Her erection presses against the soft silk of the elegant, sexy nightgown. She remembers Richard’s hand travelling up her hosed thigh and stifles a moan of dark pleasure. She remembers the splendid, hyper-erotic form of Cherry and swallows hard. She can hardly believe what is happening to her.
She flicks on the portable stereo player on a bookcase opposite her bed. A cool, aquatic electronica suddenly fills the room. On the walls there are white-framed pictures of her female idols: the young Elizabeth Taylor in a swimsuit on a beach, her eyes filled with a sensual sadness and provocation; Ann Margaret in a spectacular Las Vegas showgirl’s costume; the fetish models Betty Page and Stacey Burke; Marilyn Monroe; a number of famous female impersonators. And more. A gallery of erotic influence.
She moves to the large walk-in wardrobe that traverses one entire side of the bedroom. This is the only major physical change she has made to the house since moving in. It was expensive, but absolutely necessary. For inside the wardrobe is the gorgeous history of her secret self; the story of Eve written in a spectacular collection of feminine attire.
The sliding doors to the wardrobe are painted a light pink, a colour that matches the walls and the silk bed-sheets. She painted the room herself over a weekend, and when the carpet layers fitted the thick, snow-white carpet, she – as Adam – had explained it away as a room for his wife’s sister, who would be living with ‘them’. A lie, a white lie, one of quite a few she has told over the years – to protect the secret of Eve.
She pulls back the doors to reveal an elaborately ordered display of sensual delights. The wardrobe is much deeper than one might usually expect to find in a new, three-bedroomed, detached house on a housing estate in a large urban sprawl. Its depth provides room for two parallel rows of clothing, both split in the middle by a small gap that enables Eve to enter and move within the rows. As soon as the doors are opened, a soft white light clicks on automatically and the lovely she-male is filled with a sense of absolute contentment. This is me, she thinks – as she always thinks – this is the real me.
The scents of a variety of perfumes and soft, feminine materials tickle her girlish nostrils as she slips into the gap and seeks out the clothing that will create Eve on her first truly public exposure. She is determined to be both formal and sexy, to look businesslike and devastating. There is no point in drawing too much attention to herself; to look like a tart would be to make the classic error of the TV going en femme. No: there has to be realism here, realism and a genuine sensuality.
She eventually extracts a short, grey cotton skirt, almost but not quite a mini; a matching silk jacket with white pearl buttons, and a gorgeous white silk blouse/shirt. She carefully places these items on the bed and then returns to the wardrobe. Set into the floor are a series of metal racks, three tiered rows that contain more than a hundred pairs of women’s shoes. Every one is heeled: Eve cannot conceive of feminine footwear that is not heeled.
With a sigh of pleasure, she takes out a pair of grey leather court shoes with three-inch stiletto heels. She feels their weight in her hands and admires the elegant and erotic contours of their design. Shoes designed to extend and stress the elegant shape of the female foot, to sensualise form, balance and movement. The first time she had walked in heels slips quietly into her mind, the memory of that nervous totter before her gorgeous, encouraging aunt. How can a day go by when I don’t think of her, she ponders. Eventually, she will send Aunt Debra an e-mail, detailing the great adventure that is unfolding. But now she is too involved in the creation of Eve. And this, as always, must be the first priority.
She places the shoes at the foot of the bed, and then, from the end of the front row of the wardrobe racks, extracts the second of her three body-shapers. It is white, made of exactly the same elastane and silk materials as the others, and it remains the core of her physical transformation. The shape of Eve; the perfect form of a beautiful, sexy young woman. A highly erotic exoskeleton of transvestite desire.
She steps into the body-shaper and carefully wiggles it up her scented, shaven form, quietly wallowing in the balletic movements demanded to fit the garment properly, as if the shaper itself was imparting a powerful drug of femininity and beginning a process of profound physical change.
As she adjusts the shaper over her slender body, she feels the perfect weight of the artificial silicon breast packs and again recalls Honey’s astonishing bosom. Envy floods her mind and her sex stiffens deep inside the snug embrace of the shaper. And as arousal returns, she remembers the excited gaze of Richard, the teasing words of the men on the street and wonders, for a moment, if there is something else at work here – a latent homosexuality. But even as she ponders this possibility, she knows it is very far from the truth of her being. Although Eve is now in firm control, there has never been a hint of anything other than Adam’s helplessly fierce heterosexuality. But then there was Richard and his warm hand caressing her nylon-wrapped thigh . . .
She shakes her mind free of these disturbing thoughts and tries to concentrate on the task before her: the submersion in the sexiest and softest of feminine attire, the true root of all her powerful, irresistible desires.
She begins with the tights. Next to the dressing table is a large white mahogany chest of drawers – five drawers with ornate golden handles that contain Eve’s delicate cornucopia of underwear. The top drawer is filled with neatly piled and folded tights and stockings, of every colour and type, most made from sheer nylon, some from expensive, fine silk. She gently sorts through these delightful fetish towers and extracts a pair of 10-denier silver-grey nylon tights. She sits down on the bed and carefully draws the tights up her silken legs. And as the ultra-sheer material presses gently against her skin, she cannot resist a familiar moan of intense physical pleasure. This remains the most startling and arousing part of any dressing, and by the time she stretches the widening film of nylon over her calves and knees, her sex is granite hard. She stands to ease the tights up over her thighs, wiggling her bottom with an instinctive and coquettish femininity. Then she adjusts the thick control top around her waist, painting the lower half of the body-shaper in a mist of grey nylon. She carefully runs her hands over the surface of the tights, expertly smoothing the slightest wrinkle and creating a flawless second skin that accentuates and eroticises the perfect shape of her legs.
With the tights on, she feels Eve’s true presence in the strongest possible way. Now she is at her most feminine and thus most real. Her movements become softer, more graceful, more delicately considered. She is a beautiful young woman preparing herself for a day of exquisite adventure.
She returns to the chest of drawers, her steps now smaller, daintier, sexier, her bottom wiggling, her hips swaying. She is becoming, transforming, emerging. From the second drawer she takes a pair of cream silk panties, gorgeous and expensive, with delicately frilled edging running along the legs and waist. She slips into these in one extraordinarily elegant move and pulls them up over her nyloned thighs and waist. She runs her hands over the shimmering, electric surface and coos with girlish delight.
Then she turns to the bed and considers the beautiful, sexy clothing set out so neatly before her. She smiles and minces over to the dressing table, gently lowers herself on to the white leather-backed stool and considers the next part of this wondrous transformation: the creation of the face of Eve.
She finds herself, as on so many other occasions, facing a boyish young woman. Her soft, pale face, with its always feminine and full lips and large, crystal-blue eyes, the face that Aunt Debra had described as ‘inescapably female’, looks back at her with something approaching erotic fascination. At the heart of Eve is an acknowledged narcissism. She has always been helplessly drawn to her reflection, to its essential ambivalence. She remembers the girls at school and at university, how they would always stare at him with a disturbed ambiguity. ‘You’re prettier than most of my friends,’ one had said, trying to steal a kiss at a party. ‘You should be a girl.’ Eve, as Adam, a sevente
en-year-old Adam, had allowed her to kiss him on the lips and then swooned with a dizzying pleasure. The words had echoed in his head for days afterward and had driven him to helpless, furious masturbation.
Yes, he should have been a girl, and now, finally, she will be. Her natural hair is dark and cut very short. She has been careful to look after her hair. The constant wearing of wigs has been a test of its texture and oils, and she has become something of an expert at high-quality maintenance. She slips a specially treated and prepared black nylon stocking over her head, gently pulling it into a snug fit, so that the rim of the stocking covers her hair, but does not intrude beyond the natural hairline. There are three wigs resting upon stands on the dressing table – one strawberry blonde, one jet black and one red. The blonde wig is cut in a distinctly fifties, layered style, reminiscent of actresses such as Monroe and the blonde Rita Hayworth in The Lady from Shanghai (an enlarged publicity still of the actress in this role hangs within a silver frame, among many other pictures, above Eve’s bed). The black wig is styled in a Louise Brooks pageboy cut (her picture sits alongside Rita’s). Then there is the red wig, much longer, thicker and detailed, that Eve has modelled after her third idol: Ann Margaret. Her picture rests to the right of Rita’s. Yet, deep in her tormented mind, she knows that all of these are subject to the one true divine goddess, whose picture stares up at her from a frame placed on the dressing table: his lovely, all-important and all-pervasive Aunt Debra.
She takes up the blonde wig and, with an artist’s crafted precision, pulls it over the tightly positioned stocking. What was once a difficult process of adjustment is now a simple matter, and within seconds she has placed the wig perfectly and is staring confidently at the beautiful reflection of Eve.
The wig is followed by the lightest touches of make-up: a mild tan foundation, a peach-toned and flavoured lipstick, the slightest hint of matching eye shadow. Then, a pair of very simple, clip-on pearl earrings. A minimal intervention to ensure maximum effect: the vision of Eve renewed in new and stronger form. And even this low-level approach to make-up produces immediate and very impressive effects. Years of careful work has enabled her to produce, in a relatively short period of time, a completely believable illusion of femininity. And even though she expects nothing else, she is still impressed by the power of her creation, by its utter authenticity. Aided by a naturally feminine face, by a poise born from ten years of practice, she is able to create a picture of completely convincing femininity within less than thirty minutes.
Once the make-up is complete, she applies a dab of Chanel behind each ear and sets about slipping into the blouse and skirt. And as each piece of this gorgeous jigsaw puzzle of identity is complete, she feels Eve become stronger, surer, more confident. More real. As she sits down on the bed to slip her delicately hosed feet into the deliciously high-heeled court shoes, the bright morning sunlight bringing a fractured sparkle to her nylon-sheathed and perfectly shaped thighs, the sense of ultimate being that she had felt at the peak of the previous evening’s adventure returns. A powerful electric surge of supreme confidence flashes across her body, cleansing and vitalising. Any sense of nervousness or doubt about what she is about to do is blasted away and her feminine heart is filled with joy. At last, she thinks, I am complete.
She stands and adjusts her balance to suit the erotic demands of the beautiful, sexy shoes. She minces up and down the room a few times and then studies herself carefully in the long, full-size mirror positioned just beyond the wardrobe. She sighs with pleasure. I am beautiful. A statement of fact. And she says it. She says out loud, ‘I am a beautiful woman’, accompanied by the flow of ambient electronica.
She uses a soft brush to adjust her hair slightly, takes the grey jacket from the bed and tosses it over her silk-sheathed left shoulder. Then she goes downstairs to breakfast, fully prepared and furiously aroused.
She eats a bowl of muesli and drinks a glass of orange juice at her dining-room table. She stares out of patio windows at her back garden. Twice a month, a local gardening company tend to this modest patch of green, producing a ‘low maintenance visage’ that she is rarely aware of. Now she imagines tending to the few flowers in a skimpy summer dress and high-heeled sandals, revealing her secret self to the eyes of her neighbours. A slightly ironic smile skims across her peach-coloured lips.
After breakfast, she slips into the grey jacket and takes her car keys from the living-room coffee table. She walks into the entrance hall and faces the front door. For a few moments, she feels nervous. Last night, under cover of darkness, there had at least been the opportunity to reduce the chances of discovery. Now, in this strong, morning sunlight, she will be seen by all in inescapable detail. This is, she knows, the first and last true test of her authenticity, her believability. But then she recalls the desiring eyes of men, women and she-males from last night and the sense of utter personal victory those looks inspired. I am beautiful. I can do this.
She opens the front door and walks out into the new day.
She drives back into town, on the same roads as the night before, but now in the startling truth of daylight. Immediately, she is aware that there are more people – on the pavements and in cars. As she moves towards the city centre, she is surrounded by others, hundreds of them. For an instant, they are all looking at her – finally, she has been revealed to the world as a vision of pure and shocking ambiguity. But she is not the centre of attention: these people are indifferent to Eve, as they are indifferent to most of the sights and sounds around them. They are moving in their own worlds, conscious only of their own limited, immediate desires. They are hardly alive. But Eve is conscious of herself in a totally different and truly invigorating way. She is conscious of her intricately feminised physical form and of the soft, elegant clothing that embraces every inch of her scented, silky smooth body. She is conscious of this elegant creature who is Eve, seated in the car, her long, grey nylon-wrapped legs emerging from the teasingly short skirt and down towards the control pedals. She is ultra-conscious of operating these pedals, using the elegant, sensual high heels. Her hosed thighs rub together as she drives and this constant, powerfully sexual stimulation only serves to increase the sense of enhanced consciousness. This is pure sex being, and its absolute, undeniable power fuels her growing confidence and a deep-rooted sense of inner peace.
She parks the car in a multi-storey near the main shopping precinct and, for a few apprehensive moments, sits in stunned, fearful silence. She places her hands on her thighs and feels the heat of her body through sheer nylon. Her heart is pounding, yet she remains strangely calm. There is no going back. This is it. Move!
She opens the driver’s door and steps out into the half-light of the car park. She slowly and elegantly swings her legs, held closely together, across the driver’s seat and out into the cool air. She places her heels on the tarmac surface and carefully pushes upward. Then she is standing. She takes her leather handbag from the passenger seat, bending forward deep into the car, allowing her skirt to ride up her legs and expose the frilled edges of her pretty white silk panties. An outrageous gesture, a deliberate and perhaps dangerous provocation in which she engages with a startling calmness. She then takes the bag from the car and closes the door.
I must be mad. I am mad. Yes, she certainly feels quite odd now. And this is not at all how she had expected to feel: free, elated, eager to reveal all; to challenge the world of others with her authentic feminine beauty.
She locks the car and walks over to the ticket machine. A man, in his mid-forties, is already there, putting in his money, waiting patiently for his ticket. The machine whirls and clicks. He turns at the sound of her heels. The impact is immediate. His eyes widen, a slight, idiot smile crosses his slightly plump face. She returns his gaze with a sudden, surprising contempt. He blushes and looks away, the aftershock of his sexual attraction washing over her splendid form, an attraction which was helpless and real. The attraction of a sad, middle-aged man for a beautiful young woman.
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br /> The machine spits out his ticket. He grabs it and dashes from her, turning once to ensure this striking vision was indeed real.
Eve smiles and steps forward. She gets her ticket, returns to the car and then, filled with a strange sense of her own power, strolls elegantly and purposefully out of the garage, the sounds of her sharp, erotically high heels exploding in the silence of the long, dark multi-storey corridors. As she walks, her perfectly formed bottom wiggles with a sensual abandon and her convincing bosom bounces with a cheeky joy.
She descends dark damp stairs without seeing anyone. Then she opens a stained, battered door and walks out into a shockingly busy high street. It is as if she has dived head-first into a freezing ocean. This was not expected. Indeed, her initial response is a moment of truly sickening panic. Then a man, a young, angry looking man, knocks into her. His eyes are filled with hate and violence. His first reaction is to turn and face off this latest contemptible annoyance and unleash casual, spiteful, intense aggression. Then his eyes soften, his mouth opens slightly and desire replaces the brutal fury of his everyday being. Instantly, he is sedated by the beautiful spectacle of Eve, who regards him with a fear-framed curiosity.
‘Sorry, love,’ he mumbles, his idiot eyes pawing her shapely, hyper-eroticised form.
She smiles slightly and walks on, conscious of his eyes still pinned to her long, grey legs, of the hardness that is spreading helplessly and angrily over his inescapable sex meat. If he fucks or wanks tonight, he will think of her, of this charged collision. And he will wish he had said something; but, as usual, there was nothing in him, no subtle language, no intelligent translation of animal desire into erotic action. As he thinks of this failure to speak, he will be truly defeated, humiliated in a way far more profound than any Saturday-night beating. For this is her power, this is the power that floods through her body. A smile of absolute triumph illuminates her beautiful mouth and she walks deep into this seething sea of otherness.
The Secret Self Page 7
