Then, slowly, gently, with an intense love, he begins to untie her, his hands travelling her body between the removal of each coil of restricting white-nylon rope.
Eventually, she is free of everything except the gag and the vibrator.
‘You look so good gagged, Eve. It really brings out the sensual beauty of your eyes. Let’s keep you gagged for the rest of the evening.’
She nods and he helps her to her high-heeled feet. Then he helps adjust her clothing and gives her a few minutes to straighten her hair.
As she looks at her reflection in a compact mirror, she quivers with a terribly masochistic pleasure. The tape gag covers her lips in an exact rectangle, transferring all possibility to her beautiful, dark-brown eyes. She moans her helpless arousal and turns back to Richard. They exchange a look of intense desire.
They sit together on the sofa. He drinks wine, but she must go without. He caresses her thighs and teases her with words of love and control. She can only moan and squeal and lose herself in a whirlpool of endless submission.
He presses the palm of his hand against the gusset of the body-shaper. Her eyes close and she gasps into the fat, scented gag.
‘I think it’s time I gave you a little relief.’
Minutes later they are back in the bedroom. They sit on the bed. He helps her out of the skirt and panties. Her eyes are wide with a dreadful, aching anticipation.
‘It seems such a shame to takes these tights off. I’m really quite mad about them, you know – my big fetish. The softness of them; the way they shape the legs – the way they eroticise them.’
She nods, agreeing completely, but also so terribly eager for the relief he has promised.
Reluctantly he lowers the tights to her knees and then works free the gusset of the body-shaper. Now, more than ever, she is his object, his possession. Once again, she quivers with submissive delight. He gently rolls back the shaper and her long, hard, crimson cock pops up, its need all too obvious.
His smile widens.
‘Lie back my love,’ he whispers. ‘Lie back and relax.’
She does so and her cock rises up before her like a beautifully erotic craven idol.
She turns her head and watches as he pulls a black nylon stocking from a pocket in his jeans. He smiles down at her and then carefully rolls the stocking up into a ball. Her eyes widen with desperate arousal and pleading as he holds the bunched-up stocking directly over the dark-purple, straining head of Eve’s cock.
Then, to her deep excitement, he begins very slowly to ease the stocking over her enraged sex. She squeals furiously as the soft nylon kisses the edges of her boiling sex meat. She wiggles and bucks and he rests a firm, strong hand on her tummy.
There, there, my pretty. You’ll soon get a little release.’
He pulls the scented stocking down around her balls and ensures it is pulled tightly and snugly into position. Then he begins very gently to massage the nyloned cock, a dreadfully arousing and expert tease that brings Eve to the edge of orgasm.
Tears of angry, agonising frustration spill from her eyes: his touch is expert and thus deliberate; he is holding her back from the explosive brink quite deliberately.
‘I spoke to Cherry when I was out,’ he says. ‘I told her that you were all tied up on the floor, all helpless. I told her how beautiful you looked tightly bound and gagged. She sounded terribly turned on. She says she is so looking forward to meeting you again tomorrow night.’
A look of surprise suddenly fills Eve’s girlish eyes.
‘Oh yes, I know you’ll be visiting Pris and her wife. I’m sure that’ll be fun. Cherry will be there as well, plus some others. I would go, but there’s a little business I need to sort, I’m afraid. A job for Crème de la Crème, actually.’
He begins to press harder and to increase the rhythm of his dark massage. She cries into the gag and imagines Cherry here now, watching, waiting her turn. She imagines being in Cherry’s arms. She . . .
The explosion is massive. An atomic coming that leaves her bucking like a wild bronco and screaming love and lust and sex madness into the black hole of her endless she-male desire. She wants to scream fuck fuck fuck! into an oblivion of eternal orgasm.
The stocking fills with her thick, creamy cum and soaks through the sheer material to leave a steel-white liquid head on top of her black nylon-enveloped sex. Her heart pounds against the wall of her chest. She feels a sudden, ecstatic physical relief wash over her. She collapses into a soft white pit of serene and total bliss.
And when she wakes up, she is naked and under the silk sheets, tucked in snug as a bug. She is still gagged, but also still free from any other form of bondage. Her clothes are neatly folded on a bedside chair. And on the chair is a note.
My pretty angel, ring me Sunday morning. Leave the gag until morning – for me.
All my love
R
She slips the note beneath the sheets and holds it close to her heart. Then, within seconds, she is asleep again.
6
At Helen’s House
She rises at dawn and carefully removes the gag, her mouth filled with the taste of expensive French perfume. After a long, deeply relaxing shower, she dresses in simple house clothes: a navy-blue sweater, a short, pleated black skirt, black cotton panties and opaque black tights. There is no body-shaper, no make-up, no wig. She stares at herself in the wardrobe mirror and is shocked and deeply pleased at how feminine she remains without the intricate tools of feminine illusion that are her make-up and the body-shaper. This is Eve. Simple and true. The real me. The person resting in the grey space between male and female.
She has a light breakfast and then logs on to the computer. It is four days since she accessed her e-mail account and there are three new e-mails from Aunt Debra. At first, Eve is horrified. For the first time in over twelve years, she has failed to respond to her aunt’s contact. Yet the tone of Debra’s e-mails is far from outraged or hurt. Indeed, she appears amused that Eve is not responding, saying that she must be having lots of fun with her new friends, that she should write as soon as possible and let her know all her she-male niece’s kinky adventures. And then, with the third e-mail, there is a picture, a picture with this simple heading: ‘Just to remind you what you’re missing’. Eve gasps as she beholds this latest startling display of her aunt’s considerable charms. For the picture that is attached to the e-mail shows Debra dressed in a striking black leather and red satin basque, with very sheer, seamed tights and five-inch heeled, black leather pumps. An astonishing and violently erotic image. She is sitting on a stool, her long, curvaceous legs tightly crossed, her large, pale bosom straining tightly against the bra-section of the basque. Her thick, still almost perfectly black hair is bound in a tight bun, and her lips are painted a bloody red. In her brown eyes there is the flame of a highly imaginative and intense passion, in her slight smile there is a very obvious and terribly teasing promise.
Instantly overwhelmed, poor Eve masturbates to a stunning, screaming orgasm, staining her panties and tights with an indifference that only becomes apparent once she is spent.
As she cleans herself up, she is already hard again, thinking of the picture and of the long erotic history that binds Aunt Debra and Eve so tightly together.
A few minutes later, in fresh panties and tights, Eve is back on the computer, sending her beloved and desired aunt a long and detailed e-mail. Telling her everything with a terrible, desperate abandon. Detailing the Crème de la Crème, the shock and delight of her first exposure in the outside world, and always the surprise at how easy it was for her ‘to pass’. Then there is Priscilla and the hungry gaze of so many men. And then, most importantly, there is Richard. And finally, as a helplessly erotic coda, she thanks her aunt for the picture and confesses the immediate impact it has had upon her, confessing in a detail she knows will excite and amuse her.
She finishes her long, detailed reply just before lunch. The message is so long she has to transfer the text into a Word
file and send it as a file attachment. Then she stares at the picture of Aunt Debra once again. She is in her late forties now, but still utterly stunning. And Eve’s love and desire for her, despite the events of the last few days, is as strong as ever.
Despite Richard and whatever follows, she knows that this startling woman, her glorious Aunt Debra, is the one and only true mistress of her heart.
In the afternoon, dressed in a white sweater, a sedate grey check skirt, black tights, modest heels and the black cashmere jacket, Eve ventures out. Her form made buxom and sexual once more by the body-shaper, she drives into town and spends some time quietly walking among the busy Saturday afternoon crowds. She walks through the main arcade and window-shops. She does this for maybe an hour. And the purpose of this brief excursion is simple: to reinforce her confidence before the visit to Priscilla Rouge. To strengthen her she-male soul and prepare her for a new and no doubt exciting challenge.
She arrives home just after five on a dark winter afternoon and spends the next two hours carefully preparing herself for the dinner party. After another long, scented shower, she selects a suitably striking, but also relatively modest costume: a knee-length, black silk dress, with long, semi-transparent arms, a pair of expensive black nylon Italian tights, a pair of three-inch-heeled, black patent leather pumps and a black leather jacket with elegant silver buttons. She decides on the same blonde wig she wore for her visit to the Crème de la Crème club and the same minimal make-up, plus a subtle, but highly noticeable perfume. Beneath the dress she wears the black silk body-shaper and a pair of black silk panties.
As she studies herself in the wardrobe mirror, she feels a sense of supreme confidence return, the sense that has driven her directly into the adventures of the last three days and which seems to be leading her to a new understanding of the potential of her self and the highly erotic world within which she now moves.
She decides to take a taxi to Priscilla’s house and cannot help noticing the admiring gaze of the taxi driver as he helps her into the rear seat. In the darkness of the car, the driver attempts to make conversation and Eve is immediately on her guard. She whispers simple yes and no answers in a lighter, more high-pitched voice, but is very wary of indulging in any form of significant discourse. And all the while she can see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, lit in fragmented flashes by the passing street lights, eyes filled with the familiar male hunger that is both so arousing and so very disturbing; the hunger that so powerfully reminds her of Richard.
As they drive into the street where Priscilla lives, Eve immediately becomes aware of a simple fact: either Priscilla or her wife is very wealthy. This is because the relatively new, small estate of exclusive five-bedroom houses betrays an affluence far beyond most people Eve knows, a fact that is made doubly apparent by the cars parked in the huge driveway: a large silver BMW and a Mercedes estate, both less than a year old.
The driver takes Eve’s money with a quizzical smile and wishes her a good evening. She stands in the cool night air staring at the large house and wonders whether she should go in. Then, realising she has come so far in the last few days, and that a visit to Priscilla’s home is, by comparison, a minor challenge, she walks up the drive, her heels echoing across the driveway and down the street. At the large black door, she uses an elegant brass handle to announce her presence and feels her confidence return. But when the door opens, confidence is quickly replaced by genuine shock. For standing before her is Priscilla, but not the glamorous, relaxed beauty of the Crème de la Crème club. No: to Eve’s astonishment, she is facing Priscilla dressed in a stunning French maid’s costume – a gorgeous black silk and satin dress, with a very short, heavily petticoat-laden skirt and a plunging, frilled neckline that reveals a pair of astonishingly realistic and very large breasts. Around her slender waist is a pretty cream-coloured silk apron whose only function is erotic decoration. Her long, beautifully shaped legs are sheathed in very sheer black nylon stockings, the red satin garter-wrapped tops of which are clearly visible through the mist of petticoating. She is also wearing five-inch-high, stiletto-heeled mules of a very shiny black patent leather and white glacé gloves. Her striking red head is bound in a tight bun held in place with a diamond-studded clasp. She looks at Eve, smiles very slightly and then performs a very deep curtsey, revealing heavily frilled white silk panties.
‘Please come in, madame.’
At first, Eve is too startled to move, but eventually she enters the hallway, unable to keep her eyes away from the luscious sado-erotic package that is Priscilla.
With a slightly knowing smile, Priscilla removes Eve’s coat and hangs it up in the entrance foyer. She then conducts the beautiful, bemused she-male into a long, brightly lit hallway that leads through to a very large, beautifully decorated living room. As Eve follows this gloriously erotic apparition, her wide, aroused eyes are drawn to the elegant, exact seams of the stockings, lines of erotic direction that trace precisely the near-perfect shape of Priscilla’s long legs. She feels her sex stir helplessly within the padded warmth of the body-shaper and takes the deepest of breaths. Then she is in the living room, standing nervously before two striking women.
‘Eve, madame.’
Priscilla announces Eve’s arrival to the taller of the two women and then performs another elaborate and incredibly sexy curtsey.
The woman steps forward, a wide, warm smile on blood-red lips, and holds out a beautifully shaped hand whose long fingernails match exactly the crimson paint decorating her sensual mouth.
‘At last we meet. I’m Helen Bliss.’
Eve takes Helen’s hand. There is no shake, just a brief and charged touching of fingers.
Eve smiles nervously and mumbles a weak ‘Hello’, stunned by this striking woman and her surroundings, and still shocked by the transformation of the beautiful Priscilla.
‘Yes, it all must seem rather odd,’ Helen continues. ‘But you’ll get used to it.’
Helen is a formidable beauty. A woman in her late forties dressed in a rather gorgeous pink cashmere sweater with a wide polo neck, a knee-length Prince of Wales check skirt, very sheer black nylon tights and modestly heeled, leather pumps. Her honey-blonde hair is cut short, but remains strikingly feminine and her ice-blue eyes radiate a paradoxically and definitely erotic warmth. She is both tall (at least six feet in the heels) and plump. Her height ensures she could never be fat, but she has a distinctly buxom frame, with very large breasts, wide hips and a rather substantial bottom. Her pretty face is undoubtedly chubby, but this only adds to a highly attractive aura of ampleness. Eve is immediately and very significantly attracted to her. Not only her buxom beauty, but also her confident and easy-going manner and the way it disguises something much harder and tougher.
‘Get Eve a drink, Pris. I suggest a glass of the Australian Chardonnay.’
Priscilla curtsies again, her eyes filled with an adoring and utterly submissive love. She then minces off to a large dinner table at the end of the room, her high-heeled steps tiny, her pert bottom wiggling invitingly.
‘Pris warned us you were a stunner, but I must say you’ve exceeded even our expectations.’
Eve blushes and tries to hold Helen’s piercing, appraising gaze. Her voice is crisp and light and edged with culture and breeding. There is something inescapably aristocratic about her that Eve finds both utterly charming and deeply exciting.
It is at this point that the second woman steps forward. She is also tall, but with a more slender build. A redhead with dark green eyes, her thick hair bound in a rather severe bun, she is dressed in a grey pinstripe trouser suit, with an open-neck white silk blouse. The suit adds to an air of focus that is supported by a steely gaze. Eve notices that she is wearing very high-heeled ankle boots and that, in fact, she is much shorter than Helen.
‘Yes, he’s really quite something. I think it’s the lack of masculine size in the usually problematic areas – the head, the hands. The femininity is very physical. The artificial shaping is mo
re an enhancement than a pretence.’
Helen smiles with slight irritation at this intervention. ‘Thank you for the scientific analysis, Sam.’
Pris returns with a glass of gold-tinged Chardonnay and performs another deep curtsey. Eve thanks her and takes the glass, still astonished by this outrageous change in the confident, powerful TV that she had encountered in the Crème de la Crème club.
‘You’ll have to forgive Samantha, Eve. She can be a little clinical sometimes. But she is a doctor, and I suppose it becomes instinctive after a while.’
Eve stares nervously at Samantha. Despite her height, she is far from slight in form; indeed, her figure is full and shapely, especially her chest. Yet there remains something fundamentally cold and pinched about her personality that completely undermines her physical attractiveness.
Eve’s eyes move from Samantha to the spectacle that is Priscilla, and Helen’s smile broadens.
‘Yes, she really is quite something. Probably not what you were expecting either. I’m sure Pris was her usual impressive self at the club. But here, with me, she is something else, something a little less assured. And this, I think, is much more the real Pris. The Pris I love. My sweet, sexy slave girl.’
Pris smiles with helpless pleasure and curtsies her agreement.
‘She can be a little naughty now and again. But a sound spanking and prolonged periods of strict bondage soon sort that out.’
Helen laughs lightly, but also cruelly. She asks Eve about her history, about the history of a desire and a secret. At first the lovely she-male is reluctant, in front of these strange and disturbing, yet also beautiful and fascinating people, to reveal any more of herself. The idea of attending the dinner party as Eve was testing enough, but now to be confronted by maid Priscilla and the cold eyes of Samantha: she is beginning to feel distinctly overwhelmed.
The Secret Self Page 12