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Proof By Rosie With a feeling of destiny, I slowly walked towards the living room. To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement, but at the same time, wearing my girlfriend's yellow dress, my feet squeezed into her only pair of high heeled shoes, somehow I couldn't wait to show myself to my mother. For a second, it seemed that neither one would look up from the laptop screen as I made my entrance, despite loud clacking of my high heels. Eventually though, first Sarah, then my mother turned toward me. Before I could reach the table, she got up from her seat and met me halfway. Perhaps her face showed mild amusement, but there was no sign neither of shock nor surprise, as if seeing her son in a dress was the most natural thing of all. "This is what happens when you let women boss you around," she said, very matter-of-factly, without a trace of scorn in her voice. I found it fitting that she used the plural form, because even though it was Sarah who was doing the bossing around, I still felt my mother to be instrumental in the events leading up to this moment. On the other hand, I could have said the same about myself. Although politely friendly towards each other at first, they really hit it off when Sarah and I started planning our first joint real estate investment, and they both found each other a more relevant conversation partner than me. Accustomed to being the most important person both to my mother and my girlfriend, I would feel neglected when they became far more engaged in the conversation than me. In my boredom, I would try to attract Sarah's attention with increasingly obnoxious behavior. For a while, she made an effort to accommodate my ego, but she quickly got fed up and turned to chastising me instead. The lack of any rebuttal on my part showed my mother who was the boss in our relationship. The lack of any protest, or at least discontent on my mother's part, showed Sarah she had a willing audience. My meekness in these exchanges reinforced Sarah's dominance over me, and as her dominance grew, so did my humiliations, until she openly threatened to make me wear one of her dresses. My mother stifled a chuckle, raising her eyebrows at me in amusement, while I pretended not to have heard anything, thinking it to be another one of the multiple, meaningless humiliations. Our reactions were not lost on Sarah, though. As soon as my mother had left our house, she confronted me with the obvious. "You'd really wear a dress with your mother in the house?" she asked me. She sounded incredulous and unsure, though in the next fraction of a second, my hesitation in replying gave her all the answer she needed, and she became more and more demanding. Despite her persistence, I managed to avoid engaging in a conversation about whether or not I would wear a dress next time my mother came to visit, or which dress I would wear. However, that was a Pyrrhic victory, because the price I had to pay for not wanting to talk about wearing a dress was actually wearing one. That evening in our bedroom, when she told me to take one of her dresses out of the closet and put it on, I found myself powerless not to do as I was told. Too ashamed to face her, I kept my eyes on the closet even as I fumbled with the zipper of the dress, but eventually, I had to leave this safe haven. Cringing with humiliation, I turned towards her, wearing a blue and white patterned dress. I found her sitting on the bed, leaning on her elbows, biting on her lower lip, looking at me without saying a word. Honestly speaking, she scared me, but at the same time, I felt myself strangely excited. "What?" I finally asked her. "Nothing," she said hoarsely. "Come here," she commanded the next moment, and I did as I was told. Unceremoniously, her hand reached up my skirt, making me gasp with fright, and took hold of my half swollen penis. "What's that?" she said. "You like this, huh? Looks like we learned something new about you." Without waiting for my answer, she pulled me towards her, kissed me, then pushed me on my back, hiked up the skirt of my dress, pulled down my shorts and rode me to a bone shattering orgasm. As I got off the bed afterwards, I tried to show the best I could I was doing everything short of ripping it get the dress off of me. However, tried as I might to divest myself of the offending garment, I could not rid myself of the notion that my fate was sealed. When my mother paid us her next visit, I was trying to be on my best behavior since the moment she entered the door, at all costs avoiding giving Sarah a reason to be displeased with me, but the tension was taking its toll on my nerves. For a split second, when Sarah opened her laptop at the table, my exasperation got the best of me. Even to me, my sigh was barely audible, but it was enough to make her turn sharply to me. I twitched on my chair with fear, bracing myself for the inevitable, yet still hoping to placate her somehow. "I'm sorry," she said, "am I boring you with this, Corey?" "No," I drew back, nervously. "Shouldn't we clean up the table first, though?" "Fine," she hissed, "you know where the aprons are." Blushing furiously, I turned to leave the table, but then I caught my mother's mischievous glance. "Aprons?" she mused. "Looks like you're getting off easy. I thought you'd be wearing a dress." I froze in my tracks, allowing a moment of silence after which none of us could pretend not to have heard my mother's words. Slowly, I turned to Sarah to see her reaction. She raised her eyebrows at me, half amused, half challenging. Dropping my gaze, I admitted my defeat and wordlessly left for our bedroom. Sarah only had a handful of dresses, and I knew in advance which one I wanted. Just like Sarah's other dresses, from the waist down it flared out into a pleated, knee length skirt. What made it different from the rest was the sleeveless top with a neckline that came all the way up to the collar, which would best cover up the fact Sarah made me remove all of my hair below the neck, deaf to my complaints I wouldn't be able to wear shorts with the summer just starting. Despite the yellow color and the rhinestone studded collar, from the waist up it had looked more like a sports top than an actual dress on Sarah. However, as I zipped it up at the back I realized that the bodice was tighter than I had hoped. I could feel the fabric squeeze my belly and, looking in the mirror, I realized that under the bright light, the sheen of the fabric made the yellow color brighter than I had remembered it to be, and that the lacy bra I was wearing underneath made the unmistakable illusion of a bust. Although the pleats of the skirt were softer than in the other dresses, they efficiently obscured any possible hint of my penis, safely tucked inside a pair of panties to match my bra. With my feel squeezed into Sarah's black pumps with a three inch stiletto heel, I was suddenly aware that apart from my face, there was little else masculine about my look. With my hand already on the doorknob, I toyed for a second with the idea of at least putting on a different, more revealing dress to shatter the unexpectedly successful feminine illusion. But then, taking a deep breath, as much as the tight dress would allow me, I took one last look in the mirror, forced my lips in a tight smile and made my way back to the living room. "This is the dress you wore the last time we met in town, isn't it?" my mother said to Sarah. Despite making it all seem so casual, I could tell that they had been talking about me wearing Sarah's clothes while I was changing, and by Sarah's suddenly sheepish expression, I could tell that my mother learned the true reason for it. Without waiting for Sarah's answer, she turned to me. "I have to say though," she said to me, "it almost works better on you. You don't have those broad, swimmer's shoulders Sarah has, yours don't stick out so much." "Way to insult the both of us, mom," I said in half whisper. "I beg your pardon," my mother replied mock-defensively, "I haven't insulted anyone. I have complimented your girlfriend on her muscular physique, and I have complimented you for looking good in the clothes you're wearing." She paused for a second. "Except for these unsightly rolls," she said in normal voice again, poking at my stomach, "You should lose some weight if you're going to be dressing in your girlfriend's clothes." Before I could ponder at the implication of her words, she turned to Sarah again, whom the remark about my weight had put in a noticeably better mood. "He should get his own shoes, though," my mother said, "otherwise he'll stretch yours out." "That's okay," Sarah said, "I don't even wear them anymore." "You still might, someday," my mother replied. "In any case, he should have shoes that fit properly." Then, she took me by the hand and led me around the bookshelves that separated the dining area from the rest of the living room. "We'll be right back," she said to Sarah, then led me to the couch. "Sit right here, honey, I'll just grab my purse," she said. Gingerly, I sat down, happy that I had some privacy as I girlishly smoothed the skirts of my dress under my thighs as I did so. In another second, my mother came back to the couch and sat down facing me. Before I knew it, she pulled out her compact from her purse and started dabbing my face with a broad brush. I tried to pull away, but she stopped me with a stern look and a firm grip on my hand, and I resigned to my fate as she proceeded to apply more makeup. "I have a bunch of my old clothes packed up," she called out to Sarah, as she was applying mascara to my eyelashes. "I was going to give them away, but I think they would suit him just fine." She painted my lips bright crimson with her lipstick. Obediently, I pressed them together like she showed me to, then she put everything back in her purse. Lastly, she took out a few hairpins and put them in my hair. "All done," she announced, got up and helped me get up, too. "Much better, don't you agree?" she said to Sarah as we made it back to the table. Sarah simply smiled in response. I fidgeted nervously, standing before them, as my mother took her seat at the table again. "Well?" my mother said. "I thought you said you wanted to clear up the table?" Hastily, I nodded, happy for an excuse to get away from view. "Though now you really need to wear an apron," she added. I gave myself as much work in the kitchen as I could find, though eventually even that was over and I had no excuse not to rejoin the table. Handing up my apron by the doorway, I walked back to the table just as Sarah was getting up. "Bathroom," she replied to my questioning glance. I waited until I could hear the bathroom door close, then leaned closer to my mother. "Could you please not push this any further than it needs to go?" I said in a hushed, urging voice. "Whatever do you mean?" my mother mused. "The makeup. Your old clothes," I said. "I don't know what Sarah told you, but I don't actually enjoy all this." "You don't hate it, either," my mother replied, matter-of-factly. "Do you?" "Well, ... I mean..." I stuttered, but she didn't really listen to me. "At any rate, you don't hate it enough to stand up to your girlfriend," she said. "Well, you don't need to help her," I said with a hurt voice. She paused for a second. "I'm trying to help you," she said. "How?" I moaned reproachfully. "By making me wear makeup?" "I get the feeling that this isn't the last time Sarah will want you in dresses," she said, "The next time you do it, do you want to look like a woman, or like a man in a dress?" I dropped my gaze in silent acceptance of her logic. "Listen," she said, "No one knows better than yourself how you feel about dressing like this. If you really don't like it, then talk it through with Sarah. Until you do though, you better learn to speak with a softer voice. It might save you some embarrassing situations in the future." I sat silently, pretending to look at the laptop screen, while waiting for Sarah to come back. When I heard her exit the bathroom, I immediately turned my head towards the staircase. She took her seat, and, ignoring my obvious act of getting up, pulled her laptop towards her. "Where were we?" she asked. "Actually, Sarah," I said. "Yeah?" she said, a little impatiently. "I would like to change now," I said. "Into a different dress?" she said. "No," I said, awkwardly, "into my own clothes. Wash my face." "Absolutely not," she said. I felt my mother's curious, challenging gaze on me. "This is how you show your gratitude to your mother, after all the trouble she went with your makeup?" Sarah continued, "Don't you find it a little insulting to wash it off right away?" Panicking, I looked at my mother for support, but her expression didn't change. If I argued that I had been wearing my makeup for almost half an hour now, Sarah might not agree. I wasn't wearing a watch, anyhow. "But I'm cold," I said, finally. My mother's expression morphed to a friendly smile. "If it's just that, I can help you out," she said. She opened her handbag, rummaged a little, then handed me a fresh, still unwrapped pair of pantyhose. I looked at her incredulously. "Not the best fitting shade, but they'll do," she said. "See?" Sarah said. "Now you won't be cold anymore. Go put them on at the couch." I came back to the table, my legs now shimmering in a smoky grey tone. "Feeling better?" Sarah asked. "My arms are still cold," I said desperately. Without a word, my mother reached for her black blazer that she had hung on the backrest of her chair and handed it to me. "Here," she said, "I want to see how my clothes fit you, anyway." The smooth lining felt cool on my skin as I slid my arms through the snug sleeves. "Fits perfectly," my mother said, buttoning up the blazer. "I don't think you'll have a problem with the rest of my clothes." "Fine," Sarah said, feigning disinterest. "If we're done wasting time, could we now get back to work?" I sat down at the table and looked at the laptop screen. Aimlessly, I looked at the clock at the bottom of the screen, when it hit me. "It's been half an hour," I said defiantly. "I beg your pardon?" Sarah said. "It's been actually thirty five minutes that I have been wearing makeup," I said, suddenly confident that I would be able to argue my case for washing it off. "Time to freshen up your lipstick, then," Sarah said. Defeated, I looked at my mother, who was already reaching for her handbag again. I took her compact and lipstick from her, then did as Sarah had suggested. Silently, I tried to follow the discussion at the table, but was too absent minded for that. However, it wasn't until almost an quarter hour later that Sarah realized I wasn't paying attention. Exasperated, she got up and came back moments later. "Here, use this if you're getting bored," she said, handing me a bottle of purple nail varnish. I put it down on the table and, this time for real, tried to catch up with the conversation. After a couple of minutes, I had to admit I wasn't going to, and started painting my nails. Sarah and my mother kept it up for another quarter an hour, until she finally got up to leave. "You'll have to give me my blazer back," my mother said to me. "At least today. You can keep the pantyhose, of course." Sarah said goodbye right in the living room, leaving me to escort my mother to the door. I was a little embarrassed to be left alone with her again, but that was nothing compared to the shock when she opened our front door. Still, somehow I let my mother tease me out over the doorstep. I followed her for a couple of steps until I started to shiver, half from the chilly air, half from the fear of being seen. "Guess that's as far outside the house as you're going today," she smiled. "I'm cold," I said, apologetically. "That's fine, you don't really have to walk me to the car," she said. "I'm just glad you took the first steps outside with me." Dumbfounded, I pondered at the implication of what she had just said, but before I could come up with an answer, she gave me a peck on the cheek. "Go run inside," she said, "before you freeze to death." "Why you little sissy," Sarah said to me when I came back to the living room, "you little pansy boy." I looked at her in stunned silence. I halfway expected her to get up, but she just leaned back on the couch. "Look at you, letting your mummy put makeup on you," she went on, "wearing her pantyhose." "But I..." I tried to interject, but she would let me. "Freshening up your lipstick like a little sissy that you are," she said. "Come on, that's not fair," I said, as I started tears of shame welling up behind my eyes, "You wanted me to do that." "So you're saying you're not really a sissy?" she said. "I only did what you wanted me to do," I protested silently. "Did I tell you to put on a dress?" she asked me challengingly. "Maybe not today..." I began, but she wasn't going to let me finish. "Did I tell you to ask your mummy to do your makeup?" she said. "I didn't ask her," I replied resolutely. "I guess you didn't have to," she said. "But you didn't stop her, either." "Sarah, please," I moaned, "that's my mother." "Of course," I said, "silly me. I forgot completely there's nothing sissyish about it if it's your mother who does your makeup after you've changed into a dress." I dropped my gaze to the floor. "I guess wearing your mother's clothes doesn't make you a sissy, either," she continued. "Please stop, Sarah," I almost whispered. "What do you possibly expect me to say?" "I expected you to tell me if you're a sissy or not," she said. "But I see we're getting nowhere talking. Looks like I'll have to find out by spanking you." "Spanking?" I said with fright. "How?" "With the palm of my hand against your buttocks, like so," she said, slapping the palm of her right hand against the top of her left, then burst into a giggle. "Oh, but you meant how spanking me will help me tell if you're a sissy or not, haven't you?" I nodded silently. "Well, first of all, let me ask you this, and answer honestly please," she said. "Do you think I could spank you, if I wanted to?" I nodded. "And what makes you think I could?" she pressed on. I swallowed hard before answering. "You're stronger than me," I said quietly. "Oh," she said with a mock surprise. "So you're saying I'd have to fight you, first?" "I don't want to fight," I said weakly. "Can't say I blame you," she said, "But think about it. If we fought? You would most probably lose, but that wouldn't mean you are a sissy. There's no shame in losing, if you've put on a fair fight." I looked at her with my hope restored. "On the other hand, you would still get spanked," she said, "hard. You can bet your ass the fight would get me worked up. The harder I'd have to fight to put you over my knees, the harder I'd smack your ass." "Please stop doing this," I said, feeling tears trickle down my cheeks. "On the other hand," Sarah went on, ignoring my pleading, "if I knew you were a sissy? Why, I wouldn't have to fight you at all." I started to openly cry. "Okay," I sobbed, "I'm a sissy." "See," she cooed, "that wasn't so hard, now was it?" "No," I sobbed. "But I'm afraid that isn't good enough," she said. "Huh?" I sniffled. "Well, you might be saying you're a sissy just so you won't get spanked," she said, "You'll have to prove you mean it, if you want me to believe you." "Prove? How?" I moaned, then pointed at my face, and my dress, "Isn't this proof enough?" "I thought you've just said it doesn't make you a sissy at all," she said. "What do you want me to do, then?" I wailed. "If there's one thing that sissies can't resist," she said, "is doing what they're told." "I'll do whatever you want me to," I sniffled. "I know that already," she smirked, "but I guess sissies especially like to do as their told by their mommies." "Yes," I sobbed, "I'll do what my mother tells me to." "Who?" she said. "My mother," I repeated. "I thought that sissies used more endearing terms for their mommies," she smired. "I'll do what my mummy tells me to," I replied tearfully. "What specifically?" she demanded. I looked at her blankly. "Try to think of something she's told you to do this evening," she said, "or maybe even suggested you do." My mind raced to the private moments I had shared with my mother earlier on. Another wave of humiliation swept over me as I remembered her very explicit suggestions, but I felt I there was nothing else I could do. Pointing my eyes upwards in embarrassment, I mentally tightened my vocal cords. "I will wear makeup," I said in a high pitched voice, "when I wear your dresses." "That's a start," she said, now sounding genuinely surprised, "but do you really know how to apply makeup?" "No," I admitted. "I see," she said, "I'm not really convinced so far." "I will learn how to do my makeup," I said hastily. "That's better," she said, "but do you own any cosmetics?" "I thought I could use yours?" I offered. "I don't really have that many," she replied, "not nearly as much as your mother, anyway." "I could ask her to bring hers, next time she visits," I suggested. "That might be a while," Sarah replied. "And anyway, wouldn't you like to show your mummy how good you're becoming with your makeup right away when you greet her at the door?" "I'll buy my own," I said, defeated. "Now you're talking," she said, "Anything else you plan on buying?" I thought for a second. "Shoes," I said. "What kind?" "Ladies," I said hotly. "Yes, ladies," she repeated, "but what kind?" "High heeled," I said. "How many?" she asked. "A pair?" I replied. "Though you might want more," she said. "Three," I said, "three pairs." "Three of the same?" she asked. "Actually," I said, "I was thinking I could get a pair with not such a high heel. Just so that I can practice walking?" "That makes sense, actually," she said, "I can see you've given this some thought. Which colors?" "Black?" I said, "Like yours. Then maybe blue? Brown?" "Classic elegance," she remarked, "But perhaps too masculine colors for a sissy, don't you think?" "White?" I corrected myself hastily. "Yellow? Pink?" "Much better," she smiled. "Now tell me, when do you plan to buy all these things?" "I could order everything right away," I suggested. "Online?" she said. "But how will you know if the shoes will fit?" "I already know yours are a half size too small, so half size up," I began excitedly, then realized what I had to say. "I'll buy them in a store," I said glumly, "tomorrow." "Make sure you wear your pantyhose to try them on," she suggested. "I can still order the makeup," I said. "How will you make sure that you're getting the right shades for your skin tone?" she asked. "I could try to find out online?" I weakly said. "You'll find any salesgirl in any store much more helpful," she mused, "Come to think of it, where were you going to learn makeup?" "Magazines?" I said, "Maybe there's some online tutorials?" "You and your online solutions again," she said, "I'm pretty sure if you ask the salesgirls, they'll be able to tell you about real life courses." "Okay," I said softly, "that's what I'll do then." "Are you sure you won't feel too embarrassed?" she mused. "As a guy learning how to do makeup like a girl?" "I hope not..." I said, half-heartedly. "Oh, of course you'll be!" Sarah exclaimed, "But you sissies love to be humiliated like that, don't you?" I stared silently at her. "Of course you do," she said, "and just think how you'll do your mommy proud. Speaking of whom, what are your intentions regarding her offer?" "I actually thought she made that offer to you," I said weakly. "You might have a point," Sarah smiled, "but I nevertheless want to know what you think about this. Are you looking forward to wearing your mummy's clothes?" "Yes," I said, breathing deeply, "yes, I want to wear my mummy's clothes." "Do you think she knows this?" she asked. "Not really," I said, thinking back on our conversation. "Well, you'd better call her up and let her know, before she gives the clothes away," she said and took out her phone. She pulled up my mother's number from the address book, but stopped just as she was about to make the call. "While you're talking to her," she said, "ask your mother if she had a name chosen for you in case you were going to be a girl." "Please, Sarah?" I pleaded, but she had already placed the call. "It sounds like such a sissysh thing to do," she said, in a hush voice, with her palm over the microphone, "or we could always try..." she continued, making the spanking gesture with her hands. I felt tears starting to flow down my cheeks as my mother answered. "Hello Sarah," she sounded over the speakerphone, "Did I forget something?" "No," Sarah said, "it's your son who has forgotten to tell you something." "Oh?" my mother said. "Hi, mummy," I said, suddenly aware of my girlish voice, then continued quickly, trying not to give her time to say anything about it, "I'm calling about your old clothes. I would like to thank you for your offer, and want to let you know that I will take it." There was a pause on the other side. For a brief while, the sound of the blinker was heard, the some engine noises. "Oh?" my mother said, "Sorry, I was driving. But yes, you're welcome to any of my old clothes you want, dear. I'll be away for a couple of days, maybe a week, but after that you can come over and pick out what you like." I was hoping that she would offer to bring her clothes over to our house, but Sarah's encouraging expression left little doubt as to what my reaction should be. "That sounds great," I chirped, "thanks mummy." "You're welcome," she said. "Anything else?" I took one last look at Sarah, who resumed symbolically patting the back of her palm. "Actually, yes," I said, "did you have a name picked out for me, in case I had been born a girl?" Some more silence from the other end, interjected by more driving sounds. "Not really," she said finally, "I didn't get to pick one. I had a shortlist, though." "Can you tell me what the names were?" I asked. "Let's see if I can remember," she said, "I think Melissa was one. Then Priscilla. Stephanie also had a nice ring to it, and I remember quite liking Amy." "Anything else?" I asked, horrified by how feminine each of the names sounded. "I really have to stop talking now," she said. "Anyway, I've give you plenty of names for you and Sarah to choose from. Bye!" "Any name you like?" Sarah asked me after the connection was ended. "No matter," she replied before I could give an answer, "Maybe the girls at the makeup course will have some suggestions as well." She picked up her phone, looked at the screen, then back at me. "Well, I have to admit you make compelling arguments," she said, "I am almost convinced you really are a sissy." "Almost?" I moaned, then started to cry again. "I just asked my mother for her old clothes and a girl name for me," I blubbered. "What more proof do you need?" "There's two things no sissy can do without," she said. "One of them is a good cry. I've been watching you holding up tears the whole evening and frankly, I think you're just about to burst." "Well, what's the other," I sobbed. "Every sissy likes a good spanking," she said. "Oh come on!" I wailed. "You promised." "I promised I wouldn't fight you if I could be sure you're a true sissy," she said calmly. "Now, are you going to act like the sissy you claim to be, or do I have to get up?" "No, you don't have to get up," I said, then tried to position myself across her knees. "Not so fast," she said. "When sissies want something, they can get it only if they ask nicely." I took a deep breath. "Please, Sarah," I said, girlishly, "can I have a good spanking?" "You most certainly can," she said, and helped me finally find my place on her lap, "I am sure that there won't be any need for such spankings in the future, but I hope you understand I can't go easy on you this time." Without other warning than raising the skirt of my dress, she began to rain blow upon powerful blow across my back side. At first I tried to act as sissyish as I could, helplessly failing my arms and legs at each blow, but it soon turned out to be no act at all, and I started weeping earnestly. Yet, through the pain, my mind began to wander towards Sarah's closet and the meager selection of suitable clothes in it. Would it really last me until I got my hands on mummy's old dresses? Or should I add some more items to my shopping list, just in case?