The big dark car cruised slowly along the street; the windows were dark, the grille and bumper bars were all chrome; the large headlights sitting atop of the gleaming front wheel panels glowed an ominous dull yellow.

Charlotte leaned against the rough brickwork in the dark railway underpass hoping the car would pass by without incident. A small suitcase on the filthy pavement beside her contained all of her worldly possessions; she hadn’t eaten for four days nor bathed for two. She wanted no truck with whoever was in the car.

As the black behemoth entered the tunnel, the high beams lit up, dazzling her. She raised her hand to her eyes to shade them.

“There. That one,” the man in the backseat of the limousine pointed to the dishevelled young girl shielding her eyes.

“She looks pretty shabby Guvnor,” the chauffeur commented.

“They always do when I first get my hands on them. She’s the Eliza Doolittle to my Henry Higgins,” the man in the backseat replied.

“You might be Rex Harrison but she is definitely no Audrey Hepburn,” the driver sniffed.

Charlotte picked up her suitcase and began walking but there was nowhere to go. She was effectively trapped in the tunnel; she shuffled along the pavement, leaning heavily to one side to compensate for the weight of her suitcase. She struggled to walk in her high heels, which were two sizes to big for her.

The car pulled up beside her and the back window wound down.

Charlotte glanced over and saw a handsome, middle-aged man beckoning to her; he seemed refined and was very well dressed. His black mane was shot through with distinguished streaks of grey. She felt even shabbier but more importantly if the man got too close to her, her secret would be revealed.

“Come on over I won’t bite,” the man said in a clipped British accent.

Charlotte kept walking; deliberately looking away. She stumbled and fell; skinning her knee and tearing a hole in her already laddered nylons.

She kneeled on her hands and knees and began to sob. She didn’t care what the men in the car wanted with her; Charlotte was despondent, dejected and rejected. She felt worthless and fatally depressed.

Charlotte felt the presence of the man beside her. She could see his immaculately shined shoes and pressed trouser cuffs. Feeling shame wash over her, she looked up at him.

He was offering her a leather-gloved hand, which she reluctantly took.

The man helped Charlotte to her feet; he was smiling, not in a wolfish sort of way, which is what she has continually experienced since she had been thrown out on the street. He seemed genuinely concerned for her.

She stood shaking, leaning one hand on the cold damp brick wall for support. The man pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it on her face. Grime and caked-on makeup soiled the cloth, now moist with Charlotte’s tears. This made Charlotte feel even more abject.

The man took her shoulder to steady her and started to lead Charlotte to the car, which idled at the curb, a plume of blue smoke snaking from the exhaust. The chauffer had got out of the car and picked up her shabby suitcase.

“Where are we going?” Charlotte whimpered.

“Does it matter?” the man replied.

He helped her into the car and Charlotte offered no resistance. The car was clean and warm; two circumstances she had not experienced for some time.

The man climbed in the backseat after her and Charlotte clambered across and hunched in the corner, as far away from the man as possible.

“Are you scared?” the man asked.

Charlotte nodded.

The chauffer slammed the boot and came around to the front of the car; he got in and started driving.

The man reached inside his coat and produced a small bar of chocolate. He offered it to Charlotte who snatched it from his grasp and began to wolf it down.

The chauffer watched in the rear-view mirror and tutted his disapproval. The man flicked a switch and the dark glass window separating the rear passenger compartment from driver’s seat slid into place.

The man lit a cheroot and contemplated the waif. He reached across and turned her face to his, holding her by her pointed chin.

“I bet you’re pretty under that grime,” he groused.

“I’m not a girl; at least not a real one,” Charlotte whispered her confession.

“Oh I know. But I’m going to help you become the next best thing,” the man smiled at her and ruffled her hair.

One year earlier…

Charles Beason was on school holidays, home alone.

Charles was a slender lad who was clumsy and ill-suited to play cricket, squash or rugby, which was almost a religion at the public school where he boarded. He was bright and performed well academically; but not being sporty and considered rather delicate meant that Charles was ostracised by his Housemates. Life at Harrow School was hell on earth for him and he longed to be home where his mother doted on him.

Charles’ father was an Old Harrovain and expected Charles to follow in his footsteps and become a prefect or even a House Captain. The rather exorbitant expenses that his parents paid for the privilege bestowed on Charles was a frequent conversation piece whenever Charles’ poor performance at Harrow arose.

“Leave him alone Reginald; Charles is doing his best. His grades are good and he’s excelling in arts and music,” his mother defended him.

“They should bring back fagging and corporal punishment; toughen him up a bit,” his father made no effort to hide his disappointment.

His mother would usually take Charles in her arms and smother him at this stage of the altercation and Reginald would sniff disapprovingly, flick his broadsheet and mumble something about pansies.

Charles delighted in his mother’s soft embrace, the smell of her perfume, the gentle caress of her Angora sweater.

“The boy will end up a fucking homo if you keep mothering him like you do!” Major Reginald Beason (Rtd) growled, pouring scotch and lighting a cigar.

“Reginald!” Wendy Beason said disapprovingly and put her hands over Charles’ ears.

Charles liked it when he had the house to himself. His father was thankfully often away on business and his mother had endless rounds of social engagements that demanded her attention.

She would cuddle her beloved son before she went out for the day or the evening, kissing him all over his face. Quite often when she came home ‘in her cups’ she would slink out of her gown, kick off her heels and climb under the covers to snuggle and cosset her beloved teenaged boy.

There was nothing sexual between them, but Charles adored the feel of his mother’s soft body sheathed in satin and lace pressed against his; her legs encased in sheer slippery nylon wrapped around his as she held him tight until she fell asleep. Then he would breathe in her smells: lipstick, powder, and perfume with an undertone of champagne, gin or whisky.

From an early age Charles had been fascinated with the look and feel of ladies intimate apparel. Sheer stockings and nylon and satin knickers and underpants, full-slips and half-slips, bustiers and brassieres, suspenders and garter belts; all these things were sacred to him. He loved how they looked, he loved how the felt, and he loved how they smelled after his mother had worn them.

Another passion was shoes. Specifically women’s high heeled shoes. Pumps, stilettos, ankle strap heels, wedge heels, sling-back heels, high-heeled sandals, peep-toes, mules; they fascinated him equally. And his mother had plenty of them all.

Charles could not remember exactly when he first tried on ladies clothing. He remembers encountering his mother’s stockings drying on the towel-rail and her knickers and brassieres and slips hanging from the clotheshorse near the fireplace. He remembers taking soiled undergarments from the laundry basket. He remembers rubbing the items against his bare skin and revelling in the wonderment of their feel.

Charles does remember however numerous occasions when he did wear the garments; late at night in his room, under the bed covers. The stockings were baggy on his legs but they felt luxurious, the same with the knickers, slips and bras.

He would slide into a pair of stockings, pull on a pair of satin panties and then a nylon or satin full-slip and roll around under the covers delighting in the delectation of the garments against his soft, unblemished, sensitive skin.

Charles became brazen. He stole lingerie from the neighbour’s clothesline; they had a daughter who was close to him in size. He spent the day dressed in her lingerie and stockings, clunking around in a pair of his mother’s pumps. He had the house to himself so often that it became routine and he had to admit the chance that he might get caught only added spice.

He wore his hair long; well longish, as did most Harrovians, just below his collar. It was whispy, blonde and curly and his father hated it; said he looked like a London rent-boy. Charles would brush it out and centre part it with a fringe while he was dressed enfemme and brush it back severely at other times.

One day he sat beside his mother who was at her vanity table putting on her makeup dressed in stockings, knickers, bra and slip; her beautiful silk evening gown hanging on a satin-padded hanger ready to slip into before she left for her engagement. Her satin dressing gown was cinched at the waist but Charles could see quite plainly what she was wearing underneath. Wendy ruffled his hair and moved over so her beloved boy could sit beside her while she preened. She was drinking a gin and tonic and gave him a sip.

“Don’t you tell daddy,” Wendy kissed him quickly and then rubbed her lipstick off his rosy cheek.

“Is that hard what you are doing mom? You seem to have to have to really concentrate when you put on your makeup?” Charles asked, innocently enough.

“It’s something all girls learn to do as soon as they can; I could do my makeup by the time I was thirteen,” Wendy grinned at him.

“Did your mother teach you?” Charles was interested.

Wendy turned to him and looked at her son very seriously for a beat.

“I know you like to wear my clothes sometimes Charles,” she said to him.

Charles sat stunned; his mouth agape. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

“There, there,” Wendy pulled him into her embrace and patted his back.

“Look Charles; it’s not unusual for men and boys to be fascinated with ladies clothes, especially their underclothes. Why do you think women wear them?”

“We wear them because we like to but also because men like us to wear silky undergarments; they like to see us dressed in them and feel us wearing them. For instance daddy especially likes me to wear stockings and sometimes I wear them to bed for him. You understand what I’m saying? Your father has had THAT conversation with you surely?” she held him at arm length by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

Charles lied to his mother and nodded. Reginald had not had THAT conversation with his son because he fully expected that his son would find out all about the birds and the bees from the upper-classmen at Harrow, just as Reginald had and his father before him. Charles knew enough about THAT to know that his fascination with women’s apparel was not sexual.

“I do too. That is I like the feel and I like the smell,” Charles admitted.

“You mean this smell,” Wendy pointed her ornate perfume bottle at him and pressed the bulb.

“Mom!” Charles whined; but they both laughed.

“Now you smell like a girl,” his mother teased.

“Mom!” Charles whined again.

Wendy had been drinking gin and tonics all afternoon. She and Reginald had had a huge fight the evening before when he was packing for another of his business trips. Wendy suspected that he had been having affairs while he was away and Reginald had scoffed at her when she had shown him receipts for flowers, chocolates and lingerie that she had never received.

“You’re being silly, woman!” Reginald had simply declared; closed the lid on his trunk and stormed out the house to his car.

This seemed like a good time to pay him back somewhat; knowing how much Reginald hated that their son was not the rough and tumble larrikin that Reginald wanted him to be.

Wendy puffed the little bottle again and giggled.

“Now you definitely smell like a girl,” Wendy laughed, finishing her drink.

“I do mother. I smell like you,” Charles blushed.

“Well I’ll tell you what. You go and pour your mother another drink and we’ll play dressup together ok? It will be our secret. Just this once and we never tell daddy. That way, when you get married, you will know how much trouble your wife goes to make herself beautiful and enticing for you. You won’t want women other than your wife, because you will appreciate her,” Wendy’s voice caught.

Charles was too excited to notice his mother’s distress and he skipped away to pour his mother a generous gin and tonic just like he’d been taught.

When Charles returned he handed the drink to his mother who downed half of it in a single gulp.

“Go and get your little collection of ladies wear,” she smiled knowingly at him.

Charles blushed. His mother had told him that she knew that he liked to dress in ladies underwear; it should not be a surprise that she knew where he kept it.

His heart thumped in his chest as he went to his room and pulled out the pathetic collection of ‘unmentionables’ from their hiding place at the back of his wardrobe.

When her returned his mother was applying the finishing touches to her makeup.

“There’s my lovely boy. Let’s see what you have,” she smiled at him.

Charles felt embarrassed and ashamed as he held up each piece of his piteous little ensemble. His mother mooched around and selected a pair of full-cut nylon underpants, a suspender belt and a satin full-slip.

“I’ll turn around while you get dressed. I’ve seen you naked many times of course but now that you are of the age of consent I do not think it prudent for me to do so now,” she turned back to her mirror and fussed with the cosmetics.

Charles was quivering with embarrassment, trepidation, excitement, and expectation all at once as he shucked out of his clothes and slipped into the proffered lingerie. He had to sit on his mother’s bed to slip on the knickers and suspender belt and it felt surreal to be doing so.

He nervously padded back to where his mother sat at her vanity table. She turned and smiled at him.

“Well not too bad I suppose; they don’t fit you very well but that’s as expected. Here. A little present for you, you can’t wear those pathetic laddered hose,” she extracted a package of stockings from one of the drawers and handed it to him.

Charles took the package with trembling fingers. His very own brand new stockings! In the past he taken his mother’s discards from the bin or stolen them from the drying horse or from next door’s clothesline.

Dorothy smiled as her son sat on her bed and excitedly opened the package with trembling fingers.

“Be careful not to snag them darling,” she called across the room, sipping on the remains of her drink.

She giggled as she watched Charles struggle to roll the nylons up his legs and clip the welts to the garters. She became a little frustrated and, ensuring her gown remained closed, she strode across the room and sat beside her son.

“Here; watch how I do it,” Wendy entreated.

She smoothed the diaphanous nylon sheath along his leg; took one of the suspenders and adeptly slipped the little rubber disk under the gauzy welt at the stocking top and clipped it to the silver snap.

She smiled at Charles and ruffled his hair.

“Easy, see. Now you do the rest,” Wendy left him to snap the rest of his suspenders in place while she went and refilled her glass.

When she returned, Charles was dressed in knickers, stockings, suspenders and slip. He looked very embarrassed and his face was glowing.

“Don’t be scared darling we are doing this just once to get back at daddy for being mean to both of us,” Wendy hiccupped and spilled a little of her drink.

“Ok you sit at the vanity and bush out your hair and then mommy will do your makeup. I’ll do it as best as I can and we’ll see what you would look like if you’d been born a girl instead of boy,” she beamed.

First Wendy patiently painted his fingernails with two coats of glossy plum red nailpolish. She told him not to smudge the nailpolish before it hardened and explained how women often tried to match their nailpolish with their lipstick.

Wendy applied a coat of foundation to Charles’ face and neck and then set it with a liberal dusting of matching face powder and then went to work on his eyes. She brushed mauve eyeshadow onto Charles's eyelids working from the inner corner of each eye to the centre above his pupils. She worked the powder upwards up to his eyebrows and then applied a coat of blue eyeshadow out to the far corners of his eyes, lightening the makeup as she worked it up to his brows and blended the two shades where they merged.

Wendy tut-tutted a little and reached for some pink eyeshadow and applied it liberally around the edges; blending the eyeshadow with a small brush and making final adjustments with her fingertip.

Charles was fascinated with the changes that his mother was making to his appearance. He was transforming into a girl right there in the mirror.

"Ok Charles; turn to me and keep very still now and just half-close your for me; here comes the hard bit; the eyeliner." Wendy’s breath smelled heavily of gin and tobacco.

Wendy applied black eyeliner to his upper and lower eyelids, working outwards so that Charles’ eyes were framed by the black makeup.

"Open your eyes; lift your head up but look down at my tummy and keep still for me darling ok; I'm going to do your mascara,” Wendy explained.

She applied plenty of thick black mascara to his upper and lower eyelashes; fiddling a little as she worked. She explained that as his eyelashes were very fine she had to apply lots of the product to get a good effect,

"Ok nearly there," she sighed and took a sip of her drink.

Wendy applied blusher to his cheeks, then she dusted his whole face and neck with a coating of finishing powder, being careful not to smudge the mascara and eyeliner.

Finally Wendy coloured his lips with a coat of plum-red lipstick, applying a second coat after the first had set. She had him bite down on tissue to take up any excess.

"Perfect," she whispered more to herself than him.

“Look at yourself darling. I hardly recognise you,” Wendy beamed and spun her son around so that he faced the mirror.

“Oh my god!” Charles was absolutely astonished.

Staring back from the mirror was gorgeous young woman.

He lifted a hand to brush his fringe from his eye and observed that his long elegant fingers with red fingernail polish were effeminate and in no way out of place.

“I look like a girl,” he whispered.

“Yes you do darling and you should have a girl’s name. What about Charlotte? That’s a lovely name,” she grinned; more than a little drunk.

“You can try on some of my high heels if you like; I know you have been doing so. Try stuffing the toes with paper if they are too big; you have such tiny feet,” Wendy slipped and hung onto the back of Charles chair for support.

“You can play dressups all night if you want to but I have to get going; I’m already late. Make sure you remove your makeup before you go to bed,” she hiccupped.

Charlotte felt so very feminine and was delighted when she was required to help Wendy into her evening gown and zip it closed at the back. Wendy fell asleep waiting for her taxi and Charlotte gently woke her when it pulled up outside.

Wendy awoke with a start looking confused and then her memory returned.

“My lovely daughter,” she smiled and kissed Charlotte on the cheek.

Wendy wound her way down the hallway to the front door while Charlotte remained in the lounge room. When Charlotte had the house to herself she practiced walking properly in her mother’s high heels until she was adept enough to saunter from room to room. She had a thoroughly enjoyable evening in her new found persona and in the early morning reluctantly removed her makeup and nailpolish and kicked off her heels. She went to bed wearing everything else.

And so a new chapter started in Charles’ life. He became Charlotte at any opportunity that presented itself. Charlotte practised her makeup skills; worked hard at dressing as feminine as possible, walking like a lady and talking like a lady.

She tried on her mother’s dresses, skirts and blouses, and accessorised with jewellery and clip-on earrings.

Charlotte was indistinguishable from any of the girls living nearby and prettier than most of them. Her small feet were her only drawback; she wished that she could summon the courage to buy a pair of heels that fit her but there was no way that was possible.

In 1950s Britain boys did not purchase ladies shoes.

The inevitable happened when Reginald and Wendy arrived home unexpected one afternoon. They had only been gone for an hour or two and were expected to be gone overnight, staying at Lord Cavendish’s estate in the Cotswolds. The argument that began just as they had left home had become a screaming match not much later; Wendy had found further evidence of Reginald’s infidelity.

Charlotte was engrossed in her own world, twirling around the parlour with an imaginary paramour, the loud music from the gramophone had masked the sound of the car pulling up outside the house and the entrance of his distraught mother and angry father.

Their bawling and shouting announced their presence but it was too late for Charlotte. She was caught red handed.

The recriminations and counter recriminations sallied back and forth. Reginald threw his effeminate offspring against the wall and then made to punch Charles in the face.

Wendy threw herself between her husband and her son to protect her only progeny.

“This is all your fault! You mothered the boy and treated him like a girl; no wonder he never hardened up!”

“Look at the pathetic little Nancy-boy sniveller! He looks like he belongs with the catamites and rent boys down in Soho,” Reginald reached around his wife and clipped Charles around the ear.

He pushed Wendy aside and began to shake Charles by the shoulders.

“How did you learn to dress like this? Is someone putting their cock to you?” Reginald threw Charles against the wall.

“Answer me you fag!” Reginald roared.

Charles looked at his mother and saw the look of trepidation and anxiousness on her face. She pleaded soundlessly with her son.

“I’m not Charles when I’m dressed like this. I’m Charlotte! And nobody taught me; I learned to dress like this myself. I don’t want to be Charles any longer! I want to be Charlotte!” she cried out indignantly.

Charlotte did not know where the courage came from to answer her father like that. Years of being repressed, oppressed, beaten and bullied had finally taken their toll and roused her spirit; provoking her to retaliate.

A wicked grin crossed Reginald’s face.

“And then so it shall be! Come with me!” Reginald grabbed Charlotte in a vice-like grip and dragged her across the room, out the parlour and upstairs.

Charlotte lost her shoes and half staggered and was half dragged up to her room. Reginald dragged a small suitcase off the top of the wardrobe.

“You won’t need any of this lot will you harlot,” Reginald pulled the wardrobe forward and it smashed down on the floor.

“It’s full of useless boys clothes. Let’s go see what your mother can spare,” he roared.

Wendy stood at the door crying and pleading with her husband to be gentle with her boy.

“I blame you for this; you dozy bint! He’s a fucking disgrace to the family!” Reginald dragged Charlotte past Wendy hauling the suitcase in his other hand.

He dragged Charlotte to the master bedroom and began throwing his wife’s lingerie and clothes onto the floor. He swept her makeup off the vanity table.

“Here! Help yourself you pathetic closet queen! I paid for all of this so take what you want,” he threw Charlotte to the floor.

Charlotte was sobbing uncontrollably as she scrambled through the mound of clothing and underwear and shoved articles that she thought would fit her into the suitcase followed by some her mother’s cosmetics. Wendy tried to go to her aid but Reginald spun her by the wrist and threw her on the bed.

“If you’d spent more time on that fucking bed with your legs open waiting for me instead of drinking and going out with your friends and mollycoddling this homo, I might have a son instead of this girly-boy,” he growled.

Reginald reefed the suitcase out of Charlotte’s grip and slammed it shut then began to drag her down the stairs. Wendy scrambled off the bed and followed.

Don’t do this Reginald! For god’s sake please don’t do this! Don’t throw our only child out onto the streets!” Wendy implored her husband.

“Shut up you whining harpy! I’ll throw you out too if you don’t fuck off back to the bedroom where I told you to stay! Get your arse up there, get on the bed, hike up your skirt, take off your knickers and open your legs and wait for my return! The other option is to join this pathetic transvestite on the streets!” Reginald roared.

Reginald pushed Charlotte out the door, threw the suitcase after her and then tossed the high heels she had been wearing through the door before he slammed it shut.

The suitcase burst open and Charlotte had to suffer the added indignity of raking together the pathetic pile of clothes and makeup and shovelling them back into the case.

She walked away from her family home with absolutely no idea where to go or how she was going to fend for herself.

Lord Edward Tilsbury found her in the railway underpass tunnel a week later. One of his many ‘spotters’, to whom he paid a substantial reward if their information yielded fruit, had seen her living there, barely getting by on handouts from strangers.

Three months later…

Charlotte put her eye to the keyhole.

Edward was at his desk writing, dipping his pen in the inkwell and swiftly returning it to the document he was working on so very fastidiously.

Edward’s bedroom was gloomy; the only light came from his desk lamp and the keyhole restricted Charlotte’s field of view. She could see only the area in front of the door; the bed itself and the ensuite bathroom were obscured.

Mary went behind a screen set up in the corner and when she emerged she had taken off the heavy, green, cut-velvet evening gown; the evening uniform for the ‘Acolytes of the Circle’. She emerged wearing a black and red basque, the bodice of which pushed up and supported her breasts and cinched her waist. It tied in the back and six black satin suspenders snaked down her legs clipped to the welts of her fully-fashioned black silk stockings. The basque was constructed of red satin with a black lace decoration and whilst the bodice ended at the bottom of her hips, a black lace ruffle running around the bottom of the garment obscured her pubis and her derriere.

Devoid of her gown, Charlotte could now see that Mary did indeed have the voluptuous hourglass figure and long legs that she suspected Mary kept hidden under her everyday clothes.

Mary poured Edward a glass of port from the crystal decanter he kept on a side table and walked over to where he sat working at his desk.

Edward sat on a small bench rather than an office chair; the bench was a little larger than a piano stool and Mary sat beside him and put down the drink. Edward ignored her and kept writing.

Mary stood and ruffled her fingers through his thick hair and then ran her hands down his neck to his shoulders; stroking and caressing him as she did. She bent and whispered in his ear seductively.

“Would you like relief tonight master?”

Charlotte felt the beginnings of an erection growing in her knickers.

“You can see that I’m busy,” Edward barely acknowledged her, even as she massaged his shoulders.

“Yes you are busy now master; but when you have finished you will want your usual service from me before you retire and you will awaken me regardless of the time,” Mary leaned down and nuzzled his neck.

“You’re distracting me Mary,” Edward growled.

“We can just do that thing you sometimes like to do while you are still clothed,” she nibbled on his ear incitingly.

“Very well. I’ve lost my train of thought anyway,” he said, sounding irritated.

Edward picked up his port and spun around on the bench. He was still wearing the heavy trousers that he had worn to dinner but had vested himself of his frockcoat and wore only his waistcoat and shirt.

Mary stood in front of him, just out of arm’s reach. Charlotte could only see Mary from the rear now. She admired what little she could see of Mary. Her dark ginger mane flowed down her back; the nape resting on the back of the corset where it was cinched at her waist. Her ample derriere, the creamy white flesh above the dark welts of her stockings, the backseams perfectly aligned along the centre of her legs and her feet shod in the black stiletto heels were a delight to behold.

Mary had Edward’s full attention now. She spun on her heels and bent at the waist; offering him her bottom. Edward smiled but made no attempt to gasp the luscious buttocks being proffered.

Mary snapped her head up and looked directly at the door; her green eyes narrowed and she grinned. Charlotte gasped and pulled away from the keyhole.

Had she been seen?

Charlotte nervously placed her eye to the keyhole again. Mary was looking at her; smiling. Mary winked and Charlotte pulled away again in astonishment. But she couldn’t not look. She put her eye back to the keyhole.

Mary was wriggling her buttocks seductively whilst Edward just sat and watched; drinking his port. Charlotte didn’t understand why Edward didn’t just reach out take the proffered prize. Then it dawned on her; it was some kind of ritual.

Mary spun around so that she was facing Edward and slowly and seductively approached him but he still made no advances towards her. He sat rigidly on the seat enamoured by her performance but choosing to not actively participate. She leaned into him, pushing her bosom into his chest and nipping at his earlobe. Edward hissed but remained otherwise motionless.

Mary pirouetted again and this time looked directly at the keyhole with a beatific smile on her face. She slowly lowered herself into Edward’s lap, wriggling her buttocks as she kept her weight on her heels.

Edward grunted again and closed his eyes briefly.

“Shall I unbutton you?” Mary whispered but looked directly at Charlotte.

“No you may not,” Edward sighed.

Charlotte was fully erect and slowly stroking herself through the satin directoire knickers that she had to wear to bed.

Mary twirled in Edward's lap so that she faced him; her legs spread either side of his body, heels flat on the floor. She leaned in to kiss him and Edward turned away.

“You may not do that either,” he breathed.

Mary placed her cheek against his and pushed her bosom into his chest and began to writhe. Edward allowed her to do so for a beat and then his hands rose to her waist.

“Turn!” he commanded.

Mary twisted in his lap so that she once again she faced the door.

“Unbutton me!” he ordered.

Mary tottered on her high heels precariously as she lifted her derriere and reached behind herself to unbutton Edward’s flies.

A bead of sweat formed on Charlotte’s upper lip despite the cold as she gripped her penis in the gathering folds of her knickers and slowly stroked herself.

Although Charlotte couldn’t see it from her point of view, she knew that Edward’s erect penis was sitting up rampant from the pleat of his trousers.

Mary put a hand under the ruffled hem of her basque.

Charlotte didn’t really know what was under there; she had never seen a woman’s sex but she knew that it had some sort of fleshy folds that led to a moist channel. Some of the upper-classmen at Harrow had inferred that it smelt fishy but Charlotte knew this was an old wives tale. She had inhaled the aroma of her mother’s knickers on many occasions and the smell was delightful and exotic.

What she did know was that Mary had to be wearing tight knickers, panties they were sometimes called, and that the front of them would be a smooth rounded V covering her pubis. Charlotte had once observed this when her mother had inadvertently let little Charles into her boudoir whilst she was dressing and had not closed her robe sufficiently to preclude his inquisitive gaze.

Charlotte so wanted to have that smooth, sleek, curved appearance at the front when she wore tight knickers; not the unsightly bulge she was currently blighted with.

Mary was fumbling with her knickers; easing the gusset aside. A smile crossed her face.

Mary beamed a beatific smile across the room to Charlotte as she slowly lowered herself onto Edward’s appendage.

“Mm,” Edward grunted when Mary was fully impaled on his tumescence and her buttocks rested in his lap.

He placed his hands on Mary’s hips and lifted her slightly; she wriggled her hips as he did.

“Don’t!” Edward chastised her.

Mary stopped wriggling but she had a mischievous grin on her face.

“Now!” Edward pulled Mary down onto him and held her there.

His fingers dug into her waist and he forced her buttocks hard against him.

“Oh! Yes! That’s it!” Edward hissed through gritted teeth.

Charlotte orgasmed with Edward; soiling the front of her drawers.

As Edward emptied himself into Mary; Charlotte was overwhelmed by the intensity of her own orgasm. The deep sensual feeling of tingling delight emanated from the glans of her penis, intensified by the slick feel of her silken knickers, ran down her shaft and radiated out from her scrotum.

As Edward’s immense climax surged through his body; so did Charlotte’s.

Mary grinned as she felt Edward’s huge phallus pulsate inside her, ejaculating, and filling her vagina with his hot seed. She wanted to grind and wriggle in his lap but she knew this was not part of the ritual and would detract form his enjoyment. She would pleasure herself later in bed.

Charlotte fell to her knees; the enormity of her sexual apogee causing her almost to faint.

The doorknob rattled and the door thudded as she fell against it unable to control her body’s response to the sexual thrill and delightful sensations that coursed through her flesh.

She curled up on the cold flagstones quivering; but she quickly realised that she had likely given her presence away.

“Who’s there?” she heard Edward call.

Edward whipped Mary out of his lap, his erection stood proud from his flies. He pushed it inside his trousers as he strode to the door, stopping briefly to do up enough buttons to keep his manhood contained.

He flung open the door and peered down into the gloom. The granite walls flickered with dim shadows created by the meagre light coming through the open door.

Charlotte had stopped just around the corner; she pressed her back against the granite blocks, feeling the cold through her flimsy satin nightgown and stockinged feet. She held her breath and prayed.

Edward glanced down and saw three little droplets on the flagstones glistening in the lamplight. He grinned.

He closed the door and turned around.

Mary was sprawled on the floor where he had dumped her; she was wiping her sex with a silk handkerchief that she had stuffed in her bodice just for this task.

“Charlotte?” Edward raised a brow inquiringly.

Mary smiled and nodded.

“She needs to learn,” Mary replied.

“Not too much too soon though,” Edward advised and strode back to his desk.

He picked up his pen and began to scribble as if nothing had happened.

“Pour me another and then your duties here are complete,” he droned, not looking up from his work.

Mary went behind the screen and struggled back into her dress; she left it uncinched at the back. She filled the glass with port and placed it beside Edward. He didn’t register her presence.

She took off her high heels and padded out of the room. She did not want the click-clacking of her heels on the stone floor to disturb those sleeping in the dormitories as she passed.

When Edward heard the door close behind him he smiled wolfishly.

“Good girls,” he whispered to the silent empty room and went back to his work.

To be continued