Part 1. My story - becoming a girl

I love reading erotic trans fiction so I thought I'd write some to put on here. I am not a writer, never written anything of any note.

Some of this is based on my own experience when I was young I really wanted to become a girl. I cross dressed, I had gay experiences with boys and I regret not pursuing a feminine path. But times are very different. I thought I'd write it down and embellish it with some fantasy. I'll let you decide what was true. I hope you take it as a bit of fun and maybe it will turn you on a bit.

Part 1:

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of the family car, staring into the lines of the leather interior in front of me. Next to me my mother is sobbing hysterically with her hands covering her face - she cannot look at me. She is ashamed. She sobs continuously, occasionally drawing enough breath to speak - I have "betrayed her" - she screams that I have been corrupted by the sensationalist media. Her anger is punctuated that “she has failed as a parent”, or “not being smart enough to see the signs in my behaviour”. I'm not sure whether to try and be smart and explain it away the best I can - I'm a very good liar when I want to be - or just come clean and tell her how things really are. I decide that its best if I be truthful, otherwise she will pick it apart - she needs to know.


Several weeks earlier my Mother had maybe started to notice my behaviour becoming erratic. I was starting to slip during my covert private operations and I had feared things were getting too much for me to handle. With nobody to talk to it was subconsciously a cry for help. I always felt that I wasn't a normal boy, or that I had started out as a normal boy but something wasn’t quite right now. I really wanted to be a girl. I made up theories in my head - maybe I was part of a government experiment, or a teacher wanted a class full of girls so had poisoned all the boys. As a young boy you would not have known that I had any feminine tendencies - no yearning for princess dresses or playing with dolls and I didn't ever have girl play mates. But when I got near the age of 13 something inside me started to feel different. I didn’t start to sprout manly hairs, or develop masculine traits. I wasn’t joining in the obsession with looking at ‘Page 3’ or finding porn mags in bushes in the park like the other boys, and this is where my the uncontrollable urges took control and I started to lead my double life.


I had always been as careful as I could, I would look at the model girls in newspapers and dream of having their long pretty hair. Often, before a shower, I would pour talcum powder into my hair to make it look lighter (blonde - for me that was a major goal, to have long blonde hair). The perfume from the talc made me smell so sweet that it would just fuel my desire to appear more and more feminine, and I fantasised people would be telling me how nice I smelled, such as I saw people telling girls and women when I was out shopping with my mother. I can still picture the first time I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around my chest and another around my hair to look like how my mother would after her evening ablutions as she went from bathroom to bedroom.


My bathroom transformations took on more and more risky measures. I would dash into my mothers room, grab a lipstick, or eyeliner and hurry into the bathroom quickly applying them to my face, or if she was out the house I would be rooting through her underwear drawer, and making sure if I wore too much scent on their return I could bury them at the bottom so not to be a giveaway.


That bathroom mirror was my escape and I dreamt of being able to climb through it and live comfortably in the world where the girl I was looking at lived. I was very jealous of her and hoped when I wasn’t there she was living a wonderful life.


I tried everything to grow my hair out, and as my mother was a busy working parent she wasn’t too bothered by me missing haircuts. Boys of my age often had scraggy hair cuts and wore it long and this allowed me some freedom to experiment with hair styles. As soon as she had gone to work, I would leap into action. Straight to her dressing table using the brushes, rollers, heat clamps to pull a bit of shape and style. I was careful, but every bit of lip gloss or lipstick had my heart racing. On the first occasion I used it, I didn’t realise how hard it was to get rid of lipstick and it took some scrubbing off. It was impossible to hide and I once used the excuse of drinking blackberry juice to explain it away a teacher when he accusingly asked if I was wearing make up. I retorted
“Of course I am, Sir, and I’m also wearing frilly knickers”, which got a laugh from my school mates - I was a fairly confident pupil, no real bullies where I was at, as it was such a boring middle class area.


With my mother being a Salon owner it was easy to get hold of hair and beauty products without arousing too much suspicion. I would sit there on a Saturday watching all the ladies have their hair dyed, skin treatments and nails shaped and polished - it was a great way to spend time helping out and earning my pocket money. The smells that wafted into my very pores, through my nostrils and into my existence was heaven, and nobody suspected how much I loved it.


I grew up around those odours, every woman who came in appeared to have their own unique fragrance and I liked to talk to them about their humdrum lives, which at times I reckoned they would spice-up to make themselves appear a bit more interesting, for them it was just small talk, but for me I really wanted to know how it was to be a woman. I was gathering information, learning, fantasising and thinking how lucky they were.


I felt so comfortable in the salon as ladies would ask me if I wanted my hair curled or make-up applied, teasing me with what they would do to me.
“A few curls and a nice frock.”
They meant little in the way of harm, but they didn't realise inside I was screaming “Yes, please".
Maybe this is what triggered the girl inside me wanting to break free. Or was I boy being shaped by my environment into something female?


My first major mistake in my stealth operations had been the result of a much longer dress-up day when I had skipped school pretending to be ill. As soon as my mother slammed the front door shut, and I was alone I threw back the covers as if it were Christmas day and hit my mother’s room, I carefully went through a set of procedures in a militaristic routine. I took panties, I found a new and unused girdle corset, it was so beautiful. It was the first time I realised that these clothes weren't just pretty with their soft fabrics and elaborate design in comparison to the clothes I wore as a boy, but they were designed to accentuate the female form and in some cases pull it together.


I continued to record the position of each item dreaming that one day with my long flowing pretty hair draped over my shoulders I would be picking my own outfit for the day, having showered and prepared my body with soft finishes. Maybe my man was going to get a special surprise, or I’d be flirting with the boss that day. This felt so right yet I lived in fear of being discovered. It only increased the adrenaline flow. I found myself having sexual desires which I wasn’t getting in my boy form.


With the clothes selected I returned to my sanctuary, first showering then used my mothers skin lotions and perfumes. I had made sure I tried to match the scents of the clothes I borrowed, each item appeared to have its own smell. I was quickly being seduced into the world I could only dream about. With sellotape i tied myself back and with one leg crossed over the other it appeared I was no longer male, my non toned body helped to fill the girdle with ease, my chest was pushed into the right places - I had plenty of boyish spread around my chest to fill out a delicate feminine garment (with some help) - and for once I felt the shape of a female chest just like the girls at school who were starting to go through puberty looked. I looked down my body and what I saw felt right, maybe if I dressed more frequently something magical would happen and I would turn into a girl.


From the body lotion my hairless legs were smooth as silk and it was a joy to pull on the silk stockings whilst attaching them to the girdle. I was so excited to see the image of a curvy young teenager looking back at me, my girlish excitement couldn't be tamed and I rushed out of the bathroom and straight to my mothers make up table.


As I sat down it occurred to me that I had finally left the comfort zone of the bathroom, I had broken the barrier and as I looked at myself in the mirror of the dressing table I became giddy. What if my mother were to come through the door, what would I say, what would I do. I hadn't thought that scenario into play, my first failure.


When I had calmed down I immediately started to wrap my hair into the little curlers I had taken from the salon. My hair was at a good enough length to make an impression. Following the process that I saw the ladies do, I applied product that would give my hair a wavy style. I then blow dried and it looked full and bouncy as I brushed and brushed until my hair felt soft. I brushed my fringe down to my brow, placed an alice band on the top and the curlers gave the back of my hair volume. It was the first time I had sat down and given myself some time to do it, I knew the style wouldn't last for long but for now it looked good.


I then sprayed myself with the perfumes around the dresser, testing many onto my wrists to find one I liked - I had watched my mother do that whilst being dragged through department stores over the years, or in the salon when the ladies started to compare the scents they were wearing. Occasionally they would aim spray at me if I had my head in a newspaper or magazine, pretending to flinch but in reality taking in the beautiful scents.


With all the preparation done I completed my look with the prettiest dress from my mother's closet. My favourite was a summer dress, a tight waist with a very tight top to emphasise my mothers large round bosom. I needed a little bit of padding but the dress looked fine on my naturally developed ‘boy breasts’. It was rose printed on a silky white, my look was a bit 1960s but I didn't care. I applied earrings and a pearl necklace. I returned to the bathroom mirror and posed myself acting out all scenarios and poses - from innocent to suggestive, all from things I had seen in magazines and TV. It all felt so right, I never took this length as a boy to get dressed, maybe it was the preparation, but also the clothes themselves and the scents I associated with looking female. The salon ladies were always so well dressed, I so wished for them to dress and style me.


I lay on my mothers bed, happy as I’d ever been. The soft fabrics were a delight to wear, the scent in my nostrils. I could feel I was wearing make up and that gave me a warm glow. I closed my eyes and dreamt of being kissed by a man, a real man. I warmed instantly. “hmm”..


I bravely moved downstairs and walked around the house as if nothing was different. I was a girl, this was my house.


And then the doorbell went - this was a pivotal moment in my life. I froze.
“oh my god!” I said quietly to myself.
I don’t know why I panicked but for some reason I thought someone had found out. When I calmed, I ran upstairs to the landing window and peered down to see who it was. Right at that moment, the man at the door looked up and caught my eye.
“Miss, I have a delivery for you. I just need a signature”
“Shit”. But then a calmness came over me. He said “Miss”.
I don’t know what came over me but I walked calmly downstairs and opened the door.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?”
In my best attempt at a soft voice I croaked “I’m ill”.
The postman laughed “Looks like you’re ready for a night out”.
“Just sign here”
As I signed I could feel him looking me up and down, and without shame he breathed in through his nose.
“Well, whatever you have it sure smells nice, I’ll leave you be princess, you get well soon.”
He walked off and I quickly looked up and down the street to see if anyone else was watching. And then I shut the door calmly and then weaselled back up the staircase and threw myself onto my mothers bed, giggling to myself.
“He thought I was a girl. He thought I was a girl!”
I couldn’t believe it. My first ever encounter with another person. I was elated. But I felt as though I’d just come off a rollercoaster, the adrenaline was pumping.


It almost took as long for me to return everything back to normal, ticking off each item as I struck it off my list. I was quite conservative with my sick days, it took me many weeks to design a look whilst trying to avoid hair-cuts. I managed to combine it so I could do my hair in the prettiest way learning as much as I could from the girls at the salon. However I knew my mother was becoming suspicious, her strong perfumes were wafting around the house and being a hairdresser, I'm sure the waviness in my hair at times wasn't going unnoticed. I had no more encounters with the postman, but I would often fantasise about answering the door and meeting my Prince Charming.


As much as my body and mind were appearing in conflict and confusion, things were moving fast, too fast - I was only going to make mistakes whilst ploughing a very lonely furrow in this secret life. My mother wasn’t stupid. Maybe she thought I had a girlfriend round and we were playing. Whatever it was, she had many years on me and I had to be careful.

end of part 1