Transformation Blog | Advice & Resources for Trans People

Nov 201520

Will They Still Love Me After I Tell Them?

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WILL THEY STILL LOVE ME AFTER I TELL THEM? Why Should I Tell?

Guilt. If you have not achieved self-acceptance you may carry a great burden of guilt for a variety of reasons. You may feel badly about keeping a secret from your partner or family. It's lying by omission. So, you may decide to tell to alleviate feelings of guilt. Self-Image. At the personal level, you may have very a poor self-image, low self-esteem. These feelings may come from "messages" sent by a partner or family members that you (as a TV) are "bad" or "unworthy" of love. So, you may decide to tell to help your self-esteem. Isolation. At one time or another, you probably thought you were the only person in the world who crossdressed. You may still have immense feelings of loneliness and desperation. So, you may tell because you want to end the isolation. Freedom. Let's say you've found a local support group, but since your family doesn't know about your activities, you are not free to explore your gender issues. So, you may want to tell so you can have more freedom to explore and express yourself. Or, believe it or not, many times a CD will come to the end of a business career and find he's faced with the prospect of being home with his partner all the time. No more business trips! No more freedom. So, you may decide to tell in order to retain your freedom to dress. Accidental Discovery. Perhaps your family has accidentally discovered your crossdressing and they're making all sort of wild assumptions. So, you may have to tell in order to do some damage control, correct misinformation, and calm many fears.

When & How You Should Tell When - As soon as possible. Research shows that the longer you wait, the more negative the reaction. Ideally, tell before you get married, after that there is no "best" time. When you tell, your goal should be understanding of your need to express this part of you, not force acceptance. The setting should be intimate & private. You are going to deliver information, so have it ready. Don't flood them with too much information. Stop and wait for questions. Be prepared to stop completely if the reaction is shock. How - Use positive terms. Don't say you have a "problem." Rather say, "I have something to share with you." Tell dressed in your regular clothes. Don't show up crossdressed. If they want to see what you look like, have a photo handy. I don't know the TV that doesn't have a photo of themselves dressed. Have quality info available. Don't use a TV magazine with personals, not even Tapestry or older issues of LadyLike with Personals. The presence of Personal Ads is a definite negative. Use Chrysalis, Cross-Talk, Coping With Crossdressing, or My Husband Wears My Clothes. Suggest seeing a qualified counselor for impartial answers to difficult questions. Don't try to be an expert. Suggest talking to a partner or family member of another CD, if you have access to a support group. Discuss limits: where and when crossdressing is acceptable both privately and publicly; the role of crossdressing in the bedroom; and whether to tell others, including children, other family members and friends. Discuss the extent your partner is willing to participate in your crossdressing activities.

Some Things You Need to Understand I've often heard it said that crossdressing doesn't hurt anyone. That's true only if you are single and have no family. Otherwise, because we co-exist with other family members, our behavior does have an effect on them, both perceived and real. You need to understand some of the family issues involved. Guilt by Association. There are social repercussions to consider. How many families want to be associated with a person society considers mentally ill and a pervert? Friendships can be lost. Children can be teased unmercifully. The family becomes outcast. This can lead to feelings of isolation, loneliness and anger at the crossdresser. We like to think that our society is more enlightened than that today, but, sadly, it's just not true. Loss of Income. Many families fear economic reprisals if the crossdressing is discovered. This is not an unreasonable fear. In many job situations, the discovery of crossdressing behavior may be cause, however unjustified, for dismissal. Sexual Orientation. Families that discover a crossdresser among them often question the person's sexual orientation. A lot of ignorance surrounds homosexuality still and questions of promiscuity are likely to come up and that brings up STDs. Some families will wonder if the crossdresser is really a transsexual who will want genital reconstruction. Loss of Intimacy. Crossdressing can be a narcissistic, selfish behavior. Often a CD will become so engrossed in crossdressing that he begins to neglect the public and private social aspects of the family. Extraordinary amounts of time, energy, and, frequently, money are spent developing an alter-ego. Self-Esteem Partners can react to crossdressing from a sense of lowered self-esteem. They immediately ask, "What have I done wrong? What is wrong with me?" They immediately blame themselves for the behavior. It doesn't matter that the transvestism was set in motion years before they met, they "know" it's their fault. Partners who react this way usually feel negatively about themselves to begin with and they transfer the "guilt" of the behavior to themselves. Competition. A partner or family member also may feel they have to "compete" with the crossdresser. They may be threatened if the CD looks convincingly like the opposite sex. Consider the damage done to a partner's ego if his/her spouse looks more like the opposite sex than he/she does.

What Reactions Can You Expect? I don't know of any marriage that ended because crossdressing was the single issue. Usually there are many problems in a relationship and the crossdressing just pushes it over the edge. If you have a good, loving, respectful relationship with your partner and family, they will try to understand you and your needs. Acceptance: Sometimes family will express complete and total acceptance of crossdressing behavior. This may be due to a knowledge gained from a past personal experience, or because of a sincere belief that all people should be entitled to express themselves in any non-destructive manner. A family of this type may realize that many of the good qualities about the crossdresser are due to their transgendered nature. Some may families react mildly to the need to crossdress, recognizing that the behavior is unusual but generally harmless, if managed properly. Initial acceptance or at least a willingness to learn and understand is often misinterpreted by the transvestite as total acceptance. At the opposite end of the response scale, the family unequivocally cannot accept the crossdressing behavior. Telling lies and keeping secrets from family and friends is too high a price to ask from some people. In response to this burden, a family may try to coerce the crossdresser to give it up with a threat of separation or even public exposure. Despite their best intentions, transvestites cannot "Just Say No" to crossdressing. A complete rejection can and will eventually dissolve the relationship, unless both parties work toward a compromise.

Nov 201520

The Male Reaction - Reactions

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Reactions

Cartoon: two female figures in a bar, and one says to the other "You're a transvestite aren't you? I like that in a man." The funny thing is, it happens all the time, only it's usually another man who who says that to us. Yes I know the standard formula: "Just because I like wearing frocks, it doesn't mean I'm gay. Under this sequined boob-tube beats a heart as heterosexual as John Wayne's. The proof is, I love women so much that I want to be like them...." And I have no doubt that the Woman magazine's national survey on men's sexuality was right when, a few years ago, it found that the proportion of gay men among TVs was not greatly different than among the nation at large. Only... There is a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that this is not the end of the story. Picture the scenario: There you are on a Saturday night at the bar of your favourite club. You have chosen that red silk blouse and the black velvet skirt that just skims your knees. Nail varnish, 'Bet Lynch' earrings, red heels. The leg shaving alone took you forty minutes to perfect. Be honest now, this is not a get-up in which you expect to be discussing the chances of Arsenal for the cup and league double. You are not about to seriously chat up that smart piece of stuff in the corner. No, you are there with the intension of passing as an even smarter piece of stuff yourself, and getting chatted up in your turn. I remember the first time it happened to me. A lad who looked about fifteen asked me: "Haven't I seen you here before?" and like a twerp I reacted to this as a serious request for information, It only dawned on me later that this was the classic chat-up, the social equivalent of pawn to king four. Nowadays I know what to expect. Delicate And what to expect is not to receive advances from a gay man. This is to say, not a delicate creature with limp wrists and a job in interior design, nor a Burt Lancaster look-alike with white tee-shirt, white jeans and a droopy moustache. The first one hasn't existed since Julian and Sandy on 'Round the Horne', and the second will be too busy searching for another Burt Lancaster look-alike to give you a second glance. Hadn't you realised that gay men aren't actually interested in anyone in skirts? It is quite possible to sit for hours in a gay bar and not be spoken to by anyone other than the barman, and then only to overcharge you for the drink. No, this is where the social interaction between TVs and the real world gets very interesting. There are two common reactions in my experience, one from women and the other from not-really gay men. From women, it is very common to be earnestly and sympathetically interviewed on what you're doing, what makes you tick, whether you do it 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and (as the evening wears on and the conversation becomes more intimate) how you manage to hide it, you know, 'it'. The reactions will be fascinated, encouraging, but always never sexual. There may be some swapping of hints on make-up, and even swapping of wigs and boobs- well, not swapping exactly (dream on!) but touching and trying. But all this will remain at the technical level. At the end of the evening she will go off with the fella she arrived with, who has been spending this time getting in his ration of lager and smiling self-confidently to himself. This is not to say that conversations of this kind are a waste of time. On the contrary they can lead to beautiful friendships, and every tranny can use all the friends she can get. I know a lesbian couple who are great fun for an evening out the town, and wouldn't we all like a big sister to show us the ropes, go shopping with us and let us know when our slips are showing? But to expect it get much further than that is wishful thinking. This leaves us with the other group of acquaintances we might expect to strike up - the fellas.

Handsome Let's consider first the romantic scenario of the handsome young concert pianist on his evening off, who mistakes you for a front-page model and whisks you off to the Maldives on his private jet. It may happen, and even as I write a winged porcine has just gone soaring past the window.... The reality, in my experience is rather different. There was Mike, a burly Irish textile salesman in an attrocious emerald green cardigan. Married, he told me, and as befits a good Catholic, father of five. "Er, let me get this right, now. You are a man, yes? And you're dressed as a woman?" Nothing if not perceptive, our Mike. "This is very interesting, what you're doing. D'you see, this sort of thing doesn't exist in Ireland." (He clearly didn't know about the Dublin-based Friends of Eon) "How do you mean?" I asked. "Well, er, ho....er, ho...sexuality." There, the word was out, and I could spot the way the conversation would soon be turning. Did I know I was a very attractive woman? How would I like to go back with him to his hotel room...? Henri, at the fancy dress ball in France, was far more debonair with his goatee beard and corsair looks - no, not an eye patch, but the kind of creased face that comes from living fifty years on a windy coast. He spotted me across the dancefloor while I was still sipping my first glass of dutch courage, grinned and pointed at me knowingly. Within seconds he was whisking me away in a tango, oblivious of the fact that I couldn't dance a step of it. Several dances and several glasses full of courage later, he sat down beside me and began: "Mais, est-ce que vous etes vraiment une femme?" - but are you really a woman? "What do you think," I asked him in my deepest baritone. The third one was Dave, and here I began to suspect a pattern designed by fate. Dave was a lorry driver from Wolverhampton who must have thought it was his birthday when this blonde in the pub gave a cheeky smile and said that yes, the seat next to him was free. A few sentences into the conversation, and his delighted grin began to waver. "Er, excuse me for asking this, but you are a woman aren't you?" "This evening I am, yes." "Ah, good." And then the double-take. Really, Dave was well out of his depth. My voice was rather deep? Because of my cold, I explained. "But you have very feminine hands," he assured me. Or was he trying to reassure himself? At any rate, alongside Dave's great shovels, even Mike Tyson might have been said to have feminine hands. So, what was the pattern that I saw emerging? That I seem to attract rugged middle-aged men? Ah, well, mustn't grumble: I'm no longer in my first flush of youth myself. No, it's not that. It's firstly that all these three, so far as I could judge from what they told me, were full-blooded heterosexuals and yet they went for me. Am I so utterly convincing? No way. Because all three of them, at a certain point in the conversation asked the crucial question: am I or aren't I a woman? Now this is not a question that real girls get asked. No man seriously in search of a partner for the evening asks the lady he's dancing with if she is really a woman (he might ask if she's really a lady, but that's another issue....). It seems a calculated way to get a slap across the face and a stiletto in your instep. No, the very fact that they dared put the question meant that deep down they already know the answer. And yet, when given an honest reply and modest proof, they all three pursued the bedroom sales patter. It seems to me that there are two things happening here. One is the astonishing way in which the human mind is influenced by sensory input from the eyes in far greater proportion than from the logic centres of the brain. "He'd try to get off with a lamp-post if you put a skirt on it", the old saying goes, and it seems to be entirely true that, with a modicum of snazzy dressing and careful make-up, even the least feminine of us can create a visual impression that overwhelms some men's sense of reason.

Artificial If this is what you're looking for, I can recommend the combined effect of strongly contrasting colours (especially red and black), lots of serious hair (blonde but not peroxide) and red high heels. All of this amounts to what is known to anthropologists as a Supernormal Stimulus. "A supernormal stimulus is one that exceeds its natural counterpart," writes Desmond Morris in Manwatching. He explains how man 'can improve on his own physical features in many ways' and can similarly 'supernormalise' the world around him by artificial means. "If he wishes to improve his height, he can wear high-heeled shoes: if he wishes to improve the smoothness of his skin, he can wear cosmetics..... There is no end to the many ways in which he has amplified his body-signals as a means of improving his sexual displays...." True, when Morris writes of 'man' he means humankind and not males, but the relevance to transvestism is striking. All this might explain why Mike, Henri and Dave were fooled for a moment or two by the sight of a fancy hairdo or an off-the-shoulder dress. But I have known other men for example who have invited me to dance, and then left me standing on the dancefloor a moment or two later once they discovered their mistake, with a shake of the head and a muttered "No, I can't take this". What made our three examples persevere? Were they totally sex-starved? This seems unlikely, since in two of the three cases there were plenty of Real Girls in the immediate vicinity, and even Mike could have chosen a different club to stroll into on a Wednesday night in Manchester. No, it seems evident to me that on occasions we TVs act as a safety valve for men who are tempted by the idea of homosexuality but without being turned on by the physical appearance of other men. What drives these what one might call 'crypto-gays'? Not, I think, any kind of intellectual leaning towards homosexuality, as it is sometimes claimed by the critics of open-speaking on gay issues. These critics argue that the media hype about homosexuality will persuade otherwise straight men (or children, as this phobia is often directed against gay teachers) off the straight and narrow. I gained no impression that any of the three men I described had made up their minds that they ought to try gender-bending and had hunted me down as their excuse. No, their inclination, so far as I could tell, was a genuinely emotional and physical one. Perhaps more than their more conventional colleagues and more than many writers on the subject, they had realised that the strict categorisation of male/female, gay/straight, simply does not match reality. We all know the kind of psychological author who attempts to divide humanity into clearly defined types (yes, all 6,000 million of us). The truth is that these boundaries are mental constructs - they do not exist in the real world, but have been made up by humans. Forbidden The reason may be religious. The ancient Jews had a mania for categorising and then keeping the categories seperate that went far beyond the well-known meat/milk duality. It was for instance forbidden to mix linen and wool in the same garment, a law that appears only a few lines below the well-known verse forbidding a man to put on a woman's dress or vice versa. (Deuteronomy 22). It's curious, don't you think, that those who argue against transvestism on religious grounds don't get equally het up about polyster-cotton sheets...? Or else the reasons may stem from a human need for security, to have things cut and dried, to know where one stands. Maturity, it is said, is the ability to live with ambiguity: by that standard there are a good many immature people around. Whatever the cause, Mike, Henri and Dave seem to have overcome the straitjacket of conventional categories and surprised themselves in the process. "I don't usually do this sort of thing you know...." I suppose we trannies must be good for something!

Nov 201520

TV Fantasies

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Today many fashionable clothes are designed for wear by either sex. Slacks and jeans, sweaters, frilly shirts, bow ties, jaunty hats and stylish boots often "look even better on a woman", as the advertising slogan used to say. But, while a woman might happily dress in a man's suit and tie, the poor fellow who tries to step out in a cocktail dress or evening gown is risking his reputation, if not his personal safety. Despite this, thousands of men get a harmless kick out of dressing in women's clothes. Contrary to popular belief, transvestites are not necessarily homosexual, although they all willingly confess that they pursue their compulsion to gratify the softer, more feminine part of their natures. In a world torn apart by violence surely this is no bad thing. Transvestites are particularly attracted by the glamorous aspects of femininity. They spend hours grooming themselves for special occasions, shaving their legs and bodies, spending a fortune on luxurious skin creams and other cosmetics. The excitement comes as much from the anticipation of wearing them as the fulfilment. Some transvestites identify with a specific feminine type - the saucy french maid, the femme fatale or the music hall star. Others contrive to look and behave as much like normal women as possible. Still, more will want to dress in a stimulating material, such as satin, silk, rubber or leather. Others will seek female domination, bondage or humiliation in conjunction with their crossdressing. Psychologists say that a fetish is an association between some object and pleasant sexual experience or the desire for it. Certain materials are considered sexually provocative and today there are clubs, publications and clothing shops which specially cater to those with a predilection for rubber, leather, silk, satin and lace.

Rubber of course, has long been associated with hygiene, being widely used in hospitals and the nursery. Those who delight in wearing rubber underwear, dresses or shirts, or regularly sleep and make love on rubber sheets, are recreating some childish paradise in which the smell or touch of rubber played a delightful part. Rubber particularly appeals to those adults who enjoy baby games. Leather is associated with hunting and gives a chance to identify with our primitive forebears to whom the wearing of skins was a symbol of sexual and social status. Leather is also identified with belts, straps and instruments of restraint as well as with whips and Flagellation. Silk, satin and lace represent softness, elegance and femininity. The growing fashion for transvestism may imply that men are beginning to show a softer side to their nature. Foot fetishists are among the most common. They will literally grovel before an attractive woman, sometimes in public, and beg to be allowed to worship her feet. If she is wearing boots or high-heels and stockings then so much the better. To be allowed to admire, touch and kiss her foot is paradise indeed, and the more haughty and contemptuous the woman the better the foot fetishist likes it. If she graciously allows him to remove her footwear and kiss her bare toes he is likely to curl up and swoon with delight.

The psychology of Bondage is obvious. If a transvestite is restrained he has no way of escaping from the feminine attire which he has been compelled to wear, thus assuaging his conscience. It would be a matter for outrage if there was the slightest element of coercion in bondage games. In fact, not only do many women enjoy being the "victim" but so do many men. How reassuring it must be in our repressed society to know that, in the face of overwhelming passion and temptation, we are totally incapable of resistance! It permits us to enjoy the delights of sex in total innocence. Such ideas have long lurked in the folklore of sex. In the Greek legend, Prometheus was chained to a rock as punishment for stealing fire, and his name had become a symbol of an organisation promoting bondage. The story of Samson and Delilah, the binding of Gulliver by the Lilliputians, Joan of Arc at the stake, the exploits of Houdini and the pictures of Christian martyrs have similar sexual undertones. The relationship between the prisoner and the captor is a recurring and popular theme in literature and films. The prisoner is naked, chained and buried in the deepest dungeon or behind the highest prison wall, apparently totally helpless. The captor, intelligent, cruelly attractive, is dressed in sexually-provocative clothes. Just as there are many different types of transvestites, so their sexual interests vary and although we have briefly touched on some, there are many more: corsetry, depilation, voyeurism, enemas, the list is endless and reflects the sexual practices of the population at large.

Nov 201520

What kind of breast forms are available?

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The predominant material used in the more expensive commercial breast forms is silicone gel inside a very thin, slick plastic shell with tapered edges. Other materials such as rubber/latex, foam, or cotton batting are sometimes used. Here are the main qualities of each of the types of materials used to help in deciding if a certain material is right for you. Silicone Breast Forms The material gives the form a comparable weight, movement and feel of a natural breast. The silicone can be coloured; many forms of this type are available in a variety of shades to match skin tone. Realistic nipples and areolas can also be produced. The material of this type of form warms to your body temperature and feels very comfortable. Silicone can be whipped with air to produce forms just as realistic, yet are much lighter to wear. It is NOT the same material that was used in breast implants. It is similar, but the main problem with silicone implants came from their use INSIDE the body. Even if a breast form is punctured, the contents can not be absorbed through the skin. Rubber/Latex Cheaper alternative to silicone, while still retaining some of the qualities of silicone that make it so desirable. While still having some of the qualities of silicone to a certain degree, rubber/latex can not dare to match the weight, feel or movement of even the cheapest silicone forms. Some people are allergic to rubber or latex. Foam Commercial foam forms are very cheap and can even be easily homemade. Can't be punctured or ruptured like silicone forms. Holds shape well, even in restrictive wear like sports bras. Whatever type of breast you are looking for Transformation has the ideal pair for you. Go to our instant transformation section to see everything we have on offer.

Nov 201520

Self Assessment

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Let's face it. It can be very comfortable in the closet and very painful coming out or even trying to get out. Here we are surrounding by our fantasies and protected from the sneers and laughter of the outside world by our protective shell of fearful furtiveness. The protective shell is strange. It keeps us firmly in the closet, but it also protects us from our worst nightmares by threatening us with discovery. There we are in the closet enjoying our secret femininity, but we share our closet with a whole variety of others. All of us comfortably uncomfortable in our pink silk knickered, macho jock strapped or rubber lined worlds and all petrified of being revealed as we see ourselves. Understanding Those of you who have dared to show your true colours to the world will laugh at our fears, hopefully with understanding but perhaps (and this is the crux of our fear) there may be some regretting their boldness. There may be those who have personal acquaintance with someone who has come out. Just recently I have become aware of, if not a friend let's call him a business acquaintance, who has gradually shown his true colours in a very public way. Let's call him Hector. I have no way of knowing his objectives nor his feelings, but his fetish for uniforms and just lately frilly underwear have been very publicly displayed. Hector is the cartoon character used by the Inland revenue to publicise the new taxation system, known as Self Assessment. This is the dramatic change in the relationship taxpayers will have with the tax man and seems to be a tremendous strain on Hector as the great day approaches. Strain has caused so many over the years to let their screts slip. You only have to read the tabloid press nearly any day to see accounts of the fall of the great and noble. But there hasn't been a mention of Hector's apparent dash from the closet. Guises In the leaflets issued by the Inland Revenue, Hector has appeared in a variety of guises. One shows him on a building site, stripped to the waist and wielding a towel but still complete with bowler hat, umbrella and moustache. In the same leaflet there is a hint of things to come perhaps, with him anxiously peering out of a shop resplendent in apron. It is, as some of you will appreciate, only a short step from apron to frilly pinafore! I began to wonder when in the General Guide there he was with knots in his umbrella and handkerchief. Not a very convincing indication of bondage, I know but just a few pages further on there he is dangling his keys. Surely it can't be true?

Further on in the same booklet there was the first indication of stress. First, a picture of him threatening a car driver with his brolly, and on the final page on a desert Island, now sporting sunglasses, obviously desperate to get away from it all. But the cartoons that really set me wondering were those in which, suddenly and without even a warning, frilly knickers appeared. There he is displaying his underwear, and despite his masculine moustache, bowler and brolly it is exceedingly feminine. The next one I saw had him really daring in a tutu! This was it, the Inland Revenue were going tranny! I began to visualise the new feminine Inland Revenue and forlornly hoped we might be allowed tax deductions in the future for our secretly acquired attire. But we all know they want proof for everything. Would this mean, in the future we might have to strut our femininity at the tax office? Would the forbidding corridors of a tax office ring to the click of heels and the squeals of "girls" as they attended their annual proof of what they had bought? Pure fantasy, I know, but why has Hector (or is it Hatty, or Hectorina or Hetty?) suddenly come out of the closet? Has he been assessing his appearance of rolled umbrella, moustache and pin-striped suit and decided he prefers a softer, more feminine image? Closet Who else will come out? Are we likely to see any politicians, clergy or perhaps footballers come out of the closet? We've already seen it in the entainment world with Eddy Izzard et al, and the clergy are unlikely, they dress up all the time, particularly the most senior ones. A prime minister in drag? Or perhaps a drag day at the House, with the government and opposition competing to wear the most outrageous costumes. Are we likely to see the first premiership players resplendent in stockings, suspenders and high heels, in the near future? Certainly some players wouldn't need to change their hairstyles! What a dream world it would be if everyone followed Hector's example. We would only be following fashion by obeying our inner instincts. No more problems with wives, fellow workers or the like. You can imagine nudging a neighbour, can't you and saying, "Look at that bloke over there. He's wearing trousers, suit and tie. Is he a pervert or something?"

Nov 201520

Travelling

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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

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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

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