Eve looks at the tray with genuine trepidation.
‘Don’t worry – just hold it before you. There’s no need for anything fancy.’
Eve gingerly picks up the tray and Hilary minces into the jungle of tables. Eve totters after her, eyes locked fearfully on the alcohol sloshing about in the glasses.
As she moves between the crowded tables and the loud, almost angry din that is rising from them, she sees heads turn and eyes appraise her. There is no doubt she is a particularly impressive she-male specimen and quickly becomes the willing victim of numerous darkly suggestive shouts and clumsy, half-successful fondles. These boorish interventions are taken with a slight, nervous smile, but with no real displeasure. Indeed, in these words and gestures, Eve can see only a drink-fuelled, but deeply felt desire – a passion for Eve. A need for her splendid she-male sensuality.
Hilary comes up to her and ushers her over to a nearby table where she is shown how to curtsey deeply while holding the tray and serve the drinks to three older women. Still thinking of so many desiring eyes burning in the dark like bright sex-fire, she doesn’t fully realise she is serving drinks to the city’s most famous female MP, once a senior cabinet minister and now an outspoken advocate of sexual freedom.
It is only when the woman’s penetrating gaze locks into her own, that Eve’s consciousness finally tunes into reality. Suddenly she recognises the woman. Her pretty, blood-red lips stretch into an O of surprise and then, perhaps even more surprisingly, she performs another deep curtsey before placing the silver tray down on the table and serving the drinks to the women.
‘This is a new one?’
The voice is familiar; deep, hard, yet not without compassion and certainly filled with a powerful sexual interest.
‘I believe so. Helen told me she is one of the best for a long time. Real potential.’
The other woman, her voice partially distorted by the noise, is obscured by shadow.
‘I take it she will be part of the escort service?’
‘Yes. No doubt about that.’
Having served the drinks, Eve steps back and curtsies again, bathing in the hot sex-glow of the woman’s eyes and knowing that they will meet again. Her sex struggles in its brutal prison and she is overwhelmed – again – by an intense masochistic arousal. She feels almost unbearably feminine, and thus utterly and delightfully subjugated.
It is then that a huge roar rocks the room. Eve turns to face the stage and, to her astonishment, finds herself looking at Cherry. A loud, bass-heavy electronic dance music suddenly fills the room. Harsh, clean Detroit techno. And Cherry is moving to it. No: she is dancing to it. An erotic, graceful, incredibly impressive dance. The clapping and cheering grows. The crowd, too, are impressed by the elegant and rhythmic gyrations of the lovely creature.
The black beauty has a wide, confident and aroused smile on her lovely face. As she dances in the high-heeled boots, her tight micro-mini skirt rides up to expose sensual glimpses of her red silk panties and this drives the crowd even wilder. Then, after a few incredible minutes, the music stops. Cherry performs a deep and elaborate curtsey and receives an agitated standing ovation.
Then the teasing female voice returns to boom across the public address system, cutting through the raucous enthusiasm of the crowd with an ear-splitting ease.
‘How about that, ladies and gentlemen! A big hand for Cherry. Lot number 40!’
The clapping increases in volume and Eve, now pinned to the spot in amazement, watches Cherry take a bow.
‘The bidding starts at £1,000.’
The voice has moved from the ersatz enthusiasm of a television presenter to the cool precision of an auction mistress in a split, disconcerting second.
It is then that the red cards begin to be held up, large rectangles with white numbers printed across laminated fronts.
‘Table 15 – £1,500.’
Eve quickly realises that each bid is automatically for an extra £500. Then, to her amazement, the MP’s assistant holds up a card.
‘Table 20 – £2,000!’
Heads turn and Eve finds herself looking at faces filled with drunken admiration and envy.
And so it goes on. Up to £5,000 in under a minute, with the MP setting the pace. And soon the bidding has reached £7,500. It is then, to Eve’s amazement and sudden, furious, sickening jealousy, she sees that Richard has held up a card.
‘A double bid from table 19! £15,000!’
Eve stares at Richard in utter horror and amazement. His liquid eyes meet her gaze and he smiles with a cruel, almost contemptuous indifference. She feels her heart sink and her eyes begin to fill with tears.
The MP looks over at Richard with angry, bitter eyes. She says something to her assistant, who gets up from the table and walks towards the stage, edging carefully around the dance floor and then disappearing down the corridor that leads to Helen’s office. She becomes aware that the MP is staring directly at her again, her cold blue eyes appraising the she-male beauty carefully.
There are no bids after Richard’s spectacular intervention. The voice goes through the bidding motions rather half-heartedly ‘Going once, going twice . . . SOLD!’ There is a round of surprisingly mild applause and Cherry steps down off the stage. Eve notices that she seems less than happy about her sale. She is only a few feet away from Eve. Their eyes meet and Eve’s heart sinks as she sees tears welling in Cherry’s gorgeous honey-brown orbs.
She curtsies quickly before Richard, her eyes avoiding his. A dark smile crosses his face as she bows her head in a gesture of absolute submission. Then he stands up, takes her by the hand and leads her from the room, winding slowly through the tables, his arms briefly brushing against Eve’s. She finds herself looking directly into Cherry’s stunned face. This is not what she had planned. Not at all. She shrugs and whispers ‘Sorry’. Then Richard drags her into the darkness.
With the sale of Cherry, the auction is clearly over. There is an air of disappointment in the club, as if Richard’s dramatic gesture has popped the balloon of erotic excitement that had previously made the atmosphere so electric. Hilary leads Eve back to the bar and she spends the rest of the evening coming to terms with her duties as a sexy waitress, a job she eventually takes to with ease, trying hard to forget Richard’s bizarre cruelty and concentrate on the erotic caress of her provocative costume. She wiggles her hips and bottom with each tiny high-heeled step and tries to enjoy the light slaps and playful pinches that continue to follow her around the chaotic maze of tables.
But after about an hour and a half of tottering between the tables on her painfully high heels, she is tired, bored and her feet are aching terribly. Now she begins to understand the terrible sadistic demands of the stiletto-heeled mule and the suffering so many women endure in its name. At the same time her thighs and bottom are sore with the constant, teasing abuse dished out by male and female members of the crowd, which has slowly reduced to a core of loud drinkers entertained by TV dancing girls. Interestingly, the MP has remained, her table the focus of regular visits from a wide variety of the club’s exotic clientele.
It must be well after eleven p.m. when Helen suddenly emerges from the door by the stage. She looks utterly ravishing in her long, black, sequinned dress. Eve stares at her with tired, hungry eyes, remembering the adventures of the night before and the strange events of their earlier meeting.
Helen works her way through the tables, smiling, shaking hands. It is clear she is well known by many of those present, a figure who commands respect and admiration. She comes within a few inches of Eve, but totally ignores her, making her way towards the politician’s already very busy table with a cool determination, her stride elegant and sensual, her buxom physique an emblem of complete control and absolute authority.
As Eve watches her cross the floor, she feels her cock twitch painfully inside its tight, wicked, perverse restraint. Once again, she feels overwhelmed by desire – for her elaborate feminisation, for Cherry, for Helen. And even for the
wicked betrayer, Richard.
Helen draws up a seat and sits by the MP. They talk for some time. Eve, while still serving drinks, tries to keep an eye on them, noting as she does that the MP’s hand has rested in a familiar manner on Helen’s knee.
Then Helen gestures for Eve to come over to the table. Her heart skips a shocked beat and she totters nervously forward.
Once at the table she curtsies.
‘Teresa, this is Eve.’
Teresa March is a handsome, buxom woman in her mid-fifties. Tonight she is dressed in a knee-length grey skirt, a matching grey silk jacket and a shimmering white silk blouse with a high, almost Victorian neck holding a circular emerald that sparkles in the stroboscopic lights. Her thick, shoulder-length hair is a rather beautiful mosaic of grey and blonde streaks, and there is no doubt that she remains a striking vision of female authority.
Ms March looks up at Eve and smiles slightly.
‘Very impressive. And you say she’s pre-op?’
‘Yes. Our newest recruit.’
Helen’s tone is neutral, yet also very slightly deferential. It is clear that she, like most of the people present tonight, regards her with the respect and awe due the powerful.
Ms March smiles very slightly and nods. ‘A suitable compromise.’
‘The visiting room has been prepared.’
Ms March nods and then rises from the table. As she does so, she leans over to her assistant. ‘Take Eve to the visiting room. Tell the driver I will be at least an hour.’
The assistant nods and gestures to Eve to follow her. As she totters forward, she notices that Ms March is smiling and shaking the hands of those around the table with a practised, weary diplomacy.
The assistant is in her late twenties. Eve’s eyes widen with interest once her form is fully revealed. As she winds carefully through the maze of tables, it quickly becomes apparent that she is a very sexy young woman who has obviously been chosen carefully. She is wearing a black pinstripe jacket with a matching mini-skirt, sheer black nylon tights and stiletto-heeled court shoes. Her black hair is bound in a lose bun with a metal clip.
She walks with elegant purpose, and, as Eve wiggle-minces behind her, her eyes are drawn helplessly to the subtle vibrations of her thighs and buttocks. She feels her cock twitch painfully in the restrainer and her step falters. To desire is to be reminded of this most intimate and absolute control.
9
A Jewel in the Crown
They slip through the red curtain into the reception area, but instead of following the narrow hallway back to the main entrance, they turn left and Eve finds herself immediately negotiating a steep flight of stairs lit by a bright, bare bulb hanging from a slanted ceiling. Eve stares up at the assistant with helplessly male eyes. She can see the perfect globes of each plump buttock sheathed in black nylon and held tightly in the scented embrace of a pair of black silk panties. This intimate revelation is shockingly arousing, an awe-inspiring glimpse of feminine perfection. As always, Eve finds herself gripped by two conflicting passions: the simple fact of sexual desire, and the more complex one of wishing to emulate or become this desire, to be as beautiful and sexy as this striking woman. I wish to become that which I desire. And this evening, in the erotic madness of the Crème de la Crème club, this paradoxical fact – which is at the very core of her she-maleness – has never been more apparent.
At the top of the stairs is another door. Tall. White. With an ornate golden handle.
The assistant opens the door and enters the room beyond. Eve follows – aroused, curious, slightly frightened.
The room beyond is of medium size. Its walls are covered in an expensive white silk wallpaper that has been turned a light pink by soft electric lighting. In one corner of the room is a large, aged cherry-red leather sofa. Placed before it is a glass-topped coffee table, upon which has been placed a bottle of chilled Chablis and a single wine glass. A simple white wooden chair has been positioned in the centre of the room. The sofa, the table and the chair are the only furniture.
The walls are covered in artwork. All by the same artist. All depicting various sado-erotic fantasy scenes. Mostly feminised males (rather than fully blown she-males); all suffering exquisitely at the hands of beautiful, powerful women.
‘Sit down on the chair, with your legs crossed tightly, toes pointed downward.’
Shocked by such sudden and explicit instruction, Eve hesitates.
‘Now.’
There is a hateful fire burning in the assistant’s eyes and Eve immediately complies with this second brutal order.
As she adjusts her position on the chair, she feels a wave of masochistic pleasure crash across her pretty she-male form and secretly wishes this attractive, fearsome woman would continue her verbal cruelty. But she merely inspects Eve’s posture, nods with slight satisfaction and then leaves the room.
Eve finds herself sitting in this rather uncomfortable position for at least ten minutes, before the sound of stiletto heels striking the wooden stairs fills her with an instant sense of sexually arousing anticipation.
Then Ms March is in the doorway, her face slightly flushed by drink and the effort of climbing the stairs.
‘Sorry to keep you, Eve. But there are certain duties someone in my position is always expected to perform.’
Eve looks at Ms March with wide, slightly awestruck eyes. It was one thing to be in her presence in the club, surrounded by so many other people. But now, here, in this warm, shadowy intimacy, she can only confess to being rather overcome.
Ms March walks over to Eve and studies her carefully. Up close, the MP is even more impressive and Eve finds herself desperate to please. Indeed, the dynamic here is one of power and identity. Ms March is the embodiment of female power, while Eve is the gorgeous symbol of feminine submission.
‘You’re very beautiful, Eve. And in a perfectly natural way. Yes, I think that is what makes you special. There is a distinct lack of artifice. Which is unusual in a transvestite.’
Her words have the clinical connotations of Samantha, yet they are delivered with warmth and curiosity, with a genuine concern and interest in what it is to be Eve.
Ms March, a careful, fascinated smile on her peach-coloured lips, steps back, as if to get a wider view of Eve. In her striking eyes is a very clear appraisal. Yet this is not the detached analysis of the clinician: in Ms March’s eyes there is passion and desire.
‘I’ve never liked men much,’ she says, stepping around the table and pouring herself a glass of the honey-green and very expensive wine. ‘Neither sexually or socially. Except gay men . . . and transvestites. Men without the need to impress or control. Men who aspire to greater things.’
Eve smiles nervously and nods, not knowing where this strange confessional is going.
‘Beth – my assistant – has been my lover for some time now. She puts up with my little kinks, but I know she is secretly infuriated by them. That’s probably why she was rather mean to you, Eve. But please forgive her: she is cruel because she loves me – unconditionally. And that kind of love is rather priceless in this world. Is there someone you love . . . unconditionally?’
Eve thinks of Aunt Debra. Yes, there is only her. She nods.
‘Yes,’ she says, almost unable to control herself.
Ms March’s smile widens and Eve realises how very beautiful this woman is, and how very genuine.
‘Tell me about her.’
So Eve does. Over the next half-hour she tells, again, the story of Aunt Debra. And as she tells her story, Eve retains her precise, feminine posture and is aware that Ms March, while listening, is visually devouring every inch of her pretty she-male form. In her sparkling blue eyes there is a terrible sexual arousal that is at odds with her relaxed posture. At one point she leans back and crosses her legs and the tight grey skirt rides up above her knees to reveal her firm, shapely, grey-hosed thighs. Eve finds her eyes drawn to this revelation and then back to Ms March’s soft, desiring eyes. By the time she finis
hes her strange, highly erotic tale, her sex is writhing desperately in its fiendish restraint and her whole being is gripped by the most awful and exciting sense of physical arousal. She feels the fabrics of her elaborate waitress uniform tease her soft, silken body and smells her own perfume. She tastes her dark, strawberry-flavoured lipstick and thinks helplessly of the erotic, generous form of the gorgeous Cherry.
‘You have beautiful legs, Eve,’ Ms March continues. ‘Strangely, quite a lot of men have very shapely legs. So many look good in tights. And you, I must say, look rather splendid.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you like your tights? The ones you are wearing? They look very special to me.’
Ms March’s tone has shifted as the questions progress. It is now as if she were addressing a very young girl, trying to tease out a confession of naughtiness, and Eve finds this even more arousing than the nature of the questions.
‘Yes, I like them very much. I love tights and stockings. It’s my major . . . thing. The part of the dressing I love most, in some ways. The feel of the nylon has always turned me on. The enveloping softness and the impact on my legs . . . the way they make my legs look. It is so immediate. The feminising effect is quick and very powerful. An instant transformation.’
Ms March nods and smiles. ‘Yes, I love them too. These are by Falke. My favourite, I think. Expensive, but they have softness and body, and when I move, it’s often like they’re kissing my legs.’
She sits up and places the glass on the coffee table. She then uncrosses her legs and draws them together. Then, to Eve’s delighted surprise, she pulls her skirt up to the tops of her thighs to reveal the full, beautiful length of her still very shapely legs.
‘You’ve got very beautiful legs, too,’ Eve whispers, her voice hoarse with sex need.
Ms March smiles softly and turns her powerful, sexual gaze full beam on Eve. ‘That’s very nice of you, Eve. Thank you. But I must admit they’ve had a rather demanding day. It would be lovely if you could come over here and give me a foot massage.’
The Secret Self Page 18
