The next time I got caught in women’s clothes was a mixture of bad planning and random chance. I believe I was nine years old. My parents had gone out for the evening, but my mother had forgotten something and come back home. I was already dressed in my sexiest, least-run beige pantyhose and an old, white lace full slip when she came in my room to check on me. I must have looked terribly awkward standing there ashamedly in my female things. She didn’t say a word and just shut the door.

Of course, I lost all interest in my little fetish after that and I quickly put away all my girly stuff. The next day I was helped to purge myself of my secret wardrobe. Then after answering a battery of questions about my “problem”, I was embarrassed enough to actually want to quit cross-dressing.

But the draw of my clothing fetish was too intense. I was inventive and persistent, and one day I took an interest in sewing that I practiced whenever I found myself alone. Between that and my trash scrounging, I soon had another adequate stash of girly clothing again.

It was many years after that before I finally got caught again. My father had cheated on my mother a few years before and after much fighting, they had gotten a divorce. Child support kept my mother from spending too much time away from home. I guess all of us kids felt a little guilt over the whole thing, but of course it wasn’t our fault. Still, we often ended up choosing sides. The other boys liked to spend time with Dad, but I stayed with Mom whenever I could. I think my mother helped me get out of visitations because I was still her favorite. I was always glad to be at home with my feminine things.

Of course, when Mom would be distracted doing chores or relaxing, I would “play” in my room. It was during one of these times that she caught me. I was fifteen. I had dressed up in my favorite shiny, tan dance tights. I had on a lacy pink, sock-filled bra and a filmy pink baby-doll nightie. My favorite part of my outfit was some silky pink baby-girl panties covered with lacy ruffles. I had also found a pair of some fold-down ankle socks with lace around them. I was involved in some acting at school and had learned about makeup and “borrowed” an old wig from the supply of costumes. Using the makeup I’d collected to the best of my un-practiced skills, I was in full female regalia when she walked in.

Unfortunately, my embarrassment didn’t end there. I had seen some damsels-in-distress type scenes on TV and I was experimenting with self-bondage, pretending I was a damsel desperately trying to free myself. I was a bit tied up when my mom pushed her way past the dresser I’d moved in front of my door. I never understood why those stupid doors didn’t have locks.

There I was: dressed in my finest, looking every bit the sissy, standing with my hands tied around the post of my tall four-post bed. “Mom??!” I shrieked breathlessly. She just stood there for all of a minute without moving. I used the time to try to struggle out of my ropes. Unfortunately, I had tied myself pretty good this time, and between my shame and some bizarre sense of modesty, I didn’t even attempt to climb up on the bed and lift my wrists over the post.