This story is fiction; although the placenames used in this story do exist; the events described in this story never actually occurred. Any resemblance to anyone anywhere (except to Michele who is actually me) is coincidental. Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome.
Michele drove carefully through the cold wet dark streets. She was not used to using the accelerator and brake pedals of her compact sedan in high heels and she was debating whether to pull over and unbuckle the strap of the high heel on her right foot and kick it off. She didn't want to bring attention to herself by stopping on the deserted street but she was concerned that she might commit a driving offence if her shoe slipped on the accelerator or brake pedal. She had deliberately chosen this route after pondering the street directory for hours. It was not the most direct route to where she was going but it was the one that had the least traffic at this time of night and the least amount of traffic lights. She knew that the poorly lit streets of this industrial area of Bankstown in the outskirts of Sydney would be deserted this time of night.
"Fuck it!" she hissed to herself in frustration.
There were no police cars around this area at this time of night and it was unlikely that anyone was around to even see her, let alone report her for erratic driving. She was being paranoid. Michele took a deep breath and concentrated on driving on the slick wet streets; she was only about fifteen minutes away from her destination, the parkland at Picnic Point, and she was getting excited in anticipation. She had never done this before, but she had wanted to for so long, that she could hardly believe that she had mustered up the courage to go ahead with it.
"Concentrate, you silly bitch," Michele swore to herself after swerving at the last minute to avoid a mangy cat that ran in front of her car.
She slowed down another five kilometres per hour so that she was driving well below the posted speed limit. Would driving this slow bring more attention to her?
"Fuck it!" she giggled to herself in nervous anticipation and drove on through the deserted streets.
Five kilometres away three figures cursed and threatened each other as their high-powered sedan roared down the back streets of Padstow; the shrill of a burglar alarm siren receding into the background.
"You fucking dumb cunt! I told you to leave the cash in the till and just take the money from the safe!" the leader hissed.
Stan, the leaser, was a big man, weighing in at over one hundred kilos and well over 190 centimetres tall. His long oily black hair, dark features and sunken eyes looked grotesque because of the nylon stocking he wore on his head. He tore it off and stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans.
"You two fuckers take off those masks now and don't fucking leave them in the car so the coppers can get your DNA!" he bellowed as his two accomplices stripped stockings from their heads.
"Fuck me Stan, I never would have thought that wiry little cunt would have the guts to pull that gun on you!" the smallest of the three uttered excitedly.
At just over 167 centimetres, Davo was a full head shorter than Stan, their leader. He was a full-blood aboriginal with a lithe body and small bunched muscles; his black curly hair hung in a mop almost covering his deep-set brown eyes. A few men had mistaken his slight build for weakness; most of those who had, lived to regret their mistake.
"Well you dopey black bastard, if you hadn't insisted the owner take the money out of the cash register he never would have been anywhere near the fucking gun or the fucking alarm would he!!!" the third member of the gang bellowed.
'Wassa', as his friends called him, was 182 centimetres but weighed in at 105 kilos. Middle-aged spread was having its effect on him and his large gut hung over his belt. He was scrunched into the driver's seat concentrating on the road as he floored the accelerator.
"Hey! Don't call me dopey! I admit to being black 'cause that's a bit hard for me to hide; but don't call me dopey," Davo spat back, but he was chuckling to himself.
"Ok you two, enough of the gobfest; we'll have a think about what went wrong once we're safe. Right now we need to get rid of this fucking car; it stands out like dogs balls and even with the bullet I put in him I reckon that fucking shop owner will be able to tell the cops what this car looks like," Stand said.
"I should have put one in his head!" he spat angrily.
"Fuck off Stan," Wassa whined, "its bad enough that we'll get done for armed robbery."
"Well then Wassa, why don't you get us the fuck off this main road and onto the back streets where we can relieve someone of their vehicle and get to somewhere safe?" Stan growled.
The dark sedan with the three criminals embarked made a right turn and disappeared down the dark wet streets; it was now speeding towards Michele's compact only a few streets away.
All three of the crims were hard men. They had all done time for various crimes including robbery, armed hold-up, home invasion and rape. They were desperate men with little care for society's values; they cared only for themselves and what they could take from others. They had met in Silverwater Jail and had formed a loyalty for each other based on mutual viciousness. Stan was the natural leader; but Wassa and Davo were not far behind him when it came to being ruthless. The three had escaped from a prison transport vehicle, leaving one prison officer in a coma, and they had since been lying low except to commit the odd armed robbery to finance their plan to escape to somewhere in Southeast Asia.
Michele was concentrating on the road, and anticipating that soon she would have to cross a couple of lighted streets to get to her destination. She though that she looked passable but was worried about the car breaking down or getting pulled over; anything that would mean she would have to leave the car. She was just being paranoid she thought to herself and her mind drifted to how she had come to be in this situation tonight.
One year ago Mike, a chubby bearded man in his early forties, had left his solicitor's office in Brisbane as a brand new divorcee. He had sold everything that his bitch wife hadn't taken from him in the divorce and all that he had in the world was an airline ticket to Sydney and enough cash for a bond on a one bedroom flat in the western suburbs. He did have a well paying job at an accountancy waiting for him though, and it didn't take him long to save up enough for his needs.
He bought a second-hand compact sedan and some pleasant functional furniture. He bought a good quality PC and signed up for a broadband plan that allowed him unlimited internet access and unlimited downloads. He shaved his beared and took up jogging and lost weight. At seventy two kilos he was now slim and well proportioned for a man of 190 plus centimetres. He shaved off all of his body hair before he started his new job and kept it shaved so that people would think that his body was naturally hairless. Once he had slimmed down he bought blouses, skirts, women's suits, lingerie, high heels, hosiery, makeup and wigs.
Mike was a crossdresser. He's had a penchant for stockings and panties as a youngster and this had grown stronger as he got older. God bless that bitch of an ex-wife, at least she understood his fetish and had worn nice lingerie and stockings for him when he had asked her to. Well, that was until she became an evil witch and fucked his best friend and then cleaned him out in the divorce. What she hadn't known was that Mike had liked to dress in her lingerie and hosiery while she was out of the house. He was secretly glad when they split up and he was able to move to Sydney where nobody knew him.
More and more the urge to dress as a woman had grown on him until he was no longer happy being a 'hairy-legged panty-wearer' as he had seen his type described on the internet; he wanted to be a transvestite. Now he could become a closet crossdresser in the privacy of his own flat.
Mike deliberately avoided making friends and kept to himself. He didn't want to worry about anyone dropping in on him whilst he was at home dressed as Michele, the name that he had selected for his en-femme persona. He went to the better opportunity and second hand clothing shops and bought a selection of quality skirts, blouses and suits. He had no compunction in telling the sales ladies that he was shopping for himself if they got nosey and asked. Some tisked and tutted, but most were actually helpful. He bought a large selection of makeup, lingerie and hosiery at a Big W department store and didn't bat an eyelid when the lady at the checkout stared at his purchases; it was the same when he went to Payless Shoes and bought three pairs of high heels in size 10. What the fuck did he care about what these women thought of him or his purchases; he'd never see them again and, other than his work colleagues, he knew no one in the whole state of New South Wales.
Mike found the lady at Celebrity Wigs in Sydney's Oxford Street particularly helpful. She advised him against getting a long blonde wig, which is what he wanted, and showed him why when she placed it on his head. He looked like an old queen; even with makeup he would look like an old queen in this wig. She selected a couple of nice shoulder length bobs in brunette and black; both had highlights in them and finally Mike selected a nice shoulder length hairpiece that was dark brunette with red highlights. The saleswoman complimented him on his selections and relieved him of nearly seven hundred dollars.
A bit further up Oxford Street a sex shop called 'Throb' relived him of a further couple of hundred dollars for a pair of realistic breastforms. Mike wasn't too concerned about how they looked; it was more about how they felt. When he tried them on in the fitting room wearing one of his own bras and blouses he was very happy with the results.
Mike practiced hard getting his makeup right; he liked lashings of eyeliner, mascara, lipstick and blush. He eventually got the look he wanted; 'slightly trashy but not too much like a drag queen' was how he described it to himself. Once he had learned to dress properly and how to do his makeup he started going on line, he went to transvestite sex sites and chatrooms and hooked up his webcam. He had some lovely discussions and cybersex sessions with other transvestites, crossdressers and admirers but he longed for the real thing. He didn't consider himself gay and when he wasn't dressed as Michele the thought of touching a man repulsed him. But when he was dressed as Michele he fantasised about sucking a big cock and being taken like a woman. He had a collection of dildos and vibrators and he used them on himself a lot; other crossdresser and admirers liked to see him use them when he was on webcam.
But Michele wanted the real thing and she thought she was now ready. She had entered into an online 'cyber' relationship with an admirer named Paul. Paul was married but Michele didn't care. Paul was in his early fifties and was no looker, but he was pleasant enough and treated her well both online and in the emails he sent her almost daily. They exchanged intimate pictures and performed for each other on webcam. They had edged around meeting and both were keen but wary. Michele didn't want to bring Paul to her home until they had met somewhere else on neutral ground so she could establish that he was trustworthy; and Paul couldn't invite Michele to his place because he was married. They planned to meet at a hotel but all of the hotels required credit cards and neither of them wanted to divulge their personal details just yet.
Finally they had agreed to meet in the parkland at Picnic Point; it was about a twenty minute drive for both of them and there was a very discreet parking area hidden away in the bushland that was used late at night on the weekends for dogging. The thought of dogging in the safety of a locked car added extra spice to the meeting. The hitch was that Mike would have to drive there and back dressed as Michele; there was no way that he could transform into Michele out there in the park. Mike knew that behind the wheel of a car at night he would be passable but if he had to get out of the car for any reason he might get clocked. He had developed an effeminate voice that he liked to use when dressed as Michele; it was a smoky raspy voice that sounded sexy but not too silly. The problem was that even though he looked quite attractive and sounded sexy; up close he was still a transvestite. His worst nightmare was being caught dressed as a woman outside his car and far from home.
Mike eventually got up the courage to go out dressed as Michele. At first she went out in the early hours of the morning and circled the block a few times; then she drove further and further to build up her courage. It thrilled her as well as scared her but after going out a few times at night she eventually got the up pluck to agree to a meeting with Paul. Mike went to the dogging park dressed in drab (male attire for the uninitiated) and reconnoitred the area to be sure that it would be safe. It was indeed very discreet and he saw a couple of cars parked there inside of which couples were obviously engaged in sex.
He plucked up the courage to have a closer look and saw a gay couple in one car and a middle aged couple in another having sex. He was rewarded when he looked in a third car and saw a middle aged transvestite fellating an older man. The trannie looked up and smiled at him through the car window. Mike thought that he looked a lot better in drag than she did; but was envious of what she was doing. The thought of dogging with Paul with an onlooker or two watching through the car window was quite exciting and Michele couldn't wait for her meeting with Paul.
Michele was bought out of her reverie by the sudden appearance of headlights in the rear-vision mirror. The car was gaining on her fast and she eased over into the left lane so that the speeding car could overtake her. The car sped around her but then suddenly braked and turned across the road blocking the lane.
"Fuuuuck!!!" Michele screamed and jammed on the brakes as hard as she could.
Her car came to a halt centimetres from the large over-powered sedan which blocked the road; her seatbelt cinched her waist and shoulder. The back doors of the dark sedan sprang open and two men, one large and heavy set, the other short and wiry, ran over to Michele's car. Both men scrambled into the back seat; the larger one pointed a pistol at Michele's head. She saw the dull gleam of weapon and her heart fell. 'Why the fuck didn't I lock the doors' she thought to herself.
"Don't say anything; don't do anything; just sit there bitch!" one of the men spat at her from the back seat.
Michele's plum-red painted fingernails dug into the steering wheel and she froze in terror. The large sedan pulled off the street and a short fat man struggled out of the driver's side door carrying a large carrier bag and waddled up to Michele's car and dropped into the front passenger seat; the suspension springs moaning in protest. He passed the carrier bag over the back seat.
Wassa turned towards the back seat and smiled at his two accomplices.
"See guys; not only did I find us a new car; I found a nice lady to drive it for us," he laughed.
"Drive bitch!" Stan ordered and tapped Michele on the back of her head with his pistol as encouragement.
"Keep to the fucking speed limit and just go where I tell you," he said.
Michele was in abject terror as she eased her car forward. What the hell were these lunatics doing highjacking a second-hand compact car like hers. Didn't highjackers steal SUVs and prestige cars? Not little Jap compacts! She didn't know if she was more scared by the fact that three armed men had her as a hostage or by the fact that these men would probably soon find out she was a man. What would they do? Where were they taking her? Her mind boiled in turmoil.
"What's the plan then Stan?" Davo asked their leader.
"Well we get this bitch to drive us to the old warehouse and then we get into the other car we got stashed there. It should be pretty safe cause' the cops ain't looking for a woman and this piece of shit is hardly your average getaway car now is it?" Stan said.
"What about the cunt?" Wassa asked; looking intently at Michele.
"We tie her up; then we fuck off and leave her."
Stan leaned forward over the backseat laughed evilly into Michele's ear.
"Hopefully someone will find you before you starve or freeze," he sniggered.
"I can't see too much of her here in the dark Stan but she looks like she might be a sort and she smells great; any chance we can have a go at her before we fuck off?" Wassa asked.
"Now fuck me Wassa; if I say yes this little princess is likely to do something stupid ain't she?"
"And if I say no there's every possibility that even a stupid cunt like her might think that I'm lying." Stan explained.
Stan leaned over the backseat again and pressed his mouth to Michele's ear.
"So, let's just say this shall we? If this little strumpet behaves nicely; she will come to no harm. Nod if you understand."
Michele nodded once.
"But if you fuck us around; then I will let Wassa here do whatever he likes to you and then he'll shoot you in the head."
"Understand?" he punctuated his question by tapping the muzzle of his gun against Michele's cheek.
Michele nodded vigorously.
They drove in silence for a few minutes; the only sounds were the directions given by Stan to Michele. Michele was thinking about how she could get out of the situation unscathed and hopefully get home without being exposed to the world as a crossdresser. Then she felt it! Wassa was so big that in the front seat of the small car he was almost sitting on top of her; his body was so close that she could smell his sweat and the onions on his breath from his dinner. But what she felt now was something deliberate!
Wassa's fingers touched her thigh, just below the hem of her navy blue skirt. He stroked her leg slowly, his callused fingers rasping on her sheer stockings. Michele pretended to ignore him; there was nothing to be gained by making a scene. Then his hand slid under the hem of her skirt and slid up to the top of her thigh and came to rest on the reinforced welt of her stocking-top, his fingers explored the nylon where it cinched onto the garter strap of her suspender belt. Michele jumped as his hand touched the bare skin above the welt of her stocking.
"What the fuck is going on!" Stan growled from the backseat.
"Fuck me Stan she's wearing stockings!" Wassa chuckled.
"So what Wassa? So was we ten minutes ago," Davo quipped.
"Nah not them pantyhose things we had on our heads; she's wearing real stockings with sussies. Fuck I thought only me old Mom and prostitutes wore stockings these days," Wassa went on.
"I thought your old Mom was a prostitute!" Davo sniped back.
"Nah Davo; that's your sister you're thinking of!" Wassa laughed.
"Shut the fuck up you two," Stan interrupted, "I don't want any fucking around until we're safely in the warehouse.
"Besides; did you ever think this bitch might be a pro?" he chuckled.
Wassa turned towards Michele and squeezed the top her thigh; a warning to her not to make another scene. Michele glanced at him and quickly nodded her compliance. In the stony silence of the dark car Wassa stroked and fondled Michele's leg under her skirt, running his fingers up and down her stocking and stroking the cool skin above the welt. Michele concentrated on driving the car and hoped Wassa wouldn't move his hand any higher than her thighs.
Stan and Davo began to whisper to themselves in the back; they were in heated conversation and were not paying attention to what was happening in the front seats other than Stan directing Michele to turn left here or right there. As they drove along the darkened backstreets Michele resigned herself to letting the fat man beside her stroke her legs.
Out of the corner of her eye Michele saw the fat guy she now knew as Wassa give an evil grin and begin to fumble around in his lap. 'Oh my god!' she thought to herself; 'he's going to take IT out!'
Then over the hiss of the tyres and the mumbled conversation in the backseat she heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being opened. Wassa glanced back and spoke to Stan.
"I'll tell the bitch where to go Stan; you guys see what we got away with."
"Ok but don't let the bitch do anything stupid," Stan replied.
Stan handed his gun to Wassa and he and Davo rooted around in the carrier bag and began to excitedly discuss the contents.
"Left here," Wassa ordered, pointing down another dark street, when they came to a stop sign.
After he finished pointing Wassa quickly dropped his hand onto Michele's left hand and lifted it off the steering wheel and pulled it down into his lap. He waved the gun in Michele's face, tacitly emphasising to her not to take her hand out of his lap or to say anything. If the men in the back seat noticed anything they would have just thought it was Wassa intimidating the driver with his gun.
Michele bit her lip as she realised what the fat man wanted. With his free hand Wassa forced Michele's fingers inside his flies and imperceptivity waggled the gun at her. Michele stifled a sob and pushed her painted fingernails inside Wassa's underpants. His crotch was hairy, hot and sweaty and a musky smell wafted from it. Her fingers wrapped around Wassa's spongy semi-erect penis and he grinned in the dark. He was going to get a handjob off this well dressed sexy bitch.
He looked at her closely in the glow of a streetlight. She was a big woman but well proportioned. She was wearing heavy makeup: lots of black eyeliner and mascara, blue and pink eyeshadow, rose blush and plum red lipstick. Her hair was glossy; brunette with subtle red highlights which fell to her shoulders; the fringe level with her brows. Her perfume was sensual and arousing. She was in her forties and quite attractive; sort of sophisticated but slutty at the same time. His cock began to harden in her hands; he loved women who looked like her.
She wore a navy blue skirt; the hem hiked to mid-thigh because she of the way she sat in the driver's seat. Her blouse was red or mauve and looked like it was satin or silk; her nylons shimmered in the dim light, the sheen on her legs drawing his eyes down to her feet shod in black patent leather high-heel sandals. He thought he saw the gleam of red toenail polish through the reinforced toes of her stocking. She had big feet he thought; but she was a stunner all right!
Michele kept her hand loosely wrapped around Wassa's hardening penis and tried to concentrate on driving one handed. When she came to a slight bend in the road she tried to take her hand out of Wassa's crotch and put it back on the steering wheel but he grabbed her wrist and held it in place. He gave her a vicious stare and Michele stopped fighting and resigned herself to driving one handed.
Wassa glanced back and saw that Stan and Davo were still engrossed in the contents of the carrier bag. He encircled Michele's fingers in his own and began to slowly slide them up and down his now fully erect penis. Once she realised what he wanted he took his hand away and looked across at her and smiled. A single tear ran down Michele's cheek leaving a trail of black mascara.
Michele was horrified. She had fantasised about doing this with Paul in the confines of the backseat of his car whilst parked at Picnic Point. She wanted to be held by the man she desired; to be kissed as he sensuously fondled her; to kiss and fondle him back; she not want to be forced to masturbate this fat pig at gunpoint in her cold dark car.
In a way she was more worried about what this man would do to her when he found out that she was actually a man. Would he beat her in disgust? Would he shoot her? God! What was she to do?
She realised that at the moment there was nothing she could do except to comply. Michele slowly stroked the hard stubby penis poking out of the front of Wassa's trousers. Wassa gave a satisfied groan in the back of his throat.
"What's that Wassa?" Davo asked mistaking Wassa's groan of contentment for a mumbled phrase.
"Oh nothing Davo; just clearing me throat," he sniggered.
Davo and Stan went back to their hushed discussion about the contents of the carrier bag.
Wassa hadn't had a root in a long time and he knew that he would come soon, which was just as well as they weren't that far from the warehouse now. He pulled Michele's fingers off his cock and clamped her hand between his thighs so she couldn't pull it away. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a packet of Winfield cigarettes and offered them over the back. At the same time the stocking that he had worn over his head during the robbery dropped out of his pocket and fell into his lap.
"No smoking stupid!" Stan ordered, and went back to his conversation with Davo.
Wassa didn't care about the smokes one bit; he wanted the stocking. Well it wasn't a real stocking as such; it was the leg cut from a pair of pantyhose. But it was translucent and sheer; just the thing for a bankjob; or a handjob, he giggled mentally to himself. He slid the diaphanous nylon over his stubby engorged member and moved Michele's fingers back onto his phallus.
Michele was no stranger to masturbating into nylon; she had done it herself often enough over the years; but this was just plain grotesque; wanking off this smelly pig of a man into a stocking whilst driving to god knows where. Before she could get too involved with these thoughts she felt Wassa poke her on the ribs with his gun and she returned to what she was doing before; driving one handed and masturbating the pig with her other hand.
Michele felt the heat of Wassa's cock through the sleek nylon stocking; she could feel the thick veins and the spongy glans. She knew how to get this disgusting act over with quickly. She used her fingertip to rub the slinky material of the stocking against his frenulum, the sensitive piece of skin on the underside of the penis that joins the shaft and the glans. From her own experiences she knew that it is excruciatingly sensitive and that the exquisite sensation of a silky stocking rubbing on the area soon leads to orgasm.
Wassa was no exception and he stared at the sexy bitch sitting beside him in the darkened car and imagined what he would like to do to her as hot semen flooded into the stocking. He held Michele's hand in place and she felt Wassa's penis pulse and throb and then her fingers were covered with hot viscous semen as it seeped through the sheer nylon. Wassa fought hard to hold in a cry of pleasure but he did let out a small pig-like grunt.
Michele could smell the musty odour of semen and wondered how the two men in the back could not know what was happening. Wassa's semen felt hot and slimy as she stroked his shaft, milking him of the last of his spend. Then, one handed, she wiped his softening penis with the stocking and wiped her own fingers as best she could and dropped the stocking on the passenger side floor. She returned her hand to the steering wheel as Wassa surreptitiously closed his flies.
Michele looked down at the instrument panel and caught a glimpse of her left hand on the wheel. A small globule of Wassa's semen glistened on one of her painted red fingernails. She stared at the glistening white bead for a few seconds; fascinated by it. Without thinking, she bought the finger up to her lipsticked lips and licked the morsel off her fingernail. She flinched when she realised what she had unconsciously done, and came back to earth with a jolt.
She didn't know what scared her more; the knowing smile on Wassa's face, or the fact that her own penis was rock hard inside her satin panties.
"There; turn into that driveway!" Wassa ordered; and Stan and Davo stopped their conversation and started peering out the car windows looking up and down the deserted street.
"All clear," Davo said and hopped out the car as soon as it came to a stop.
He unlocked a roller door and pushed it up allowing Michele to drive into the darkened warehouse. Michele was now visibly trembling with fear and thoughts of what might happen to her now ran around in her head; none of them good. Davo slammed the roller door closed behind them.
There was only a couple of weak diffused lights but combined with car's headlights there was enough illumination for Michele to look around the warehouse. It was dark, dusty and obviously abandoned. Large dark shapes covered in drop cloths hulked in the corners and various pieces of disused and rusting machinery were scattered around in disarray. The musty smell of mould, rodent shit and neglect seeped through the air vents of the car.
"What you waiting for bitch," Wassa threatened, waving his gun in Michele's face.
"An invitation? Get the fuck out of the car!"
Michele turned off the ignition and headlights. The gloom closed in on them as she opened the door and got out of the car. She felt totally vulnerable; a middle-aged transvestite kidnapped by three brutal criminals who may become volatile at any moment and who had no idea that she was a man.
"Move it!" Stan ordered and pushed Michele in the back and she staggered forward, tottering on her high heels.
"Over there; see that office? That's where you're going."
Michele could just see the dirt smeared windows of a small office in the gloom and she started walking cautiously towards it; her high heels echoing ominously on the concrete floor.
"Christ she's got a great arse and look at those legs; I didn't think women wore seamed stockings anymore," Davo whispered to the others but his voice echoed around the deserted warehouse.
"Let's just get into the office and sort out the cash boys; we'll worry about the woman later," Stan growled.
The door to the office creaked open when Michele pushed against it; she heard the scampering and squeaks of mice scurrying away. The office had a fusty odour of old dust and stale cigarette smoke, overlaying a faint scent of stale urine. Michele shuddered as she was pushed through the door.
"There!" Stan pointed, to a mouldy overstuffed sofa set against one of the walls.
Stan sat at a depilated old desk and turned on a desk lamp, which lit the office with a faint glow. The other two thugs joined him at the desk dragging up rusty folding metal chairs. Michele sat on the dusty sofa pulling down the hem of her short skirt as much as possible. Wassa and Davo leered at her in the gloom; openly ravishing her with their eyes. Davo stared at her legs and Michele attempted to pull the hem of her skirt down even further attempting to hide her thighs.
"Those fucking stockings man!" Davo sighed.
"Shut the fuck up! Now will you two pay attention to business and forget about the cunt for a minute," Stan said the exasperation evident in his voice.
To block out her fear Michele allowed her mind to wander; she had not worn her fully fashioned stockings for the pleasure of these thugs. They had no right to be excited by her legs; that was a privilege she was saving for Paul; the man who was supposed to be her first ever lover. She cast her mind back to when she had selected her lingerie for this evening's encounter.
First she had to select her stockings. Why stockings? Except for the obvious fact that they allow accessibility where pantyhose do not. Well; stockings create beautiful lines. What do the seams invite the hand and the eye to do? They invite them to slowly follow the seam up from the ankle to the gap of hidden flesh at the top of the leg. This tiny warm space of flesh, exposed between stocking top and the line of the knickers is one of the most erotic images and really stirs the sensations. She selected a pair of taupe 15 denier nylons with contrasting black welts, seams and Cuban heels. These she laid out gently on her bed in reverence to their magic power.
Then she selected a suspender belt. She decided on a black lace belt with three suspenders for each leg. She vividly recalled stepping into the suspender belt earlier that evening. The placement of the belt around her waist had always to be just so, while the attachment of the stockings was a delicate procedure that required concentration, so that the stocking not only remains in place but does not drag the belt down when she walked. The most enduring impression of the suspender is that of a frame for her 'special place'; the curve of the fabric over the top of the hips leads down to the top of the stockings. The suspenders straps, in delicate tulle, no knickers at this stage, focusing attention on the centre of pleasure. Michele loved the feel of her suspenders gently rubbing against her thighs, naughtily pressing together the bare tops of her legs under her skirt.
Michele debated what knickers she would wear tonight. Tight satin full cut panties? Sheer nylon boy-leg knickers with lace trim? Shiny briefs of silk or satin? She never wore G-strings or bikinis; they just weren't her style. She made her decision and looked down into her panty drawer. Scraps of silk, satin and nylon in bright touch-me-feel-me colours of deep red, purple and fuchsia were her everyday favourites. They contrasted with the shiny black panties and black lace camiknickers that she sometimes wore when the mood prevailed.
She selected a pair of deep red satin full-cut panties with lace trim at the waistband and a little bow in the middle. They rasped gently against her nylons as they slithered up her legs. They contrasted magnificently with black lace suspender belt and her taupe stockings with their black back-seams and welts.
For every pair of panties she owned she had a matching brassiere, she selected the matching deep red satin brassiere and adjusted it around her breastforms. She sat on her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of black patent leather high heeled sandals with ankle straps. She chose the shoes to show off her plum red painted toenails through the reinforced toes of her stockings. Why go to all the trouble to paint your toenails if you don't show them off she thought. Beside Paul had hinted that he had an intense weakness for painted toes peeking out of high heels.
She looked at herself in the full length mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her hair and makeup were perfect and the skirt she was going to wear had a satin lining so she did not need to wear a slip. Her silver drop earrings, matching necklace and bracelets were set wonderfully; she accessorised well she thought. She'd even clipped a silver ankle bracelet around her ankle. Her favourite 'Poison' perfume floated around her.
"So are we're agreed then!" Stan said in loud voice, waking Michele from her reverie.
She realised that the criminals had finished their deliberations and had shared out their takings and had also made their final decision about what to with her.
She wished now that she hadn't dressed like this before she left home; she wished she had never arranged to meet Paul at the parkland rendezvous; she wished she had never given in to her transvestite fantasies. She knew of hundreds of TVs in cyberspace who were happy to dress up and have fun alone in their own home. Sure, most of them advertised that they were looking for a man to 'make their dreams come true' but mostly they just stayed at home and fantasised.
Michele plucked up the courage to ask THE question; the answer to which she was dreading.
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked in her smoky, faux feminine voice.
"Well it's sort of a good news; bad news situation," Wassa said sarcastically.
"Remember when we said if you behave yourself you will come to no harm?" he asked.
"Well that is still the case."
"The bad news is that Stan has allowed me and Davo here do whatever we like to you for half an hour before we leave here."
"If you behave we will leave you alive," he finished matter of factly.
Michele was astounded! Deep down she expected that, thinking that she was a woman, these yobbos would want to sexually assault her. But now the reality of the situation finally sank in.
"I'm a man!" Michele blurted out, reaching up and pulling off her wig.
"I'm a man dressed as a woman!" she screamed at them.
"Well fuck me!!!" all three gangsters yelped at once.
"She's a fucking trannie!" Stan exclaimed after a moment of stunned silence.
Michele sat there on the filthy couch utterly dejected, looking down at the wig in her hands, waiting for the bastards to start beating her.
"Well I'm afraid that sort of brings in another good news; bad news scenario for you," Wassa replied.
"The bad news for you is that being a trannie makes no difference to me and Davo," he smiled.
"You see we've all done time inside. Inside prison that is. And we've have had our fair share of poofters in jail; have to see; no women in jail. Some of the poufs would dress up in drag a bit; you know, grow their hair long and wear makeup and women's underwear that had been smuggled in for them."
"So you see we've had our fair share of trannies before," Wassa said; Davo nodded adamantly beside him.
"The good news for you is that the deal stands; if you behave yourself we won't kill you." Stan interrupted.
"Now put that fucking wig back on!" Davo ordered.
Mike was no fool. He realised the dire straits he was in; he made a life or death decision right then and there. He pulled his wig back on and adjusted it as best he could, levelling the fringe with the top of his eyebrows. He took a deep breath and dropped back into the persona of Michele.
Michele stood up and looked down at Wassa and Davo with her heavily mascaraed eyes.
"Ok; I'll behave," she whispered.
Davo stepped forward and pulled Michel roughly into his arms. His mouth fell on hers with ravenous hunger; his tongue thrusting into her mouth. He crushed her hard against his rangy body and Michele could feel a huge bulge thickening through the material of his jeans. 'My God, ' she thought; this is going to be appalling. She relaxed and allowed Davo to kiss and grope her.
"What about me?" Wassa whined in the background.
"You've already had a taste Wassa; let Davo have some fun," Stan said.
Michele realised with some disgust that Wassa must have told the others about how he had forced her to give him the illicit handjob in the car.