My Girdle Is Killing Me!

Chapter 4: A Game Of Consequences

A month had come and gone, and I was struggling to cope. The sheer shock value of the first few days had abated and things had settled into more of a routine. I was beginning to relax in the company of other people, as it was amazing how unobservant they were, though I still took every care to make sure I kept things covered as much as possible.

Only one person at school seemed to have figured it out – Mrs Jamieson, the young French teacher – and she seemed to find it amusing. She'd given me a few knowing looks, but it only sunk in that she knew at the end of one class in the late afternoon. I usually tried not to give any clues through my behaviour, but as I'd stood up I'd forgotten myself, grimaced and put my hands to my hips.

“Never mind,” she had whispered, “you'll soon be able to take it off.”

My face must have gone fire engine red, but she didn't seem to have any intention of telling anyone. I guess she must have thought I was a mixed-up kid going through a weird phase and that she didn't want to get me into trouble. God knows what she'd have done if she'd known the truth of my situation. I thought about asking her what had given me away, but to acknowledge to her that I was wearing a girdle was something I couldn't bring myself to do. Which was ridiculous, as she knew exactly what I was wearing. When we were learning words for items of clothing and she was quizzing students at random, guess who had to translate gaine-culotte? As I stuttered out the answer while blushing furiously, she smiled at me as if to say: “I knew you'd get that one”. I know she only meant it as gentle teasing, but it was yet another twist of the knife.

Worse than that, my mum had started giving me odd looks at breakfast. I could see her giving me quick glances when she thought I wasn't looking, flicking her eyes to my waist and away again. I tried to convince myself she didn't know – I desperately needed to believe she didn't know – but looking back it's clear she did. Or at least she suspected. I guess she thought she was doing me a favour by not embarrassing me (and herself) by broaching the subject. There was an element of black comedy about the situation, if not outright farce. I'm forcing myself into corsetry every morning so that she won't find out from the bullies what I've been doing. But she does in fact know anyway and is keeping quiet for my benefit, forcing me to keep wearing corsetry.

I couldn't bring myself to look at the damn thing any more. Wearing it was bad enough – looking at it was agonising. Dressing in the morning had now definitely fallen into a rigid routine. I'd get completely dressed in my school uniform apart from the trousers. Then I'd drop to my knees in front of the bookcase, close my eyes, get my girdle out of its hiding place, step into it and tug it on. Then I'd get my trousers on, tuck my shirt in, button the trousers, fasten the belt and then, and only then, would I open my eyes to put on my shoes. In the evenings, I'd go through the same process in reverse. It made the shame easier to deal with.

Apart from that it was the same mundane existence as before. Nothing was out of place, except...I was having to wear this fucking girdle and it was driving me crazy! Pete's plan to make me suffer was working like a dream. Things were purring along fine, and there was no reason we couldn't go on like this for weeks, month, even years. I was trapped in physical discomfort and in mental turmoil, and it was going to go on, and on, and on. The Christmas break seemed an eternity away.

At school the girdle police had no intention of letting up, checking on me several times every day. I also had to go without lunch for some considerable time, as they sequestered my lunch money to cover the costs of this new addition to my uniform. Not only did I have to wear this damn thing, I had to pay for it as well! The bastards even had the cheek to show me the receipt so that I wouldn't think I was being ripped off. God, they were inventive in rubbing salt into the wounds.

Iain-with-an-i had reached breaking point and had dropped out of the gang. He had never belonged anyway, and he was the only one who seemed to understand the cruelty of this affair. Pete understood perfectly the agonies I was going through – even if I went to great lengths to hide it – and, sadistic bastard that he was, he was taking great pleasure in my torment. The other Ian was a perverted little shit who was getting off on seeing another boy wearing women's underwear. The tap check was never enough for him – I always had to open my trousers to show him the girdle's front panel. And Graham was as thick as pig shit and thought it was all a big laugh. I bet it never ever occurred him to imagine what it was like for me.

But Iain was embarrassed for me and, looking back, he was probably ashamed of his own involvement. Latterly he never even checked on me when it was his turn. Checks were pretty much unnecessary anyway if you knew what signs to look for – they were merely petty little tortures to add to my humiliation. The last time he went through the ritual was late one afternoon. I'd had a particularly bad day, my hands were on my hips, fingers splayed across my belly, and I was breathing heavily. In trying to comfort me, he came out with one of the dumbest things I'd ever heard.

“You do look slimmer in it.”

What the hell? Did he expect me to admire my reflection in a classroom window while saying “Do you really think so?” in a delighted girlish voice? I remember giving him a withering glare. He turned and walked away...and that was his last involvement.

The other notable incident of the first month related to the matter of keeping the damn thing clean. My sister, Donna, and I both had chores to do, and I'd persuaded her to do a swap that would put me on laundry duty. She was suspicious, but that was her default reaction to anything I said or did. When she couldn't see an ulterior motive, she agreed. I definitely lost out in the resulting horse-trading, but I felt it was worth it. I figured I'd slip my girdle in with a white wash and that would solve the problem. The drawback was that the washing machine was in the kitchen as the house was too small to have anything as fancy as a utility room. I'd need to time things to do it while I was alone.

The first opportunity came on the first Saturday afternoon. Dad was at the football, Donna was out with her friends and mum was meeting one of her cronies in town. I set the wash going and relaxed. Half-way through the cycle, mum came back. Her pal hadn't been feeling well, so they'd finished up early. I worked away in the kitchen in a cold sweat, getting on with other chores. Every so often my girdle would come into plain view at the front of the drum. Mum would be wandering in and out – it would only be a matter of time before she saw it. I don't know if she suspected me that early on in my new lifestyle, but as long as things remained unspoken then there would be no problem. Flaunting my brand new panty girdle in front of her, though, would be something that couldn't be ignored.

As she came in to make a coffee, the machine contrived to throw my girdle right up against the glass door. And it stayed there, and stayed there, and stayed there. Even when it went into a spin cycle, the bloody thing refused to collapse against the side of the drum and spun crazily in place. Fortunately, by the time she did glance at the machine, it had disappeared back into the tangle of other underwear and was unrecognisable. That was the first and last time it went in with the family laundry. From then on I did a hand wash in the bathroom, rinsing it under the shower, hand-wringing it as best I could and letting it dry overnight on a coat-hanger in my room. I'd hang it in the wardrobe to dry with the door open to let air circulate. While my parents respected my privacy, Donna could always come barging in, no matter how many times I told her to knock, so it had to be out of sight. The new system seemed to work – it was just a bugger that I'd landed myself with laundry duties to no benefit.

And so it was with horrifying ease that involuntary cross-dressing was integrated into my normal everyday life. It was such an excruciating thing to have to endure – it seemed almost obscene that it could be normalised so quickly. Every school morning everyone would be up and about their usual business. And upstairs I'd be dressed in my smart new uniform (and new foundation garment), checking myself in the mirror while dying inside of shame and self-loathing and bracing myself for another long school day.