The Girl At The Top Of The Stairs free porn video

THE GIRL AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS: A short story by Tamsyn Fifteen-year-old Noah is having a pleasant day home alone, indulging in being able to enjoy crossdressing as his alter ego, Kirstie. When his father arrives home early from work, however, it is difficult to say who has the biggest shock. In biology the fight or flight response is the body's reaction to a sudden, acute stressor that is perceived to be dangerous. A neural response in the hypothalamus prompts the pituitary gland to secrete the hormone ACTH and the adrenal gland to release adrenaline. At the same time production of the hormone cortisol is increased. The effect of all these hormones being dumped into the body is widespread, with a number of physiological changes taking place. Most notably heart rate and lung function increase, while blood vessels constrict, causing an increase in blood pressure. The mouth goes dry as salivation is reduced, blood sugar levels increase, peripheral vision is reduced and stomach action slows. In the meantime, blood flow to the muscle increases, allowing greater muscle tension, often causing involuntary shaking, while blood clotting measures speed up in case of injury. All this is to prepare the body for sudden, quick action, to go from 'situation normal' to 'oh god oh god we're all going to die' as quickly as possible. This may be to confront the stressor and defend against it (the 'fight') or to rush away from it as fast as possible (the 'flight'). Whichever of these actions the individual undertakes depends on the nature of the threat, whether it can be fought, or purely on the individual's instincts. It varies from animal to animal and individual to individual; some will naturally flee, while some will run and still others will flee but will turn and fight if cornered. Noah Bright knew all of this; he had spent a lot of time over the last couple of weeks researching and writing an essay on the subject of fight or flight, handing it in to his biology teacher earlier this week. It was fair to say, however, that he had not expected to receive a practical demonstration so soon after writing it. As he stood at the top of the stairs looking down, all of those physiological events were happening to his body. But while fight was not the appropriate action, the flight reflex was taking its time, as he stood frozen to the spot in shock, unable to move. Noah felt that his father was feeling in much the same way as he stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up. He too seemed rooted to the spot, his mouth open in shock in the same way that Noah knew his was. Eventually his father found his voice. Sort of. "What..." he whispered. "What... the hell...?" Noah suddenly found he could move, the flight reflex finally kicking in. He turned and threw himself at his bedroom door, slamming it behind him. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door as the sudden air movement caught it and swung it open lazily. His reflection that he had spent time admiring earlier with pride and enjoyment. And it was then that he started to panic. + + + Robert Bright had had a frustrating day at work. The site manager at the housing development was on holiday this week, sunning himself in Malta or Magaluf -somewhere beginning with 'M', Robert couldn't remember where- leaving him, as his deputy, to run the busy site. The first two days of the week had been quite normal, but last night's heavy rain had done much to turn the site into more of a quagmire than usual, so much so that the drainage works on phase three had been abandoned for the day. Even the caterpillar-tracked mini diggers ran into problems negotiating the mud, one of them having to be rescued with the help of the telehandler. Then a huge delivery of bricks had turned up two days ahead of time, and the space that had been set aside for them was not ready. It took the best part of an hour to get it clear before the unloading could even start. And lastly the Health and Safety inspectors arrived for an unexpected site visit and promptly decided that the scaffolding on six houses in phase two had not been erected properly and was far too dangerous for anybody to use. It had all been one mighty headache for Robert, who had been left holding the baby. He and his boss had the management on their backs already; the development was five months behind schedule, with only seven of the houses in phase two occupied rather than the sixteen originally planned for at the end of this quarter, and with the scaffolding issue the remainder would now be delayed also. The phone lines between the construction company and the scaffolding contractors would be red hot, of that he had no doubt. More heavy rain after lunch had put paid to any useful work, and between that and the scaffolding issue quite a few of the builders and contractors had finished early. He had left early too, having a dental appointment to attend. When he arrived, by which time the sun had come out from behind its grey shroud, it was to be informed that his dentist had been required to leave to pick up her son from school as he was unwell and his appointment had been cancelled. So, Robert was thoroughly pissed off when he drove home and parked on the driveway. Coat in one hand and rucksack in the other he had gone in through the front door and caught sight of something unexpected. There was a girl standing at the top of the stairs. Oh, he thought initially, it must be a friend of Noah's, though as he did so he noticed that she was wearing a school uniform. That was odd, he thought, looking closer at her. Noah's school was closed for one of the periodic teacher training days, his son being given work to do today, so why would she be wearing- Recognition hit him between the eyes with all the force of a rush of water from a fireman's hose, and his mouth dropped open in astonishment, anything he might have said dying in his throat. He looked up at the girl, struggling for confirmation of what his eyes were telling him. His tongue suddenly felt like a lump of concrete in his mouth as he tried to speak. "What..." he eventually croaked. "What... the hell...?" At that, the girl fled into Noah's room and slammed the door behind her. But it wasn't a girl, it was... ...Noah... + + + Noah felt as if his heart was going to burst from his chest and start randomly bouncing around his bedroom. Adrenalin was rushing around his system with the speed of a bullet train, making it seem like he was bouncing off the furniture in his room like some kind of human pinball Frantically he looked at his bedside clock, pulse beating like a band of Japanese taiko drummers. What was Dad doing home so early? He hadn't expected him to be here for another hour yet. Oh shit. Shitshitshitshit! Shit! What was he going to do?! It had been a wonderful day up until then. Dad had left early for work, having to be on site by eight, while Mum, as usual, was at her post at the reception desk in the outpatients' department of the community hospital for half past. That gave him a full day, and he intended to make the most of it. Noah had been planning the day for several weeks. He'd let his dark, thick hair grow a bit longer than usual, having avoided the usual haircut for the last couple of months. While its habit of growing out rather than down was normally a nuisance he'd put up with it for today; it hung to the nape of his neck now. He'd thought long and hard about what to wear, managing to purchase what he needed, and he'd put off any invites by his friends by promising his parents he would stay home and crack on with the work he would doubtless be given He hurriedly finished breakfast, brushed his teeth and jumped in the shower, during which he used some of his mum's berry-smelling shower gel and washed and conditioned his hair, afterwards drying it with her hairdryer and using her hair curler to put a bit of life into it. He brushed it out, slipped a wide alice band over his head and settled it down so that it kept his hair out of his eyes. Nice and tidy... feminine. Star shaped, gold plated earrings replaced the studs he sometimes wore and then he applied some make-up. Not too much, as despite the day off from school he was going for a schoolgirl look and was trying to keep within the rules laid down by his school for what female students could wear. Some dark toned eye shadow, just a little mascara and a plum- coloured lip gloss. Subtlety was the idea. When he was happy with the look, he packed the cosmetics back into the shoebox he kept them in and slid it back under his bed. Then it was time to get dressed. He only had a few female clothes, and his choices were limited. He could not wear anything of Mum's; she was a size eighteen and he was quite lightly built. Her clothes hung off him like a parachute. A white bra with matching knickers was first, featuring a pink rose motif. He had tried rolled up socks to give himself some bust before but had never been happy with how they looked so, after some thought, he had experimented with dried lentils in the foot of a pair of Mum's discarded tights, rescued from the bin. After some trial and error, he had found the size he wanted, enough to give him the sort of bust a girl of his age and build would have without being too stupid about it, and he now slipped a home-made falsie into each cup, adjusting the shape until he was happy. A pair of matching knickers followed. A crisp white blouse was next. Unlike many teenagers Noah was quite capable of using an iron, having learned how to when he joined the air cadets -he was still trying to get hold of a female cadet's skirt but so far had not been able to obtain one from the uniform stores at his squadron's headquarters- and he ironed the blouse now before putting it on. Awkwardly he fastened the buttons, unused to the opposite layout from the shirts he normally wore. He knotted his school tie in place and pulled on a pair of thick black tights, carefully pulling them up. He had bought most of the women's clothing he did have at the local Tesco. Thanks to self-service tills it was a lot less hassle than it might otherwise have been, which was just as well; had he been forced to go to a normal check out and be served by a person there was no way he would have been able to buy any of it. In any case he still expected a member of staff to pop up and ask him why he was buying women's clothes. Noah smiled at the thought as he stepped into his short, pleated charcoal grey skirt and pulled it up. It was probably shorter than school regulations truly allowed, but a girl couldn't follow all of the rules all of the time, could she? And, besides, he enjoyed the way it flared out from his hips. The black girls' blazer was next, upon which he had even sewn a spare school badge onto the pocket. He had been quite pleased with his skills, realising that at last the needlework element of his design and technology lessons had come in useful for something, and he finished the ensemble with a pair of black leather Mary Jane-style shoes with a two-inch heel. A slim girls' watch was last, and he stepped back to admire his reflection in the mirror. He loved the way the girls at his school dressed, and deeply envied their freedom. While boys could only wear trousers, they could have the choice of trousers or a skirt. Some of them wore the former, which he couldn't understand. If you could wear a dress or a skirt why on earth would you wear trousers? The short skirt and tights most of them wore had always captivated him, and when he had started to crossdress he had quickly decided that he would try to achieve the look himself. After only crossdressing for just over a year he was always pleasantly surprised at how well he achieved a feminine appearance. He had a slim frame, not the sort built for rugby like his father, and in the short skirt and black tights it seemed as if his legs went on forever. His face was certainly not square jawed and masculine, and while it could not be described as deeply feminine, he had practiced hard over recent months, learning from online tuition how to alter it enough with cosmetics to make it seem more so, particularly when combined with a decent hairstyle. Thankfully, though only fifteen, his acne days were now behind him, and he barely needed to shave more than twice a week as yet. He didn't look like a boy in a dress, he thought as he turned one way and the other, a smile on his face as he gazed at the girl in the mirror, and that was the important thing. He could join a group of girls at his school and it would be difficult to single him out as not one of them. Satisfied, Noah -or as he thought of himself when suitably dressed, Kirstie- picked up her school rucksack and went downstairs. The feeling of the skirt fluttering around her thighs and the coolness of the air through her tights made her smile in pleasure. She made herself a cup of coffee, spooning her usual two sugars in, and sat down at the dining table. Like the rest of her classmates, Kirstie had been given work to do while their teachers had their training day, and having handed in her essay on fight or flight she intended to stay on top of it. Helpfully, today was a history assignment. Her class was working through the Second World War, and she had an essay to write around the subject of the D-Day landings in 1944. Everyone in the class had been allowed to pick one from a choice of five topics, and she happily settled down to write about the fight for the French city of Caen. Time passed, Kirstie scribbling copious notes and drafting her essay, books scattered across the table and the screen on her tablet glowing faintly. Before she knew it, it was lunch time. She made herself a sandwich, poured a glass of milk and grabbed a couple of pieces of fruit and afterwards spent some time browsing her favourite crossdressing sites on the internet, seeking out advice and tips. A further hour was spent working through some maths questions -long division, yuck!- which was not so enjoyable, and then she took some time to practice at being a girl. She walked around the house working on her gait and mannerisms, and after refreshing her make-up posed in front of her bedroom mirror with different expressions on her face as if sitting for a photographer. From the internet Kirstie knew of transvestite makeover studios where that could really happen, though she would probably be unable to visit one until she was eighteen. In any case, living as she did in Cornwall, she would have to travel some distance to find one. Inevitably, as she posed and dreamed, she felt aroused, her skirt lifting at the front as if it had a tentpole underneath it. A visit to the bathroom and a few minutes of pleasure sorted that out, and as Kirstie washed her hands, she looked at the clock on the windowsill. Probably time to get changed, she thought regretfully. But first she'd pop back downstairs and clear up her schoolwork. As she came to the top of the stairs the front door -which was positioned directly in front of the stairs- was opened and in walked Dad, who gazed up at her curiously. + + + What the fuck? After the bedroom door slammed Robert was not sure how long he stood, frozen to the spot, at the bottom of the stairs. He was still trying to reconcile what he had seen; his fifteen-year-old son, wearing a schoolgirl's uniform. No, he thought. That couldn't be right. Could it? What he had seen seemed to flash across his retinas again: his fifteen- year-old son, wearing a schoolgirl's uniform. There was a sudden roaring in his ears and he jerked into action, hurling himself up the stairs as if shot from a cannon. Before he had taken three angry steps up the stairs, however, a little voice made itself heard over the roaring. Robert was not a naturally aggressive man. Oh sure, on the rugby field he had been as aggressive and competitive as the rest of them, but generally he had an easy ability to conquer anger and resolve conflict. More than one person had told him he should have been a diplomat Wait, the voice cautioned him. Think. Head whirling in confusion, he stopped his headlong rush. Turning around he stepped back down, hung his coat up on the hooks behind the front door without thinking about it, and walked out to the kitchen in a daze. There he poured a glass of water and drank it, looking out at the back garden in complete detachment for several minutes. His fifteen-year-old son, wearing a schoolgirl's uniform. Somewhere deep inside him that rush of anger was still there, threatening to make its way to the surface again, carrying within it rage and fury. Robert could feel it bubbling upwards, and part of him thought that it was how he should feel at what he had seen. Noah was a normal boy. He liked normal things. He was interested in normal things. He liked girls. He enjoyed his cadet evenings. He followed the football at the weekends, read Terry Pratchett and Stephen King and watched Marvel Comics films. He was intelligent, thoughtful and- -he was wearing a schoolgirl's uniform. Robert knew he ought to march upstairs, demand to know just what the hell Noah was doing, that he ought to tell him to clean his face, put on proper clothes and then drag him down to the barbers to get a bloody short haircut before telling him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he ever, EVER caught him wearing girls' clothing again. That's what any father would do in this situation. After all, it was a slight on his own manhood, wasn't it? That little voice whispered in his ear again. And what would that achieve? The rush of anger was threatening to turn into a wave, the roaring getting louder. Savagely Robert quashed it, not without difficulty, his hand gripping the edge of the sink tightly. Had he been from Krypton it would have been left twisted and crushed. No, he decided. It wasn't the sort of issue that would be resolved with shouting and yelling, he knew that much. It was obvious he didn't know Noah as much as he thought he did. But then, he reasoned, his own parents didn't exactly know everything that he got up to when he was fifteen either. Just as well, he reflected ruefully, and sighed. Putting the empty glass in the sink, idly noticing that Noah had not washed his glass and plate from lunchtime, Robert splashed some cold water on his face and towelled it dry. Once he was sure his anger had dissolved, he turned and went upstairs, his pace calm and measured. On the landing he paused by Noah's bedroom door. There was silence from the other side. His fifteen-year-old son, wearing a schoolgirl's uniform. He knocked on the door. "Noah," he said. "I think we ought to have a talk." Silence. "Noah?" Still silence. "Can I come in?" he asked. There was still no answer, and after a moment's hesitation he turned the handle and pushed the door open gently, the hinges giving out the usual creak. His fifteen-year-old son, still wearing a schoolgirl's uniform, sat on the edge of his bed, his hands flat on the duvet cover either side of his nylon-clad thighs. Dumbstruck, he was white faced, shaking with fear, as he looked up at him with teary eyes surrounded by make-up. Scared. Frightened. Terrified. He finally found his voice, everything coming out in a rush, tears trickling down his cheeks. "Sorry Dad I'm so sorry I'll never do it again honest I promise-" He was silenced as Robert held up his hand. The look on his son's face had finally put paid to any feelings of anger he might have had. The boy was petrified that he'd been found out, so much so that he had not even thought to change out of what he was wearing. Whatever else Robert may have thought he loathed the very idea that his son might be frightened of him. As a boy he had often been frightened of his own father, whose experiences as a British soldier patrolling the streets of Northern Ireland had left him with a lot of issues, and when Robert first held Noah's older brother in his arms as a baby, he had sworn never to do that to his children. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked reasonably. Noah was dumbstruck by his father's demeanour, his mouth falling open in an 'O' of astonishment. He expected him to be furious, angry, shouting at him and asking him what the hell he thought he was doing. He certainly did not expect this. "You're not mad?" he asked when he found his voice, mascara tracks on his cheeks, thoughts torn between confusion and amazement. "Possibly," Robert replied. "Maybe. To be honest, I'm not sure what I am. Confused, I think." He looked at his son, and a small smile played on his lips. "Though maybe not as much as you. Stand up." Now totally befuddled, Noah did as he was asked, responding to his father's twirl of a finger by turning all the way around so that he could take a proper look at his feminine appearance. Robert had to admit, as he studied him, Noah had done a good job. His slight build lent itself, for sure, but he had achieved a feminine appearance. Had Noah not been his son and he walked past him in the street, he would not have thought for one moment he was a boy. It was obvious it was not the first time he'd done this. "How long have you been playing dress up?" he asked. "About a year. Bit longer." Robert nodded. "Okay. Your make-up's run." He pointed at Noah's face. "You'll probably want to..." he added awkwardly. There was a pack of wet wipes on the chest of drawers, and he said nothing as Noah took one and carefully cleaned his cheeks in the mirror. "Look," Robert said when he'd finished, rubbing his forehead. "I need a drink. And I think maybe you do too. Do you want one?" Noah nodded. "Come on then. You might as well stay like that if you want." "Really?" More incredulity. Robert nodded. "Yeah. For the moment." He stepped back to let Noah lead the way downstairs, carefully watching him as he descended the stairs. Even his movements were feminine; the way he walked, each foot directly in front of the other, giving him a natural swing in his hips. Bloody hell. They said nothing more until both were sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, tumblers in hand. Though not a great imbiber of spirits, being more a wine and beer man, Robert did keep a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt -not an expensive one, mind- among the wine. He poured a finger for himself and one for Noah, adding a generous splash of water to his son's. "For the shock," he explained, passing the glass to the now completely discombobulated Noah, whose eyes were practically on stalks. He'd never been allowed whisky before. "We've both had one. Drink it slowly." They sat. "So what's all this about?" Robert asked his son. "Wearing girls' clothes? Have you been doing it for a long time?" Noah shrugged nervously. "I'm not sure, really," he replied, looking into his tumbler, his voice quiet. "It just sort of happened. I've always liked the way girls dressed, and then one day last year, when Mum asked me to take in the washing, I just felt like trying on some of her underwear. So the next time you were both out I did, and it sort of went from there." He sipped nervously at the whisky before going on. "I liked it a lot. But Mum is bigger than I am, and none of her clothes fit me, so I had to get some of my own things." "Where did you get the money?" "It's all Christmas and birthday money, and some pocket money I've saved. I haven't nicked any of it. I've not been able to buy much, mainly what you see and a couple of skirts and tops. And some bits of underwear and make-up." "Where from?" "Tesco mostly. Sainsbury as well. Clothes aren't very expensive there, and I can buy them without having to see somebody. I use the self-service tills." Robert nodded. "How often do you do it?" he asked, sipping at his glass. Noah shrugged. "Not that often, really. Only when I know I'm going to have enough time. Like today, or at Christmas when you and Mum went to your works party. Today's the first chance I've had for weeks." There was silence for a moment, Robert digesting what he had said. "Why do you do it?" he asked. "What do you get out of it?" He was genuinely intrigued. Noah frowned. "What do you mean?" "Well," his father explained. "I know why you watch football, or why you go out on your bike. And I can get that. But... I don't know why you feel the need to put on a skirt." Noah had to think. "Well, um... I just... do," he said, not very helpfully, but it was the only answer he could think of. He suddenly felt very embarrassed. "I like wearing girls' clothes. It's just, well... nice." "And make-up?" He nodded, feeling tears prickling at his eyes. He wasn't sure why. "Is it, well... something..." Robert suddenly felt embarrassed himself at the question. "I mean, does it turn you on?" "A bit," Noah replied, thinking about when he had to wank himself off earlier. "Not all the time." His face reddened at the memory. "Sorry," Robert apologised. "That was a bit unfair of me to ask." There was another silence for a minute or two. "Do you want to be a girl?" Robert asked carefully. He could see the uncertainty in Noah's eyes at the question as he considered it. "No, not really, I don't think," he replied after a moment. "I don't think I was born in the wrong body or any of that stuff. And I'm not gay either. I just like way they feel on me." Robert felt guilty at the sense of relief he felt at Noah's answer. "Well," he said after another moment of silence. "I have to say that you carry it off well. I honestly thought it was a girl at the top of the stairs when I came in. And seeing you closer, you seem to have picked up how to use make-up well. Not that I'm an expert," he added. Noah didn't think that thanking his father for the compliment would be a good idea. "What do you do for breasts?" Robert suddenly asked. "Oh, um, I use dried lentils. They seem to give me the right shape." Robert fought the urge to smile, though he did feel like congratulating his son for his ingenuity. "But what now?" Noah asked, nervousness creeping into his voice again. "Does your mother know about it?" Robert asked him. "No. Nobody does except you." "Probably as well to keep it from her, at least for now," he remarked. Carrie, his wife, would not approve; of that he had no doubt. "But what about you?" Noah asked in a small voice. "What are you going to do?" Robert was silent, looking at his son and thinking again how well he pulled the look off. He sighed. "I suppose I ought to threaten you with God-knows-what and tell you never to do it again. And sign you up for some kind of macho spare time interests to make a man of you. Rugby or something." A look of alarm crossed Noah's face, and he sighed again. "I'm not sure," he said at length, truthfully. "As I said, I don't get it; I do not understand why you're doing it, but I'm of a generation that doesn't know such things. Not really. Things have changed a lot, even in the last decade, that's for sure. Had your granddad caught me in a dress and make-up we certainly wouldn't be having a quiet talk about it over a whisky, I can tell you. "Truth to tell, Noah, I'm going to have to take some time to take it all in. It was a hell of a shock to walk in and see you like this. I couldn't believe it when I realised it was you." Noah looked nervous. "And I don't doubt it was as big a shock for you," he went on. "Look, don't worry about it for now. The fact that we are sitting down having a conversation and I am not shouting at you is quite positive. I won't deny that I was angry at first. My first thought was to come up the stairs and ask you what you were doing, but as that would have ended up being very loud and angry and a waste of time it wouldn't have been very helpful in the end. Not really." He drank the last of his whisky. "Where do you think this interest of yours will lead?" he asked, curious. "Any plans for it?" Noah looked absolutely perplexed. "I haven't thought about it at all," he replied truthfully. "I just like doing it. I only thought of a name the other week." "Oh? What name is that?" "Kirstie." Robert nodded again, saying nothing. He looked at the clock. "Look, you'd better go and get changed. Your mother will be home soon and it would not be a good idea if she found you like this. I won't say anything to her about it, and I give you my word on that, so unless you leave your knickers lying about -I presume you are wearing knickers?- you shouldn't need to worry about her finding out." + + + Noah picked up his schoolwork and rushed upstairs before Dad could change his mind. He couldn't believe what had just happened. The last half an hour had been entirely, absolutely surreal. When he had seen Dad walk in the front of the door the sky had just collapsed on him. It had seemed like an eternity between running into his bedroom and Dad knocking on the door, and when he had he thought the world was about to end. But there had been no anger, no shouting. Dad had spoken to him like an adult, had even poured him a drop of whisky - which to be honest Noah didn't go much on, but he wouldn't admit it- sat down with him and they had a proper conversation about it. He looked at himself in the mirror for a last time, head spinning. Unbelievable. His father's questions had made him think though. Up to now he had only crossdressed for his own enjoyment. He'd never given any thought to it beyond that. Dad's praise of him for his appearance, while astonishing, caused him to wonder if it was something he could use, though he had no idea how. He tilted his head to one side. He WAS pretty convincing... And if not, if he kept it as something for private enjoyment, what then? Skulking around the house when his parents were out? Would a potential girlfriend accept it if she knew about it? Did he want a boyfriend instead? That thought hadn't occurred before. So many questions, but it would be a shame to hide it away... Shaking his head, he forced himself back to the matter in hand. He slipped the alice band off and removed the earrings and watch, placing them in the shoebox along with the cosmetics. Quickly he undressed; the blouse and blazer were hung up in his wardrobe, at the far left behind his usual school blazer, while the skirt was neatly folded and put in a drawer underneath some normal clothes. The bra, knickers and tights went in there also, and he carefully arranged boy clothes on top. Mum always made him put away his clothes after they had been washed and aired, and since he had purchased those extra garments, he was more than happy to do so. That done, he put on a pair of boxers and jeans and hurried to the bathroom. Some wet wipes removed all traces of make-up and a quick dousing of his hair under the showerhead and a good towelling and combing got rid of the effects of the hair curlers. By the time he went downstairs, having pulled a t-shirt over his head and put on socks and trainers, there was no trace of Kirstie left. Not on him; not in his room. Just in time, as the front door opened as he reached the bottom of the stairs to admit his mother. Carrie Bright was, like her husband, just the wrong side of forty and while Robert had maintained a state of fitness and the physique he had kept while playing rugby when he was younger, Carrie had not been as lucky, the weight having never really departed following her second pregnancy. Untidy blonde hair surrounded her face, strands having broken free of the barrette she habitually wore at the hospital, and she had her usual post-work air of frustration about her. "Hi Mum," Noah said. "Good day?" "Just the usual," she replied. "You? Did you get that essay written?" "Draft completed," he replied. "Good," she said absentmindedly, hanging her coat up. She sniffed the air suddenly. "Did you put that casserole in as I asked?" Noah felt his shoulders slump. With all the weirdness of the afternoon he'd totally forgot the chicken casserole, which was still sat in the fridge uselessly. He opened his mouth to apologise, but was saved by his father. "Not Noah's fault," Robert said as he walked into the lounge from where he had been washing the two whisky glasses. "I phoned him earlier and told him we could fetch some chips tonight. The casserole can wait until tomorrow." He caught Noah's eye and half smiled. "Oh, okay," Carrie said. "That will save having to worry about tomorrow." Robert pulled a pair of tenners from his wallet and passed them to his son. "Go on," he said. "You whizz down and get them." + + + That evening was anticlimactically quite normal. Noah walked the short distance to the village fish and chip shop, placing the usual order -cod and chips twice for him and Robert, scampi and chips with mushy peas for Carrie, and also a can of Vimto for himself- and waiting and returning home. His parents had changed out of their work clothes and quickly the chips were unwrapped and on the table. The pleasant odour of the food filled the air as the family sat down to eat. There was a World Cup qualifying match live on the television that evening. England was going up against the elite of that mighty footballing nation, San Marino. They won five-nil, but in customary fashion made heavy work out of what should have been a routine walkover against this plucky amateur team, giving the impression of battling against the likes of Brazil or Italy. Robert groaned as San Marino made yet another half-decent break from a defender's clearance, causing the millionaire professionals of the England team look stupid yet again. "If they play like this against this lot what on earth are they going to be like against Croatia?" he sighed, head in hands, thinking about some of England's other opponents in their group. "Or Holland," Noah muttered miserably. It was as if nothing had happened that afternoon, as if Robert had not come home from work to find his son dressed as a schoolgirl and wearing make-up. But Carrie noticed something was wrong, that Noah seemed unusually tense and preoccupied about something. She spent the evening at the dining table at the other end of the open plan lounge-diner, surrounded by documents she had collated in support of a charity funding request the village community hall was putting in. As a member of the hall committee she had volunteered -stupidly, she realised afterwards- to undertake the paperwork for the application and it was very exacting work. She sat there with earpods in, listening to random music from Spotify, and watching her son as she worked. At one point she'd knocked a folder full of files onto the floor and Noah had jumped like a scalded cat. Something was wrong, she decided, and later, after Noah had gone to bed, she asked Robert about it. "What d'you mean?" he asked, looking up from his mobile, not at all surprised that his wife had picked up on it. Certainly, she rarely missed anything, but Noah had been rather highly strung that evening. He may as well have been wearing a sign around his neck. "I hadn't noticed." "He wasn't himself," she insisted. Robert shrugged. "Sorry, Carr," he replied. "He seemed perfectly normal to me." She shot him an irritated look. "Look," he remonstrated. "As his mother you're supposed to be the one who feels his pain, shares his dreams, listens to his hopes and fears and so on. As his father, remember I'm just vaguely aware of a small person hanging around the place." "Hmm. I hope everything's alright at school. I'll bet he's spent most of the day wasting his time rather than schoolwork." You have no idea, Robert thought. "He's done the essay he was given. I read it earlier." "Well that's something." "Look, I'm sure nothing's wrong," he reassured her. "If there's anything he needs to talk about, he'll tell us about it when he's ready." He was not sure he had entirely allayed her fears, but Carrie dropped the issue and after catching up with that evening's episode of EastEnders trooped off to bed. Robert gave a sigh of relief. It seemed he had persuaded her. He poured himself a glass of wine and fired up the laptop, making himself comfortable in front of it. Once online he typed 'boys who crossdress' into the search engine. Well, what a revelation, he thought after a moment, eyes widening. He'd always considered himself to be a worldly man, broad minded and experienced, knowledgeable in the ways of the world. If this was anything to go by, it appeared that he was still in the kindergarten. Robert had heard of parents catching their son crossdressing. It was, after all, a popular trope in TV drama, but up to now he thought that what he'd found Noah doing was incredibly rare, that he was in a very small percentage. But as he skimmed through the first few pages of page listings, he realised it was rather more widespread than he thought. Even after discounting those young men who had genuine gender identity problems and those who just did it once off for a laugh it seemed that there were plenty of young lads who liked to regularly wear clothes belonging to the opposite sex, and they could be anything from five or six years old up to adult. It seemed many parents were quite accepting of their sons' transvestitism, but there were literally thousands of words written in advice columns, some from parents who had discovered or suspected their sons, while others came from the boys themselves, wondering how to broach the subject. As he read some of the anecdotes and testimonies Robert became ever more thankful that he stopped to reflect rather than angrily confronting Noah. The intolerance of some parents was quite distressing to read, and he wondered how on earth they could treat their offspring in such ways. Unsurprisingly, with such a wide range of matter available, much of the advice contradicted each other, but what was clear was that it would do no good to force Noah to stop crossdressing. If it was just a passing interest, he would leave it behind himself. If not then he would require parental support to find a way to make it work for him. What was also quite noticeable was that it was nearly always the mother that these boys told first or turned to for support, and it was very often them that contacted these various advice sites. Rarely were the fathers mentioned, and when they were it was usually to remark upon their disappointment or anger. Robert seemed to be very much in the minority. Well, God only knew how he was going to raise any of this with Carrie. She was conservative with a small 'c', partly due to her parochial upbringing in isolated west Cornwall. Her strict upbringing had left her with particular views on certain subjects, and she was not shy to speak them. He loved her as much as had always done, but she was quite narrowminded on some things and he well remembered her disapproval when an item about a transsexual campaigning to use appropriate toilet facilities had come on the news. Nice one, son, he thought. This was going to take a lot of tact, and exactly the right moment. And, of course, there were photographs. Plenty of photographs, bringing with them so much new terminology. Drag queens, of course, but away from their exaggerated style he came across womanless beauty pageant contestants, Halloween parties, Prom evenings, brolitas, K-pop idols, fembois, traps... He avoided the porn sites, mind boggling at what he might find, but adverts for sites serving crossdressers were flicking up regularly. As well as makeover and photoshoot sites there were plenty of online shops. He clicked on one, and was again amazed at what he found, the breadth of available products made to help men look like women. Silicon breasts were common, and dried lentils suddenly popped into his head. Before he could change his mind, he put a pair of B-cup breast forms in the basket and paid for them. That would surprise Noah when he gave them to him. He realised with a shock that it was almost two o'clock, and closed down the laptop. For a moment he sat in silence, contemplating this new world. He still recognised how little of it he understood, but from what he had seen unless you were a transvestite or crossdresser it was difficult to, really. It was one of those things that was widely practiced, but little spoken about. He switched off the light and crept upstairs. It seemed that he had quite a lot to think about, and at the top of the stairs he paused, looking in briefly on Noah. He had expected him to be awake after today's events, but his son was asleep, breathing deeply, only his hair showing above the duvet. He was a normal boy. He liked normal things. He was interested in normal things. He liked girls. He enjoyed his cadet evenings. He followed the football at the weekends, read Terry Pratchett and Stephen King and watched Marvel Comics films. He was intelligent, thoughtful -and he liked to spend time dressed as a girl called Kirstie. He was his son. Robert decided there and then that whatever Noah wanted to do, he would have the full support of his father. Perhaps at the weekend they could spend some together and he would tell him this. And when the time came he would be by his side when he came to tell his mother. As he cleaned his teeth, he again thought about the way Noah had looked this afternoon. Of the photographs he had seen online many of the boys were not convincing, while some would never manage to pass as a woman in the middle of a black out in a deep cave at midnight. Others were very convincing, and it was barely possible that they were not girls. But even of those, there were plenty he could look at and say 'my son does better than that'. Oddly, it gave him a sense of pride.