Eve looks at this sado-masochistic display and feels a deeply disturbing sexual thrill. As the pitiful, bound and gagged she-male is dragged on to the stage, she remembers the carefully manufactured images of Aunt Debra sent to her over the last ten years, images that have become increasingly perverse and shocking, and thus increasingly arousing. She recalls the more daring images from the Crème de la Crème website, and feels a powerful sense of attraction to these images of she-male submission. To be feminine is, it seems, to be submissive. She now feels the sense of submission at its strongest. And as her cock strains inside the ingenious body-shaper, as her heart pumps desperately, she feels Richard’s hand travel further inside her skirt, to the edge of the frilled ridge of the shaper which traverses the outline of her nylon-sheathed sex.
‘Do you like it?’
Richard’s deep, sensual voice rings in her head like sex bells before some thundering orgasm. She can only nod helplessly.
Honey is a fine actress, squealing and sobbing melodramatically, wiggling her shapely backside furiously and shaking her impressive bosom for the amusement of the audience. Momentarily, Eve turns around to study the onlookers. She sees a number of very beautiful transvestites, most of whom she recognises from the website. She also sees women. Despite the beauty of the club members, it is always possible for the trained eye to tell a real girl from a TV. These women sit with the TVs or with men. And there are a surprisingly large number of men, of all ages. Some are with the real girls, but the majority are sitting with the glamorous, elegantly and erotically attired TVs. They sit close. Some are locked in embraces or cuddles. Eve finds herself envying them, as if being the possession of a man is a badge of true authenticity. If a man finds you desirable, then surely you have become truly convincing. She looks at Richard and smiles slightly. He presses his hand against her cock and she moans with pleasure. His gentle smile widens.
Things are also heating up on the stage. The beautiful mistress has bent poor Honey face down over the rack, so that her chest is hanging over the shiny wooden edge, and is working free the thick leather belt. Honey is squealing desperately into her gag and shaking her head, begging for impossible mercy. The belt is pulled off her body and then the dominatrix, in one dramatic, powerful gesture, rips away the lovely satin dress. It quickly becomes clear that the dress has been specially designed to allow this form of explosive removal, but what is revealed as it is discarded on to the stage floor is something even more astonishing: Honey is not wearing a bra, and the large, rosy breasts that are subsequently exposed to the audience (inspiring much cheering and applause) are very clearly real. The dominatrix then takes the unfortunate girl in her firm grasp and holds her upright before the audience so that these splendid orbs are fully displayed. The cheering and clapping increases significantly. Eve is amazed and excited.
‘Would you like to be up there?’ Richard asks, pressing his hand a little harder.
Eve nods weakly, her cherry lips curved into a bow of desire, and Richard smiles gently. ‘Yes, of course you would, my pretty sissy petal.’
Eve again turns to face Richard. He is quite gorgeous in this flickering theatrical half-light. She runs her tongue over her moist, cherry lips and, in a moment of sudden, and unnerving confidence, flashes him a strikingly feminine look of encouragement.
Her eyes, though, are drawn back to the highly erotic spectacle unfolding on the stage. Honey has been returned to the rack. The panties have also been ripped away, leaving the gorgeous she-male dressed only in the gloves, the shimmering white tights and the high-heeled boots. Her own large, long and very hard sex is outlined against the sheer fabric of the tights, a perfect statement of the glorious ambivalence that is the body of Honey.
She is bent back over the rack and the dominatrix takes the riding crop from her belt. There is more desperate squealing and wiggling and then the crop is applied with shocking conviction to the unfortunate she-male’s shapely bottom, its petite, feminine contours perfectly displayed by the skin-tight covering of white nylon.
As Honey receives six hard cuts of the crop, her pain is clearly genuine. Yet far from being appalled by this dark turn, Eve finds herself even more aroused. Her arousal, however, holds a simple, nagging confusion: is her pleasure that of the sadist identifying with the dominatrix or the masochist identifying with lovely, helpless and now loudly sobbing Honey? As large and very genuine tears join the sexy satin dress on the stage floor, Eve knows this ambiguity holds a terrible truth about her true self. She shifts slightly in her chair and Richard relaxes the pressure on her tormented sex. Suddenly, Eve feels distinctly sick, or rather overwhelmed by a sensation of intense and not unpleasant giddiness.
‘I need to go to the toilet.’
A look of slight confusion passes over Richard’s face. Priscilla looks at her with genuine concern. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I just need the toilet.’
‘Use the ladies by the bar.’
Eve pulls herself to her feet, brushes past a wide-eyed Richard and negotiates a path through the tables, her eyes meeting the animated, aroused faces of male, female and she-male. Strangely, once on her high heels and moving forward, she begins to feel better. And by the time she gets to the blood-red-stained wooden door of the toilet, the mysterious sensation has passed. She looks at the emblem for female and smiles. Then she pushes the door open and enters a crystal-white toilet, which is utterly spotless and distinctly feminine.
She finds herself standing before a wide mirror that runs along virtually the entire wall, above a row of sparkling silver wash-basins and taps. In the powerful ice-white light of the toilet, she finds herself revealed, exposed and elated. She considers her reflection and knows that tonight Eve has finally become real, a being in the world. She feels a power of satisfaction and rightness wash over her gorgeous she-male form and with it a new, startling confidence.
‘I am beautiful and real,’ she whispers, running her hands over the short, tight skirt. ‘I can be whatever I want to be.’
She runs her hands over the convincing, but essentially unreal breast shapes built into the body shaper and remembers Honey’s proud, stunning tits. Probably the product of hormones and some form of very elaborate plastic surgery. Their quality, however, had been beyond anything Eve had ever seen, heard or read about. Another teasing and exciting mystery of the Crème de la Crème club.
As she turns to leave the toilet, she notices a selection of art works fixed to the opposite wall. Closer inspection reveals them to be pencil drawings by Stanton and Willie, two very famous fetish artists with whom Eve is, thanks to Aunt Debra, familiar. The pictures depict lithe, impossibly beautiful blondes in a variety of torments, their bondage excessively elaborate and ritualistic. She thinks again of Honey, of the sado-erotic fantasy whose function seemed not just to entertain, but to arouse, to inspire overt and powerful sexual desire. Then she thinks of Richard, his wandering teasing hand and the look in his eyes, the look that said he wanted her. A shiver of dark delight passes over her body.
Renewed, she leaves the toilet. By the time she reaches the table, poor Honey has been stretched face down on the rack and is being subjected to graphic anal stimulation by the dominatrix via a large, pink rubber strap-on dildo. Eve doesn’t sit down. Instead, she carefully leans over to Priscilla.
‘Sorry, I need to go,’ she shouts over the loud, ominous techno beat.
Priscilla immediately looks deeply concerned. ‘Why? This is just the beginning. Is this too much for you?’
Eve smiles and shakes her head. ‘No. It’s . . . lovely. I really like it, and this place. Everything. But I’m a bit overwhelmed by it all. This is my first time out as Eve. I need some air.’
Priscilla nods with obvious disappointment and rises from the table. Richard watches them both with a cool gaze. As Honey’s punishment for her mysterious crime becomes even more graphic, Priscilla takes Eve’s hand and leads her from the main function area back to the red-curtained reception. Eve turns to l
ook at Richard, but now, to her intense disappointment, he is whispering something in Cherry’s ear and inspiring a rude, slightly drunken laugh.
In the reception area, where the beat is just a dull background throb, they talk.
‘So, we’ll see you again?’ Priscilla asks.
Eve nods. ‘Of course. I want to be part of this.’
Priscilla smiles, clearly relieved. ‘I’m so glad.’
Then, to Eve’s surprise, Priscilla leans forward and kisses Eve on the cheek. As she does so, her bosom brushes against Eve’s arm and the younger she-male is again impressed by the authenticity of her large, soft breasts and swallows hard with an instant, but now useless desire.
‘Who is Richard?’ she asks, almost without thinking.
Priscilla smiles, amusement in her lovely green eyes. ‘A regular. He’s an artist, I believe. Quite well known in those sort of circles. He loves TVs. He and Cherry used to have a bit of a thing going, but now he’s a free agent. He certainly likes you.’
Eve smiles nervously and nods weakly. ‘Well, I’ll see you . . . next week?’
Priscilla smiles back. ‘I’d rather it was before then.’
There is a moment of powerful sexual tension. Eve feels her sex swell and hears her heart pound. Once again she begins to feel dizzy.
‘We’re having a dinner party on Saturday night. It’d be great if you could come.’
‘We?’
There is a tone of disappointment in Eve’s voice, yet also – perhaps – secret relief.
‘My wife and I.’
Eve’s eyes widen with surprise.
‘Yes, I’m married. Very happily married . . . for some time. And yes, to a woman.’
They both laugh and Eve relaxes visibly. ‘Yes, that’d be really good.’
‘And come as Eve. Only Eve. Please.’
Eve nods and laughs again. ‘Who else would I come as?’
Priscilla gives Eve her address and they part after another brief kiss. As she leaves the club, she feels a sense of utter peace and tremendous achievement. As she steps back on to the orange glow of the street, she also feels truly real. She takes long, elegant strides forward, knowing she looks great. Her long legs, so sensually sheathed in black nylon, move with an assured purpose. She feels her carefully padded hips sway and her meticulously constructed breasts swing. Barely conscious of the decision, she has turned in the opposite direction to where her car is parked and is now walking towards the city centre. It is as if she has stepped through a hole in the space-time continuum and entered an alternative ultra-reality, a startling world of hyper-colours and sounds, where the physical experience of being is multiplied ten times.
She is suddenly aware of everything around her in a way that is quite astonishing. The sense of joy this new sensitivity brings is astonishing. Once, with a friend at university, she had snorted cocaine. A foolish, expensive adventure, that had brought a few minutes of genuine elation. The amazing impact of the drug, even for the brief period she was ‘inside’ it, had stuck in her memory. It was a moment of utter happiness and it was, of course, a chemical illusion. Yet now, having truly become aware of the joy of being Eve, and of the full potential of her secret feminine self, she is reliving the same sense of incredible happiness. And this is no chemically induced illusion. This is, she now realises, the Real Me.
Within a few minutes, she is in the heart of the main shopping arcade and then moving into the open city square. Here the young have congregated, preparing for clubs, bars, the carefree pleasure of youth. And she walks among them, hundreds of laughing, flamboyant, life-affirming young people. She feels the eyes of so many men burn into her and secretly experiences a terrible thrill. At last, she is free. After years locked in rooms, she has exploded into the world as it is: a true, shocking, beautiful rebirth.
There are whistles and teasing remarks. The harsh, drink-addled voices of sexed-up young men – all aimed at her. And then there are the eyes of the women, the jealous eyes, the appraising eyes, even the desiring eyes. Yet in this appraisal and desire there is something else, something that cuts through her mood of elation. She senses their knowledge of the illusion through which Eve expresses her true self. They know. By the fact of their physical female being they know.
Eve mingles for maybe an hour, then returns to the car. By the time she gets home, she is utterly exhausted and furiously aroused. A thousand erotic images flood through her mind as she stands before the bedroom mirror, viewing her reflection with new eyes. Beautiful as they were, there hadn’t been one member of the Crème de la Crème club who was as convincing and as gorgeous as Eve. She knows this and tries not to admit it in a way that seems arrogant. She could see it clearly in all their pretty TV eyes: a mixture of intense desire and jealousy. And especially in the eyes of Richard. Even the startling, ample Cherry – by far the prettiest of the pretty as far as the club was concerned – was not as impressive as the lovely Eve. A statement of fact. This recognition, plus the fact that she had felt so relaxed and at ease in their company, had allowed her to feel completely happy about herself for the first time. And this happiness brought a powerful, addictive confidence that had filled her with a near-sickening sense of her own vital being. It had been this shocking truth, this startling confidence, that had driven her out of the club and into the town centre to be among the largest group of others she could find, to undertake the most immediate and realistic test she could set herself in the limited time available.
As she undresses before the mirror, however, there is one thing that she knows she lacks in comparison with the Crème de la Crème beauties: truly convincing boobs. Honey had clearly undergone hormone therapy and cosmetic surgery. The results were spectacular and utterly real. Judging from the busts of Cherry and Priscilla – and of a number of other members – they must have undergone some similar form of treatment. Yet that, surely, was an irreversible act, a final and lifelong declaration of femininity. Indeed, the Crème de la Crème girls seemed to be hovering in some strange, highly erotic grey space between the transvestite and the transsexual. As Eve removes the shimmering, silken blouse and looks at the carefully designed and shaped padding filling the bra cups of the body-shaper, she wonders if she could ever make that sort of commitment.
Yet even as she thinks it, even as she wiggles sexily out of the micro-mini and reveals the full, glorious beauty of her perfect, black nylon-enveloped legs, she knows the answer is yes. A loud and inescapable yes. She would give up everything Adam has become to be the new Eve.
She is as hard as she has ever been and finds herself moving away from the mirror, kicking her high heels halfway across the bedroom, pulling the tights and the shaper desperately from her silky smooth, ultra-feminine body and then collapsing naked on to the bed, her cock massive and savagely aroused. She takes it in her hands and begins to masturbate, all the while thinking of the look in Richard’s eyes and the feel of his hand pressing against her sex, the buxom invitation of Cherry’s amazing sex-bomb body, the terrible trials of the splendid sissy, Honey.
Then she thinks of tomorrow. A miserable Thursday at work. Another pointless working day. But it won’t be. She will phone in sick and then head back into the city, in broad, all-seeing daylight, dressed in the sexiest outfit she can find. She will be Eve in a most spectacular and apparent way, for the world to see. She screams her total joy at this adventurous thought as she explodes, as silver stars ignite before her eyes, as wet, creamy come splashes high on to her stomach and chest. A massive, mind-quaking orgasm, that leaves her screaming for more, more and more!
3
Outside the Envelope
The next morning she is up early, before seven a.m. A new sense of purpose grips her; there is a confidence in her elegant, feminine movements: the new Eve is in complete control. Her sex is rock hard and the need to relieve herself of a deep, sexual ache almost unbearable. But she knows today is too special to indulge in idle self-abuse: she must use this ache, this profound hunger for release, tu
rn it into a force that will sustain her determination to take Eve to the next stage of her glorious evolution.
She spends over an hour preparing her body. In the shower, she cleanses her smooth form using a powerfully scented feminine soap. The hot water enlivens her flawless skin and prepares it for the close, careful shaving that follows. She uses an expensive lady shaver purchased from the Internet, working it across every inch of her slender body with an expert attention to detail. She has ensured her skin remains baby smooth ever since moving into her first flat. For twelve years she has taken a deep, eroticised pride in the fastidious cultivation of her body. The first time she pulled sheer nylon hose over freshly shaven legs, she had experienced a truly shocking sexual thrill, a gasp of fierce pleasure exploding from her mouth, and for a brief moment she had felt as if she would pass out from the almost overwhelming impact of this ever fascinating and endlessly erotic material on her smooth, ultra-sensitised skin. And even now, as she checks her bronzed, perfectly shaped legs for even the tiniest speck of hair, she is filled with a teasing anticipation at the thought of their impending envelopment in soft, endlessly caressing hose.
When Eve is finally satisfied that she is acceptably silken, she smothers her body in a powerful vanilla-scented body spray and then slips into a pink silk bathrobe before mincing back into the bedroom. And here, the fun really begins.
By now her heart is pounding with anticipation. It is a beautiful, early winter’s morning; from her bedroom window she can see a cobalt-blue sky. The room is warm, thanks to central heating, but outside she can see there has been a frost. The world appears cleansed and fresh, as does Eve. This is a new day and she is the new Eve.
The Secret Self Page 6