Weekend Woman - The Sequel free porn video

Author's note: This story deals with transvestism and gay love. Please do not read it if you are under eighteen, if it's against the law in your country to read such stuff, or you are offended by such themes. I should also warn you that one of the story lines features a man of the cloth so if this offends your religious sensibilities; read no further. Whilst this is a stand-alone tale a better understanding of preceding events will be gained if you first read "Weekend Woman -- Prelude." B.G. Weekend Woman -- The Sequel. By Belle Gordon Chapter One The little bell above the door tinkled as Pattie entered Mrs. Pettigrew's thrift shop. He was looking for a dress to wear in the evening, not too formal, but a little dressier than daywear. His Uncle Victor had acquired tickets to the theatre and next weekend they would be going so he wanted something nice to wear. There was no one else in the shop when he entered so he went to the rail where he knew she kept the things he was looking for and started sorting through them. He had selected three possibilities when Mrs. Pettigrew entered from the back room carrying an armful of clothing. Following in her wake was the most striking black man he had ever seen. He was 6' tall and willowy slim. His facial features were European but his skin was the coffee black of an Indian. His hair was long, straight, and black as jet. He'd pulled it back into a ponytail and held it in place with a colourful scrunchy. It had none of the curliness of the Afro-Caribbean but was thick and full-bodied. His piercing brown eyes were shot through with flecks of yellow. He wore a cream silk shirt open to his navel and skin-tight jeans. Glinting against his hairless chest was a large gold medallion. "Hello Pattie," Mrs. Pettigrew said when she saw him. "Find anything you like?" "Hi," he said, "I'm looking for a dress for an evening do. Something a bit formal." He was unable to take his eyes from the man behind her. Noticing where his attention was directed she introduced him. "Pattie, I'd like you to meet Emile Kingston. Emily, this is Patrick Burnley." He blushed when she used his male name. Now that he lived full time as a woman and only wore female clothing, he was embarrassed to be introduced as a man. Emile held out his slender hand and Pattie took it in his. They held hands for longer that was necessary for an introduction and gazed into the others eyes. Mrs. Pettigrew missed none of the exchange. "Emily is like you, Pattie. He prefers to wear finer, softer clothing. You must get together and exchange tips." "Oh," Pattie said, somewhat nonplussed to be told that this handsome black man was a crossdresser too. Still holding his hand Emile nodded slowly and said, "Yes I do. That's why she calls me Emily." "Now, let's see what you owe me," she said all business again. She began folding the things Emile had selected and putting them into a bag at the same time tapping the prices into her till. He handed her a credit card and she swiped it through the machine. Having completed Emile's transaction she turned her attention to Pattie. "I can't decide which of these three I like best," he said. "Why don't you take them home and try them on. You can return the ones you don't want." "Ok, I will, if you don't mind?" Leaving the shop together Emile asked Pattie, "Would you like to go for a coffee?" "I'd love to," he replied. Over their coffee's they talked. Emile had been born to Ethiopian parents who had both been killed during one of the many civil wars that raged in that country. He had been adopted as a baby by a white family and brought up in white society. He disparagingly described himself as a coconut; white on the inside, brown on the outside. He was 26 years old and lived by himself in an apartment in the centre of town. He'd left his parent's home in the North some years ago after he'd graduated from college. He'd been offered a job as a junior partner in a firm of chartered accountants, which was why he now lived here. They formed an immediate rapport, and before they realised it they had been talking for over an hour. Emile had got into crossdressing in the classic manner, he explained. As a child he began wearing his mother's clothes, at first as a game but he soon discovered he liked it. He was still 'in the closet' but he crossdressed whenever he could, most evenings and weekends. He had recently found the courage to go out in public on Saturday nights when he visited a TV nightclub. Another CD he'd met at Mrs. Pettigrew's shop had introduced him to it. Pattie showed his surprise at this, but Emile explained that she catered for most of the town's transvestites. It was said that she could spot a crossdresser as soon as he entered her door. "How would you like to come back to my place," Emile said, "for some supper and a bottle of wine. We can continue our conversation there." "I'd love to. If it's no trouble." Later, after they had eaten Emile asked, "Would you mind if I changed my clothes?" "I hate wearing jeans." "Not at all. I'd love to see your wardrobe." Pattie followed him into his bedroom. He stripped off his trousers revealing a pair of pink high cut panties. "I wear lingerie under my day clothes whenever I can," he said, "It makes me feel so nice." His shirt followed the jeans. He found a matching bra, put it on and inserted breast forms. "I wish I had real breasts," he said. "I've thought about starting hormone treatment but I'm afraid it'll dull my libido, and I love sex." As Emile applied lipstick and eye shadow, Pattie noticed that the swelling in his panties was getting larger. The sight of this handsome man metamorphosing into a lovely woman was also making his penis erect and he was getting uncomfortable. Finished with his makeup Emile slipped his arms into a silk blouse and stepped into a tight skirt. Smoothing the skirt down with his hands he slid his feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes. The shoes added an extra 3" to his already imposing height. "There, that feels better," he announced. "Are you going to try your dresses on, Pattie? I'd love to see them." Pattie stood and took off his woollen cardigan, then the floral dress he wore. In his bra and panties he walked to the bag containing the dresses. His natural breasts jiggled suggestively in the thin lace bra he wore and Emile's eyes were on stalks. "My God! You have real tits," he exclaimed. "How wonderful. Can I touch them?" "Yes, of course you can," Pattie replied. He reached behind his back and unsnapped the bra, letting it fall to the floor. Emile stared at his womanly globes in awe. Slowly his hands came up and cupped the warm breasts. He gently squeezed them and softly pinched his nipples. Suddenly, dropping to his knees he clamped his mouth to one hard nipple sucking and nibbling it, before lavishing the same attention on the other one. Pattie groaned as his sensitive nipples and breasts were manipulated. His cock was now very hard as it always was whenever his breasts were caressed, making a sizeable bulge in the front of his panties. As Emile continued to worship his breasts, his hands slid down Pattie's sides, over his hips, hooking his thumbs into his panties and pushing them down to his knees. Pattie's erection reared outward. Grasping it in his hands, Emile slowly wanked it, then lowered his head and took the length into his mouth. For several minutes Emile sucked Pattie's prick deeply into his mouth rolling his tongue around the head. Releasing it from his warm throat he stood up and hurriedly removed his blouse, then in one movement his skirt and panties followed. His long black cock stood up straight from the small tuft of pubic hair. Taking Pattie in his arms their lips came together in a lingering passionate kiss. Tongues slid into and out of mouths, their hot shafts ground together. With their lips still locked together in a crushing kiss, the two naked men staggered backward and fell across the bed. Quickly, Emile swivelled 180 degrees and again gobbled Pattie's prick into his mouth. Rearing before Pattie's fascinated eyes was 9" of solid black penis. Taking his heavy balls on one hand and the base of the shaft in the other, he opened his mouth and swallowed his first black cock. For over an hour they worshiped each other's cocks. Lying side by side they brought each other repeatably to the very peak of orgasm before backing off and relaxing. They described what they like doing best and what they most enjoyed having done to them. Each would have loved to continue indefinitely but the human body can only take so much intense stimulation before exploding in a shattering climax. Pattie was the first to ejaculate. When Emile's probing finger touched that certain spot in his anus he was unable to withhold a moment longer and shot his hot sperm into Emile's throat. The taste of Pattie's spunk in his mouth was the trigger for Emile to cum. He thrust his cock deeply into Pattie's throat, almost causing him to gag, and dumped his load inside. Both men swallowed frantically, afraid to lose any of the precious liquid, till they had sucked each other dry. Later they lay together, Pattie enfolded in Emile's arms, in that special limpid state only achieved after satisfying sex. "Will you stay the night?" Emile asked. "Ok, but I have to make a call first." He rang Uncle Victor's mobile number and left a message saying he wouldn't be home tonight, but not to worry. They ate strawberries and cream and drank champagne together in bed. Emile lent Pattie a nightie and after they had eaten they talked long into the night. They slept very little. At some time during the night Emile lazily fucked Pattie. Lying between his legs he slid his shaft deeply into him. Pattie wrapped his legs around Emile's waist and they kissed hungrily and deeply murmuring obscenities to each other. Later still Pattie mounted Emile over his back doggy fashion, the position Emile said he preferred. The next morning Emile called in sick and they spent the day making love, chatting and giggling at the stupidest things, like a couple of newlyweds. Chapter Two My receptionist, Mrs. Whitstable, buzzed me on my intercom. She had waited till the patient I was attending had left before interrupting me. "Pattie's on the line, shall I put her through?" Although Mrs. Whitstable knew perfectly well that Pattie was my nephew she had got into the habit of addressing him in the feminine. It was an easy mistake. Since he had moved in with me over a year ago, (except for the first few weeks), he had dressed as a woman. Most people accepted him as female. "Yes put him on." I said. "Hi, Uncle Victor," he gushed. I knew from his bubbly tone that something special had happened to him. "Did you get my message? I won't be home for a few days. I'm staying with a friend." "Oh. Do I know this friend?" I asked. "I'm sure you don't. His name is Emily." I knew immediately by his use of the masculine pronoun linked with a girl's name that his new friend was a transvestite. Conflicting emotions surged through me. On the one hand I was jealous that my nephew/niece was interested in someone else, and on the other, I was excited by the prospect of meeting another person with similar proclivities. "He's a wonderful person," he said, "so kind and beautiful. You must meet him, I'm sure you'll like him." "If he'd a friend of yours I'm sure I will. You haven't told him about me, have you?" I asked, concerned that someone else might be privy to my secret crossdressing. "Of course not. I gave you my word that I'd never mention it to anyone." "Good, best not say anything about that. At least not till you know him better. Why don't you invite him to the house for supper one evening next week and you can introduce us?" "Ok, I will. I'll pop home later and get a few things. See you." I replace the receiver in the cradle and flicked the switch on the intercom. "Next." The rest of the day dragged on. I saw the usual procession of the genuinely sick, the hypochondriacs, and the outright malingerers. My mind was on next weekend when I could get away from all this to the idyll that was 'Ablefield', my secret retreat in the country. I was excited because I had tickets to a gala premier of 'Cats' in 'The Playhouse Theatre' in Oxford and Pattie and I were to attend. He was buying himself a new dress for the occasion, and I had ordered new gown that I was dying to wear. My house was very quiet for the next two days. I found it hard to remember what it had been like before my sister had pre-emptively dumped her son on me and swanned off on some unexplained foreign trip. She'd said it was only to be for three months, but it had now been over a year and still no sign of a return. She wouldn't recognise her son now. He had adopted the feminine lifestyle like a duck takes to water. He had many months ago thrown all his male clothes out and announced that from henceforth he would only wear women's attire. We had become lovers during his transformation. I had taken advantage of him and seduced him when he was confused about his sexuality. Now we had a comfortable sexual relationship that we both found satisfying. This accounted for my unease at his new-found friendship. He didn't return till Thursday evening. I'd just finished waxing my legs and was plucking my eyebrows when he almost danced in, full of joy and excitement. "Hi, Uncle," he said, kissing my cheek. "Getting ready for the weekend?" Thursday evenings had become something of a ritual in preparation for the weekend that was to follow. Waxing, shampooing, manicuring, dipilating, plucking etc. all the necessary chores a woman must suffer to look beautiful. This weekend had the added excitement of the theatre trip. Since living in 'Ablefield' I had become much more confident dressed in public. I had become known to many of the villagers and could often be seen in the local shop or 'The Kings Arms' pub. The local people assumed that I lived in the village and worked away during the week, instead of the opposite. But this excursion to the theatre in Oxford was a new and bigger step for me. We would be in close proximity with hundreds of other people and I was very apprehensive about being 'read'. Pattie was totally confident and assured me that there would be no problem. "Did you find something nice to wear?" I asked as he rummaged in the kitchen for something to eat. "I couldn't decide which of three dresses to buy, so Mrs. Pettigrew kindly said I could take them all and try them on at home. Emily thought the blue one suited me best, but I liked the cream. What do you think?" He came back into the room sucking his fingers and tipped out the bag he had brought with him. He held a pale blue short sleeved dress to his front for me to inspect. The skirt was flared and had a contrasting ruffled hem. Next he held up a lime green pencil skirt with a bolero jacket. The colour didn't suit him at all. Finally he produced a cream satin shift dress overlaid with lace. The tight fitting bodice was contoured round the bust and held up by thin shoulder straps. "Oh yes," I said, "that's definitely the one." "Can I see yours?" "No. Not till Saturday. It's a surprise. Would you like me to do your nails?" I asked. For the remainder of the evening we primped and pampered ourselves. Pattie talked at length about Emile/Emily. He was obviously besotted with him. He made him sound very interesting and I was most eager to meet him. Perhaps, I thought, it could lead to some exciting possibilities. Friday lunchtime finally arrived and we were able to make our escape. As always I couldn't wait to get out of my hated male clothes and into soft, silky lingerie and a comfortable dress. I daily had to fight the urge to indulge myself in femininity, but had made it a rule not to mix my two identities, so I had to wait till the blessed weekend arrived when I could submerge myself in all things womanly. Josh Stafford, the man I'd fallen in love with and whom I was having an affair, called round later that evening and announced that he would be unable to escort us to Oxford. His father had had a relapse of his illness and had been taken to hospital. Except for essential farm work he would have to stay at his bedside. He hoped that we wouldn't be too disappointed. I thought for a moment. Two unattached women at a swish event like this might attract unwanted attention. But after all the preparation, both physically and mentally I was determined to go. The evening was a huge success. I wore a bottle green shot silk dress with cross over straps at the back. Three inch heels and silver stockings. The cut of the dress necessitated the wearing of a tight basque and to be on the safe side I also wore a gaff to keep my unruly member in check. All these self- imposed constrictions were slightly uncomfortable but it was worth it for the effect I created. My arms and shoulders were naked so I wrapped them in a silver fox fur stole. The chandelier earrings and heavy necklace added glamour to the outfit. Pattie looked stunning. His dress suited him to perfection and like me he also needed the help of a basque. The front of his dress was daringly low cut exposing the upper slopes of his breasts. Since he had been applying the hormone ointment I'd prescribed, his breasts had increased by a full cup size and he was now an impressive 36C. He wore the pearl earrings and necklace I'd given him as an eighteenth birthday present. To keep his shoulders warm he borrowed my pashmina shawl. I was very nervous when we arrived, but the crush was so great that no one really noticed us. When the house lights dimmed and the performance started I relaxed. At the interval we pushed into the bar for a drink. I was very aware of the press of bodies around me and was certain that a couple of men had deliberately pressed their crotches against my rear. All too soon the show was over and we slowly made our way out of the theatre. It was refreshing to get out into the air after the heat and closeness of the inside. As we walked to where we had parked the car, two men asked us if we would like to go for a drink. I looked at Pattie who shook his head, so we declined their offer. Driving home I felt the urge for a pee. I had been unable to relieve myself since we had left home, partly because it was too crowded and partly because of the gaff. Now I was becoming desperate. Pulling off the road into a dark lay-by I opened the door and got out. Checking for traffic in both directions I pulled up my skirt and removed the gaff then held my cock and pissed in an arc into the grass verge. Pattie emerged from the car, stood beside me and did the same. Shaking the last drops of urine from my penis the eroticism of the situation dawned on me. Here I stood by the side of a public road dressed completely in women's clothing, my skirt hoisted up to my waist, my hardening cock in my hand. Glancing at Pattie I saw him looking at me and knew that he was thinking the same thing. My cock became fully erect as I turned to him and took him in my arms. Our lips met and our tongues danced together. Reaching for Pattie's prick I squeezed it and gently masturbated it. His hand found mine and did the same. Standing together in the open air we kissed and wanked each other to a climax. Chapter Three The following afternoon, as Pattie and I are lounging with the Sunday newspapers spread between us, there is a knock at the door. Assuming it's Josh I ask Pattie to answer it. I am respectably dressed in a skirt and blouse having walked to the village earlier, but Pattie's only wearing a pair of panties under a tee shirt. It hugs his breasts and displays his prominent nipples. His hair is still tousled from sleep. He pads to the door on bare feet pulling a bathrobe over his shoulders and returns with a man I vaguely recognise. "So sorry to disturb you on a Sunday afternoon," he says. "My name is Father Gerald Kildare. I'm Father Michael Rathbarry's curate at Saint Peter's church in the village." "Pleased to meet you," I said, "I'm Victoria Burnley and this is my niece, Patricia." Hands are shook. "What can I do for you?" "The school is holding their annual jumble sale soon, and I'm collecting items for it. I wonder if you have any thing you could donate? You know the sort of thing, bric-a-brac, clothes, books, anything really. There'll be all the usual stalls." * * * Father Gerald is 23 years old, newly ordained, and serving in his first parish. His initial enthusiasm for the job is slowly ebbing as he discovers that being assigned as a curate is an onerous task. More and more of the work is being devolved onto him. From the saying of daily masses, to hearing confessions, he is soon responsible for all aspects of the church. And he is also expected to carry out any secular tasks that need doing, including collecting for jumble sales. Father Michael Rathbarry, the parish priest has fallen into the trap of so many elderly Catholic priests. He drinks. The life of a celibate man is a lonely one. With no wife or family to come home to, no woman to warm his bed at night and none of the normal comforts a man expects, he finds solace in the whisky bottle. He is now so dependent on drink that he lives in an alcoholic stupor and contributes almost nothing to the running of the parish. But Father Gerald does not complain. When he feels put upon he thinks back to what life had been like when he was a child. Born the last of seven children it had been a constant struggle for his parents to raise them. Their tiny croft in the remote west of Ireland could barely provide a living for even one. With a cow for milk and a few sheep his father derived his principal income from the distillation and sale of poteen. But, inevitably, the Garda Siochana discovered his operation, poured away the 40 gallons of wash and confiscated his worm. Summoned before a sympathetic District Justice at the next session of the Circuit Court he was fined rather than imprisoned because of the family he had to support. Never the less he was obliged to sell the cow to pay the fine. Like thousands before him, his father was forced to take the mail boat and seek work in Great Britain. Gerald never saw him again after the tearful departure but he knew from his mother that he faithfully sent money every week thereafter. It was not much but with the meagre state handout it enabled them to survive. Being the only boy with six elder sisters, it was inevitable that he would have to wear their hand-me-downs. His mother could not afford to buy boy's clothing just for one child. So as each girl grew out of some item it was passed down to the one below, finally ending on the back of Gerald. It was not uncommon among the poor families at that time for boys to wear girl's clothes and vice versa. Throughout his childhood and schooling he wore nothing else, in fact several other boys also wore dresses. He was submerged in a feminine household, surrounded by women and girls. He was dressed as a girl, and treated as a girl so it was only natural that his name became Geraldine. All through his formative years he considered himself to be a girl, so it was an enormous shock when he learned that he was to leave the family home to train as a priest. There is no greater cause for pride in the heart of an Irish mother, than that her son should enter the church. Since he was born she had longed for the day when he would become Father Gerald. Over the years she had saved pennies whenever she could and now on Gerald's seventeenth birthday he was presented with his first man's suit, shirt, tie and shoes. He had of course been told of his destiny, but until this moment he had never actually considered what was involved. The prospect of leaving the family home, his beloved sisters and mother filled him with a deep sense of remorse. Every night he would cry himself to sleep and during the days there was a constant lump in his throat. The day finally dawned when, dressed in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable clothes, he boarded the weekly bus for Cork, there to enter a seminary. His six sisters, Attracta, Bernadette, Conceptor, Dymphna, Edel and Fionnula were in tears. His mother Mary was biting her lip determined not to cry. Most of the people in the area had also turned out to bid him farewell. His life would never be the same again. The four years of study, confined in an all-male society was very traumatic. His feminine upbringing had ill prepared him for the austerity and coarseness he found. Being soft and sensitive he was immediately picked on and bullied. He was afraid he would not be able to stand the rigours of the masculine lifestyle they were subjected to. He was seriously considering ending his wretched existence when he caught the attention of an older student. As in some of the English public schools a system of fagging had evolved. It was not officially permitted but was condoned by the teaching staff so long as it didn't come to the Bishop's notice. A junior student would be selected by a senior to become his servant. He would be required to clean his room, polish his shoes, wash his clothes and generally do whatever he was ordered. Failure in any task would result in a caning. There was also another duty required of a fag. One not openly spoken about or discussed but was never the less vital to the smooth running of the college. During the day the fag was required to handle any housekeeping chores that needed doing, but at night he was expected to assume the other wifely role. Coming from the sheltered background that he did, Gerald was totally innocent of homosexual practices. In fact he was innocent of any sexual practice, except for masturbation. So the first time he was buggered he was unprepared for the pleasure it brought him and for the first time since leaving home he felt happy. He was loved, cherished and cared for, he would do anything for his senior (or Master, as they were addressed.) Gay love sustained him for the remainder of his time there. He learned all there was to know about pleasing a man, and when Gerald, in his turn became a Master, he insisted on taking the submissive role with his junior. It was known that he rarely caned his servants, so he was popular and much sought after. His only regret was not being able to wear the soft cottons and fine fabrics he was used to wearing instead of the harsh serge uniform and flannel underwear. Graduation eventually arrived and the Bishop ordained him. His mother and sisters came for the ceremony. This time his mother cried openly, making no attempt to staunch the tears of pride and joy that flowed freely down her cheeks. Her years of selfless sacrifice were rewarded. * * * "I expect we can find something for you," I said, "Pattie, entertain the Father while I go and sort something out. Would you like some tea?" In my room I selected several items of lacy lingerie, stockings, a skirt and top and a pair of heels that were too big for me. I had a funny feeling about this young priest and was interested to see his reaction when I gave him the clothing. I handed him the bundle with the underwear on the top. I watched him closely as with a trembling hand he caressed the silky things. "These things are too good to give away," he said. I detected a slight quaver in his voice. "They're beautiful, so soft and fine." "Well I don't want them. If you think they're too good for your sale you can keep them for yourself." He blushed beetroot red. He didn't protest at my suggestion but mumbled a thank you. Whilst we drank our tea and talked he cast surreptitious glances at the dainty panties and bras that were piled beside him. After he left Pattie said, "Did you see his reaction to your undies. He couldn't take his eyes off them. Do you suppose he'd like to wear them?" "The same thought crossed my mind. I think Father Gerald might be a Sister Geraldine." Chapter Four Pattie brought Emile to supper on Tuesday of the following week and I immediately understood what he saw in him. When we shook hands he held mine in both of his and squeezed it gently. He looked me directly in the eye and smiled. His perfect white teeth sparkled in his black face. For a tall person he walked with small mincing steps swaying his hips. His mannerisms were overtly feminine, and he had a habit of tossing his head when his hair fell into his face. He wore what was obviously a woman blouse in white silk and incredibly tight ski pants through which his v.p.l. could be plainly seen. His feet were in low-heeled loafers. After the introductions Emile and Pattie sat together on the sofa their hands constantly touching each other. I watched him fawning over Pattie and felt a twinge of jealousy. He complimented him on his clothes, the way his hair was styled and his make-up. They talked about the clothes that Mrs. Pettigrew had in stock, and discussed cosmetics. He made no secret of the fact that he crossdressed. When supper was over Pattie took him to his room. I watched television trying not to think what they were doing together. I again felt a pang of jealousy, suspecting they were involved in some sexual activity. I needn't have worried. About half an hour latter they returned to the living room. "Uncle Victor," Pattie announced, "I'd like you to meet Emily." I turned and looked. Framed in the doorway was a stunning creature. His hair had been combed and pinned into a style that framed his face and neck with luxuriant waves and curls. His face was perfectly made up to complement his black skin. His lips glistened with crimson lipstick. He wore a slinky yellow mini-dress that moulded itself to his figure. The top was low cut revealing a hint of cleavage and his brown legs shone through sheer stockings. Four-inch heels gave him greater height still. I recognised my chandelier earrings and necklace. My mouth fell open as he sashayed into the room, placing one foot in front and across the other. One hand on his hip and the other held out, palm up in to the side. "Vell, vhat do you sink? Do you like vhat you see?" he breathed in a Marlene Dietrich imitation. "Sensational!" I exclaimed. "You look absolutely terrific. Pattie told me you occasionally dressed up, but I didn't think you were this good. Pattie, get us something to drink. Emily, come and sit here by me." With the drinks poured we relaxed and chatted. Emily talked freely about his love of crossdressing and his wish that he could spend more time dressed. He had to confine his activities to his apartment, and was terrified that if his secret were discovered at work he would be sacked. He had begun to make tentative forays out to a nightclub run for TV's and their admirers, but he was still very nervous. "What would you say to a whole weekend living as a woman? Where no one knows you're a man and where you would be perfectly safe?" I asked him. "Oh, I'd just love it." "I have a little house in the country where you can indulge yourself. If you'd like to come with us next weekend, you would be very welcome." Pattie clapped his hand in excitement. "Say yes, Emily. We can have so much fun. It's a lovely place with lots of room and is very quiet. Nobody hardly ever calls." "I'd love to come. Thank you." "Ok, that's settled then," I said, "be here about six o'clock on Friday and we'll drive up. Oh, and by the way," I added, "there's another woman staying there that I'd like you to meet." I winked at Pattie and he grinned. * * * Pattie had stayed with Emile the previous night, but at six on the dot they arrived. Emile was carrying a large hold-all. He wore a colourful anorak zipped up but I could tell he was wearing his ski pants by the loop under the foot. I wore my usual tracksuit. I had taken the time to fix my hair in the short feminine style I adopted for weekends and he remarked how nice it looked. His was pulled tightly back from his face and platted into a single queue that he'd poked through the hole in the back of the baseball cap he wore on his head. The two of them sat together in the back of the car. I'd asked Pattie to try and keep Emile distracted so that he didn't take too much notice of the route. I didn't want the whereabouts of the cottage known if at all possible. It was getting dark by the time we left and I avoided major roads as much as possible so I was fairly sure when we arrived two hours later that he wouldn't be able to return on his own. I activated the remote control for the garage door, drove in and closed it behind us. Entering the house I switched on lights and drew the curtains. "Pattie, get Emile a drink and show him round, he can sleep in the spare room. I've something I have to do." Pattie knew immediately what I meant, hooked his arm through Emile's and dragged him up the stairs to his room. I could hear them talking and laughing as I closed my bedroom door behind me and hastily stripped off the tracksuit. It was good to slip into soft silky lingerie again. My penis started to become erect as soon as I pulled my panties up my legs and I had a little difficulty tucking it away. I sat at my vanity table in bra, panties, garter belt and dark tan nylons and carefully applied my make-up. I wanted it to be perfect to maximise the dramatic effect I hoped to create. When I was satisfied I took a cream linen suit from the closet. The skirt was ultra mini to best show off my stockinged legs in my four-inch heels. The jacket was tailored at the waist and fastened with three large buttons. I deliberately didn't wear a blouse and only fastened the bottom button so that my white lacy bra was visible whenever I moved. For jewellery I used small drop earrings, a silver locket at my throat and several hoop bracelets. As a finishing touch, I fixed a black pillbox hat with a small veil over my eyes, onto my head. I thought I looked pretty damned good. With mounting excitement I descended the stairs. I decided I must be an exhibitionist because the thrill of revealing myself dressed as a woman was causing my heartbeat to race. My heaving chest was forcing the jacket open and straining the single button. I opened the door with a flourish and posed on the threshold. Emile and Pattie were sitting together on the couch and the turned to look as the door opened. "Emily, I'd like to introduce my Aunt Victoria." There was a stunned silence. Emile's mouth fell open and he stared, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. I began to wonder if I'd made a monumental blunder. His eyes roamed over me from my spiked heels to the tiny hat perched prettily on my head. "Wow!" he finally said. "I don't believe it. You look sensational. Pattie, you never told me that your uncle was a TV. It's amazing." "I'm sorry. I was sworn to secrecy. You realise what it would mean if it became known that the good doctor Burnley was a transvestite. We had to be sure of you before we let you see," Pattie explained. "You approve?" I asked in my kittenish voice. "I'll say," he said. "I shall have to go and change myself now. I feel completely out of place with two gorgeous women." "Good idea," Pattie said, "You go and slip into something comfortable and sexy and we'll prepare something to eat. Then we'll have an intimate little supper, just three girls together." The scented candles were burning low as we finished the second bottle of wine. The meal had been a simple affair of salad and cold meats, but the atmosphere was charged with suppressed sexuality. I had earlier excused myself and readjusted my erection into a more comfortable position and I'm sure the other two had done likewise. Moving from the dining table into the lounge we sat round the small coffee table. Pattie loaded the stereo and switched it on and I poured brandies into large crystal snifters. Emily suggested we play cards. The game was to be strip whist. Every time a rubber was lost an article of clothing had to be removed. It wasn't long before we were all down to our underwear. The pure white of Emily's bra and panties contrasted startlingly with his black skin, and as a negative version of him, Pattie's black lingerie stood out against his very white skin. Suspender belts, stockings and shoes were added to the growing pile of discarded clothing. Pattie was the first to lose his bra. All eyes ogled his lovely breasts as he slipped it down his arms. His nipples quickly erected both from the exposure to the air and the eroticism of the act. Emily lost the next hand and decided to remove his panties as he was a little embarrassed by his breast forms. He stood and lowered his panties and his long black penis stood up rigidly. I thought it a little curious that he was ashamed to expose his flat male chest yet was quite uninhibited revealing his erection to our gazes. Three more hands and we were all completely naked. "What do we do now?" Pattie asked. For answer, Emily stood up, held out his hand to Pattie and said, "May I have the pleasure of this dance?" The sight of a naked black man holding a naked white man in his arms and swaying in rhythm to the music, their hard cocks rubbing together, was altogether too much for me. I lay back on the sofa, gripped my boner firmly in my hand and masturbated as I watched them kissing and smooching. I would have cum if they hadn't parted just then and Emily asked me to dance. I jumped up, my cock bouncing against my stomach, and he took me in his arms. His body was surprisingly firm and muscular under his smooth skin. My hands caressed his back and his buttocks. I felt his hands on my arse globes gently squeezing them in his palms. Our cocks ground against one another and I was sure I felt pre cum spreading across my belly. I wasn't sure if it was from Emily or me but the fact was we were both becoming extremely aroused. As we swayed together he nibbled my ear and whispered, "I want you Victoria. I want to fuck you now." "Oh yes," I breathed, "I want you to do it too." I felt his hands on my shoulder insistently pushing downwards. I sank to my knees and found myself staring at his prick. Needing no further prompting I took it in both hands, opened my mouth, and swallowed as much as I could. It is exquisitely humiliating and subservient to kneel before a man and perform fellatio on him, and with this towering black man the feeling was particularly intense. Much as I would have loved to bring him to a climax and swallow his seed, he stopped me and turned me round onto all fours, my arse exposed to him. Pattie as reclining on the sofa much as I had done when they were dancing, and I crawled forward so that I was between his knees. Reaching forward I grasped his cock and dropped my head onto it. Emily positioned himself behind me and I felt the head of his cock nudge my anus. He entered easily, lubricated by saliva and desire and thrust deeply into my rectum. Ah, to have a hard cock in my mouth and another plunging into my depths doubled the intense feeling of pleasure. I was in heaven, being violated at both ends by two wonderful men. I was vaguely aware of grunts and groans as the two men fucked me. The cock in my rectum stroked in and out in a regular rhythm, balls hitting balls at the bottom of each thrust. My head bobbed up and down swallowing the rigid rod that filled my mouth. Pattie's hands gripped the sides of my head and I heard him shouting my name. The penis filling my mouth and throat muffled my own cries. With a cry of, "Ahhh, yessss, Uncle Victor. Suck my cock. Eat me. Take it all," Pattie discharged his load into my gulping throat. At the same time Emily shrieked, shuddered and poured an enormous quantity of sperm into my dark insides. The sudden infusion of manseed into my body caused my throbbing prick to twitch, expand and dump the contents of my testicles onto the carpet. Ahhh. Sweet bliss! We slept very little for the remainder of the night. We coupled in every combination and position imaginable and every permutation possible. Our stamina seemed to be limitless and as dawn was breaking we collapsed together in a tangle of arms and legs, exhausted in my bed, sore and drained. Chapter Five Father Gerald had hid the bundle of clothes the woman had given him away on the top shelf of his wardrobe. He hadn't understood his motive at the time, but he had no intention of donating them to the school jumble sale. He wasn't sure what he would do with them, he only knew that something inside him wouldn't allow him to part with them. He kept the cupboard locked and the key on a gold chain with his crucifix round his neck. He was constantly aware of it against his skin, seemingly burning his flesh. His thoughts would suddenly and unexpectedly be filled with the memory of the soft silky articles lying there in the dark and how they felt to his touch. His body would tingle with excitement and his breath would catch in his throat. His dreams were filled with images of sexy lingerie floating about in the air and scattered everywhere. He knew he should get rid of them but he couldn't bear the thought of losing them. After several days of mental torture he could contain himself no longer. In the evening after Father Michael had passed out he locked up the presbytery and went to his room. Taking the key from around his neck he unlocked the wardrobe. He told himself that he was only going to check exactly what there was, to carry out an inventory, although, the truth was he knew precisely what was there. With trembling hands he carefully retrieved the pile of clothes from its hiding place and set it on the bed. He lifted up a pair of satin panties with his fingers and gazed at them. He brought them to his face and rubbed them against his cheek, then used a second pair against his other cheek. He picked up a lacy bra and examined it; he hooked the clasp together and held it by the shoulder straps the empty cups towards him. He fastened a garter belt together and looked at it closely, testing the elasticity of the suspenders. He carefully laid out on the bed the bra, suspenders, panties and stockings in the positions they'd be if being worn and gazed at them longingly. As he stared at the underwear he became aware of his erection painfully confined in his trousers. With a groan of agony he fell forward onto the lingerie and humped his hips against the panties. He came almost immediately filling his underpants with his sperm. It had been several months since his last orgasm and his balls were full and ready to discharge. After a while his senses returned to normal and he was filled with shame. He hurriedly locked away the clothing, feeling guilty at touching them again, and ran into the shower throwing off his soiled clothes as he went. He punished himself by turning the water to the coldest and harshly scrubbing his body. When he again felt clean he donned his rough flannel pyjamas, knelt, and prayed for forgiveness for his weakness. In only a few of days his thoughts again returned to the secret cache of clothing in his cupboard. He began to reason with himself; to justify and excuse what he had done. They were only pieces of material after all, sewn together in a certain way. Perfectly ordinary things seen everyday and worn by half the population of the world. And hadn't he worn girl's clothes throughout his childhood? It had been a bit of innocent fun, a little distraction and no one had been hurt or offended by it. So really it was OK, nothing to feel upset or guilty about. The more he argued the more he convinced himself that it was not a sin. God would not punish him if he looked at them again, or even tried them on. The next evening the urge to unlock the closet and take out the lovely things became irresistible. This time he undressed first and put on his bathrobe. Taking a pair of panties he wondered what it would feel like if he slipped them up his legs. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled them up, tucking his hardening cock inside and snuggling them up on his bottom. He stood and opened his robe and looked at his reflection. He was overwhelmed. As if in a dream he picked up a bra and fastened it round his chest. He stuffed a handful of paper tissues into each cup to create a bust, and then he put on the suspender belt. He rolled nylons up his legs, subconsciously copying the way he had watched his sisters do it. As he struggled to zip up the dress, memories surged back into his mind from his childhood when he had worn his sister's hand-me-downs, and he remembered how comfortable and natural it had felt dressed this way. Although, as a child he had never worn a bra or suspender, he had worn cotton panties and woolen stockings that were held up with elastic bands around the thighs. Slipping his feet into the shoes, which he was delighted to find fit perfectly, he paraded round the room, admiring himself from every angle. He tingled with excitement from the soft, cool caress the underwear gave him. His cock throbbed and begged for release, but he resisted the urge to pull up his skirt and masturbate. He wanted to savour the exquisite sensations for as long as possible. He wished his hair was longer and he had some make up. His brain started to play tricks with his eyes. When he looked in the mirror he no longer saw a man in drag. His masculine features appeared to have softened into a delicate pretty face and he saw instead a beautiful, desirable young woman. He made a moue then stepped up to the glass and kissed her inviting lips. Eventually he could not resist the mounting excitement any longer. Standing before his dressing mirror he watched in fascination as the lovely woman slowly raised her skirt, slid her panties down to her knees and gripped the twitching cock that sprang from her middle. His conscious mind was divorced from the fantasy image before him. He stared as the woman began slowly then with increasing speed to masturbate the rigid penis to a climax. Sperm shot from the eye of the quivering prick and splashed onto the image in the glass. His orgasm was so intense that his knees buckled and he fell to the floor in a dead faint, spunk still leaking from his softening cock. He awoke a few minutes later and was immediately overcome with guilt. What had he done? He would surely burn in hell for this sin. He quickly stripped the clothes from his body, threw them into the cupboard, and locked it. Tomorrow, he swore he'd burn everything and never think about wearing them again. But of course in the clear light of day the next morning, things didn't seem quite as bad as they had. Perhaps it would be a mistake to burn them. He could simply leave them locked away and not touch them again. Yes, he decided, that would be best. It would be an awful shame to destroy such lovely things. It was only three days later before he again succumbed and repeated the performance; dressing and masturbating before his reflected image. The thought of wearing the clothes was constantly in his mind to the extent that they were distracting him. As he knelt intoning prayers during mass one Sunday morning he suddenly thought that he must wash his panties, (he was now beginning to think of them as his) and had completely lost his drift. There had been a long silence before he continued. Members of the congregation wondered what had caused the hiatus. He took to wearing the panties under his own clothing. At first it was only in the evenings in the presbytery, but soon he wore them all the time. A suspender belt and stockings followed the panties, then a bra and slip. Soon he wore only lingerie and had relegated his regular boxers to the back of his drawer. He got a huge buzz walking round the village with the secret knowledge that he was dressed in very sexy feminine underwear under his severe black serge suit. Then one Sunday morning he committed his most outrageous act. Father Michael was indisposed so he would have to say mass alone. He carefully dressed in bra, suspender belt, stocking and panties, before donning his cassock and surplice. Thus attired he stood before a crowded church and conducted the ceremony of Holy Communion. As the congregation approached to receive the sacrament he was aware of a painful erection in his satin and lace panties. One of the supplicants that morning was Dr. Victor Burnley who in the persona of Ms. Victoria Burnley now knelt at the altar rail to receive the bread and wine. He recognised her as the woman who had donated the very lingerie he now wore. He got an extra wicked thrill, knowing that she was blissfully unaware he stood before her wearing her most intimate clothing. His panties were wet with pre-cum by the time he was safely back in his room and was able to bring himself to his long awaited climax. The guilt he had felt so intensely before when he'd crossdressed and masturbated was lessening each time he did it. Now he hardly considered it a sin at all, although he was a little doubtful that God would forgive him for what he had done in his house today. Chapter Six I wasn't sure what inspired me to attend mass that Sunday morning. I had spent most of the weekend alone and felt like getting out and seeing other people. Pattie was staying with Emile and Josh had gone to be with his ailing father after visiting me on Friday night. I dressed carefully in a sober charcoal-grey business suit, with a tangerine blouse and medium heels. I wasn't sure whether I should cover my head so to be on the safe side I wore a small black, felt hat with a brim. The number of people in the congregation surprised me. I nodded to several that I knew and felt the eyes of others wondering who I was. As I approached the altar rail to receive communion I recognized the young priest who had called collecting for the school sale. I knelt and waited for him to get to me. As he shuffled sideways dispensing the sacrament I noticed that beneath the hem of his cassock he was wearing what were unmistakably nylons. When my turn came he paused directly in front of me; I looked up and started straight at his crotch area. As I watched I saw a slight movement under his cassock. There was only one thing that could cause it: I was positive he was hard. Well, well, I thought. That is most interesting. I decided that I should get to know this young man better. I remembered when I'd given him the clothes, Pattie and I had thought he seemed a little more interested in them than was normal, and speculated that he might want to wear them himself. As I sat through the remainder of the service a plan began to form in my mind. If it was true, that as I suspected, he was wearing stockings or tights then there could only be one reason for it. (And it wasn't to keep out the cold!) I would have to confront him with the knowledge and if he admitted it was true I could use the fact to my advantage. The last time Josh had spent the night with me, he'd confessed to being in a dilemma and he didn't know what to do. He'd said that his father's greatest wish before he died was to see his son married. And not just married to anyone, but to me. He couldn't, of course, explain to his dad the true situation between us, nor could he deny the fact that he spent a lot of time with me. His father would not understand that marriage was out of the question. To his father's generation if you slept with a girl you married her. How could he deny his father his dying wish he wanted to know? I dallied at the church gate till the other parishioners had left and Father Gerald emerged from the vestry minus his surplus but still wearing his cassock. "Hello, Father," I said. "Do you remember me? I'm Victoria Burnley. You collected some odds and ends from me for a school fete some time ago." "Yes, of course I remember you. It's nice to see you again." We shook hands. He let his hand rest limply in mine rather as a woman would shake a man's hand. I noticed that he was blushing. It could only be because my hunch was correct. He must know that I was aware he was wearing stockings. (And what else I wondered?) "I have some more things I want to pass on. Odd bits and pieces of clothing I no longer wear. Perhaps you would like to come for tea this afternoon and I'll sort them out for you?" He appeared slightly flustered and kept his eyes down. "Er, yes. Thank you. I'd like to very much. What time?" "Say around four o'clock?" When I got back to my cottage I collected the things together I wanted him to have. I was a little reluctant to give some of the items away as they were almost new, and I liked them myself. But it was for a good cause. I set aside four bras, six pair of panties, two suspender belts, and four pair of nylons, one baby doll nightie and one full-length nightgown. I threw in three blouses, a skirt and two dresses. I didn't have any shoes I could spare so he would have to manage with whatever he had. At the appointed time I heard a timid knock on the door. I ushered Father Gerald into the drawing room. He wore his clerical black serge suit, black shirt and white dog collar. I'd already prepared the teacups and plates on a tray and now filled the teapot with boiling water and carried it through. He was seated in a low armchair with his knees and ankles tightly together. I poured and handed him a cup then a plate, which he balanced on his knee, and a slice of Dundee cake. We chatted about inconsequentials while we ate and drank. I sat opposite him and as the time passed he was unaware that his trouser leg had worked its way up enough for me to see the tell tale nylon above his sock. I stood up to clear away the teacups and in doing so walked behind his chair. Reaching forward for his cup and saucer I casually placed my hand on his back and clearly felt the bump of a bra clasp. Gotcha! "I'll just go and get the things for you," I said, walking out with the tray. "Won't be a minute." Returning with the bundle of clothes I placed them on the coffee table between us. I picked up a pair of panties, held them up before his face showing them to him. "Do you think these will be OK?" He nodded and swallowed. The red flush covered his cheeks and neck again. "Do you like them?" I asked tossing the panties to him. He nodded and seemed unable to speak. He held the silky material in his hands and stroked it with his fingers. "I think you like them very much," I pressed, "as much as you like to wear nylon stockings." His mouth fell open and he mouthed something that could have been a denial. "I know you wear stockings because I saw them this morning under your cassock. And you are wearing them now as well as a bra. What else do you have on under your respectable clerical suit? I bet you're wearing panties too." He crumpled and dissolved into tears, admitting it. "Yes. Yes, I do," he sobbed. "Oh please don't tell anyone. I'm so ashamed. I don't know what possesses me; I'm unable to control the urge to wear sexy women's underwear." He was barely coherent. "When you gave me those things for the sale, something snapped inside me. I couldn't give them away; instead I kept them and started wearing them, now I can't stop. I knew that sooner or later someone would find out and I'd get caught. Now I shall be ruined. I expect you'll tell my bishop and I shall have to leave the church. Oh, the scandal." He would have continued in this vein had I not placed a hand on his shoulder and calmed him to silence. "Who said I would say anything?" I asked. "If you wish to wear my discarded undies under your suit that is your business. I don't mind. Who am I to deny you the pleasure you obviously get from crossdressing? Take these clothes away and wear them with pleasure. It will be our little secret." He was visibly relieved to be let off the hook. "You promise you won't tell anyone?" I nodded. "Not the Bishop? Not Father Michael?" I nodded again. "Oh, thank you so much. I couldn't stand the shame of exposure. If there's anything I can do for you, you only have to ask." "Well, there might be something you can do for me." "Any thing." Chapter Seven I could hear the reedy strains of Mendelssohn's processional march filling the air of the church as I arrived at the main door. Afternoon sunlight threw rainbows of colour from the stained glass windows over the stone flag floor. I was very nervous. I checked that the train of my dress was spread properly and fussed with the veil that covered my face. Well, here goes I said to myself. I took a deep breath, gripped the arm of an almost sober Father Michael and set off down the aisle. In the absence of a natural father he was to give the bride away. My two bridesmaids fell in behind me and we walked slowly toward the altar where Josh Stafford waited to be joined to me in holy matrimony. Events were happening very quickly. It had taken three weeks to make all the arrangements and now everything was coming together. Because of the promise Josh had made to his father there was a need to get it done as soon as possible. The old man was very ill and was not expected to live for many more weeks. He was never the less determined to attend and witness the marriage of his only son to the woman he had courted for almost a year now. He sat, slumped in his wheelchair with an expression of contentment on his withered face. There were not many present to witness the events taking place, just some close TV friends of Emile's and two of Pattie's. With the bridal party and guests there were thirteen in all. Still, more than enough for my quasi wedding. * * * I had spent the previous four hours getting ready for this moment. A friend of Emile's, who was a hairdresser and beauty therapist by profession had volunteered to assist me. He was not at all surprised to discover I was really a male when he helped me into my bath. He told me during the course of the treatment that he specialised in male to female transformations, and he sometimes liked to crossdress as well. His long time partner, Henrietta, was a full time transvestite. He gave me the most intensive beauty treatment I'd ever had. My skin had been bathed, powdered and left completely hairless. Scented moisturising cream and been smoothed in all over my body. My hair, which was necessarily short, was covered with a wig I had bought especially for the occasion. It was shoulder length, blond, made from human hair and frightfully expensive. Leo styled it sweeping upwards from the sides and gathered in at the back in a French plait. He used dozens of bobby pins to hold it so that not a single hair was out of place. He spent over an hour on my make-up. First plucking my eyebrows, which I had done the previous evening but which he said were still too thick. He produced a thin graceful arch above my eyes which I hoped wouldn't cause any comment from my patients on Monday morning. He expertly blended in foundation cream, then a blusher and brushed a light dusting of powder onto my face. He spent ages on my eyes getting them just perfect. A subtle shade of blue/green eye shadow and long false eyelashes. My lips, he outlined with a vermilion pencil then painted in the rest with a slightly lighter shade of red. He finally declared himself satisfied. The result was a startlingly beautiful feminine face. Leo insisted in helping me dress. It was the best part he said. I wasn't to do anything for fear of damaging my nails, which had also taken an age to perfect. The long false extensions he'd glued on were difficult to manage and I was afraid of breaking one. The brand new basque was the first item. It was pure white satin overlaid with white lace. The demi-cups gave me a wonderful cleavage. Leo almost drooled as he settled my breasts into the cups. He fastened it as tightly as was possible at the back then removed the bra straps, which wouldn't be needed. He knelt at my feet, rolled the white nylon stockings up my legs, and clipped them to the suspenders. He held the white silk panties open for me to step into then drew them up my legs. I tucked my semi hard penis snugly inside the silky material. I was unconcerned that any bulge would be visible, as the dress would easily hide it. While I sat he pushed my feet into white leather court shoes. I was confident I could walk and stand on the four-inch stilettos. I had been fortunate in acquiring the most beautiful wedding gown from an Internet site that traded in used dresses. It was strapless leaving my shoulders and arms bare. The bodice was covered in tiny cultured pearls and sequins and was very tight at the waist. Thank goodness for the constricting basque. The skirt was fifteen metres of white tulle in layer upon layer giving an almost crinoline effect. Leo helped me slide into it then fastened the twenty-four tiny mother-of-pearl buttons up the back, which I'd never have been able to do on my own. From the back of the skirt a long elaborately embroidered lace train spread out. Onto my head he fixed a tiara that held a long veil. I practised pushing it back over my head to uncover my face, as I would do in the church. He thought my chandelier earrings unsuitable and suggested I wore a single pendent pearl instead. Around my neck he hung the heart-shaped locket on a gold chain that Pattie had given me as a wedding present. She'd found it in an antique shop and had taken the trouble to place a miniature photograph of Josh inside. Finally he slid long, white kid-leather fingerless opera gloves up my arms. A loop of leather passed over my forefingers leaving the remainder uncovered. Standing back Leo inspected me from all sides and angles. Finally he nodded in satisfaction. "Victoria, you look stunning," he said. "Josh is a very lucky man." "Thank you," I said. I could feel a blush rising. "Now, let's just see, do we have everything?" he said checking off points of the old doggerel on his fingers. "Something old? Yes, the locket. Something new? Your basque and undi