Reaching up, I took a black garter-belt off a clip-hanger. It was an intricate web of midnight lace, woven into complex floral patterns. Six adjustable suspenders hung from the red-trimmed belt, their cleats covered with precious scarlet bows. It was an extraordinary piece; regular belts only have four garters, but my Mother has a passion for the unusual. Needless to say, it was hauntingly beautiful.

My breath caught in my throat as I fastened the luxurious fragment into place. It sat taut against my nipped waist, a translucent strip of sheer decadence. Cool, teasing fingers seemed to drift over my naked flesh as I started toying with the straps, stretching them down to mid-thigh, then releasing them with a satisfyingly loud snap! Moistening my lips, I sank into the depths of my fantasy. I could almost feel my body change and melt beneath my gently probing palms...

Surfacing for air a few minutes later, I selected a pair of tan stockings from the chest of drawers. The choice of colour was an impulse; I normally wore black denier when indulging in one of my performances. But today was unique. In some obscure way, I was crossing some sort of boundary; one I'd never realised existed until now. Placing my right foot on the padded stool, I slipped the hose over my toe and drew it carefully up my calf.

Attaching the stockings was a complicated process (particularly since the belt had an extra set of suspenders). My hands shook as I adjusted the straps into position. Cross-dressing is a kind of agony: a sweet, sensuous torment that leaves you breathless with yearning. The stockings seemed to soften the shape of my legs while accentuating their natural curvature. I smoothed them out against my thighs, tugging gently at the insubstantial material.

The racks above me were slung with lingerie of every description; slips and camies, basques and corselets, French-cuts and bikinis. Rising up on tip-toe, I started searching through the hangers for a matching set of bra and briefs, one which would complement the garter belt perfectly. A minute later, I found precisely what I wanted.

Placing the brassiere on top of the drawers, I paused to study the underwear a little more closely. They were a pair of wickedly high-cut thong panties; diaphanous black satin edged with a brazen red trim. The triangle was a mass of insolent scarlet frills; the waist band was encrusted with tiny rose petals. They looked almost insufferably naughty stretched between my fingers. And I couldn't wait a moment longer to try them on!!

A huge smile stole across my face as I bent over and stepped into the thong, wriggling my tushie as I slipped them up my slender, stockinged thighs. The lace brushed against the denier, sending a thrill through my entire nervous system. I looked into the mirror, simmering with rapture. This was the most wonderful part of my dressing ritual. Drawing on a pair of panties was like assuming an entirely new body. A soft, yielding body, pliant and sensuous.

I ran my fingers over my stomach, tracing little circles around my belly button. Lips parted in near-ecstasy, I began to undulate slowly in the mirror, my hair spilling down my chest like a blond avalanche. I closed my eyes, caressing myself with gentle, questing strokes. And once again, I experienced that sense of change - of transformation - as if my form was shifting and running beneath my fingers.

Long minutes rolled by. Time seemed to spin out into some infinite blue void, where I drifted on a sea of immeasurable joy. The whole world seemed to fold and bend around me, and for one infinite moment, I felt as though I were falling - falling so deep and fast that I would never stop. Falling, perhaps, through the finely woven mesh of the universe itself.

Drawing back from the brink of climax, I opened my eyes and leaned against the wall. Hangers clashed and fell from the rack; I ignored them. I was breathless with exhaustion. Large indigo flowers seemed bloom across my field of vision. I willed my pulse down to a more acceptable level, gradually collecting my wits. What had just happened to me? I'd visited the Alcove at least a dozen times over the last two years, and although I'd often felt its subtle magic, the sensation had never been this ... intense.

The mirror continued to hover beside the antique chest, daring me to peer into its crystal depths one more time. And I did.

I was beautiful.

More beautiful than I'd ever imagined, more beautiful than a boy has the right to be. A delicate, rose tint suffused my face, neck and shoulders. My lips looked darker than black cherries. My eyes were wide, glittering emeralds flecked with diamond highlights. My trim, girlish figure seemed to have altered in the Alcove's muted atmosphere. Arms a little rounder, waist a little thinner, hips a little wider. Even my features - effeminate though they already were - seemed to have softened into an ageless, childlike pout.

Yes, beautiful.

If only I could look this way all the time, I thought wistfully, picking up the brassiere and sliding my arms through the straps. I'd wanted to be a girl most of my life, and I would have traded almost anything to have my wish granted. That was my concept of paradise, the image I took to bed with me every night: to suddenly wake up young, female and stunningly attractive. What more could a boy possibly want?

Reaching back, I clipped the bra into place, then made some minor adjustments across the chest and shoulders. Like the panties, it was a tight fit - far more constrictive than I'd expected. Mom wasn't a big lady by any means, although she'd always worn a c-cup as far as I knew. Her bras usually hung limp across my flat chest. By contrast, this one felt at least two sizes too small.

Still watching myself in the mirror, I swept my hair back over my shoulder to give myself an unobstructed view of the brassiere - and everything else I was wearing, of course. Striking a catwalk pose, I planted my hands on my hips and admired my reflection from a variety of angles.

And was struck speechless by what I saw.

The girl looking back at me was utterly breathtaking.

Her long, shapely legs bent slightly inward at the knees, their supple length exaggerated by the tense black suspenders. The red lace trimming the garter belt was garishly bright, as were the frills on her flimsy little panties. And strangely, in the dim lamplight of the Alcove, she seemed to have large, ripening breasts filling out the low-cut bra she wore. It was an illusion of course, a trick of the light and a feverish imagination. I was looking at a pretty teenaged girl in her underwear. One with my face and form

No, not exactly. There were differences, ones that should have seemed obvious from the start. Her face was captivating. Coy, tender, and totally innocent, the face of a Botticelli Venus. Her eyes were pools of demure laughter. She smiled, her teeth flashing brilliantly in the mirrored gloom, and I suddenly knew she wasn't as innocent as I'd first supposed. No: she was naughty, terribly naughty, and she reveled in it. I watched, fascinated, as she dropped me a teasing, little-girl wink, the kind that could bring a grown man to his knees weeping tears of desire. She was the most mischievous creature I'd ever seen, standing there in her bra and panties and nebulous tan stockings.

I turned completely sideways, examining myself in profile.

And realised something was wrong.

No - not something.

Everything.

The girl in the mirror had breasts.

It wasn't a trick of the light; some hallucination sparked by adolescent daydreams and a rush of endorphins. Two large, perfectly formed breasts were straining the underwire cups to the breaking point. Smooth, alabaster flesh overflowed the flimsy black lace. My mouth gaped in open astonishment; my hands flew up to confirm what my mind simply couldn't accept. And suddenly, I understood why Mom's bra had felt so tight.

I had breasts.

"Oh dear GOD!!" I cried in alarm, stepping away from the mirror.

There was no mistake. My hands were fondling a pair of lush, firm orbs; I could feel their engorged tips swelling against my fingers. How could I have missed them before?! I should have noticed while I was putting on the bra, easing myself into the cups and re-adjusting the shoulder straps. It wasn't the kind of thing a teenaged boy could ignore - even a cross-dresser like myself. Breasts don't grow on trees, and they certainly don't bloom on pubescent males, no matter how effeminate they happen to be. My head was reeling in confusion. This was crazy. I was crazy, I must have been.

But I wasn't. Somehow, I knew I wasn't losing my sanity. This was really happening. I had undergone some kind of metamorphosis, right here in my Mother's dressing room. My entire body had transformed, altered - right down to the width of my hips, the texture of my skin, the contours of my lips...

And a rather unpleasant thought occurred to me. A notion so frightening that I could barely bring myself to consider it.

"Mother of God," I whispered, looking down.

Standing closer to the make-up table, I lowered both hands to my panties, gingerly hooking my thumbs through the hip straps. There really was no other alternative. Sooner or later, I would have to find out how extensive the transition had been, whether I'd become completely female. There were, of course, a thousand other questions crowding my mind, but they'd have to wait. Right now, there was nothing more important than this. I had to know.

Still, I hesitated. The implications were overwhelming. What if my fears were right? What would I do? How could I explain this to Mom (Mommy) when she returned from Aunt Lizzie's (Liesa's)? Maybe she wouldn't even recognise me - nobody would, I'd changed so much. No one would believe my story, they'd call me a liar, a freakshow. I'd end up in a padded cell! Things were happening too fast; I wasn't prepared for this. Only five minutes before, I had wished for just such a miracle (if only I could look this way all the time), but right now, faced with the possibility that I might be trapped in a female body...

I was afraid.

I wavered back and forth, trying to find a solution, and alternative, a way out of this insurmountable paradox. There was none. I was paralysed with fear, shaking on the verge of tears. Why had this happened to me? All I'd wanted was a holiday from myself, a chance to act out a few of my idle fancies. I was a boy for God's sake, a boy! I didn't want to be a girl!!

(yes, you do)

(yes you do: if only I could look this way all the time)

Inhaling a long, steadying breath, I stared into the mirror and began to ease my panties down. My heart was thundering in my throat (though with excitement or terror, I couldn't tell). The frilled waistband slipped down my hips with infinite slowness, revealing the truth an inch at a time. The newly exposed skin was very pale, almost white. I could see the traces of a bikini line curving down my lower belly.

I stood very, very still, hardly daring to breath. An inexplicable sense of calm was descending over me. I took the panties down another inch, revealing a haze of silky, blond pubic hair - so fine and downy as to be virtually invisible. From this distance I looked nude, untouched. Below this, the ivory flesh folded over into a tiny, dimpled cleft - pure, pristine, and absolutely virginal. And that was all I needed to see. I could already feel my features tainting with a fine, pink blush.

I was a girl.

I sat down on Mommy's make-up chair - an unobtrusive art-deco piece I couldn't recall seeing before - and tried to make sense of what I'd just seen. Sliding my panties back into place, I felt drained, numb. My former panic had subsided into vacant shock. Something impossible had happened, something devoid of rational explanation. I should have been devastated, hysterical, yet all I felt was a listless torpor, bordering on indifference. Ten minutes ago, I'd been a boy. Now, in violation of all logic, I was a girl.

(and your point is...)

Perhaps I was simply thunderstruck - incapable of expressing any emotion. This was a revelation beyond all sanity, and my young mind was shutting down, unable to deal with the conundrum. Maybe all my systems had overloaded at once, causing an intellectual short circuit. Well, whatever the circumstances, my trepidation seemed to have vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, along with the confusion and anxiety.

So I sat and waited. Switching off the lamps, I hovered in the darkness, breathing through a girl's lips. I gradually became aware of my body - my female body - as my pulse slowed and tranquillity began to flow through my veins like a cool, soothing balm. I could feel every inch of my form: the sensuous flow of my belly, the fleshy hollow at the base of my throat, the gentle throb of my nipples. And as the minutes trickled by like sweet molasses, I realised that I wasn't completely devoid of emotion. Beneath my arctic detachment was a small geyser of warmth so subtle I hadn't recognised it until that moment.

It was relief.

I stood up, automatically checking my stockings, and stepped away from the make-up table. Despite the dread I'd experienced only ten minutes before, I was relieved. The miserable, crushing weight of manhood had been eliminated; decades of anguish and self-loathing erased in a single morning. No more guilt, no more shame, no more slinking around the house like a pervert. I didn't need to pretend any more. The masquerade was over.

Leaving the Alcove, I made my way back through the rustling tunnel of the walk-in. It flashed through my mind that the closet seemed to have doubled its length since I first stepped inside. It was an optical illusion of course, must have been. The mirror set at the far end gave the walk-in an impression of great distance; rows and racks sweeping off into infinity (then again, the ceilings seemed higher too, and there were no mirrors mounted up there...).

I didn't give these spatial distortions much thought, however. I felt free, deliciously free and uninhibited. Unencumbered by a burden I'd never wanted, my mood shifted once more. Relief turned swiftly to euphoria; I'd been liberated from my gendered prison, casting aside my false masculinity as easily as a snake sloughs its skin. The shackles were off.

The possibilities seemed endless. I would finally know the joy of being a woman. An entirely new world was opening for me; a world previously denied by an accident of birth. I was a girl; young and beautiful by any standards, and I could do anything I chose. Naturally, there would be problems to deal with; questions to ask and answers to seek - but those were concerns for tomorrow. Today, I would rejoice.

Thus, I emerged from the closet.

Literally.

Taking two steps into the Studio, I froze in mid-stride, bewildered for the second time that morning. The Back Room looked bigger. No, not just bigger - gigantic. The dimensions had altered; space itself had expanded, thrusting out in all directions. I shook my head in mute astonishment - the room had been enormous to begin with: now it was colossal, monstrous, the size of a city block. Picture windows loomed as tall as skyscrapers, potplants waved their ferny heads below an impossibly remote ceiling. The carpet beneath my feet ran off as wide and open as a football field.

(carpet?? we don't have carpet in in the Back Room!!)

(no, we DON'T!!)

Pushing those nagging, conflicting voices to the back of my head, I continued to scan around the Studio, the Back Room, whatever it was now. The whole place looked unfamiliar. Things had been shifted, displaced. The furniture had been moved, ever so slightly. The curtains were gone, replaced by pale blue slimline blinds. Looking towards Mommy's workspace, I noticed a brand new IMac, a garish lavender monstrosity complete with all the peripherals, seated proudly on an Ikea computer desk. This was unbelievable - my Mother had never touched a computer in her life, refused to even consider the option.

Then something caught my eye which drove all other considerations from my mind.

There was a hamper sitting on Mommy's work table. An Easter hamper, much the same as the one she'd bought for Aunt Lizzie (Leisa). I walked over to the table, telling myself this couldn't be right. Despite everything else that had happened this morning, I was reluctant to accept this one small inconsistency. It couldn't be the same hamper. I'd loaded it into the Chevrolet (Cadillac) less than half an hour ago. Damn near slipped a disk putting it in the back seat, I remembered that much at least.

But there it was.

Then, the voice: high, clear and underscored with dry humour:

"And just what do you think you're doing, young lady?"