For a Girl, J.T. D'Arelli [reading fiction txt] 📗

all, Marks. But you are 'little'. Take my advice — don't wear tight pants — or your shortcomings will be all the more obvious."

Wow. His face flushed for a moment — but he was without his toadies and the three of us were standing firm. "Ah, well. I'll leave you all to carpet-munch in peace. Stephanie, I'll be seeing you around."

"Only in your dreams, Marks." I replied. He sauntered away.

Becky muttered, "I'd call him an asshole, but that would be an insult — to asses with holes."

"I'll bet between the three of us, we could have dropped him," Sue said.

"I think he was already dropped — on his head — when he was a baby," I replied.

"He's definitely got it in for you, Stephanie," Sue commented, a worried expression on her face. "Most bullies are just bluff, but he's... dangerous. Something's going to have to be done about him, before..."

She didn't finish, but I knew where she was going. Before he attacked me.

"Maybe we should report him," Becky offered. "After all, he was using physical force on her — it could qualify as assault."

"No," I replied. "I know his type well. He'd just get a slap on the wrist, and come after me all the more. I think I'm going have to solve this one on my own."

"Stephanie, not to belabor the obvious, but you're a girl now," Sue said. "Jack could have manhandled him, but you... probably can't. I don't mean it as an insult — it's just a fact of life."

"I know, Sue. Believe me, I'm very aware of the physical disadvantage. You're right — I can't 'manhandle' him. I need a more... subtle approach — I'll have to 'girlhandle' him."

"You've got something in mind?" Becky asked.

"Maybe." I replied slowly. For I had seen something in Andy Marks while he'd been looking at me. And at Becky and Sue, for that matter. Not only lust or satisfaction at dominating those weaker than him. No, there'd been something else as well. It tickled in the back of my head.

But enough for now. I had a track race to prepare for. The last one of my life.

Today would be a home meet — Oxton was making the short drive to our school. I entered the girl's locker room, pondering what was to come. I hardly paid attention to the other girls on the team, changing into their uniforms. I unpacked my own outfit and pulled my dress off over my head. I changed bras, then tugged the bright yellow tanktop with the 'Milford' sash across the front. It was a bit shorter than the boy's style, coming only an inch or two past my belly button. And then there were the little darts in the side, allowing room for my breasts — which filled the space very nicely.

Then came the bottoms.

They're called bunhuggers, or hiphuggers. Some girls derisively referred to them as 'the diapers."

Essentially, the girls' track uniform bottoms were panties.

Officially, they were called 'racing briefs' — sold by Nike. Made of a soft poly-nylon blend, they had no legs at all. If you've ever seen footage of world-class female track stars, you'd probably recognize them. They were sleek-looking and God knows as a boy I'd loved how all the girls appeared in them.

As if they were running in their underwear.

There'd been some controversy in the village about the uniform. Many of the old biddies and town elders thought the outfits were scandalous — showing far too much of the female anatomy. Coach Bradford had his way, though — for while the Milford girls were ambivalent about their appearance, every single athlete did say she felt faster wearing them.

In fact, I'd been careful to put on bikini panties this morning, because anything fuller would have been revealed by the skimpy racing briefs. I gingerly pulled on the outfit, noting the silky sensation of the fabric. Yes, the dark blue color did look great with the gold top. My hips were snugly wrapped and the flatness between my legs was all too obvious. There was a fashionable two-inch gap between the bottom of my tank top and the waistband of the briefs.

Oh well, at least everyone will know I'm a real girl.

I put on the sweats and joined the rest of the team on the track for the warm-up. Oxton was already there, camped out in the bleachers across the oval. There was the sense of anticipation in the air — that electricity I always felt before a race. The butterflies in my stomach began and I found myself bouncing on my heels. I surveyed the competition and plotted my strategy as I finished stretching.

Yep — just like any other meet. Except for the 34C breasts on my chest, the sports bra holding them and the panty- shorts I was about to reveal to the crowd!

During last night's workout, I'd been distracted by my long tresses flying in the wind, so I had Becky do a quick twist for me. Her hair was much shorter — which was for the best, since I had no idea how to braid it. The races got underway and Milford had a good start, placing well in the first set of relays and the 100-meter dash.

A track meet in full force is like a three-ring circus. There are jumpers, runners and throwers all competing simultaneously. At any given moment, a fan can see a discus arcing through the air, a pole-vaulter sailing 15 feet high, hurdlers racing for the finish and much more. It's definitely not boring.

The girls and boys compete as separate teams. Although the boys' performance does not count for the girls' team, and vice-versa, there's a tremendous camaraderie between both genders. We train side by side, ride the same bus, wear similar (though obviously not identical!) uniforms. In a way that's unique among high school sports, track bonds boys and girls together. Field hockey, football and so forth aren't the same.

So Becky and I cheered wildly for the guys as well as the girls. I wandered over to the throwing ring — where Mark Williams was methodically destroying the discus competition as always. As a two-time defending section champion, he was nearly invincible. In between tosses, I offered him encouragement (not that he needed it). He did the same for me. I also connected briefly with Hal — who was preparing for the two-mile. I was still a little nervous around him — particularly since I found myself enjoying watching him stretch.

The boys' mile finished — an Oxton runner won in a time of 4:29. I watched wistfully — knowing last week I could have beaten him by 30 seconds. I realized sadly how much I had lost.

Then it was our turn. First call for the girls' mile was announced. Becky and I stripped off our sweats. God, I felt so exposed in the racing briefs! Every eye seemed to turn to me — even though I knew I looked perfectly normal — for a girl. Despite that, I felt like I was walking around in my panties.

And to think I'd considered a skirt risquÈ! Our smooth crotches were tightly outlined by our snug uniforms. It was uncanny to see my body appear so similar to Becky's in the feminine outfit as I nervously approached the line.

Coach Bradford gave Becky and I some last minute tips. Oxton had an excellent girl miler — Melody McCarthy. She was one of the fastest girls in the state — Becky had never beaten her. We took our place with the rest — a total of six runners were competing today.

My race strategy was simple: run hard, put in a good-faith effort, go through the motions. Let's face it, I wasn't really motivated for this. Once I was done, I'd head back to the locker room and take off these silly (albeit sexy) running shorts for the last time.

The gun went off...

And it was like a switch flipping in my head.

Suddenly I was no longer a 'girl' miler. I didn't care about the breasts bouncing on my chest or the ultra-cute uniform or the fact that I was racing against females.

Instead, just like when I was a boy, all I cared about was the competition — I was an athlete, running against other athletes. Nothing else mattered. I simply wanted to WIN!

Melody took the early lead, while I hung a stride back. I was still uncertain about the pace I should set. I ignored the times called out by Coach Bradford as we finished the first lap. I had no standard from previous races to match. I just focused on the girl in front of me.

She was a strong runner, and she surged ahead several times, trying to shake me — but I hung on — getting more comfortable as we moved deeper into the race. Mid-race surges are a common strategy for good distance athletes — they can wreak psychological havoc on the competition.

And that's what distance running is all about. Speed is crucial, yes — but races are often won by tactics — by choosing the right moment to convince your opponent you're stronger than he... or she is — that you're mastered your pain. Once a competitor believes that, she's finished.

Melody saw I wasn't going anywhere — so she just maintained her swift pace, while I continued to draft off of her. I knew she was a little confused — she'd dominated our local athletic district for years. As a senior, her only real competition came at the state level. She was probably expecting an easy time of it.

Not today, sister!

Becky and the rest had fallen well back as we began the bell lap. Melody had a cute butt (she wearing the same style shorts I was), but I was getting tired of looking at it. She tried to accelerate further, but she had no higher gear to shift to. I did, though. On the backstretch, I blasted past her with a surge of my own — quickly moving ahead and cutting to the rail at the first legal opportunity. She never knew what hit her as she faded behind me. I felt very strong as I kicked all the way down the homestretch to break the tape. The crowd cheered and whistled their appreciation.

I'd just won the race! I felt all the same elation and satisfaction I had as a boy. No difference.

And that fascinated me. There was no sense of male distaste at a hollow victory — beating a bunch of girls. It was a race — and I'd won it, fair and square.

Cool!

I turned and cheered the remaining runners as they crossed the line. Becky finished third and I quickly went over to her. She was still gasping as the Coach passed on her time: 5:08, her fastest mile ever. He was about to tell me my time, when I was literally swept off my feet by Hal — who hugged me tightly. He'd never done that when I was a guy! I felt a tingly sensation all over as my breasts plumped against his chest. Whether I was ready or not, my body was clearly enjoying the close contact with a male. Reflexively, I held him tightly. Then — not so reflexively - I kept on holding him. Nice.

A bit embarrassed, we broke contact as Melody came up to me. I shook hands with her as she congratulated me.

"Who are you?" the tall brunette asked.

"Stephanie. Stephanie Lind."

"Are you related to Jack? I didn't see him here today."

"Actually, I... am... was Jack. GB."

A look of astonishment appeared on her face. "You mean, you're a boy?"

"Not anymore," I replied, gesturing at my breasts. The tight racing briefs also demonstrated my gender in an obvious way.

"But... but," Melody paused.

"But what?" I prompted.

"But... it's not fair. You ran in the girl's race!"

"So?" I said, growing a bit exasperated. "I AM a girl!"

"Well, yeah... I guess," she acknowledged reluctantly.

"Look, Melody — should we head over to the locker room so I can prove it