Butterscotch -5- Preview (Patreon)

Marjorie headed directly to the lingerie department where I began practicing my cringing. The sum total of taboo femininity in sight overwhelmed my brain and my consciousness threatened to strobe out.

“She’s serious,” I muttered to no one.

She had a bra in her hands and approached me, saying, “Let me use this to get an idea of your sizes.”

“Agh!” I mentioned but she wrapped it around my chest and noted how much it overlapped.

“Probably a thirty-two,” she said. “You are tiny!” She discarded that item and tried another. “Keep your arms up,” she ordered me. Then, “Yeah, and an A-cup will be big enough.”

A salesgirl approached, a teen who might have attended my high school last year. Not that I would have recognized her in my current state if she had, my brain was functioning on the level of a cartoon chipmunk. “Can I help you?” she inquired. Her name tag identified her as Deirdre. I didn’t think the chipmunk knew anyone named Deirdre.

“Sure,” Marjorie said. “We’re dressing my baby brother up as a girl for a party tonight.”

They both laughed and I died a little more. Baby brother?

“Not your idea?” Deirdre asked me.

I shook my head. “I still don’t remember agreeing to this,” I said.

Marjorie laughed again. “Think of your half of the thousand dollars. We all put up money for a prize for the prettiest boy at the party,” she amplified her lie. “My boyfriend won’t do it so I roped in my brother.” At this point she leaned over and gave me a sisterly kiss on the cheek. “I’m paying for it all out of my half, so we better win.”

“Guk?” I noted. Her audacity and ease at prevarication appalled me.

Saying she was paying for it all and that I would get five hundred if I won got Deirdre on her side. The salesgirl quickly got into the spirit of things, producing a padded panty, little silicone bra enhancers called chicken fillets, patterned hose so I wouldn’t have to shave my legs, various cheap bangles and beads and the previously mentioned little black dress.

“I’m not going to wear a dress,” I protested. But Marjorie dragged me toward the changing room to try everything on.

Deirdre promised to keep anyone else out, though we were the only ones in the store at the moment. “Big sisters are the worst,” she commiserated with me, giggling. “I’ve got two. So bossy!”

Got that right, I thought. Marjorie began stripping my clothes off before we got the curtains closed.

My shirt was already off when she pulled down my pants. “I was right,” she gloated. “You’ve got fabulous legs and you probably wouldn’t even have to shave. What size shoe do you wear?”

Another embarrassment. I have tiny feet. “Uh, 5-1/2B,” I admitted. I sometimes have to shop for shoes in the kids department because Men’s sizes usually start at 6D.

“Deirdre? Can you find her a low-heel pump in a 7-Narrow?”

“Wow,” commented Deirdre who was about my height. “I wear a 9-Wide.”

“Me, too,” admitted Marjorie. “I can’t believe how small your hands and feet are, baby,” she said to me. Then my shorts came down and she grinned up at me. Yeah, I’m small there, too.

But despite the embarrassing attention, or perhaps because of it, Little Davey was standing tall. Maybe all of 3-1/2 inches sticking up through my scanty pubic curls. “Can you tuck it back?” Marjorie asked. She already had the padded panty pulled up to my knees.

“Not when things are all hard like this—it would hurt,” I protested, keeping my voice quiet. Besides, I hated to admit it but I’d never been fond of touching myself down there. It seemed icky and unclean, especially if things were—excited.

“Crap,” she said. “Well, I don’t want to touch it.” She looked up at me and showed her dimples, whispering, “You’re supposed to be my brother.”

She addressed herself to my brave little soldier. “Meat grinders, ice cubes, barb wire, knives, nut crackers, pencil sharpeners, sharks,” she said in a threatening voice.

“Hey!” That actually did hurt! I think my balls went up inside me to escape. I felt something like that once when I dove into an ice cold swimming pool.

“Bread slicing machine,” said Marjorie finished her list. “That seems to have done it.” Little Davey had wilted to no more than half mast. She started pulling the panties up again. “See if you can push everything up inside,” she ordered me, as bossy as any real big sister.

I tried, reluctantly poking and prodding things down there. It worked surprisingly well. The only real evidence of my male sex, Corporal L.D. and his two privates, went up inside the loose flesh of my crotch leaving only some odd-looking wrinkles. 

Marjorie immediately pulled the black satin padded panties up tight, keeping everything hidden. They added two or three inches to my hips and rounded my ass out a bit.

And I now had a crotch as smooth as any girl’s. I felt light headed.

“If you’re trying on underwear,” said Deirdre from outside the changing booth, “you’ll have to pay for it whether it fits or not.” The curtain did not go all the way to the floor so she probably saw when Marjorie slipped the panties over my ankles.

“It fits.”

“Oh, good. I found some shoes,” the salesgirl said. “Black patent leather Mary Janes with an inch-and-three-quarter heel in 7B and 7C. See which fit.” She pushed two boxes under the curtain.

“In a minute,” said Marjorie. “Let’s get your bra sorted.” She wrapped my chest in the black lace, fastened the hooks in front, spun it around and pulled the straps up over my arms. The chicken fillets had sticky backs after she pulled off a protective paper. Pulling what little flesh I had there up, she placed the silicone enhancers underneath and then adjusted the fit of the bra.

I looked down. I appeared to have rather modest cleavage and a pair of genuine A-cups. “Holy shit,” I said. I felt my nipples crinkle up in the bra, weird sensation.

“Not hardly,” said Madeline. “Those are some righteous little titties.” She giggled in excitement, the first time I had heard her make such a high-pitched laugh. She turned me with a gentle push so I faced the full-length tri-fold mirror on the back wall of the booth.

A girl in sexy underwear but wearing my face looked back at me. I blinked several times and the girl blinked back, proving she really was me.

“Panty hose can wait,” said Marjorie. “Your nails are a mess and you’d probably make runs in them. Dee, honey, have you got a measuring tape?”

Deirdre passed a yellow measuring tape through the curtain. “Can I see?” she asked.

“No!” I yelped. 

But Marjorie said, “Sure, just don’t open the curtain. You can stick your head through.”

I sat down and wrapped my arms around myself as Deirdre’s head appeared in the opening. “Marjie! I’m just wearing underwear!”

“Pooh,” she said. “Nobody here but us girls.” She laughed and I know I turned bright red.

Deirdre giggled. “You look fine! Great actually. Wear some makeup and you’re sure to win. Wow, you have freckles all over. huh? Did you already shave your legs?”

I shook my head. “Not gonna either,” I said, trying to firm my jaw up so it didn’t look so much like I was pouting in the mirror.

“She doesn’t need to,” said Marjorie. She pried one of my arms away from covering my cleavage and lifted my hand above my head. “See? She has hardly any armpit hair either,” showing my few sad wisps, hardly darker than my skintone. Sad really.

“Told you I missed the bus,” I complained. It definitely looked like I was pouting.

“Bus?” Deirdre looked confused. “How old are you, -uh-? Fourteen?”

“Yup,” said Marjorie, grinning at me. “Abie is a freshman at Hollywood High but she’s going by Abby tonight. She’s hoping not to meet anyone from her school.”

Deirdre giggled. “Yeah, that might be embarrassing.” Actually, I had gone to John Marshall in Los Feliz and I doubted that any of the geeks and nerds that had been my friends would be anywhere near wherever Marjorie intended to go.

“Stand up,” she ordered, “I want to measure you. Do you know how tall you are?”

“I’m five-five, nearly.” Well, maybe. I stood as tall as I could, still pouting. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t grown any since my freshman year and it was a sore spot.

She used the tape quickly around my augmented bust and hips as well as my chest and waist.

“31-3/4 chest, 33 bust, 28 waist, 31-3/4 hips,” she reported.

Deirdre made motions with her hands, “An hour glass figure,” she giggled.

I pouted at her too but got distracted, staring at my reflection. The girl in the mirror really was me.

“Deirdre, do you guys have a corset or a waist cincher?” Marjorie asked.

“Sure,” the sales girl disappeared again but was soon back with two more packages of black lingerie. She held them up one at a time, “This one has hooks and zippers, while the other has laces like a traditional corset. It’s also prettier with embroidery and stuff.”

“Damnit,” I muttered. The tight panty was beginning to feel very full in a weird way.

“Do you have a preference, Abby?” Marjorie asked.

I just glared at her.

“Let’s try the lacy one,” said my ersatz sister. “It probably has more adjustment.“ She tapped a size chart on one of the posts of the changing booth. “We want to get her waist down to twenty-six inches, so she’ll fit in a size six.”

Deirdre nodded, “Should be doable. There are steel stays in that one.”

“Steel?” I yelped. “Wait a minute! Is this going to hurt?”

“Oh, yeah,” Deirdre nodded.

“Not at all,” said Marjorie at the same time, smiling with her dimples showing. “It’s just like a nice hug around your middle.”