I was instructed to report back to Laura's flat the next morning, which was Sunday. After another restless night, I showered and then got dressed, putting on a pair of knickers. Despite my nervousness, my penis started to become excited inside its cage. My mind flitted back to a time when I was eighteen and my sister, Phoebe, had caught me in her room, rifling through her underwear collection.
I had been drawn there by curiosity--and envy--because girls always had more variety in their undies compared with boys. There were more colours, more fabrics, more styles, more textures, and, of course, there were items that had no male equivalent, such as bras, tights, stockings, suspender belts, camisoles and petticoats. I intended to "borrow" one or two items, take them back to my room, and use them to satisfy my sexual appetite--not to wear them, you understand, nor to soil them, but just to use them as aids to fuel my imagination. I had done this before, and never been caught. Where was the harm? And what could go wrong?
That day, I had learnt to my cost what could go wrong, and my world came crashing down. Understandably, Phoebe had been furious on discovering what I was doing. Distracted by what I was finding, I had been unaware of her coming up the stairs, accompanied by her best friend, Zoe, who was also twenty-one, the same age as Phoebe. They had caught me red-handed.
Ignoring my grovelling, abject apologies, the two girls discussed whether to tell my Mum what I had been doing. It mortified me that she might learn that her son was a pervert, and I begged them not to grass me up.
Smiling slyly, it was Zoe who had suggested my punishment, but Phoebe had enthusiastically endorsed the idea. A quarter of an hour later I found myself parading in front of the two girls wearing a pair of plain, high-waisted, white cotton knickers and a similarly plain white bra stuffed with white socks. Both items were left over from Phoebe's school days, and both were too small for me, with the elastic of the panties and the band of the bra digging into my flesh.
My ensemble was unmistakeably feminine, but there was nothing remotely attractive about these items--they were nothing like the alluring lingerie that I had been fingering a short while earlier. The bra and knickers were purposefully intended not to titillate, yet here I was, dressed in them in front of my sister and Zoe.
I wanted to die from embarrassment, but, at the same time, I found myself being turned on by the humiliation I was suffering. My sexual arousal was obvious for them both to see, so my pleas not to be made to dress like a girl had led to scornful remarks.
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," declared Zoe, quoting from Shakespeare.
"Flesh stays no further reason, but rising at thy name," added Phoebe, cryptically.
I was now speechless with fright and tried to cover myself up, but they would have none of it. "Get your hands away," hissed my sister.
My fear increased as she took photos on her phone. "You've nothing to worry about, unless I catch you doing this again, Stephanie, but, if I do, then..." She left the sentence hanging--she had no need to complete it.
"I bet this is not the first time he's done this," commented Zoe, pouring petrol on the flames.
"Is it?" asked Phoebe.
"Er..." I replied, unsure what to say.
"Obviously not the first time then," concluded Zoe, with a smug look. "What a sicko!" she sneered.
But next, adding to my stress, Phoebe delved into a cupboard and pulled out her old school uniform, last worn when she was eighteen and in her final year at school. Any hope that it would prove too small for me quickly evaporated. It was a tight fit, but soon I was wearing a very short, pleated green skirt, a white shirt, a tie and white ankle socks.
"He needs to shave his legs," declared Zoe, her eyes sparkling, and her pupils dilated in excitement.
"No!" I pleaded.
"YES!" replied Phoebe with zeal, and, before I knew what was happening, she had produced an electric shaver. I was told to hitch up my skirt, allowing her to run the shaver up and down both legs. I watched terrified as I was denuded of hair, wondering how I would explain that at school, when changing for games. Yet still my arousal persisted, strengthened still further when they forced me to adopt modelling poses in front of a full-length mirror.
More photos were taken, but even worse was to follow, when the pair made me sit down at Phoebe's desk and write out, one hundred times, "I must not dress up in my sister's underwear". My two tormenters watched the television in the room while I wrote my lines. Upon completion, Phoebe made me add my name to the top of each page and then, to my horror, she locked the lines into her desk drawer. "It's just for insurance, Stephanie," she had declared, and she and Zoe burst out laughing.
This had happened four years ago, but it could have been yesterday. Quite possibly, Phoebe still possessed the images and my written lines, to be produced when she feels the time is right. Consequently, I am always careful never to provoke her on the rare occasions we meet up. And the contempt she shows me suggests I have never been forgiven.
My ordeal that day had been a traumatic experience, and had probably marked the start of my obeisance towards women, something that Laura had very quickly picked up on.
oooOOooo
I snapped out of my daydream and looked down at my choice of panties. I had chosen the white pair, for the illogical reason that white seems more masculine than pink or powder blue. I say illogical, because male underwear, whilst it may be white, is not usually made of delicate satin with lace panels.
They were the right size and Laura's insistence that I started visiting the university gym, along with her controlling my calorie intake, had flattened the slight paunch she had once commented on. Looking in the mirror, I liked what I saw--and would have liked it better had it not been for my chastity device restricting my enjoyment. However, I dreaded the thought of further visits to the gym now I was confined to wearing knickers, but that was a battle to be fought on another day.
After breakfast, I picked up the matching white bra, and set off to drive to Laura's flat, being sure to drive carefully rather than risk being hospitalised after an accident. I rang her bell, and she quickly opened the door. After greeting me, and giving me the usual peck on the cheek, she said, "Show me."
This could only mean one thing, so I undid my jeans and let them slip to the floor. "Hmm... Very nice," she concluded. "They're a good fit and they suit you. Give me a twirl...Wow!"
She had seen I was holding my bra. "Why aren't you wearing it, Stevie?"
"Er, I didn't think I had to wear it in public, Miss," I replied, sensing that this explanation would not satisfy her.
"Good grief, Stevie, you've driven here in your damn car. Who the hell would have seen your bra? Put it on now, and then we'll deal with your stupidity."
I stripped off and pushed my arms through the shoulder straps of the bra. She giggled as I reached behind and tried, unsuccessfully, to do up the clasps. "You're useless," she laughed. "I'll do it this time, but, when you get home, you're going to practice. I'll test you next time and if you can't do it up in fifteen seconds then you'll have a sore bum. Understood?"
"Yes, Miss." She quickly fastened my bra and then passed me some rolled-up tights to put into each cup. "You need these for shape," she assured me. "How's it feel?"
"Strange, Miss," I responded. "It's very tight across my chest. I'm very conscious of it being there."
She smiled, "You'll get used to it." I wasn't convinced she was right, but I did find wearing a bra and panties to be arousing and I was feeling more discomfort down under, inside my cage.
"Now you've got the right undies on, we need to deal with your stupidity. Wait here."
As instructed, I waited, dressed only in my new underwear, while she went to her bedroom, returning a minute later with an eighteen-inch-long leather strap. Seeing my quizzical expression she commented, "It's a tawse, poppet. It's what naughty boys get when they've not been using common sense. Hold out your right arm. Keep it horizontal with your palm facing up."
Obediently, I did so, and she raised the tawse and then brought it down with a resounding smack on my upturned hand. "Ouch!" I cried.
