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Subject: TG Becoming Jenny (newly revised) 1/2 by Princess Pervette
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TG:Becoming Jenny (newly revised) 1/2 by Princess Pervette

The usual strictures apply -- if you're not of legal age to read
you will have to decide for yourself whether you have the moral
right to break the law and read this.

The person posting this story is NOT the author of this story.
But any mail sent to me will be forwarded to the author.





                      Becoming Jenny 1/2
                     by Princess Pervette



I have seen a lot of stories about boys being feminized by their
mothers, or occasionally by their aunts or other female relatives.
And I've even read a few about men being feminized by their wives--
sometimes forcibly.  These stories are all right as far as they go,
but for someone who actually was brought up as a girl, they don't
ring true.  So I'm writing this account, in the hope that people
can see what it's really like when a boy is brought up as a girl.
You won't find any coercion here; I was a willing--no, an eager--
subject, as I think must always be the case when this happens in
real life.  And I'm afraid you won't find much sex, either.


I.


My life changed from hell to heaven when I was seven years old.

I was a little kid, and weak, and not aggressive; and the other boys
picked on me mercilessly.  School was hell for me, and even my own
neighborhood was hell.  I used to come home in tears almost every
day, until finally I couldn't take it any more and rarely left our
house except for school, which was unavoidable.  For companionship,
I played with a neighbor girl instead of boys.

That Summer, we were about to move to a different town, and one
evening my mother sat me down and asked me the question that was
going to change my life.

She was embarrassed, and very ill at ease, and it took her a long
time to get to the point.  But here, in brief, is what she said:
"Jimmy, you've had such a terrible time living here, and I've felt
so sorry for you.  If I had a nickel for every time you've come home
in tears, we would be able to *buy* our new place.  And I've been
trying to figure out some way of protecting you or for keeping this
from happening.  I've only been able to think of one possibility."

She hesitated.  Then, "You used to play with Sally next door until
they moved.  Do you remember...the day you were playing with Sally
and she put you in one of her dresses?"

"Oh, Mom, that was her idea!  I never...!"

"No, there's no problem.  Yes, I caught the two of you, both of you
in dresses and playing with...what was it?  Her tea set?  Yes.  But
you know, what I remember about that afternoon was not so much your
embarrassment when you saw me watching you, but how peaceful and
contented you were before you saw me.  Yes, you were upset because
I was watching you, but I had been watching you for almost five
minutes, and up until the moment you saw me you just seemed....
Well, I can't remember a time when you looked so serene."

"Well, we were sort of...."  I trailed off, at a loss for the right
word.

"Relaxed?  At ease together?  I thought you were.  I liked watching
the two of you.  You seemed so calm and happy, the only time you've
ever been happy except when you were home here with me.  And...I
don't know, I've been thinking about this, but still it sounds so
crazy when I mention it, but...I wonder...have you ever wondered
what it would be like living as a girl?"

I had, as a matter of fact.  I'd better explain this, so you don't
get the wrong impression.  I didn't dislike being a boy.  I didn't
dislike having a boy's body.  At seven, I still had only the vaguest
notion of the physical difference between boys and girls, but if I
had known more, I would have wanted to keep those boy parts--at
least back then.

But I hated the life I had to live as a boy.  We never talked about
"sex-role stereotypes" in those days, but if we had, that's what
I would have objected to.  The insane, compulsive machismo.  The
nearly constant violence.  The disdain for every kind of activity
except athletics.  The strong back; the weak mind.

And yes, sometimes, on really bad days, I would go to bed and pray,
"O God, make me into a girl."  But I was praying for relief from
the masculine stereotyping and abuse that tormented me, not for a
different body.  Not back then.  It wasn't so much not being a boy
as not having to live as a boy.  That would change later on, as I'll
relate, but that's how it was then.

Nevertheless, I think it's significant that that was the kind of
solution I asked God to provide.

Okay; now I've got that straightened out, I'll get back to my story.
In answer to Mom's question I said, Yes, I had thought of it and
sometimes wished for it.

"It's been so awful that sometimes in my prayers I've asked God to
turn me into a girl," I told her.

Her eyes widened.  "When you put on Sally's clothes, did you like
them?"

I nodded.

"You've put on some of my underwear once or twice, too, haven't you?
I could tell.  Did you like that?"

I should say that, ever since my father died, Mom and I had been
very close.  Most boys would have been petrified if they had been
putting on panties on the sly and their moms had confronted them
like that.  But we were always on such easy terms, I simply said,

"Yes, they felt good.  I just hope I didn't disturb them too much."

"Nothing but a few pieces out of place, Dear.  But here's what I'm
driving at.  We're moving away, to a place where nobody knows you.
So it's a place where you could make a fresh start, if you wanted
to.  A really fresh start.  And I've wondered whether this might be
a good time for you to try living as my daughter instead of my son.
It would solve so many of your problems.

"You know I love you, Jimmy, and I love you for who and what you
are.  But I can't stand seeing you miserable.  Maybe if I could turn
you into a girl--if I could grant that prayer of yours--I don't mean
for good, I mean just temporarily, just for a few years, those years
when boyhood can be so nasty--maybe you would grow up into a happier
person afterward.  Not scarred for the rest of your life by all that
nastiness.  And I do so want you to be happy."

You see what I meant about a change from hell to heaven.  It took
me no time at all to make up my mind; I had made it up while she was
talking to me about the possibility.  I said Yes, and I think she
saw the light in my eyes when I did so.

But she was cautious.  "I think you should try for a couple of
weeks, or maybe a month, starting now, before we go," she said,
"so you can see what it's like.  I won't want you to do this if you
don't like it.  But I can get you a dress to try wearing, something
that will really fit you.  It's Summer; you don't have to go to
school; you hardly ever go outside anyway.  So maybe you could just
try dressing as a girl, around the house, until we move.  In fact,
that will give you two opportunities to change your mind, the first
one when we move.  If you think you like it, then we can finish out
the month after we've moved and then make up our minds about whether
you'll continue.  And if you decide you don't like it...well, we'll
hope you find nicer boys in our new place."

The idea had caught on in my mind.  I was half listening to her and
half contemplating the new possibilities her proposal had opened up.
And the more I thought about it, the better I liked it.  In fact, I
was surprised to realize how much it appealed to me.  Mom was being
so careful not to pressure me; but I was sure I would like it, and
my only regret was that I wouldn't be able to dress up as a girl
right away, right that evening, but would have to wait until to-
morrow for Mom to get something for me to wear.

I thought about this some more when I went to bed, before going to
sleep.  This was going a genuine adventure, I realized.  This wasn't
just *playing* at being a girl, the way I might play at being a
policeman or a pirate or an airplane pilot.  This was going to be
real, doing something with my life, experimenting with it.  And it
wasn't just something in my own mind; dresses and panties (panties!
...gosh!) were things that had an objective, material existence out
there.  They weren't even costumes.  They were real clothes, and I
was going to wear them.

What would I call myself?  As a girl I'd have to be something other
than Jimmy.  I lay in bed, considering the possibilities.  I wanted
something that sounded frilly and feminine.  Not just plain Mary or
Martha.  Cheryl?...Madeline?...Stacey?  The girl in school who wore
the prettiest dresses was named Lorelei.  H'mm, how about Lorelei,
in honor of the pretty dresses I was going to wear?  Nope.  Too
risky.  Suppose we bumped into each other some time...I could just
hear Mom saying, "Lorelei, this is Lorelei."  Too silly.  Finally I
had it:  Somebody (was it our teacher in school?) had told a story
about a sad ballerina named Giselle.  (I had somehow missed the
crucial point that Giselle was the name of the character, not of the
dancer herself.)  I pictured myself in tights and a tutu with the
name Giselle.  That was it.  I would be the Sad Ballerina Giselle.

The next day Mom came back from shopping with an armload of
packages.  She had obviously gotten more than just one dress.  I
was beside myself with excitement.  THIS WAS IT!!!  My escape into
femininity was at hand.  And sure enough, instead of taking the
packages into her room, as she would have done ordinarily, she
took them into my room, and we unwrapped them there.

Little girls' panties.  A little top (I was still too young for a
bra).  Little white and pink ankle socks.  A skirt.  Some blouses.
Another skirt.  A yellow dress trimmed with white lace.  And a pair
of little girl's shoes.

Slowly, my hands trembling with excitement, I put the things on.  I
chose the yellow dress for my debut as a girl.  Boys wore their hair
fairly long in those days, so Mom only had to comb it back and put
a yellow ribbon in it.  Finally she was done fussing over me, and I
looked in the mirror.  I thought I made a pretty convincing girl, as
long as the person looking at me had never seen me as a boy.

Mom gave me a little kiss.  "My little girl!" she exclaimed.
"What's your new name, Dear?"

I hesitated.  Suddenly, "Giselle" seemed ludicrously exotic for the
simple, pretty American girl I had become.

"Well, come on, sweetheart.  Surely you've thought of a name for
yourself.  You can't go on being Jimmy, now, can you?"

I didn't have another name to fall back on.  Finally, my hands
behind my back, my eyes downcast, in a tiny voice--a little girl's
voice, if I had realized it--I whispered, "Giselle," and turned red
as a beet.

One of the reasons I love Mom so was that she never laughed at me.
And even then, with this ridiculous answer, which, even now, I'm
embarrassed to remember, she didn't laugh.

"Oh, Dear, that's a lovely name!" she said.  "If that's the name you
want to take, then we'll do that."  She paused.  Then, "But you must
remember you're an American girl, not a European one, and people
might find you a little more...well, convincing...if you had a plain
American name."

"No, Mom," I replied.  "Giselle was a dumb idea.  Let me think about
it some more."  I had no idea what I would come up with.

"All right," Mom answered.  "For the time being, I'll just call you
Jenny, which is pretty close to Jimmy.  And once you've settled on a
name you want, we'll change it then."

As it turned out, I never did think of a better name.  In fact, I
was too busy being a girl to worry about details like names, so from
that day, the 20th of July, I was Jenny.  Jimmy Taylor had been born
on the 14th of December, but Jenny was born on July 20, and from
then on I thought of July 20 as my birthday.  That fact alone should
have been enough to tell me I was going to be a girl for keeps.


II.


On my first full day as a girl, I woke up early--about 6 AM--and
then, remembering what I was to do that day, I was too excited to go
back to sleep again.  I hadn't felt like this the times Sally would
put me in a dress when we played together.  This was going to be
different; this wasn't going to be just playing at being a girl.  I
kept watching the clock as it inched toward eight, my usual hour for
getting up.

At seven thirty I couldn't wait any longer.  I got up, took off my
pajamas, and then looked over the modest assortment of things Mom
had gotten me.  Should I choose the pink panties, or the white ones?
What a luxury, what a delight, actually to have the choice, actually
to be allowed, and in fact expected, to put on panties!  I chose a
pink pair.

This was to a month's trial, to see how I liked living as a girl.
But as I put on the panties--oh, gosh! how soft they felt! how
smooth on my legs!--I knew that, for me, the trial was already over.
If this was what it was like to wear dresses, I was all set to wear
nothing else for the rest of my life.  Just then I remembered how I
had once prayed for this moment, and on a sudden impulse I dropped
to my knees, still with only my panties on, and folded my hands.
"Thank you, God," I said.  "Thank you for making me a girl."

(Years later, a wonderful Jewish girl who was my dearest friend told
me that every orthodox Jewish man thanked God every day for having
been born a man instead of a woman.  I said, "You'd never have
caught *me* saying that!")

I chose a light blue blouse and a plain denim skirt.  I thought Mom
would be pleased that I had selected matching colors and that I had
not picked anything too dressy for day wear.

I put on a pair of ankle socks and the shoes.  Then I looked at
myself in the mirror.  It seemed to me that I looked a little less
convincing than I had the night before.

There was still half an hour to go before breakfast, so I spent the
time rearranging my dresser drawers, pushing my regular boy's socks
and underwear out of the way and putting in the girls' things Mom
had gotten me.  Then I did the same in my closet.  As I hung up the
other skirt Mom had gotten me, I realized that I was going to need
skirt hangers.  For the time being, I just folded the skirt over an
ordinary hanger and carefully hung it up.

Mom was pleased when she saw me at breakfast already dressed as a
girl.  She gave me a light kiss and said, "How's my pretty daughter
this morning?"

My heart leapt up.  "Your daughter is feeling just great, Mom!" I
answered with a hug and a kiss.

Breakfast was filled with happy talk about my new life.  I told her
how good I had felt getting dressed that morning, how impatient I
had been to begin, and how I had spent the extra time putting away
my girls' things and hanging up my new dress and skirt.

"You actually put your own clothes away?" she exclaimed.  "You've
never done that before!"  She laughed.  "If I'm not going to have to
pick up after you the way I used to have to pick up after Jimmy, I'm
never going to let you change back!"  That was fine with me.

But after breakfast we settled down to work, and I began to learn
how much more there was to being a girl than just wearing a dress.
The first lesson was walking--how to walk like a girl.  Smaller
steps.  Weight less heavily on the heel with each step.

"When you're old enough to wear heels, Dear, you're going to have
to learn to put toe and heel down almost together.  So you might as
well get ready for that right now."

As I walked back and forth across the living room floor, I thought
about wearing high heels.  And that made me think about wearing
nylons, too.  What a terrific adventure this was going to be!

Next came sitting down.  How to approach a chair.  How to sit down
in it.  How to smooth my skirt so it wouldn't get wrinkled.  How to
cross my legs so men couldn't see up it.  After that came using my
hands and arms.

"The real test is going to be how you look when you aren't wearing
a dress," she pointed out.  "Suppose you put on blue jeans and a T-
shirt, with sneakers.  Girls wear things like that.  When people see
you that way, are they going to think you're a boy or a girl?  You
can't fall back on your clothes then.  You have to move like a girl;
you have to act like a girl; you have to think like a girl.  If you
just wear dresses, you're only being a girl on the outside.  If you
don't want to be caught, you must be a girl from the inside out."

"Now run, Dear.  Start in the kitchen and run all the way out to the
foyer."

I set off at a run.  Mom stopped me.

"Not that way, Jenny!  That's the way a boy runs, pumping your arms
back and forth.  Hold your elbows in and your hands out--" she
demonstrated "--and keep your balance by waving your forearms from
side to side.  Your elbows should be almost still as you run."

As she explained this, images of all the girls I had ever seen
running sprang to mind and I realized she was right.  It was tricky,
running that way, and it felt completely different.  This was going
to take work.

"Now, Jenny, here's your homework," she said.  "I want you to
practice walking, running, sitting down, and standing up.  Do that
for at least an hour this afternoon.  And every time you sit down,
here or in your room, remember you're a girl and remember how I told
you to do it.  Okay?"

It was just about as okay as anything could get.  I saw how much
more there was to being a girl than just the clothes, and I realized
that the more deeply I managed to feminize myself, the better it
would be.  I sauntered around all day, trying to remember all the
details about how to hold myself and move.


III.


So that's how it started.  I think back now and bless the memory of
those bully boys who, unknowingly, pushed me into being a girl.  Mom
had planned on a month's trial, but it wasn't going to take a month.
I knew this was what I wanted the very first day.

This kind of thing works only when the chemistry is right.  I
realize now that Mom had secretly hoped for a little girl instead
of a little boy.  And, at some deep-seated, unrecognized level,
I wanted to be a girl, too, even though I had never realized it
consciously.  It had been more than just the bullying by the other
boys; that had only been the trigger.  So once the possibility was
opened up to us by circumstance, it was inevitable that we would do
what we did; we snapped into our respective roles like a couple of
magnets brought together.

When my dad had died, he had left a pretty good estate.  We weren't
rich by any means, but as long as we counted our pennies and lived
on a modest scale, Mom didn't have to work.  And that was the key to
the second part of her plan.

"I'd like to keep you out of school altogether, Jenny," she said
one morning, "so you can keep on living as a girl.  I can do that
provided I teach you myself.  It's known as homeschooling, and I've
been reading up on it.  So IF you'll be a serious pupil, and IF you
work hard and don't fool around, and IF you don't whine when you
have to study boring things, and IF you don't try to take advantage
of me, then you won't have to go to school at all, at least not
until high school and maybe not even then."

Not having to go to school...!  I had been dreading school.  A
month's trial was all very well, I had thought, but I hadn't been
able to see how I could go back to school as a girl.  Now Mom,
wonderful wonderful darling Mom, had found a way that I didn't have
to go back at all.  All those IFs...if she had told me I would have
to work in the salt mines in order to avoid school, I would have
jumped at the chance.

She went on.  "It will mean extra work for me, teaching you as
well as doing housework.  So I'm going to ask you to help with the
housework while we do this.  I'll try to pick girly chores for you
to do, the things you would have been doing all along if you had
been born a girl.  Those can be part of your training."

Once we had moved, Mom made the formal arrangements for home-
schooling, and the day they were complete we had a celebration.  It
was another milestone in my life as a girl.  I had already started
living full time as a girl, but this was the point when we decided
the trial was a success--well before the month was over--and that I
decided was going to keep on being a girl, at least through grade
school.

We spent mornings and afternoons on schoolwork.  I worked hard,
because that was the price of freedom.  It was either that or having
to go to school as a boy.  But in addition, Mom discovered that
she loved teaching me, because, she said, she was learning so much
herself..  Some things, like reading, writing, and arithmetic, one
uses all the time, but other subjects, like history and geography,
tend to fade with time, and Mom loved learning these subjects anew
and in greater depth than when she had been a girl.  And her own
enjoyment showed in her teaching and made me enjoy them, too.

Part of what she was supposed to teach me was some kind of
performing art, and for this she chose singing and dancing.  She
wanted me to be able to dance like a girl, and she thought dance
training would help me learn to move like a girl in other ways
(although, under Mom's vigilance, I was beginning to be good at that
anyway).

She had an ulterior motive in having me sing, too: she wanted me to
develop a girl's voice if I could.  It's true that the difference is
more in mannerisms and vocabulary than in pitch and she wanted to
get a feminine way of speaking firmly in place as soon as possible.
But she thought that singing would make me conscious of how I used
my voice and get me into the habit of controlling it.  She thought
it would be good for me to start this early, before my voice changed.

My vocabulary changed, too, because girls use different words for
many things.  For example, I decided right away that from now on Mom
was going to be Mummy, and I never again called her Mom.

Mummy decided that my handwriting should be more feminine, too.
This was a tough job, and we labored over it for months, because
young boys don't have as good control over their fingers as young
girls have, and my writing was sloppy.  Mummy wanted it to be neat
and rounded, with little circles over the i's instead of dots.
I hated this work, but I kept at it, because I was beginning to
appreciate that the secret of feminizing myself was going to be
lots of tiny details.

end 1/2
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

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