Cynosure Collected Fiction: Lace & Garters





Except where otherwise advised, all content published herein is copyright © the authors. Additional material copyright © Kristina Leigh and Cynosure Collected Fiction.


Copyright © Kristina Leigh, 1993, 1996, 1999, 2003, 2015, 2016. All rights reserved. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All events portrayed in this work are pure fantasy, existing only in the mind of the author.


Cover illustration © Transfemme, 2000, 2015, 2016. All rights reserved. Permission granted to upload the cover to Wikimedia Commons as an example of self-published fiction. No other use is permitted without the written consent of the artist.







K.C. waited back stage at the Civic Center, his tummy fluttering with excitement. It was shownight for his dancing school, and everyone was rushing about frantically preparing for their numbers. Very soon, he’d be out on stage dancing before a large audience, the culmination of months of exhausting rehearsals. The long period of training had left him as tense as a tightly strung bow.

The murmuring crowds he’d seen out in the theatre had added considerably to his last minute butterflies. The place was utterly packed with people – parents and kids, teachers and students, old folk from Chamberlain Retirement Village. Hundreds of interested parties, all turned out in their Sunday fineries to cheer and whistle and hoot as the latest generation of Fred Astaires wove through their steps.

All those faces, all those eyes, turned up towards the stage!

KC took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He really had nothing to worry about. He and his troupe were doing a Broadway style tap-dog number; complicated and tricky at times, but none too difficult after so many hours of repetition. It was pretty silly, really. He knew he’d perform the drill without a hitch, he’d done it at least a thousand times before. But then, he always felt this way on shownight.

Turning away from the curtains, he walked back towards the dressing rooms. Backstage was currently in a state of siege; girls running everywhere in tutus and leotards, boys decked out in vests and tails climbing the wings. A gabble of mothers trailed close behind, fussing and scolding, calling for order above the din.

Well, at least I’ve got half an hour to practice, KC thought, glancing around in the general chaos, if I can just find a spare corner with enough space to tap a shoe. He considered going outside and using the loading bay, but decided against it. Didn’t want miss his curtain call; he’d never hear the end of it. He pushed his way over towards the stairs leading to the changing areas. Everyone seemed to be down here, the dressing rooms were probably empty.

“KC. KC!!”

“Huh?” KC whirled towards the voice.

It was Ms Deane, his ballet teacher.

Evelyn Deane was a long, streamlined woman in her mid-thirties, willow-slim and lean hipped. Her eyes were always hard and serious, no matter what mood she was in. The woman was wading through a cloud of Lilliputian Kylies, her classical features marked with impatience. KC wandered over to meet her halfway.

“There you are”, she said, looking him over with a familiar knitting of the eyebrows, “I’ve been searching for you everywhere”. KC’s heart sank roughly six fathoms; he was in trouble. No idea what the problem was, but he knew that tone: honey laced with razor blades.

"I was just looking for a place to -" he stammered in a high, uncertain voice. Ms Deane cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“You’ll have to get changed again. You’re on in ten minutes”, she said, gesturing for him to follow her up the stairs. He hurried along behind, not quite certain what his teacher had meant. As far as KC knew, he was already in costume: black top, black jeans, and size five work boots. What was going on here?

“I thought I was on in half an hour, Ms Deane”, the boy protested fretfully, “I’m in the Tap-dog number”.

“Not any more. Toby Macklin will be taking your place”.


“You’re out of the Tap-dogs, KC”.

“But why?” KC exclaimed, still not understanding. He’d spent what seemed like six years perfecting his routine, and now Ms Deane was tearing it out from under his feet.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time, KC”, Ms Deane explained, shooing him up the stairs, “Janey North just twisted her ankle and we need someone to replace her. You’ll be taking her place”.


“You’re taking Janey’s place”.

"Janey North? But she's in -"

Suddenly, KC understood. Everything. He gaped up at his teacher, his face a mask of disbelief. Janey North was one of the girls in the Montmartre number, the one everybody had been talking about for the last three months. KC’s eyes widened in dawning horror.

“But she’s doing the can-can, Ms Deane!!” KC wailed, “I can’t do that! I’m – you – you’ll have to get some one else!!” He knew precisely what she had in mind. Panic rushed in on him like a runaway horse.

“There isn’t anybody else, KC. You’re the one”.

They reached the top of the stairs, dodging a swarm of pink fairies darting out of the girl’s dressing room. KC faced his teacher, colour rising to his cheeks in a soft red haze.

“Ms Deane, I CAN’T do it”, KC cried, as if in real distress, “I – I just can’t!!!” He had to get out of this. Somehow. Anyhow.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to”.

"But -"

“No buts, KC”, she interrupted, vague amusement spicing her tone, “come on, I’ll help you get changed”. Taking the boy’s hand, she led him into the change room, ignoring his shrill objections. The enticing scents of perfume and stage powder wafted through the door. KC dragged his feet, squirming uncomfortably. They were entering the dreaded GIRL ZONE.

“But, Ms Deane-” KC’s voice trembled like an infant’s, protesting even as he complied. His heart began turning somersaults as they stepped through the open doorway. A few of the older girls were loitering by near the mirrors, powdering their faces and doing their hair. KC recognized more than half of them from the Modern Dance Class. Tricked out in jet-black leotards and ghostly white makeup, they were the Ravens (like in that movie with Brandon Lee), Ms Deane’s elite troupe. KC moaned inwardly. This was getting worse by the second. He groped for an excuse.

“I’ve never rehearsed with Katrina and the others, Ms Deane, I don’t know the routine! I’ll make a mess of it, I know I will”.

“No, you won’t, you’ll pick it up in no time. You’re one of the best students we have. Now take off those clothes, KC. I’ll get your costume”.

"Take off my -?" KC sputtered, glancing wildly around the room. The blood virtually froze in his veins: he could image nothing worse than undressing before a roomful of girls. He shot a sideways glance towards the Ravens, all of whom were regarding KC with considerable interest. A huge wave of embarrassment surged through his system, his lower lip tremored in despair.

"Noooooo", he begged, pulse racing in his throat, "please Ms Deane, I don't want to, not in here -"

Unfortunately for KC Evelyn Deane was not a woman to be defied. Transfixing him with an irresistible stare, she leaned in closer, towering over the eleven year-old like a hungry, red-tressed virago. “GET those jeans OFF young man!”

“No, no, please Ms Deane", KC pleaded in the hopeless, quailing voice of a first grader, "don't make me do this -"

NOW”, the tall woman growled in a tone that could liquefy steel.

Moaning in shame, KC peeled off his top and began unbuttoning his pants. He bit his lip in childlike dismay, struggling to hold back the whimpers threatening to escape his throat. This couldn’t be happening! In a matter of moments, the evening had flip-flopped into a nightmare. The girls by the mirror whispered to one another and giggled. KC’s blush deepened to the shade of a maraschino cherry.

He wavered on the verge of tears, knowing he had no choice but to follow his teacher’s orders. Turning completely away from his tittering little audience, he slipped the jeans slowly down his thighs, revealing his fresh, white briefs to all and sundry. A ripple of tinkling laughter filled the dressing room.

Meanwhile, Ms Deane had stalked over to the costume racks, pulling out a can-can outfit and examining it carefully. KC had a trim figure, a shape as feminine as any of the girls performing in the Montmartre number. He could probably squeeze into a size six with the help of a waist cincher and a suspender belt. Yes, this one would do nicely.

Stepping helplessly out of his jeans, KC stood up in his singlet and underpants, two bright roses standing out on his cheeks. He felt completely disgraced, divested of what little dignity he’d ever known as a boy. Humiliation poured over him like some thick, warm liquid; he shivered with silent outrage – she had done this to him, forced him to parade half-naked before a bunch of giggling eighth graders. Once word got ‘round at school next Monday (as he was certain it would) the teasing would never stop.

Truth be told, KC actually looked like a girl, with his wavy blond hair and his soft, pouting features. He’d always possessed a rather feminine appearance: even now, people often commented on how ‘pretty’ (and rather effeminate) he was. Narrow shoulders, tiny waist, full lips and a delicate bone structure all contributed to the illusion – which was probably why Ms Deane had chosen him to replace Janey North in the first place (or so he imagined)

He was wearing a snowy white vest and a pair of bikini underpants; the simple, unadorned kind that could be worn by either sex. From a slight distance (or even at extreme close up, for that matter), he could easily have been mistaken for a young girl wandering around in her vest and panties, waiting for the curtain call. His smooth, tapering thighs and slender forearms were almost shining with youth and femininity.

Ms Deane strode up behind him bearing an armload of satin frills. Recognizing the boy’s air of soul-consuming angst, she administered a sharp, stinging smack to his pantied bottom (Evelyn Deane had never tolerated self-pity, even in herself). KC spun around with a yelp, hands flying protectively to his firm, round tooshie.

“Oww!” he cried, more embarrassed than ever. The Ravens laughed again, noting his evident discomfort.

"Yes, quite", Ms Deane agreed dryly, placing the costume on the make- up counter, "this is what you'll be wearing, KC. The underwear may look a little complicated, but I'll help you with some of the trickier items."

She spread the ensemble out across the counter like a Las Vegas croupier fan-tailing a deck of cards. The dress was a blaze of garish red satin embellished with florid yellow lace. The halter-style top was studded with rhinestones and oversized frills around the bustline. Brilliant white petticoats had been sewn into the skirt’s lining; KC could see the frothy material peeking out from beneath the hemline. The whole outfit looked loud, gaudy and wickedly expensive.

A cold thrill seemed to run the length of his spine as KC surveyed the garish spray of polyester ruffles and gauzy nylon flounces. In a few minutes, he’d be zipped up into this – this party dress – and sent out on stage to make a public spectacle of himself. It wasn’t fair! Why was she doing this to him?! Why was she making him dress up like a SISSY when there were at least a dozen girls downstairs who could have taken Janey’s place?! Hovering at the brink of hysteria, KC looked up at his teacher, his eyes huge and moist and imploring:

“Miss Deane, I can’t do it, I just CAN’T!! I – I’m a BOY, not a girl!!!”




Ms Deane leant down, placing her hands on KC’s arms, looking sharply into the boy’s eyes to gain his attention. There were only seven minutes left.

“Yes, I know you’re a boy, KC”, the ballet instructor told him, speaking in a fast, staccato rhythm, “but it can’t be helped. Katrina’s class is one girl short, and they need you. You’re the only one who can do the steps at short notice. You remember the quadrille I taught you last summer?”

KC nodded, thinking back. It was all still there.

“That’s all you have to do, KC. Jenny and Katrina will do the more complicated steps. It won’t be hard. All you have to do is hold up your skirt and follow the lead.”

KC winced at the image of himself prancing across the stage with his dress over his head (and his undies on display for the whole world, let’s not forget that vital piece of information). Ms Deane read his expression.

“Don’t worry about it, KC. Nobody’s going to recognize you. In a dress and make up, you’ll just be another chorus girl”, Ms Deane told him, gesturing towards the costume. “Come on, it’s time you climbed into this. Take off your vest”.

KC hesitated several seconds, knowing he really had no other choice. There would be absolutely no negotiation here: refusal was never an option where Ms Evelyn Deane was concerned. Surrendering to his fate with an almost imperceptible sob, KC raised his hands and allowed her to peel his singlet off over his head. Gooseflesh played across his ivory tummy.

“Now, the underwear”.


Evelyne shifted her position slightly, then reached out towards KC’s hips. What is she DOING??! he thought wildly, as Ms Deane hooked her fingers though his plain cotton undies. He opened his mouth to protest, to shriek his opposition, but all he could manage was tearful, defeated groan. The soft fabric slid down his thighs. The room spun around him; KC nearly fainted as the cotton settled gently around his heels. This was literally his worst nightmare.

Eve patted him several times on the bare bottom.

“OK, step into your panties, KC”.

The boy flinched at her use of the word ‘panties’ , but followed her instructions without complaint, obediently raising one foot after another. He stared down at himself, feeling small, naked and terribly vulnerable. Evelyne folded the underpants into a prim little triangle and dropped them on a nearby chair, then led KC over to the dressing counter by the hand.

He trailed along on tip-toe, a pretty young boy with platinum hair spiraling halfway down his back. His complexion glowed with a tender rose tint, his girlish figure arched in a graceful arabesque. He endured this final humiliation without objection, wiping his cheeks with his free hand and fixing his gaze on the floor. He didn’t even raise his head when the girls started whistling and catcalling from the other side of the room.

“There, that’s better”, Evelyn said, ignoring the hoots and jeers of the KC Admiration Society across the floor, “now we can get started”. Darting a glance towards the clock, Ms Deane began sorting out the costume with swift, practiced fingers. KC watched in mute resignation, achingly aware that his pert young bottom was on full exhibition.

He simply couldn’t believe he was going through with this – or that he’d given in so easily. It was as if some tiny part of him actually wanted to be dolled up like a fairy in a Christmas pageant. He banished the thought with an impatient shake of his head. I’m NOT a girl, he thought again, then glanced over towards cancan outfit.


KC gasped in surprise as his gaze swept over the virginal lace underthings Ms Deane was laying out across the make-up counter. A sweet, fluid heat crept through his belly. He hadn’t even paused to consider what he’d be wearing underneath – the sight of the dress had driven everything else from his mind. His heartbeat accelerated into overdrive as he realized the extent of his predicament.

“I … have to wear this?” he whispered.

The underwear was nothing short of captivating; flimsy, translucent remnants shimmering with silk and lace. Pristine white panties lay side by side with sheer black stockings and a number of mysterious, complex items KC didn’t recognize. Things with bows and clips and hooks he’d never seen before. The very sight of them sent a chill racing though his slim torso. Hot flushes raged through his bloodstream; he tried to glance away, but the lingerie (particularly the panties) seemed to exert an almost hypnotic influence over the boy’s bulging eyes.

Ms Deane picked up a long, delicate strip of black lycra between two fingers; an intricate web of lace from which four adjustable straps descended. KC moistened his lips with a flickering pink tongue. His breathing shallowed and quickened. Emotions he couldn’t identify flooded his mind as the dance teacher kneeled down to slip the suspender belt around his tiny waist. He had no idea what it was, but inexplicably, he couldn’t wait to feel it touch his alabaster flesh.

“Alright”, Ms Deane said crisply, “hold still”.

Ms Deane fastened the suspender belt into position.

KC felt the hook-and-eye lock into place, dimpling his waistline. French lace teased his skin, long black suspenders dangled lightly against his thighs. Cool, tickling feathers seemed to stroke his tummy as the teacher adjusted the waiststrap, her fingertips brushing his belly button several times. KC trembled with each contact.

“Put your hands on my shoulders”, Eve ordered curtly. It was time for the hosiery, and she didn’t want the boy tripping over his feet while she slipped the denier up his legs. She worked quickly, smoothing out the sheer ebony nylon and tugging it gently up to mid-thigh. Stretching the elastic to the breaking point, she clipped the suspenders onto the stocking tops, then sat back on her heels to study her handiwork.

Running a hand down KC’s inner thighs, Eve marveled at their graceful curvature. KC had exceptional legs for a boy; long, slender and about as smooth as polished marble. Four years tapping the boards had toned up his calves, leaving them sleek and rather coltish. The black stockings were a perfect fit, and served to emphasize their length and beauty.

Probably grow up to be a Barbie doll, she thought ruefully.

Meantime, KC was trembling with apprehension. His head swirled with conflicting emotions: shame, dread, guilt. And humiliation. Humiliation, huge and irresistible, roaring through his body like a river bursting its banks. He was nude, stark dripping NAKED, and Ms Deane was dressing him in GIRL’S UNDERWEAR. The image flashed through his consciousness with neon intensity.

But I’m a boy, he thought in silent protest, looking over at the mirror. Very soon, his metamorphosis would be complete. He’d be a she. A pretty little girl with a brilliant smile and a mischievous glint in her eye. He’d be sent out to flash his panties before half of Chamberlain, squealing with excitement as she spun through her number. Petticoats flailing around his chin, he would twirl across the stage in reckless abandon, his suspenders and stockings on full view of the audience -

Then: Ms Deane’s knife-edged voice, snapping her back to reality:

“OK, stop day-dreaming and step into these”.

KC looked down, his heart pausing momentarily.

It was time for the panties.

They were a pair of high-waisted full-briefs, glistening white nylon edged with exquisite pink traceries. The bottom was a mass of dainty frills, hundreds of diaphanous lace ruffles which primped and fluttered at a touch. Glaringly bright, they looked pristine, innocent and easily the most feminine thing KC had ever seen.

“Quickly, KC. We don’t have much time”.

KC slipped into the pants, shimmying his hips as Eve drew them up over his hips. KC zoned in a fugue of disbelief; in a matter of minutes, he’d be dancing the CAN-CAN before an audience of hundreds. And worst of all -

he was wearing frilly underpants.

Eve looked at the clock, ticking blithely away over the door. Five minutes to go, and the girl didn’t even have her lipstick on yet. The dress lay in a glittering huddle over the dressing counter, its sequins reflecting the lights above the make-up mirror. They’d never make it down to the stage in time. If it was just the costume, they’d be alright, but there were the gloves, the make-up and the waist-cincher to consider. And then there was the hair …

I’ll have to cancel the Montmartre number, Eve thought (not without regret, considering how hard her troupe had worked on it). Katrina and the others would be disappointed, but there was simply no other option at this point.

Unless …

Ms Deane called out to the girls by the mirror.

“Could you give us a hand, please?”

Six pair of eyes wheeled towards KC simultaneously, then the Ravens were on their feet, jostling each other aside in adolescent exuberance. All of them understood what their flame-haired instructor wanted, and each wanted a piece of the can-can boy.

“Yes, Ms Deane!!”

Shrill, birdlike voices echoed off the ceiling as the Ravens charged their quarry. Eve stepped aside to allow them a clear view of their prey, and the girls descended on KC in a body. He was swallowed up in a storm of flurrying hands and midnight leotards. Their voices blended incoherently around him.

“What first?”

"The dress! Unzip the back. Here -"

“How do you do this up?”

“Give me a hand, will you?”

“Does this thing hook or clip?”


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Cynosure Collected Fiction: Lace & Garters

CYNOSURE: LACE and GARTERS! This special children's edition features three classic tales of pretty young men sampling the pleasures of the dance. Written in the fast-paced style of the classic pulp era, Cynosure is a must-read for devotees of transgendered literature. Contributing authors: Kristy Leigh, Tracy Lane and Erica Lakehurst; cover by Transfemme. 19,000+ words. Please be advised that "Cynosure: Lace & Garters" is an age-appropriate preview of the TG anthology "Collected Fiction", currently available for download from Smashwords.

  • Author: Kristina Leigh
  • Published: 2016-02-01 02:20:06
  • Words: 19754
Cynosure Collected Fiction: Lace & Garters Cynosure Collected Fiction: Lace & Garters