Chapter 1: Becoming Stéphanie

MA POUPÉE

Stéphane was born in Paris, into a world both grand and intimate. His mother, Camille, left to raise him alone after his father made it clear he wanted neither child nor family.

She carried on with quiet strength. Camille had always dreamed of having a daughter, and though Stéphane was a boy, she embraced him with a tenderness that blurred traditional lines. She called him ma poupée—her little doll—a phrase half-secret, wholly tender, and full of love.

They lived in the 16th arrondissement, a part of Paris where discretion and elegance were cultural norms, and where tradition shaped even the smallest details. Their apartment, even then, was a place of calm: filtered light, polished floors, and everything in its place. Camille kept order without strictness. The air smelled of dried lavender and polished wood.

In that world, dressing young boys in softly feminine clothing was simply refined—an expression of quiet elegance and good taste. Camille never questioned it, and neither did anyone else. People smiled, said “he’s cute”—nothing more—and moved on.

From the very beginning, she never forced anything. She simply wrapped him in tenderness and let him be.

From infancy, Stéphane was dressed in softness: scalloped rompers, pale cardigans, lace-trimmed blouses, and fine-knit tights. His wardrobe was a palette of pastels and cream, never loud or synthetic. Camille chose only natural fabrics—cotton, wool, linen—textures that felt kind against the skin and whispered of care.

She never shopped in the boys’ section. Every item came from the girls’ selection—chosen not to provoke, but to preserve something light and lovely. Her sister, Anne, already raising three daughters, quietly affirmed these choices. When she picked something for her girls, she often chose a fourth for Stéphane, set aside with the same care. He was folded into the rhythm of their lives, one more delicate presence among the girls.

His underthings and nightwear followed the same quiet language: scalloped cotton panties, embroidered camisoles, pajamas in florals or stars. Each piece was chosen not only for how it looked, but for how it would feel—gentle, reassuring, close. His wardrobe changed with the seasons, but its spirit remained constant: tender, beautiful, and lovingly assembled.

Camille never crossed a line. She never put him in skirts or dresses—except once, when he asked, and she had agreed—gently, and with some hesitation.

His toys were tactile and quiet—wooden animals, felt figurines, a cherished dollhouse. But most dear to him was Clémentine, a cloth doll from his aunt, dressed in faded blue with pink-ribboned pigtails and a stitched smile.

This wasn’t a disguise. It was his way of being. And in that space, he never needed to ask who he was. He already knew.

During primary school, Stéphane was ahead for his age and skipped the first year, entering directly into the second. Among the older children, he stood out—small, fine-boned, with long blond hair and a quiet presence. He was always the smallest in the room, more delicate than the boys who towered over him with louder voices and rougher games.

The school dress code called for grey shorts, navy cardigans, and white shirts. Camille complied, but with quiet precision. Every item came from the girls’ collection: soft white blouses with gently rounded collars, navy cardigans fastened with pearl buttons and knit in a fine pointelle pattern—tiny hearts and dots running along the yoke and cuffs—tailored blazers that closed right over left, and grey shorts styled like culottes, with no front fly.

On most days he wore black tassel loafers, polished the night before, paired with navy pointelle socks that matched the cardigan. Other times, he chose black T-bar shoes—nothing unusual for a boy his age, but still just a touch more delicate. Everything was just a little softer, more refined. Most didn’t notice. And if they did, they said nothing—perhaps assuming the pieces were hand-me-downs from a cousin or a sister.

Beneath his school clothes, Stéphane wore simple white cotton panties and camisoles, chosen from the same section—softly cut, with lace trim and a tiny bow stitched at the neckline. They were part of the quiet foundation she laid for him each day.

Stéphane gravitated to the girls. Their games were gentler. He never played with boys—they were too loud, too rough, too old. He lingered at the edge of the girls’ games, careful, quiet, welcome. No one seemed to question his place there.

On weekends, life settled into something slower, more real. As soon as he came home on Friday, Stéphane folded his uniform and changed into clothes that felt like him—soft, carefully chosen, and full of quiet joy.

Even his underwear changed—shifting from the plain white of the school week to something unmistakably girlish: soft pastels with tiny bows, gentle prints, or delicate trim, often paired with camisoles just as pretty—embroidered, scalloped, or edged in lace.

In summer, he wore scalloped cotton blouses and high-waisted shorts, paired with red or white T-bar shoes and ankle socks with scalloped or picot-edged trim—sometimes stitched in red or pale pink. The look was neat and proper, quietly lovely. Indoors, or when visiting family, the softness deepened: a floral print, a delicate collar, a hair clip in his hair.

In winter, everything thickened and warmed. Ribbed tights, corduroy shorts, and long-sleeved blouses wrapped him in softness. His cardigans—fine-knit, sometimes embroidered with tiny flowers—added a final layer of grace.

Outside, he wore girls’ boots or black T-bar shoes. But indoors, or for quiet family outings, he often wore bordeaux or black Mary Janes, polished to a gentle shine. The click of their soles on the wooden floors was part of the rhythm of home.

Sundays were the gentlest. The whole day moved slowly—arranging linens, preparing lunch, watering plants. Sometimes he sat on the rug in tights and a blouse, a soft skort fluttering at his waist, shoes set aside, a doll or picture book in his lap. The morning light would catch the curve of his collar or the shimmer of a button, and the world felt safe and whole.

No one rushed him. No one questioned the look. It was simply how things were.

At home, he was never pretending. He was simply Stéphane. And that was enough.

On special occasions—especially with her sister and nieces—Camille’s tenderness deepened. Stéphane wore his finest: a velvet romper, a delicate blouse, white tights, and polished shoes. She brushed his hair, added a touch of perfume, and offered a smile in the mirror. These days felt quietly sacred—composed, elegant, and full of unspoken understanding.

Summers on Île de Ré brought another kind of rhythm—breezy, bright, and free of judgment. Camille and Anne shared a family home there, where their families came together each year in warmth and ritual. With three nieces and Stéphane between them, the household followed a gentle pulse: sunlight in the shutters, barefoot mornings, flower crowns, fig tree picnics, and matching outfits chosen more for harmony than hierarchy.

Stéphane fit right in. Though different in name and expectation, he felt none of the distance boys sometimes carry. The four children twirled together in soft cottons and frilled tops, indistinguishable in silhouette. Townspeople mistook them for four girls, and no one corrected them. It didn’t matter.

One afternoon, after a long morning of leaf-soup games and bare feet in the grass, the cousins invited Stéphane to play “mama.” Of course, he was the baby. He always was.

They dressed him with giggles and care. First, they eased off his shorts, then slipped down his underwear with practiced calm, setting it aside before opening one of the girls’ old pull-ups—soft, pastel, and patterned with faded motifs from when they were younger. They helped him into it gently, tugging it snug around his hips, smoothing the edges into place with quiet satisfaction.

Then came the yellow plastic panty—soft, glossy, and trimmed with three layers of frilly ruffles across the back. It crinkled lightly as they tugged it up over the pull-up.

“Get up, baby,” the eldest cousin said gently.

Stéphane stood quietly, perfectly still, as one of the girls tugged his camisole down and smoothed it gently beneath the waistband of his diaper. Another girl reached up to his hair, sliding in a small yellow butterfly clip that tilted his fringe softly to the side. Bare-legged, with the faint rustle of plastic around his hips and the bright little clip catching the light, he looked so small—fragile and sweet in their careful hands.

Then came the dress—a soft yellow cotton frock, smocked across the bodice with delicate gathers. The fabric was patterned with small white daisies dotted gently all over. The fluttery straps added a playful touch, and the hem was trimmed with fine lace, giving it a light, airy feel perfect for warm days. They slipped it over his head, guided his arms through the fluttery straps, and buttoned the back slowly, one button after another.

They lifted him into the old garden pushchair and wheeled him gently down the path for ice cream. No one stared. No one judged. Only laughter, affection, and the soft crinkle of his diaper beneath the dress.

It was during that quiet ride, lulled by sun and softness, that his body relaxed completely. A gentle warmth spread between his legs as he let go into his diaper, not with fear or shame, but with trust. It was the first time he had wet himself like that since toddlerhood—and in the warmth of the sun, in the safety of their laughter, it felt strangely comforting.

That night, when Camille discovered the used pull-up beneath his dress, she said nothing at first.

She had seen him that afternoon—giggling in his cousin’s arms, the dress fluttering around his thighs, clutching a bottle with dreamy contentment.

Then simply:

“Ah ... my little doll is all wet.”

No rebuke. No worry. Only a warm cloth, a tender wipe, and a gentle question:

“Did you enjoy ... being the baby today?”

Stéphane smiled.

“Yes, Mama. It made me feel good. I liked it a lot.”

She nodded, brushing his hair from his eyes.

She could see it in him—the way softness settled over his face, the peace it brought.

“Would you like to wear one again tonight?”

He nodded back.

“Then just for the summer, alright? Until we go back to Paris.”

She slid a fresh pull-up up his legs, then eased the soft plastic panty into place with quiet care.

She tucked him into bed with a kiss on the forehead and whispered:

“Mama loves you, my little baby.”

And for the rest of that summer—just that summer—she let him sleep in them again. Quietly. Softly. With love.

It was never about regression. It was about being held in a way the world rarely allowed. And in that warmth, Stéphane understood something quietly profound: sometimes, being a baby meant being loved without needing to grow up too fast.

And though he didn’t have the words for it yet, something had been planted that summer—a feeling of safety, softness, and love that would stay with him, waiting quietly until he was ready to bloom.

GHOSTS OF GIRLHOOD

As Stéphane entered adolescence, the overtly feminine touches began to fade—no more puffed sleeves or floral rompers—but the softness never left.

His mother no longer chose the frilliest pieces, but she didn’t switch to the boys’ department either. Instead, she selected muted knitwear and gently cut trousers from the girls’ collections, crafting a more androgynous public image.

At home, though, the quiet textures remained: satin trims, scalloped hems, and that same rhythm of care that had always shaped their world.

As the first signs of body and facial hair appeared, his mother gave him a delicate shaving kit for Christmas—white and rose gold, with a floral case and a lightly scented cream. It looked like it had been made for a girl. He didn’t have much hair, but he used it faithfully. Not just on his face, but on his legs, arms, underarms—anywhere a shadow might appear. Afterward, he took his time, patting his skin dry and smoothing on lotion with care, especially on his legs. He liked the feeling of being soft, clean, untouched. The gesture wasn’t discussed. It simply folded into the quiet rhythm of his care.

When he turned sixteen, he asked if he could get his ears pierced. He had wanted it for years but had never dared to ask. This time, his mother only smiled and nodded. They went together—to a quiet neighbourhood jeweller, not some walk-in chain—and he chose the smallest pair of gold studs, delicate and plain. She watched as they pierced his ears, her hand lightly resting on his back.

That night, she opened a small box lined in faded silk and took out a pair of pale rose quartz earrings—simple drops set in fine gold. “These were mine,” she said softly. “From when I was just a little older than you.” She placed them in his hand without ceremony, just a warm look that said she understood. “For when you’re ready.”

On birthdays and at Christmas, and over the years in between, the underwear she chose for him shifted subtly—from simple girls’ cotton panties with small bows or pastel dots to more mature lingerie in blush pinks, rose, pale lilac, and plum. Lace appeared more often—along waistbands and edges, sometimes in delicate floral patterns. Satiny finishes, scalloped hems, and little decorative buttons became common, and eventually, thongs joined his drawer too: delicate lace with scalloped bands and smooth satin fronts, whisper-thin and almost invisible under clothing.

At first, he had been shy about them, but soon he grew to love their fragile beauty and the way they felt—cool, smooth, and almost weightless against his skin. Barely there, softly holding him, making him feel quietly exposed yet safely contained. He liked how they tucked him tight, smoothing everything away, the narrow back sitting snug between his cheeks—a constant, secret reminder of softness. He didn’t question it. The clothes were part of home, part of how she loved him.

When he turned seventeen, his mother handed him a small envelope for his birthday. Inside was a card for a year of professional manicures—an appointment every two weeks, already paid in advance. He hadn’t expected it, but she simply said, “You’ve always taken such care with your hands. This is just ... a little extra.”

Every two weeks since, he visited a discreet salon tucked just off Avenue Raymond, not far from home. The staff knew him well. They greeted him with quiet smiles, already familiar with his preferences. He usually asked for clear polish, but when they suggested a hint of barely-there pink, he accepted without a word. His nails were always short and perfectly shaped, catching the light with a clean, effortless shimmer.