Priscilla gave her age as thirty-three, but she looked younger – nearer Eve’s age. She defined herself as the President of the Crème de la Crème club and in her sparkling emerald eyes was a daring confidence. He was immediately and deeply attracted to this gorgeous she-male, the first whose beauty and careful construction truly rivalled Eve’s.
Yet there were more TV beauties revealed within the elaborate and expertly structured pages of the website. Indeed, each club member was allowed a single webpage to display a sexy picture and to provide a biography. There must have been at least twenty of these pages, each as stunning and convincing as the next. The quality of illusion was very, very high, and the taste for rather outrageous costumes increasingly apparent. There were blondes, brunettes, redheads; most were white, but Eve noticed a few Asians and one very striking Afro-Caribbean beauty called Cherry. All were posed and photographed in a highly professional and erotic manner, and all had a look of sensual tease in their eyes. It was almost as if they were presenting themselves for sale.
Adam was reduced to furious and desperate masturbation, and over the next few days he returned again and again to the website, making a strange kind of love to these impressive and deeply sexual images, particularly Cherry, to whom he found himself violently attracted. This left him exhausted and elated. Here, indeed, were Eve’s glorious, stunning equals; here there was no embarrassment or disappointment. Here was the believable and the joyously confident. Here were she-males experiencing a true freedom in the expression of their instinctive feminine nature. And suddenly he – as she, as Eve – longed to be part of this confidence, this free expression. For the first time he felt a deep, painful need to be with other she-males; to mingle with these beautiful, utterly convincing beauties. To be part of their sensual, elegant society.
Then there had been the clear instruction of her aunt: for the first time in ten years, she was encouraging Adam to extend his – her – true, yet secret self into the real world outside the flat and the Internet; outside their epic, erotic correspondence.
And so he had applied, following the strict, perhaps overly harsh instructions listed on the website, sending a portfolio of photographs and a formal application as file attachments to [email protected]. Within twenty-four hours there had been a reply. There was a formality in the response from Ms Rouge, yet it failed to hide a genuine desire to meet with the gorgeous Eve. Her application had been accepted and she was invited to attend a ‘formal interview’ at the club ‘en femme’. He read these familiar words and was transported back down the years to the erotic adventure with Aunt Debra, to the twenty four hours that had changed his life forever. En femme.
And here she is, a week later, about to understand what going ‘en femme’ entails. She opens the car door and feels a wave of sudden, powerful panic hit her like an invisible electric wave. Her whole body is shaking as she pulls her legs neatly and modestly out of the car. She feels the cool evening breeze pass through the sheer black nylon and slip beneath the sexy mini-skirt. A truly erotic sensation that almost immediately calms her terrible nerves.
Then, in one quick but careful move, she climbs out of the car and shuts the door. The sound of the automatic locking device seems to echo down the dark, quiet street like an alarm announcing an intruder. A she-male is on the city streets! Call the police!
But then she is on the move, in the manner that has become more natural than the strides she forces Adam to take in order to maintain the illusion of masculinity, the illusion that enables her to function in the real world, in the world she is now entering as Eve for the first time. Yes, she realises that by coming here, by breaking through into the world that has previously been almost exclusively Adam’s realm, she is ensuring an important strengthening of Eve and, automatically, a further diminishing of Adam.
The sense of exposure is immediate, terrible and deeply exciting. Bathed in the sodium orange of the street lighting, walking through pools of black shadow, the night breeze gently caressing her nylon-sheathed legs, she feels hyper-real. She feels more alive and physically in the world than at any other time in her life. And with each high-heeled step she takes, this almost ecstatic feeling strengthens. Increased confidence begins to flow through her beautiful feminine form. Eve lives!
Then, in front of her, and approaching at an alarmingly fast pace, are two men. Young men in their late teens. Men dressed for an evening on the town. Men whose cool, appraising eyes fall upon the image of Eve. Her new confidence is blown away by an explosion of terrible, brutal fear. She sees the cruel, suggestive smiles as they draw closer. Surely she will be revealed – surely they will be able to tell that she is in fact a she-male. There will be humiliation and – possibly – violence. Yet even as her heart pounds with panic and she imagines an impending molestation, her sex hardens and her sense of arousal heightens. I am in the world of sex, she thinks; the world of unending physical excitement and possibility. Whatever happens . . .
They confront her and she stifles a cry of ambivalent fear.
‘Evening, sexy,’ one of them whispers.
‘Hello, gorgeous. Going anywhere interesting?’
Their rough, yet good-natured voices indicate one simple, exciting truth: they accept her as a woman without question; there is no doubt.
Suddenly the fear has gone. She smiles, looking them in the eyes, a flirtatious smile. They smile back. There is a shocking instant of pure sexual electricity. Momentarily she fantasises about going with these men, to a club, to a bar, spending the evening with them; then taking them to her flat. Here they discover the truth: here they either beat her senseless or realise – as she is realising – the possibilities of Eve. They walk past her and laugh. She imagines their cocks. Sucking their hard, long cocks. A sudden, violent, furiously sexual image that both horrifies and excites her.
Then they are gone and she finds herself by a door hidden between two store-fronts, one a furniture shop, the other – to her surprise – a fetish-wear boutique. The name on the fetish-wear store-front is Cherry Rose.
The door has no markings, just a simple, slightly battered, wooden door with a row of plastic buttons on a metal panel at the side. Beneath each button is a name. She presses the button marked Crème de la Crème in felt-tipped capitals. As her eyes fall on the simple, amateurish sign, she feels an immediate and worrying sense of disappointment. She had expected more, something elegant, regal; something elaborate and feminine.
When she presses the button there is no sound, no bell or other ring tone. However, immediately above her, fixed to the wall, is a closed-circuit TV camera. She hears a bolt snap back and the door opens inward less than an inch.
She hesitates a few seconds, then pushes the door fully open and minces into the darkness. The door closes behind her and she finds herself in a badly lit corridor that runs on a downward slope towards the back of what appears to be the two stores. She realises that she is actually in a damp, smelly alleyway between two buildings, poorly lit by a series of rather ancient-looking lamps fixed to each cracked wall.
She totters nervously towards the other end of the alleyway. As the sound of her heels striking wet concrete echo around her, she notices a stronger light from a larger lamp directly ahead of her, a lamp positioned over a white door.
At the door, she hesitates and then knocks once. Almost immediately the door opens and she finds herself facing Priscilla Rouge.
‘Eve in the flesh. And even more impressive,’ the lovely she-male says in a deep, yet not obviously masculine voice.
Confronted by Priscilla, Eve is far more nervous than earlier with the two young men. She smiles weakly and suddenly feels utterly and painfully exposed. This is surely because Priscilla knows the truth: that the judgement in her gorgeous emerald eyes is informed by fact, not assumption. Yet it is also because Priscilla is a stunningly beautiful she-male, the first she has ever seen in the flesh, a creature whose mastery of illusion is even greater than Eve’s, and who stands before her armed with
a mildly amused and deeply curious smile.
She is dressed in a short, tight black dress that reveals a firm, sensuous figure, with a strikingly realistic and large bosom and long, elegantly tapering legs sheathed in sheer red nylon. Her legs are largely hidden beneath the knees by a pair of stunning black-leather boots, with an intricate wall of lacing and testing five-inch-high stiletto heels. Because she is obviously tall, the addition of the heels gives her the physical presence of a green-eyed goddess. Her beautiful red hair is worn in a single ponytail that stretches down her back like a narrow stream of fire and is secured at the nape of her neck by a large red silk ribbon tied in a fat bow.
‘Come inside and meet the other girls.’
Eve smiles nervously and follows Priscilla into the promising darkness.
Her eyes adjust to the red-tinged gloom of a hallway that leads out into a larger, better-lit reception area. Priscilla takes long, confident steps and Eve finds her eyes helplessly drawn to the she-male’s exquisite backside. Her dress is so short, it barely covers the curving lower globes of her very shapely bottom and at one point there is the slightest hint of heavily frilled red silk panties.
The reception area is a small, circular space with a desk, behind which is a cloakroom. Sitting at the desk is the gorgeous black she-male from the Crème de la Crème website.
‘Cherry, meet Eve.’
Eve’s eyes betray a helpless, instant physical attraction as Cherry rises from the desk to greet the latest would-be member of the Crème de la Crème club.
Cherry is shorter than Priscilla, even in three-inch-high, white patent-leather stiletto-heeled court shoes. She is dressed in a white mini-skirt, a red satin blouse and white nylon tights. She is also wearing a striking, Monroe-style wig, which, given her flawless chocolate skin, creates a strangely erotic contradiction that Eve finds intensely attractive.
She is ultra-feminine and gorgeous. Her figure appears as real as Priscilla’s, and her thick, sensual lips are painted the same shade of red as the blouse. Eve cannot help but be impressed by the expertise of the padding that has produced the utterly convincing bosom straining beneath the blouse.
‘It’s so good to meet you at last. We’ve all been desperate to see you in the flesh. And you’re certainly not a disappointment.’
Eve smiles and whispers a shy, terribly nervous thank-you, her gaze one of helpless adoration.
‘I think she likes you, Cherry.’
Cherry’s smile broadens and Eve blushes furiously.
‘Well, the feeling is totally mutual,’ the black beauty says, her tone suggestive, her eyes filled with a dark, erotic promise.
Priscilla then leads Eve, followed by a smiling Cherry, through a set of red velvet curtains into a very large, open room, which Eve quickly realises is the heart of the club. A number of small, circular tables are positioned in a semicircle around an oval dance floor, beyond which is a large stage draped in more red velvet curtains.
At the tables sit a collection of men and women, most if not all of whom Eve presumes are she-males. However, in the strange red half-light it is very difficult to tell. Priscilla leads Eve through the tables, and is closely followed by Cherry. Eve is fully aware of the eyes fixed on her elegant, erotic form as she minces carefully and apprehensively towards the dance floor.
A long cocktail bar runs across the back of the club and, standing close to it, Eve can dimly make out what appear to be three she-males or women dressed in costumes that resemble bunny-girl outfits.
Then, to her not insignificant surprise and embarrassment, she is pulled on to the dance floor by Priscilla. She is instantly blinded by powerful stage lights that blaze down from a sturdy metal beam attached to the ceiling. She is instantly conscious of an absolute and inescapable exposure and looks out nervously into a sea of sinister shadows.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Priscilla shouts, her voice now more male than female, yet still oddly feminine. ‘Before tonight’s show begins, we would like to welcome a new member to our little society. Please put your hands together for Eve!’
Eve is bathed in enthusiastic applause and a few wolf whistles. She blushes an even deeper red and then, in a moment of madness, performs a sweet, dainty curtsey, a gesture that inspires even greater rapture.
Then she is led from the dance floor to a front-row table. Eve’s eyes widen with interest as she notices that Cherry is already seated at the table, along with a very attractive man.
‘Richard, say hello to Eve.’
Richard, whose eyes possess the same erotic irony as Cherry’s, and whose firm, tall form is sheathed in a perfectly fitting black suit, smiles gently and rises from his seat.
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ he says, his voice quiet yet precise, calm yet also full of a real and distinctly masculine power.
Eve looks into his striking sky-blue eyes and feels the same strange thrill that gripped her when teased by the two men. His power and physical beauty arouse her in a way that is both confusing and very exciting. She looks over at Cherry and then back at Richard, momentarily unsure which one she wants more.
At Priscilla’s gentle instruction, she sits between Richard and Cherry and tries to make herself comfortable. She adjusts her skirt and crosses her black nylon-sheathed legs, an action that produces an immediate and very powerful sexual thrill. She looks at Richard and discovers his beautiful eyes consuming her legs with a very obvious sexual interest. She blushes and quickly looks at Priscilla.
‘I thought there’d be a test, an interview. Some form of process.’
Priscilla laughs. ‘As soon as we saw you, you were in. It was just a matter of confirming you were real, Eve. You’re by far the prettiest catch we’ve made for ages. We’ve got no intention of letting you go.’
Eve blushes again. Then she gasps with shock as Richard slips a hand under the table and lets it rest gently on Eve’s nylon-sheathed knee. She feels her cock stiffen and her heartbeat increase. Yet the shock passes, to be quickly replaced with arousal. She looks up at him, then, emboldened by something she can’t quite define, gently pulls the elegant hand from her knee. He smiles ironically and holds her hand for a few delicate seconds. She swallows back a violent, even sickening sense of sexual excitement and feels a terrible heat burn into her cheeks. He releases his grip and then the stage curtains suddenly open.
There is an explosion of loud, electronic music. Eve jumps and Richard laughs. She looks at him angrily, but as soon as their eyes meet, she is filled with a painful sexual arousal.
A deep elaborate set is revealed and Eve’s pretty eyes widen in astonishment, for she is looking at a very convincing reconstruction of a torture chamber. Before her are dark, brick walls from which metal shackles and chains hang, as well as terrifying weapons: axes, swords, spears. In the centre of the stage is a burning brazier and a long wooden rack. To the left of the rack is a metal table upon which is a collection of sex toys.
The music is loud and hypnotic, its computer-generated beat fractured by strange clashing cries that resemble whip cracks. Then there is most definitely a real whip crack. Eve starts again and Richard’s hand is quickly back on her knee, or rather just above it.
‘It’s only a little entertainment, Eve. No need to worry,’ he whispers.
Then his hand slips beneath Eve’s short skirt and she makes no attempt to remove it. The hand presses upward towards its intimate goal and Eve releases a helpless moan of pleasure just as a tall, stunningly beautiful woman strides on to the stage. She is dressed in a striking leather basque covered in silvery metal studs. Her incredibly long legs are sheathed in black fishnet tights consumed by thigh-length black leather boots with amazing six-inch stiletto heels. Her black hair is cut in a Louise Brooks-style pageboy. A black velvet choker is wrapped around her slender, pale-rose neck, and fitted at its centre with a blood-red ruby that exactly matches her lips. She wears black, shoulder-length gloves, and a riding crop hangs menacingly from a narrow leather belt.
After coming to
terms with the startling spectacle of this image of female power, Eve becomes aware that the woman is tugging angrily on a leash. And it is then that the true nature of this sado-erotic spectacle is made apparent, for on the end of the leash is another woman, or rather a she-male – a beautiful she-male whom Eve immediately recognises from the website. This is Honey, and she is clearly a gifted performer, for she struggles at the end of the leash with great enthusiasm. The leash is attached to a thick, pink leather collar that covers virtually all of her slender neck. Besides the collar, she is wearing a striking pink satin dress. A strange concoction of little girl attire and provocative fetish wear, the dress has a plunging, frilled neckline that reveals a strikingly realistic pair of breasts, presumably the result of carefully constructed padding and make-up. The dress is outrageously short; indeed, its frou-frou petticoating barely reaches the tops of her thighs and leaves a pair of heavily frilled white silk panties on very clear display. A thick, pink leather belt is buckled very tightly, producing a painfully slender waist and stressing still further her more than ample bosom. Her long, perfectly formed legs are sheathed in white nylon tights and her feet are imprisoned in white, silk-lined ankle boots with shocking seven-inch heels that make every tiny step a desperate, panic-stricken totter. Her thick blonde hair is bound in a tight bun with a shimmering silver clasp, and a coat of thick white foundation gives her face the inhuman sheen of a Victorian doll. Her arms have been forced behind her back and tied tightly at the wrists and elbows with thick silk ribbons. Fingerless satin gloves are pulled over her hands and buttoned tightly around the puffed sleeves of the dress. A fat, pink rubber-ball gag fills her mouth and a look of intense and uncontrollable sexual arousal floods her wide, beautiful pale-blue eyes.
The Secret Self Page 5