This choice: Your brother, partly feminised • Go Back...Chapter #5Your brother, partly feminised by: Yote   Could that really be him? Your brother (or was is sister?) stands at the kitchen counter with his back to the living room door. Though his face is turned away from you, you recognise the hair. He had never liked the hair. He'd always been teased for being ginger in school until the day he was old enough to choose his own haircut (though only once he got into body building and rugby had it truly ended). For ten years he's kept it shaved close to the scalp. Now a shaggy crop of an unmistakably-vivid shade of red hangs down to just over his ears.
He kneads a lump of brown dough against the counter, occasionally tearing off a segment of dough, dusting it with flour and placing it on a baking tray. There were already a number of the trays in the oven, filling the kitchen with the unappetizing smell of cooking bran. He quietly utters to himself as he does so, reciting phrases evidently fed to him from the ipod tucked into the pocket of the lilac cooking apron he is wearing. His arms and legs are bare and shiny, stripped of the dense, ruddy hair to expose thick looking calves and forearms. The chunky, rugby-player buttocks and thighs have been wedged into a lavender knee length-skirt, while a lacy cream blouse hangs awkwardly about his muscular upper-back. He doesn't make a very convincing woman, at least from behind.
"...strive for progress, not perfection. If others are doubting how far you can go, go so far that you can't hear them anymore. Be the change you want to see in the world. I didn't change, I just found myself" Skipping from one motivation quote to another, he sounds like he's psyching himself for one of his games. He tears off two large handfuls of dough, holding them in front of his chest, admiring them before placing them down on the baking tray. "Nothing makes a woman more beautiful than the belief that she is beautiful." He lightly dusts the six wads of dough and turns to carry the baking tray to the oven. "I am a delicate flowerbud. Soon I will blossom. Soon I will be pl-FUCK!"
As he sees you standing there, he jolts with such alarm that one of the doughballs hits the ceiling and clings there. He wrenches the ipod from his ears, stiffing it into his pockets with a look of embarrassment. "Jesus, Mike how long have you been standing there? Shit, you didn't hear me... did you?"
How you long to take the piss out of him. How you'd wish to get him back for all those insults he and his macho mates had sent your way in your teenage years, when they'd called you all sorts, demeaned your masculinity and your sexuality just because you weren't into sports like they were. But that was years ago and bygones were bygones. The happiness off your brother means more than old grudges.
"You've got nothing to be embarressed about, Sam," you say soothingly. "This is important for you. Please, don't let me stop you."
Regardless of your gentle words, his face is turning red. His face is already a little red, what with the strawberry-shade of lipsticks rather crudely painted onto his lips and the lumpy red rash about his shaved jawline and top lip. He tosses the ipod onto the counter. "Nah, I was just finishing anyway. Shit, you're early. I was kinda hoping I might change first." Blushing furiously, he nods his head down at the blouse and skirt.
"It looks like you've already changed quite a bit," you joke, trying to lighten the mood. "You look... amazing." He doesn't, at all. It is obviously he is only just started to transition and is currently somewhere between the sexes. He looks gaunt. His skin is pale and hangs lose on his face, and his eyes are ringed with dark shadows. The muscle definition that you'd always envied is starting to disappear, leaving parts of him looking flabby and soft. His attempts to hide things with makeup only worsens his appearence. It looks like a clown did it, in the dark. You search around for a further compliment. "Have you lost weight?"
"About twenty lbs of beard," he laughs. "Angelina's got me on this calorie-restricted diet. Only lets me eat these dam things. 50% bran, 50% rye. Taste as good as they look." He cocks his head at the oven door. "Get that for me, will you, Mikey?" You swing open the door and he slides them. He unbuckles the apron about himself and hangs it up before extending a hand to shake. "It's good to see you," he grins.
You stare at the hand coated in brown gunk. He notices your hesitation and laughs, spreading his arms wide and pulling you in for a hug, his gooey hands stretched awkwardly out to the side. Intent not to betray any change in familial affection for him, you wrap your arms around him in a tight bear hug. That's when you feel the squish-squish of the delicate flesh of his bugging breasts pressing against your chest through his blouse. If you focus hard, you can even make out his hormone-swollen, puffy nipples. Now it's your turn to blush.
"Not so tight, bro. If I wanted to suffocate I'd be wearing Angelina's waist trainer."
"You're not, are you?"
"Not today," he laughs. "So, how you been?"
"Forget how I've been, how are you?"  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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