‘Put it away and get dressed. It’s time for you to leave.’
Eve nods weakly. She slips her hard, aching sex back into the body-shaper and seals it up. She then climbs back into the dress. Helen helps her zip up.
‘You will be at the club tomorrow evening at eight p.m. sharp. Then you will be inducted formally into the Crème de la Crème. Bring Richard.’
Eve nods weakly, upset by her new, harsh, almost indifferent tone.
‘I’ve called a taxi. It’ll be here in ten minutes. You can wait outside.’
Eve looks at Helen with big hurt eyes and the gorgeous, mature beauty smiles cruelly.
‘You must learn to accept my orders without question, Eve. Whether you like them or not. Use the hallway mirror to adjust your make-up and hair.’
Stunned by this sudden, deliberate cruelty, Eve can only watch helplessly as Helen leaves the room. Suddenly she is completely alone. Upstairs she knows there is much erotic perversity, but down here, in this silent, hot room, there is only the powerful scent of various bodies and desires and the sound of her own desperately beating heart.
After sorting her make-up and hair, she steps out into the cold early morning. The hallway clock says it is just after two a.m. She stands in the driveway watching her hot, sex-driven breath transform into a cloud of damp white mist and tries to understand the bizarre and violently erotic events of the last few hours. But her thoughts are quickly cut short by the arrival of the taxi.
As she rides home in the darkness of the back seat, her dress rides carelessly up her thighs to reveal her long, hosed and tightly crossed legs and thus provide a terrible and unknown distraction for the taxi driver. She ponders the strange adventure that was her visit to meet Priscilla Rouge and her stunning wife. She is aware of forces beyond her control. She has fallen into a vortex powered by desire and cruelty, by the profound need to be someone hidden for so long and by an increasingly masochistic sexual energy burning with increasing intensity in the heart of this concealed, secret self, a self that is emerging at great speed from years of careful isolation.
Once home, she strips naked and falls into her bed with a gasp of absolute exhaustion. The vortex takes her completely then, dragging her down into a booze- and sex-fuelled unconsciousness. As she slips from this increasingly strange real world into the sensual madness of dreams, she finds her self briefly gripped by a dark, almost cowardly apprehension. Tomorrow, she knows a new and even more testing stage of this incredible adventure will begin. Then a river of sweet blackness envelops her.
7
The Space Between
She awakens to the sound of the telephone, dragged from a dream of Cherry and the nylon-wrapped feet of the mysterious and beautiful Helen. The first thing she feels is a painfully severe erection pressing against the bed-sheets. Then there is the headache and the dull sickness of a disabling hangover. She moans into the pungent darkness of the bed covers and surfaces for air. The phone is her mobile, placed at some point last night on the bedside table. Its persistence is painful and disturbing. As she picks it up, she notices it is nine a.m. exactly.
She mumbles a hoarse ‘hello’ and is immediately greeted by Richard’s voice.
‘Was it good?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your evening out. Did you enjoy it?’
‘It was interesting. You should have been there. Then it would have been even more . . . interesting.’
‘I can imagine it was interesting enough without me.’
They both laugh, the intimate humour of lovers.
‘What happened?’ Richard says, persisting in his slightly over-eager interrogation.
‘They invited me to the club. This evening. With you. They want me to become a member of the Elect.’
‘Of course they do.’
‘Will you come?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
There is a pause.
‘Did you miss me?’ Richard then continues.
‘Very much.’
‘I want to come over; I want to spend the day with you. Before we go out.’
‘Yes, I’d really like that. But give me a few hours to straighten myself out.’
‘I’ll come at lunch time.’
Then the phone goes dead. Eve laughs gently and pulls the sheet back over her heavy head.
She finally hauls herself out of bed just before eleven a.m. and spends half an hour under a hot, steaming shower. Then she sits before the dressing-table mirror, still naked, and ponders her somewhat dishevelled reflection. Red eyes betray the ongoing trauma of hangover and the hand that reaches for her hairbrush is shaking visibly. As she combs out her short hair, she considers an appropriate outfit. Her sex remains uncomfortably hard. In the shower she was almost overwhelmed by the need to masturbate, but controlled the savage urge with thoughts of Richard and the need to guarantee she can perform properly in any sexual adventure the afternoon might bring. This sustained state of sexual excitation also ensures that she is able to focus carefully on her dress and its impact on her boyfriend. Yet even as her imagination stirs, she finds her thoughts travelling through time, backward to the night before and then forward to the forthcoming visit to the Crème de la Crème club.
At first, in the dark heart of the initial hangover, she had felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, the sort of terrible regret that many feel as they half remember the drunken antics of the night before. What a fool she had been. To expose herself, to reveal the truth of her history; to expose Aunt Debra. To confess her secret desires. And then to allow herself to be overwhelmed by them under the cruel eyes of Helen and Samantha. And finally to agree to become something more than just a simple member of the Crème de la Crème club. To become a slave object, to become a fully transformed she-male sex toy of some kind. To give up her job and to work in a variety of ways – some mysterious and disturbing – for Helen Bliss. Yet even as she guiltily ponders the drunken truths of the previous evening, she is becoming even more aroused. Yes, the thought of her forthcoming servitude is undeniably arousing. And then there is Richard. To add the gorgeous, perverse force of dark nature that is Richard to this already kinky mix.
She dries her hair and slips into the white satin-panelled body-shaper, white nylon tights, modest white silk panties, a red-and-black check skirt and a tight white nylon sweater with a pretty polo neck. She adds red patent-leather shoes to this gentle, girlish outfit and a short, strawberry-blonde pageboy wig. Again, there is modest make-up, but with the added touch of lipstick that more or less exactly matches the striking, sexy shoes.
She stands before the mirror and admires her perfect, convincing reflection and feels the familiar tingle of deeply narcissistic desire. Then she finds herself thinking of Aunt Debra.
She logs on to the Internet and discovers an e-mail from her beloved aunt. A detailed response to the massive letter she had sent as a file attachment. She reads it with eager, even desperate eyes, a smile of relief and helpless desire spreading across her beautiful face as the contents of the message become clear.
Aunt Debra’s response is filled with joy and excitement, and something else: a darker, harder curiosity. She is very happy for Eve and congratulates her on the fundamental success of her public ‘revealing’. She is clearly fascinated by the events leading up to and during her adventure at the Crème de la Crème club, particularly the expansion of Eve’s identity and the confidence flowing so powerfully from this. Then there is Priscilla Rouge. Of course, Aunt Debra knows nothing about the revelations of the night before and considers the image of Priscilla very carefully within the confines of Eve’s description of a strikingly confident, self-possessed and devastatingly beautiful transvestite. Indeed, as Eve reads Aunt Debra’s flow of hungry discourse and recognises the truth behind it, she begins to realise the disturbing strangeness at the heart of the truth. The figure of Helen Bliss rises out of the gap in Debra’s knowledge and appears much more clearly drawn and alive than Eve’s drink-fuelled
impressions of the night before. And then there is Richard. It is here that Aunt Debra’s tone shifts slightly. Enthusiastic interest turns to a much more interrogatory analysis (she even asks for a detailed physical description). Indeed, hidden in this new tone is surely a hint of jealousy. She is clearly impressed that Eve has managed to attract a man, but she is also disturbed that Eve – perhaps – is taking things a little too fast. Debra counsels her, in a perfectly relaxed and careful way, to take care. ‘He sounds like a particularly explosive personality. Make sure he doesn’t overwhelm, you, Eve.’ Yet even as she reads these words, which so effectively sum up Richard, Eve can only confess that – to a certain extent – she wants to be overwhelmed. In Richard’s dominant personality, Eve finds a very real and darkly erotic excitement; just as she had found when she had kissed Helen’s delicately hosed toes and pledged to become a fully fledged member of the Crème de la Crème Elect.
Richard arrives thirty minutes later, dressed in black attire very similar to the day before.
‘Tell me all about it. Tell me everything while you cook lunch.’
As they stand in the kitchen, as Eve cooks them both a large Spanish omelette, she tells the story of her dinner at Priscilla’s, a story that Richard consumes with the same passion that he applies to the omelette and wholemeal bread when they sit down at the dining table and Eve continues this strange, erotic narrative, sparing no detail.
‘She sucked you off? In front of Helen? Good grief!’
She nods, almost proud of the tale she is telling, of her perverse and graphic exposure before the gorgeous Helen Bliss.
‘Do you have a drink?’ he asks suddenly. ‘A glass of wine would really help here. This omelette is wonderful.’
Eve, the obedient maid, takes a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and pours two large glasses of golden-green liquid. Richard takes a long gulp and insists that Eve continue her story.
Then she tells him of her final act of compliance, her acceptance into the inner circle of Crème de la Crème girls, and Richard’s slightly ironic smile widens considerably.
‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision. The thought of you with real breasts . . . beautiful real breasts. It would be the perfect affirmation.’
She smiles, agreeing, knowing he is right. Yes, this would be the final expression of the fundamental truth of Eve.
‘And you’ll do this. I mean . . . undergo the changes they want. The breasts?’
Eve smiles slightly and nods. ‘Yes,’ she says, her voice now without doubt.
Yes, to be like Cherry and Pris, to become fully the ambiguity she has always lived within and for: a fully fledged, completely realised she-male.
‘It’s the final part of the transformation,’ she continues, much clearer now about the meaning of her acceptance. ‘It’s the purest expression for my true state . . . my real self.’
‘The space between,’ Richard responds, his voice filled with a sudden, cutting lucidity.
‘Yes. Exactly.’
Richard then stands up from the table and takes Eve’s pretty face in his long, elegant hands. They kiss. Eve tastes wine and an elemental sexual need.
Eve comes up for air, her cock harder than diamond, and allows herself to be consumed by Richard’s commanding gaze.
‘And I want you to be with me, my darling,’ he says. ‘As my lover, as my partner . . . as my slave.’
Eve feels her hosed knees buckle and she falls forward into his tight, possessive embrace. She looks up into his eyes and feels a dark, romantic sense of absolute submission, and a hint of something much deeper and profound.
‘Yes, of course. That’s what I want as well.’
Then they kiss again and Eve is lost in a pure, blistering, blinding bliss.
After the meal, they sit on the sofa and make gentle love. She sits on his knees. His hands slide over her nylon-sheathed thighs. She meows with feminine pleasure. A hand slips beneath the short skirt. She feels the warmth of his smooth skin through the film of nylon and her cock expands to its full, aching stiffness. He reiterates his love for hose and insists she always wear tights and the shortest of skirts to show off her beautiful, perfectly shaped legs. She sighs with feline pleasure as he complements her physical perfection and his hand reaches the edge of her silk panties. She slips into a whirlpool of utter erotic bliss and cries out her helpless and furious arousal. She feels a huge wave of feminine submission crash over her body and sighs. This is ecstasy; this is heaven.
Soon, she is on her knees, between his legs, working free the zip of his jeans, her heart pounding with elated anticipation, her eyes wide with desire. His heavy, hot, desperate breathing fills the room as she slips his rampant tool from his underpants and begins very gently to stroke it with tender, slender fingers. He moans and squirms. He is already very close to coming. She kneels forward and very carefully slips the enraged, dark-purple head between her cherry-red lips.
After he erupts into her, his body rising up from the sofa like a launching rocket, his cries of pleasure filling the room, she knows an afternoon of exciting and intricate perversion lies ahead. Soon, he will reinsert the teasing, dainty vibrator, bind her, gag her, leave her wriggling in uncontrollable physical arousal on the floor, then she will dress for him – as she promised – in the maid’s uniform, and serve him as his obedient and devoted slave.
‘Let me dress for you,’ she whispers, wiping his come from her lips, her voice shaking with sex need. ‘Let me be your servant this afternoon. Please. Oh please.’
‘OK,’ he mumbles, stunned, elated, overwhelmed by the power of his need and her desire to meet it. ‘Yes . . .’
‘But first, tie me up. Like you did yesterday. Like you promised to do today and every other day.’
His smile returns from the clouds of the stunned orgasm. ‘Of course,’ he says.
It is just after five p.m. when she steps naked into the shower. The first stage of her preparations for the night ahead. Richard is in her room. He has made it clear he will select the clothes she will wear tonight. For the last four hours they have explored the nature of their nascent relationship in a most rigorous and highly erotic manner. Her bottom is still cherry-red from the last, fierce spanking and red, raw rope marks still scar her wrists and ankles. He has just slipped the vibrator from her widened arse, and the aftershock of its wicked buzzing, plus the spreading heat from the spanking, ensures that her sex is still rock-hard.
Her heart feels as light as air. A strange, almost unnerving happiness is washing over her, as if some strange mood-enhancing chemical has been poured into the water supply.
Eventually, wrapped in a thick, pink towel, her body soft and scented, her aching cock pressing teasingly against the soft material, she steps out of the shower and into the bedroom. Here she finds herself staring at the clothes laid out on the bed and then up at the striking figure of Richard.
‘I think this should impress,’ he says, almost shyly.
It is clear that while she has showered, Richard has carefully trawled through the wardrobe and drawers to identify clothing that will have a maximum impact. Set out before her is the sexiest of the black body-shapers, panelled with patterned black satin and heavily frilled; a pair of very sheer and seamed black nylon tights, a shimmering black silk blouse and a black micro-mini. A pair of stunning black shoes have been placed on the floor by the bed, shoes she bought from a fetish website some years previously and which she would never have considered wearing outside of the house, shoes with awe-inspiring six-inch heels. Cut from very shiny black patent leather, and which, thanks to the most severe of curved insteps, always leave her feeling she is walking on tiptoe, and thus inspiring the tiniest of sissy totters.
‘Wear the velvet choker and the black pageboy with the stud earrings.’
Eve looks at Richard with a new respect and then at the jewellery and wig set out on the dressing table.
She nods, knowing that Richard is determined to take control of her tonight, to be her mast
er and to present himself as such to the Crème de la Crème. Indeed, since the sexual adventures of the last four hours, he has become much more defined in his dominance. He now has the strident air of a confident master and, knowing this, Eve feels an even deeper arousal whose core is a dizzying tingle of masochistic pleasure.
‘Hurry up. We’ve got less than half an hour.’
Richard sits on the bed and watches with wide, sex-possessed eyes burning with a teasing cruelty in the soft electric light of the bedroom. Eve stands before him naked, her sex achingly firm.
Despite Richard’s exhortation, Eve dresses carefully, with the feminine grace demanded by her true identity. Yet Richard doesn’t complain. Indeed, the sex flame merely burns brighter in his deep, dark gaze as Eve slips into the beautiful, erotic attire, as the soft, glistening silk and nylon encloses her slender form in a glove of gently unyielding femininity.
And as she dresses, as Eve is created like a painting made more real with each careful brush-stroke, the sense of perfect harmony returns with a power she hasn’t felt since her first visit to the Crème de la Crème club. And with this deeply arousing sense of rightness comes the slightly mind-bending confidence that had led to the very edge of exposure. She looks into Richard’s dark, devouring eyes and releases a smile of serene desire.
Eventually, she is dressed and sitting before the dressing-table mirror. Richard, now standing over her, insists that Eve apply a thicker, more ‘sluttish’ make-up than she has used previously. She nods, whispers an obedient ‘Yes, of course’, but actually applies very little in addition to her normal modest face paint; except for the lips. Here, with a deliberation that barely hides her ironic intention, she applies dark, bloody paint to the soft, ripe flesh of her full lips, her eyes moving rapidly between her reflection and the face of Richard, who has now taken up position directly behind her.
As she glides the red stick across her lips, she continues to hold Richard’s fascinated, aroused gaze. The message that flows between them is the truth of a strangely fluid sado-masochistic desire.
The Secret Self Page 15