Mrs. Thorne offered me estrogen & I became her perfect maid l Crossdressing Stories #mtf

The pond gurgled in quiet protest, its surface trembling as Dylan braced his boots into the muddy earth. His palms burned around the thick rope he’d wrapped around the base of the tree stump, still rooted like some ancient relic. The early Welsh sun cast slivers of gold through the canopy above, dappling the wild garden of Widow Thorne’s cottage. Despite the chill, sweat beaded along his brow. ( Crossdressing Story )

He pulled.

And pulled again.

Then—with a crack and a jolt—the stump broke free. In the same second, momentum betrayed him. Dylan tumbled backward, arms flailing, and landed with a resounding splash in the murky, weed-tangled pond.

The cold hit him like an electric shock.

“Bloody hell—!” he sputtered, flailing toward the bank.

Laughter rang out from the garden path. Not mocking, but rich and musical, carried by the woman watching from the conservatory doorway.

Mrs. Thorne.

“Good heavens, you poor boy!” she called, hurrying over. “You look like a drowned ghost!”

Dylan tried to chuckle, teeth chattering. “Guess the stump won.”

“Nonsense. You just forgot to dodge the victory dive.” Her eyes sparkled. “Come now, you can’t go walking about like that. Inside. A warm bath and a dry towel are in order.”

“I’ll drip all over your floor, ma’am…”

She waved him off. “My floor’s survived worse. Come along.”

Inside the warmth of her cottage, the contrast was almost painful. The scent of old books, lavender, and beeswax furniture wrapped around him. She led him straight to the bathroom.

“Strip, young man. You’ll catch your death.”

He hesitated. The idea of being naked in her house—even alone—gnawed at the edges of his comfort.

“Down to your underthings,” he muttered.

Mrs. Thorne gave him a sidelong look. “You don’t bathe at home in your pants, do you?”

“No… ma’am.”

“Well then, off with them. I’ll fetch you something warm to wear.”

She disappeared before he could object. The bathroom was small, tiled in soft blues and grays, with a claw-foot tub already filling with steaming water. Dylan peeled off his damp clothes, feeling every vulnerability as the chill clung to his skin. He stepped into the tub, sinking into the heat with a sigh of relief.

His thoughts churned faster than the water. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt something stir beneath the surface of his daily life—something quietly persistent, something he had no words for. He remembered sneaking into his sister’s closet as a child, running his fingers over silk blouses and lace skirts, heart racing, terrified and exhilarated all at once.

Mrs. Thorne returned quietly, a stack of fluffy towels in her arms—and something else.

A dress.

Pale green, soft-looking, with a high waist and pleated skirt. It hung in her hands like a question.

“I know it’s unorthodox,” she said gently, noticing his wide-eyed stare. “But my daughter left a few things behind. You’re nearly her size. No sense letting you leave in wet things.”

“I can’t…” Dylan’s voice trembled. “I’m a man.”

Her smile was kind, not mocking. “And? A dress won’t change that. But maybe… maybe it’ll help you understand something about yourself.”

He stared down at the water, heart hammering. He couldn’t explain why part of him didn’t want to say no. The idea—scandalous, terrifying—also felt like slipping into something that had always been his.

When she returned once more, she brought more than just clothes.

Lingerie. A full slip. Stockings.

And a soft voice that said, “If you like how it feels, you don’t have to apologize for it.”

He looked up at her—this woman who had lived through wars, widowhood, and raising a daughter alone—and found no judgment. Only curiosity. Maybe even recognition.

Something loosened in his chest.

When he rose from the water and dried off, he didn’t stop her from powdering his skin with rose-scented talc. Nor did he protest when she offered to shave him “properly.” He stood, breath shallow, as the razor cleaned away his pubic hair, her touch firm but maternal.

“You’ve done this before,” she said softly, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

He blushed. “I… I used to wear my sister’s clothes. Just at home. I was a kid.”

“But it never left you.”

A single nod. Then, a whisper: “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“My dear,” she said, holding up the dress like a secret between them. “This is just between us. For now.”

As he slipped into the bra, then the knickers, the full slip, he felt something click into place. His heart thudded so loud he thought it might break through his chest. But beneath the fear was something softer.

Something closer to peace.

“Let’s try Eloise,” she said, brushing out his long hair. “Just for today.”

Dylan didn’t answer. But as the dress fell over his shoulders, zipping up the back, and he turned toward the mirror...

...he didn’t see Dylan anymore.

He saw her.

The mirror was too honest.

The girl staring back at Dylan—or Eloise, rather—looked like a ghost who’d waited years to be seen. Her face, softened with foundation and blushed cheeks, bore no trace of grime or masculinity. Her lips shimmered subtly, the gloss catching the light. Mrs. Thorne had shaped his eyebrows with tweezers and precision, brushed his hair into a feminine swoop, and crowned it all with a clip that sparkled like it belonged to a debutante.

But the eyes.

The eyes still trembled.

“You look beautiful,” Mrs. Thorne whispered, standing behind her. Her hands rested lightly on Eloise’s shoulders. “But more importantly, you look… you.”

Eloise’s throat felt tight, like words were fighting to escape but didn’t know the language. “I don’t understand this,” she said, barely audible. “It feels good. Too good. And that scares me.”

Mrs. Thorne nodded, guiding her gently to sit at the vanity. “It should scare you. Self-truth always does. But it should also thrill you.”

As she spoke, she dusted translucent powder over Eloise’s face, the light puffs making her skin glow. “You’ve carried this secret a long time, haven’t you?”

A nod. Eloise couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I remember,” the older woman said, her voice dipping into memory. “My late husband had a brother who used to sneak into my closet when he thought we weren’t home. We caught him once—in my wedding dress. The poor soul nearly fainted.”

Eloise blinked. “What happened to him?”

“He cried. Then disappeared for a while. Came back as someone else entirely. It broke the family in half.” She paused, holding up a small glass bottle. “This is lavender perfume. Just one dab. Don’t flinch.”

A warm, herbal sweetness danced around Eloise’s neck.

“You don’t have to be someone else entirely,” Mrs. Thorne continued. “You can be all of yourself. But you must choose.”

“Choose what?”

“To stop hiding.”

The weight of that sentence landed like a stone in Eloise’s stomach.

A knock at the door jolted both of them. It wasn’t loud—just a light tap—but it sent panic flaring through Eloise’s chest.

“What if it’s someone I know?” she whispered.

Mrs. Thorne, calm as ever, opened the window curtain a crack. “It’s only the postman. He won’t even see you.”

Still, Eloise instinctively shrank from the light.

It wasn’t the fear of being seen by others—it was the fear of being recognized. Not as Dylan. But as Eloise. Recognized for something that even she had buried for so long it no longer had a name.

Her voice shook. “I don’t think I can do this again. The makeup, the dress… this whole thing. It feels like I’m pretending.”

“No,” Mrs. Thorne said, pressing a hand to Eloise’s heart. “Pretending was before. This? This is the first honest thing you’ve done in years.”

A silence fell between them, broken only by the ticking of the mantle clock.

Then Mrs. Thorne stood and crossed the room to a small velvet box. She opened it, revealing a delicate necklace—just a simple silver pendant, shaped like a teardrop.

“This belonged to my daughter. I think she’d want you to have it.”

Eloise shook her head. “I can’t take that.”

“You already have. You’re wearing her dress. Sitting at her vanity. Standing where she once stood.” A sad smile touched the old woman’s lips. “You’re not replacing her, child. But you’re giving that beauty new life.”

The pendant was fastened around Eloise’s neck. It nestled in the hollow of her collarbone like it had always belonged there.

Eloise touched it, her fingertips trembling.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But for the first time… I want to keep going.”

Mrs. Thorne leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Then keep going, my sweet girl. Just one step at a time.” The hallway mirror waited like a quiet sentinel as Eloise stepped out of the bedroom, her heels clicking lightly on the polished wood floor. She moved cautiously, the swish of her pleated skirt brushing her legs with every step. She could still feel the light pressure of the garter straps against her thighs, a reminder of the layers she now wore—layers that felt more like a skin than a costume.

The air smelled faintly of citrus and old paper, but her body pulsed with a new, foreign heat—part fear, part adrenaline, part something she couldn’t name.

Mrs. Thorne had disappeared downstairs to “prepare something light,” giving her space.

Eloise stopped in front of the mirror.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

She stared.

The girl—no, the woman—staring back at her looked… right.

Not perfect.

But right.

The way the neckline framed her collarbone, the tilt of her freshly shaped eyebrows, the way her lashes fluttered ever so slightly when she breathed too hard. She reached out slowly, touching the glass, needing to confirm that it wasn’t some illusion spun from loneliness and powder.

Her fingers met cold.

And she broke.

Not in sobs. Not in panic. But in quiet, relentless tears that slipped down her freshly made-up cheeks and left little tracks across the blush. It wasn’t grief, exactly. It was the grief beneath grief—the kind that mourned a version of herself she had denied for over a decade.

She whispered to her reflection, “Is this who I am?”

The mirror gave no answer.

But somewhere deep inside, something answered anyway. It didn’t have a voice. It was the thrum in her bones. A whisper in her blood.

Yes. Yes, you are.

She wiped at the tears but only smeared her mascara, giving herself the look of someone who had just escaped a dream.

From downstairs came the clink of dishes, a whistle of boiling water, and Mrs. Thorne humming something from the 1950s. Eloise turned from the mirror and stepped back toward the bedroom to fix her face before going down.

Inside, she paused by the vanity again. Everything was just as she left it—but now her gaze fell on something new.

A small, pale-blue ribbon, delicately tied into a bow, rested on the vanity’s corner.

She hadn’t noticed it before.

Attached was a note in neat cursive:

“Every girl deserves a ribbon.”

– L.T.

Eloise smiled, tears returning but softer now. She pinned the ribbon into her hair.

Downstairs, Mrs. Thorne greeted her with a smile and a teacup. She gestured toward the loveseat. “Lunch first. Then, we’ll take a little drive.”

Eloise froze. “A drive… where?”

“To town. Nothing outrageous. Just a café I like. A few friends. They know what it means to carry secrets.” She paused. “You don’t have to speak. Just be.”

The idea made Eloise’s stomach twist. Outside? Like this?

“I can’t go out.”

“You can,” Mrs. Thorne replied. “But you don’t have to. This is your journey, not mine.”

Eloise looked down at her teacup, the heat fogging her lenses. She wasn’t ready.

But she didn’t want to go back either.

Her heart beat a little faster. The ribbon in her hair, the dress, the name… it all felt too fragile to take beyond this house. But the thought of changing back—of washing off her face and stepping into that old version of herself—made her stomach churn.

She realized something then.

The hardest part of becoming yourself isn’t being seen by others.

It’s seeing yourself—and choosing not to look away. The car ride was short.

Too short.

Eloise sat in the passenger seat of Mrs. Thorne’s silver hatchback, hands folded tightly in her lap. Every red light was a moment of self-doubt, every green a push toward something she wasn’t sure she could handle.

She hadn’t spoken since they left the driveway.

Mrs. Thorne, who seemed to sense everything without being told, broke the silence gently. “You’re doing fine, my dear.”

“I feel like I’m going to faint,” Eloise murmured.

“You won’t.” Her voice was steady, motherly. “You’re nervous because this means something.”

Eloise looked down at herself—at the pale green dress, the subtle sheen of her tights, the white flats that pinched only slightly. She had redone her makeup with trembling fingers before leaving the house, determined to hold herself together, to be Eloise—not Dylan-in-a-costume.

But now, parked outside a small garden café on the edge of the village green, she felt like a deer in headlights.

“Will they know?” she whispered.

Mrs. Thorne didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Maybe. But people rarely look as closely as we fear. And even if they do—let them see. Let them wonder. It’s your face, your name, your story. They don’t own it.”

Eloise took a breath that felt like it filled her entire chest for the first time all day.

Together, they stepped out of the car.

The café was quaint, tucked beneath a climbing wall of ivy and blooming with flowerpots. The terrace held only a few patrons. At a corner table near the window, three women waited, all well-dressed in casual but stylish outfits, sipping tea and chatting.

Mrs. Thorne waved. “There they are. My ladies.”

Eloise nearly turned on her heel. But something stopped her. Maybe it was the light breeze teasing her skirt. Maybe it was the necklace brushing her collarbone like a tether.

Maybe it was that she’d come too far to retreat.

As they approached, the conversation at the table quieted. The women looked up—first at Mrs. Thorne, then at Eloise.

Eloise braced herself.

Smiles broke across their faces.

“Hello, darling,” said the one with silver-streaked curls and a wide-brimmed hat. “You must be Eloise. I've heard so much about you already.”

Another, in a navy shawl and pearl earrings, added, “You’re even lovelier than Lily described.”

Eloise blinked. “You... you knew I was coming like this?”

“Of course,” said the third—round-cheeked, eyes like mischief. “We’re all members of a very special club. We believe every woman’s first lunch out deserves a little ceremony.”

She pulled a small paper crown from her handbag and gently placed it on Eloise’s head. “There. Now you’re official.”

They all laughed, and the sound was warm, not mocking. It wrapped around her like sunlight.

For the first time since she stepped out the door, Eloise exhaled.

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