Lockdown - Four Vignettes free porn video

LOCKDOWN Four Vignettes A walk Peter was bored. Lockdown had been in place for four weeks now, and he was sick of it. At first sight, you might think, he was better off than many. His work for a nature conservancy allowed him to get out of the house for fieldwork, and he lived in an attractive Welsh village, lodging in an old farmhouse a short distance from the high street. But his social life had come to a full stop. The social life in question was not conducted in the village. The only amenity there, apart from the church hall, was an old, oak beamed pub called the Red Lion with a wood fire and a stone flagged floor, where the locals went to chat and play dominoes. Peter had drunk there occasionally - solitary pints, usually after a day trekking through the countryside - but that was not the focus of his leisure activities. Those were primarily conducted in London, Cardiff, and Bristol - in other words, cities with something of a night life. Restaurants, vibrant bars, and clubs - especially clubs - were where Peter spent his time. And in a very particular sort of bar or club. Peter went to places where he could dress in the kind of clothes he liked to wear, where he could bond with like-minded friends and relax. The kind of clothes he liked to wear would surprise the village (the social centre of the village was not the Red Lion but the rigorously non-conformist chapel) and perhaps shock the people he lived with. They were a conservative farming couple whose children had moved away several years before. Peter rented a room from them, and was treated as a member of the family. The work of the farm was busy and exhausting, and Peter saw little of Mr.Evans, except occasionally at mealtimes. He was a conservative, taciturn man who had turned out to have a dislike of "queers" (although his definition of queer seemed to encompass anybody who was not actually a farmer). Mrs.Evans was a plump, rather silent woman with a lilting Welsh accent who tried to mother Peter, and who had made it her mission to "feed him up". Peter, anxious to preserve his slim figure, had to find ingenious ways of avoiding consuming the enormous mounds of stodgy food placed before him at dinnertime without causing offence. Mrs.Evans seemed to take offence rather easily, and like her husband had rather old-fashioned views on what was right and proper. The kind of clothes he liked to wear when he was out were not suitable for farming, or nature conservancy, or even for visits to the Red Lion. The kind of clothes that he liked to wear were colourful, flimsy, sexy, feminine; and the name he liked to use when wearing them was Penny. And after four weeks he was missing them. Peter's normal recourse was to pack a suitcase on a Friday, travel to London or some other city, stay in a hotel where he would change, and spend a stimulating twenty-four hours in his other identity. These options were no longer open to him. He lived too closely with the Evanses to think of dressing at home, and the village also seemed unpromising territory in which to make a foray out of doors. Still, after four weeks... And then came the day when Mrs.Evans , distraught, announced she was going to have to spend a few days with her daughter and granddaughter, both of whom had a virus. "Not the virus, you understand, but just a normal illness. A vomiting virus. Neither of them can walk further than the distance between their bedroom and the toilet. And Jack is working abroad at the moment, so he can't help out." It wasn't strictly allowed to go and see them during lockdown, but Mrs.Evans could see no alternative. She left the same evening. The following morning, Peter was working from home. Although he occasionally still had fieldwork to do, much of the admin side of his job was done on-line, as were meetings with other team members. He rattled quickly through his emails, and then started work on a report he was writing, but found it difficult to focus. He was all too aware that he would be alone in the house for the rest of the day. Mr.Evans was working on the farm, and wouldn't be returning home until seven o'clock at the earliest. So Peter had a good eight hours to himself. After several fruitless efforts to deal with the task in hand, he found himself unlocking his wardrobe and staring at the contents. The silky dresses, tiny skirts, and close-fitting tops had hung there, unworn, for four weeks. Highly polished shoes and boots were scattered beneath the hangers, and a zip-up bag containing underwear, make-up, and some other essential items lay next to them. Peter found himself gently caressing an erection which had swollen beneath his jeans. He knew that he should not really indulge himself, that although small, the risk of discovery was not zero. He knew that if discovered, his relationship with the Evanses would be permanently ruptured. He might even be thrown out of his lodgings, and as moving home was forbidden during lockdown he would be unable to find anywhere else locally to live. But although he knew all that, he knew also that in this moment he would be unable to resist the urge to assume his other identity - his delightful, risqu?, fun-loving alter ego - even if there was little for her to do but sit at home. He knew that he would take a long, leisurely bath, check his body for stray hairs, moisturize, apply make-up and then, lingeringly and with mounting excitement, select and then climb into one of the outfits that had hung - enticingly, provokingly - unworn for all those weeks. And that is exactly what he did. He selected a short, close-fitting dress, in flimsy, glossy fabric, in a bright shade of emerald green. He teamed this with dark tights and - the day being on the cool side - high heeled knee-length boots. And he preened and gyrated before the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door. And then, to complete the look, he pulled out a bright red PVC raincoat - short, belted, double breasted - and slithered into it, hands in pockets, posing with his weight on his right leg and his left leg stretched out slightly before him, as if for a photo shoot. And then, with a kind of inevitability, he dug out a black shoulder bag, and feverishly packed keys, his wallet, and a handful of loose change (as well as a lipstick and mascara) unrtil was ready to go out. He really hadn't intended to go out, but there was little point in assuming this sexy appearance just to lurk alone in his bedsit. And so, gingerly, he opened his bedroom door and stole nervously downstairs, apprehensive that at any moment, the door to the house would open heralding Mr.Evans's untimely return home. But it was scarcely after mid-day, and Mr.Evans would be busy for hours yet. Peter - or rather Penny as he had become now that his transformation was complete - left the house, locking the door behind him, and slipped nervously into the short lane leading to the village. Only three or four houses, aside from the farmhouse, stood on the lane, but Penny looked round anxiously as he walked between them. The community was a close-knit one and it would be a disaster to be spotted and even worse to be recognised by one of the Evanses' neighbours. But good fortune was with Penny, and within a very few minutes, she found herself on the village high street. The street was short but quite wide - a regular market had been held there in times past - and was still home to a fair number of local shops. The nearest supermarket was ten miles distant, so the local merchants had not yet been driven out of business. Penny stared at her reflection in the shop windows as she passed them, gaining in confidence, and strutting confidently forward in her heels. There were few people about, and the small number who had ventured out on essential errands kept their distance from him - the government advised approaching people no closer than two metres, even in the open air. Penny passed the butchers, which was open, the hardware store (closed), two charity shops (also closed), a greengrocers (open) and a grocery store cum delicatessen (open), and then the shop which sold fishing tackle and riding equipment (closed), the gentleman's outfitters (closed), the wine shop (open) and the newsagent (also open). She smiled at a couple of women she half recognised in the socially-distanced queue outside the butchers, and they returned her smile absently, clearly not recognising her. She walked to the war memorial at the end of the village street, where the road broadened out into an approximate square, on which stood the Red Lion, which of course was closed, a caf? (also closed), and the chapel. Although the chapel was closed to worshippers, Patsy saw the preacher working in the small churchyard. The preacher was a regular visitor to the Evanses' home, and Penny hurried past, hoping not to be seen. A little breathless, Penny hurried to the far end of the square, and sat down on a bench next to the war memorial panting, partly out of exertion but mainly out of nervousness. She had, she knew, taken an unnecessary, ridiculous risk, by walking out abroad as Penny. Discovery would be a disaster, and certainly not worth the transient satisfaction of being herself for an hour or so. Still, having collected herself, it was in a state of rather delicious stimulation - terrified stimulation, but laced nonetheless with exuberance - that she made her way back to the farmhouse, letting herself in, and scurrying upstairs in a state of exhilaration. She had dressed, paraded herself through the village, and returned home undiscovered and unmolested. She was safe. Mrs.Evans telephoned that evening. There were, she said, some prepared meals in the freezer that could be heated up for Peter and Mr.Evans (Mr.Evans was definitely not a new man and had certainly never cooked anything more complicated than cheese on toast). She would be away for at least two further nights, so she looked to the two of them to fend for themselves. Peter, who had taken the call, assured her that they would manage. Peter would, therefore, be alone in the house for at least one more full day. And so, while the trip into the village had most definitely been a one-off - hadn't it? - there would be an opportunity - treacherously enticing - for a further dressing up session. He must not push his luck, however, and venture amongst the locals a second time. But when the ritual was repeated, and Penny was posing before the full-length mirror the following morning - this time in a vibrant blue jumpsuit teamed with slouchy boots and a wide elasticated belt pinching in her waist, a buttersoft leather jacket and some chunky statement jewellery - there was really no way that prudence was going to triumph over the thirst for adventure. This time the walk through the village was slower and more leisurely. Penny found herself nodding and smiling to complete strangers as she passed them on the pavement. And if they looked puzzled and uncertain as they returned her silent greeting, that was all to the good. More troubling were those who smiled disconcertingly as if they recognised Penny, which could surely not be the case. Exhilarated, Penny found herself entering the newsagent to buy a magazine she didn't usually read, just for the sake of seeing how well she could pass in the cramped shop. She said as few words as possible, modulating her voice with care, and the shopkeeper - a man of about fifty wearing a knitted, sleeveless pullover and brown cords - registered the sale and gave Penny her change, scarcely looking at her. And then, just as she left the shop, a woman she recognised as one of the Evanses' neighbours - Mrs.Jones? Mrs.Llewellyn? - pushed in past her. Penny smiled and returned the woman's "Good morning," but she sensed, as the door closed behind her, that the woman was giving her a thoughtful look as if she half-recognised Penny but couldn't quite remember where she'd seen her before. A little alarmed by this, Penny found herself hurrying back home, her heels clattering on the paving stones. But as she approached home, she heard footsteps behind her, and casting an anxious glance over her shoulder she saw the neighbour - an elderly woman wearing baggy trousers and a (clearly hand-knitted) roll-neck pullover in a dirty brown colour - striding firmly towards her. Penny felt, for reasons she found difficult to define, that the woman was trying to intercept her to ask a question. There were perhaps fifty metres between them as Penny reached the sanctuary of the farmhouse, and after fumbling with the keys for what seemed an age, she managed to open the door and slither into the house. She looked back as she closed the door and saw the woman, hands on hips, head to one side, a puzzled expression on her face. Penny tore up to her bedroom. She should not, she knew, have gone straight home, but instead have found some way of losing her pursuer in the village. Perhaps she should have spoken to her, found some story to allay her suspicions, returning only when the neighbour had gone home herself. She surely wouldn't try to keep Penny under surveillance all day. But now she had seen Penny enter the farmhouse, she would be wondering who this formerly unknown young woman - definitely too glamorous to be a chapel-attending inhabitant of the village - might be and why she was living with the rather staid Evanses. The Evanses who might have let out one of their spare rooms to an employee of the nature conservancy, would definitely baulk at entrusting a sexy young thing like Penny with the keys to their home. It had been a narrow escape. Or had Penny in fact escaped? What if the neighbour - her name was definitely Mrs.Llewellyn, Penny now recalled - were to ask Mrs.Evans about her attractive female guest? The terror Penny felt was rather stimulating - like all the dramas that Peter experienced in the guise of Penny, it brought its own guilty excitement - but it was terror nonetheless. Still, as he resumed his normal daytime identity, Peter calmed a little. He passed an uneventful evening having dinner with Mr.Evans, and then working in his room on the paper he had neglected over the past two days. Mrs.Evans returned home the following lunchtime. Peter was working at his desk when he heard the sound of her Land Rover, and looked out of the bedroom window to check that it was indeed her. Mrs.Evans pulled the car to a halt, stepped down to the ground and, dressed in wellingtons and her long Barbour mackintosh, struggled to unload a heavy-looking suitcase from the vehicle. Peter decided to go downstairs and offer his assistance, but as he reached the front door, he saw, with horror, Mrs.Llewellyn hurrying towards the farmhouse, clearly intend on intercepting Mrs.Evans before she returned home. He hesitated for a moment, and then closed the door and scuttled upstairs back to his room. Perhaps Mrs.Llewellyn simply wanted to ask about Mrs.Evans's daughter. Or perhaps there was some item of local gossip that she wanted to share although - Peter had to acknowledge - the juiciest item of local gossip probably concerned Penny. At any rate, he heard voices in the yard as Mrs.Lewellyn succeeded in intercepting Mrs.Evans. Peter could not make out the words, but in his anxious state, he thought he detected surprise - shock even - followed by disbelief and indignation. Had Mrs.Llewellyn accused him of bringing a woman into the Evanses' home (and even worse, of giving her a key); or had she perhaps guessed Penny's true secret? Attempting to listen at his bedroom window, Peter heard the footsteps of someone - presumably Mrs.Llewellyn - walking away from the house. Then the front door closed, and there was silence for a while, as if someone was standing in the hall wondering what to do. Peter swallowed nervously. And then he heard the firm footsteps of someone in heavy shoes walking up the stairs and along the landing towards his room. There was a loud knocking on the door, and then Mrs.Evans's voice: "Peter, I need to talk to you about something. Now!!" Later, Peter was surprised by his own calmness in the face of this crisis. He thought about the pinched, fierce woman demanding his attention, about her conservative instincts, and about her narrow- minded, strait-laced husband, who must surely be told about Penny (because he was as certain as he could be that it was about Penny that Mrs.Evans wished to speak). And then he thought about her gentler instincts - her attempts to mother and cosset Peter, who perhaps reminded her of her grown-up children who had long since left home. And he wondered whether he might bring her to understand that Penny was no threat to her or to her reputation, or to the moral fibre of her household or of the village. He could - couldn't he? - apologise contritely and promise there would be no repetition of the incident. And perhaps if he did so, Mrs.Evans might be persuaded to keep his secret (for that is what it was at the moment) from her husband, and allow him to continue to live with them. And then he thought about what Mrs.Llewellyn might say to the other villagers, and how Mrs.Evans would be agitated at the prospect, and how her first instinct would be to protect her and her husband's standing with the village community, which could only mean one thing for Peter. And then he wondered whether it might be possible to brazen things out - to say that Mrs.Llewellyn had perhaps misinterpreted what she had seen. Penny had, after all, been wearing an elegant but relatively conservative jumpsuit when she had been observed, and this might possibly be passed off as trousers and shirt. And could she really be certain that she had seen high heels and the vibrant colours of the make-up that Penny had worn? If Penny had been wearing the green dress and red PVC coat things would have been rather different, but Peter was a persuasive speaker, and with his word against Mrs.Llewellyn's, he might be able to persuade Mrs.Evans that the "truth" was more prosaic than she imagined. For just a moment Peter allowed himself to hope that one way or the other he could talk Mrs.Evans round. There was, after all, no visible evidence of Penny to hand. But then, as he moved to let Mrs.Evans into his room, he noticed with horror that he had hung both his green dress and his jumpsuit behind the bedroom door rather than taking care to stuff them away in his overcrowded wardrobe. He had betrayed himself by a moment's impatience. Mrs.Evans could not but see them and draw her own conclusions. And so, as Mrs.Evans pushed her way into the room, Peter found himself mentally crossing his fingers very firmly. Although he was no believer in any God, he muttered a fervent prayer. The new dress The thing Jon missed most was not the clubbing. Nor was it the hanging around in bars, the music scene, the easy conversation and private jokes with like-minded friends, the occasional moments of intense sensual awareness. It was the shopping. There was something irreplaceable about the afternoons wandering through the West End as his alter ago Janey, visiting boutiques and department stores, pulling dresses from racks, trying on boots and shoes, taking full advantage of the make-up testers, adding more weight to the already heavy burden on his credit card. And then there were those mischievous moments when, in order to get a reaction, he would draw attention to his birth gender, to see whether a fellow customer or a store assistant would react with embarrassment, shock, amusement, or even (within limits) anger. Or there would be those times when, as Jon, he would trawl the make-up and lingerie counters, seeking outrageously flamboyant and feminine purchases, and responding to the near-inevitable question with a casual, "Actually, they're for me." When lockdown came, all these delicious moments were lost. Of course, there was on-line shopping. Facebook kept throwing ads and website links in his direction, and he visited his favourite sites and made the occasional purchase. But there was always an element of missing excitement in simply clicking on "proceed to checkout" and entering his credit card details. And taking a delivery from an anonymous DPD delivery driver lacked the frisson of guilty excitement provoked by interactions with real people in real shops. Still, there were bargains to be had in the lockdown sales, and there were also sites offering the kind of clothes that it was difficult to purchase on the high street. The difficulty was to find a suitable opportunity to wear a new purchase. Whilst Janey gloried in dressing to the nines in the right environment, be it club, bar, or shopping trip, there was little excitement to be gained in sitting at home in a newly-purchased dress. The occasional walk around the block was possible, but Janey was reluctant to overdo this. Dressing to impress for an evening out was one thing, but Jon had always been reticent about imposing his flamboyant other self on his close neighbours. They were all perfectly nice people, but exotic creatures of the night they were not. And so in a possibly over-scrupulous desire to maintain good social relations, Janey had largely been kept under wraps in the streets around Jon's home. After a month of domestic confinement, the niggles were starting to mount. Jon felt he would give anything - well, almost anything - to enjoy an evening out again. And while the on-line purchases were starting to mount up, they brought him little satisfaction by simply hanging unworn in Janey's wardrobe. Perhaps it was fate that Jon should be dwelling on this on the afternoon when a particularly expensive purchase was delivered. This was an unusual extravagance, the moreso because it was not really an outfit to be seen in at a club or bar, but a rather formal dress more suited to a society wedding or a night at the opera. Ankle-length and close-fitting, it was fashioned from a glossy, black material with silver filigree running through the weave. The dress was round-necked and sleeveless, the fabric was clingy and slippery, the effect was stunning - the slim-cut dress could only emphasize the lithe beauty of Janey's body. Unpacked, the garment was every bit as enticing as the on-line photo had suggested. As he held the dress before him, smoothing the material down over his body, Jon felt a familiar stirring. There was no doubt about it: he needed to model this exciting new purchase immediately. He took his time, allowing the sense of anticipation to build, and then, having bathed, selected suitable undergarments, and applied make-up, he slithered into the dress and closed the zip. He'd planned to accessorize the dress with strappy sandals with a broad ankle strap, silver and black jewellery, and long opera gloves, although on this occasion he eschewed the gloves as being too over the top for home wear. In fact, as he surveyed Janey's image in the full-length mirror, he conceded to himself that the logical thing to do now, having satisfied himself that the look worked, would be to revert to Jon and hang up the dress until a more suitable and - it had to be said - more erotically promising opportunity arose. Janey walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, where she found an unopened bottle of champagne. The evening was warm - Spring weather had finally replaced the drizzly late winter climate - and the sun was shining. There would be time to change back later. Janey decided to sit in the garden where she could not be overlooked, drink in the sun, and revel in the pleasing sensations generated by her new outfit. The garden was a small, walled suntrap to the rear of the house. A gate at the end led to a narrow service road meeting the needs of the row of around a dozen town houses. These were mainly occupied by retired professionals and young families: Jon was considered by his neighbours as unusual, being a single person household in a dwelling designed for a family, although (he sometimes thought with amusement) when you took Janey into account, there were in fact two residents there. Janey sat down, poured herself a glass of wine, took a sip, and opened the laptop she had brought with her from the house. She had it in mind to take a picture of herself in her new outfit and send it to some of her like-minded friends, but first she decided to check her emails and catch up with the news and, absorbed by this, she did not hear the gate open, and so she jumped with alarm when a voice next to her said, "I'm looking for Jon. Is he in?" "No, er..." In her surprise, Janey made no effort to disguise Jon's voice. "Not at the moment. I mean, how can I help?" "My God." The voice belonged to Lisa, who lived next door. Lisa was a slim, attractive woman, with a penchant for leggings, impossibly high heels, and shimmering, silky tops. Her short dark hair set off a mischievous, elfin face, and she was today, as she was always, immaculately made up. Despite the fact that she must be a good ten years older than him, Jon had always thought of her as attractive and really rather sexy. Moving with a strangely graceful urgency, Lisa sat down, uninvited, with an unsurprisingly unsettled expression flickering across her face. "You are, aren't you? I should have..." She tailed off and made a visible effort to collect herself. "Actually, I came to see if you had any plain flour. I'm doing some lockdown baking, and I hadn't realised that I'd more or less run out." Adopting the softer tone she affected in her girl persona, Janey said that she did indeed have some flour, and got up to retrieve it from the kitchen. But stopping at the door, she turned on impulse and asked, "Would you like a glass of wine while you're here. I've just opened a bottle of champagne." Lisa nodded. "Yeah, sure," she said in a faint voice, cautiously casting a surreptitious glance over Janey's figure, which she could now see at full length. Smiling, Janey turned and sashayed into the kitchen, adopting her most exaggerated feminine gait. Steady girl, she thought to herself: not too drag queen! She returned to the table with a bag of flour and a glass, and poured a hefty slug of wine for Lisa. She sat down at the corner of the garden table, at ninety degrees from Lisa, in what was undoubtedly a flagrant contravention of the social distancing guidelines. Lisa did not seem to mind, however, and the two of them touched glasses. Lisa looked Janey up and down - a frank, assessing scrutiny. At length she nodded, wearing an odd expression which suggested that - far from being shocked - she might be pleased by what she saw. "Well," she said, "this is a surprise, although not," she added hastily, "an unpleasant one. How long have you...?" Janey took a sip of wine while she decided how to reply. "As long as I can remember really. But not usually at home nowadays. Or at least not alone at home. But when this dress was delivered earlier today - well, I couldn't resist trying it on." "It's certainly very beautiful. Really striking material. May I?" Lisa leaned forward and rubbed a fold of the silky material between the finger and thumb of her right hand, and then with the back of a finger, gently caressed the fabric, running her hand down Janey's torso, stroking her flat stomach, and then moving down and across her hip and lingering for a long moment on her left thigh. An electric thrill flickered through Janey's body, and feeling a little uncomfortable she crossed her legs which did not help: the slippery material of the dress slithered across her stockinged legs, creating the most provocative sensation. Lisa noticed the startled expression on Janey's face, and questioningly raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. Janey placed a hand over Lisa's to forestall further movement which might tip her over the edge. "Stop it," she said softly, squeezing gently. She was acutely conscious of the hand's moist, soft skin, and allowed her grip on it to linger. "Do you really want me to?" said Lisa, in an amused tone. Janey didn't reply, shaking her head in what might have been a denial. Startled and unsettled by the way that the encounter had developed in such a brief moment from a mundane conversation about borrowing flour to a display of openly and mutually flirtatious behaviour, she didn't quite know how to carry the conversation forward, or indeed whether she wanted to. Should she encourage Lisa by responding to her forwardness, or would that invite a rebuff? Lisa, perhaps sensing Janey's uncertainty, was smiling. She was perfectly aware of Janey's excitement, and enjoying the effect she had on her. She rubbed Janey's hand gently with her thumb. "What other clothes do you have?" She said it quietly and without emphasis, but Janey shivered a little at the leading nature of the question. For a relative stranger to take an interest in her in this guise, and more particularly in her wardrobe, was an undoubted turn on - no two ways about it. And Janey, stretching languorously in her seat, revelling in the sensations aroused by the fabric and feel of her dress and enjoying the attention she was getting from Lisa, was in the mood to be turned on. "I've built up quite a collection over the years," Janey said slowly. "I can show you some time." She hesitated. "Now, if you want." Lisa didn't reply for a moment or two. The suggestion was tempting, but she wanted a little time to think about what she wanted out of this unexpected encounter. And perhaps waiting for a while would allow a sense of anticipation to build in both of them. She suggested instead that Janey might want to come over to see her the following day. Her husband, Kevin, was a designated key worker and would be out, she added pointedly. "Wear something sexy. I'd like that." Janey nodded, a whirl of thoughts and speculations thundering through her mind. Which skimpy dress should she wear? Tights or stockings? Should she risk going Brazilian? That might be useful in case a more intimate encounter developed (did she actually want a more intimate encounter - would that be wise?), but the absence of foundation garments and the visible presence of quite probably aroused masculine anatomy would spoil the line of any dress she might wear. She opened her mouth, thinking to ask Lisa what she might prefer, but then closed it again: the encounter, she decided, should be as spontaneous and liberating as possible, and planning it like a military operation would spoil all that. Instead, she limited herself to accepting the invitation, and suggesting she come over at lunchtime. Once the time had been agreed, Lisa stood up to depart. She walked to the gate, imitating the sashay Janey had adopted when walking to and from her kitchen, and on reaching it turned and blew a kiss. Janey waved in return. Tomorrow would be a day of promise. She wondered whether, once lockdown was over, she and Lisa might enjoy a long and luxurious shopping trip together. Today's on-line order had produced a delightful surprise, but on-line was no substitute for the real thing. Coming out I'd prepared with particular care. A long, luxurious bath to calm my jumpy nerves, slow and careful donning of my sheer hosiery and slippery undergarments, attention to detail in selecting my look, and a scrupulously coordinated maquillage. I'd selected a coarse silk top, maroon with three quarter, slightly flared sleeves, and a round neckline broken by a three-inch slit at the centre clavicle. My skirt was short, black, stretchy and slightly clingy; black tights, patent court shoes with a heel. My lips and nails matched my top, and I'd decorated my eyelids with a purple-grey palette which set off the darkish foundation I'd used. A long necklace with polished black stones set in silver, and matching earrings completed the look. Nonetheless, as I pressed the video call button on Skype at the appointed time, my nerves were a-jangle. My mother had never seen my female self before. Her image flickered into view on the screen. "Hello mum," I said, in my normal voice. "Hello, er..." She hesitated, puzzled for a moment. And then she leaned forward, squinting slightly, to take a closer look. An odd expression crossed her face. "My God, Andrew. Is that you?" I smiled, trying to look calmer than I actually felt, and said in a more carefully modulated voice, "Yes, it's really me." And then, when she didn't reply immediately, "Do you like the look?" "But what...?" Surprise, concern, disbelief, anxiety - a flurry of expressions flitted across my mother's face as she understood the image that was before her, and then absorbed the implications. "Why? How often? Are you going to..." She stuttered to a halt. I realised, of course, the sense of bewilderment she must feel, and the dozens of questions that must be rearing up in her mind. "I like to dress like this from time to time. Socially, I mean. It makes me feel relaxed..." My mother looked doubtful. "Stimulated. I kind of like the attention I get when I look..." I struggled to find the right word for a moment. "...glamorous." My mother gulped, breathing in rapid pants. For a moment, I worried that she might be hyperventilating. "Does Sylvia know?" Sylvia was my girlfriend of six months - stylish, ferociously intelligent, a joy to be with. She was the apple of my mother's eye, and a fond friendship had grown up between the two of them. I smiled. "I was dressed like this when we first met." I remembered the evening well. I had dropped into a bar with some friends, on my way to a party. I was wearing a little black dress with deep purple tights and knee-length black boots. I was looking forward to the party, where I expected to see the whole gamut of London life - gays and straights, T-girls, submissives and doms, perhaps one or two more conventionally-minded people. Most of my friends knew about my habits and wouldn't be shocked or even surprised by my appearance. And I had hoped to meet some congenial new acquaintances with whom I could chat and dance and flirt and perhaps more. But I never got to the party. Standing at the bar was a group of girls, including one whose outfit made mine seem positively dowdy. She was wearing a kind of one-piece playsuit made from glossy black lycra, rather like a leotard. She'd teamed this clingy garment with very long boots reaching almost to her crotch, a wide belt with a heavy brass buckle, which sat lightly on her hips, and accessorized the ensemble with elbow-length gloves and a mass of statement jewellery. What looked like a dozen or so gold chains of differing lengths and styles hung around her neck, and her right wrist was weighed down with a heavy bronze bangle. A fine leather jacket was slung across her shoulders. Her make-up was assertively colourful and she was, when I first glanced at her, laughing attractively at a remark that one of her companions had made. I was, in that instant, smitten. Surprisingly, she returned my glance, and something in my demeanour must have struck a chord. We looked each other up and down with frank and open admiration, and quite quickly found a pretext to exchange words as well as looks. I can't remember now what I first said to her, but we were soon chatting away and not too long into the conversation we were flirting, finding excuses to touch and smile and stroke. We leaned forward, ostensibly to overcome the ambient noise of the bar by whispering into one another's ears, but really to provoke cheek to cheek contact, which was followed quite naturally by hip to hip contact. At some point quite early in the encounter, I found myself standing right next to her with my arm around her waist. And inevitably, our faces drawing closer to each other, we started to exchange kisses - gentle at first, but then more urgent - our sticky, sweet lipsticks mingling together, teasing tongues flitting between eager lips. And, not all that much later than that, we ended up in her bed. Sylvia was unexpectedly intrigued and excited by meeting Alicia - the name I adopted when dressed - and encouraged me to experiment with progressively more extreme looks. For her part, she was highly conscious of her style, and adopted an eclectic range of looks - everything from English Rose in pink to black-clad dominatrix. And over the months as we laughed and played together, we became closer and our relationship developed an intimacy I hadn't experienced before. To my parents and elder sister, she was kind and gentle - the sweet girl next door. My mother, as I've said, adored her, and she was careful to strike up a bond with Georgie, my sister. My sister with whom I'd first played dressing-up games, who knew all about my habits, and who had collaborated with me in keeping them secret from my parents. But it was also my sister who, as my attachment to my alter ego became stronger and more visible, had decided to persuade me that my parents must be told before they found out by accident. She had secured the support of Sylvia, who was flagrantly open about her own tastes and style. The two of them had persuaded me that lockdown presented me with the perfect opportunity to be open with my parents: at a time when life had changed so much for other reasons, the unveiling of Alicia would just be one more thing for them to absorb. And inevitably, the conversation would be conducted at a safe distance, perhaps reducing the probability of an anguished and emotional reaction. And so the upshot was that Alicia was now sitting before my computer, revealing herself to a startled and incredulous mother. I gave my mother a hesitant and perhaps not wholly articulate account of my meeting with Sylvia, in part to give her time to absorb the reality of what she was seeing, in the hope that she'd calm down a little. And gradually I sensed her demeanour changing from one of astonishment and unhappiness to a calmer, more accepting mood. She surprised me. "Perhaps I should meet - Alicia, did you say you were called? - you know, afterwards. After we can go out again." I smiled. "I'd like that. Perhaps we could join up in town over a coffee. If you'd be comfortable with that." "I suppose so," she said cautiously. "But would you?" I giggled. "I'm an old hand at the game. Let's do it." And so, we had a pact. We chatted for a while, about this and that, before we came to my next difficult question. "How are we going to go about telling Dad?" This was a worry. My father - aggressively masculine, emotionally distant - had never been tolerant of difference, and I dreaded the moment when I had to tell him about Alicia. But it would have to be done and I hoped my mother would support me when I spoke to him. I was, however, in for a surprise. "I'm afraid that's really going to be your problem. You see, Dad and I split up." My jaw dropped. "How? Why?" My mother looked down and then raised her eyes to meet mine. "He was staying with a friend for the weekend when the lockdown was announced. They were supposed to be going mountain-biking together. When the lockdown started, he said that the rules meant he couldn't come back home. A week later, he rang me to tell me that he wasn't coming back. He would be moving in with his friend." I turned this information over in my mind for a moment. This was distressing news, no doubt, but marriages do break up from time to time, and the newspapers were saying that the lockdown had generated Coronavirus divorces in quite large numbers. It was a shock, but not perhaps a surprise. I'd wondered for a long time what my quiet, conventional mother had seen in my mercurial, aggressive father. And whilst I looked up to my Dad, as sons do, I'd never really bonded with him. Nor had he made much effort to establish a rapport with me. We had never done the sort of things that fathers and sons do together, even in my teenage years. "What's her name?" "Not her. Him." For the first time, my mother looked distressed. "It wouldn't have been so bad to be deserted for a younger woman. But for a man..." she tailed off. "For a while now, he'd been coming home very late on Thursday evenings. Said he had a regular teleconference with the company's offices in the USA, and that the meeting had to be timed late to fit in with the Los Angeles office. Turns out he was spending his evenings at a club. Messalina's. That's where he met Roy." I knew Messalina's: I'd been there a couple of times with Sylvia. Its punters were an eclectic mixture of gay and straight, with gender fluids and non-binaries amongst its most loyal customers. And there were plenty of guys like me, who enjoyed dressing up for the excitement of adopting a different, perhaps dangerous role, or for the erotic satisfaction it gave them. Perhaps Sylvia and I should go to Messalina's one Thursday and see if Dad still went there, and if so whether he was accompanied by the mysterious Roy. Now there would be a surprise for him - and perhaps for me too, depending on the sort of person Roy turned out to be. I fantasized for a moment about the outfit I might wear - short, tight, shiny perhaps. And Sylvia - full dominatrix might shock the two of them. Sylvia and I would have fun planning the evening, and finding a way to reveal ourselves at the most awkward and embarrassing moment for Dad. Perhaps we could leap out at him while he and Roy were on some sort of clinch (this sort of thing, and indeed even more unbridled behaviour, was pretty standard for Messalina's). I started to enjoy the little storyline I was building in my head. "Still," I said to mum, "it must have been a shock. I'm sorry to have added to your woes - two unpleasant surprises in the space of a few weeks must be difficult." "Don't beat yourself up," she said. "You I can cope with. After all, you're still family. And I'm sure, Alicia, that you and I can become friends. It's him who caused me hurt." For just a moment, she looked miserable. And then she pulled herself together. "You know what he said?" she sniffed. "He said that it was a relief at last to be coming out." Well, I thought, that was a sentiment I could agree with. The Flatmate My flatmate's 'phone call came out of the blue after we had been in lockdown for just over two weeks. She had been visiting her elderly parents when lockdown was announced, and had decided to stay with them. They needed help, and she could work from home online, so that was not a problem. And it was probably strictly against the rules to travel the two hundred miles back home in any case. We had been flatmates for just over a month. She had decided to let out her spare room to help her save for a deposit on a larger apartment, and knowing that I was looking for a new place to live had offered me a six-month tenancy. I liked Suzi, whom I had met occasionally with groups of friends, and accepted with pleasure. She had explained (rather unnecessarily, I thought) that she was gay, and I wasn't to get any ideas about getting together with her. Suzi had a vibrant social life. She was frequently out clubbing at the weekends, went to festivals and gigs, and was often seen on the alternative arts scene. She seemed to have a series of invariably attractive young women to stay overnight after her evenings out, and while she was not unfriendly, she made clear to me that her friends were off limits to me. My own social life, although by no means moribund, was much more prosaic, and when she did let me meet one of her friends, she often introduced me as "Mr.Normal". But she was generally good-humoured and easy-going, and I couldn't take offence at her occasional flashes of sarcasm. Her phone, as I say, came as a surprise. For once, Suzi seemed a little flustered. "I've just remembered," she said after we'd exchanged small talk, "that I left my room in a bit of a state when I left. As you know, I was only expecting to be away for a couple of days, so I didn't do much tidying up. The worst of it is that I think I left out some dirty dishes and a couple of takeaway cartons which still had food in. They'll be in a disgusting state by now. Do you think you could get rid of them, and put the plates and stuff in the dishwasher?" Suzi's bedroom was very much her private space, and I hadn't actually been into it in the weeks since I'd been living there. I was quite intrigued, in fact, to see what it contained. So I agreed to tidy up after her, and to ring her back if there was any problem. And after a little desultory chat about how things were going for each of us, we ended the call. When I entered the room, I saw that it was indeed untidy, which seemed at odds with the stylish, flamboyant d?cor: dark walls, arty posters, framed studio portraits of several attractive women (a couple of whom I recognised as previous visitors to the apartment), polished floorboards, deep pile rugs, and what seemed to be black satin bed coverings. The bed was unmade, so it was difficult to be certain about this, and the rest of the room was in a bit of a state too: the plates and take-away cartons were strewn on the floor, with an empty champagne bottle and two dirty glasses. In addition, a blue dress was strewn over an easy chair (leather upholstery, chesterfield style), around which were scattered an array of underclothes and a pair of screwed-up tights. I gathered up the dirty dishes and took them into the kitchen, and then returned to the bedroom to do a bit of general tidying up. I made the bed, and gathered up the underclothes which I put in Suzi's wash basket, which turned out to be quite full. I then picked up the dress, and looked for a hanger to put it on. A built in wardrobe with three sliding mirrored doors occupied a complete side of the bedroom (the mirrored doors giving the room an illusion of greater space), and without thinking I slid the left-hand door open. And stood open- mouthed before what I saw. The clothes in the left hand bay of the wardrobe were flamboyant and eclectic. I saw leather, rubber, velvet, satin, and PVC. There were corsets, tiny dresses, one-piece garments which I mentally classified as catsuits, tight leggings, and a plethora of boots and shoes, all of which seemed to have impossibly high heels. A small chest of drawers in the corner, which I couldn't resist opening, contained an array of decidedly odd equipment - a resinous strap-on penis, strange metal and silicone plugs, a pair of handcuffs, straps and a coiled silken rope, and what seemed to be a leather paddle of some kind. I swallowed hard and closed the door, although not before I had taken a good look at the contents within. I had glimpsed an aspect of Suzi's life of which I had previously been completely unaware. The middle bay of the wardrobe had much more reassuring contents - conventional dresses for work and play, blouses and skirts, ordinary jeans and trousers, a couple of cotton jumpsuits, and drawers containing tops, underwear, and tights. I found a hanger there for the blue dress which I duly put away. The right hand wardrobe contained Suzi's outerwear - a couple of leather jackets, a winter coat, a PVC raincoat, a grey hooded fleece which I'd never seen warn, and a long, ankle length mackintosh made of rather flimsy cream fabric coated with some kind of film which gave it a glossy sheen. This last garment I'd seen Suzi wearing when she went out clubbing, and it occurred to me that it was probably her way of concealing whatever exotic clothing (I was thinking of the left-hand wardrobe) she might have been wearing from taxi drivers and less exotically-minded fellow travellers on public transport. With this thought in my mind, I found myself returning to the left hand bay for a second, more careful look at the more racy part of Suzi's wardrobe. My penis was throbbing and swelling as I did so. I decided to ring Suzi to ask her if she wanted me to wash the dirty underwear I'd found. I had no intention of mentioning that I'd been snooping in her wardrobe. Really, I didn't. It would be a short call, completely to the point, without any reference to... well, to whatever images my credulous mind had summoned up from the unremittingly sensual garments I'd stumbled across. I made the call. Suzi was pleased that I'd tidied up, and made the bed, and said that yes, she would be grateful if I could do some washing for her. She thought she'd left a dress out - if I had a spare hanger, could I put it on the hook behind her door? At this point, I made a serious mistake. Rather than saying nothing and retrieving the dress later, I admitted that I'd already hung it up in Suzi's wardrobe. A silence. "Where in the wardrobe?" "In the middle. That seemed the best place to put it..." Another silence. "Did you look in the sides of the wardrobe." "Er, yes." I swallowed. "I started on the left, actually." A third, lengthy silence, followed by a low chuckle. "So, you've found my chamber of secrets." "I'm really sorry." I found myself gabbling, certain of Suzi's anger. "I did it without thinking. I didn't mean to... Er... You've got some quite striking clothes." "Hugh darling, do calm down." Suzi's voice was soothing, amused. "If I concealed my more unconventional tastes from you, it's as much because I thought you might be shocked, as for my own peace of mind. Um. You're not really scandalized by what you saw, are you? It is the twenty-first century after all. You know, rainbow days. I mean, I'm not the first gay woman you've met, and I bet I'm not the first fetishist either." "No, I..." "And," she continued, as if I hadn't spoken, "perhaps it might be good for you to explore this world, just a little bit. I mean, really Hugh, get a little colour into your life." "I don't think..." "Come on," Suzi had the bit between her teeth. "Take a closer look. Perhaps you could try something on." Surely, she was teasing me? "It might even turn you on, make you a bit less strait-laced. Just don't get any stains on anything. What's your shoe size?" "Er, 40." "See, we're more or less the same size physically, and you could even wear my boots. Go for it." And then she giggled uncontrollably, unable to contain her amusement at boring old Hugh uncovering her collection of fetish gear. "Well, maybe I will," I said defiantly, "if you mean it, that is. I'm always willing to explore new ideas, new thinking." It sounded lame, even as I said it, but I felt I had to say something to retain a morsel of dignity. Suzi seemed to make an effort to calm down, and when she next spoke she chose her words with some care. "Look Hugh, I'm sorry you stumbled across my things like that. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked you to tidy up or - I don't know - given you more precise instructions. But it's happened now." She paused for a moment, thinking. "And Hugh, if you do want to play a bit then that's fine. Just be careful, OK? There's some very expensive stuff in there. And respect my boundaries please." I can't really remember the rest of the conversation. I think I tried hard, but without success, to see whether Suzi was being serious or not (surely not?); and what those boundaries that she'd mentioned might be. But in the end, I didn't get any more out of her, and I was left in a state of uncertainty after she hung up. My discovery, and Suzi's offer - if it was one - had certainly aroused something in me. I was aroused, frightened, and amused all at the same time. Sod it, part of me thought, I might as well take her at her word. But of course I didn't. At least not at first. But as the period of lockdown lengthened, I found myself going back to Suzi's wardrobe and pulling garments off the rail. A shiny black corset. A skimpy leather dress. Over the knee boots. A latex skirt. A long purple velvet gown decorated with assertive black lace. And each time I visited, I found my mind wondering down odd paths. I held clothing up in front of me to try to imagine what it would look like over my slim, masculine form. I found my penis stirring. And at night, I started to experience seriously erotic dreams involving my dressing up in Suzi's clothes and prowling the streets of the city. And although, in these dystopian dreams, I found myself the subject of ridicule and hostility, I invariably awoke, sweating, with an uncomfortably priapic erection. Things came to a head, as they were bound to do, after a couple of weeks. It was evening; I'd showered; and as I dried myself, I found myself heading into Suzi's room, my excitement mounting. Feverishly, I pulled a garment from the wardrobe - it turned out to be a short, very tight dress in dark, crushed velvet, silk lined, and lace- trimmed. I slithered into it and pulled on a pair of long boots and surveyed the result in the mirror. The result, I thought, was disappointing - apart from anything else, the bulge of my erect penis interfered with the line of the skirt - and I undressed as hastily as I'd dressed. But far from putting me off, this unsatisfactory experience spurred my determination to repeat the exercise, to try harder to achieve the kind of appearance I'd imagined in my disturbing dreams. I set out to research the art of transformation on the web, and found myself investigating the mysteries of breast forms, hair removal, foundation garments, and concealment. I studied You Tube tutorials on make-up, and searched for blogs by she-males and T-girls. And having identified some suitable products and beauty aids, I found myself placing multiple on-line orders. And having done that, I had to contain my impatience until the courier arrived. We were six weeks into lockdown. I spread out my purchases on Suzi's bed and opened her wardrobe. This time, I pulled out a dress in buttersoft leather with multiple zips and buckles, which I paired with long boots and fishnets. (I was not aiming for an understated look.) In a dreamlike state, I'd prepared my body assiduously and had slipped into the undergarments and accoutrements which would create the curves necessary to set off the dress to best effect. With trembling hands, I unzipped the dress and stepped into it. Creating the effect I wanted with make-up and accessories took several attempts and no little time, but ultimately, deliciously uncomfortable, I was satisfied. I sat in the chesterfield-type chair and examined myself in the mirror. Yes, I thought, this look is good enough to show to a wider audience. But I was not yet sufficiently confident about the reaction I would get to try to pass in public - even if there was anywhere suitable to go during lockdown. But there was one thing that I could do. I wandered back to my own room and retrieved my phone, and then returning to Suzi's room, I stood the handset on her make-up table, and selected the setting for a timed photograph. It took two or three attempts before I produced an image that worked properly, but eventually I had a picture of an alluring, pouting girl, posing provocatively in that outrageous dress and boots, smiling serenely at the camera. I found Suzi's phone number in my contacts list, uploaded the picture into a message, and pressed send. I wandered downstairs, opened the fridge, and poured myself a glass of wine. It only remained now to see what Suzi's reaction would be. Would she be angry that I'd taken her at her word? Or would she be intrigued? And if the latter, what would she suggest next? I waited half an hour before the replies started to ping back: four messages in quick succession. "Wow!!!" "You have learned quickly. Well done!!" "You know, I think you might be ready to meet some of my foxier friends." "The rest of your life starts from here..." I smiled, leaned back, and took a sip of wine. Feeling smug and not a little stimulated, I contemplated my future with growing excitement.