Frankie's Fable 1: Tea With Mother

Part 1: Tea With Mother

I am having tea with mother. I hate my mother. I didn’t used to but I do now, I have good reason and you will find out why.

Mother is the epitome of sang froid, the ultimate ice queen. She loves only one thing, money. Not family, not me certainly, nothing but money, and as far as she is concerned, you can never have enough. But now, today, maybe she has enough, even for her. She is celebrating the settling of her husband’s will, my father’s will. And it is supremely cruel of her to have me for tea on such a day. She is the sole beneficiary you see. It should have been me, was me really, but she took care of that, in another supremely cruel way, and this is my story.

I cross my legs, staying calm, no point in getting mad now, it’s far too late. I see her tight-lipped smile as I do this.

“You’re looking beautiful this morning, Frankie.” She stresses Frankie, the “ie” bit that is.

I pick up the cup and saucer, take a sip.

“Well that’s all due to you, isn’t it?” I reply icily. She ponders this, looking upon it as a compliment, which it isn’t.

“Good genes certainly, ha ha, deportment, posture, training, yes that was down to me.” She runs them off, raising her fingers one by one.

“And the best surgery money can buy?” I reply acidly. She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Only the best that money can buy for my Frankie.”

“My money actually, or was, or should have been.” Of course I’m bitter, but it’s done, time to move on. She actually thinks she has been generous, some may say she has. She reminds me of this.

“You like the apartment, all your new clothes, and of course your monthly allowance?” It’s not a question, just a not too gentle reminder. I admit, the apartment is very expensive, and beautiful, and the clothes are too. The allowance is generous, more than enough to live on for the rest of my life, but I won’t, I plan to work, to be a “useful” member of society, it will take a little time though. And some major adjusting.

“I didn’t have to provide you with any of that, legally you know.” No, she didn’t, but then she didn’t have to steal my inheritance either. The cost of the apartment and everything else is actually a pittance compared with what she has just inherited, for my father was obscenely rich. It was honestly made, well fairly honestly, though small consolation that may be to me.

I am getting hot, and it’s not just being with my mother which always gets me hot under the collar, and everywhere else come to think of it. No, it’s the tight panty girdle I am wearing. It’s a beauty, based upon an original design from Playtex, but now made by specialist rubber designers, but more on that later. It is pinching me just below my bra, and I dab some sweat from my forehead. My mother can see I am a little uncomfortable, and smiles again. She thrives on people’s discomfort, she made a lot of money doing so.

“You look hot Frankie, let me think,” she smiles again, “are you wearing latex under your street clothes there? Of course you are, you minx. You love that latex, don’t you?” She smiles again, she knows all my secrets. “From mid-teens I think, quite the addict. Must be in your genes, ha ha. Yes, I knew all about that when you were growing up, you don’t think I didn’t know about your stash of latex did you?” There’s no point in saying anything, because I am wearing latex - and I can feel the sweat inside my bra and tight rubber panty girdle. But I find comfort in this, as I have always done. She didn’t force me to dress like this, this is what I like.

“Anyway now probate is all settled I don’t suppose I shall see much of you anymore.” Again, it’s not a question, but a statement. And one I agree with. As we continue with this bizarre conversation – all undertones and veiled references – my mind drifts back to the start of all this discontent.

How It All Started

My mother is Russian, and in her early to mid-twenties was the most beautiful, and probably most expensive call-girl in London, and that is saying something. She came over in her late teens after glasnost, knowing exactly what she wanted. She had some money to start, I never knew where she got that from, it’s all very hazy. Being very single-minded and very smart, very soon she was making an awful lot of money, but of course not enough for her. She is very beautiful, even now in her mid 40’s, and I suppose I have inherited that beauty, delicate features, which got me ribbed when I was young. She dealt in clients with specialised desires, sex was rarely involved but other, let us say more extreme, interests. You get the picture. And she got to know some powerful, and some shady, dangerous, people.

My father was initially a client, then a lover/protector and then, after my mother saw an end to being a very expensive call-girl and instead a lot of money through him, a husband. All went well; I was born, more by accident than intent, and shuffled off to boarding school at a cruelly young age. I wasn’t terribly happy at school, a bit of a loner, sensitive I suppose and some might say a little odd, which I can’t refute, not if you look at me now anyway. But I was bright and made it to university, and got a decent degree in architecture.

And here the story gets interesting.

My father was a real traditionalist, and after he got married, even before I arrived, he wrote his will, and here the trouble starts. He stated the sole beneficiary of his estate would be his male heirs, however many of them, to be shared equally. My mother was to get a generous allowance for the remainder of her life, but of course that was not enough for her. She wanted it all.

But, you say, why was I a problem for her, if the estate went to the male heir. Well, you see, the will failed to state clearly the most important words, “male-born child”. You see where this is going now, don’t you.

For I was born a male! And that was where the ribbing came from for I was delicate-featured yes, light haired and not hirsute, and almost androgynous, but I hasten to add a hetero male through and through.

But by the time of my father’s death I was no longer a male, for by then my mother had planned and fully accomplished her obscene plan.

My father had a lingering illness, slow and painful, which lasted about a year. He told us both of course, and this allowed my mother sufficient time to seal my fate, and get her hands on my rightful inheritance. When you think about it, it’s brutally simple. If at his death, he has no male heir (remember it did not specify male-born) then it all goes to his wife.

And the rest you can see coming. She had a year in which to transform me from a son into a daughter!

Transformation

“How are things going?” She looked at me with a face filled with faux concern and rests a gloved hand on my knee, which almost makes me cringe. “Are you seeing anyone? Boyfriend, girlfriend, both?” A chuckle.

She really was enjoying our tea. This was a very fine tea room, and we had to behave of course. I chose not to answer. I had been on my own for a while, in the new apartment, however I have been experimenting, getting out and about, quite a lot, and things are now very much better. But more of that a little later.

I am content with my latex, of course. For it was from an early age I got an addiction for that. Don’t ask how or why, none of us fetishists know why, we just are. I pleasured myself with it all through university, although the odd girlfriend came and went as well. A couple I tried to introduce to latex, but it didn’t really work.

Of course it is one thing to be dressed as a woman in latex

And entirely another to be a woman dressed in latex.

Just moving those couple of words around creates a whole new world, and one in which I now had been thrust.

She had her shady contacts from when she was in her “business”, and called in a few very serious favours. I had left university and was starting to think about my career, but she was to cut that short. Anyway, somehow she drugged me, not too difficult I suppose, and was quickly whisked off and I woke up in a surgical theatre. She must have had something on the surgeon (who was a real expert in the field, she told me later – I suppose I should be grateful for that) and the anaesthetist and probably the three theatre nurses as well.

The legal aspects had to be attended to, for it was to appear that I had entered this new phase of my life voluntarily. This meant psychiatric reports, faked interviews and assessments, and forged medical history, endless legal documentation. She left no stone unturned. Again I am sure all these medical experts were somehow blackmailed in some way, they were probably past clients of hers, or current clients of friends she still had in her profession. In any event she did a waterproof job, legal, medical, psychiatric requirements were all taken care of, it was a fait accomplit.

And social contacts, which would be important. She got the word out to my friends that I had gone to Switzerland (!) for a year to go through the process. But with the added twist that I was going through this irreversible process voluntarily! I had been living a lie - this is what I always wanted, I was trapped in a foreign body. And I didn’t want to be in contact during this period. All very clever.

Tell a lie convincingly enough and for long enough and it will be believed, ask any politician. And my friends seemed to believe it. They might not have approved, but they took the whole fake story, and so for the year I was out of contact with everyone, while my mother and her medical team completed my transformation and feminisation.

I won’t go into the medical procedure in detail. I recall being strapped down on the gurney, the surgeon over me, the anaesthetist to my side, nurses around me and surgical equipment on large trays surrounding me. And there was my mother, gowned and masked, giving me some cynical speech on how she didn’t want this to happen, she was so sorry but it was necessary. I was doped up so it didn’t make much sense, but it made a lot more sense after I woke up.

For the next few months I was for the most part kept in the vast basement of our house, tended to, cared for. It is not a single operation but a series, including the Adam’s apple of course, for it had to be perfect for my mother, and me I suppose. This was undertaken along with a regimen of drugs and hormones that I would have to continue to take. For much of the time I was sore and sometimes in pain, and for the whole period she would come and see me, full of fake regret, and all this while my father was slowly dying upstairs, no doubt asking for me, and regretting not seeing me. I was allowed out on occasion into the garden, but in fact it was me that was still uncomfortable with myself as I gradually morphed into a woman, so I didn’t go out into the big wide world a lot, and was very nervous when I did, even in the company of my mother.

Yes, she was cruel and single-minded for sure. With the surgery, she decided I needed some help in the breast department, despite the continuous cocktail of drugs that were seeping through me and my body taking its new shape. So I had two silicon sacs implanted in my breasts, and when I walked around between treatments I had to admit they were very lifelike in look, movement and certainly when I touched them. My nipples were constantly sensitive, and I found myself on occasion touching them, rolling them between finger and thumb, actually exciting myself. It was all very bizarre at first.

During my conversion, my diet was strictly controlled, and my weight dropped, and after nine months or so I was hovering around 140 pounds. I was always slim, but during this period my body began to take on a different shape, no doubt partly due to the drugs. The breast implants certainly helped, but my waist was now slim, even without the assistance of a girdle or corset. My hips took on slight curves, and my voice began to get softer, and this must have been due, again, to the hormones being pumped into me. During the initial treatment my body had been fully depilated, painfully. As I said, I am light skinned and not hirsute, but waxing and electrolysis treatments continued throughout, until the hormones took care of that on a more permanent basis. Now there is no sign of any beard line at all, my face is as smooth as silk, and my body too.

I was now becoming slim yet curved, hairless, full breasted, soft voiced, and the hair on my head remained and was allowed to grow. I have wavy thick pure blonde hair, and it needed little coaxing to become shiny and lush, sweeping down to the tops of my shoulders. My face didn’t start out effeminate, delicate yes, and with my high cheekbones, narrow chin, white even teeth, large lips and clear, wrinkleless skin I had a head start and now could very easily get by as a very passable young attractive woman.

Denial and Gradual Acceptance

Psychologically though I was a bit of a mess, which isn’t really a surprise seeing what I had been subjected to. Of course I wanted to fight this but after the first surgery, it couldn’t be reversed and I simply had to adjust. This was hard. Yes, when I was a man I got a kick out of dressing in latex, and sometimes as a woman with corset and false boobs underneath, and even going out, that was exciting and just a little frightening, but that was only for a few hours, this was now for ever.

The day after surgery all my male clothes were taken away, gradually replaced by my mother with a full wardrobe of young women’s clothes, silks, satins, cotton, cashmere, some leather and, here I had to thank my mother, quite a lot of latex. Yes, she knew my love for that stunning, addictive material, and she would allow me, even encourage me to continue to wear it. That at least was a consolation. So I did wear it, and the calming effect of the cool, clinging, smooth, shiny material certainly helped me enormously through my slow conversion into a fully-fledged woman.

And during this time, well aware that this was how I would be for the rest of my life, I began to self-train myself in deportment. This is hard, very hard if you have lived your life in the opposite sex. But I had to adjust, there was no option. I could feel sorry for myself for the rest of my life but what good would that do? No, just get on with it.

The simple acts of stepping into a pair of panties, putting on a bra without any fumbling, leaning over and clipping stockings onto a garter belt, crossing legs while seated at just the right angle had to be learnt and took time (I never liked tights as a man, and certainly didn’t change after my “change”, so sexy stockings it became). And walking in heels, that took time, a lot of time. After weeks - months, I was getting more adept at make-up, plucking eyebrows – that was no fun. But base foundation, mascara and lipstick and gloss I gradually got more skilled at. And my mother would come by, giving me encouragement, getting more impressed each time. Part of me wanted to strangle her, I hated at first being forced essentially into this role, but what was the point, she had done a very impressive job in irreversibly transforming me, covering all the angles, physical, legal and medical. It was as a woman I would be for the rest of my life, so I had better get used to it.

It was nearly a year when I was advised the surgical procedures and healing were over and they were satisfied that I was now, to all intents, a complete functioning woman. After receiving this news I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in my set of rooms in the cellar and I came to the undeniable conclusion that I no longer saw “me” but an attractive looking young – early 20’s woman. It was as if I was looking at someone else, slim, full breasts with no sag at all, narrow waist, long curvy legs, lush blonde hair, and with what seemed a perfect facsimile of a pussy, yes indeed, but more on that later.

After my father died, within a month I was settled in my new apartment, all expenses courtesy of my mother. As the will was not to be contested and because of its large size she got a sizeable advance and paid for everything up front, before probate. She was of course glad to be rid of me. No, I didn’t thank her, for I had paid a pretty price for it myself. It took me all of a week to realise that I had no hope in challenging the will. I went to a couple of lawyers, and explained the situation. They acted in precisely the same way, studying me, the legal side was clear, all they wanted to know was why would I do it? And I had to tell them the same lie.

In the seven months between my father’s death and probate, a very short time for a big estate, I adjusted as best I could, and gradually got used to my body. And then I took the view that I had to experiment, to find out who I was now, and to be very frank, to find out what thrilled and aroused me. It sounds very calculating, but with a new body and, perhaps a slightly changed mind (which concerned me) I had to get on with it and take the initiative and do something, anything. I was still hetero in my mind (which meant I liked women) but now trapped forever in a woman’s body. This is a strange sensation to say the least. I was pretty sure I didn’t fancy men, I didn’t before, so why should I now?  But of course I didn’t know how the hormones would affect me. I knew men fancied me now, whenever out I could see and feel them looking at me, appraising me, even though I wasn’t dressed provocatively, but I had to admit, the body that I had inherited was really quite attractive. I wasn’t flirting, hell I didn’t know how to do that, but I could sense eyes on me. I suppose I was self-conscious at first, and then even more strangely, I got just a small kick from it. What the hell were those hormones doing with my brain?

It certainly was confusing, a male brain and a female body.

Settling in to my new life, my new neighbourhood took a while, checking the shops and restaurants in my area, and occasionally meeting neighbours nearby or in the elevator was at first a little nerve wracking. I walked a lot, apprehensively at first, but gradually got more confidence. I knew people were looking at me, but then I realised that this is what attractive women (although I say it myself) must get used to. And I had to force myself to gain confidence, to go to the passport office, the motor vehicle office, the births, deaths and marriages office etc etc, to re-register for everything. Yes, I had to create a new persona. Embarrassing of course, telling them the reason, and watching the reaction, but with each step I got more confidence. Sometimes the looks I got were worth the effort alone. I was actually getting a bit of my sense of humour back. As someone said many years ago - well, you have to laugh, don’t you? I could hide away at home and feel sorry, or get on with it; I chose to get on with it, but in little steps.

Without even telling me, it was my mother who contacted some of my old friends, saying I was back and the operations were a great success, and gave out my phone number. Cruel, I thought. Any calls I got I would screen through voicemail. Amazingly, the messages left were quite positive, most of my female friends wanted to meet, but also my three best male friends had left messages to meet and have a drink. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I phoned them back and said I needed a bit more time. The women particularly were very understanding, but I had a feeling that behind it was a rather prurient interest. I know they wanted to see what I looked like, they would have to wait, but I knew I would eventually have to “come out”.

The Comfort of Latex

Ah, the lure of latex, or rubber, or gummi, or gomma, or caoutchouc (that’s French and a mouthful all right). Whatever it’s called I started my addiction in mid to late teens and it has never left me, in fact my love of it has got stronger. During these first couple of months latex provided a soothing comfort. I would dress in it in the apartment, and even under my clothes when out walking. Rainy days were my favourite, and still are, for I can dress in anything I like, all latex if I want, and then cover myself in my favourite neck to ankle rubber cape. Just to have the heavy cape rubbing my nipples underneath makes me short of breath. One of the advantages I have so far found in being a woman is that there are infinitely more options of rubber clothing, and I spent a lot of time on the internet hunting for rubber undergarments, for rubber really is the perfect material for forming, holding and accentuating the figure.

If I was going to be a woman, then why not be the best I can be? I was at first doing this for me, to give me self confidence. I wasn’t doing it to flirt with the opposite sex, hell, I wasn’t sure which were the opposite sex for me, women I suppose for that is who I still desired, but then it was the men who now clearly desired me, quite a conundrum. Playtex were the original masters at shaping the human form, but other specialised companies now cater to this small market. The panty girdle I was wearing now was high-waisted and extended down to thigh top, with four suspenders. It was comfortable and gripped in the right areas, pulling in my waist and accentuating my backside. It also had rather strange pinholes at crotch and bum, but after wearing them for a couple of hours I saw why they were necessary, giving me a little cooling ventilation, plus it held me nice and firmly. I also bought two vintage rubber crotchless girdles with suspenders and extending up to my bra. For a firmer hold I bought a rubber corselette, which cupped my breasts wonderfully, pinched my waist and extended over my hips. And for really pulling in the waist, an old-fashioned front laced reinforced rubber corset did the trick.

I was already now slim, but all these rubber foundation garments simply accentuated my figure, a little less here, a bit more there, and even more important they gave me psychological as well as physical support. Today the latex panty portion of the girdle rubbing my sensitive labia eased my nerves, in fact I was getting a little hot, and a little moist.

Each day I grew in confidence a tiny bit. I got better at my make-up, got better at walking the correct way, just swinging the hips a touch, and getting used to higher heels. I found a good hairdresser who kept my blonde locks in perfect order, and a place where I could get a decent facial, plus they did my eyebrows, which I hated doing.

So slowly my new life, as well as my body was taking shape. Eventually I had enough confidence that I didn’t fret if people stared. Why should I? I was now dressing to be looked at, wasn’t I? Yes, I was, I was dressing finally, and carrying myself, a little flirtatiously, well why not? I didn’t mind any more sitting alone in a café or restaurant, or even having a drink. I was conscious of my posture, crossing my legs just the right way, sipping not chugging, and on a couple of occasions men approached. At first my heart almost burst, but then I realised that I was the one with the power, so, smiling nicely, I kindly declined their offers, and with a smile they left. This was at lunch or early evening, so everyone was sober and behaving properly, but I didn’t go drinking in the late hours. I wasn’t ready for that yet.

But then there was the not insignificant aspect of sex. My cock and balls had gone, forever. To be replaced by a newly constructed vagina, labia and internal organs. I was also told that reconstructed out of a portion of my cock was a sensitive nubbin of flesh. This I was told was not a clitoris, it couldn’t be, but it was very sensitive and was capable of providing me with pleasure. And so soon – furtively, I was exploring myself, I had to get to know the new “me”.

Of course I liked playing with myself in latex. I always had. After I had done so a few times, one evening, after donning some clingy latex I settled on the bed. After stroking myself through the latex, my upper thighs were always sensitive for some reason, I began to roll and pinch my latex-encased nipples and rub my clit (I’ll call it that from now on) and I started to became quite moist, where that came from I don’t know. I continued this experiment and soon my breath shortened and shivers came over me. This was not an orgasm in the direct sense I suppose, but very pleasurable nonetheless. I also gained pleasure by stroking and rubbing my prostate, which seemed to have become much more sensitive. My anal area had also become more sensitive, but I wasn’t sure where I would go with that, anal sex? Well not for now, thanks. For all this I suppose I have to thank my “brilliant” surgeon, carefully selected by my mother.

So all was not lost, I had found out I could “function” as a woman and even gain considerable pleasure. And I saw no reason to deny myself that.

Seeking Some Surprising Company In Latex

“You’re not listening to me, Frankie, as usual.” My mother said drily.

“Sorry, I was miles away.” I didn’t really care what she thought.

“I asked whether you had thought about a job, have you decided?”

“Yes, absolutely, I want to get a decent place with a good firm, I have put a few feelers out. But there are not that many women in my profession.” I said sarcastically. My mother just smiled.

“Well, you’ll just have to use your feminine wiles, ha ha.”

And as she said that, my mind went back to my first contact with the (now) opposite sex.

As I said, I thoroughly enjoyed dressing in latex as a woman, and was gradually getting to know how to pleasure myself. I was getting more proficient each day, finding new locations in my body which could be touched, stroked, pinched, rubbed. The latex certainly helped, just putting it on gave me a shiver. I would even try a little self-bondage (very carefully – if I got stuck would I have to call my mother to release me?) and even bought a heavy rubber body bag with front double zip. Of course I could get out, with the internal zip, but in its unforgiving embrace I could just move my hands enough to bring me to a series of my “orgasms”.

But I wanted company.

And it occurred to me that if I was a woman, and I was, then I would have to experience what it was like to “be” with a man. I don’t know why I felt this was necessary, I didn’t think I liked men in that way, but it was a hurdle I felt I had to jump. After all I was a woman. Would I like it, hate it, maybe my new “female” brain had changed as well as my body. In my stranger moments I flirted with the idea of a cock in me, sliding, pounding me in and out, pistoning my new pussy. First, I needed to know if I could function in that way, if I could get pleasure. What would it feel like; would I really get true pleasure? And this would involve a man of course. Don’t ask me why but I felt that I had to somehow experience this, although I would never have dreamt it a little more than a year ago. But I was convinced I didn’t want all the rest, I didn’t want to suck him off, I didn’t want him to fuck my arse and I didn’t want him to even kiss me. No, not yet, at least. Yes, my mind was in turmoil, I had a woman’s body, but my brain, my psyche had not caught up. But I had to know without any doubt how my body would behave, perverse perhaps but there it is.

So that was a bit of a conundrum, most men would want to do some, or all of that to me. But to put it plainly, I wanted to know how it felt to have a fuck, no kissing thank you, and no anal, and no sucking. And so I had to think of the kind of place I might meet a man who would go along with this– a man who might have similar interests to me, well latex for instance, that was always a good leveller. I thought of one of the fetish clubs, and their playrooms. I was into latex, and perhaps I needed a guy who was interested in latex…and who wouldn’t say no to a fuck as well. I am well aware now I’m pretty attractive. Aiming too high? I thought. Well, there was only one way to find out, and I was determined to do so.

A week later I was in the back of a taxi – the driver spending most of the time peering into his rear-view mirror staring at me - on the way to a club I had been to before, just once in my former days, more than a year ago, as a latex tranny. I was dressed as a sort of military dominatrix. Figure-hugging black and blue edged military top, with loose sleeves, tight cuffs, formal collar and studs from waist to neck. The skirt was knee-length and cleverly pleated, hard to do with rubber, the stockings were jet black and held wrinkleless by my rubber corset, which in my nervousness I had probably laced too tight. Latex gloves were wrist length and tucked under the cuffs, and I was still getting used to the 4 inch heels of my Victorian boots. My black latex bra was quite thin, but fully supporting my ample silicon-assisted breasts; and my panties were black with blue frills. Over it all I had my favourite heavy rubber ankle length cape with studs from ankle to throat. With my flowing blonde hair and expert make-up (I think) I cut quite a figure, at least I hoped.

I was very nervous – had this all been a big mistake – and also hot already, the sweat building behind the latex, and also little damp in the right places. But I wasn’t going to back down now.

But I needn’t have been so anxious. One of the things about these clubs is the extraordinary level of tolerance, everyone is cool, we’re all a bit perverted, but we’re going to dress the way we want, do our thing and have fun. Soon I had to undo the lower studs of my cape up to my breasts and I swept it over my shoulders, musketeer style. This was a good idea as it showed off my impressive legs, small waist and firm boobs as I sat at one of the bars. I was beginning to have a good time, chatting with men and women, feeling eyes on me, but there was nothing wrong in that, this was a place to see and be seen. After a couple of hours I was very hot and wet and after checking out a few guys was beginning to lose hope. Here I am, come and get me I screamed to myself. Then I heard a quiet voice behind me.

“You look like you’re going to faint in that, would you like me to look after it for you. I promise I won’t run away with it, although it is a beauty.” I turned and checked him out. A bit shorter than me, but then I had my 4 inch heels, slim but well proportioned, and dressed from head to toe in gleaming, clinging red latex. Hmmm, I liked that. He smiled rather sheepishly behind his full head mask, nice teeth and clear blue eyes, but the rest hidden.

“Sure, I’m very hot and pretty damp too, so thanks.” I passed the cape to him. And so we chatted, he hadn’t seen me before etc etc. and we got on very well. I was Frankie and he was Patrick. He liked to keep the mask on, for the level of anonymity, allowing him to lose his inhibitions. I said I liked masks too and he laughed and said I was far too attractive to wear them, and of course I liked the flattery. I liked him; he wasn’t pushy or macho but attentive and amusing. After a couple of drinks on very little food, I was feeling a lot better, and as we seemed to get on well I thought well why wait, now’s the time.

One Big Step and a Revelation

“Actually Patrick, I’m here for a specific reason, and I hope you may be able to… accommodate me.” He looked a bit worried behind the mask.

“Don’t look so worried, Patrick do you find me attractive?” Was this me saying this? I hardly believed it myself. He looked at me strangely.

“Are you kidding, you are beautiful, and although I’m a latex addict you’d be attractive in anything…. or nothing.” A bad joke but we both laughed. I took a deep breath, okay, here we go.

“Okay Patrick, here’s the deal, I haven’t had sex for quite a while.” Here he smiled encouragingly, thinking, no doubt, what the hell is going on. “For a number of reasons which I won’t get into, okay, hard to believe I know haha. So you seem like a nice guy, so…. how would you like to have se… make love to me tonight.” I locked eyes with him. He remained silent. “There’s no real catch here, I’m not a praying mantis or psycho or anything. I just need to have sex, nice and slow, okay. You’re a cute looking guy (was I really saying this?) behind that mask, and it’s been a while and you seem like a nice chap, at least what I can tell behind the mask that is. Look, absolutely no strings, nice slow sex, nice and easy, hhmm? And then we can go our separate ways. Isn’t this a guy’s dream? I hope you think that this may be your lucky day Patrick.” For a few more seconds he didn’t speak, just looked at me, trying to find the reason, perhaps to say no, but didn’t.

“I’d be flattered, of course erm sure, you don’t want me to ask any questions, no, so erm, now?”

“Well, I’m ready, believe me. Shall we find a playroom.” Well, I had done it, not much chance of backing out now and saving face. Of course I was anxious as he placed the cape demurely over my shoulders and his hand around my corseted waist, and I took a deep breath. We crossed the dance floor and found a room, complete with a bed of latex sheets and pillows, and condoms on the side table. This is a club that thinks of its patrons. After closing the door he approached me tentatively.

“This is kind of strange. I keep thinking there must be a catch somewhere.”

“Yeah I know it does, you have no idea. Anyway, all right I cheated a little, there are just a couple of catches. You may think me too weird and you can back out but there are a couple of things I’m not in for tonight. But it will still be good, I hope……”

“Oh. Okay.” He stopped in his tracks, ready to run?

“Don’t ask the reasons, okay? I just need to take it nice and slow, soooooo erm, no anal, okay? No cock sucking, and no er kissing. Weird I know but well…”

“Yeah, a bit, but you’re calling the shots. I can understand the anal and sucking, but you are very beautiful, so I really would like to kiss you.” And here I took a breath in, rather taking to his flattery. “But it’s your call. Hey, it’s our first time, ha ha. Look, I think I can handle that Frankie, whatever you want, I’m just…. lucky to be here with a beautiful girl (a beautiful girl he said! Twice!) dressed stunningly in rubber, who wants to make love, haha are you kidding me? You just tell me what you want to do, and I think we might have some fun, yes, I’m sure we will?”

“Thanks, I’m just getting through something and I need time, you know how it is.” Of course he had no idea how it was, for me anyway. I collected my thoughts. “Okay, how about you sit on the bed and I’ll just stand here in front of you, and you can, well whatever you like…” I chuckled nervously but he sat down and I moved to him. Part of me couldn’t believe I was doing this, with a man! But then I wasn’t the old me, this was the new me, the female me, and I was still finding out who that was.

And slowly, quite tenderly he took control. Sheez, this was a man I was with! It didn’t seem right, no, not at all, but then….. so I tried to clear my mind, and just feel, relax and enjoy, and forget the rest. I closed my eyes and just tried to feel his hands and my reaction to them. He started stroking my latex covered legs, up and up to my thighs, oh, my so sensitive thighs; he took his time, leaning forward, breathing in the aroma of my latex. And then with one hand between my thighs he stood, saying.

“I need to stand, because I would like to look at you, if I can’t kiss you at least I want to see how I am doing, okay?” I nodded silently, for already I was a bit breathy. He opened the stud of my tunic at my throat and moved down, pulling them apart, one by one to below my breasts, then parted it, staring at my full breasts.

“Oh my.” He took them both gently and fondled and squeezed them for a couple of minutes, not taking his eyes from mine. I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but he was being a gentleman, so far. I was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on my forehead. Then he touched my nipples, and I took a deep breath, oooooh. They really were sensitive, where had that come from? And he lowered his head and took a rubber-covered nipple in his mouth, biting gently.

“I love the taste of the latex over your nipple, and look how the latex holds you perfectly, oh my god. I don’t need to see them naked, just to have them supported so perfectly.” He twisted a finger and thumb around one and I winced.

“Oh sorry, are you…”

“I’m fine, fine, really sensitive but keep going, please.” Did I say that? And he did for a few minutes, fondling, squeezing, massaging, pinching. He caresses my neck, folded his fingers through my hair, I could see he was getting very aroused. I couldn’t believe how sensitive I was, I really didn’t want him to stop, my god, this was sooo bizarre. Then he sat back on the bed and moved his hands under my skirt, and I felt a finger press into the latex of my tight panties and push the rubber between my labia.

“What a perfect camel toe, a flawless crease. Hmmm.” He dipped his head under my skirt and I could feel his nose rubbing me as he inhaled the pungent aroma of the rubber, and me no doubt. His voice was a bit muffled by my skirt and by him pressing his face onto my panties. He moved his hands behind me and fondled my cheeks then, just a little, pushing the rubber between my cheeks.

“Oh sorry, no anal right? But that was okay, yes?”

“Yes, it was fine, more than fine.” I wasn’t sure about the anal at all, but his finger caressing my sensitive sphincter gave me quite a buzz.

“The aroma is something I’ve always fantasised about, I’ve never been in this position before, but it’s so much better in reality, the perfume of latex and oh, well, a gorgeous woman.” Yes, that was me he was talking about. A minute ago I was beautiful, now I was gorgeous, I was finding it hard to keep track with all this. Then he began to ease my panties down, sliding them past my thighs till I stepped out of them. And here I held my breath, could he tell that I wasn’t…? If so, would he tell? And then I spread my legs further and felt his warm wet tongue lick my labia, up and down, and again. I parted my legs even further without knowing it, wanting his tongue to make me shake and shudder, and he then poked his tongue further, wiggling it. Ohhh, this I hadn’t expected, and more important, my reaction, for now I wanted more.

He pushed his tongue further in, and then out, and then up! He had found my nubbin, my fake clit, and he encircled it with his tongue, oh god. Breathing heavily, I pulled my skirt up and over his masked head, then pulled him further onto me. At my groin I could feel him breathing in and out, his warm breath tickling me, but he continued to lick and suck at my new, virgin pussy. I was very wet down there now. I slowly turned sideways and carefully sat on the bed, his head still trapped by my skirt. Then I lay back and said.

“That is so good, now fuck me, fuck me please, Patrick.” I didn’t care any more how that sounded, more than a year ago I would have freaked at the thought. But now I was in a different world. But I had a little way to go yet.

Was this really happening? I was asking to be fucked by a man, my god, how had that happened? How would this work out? Would I be able to accommodate his cock, would I be dry, it seemed not, how about too tight, hyper-sensitive, or with no feeling, how would he find my love nest? I just tried to relax, clear out any questioning thoughts, just enjoy the moment. I knew I was wet there, which was a good sign, and as I lay back I watched Patrick emerge from under my skirt, a happy smile on his masked face smeared with my gleaming juices.

“Frankie,” he whispered, “I’d be very happy to.” He unzipped his latex suit at the crotch, and out sprung his cock, moisture gleaming from the purple head all down the shaft. I am not an expert on cocks, erect ones anyway, having only seen flaccid ones in the shower, but his looked a good size. I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t gay in my former life, and was not meant to like men then, but at that moment I wanted him in me, not as the culmination of an experiment any more, but for pleasure. I didn’t want to suck him, no, I wasn’t at that point (yet?) maybe I never would be, but now I didn’t care about gay, straight, bi, tranny or whatever any more. I was shivering in anticipation, I wanted him inside me. I just hoped we would be a good fit. He started to roll on a condom.

“You don’t need a…” Well there was no chance of me ever getting pregnant, and somehow I didn’t think he was going to pass anything onto me. He seemed like a nice, clean guy.

“Well, actually I like a condom, thick as possible, it makes me go for longer and longer, if that’s okay with you…” He looked rather embarrassed. However right then that sounded good to me.

“Whatever is good for you.” And so he slid it on and I spread my legs as I lay back, smiling up at him and actually looking forward to the culmination of my “experiment”. He supported himself on both sides of me.

“Be carefu….just easy now.” I whispered nervously, and I could feel the head of his cock at my entrance, easing apart my labia. He held there for a second.

“You look nervous, don’t be, this will be fun. Okay?” Oh, if only he knew! I nodded. He pressed a bit more and I felt myself part, and that was fine too, and I nodded again. Now a couple more inches. Ooooh my god.

“Want me to slow down?” I shook my head, noooo! And he smiled and in one smooth, even pressure he plunged inside me. I gulped in air. Ohmygod fuuuuuuck. But I was okay, better than okay. So my new virgin (well not any more) pussy could take it. There was lots of lubrication, and the nerve endings on the inside of my pussy were sending serious signals to my brain already. And I felt nice and warm, comforted. He withdrew a couple of inches, nodded down to me, his masked head was about 12 inches above mine, I nodded back, and he pressed into me again.

“Don’t, don’t…. don’t stop.” I hissed and he smiled broadly and began a slow, even rhythm. I could feel goose bumps all over my latex-covered body, my breathing became faster, my stomach began to shake, then my chest, and Patrick laughed as he looked down at my big rubber boobs jiggling. This was all right, this was better than all right. Then, almost unconsciously I found myself stroking his arms, then chest and shoulders, then his hard muscled latex-covered bum cheeks. I crossed my legs around his hips, not wanting to let him go, wanting him deep inside me, rubbing my insides. Then I held his masked head in my hands and stroked his cheeks, and over his rubber dome. Yes, this was me doing this, I could hardly believe it at all.

No, when I was a man I wasn’t gay, not in the past. But I’m not a man now, I am a functioning woman, I have the body of a woman, my mind is still certainly confused, but right now I’m loving this. Does that make sense? I find this man attractive and what he is doing to me is highly exciting. So what is going on? Had all these hormones scrambled my brain, or was there something within me all along, that got triggered by a man fucking me? Now, the man was dressed in latex, I’m sure that was a factor, for his slim, muscled body looked, and felt, fantastic, I had to admit, as I stroked his chest and buttocks, but still, this was a man. I had to stop over-analysing, but it was hard not to.

But my pussy was wet, the nerve endings were sending wild messages to my brain and why shouldn’t I just relish this?

The bottom line was, and this I suppose was the epiphany moment for me, the past is gone forever, unrecoverable, and this is who I am now, and to embrace that, and get on with life as it is. It didn’t matter anymore as to what or who I had once been. I was tingling and trembling and shaking all over. The nerve endings in my pussy were sending messages that I had never before experienced. The surgeon took away a lot of me, essentially of whom I was, but he seemed to have left, or replaced, something very important for me to carry on with, and to give me pleasure, and hope, for the future.

We had set up a very good rhythm, me even supporting him, hands on chest while he fondled my sensitive tits and continued to thrust in and out. I was still very wet and he felt this and got more confident, seeing the pleasure on my face, and pumped into me as deep as he could go, and still I was very comfortable, more than comfortable with that.

Finally Patrick came, thrusting hard into me, and I continued to shake and twitch in my new version of my orgasm. I did not really have much to compare it with, the male one is over in seconds typically, and this was much more prolonged, but perhaps not as intense as those few seconds for a male. But I had no complaints, none at all.

But right then, that didn’t matter to me. I now knew I could gain sexual pleasure from penetration, having a hard cock in me, and pleasure from foreplay on breasts, nipples, labia, and my nubbin (and possibly my bum hole, but that was for another day, perhaps!). And just as important, I could give pleasure, as evidenced by Patrick, rolling over next to me, a smile on his masked face and a hand gently laid to my breast. No, I was definitely not into sucking cock, not yet anyway (!), no. But having one in me pumping in and out had been extremely pleasurable.

After we had recovered, we chatted a while, very comfortable with each other’s company. I complimented him for being a gentleman, and he said he’d had a great time. He didn’t seem to detect anything different about me, or if he did he was a gentleman in the true sense. He never asked me about why we didn’t do anal, or a blow job, or even kissing, he was the epitome of discretion, and I liked him a lot for that. Neither of us mentioned whether we would see each other again, who knows? Both of us would be coming to the club again, but no strings were attached, and we were both at ease with that. So we got ready to part, like ships in the night. I needed to get myself in order – he watched, amused, as I tentatively pulled my panties on over my glistening pussy enjoying their snug fit, flirting a little as I smoothed out the creases over my bum, then hair and face sorted, tunic buttoned up. And so he bade his goodbye. As I came to the door with him, he turned and gently manoevred me until my back was to the wall, then leaned towards me. I took a gulp of air, ready to resist, as our eyes met and he lowered his head to mine. Now I could have placed my hands on his chest, I could have shaken my head, I could have said, firmly but nicely, no.

But I didn’t.

He turned his head and I turned mine in unison. Our lips met and I breathed in the pungent aroma of his latex suit and mask. There was no tongue, no heavy pressing of lips, but our lips parted and caressed each other for perhaps six or seven seconds. Then we parted, he smiled again, said thank you, and was gone. I wasn’t sure what to make of my own behaviour, sometimes I even surprise myself.

So mission accomplished. That sounds callous, and I didn’t mean that, it was an evening beyond all my expectations, eye-opening of course, and exciting too. I had been with a man, who had satisfied me, that would have been more than strange less than a couple of years ago, but now things had definitely changed. I loved the feel of his hard cock sliding in and out of my super sensitive love channel, and the kiss was the only thing I had second thoughts about, an odd thing to consider perhaps. But I was getting to know the new me, and what I was discovering was surprising and pleasing me.

But what was to come?

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01.03.17

story continues in Frankie's Fable 2: Will They Accept Me As I Am?

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