Strange Desires

by Joe Simpson Walker

  He turned away from the long mirror. There on the bed, sprawling with its sleeves stretched out and its zip wide open, was Gordona’s blue velvet dress.

  One reason why John questioned whether he was a transvestite was that he only dressed in undies. But he knew that that was in many ways merely a question of opportunity. Felicity was a head shorter than him and several inches slimmer. If her bras and panties were tight on, the tightness was part of the pleasure, and they were made to stretch. Outerwear was less accommodating. More than once in these secret hours of his, he’d ran eyes and hands over her skirts and dresses; but the fear of breaking a zip or splitting a seam had always held him back.

  Seemingly of its own accord, the blue velvet dress had risen from the bed and was grasped in his hands. Then he looked down to the floor, at Gordona’s shoes and her discarded stockings.

  He needed a black suspender belt. One of Felicity’s would do: it cut into his waist, but that made up for the absence of curve in his hips. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew Gordona’s stockings on to his legs. They were so sheer, so fine: as he slid the stocking tops higher, first left then right, his feet, then his calves and finally his thighs became wrapped in a gorgeous dark filminess. He pulled the suspender straps downwards, made them taut, snapped the fasteners into place.

  Now he was ready to step into the dress, to slide his arms into those long velvet sleeves and bring its high-cut neckline up to meet his collarbone. Zipping up was easy, once he found the fastener. It occurred to him that when a woman asks to be zipped up she doesn’t really need the help. Asking is pure laziness, or else a little privilege she grants a man.

  He sat on the bed again and picked up Gordona’s patent courts. So often he’d toyed with Felicity’s footwear, her smart shoes, her tarty heels, her sandals, her boots. So many times he’d devoured them with his eyes, taking in every detail of how they were made, how much wear they were showing, exactly where her feet had left lasting marks. But any thought of putting Felicity’s shoes on was hopeless. Once or twice he had tried to get his feet into them, then he gave up. It was physically impossible. Gordona, on the other hand, had big feet even for a woman of her height. Cautiously he inserted his toes into the toe-cap of her left court and drew the spiked heel upwards from behind to meet his heel. He could get them on, at any rate. And when he stood again and took a few hesitant steps they didn’t pinch.

  Once again he stood before the mirror and adored himself. Dreams of female impersonation flowed through his mind, newly inspired. Suppose he got hold of more clothes, bought his own and kept them hidden somewhere? What about a wig and makeup? He was a good-looking bloke. People had always said so. Couldn’t he transform himself into a convincing woman? As he stared into the mirror it all seemed possible. Only one detail got in the way. At his crotch, an enormous sausage-shaped bulge pushed against the line of Gordona’s dress and shimmered in blue velvet. Without any wanking, without his even noticing till that moment, he’d sprouted a king-size hard-on. Now that he found it, he gave it a stroke and teased the head with his fingertips, making it tingle. It felt good. There was hot sex down there, semen just waiting to gush and jump and spurt. Not yet, though.

  Again, he left the mirror and this time he walked out of the bedroom and started down the stairs. Once more the old stairway echoed to the sound of heels, but this time their tempo was moderate, with a few moments of hesitation. John was still getting used to his added height. The tight skirt of the dress restricted the movement of his knees and calves, but that was an advantage, since it compelled him to take shorter, more feminine steps. And with every step his silk-wrapped thighs whisked and swished deliciously as they met.

  Downstairs, he wandered through the house, walking from room to room: the lounge, the study, the dining-room. Whenever he came to a mirror, or the glass doors of a tall bookcase, he stopped to gaze at himself in the blue velvet dress. He was going nowhere in particular, but it was thrilling. Every step took him farther from the bedroom, from a quick change back into his normal clothing. He did this whenever he was dressed. Often he spent most of the time down here. He loved the sense of danger. Of course there was no actual risk. Felicity wouldn’t be back for hours yet. When she and Gordona went out riding it took up her whole afternoon, and sometimes the early evening too.

  His wandering steps brought him into the kitchen. This was the back of the house, as far from the stairway as you could get. Through the kitchen window he could see the rear garden with its neat flat lawn, cut in two by a long stone path that ended in a low fence and a plain iron gate. Beyond was open space, common land that sloped gently upwards to a bank of distant trees. That was the way to the village and the Fiddlers, and as quiet a spot as the road in front. Suited in velvet John walked around the kitchen, savouring the click of his heels on the tiled floor and the swish of silk between his thighs. He kept an eye on the window, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  It was time to finish. Time to go back the way he’d come and bring himself off. Time to wipe up the mess, get out of the girls’ clothes and leave his private pleasure for another day.

  Or was it?

  There was the back door before him. He had only to reach out a hand and turn. Dressed as he usually was, in undies with bare or stockinged feet, such an idea would never even have crossed his mind, but all at once the urge swept over him. It was irresistible. He walked out of the house in dress and heels.

  The air was fresh and chilly, the sky iron grey. The concrete paving of the garden path tapped sullenly beneath his courts. He didn’t fail to keep watch for anybody coming from the village. Yet he wished there was somebody to see him, to admire. He pictured himself somewhere far from here, some place where nobody knew his name, superbly well dressed, wigged and made up, corseted in and padded out, transformed. Walking crowded city streets in velvet, leather and fur. Eyes turning his way every minute, men looking hungry, some women even looking jealous. Nobody ever guessing the truth. A real transvestite...

  He was at the garden gate. He was tempted to wander farther still, but checked himself. The common was all grass and a bit muddy, not made for heels. He stroked his crotch. Through blue velvet and black silk, his cock stirred and tingled. It had softened again, but only needed touching up. He could do it there and then, hitch up his skirt, pull down his panties, jerk and shoot. The white spunk would leap out, to fall and splatter on stone between his elegant courts.

  The common was deserted. If you looked in the other direction, back towards the house, you could see the two ends of the road, each stretching well into the distance. A passing driver would only have seen John momentarily and from a long way off; did it matter, even if a car did go by? But he double-checked.

  There was nothing coming up the road.

  The other way, coming down, about a hundred yards distant, was a Land Rover.

  John forgot that he had a penis.

  It couldn’t be. They never cut their ride short. Plenty of people drove Land Rovers. It was impossible. This couldn’t be happening. But he knew Gordona’s Land Rover, just as Felicity had known it when she was looking up the road from the lounge window. Horror turned to panic. Run, run, get inside! Get to the bedroom! For two steps he ran a mad dash, then he was in a stagger, lurching forward and back. He’d only just saved himself from landing flat on the stone path. Those fucking heels! Get them off, run barefoot! But there was no time. The Land Rover drew closer. The sound of its motor grew louder and at the same time dropped in pitch. It was slowing down. John stumbled up the path to the back door. He heard the motor rumble to a stop.

  He stood with his hand on the door, holding it ajar. Too late. Why the girls were back early he couldn’t imagine, but within a minute they’d be at the front door. If he ran in it would only be to meet them in the lounge, or on the stairs. He didn’t dare.

  He remembered that they wouldn’t be expecting to find him still at home
. Could he stay out here, unseen? The answer was no. Gordona would go upstairs for her clothes. She’d find the clothes he’d been wearing. They’d surely wonder what was up. If they supposed he’d changed clothes and gone to the Fiddlers they’d probably follow on, and come out through the back. There was nothing in the garden that could hide him from sight. What would they say when they saw him, dressed in their clothes? He and Felicity were a normal couple. Their sex life had always been perfectly straight: no dressing up, no tying, nothing kinky or unusual at all. Horrendous shame, disgrace, maybe even divorce, hung over him like an executioner’s axe.

  ‘John? John? Joh-ohnn! Are you here?’

  It was Felicity. She was coming through the house. Instinctively John pulled the door shut and backed away from the window.

  ‘See?’ Her voice was in the kitchen, accompanied by the tread of boots. ‘He’s long gone.’

  ‘And here we are,’ Gordona said.

  ‘Yes,’ Felicity breathed. ‘Mmmm...’

  ‘Mmmm...’ Gordona answered.

  Their voices purred together. The sound went on, and words were lost. It sounded as if...

  Whatever might happen if he was discovered, John had to see them. He crouched beneath the kitchen window, and looked in over the edge of the sill.

  Felicity and Gordona observed nothing. They were locked in an embrace, tongue to tongue, sucking each other’s mouths off. Tightly white-clad thighs rubbed up and down. Two pairs of breasts met, squeezed and ground, strained against cotton and tweed. The girls’ movements gathered speed . Their breath came in grunts and gasps that grew faster and shallower. Felicity made a sudden grab at Gordona’s jacket. Her nails clawed at the buttons; and then the two women broke apart, and each was tearing off her own riding apparel. Within thirty seconds Gordona was nude. Felicity took a few moments longer: when her jodhpurs were off, she rammed her feet back down into her shiny black boots and stamped on the tiles to make them firm.

  ‘Now,’ she said, her eyes glittering with power, ‘get on the table. Quick!’

  Gordona obeyed. She clambered on to the kitchen table and lay there on her back, her head hanging over one end and her legs, wide apart, hanging from the knees downward at the other. Felicity bent down and lowered her mouth to Gordona’s scarlet-lipped and lightly hairy pussy. Her tongue was projecting out, glistening pink and loaded with saliva, eager to lick juice. It coasted over the fleshy vertical lips, trembled teasingly on the nub of Gordona’s clit, then slid deep inside her cunt. The taller woman groaned. Her strong, well-toned body first shone, than ran, with sweat. It dripped from her haunches on to the pale-coloured wooden table.

  ‘Ahhh... so good... so fucking good,’ she sighed. ‘Why couldn’t we do this in the woods? Why did you make me wait? Aaaaaarghh!’

  Felicity drew her tongue back, held it a moment, then drove it full in. The fleshy tip danced tormentingly on the innermost flesh of Gordona’s love tunnel. Her loins jerked as if tossed by an earth tremor and she cried out loud. Then Felicity’s head lifted away.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ she replied. ‘To sling you across a table like a side of beef. To treat you like a freshly slaughtered cow.’ She said it with a sneer, relishing her dominance over the woman who sprawled and sweated before her. ‘You dare complain that I kept you waiting? Where were you this afternoon, when I was kicking my heels in the lounge while my twat got itchier and itchier?’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Gordona said breathlessly. ‘I thought I’d never get away from the solicitor’s - ‘

  ‘No excuses,’ Felicity said. ‘You have to be punished.’

  She reached a hand to the floor. From amidst the litter of thrown-off clothes, she took up her black riding whip.

  Gordona’s eyes shone. ‘Yes! Yes, punish me!’

  ‘Put your hands down! Keep your arms on the table.’

  The flat black tongue swung up high. The slim rod of woven leather descended in a swift curve, and slashed across Gordona’s breasts. Back and forth, swiping and cutting, Felicity whipped her tits without mercy. The rod smacked and spat and bit, branding the twin globes with stripes of pink, falling in the same places over and over till they were glowing red as flame. Gordona squealed and whimpered, and had to grip the edges of the table-top with whitened knuckles in order to keep her arms where Felicity had commanded. Yet under the whipping her breasts changed shape. No longer were they round and pendulous, like heavy hanging fruits: instead they were cones, and their tortured nipples were hard and pointed, jutting away from one another.

  At last Felicity let the whip drop. Now she too was breathing hard, and leaking sweat all over; with a salty dash of hole-juice on her thighs. She stood a moment, panting.

  ‘You know what I want now,’ she said.

  There was a feeble little moan from Gordona. ‘I left the strap-on in the Land Rover. Am I to be punished again? Will you make me go and get it, like this?’

  ‘I would,’ Felicity said. ‘But there’s no need.’

  John was no chef, and didn’t do the washing-up if he could help it. In the kitchen there were half a dozen cupboards he’d never even looked into. Felicity opened one of them and reached in. Briefly her hand was out of view. Then it reappeared, clutching a monstrous thing of rubber and leather and metal: a double-ended dildo, two outsize jet-black phalluses jutting like horns to left and right, with straps swinging and buckles jingling from the middle.

  ‘I love this,’ she said. ‘I play with it all the time. Sit up, you lazy slag! Help me get it on.’

  She stood in a half squat with thighs held akimbo, her cunt wide open, and placed the head of a black rubber dick to her entry. Except for its colour and size the dildo was highly realistic, with a bulbous glans and wrinkled foreskin. It rose in a curve and was just slightly flexible. With an effort she pushed it up herself. Gordona knelt at her feet, and the dildo’s other horn jutted into her face as she reached around and buckled the straps tight on Felicity’s thighs and waist.

  ‘Back on the table.’ Felicity’s words came in a grunt, from behind a clenched jaw and compressed lips. ‘Turn round. You’re gonna take it like a bitch.’

  ‘Yes. I’m your bitch,’ Gordona echoed. ‘I’m your slut. I’m your whore. Fuck me, it’s all I’m good for.’

  She was bent over the table, legs far apart.

  ‘Lift your arse.’

  She obeyed. Her cheeks were held high and her twat was exposed. Slowly, wetly, squelchingly, Felicity rammed in the black horn and Gordona gave a long loud catlike yowl. The horn was full in, then partly out again: in and out, in and out. And as Felicity fucked Gordona, as the pumping rubber dick gathered speed and force, she was herself being fucked by its other half. It went on and on. The heavy kitchen table rocked under the two women’s combined weight and the violence of their movements. Their bare bodies were soaked, wet as swimmers. The air was filled with the crazy random music of their gasps, groans, and moans; and every now and then a strangled shriek from one or the other, at the first waves of oncoming, inevitable orgasm.

  Meanwhile, John became aware that his knees were aching. He was kneeling on stone, and had been there for he didn’t know how long, with nothing to cushion him but Gordona’s black stockings. What would happen next, what would become of him, were questions beyond his grasp. He’d lost the power to imagine the future. He was in shock from the discovery that other people had secrets.

  The Eyes

  ‘If you want proof that modernist art is a confidence trick, look about you.’

  The words came from someone standing behind Karla Wells, and she turned around to see who’d spoken. It was a rather handsome young man in a well-cut three-piece suit, and he was talking to a nice-looking young girl. Or rather, he was lecturing her: she was glancing uneasily at the walls around her, then at him, then back at the walls again, having been told what to think. />
  The three of them were in the ‘installation room’ of the Sidewalk Gallery. It was a big room with white walls and no windows, and it contained a single work of art, the title of which could be read on a notice by the door:

  ‘THE EYES,

  Nos. 1-19.

  Adrienne Woodward,

  U.S.A.

  Work in progress.’

  Hung around three walls were a series of nineteen pictures. In size each picture was about four feet high by three wide, with about six feet of blank white space between it and the next in line. Each was a very large portrait photograph of a human face; but none of the faces were easily to be recognised because over each had been mounted a sheet of heavy matt black board, covering the area of the picture completely. Indeed, the faces would have been quite hidden, but for a rectangular aperture like an oversized letterbox, cut out of each black sheet at eye level. From inside nineteen blank black spaces, nineteen pairs of eyes looked out.

  ‘The only reason anybody accepts this nonsense as art is because it’s hanging up in an art gallery,’ the young man went on. He spoke with a good accent, but the tone of his voice was sharp and loud. At the far end of the room, a good fifteen yards away, a woman who’d been standing for some minutes, surveying one particular portrait with an appearance of deep thought, turned and looked around. ‘In actual fact it’s the work of a failed photographer who’s come up with a gimmick...’