Chapter One

A few days before Christmas, Amal was sitting in the lounge bar of the city’s most expensive hotel with a Bellini held in his perfectly manicured fingers. He was admiring the giant decorated Christmas tree and gritting his teeth at the sound of Christmas pop songs playing in the background. The hotel staff all wore green elf hats and the ‘Xmas Speciality Drink Of The Day’ turned out to be mulled wine at a scandalous £10 a glass. He felt conflicted about Christmas. He hated the commerciality of it all, but loved that it gave something to look forward to in the darkest days of winter.

Looking around at the couples and parties having a drink before going in for the ‘Festive Dinner With All The Trimmings’, he smiled at what they would think if they knew what he had under his short, but quite modest, black halter neck dress. He did not want to appear too obvious. Already, two men had given him surreptitious looks. He had run into problems in the past with men assuming he was touting for business. Unless the hotel management was getting a kickback, they were keen to move working girls on. Anyway, it was what was underneath the dress that his clients paid so much for.

Amal doesn’t do casual pickups. He has a roster of well-paying clients who he sees regularly, and they sometimes refer him to others with the same interests. It keeps him busy and safe. Although he dropped one guy who got too rough for his liking, he makes good money and likes what he does.

Amal was waiting for a regular client when his phone beeped with a WhatsApp message cancelling the session. It didn’t bother Amal too much, as the client knew he would have to pay the fee. After all, he made it clear to clients that he charged cancellations within 24 hours at the full rate. The client was wealthy enough not to care, but he had promised Amal a Christmas present, so that pissed him off a little.

This client had a nylon fetish and insisted Amal wear stockings for their sessions. Not any old stockings, mind. They had to be black, 15 Denier, fully fashioned stockings with a Cuban heel, attached to a six-strap suspender belt. Amal loved wearing them, especially with his La Perla lingerie and Louboutin heels. The feel of the nylon against his waxed and moisturised skin, and the tugging of the suspender straps always made him horny. The client insisted on keeping them after each session, and Amal guessed he would wear them afterwards. They weren’t cheap, but Amal recovered the cost many times over from the client. He thought about claiming them against his tax bill as a business expense. However, he didn’t need Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs poking their noses into his business.

So, here he was, dressed to thrill and nobody to play with. Amal downed the last of his Bellini and had half risen from his seat to leave when he spotted him. Sitting back down with a bump, Amal watched the man walk across to the bar. You know that feeling when you see someone you think you know, and it’s not them. Well, it had been ten years since he last clapped eyes on him, but Amal recognised him straight away. James Walcott, his school English teacher and heartthrob, was standing looking around the bar. Seeing him after so many years took Amal’s breath away and his heart rate hit the stratosphere. Walcott ordered a beer and scanned the room as if looking for someone. His eyes passed straight across Amal without a flicker. That’s not exactly a surprise, since Amal had changed a lot since the last time they had seen each other.

Most adolescents have a crush on a teacher at some point. In year ten, for example, many of Amal’s classmates were in lust with Miss Mundesley, the pretty French teacher. But Amal? His crush was on Mr Walcott, the English teacher. All teachers must seem old to their pupils, but Mr Walcott was maybe only in his mid-twenties back then. He was one of those inspirational and charismatic teachers who can transform the lives of his students. It is said that you learn better from teachers you like, and in the two terms he taught Amal, he fired in him an enduring passion for reading. To this day, he is never happier than with a book in his hand.

Amal thought him the best-looking man he had ever seen and would sit in class gazing at him as he stood writing on the whiteboard or read something to the class. He was tall and dark-haired, with a floppy fringe that kept falling over his forehead. He would push it back with his hand, which Amal thought was such a sexy gesture. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle when he looked at Amal.

Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra was the set play that year, and Mr Walcott made the class read scenes out loud. He would choose different boys to read the male characters, but he always asked Amal to read Cleopatra. Amal dreamt about himself as Cleopatra and Mr Walcott as Antony, in their doomed love affair.

As school broke up for the Easter holiday, Mr Walcott gave Amal a piece of advice he would never forget. In his elegant and unmistakable handwriting, he had written this in Amal’s end of term report.

Amal

If you want to live the life you want, find something you enjoy doing, and get paid for doing it.

J W

When they returned for the summer term, Mr Walcott had left. The school did not explain, despite Amal’s repeated requests for one. Of course, rumours swept the school: he had murdered someone and was on the run; had been murdered; had joined the French Foreign Legion; had committed suicide, or that he had been caught shagging the Headteacher’s matronly wife.

Amal was heartbroken.

 

Chapter Two

Amal could not point to a precise time when he realised he was gay. It wasn’t as if he woke up one morning and thought, I’m queer. It was a gradual realisation that he was different to the other boys. Amal preferred Barbie to Action Man and skipping to climbing trees. He wanted a pony instead of a mountain bike, and would rather play netball than football.

He must have been nine or ten when he noticed that at family gatherings, one of his uncles would come with another man. This seemed odd to Amal, and after one of these family get-togethers, he asked his mother why his uncle didn’t have a wife. She sighed, then sat him down and had The Talk. She told him that people were different. and that it didn’t matter who they loved so long as they were happy together. Amal asked if that meant they were like husband and wife, which made her go pink and said it wasn’t anyone’s business.

Of course, the next time Amal’s uncle and his friend came to visit for a family picnic, he paid them much more attention. He watched their every move like a hawk, but nothing happened that seemed out of the ordinary. In the afternoon, everyone was outside in the garden at the barbecue, and Amal noticed the two of them walking back to the house. He followed as they went inside and headed upstairs, holding hands. Sneaking up behind them, Amal watched as the two men opened the door to one of the guest bedrooms. They left the door open a fraction and Amal could hear them whispering and giggling inside, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Putting his eye to the gap, he could see inside and watched as his uncle embraced his friend and kissed him on the lips.

Amal’s head jerked back in surprise at what he had seen, and he almost fled, but a far stronger feeling took over and he remained rooted to the spot. He put his eye back to the gap to see his uncle’s friend with his back to him, kneeling in front of his uncle. Amal couldn’t see everything, but he heard his uncle grunt, and he seemed to stagger as if his knees had given way. His uncle pulled his friend back to his feet, and they kissed again. Amal can still remember the mixture of fear, excitement, and guilt he felt as he watched. Their kiss must only have lasted for a few minutes before his uncle broke it and said they should get back to the party. Amal backed away into the bathroom and waited until he heard them pass. As his uncle left the picnic, Amal wouldn’t shake his hand. His mother told him off for being rude and heard her tell his uncle he was going through a funny phase.

Deep down, Amal knew he had witnessed something which he couldn’t share with anyone. It was a secret only he knew, and it stirred feelings inside that Amal couldn’t understand. His uncle moved abroad soon after, so he never got to see him and his friend again, but the image of them in the bedroom never left Amal.

His mother had come from Aleppo in Syria as a refugee. She had been a doctor in one of the poor areas of the city before fleeing in one of Hafez Al Assad’s crackdowns. She worked two jobs while she qualified here, eventually becoming a Consultant in Emergency Medicine before being headhunted by the International Red Cross. His father was an airline pilot who died in a plane crash when Amal was ten. While his mother did what she could to fill the gap, his father’s death left a huge void in Amal’s life.

He had inherited his mother’s colouring and eyes, and people remarked it made him look exotic. That was sweet, but he also had his share of racist abuse because of his looks. He was small and despite his mother telling him not to worry, that he would get a growth spurt, it never happened. His parents named him Amal - hope in Arabic. Perhaps because they wanted something better for him than they had. His older sister Jamila, whose name meant beautiful in Arabic, was true to her name, becoming a model.

Amal’s mother did her best, but she worked long and irregular hours at the hospital, often leaving Jamila and Amal on their own. Jamila became something of a surrogate mother to Amal. He didn’t have many friends, so he spent a lot of time with his sister. In particular, he loved to sit and watch her do her makeup. The way she could almost transform herself seemed like magic to him. She was already doing some modelling work, and he nagged and nagged her to let him come along. She gave in one day and said, yes, on the strict condition he would just sit quietly and behave himself. Jamila had to smile at how excited he was to be going with her.

It was a fashion shoot for a clothing brand trying to break into the Middle Eastern market, and Jamila would eventually become the face of the brand. Everything fascinated Amal, and he sat quietly watching Jamila being made up for her shoot. He watched as the makeup artist created a look for Jamila, which, to Amal’s eyes, made her look even more beautiful. Eventually, Jamila went through to the studio, and Amal became bored and picked up a copy of Vogue.

He was flicking through the pages, admiring the girls, when he heard someone say, “Hi. Who are you?”

He looked up to see a boy sitting in the makeup chair wearing a plastic cape.

“Oh, hi. I’m Amal. My sister is in the studio.”

The boy smiled, “Mmm, does she look as gorgeous as you?”

Amal blushed, and the boy clapped his hands. “How absolutely darling. You blush so prettily. I’m Sam, but everyone calls me Sammie. Pleased to meet you, Amal.”

Sammie held out his hand to shake hands with Amal, who was astonished to see the boy’s fingernails were painted bright red. He shook the boy’s hand, unable to take his eyes off the scarlet fingernails.

“Do you like the colour? It’s wicked, don’t you think?” Said Sam.

“Uh-huh. I mean, yes, I think it's a beautiful colour.”

“You should try it, it would match your skin tone perfectly.”

Amal blushed again, but the idea of wearing nail polish gave him a thrill.

“Are you modelling today, Amal?”

“Uh, no. I’m not a model, I’m just here with my sister.”

“Whaaaat? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? Somebody as pretty as you? I’ll give you my agent’s card. They can’t get enough of boys like us. She would be all over you, trust me.”

“Time to make you pretty, Sammie.” Sally, the makeup girl, said as she returned and flipped Sammie’s chair around.

Amal could see Sammie’s reflection in the mirror, and he watched, his heart beating faster and faster, as the makeup girl transformed Sammie from a boy into a beautiful girl. Sammie saw Amal staring at him in the mirror and winked.

“Don’t you want to try this? Sally here could make you look like a real queen. Couldn’t you, Sally?”

Sally glanced at Amal and smiled. “Sure, Queen Cleopatra, I would say.”

Amal blushed once again as he remembered his fantasies about Mr Walcott. Sally had finished with Sammie and he stood up and took off the cape. Amal’s mouth dropped open as Sammie smoothed down the dress he had been wearing beneath the cape. He thought he had never seen anyone as pretty as Sammie. He came over to Amal and handed him a card.

“That’s my agent. Call her. You won’t regret it.”

He bent forward and gave Amal a kiss on the cheek just as Jamila walked back into the room. She looked from Amal to Sammie and couldn’t miss the look of bliss on Amal’s face.

 

Chapter Three

It was Jamila who turned his world upside down one warm Spring day, just after his fifteenth birthday. Jamila was moving out to share a flat and was going through her wardrobe to throw out clothes she no longer wore. Amal knew he would miss her when she left and hung around her a bit more than normal. He sensed she was also feeling apprehensive about moving out. He sat on her bed as she rummaged through her wardrobe, throwing clothes into separate piles to either keep or throw away. They seemed extra close that day, laughing and joking with each other. She was holding up dresses against herself to see if she wanted to keep them, but couldn’t see properly in the small mirror in her room.

She turned to Amal and said, “Hey, little brother of mine, make yourself useful.”

He threw a cushion at her head, which she ducked.

“I’m serious, Come over here.”

She grabbed him and held up a dress against him. “Just hold that so I can see how it looks.”

“What? No.” He wriggled away, but she held on and dragged him back.

“Please, Amal. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” She made a sad face and mimed wiping away tears.

“Never going to happen, wicked sister.”

“Pretty please, Amal.” She put on a little girl’s voice, which made him laugh.

“OK, but just the one.”

She handed him a red mini dress to hold up, which stopped halfway down his thigh.

“No. That’s no good. It looks stupid with your jeans sticking out the bottom. Take your jeans off.”

“No way, sis. Not a chance.”

She pouted. “OK, I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you a fiver if you take your jeans off.”

Money was always a motivator for him. “Make it twenty and I’ll do it.”

“Ten.” She fired back, “And you can use my Netflix account.”

“Done.” He said, without thinking about it.

“So, get them off,”

“Money first, dear sister, I don’t want you backing out after I’ve done it.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“No. Money upfront.”

These were sound business principles Amal was already putting into practice.

“OK, OK. You win, you little capitalist lackey.”

She counted out two fivers and handed them to him. He had no qualms about taking her money, knowing she could afford it from the modelling work she was already doing.

He turned away from her and slid his jeans down.

She laughed. “Oh, Amal, you can’t be shy. I’ve seen everything you’ve got.” He glared at her, and she put her hands up in mock surrender. “OK. little bro. I’m sorry. Are you ready now?”

He heaved a sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”

She passed him a few dresses, and all he had to do was hold them up in front of him so she could see how they looked. They were playing about, laughing and giggling as she handed him the clothes, and he played around striking poses. Somehow, the mood changed as Amal realised he was enjoying it all. He tried posing a little more seriously and Jamila caught the change in mood as well. A quizzical look passed across her face, and, as he was holding up a short white summer dress, she came and stood behind me.

“You know, little bro, that colour suits you. Let me try something.”

He tried to turn around, but she stopped him, saying. “Hold still.”

He felt her hands running through his hair, which in those days came down to his shoulders

“What are you doing? Stop it, Jamila.”

“Stay still, Amal.”

She fussed with his hair for a few minutes and then came around to stand in front of him once more. The look on her face was of surprise, and then of delight.

“What, what is it? Why are you looking like that?”

“Because dear brother, you look so much like me.”

“What? Are you mad? I look nothing like you.” He threw the dress on the floor, but secretly, her words thrilled him. Jamila was beautiful and to hear her say that he looked anything like her sent a wave of pleasure through him.

“Amal, you so do. Let me prove it to you.”

He sat on the bed, his arms crossed across his chest. “How?”

She smiled and grabbed his hand to pull him up. “Come with me.” She picked the dress up from the floor and dragged him into their mother’s bedroom. There was a full-size mirror in there and Jamila pushed him in front of it. She stood next to him and he could see both of them in the mirror. She was a little taller and her hair was longer, down below her shoulders compared to his, which only reached his shoulders.

He could see what she meant. They shared the same skin colouring and eyes, the same dark hair, and their faces were the same shape. Amal was astounded. He had never seen the resemblance before, but it was true. They looked alike. OK, so it’s not so rare for brother and sister to look like each other, but this was eerie. Jamila giggled.

“What’s so funny?” He demanded.

“Don’t laugh, but will you try something?”

“What?”

“Put the dress on.”

“Are you out of your mind?” He yelled. “No.”

However, a weird feeling grew inside him, and his face grew hot as he realised it was what he wanted. “Why should I?”

“Because I think you want to, little brother.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the stomach. His knees turned to jelly, he couldn’t breathe and his heart was beating so hard Amal thought it would explode. He threw himself onto the bed and burst into tears. Jamila sat next to him and stroked his back.

“Don’t cry, Amal. It’s alright. I’ve suspected something for a while. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. Although, clear your browser history more thoroughly. I’ve seen the sites you’ve been visiting. Amal, look at me, please. It’s alright. Just talk to me.”

Amal buried his face in the sheets. After a few minutes, he stopped sobbing, but couldn’t look at her.

Still sniffling, he said, “Don’t tell mum, please.”

“Of course, I won’t tell her. I won’t tell anyone.”

He finally looked at her. “You must hate me.”

“Shh, don’t be silly. I love you. Now talk to me.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. He took a deep breath and a dam burst inside him, everything tumbling out in a torrent of words. How he felt so different from the other boys, that he envied the girls for their clothes, their style and grace. How confused it had all made him. Amal told her about searching online to understand who, or what, he was, and how it only made him more confused. How he finally realised he liked boys, and that he was probably gay. Amal felt tears running down his cheeks, and Jamila gently wiped them away. He confessed about being attracted to wearing girls’ clothes and how he found online he wasn’t alone.

She hugged him as he finished and they stayed like that for a while. Telling Jamila had lifted an immense weight from his shoulders and that she had not judged him for it.

She broke the embrace and asked, “Have you told anyone about this?”

“No, there isn’t anyone I could talk to.”

“Oh, you poor thing. It must have been awful for you.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? Please? I don’t know what I would do.”

“Of course not. Your secret is safe with me. I love you no matter what.” As she hugged him, she whispered in his ear. “Do you want to try on the dress?”

He nodded, afraid to say yes.

“OK, Amal. Stand up and take off your t-shirt.”

He did as she asked and stood there trembling, his eyes closed, unable to look at her.

“Put your arms up above your head.”

Jamila slid something down his arms and over his head, then smoothed it down over his body. She fussed once more with his hair before she turned him slightly and said, “You can open your eyes now, Amal.”

He counted to ten before daring to open one eye, then the other. He was looking straight into the full-length mirror. Jamila, her face beaming, was the first thing he saw. Next to her stood a younger girl in a white summer dress who looked rather like Jamila. Amal gave out a gasp and his knees nearly gave way as he realised it was him staring back from the mirror. He was speechless. Surely this was a trick. This couldn’t be him. He brought his hand up to his face and the figure in the mirror did the same. It really was him.

“Well, little brother, or should I say, sister? What do you think?”

Amal didn't know what to think. He shook his head in wonder and bewilderment at what he was seeing. The more he looked at the figure in the mirror, the more complicated his feelings became. He trembled as waves of exhilaration and pleasure surged through him, mixed with a frisson of fear. He turned to Jamila, his eyes shining.

“Why are you doing this for me, Jamila?”

“Because I couldn’t bear to see you so unhappy. Something was worrying you, but I didn’t know what until I saw your browser history. I put two and two together and wanted to see if I was right and if I could make you happy before I went away.”

He burst into tears again and threw his arms around her. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I love you, Jamila.”

She hugged him and whispered, “I love you too, Amal. Never forget that.” Jamila sighed as she looked at the pile of discarded clothes on the bed. “It looks like I won’t be throwing those away, after all.”

Chapter Four

It was a difficult time for Amal after Jamila moved out. He was so lonely without her. He insisted on moving into her old bedroom, even fending off his mother’s offers to get it redecorated. She was working long hours at the hospital, and he was often on his own. Jamila had left the clothes she had intended to throw out in a bag inside a wardrobe, and Amal knew she had left them for him. He had adored the thrill he felt that afternoon with Jamila, but the desires he felt scared him as well.

He became moody and withdrawn, arguing with his mother at any opportunity. She put it down to teenage hormonal changes and stayed out of his way. Without many friends, and like so many teenage boys, Amal retreated into an online world of games and porn. Inevitably, he would find his way to the webcam sites where boys looked like girls. Amal couldn’t believe how beautiful and sexy some of them appeared. One night as he watched one of them, a stunning blond boy who looked completely feminine, except for the penis which poked out of his knickers, an idea that had been flickering somewhere deep in his subconscious sparked into life. Could he look like this? Dare he even try?

His hands trembled as he retrieved the bag of Jamila’s clothes from the wardrobe. He sat on the bed and looked at it, deciding whether to open it or throw it out in the rubbish. Amal put the bag back in the wardrobe, but the urge was too strong for him to resist. He pulled it out again, and taking a deep breath, he opened the bag on the bed and clothes tumbled out. There were dresses, skirts, blouses, even a nightdress. He almost fainted as he touched the clothes, feeling the soft fabrics beneath his fingers.

There is a point of no return in everybody’s life. When everything changes; when the past becomes history, and the future will be forever different. It was such a moment for Amal when he took off his boy clothes and stepped into one of Jamila’s old skirts, and put his arms into a pretty frilled blouse. He could not describe the feelings that ran through him because he didn't understand them. All he knew was that this was what he desired, wanted, and needed.

Amal closed his eyes and swayed to some music in his head. This was bliss. He almost didn't hear the key in the front door as his mother arrived home. He threw off the skirt and blouse and put them back in the bag and pulled his jeans and t-shirt on as his mother‘s face appeared around the door.

“Mum,” he protested. “Knock first, please.”

“OK. Sorry. Deliveroo Indian takeaway here in five minutes. You know you’ve got your t-shirt on inside out, don't you?”

Despite the interruption, Amal was hooked. Every opportunity he had, he would explore what was in the bag. Jamila had apparently drawn the line at leaving her underwear for him, so Amal at first raided his mother’s underwear drawer. Amal would never forget the first time he put on a pair of her knickers. He had the hardest erection in his life and led to a messy explosion inside them.

Like every addict, Amal wanted another high. There was no going back now. He tried to copy what he watched online, learning how to look and act like a girl. Using money from his part-time job, he bought makeup and watched YouTube videos to learn how to apply it. He bought underwear online, so he didn’t have to borrow his mother’s knickers anymore. Amal had tried on one of her bras, but it didn’t fit. He found a website that sold AAA bras, so he bought a couple. Amal almost fainted the first time he fastened one around his chest. It made him feel so much more feminine. Shoes weren’t so much of a problem as Jamila had left a few pairs behind which fitted him, including a pair of heels, which he eventually managed to walk in without falling over.

Somehow, whenever he dressed, his mood changed. He felt more relaxed and at ease with himself. Amal could not get over how dressing had the power to transform him from awkward and tetchy to tranquil and serene. Although she didn’t know why, even his mother remarked on how much better his attitude was.

Inevitably, he could not keep his dressing a secret forever. His mother returned home early from an assignment abroad with the Red Cross. Amal was in the kitchen doing the washing up, dressed in one of Jamila’s dresses and heels. He was listening to music on his Air Pods and did not hear his mother come into the house. She walked into the kitchen and saw someone at the sink facing away from her.

“Jamila?” she exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here? Where’s Amal?”

It was impossible to tell who was more shocked when Amal turned around and saw his mother. He dropped a glass he was washing up to the floor, where it smashed, and his mother screamed.

Amal ran from the kitchen and locked himself in his room. He phoned Jamila and in floods of tears, told her what had happened. His mother was knocking on the door, asking Amal to come out, when he heard her phone ring. A few minutes later, she knocked again on the door and told him Jamila was on her way and they should talk when she arrived.

Amal heard Jamila’s car arrive and the front door open and close. It must have been half an hour before there was a gentle tap on the door.

“Amal, it’s mum. Jamila and I have talked. Can we come in?”

Amal hesitated, but he knew he had to face them now his secret was out in the open. He unlocked the door and sat on the bed as they walked in. He stared at the floor, unable to face them. Although he had changed into jeans and a t-shirt, he felt almost naked as the shame of being caught hit him.

His mother sat beside him on the bed, while Jamila sat on a chair.

“Amal, the first thing I want to say is that I love you. I always have, and I always will. I apologise for my reaction when I came in this evening, but I was so sure it was Jamila in the kitchen until you turned around. I was so surprised. I know it’s been hard for you since your dad passed and if I haven’t been here enough for you, I’m so sorry.”

Amal heard the catch in her voice, and he looked up to see tears in her eyes.

“No, mum. That’s not—”

“Let me finish, Amal, please.”

She took his hand and sniffed, trying to hold back the tears.

“Jamila has told me what you told her about how you feel. I only wish you had shared it with me too, but I’m not angry or mad with you. You are my son, and I will always love you, no matter what.”

“Mum, it’s not your fault—”

She put her fingers to his lips to stop him.

“I want to be here to do what a mother should, and that’s supporting her children.” Amal heard Jamila snuffle in the background. “If this is what you want to be, to become who you want to be, then I will be here for you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he turned to his mother.

“Do you really mean it?”

“Of course I do, my sweet angel. Of course I do.”

Amal burst into tears and hugged his mother. Jamila knelt and wrapped her arms around both of them.

His mother wiped her eyes. “Amal, do you think we could start again so I could meet my new daughter?”

Amal looked at Jamila, who smiled and said, “If it’s OK with you, I would like to meet my new sister, too.”

Trembling, Amal nodded. “Will you help me, please, Jamila?”

Their mother disappeared downstairs, and Jamila and Amal got to work. By now, Amal could do his own makeup, but he let Jamila help him this time. She also did his hair, which by now was almost as long as hers. They picked out a dress from the ones Jamila had left behind, and Amal slipped into the heels he had been wearing when his mother saw him.

“Oh my,” said Jamila. “You look good, Amal.” She frowned. “I can’t call you Amal, looking like this. Do you have a name for when, you know…”

Amal blushed, “I like Amalie.”

“OK, Amalie it is.” She hugged him and said, “Let's go introduce Amalie to mum.”

Jamila walked into the room first, with Amal trailing behind her. Jamila smiled at Amal, then said, “Mum, meet Amalie.” She stepped aside, and Amal looked at his mother. Her eyes widened and her hands covered her mouth in surprise.

“Wallah, but you are so alike. You are both so beautiful.”

 

Chapter Five

It wasn’t all plain sailing after that, but his mother was true to her word, and she gave her full support to Amal. She tried to be at home more, but the job with the Red Cross took her away for weeks at a time. Jamila kept a close eye on Amal, and if it were not for her, he would have been very lonely. Things changed when he discovered a club in the city which hosted a weekly evening for cross-dressers, trans girls and admirers. The first time he went, he stood outside for ages before he plucked up the courage to go inside. He told himself he would only have a peek inside to see what it was like. Once he had satisfied his curiosity, he wouldn’t need to go back.

Instead, Amal had an epiphany. It astounded him to discover there were so many others like him. Nobody ridiculed or humiliated him. They welcomed him with open arms and hearts as one of their own. He was no longer alone. Amal had found his home. He went there, and other places he found, as often as he could.

As time went on, he became much more proficient, and the others would tell him how pretty he was and that he could pass in public. Two of the closest friends he had made at the club eventually persuaded him to go on a shopping trip with them. For Amal, it was the most terrifying, yet thrilling, experience of his life. He was in constant fear people would make him, and point and shout at him. None of which happened. Nobody paid any attention to him and his friends. The shopping expedition went off without a hitch, and it became yet another milestone in Amal’s journey.

Of course, Amal not only met others like him at the club, but also the admirers who came to the club. It surprised him to find that there were so many men who like boys dressed as girls, especially when they are as pretty as Amal. Most of them were friendly and harmless, maybe a little too free with their hands at times, but never too much trouble.

There was one particular man who drew Amal’s attention. David Blakeney was probably in his mid-thirties, well-built and good looking, and Amal couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He was not only attractive, but polite, generous and easy to talk to, and Amal looked for him every time he went to the club. They were soon spending more and more time together and discovered a common love of books and film. Amal couldn’t stop thinking about him, and fantasised about Blakeney and him together. Sometimes Blakeney would make slow, tender love to him, other times would fuck Amal hard and fast. He wanted things to go further, but despite Amal flirting with him, the older man never made a move, seemingly content with the way things were between them. Then, late one evening, as Amal was about to leave, he decided he had to take the initiative. He grabbed Blakeney and kissed him before fleeing, fearful he may have blown everything. To Amal’s dismay, Blakeney didn’t appear at the club for the next few weeks, and he convinced himself he had scared him off.

Amal was heartbroken once more.

A few weeks later, Amal was in the club, having a drink with a couple of his friends, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look into Blakeney’s smiling face. Amal’s heart leapt, and he squealed and wrapped his arms around the man’s neck. They found a quiet corner of the club and Blakeney explained he was a lawyer and had to go away on business the day after they had last met. He had been out of the country with no way of letting Amal know when he would be back. He had missed Amal so much while he was away, especially after Amal had kissed him. Blakeney asked him if he still felt the same way, and Amal replied by jumping onto his lap and pushing his tongue into Blakeney’s mouth.

Amal smiled as he felt Blakeney harden as he wiggled about in his lap. One thing led to another and Blakeney led Amal through to the room at the back of the club where the lights were dim and couples went when they wanted privacy. Amal had already had some experience in the back room with a few of the other cross-dressers, but this was the first time he had been there with a man. They found an empty booth and after they had kissed some more, Amal slipped down in front of Blakeney, unzipped him, and took him straight into his mouth.

Their relationship quickly escalated, and they would spend hours together, fulfilling each other’s fantasies. Blakeney was a skilled teacher and Amal a quick learner. Amal discovered he loved sex, and Blakeney was more than happy to oblige him with as much as Amal could take.

Amal could now pass in most circumstances and he rarely dressed as a boy anymore. The sex with Blakeney was mind-blowing, and he was as happy as he thought he could be. Blakeney introduced Amal to some of his friends, and one evening, after a few drinks, Amal had sex with Blakeney and a woman friend of his, while her husband watched. Amal thought it was one of the best times of his life, so when Blakeney suggested another threesome, this time with one of his male friends, Amal eagerly said yes.

Amal didn't realise it, but Blakeney was nudging him into living out darker and darker fantasies. There were more sessions with Blakeney’s friends, both male, female, and once, another trans girl. Amal was in thrall to Blakeney, and so in love with what he was doing that he refused Blakeney nothing. One day, as they lay together after a heavy session, Blakeney whispered that he had met someone who would pay to have sex with Amal. He said that they could split the money if Amal agreed. The thought of being paid to do something he loved had never entered his head. Although, Amal agreed only when Blakeney asked him for the third time. He said he would do it this one time, for Blakeney, but no more.

Of course, once Amal started, there was no going back. Blakeney found more men and women who would pay to spend time with Amal. It was never more than once or twice a week, and Blakeney allowed Amal to decide who would be a regular client. Blakeney handled the money side, took a cut for himself, and passed the rest to Amal.

If you asked Amal now if he went willingly, or if Blakeney manipulated him, Amal would say he knew full well what he was doing. It’s true that Blakeney had never forced Amal to do anything, but that's not the same thing as choosing freely to do it. In the end, it didn't matter, because Amal never looked back. After all, there’s no reset button on life.

It took Amal a while to realise that he preferred older men to be his clients. Maybe it’s not so surprising. Searching for a father figure, perhaps, or his crush on Mr Walcott, or seeing his uncle kissing his boyfriend, or because they have more money than younger men. Who knows? Who cares? It is what it is.

Amal was watching TV one morning when a news alert flashed up on the screen. “Early this morning, City Police arrested a local man at his home for money laundering offences. The man, named as David Blakeney, will face charges later today, according to police sources.” No, it couldn’t be true, thought Amal. Surely there must be some mistake. He fumbled for his phone and dialled Blakeney’s number. It rang for a few seconds, then a voice Amal didn’t recognised answered.

“This is the police. Who is this, please?”

Amal dropped the phone as if it had burned his hand. Blakeney had provided Amal with a phone to use for calls from clients. He said it was to maintain their confidentiality. He called it a burner and that it was untraceable. Amal, sensing the danger of keeping it, transferred the contacts to his own phone, then removed the Sim card, cut it up, and flushed the pieces down the toilet. He felt so sick, he nearly threw up down the toilet after them.

Amal had no idea what he was going to do. He kept hoping it was all going to be a mistake, that the police would release Blakeney, and they would be back together again. However, in the following days, it became clear Blakeney would not be out soon. He was facing additional charges, and as the police claimed he was a flight risk, they refused him bail. Amal laid low, expecting the police to knock on his door at any time.

As the days turned into weeks, Amal relaxed. He had nothing to do with the charges Blakeney faced and hoped they would leave him alone. In time, his thoughts turned to a future without Blakeney. He still had the list of clients and thought, why can’t I just pick up where I left off? He didn’t need Blakeney to carry on with what he had been doing. Amal called the clients, one by one, and although what had happened frightened some of them off, most were happy to keep seeing him. The added benefit was that Amal kept Blakeney’s share of the fees, as well as his own. Thus, Amal became his own boss, playing by his rules and answerable only to himself. He was happy.

 

Chapter Six

Walcott didn’t seem to have changed at all. He was as handsome as Amal remembered, and his hair still flopped over his forehead, just as it did all those years ago. Maybe a little thicker around the middle, but that suits a man sometimes, thought Amal. He sat down at a table, still looking around for someone. He caught Amal looking, and he thought Walcott held his gaze for a second or two, but with no hint of recognition. Amal was used to men checking him out. He saw Walcott glance at his watch and guessed whoever he was waiting for was late. Shrugging his shoulders, Walcott finished his beer and then made to get up. Someone else has been stood up, Amal thought.

What should I do? thought Amal. Let him go? Yes, he could, but of all the bars in the world, he had walked into this one. That must mean something. There was little danger he would recognise Amal, dressed the way he was. He couldn’t let the opportunity pass by. Amal’s heart rate went through the roof as he stood, picked up a half-finished glass of wine from a table and walked towards Walcott as he headed for the exit. At the last moment, Amal turned his head as if recognising someone across the bar, bumped into Walcott and stumbled sideways, dropping the glass. Walcott grabbed his arm to stop Amal from falling.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Walcott said, as he bent down to pick up the glass. “Are you alright? That was so clumsy of me.”

“Oh, I’m good, thank you. It was an accident.”

The blue eyes that captivated Amal all those years ago were as entrancing as ever. Walcott pushed back his fringe in the gesture that still made Amal tingle. Holding the glass up, Walcott asked, “I’m sorry about your drink. Can I buy you another one?”

“Oh, no, it’s alright. You don’t have to…” Amal didn’t want to appear too keen, but everyone knows that means yes.

“No, I insist. What is it? White wine?”

His eyes sparkled, and Amal remembered the hypnotic effect they had back in school.

“Yes, please, if that’s OK.”

“It’s the least I can to make up for his clumsiness.” He paused. “To be honest, I was meeting someone, but they haven’t turned up. Would you mind if we had a drink together?”

Amal’s heart leapt, but he dared not show it. He looked around as if nervous.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“OK, I understand. Let me get you a drink anyway,”

Amal smiled, “Well, I guess one drink wouldn’t do any harm.”

Walcott pulled back a chair for Amal to sit down. Amal was trembling. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Walcott signalled the barman and ordered the drinks. A glass of white wine for Amal and brandy for himself. Amal’s heart was beating so hard he thought Walcott would hear it. Amal picked up his glass, but his hand shook so much he had to put it back down on the table.

“Cheers, and I’m sorry for bumping into you,” Walcott said and raised his glass.

“Oh, yes, cheers, and thank you for the drink.” Amal picked up the glass this time.

“I’m James, by the way, and you are?”

Yes, Amal thought, I know you are, but you don’t know who I am. He called himself Amalie these days, but he thought that might be too close to the truth to risk. Plucking a name from the air, he replied, “Emily. Pleased to meet you, James.”

“What brought you here tonight, Emily? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was meeting someone, but they cancelled on me at the last moment. And what about you?”

“I’m here for a writer’s conference. I came to meet someone here too, but they didn’t show. I guess we both got stood up.”

“Oh, are you an author, then?”

He nodded as he took a sip of his brandy. “Yes, for my sins.”

“Would I have read anything you’ve written?”

He hesitated, “That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

He stared Amal straight in the eye and rattled off a few titles. Amal had never lost the taste for reading Walcott had inspired in him at school. He was a voracious reader, so his eyes widened as he recognised some of them.

“But, aren’t those all—”

“Gay fiction, that’s right.” He interrupted Amal. “I’m here for an LGBT writers’ conference.”

Stunned, all Amal said was “Oh.” Walcott wrote gay fiction. He hadn’t seen this coming. Was he gay? He didn’t come across as gay and then cursed himself for thinking something that dumb. Walcott smiled as he said, “Does that bother you?”

“No, no. Not at all.” Amal took a sip of his wine. He knew he had to find out. As calmly as he could, he said. “So, are you gay?”

He nodded. “Yes. I believe all writers need to write from their own experience, don’t you?”

Amal flashed back to a lesson at school when Walcott used those same words in his English composition class.

“Uh, yes, I do.” He was still reeling, trying to come to terms with the direction this was heading.

There was an awkward silence, before Walcott said, “So, how come you recognised my books?”

Blood rushed to Amal’s cheeks, and he looked away. “I do a lot of reading.” When he looked back, Walcott was smiling, and his eyes were sparkling again.

“No matter. Fancy another drink, Emily?”

Amal looked down, surprised to see his glass empty. “Oh, yes, but let me get them, please, James.”

Truth be told, Amal was getting a little buzzed, whether from the Bellinis and the wine, or from being here with Walcott, or both, he didn’t know.

“Thanks, but that’s alright. I’ll get them. Same again?” Amal nodded, and Walcott waggled his fingers at the barman to indicate two more of the same.

“Do you live around here, James?”

“No.” A shadow passed across his face. “Well, I used to, but I had to move away. I live down south now. More liberal, to be honest.”

“Why? Because you were gay?”

He frowned.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. no, it’s alright.” He paused for a moment, as if debating whether to answer. He sighed and looked Amal straight in the eye.

“Yes. I loved my job and didn’t want to leave. However, times were different back then and when I came out, they forced me to leave my job and move elsewhere. Still, it’s worked out alright.”

Amal blurted. “That’s so unfair.”

“Thank you, yes, it was unfair, as much on others around me as much as me.”

So that was why he had left school so suddenly. The rumours hadn’t even been close to the truth.

“But that’s enough about me, Emily. What’s your story?”

Amal panicked. Shit, what should he say? Make something up? Tell him the truth? Make his excuses and leave? Walcott had opened up to him, so what would he do if Amal did the same? What did he have to lose? Who dares, wins? Well, here goes nothing, Amal thought.

“That depends.”

He grinned, “Touché. Depends on what?”

“It depends on whether you’re the hotel manager or a prospective client.”

Walcott looked puzzled. “OK. I’ll play. What if I’m the hotel manager?”

Amal smiled as demurely as he could. “Then I’m here having a drink with an old friend I bumped into and I’ll be going home soon.” Not so far from the truth, Amal thought.

“And if I’m a prospective client?”

Amal crossed his legs and watched Walcott look down at them. He leant across and put his hand on Walcott’s thigh. “First, we would agree on a price. After that, you would tell me your room number. You would leave first and I would follow you a few minutes later.”

He didn’t seem shocked. Instead, his smile got even wider. “I told you I’m gay, didn’t I?”

“You did, and I wouldn’t be interested if you weren’t.”

He raised his eyebrows a little. “So, you’re—”

“Trans, yes. Does that shock you?” Amal said.

He shook his head. “No, nothing much shocks me these days.” He paused for a beat. “Tell me, let’s say, for my research, how much do you charge?”

For the life of him, when he first laid eyes on Walcott this evening, Amal could not have guessed this was how it would work out. He’s just a guy playing games, Amal thought, but he felt a definite tingle as he fantasised about what might happen.

“Per hour, or for a full night? Extra services are on top of the basic fee.” Amal could play games too.

Walcott’s eyebrows shot up. “Extras?”

Amal shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a bit like buying a new car. The options bump up the price.”

“Such as?”

Amal ticked off a list on his fingers. “Like BDSM. Nothing too harsh. Oh, and that’s me doing it to you, not the other way round. I can top and bottom, prefer one to one, but I do couples for 50% extra. Filming is negotiable on top of everything else. I have a pro cameraman who I use if you want a souvenir DVD. If you’re into role play, I have uniforms and outfits. I won't do groups or water sports, nor bareback until I know you an awful lot better. I don’t do drugs and I’m very discreet.” Amal glanced sideways at Walcott. “Oh, and I’m excellent with newbies.”

Walcott’s smile was back. “Wow, I’ve never been offered those options in a car showroom, more’s the pity. Look, for purely research purposes, how much do you charge for a full night?”

“If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.”

“Humour me, it’s for research.”

“A thousand for the full night. You pay for the room too.”

He sucked his breath in. “Ouch, that stings a bit. Puts me out of the running. Do you have many clients who pay that much?”

Amal grinned, “All of them.”

Walcott laughed. “Is that why you were here this evening?”

“Yes, but he cancelled by text.”

“Does that mean you’re out-of-pocket tonight?”

Amal grinned again. “All cancellations within twenty-four hours are payable in full.”

He almost choked on his brandy. “Do they ever refuse to pay?”

“Not if they want to see me again.”

“Mm, do you get any complaints?”

Amal tried to look offended. “Well, I’m not on Trustpilot, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t get any critical reviews. I get a lot of referrals as well.”

“Do you give an introductory discount for new clients?”

“Hell no. No freebies, no cheapies, no refunds. That would only dilute my margin.”

Walcott waved to the barman for another round. Amal felt his buzz getting stronger.

“Emily, I can see you’ve got all this figured out, but why do you do it?”

“Truthfully? Because I like sex and I’m good at it.” Amal smiled to himself as he remembered Walcott’s advice from all those years ago. “It’s better than working, and I get paid to do it.”

Walcott frowned. “What about security? Don’t you get scared?”

“I’ve been scared a few times, seriously frightened only once. I leave a message with a friend to tell them where I am going, and I call in before and after every appointment. I carry a loud rape alarm and a can of mace in my bag. Oh, and I have a black belt in karate.”

It sounded good, but Amal knew he was putting himself in danger by doing what he did. You cannot mitigate every risk, and even with all his precautions, there can be no guarantee of safety. After all, the risk was part of the attraction.

“One more drink, Emily?” Walcott interrupted his thoughts. Amal couldn’t believe his glass was already empty. He nodded and Walcott signalled for another round of drinks. Whether it was the buzz from the drinks, what he was wearing, the proximity of Walcott, or all of the above, Amal couldn’t tell, but he was feeling distinctly horny. He giggled to himself as an idea flickered in his mind. This was already so surreal. Why not see if he could take it even further? Walcott seemed chilled with what was going on, and maybe he would be up for a bit of fun.

Amal crossed his legs again, feeling the stockings pull against the suspender straps, and he almost moaned in pleasure. He saw Walcott’s eyes flick to his legs and his lips open a fraction. Amal giggled out loud.

“What’s so funny, Emily?”

“I was wondering what your room number was.”

Walcott frowned, and Amal thought he had blown everything. He leant over and gently touched Walcott’s knee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Walcott looked down at Amal’s hand, the scarlet nail polish glinting in the lights. He swallowed, then said. “No, it’s not that. I can’t afford your fee, and you told me you don’t do freebies.”

Amal smiled. “Well, the night’s paid for, so I’m not exactly losing out.”

“Why me?” asked Walcott.

For a millisecond Amal thought about telling him the truth, then said, “Because I’ve been stood up, I’m horny as hell, and you’re a very attractive man who I would like to fuck. Just think of me as an early Christmas present.”

Amal couldn’t read the look on Walcott’s face, but it seemed he was struggling to decide. He shrugged his shoulders. “Room 545. Turn right out of the lifts and it’s at the end of the corridor.”

“OK, James. Stand up and kiss me on the cheek and then go to your room. I’ll be up in ten minutes. I’ll knock twice, then once more, so you’ll know it’s me.”

Walcott looked startled, but he stood up, bent forward and kissed Amal on the cheek, his scent filling Amal’s nostrils. Mmm, Tom Ford, he thought, my favourite.

Loud enough to be overheard, Walcott said, “Emily, it was good to see you again. I hope we can meet again soon.”

“I hope so, too, James.” Amal had to stop himself from giggling.

Walcott turned and walked out of the bar towards the lobby and the lifts. Amal gave him a minute, then gathered up his coat and bag and headed to the toilet. He paused inside for a moment, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Never look back and wonder what if, he thought. He looked in the mirror, touched up his lipstick, spritzed some Black Opium, checked his seams were still straight, smoothed down his dress, and winked at himself in the mirror. Go get him, girl, he said out loud.

There was a lift waiting, and he pressed the button for floor 5. In a few seconds, he was out of the lift and heading down to room 545. As he stood at the door, Amal had a flash of panic. What if Walcott had given him the wrong room number just to get away? Amal shrugged; it would be what it would be. He knocked twice, then once again, and he heard someone moving inside.

The door opened, and Walcott stood aside to let him in.

 

Chapter Seven

Amal walked into the room and dropped his coat and bag on a chair. Walcott looked nervous, which made Amal giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Asked Walcott.

“Don’t be scared. There's no need to be. I’m only going to eat you.”

Walcott let out a deep sigh. “Please don’t make fun of me. I’m not used to this.”

Amal smiled. “Don’t worry, I am.” He spun on his heels, turned his back to Walcott and said, “Unzip me please, James.”

He felt the zip being pulled down and stepped out of the dress, letting it fall to the floor, leaving him in his lingerie, stockings, and heels. He looked over his shoulder to see Walcott staring at him as if he could not believe what was happening. Amal turned slowly to face him, his hands held over the front of his knickers.

“Have you ever been with a trans girl before, James?”

Walcott shook his head.

“Do you like what you see, James?”

Walcott swallowed, then nodded, seemingly unable to speak.

Amal grinned, turned his back on Walcott once more, unhooked his bra and let it drop to the floor. He stepped backwards until he felt Walcott against his naked back, reached backwards to take hold of Walcott’s hands and brought them round to cup his nipples. For a few seconds, it seemed Walcott had frozen, as his hands didn’t move. Then, Amal felt fingers stroking his nipples, and he moaned to let Walcott know that was alright.

Amal let go of Walcott’s hands and reached down behind to brush his fingers against a bulge in Walcott’s trousers. He smiled to himself, as he knew he had his man. Amal stepped forward and turned to face Walcott, who still looked dazed at what was going on. He put his arms around Walcott’s neck and pulled his face down for a kiss, his tongue lancing into Walcott’s mouth.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Walcott pressed his tongue against Amal’s. Although he had done this countless times, this was different, holding a man in his arms who he had chosen, and not who had chosen him. His heart was thumping in his chest, and this time Amal moaned as Walcott’s hands slipped behind to cup his backside. He could feel Walcott’s hardness against his tummy, and felt himself stiffen in response. Keeping one arm around Walcott’s neck, he reached down to rub his bulge with the other. Walcott made a sound in his throat, and to Amal’s delight, the bulge grew under his hand.

Amal broke the kiss and slid down onto his knees. He looked up to see Walcott gazing wide-eyed down at him as he slowly undid Walcott’s belt, unzipped him and pulled off his trousers and underwear, leaving him exposed and erect. Walcott wasn’t huge, but he was big enough to make him a challenge for Amal, who looked up again and licked his lips. He was going to enjoy this. All the skill and technique Amal had honed over the years, he brought to bear on Walcott. The man stood no chance. Walcott twitched as Amal touched his cock and ran his fingers up and down the length before kissing the tip, their eyes still locked together.

Amal grinned, then plunged his mouth over Walcott until his nose touched pubic hair. His knees buckled as Amal teased him with his lips and tongue and his fingers. He heard Walcott grunt as he nipped the head with his teeth, a favourite trick of his. Amal looked up to see Walcott looking down at him, wide eyed and breathing heavily. Walcott’s hands gripped the back of Amal’s head and his hips moved back and forwards.

Amal could sense Walcott getting close, but, at least for now, he didn't want him to come in his mouth. He gave Walcott another nip with his teeth before standing up and kissing him again. Amal was also hard by this time, and he guided Walcott’s hands to his groin. He felt Walcott hesitate as his fingers brushed against the front of Amal’s underwear, then he sighed and stroked Amal through the lace. Amal moaned as Walcott’s fingers rubbed and pinched him. The clients liked him to be vocal, but this time he didn’t have to fake it. This time was different, this time was personal.

Walcott broke away and pulled his shirt over his head and flung it away. Amal growled as his hands went to Walcott’s nipples, tweaking one with his fingers and nipping the other with his teeth. It was tricky sometimes finding the right balance of pain and pleasure with a client. Amal would test them until they resisted, and he would back off. He hadn’t reached Walcott’s point of resistance yet, so he would keep pushing. Amal tweaked a nipple between his fingernails, making Walcott hiss, but didn't seem to want him to stop. He moved down Walcott’s chest, nipping the skin between his teeth as he went. Walcott grunted as Amal nipped a little too hard, and he eased off.

Walcott pushed Amal back on the bed and unclipped each stocking, brushing the skin with his lips where the clasps had been. Every touch of his fingers or lips made Amal tremble, and he ached to be released. Walcott kissed each shoe, then slipped them off, before moving back up the bed and rolling each stocking down kissing the skin as it appeared. God, he knows what he's doing, thought Amal. It’s so rare to find a man who wants to take his time.

Amal lay back as Walcott stroked him through his knickers, making him hiss in pleasure. He raised his hips and Walcott slipped the underwear down, releasing Amal. Walcott looked down, grinned at Amal, then wrapped his tongue around the cockhead before drawing him into his tight, warm mouth.

Amal gasped and clenched his fists as Walcott worked on him. He had received countless blowjobs from men and women, but very few were as good as Walcott. Arching his back, Amal closed his eyes and revelled in the sensations Walcott’s mouth was giving him. He felt himself getting close, and he needed to slow things down. Amal wanted this to last. He pushed Walcott off and started kissing him, their tongues fencing with each other, and their hands finding every inch of their bodies. Amal knelt on the bed and got their cocks side by side. The sensation of them rubbing against each other was exquisite. And within a few minutes, Amal knew either of them could last much longer.

He grabbed his bag and fumbled for the lube he always kept there. Walcott was on his back on the bed, and Amal waved the bottle of lube at him.

“Top, or bottom?”

Walcott hesitated, then said, “Top.”

Amal grinned, “Good choice.” He squeezed the lube onto Walcott and himself, lay back on the bed, and shoved a pillow under his backside. He looked up at Walcott and spread his legs wide. “I want to see your face while you do it.”

Walcott looked down. “I thought you didn't do bareback on a first date.”

“Just shut up and fuck me.” Amal growled. He wanted to feel everything with Walcott.

Walcott flipped Amal’s legs up onto his shoulders and rubbed his cock against Amal’s backside.

“Balls to the wall, James. Give me your best shot.”

Walcott thrust his hips forward and drove into Amal.

Amal grunted as Walcott filled him. “Fuck.”

He couldn’t remember how many times someone had fucked him, but to Amal, this one was special. Every thrust sent explosions surging through him, and he screamed when Walcott withdrew before penetrating him afresh. Amal pushed back against Walcott’s thrusts, heightening the pleasure for both of them. He lost track of time, but he didn’t care as Walcott pushed ever harder and deeper into him.

“Come on, fuck me harder. Don’t let me down.”

Walcott renewed his attack, holding himself inside and gyrating his hips, making Amal squeal in pleasure. He felt Walcott harden and quicken his pace, so Amal knew he was close. Amal looked up into Walcott’s face and flashed back to the classroom all those years ago, when he dreamt about something like this. At that moment, Walcott grunted, “I’m cumming,” and Amal arched his back and pushed back hard. He felt Walcott explode inside him and he kept pumping. Walcott groaned and pulled out of Amal, flopping down onto the bed.

They lay there for a few minutes before Walcott raised himself on one elbow. He looked down at Amal before kissing him. “Thank you, Emily. That was unbelievable.”

Amal looked up and grinned. “Buster, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Amal dragged Walcott to the shower where he washed himself and Walcott under the shower. Back on the bed, they lay together, kissing and stroking each other.

“Emily, do I have any credit left?”

Amal laughed. “What have you got in mind?”

“You said you topped as well.”

A huge grin spread over Amal’s face. “I suppose I could extend your line of credit this one time.”

Amal pulled Walcott up and made him kneel on the bed. He came up behind and slapped him on the backside before raking his fingernails down Walcott’s back, making him groan and leaving long red weals. Amal giggled as he smeared lube over himself and Walcott, a sudden memory of himself back at school, never dreaming that one day he would be fucking Mr Walcott

“What's funny?” Walcott said over his shoulder. Amal was tempted to tell him. “Nothing, James.”

Amal began gently, using one finger first, feeling Walcott tense and then adding a second as Walcott relaxed. He continued this for a few minutes, adding a third finger as Walcott pushed back.

“Tell me you like that, James.”

There was a grunt from Walcott.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Another grunt.

Removing his fingers, Amal gave Walcott another couple of slaps. He moved right up behind him and tapped his cock on Walcott’s backside. He slid into Walcott, a little by little, withdrawing and then pushing deeper each time. He could feel Walcott push back and then said. “Brace yourself, here I come, ready or not.”

Walcott nodded, and Amal pushed hard and deep into him. Walcott fell forward onto his elbows before raising himself once again. Amal teased him, always controlling the pace, slowing down and speeding up as he wanted, keeping Walcott dangling on the edge. He dragged his fingernails once more down Walcott’s back, making him push back even harder against Amal. He pushed Walcott forward onto his elbows so that Amal stood above him, pounding down into him. He felt his orgasm building, and held it off for a while before he couldn't hold back any longer.

“Get ready, here I come.” Amal shouted before he erupted into Walcott, his whole body shuddering with an earth shattering climax.

Amal’s memory of the rest of the night was a bit blurry. He could remember Walcott fucked him, at least once more, standing up in the shower. He was sure there had been more too, before they lay exhausted on the bed in each other's arms until sleep claimed them.

 

Chapter Eight

Amal woke to find the sun streaming through a gap in the curtains. He must have slept late. He moved and winced as his body reminded him of the events of last night. It surprised him to find the other side of the bed empty. As Amal gazed around, the only things he could see in the room were his clothes hung neatly over the back of a chair. Startled, he realised Walcott must have left while he was asleep. Amal slumped back on the bed. What had he expected? It had been a one-night stand. A free fuck. Walcott didn’t know who he was and probably didn’t care. He owed Amal nothing. Still, his heart was heavy with disappointment. As he picked up his clothes, he found a folded piece of hotel notepaper on the desk addressed to Emily. He frowned as he recognised Walcott’s beautiful cursive handwriting. Why had he left a note? He must have written it while Amal slept. He unfolded the notepaper and, what Walcott had written made his knees buckle and his cheeks burn.

Emily, or should I say Amal?

I thought I recognised you when I saw you in the bar, but I couldn’t place where. Pretending to bump into me like that was clumsy but sweet, and it was then I realised who you were. Your eyes gave you away. You can change almost everything else, but I can’t forget you gazing at me as we studied Antony and Cleopatra. I remember thinking you would be a lovely Cleopatra. You have proved me right. You are beautiful. I knew you had recognised me and your attention flattered me. It was obvious you had a crush on me back then at school, but nothing could have happened. I am so glad we found each other at last. The memories of this night will stay with me until the end of my days. If you can, please forgive me for not letting on that I knew who you are. I didn’t know how you would react if I did. I can only hope you enjoyed last night as much as I did. You looked so beautiful as you slept, and I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I don’t know if you would, but if you wanted to see me again, I’ve put my number on your phone. If you don’t, I would understand, and in that case, just delete the number and keep the memories.

Take good care of yourself, Amal, and live the life you want.

James

PS I am so happy you took my advice.