The sequel to Melvyn at Kilt Korner by Vancy and Prim in Prim’s Petticoat Wendyhouse.

It may be March and a Spring morning, but the air feels like an Arctic wind wafting Melvyn Stewart’s ankles, swirling under his petticoat and kilt, between his knees and thighs, and fluttering round the feminine thinness of his full-cut panties in white silk. It’s fine for his mother, striding through the main shopping mall in Stirling centre in her beaver fur coat and boots. Not so comfortable for her son since she purchased his full highland costume yesterday of Scottish girls’ blouse and Stewart kilt and blazer, with the most embarrassing under-trimmings imaginable.

“More swing in your arms, Melvyn. Keep them straight, wrists turned outwards beside your kilt, but with more swing.” Maureen Stewart has the voice of a drill sergeant, drawing the attention of every passer-by. “I don’t want a robot walking beside me: I want a well-dressed and properly poised obedient boy. I’ve told you before – ”

She stops with a frown, her path blocked by a tall woman in a mink jacket over the pleats of a MacTavish kilt. She may be rudely standing in Maureen’s way but she is smiling and looking approvingly at young Melvyn.

“A well dressed and properly poised obedient boy,” she echoes. “Perhaps what you mean is: a ‘dainty-boy’. The dream of my life. How nicely you have him outfitted, ma’am. His blouse showing at his neck, an inch of petticoat beneath his kilt, and a sweet pink beret.” She reaches up to cup the curve of Melvyn’s beret in her gloved fingers making him duck an inch before he gathers his wits and obediently lets this stranger admire him to her heart’s content. “I sense the input of Kilt Korner. Very nice.”

Maureen’s cheeks are drawn in as if all propriety has gone out of the window, as the stranger realises.

“I do apologise for being carried away by your son’s appearance. MacTavish. Hilda Mactavish.” She holds out a glove by way of a peace offering.

Maureen is aware of one or two groups of women watching a little way off, but she takes the offered hand. “Maureen Stewart. I’m glad you approve.”

Hilda smiles more broadly and her thickly carmined lips ripple with pleasure as she drinks in the sad-looking boy with his head bowed to hide as much of his face as possible. “My establishment concerns itself with the daintier, prettier side of boys’ outfitting,” she says, tugging at the hems of Melvyn’s blazer and lifting his chin with two fingers. “If I may be so bold, Missus Stewart, I believe I can improve on Kilt Korner, knowing the limits of the stock they can offer. Pretty Kilting, of which I am the proprietress, lays more emphasis on the sweet appearance of the kilted boy.”

Even though his face is turned upwards, Melvyn manages to look at the polished floor of the mall. His heart jumps when he finds himself being asked: “You are wearing a petticoat, Melvyn, but what are you wearing underneath it?”

“I – I’m w-wearing a pair of kn-n-nickers, ma’am.”

“Ah, that’s nice. How sweet for you, to have girls’ knickers around your sex.”

Maureen Stewart angles her head at such a direct approach. Whatever will this woman say next?

“Are your kilt, your petticoat and your knickers making you feel feminine in your legs, I wonder?” There’s a pause in which Melvyn can’t help swallowing with fright. “The trouble is, your kilt and frilly petticoat are so long we can’t see those sweet legs of yours. At Pretty Kilting, we can offer a range of much shorter, more girlish kilts, as you can imagine, Missus Stewart. Can I invite you to visit us tomorrow if at all possible?”

In just a couple of sentences this woman has persuaded Maureen that she simply must take her son to this rival store and take a good look through what they have to offer. “Thank you for stopping us in the mall today, Miss MacTavish. We will certainly accept your offer and pay you a call.” While she spends the rest of Sunday imagining what stock may be awaiting her, Melvyn finds himself crying tears onto his blouse as he dreads what she and Miss MacTavish may select for his dressing when he is presented for outfitting.

Mother and son arrive at Pretty Kilting at 9.30 am to be met in the rather more spacious surroundings than at Kilt Korner by a blousey Miss MacTavish. Indeed Melvyn can see immediately that blouses feature prominently in this establishment, nearly all of them white, in soft, fluffy and shiny materials, with long sleeves and frills that would befit the most important of occasions. Beyond the blouses, as his eyes follow the glass-fronted cabinets that line the walls, kilts and blazers for every highland clan are represented. Then petticoats. Not in cabinets but spreading in their terrifying flares of softness. How they could possibly be contained inside a kilt he can’t imagine.

“Miss Stewart, welcome to Pretty Kilting,” gushes Miss MacTavish. “And Melvyn. Dear boy, we must get you undressed. There is a lot to show your mother.” She presses a bell on the counter and starts at his blazer at once. It is soon joined on the counter-top by his kilt in Stewart tartan, before a miserable Melvyn is thrown into purgatory by the appearance of Miss MacTavish’s assistant. It’s Sinead! Sinead Murray from the year before last at High School.

The blond young lady hesitates to lend her employer a hand: how can she undo the waist of a petticoat worn by a boy who was her community team leader two years ago in Year 12? “Hello Melvyn,” she says in an apologetic voice which only adds to his embarrassment. “You look nice? Have you come for a change of petticoat, pet?”

“Melvyn is here for a complete change, Sinead. Missus Stewart, Miss Murray will help me undress and dress your son.” She says this as she relieves the boy of his blouse revealing the girlish, long-line brassiere clasping his upper body. “Come along girl, undo the back of his petticoat, we haven’t got all day.”

Sinead’s fingers are adept and it is soon loosened and ready to drop. “Sorry, Melvyn,” she whispers, and lowers the circle of white nylon to the floor, expecting him to step out of it in his white Mary Jane shoes. She gasps at his freshly revealed appearance, slips out her phone from nowhere, and as she steps back to deposit the petticoat on the counter, she turns to photograph him in his all white lingerie: bra and panties with white knee socks, just before Miss MacTavish draws down his panties in a single sweep.

Sinead gasps with delight and brings up her phone for a second snap.

“Never mind that,” urges the proprietress. “We must give the boy’s mother an idea of our range.”

“But Miss MacTavish, he’s so CUTE.”

Melvyn feels like curling into a ball to hide. She must be talking about his cock, which is starting to stiffen under her attention, especially in this dreadful place of blouses and petticoats. His friend sees the pain on his face and steps closer to whisper at his face: “Don’t worry, Melvyn. I won’t be sharing this with Karen, Bianca or Faye,” but her mischievous grin sends a shiver through his naked body as the last of his clothing is removed.

“If a boy is to be dressed as a girl,” declares the proprietress, taking over, “his dressing starts from the skin out. We all know how girls need the softest of delicate lingerie next to their tender flesh.” She opens a drawer of white silk and spreads three or four pairs of panties across the counter, drawing an audible moan of agony from Melvyn. “This is a Parisian panty that is becoming increasingly popular with savant mothers,” and she holds up a shimmering white, full-cut panty with lace round each leg and a white ribbon bow sweetening the middle of the waist.

“Let me see it on him, please,” asks Maureen.

“I think it would be best worn over stockings with a suspender belt, don’t you?” is the reply. “Sinead, put Master Melvyn into this little belt and roll a pair of white nylons up his legs for his mother to see the effect.”

A surge of shivers overtakes Melvyn as Sinead stands behind him and clips together his suspender belt. Her fingers are cold and soft, almost caring as they slip down his bare legs. “Hold onto me,” she says, and he has no option but to rest his fingertips on her shoulders as she stoops at his feet and rolls one, then two stockings up to his thighs. The suspenders are long, shirred with white silk, and she clips two of them to his stockings, one at the front and one at the side of each leg. He can’t prevent the shameful change that is happening in his genitals, because being attended to by Sinead Murray, kneeling at his feet with her face on line with his cock, simply makes it stiffen and grow in front of her smiling eyes.

“Put him into his panties,” orders Miss Tavistock, and Melvyn aches at the indignity of having the girl draw the almost sheer panties up his stockings, until she has to pull the waist elastic out over his erecting cock to make it reach his waist. She fusses the waist a bit to get the point in the gusset to stick out more or less in the middle for his mother to see.

“Oh I like them,” she says. “Is there a matching brassiere for him?”

“Sinead: bring a couple of brassieres for Missus Stewart to choose. Must be white for his blouse.”

Melvyn wilts between the two older women as Sinead steps behind the counter, pulls out a drawer to lay on the counter, and brings out two different brassieres. “Oh this one’s cute,” she cries with a tinkle in her voice.

Miss Tavistock takes it from her. “Keep your opinions to yourself, young lady,” she says and stands behind Melvyn, reaches round him with the bra straps for him to feed his hands through, and draws it together to hold behind him. The boy’s mother tilts her head one way, then the other to gauge the result. Then the proprietress tries the other, deeper one, in finer material but with a slightly shaped cup.

“Oh I’ll have him in that one,” says Maureen, clearly delighted. Her son gasps aloud, then presses his lips together, mortified that he has allowed Sinead to see his misery.

“We’ll have breast forms in the cups, Sinead,” says Miss Tavistock, “While I sort a nice blouse for him.”

The girl stands behind him for this purpose, her red silk dress against him, so that he feels the intimacy of how close her face is to his as she leans round him to hold a cup open from the top so that she can slide the shape inside and ensure that it fills it correctly – then holds her breath to see to the second, before allowing a little breath onto his shoulder with her pent up emotions. His cock aches with renewed anguish as he tries to avoid the gaze of his mother.

Miss Tavistock returns with a blouse and some petticoats on hangers. “The secret of Pretty Kilting lies in the girly sweetness of each item of the boy’s clothing,” she observes. “Take this style of blouse, for example. It will clasp his brassiere and upper body in sweet silk-chiffon, almost transparent, with little girl details like this cute Peter Pan collar to bring out the slenderness of his neck and these darling puffed sleeves to cap his effeminate arms. Rather nice, don’t you think?”

“I love it,” is his mother’s reply, and Sinead is assigned the task of dressing him in it while they move on to his petticoats.

“Of course there are many styles of kilts,” explains the proprietress as Sinead stands behind him to dress him in his blouse. She holds it in front for him to push his hands through the little puffed sleeves and the tiny cuff-spaces for his arms. “For a truly girlish effect I favour the shorter, wider styles, and they require wider petticoats, like these.” She holds up two hangers, one on either side of herself, so show how widely they flare from their waist loops. A wail escapes Melvyn’s throat, causing Sinead’s hand to clasp her chin beside his face as she senses the agony coursing through the boy’s body. She draws his blouse together at the back and starts to fasten the buttons from beneath the rounded sides of his little divided collar.

The women watch Melvyn as he is bloused sweetly. He looks down to avoid their eyes, only to see how young and girlish his blouse is. He has a new worry as Sinead holds the first petticoat open at his feet. His sexual excitement is building around the base of his cock. This awful humiliation in front of a girl who knows him is working at his personal pride. He’s already in panties in front of her, and a bra, and now she is working a wide fluffy petticoat up his stockings. His breathing grows shorter and his pulse is quickening as he puts his hands together at his lips as if praying might help him control these dreadful urges.

His anguish gets suddenly worse as he sees how wide the petticoat is that spreads from his waist: all white, with so much feminine material surrounding him as he peers down over his bra cups. The second petti has to go over his head. Oh the shame of putting up his arms through the open waist, then having Sinead work it down over his breasts until it lies on the first, spreading slightly higher this time. Then, oh misery! He has to wear a third petticoat, in an even more silky material, with the same frills all round the edge. He has to twist his legs together to stop his urgent, growing feelings. He must hold on. He can’t let them see he is filling up with pleasure.

His bed of petticoats is awaiting his kilt, and here it comes in Miss Tavistock’s hands. It looks no different from traditional kilts except that it’s got pink in it, until she opens it out and he sees how narrow it is at its waistband but how wide it is in its pleats. She has something in white silk over her arm too.

“I see your son wearing this, Missus Stewart,” she says. “The little girl Kutie-Kilt suits your kind of boy, especially since it is worn with silk bloomers in padded silk-satin with lace at the knees.”

It’s the sight of the bloomers as Sinead opens them and lets them hang from her fingers that pushes the boy much closer to his sexual climax. How emasculating they are. He cringes with shame as Miss Tavistock lifts the kilt above his head and lowers its pale pink satin lining over his blouse until it spreads over his petticoats and slithers into its position. She hooks it together at the back of its waistband, then lifts each of the tartan straps over his shoulders so that they can be buttoned onto the front of his kilt with large, black, shiny buttons.

Maureen claps her gloves together and rests her cheek on them. “Oh I love the pink stripes through the tartan: the Kilt pins in a line of three, and those precious pleats. And it’s so SHORT!”

“True. It shows his petticoats to advantage, which I think is so important. Sinead, please put Master Melvyn into his bloomers.”

If the boy had a bass drum beating in his chest it would make less noise than the merciless rhythm of his heart at this dreadful moment. He knows these bloomers are baby bloomers, worn by baby girls to go with their baby dress. As Sinead Murray draws them over his knees and threads them up beneath his petticoats, he knows that she can see – and feel – his furiously unwilling arousal as a result of them dressing him. The coolness of the new silk comes through his panties and caresses his groin and his cock with feminine sensations. Then he feels her fingers close over his stiffness: clasping, moving his cock to one side and back, then squeezing him before letting go.

Her lips are pursed as she stands up again looking all innocent. Miss Tavistock has the jacket in black satin, in a bolero style. His eyes are so filled he can scarcely see to thread his arms in, and it’s the look in his mother’s eyes – of triumph and superior satisfaction – that delivers the final wound to his shattered sex. Melvyn looks down his bolero, his blouse, his kilt and his petticoats, and knows that he has been turned into a girl in Pretty Kilting. All his boyhood has gone, it remains only for this girliness to rise up and flow over him, which is just what it does. He hangs his head in shame as his squeezing of his thighs is to no avail, and his kilt and petticoats sway slightly from side to side with the pulses of his orgasm.

There are grins on all three female faces. “I think he’s having an accident, murmurs Sinead as her phone goes onto video capture. She feels no small pleasure herself as her promise about not sending her photos to Karen, Bianca or Faye seems to be evaporating in the hot emotions of the situation.

Melvyn Stewart can’t even prevent himself from bursting into tears as he presses his knees together and shuts his eyes, wishing for tonight’s bedtime to rush towards him, only to find, as he opens them again, that Sinead Murray is still in front of him, pointing her phone at him as he ejaculates helplessly into the panty and bloomers underneath his voluminous petticoats.

***

There are ten new Prim pictures every month for members of the Petticoat Wendyhouse at www.primspetticoatwendyhouse.com/feminization.htm