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Date: Sun, 23 Jun 2002 07:00:45 +0100 (BST)
From: "trans femme" <transfeminine@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: 'CANCAN!!' Part One: The Stage (TG/Teen)
Copyright transfemme 2002. Permission granted for
private use and internet publication. All events an
characters depicted in this story are purely
fictional.
CANCAN!!
Part One: The Stage
I suppose it must have come as something of a shock
for the boy next door. He and his family had moved in
only a few days before, and when his mother sent him
over to borrow a cup of sugar, the last thing he
expected to see was a pair of firm, young
bottom-cheeks staring him in the face.
I still giggle everytime I think about it.
You see, I was dancing the cancan.
Yeah, I know that sounds crazy, but I've always
thought the cancan was a pretty sexy kind of dance;
the idea of whirling across a stage with my skirt
raised to my chin made my heart race every time it
crossed my mind. I'd often wondered how it must have
felt, knowing that your lacy, white underpants were on
view to all and sundry.
It had taken me a while to assemble the costume,
starting with a garish satin dress I found at a Red
Shield store out in Chamberlain. It looked practically
brand-new when I took it down from the rack. The
shop-lady told me it was an authentic chorus-girl
outfit, a hand-me-down from one of the local dance
schools. I managed to talk her down to ten dollars for
the dress and a pair of black stiletto heels I'd seen
in the window. Everything fit perfectly; I literally
couldn't believe my luck.
The layered petticoats were a little more difficult to
locate (not to mention expensive) but I eventually
came across a dancewear supplier on the net
specialising in music-hall accessories. I used my
mother's credit card to buy them online and had them
mailed to a post-box number at Chamberlain Mail
Centre. I paid her back with interest, although I
didn't tell her what the transaction was for.
I picked up the lingerie at a Valentine's sale out of
town, pooling my allowance for weeks in advance. The
sales assistant wasn't sure whether I was a girl or a
boy, but she was helpful enough once she saw the
colour of my money. So helpful, in fact, that I bought
four of everything; bras, panties, garter-belts and
suspender stockings. Variety being the spice of life,
I settled for matching sets of white, pink, red and
black - except for the stockings, which I purchased in
midnight, tan, and flesh-tone.
The outfit looked absolutely fantastic once I added a
cincher-belt and a pair of shoulder-length lycra
gloves. I couldn't wait to try it out in the rumpus
room (which my imagination transformed into a 19th
century Soho music hall). Unfortunately, it was weeks
before I found myself alone in the house. My bedroom
was too small to perform in, and anyway, I didn't want
to run the risk of being discovered.
By the time Mum went to spend the weekend at Grandma's
place, I was almost climbing the walls. If you've
survived puberty, you'll know how desperate the
situation becomes when you're a teenager struggling in
the grip of raging hormone levels.
Finally having the house to myself, I pulled the
ensemble out of its hiding place in the wardrobe and
carried it down to the rumpus room. It was large and
well-lit, with plenty of space for twirling and
kicking. There was a cheval mirror set up to one side
of the television. Walking over to the sofa, I laid
the garments out in careful order, I preparing for the
afternoon's festivities.
Peeling off my t-shirt, jeans and hipsters, I stood
before the mirror, ready for my transformation. I
paused a few moments, allowing the excitement to surge
through my system in waves of moist heat. I'd been
waiting months for this moment, feeling the
exhilaration building up inside me like a slowly
burning fire.
Shivering with arousal, I reached for the lacy, black
garter-belt.
It was the sort with adjustable suspenders and a
hook-and-eye arrangement at the back. Just looking at
the thing made me delirious with embarrassment.
Clipping the flimsy piece of lingerie around my slim
waist, I picked up a pair of seamed midnight stockings
and stepped carefully into them, cautious not to tear
the sheer fabric. Adjusting the suspenders to
mid-thigh, I turned to pose in the mirror, enjoying
the touch of nylon against my bare flesh. My legs
looked long and tapering in their ebony sheaths.
Next, I pulled on a pair of pristine white panties,
slipping them over the garters with a whisper of
liquid satin. Delicate and nebulous, they shimmered
like platinum in the lazy afternoon light. The
garter-belt was plainly visible through the gossamer
material. A seam ran down the centre decorated with a
delicious floral trim. I was blushing at the thought
of exhibiting them to my imaginary audience.
I put on a matching white underwire brassiere,
adjusting the shoulder straps with vaguely shaking
fingers. My tummy was fluttering with anticipation;
the girl in the mirror was tall and slim and quite
beautiful. Shining blond hair tied back in a long
ponytail, she looked maybe sixteen years old; her
large blue eyes and tiny mouth giving her an innocent,
child-like appearance.
Turning around, I looked back over my shoulder,
enjoying the curve of my figure; the lush, full shape
of my bottom. The panties were a little high -cut at
the back, exposing a generous amount of cheek on
either side. I wriggled my fanny impishly, smiling
back at myself. Raising one hand, I slapped myself,
very hard, on the right buttock, leaving an angry red
mark. My smile broadened in pleasure. I needed a good,
hard spanking; I was an extremely naughty girl, after
all.
Returning to the business at hand, I pulled on the
petticoats, their flouncing bulk accentuating the
luscious swell of my hips. Two layers of alabaster
frills, an absolute pre-requisite to dancing the
cancan. Waved above the waistline, the crinolines
formed a kind of backdrop for the underwear, a curtain
raised to exhibit the panties and stockings.
However, the costume wasn't quite complete.
I drew the satin hemline over my head, allowing the
dress to drop into place over the massed petticoats.
It was beautifully designed, with a halter top and a
full-circle skirt that swept down to just below the
knee. The frock was ornate and rather gaudy, red and
black stripes ran the length of the skirt. Lace
traceries embellished the bustline. I finished my
preparations by pulling on the long, crimson gloves
and fastening the cincher around my waist. And then I
was ready.
I posed in the mirror, stepping forward on one foot
and lifting the petticoats to reveal a saucy black
garter. My heart was racing in my chest, my eyes
twinkled with mischief. Was this how it felt, waiting
backstage while the band warmed up its horns and
strings? I could almost hear the murmur of the crowd,
the popping of corks and the clinking of glasses. In a
very few moments, I'd have to run onto the stage with
my panties on full display. My entire body was
trembling with expectation. Gazing into the mirror, I
saw a rich, pink glow suffusing my features.
Snatching up two handfuls of flocked white lace, I
conjured up a packed Victorian nightclub on the south
side of London. For one second, I could almost see the
chandeliers flickering overhead, the coils of smoke
rising to the rafters, the dim shape of the audience
beyond the footlights. The band had started up with a
clashing of drums: I was being summoned out before the
crowd. It was time to reveal my gauzy white underwear
to the world!
Grinning my most brilliant smile, I raced onto the
stage in an avalanche of gossamer frills. I launched
into my routine with a series of classic high-kicks,
straining my garter-belt to the breaking point as my
feet swept towards the ceiling. A vast star of joy
seemed to explode in my belly. Heart pounding in
ecstasy, I spun into a long, wheeling pirouette,
skirts flying out in a perfect circle. I orbited
around the room, exposing my panties all the way up to
my belly button. Stockinged thighs flashed in the
mirror as I whirled past, my hair flailing about my
shoulders.
Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle with electric
fire. Drawing a deep breath, I pitched forward into a
cartwheel, scissoring my legs in mid-air to allow the
crinolines to fall away. I paused at the height of my
arc; suspended upside down with my petticoats
cascading over my head. Cool air whisked between my
thighs as I went over, almost shrieking in rapture. It
was wonderful, better than I'd ever imagined.
Landing gracefully on my feet, I whipped the dress
back up to my throat and kicked my heels over my head,
giggling like a child as I leapt from foot to foot.
The audience roared its approval, their deafening
shouts echoing around the ceiling. I rushed forward,
waving my skirt as high as it could go. I felt sweet,
feminine and unbelievably naughty. Tight black garters
snapped against my haunches, virginal white panties
glared in the mirror.
The performance lasted about ten minutes. Pulse
thudding in my temples, I careened through a
succession of kicks, handstands and flip-flops, taxing
my gymnastic abilities to the limit. My stockings
crept imperceptively down my thighs, exhibiting more
bare flesh until the suspenders were as taunt as
violin strings. Wild exhilaration filled my veins; I
spun ever faster, giggling and screaming as my
petticoats rose and fell.
I finished up with by bending double and tossing my
skirts over my back, baring my ripe, pantied bottom to
the entire room. Breathless with arousal, I stood with
my heels together and my dress hanging over my head. I
clenched my bottom-cheeks impulsively, listening to
the crowd cheering; thundering for more. I smiled to
myself in pure, innocent delight, prepared to stand up
and give them the encore they deserved.
Just at that second, someone cleared their throat
behind me.
To be continued.
P.S. If you like the cancan, please email me at:
transfeminine@yahoo.co.uk