On the bed were a pair of pink silk panties and a rather spectacular baby-doll nightdress made from a very fine, almost transparent silk, plus a pair of white nylon, self-supporting stockings.
‘I haven’t worn this baby-doll for nearly ten years,’ her aunt had mused, holding it up before a hungry-eyed, terribly aroused Eve. ‘Put the panties and stockings on first.’
Eve had obeyed her aunt with almost a curtsey and the older woman’s beautiful smile had darkened. ‘Good girl,’ she had whispered, her mind filling with possibilities. ‘Very good.’
Eve had wiggled prettily into the panties and then, carefully aided by her lovely aunt, had slipped the sheer, cool, helplessly caressing stockings up her long, elegant and virtually hairless legs. Aunt Debra had watched this erotic display with obvious pleasure, taking a strange pride in her new niece’s graceful, careful movements. As Eve had pulled the stockings up to her thighs, the ingenious elasticated tops had ensured a tight, seamless fit and supplanted the need for suspenders or garters. And once she had managed to pull them firmly into position, the lovely she-male had climbed to her feet and taken up the elegant, intricate and desperately sexy baby-doll. A feeling of arousal mixed with a deep inner peace had washed over her as she had carefully pulled the frilled neck of the baby-doll over her head. It was a feeling close to the one experienced as she had dressed for her aunt earlier, a feeling of certainty and serenity. Suddenly, there had been purpose and meaning: by revealing Eve, she was revealing her true self and giving her life a new and dazzling significance.
She had pulled the baby-doll into place and allowed herself to be truly, utterly submerged in the dainty trappings of femininity. I am free, she thought. For the first time, I am truly free.
Aunt Debra had then pulled back the bedclothes and helped her niece to settle down for her first night in her new feminine identity. By now, the poor she-male was shaking, her body gripped by the destabilising tremors of a furious, merciless desire.
‘I don’t think you’ll get much sleep in this state,’ her beautiful, imperial aunt had whispered.
Eve had looked up at her aunt with pleading, starved eyes. Her need was unlimited and nerve-shattering. An evening of carefully sculpted femininity had left her in a state of sexual exhaustion. Yet this was an over-tiredness, a physical draining that produced only more desire, more need, more wearying hunger.
Then her aunt had slowly pulled back the heavily frilled and very short skirt of the baby-doll to reveal Eve’s sensual stocking tops and the shimmering panties so well stretched by her new niece’s angry tumescence.
‘Dear me,’ she had whispered, a cruel, teasing smile running across her voluptuous, blood-red mouth. ‘We will have to do something about this.’
Then, to Eve’s astonishment, Debra had gently pulled back the panties to expose fully her stocking-encased, ultra-rigid sex.
‘It looks so lovely in its little stocking prison.’
Tears of vital, savage animal need had begun to trickle from Eve’s pretty eyes, eyes that had suddenly widened as Aunt Debra leant forward and took the nylon-sheathed shaft between her right thumb and forefinger and started very gently to massage it.
Eve had gasped and moaned. Aunt Debra was masturbating her. And within a few seconds, the combination of Debra’s expert ministration and the teasing caress of the stocking produced a very violent and disturbing orgasm. Eve had found herself screaming uncontrollably, screaming a high-pitched wail of utter delight, as her thick, creamy semen flooded into the stocking. Her body jerked and bucked, so much so that Aunt Debra had been forced to place a surprisingly powerful restraining hand on Eve’s hot, slender chest to hold her in place.
‘There, there,’ she had whispered, as if addressing a baby. ‘It’s all over, lovely. Now you can sleep and tomorrow we can really start work on Eve.’
Eve had looked up at her aunt with stunned, loving eyes. Debra had then carefully removed the stocking and wiped her flaccid sex with a damp cloth, before repositioning the panties and pulling the bedclothes over her niece’s delicately feminised form.
She had then placed a gentle kiss on Eve’s forehead and left the room, switching off the light and plunging the newborn she-male into darkness. And in this darkness, Eve had considered the amazing events of the day that was closing, events that she ponders once more twelve years later as she drives to the next stage in the development of Eve, events she has considered so often since, and which can be said truly to haunt her mind, to structure her imagination, to drive her ever further forward into the dark and beautiful realms of a carefully adopted and endlessly arousing femininity.
2
En Femme
Eve parks the car some three hundred yards from the building that houses the Crème de la Crème club. This is the second major test, and perhaps the most terrifying: she must reveal herself as Eve on the streets of the city – she must expose herself in a way that she has never done before.
She sits in the dark silence of the car and watches her hot, nervous breath form small clouds of transparent mist. She hears her fast, anxious breathing and her heart pounding with an arousal-tinged fear.
The morning after her startling and life-altering adventure with Aunt Debra, everything had changed again. There had been an early phone call from Adam’s father. The situation with his mother was worse than originally thought. He was to return home immediately. His aunt had clearly been both appalled by the news of her sister’s serious illness and the fact that she would not, after all, be able to create the strange ambiguity that was Eve. Instead, she had driven Adam (for now, once again, Eve was hidden, secret, and she was surely a he) to the station. Here they had embraced and there had been a long, terribly exciting kiss. He had been rock-hard in seconds and she had pressed her hand against his erection before saying a tearful and abrupt farewell.
And he had never seen her again.
Yet over the following months and years there had been letters, so many, so very important letters. These were the letters not of a concerned and loving relative, but of a co-conspirator and, in some ways, a lover. Letters that had openly encouraged him to continue to discover and develop the delightful secrets of Eve. Letters that had provided advice and guidance, and which had provoked with their continually erotic tone and left him helplessly and furiously masturbating and begging her to return to his tormented, confused life. But this had never happened. Indeed, a few months after that fateful encounter, she had left the country, taking up a lucrative but deliberately unexplained job in America. Yet still the letters had come, letters bearing exotic American stamps, letters always addressed ‘Dearest Eve’ or ‘My Darling Eve’. Letters that sometimes contained photographs, beautifully staged, erotic photographs of his aunt in a splendid gown or – on one or two heart-stopping occasions – ultra-sexy underwear. Letters to which he had replied with an addictive passion, letters expressing his fantasies of Eve, how desperately he wanted to turn them into reality, and how desperately he wanted to do this with his aunt – in her company, as her beautiful, loving niece.
Then he had left home to attend university and finally found the opportunity to become Eve once again, to release his true she-male self. Driven by a plan designed in correspondence with his aunt, he had found a rather plush flat in a building on the edge of a small town a few miles from the university campus. This was far beyond his means, but his aunt had ensured money was never a problem: a generous sum was transferred at the end of each month from an American bank into his own account. There was always enough to pay the rent, his general maintenance and to fund the development of Eve.
Magazines began to arrive at this new, secluded, very private address. High-quality American transvestite and fetish magazines. He began to be drawn into a new, wider world and to understand that he was far from alone. It appeared that many males shared his love of the feminine and quietly (and not so quietly) nurtured secret selves.
In his relatively spacious flat he had set to work on Eve. Buying clothes and make-up via m
ail-order catalogues recommended by Aunt Debra; buying wigs and shoes from specialist suppliers who advertised in the magazines; spending his aunt’s money carefully. By day, he was a diligent student studying Management and Accountancy, a course his aunt had insisted he follow to keep his father happy and thus create an effective smoke-screen behind which to hide Eve. And by night, he became Eve. As the other students enjoyed the busy and complex social lives of the young and free, he spent as much time as possible creating Eve. This was his true life work, his artistic self-perfection.
Eventually, his aunt counselled him to control his increasingly obsessive impulses. Without a proper and honest revelation, there was only controlled deceit. She told him to use Adam to survive and to learn social skills. And so he had begun, quite easily, to make friends, especially with girls. This led to an almost immediate problem. Girls found him very attractive, just as they had at school; but now, the sexual interest they expressed was far more obvious and aggressive. Nor was there any doubt in his mind that he was attracted to them. And it was at this point, having been led into the realm of young, desiring women by his aunt’s always guiding but never seen hand, that she tormented him with a simple order: never become involved physically. Her rationale seemed straightforward enough: you are inescapably Eve; if you get too close to a real girl, you will have at some awkward point to reveal your secret self. The consequences of this could be potentially catastrophic. And, despite his frustration, he had known she was right. Yet behind her advice was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A strange, almost cruel controlling impulse framed by a hint of jealousy.
So there had been plenty of friends, yet no real girlfriends. This confused those who wanted him. At first they thought he was gay; but then there was his obviously interested gaze, his clear male hunger, a hunger he had seemed to struggle with, to deny. And for three years, he had managed to deal with the complexities of being both Adam and Eve. He had graduated with a first-class honours degree and been snapped up by a major UK finance house. Soon, he had a bigger flat in the centre of a bigger city. Here, in this new, elegant privacy, Eve truly came into vibrant, erotic being. He had quickly transformed the spacious area into the home of a beautiful young woman, paying a discreet interior designer to oversee a highly feminine, but also deeply tasteful decoration. He had bought a beautiful antique dressing table, two large, white wooden wardrobes – both Victorian antiques – and a large double bed that was smothered in pink and white silk sheets.
Despite the opportunities provided by work, there had been no real relationships. Aided by the emerging Internet, he had entered a different social universe – a virtual community of fellow cross-dressers. He quickly formed a series of strong, deeply satisfying relationships on the Net with other TVs. Pictures were exchanged, every aspect of the TV world discussed in graphic and often erotic detail. His early pictures of Eve – clumsy, taken with a timed camera in bad light were poor, but her beauty and reality were undeniable. He was frankly disappointed by most photos of other TVs. He wasn’t arrogant, but he knew in a simple and inescapable way that none of her new virtual friends were even half as convincing as Eve. And so did they. Eve quickly became a highly popular pen-pal. Many wanted to take the friendships further, to meet, to get her to come to their societies and clubs – to become involved in a real version of the sexual fantasies exchanged with the abandon of those who know they have the absolute freedom of total anonymity.
His aunt had begun to communicate by e-mail, first on a weekly basis, and then every other day. He had taken photography classes and learned how to photograph Eve properly. This had become a fascinating and arousing hobby, and very soon he was sending Aunt Debra photographs over the Net. By this time, Eve was fully formed, shockingly convincing – stunning. His aunt was amazed and delighted. Debra returned her own photographs for his masturbatory pleasure. Now, more than ever, their relationship was one of virtual lovers. The details of their correspondence became increasingly erotic and, to his surprise and pleasure, perverse. His aunt revealed a dark sado-masochistic streak to her already fascinating personality. The photographs that arrived as file attachments displayed a gorgeous, mature dominatrix, a dark angel projecting a fundamental sexual power. And as this happened, she felt herself becoming more confident. Aunt Debra’s fierce, sensual praise gave Eve the courage to allow her very professional pictures to be posted on a number of TV club websites. She was inundated with messages of praise and desire, many from men, many deeply sexual, many deliciously disgusting; all producing a deep, powerful pleasure.
At work he remained purely Adam, always pleasant, efficient Adam. Under his suits he virtually always wore silky, sexy panties and sheer nylon tights. Adam was now the illusion and Eve was, increasingly, the truth – the true self. He found the work – account management for a number of large investment companies – simple and quickly rewarding. Ultimately, he had no interest in it as a career. It was a means to an end – a well-paid way of servicing the increasingly intricate needs of Eve and, indirectly, his aunt.
Once he was established in his own, independent and fully adult life, the parcels began to arrive, all from America, all from his aunt. Parcels containing clothes, beautiful, expensive and often kinky. Clothes she demanded Eve wear and model via photographic evidence sent over the Internet. Clothes that always fitted; clothes designed to proclaim the absolute femininity of Eve.
In one of these parcels had been the body-shaper, an ingenious tool of transformation that was to bring the final touch of authenticity to the sweet mirage of Eve’s physical being. A beautiful basque-like item of underclothing, the body-shaper was designed by an American fetish-wear company to create a totally believable visage of femininity. Made from a satin-lined elastane material, the shaper was essentially an elaborate panty corselette with bra cups carefully filled with a strikingly realistic silicon-based material that provided a highly convincing weight and shape. The shaper was also padded at the hips and between the legs, to provide the lower shape of a fully figured and very sexy young woman. As he had pulled it over his slender, boyish form, a sense of ecstatic conversion had washed over him, a feeling of almost mystical, yet also highly arousing transformation. It was another major turning point orchestrated by Aunt Debra. And once it was positioned, once his silken form was fully and strikingly consumed by its tight, yet teasingly soft contours, he had stared into the full-size, stand-alone mirror that stood next to the elegant dressing table and sighed with a terrible, unyielding pleasure. A sense of deep contentment filled his feminine heart. This was the perfect form, the ideal representation of Eve.
The final touches – a beautiful white silk blouse, a black leather micro-mini, jet-black nylon tights and five-inch-high, black patent-leather stilettos, plus the usual judicious use of make-up and a striking honey-blonde wig – ensured immediate and devastating perfection. He found himself beholding Eve remixed: Eve as the sexiest female he had ever laid eyes upon. And when his aunt had seen the photographs he took a few hours later, her response had been astonishment and excitement. She had called Eve ‘her divine and perfect creation’, and he had found it difficult to disagree.
And the parcels continued. Aunt Debra seemed determined to provoke and stimulate with every item of attire. As well as leather and rubber wear, there had been uniforms: schoolgirl, nurse, maid. She demanded detailed descriptions of how the costumes made him feel. She had insisted he masturbate while dressed, thinking only of ultra-feminisation, and that he do so to the pictures of Aunt Debra, a command the gorgeous she-male followed without question. Indeed, the control of his sex became a key part of the virtual sado-masochistic ritual of submission and domination, a control he came to desire.
‘Your sex is mine,’ she wrote to him. ‘It has always been mine. I was the first and the last woman to touch it. And when you touch it – even when you piss – you will think only of me, my sexy, sissy slut.’
This was the new tone, and it was one he loved and craved. S
he was always ‘Dear Auntie Debra’, no other form of address was permitted. But she was also – in his mind – the Mistress, the Majesty. The Divine High Priestess of Ultra-Feminisation.
And it had been she who had sent him the web link to the Crème de la Crème club. At first, he had been surprised. As soon as he had seen the site, and what it held, he was filled with a terrible and very familiar sense of change. This had been, without doubt, another very significant turning point.
For the Crème de la Crème was precisely that: a club catering for the most convincing and beautiful TVs on the net, a society of striking and expert illusion. Here he discovered all the pictures he had so desperately wished he had been sent by his many TV friends and admirers. Here was a stunning consistency of utterly convincing and gorgeous mirage. Its members referred to themselves as ‘The Beautiful Elect’. And to become a member, you clearly had to be both very convincing and beautiful.
The first time he had visited the site, via a weblink sent in one of his aunt’s e-mails, he had been astonished and furiously aroused.
‘I think you’ll like this one, Eve.’
That was all her accompanying message had said. As he looked at the pictures, at the elaborate pink, white and red design motif, at the detailed and carefully written text and the stunning photographs, he knew he was entering a new realm of she-male perfection, a realm in which Eve would be very naturally at home.
Then there had been another message; a few hours later.
‘I think you should join. I think this is the moment to consider coming out, my pretty little petal.’
The club was managed by the elegantly and rather melodramatically named ‘Priscilla Rouge’, a stunning redhead with large emerald eyes, a very tall frame and a carefully presented, highly erotic figure. Her picture, which dominated her own personal page on the website, defined the ethos of the club: ultra-femininity, a striking attention to detail, erotic attire and striking authenticity. The picture showed Priscilla sitting on a high stool, wearing a tight red satin blouse revealing a generous, scrupulously manufactured bosom; indeed, the powerful illusion of femininity she presented was significantly enhanced by the fact that the blouse opened at the chest to reveal two pale rose orbs that looked remarkably lifelike. He wondered if the picture had been doctored. But there had been no doubt about the reality of her legs – long, beautifully shaped, sealed in sheer black nylon and enhanced perfectly by a black-leather micro-mini; legs that travelled down to feet erotically encased in black patent-leather court shoes with fierce heels of at least four inches in length. Yes, she was a splendid spectacle, and he had quickly become hard.
The Secret Self Page 4