Misha almost paused in mid-step, his eyes snapping forward in a classic double take. A long display marked ACCESSORIES took up an entire wall to the left of the counter. Most of it was tawdry window-dressing: feather boas, tiaras, sequined gloves, plastic derbies and similar paraphernalia. Cheap, gaudy trinkets that harkened back to the glory days of vaudeville.

Next to this was a plain, white sign containing a single word: LINGERIE.

Misha halted before the stand, surveying the merchandise in gape-mouthed astonishment. Mounted in pride of place was a flurry of shining, satin panties. Sleek, gossamer g-strings with floral insets; outrageously ruffled sissypants; skimpy red thongs with naughty black trimmings around the waistband. Pants of every size, description and colour: fresh white cottontails, pale blue bikinis, glistening lycra full briefs. This was something totally unexpected, a delicious shock which raised his temperature to feverish heights. He hadn't realized they stocked underwear.

No, he immediately corrected himself, not underwear. Lingerie.

Yes, Lingerie: demure, lacy underthings that clung to the body like a second skin. Exotic, lavish foundation garments that teased the flesh with a silken, feather-light touch. Wickedly seductive garter belts with adjustable suspenders, chic black stockings with seams running down the back. Magical, figure-hugging corsets with a thousand tiny hooks. Basques, brassieres and torsolettes so complicated they took half a day to strap yourself into.

Half-mesmerized, Misha barely felt Judy's fingers on his elbow.

"Michelle? Michelle?"

"Yes ...?"

"You'll be dancing the can-can, won't you?"

Misha fell speechless with embarrassment. He hadn't counted on this, hadn't stopped to consider the kind of questions he'd be asked. He'd never actually seen Calamity Jane, had no idea what it was about, beyond being set in the Old West. Why was this so goddamned complicated? He'd come in for was a fitting, not a lecture in theatrical history. What was he going to say now?

"Uhm ... yes, there's a musical number I have to ...." he stammered after an agonizing five second delay. He tried to finish the sentence but discovered the words had fled into some endless, grey limbo.

"Well, then," Judy said brightly, "the first thing we have to think about are your panties."

Misha opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind. Everything was happening too fast, he didn't have enough time to think. Worse still, their conversation was attracting a great deal of undue interest. Over by the hosiery display, the Mariah Carey clones were offering him their undivided attention. At least four other customers were drifting in his general direction, necks craning for a better view of the proceedings. Several more had started creeping out of the woodwork, attracted by some obscure form of magnetism unknown to science (or maybe by the words 'can-can' and 'panties'). He had to put and end to this discussion. Immediately.

"Well, I don't really think – "

Unfortunately for Misha, Judy Ryan could talk through a mouthful of wet concrete once she had a sale in her sights. She steam-rollered over the boy's objections without missing a beat:

"Now – you'll need something sassy and saucy, like they used to wear in those old westerns. You know; long dresses with hoop skirts and about a thousand petticoats underneath? Every movie back in those days had a bar room scene, and the girls always wore long black gloves and orange feathers in their hair. We've got some of those too, over in the accessories department. Anyway, you'll also need some garters and stockings – can't dance the can-can without stockings – but right now, we'd better start with these."

Misha's eyes bulged with surprise.

Judy held up a pair of white satin panties. Sheer, gossamer full-briefs, they were adorned with flimsy lace ruffles along the sides and bottom. The front was embroidered with delicate floral patterns and edged with a dainty pink frill. They were breathtakingly feminine, as fragile and insubstantial as a dream. Misha shook his head slowly, covering his mouth in amazement. He'd never known such things existed, even in the Victoria's Secret catalogue.

"Well? What do you think?" Judy asked.

"They're beautiful." Misha replied in hushed tones.

"Yes, they are rather pretty, aren't they? Original design too, did you know that? One of a kind, like most of the stuff we sell here. Mind you, I can't take the credit for these – Donna takes care of all the lingerie orders, lingerie's her specialty; she's had work in the Pret a Porter, would you believe it? All that was years ago, of course, but she's never quite lost the touch. Anyhow, time is money, and we haven't got all morning, so if you'd like to strip down to your bra and pants, we'll get started –"

(?????)

"What? I'm sorry –?" Misha interrupted, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Your fitting," Judy answered conversationally, "climb out of those things and I'll take your measurements". Laying the panties down on the display shelf, she reached out and unzipped Misha's Levis. Too stunned to react, he could only stare in disbelief as Judy lowered the faded denim over his hips. Shimmering nylon panties were revealed, inch by teasing inch.

(WHAT IS SHE DOING??!!)

Voicing a little shriek, Misha stepped away from the Mad Seamstress, snatching at his jeans with both hands. He tottered back in shock, hi-cut pink briefs on full view. A small group of spectators had gravitated to the Lingerie stand, chattering softly amongst themselves and commenting on Misha's choice of underwear. The two Mariahs stood together, trading backhand comments in low, whispering tones. Even Old Mrs Addler had abandoned her novel and sat watching from behind the cash register, scowling like a barn-owl.

"What's the matter?" Judy asked, genuinely bewildered.

"I ... you ... I can't ..." Misha sputtered, cheeks burning like passionfire roses, "why ... why do I have to get undressed?"

"So I can take your measurements, of course."

"But –" the boy hesitated, completely lost for words. What was going on here? Is this what a fitting actually involved? Abject humiliation before a crowd of total strangers?

"Oh, what are you worried about?" Judith laughed, zeroing in like a barracuda,"we're all girls here."

Misha shrank back in alarm, raising his hands as if to ward off a blow. His mind was groping for an escape route, some excuse, anything to avoid this public shaming. Everybody in the store had converged to witness the morning's entertainment; there must have been close to twenty people gathered 'round him now.

"Wait!" Misha cried out desperately, "I – I don't WANT to take my clothes off out here!! I ... I'm shy."

A ripple of laughter followed this breathless admission. The tension went out of the room; the Mariah clones started giggling behind small, lacquered fingertips. Misha almost collapsed with relief. Disaster had been averted by microseconds – at least for the time being. He glanced longingly towards the door, calculating his chances of making it onto the street before Barracuda Judy could tear his clothes off.

"Shy?" Judy chortled, bubbling with condescension "Why didn't you say so? We have changing booths right over there. Look – tell you what. Take these (she handed Misha the frilled pants and an underwire bustier) and put them on in that little room. When you've gotten changed, we'll finish taking your measurements out here."

"Out here? In front of all these people?" Misha gasped, seeing himself parading around half-naked with the entire room looking on. "Couldn't we – couldn't we do the fitting in there?"

"No, the changing booths are too small for that – we'll be bumping around like two elephants in a volkswagen. Not saying you look like an elephant, of course; no, far from it, you have a lovely figure for your age, but you know what I mean. Look, you might have trouble with the bustier, you'd need to be a contortionist to do up all those clips at the back, so maybe I'd better come in and give you a hand –"

That was enough for Misha.

"NO!!" He exclaimed in a shrill, piping voice, "no, I'll be fine, honestly. I'll call you if I need any help." Hugging the lingerie to his chest, he spun on his heel and bolted for the change rooms. His firm, ripe bottom turned in tight little circles as he scampered past the two Mariahs. The crowd parted with a smattering of good-natured applause. This was one show nobody was going to miss.

"What a strange girl," Judy said to no one in particular, adding as an after-thought: "cute bottom, though."

The resulting burst of humour chased Misha into the cubicle.

Closing the pinewood door behind him, Misha took off his beret and scrutinized his image in the mirror. Under normal circumstances, he would have found his reflection quite pleasing. Even without the make-up, his high cheekbones and sensuous lips gave Misha a youthful, girlish appearance. His supple physique was both lush and slender, poised at the very cusp of adolescence. In many respects, it had been a blessing, allowing him to live out his deepest fantasies (at least in private). But right now, trapped in a changing booth with The Mad Seamstress patrolling the show-room, Misha couldn't conceive of a worse nightmare.

What had he gotten himself into? This was the worst mistake of his life!! What had he been thinking, waltzing in here like Jennifer Lopez on a buying spree? He must've been crazy, delusional, totally off the rails. How had everything gotten out of hand so quickly? All he'd wanted to do was buy a couple of crinolines. Now he had to go back into the showroom wearing nothing but his underwear (no: lingerie, he reminded himself again, he didn't come here to buy underwear), while half the female population of Chamberlain stood by laughing up their sleeves.

Except they wouldn't be doing that, would they? Not exactly.

Sure, they might chuckle to one another behind their palms, but it would all be in the spirit of good, clean fun. Because as far as they were concerned, Misha was a girl. None of them knew any differently, none of them suspected Michelle Waverley was anything other than a thirteen year old dance student (which was close to the truth anyway; Misha had been treading the boards since his seventh birthday).

He looked down at the flimsy white remnants in his hands. He really had no other choice: if he tried to back out now, they'd almost certainly start asking questions. And that could land him in a world of trouble (forget lunch with the geek brigade; there were probably laws against what he was doing, although he hadn't considered that until now). No, there was only one way out of this cross-gendered labyrinth.

Misha took a long, calming breath, clearing his mind for the task ahead. He had to complete the performance. No, that was wrong. He couldn't simply act like a woman. He had to BE a woman, every word, every gesture, every thought. If there really was a Michelle hidden within his subconscious (as he'd imagined since his sixth birthday) – he had to allow her to take over. Completely.

Laying the lingerie aside (there was a hook with a clothes hanger set into the door), he began to disrobe, peeling off his top in a single lithe movement. His hair spilled over his shoulders in a blond waterfall, cascading down to the small of his back. His pulse lurched into overdrive; a gentle, carmine radiance permeated his neck and shoulders. Cool air whickered around him like the breath of winter. A delicious shiver swept the length of his spine.

Dropping the spandex tube to the floor, he lent down to unbutton his jeans. They were blue stretch Levis, wide-hipped and thin-waisted (the only kind he could wear, considering his womanly shape), a birthday present from his mother. He worked them slowly down his tapering thighs, enjoying the way his lace-edged panties came into view.

There was a sequence to removing his clothing, a protocol he had to follow. It made his periodic, ritual stripteases a thousand times more sensual (though he couldn't have explained why). Perhaps it was the gradual exposing of the panties, the knowledge that his dainty nylon secrets were being revealed. His belly was clenching with anticipation, his breathing shallowed. Wriggling his bottom from side to side, he slid the Levis over his knees, dropping them to the floor.

And as Misha stepped out of his jeans, everything changed.

Michelle Waverley straightened up, flicking her golden tresses away from her forehead, and appraised herself in the mirror. Misha was gone, overwhelmed by rising flood of shame, guilt and sexual delight. Trembling with arousal, she ran her palms over her nude, ivory torso, caressing her waist and belly. Her mouth parted in a gasping, rapturous sigh.

(yessssssssssssssssss)

Turning sideways, she studied the lean columns of her legs, the luscious arabesque of her thighs. Her sleek pink underpants glistened like liquid silver. The sight of them sent a wave of pleasure surging through her bloodstream. They were plain, high-cut briefs, but she'd always loved the smooth touch of nylon against her skin.

Of course, she had something far more exotic near at hand, something she'd been sent in to try on. Something that made her weak at the knees and brought a rosy flush to her cheeks. Her head swum with embarrassment. In a few minutes, she'd be called out to model her flimsies in the showroom – and yet she couldn't wait to show them off. Keeping her legs completely straight, Michelle took her pants down to her ankles.

Flicking the remnant aside with a careless gesture, she stood up, gleaming like an alabaster figurine. Sweet, liquid heat flowed through her tummy. Her entire sensory system shuddered at the brink of overload. Critical mass had been achieved, ecstasy was only inches away. The transition was finally upon her.

What am I doing? she thought as she took the frilly satin panties down from the hanger. She felt immersed in a sea of humiliation. Because cross-dressing was a kind of torture; a sultry, inescapable torment that always left her breathless with joy, agony and bliss. It was both surrender and a betrayal, triumph and defeat. No matter how much she enjoyed this, there would also be that sense of inner conflict, the legacy of her divided personality.

She hesitated no more than a second. The allure, the compulsion was too powerful to resist, even if she'd wanted to. Misha's voice was a tiny, remote pleading in the back of her mind, a petty distraction to be ignored and forgotten. This was her true nature, and she had no intention of denying it.

Bending double from the hips, Michelle stepped carefully into the sissy-pants and drew them slowly up her calves, luxuriating in the torrent of emotions they released. Her eyelids fluttered as the glossy satin brushed her inner-thighs; her moist, pink tongue flickered across her full, red lips. The tension was unbearable. Every nerve in her body was screaming with hair-trigger passion.

(oh GOD!)

She slipped the panties into place and looked back into the mirror. Placing her weight on one leg, she smoothed out the fabric with infinite patience. Posing in her sheer, platinum underpants, she was a stunningly beautiful girl, hovering at the threshold of womanhood. Her tawny limbs gleamed with the freshness of youth, the crimson petals of her mouth sulked like a spoilt child's.

Having concluded the panty adjustment ceremony to her satisfaction (the wide frills exaggerated her natural curvature, give her a rounded, classical outline), Michelle took the bustier off the hanger and inspected it at close range. Heartbreakingly lovely, it was a complex web of French lace and diaphanous lycra. Detachable shoulder-straps gave it an exotic, decadent appearance; wispy floral trimmings suggested innocence and purity. The underwire cups were tiny, but that didn't matter – her breasts were little more than token buds on a blossoming adolescent flower.

Smiling impishly, Michelle slipped her arms through the shoulder-straps and reached around to fasten the restraints. Easier said than done, of course. As Ms Judy had warned her, there were at least two dozen hooks lining the back of the corset-like garment. She managed to clip the first three or four through blind luck, but the remaining twenty evaded her best efforts. Well, that shouldn't be a problem, Michelle told herself. Help was close to hand, after all.

Almost precisely on cue, the Mad Seamstress rapped on the door.

"Michelle? Michelle, are you all right in there?"

"Yes, I'm OK," she answered, facing the mirror, "I'm having a little trouble with the bra."

"Yes, I thought so," Judy hollered, as if she thought her customer had gone deaf for no apparent reason, "would you like me to come in and give you a hand?"

"Yes, could you please?" Michelle replied without hesitation. A mischievous smile played across her features. She could hear her Otherself wailing at the back of her mind, groaning in protest over this violation of his masculine dignity. This deliberate violation! Misha didn't want Barracuda Judy strapping him into a corset; the very idea had him quivering in outrage. Well, they'd gone too far to stop now. The die was cast, so to speak.

Sorry, Misha, she thought to her Otherself, but this is what you wanted.

The door opened. Judy stepped inside, hands fluttering around like a pair of frightened doves. Outside, a cluster of inquisitive faces craned forward, eager for a peek inside the cubicle. Must have been close to thirty by now, Michelle could see them parroting about in the mirror. She felt Judy's fingertips spidering up her back, hooking the bustier faster than she could have pulled a zipper.

"You'll look utterly ravishing in this," Judy gushed, slotting the last clip into place, "once we get you into some stockings and a cinch-belt, you'll be the prettiest dancer on the stage. They'll be lining up to see your underwear!!"

A naughty giggle escaped Michelle's lips.

I sure hope so.