November 2015

Nov 201520

Travelling

---cdata-eal-admin--- frequently asked questions

Travelling

The true secret of a feminine appearance is not found in make-up, hairstyle or clothes. Of course, these things are important, but to really be a convincing woman you must act like one. This is where deportment is essential, and these tips will help you learn how to make your body behave in a more feminine manner. The secret of good posture is very simple. Imagine a rucksack extending from the shoulders to the buttocks, pulling you back, throwing your chest forward, pulling in the stomach muscles and tightening the muscles of your bottom. Arms should be held loosely behind the side seams of the skirt. The hip or pelvic bones should be on an imaginary upward tilt. This is the foundation on which you can build the habit of good deportment. The need to practice Practice walking in high heels by laying a piece of tape on the floor in a straight line. Starting with the right foot, place the heel on the line and the toe slightly off the line. When taking a step forward, peel the back foot, the ankle passing the front leg's instep while the knee is bent. When it becomes the front leg the knee straightens and the foot is gently placed on the straight line as before with the heel on the line. Walk head high, chin parallel to the floor, legs together, arms relaxed and fingers curled to the sides.

Easy on the eye and the body A woman will always look at the seat of the chair before she sits. If there is anything there she will remove it. Feel the chair with the backs of the legs, hold the skirt in position, sit on the front of the chair and push back into the seat to sit comfortably with shoulders straight. It is proper to sit right against the backrest with both legs slanting to one side and feet pointing the same way, with one foot slightly in front of the other. Except when wearing a straight knee-length skirt the legs may occasionally be crossed. Clasp the hands lightly. A matter of balance Stand tall and do not slouch. Keep the knees together when standing still, the weight on one leg and the other slightly bent with the foot pointing outwards. A handbag tucked under the gives the body focus, and a glass held lightly by the stem gives you balance. Do not lean against the wall or stand with legs apart, hands in pockets or on hips.

Elegance at the table A woman must never appear gross, indelicate or inconsiderate at the table. A healthy appetite is itself desirable but greed and speed are not feminine attributes. Conduct yourself with a minimum of aggression and at all times be considerate of your partners when dining. Always hold the cup by the handle with the fingers arranged gracefully. Take care when drinking from tumblers or large glasses not to pour liquid down your throat. Do not overload the fork or spoon and do not leave lipstick on cups, glasses or napkins. Improve your car performance Entering or leaving a car requires particular care. Never put your legs in first and then swing in your body. Always seat yourself and then gently swing your legs, knees and ankle together, adjusting your skirt or dress over the knees. To exit swing your feet and legs out of the car, holding knees together, followed by the head and body. The folds of ones dress should fall naturally into place.

Nov 201520

Skirts

---cdata-eal-admin--- frequently asked questions, how to guides

SKIRTS

Skirts - tight skirts - split skirts - twirly skirts - flirty skirts. If you didn't love them, the chances are that you wouldn't be reading this. The skirt, more than any other object, can stand for the entire femi- nine outfit. In writing transvestite articles, one often needs a phrase meaning 'a feminine presentation'. Repeating the same phrase time after time would make for dull reading, so we writers rack our brains for something different from 'en femme' or 'cross dressed'. 'In a skirt' is a fairly popular variation on the theme. Here, 'skirts' stands for not only an entire set of clothes, but for the wig, the make-up, everything. If a skirt can stand - so effectively - for the entire outfit, it clearly carries a special significance for transvestites. It defines, in some way, what we are. It is part of our lives - and, undeniably, an object of desire. Lawrence Langer thought that 'the invention of the trouser and the skirt has enabled western men and women to achieve a balance social and sexual relationship.....' (The Importance of Wearing Clothes p70). Quite an achievement for a pair of garments! Perhaps the skirt stands for even more than it seems. Entire outfits are small beer compared with Langer's 'balanced social and sexual relationship'. For all of that, skirts are so much a part of my life - watching them on other people, wearing them myself - that often I take them for granted. But the skirt is quite a triumph of human ingenuity. In basis, it is the simplest - and very likely the first - garment worn by the human race. I suppose that the first skirt was a strip of animal skin fixed round the waist, very likely held in place with a bone pin. How different are the skirts in my wardrobe! They are complex structures formed from various pieces of carefully shaped fabric. I have a panel skirt made from twelve separate pieces of cloth, each in the form of a truncated triangle. In addition, it has a separate waist band and zip. I'm sure it's not the most complex skirt ever sewn - and maybe not even be the most complex of mine. Separately shaped pieces of fabric aside, there are pleats, tucks, darts, splits.... A lot of work goes into designing and making a skirt. People have devoted a lot of thought to the matter. Put in a lot of effort. The thought and effort are not random. Not only transves- tites, but people in general obviously like and desire skirts. They are widely considered worth the time, thought and effort they consume. There's a lot of pleasure in watching a well-designed skirt in motion. While trousers are essentially lifeless, a skirt is much more like a living thing - especially a fairly full skirt. The hemline hops like a rabbit or flutters like a bird. And with each hop or flutter, areas of the leg emerge or vanish. I am sometimes reminded of the sea - the rise and fall of the hemline like the bobbing of waves. Especially interesting variations in the life of the hemline can be achieved with splits. Although they're currently (and I trust, tem- porarily) not much in fashion, I harbour a lot of fond memories of skirts split above knee level. A teenage fashion, which I recall with particular affection, teamed over the knee socks and knee-length skirts with a small back split. As the girl stepped, a small triangle of thigh above the sock kept appearing and vanishing. It was an enchanting sight.

There's a lot of pleasure involved in watching a well designed skirt in motion. While trousers are essentially lifeless, a skirt is much more like a living thing - especially a fairly full skirt. The hemline hops like a rabbit or flutters like a bird. And with each hop or flutter, areas of the leg emerge or vanish. I am sometimes reminded of the sea - the rise and fall of the hemlines like the bobbing of the waves. Especially interesting variations in the life of the hemline can be acieved with splits. Although they're currently (and I trust only temporarily) not much in fashion, I harbour a lot of fond memories of skirts split above the knee level. A teeneage fashion, which I remember with particular fondness, teamed over-the-knee socks and knee-length skirts with a small back split. As the girl stepped, a small triangle of thigh above the sock kept appearing and disappearing - it was an enchanting sight. Paradoxically, a skirt can have the effect of exposing the wearer more than it covers her. I think, for example, of a woman I saw last summer. She wore a long button-up skirt with only the top 2 or 3 buttons fastened. Underneath, she wore a pair of cycling shorts. She could have worn the shorts without the skirt - in which case, I think, I wouldn't have given her a second glance - and certainly not had her in my mind a year later. Given the skirt, the shorts took on an aspect of an item of underwear, which appeared and disappeared (together with an expanse of leg) with every step. The effect was undeniably sexy. From the point of view of an ordinary man - if such a creature exists - I suppose the feeling inspired was purely of desire for the woman whose legs flickered in and out of her skirts. For me, it was more complex. That element of desire for her was present, but combined with a desire to be her, or at least to strut the street similarly covered and uncovered... The reference to 'strutting the street' illuminates an important aspect of skirt-wearing. It is something to be shared with the public at large, to be put on display. Much less than some other feminine items is the skirt a thing to be enjoyed in the privacy of a trannie's bedroom. Some of the joy of wearing frilly undies and sheer hosiery is, to be sure, lost in keeping them to ourselves - and not all of the pleasure of wearing a skirt is lost in private enjoyment. It's a matter of degree - with a skirt more of the pleasure is concentrated in the effect it produces in others. Thighs Nor do all of the specifically street-strutting pleasures stem entirely from other people. There is, for example, the effect of the breeze. There is something delicious in feeling the breeze about one's thighs, in a way which trousers would not permit. The breeze also, of course, makes a significant difference to the motion of the skirt - especially of a full skirt. I've already referred to the hem of a skirt bobbing up and down like sea waves. It will do so purely from the action of one's legs, and it is controllable insofar as this is the cause. The breeze introduces an uncontrollable and unpredictable element into the situation. That feels dangerous, and like all dangerous things is also exciting. It's exciting for those beholding the wind-whipped skirt, but may be even more exciting for the person wearing the skirt!

If I was writing an article on the first time I tried on feminine clothes - behind closed doors - I would not use the words 'in a skirt' to mean an entire outfit. Very often, the first time a trannie slips into something silky, a skirt will not be included in the outfit. Very likely, it will be a case of trying on a few pairs of panties, plus stockings or tights, perhaps. It may also be significant that, with hardly a moment's thought, I came up with 'slips into something silky' for this first act of cross dressing. At this early stage, the texture of fabrics may be more important than the form of the garments - how it feels, rather than what it is. Not that the way it feels is absent from the pleasure in a skirt. I have already mentioned feeling the breeze about one's thighs - and there are other delicious sensations, too. It's more that one has to put the skirt through its paces to experience the pleasant feelings, it's less an immediate pleasure on slipping on the garment. The slower dawning of the pleasure, though, is not necessarily a bad thing - something to anticipate, to enjoy at leisure. The initial pleasure, the first time one tries on a skirt, is likely to be visual - looking at the effect in a mirror, we see ourselves transformed into a closer approximation of the women we see in the streets. Glancing down, we see the skirt from an angle we have not seen before: on our own bodies. It is new, it is exciting. Perhaps we sit - inevitably without much grace. Inevitably, too, the skirt rides up - those are our own thighs suddenly exposed... thus we are drawn into the first pleasures of wearing a skirt. The skirt riding up as we sit down may be our first introduction to the skirt modifying the way we move. With a full skirt, a massculine gait may set the hemline moving more than we wish. With a tight skirt, our step is restircted much more directly. A long stride is impossible without damaging the garment. The feeling of a skirt confining our legs as we attempt too long a step may be our first experience of a direct physical sensation arising from skirt-wearing. There is something akin to bondage - sexually potent, arousing - in this sensation. In extreme cases (ie the hobble skirt), our legs are more or less trussed up. Wearing full skirts, it's a question of whether (and how much) we wish to expose our thighs. If the tight skirt is exciting because it reduces our options, a full one may be exciting because it increases them. We can elect to step demurely - or we could decide on the opposite. Maybe we'll do a twirl in front of the mirror, we might flash our knickers that way, if the skirt is full - although succeeding in that may take a little practice. Assuming control of a full skirt is a skill. Once beyond the confines of our own homes we may well choose to wear our skirts modestly, or boldly, by turns. Tripping down the street, our modest little steps are probably best, hems bouncing a little but not outrageously. Stepping onto the dancefloor, we encounter the allure of spinning, allowing our skirts to fly like birds, the joy of flashing our undies. The choice between modesty and boldness lies not only in the ways we move, but in which skirt we select. There is an enormous range of variations on the theme of the skirt. They cannot only vary from the tightest sheath-like creations to full circle skirts - but the hemline can be anywhere between the floor and the upper thigh. To judge from the people I see, mini skirts are very popular with trannies. I have several of them myself - they're so hard to resist. The trouble with a mini is that it allows little scope for the "now you see, now you don't" tease. Of course, they do allow the possibility of knicker-flash - that said, flashing one's knickers in a really pleasing way whilst wearing a very short skirt is less easy than it may seem. It can be done - tennis players provide a good example - but it will require a bit of thought and practice. This element of putting thought and practice into getting the most out of wearing a skirt is, surely, a factor in the skirt being such an object of desire. Effective skirt wearing is an art, and

Art

The element of developing an art is found in much of what transvestites do. Applying make-up is a good example - the first time one tries to apply cosmetics, the result is usually a mess. It takes time, practice and patience to get it right. Insofar as wearing a skirt is an art, however, it's significantly different from applying amke-up. The art of doing our faces is one of getting ready. The art of wearing a skirt is one which continues throught our time spent cross dressing. There is a contrast, too, with other feminine arts which continue beyond the process of getting ready. Wlaking in high heels is definitely an art, and one that isn't easily acquired. There is however respite from walking in heels every time we sit down. A skirt still needs to be managed while (and especially so) we are sitting. The act of sitting with any decorum in a crinoline must have been quite a challenge for Edward Boulton, Frederick Park, and their fellow Victorian trannies. It involved sliding into the seat with the utmost care - plonking oneself straight down into the chair would have pushed the skirt hoops up into a vertical position, violently and startlingly disarranging the garment. The effect of sitting down without caution in modern skirts is less dramatic, but the act can expose areas we might choose to keep hidden. The idea of choice is central, here. We may choose to expose our thighs or even our knickers, but if we cannot control our hemlines there is no choice. It is in the exercise of such choices, in calculating our degree of exposure, that a lot of the pleasure in skirt wearing lies. Neither does control over the skirt cease to be an issue once one is seated. A skirt can easily ride up slowly while one is sitting. That, I think is the decisive factor in many women choosing to sit on public transport with large bags on their laps. At some point in our transvestite development, the desire to present a genuinely convincing feminine appearance is almost certain to arise. The first time one sits in a skirt, exposing ones underwear, will probably feel exciting. Sooner or later, though, there arises a feeling that a real woman wouldn't do this. One may regard a skirt therefore not just as something to wear, but a teacher - an instructor in the ways of femininity. Walking in a tight skirt, it is worth taking careful note of the way it restricts the length of onne's stride. There is a pleasure in feeling the tug of the hemline, but, to learn something, ignore the pleasure. Take shorter steps. Reduce them to the point where the skirt no longer restircts the stride. Look carefully at that short-step gait in the mirror - does it make you appear more feminine? I'd be surprised if it didn't. To learn from a fuller skirt, and to learn about feminine ways of sitting, the mirror is needed again. Sit down in front of a full length mirror. How far does your skirt ride up? Could you sit in a different way with less effect on your hemline? Try composing your legs in different ways - crossing them near the ankle; crossing your thighs; placing your ankle on the opposing thigh. You'll soon see why the last of those postures is so entirely masculine. Press your legs tightly together, then spread them far apart. Your skirts speak volumes about masculine and feminine body language, if you watch what they're telling you. Mirror work to learn more subtle points can involve switching viewpoints. Imagine you are a woman trying to give subtle encouragement to a man sitting opposite, without wishing to appear cheap or vulgar. How do you arrange your skirt? Just how much leg do you display? Now imagine you're the man sitting opposite. The reflection in the mirror is a woman you don't know. What do you think of her? Is it too blatant a come-on? Are you intrigued? Be honest...

Skirts are to be enjoyed!! All of this mirror work revolves around manipulating your skirts, seeing what works, what doesn't, what looks vulgar, what's enticing. There is a lot of fun - and a lot of instruction - to be had before ever taking your skirts beyond the bedroom door. Once out on the street, or in a trannie-friendly venue, your skirts can be a whole lot more fun. They are there to be enjoyed!! Skirts are not only fun, but comfortable. They're not as restrictive as trouser, and they don't chafe the legs. The inner thighs are amongst the more sensitive parts of the body - stroking them can release powerful sensual feelings. The effect of chafing these delicate areas with rough trousers is not, I feel sure, something most men consider. Become used to the way a skirt feels, however, and we can hardly fail to notice - the skirt is so much more comfortable! Of course, skirts are generally worn with thigh-encasing hosiery: stockings or tights. Indeed, as the temperature drops, skirts cease to be comfortable without such hosiery. On a really cold night, it is not comfortable without thick tights. But wearing stockings or tights is not at all like wearing trousers. They don't rub the thighs so much as move with them, like a second skin. As well as being physically comfortable, skirts bring a sense of freedom. Our legs escape from the restrictions imposed by their individual cloth tubes. The thighs can rub against each other. There's a whole gamut of extraordinarily pleasant sensations. Not only does a skirt give a sense of freedom to the wearer, but the freedom extends to people with whom we're on intimate terms. I never heard of sexual dalliance in the form of a hand up the trousers - a hand up the skirt is another matter. The openness of a skirt gives the hand plenty of room to manoeuvre. It's pleasant for the person whose hand it is, but in my experience it's a lot more pleasant for the person in the skirt. Thinking about that particular joy of skirts seems a good place to leave this article. At the time of writing, I own 54 skirts - not counting my dresses - tight, full, long, shorter; such a variety that it feels as though there could never be too many. They're fun for me, and I trust they are also for friends and special friends... Keep the skirts twirling! I think that's what transvestism is all

Nov 201520

Wives, the Media and Transvestites

---cdata-eal-admin--- special interest

The poor demented housewife will then say that she questioned her blushing partner and he confessed, the wicked pervert, to finding a delight in women's clothes, lingerie, perfume and make-up. He went even further, said he wished to be a girl, was sorry that God had made him a male, would love to walk around town as a female, and had almost a hatred of male clothing. What could the poor girl do? It was a cruel blow, he had always been so loving, gentle, a good father and she had thought how manly he was! Now all that had been lost because he loved knickers. She must take pen to paper and slowly write down her problem, seal it with tears and post it to Aunt Maude, or Dear Fiona, or Diedre or any other understanding media girl... One would expect a little sympathy tinged with understanding and sound advice, but the Agony Aunt is as horrified as the poor wife. Yes, seperation would be a good thing. Maybe he is gay or perverted, it is certainly something to keep hidden from the children, and maybe one day she could find happiness with a more manly man, and yes, she was right to feel upset, afraid, and to seek some drastic way of escape. How lacking in understanding are the experts, for as any true transvestite or transsexual knows, there is no major connection between wanting to dress as a girl and being gay. Sure, some transvestites are gay, just as some of any group are gay. When dressed as a man I feel frustrated, depressed, hating every unattractive garment. But when I throw off my male attire, as I do whenever possible, and put on the beautiful lingerie and clothes of a woman, then I feel happy and free. To be dressed as a girl would not make me a less gentle or loving husband for, indeed, it would show how gentle, how feminine, how soft-hearted and emotional I could be.

The transvestite who loves his children, treats his wife with gentleness and chivalry and takes a full share of the household duties - is he to be counted as evil, while the drunkard, the womaniser or the gambling wastrel is the kind of husband a wife will standy by, swear obedience to? If I were a wife I would wish my husband to be loving, kind, considerate and gentle even if he were dressed as Miss World. Why do we wish to trans-dress rather than transgress? The simple reason is that our mothers taught us many feminine ideas; taught us to be gentle, to love beauty and admire good taste. We found that the colourful and dainty lingerie and the soft touch of silk and satin brought a clinging, sensual and almost erotic sensation, for it was as gentle as an angel's kiss. The crude, utilitarian cut of male Y-fronts hurst the aesthetic ideals of life we have gleaned from our mothers, and there was the heavenly delight when the true beauty of lace-trimmed French knickers caressed our thighs. Everything feminine was delightful, the pale pastels of well-designed bras, the fairy cake lightness of silken slips, the gossamer see-through of the baby doll nighties. Was all this to be denied us because we were created male? Did the wearing of it cause us to be perverts, to wish to make love to our own sex, to make us less worthy of loving and caring for children? There were the lovely hairstyle that women could adopt, perms and curls, long waves to the shoulders and colours as variant as the rainbow. But, to be manly, it had to be short back and sides, natural colours whether pleasing or not, until grey and white proclaimed one's age. There were the exquisite perfumes distilled from the flowers of France, odours that lingered as if one lived beneath the honeysuckle or the jasmine, sweet delights that hurt nobody. Why are we perverts because we admire the scents that are like bouquets of paradise? When I am as a woman I am happy, I feel full of gentleness and love, I wish to take all children by the hand and pour out true affection on them. I am not aggressive, I have no desire for over-indulgence in alcohol, and no longing to beat girlfriend or wife.

The very clothing of the male is designed to create aggresssion; even the three buttons of the sword-fighting days still remain on coat sleeves, and all that utility and plainness is to make getting to battle stations more easy. Nevertheless, many wives who return from the shops or office to find their husband or son happily prancing around the bedroom in bra and panties balieve there is a weird perversion here, a danger to domestic life. Such men are unworthy to look after children, and Agony Aunts recommend a break-up of the home, a tearing apart of family life. Oh, the futility of such ideas! For if I had been born a woman then I would have chosen to marry a gentle, kind, loving, transvestite rather than a macho, heavy drinking, wife-beating aggressive male. The former I could love, and the latter I would divorce. SO much for tha Agony Aunt and her advice! I love perfume, I appreciate jewels, I admire earrings and bangles and prefer delicately-coloured lingerie to plain male attire but that does not make me gay. It does not give me any desire to love my own sex - far from it. I long for the company of those who share my feelings and sensations - and such people are women. The time is surely here when a person should be able to walk freely, head held high, dressed as he or she pleases and not be restrained by Victorian and Medieval taboos.

Nov 201520

The Tale of the TV Detective -Fiction

---cdata-eal-admin--- short story

Transgender Fiction

Common on, Jerry you’ve never been so well off. The new contract’s for three years, six shows a year, decent scripts and the money’ll set you up for life.” As I was saying.... Money isn’t everything. Have you seen some of the invitations I’ve had in my fan mail, lately? And that supermarket opening I did last week, it was nearly a riot. I don’t know which were the worst, the men forgetting I wasn’t the real thing or the women wanting to know what underwear I had on. My buttocks were black and blue from being pinched. “ What does it matter? You made the six o’clock news and the supermarket group have been on the phone again, offering three times the money to open another two stores for them. You’re the most popular TV detective of all time. All the viewers love and adore you.” Like I said, I wish I could work out who pinches my bum at those events so I can watch out for them. It was your fault that clause went in the last contract that all my promotional appearances had to be in character. It seems I go weeks sometimes without wearing a pair of trousers. That clause had better be out this time.” Jerry Antrobus turned sulkily away from his agent to stare out over the city from the 14th floor window. He had never dreamed when he had auditioned for the part three years before that there would be so much success. He still enjoyed the adulation the part of Chris Campbell brought him but recently the audiences had begun to demand more of Christine than Christopher. Paula Peters, a theatrical agent whose career had been rescued by the TV Detective, regarded her client with more than a tinge of jealousy. In the early days she had never thought the detective’s occasional forays into dresses as a disguise would ever raise the series beyond the mundane, but a new sponsor had demanded a more convincing and more attractive Christine and suddenly the show had not looked back. That, Paula decided, was when she had begun to feel jealous of her client. Jerry’s female wardrobe was beyond the purse of most ordinary women and the director of the last series had decided that realism was all. They had shown Jerry struggling into the most attractive, but equally most restricting and constricting, of underwear - to the fascination of viewers of all persuasions. Paula smiled as she recollected being summoned to the studio to placate her client two summers previously........ Paula had been collected from the car park by an agitated director’s assistant and swept through to the portable buildings doubling as dressing rooms and rest areas for the cast. It was the first day of filming for the second series of “The TV Detective.” The first series had only turned into a second due to a shortage of competitors and by not committing any grave errors.

The assistant left her by a door indicating it was the dressing room of Jerry Antrobus, but beneath his name some wag had scrawled, “female lead”. Paula tentatively pushed the door open to see a bewigged female figure sat in apparent discomfort. “About ***** time. You can get me out of this ***** stuff. It ‘s *****agony. This new director’s an absolute bastard. She enjoyed watching them pull this so tight it nearly cut me in half. Then when I said I wanted you here, they just left me.” “Who?” “Who, what?” “Who left you like that?” “Wardrobe but only because that ***** director said I might as well get used to it.” Jerry’s language made Paula wince as he described in lurid detail how he wanted to extract his revenge on the director. Even with the swear words removed, the sentiments expressed were not suitable for mixed company. As far as she could establish, Jerry was alleging that Hannah Murray, the director, had a personal grudge against him and she was a man-hating lesbian bent on belittling all men but more particularly him, because she secretly fancied him and he wasn’t having any. It was apparent Jerry’s temper had eliminated all sense. Paula regarded her client. He, but to more than a cursory glance, she, was heavily made-up but even the genuine article would wear nearly as much under the cruel eye of the television camera. A black silk kimono was draped across the figure’s shoulders barely concealing a black corselet gripping at an apparently shapely figure. Stockings were tautly gripped by suspenders. Paula decided, with a touch of jealousy, that Jerry had lost weight over the summer, but what really attracted her attention was the unnatural shapeliness of his waist. This was the cause of Jerry’s continuing tantrums, the waist-clincher had done its job but the price was its vicious grip just below its victim's ribs. As Jerry launched once again into a tirade against wardrobe, the director and eventually Paula for failing to release him from the constricting underwear, it had become apparent that Jerry’s sharp tongue had got the better of him and he had seriously upset whoever had fitted the waist clincher on him. “Well, Jerry you’ve got two choices. Lose some weight or don’t upset wardrobe. Mind you I wish I had a figure like that..” His outburst in reply was interrupted by the dressing room door being opened. In walked Hannah Murray with a smile that might have been helpful sympathy, or might just have been amusement at her leading actor’s discomfort. Against Paula’s better judgement she was ushered out of the dressing room and within 20 minutes Jerry, in a mind blowing short leather skirt and knee length boots, teetered out. She had never found out how Hannah had persuaded him to carry on.

In her 14th floor office, Paula recalled that day. “Jerry?” “What?” “How has Hannah kept you happy over the past two years? You weren’t prepared to do it two years ago and then, suddenly, you just did. Has she got something on you?” Despite his blustering, it was apparent she had hit the nail on the head. It was only after an hour of gently repeating that she couldn’t help him without knowing everything that she got to the truth. Or at least Jerry’s version of it. In the weeks of rehearsal leading up to the filming of the first episode of the second series, Jerry and Hannah had become rather more than friendly. One thing had led to another, particularly since the main topic of conversation had been Jerry’s portrayal of Chris Campbell, and Hannah had discovered that Jerry became a more effective lover when he adopted Chris Campbell’s clothes. Particularly the slinky underwear that was to become the character’s trademark. Amidst everything there were some revealing photographs, which had been taken in their first flush of enthusiasm and then he could never say no to the woman who had become the director of his TV series and increasingly his private life, too. However much she wanted to laugh - for Jerry was so much Chris Campbell in the public eye that the photos, if they were released, would probably turn him into even more of a pin up and lead to even more offers, of every type - Paula knew she owed it to her client to resolve the problem. It took even more persuasion to get a copy of the photos from Jerry (purely so she understood what the fuss was about, of course!). She imagined the meeting with Hannah Murray was going to be difficult, but in the end it was surprisingly easy. Although the outcome was somewhat unexpected. “Well, what did she say?” Jerry, dressed ravishingly as Christine Campbell was waiting in his dressing room on the set of what he hoped was the last episode, not only of the current series, but for ever. “Hannah’s agreed that she doesn’t want you any more in her personal life and she’s giving up the photos. “ “Great. Have you got them? Or have you destroyed them?” Paula smiled, “Things aren’t quite as simple as that. I had to agree to another series, on your behalf as the price for giving up the pictures. And you didn’t tell me there were lots more of them. Even I found some of those interesting.

It was apparent from Paula’s smile that interesting meant rather more than intriguing. In fact those photographs had changed her attitude towards Jerry entirely. Her conversation with Hannah had opened her eyes to an entirely different Jerry. One who was privately dainty, feminine and very, very exciting. A Jerry whom she wanted to meet and get to know, intimately. Jerry groaned and began one of his tirades. Paula smiled and reached into her capacious bag. The silky, lacy confection she slowly drew out brought Jerry to a stop and his jaw fell. “Where did you get that?” “Well, in the course of my negotiations with Hannah it transpired she was getting bored with you. You’ve been a naughty girl, haven’t you? Not doing what Hannah wanted and refusing her. She was so fed up with you she couldn’t be bothered to threaten you any more. But she wanted the series to go on. “ “I won’t do another series. It’s ruining my love life. I’ve started to depend on wearing pretty knickers to, er, well, you know what.” “There’s no need to worry.” “I do worry. It’s turning me into....” “Christine !” Paula’s tone demanded attention. “I’ve had enough of this whinging and whining. You will do at least one more series, otherwise I’ll use those pictures. And while we’re about it.” She tossed the silky confection of the teddy onto his lap. “When I come to collect you this evening, you’ll be wearing that under.... Let me think. I know, change back into that leather trouser suit you’re wearing in the next scene and that blonde wig. And make sure you bathe and perhaps you could use this.” She produced a perfume bottle from her bag. “It’s a new idea we’ve come up with. Christine Perfume. It’s sexy and we’re marketing with the line that if you smell sexy with it, then imagine how it comes out on a real woman. Imagine you’re testing it.” Jerry had nearly recovered his composure when Paula smiled again. “There are one or two of those photos that could put you in a very bad light and I would hate that to happen. But we can talk about at my place tonight.” Jerry knew when he was beaten, but his blood ran cold as Paula, leaving the room, leaned back inside the door and whispered, “Oh and you’d better bring a nightie and a change of knickers. Alhough if you haven’t got anything you can borrow something of mine, can’t you? We don’t want you coming into work tomorrow without clean underwear. “I’ll arrange to move your stuff to my apartment tomorrow and then we can sort out whether we need to go shopping. And, incidentally, I was at that last supermarket opening you did. It was the women who pinched you, or at least I did!

Nov 201520

Fantasy In Satin

---cdata-eal-admin--- short story

FANTASY IN SATIN

"Hello sleepyhead." She purred. "Have a nice nap?" I smiled back up at her. "Oh yes." I replied, then yawned. "You smell awfully nice." I said. "Is that a new perfume you're trying?" She looked puzzled for a second, then smiled down at me again. "Oh no dear. It's probably this new cream I'm trying on you. It does smell lovely, doesn't it?" As she said this, her cool fingers stroked my brow, and around my eyes, and I could feel the smoothness of the face cream she was working into my skin. Then I remembered. She'd been concerned about the state of my skin some days earlier and had suggested some cream that she thought highly of. Since then she had been trying it out along with various other products. Just as I'd been slipping of into napland I'd been laying on my back, with my head on her lap. Had fallen asleep as she'd worked her ministrations into my skin. "It's kind of perfumy, is it not?" I asked, a little concern crossing my mind. "Well, maybe a little bit. But don't you want to smell nice for me?" She chided me gently. "I mean," she continued "I make myself feel all nice and soft and pretty for you, don't I? Surely you don't mind smelling just a teensy wee bit nice for me, eh?" What could I say? I smiled back up at her, and let her fingers continue their sweet smelling massage. Dreamily, I looked up at the draped material that surrounded our canopied bed. The white, soft, fabrics that seemed to cover - but didn't exactly extinguish, the pastel pinks and blues, the sheen of the satins used. From the corner of my eye, I could see the sweep of her lace-enclosed arm as it moved gently, massaging the creams and lotions into my skin - the lace matching the textures on the cushions and pillows that surrounded us on the bed. The whole room was different since Ellen had married me. It was so nice now. From nowhere, Rose appeared in my vision. Her pretty oval face framed by her jet black hair, topped with a pristine white lace cap. It dropped out of my vision momentarily as she bobbed a quick curtsey. "Miss Ellen?" She was saying. "Mister Henry's cousins are here. Should I bring them upstairs?"

Ellen smiled down on me. "Isn't that nice! Do you feel like some company?" "To tell the truth darling? I really don't." I protested mildly. "And where is this stuff coming from that they're my cousins? I've no recollection.." "Hush Henry!" She whispered putting a gentle finger on my lips. "What would these poor girls think if they heard you. The resemblance is so noticable. I mean, you could all be sisters! The same shape face, the same coloring.." She teased me by giving my tummy a little pinch "the same plumpness..." I couldn't help it. I giggled a little. "If you and Rose would stop feeding me all these chocolates and stuff I might be in better shape.." Ellen interrupted me. "Talking of that? Rose? Give Henry one of these chocolate truffles please. He hasn't had one in such a long time. He must be getting hungry, eh sweets?" And, lying soft and submissive in my wife's loving arms, I lazily ingested a rich dark chocolate truffle that her maid put to my lips. "Mmmm" I said. "These are so good." Rose smiled down on me. Then brought a paper napkin from somewhere and carefully wiped my mouth. Her expression was hard to read, but then from nowhere another chocolate appeared in her hand in front of my mouth. I really didn't want it. Started to say so, but closed my lips together when she tried to take advantage of my open mouth. She then did something that amazed me - started applying the soft chocolate to my lips as if she was putting lipstick on me, smiling tenderly all the while. "Oh! Isn't that cute!" Ellen laughed. "I think that brown lipstick would suit you dear! Hurry up and eat that chocolate though darling. Rose has to go and show your guests up." As she said this, she used one hand to squeeze my cheeks to open my mouth. Rose then placed the chocolate on my tongue, then wiped my lips with the napkin again, curtsied and left. My mouth was full so I couldn't talk, but I jumped at the sharp pain in one of my eyebrows. I jumped. "Ooooh!" I moaned, and put my hand up to stop her. "For goodness sake!" Ellen said sharply. "Will you behave! I'm only plucking an eyebrow or two." "That's what you say every time," I managed to mumble "but I'm not going to have any left if you keep plucking them." "Don't be silly! " She said. "Don't tell me you want big hairy eyebrows like ugly caterpillars?" "That's not what I meant - ow!" I squealed as she plucked another. "Please Ellen? Don't do any more. Please?" "Just a few more." She said, plucking another . "And stop being such a baby" as she removed another.

I must have lost at least a dozen eyebrow hairs by the time Rose showed Emily and Frances (my supposed cousins) into our bedroom. "Still in bed at this time of the day? What slugabeds you two are," Frances said, smiling as she and her sister advanced to sit beside me on the bed, Frances to the right, Emily to the left. As usual, both were dressed in a very feminine style, long floral dresses with chiffon sleeves and large beribboned straw hats. They both peered down at me. "Was it you made that yowling noise we just heard?" Emily asked. "Yes." Ellen answered for me. "The big sissy is yelling and carrying on, just because I'm plucking an eyebrow or two." "Men are such babies, aren't they?" Frances asked. "Yes. You'd think they'd want to look nice." Emily agreed. "Fancy making all of that noise for a couple of little eyebrows." "But I suppose we should get up." Ellen said. "Rose? Before you leave. Would you get Mr. Henry's new robe from the closet. The pearl one I think." "What new robe?" I asked, raising myself up from her lap, grateful that she wasn't plucking any more of my eyebrows. "Oh, I just had a couple made for you. I'm so tired of seeing you in that ratty old plaid thing." "But I like it." I complained. "Don't be difficult. Please?" She said firmly. "I had these made, especially for you. Go and try that one on." Nonplussed, I looked at the garment Rose was bringing to me. I couldn't make out the details, but it looked extremely feminine. "You're kidding! I can't wear that!" I complained. "Rose! Help Mr. Henry put it on." She then turned her attention back to me. "I had this copied from an old robe that Joan Crawford wore in one of her movies - Mildred Pierce I think it was." "Oh! If it's modeled on one of hers, it can't be too feminine." Emily said. "The big masculine padded shoulders, all boxy looking. " While she was talking, Rose was helping me into the garment. There was nothing masculine I could see about it. Long, off-white, pleated layers of chiffon, gathered by a gold cinch at the waist, falling loose almost to the floor at the back. It had a high, dramatic collar, that was closed at the neck by a sort of hook and eye arrangement that Rose was fastening. Then I noticed the sleeves. "Aw c'mon Ellen." I complained. "Look at these sleeves for goodness sake. This is a woman's robe!" "Well, maybe it is," she retorted "but you've got such nice arms, and this way you show them to advantage."

Ellen had been making a fuss over my arms since we'd met. They're very white, almost hairless, and without any definitive muscle. She had bought me some pajamas, all silk, all sleeveless so that she could 'appreciate' them all the more. The selfsame arms were now being shown off within bloused sleeves of chiffon, ending in a tight satin cuffs each fastened by four small pearl buttons. Rose finished fastening them and stood back. "Oh yes! Lovely!" Emily gushed. "Well. He is right. It's not a very masculine robe." Frances said "but it does look nice on you Henry." Then she added. "And Ellen's right too. Your arms are one of your nice features. You should show them off a little." I was totally lost. Everything seemed to be happening too rapidly. My confusion wasn't reduced when Ellen said. "I'm so glad you've come just now girls. It'll give me a chance to get some important stuff done on the computer. Henry darling? Why don't you escort our guests downstairs. Rose? Why don't you make up a light lunch for everyone? I'll be down to join you in an hour or so." Rose curtsied and left the room. Frances took my arm. "That's a wonderful idea Ellen. Come on Henry. You can show me and Emily what Ellen has been up to with the house." And, her arm in mine, I was being led out of the bedroom. But I almost tripped, my foot catching on the hem of my new robe. Ellen noticed. "Oh dear!" She exclaimed. "I was afraid of that. Thank goodness I thought of these." As she spoke, she was walking to her closet. Started rummaging in there. Pulled out a shoe box and opened it up. Horror struck, I saw the flamboyant high heeled backless slippers she was holding out and carrying to me. "See darling? They'll be just perfect with your outfit. Not only that? They'll stop you from tripping on it - and even though the heels aren't too high, you'll be a little taller. Here, try them on." "But darling? For goodness sake? They're women's ..." "Yes, of course they are. Not too many pairs of men's high heeled slippers around are there?" As she said this, she was kneeling down, lifting each foot in turn and slipping the slippers on. "Oh! How cute!" Emily gushed. "The perfect finishing touch!" "Perfect!" Ellen said happily. "Just perfect. Now Henry, off you go with your friends - have a nice 'maiden' voyage in your shoes." Frances still had a hold of my arm. Helplessly, I let her lead me out of the room and downstairs. There, she disengaged and allowed me to show her and Emily all of the recent redecorating that Ellen had imposed on the house. Surprisingly, the shoes hardly affected my walking at all - made my stride a little shorter perhaps. My robe seemed to waft around me a lot more I thought, but I wasn't sure.

Looking at everything through my companion's eyes, I had to admit that Ellen had made some fantastic changes in a short time. The house had been in my family for generations, although I had never stayed there, except for the odd vacation, or visit to my grandfather. I had been orphaned at an early age but he had never really seemed to care for me personally, shifting me off to one school or another, and always somewhat uncomfortable in my presence. We had no other relatives that I knew of, so that explained why I had been the sole recipient of his estate - a not inconsiderable sum involving the large house, real estate and stock holdings. Ellen had been the lawyer I'd hired to contest some of the silly strictures he'd tried to impose on the inheritance - how much I was to get each year, how I couldn't make any decisions - that sort of thing. She was highly aggressive - brilliant - and gorgeous. She made mincemeat of my grandfather's old fuddy-duddy lawyers. It seemed the wise thing to do afterwards when I made her my financial advisor. After we fell in love, I was delighted when she gave up her law practice to handle my affairs. The house had gone from being a comfortable old house - lots of brick and walnut furniture, to a bright, open, rather feminine place with lots of chintzes, pastels - and particularly flowers. Both Emily and Frances were suitably impressed, constantly admiring 'my' taste. I tried to let them know it was all Ellen's doing, but this point seemed to escape them. Finally, I just took all the credit. I was never too sure where my 'cousins' had come from but, according to Ellen, they did pose some sort of threat to contest the will. They didn't seem to be aware of this, both of them being ultra feminine and dithery but, again taking Ellen's advice I put myself out to be pleasant to them. When we got back to the sitting room Rose reappeared carrying a tray with chocolates. Both Emily and Frances declined. I did too. Rose stared at me, a slightly intimidating look in her eye. "Didn't the mistress suggest that you eat more chocolate miss Henry?" "I'm MISTER Henry, Rose! How often do I have to tell you!" I said firmly. She curtsied. "I'm so sorry sir." She said, but her eyes weren't overly apologetic. "But" she continued. "If you don't want to follow miss Ellen's diet? Maybe you should tell her - or would you rather that I did?"

"Oh, for goodness sake! Give me one. I don't understand what all this fuss is about!" With that, I took one from the tray and put it in my mouth. Rose continued to stand there, the tray extended. "Well?" I said huffily. "Maybe another?" She suggested. "Ellen only makes me eat one at this time. Lunch'll be pretty soon and I don't want to ruin my appetite." I said defensively. "You know that the mistress put me in charge when she's not here. I think you should have another one." Shame faced at this maid's bossiness, I took one and ate it. "That'll be all Rose." I said huffily. "Off with you." She paused for just long enough to frighten me into thinking that she was going to force me to eat another chocolate but then curtsied deferentially. "Yes miss Henry." She said, and left the room. "Well! I never!" Emily said. "Oh, she's just doing what Ellen tells her. I wouldn't want to get her in any trouble." I made excuses for Rose. "Trouble? Why should she get in trouble? The care she takes of you! I think she's wonderful. Never seen a servant like her." She added. I let a big breath slowly out - I'd almost made a complete fool of myself. Where I was seeing a servant who had far too much to say for herself, my two cousins only saw a maid who was totally wrapped up in her employers welfare. Shortly afterwards, Rose called us to lunch, telling us that the mistress would join us shortly. We sat in the dining room alcove, me with my back to the window, a cousin on each side. The table, as usual, was set beautifully. The floral napkins, the silverware, the gleaming crystal, the bright floral centerpiece. Ellen swept in to the room a few minutes after we had started. She still wore the nightdress and peignoir she'd worn earlier. Again, I was struck by how beautiful she was, her long auburn hair tied loosely at the back of her neck with a lace tie, her dark eyes, her air of absolute confidence. She leaned over the table and kissed my cheek, then sat opposite me. "How sweet you all look, chattering away like little magpies. Having a good time girls?" Obviously she was talking to my two companions, but she was looking directly at me. The other two gushed something, but Ellen continued to look at me as if expecting my response as well. She cocked her head to one side slightly as if to say "well?" "Oh yes Ellen. It's been fun." I managed. She smiled sweetly.

From where I sat, I could see the group reflected in a mirror across the room. All of a sudden I realized just how feminine picture we all made. Silks and laces and chiffons, gleams of satin. Even Rose in her soft black uniform with the white apron and cap added to the picture as she moved quietly around serving our meal. Nervously, I swept my hair back from my forehead. It was getting quite long. I was going to have to get Ellen's ok to get it cut. It hadn't been too bad when I'd been able to tie it back in a pony tail, but Ellen had objected, so now it just hung loose, naturally wavy. When I looked at it, it was almost exactly the same as Emily's. And with a shock, my eyes got drawn to the mirror by the flash of a chiffon sleeve as it pushed the hair back from the face of a young woman - and knew it was me I was seeing. "Yes. Your hair is probably getting a little long. Time we did something with it." Ellen said. I could only stare at her in astonishment. Was mind reading amongst her accomplishments? But her next words dispelled any idea I had of being allowed to get a haircut. "Rose? Why don't you work on Frances and Emily and Henry's hair after lunch?" Then she added. "Rose is very good with hair. You'll really love what she can do." Both of my cousins gave little squeals of delight." Oh! She does yours, doesn't she?" Emily asked Ellen. "And your hair is always so immaculate. Oh thank you! Thank you!" And, twenty minutes later, I sat in front of the dressing table with Rose 'doing' my hair, showing Emily and Frances some tricks of the trade, and sometimes allowing them to practice a little on me. I never stopped blushing the whole time - through the shampoo, the blow drying, the application of rollers and bobbi pins and setting lotion, then being placed under the portable drier.

Worse was to follow. As Rose then started working on Emily's hair, Frances decided to give me a manicure. Helpless with the drier hood fastened around my hair, I could only stare in fascination as my fingernails were transformed into a bright scarlet color. What could I do? The girls were having a marvelous time, orchestrated by Rose. If I argued or desisted in any way, it was like throwing a wet blanket on everyone else's fun. In addition, I was well aware that since wakening from my 'nap' I had crossed some sort of nebulous border between 'masculine' and 'feminine' and now resided in a kind of state where I was the only one with any memory of me ever being considered masculine - and even that was fading as I looked in the mirror and saw the feminine creature in the chiffon robe, arching eyebrows, scarlet fingernails. Things, believe it or not, got worse. I was finally released from the drier, only to discover that I was now in the position of Rose's assistant working to beautify Emily and Frances. First of all I had to shampoo Frances' hair then, under Rose's eagle eye, had to roll her hair up in large pink rollers, pinning them in place. I couldn't help it. I became a part of the whole scene - a group of women prettifying each other. What choice had I? To claim any kind of manliness at that stage was patently ridiculous and, truthfully, it wasn't too difficult for me to merge into the picture as I wafted from one task to the other, finding it easier and easier to chatter and gossip by the minute. Then I heard the maid's bell chime. The only thing was that the summons was for me. Ellen had explained that Rose took offense at this time- honored way of calling a maid and, as she had a lot of the little hand bells, it was an awful waste not to use them for something? Accordingly, they had become the signal that I was wanted by my spouse. Horror struck I heard Emily say to Rose. "Is that Ellen calling you?" And Rose replying "oh no. That's for miss Henry." Frances laughed - well, emitted a shrill giggle. "You keep calling him 'miss' Henry?" Rose shrugged her pretty shoulders. "I know. But it's a natural mistake, don't you think?" Then she grinned at me. "Mistress wants you. Better get going, eh?" "I can't go like this!" I protested. "Don't see why not." Rose replied. "And I'd hurry if I were you. Mistress doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Humiliated beyond belief, I left the room and answered my summons. The bell rang again as I went, so I hurried, panting a little when I arrived. Ellen sat behind the large desk in her office. "What took you so long?" She said impatiently then as if just seeing me "My goodness! How pretty you are! Been having fun with your cousins?" "I'm sorry Ellen," I apologized "but these high heels slow me down a little bit." "But you walk so well in them. Nobody would guess that you'd never worn ladies shoes before." Her face took on a hint of reproach. "But must say, I do hate to see women walking around with their hair in rollers. It's not ladylike at all." "Ellen? Please? You keep talking to me as if I were a girl. Please? I'm not. And could you talk to Rose? She's starting to call me 'miss Henry' a lot. Is even doing it in front of Frances and Emily." Ellen waived her hand airily. "I think you're being overly sensitive. I'll admit that I'm starting to see an improvement in your attitude as you drop these aggressive masculine tendencies you had.." "I don't remember having any..." I started to complain. "Henrietta! You're interrupting me! Now. You want to complain about Rose? Go and get her. Bring her to me. We'll get everything all straightened out. While you're at it? Go into your closet get the blue robe and gown, and change into them..." "Gown?" "Yes! Nightgown, nightdress - whatever you want to call it. I want to see how you look in that outfit. Alright?" There was beginning to be more than a trace of impatience in her voice. I looked down at my pretty slippers. "Yes dear." I said obediently. "Then get Rose to get your hair out of these damn rollers. Once that's done, you can come back with her. I'll talk to you both then. Will that be all right - Henrietta?" Then she smiled sweetly at me "You don't mind me calling you by a girls name, do you? Please say you're not offended." "I'm not offended Ellen. It's ok." I said meekly. "Then run along like a good girl and do as mummy told you." She turned her attention back to some papers on her desk. Quickly, I hurried from the room.

I was in two minds as I returned to our bedroom. On one hand, I knew I'd obviously annoyed her by complaining of how she was treating me. Now she was actually referring to me as a girl - had even effeminized my name. I knew it was all my fault and tried desperately to think of a way to get back into her good graces again. On the other hand, it now appeared that Rose was to get her comeuppance. "That'll teach her to boss me around" I thought happily. Rose and the girls had left the bedroom, for which I was grateful. Blushing furiously, although nobody was there to see me, I put on the powder blue nightgown and robe that were hanging in my closet. There were no boxy shapes on this outfit. The nightgown bodice was of embroidered satin, with a rounded scoop neckline and short puffy chiffon sleeves . (I now saw what everyone had been saying about my arms - they were rather pretty). There was some kind of built-in bra, but it was quite soft, so not uncomfortable - actually seemed to contain the soft breasts that my chocolate diet was helping to form. The skirt was, again, layers of chiffon that belled out from the waist. Not as long as the robe I'd just taken off, I discovered that the skirt of the nightgown swirled quite nicely when I walked. The robe complemented the gown beautifully. Mostly chiffon, but with two satin inserts at the front. It tied with a full sash, which I took great pains to tie into a pretty bow. It dawned on me that if Ellen liked the way I looked, she might not be upset with me any more. "Oh! There you are!" I heard Rose say. "How pretty you are, miss Henry." I turned too quickly in a hurry to speak my mind. "And such a pretty swirl too. Been practicing?" She laughed. "Ellen wants to speak to you." I said spitefully. "About what?" She asked. "About you calling me 'miss' Henry. It's got to stop!" I retorted. Her face darkened. "You went tattling to the mistress about me? Trying to get me in trouble?" As she talked, she came right up to me and grabbed my shoulders. Started shaking me. "I have had just about enough of you!" She gritted through her teeth. "Going to teach you a lesson!" I grappled with her, and was given a dreadful surprise. She was soft and girlish. Her uniform was satiny smooth, her lace apron and cap accentuated her femininity - but all of a sudden I knew who was actually playing the female role in our little contest. My arms were pretty. Soft and weak - and helpless against her. My breasts strained against the bra in another indication of my womanliness. My chiffon skirt floated around my smooth hairless legs. Squeaking and squealing my fear and outrage, I was pushed over to the dressing table. There she picked up a hair brush. Then, weakening by the minute, I was forced over to the bed. With practically no effort on her part now, she sat down and arranged me over her knees. "Please don't spank me." I sobbed. "Please Rose?" "You've been a naughty girl, haven't you?" She asked. "Yes Rose. I'm sorry I spoke to Ellen about you." "Yes - and you're going to be sorrier." She replied. With that, she pulled my layers of protective clothing away to bare my backside. Quickly, she applied the hairbrush with six stinging blows. She then let me up to my feet. Weeping more with the indignity of the event than the actual pain, I wasn't aware of leaving the room with her. Then I realized that we were walking along the hall. Suddenly I remembered. "Rose? I'm sorry. I forgot to tell .. I mean 'ask' you if you would take the rollers from my hair? Ellen said.." "That's ok. Let's go to my room. We'll do it there." She said, kindly enough.

When we got to her room, she opened up her closet. A lot of silky, satiny, uniforms of different colors hung there. "I have such pretty uniforms, don't you think?" She asked. "Oh yes Rose." I hurried to agree. "Then let me ask you something. Do you feel that I'm more powerful than you now?" She asked. "Oh yes." "Then. Don't you think you should serve me?" "I don't understand." I said. "You will." She replied, then added. "I really like that outfit. Can I try it on?" "Oh yes Rose." I replied. "Want to go back to my bedroom?" "Whatever for?" She asked. "So's I can get something else to wear." "Silly!" She laughed. "I've got tons of clothes here that'll fit you just perfect. Panties and a bra - and a slip of course. A garter belt to hold up your stockings. What else could you possibly want?" I was filled with consternation. She wanted me to dress in women's clothes! No comments about how 'masculine' they were, no excuse I could use to convince myself that I wasn't being feminine. "Please Rose? Don't make me wear your clothes." She didn't answer, just opened up a pair of black satin panties with lots of lace. Stooped down in front of me. "Lift your gown and robe and step into these. C'mon now!" Almost weeping with shame, I did as she told me. Stood obediently as she pulled the panties up under my gown until they were positioned properly. I heard - and felt - the elastic snap into place. Then she proceeded to disrobe completely in front of me, finally standing completely nude. I couldn't help but look. She was gorgeous. Her skin was smooth and had a slight olive tint. Her breasts weren't big but were well formed with an observable uplift, even with her bra removed. "Well then? Get that robe and gown off. Like a nice little bunny now - there! That's a girl!" Seconds later, she was resplendent in my robe and gown while I stood shivering in my black satin panties. "Now. Don't I look nice?" She asked me. "Oh yes." I agreed. "The color suits you." "How nice of you to say that." She said. "Now lets get the rest of your undies on. See how you like them. Here, hold your arms out and we'll get your bra on.." And I did everything she asked as she put my bra, slip, garter belt and mesh stockings on me. She teased me a little because my bra didn't need any padding. It was tight and uncomfortable, but it actually uplifted my little breasts until they actually showed some cleavage. She showed me how to adjust the straps on the bra, slip, and garter belt so the fit would be perfect. Then she had me sit down as she took the rollers from my hair and brushed it out. I looked at my girlish reflection in the mirror. High arched eyebrows, hair waving almost to the shoulders and framing an oval face. "Mmmmm" Rose said. "I think I did a nice job. Like it?" "Oh yes Rose." I answered. "Don't sound too happy about it, do we?" She said cheerfully "but just wait until you see what a little makeup can do."

It was more than a little makeup, but a little while later there was no doubt as to the sex of the person looking back at me from the mirror. Scarlet, pouty lips; curled, mascara'd eyelashes: blue eyeshadow; darkened tapering eyebrows, cheeks just touched with blusher. "Don't want to overdo it with this." Rose had said as she gently stroked my cheeks with the brush. "Your skin tone is nice, but too much blusher can make a girl with your complexion look kinda tarty. Know what I mean?" I had to nod in agreement. I didn't really know what she was talking about, but felt that arguing any point with the women in my life didn't pay. "Ok miss Henry. My turn." She said, sitting on the makeup bench beside me. "Upsa daisy!" She handed me the hairbrush. "My hair really doesn't need it, but I find that getting it brushed relaxes me. So be a good girl?" Standing there in my lingerie, I proceeded to do what she wanted by brushing her hair. After a few minutes she looked into the mirror and spoke to me. "You've got nice soft hands. A little more practice at this and you'll be really good. Betcha!" Then she paused. "I'll have to think up another name for you though 'Henry' doesn't cut it. What do you think?" "You mean a girls name?" I asked tremulously. "Of course! What else?" "Ellen gave me one already." I told her. "She did! Funny, she never told me." "It was just a little while ago, when she sent me to get you." "So. What is your new name?" "Henrietta." She made a little tutting noise with her lips. "Not very original, but .." At that point she paused, then smiled brightly. "You did take french at school, didn't you?" "Yes. It was one of my best subjects.. Why do you ask?" I replied. "She may have had a stroke of genius calling you Henrietta - it's a perfect name for a French maid." She leaned further back in her chair. "Curtsey for me and say 'oui mam'zelle."

I made a stab at it, blushing in total humiliation. "Not bad for a first time. Now do it again, but put your right foot behind your left, and curtsey a little deeper. Most important? Give me a nice pretty smile when you do. Go ahead then." And she made me work at my curtseying technique and smile until she was satisfied. "You've almost convinced me that you're happy doing that. How'd you like to try on one of my uniforms? That way, when you curtsey you'll create the perfect picture." "But Ellen? I think she'll be mad if we take too much longer." Desperately seeking an excuse - any excuse to get back into my robe and nightgown. "I think you should refer to Ellen as 'madame' now. It's a lot more appropriate. Don't you agree?" "Oui mam'zelle" I said, curtseying. She beamed at me and got up from the bench and walked to her closet. "How cute! Lets get a uniform for you, eh? Ah yes" she pulled a royal blue uniform out, removing the hanger as she did so. Then she held it at both shoulders, lifting it for my approval. "Isn't this lovely? Just wait until you feel how taffeta sounds when you walk - you'll love it." Then she opened up the back of the dress and had me step into it. I knew what she meant about the noise of the material as she pulled it up around my body before fastening me in. There was a sort of 'silky crackling' noise that seemed inordinately loud any time I so much as shifted from one foot to another. To tell the truth, I found it to be quite exciting. As I said, it was royal blue, with a square cut neckline and short, feminine, puffy sleeves. The hem of the dress fell about calf length. The neckline, sleeves, and hem were all trimmed with a small ruffle of white material that gave a deep contrast to the dress color. I wasn't surprised when she put the serving apron over my head and tied it at the back with an extravagant bow. I winced though, when she pinned the final touch on to my hair - the lacy, beribboned maid's cap. "Come and brush my hair some more," she said softly. "Maybe you'll feel better now that you're properly dressed for the part?"

And she was right. There was no indication now that I was anything other than a personal maid, working on my mistresses hair. Slowly, I became more comfortable, both with what I was doing, and being. When she'd started with me in her room, I'd been hoping to satisfy her, then return to my 'own' clothes. I knew now, that this was going to be highly unlikely, but was starting to accept that any voice I had in what she was going to do with me was minimal. "Like this room, do you?" She asked. I looked around taking in the feminine drapes and furniture, the bright window looking out over the garden through french doors, the attached bathroom only a portion of which was visible. "Oui mam'zelle. Very pretty." I said becoming more and more capable in the role she had given me. "It's really highly unusual for a maid to get a suite of rooms like this, isn't it?" She asked. "Now that you mention it mam'zelle? It probably is." She smiled. "That's enough Henrietta. Put the brush down. Let's go and talk to madame. Shall we?" I gave a small bob, then did as she had told me, following her along the hall to Ellen's office. She didn't knock. Just opened the door and stuck her head in. "Hi sweetie." She said. Then, taking a hold of my arm she pulled me into the office behind her. "What are you doing in that get-up? I bought it for him." Ellen said. "Oh. She pissed me off a little, so I gave her a little spanking." Rose answered easily. "After I'd done that? Couldn't see much sense in following the schedule. To tell the truth? I think she was ready for it. Right Henrietta?" I gave a bright smile. Curtsied. "Oui mam'zelle." I answered, though I'd no real idea of what she was talking about. "My god! A french maid! Oh, you devil!" Ellen laughed and going over to Rose, embraced her. They then kissed. Full on the lips and for a long time. They finally stopped but, keeping an arm around each other, turned to face me. "You don't mind me kissing another woman, do you Henrietta?" Ellen asked. " Mais non madame." I said. "You see? Rose and I have been ... friends .. for a long time. But see, we kinda like having a man around at times. One all nice and soft and girlish - it's stupid probably, but we both like a man's equipment to be available to us occasionally. When you hired me, I sensed that you were exactly what we needed, so we set up this little play - you don't mind. I trust" she added sweetly. "Non madame." "Very good. So effective immediately, you can take over Rose's job - and room. She'll take over yours. Isn't that nice?" "Oui madame."

"Just one thing Henrietta? I did say that Rose and I like your .. equipment?" I didn't know what was expected, so did a quick bob. "Well you need a few little modifications. Tonight? You'll shave everything down there. Everything, understand?" "Oui madame." "Then you'll powder yourself there and put a little perfume on as well." She turned to Rose. "Shalimar?" Rose nodded, and spoke to me. "There's both powder and perfume in your new bathroom. You can use them." "Thank you mam'zelle." "And from now on, you'll be shaved, powdered and perfumed down there at all times. Understand?" Ellen said firmly. I nodded and curtsied. "I think we should tell her about her cousins." Rose said. Ellen bit her bottom lip. Smiled sympathetically at me. "Yes. I guess so." Then she thought for a second or two before continuing. "Frances and Emily? They're not really your cousins. They are related to you but it's a more distant relationship than that. See, their grandmother got shafted by your grandfather both sexually and financially many years ago. As a matter of fact, a large part of your estate should by all rights be theirs. They don't really want that though. What they want is you.""Me madame?" "Yes. It's quite strange actually. They're girls. Absolutely no doubt about that. At the same time, they want to revenge themselves on your family by doing to you what your grandfather did to their grandmother." At my puzzled look, she added "Screw you. Make you into their ideal girl. They've bought dildoes and have been gradually finding out what to do with them for the last few weeks. Now, here's the thing. I've pretty well told them that they're welcome to your backside - just as long as they leave the main equipment for Rose and me. With you all sweet and girlish in your maids uniforms, I don't know if they'll be able to keep their hands off you. So? Tell you what. Why don't you run along. Tell them that Rose and I would like their company for dinner." She looked at the clock on her desk and shook her head. "That means that you'll have three hours to come to some arrangement with them. Don't cry if they tear your pretty uniform or underwear, there's lots more." I stood, transfixed in horror. She took two of the maid's bells from the mantel shelf. "Here. Take these with you. One for Frances, one for Emily. That way you'll know when they want you. Now? Off with you, like a good girl. Rose and I have some catching up to do." "Oui madame" I said. THE END

Nov 201520

From He To She - Male To Female

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For one in 10,000 of the population, a hormonal imbalance in the uterus about six to nine weeks after conception is where it all starts. A study from the Netherlands examined the brains of straight and gay men, women and male-to-female transsexuals. They looked at part of the hypothalmus, an area of the brain that is affected by sex hormones during its development, and discovered that while the brains of straight and gay men were the same, the transsexual-to-female brains were almost identical to the brains of women. However, knowing that the way you feel is due to a quirk of nature doesn't make life any easier, especially when puberty kicks in and your body starts to head off down a route that is diametrically opposed to the way you want to go. "I have people turning up who are on the point of suicide," says Fran Springfield, specialist gender identity counsellor, "and self mutilation is not uncommon." But, in a strange way, these are the lucky ones - they've recognised their situation and have taken the first step. Others are not so lucky. "Many transsexuals go through periods when they attempt to suppress or deny their condition. Some choose hobbies or jobs that are hyper-masculine in order to try to prove that they are not transsexual." Transsexuals can be found in all walks of life: Springfield has even had former SAS members come to her for help. Some transsexual-to-females who visit are in the 40s or 50s, have married and have children. Having made the initial contact the patient is now ready to embark on the journey from transsexual-to-female.

STEP ONE: Counselling "Clients undergo many hours of counselling to determine that they are really transsexual and to rule out other psychiatric problems," says Springfield. The only specialist nurse gender counsellor in the country, she has worked in the gender field for ten years, and is a member of the Harry Benjamin International Gender Dysphoria Association, an organisation which governs the treatment of transsexuals. The client is then referred to a psychiatrist for further evaluation. STEP TWO: Hormone Treatment Transsexual-to-females are given oestrogen which prompts them to develop breasts and a smaller waist. They will see more fat on their hips and smoother skin along with a reduction of body hair and loss of libido. Hormones do not usually stop beard growth which has to be removed by electrolysis. It can take up to 1,000 hours of electrolysis at £35 per hour to remove a full beard. Hormones do not alter voice pitch either, although speech therapy can help in that respect. STEP THREE : Changing gender role Patients will have to live in their new gender role for at least 12 months before an operation can be performed. During this time, all documents relating to the client are changed - driving license, National Insurance, everything except birth certificate. The patient must also come out at work - following the case of P vs Cornwall Council in the European Court in April 1996, transsexuals are now protected against discrimination in the workplace. A Home Office working party is expected to report in 2000/2001 on changing the birth certificates of post-operative transsexuals to reflect their new gender identity. "The real life experience is important," says Springfield. The 12-month period is a duration laid down by Harry Benjamin, who actually coined the term transsexual and, on a quite unrelated point, lived to be 102 years old. During this time transsexuals are checked up on to make sure that they are not cheating.

STEP FOUR : Counselling and Referral. Psychiatric examination follows more counselling to rule out delusion in the patient. After all, there will be no going back after the operation. STEP FIVE : Surgery It's not only the end results that are good, there are also very few complications following the 4-5 hour operation. The patient is out of hospital in ten days and can be back at work in three months. The risk of prolapse is small and usually only occurs if patients have sex too soon after surgery or if the surgery is poor. Satisfaction rates with good surgery are 100 per cent. "The patient has got they body they always wanted," says Springfield. "To see patients going from desperation to complete satisfaction makes the job very rewarding." Following surgery cases, 40 per cent of transsexual-to-females live as heterosexual women, 40 per cent are lesbian and 20 per cent pursue a bisexual lifestyle. "Transsexuals are ordinary people who've gone through an extraordinary experience," says Springfield. "Many live their lives without anyone knowing their background. You have probably met some without even knowing." You can contact Fran Springfield at http://members.aol.com/gics

Nov 201520

A History of Corsetry

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A HISTORY OF CORSETRY

Perhaps he could equally have suggested that without 'fashion' there would be no need of foundations! For without womens' (and mens') obsession throughout history with a tiny waist and thrusting breasts - except perhaps for the flat 'tube'-like fashion of the 1920s - corsetry and bras alike would probably never have been invented. Interestingly enough, women living in the few remaining primitive societies do not seem to have the same desperate desire for small waists and certainly do not seem to be unduly worried or self-conscious about their winging bobbling breasts in the way that our ancestors were. The Cretan women, for example, are known to have worn corsets laced-in tightly to accentuate their waists as long as 4000 years ago, although they still left their breasts free to sway and bounce. As far as is known, the first serious attempt made by women to control the movement of their breasts and to enhance their shape was around 450 BC, when a crude type of bra was fashioned out of soft leather. Probably the most bizarre corset ever devised was a hinged iron contraption invented around 1600 AD as a result of Catherine de Medici, the wife of Henry II of France, deciding that the ideal measurement for a woman's waist was 13 inches!!! This resulted in women allowing themselves to be bolted into suitably shaped iron cages - a habit that persisted well into the 17th century. How they not only bore the pain of being gradually but relentlessly bolted into these corsets, but also put up with the continuing discomfort throughout the day defies imagination. These painfully small waists were further exaggerated later in the century by underpinning their full skirts with hoops and panniers.

By around 1820 the better-off woman was wearing a heavily boned (whalebone) corset tightly laced at the back, with specially shaped cups for the breasts. It was not until the mass production techniques of the Victorians enabled corsets to be made by machine, rather than by hand, that the grasually reducing prices enabled the majority of women to willingly imprison their bodies in rigid corsets. It was not unreasonably suggested that these unforgiving and physically limiting corsets were simply another attempt by men to keep women helplessly imprisoned at home (and in constant danger of fainting), but most mothers seemed quite happy to lace up their young daughters as tightly as possible into these body disciplining contraptions that would eventually ensure they had the obligatory 14 inch waist - not to mention an extraordinary lack of mobility and probably constant indigestion! It was not really until the First World War that any dramatic change came about in the idea of women encasing themselves in what had by now become steel rather than whalebone reinforced corsets. For now, not only was the steel needed for the war effort but also the women were needed to work in the factories - something they could not be expected to do in constricting corsets.

After the war, two factors brought about a virtual revolution in women's foundation garments. First, in 1920 Mary Jacobs, a New York debutante, invented the forerunner of the bra as we know it with the help of two silk handkerchiefs and some ribbon. Second, elastic webbing was invented in the USA, which would stretch both ways. It now became possible to still substantially control the body shape whilst allowing the body considerably more flexibility of movement - altogether a much more comfortable state of affairs. The girdle had been born and from it the pantie girdle would emerge. Oddly enough though, there is still a surprisingly large demand for the much less comfortable boned corsets - corsets that not only control and discipline the more wayward bodies, but also offers the wearer feelings of confidence, 'safety', and often a certain pleasure into the bargain. Of course this demand for the heavily boned and laced corsets so reminiscent of the Victorian era is much enhanced by the number of TVs who derive considerable pleasure and contentment from the control and discipline demanded. There can be little doubt that imprisoning and often embarrassingly restrictive corsets, when really tightly laced, put the wearer into an extremely vulnerable physical position - a position that demands a submissive and placatory response towards threatening or aggressive behaviour from a male - or in the case of a TV, another male. To attempt to 'stand up' for yourself in such a physically handicapping situation would be little short of foolhardy. Indeed, one cannot help asking oneself to what extent corsets have played a part in ensuring that women have been conditioned to accept a submissive role in society...

Nov 201520

Gender Terms

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Gender Terms

Gender: A concept of maleness or femaleness which is considered independent of sexual characteristics. A fluid definition which has different classifications across cultures. In many cultures there are three or more recognised genders. Sex: This what you are called at or around birth based on primary sex characteristics i.e. genitalia. Male or Female sex is assigned by the way one looks to the medical staff at the time of birth. Gender identification is frequently (but by no means always) concordant with the sex identification. Sexuality: The sexual orientation of a person or how one relates to other people physically and emotionally. Homosexuality, Bisexuality and many other orientations are identified. Where there is ambiguity or blurring of gender "boundaries", some of the standard descriptions of orientation fail due to the assumption of fixed gender i.e., is a male to female transsexual who has a relationship with a genetic women a lesbian relationship? Genetic Male: A person who was assigned male gender as a result of having predominantly male sex characteristics at birth. Genetic Female: A person who was assigned female gender as a result of having predominantly female sex characteristics at birth. Intersexed: A person who was ambiguously male or female at birth and may have been assigned to a gender at the discretion of the treating medical officer at or near birth. Surgical adjustment to genitalia may have subsequently been performed to "confirm" the gender assigned. Cross Dresser: A person who wears the clothes of another gender. This is rarely applied to a genetic woman who wears male clothing and is mostly applied to genetic males who wear overtly female clothing. The term Transvestite is a term often used to refer to the same thing but has overtones of fetishism and obsessive behaviour. Transgenderist: A person who adopts a lifestyle where they live a life closely mirroring that of a different gender to that assigned at birth. This person may live as their preferred gender on either a part time or full time basis. This term usually refers to people who choose not to seek Sex Reassignment Surgery (SRS) and may (but many do not) choose hormone therapy. Other surgery and facial hair removal are frequently considered important for those who are genetically male and wishing to present as female in daily life. The boundaries between Transgenderism and Transsexuality are often blurred.

Transgender: A general term that was originally coined to refer to people who cross-lived in a different gender but did not seek surgical intervention. It has become popular as a relatively benign term to cover all forms of unconventional gender expression. It is specifically used to refer collectively to people who cross-dress, cross-live in a different gender and to transsexuals who wish to permanently alter their bodies. A useful short definition is that it refers to the diverse groups of people who show some kind of variation from cultural norms in their gender expression. Transsexual: (TS) A person who intends to change their body to more closely resemble that of the sex that they would prefer to be. This usually involves hormone therapy and often includes some cosmetic surgery. SRS is sought in a small proportion of cases. There are two main categories by which Transsexuals are referred - Male to Female (MtF) and Female to Male (FtM). MtF (Male to Female Transsexuals): This refers to genetic males who seek to change their bodies to resemble female bodies. This usually requires medical intervention with hormone treatment, cosmetic surgery (in many cases) and possibly SRS. Facial hair removal, speech therapy/voice surgery and treatment for receding hair line are frequently sought. (FtM) Female to Male Transsexuals: This refers to a genetic female who seeks to change their body to resemble a male body. This is usually achieved by hormone treatment and bilateral mastectomy. Standards of Care: The Harry Benjamin Standards of Care (SoC) are a set of standards which were developed in the 1940's and 50's for the treatment of transsexuals who wished to have SRS (primarily genetic males who wished to be women). The standards were developed in an environment where there was resistance from the medical profession (predominantly conservatives) to the provision of ANY assistance for transsexuals to change their sex/gender. Transition: This is the process of changing from presenting as a Woman to presenting as a Man or visa versa. This process varies according to the individual's life circumstances, personal objectives and overall outlook on life. It also depends on considerations for work, family and friends. The process defined in the Standards of Care are not always appropriate and individuals are more often inclined to make their own choices when they are not obliged to follow the SoC. Transition may or may not result in SRS/GRS. SRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery): Also referred to as GRS, Gender Reassignment Surgery (Note: logically, gender cannot be reassigned by surgery. It is innate to a person's identity) or Genital Reconstruction Surgery. The semantics are less relevant than the reality of the surgery which is unchanged by the description! For MtF transsexuals the surgery involves such procedures as orchidectomy (removal of the testes), penectomy (removal of the penis), labioplasty (construction of a labia, usually from the scrotal tissue) and vaginoplasty (construction of a functional vagina and clitoris from the penis skin and glans with possibly a colon transplant for additional depth). For a FtM procedures include bilateral mastectomy (removal of both breasts), hysterectomy (to remove the uterus and ovaries) and phalloplasty (to create a functional and cosmetically appealing penis) It is widely regarded that MtF SRS is more successful in producing a functional and cosmetically appealing result that FtM SRS

Hormones: This refers to the Gonadal hormones. Male gonadal hormones are called Androgens and are mainly confined to testosterone which produces all the readily identifiable Secondary Sex characteristics. The main female hormone is oestrogen with progesterone as a secondary one. A MtF will usually need to use an anti-androgen to suppress testosterone. The effects of gonadal hormones are often quite significant but it is reported that the effectiveness of the hormone treatment decreases with the age at which a person starts taking them. Primary Sex Characteristics: The Genitals are the primary sex characteristics. The usually definitively identify a person as either male or female. Secondary Sex Characteristics: These include the existence of breasts (or not), hairline, facial shape, body shape (the hour-glass figure is typically female) and the distribution of body hair. Since these characteristics are more visible, they are used as cues when people identify gender. Other cultural cues include length and style of hair, fingernail length, and use of makeup. These are not really body characteristics but a culturally determined set of gender clues that can be quite easily changed. Primary Transexual: A term that was used to describe those who strongly identified feelings of being transgendered at an early age. It was highly regarded by the medical profession for a person to have "felt like this since I first talked". These days, it is not often used for diagnosis. Secondary Transexual: A term used to indicate that a person identified transgender feelings at a later age.

Nov 201520

Dial 999 for Dilemma

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DIAL 999 FOR DILEMMA

I've got this thing about high heels you see. It's not that I don't enjoy wearing all the other things girls wear - I do - but heels are my particular fetish, you might say. I'm lucky because for a man I have small feet - size 7, which enables me to buy a delightful variety of women's shoes from normal shoe shops (presents for my wife you understand). I should know better really because I'm all of 5 feet 8 inches tall anyway, and with six inch heels on I'm - well, you work it out for yourself. Actually, I usually settle for 3 to 4 inch heels, but when the mood takes me I cannot resist six inchers. My wardrobe is full of shoes of every imaginable colour, from strappy sandals, to wedge heels, to classy court shoes - you name them and I've got them! Anyway, to get on with my tale: this particular evening I was in one of my moods - I felt I had to go for six inch heels, and I selected these very sexy, bright red leather sandals with cross-over ankle straps secured by tiny brass buckles. I had already decided that I was going to wear this slinky silk frock, which was the same colour as the shoes. It had a daring tulip skirt which opened at the front when I walked or sat down, giving the observer an encouraging glimpse of lacy things to come. As it was an early autumn evening I was going to wear my white hip length woollen coat with its brass buttons and big pockets. With my black jewellery, my sheer black stockings and my black hair I tell you I looked pretty hot stuff! Of course, the thing about really high heels is the way they effect your walking - you are compelled to take small steps, leaning your body back and pushing your pelvis forward. The result is a very sexy walk indeed, once you've got the hang of it. I just love to see the fellows gawking at me and fantasising as I walk past them - if only they knew what I had between my legs! Of course, the major problem is that you can't cover ground fast, and to run is to invite disaster - you just have to be content to take small, hip-swivelling steps, You become, in fact, like most women - extremely vulnerable. Well, everything went fine at the beginning as I took my little walk around town, which was something I never missed if the weather was anything like okay. It was straight home from my van driving job, a quick bite to eat and then the pleasures of the wardrobe and choosing the garbe I mentioned earlier. It was at the pelican crossing in the centre of town that my downfall took place. This stupid car, driven by some pimply faced youth came charging around the bend just as I was halfway across the road, and sent me flying. I wasn't actually badly hurt, apart from what appeared to be a sprained ankle, but within a few seconds there was quite a crowd around me as some bloke helped me carefully to the pavement and sat me on his coat. A pretty girl picked up my handbag and put back the bits and pieces that had tumbled out when it had hit the road and burst open. "Are you alright, my dear?" she enquired as she gave me back my handbag. I smiled and nodded. "I think she might have broken her ankle", the guy who'd helped me said. He looked like a retired army man to me. "Anyway, someone's gone to ring for an ambulance". The car had not stopped - probably stolen - but somebody had got the number, which I thought was very public spirited.

By the time I had pulled myself together a bit I began to realise that I was in a spot of bother. I couldn't just get up and walk away with my ankle like it was, which meant that I would have to let the ambulance take me to hospital when it arrived. Then what? Quite apart from which, the police would presumably want a statement. Damn!!! Things were not looking too good. If only I had not been wearing my six inch heels I'd probably have been able to jump out of the way of the car in time, and I wouldn't have been in this pickle. The ambulance duly arrived and I was lifted onto a stretcher, one of the ambulance men hurriedly covering me with a blanket as my tulip petal skirt was showing far more than it had any right to! We sped off with the sirens blaring and me lying there thinking how nice it was that the blanket matched the colour of my shoes! One of the ambulance men was asking me whether my ankle hurt and could I move it, and was I alright apart from that, and so on. At the hospital I'm sitting in this chair trying to keep my skirt together at the front - somehow it didn't seem right to look too sexy in a place like that - when, after what seemed an age, they wheeled me off to get my ankle X-rayed. They had wanted to give me a thorough all-over examination, which would certainly have set the cat amongst the pigeons, but I hurriedly assured them that it was only my ankle and that otherwise I was fine - just fine. Some really dolly nurse had undone the suspenders on my stockings and rolled it off for me, which was a very pleasant experience I can assure you, and I remember thinking how lucky it was that I had waxed my legs only a few days earlier! So there I was an hour later, contemplating my red painted toenails on my injured foot, when in walks a doctor carrying an X-ray. My ankle is not broken - only sprained, which is a considerable relief. However, they think it advisable to keep me in overnight as a precaution and fortunately there's a bed spare, the only one, but in the maternity ward. Now, don't get me wrong, I would have no objection at all to spending the night with all those lovely ladies, but the thought of suddenly revealing my little secret in front of them all as the nurses tried to persuade me into a hospital nightie was something I found decidedly embarassing. As a result I declined the doctor's kind invitation - quite forcibly, but of course with due graciousness and feminine charm, and it was eventually agreed that my ankle would be strapped up and they would send me home in an ambulance. I was having a last cup of tea, my ankle all strapped up and the ambulance due at any moment, when the long arm of the law appeared in the shape of a very young acned policeman, notebook at the ready. It appeared that they'd caught the pimply faced youth. Anyway, they wanted a formal statement from me and could I manage to get down to the station or would I rather have apoliceman come round to my house? Well, the last thing I wanted was some copper snooping around my place, so I said I'd come down to the station to make my statement. Apparently I would also have to appear as a witness, or victim or something, at the magistrate's court, and that would probably be in about a week or so. So he just wrote down my name and address - Rita, I told him Rita Johnson - and then left. I was in seventh heaven all the way back in the ambulance. I was able to go down to the police station fully 'dressed' - I could hardly suddenly appear as a man, and obviously the same would have to apply to my appearance in court. What more exciting experience could any 'girl' ask for! I felt totally confident that I would be able to carry the whole thing off, particularly after the way all the nurses had accepted me as a real woman. The only fly in the ointment as far as I was concerned was my blasted strapped ankle - I'd never be able to get a decent shoe over it. I was determined, come hell or high water, I would get rid of the strapping before my appearance in the witness box, for I was going to be wearing the most stunning outfit money could buy, and the most elegant, sexiest pair of shoes with the highest heels those Magistrates had ever seen in their lives, and I'd certainly have better briefs than any solicitor present!

Nov 201520

Stockings and Suspenders

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Transvestism thrives on the differences between men’s and women’s clothing – that’s obvious. The difference between a man’s sock and a woman’s stocking is especially satisfying. The sock is coarse, the stocking sheer. The sock doesn’t advance beyond the shin, the stocking clings intimately to our thighs.

A sock is something you use – with a stocking it’s closer to a relationship. You have to treat her gently (I make no apology for calling a stocking ‘her’ – she’s too much like a lover to be an ‘it’). You need to smooth any raggedness from your nails. She should be caressed, not tugged.

There is something sensuous, too, in fastening the suspenders. Position them carefully. They must grip the welt, not the sheer fabric beneath. Slide the suspender gently into place, feel it take the tension. I love that moment.

The contrast between the female suspender belt and the nearest male equivalent is at least as striking as that between stocking and sock. If I were making a film, and wished to make a male character look entirely ridiculous, I would deprive him of trousers and put him in sock suspenders. They must be the least flattering garment ever devised – it’s no wonder that so few men wear them.

If, making that film, I wanted to make my leading lady look as sexy as possible (in a bedroom sort of way) I can’t think of anything better than suspernders. Let her lose her skirt – or trousers – to reveal stocking tops and suspenders. It can’t fail.

Thirty years after stockings and suspenders were ‘replaced’ by tights, a lot of women still have them in their lingerie drawers – and on their legs. The appeal of the stocking continues, and not just for transvestites. Indeed, very few transvestites could squeeze themselves into the tiny suspender belts made for teenage girls long after their mothers – or grandmothers – swapped stockings for tights.

Possibly the most sexy pictures I’ve ever seen were in a glossy women’s magazine. It showed the model hitching up her skirt with one hand to adjust a suspender with the other. It wasn’t the look at her sexiness of what one of my friends describes as ‘one handed magazines’ – it was an I want to be that girl sexiness. Inevitably so as glossy women’s magazines exist to sell clothes, make-up, perfume, all things femme. They’re in business to make the reader want to be that girl.

The point is that stockings and suspenders can ooze sex appeal to women as well as to men. All the same, the sex appeal for the two genders seems to be rather different. For men it has to do with stocking tops and suspenders being displayed. For women – and for at least some transvestites – it has more to do with them being hidden.

I have an illustrated history of girlie magazines. It includes a fair number of pictures of girls in stockings and suspenders – as we’d all expect. In every case, stocking tops and suspenders are fully exposed. If there is any other clothing, it’s pushed back well away from the thighs. The girls are presented as ready for sex. There is always the sense of their being observed, all of the girls seemed aware of the camera.

In women’s magazines, it seems a much more private thing. The image of the girl adjusting her suspender, which I found so sexy, seemed to capture a fleeting moment in which stocking top and suspender were revealed. Only a moment later, one has the impression, the glimpse of underwear will pass into history. The suspender will be adjusted, and the girl will drop the hem of her skirt. Then there will be no way for anyone but her to know that she’s wearing stockings rather than tights.

There is something similar in the magic moment of seeing a woman in stockings and suspenders climb inexpertly into or out of a car. It’s very sexy. In that sexiness there is a strong element of sharing a secret with the woman.

Another difference between the women’s magazine image and the one for men is that the girl adjusting the suspender is self-absorbed. The act of adjustment is for her alone, it does not have the look of a display for another person. In spite of the camera, it remains private. The person who looks at that picture and thinks I want to be that girl – whether woman or transvestite – does not see herself as displaying the suspender for the benefit of an onlooker.

In all of this, the transvestite is in a rather privileged position. We can place ourself in the private world of the woman. This is an especial satisfaction when stepping out with suspenders and stocking tops hidden under our skirts. We know, but no one else does.

Alternatively, we can take the part of the male observer. Many of us do this while standing before a full length mirror in our favourite undies. We are both the man who looks, and the girl at whom he looks. It’s no wonder that we love mirrors so much!

It isn’t just a matter of looking good though – stockings and suspenders feel exquisite. It’s hard to think of more enjoyment to be had from simply wearing clothes than the sensation of sheer hosiery clinging to our legs. The stockings feel great as we roll them on, but even better as the suspenders take up the tension. The suspender belt, too, feels a whole lot nicer once it’s engaged with the stockings

There is something lovely about running ones hand up a woman’s leg, under the skirt, caressing her nylon sheathed thighs, toying with a suspender and hooking ones fingers inside the stocking top. Wonderful as that certainly is, the sensation from within the stocking is even better. As the hand explores, everything which makes the stocking such a delight to wear is intensified. It’s electrifying!

Stockings give rise to a whole range of more simple thrills as well. As ordinary a thing as crossing your thighs – allowing one nylon thigh to stroke the other – can be tremendous fun. Another delight is to step out in skirt and stockings on a warm day. The cool area of the upper thigh above the stocking top is something to relish. It feels even better with a breeze to play about your thighs. The breeze cannot only caress your thighs directly, but it can also stroke them with the fabric of your skirt. Wear something silky, you won’t regret it!

Come the winter, it must be admitted, a strip of cool thigh above the stocking top is a whole lot less pleasant. It is then that tights come into their own, and the denier I prefer zooms up from 15 to 70. But I’m never really happy with tights. They don’t feel as good – and they sure look a lot less sexy.

Stockings are sexy – and they’re practical for sexual purposes. As long as the knickers are worn over the suspenders, there’s no need to disturb stocking or suspender to have sex. The knickers slide down (do it slowly, perhaps with the teeth) and we’re ready for action.

The same thing applies for both women and transvestites. Sex with both of you in stockings carries my strongest recommendation. The friction of nylon upon nylon – wow!!

Sex in tights, well there’s a joke about that:

HE: “If I’d known you were a virgin, I wouldn’t have done that…”

SHE: “If I’d known you were going to do that, I would have taken off my tights…”

It’s hard on your clothing, but tights-wrecking sex is perfectly possible. It can be fun too, but to make it work properly you really need to prepare for it in advance, in spite of the joke.

Normally, someone in tights wears a pair of knickers underneath. The knickers can’t be removed without removing the tights or putting an awful lot of work into wrecking them. Try the experiment at home and I’m sure you’ll agree – tights-wrecking sex really needs an absence of knickers.

There are other kinds of feminine hosiery. Fot a start, we have girly socks. With more than a hint of the shcoolgirl, these certainly look cute on catwalk models. How well a transvestite can carry them off is another matter. With these, how they look is everything. They don’t caress your legs as a stocking does – or even a pair of tights.

Another variation is the hold up – a stocking without the suspender. Here, the first objection is: stockings feel good, so why do without them?

Sometimes there may be a reason. I think that suspenders look really naff under a lycra skirt. That said, my lycra skirts are the only good reasons I’ve ever found for wearing hold ups.

Lycra skirts appeal to the tart in me, and about four years ago I wore them quite often with hold ups. When I stopped, it had nothing to do with the lycra. It was that the hold ups were so bloody uncomfortable, they cut into the thighs.

The thigh is a very sensitive part of the body – in fact I see it as almost a sexual organ (licking the inside of the thigh, above the stocking top, is highly recommended!). Hold ups may suit the sort people whos idea of fun is represented by nipple clamps, but I don’t like them.

Wearing feminine clothes is a very special experience. There’s a saying The most fun you can have with your clothes on – but I have much more fun with them on than with them off. So – why go for half measures? Let’s pamper ourselves.

As far as I’m concerned, that definitely includes stockings and suspenders. They’re great! Don’t you love them too?

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