Crossing Texas – Chapter Fourteen
Apprehensively I entered the lobby. The staff had gathered there for morning coffee. All conversation ceased as I entered. I wore a frilly, pastel blue party dress. It had short sleeves which puffed out; the bodice was decorated with lace, but was flat. Not a hint of breasts. The pleated skirt of my dress flared out over several layers of taffeta . My pink, lacy rumba panties were not entirely covered by the short skirt. Dainty white ankle stockings, patent leather shoes, and a tiny pink purse completed my ensemble.
Taking dainty steps I entered the lobby. I stared down at the floor, far too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye, and approached Amanda.
“Mommy,” I said in the best sing-song little girl voice I could muster, “may I stay in my room, please?”
“No, silly girl. Sit down and watch TV. Mommy’s busy.”
“Yes, mommy,” I replied.
The women all laughed as I sat down on the floor, cross legged, and watched cartoons. They talked about how pretty and feminine I was. Then their discussion shifted to the differences between men and women. I shifted uncomfortably.
“I don’t know,” Mary said in response to Amy’s statement that “little boys” do make “cute girls”.
“I was raised in east Texas. Men aren’t allowed to be sissies over there. I never knew even one guy who acted at all feminine. Even the gays act macho there.”
“What? Gay guys in Lufkin? You must be kidding,” Amanda interjected, jokingly.
“Not many! But seriously, all the guys are masculine. All of them. Why, even the girls in Lufkin are more masculine than that sissy on the floor.
The women laughed, while I continued to focus on Sesame Street, pretending not to hear.
“Things here in the city are just different,” Mary continued.
“Oh Mary. Pamela is just one person. Not all guys in Dallas wear dresses, do they?”
“No., it’s just that after seeing that., she-she boy over there, happily wearing a little girl’s dress., I just don’t know. It’s just dispiriting. Now every time I meet a guy I’ll have to wonder, is this man like Pamela? Is this man wearing panties under those jeans? Does he wear nighties to bed. Is he admiring me because he believes I’m sexy, or is he simply admiring my skirt or my high heels?”
“Oh Mary, don’t be so insecure,” said Amanda.
“We may prefer guys act like guys and not like girls. But it’s not a big deal.”
The two teens, Kimberly and Emily, bored by the discussion, asked my “mommy” if they could do my hair and makeup.
“Hi auntie Kimberly! Hi auntie Emily,” I said as they approached. They giggled.
“Stand up, baby Pammy,” said Emily, “and show us your pretty dress!” I meekly stood. Emily had me turn around while she inspected my outfit. I could hear the taffeta of my slip rustle.
“Oh, Pammy, you are such a sweet girl,” Emily gushed.
“Tell auntie, don’t you just love your party dress?”
“Yes, auntie, I do. I think it’s very pretty,” I replied, well aware that Amanda was likely monitoring my performance.
“Tell us, Pammy, are you a pretty little girl?”
“Yes, aunty Emily and auntie Kimberly,” I replied, blushing, “I’m a pretty girl, wearing a pretty dress.” Kimberly just laughed.
“Indeed you are,” said Emily, “but we are going to put real makeup on you, just like big girls wear. Won’t that be fun!”
“Yes, auntie Emily.”
While Kimberly retrieved her purse, where she kept lipstick and blusher, Emily had me practice curtsies. Emily then had me sit upon the carpeted floor, and while she knelt at my left and styled my hair, Kimberly knelt at my right and applied lipstick.
Soon I had pigtails, tied with pink ribbons, and bright pink lipstick adorned my lips. Sara remained unusually silent. Didn’t she have feelings for me? Wasn’t she hurt to see the girls humiliate me? Eventually the staff drifted back to their tasks, leaving me alone, a little girl watching children’s television.
At lunch, Sara tied a pink bib on me.
“Pamela, your mommy says you must wear this. She wants your dress to stay clean.” As I sat at the table, I could smell the coffee which the women were enjoying. Oh, what I would have done for a cup of coffee. But that was impossible, as I was just a six year old girl.
“It is very much unusual, is it not, all this,” I overhead Tanya ask in her broken English.
“What’s unusual, Tanya,” said Sara.
“This Pamela. A young man be a little girl. In my land men are very powerful. They control. Women, we do most work and we raise children. Always weary at end of day. Our men drink and go to discos, and hit women who ask for their help. So why would he (Tanya looked at me, seated demurely) wish to be woman? I do not yet understand America well at all. It is often confused.”
“I understand you, Tanya,” said Sara.
“Mexican men, including those here in the U.S., are a lot like men in your country. Mexican men think they are total masters of the universe.”
“So why then does Pamela act like a girl?”
“Hard to say,” Amanda said.
“Men think they are so muscular, so tough.
Always ready to fight. Ever eager to fuck. Yet look at that “man” sitting there.” I looked down and nibbled my cookie, as if I were unaware she was referring to me.
“Dressed like a little girl, ribbons in his hair, wearing pink lipstick. Ha! Maybe that macho image men project is just pure bullshit. Maybe all men are like Pamela, just better at hiding their yearnings. Yes, ladies, we females are the supersex. I suspect Pamela has simply realized that fact, and succumbed to it.”
“So, if you can’t beat em, then join em,” laughed Mary.
“Well, whatever Pamela’s reasons are, she better be very careful,” said Kerri.
“My cousin works at a county jail in Houston. She once told me about a “tranny” who was arrested for not paying an outstanding traffic ticket. The cops stuck him in a holding cell, still wearing his dress and high heels. The jailers thought it was really funny putting him in with a bunch of riff-raff. But by morning that poor tranny had been abused, beaten, and raped, repeatedly. No, it’s not a perfect world for sissies like her, not at all.”
“But why didn’t the police help,” asked Tanya.
“Tanya, don’t be na‹ve,” Kerri said.
“Police aren’t here to help anyone that’s different. Nearly all of them are republican racists. They hate all poor people. Hell, republicans hate anyone who’s not an “upright” fundamentalist warmonger. In fact, there’s a banner in the police department right here in this town which says “Black, Brown, or Gay? Throw Them Away!” I’ve seen it myself, it’s posted on the door that leads to the drunk tank.”
“Very true, Kerri. With the republicans in control here, nobody will ever accuse Texas of having compassionate government,” Amanda said, then cruelly added, “but maybe Pamela would enjoy being jail raped.”
Wait, now,” Mary resumed, “you all are just making light of Tanya’s concerns. But it’s not just her. I’m also confused by the sissy. Look, there’s a male that’s what – 18 years old, at least – and he dresses and acts like a five year old girl. It’s sick!” The women continued to talk as if I were not there, or rather, as if my feelings mattered not at all. I tried to pretend like their words didn’t matter, but I felt tears forming in my eyes as I stared down at my plate, unwilling to look at any of them.
“Oh, Mary, Pamela is six years old, not five,” Amanda joked. Kerry and Kimberly laughed in an attempt to lighten the conversation.
“Look girls,” Amanda said earnestly, “since Pam quit, we have been having problems here. I’ve tried to hire a maid, without success. Something’s gotta give. Who here would enjoy cleaning 30 rooms a day in addition to your regular duties?”
“Yes,” Amanda continued after a moment of silence, “I suppose Pamela is sick. Mentally screwed up. But she is harmless; her psychologist assured me of that. And she’s working for little more than room and board, plus the chance to transition to womanhood. The shrink pointed out that it’s impossible to just be born a woman. Girlhood must always precede womanhood. Maybe this weekend we can help Michael., I mean Pamela, purge her masculinity and wholly embrace femininity, by allowing her to symbolically grow into a mature woman.”
“I haven’t seen much masculinity to purge,” said Amy dryly.
“True,” Amanda continued, “but if all goes well, by Monday we’ll have a maid with fewer gender hang-ups. But Mary, you’re right, I shouldn’t impose this reeducation task upon my staff without your consent. So, if any of you are bothered by Pamela’s “issues”, then she’s gone, immediately.”
All were silent.
“OK,” Amanda concluded, “Pamela stays for now. But if any of you change your mind, for any reason whatsoever, she’s out of here.”
“So will Pamela always be a girl,” Amy asked.
“I suppose that’s ultimately up to her,” said Amanda.
“Pamela?”
“Yes mommy,” I replied.
“Pamela, do you like being a girl?”
“Yes, mommy, very much so,” I lied.
“Would you like to grow up to be a female, like us?”
“Yes mommy, I would.”
Amanda, with a smirk, then had me address each of my “aunties” and thank them for allowing me to wear such “pretty clothes”.
After I finished this, Amanda addressed me again: “Pamela, would you stand up so we can see your pigtails and makeup?”
Yes, mommy,” I replied. I stood up and turned away so that they could see my hair better.
“My, my, such a dainty little girl,” Mary said sarcastically.
“Wasn’t Emily teaching you how little girls curtsy? Go ahead, sweetie, curtsey for us.”
I hesitated.
“Pamela,” Amanda said sternly, “you heard auntie Mary! Now show us how pretty girls curtsy!”
“Yes mommy,” I replied, then gently grasped the hem of my dress with my fingers, and bobbed down and up.
“Look everyone,” Emily exclaimed, “Pammy curtsies just like Shirley Temple.
Isn’t she sweet!”
“Very nice, Pamela. Now tell us, do you enjoy being a girl,” asked Amanda.
“Yes mommy, I do. Very much.”
“Well, Pamela, six year old girls don’t dirty their panties. Tell mommy, are your panties clean?”
I hesitated, too embarrassed to answer.
“Ah, ha,” Mary exclaimed, “the little girl’s silence speaks volumes. Either she’s not wearing panties, or she’s dirtied them.”
“No., no., I didn’t,” I protested.
“You baby,” Mary scolded.
“Maybe she needs to wear diapers again,” Emily laughed.
“Pamela, show your panties to auntie Sara,” Amanda commanded.
“But mommy,” I cried, frightened of where this was headed.
“Do it young lady, or else!”
I walked towards Sara. She rolled her eyes in an expression of disbelief and disgust.
“Auntie Sara,” I said in a near-whisper, “will you., will you., please..”
“OK! OK! Bend over, Pamela.”
Sara remained seated as I turned away from her and bent over so that my ass, which was covered by pink rumba panties, was nearly at the height of Sara’s breasts. I felt her stretch the backside of my panties.
“They don’t look dirty,” she pronounced.
“I smell something nasty,” Mary said, “what could it possibly be?”
“Seems we need a second opinion here,” Amanda said.
“Pamela, remove your panties and give then to Sara, so that she can inspect them close up.”
“Right here? But., Mommy, please!”
“Do it, Pammy. I’m ordering you to remove your panties!”
I looked around the table. All the women were staring at me. Even ever-bubbly Amy stared silently in disbelief at what I was willing to do.
“Please, mommy,” I begged in a little girl’s sing-song voice, hoping maybe Amanda would reconsider, “please don’t make me do that!”
Amanda was silent. She sternly gazed at me. Once again I gave in to her demands. Amanda was much stronger than I. No, not physically, but psychologically. The thought raced through my mind that, even had I not faced prison time, I would still succumb to her will. But why? Was it the female hormones, or was it something else, a fundamental weakness in me?
Still facing away from the table, I reached under my skirt and carefully lowered my panties. Red-faced, I turned to face Sara, then handed my lacy panties to the woman I desired.
Sara took them from me, holding them between her thumb and index finger, as if they were some type of toxic waste.
“They’re dry,” she pronounced. From the tone of her voice, it was clear she wasn’t enjoying this.
“Very good,” Amanda said, “but maybe she’s dirtied her behind. After all, Mary smells something. Bend down again, Pamela, so Sara can inspect you.”
It was futile to protest. I raised my skirt and leaned forward again, my naked hairless ass shown to the women. I did cup my right hand over my genitals to maintain a tad of dignity.
“She looks clean,” Sara said after a glance at my ass.
“I don’t know, Sara. As they say, looks can be deceptive. Mary may be right. Here, take this napkin and rub it between my little girl’s cheeks.”
“No way,” Sara said.
“C’mon,” said Mary, “After all, I had to change her diaper yesterday.”
“Do it Sara. Please,” added Amanda.
“Jesus,” Sara exclaimed, after which I felt her rubbing the napkin between the cheeks of my ass. After a few moments of silence, she said, “Yes, Amanda, the napkin has a brown stain. Pamela is a bit dirty. Just a bit.”
“I knew it! My gosh, Pamela. Now you go to your room and fetch your diaper bag. Right away!”
“But mommy, please!” I begged Amanda. The stress and humiliation made tears fill my eyes.
“Do it, Pamela, or I’ll spank you right here in front of everybody. And take your panties with you. Tonight you’ll have to hand wash them, you naughty girl.”
Sara handed me the pink panties and I fled the restaurant.
The End of Crossing Texas – Chapter Fourteen.
The story originally came from: https://www.dailydiapers.com/content/stories.html
If you want to read more stories about ABDL boys you can find a list here: Diaper Boys – Index