The Lesson Plan -- Part Three: Field Trip (Episode One) free porn video

The Lesson Plan -- Part Three: Field Trip Your heart is hammering in your chest. You're concentrating, trying to remember all the lessons -- all the practice -- despite what's happening around you. Despite what's happening to you. It's natural to be nervous -- to be scared -- you keep telling yourself. You think about all the work you've put in to get you this far, all the private sessions after school, the late nights, the long weekends. All the watching, studying and planning. You try and stay calm, to put one foot in front of the other, to keep your chin up, your head up. You have to show everyone that you belong here. You belong here. You try and focus on a few simple things. One foot and then the other, in a straight line; the slightly exaggerated roll of your hips you worked so hard on; the gentle bounce and tug on your chest; your arm and wrist, reaching back as you propel yourself forward. It starts to come into focus: the soft pressure of press-on nails glued to your own; the butterfly thickness of your lashes; the gentle dangle of your golden hoop earrings. You look to your left and meet the kind eyes of your aunt for the day. She smiles, her beautiful face proud, beaming. She's so pretty, you hope you could one day look as good as her. She looks at you as if to say "don't worry -- it's all going to be okay." For a moment, the hammering quietens. The butterflies stop churning. You smile back at her, exactly in the way you practiced with your cheekbones lifted, your lips soft and your even white teeth dazzling. Is that approval you see on her face? You turn your attention back to the wide bustling main drag of the mall. You've been here a thousand times -- you know all the stores, all the corners. You have memories of being here with your parents when you were little, or with your small group of friends as you got older. You've never been here like this. You both walk around the young families, the older couple. No one is staring. No one is pointing. No one has called security. An elderly lady in a large coat looks at you and smiles. You smile back, remembering not to look her up and down. Remembering to meet her gaze. Remembering that you are someone else today. "Oh!" your aunt exclaims, stopping to look in a shop window at a mannequin that's caught her eye. It's covered in skin-hugging activewear: an orange vest sports bra and purple patterned leggings. You can't imagine anything less likely that she'd wear but you stand next to her and appraise it all the same. "You're doing so well!" She says, just loud enough for you to hear. You want her to reach out and take your hand, to give it a squeeze, but she doesn't. In the shop window reflection you see an eye-catching middle-aged woman with long flowing hair, blue eyes and a to-die-for figure. She is overdressed for a Saturday at the mall in a sunflower yellow midi dress. Next to her is a brunette teenage girl with loose long curls, large hazel eyes, and subtle blossoming curves in a short blue denim skirt, black opaque pantyhose and tight ribbed green sweater. You've worn this outfit, and different variations of it, before. You've worn it at your aunt's house in one of your private tutorials. You've worn it in the privacy of your bedroom, where you examined your shape from every angle using the mirror in your mom's bedroom. You chose to wear it today because this is your favourite skirt, and you like what this sweater does to your boobs. You remember the times you've run your hands over it, fooling yourself that you were just smoothing it down when you were squeezing and teasing, dreaming and longing. You like this sweater because Ellen has one just like it. "Come on," she says, striding off with all the confidence of a woman on a mission. You tear yourself away from your reflection and follow behind, sneaking a quick look at Ellen's ass as you catch up. Even though you know that it's padding and prosthetics, the perfect facsimile of a woman's backside, you still feel a flutter of excitement; of longing to be as curvy and as sexy. To be as much of a woman. You remember how thrilled you were when you wore your own hip pads for the first time, how excited that you could fit your clothes properly. You still dream of Ellen's figure -- her curving hips, her ample bottom, her round bouncing bosom. You feel a warmth growing between your legs, that unmistakable swelling of excitement that always happens when you think of Ellen. Of her beautiful face, her perfect body and the young man inside her. You try not to think of her and try to find yourself again the way she taught you: One foot in front of the other; the scent of your perfume; the tightness of your sweater; the band of your brassiere; the cute matching panties; the thick shapewear tucking you in. You take a deep breath and smile, feeling things getting tighter and desperately not looking. Not touching like you would at home. You're desperate to touch. You round a corner and your heart sinks. The fear returns. A group of teenagers -- maybe half a dozen -- are blocking your route. All thoughts of pleasure vanishing in an instant as you feel yourself tense up, stealing yourself for what is about to happen. You try and casually look and see if you know any of them -- the worst would be classmates from school -- but happily they seem younger than you. Strangers, thank god. They look at you and Ellen and call out, their group dynamic changing subtly from owning their space to merely occupying it. "Hello Miss Bennet," one of the girls calls out as you pass. "Good morning," she says in her perfect honeyed voice, and you are horrified to see that she stops to talk to them. Why is she not ignoring them, carrying on, hoping that they don't notice the awkward teenage girl next to her? You try and look disinterested, to look around the mall ignoring these kids that your aunt teaches maybe? You try but you can't help but catch the eye of one of the boys, who is staring at you. Staring at the thrust of your sweater anyway. You give a little smile and look away, back at Ellen who is chatting away to these kids "what are you doing? How's your brother? Blah blah blah." The boy is still staring, his eyes now flicking up and down the full height of your body from your ankles to your throat. You shift your weight, sticking out one hip and folding your arms under the swell of your breasts like you've practiced. You're an awkward teenage girl, waiting for your aunt. "This is my niece," she says beatifically and you feel her hand touching you between your shoulder blades. You are being introduced whether you want to be or not. You have a feeling this is part of your education. "Amy." You smile at all the kids and give a little wave, hoping they're not looking too closely at you, hoping they can't tell. You look over at your teacher and she has that expression which means she wants you to try something. Shit. You force your cheekbones up with a smile, breathing into the back of your throat and force your larynx down. You feel where you're going to place the word, and then you just simply say: "Hi." Your voice is high but not squeaky, with an added little lift at the end which almost makes it unintentionally into a question. Two letters, one word, and the first time you've spoken out loud in your voice to anyone other than Ellen in the privacy of her house for the past few months. In your mind, fireworks are exploding. You did it. "Hi," the various kids half heartedly wave back. They don't care about you really. They care about junk food later, and maybe shoplifting some lipstick. They care that their English teacher is there out of the context of her classroom. They don't care about the awkward teenage girl with the boring clothes and the basic hair and the no-makeup makeup. They don't care that you've worked for months to get here, to be treated like this. They don't care that this is your debut. The final exam. "Hi," the boy says, walking up to you and boldly extending his hand for a handshake. You unfurl yourself and offer him your hand, making it as small and feminine as you can as he grabs it and shakes it in his warm clammy paw. "I'm Sean. Your aunt is my teacher." He is confident, smart. Better than this group, you think. Older maybe? What is happening? "Nice to meet you," you say, concentrating for all your worth on your voice whilst trying to look like you don't care at all. You look over at Ellen who looks fit to burst. She's so proud right now. "I'm Amy," you add, meeting his eyes. "I know," he replies with a laugh and you feel stupid, but also it doesn't matter because you realize that he doesn't know. That he is fooled. They're all fooled. You're Amy. Fucking hell. Is this how Ellen feels all the time? "I should go," you say, hoping Auntie Ellen agrees and, to your relief, she carries on past the throng towards your destination. She waves and is saying things like "have a nice day" and "see you on Monday" and you aren't listening because no one knows. You're Amy... Awkward teenager, niece Amy. Long legs, slim hips, heart-shaped faced Amy. "See you," the boy calls after you and you turn and smile at him, watching as one of his friends elbows him in the ribs for having the temerity to talk to a girl. To talk to you. To stare at your tits and ogle your legs and maybe he was thinking about kissing you and touching you and wondering about you naked. You let out a little low noise, like a moan and your eyes go wide. You look around, but no one heard. You're okay. "I'm proud of you," Ellen says as you walk down the gleaming hallway. "You're doing so well!" You smile at her, happy that she's your aunt for the day. Happy that she's been teaching you for these last few months. Happy that this is just the first step. One foot in front of the other. "I'm doing okay?" you ask, voice girlish and hopeful. You know you are. You feel it. This is the best feeling in the world. "You're doing great," she replies. "How does it feel?" You feel exhilarated, secret, amazing and on the cusp of being very horny, but you know how Ellen feels about that sort of talk. That was the deal. A secret for a secret. Training and lessons for silence. No sexy stuff. That didn't stop you going home after every private session and stroking yourself until you came in big fat globs of pent-up excitement. Or playing with yourself at home getting used to the feeling of too-tight panties while your cock tented them outwards. It didn't stop you lusting after Ellen in every waking moment, and looking at those pictures you kept on your phone every chance you get. "It feels really good," you confirm with a smile. It would feel even better if you could reach under your skirt and free the urgent member pulsing between your thighs. Then you have an idea. A change of plan that might be a lot of fun. "Do you think," you ask, innocently as a store catches your eye. "Do you think we might go into Forever 21?" Ellen considers your proposal. Your change of plan. Does she suspect you're up to something? You've been a good girl for a while now. Good enough to have this special day with her. Good enough that she trusts you maybe? Hopefully the last time she caught you doing something bad has slipped her mind. That time she caught you with her prosthetic tits soaking in the bath, when you stroked them and teased your fingers over those gorgeous puffy fake nipples and desperately longed to have a pair of your own. When she caught you with your cock out, fully erect. Jackpot. Hopefully she's forgotten that time. You haven't. "Sure," she says, changing direction. Playing the role of the cool aunt. "We've got plenty time. Are you looking for something in particular?" What you're looking for is about two to three minutes alone in the changing room. You take a minute to look around, to get your bearings in this new world that's just opened up to you. "I just want to look," you say, unsure how your teacher would feel if you said lingerie or a swimsuit. Some everyday skirts and tops would be great too. Amy's wardrobe is not that large. "Sure," Ellen smiles again leading you deeper into the store. She looks at home here, casually looking at clothes, picking things off the racks and checking labels. You watch her and copy her, as you're sure she's doing this for your benefit. Just an aunt and her niece shopping on a Saturday. It still feels wrong, forbidden and strange, but everything about you is tingling. You look around at other girls, other young women shopping and paying you no mind. You are one of them, just another girl, shopping for clothes. You realize pretty quickly that Amy probably wouldn't shop here. The fashions are too revealing for her -- lots of flimsy shorts and crop tops. Its strange to think this way but it's also true. "What sort of girl, what sort of woman are you", Ellen had asked. Think about her, who she is, what she likes. Build up a character and become her. Amy's an embarrassed teen. Pretty but not confident. She doesn't like a lot of bare skin. The perfect first time girl to be when you're learning. Amy is training wheels. You can tell Ellen is thinking the same thing, as she hunts for something to recommend to you. This isn't her sort of store either -- you can tell she's identifying with the other moms present than the other shoppers. You watch her take an olive maxi skirt off a hanger and hold it up. You nod and point to a red mini skirt nearby you think would look cute on you. And then you see it, the sign towards the back of the store. Prom. Fuck yes! "Aunt Ellen," you say, impishly. "Look!" She turns and catches sight of the sign, and you see her shoulders drop. She thinks she knows your game. "You're going to the prom?" she asks incredulously, walking over to you still carrying the olive skirt. "Can we just look?" you ask, a slightly begging whine in your girl voice. Ellen laughs, returns the skirt and makes her way over. She's in a good mood. You love watching the way her ass moves under her dress as you follow her. This is more like it. The dresses are more adult. And so pretty, so classy. More like Ellen's wardrobe. You almost bounce with glee over to a vivid red mermaid gown and hunt for your size. "Ellen?" You hear the voice from somewhere else in the store, but pay it no mind as you flick though the rack. Wrong size, wrong size, wrong size. "Miss Bennet!" You freeze. That voice you recognize. The fear returns in an ice-cold shard that stabs you in the heart. Shit. Shit shit shit. Anyone but her. Anyone but the person you modelled Amy on. Anyone else. Anyone but Melanie. "Melanie. Kate," Ellen gushes, either genuinely delighted to see them or really good at faking it. "How lovely to see you both! Fancy running into you both here." You want to hide. To run. You want the ground to open up and swallow you. Fuck. You resume your search of the racks, focusing intently on the labels. You find what you hope is your size, and pause, sneaking a look up at the chatting women just at the exact moment that Melanie glances over in your direction. "This is my niece, Amy," Ellen says in a slightly louder voice than necessary which is clearly aimed at you. You are introduced, and so you come out of your hiding place, trying not to look like you've been caught with your fingers in the pantie drawer. You offer Melanie and her mom the full works Amy smile and fold your arms under your breasts again until you catch sight of Melanie's posture, which is the same -- and the source of this stance in the first place. You panic, drop your arms, realize your skirt doesn't have any pockets, and then just leave your arms hanging by your side. Shit. Melanie is wearing an outfit you've seen her in before at drama club -- tight white jeans and a black lacy off-the-shoulder top, exposing black bra straps. Her hair is up, tied back and she's wearing almost no makeup. You wonder, not for the first time, if you have the figure for jeans. Melanie definitely does. Her mom looks like her too and is quite hot - skinny with nice, little perky tits for her age under a white t-shirt. Most importantly, neither of them are looking at you like you're an alien. Neither of them are looking at you with anything other than polite interest, waiting for you to do or say anything. You gently clear your throat and curse yourself -- the throat clearing is a bad habit you thought you'd trained yourself out of. You can feel Ellen's disappointment. Cheekbones, throat, breathe. "Hi," you say. "Nice to meet you." You glance over at Ellen, who is completely calm and in control. She's the cool aunt. The beautiful fashionista. The middle-aged woman with the cute little niece from out of town. You feel the sweat on the small of your back and wonder how Ellen does it. How she is so calm lying to these people. How she can just be someone else. We are both someone else. And they don't know. Thank God for the mask! You'd fought against it at first. You hadn't needed it. You'd practiced makeup on your own face -- concealer, foundation, eye shadow, the works. You'd watched hundreds of tutorials, sat with Ellen for hours. You were able to contour and to make a pretty good job of winged eyeliner. You could hide your eyebrows. All the while you practiced your voice, chatting about this and that and learning how to make your face more feminine. You fought the mask, until you put it on. You remember your reaction the first time. When Ellen had put a cloth over her big mirror and pulled it back with a theatrical flourish. You'd giggled and then stared. Stared at every fake pore and wrinkle. Stared at this new girl looking back at you. The changes were all subtle enough, but they made such a difference -- a softer jawline, a cuter nose, more pronounced cheekbones, fuller lips, wider eyes. "Wow," you'd said in your boy voice and it had looked weird coming from these lips. "Amy this is Kate and Melanie. Melanie's one of my English students, and she's in my drama club. She's a really good actor." Ellen introduces you like a stranger and you play the dutiful role, smiling and looking interested. Melanie blushes at the compliment too, which is adorable, and protests with a humble little face which you file away for later to copy in the mirror. "What play are you doing just now?" you ask, moving closer to Melanie and letting the adults talk. "Our Town," she says, "do you know it?" "I don't think so, sorry," you say. "Is it good?" "Yeah. I think, we've just started really. We did Midsummer Night's Dream last term, it was really good." "Oh wow," you enthuse, playing the role, warming up, mirroring the young woman's enthusiasm. "I love that play. Were you Hermia?" "I was!" she says, delighted. She lights up and takes a step towards you. "Do you act? Your aunt is amazing." "I love her," you say, no word of a lie. "She's awesome." "So Amy," Melanie's mom interrupts your teen bonding session. "Have you got anyone lined up to take you to prom?" Melanie groans, "ignore her," conspiratorially under her breath. "No mam," you answer, giving good parent. "I think some of my friends and I are just going together." "Good for you," she says, and you feel like you've passed some sort of test. There's a lot unspoken here, and for the first time you feel part of it, rather than outside it. You realize Melanie actually wants to talk to you, rather than look for an excuse to get away. You've barely met really, but there's already something there. A sisterhood maybe? You remember Ellen talking about this one night -- that being a woman, with women, was the whole point. "Are you gonna try that on?" Melanie prompts, and you realize you have the red gown in your hand. Holy fuck. This is happening. "You're so tall that would really work for you." "Have you seen anything you like?" you ask. "I was trying to persuade mom to just let me try this on before she freaks out," she says, dashing back a couple of rows and quickly finding a long black backless dress that you instantly want to try on. You can picture Melanie in it already. "Oh wow," you say. "I love it." You can feel Ellen's eyes on you, but you don't look. There's no going back now. "You'd look so good in that." You say. You mean it. You can't wait. "Well that's settled," Melanie says, hooking her arm in yours and marching you towards the fitting rooms giggling. "I'm so glad you came along," she says. "Mom wants me to be completely covered from head to toe. I like your sweater." "Thanks," you reply, acutely aware of how small and tight and feminine it is, even for a sweater, and how it really makes your boobs look great, and how that means that Melanie has looked at your boobs, or at least the shape of your boobs. "I love your jeans," you reply, trying it out that girls can talk about their clothes without it being weird. "They're really cool." You both walk straight into the changing rooms corridor without seeing a shop assistant, and Melanie makes for a pair of empty cubicles next to each other. You watch her hang up her dress just on the inside of the little room, and it's all happened so quickly that the reality of what you're doing has just caught up on you. You're in the women's changing area. Behind some of these closed doors you can hear women trying on clothes. You're here because you're a woman. You step into the cubicle next to Melanie's and close the door. You are immediately frozen by the three large mirrors -- all at angles facing inwards -- and notice that the walls don't reach all the way up to the ceiling tiles. You hang your dress up, just like you watched Melanie do just as you hear rustling from through the wall and the sound of a zipper. "So, what school do you go to?" she asks, and you can hear her through the cubicle wall clear as day. You look at yourself -- look at Amy-- in the mirrors and watch the girl reply "Roosevelt, but I'm from Seattle." Amazing how she doesn't look like you or sound like you, but she is you. You watch her reach behind her back and unzip her skirt, letting it fall down to the ground. You look at her black pantyhose, the thick control tops squeezing her thighs, the red of her panties showing through the stretched nylon, the thick band around her tiny waist. "Oh wow, what's Seattle like?" Melanie asks, accompanied by more rustling. You imagine her tugging down those jeans to show bare legs and tiny bikini panties. The girl in the mirror reaches down to her sweater and pulls it up over her skinny body, over the white t-shirt bra with moulded cups, carefully over her face so as not to mess up her makeup. She folds the sweater conscientiously and lays it to one side and turns back to the three mirrors. You look at her in her underwear, a cute teenage girl in her bra, pantyhose and mismatched panties. Her skin is smooth and white, her body so slender you can see her ribs -- the result of semi-starvation for months. You watch her smile and slip the straps of her bra off her narrow shoulders, easily and fluidly reaching behind her back to unclasp it and letting it fall. "It rains a lot, but it's cool," you say, staring at the bare perky boobs of the girl in the mirror. Her pink stiff nipples, hard in the cool air. God this is amazing, you think and you can't help but move your hand down to between your thighs, squeezing yourself through layers and layers of nylon and cotton and lycra. If Ellen insisted on the mask, you had insisted on the tits. You wanted a pair of your own, so you could wear whatever you wanted. So Amy could wear whatever she liked. You wanted a pair like Ellen's -- big and full and gorgeous. You compromised on these perky little b cups instead. "Have you ever been to the west coast?" you ask, tugging down your pantyhose, and then your panties -- the red dress behind you momentarily forgotten. The thick flesh-colored panty girdle that you're wearing is all that's left, keeping your fake hips in place and your increasingly hardening cock at bay. You hear the sound of a dress being taken off a hanger from next door. Is she just in her underwear just now, you wonder? You reach into the tight shorts and pull out your cock, letting it spring free angry and urgent. You wrap your hand gently around the glistening head and tug, gently at first and faster and faster. You're dressed as girl, in a girls changing room, about to try on a beautiful dress, wearing panties and you have cute tits and lipstick and nail varnish and Ellen's ass looks hot in that yellow dress and Melanie fucking Anderson is next door fucking naked and you look back into the mirror and there's a cute girl with cute jiggling fake tits with a cock and some guy in the mall thought you were cute and you want to kiss him and you want him to kiss you and fuck. Thick spurts of your cum erupts from your cock and lands on the carpet. "Amy?" Melanie's wary voice comes from the next cubicle. "Are you okay?" You try and control your breathing, careful not to gasp for air. You focus on your voice and reply "Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out or a second. What were you saying?" You look down at your cock and stuff it away again, tucking it back in the tight, tight girdle and pulling your for-show panties and pantyhose back into place. All the while Melanie is talking about never leaving Connecticut and never going anywhere and how she wants to go to out of state for college. You check your hand before you reach for the dress, making sure it's not sticky. You try and block out the stain on the carpet and the smell of cum that is filling your nose. The dress unzips easily, and you step inside, fussing with the lining and the fitted waist as you reach behind yourself and tug it up, feeling the dress tightening against your skin. It's maybe a little roomy in the hips, but the waist fits tightly. The zip is almost half way up your back and it catches on the lining. It's stuck. Fuck. You hear Melanie open the door to her cubicle and so you say, "Can I get a bit of help?" and you throw in a little embarrassed giggle that actually sounds pretty good. "What's up?" she asks. "My zip is stuck," you grunt, opening the door of your cubicle to show that you're mainly dressed. She looks amazing in the black dress, and you know that your lips have parted and you're just looking at her body in this dress. "Wow Melanie, you look gorgeous." You say and she smiles. You hope she doesn't notice the cum. "I got you," she says, and zips you up. "You have to buy that, it looks so good," she says and you know she's right. You feel different in it. You offer her your arm and you both exit the changing rooms together like catwalk models. Ellen and Melanie's mom both stop talking to each other and watch you both. "Oh, wait till I take a photo," Melanie's mom is saying, fishing in her purse for her phone and you both stand there and let her take your photo. You smile, full of happiness at this moment in this pretty dress. "Oh, me too," Ellen agrees, beaming as she takes a picture too. You feel the girl standing next to you change her stance, her hips bumping against you warm and soft. "So can I wear this?" Melanie asks her mom. "Not a chance," her mom says, putting away her phone. "But you both look cute!" It's an hour later, maybe more, and you're slurping the last out of your frozen latte and talking about bands with Melanie, sat at a table in Starbucks. Every so often you look over at Ellen and Melanie's mom -- Kate - - and catch them still deep in conversation. Ellen's hands are so expressive as she tells another story and you find yourself copying her as you confess to Melanie that you're more into older bands, than modern things. She is agreeing enthusiastically with you, and you're both just hanging out, talking and having fun. You're trying to remember everything you practiced, especially the nights when you and Ellen would sit at her table and just talk, with her occasionally offering tips on posture, or word choices. Consequently, your back is straight, your neck is long, shoulders down and tits out. Your long legs are crossed at the thigh and you're sitting at an angle to the chair, your padded ass balancing on the edge. You're trying not to stare too much at Melanie, but occasionally you can't help but find her eyes. It's not weird, but you feel weird about it and look elsewhere. You try not to look at her tits, or her legs in those tight jeans. You didn't practice sitting this close. You realize, as you chat, that you are mirroring your classmate, or she is mirroring you - straight posture, legs crossed, leaning in. The realization makes you smile. Amy comes easy to you because a lot of her life is your life. You like the same bands, the same movies, the same books. Amy's more into fashion and makeup than you'd think, and less into bubblegum princess stuff than would be easy. You researched some things, so you have a working knowledge of Seattle (and it helps that you've been there) and you can share childhood stories pretty easily. It was all in how you talked, how you shared. With boys, conversation is a competition -- a game of who knows most. With girls its a chance to share, to connect, to find common space. Well, not always, Ellen had conceded. But let's start here, she'd said. You have let Melanie do most of the talking, partly to rest your voice, and partly because Amy is a shy girl. Luckily, Melanie was not shy about talking to you. This was a different girl you were with -- she was less guarded. Happy to share little stories of her life where before she'd have given you a one-word answer. She was smart and funny, and you laughed a lot with her. You'd always liked her, but over this one coffee date you began to really like her. And you realized that she liked you too. "How are you kids getting on?" Kate says, coming over to join you at your table. "Mom we're both seventeen. We're not kids," Melanie rolls her eyes. "We're doing good mam," you say, the model schoolgirl. "You hear that? You should be more like Amy," Kate teases. You try not to look at Ellen because you know what face she'll be making. "How long are you in town for?" Melanie asks you, ignoring her mom's good natured jibe. "Oh, until Monday," you answer hesitantly. You didn't consider this. Didn't think you'd talk to anyone. Everything was different now -- the plan had been a quick trip to the mall, your public debut, and then back to Ellen's house to change. Amy was supposed to be in town for three hours. "What are you doing later?" Melanie follows up. "Aunt Ellen?" you ask, thrilled as she sits in at the table next to you, smelling of flowers and heaven. "I'm not sure. Sorry kiddo, I didn't really have any plans for us," she answers honestly. What's she up to? "Do you wanna come over?" Melanie asks you, excited. "We could get pizza and watch a movie? Mom, can Amy come over?" "Sure she can," Kate says smiling and looking over at Ellen. "She could stay over if she wants to?" You feel a thrilling surge of excitement and fear in one delicious cocktail. Spending more time dressed as Amy is exciting. Going to Melanie's house as Amy is almost too much to think about! A sleepover! "Is that okay?" you hesitantly ask your temporary guardian. "Is that okay," you ask again, with more weight in your words -- asking will I be okay? Will this elaborate disguise be okay? Do you think I'm ready? "Sure if you want to," she replies. "Of course it's okay! I'm sure you'd rather spend time with another girl your own age than with your aunt." Another girl. Because that's what you are. A girl. "Thanks aunt Ellen," you trill, leaning in and kissing her on her fake cheek, taking the chance to play the part in front of an appreciative audience. "You're the best"