“Do you like wearing a dress, Daddy?”

“Can you believe it used to be that Men told Women what to do, what to wear, their hair, clothes, everything!!!”
“You mean – we used to be in charge - and that women spent all their time wearing pretty clothes and looking after the house and the men? Weird!”

An AP-500 story
(posted quickly because a recent story got 1000 hits in less than 2 days! Yay!)

---

Daddy smoothed the silk dress he had embroidered and patted my hand. “It was so sudden, really.” He paused.

“The men in charge – everywhere – kept on showing how massively incompetent they were. Greedy, getting fat and sleek on ‘being in charge’. Eventually people realised the unfairness. There was Brexit in Britain - telling the self-elected EU to get knotted because unelected bureaucrats shouldn’t be overrule a genuine democracy. Then Trumpit in America – when so many decided that the white, male, rich ‘elite’ had been cheating and manipulating for too long.”

“Well, anyway. There used to be this group - Bilderberg it was called. They had a reputation, true or not, of being ‘the people in the background ruling the world’. Ludicrous when you think about it. But – things just came to a head when a huge number of these Bilderbergs were revealed to be corrupt, nasty, perverted and generally unsuitable.”

“So what happened?”

“The women who were married to these men – they went ballistic. They were having a series of meaningless meetings nearby – and Mrs Tannon, wife of the President and Mrs Van Kleef just marched in and took over. They had accumulated all the information necessary to, well, blackmail their men into just giving in.”

“Then they announced there would be changes. Instead of being in the background, women would be up-front and open about their aims and intentions. Decisions would be made by women working with men rather than by men ignoring women. Men who were not-contributing would do the background tasks which ‘they’ had said women were stuck with. Cooking, cleaning, child-care and not just tasks beginning with C.”

“Was it they who fixed the Middle East?”

“Absolutely. They said the West were not as bad as they were accused but changes were going to be made. For example Arabs were perfectly allowed to hate Arabs and kill them if they wished. However, they’d get no arms and damage beyond national boundaries would be dealt with by women in a way the men would hate. Testosterone-driven negotiation was no more. It was made very clear that women would not run ‘everything’ as males had their skills. But the male-determined methods of the past were done, ended. Cooperate not Compete, y’know their mottos.”

“But why do we have to wear the dresses now?”

“Just learn the history of costume, Charlie. Male peacockery was supported by women working furiously to make HIM look good. The Change has meant that in households like ours, the woman is in charge. So the woman dresses for leadership. The man, like me, has to spend the time making it easy for her. Part of that is making sure I don’t compete. So I wear the prettier fussier clothes, and it’s a huge effort getting it right. It’s not what I ever expected – but I can cope. Actually, it’s better than that – I love these clothes and feeling so pretty.”

“I do too.”

We hugged. Enjoying the thrill as our lacy frills rustled together.

Another 500-word story - how soon will the wimen be in charge? - A story for anyone to take onwards (and acknowledge)
AP

"He's gone. I'm going to be ME!"

Sometimes taking that first step is as big as 'One giant step for Mankind' and I've always been a woman. Haven't I?

Previously this was titled "I’ve done 25 – will I get to 26? Is it over." The OLD subtext said 'If these were lyrics they could be better – but I’m doing this My Way – or the highway – or the low way. And sorry – it may sound like this is going to be a suicide story – but – nope – not this time.'
I think it wasn't being read because of the bad vibes. I was trying to be punny about the number of 500-word stories. And jokes suggesting suicide don't work. Sorry.

The 25th AP-500 story - and none has, yet, been borrowed or adapted - come on, folks and folkesses,

---

Are you wondering why so many of us T-people don’t live long. Because we never get to live at all. The statistics are there for anyone interested to check. Even though the antis lie, exaggerate and twist. We probably do some of that too; saying we’re no longer a tiny minority – when actually we are a tiny minority. And the antis want nobody not-like-them. No ripples enough to touch THEIR lives – thank you.

I’m 25. Like I say, I’m not going to get to 26. During the next 365 days I’ll be getting rid of all of me – the OLD me. It’s time for a change. Ooops – Rewrite – It’s time for Change and THE Change, the ME-Change.

I seem a completely average bloke. Probably less exciting and less interesting than many. The skills I have are hugely gender-neutral. I like sports a bit – preferring team games where there’s cooperation rather than the one-on-one competitive stuff. I get emotional, passionate, excited, excitable, -which some attribute more to women. I like to dress well – some men do but all women try. I’ve taken tests – and I come out just that bit feminine.

And I feel better that way. I’m not going to sing the Sinatra version – but my future IS going to be MY way.

I’ve been labelled in various ways throughout my life. Baby, child, teen, man. Bouncy, lively, graceful, adventurous, excitable, then studious, bookish, geek; as well as kind, generous, friendly then quiet and careful; interested, interesting then withdrawn and watchful.

Did you notice the change? Are you wondering when it happened? I know. I know exactly.

It was the day I read about people like me. The days after I was labelled ‘different’. The days after the bullies began to target me for not fitting their prescribed and proscribed boxes. Nasty-minded monsters. No, no – that’s my label for them; not their’s for me.

Gay, ponce, poofter, homo, faggot, fairy, girl, and so many other words. Freak, wazz, words which were local or school slang. I got them all. And that was just the verbal abuse. I had no friends; certainly nobody who would stand up with me or for me. I had no secondary status which might have protected me. I wasn’t ‘the best’ at anything. Some other freaks avoided the worst by being ‘The Chess Club star’ or ‘that Kid who …..’. Not me.

But just days before my 14th birthday – I read this amazing article at the dentists. And, suddenly, I wasn’t alone and secondly, I had a new label that fitted me. I was a girl – with a plumbing problem. Wow!

It’s taken just over 11 years – but any moment now, I’ll be ending this job and starting another. I’ll be clearing my apartment and moving into a new house (small but mine). I’ll be closing all my web-accounts – and opening new ones.

No more Miles Andrew Jacobs. I will be Melissa Jay Andrews. Double-Wow!!

I wanna be FREE. I will be ME!

As per above - this is the 25th AP-500 story.

---

Actually I have written a few more. One idea is to keep going until one, just one, has been taken by Ann Author and manoeuvred into a story of their own. But it doesn’t seem to be happening. I may stop at 30 or on Christmas Day (if a Christmas story comes to mind. Then later I’ll move them all into a sub-page. I am working on some longer pieces – but all 3 are at a slow point. )

Only one of the previous 24 has done far better than the rest; 3 are slow (maybe because their subject is clearly unkind). Still none has been begged, borrowed or stolen. I’m about to re-read and see if I want to do some self-building!

How could I have known what would happen?

I wasn’t expecting this – not even in my wildest dreams.

Hard and rough, not so tough, – new and trendy – now it’s Wendy.

An AP-500 story.

---

My auntie’s voice was calm. Remarkably calm in the circumstances.

She had come home from her Friday night out and found me lying asleep on the sofa. Not that unusual. But wearing a nightie. Not so common – not for a young man named Randall.

“Randall, dear, would you like to explain now – or in the morning?”

“Um, er, “…… silence.

“I guess you’d like to leave this to the morning. Will I be expecting you to breakfast in that nightie or do you have a negligee too, or perhaps a dressing-gown to suit. Mmmm?”

More silence.

“You’d better have made your mind up by breakfast time. I’m not that worried if you like to wear pretty clothes. I like to wear pretty clothes. But I’m not so keen on messing about and pretending half of the time one thing and then another. Goodnight, Randall dear.”

I had no idea that my aunt was so liberal in her attitudes. I really didn’t know her well. She had stepped in with an offer of looking after me for the summer and to Christmas while my parents took an academic sabbatical in Europe.

But – wow – she didn’t blow a gasket at me wearing a nightie. Wow. What sort of future could I look forward to? I fell asleep wondering.

I dreamt of all the pretty things I could wear – if I wasn’t just over six foot tall and quite broad at the shoulder.

I woke.

I heard Auntie downstairs and knew I must hurry to breakfast. I hesitated. I dithered. I decided.

“That is quite a pretty nightie, dear. When and where did you get it?”

By now I had also decided to be up-front and open. “I bought it last week.”

“Really. Was it an effort to go into Marks, I recognise the style, or was it easy?”

“If you go in looking as if you know what you’re doing, it’s just another sale.”

“Mmmm.” There was a pause. “Be careful with the honey, if it drips you’ll have to deal ..”

Too late.

“Well, just look at that. Quick, sponge it off or run and get changed. Have you anything to wear instead? And I mean as a girl, unless you want to go back to wearing boy clothes.”

I wasn’t sure I was hearing right. “D’you mean that Auntie?”

“Randall – clearly not y’name when you’re dressed – yes dear. I mean it. If you want to dress up then I won’t be upset. I will ask questions as to intention. Short-term and longer-term. It’s obvious you’re not doing ‘drag’ so it’s more on the cross-dressing or transgender spectrum. Yes?”

“Now, scoot off and get changed. Do you have anything pretty to wear? And I want to know your real name.”

I had very little to wear that was even adequate. I did my best with one of my two skirts and a badly-fitting blouse. Panties and cami but no bra.

“Well, well. We have a lot to do! Don't we ………?"

“.... Wendy.”

This is a 500 word story (basic text) and available for anyone who wants to take it further. AP

"I'll take the pain 'cos I know the gain!"

“I’m not a freak any longer. It was last year I was the freak! Now I'm a real person at last, the inside me is FREE.”
Title edited was : Enduring Pain, Eventual Gain.

An AP-500 Introductory

---

“I’m not a freak any longer. It was last year I was the freak!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Duh. Last year and all the years before have been me pretending to be a boy. And people seeing the girl inside. That’s why they saw a freak and called me a freak. Different. Wrong. Evil. Ungodly. It’s time. I’ve been making changes. And, thank god, there’s only one step to go.”

“You’re VOLUNTEERING for chopping …… ugh …. I can’t think about it.”

“But I can – because my whole heart, soul and mind tell me ‘THAT doesn’t belong THERE. So what am I supposed to do? What sort of a person so hates a piece of their anatomy they’ll go through hatred, loathing, discrimination, anger, nastiness, and all the many sorts of abuse ….. just to get rid of what’s inside my pants.”

Charley sat beside me and let me talk. Perhaps he was too stunned to either argue or respond.

“I know there’s not so many like me. I know there’s far more who just like the feel of women’s clothes. They’re just your typical cross-dresser. Pretty normal – and you can’t quite be certain what’s between their legs. As if it matters. But to go back, I know that YOU can’t even think about the idea of cutting it off. And I saw you cross your legs at the idea. That’s because you’re a boy, a young man. Surely the fact that I can think about it, want it, plan for it, need it GONE. Surely that tells you that I’m not a boy. Certainly not a boy anything like you. Yukk, horrid” I grinned.

“I’m not pretending any more. The camouflage is not what I AM wearing – it was camouflage that I used to wear when I was pretending. Maybe I didn’t know it – but once I began looking deep down – sure enough – deep down I wasn’t good enough at being a boy. Because I’m not a boy. I just have what to me is an ugly dangly useless unwanted thing between my legs.”

“But look here.”

“No, Charley. You look here.” And I pointed at my darling little (oh so little) breasts. “Look. These don’t belong on a boy do they. They’ve begun almost as soon as I took those testosterone-blockers. Even the quacks were surprised at how quickly.”

Of course he wouldn’t look.

“Come on. Be a big boy. I’m a girl and I’m offering you a chance to look at my breasts without me complaining. And, NO, they’re mine and they’re staying out of sight. But they’re real. Yes?”

“Please Charley. I want you to help me here. You’ve known me all these years. Have I been much good as a boy, as a bloke? Hmmm?”

My best friend, my only real friend grinned. Oh thank you God, at last a positive response.

“Debbie, is it? Is that what you said your name was? Well, Debbie, you’re a useless boy – but you’ll do as a girl, heh?”

This is a series of 500 word introductions - if anyone wants to take on any story - best wishes.
 

“I’m going to HAVE to wear a bra! No way!”

“Stand up, Mike. And take your shirt off. ……… Well, that’s unusual.”
Some time later ……"NO, Mum. I’m never going to wear a bra. Never.”
“I’m not sure those, erm, chesty-things give you a choice!”

An AP-500 story

---

My recent rules are to post one or two of these shorties at a time and to post more when one gets to a thousand hits. Recently that’s been very quick. I’ve posted 20+ of these 500 stories since September; 2 have hit 2,000 hits and a couple are closing on 100 kudos. I’m keen to see of one of these will trigger ME to write a continuation – but, so far, not yet. I have some longer ones as work-in-progress but they haven’t got to a breakpoint yet.
-------------------------------------------------------------

“But Mum, I’m sure they’re going away. They’ve got to be smaller than they were.”

“How long have you known about those, these, them?”

“Mum, I know it’s not possible but the proper word has to be ‘boobs’.”

“Excuse me boy-child. Vulgar boys may call them that, but girls and women call them breasts. Generally. How long?”

“I first noticed a couple of months ago.”

“Really. I’d guess you noticed longer ago than that.”

“Well, maybe. But I tried to ignore the whole thing. I mean, how many guys of seventeen start growing boobs. It ain’t many. I can’t guess how many sites, how many hours I’ve spent on the web. Boy-boobs are really kinda rare. And having two and sort of symmetrical – that’s just off the scales rare. And I’m not a girl. I make sure of that every day or so.”

“Yes, yes. I know about that. I have to wash your things, don’t I?”

And if she was blushing ….. it was a mere pink flicker to the beetroot colour I must have been showing.

“There’s a few things we’re going to have to do.”

“I sort of guessed you’d know what to do.”

“Know – huh. Ain’t no guidebooks to ‘my son is getting breasts’, y’know. But we can start with a bra or two.”

“Really.”

“Of course. Don’t be silly. Breasts need a bra, and spares to cover laundry and so on. And we need to talk with some professional.”

“Not Dr Sherman.”

“No, dear. She may be our family doctor, but she’s nearly 65 and I think we need someone who knows us a little less thoroughly, not a family friend. Yes?”

I wasn’t arguing – about that. But I did try to argue about the bras. “Do I really need a bra?”

“I said yes. I meant yes. More accurately, the mammary development generally attributable to female puberty beginning to protrude from your chest heretofore labelled as masculine requires the assistance of suitable clothing in aid of preventing discomfort.”

“I guess that means I have to wear a bra.”

“Duh! Just to make it a little less obvious you’re a boy. I’ll give you some of your sister’s things to wear and I’ll fluff your hair a bit girly.”

“What if I don’t want …”

Mum interrupted. “If you’re willing to go buy lingerie as a clearly not-girl, that’s your choice. I just wouldn’t recommend it. Even if we’re going not locally to Munchester .”

Soon, I was wearing Evie’s jeans, a t-shirt (with ruffled shoulders) and a necklace. And I looked ok. Not that I dared say so.

“Actually, you look ok.” Said Mum. And I was dithered enough to smile back. “Have you ever tried on any of Evie’s things before?”

“What. No. Never. Yukk. No way.”

“Oh well, then you look surprisingly good. Quite relaxed too.”

“No way. Although the clothes themselves feel nice, dressing as a girl ……. Absolutely NO.”

Mum giggled, “That’s what you say now!” Are all Mums are fortune-tellers?.

Another AP-500 story - please grow it some more. AP

"Look what I’ve found!"

Finders Keepers, Suitcase Peepers.

Another AP-500 story

---

Jeff had pulled the suitcase out of the hedge. We’d dragged it back to the house so we could investigate it properly. The first glance had shown that it was full of clothes. Girl’s clothes, or women’s clothes maybe.

“Hey, look.” Jeff held up a bra – we’d seen enough on the web to know what it was.

“What size is it?” asked Ken.

“Wat’cher want to know that for?” I said, (Pete).

“If it’s small – then this is girl’s stuff. If it’s big it’s mum-stuff.”

“It says 30 A – what’s that mean?”

“Come on. All the stuff on the websites – 36 is ordinary. There’s women going up to 40 and 45 and 50. Enormous. Tits like footballs.”

“30A is for girls. A is for boob and A is tiny. And 30 is the roundabout measurement.”

“Cor, Ken, you seem to know somethin’ about it all.”

“Well, yeah. I’ve got me mum who wanders round in her dressing gown. Three sisters older than me and Diane who’s a bit younger. Even if she’s taller than me already. I know too much about girls and what they get up to.”

“It’s good that you know about bras,” chirped Rod.

“Too much sometimes. They tried to dress me up one time. I learnt more than I ever needed about girl’s stuff that time. Not for me.”

“What was it like, eh?”

“Wat’yer mean. It was girls’ stuff. Not for me. Even if Di said I looked ever-so-pretty. Yuk.”

“Didn’t you enjoy any of it. Some of this stuff’s awfully pretty!” Oops. I had to ask.

“You wouldn’t like it if you were forced to wear stuff.”

“Nah. But what if someone tried it on for fun. Instead of being made to or forced to.”

“Are you suggestin’ ?”

“No. Just wonderin’. There’s a lot of stuff here. We should at least check it out. Perhaps there’s some stuff to give to your sisters or my sister – we’d gain some points if we gave them some nice prezzies, yeh?”

“Seems a funny way to find them some presents by trying it on first.”

“Oh, come on. When are we ever going to have a chance like this again. And if it doesn’t fit, we’ve wasted ten minutes. If any of it does fit, we can pretend a bit more. Y’know.”

Eventually, three curious just-teenage boys couldn’t resist investigating. We tried everything. And some of them felt so … different. Once we’d struggled with the buttons being inside out, we got on better. Eventually, it turned out that more things fit me than any of the others. I was taller but skinnier. The bra fit me – that felt just ‘really-weird’. The panties – nice-weird, the skirt – draughty-weird, the shoes – I couldn’t stand properly in them so found myself tottering round trying to keep my balance.

But after a while – I got used to them. I liked them. They felt ….. pleasing and …… I wasn’t excited by the clothes but there was something nice about them.

An AP-500 story (500 words basic text) available for anyone to take over and build on. AP

“My bra really doesn’t fit me. Can you help me?”

I’m a fairly ordinary 22 year-old bloke – but I love to wear proper underwear. And I don’t actually mean what is labelled as ‘proper’ for men but what I enjoy. Like I said (eventually) “It’s just what I like to do. I enjoy it. It’s private."

An AP-500 story

---

It’s a private thing. I don’t conceal it – well of course I do. What I mean is that I try not to flaunt my special interest. I enjoy, I love nice underwear. Girl’s underwear as a boy. Women’s underwear now I’m older.

Generally I wear panties, popsox or even stockings and a vest or cami. I do wear a bra sometimes because I like the feel of it and the way it holds me tight. I wear nighties of course and pretty bedroom slippers with little heels and trim. Just at home, though.

I didn’t often have friends to come over. Usually we’d meet in town, do things and separate. But it had poured down and my house was nearby for Verity to recover. We had a cuppa and talked. More and better than ever before.

Verity saw the slippers in the spare bedroom (I don’t know what they were doing there but it offered an escape for me). Verity began to ask more questions. Who, when, why, where, which, how and all that.

Because it was private, I’d never really prepared answers. I never expected to be quizzed. Let alone interrogated.

After a while, when I’d passed the event off as ‘sort-of cousin; months ago; visiting for an interview; from Liverpool and other vague answers’; eventually Verity smiled.

“That’s all very interesting. I didn’t really know you that well. I never knew about the cousins – why would I? But I’m puzzled as to why the slippers’re still hanging around. Oh well. If they’re yours that’s your private business.”

I tried not to blush – and more or less succeeded. I tried to hide any response. I think I failed.

“Oh, they ARE yours. Oh well. That’s still a private thing for you. But I’m surprised you only having slippers.” She smirked. “Would I find more if I looked?”

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Well, well. You do have more. I’ve never met anyone with your particular interest. I’m being very forward, very pushy – but is this just dressing-up or are you, what’s the word, transgender? I’d guess you’re not gay – you don’t have that vibe.”

I could tell that her concern was real. Well, hindsight does prove that to be true. But at the time, I was panic-struck. Discovered!! All the worst stories came to mind. Betrayed!! Forced!! Blackmailed!! And Worse………

“I really don’t care. My brother’s gay as a gay-thing; my uncle’s been known to dress up at Halloween – actually every Halloween and at other times for ‘fancy dress’. Say the word, and I’ll never mention it – or say another word – and I’ll help.”

What could I say. “I’ve tried to keep it private – and I’ve now failed. I enjoy dressing up.”

“That’s alright then. Would you like to show me what you’ve got – not today, but sometime soon. And perhaps we can get you some better things. Do you have any bras yet?”

I mumbled. “My only bra really doesn’t fit. Can you help me?”

Another 500 word story to borrow (and acknowledge) - and enjoy. AP

"One small step for a man."

Well, high heels aren’t for boys.

An AP-500 story

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“Honey chile, if’n you don’ take little teeny weeny steps yo gonna fall flat splat on that fancy new ass of yours.” The accent was as fake as I was.

I was tottering up the stairs in my new dress. New bra and sleek panties slinking my skin. Garter-belt and stockings exciting my legs. The mid-blue jersey dress clinging like nothing I’d ever worn before. And I was trying to escape in case that woman saw me.

I was sure that everyone could see that I had VPL (visible-panty-line) VB (visible-bra) VC (visible crotch) VE (visible everything). I wasn’t feeling comfortable or confident.

And the shoes. I’d never worn shoes like this before. They had at least four-inch heels, a tiny strap round my ankles (and that had been so hard to fit together). And my poor toes were almost weeping with pain after twenty minutes. We were still in the shop but the gorgeous girl helping me choose new footwear was insisting that I keep these ‘cruel and unusual punishments’ on and walk around in order to ‘get used to them’.

She made me go up stairs and down. She made me twirl when I put on a selection of dresses and outfits.

This was such an expensive day. But I was enjoying it. I felt relaxed and released as never before.

And why? Because a girl, young woman really, was helping me look better, as a woman, than I had ever looked before. It’s not to hard to make an improvement on a bloke in his thirties who wants to wear a dress. And all the underpinnings and accessories. Even if he’s just on 6 foot tall and kind-of solid.

The assistant was a glorious coffee-coloured Brazilian import. We’d done quite a lot of talking during our session – now approaching two hours. She knew my name. She knew what I said I wanted. And she knew what I really wanted but could not speak about.

I panicked when I saw Jewel come into the shop. Jewel was a catty, sly, sometime-friend. Seeing me all dressed up would be just awful. Golia noticed instantly, And that’s when she made her comment about me falling over if I wasn’t careful.

So I was pretty obvious – and not pretty. And in those heels, I towered above everyone like Gulliver in Lilliput – unless the ladies Basketball team dropped in. If Jewel clocked me as a ‘man in a dress’- I had to escape.

After Golia’s rebuke, I stumbled onwards. Probably drawing more attention to me than if I had stalked confidently out of the room. But with smaller steps I felt much safer.

Was I in more trouble? I hadn’t realized where I was going - back in the lingerie department. And falling face first into a rack of panties and bras. Under normal circumstances, I might have found something kinda fun or even kinky in being drowned in a pile of sexy, sleek, silky, sensuous frillies.

What a mess – but Jewel had gone.

---

Another few AP-500 stories coming along. For anyone to borrow and build

"They're just NOT like me - not at all !"

How can boys and girls be so different? And I know which one I am! They're a different species! But they're really NOT like me at all!!

An AP-500 story.

---

I stood there. Absolutely shocked at what I had overheard. It wasn’t said about me. There was zero possibility that the two boys round the corner from me could have known I was there. But they had hit the button – Bzzzzip.

“Y’know that little freak, James Morris, y’know, the one who always wears pale blue shirts. The one all the others call woofter, fairy and so on. Jack Poulter swears he saw him, well it maybe, in a dress in Colchester on Saturday.”

“In a dress!”

“Duh, that’s what I said. A dress. Y’know the sort of things girls (and didn’t that word carry a freight of disgust, revulsion and not-us) wear.”

“So he really is a faggot.”

“Got to be. Tho’ Jack says he would’ve sworn it was an ordinary girl with her mum. But that Mrs Morris, so recognisable with her red hair and tits. Talk about a Milf.”

"Huh, if that poofy James is dressing up then probably he or it just wants a good seeing to as well. That’s what homos & poofs want.”

“Yeah, my big bruv says that’s what wimps and sissies deserve. They’re not real men. They’re not girls either. At least they’ve got a fanny.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This was two of my schoolmates, unbroken voices, barely into puberty. I couldn’t believe that they were able to think like that or talk publicly like that. I felt ashamed.

To be honest, looking back, that was one of the times I thought ‘I really don’t want to be like that. If that’s how boys grow up – count me out.’ I was exactly 12 and a 12th that day. One month past my birthday. And I realized that there wasn’t a single boy I had anything in common with. I didn’t like ball games, cycling, running, mud, MUD!!, mucking about, talking about girls and what we had learnt from friends – and grubby magazines [this was long ago before the Walkman, before the Web, before Digital Porn, the old days]

I knew James. I’d never even wondered about him outside school. He was quiet, above-average bright, willing to play kickabout a bit more than me, longish hair perhaps, but probably a bit less of an outcast than me. And HE was now rumoured to go into town in a dress!!!

No way. I wasn’t going to do that. Even if my mum was willing to go with me like his was – or so those kids were saying. And they were right – Mrs Morris was very noticeable. But I noticed her long skirts swirling and swaying atop those beautiful high-heeled boots. That’s what I watched.

Why? You ask why?

Because I wanted them. I wanted to wear them, to feel skirts round my ankles, calves, knees, thighs – Actually I didn’t care what length they were – I wanted skirts, dresses, frocks, gowns and pretty colours. Soft lush materials instead of grey-brown-black drab.

And James Morris had the confidence to wear them out in public. Yaarrgghhh.

An AP-500 story (ie 500 words of text) for someone else to take over and build on

"This IS what I want."

It's taken me only a few days to realize this is what I really, really want - Scary! Exciting! Wow. But I do love being dressed up - I love it!

An AP-500 story.
 

It’s happening. It’s NOW. In public. In stockings, high-heels, panties, corset, bra and a slinky floor-length dress with petticoats. The corset was an awful squeeze. I’m not a girly-shape as many girls – but then I’m not a girl. Backstage, Jane held me tight and hugged me. I needed the comfort and the confidence that her quick gesture offered.

I’m on-stage, dazzled by the lights. The microphone is in front of me and the music is beginning. I put so much effort into learning the right song.

We argued about what would suit both the occasion and the singer: ‘I enjoy being a girl’ - nope- ‘Just a Girl’ by No Doubt – maybe ; ‘This is what I want, what I really really want’ by the Spice Girls. I couldn’t do Baby, Ginger or Posh but I could have had a go at Sporty, or Scary as a second. “Thank heavens for little girls?" - No. Anything by Shirley Temple – No.

I often enjoy joining in, being a sport and so on. But – here I am.

Months ago, the clubhouse had been damaged by fire – and they asked people to take part in ‘An Evening’s Entertainment & Promise Auction’. I was doing my usual grumbling and protesting about how useless I would be if I had to take part – and the ‘gang’ went on the attack.

“Of course, you’ll be useless unless you give it a proper go,” said Jack.

“But we’re going to find something for you to do – just wait while we think.”

I made a mistake, and jeered, “Is that a promise or a threat.”

“Dumb Chum, whether by bribe or blackmail, you’ll be on stage,” said Sandy, Paul’s girlfriend.

I jeered. I criticised. I snarled and snapped. The girls’ expressions became black and bleak. “Right, you burk. For being a bad sport, you’d have got something you didn’t like much. For being so bloody about it – just watch out. Your tantrum about what MIGHT happen is grubby. Pathetic, juvenile and ….. lots of other words.”

I began to realize that I had been stupid. I tried apologising, grovelling …….not a chance. I’d delivered myself to their whim. My ever-punning brain sniggered ‘that’s why they’re whimmin.’ I kept quiet for a change.

I knew not what but my doom was bespoke. For a few days. Until, Rachel called and informed me that I was to come to her house that Friday evening.

“You’re a pillock,” were her opening words. “You sneer and contribute nothing. So we’re fixing that. You’re going on stage – you’re selling yourself as ‘A Good Sport open to offers’ and then you’re up for sale as ‘Whatever the purchaser wants’. But don’t worry, we’ve got it fixed that we have the winning bid.”

“Now, upstairs – spare bedroom, shower if you haven’t. I’ll help fixing you up. Then Sandy and Jane will be here to decide what you’re singing.”

------------------------------------------------
I hope the girls' bid wins. There’s some giving strange looks at me – as if they know.

A 500-word base-story to do things with (and attribute please)
AP

“Wears MY panties?” my sister screamed.

“Wears my panties – and what else! Not if I’ve got anything to say about it!” It was like being next to an angry avalanche.

An AP-500 story-starter

---

My sister’s scream reached my bedroom at the back of the house. Wow – did she go over the top when her buttons got pushed. So – Be Prepared!! I wondered as the storm blew up, and built again. I would have been so glad not to be the target of her wrath.

The door opened. Simmering Sister Sandra suddenly stabbed her finger at me. “You …..” Words failed her. An unusual occurrence and usually a warning that there was worse to come.

“Have you been …..” Again, she couldn’t speak the words.

“I cannot tell a lie, ‘twas I. I wore one pair, just one, for one day – I wore those panties.”

Somehow, she kept her temper in check and cooed ‘Dear brother, could you tell me why you did so? I promise not to tear you limb from limb.”

“I cannot tell another lie. T’was a bet.”

She cooed a little more. “Oh, brother dear, and what was the bet – did you win – and what were your winnings.”

“Um, a hundred quid.” I knew she was going to press for answers so I kept talking (defusing the dragon, so to speak). “It was Jeff, Dave, Ben, Jo and Joss. Ten quid each if I’d wear panties to school for gym without being discovered. And up to twenty quid if I wore really girly ones. I thought you wouldn’t notice just for one day.”

My effort was clearly not sufficient.

Sarcastic Susie spoke ever so gently (which I knew hid her fury) ……. “So, you went into my room fingered all my underwear and stole my best panties.”

“Erm, …….. yes.”

“You’re so dead. You owe me. For a start, you’ll be buying me two replacements which will cost about £50. Leaving half your ‘winnings’.

“That’s a bit steep.”

“You’re damn lucky I didn’t demand all the money. Idiot.” She changed tack. “What did you think of the panties? Did they feel different, what other adjectives? Eh?”

“I was too busy winning the bet to really think about that. The fear of being caught was the main worry. But, now you ask, they did feel nice.”

“Brother, dear” [Uh oh, danger] “I’m really NOT pleased. It’s rude, impolite, wrong, vile, disgusting and IMPROPER. I’ll think of some more words later – probably. BUT you’re going to have to be shown that stealing is WRONG. That stealing my things is VERY wrong. And that with every such crime there is PUNISHMENT. And those other BOYS – they’ll get their comeuppance too. Making sure you NEVER wear MY panties again.”

When she’s cross – Susie uses a lot of verbal CAPitals.

That’s why I’m in this girls-only night-club, wearing a short skirt, petticoats, tights, panties, bra and a slightly see-through blouse BUT clearly, to those who know how to tell, a ‘boy in a dress’. At least there’s six of us to share the, um, pain. Each wearing panties we’ve bought. Pretty, lacy, sleek, slidy. Nice.

A fabulous frilly future? And not just for me!!

One more 500-word story to use, adapt or whatever *and acknowledge please).
AP

What on earth …… Who are You?

Is YOUR God the same as mine? If he delivers babies damaged physically, or mentally, why not genderly? [if that's the right word!]

---

“Why are you dressed like that. Take all that stuff off. Immediately. It’s wrong, vile. It’s disgusting. You wait until you Da gets home. He’ll learn y’.

Her voice was rising both in volume and pitch.

I stopped her before it reached eardrum-piercing. This wasn’t going well.

“It’s very simple, mother. Despite that revolting thing between my legs, I’m a girl”

“Huh, that’s what defines you – what’s between your legs. I’ve seen it. Doctors saw it. You’re a boy. My son. You’ll always be my son. Nothing changes.”

“Mum, do you know the suicide rate for children and teens who don’t get support from their parents or their friends?”

“What do you mean? Suicide. Don’t be silly”

“Mum, I know statistics can lie – but the web says the suicide rate, let alone the self-harm rate, is as high as 45%. 45% Mum. I’ve seen sites that say for teenagers it’s even higher. 59% think about suicide; 48% attempt it; 57% self-harm. Although that was in 2014, so perhaps things have improved. Ha ha. That means that more than half the people who feel like I do kill themselves. I don’t want to go there, Mum.”

“What. I don’t understand.”

“No, I guess you don’t. I’ll be blunt, Mum. Without help , I’m more likely to go down the spiral into depression that people like me know too much about. And at the bottom of that spiral, it’s either death or change.”

“What. You’re going to kill yourself. That’d be stupid.”

“I wouldn’t do it now. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling braver and more scared than ever in my life. I’m opening up who I am to you – in a way I’ve never done with anybody. But I told you the truth. I’m only labelled as a boy because of that piece of flesh. I only behave like a boy because of years of training and practice. I only act like a boy, dress like a boy, behave like a boy as a disguise.

“What do you mean – a disguise.”

“I have to look like a boy because otherwise the haters will smash me. There’s enough already. All the ‘accidental’ bumps, bashes, mild thuggery and the name-calling. I do agree that the head-in-the-toilet flushing and so on that others tell me about is, er, let’s say, rare …..”

Mum’s expression was indescribable – but included shocked and disbelieving. “You’ve never said!”

“Erm, I got the message that you didn’t want to know.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Because you’d have had to realize that I’m different, seen as different, treated as different, treated as a freak, not a proper boy. I knew that you wouldn’t going to cope too well with that.”

“But I’d do anything to help you. You’re my son. You know I would.”

“Yep, the ‘son’ word. Did you actually hear any of what I’ve just said? I’m your daughter, duh.”

“No. Never. God doesn’t work like that. You’ll always be my son!”

“Priests say that - not God.”

Another 500-word story available for extending, adapting or borrowing [with relevant attribution]. Another dark example.

”What? I’m not a girl – am I?”

So many things that I didn’t know. I mean about girls and all the soft, pretty things girls do and wear. So much to learn. And something told me it was what I really wanted. But I was a normal boy, wasn’t I?

An AP-500 story to borrow and grow.

---

I wasn’t a very good boy. I just didn’t know how.

Then I had no idea that I was so inadequate as a male. I thought I was pretty average. I had a penis, and late-onset-puberty; I was still waiting for some hairs to arrive – and for my balls to drop.

I knew how boys behaved – sort of. What to wear, what to talk about – but too often it felt wrong or seemed off-key. As puberty began, I heard their pride in the first pubic hair, their balls, the first stiffy. I heard ALL about it – and it wasn’t happening to me.

When I watched girls what I saw was definitely not what the other boys saw. I didn’t talk about tits, bums, legs-up-to-the-armpit or ‘getting to first base’. I noticed what the girls wore, the way their hair flowed, the shine of their legs. I knew NOTHING but I knew I was interested.

But as the days passed and I began to feel more and more separate from the others. I began to wonder if there was a group that I could or should belong to. And there were words that seemed to fit on some days, other days otherwise. I was bored. Unenthusiastic. Dull.

I wasn’t gay – I knew that that meant I should be interested in boys. Nope. So what was I? I started reading and new words came into view. Asexual – not interested; Questioning – unsure about maleness-femaleness; GenderQueer, Bigender and Non-Binary – a bit-of-this-a-bit-of-that.

Facebook now had over 71 different descriptions for those who weren’t clearly male or female and heterosexual or homosexual. Wow. I read more. Was I intersexed? Was I …….. I had kept away from transgender for some reason – but some of the examples seemed to fit me. Almost too well.

Maybe that’s me?!

So, time to learn about the female world of shoes, socks, pants, shorts, shirts, coats, accessories, hair, skin, walking, talking, behaving, interacting …. perhaps a million things I didn’t know about.

Then a million more – all the things that girls know but which are a world separate from boys. Bras, underwear, colours, combinations, cooperation instead of competition.

How many colours would a man call ‘blue’ - eventually I listed light-blue, dark-blue, sky-blue, Oxford-Blue & Cambridge and Air-Force. Girls had sapphire, cerulean, azure, aqua, cyan, indigo, navy, cobalt, saxe, Oxford & Cambridge, Berlin-blue, electric-blue, midnight, lapis-lazuli, turquoise, teal, cornflower, hyacinth, periwinkle and I knew there were others. I thought about doing pink but got diverted by a pop-up advert for dresses.

Wow – variations for style, silhouette, sleeve-shape, sleeve-length, shoulder-style, neckline, collars, cuffs, waistline, length, material, lining, and so much more.

I was about to start making more lists when I decided to treat this as a Project on ‘Girl’. Rather than flipping from one aspect of this unexpected but really concentrated interest in femininity, I should be thorough. I was buzzing with excitement.

Suddenly, I had found something to be enthusiastic about. And I wanted more. Who to ask for help?

Another AP-500 story - and feedback is good but borrowing (& acknowledging) is better. Thanks AP

“Where’s my panties?”

Or was it 'Wears my panties!" Certainly not. I wouldn't dare - they wouldn't fit anyway.

An AP-500 Introductory

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“Where’s my panties?” was my question. A perfectly normal question in the average household.

“The left hand pile, next to mine. It’s pretty obvious, your’s are more colourful and mostly satin. Mine are mostly cotton.

A less usual answer – perhaps from sisters, perhaps, er, very close friends. Not this time.

“Jeffrey, darling …”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why do you like panties so much. You’ve got more pairs than me. And so much more expensive than mine too.”

“I save money on not having to buy quantities of bras.”

“Huh, If you needed them, by golly, you’d understand why I have to have a reasonable variety. Most shops don’t talk about it but the average woman changes size at, erm, times of the month. So, I have all my bras in two sizes. Sometimes three actually. You’d never understand.”

“I promise you dear, that if I had to I’d do my best to cope. But as things stand, and don’t giggle because one particular item is, so to speak, standing at the moment -, as things stand – I repeat I’m really not interested in more than panties.”

“Exactly what do you mean.”

“I like panties. Actually I love panties. I like their feel, texture, the snugness and the way they wrap and the way my trousers slide so nicely. But I don’t need anything else. I don’t need bras. I really don’t have the figure for it. And I don’t want to wear dresses, skirts, anything else. Just panties. Thank you.”

“But y’know, I’m thinking I’d like to see you wearing more of the satins and silks that you enjoy.”

“Really, what brought on that particular suggestion.”

“Well, I too like the feelings that materials like that give me. Although stockings are a particular favourite of mine. The way the taut material strains and stretches. I like that a lot. And I like the way you look at my legs all sleek and shiny. And you do, don’t you?”

“I can’t deny that I like the look of your legs. But that doesn’t make me want to put on stockings or whatever. And I’d have to shave my legs, wouldn’t I?”

“So you have done some thinking on the subject, hmm?”

“Oops, your legal mind detects my unspoken confession. Alright, yes I have wondered. But that’s all.”

“Well, let’s bite the bullet. Here’s a suspender belt, and it goes round you like this. !!!!!!

“What!!!” I never agreed.”

“Hush, not a word. You’ve had long enough admiring panties and being enthusiastic about them. If the feel of satin and silk as underwear is your thing. Then here’s some more thing to experience. Now sit down, and I’ll roll this stocking up your mildly hairy leg.”

“See, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? What d’y’think.”

“It is very …. different, isn’t it?”

“Honey, I can’t really answer that well. I wear stockings often enough not to really notice. But, probably, yes. It is different. I like it. What about you? Like it? Yes?”

This is in a series of 500 word story-starters - if anyone wants to continue - please do with with my best wishes.

"You'll look like Angela - in a mirror!"

How often does something REALLY unexpected happen in the average life. Once? Twice? Never?

"It's just you copying what Angela does - as if in a mirror. You've got to be a look-alike, y'know. You can do it," Ashya insisted.

An AP-500 story

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My Dad enjoys everything. Even making time for me when I’ve got problems.

Mum is different. She does all the feeding, looking after, all the expected mum-stuff but I don’t think she enjoys it much. I did overhear once her tearful about ‘if only ..’ but ……

Perhaps there’s something missing in her life. I do my best but I’m only me – I don’t do a lot excellently. I’m reasonably above-average at stuff but ‘Super-Kid’ - I know I’m not. I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen, five foot six, solid rather than skinny. I enjoy most lessons, do a bit with various sports, but I have joined the theatre-club – at my backstage lighting desk.

I have my hobbies, interests, ‘things-I-like-to-do’. And I do like to do things thoroughly. Sometimes this can be a mistake.

“Roger…… could you spare a moment” the director’s shout echoed through the backstage.

“It’s just an experiment – first, just show Jane how to work t’lights. If this goes ahead, she’ll need to run the last act for about 7 minutes.”

“What!”

“Fret not, chummy. Just a thing in my head. You’ll be onstage for about 4 minutes - 90 seconds to get on and off. Easy.” Ashya started explaining.

My expression went from white to scarlet to …. most colours of the rainbow. I was furious, embarrassed, scared, excited, wondering and really nervous. “You want me onstage in a dress acting as the mirror for Jane?”

“Zactly so. I’ve planned a routine that’ll stun everyone if it works. Just f’ntastic. Just y’wait and see.” Everyone finds it hard to resist an excited Ashya. Five foot three, skinny as a bone with frizzy blonde hair.

After much discussion, Ashya insisted on coming home with me to ask my mum for her help …… in dressing me as a girl. I had insisted that I wasn’t going to do it unless I looked at least adequate. I’d been persuaded that the only choice was me as nobody else even faintly matched Jane in height and shape.

My mum was so far beyond disbelief that it was almost funny. Then gradually I could see her coming round to the idea of helping out. Then she became enthusiastic.

It took time. But in the end, a few days later, I had to agree that they had made me look sufficiently similar to Angela as we stood together. Mum said ‘why tell him until we’ve done a test-run.’ And we looked ‘f’ntastic’. My Dad couldn’t tell the difference. He’d been away and when we showed him. F’ntastic.

But I now loved everything about it. From being an out-of-sight null-nerd – I was now a fan of ….. well everything. I loved the silky sleek undies and even the corset(!) that matched what Angela wore [the mirror-routine included removing the dress!]. I loved the feel of it instead of jeans. I loved the dress, the lipstick, perfume, silk, satin. Everything.

And mum loved having a daughter. She’d bought lots of clothes!!! For Rosa – for me!

Another 500-word story to borrow, build on, expand (and acknowledge please). AP

Alexandra’s Leaving

This was triggered by Leonard Cohen’s song. There are overtones of The Beatles’ She’s leaving home’.

Another AP-500. Well, first a whole bunch of AP-500 ‘starters’ for other people …. Then I write a couple of follow-ons myself. Now another few ‘500-worders’ to come.

Alexandra leant across the bed to kiss her mother. Gentle as a feather so as not to wake her. As she turned to leave, her hand brushed for a last time across the fold of satin nightdress peeping out from under the bedclothes.

It was satin that first attracted Alexandra. The feel, the touch, the smoothness, the pleasure. Other materials were almost as good. Silk especially. Jersey too, with the way it clung to the curve of leg and hip and body. That first time of nylon sliding on shaven leg. Wow.

Then that first bra. Like almost everyone else except the most tomboy tomboy – there was as yet no need for Alexandra to need a bra. But the desire was there. The acceptance of that ultra-feminine only-for-females garment. It felt so good.

As time passed, as she grew from child to tween to teen, Alexandra grew more skilled at all the behaviours and attitudes that made girls different from boys. Or rather, made the typical girl different from the typical boy. Or almost every girl from almost every boy.

Alexandra knew all the hurtful words, all the nasty unkindnesses that some people launched at others. Usually, the majority bullying the minority. But many a minority now had a loud, shouty voice which could even outweigh the all-too-silent majority.

Even by the age of ten, Alexandra knew some of the minority boxes she ticked. Redhead. Short, Clever, Skinny, Divorced-Parents, Poor, Bus-User.

By her mid-teens, other terms had begun to stick. Tomboy. Lesbian. Cold. Stand-offish.

Some of the ugly-labels she accepted. Lesbian and Tomboy especially. Mostly because she wasn’t either of those – but ….. the wrong label was strangely satisfying to her./

Time passed. Alexandra made friends – slowly but good quality. A bit like her wardrobe.

Alexandra was very careful about who knew about her. Secrecy is a vital lesson for some – especially for members of persecuted or abused minorities. And as Benjamin Franklin said ‘secrets are only kept if just three people know and two of them are dead!’

Gradually more people knew – Alexandra’s hairdresser. The staff at several local shops. Her best friends of course. But Alexandra worried who else might know.

Nothing was ever said by those most important to her. Coldness grew like an emotional cancer. Sucking the life out of her new-found determination to be happy. To be the person inside. She giggled at the old rhyme ‘put the inside skinside, make the outside herside’.

As she left the house, the girl sang gently to herself the words she’d adapted for the new, cold, grey dawn. “As someone long prepared for each occasion, in full command of every plan that you have wrecked. Here’s one more to fit the music – do not hide behind the cause and your effect. So, say goodbye to Alexandra leaving, say goodbye to Alexandra lost. “

Awaking to the fading waft of unfamiliar perfume - she did not know what had gone. But she knew the house was empty. Would she weep?

Alone – but god-fearing.

Alice sat alone. But she knew she was in the right. How could it be otherwise. Her church, priest, bible and her god damned 'people like them'. No son of hers .... !!!

An AP-500 story

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Alice remembered the morning well. Her shock as she returned early from praying with her Christian friends. What she had seen as she came through the door. Her fifteen-year-old son in a dress, in a DRESS!!!!

It took only seconds for the shock to turn into outrage.

“Get that thing off.”

While the child stripped off the dress to reveal the panties, bra and tights beneath – Alice’s rage grew. Alice snatched a throw as a coverall, then hesitated before her righteous rage could erupt.

“Boys don’t wear dresses. It’s wrong. You’re my son – not my girl – or a sissy. Even though you look more like a girl than a hunk like your Dad. That doesn’t make you a girl. You are a male. Your gender is what’s between your legs. I’ve seen it. The doctors saw it when you were born. You know it makes you male.”

“It doesn’t make me male. It LABELS me as male.”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me. God says you’re male. You are a liar if you deny that you are a male. You disobey and disrespect your parents if you deny you are male. You are a thief by spending money on improper clothes. Each commandment shows, proves and is testimony that what you are doing denies God. How you have become possessed of demons. That you are on your way to hell for your disgusting thoughts and irresponsible actions.”

“You are no child of mine. I will let you sleep here tonight. In the morning I want you to recant from this awful pretence or to get out of my sight forever. To confess that you are a lying deviant sinner. Provided you do this and with proper reverence and intent then I will allow you to stay. But no more of this disgustingness. I shall be clear as to what I think of what you are doing. I won’t even ask if you’ve done it before – you couldn’t look as you do without some practice. And when I find out that you’ve had any help. That you’ve shown this perversion to others, let them beware."

“And now I’ll wait while you strip and put on your proper clothes. Then we’ll get rid of anything else you’ve hidden. It’s going on the bonfire. Then I’ll go to the priest and confess my own sin for you behaving like this. Pretending to be a girl. Wanting, god be merciful, to be a girl. Rejecting your birthright. How can I stand up as a true Christian and accept such heathen, atheistic practices. You are wrong and God will strike you down lower than the least worthy scum in hell."

Alice came back from her excellent god-fearing church. With the complete endorsement of the priest to ‘teach the boy the right way to behave, to reject vileness’. She could feel the power of righteousness coursing hotly in her veins.

The house felt very empty.

Alice sat alone. Should it hurt so much to be in the right?

Another 500-word story (basic text) for anyone to extend, borrow, adapt as they see fit. This one is a bit darker!

But the Priest wears a Dress!

Is this fair - when they (mostly) spout bible verses at us who WANT to wear a dress.

This is an Alys-500 for anyone to amend, borrow, extend

Why?
Why do ‘They’ cherry-pick just some Biblical laws to obey or ignore.
Why do ‘They’ mistreat and abuse those who choose some different Biblical laws?
How can it be that there’s a choice in which laws to obey?

But ‘they’ do make choices. They SAY they obey the 10 commandments – seen any images recently; told any lies; ‘borrowed’ anything from work; worked on a Sunday. And what about .., Eaten a forbidden prawn? Forgotten the tassels on your clothes? Been to church even though you wear glasses or have had a vasectomy? Ladies, do you wear trousers? It’s too easy to be caught out.

Here’s the Ten – trimmed a little

1 You shall have no other gods before Me….
2 You shall make no image, or any likeness of anything on earth, in sky or water; …..
you shall not bow down to them nor serve them;
3 You shall not take the name of God in vain ie don’t swear or blaspheme;
4 Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath in it you shall do no work:
5 Honor your father and your mother,
6 You shall not murder; 7 … commit adultery; 8 … steal; 9 … bear false witness [lie]; 10 … covet … anything that is your neighbor's.”

Time after time, society sets up rules which contradict some of these god-given laws. So, who is in the right?

Let’s look at one law which concerns transgressors(pun) and readers here :.

Bible-law #410 - a man shall not wear women’s clothing
Man-Law #3786.I-a-ii All priests in the Christian church shall wear a floor-length embroidered costume and definitely not call it any girly-word like dress, robe, gown or frock. And their colours shall be green, purple, yellow, white, red not the black, brown, grey, drab demanded of normal men.

Looking up in a few Catholic, Orthodox and CoE sites … to quote ‘the vestments are a uniform of sacred authority meant to obliterate the priest’s personality. The vestments should be regal in dignity, simplicity and style to dignify the office of the priest. The priest should dress like a king’.

For me, this does not actually resolve the issue. Should a question be ‘why is it regal to wear what appears to be a dress? Why do bishops and some priests wear clothing, material and embroidery more befitting a Queen?’

Very confusing. The Bible is explicit about ‘men shall not dress as women’ – and yet priests do so deliberately with approval. No godly realization that clothing varies from place to place, class to class or period to period.

I’m no priest. I don’t pretend to have a direct line to god who explains everything; no deep knowledge of selecting and interpreting lines in the bible to deliver the message I ‘know’ is right.

For us, it would be wonderful to be in public in a dress – and get that acceptance. Be a symbol of authority! Wow.

Changing my life, what joy. To Joy.

It was the rite time ….. and the rite place. As Annis said, “It’s a kind of magic.”

And another AP-500 story - hooray me.

It may be the difference of a better-chosen title, but some recent stories have hit new heights - 1000 hits in a day; 100+ kudos too. But still nobody has been triggered to take one of my offerings to adapt, grow, build or whatever (as far as I know). Oh well. maybe sometime soon what with the suggestion by Angela Rasch and others for MORE STORIES.

---

Magic isn’t real. I knew. Miracles maybe – and they’re a sort of magic. And it’s not true what they say about God – well one of the things they say. That God never makes mistakes. How can that be true?

If God is responsible for ‘everything’ – then he’s responsible for the mistakes too. The boy with the cleft palate. The girl with no arms. The deaf, the blind, the ones with heart problems or brain damage. If, to take one example, there are about 700 babies for every one with a cleft palate – does God just not notice the 700th one? Or is it some cunning arrangement between him and Satan? I don’t know and despite what they say, the priests and know-alls don’t know.

So, you get talking with people and sometimes you open up in ways you never expected. And, more rarely, they fit with you and they know what you’re talking about and they know what to tell you and what advice. And you can give back too.

I had met Annis, Annis Thilykos, in Greenwich near the Cutty Sark. A blind date , in effect, as there was a group of six of us and there were two couples and us singletons. We clicked instantly. We liked the same things, hated the same things, thought the same about the guys who passed by, and the girls. It was wonderful. Then she asked the big question. Albeit very indirectly.

“You’re really good at this. For a girl, you really know how boys think. Did you have a big brother you hung out with – and you learned from him?”

“I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear. I’m the brother. I learnt like all the boys do.”

“Wow, difficult to believe – especially with that glossy long hair. How do you get it so right about the girls?”

“Let’s say I’m really interested in girls.”

“Do I detect a certain emphasis there?”

“Wh.. what d’y mean?”

“That you have an interest in the girls but not in the usual boy style. Y’not wanting to cuddle, kiss, fondle and get into their panties …. Your vibes aren’t ‘Me, boy – want sex’.”

I blushed. I stammered. I demonstrated maximum-unboyness. And Annis' eyes opened wide.

“That’s it – isn’t it. You’re not really a boy! Now I can see.” She gestured weirdly with her hands “And your true name is Rosalie. Unusual, but not the strangest!”

“How did you guess that?"

“First off, nothing I say is a guess. I have ways of knowing things – and that’s an example. Yes?”

She looked sideways at me – her hands flickered as if knotting and unknotting unseen strings. “You’re coming with me tonight. Equinox, full moon – and 13 women. But let’s just walk and look – learn what really attracts you. What you really want to be.”

We wandered and wondered. I spoke of loving silks, satins, velvet and fur. Of glowing colours.

It’s midnight – and I’m promised that after the pain I’ll be Rosalie. Joy. Maybe Rosalie Joy?! Please?

Annis Thilykos approximately translates to Female Wisdom

Cross-Over Day at school

Cross-Over Day is a fertile place for real change. Children change at such a rate from their first days that magic-type changes can seem not that unusual. Some changes just have to happen. Even without magic.

An AP-500 story

---

I wanted a change. I didn’t dislike me – but I felt no vim, no eagerness. I was …. uninteresting – even to myself.

So – Cross-Over Day. I could be like many of the common herd and not bother. Or I could take a risk. But it was only two years until the end of school – two Cross-Over Days where I could be bold and different without any repercussion. What was I going to do?

I thought about the opposite of bookish, skinny, short-haired boy; each adjective one by one. Boy – Girl!! That decision surprised me but made the next choices more obvious. Bookish – Stupid. Skinny – Curvaceous. Short-haired – Long-haired. I thought about other words that could apply and wondered at how I had become trapped within my willingness to hide from ‘them’. Withdrawn – Outgoing; Cautious – Open; Grey - Colourful.

I was going to have to be a stupid, curvaceous, long blonde, smiling, bouncy …. a bimbo. How dreadful.

But in a weird way – the amount of change I was going to have to do to myself actually felt exciting. An opportunity. I wondered if I could get help from anybody. But I didn’t really feel that I had any friends to ask. Were there any good-enough friends? Any? I sat back and thought awhile.

Would Emily help. We had done a few things together. We were both in the hideaway below-the-radar nerd group. I could at least ask.

Amazing.

Emily had been thinking the same. She said ‘I’m tired of being me. I’m tired of avoiding the haters by being flat and dull and drab. I want a change as much as you. As you say -– bold, colourful, enthusiastic. Everything I’m not.“

Well, we talked for hours about breaking out of our self-imposed shells. Eventually, Emily said, “We’re going to have to get my sister involved. She works for the local theatre and’s bound to have some ideas on camouflage, disguise and costume”

“I think that sounds like ‘let’s take a deep breath and, um, see what happens’.”

“Are you up for it. Really up for this. We’re taking a bit of a risk and ….. y’know, it could go wrong.”

“Oh bollo. It’s Cross-Over Day. As long as we stand up for ourselves and are ready with a few prepared witticisms for the stupids, then we’ll be ok.”

“Are we going to tell the parent-units? Or anyone at school?”

“Probably. And no. Though we could deliver a letter to our class-teacher as a backup.”

“Agreed. So, we need to plan and start getting comfortable as Bimbi.”

“Em – like how?”

“Going to town, over in Borchester. You need everything – in case you’re so blonde you’ve forgotten – that means – shoes two, pop-sox pack, panties pack, cami, bra, fillers, blouses two, skirts two and maybe a dress. Some makeup and a wig. Only set you back a couple of hundred? Are you still up for it?”

I considered the new aspect of cost. Choice – to change or go dull-drab-grey forever. Decision .

“Yes.”

An AP 500 word story (basic text) for anyone to adapt, rewrite or build on. Thanks

Desperately seeking Susie

I had never guessed what sort of a girl I was needing. But Susie was the one. Despite her, um, issues.

An AP-500 to be borrowed or adapted …...

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I saw her late on a Friday. Gorgeous, long black hair, lovely legs sheathed in shimmering nylon. Her breasts like those admired in the rather colourful sections of the Bible such as the Song of Solomon…” Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle which feed among the lilies”.

She was not beautiful exactly. But she attracted me like a magnet. I could not get her out of my memory. She walked away down Chiswick High Street towards the Church.

I caught glimpses of her over the next weeks. One time, I was sort-of following her and she looked up and locked eyes with me. I was caught. She knew I was keen on her and that I wanted her. And she winked at me. She knew that I was, if not stalking, at least watching out for her.

And I couldn’t stop.

Gradually, by seeing where she was going and where she came from, I learnt more. Was I surprised to find a company making and selling up-market lingerie?

Of course she noticed me. It wasn’t stalking – not in a grubby, furtive way ………. . Maybe to a lot of people what I was doing was stalking. But I wasn’t doing anything ugly or vile, let alone abusive, I told myself.

It was months later that, pure fluke, I did get close enough to find out more about her. I'd gone into a bar I’d never noticed. She was talking with a group of three other girls.

I, subtly, who am I kidding, went nearer.

At a table behind her, I enjoyed the view. I guess I was pretty obvious. All four, then later six, of them were pretty or attractive or downright gorgeous. But it was my girl that I watched. After a while, once they knew that I knew they were watching me watching them – is that getting a bit complicated? - they began to play for their audience. And I lapped it up.

After a while, she came towards me. Slinky, hips swaying like a dancer, her red jersey dress clinging like a second skin – no evidence of underwear.

“Hey there, honey. Ma’ names Susie. D’y walk on the wildside?” To my horror and wonder and instant pleasure she stroked her hand across the front of my trousers. Then she took my hand and did the same. And my fingers touched something hard – and not usual on a woman.

And from that moment on – I was walking that wildside, her wildside. Eagerly. Devotedly.

Putty in her hands – well not putty everywhere. But my brain was soft and mushy compared to the governing part of my anatomy. That was hard, staring, eager, wanting, wanton.

I had been a sad, tired, bored middle-aged man and I had been seeking for something. And now I had a glimpse of what I had wanted. I’d never realized. Now I was an addict. And Susie was exactly what I had been seeking. Desperately.

Hands …… stroking …….. wonderfully!

-------------------------------
And another AP-500 story

I LOVE panties.

Eventually, you want more - and sometimes there's people to hinder, sometimes they help.
This an Alys-500 story with exactly 500 words of text. Anyone can take this and grow it; acknowledgment would be kind and polite.

---

I’d been wearing panties for a while. My younger sister Ellie had noticed once and then deliberately tried to catch me out – too many times successfully. But she kept quiet about it. And last birthday informed me that I had to go to town with her to carry the shopping. Somehow, ha, I had been force-helped to buy three sets of bra and panty and extra panties too for myself. Tucked away at the back of her chest-of-drawers.

My older sister Tanya didn’t know, I think. My mother obviously didn’t know nor did my dad.

I was 17, not a macho-monster. I had some muscle from the judo I was still doing after 6 years. My name’s Richard Roden Dale-Dalton. For rather obvious reasons I got nicknamed R2D2 then Robot then, after a few years someone invented StarBore. I still think that was unfair – and hurtful.

But now I had access to those pretties – life became both more wonderful and much less comfortable. How? You ask.

It was wonderful to be able to wear the panties often and the bra as often as possible. But the wonderfulness came with the much greater risk of discovery.

As a sort of joke to myself, I called my girl-part Roberta. Close to ‘robot’ – I knew that. But I was happy with the choice. It’s one of the few things a new-girl really has a choice about – what name to adopt.

I’d gradually learnt some of the jargon about trans, cross-dressing, and all that. Most important I’d learnt ‘There were others like me’. And I’d learnt that a key to being accepted was being comfortable with who I was.

Somewhere I’d read ‘Passing takes Confidence’ and as I approached time to go to college, I began planning. What would I feel most comfortable wearing when I went out … yes, I had told myself WHEN not IF.

I had started growing my hair – and looking after it a bit – maybe not as much effort as Tanya or Ellie – but better than most boys ever did. I looked at clothes on the web, and girl-watched while out.

The calendar rolled towards September. I would be in a flat with 2 other first-years, separate rooms, in a quiet cul-de-sac. I would set myself up as metrosexual ambivalent androgynous. It was much more possible now as we approached the year 2000.

I was NOT expecting my mum to ask ‘When I post you anything will it be to you or your sister Roberta’.

Speechless – oh no – far beyond that. Stunned, Shocked and Gasping.

“I’m your mum. I used to have eyes in the back of my head. Did you truly think I didn’t know. I am a bit sad I’ve never got to meet you properly. Now that you’re getting over the shock – d’y need any help. What sort of clothes you need to take, for example.

I heard a giggle. Tanya said ‘Can I help – please?”

And another, from Ellie. “You need more than just panties.”

I have to hope.

What were Pandora’s words when all that was left was Hope. ‘Please – No’ or ‘Thank you – Yes’.

An AP-500 story

---

I just have to hope that the nasty stories in the media aren’t true. I don’t want them to be true. I want to believe that people are kind and nice and generous. That Christians don’t pick and choose the rules they want to obey. But my father, the Senior of the local church …… I’m beginning to see that hell is on earth. And my father (I never thought of him as Dad) always called on his strange sounding God ‘Gaahd will do this, that or other nastiness because YOU deserve it’.

“Gaahd is angry with Man. Gaahd is angry with you. Gaahd knows how vile you are. Gaahd knows that you are a failure forever. Like every vermin that has crawled from the womb since the beginning – all carry the mark of sin. Sin by Eve. Sin by Adam. Sin by Cain. Sin by all the elders of Israel. Sin all the way to Jaysus Christ. Sin by everyone since Jaysus unless they prove their fitness and their belief since the day of their baptism. No fault. No favour. No distrust or disrespect of Gaahd. Gaahd knows the heart of every man, woman and child. Gaahd tells Man what to do. Obedience. Total Obedience. Man tells Woman what to do. Woman serves Man in everything. That is why Man is the Ruler in the House. The symbol of manliness is a sign from Gaahd.”

Exactly how would this monster react when he found that I wanted, beyond anything else in my soul, to be ‘woman’. No longer ‘man’ because I hated the thing between my legs. I hated him as an example of ‘man’ almost more. I didn’t hate God or even Gaahd. I didn’t believe that either existed.

I didn’t believe in anything that he tried to teach me. Everything he said sounded wrong or even vile. In later days, I knew everything he did was Abuse. He had Power and he used it to hurt. Emotional abuse; psychological abuse and more. I never saw him hit anybody but I saw many cower at his words.

So, I stayed on at school to do my homework using the need for the library as my excuse. I worked lots of jobs with the excuse that only variety would prove my usefulness and widen my range of skills.

But, I’m getting ready to run. I’ve got my bag packed and tucked away in a friend’s backyard shed. I’ve saved quite a lot of money unbeknown to him. And I have to run in a way that he’ll never track me down.

I’ve been buying new clothes, new everything.

I have to hope that he says ‘My boy’s gone. Five foot five, ten stone, short blonde hair. Here’s a photo.”

I hope they won’t be looking for a girl - five foot seven in heels, nine stone now (behind a thick jersey) and with brown hair. I hope he won’t find me.

And I hope the bad stories aren’t true.

Another 500-word story for adapting, expanding etc (with proper attribution) AP

I love Silk and Satin and, and, and, and

Title changed from 'Material Wealth'.
I love clothes – not just dresses and underwear. Therefore the raw material is interesting too. Lace & Leather, Silk & Satin and the rest. Enticing. Intoxicating.

An AP-500 story

---

What an opportunity. I’d wanted a place of my own for years; good location with nearby parking and significant footfall. I had all the ideas. I had experience in lots of shops. I just wanted a place to begin my dream.

But THIS wasn’t MY dream! Auntie had left her shop to me. I don’t know why. It wasn’t the sort of shop for me. My business plan was a top-end interior decoration shop, offering the best of international style, furnishings, liaison with other ‘top’ bath and kitchen suppliers. A complete service from carpets to curtains, floor to ceiling.

Not this – not a clothes shop. Selling dresses to women. Daft. The whole idea was stupid. But tempting maybe. An existing clientbase with, apparently, enormous goodwill at a fantastic location.

Time to assess, investigate, learn. Why throw away something that’s up and running because I wanted something of my own? I’d seen so many try and fail. This was a runner – and it was making a good profit.

So, to Craydon. The site was even better than I’d been told. The place was busy and buzzing. I wandered in to suss out the staff and ambience.

I’d been in there just a few minutes when one of them came up and asked ‘Do you need help? Are you looking for something special for yourself?”

What did she mean? ‘Something for myself’. I’m six foot 3; an ex-rugby player in my mid-thirties. I went all aggressive “I think not. ‘something for myself?! ….. In a woman’s dress shop!’. Do you say that to any man who comes in here. What if you said that to a man with his wife nearby.”

The lass, Betriz, all of mid-twenties, responded vigorously. “That’d be silly. No – I don’t say that to any typical man – but you were looking at the clothes differently than the typical accompanying husband. I’m sorry if I made a mistake.”

“A mistake, yes. But I was looking differently because I’m the new owner.

“Oh well, it’s not even Monday. But if that was a mistake, then at least it was a big one.” She grinned. “At least now I know that sir-boss is not a tranny.”

She was facing away so didn’t see my reaction.

Later in the day, we had a pause while I was shown the material-store. I was fascinated.

So many colours. So many textures. So much variety. I found a list of materials, sadly without useful descriptions. Brocade – I had twenty waistcoats. Silk and Satin – those I knew. Taffeta – that I’d never experienced. Velvet – that was nice, But from history I knew of Barathea, Bombazine, Calico, Chenille, Chiffon, Chintz, Corduroy, Crepe, Damask, Droguet, Duck and so many more. Lame, Samite, Organza and Organdie, Toile and Tulle.

“Is sir-boss interested? Does sir-boss want the shop?”

This was wealth – material wealth. And all mine.

“Yes. Sir-boss is interested. I’ll need to learn about everything. Including, what did’y call them…. Trannys?””

Her eyebrows rose! “Something for yourself, sir-boss? she murmured.

---------------------
Not many 500-word stories currently in progress. I guess even fewer of them are getting a thrid-party interested!

I’m just a girl!

"I know I used to be a freak. That's what you called me. But I’m not any more. I’m just a girl." I argued.

An AP-500 story.

---

“What d’you mean – used to be a freak”, screamed my Dad.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy, back when I tried to be a boy!” He tried to hit me but I stepped back just in time.

“You ugly little guttersnipe. You microscopic pile of piss and pus. You gobshite. Birthing you killed your mother and you’ll be the death o’me.“

Tangent : There were times I had admired his control of English insult. But rather than his usually equally drunk opponent-friends at the pub, this time it was aimed at me. The tough ex-miner was more than a foot taller then me. Six foot four to my five foot three. With years of expenditure on his beer-belly, he weighed well over twice what I did. Eighteen stone to my eight.

Bigger, faster, nastier. I was more intelligent and nippier. But those times when he was angry and he succeeded in getting me within reach – then speed and intelligence were not enough.

Abuse – I could give lessons.
Physical abuse – not every day but so very often. And almost always without visible bruising. Arm-twisting, Chinese-burns, nipple-twisting, hair-hauling (no mere girly hair-pulling for him). This was dragging me around the house by my hair. Ouch. Sometimes he laughed if I screamed.
Financial abuse – even Christmas or birthday gifts from uncles or whatever, if any, were taken and sold.
Emotional – don’t make me laugh – or cry. I did enough of that.
Sexual abuse - he never went that far.
Neglect - although I was too often the centre of his attention.
Abandonment - I almost wished for it.

So, back to real-time without the backstory – Isn’t Christmas FUN!?

“Come ‘ere yer little bastard. I’ll teach you about being a freak. Pretendin' t’ be a girl. No way. Not in my house. Gotta be wrong that. Boys don’t change into girls. No way. C’m ‘ere, y’bastid.”

Again I ducked and wriggled away from his drink-blasted grasp. “Dad, you’re pissed and you’re being thick. How is it that you can’t see how little like you I am. And how everything I do and how I behave is exactly how Mum used to be. I’m that much of a girl – except for this useless, ugly piece of flesh between my legs.”

“Dad – I’m a girl. Look at these things on my chest. On a girl, they’re called breasts.” And I pulled my shirt open. Why was I trying logic against alcohol.

The Beast roared and tried to reach me. Was he hoping to rip my breasts from me. Or was he wanting to ‘teach me how to f**k like a woman if that was what I was pretending to be’.

I knew so many ugly stories. Some might be true. Some were just stories. Some were anecdotes. Some were anecdata (stories repeated so often that they became ‘real’ and used as data), some were lies.

He stumbled and fell. Hitting his head hard on the wood-stove corner. Blood. So much blood.

What should I do? What was most important?
-----------------
Maybe the last AP-500 of 2018. I'm thinking I might try and do a story on some of the TG elements I haven't done much of!?
AP

It's time – time to grow a pair!

There’s two meanings here – one for boys … get a pair of macho-type balls OR … grow some breasts.

This is an Alys-500 story for anyone to borrow and grow

---

There’s two meanings here – one for boys … get a pair of macho-type balls OR … grow some breasts.

I want BOTH. I’m going to stay male, active so to speak with girls AND I want to dress in the sort of clothes I enjoy and prefer.
Has your stuttering brain caught up yet?

Being a modern boy is SO unfair. I can’t wear anything pretty, anything soft, anything pastel, anything that girls can wear is somehow forbidden to me.

But if you really want something – then, eventually, you have to get on with the getting. Sitting at home just ‘wanting’ something … well, nothing happens does it?

Sitting at home, wearing what I wish, the panties, bra, slip, dress, garter-belt, stockings of course, 2 inch heels, lipstick and, y’know, all the pretty things (and a small spray of Lovely-Girl’. That’s as far as I go. I don’t go out, I just wander the house ….
Oh fuff. I’m going to go out. I want to go out. I SHALL go out. I’m in the hallway – check, check, check, is anything amiss?

OKAY ...... To the door, keys, purse.
OKAY ...... To the car, careful with the heels and away.
OKAY ...... To the shopping-centre, no, veer right into the high street. There’s some shops I want to try.

I went past the Nailbar – later for you. Past the hairdressers, later once I was dressed to my new desired level of satisfaction. M&S – to buy new panties and bra for daily use. The girl there was very matter of fact, she asked if I knew my size. Then she added, the training course I’ve just been on reminded me to ask if you were fitted at the correct time of the month since so many women have a different size at times.

I think my expression gave me away. She smiled – but some don’t worry about that. You’re a 38 C maybe? I can sell you something pretty.

I strolled away, the happy possessor of a bag full of pretty undies and two lovely satin-type blouses, one in dark red with black trim (to match one set) and the other in mid-blue with green trim (nothing to match – just my favourite colours).

Then to the dress shop. This was a high street that still had such. Sadly, not a corseterie, nor a bridal-shop nor any variety of the very specialist shops to be found in a much larger town. But they had clothes that suited me – and they were pleasingly tolerant.

The owner was called Maddie. We had talked a few times and she knew quite enough about clubs and a rather unusual group called the BigSisters. I was due to go on one of their weekend events soon. Maddie had helped me choose a lovely evening frock for their Saturday night.

“You’re going to have to get a better pair for this dress, y’know.”

“How big, I’m usually C.”

“Then at least D. Yes-no, darling?”

“eerrgh, another new bra, eh? D, golly.”

It’s just wonderful! I had no idea!

I’m 24 and I’ve never worn anything but ordinary boring bloke clothes. Until today.

An AP-500 story.

---

It was a punishment-blackmail-manipulation-bet-dare sort of thing. Mostly I was in the wrong - alright totally. I made a typical bloke remark. ‘Why does it take girls so long to get ready? I know there’s more clothes, more layers and so on. But does it really take hours?”

I was learning. I was learning how much effort was required; and learning how stupid I had been. Julya, Jackie, Vianne and Esther were having too much fun with this.

“Well, you’ve got your skin clean enough.” Jackie waved a cotton-bud at me that no longer was smeared with grease.

I’d been smeared with hair-remover; had my hair styled (fortunately I kept it long); nails shaped and polished; and that was just what they’d done to my body.

I’d been squeezed into a ‘easy-form’ body-shaper(!) which meant I didn’t have an actual bra – just all the effect with extra squeezing. And some large fillet-shapers so I had breasts – or at least a startling facsimile. They completely changed my viewline – I had this double-curve blocking my view downwards – weird.

Then there were the panties. Sleek, slick, shiny, sheer, lovely. Not a sensation I had ever experienced. But it was a sensation that was very …. Nice. No, not nice; it was something I almost instantly realized I wanted more of. I stroked the panties against my hips.

Julya giggled, “So we like the feel of panties, yes. Join the club.”

It took time. Of course it took time. I just hadn’t been aware. “Am I that typical as a bloke in not knowing how much effort is involved.”

“Oh yes.” Almost a chorus. Then Esther added, “where you’re different is that you’re stupid enough to say so. If you had any intelligence, you’d have said ‘I don’t know why but the results are excellent – or something positive. Idiot.”

“But he’s turning into a pretty idiot,” said Julya.

“Well, he’s been wanting to get into my panties for ages,” murmured Vianne.

“These are yours?”

“Of course not. I bought a new pack. Girls may have a reputation for sharing clothes, but not panties and so on – except in emergencies.”

“So these are my panties?” I couldn’t hide that small smile.

Esther saw it and winked at me and murmured ‘Your very own panties, sweetie.”

“And now, a cami to give you that same satiny, sleek feeling.” And she was right.

“Nearly dressed now. We just have to decide – and you can join in if you want – what is the overall look.”

“Oh no, not overalls. That’d just not be right …..” I pretended to be ultra-girly. Maybe another, but different, mistake.

Vianne did show me a really pretty pink and white romper-suit overally thing – but after that I tried blouses and skirts, long and short, as well as several dresses. There was so much variety. It was exciting.

Then my eye caught what I was told was a pom-pom skirt with stiff petticoats. It felt amazing. I loved it so much.

I liked this.

Another 500-word story (basic text) which people can do things to (provided they attribute properly), Thanks AP

Mother – and daughter too.

Auntie owned a dress-shop. Yes, I know now that’s the introduction to a whole sub-section of transvestite literature. I didn’t know it then. All I knew was that my mum had a sister in faraway Leeds and they rarely met, rarely spoke to each other and in fact mum rarely spoke of Aunt Lily. Perhaps Mum knew that working in a dress shop would be the right thing for me.

An AP-500 starter-story.

---

Out of the blue, Auntie offered me a job. It would be my first time far from home. A new life, new opportunities, new people, new everything. The dress-shop was old-fashioned, like most clients. Away from the city-centre, an area a little neglected. Again – like the clients. But it was a big shop with a full range – from teen to old-lady. From short, to tall, to, um, large.

I learnt quickly. Backstage to start with; learning about sizes, materials, everything. Then into the shop at quiet times where Aunt Lily could watch and help. Soon Auntie decided I was good at the job; needing less watching or helping. I had an eye for sizing and a style of selling that persuaded even the most unwilling of slimsters that, ‘perhaps, not yet such a good fit as would suit them’. Sometimes that way, I sold twice, the target size as well as the correct fitting.

Then I got a big surprise. A lady came in – that was a better label than client or customer. But, she wasn’t a she. Quite clearly not. Her clothes were well-chosen but she didn’t have the walk right. Or the voice! Or the figure|

I took a deep breath, and was about to ask how I could help when Aunt Lily swooped – and swished. “Miss Martin, how nice to see you. How can we help today.”

That was unexpected, I thought to myself as they chatted. I kept my eye on the rest of the shop so I didn’t hear anything they talked about..

Then Aunt Lily opened the pit for me to fall in. “Morgan dear, Miss Martin would like to be shown the new range of dresses from Avventura. If you can be ready as and when, mmm, yes?”

“Right, Miss Martin, if you could walk this way.”

“Oh, honey, if I could walk that way ….. sorry, an old joke.”

I began to relax. Someone with a sense of humour like that was my kind of wo….man. I could feel my brain hesitate and then a ‘click’ of ‘let’s move on – she’s just as much a girl as you’. And as we took those few steps, I got the message - not ‘as I was’ but ‘as I wanted’. And I was in the right place for helping ME.

Somehow, we started chatting and he, she, oops, was very calm and open about wearing women’s clothes and the effort of shopping.

I saw her take a deep breath and ask “Sometime would you help my young daughter to buy some proper teenage clothes, dresses and so on?”

“Your … daughter.”

“Yes, she’s wanting to learn all the girl-stuff. Everything – all the firsts. You remember, the first bra, the first dress, the first makeover, the first quality lingerie too. All the things that make it so wonderful to be female.”

This was new – and interesting. “I can do that. I’d love to help a girl, yes? “I hesitated, questioning, “learn all that.”

“Yes, my girl.” She whispered. “Like me.”

-------------------
Yet another AP-500 story.

Pretty makes me Happy.

One more of my 'starter' stories with just 500-words-of-text.

---

Do we need the other versions of the title – Sleazy, Dopey, Sleepy, Fearful, Nasty & Dick or whatever they might be.

It’s kind of tricky to say EXACTLY what I want. Let’s start with some facts. I’m NOT a dwarf. I’m nearly 6 foot tall, middle-weight, middle-this, middle-that. I feel that I’m relatively normal but that doesn’t mean a lot these days.

Most times I’m part of the ‘silent majority’ but when you look at anybody so-called ‘average’ – when you examine deeper and deeper – nothing hits the average on any graph or listing.
Rugby – a minority sport; Author – very minority; published author – not by this name; meat-eater – probably a majority; married, mildly Christian, white (a majority in some areas) and so on.

White-wise I was told about the ‘onion’ format of many minorities – white – majority in Europe but minority planetwide. Christian-Catholic – majority in the Falls Road in Belfast, minority in Belfast, majority in Ireland, minority in the UK, majority in Europe, minority planetwide and so on. Every, and I mean every, category or group into which you think you fit is from some angle a minority and from another view possibly a majority.

But why do I use the word ‘pretty’ – because ONE of the things I like, love, want, need to do is wear pretty clothes. And I can’t think of a single piece of male clothing that I can call ‘pretty’. Maybe I saw a waistcoat once or twice that was stylish, gorgeous, fabulous, colourful, striking – all words that might attach to ‘pretty’ – but not for the typical male.

But I want more. MORE.

I want to be able to wear anything, everything that is NOT dark, dingy, drab, boring, dull, blue, brown, black, hard, harsh, rough, rugged and oozing testosterone. They just don’t do anything for me – apart from clothe my nakedness. And I could do that with a sack.

But I want a sack that’s pretty. Soft, slick, slidy, smooth silky-satiny-lovely and all the pretty, lovely, luscious materials and colours that have become the preserve of women.

Look at the history of fashion – it never used to be the women who had the fancy, the pretty, the expensive. At their best, they were a mere adjunct of the male. He wore the lace, the feathers, the flounces, the furbelows, the frills and even the fripperies. Some of the more grotesque female costumes – they all had a purpose. To demonstrate the riches and power of the male and enfeeble his adorned popinjay. Thus the hooped bustle, farthingale and exaggerated crinoline. The farthingales of Elizabeth’s court were so large that some lady courtiers had to sit on the rash-mat flooring.

Perhaps that was an unnecessary digression – because women often have had the poor end of the deal. But, so what. NOW, it is the women of the western world who can flaunt and flourish in the widest variety of costume.

Males CAN dress gorgeously – either as a rich eccentric or as a perverted(!!) Crossdresser. That’s me. Pretty please.

Red is for Embarrassment – and my new panties.

It’s so hard to deny when you blush so easily.

An AP-500 story

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“You’ve been wearing my panties again, haven’t you?”

I tried to deny it – but I felt the rush of blood as my cheeks flared beetroot-red.

“Why do you do this, darling? Is it the feel of them in the hand or against your skin? I know I like silks and satins – is that what attracts you? Or is it something deeper – more about the girliness and femininity of it all? ………. I do need you to speak y’know!”

“It’s the whole thing really. I love the material – so different from normal. I love the colours, the patterns. I love the feel of the panties when I put them on and especially the feel of whatever I wear on top.”

“D’you mean you don’t just wear them with jeans and so on. What else of mine have y9ou been wearing. I thought it was just the panties.”

I hesitated.

“Oh, come on, Charles. You can tell I’m not angry. Puzzled, yes. Concerned, maybe. Angry, no. Not unless you lie to me.”

“I’ve tried on your skirt.”

“Just the one, hmmm? And what did it feel like.”

“Well, the long felt so strange as it swirled, if that’s the word, around my legs. Then I tried a short one. But I didn’t like the feel of the tweedy one – too scratchy. Then I found a lined one – and that felt nice.”

“So just panties and skirts, yes.”

“You shouldn’t blush so blindingly, my sweetie. Some more truth please. Concealing stuff is a sort of lie too. So, what else.”

“I tried on a couple of dresses. Those felt much nicer. But they looked wrong on the top.”

“What no boobage for my boy. Can’t allow that.” And her expression had to be a smirk.

“I couldn’t find a way to make it look right. A bra is one thing – but filling it – couldn’t work out how. I did wonder.”

“Wonder?”

“What it felt like to have things like that stuck on your chest.”

“Well, honey. If you’re wondering to that degree then you will be speaking with a professional. I’ll help as much as I can. Dressing-up, that I can just about cope with. Looking at more complex trans-type issues, that we need help with. And wondering about boobs – I can offer some ideas. If you want to try.”

My expression must have been a giveaway.

“So, more than dressing-up. Do you wank before, during or after?”

Eeeeel-Yuk-Whimper I couldn’t believe what mum was asking.. I mumbled, “Sometimes.”

“So, it’s not really about getting a sex thrill? Do you ‘feel you should have been a girl?’ ‘ Are you actually a girl in disguise’ or is it just a love of the clothes?”

“It’s mostly the clothes and the way they feel. But I do wonder about going out. Maybe to go to town en femme.”

“My, you do know some of the jargon. We’d better get you some panties of your own then – as a start.”

“Red, please.”

And she smiled.

This is a 500 word (basic text) story that anyone can build on if they wish. AP

Take your Daughter to Work Day

There’s many a story with this theme. But none with a parent like mine.

An AP-500 story

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My father was long gone. My mother was cruel, nasty, twisted.

She controlled me in ways that I now know were vile and evil. I had no ability to fight against her. She was horrible in ways that should have brought me to the attention of social services within days. I was fed – but I ate nothing that was enjoyable. I went to school – but only because it was a form of baby-sitting.

Evenings were spent either on homework or just sitting staring into space. If she was in, we didn’t talk, converse or discuss. Nothing.

I even found myself inventing homework so I had something to do.

Eventually I found that I had a target in life – to get away. That was the big one – and it took a bolt from the blue to realize that change could happen. Even to the likes of me.

My mother was clever enough not to bruise me – but the abuse was far worse than hidden physical. She abused me emotionally, mentally, socially, financially and dragged me down into the pit of no-respect along with herself.

I was a fairly normal boy – but she didn’t like that. She hated men. She didn’t like women. No, let’s be fair. She was so damaged. Came from such a dysfunctional family that she had gone beyond love. She hated everything. Anything she could do to prove her hatred for the world, the people, the place, the day of the week. She would find some way to spit on the world.

So instead of letting me be a boy. She slowly made me into a copy of herself.

She dressed me up in the most dreadful costume and left me on the street – “I’m a prostitute, so you are too. Earn enough money to get a taxi home – or just stay on the streets.“

I had long blondeish hair in a sort of tired bouffant. I wore (not very) high heels, red; torn fishnet stockings; a short leather skirt; panties, open-front, hers and used and crusty; a bra visible through my thin white blouse. I looked like a tart, young and once fresh but already well-used. I felt dirty.

And everything she did to me was ugly and intentional. And I was so downtrodden and abused that I did as I was told.

A car slowed. I knew not to talk but there was a local sign-language which covered the options and the prices. I was going to have to give a blow-job and earn twenty pounds. I felt worse. But I’d done it before.

Each time I almost hoped that the client would be a police nark. Or sometimes even someone nasty but (I hoped) not quite as vile as my mother.

Gradually I earned the money. I had to guess at what would be enough.

And sometimes it was enough – and the abuse lessened for a while. Other times – not. And I couldn’t run. I didn’t know running was possible. Not then.

It took years.

An AP 500 word (basic text) story for anyone to take onward and rewrite as they see fit.

It's time for a change ….

It's time. And a change was happening. The girl said, "I'm a 'friend' of your son!" But Belle was closer than that to Andrew! And she needs help ..... from his mum.

An AP-500 story.

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“You certainly don’t look like my son. You look really …(long long pause) um, pretty. Are you gay or whatever the modern word is? Speak to me. Don’t’ sit there like a stupid g... boy. Speak to me.”

“Mum. No, sorry, I’d better introduce myself. Hello, Mrs Antrobus, my name’s Belle. I’m a very close friend of your son, Andrew. Very close.”

“Huh.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I need to make myself clear. Andrew has gone away for a while. He wanted you to meet me. Get to know me. And, if you were willing ……er,….. um, um, help me.”

“Help you!”

“That’s exactly it. I need help. I’m trying to. No, I don’t have the words. I need Andrew to help me. He’s better with words but he needs me to feel, erm, whole.

“Sweetie. Are you trying to tell me that you’ve always been here. That you, you and Andrew, are - , um, sorry. I’ll try again. I’ll take a moment. I need to think. This really isn’t a problem that I’ve ever planned on dealing with.”

There was a pause. I sat on the chair opposite, carefully sweeping my skirt to one side as I’d practised. I sat as demurely as I could, knees together, ankles together. I saw mum glance at me.

Eventually.

“So. I heard what you said – about Andrew having ‘gone away’. Would I be right in saying that you’re wanting to take his place. Do I assume that Andrew is not, strictly speaking, my son any longer but that you wish to be my, um, daughter.”

I hadn’t known what reaction I was going to get.

“You need to tell me everything. Everything that’s led to this point. And where you’re going from here. And perhaps where you want US to be going? If it’s a journey that my son is taking, then I won’t let him take it alone. You may be close – but from some of what you say, you’re fresh out of the egg, so to speak. With no quality understanding of the real world. Let alone how to protect yourself. And what sort of mother would I be to cast my child into the hurricane, alone?"

“I promise you, mum, there’s enough out there who can do it – and believe that they are completely smugly right to do it. People who can and do reject their child for being ‘just too different’ than they are able to cope with. It makes you wonder if the 2,000 years of Love thy Neighbour as Thyself has every really gotten into the average semi-Christian soul. You really don’t want to read some of the stories about what happens to some like me.”

Fumblingly the story began to come out. As it did so, and as events were re-told from Belle’s perspective, so Vicky (Mrs Antrobus) saw with a new insight that she too had seen those events and seen the girl – and drawn a veil over so that the girl stayed hidden.

An AP-500 story (ie 500 words of basic text) for any other author to take and build on.

Waisting my life – why I love corsets.

“That’s how it began – Just an injury – then a corset but now …...

You don’t get life-changing injuries in Tennis! Not unless you’re very unlucky. T’was so for me.

An AP-500 story

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Running full-tilt to reach a drop-shot near the net, I scooped it up and kept going into the net. I tried to jump but just caught my foot. I fell – duh – and the handle of the racket speared into my ribs. Did I scream – wow yes.

The ambulance arrived within 15 minutes – pretty quick what with cutbacks and shortages of all sorts. At the hospital, I was triaged, eventually dealt with and patched up. They couldn’t do much for my ribs but said that ‘I would be spending quite some time in physiotherapy’.

Oh how true. My whole back had been twisted by me trying to fall carefully but being caught by the netting. My ribs gradually mended but the back – nope. Mum got investigating and chatting to all sorts of medics, pseudo-medics, quacks, weirdos and some charlatans too – judging by the guff they spouted and the failure to make any difference.

Eventually, she was reading some old Victorian romance where the heroine had fallen from a pony. The governess decreed that after weeks of fainting and vapours, that the girl, Ursula, would need corseting both for her back and to ‘stop her hoydenish ways’. That – I had to look up ‘a girl who behaves boisterously and without satisfactory ladylike conduct’; sometimes a tomboy’.

Soon Mum had spoken with, can you believe there are people called ‘corsetieres’, and the physiotherapist. Both of them said that a corset might be a useful addition to the work I was doing to get fit again.

Can you believe that I, a nineteen year-old boy in the first year at university, was being fitted for a corset. Well, it happened. And, horrible to say, it did make a difference. It made me walk, stand and even sit differently – and some of my back pain went away.

It wasn’t easy wearing a corset. I did accept that my back was getting better but – me, a boy, wearing a corset. Mum tried to persuade me about Georgian and Victorian gentlemen – no thanks.

After a while I got used to it, but I didn’t like the comments. “Girly-boy.” And so on.

Then one day, Archie Dawson called out ‘Yer can’t even make your mind up if you’re a girl or a boy”

That got me thinking. So, I asked my mum if during the holidays and at weekends, I could dress a bit more, um, sensibly, um, so that I don’t look like a mixed-up boy.”

“Sandy, d’you mean you want to try dressing like a girl.”

“Well, sort of, but more as a sort of disguise.”

“I’m not spending money for a whim.”

“But I hate being seen as a boy-in-a-corset!”

“We’ll have to make sure you look real-girly then, yes?”

And it’s wonderful. After just a week, I loved all the sleek, smooth undies and skirts too. And I’ve seen some sundresses I’d love to try. Maybe a bra.

Another AP-500 story to borrow and grow, please

Yes I do like wearing a dress -

Who could possibly object?
Ooops - sorry - two of MY stories with the same name.
An Alys-500 - a story that anyone can build on for a new story...

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I go to the clubs – sometimes. Pubs, Winebars, Quiz Nights, Golf very occasionally, and a couple of others.

Sometimes, it’s me. Sometimes, increasingly often, it’s my sister Catherine who goes. She looks nothing like a Princess although she does have hair about the same. But she doesn’t have the shape – and she doesn’t have the style or the glamor. It’s a lot harder when you’re only a gurl.

We – and it’s kinda deliberate to use that pronoun – we’re both, so to speak, over 50, married with 1 son.

When it’s me at the club – I do sometimes look for people to talk to. Not the simple chit-chat that fills the time while meaning nothing – but the bigger subjects. I avoid the really big issues like Politics or Religion. Love one Another –what a joke.

How about a more complicated example, homosexuality. Even if I still let myself use that particular word -I don’t know any homosexuals well enough to discuss the subject – although I know 2 or 3 who are. I’m not particularly interested in who does what with what to whom – but – aren’t there some questions that can be asked. I don’t like not knowing about an issue that means so much to some people. And I don’t know anyone non-white to discuss discrimination.

Widening that topic and trying to avoid the physical bluntness of ‘Who does What with What to Whom and Where and When and Why’ – how do you talk about Love or Like let alone Lust. I’d like to have been able to turn at least a few female people from friends who are girls into girl-friends or even lovers. Somehow, it hasn’t happened very often.

I can’t think of anyone with whom I can discuss any subject of real import. I know people with very strong feelings on Christianity, abortion, Conservative-Labour, Trump-v-Republicans, Tax, NHS. Good-or-Evil. But available for discussion? NO.

Anyone who cross-dresses or has cross-dressed even as a teen? I know nobody who indulges in any fetish, BDSM or the like. How could I ask? It’s like the bible says -women who are having or recently had their period are banned form the temple – WHO is going to ask?

Strangely, NONE of these are topics that get talked about in the average bloke-gathering – or at least not in my experience.

My particular variety of strangenesses include – I like cooking, I like Gilbert & Sullivan, folk music, Vivaldi and Ragtime. I like waistcoats, I love rugby, I love panties and sleek satin, long hair, mathematical puzzles, Loire wines, photography. Over the years, I’ve avoided video games, computer games, Netflix and all social media.

I’d really like to be able to share more of who I am. I don’t like hiding Katherine. I actually think that Katherine could easily be a better, more interesting person than just-James.

And all I need to do to find out if this is true – is say to my friends -next time, "Hey folks, my names James and I like, love wearing dresses."