For a Girl by J.T. D'Arelli (best ereader for pdf .txt) 📖

sir... But now it's tampons and nylons for her."My period had reached the point where I could no longer rely on pantyliners to keep things under control. Instead, I would have to rely on... Rely. I was forced to ask my mother for help — the whole applicator process was intimidating. Once again, no dignity for me as I squatted slightly to insert the plastic and cotton assembly into my...Like before, whenever I was doing something new that drove home how female I'd become, I felt a little less sure about my new life. Jack seemed to manifest himself, in protest of the girl he was trying not to be. But it was useless. He... I... we... were irreversibly a member of the fair sex — doomed to endure every facet of femininity. And we would never return — a point driven home as I adjusted to the awkward feeling of the tampon deep inside me. It felt so large! How was a penis supposed to fit down there?Meanwhile, Mom was swooning over her little girl growing up and becoming a woman. After all, this was supposed to be one of those classic mother-daughter bonding moments. I tried not to grumble too much — but I did come across as a little bitchy. Was I having PMS?At least the stockings were better. Yeah, it was a hassle pulling them up into place over my panties, but my, they felt nice. Warm, yet cool and very sensuous, especially when combined with my lacy white slip. The dress, a soft, light green number was next, ending just below my knees. Still more adjusting as Mom helped into my first pair of heels.Jesus! With all this frilly underwear I was reaching new levels of girlishness. Walking in this body and with these clothes was more than simple motion — I felt as if I were... gliding. Mom carefully brushed my hair, and then it was off to the mirror once again to see how yet another outfit displayed my feminine charms.I looked so young, so pretty and ever so female. I felt my confidence rise a bit — there was no way anyone could look at me and see a boy. Mom had done a great job. I turned to see her beaming at me — and I could tell she was pleased with her efforts."You're so lovely, sweetheart.""You've worked a miracle, Mom.""Well, considering what I had to work with."We both chuckled. "You always wanted to do this, didn't you?" I asked her."Stephanie, it's not PC, but I can say it now. Every mother dreams of having a daughter she can dress up and make beautiful. I guess it's some extension from our doll- playing days. But of course, when a mom only has a son, she can never act on it. Although I used to imagine you'd be in some school play where you'd have to be a girl. I even had a wig picked out."I shuddered. Even now, the thought of dressing in girl's clothes was still a touch intimidating. I was glad Mom never had a chance to experiment when I was still a boy.We drove for the county courthouse, in Norville — about fifteen miles away. My anxiety rose as the minutes ticked off. At least I was distracted by the constant play of my dress, slip and stockings — caressing me all over. I felt ultra-feminine... and I liked it.Mom smiled at me. "It's fun, isn't it?"I no longer tried to deny it. "Yeah. It's weird being in these clothes — but it's nice." I was finally past the stage where I felt I had to pretend I didn't like wearing a dress, and all the rest. I really did like it... and to hell with anyone who thought I shouldn't! Move Over, Ally McBeal

When we arrived at the county courthouse, I wasn't surprised to see all the TV trucks and media throng gathered outside. Last night's CNN broadcast, combined with the tight deadline of the court docket, meant this story would burn hot and fast. If I was lucky, it would all play out in the next day or so, and the press could turn its attention to the latest celebrity marriage or which of the 9 (90? 900?) candidates for president made the silliest gaffe of the week.

And though I'd be grateful when this circus came to an end, it was serving a useful purpose. So as I walked through the crowd of reporters (still amazed at being in nylons and heels!) I was careful to put on a nice smile and politely answer a couple of the hundreds of questions being tossed at me.

"How do you like being a girl?" — "More and more every day!"

"Why are you challenging the injunction?" — "I'm an athlete and I'm just hoping for a fair chance."

"Do you think it's fair for you to compete against girls?" — "Why not? I am one."

"Do you like wearing dresses?" — "Yes, although I could do without bras." — "No, you couldn't!" the female journalist replied jealously, prompting some good-natured chuckles.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" — "I'm not supposed to take the fifth until I'm inside the courtroom." A few more chuckles at that.

Jim Martin met us at the top of the steps and quickly escorted us to a restricted conference room where we could speak in private.

"Well done, Stephanie — you handled them just fine," he complimented me.

"I've got a feeling that will be the easy part," I said apprehensively.

"Don't worry, Stephanie. Yes, Oxton is going to be challenging — but I'm confident you'll be up to it. Remember, the facts and the law are on our side — you really are a girl and we have the legal precedents. They'll try to trip you up and make you act like a boy — because their best chance is to show you've still some hint of maleness within you. Bear with me, for this will sound sexist, but I want you to be a demure, albeit determined, young woman. It's very important for you to appear as feminine as possible on the stand. Are you ready?"

Was he kidding? I was wearing stockings across sleek smooth legs. My full breasts pushed out the front of my silk dress. My long hair hung well past my shoulders. I could feel the bra stretching across my back. I had a cute guy as my boyfriend. And deep inside me lurked the tampon that was catching the flow of my period.

I didn't just feel feminine, I felt like the girliest girl who ever girled!

And I got another boost as we headed for the courtroom. Tamara (formerly Todd) and Jerome from GRS were waiting! I squealed in delight as I ran to embrace them. We'd traded some e-mails over the last few weeks, but I never expected to see them today.

"I can't believe you're here!"

"I saw the CNN story last night — I figured you could use a show of support. Jerome decided to tag along," Tamara replied.

I smiled at the cute blonde girl, who wearing a dress even frillier than mine and with an expertly applied make-up job. "I see your sisters have been busy."

"All four of them. It's damn tough to resist them all — they never give me a break. Every few minutes one of them has another skirt, or a new shade of lipstick or a bra and panty set they're just dying to have me put on. They're like tag-team wrestlers. After a while, I just gave up." She had a rueful look on her face — but I could see underneath it she really liked being this way.

I turned to Jerome, and in a more serious tone asked her how she was doing. Unlike Tamara, she was wearing a simple blouse and jeans combo, with no make-up. I knew how much she was struggling with the femininity she was forced to endure — I remembered the last time I saw her, hysterical with horror at her female condition.

"Better, now. I've been working with the GRS staff a lot — and Tamara's been a big help. It's so cool we both go to the same school. I finally picked a name as well — I'm Jeri." She sighed.

"Good adaptation." But I could see the sad look in her eyes.

It was so hard to match that sadness with her remarkable beauty. Tamara and I may have been passing pretty, but Jerome — Jeri — was sensational. Once again I was struck by her flawless dark complexion, even better than mine. Her African features were elegant, aristocratic and sensual all at once. And her figure! Most women would have sold their souls to look half as good as she.

And yet, Jeri would forever be a boy trapped in a girl's body.

No amount of counseling could help her make the journey that Tamara and I were making — to full acceptance of our destinies as women. For Jeri, even the simple act of putting on a pair of panties would daily force her to confront an unwanted girlhood she could never escape. My heart went out to her — I told her she was looking good, but I was careful not to gush about her beauty. I knew that was the last thing she wanted to hear.

"Don't worry, Stephanie. I know I can live with this now — but don't look for me on the cover of Vogue anytime soon."

I refrained from commenting she was easily lovely enough to model for the magazine. Both Jeri and Tamara then praised my own look, with many comments about how I was so cute, so adorable, so girly, yadda, yadda, yadda. We exchange hugs and I thanked them for their support.

Then my attorney and I took our seats at the defendant's side of the courtroom. Bright TV lights everywhere. I noted the presence of two attorneys on the plaintiff side. Their eyes widened as they saw Mr. Martin would be their opposing counsel. A big-time lawyer from the nation's capital was not what they expected today. Cool!

Behind them sat Oxton's Coach Jenkins and that... that... deep breath. Okay — I have to be ladylike here — so, that 'rhymes with witch' — Melody McCarthy. Both of them had sour looks on their faces — I could tell they were still dismayed about last night's CNN story — and they certainly must not have had much fun running the gauntlet of reporters this morning.

I smiled inwardly — even if I lost today, it was still worth seeing their expressions of dismay. All across America, these two had been painted as bigoted opportunists. Couldn't have happened to a nicer pair.

And then it began. The bailiff called the court to order. "All rise for the honorable Judge William Burrell." The tall, robed figure of the county judge entered and took his seat upon the high bench. He had thinning silver hair, and a serious, but not stern visage. After the clerk identified the case for the record, the judge spoke:

"Before we start, I want to hear opening statements from both sides. And no soliloquies, please. Let's stay on point." His voice was a very deep bass and clearly in command.

The Oxton attorney, a sharply-dressed woman in