What you really need is some high heels.

You bite your lower lip. Do you dare? It feels like it's a point of no return. It's silly, obviously. If you don't like it you can take them off just as easily as you put them on. But what if you do like it?

So what?

You put the sneakers back and turn to the high heel section of your sister's wardrobe. Immediately your eye is drawn to the highest heel she has, a see-through platform boot with a 5 or 6 inch stiletto heel. You hold one up in amazement. How can she possibly walk on these? You admire it for a few more seconds, then put it back. Know your limits, dude.

Instead you select what you hope is more of an entry-level pair: black, with an ankle strap, an open-top, a closed toe, and a heel of a little over 2 inches. You sit down on the edge of Sabrina's bed and slip them on. When you fasten the clasp around your ankle you can't help but feel like you're putting on a set of manacles, and your heart flutters.

The moment you stand up, your ankles buckle and you almost collapse.

You catch yourself at the last moment by grabbing onto the wall. You breathe out slowly. "Okay, this is going to take some getting used to..."

You take a deep breath and try again, slowly bringing yourself upright again. You're horribly wobbly, despite still using your arms for support, but you manage to take a first tentative step. God, this is so weird. It's like learning to walk all over again. You take another couple of steps, finally risking letting go of the wall... and this time you manage to stay upright!

You look up, finding your reflection staring right back at you.

"Holy shit..." You whisper.

Modest though they are, the heels **** you to change your entire posture. Your pelvis has tilted, and your weight has shifted onto your toes. Your legs look amazing like this, especially when you spin—gently, lest you fall over again!—on your axis to make the pleats dance. The nearly transparent peach fuzz that covers your legs is barely noticeable, but you can just about make out the goosebumps. Your back arches of its own accord and pushes out your non-existent chest. It's like you're a whole different person. If you didn't know any better, you'd think the person looking back at you was a girl.

...Except for one small detail.

The skirt is at rest on the left, on the right, and in the back, but not in the front. In front there's a clearly visible tent. Your cheeks flush. You're erect, painfully erect. Am I really getting turned on by my own reflection?

You turn sideways, closely scrutinizing yourself in the mirror. From the side the tent is even more apparent, and the caress of the skirt on the tip of your cock as you make the 90 degree turn almost makes you moan. You could definitely not go outside like this, even if you wanted to, which you definitely don't. You lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry, your hand drifting downwards. After all, what's the harm, right? Maybe I could—

Your internal debate is brought to a screeching halt when you hear heavy footsteps stomping hurriedly up the stairs.