Chapter 2 The Top Drawer
I know I shouldn’t. I tell myself it won’t be a big deal — I’ll be careful, and she’ll never have to know. I’ll put everything back exactly the way I find it, right down to leaving the drawer open.
It’s a stroke of luck that everything inside is my size.
A treasure trove of femininity: lingerie softer and more beautiful than I can imagine.
I have my own tiny stash at home, of course, and it’s been a bit of a sadness not to bring it with me.
I suppose that’s part of why I’m sneaking into Marilyn’s room in the first place: the joy of realizing that perhaps I won’t have to be without the touch of silk.
And Marilyn has the same taste as me.
So many colors. Lacy things, frilly things, dripping with ribbons and bows, each made from the finest, most delicate fabrics.
There are thongs and tangas and bikinis, panties with lace fronts and panties made entirely of sheer silk.
All are in magnificent three-piece sets.
Some even come with matching stockings. I run my hands over the soft fabric and hold them against my bare chest. The silks slide across my skin, smooth as water, while satins feel cool and sensuous.
I start with the beautiful pink set with the frothiest white trim.
Stockings first, of course; sheer and nude with a frilly band of ruffles and lace at the top and pretty little bows set at the backs of the thighs.
I shiver as I roll them up my legs, desperate to feel their silken slipperiness on my throbbing shaft, promising myself I won’t, and giving in anyway, squeezing my legs together and rubbing myself between my them.
I can’t stifle the gasp that comes out of me any more than I can stop the pre-cum oozing out onto them.
It’s too late to worry about that. The garter belt next.
Six straps and practically an entire outfit unto itself.
Tall and with a gentle squeeze, sealed at the back with a long column of white satin-covered buttons.
Sheer pink silk stretches between the firm boning, each panel covered in romantic white lace embroidery.
White lace trims every edge, run through with a pink ribbon that matches the bows set over the front, each garter strap, and the clips themselves.
When I bend over to step into my panties, I bend at my waist and feel the garter belt tug my stockings up my legs.
Another gasp slips out of me, along with a little more wet excitement.
It feels wonderfully naughty to bend like that.
A good girl would squat so she doesn’t expose herself to the world.
But good girls don’t put on lingerie like this, do they?
The panties only make me feel steamier. Sheer pink like the garter belt and high-waisted so that when I pull them into place, I’m completely covered in silk from my waist down.
More beautiful floral embroidery covers the front, the stems of the lace flowers becoming the slim waistband that circles to the thong back.
A large pink bow nestles there, above my cheeks, below the garter belt, like I’m a pretty little present to be unwrapped.
Except, no matter how tented my panties are, I don’t think I want anyone to take them off.
Then a choice must be made. But it’s not really a choice at all: a bra, or the matching divine nightie?
It’s so short it barely covers my garter belt, putting my panties and my throbbing shaft on full display.
The ruffled hem swings around my waist, the long lace trim fluttering with every tiny movement.
It’s really more like a tiny dress — the empire waist is right below my nipples, wrapped with a pink ribbon tied in a floppy bow at my back.
My arms emerge from a spray of lace trimming the balloon sleeves.
It’s an outfit that makes me achingly, deliciously feminine even as it emphasizes exactly how exciting I find that idea.
The urge to play with myself is overwhelming, but I’m not that naughty, not yet.
I still need shoes, after all. I find them in the closet next to a row of beautiful satin gloves.
I slip on a white pair with frilly trim around my wrists, then scoop up a pair of glossy white stilettos.
When I fasten the ankle strap and its pretty leather bow, I stick my leg out just like Marilyn did.
When I look at myself in the mirror, any pretext of masculinity is gone.
Even my hair seems girlier. I wonder what I’d look like with a little make-up on, but then I catch sight of the curve of my garter straps over my cheeks, just like Marilyn’s, and my self-control finally gives way.
I go slow, like a good girl does, running one finger up and down myself through the panties.
They feel divine. Better than anything I’ve ever worn at home.
I’m wrapped in silk and lace and femininity like I’ve never thought I could be.
Already there’s a wet spot at the front of the panties — so much for putting everything back like I found it — but I don’t care.
I lay back on her bed and pull my legs back, relishing the sensation of the garter pulling my stockings over them, and be a beautiful sissy girl.
This is just my first outfit of the night.
As much as I want to let it all out right here, I know I can’t.
It would be such a waste of an opportunity.
There’s a flirty little red number waiting for me, and something sultry and slinky and black after that.
I might even be able to sneak it into my room and wear it to sleep.
A shudder of pleasure runs through me that sends my skirts bouncing and whispering girly nothings.
That makes the pleasure build and I shiver again, swirling the silk over my shaft and letting the moans spill out of me unabated.
I want someone to take me like this. Another sissy next to me, rubbing our beautiful dresses against each other?
My stomach twists and my cock twitches and I bring myself perilously close to eruption.
With some effort, I manage to stop, sitting up on the bed, hand still in my panties, and then open my eyes.
“Well, well,” Marilyn says, again smirking, again framed in the doorway. “I really expected you to go straight for the blue one.”