The Secret Self

by Christina Shelly

Yet, despite her nerves and doubts, she finds herself telling them everything. Revealing her history with a hesitation that dissolves into a flowing confession. Beneath the warm, almost maternal gaze of Helen and the cooler, analytical eyes of Samantha, she even reveals the erotic tale of her aunt and the fundamental role Debra has played in the creation and maintenance of Eve. And as she spills her history around the room, she cannot help being aware of Priscilla setting the table for dinner and, increasingly, of the savoury smells of the meal that someone unseen appears to be preparing.

  ‘Your aunt sounds like a very interesting person; particularly given that you haven’t seen her for so many years,’ Helen says. ‘An influence over time and space.’

  There is something in Samantha’s eyes when Helen says this that disturbs Eve. Some kind of subtle secret amusement; a hint of conspiracy.

  ‘She obviously saw something in you,’ Samantha says.

  Then Priscilla is back among them, submissive, elegant and desperately beautiful.

  ‘Dinner is ready, mistress.’

  Helen smiles. ‘Serve it now. I’m starving, and I’m sure our guests could eat.’

  The group makes its way towards the large dinner table that fills a conservatory-like space at the end of the living room.

  Priscilla carefully ensures that her mistress and each of the guests are seated and then minces off eagerly to the kitchen.

  It is only when she has left the room that Eve finally plucks up the courage to ask the question that has been testing her since Priscilla first invited her to meet her wife.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  It is a surprisingly direct question, and one that the lovely she-male says with a frankness that fractures the slightly false tone of the conversation.

  Helen smiles quizzically. Eve manages to meet her beautiful, piercing gaze, but only for a few seconds.

  ‘Because Pris knew I’d want to meet you.’

  ‘But why . . . why do you want to meet me?’

  Samantha coughs slightly, seeming to stifle a laugh.

  Helen’s smile fades. A seriousness comes into her gaze that is both intimidating and reassuring.

  ‘Pris isn’t actually the manager of the club or the website, or any of the other services we provide. I am. I own the club and all the related business activities. Pris acts on my behalf, but she has no control whatsoever. Crème de la Crème is one of the most successful TV clubs in the world. Not necessarily in terms of its members. No, that would be defeating the object. But in terms of the website – well, we have over twenty thousand individual subscriptions. That’s £20 a month each. That’s £400,000 a month . . . nearly £5 million a year. Then there’s the other services. It’s a significant business in an expanding market.’

  Eve recalls the exotic and beautifully maintained picture galleries. She has only seen those open to non-members. She knows there are thousands more photos and streamed videos in the member sections, most featuring the gorgeous club members. The élite cross-dressing beauties of the Crème de la Crème club.

  ‘And as the market expands, so do we,’ Samantha adds. ‘And that means diversification. New products to meet not so new needs.’

  Helen laughs. ‘Yes, it’s all variations on a theme. Ultimately.’

  ‘New products?’

  Helen’s gaze intensifies slightly at Eve’s question.

  ‘Pris tells me you have certain administrative skills.’

  Eve is much more confident now: business is one thing she understands well.

  ‘Yes. I’m a senior manager in a finance company.’

  Helen nods, considering this. Eve suspects she is already well aware of Adam’s background and also its relevance to whatever it is that she wants Eve to do.

  It is at this point that the door to the kitchen opens and Priscilla reappears, carrying a large silver tray. On the tray are two bowls of hot, steaming soup. Yet it is not the spectacle of Priscilla in her dark, elegant maid’s costume that Eve is drawn to, but rather the astonishing figure that follows her out of the kitchen. For behind Priscilla is the gorgeous, buxom Cherry, dressed in a stunning white costume that inspires a moan of shocked arousal followed by immediate embarrassment.

  Cherry’s costume is essentially a variation of the uniform worn by Priscilla, but rather than the various shades of black that dominate Priscilla’s attire, Cherry is sealed totally in pure white silk and nylon. A white silk maid’s dress, complete with high, frilled neck (rather than Priscilla’s plunging neckline) and elegantly puffed sleeves; a cream-coloured pinafore of white silk, also heavily frilled; sheer white nylon tights and pumps of white leather with fierce six-inch heels. A mass of creamy frou-frou petticoating fitted beneath the skirt of the already short dress causes it to rise up at almost a 90-degree angle and reveal white silk panties. Cherry’s thick, wavy hair is bound in a tight bun and topped off with a dainty French maid’s cap, also of white silk.

  Cherry’s eyes automatically seek out Eve’s and the look of deep sexual attraction is immediate and unnerving. Eve remembers the way the beautiful she-male had looked at her in the Crème de la Crème club, with a terrible, simple frankness that inspired both fear and potent sexual excitement. But now the excitement is mutual, for Cherry looks absolutely astonishing, a fact made even more apparent by the tightness of the beautiful silk dress and the impact it has on her buxom figure. Then there is the exact and highly erotic contrast of the pure white of the uniform against her lovely, flawless, chocolate-coloured skin. Her large brown eyes seem to emit beams of raw need straight into Eve’s body. Eve feels her sex stir helplessly and her heart pound desperately against the elegant artifice of the body-shaper.

  ‘I think Eve is in love,’ Samantha says, her voice filled with cruel amusement.

  Helen laughs lightly and Eve finds herself looking briefly into the cold, hard eyes of Samantha. Her desire turns to fear, and then fear and desire are mixed together in a dizzying spiral of masochistic pleasure. She knows this woman wants to do dark, strange things to her, that in her brutal gaze there is imagination of sadistic intent, and this only excites her more.

  Cherry is carrying a second tray laden with two more bowls of soup. The two TV maids mince forward and, with an impressive elegance, place the bowls before the four diners. It is Cherry who presents Eve with her bowl. She leans in close towards Eve and presses her body against the younger TV. An electric shock of intense physical pleasure passes through Eve’s delicately feminised form and Cherry whispers, ‘You look lovely, petal.’ Eve turns and looks at her, at her large, straining bosom, at her so long, white nylon-sheathed legs. ‘And so do you,’ she whispers back.

  ‘I suggest you save the love talk for later,’ Helen snaps.

  A look of genuine fear enters Cherry’s beautiful eyes. She performs a sweet bob curtsey and minces back into the kitchen, closely followed by Priscilla.

  The soup is superb and Eve finds herself fighting to maintain her feminine composure as she ladles it into her mouth.

  ‘Cherry is a rather gifted cook, among other things. She used to be a professional musician, so I assume she had plenty of time to practise her recipes.’

  ‘The soup is delicious,’ Eve says.

  ‘Yes, when Cherry visits we always eat well. There is love in her cooking.’

  ‘And desire,’ Samantha adds, aiming a particularly suggestive look towards Eve.

  Eve blushes and Helen continues the earlier discussion.

  ‘Anyway, the simple fact is, we’d like you to join us.’

  Eve stops eating and looks up at this gorgeous, ample female with quizzical eyes.

  ‘But I already have. Priscilla admitted me on Wednesday.’

  Helen smiles weakly, a hint of irritation in her beautiful, ice-blue eyes.

  ‘Yes. You are now a member of the Crème de la Crème club. There’s no doubt about that. But I was thinking of something a bit more substantial. We’d like you to work for us.’

  Eve’s eyes widen with surprise. ‘Work?
What sort of work?’

  ‘We employ a small group of the more impressive members to help us with the website. You’ll have seen some of the preview galleries. But the member archives are a little more . . . specialised; and they require a more professional approach. We refer to these members as the Elect.’

  ‘You want me to model?’

  Helen considers the word ‘model’ as if she has been asked a particularly difficult philosophical question. ‘Yes . . . in a way. And act. And also to provide some much-needed administrative support. And then there’s a new service we are planning to provide, a service you’d be an ideal candidate for, I must say.’

  ‘What sort of service?’

  Helen’s smile fades and a harder edge fills her eyes. ‘We can talk about that when we’ve tested your other skills.’

  Eve ponders this surprising development with a sense of mounting excitement. She remembers the elaborate and deliberately erotic pictures that filled the preview galleries, many of them leaning towards the sado-erotic. Like so many TVs, Eve has always longed to photograph and display herself. To look into the mirror, to send photo attachments to her aunt – these have been poor substitutes for the constant urge to be seen, an urge that has flowered so powerfully and wonderfully over the last few days, but which remains constant and growing.

  ‘Can I think about it?’ she asks, avoiding Samantha’s gaze.

  ‘Of course,’ Helen responds, her tone much harder now. ‘You can tell us before you leave.’

  Eve is about to say she was thinking in terms of a few days, but there is a look in Helen’s eyes which is more akin to the one she sees in Samantha’s, a forceful, dominant and utterly unyielding look that Eve finds both frightening and dreadfully exciting. She nods slightly and then returns her attentions to the rest of the excellent soup.

  As she eats, she ponders the bizarre and highly erotic developments of the past hour. Every now and again she looks up at Helen, who is talking to Samantha in virtually a whisper. There is no doubt that Helen is a stunningly beautiful woman and that Eve is attracted to her. There is also no doubt that her relationship with Priscilla is based on a genuine love. Despite the harshness of some of her commands, there is always softness at their centre, and her tone – even at its coolest – is maternal, caring, even compassionate. Yet Helen is also the secret force behind the Crème de la Crème club. Eve is surprised by the size of the club, but not stunned. Adam is responsible for a 30-million-pound budget, and is already pondering the significant business potential of the club and its offshoots. Helen and her colleagues have clearly made a handsome living from the internet site alone; but Eve can envisage a much wider potential, and she knows that anything she has thought of in just a few minutes has already been carefully considered and discussed by Helen and Samantha. Eve looks again at Samantha, this haughty, cold-eyed beauty. Helen described her as a doctor. She wonders what type of doctor and why, besides her relationship with Helen – which appears more than a little close – she is interested in the beautiful cross-dressers of the Crème de la Crème club.

  Then there is her own role. Eve cannot help admitting that the thought of modelling for the internet site is very exciting. To be one of the élite transvestite beauties featured on the site panders to her inescapable narcissism. So many hours spent in lonely self-regard before many mirrors over the last decade have prepared her for the dramatic exhibition of the model. She will find it hard to deny Helen’s offer on this basis alone. But now there is the mysterious reference to the new service. The fascinating hint regarding her suitability appeals to her vanity and to her increasing sense of adventure. Indeed, if there is one thing that attracts her to Helen’s proposition, it is the potential for new and exciting challenges that are far beyond anything offered by Adam’s job, challenges that will allow her to express her true nature without question or guilt.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Eve?’

  Helen’s voice breaks through Eve’s deep thoughts like an alarm bell in a submarine. She looks up with slightly surprised eyes and tries to smile politely. But the smile appears only as a worried frown scarring a particularly beautiful face.

  ‘No, but I think I have a . . . friend.’

  ‘Another TV?’ Samantha asks.

  ‘No. A . . . man.’

  Helen and Samantha smile and nod.

  ‘And he knows about Eve?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he doesn’t mind?’

  ‘No. In fact, it’s why we’re together. He seems to like TVs. That’s his . . . thing.’

  Samantha’s smile widens. ‘Richard perhaps?’

  Eve blushes and nods weakly. ‘How did you know?’

  Helen’s gentle smile broadens. ‘He made his interest very clear to Pris. And she tells me everything. I must remember to talk to him. He can be rather . . . imaginative.’

  Eve finds herself irritated by Helen’s condescending tone. ‘No, please. He’s really nice. I like his . . . imagination.’

  Helen and Samantha exchange another knowing look.

  Over the next hour, there is more discussion and more excellent food. There is also a lot of drink. After four glasses of superb wine, Eve is both much more relaxed and also clearly tipsy, a state that loosens her tongue considerably. Indeed, Helen is soon able to get the lovely she-male to talk freely about her past and about the pivotal role her aunt has played in her development. Both women appear particularly keen to extract as much information as possible from Eve about her Aunt Debra, a fact that would have made the sober Eve suspicious. But now she answers every question with a reckless indifference, in the process confessing her helpless sexual desire and the way this has added a distinctly sado-masochistic tinge to their relationship.

  ‘It seems inevitable that male cross-dressers exhibit some form of masochism,’ Samantha says, addressing Helen as if Eve weren’t in the room.

  Helen smiles patiently and turns a warm, understanding gaze upon a slightly disoriented Eve. ‘Well, it’s perfectly understandable. The world of men is all about power and control over others, about assertion and aggression. Many TVs are fleeing from that – seeking an alternative means of expressing themselves and their needs. I often feel it isn’t just about being feminine, as much as being consumed and overwhelmed by the feminine. Don’t you agree, Eve?’

  Eve looks into Helen’s gorgeous eyes and feels delightfully helpless. ‘Yes,’ she mumbles. ‘Yes, that’s definitely part of it.’

  By the time they finish the marvellous strawberry cheesecake dessert, it is nearly eleven p.m. and Eve is quite drunk and very aroused. There is no doubt that the close proximity of Cherry has added to her state of sexual disturbance; the gorgeous TV, so carefully adorned in the elegant, erotic maid’s costume, has served Eve with a close attention that has left the younger she-male startled and violently hard. By the time Helen motions them from the table to the lush white leather armchairs that are positioned in a semi-circle before the glowing fireplace of the living room, poor Eve cannot take her mind off her painfully rigid member.

  Then she finds herself sinking into one of the expensive armchairs and being served a glass of sherry by the very same, stunning TV. Now she can see the wondrous creature via an exciting full-frontal view. Cherry stands before Eve, her white nylon-wrapped legs close together, her frou-frou petticoating and the white silk panties revealed in erotic detail. Eve stares up at the panties with a desperate, shocked, unforgiving need, her eyes widened by the outline of a very big, hard male sex traversing the shimmering, silken material. She looks up at the buxom beauty and sees a beautiful, milk-chocolate face peering down at her over a large, straining chest.

  ‘I think it’s time for us to play,’ Helen says suddenly, her voice soft, calm, yet filled with a delicious and highly exciting wickedness.

  Then Priscilla is back in the room. She performs a deep curtsey before the two women, who are sitting side by side on the sofa.

  ‘I’m afraid Sam’s a little upset with you, Pris,’ H
elen says, her eyes lit by the ironic but very real cruelty that has risen suddenly to the surface on more than one occasion during the eventful evening.

  ‘You spilt gravy on me,’ the haughty redhead snaps.

  Eve looks at this developing scene with a hazy curiosity, striving to remember if she had witnessed an incident of the nature Helen is describing. But before she can confirm or deny, Priscilla has stepped forward and dramatically knelt down in a shower of elegant frills and petticoating before Samantha.

  ‘Punish me as you see fit,’ the lovely TV whispers, clearly very aroused.

  A slight smile crosses Samantha’s hard mouth. She then holds out one of her feet and Priscilla presses her red lips against gleaming black-patent leather.

  ‘A spanking, I think. Get the brush.’

  Priscilla gracefully climbs back on to her high-heeled feet and minces into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later carrying a white hairbrush. She curtsies once again before Samantha – her deepest and most submissive curtsey yet, her eyes filled with sex need and anticipation. She presents the hairbrush to Samantha.

  ‘Tie her hands.’

  Cherry suddenly turns towards Samantha, performs her own deep curtsey and takes a length of thick white silk ribbon from a pocket in her dainty white silk pinafore. She uses this to bind Priscilla’s hands tightly behind her back. Priscilla moans with a deep, dark pleasure as she is secured and Eve tries to hide her own considerable arousal, now very aware that Helen is watching her closely.

  ‘Is this exciting you, Eve? I would have thought so . . . given what you said earlier.’

  Eve looks at Helen, a direct, yet frightened look; but also a look of helpless confession.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she whispers.

  Helen smiles softly, leans forward and places a reassuring hand on Eve’s black nylon-sheathed knee. ‘Don’t worry, petal. None of us can.’

  Once bound, Priscilla is made to totter forward until she is just a few inches from the stern, beautiful Samantha. Then Cherry returns her attentions to Eve, moving closer, so that the tips of her stiletto-heeled mules are touching Eve’s own exotic footwear.