It was all Shakespeare's fault, Part Three
Here is part three of my story. As usual, I must say that I have changed names and disguised identities, to protect characters and myself. If you like what you read here, please let me know – nickwyatt42@gmail.com Thank you.
After the constriction of wearing the girdle, I was really enjoying the pants-less freedom inside my trousers, and just because of that I got a little stiff as I walked along. Then I started thinking about the girdle again. I needed to try it again; properly, with some stockings and a skirt. And now I had a full bloodied, monstrous erection and I couldn't wait to get home
Walking home, the open sky and scorching sunshine had been replaced by thick clouds and the hot, still air seemed to hang heavily between the trees. I felt sure there was going to be a storm; I knew I was going to have my own thunder and lightning too.
I walked into the yard from the Old Town gate and I could hear the sound of the radio in Mum's studio in the stable block as I passed. So I shouted a hello and got the same back before I hurried in to the house with the intention of going straight to my room. To be honest, I didn't like going into her studio any more as once when I was a bit younger, I had wandered in innocently and found my mother heaving and grunting beneath the man who had come to prune the trees. She'd seen me, yelped and screamed until her lover got the message and disengaged himself. But I'd gone by that point, terrified by what I'd seen. I locked myself away in the little cupboard in the open attic for hours until my father arrived home and I thought it was safe to come out. Nothing was ever said of course, that was the English way of sex and infidelity.
On the way upstairs, I poured myself a glass of Tizer in the kitchen and carried it and my satchel with its naughty contents up to my room.
The thing about living in an old house is that they move about a bit as the weather gets warmer or colder. Things creak and groan, click and sometimes twang as boards and beams expand and contract. And of course, it's pretty well impossible for anyone to walk anywhere without causing a creak or thump on a stair or floorboard.
I went up the back stairs to my room above the kitchen. There was a bathroom up here and the other room was my sister's. You could not walk from this portion to the rest of the house that was served by the front staircase from the hall. But if you were small – or very lithe – you could wriggle your way into a low cupboard in my sister's room and then into the back of the airing cupboard in the front of the house.
All this meant that I could hear anyone approaching my bedroom from the creak of the latch on the door at the bottom on the stairs in the kitchen, to the squeaky stairs part way up and the clonk of the floorboard right outside the door.
But I still jammed a bedroom chair under the door handle, just in case.
I opened the window wide and stuck my head out. The studio doors were still open, so Mum was still in there. My father was at work still and my sister was on an archaeological dig somewhere way out west. Good.
I opened the satchel and dredged the paper bag up from the depths. I examined the girdle carefully again. Now there were folds running across the front where my stomach had forced it to bend, and I wondered if I ought to iron it. But shouldn't I wash it first? How on earth could I do that?
I rubbed the taught fabric between my fingers and examined the jangling suspenders. I needed some stockings. And a skirt. And panties.
Easing the chair out from under the door handle, I crept across the tiny landing and into my sister's room. Annie is three and a bit years older than me and was currently away digging up Vikings or Saxons or something; I really had no idea. Naturally, she'd taken some of her clothes with her, but there were still plenty here to keep my perversion satisfied. Knowing exactly where to go, I collected an old, pleated school skirt, some pale blue knickers and a pair of grey stockings. My heart was thumping in my chest as I silently opened each draw and cabinet as I had many times before. It was still particularly exciting this time, as I had something new to play with as well.
Back into my room, door secured, look out the window – studio door still open and therefore still occupied.
Tie off, shoes and socks off, trousers off. I left my shirt on as I liked the sort of school blouse idea. My penis poked out lewdly at half mast.
Now, knickers on first or girdle on first? I had no idea. It had to be knickers first, didn't it? But then how did they go to the loo? Maybe that's why women took so long.
Little blue panties on first, and my penis stiffened again.
Now I drew on the strict girdle, but with my knickers underneath it didn't feel quite so cruel. I ran my hands down my buttocks and my vertical penis strained in excitement. I rolled the stockings onto my thighs and set about clipping them into the wire things with the rubber things. Thye were slightly different to Annie's suspenders, and it took a while to get it done. But at last, the stockings were secure and as I straightened up, I felt that lustful tug of stockings against girdle, making it tight against my body. It felt like heaven, and it felt right: I felt feminine.
I stepped into the skirt, zipping and clipping it at the side. I pulled it up around my waist and tugged my white blouse neatly into place under the waistband. Now I twirled as I had intended to in Juliet's dress. The pleated skirt flared out enticingly and I wondered how much I was showing. I needed a mirror to tell me.
So I removed the chair again and tiptoed back into Annie's room to stand before her mirror. I looked marvellous. My belly was flat and neat, no lewd bulge of wanton willy was visible at all. I tucked the skirt under and marvelled at the shape of my bottom. Now I twirled and skipped carefully observing what was on display in the mirror. I dragged Annie's chair over from the desk, sat and crossed my legs; how high up my skirt could I see? If I sat like this and leant over . . . I could see my suspenders. Gosh it was so beguiling, I wanted to stay like this – `en femme' – forever.
My penis strained; I needed to masturbate now.
But first I wanted to look at my bottom more closely. I stood and turned away from the mirror and flicked up my skirt. Compressed by the girdle, my buttocks had a pretty `smile' line beneath them. I knelt on Annie's chair, bent over and pulled my skirt right up. The smile lines had disappeared, and there was the girdle hem and the neat blue knickers beneath.
I turned and sat facing the mirror straight on, pulling the skirt hem above my knees. Nothing naughty yet, a bit higher and just parted my thighs a bit – and there it was; a tiny flash of blue knickers. God, how exciting.
I felt neat and lovely and hugely excited all at the same time. I wanted to whip it out and wank off immediately as well as staying pretty and tidy in my femme persona. Things were churning up inside.
I stood and lifted the skirt hem in both hands, right up. There were the stockings linked by strict suspenders over my thighs to this all encasing girdle, but with a tiny blaze of blue panties peeping out below.
I tried to tug the panties down, but struggled to do so, so I hoiked the gusset to one side and pulled my willy out. Staring straight ahead at my actions and underwear in the mirror I started wanking.
I'd like to say that I am fabulously well-endowed, but I'm not. Five inches, if I'm honest.
Back and forth I pulled the stretched skin about the purple head, getting perilously close to eruption.
Then I sort of came to my senses. Not in Annie's room, no semen on the carpet. Careful of the clothes too, I didn't want to have to wash any of it.
Back into my room, chair in place, I took the skirt of and laid it carefully on my bed. Now I wiggled the panties down as far as the suspenders would let me before laying down on my bed and enjoying the vastly inflated length of my penis. God, it felt powerful, and almost independently vital and potent.
I wanted to look down at my underwear as I masturbated, but as I was lying down it was a bit of a problem. So I span up off the bed and I took my round shaving mirror from the top drawer, propping it against the foot of my tallboy. I retrieved my hairbrush and a tiny bottle of Johnson's Baby Oil as well. Kneeling down before the mirror I adjusted the angle so that I could look up my thighs to my crotch. I quickly oiled my hairbrush handle and with the brush head on the floor, I sent the smooth and rounded handle straight into my bottom. Oh what a lovely, feminine feeling; I was being possessed by the hairbrush handle. I just wished it was a nice hot willy instead of cold plastic.
Knickers down as far as they would go and girdle up, my erection sprouted from the gap between the two, pointing up and showing me what I think is called the frenelum underneath.
Now with a tiny splash of baby oil on both hands, I began to thrust myself between my lubricated palms which also had the affect of wiggling the hairbrush handle most deliciously, and I watched the disgusting sight lustfully in the mirror. Quicker, harder; increasing in urgency and power. I was now about to come. Up on my knees quite suddenly, I erupted semen between my hands, sending it all down the front of my tallboy and over the mirror. Another thrust and another spurt, and another. I tightened my buttock and anal muscles onto the hairbrush handle still captured in my bottom. The pleasure in my penis and anus was overwhelmingly intense, and I closed my eyes as I spurted yet again and again and almost lost consciousness.
Subsiding now, I held my willy in one hand and removed the hairbrush with the other, before sinking back onto my heels in delicious exhaustion. I opened my eyes and calmly noted the semen on the furniture, but now I looked down and realised that cables of sticky mess also lay across my stockinged thighs too. Damn, hadn't wanted to do that. I quickly checked the girdle front, but thankfully it seemed clean and dry. I wiped off my hands and willy onto a handkerchief before rising rather weak and light headed to my feet.
I picked up a pair of my khaki shorts, removed the chair from under the door handle and padded into the adjacent bathroom to clean up.
I washed out the stockings and the blue knickers – into which I must have leaked loads of pre-cum as they were very sticky – checked that the girdle was still clean and put the shorts on. Arming myself with some toilet roll I returned to my bedroom and cleaned the tallboy and shaving mirror.
Shaving mirror. Hmm.
I tidied up, returned the skirt to my sister's room and went back into the bathroom to shave.
I shaved my legs, thighs and around my bottom hole. Then I reduced my pubic hair to a neat triangle surrounding my penis and testicles. I didn't dare go too close – this was with a Gillette safety razor, after all.
Feeling a little strange, slightly sore and rather fresh, I took my damp undies into my sister's room and opened the low cupboard in the corner. Here, I could wiggle around, right into the corner and place the knickers and stockings onto the hot pipes at the back of the airing cupboard. Annie's room was always warm because of the airing cupboard and in the heat that summer, it was positively stifling. I reckoned that the knickers and stockings should be dry in just a couple of hours.
Back in my own room, I checked that nothing would give me away and hid the girdle in the space behind the blanket drawer at the bottom of my wardrobe.
And just as I finished that, I heard the scraping slam of mum closing the studio doors for the evening; she'd be coming back to the house now. Perfect timing, and somewhere in the oppressive, humid distance, thunder began to growl.
Alone and in bed that night, I tried to analyze my feelings and motivations. Outside I heard the thunder roll and crash across the countryside, inside I raged across my personality looking for the roots of my perversion.
It was all Annie's fault, I decided.
Annie was three year older than me and as I grew and became aware of her, Annie was always off doing the exciting things to which I could only aspire. She was one of life's enthusiasts, full of tales of exciting experiences wherever she went. Annie would be off having fun at school, at ballet class, everywhere, while I was left alone with Mum and Dad. And at the age of four or five, I wondered what the difference was between me and Annie? What made that fundamental difference between her having fun and me staying at home? To my open and innocent mind, the answer was dresses. Annie wore dresses and I didn't. So to have fun, I needed to wear dresses. And so when Annie went out, I wore her dresses and imagined having fun. As my ideas developed, I went beyond dresses and wore her shoes, socks, underwear and made believe that I was having fun as a girl.
Annie was always ahead of me, always my idol and hero – as well as being my big sister. Whatever Annie did or saw, she reported back to us in thrilling tones. And to me, her reportage represented the most exquisite human experience possible, and so I wanted to have all the attributes that Annie had and to access her special world of fun. And so I cross-dressed and dreamed of turning into a girl.
The once distant storm now arrived right above me and rain suddenly hammered onto the shallow roof of the back half of the house and settled into a steady drumming background as the temperature fell and I was able to seek the comfort of my crumpled sheets and blankets and finally slept.
With the tremendous thunderstorm in the evening and most of the night, and I think the whole of England must have suffered a night of shattered sleep. But when we all awoke, the air was sweeter and cooler, the gardens positively radiated their damp perfume and it was a lovely, summer day again.
I met Adrian as arranged in one of the rehearsal rooms, ready to be sketched. He'd come in especially for me as he was on his way to London for a rehearsal or something, so he wasn't in school uniform at all. In fact he was dressed quite distinctively and differently. He wore quite tight, rust brown trousers or slacks which seemed particularly close around his hips and bottom. Tucked in to them (they were held up by a lovely crocodile effect belt in maroon), Adrian wore a cream coloured shirt in poplin. But it wasn't the colour or material that took my eye, it was the fact that that the shirt had a collar, short sleeves and almost a cleavage front – but with no buttons. It was quite loose fitting and very attractive, but it did look just a bit like a girl's blouse.
Anyway, he sat and played his `cello and I drew him. I've no idea whether he played Schubert as he'd mentioned, but he was certainly animated and I felt quite happy with the sketches I'd rattled off.
He glanced up at the clock. "Now I've got to run. Mother's collecting me and the train's at twelve twenty."
We packed away our respective work tools.
"Are you handing the drawings in today?"
"No tomorrow as it's the last day. And then they go on display in the library on Monday."
"Will you work on them again later today?"
"No, what I have drawn is what I have drawn!"
"Ooh, get you!"
Well, that was a strange moment. I started to express the kind of idea that I have been working towards since I was barely a teenager without really knowing it: whatever I see I commit at that moment, even if it evokes abstract in the figurative. My work can be seen as the result of many instantaneous photographs that may or may not fit together. Anyway, that's for others to figure out!
After school, I went home of course. And just before dinner Mum absolutely floored me with these two words.
"Those stockings."
I nearly collapsed. I'd left them balanced on the hot pipes in the bloody airing cupboard that morning. And the knickers too. How on earth could I have forgotten them?
"Did you wear them for rehearsal?"
Here was a way out. "Yes, really hot and uncomfortable."
"How did you keep them up?"
"My old Scout garters. Much too tight, though. And I had to rinse the stockings out because they were all sweaty."
She grunted.
"Looking forward to seeing you in the play. Your father's taking the afternoon off, and we thought we'd go out to supper afterwards. Or are you having a party with the rest of the cast?"
Hadn't she found the knickers then?
"No, there's going to be party after all the performances are over. You're coming to the first night, aren't you?"
"Mmm."
Nothing about the knickers at all.
"Do you want something proper to keep the stockings up?"
Oh my goodness, no! Not another girdle or suspender belt! She was my mother, after all.
"No thanks mum, I've got something from the school to take care of that."
As soon as I decently could, I crept into Annie's room and grovelled my way into the back of the airing cupboard. They were still there, wrapped around the hot pipe! Crisp and dry, the knickers were still there! How on earth did mum not see them, I wondered. But then I stopped, struck by the thought that maybe she had seen them and didn't want to see them. Maybe this was her gift to me for not saying anything about her shagging the tree surgeon all those years before.
The next day - Thursday - I presented my sketches for the Art Competition to Mrs Trellis in the Art Room. He studied them for a long time, shuffling the papers back and forth in his hands. At last he seemed to be on the point of making a pronouncement about them.
"These are rather nice, Wyatt". Mr Trelawny sat and passed one sketch after another between his hand.
"You're sitting quite closely to this fellow and there's a nice perspective effect to the figure." He tapped one of the drawings with a sharp scrape on the stiff, grey Bockingford paper. "Be careful with the moulding in areas like this; should be very delicate and this is a bit too coarse, y'know."
"Yes, sir."
"Actually, I like the chalk highlights. Didn't think I would. It seems as though you know this fellow quite well. There's a lot of confidence in the way you've drawn his face. And you are physically very close to him."
Trelawny turned and looked at me carefully
"Hmm?"
"Yes, sir!" I floundered, what was I supposed to say?
"Anything you want to tell me, Nicky? Anything at all."
"No sir." I was getting flustered and confused.
"It certainly looks as though you know this fellow well. Lots of movement and enthusiasm. Very nice." Mr Trelawney placed the drawings back on the table.
"I expect you're quite fond of Adrian."
He turned to me and interwove his fingers across his middle.
"Do you know him well?"
Mr Trelawny's voice had dipped several notes on the word `well'. Looking back I realised that he was asking if Adrian and I had enjoyed sexual relations, and trying to draw me out. Mr Trelawny was interested, but at the time it all meant nothing to me
"Sir?"
"Nothing my boy." He straightened himself up in the chair and cleared his throat.
"Very good, Wyatt. This a good quality set of sketches. I look forward to the exhibition next week. Well done!"
And that was it. I almost felt as though I was sleep-walking out of his office. Nothing made sense any more. What had he expected me to say?
I scrunched my way down the gravel drive towards the school gates.
At the end of gravel, there was a figure waiting for me. Adrian.
He smiled as I approached. This delicate spirit inhabited a world of absolutes: cello good, electric guitar bad: Hugh at one point good, Hugh at this point bad. I needed to find out why.
"Well, how'd yer get on?"
"Not sure, really. Mrs Trellis really liked the sketches, but . . ."
I trailed away. I couldn't explain what had happened or my funny feelings, or even who I thought I was at that moment.
"Anyway. How was the rehearsal thing in London yesterday?"
"It went very well and I'm very happy. They want me for the String Quartet, too!"
"Oh Adrian, bloody well done. I'm so happy for you. That's absolutely wonderful!"
"Ooh, Nicky!"
And he stepped sideways and up to me and squeezed my hand.
"Adrian!" I hissed at him "there are people!" And he froze, and then he took a step away, looking attentively into the distance. He knew what he'd done and he knew what his movement had implied. I hadn't smacked his hand away or rejected the action, I just warned him to be discrete.
Adrian continued looking away from me, and his voice drifted back to me on the warm breeze.
"Come back to my house? It's just round the corner."
"Okay."
End of Part Three.
Tell me what you think. nickwyatt42@gmail.com