pulling on the girls' pants and struggling into the dress. With some difficulty, I locate and pull up the zip at the back of the dress and, calmer now, put on the lilac socks and shiny shoes. I walk hesitantly downstairs. My mother is standing by the living room window looking out at nothing in particular. She is wearing a black skirt and a cream blouse. She turns round as she hears me come in, and then, gloriously, gives me a radiant smile. "Hello Katie," she says, "I'm glad you've come downstairs." The rest of the afternoon passes in a sort of dream. I can't now remember what we did - probably watch television together or read - but I remember snuggling against the proximity of my mother's warm body, and her putting a protective arm around me. "It's funny," she says, "I've always wanted to make clothes for you, only..." Her voice tails off. I complete the sentence for her, smiling, "...only boys' clothes are so boring." She nods. "But perhaps now," she says. "I'd like to make something specially for you." "I think I'd like that," I reply. She gives me another radiant smile. ++++++ That afternoon marks a watershed. Although nothing explicit is said, it is now understood between us that I find wearing a frock enjoyable and stimulating, and that Sunday afternoon is the special time when I am able to do this. The bath followed by the change of clothes becomes a habit. And - as mother is now again busy with her sewing machine in the build-up to Christmas - there are new garments for me to try. My mother's line of questioning is now subtly different: "Look at this lovely dress I've made for Jenny," (one of Jacky's twin daughters), "would you like to try it on?" The answer, of course, is always yes. On Christmas morning itself, there is, amongst my gifts, a squashy parcel. I'm opening my presents still wearing my pyjamas (I haven't quite got out of the habit of rushing downstairs as early as possible on Christmas morning), and mother contrives things so that I reach that parcel last. I prod the package - the paper rustles encouragingly - which gives, suggesting fabric. An article of clothing. I dare to hope. Mother watches me intently. I fumble with the paper, tearing it slightly as I open the package. The first thing I notice is soft, black needlecord. Of course it is - it has to be - a new dress, made this time especially for me. It has a square neckline, a fitted bodice, and a rather full skirt, with shortish, puffed sleeves. It is lined in beautiful pearl grey satin-like material, that feels to me as soft and slippery to the skin as the finest silk. I look at mother, wide-eyed. "Go on then," she says. She doesn't have to say more. I rush to my bedroom, tear off my nightclothes, search frantically for some suitable underclothes, and slither into the dress. My fingers fumble on the buckles of my shiny black shoes. There are tears - tears of joy - in my eyes as I walk self-consciously down the stairs, trying to look beautiful for her. My mother, too, seems on the verge of tears. We engage in a long, silent, passionate hug. "It's the best Christmas ever," I say. I wear the dress the whole day, and on Boxing Day, I pull on the fuscia dress. Mother smiles at me as I come downstairs. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to take that off," she says. "I want us to go around the sales this morning." I pout indignantly. "Don't worry," she says, "we'll be home by lunchtime. You can put it back on then." 'Doing the Sales' has become a Christmas ritual for my mother, and I have always hated it. This time, the distaste is doubled by having to change into jeans and a hoodie for the rest of the morning. But I find I'm oddly curious about what we will be buying. Traditionally, we've traipsed around the women's wear section of the local department stores, and for the first time it occurs to me to be interested in the clothes as we work our way through the racks. My mother picks out a dress and a bright red suit with a short skirt, and seems genuinely interested in my opinion about them. After trying them on she discards the dress but buys the suit. We wander through the shop and she finds a black leather biker-style jacket which she evidently considers a bargain, although the price seems exorbitant to me. She buys that too. We travel up the escalators, and I suddenly realise that we are in the girls' wear Department. My head swims: I'm walking on air - a mixture of terror lest anybody sees us, and ridiculous excitement. I look at mother, expecting some sort of explanation, and hoping that it won't be too audible to other shoppers (oh God, is anybody we know here?), but she moves serenely on, saying nothing. She is fumbling through a rack of discounted skirts and tops. I'm trying to look as though I'm not with her (normal boy behaviour), when she pulls out a shortish, quite full, skirt in a deep purple, rather course, woollen material. "Do you think Katie might like this?" she asks innocently. I swallow, and say hoarsely, "I'm sure she'd love it." Katie hasn't yet worn a skirt. Mother nods, absently. She carries on working her way through the Department, and by the time she's satisfied, she has in her arms two or three skirts of differing styles, a blouse, a couple of tight, stretchy tops, and some underwear. "I think I'll look for shoes some other time, when I'm here by myself," she says. I smile at her gratefully. My head is spinning. The clothes are - obviously - for me, and I'm picturing a delirious afternoon trying on different outfits. The thought seems not in the least outlandish. I'm not even embarrassed by it (although, thinking about it later, I realise that I'd be horrified if anybody but mother knew about it). And the afternoon lives absolutely up to its promise. My world has changed.