Male Junior Miss, Part Two

I wore heels all the time and these and narrow skirts made my walk very feminine. A waist cinching garter-belt and constant exercise whittled my waist while my limbs and body became soft and rounded. I even developed in a way that was very embarrassing. I tried to hide it, but by the end of the summer I could wear a 34-C cup brassiere without any padding. Donna then told me that every inch of her 38-22-37 figure was her own and that I had been getting hormones in my food just as she had.

With my heart in my throat I asked, "How long are you going to be a girl now that you're out of high school?"

"Momma wants to keep me in dresses until I turn 21," she answered, not looking at all bothered by the idea.

I would rise early in the morning, put on my maid's uniform, and fix breakfast for Aunt Millie and Donna. Then I had to make all the beds and clean the house until noon, when I again cooked lunch for my aunt and whatever guests she might have invited over. After washing the noon dishes, I would change and go to my job as a cashier in the cosmetics department of the local drugstore. Almost every woman who came in asked to see Beverly, the boy salesgirl. They all seemed to be thrilled by the idea of a boy being made to wear girls' clothes, and several said they might try it on their own sons. I soon ceased to be embarrassed at being referred to as a "boy-girl".

But other things remained embarrassing. The cosmetics manager delighted in using me as a model for some of the teen-targeted products, especially lipstick. She would sit me on the high stool by the counter and twirl the lipstick up until the color was revealed. She'd hold it before my eyes and say, "Now we'll give you beautiful red lips, Beverly," and then, as the color was applied to my mouth, I'd feel my cock swell inside my panties. The teen girls who were looking for makeup would point at the bulge under my skirt and giggle.

When the time came to go home I was almost sorry to become a boy again. However, I was getting a bit ahead of myself as I soon found out.

My mother had promised that I could get out of dresses if I behaved myself that summer, but she insisted on seeing me as Beverly first, so I had to fly back home dressed as a girl. Mother and Linda met me at the airport. "My, how pretty and feminine you've become!" Mother exclaimed.

"If Beverly had been here all summer, I would have had to hide her from my boyfriends!" Linda laughed.

They showed me off to their girlfriends and I was embarrassed all over again as the women teased me. They made me style my hair, put on make-up, even model several dresses for them all the while commenting on how completely feminine my actions had become. In the middle of the "show," as I was dressed in a flirty little black party dress and the highest of my many heels, Mother casually said, "Of course, Beverly is Bob." Instantly, I lost my footing and nearly tumbled to the floor. All my poise and training as a girl seemed to disappear. Mother and Linda smiled conspiratorially at their guests. "Beverly is beautiful," Mother said, and I again knew how to handle myself in the feminine attire.

Most of the women were amazed to learn that my figure was real and that my pretty hair was my own. One lady told me I should never cut it as it was too lovely to wear short.

The next day was Registration Day at school, but sophomores didn't register until afternoon so I thought I had plenty of time to get a haircut and get back into boys' clothes. For some reason I found that I couldn't completely discard my feminine finery, so I put on a pair of powder blue nylon panties with lace trim and opened my suitcases.

To my horror, every suitcase was filled, not with the clothes I took to Aunt Millie's, but with dresses, skirts, blouses, and girls' underthings!

My mother came into my bedroom and handed me a pair of very tight girls' jeans, a white blouse, a pair of knee-high nylons and a pair of black patent shoes with three-inch heels and told me to put them on. Puzzled, I obeyed her order, donning a bra first.

The slacks felt strange to me. They were the first pants I had worn in three months and the shoes had the lowest heels I'd worn all summer. The slacks zipped up the side and the blouse buttoned up the back, but I was used to that. The clothes did nothing to conceal my figure.

Mother then brushed my hair, turning the ends under so that I had a chin-length Page Boy and bangs that nearly reached my eyebrows.

"Now you're all ready to go down to school and register for your fall classes!" she said.

"Go register? Like this?" I exclaimed. "You promised I could be a boy again!"

"No, I didn't!" she laughed. "I only said you could wear pants again. I didn't say what kind of pants!"

"Everybody will laugh at me and tease me!" I cried. "The boys will call me a queer!"

"It's no more than you deserve." she answered. "After all the trouble you've caused at school, I think they are entitled to see your punishment!"

She drove me down to register and at first no one recognized me. But when mother told them my right name and requested that I be registered as "Beverly," everyone clustered around. Mother explained how I had spent the summer and said she was sending me back to school like this. All the teachers loved the idea! To my surprise, the principal looked me over, expressed her approval and said that more boys should be put into girls' clothes.

The first week of classes was hell. The boys teased me unmercifully, and the girls asked embarrassing questions about my lacy panties and lingerie and giggled at the answers. Everyone called me Beverly, and I was instructed to use the girls' bathroom. Even worse, some of the staff seemed to have instructions from my mother to reinforce my feminization.

On Wednesday, the school nurse called me in for an examination. She had me remove my blouse and carefully looked over my breasts. I tried to cover them up, still ashamed by my budding tits, but she stopped me by saying, "This is important, Beverly." As with Aunt Millie, it suddenly seemed as if her words were the only thing I could hear or understand.

"Beverly, you must be proud of your breasts," she said. "You might even want to sometimes go braless and let their sassy little nipples show through your blouse. Don't hide them, display them." Then she reached inside my bra and played with my nipples, making then stiff and tingly. "Doesn't this make you feel good?" she asked. Once again, I came in my panties, sure that I would never hide my breasts again.

The second week, pictures were taken for our yearbook and Mother made me wear a black- and-white print dress with a flared skirt and petticoats, matching pumps with six-inch heels, and my hair permed. When the other kids in school saw how easily and naturally I walked in a skirt and extreme heels some of them began to wonder out loud if I was really a boy. The teasing got worse when they discovered the stud earrings in my ears and I went home in tears.

By Christmas my hair had grown so long that it reached my shoulders, but mother forbade me to cut it. When she caught me trying to trim it, she said I would have to wear dresses for the rest of the school year! She even got special permission for me to wear nylon stockings and extreme high heels to my classes!

When I went back to school in a sheath and heels, with my hair arranged in curls and waves on the top of my head the teasing got positively vicious. I told my mother I couldn't take it anymore, and she gave me a choice. If I continued in my regular school, I could resume wearing girls' slacks at the end of the year. If I didn't want to do that, she would send me to a girls' school, but if I went there, I would have to wear dresses all the time for the next three years!

I tried to stick it out, but after another week of wearing girls' clothes and feminine underthings in a public school where everyone knew I was a boy, I broke down. With tears of shame and defeat in my eyes, I begged my mother to send me to the girls' school.

The girls' school was much better. There, only the teachers and some of the upper classwomen knew I was a boy and the girls treated me like one of their own. Some of the senior girls did more than that. My roommate in junior year, a senior named Cynthia, delighted in using her knowledge of my secret to control me. Like many other women in my life, she seemed to be able to influence me just through the use of certain phrases.

Cynthia loved to lay beside me in bed, completely naked, and stroke my breasts, legs and cock with the satin of my nightgown. "Beverly is my smooth sissy lover," she would coo to me, over and over, keeping my cock hard as a rock and making me want desperately to taste her pussy endlessly.

Because of the lost year in High School, I was 19 before I graduated. During the three years there I became even more feminine. I learned the arts of cooking and sewing and became especially good at hairstyling, so good, in fact, that the school saw that I received training for it. My own hair I allowed to grow. It grew so long that I had the longest hair in school. Due to strenuous figure training I lost an inch in the waist and gained an inch in the bust. With my 38-19-36 shape and my waist-length hair I certainly didn't resemble in the slightest what I really was--a boy.

At the Graduation Ball, I wore a white satin dress that followed my curves all the way to my ankles. It had a halter neckline with a keyhole over my breasts and showed a good deal of cleavage. Even in my five-inch heels I was shorter than most of the other girls in my class, and much smaller than any of the boys from the Military Academy nearby. I had my black hair piled up on my head except for a single long roll curl that fell down my back to my narrow waist. From my ears drop earrings swung to chin level and a simple chain and locket encircled my neck.

Returning from the girls' school I spent the first week home as Beverly at mother's request. Cynthia joined us there and made it clear she wanted me as her lifelong companion. Mother's friends had difficulty believing that I was her son, and the lady who told me to let my hair grow made me let it down so she could run her fingers through it. She was jealous when she discovered it was longer than hers. After the first week mother said I could return to boys' clothes if I wished, but she wouldn't let me cut my hair until I was 21.

I wasn't too eager to go back to pants, but I decided that since I was a boy, I should. It didn't work--I looked like a very feminine boy or a girl trying to pass as a boy. Cynthia was furious when she saw me in male clothes. "This is important, Beverly," she began. "You cannot wear male clothes......"

THE END?