Belinda's Bridal Gown Blues
After my first encounter
Square Dancing Exposure) it was
some years before I got to experience the thrill of pettis in any form other
than visual. However, about five years later I was sharing an apartment
with a girl slightly older than myself in a sea-side Sydney suburb. Our
instincts gradually turned and our relationship became much more than sharing
expenses and eventually, she was willingly dressing me in corsets, suspenders
etc before indulging in some
fairly robust lovemaking.
We separated after a few months until she visited me at the pub and asked to try again, which we did. By this time, though, she had a new flatmate who was herself about to get married in Melbourne. And yes, you guessed it, her wedding dress was in her wardrobe at the apartment.
Anyway, I could not get this out of my mind and, having keys, went to the apartment when off shift one day. My partner knew I would be there when she finished shift and the other girl was away for the weekend.
I stripped, donned my partners black corset,
suspenders and stockings, then headed down to the other bedroom and retrieved
the wedding gown which was being stored in a travellers suit cover. It was
huge. It did not use a hoop but incorporated layers and layers of tulle
with a silk or satin inner. Unzipping the back, I stepped into it and
wiggled it up over my frame. The bride-to-be was a little smaller than I
so I had to work at it. I even managed to zip it before returning to the
first bedroom and drank in the sight in the large mirror.
It was fairy princess stuff; the tulle moved swayed, swished and generally had a life of its own. The built in bodice narrowed my waist enough to give an illusion of an hour-glass, especially given the explosion of dress and material below. I donned some heels of my partners (being a "bigger" girl, everything fitted) and strutted around the house, revelling in the experience.
Then I looked at my watch and decided to get it off.
I simply could not get my fingers back to the zip at the top. I began to panic, laid on the bed, rolled around but nothing I tried worked. Gradually the realisation dawned upon me that, short of tearing the dress in some way, I would have to wait until my partner arrived.
About an hour later (the longest hour in my life) I heard her car pull up and her walk down the side of the apartment, door open and her come up the hall. She found me sitting on the end of her bed, a boy-bride swamped in a sea of satin and tulle, head down and in tears. Oh, the shame! My partner loved me then - in fact I know that 20 years on she still does despite being married to someone else - and quietly moved beside me and dabbed my tears with her hanky. I started into a sniffling blurb about being horrible, useless, a freak and generally the worst person in the world. She put a finger to my lips and suggested that we remove the dress and restore it. She said she would love to complete the job with makeup and the tiara and veil, but the risk of damaging or soiling the dress was too great.
She unzipped me and allowed me to extricate myself from the dress, commenting that her black underwear was not really suitable but she was glad that I had worn something. We carefully re-packed the dress before returning to my partners room. Before I had a chance to fully change, she embraced me and asked if I would like to be her bride one day. Still a bit emotional and feeling very beholden to her, I replied tearfully that I would.
This was a scenario that came to fruition a short time later, but that's another story (below).
(Posted at a later date)
My partner's parents had a house in a
nice inner west Sydney suburb and drove to Queensland for a couple of weeks.
The house was ours. With little warning, my partner picked me up from work on a
Friday evening and drove me to her parents house. There we were met by her best
friend, Gail, who was to spend the weekend with us (apparently to have a break
from her parents with whom she still lived).
To my complete embarrassment, my partner outlined her plan to both Gail and I: The following morning, I was to be shaved, bathed and then made-up, hair done, a couple of drinks here and there, before being dressed as a blushing
bride-to-be. Photos would be taken by Gail of my Partner in her uniform (she was in the Navy) and myself en femme.
Well, that is exactly what happened, and I do believe it was probably the happiest day of my life ever. The girls shaved me, moisturised me, corsetted me, set and made my wig, before spending an age on my makeup, tiara and veil. My partner disappeared around this time to prepare herself, so Gail helped me into an enormous tulle-filled crinoline from the closet and tied it at the back. The fullness was amazing and far superior to a hoop because there is no void beneath - just a sea of material heaving, swaying and brushing against the legs. And the noise! The dress billowed over my head and down into place, to be zipped up by Gail and buttoned or hooked at the top. Dainty fingerless gloves, flowers and a couple of snaps before we retired to the garden.
My partner joined us about here, looking resplendent in her Navy blue jacket and skirt, court shoes, white blouse with black tie and cap. I nearly fainted there and then!
She looked so good and I felt so feminine that, had someone asked me whether I would be prepared to spend a lifetime of servitude to her and "love and obey" at that precise moment, I probably would have agreed. Emotions ran really wild that afternoon, including whilst Gail was busily clicking for various poses.
That evening I tried to express my gratitude but, having like the other two consumed a few red wines, actually lost my balance and rolled over when trying to kneel. Now, a combination of the corset, the crinoline, my blood-alcohol level and my high heels, prevented me from getting up! I kid you not. After laughing themselves silly, the girls assisted me to my feet, led me to the bedroom and helped me change - something that I was very cross about at the time.
Twenty years on I still yearn to relive that day.
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