by Various
At first it is merely a matter of maintaining my balance, of preventing an embarrassing and pathetic collapse. Panic is the main emotion. But then there is another feeling: relief; the shoes fit and, after a few minutes, there is at least a sense of slight confidence in my balance. I will remain upright for the time being! But then I try to take a step forwards and what little confidence I have managed to retain is immediately put in terrible doubt. The step becomes a stagger and I feel myself fall helplessly forwards. The only way to prevent myself pitching into oblivion is to take another step and thus double the chance of collapse. But it is a risk I must take, and suddenly I find myself tottering helplessly forwards, my arms waving at my sides like some insane robot, my bottom wiggling uncontrollably, the electric nylon enveloping my thighs creating a fear-framed sex static as my legs are forced together by the tiny steps demanded by the heels. Then, suddenly, I am walking. A point of balance is attained. The crisis is past.
And, within a few minutes, I am lost in the pure ecstasy of an instinctive and rather beautiful feminine movement, a modest ballet built upon the basic principles of counterbalance. My steps tiny, my bottom wiggling, my hips swaying, I achieve the truth of a girlish locomotion and moan with pride and pleasure. And for a further five minutes I totter eagerly around the room, each high-heeled step a further confirmation of the glorious reality of my natural femininity.
Then I move towards the dressing table. Carefully, with a renewed nervousness, I lower myself onto the red leather-backed dressing table stool, legs again close together, my cock burning with a blind, animal fury, my heart pounding with a sex-fuelled intensity into my ribs.
Then I am staring at myself, at the pretty young man in the female attire, at the shocking ambiguity of my reflection, at the fact that even before make-up, padding and the gorgeous silk blouse, I more resemble a girl than a boy.
I take up a blood-red lipstick and carefully unscrew its long, phallic length. Using the mirror to guide its progress, I place the stick against my upper lip and rather shakily run it across the length of soft, sensual human flesh. With my lips painted, the transformation is even more intense and realistic.
After the lipstick, I apply a light, heavily scented tan foundation powder with a pink-coloured puff, across my cheeks, forehead and neck. Then I use a light-blue eye-shadow to decorate my eyelids, followed by mascara, a final touch of feminine decoration that leaves a smile of excitement and triumph on my painted lips.
The face before me is now surely that of a young woman. Everything I have always suspected is here revealed as truth. I am a creature of the Feminine, and its dreadful, beautiful power emerges in my smile and the sparkling light at the heart of my astonished gaze.
I cover my neck and shoulders in a powerful rose perfume and only just stifle an embarrassing sneeze. Then I totter joyously back to the bed and add the final piece to this lovely, life-changing jigsaw – the beautifully cut and designed white silk blouse. I hold it up before me like an expensive antique, with an eroticised care. My sex-filled eyes pass across its perfect form and I know all my secret dreams of feminine envelopment will very soon be realised.
I guide the right sleeve over my narrow, girlish wrist and then up my slender right arm. The kiss of gravity-defying and very expensive silk is almost unbearably pleasurable and by the time I have managed to slide the other sleeve up my left arm and gently tease the blouse over my shoulders, I am fighting the very real threat of a resounding premature ejaculation.
But I survive this further test of my will to dress, and manage, after struggling with the pearl buttons, to button the blouse up all the way to the high be-frilled neck. Then, very gently, as if handling sex dynamite, I tuck the blouse deep into the skirt.
I run my hands over my elegantly feminised body and feel a briefly blinding sense of absolute triumph. I have created myself anew, or rather I have freed a long-suppressed and profound facet of my personality. I make my way with some trepidation towards the full-length mirror fixed to the inside of one of the closet doors knowing there is now no turning back, that, even after I have carefully replaced all this wondrous feminine attire, I will be unable to put this new feminine me away. Today I have opened a box of delights and identity that will never be closed. And this fact is made even more apparent when I face my reflection, the reflection of a very boyish, but also beautiful teenage girl, whose wide, deceptively innocent eyes betray fascination and a fundamental, inescapable need for more of this forever and ever.
I am lost in my reflection. Indeed, it is as if I have stepped into a mirror universe where I am the pretty girl I have always dreamed of being. I am so lost in these first moments of deep and overwhelming self-fascination that I fail to hear the bedroom door open and my Aunt, my lovely, imperial, buxom Aunt, enter the room.
And it is only when she steps into the range of my reflection that I am suddenly, shockingly and awfully aware of her. I freeze solid. Suddenly, desire turns to the most intense terror and then a dreadful, soul-crushing sense of inescapable humiliation.
But then I look into her eyes and see not the expected anger, horror or outrage, but a surprised amusement and something else: consideration of a new and fascinating opportunity.
I turn and face her, struck dumb with embarrassment and fear, yet even now gripped by the need to retain femininity, grace, care of movement. Yes, the reflection has broken free of the mirror, whatever happens.
‘Well, well,’ my Aunt whispers, her bloody, glistening lips curved into an ironic, yet also potentially cruel smile, a light of desire and fascination burning in her golden-brown eyes. ‘What have we got here?’
– Chris, North London, UK
Payback
My story goes back to when I met two friends I hadn’t seen in ages, but who had been really close when the three of us always went on holiday in the same place. I’ve changed the names and places, for obvious reasons, but everything else is as it happened.
It started in London, and I had to look twice before I could be sure it really was Becky walking towards me down the street. She looked so different, so smart. She’d cut her riot of brown curls short, and, in place of the jeans and jumper I was used to, she wore a black skirt suit, designer cut and obviously expensive. Glasses, patent heels, and most of all the leather briefcase she was carrying made her look a million miles from the vivacious hoyden who’d always teased the boys so outrageously back then, on those endless summers near Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight.
Eight years had passed, but it was still like yesterday: the three of us, Becky, Sarah, and I, always together, on the beaches, down at the clubs, just walking on the open hills above the holiday park in which our parents had owned chalets. Becky had always been the noisy one, extrovert, brash even, the one who got us into trouble. Sarah had been our siren, sultry and sexy, with her huge brown eyes and envy-making chest, the one who drew the boys, always. Me, I’d been the quiet one, little, mousy Jo, although I’d had my moments.
She was heading for Moorgate tube, and I was going to be lost if I didn’t hurry. A frantic dash across the street, earning a rude remark from a passing cabbie, and I was pushing through the crowd behind her, and calling out. She turned, looking puzzled, then surprised, then delighted. Ten minutes later we were in Jack’s, laughing together over a bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé, and I was calling Sarah.
From Jack’s the three of us went to the Pack Rat, for a bite to eat and another bottle, of Chilean Shiraz this time, and a third, which left us giggling together with our arms linked as we walked back towards the station, just like the old days, only in the City instead of along the beach. We made the station, but we were having far too much fun to head home separately. Becky’s flat was the nearest, a top floor conversion in South Islington, where we crashed out with another bottle of wine we’d picked up along the way.
We’d started reminiscing, inevitably, about the times we’d had together: our all girls team in the local raft race; pinching my parents’ car to drive into
Cowes; and boys, most of all boys. That left me a little quiet. Every boy we’d met, just about, had fancied Sarah first. Becky had been quite capable of putting herself forwards, which had often changed their minds. I’d had to put up with the leftovers.
Becky was in full flow.
‘. . . of and that French guy, Patrice, so cute . . .’
Sarah gave a snort of pure contempt.
‘. . . and so arrogant with it! Do you know what he said, on our last night? “Sarah, mon petit choux,” he says, “you know I am a – how do you say – a free spirit, that I must love other women, but, for me, you will always be my English girlfriend, and I will be first in your heart”.’
Becky and I laughed, for the memory, and for her phoney French accent. I could well remember Patrice, a slim boy with a wistful expression and tousled brown hair. He’d been attractive, but not the most attractive. Oh no, that had been Mark Calderdale; dark, mysterious Mark, with the cool smile and ever-present shades, Mark who every girl fancied. He’d had his own caravan. He’d had a motorbike. He’d had everything.
He’d had Sarah, and inevitably he was the one she moved on to.
‘. . . and that Mark, he was something else. I’ll never forget him . . . The first night, after a beach party, we walked up to the Downs, along that little sandy track between the tall hedges, you must remember, to that place we used to meet for picnics, looking over the Needles . . .’
She finished with a long sigh. That was not enough for Becky.
‘Did you?’
Sarah nodded.
‘My first time.’
‘Tell.’
‘Becky! I . . .’
‘Tell, Sarah.’
I wanted to know. Like Becky, and every other girl around at the time, I’d fancied him rotten. He’d been so horny, just the way he was, and because of the rumours of the things he’d done, the people he knew. I added my voice to Becky’s.
‘Tell us, Sarah, come on. This is us.’
Sarah smiled, a little shy.
‘OK, OK, if I have to.’
‘You do.’
‘Yes, and we want the juicy details.’
Sarah was more than a little flushed, but she took a good swig of her wine and began, with Becky and I listening entranced.
‘He’d really got to me . . . you know that, obviously, and you know the way he was, too. I felt I was ready, and that he was the right person, because . . . because he was so experienced, and he knew how to be gentle, and . . . and he made me feel special. We were standing by the fire, a little back, and he just put his finger to his lips, to hush me, and took my hand. I let him lead me, up the track, with a band of stars visible between the tops of the hedges, and so silent, and his hand warm in mine. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more protected, and I knew I could simply give myself to him and everything would be all right . . .’
Becky interrupted.
‘Never mind that, what about the dirty bits? Did he make you suck his cock?’
‘Becky! No, he did not, he didn’t make me do anything. He was very gentle. When we got to the picnic site he spread that long leather coat he used to wear down on the grass and laid me down. We were kissing for so long before he did anything heavy. He spent ages just stroking my hair and neck, kissing too, until it was like I was in a dream world. There was nothing crude about him, nothing, not like most boys . . .’
Becky interrupted again.
‘Yeah, like that bloke Pete who was always trying to get girls to show their knickers. Now there was a dirty bastard.’
‘You went out with him!’
‘Oh yeah! He’d do anything I wanted, for hours, and I mean hours.’
Sarah gave a meaningful cough.
‘Mark was not like that. He was the perfect man – my perfect man, anyway, maybe not yours, Becky – very strong, but very gentle. It was as if he could read my mind too, because he only began to undress me when I was truly ready, and he did it for me, not for himself. He kept telling me he loved me too, and how special I was, and how privileged he was . . .’
Becky made a face, pretending to be sick.
‘Becky! If you don’t want to hear . . .’
‘No, no, I want to hear. Sorry. I’ll shut up now.’
‘Good. Where was I? Oh yes, he really took care of me, made me feel I was the most important person in the world, and that he really understood how special the moment was to me. He took all my clothes off, every stitch, and I can still remember what he said, “to show the full, tender bloom of your beauty”. It was so lovely, and . . . I just melted into his arms, and . . . and I was crying as we did it, just a little sad, maybe, but mainly for joy.’
She shrugged, embarrassed, and hid her face in her wine glass. Becky looked a little surprised.
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes. What more do you want?’
‘I don’t know, some dirty details maybe . . .’
‘I told you, he wasn’t like that. It was a wonderful, fulfilling experience.’
‘Tame, more like! He wasn’t like that with me.’
A look of serious shock appeared on Sarah’s face.
‘With you? What do you mean, with you?’
Becky went on blithely.
‘When he had me. He was rough, well rough. It was in that club, the Monkey’s Nuts . . . not your sort of place, maybe, but you remember, where the bikers used to go. He was always down there, and even those guys, really hard guys, Hell’s Angels and all sorts, they used to respect him. One night these two guys were giving me a hard time – like fucking bears, they were, big and hairy, and they stank of fags and booze. It was getting nasty, and they wouldn’t let me go, saying if I wanted to hang out there I had to be gang-banged. So Mark comes over, so cool, and puts his arm around me and just says, “Hey, guys, she’s my girl, OK?” They backed off, just like that. Now, I mean, you know what he was like, and I was not fighting, but I tell you, I don’t think it would have made any difference. He keeps his arm around my shoulder, right, and just steers me towards the loos. Everyone sees, and everyone knows what’s going to happen. In we go. He sits down, unzips and pulls out his cock. “You can give me a blow job,” he says, not like there’s a choice, but like he knows I want to. Oh that was good, so good. I go down on my knees, and he’s already half stiff, and rolling his foreskin up and down. I take him in, and, oh, just the feel of him in my mouth, and his taste, all man . . .’
She paused, gave me a knowing looking and took a swallow of wine. I was beginning to get seriously horny, and feel something of the envy which had always been there in the background on our holidays. I wanted to listen, though, because I could remember the club, which I’d hardly dared go near, never mind into. Becky’s view of Mark was rather more as I remembered him too, and I knew that if he’d demanded I suck his cock I’d have been down on my knees in a flash. She went on, a little breathless, her neck flushed pink.
‘I was happy just the way we were, with his lovely long cock to suck on, and all those hard guys outside knowing what I was doing. Not Mark. He decided he wanted it all, and what he wanted, he got. He told me to sit in his lap, told me, not asked me. I did it, straddled on him with my knickers off and my skirt up around my waist. He made me take my top off too, so I was showing everything. There were even holes in the walls, you know, like gay guys suck each other off through, and I’m sure we were watched, but I didn’t care. It was just too good, to be with Mark that way, with him in control . . .’
She finished with a little shiver. Sarah had listened wide-eyed and staring. When she spoke it was in an awed whisper.
‘He didn’t, really?’
Becky was smiling as she answered.
‘Oh, yes, he did.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
Sarah didn’t get a chance to finish, Becky interrupting her with a sigh.
‘He was the best, wasn’t he? You fancied him too, didn’t you, Jo? Shame you missed out.’
I shook my head.
‘No. I didn
’t miss out.’
Sarah had been looking thoughtful, or maybe just drunk, but her head jerked up sharply. Becky nearly dropped her glass.
‘You are joking!’
‘What, serious, you fucked Mark?’
They’d answered in chorus, their voices full of doubt. I lifted my chin a little.
‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.’
‘Tell!’
‘Yes, what happened, Jo? And when?’
I had their full attention.
‘What happened was that right at the end of one summer, when you two had already gone back, and so had just about everyone else, I met Mark in Yarmouth. We went for a walk together, talking and joking about all the fun we’d had, you know, a bit melancholy, because summer was over. I remember we could feel that autumn was coming as we walked through the woods, along by the shore. He let me wear his coat, and when he put it around my shoulders he kissed me, and . . . and well, it just seemed so natural.’
Sarah gave a weak nod.
‘And this was the same summer he went out with me?’
I realised I’d made a mistake.
‘I . . . yes . . . shit . . . it was a long time ago, and he said you’d had this big row on your last night, and . . .’
‘No we did not have a big row! We were writing love letters to each other for months! I’ve still got them somewhere, and all the time, with my friend . . .’
‘Sorry, Sarah, I really thought . . .’
‘I’m sure you did, but . . . but really! And what a two-timing rat he was! And hang on, hang on. If you and Mark were together at the Monkey’s Nuts, Becky, that must have been . . . ninety-five. Because it got closed down, didn’t it?’