Chapter Eight

‘SHE’S SO PRETTY, MY little Martina. Why don’t you admit it, lover?’ She was smiling suggestively at Ant, like a madam touting for one of her favourite whores. ‘You really fancy her, don’t you? Go ahead. I won’t be jealous, I promise.’

I stared at Clio in deep dismay. I had been increasingly afraid for some time now at the acceleration of the virtual sex change she had carried out upon me. Not so much for myself. In our purely private moments together, of which there were so many, I took a keen illicit pleasure in it: the grooming, the cosmetic attention she lavished on me, and – a new and fiercely exciting element for me – the cross dressing. She bought elegant slender-spiked heels, an exotic array of fine stockings of all shades, tiny micro skirts and tops, flimsy dresses, and, most exquisitely decadent of all, an array of underwear, from padded bras and panties to thongs in every material from chiffon to lacy silk frills and spiderweb thin wisps of garter belts. In the exclusive privacy of the bedroom I thrilled to the dizzying effect of these transformations. But then the two of us made a trip up to the capital.

We stayed at a hotel on the outskirts one night, and she kissed and cuddled and petted me in my metamorphosis so outrageously that even the cosmopolitan staff in the dining room and the bar afterwards began to look askance. ‘We are not used to these things, madam,’ a discomfited waiter declared when Clio eventually challenged him vigorously.

‘So! You discriminate against lesbians, do you?’ she asked the poor fellow. ‘Don’t you think my little girl is beautiful?’

He was forced to agree, and though my toes were curling inside my tight shoes with shame for both him and myself, I could not deny that throb of excitement at the way his smoky eyes flickered over me and he gave a little nod of acquiescence. But Clio, at her most wicked, was not about to let him off the hook. She leant forward, switching off her aggressive approach, and, instead, smouldering with lascivious innuendo, continued. ‘When you’re out with yourgirl, don’t you like to drag things out a little, to tease her maybe, anticipate what will happen later, and make her wait for it, so that by the time you’re ready to give it to her, she’s already wetting her pretty little knicks?’ She laughed at his open expression of incredulity, and leant over to place her hand in plain lechery on my prominently revealed, silk-clad thigh. ‘Come on, sugar! I’d better get you to bed before both you and this handsome feller here do that very thing and flood your frillies!’

Once we were sprawled naked on the dazzling sheet of our wide bed, she allowed me to retain my persona of obedient maidservant, and I was ecstatic as I made long and worshipful love to every beautiful inch, culminating in my perfumed head driven between her gaping thighs, while my soaking face, lapping tongue and swollen lips were buried in the streaming sex cleft that was the epicentre of her coming and my adoration.

But, back at home, the evidence of Ant’s contempt, and growing impatience with Clio’s transformation of me, disturbed me more and more. And yet, so complete was my othertransformation, to utter subservience, that I was afraid to say anything to my mistress. At last, though, my fear of how her lover would react to my transsexual role made me speak out. I waited until Clio and I were alone in the house one morning, soon after Ant had departed for the farm office. I still slept in my tiny cubbyhole off the kitchen. Ant was not averse to my attendance in the bedroom under the most intimate of circumstances, including sometimes during their lovemaking, but he refused to have me sleep there, in spite of Clio’s suggestions that I might do so. ‘He could sleep at the foot of the bed, honey!’ But in this case her lover remained adamant Ant.

Now I swallowed nervously, my mouth dry as I spoke in the soft murmur which had become my habitual mode of speech. ‘I think maybe Ant is becoming a little tired of seeing me in make-up and dressed in girls’ clothes.’

She was lying naked, the sheet furled and knotted about her ankles. Her hair, which she wore long now, was thickly, richly tangled, its brown waves spilling over the pillow. The matching shade of that narrow, much more disciplined little shaft of pubic curls pointed like an arrow head to the cleft of her sex, the folds of her labia. She smiled lazily, and drew one leg up, bending at the knee, then flinging it out so that she lay, her thighs splayed, proffering a proud resplendent view of her vulva for my delectation. ‘I know what’s wrong with you.’ Her deep chuckle was husky. She ran her hands over her breasts, caressively stroking the dark nipples until they peaked, then let her palms slide slowly down over the flat brown belly to that strip of pubes, and her painted nails very gently brushed the wrinkled tips of her inner labia showing at the divine cleft. ‘You’re worried he’s getting the hots for you, sweety. And I think you may be right.’

‘No – I don’t – it’s not that. I’m afraid–’

‘Exactly!’ She gave another deep laugh. ‘That’s all it is. You’re afraid, aren’t you, my little lambkins?’ She was still caressing herself and she raised her knees a little, turning them outward, opening her thighs a little more. ‘And I can’t say I blame you! So far you’ve only taken it in your mouth, and thatnearly choked you, didn’t it? But don’t you worry, Marty. It’s just because you’re a virgin, that’s all, honey.’

She kicked her feet free of the tangled sheet and rose. She padded over to the dressing table and began to rummage in one of the deeper lower drawers, then picked something out and turned with a grin. I stared at the long box she held, and she laughed aloud as she saw my eyes widen in recognition. ‘Yes, you remember this, huh? My good old Knight Rider. The faithful companion that’s stuck to me through thick and thin. Shafted me through good times and bad, since the days I used to have to turn my music in my bedroom up loud to hide his buzzing from my folks. “Turn that thing off!” Dad would yell, and I would nearly wet myself with hysterics. “You’ll never get up for school in the morning!” Poor old Pa! He was always moaning about the number of batteries I got through. If only he knew!’

I was indeed familiar with the slim vibrator she held as she approached the bed and sprawled there once more, patting the crumpled sheet beside her, commanding me to join her. And I became even more apprehensive as I quickly realised the novel purpose to which she intended to put it.

‘Come here, my pet. Bring me that jar of cream, will you? Now, turn over and kneel up, there’s a good boy. Lift your bum, let the dog see the rabbit!’ She laughed.

‘Don’t be such a wimp, Marty!’

Her prediction did not come true. The more Ant saw of me in the paint and perfume and all the silks and scanties of the transsexual Martina the less roused or indeed interested he became, until even Clio was ready to admit defeat. Not that she was prepared to give up her new bondmaid and latest plaything. Only she took care not to flaunt me in my feminine guise, making sure that the pretty clothes were removed and the make-up too, before his return. There was, after all, plenty of time for her to indulge in her game with me, for Ant was away for increasingly long periods, busy setting up a new arm of his transport empire in the south-west of the country near the great lake. Often he would be away for several days, so our diversions could extend through many a hotly fevered night. My delight was as strong as hers in these snatched episodes of love, except when, on thankfully rare enough occasions, the purring Knight Rider was brought out to play and Iwas the recipient of its tirelessly intrusive attentions.

As I had feared all along, it wasAnt who brought about the demise of my alter ego, the fair Martina, but not in the manner I had so alarmingly anticipated. He returned unexpectedly one evening from one of his frequent trips – so unexpectedly that later I suspected it had been done with deliberate intent. I was wearing a cute little cami and matching “boy-shorts” in black lace and crimson ribbon, with long suspenders stretching to dark sheer stockings, and tottering about on pencil heels high enough to give me a nose bleed. My mistress was even more alluringly undressed in nothing but a mistily transparent and carelessly tied negligee. It took us both several transfixed seconds to realise that Ant was not alone before we simultaneously squealed and turned to flee. But Ant was even quicker, and seized our wrists to prevent our escape.

‘Don’t be bashful, ladies! I told Ramzan how cute you both were. No need to be shy. He’s a great mate of mine. I’ve told him to make himself at home. What’s mine is yours!’ he grinned, turning towards the stranger.

‘That doesn’t include me, I hope!’ Clio, for once looking slightly less than self-possessed, hastily tied the sashes of the negligee more tightly, and said pointedly, ‘I’d like at least to put my bra and pants on.’

‘Spoilsport!’ Ant laughed and swiped at her bottom, but he released her and she made a swift flight to the bedroom. He kept hold of my wrist, however, and drew me close to the guest, who had, I noticed with a fluttering mixture of alarm and excitement, been staring keenly at me for most of the brief time since his arrival. ‘And this is our little Martina. Though you might find she’s something of a surprise package if you unwrap her further!’

And that is more or less what he did, a couple of hours and a good meal and two bottles of wine and a good number of whiskies later. Clio soon recovered, and elegantly and more substantially dressed, made the best of an unexpected and none-too-welcome job. Ramzan was about my height, but with a stocky, athletic frame. He was, I guessed, Asian, one of the several million who lived here now, descendants of those who had been brought from the Indian subcontinent generations ago by the former colonialists. It was hard to tell his age, but he was certainly closer to 30 than 40. His glossy black hair was arranged in tight waves which flowed back from his open brow. There was just a hint of the oriental in the rather flat structure of his face, the high cheeks, and the narrowness of his brilliant black eyes. But his lips were thick, his mouth wide, and his teeth perfect and dazzlingly white in his beaming smile. And, more and more uncomfortably and excitingly, that look, and smile, were directed increasingly towards me.