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 déjà 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.

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 overachiever. 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.

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 déjà 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.