The Orchid The Storyteller
- 4 years ago
- 58
- 0
Trudy's Story free porn video
Trudy's Story.
I was born a boy, brother to Valentine who was nearly four when I
appeared. My parents were typical middle class with aspirations,
certainly as far as my mother was concerned, to be upper middle class.
Because by the time I became a sentient being, say at the age of two,
my brother was already at school, I spent much of my pre-school years
either with mother or alone. My father worked long hours, sometimes six
and a half days a week, on hush hush military projects.
I was a lovely baby and a lovelier toddler, my little face framed by a
mass of nearly white blonde curls. I was nicknamed 'Snowball'. I still
have black and white photos of myself at about three years, you know
those ones where there are 64 on a sheet in different poses. I can even
now remember them being taken. What I notice about them now, is that
even behind the smile there is a look of puzzlement, as though there is
something wrong with my world.
And it was about this time that I discovered the difference between
boys and girls. This was not a behind the piano, I'll show you mine if
you show me yours, discovery. No this was simply me being me, and
wanting my hair in two nice pigtails. I insisted when at the
hairdresser, that they tie my hair with nice ribbons, but of course,
they could not manage to find two. In the end they found one poor
little ribbon and to stop my howling, tied it in my hair. Even as they
were being obliging, I was becoming aware in my little three year old
mind, that I had broken a taboo. I suddenly knew that I was a thing
called a boy, and boys did not wear ribbons. Thus I could now tell boys
and girls apart, it was all about hair.
But it wasn't. It was also about clothes. Boys wore horrible clothes
and girls wore nice clothes. Girls had little dresses in nice fabrics,
little white socks, perhaps a little bag, knickers with elasticated
legs they could keep a hankie in. Girls could hold hands with a boy,
unlikely in the early years, but also with other girls. They skipped,
played pattercake, hopscotch and Queenie who's got the ball? Boys
played killing things. In those days, before computers and such, boys
played outside a lot, even in the heavy snows of winter that came over
the top of a five and six year old's wellingtons. Girls were more
sensible and stayed indoors, cooking, playing with dolls or some make
believe game of doctors and nurses or some such. Girls danced and
twirled, boys stamped in puddles and threw mud at each other.
Of course, my brother was my boss, and he would just not let me be a
sissy. He made me do whatever he was doing, even if that was beating up
another kid, or careering down hill in a home made cart. But all the
time I was being his follower, I really wanted to be in a little dress,
with little buttons, pushing my doll in a little pram. Of course I did
not have a doll nor a pram.
Came school and I asked mummy for a gym slip, saying they were much
nicer that trousers. Then I knew that for me a gym slip was certainly
out of the question. I was gradually getting to understand the sexual
divide, and it dawned that I was the wrong side of the border which one
was not allowed to cross.
It was at school, and it was behind the piano when I found out that
girls' anatomy was not like mine. It was much nicer. Girls had it all,
nice hair, nice clothes and a nice body. I also learnt that when girls
grew up, they became women. Women had it all too. They had even nicer
clothes, smelled beautiful and had babies, while men had to go to the
place they called work. There was no contest.
By this time I had learnt not to rock the gender boat. Finally, 'don't
be silly darling, boys don't do that' had sunk in. I was stuck with a
penis and trousers to keep it in. My hair was now clipped to a sensible
easy clean length. I wasn't supposed to cry nor mind getting dirty or
punched. How I wished................ It was a painful world I found
myself in.
My next school was only boys. They were good class boys from good
homes, sons of professionals, but did they know about sex. I found it
easy to make friends there, so there could not have been too much
outwardly wrong with me. The trouble was that I knew, and listening to
these boys, rammed the message home that my brain was on a different
wavelength.
From there I passed an entrance exam to a local day school. I was quite
thrilled to be going there, but that was not to be. Suddenly I was
being shoved off to boarding school. I was never told why and I never
asked because I suppose, my submissive female brain did not like to
question my parents.
This was another world. There were ten of us in the dormitory, each bed
separated by a chair upon which we folded our cast off clothes before
donning our horrible striped PJs. My next door neighbour was Richard,
the son of a headmaster of another school and Richard later became a
priest. He begged each night to wank me off. When one morning I
confided in Gerald, a little red headed Jew from Manchester, that I
would have liked to have been a girl, he took it as an invitation to
teach me what it was like being a girl and tried to rape me. He didn't,
others came into the dorm and hauled him off, nor did I want him to. In
fact I did not want sex with any of them.
It was after succumbing to an influenza epidemic that I came across
Ken. He was a year below me and he appeared in my eyes to be perfect. I
fell in love, with this good Christian handsome lad. He was a good
student, could play any sport and excel; never swore, was clean and
smart. I would do anything for him, not that he asked me to. We cycled
to school together, but that was the limit of our intercourse. I had no
wish other than to hold hands, which we didn't, nor did we ever kiss
though once, and to my utter astonishment, he put his tongue in my ear.
Wow, instant orgasm. He never did such a thing again. Why?
By this time I was secretly cross dressing. I kept my girlie clothes in
a biscuit tin in a hidy-hole in the gardener's potting shed, and after
school I could sneak in there and dress up. It was better than nothing.
Once as I was dressed in stockings, knickers, bra and slip, the
housemaids came to get potatoes that were stored there and I hid behind
a stack of tools thinking that I should be discovered. One said to the
other, 'It's creepy in here (it was dusk), I feel as thou we are being
watched.' Luckily they were in a hurry to do their job and get back to
the safety of the kitchen. I quickly became a boy again and scampered
back to my horrid boy world. I often wore my girlie underwear to
school, pretending that I was a girl disguised as a boy.
Meanwhile I played Rugby in the autumn, ran 3 miles twice a week in the
spring time and cricket or tennis in the summer. I became a hooker, the
centre of the scrum and played for the school. I had guts. I would
throw myself on the ball, ignoring the flying hacking boots, although I
was a puny 65 inches high. At the same time I was cross dressing
plucking my eyebrows, letting my nails grow longer than a boy should,
and stealing makeup from Woolworths or an unsuspecting chemist.
At last it was time to leave. I had to earn a living.
Chapter 2.
I went for an interview with a bank in the City of London. This bank
operated in West Africa and as I had always wanted to go to Africa it
seemed an ideal post. I was interviewed by the Bank Secretary, an
eminent man not a typist, whose job was to look after what we now call
human resources. In those days we were treated much more as humans and
less like a resource. Mr Kewley was an extremely nice man and took me
on as a trainee, hopefully to go to Africa. I found that I was
attractive to the young women. I liked them. I loved them, for they
were my ideal. I did not want to date them or screw them, but I liked
their company. I wanted to be them. I suppose I reacted to them as a
girl would, joked with them and smiled at them. I was stopped on the
stairs by a young man one day, the boyfriend of one of the girls I knew
and he told me that if I did not stop smiling at the girls, he and his
mates were going to do me over. I said I smiled at everyone, even at
him. I did not get 'done over' but I did go on a date with his girl
friend. She sensed that I was not really interested and we agreed to
just be friends over a roast chicken in Piccadilly. Meantime, I saw my
GP, told him that I cross dressed. He warned me that I could be
arrested if I went out as a girl and sent me to a psychiatrist at St.
Bartholomew's Hospital. I told the psychiatrist that I had always
wanted to be a girl. He offered me group therapy. I asked what good
that would do. He said it often helped to share problems, as though
this was a matter of losing one's cat or failing an exam. I said it was
the basis of my life I was questioning. I never attended. They seemed
to think I could be talked out of wanting to be a woman. How absurd.
I was in the last group eligible for National Service under which all
young men had to do two years in the forces as soldier, sailor or
airman. If I could have joined as a woman, I would have gone like a
shot, but as a man? I attended the medical although my brother who had
already served his term and hated it, told me to ignore the invitation.
They found me fit, although they never even tested my pulse or blood
pressure. They did feel my balls and make me cough to see whether they
were attached properly. I saw my GP. He wrote a letter of appeal and I
attended a second medical. They did not like my appeal. I was
questioned about my desires to be female. Was I kidding? Just making it
up? Then it was suggested that many people had the same desires and
just got on with life. I imagined that under his white coat he was in
suspenders and stockings. Anyway, this time they found I was grade C,
unfit. Meantime the Bank, frightened that a trainee was being taken
away, decided to spirit me out to West Africa. I flew to Sierra Leone,
two weeks after my 21st birthday.
I was equipped with a tropical suit, a bush hat, a few undies and a
camera. I left Heathrow at 10 pm, it should have been 6pm, but a fault
with the Comet airliner delayed the flight. This flight was going all
the way to Buenos Aires, via Oporto, Portugal and Dakar in Senegal. I
would get off in Senegal and catch another flight to Freetown.
The heat in Senegal, even at 6 am was terrific. Before the doors opened
one could feel it, but when I went down the stairs, it hit like a hot
wet towel. I was presented with my suitcase and told to stay on the
hard standing. Another plane turned up, a DC 6, a stretched version of
the old DC4 Dakota but with four engines. It was Lebanese. As I
entered, the smell of sick assailed me. I picked my way to a seat over
packages of all sorts of strange goods strewn about the gangway. I went
to the loo and found many bottles of perfume. I doused my handkerchief
in one and returned to my seat. As we attained altitude, the smells
seemed to fade. We flew along the coast, over endless mangrove swamps
and estuaries, sandy beaches and small villages. Eventually we landed
at Bathurst, now called Banjul in the Gambia. Then on to Freetown.
As soon as we exited the aircraft, the foetid decaying smell of Africa
assailed us. I had my bag ransacked by the customs who failed to find
my female undies. We then took a rickety bus to a ferry and ferry to
Freetown. Across the water stood the city of Freetown, so called
because it was there that the Royal Navy brought slaves rescued from
slave trading ships and set them free. This act of charity by Queen
Victoria's Royal Navy, resulted in slaves from other West African
countries being dumped in Sierra Leone. Freetown looked like a mound of
rusting corrugated iron, sitting under a rain cloud which shrouded the
mountain which gave the country its name of Lion Mountain. It was very
hot and humid, September the end of the rainy season.
I was met at the dock by Pete, the Sierra Leone General manager's aid.
He said I should report for work then and there. I said I had already
been awake for 36 hours so he said he would take me to the bachelor
living quarters in Kissy. We piled into his great old black Humber. The
seats burned my bottom, the sun was so hot.
I fell asleep in a chair in the lounge, the ceiling fan swishing
overhead. When I awoke, it was still light. Two young men had sat down.
We introduced ourselves. They ordered tea, saying to the cook 'We will
have chocolate for tea.' The beverage arrived in an enormous aluminium
pot. We were disappointed to find that it was not chocolate but tea, we
had a second cup of tea and then poured a third. Magically it had then
become chocolate. That is what happened with Africans and understanding
English. They just made up their own minds about what we were saying,
sometimes with disastrous results. They had made chocolate and tea in
the same pot and the two had separated the choc going to the bottom. It
was a good result.
It grew dark and I had unpacked. There was the most awful racket going
on, the clicking of cicadas and calling of frogs. My companions could
not even here this background noise until they really listened, so used
to it were they and I too would become used to it as well.
I was now a young man among young men, expected to have all the same
appetites. I was introduced to beer and found that two half pints was
enough to make me sick. It was a place where we played hard and worked
harder. It was drummed into me that however we behaved in out private
time, we started work at 07.00, not late for any reason, then we worked
until we finished, which could be 16.00 or 20.00 hours. We all had
cars, and my first car was a Hillman Minx. I loved that car. We all
drove like the devil was behind us, except for Pete, whose clumsy but
comfortable Humber with leather seats and polished wood interior, would
not go round corners. He liked me to drive him. He called me Choochy,
God knows why, and became my protector and guide.
I was given a civet cat kitten, a tiny thing and this wild creature and
I became instant friends. She draped herself across my shoulder,
clinging with her sharp little claws. She would sleep on the top of my
mosquito net and when I emerged would run down squealing with joy. She
could run up my nude body to my shoulder and it did not hurt. One day I
returned from work and she had disappeared. No one knew anything. I was
heartbroken.
I was not well, had no energy. One day my nose started to bleed and
would not stop. I wrestled with decoding telex messages while holding a
handkerchief to my nose. I bled and bled. In the chaos, I missed a
transfer request for ?2,000,000 and delayed it a day. Meanwhile the
bank rate altered by half of one percent, and lost the bank ?10,000. I
tried to explain, but the manager did not want to know about my health
problems. I was told to bloody sort myself out. I saw the bank's
doctor, who told me I was anaemic. I took iron and slowly improved.
At the weekend we would take a picnic down the coast, to a beach later
used in the Bounty advert. It looked like paradise, but the fresh water
stream would give you any number of diseases and the place swarmed with
sand flies and mosquitoes.
We went to the cinema at the Officers mess of the Sierra Leone
Regiment. By half way through the awful film 'On the Beach', I started
shivering uncontrollably. I went to bed and the lads packed blankets
over me though the night temperature was 80 Fahrenheit. The next day I
could not get out of bed. The doctor was sent for and malaria was
diagnosed, although I had taken my pill everyday. It was later
diagnosed as dengue fever for which there is no prevention. I stayed
abed for three days, swallowing the prescribed medicine and spewing. I
lost a stone and a half in four days. I returned to work and was again
summoned to see the manager. I was he said a bloody liability. Mr Enk
the General Manager Sierra Leone, said I should take my bloody
prophylactics. He was sending me to manage a branch up country where I
would either sink or swim.
Port Loko was 70 miles as the crow flies from Freetown, but 120 miles
by road, half of which was laterite, the red stony soil of Africa. If
one were able to uproot it and move it to the Mediterranean, it would
be one of the World's great beauty spots. However, it was also a tin
shanty town, rusting and situated above a mangrove swamp. A stream ran
through the middle, splashing down in little rapids and pools where the
town washed their clothes. When I say the town, I mean the women. The
men for the most part did little. The women bore the children, did the
cooking, swept the dirt floors of their huts, washed clothes tilled the
fields and took the produce to market. The men swung in hammocks and
played draughts. I wanted to be a woman, even an African woman was an
object of envy, but they had a hard life.
I found another guide and protector. Bob Rattray was an agricultural
officer, responsible for teaching the village chiefs how to plant and
look after rice fields. He ploughed the land for them, or arranged for
it to be ploughed by his men. He had two river launches and a bungalow
overlooking the river which was full of crocodiles, some over twelve
feet long we estimated. He took me hunting them at night, shooting at
their shining eyes. They were a pest, taking villagers' cattle and the
occasional villager. We waded through swamps after geese, burning
leeches off with a cigarette. I played tennis with another Agriculture
officer and some American Peace Corps boys.
I found the American youngsters, ignorant of the World, ignorant of
history, ungentlemanly in sport, very bad losers, yet on a one to one
basis, quite charming. They were contemptuous of Britain, its Empire
and everything else British. They said that we had been in Sierra Leone
for 150 years and had done nothing with it, other than build a few
roads. I pointed out that in 1901 they had four Governors, three of
whom had died and one was invalided home. I suggested that we might
have made more progress had we followed the American example and wiped
out the indigenous population and colonised it. My remark was not well
received. They were equipped with a box full of books, including a
history of the American Civil War. They knew nothing about it, nor did
they read the books. They said Chequers, their name for draughts, was
an American game. They challenged an African team and were soundly
beaten. They then challenged the British contingent to basketball and
we beat them at that too. We beat them at tennis. Yippee.
Some of them were teachers and worked at a boarding school for sons of
well to do Africans. I was friendly with the Headmaster, a Brit and a
batchelor. The American boys decided that the Head was a paedophile
because of the way he looked at the boys when they showered. They also
decided that I was gay as I visited the Head. I thought they were wrong
about the headmaster until he leant me a book. In it was a letter from
his brother who held a similar job in Nigeria, agreeing that the boys
legs were attractive. I did not know whether the letter had been
deliberately left for me to see, a sort of pass at me to see whether I
would take the bait, but I said nothing. I said nothing about it to the
Americans either except that I denied I had any such relationship with
the Head or anyone else, nor wanted one. After I left Africa I heard
that Waters, the Head, was in prison for indecency with the boys.
After 3 months in Port Loko, I was moved to the farthest flung branch
of Pendembu, at the end of the railway line, 300 miles from Freetown,
240 miles of dirt roads. It was a station with few Europeans, a man and
wife, expecting their first baby, an occasional visitor John
Livingstone and two Catholic fathers. It was not hard to be friends
with all of them.
I had been there two months when I closed early to drive the 160 mile
round trip on dirt road to get supplies of European food. I got the 15
miles to ferry and found the river in flood and no ferry. A couple
there turned out to be the UK Consul in Monrovia, capital of Liberia.
And his wife. I took them home for some lunch and then they tried again
and found the ferry open. At a dinner in Freetown they sat next to the
Sierra Leone General manager,Mr Enk, and gave a glowing account of me.
Four months later, I received a telegram saying that the General
Manager from London, Redmayne, was going to visit my branch. I tried
to reply agreeing to pick him up from the ferry, but the phone was out
of order, the line down.
I met him as they had asked. My reception was frosty. Why had I not
acknowledged?I said the line was down.
I was commanded to take him directly to the telegraph office. He went
in and checked, then emerged saying, 'Hmph, you were telling the truth,
the line was down.'
In the bank he immediately went through the books. I was told not to
loiter. Eventually he told me that the books balanced. I sighed with
relief. He then told me that he did not want any company tonight, but I
informed him that the Catholic fathers were coming to dinner. He was
cross, and immediately went to bed. I woke him at 6.30 and told him the
bath was ready. The water was heated outside in a very large cannibal
type cauldron and brought in in buckets. He commanded me to bath first,
then took his own bath.
The fathers arrived at 7.30 and my cook, General Jackson dressed in his
best whites and red fez, summoned us to the table. We had a reasonable
meal of roast chicken. Afterwards the three of them consumed most of a
bottle of whiskey before calling it a night at 2.00 am. We went to our
beds. In the morning, Redmayne told me that he had not enjoyed an
evening like that for many years and thanked me for my hospitality.
More Brownie points. It had been a trying 24 hours.
We were supposed to be on the coast for eighteen months, but I did 21.
For each additional month I got a months leave, so I came home to
England for six months leave. My parents met me at Gatwick. Mother
said I had turned yellow, she thought I had jaundice.I was relieved to
be home.
I set about getting treatment for my transsexual desires. I saw a
doctor in Harley street who more or less told me not to be silly and
not to come dressed as a female before him. I did not return. He sent
me a bill for ?200. I went to Cambridge and stayed at the University
Arms, a four star hotel, as a female, and walked the town and shopped
as a female, the same town I had been a schoolboy in. I had changed
into my girl guise in a field beside what is now the M11. This was my
first real venture out as a female. I was so frightened I could hardly
apply my lipstick. It was a cold spring day, but I was warm inside,
loving every minute. I went to the cinema, walked the colleges and had
meals in a pub. I sat in my room and red books.
I went to Torquay and stayed at another four star hotel. It was just
absolutely brilliant.
I went with the family to Spain, Sitges south of Barcelona, staying at
a house run by an English family. The daughter was my age, and I think
my family expected us to have an affair. She did not interest me at
all, nor do I think she was one bit interested in me. I wanted to get
back to England and my experiments in being a young woman.
Liesl
- 29.08.2022
- 30
- 0
