My Girdle Is Killing Me!

Chapter 3: Decision Time

I slept badly that night, dreading the morning and the decision I would have to make. (A pair of aching balls were also a contributory factor.) As the sky lightened and morning arrived, I lay there feeling sick to my stomach, staring at my alarm clock and resenting every passing minute. My pillow was damp with tears. I watched as 7am approached, signalling the moment when it would be time to bite the bullet. There were two options in front of me:

1/ Tell my parents what had happened. See the look on their faces as their boy told them about having spent a day in women's corsetry. Know that the whole school would find out and would taunt me about it for years to come.

2/ Get used to wearing a girdle.

It was hard to know which prospect was the more horrendous. I tried telling myself the first option was the sensible one, that no-one would blame me, that they’d tell me I was right to report it. But the humiliation...the excruciating public humiliation... As for the second option, I tried to tell myself it was just underwear, merely clothing. Women all over the world coped with it without any problem – I’d soon get used to it and wonder what all the fuss was about. But the experiences of the previous day told me that would be a damn sight easier said than done.

I switched off the alarm seconds before it was due to go off. Downstairs I could hear the radio playing in the kitchen – breakfast would soon be ready and I’d have had to make a decision by then. I got on my knees and pulled the girdle out from under the bookcase where it had landed the day before. The sight of it, the feel of the material in my hands had the tears pricking at my eyes. I concentrated furiously on keeping my composure, as the last thing I needed was to attract attention.

I went through to the bathroom to wash and clean my teeth. Back in my bedroom, I put on my usual underpants and then my socks, shirt and tie. Then finally my pullover...and there was no more scope for procrastination. The moment had come, and I already knew the answer. Option 1 or Option 2? It amounted to public humiliation or private humiliation. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stepped into my girdle, took a deep breath, sucked in my belly and pulled it on. It resumed its role of shaping my belly, backside and thighs. Dear sweet Christ! The feel of it on me! I put on my trousers and then my shoes and wiped away the tears. The game would be up if I went downstairs in a state – I needed to keep it together. On standing up, I checked myself out in the mirror. I tried looking myself in the eye but looked away again immediately, my cheeks burning with shame.

“Dave! Breakfast!”

My mother shouted up the stairs and went back to the kitchen. I put on my blazer, picked up my bag and walked to the top of the stairs where I paused. The radio was louder now – Abba singing “Money Money Money” – a song I could never hear from that day on without coming right back to that moment. If I went down there now, I was committing to this as a way of life. I'd missed the chance to report the bullying yesterday, and if I didn’t report it now then the chance would be gone. It would be bad enough going through the public humiliation I so dreaded, but if I deferred reporting it then the first question would be “Why didn't you tell someone immediately – why did you keep wearing it?” The implication would be that I had quite liked it.

I stood at the top of the stairs, loathing the feel of my corsetry against me, and I got cold feet. “I can’t do this! I can’t do it!” I almost said it out loud, and took two steps back towards the bedroom. But the idea that people might think me a willing crossdresser had been an angle that had only just occurred to me. I could report it and Pete could deny all involvement. Or, if they showed the photos, they could say they caught me, or that I was a willing participant. The fact that I had apparently co-operated with the photo-shoot would seem to back up the “willing participant” theory. In that moment, Option 1 died. I turned back to the stairs.

“David Ryan! Will you hurry up? You’ll be late for the bus at this rate and I’m not driving you!”

I felt light-headed as I took my first step down the stairs. Then, slowly, a second step and a third... It was like an out-of-body experience – watching someone else grimly heading towards their fate. I'd finally made my decision – I was going to have to get used to wearing a panty girdle and that was that. (And my aching balls were going to have to get used to it as well.)

It was a wonder I hadn’t had a heart attack with all the stress and fear I’d endured in the previous twenty-four hours, and the tension was back as I went into the kitchen. What if my mum noticed my flat backside or thigh rings? I sat down quickly, getting my legs well under the table and out of sight. Everything around me unfolded as usual. I had no real appetite, so I took some toast and missed out my usual cereal. When I stood up again, I made sure to lean forward, as when my trouser legs hung loose at the front they were less likely to show my girdle rings. My blazer was long length and double-vented at the back, so the flap handily covered my “monobuttock”. I felt a wave of sheer relief pass over me as I headed out the door with my secret still safe. God, mornings were going to be hell from now on.

It was a ten minute walk to the stop for the school bus. As I walked, I resolved I would never give these bastards the enjoyment of seeing me suffer again. I felt a mix of embarrassment and anger with myself as I recalled my pleading of the day before. Though I may be enduring all the agonies of hell, I’d never give them the pleasure of seeing my pain again. Never.

On the bus ride, I sat with my bag on my legs again for camouflage as I talked to the few friends I had and generally tried my best to be casual. When the bus arrived, the gang of four were waiting for me. Pete tapped my backside.

“I read somewhere that this is how they check that air-hostesses are wearing their girdles.”

For a fleeting moment he'd looked surprised. Part of him had been expecting me to defy them.

“Is he wearing it?”

Graham was eager to know.

“Yes – Dave has been a good girl, haven’t you?”

He turned back to me as he spoke, raising his eyebrows to show he expected a response. This was the first test of my new resolve and I was determined not to fall at the first hurdle. I spoke in what I hoped would sound like a thoroughly bored manner.

“Yes, that's right. I’m a good girl.”

Graham and Ian laughed while the other Iain looked away, embarrassed for me.

“I hope so. We’ll keep checking on you, you know.”

I nodded and started to move away. They’d had their fun for the moment and so they drifted off, leaving me in peace. I hung around with the others waiting for the bell to sound for the start of classes. That morning I had discovered in myself an acting ability that I never knew I had. It would stand me in good stead in the coming months.

This morning was no easier to endure than the previous one. Lunchtime arrived to my great relief, and I headed for the toilets, anticipating some welcome respite. But Ian intercepted me and gestured with his head for me to follow him. Soon we were alone behind some outbuildings, a place where pupils were not meant to go and so somewhere we could get some privacy.

“Show me.”

“Why don’t you just slap my arse like the others do?”

“I want to see it. I want to see you in it. Open up.”

As I’ve mentioned before, Ian was a strange character and I always felt nervous around him, especially when we were alone. I pulled down my fly and pulled the sides apart to reveal a small patch of pristine white.

“Open it the whole way.”

I unfastened my belt and opened my trousers to show him my firm foundation in all its glory. He was breathing rapidly and I realised with dismay that he was excited by what he was seeing. My mouth went dry, dreading what he might ask me to do next.

“What does it feel like? Is it really tight?”

He put his hands on my hips to feel the material.

“You can try it on if you want.”

Shit! Backchat was hardly going to make things better. He looked me in the eye and then grinned as he stood back.

“Um...no thanks. Real men don’t wear girdles.”

Emphasis on the “real”. That was meant to hurt me but, to be honest, it came across as lame. It was on the tip of my tongue to say “Yeah, yeah.” or even “What about you?” but I resisted the impulse. Best not to piss him off. It was what he said next that stung.

“Don’t think you’re going to hide in the crapper and take it off. We know that’s what you did yesterday. From now on we want you in the playground where we can see you during breaks.”

Bastards. That meant I was going to have to wear it throughout the entire school day. I was already sick of the tightness around my lower torso, and now it was going to be four hours or more before I’d be able to take it off. I followed him to the main playground, determined not to let them see my disappointment.

A long afternoon passed uneventfully. I suffered as before, but concentrated on giving no sign of distress - no fidgeting in my seat, no grimacing and definitely no pleading for release. I was determined to spoil their fun. There were no after-school activities today, so at least that was something. I travelled home on the school bus, again remembering to deploy my bag as thigh camouflage, and resisted the urge to rush as I walked home – something that took considerable will-power. If I was going to have to live like this then I had to avoid drawing attention to myself at all costs, and yesterday’s quickstep must have looked ludicrous. I was dying to get my girdle off, but I made a point of taking my time. I shouted to my mum as I came through the front door to let her know it was me and walked up the stairs at a normal pace. With the bedroom door shut, I took off my trousers, peeled my girdle off and kicked it away.

I now had to think of a place to hide it so that neither my parents or my little shit of a sister could find it. It had spent the previous night on the floor behind a small bookcase when I'd thrown it away in disgust. That had been a rash thing to do and I'd got away with it, but now I needed to be smarter. There was a larger, heavier, floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the room. Well, I was the class swot and I had plenty of books, and I had found a hiding place behind that bookcase long ago. It would do just as well for my latest secret. There was a gap of a few inches at the bottom – enough for me to get my arm in. Above that there was a slight ledge, and with care I could balance stuff on it. I took the girdle, folded it over length-ways, then folded it a couple of times to get a small package. To my relief, I managed to secure it where I wanted, well away from prying eyes. I made sure it was invisible even to someone looking under the bookcase, and then got back on my feet to take of the rest of my uniform and dress in my civilian clothes.

There would be other issues to deal with – like how to keep the damn thing clean for a start – but at least I was starting to think clearly now after the previous day's turmoil. I still felt sick at the knowledge that this was going to be a long-running situation. More people at school had made a comment about my apparent weight loss so, even in the unlikely event that Pete took pity on me, there was no stopping now. At least not until the Christmas break, when I could get away with seeming to have put weight back on. But would my tormentors have lost interest by then? Deep down I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that one, but I clung to the possibility as it allowed me to start counting down to a date where this nightmare might come to an end. In the meantime, my inner nerd would seek some diversion from the awfulness of the situation by planning how to cope with the practicalities. With the hiding place sorted, next up would be the matter of the laundry. As I headed downstairs, I was grateful to have something to occupy my mind.