Nick/Nicola
Mark Ramsden
“Write something about me,” says Nick/Nicola.
There are two of us here but this is a threesome.
Nick/Nicola is two different people; mostly male but also credibly female whenever s/he wants.
Nicola is bent over her dining-room table. On huge platform heels schoolgirls shouldn’t really wear. With her silver disco skirt rucked up around her waist and translucent red panties hugging her bottom. Which is going to get six licks with this rattan cane before being kissed better. After which all heaven may break loose.
But first I’m sat at his/her computer, trying to preserve who s/he is for my amusement. Capturing who people really are – or at least the way they look to me – is an obsession of mine. Probably because that is the only way you can control anything. That’s my inner shrink. A prissy little spoilsport who is also going to get a damn good thrashing in a minute. If I ever get tired of Nicola. And her taut, tight derriere. Which reddens up nicely. Yet always heals quickly. And is so clean inside and out you would think the little darling was an enema enthusiast. But no, she’s just delicate.
Sugar and spice and all things nice. That’s what this little girl is made of. Sweet as she is, it’s often hard to have a relationship with a tranny. They are already deeply committed to an idea of themselves; who they might be – one day soon – when they have found the right wig and make-up. And should I mention relationships in an erotic context anyway? Especially when we are still hot for each other.
We have yet to die the long, slow death of marriage; life without parole, in a cell that’s always too small. Couples are, in theory, a union. In practice, they are usually like two dogs fighting over a bone. Or actors elbowing each other out of the spotlight.
“This is about relationships,” says Nick/Nicola. “It’s supposed to be about me!”
Or perhaps like siblings competing for gifts and attention . . . The comfort and cuddles brigade sometimes say it is worth getting old and fat together. I was ready for that – for the sake of the children. But I didn’t have enough money for my greedy whore of a wife so I’m back on the prowl now – blade-thin, with an expensive sniffle that just won’t quit. Although it’s not all bad. I’m permanently excused family Xmases. And other people’s parents.
Nick may not want Xmas but he is still a tranny; a cross-dresser with a hidden agenda. And I’m less interested in being someone else’s mirror. Even if s/he is a pretty little thing. Nick has light blue eyes, blonde hair, soft clear skin, a delicate upturned nose and full feminine lips. He is a fine figure of a man. Driving round the countryside in his sports car he looks like the star of a sixties action show. Nick King; Private Detective. Cruising down the Kings Road in a white Aston Martin. While an acquiescent blonde in a fur coat simpers obligingly in the passenger seat.
Right now he is in his early forties although there are few signs of this on his face. Quite why his skin is so soft and silky is a mystery. No paid liar for the beauty industry would believe that this complexion is the result of a diet consisting of white bread and microwaved curries. He does not take vitamin supplements or use any grooming products. He washes in supermarket own brand shampoo, a substance also used as shaving lather and sexual lubricant – at least for the purposes of self-love. He’s very cute but I doubt whether he has ever seduced anyone with a handful of cheap supermarket bubbles.
Nick could claim to be trans-gendered, although at an early stage on that confusing journey to two separate destinations – fulfilment both as a man and as a woman. As if those of us setting out in one of those directions ever got far along the road before the traffic got too heavy. Before unexpected diversions eventually sap the will to continue. Besides which, there is only one real destination on this journey, a dark eternal cul de sac that most refuse to contemplate. But why not focus on youth and beauty as Nick embodies both those qualities? And, as Philip Larkin demonstrated for far too long, wittering on that we are all going to die is not particularly helpful.
“This is about you again,” says Nicola. “Or telling us about some gloomy old git. Write something about me! I’m here right now!”
A proper dom would have insisted on Nicola saying “Master” or “Mistress”. But I can’t be bothered taking myself that seriously, being a human first and a pantomime dom second. He may also be too damn strong to be subjected to real mental and physical torment. Which sometimes pushes people over the edge. I am the dominant partner in some sexual situations, but my hands are softer and gentler than Nick’s. I never launched my forehead at the bridge of anyone else’s nose. The one punch I ever threw produced a black eye, but it left me with a permanently crooked fourth finger – as no one had ever shown a softie like me how to box.
My grim face sometimes frightens people but Nick actually is hard. There have been times when decades of taunts about his prettiness caused a swift and decisive outbreak of violence. Times when ignorant and aggressive drunks found themselves weeping and writhing on the floor, their ugly faces now a little more rugged and manly than they might have wished. Some pretty boys could head-butt harder and faster than the average drunk might have reasonably expected. Maybe “reason” isn’t the right word when discussing the tabloid-fed male, those who judge a sunburnt beer-belly a badge of pride. The media might be liberal these days but your average lad still wants to attack anyone who triggers their buried homoeroticism.
“Write something about me! Not you, again.”
She’s so needy. Just like me when I was a sub. I rub the twin tails of a tawse between Nicola’s legs and watch her squirm as it stimulates some dangling equipment that real girls don’t have.
The first time we met I had her over my knee, while others played in the same room. I didn’t know her name or anything else about her. For once my dick broke through the drug barrier and a certain shyness during group sex, lurching up toward my belly button. It must have been her mingled earth and sex scent, as I dug my fingers deeper and deeper into her opening. Even though Will was with the gorgeous and beguiling Ritz, he couldn’t keep his eyes off us as my hand burrowed into her past the knuckles. No lube and almost fisting. Scrupulously clean inside and out. Always gagging for it. There must be a flaw somewhere. Oh yes. We both prefer women – heaven knows why, but there it is. I suppose they do offer a better selection of textures and odours. If you can stand the grief.
We both had wives who threw us out although we didn’t want to go. And we both didn’t want to go for the same reason; the children, whom we love dearly. Neither of us yearns for the dumb dollies we married. Although perhaps Nick and I shouldn’t have been dumb enough to listen to society’s dictates. Get married! Have children! And if you don’t agree you haven’t “grown up”. Although what is so “grown up” about the adult female search for Prince Charming women have yet to tell us . . .
“Why isn’t this about me?” says Nicola, justifiably annoyed that s/he had opened so much of herself up and she was being ignored. So let’s have some “back story”, as they say in the movies.
His/her mother was still spanking her at a surprisingly late age. This was not exactly child abuse – teenager abuse, I suppose. But if the legacy of these dreadful childrearing techniques is these seven-hour whip and fuck fests, we shouldn’t complain.
I can’t figure out why some trans-gendered people are also tough guys. Did they toughen up in response to fear of being gay? Or did they learn to relax and let the feminine spirit come through as they grew to maturity? I have a shaven head, tattoos and muscles, but I feel feminine some of the time. And have always unconsciously chosen gay or girlie colours, fashions and styles of art. That’s Mother Nature and her twisted sense of humour – always eager for a laugh at our expense. Why would she make a fit bloke like Nick then inflict several years’ worth of surgery on his manliest organ during the crucial years of adolescence? I couldn’t bear to ask why all that surgery had been necessary but the resulting organ eventually functioned well enough
to produce two children. Perhaps Mother Nature couldn’t make her mind up. Was she building a man or a woman? So she decided to do both.
For a handsome guy he certainly makes a good-looking girl. Especially when Nicola wears my old wig which looks much better on her – a red bob that frames her prominent cheekbones. Seen from behind, like now, as she shifts her weight from her aching knees, Nick is an attractive woman with a small, tight tush; a delicate little derriere that most women would do anything for. Anything other than give up alcohol, chocolate and chips. While reserving the right to bitch on endlessly at any other women’s slightest gain in weight or the hint of a wrinkle. Oh dear, the writer’s a “misogynist”. No, just pointing out something we all know but aren’t allowed to say.
“Write something about me! This is just you going on and on again.”
Sometimes Nicola reminds me of those perhaps illusory, easy-to-please girlies of my teenage years. Before feminism mobilized and the sex war became about as much fun as a real war. Perhaps I expected too much from women. (Perhaps? Chorus of many disgruntled ex-partners.) If Nick does something annoying it’s not like my mother betraying me yet again, or the pointless random opposition of women in general. It’s just a man pleasing himself – which is something I can relate to.
Although it’s harder to understand the need to be a woman. For me dressing is another fetish to be explored, another excuse for sexual debauchery. Whereas some find trans-gendered personalities within themselves that strengthen and develop. My female personae come and go, perhaps wilting for the lack of proper care and nourishment.
In my view, not hers, Nicola is sometimes too influenced by those a little too far gone round the trans-gender bend, a little lost in their own self-built mazes. He talked about hormones, a momentary madness, thankfully. For what could be sadder than going through years of gender reassignment to find you don’t like your new sex? And you can’t re-assign your memories, can you?
Besides, s/he has yet to learn the walk. As for the voice . . . well, few people get that right and I don’t care anyway. The male/female mix is exciting to me. Cross-dressing really is more than an elaborate ruse to allow same-sex eroticism. Cue snickers from lifestyle gay men here, although none will have lasted this far. As this isn’t a story about the hunt for the largest cock or the prettiest boy they will probably have turned to something more in tune with their needs and desires. Ooh. All this cross-dressing must be making me bitchy.
“Stop all this . . . crap about what gay men supposedly like. Write something about me.”
But who are you? You don’t even know yourself, for all this talk about dressing being a path to “who I really am”. And who on earth are “we”, this couple who come together every now and again. We have wildly dissimilar backgrounds so it’s hard to see where this could ever go. Without the social glue of ecstasy we would never have met.
“What do you see in me?” s/he once asked.
“You’ve got many cute habits,” I might have said, if ecstasy and ketamine hadn’t reduced me to the usual catatonic trance. “Your natural androgyny, that girly face and bum, the way your left eye starts to droop and then stays closed the more blitzed you get. It makes me feel like I must be doing something right. Look! She’s winking at me again.”
What would he see in me? As I’m not handsome or confident enough. Hardly surprising as my life has just fallen apart. I’m “decent”, apparently. Which would be news to my wife or anyone else I have hurled a lot of abuse at. Maybe I am a contrast to the many gay men who just want to fuck anything with a pulse. And then find another one. Having crossed the first guy off their list.
“This is all about you. Write something about me!”
Vanity, thy name is Nick/Nicola. Without me you wouldn’t even get on the printed page. Without me you wouldn’t have that wig – instead of the foul curly perm you used to have. And s/he gave herself the wrong name. As trannies sometimes do. I know a posh t-girl called Sharon. And nobody terrestrial should be called Chane (pronounced Shanay). Not that I’m a control freak or anything. Not at all . . . Chane is a character in a science fiction book and movie. The movie starred Sting. Sorry to invoke the anti-Christ but there it is. Science fiction and a faint memory of Sting. It’s definitely the wrong name. So it’s “Nicola” from now on. The name for the person I want to create. Nick may not agree. Couples often don’t.
I could rhapsodize about the scent of his, sorry, her, body, or some of his cuter habits or just what s/he triggers in me. But men leching on about their own hunger for sex is not exactly a popular theme so let’s stick with the romance. Suffice to say I make a three-hour journey each way to get her on my own over a table. Anyone who lives in London already knows that’s a pretty strong endorsement. “Are you writing about me?” s/he asks, wiggling her bum. Which will have to wait for the moment. Fulfilment is transitory but frustration is eternal, my dear . . .
“Of course I’m writing about you,” I tell her, with a fond chuckle. As if I would be going on about myself again. It’s not as if either of us are men – selfish bastards concerned only with our own needs and desires.
S/he’s right though. It’s time Nicola got what she wants. What I want too. And if something doesn’t happen soon the reader may well be back on the internet; where you can get anything for free. And there are few enough trans-gendered kink enthusiasts as it is . . .
“It’s not that dragon cane again, is it?” asks Nicola. In a not remotely servile voice. You would never know that Nicola sees herself as a submissive. She’s one of the many willing to be a slave, just as long as it doesn’t involve any personal inconvenience. And as long as s/he gets everything she wants, when she wants it. Just like I used to be. Luckily I have evolved this Liberal Democrat style of domming. “You might like it if . . .” “Why not try this?” And I always leave multiple choice options. Perhaps I’m as hopeless at domming as s/he is at subbing. Or perhaps it’s infinitely preferable to be who we actually are, rather than follow some tedious, granite-faced S&M script.
“It’s the dragon cane,” I tell her. “Rattan. The one with the scarlet thread. And you love it,” I tell her, tapping the rod across the proffered buttocks to take aim, prolonging the wait for the first kiss of the cane. And it’s another excuse to touch her many more times before the caning begins. Every now and again it’s good to pinch her, to ascertain how firm her flesh is, to see how her bottom shifts and wriggles, the cheeks rubbing against each other, occasionally offering glimpses of the mystery in between.
Sometimes s/he yearns to be in a couple. As I do. Although distance conspires against us. And, let’s face it, if we lived too close the heat would dissipate. We would have the same problem with monogamy that everyone else has. How often do you want to eat cold porridge? So, for the moment, and in the moment, it’s going fine.
“Breathe deeply,” I tell her. Although her pain threshold is high anyway. She sometimes complains but she’s a pain-slut really. Maybe just an everything-slut, bless her. After a few minutes hand spanking to warm her up, it’s almost time to begin. She would mark better without the warm up but a caning is a serious business, far too painful without a little preparation. But then she did leave me stranded on the station. In the dark. After I had taken rather too much ketamine, a seriously confusing substance. Especially when consumed on trains. For that she deserves a proper thrashing, never mind “safe, sane and consensual”, the scene mantra which most people ignore whenever it suits them. It’s a fierce joy to peel her red knickers down slowly, to bow down and plant a kiss on each cheek, to catch a hint of her clean but ever so slightly savoury scent. One more swish of the cane through the air, as hard as I would like to hit her for keeping me waiting. Which would be painful enough to make her leap up. But I can’t do that. Having abandoned senseless cruelty some time in my youth.
“Oh, I’d got changed already,” she said. She had “dressed”, as trannies say, in order to tart around in a chat room. When a real person had dragged themselves acr
oss two counties to see her. Typical male sexuality, of course. Nothing is ever good enough. It’s always the hunt for the next one. Even if, like me, you mislay valuable possessions in the process. Such as wives. Lovers. Careers . . .
There is a deep throaty laugh after the first stroke lands. Is it really going to be that hard? Well, yes it is, petal. She likes it, really. It’s best when it’s hard enough to feel the next day. When the glow from sex and the shafting with our various toys can still be felt. She likes to taunt her homophobic work mates with what a good time she has had. Although getting inside her tight, winsomely cute ass is not always easy it’s heavenly when I do. But first, a disobedient little madam needs her rump reddening.
I stand back and take careful aim. You would never know that caning someone is such hard work, not from pornography often written by people who never do it. It’s easy enough to miss and catch someone halfway down the thighs, triggering a searing agony with no erotic benefits.
Another stroke draws a long sigh and a shake of her hips. Then it’s time to kneel down and kiss her along the red ridges left by the cane. During which time I lose my head and drift. Lost in the moment. Worshipping her. Pleasing myself. Groaning and grovelling. Sex, violence and religion in one package; how can you go back to infantile dreams of monogamy after this? Pressing her opening with the heel of my hand gets her whole body to rock, preparing her to open up for me later. And all through this my erection is aching. Hello, old friend. Haven’t seen you much during the many recent ecstasy binges. We really must do this more often . . .
“Write about me!” insists Nicola. Aware that I’m drifting off-message. S/he always wants to be centre stage. Just as I did, when I was in her position. I lay on a few strokes, which are accepted gratefully. I compare this moment with the many images I have both real and imagined – a resource just as valuable to me as some monogamist’s dreams.
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