Denise

by Leigh de Santa Fe
© 1991

 

 At breakfast his mother said, "Dennis, I think it's time to get your hair cut."

"Mom, I got my hair cut last week."

"It couldn't have been last week, honey. It's already over your ears."

"No way, Mom. I just got it cut."

"No arguing at the breakfast table," his father said from behind a paper.

Dennis stomped out. In Geometry his voice cracked in the middle of an answer which broke up the whole class including the teacher. Dennis blushed but he recovered quickly.

Nothing happened the next day but on Wednesday as he stepped out of the shower in the locker room, his chest felt sore. And seemed swollen. He could actually feel loose flesh around his nipples. He put it out of his mind but the next morning, alone in the bathroom, he examined himself in the mirror. Not only was his chest swollen but the nipples were larger. They looked like small pegs. The circles around them had turned deep, reddish brown and were enlarged as well.

"I have cancer," he thought as beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He became so obsessed that he didn't even notice that it had been four days since he'd last shaved.

He buried his fears, dressed and rushed down to the breakfast table.

"Dennis, didn't I tell you to get your hair cut on Monday," his mother said irritated.

"I told you, mom. I went to the mall last Friday."

"Come with me right now."

She led him into the bathroom and said, "It couldn't have been last week, honey. Look, it's way past your collar."

A lump grew in his throat but he managed to squeak out, "Okay. Okay."

He cut gym that day and went to the library. Pouring over a fat medical textbook he could find nothing that would account for the swelling in his chest. "This has got to be some kind of weird mumps," he thought.

After school he met his swim team buddy Jim in the hall. "Aren't you going to practice?" he asked.

Dennis turned red. "No, I can't today."

"Why not?"

"I have to get a haircut."

"That's a lame excuse. Coach'll be pissed. You okay? You don't look so hot."

"I'm fine," Dennis said, walking toward his locker.

"Gained some weight in your butt, dude," Jim called after him.

Dennis instinctively put his hands on his buttocks and Jim's laughter echoed down the hall. Jim was right, Dennis thought, "Everything about my body is changing." He walked home, so engrossed in contemplation that when his girlfriend Debby called out to him, he just kept on walking.

"Hey, didn't you hear me?"

"What, oh, Hi."

"Is something wrong Dennis?"

"No, nothing's wrong," he said, his voice cracking.

"You've been doing that a lot lately. I thought your voice already changed."

"Look nothing's wrong, okay." Just as he reached the last syllable it cracked again and Debby suppressed her laughter because the look in his eye was murderous.

"Look I've got to get a haircut now. I'll see you tomorrow," he said trying hard not to let his voice crack again.

"Sure. Call me. Bye."

He ran off toward the mall.

When he finally got home, he raced to the bathroom and stripped off his shirt. His hands felt his chest. The soft flesh hung out into space about an inch. The nipples were larger and the aureoles were now three inches across and reddish brown. He could never go back to the swim team now. Not like this. He stood for a moment wondering if he should tell his parents when he noticed his hair. He'd just gotten it cut and it was over his ears again. "It some gland thing," he thought. "I've got tropical gland disease." Then he noticed his beard or rather he noticed his beard hadn't grown in a week. In fact, his cheeks were devoid of even the peach fuzz stubble that grew between shaves. Instead they were smooth and pink. He ran to his room.

At dinner he wore a bulky sweater to hide his swelling chest. No one seemed to notice and afterwards he went to his room and shut the door. Around nine his mom knocked to say goodnight. He sat at his desk pretending to study. "Everything all right, honey."

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"No reason. Hey, will you promise me to get your hair cut tomorrow?" she said as she closed the door.

The next day at school his voice cracked so many times that he stopped talking altogether. On the way home, Debby knew something was wrong.

"What the matter with you lately, Dennis? You're so sulky and weird."

"Nothing's the matter, okay? I've just been studying really hard." His voice cracked midway through the sentence and stayed in the upper register.

"Is your voice getting higher? I thought it was supposed get lower."

"Debby, can I tell you something?"

"Sure, Dennis. What is it?"

He blurted out all the strange changes that were taking place in his body. "I want to see," she said. They ran to her house and Debby pulled him up the stairs. When they were alone in her room she said, "Well, take your shirt off."

"Promise you won't laugh," he said.

"I won't. Just take your shirt off and show me."

Dennis unbuttoned his shirt slowly and then peeled off his T-shirt. He couldn't look at her.

She said nothing but her silence spoke volumes.

"What's wrong with me, Debby?"

Her eyes were traveling down from Dennis's chest to his waist.

"Dennis, take off your pants too."

"Why?"

"Just do it, okay."

He kicked his tennis shoes off and dropped his jeans.

Debby gasped. "Oh, my God."

"What? What is it?" he yelled.

"Your, uh, your butt."

"What about it?"

"It's bigger too," she said haltingly. "Look!" she said, opening the door to her closet and pointing at the full-length mirror.

Dennis looked over his shoulder into the mirror and for the first time all the puzzle pieces in place fell into place. His jockey shorts were stretched tightly over his bottom and he knew instantly why none of his pants seemed to fit anymore. His waist had narrowed as well.

"You look kind of . . . like a . . ."

"Like a what," his voice cracked.

"Like a girl."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, your body looks . . . well, rounder and softer. What about down there?" she said, pointing to Dennis's groin.

"It's the same. If anything it's bigger," Dennis said softly.

"That's interesting," Debby said with a sly grin but he was too distraught to respond.

"What's happening to me, Debby?" he said as he pulled his clothes on.

"I don't know but it's really weird," she said, noticing for the first time how tight his jeans were.

The next few days Dennis developed strategies for hiding the changes in his body. He combed his hair straight back with gel and he wore sweaters and his largest jeans. He put two pairs of socks on so his daintier feet fit into his shoes and he stopped talking except for tightly controlled monosyllabic responses. He tried to keep his emotions in check but whenever he was alone he wept uncontrollably. At night he'd go into the bathroom and take off all his clothes, examining his body for any retreat of the symptoms. There were none. His hair now fell just past his shoulders. Tying it back in a ponytail helped but it wasn't just longer, it was thicker. It didn't look like a boy's ponytail at all.

His face was changing too. His beard had stopped growing but now his features seemed to have grown softer. The jaw line seemed redrawn and his lips were fuller. Even his lashes seemed darker, longer. He noted each alteration with increasing fear.

His penis, on the other hand, was the only part of his masculinity that wasn't in retreat. Instead it seemed to be a mocking holdout against the onslaught of feminine changes, competing with his breasts for rapid growth.

Every morning he prepared himself for school with an increasingly sophisticated set of rituals designed to hide his form, his figure, his face but he knew his efforts were meeting with less and less success.

One day a substitute teacher in his English class was going down the roster of names on a seating chart and matching them with the students. "Denise Johnson," he said looking at Dennis. No one even giggled and Dennis sat in silent mortification.

He had avoided Debby for a few days now but on the way home she caught up to him.

"Hi, Dennis."

"Hi," he said, his voice a breathy whisper.

"How've you been?"

"Okay, I guess." He was fighting back tears.

"I like your hair like that."

He was silent.

"Dennis?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe it's time you told your parents."

"Tell them what," he lashed out. "That I'm turning into a girl?"

"No!" she said, "Tell them that . . . tell them that there's something wrong with your glands or something. I don't know."

"It's getting worse. I can't button my pants all the way. I cut my hair every night and in the morning it's longer and thicker than ever. This morning I had to tape my . . . breasts so that they wouldn't show. I had to quit the swim team. . . " he broke off.

Debby reached out to hold him but he pulled away. He didn't want anybody touching him. He didn't want her to feel how soft he'd become.

That night when he mother came in to say goodnight he looked up from his textbook, his eyes glistening.

"Are you crying, Dennis? What's wrong, honey?"

"Mom, I'm . . . uh. Mom?"

"What is it, baby?"

"Something weird is happening to my body." He broke down and blurted out the whole incredible story. She asked him to take his shirt off. He did and a look of panic crossed her face.

"Baby, oh, honey, everything's going to be alright. In the morning, I'll take you Dr. Felder and we'll figure out what's happening. Okay?"

"Don't tell Dad."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Just don't tell him. Okay?

"Alright, honey. For now. Till we see what Dr. Felder has to say."

The next day Dennis and his mother waited silently in the Dr. Felder's office. Finally, a nurse emerged and beckoned to Dennis. Seeing the fear in his eyes said, "Your first exam is always the hardest," she said reassuringly. She led him back to another waiting room. "If you'll just take your clothes off, Denise, and jump up here, the doctor will be in shortly." Dennis looked at his feet.

"Could you ask my mother to come in too?" he said.

The nurse hesitated, sensed his fear and said, "Of course."

He undressed, covering his privates with his t-shirt and eased himself up on the examination table. He tried not to notice his bust but it was impossible. They were so large, he thought. Why did they have to be so large? The doctor and his mother came in.

"Now, young lady, what's the problem?"

"The problem, Dr. Felder, is that this is my son," his mother said.

An hour later Dennis and his mother drove home in silence. Finally she spoke.

"I've got to tell your father."

"Why?"

"Because he's got to know."

"But why, mom?"

"Because he's going to find out."

"No, he won't. I'll hide it. I've hidden it so far."

"You're not going to hide it because you can't hide anymore, Dennis."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that for the short term, till we figure out what's going on, I want you to start. . ."

"No," he cut her off. "I won't do that! I'll never do that!" he screamed in his unfamiliar soprano.

"Dennis, look at yourself. Your clothes don't fit. You can't hide your . . . chest. You're . . . you're a 36 C cup," she said as the tears began to fall down her cheeks as well. "And you don't look . . ."

"Like a boy?"

"Yes, you don't. Not right now. As soon as we figure this thing out we'll go back. You'll go back. I promise."

"No, mom. I can't do that. Everybody will know."

"Honey, I know it's hard but you won't have to go right back to school. We'll take some time. Time to adjust. Time to figure it all out."

"But Mom, someday I'll have to go back and when I do everybody will stare at me. They'll laugh at me."

"Honey, they're already staring."

When they car drove up the drive, Dennis jumped out and ran up to his room and locked the door. When his father got home he could hear the fighting. Harsh words of disbelief and then the pounding of feet coming up the stairs.

"Dennis, I want to talk to you."

Dennis took off his shirt and laid it on the bed.

"Dennis, open the door please.

He pulled his pants down past his thighs and stepped out of them.

"Right now, Dennis."

He took the rubber band off his hair and shook his head. Then he unlocked the door.

"My God!"

"Dad, what's happening to me?" he cried.

His mother appeared in the doorway behind his father. She ran to him. "Oh, my poor baby," she said, cradling him in her arms.

Fifteen minutes later, after the tears had come and gone and come again his father said, "Your mother has a plan. She thinks you should . . ."

"No!"

"Dennis, it's best this way. For now. For this period. As soon as its over, we'll go back to the way things were."

"Dad, don't let me do that!"

"Dennis," his father's voice broke now too, "you've got to try it and that's it."

"Let's go to bed now and see if you don't feel differently in the morning."

They left him alone and after three hours of staring at the ceiling he finally drifted into troubled sleep.

For three days Dennis stayed in his room. His mother brought him his meals in silence and he stayed in bed and thought and slept. At times he would drift into strange dreams and wake up coiled in his auburn hair. His body ached from the changes and he slept a lot. He used the bathroom only when no one was around. A scratchy old bathrobe was the only thing he wore. He avoided his image in mirrors.

Changes continued to transform his body. If he didn't tie it back with a rubber band, his hair fell forward and surrounded his face like leaves from a flourishing vine. He stopped sleeping on his stomach because it hurt his chest and his back ached from the new top heaviness.

At times he would lie in bed and run his hands up and down the sides of his body, feeling its contours, the softness, the fresh hills and valleys that had grown during the night. He avoided touching his chest because that was too painful, both to the touch and to his bewildered psyche. When his robe irritated his nipples he put on a t-shirt but found that the jiggling of his breasts beneath the taut fabric only directed his attention to his enlarged bust. Jockey shorts were out for similar reasons. Pants were out of the question. He went back to wearing the robe.

At times his father or mother would drop by and try to talk to him but he remained steadfast in his silence and after a while they went away. It was enough that he ate. Debby came by one day. He refused to talk to her as well so she left his homework assignments outside the door and said she come back the next day to pick up his homework. Dennis didn't touch it and the next day she tried to talk to him again.

"Dennis, it's me."

Dennis leaned against the door. His heart was pounding.

"Dennis, let me in. I just want to talk."

"Please go away," he said softly. It was the first words he'd spoken in 72 hours. His voice had crept up another octave and he bit his lip in shame.

"Dennis, you can't stay in there forever. Let me in. Please."

"Come back tomorrow. Okay?" Dennis said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay. See you tomorrow. Bye." He listened to her footfalls down the stairs and then walked to the edge of window and watched her leave the yard. When she reached the gate she turned and looked up. He darted back into the shadows.

The next day she came back.

"Dennis, can I come in?"

"The door's not locked."

Debby opened the door slowly. Dennis had his back turned to her and was looking out the window. He wore the bathrobe tightly wrapped around his body. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail that fell to the middle of his back.

"Dennis."

He turned around and studied her face as she tried to contain her surprise.

"I haven't looked in a mirror in 5 days. Have I changed a lot?"

"Well . . ." she swallowed, "yes, since I last saw you but that was a long time ago," she added hastily.

"A week."

"Yeah, I guess so." Her eyes fell from his chest to his hips and then to the walls of his room. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I'm great. Another week and I'll be ready for my deb ball."

Debby walked to the bed and sat down.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. What would you do? What can I do?"

"Well, your mother . . ."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing! She just thought that, for now anyhow, you could. . ."

"Could what?"

"I don't know!"

"Debby, I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because . . . I'm a boy. I'm a boy. I'm a boy," his voice cracked and he fell on the bed sobbing. She reached out to comfort him but his robe had fallen open and she stopped for a moment to stare at his bosom. His breasts were now bigger than hers.

"Dennis, show me. Show me your body."

"No."

She held him close. "Come on now. I'm your . . . friend. You can show me."

He sat up next to her. His hair had come undone and framed his face with disheveled curls. He drew his robe together tightly.

"Look, I'll show you mine and you can show me yours. Okay?" Before he could answer she stood up and pulled off her sweater. She was wearing a black bra.

"I can't do this."

"Come on. I showed you mine," she said, pulling up off the bed.

"I'm naked."

"Okay. Okay. Here." She unhooked the bra in front and slipped it off.

"Now you," she said, tugging at the robe. He let it fall to the floor.

"Oh God, Dennis," she said as her eyes quickly took in his widened hips, his narrowed waist and the breasts which bounced only inches from hers. She looked into his eyes. They were filling with tears. She hugged him.

The door opened and his mother appeared in doorway. Debby pulled away quickly. Dennis drew his arms up over his chest.

"That's okay, Debby." His mother looked at Dennis. "We're all girls here now."

"Mom!"

"Oh baby, I'm sorry but you've got to face facts. Look at yourself, honey. Something has happened."

Dennis turned away.

"Just try it for a little while. Here in your room. You don't have to go out. Debby can help you. I'll go away. Just try . . ."

"Try what?" he said.

His mother bit her lip.

"Try being a girl," Debby said. "You might even like it."

"Oh, God! Now you're both against me."

"Dennis, Debby wants to help you and so do I."

"Help me what?"

"Adjust."

Debby put her arm around his waist. "It's not that bad. I'll help you."

"I don't know," he moaned. "What do you want me to do?"

His mother approached him tentatively and put her arm around him too.

"Just . . . just try some clothes on. That's all. Here. In your room. You don't have to go out. No one will see you but us."

"No one. Not even Dad?"

"Not even Dad."

"What clothes?"

Dennis's mother glanced at Debby and smiled. "Whatever you want, honey. You can start with jeans and a . . . blouse."

"I think you should start with a bra," Debby blurted out. "A bra that fits."

His mother's face lit up. "I'll see if I can find something." She dashed out of the room and came back immediately.

"Where'd you get this?" Dennis said. "It still has the tag on it."

"Well, I just thought . . ."

"You bought this for me, didn't you?"

"Just try it on," Debby said, putting his arms through the straps. "It hooks in front. Try hooking it yourself."

"You bought this for me," he said as his hands fumbled for a moment and then his breasts were captive in the lacy white cups.

"It's perfect," Debby said.

He looked down at his chest and saw the deep crack of cleavage. It was a revelation. Much more shocking that a simple mirror reflection, he could now see and feel his girlhood in three dimensions. The juxtaposition of his pliant flesh and the female garment met at more than simple juncture of skin and fabric. They were joined now in some synapse in his brain. A mindset was incubating.

"I want to see," Dennis said, heading for the bathroom. His mother stopped him.

"Not yet. Put these on first," she said, handing him a pair of beige cotton panties. He turned away and stepped into them. The fabric stretched over his buttocks like a second skin. But in front his cock struggled against containment. Debby and his mother looked askance as he bounded past them to the bathroom, the final strands of hair unraveling from the makeshift ponytail.

When his mother and Debby caught up with him he was turning to examine his profile in the mirror. Tears streaked his face.

Debby started to speak but Dennis's mother stopped her.

"I'm so big. I'm so big," he gasped, his fingers grazing the surface of his bra cups.

"You're not big. You're perfect."

"But I'm so . . . " He looked at his body. It was so different. So womanly. He had cleavage. Clouds of auburn hair unfurled around his face and fell past the cups of his brassiere.

He turned to the women. "I am a girl now, aren't I?" he said in a frightened whisper.

"Almost," Debby said.

Every day for the rest of the week Debby arrived at the Johnson house at four o'clock with clothes for Dennis. She began with old jeans and sweaters which he would try on. One day she brought in large shopping bag.

"Now don't freak out, okay?"

"Have I freaked out yet?" Dennis said petulantly. He sat on the bed, legs crossed in a distinctly unmasculine way and wearing only his bra and panties. His hair was pulled back in the familiar ponytail but a careful observer could see that his bangs were ever so slightly teased.

"Okay, but this is different," she said as she pulled a baby blue taffeta prom dress out of the bag.

"What's that?"

"A prom dress."

"Oh, God," he said, falling back on the bed in excited giggles.

"You promised."

"I can't wear that."

"Why not?"

"It's too . . . too much."

Debby put the dress up against her body and strutted around as though she just arrived at the ball. Then she turned to Dennis, "Aren't you curious to see what a real dress feels like?"

"Yes, but I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that I'll like it too much."

"Well, you're supposed to like it."

"But what if tomorrow my breasts go away and everything changes back?"

Debby rolled her eyes. "Come on, get up. I want to see how it fits you." Dennis obliged and she held the dress up to his body. "You'll have to wear a different bra. The strap’s show. Here," she said, pulling a strapless longline bra out of the bag.

"Oh, I'll never get this on," Dennis said, looking at all the hooks in back."

"I'll help you. Now, take off your bra and put this on." Dennis gave her a withering look and slid off his old brassiere and Debby helped him hook the eyes on the longline.

"Ooo la la," Debby said when he turned around to face her. The bra pushed his breasts up and squeezed them together creating generous cleavage. Dennis blushed.

Debby now pulled a powder blue tricot half-slip out of the bag and said, "Now, put this on."

Dennis pulled the slip on and swooned a little as the deliciously cool fabric grazed his naked thighs. His mouth went dry as he anticipated wearing his first dress.

"Are you ready, Cinderella?"

Dennis's dainty foot trembled as he stepped into the rustling heap of blue. A moment later he was twirling around the room, the enormous hoop of his skirts floating out from his body like a swinging bell. Shoulder-framing gathers of soft taffeta met at his décolletage in swirl of baby blue that looked like a cinnamon role.

"Don't you want to see yourself?" Debby said, rushing him toward the door.

"Yes, but . . ." His father had still not seen wearing a bra and panties, let alone a dress. The last thing Dennis wanted was to surprise him in this big, poufy prom gown that displayed his gorgeous bosom unashamedly. And yet, he was terribly curious about how he looked. Debby's face waited expectantly for his nod and even the sound of the rustling taffeta seemed to urge him on. He relented. "Okay, let's go, but watch the stair."

Debby opened the door and looked both ways while Dennis picked up his cascading skirt.

The reflection literally took his breath away. He was lovely and so demure. He loved the way the shoulders tapered to frame his décolletage. A new emotion was stirring down deep inside, an emotion that confused and frightened him. He was almost proud.

As he turned this way and that to view his profile Debby also noticed the first signs of a feminine vanity creeping into his demeanor. She was dying to undo his ponytail and brush his hair out and Dennis must have been thinking along similar lines because after observing himself for a long moment he discarded the rubber band and shook his head. The long auburn waves, free at last, framed his face with a kittenish dishevelment that literally forced his face into a pouty sultriness.

He turned to Debby. "I look really good, don't I?"

"Really good?"

He blushed deeply. "I mean, do I look okay?" he said, painfully aware she had caught him basking in the ecstasy of feminine conceit.

"Yes, you're gorgeous. Now let me brush your hair out."

Dennis smiled and sat down on the edge of the tub like a princess awaiting her chambermaid. The brush moved through his tangled curls reluctantly at first but soon Debby's hand pushed down easily and the snarls resolved into a smooth cascade of mahogany, the strands aligned like exquisite wood grain. It felt so wonderful he wanted to purr.

"I've been wanting to do this for weeks," Debby said.

"Weeks?"

"Yes, weeks. It's a sin to have hair this beautiful and not brush it. In fact, it's a sin not to have it styled."

Dennis turned to look at her. "But I can't do that. I'd have to leave my room."

"So, you're going to stay in your room forever, Rapunzel?"

"I'd like to. I'd like to have you come brush my hair every day and talk to me and bring me . . ."

"Dresses?"

"Yes. And we could be together like we used to be."

"We'll never be like we used to be."

Dennis folded his hands in a sea of blue taffeta. "I know."

Debby glanced in the mirror and caught Dennis's eyes.

"You know, there's one thing I can't show you here that's absolutely essential."

"What?"

"Shopping at the mall," Debby laughed. "Why don't we go out together to the mall tomorrow. You need to get some things that fit. You'll love it."

Dennis was skeptical. "What would I wear?"

Debby smiled. She knew he was ready. "Anything you want, princess."

 

The next day was Saturday. Dennis got up at dawn and was already possessed by the question of what he would wear on his mall spree. He also had to get out of the house without seeing his father. Around nine o'clock his mother knocked on the door and delivered his breakfast. "You okay, honey?" she said.

He turned to her and smiled. "Yes, I guess. I'm supposed to go to the mall today with Debby."

"That's great!" she said. "What are you going to . . ."

"I don't know."

"What's wrong with jeans and a sweater?"

"Mom!" he said with exasperation, "It's not what I'm going to wear. It's wearing a bra and stuff out there," Dennis said. He turned his head to the window, creating a curvy cameo against the blue sky. His mother put her arm around his waist.

"It'll be fine. No one will ever suspect."

He spun out of her grasp. "No will ever suspect what?" he demanded.

She stepped back in alarm for a brief moment. Then regaining her composure she said deliberately, "That you're not a girl."

"Even though I look like one?"

"Yes, a very lovely girl," she added.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he said, "I'm scared, mommy." She hugged him.

"I know, honey. I know. It'll be fine. Everything will be fine."

An hour later the door opened and Dennis emerged like a shy butterfly. He wore his old jean jacket over a tight black turtleneck sweater and a pair of girls' jeans that Debby had brought him. The jeans were so tight that the outline of the credit card his mother gave him was clearly visible in his back pocket. Furthermore, his sweater accentuated his bust in a way that both embarrassed and excited him. His mother had brushed his hair out and pulled it back in a ponytail, tying it up high on his head in a more feminine way. Dennis protested but secretly he liked the way it made him look cute and little girl-like.

They drove to the mall in silence. Dennis looked out the window and played with the end of his ponytail. When they arrived his mother said, "You'll be fine. Try to have fun with it." Dennis made an effort to smile. She watched him walk across the parking lot, losing track of him as he blended into a crowd of teenage girls headed for the mall.

Dennis arrived at the appointed meeting place early and sat down on a bench to wait. His breasts felt bigger and more conspicuous than ever and he unconsciously began to hunch over to hide his curvy, new figure. When he saw Debby walking across the mall he straightened up a little.

"Hi," Debby said quietly.

"Hi."

"You look great."

"Thanks." He blushed. "Everything feels so . . . tight."

"That's because it is, dear. And that's why we're here. Are you ready?"

"Not really."

"Come on, let's go get you a bra that fits." She pulled him up off the bench and they headed off to the lingerie department at Dillards.

Debby took Dennis back to the dressing rooms, and said, "Wait here. I'll be back."

He sat down and fidgeted, trying not to feel like this was the oddest thing he'd ever done, trying not to listen to the sounds of dressing dropping and bras hooking.

Soon Debby returned with several bras, slips and even a garter belt. When Dennis rolled his eyes she said, "You might like it, you know. Now take off your sweater."

He spent the rest of the afternoon taking off his clothes and trying on others. Debby was having a great time selecting things and then having him model them for her. Soon he forgot who he was and where he was and began to look forward to trying on the pretty blouses and skirts that Debby handed him.

By two o'clock he had discarded the turtleneck and jeans and was wearing black tights, a black denim skirt and a white blouse with puffed sleeves and a plunging neckline. By three o'clock he had replaced his mother's low pumps with a pair of shiny black heels and he carried a small brown leather purse.

He felt more at ease in his new role now and even a little proud of his figure which Debby never stopped praising. "You're such a fox," she'd say or with mock envy "You're so stacked. I wish I had your figure." Dennis couldn't help grinning when he heard these compliments. Even though he felt comfortable walking along side Debby in his new skirt and blouse, he found it difficult to take the larger step of enjoying his femininity. Debbie sensed that this shyness might be shed if he could see his feminine loveliness reflected, not in a mirror but in the eyes of his beholders.

"How about a makeover?" she suggested as they strolled through the cosmetic section. Dennis hesitated and then thought why not. Moments later an attractive young redhead in a cream colored lab coat was daubing bright colors on his cheek and speaking in low soothing tones about contrast and shade. Dennis found himself enjoying the attention. Especially when Carole the cosmetician praised his cheekbones or his aquiline nose. When she finished he swooned at the luscious girl who stared back at him in the circular mirror. Carole had uncovered or rather created a glittering creature with her brushes and paint and Dennis was amazed at this new level of transformation. He was barely begun to admire himself when Debbie said, "Let's get your hair done now."

Dennis went pale beneath his blusher. "Oh, I don't know. Can't I just leave it the way it is?"

"Your hair is lovely but it needs to be trained. Just like your breasts need a bra for support, your hair needs to be . . . tamed."

"Tamed how?"

"You'll see. Come on," she said, taking him by the arm and leading him into Hair Designs.

When he left the salon an hour and a half later the ambisextrous ponytail was gone but you couldn't really call what replaced it tame. The hairdresser, obviously delighted to get her hands on Dennis's thick, abundant hair, had taken this raw rapunzel and worked his hair into a frothy bouffant. Parted on one side it now sinuously fell over his face in a dramatic cascade that culminated at his shoulders in a thick, bouncing wave.

Dennis was mortified when he saw what had been done to him. Debby couldn't stop laughing. He looked as though he should be wrapped in ermine and carrying a chihuahua, a soap opera vixen at a supermarket opening. It was the worst possible outcome: big, starlet hair that called attention to his burgeoning femininity. In fact, it was the perfect complement to his glamorous makeover and a small part of his girlish self was celebrating. The rest of him found his new look, like his pouffy coif, to be an unwieldy burden, top heavy with sex.

"You look faaabulous," Debby said over and over in her best Fernando Lamas ooze. People were staring at him. He could feel heads turning as he walked past. And when they reached a knot of teenage boys his composure, already on shaky ground, completely abandoned him and suddenly he was a teenage girl, giggling with nervous energy, embarrassed and proud of his beauty, knowing and innocent. It was as though he'd been handed a scepter that had compelling power but he had no idea how to control it. And so he passed through the crowded mall causing small whirlwinds of sexual confusion in his wake.

The two girls made their way out into the silent twilight and fell silent themselves. Dennis felt his nipples stiffen in the October chill. He drew the jean jacket tighter.

"How are you going to get all this stuff home?" Debby said finally.

"I guess I should call my mom but I don't really want to."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. She's never seen me like this."

"Yeah. Well, I could call my mom, I guess."

"Does she know?"

"Not exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She knows."

"Oh, great."

"Hey, it's not a big deal."

Dennis exhaled a bitter laugh. "Okay, well let's go call her."

 

Debby's mother was not discreet. She gawked, she stared, even her silence was uncomfortably intrusive and Dennis was glad when they dropped him off at home. He gathered up all his purchases and went up the walk. His mother opened the door.

"Is that you?"

"Yes," Dennis said, bowing his head so that his bounteous hair shrouded his face in shadow.

"Let me take a look at you. Oh my God!" She reached out to hug him but he pulled away. "What's the matter, honey?"

He ran past her up the stairs to his room. When he got there he was shocked to find the room had been transformed. Gone were the beige curtains, the brown bedspread and the dresser he'd had since childhood. In their place, were pink draperies, a chenille bedspread and a vanity replete with a tableful of cosmetics. A long, rectangular mirror encircled by tiny bulbs completed the picture. A note was taped on the mirror. It read: "For our new daughter, Mom and Dad."

Dennis didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He did neither. Instead the girl in the mirror beckoned. Finally alone, she demanded his undivided attention. The androgynous jean jacket fell to the floor like a discarded husk and her delicate hands covered her décolletage. It was a gesture of instinctive modesty. Head tipped forward in shy retreat of her own loveliness, hair spilling over her naked shoulders, she resembled a little girl simultaneously chastened and adored for wearing Mommy's good blouse. A mischievous smile now overtook her diffidence and she swiveled in a three quarter turn to see just how big her hair was in back and how much space her breasts displaced in profile. The small smile turned big as she took note of her own womanly grandiosity. Hands went to hips next and back arched, trailing her mane down to her waist. The little girl had disappeared. A starlet was emerging.

"Dennis!" his mother called from behind him.

He wheeled around and felt the free fall of his hair over one shoulder. The little girl suddenly returned, blushing crimson.

"Are you okay, honey?" she said, unable to conceal an amused smile.

Dennis looked down. His mother gave him hug and it crossed his mind that his breasts were bigger than her's. "I'm so proud of you," she said softly. Dennis pushed her away.

"Let's see what you got," she said, trying to break the tension.

"Maybe later. I think I'd like to be alone."

"Don't you want to show your dad?"

"No!"

"Dennis, you've got to face him sometime. You can't hide up here for the rest of your life."

His glittering eyes flickered with a laser beam of hatred and his mother beat a hasty retreat. He locked the door, stripped his clothes off and looked at his body in the full-length mirror his parents had installed on the back of his door. His body was a conundrum with its voluptuous curves and a big cock swaying between his legs. He touched it. Not with the manly intent of his pre-girl years but daintily, gingerly, as though it were a foreign part of his body, an incongruous artifact of a forgotten time. Amazingly, it sprang to life in his delicate hand and the sight of his nodding tool in concert with his swaying breasts aroused him. He began to play with his image in the mirror. Legs spread and pelvis thrust out, he proffered his stiff rod with one hand and gathered up a shock of brunette hair with the other while his lips pouted with baby doll insouciance. It was an arresting image and one filled with coarse sensuality. Suddenly a wave of enormous shame mingled with knowledge of raw, unbridled power swept over him and he lay down on the pink bedspread to catch his breath. His head was swimming with strange hormonal drumbeats and even though the blood drained from his cock, his mind retained the image of the lusty androgyne for a long time after.

"Dinner's ready, hon," his mom called out from behind the door.

Dennis stood up and turned to look at himself once again. A strange and mischievous smile overtook his mouth and he picked up his bra and twirled it around his finger. Then he put the bra and panties back on, tucking his maleness demurely between his legs. Pawing through the bags from the mall he selected the tightest jeans and a red sweater with pearl buttons that celebrated his new convexity to stunning effect. For shoes he chose a pair of black heels with ankle straps. Glancing in the mirror he smiled at his kitten-with-a-whip look, freshened up his lipstick, brushed his bounteous hair over his shoulders and bounced down the stairs to dinner.

His mother raised an eyebrow as he plopped into his customary seat. He smiled back at her, spreading his napkin over his lap with careful good little girl aplomb. When his father finally emerged from his own hiding place he turned white at the image of his son, whom he had last seen in uncomfortable transition, as a red lipped little hussy flaunting her breasts like Lana Turner.

"What's the matter, Dad?" Dennis said in a breathy, Marilynesque whisper. "I thought you wanted this," he said, resting his hands modestly over his breasts.

His father struggled with his emotions for a moment and then sat silently, a frozen smile fixed on his face.

"Dennis went . . ."

"I'm Denise now, Mom."

She nodded in his direction. "Denise went to the mall today."

"Oh," his father said, trying to seem interested.

"He . . . she bought all kinds of stuff . . . on your credit card."

"Oh."

They ate in silence. Denise watched them carefully. They didn't look up once for 10 minutes.

"Look! My nipples are hard," Denise finally said, nonchalantly breaking the silence. "What causes that, I wonder?" he said, throwing his shoulders back to emphasize his bust. His parents looked up for a moment and then down immediately at their plates. He toyed with a strand of spaghetti for a long moment and then said, "Look, I'm a girl now. You'd better get used to it because I have." He got up suddenly and went back to his room.

"What was that all about?" his father said.

"I don't know," his mother said.

"Maybe you'd better go see if he's . . . she's alright."

"Why don't you? I think that little performance was for your benefit."

"What do I say?"

"Just accept her."

"But she's so . . . whory."

"Have you looked around lately? That's the way girls are these days."

"It's hard to adjust to him that way."

"Her. And you'll just have to try."

He got up and walked slowly up the stairs.

"Denise, uh sorry, Denise," he called out. When no response came, he tried the doorknob and finding it unlocked he opened the door a crack and poked his head in. Denise was sitting at his new vanity. The sweater and jeans were gone. He wore only a black brassiere, panties and heels. His hair was piled up on his head casually in Gibson girl splendor. He turned to look at his father. In his hand he held a mascara brush. "Hi, Daddy," he said with a coy smile.

His father eyes dropped to Denise's expansive cleavage and he withdrew hastily. "Sorry, I thought you were . . ."

"Dressed," Denise finished. "But, Daddy, I am."

Hiding behind the door, his father grew purple with embarrassment and rage.

"Listen, Daddy, I'm not what I was. Physically or any other way. I'm your little girl now with not so little breasts. And I'm pretty and I like it. So you better get used to me this way because I'm not changing back again." Slowly the door closed and Denise smiled into the mirror for a moment before resuming the brush strokes of his mascara.

 

On Sunday Denise went over to Debbie's and the two spent the entire afternoon trying on clothes and making up. He was an avid student, absorbing as much information as he could about make up, clothes and hair. Debbie was surprised at the new lack of self-consciousness about his femaleness. Though late in the afternoon, as Debbie fussed over his hair, he admitted that he was worried about school.

"Why?"

"Why? I left there six weeks ago as a boy and now I returning with this?" he said, pointing to the frothy pile of curls atop his head. "And these," he said, cupping his breasts.

"But everyone knows something happened to you."

"They do?"

"Well, yes. I mean, it was happening before you left, you know."

"What are they saying about me?"

Debbie stopped teasing his hair for a moment. Their eyes met in the mirror. "They're saying you're a girl now, a beautiful girl."

"How do they know that though?"

"I told them," Debbie blurted out.

"What did you say?"

"I said that your body had changed and that you and your parents decided it was best if you started wearing . . . girls' clothes for a while."

Debbie's matter of factness made Denise blush.

"And I said that you were really pretty."

Denise sighed, his bosom heaving beneath his blouse. "Do you really think I'm pretty, Debbie?"

"Shut up, big tits and let me finish your hair."

"I hate that word."

"What? Tits?"

"Yes. Do you really think my breasts are big?"

"Oh, you just want to hear me say it. Yes, of course they're big. 36 C cup is big, darling. The boys are going to love you."

Denise looked up at the mirror. "No, they won't. They'll think, 'He's a boy who looks like a girl.'"

"How long do you think that will last?"

"Well, I'm not a complete girl, you know."

"They won't be seeing that though, will they. And besides how will they know it's still there?"

Denise smiled at his reflection. "It's kind of like being a spy. Like Mata Hari," he said, covering his face like a veil with a thick coil of brunette curls. Debbie casually recaptured them and resumed brushing.

"At least you won't have to take P.E. anymore."

 

 

The next day Denise and his parents met with the school counselor, Mr. Belson and the school nurse, Miss Ashley, to talk about "Denise's" return to school. Denise wore a long sleeve ribbed knit dress that revealed the contours of his new topography with such drama that Mr. Belson had trouble looking at the statuesque young tart without staring in awe. It pleased Denise no end to see that the slightest shifts in his posture reverberated throughout Mr. Belson's libido like tiny seismic disturbances.

"Denise seems to be adjusting to her new role very well," Mr. Belson said, looking first at Denise's father who shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then at his mother who beamed with pride at her son's beauty and finally at Denise himself whose demure lips opened and seemed to Mr. Belson to mouth the words, "Fuck me." Belson turned crimson and then said, "Well, I guess that's it unless you have anything else, Miss Ashley."

"I'm just wondering what bathroom Denise will use," Miss Ashley said matter of factly.

"Well, I, uh," Belson stumbled.

"Why can't he use the girls' bathroom?" Denise's mother asked impatiently.

"She could but I'm afraid of what would happen if she was . . . indiscreet," Miss Ashley said, politely correcting his mother's slip.

"Denise is a lady," his mother insisted. His father winced.

"Well, I'm sure she is but some of the students know that Denise is not . . . completely feminine. I would hate to put her in an awkward position."

"Why don't we try it for a while and see how it goes," Mr. Belson intervened.

Miss Ashley sighed and retreated. The meeting was over.

That night Denise stared at the ceiling and thought about Mr. Belson. "How nervous he was. He couldn't take his eyes off my breasts. I controlled him just by touching my hair or shifting in my chair. These are powerful," he thought to himself as he cupped his heavy bosom in his hands. He decided to experiment more with his new powers and when he appeared at the breakfast table in the morning, his clothes were even more provocative. He wore an ultratight v-neck red sweater and designer jeans that left nothing to the imagination. He hair was tied high up on his head and bounced merrily against his back in a thick spring-loaded ponytail. His adorable bangs belied his tantalizing couture. He chose the brightest red lipstick he could find and his alabaster cheeks were brushed dramatically with pale rose blush. He was ready to turn heads.

First class was English with Mr. Bostick. The usual preclass din was in full sway until he appeared in the doorway. Then the heads not only turned, jaws dropped and tongues fell out as the prettiest boy in school took his old seat. He waited for Mr. Bostick to make a speech about his return and it seemed as though that might have been the teacher's plan until he'd seen the statuesque boy's transformation. He was literally speechless before such a bewitching metamorphosis. Denise breathed a sigh of relief (an event followed by every male in the room) and felt secure in the knowledge that his imposing beauty had helped him escape an embarrassing situation.

The rest of his classes followed a similar pattern. The few who weren't aware that he'd left school weeks earlier as a boy were soon apprised of the fact and turned to stare with undisguised wonder. He smiled politely at the girls and suggestively at the boys and basked in the reflected heat generated by his homecoming. No one talked to him between classes and he spoke to no one until he saw Debbie in the halls between classes.

"How's it going?"

"Not too bad, I guess. Everyone thinks I'm a Martian but I don't care."

"You're too beautiful. That's the problem. They can't believe someone with a set like yours was a boy a few weeks ago."

Denise smiled. "Gotta go."

"Bye."

He walked down the corridor feeling the tightness of his sweater against his breasts, the swish of his pant legs and the clicking of his heels. He felt good. He felt alive. This feeling stopped abruptly when he pushed the heavy door into the girls' bathroom. A mangy quartet of tough girls fixing their hair and makeup turned to look at him. He smiled and went into a stall and shut the door. Like most stall doors the lock hadn't functioned in years and only gravity kept it shut.

They girls resumed their conversation in stage whispers.

"I don't think he looks that great."

"His bra's gotta be padded."

"I heard he still has his dick."

"He's probably standing over the john right now."

"Hey, leave the seat down, will ya?" Laughter. They moved to the front of his stall and began whispering in earnest.

"Hey, Denise."

"What?"

"We want to see it."

Silence.

"Come on, Denise, we're all girls here right?"

Denise tried to move his knee against the door but it was too late. As the door flew back he stood up hastily and made a futile effort to pull up his jeans.

"Oh gross!"

"It's huge!"

Denise tried to cover himself but it was too late. He burst out crying and made the impromptu decision to cover his face rather than his privates. It was a bad decision. One of the girls had a polaroid camera and flashed a quick snap of the pretty girl and the unquestionably large remnant of her manhood.

"You won't be so haughty after this gets around, Big Dick."

"See if his tits are real," one of the girls said. Another girl responded by ripping Denise's sweater open, exposing his pert 36 C cup breasts bouncing in a lacy black brassiere.

The camera whined again capturing the conundrum of Denise's body and her anguish at its rude exposure. Denise took his hands from his face to scream at his antagonists but that only served their interests better when a third picture was snapped that showed the pretty girl with the bouncing ponytail revealed, cock flopping and cleavage popping.

This was the picture that went into wide circulation throughout the school the next day, reaching Mr. Belson's desk sometime in the late afternoon. It was a crude xerox of a xerox but Denise was still clearly recognizable. Curiously, his look of anger had mutated in the copy machine into cartoonish surprise giving the photo the look of a burlesque postcard, the kind where an airbrushed cutie loses her bathrobe to an obliging gust of wind. The fact that much more was revealed than a pair of white buns added a certain piquancy. What remained in the viewer's mind after the picture was gone was the magnitude of both his male and female attributes and, of course, his stunning face.

The next day when Mr. Belson called Denise into his office he expected a somewhat chastened version of the vixen he'd met at the parent conference. He was surprised to find that Denise was unrepentant. He wore a scooped-neck leotard that exploited the fulsome beauty of his bust and a denim sheath skirt fit tightly around his derriere. He wore his hair down and it framed his face in soft waves of kittenish abandon. There was nothing about him that suggested he had a secret surprise in his panties or that the humiliating events of the past two days had daunted his hussy image.

"You don't seem bothered by this, Denise," he said, holding the picture up.

"I am but I can't let it show or it will only get worse."

"So you hide your true feelings."

"I suppose."

"Is that wise?"

Denise looked into his eyes. "Mr. Belson, I know I'm a girl now. I have breasts and a girl's figure. I also happen to have a penis. Now everyone knows it. It's not a big deal."

Belson stared in awe at the lovely boy/girl's insouciance. Then he looked down at the key in his hand and said, "Well, I don't think it's wise to use the girls' bathrooms anymore. I'm going to give you the key to the faculty bathroom. Do me and yourself a favor and keep the door locked from now on."

Denise took the key and headed for the door. He turned round as he touched the doorknob and said, "Don't worry about me, Mr. Belson. I know what I am."

Yes, you're a slut, Belson thought as the pretty boy/girl left.

The next few days were difficult ones for Denise as her notorious picture circulated throughout the whole school. Taunts of "Big Dick" and "Cock Girl" were whispered behind her back in the corridors and her old friends, including Debbie, were embarrassed to be seen with her. She didn't seem to mind much during school but at night, as she sat before her vanity, she would burst into tears when she scanned her lovely image in the mirror and saw her big cock resting peacefully beneath her tricot panties like a python in repose.

Nevertheless she was determined not to back down and each day her provocative clothes reflected a "Take No Prisoners" attitude that did little to let the controversy around her subside. One day she arrived at first period English class in a bustier and short black skirt with a bolero jacket that mitigated her delicious cleavage but not by much.

"Denise, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go home and change," the principal had said after calling her into his office.

"Why?"

"I think that's fairly obvious," he said, uncomfortably.

"Not to me."

"You can't come to school dressed like Madonna and expect to get away with it."

"You don't have to worry about the boys. Not one has even spoken to me since I've come back to school."

"It's not just the boys, Denise. It's . . . everyone," he said, letting his own eyes drop for a moment to savor those milk white doves cupped in black underwired lace. "You're here to learn not to . . . parade around in your underwear."

When his mother pulled up to take him home she feigned shock by his brazenness. "Denise, you've got to tone down. For goodness sake, you look like a whore," she said laughing but Denise could tell she took great pride in his "stop a train" figure.

When they got home he changed into a tight black sweater. "That's better," she smiled. "Much more ladylike." In fact, it was even more tantalizing than the bustier but it didn't get him kicked out of school.

 

Belson stood relieving himself in the faculty bathroom when the door lock clicked and the knob turned. He glanced over to see Denise closing the door behind her.

"What are you doing in here?" he yelled.

"Don't worry, I locked the door," she said, sidling up to him at the next urinal and unzipping her jeans. He looked straight ahead, his face a pinkish white as she made water next to him and the perfume of her hair filled his nostrils.

"Am I embarrassing you, Mr. Belson?" she said huskily.

He stood silently as she studied his face. He could feel her eyes shifting down to his cock, examining it. After what seemed like an eternity he finished, zipped up his pants and turned toward the exit. But Denise turned and stopped him. Her pink nailed fingers shook her big cock in his direction

"Look at it, Mr. Belson. I know you've wanted it since that first meeting. Go ahead. It's not a snake. It won't bite."

"Get out of my way, you little slut."

"Look at it," she screamed.

He glanced down.

"That's it. Not so hard, was it? But it could be. Here, touch it." She reached out and grabbed his hand and placed it on the large tube of flesh. His hand curled around it like a tendril on a vine.

He looked at her. She was never more captivating. The soft brunette hair that framed her face, the thick bangs that fell just above her wide eyes, the lovely innocence of her white skin belied the power of her spell, the cruel womanliness of her demands. She was irresistible. A wave of yielding weakness passed through him with a visible tremor and pulling her thick root like a handle, he drew her close and kissed her lips.

As they kissed, she unzipped his pants and her hand slid through the opening to retrieve his cock. It was hard. She was not surprised.

She pulled back and smiled at him. "Do you want me?" she asked, in a husky baby doll whisper.

He said nothing but buried his head in her thick hair till he reached her neck and let his tongue answer with a long kiss that made its way from her neck to her mouth.

"Suck me, baby," she said.

Now he pulled back and looked at her with faint apprehension. "You do what I tell you, baby," she said, in a soothing maternal voice.

He sank to his knees and looked up at her in helpless supplication. She smiled down at him and hoisted her tube top and bra up over her breasts, letting them sway above him like dark shadows. She smiled again. "Go ahead, baby."

She guided her big cock to his mouth and drew it across his lips a few times before they opened and opened and opened and soon it was glistening and gliding, in and out across his tongue, down his throat, over his lips and back, swelling with each stroke until it threatened to choke him.

As he fell into the rhythm of the trancelike motion, Denise turned toward the mirror and studied this strange tableau vivant. Her body now arched over the supplicant, hands against the tiled wall, breasts spiraling over him like heavy fruit and he below, shaking the tree by its thick trunk with drunken abandon. The thrust of her round, white buttocks; the dark, shimmering hair falling around her head, shaking with each lunge; the pouting, mocking lips, the raw, redness of her glistening cock. Were these the devices that pumped the blood to her groin or was it Belson's unschooled lips, his untalented tongue? No, it was she and her alone. The juicy vision of her contradictions, the crucifying beauty of her womanly body and her red male member, the sweetness of her face and the cruelty of her desire, the mingling of innocent youth with ravenous lust. The puppet Belson. She smiled at the ease with which she pulled his strings and her triumphant smile unexpectedly brought forth the streaming, white gism that flowed out the sides of his mouth and spurted into his damp hair and fell to the tiles in clotted, milky drops. Before the last spunk was spilled Denise pulled away from Belson to face the mirror and grasping her cock with both hands, she took aim at her own deliciously bawdy image. A final shot, issuing from deep within her groin, arced and hit the mirror, clouding the reflection of her face with hot, white cum.

 

 

 

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© 1991 by Leigh de Santa Fe. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.