Spectacle 1
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Spectacle Part 4 free porn video
Part Four:
Revelations
9.
There was nothing I feared more than discovery.
The thought of my secret being revealed had haunted me almost as long as
I could remember. Like most tranzies, I'd begun "voguing" in early
childhood. Even then, I'd known it was something which had to be
concealed at all costs. Cross-dressing is an activity which carries as
much shame as it does joy. Part of it is the guilt imposed on the
practice by mainstream society, but mostly, it's the overwhelming
potential for exposure. And exposure is inevitable. Despite all the
safeguards, escape routes and precautions you take to evade detection,
you're going to be found out. One day, you'll miscalculate your margin
for error. It may be a window left open, a scrap of black lace lying
forgotten on the floor, or an insignificant lapse in your normal
routine. The circumstances are largely irrelevant. Whatever the reasons,
your secret is going to be disclosed. It's unavoidable. The subsequent
humiliation is nothing short of devastating. It has to be the
transvestite's worst nightmare.
Hearing her voice raised in counterfeit rage, I forgot everything that
had happened over the past thirty minutes. Suddenly, I was a boy again,
standing in the back room of our big colonial-style house in Summerhill.
Eighteen year-old Benny Woodridge, high school senior and part-time
sales assistant. Benny Woodridge; art school reject and complete
romantic failure. Benny Woodridge; cross-dresser, auto-voyeur, and all
round-sexual deviant, decked out in his Mother's underwear.
Her exclusive designer underwear, to be precise.
"Mommy!!" I cried, almost falling over myself as I swung around to face
her, "Mommy, I ... I was just -" The words trailed off, my brain clicked
into panic mode. How in God's name could I explain this?!
"Don't worry, I know what you're doing," she cut me off good-naturedly,
"not as if it's the first time you've tried on my lingerie." She came
towards me rolling her eyes in feigned exasperation, like a long-
suffering parent dealing with a spoilt child. She was wearing the same
blue jeans and printed top she'd worn in earlier in the day, advancing
on me in quick, businesslike strides, her freshly blow-dried hair
bouncing about her shoulders.
"You ... you know?" I asked incredulously. Her words didn't make sense.
She'd never seen me dressed (or undressed) as a girl before. If she'd
had even the slightest suspicion, she'd never dropped so much as a
single hint. For my part, I'd been meticulously thorough in covering my
tracks for more than a decade. It was an obsession which bordered on
paranoia.
"How did ... how did you find out?" I stammered in a breathless, little-
girl lisp.
"Don't play coy," she answered, seemingly oblivious of my rising
hysteria, "you've been raiding my wardrobe for years now."
She halted a few feet away, hands planted resolutely on her hips.
Scrutinizing my trim, shapely thighs, she shook her head ruefully. I
began to wilt before that critical stare, almost collapsing with
embarrassment. I placed both hands over my panties in a desperate - and
wholly unsuccessful - attempt to bury the evidence.
"Mommy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -" I started, feeling my face
blazing the color of a maraschino cherry.
"I've told you before," Mommy interrupted dismissively, "you can borrow
my dresses any time you like, but my underwear drawers are strictly off-
limits."
Reaching out faster than I could react, she took me by the arms and spun
me around so I was facing the mirrors. My jaw dropped as I caught sight
of myself once more: a slim, frail clad in little more than a whisper
and a prayer. I looked like a child playing dress-ups with her Mother's
corset and garters. Much younger than my eighteen years anyway.
Thirteen, fourteen at the most.
(Oh Christ Oh god, I'm NOT a boy, I'm a WOMAN; no I'm a GIRL; NO I'm a
LITTLE girl)
"Did you really think I'd let you wear something like that at your age?"
Mommy was saying. She leaned over my shoulder, pointing to my
reflection: "you've barely finished high school, Bianca. Now take off
that ensemble before you tear the material. Those stockings alone cost
over two hundred dollars. Dior originals."
What had she just called me? Bianca? My head was spinning with shock and
confusion.
Her fingers touched my spine, settling between the shoulder blades. A
moment later, my bra went loose as she unclipped the back strap with a
classic one-hand snap. I stiffened in surprise, a cold thrill swept
through my midriff, my hands flew up to catch the brassiere before the
cups fell too far.
"MOMMY!!" I cried in alarm. "What are you DOING?!!" But I already knew
what she was doing. She was undressing me, peeling away my fragile
dignity in successive layers. I gaped in the mirror, eyes bulging until
they seemed to fill half my face.
"A little late for false modesty isn't it?" Mommy laughed as she removed
the bra and dropped it over the arm of the sofa nearby. "I must've seen
you naked at least a million times." Again, her words confused me. Mom
hadn't seen me nude since I was - what? Eight? Nine? But this woman
wasn't my Mom, was she? And I wasn't Benny Woodridge any more.
My name was - what had she called me - Brenda? Bianca? Yes, that was it;
Bianca.
Bianca Woodrow.
All of this streaked through my mind between two heartbeats. There was
more: images and memories poised to swirl up from my subconscious.
Thousands upon thousands of them; thoughts and words and recollections
of a childhood I'd never lived. A veritable torrent of information. Far
too much to process under the circumstances. Particularly since I was
virtually swooning with shock.
My Mother was disrobing me in the middle of the Studio.
She was placing my lush, young body on open exhibition before the
picture windows. Wailing in protest, I placed my fingertips over my
small, ripening breasts, gasping as the cool morning air whickered
around them. I had never felt so humiliated in my entire life.
Momma's hands fluttered over my waistline, and suddenly I was wearing
nothing but a black lace garter-belt and a pair of flimsy, red-trimmed
panties (and stockings, of course, two hundred dollar Dior originals
many women would have killed for). I couldn't lift my eyes to the
mirror, knowing how small and defenseless I must have looked. Forget the
fact that most of my fantasies revolved around panty parades and public
exhibitions. This was different; indescribably different. All the years
I'd spent lolling about in my satin daydreams, I had never imagined that
being relieved of my underwear could be so ...ecstatic. This was no
fantasy. This was reality, and there was nothing virtual about it.
"Mommy, I can undress myself!" I complained, looking back over my
shoulder, "I'm not a baby, you know!!"
"You're my baby," she replied offhand, her words bringing on an eerie
burst of d?j? vu, "now stop wriggling your hips and hold still." Before
I could consider the Twilight Zone implications of her last remark, I
felt her fingers looping through the waistband of my thong. A rush of
gooseflesh spilled over my bare shoulders as I realized what she was
about to do.
(she's going to PULL my PANTS down!!)
"Momma!!" I squealed in horror, "Stop it!! Don't!! I can get changed
upstairs!!" But Mommy wouldn't hear of it. She had too much invested in
this outfit (which had cost her close on a thousand dollars) to allow it
to leave the Studio, much less entrust it to her daughter's inept care.
"No, you'll get undressed down here, Bianca. That's the price you pay
for sneaking around behind my back." She slid the panties down with both
hands, rippling the lace against my inner thighs. I inhaled sharply,
caught entirely off guard by this impromptu striptease. I risked a
glance in the mirror, compelled by an impulse I couldn't resist.
It was ironic: I'd never seen a girl this naked before. Yes, I'd had my
share of centerfolds and videos and sleazy porn sites on the internet,
but they were so obviously contrived that I'd never had much interest in
them. This was different. This was real flesh, immediate and voluptuous.
I wasn't simply looking at a girl, I was a girl; and the experience
filled every one of my senses.
I stood with my palms crossed in front of myself, gasping like a fish
while Mommy lowered the thong over my knees. I shimmied my thighs
automatically, watching in fascination as they dropped lightly to my
ankles. My pale, ivory skintones had deepened to the color of a ripe
strawberry. The suspender belt was way too tight, bulging out the soft
tissue on either side of my waistline.
The thong was now coiled around my heels. Mommy patted my right leg just
above the back of the knee, a signal I recognized instinctively, as if
I'd been doing this all my life. I stepped carefully out of the panties,
one foot at a time. Mommy draped them over the sofa, then turned back to
me, beaming in parental amusement.
"All right, you can take off the garter-belt too," she instructed,
absently gesturing towards my belly button, "and be careful with the
stockings. Run a ladder through those and you'll be paying me back until
Thanksgiving - next year."
Hesitating only a few seconds, I followed her directions, bending over
to unclipped the suspenders. I had to bite my lip to suppress a fit of
the giggles. I can't begin to explain how terribly embarrassing this
was, taking off every snip of clothing in front of my mother. My tummy
tingled with warm, liquid pleasure. She was treating me like a little
girl, reducing me to the level of a helpless child. And somehow, I was
enjoying it.
I dispensed with the stockings, handing them over to Mommy with a demure
smile, then reached back to unhook the belt. Waves of abject humiliation
were surging through my bloodstream, my heart was ready to burst like an
over-inflated balloon. My hands fell away to my sides, exposing my
dainty, feminine cleft. What was the point in hiding myself now? There
was nothing I could keep secret from her. I was melting, dissolving in a
torrent of ecstasy.
"OK, come on," Mommy's voice was a remote buzzing in my ear, "we don't
have all day. Aunt Leisa's expecting us for lunch at one." The words
didn't quite register on my consciousness. I was aware she'd spoken, but
all meaning was submerged beneath a tide of corpulent delight.
Noticing my lethargy, Mommy gave me a nudge towards the doorway,
following through with a well-aimed slap to the posterior. Not a loving
pat on the fanny, either. This was good, hard smack on the bottom, my
reward for skulking around in her wardrobe like a thief. Instant
justice: very hard, very quick and very sharp.
(OWWWWW!!)
A white-hot star of agony exploded across my right buttock; I shrieked
in hurt and surprise, leaping forward at least two feet. The pain was
immense, unspeakable, streaking halfway down my thigh like a bolt of
lightening. I whirled around with a yelp, covering my fanny with both
hands.
She had spanked me!! I gaped at her in red-faced shock. I couldn't
believe it. She hadn't punished me like that since I was ten. Yet here I
was, small, naked, eighteen years old - and she had spanked me!!
On the bottom!!
"Mommy!! That hurt!"
"It'll hurt a lot more if you keep us late," she replied, both eyes
sparkling with warm-hearted threat, "now run upstairs and get dressed.
I've laid your clothes out on the bed."
She started walking towards me, still smiling that gentle, indulgent
smile, and I understood that she wasn't kidding. No, she was deadly
serious: if I delayed my departure another two seconds, she'd put me
over her knee and paddle my bare cheeks as if I were no more than six
years old. No excuses, no questions, no second chances. And worst of all
- there would be nothing I could do to stop her.
Voicing a little scream, I turned and fled for the door, my hair
whipping out in blond streamers. I scampered across the carpet like a
frightened doe, a vivid, scarlet hand-print pulsing on my sleek, round
haunch. Oh my gosh, how it stung, how it throbbed, a burning reminder of
my juvenile status in the domestic hierarchy. Yet despite my searing
discomfort, I was giggling; I could hear my laughter echoing off the
walls as I approached the staircase. Why was I laughing? No idea. Maybe
I was hysterical. Maybe I'd finally lost my mind. Or maybe I was happy.
Happier than I'd ever thought possible. An hour ago, I'd been male; a
big, lumpish boy fumbling around in his mother's underpants. Now, I was
a naked alabaster nymph gliding past a dozen open windows, my perfect
body gleaming in the late morning sunshine.
I hit the stairs at a full run.
10.
My head was whirling by the time I reached the landing at the top of the
stairs. It was all too much to take in; I was being overwhelmed by a
tsunami of conflicting emotions. I wasn't crazy, I understood that much,
but there was no way to explain what had happened to me over the past
thirty minutes. Somehow, I'd slipped into an alternate universe where
I'd been born female and my Mother was some kind of benevolent autocrat
- same face, same voice, even the same personality in most respects, but
darker, harder...stronger. A woman to be respected and obeyed, her every
word heeded without question.
A tide of rising panic swept through my mind with cyclonic force.
Memories seemed to be crowding in on me, graphic recollections of a life
I'd never led. Bianca's life. I could recall intimate details of her
existence stretching back to her earliest infancy, almost all of it
closely intertwined with my personal history. Every decision, every
thought and choice I'd made perfectly mirrored on this side of reality.
Bianca and I were the same person, separated only by a few vagrant
strands of dna. I was a boy, she was a girl, but in all other respects
we appeared to be identical.
With the sole exception that she was a success.
In this world, Bianca Woodrow was an honors student, a prodigy, an over-
achiever. Her mother had pushed her much harder than mine had ever
pushed me, demanding far more and accepting nothing less. Bianca had
never failed a test, never shirked a responsibility nor neglected a
task. She hadn't failed the entrance exam at Chamberlain Center for the
Arts. Quite the opposite - she'd passed with flying colors, one of the
youngest applicants to qualify for a place in the program.
How had she succeeded when I'd crashed and burned like a stray
Hindenberg? The answer was deceptively simple: her Momma had much higher
expectations than mine. Failure was not an option in the Woodrow
household; there was a price to be paid for each indiscretion, each
miscalculation, each act of covert rebellion. Bianca's academic schedule
had been meticulously planned in advance, along with her social life and
domestic routine. No excuses, no evasions, no self-pity.
And that had made all the difference.
11.
The bedroom was set out almost exactly as it was back in Summerhill,
with ceiling-high bookshelves along the left wall and a four-poster
stretched out along the right. Adjacent to the bay window was my study
desk, complete with its antique lamp and straight-back mahogany chair. A
place for everything, and everything in its place, as Crazy Aunt Leisa
would have said.
The color scheme was slightly different - more subdued, perhaps - and
the shelves were lined with 'girlie' things - barbie dolls, nail polish,
music boxes and so on - but there was no doubting this was my room. The
seal of my personality was stamped into every nook and cranny; despite
seeing it for the first time, it felt familiar in ways I couldn't have
put into words. That sense of d?j? vu returned once more, rushing over
me with devastating force.
I strutted across to the bed, looking down at the clothing Momma had
laid out for me. As I'd expected, she chosen the most effeminate pieces
she could find in my wardrobe. Shooting a cautious glance back at the
hallway, I leaned in for a closer look.
Splayed out on the bedspread was a pair of soft cotton knickers and a
matching cross-your-heart brassiere, the kind worn by teenaged girls
barely out of middle school. Plain, functional and utilitarian in every
sense of the word, they were a far cry from the flimsy lace lingerie Mom
kept in the Alcove downstairs.
Neatly folded next to these was a bright pink sun-dress with wide, puffy
shoulders and a thickly ruffled hemline. I crimped my nose in a kind of
wry amusement. It looked like something out of a Japanese cartoon.
No way was I going to wear that! I had no choice regarding the underwear
- there wasn't much else to choose from - but I knew that Bianca had a
closet full of slim-fit jeans and designer T-shirts. A little too garish
for my tastes, but better than this cosplay ensemble Momma had picked
out for me.
I lost no time slipping into the bra and pants. There were no long,
smoldering looks in the mirror or voguing along imaginary catwalks. I
wanted to cover my nudity as quickly as possible, hide that sleek,
adolescent figure beneath at least three layers of fabric. That vast
sense of arousal I'd felt only minutes before had been replaced by a
harrowing sense of urgency. Momma had implied that dragging my heels
would result in the severest of consequences; if I was going to get a
spanking, I wanted to retain at least one shred of dignity.
Once I'd climbed into the underwear (my fingers moving with unaccustomed
speed as I clipped the bra into place) I traipsed over to the closet and
picked out a bright yellow t-shirt and a pair of faded blue Levis. On
impulse, I also grabbed a silky white cami-vest, barely noticing what I
was doing. Looking back now, I suspect that Bianca influenced that
particular decision. She seemed to be hovering deep in my subconscious,
whispering instructions like a guardian spirit.
It took me all of thirty seconds to pull on the outfit, starting with
the vest. Once again, my hands seemed to move with supernatural agility,
as if I'd been wearing Bianca's clothing my entire life.
I caught sight of myself in the dressing table mirror. The jeans and t-
shirt did nothing to hide my newly acquired gender. Bianca's figure was
slim and rather fragile; nothing she wore could have concealed her
child-like physique. Apart from her breasts, she might have passed for a
twelve year old. I suddenly understood how her mother could exert such
strict control over her.
Making some final adjustments to my ensemble, I began packing a few
items into my tote bag - toothbrush, shampoo, extra sets of underwear,
the sort of things I'd need for a long weekend on the East Shore. With
Crazy Aunt Leisa. Oddly enough, the thought didn't bother me in the
least. As a matter of fact, I was looking forward to spending time with
my new relatives, particularly cousin Elsa. In this version of reality,
she wore contact lenses and knew all the best raves in town.
"You ready yet, Sweetie?" Mommy called from downstairs.
"Be down in a minute," I replied, slinging the bag over my shoulder.
Walking to the bedroom door, I turned back to look it over one more
time. My new room. My new life. My new Mother.
This had indeed been a day of revelations.
Part Five:
Aftermath
12.
That was close on four years ago.
In the intervening period, I've completed my BFA and joined Mom in the
fashion trade, interning as her part-time assistant. We've met with
unprecedented success in the past six months alone, opening up two new
studios in Heartsfield and Greenmeadows. I'm still the junior partner in
the business, of course, but Mom recognizes my artistic abilities, even
while refusing to acknowledge my age.
In line with my academic pursuits, I've devoted a great many hours
researching the background of my adopted world. Initially, I thought I
was living in a mirror image of my home town, but as each month passed,
I began to realize that there were innumerable differences between the
two. Most were superficial variations on names and locations - Aunt
Leisa as opposed to Aunt Lizzie; Chamberlain Heights as opposed to
Chamberlain Downs. Other discrepancies were more significant - Ireland
being a republic, Columbia being a District and Canada being a
Commonwealth, for example.
In many respects, the general histories were identical: two major wars
in the Twentieth Century, military conflicts in Korea and Vietnam, the
rise of digital technology at the end of the 1980s. Almost all of the
leading figures have the same names - John F. Kennedy, Neil Armstrong,
Germaine Greer and Steve Jobs to cite a few prominent examples.
I suppose that the real differences are far more subtle, but I see them
virtually everywhere I look nowadays. I said earlier that my Mother
seemed somehow 'darker' in tone - a shrewd, calculating entrepreneur who
would gladly drive the competition out of business if it suited her
purposes. She's still my Mother, still warm and kind and generous by
nature, but she carries an edge of steel I'd never noticed before.
Everything seems darker over here. This is a world cast in shadows of
anger and conflict, as the merest glance at the online press can readily
confirm. The daily news revels in horror and violence beyond anything
I'd previously imagined. Mayhem reigns supreme at every level of
society: from the highest echelons of government to the back streets of
Hell's Kitchen. This is a far bleaker realm than the one I came from, a
landscape blackened with hatred and drenched with venom.
Still, wherever there is darkness, there must be light. The contrasts
between joy and sorrow are so vast that human speech cannot describe
them. I've experienced both over the past few months, plumbing the
depths of human emotion. Perhaps it was the shock of finding myself
locked inside a female body, or perhaps it was the inevitable process of
growing up - teenagers invariably suffer torment and rapture in equal
measure.
Whatever the explanation, I've adapted to the demands of my new role. I
have a far closer relationship to my Mother than Benny ever had with
his. Yes: we squabble, we argue and fight like two scorpions in a jar,
but the bonds we've forged between us are nothing short of
indestructible.
Nor are those bonds confined only to my immediate family - Bianca
Woodrow is far more popular than Benny Woodridge ever was. Back in
Summerhill, I was something of a classroom phantom; a bland, nondescript
boy who left no visible impression on the mind's eye. Here, I'm pretty,
vivacious, outgoing; the cute little girl with the bubbly personality
and the oversized folio perpetually clutched under one arm. All things
considered, I seem to have gotten the better part of the bargain.
I have far more than just Bianca's memories. I've inherited her drive,
her persistence, her ambition. Her prodigious artistic talent. Often, I
look back and feel astonished at how little I accomplished as Benny,
realizing how much I might have achieved if I'd bothered putting in the
slightest effort. Over in the Homeside, I was lazy, lethargic and self-
indulgent; here, there seems to be no limit to what I can do. Perhaps,
like Bianca, I've acquired a taste for success.
I've been granted a fresh start, a second chance that I'd be a fool to
squander. Very few people are given the opportunities I've been handed,
and I intend to make the best of an extremely good situation. The future
is laid out before me like a boulevard of dreams, and there are no
obstacles to impede my progress.
Strange then, how much I miss my old life.
As mentioned above, this is a crazy, kaleidoscopic world, a place of
excess and excitement. Having been here so long, I probably wouldn't
give it up, even if I could. All the same, there are moments when I wax
nostalgic for the people I left behind. It's the final paradox I've had
to face: the knowledge that everyone I know and love is - at some level
- a total stranger. Frances Woodrow isn't my Mother, Constance Radcliff
isn't my best friend, and Leisa Newtown isn't my Aunt Lizzie.
The doubts and fears usually creep in around ten PM, after the day's
work is finished and I'm getting ready for bed. I often look out the bay
window into the night sky, winding down at the end of a long evening,
when my mind is free to wander where it will. Almost inevitably, my
thoughts circle back to the life I led as Benny Woodridge, and I catch
myself wondering:
What's happening over there?
13.
During my first few months, I made several attempts to return through
the Mirrordoor, believing - no doubt naively - that the gate must swing
in both directions. I reasoned that there had to be some kind of portal
hidden away in the Alcove, an obscure passage between quantum realities,
but my experiments always came to nothing. As I suspected, there was no
way back. Perhaps the traffic can only flow one way.
I've spent many a sleepless night puzzling over this mystery. How did it
happen, how did I manage to step sideways in time? What triggered the
transfer, why did I come to this specific location in the space-time
continuum? And perhaps most importantly: what happened to Bianca?
Initially, I reasoned that we'd undergone a complete transposition,
swapped bodies through some momentary rift in the fabric of the
universe. It seemed the most logical conclusion. However, a more
frightening scenario soon occurred to me, one I didn't like to
contemplate.
What if we didn't trade places? What if Benny Woodridge simply winked
out of existence, vanished off the face of that Earth, never to be seen
again? That would explain why I can't return, and the revelation haunts
me in the dead of night. If my fears are true, then Bianca would have no
host to occupy, no place to go. That would mean that I ... overwrote
her, erased her consciousness, deleted her from this plane of reality.
In the warm light of day, I often imagine that Bianca is walking around
in my old body, finishing the degree I never started and enjoying a life
I could never lead. Sometimes, I actually pray that she made it to the
other side, mostly because the alternative is unthinkable.
Of course, it's more than just Bianca I have to worry about. There's
also my mother - my real mother, Fanny Woodridge; last seen disappearing
over the crown of Summerhill Road more than three years ago. What is she
doing now? How is she coping? Did I leave her all alone in that world?
The thought of her coming home to an empty house, night after night,
never knowing what became of her son...God, I hope they managed to find
each other.
So many questions, so very few answers, and only the faintest chance
that I'll ever know for sure. If, as I suspect, the door only swings in
one direction, there's no way to tell what happened to my doppelganger.
For the time being, I can only hope that I'll eventually discover the
truth, one way or the other.
How? Well, I suppose that's the only question that matters now.
In recent weeks, I've considered the possibility that there may be
others like me out there, trans-dimensional castaways thrown up on the
shores of the multiverse. I may not be able to go home, but there's no
reason why someone else can't come here. For all I know, I might be
surrounded by hyper-spatial immigrants. If I'm ever lucky enough to meet
one of them, then maybe - just maybe - the answers to all of my
questions might be forth coming...
The End.
Hester
- 22.11.2020
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