Nexus Confessions

by Various

  I hang the blouse so that it is draped across the edges of a number of the other still-hanging blouses, then I go in search of the rest of my outfit for this first changing.

  As I walk the narrow corridor between the rows, my eyes now bathing in the erotic perfection of my Aunt’s collection of dresses and skirts, I feel a powerful sense of contentment. The fear and nerves pass as the reality of dressing sets in. Being surrounded by the objects of my most intense and prolonged desire has an immediately calming effect. I feel like an actor finally assuming a role after waiting nervously at the stage’s shadowed edge.

  I run my hands along the wall of soft feminine fabrics created by the row of dresses. Like the blouse, I find myself remembering my Aunt in a number of them. They still seem to contain her intimate warmth. The trace of her scent, the unique blend of expensive perfume and the muskier, more exotic odours of her body, is more real, and still lingers on some of the dresses. I press my face into them and breathe deeply. My cock presses harder into my jeans. I moan loudly and freely, my desire frustrated, angry and desperate.

  I reach the skirts and pause. A more careful eye is turned upon them. Just as the dresses and the blouses reveal my Aunt’s deliberate taste for the aggressively feminine, so the skirts reveal her taste for the subtly provocative. She is 46, yet still very beautiful. Her body, amply formed, even plump, is an object of always helpless erotic interest for any male who comes into contact with or sight of her. And often the first things they cannot help but notice, the things that attach the hook of need deep into the sexual consciousness, are her long, so long, statuesque legs. Legs always carefully sealed in the sheerest nylon hose and brought to a perfect sado-erotic conclusion by high heels. Legs that demand display and the helpless adoration of male eyes. Legs revealed by carefully designed and chosen skirts, whose shape and length betray confidence and style in equal measure.

  Most are above knee height, one or two slightly more modest. But it is one of the shortest that draws my fetishist’s helpless gaze. A black-and-white check mini-skirt, a skirt I have never seen her in, but imagine her filling with a gasp of dark sexual craving.

  I take it from the rack and hold it against my body. Suddenly, for a mind-bending moment, I can hardly breathe. My heart pounds louder and harder than ever; my knees weaken and threaten to collapse beneath the weight of my feverish desire. I run my hands over the soft, yet also slightly rough material of the skirt, a strange sensual paradise that in some way symbolises this first, much anticipated dressing, this breaking into reality of an intense and extended sexual fantasy fuelled by inescapable inclination and the secret journeys into my mother’s far less exotic and extensive wardrobe.

  I place the skirt by the blouse and ponder their aesthetically correct relationship. Yes, they will look good together, on me.

  After the skirt, I consider the rows of beautiful, elegant and always very sensual footwear. Soon I am on my knees considering the vast array with wide sex-stained eyes, my cock digging into my lower stomach like a metal pole.

  My Aunt’s attraction to heels is obvious and, given her beautiful legs, logical. Before me is a gorgeous, gleaming army of mostly stiletto-heeled mules, court shoes and sandals. Some I recall from her visits, others are new to my tormented gaze, and some inspire genuine gasps of surprise and admiration. For it seems my Aunt is not beyond genuinely outrageous footwear when the mood takes her. One pair of black patent leather court shoes with stunning five-inch heels particularly takes my fancy, and I find myself lifting them from the angled metal rests with shaking hands and the slightest sense of disappointment for I know this is the one item of hers that I cannot feel against my own body. No matter how much I desire to be consumed by femininity and thus to become truly feminine, there is no denying the fact of my male physique. While I am, by male standards, slight in my overall build, I have the usual problems faced by most transvestites: big feet and hands. Although these two inescapable physical realities can be disguised, they cannot be overcome; my feet will just not fit into these gorgeous shoes, they will not fit into any of my Aunt’s incredible shoes. But I have come prepared. In the plastic bag on the bed there is a shoe box and in the box are a pair of specially ordered black patent leather court shoes. Shoes ordered via an internet site using a tortuous cash transaction agreed after lengthy email correspondence. Shoes that I had pretended to my mother were new training shoes bought with money from my part-time job in a local book store, training shoes that were actually bought a few days before the elegantly wrapped, suspicious looking parcel had arrived! Yes, having had two months’ notice of my visit, I have been able to prepare properly.

  Lost in the grip of fetish sex heat, I worship my Aunt’s shoes with a helpless intensity. I press my lips to the gleaming tips of each of the toes; I press the inside soles, made from curving, tan-coloured and no doubt very expensive Italian leather, to my nose and breathe in the intimate aroma of soft warm leather and a hint of female sweat. This dark animal odour inspires immediate visions of my splendid, gorgeous Aunt walking through our house, each heeled step part of an erotic ballet of feminine perfection that had often forced me to run to my bedroom and masturbate furiously, crying out her name into the eternal black void of earth-shuddering orgasm, hot, thick come, my secret offering to her, shooting in spasmodic eruptions high into the air and then splashing against my stomach and chest. I remember the precise wiggle of her hips and the gentle swaying of her large curvaceous backside stretched tight against a suitably sexy skirt, a swaying demanded and created by the sensual counterbalance at the heart of walking in heels.

  I gasp with an angry, bottomless frustration and place the shoes back on the rack. With tense, shaking hands, I lower my metal fly zipper and tease my long, hard, boiling cock from my underpants. It rises through the gap of my fly and demands immediate release. I imagine the spunk splashing against these beautiful, perfect shoes. I begin to masturbate, tears of need filling my eyes. I must come! But also, more importantly, I must dress! A terrible wave of anger and frustration crashes over me as I manage to restrain this appallingly urgent need and replace my tortured sex.

  I climb to my feet, my knees weak, a thick sweat of effort and struggle covering my face. Then I stagger towards the second set of closet doors at the very end of this so-pleasantly decorated corridor.

  As I open this second set of doors, I know I have come close to ruining everything. My pounding heart is filled with fear and self-contempt. All of this could have been destroyed by weakness!

  Behind the second set of doors is not another corridor leading to some fetish Narnia, but two tall parallel towers of drawers and a smaller wardrobe space containing a truly delightful selection of lingerie and foundation wear. I stare at the array of petticoats and slips – all silk – in a range of colours, but mostly white, black and red, in a darkly aroused astonishment and then run my hands through them. Warm, excited flesh meets a mist of pure silk and I cry out my helpless unyielding desire.

  My eyes travel beyond the slips and petticoats to an amazing collection of foundation garments. Hanging from a variety of specially designed hangers are at least eight panty girdles and four panty corselettes. I imagine my Aunt’s ample form imprisoned in one of these sensual straitjackets of feminine restriction and swoon with pleasure. Like the slips and petticoats, they too are presented in a variety of colours, again mostly black and white. I take one of the panty girdles from the metal rack and run my hands over its shimmering elastane surface. I place it by the skirt and blouse and then return to the drawers. I open a drawer at random and gasp with delight. Before me are two rows of beautiful silk panties, all white, all beautifully embroidered with precise rose patterns and frilled with French lace at the waist and legs. I take out one pair and it is as if my hands have descended into a stream of liquid silk. I place the panties with the other clothing and then add one of the white silk slips, the vision of my changing sharpening in my mind with each new gorgeous addition.

  I open a drawer in t
he second tower and find myself looking at a series of rows of carefully folded nylon stockings, all black. A thought crosses my mind and I return to the opposite tower of drawers. I open the drawer beneath the one containing the wonderful white panties and discover yet more panties, their design almost exactly the same as the ones above, but these coloured light pink. Further exploration of this tower reveals that each drawer contains a number of pairs of the same type of panties, each drawer a different colour! The obsessive care and attention applied to this intimate storage is both disturbing and arousing!

  I return to the ‘stocking tower’ and discover drawer after drawer of sexy, expensive, finely styled hose – stockings and tights. I moan with a dreadful, utterly uncontrollable pleasure and run my hands across this sheer nylon cornucopia. I am in fetish heaven!

  I extract two pairs of nylon tights. First, a semi-opaque, tan-coloured pair, and then a much sheerer, black pair. I carry them to the other clothes, teased to tears by an almost helpless love, as if transporting holy relics of an external and cosmic desire. I place them by the skirt and swallow down a terrible urge to cry out in semi-orgasmic pleasure. I know I could spend all day here exploring these wondrous delicate secrets of my Aunt’s dazzling femininity, but time is of the essence and I am on a mission years in the making.

  I take the clothes from the rack and then go back out into the bedroom. I place each item neatly on the silk-sheeted bed, creating a strange feminine form by placing the skirt beneath the blouse and the tights beneath the skirt, with the slip, girdle and panties in a separate arrangement.

  Then the first stage of the dressing begins. My heart pounds against my chest with fear and furious arousal. This is surely the moment of no return. As I remove my jacket, I know I am stepping into a world I will never leave, that this is the next step towards my full feminisation, my all-powerful and permanent consumption by the great and irresistible power of the Feminine.

  Within a few minutes, I have stripped down to my underpants. Now, more than ever before, I am aware of my male physique. My long hard cock strains over the top of the black cotton and presses into the pit of my slight, almost perfectly flat stomach. I run my hand across its hot angry length and gasp loudly, the sex ache deep in the heart of me, a need so profound that it has consumed every inch of my physical being.

  Looking down at the bed, at the beautiful, elegant and deeply erotic clothing of Aunt Emma, I feel, once again, a sense of happiness. Here, I am becoming the person I have always wanted to be; here, I am finding complete self-realisation.

  I remove the underpants and watch my crimson cock pop upwards with a savage determination. This is all there is and can ever be.

  I step out of the underpants and lean forwards, my hands shaking once again. I take the soft, firm panty girdle from the bed and press it against my cock. I cry with pleasure and agonised expectation. Then, my heart beating like an insane toy drum, I step into the girdle and slowly, with a care that is both caution and ignorance, draw it up my legs.

  I notice the light, thin layer of golden-coloured hair that covers my legs and feel a sense of disappointment and fraud. Here is the brutal physical confession of a masculinity that I have always felt uncomfortable with, a masculinity that is invading the truth I am trying so very hard to reveal. Eventually, my legs will be shaved, they will be silken smooth; eventually I will be the she-male of my dreams. Yet the journey to making that dream a reality is a long one, and it begins now.

  I pull the tight elastane front of the girdle over my rampant aching sex and feel the boiling, furiously hard sex organ pushed back and held firm in the most feminine of embraces. I haul the rest of the girdle over my always pert backside and up around my waist. Then I am lost in a strange detached space of pure masochistic ecstasy. A feeling of intense and joyous envelopment consumes me: this is the first amazing step towards my debut transformation.

  I run my hands over the panty girdle, I feel its taught second skin pressing so precisely against my backside, shaping and re-shaping, creating an ideal feminine contour. Yet this is just the beginning. Next, there are the astonishing delights of the tights. I pick up the tan-coloured pair and feel a shiver of fetishistic delight shoot through my body. I stretch one of the long, electric-soft legs against my arm and feel the warm scented nylon tease the sex-sensitised skin of my arm. I feel a charge of powerful sexual excitement and imagine a future enveloped in sheer, sensual hose.

  I sit down on the bed. I feel the panty girdle tighten around my waist and press between my buttocks and place a deeply erotic pressure on my balls. I take the tights and carefully roll the left leg into a gently bunched bowl, remembering a moment of pure erotic bliss when I had watched my mother dress a few years before, a moment secretly snatched through a crack in her bedroom door, a moment branded onto my tormented transvestite consciousness. My dream had been to repeat her elegant, graceful gestures as she had sat on her dressing table stool and slipped into a pair of ultra-sheer black nylon tights, as she had so carefully and yet easily guided the soft shimmering nylon over her long silken legs, the slightest smile of pleasure on her strawberry lips, a smile that betrayed a simple joy in her gorgeous femininity, a joy I have yearned to feel myself for so long – a joy I am now finally experiencing.

  I guide my left foot into the bowl and squeal with a dreadful pleasure as my skin makes first astonishing contact with the soft nylon fabric. Its impact is amazing. Suddenly, it is as if I can feel a tidal wave of the Feminine crash across my body and envelop my soul. As I guide the nylon over my foot, I feel each gesture, each tiny movement, each beat of my heart become so much more feminine. I find myself pointing my toes downwards in exactly the same manner as my mother, a gesture of profoundly feminine grace. I pull the leg of the tights up over my foot and then begin very slowly to stretch it up to just below my knee. Then, carefully, with a teasing precision, I repeat the process with the second leg. Then, my legs together, my cock struggling with an erotic desperation and futility against the tight elastane wall of the panty girdle, I stand and ease the tights up my legs. As I do so, tears of a dark, harsh and most unforgiving pleasure trickle down my red cheeks. This is all I have ever wanted. This is all I am.

  I find myself wiggling my erotically oppressed bottom and hips in a helplessly feminine manner as I pull the tights up over my thighs and the patterned surface of the panty girdle. A sense of pure elation fills me like a huge white light. Yes, I am in heaven!

  Then the tights are positioned and I look down at my legs with new eyes. I run my hands over the second skin of soft nylon and fight a sudden dizziness, the pleasure fierce and utterly irresistible. The electric pulse of the nylon teases my hot, desperate flesh and I am consumed by feelings of hyper-erotic femininity. I step forwards, taking small, girlish steps, watching the way my legs move with a tormenting elegant sway. I marvel at the way the tights accentuate and demonstrate the feminine curvature and length of my legs and thus begin to reveal in the most striking fashion the simple fact of my instinctive feminine being.

  Then I slowly return to the bed and sit down. I cross my legs and gasp with renewed pleasure. I stretch my toes and feel astonishingly transformed, the girl at the heart of me exploding forth, an eruption of graceful femininity. I take up the second pair of tights, black and slender, a maximum of twenty denier. I run them across my hands and sink my hot face into the silky, semi-transparent gusset. Then I breathe deep, hoping for some pungent hint of my Aunt’s most intimate secrets.

  Then I pull the tights over my already hosed legs and the desired effect is made immediately apparent. Suddenly, my legs are truly feminine: the combination of the semi-opaque tights and the black tights ensure that any sign of masculine hair is completely removed. Yes, these are now the legs of a beautiful young woman, of the beautiful young woman in me.

  I walk across the room, trapped for a few seconds in a strange sex delirium, lost in a world previously beyond comprehension, a world of pure, unrefined and utterly unforgiving pleasure. For a
moment or two, all sense of self is lost, as if I have been wrapped in a fine film of sensual black nylon and plunged into a gorgeous void of fetishistic nothingness.

  It is a struggle, but eventually I manage to pull myself from this pure, tormenting ecstasy and return to the bed. Here I slip – with an increasingly helpless feminine grace – into the shimmering white silk panties. The fine, slightly slippery material brushes against my nylon-sheathed legs with an electric tickle and I gasp with shocked desire. Then I pull the panties gently into place and take up the equally delicate and sensual white silk slip. I pour it over my slender shoulders with a moan of pleasure and let it fall down my chest like a stream of pure arousal. As it envelops my body, I feel even the slightest trace of masculinity crushed and suppressed. The victory of the Feminine is total, a victory I embrace with an addict’s desperation.

  I smooth the shimmering silk fabric over my body and then lift the check mini-skirt from the bed. I widen its elasticated waist and very delicately step into it, each movement – never mind how slight – gorgeously exaggerated and precisely enhanced by this heavenly feminine attire. I position the skirt around my waist. It barely covers my black nylon-sheathed upper thighs and adds to the deliberate and intensely erotic revelation of my elegant, long and very shapely legs. I stare down at the shocking reality of my femininity and it is as if I am looking down at someone else, at the legs of a beautiful, sexy young woman.

  Then I take the plastic bag from the bed and pull out a grey-coloured cardboard box. From the box I extract the pair of black patent leather court shoes, classic in design, sensual in intent. I stare at them with hungry, yet also nervous eyes. I have never walked in heels, and these shoes have five-inch stilettos that end in sharp metal tipped points – severe, sado-erotic and utterly amazing!

  I place the shoes at my hosed feet, bending forwards with knees drawn tightly together in a suitably demure and intensely feminine manner. I stand up and stare down at the shining, almost teasing shoes. Then, carefully, nervously, I slip my right foot into the corresponding shoe, feeling the sudden elevation and the erotic elongation of my leg. I gasp and quickly – almost panic-stricken – slip my left foot into the other shoe, pulling myself upwards and forwards as I do so and suddenly launching myself five inches into the air, where I sway with a momentary terror and a definite and desperate ungainliness.