Pandora's Closet

THE TRAVAILS OF PRINCESS STEPHEN by Jane Lindskold

The dress had been in the family for longer than anyone remembered, for so long that no one quite recalled for whom the dress originally had been made.

It was commonly referred to as “great-grandmother’s wedding dress.” But as the generations passed, and the dress was handed on with more or less formality, the question of just how many “greats” should be inserted before “grandmother” was a point subject to occasional lazy discussion.

The problem was that no matter how many faded wedding photos were dug out of dusty boxes, no matter how many dingy paintings showing the dress being worn for this wedding or that a hundred years ago, or even two or three hundred years ago, the dress itself argued against the possibility of its age.

Taken from its storage chest, shaken out, arrayed on a stand, the dress was as good as new. Better, even, for new fabrics don’t preserve in their folds the faint scents of roses and lilies, fragrant echoes of dozens of bridal bouquets. New dresses are not adorned with crisp, but not in the least scratchy tulle, embroidered with intricate hand-made lace set with minute beads that give back the light with the fire of genuine diamonds. New dresses may evoke the classic, but this dress-full-skirted with a daring but not vulgar bodice- was the wedding dress dreamed of by every bride since days when brides began wearing white and transforming themselves into princesses, if only for a single, special day.

For those sentimental brides who decided to wear mother’s or grandmother’s gown, the choice was often accompanied by bitter disappointment. When the treasured heirloom wedding dress was removed from storage, many a bride-to-be discovered that pure white had faded to ivory, or worse, turned sour yellow. Stitches had worked their way loose. Hems were too short or too long. Beading had unraveled. Waistlines must be loosened or tightened up. Buttons needed replacement. Bows needed pressing. Trains showed evidence of trampling. Veils and the tiaras that held them in place had gone missing.

None of this ever happened to the bride who decided to be wed in great-grandmother’s wedding dress. The dress was not worn for every family wedding, or even in every generation, since fashion is as fickle as love. However, when a bride-to-be was inspired to wear great-grandmother’s wedding dress, and she opened the old cedar-lined trunk in which it was stored, she would find that the dress had held up remarkably well. She would also discover that it fit her beautifully. This oddity was excused as being proof that physical form and personal taste runs in families.

Nothing else. Surely nothing else.

Stephanie had begun life as Stephen.

He hadn’t meant to become Stephanie, not full-time at least, but one thing had led to another. There had been the job-shortage after the dot-com bust. Stephen had heard that there was a really good post available with a very solid company but that the company was in trouble with the equal opportunity people and planned to hire a woman. They couldn’t say so, of course, not without starting all sorts of reverse discrimination nastiness, but the fix was on.

So Stephanie, still Stephen at that point, had decided that one good fix deserved another. He’d apply for the job representing himself as a woman. Then, if he got an interview or, even better, if he got offered the job, he’d follow through right until the inevitable discovery that he was a man. Then he’d have his new employers in a bind. They could either offer him the job or face an interesting discrimination suit. He bet they’d offer him the job.

Up to this point, Stephen had been indulging in a bit of self-deception, concentrating on how much he needed the job, ignoring why he thought he’d have even a slight chance of being mistaken for a woman. Now, as he opened various closets and dresser drawers and pulled out a wide variety of attire, he allowed himself to face the headiness of his deception. The honest truth was that Stephen had indulged himself by dressing in women’s clothing for the greater part of his life.

Stephen’s first appearance as a girl had been the Halloween when he was eight. There had been a contest for the best disguise, and Stephen had set his heart on winning. He immediately ruled out rubber masks and the like. Too cheesy, too easy. After weighing and discarding numerous options, he fastened on the idea of going as a girl about his own age, a girl dressed up as a princess. That way his costume would have two levels. Everyone would look at him and try to figure out who was the girl dressed as Cinderella. They’d never guess it was a boy dressed as a girl dressed as Cinderella. At the culmination of the evening, he’d reveal himself and win.

Stephen’s dad had died in a car crash when Stephen was two. His mother, who doted on him, thought the idea incredibly clever-so clever that she didn’t think about how strange it was that just at the age when boys are starting to use “girl” as the greatest imaginable insult, her son would want to dress as one. On the night of the party, she helped him into his Cinderella costume and did his make-up.

No one guessed, and Stephen won the grand prize-an enormous jack-o-lantern filled with candy. He also won the nickname “Princess Stephanie.” Stephen supposed the name should have bothered him more, but the truth was, it didn’t.

Right before Christmas that year, he bloodied the nose of a boy who teased him a bit too much. The budding bully, horrified at what “the princess” had done, didn’t tell his parents exactly how he’d gotten blood all over his shirt. He just said “another boy” had punched his nose in a fair fight. His parents, proud of their son’s manliness in refusing to rat out a chum, didn’t push.

After that, no one doubted that Princess Stephanie could stand up for himself. By spring of that school year, the joke was fading, and by the time the class merged with several others in junior high, no one remembered about Stephen’s turn as Princess Stephanie. No one but Stephen. He remembered. More importantly, he remembered how right that Cinderella dress had felt. He remembered how he had enjoyed feeling beautiful and confident. He remembered his pleasure when he had overheard a few of the fathers say, “That little girl is going to be a looker,” and things like that.

His pleasure was so intense that he never confessed it to anyone. Behind the closed doors of his bedroom he would dress up in the costume until he started splitting out the seams. He borrowed some of his mother’s dresses when she was out at work, but no matter how carefully he hung them up, she noticed. Luckily, for Stephen, she thought he’d been after something else stored in that closet and only cautioned him to be more careful.

In junior high, Stephen joined the theater club, but the male parts he played only convinced him that he wasn’t simply interested in dressing up. He skulked in the back of the theater when the director was coaching the girls-most of whom wore a dress about twice a year-how to move in skirts and high heels. If anyone noticed, they either praised him for his devotion to theater arts, or, more usually, figured he had a crush on one of the girls in the cast.

Stephen continued acting through high school, but he dropped it in college, when he would have had to be a theater major to get more than a walk-on role. By then it didn’t matter. He had learned what he needed. He knew the secret tricks of make-up and hairstyling. He’d garnered some tips for dealing with excess hair. He could walk in three inch heels or a long skirt without tripping.

He’d learned something else that would have bothered him more except that just about everyone he knew had some confusion regarding either sex or gender identity-if not both. He’d learned that although he was not attracted to women, he was not attracted to gay men either. He preferred men who liked women, not men who liked men. That made having a love life rather difficult for Stephen, because the only people to whom he was seriously attracted were solidly heterosexual males.

Stephen’s mother died from breast cancer a few months after proudly attending Stephen’s graduation from college, so there was no one to pressure him to date or settle down. He took a job in a city where he knew no one and began to experiment. At work he was Stephen, but a few nights a week he would transform himself into Stephanie, and go out on the town.

He refined his techniques to perfection. Stephen did not attire himself as some flamboyant drag queen but instead transformed himself into the young woman he felt that, but for an accident of nature, he would have been. Stephanie dressed well, but not extravagantly or outrageously. She was demure, maybe even a little old-fashioned, preferring skirts and dresses to more casual clothing. This aura of respectability, combined with the cubicles in most lady’s rooms, meant that Stephen had a lot less trouble with maintaining his masquerade than a woman would have had in a similar situation.

His natural physique made the transition even easier. Where Stephen was skinny and androgynous, with the addition of a little padding, Stephanie was willowy, slim, and wholly feminine. Naturally fair-haired, Stephen’s beard-growth was so light that he could go three days without shaving, though he never did, of course. His chest was flat, but naked of hair, saving him the horrors of waxing such a large area. Happily, pony-tails were not uncommon among men in his profession, so he could wear his hair long enough to give Stephanie plenty to work with.

There were a few close calls, especially during the first year or so, but nothing Stephanie couldn’t handle, especially since he had taken care to study aikido and other of the more defensive martial arts. The occasional man who got aggressive found his prey gracefully slipping away and was usually so embarrassed by his failure to hold on to such a slip of a girl that he would be the last to draw attention to it.

Stephen reviewed these events as he began to pack Stephanie’s suitcase. The interview was in another city. Because of airport security regulations, he’d need to travel as Stephen, but once he got to his destination he could change. It was a blessing that no one could meet him at the gate.

Another new trend would work in his favor. Most large airports now had several restrooms meant for the use of handicapped travelers. They were private, unisex, and large enough to accommodate at least two people. Stephen could slip into one of these, change, and walk out as Stephanie.

His plan worked beautifully. Stephanie was met by Elaine, a personnel manager for her prospective employer. After Stephanie checked into her hotel and freshened up, she met Elaine for drinks. Conversation stayed general and pleasant, even when they met several other members of the company for dinner. The next morning, Stephanie toured the facility, and there were more meals with possible coworkers. By the time she was due to fly out a few days later, she had an offer, had countered, and a middle ground had been met that left them all quite pleased.

“We’ll do a lot of the preliminary paperwork through email,” said the personnel liaison on the way back to the airport. “I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to work here. Are you sure you won’t mind relocating?

Stephanie smiled. “Not in the least. I actually like colder weather.”

It’s so much easier, she thought, to masquerade as a woman when no one expects you to wear sleeveless dresses, or show up at a company picnic in shorts and a tank top.

But for all Stephanie’s smug contentment with the new arrangement, Stephen expected things to fall apart any moment. He already had false ID, correct in every detail but that his first name was Stephanie, rather than Stephen. He used these blithely and waited for IRS paperwork or a reference check to trip him up.

Apparently, though, no one checked his references. He had one tense moment when Elaine in Personnel told him that some tax form had come addressed to “Stephen.” Then she laughed.

“I let it go. We know better than most how confused computers can get. What’s important is that your social security number matched, so there’ll be no problems with the IRS.”

Most of Stephen’s work friends had vanished when their mutual employer had gone under. Stephanie’s social contacts were, by necessity, permitted only a certain amount of intimacy. She told them she was moving to take a new job, received congratulations, and knew she was forgotten almost before she was out the door.

Her new life began. Stephen was so completely forgotten that Stephanie occasionally was startled when hygienic necessity reminded her that she was not a young woman. She researched the various surgeries for transgendering, but she shied away from the procedures, squeamish about the physical truncation and large amounts of hormone therapy involved in such an extreme step.

Stephanie came to feel about Stephen’s parts in the same way other people did about freckles or moles or other physical anomalies. They were something she had to deal with, but not really her. What mattered was that she was now a woman socially, and, at least superficially, physically. She was past the age when sex was the first thing on her mind, and she had gone so long without it that she missed intimacy more.

Everything was grand. Everything was wonderful. That is, until she met Donald Baxter and fell in love.

Don loved Stephanie, too, that was the tough part. He was as much interested in a pretty girl as any man. A swift glance at his trousers when they’d been cuddling in front of the television gave that away, but he respected her restraint.

“I think it’s sweet you want to wait,” he said repeatedly.

Stephanie thought that, if anything, the tantalizing novelty of her “nothing below the neck” rule kept bringing Don back, rather than driving him away.

They dated for eighteen months before the moment Stephanie had been anticipating, and yet dreading, came. Donald proposed.

He did it right, too, privately, over a romantic dinner in one of their favorite restaurants, the expensive one they saved for special occasions. The ring was marvelous, too. He’d remembered that she thought the more usual diamonds cold. Somewhere he had found an old-fashioned pink diamond. Stephanie reached toward its cobwebby beauty almost on reflex, and heard Don saying, “You’ll have me then? How about a June wedding?”

What could she say? She wanted Don almost more than she could bear, but if she told him about Stephen, she’d lose Don. Still, didn’t love deserve truth? She drew in a deep breath.

“Don, I want you to know how happy and honored I am, but there’s something I need to tell you, something about who I was before I came here.”

He reached across the table and cradled her hand in his.

“Darling, I don’t care who you were before. You’re the one I love now. Nothing will change that, I promise. I’ve often wondered if your restraint in… well, certain matters, meant that you’d had some painful experiences in the past. I don’t want you to dredge them up, not now, not ever.”

Stephanie tried again, “But, Don, you don’t really know me.”

“I know enough. You’re kind and sweet, but you’re also intelligent and witty. You’re my best friend and my darling. Nothing would make me happier than to have you as my lover and my wife.”

He slid the pink diamond in its platinum setting on her finger. It fit perfectly, and looked splendid.

“Don, I…”

Stephanie was going to tell him, but then a beaming waiter, obviously cued to wait for the ring to go on her finger, came hurrying up with a bottle of very expensive champagne and a silver tray holding her favorite dark chocolate truffles. She couldn’t embarrass Don when he’d done so much to make everything perfect, not in front of all these people.

She’d tell him later. She’d must tell him, sooner rather than later. Otherwise the embarrassment would be all the more acute.

But somehow the right time never came. First his parents threw them a big engagement party. Then wedding plans seemed to take on a life of their own. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have time to themselves, but somehow telling Don that Stephanie was “really” a “Stephen” while they were driving to listen to a band that might play at the reception or to taste samples of wedding cake or to interview a caterer didn’t seem exactly proper.

And when she was alone, Stephanie had to admit she was enjoying all the fuss and excitement. Don was one of three brothers, and his mother was thrilled to lavish on Stephanie all the enthusiasm she would have given to a daughter. Since Stephanie’s own parents were both dead, and Stephanie had no family of her own, Don’s mother didn’t even need to worry about taking some other mother’s place. She could feel good about her generosity, and Stephanie couldn’t bring herself to put out the light excitement had lit in that fine lady’s eyes.

The wedding dress was a problem. After all, fittings and measurings were semipublic events. Stephanie couldn’t have deceived a dressmaker for a moment. She hesitated.

“I could probably do quite fine with something off the rack,” she said. “I’m a pretty standard size.”

Don’s mom smiled. “If expense is what you’re thinking about, Stephanie, don’t let it worry you for a moment. I know you and Don have insisted on paying for most of the wedding expenses yourself, but you’re as close to a daughter as I’m likely to get. I’d love to buy you your dress. Don’s dad agrees, too. I’ve even talked to a dressmaker I know, and she’s free the day after tomorrow.”

Stephanie’s heart thudded in panic. She had to tell Don. He’d never forgive her-if he ever would anyhow-if he learned the truth from his shocked mother and a scandalized dressmaker. But Don was out of town on business and wouldn’t be back for a week.

She couldn’t tell him something like this over the phone-even if he’d listen. He was so committed to his position as the courtly gentleman who cared nothing for his beloved’s past that he’d skillfully blocked her every attempt to broach the subject. She suspected that even if she said, “I’m a man, dammit!” He wouldn’t understand.

Forget about dropping her pants. Ever since their engagement, Don had been careful, even overly so, about respecting her “above the neck” rule, so much so that they rarely spent more than a few minutes where they weren’t chaperoned by at least a waiter or a semipublic situation. Stephanie knew why Don was doing this. He was showing her that getting engaged hadn’t been an excuse for pushing her into premarital sex, but as much as she loved him all the more for his courtesy and kindness, there were times she could have punched him.

Don’s mom was prattling away about her friend the dressmaker, showing Stephanie some photos of other gowns the woman had done, when Stephanie suddenly remembered great-grandmother’s wedding dress.

“Those pictures reminded me of something I’d nearly forgotten. I have an heirloom dress that I think would fit me. I’d like to wear it, if there’s any chance. It would be like… well, having a little of my side of the family in the wedding.”

Don’s mom looked momentarily crushed, but she was a good woman and livened immediately.

“I think that’s wonderful. ‘Something old,’ the rhyme says. Maybe I can contribute the ‘something new.’ ”

Stephanie beamed at her. “That would be wonderful! Why don’t you come over the day after tomorrow and see the dress? That would give me a chance to make sure it hasn’t perished in storage or anything like that.”

Don’s mom smiled, her happiness fully restored.

“Don’t show Don,” she teased, waggling her finger. “It’s unlucky if the groom sees the bride’s dress before the wedding day.”

June came, and with it, the day of the wedding. Somehow, Stephanie had not found the right moment to tell Don about Stephen. She’d tried once, even getting so far as mentioning Stephen. Don had seemed ready to listen. Then a dog had darted out of a side street. Don had swerved to keep them from hitting it, and the moment had been lost.

All the hurdles Stephanie had expected hadn’t happened. Blood tests were no longer done. Physical exams were no longer required. The bored clerk hardly glanced at their birth certificates, shoved across forms for them to sign, and barely glanced at any signature but the one Don scrawled on the check. That she checked against his driver’s license.

Stephanie’s bridesmaids were to be Pam and Elaine, her best friends from work. Stephanie had initially cultivated Elaine for purely practical reasons, figuring that the personnel officer would be the first to hear any hints that someone suspected Stephanie was not quite what she seemed. Somewhere the pretense of friendship had become real. Pam worked as a programmer in the same division Stephanie did. She was uninquisitive about anything but numbers and codes, but with those she was brilliant, even funny.

The three women had arranged to meet at Stephanie’s house to get dressed in their finery and do each other’s hair. Then they would take the limousine over to the church together. If Stephanie met them at the door already in her gown, neither of her friends thought this odd. Her physical modesty was well-known, and many a bride could hardly wait to put on the lovely dress that she would, after all, wear only once.

Besides, the dress itself provided ample distraction.

“It’s amazing!” said Pam, a woman whose praise was usually reserved for the intricacies of some computer program.

“You showed it to us in the box,” Elaine added, “but this is a dress that needs to be seen on to be appreciated. Spin a bit, Stephanie. Look how those beads catch the light. If it wasn’t impossible you could believe they were diamonds. I love the netting over the neckline, modest without being in the least prudish.”

Stephanie loved the netting, too, as it concealed her falsies from close inspection. The only things was, she didn’t remember seeing the netting in any of the old photos. She supposed it had been too delicate to show.

“Even without your hair done or your make-up finished,” Pam said, “you look like a princess.”

“All hail Princess Stephanie!” Elaine said, making a deep curtsey, despite her jeans.

Stephanie flushed, remembering the boy of eight who had found his true self in a Cinderella costume.

“She’s blushing!” Pam said. “Now, you’re already half-way ready to go. Let’s get to our hair and then we’ll finish our make-up. Are you going to be all right in that gown? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a bathrobe?”

Stephanie spun, letting the diamond beads catch fire in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“I don’t ever want to take it off,” she said. “I wish I could be Princess Stephanie forever and ever.”

Pam laughed. “Enjoy it while you can, though I’m sure Don is going to be an absolute Prince Charming, even after the wedding. You can tell he’s not just madly in love, he’s sincerely in love. Now, let’s start with Elaine’s hair. It’s thicker than mine, and as I recall…”

The conversation drifted off into the intricacies of hairdressing. As Stephanie’s hands worked on taming Elaine’s thick chestnut locks, her mind insisted on returning to that morning. She’d sat there on the edge of the bed, naked, looking back and forth between the magnificent wedding dress on its stand and the undeniably male sex organs dangling limp at her crotch.

“I’m a man, Don! A man! The woman you love doesn’t exist.”

She practiced the words, but she couldn’t imagine saying them over the phone, and Don was taking his mother’s superstitions very seriously. He’d even left the rehearsal dinner early, so he wouldn’t take a chance of seeing Stephanie after midnight.

“I guess he knows that Cinderella changes back into her real self after midnight,” Stephen said to the dress, “and he doesn’t want to take any chances. How can I do this to him? But how can I stand him up at the altar? Better to go through with it, then let him find out the truth. Then we can figure out the best way to save face for him afterwards. It would be easy for him to have the marriage declared invalid. Then I could disappear. He could tell everyone whatever he wanted. Or I could pretend to die…”

Stephen started crying, hard tears that wrenched from the heart.

“But I love him so much! That’s real, even if Stephanie isn’t. I love him, and I’m going to lose him because even if a scullery maid can be changed into a princess, there’s no way I can ever be.”

“Ouch!” Elaine’s exclamation brought Stephanie from her memories. “Not so hard! I don’t mind wearing it up, but I do protest having it pulled out at the roots.”

“Sorry,” Stephanie said. “I think I’ve got the pins in now, and doesn’t your hair look wonderful?”

It did, and Elaine was immediately mollified, turning her head side to side to inspect the effect. Pam’s hair was easier to do, but Stephanie made herself concentrate on the task, not letting her mind wander. She took charge of the cosmetics, and each of her friends were overwhelmed at the transformation.

“You won’t be the only princess at this ball!” Pam said, turning her head side to side to admire the results of Stephanie’s skillful shadowing. “Mike won’t know me.”

“Mike will be awed,” Elaine said, “but he’s going to be embarrassed unless you get your dress on. We’d better get moving. The limo’s going to be here before we know it.”

And it was. Stephanie had hardly settled the heirloom tiara that went with the dress into her fair hair when the driver came to the door. He seemed pleasantly impressed with the entourage, escorting them to the long car with visible pride.

“Usually,” Pam said when they were settled, “I consider stretch limousines an indulgence, but at a time like this, they make sense. We would never have fit your dress into a more usual car, Stephanie. Even ours would be a trial.”

Stephanie could only nod. Her heart was in her throat, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with what she was glad to know everyone would take for bridal jitters. Then they were at the church. She could hear the organ notes floating out toward them as the church’s big double doors swept open.

She stood straight. Great-grandmother’s wedding dress glittered in the sunlight. Her veil fell into place as if arranged by invisible angels. Pam and Elaine looked radiant, but Stephanie glowed.

The bouquets were waiting at the back. Don’s mom fussed about, making sure each woman got the right one.

“Stephanie, you look wonderful!” she whispered happily, pecking the bride on one cheek.

“Thanks, Mom,” Stephanie said. “Now go ahead. The usher is waiting for you.”

The parents of the groom were escorted to their seats, then the music shifted.

“That’s your cue,” Stephanie said, holding her bouquet just as she had practiced. “Take the lead, ladies. I’m right behind you.”

No one was giving the bride away, although Don’s dad had offered. Stephanie wouldn’t accept that kindness, would not let that good man be part of her deception. Unseen Stephen would give Stephanie away, just as he would accept the responsibility at the end.

The service went by in a blur. Stephanie knew she said all the right things because no one looked at her strangely. The priest said “Husband and wife,” and Don kissed her without a trace of shyness, never mind all the avid gazes fixed on them both.

Then they swept down the aisle to the thrilling notes of the organ recessional, and off to the reception. Stephanie had insisted that she could not bear a tyrannical photographer, so they settled for a few posed shots taken by a good friend, then joined the party.

Their first dance was to a song neither of them had selected, but which was so painfully appropriate that Stephanie smiled up at Don and pulled him onto the floor.

To the lovely notes of Cinderella’s waltz with the prince from Disney’s version of the fairy tale, Stephanie sang softly, “So this is love…” Don looked down at her, his eyes shining as brightly as had those of any prince in any fairy tale.

They left the reception early, and the limousine spirited them off to a room at a high-end hotel. Don had made the arrangements for this and for the honeymoon, and Stephanie only hoped he could get his deposits back when he explained that the wedding was off.

They were both a little nervous when they arrived at their room, so they took a moment to examine the elaborate setting. Don had reserved a suite, rather than a room. Champagne and truffles had been set out on a low coffee table before a cozy love seat.

Nervous of the bedroom and its enormous waiting promise, they gravitated toward the love seat.

I bet we’re not nervous for the same reason, Stephanie thought. She glanced at the clock and saw it was a few moments before midnight. How appropriate. Time for Cinderella to transform back into a scullery… boy.

She got up from the love seat, stepped out of her high-heeled shoes, and peeled off her stockings with her toes. Then she moved across the room a few paces. Don half-rose as if to follow her, but Stephanie motioned him back, putting the coffee table between them.

“Don, whatever else happens,” she said, “I want you to know that I love you with all my heart and all my soul. If I have done anything selfish, anything thoughtless, well, that’s because there never seemed to be a right time.”

She could see that he thought he meant her refusal to indulge in premarital sex. Before he could reassure her, Stephanie raised one hand for silence.

“The time has come,” she said, and from somewhere she imagined she could hear a clock striking the first stroke of midnight.

The dress was remarkably cooperative in matters of fastenings. The little pearl buttons along the back had been easy to reach, and simple to fasten. They were even easier to unfasten.

Don had settled back in the love seat, his glass of champagne in his hand, his expression saying that he thought her surprise was far better than his. After all, who would have guessed his shy girl would undress before him?

Stephanie-for just this moment more, still Stephanie-smiled softly at him.

“I love you, Don,” she said, undid the final button, and started peeling down the close-fitting bodice.

The soft fabric folded down easily, and Stephanie waited for Don’s gasp of surprise when he saw that her curving bosom was an artfully stuffed bra and falsies.

He said nothing, and so she peeled the dress down to her waist. Still nothing, although Stephen’s trim waist could never be mistaken for that of a woman.

Don’s drunk! Stephen thought in desperation. He’s nearsighted and I never knew. He’s a virgin, maybe, and has no idea what a naked woman looks like.

Stephen dismissed that last. He knew perfectly well that Don was a normal, healthy heterosexual male. He’d have seen naked women, in pictures, if not in person, and quite likely in person as well.

Stephen continued his agonizing striptease, opening the skirt and stepping free of those wonderful, all-encompassing, all-concealing hoops and tiers. He kept his gaze locked on Don, but the young man’s face held only wonder and delight.

Stephen set the dress to one side and stood revealed but for his undergarments.

Come on! These panties don’t exactly hide what I’ve got. Say something!

Without realizing it, he had spoken the last two words aloud.

Don shook himself from his entranced wonder and grinned, a merry, feckless expression.

“You are absolutely gorgeous, my darling. Are you going to stop there? I mean, some men might prefer sexy lingerie, but I’d like to see my real, live girl in all her glory.”

Stephen blinked. He liked good undergarments, but the reality of keeping bound what needed to be bound and building up what needed to be seen had some restrictions. He had figured the game would be over by this point, so he hadn’t gone out and bought anything particularly elegant in the way of lingerie.

But maybe Don was more innocent than was possible. Maybe he wouldn’t understand until he saw the dangly bits.

Resolutely, Stephen reached to unhook his bra. The fabric felt silky to his touch, smoother than he remembered, and when it sprang loose the weight was all wrong. It should have hung, heavy with padding, but it swung as light as if it was made of nothing more serious than a bit of satin and lace.

“Oh, my god…” Don groaned.

Stephen braced himself, but the rebuke he expected did not follow. Don groaned again.

“Stephanie, get on with it, or this is going to be the most embarrassingly short wedding night in history.”

Stephen dropped the bra without looking at it, but he did look as he slid his hand into his panties to strip them off.

They were not, most definitely, not, the French-cut briefs he had put on that morning. They did not have an inappropriate bulge in the front. These were the panties of his dreams, bikini-cut and trimmed with just enough lace to be sexy. They did not hide the awkward bulge of a penis for the simple fact that the bulge was not there.

Stephen/Stephanie stared, and felt a flood of delight. She inspected her chest and found she had two round and perky breasts, just like the ones she had always imagined. She had a waist, too, and very nice legs.

Don was laughing affectionately.

“Stephanie, it’s as if you never realized that you were a girl! Come over here, right now. I’m going to carry you over the threshold in proper fashion while I still have the self-restraint to do so.”

And so he did, gathering her close, and whispering wonderful things as he carried her to their nuptial bed.

Glancing over Don’s shoulder, Stephanie saw the dress lying in a glittering heap on the floor and sent it a silent glowing whisper of thanks.

Then she gave Don her full attention and made him her man as he made her his woman.