The Crossdresser
I suck at finishing anything, so thinking about writing a few flash-fiction snippets. Let me know if you're a fan.
He supposed, in a way, it was about being wanted. It wasn't about the soft feel of the intricate and delicate fabrics against his skin, it was more about the reaction of his master when he was seen. He smiled, blushing slightly as he pulled on a pair of pink socks, warm and with subtle lace at the seam. They were short, and his manly feet barely fit inside but felt cozy as he stepped into the heeled shoes. They were black, sleek and elegant - thin with pointed front ending in a rounded tip. The heel was short and inoffensive, as if there rather by necessity than by choice, and they barely gave him more than a half-inch in height as he stood experimentally. The skirt, he thought, looking himself in the mirror, was a good choice. Though perhaps mis-matched with the pink and black footware, the tartan number was short, seductive and playful. It reflected the energy and rough edges of his person whilst still revealing his athletic legs, shaved clean for his master.
His master was kind, loving, affectionate and quick to remark on things of beauty. He, as a submissive person had always felt somewhat lost without a master, had sought for his life for some purpose or meaning - something which gave him fulfillment. Now he had finally found it, and his love for it filled the gap in his life in more ways than one.
The panties were special. He had faced some interesting looks when he had purchased them in store, a present for my girlfriend, he had said, trying to ignore the accusing look of the cashier and the questioning glances of other shoppers, almost exclusively female in the female orientated section of the shop. In his mind, however, they were admiring his courage, his audacity, his vigor... and if he had chosen to look back, which he hadn't, he would probably have seen the curious faces of the crowd staring at his pert rear stuffed into tight jeans, wondering just what those panties would look like pressed against his bum.
He no longer had to wonder, blushing a deep red as he saw himself in the mirror, lifting that skirt to reveal the delicate lace and suppressing a murr of self-lust as he felt the soft fabric touching his unmentionables. He lowered his skirt, trying to suppress his growing lust and avoid any unusual tenting of the skirt.
The bra was more difficult, but easier to coordinate. A simple white shirt would do to cover it, buttoned like a school girl's blouse - exactly so, in fact, as it was. But the bra - that needed some improvisation. He had never worn one before, and whilst shopping had noticed all sorts of strange maniacal forms of lock and restraint which seemed altogether more like bondage than straps and fastens to hold it in place. He realised, in the end, to wear one he would need a small size, and to aid his master, a simple hook-bra. His efforts had produced a petit item which barely covered his pecs, his nipples stuffed snuggly into surprisingly soft cups, which endeavoured to hold his non-existent breasts, and did so admirably. In the mirror it almost looked unnecessary, like a strap held around his person, but after tightening the straps and hoisting it tight against his body he smiled, seeing his body shape subtly alter to accommodate his new upper-body bulge.
There would be no make-up, he decided. It was enough to brush his teeth, wash his face and smile. His face was already quite unisex, neither defined chin nor cheekbones and a rather inoffensive adams apple quivering under a full lipped smile, and cheeks which simple would not stop blushing. His hair was short, but brushed smoothly back regardless and his eyes were wide and unobscured by mascara.
He pulled down the blouse, straightened his skirt and turned around, taking one last moment to savour the feel of the soft clothing against his skin.
"Okay, you can look now."