Growing up, I suppose I was... average. Average looks, average height, average at sports, and an average sex life for a pubescent teenager. I lost my virginity while in my 4th year at secondary school, to a girl in the same year. I had discovered masturbation, which inexplicably led me to have erotic urges to wank while wearing my big sister's dresses and soiled panties, retrieved from the family laundry basket.

I didn’t care that I might have been the only guy on the planet with this strange quirk. At the time, I wasn’t even aware that it had a name. I did know that when I jerked off, dressed in my sister's panties, bras and dresses, my orgasm increased tenfold. I also knew that this was something best kept to myself.

The summer of '69 was a milestone in my early sex life. I popped my cherry in June, and in August...

When my Mum announced that my Aunty Jill was coming to visit for a few days, I was indifferent to the news. She was nine years older than me, and lived in far-off Bristol. I hadn't seen her since my childhood. In her late teens, she had given birth, married and divorced, all within eighteen months.

She arrived during the school summer holidays. It was one of the hottest days of the year, and it was about to get hotter.

I was kicking a ball about with a couple of mates in the back garden when a taxi pulled up at our front gate. I assumed the occupant was our house guest for the next few days.

"Who the fuck is that!!!" My best buddy Alan spotted my Aunty Jill getting out of her taxi.

A time-out was called while Alan, Kenny and I ogled the subject of our collective admiration. Jill paid the cab driver, lifted her suitcase and sashayed up our garden path. It was one of the hottest displays of sex on legs that I'd ever seen. For a few speechless moments, the three of us stood silently appreciating the spectacle before us.

Aunty Jill looked stunning. Her long blonde hair danced around her bare shoulders with every step. A red summer mini-dress accentuated her sun-kissed arms and legs, while a pair of red high-heeled sandals completed the look.

It was the kind of entrance that, in any rom-com, would be seen in slow motion, accompanied by a prominent saxophone taking the lead in the soundtrack.

At that moment, my immediate thought was not a teenager's fantasy to fuck her. I fantasised about wearing her dress.

Once the excitement surrounding Aunty Jill's arrival had settled, the guys headed off. I slipped into the house through the back door and found my Mum and her wee sister chatting in the kitchen.

"Hey, you! Come and say hi to your aunty!" Jill crossed the kitchen with her arms wide open. "How's my favourite nephew?"

I let her wrap me in a hug. "I'm good, Aunty Jill." Her perfume was intoxicating

"Good?" She leaned back and looked at me with a teasing smile. "I bet you're not." And landed a couple of smackers on my cheeks. I blushed and headed for the stairs, leaving Mum and her sis to carry on catching up.

I entered my bedroom and closed the door. I had my own security system, where I would remove the door handle, essentially locking the door.

I lay on my bed, pulled out my cock and proceeded to wank off, fantasising about my Aunty.

Late that afternoon, I heard laughter and excited voices coming from downstairs. My big sister Denise had arrived home from work, and the whole round of hugs, greetings, and catching up began all over again. And again, when my Dad returned from his shift.

Dinner was a noisy affair, with Jill holding centre stage for most of it. Her exuberant, vivacious personality commanded attention. And she had mine, undividedly.

I was seated directly opposite Jill, which meant a front-row seat to both her performance and that dress.

Made from a soft, thin, stretchy fabric, it clung neatly to her figure. The material was light enough to hint at the outline of her bra, and when she stood up to emphasise a point, a faint panty line showed through the red fabric. More than once, our feet brushed beneath the table, and each time I convinced myself it wasn't accidental.

At the end of our meal, my Dad, who had contributed very little to the conversation, unexpectedly made an announcement. "There's a turn on at the Social tonight! How 'bout we have a night out?"

Dad's suggestion was greeted with unanimous approval.

Being underage, I wasn’t invited, but I was already making plans for my own evening.

"First dibs on the bathroom!" Jill made her claim and skipped up the stairs.

I sat and watched telly while upstairs descended into the kind of bedlam one might expect when three females and a bloke prepared for a night out.

My Dad was first to emerge. All suited and booted and reeking of Brut aftershave. The ladies descended the stairs together. I was nonchalant in my desperation to see what Jill was wearing.

Mum and Denise both had on dresses that I'd wanked in. And as for Aunty Jill...

Jill wore a red halter-neck blouse with a black leather skirt. Her tanned legs were bare, and she had exchanged her shoes for a pair of black high-heeled slingbacks that completed her outfit perfectly.

"Oh Fuck! It's happening!" I pictured her red dress somewhere in my sister's bedroom.

"Looking good, ladies!" I spread the compliment to deflect from my interest in Jill's sculpted, tanned legs.

Denise was the designated driver, as she had work the next morning. I remained in my chair while Dad ushered the party people out the front door.

The moment the car disappeared from view, I bolted upstairs to my sister’s bedroom. My first sweep of the room turned up no dress, and a look inside Denise's wardrobe proved fruitless. I knew it had to be here somewhere.

Denise had her own washing basket that I'd plundered on many occasions. I lifted the lid.

Eureka! Jill's red mini-dress. I picked it up and held it to my nose to inhale her scent. A pair of red lace panties dropped to the floor.

"Oh fuck!" I picked them up for closer scrutiny. The crotch felt moist and warm. I sniffed the fabric that had been in direct contact with her pussy, while scanning the room for her bra.

Jill's suitcase had been laid on a dressing table stool. I wondered what treasures would be inside.

On opening, I conducted a controlled search of the contents. Laid on top was the red bra that matched her panties. Size 36DD. There were several items of interest, including an open box of tampons, a black mini dress, a denim mini skirt, a pair of blue shorts, two pairs of pantyhose, tan and black, a few T-shirts and a small pile of assorted pants. I concluded that if the opportunity arose again, I would return for another session, with the black mini dress in mind.

There was a colourful toilet bag sitting on the dressing table, one I hadn't seen before. I unzipped it to find Jill's toiletries and various sundries.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a small, gold coloured tube. I clicked it open. Inside was a deep crimson lipstick, its rounded, worn tip revealing it had seen regular use. I stopped to breathe.

At the bottom of the bag lay a small round compact of foundation powder. Next to it rested a slim plastic case with a clear lid, revealing a neat row of pastel eye shadows. A long, slender tube of mascara had slipped into a crease in the lining, where it had become firmly lodged.

Even back then, I was careful to remember where I'd found each item. It was a practice that would serve me well in my years of rummaging to come.

I laid my booty on Denise's bed and nipped through to the bathroom. One look in the mirror told me it was time to attack the two weeks of bum fluff on my chin with a razor. I stripped to my skin and set to my ablutions.

A short time later, I was standing naked in my sister's bedroom, spraying my pits with the deodorant I found inside Jill's case. The semi that started to form in the bathroom was now standing proud. That was going to be a problem when it came to concealing it under the fine fabric of Jill's dress.

The quickest solution was to take myself in hand, and get rid of it. I picked up the red panties, placed them to my face, and breathed in deeply through my nose. I continued to inhale deeply, sniffing the damp material that had rubbed against Jill's pussy. My senses were in overload, as I frantically pumped on my erection.

The odour from the soft fabric smelled musky. I thought of Jill on the train, perhaps seeing a stranger that tickled her fancy, and causing her to secrete a small flow of pussy juice into her pants.

I was close to cumming. My desire to taste the soiled area was overwhelming. All the times I wore my sister's panties, I never put my nose to them, far less lick them. But these were Jill's panties for fucks sake! And her fragrant cunt tasted sweet, as I shot my load into the air.

I snapped out of my euphoric haze and rose to my feet. I stood on my ejaculated spunk and rubbed it into the shag-pile carpet with my foot. Already, my cock had reverted to a semi-state.

I was relying on my après-wank feelings of remorse and disgust, which had become the norm, to return my cock to its default setting.

It was a race against time before the loathing would turn to lust.

I returned to Jill's suitcase and retrieved a pair of tan tights. They would be practical as well as visually sensual. I sat on the bed and carefully eased one hand into a stocking leg before gathering the delicate fabric. Slowly, I rolled the sheer mesh up my foot and calf, taking care not to snag it. I repeated the process with the other leg, savouring the silky sensation as the material glided over my skin. Once both legs were covered, I rose to my feet and gently drew the pantyhose up over my hips and waist.

My cock began to twitch. It was still malleable enough to tuck between my leg and a ball. The tight panty section did its job in keeping my man-clit at bay. Next, I stepped into Jill's red panties.

Jill's bra required some adjusting. I let the straps out to their fullest extent, then wrapped it around my waist with the cups against my back. I was fairly slim in those days, and with a little stretch, the hook-and-eye fastening reached without much effort. I twisted the bra around to my front and positioned the cups across my chest. The cups still needed filling. For that, I headed to my parents' bedroom. Mum always kept a bag of old tights tucked away in her wardrobe. I never did discover why she saved them, but they proved invaluable when required. A couple of pairs, neatly folded and tucked into the cups, provided just the little extra help I needed in the bust department.

It was finally time to try on the dress. Holding it up for a moment, I paused to admire it once again before slipping it carefully over my head. As the fabric settled around me, I could still smell her perfume that had permeated into the material.
I eased the dress down over the bra and my hips, then smoothed the fabric with my hands as it gently stretched to fit my shape.

For a guy, my feet are relatively small, and Jill's red strapped sandals with a high heel looked like a fit.

What were the chances! I looked at the shoe size printed on the sole. Same as me!

I slipped into Jill's shoes and bent down to fasten the buckles strapped around my ankles. I caught a glimpse of my face in the dressing table mirror. And I looked like a boy in a frock.

I gathered the cosmetics I'd selected from Jill's toilet bag and headed through to the bathroom.

I carefully patted foundation powder over my face, mindful not to spill any powder onto the dress. A touch of blue eye shadow brought colour to my eyelids, while several careful strokes of black mascara transformed my lashes. With each step, the face looking back at me in the mirror seemed a little less like my own.

When it came to my lips, I took a deep breath to collect myself. My heart was pounding, and I began to shake uncontrollably. This was new! What the fuck was happening!

Over the years, I have become used to this physiological reaction. It only occurs when the Geiger counter that measures my sexual excitement hits '11' on the Richter scale.

The tremors lasted for a couple of minutes, during which time I paid some attention to my hair.

It was long enough for my Dad to call me Goldilocks from time to time. I ran a brush through the mane that draped on my shoulders before taking a comb to my fringe, coaxing it into place. It became obvious that I was going for the "Aunty Jill" look.

The tremors ceased after a short time, and I returned to painting my face.

Starting at one side of my Cupid's bow, I slowly glided the creamy red lipstick to the corner of my mouth. I mirrored the same deliberate stroke on the other side, leaving my upper lip perfectly defined. Then I lowered the lipstick to the centre of my bottom lip. I drew it toward one corner, returned to the centre, and repeated the motion on the other side. I pressed them together in a gentle pout.

My reflection smiled back at me, striking a tentative pose. The mirror above the sink showed only my upper body. To see my full figure, I'd have to use the full-length mirror inside Mum's wardrobe.

Years of sneaking around in my big sister's heels had made walking in them second nature. I sauntered into my parents' bedroom, pulled open the wardrobe doors and took a step back.

"Oh! Fuck me!" I took a double-take. I looked like a prettier version of my sister, Denise. And as for my legs... "Wow!"

Throughout my crossdressing life, my legs have always been my best feature. I’ve been blessed with long, shapely legs and a virtually nonexistent Adam’s apple—two traits that have made it much easier for me to create the feminine illusion I strive for.

I angled the wardrobe door until the mirror gave me a full-length view from across the room. Then I slowly walked backwards, my eyes never leaving my reflection, as though inviting the girl in the mirror to follow me.

I danced around the room, my eyes fixed on the girl in a red dress, mimicking my moves. Music! She needed music, and my sister's Dansette record player was waiting in the adjacent room.

I strutted across the landing and rifled through her pile of 45 rpm singles until I had a short list of three. "Everlasting Love" by the Love Affair, Gary Puckett's "Young Girl," and la pièce de résistance - "Je t'aime" by Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin.

The latter, to bring my dancing to a climax.

I placed all three records on the spindle in the centre of the deck and twisted the control to Start. As the turntable gathered speed, the top disc dropped onto the platter with a soft clack, and the tonearm swung across, lowering the needle towards the record’s edge. As the intro began, I was already back in my parents' bedroom. There was a small trinket dish on the dressing table containing bracelets, brooches, and clip-on earrings. I picked a pair of dangly gold rings and clipped them on my ears.

The previous weekend, I had been at a friend's house party and spent most of my time watching the girls dance.

I watched their bodies gyrating to the tunes blasting out of the radiogram. Their arms and legs all moved to the rhythm, their feet shuffled and slid across the carpet. Each girl, individual in their dance steps.

The reflection of the girl in the red dress began to sway to the beat drifting in from the other room. Her hair brushed against her shoulders as her hips rolled and her legs followed the familiar rhythm, each movement a little more confident than the last.

Within a minute, I was completely lost in the music, dancing as though a roomful of admiring guys were watching me. I let my body move with the beat, enjoying the attention of the imaginary eyes fixed on me.

When the record faded, I continued to view myself in the mirror. For a moment, I imagined one of the guys smiling at me, and I smiled back at him.

"YOUNG GIRL..." Gary Puckett had dropped onto the deck.

So far, the tights were fulfilling their practical purpose, and everything was still neatly tucked from sight.

I danced "with all the charms of a woman..." Slowly and sensually rotating my hips, and snaking my arms in the air, above my head. Every move, scrutinised in the mirror. It felt exhilarating. I breathed in Jill's scent, absorbed into the fabric of her dress.

I pictured Jill dancing at the Social Club, drawing the eyes of every man in the hall, much to the chagrin of jealous partners.
I could imagine her revelling in it, milking the attention for all it was worth.

The opening notes of “Je t’aime” struck up. I turned the wardrobe door to reposition the mirror until it reflected the bed. The late-evening light was bright enough for me to see my reflection sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, intently listening to Jane Birkin’s seductive dialogue. I placed my hand on my thigh and uncrossed my legs.

The girl in the mirror had a familiar family resemblance. In this dim light, it could have been a teenage...