A story about the wages of intolerance inspired by a picture created by Gwen Lavyril. (included) The last sentence was inspired by Angel O'Hare.

Darling Dainty Donna
Pic by Gwen Lavyril
Text by Jezzi Belle Stewart
 ©2006 TRP

In all my thirteen years of life, I had never even thought of dressing and acting like a girl, much less done so. Then along came Brandy and I did the head over heels bit. At her insistance, Bobby, me, became Disney Princess Belle for Halloween. As Brandy transformed me, she joked that I was playing both parts, going from the Beast to the Beauty. By the end of the evening, she had made it clear that she much prefered the latter to the former. I didn't really want to be a girl, but I turned out to be good at it - a "natural" as Brandy stated - sooooo ... I became Belle full time. It was worth it.

Surprisingly, there was little hassle at school. I'm sure the fact that Brandy was a black belt and could beat the crap out of boys three times her size had nothing to do with it. At home, my mother was ecstatic; she said she had 13 years of pent up daughter raising she could now indulge in. Even Dad was getting used to "his little princess". The only fly in the ointment was my brother Don. He did not take my change well, and his harassment of me grew more and more savage, and "fairy" and "sissy" were terms of endearment by comparison with some of the language he used. Mom was getting fed up and even Dad rebuked him. However, up to last week, his harassment had remained verbal. Then last Saturday things turned physical. As I started down the stairs, he tripped me, and laughed as I fell.

Fortunately for me, I only received a light ankle sprain and a few bruises. Unfortunately for Don, Dad saw him do it. He tried to pass it off as me tripping because of unfamiliar high heels. When dad didn't buy it, he said - and I can quote because I was listening in - "You're not gonna take the word of that little fairy queen over your real son's are you."

Dad almost hit him but managed to restrain himself; he glared at Don and told him, "I'd rather have a son who has become my daughter but is a good person than a son who looks like a man but doesn't act like one; I don't like bullies and liars, related or not!" and sent him to his room. I don't think I have ever been prouder of my dad. Anyway then he did what he told me later, jokingly, dad's always did in a crisis, he turned the problem over to my mother. She enlisted Brandy. They knew just what to do.

The next evening, Brandy had me dress older and what she called "semi-domme" and led me out onto our front drive. When mom pushed the large, awkward little girl out the front door. I at first didn't recognized her; then it hit and I doubled over laughing (That's when Mom took this pic.)

Isn't Donna's "This can't be happening!" expression priceless? (Brandy told me later that Mom had doused him with valium to keep him docile but aware.) "She" looked just precious and adorable ... and still recognizable as Don ... and we live on a busy street! How unfortunate that just at that moment a carload of his friends drove by ... slowly. Coincidence? Hmmmm. Poor Donny; I almost felt sorry for him. I didn't think things could be much worse for him untill he shifted somewhat and I heard the crinkling-crackling sounds that could only come from plastic panties.