TWINS by Marie Part 2, Saturday

Printer-friendly version

Standing there in my very girlie undies Leticia eyed me from top to bottom with undisguised glee. She really got off on this I thought. Together they slid the pink dress over my head and zipped the back. My chest now sported two points and my butt stuck out in back. Marlene lightly dabbed me with lipstick and that was it. I had turned into the most pliant girl child any parent could ever want.

TWINS Part 2. Saturday
by Marie C.

Marlene and her vampire sidekick stood on the porch stairs, grinning like devils as our oversized machine barreled up the steep driveway spewing dust for a radius of fifty feet. Dad opened the car door and I made a last ditch effort to stave off my fate by grabbing the seat belt. Useless. In the process of resistance my dress hiked up again, this time accompanied by riotous laughter from the daughters of Dracula.

“Too short!” I thought as I wrestled with the hem. “Why does it have to be so darn short?”

Checking his chronometer dad announced to all and no one that I had been deployed precisely at 1200 hours. He gave a clipped salute to the girls and Linda who had just come through the front door. In another thirty seconds he was down the hill and peeling rubber on the blacktop.

Aunt Linda came down the stairs to where I stood rumpled, cowed and vaguely confused, gave me a hug and led me up to lunch. “I think Ted’s making too much out of this, but you look nice anyhow. We’ll pretend it’s Halloween and have fun.” She was doing her best to put me at ease but I wasn’t having any of it in my sulk. And wouldn’t you know, Marlene’s “special group of girls” for Saturday night turned out to be just three - her, Leticia and me. “Real fun,” I mumbled. The sandwiches Linda prepared stuck to my mouth and tasted an awful lot like glue on wet cardboard.

Once done with the meal the junior Black Widow announced that today we were going somewhere real neat. But first we had to change. Linda had retreated to the kitchen in back, now completely out of earshot and I knew now I was being drawn into a new web woven by my conniving relative. Couldn’t she pick on someone else?

To get the afternoon started in the “right way” the schemers had me go up the stairs to her room alone while they loitered behind at a leisurely pace. To my annoyance I found out their purpose was to taunt me because I wasn’t holding my dress down properly to keep people from seeing my bottom. Since my skills at feminine niceties were minimal and the dress was so skimpy they had a riotous old time crowing about my cuuute panties. Underwear humor is really big in these parts.

Once in her room Marlene produced two identical low-necked ankle length empire dresses, both in bright pink. “These are ours,” (meaning hers and mine!) she declared and held one up to my front while I scowled. I looked out the window hoping to see the squirrels but the varmints must have been busy elsewhere. When I turned back my cousin was busy at the bed laying out matching lingerie including padded bras, padded girdles and tan hose. Yuck. They looked expensive and exactly like what mom had in her chest of drawers.

I was jerked out of the fog when Marlene announced “Kirk and I are going to be twins today,” and held a pair of lacy pink briefs up to the window (knickers to you Brits). They looked so flimsy. I could even see light through them unlike my grungy jockey shorts. On the other side of the room Leticia sniggered, teasingly brandishing the bra in my direction.

“Here,” she said shoving the intimates into my hands. I was really surprised because they didn’t weigh anything and seemed to crackle with electricity at my touch. I nearly dropped them, briefly spellbound as I was by their softness. What would it be like to put them on?

Waking up again (I seemed to be drifting a lot) I said “Twins? Nobody said anything about twins. I dowanna be your twin.” I tried to frown menacingly but with little effect. As if to underline my feebleness Marlene wagged her finger in my face unfazed. “Remember what your father said!” I didn’t remember him saying anything about twins though I was sure any complaints would be relegated to the round file.

I stood there mildly fuming while the girls lifted off my cotton dress, hung it up neatly and once more stripped me to the buff. Once on the nice panties felt so cool on my bottom, almost like nothing. That accomplished the conspirators quickly wrapped a padded bra around my chest and had me step into a padded panty girdle. At her vanity I sat gaping as they rolled sheer tan pantyhose up my legs and pushed my feet into low-heeled black pumps. I wanted to protest but in seconds I had forgotten what was on my mind.

What happened the rest of the weekend was more like a pretty pink dream than a punishment as far as I could remember. Back home I knew I had been mad about the upcoming day, embarrassed, even freaking out. Here at Marlene’s I was placid and unemotional. No not unemotional, feeling a pleasant glow.

Standing there in my very girlie undies Leticia eyed me from top to bottom with undisguised glee. She really got off on this I thought. Together they slid the pink dress over my head and zipped the back. My chest now sported two points and my butt stuck out in back. Marlene lightly dabbed me with lipstick and that was it. I had turned into the most pliant girl child any parent could ever want.

While the girls dressed I became aware of my pantyhose, strangely cool on my skin and squeaking against the taffeta dress liner. The tightness exerted by the bra and girdle set held me together and dulled my residual anxiety. I lifted the skirt to keep it from catching on the furniture and for a moment was hypnotized once again, this time by the tips of my black shoes peeping out from under the hem.

Done with dressing Leticia gave us a once-over. “You’re awesome! Twin princesses.” She clapped her hands, mock curtsied and arranged lace shawls over our heads taking care to tell me I was such a “girlie girl.” I felt myself blushing. She had on a yellow version of our frocks.

There was no time for thought as I was hustled down the stairs in a mental mist with Marlene bubbling “Mom, look! Isn’t Kirk really cool?” Linda’s face said “Oh, God, what have we done?” What actually came out was “You look very sweet,” and she pecked me on the cheek. Whatever objections there were to my “punishment,” they were not going to be made out loud, at least not today.

We piled into Linda’s old Toyota and drove to Fairfax, a town eight or nine miles east of Nicasio with a district of narrow, old timey shopping streets where she parked next to a storefront with the name HAIR BY SONIA painted on the glass. It seems that the lady was an old friend of Linda’s and a barter of some kind had been arranged in exchange for Sonia’s services. Nobody told me anything except we were getting our hair washed.

Sonia was a cheerful woman in her forties who led us three “girls” into her curtained back room. Two women helped us out of our dresses and pantyhose, covered us with smocks as big as tents and lifted us into the chairs. How did I feel? I was “taking it like a man” although that seemed to be stretching things. The funny calm returned when I started to get annoyed.

Once we were settled Linda told us she was going out for more party supplies and was gone in seconds. After the door closed Marlene hopped down and whispered something in Sonia’s ear. With a conspiratorial smile Sonia looked my way and nodded. Worry? Why worry when I was floating on a cloud.

Our chairs tilted back as the beauticians began fussing over their young charges. They chattered on about the first time they had gotten “the works” when they were not much older than us, whatever that was. My mother’s curl job was ruined when the woman shampooed, toweled, sectioned and snipped at my hair. Most of the time I couldn’t see anything except the ceiling, although it sounded like they were doing the same to the girls. The woman rolled my wet hair into tight curlers leaving long strands over my eyes which she snipped straight across. The curlers were soaked in something really smelly and suddenly my chair was brought upright.

As I sat there spacing out two younger women stepped up and unexpectedly snapped something into my ears and that hurt a little. I winced but still didn’t say anything. After a time more gunk was smeared on my curlers and a large hair dryer was placed over my head. While I sat waiting my fingers and toes were done up in bright red polish.

Once they took away the dryer my face was scrubbed lightly, rubbed with another goop and I sat some more. A fluid was spread over my eyebrows which promptly went numb. Somewhat confused I watched as small hairs fell one by one into my lap. After that a tiny brush painted something dark on my brows and lashes and tickled.

Color was brushed on my eyelids and cheeks just before the lady carefully drew on red lipstick. I couldn’t see everything they’d done because she was still pulling out curlers and combing my hair. Besides my back was to the mirror. Sonia then brought Marlene over and sat us heads together checking the makeup and making little changes after which we were taken in and redressed. All this time I hadn’t spoken. I was a poster child for the words “space case.”

Leticia was the first one of us I saw. Her hair was still long but trimmed neater. It now flowed smoothly as she turned her head from side to side. She looked like a Latina movie star, really gorgeous and sexy. I looked at Marlene. She was sporting shorter hair with bangs and curls on the top and sides. Her eyebrows were thin arches and lips were ruby red. She had turned into a little doll and looked a lot older than eleven.

With a smile she pulled me over so we could see ourselves in the mirror together. Two identical preteen fashion models! I could have been knocked over with a wet noodle. Marlene had smooth-talked Sonia into going all out to produce a pair of look-alikes.

“See, I told you we were twins,” she whispered as Sonia pinned goldtone tiaras in our hairdos.

“Your boy friends are so lucky,” Sonia said. Soon all the beauticians were going on about how cute we looked. I guess women never grow up either. They’ still love dressing little dolls.

When Linda returned she looked at us and shook her head. “Let’s go. We’ve got dinner reservations.” She looked at me again and said “Did you have his ears pierced?” She sounded exasperated. “What‘s Ted going to say? God, I’m going to catch it.”

Marlene smiled innocently at her mother as I guess she does a lot. She turned us to look in the mirror again. I hadn’t noticed but Marlene had been wearing little pearl studs. Now I was too. I smiled for a second, frowned weakly in an attempt to show disapproval, then touched the little pearls with both hands and in spite of myself and smiled again. Sonia looked surprised when she heard the word “his” however I was pushed out the door before anyone could ask what Linda meant.

We went into another storefront a few doors down for Marlene’s birthday photos. After a couple of shots alone Marlene insisted that the two of us pose together holding bouquets, then one of me by myself. It took some doing to get a proper smile out of me and tilt my head in an appropriately girlish way. Apparently I did well enough because the photographer seemed satisfied. Once again I didn’t (couldn’t?) find any way to object. Mostly I stared vacantly at camera equipment when I wasn’t being hauled hither and yon.

At the restaurant Marlene insisted we sit next to a small dance floor where everyone could see us, “two pink flowers and one yellow” she said. Marlene and Leticia kept turning their heads smiling at the other tables and dancers. I did my best to concentrate on the music and hide my general confusion. A couple of times my hair was bumped but it had been lacquered so hard that nothing could have mussed it short of an atom bomb. Aunt Linda looked nice in a pale dinner suit although I think she was frazzled what with the upcoming party and Marlene’s scheming.

A tall, well-built blond man in a sport jacket and slacks came up to the table holding a bottle of beer and a glass with his eye on Linda. She waved at him smiling and patted an empty chair. He was Sergeant Zack Miller from the Marin County Sheriff’s Department. Linda’s house was in his district and she had literally run into him at the tiny store by the Rancho, just down the hill from the house. In fact she had backed her Toyota into his rear bumper without damage to the patrol car but adding a couple of scratches to hers which already had its share of dings. Zack didn’t give her a ticket but managed to come away with a date for brunch at the Rancho with her and Marlene.

He stared at me and then at Marlene, obviously surprised at seeing double. With Marlene’s usual gall she said “This is my cousin Darlene and my friend Leticia.” Leticia stifled a giggle and Linda rolled her eyes. Later I asked why she said that. “Did you want me to say your name was Kirk?” She looked at me as though how stupid could I get.

“Did you catch lots of bad guys this week ‘cause we haven’t seen you for a while?” Marlene stuck out her lower lip in a cute pout. “But you have a really fun job don’t you.” This time very flirty.

Not knowing much about girl kids Miller answered hesitantly, “Well, I didn’t this week, but most of the time nobody‘s doing bad things. That’s why I get to sit and talk with pretty girls!”

With eyelashes fluttering Marlene innocently said, “Darlene and I want to marry policemen.” Leticia shrieked and I kicked Marlene in the leg. Linda said “That’s enough!” and glared at the three of us. It took a minute or two for the giggles to stop. Zack looked confused but nobody would say anything.

After his beer and a couple of dances with Linda Miller excused himself. He had to be on duty in an hour and needed to get ready. “Nice to meet you girls. Linda, where do you find all these lovely creatures?”He kissed each of our hands in turn.

When we got back to the house I was crying. “Why did you say that about marrying a policeman! I don’t like this. I want to go home.” My fear and anger had overwhelmed the day’s lassitude.

Linda held me on her lap while Marlene apologized. “I’m sorry, Kirk, I won’t do it again. I’m so used to you being my twin now, it’s real easy to say things like that. Besides, I do it all the time to Leticia - and besides you look so neat!” The last was said with a big friendly grin and fingers crossed behind her back.

I felt my protest drowning under the wave of her smooth talk. Afterward Linda brought in bowls of ice cream and my equanimity was restored. I watched spellbound as red-tipped fingers daintily lifted my spoon. The mirror reflection across the room looked like Marlene taking elegant little bites.

“You stay in my bed tonight,” Marlene said as we went up. “My princess cousin needs her own room. Leticia and I will be down the hall. This is your birthday, too, my little twin,” she said conspiratorially. Why did it sound so ominous?

Marlene’s bed and room were frilly and girlish and I had a hard time falling asleep, especially since my hair was in rollers - for the first time ever. I suppose I must have drifted off but remember waking up with the room filled by a funny bright light. I got out of bed oddly drawn to Marlene’s closet, rummaging in her clothes, pulling out different outfits, parading back and forth in front of the mirror and smiling with my head tilted like I did at the photo shop. As I posed fetchingly I thought this can’t be me, it’s Marlene.

As I tried each costume the girl in the mirror changed. The first was a very young Marlene playing dress up in storybook costumes. The next was a smiling preteen with budding breasts, both arms wrapped around her favorite teddy bear. Then a full figured teen-ager in a décolleté prom dress, a jubilant young woman in her wedding gown and finally a beaming mother-to-be. They all had Marlene’s face. They couldn’t be mine.

up
73 users have voted.
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos! Click the "Thumbs Up!" button above to leave a Kudos

Comments

What!

Angharad's picture

Red lipstick and nails with pink dresses - aarrgh!

otherwise good, except the forced element, that worries me a little.

Angharad

Angharad

I think I have a theory

I think I have noticed that transgender stories written by males or trans women of various degrees, seem to spend more time on clothing than trans stories written by genetic women.

Has anyone noticed that?

As far as the "forced" element goes, it is just a psychological device to ease the guilt. AND, when I think about it, I was forced all my life, that is to not be a girl. LOL

Nice story by the way.

Gwen Brown

Clothing

marie c.

Gwen - Good point about TG stories written by men and their preoccupation with women's clothing. I was once told that for the common cross dresser, the one who is not going for SRS the clothing is a psychological "security blanket" related to being separated from the mother. Perhaps so. Though looking back to long before my parents divorced I always had an uncommon interest in girls' activities which of course my parents did everything to discourage - very much being "forced" in the other direction.

As I admitted to Angharad the "forced" element was a bit of a story teaser - and like you said a way to deal with guilt about wanting to cross dress or go even farther. If I am forced to cross dress then it is no longer my responsibility. Somebody else made me do it!! Nyah, hyah, nyah.

Readers like you are certainly the most perceptive I've run into. Not a word gets past you. I love it.

marie c.

Clothing—an interesting point

What you say, Marie, is interesting. From my early childhood in the 1940s I knew I had a defective body, but in those days I couldn't admit to being TG, even if I knew such a co9ndition existed. All I knew was that I was comfortable playing with other girls and found boys a pain in the proverbial, mainly because they called me names and teased me, usually incorporating the word girl when referring to me. I lost my father early in the war (1941) and was raised by my mother and grandmother. A couple of years after the war my mum married again and moved to Scotland where, blissfully, I was able to wear a kilt. I know a kilt is really a boy's garment, but to me it was the skirt I had always craved, and even better, I had to wear girls' school knickers under it so I was almost the same as the girls who were my playmates. But I never dared mention that I was a girl inside; I would probably have been locked up—or worse. But I oftem wore my girl's undies even when wearing "proper" boys' clothes.

I was never able to admit to my transgenderism publicly, but my step sister (by a later marriage of my Mum) guessed recently. I live on my own in retirement nowadays and crossdress at home because I feel right that way. I remember the headlines in tghe paper when Roberta Cowell had her SRS in the 1950s. I was soooo jealous, but knew I was too timid to admit publicly what I really was.

Hogmanay hugs,
Gabi

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

Gabi's

marie c.

Thanks for the comment Gabi. I think we're about the same age. My father left just before WWII and I lived with my mother after that and through her chaotic lovelife. Several attempts to openly crossdress were squelched by mom and my grandparents with whom I stayed. So my life was reduced to closet and dresser drawer raids when no one was home. Several times I did so at the homes of friends and to this day I don't know why I wasn't caught.

It wasn't until late adulthood that I had the time and a little money to get involved with the local TV/TG organizations. Ours was helpful to me in that I was able to finally reduce some of the guilt I felt about that closet full of mail order fashions. At one point I had more women's clothes than men's. Right now I'm too old and fat so I've settled for writing about it.

Ciao

marie c.

Gabi, I'm glad I am growing up in the 2000s...

Gabi:

I'm glad I live in the 2000s. I mean even thou there is a lot more danger now (in the news that is - my dad said he did things - biking 200 miles from his house to Cape Cod, Mass with his buddy. My dad said even with cell phones I couldn't do that.) I have the resources to be a TG teen, especially with computers!
I bet (without the war) growing up in the 40s was fun. Oh, by the way, I have a kilt, I wear it when I play the bagpipes.

TGSine --958

Huh?

I don't understand, what do you mean? Spend more time on clothing, like what do you mean? Personally I have a hard time writing stories because I just want to describe the clothes subtly instead of like in great detail, but it's hard with more elaborate clothes or Halloween costumes. That's like one of the hardest problems I have with my writing. Though another reason I like to make different kinds of clothes in my stories, is I'm into clothing design a little. And I think that all the different fabrics and stuff are really really kewl and cute sometimes :D

*edit* Umm... I usually only do that though for the characters first appearance. Though I also do it for the boys in the story, not just the girls xD After all, I do believe in true equality :D
--------------------------------------------
I just got to be me :D

I know who I am, I am me, and I like me ^^
Transgender, Gamer, Little, Princess, Therian and proud :D

I noticed it years ago...

Angharad's picture

the excessive descriptions and feel of the clothing, except where it's important to the storyline. It may be important if someone wears a skirt or a dress for the first time what they are conscious of the draught which blows up their nether regions, or the vulnerability it might pose.

It's important to decribe characters in sufficient detail for readers to form an impression of them, and they may also note the sensory element of the material - feels silky, or nice, because that what we do when we dress, we become aware of the sensation of clothes for a moment, then we get on with life. In my stuff, it's usually the dialogue or action which is the main feature, not the description.

At the same time, one has to take into account the nature of the readership for whom one is writing. In Snafu, it is now just an action story, my other stories including falling off a bike, the main protagonist, is transitioning, so that is important. I have also tried to explore some of the issues they face, and clothing might be one of them.

I remembered when I transitioned in '86 thinking it was wonderful to be able to express myself through my clothes all the time. Then it became a bore, 'what the hell shall I wear today?' what have I got to do, so can't wear that, real life is so mundane! I have a uniform for work, which I loathe but it saves worrying except it makes me smile. It's ironic that I went through hell to be able to wear skirts and dresses when I like, only to end up in a uniform with trousers - fun huh!

Angharad

Angharad

Twins by Marie 2

marie c.

Angharad - I know what you mean. I struggled with that too but the "forced feminization" has to do with what comes later. You might look at part 3.

I've changed the title to TWINS by Marie. I think that should help keep things clear. If not I'm sure we can work something out to everyone's satisfaction.

marie c.

A new serial for me...

and I'm glad I found it - mainly for the discussions and commentary - those have led me to a conclusion that I'd never really seen as a difference between those of us who dress for pleasure and those who are on their way to transition...... For us who dress to please ourselves (and maybe, if we're lucky, a loved-one) the look, style, texture and feelings given by the clothes we wear are integral parts of the dressing experience. I can never imagine getting to the stage of being bored by "what shall I wear today?"

Those going towards transition - or who have been there - might well find this is an inevitable sequence and takes you to being more of the woman you want to be. If that's your bag, enjoy it! :) We can all be winners if we know our pleasures and our dreams.

I feel the same about my hair and make-up. I'll never reach the stage of being bored with the mascara I have, or the lipstick, or the foundation. Still less, the hairstyle I choose with the length and colour of the hair I have. makes me content with the way I am, even though I'll never pass sufficiently to meaningfully be the woman I imagine I can be (or rather can't!) Live your dreams, girls!! Whatever they may be. You are a Child of the universe, no less than the seas and the stars. And whether or not it is clear to you, you have a right to be here.
an extract from my favourite poem!
love Ginger