A Love Game

by Nicole Dere

  ‘Say thank you to your mistress.’

  I gaped at Ant’s jovial words, then shivered at the deep, deep thrill that quivered right through me at their import.

  My thoughts returned quickly to the present as Clio gave one last flick at the rich curl of my black eyelashes and stood back, staring appraisingly. ‘There! You look absolutely gorgeous. I’m quite jealous! Take a look at yourself.’ She gestured towards the dressing table mirror, and I stared in fascination at the transformed image gazing back at me: the subtly made-up face, feminised, yet harmonising strangely with the new silk-smoothness of the slender form beneath.

  Just a few days before, I had accompanied Clio and Ant on a rare trip out of the house and the compound. For this treat I was given a crisp new white kanzu, the traditional garment worn by native males after the advent of the colonial missionaries, which was an exact replica of the Victorian nightshirt. Its thin cotton was scarcely proof against the power of the direct glare of tropical sunlight, as I soon learnt, to my intense embarrassment – I was not given anything to wear beneath it, my only other item of attire being a pair of cheap rubber flipflops. However, after my recent habitual nudity, such comprehensive cover seemed luxurious, coming as it did almost to my ankles. And I soon learnt to avoid the full blaze of the tropic sun whenever possible.

  Although my shameful presence in the new household of my wife and her lover was an avidly salacious topic of sniggering speculation among the town’s small expatriate community, none of them had actually seen me in my degrading role, and my heart began to beat rapidly with apprehension at the thought of being exposed to their scorn. It was with a great sense of relief that I noted that Ant was turning, not into the township, but onto the long, narrow, potholed strip of tarmac that ran for 350km to the capital. Then relief was replaced by fresh apprehension as I speculated on what lay ahead for me. My fears were fuelled by the long journey, for already I had learnt better than to ask. “Speak when spoken to” was a lesson I had absorbed quickly. But even myalarmingly vivid imagination failed to anticipate what lay ahead, until Ant dropped both Clio and myself off outside the fashionable beauty salon where Clio had been a regular client whenever she could make it over the past year and more. ‘See you at the City Bar round about four!’ Ant called, with a final wave before pulling into the busy traffic of one of the main boulevards.

  The salon, and the expensive boutique to which it was attached, was owned by Madame Carina, a Greek. She was a striking individual, both small in stature and extremely slim. It was impossible to assess her true age, though she was clearly past the bloom of youth. Her features were finely moulded, aristocratic looking, her complexion deeply tanned, whether by nature or by artifice. ‘It’s an all-over tan!’ Clio had chuckled after one of her early visits, which, in view of the smirking lascivious murmurs and hints of Madame Carina’s ambivalent sexual preferences from the womenfolk, made me wonder just how Clio had made such a discovery. ‘She believes in a hands-on approach!’ Clio had chuckled. ‘Especially for the massage!’

  My embarrassment flooded through me as I followed Clio obediently into the salon. Madame Carina swept forward with a cry of delighted recognition. Her arms opened wide as she embraced Clio enthusiastically. She was almost six inches shorter than my wife. Her figure was slight – her breasts were scarcely outlined in the flowing full-length kitengegown of vivid flowered patterns she was wearing. She reached up, nuzzled at Clio’s neck and ear with an intimacy and enthusiasm that stopped just short of being questionable. Clearly, an appointment had been arranged, for she was immediately ushered through the curtained doorway towards the inner sanctum. While I stood there in blushing uncertainty, Madame Carina released Clio and came up close to me. For a wild instant, I thought she was about to embrace me too, but instead she raised a delicate hand and brushed its fragrant palm in light caress across the base of my neck and my jaw, lingering enough to make it in its own way every bit as intimeas her greeting of Clio.

  But then suddenly they were abandoning me, both grinning widely, and Madame nodded towards the long narrow couch, elevated like an operating table and covered by a spotless white sheet. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ the Greek smiled, in that husky, attractive tone. ‘Take off your clothes. All of them.’ She turned towards the grinning Clio, one long arched eyebrow raised. ‘Complete depilation, you said?’

  Clio snickered and nodded. ‘Full works. Brazilian.’

  As they moved out, both laughing, Madame Carina spoke to two figures who appeared in the doorway, then she and my wife disappeared arm in arm.

  The two young girls who came in were outstandingly lovely. Their light brown complexions, and the comparative fineness of their features, indicated that they came from the western, mountainous region. Their breasts thrust pertly against the snug restraint of their white overalls. All at once, everything was yet again literally out of my hands. Ashamed as I was, I was already familiar with that sense of helplessness, of total incapacity to act of my own accord, and surrendered as they quickly relieved me of my sole covering, and my insubstantial footwear, and pressed me back naked on the crisp coolness of the sheet under me.

  It was a lengthy business, the depilation of my body, in spite of the fact that I considered myself almost totally hairless to begin with, apart from the little cluster of curls over my pubis. I was aroused. Who wouldn’t, being so intimately ministered to by two such lovely girls? And they clearly found the experience more than a little out of the ordinary, judging by their often poorly suppressed giggles. But, fortunately or no, my excitement was scarcely visible by any physical signs, except the hint of a little less limpness when their white gloved fingers held my prick out of harm’s way to complete the removal of the last few pubic hairs from its immediate vicinity, and the few stray tendrils from the already satin softness of my balls. The application of a heavily perfumed moisturising lotion with which they covered every portion of my newly exfoliated limbs and body, brought both embarrassment and guilty pleasure of a totally different kind.

  * * *

  Clio laid the last of her cosmetic tools aside as I stared fascinated at my reflection in the long mirror. ‘There now! Aren’t you the sexiest little lady-boy the world has ever seen? I swear! If it wasn’t for this little tiddler, I’d be jealous as hell of you!’ She gave a painfully playful flick with her forefinger to my penis, which, beneath the newly denuded, smooth milky patch of my pelvis, looked more diminutive than ever. ‘I might still be!’ she continued, in her jocular tone. ‘You look so damned good Ant might even start fancying you. Wait till he gets a look at you in all your finery!’

  She kept me facing the mirror, standing close behind me, and pulled me in to her, her chin resting on my shoulder, her breath rousingly warm on my ear. She let her right hand trail over the silkiness of my chest, down the very slight curve of belly, to rest on my cock, which, unimpressive as it might be, quivered and sent thrilling darts right through me at her gentle, mocking caress. No doubt she felt the tightening clench of my buttocks against her belly and the front of her thighs. ‘I think you could turn anyone into a bum boy, you minx!’

  My prick was undoubtedly stirring now. The rosy head, almost as long as the wrinkled, thickening shaft that bore it, lifted, trembled, and the movement was transmitted to her delicate fingers. She gave her own thick murmur of pleasure. ‘Or would you prefer to go the whole hog, my little tranny?’ I could feel her lips brushing the lobe of my ear at her sexy whisper. Her manicured, painted nails grazed lightly along the fold of my foreskin. ‘European clinics are far too expensive. But there’s a place in India – Ant was telling me – they take young boys – some sort of ritual thing, religious, maybe – they take the lot off! Balls and all!’ Her hand suddenly moved, opened, the fingers like claws, the nails digging in as she cupped and clutched at my testicles, and the newly shrinking tube above. She gave the captive flesh a vigorous shake. ‘How does that grab you, Marty? You’d be a realMartina then, eh?’

  She chuckled an
d released me with a vigorous little shove. ‘Meanwhile, you’d better make sure you’re a good little boy, or we might just decide to do a DIY job and de-knacker you ourselves!’

  Despite the light-hearted way in which they were delivered, Clio’s words stayed with me, especially as, over the following days, she became almost obsessed with her new fancy to unsex me, at least figuratively. She treated me like a doll, making up my face, insisting on day and night lotions, the lavishing of care and expensive creams on my skin, so that my body became softer, and more feminine, and, both to my secret shame and delight, my mind too began to transpose. There had, of course, always been that tendency in me, from my earliest days. It had led me to my present bizarre situation. How can I deny it? I still had that helpless feeling, an insidious part of the thrill, of being caught up in the web of my own deviant fantasy, which made me victim, and slave. Only now the worlds of fantasy and reality had meshed, or collided, in one exotic confusion – dominion and submission, pain and pleasure, all inextricably mixed, and holding me firmly as any physical chains and fetters.

  I became Clio’s “creature” in almost every sense of that kinky word. True, I had been subservient to a degree throughout our life together, but now her possession of me was complete. She ruled me, completely and literally. She would sit there on the edge of the bed, or on the cushions of the settee in the living room, and command me to fetch the hairbrush. Off I would pad, to bring the instrument of chastisement to her and prostrate myself over her knee, to receive the stinging blows. They were painful enough, but the ritual would arouse me just as much as it hurt, that masochistic melangeof pain and pleasure which had always been part of my nature.

  And in those first days I really did feel myself to belong to herrather than to her lover. Not that I didn’t recognise his domination over me. But there were fewer demonstrations of his mastery. For a start, I saw far less of him. He had his businesses to run – the stock farm, the transport. Then there was the hunting, and sport too. He spent a lot of his leisure time with his male cronies – he was “a man’s man”, as they say. Whereas Clio had never rated socialising. Real relationships for her had to involve passion. And since falling for Ant, all her desire was focused solely on him. She virtually shunned her old acquaintances. Which meant that she spent many hours of the day alone – except for me. I really washer slave – her faithful attendant: Charmian and Iris to her Cleopatra; her companion, her ladyboy, her figurative eunuch.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘SHE’S SO PRETTY, MY little Martina. Why don’t you admit it, lover?’ She was smiling suggestively at Ant, like a madam touting for one of her favourite whores. ‘You really fancy her, don’t you? Go ahead. I won’t be jealous, I promise.’

  I stared at Clio in deep dismay. I had been increasingly afraid for some time now at the acceleration of the virtual sex change she had carried out upon me. Not so much for myself. In our purely private moments together, of which there were so many, I took a keen illicit pleasure in it: the grooming, the cosmetic attention she lavished on me, and – a new and fiercely exciting element for me – the cross dressing. She bought elegant slender-spiked heels, an exotic array of fine stockings of all shades, tiny micro skirts and tops, flimsy dresses, and, most exquisitely decadent of all, an array of underwear, from padded bras and panties to thongs in every material from chiffon to lacy silk frills and spiderweb thin wisps of garter belts. In the exclusive privacy of the bedroom I thrilled to the dizzying effect of these transformations. But then the two of us made a trip up to the capital.

  We stayed at a hotel on the outskirts one night, and she kissed and cuddled and petted me in my metamorphosis so outrageously that even the cosmopolitan staff in the dining room and the bar afterwards began to look askance. ‘We are not used to these things, madam,’ a discomfited waiter declared when Clio eventually challenged him vigorously.

  ‘So! You discriminate against lesbians, do you?’ she asked the poor fellow. ‘Don’t you think my little girl is beautiful?’

  He was forced to agree, and though my toes were curling inside my tight shoes with shame for both him and myself, I could not deny that throb of excitement at the way his smoky eyes flickered over me and he gave a little nod of acquiescence. But Clio, at her most wicked, was not about to let him off the hook. She leant forward, switching off her aggressive approach, and, instead, smouldering with lascivious innuendo, continued. ‘When you’re out with yourgirl, don’t you like to drag things out a little, to tease her maybe, anticipate what will happen later, and make her wait for it, so that by the time you’re ready to give it to her, she’s already wetting her pretty little knicks?’ She laughed at his open expression of incredulity, and leant over to place her hand in plain lechery on my prominently revealed, silk-clad thigh. ‘Come on, sugar! I’d better get you to bed before both you and this handsome feller here do that very thing and flood your frillies!’

  Once we were sprawled naked on the dazzling sheet of our wide bed, she allowed me to retain my persona of obedient maidservant, and I was ecstatic as I made long and worshipful love to every beautiful inch, culminating in my perfumed head driven between her gaping thighs, while my soaking face, lapping tongue and swollen lips were buried in the streaming sex cleft that was the epicentre of her coming and my adoration.

  But, back at home, the evidence of Ant’s contempt, and growing impatience with Clio’s transformation of me, disturbed me more and more. And yet, so complete was my othertransformation, to utter subservience, that I was afraid to say anything to my mistress. At last, though, my fear of how her lover would react to my transsexual role made me speak out. I waited until Clio and I were alone in the house one morning, soon after Ant had departed for the farm office. I still slept in my tiny cubbyhole off the kitchen. Ant was not averse to my attendance in the bedroom under the most intimate of circumstances, including sometimes during their lovemaking, but he refused to have me sleep there, in spite of Clio’s suggestions that I might do so. ‘He could sleep at the foot of the bed, honey!’ But in this case her lover remained adamant Ant.

  Now I swallowed nervously, my mouth dry as I spoke in the soft murmur which had become my habitual mode of speech. ‘I think maybe Ant is becoming a little tired of seeing me in make-up and dressed in girls’ clothes.’

  She was lying naked, the sheet furled and knotted about her ankles. Her hair, which she wore long now, was thickly, richly tangled, its brown waves spilling over the pillow. The matching shade of that narrow, much more disciplined little shaft of pubic curls pointed like an arrow head to the cleft of her sex, the folds of her labia. She smiled lazily, and drew one leg up, bending at the knee, then flinging it out so that she lay, her thighs splayed, proffering a proud resplendent view of her vulva for my delectation. ‘I know what’s wrong with you.’ Her deep chuckle was husky. She ran her hands over her breasts, caressively stroking the dark nipples until they peaked, then let her palms slide slowly down over the flat brown belly to that strip of pubes, and her painted nails very gently brushed the wrinkled tips of her inner labia showing at the divine cleft. ‘You’re worried he’s getting the hots for you, sweety. And I think you may be right.’

  ‘No – I don’t – it’s not that. I’m afraid–’

  ‘Exactly!’ She gave another deep laugh. ‘That’s all it is. You’re afraid, aren’t you, my little lambkins?’ She was still caressing herself and she raised her knees a little, turning them outward, opening her thighs a little more. ‘And I can’t say I blame you! So far you’ve only taken it in your mouth, and thatnearly choked you, didn’t it? But don’t you worry, Marty. It’s just because you’re a virgin, that’s all, honey.’

  She kicked her feet free of the tangled sheet and rose. She padded over to the dressing table and began to rummage in one of the deeper lower drawers, then picked something out and turned with a grin. I stared at the long box she held, and she laughed aloud as she saw my eyes widen in recognition. ‘Yes, you remember this, huh? My good old Knight Rider. The faithf
ul companion that’s stuck to me through thick and thin. Shafted me through good times and bad, since the days I used to have to turn my music in my bedroom up loud to hide his buzzing from my folks. “Turn that thing off!” Dad would yell, and I would nearly wet myself with hysterics. “You’ll never get up for school in the morning!” Poor old Pa! He was always moaning about the number of batteries I got through. If only he knew!’

  I was indeed familiar with the slim vibrator she held as she approached the bed and sprawled there once more, patting the crumpled sheet beside her, commanding me to join her. And I became even more apprehensive as I quickly realised the novel purpose to which she intended to put it.

  ‘Come here, my pet. Bring me that jar of cream, will you? Now, turn over and kneel up, there’s a good boy. Lift your bum, let the dog see the rabbit!’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp, Marty!’

  Her prediction did not come true. The more Ant saw of me in the paint and perfume and all the silks and scanties of the transsexual Martina the less roused or indeed interested he became, until even Clio was ready to admit defeat. Not that she was prepared to give up her new bondmaid and latest plaything. Only she took care not to flaunt me in my feminine guise, making sure that the pretty clothes were removed and the make-up too, before his return. There was, after all, plenty of time for her to indulge in her game with me, for Ant was away for increasingly long periods, busy setting up a new arm of his transport empire in the south-west of the country near the great lake. Often he would be away for several days, so our diversions could extend through many a hotly fevered night. My delight was as strong as hers in these snatched episodes of love, except when, on thankfully rare enough occasions, the purring Knight Rider was brought out to play and Iwas the recipient of its tirelessly intrusive attentions.