I Want To Know What Influenced You To Crossdress
My mother got divorced when I was quite young, and remarried several years later. I never got on with my step-father – I thought he was a bit of a boor, and he clearly thought I was a mummy’s boy.
When I was 12, I became fascinated with the tv ads for women’s control wear. This was the late seventies, and it was still common to see bras and girdles being advertised on tv. I guess it was an adolescence thing, but I developed a slight fetish about these things. I would masturbate thinking about them and, of course, it was only a matter of time until I tried on my mother’s girdle.
I can’t say I enjoyed the sensation of having it on – but it was a turn on. After having it on for a few minutes, I’d pull it down, masturbate, then tug the thing off and put it back in its drawer. In those moments immediately after masturbation, I hated the fact that I had it on, and couldn’t get out of it quick enough. So I wasn’t really into cross-dressing – it was just an adolescent stimulation.
Of course, I got caught. I was so mortified. My step-dad blew a fuse, and issued various dire threats if I was ever caught again. I was caught a second time. And a third. And that’s what did it. “So you want to be a sissy then?” he screamed. “Right!”
It was close to the new school year, and my birthday was coming up. I thought I knew what I was getting, but I was in for a surprise. We’d been shopping for my new school uniform, and I was waiting with my step-father while my mum was off doing some personal shopping. When she came back, she was stony-faced. “Did you get it?” my step-father asked, and she just nodded and handed him a large package.
It turned out to be my birthday present and also an unwanted part of my new school uniform – a Berlei “Instant Slimmer” long leg panty girdle. Two, actually, so I’d always have one to wear while the other was in the wash. I was shocked when I opened it on my birthday, but it was made pretty clear that I was expected to wear it. Permanently. All day, every day. No excuses. And I had to stay out of my mother’s underwear drawer from now or there would be real trouble. (I dread to think what he had in mind.)
I didn’t know then if it was a half-assed attempt at aversion therapy or whether he just got his thrills from bullying me. I begged and pleaded, he slapped me around a bit, and I put on my new girdle. We repeated the performance the first morning of school – I was bawling my eyes out as I tucked in my shirt and fastened my trousers with my new girdle holding me in underneath.
I said earlier I didn’t enjoy the feeling of having a girdle on. By now, I loathed it. There was no sexual excitement any more – just the shame of wearing women’s underwear and being excruciatingly conscious of it every second. My stupid mum hadn’t only caved in to this monster, she’d actually measured me and stupidly got me the correct size. So, instead of having something fairly slack on me, I was being properly held in by a well-fitting firm girdle.
I can still recall the horror of that first walk to school – meeting people, having them see me and worrying if they’d notice, watching the clock slowly, slowly oh so slowly tick off the seconds, minutes and hours, with everything the teachers were saying going in one ear and out the other as all I could think about was the tightness of my girdle. Standing up and walking away after having been sitting for 45 minutes or so was agonising – the tightness of the thing round my thighs, backside and belly was unbelievable.
I would have told a teacher, but I was too ashamed to tell anyone. So I wore a girdle all day at school, all evening at home, all weekend. I cried every morning as I put it on, and spent all day yearning for bedtime, when I could finally take it off. I don’t know how they did it, but I was excused gym class, and so there wasn’t even the respite of the odd day off. I had to wear a girdle every single day.
When Christmas came around, and I had been wearing girdles for nearly five months, instead of presents, I got tights (pantyhose) and a couple of long line bras. Any time my dwindling supply of boy’s underwear needed replacing, it was with panties. That’s when I realised he was a sadist.
My mum took in the bra cups a little so that there wouldn’t be excess material bunching at the front. I was a little overweight, and my step-father actually laughed at the sight of my slight boy-boobs filling the reduced cups. I wore heavier pullovers and trousers than the rest of the boys, and was often asked about it, especially in the summer term. I never had a good reason – I could hardly tell them it was necessary to hide signs of my corsetry. Apart from very slight boy-boobs standing proud and very faint girdle rings mid-thigh, no one was any the wiser.
And as I grew out of my old foundations, new ones were bought. From the age of 12 up to when I left home at 18 to go to university, I had to wear panties, tights, a long-leg panty girdle and a long line bra every waking moment of nearly every day. I would only get a handful of days off every year for things medicals and other doctor’s appointments, going on holiday, having relations over to visit and other times where there was a high chance my cross-dressing would be noticed and cause trouble. How I looked forward to those days, and how I cried on the first day after a holiday as he stood over me and watched as I put my girdle and bra back on.
And my mum never stood up for me once. I’ve never forgiven her for that.
When I was 12, I became fascinated with the tv ads for women’s control wear. This was the late seventies, and it was still common to see bras and girdles being advertised on tv. I guess it was an adolescence thing, but I developed a slight fetish about these things. I would masturbate thinking about them and, of course, it was only a matter of time until I tried on my mother’s girdle.
I can’t say I enjoyed the sensation of having it on – but it was a turn on. After having it on for a few minutes, I’d pull it down, masturbate, then tug the thing off and put it back in its drawer. In those moments immediately after masturbation, I hated the fact that I had it on, and couldn’t get out of it quick enough. So I wasn’t really into cross-dressing – it was just an adolescent stimulation.
Of course, I got caught. I was so mortified. My step-dad blew a fuse, and issued various dire threats if I was ever caught again. I was caught a second time. And a third. And that’s what did it. “So you want to be a sissy then?” he screamed. “Right!”
It was close to the new school year, and my birthday was coming up. I thought I knew what I was getting, but I was in for a surprise. We’d been shopping for my new school uniform, and I was waiting with my step-father while my mum was off doing some personal shopping. When she came back, she was stony-faced. “Did you get it?” my step-father asked, and she just nodded and handed him a large package.
It turned out to be my birthday present and also an unwanted part of my new school uniform – a Berlei “Instant Slimmer” long leg panty girdle. Two, actually, so I’d always have one to wear while the other was in the wash. I was shocked when I opened it on my birthday, but it was made pretty clear that I was expected to wear it. Permanently. All day, every day. No excuses. And I had to stay out of my mother’s underwear drawer from now or there would be real trouble. (I dread to think what he had in mind.)
I didn’t know then if it was a half-assed attempt at aversion therapy or whether he just got his thrills from bullying me. I begged and pleaded, he slapped me around a bit, and I put on my new girdle. We repeated the performance the first morning of school – I was bawling my eyes out as I tucked in my shirt and fastened my trousers with my new girdle holding me in underneath.
I said earlier I didn’t enjoy the feeling of having a girdle on. By now, I loathed it. There was no sexual excitement any more – just the shame of wearing women’s underwear and being excruciatingly conscious of it every second. My stupid mum hadn’t only caved in to this monster, she’d actually measured me and stupidly got me the correct size. So, instead of having something fairly slack on me, I was being properly held in by a well-fitting firm girdle.
I can still recall the horror of that first walk to school – meeting people, having them see me and worrying if they’d notice, watching the clock slowly, slowly oh so slowly tick off the seconds, minutes and hours, with everything the teachers were saying going in one ear and out the other as all I could think about was the tightness of my girdle. Standing up and walking away after having been sitting for 45 minutes or so was agonising – the tightness of the thing round my thighs, backside and belly was unbelievable.
I would have told a teacher, but I was too ashamed to tell anyone. So I wore a girdle all day at school, all evening at home, all weekend. I cried every morning as I put it on, and spent all day yearning for bedtime, when I could finally take it off. I don’t know how they did it, but I was excused gym class, and so there wasn’t even the respite of the odd day off. I had to wear a girdle every single day.
When Christmas came around, and I had been wearing girdles for nearly five months, instead of presents, I got tights (pantyhose) and a couple of long line bras. Any time my dwindling supply of boy’s underwear needed replacing, it was with panties. That’s when I realised he was a sadist.
My mum took in the bra cups a little so that there wouldn’t be excess material bunching at the front. I was a little overweight, and my step-father actually laughed at the sight of my slight boy-boobs filling the reduced cups. I wore heavier pullovers and trousers than the rest of the boys, and was often asked about it, especially in the summer term. I never had a good reason – I could hardly tell them it was necessary to hide signs of my corsetry. Apart from very slight boy-boobs standing proud and very faint girdle rings mid-thigh, no one was any the wiser.
And as I grew out of my old foundations, new ones were bought. From the age of 12 up to when I left home at 18 to go to university, I had to wear panties, tights, a long-leg panty girdle and a long line bra every waking moment of nearly every day. I would only get a handful of days off every year for things medicals and other doctor’s appointments, going on holiday, having relations over to visit and other times where there was a high chance my cross-dressing would be noticed and cause trouble. How I looked forward to those days, and how I cried on the first day after a holiday as he stood over me and watched as I put my girdle and bra back on.
And my mum never stood up for me once. I’ve never forgiven her for that.
