Of course, my legs were still my own – but they had that organised only too well also. “Hmm,” said Hilda to Gertrude, “those suspenders on Peter’s panty-girdle are being wasted, aren’t they? Perhaps we need to fit him with a pair of sheer nylons, just to complete the picture …”
They already had brought a few packets of nylons with them, so it didn’t take too long to have me wearing a pair of size 7 seamed Kayser dark-tan 15 denier stockings. The first pair they tried on were too long, so there was a minor delay while those came off and were replaced by the size 7 nylons, which were a perfect fit and reached the suspenders on my pantie-girdle perfectly. I was only a sort of mannequin while this was going on, because Hilda and Gertrude were doing all the fiddling and fitting. The stocking seams seemed to be the most difficult part for them to get right, and I had to keep turning this way and that until they were satisfied that my seams were indeed straight. “Turn around slowly in front of the mirror, Peter” I was ordered. I could only obey of course, and I was so shocked to see just how feminine my legs now looked, along with of course my boobies, hips and bum.
If it wasn’t for my familiar face, I’d have sworn I was looking at the figure of some pretty girl. It was really quite disconcerting how all those various feminine undergarments had transformed me from a typical 13 year old schoolboy into a schoolgirl princess. However, that also was to change, because the door suddenly opened and there was Mrs Edna Bainbridge herself, carrying a couple of wigs.
“Well done, ladies!” she said in her booming voice. “This naughty lad Peter is really starting to look quite a pretty girl now. All we need is to get his head looking appropriate too… Within a couple of minutes I’d been fitted with a schoolgirl wig complete with plaits dangling down either side of my shoulders. It was just so humiliating, to look like some kind of ‘Heidi’ or “Dorothy’ from the Wizard Of Oz. However, they weren’t wearing a pantie-girdle and seamed stocking like I’d been forced to wear, so my embarrassment was even worse.
I was ordered to turn around while the three of them checked me out from every angle, but they seemed to be satisfied. What was in store for me now, I wondered? I soon found out …
The three ladies had been whispering together, and finally, with a nasty giggle, Edna announced that I no longer was a “Peter,” but more correctly a “Petula.”
“Now,” she boomed in that grating voice, “it’s time for you, Petula, to be petticoated and frocked, ready for your mother and sister to collect you. We only have ten minutes left before they’ll be here, and we want to look nice, don’t we – sweetie?” I could have died, but what could I do? Not only were they bigger and stronger than I, a mere 13 year old boy, but, in a tight pantie-girdle, any thoughts of escape were futile. So I could only follow the three of them out of the changing room in my frillie undies and thank God that the shop was closed, so no lady customers were there to laugh at me.
Mrs Bainbridge led me and the two salesladies out to the ‘Junior Debutante’ area where various frocks were on display, along with petticoats of various degrees of frilliness and lace. I was forced to try on three different frocks until they all agreed a pink brocade one was perfect for me, along with two separate frilly petticoats. It was really the lowest point of the whole day for me, because I had to also put on a pair of low-heel pink open-toe shoes with sling-back straps behind, while the three of them ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ about how pretty I looked.
Well, I’m only human and I couldn’t help but sneak a glimpse at myself in a big mirror nearby. I could have cried, because I looked so pretty, it was beyond belief. The frock looked fantastic on me, but the really disturbing part was my legs. In those dark seamed stockings and the pink sling-backs, my legs looked like I was some kind of junior Princess glamour model. I must have been in some kind of sissy stupor, because Mrs Bainbridge suddenly said quite loudly: “Well, Peter – or should we say, Petula, it’s time to do your make-up. Your mother and sister will be here in ten minutes to collect you, and we don’t want to disappoint them, do we, dearie?”
All I could do was meekly follow them, trying my best not to fall over in those low-heel sling-backs, with my lacy petticoats rustling as I walked.
By now, I had long given up any ideas of escape, even if it were possible, dressed like that, with the pantie-girdle especially confining my movements. I soon realised why ladies took such small, mincing steps in their frocks and high heels – it was the only thing they could do, with most likely a tight girdle holding their nylons up.
We reached another room which had lots of make-up and such stuff there, and I had to sit down while I had lipstick, mascara and rouge applied to my face. I was also fitted with pink earrings, pink gloves and a double row of fake pink pearls. The final thing was having my fingernails painted a bright pink colour, to match my frock. It was so humiliating, I could have burst into tears, but then things got even worse, when Hilda announced that my mother and sister were there to collect me …
If the ground could have opened up to swallow me, I would have cheerfully jumped in, pink sling-backs and all. But it didn’t, and there were my mother and sister Wendy with such expressions of glee on their face, as Mrs Bainbridge announced that “Petula” was ready for collection.
I said nothing, just looking at the ground, as we headed outside the shop. It was bad enough trying to walk in the pink sling-backs on the pavement compared to how it had been in the shop, on their soft carpet. Worse, the heels made an awfully loud “click-clack” noise as I walked between Mum and Wendy. I felt as if the whole world was watching me …
They weren’t, of course, although it seemed that way. However, I suffered another shock when, as we turned down into our street, there were three of my school chums coming in the other direction. “Oh, no,” I thought – if it isn’t bad enough already, the word will be all around the school soon that I’ve been turned into a sissie … However, I was surprised to hear several “wolf-whistles” from them, indicating that I met with their approval.
My fat sister Wendy whispered in my ear, “Hey, Petula, you’ve already won over some boys’ hearts.” I kept walking in the most feminine way I could do, looking straight ahead, trying not to trip over in those silly shoes …
Pretty soon we were almost home, and my heart skipped as I saw our familiar front door. Surely this charade would soon be over, and I could get out of this girly gear at last? Nooooooooo …!! Mother said in a firm voice to my sister Wendy: “Petula here has been invited to our next door neighbours’ Cynthia and Brenda’s tea-party. Would you kindly escort ‘her’ to their front door?” It was then I almost burst into tears, this being the final turn of the blade after all the other humiliations. Those awful girls from next door, whose tent I had brought down upon them, were going to see me dressed up in my junior feminine finery, and take a terrible revenge. I just knew it would be like that, but what could I do? Run off down the street in my frock, restrained in my girdle, nylons and heels? No, all I could do was meekly accompany my elder sister Wendy as she hit the doorbell of the house next door …
The door opened, and there were Mrs Thomson and her daughters Cynthia and Brenda, giggling away as they saw me doing my best to look composed. “I’ve brought along Petula, who I believe has been invited to your tea-party. Go on in, Petula, there’s a good girl. I’m sure you’re going to all have a wonderful time… She gave me a less than helpful push, and I almost fell over the doorway entrance, thanks to the pink sling-backs which I still hadn’t got accustomed to. The door slammed shut behind me, and there I was, surrounded by not only Cynthia and Brenda, but lots of their girly friends all dressed in party frocks and petticoats, just like me … I wished the earth would swallow me up right there and then, but of course it didn’t. So all I could do was follow Mrs. Thomson into the lounge, trying to ignore all the giggling girls.
Bad as things had been so far, the next two hours were far worse. I had to assist Mrs. Thomson in the kitchen, getting sandwiches, cakes and buns onto trays, ready to be taken out into the lounge. Then I had to help with the washing up, and she insisted I wear a really humiliating white apron with lots of frilly lace around the edges for it. It wasn’t one of those short ones that just fasten around the waist, either. This one was a full apron that went over my head, and was secured behind with two wide bands that Mrs Thomson tied in a large bow at the back. My embarrassment was getting worse every moment, because once the washing up was finished, I’d hoped she’d undo that soppy apron – but no.
Apparently it was to stay on, and I couldn’t reach behind my back to undo the tight bows.
“Petula, darling – you really look such a sweetie in that apron, I think you should leave it on while you serve the girls their food,” said Mrs. Thomson. “The only thing is, those pretty sandals you’re wearing don’t really look very practical for serving food, do they? Would you like to change out of them, perhaps?”
I jumped at the chance to get out of them, but maybe I should have kept my mouth shut instead. “Oh, yes please, Mrs Thomson,” I said as coyly as I could.
“Come with me upstairs then, darling” she ordered. So I followed her upstairs …