All posts by -cdata-eal-admin-

Nov 201520

The Tale of the TV Detective -Fiction

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

Transgender Fiction

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

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

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

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

Nov 201520

Fantasy In Satin

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

FANTASY IN SATIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nov 201520

From He To She - Male To Female

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

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

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

Nov 201520

A History of Corsetry

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A HISTORY OF CORSETRY

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

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

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

Nov 201520

Gender Terms

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Gender Terms

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

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

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

Nov 201520

Dial 999 for Dilemma

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

DIAL 999 FOR DILEMMA

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

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

Nov 201520

The Bra

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Do you love bras? I do. I have a whole drawer-full of them. Lacy cups, stretchy straps - irresistible! My love affair with bras goes back a long way. When I first tried on my sister's clothes as a teenager, perhaps the most interesting - and pleasurable - garment was the bra. Flat chested, I had no real need to wear it, but didn't consider omitting it as I dressed. The web of straps was completely alien to the clothes in my own drawers. That, in itself, was exciting. Slipping the straps over my shoulders was no problem. Then, I tried to fasten it behind my back. The hook and eye seemed to occupy that area of the back where one can never scratch an itch - I tried reaching from below, I tried reaching down from above. Neither did the least little bit of good.

I struggled with the bra for ages and, eventually, I gave in. Unlooping my arms from the shoulder straps, I turned the bra back-to-front and fastened it around my chest. Then, I swivelled it back and wriggled my arms back through the shoulder straps. Admitting defeat on fastening the bra behind my back was the most disappointing part of trying on my sister's clothes. I had a sense of cheating, of not doing the thing properly. On subsequent occasions - and there were, of course, many of them - I tried repeatedly to engage the elusive hook and eye behind my back. The struggle became a regular feature of my dressing. That was over half a lifetime ago. many things have changed since then, and - not least - I have changed. No longer do I struggle to fix the bra behind my back. Without thinking about it, I fasten my bra in a similar way to that first attempt. I do it rapidly, with more assurance and usually without geting the straps tangled - but the method remains much the same. Over the years, I must have seen a number of women putting on their bras, but, oddly, cannot recall how any of them managed it. They include a wife to whom I was married for ten years. Perhaps my teenage feeling of putting the bra on wrongly placed some psychological block in the way of taking note of the methods real women used? Bras do not have to fasten at the back, although that remains the standard way of fixing them. Front fastening bras exist - indeed, I have one in my collection. I haven't seen one, but I know side fastening bras have also been made. Apart from front, side and back fastening, the fourth possibility is not to fasten at all. I

also have a bra with no breaks in the straps, which I put over my head, as though it was a camisole. It's made from a stretchy fabric but - in spite of that - of all the many bras I own, it is the most difficult to put on. I suppose my teenage self would have liked that, but would have regretted its lack of hooks and eyes - so different from the ways in which male clothes were allowed to fasten. The bra without hooks and eyes hugs me delightfully - and it is very pretty - but I don't wear it very often.

Fastening I think that the difficulty in fastening the bra was one of its attractions in my early cross dressing days. For the same reason I then enjoyed struggling into dresses with back zips. One element may have had to do with enjoying the process of dressing in girls' clothes. There were so many experiences to be savoured. If it took a while to struggle into a garment, that prolonged the process, gave me longer to savour it. Now - it seems - I enjoy being dressed rather than enjoy the process of dressing. I still take pleasure in wearing a bra - but very little in putting it on. There may also be a link between difference and difficulty. If it was difficult to put clothes on, it was at least partially because they were different from my male garments. There would have been no point in taking the risk of wearing my sister's things if they were no different from mine. The reasons I no longer feel that way are probably complex. For one thing, difference is second cousin to novelty. Once something is familar it is no longer different - and wearing women's clothes has certainly become familiar. More - over the years I have become increasingly comfortable with my cross dressing. The clothes help me to feel the way I am. They are an extension of an inner, feminine, me. The familiarity of the bra, not it's difference, is something I now enjoy - an expression of the me with whom I've struggled to come to terms, and whom I now treasure. Finally, perhaps, there were considerations around adventure and danger. Exploring my sister's clothes from the inside - and making the first steps to explore my feminine self - was an adventure. Nor was it an adventure without danger. I cross dressed when alone in the house - but I was not in control of my family's movements. People could return unexpectedly (and, on at least one occasion, did so). I didn't know exactly how they would react to discovering me in my sister's clothes, but preferred not to find out. There is a sense that an adventure is not an adventure unless there are difficulties and dangers on the way. The difficulties increase the dangers. If something was difficult to put on, it would also be - to some extent - difficult to take off. The scene is easy to picture. The sound of a key in the lock. Me struggling with a zip at my back, and then with the bra fastenings. The sweetness of that danger of discovery! Now, I share a house with a fellow transvestite - and all of that teenage danger is far in the past. In recent years, however, I have once more known the sweetness of danger - by stepping out publicly in woman's clothes. Before I reached this stage in development, there was another sense of danger connected with the bra. This surfaced when I ventured out in feminine undies beneath my male clothes. It must be a step which many transvestites take. There didn't seem much danger in wearing women's knickers. They were unlikely to come to light unless I had an accident, in which case being exposed as a transvestite would not be my most pressing problem. On the other hand, I was a good deal less confident that the bra could not be seen through my shirt than that the knickers could not be seen through my jeans. This piled on a whole lot of fresh dangerous glamour to wearing my bras. After all, women's bra straps are often visible through the fabric of their blouses - especially from the back. I sometimes wonder whether women are unaware of this, or do it deliberately. Either way, the bra is the most frequently displayed item of women's underwear. I find that very attractive. On many occasions, dressing at home, I have craned my neck to see in the mirror whether I could glimpse my bra straps through the back of my blouse. There was always a pleasure in being able to trace them, and a disappointment in failing to do so.

Pleasure in wearing a bra beneath my male shirt led me on to a further piece of boldness. I started to take delight in hanging my freshly washed bras on the line in the back garden. There are few, if any, garments more instantly visible as non-male. Pegging out my bras, I had a feeling of displaying my transvestism to any neighbours who cared to look. That I enjoyed. The difficulty in struggling into it is not the aspect of wearing a bra to which my attitude has changed over the years. Trying one on for the first time, it felt - to my delight - quite different from anything I had worn before. It was uncomfortable - but an enjoyable discomfort. Today, I find my bras a lot more comfortable - and that now pleases me. These days, I look for three things in my bras - support, comfort and prettiness. I think that a lot of women would list the same things, and often in that order. Of these, the desire for support stems from my using correct weight breast prostheses - which are quite heavy and do need supporting. Comfort has to do with not liking my bra straps to cut in. The prettiness is the icing on the cake, but attractive trims and fabrics - such as lace - continue to delight me. They represent a lot of the point in cross dressing. The question of support brings us to the function of the bra. Essentially, it is a device for supporting the breasts. When I first tried on my sister's clothes, I don't think this had occurred to me. The bra was simply something girls wore. If I was to dress as a girl - and I was determined to do so - that meant wearing a bra. One day on the beach, the inter-relelationship of bra and breasts were brought to my attention. My sister had changed into her swimming costume, leaving her clothes in a neat pile with the bra at the top. It was a new one which I hadn't yet worn. While my sister went off for a swim, one of her school friends picked up the bra and said "I didn't realise that she needed falsies." The friend certainly had much larger breasts than my sister - and there was an element of bitchiness to the remark.'Falsies' was overstating the case but, unlike any of the bras I had tried on, it was padded. In each cup was a fairly stiff sponge rubber cone. For the first time, the bra presented itself to me as something to hold breasts - rather than just something girls wore. I know, too, that there would be no peace for me until I'd worn the padded bra. I had no breasts, and those 'falsies' were the nearest thing available to me. A desire had been awakened within me which would lead, many years later, to my prosthetic breasts. When I finally I had the chance to wear the padded bra, it came as a disappointment. Without small breasts inside the cups, they simply didn't work. They may have the power to make a real girl look as though she cups a size larger than reality, they didn't have the power to make my flat chest look as though I had breasts.

The idea of a padded bra had been placed in my mind. What I used were things from my sister's undies drawer - usually knickers. I rather over-did it. Not content with filling the bra cups, I inserterd several more pairs than they could hold. My reasoning was 'the bigger the better' - common enough thinking amongst transvestites, but not a view I still hold. In some ways, I was pleased with the effect of the knicker padded bra. In other ways, I remained doubtful about it. My doubts centred around taking measures which, I felt, a real girl would not. In a sense, it made me feel less girlish. On the other hand, it had a gratifying effect on my reflection in the mirror - especially when I wore something with a bit of stretch. During the years as a closet transvestite, the stretchiness of my sister's - and then my own - tops was probably the decisive factor in whether or not I chose to pad the bra. if it was stretchy I used padding, if it wasn't I didn't bother. As a variant on using undies to fill my bra, I also tried cotton wool. Eventually my choice fell on camisoles - I found that a neatly folded camisole was about the right size for filling a bra cup, without over-filling it. Moreover, two camisoles formed two equal sized breasts - collections of knickers proved difficult to keep even sized. I recall, long after my teens, cross-dressing for my future wife. "You're wearing a bra!"she said with obvious surprise in her voice. I was surprised by her surprise. Of course I was wearing a bra - it was an inevitable part of dressing as a woman. I hadn't attempted to pad it partly because the dress I was wearing wasn't of a stretch fabric. It was also partly because having the padding fall out as she undressed me would only emphasise my flat chesteness, and detract from the experience. It was only when I started to expose my feminine side to the public gaze - in clubs - that padding my bra became a matter of course. Belatedly, I became aware that, without my padding, my clothes didn't hang properly. With this awareness, my bras took on a fresh significance. I was still using two camisoles as breasts, and there was no way to hold them in position without a bra. Increasingly, I became aware of the shortcomings of the camisole in that role. Not before time, I bought a pair of cheap boobs. I suppose I could have glued these into place, but I never did so. One advantage of using a bra, rather than glue, was that it ensured that the boobs were correctly placed. It's unexpectedly difficult to figure precisely where the breasts should be. Another reason is that, from the start, I've liked bras, enjoyed wearing them - and still don't feel properly dressed without one. At last I gave up on the boobs and invested in a proper pair of prosthetic breasts. It was a step I've never regretted - except to regret that I didn't buy a pair years before. The prosthetic breasts have changed the sensation of wearing a bra. They are the correct weight - which means that they weigh heavily in the cups. The heavy cups tug on the bra straps in a way in which the boobs - and lighter forms of padding - never did. It's a wonderful feeling. Over the years my love affair with the bra has seen many changes. The older I grow, the more I love my bras. This is no mere infatuation, it's the real thing.

Nov 201520

The Skirt

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I mean, it is not as if I usually buy chainstore clothes. No, I go for something a little less obvious; the dress or outfit to be found as a one-off in the smaller boutiques. Not the sort of thing one is likely to meet every other day in the high street. I can remember the first time it happened very clearly. She had just come out of the hairdresser's as I happened to be passing. She was young, attractive, had a good figure, an excellent complexion and she knew how to carry herself. She swung into the street with an air of complete confidence. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted in life and was determined to get it. And she would be very choosy, not one to fall for the first fellow in trousers. She would take her time, leave nothing to chance, choose coolly and carefully, just as she chose her clothes. And in any partnership, she would have at the very least an equal voice.

But none of these reflections occurred to me as I saw her emerge from the hairdresser's door. No, what caught my attention was the skirt, the long patterned skirt swinging about her thighs as she strode purposefully up the street. It was my skirt. Well, not quite, because I was well aware that my skirt was still hanging in my wardrobe in the bedroom of my flat, only twice worn since I had bought it at the little shop whose proprietress had assured me that it was an unusual buy. No doubt she was right. I knew her well and I had always been guided to my entire satisfaction by her in the choice of my clothes. Nevertheless, here it was flowing about the legs of this young woman, contributing as did everything else about her to her undeniable attractiveness. And I felt a small thrill because she had chosen what I had chosen. We had something in common, she and I, a similar taste in clothes, for what had impelled her to buy that skirt for herself was no doubt exactly what had motivated me. We shared the same feminine taste. Attributes I watched her as she walked along the street until she passed from my sight, noting her appearance and all those attributes which I had already described. I wondered idly who she was, what she would think if I approached her and told her I also possessed a skirt exactly the same as she was wearing, how much I liked it, how much I enjoyed wearing it, feeling it wrapped around my legs, billowing in the breeze as I walked, its silky smoothness caressing my nylons and the gentle swishing sound it made. The memory of that brief encounter has remained with me for a long time now, although I have never seen her again. And with the memory the same thrill returns, especially when I wear my skirt. It gives me an extra confidence; I walk with more self conscious pride, head held high, breasts proud, hips swaying. At times I have changed my wardrobe, had a good clear-out, consigned the unfashionable to the charity shop and the worn out to the textile bank, but I could never part with her skirt. It remains in fashion. It is still very beautiful to wear...

Nov 201520

A Night Out With The Girls

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

A NIGHT OUT WITH THE GIRLS

"Mickey, why don't you come over and comb my hair for me?" She said drawing me closer to her. As I then stood behind her and began to run the comb through her hair I could feel myself getting more and more lost in her hair. She began telling me how easy it was to get lost in it. How soft it was, how thick and how deep. Her perfume began to filter up and around my entire head, losing me more under her spell. The comb began to get heavier and heavier in my hand until I couldn't hold it anymore and it fell to the floor. I just stood there staring into her hair and smelling her perfume. She then laughed and suggested that I bend over and smell her hair and feel it on my face. By this time I was so mindless that I could not resist her. I bent over and began to brush my face with her hair. She then talked about my getting lost in it. And how I was becoming mindless and stupid and weak. "That's it, Mickey. Just let your mind become blank. Just get lost in my hair. You're getting trapped there, Mickey. You are getting lost. Deeper and deeper. You can't escape. You are lost in my hair. That's it.. Just get lost, mindless, stupid and weak. That's it..." I was now so weak and under her control that when she told me to take off my clothes I found it to be something that I had to do. I stripped naked. She wheeled around and made me look deeply into her eyes. She laughed at me as she began to caress me, making me very, very hard. I was falling deeper and deeper under her spell. I was lost. She told me that I would do anything that she told me to. And I agreed. She then asked me if I wanted to be a girl. And she made me beg for her to turn me into a girl. "That's it, Mickey. You will do anything and everything that I tell you. That's it. You're under my spell my pet. You are under my hypnotic spell. Now, wouldn't you like me to turn you into my lesbian slave? Hmmmm? How would that be for me to lose you in softness and make you my lesbian girl slave? Would you like that my pet?" And I begged her to to do it. At that point she made me kiss her love canal. She pushed my face to her soft patch and I began to kiss her magic place with my lips over and over again. She kept telling me how she was going to turn me into a girl and make me her slave. I was getting harder and harder as she spoke. Her body began to tremble greatly as she then found my lips to be bringing her to that point of explosion. She laughed at me with how she had so easily now made me her slave and she told me that she was going to lose me forever in softness. And with that, her hips jerked upwards and her back arched with her exploding before me.

Sitting back into the chair she then told me to crawl into the closet with her. I did so. Once in there she then bound me to the wall rings. My hands and feet now could not move to protect me. I was completely at her mercy. She laughed at me again and told me how she was going to make me really beg to be turned into a girl. All that Diane was wearing was a black sattin nightie to the crotch. She then turned around and put on this full length silver fox fur, in dark smoke grey, with an oversized shawl collar and large bell sleeves. She then turned around and began laughing at me as she then began to caress my C over and over. She was telling how soft the fur is. "Soft, isn't it, Mickey. So soft. That's it. Get lost in it, Mickey. You're getting lost in the fur. It's making you so hard. That's right. You're getting hard Mickey. You're getting trapped by the fur. The fur has you trapped there on the wall. That's right. Now, Mickey... Beg me.. Do you really want to be a girl? Hmmmm? Do you? I could put this coat on you. And that would make you a girl forever... Would you like that? Tell me Mickey..." And she laughed at me again as my body was trembling and shaking as she continued to tease my C. I began whining and begging her to turn me into a girl. I was shaking and so lost under the spell of the fur, and her, that I was begging her to turn me into a girl. She then instructed to beg her in a girl's voice. And I changed the tone of my voice to be higher, softer and a little lustier. She smiled and then laughed and told me how soft I was becoming. How I was becoming like the fur, soft and weak and feminine. I agreed with her and told her that I was feeling somewhat feminine. Laughing, she asked me if I would like to put the fur on. I told yes. She warned me that if I put it on that I would become trapped in it. I would become lost in the softness. And that there was no going back once I did that. I would be trapped forever. And she laughed again. I couldn't help it. I was mad with desire. I was so mindless that I could only think of looking pretty for Diane and putting the coat on and becoming her girl slave. I begged her again to let me wear it. Laughing, she then began rubbing the front of my body with the fur. I was moaning and begging her to please let me wear it. She then backed away from me and slowly undid my fastenings and let me stand before her. Swirling around the coat teased my C as she moved. She laughed again as she took the coat and put it on me. Once on, she then pulled the fur collar up around my face and laughed at me as my eyes then went out of focus and I stood there before her, totally in a deep trance. "Now don't you look feminine. Ah! What shall we call you, honey? I know. We'll call you Melissa! That's it. Melissa. How does that sound?" She giggled as she stood there. "That sounds wonderful Mistress." I returned. And she then made me walk around the closet with MY beautiful ladies fur on. I began to sway when I walked. I was lost under her spell. She then led me out into the other room and inspected me. My hair was pulled back in a pony tail behind my back. She then undid my poney tail, letting my middle of the back hair fall around my shoulders. She then inspected my legs for hair, and my arms. Neither had a hair on them. And then she looked at my crotch to make sure that it was hairless too. It was. She then pulled the coat around me and began to caress my penis with it.

"Feeling soft, Melissa? Feeling lost and trapped in the fur, dear?" And her laughter rang throughout the room. I could only nod. She then laughed and took me into the other room and began putting my hair up in curlers. And then she applied my makeup. Once done with this she sprayed perfume all over my body and put drop earings on me, and a long black cameo around my neck. And then there were the bangle bracelets. She remarked how soft and pretty I was looking. And she made a point to call me Melissa throughout the experience. From there she led me into the room and dressed me in a red sattin garter with black silk stockings. Then a black sattin bra and a hot pink chemise. Then she got out some 4" black leather heels and put them on my feet. And then she put the coat back on me and took my hair down and combed it out. The large soft curls fell around my face and shoulders. Every time that I would move my hair would caress my face, putting me deeper and deeper under her trance. I was lost to her. She asked me how I felt and I told her that I was lost in the softness. And she laughed. She then directed me to model my pretty clothes for her as she snapped pictures of me. And I strolled around the room extending this leg and that one as I pulled the fur around me and became more and more a girl with each step. I was so lost under her spell that I truly had become Melissa. She then took me back into the bathroom and sat me down in front of the mirror and closed and locked the door telling me to look deeply at myself and to tease myself into exploding at least once, if not more. And the door closed with her moving about outside the room. As I sat there I looked into the mirror and obeyed Mistress's request I stroked my C with the fur over and over. The image of the person in the mirror was that of a girl. My ruby red lips, the light blush on my cheeks, the drop earings in the shape of a heart hanging from ears. And the cameo around my neck. I was a soft and lovely girl. My long hair spilled around my shoulders in very large and soft curls, caressing my face as I moved my head. I continued to caress my C over and over. The more that I caressed my C, the more that I knew that the image in the mirror was truly a girl. That I was a girl. And the more that I stroked my C, the more that I felt that I was stoking my clit!!!

Outside of the bathroom I could hear Diane on the phone laughing and talking with Annette, one of her girlfriends. Then later it was Charlene, and then it was Shannon. During the conversations I could hear her tell them about how she had really finally done it. How she had turned me into a girl. In each conversation they must not have believed her because she told them that she really had done it, and that she even had pictures. Each conversation ended with Diane inviting Annette, Charlene and Shannon over to see how well she had done with me. I was so excited at this that I exploded in front of me and my body jerked as I looked at the girl in the mirror experiencing her first orgasm! And I dried myself off and began again to tease myself, as Mistress had instructed me to. I could hear Diane moving around the room outside. I could hear the music playing something erotic on the turntable in the corner, and hear her laughter as she heard me move inside the bathroom. Her movements, and the image of myself in the mirror, began to get me so hard again that my body began to tremble and I began to say out loud that I was a girl. I moaned and exploded a second time with my saying out loud in a rather loud voice that I was a girl and Diane's slave. I could then hear laughter in the other room. Finally, after almost an hour, the door opened. And I was truly hypnotized!!! In front of me stood Diane wearing this hot pink sattin jumpsuit with black 5" heels, and a black Lynx coat that came to the knees. Her hair was falling softly around her shoulders with the curls gently framing her face. Her eyes were done severely with dark shadow above on the lids. She then told me to look at her and then into her eyes. She asked me who I was. I replied that I was Melissa. And she then told me to get out of the bathroom and follow her. As I stepped in front of her she then began to tease my C with the fur of her coat as she made me look into her eyes. I became very, very hard as I fell deeper under her spell. She laughed as she could feel me get hard. She told me that she wanted to make sure that I was ready for our guests. And I got even harder. Taking a c-ring out of her pocket she placed it around my C and turned it tightly. Suddenly I felt trapped with my C being hard and that I no longer could control myself. She then began again teasing me with her fur. My C got harder and harder, but I could not release. I was beckoming so totally mindless that I no longer knew where I was. And she continued to tease me, making me look into her deep eyes. It was about five minutes later that we heard a knock at the door. Diane led me to the couch and made me sit on the floor by her at the end of the couch. And she told the girls to come in. The door opened and there were three very sexily dress young ladies, their hair falling around their shoulders, all dressed in soft and full dresses. They immediately looked at me and began laughing and giggling. One by one they told me how much better I looked and how they just knew that I would behave now. And they laughed again at me as they walked over and sat down on the couch opposite the one that Mistress Diane was on.

Getting up she told me to 'stay' and walked over to the girls sitting on the couch. She showed them my pictures that Diane had taken just before with me. The girls all laughed and talked about what a good job Diane had done with me. They told her how proud they were of her. And how they were sure that she would love having me as her slave instead of her husband. And they loved how she had changed me into a girl. But there were a bit skeptical about whether Diane really had control over me or not. Diane said that I would do whatever she asked me to. And Charlene and Shannon just couldn't believe that. So Diane then came back over to where I was kneeling and she told me first to bend down and kiss her feet, to worship her feet. As I did this the girls began to laugh and say how nice it was that Diane could make me do that. Bu they still seemed to doubt that I had been made her prisoner. So Diane had me stand up in front of her. She told me to look into her eyes. As she did this she began to caress my C over and over telling me to get lost in the softness. Her perfume, my perfume, her hair, her eyes, and the fur were too much for me. I was getting harder and harder. I was about to explode. Laughing, Diane asked me if I wanted to masturbate for her? I begged her to let me masturbate. She reminded me that I would have to do it right here in front of the girls. But that she was sure that I would do it if she asked me to. I told her that I would. And she then took the c-ring off of me and told me to sit on the floor in front of the girls and to masturbate myself to exploding. As I sat down the girls began making comments about how nice my hair looked and how soft I was. They told me that I looked so helpless there stroking my C. As I listened to their words and looked at their hair, their eyes, and their clothes, I became harder and harder. I began to moan, at which time the girls then began making fun of me for being so soft and feminine. I got all the harder as they then began talking about how I was going to learn what it was like to be a woman now. And with that, the fur on my C, I exploded onto a towel that had been placed on the floor. I sat there saying that I was a girl, my name was Melissa, and that I was Diane's slave as my body cooled down from my release. And the girls then laughed at me, and told Diane that they were convinced. That she had truly taken over my being and turned me into her slave. And they loved it. But Diane wasn't through. She then told me to get up on my knees and to lift Charlene's dress and to kiss her magic spot. I pushed my head between Charlene's legs and felt her soft thighs on my cheeks as I began to kiss her there. Charlene was getting hotter and hotter as she laughed at me, and the other girls made fun of how lost I was. While I was down there doing that, Diane then walked up behind me and inserted her toy. I was lost in the pleasure of the moment and I brough Charlene to bliss and I was embaressed and humiliated into becoming hard again.

Then, with her toy still there, Diane then instucted me to do the same with Annette and Shannon. I obeyed. When I was done, the girls were leaning back on the couch smiling, giggling and telling Diane that she hoped that she would share me, Melissa, in the future. Diane told them that she would of course share me with them, all the time. And all four of the girls then laughed at how I had become their slave. Diane then had me serve the wine to all of them as they talked about me and how they were going to use me at the store to wait on the gay guests that would come in from time to time, and how they were going to use me at parties to please the guests. They were all a buzz. Once the wine was served I was instructed to kneel a the corner of the couch on the opposite side of the room as Diane and the girls then finished talking. She turned around once and told me to play with myself, and they all laughed when I began to caress my C with the fur. They went on talking. After about 30 minutes Diane turned to me and watched me for moment as I knelt there playing with myself slowly. She told me to come and lie on the floor in front of the couch. I did as she told me. As I lay there, the girls all gathered around me, one at each limb. They began using Diane's fur, which she had taken off, to tease me over and over. My c-ring was back on and their hair was falling around their faces as they looked down at me, laughed at me, teased me, and taunted me with how lost I was, how I was trapped and how I was never going to be masculine again. How I was going to be a girl and their slave. I was getting harder and harder. I couldn't release because of the c-ring. But I was getting harder and harder. I was trembling greatly as they continued to tease me. I finally began begging them to keep me a girl and their slave. I begged them over and over to please never let me go back to being a man. I begged them to lose me in softness forever. And they continued to laugh at me. I was begging them. I was talking in a girl's voice and was becoming more and more feminine with each passing second. I could feel my mind changing and that I was so lost and trapped that I no longer felt like a man in any way shape or form. I felt like a woman. Like I was one of them, and yet not. That I was one of them in that I was a girl, but that I was not one of them in that I was their slave. I was lost. They continued to tease me over and over, with me begging more and more to always be allowed to be their girl slave. And they continued to tell me that they had no plans of ever letting be anything other than their girl slave. Finally, they took the c-ring off of me and teased me to the point of exploding. They then dried me off and began again with the teasing. They brought me to the point of exploding there three times. And by the last time I was so much their slave that I would do anything that they might ask. Their slightest wish was my command.

Diane then had me please each of the girls again and then they sat around again and talked while I played with myself in the corner. The evening ended with the girls looking at me and telling me that they would expect me at the store tomorrow evening at 6:00 pm, dressed and ready to serve. Diane told them that she would definitely have me there. And they walked out. Diane then sprayed me with perfume again and took off her jumpsuit and made me please her with my lips for the next several hours. After we were through she then led me into the bedroom and got out a nightie for me to wear to bed. She then led me to the bed and tied me down, hand and foot. Taking a large Ostrich feather duster she then began to tease me over and over. She made me explode twice then as she conditioned me more and more that I was a girl and her slave. And I truly was. The next day for work I wore women's under clothes, including a bra under my outer garments. I was to call Diane at noon, in a girl's voice and tell her how I felt during th day. And then I was to wait for her to pick me up and take me home to get ready for the night. I told her that I would do as she told me. Well, that's the story of my night with the girls. If there are any Ladies out there who would be interested in discussing this I certainly would like to hear from you. I hope everyone enjoyed this little story. It's all true, and I've been looking for a Lady ever since to allow me to experience this life again. Be Well.... The End

Nov 201520

What is a Drag Queen?

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

What makes a drag queen tick? Angela Brown goes hunting on their trail... When I started to think about this article my first problem was to decide what a drag queen actually is. I know the name conjures up a vision in my mind, and no doubt in yours, but is it the same image? Is it a true image or one clouded by appearance and missing the underlying character? I felt I needed a definition to work from, so I talked to an ex-music hall performer now living in retirement. He was at first quite adamant about the definition. "A Drag Queen" he said, "is a man who performs as a female and never as a male. The difference between them and female impersonators is that a female impersonator will also appear as a man on occasion." During the conversation I got the distinct impression that he thought drag queens also dressed as women off-stage and were all homosexual. This made me wonder how accurate my friend's observations really were and it struck a chord in my mind about the general image of transvestites and drag queens. It appears that most people still consider both groups as homosexuals. One of the earliest practitioners in dealing with sexual problems, Kraftt-Ebbing, a 19th century German psychologist, considered that transvestism was a link between an ordinary fetish and homosexuality, and went so far as to say that homosexuality was always involved. Later studies by Magnus Hirschfeld, also a German working in the early part of this century, indicated clearly what I think all transvestites will agrede with: that the incidence of homosexuality, bisexuality and heterosexuality is as diverse in transvestites as it is in the rest of the population. Hirschfeld's students did a study of his cases which showed that 35% were heterosexual, 35% homosexual, 15% bisexual and 15% monosexual. But it must be remembered that his case files were confined to patients who felt they had a problem and had come for help. There was bound to be a bias towards homosexual cases, as Hirschfeld first became known in Germany for writing a book in 1896 called 'Sappho and Socrates', which dealt with the suicide of a homosexual army officer. In a much more recent survey by 'Accord' magazine of its transvestite readers, they discovered that 44% claimed to be heterosexual, 34% bisexual, 19% monosexual and only 3% homosexual.

While all these surveys were nominally conducted amongst transvestites rather than drag queens, it would be impossible to say how many readers of Accord who took part could be called drag queens, and I suspect that the figures would be valid for them also. To pursue this matter further, and in the interest of research, I attended a "Fashion, Fetish and Fantasy" night in London. I went, as one charming drag queen put it, under cover - i.e. dressed in men's clothes. From the moment I entered I found everybody friendly and the atmosphere relaxed. It soon became obvious that over ninety five per cent of the patrons were wearing female clothes, at least ninety per cent were male. The crowd represented every facet of cross dressing, from some male transvestites wearing women's clothes but making no attempt to look like a woman, to drag queens dressed in long evening gowns covered in sequins, with beautiful wigs and perfect make up. Two well-built drag queens who were obviously friends were dressed in the shortest of skirts. One was in a pale purple leather skirt with a "V" cut in the bottom back-seam, through which you could catch glimpses of stocking tops. This lady had a bouffant wig, again in pink, which was at least twelve inches high and a see-through blouse with a black pattern. She wore a mass of heavy jewellery including a thick choker covered in diamante and other gems, and large drop earrings. Her friend favourted the leather look. A black leather waistcoat over a tight black and white, off-the-shoulder mini dress which displayed her thick chest hair. A leather collar, arm band and cap perched on a platinum blond wig completed the picture except for her neatly trimmed black beard and moustache. These 'ladies' were charming, but definitely caricatures of a woman, and quite definitely drag queens! As a complete contrast two ladies stood out not as drag queens but as true transvestites. Both were dressed in long evening gowns, one in pink and the other in silver with a blue flower pattern. With their make-up perfect but not overdone they would have both passed as ladies at a normal dance.

However, the stars of the show as far as I was concerned were three ladies all dressed in long evening gowns. Two, standing nearly seven feet high in their heels, wore sheath dresses with splits up the sides to the thigh. One was in white and the other in turqoise, and both covered every inch in sequins. With silver wigs and perfect make-up they would have passed for ladies except for their height and, even under the dresses, obvious masculine build. The third lady had a red gown, also covered in sequins, with short sleeves and a large 'puff' at the shoulder. Smaller and of a slighter build she would have passed for a woman but with the slight touch of the over-dressing which I feel characterises a drag queen. There were also a number of costumes which, although they did make their wearer appear as a caricature of a woman, did not make them in my opinion drag queens. Typical of these were a PVC maid's dress in red with a black apron, a schoolgirl's uniform and a very skimpy red teddy costume. These I felt reflected more of the fetish nature of the wearer's character than an attempt to be flamboyant. So what, if any, is the difference between a transvestite and a drag queen? By strict definition a drag queen must be a transvestite since he dresses in woman's clothes, which is the meaning of the word, but in my opinion what makes the difference is in the motivation behind the need to "dress". The origins and causes of transvestite behaviour are complex to say the least, but two factors seem to be quite common. A mother with a strong and often dominant personality and a job in middle management or the equivalent. I suspect the management element is there because some of the mother's strong personality is inherited. In general, a transvestite will make every effort to appear as convincing as possible, taking great trouble with make-up, body shape and dress sense. Drag queens take just as much trouble and in many cases far more with their dress and appearance, not to appear as a woman but as a caricature of a woman. Their dresses are flamboyant or very stylised. In many cases their wigs are over-elaborate and their make-up lavish. One factor which appears to separate drag queens from transvestite is that drag queens are all extroverts, a trait which probably takes a lot of them into show business. It is also possible that in many cases the motivation is not so much to look like a woman as to poke fun at women in general in much the same way as a pantomime dame does. To discover why someone would go to such lengths to make a visual statement in this way would need some deep psycho-analysis...

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