Posted by: Anonymous on Friday, November 01, 2002 - 12:23 AM
"Lisa's hands shook as she picked up the diaphanous satin panties, high-waisted full briefs with floral trimmings around the gusset. So sheer, so nebulous, so heartstoppingly feminine. Her cheeks flushed as she pulled on the alabaster remnants, drawing them slowly up her thighs. Her breath caught in her throat as the gleaming material slid over her flesh."
Copyright Transfemme, 2002.
The clock on the bedside dresser read 7:03 when Lisa emerged from the shower. Wrapping herself in a soft blue towel, she walked through to the bedroom in a swirl of warm mist. Her bare feet left a trail of damp prints on the polished floorboards. Lustrous blond hair streamed down past her shoulders, as thick and rich as liquid gold.
The Fever was on her again; had been since the early afternoon, building up like some vast, irresistible wave of desire. It took so little to set her off these days, an errant word or glance; the simple touch of flesh on flesh. He would be here soon; her heart was already hammering against her ribcage in anticipation.
Discarding the towel with an absent gesture, Lisa approached the bed, gazing down at the assortment of delicate, lacy things spread out on the quilted pink bedspread. She'd laid out the lingerie half an hour before, carefully selecting the outfit from amongst the dozens of bras, briefs, corsets and nylons nestled in the dresser's top three drawers.
She hovered over the bed, a tall, willowy girl with slim shoulders and wide hips. Her legs seemed incredibly long: slender, tapering columns leading up to a lushly courved bottom. She had the shape and posture of a high-class catwalk model, her eyes as large and open and innocent as a child's. There was utterly no trace of the boy she'd been before her reassignment. He was gone forever, erased by a torrent of artificial hormones and reconfiguration surgery.
She felt a familiar flutter of tiny wings in her smooth, flat tummy. The excitement was welling up inside her, leaving her breathless with expectation. It was odd; her doctors had warned her that she may experience a diminished libido following her reassignment, and yet the ecstasy she'd felt as during her adolescence was more profound than ever. She'd been fortunate in that respect: the very thought of dressing up still left her breathless with longing.
The Fever remained.
Thank God, the Fever remained.
The exaltation which had tortured her adolescence had never left her. It had grown and blossomed over the years. And that had made all the pain and sacrifice worthwhile.
Smiling wistfully, she looked over her ensemble, the decadent, flimsy underthings she'd chosen for the evening's festivities. Virginal white panties with a matching underwire brassiere. Fully fashioned seamed stockings, virtually transparent against the rose bedspread. In pride of place; a wonderfully complex garter belt with long lace suspenders cascading off the bed.
7.12 by the bedside clock. Time to get ready.
He'd be here in less than twenty minutes.
Lisa's hands shook as she picked up the diaphanous satin pants, high-waisted full briefs with floral trimmings around the gusset. So sheer, so nebulous, so heartstoppingly feminine. Her cheeks flushed as she pulled on the alabaster remnants, drawing them slowly up her thighs. Her breath caught in her throat as the gleaming material slid over her flesh.
'Oh god', she whispered, feeling them glide into place around her hips. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, a faint crimson glow suffused her features. Tugging gently at the waistband with her red-glossed fingernails, she smoothed out the panties until they fit like a second skin. The fabric glistened like quicksilver as she shifted her centre of balance.
Next: the brassiere.
She slipped her arms through the straps and eased her breasts into position with the grace of long practice. The underwires pinched slightly as she hooked up the backstrap with a single deft movement, then adjusted the cups to a more comfortable attitude. The bra was stretched tightly across her bosom, she could feel her nipples throbbing against the florid lace.
Lisa trembled with delight as she turned to inspect her reflection in her full length mirror. Placing her hands on her hips, she scrutinised her image from a variety of angles. Her colour rose as the Fever flooded her nervous system. Her tummy was literally clenching with excitement. The girl staring back from the mirror was stunningly beautiful, a creature formed of dreams and fantasies and conjugated estrogens. She felt so small and vulnerable standing there with her bra and panties on display; her eyes sparkled with pure joy. She turned her gaze towards the bed, brushing her hair back from her forehead.
Now; the garter belt.
It was one of her favourite pieces, a pristine white wisp of lycra and French elastic. Four adjustable suspenders slung from the intricate lace waist-strap, the clasps decorated with dainty pink frills. The very sight of the exquisitely embroidered thing never failed to set her heart racing.
Lisa felt a rise of gooseflesh across her shoulders as she clipped the garter-belt around her waist. She'd always arranged her underclothing this way, despite the relative inconvenience of wearing suspenders over briefs. It was a practice she'd adopted in her teenaged years, back when the Fever had first manifested itself. For Lisa, there was nothing more erotic than a garter belt fastened over a pair of shimmering satin panties.
Especially when she was expecting company...
Lisa ran a small hand over her belly, her cherry red lips parting in silent pleasure. Her breasts had started tingling with a kind of frozen heat. She felt hot and breathless as her fingers slid slowly up to her flimsy lace bra-cups. The Fever was climbing now, burning to the core of her being.
She quivered from crown to heel, closing her eyes in momentary bliss. Her fingertips encircled her nipples, squeezing the tips through the gauzy material. The pain was huge, exquisite, wonderful. Arousal spread through her body in streaks of rapture. He was coming, she could almost hear the low, humming roar of his Porche skimming the blacktop. Her tummy tensed and knotted with anticipation as she imagined his hands roaming over her secret places, roaming, touching ... probing.
He was coming. She'd lost the bet, and he was coming. Coming to claim his victory. Her hands crept down her bare torso, stroking and teasing like tiny, tickling spiders. In a few moments she would feel them poise and sting, flooding her nervous system with liquid pleasure. Moaning softly, Lisa tilted her head backward, allowing her fingers to do their work.
Huge indigo flowers seemed to explode across her field of vision as she drifted towards a slow, voluptuous climax. She floated on a rippling tide of memory, recalling the events of the day; the blazing heat of the tennis court, the sweat and thrill of the game ....
It was one of those brilliant afternoons Lisa had always loved as a child, the green, midyear season she'd come to think of as a 'Bradbury Summer'. The heat rose in rippling waves as she plunged across the tennis court, hair whipping back from her face in a wavy blond stream. She leaned forward to intercept Ryan's last volley, knowing she'd never quite make the mark. She'd been playing her boss for over six months now, pushing her skills to the edge of their limits, revelling in the pulse of adrenalin and the cool touch of the wind on her cheeks.
A vagrant updraft swept across the lawn, whipping her skirt up around her lean, coltish thighs. Voicing a little scream, Lisa batted down the hem with one hand (a reflex action these days), straining forward to catch the ball as it hurtled towards the back of the court. It was already too late, Ryan possessed a devastating back-hand she could never hope to match. He was a guy, pure and simple; like virtually every male she knew, Ryan Tanner enjoyed playing the advantage.
Particularly when the opponent was a female.
The ball streaked past the edge of her racquet in a spinning yellow blur; Lisa literally dived across the green, her long, tanned legs stretching out above the lawn . A heroic effort doomed to failure: Lisa tumbled over in a tangle of knees and elbows as Ryan's shot ricocheted off the green and left her side of the court. She came to earth with a loud and rather undignified thump. Her uniform rucked high over her midriff, affording her rival (along with a dozen or so casual observers) a spectacular view of her full, pantied derriere.
"Owww" she groaned to herself, more out of embarrassment than actual pain. Veteran of a thousand ice-rink slipfalls, a slide along the grass was nothing to her. She looked back over her shoulder, watching her opponent stride across the court radiating an air of casual triumph. Game set and match; winner takes all. Man proves his innate superiority over the weaker sex once again.
"I'd say that's a wrap", Ryan remarked as he reached down to help the slightly frazzled girl to her feet, "you OK?". His tone was quiet and unconcerned.
"Yes, nothing broken this time", Lisa replied with a rueful grin, recalling how many times Ryan had thrashed her over the past year or so. He'd run her ragged today, leading her from one side of the court to the other until she thought she'd collapse with exhaustion. Typically male attitude: take no prisoners, show no mercy.
"You sure?" Ryan asked, raising her effortlessly to her feet. Lisa stood up, tenderly rubbing her left hip, which had taken the bulk of the impact. There was a small red skid-mark along her left forearm and her hair was matted in the usual post-game disarray, but she seemed fine otherwise.
"You might have gone a little easier this time", Lisa said, flashing her green eyes reproachfully, "you know I'm only a beginner".
Ryan shook his head, a grim smile touching his features.
"You'd complain that I let you win".
"I didn't ask you to let me win", Lisa answered crossly, knowing that was precisely what she'd meant. They'd been at it for months now, ever since she'd joined the secretarial pool at Chamberlain Legal Services. Ryan had, of course, beaten her hands down every time, no matter what the game happened to be. Tennis, squash, trivial pursuit, monopoly. Ryan always won, she always lost, and there was ALWAYS a price she had to pay afterwards.
Turning away rather petulantly, she started re-adjusting her skirt, remembering that her rumpled hemline was still hiked up over her bottom. She was a slim, long-legged girl with soft, child-like features. Her full red lips were folded in a perpetual pout, like a spoilt little girl who'd been refused her latest whim.
"Why do you always have to win?" She sulked, staring out towards the Rec Centre, as if ignoring his presence would somehow result in her being declared the winner.
Ryan didn't answer. She hadn't really expected him to. Tall, impassive and almost brutally handsome, he'd never been much of a talker. Strangely enough, she'd always found his reticence one of his most attractive features (although nothing short of slow torture would have torn the admission from her lips).
Ryan's shadow fell across her.
His hands were on her hips, those large, clever hands that could play her body like some exotic stringed instrument. She was turned gently around, stumbling half a step as he rearranged her centre of balance. He slipped his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his brooding, melancholic gaze.
"Don't", she whispered, setting her palms against his shoulders (though not with any real force), refusing to allow him the pleasure ... at least in public. That would doubtlessly come later, when she had to uphold her end of the bargain. Lisa glared up in helpless fury, feeling as weak and defenceless as a child.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close until her tummy was touching his. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, her mouth only a few inches from his. Resistance was useless, needless to say. He was so much stronger than she was, she felt like a little girl being snuggled in the arms of a loving parent. His tanned biceps enfolded her with an arrogant lack of effort, and she found herself pressed against his muscular chest.
"Stop it!" she protested under her breath, "I'm not a doll for you to play with." She hated it when he fondled her this way, treating her like a toy; a pliant, supple plaything. Her head spun with barely repressed lust. Out in the bleachers, the Saturday loafers were grinning at this supposed lover's tiff. Ayah, one thing a girl hates is being shown up by her boyfriend, yes siree.
"Take it easy," Ryan replied, his expression laced with wry amusement. "You need to relax after that strenuous work out. Care for a nice, long soak in the hot tub? Work out all that tension."
Lisa's struggles ceased immediately. She turned her face up towards him, eyes widening with hope. Could he be offering her a way out, a chance to preserve her wounded dignity just this once? She rose up on tip-toe like a six year-old reaching for a candy held slighty out of reach.
"Is that all?" she asked, not quite daring to believe he'd let her off so lightly. "That's all you want this time?"
Ryan shook his head again.
"No, you don't get off that easy, Princess".
Lisa bit her lip in consternation; she'd known it was too good to be true. What did he have in mind for her now? His tone suggested something both shameful and exhilarating, an ordeal of sensual humiliation. Why in god's name did she ever go through with his inane wagers - knowing how high the stakes were?
('Because', a small, chiding voice murmured in the back of her mind - 'you know he's going to win everytime'.)
"Alright", she whispered, heart skittering in her chest like a caged bird, "what time do you want to meet?" Her complexion was darkening with expectation, she could feel a sweet, sultry heat spreading through her breasts and shoulders. He'd won, she'd lost, and now she had to face the consequences.
"Seven-thirty. Your place", he leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear: "you know what to wear, little girl". His low, husky tone froze the blood in her veins, filled her mind with reluctant pleasure. Lisa shivered in his embrace, despite the sweltering heat of the day. She drew in a deep, cooling breath, feeling an icy fingertip stroking the length of her spine.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, blushing to the eyebrows. Ryan shook his head in reply.
"You know the rules", he told her, his mouth still feathering her earlobe, "no hints, no previews. Guess you'll just have to wait and see". He paused, releasing his grip on her waistline, allowing her to take a few hesitant steps backwards.
"You sure about that hot-tub, Princess?"
"Quite sure", she answered, casting him a final smoldering glance, then set off towards the Centre's club house, rolling her tushie in tight little circles. She was angry. Angry at Ryan for winning so easily, angry that he'd manipulated her once again. Angry at her racquet for missing the ball, angry at the sun for shining in her eyes, angry at the sky for being too blue.
But most of all, she was angry at herself.
NEXT: Humiliation Games
Note: Transsexuality, Lingerie, Humiliation, Subjugation.