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o  The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories.  o
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Fridays (sissy-solo, fantasy)
By Beth Bali 

*

   The sun crept along the rug, up the side of the bed, and into my
eyes.  I considered getting up and moving the shade to block out the
sun and return to sleep but then I remembered; this is Friday!

   Smiling, with a certain sense of warm well being, I moved my hand
up to my chest, turned my palm upward and let the warm fluid weight of
my breast fill my cupped hand.  My thumb, just in the right place,
encircled my nipple and a tiny wet drop beaded up from deep within and
my nipples grew stiff.  I loved the feeling of my hard nipple as it
rubbed from one side of my thumb to another as I played with it's
stiffness.  Knees pressed together, my legs began to move against each
other to the rhythm of my thumb's caress.  My toes began to curl.
Following down the curve of my breast, the small undulations of my rib
cage, the curve of my hip; my fingers, then, found their way
underneath the lace of my panties and dividing my protecting lips dove
into the confirmation of my femininity.  Yes, I thought to myself,
Today is Friday.

   Pulling the sheets back and away, I swung my feet over the side of
the bed and let them fall towards the floor.  On any other day they
would land solidly on the carpeted floor, but on Fridays the height of
the bed would only allow me to brush the floor with my toe.  I scooted
off the bed and slid into my slippers.  I stopped.  Smiled.  The
Friday size 7 1/2 foot doesn't quite fill my normal size 12 slipper.
Walking right out of them, I went to the closet, got the right sized
ones, put them on and tied the dainty white ribbon to make them snug.
Most of the week I am big and tall, the kind of bigness that allows me
to walk in a crowded mall and have people naturally get out of my way.
Fridays; Well, Fridays are my petite days.  On Fridays I just clear
five foot four, five foot six and a half in heels.  I like being both
sizes!

   I padded into the bathroom, turned on the shower; pulled my
nightgown off over my long shining black hair, kicked off my slippers
and panties and escaped the cold by plunging into the warm spray of
the shower.

   The warmth and the steam made me drowsy all over again and I
thought back to the other Fridays of femininity.  I was born on a
Friday night and was pronounced by the doctor a brand new baby girl.
My parents were pleased and I, well I just cried.  The next day, I am
told, when the nurse went and changed my diapers there was no girl in
those diapers, but a bouncing baby boy.  "Doctors!" the nurse
exclaimed, "You would think they could keep the babies they deliver
straight."  She changed the paperwork so that everything was right.
My parents were a little confused, but I still looked the same except
for the plumbing.  Fingerprints were matched just to make sure, but I
didn't care.

   Coming out of my reverie, I lifted my breast and washed in the fold
between my breast and my chest and then lifted the other.  I soaped up
my hands and carefully washed the soft folds of skin around my vagina.
There is such a thin line between washing carefully and masturbation,
not that I worry about it much.  Meanwhile I slipped back into my
musing.

   This twice blessed life hadn't proved to be too difficult until my
breasts began to develop and puberty struck.  The differences in
stature were in fact the opposite before puberty.  On Fridays, because
girls grow and mature faster than boys, I was bigger and smarter than
most of the boys and I took that advantage to take them on, so I
wasn't one of the picked on ones.  The size and shape differences were
subtle back then.  Puberty was another matter.  For six days I had to
learn about dealing with the ever present erections that plague every
immature young man.  Then on Fridays it would be the two tight tee
shirts to hold in and flatten my developing breasts.  I still remember
a friend who found our gang's first Playboy magazine and all of us
marveled at the beauty we saw and the effect that it had on our
penises; grown so hard and so firm.  My sexual orientation was
verified forever, I surmise, by Miss March of 1972!  I wondered, when
I was younger, whether I would ever be attracted to boys on Fridays,
but that never happened.  Men never attracted me; it was the female
form that was wonderful and sensual and caused my hormonal juices to
flow.  I suspect, though, that I was the only one of that group
staring at the big breasted Miss March who wondered how I was going to
conceal that kind of chest under tee shirts!

   Later on I didn't go to regular school on Fridays, but went to a
different school instead.  One where I was known as a girl and had
close giggly girlish friendships.  I learned about makeup, what
clothing was in and which were out.  One year our group went bra-less
as our statement and support for women's rights.  The school was a
good choice by my parents and it allowed me to develop with caring
friends that feminine part of my personality.  I was obviously two
people on the outside although clearly one inside.  I don't know how
the mechanism worked; how my body knew it was Friday, nor did I really
care.  All I knew was that when I woke up on Friday mornings on the
outside I was female and the other days I was male.  Inside I was
always both masculine and feminine and they complemented each other
beautifully.

   I turned off the shower and carefully dried myself off.  Friday
morning bathing always took longer than the other days.  I liked to
watch myself in the mirror as I dried my body.  My breasts would swing
with every movement.  Sometimes I would wiggle my chest just to watch
them bob and weave in a synchronized dance.  Flipping my hair over my
head and leaning over, I carefully brushed and air dried my hair.
Finishing up by swooping my head up and back, my hair flew back up
away from my face and settled softly, caressing my shoulders.

   Drying off, I went back to my bedroom and got out my clothes.  I
slipped my arms through the straps of my brassiere and leaned forward
so my breasts flowed into the cups then leaned back and clasped the
hooks in back and adjusting the straps so that they would lie flat.
Fridays were the only days that I could wear my irresistible string
bikini panties, other days my maleness just slipped out one side or
another, but today, as I pulled them up, they just settled into place
covering my genitals and my public hair, but not much else.  A few
curls of pubic hair showed outside of the flat lace triangle so I
tucked them back underneath the scallops of lace.

   My teddie had slipped from the bed onto the floor so I picked it up
with my toes and with a little flick caught it on the fly.  In the
process of alternating back and forth between wardrobes, there were
some articles of clothing that I began to wear every day once I no
longer had to strip to take showers in high school and college gym.
Teddies and panties were two examples, they were soft and very
comfortable, pretty and satisfying.  Why men won't accept the comfort
and feel of silky fabrics is still a mystery to me.  I stepped into
the teddie; pulled it up my legs, over my breasts and aligned the
straps with the straps of my bra.  Hearing the phone ring, I grabbed
an old soft male sports shirt, put it on, and its tail brushed the
back of the inside of my knees as I walked into my den which served as
my Friday offie.

More?       From Beth Bali 
