Out of shame, I couldn’t bring myself to cross that final line of boyhood. Instead, I picked up the blue-and-white panties… face twisted bitterly, I lifted one leg…

I could almost imagine how a young girl sold into an ancient brothel must’ve felt—clumsy, flustered—untie her dudou for the first time. The moment my left leg slipped through the panties and brushed my inner thigh, that snug, intimate touch of girls’ underwear jolted every nerve below my waist awake!

Worse still was the full-length mirror right before me, reflecting my shame without mercy.

There I was—resisting with every fiber, yet mechanically pulling on the panties.

Honestly, the wig and makeup had already stunned me with how cute I looked. But now… watching myself slowly slip into panties that shattered my shame threshold…

*Crack.* Something inside me shattered into a million pieces.

Before I even noticed, I’d somehow put them on—with a wry smile. Snug. Form-fitting. And… surprisingly not uncomfortable?

Only the white stockings remained—the hardest part.

I couldn’t face the mirror anymore. I feared my heart was starting to accept this cross-dressed self.

Eyes shut, head turned away, I gripped the stocking opening. *Just like regular socks…*

*Just like regular socks…*

I chanted it inwardly, gritted my teeth, and shoved my leg in!

Ugh!

A wave of sensation shot from my toes, racing up to envelop every inch of calf and thigh.

Silky-smooth as liquid milk, that clinging softness nearly made me a slave to stockings in that single breath.

I never expected such fabric—like a second skin hugging my legs, sending faint electric tingles. Even more shamefully, the top faded into a darker, tighter band from thigh to waist, accentuating my slender frame until it seemed *encircled by one hand*.

Finally dressed, I stood, tested my movements, stretched a leg, swayed slightly—performing shame-inducing poses I’d never imagined.

I was getting addicted. Something was shifting. Compared to men’s socks, these stockings felt truly like skin—zero restriction. The gentle wrap around thighs and hips wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt secure, almost… pampering.

And honestly? From a girl’s perspective, my legs were flawless—slender, long, zero fat. In these stockings? Utterly alluring.

Even without my face, these legs alone could make men scramble to kneel. Paired with this angelically innocent face and silky straight black hair… I was practically engineered to stir hearts.

But… I’m a boy…………

Yet even my rational mind whispered: *This is… beautiful. This strange, wonderful feeling…*

For the first time wearing stockings, I actually regretted never trying them sooner.

An unbelievable thrill surged through me.

Shameful… yet… maybe… not entirely unpleasant?

NO! Stop! It’s just an illusion!

Shaking my head in panic, I rubbed the goosebumps prickling my arms.

The remaining clothes—the dress—no longer intimidated me.

Like a hero charging the Demon King, I snatched them up with unshakable resolve. Shame forgotten, back turned to the mirror, I dressed.

Done.

A full girls’ outfit—worn.

I did it. Overcame shame. Wore it all.

After smoothing the skirt hem, a flicker of anticipation stirred. Heart pounding, I turned toward the mirror—

And froze.

An impossibly cute, pure high school girl stared back.

The sailor uniform: fresh, classic blue-and-white, breathable cotton, loose yet youthful. Below, a layered gray pleated skirt. Beneath the hem, stocking-clad legs—slender, smooth, *so* tempting I had to swallow hard.

*Gulp.*

This look rivaled any classmate. On the street? Heads would turn.

I swayed gently. The skirt lifted slightly, revealing more black-stockinged leg… hinting at that mysterious, alluring *absolute territory*—

NO! TOO SHAMEFUL!

Hands flew to clamp the skirt. Face burning crimson.

Outside: pure, innocent schoolgirl. Inside the skirt: an unspeakable secret. Just thinking made my shyness explode.

AAAAH! My shame is detonating! I can’t—someone might see me—

Suddenly, Cheng Shun’s impatient voice cut through: “Done yet? Thirty seconds. Or I send a female staffer in. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…”

He called numbers like a machine gun—ten per second.

Was this demon uncle a *kuaiban* performer before managing?

“Okayokayokay!”

Shame abandoned, I scrambled out of the fitting room.