Laura’s Living Doll

A Living Doll

 


I tried my speech for the twentieth time in the hope that eventually I would get it right. “Laura, my darling… I have something to tell you… I… I’m a transvestite.”

I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. It was wrong – entirely wrong. No matter how I phrased the speech, it still sounded wrong. Perhaps I could scrap the word transvestite.


“Laura, darling… I ought to have told you before, but I like to dress in women’s clothes…”

I imagined Laura’s face freezing into a mask of horror. More likely, it would crumple- as a prelude to tears. With an effort, I could just picture her melting into my womanly arms – but only as part of an unconvincing romantic novel. Maybe I could lead up to my bomb shell gradually.


“Laura… you enjoy wearing beautiful things, don’t you?”

It wasn’t the first time I’d faced this problem. Seemingly in another lifetime, I should have told Margaret before our wedding. I’d thought of it, but had lacked the courage. As a supposedly easier alternative, I had thrown away my feminine clothes and resolved to make an end to my transvestism.{product_snapshot:id=96|78}


At the start of our marriage, Margaret had only half of me – the better, feminine part remaining buried. Later, wearing Margaret’s clothes was almost a physical necessity. My ugly masculine garments felt like a prison. The first time I slipped into my wife’s things was akin to homecoming after years in exile.


There was no dramatic scene in which Margaret discovered me dressed, although she once came close to it. I was putting her clothes away when she returned two or three hours earlier than expected. I hastened to place the underwear out of sight. When she entered the bedroom, I was hanging her dress in the wardrobe.

“It’d come off its hanger,” I explained. “I was just tidying up.”


This was not, I assured myself, a lie. The dress had come off its hanger, and I was tidying up. The question of how it had come off the hanger, and why, was another matter. If not a lie, it was certainly deception.


Eventually, Margaret and I drifted into divorce, not through a single confrontation, but via a thousand smaller divergences. My transvestism didn’t seem to be the cause of our separation, but it must have contributed. At first, unwilling to venture into dress or lingerie departments, I suffered frustration as well as loss. Three or four weeks later, however I discovered a specialist shop with everything a transvestite could need – including a number of products entirely new to me.

 


The girl assistant was very helpful. She was, as far as I knew, the first person to see me in a skirt. Her matter of fact approach gave me a degree of confidence in my femininity that I’d never achieved before. I slipped into a can-can petticoat for the first time and instantly lost my heart to its multiple layers of satin, ribbon and lace.

They sold shoes with stiletto heels, of course, something I’d long coveted. Margaret’s had been three sizes too small for me. Walking in them, while wholly pleasurable, proved more of an art than I’d anticipated. They re-distributed my body weight, necessitating a characteristically feminine step.


I entered a period of comparative contentment, a relief after the death throes of our marriage. In the evening, and at weekends, I relaxed in an expanding wardrobe of ladies wear. Colleagues remarked on my being an easier person with whom to work.

Then, I met Laura. It was the way she dressed that first drew me to her – pleasing styles that I’d have loved to wear. Our taste in clothes was almost the same. The great divide between us, however, lay in it being socially acceptable for her to dress thus, but not for me.


In the early weeks, our relationship remained platonic. We did things together as a pair of women friends might. I’d have loved to be with her in my feminine persona, but thought it would spoil things between us. Revealing my secret would have seemed an intrusion -thrusting my private life upon her.

It was her suggestion to go down to the coast on a wet and blustery March day. We were clambering over a large rock when I placed my weight on a piece of damp seaweed. Reaching out, Laura held me back from what could have been a nasty fall. Her arms remained about me to take the weight from my twisted ankle.{product_snapshot:id=81|82}


Our lips met, and we were no longer platonic friends. It came as a shock to realise that I was already in love with her. But I was determined my secret cross­dressing should not come between us, as it had between Margaret and me, I had to tell her. If our relationship was doomed, better to end it quickly than risk greater pain – in allowing it to develop under pretence of being something I wasn’t.


“Laura, there’s something I must tell you,” I began. “I love you…”

I had intended to add ‘but’ and continue into my confession. Before I could say more, however, she kissed me again. When our lips parted my resolve had weakened. The moment for my coming out had passed.

“I love you too,” she said, “but let’s not talk about it- not now, anyway. People spoil too many moments with unnecessary words.”


 

 

I’ll tell her tomorrow, I thought on our way home. It would be wrong to spoil this moment with unnecessary words. I meant it, too, although it didn’t work out as intended. Going to see her the following day, I wore my prettiest underwear and seamed stockings below masculine outer garments. That way, I felt sure, the matter couldn’t slip my mind.


I didn’t forget my intention to tell Laura, but didn’t act on it, either. Wearing my feminine clothes made me feel more submissive, more passive. In my girlish state of mind, it was difficult – seemed unnatural – to direct the course of our conversation. It was surely better to delay my confession until the following night, wearing more masculine, more assertive things.


As the evening progressed, a fresh fear arose within me. What if this was the night we went to bed? Undressing, there would be no need to explain my secret. I didn’t want her to find out that way – it was only fair to let her know beforehand.

“I see you’re not the kind who expects to go to bed on a first date,” she said archly.

“No… no, I’m not… It’s not that you don’t turn me on…”

“Good. I was afraid it might be.”

“I just don’t want to make the mistakes I made with Margaret.”

It was the truth, and the nearest I’d come to confession that night. My stomach churned at the thought of explaining what mistakes I’d made with Margaret. I wondered if I’d ever have the courage to tell Laura about my transvestism. Perhaps I was already repeating the mistakes.{product_snapshot:id=560|48}

“Margaret?”


“My ex-wife. I don’t often mention her. It doesn’t seem right to talk about my ex… not with you… Maybe I’m superstitious – she might cast a cloud over you and me…”

“Oh, I see. No… I don’t often talk about Bill, either.” The moment for our going to bed passed. For the first time, Laura talked to me about her ex-husband. He was evidently a beer swilling football fan with whom I had nothing in common. Her obvious distaste for the macho Bill made me hope that she might consider acceptable my feminine persona.

The following evening I wore my usual socks and Y­fronts, but found it no easier to say what I must. That night we went to bed together. Thereafter, our relationship developed rapidly. A fortnight later she suggested that I move in with her.


 

 

I’ll tell her tomorrow, I thought on our way home. It would be wrong to spoil this moment with unnecessary words. I meant it, too, although it didn’t work out as intended. Going to see her the following day, I wore my prettiest underwear and seamed stockings below masculine outer garments. That way, I felt sure, the matter couldn’t slip my mind.


I didn’t forget my intention to tell Laura, but didn’t act on it, either. Wearing my feminine clothes made me feel more submissive, more passive. In my girlish state of mind, it was difficult – seemed unnatural – to direct the course of our conversation. It was surely better to delay my confession until the following night, wearing more masculine, more assertive things.


As the evening progressed, a fresh fear arose within me. What if this was the night we went to bed? Undressing, there would be no need to explain my secret. I didn’t want her to find out that way – it was only fair to let her know beforehand.

“I see you’re not the kind who expects to go to bed on a first date,” she said archly.

“No… no, I’m not… It’s not that you don’t turn me on…”

“Good. I was afraid it might be.”

“I just don’t want to make the mistakes I made with Margaret.”{product_snapshot:id=71|570}

It was the truth, and the nearest I’d come to confession that night. My stomach churned at the thought of explaining what mistakes I’d made with Margaret. I wondered if I’d ever have the courage to tell Laura about my transvestism. Perhaps I was already repeating the mistakes.

“Margaret?”

“My ex-wife. I don’t often mention her. It doesn’t seem right to talk about my ex… not with you… Maybe I’m superstitious – she might cast a cloud over you and me…”


“Oh, I see. No… I don’t often talk about Bill, either.” The moment for our going to bed passed. For the first time, Laura talked to me about her ex-husband. He was evidently a beer swilling football fan with whom I had nothing in common. Her obvious distaste for the macho Bill made me hope that she might consider acceptable my feminine persona.

The following evening I wore my usual socks and Y­fronts, but found it no easier to say what I must. That night we went to bed together. Thereafter, our relationship developed rapidly. A fortnight later she suggested that I move in with her.


 

 

“At some point I was going to tell you about Pauline,” she said, sitting down. “I suppose it isn’t very urgent, though… would you like your say first?”

“No,” I said hoarsely. “I’d like a few minutes to gather my thoughts.”

“OK… though maybe I could do with collecting my thoughts about Pauline… the manufacturers called her Paul…”

“Barbie’s boyfriend?… I see… that accounts for the short hair, but not the dress.”

“Yeah, I had to make the dress myself. Pauline’s a bit bigger than the other dolls. Their clothes didn’t fit her properly.”

“Yes… but why?”

“Why put Paul in a dress? I think it was my Mum and Dad who started me thinking about that. They took me to a pantomime. There was a dame – a man in a woman’s dress.”


“All pantomimes have dames. I was taken to several myself… I don’t see…”

“Yes, they have dames, but not like this one. She was glamorous-I mean really glamorous-looked a million dollars… sequins, ostrich feathers, the lot… I t got me thinking, why do men have to wear such ugly clothes?”

“I’ve sometimes wondered about that myself.” I replied, sensing what was coming.

“You have?… Well, I kind of found the idea exciting. I made outfits for my Paul doll. Later, I had these fantasies about men in women’s dresses.”


“Just fantasies?”

“I’m afraid so. I asked Bill if he’d indulge me, but he wasn’t interested.”

“And that’s what you wanted to ask me? Whether I’d dress up in glamorous outfits for you?”

“Yeah… I was hoping… but I suppose it doesn’t matter… you’re not keen, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say that – in fact, I’m perfectly ready and willing to oblige…”

“Really? That’s great! What about tonight?”{product_snapshot:id=85|96}


“Tonight’s fine… but what if I enjoyed the dressing up more than you did?”

“I can’t imagine that. It’d be like playing with a full size, walking talking Sindy… only better. You can reach some parts a doll never could… can’t you, my love?”

“Yes, I suppose I can. But what if I did enjoy it more than you?”

“I’m sure I could live with it. Hell – it’d be a pleasure making you happy in that kind of way. Anyway, what was it that you wanted to talk about?”


“I was going to make a confession, Laura, but now it’ll seem more like a boast…”

I reached out to squeeze her hand. Laura smiled encouragement.

The dread, from which I’d suffered only a few minutes before, now seemed unreal. Things were going to work out very well indeed.

The End

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