The Ladies' Club

'In these circumstances what should a girl do?' I asked myself.

The circumstances in question were that my twenty-five-year-old son had arrived unexpectedly to visit me, his father. I had seen him from my bedroom window as he walked down the path towards the front door. I stepped back behind the curtains so that he couldn't see me. I wasn't at all sure what his reaction would be to finding his father in a figure-hugging dress, nylons, high heels, makeup and a wig. We had always been close but there was a whole dimension to my life he knew nothing about and I wasn't ready to admit him to it, at least not yet, so I sat down on the bed and pretended I wasn't at home. After a few minutes he went away. Later that evening he phoned and I said I had gone straight from work for a drink with friends.

I had just had my forty-fifth birthday when this incident happened. I had two birthday parties; one, organised by my son, Simon, and taking place in the country club, brought together friends from my schooldays with colleagues from work and neighbours, my two brothers and their families and my late wife's sister; the other was rather different. It was set up by Lady Susan, the owner of a club for TVs, and was for the members of my new family of TVs, transgender girls and their admirers. Two years earlier I had gained my very own admirer, a hunk of my own age called Eric, who was my escort for the evening. We received the guests as Mr and Mrs Eric Cartwright. I wore the most beautiful dark blue and silver silk dress and I hired a fabulous necklace and earrings for the occasion. All we girls went to town on our clothes and makeup and I must say we looked stunning. As the birthday girl I was kissed by all the men and several offered considerably more but I fluttered my eyelashes and declined, not that Eric would have minded. I know he has other women. I didn't want to let myself down, particularly in front of Lady Susan, who still regards me as one of her virtuous daughters.

Eric and I met once a week at the club and afterwards usually spent the night together either at his place or mine. Our relationship was, by no stretch of the imagination, a great love, but we liked each other and we enjoyed having sex together, which after years of self-imposed repression was a godsend for me. We met on my third visit to the club and clicked immediately. We danced and he slid his hand down from my waist to my behind and gently but firmly grasped my buttock. At the same time he pressed me against him and I felt his bulge meeting my clitie. I think I must have blushed because he said, 'You are beautiful when you're a little bit embarrassed.'

I moved his hand up to my waist and said, 'Are you always as forward as this so quickly?' and he said, 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I want to gain everything from you.'

And he kissed me gently on my lips.

Lady Susan sees everything that happens on her turf. She especially keeps her eye on the new girls to make sure they are all right and I still counted as one of them.

'He's a saucy shite, Stella. He'll have his hand on your cunt before you can spit in his eye.' Then she added, 'But I've known worse.'

This was high praise from Lady Susan and was telling me that Eric could be trusted not to knock me about, because some men came here to find girls to hurt. If anyone did this Susan made sure he was given the same treatment and then was never allowed into the club again. She was a good mother to us and given her massive size nobody messed with her twice. She employed a bouncer, a great burly man called Harry, definitely past his prime, but whose eye could quell a fourteen stone drunk, and even he stood in awe of Lady Susan. He was rumoured to be her lover on demand; her demand, of course.

That first meeting with Eric didn't go any further than petting. We were each in our own cars and he took me down to the parking lot to see me off and asked if we could have a proper date the following week. I understood that 'proper date' meant he would make love to me. At least, I hoped that was what it meant. I prepared meticulously for this date, as you can imagine, and, though I say it as shouldn't, I looked pretty good in a calf length dusky gold dress and the flimsiest little lace and silk bra which lifted my breasts into the deeply plunging neckline, covering my nipples with a lacy film just half-visible above the gold material.

No sooner did we meet than Eric wanted to take me home with him. I agreed. I had come in a taxi and Eric drove me to his early 19th century house by the park. We walked into a long, elegant drawing room and he started to undress me feverishly, at the same time he was tearing off his own clothes. Naked, we ran hand in hand up the sweep of staircase to Eric's bedroom and he took my virgin anus and made of it a cunt.

Eric is a predominantly anal man. He has no taste for sucking cock or being sucked. That first night set the pattern for our later encounters. He positioned me on my knees on the bed and took me doggy fashion. He prepared my cunt by licking her and inserting the point of his tongue, before stroking my pucker with his fingers and slowly teasing her open. As soon as he judged me ready he guided his cock head into my rosebud and pushed, gently at first, but gaining momentum until he was whacking the full length of his seven inches into me. He stopped, laid me on my side, raised my right leg and rammed in deeper still and I shrieked in startled joy. I had never felt anything like the ecstasy he produced in me. When he finished we lay panting for what felt like an eternity of satisfaction before he took me again, this time from the front and I came across his belly and his chest more copiously than I had ever come before and Eric lay and let me lick my milk from his body and transfer a few drops of it to his lips before we slept. I felt that, with Eric's cock inside my cunt, I had at last experienced what nature intended me for. Of course, I had tried different sizes of dildo and of but plugs but nothing is a quarter as good as the cock of a man who knows how to use it.

To go back to the beginning: my wife and I married whilst we were both at university. We enjoyed discovering sex together but what we had mistaken, in our innocence, for a grand passion was, at best, comfortable and comforting. Five years later our son was born. During a holiday in Florence I had fallen in love, shatteringly, with a man whom I neither spoke to nor touched and saw only once. I had gone for an early morning stroll, leaving Jane in our hotel room to finish washing her hair before we went down to breakfast. I was walking across the Santa Trinita Bridge when I saw him approaching me from the other side of the river. He was fair-haired as some North Italians are, a little taller than me, with a good figure, but what completely bowled me over was his radiant, confident masculinity. I felt a dampness in my pants as though I had a vagina which recognised her master. As we drew near to each other he glanced at me. I think I must have been gawping at him like a love-struck girl, which, indeed, was what I had become. He smiled as though acknowledging my servitude as his right and passed by.

I had several times felt attracted to men but had been able to ignore my feelings. Now, suddenly, I knew that I wanted to be the wife or, failing that, the mistress of a dominant man. I wanted a man to transform my anus into a cunt. I returned to our hotel in a trance. That whole day I was near to tears and Jane kept trying to find out from me what was the matter. In reaction, I think, to my daytime longing to be feminised, I asserted my masculinity to both of us the following night. We made love more passionately than we had for years and it was then that we conceived our son. Bizarrely, he has the fair hair and dark eyes of the Florentine, although no one on either side of the family has this colouring. There was a moment, when Simon was eighteen and just about to go to university, when I caught sight of him unexpectedly in the street. For a moment I didn't recognise him and thought, 'What an astoundingly attractive young man.' Then I saw who it was and I was horrified. I had been fancying my own son. I should have to take a grip on myself.

I suppose I could have gone to gay clubs and possibly found a man whilst Jane and I were married but my timidity and my desire to have 'the perfect family' overrode my sexual desires. Then, when Simon was twenty years old and at university, Jane died. She was perfectly healthy; she had a completely unheralded heart attack; she was dead. My sense of guilt was immense because my wife's death, much as I had cared for her, came to me as a liberation. I missed her dreadfully but her demise made me look at myself with fresh eyes and what I saw was a woman trying to emerge from her own lies and obfuscations, who might begin to live a life which could satisfy her physically and psychologically in ways she had never known.

Within days of Jane's death I began, in private, to dress in her clothes. It started by my telling myself that I was trying to be closer to her but soon I accepted that I was trying to get closer to myself. I experienced a new level of sensual satisfaction from sliding onto my legs a pair of nylon stockings or enclosing my cock and balls, which I started to call my clitie, in tight, silk panties. I shaved my body and moisturised my skin. It became softer and more pliant and, having shaved my chest, I realised that I had rather feminine breasts and I learnt to enjoy gently, and then less gently, squeezing my nipples. I longed for a man but I also longed for the company of other women like myself. I got in touch with a TV contact group and, within a few months of Jane's death, I was attending the group regularly, had been shopping with some of my TV sisters, and had gained a wardrobe which allowed me to present myself as a woman. It must have been about six months into my time of feminisation when one of the girls in our group mentioned The Ladies' Club to me. She introduced me to Lady Susan, who rapidly decided I should be one of her daughters, and my life as a woman really began.

At work I continued to be the moderately successful manager of a construction firm, dependable and unexciting, but one who brought in the business and made sure contracts were fulfilled on time and on budget. My life as a woman was enacted most evenings at home after work, when I changed into a skirt and blouse and put on makeup, and, of course, when I became an elegantly turned out woman at my TV group and with Eric at the club.

In all this time I had hidden my true nature from my son. Whereas Jane and I were both five feet ten inches tall and slim, Simon was six feet four and muscular, but not excessively so, and until he stripped you wouldn't realise what magnificent arms, chest, loins and legs he had. Like me he read engineering at university and his first job was in the USA and Canada. When he was twenty-four his firm sent him back to London to head up procurement (which isn't what it sounds like) in their European office. He stayed with me at home for a month but then moved into a flat he rented at Chiswick, near the river. Although I was thrilled to have Simon home, I was glad when he moved out because he had, decidedly, cramped my style. Fortunately, Eric understood and as soon as Simon went Eric gave me a celebratory and highly energetic fucking to remind me of what I had missed. Eric did not know ,because I didn't tell him, that my desire for my son had reasserted itself, and I was relieved for another reason besides my desire for Eric, when Simon departed.

What Simon knew or suspected about my life I had no idea until he told me later. I had better use his own words to describe what he knew, and what happened to him and to our relationship in the course of the year after he returned to England.

*****

Dad and mum always showed affection to me and to each other. We could have been used to illustrate the archetypal happy family. Except that in dad I sensed from a very early age an undertow of sadness. I do not mean that he was a miserable man; far from it. He laughed and joked and enjoyed all the treats he and mum organised for me and for each other but when he was in repose his eyes were sad. In a physical sense he was my guardian and I knew that he would protect me from harm and yet I felt that, in some way, he needed me to look after him and I was his protector against a sorrow I didn't understand.

I went to university and there I discovered my own sexuality. I was attracted to feminine, older men. My first experience of sex was provided to me by a sweet man I met when I went on holiday to New York at the end of my first year of university in Glasgow. I went to a gay bar in Greenwich Village and was picked up by a slightly built man, roughly of my father's age, wearing a pretty mini-skirt and top. She introduced the rather gauche twenty-year- old me to the pleasures and skills of making love, for which I shall always be grateful to her. I also began to wonder about my father because Linette, as she called herself, felt strangely familiar to me. During our two weeks fling I realised how like dad she was. The similarity lay in something I couldn't define at first but later I saw that it was an essential femininity and delicacy.

I returned just before my autumn term. I looked at dad with new eyes and saw how sweet and, yes, how pretty, he was and started to worry that I was becoming attracted to my own father. Going back to Glasgow was a relief. Two weeks into term dad summoned me home. Mum had died and dad was distraught. He pulled himself together with an obvious effort to support me in my grief. As we stood beside mum's body in the Chapel of Rest I swore a silent oath to her that I should look after dad. I took his hand, after we had kissed her cold forehead, and then I kissed his cheek. He looked surprised but managed a smile and squeezed my hand and said, 'Dearest boy; I don't know what I should do without you,' and my heart swelled with pride.

In the vacations of my last two years at Glasgow I tried to spend as much time at home with dad as I could. I told myself that it was to compensate him for mum's death, but really I was overwhelmed by my longing for him. He was as loving as ever but I started to sense a new reticence in him. One day in my final year, whilst he was at work, I decided to try to find out his secret. I searched his desk - nothing. I looked in his wardrobe and went through the pockets of his jackets and suits- again nothing significant. Dad still occupied the room he and mum had shared. I tried to open her wardrobe, her chest of drawers and her dressing table and, to my surprise, all were locked. Finally, I found the keys to all of them in the leather box in which dad kept his cufflinks. I opened them and I saw what dad was hiding from me.

Some of mum's clothes were still there but he had added obviously new clothes, from dresses, skirts and blouses to panties, stockings, bras and garter belts. The dressing table held toiletries and makeup which would not have suited mum but which were just right for dad's complexion. Dad was secretly a woman and the sort of woman I longed for. My cock stirred and I thought I must get out of here or I'll ruin my relationship with my father by making a move on him. Remember that I was young and still finding out about myself and the world. I could not believe that my dad, however feminine he had become, would countenance allowing his son to take him as a wife, because that is what I wanted to do. I thought I must give my beloved father room to meet a man he could love without guilt and it broke my heart to think of another man possessing my dearest daddy- girl, as I now thought of her.

I went to my job in North America straight from university. There I managed to hide my proclivities from my colleagues. I looked for my girlfriend in New York but she had disappeared into the wide world. I found others and gained experience but without falling in love. I realised that I was still looking for my dad in the women I went with. Then I was sent back to London.

My month with dad told me much more than he thought. I picked up a telephone message from Eric which, despite his being circumspect, told me, in my jealous state, that here was a man my father was having a sexual relationship with. I could happily have killed him. I wanted to be the one who fucked my dad and who looked after her in every way, not this stranger. I gathered that Friday night was their usual meeting night and, after I had moved to my own flat, I followed them at a discreet distance to the club. I couldn't get in but from seeing what sort of people were allowed in I recognised the sort of club it was. I waited for them to come out, which they did after about an hour, and I followed them to Eric's house on the park. Dad was dressed in a knee-length dress of some black floaty material which made her really sexy and under the street lamp, as they went up the outside steps to the house, I saw the lust in Eric's face and I wanted to smash my fist into his teeth. Once they were inside I watched the pattern of lights going on. I realised that they moved rapidly to the bedroom floor and I wept with rage and jealousy about what Eric was being allowed to do to my beloved daddy-girl, whilst I was not.

I opened my flies and pulled myself off, imagining it was my daddy-girl's hands claiming my cock. I came, shaking with desire, then waited until the lights were extinguished and drove home.

Clearly this situation could not be allowed to continue. I was being eaten up with jealousy. I must take my fate into my own hands and gain all or lose all.

*****

Two days after the incident when I hid from Simon behind the curtains, I received a letter from him. In it he said that he had known my secret for some time, that he had seen me with Eric, that he loved me as a man loves a woman. He told me of his New York experience and of his subsequent search for love which was blighted because the only woman he wanted was me. He asked me to become his wife. He wanted me to receive him at home, dressed as my real self, and he asked if there was any hope that I might be able to return his love.

I sat, stunned, holding the letter on my lap. I pictured my boy watching Eric and me and I felt so ashamed. How had I behaved? Did Simon think his father was a tart? Then I thought of my boy as a sexual being. I remembered my own feelings towards him when he went to university and also after Jane's death; my sense of his strength and masculinity, of his protectiveness towards me, when I was fooling myself that I was being protective towards him, although I had genuinely tried to support him through his grief. I looked back at my feelings for Simon and it became clear to me that I had been waiting for this declaration of love from him for years. I wanted to be his woman and for him to be my man. I wanted him to take possession of me. I sent him an e-mail asking him to come to dinner the following evening.

Later I asked Simon why he had done such an old-fashioned thing as to send me a letter instead of e-mailing. He said that a letter takes more deliberation and feels more significant and this communication was the most significant act of his life.

I dressed with care. I wanted to look attractive but not provocative. I wore a long batik-dyed skirt in dark browns and olive greens, tied at the waist, and a plain white cotton blouse. I wore minimal makeup but made sure that my eyes and lips looked their best. Simon had dressed formally in a suit and tie. I led him into the sitting room. He looked more nervous than I had ever seen him. I tried to put him at ease by saying, 'Don't look so worried, darling. You've known this room all your life. This house is still your home.'