Silken Slavery

by Christina Shelly

  Silken

  Slavery

  Christina Shelly

  Rover Books

  New york

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practice safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2002 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Christina Shelly 2002

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-10: 0-7952-0508-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7952-0508-8

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part One In and Out of the Closet

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two The Making of a Maid

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Three A New Life

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Part One

  In and Out of the Closet

  One

  Chris wakes from a deep, troubled sleep to painfully bright morning light and the sound of distorted disco music. Still disoriented, he throws back the covers of his large, double bed and leans over to turn off the radio alarm clock. As he does so, his painfully erect cock brushes against the damp sheets and the dream explodes in his mind, a moment of precise, overwhelming clarity. Donna. Beautiful, vibrant, sexy: Donna.

  The LED reads 7.10. He falls back onto the bed and closes his eyes. When he opens them again it is 7.40. Still plagued by the dream, by its awful erotic power, his hands stroke his cock, feeding it idle caresses as the dream images float across his vision. Then he sighs wearily, the guilt of his lateness distorting the dream like a virus inserted into his neurological system by the Priests of Work, and sits up. I am, he thinks, the slave of the clock and the cock.

  The dream still tormenting his mind, he crawls from the bed and staggers into the toilet/bathroom. After a long, hard and deeply refreshing piss, he finds himself, as he does on so many mornings, staring into the bathroom mirror at his reflection and wondering what he is looking at. A man? A mask? A mask hiding a secret even he has trouble coming to terms with.

  He steps into the shower and submerges himself beneath a jet of steaming hot water, his cock proudly upright like a totem pole raised in praise of some mysterious sex cult. He stands still and lets the water pour over his perfectly smooth, muscular body, a hairless body whose pristine contours are the result of careful diet and daily exercise, a masculine yet also feminine body. After a few minutes he takes a small plastic razor from the soap dish and begins to shave his body, as he does every morning, obsessively seeking out the tiniest speck of hair, a painstaking examination which takes in every nook and cranny, including his expertly denuded pubic region.

  As he does so he fights to rid his mind of the dream, of its incredible potency, an erotic vision that has fractured the boundary between the conscious and unconscious worlds and is making rational thought about the day ahead impossible.

  But here it is: unyielding. Donna. In her sexiest dress, in her sheer black nylons, in her high, high heels. Her teasingly petite form before him like a miracle manifestation. Her strawberry lips curved into a tense, aroused half-smile, her lovely sky-blue eyes filled with a simple, powerful sexual need, her breasts, so deliberately displayed by the tight-fitting dress, rising and falling with her short, hard breaths. Perhaps only five feet four inches, but quite perfect in his hungry, desperate eyes. Donna pulling him into a dark alley, or a room, maybe even a closet. Taking his hands in hers, pulling them beneath her short dress as she presses her breasts into his chest and he brings his mouth down to meet hers. Letting him explore her nylon-sheathed thighs, feeling the womanly warmth turning to an intense, fundamental heat as his hands move up into the moisture between her hosed legs, a moisture that quickly turns to hot, wet sex, the rain forest of a brutal desire. Then their lips meet. The longest, hardest kiss, a kiss he screams his pleasure into. A kiss which turns into a molten white light as his fingers swim deep into her stormy abyss.

  ‘You’re mine,’ she whispers. ‘All mine.’

  He washes his body with scented soap. He washes his very short, jet-black hair with a feminine shampoo. He steps from the shower with an elegance and grace unusual in most men and carefully dries himself. He covers his body in a powerful feminine body spray and then weakens its effect with a relatively neutral male deodorant. He brushes his hair without looking in the mirror and then walks back to the bedroom.

  The bed is a large wooden frame upon which rests a very firm double mattress. Built into the bottom of the frame are four drawers, two on either side. He sits on the bed, leans over and pulls out one of the drawers. It is filled with carefully ordered piles of women’s undergarments. From the drawer he takes a pair of white silk panties and a pair of very sheer black nylon tights. His hot, nearly shaking hands fondle these items of lingerie as if they are holy relics and with a fetishist’s helpless devotion he carefully lays them out on the bed. His erection grows even stronger as he stands and takes up the panties. Momentarily he is seized by the need to masturbate, but a discipline born of experience allows him to push this need to one side and step gingerly into the soft, forgiving panties.

  As he draws the panties up his smooth, long, very shapely legs, he sighs with a pleasure that has never weakened over ten years. As he stretches the panties over his rigid cock and pulls them into position around his hard, flat waist, he remembers the weekend spent as Christina, the weekend lost in his passion for all things feminine. A weekend spent in this small, expensive city flat, cut off from reality, submerged in a powerful, addictive fantasy, his only contact with other human beings the internet and the virtual community of transvestites that inhabit it, a community of which he is an eager but paradoxically shy member.

  The panties are followed by the tights, the sheer black nylon tights, the most delirious fetish item in his extensive feminine wardrobe. At any one time he has up to fifty pairs of tights and stockings. The feel, the look, the effect – he cannot sum up the power of his fascination with hose. He is helplessly and continually addicted, and as he expertly draws the fine, soft intense fabric over his legs he moans with an intense animal pleasure.

  Once the tights have been carefully pulled into place, he admires his legs in the full-length mirror that stands next to the wardrobe and almost immediately hungers to complete the transformation into Christina. But instead of beginning the complex ritual of complete feminisation, he takes a simple white cotton shirt from the wardrobe and pulls it reluctantly over his shoulders. The shirt is followed by a suitably neutral blue tie and a disappointingly drab b
lack wool suit. Very thin nylon socks are then slid over his hosed feet and a pair of black brogues laced into place.

  Suitably attired in his office uniform, he eats his cornflake breakfast whilst watching the television news in the living room. Still half-watching the television, he then sits down at his personal computer and logs onto the internet. As expected, there is new mail from Annette, a response to his message sent late the previous evening. He had sent her a scan of a particularly erotic drawing from a new collection of erotica, a picture of an artfully petticoated youth kissing the leather-booted feet of his mistress, a very intricate pencil drawing from the early 1920s. Annette, his closest virtual ‘sister’, a beautiful cross-dresser who shares his sadomasochistic leanings, is full of praise for the picture, yet makes a point of wondering why he has sent her this picture rather than the picture of Christina she had originally asked for. Chris smiles and logs off, yet doesn’t move from the chair. Instead, he calls up the picture of Annette, stored in a coded file on his hard drive, the picture she had sent him three weeks before, the picture that he had stared at in amazement for over an hour when it first arrived. The picture that now inspires his hand to slip between his legs and gently caress his rock hard cock through the trousers, the tights and the panties.

  Annette: a twenty-five-year-old transvestite from London, a tall, blue-eyed redhead whom Chris met through a cross-dresser chat group and who had, to his surprise, sent him a picture as a file attachment with only her second e-mail. A picture of her in a very short, tight black dress, sitting cross-legged on a stool staring with a brazen sensuality into the camera’s eye, her long, sexy legs wrapped in sheer black nylon, her feet erotically imprisoned in the highest of black patent leather high heels. A strikingly convincing TV who filled him with both longing and jealousy, a she-male whose friendship he has retained with constant promises of a reciprocal picture, promises which he doesn’t have the courage to fulfil.

  He turns from the computer and stares at the bookcase taking up most of the opposite wall. A bookcase resting on a long wooden cupboard filled to bursting point with the books that have come to define his life. He looks at these books and wonders if he has wasted all the hours spent reading them. He knows the answer to that question is a resounding no : without their wisdom he would be little more than a robot, a pathetic subject of wage slavery. But he recognises that the books have too often replaced life, because life, at least for Chris, has always been a problem. He stands, moves closer to the bookcase, runs his eyes along the four packed shelves, seeing, as he sees every day, the names that have helped him survive: Freud, de Sade, Masoch, Miller, Bataille, Réage. Then there are the magazines, the hundreds of neatly stacked fetish magazines locked in the cupboards beneath the bookcase. A lifetime’s collection covering those dark areas of desire that have held Chris in their grasp for so long: domination and humiliation, forced feminisation, bondage.

  From the bottom shelf he takes the half-read copy of a biography of Anaïs Nin and slips it into his jacket pocket, reading for the bus and the inevitably lonely lunch break. This pang of loneliness makes him think of the dream and of Donna. What would she think, he wonders, if she could see all these books and magazines, if she knew about Christina?

  By the time he leaves the flat, he is already twenty minutes late.

  * * *

  The only seat left on the bus is next to a tall, ice-eyed blonde who regards him with blatant contempt as he attempts to sit down beside her. His face turning crimson, he avoids her gaze and stares with panic-stricken reserve into the worn cloth of the seat. Satisfied she has humiliated him, she stares angrily out of the window. Yet as soon as she looks away, his sex-addict eyes traverse the impressive contours of her black nylon sheathed and very tightly crossed legs.

  His erection remains fiercely persistent as he opens his book, but the dream and Annette’s e-mail make concentration impossible. So he returns to staring with aching desperation at the blonde’s gorgeous legs and contemplates the strange farce that his life is in danger of becoming.

  He is nearly thirty. He is single. He is a transvestite. He has worked in the planning section of the council for five years, where he is now effectively second in command. He is well paid, he is physically attractive, yet he is also painfully shy, especially with women. He is deeply bored with his work and, if he was honest with himself, desperately unhappy. Also, he is still a virgin. And as this word flashes on and off in huge red letters in his mind, he feels a familiar horror, a horror rooted in the fear that his personality problems will ensure that he will never find a woman and thus never have sex. Frozen solid by eye contact, appalled by the idea of actually trying to seduce a woman, he has hidden in a hole of shy isolation for most of his adult life. What attempted intimate contacts he has made with women, mainly at university, have been disasters that have left him humiliated and scarred. Disasters compounded by the strange nature of his desires, by his helpless femininity, by his deep sadomasochism, by his constant desire to dress and act as a woman, desires which have possessed him since his very first sexual thought.

  In the five years since he moved to this ugly Midlands city, and especially in the eighteen months that he has lived in the apartment building, Christina has emerged out of a morass of guilt and desire. Perhaps a positive development, most certainly an intensification of his transvestite cravings. Now he can, without too much effort, make quite a convincing woman. Now he can remove the mask for whole weekends and lose himself in her, in this delicate, ultra-feminine creature that is at the heart of every sexual thought and raw, unyielding stiffness. Yet he has been unable to move beyond the secret dressings that occupy so many evenings and weekends. The next step, getting to know other TVs in the flesh, going out and trying to pass, the whole giddying public revelation of the feminine self, has failed to materialise. He has been frozen by fear, by the fear that all sexual interaction inspires in him. He is bound in the chains of a pathological shyness, the slave of fear. Only his regular correspondence with Annette and his regular attendance at so many internet chat rooms has provided him with any true social interaction. And while it is clear Annette would like to take this tentative relationship further, Chris – Christina – remains trapped firmly in the closet.

  By the time he arrives at the office, he has managed to retrieve ten minutes and avoid too many ironic looks from the three women who make up the clerical staff of the Planning Records Section. Essentially an open plan office with two smaller, closed offices at each end (one for him and one for his boss, Katherine Grainger), the Planning Records Section is responsible for the computerised storage, update and renewal of every piece of planning permission data produced by the Council.

  He smiles his normal shy half-smile at his staff, carefully avoiding any eye contact as he does so, and rushes into the office, collapsing into his chair behind his paper-strewn desk and turning on his computer. As the screen flickers into life, there is a knock on the door and Helen, his PA, enters the room, a file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  As usual, he looks up at her and manages a genuinely warm smile of greeting, trying not to let his eyes wander over her body and confess the intense desire he feels for her and her two colleagues.

  ‘Heavy weekend?’ she asks with a slightly teasing smile, as she places the file and the cup of coffee on the desk.

  A nervous laugh is the only reply as he wonders what she would think if she knew he’d spent most of the weekend dressed as a woman.

  ‘Miss Grainger would like you to look at this,’ Helen continues, ‘a complaint from upstairs about missing records.’

  He nods half-heartedly: more boring donkey work. ‘OK.’

  As Helen turns to leave, he finally allows himself to feed on her splendid form. At 41, she is a tall, dark-featured woman with a very ample, extremely shapely figure that is today very effectively displayed by a tight black skirt reaching just above her knees and a semi-transparent white silk blouse through which the flowered pattern of h
er bra is clearly visible, as are the curved peaks of her tightly restrained, very large breasts. A divorcee, previously married to a wealthy businessman, she is rumoured to have secured an extremely generous settlement and have no need to work for money. As his eyes move across her long, black-hosed legs, his cock strains once more in its secret prison of nylon and satin. As she closes the office door he curses himself for not saying something, as he always does. Just some cool, relaxed remark, telling her how attractive she looks today. But he can hardly open his mouth in her presence, never mind find the courage to give her a compliment.

  And so the day begins. He spends most of the morning avoiding Katherine’s file and idly trying to short out the chaos of paper that remains from last week. By 11.00 a.m. he is bored stupid and decides to venture out into the main office, heart in his mouth, coffee cup in hand.

  His three support staff are hard at work, but as soon as he appears they turn as one to face him, their eyes pinned firmly to his, their smiles broad, curious, vaguely teasing.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ Donna snaps. ‘Thought you’d nodded off in there.’