It was a strange and sexy garment. I turned it around while studying the intricate lace.
I had never seen Mom or Becky put one on, so it was not clear to me how one was slipped on.
I was confident you did not step into it, so I tried hooking it and slipping it over my head without success.
Finally, I wrapped it around my waist and hooked it, and then I turned it around my waist and pulled it into place.
It was difficult to slip my arms through the straps while trying to pull it up.
“There is an easier way to do that,” Mom stood in my doorway.
I jumped. “Mom,” embarrassed I tried covering my chest and crotch.
“Don’t worry.”
“Mom, this isn’t funny.”
“I’m sorry,” she turned around, “put your pants on then I’ll fix your bra.”
“It’s not my bra,” I mumbled while I rushed to get my pants on.
“Are your pants on?”
“Yes.”
“When I put my bra on I just slip my arms through the straps and then reach behind to hook the clasp,”
Mom illustrated for me as she explained the process.
“Thanks Mom, but I won’t be wearing a bra after tonight.”
“Bobby it will take weeks for Becky to sew her dress.”
“Weeks? When I agreed to do help I thought it was just tonight.”
“No, Dear. It takes time to sew a dress. Put your top on then come to my bedroom.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You agreed to it, you have to,” Mom turned and left my room.
I pulled my white T-shirt on.
When I looked in the mirror I could see the pink bra through the T-shirt.
I felt a tinge of gratification and pride.
Part of me felt the need to stop, to go back, but there was no going back.
I headed for Mom’s room.
The distance to her bedroom was short, but that short walk was unforgettable.
I could not believe how sensuous Becky’s panties felt as I walked.
I was aware of my every movement.
I felt giddy.
Again, part of me worried about enjoying wearing Becky’s underwear.
I also became fearful when I walked pass Becky.
Could she tell that I was enjoying myself?
“I’m here,” I told Mom while glancing back at Becky sitting on the sofa.
The way she smiled at me made me uncomfortable.
“Come over here,” Mom commanded.
“I cut a pair of old pantyhose to stuff with cotton balls.”
“What for?”
“You need breasts; you need to be the same size as Becky.”
I gave her a questioning expression.
“Don’t worry I gave Becky a little help when she was twelve.”
Mom continued to tell me about Becky’s first bra, a training bra.
I did not say anything I just listened while she worked on stuffing and shaping the nylon falsie.
It was strange to listen to Mom talk about Becky’s first bra.
“Okay, let’s see how this fits.”