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Story Notes:

This story was commissioned by Molotav.

Expect lots of risqué and semi-incestuous doll-based fun.

Interested in commissioning me for your own custom story? I can write your ultimate macro fantasy, from a wide range of genres and lengths. Read details here: https://www.deviantart.com/thejacksmith/journal/Story-Commissions-Are-Open-Again-698491757

I also have a side-shop for miscellaneous pre-written & discounted goodies, such as flash fiction, unfinished tales, and deleted scenes from series like Time-Out and A Little Blackmail. Check it out here: https://www.deviantart.com/thejacksmith/journal/New-Special-Stories-Shop-802615692

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along with us, Paul, dear?” Scarlet Harris called up the stairs. She slung her purse over her shoulder and, peeking into the foyer wall mirror, gave her dark-auburn hair a shaping pat, then shimmied her broad hips just once for good measure.

            “Shouldn’t we get going?” Tory asked impatiently. She tapped her foot, her sneakers clapping loudly with the floor. The eldest daughter crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Then, opening her palm, she snapped her fingers, and a pocket watch materialized in her hand. “I don’t think he’s coming, Mom. And look, it’s already noon!”

            “C’mon, Paul, we’re going out to lunch and then going shopping!” Zoey yelled, as if this would sweeten the pot. She pinched the hem of her purple skirts between her thumbs and index fingers, sticking out her tongue. “We’re going to buy me a new dress, cuz I hate the color on this one.”

            “I’m sure he’s dying to see that,” Tory groaned. “And if you were a little better at your spells, you could just change the color yourself. See?” In demonstration, Tory snapped her fingers again, and her own sky-blue dress transformed hues to a radiant neon-red.

            “No fair!” Zoey moaned.

            “Seriously, Mom. Let’s just leave him,” Tory said, snickering at her little sister’s reaction. “I’m sure he’s busy or something.”

            “I’m okay, go without me!” Paul answered back at last from behind his closed bedroom door.

            “All right, all right,” Scarlet shrugged. “It’s just a girls’ afternoon out, then. Let’s go! Oh, and Zoey? You may not be able to change the color yet on your dresses, but I’m sure you’re just wonderful at finding the perfect one!” Embracing both daughters as they skipped onto the patio, Scarlet waved her hand and caused the door to close on its own, leaving Paul alone in the house.

            The young man peeked out his bedroom window. He waited until the car had driven all the way down the block and turned the corner before making his move. Then, slipping casually out of his room, he tiptoed to Tory’s down the hall, with a book in hand. Pushing the door gently open, he threw the tome across the threshold, where it landed innocuously on the carpet. No magic trap after all. Seeing as he was the only member of the family without supernatural abilities, his security methods were limited.

            Now reassured that his sister hadn’t left one of her prank spells waiting to ensnare him, Paul himself entered, closed the door behind, and approached his sibling’s closet. Tory’s aroma was thick in the room as it was, like warm vanilla sugar and lavender washing fluid, egging Paul on toward the motherlode. He opened the closet, revealing Tory’s treasure trove of dresses and skirts, ranging from glittering formal elegance to springtime romp wear, and everything in between.

            Each elaborate outfit was bright and eye-catching, ranging across the rainbow with the brilliance of artificially colored candy shells. Some bore clean-white aprons, some were speckled with grass stains and mud cakes, others still dense with the scent of perfumes and fresh laundry, as Paul detected hanging in the room itself. All of them, of course, were intricately ruffled around the hem, with the snow-colored petticoats trickling out like melted ice cream constructed of lace and cloth. The boy ran his hands over the array of garments. He traced along the necklines, petting the silky hourglass shapes and poofy aprons, then indulged in more conspicuous locations by exploring beneath the skirt. The newer petticoats were soft and fluffy, like they were made of butterfly wings, while those weathered by usage and trips through the dryer were rougher, almost flaky, and especially pungent of earth and sour human flavors.

            Paul took a deep breath. They said they were going to lunch, then shopping, which could easily stretch into early evening. There was plenty of time. Which would he choose today? After stroking the options again, he eventually settled on a sea-green number with a tight corseted midsection, velvety petticoats, and a powerful floral wallop in the hand-stitched fibers.

            This was the winner.

            As usual, Paul took his time getting inside his sister’s dress. After stripping totally naked in the middle of the bedroom, he swam up through the fabric folds, at first unsure which way to go, and for a minute wrestled softly with the clothen whirlpool. That lovely smell was multiplied tenfold within. Eventually, his hands found the arm holes, which he tugged through until his shoulders were shielded in the pillowy pads, and after that, it was easy to find the neckline. When Paul released his grip on the train, the whole thing flopped down at once, the abdomen of the garment hugging his stomach tightly while all the rest flared out like a peacock.

            Paul looked himself over the mirror, smoothing out the wrinkles as he found them and adjusting the alignment until it sat perfectly on his frame. The constrictive quality of the dress was more intense than he expected from the tight cut, which was even more encouraging to his already-rising erection, though he didn’t really need the help. After staring at himself in the mirror for more than a few minutes, bathing in the lacy boa constrictor-style massage of the tubed fabric architecture, not to mention breathing in the flowery stench, Paul’s head was already fuzzy with arousal.

            Ever since the boy first got the courage to attempt this little activity while his family was out, he occasionally questioned his own motivation. Am I a cross-dresser, he sometimes bluntly asked himself? In the end, he came down on the side of “no,” not only because he was pretty sure he’d literally perish of embarrassment if seen like this by a single other soul, magic or otherwise. In addition, it occurred to him that he enjoyed the experience itself. There were a multitude of factors which got the gears turning: the fact that it was his own sister’s clothing, worn without her permission; the narrow, body-squeezing shape of it restricting him like a personal bondage suit; the skin-close proximity to a beautiful object he admired so greatly when partnered with the human form, and seeing how he wasn’t likely to convince any woman he knew to model it, his own body had to do.

            Of course, Paul acknowledged that he might well just be trying to protect his own withered ego, and for all he knew, he really was just a full-blown cross-dresser with a sexual predilection for garbing himself like a pretty lady. Who was to say, really?

            The boy cat-walked around the room. He pirouetted and pranced, always stalking past the mirror for a fleeting glance of himself. Every movement caused the silky prison of the dress to squeeze him from new angles: the pads pinching his shoulders, the corset dampening his breaths, and the fleecy petticoats caressing his junk with each step. It was all so tantalizing, bordering on painful where the dress was tightest, but by constantly moving and changing the pressure point locations, Paul was able to soothe the sore spots with almost instant pleasure. Of course, down below, he was feeling nothing but elation, and soon was at full mast; a tented shape prodded up from the flowing skirts of the aquamarine dress. Paul was just sitting down on the bed to finish himself off with the masturbatory aid of the under-skirt frills, when he heard a sound which struck greater terror into his heart than any he could recall in his life.

            The car tires rolling up the driveway.

            How long had they been gone, fifteen minutes? There had to be some mistake. Paul peeped out the window, kneeling to ensure he couldn’t be spied from below. His organs turned inside out at the sight of his three family members emerging from the vehicle and marching quickly toward the front stoop. Down below, he heard the door magically swing open without the need to fumble for keys: something which was a major convenience most times in a magic family, but in this moment, might be his death sentence.

            Panicked, Paul commenced wriggling out of the dress. Unfortunately, his usual time estimation also required plenty of space to remove the garment, especially when he chose a tighter one. And judging by his previous experience, this was the most form-fitting item in Tory’s closet. Already sweating anxiously, the boy was horrified to realize that he could scarcely slide his arms back up through the shoulder mounts, let alone squeeze his torso back down through the mid-section.

            Downstairs, he heard the clattering of shoes on the hardwood, a few giggles, and female voices rebounding.

            “Well, where could it have gone?” Scarlet asked, more than a little irritated. “I never take my pocketbook out of the purse, girls. You know that. Are you sure one of you didn’t take it out for something?”

            “No, Mom!” Zoey whined defensively.

            “I’m sure it’s around somewhere,” Tory said nonchalantly.

            “Let’s just split up,” Scarlet said. “The sooner we find it, the sooner we can get to lunch. Zoey, please check the living room. Tory, could you take the upstairs? Oh, and maybe Paul can help us. PAUL!”

            There were no other voices, but soon, the sound of Tory’s sneakers clomping up the stairs grew louder in her brother’s ears. Paul’s mania quintupled. He’d made no progress yet in escaping the dress. At this point, he was starting to reason that it would be less costly to rip his way out of the dress. Sure, Tory would probably be pissed, and likely put some enchantment on him to show her displeasure, but it would still be nothing compared to the hellfire of humiliation he would receive if he was caught red-handed, or really, red-bodied in the dress, naked beneath, and sporting a boner.

            Mentally cursing himself out for having allowed these circumstances to transpire, Paul made his best attempt to shred his way out of the dress. All he could get going were a few popped threads; this dress was made of tough stuff. He even considered leaping out the window and rolling down the roof, hopefully landing in the grass, if only he could escape.

            That option, unfortunately, vanished when the bedroom door magically swung open, and there stood Tory in the frame with her hands on her hips and a smug look of triumphant glee on her face.

 

Chapter End Notes:

Gee, I wonder if there will be consequences now.

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