1. Rowan: the Awakening of a Dark Desire
I love cock! There I’ve admitted it! I love cock; the trouble is I don’t like men! The only man I’ve ever known that I could get alongside was my grandfather; with one other exception, he and my grandmother where the only ones in my family who understood that we all need to find our own morality.
For the most part men are selfish bastards, at least the ones I’ve come across are. Only really interested in one thing ‘getting their end away’; and then departing as quickly as possible to avoid emotional baggage – the modern and local equivalent of ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I’ve got a date in Vietnam’.
Women make so much more thoughtful and accomplished lovers, with their own unique insight into how to please members of their own sex and where, when and how to apply the ultimate stimulations. Maybe gay men have the same affinity with each other. Certainly they often appear to posses a general sensitivity and perception well beyond their heterosexual fellows. The problem with female lovers is that a dildo or strap-on, however skilfully used, cannot replicate the evolving sensations of a flesh and blood cock.
That feeling of a growing and stiffening member within your body, throbbing and thrusting until the ultimate lunge and outpouring, followed by the regression in potency as that same member, shrinks and subsides inside you, and finally slides out to become the absurd, pathetic, shrivelled piece of gristle that constitutes the proportions of most men’s cocks for at least 23 of the 24 hours that make up each day.
Men may think their using me, little do they know. I have only one use for them – to fill the void between my thighs with their throbbing meat, gratify me by prolonging the episode long enough for me to experience at least one real, eruptive orgasm, and then getting out of my life as quickly as they want me out of theirs.
At least, that was my position until ……
*********
I experienced my first cock when I was sixteen years and sixteen seconds old, in a hay barn attached to a farm on the outskirts of Chester, where I lived and still live. The experience was enough to indicate to me that my body would desire constant repetition of the feeling, and I set about the task of fuelling that desire – with a variety of boys of my own age, and older. Within three months I was pregnant, my son William was borne on my seventeenth birthday, named after my grandfather. To be truthful, I wasn’t to sure who the father of my child was; anyway, none of the boys I’d been with appealed to me enough to allow myself to be ‘tied down to’ for the rest of a dreary, conventional middleclass existence, and I refused point blank to implicate anyone.
This set the cat among the pigeons with my conventional middleclass family and both my parents, and my elder sister and brother would have disowned me if they could. Fortunately, Gran and Grandad came to my rescue … or rather, all of our rescues and invited me and William to live with them. An invitation I readily accepted.
The only other exception to the family hostility was my mother’s sister’s youngest daughter Hazel, my cousin, almost exactly a year younger than me. She began to spend more and more time at our mutual grandparent’s home with them, me and William. Of course that didn’t go down to well with her family either, who’d expected her to follow the usual trail of GCSE’s, A-levels, university and ‘worth while’ career; as mine had expected from me – and had been so sadly disappointed. And when she made a miserable showing in her A-levels that too was regarded as my fault, my ‘bad influence’. Gran and Grandad to the rescue again, and Hazel came to live with us.
It quickly became apparent to both of us that Hazel’s view of men, and their proudest possessions, more or less coincided with mine. Almost inevitably, within a short while, we became lovers, in a covert surreptitious manner as we were unsure how our grandparents would react. We needn’t have worried. Gran and Grandad were of the opinion that life was there to be lived; and that everyone was entitled to follow their own ideology – provided always that they ensured that they did harm to no one, and afforded everyone else the same prerogative; even our semi-estranged middleclass families.
Our need for the occasional dose of ‘hot cock continued, of course, which we satiated during the odd night out and on shared holidays to the more racy parts of Spain, Portugal and the Balearic Islands. Mostly, we more than content to rely upon each other’s practised fingers, lips, teeth and tongues – and the occasional dildo or vibrator.
For the first two years, under Gran’s sympathetic guidance, I’d been William’s ‘full time’ mother. He was shortly into his third year when Hazel joined us and Gran declared that she was willing to assume responsibility for his day-to-day care. Hazel and I joined Grandad in his own private business – a perfumery that had three local outlets and, unbeknownst to the rest of the family, a substantial country wide reputation mersin seks hikayeleri with significant continental contacts. Neither of our mothers had ever got involved. Like Gran, they’d never worked from the day of their respective marriages, and both married men already set on a serious career path – brothers who worked in, and eventually took over, their father’s solicitors business.
My relationship with Hazel was as near incestuous as could, without our being full blood sisters. Maybe, that’s what made what eventually followed easier to me … to us.
Grandad died suddenly, after I’d living with him and Gran for about seven years. Even whilst grieving for her life-long lover and best friend, Gran continued to live life ‘to the full’ as they had done together. Professing to know nothing about the business, she was insistent that Hazel in I should take complete charge of the perfumery and make all the necessary decisions. Daunted but excited by the prospect we did our best to justify her confidence and, with one or two false starts and traumas, largely succeeded. Gran died nine years later; in a tandem powered glider flight she’d booked herself to celebrate her eightieth birthday! Hazel and I were her only beneficiaries – inheriting the perfumery business and a one-and-a quarter million pound house, plus an estate worth a further four-and-a-half million pounds. That, of course created further family ructions. No one had realised that Gran and Grandad, who had never employed a servant in their lives, not even a gardener, were so rich. We resolved the outcry by sharing the four-and-a-half million three ways with our respective parents. Its strange how that seemed to improve the family relationships!
*********
The discovery came about quite accidentally, triggered by my leaving two theatre tickets on our dressing table. Hazel and I, trusting our staff with the business, had taken a Saturday off for personal shopping, a meal in town and a visit to the local theatre. Fortunately I discovered the lack of tickets in time, before we’d finished our shopping in fact which we cut short, to ‘nip back home to fetch them’. Hazel decided to accompany me back into the house for ‘a quick wee’ rather than staying in the car whist I made the recovery.
We were not conscious of being particularly quiet as we mounted the stairs to our suite but, whatever, we’d been quiet enough not to disturb the figure seated at our dressing table; the figure of an auburn haired young woman of about William’s age intent on making up her face with the aid of the mirror. I immediately assumed she must be my son’s girlfriend, possibly repairing the ravages of an n intimate ‘session’ with him. ‘Good luck to the pair of them’ I thought, ‘I hope he’s treated her properly’. Slowly the figure arose and, still intent on the image in the mirror, straightened her hands down over the line of her crisp white blouse, cupping her breasts for a moment as she did so, then down over her thighs, over a short, slim black, grey and white ‘dog-tooth’ skirt secured at the waist by a scarlet belt. Below the hem of her skirt grey nylons moulded a pair of pretty knees, calves and ankles and disappeared into a pair of scarlet court shoes that matched her belt. For a brief moment I appreciated the form before me and half amusedly, half jealously envied my son his luck. Then I realised; this wasn’t my son’s girlfriend, it was my son!
My gasp was echoed by Hazel. William spun round at the noise, his already pale complexion blanched to a sickly white and he fell to floor in a faint. As he fell he lost control of his bladder and saturated his femininity below the waist, leaking a pool that seeped into the carpet. Quickly retrieving a large bath-sheet from the en-suite to spread on the bed, we lifted him up and made him as comfortable as we could, and sat on the bedside awaiting his recovery.
Coming to after a few minutes, William tried to sit up and scramble off the bed but was restrained initially by his own debility then, as his recovery progressed, by our hands on his shoulders. His complexion changed colour again, this time in a pretty schoolgirl blush that suffused his face and neck.
‘Please,’ he said, as his whole situation became apparent, including the warm wet mess around his genitalia, ‘I’m sorry, I was just … er, experimenting. I’ll never do it again. I need to go and get out of these things and shower. I promise I’ll clean everything up.’
‘Not so fast,’ it was Hazel who responded, ‘little girls who wet their knickers sometimes have to spend an uncomfortable few minutes, maybe longer, before they can tidy up. That’s my skirt I think, and I’m pretty sure that’s your mother’s blouse, shoes and belt. We’d be quite interested to see just what you’re wearing underneath.’
William hesitated before he stood up, uncertain as to whether we would make him comply with Hazel’s inferred request to undress in front of us.
‘Come on,’ Hazel was in no mood to be defied and I too was more than a little interested.
‘Oh come on!’ Hazel insisted, ‘get on with it. We’re all girls together now, after all. Get those things off and let’s see whose knickers you’re wearing!’
William’s demeanour changed. He stood up and, with a sudden assumption of dignity and assurance, he began to undress.
Neatly and with considerable expertise he removed his blouse, folded it and set it aside on a chair; to be followed equally carefully by his skirt. Now he stood before us clad in a short slim fitting slip, short enough to qualify as a chemise, in delicate pearl-grey satin with lace cups over his breasts, with a matching trim of lace at the hem of the skirt. The minimal skirt of the slip, that covered his panties but fell short of his stocking tops, was a darker hue where he’d wet himself. Without further hesitation he swept the slip upwards and off over his head to reveal a matching bra’, supporting some kind of breast forms, panties and suspender-belt; with lace topped pearl-grey stockings. As with the slip, his panties were darkened by his mishap. As he made to unfasten his bra’ it was my turn to intervene.
‘Just a moment,’ I interjected, ‘whose is the lingerie? It’s certainly not mine, or Hazel’s.’
‘Mine.’ William replied with just a hint of amusement in his tone.
‘Yours; you mean, you went out and bought yourself a set of female underwear!’
‘Well no, actually Gran bought it for me. This set and several others besides. You see,’ William continued now apparently fully at ease, ‘Gran caught me one afternoon about four years ago dressed up in your clothes, like now but including your underwear then. She told me that top clothes were all very well but it wasn’t fair to use your knickers and such. She said it was obvious that that wasn’t my first time and, that if I wanted to keep dressing up as a girl I’d better get some of my own. She took me shopping with her and bought some there and then – with me still dressed in your clothes. It wasn’t the only time she took me out either. I’ve got quite a selection of ‘girly undies’ now. It was Gran who taught me to make my face up too, and do my hair like a girl. She said it’s no good doing half a job. She taught me to do my bra’ up properly behind my back, as well, and how to adjust and fasten my suspenders. I haven’t had the nerve to go out dressed up on my own since she died, so all my things are at least two years old. She even helped me to make my breast forms. Well, she showed me what to do, but she made me do them myself.’
The last was said with a considerable degree of pride. And, when he reached his hands up behind him and released his bra’ clasp in one assured movement and let the bra fell forward revealing two perfectly shaped and tailored breast forms, I understood why. They were formed into a pair of pretty A-cup breasts, each bearing a semi-engorged nipple surrounded by a slightly puffy aureole.
‘This pair is made of cream satin, tipped with pink,’ William told us, handing them to us. Then, with a schoolgirl giggle, ‘the breasts are stuffed with bird seed, the nipples with gauze and cotton wool. I’ve three other pairs.’
‘Wow,’ was my immediate first thought, they were certainly pretty authentic, particularly held and veiled as they had been in bra’ cups. I even acknowledged that, glimpsed though a semi-opaque cup, the nipples would be pretty life like, too.
‘You mean you’ve been dressing up as a girl for four years now, and Gran knew and helped you?’ My question was rhetorical; but William’s shrug and the contented expression on his face, answered it anyway.
‘Well you might as well get those wet knickers off now, as well,’ Hazel told him and, with another slight shrug, he complied sliding his panties down over his flanks and allowing them to slide down to the floor around his ankles. Carefully he stepped out of them, and placed them with the remainder of his discarded clothes.
It was the first time I’d seen my son naked for six or seven years, before the onset of puberty. I was suddenly struck his beauty; his pale freckle dusted slender form, with the pearl-grey lace trimmed suspender-belt around his loins, and with his long elegantly shaped legs and feet clad in stockings and scarlet court shoes, plus a feminine hair style and subtly understated make-up, created a vision of fresh girlish femininity that was no way deflected by the incongruous masculinity of the gradually swelling and stiffening cock between his thighs. And his slender build obviated the lack of feminine definition at his waist. He looked every inch the girl he’d sought to emulate – thanks in a large part no doubt to Gran’s tutoring, but the raw material she’d had to tutor was exquisite. And that cock! I watched fascinated as it grew and hardened. What with work, the protracted business of settling probate on Gran’s estate and the necessity of keeping the household buoyant I hadn’t had much cock between my thighs for some time! And an imp of desire awoke within me, a desire that I tried in vain to vanquish.
We sent William down stairs, clad as was in stockings suspender-belt and shoes, to place the soiled clothes in the washing machine followed by a shower, and told him to return to us before attempting to dress in any other outfit.
Hazel crossed the room into the en-suite to continue her interrupted comfort break. As usual with us she left the door open as she reached up under her skirt to slide her panties down and squat on the toilet seat.
‘I’ve made a bit of a mess of these,’ she said, looking down into the crotch of her knickers, ‘and the responsibility for that lies with your son. It was quite a shock catching him dressed up like that. And … er, interesting watching him take off his clothes.’ So saying, she slid her panties down off her ankles and tossed them onto the top of our laundry basket, adding ‘William wasn’t the only one of us to wet their knickers this afternoon.’
I’d had my mind on other things up to then but, suddenly, I too was acutely aware of an uncomfortable stickiness in my own panties. I had also been quietly creaming myself at the concept of my son’s transformation into a pretty and desirable young woman and at the sight of his manhood framed, as it had been, in elegant femininity.
My knickers joined Hazel’s in the basket as we both cleaned ourselves up with toilet paper, a warm damp flannel and talcum powder. Back in the bedroom I made to select clean underwear but Hazel stopped me.
‘Leave it for the moment,’ she said, ‘lets see what transpires. I think we should take William out with us this evening ‘en-femme’. If he’s out with us wearing knickers, it might be quite fun for us to be knickerless!’
William returned to our room just as I finished phoning the theatre to exchange our two tickets for three and after, a moment’s reflection, agreed with Hazel’s suggested outing. All three of us had fun collaborating on William’s outfit. In the end, in deference to the early autumn temperature, we selected my slim skirted, high necked, long sleeved bottle green jersey- wool dress with matching court shoes, over a set of his own delicate pale green, lacy nylon lingerie – slip, bra’, suspender-belt and stockings with matching panties cut high over the hip with a trailing lace fringe – topped off with Hazel’s short rust coloured sued jacket. Hazel and I retained the clothes we’d been wearing minus our panties of course which, in an unspoken but mutual concurrence with Hazel’s earlier suggestion, we didn’t replace.
William may not have been out dressed for two years but, possibly assisted by our presence, his demeanour for the rest of evening – during our visit to the theatre and afterwards at supper in one of the City’s hotels – was exemplary. I’m sure that no one had any suspicion that he was anything other than he looked; a pretty, modest, assured young woman out with two older companions to whom she bore sufficient resemblance to suggest some form of close blood relationship.
During our visit to the theatre William ducked into the toilet, remembering to use the ladies, leaving the two us together at the bar.
‘Well,’ said Hazel, ‘he’s got this down to a fine art. Gran’s training I suppose. He certainly doesn’t seem like your son and my cousin, or what ever he is. I feel more as though we’re a couple of old dykes out with a young bit of stuff that we’re hoping to seduce later. Do you think its being knickerless that does it? Perhaps that was a mistake.
I knew what she meant, dressed as he was William didn’t seem a bit like the son I’d borne, nor like the eighteen year old young man I was used to. I couldn’t help dwelling almost continually on the memory of his slender femininity under his clothes and of the beautiful cock I knew was contained with his pretty panties. I think Hazel was right; being knickerless myself didn’t help. That imp of illicit desire that I’d felt earlier was in no way vanquished – it was growing all the time.
It wasn’t until we were eating our supper that we got around to discussing what name we should give to our beautiful new companion. We couldn’t continue to call him … her William, and Wilhelmina seemed just to obvious and mundane. Then Hazel solved the conundrum.
‘It’s obvious,’ she said, ‘all the girls in our family are named after trees; Gran was Olive, your mother is Linden and your sister is Holly; my mother is Cherry and my sister Aspen. Even our sister’s daughters are William, when he’s … she’s dressed like this, will be Willow.’
And Willow he … she became.
That night our love making, mine and Hazel’s was intense. We both played a symphony on each others bodies: our faces, our throats, our shoulders, our mouths, our breasts, our nipples, our stomachs, our pudendas, our quims – along the line of our eager labia and back along our perinea, our rapidly respondent clits and deep, deep inside our pulsating and salivating vaginas – with our fingers, lips, teeth and tongues. But I know that, even as Hazel was penetrating me with the so expertly directed and controlled ‘strap on’ I was longing, to the point of experiencing a vivid and graphic fantasy, for the feel of William’s … Willow’s flesh and blood cock in the bursting cavity between my thighs – son or no son, incest or no incest!