Sissy Blane and the Hydraulic Inevitable

The story so far: debt-ridden Sissy Blane's first obligatory date with Mr. Plumrose is about to take place.


'...there's nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' The truth of the old saying occurred to me as I awoke on the fateful Friday and was surprised to discover that I was looking forward to the events of the coming evening.

Arising from my bed feeling energized I bounced downstairs to make a breakfast of oatmeal and raisins and some french-press coffee. I decided that would be it, food-wise, for me that day, because I was determined to be sharp-eyed and alert in the P.M.  No point endangering my coming efforts with the vagaries of digestion on this fraught day.

Back upstairs I showered, then looked at the clock to discover it wasn't even 9 o'clock in the morning yet, so I cleaned the bathroom. Then I washed my wig. I used baby shampoo and followed up with an expensive conditioner. My casual wig was short and perky but this one was for my more ambitious forays and it was a heavier shoulder-length style. The manufacturer called it 'Luxury' and it was meant to be glamorous and seductive in a rich, controlled, old-school mode; gentle waves, a  flirtatious fringe and realistic looking strands of ash interwoven with strawberry blonde made this peruke a real crowning glory. This would be the third time I wore it. After the conditioned rinse I pinned it to a Styrofoam wig-head and left it to drip into the sink.

If there was a worry in my day it was only over what to wear. I decided on a charcoal tweed micro-miniskirt with a raspberry stripe.  It would just cover the ecru welt of my thigh-highs when I stood in the pointy black patent flats I chose to drive up to the Plumrose place in, they being practical and comfortable, but attractively assertive. (Besides, there was no telling whether or not the man would even personally meet me in my 'street clothes', so I might as well please myself.) Over this, I'd wear a sleeveless cream shell and a close-fitting black cardigan woven of synthetic fibres which gave it a slightly lurid sheen. Last but certainly not least I chose for my underwear white, Bali Secret Hug full coverage briefs (with the seam running vertically between the butt cheeks) and a vintage Frederick's lightly padded white bra. 

There had been no talk of my upper torso in my interview with Madame and so I assumed that Mr. P was, like most admirers of sissies and T gjrls, strictly a leg man. The babydoll nightie hanging in my garment bag had the suggestion of a built-in bra in its bodice which outlined each breast with an elastic triangle, my nipples stroked the tender weave of the chiffon gently, a bit like a young girl might feel in a training bra. I liked the way such things put me in mind of a maiden, on her first foray into the wider world of male appreciation.

Cindy had kindly offered to come by around six to check my makeup and catch anything I might have missed. Until then I had plenty of time for fine tuning; applying my tweezers to hairs at the corners of my mouth, my eyebrows and my chin; applying toenail polish (pink); and taking an electric razor yet again to my underarms and the area to the left and right of my brown pubic 'landing strip' (not to mention the skin of my scrotum and perineum which had already been polished to a fare-the-well.) My actual facial shave would be the last thing I would do before applying my makeup in the early evening.

After a couple of hours of this puttering, I went out to the 'backyard' to check out my car. Most of the homes in my neighborhood did not have driveways in the front of the house but used an entrance off the alley that ran the length of the block behind the homes. This was convenient for discreet crossdressers like myself, who appreciated the anonymity it conferred. The Karmann Ghia sat on the brick patio pointed at a gap in the hedge. I lifted the hood and squatted behind the motor bay to check my oil. I also gave a tug to the gas line where it ran into the carburetor (I'd had it pop out on the freeway once when I was 'Betty' and it was a frightening experience.) I looked at the battery cable too. Mechanically I was good to go. 

I did love the little mole-grey coupe. My aunt had pampered it and re-upholstered it in brown naugahyde and installed a cassette-based sound system back when that was the cutting edge technology.  She had never switched to digital so if I wanted to listen to current sounds I just played my phone through Bluetooth speakers. Madame H had insinuated that I dishonored my dear aunt's memory with my current lifestyle. But I felt I honored her every time I drove the Ghia and maintained it faithfully against the inroads of time, wear, and weather


"I want you to try this on your eyebrows, Betty." Cindy gave me the prosthetic adhesive and showed me how to brush it into the brow hair and press the brow flat while pulling it into a thin feminine line. It smelt terrible coming out of the bottle but that was fleeting. It was tenacious stuff that turned my eyebrows into plastic. Cindy also brought along the patent solvent you needed to get it off.

"Get it at Cinema Secrets, Betty, when you run out. But it's not cheap."

I knew I would always need this stuff. Some T girls shaved their eyebrows and painted perfect brows on but I couldn't do that if I was going to get a job, which it seemed I would have to do, pronto.

Something that didn't smell terrible coming out of the bottle was my late aunt's Chanel No. 5 eau de parfum. After she died it contained just a millimeter or so, coloring the bottom of the glass, and I had spent the last year judiciously dabbling precious drops behind my ears but on this occasion I decided to go for broke and placed the fragrant droplets on all my pulse points and on that special topiary above my pubis. The huge and ancient bottle that had always had pride of place in my aunt's boudoir was finally empty! Cindy couldn't help but comment about how wonderfully the hall smelled when I had greeted her a the door.

"Also, Betty. I don't want to hurt your feelings but I AM glad I came over. That mini-skirt is not going to work, you look like a transvestite circa 2005 going to 'schoolgirl night' at the club. Plumrose won't see you until after you change, if my experience is any indication, but you never know. Even if you are met by one of his people you still want to make a good impression and that skirt is really just a wide belt. Anyway, I anticipated this, so brought along something new for you to try on... "

Cindy bent down to retrieve an American Apparel bag from her carry-all. It contained a grey pleated mini-skirt. I stepped out of the skirt I was wearing and pulled the new item up over my hips and buttoned it in the small of my back. The waist was navel height, the hem hit a handspan above mid-thigh and when I twirled the pleated skirt flowed out wonderfully.

"I love it!" I said.

"Size 8. It's much sexier than the other one, Betty."

Cindy's final suggestion, that I use press-on nails instead of painting my own pampered fingernails also made sense to me if I were gainful employment soon. She had even brought some in her bag of tricks and after we applied them together I admired my outstretched hand; the French nails struck me as equally sexy and sophisticated.

I followed Cindy's Land Rover out of my yard and through the streets to San Vicente Boulevard where we both turned right; she, a few blocks to her home and I all the way to Brentwood where a left on Kenter took me up to Sunset. I'd left the house at 8:30 which was cutting it a bit fine but I had a notion that in this case ten minutes late would be more welcome than five minutes early. As I drove I reflected warmly on Cindy's generosity. I glanced down at the tennis skirt she had gifted me. The tweed mini that had been my first choice would have revealed my undies as I drove in this low car with its scooped-out bucket seats. SUVs in the next lane or pedestrians at corners would be treated to not just a fleeting triangle but a blinding white pyramid of white nylon tricot between my thighs, but the pleated tennis skirt nestled itself into an arrangement of folds that glided across my lap demurely as my legs worked the pedals. As a matter of fact, I started to find the whole ensemble not a little arousing in the cold cockpit of the Ghia. My thighs were warmly ensconced in my nylon thigh-highs and my chest and shoulders were protected by the black, 3/4 sleeve cardigan, but my plucked forearms and my bare legs in that unguarded border between stocking-top and panty enjoyed a feeling of naked freshness in the unheated car. This and the weight of my glamour wig brushing my shoulders made me quite aware of the mantle of girly-ness I carried through the early Los Angeles evening.

The traffic on Sunset was busy but fluid, the late rush-hour had given way at last to pleasure seekers headed toward Westwood and points east. I slipped a Cal Tjader cassette into the player and pressed the button. At Beverly Glen the left lane was backed up with Valley dwellers, waiting to turn onto Beverly Glen. I kept to their right and seemed to zoom by in the span of a vibraphonic arpeggio and I thought that I just might be on time this evening.

'If you pass The House of Blues you've gone too far', had been Cindy's parting directions, but here it was before me and on my left was the street that would take me up into the hills. I turned rather abruptly across the oncoming traffic and began the ascent. In half a block I could see that Madame H was right, it would be second gear all the way. Never mind, second was a gear this car liked very well. I kept the revs high and I climbed rentlessy up the steep grades, my eyes equally on the street signs and on the spectacular vistas that were revealed in the gaps between the houses:  the towers of Century City, the bright fun-scape of West Hollywood, immediately below, and far to the east, the Emerald City skyline of downtown L.A.

It seemed as if I had been scaling the mountainside for fifteen minutes, although it couldn't have been half that long. Tilted back in my seat, with my legs working the clutch and throttle, my skirt had slid all the way up my thighs and uncovered my brown stocking tops, I smoothed it forward as I pulled into an entryway bearing the street number I sought. A gate barred further ingress and I cranked down my window to press the intercom button mounted on a stanchion.

"Yes, hello?" A mildly accented female voice came through the night's almost alpine crispness.

"It's Betty Blane, I have an appointment with Mr. Plumrose," I replied, my demure femme-voice sounding suddenly absurd to my ears. 

But the reply came brisk and cheerful, "just park anywhere in the driveway and I will meet you at the door."

A Bentley convertible and a Mini Cooper were parked next to the curb of a circular driveway that created a tiny park in its center which was planted with a small, spikey, floss silk tree. I stood on the walkway next to the Ghia and I could just barely see over the property's wall. The view was, of course, quite grand. As I was bending over retrieving my garment bag from the vestigial backseat the house door clicked open behind me.  I jerked upright and when I turned I saw a young woman, short and small-waisted, with straight blue-black hair that fell below her shoulders, she wore a white tailored blouse tucked into very expensive and very tight jeans. 

She said, "Hello,  Betty. Won't you please follow me?" And I did follow her, my eyes on her heart-shaped bottom, into an entrance hall where her black heels clicked on a parquet floor. We stopped and she turned and smiled prettily at me.

"My name is Lourdes, Betty, you will find everything you require in this room."

She gestured toward a walnut colored door with her right hand.

"I will be back in fifteen minutes. Will that be enough time?"

"Oh yes, thank you, Lourdes," I replied, feeling unduly grateful for some reason.

"Excellent!" she said,  "Mr. Plumrose is anxious to meet you."

She turned crisply and left. I had almost expected the woman to click her heels.

Once inside I discovered a bedroom much like my own at home, spacious, with an attached bathroom, but, I would soon discover, better appointed to an alarming degree. I'll admit that the new surroundings, indeed the novelty of my current mission had me a little discombobulated but I  shook off the strangeness and addressed myself to the business at hand -- fifteen minutes is not long for a t-girl to change clothes.

Throwing the garment bag onto the queen bed, I kicked off the flats and stripped naked. Before I went into the bathroom, in which Lourdes, or someone, had left a light burning, I searched for the room light and found a rheostat switch on the wall by the door. I pushed it up. The splendor I had sensed, and smelled, was laid bare. One wall was entirely mirrored, seams in the brilliantly clean glass panels revealed that they were several doors of an immense closet. I watched myself as I crossed to the bathroom. I found my makeup in excellent repair and I just plumped my wig with my fingertips and stepped back into the mirrored room.

I just had to see. I strode to the glass closet doors and slid them open. What I saw made me gasp, I felt a twinge in my groin and shut the doors immediately. In the mirror I saw myself with my knees bent as if I had to pee, my eyes were wide and one hand covered my gaping mouth. My reflection looked back at me as if to say, 'did we really see that?'

Yes, we did. I went to the garment bag and retrieved my cell phone from its pocket. Opening two closet doors wide, I stepped back and took a picture of the closet' s interior.

Reviewing this high-def snapshot later, by myself, and also with Cindy, I realize that the reaction I'd  had to the closet was a result of the theatricality of its contents and that my impression was exactly what the designer of any spectacle wanted to elicit - shock and awe. I might have opened a wardrobe door in the dressing rooms of a Las Vegas chorus line, or more likely the Moulin Rouge or Crazy Horse. To the left and right of me had been racks of lurid outfits; pink and black and blue gingham onesies, tight dresses in lurex, leather, lycra and vinyl of various degrees of shinyness and transparency. Beneath these garments were shoes and boots, all high-heeled, that I could see, both in and out of boxes. Directly before me stood a waist-high chest-of-drawers upon which a wooden wig-head sported a towering honey blond headpiece of the kind worn by country music queens and strippers of the last century or drag queens of any century. There was a tiara on its crown and it was magnificent.

Below it was the tiers of drawers, half a dozen of them. They had no drawer pulls but featured cut-outs to insert one's hand into. But one didn't have to open a drawer to see it's contents: the cutaway in all cases revealed the neat folds of lingerie, some with edges of lace both modest and broad on garments of nylon and silk, sheer, black, red, white, champagne, coral and mauve.

I could guess what was behind the other doors of this wall closet, this was just a third of it. I forced myself away. Away and back to dressing. I had wasted five minutes with this fascinating distraction but luckily there wasn't much for me to put on. I shimmied the babydoll top over my head and pulled the linen garter belt around my waist and booked the clasp in front of my navel, nice and tight, then sucked in my tummy even tighter while I slid the belt one hundred and eighty degrees so the pretty panel faced front. The stainless steel tab eyes dangled cold against my thighs in this freezing room. Now came the delicate part - pulling the full fashioned stockings up and attaching the garter straps, the straps should be as straight as possible and left and right ranks should be a mirror image of each other. I accomplished this quickly but carefully and took a moment to lie back on the bed and lift my legs into the air while caressing the miracle fabric they were woven of, the feeling never failed to thrill me. I dropped my feet to the floor and worked the sheer Nancy King panties up my legs, loving the drag of the elastic as it skipped across the woof and weft of the nylons.

I tucked my incipient chubbie down between my thighs, as I pulled the panties up over the garter straps and settled the waistband atop the linen garter belt itself. I expected Lourdes at the door any time now. I shoved my feet down ruthlessly into the beautiful, cruel pumps and stood beside the bed. I took a few steps, the discomfort and the concentration required to wear this outfit was transformative, it drove niggling, distracting thoughts clean away and left behind focus and an elegant kind of gravitas. When Lourdes' rap-a-tap-tap came through the door a minute later, I was composed and ready for battle.

I followed Lourdes around a corner and into a long corridor adding my clicking heels to hers in the chilly and nearly dark hallway, (only a white LED strip along the baseboard guided our feet) the left-hand side of the passage was entirely clear glass. The black void outside, bordered by neighboring lights that fell precipitously away on either side suggested that the corridor bridged two wings of the home. I strode along with my head high relishing the moment, owning my transformation and feeling powerful with the hem of the nightie brushing my hip bones as it swayed to my practised gait. The cold of the night was like fingers on my shoulders and my bare arms, my throat, and my thighs, all the way up to the sheer white gusset at my groin.

We passed through a door at the end of the passageway and came to another polished wooden door. Lourdes, who carried my garment bag for me, rapped her special tap and a male voice answered, "come in."

My guide led the way into the dark room and I stepped into the door frame and peered across the space at a man seated behind a desk illuminated only by a green-shaded desk lamp and silhouetted by the distant city lights coming through the glass wall behind him. I realized that the vast panorama had been hidden from my view by the mountain as I climbed the road in my car.

I stepped across the threshold and saw that although he and I just were on the same level a wide carpeted pit, about two feet deep, separated us. Behind me I felt Lourdes move, I glanced back as she hung my bag on the wall hook. She smiled at me. "So lovely to meet you," she said and left, closing the door behind her. It made quiet whoosh and we two remaining occupants were left in a soft, luxurious silence.

The silhouette spoke first, "I'm so very glad you came, Betty. Did Lourdes give you the Cook's tour? What do you think of our home?"

He moved a rheostat slide near his desk and the shapes and colors of things became, if not clear, at least discernable.

"It's lovely," I answered, "but it is very cold in here."

He laughed, "That's how Lourdes likes it! She's from Quito - right on the equator but halfway up the Andes. Sixty-three degrees Fahrenheit all year long."

"I see."

"I see too. How very pretty you are. Maggie showed me pictures of you, but in the flesh, you are quite superb."

No one had ever complimented me in this manner before, certainly not a man, and my head thrummed. I wanted to say, 'Oh, thank you!' But what I did say was:

"Maggie? Maggie who? "

"Maggie Harding, your director, of course."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know her first name."

"Well, now you do. Please come over to me, Betty."

I took the two steps down into the well of the room and crossed three yards of carpet passing the dim shapes of a couch and chairs, and climbed two steps to come up next to Plumrose's desk. He reached out to take my hand in his very warm fingers, then he lifted my band to bestow it with a light, continental kiss.

"A custom in my country."

He did have the faintest of accents. 

"Are you from Ecuador, too?"

He laughed,  "No. I am Swiss; halfway up a different mountain."

He dropped my hand and put his own on my right knee. He said nothing but the director in my head shouted 'action!'

Sometimes inaction is what's called for, however. I bent my left knee and let my arms hang quietly by my side while staring through the plate glass wall with a blank expression on my face. Mr. Plumrose's hand stopped stroking when he reached the back of my knee, then he stood up and let his fingers graze my thigh as he rose. He stood behind me, very close.

I checked our reflection in the enormous window. He wasn't a bad looking man, certainly not handsome, but clean and well groomed, a bit paunchy perhaps, and I stood at least an inch above him in the tarty pumps. He was dressed with flair in a white dress shirt with rolled sleeves, open at the neck and tucked into dark, luxurious wool slacks that were doing nothing to hold down the boner that was trying to lift my right butt cheek.

"The view is remarkable isn't it?"

It was. The nighttime tapestry of the San Fernando Valley's electric grid spreading to the San Gabriels was a cliche redeemed by seeing it from this very private perspective.

"Yes," I replied,  "do you ever get tired of it?"

As I spoke, I turned to face him. I could feel my lips verging on a smirk, I controlled that and let my eyes blaze instead. Freed, his cock was able to rise to its fully erect posture and seemed to be resting on the arch of my garter belt. His fingers were on my thighs, under the garter straps.

"I never, never do," he said, and he kissed me very sweetly.

It was the first time I had been kissed on the mouth by a man, at least by a man who was dressed as a man and I found the experience indistinguishable from those other times. It was also pleasurable. I opened my lips a little and kissed back.

We should have been bumping our members, but my tuck had my own cock bent double and I was unable to achieve full erection. Sensing this, Plumrose reached between us to shake it loose, I lifted a thigh to help. That done I did my own delving and unzipped the gentleman's slacks and withdrew his birk from what felt like a pair of boxers. I leant back and put my two arms about his neck and now as we continued to kiss our cocks were free to nuzzle against each other too. I lost myself in the swoon of it all; my eyes were closed but I could see us clearly in my mind's eye, our posture both languid and fully primed. Plumrose's fat hardon explored my groin through my panties, sometimes thrusting its head between elastic closures so that I could feel the heat of it on my bare flesh. I shimmied and squirmed and helped him as best I could, gasping and moaning all the while. It had been some time since I'd felt any chill in the room.

"Come here." 

His heavy breathing matched my own as he tugged me by the wrist down into the pit where we flopped onto the wide leather couch. I twisted myself, so I faced backwards and dropped my face to his groin and took him into my mouth without much ado. His forearm was between my knees as I knelt on the couch and he raised it to bring his hand into play where the generous gusset of my babydoll panties held my crotch behind a delicate chiffon scrim. I continued to suck, as Mr. Plumrose ran his fingers back and forth across the whole area between my scrotum and my anus. I moaned into his cock in ecstasy, uttering affirmative mm-hmms and little sobs whenever a pre-orgasmic spasm took me.

Plumrose ceased his strumming in order to pull my head from his lap and reclined my form along the couch.

"Just lay back," he said, and took up a position crouching on the carpet as he leant over me pinning me down with his right side on my stomach and holding my erect cock in his right hand while his left caressed my balls, which by now were tender with their load of unspent cum.

"As pretty as these panties are, we must now remove them," he said and slid them down to my feet where he left them just below my ankle bones, not attempting to work them over the spike heels of my pumps.

"You have a beautiful clitty!" he declared and stooped to kiss it.

Plumrose did lots of things to me down there; he held my shaft at its base until the head swelled up and then bullied the magenta bloom with his lips and tongue, he stroked me, with the feathery fingertips with of one hand while the other traced the engorged root of my member from the scrotum to where it disappeared next to my anus.

"My God, How hard you are!"

I couldn't see over his broad back. My groin demanded all his attention and he poured over it almost jealously. My head lolled back and forth, my hands fluttered without object, helplessly fussing with his back or with my own frothy bodice. And I was moaning all the time now. We both knew it wouldn't be long.

"Mr. Plumrose!" I cried, "I...I ... you..."

I sat up part way, my hand on his back. I could just see my white toe-caps at the end of the couch in the dim room. 

"Shh," he said.

He cupped my balls in his warm left hand and initiated a light, quick, loping stroke with his right and I fell back on the couch and watched the ceiling through the veil of my heavily mascaraed eyelashes. Lying there, an image came into my mind of the room where I had changed clothes and the long closet full of clothes, on hangers, neatly layered in drawers, the shoes in and out of boxes--and suddenly I reached it -- the hydraulic inevitable--and I only had time to utter a sincere, helpless, 'oh' before I was gasping and shooting out all the semen I'd stored for the last 60 hours of excitation and preparation.I pumped my hips again and again, hard, all over Plumrose, whose fist continued to milk me relentlessly, and all that jism, homogenized, supercharged by Guaifenesen, jetted about our love nest, speckling him, my legs and thighs and the couch with the hyped serum.

I continued to buck automatically for almost a half a minute, the spasms gradually weakening - Plumrose assiduously coaxing it all out of me, bending to suck my shaft clean, the most attentive of lovers.

Finally, he turned, his chest and shoulders shiny with me, and said, "Don't move, I'll be right back."

I lie there, an empty sack, limp and flaccid except for my penis which remains alert (a pleasant quirk  of my reproductive system, even after an orgasm such as the one that just overtaken me.)

I heard the sound of a tap in a nearby bathroom and soon Plumrose was back with a warm, wet washcloth and a towel. He wiped me down and dried me - my cock, still heavy but resting now atop my right thigh. I lay motionless. He spoke my name and I fluttered my eyelids and murmured, 'huh?'

I remember he covered me with a blanket. I awoke some time later in the cold, dim room. I felt suddenly energized. The purge had done me good. I kicked off my heels and hitched up my panties and went to the end of the room and found the bathroom where I sat down to pee then stepped into the shower stall where I was careful to keep my wig clear of the stream. It felt wonderful.

As I was toweling there was a knock and Plumrose stepped into the room and confronted my nakedness. I stared back at him in the same serene pose I had assumed while standing next to his desk. Our eyes locked for a moment then he hung my garment bag on the door.

"I'll talk to you before you leave," he said.

After the door clicked behind him I quickly turned to the mirror. My, lipstick was completely gone but my waterproof mascara had survived and my foundation was even passable. I checked my wig and the tousled hair looked sexy.

I stripped off the nightie and hose, and got back into my arrival clothes. I fished my lipstick out of the garment bag and reapplied it, dabbed my face from my Cover Girl compact and wished I'd had some more Chanel. I smoothed my little "tennis skirt" with my palms and grabbed the garment bag with its load of sex smudged sleepwear and left the bathroom.

Plumrose was back at the desk in a dressing gown and the room lights were up to a brighter level. I walked over to take my leave.

"Mr. Plumrose," I said, "I had a wonderful time. Honestly."

Plumrose beamed up at me and swiveled his chair to the side. He pulled my wrist to position me in front of him.

"Thank you, my dear, but you must call me Harold, after all, you have just christened me."

It would be cute, I thought, to show chagrin. So I did.

"I... I'm sorry... Harold, I couldn't help myself."

"Don't be. It's a charming quality you have. Now, what is this pretty outfit you are wearing? Is this what you arrived in?"

I nodded.

"It is very attractive. Will you turn around please?"

I did so.

"Yes, I especially like this little miniskirt you have on. Let's lift it up at the back, shall we?"

He did so.

"Betty. I do like what you're wearing."

I think I mentioned how the Olga Secret Hug panties I had on featured a vertical seam that neatly divided the buttocks. And size 6 in this brand was a snug fit. 

"They are just everyday panties. They aren't meant to be showey. Or pretty," I said coolly.

The hint of haughtiness motivated him. He placed his hand against my bottom.

"Perhaps you make everything look pretty."

I didn't reply, but my heart beat more quickly as he insinuated his fingers between my upper thighs. He seemed to be nudging them apart with the thumb and pinky of his right hand.

"Will you...?"

He was breathing heavily, too. I helped him out by lifting my right foot up. I swallowed and the lump in my throat going down sounded thunderous. The shift allowed him to cradle my genitals in his warm hand -- and they started to swell again in their silky wrap and when Plumrose -- but I guess I should call him Harold now -- started to manipulate them gently like a couple of Benwa balls -- the swelling increased. I started to shudder with pleasure again and had to put my foot back on the floor and lean forward against the only support I could find, the massive room length window beside the desk. With the room lights on, I couldn't see outside, just our reflection, although anyone outside, say Lourdes, or some other factotum, could see the entire diorama in complete anonymity.

"Turn and face me, Betty."

Harold positioned my hips before his face and sat there massaging the panty bulge I presented in an up and down orbital motion. Absurdly, it made me think of the motion you are told to make below the steamer for frothing a perfect cappuccino. We both seemed to be in a trance, Harold came out of it and asked me to hold my skirt up. I held it above my waist with the thumb and forefinger of each hand.

"Look how beautiful you are, my Panty Princess," he murmured, and I couldn't suppress a deep groan as a tectonic premonition shook me to my core.

My hips were performing an involuntary hula to the rhythm of Harold's caresses, increasing in tempo and I said, "Harold, darling, oh, I'm gonna cum soon... my panties..."

"That's Okay, sweetheart, let it come. Show me what you got"

I couldn't believe this ruthless, careening hand job he was giving me. He wanted me to soak my panties for him, a few inches from his face. I felt used but it also felt incredibly appropriate somehow and I went into wild, pre-ejaculatory hip thrust.

"That's my girl," he whispered, "that's my girl."

And I came, harder than I could have imagined after my initial emptying at Harold Plumrose's hands. We both watched stain spread on the front of my 0lga's. He kept working it until he was sure he had all of it then be peeled down my panties so they reversed themselves, hanging upside down from my thighs and revealing the churned, slick, translucent offering on the taut nylon.

Harold admired this for just a moment and then he led me by the elbow, my 'clitty' still wobbling before me, to the bathroom.

Using a warm, wet cloth Harold cleansed me, soothed my poor abused organ into grateful detumescence.

Back in the big, quiet room be asked me to fetch the garment bag. I took the well worn but dry Nancy King briefs out again and donned them while Harold furled the soiled panties into a roll and dropped them into the bag. The laden garment slid right to the bottom. He handed over the garment bag.

"I'm going to go now," I said, simply.

"Okay, Betty," he said, "I'm away on business for awhile. Out of the country, but I'd like to see you over the Easter weekend. I'd like to take you to Palm Springs. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Harold, sure," I replied wearily, "keep in touch."

"I will, Betty. Be well."

Lourdes met me in the corridor and graciously led me back to the street door. Outside it was even colder than before. I cranked the Ghia. Nothing. I didn't waste battery power with repeated attempts to start it but twisted around to find my spray can of 'fast start' in the tiny backseat area and stepped back into the frigid night and raised the rear deck lid to give the air cleaner intake a good spritz. This time the engine barked into life immediately. The sudden roar was less intrusive than the raw smell of ether in the rarified air of the neighborhood.

Heading back down the hill, I was feeling knackered. When we reached the bottom the car would be warm and fully alive but I doubted that I would. My sense of repletion had quickly become mere emptiness and thoughts of renunciation and reform presented themselves to my imagination like undertakers after a death. To add a sordid touch to the evening's denouement and making my return seem like a retreat, the unmistakable smell of semen-soaked nylon permeated the tiny cabin. On the passenger seat beside me I that the saw the garment bag was partially unzipped, so I closed it up properly.

Emerging from the hillside, I turned right onto Sunset and found the evening was full of living beings, unemptied and raucous, traffic moved purposely in both directions and it was noticeably warmer. I joined them, another corpuscle in the westward flowing artery.

Island Royale: The Report (Chapter Six)

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Young, effeminate teenager takes my seed like the good and submissive teacher’s pet that he is.

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It is 1809 and Napoleon is soon to marry Marie-Louise of Austria. The French are at war with Britain and Portugal. In a sleepy outpost in the Indian Ocean 2,000 kilometers off the south east coast of Africa the French-Creole inhabitants of what the Arab sailors called “Dina Arobi”, the Portugese called “Cirne” and the French now called “Ile de France” had established their own version of paradise. Turbulent times were ahead and a name change...


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