Now...

Steven Balfour stared down at Abigail Thompson through his aunt’s bedroom window. Abigail was on her knees weeding her garden. She used a plastic kneeling pad so that her knees didn’t get dirt and grass stains on them. This caused her shapely bottom to rear up, which in turn caused her skirt to ruck up around her thighs. Steven admired her buttocks clad in the tight black leather skirt, the backs of her legs sheathed in sheer stockings, the dark welts and back-seams visible even at this distance and he loved her that her feet were shod in black high-heels.

Even a lad of nineteen years thought it was incongruous that a woman would dress so provocatively to perform household chores, but Abigail Thomson always did. And Steven was glad she did.

His penis was sheathed in one of his aunt’s sheer stockings and he was slowly stroking himself, imagining himself doing all sorts of wicked things with Miz Thompson. In his fantasies she was trying to fight him off her as he pressed himself on her, but eventually she reluctantly let him take her. She wrapped those long stocking-sheathed legs around his bare flesh and encouraged him with little endearments as he fucked her. His cock buried deep inside her hot, wet vagina, which enveloped his hard cock and milked him of his seed. She kissed him passionately as she orgasmed under him.

Steven had found one of his aunt’s stockings laddered and discarded in the waste bin under the kitchen sink and had purloined it to add to his collection of stolen and discarded ladies intimates. He had come to his aunt’s bedroom hoping to find a pair of her soiled panties to sniff while he masturbated with her stocking but seeing Abigail Thompson bent over like that was too much of a treat not be taken advantage of. Being a virgin teenage boy he needed a constant supply of masturbatory fodder to fuel his imagination and more progressively Miz Thompson became that fodder. He thought about her constantly, almost as much as he thought about his aunt who herself was quite the looker.

The toe of the stocking pulled tightly on the rounded head of his penis suddenly bloomed a thick creamy gobbet of semen. Then ropes of his spend erupted from the delicate garment and spattered on the wooden floor as Steven groaned and held onto the windowsill with his free hand to stop himself collapsing with lecherous pleasure. He imagined that his semen was splashing on the back of Abigail Thompson’s legs instead of his aunt’s bedroom floor.

Abigail suddenly turned around and seemed to be looking up at him. Surely she couldn’t know what he was doing below the eye-line of the window sash? She seemed to be looking right though him with those beautiful green eyes enhanced with thick black eyeliner and mascara.

“Steven? Steven? Are you home?” he heard his aunt Beatrice call as she came through the front door.

“Shit!” Steven gasped.

Steven stepped away from the window and hurriedly dabbed at the creamy liquid oozing through the toe of the stocking with a wad of tissues he had bought to his aunt’s bedroom just for that purpose. He quickly took the stocking off his slowly deflating penis, tucked it away, a little uncomfortably as it was still semi-erect, and then bent down and cleaned up the mess he had made on the floor as best he could.

Then...

“You like wearing this shit don't you?” Barry Pinkerton said to Murray Reynolds

The two men were dressed as women.

The difference being that Barry looked like a boxer dressed in drag: poor makeup, ill fitting wig and poorly fitting clothes whereas Murray could easily pass as a woman; a very attractive and feminine woman.

“I can’t wait to get these confounded clothes off,” Barry whined.

Mary Reynolds sat still, smoothing out her skirt, straightening the hem.

“Jesus! You like this don’t you?” Barry looked disgustedly at Mary, which was the name Murray used when dressed as a woman.

“I don’t know, there’s something comforting and non-confrontational about it. I feel different, accepting I suppose,” Mary mused.

“Well there’s something faggy about it and if you stay dressed like that you might end up accepting things that you’d rather not,” Barry scoffed.

They were both finishing five-year sentences at the behest of Her Majesty's Prison Service, the last year of which they were serving in a minimum security reform facility far removed from Her Majesty’s Prison Chelmsford where they had done their hard time. Barry and Murray were determined to get out of prison in minimum time and volunteered for almost every elective extra-curricular activity in order to gain good behaviour credits.

When Murray had suggested they join the Amateur Dramatic Society, Barry had never dreamed that he would have to wear a dress. He was cast as an interfering old woman in the current production, whereas the lithe, handsome Murray was cast as an attractive femme fatale. Whereas Barry hated dressing as a woman, Murray found dressing enfemme delightful, sensual and exciting.

Murray had always had a penchant for women who wore sexy lingerie, stockings, sheer pantyhose and high heels. He liked his women to wear lots of makeup and coiffure their hair and every now and then he liked to slip into a pair of their panties and pantyhose. But the sheer delight that he felt when he fully dressed as a woman for the first time astounded him. He didn't just look like a woman, he felt like one.

Although not really required for the role Murray shaved away the sparse amount of hair from his body and legs. He shaped his eyebrows and grew his fingernails long. He practiced walking in high heels with feminine grace and became proficient at doing his own makeup. He even allowed the hairdresser to style his long wavy locks into a ladylike do with a fringe. He slicked it back when not dressed as a woman so as not appear too feminine.

Barry Pinkerton was savvy when it came to armed robbery but was a poor judge of character. He joked that Murray liked to dress like a woman but was not astute enough to realise that Murray actually adored dressing like a woman.

But there were others in the prison that did notice.

The producer of the play, doing minimum time for fraud and also the wardrobe and makeup supervisor, both gay men, noticed; and so did Robert Brinkley, a standover man and fixer, coming to the end of a two-year sentence.

“You look gorgeous today Mary,” Dale Grant, the wardrobe supervisor commented, stroking Mary's shoulder.

Dale had started to refer to Murray in his female character's name constantly and Murray had to admit that he liked it. It was Dale who had taught Mary how to make a gaff so that there was no unsightly bulge in her panties and to retract her testes into her inguinal canals and tuck her rather large penis, wrapped in her scrotum, under her perineum and tape it with cosmetic tape.

Dale had done some drag shows in his twenties, and although to him dressing enfemme was not sexually stimulating like it was for Mary, he was very adept at it and taught Mary everything he knew.

Robert Brinkley was only an extra in the play but he hung around the production far more than he needed to, lusting after Mary. Mary was too naive and enamoured with the thrill of dressing enfemme to notice.

“I think you have a suitor,” Dale chuckled, lightly patting Mary on the shoulder and pointing at Robert with his chin.

Mary paled. She loved feeling feminine whilst dressed like a woman and of course she enjoyed the sexual thrill of it but having sexual relations with a man? She hadn't really thought of it up until then. Whilst the thought of it didn't repel her, she didn't think she could. Although Mary was a femme fatale in the play, the play had been written so that there was no intimate physical contact, the prison authorities insisted.

Robert Brinkley had no respect for prison authorities or their rules. He leered at Mary, who was sitting on a bar stool on the set, her skirt high on her thighs displaying her long shapely legs sheathed in shimmering sheer hose, he admired her pretty face, red lipsticked lips, vivid green eyes enhanced with eyeliner and mascara. He was besotted.

Mary was walking back to the small office that was being used as a dressing room behind the improvised stage when Robert pulled her into the cleaner’s closet.

Mary feigned resistance at first but the truth was that Dale’s comments about Robert fancying her had planted the seed; piqued her interest so to speak. When Robert put his mouth on hers inside the dark, cramped and smelly storeroom she immediately realised then and there that this was what she secretly wanted.

It would be nice to portray a scene of romantic lovemaking for Mary’s first sexual encounter but it was far from it. Robert slid his tongue inside Mary’s mouth and she moaned and writhed in his grasp. She felt Robert’s swollen penis pressing against her and she fumbled with his flies and freed it. It was hot and throbbing in her soft hands and she felt little globules of pre-seminal fluid forming at the eye. She used the slippery secretions to lubricate Robert’s cock whilst she squeezed and stroked it.

Rather than being repulsed, she felt empowered. Robert mewed muffled groans in her mouth as she teased him, softly caressing his penis and then alternately stroking it hard and fast. He pushed on her shoulders and she guessed what he wanted, she had seen plenty of men fellating each other in the prison, they didn’t consider it to be homosexual behaviour, just a form of release. She was ready to taste her first penis but there was no way she was kneeling on the filthy floor of the cleaner’s closet so she bent over and tentatively lapped at the pulsing appendage that Robert was thrusting at her face. It banged on her cheek and then her chin until she eventually guided it into her red-lipsticked lips.

Robert wanted to turn on the light so he could watch the pretty transvestite suck his cock but it might draw unwanted attention to the closet, so he just watched her head bob up and down in the gloom and felt her tongue lapping at his glans while she used her lips on his shaft.

If masturbating Robert had made Mary feel powerful, fellating him made her feel omnipotent. She found that she actually liked sucking and slavering at his appendage, swallowing the precum while she held onto his thighs so as not to fall over in her high heels. She felt herself becoming uncomfortably erect and she reached into her satin panties and released her hardening cock, which when freed, tented her silky knickers.

Mary was wondering what Robert’s semen was going to taste like when he ejaculated, which she didn’t think would be too long by the way he was thrusting his cock into her mouth and sighing with pleasure.

She was caught totally unaware when he pulled his penis from her mouth, spun her around, eased the gusset of her panties aside and began to probe her buttocks with his cock.

“No! No! I’m not ready for that!” she lamented.

The wind was knocked out of her when his erect penis pierced her sphincter. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

“Take it out! It hurts, you fucker!” Mary hissed.

But Robert was not to be denied. He held Mary down while he rummaged around on the shelf and found a jar of Swarfega hand cream. He lubricated his shaft and nestled his cock back in Mary’s sphincter. She whined and wriggled trying to get free but her small frame was no match for Robert’s brute strength. But he took his time and slid his cock slowly into her, letting her get used to it as he eased it into her millimetre by millimetre.

Mary was surprised that the rather large fleshy protuberance that Robert was sliding into her didn’t really hurt now that it was lubricated and she had time for her tight anus to relax and accept the girth. There was a delightful tingling emanating from the nerves in her sphincter and a pleasant tightness around the walls of her anus. But the pure delight that radiated from her prostate gland when the head of Robert’s penis pressed against it was indescribably wonderful.

Mary rested one foot on the edge of the low-set, wall-mounted sink so that Robert had better access to her bottom. When he was all the way inside her and she felt his groin on her buttocks she sighed and wriggled her creamy globes to indicate that she was ready to be fucked.

It was short but sweet. A few long slow thrusts was all it took, Robert couldn’t repress his orgasm and when Mary felt his cock convulse and fill her anus with hot seed she ejaculted into her panties, Robert's glans pressing on her prostate causing her to writhe with pleasure.

The aftermath was rather awkward. Robert found a roll of paper towel and dabbed at her sphincter to absorb the torrent of semen when he withdrew. Then he tore off a few more sheets and stuffed them in Mary’s hand so she could wipe herself while he cleaned himself and zipped up.

Mary thought that she would be awash with self-loathing after her passion dissipated and the awful truth of what had just happened dawned on her. But on the contrary, she felt delightfully content. When Robert helped her down and spun her around and began to kiss her again she not only capitulated, she enthusiastically kissed him back.

Mary had uttered two coherent sentences during the whole encounter and Robert had said nothing. She did not count their cries of passion and grunts of gratification as conversation. He did speak coherently now.

“That was wonderful can we do it again soon?” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes we can. But not in this shithole, I’m going to come out of here smelling like Drano, Swarfega and disinfectant,” she whined, tucking and re-taping herself and adjusting her panties, which were uncomfortably sticky.

“I’ll find somewhere better. Somewhere comfortable and with light, I want to see your pretty face when we make love,” Robert held her close.

“What we just did was not making love,” Mary said petulantly.

“But it was nice though,” she couldn’t see his grin in the dark but she knew it was there.

She kissed him tenderly and then pushed him away.

“Wait a few minutes before you come out. And find somewhere better for next time,” she put a finger to his lips and opened the door a crack.

Seeing that the coast was clear she stepped out into the corridor and continued on her journey to the dressing room. She actually skipped a pace and smiled to herself.

Mary blushed with embarrassment when Dale whispered in her ear as he was helping her clean off her makeup.

“Who’s just been shagged then?” he grinned.

“That smeared lipstick, those bunched up panties, that untucked blouse and that smile on your face all tell the same story,” he smoothed her shoulder.

Mary couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“Ok sweetheart I’m not exactly sure what you got up to, but let me tell you a little about douching. It’s yucky but it’s necessary,” Dale began.

Robert Brinkley was a real villain, a standover man for Larry ‘The Loop’ Connelly. Robert collected outstanding debts for Larry and also didn’t mind a bit of armed robbery.

But Robert was smitten with Mary and he behaved like a besotted schoolboy around her once she had capitulated to his desires. He made the producer of the play an offer he couldn’t refuse and Robert and Mary were able to use the producer’s office, really a small stock room with a desk and chair, for their assignations. Robert obtained a mattress from a spare bunk and it became their love nest. The office could be locked from the inside and as the facility was minimum security with all of the inmates close to their release dates there were very few checks made on them by the guards.

Mary soon became very adept at being a transvestite sex object which was pretty much all she was to Robert whose lust was almost insatiable. She continued to work on her femininity and was at the stage where she could pass as a woman almost undetected by the time she was up for day release.

Being a low-risk prisoner Murray Reynolds was allowed out on day work release as the end of his sentence grew imminent. Barry Pinkerton had given Murray a few errands to attend to. Barry had no intention of going straight when he got out and he naturally assumed that neither did Murray. Connections had to made, jobs planned and more importantly, Murray had to check that the unrecovered gains from the crimes that they had gotten away with were still safe and sound.

Murray would have loved to spend some time outside the prison dressed as Mary and to go out in public as her, but it was too risky. He had a legitimate job that he had to do and his employer had strict regulations to abide by, which were supposed to ensure that Murray abided by the terms of his day release. Murray did have to clock on and off and spend most of his time working in the factory but his employer had been well bribed and allowed Murray to skive off to attend to Barry Pinkerton’s errands.

But Murray was also attending to his own errands. He didn’t want to be Murray any longer; he wanted to live as Mary full-time. Murray had done some research and self-diagnosed himself with gender dysphoria. He knew that there were varying degrees of dysphoria. Murray had an overwhelming desire to dress and be treated as a woman but was contented to be transsexual woman; at this stage he had no desire to undergo full sex reassignment surgery, in fact the thought repelled him.

He’d always had a strong desire to crossdress and had done so on many occasions in his life but he had never been fully transformed like he had been for the play, and when he presented himself as a woman it just felt right. Then there was the sex. Mary loved being the sexual plaything for Robert Brinkley but it also gave her a feeling of empowerment. Knowing that she could make a man desire her to the extent that he spent most of waking day thinking of her was very powerful. She had started out the submissive in their relationship but she had slowly changed roles and had become the instigator and predominant during sex. She topped from the bottom, as they say.

When Murray looked at himself in the mirror he didn’t see himself looking back. He saw a stranger. He wanted to see Mary’s reflection looking back at him, not Murray’s.

So Murray took steps and made arrangements so that he could live his life as a woman when he was finally released, drastic steps.

Now...

Beatrice dropped her keys on the hall table and struggled into the kitchen with the two bags of groceries she was carrying, putting them down on the kitchen bench.

She heard footsteps skittering on the wooden floors above her, the creak of a door opening and closing, and the padding of feet down the hallway. The creaking she heard was the door to her bedroom and Beatrice smiled to herself.

“You little bugger!” she whispered to herself.

Aunt Beatrice, as Steven Balfour knew, was no fool. She might be in her forties but she was savvy. She knew that her nephew was obsessed with sex, what nineteen-year-old lad wasn’t? She also strongly suspected that Steven was a virgin. He seldom went out and appeared to have no friends at all, male or female. At first she put this down to him having moved in with her just three months ago when her sister ran away with a married man leaving her son with nothing, but still expecting him to finish college or to get a job.

Beatrice had taken the boy in because she lived alone, had plenty of room, plenty of money, and to be honest, she felt sorry for him.

Steven was an introverted loner, a very handsome lad but content with his own company. He studied hard and helped out around the house, in fact he seemed reluctant to leave the house and sometimes got under her feet.

Then she began to notice things. Little things. Naughty things.

The silvery stains she sometimes found on her stockings that she had hung over the shower curtain-rail to dry. The musty wet patches in her satin and nylon knickers when she took them from the laundry basket to wash them. The stash of porn magazines under his mattress, all featuring mature women dressed in retro lingerie. She thought this odd as there was plenty of free pornography available on the internet, and one day while he was at school she checked the PC in his room.

Steven had not cleared his browsing history and Beatrice soon found that her nephew had quite the penchant for videos of attractive mature women dressed in lingerie or being fucked in their underwear. He liked to visit ‘mother and son’ sites, ‘mature women and teen’ pages and similar websites.

Further investigation revealed the plastic bag filled with panties, stockings, pantyhose and even a satin half-slip. All appeared to be stained with her nephew’s semen; some were disgustingly crusty. She recognised some of the hosiery that she had thrown out, even a pair of her own discarded knickers. She guessed the remainder of the lingerie had likely been pilfered from laundry baskets or snowdropped.

Beatrice knew that young men often developed fetishes, which continued on into adulthood: high heels, latex and rubber, leather and so on. Steven obviously had a fetish for hosiery, panties and lingerie, and a penchant for mature women.

“Interesting,” she had smiled to herself as she had logged off her nephew’s computer all those weeks ago.

She heard the door to Steven’s bedroom close and then lock as she made her way upstairs. She was careful not to snag her Christian Louboutin high heels on the stairway runner. Beatrice may have been approaching middle age but she still took care of herself and always dressed immaculately even if just going shopping on the high street.

She was wearing full makeup with dark eyes and bright-red lipstick; her brunette hair was coiffed in ringlets around her attractive face. Beatrice was dressed in a tight-fitting satin blouse that emphasised her large breasts, she had a little potbelly, not much, and it actually rounded out her figure. Her best feature, her long toned legs and tight buttocks, were sheathed in black lycra leggings. Underneath she wore flesh-toned sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose with no panties underneath. The pantyhose made it easier to slip in and out of her leggings, kept her legs a little warmer, and served the purpose of underwear. She eschewed panties when wearing leggings or tights because they created a visible panty line and spoiled the effect.

Beatrice found the door to her bedroom closed. She had left it ajar when she went out to run her errands. She entered the room and closed the door behind her, sliding the lock into place.

She instinctively knew that Steven had been in her room again, the faint musky odour of semen assailed her nostrils. She felt herself becoming a little wet. Beatrice strode over to her ensuite bathroom and inspected it closely. The stockings she had worn the day before were still hanging over the shower-rail and appeared untouched likewise the garments in her laundry bin.

When she came out of the bedroom she noticed a smear marring the sheen of the polished wooden floor by the window. She might not have noticed it but it was accentuated by the waning afternoon light. She walked over and studied it.

Whatever had caused the smudge had been hastily cleaned up and was quickly drying. Then she spied a small gobbet of glutinous white fluid. She smiled and bent down and scooped it up with her fingertip; she tentatively sniffed it and then bought it to her mouth and licked it off her finger.

Now she was definitely wet.

It was semen, fresh semen, her nephew’s semen, Steven’s semen.

She imagined him in her bedroom masturbating with her stockings or pantyhose, sniffing her knickers. She rubbed at her pubis as she imagined herself lying on the bed as he masturbated before her. She reached out and took his turgid manhood into her fingers; the nails painted bright red. Steven groaned as she squeezed him.

Beatrice pushed the fabric of her leggings and pantyhose into her quim and felt the heat of her sex as she rubbed at it.

Steven was shivering with lust as she began to stroke him.

“Fuck!” Beatrice gasped, frustrated as she tried to work on her vulva through the layers of lycra and nylon.

She put her hand inside her leggings but the waistband bit into her wrist.

“Fuck! Fuck!” her fantasy was melting away.

She yanked her leggings down her thighs bunching them at the top of her knees. Her legs buckled as she pushed two fingers into her cunt, parting her labia and thrumming her clitoris in its little hood. She had to hold onto the bedside table as waves of pleasure radiated from her sex. She poked two fingers into her vagina and caressed her clitoris with her thumb; the reek of her vaginal juices assailed her nose.

She tottered on her heels and collapsed to her knees when she orgasmed, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream.

In her fantasy Steven was ejaculating. Streams of scalding semen splashing on her legs, her belly and then her face.

“Oh my god!” she hissed through gritted teeth.

Beatrice pulled herself up onto the bed as her orgasm began to subside. She was breathing erratically and the scent of vaginal secretions had mingled with the vestige of Steven’s spend. The reek of it was nearly enough to make her want to start pleasuring herself all over again but she knew that she shouldn’t.

She glanced out the window.

Her peculiar neighbour, Miz Abigail Thompson, was staring up at her.

Then...

Mary was waiting for Robert Brinkley in the small office. She was lying on the mattress dressed only in her knickers, bra, suspender belt and panties, all red satin with black lace trim. Clipped to the suspenders were black, fifteen-denier, fully-fashioned stockings and her feet were shod in black high-heels. The only other garment she wore was a black see-through lace negligee. Her makeup and hair were perfect and her costume jewellery glimmered in the dim light of the single desk lamp.

Her costume for the play was neatly folded on a shelf. The prop department did not supply the lingerie she was wearing, Robert had bribed a guard to bring him in sexy lingerie and hosiery in Mary’s size.

When Robert came through the door he was hot for her as usual and she was hot for him. Mary knew that Robert had become infatuated with her. But Robert had no time for Murray Reynolds and went out of his way to avoid him but when Murray was transformed into Mary, Robert hardly let her out of his sight. She liked the power that she held over him, she also liked the sex because it was illicit and exciting and it made her feel feminine.

Robert shucked off his clothes, Mary opened her arms and Robert fell into them, lying on top of her, rubbing his cock against hers swathed in luxurious satin, kissing her passionately. She opened her mouth so he could put some tongue to her and felt herself becoming erect; she was not tucked or gaffed. She reached between their bodies and found him hard and ready and she squeezed him when she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

She knew that she could make him come just like that, but they had only a little time and she had no intention of wasting a perfectly good erection.

Mary pushed him off her and he whined; but only a little because he knew what she was going to do when they exchanged places and she straddled him, leaning down to kiss him.

She had douched and was pre-lubricated in anticipation of the afternoon’s circumstance. Robert probed at her panty-clad buttocks impatiently with his cock and Mary impetuously reached behind herself and guided him inside her panty crotch and nestled his glans in her sphincter. She held him down on the mattress to stop him thrusting and slowly impaled herself on his rampant organ until it was buried to the hilt inside her.

They hadn’t had sex for two days because the production did not rehearse over the weekend so Robert was impatient. Mary remained sitting on him, pressing down on his groin so that he was unable to thrust. She pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shh. Be patient lover. Let me do the work,” she smiled down at him.

Mary leaned forward and kissed him and began to slowly raise and lower her buttocks. She was really just pleasuring herself but Robert also reaped the benefits as she lifted herself up until just the glans of his penis was enveloped in the tight ring of her sphincter, which invoked a glorious tingling sensation. Then she lowered herself so that Robert’s cock was brutally buried all the way inside her, the shaft caressed by her firm anal walls and the bulbous head pressing on her prostate.

Neither was going to last long, which was just as well as Mary had very little time before she was required to be at rehearsals and he for work.

Robert held onto Mary by the hips and let her do all the work, building the tempo, squeezing his phallus with her anus. They were both panting and groaning and approaching release. Mary fell forward and kissed Robert passionately as he gripped her tight at the waist and spent himself inside her. Mary shuddered and ejaculated between their pressed bellies. The musky odour of semen wafted to their noses and they both smiled and kissed each other tenderly now that their lust was sated.

Mary allowed Robert a little post-coital after-play but her mind was already on the scene she would rehearse today. Robert whispered endearments into her ear and kissed and stroked her lovingly.

During their extended lovemaking sessions Robert had started to talk to Mary like she was his girlfriend, telling her his life story and how he had come to be imprisoned. She feigned interest but her ears picked up when he started talking about his boss, Larry ‘The Loop’ Connelly, and the small fortune that Larry had stored in a lockup under a railway overpass.

When Robert Brinkley wasn’t collecting debts or bonking heads for Larry Connelly, he was responsible for Larry’s security and the security of his property. Like most men smitten with a woman, Robert liked to brag. He told Mary about the cash and loot that Larry kept hidden away. Larry’s residence and office were continually raided and his books forensically audited by London’s finest, looking for any evidence they could find to put Larry away. For that reason Larry kept large amounts cash, stolen luxury vehicles and jewellery at various secret locations until he could truck the ill-gotten gains into Europe and dispose of it, washing the proceeds through his prestige used car lots.

The shipment was consolidated in the lockup under the railway overpass overnight before being loaded into a lorry that drove the loot into France through the Channel tunnel.

Whilst out on work release Murray scouted out the lockup and sure enough it appeared that Robert Brinkley was telling the truth. Murray also checked on Barry Pinkerton’s stash of ready cash too, it was held in a safe deposit box in a London bank. Both Barry and Murray had keys to the box.

“I’m worried about you Murray,” Barry Pinkerton said to him one day in the yard.

“I’ve seen you dressed as a woman and you seem to like it too much, you’re too convincing for it just to be a part in a play. There’s rumours going around about you too,” Barry drew on his cigarette.

“You're not turning into some sort of deviate noncer are you?” Barry said through gritted teeth.

“Far from it Barry; I’m using it to our advantage. You know that tosser Robert Brinkley?” Murray drew on his cigarette.

“Works for Larry the Loop. He’s coming up for work release the same time as me,” Barry’s replied, his interest piqued.

“I’m stringing him along. Milking him for information,” Murray went on.

“You're not milking him of anything else are you?” Barry chuckled bitterly.

“Barry. He’s told me where Larry’s lockup is, where he keeps his stash before he transships it into Europe. I’ve checked it out and it’s legit,” Murray whispered coarsely.

“Fuck me Murray, you have been a naughty boy while you’ve been outside,” Barry grinned.

“And I have a plan. It’s a little distasteful on my part but for you and the boys it’s just a simple blag. We take one of Larry’s big shipments. The fucking lot; the cash, the motors, the bling… whatever he’s got in that fucking lockup,” Murray grinned.

“And you're going to find out about the shipment from Robert Brinkley,” Barry chuckled.

“I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to ahem… distract our Bobby while you and the firm rob Larry the Loop of everything in that lockup.”

“And is Robert Brinkley going to grass on us? I don’t think so,” Murray continued.

“What’s he going to say? ‘Sorry Larry I was passing time with a transvestite ladyboy I met in prison while your shipment got nicked?’” Murray chuckled.

“Sounds like you have it all figured Murray. Just one thing. You’re not… you know… doing anything with him are you? You don’t actually like dressing like a girl and sucking cock?” Barry looked down at his boots.

“Course not Barry. It’s a means to an end. That tosser is infatuated with me when I’m dressed up as Mary so I’m stringing him along, using him,” Murray told a half-truth.

“All right then. Let’s sort out the details later,” Barry Pinkerton replied, but he was not really convinced that Murray was only dressing like a woman to organise a blag.

But when Barry thought about it in the cold light of day, what did he care if Murray liked to dress like a woman and take it up the wrong ‘un? There were far worse happenings in the world. Besides, it was a strange world out there now. There were gender benders everywhere and men were marrying men for fuck sake. Barry would stick to teenage girls, which were his preference. He liked ‘em young but legal, preferably dressed as schoolgirls or teenyboppers. ‘We all have our own peccadilloes’ he thought to himself.

Murray started making his own secret arrangements as soon as he was released from prison.

He acquired an extensive ladies wardrobe for himself and transformed into Mary every chance he could, but alone in his little bedsit at first. He desperately wanted to take Mary out on the town and wouldn’t have minded a little ‘rumpy-pumpy’ with a stranger or two at one of the venues he knew catered to transvestites and their admirers, but that could wait. If his plan came off he would be able to live full-time as a woman for as long as he wanted to. If it backfired he would be back in prison or worse.

There were a few errands that Murray could only undertake as his alter ego Mary. Mary was nervous but thrilled to be out and about in public and once she was confident that she could reasonably pass as a woman, she went to work.

Mary stood out the front of a dodgy looking dilapidated building in a back street of Moulsham. The alley was dark and strewn with abandoned shopping trolleys, junk food wrappers, empty beer cans and bottles, cigarette butts, and condom wrappers. The alley was obviously used by the local streetwalkers for their assignations.

Mary knocked on a door caked with fading and peeling blue paint. It was opened by the contact Murray had been given through a reliable source. He was a forger and counterfeiter by the name of John Benstead. John was married to a transsexual senior flight attendant named Candace Pops who worked for Goldwing Airlines. It was rumoured that she also did a little smuggling for a well-known gangster named Tony Carlotta.

John Benstead looked to be in his early sixties. His long blonde hair was thinning and greying but he was still tanned, muscular and handsome. He was wearing his usual attire, tight jeans and tighter T-shirt.

“You must be Mary,” he offered his hand and pulled her inside.

He checked both ways in the alley before he closed the door firmly behind him.

“I could move to better digs, it’s not like Candi and I can’t afford it but having my workshop in this dingy alley is a great cover that keeps the coppers away,” he smiled.

He might be operating out of the dodgiest area of Chelmsford but he had obviously spent a lot of money looking after himself and by the look of that tan, a lot of time in Spain or the Caribbean.

Mary looked around the warehouse. Inside it looked nothing like the outside. It was clinically spotless and all of the equipment was brand new.

“So what can I do for you Mary?” John took her coat and hung it on a mahogany coat rack.

Mary sat down on an expensive leather couch, folding her skirt under her and crossing her ankles.

“I know you work for Tony Carlotta but I know you also do freelance work,” Mary came straight to the point.

“I know that you have past experience providing false identity documents to men who wish to present as women, your good lady wife being a case in point before she went legit. I need a passport, a driver’s licence and some other documents that will identify me as a Miz Abigail Thompson.”

“I also need your absolute trust that you will keep my new identity secret. I will pay you in cash and once I have the documents you will never see me again,” Mary shifted a little nervously in the seat.

She reached into her handbag and took out Murray Reynolds’ passport.

John thumbed his way through the document.

“You wouldn’t believe this but you are the third trans woman I have helped switch identities. As you know it’s how I met my wife Candi,” John grinned.

“Also another woman named Valerie Swindon who I doubt you have ever met,” his smile widened.

“I only know of your wife and that’s only because we have similar business associates shall we say,” Mary smiled at him.

“Technology has come a long way since those days, both the security embedded in the documents and the technology I use to replicate it. I have to use an embedded microchip with your biometric data and the passport has to be for all intents and purposes a legal document,” John continued.

“Ok John. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. How much for the documents and your complete silence?” Mary gave him her best smile and allowed her skirt to ride up a little.

“Ten thousand pounds luv. And pull down your skirt, I love shagging trannies but there is no way I’m putting my relationship with Candi in jeopardy,” John’s smile disappeared.

“Done,” Mary rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a wad of cash and dropped it on the table.

“Use the same data as on my original documents except for my name and sex of course. The address on the driver’s licence won’t matter because I’m moving soon so I’ll update the address after I move,” Mary said.

“Why Abigail Thompson?” John asked.

“Why not? It’s a totally random name that came to me on my way here. No will ever connect it to my real name,” Mary made to get up off the couch.

John helped her up and then pulled her into his arms.

“You are very passable and absolutely stunning. If I was half my age and wasn’t married to Candi I’d be up you like a rat up a drain pipe,” he grinned.

“What makes you think I’d let you?” Mary grinned back at him.

“You're gagging for it luv,” John let go of her.

He took several photos of her wearing a black wig with his digital photography equipment and told her to collect the documents the following week, which she did.

Murray had taken twenty-five grand from Barry Pinkerton’s safe deposit box to help pay for his new identity documents. Dressed enfemme and using her new identity Mary opened bank accounts in the name of Abigail Thompson and then went searching for a place to live.

By the time Barry Pinkerton and Robert Brinkley were granted work release Murray Reynolds was ready to spend his last few days as a man before both Murray and Mary Reynolds disappeared off the face of the earth and Abigail Thompson emerged in the small neat little town of Brookhaven in Cornwall.

To be continued

Now...

Steven Balfour was sitting at the desk in his bedroom staring intently at the computer screen where an attractive mature woman dressed in a business suit was bent over an office table being fucked by a young man. The man had kicked her heels apart and was holding her down on the desk with her skirt hiked up, her pantyhose ripped and her panties pulled aside while he fucked her. She was struggling to get free, writhing and bucking as the boy fucked her against her will.

The storyline went that a son was violating his mother. But they were really only actors in a porn video and he knew that it would soon be spoiled for him when the woman suddenly began to enjoy what was happening to her and let her son undress her and then she would give herself willingly to him.

He wanted to come before that happened. He loved that the mature woman was tastefully dressed and that her 'son' was fucking her while she was fully clothed. He loved the silky sheer pantyhose she was wearing and that her satin knickers had been pulled aside and not removed. Most of all he loved the expression of surprise and indignation that the 'mother' had on her face as her 'son' held her down and ravaged her.

Steven had the leg of a pair of his auntie's pantyhose over his cock and a pair of her soiled panties over his face. He looked quite ridiculous with the crotch of the panties on his nose and his eyes looking through the leg holes but he didn't care. He couldn't see himself and even if he could, the tang of his aunt's vaginal secretions and the silky feel of her pantyhose on his rampant phallus were all that he cared about.

Steven was usually very careful, double-checking that the door was locked before he rummaged in his stash of hosiery and lingerie to find suitable items to masturbate with while he watched pornography on the computer or just lay on the bed stroking himself, thinking about either his aunt or Miz Abigail Thompson, the next door neighbour.

But today he hadn't locked the door. He was in too much of a rush. His Aunt Beatrice had tortured him all evening.

She hadn't physically tortured him of course, but it had come close to that in Steven's opinion.

Beatrice knew what she was doing that evening. She'd had a lot to drink but that was no excuse. She was still dressed in the clothes she had worn to a meeting with her investment banker. A navy blue business suit, the skirt of which she'd had tailored so that the hem sat mid-thigh, a sheer nylon pink blouse, flesh-toned fifteen-denier sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose, red full-cut satin panties and matching bra and a pair of shiny black Jimmy Choo high heels.

She'd turned heads in the streets and in the bank and when her investment banker took her to a late lunch she'd let him feel her up. She teased him during lunch by opening the top two buttons of her blouse and letting her skirt hike up while she sat at the table. He'd fondled her buttocks and tried to kiss her in the lift but she turned her head away from him. She did let him squeeze and stroke her bum and caress her tits, she even gave his cock a quick squeeze through his trousers but she pushed him away just before the lift arrived at the ground floor.

Beatrice had drunk nearly a full bottle of champagne at lunch and was more that a little tipsy when she climbed into the taxi to go home, she gave the driver a panty-flash getting in and out of the car and talked incessantly all the way.

She was randy and feeling quite naughty when she got home and after tormenting the banker and the taxi driver she was up for some serious teasing and Steven Balfour was the obvious victim.

She kept drinking and made Steven sit next to her on the couch on the pretext of telling her how his day had been. She kicked off one heel and rubbed her toes.

"Be a love and rub auntie's toes for me please Stevie," Beatrice thrust her nylon-clad foot into the boy's lap.

Steven was already enamoured by the scent of his aunt's perfume and now the delectable fragrance of her foot joined the heady miasma. He nervously touched her silken-sheathed foot and began to stoke it, the bright-red nailpolish on her toes visible through the dark gauzy reinforced toe of the stocking.

Steven was hard and leaking precum into his underwear, he was glad that he was wearing baggy trousers that hid his erection.

"Mm that's lovely, squeeze them a little harder honey, give my feet a good massaging, there's a good boy," she lay back on the lounge and lifted up her other foot.

"Come on Stevie, take off my shoe and rub both my feet," Beatrice wriggled her feet in Steven's lap.

She sucked on her scotch and soda, amused by her nephew's nervousness and excitement.

Steven slowly took off Beatrice's other high heel and stroked her feet, the silky nylon's caress against her warm skin felt so wonderful. Beatrice sighed and pretended to close her eyes but she watched with growing delight the look of wonderment on her nephew's face as he played with her feet.

Beatrice's skirt had ridden up, she had taken off her jacket before sitting down and Steven had a perfect view of her red satin panties and her bra through the sheer nylon blouse. He liked his aunt's tits but it was her legs that fascinated him. His eyes roamed up her perfect calves to her heavenly thighs and finally to the red V of her panties covering that glorious place. The sensations of touching her nylon-sheathed feet, looking at her gossamer-clad legs and panty-crotch combined with the scent of her feet and perfume was almost too much. He was scared he was going to come in his underpants.

"Let auntie freshen her drink and take a wee," Beatrice suddenly lifted her legs from his lap and got up from the lounge.

Steven didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed as he watched her walk away, her skirt still riding high on her thighs.

When she came back the torture worsened. She plonked her feet into his lap again and feigned sleep, letting her skirt remain high on her thighs and deliberately opening her legs a little.

Steven nearly did come in his pants this time when he looked up her skirt.

His aunt had taken off her knickers to piss but hadn't put them back on. He could see the outline of her pubis through the gusset of the sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. He could just make out the cleft of her sex and see the little pink lips poking out of her labia majora. Auntie had a shaved fanny.

Steven stroked and caressed her feet while he gazed at her thighs and her cunt. His aunt moved and one of her legs and rubbed on his hard cock through his trousers. It was too much.

Steven pushed Beatrice's legs out of his lap and shot up from the lounge.

"I have to go to bed Aunt Beatrice, I have a big exam tomorrow," Steven lied and almost ran to the stairs.

And so he sat in the darkened room watching the young man fuck the mature women wearing her business suit and imagined it was he and his aunt.

He didn't hear the door open because he had his earbuds plugged into the PC but he became aware of his aunt's perfume just before she pressed against him.

"Shh," she whispered in his ear.

"Don't tell anyone and I wont either," she bit his earlobe and then nuzzled his neck.

He could feel her heavy breasts pushing into his back as she pressed herself against him. When he tried to turn his head she stopped him from doing so.

"Just look at the screen and pretend that it's us," she whispered and this time she put her tongue in his ear.

She reached around him and took his hand off his nylon-sheathed cock and replaced it with her own.

"You've been wanting me to do this for so long haven't you?" she kissed his cheek and began to stroke him.

Steven groaned and his cock erupted in his auntie's hand. He sprayed scalding hot semen all over her fingers as she continued to stoke him, extracting every last drop.

Then she turned his face to hers so he could watch her lick the sticky treat from her fingers.

And then he woke up.

He'd had a nocturnal emission, a wet dream.

The sheets were saturated with his messy sperm. He lay there trying to recall every scintilla of the dream, and his cock, which was becoming soft, immediately became erect again. He reached for the stocking he kept under his pillow and put it over his cock as he recalled every second of the evening's events.

In the room next door, Beatrice buried her head in the pillows to stifle her moans as she had her third orgasm in a row, the vibrator's faint buzzing muffled by the bedclothes.

She was recalling the evening's events too.

Of course she hadn't come into her nephew's room and tossed him off, that part was fantasy. But she had drunkenly teased him until he couldn't stand it any longer. She recalled the heat and girth of his cock pressing against her calf, the laboured breathing and rustling noises as she listened at his bedroom door hearing the sounds of him masturbating. She recalled putting her hand down inside her pantyhose so she could stroke herself as she watched him through the keyhole. Biting her lip to suppress a cry when she came just as he did, spattering his seed into her stockings as he masturbated with them, breathing heavily into her panties draped over his face.

This was becoming too dangerous. Her nephew was nineteen, so technically an adult, but what they were doing was very close to incest. She needed Steven to shift his desire onto another woman. And she had the perfect candidate living right next door.

Then...

Robert Brinkley took on a job working construction in Chelmsford. He never showed up for a single day's work; it was a sham job because the company was owned by an associate of Larry 'The Loop' Connelly. This allowed Robert to go straight back to his old job, being Larry's minder and enforcer.

One of the first things Robert did when he got out prison was to visit a prostitute. He asked her to dress in suspenders, stockings and heels and put on heavy makeup; he tried to make her look as much like Mary Reynolds as possible. Whilst she was a good shag, he thought about Mary the whole time he was fucking her. He even gave her an extra fifty quid so he could take her up the wrong 'un, but it wasn't the same.

Mary put a profile up on transvestite dating site and sure enough Robert made contact with her. Murray reported as much to Barry Pinkerton and they began to finalise their plan. Mary would get close to Robert now that they were outside the nick. She would find out when Larry Connelly's next big shipment was due to roll out of the lockup and Barry and a few of his thugs would steal the lot the night before it was due to be trucked out.

The plan was perfect.

It just wasn't Mary's plan.

She led Robert on, letting Robert come to Murray Reynolds little bedsit, dressing provocatively but refusing to give him more than foreplay and a blowjob.

"People will hear us. These walls are paper thin," Mary complained.

"And you don't want me to come to your place because you don't want your mates to know that you're shagging a tranny," she said petulantly.

Bizarrely, criminals believed it was ok to get blowjobs whilst locked up in prison so long as you only received and didn't pitch, and fucking a prison tranny was almost a badge of honour. But as soon as you got out if you did either of those things you were considered a fag.

"What about we get a hotel?" Robert asked.

"I'll either have to go as Murray and change there, or go as Mary and risk getting clocked. They'll think I'm a Tom because I won't be able to produce any documents that identify me as Mary," Mary said flatly.

Robert turned down his mouth. He hated knowing that underneath the gorgeous creature before him was Murray Reynolds.

"You can come to the lockup!" Robert beamed.

"Tomorrow night. There won't be anyone there, just me keeping guard overnight. Come late and dress sexy for me," Robert beamed.

"It's a date," Mary smiled and leaned in and kissed him.

The next day Mary cleaned everything out of the bedsit. All of it went in a skip except for Mary, soon to be Abigail's, wardrobe and her identity documents. Murray stole a car and parked it one street over from the bedsit and transformed from Murray to Mary for the last time.

"You look stunning love," Robert opened the pedestrian portal cut into the big steel sliding door at the front of the lockup.

Mary had decided to give Robert the farewell shag of his life and had dressed to the nines for him. She was wearing a black leather micro-miniskirt and jacket, a tight lilac satin blouse, sheer tan pantyhose, ridiculously high heels, heavy makeup and lots of jewellery. She reeked of perfume and Robert was hard for her as soon as he saw her.

Robert led her to a dingy office at the back of the cluttered warehouse and Mary took stock of the prestige cars, the stockpiled antique furniture and other expensive booty that was about to be smuggled overseas.

The office was small but at least there was an old couch that they could use as a bed. Mary was carrying a small clutch purse, which she put on a side table before she took off her jacket and pounced on Robert. He leaned back in the lounge while Mary straddled him, kissing him passionately and pressing herself against him. It felt like Mary had real breasts but he guessed correctly that they were breastforms. Mary worked her tongue into Robert's mouth and crushed her lips against his. His hands went under her skirt and massaged her buttocks through layers of satin and nylon.

Mary could feel Robert's hard cock pressing into her through his jeans and she hopped off him and got on her knees on the floor, her head between his legs.

"What are you doing?" Robert smiled at her.

"What do you think I'm doing?" she smiled up at him and slowly unzipped him.

When his cock sprang free of his underwear she gobbled it up, working her lips up and down the shaft, slurping at his phallus as Robert threw back his head and groaned. He put his hands on her head and guided her face up and down on his hard cock while Mary slavered at the pulsing phallus. She put her hand inside her panties and pantyhose and freed her own cock and stroked it to full tumescence.

"Come on honey fuck me! It's been so long," Mary leapt on the couch, kneeling on it and presenting her backside for Robert, who wasted no time stripping off his clothes and moving in behind her.

Her bottom was perfectly presented for him at just the right height for him to mount. He lifted Mary's skirt and gazed at her perfect buttocks clad in red satin panties and shimmering pantyhose. He pulled the panty-gusset aside and her glistening puckered hole looked perfectly inviting. She was obviously well lubricated. He poked a fingernail into the gauzy pantyhose gusset and made a cock-sized hole.

Mary sighed when Robert slid himself inside her all the way. He gripped her hips and ground himself against her and she pushed back against him.

"Fuck me, you fucker!" she growled.

Robert did as he was told, holding her hips tightly he began to work his cock in and out of her tight anus.

Mary moaned and cried with pleasure as Robert teased her with his big cock. He pulled it all of the way out of her and then pushed it all the way in, deliberately pressing his glans on her prostate and grinding it, building the tempo until she cried for release and then he backed off and slowed down preventing both of them from climaxing.

"Fuck me! Fuck me and come in me! Fill me with your spunk!" Mary gyrated her buttocks, urging Robert on.

"Ok honey are you ready?" he leaned in and turned her face to his and kissed her.

She nodded.

Robert spun Mary over so that she was on her back. He wanted to see her pretty face while he fucked her and he wanted to see her come.

He started with long slow strokes and Mary wrapped her nylon-sheathed thighs around his waist and pulled him all the way into her. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him and raked her heels along his flanks.

"Fuck me! Make me come!" she hissed.

Robert increased the speed and power of his strokes. Mary's cock was poking out the front of her panties; it was fully erect; huge, bigger than his even. Globules of precum dripped from the eye and it looked ready to explode, which was just as well because Robert was ready to come.

He jackhammered his cock deep inside Mary and unleashed a torrent of hot semen, filling her anus with his seed. Mary moaned and her cock throbbed and gobbets of semen erupted from the swollen glans. Her semen flew everywhere as Robert continued to fuck her and Mary bucked under him, encouraging him to fuck her harder as the last of his spend dribbled from her sphincter.

Robert fell on top of her, oblivious to the sticky mess, he kissed her and she wrapped her arms around him and held him close to her with her legs. They were both panting and near exhaustion.

Eventually Mary scooted up the couch, having pulled her panties back into place and pulled down her skirt, and Robert lay beside her. They fell asleep in each other's arms.

Robert didn't even feel the sting of the needle as it pierced his flesh. He just went into a deeper sleep.

"Sorry honey," Mary kissed his cheek and then got to work.

It took her three full hours to search the lockup and pile together what she intended to steal. She conservatively estimated that she had about two million pounds worth of cash and jewellery. She put it in a carry bag that already contained the remainder of the cash she had taken from Barry Pinkerton's safe deposit box that afternoon.

There was no turning back now. Two of London's hardest criminals would be looking for Murray Reynolds and would not stop until they found him. Barry might even suspect that Murray would disguise himself as Mary for a while and go looking for her too.

Neither of them would be looking for Abigail Thompson.

Now...

Abigail Thompson had moved into her quaint two-story cottage in the neat little town of Brookhaven in Cornwall about a year ago. Her back-story was that she was a spinster who had got tired of the noise and bustle of London. She'd inherited her family's estate, sold the house and land, made a good chunk of money and could afford to move into her own home. Having no parents or brothers and sisters meant that she didn't have many visitors and as she was new to the area she hadn't made many friends yet.

Not that she needed to use her backstory very often because she kept mostly to herself.

The real story was that Abigail Thompson had risen form the ashes of Mary Reynolds like a phoenix. She had jetted off into Asia after first spreading most of the stolen cash across her new bank accounts and putting the reminder and some of the jewellery into a safe deposit box to which she had the only key.

She took a risk and took some of the jewellery with her and was able to sell it for about fifty percent of its value to a fence in Manila. She stayed in the Makati Diamond Residences for a week before she checked into a reputable hospital and had a nice set of c-cup breasts surgically implanted. She also had some facial reconstructive surgery which further feminised her features but she was careful not to change her face to the extent that her passport would become invalid.

Abigail spent another two months in the Philippines fully recovering from her surgeries before she returned to the UK, bought herself a nice car and drove down to the house she had bought in Brookhaven.

Abigail was happy to be a loner, she made a few friends and had a nodding acquaintance with her next door neighbour, Beatrice McLennan. She was well aware that the people in the small town gossipped about her. Why wouldn't they? An attractive mature single woman buys a house in the small town and moves in unannounced. She keeps mostly to herself but really isn't unsociable; she takes a drink in the local pub now and then and uses the local shops. But isn't there something strange about her?

, Abigail knows that people find her strange and a little different but given time she will just become a local oddity, which is exactly what she wants.

What she also wants is a good shagging now and then. Abigail has a fine new pair of breasts and an extensive, expensive wardrobe full of sexy clothes that she does not mean to keep locked away in this country town. Once a month she makes the six-hour drive to Manchester. She stays in a fine hotel for a few days and goes out clubbing on Canal Street a different man each night back to her hotel. She has no interest in a long-term relationship and intends to stay away from London except for when she needs to conduct business there.

She studies herself critically in the mirror.

She likes her new hairstyle and colour. It's a shoulder-length bob with a fringe that she dyes black to match the colour in her passport but has her hairdresser put in burgundy highlights. Her brows are arched nicely and she has considered wearing contact lenses to disguise her striking green eyes but thinks she looks nothing like Mary Reynolds now so why bother. She certainly look's nothing like Murray.

She is very proficient with makeup, although she does tend to use too much. Not that she cares. She dresses to suit herself and likes being a sexy, feminine woman. Her eyes are heavily lined and mascaraed, burgundy eyeshadow with a splash of purple in the corners, burgundy lipstick too, to pick up the highlights in her hair. Some rouge applied on her high cheekbones, which have been enhanced by a little surgery and she looks good.

She does not own any dowdy clothing such as housedresses or so on. She has one pair of skinny jeans but prefers leggings if she's not wearing a dress or a skirt. She is never barelegged and buys only expensive hosiery. The same goes for her lingerie and night attire. Satin, silk, nylon and lace are the order of the day when it comes to undergarments and intimates.

She owns one pair of Nike trainers, which she wears with lycra leggings and a matching sports top when she goes for her daily run followed by a workout, and one pair of flat shoes which she hardly ever wears. The rest of her footwear is Choo, Louboutin, and Blahnik.

Abigail likes suits with short skirts, form-fitting designer dresses, leather skirts, animal-print blouses and faux furs. She calls her fashion sense 'eighties harlot' and doesn't care what anyone else thinks. She even does her chores in full makeup and heels. She potters in her front garden quite regularly but the backyard had become a bit of jungle which really needs proper attention.

She notices that she and Beatrice McLennan have very much the same taste in clothes, not that they spend any time nattering over the fence. Theirs is more of a nodding acquaintance, especially since that strange young man moved in with her. She's got the gist that he is her nephew but Abigail has an uncomfortable feeling about him. The way he watches his aunt; the way he watches her. She knows that teenage boys are all hardons and sticky sheets, she used to be one for god's sake, but on the rare occasion they meet he seems almost predatory the way his eyes slide over her body and that of his aunt's.

The invite to afternoon tea came as a surprise. Abigail's first reaction is to find some excuse not to go but then she'd have to go out or hide out in her own home and she didn't fancy doing either.

Beatrice McLennan seemed nice enough, they were on nodding terms but they had never had an in-depth conversation so she supposed that it was probably appropriate that being long-term neighbours, they got together for a chat.

Abigail want's to impress her neighbour but is insistent that she is not going to alter her style to please someone else. It might be Sunday afternoon but she refuses to dress like a church lady.

She settled on a black leather skirt, not too short, a leopard skin silk blouse, fully-fashioned black stockings and a pair of Jimmy Choo high-heeled pumps. Her makeup is perfect and she has toned down her jewellery to just a gold watch and bracelet, matching necklace and earrings and a tiny ankle-chain. Abigail sprays herself in a miasma of Shalimar before walking out the door.

"Hello Abigail do come in," Beatrice met Abigail at the door with a beaming red-lipstick smile.

Abigail is pleased to see that Beatrice isn't dressed for church either. Far from it; she's wearing a black chiffon-crepe skirt that is cut rather high on the thigh, a mauve satin blouse that displays her ample breasts to best advantage, silky-sheer tan pantyhose, what appear to be mauve suede Louboutin's and at least as much makeup as Abigail. Her dark hair is styled in ringlets around her attractive face and on closer inspection you could see the professionally coiffed highlights that make her hair look so lustrous.

"Thanks for inviting me," Abigail smiled back.

They held each other at arm length and air-kissed each other's cheeks. The flowery reek of their combined fragrances would linger in the hallway for days.

"You have a lovely house," Abigail commented as Beatrice led her through the house to a small glass-walled conservatory out back.

"Well, when you live alone it's easy to keep it clean," Beatrice smiled.

"I agree with you there," Abigail laughed politely.

A silver tea service was laid out on the glass tabletop of a white cane outdoor setting. Beatrice pulled out a chair for Abigail who tried to sit as primly as possible but still flashed a stocking-top as she smoothed her skirt under her. Beatrice approved of the expensive hosiery worn by her guest, she felt a kinship with this woman already and they had only just met formally.

But there was something about Abigail that intrigued her; something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Her movements were a little too careful, a little exaggerated, almost over-feminine; and that voice. It was so sultry and sexy, deep but musical. Beatrice had a little dalliance with a girlfriend at the Chelmsford Finishing School for Young Ladies in her teens but had since never really found other women sexually attractive but she must admit that Miz Abigail Thompson rang her bell a little.

Beatrice sat down beside Abigail rather than across from her in a gesture of proffered friendship. Her skirt rode up too showing an expanse of thigh sheathed in exorbitantly expensive sheer hosiery, which met with the approval of Abigail.

The women's choice of hosiery also met with the approval of Steven Balfour who was watching them from the garden. Beatrice had banished him from the house while she entertained her guest and he had sulked off into the garden with his bird watching book and binoculars. But the two birds he was watching from a copse of fruit trees had no feathers. Steven was looking at their legs through the glass conservatory with his hands down his trousers. He wished he'd bought one of his 'wanking stockings' outside with him.

Beatrice poured tea and Abigail took up the conversation where they left off.

"You're not really alone though are you? You've had your nephew living with you for quite a while now?" Abigail phrased it as a question.

"Yes, my Sister Alice's boy. She ran away to Australia with a married man half her age," Beatrice took a sip of her tea.

"Lucky for her but unlucky for Steven I suppose; but at least he gets to stay in this wonderful house with you," it was Abigail's turn to sip tea.

"I'll get right to the point. That's one of the reasons I asked you for tea actually," Beatrice put down her cup.

Abigail looked at her inquisitively.

"Look. Steven is a typical nineteen-year-old lad in some ways. He likes to watch football, he plays video games; he's out in the garden bird watching now but he hardly ever goes further than my backyard. He goes to college of course and sometimes the movies but he's not very outdoorsy if you know what I mean," Beatrice placed her hand affectionately on Abigail's forearm.

"He needs to get out. To do something meaningful outside in the fresh air," she squeezed Abigail's arm gently to emphasise her point.

"Ok I get it. But where do I come into it? I'm twice his age and hardly up for a weekend camping," Abigail snickered.

"Oh god no! Nothing like that. I just want him out of the house doing something manly. And your back garden..." she let the statement hang.

"Oh fuck no! Sorry. Didn't mean to swear. I mean, I couldn't have a stranger hacking away in my back garden," Abigail sounded alarmed.

"Oh no. I'm sorry. It was a silly idea," Beatrice blushed, she was angry with herself for being so forward.

Abigail actually felt a little sorry for the woman even though they had only just met. Having to look after a teenage boy who insisted on being cooped up in this house must be very frustrating. And Abigail didn't have to do anything really. Just let the boy clean up her back garden.

"Ok I'll do it but I insist on paying him," Abigail blurted out before she really realised what she was saying.

"Oh you are a wonderful neighbour for doing this for me, especially given we were virtually strangers up until a few minutes ago," Beatrice leaned and kissed Abigail on the cheek.

This time it was no air-kiss and Abigail felt a little uncomfortable.

Steven managed to time his orgasm just as his aunt kissed the neighbour, the two spectacularly dressed women kissing each other was just the wank fodder he needed to fuel his imagination.

Of course in his imagination both women were stripped down to their lingerie, stockings and heels and the neighbour was lying on the table while his aunt lapped at her cunt. That image began to fade as his orgasm subsided; he wiped himself with his handkerchief and put himself away careful not to get any stains on his trousers.

He did so just in time because his aunt opened the door of the conservatory and beckoned him to come inside.

"Oh bollocks to that!" Steven was quite contrary when he was told that he would be spending one hour every afternoon in the next door neighbour's jungle that she called a garden.

"And four hours on Sundays afternoons, other than that your time's your own," Beatrice insisted.

Steven was about to complain again when an idea struck him. He would be able to legally access Miz Thompson's property. If he could get into her house who knew what goodies he might find and he would get to see her up close. He was staring at her legs now through the glass table. They were long and shapely and clad in sexy black stockings, he could just see the dark welt below the hem of her leather skirt and right beside those magnificent pins where his aunt's. Her legs were just as sexy and her crepe skirt had ridden right up and Steven could see those firm thighs sheathed in glistening flesh-toned nylon. He was getting hard again.

"And you'll pay me you say?" Steven changed tack.

"A fair day's pay for a fair day's pay," Abigail beamed at him and Steven just wanted to kiss those bright-red lips.

The presence of the two women, their long legs and heaving breasts on display, the combination of their perfume was making him heady. He wanted to pull up a chair and join them, to ogle them, to bask in their sexuality but he knew that it would be too dangerous. He would say or do something stupid. He was already staring at their legs and their breast and both women had subconsciously or otherwise pulled down the hem of their skirts.

"Ok Aunt Beatrice; done! I'll leave you two lovely ladies to sort out the details," Steven spun on his heels and bolted for the stairs.

His cock had an appointment with his aunt's knickers and stockings.

"Shall we switch?" Beatrice had got up and pointed to a crystal decanter and matching glasses on the sideboard.

Abigail nodded and beamed a congenial smile.

The two women enjoyed each other's company and made a decent effort at knocking off the decanter of scotch. Beatrice treated Abigail to all the gossip she had on the characters in their neat little village.

"It may not look like it, but it's a hotbed of larceny and debauchery," Beatrice chuckled after her fourth glass.

"Not really though, there hasn't been any real scandal since the publican got caught shagging his sister-in-law in the cellar," Beatrice laughed again.

'Oh there would be quite some scandal afoot if they knew about me,' Abigail thought to herself.

"The youngsters must get up to shenanigans though; there has to be a lover's lane?" Abigail held out her glass so that Beatrice could fill it again.

"Oh my god yes! The carpark at Black Tree Bluff is littered with dingers. The kids go up there to shag and there's rumours that there is a married couple who likes to go dogging there too. I found a pair of knickers and a pair of tights hanging off one of the tree branches once," Beatrice roared with laughter.

"Should have bought them home for Steven," Abigail joked.

Beatrice abruptly stopped laughing and studied Abigail soberly.

"What did you mean by that?" Beatrice sounded almost angry.

"I'm sorry if I hit a nerve. I was just joking. You know... the old joke about teenage boys collecting ladies underwear," Abigail realised she'd said something sensitive.

"Look. You're not stupid. You saw how Steven was pawing at us with his eyes, he couldn't stop looking at out legs and tits," Beatrice said.

Abigail nodded, encouraging her to go on.

"Well that's what it's like here all the time. It's unhealthy. And I've found things," Beatrice slurped on her scotch.

"What things?" Abigail leaned in intrigued.

"In his room. Panties, stockings, pantyhose, some lingerie... some of it's mine," Beatrice blushed.

"The randy young bugger!" Abigail burst out laughing.

Beatrice couldn't help but join her.

They hung onto each other laughing so much that they cried; their mascara and eyeliner smudging.

"It's not funny!" Beatrice tried to say seriously but she was cracked up and couldn't stop laughing.

"Look. Every teenage boy has fantasies about older women, and let's face it, both of us are pretty sexy. Can you imagine being surrounded by that twenty-four seven, it's a wonder he's got a dick left and hasn't worn it away," Abigail chortled and they both fell into another uncontrollable laughing jag.

"So that's the sort of friend you are. You're sicking your randy nephew on me so you can get some peace," Abigail said through fits of laughter.

"No seriously Abigail. I want you to work that boy hard and discipline him if he tries anything untoward. I want him to interact with other people, with other women, without seeing them as sex objects," Beatrice dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I'll give it my best shot neighbour. Now... have you got any scotch left?" Abigail proffered her glass.

Up in his bedroom, Steven had locked the door and sat in the dark staring at the computer screen, his earbuds firmly in place. He'd Googled 'lady fucks lady in stockings', looking for a couple of hot lingerie-clad lesbians scissoring, but was surprised by some of the search results.

On the screen a gorgeous transvestite wearing a classy wig, full makeup, black satin bra and panties, fully-fashioned stockings and high heels was fucking a real woman dressed very similarly.

The tranny looked gorgeous as did the woman and they were obviously enjoying what they were doing. They were locked at the lips, arms around each other, legs intertwined, their stockings hissing when they rubbed together as the transvestite fucked the woman with a decent sized phallus.

Steven had a silk stocking draped over his cock and held a bunched up pair of panties he had found at school against his nose. He managed to hold back his orgasm until the transvestite in the video came, pulling her cock out of the woman's cunt and spraying sperm all over the woman's cunt, her belly and her stocking-tops. A huge dollop of creamy white semen formed at the toe of the stocking that he had wrapped around his cock.

He cleaned up with tissues and logged off the computer. He took the stocking and knickers with him to bed and listened to his aunt and his neighbour nattering and laughing downstairs. He recalled how sexy they looked sitting side by side in the conservatory and put the stocking and panties back to work. His cock was red-raw but he couldn't stop.

To be continued

Now...

The young man pawed at Abigail, he was so excited that he didn’t know where to start. Now that this sexy, mature woman had finally consented to his advances he was overjoyed and overexcited. He kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth, he stroked her breasts through her blouse and then put his hands under her skirt to stroke her stockinged thighs and silken-clad buttocks, he pressed his hard cock against her.

Abigail knew that the boy would be exhilarated once she allowed him to touch her but he was almost uncontrollable, like an excited puppy scampering after the dinner bowl.

She led him upstairs, slapping his hand away from her bottom as he tried to grope her on the stairway.

“You can have it all when we get to my bedroom, just settle down for now,” she chided him.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t keep my hands off you,” the boy whimpered.

When they got to her room, Abigail turned the tables on him. She closed the door and then slammed the boy against it, pressing herself against him. She crushed her lips against his and began to unbuckle his belt. The boy tore off her blouse and released her breasts from the cups of her brassiere; he squeezed the creamy globes and tweaked her nipples between his fingers.

Abigail didn’t mind, she wanted it to be rough the first time with him. She ripped off his jacket and shirt and dropped them to the floor, and then she raked her nails across his narrow, hairless chest. She kissed him passionately, biting his lip as she pushed down his pants. He kicked them away and his shoes followed.

Naked except for his underpants and socks, Abigail put her arms around him and drove her tongue into his mouth; she guided him to the big bed and pushed him on it. He lay there panting as she pulled down his underpants and revealed a large and throbbing erection. The boy looked up at the beautiful mature woman with wonder; he’d wanted this for so long.

Abigail knelt over the young man, topless; her bra around her belly, her black leather micro-miniskirt hiked up where he had groped her. Her creamy thighs exposed above the dark welts of her stockings, a peek of black satin panty exposed. She was still wearing her four inch high heels, her red lipstick smeared around her mouth, her glossy black hair in disarray.

She ripped off her bra and her skirt and fell on him, hungrily mauling his mouth with hers, his cock pressed against her warm flesh.

The boy wanted to suckle her breasts so she let him, lifting herself off him so that he could nuzzle her teats. But what the lad really wanted lay in her nether regions and his hands soon found their way to her buttocks. He squeezed and fondled them through the layer of slinky satin and then he slipped a hand inside them.

“I knew it!” the boy yelped when he found her cock, semi-hard, taped to her perineum.

Abigail winced as he tore off the surgical tape and then she moaned as the boy softly stroked her hardening penis. She contacted her pelvic muscles and her testes descended from her inguinal canals and her scrotum distended. The boy gently cupped her scrotum and Abigail lowered her face to his and kissed him.

She allowed him to explore her genitals for a little while, knowing the boy was impressed with the size of her cock but she wanted to taste him. She disengaged from him and wormed her way down his body. The boy whimpered his dismay and then he groaned as she took him in her mouth and licked at his fraenulum with the tip of her tongue, clamping her lips around the base of his cock.

“Oh, I’ve wanted this for so long,” the young man sighed.

He guided Abigail’s mouth up and down his phallus, lightly holding her head. She looked up at him with those gorgeous green eyes enhanced by the dark eye makeup and the boy felt his climax approaching.

Abigail felt it too and she spat out his cock. She wanted him inside her when he came the first time. She ripped off her panties and scampered up the bed and straddled him, slowly impaling herself on his rampant organ. She stared at him and he stared back, watching his cock slowly ease its way into her tight sphincter. Her own erect penis wobbled out front as she lowered herself until he was buried in her up to the hilt.

The boy reached out and placed his hands on Abigail’s waist to keep her balanced as she began to fuck him, slowly at first, lifting herself up until his glans was ringed by her sphincter and then lowering herself until he was embedded deep in her anus. This maximised the pleasure for both of them. The boy’s cock elicited sparkles of delight from her sphincter and then deep waves of pleasure when his glans penetrated her deeply and pressed on her prostate. Her own cock began to throb and threads of silvery viscous pre-ejaculate dribbled from the eye.

The boy stared up into her beautiful face questioningly and Abigail nodded, she knew what he was asking her. The boy took her in his hand and began to stroke her. Abigail threw back her head and wailed with lust and then she began to fuck the boy hard and fast, driving his cock into her as far as it would go.

The boy whimpered and cried out as his orgasm approached; she felt his cock throbbing inside her and then the rhythmic pulse as he ejaculated deep in her anus. Abigail climaxed with him, spewing forth her hot seed. It splashed onto the boy’s pale flesh and ran down the side of his body, soaking into the linen.

Abigail writhed and gyrated, impaled on the boy’s throbbing cock, milking every last drop of semen from him. Then she fell forward and they smashed their mouths together, the boy wrapped his arms around her and bucked, fucking her as hard as could as his orgasm plateauxed and then began to subside.

Finally sated, Abigail lay on top of the boy panting, trying to steady her breathing as the boy gasped and panted underneath her. His cock slipped from her anus and a stream of creamy hot spend dribbled from her sphincter.

“That was amazing!” the boy grinned up at her.

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad,” Abigail teased him.

“I guessed you were a tranny. I was watching you for ages, never expecting for a minute that you would be interested in me but I was so hoping you were,” the boys smiled.

“Polite company does not use the word tranny young man,” Abigail teased him again.

“But it was astute of you to notice. I mean a mature lady dressed like a trollop hanging around a tranny pickup bar on Canal Street Manchester was hardly likely to be anything else was it,” she chided him.

The young man looked a little hurt.

“Look… what’s your name again?” she asked.

“Mitchell,” he was slightly wounded that she had forgotten.

“Don’t sulk Mitchell, you had hardly sat down beside me in the bar before you were groping me and I graciously bought you back to my hotel room,” Abigail climbed off him and reached for her purse, looking for cigarettes.

“Look Mitchell, I usually don’t go for the youngsters, you can’t be much over twenty, but I had an itch that needed scratching and you worked out perfectly,” she lit her cigarette and reached out and playfully mussed his hair.

“So you used me,” Mitchell had perfected the chastised puppy look.

“As much as you used me; yes,” she leaned down and kissed his forehead.

Abigail reached out to put her cigarette in the ashtray and Mitchell began to rise up off the bed.

Abigail pushed him back down and climbed on top of him, straddling him.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I haven’t finished with you yet; not by a long chance,” she grinned and lowered her face to his.

On the drive back to Brookhaven the next day Abigail fantasised about her illicit evening with Mitchell, it would provide her with enough masturbatory fantasies to keep her content until she went back to Manchester in few weeks time. As she got closer to home her thoughts shifted to Beatrice McLennan and her nephew Steven Balfour. An interesting set of circumstances was developing there. She wondered if Steven had been into her bedroom while she had been away. Had he spunked in a pair of her drawers taken from one of her drawers? She laughed to herself at the homonym.

Speaking of drawers, she lifted her handbag and hefted the weight of the small calibre pistol that usually resided in her bedside table. She would put it back when she got home. She didn’t really take it with her for protection, she just didn’t want Steven finding it when he undoubtedly rummaged through her bedroom.

****

Steven Balfour didn’t realise what he had let himself in for when he agreed to attack Abigail Thompson's back garden. Although she kept the front of her yard immaculate, she just didn’t have the time or energy to work on the overgrown jungle at the back of the house. The previous owners had planted a small orchard of fruit trees, apple, pear and plums, but as they aged the owners had become incapable of maintaining it. The branches of the trees were now intertwined and a veritable labyrinth of undergrowth had taken over the ground beneath the snaking branches.

But things almost immediately started going his way. Because of the thicket of interwoven branches the only way to attack the garden was through either the side gate or the back door to Abigail’s house so Abigail gave Steven the keys to both. Over the course of ten weeks he had beaten back the morass from the back of the house and cut a maze of passageways deep into the yard.

Most of the time he was working in her garden Abigail was home which was a two-edged sword. The good part was that he got to look at her, she always dressed sophisticated but with a hint of provocativeness. Her dresses and skirts were always a little too short, showing off her long legs, invariably clad in sheer hosiery and shod in high heels. Her blouse unbuttoned one button too many displaying the heft of her pert breasts and lace of her brassiere. She wore too much makeup and was always surrounded by a miasma of perfume.

But because she often home he couldn’t explore her house as much as he would like to. Steven wondered what delights she kept in her bedroom. He wanted to meddle through her lingerie drawers, to gaze upon her hosiery, to fondle her lingerie, to sniff and caress her used knickers and stockings that he dreamt were waiting just for him in her laundry basket. He imagined lying naked on her bed, inhaling her perfume and the hint of her perspiration on her pillow, then sliding one of her stockings over his engorged cock and bringing a pair of her used panties to his mouth and nose, sniffing her vaginal juices and sucking the musky dampness from the crotch.

Abigail was aware that she fascinated the boy, she felt his eyes roam over her body, searching her pretty eyes, lingering on her pouted lips. He couldn’t disguise the lascivious look in his eyes when he gawped at her breasts, her bottom and her legs. She felt a little flattered but chuckled to herself at the colossal surprise he would experience if he was to get his hand inside her knickers.

As the weather warmed Steven took to working in the garden bare-chested, he was sinewy and pale at first but as the summer drew on, his torso became tanned and his muscles developed. Abigail sometimes wondered what it would be like to let the boy have his way with her. Robert Brinkley had been her age, maybe a little older, when he had taken her virginity in prison and since then she had only ever been with older men during her monthly sojourns to Manchester.

She fantasised about finding Steven rummaging through her lingerie drawer and seducing him on her big bed, making the boy moan with lust as she used her skills to bring the boy to the brink of orgasm and keep him there.

Finally, Abigail had found Mitchell in the Canal Street bar and lived out the fantasy. It was invigorating and satisfied her needs for now.

Beatrice McLennan also noticed that her nephew was developing a toned tanned body. He came home from Abigail’s house shirtless and glistening with sweat leaving a masculine musk when he traipsed through the house and up the stairs to use the bathroom. She contemplated making him rinse off before he came inside the house or at least putting his shirt back on, but she kind of liked observing his blossoming manhood. Sometimes at night she thought of Steven when she used her fingers on her vagina or slid her vibrator inside herself.

Beatrice actually became a little jealous of her next door neighbour.

Abigail and Beatrice’s relationship blossomed. Their Sunday afternoon teas became a ritual, although not much tea was being drunk. Beatrice was somewhat enamoured with her neighbour; she was attractive, exuded sexuality, and dressed the way she also liked to dress. But there was something special about her. It wasn’t just her smoky voice and her sometimes over-exaggerated femininity, there was just something that Beatrice just could not pin down.

“Top up?” Beatrice leaned out and poured a generous amount of scotch into Abigail’s glass.

“How’s your garden coming along?” Beatrice asked.

“Steven is doing a remarkable job. He’s pruned back most of the fruit trees and is working his way through the tangle of undergrowth,” Abigail replied, she was on her fourth drink of the afternoon.

“Paying him forty quid a week has something to do with his incentive,” Beatrice grinned.

Both women were as usual dressed provocatively; it’s almost like they were in competition with each other to see who can be the most flirtatious. Today they were almost identically dressed, tight black miniskirts, satin blouses, one white the other cerise, heavy but perfect makeup, flesh-toned sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose, red satin panties and bra, black heels, one shod in Louboutin, the other Blahnik.

Beatrice once again recalled her lesbian encounter at Chelmsford Finishing School for Young Ladies and thought that if she was ever going to re-live that experience it would be with a woman like Abigail. Abigail’s mind was wondering too. Since transitioning she had never really taken an interest in women, she liked being a woman too much herself, she liked playing the submissive role but… she had to admit that she fancied the pants off Ms McLennan, not that she had any intentions of acting on her fantasies.

“I can see he’s making inroads into that jungle of yours, looks like he’s cutting little trails through the brush so he can attack it on all fronts. I wouldn’t be surprised if he found Doctor Livingston in there,” Beatrice guffawed and Abigail laughed along with her.

“Wait a minute? How can you see these so-called trails, all I can see is a wall of thicket from my back door,’ Abigail’s brow furrowed.

“From my bedroom window I can see down into your garden, both front and back,” Beatrice slurped on her drink.

Then Abigail remembered looking up to see Steven looking down on her while she knelt in the front yard gardening all those weeks ago. He’d blushed guiltily when she’d looked up at him.

“Oh I see. I thought that was Steven’s room,” Abigail replied straightforwardly.

Beatrice blushed and Abigail remembered what she had been told about Steven using his aunt’s stockings and lingerie to masturbate.

“Surely he doesn’t go into your bedroom to… to you know?” Abigail blushed too.

“Let me show you something,” Beatrice arose and offered her hand.

Abigail admired her friend’s long elegant fingers and red-lacquered fingernails.

She also admired Beatrice’s pert round buttocks clad in the tight miniskirt and her long, toned legs as she followed her up the staircase. She felt herself becoming uncomfortably erect and wished she could put a hand under her own skirt to adjust her burgeoning erection.

Beatrice was aware of the proximity of Abigail’s face to her derriere and she felt herself become a little damp knowing that Abigail had an eyeful of her bottom and her legs.

“In here,” Beatrice led Abigail into her bedroom.

Their heels click-clacked on the boards as she led Abigail over to the window.

“Look,” she pointed with her chin.

Abigail moved in beside Beatrice and looked out the window. She could see Steven hacking at the undergrowth in the back corner of her garden. She was very aware of her proximity to Beatrice; they were almost touching.

Then to their amazement, Steven put down his garden shears and began to rummage in the long grass. He had his shirt off and was red with sunburn. He pulled out his canvass haversack from under a hedge, untied the straps and peered inside.

“What’s he doing?” Abigail whispered.

Then, to their amazement, he extracted a pair of red satin panties and a black fully-fashioned stocking from the plastic bag. He dropped the satchel on the ground and lowered his trousers and underpants in one swift movement.

“Oh my,” Abigail’s hand went to her throat.

“Oh my god!” Beatrice gasped.

“Those are my panties,” Abigail whispered.

“That’s my stocking! I threw a pair of them out yesterday,” Beatrice swallowed.

They watched the boy smooth out the stocking and then slide it over his well-endowed erect penis.

“Those knickers went missing from my laundry hamper last week. I thought I’d lost them,” Abigail sighed.

“Looks like you have now,” Beatrice giggled and slapped Abigail playfully on the rump.

“Oh my god!” it was Abigail’s turn to blaspheme as Steven lifted her panties to his nose and inhaled.

“I told you about his fetish but I never expected you to have to witness it,” Beatrice was dry-mouthed.

“But you have before?” Abigail turned to Beatrice in time to see her face turn scarlet.

Beatrice guiltily recalled the night she had watched Steven masturbate through the keyhole of his bedroom door.

Beatrice nodded.

“Oh my,” they both gasped as Steven began to stroke himself.

“We shouldn’t watch,” Beatrice whispered but she could not tear her eyes away.

“No we shouldn’t,” Abigail replied; her eyes locked on the girth of Steven’s cock.

Both women were breathing hard and shallow as they watched the boy masturbate with his aunt’s stocking draped over his cock and his neighbour’s panties pressed against his nose.

“He’s so big,” Abigail sighed.

Her cock was fully erect and had broken free of the surgical tape holding it against her perineum. It was pressing down into the crotch of her knickers, held in place by the gusset of her pantyhose and she hoped it didn’t spring free and tent her skirt.

“Yes he’s big,” Beatrice gulped.

Her panties were soaked. It was bad enough that she was watching her nephew masturbate, but the gorgeous woman to whom she was somehow attracted to was also standing right beside her as she watched him.

The two women began to breathe heavier as they watched Steven bring his cock to full tumescence and begin to earnestly stroke it.

“Are we wrong to watch?” Abigail sighed.

“Yes. Especially now that I’m doing this. I’ll understand if you are revolted but I’m sorry I can’t help myself,” Beatrice mumbled.

Abigail glanced down and saw that Beatrice had her hand under her skirt and was stroking herself through her pantyhose and panties.

Both women had just enough booze in them to loosen their inhibitions.

“I’m sorry Abigail; it’s my dirty little secret. I sometimes fantasise about Steven,” but Beatrice made no effort to stop rubbing herself.

“It’s nothing. I’ve fantasised about him too. But my secret is enormous. I’m too scared to ever tell you,” Abigail’s breathing was ragged.

Beatrice turned to face Abigail and looked into her beautiful green eyes and then she leaned in and kissed her. Abigail opened her lips a little in response. The kiss was soft and feminine and deeply arousing. They put their arms around each other and kissed a little harder.

Beatrice broke the kiss and looked longingly into Abigail’s eyes.

“Is that your enormous secret? That you fancy me too? It’s not that enormous; I’ve sensed it for a few weeks now and I’m sure you have too,” Beatrice leaned in to kiss Abigail again.

Abigail leaned away from the kiss and Beatrice frowned.

“Sorry. Too much too soon?” Beatrice’s eyes were welled with tears.

“No. Please don’t. You will be revolted with me if we continue,” Abigail sighed.

Beatrice looked confused.

Abigail took Beatrice’s hand and put it under her skirt.

Beatrice’s juices began to flow in expectation of finding an equally hot and wet vulva inside Abigails panties but when she found an erect penis held in place by the gusset of Abigail’s pantyhose and panties she instinctively shrieked and whipped her hand away.

Abigail turned away distraught. She started to cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll leave,” Abigail took a step towards the door before Beatrice reached out and pulled her back.

Beatrice pulled Abigail close and crushed her lips against hers. Beatrice’s hand snaked under Abigail’s skirt and she squeezed the rampant phallus she found encased in nylon and satin. It felt nice and hard.

“I knew there was something about you that was different but I just couldn’t put my finger on it,” Beatrice smiled mischievously.

“Well you seem to have your finger on it now,” Abigail smiled back and leaned in and kissed Beatrice passionately.

“You’re going to tell me all about how this came to be… but not now. Right now I have an itch that needs to be scratched and you have just the equipment to do it,” Beatrice began to hurriedly strip off her blouse, bra and skirt.

Abigail followed suit and both women were left clad only in pantyhose, panties and high heels. Beatrice held Abigail out at arms-length and gazed at her. She had a wonderful figure for a woman her age and her small but perfect breasts seemed to defy both age and gravity. The long, thick appendage bulging the front of Abigail’s panties held the promise of a present yet to be unwrapped and Beatrice ached to feel it inside her.

Similarly Abigail contemplated Beatrice’s body and was very satisfied with what she saw. Beatrice was a little older and although Beatrice worked hard at keeping fit, age has taken its toll a little. Her skin is still smooth and alabaster white but her ample breasts had succumbed to gravity and had sagged just a little, her nipples were like plump ripe berries surrounded by dark areola. She had a little potbelly but was by no means fat, her legs were long and lithe, defined by the sheer flesh-toned nylons and her ample buttocks was firm. Abigail longed to feel those long legs clad in shimmering hose wrapped around her.

“I’m the real woman but you have the better body; how does that work?” Beatrice said and then regretted it immediately.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said such a callous thing,” Beatrice looked absolutely distressed.

Abigail just smiled at her friend’s unintentional faux pas and pulled Beatrice into her arms. Abigail brushed at Beatrice’s fringe with her fingertips and gazed into her brown eyes. She lovingly stroked her finger down Beatrice’s cheek and softly traced the outline of her lips, and then caressed the hollow of her neck.

“You are beautiful Beatrice. Now I think we should just stop talking and see where this takes us. We can talk later,” Abigail’s hand continued it’s journey down Beatrice’s body, stopping briefly to elicit a gasp when she tweaked Beatrice’s nipples and then a gasp when she found the cleft between Beatrice’s legs.

Beatrice mimicked her lover, she reached out and caressed Abigail’s breasts, feeling the heft of them briefly and then gently tweaking her nipples. It was Abigail’s turn to gasp as Beatrice slowly worked her hands down Abigail’s tight belly to the curve of her pubis. She could see the little wet patch on the front of Abigail’s panties where pre-ejaculate was pooling. Beatrice dipped her finger in the little puddle of translucent elixir and bought it to her lips. She dabbed at it with her tongue and smiled wickedly at Abigail.

Abigail responded by pressing a finger into the gusset of Beatrice’s panties which were sodden with vaginal secretions. She bought the moistened digit to her nose and inhaled her lover’s aroma and then sucked on it.

Both women smiled wantonly.

They pressed their bodies together and kissed, tongues entwined and fingers deep in each other’s loins. Abigail put her hand inside Beatrice’s panties and dragged a long fingernail across the gusset of her pantyhose until it snagged and then she tore out the gusset and slipped two fingers into Beatrice's hot moist cleft. She pushed her fingers inside Beatrice’s vagina and pressed her thumb on Beatrice’s clitoris. Beatrice shuddered and groaned lewdly.

Beatrice was stroking Abigail’s steely hard phallus through her panties and pantyhose but she wanted to feel the flesh in her hand. She tore a hole that was just big enough to extract Abigail’s penis through her pantyhose and squeezed the woman’s throbbing appendage.

“If you don’t put me inside you soon I’m going to come on your belly,” Abigail tittered.

“Then let’s not waste it,” Beatrice sighed into Abigail’s sweet mouth.

Beatrice allowed herself to be lowered onto the bed, the two lovers remaining locked in their embrace. Abigail climbed between Beatrice’s legs and Beatrice guided Abigail’s penis inside her panties and placed the rampant appendage inside the folds of her sex.

Abigail looked deeply into Beatrice’s eyes and Beatrice smiled and nodded. Abigail pressed forward and felt the velvety warm wetness of Beatrice’s vagina envelop her hard cock. Beatrice sensed Abigail’s tumescence fill her and she lifted her legs and wrapped them around Abigail’s torso, locking their bodies together. Neither of them moved, they kissed softly, basking in the delectable sensations of Abigail’s pulsating appendage filling Beatrice’s tight wet void. Their pleasure was heightened by the tactility of their breasts kneading together and luxurious sensuality of the caress of their nylon-clad legs and panty-clad pubises.

Beatrice wrapped her arms around Abigail and began to rock beneath her. Abigail kissed her deeply and began to slowly thrust in time with her lover. They built up the pace slowly, both wanting to experience the other climax, but neither wanting to hurry. They enjoyed each other’s bodies as they ground and rubbed against each other delighting in the awe-inspiring sensations of cock buried in cunt, breast pressing on breast, nylon-clad calf rubbing on silken-sheathed thigh. The ambrosial amalgam of stimulating sensations was bringing them closer to release.

As their climaxes approached they clung to each other and shuddered and writhed with pleasure, their lips crushed together and tongues intertwined as Abigail thrust deeply into Beatrice and released. Beatrice felt Abigail’s cock convulse inside her and her own orgasm washed over her with a wave of delight. She moaned and ground her vulva against Abigail’s pelvis to elicit indescribable pleasure from her clitoris as her vagina contracted and extracted every drop of semen from Abigail’s pulsating cock.

The held each other tight, long after they had both descended from their euphoric climaxes. They mewed, caressed and kissed, eventually kicking off their heels and sliding under the sheets until their passions arose once again and then they made love a second time.

****

Steven was fantasising about the two women, as he stood secluded, or so he thought, in the clearing at the back of Abigail’s garden, wanking into his auntie’s stocking. He didn’t know what made him look up at the window overlooking the garden but he did. At first he was terrified that his aunt and neighbour had been watching him masturbate using their underwear but then he became awestruck as he realised that they weren’t watching him because they were kissing each other. Then they began to undress each other.

Steven thought he was dreaming. He quickly pulled up his trousers and ducked behind a hedge but the two women were too engrossed with each other to take any notice of him. He took out his bird-watching binoculars and focussed them on the window.

It couldn’t be… but it was! His fantasy was being played out before him. The two sexy, beautiful women were naked above the waist and locked in embrace.

He wanted to take his cock out right there and masturbate but there was a much better option. He grabbed his shirt and raced next door to his aunt’s house and kicked off his shoes before he carefully opened the front door. He padded silently up the stairs and nimbly approached his aunt’s bedroom on tippytoes.

He heard the muffled groans of desire and then he lowered his eye to the keyhole. He freed his penis from his trousers and ejaculated as he watched the two gorgeous women caress each other. As he wiped his sticky fingers with his handkerchief and continued to watch.

What he saw next was confusing and amazing. The beautiful woman who lived next door and whom he so desired had a penis! He nearly fainted. He watched his aunt allow Abigail to fuck her with her cock. How could she! He felt betrayed, duped and disgusted. He had fantasised about a woman who wasn’t really a woman!

He snuck back downstairs and out of the house and returned to his neighbour’s garden. He angrily hacked at the hedges and undergrowth, slicing through ornamental hedges, flowerbeds and weeds alike. His mind was racing but he couldn’t expel the pictures in his head of his aunt and the woman who wasn’t a woman fucking each other dressed only in panties, pantyhose and high heels. It was like the videos he had seen on the internet but it was his aunty and the neighbour he adored. He couldn’t help but pull out the stocking and panties from his haversack and seek release again but he felt disgusted with himself when he finished.

“Fucking bitches!” he sobbed as he pulled up his pants and pushed the semen soaked nylon back into his satchel.

****

So where does a young man go when he feels betrayed and sorry for himself? Down the pub of course.

Stephen Balfour had been drinking heavily on his own for a couple hours in the Boar’s Head, Crookhaven’s only pub. He was so preoccupied with his own troubles and tribulations that he failed to notice the handsome, heavyset man who was taking more than a passing interest in him.

Robert Brinkley had never stopped searching for Mary Reynolds. He wanted to recover the money and jewellery that Mary had stolen from the lockup but most of all he sought retribution. Mary had left him holding the bag when Larry discovered that he had been robbed of nearly two million pounds worth of cash and jewellery.

Robert Brinkley had had to invent a story to cover the fact that Mary Reynolds had drugged him in the dingy office in the back of the cluttered warehouse where he was supposed to guarding Barry’s loot. Robert had claimed that he had been napping and someone had broken into the lockup and drugged him while he was asleep. He’d had to create a ‘crime scene’ to support his story.

Robert was very lucky that he was still able to walk or still alive for that matter; but Larry had made it quite clear that there were no statute of limitations on Murray Reynolds crimes and on Robert’s culpability. After six months had gone by Robert told Larry that he had exhausted all his resources attempting to find Murray Reynolds and that he believed Murray had fled overseas and assumed a new identity and would never be found. Larry reluctantly accepted the premise and made contact with his colleagues in Europe to start searching for Murray Reynolds. This allowed Robert to try and track down Mary Reynolds who he believed was hiding somewhere in the UK under another identity.

Robert knew that Mary was a very passable lady and suspected that Murray was likely in hiding in female persona. He just needed to find her.

It had taken Robert over a year to finally track down John Benstead, forger and counterfeiter for mob boss Tony Carlotta. Because John Benstead worked for Tony he was untouchable. His beautiful transsexual wife Candi Pops, the senior flight attendant instructor with Goldwing Airlines, was also untouchable because she too worked for Tony. Her bevy of airline hostesses was smuggling in contraband, so he couldn’t even threaten her to get to John Benstead.

Instead, Robert Brinkley went to see Tony Carlotta and told him of his plight and offered to give Tony a substantial cut of whatever money he recovered if he leaned on John Benstead to give up Mary Reynolds new identity.

John Benstead was not happy to have to give up Abigail Thompson’s identity but he had no choice, he was Tony’s man so he did as he was told. He gave Robert Brinkley her name and a passport sized photograph of her. The address he had used on her driver’s licence was fake so it was useless. John had no idea where she lived.

A search of the reverse phone book, social media and internet sites for the name Abigail Thompson revealed literally thousands of names which would take forever to follow up. The passport photograph was too small to be of any real use until he tracked her down and she may have changed her appearance again anyway. It was also likely that Abigail had fled overseas but for some reason he doubted it.

Robert stared intently at the picture, the person looking back at him was the woman he knew as Mary Reynolds but with black hair; those beautiful green eyes captivated him still.

So between working as a standover man and debt collector for Larry Connelly, Robert put his every spare hour into finding Abigail Thompson. Robert had paid a minion in the MOT to search the drivers licence database for the women named Abigail Thompson aged between thirty and forty years old. It had cost him a considerable sum and he was provided with a list of nearly one hundred names. What he really wanted was to look at the drivers licence photographs but the minion didn’t have the access, all he could provide was a list of addresses. Robert had first travelled to Northern Ireland and Scotland where there were very few Abigail Thompsons and eliminated the women from his search, then he started working the English Counties. He had worked his way through half the list when he arrived at the tidy little village of Brookhaven in Cornwall.

It was hard to be discreet in such a small community so he decided to sit in the pub and listen to the locals gossip and see what he could glean.

“What’s wrong with the lad; he’s standing there like one o’clock half struck,” Robert asked the barman as he waited for his pint to be refilled.

“Dunno; first time I’ve seen him in here. I do know his mom ran away with some Aussie bloke and abandoned him and he lives with his Aunt in the big house down the road,” the barman pulled on the lever, pouring the cask ale into the glass.

“If I was his age and living with a woman like that I wouldn’t give a toss about me mom. That Beatrice McLennan is a right sort for her age, big tits, nice legs, great arse, I bet the young fella wanks himself stupid,” the barman grunted.

“Then he’s got the next door neighbour to perv on. She’s even better looking and dresses like a right doxy, I’d give her one in a heartbeat. Abigail something-or-the-other,” the barman let go of the spigot.

“Is that her?” Robert put the passport photo down on the bar.

To be continued

Then...

Robert Brinkley recalled his last few months in prison.

He was enamoured with a transvestite prisoner named Mary Reynolds. Most of the old timers didn't condone men having sex with other men in prison but the younger breed was more enlightened. A lot of prisoners would accept blowjobs from submissive or effeminate inmates and even fuck them if so inclined. It didn't make you gay; you were just being pragmatic, men needed release. Most of the men who did this did not consider themselves homosexual and reverted to heterosexual only relations when released.

But it was different for Robert. He didn't even register Murray Reynolds existence but whenever Mary Reynolds emerged from the makeshift dressing room behind the stage Robert became lovestruck.

At first he thought that his affair with Mary was only ever going to be a prison relationship but as Mary's release date approached, with his not far behind her, he began to fantasise about continuing their relationship outside.

At first Mary was reluctant to engage with Robert; that was until Robert forced her into a cleaner's closet and had his way with her. It lit a spark and Mary discovered that she really liked having sex whilst presenting herself enfemme. She tolerated Robert because he was enraptured by her, and he could protect her, being one of Larry's henchmen. Then, when he told her about the big scores that he helped Larry Connelly smuggle into Europe she set him up so that she could steal some of the loot and live full time as a woman far away from anyone who knew Murray Reynolds.

Robert knew all this. He knew he had been played for a tosser, he knew that she did not return his adoration... but he couldn't stop thinking of her.

He remembered the small stockroom in the prison that doubled as the play production office. The battered desk and chairs, the musty mattress he had laid on the floor. The mounting excitement as he crept along the corridor, entered the stockroom, and locked the door behind him.

Mary was dressed just the way he liked her to be. Her brunette hair cut into a cute bob with the fringe framing those delectable icy green eyes intensified by heavy black eyeliner and mascara, her eyelids daubed with burgundy and purple eyeshadow, rouged cheeks and those succulent plump lips glazed with bright-red lipstick. She was wearing a black micro-miniskirt which exposed the dark gauzy welts at the top of her fully-fashioned stockings, her white chiffon blouse revealing the red satin bra she wore underneath. He knew that the tits filling the cups of that bra weren't real but he didn't care. He also knew that she was likely wearing matching red satin panties under that skirt. Her feet at the bottom of those long toned legs clad in diaphanous nylon were shod in red 'fuck-me' high heels; her costume jewellery glittered in the dim light of the single table lamp.

The clothes, shoes and makeup that she wore were not requisite to her role in the play in which she played a femme fatale. Robert had smuggled the clothes, shoes and makeup in for her. He payed off one of the guards to bring in all sorts of contraband on behalf of Larry so why not treat his girlfriend to nice things.

He knew that Mary didn't consider herself his girlfriend but he didn't care; it's what he thought that mattered.

She smiled at him and ran her tongue across those luscious red lips; she wanted it as much as he did. It had been three days since their last meeting and they were both concupiscent and eager.

Mary was leaning back against the desk facing him and he stepped into her and kissed her, breathing in her delicious scent. They wrapped their arms around one and other and sighed. As was often the case they didn't have much time but Robert was determined to enjoy his princess to the fullest.

He slipped his tongue into her mouth; she tasted like sweet berries. He had been semi-hard for the last hour or so and when Mary raked her fingernails across the front of his jeans his cock engorged to full tumescence. He slipped a hand down to her legs and explored her thighs. The feel of her smooth soft skin sheathed in the gossamer nylons was incredible. Mary shivered with lust at his touch and gasped into his mouth when he began to slide his hand under her skirt and caress the creamy skin above her stocking-tops.

He found her erect inside her satin panties and he squeezed her gently, smiling when she sharply respired. She smiled too and began to unbuckle his pants. He eased away from her just enough to let them drop around his ankles. Mary freed his rampant penis and using his pre-ejaculate as a lubricant she began to slowly stroke him. He reciprocated the gesture and freed Mary's considerably sized member from her panties and caressed it. Their kisses became more wanton and greedy.

Robert placed his hands around Mary's slim waist and hoisted her onto the desk. She smiled up at him seductively and opened her legs. He stepped between them and kissed her and she wrapped her legs around him. He shucked off his shirt, he wanted to feel those cool, sleek nylons on his flesh. She extended her legs so that he could pull down her panties, her skirt was rucked up high on her waist and the desktop felt cold under her buttocks but she didn't care.

Mary opened her legs and put out her arms invitingly and Robert stepped into her embrace. She locked her arms and legs around his body and pulled him close as she slid her tongue into his mouth. Robert pulled her buttocks to the very edge of the desk and placed his penis at the entrance to her anus.

She clung to him, kissing him deeply as his shaft slid slowly inside her. She cried out when it was in her to the hilt and Robert took her in his hand. They remained bound together, enfolded in Mary's arms as Robert began to slowly fuck her, stroking her cock in time with his thrusts. Mary moaned and urged him on; they were both close to extremis having not been together for so long.

Mary's cock convulsed, ropes of hot semen erupted from her throbbing phallus. The scalding seed splashed onto Robert's belly and coated his fingers. He kissed her harder as she writhed with lust. Her actions elicited his own climax and he plunged himself deep inside her and ejaculated.

Now...

Robert came out of his reverie and stared at the house across the road from his parked van. It was an Edwardian red brick two-story with a neat garden out front. An identical house was beside it and he knew that it was there that the lad he had seen in the pub lived. He'd given the teenager a ride home because the boy was hopelessly drunk and incapable of walking.

The boy had rambled on drunkenly about being betrayed by his aunt and his neighbour and as much as Robert had tried to interrogate the boy about his next door neighbour he would just meander into an incessant rant about the two women deceiving him.

Robert considered just breaking into Abigail Thompson's house and beating her until she disclosed the whereabouts of the stolen money and jewellery. It was his usual modus operandi when dealing with people who had for some reason or the other offended him.

He looked down at the photograph and he couldn't help but sigh. Abigail might be a conniving stealing lying bitch but he still had feelings for her. He didn't understand why he felt like he did about her but it didn't matter; he was infatuated by her and longed for her. But he had a job to do. He set his resolve and opened the door of the white Transit van with the magnetic sign 'Falcon Electrical Contractors' emblazoned on the side. The numberplate on the van was conveniently obscured with a daub of mud. When he ripped off the magnetic sign the Transit would look like the thousands of other vans that travelled up and down the British motorways and backroads.

***

"I know about you and Abigail," Steven Balfour said unpretentiously to his aunt.

Beatrice McLennan had come into her nineteen-year-old nephew's room to admonish him for his behaviour yesterday evening when he had come home drunk from the pub. She was dressed in a navy-blue business suit with a tight pencil skirt, white cotton blouse and black high heels. She was heading into London for the day to see her investment banker again and wanted to look good; she wouldn't be home until late. Her makeup was perfect if a little heavy.

Steven was sitting up in bed, glaring at her when he announced to her that he knew about Abigail and her. Beatrice suddenly felt faint.

"She's not really a woman though is she? Well you know what I mean, she's a transsexual woman; you know... she has a cock. And you like her to stick it in you," Steven gnarled.

The click-clack of his aunt's high heels on the polished wood floors seemed deafeningly loud as she strode over to him with her hand raised.

Steven's reaction was lightening quick and he caught the blow inches from his face. He tightened his grip and twisted Beatrice's arm, forcing her down onto the bed. She sat on the edge of the bed, fuming but speechless. She sighed with relief when Steven let go of her hand and she tried to get up.

"Where do you think you're going Auntie Beatrice?" he said harshly.

"Sit back down!" he ordered.

Beatrice was fuming, outraged but dumbfounded. Then she opened her mouth to admonish her nephew but she never got a chance to speak.

"I filmed you with my phone. It's not very good quality but you can definitely see that it's you and the whore next door shagging. I'm not sure whether to post it online or keep it for myself," Steven sneered.

"Keep it for yourself, you degenerate. I know the porn sites you visit; it will make a good addition to your sick little collection of smut. I know what you've been doing with my underwear and my stockings too you sick little bastard!" Beatrice exploded.

"You're the sicko! The night you came home drunk and made me rub your feet and then pretended to be asleep and showed off your cunt to me through your pantyhose! That was sick!" Steven retorted.

"Sniffing and wanking into Abigail's knickers is sick too, especially now that you know she has a cock, you little perv!" Beatrice countered.

Steven started to laugh.

"We can trade insults all afternoon auntie; I'm the one with the video of you shagging our good neighbour. You're supposed to be a respectable spinster and I'm the randy young man; it's expected I'll be doing sexually deviant things. But when I send that video to the rest of the family well..." Steven grinned evilly.

Beatrice paled. You didn't have to be a Rhodes Scholar to know where this was heading.

"Surely you don't think you can blackmail with that video Steven," Beatrice bluffed.

"Oh I'm positive auntie Beatrice. I've made copies and stored them in the cloud. The copy on my phone is ready to be emailed, all I have to do is hit send," Steven lied; he had no video.

Beatrice was resigned. She noticed the bulge in the sheets and knew exactly what Steven wanted from her.

She stood up and at first Steven was afraid that she had called his bluff but then she started taking off her jacket.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm hardly going to let you fuck me in my best suit now am I?" she grinned at him.

"I guessed this day would come, you can cut the sexual tension around here with a knife," she said unzipping the side of her skirt and catching it deftly before it hit the floor.

She stepped out of the skirt and took off her blouse and folded them neatly, putting them on top of her jacket on the chair by the window.

Steven was speechless.

She began to climb onto the bed dressed only in her red satin panties, matching bra, sheer taupe hold-up stockings and her heels.

"Here are the rules. You tell no one, I mean absolutely no one, about us. You tell no one, I mean absolutely no one, about Abigail being transsexual and her relationship with me. We have sex only when I want it, I am not going to be your plaything ok?" by the time she had finished her speech her face was inches away from his.

He looked into her eyes, enhanced by eyeliner, eyeshadow and mascara. He raised a finger to her red-lipsticked lips and she bit it playfully. He could smell her perfume and her womanliness. She was straddling him, he was naked under the sheet and absolutely terrified that he was going to prematurely ejaculate.

"You're a virgin aren't you?" she smiled seductively at him, the tables had turned, she was in control.

Steven nodded; his eyes locked on hers.

"You will probably come before I put you inside me but that's ok. A young strong boy like yourself with raging hormones will recover quickly," she whipped off the sheets and exposed his huge erect phallus.

She had seen it before but never up this close. It was thick and meaty with pulsing blue veins running down the sides, the glans were pink and swollen and leaking globules of pre-ejaculate.

Beatrice licked her lips in anticipation and got up on one knee. She eased aside the gusset of her panties and lowered herself on the boy's throbbing cock. She felt him ejaculate as soon as he entered her.

Steven was transfixed watching his cock slide into his aunt's hot wet tight cunt. He reached out to her steady her but it was too late, the feeling of his cock encased in Beatrice's slick vagina invoked his climax. He cried out with the ecstasy of it and then Beatrice's lips sealed his and he moaned into her mouth as she ground against him, extracting all of his spend, driving her sodden labia into his pubis so it rubbed on her clitoris. She gasped into the boy's mouth as she too climaxed.

She lay on top of her nephew until he finished shuddering and then she arose, still sitting astride him; his cock buried deep inside her had not shrunk or lessened in girth at all.

"Good boy," she smiled down at him.

"Now give auntie a good shagging before she goes out for the day," Beatrice began to ride up and down on her nephew's engorged phallus.

***

Dressed in blue coveralls with the logo for Falcon Electrical Contractors emblazoned on the back, Robert Brinkley walked confidently up the pathway towards Abigail Thompson's house carrying a tool bag. He noted that the garage was empty and that the place looked deserted. There was no burglar alarm and he quickly defeated the door locks and let himself inside.

Her scent hit him as soon as he entered the house; it was like she had walked through the room only seconds ago. Robert knew that Abigail had left for town to go shopping early that morning, it was the one piece of useful information that he was able to get out of the blubbering teenager last night. He had all day to explore the house and wait her return.

Robert had dreamed of this day for so long now that he had played out a number of scenarios in his mind. Every plan that he imagined involved making love to Abigail before he took retribution. She'd changed. She was even more feminine if that was possible, it was impossible to tell that she was not a genetic woman. He loved her new hairstyle; the black shoulder-length bob with burgundy highlights and the straight cut fringe just above those gorgeous green eyes. She'd filled out a little and was very curvy and those tits looked amazing. She'd had some alterations made to her face but she was still the same gorgeous Mary Reynolds that he had fallen in love with.

Robert had taken a series of photographs of her this morning with a powerful telescopic lens as she had prepared to depart for the day. He was tempted to follow her, maybe force her off the road on some backroad, drag her into the back of his van and have his way with her; but this was better. He could wait for her to return and take his time with her. In the meantime he had her house all to himself to explore at his leisure. He doubted that she kept all of the money and jewellery in the house; she likely had it stashed in numbered accounts or a safe deposit box, but he bet she kept some of the loot on hand in case she needed cash in a hurry.

It was going to be fun getting her to tell him where the spoils she had stolen were hidden. He hoped that she resisted just a little, she had bewitched him, captivated him, and then played him for a fool. He loved her, but she had to pay. Oh yes, she had to pay.

And he intended to take his time about it. She had a good setup here from what he had gleaned. No reason not to stay a few days, a few weeks, maybe a few months; what could she do about it?

***

Steven Balfour was the happiest nineteen-year-old boy in the world. He had just shagged his gorgeous, sexy auntie who was more than twice his age. Losing his virginity to the woman of his dreams had been better than he could have imagined. She'd taught him things he'd never dreamed of in the scant amount of time they had spent together in his bedroom; they'd fucked three times and she'd obviously enjoyed it as much as he did because she promised him that tonight he could come to her bed.

Beatrice McLennan was sore, but sore in a good way. Her nephew had been insatiable and at the height of his sexual prowess and had stayed hard long enough to fuck her three times. Of course she felt guilty, and so she should, she was shagging her sister's son which was probably illegal and certainly immoral. But they were both consenting adults.

Her sex life had recently become a conundrum. She was shagging a teenage relative and the transsexual next door neighbour. She was certainly enjoying the spice of life. She wondered if she should discuss this new development with Abigail. She was certainly aware that Steven fancied the pants off Abigail and would likely make a pass at her. She smiled to herself as she imagined Steven's surprise when he found at that Abigail was packing a penis in her panties. Anyway, most likely Abigail would reject Steven's advances. The last thing that Abigail needed was more complications in her life.

Steven was in a good mood when he finally got out of bed. He couldn't stop thinking about what had happened with his aunt and conjuring up what would happen tonight in her bed. It was a nice day outside so he decided to try to clear his mind by doing some heavy gardening in Abigail's back garden. He'd made a decent go turning the labyrinth of fruit trees and undergrowth into an almost recognisable garden. He was pleased with efforts and keen to make further improvements. Who knows, if he did a half-decent job maybe Abigail would throw him celebratory shag he chuckled to himself.

***

Abigail took scant notice of the white Transit van parked on the verge across from her house. Transit vans were like arseholes; it seemed that every tradesman, deliveryman, contractor and travelling salesman in the UK had one. She parked her BMW outside of the open garage doors so she could unload it easier. She heard Steven Balfour chopping away in the back yard and considered calling him to help her carry in her purchases but then she'd have to deal with him sniffing around her like a dog on heat. Although she had to admit that ever since the afternoon she and Beatrice had spied on the boy, which led to them making torrid love to each other, she wouldn't mind putting that large appendage of his to work. But he lived a little too close to home to strike up a dalliance with, and besides he was only nineteen and her new lover's nephew.

Robert Brinkley didn't hear Abigail's car pull up nor did he hear Steven Balfour hacking away in the back yard because the house had double-glazed windows; but her heard her key rattle in the side door leading to the kitchen. He let her put her purse and groceries down on the kitchen table before he made his presence known.

Abigail smelled the cigarette smoke as soon as she entered the kitchen. She smoked herself now and then but this was pungent fresh tobacco. She gasped when the kitchen door slammed closed behind her. She was almost too scared to turn around, a thousand thoughts ran through her mind but deep down she knew who it was.

"Hello Mary, sorry, it's Abigail now isn't it?" Robert Brinkley leaned against the door, smiling at her.

Abigail's mind raced. She could scream but she doubted that Steven would hear her and even if he did Steven would be no match for Robert Brinkley. She could try to run but there was nowhere to go in the house where Robert wouldn't chase her down. It wasn't a matter of fight or flight; she had no chance of doing either successfully. There was only one string to her bow, one weapon in her arsenal so to speak, but she doubted that Robert was going to be fooled by it again. She could see the bulge in his pants and she knew what fate awaited her. Robert was going to take what he wanted from her regardless of what she did. Her best chance was to try to seduce him and then overpower him or escape some way. It had worked once before but she didn't have a hypodermic full of sedative in her purse this time.

"Hello Robert, long time no see," Abigail smiled at him repressing her terror, trying to act as calm as possible.

Robert leered at her, casting his eyes from head to toe. Abigail was dressed provocatively as usual, a short black skirt, red satin blouse, black fully-fashioned stockings and four-inch high heels. Her black hair framed her pretty face enhanced with her signature dark eye makeup, rouged cheekbones and cherry-red lipstick. She was adorned with silver jewellery and enveloped in a cloud of Shalimar.

Robert stepped into her, his face only inches from hers. He remained silent, staring at her, studying her features. She gasped when he suddenly reached around her and snatched her purse off the table. He stepped back and turned out the contents on the kitchen table.

Two sets of keys, a small bottle of perfume, a small tube of lubricant, a packet of breath mints, cigarettes, notes and coins of various denominations, two opened letters, a credit card folder and the other detritus that women carry in the Tardis that they call their purses lay scattered on the tabletop.

"No sedatives, syringes or narcotics then?" Robert said sarcastically, stirring the clutter with a long finger.

He snatched up a keyring on which was clipped a safe deposit box passkey and dangled it in front of Abigails face.

"Looks like we will soon be taking a trip to use this," he whispered.

"The bank is in London," Abigail offered, she knew he would get the information out of her eventually anyway.

"And the rest? It can't all be in here," he shook the keys in front of her face.

"I have a couple of other bank accounts. I have some cash here in the house, I own the house and the Beamer outright," Abigail admitted.

"You're being very forthcoming," Robert was taken aback at her forthrightness.

"What's the point in not telling you? You are going to get the information out of me one way or another; you're a standover man for god's sake," she sighed.

"But I was looking forward to extracting the information from you," Robert sneered.

This was the cue that Abigail had been waiting for.

Abigail struck a seductive pose, thrusting out one leg and leaning back against the table; she gave him a submissive flirtatious look and fluttered her eyelashes. She took a chance and slowly reached out and stroked his cheek.

"Robert. It doesn't have to be this way. I went into hiding from Barry Pinkerton and Larry Connelly not from you. I would have contacted to you but it was too dangerous," she said meekly.

Robert grinned at her and reciprocated, stroking her cheek too.

"I suppose I get that, you didn't know if I would give you up did you?" he whispered.

"But we can make up for lost time. I'll give you half of everything that's left from the heist; the house is worth nearly a million pounds so I can sell it too," Abigail continued.

"Or I can live here with you. Larry will never know where to go looking for me. I can disappear off the grid just like you," his smile turned into a grin.

"I'd like that," Abigail mewled.

She leaned in and kissed him softly. Robert wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, he intensified the kiss and drove his tongue into her mouth and Abigail put her hands on his shoulders and pressed herself against him.

She reached between their bodies and found him turgid inside his jeans. She squeezed him and he gasped. Abigail sensed his need, she would let him fuck her here in the kitchen and then take him upstairs. If she could get him on the bed maybe she could reach into her bedside table and get her hands on her pistol; she didn't know what would happen after that but at least she would be in control.

"I wanna see those new tits of yours," Robert broke the kiss and began to paw at her blouse.

She let him unbutton it and take her firm breasts out of the cups of her red lace bra.

"Fucking magnificent," he groaned, hefting the pert globes in his hands.

Abigail gasped as he thrummed her sensitive nipples. They hardened to his touch and then he lowered his face to her breasts and began to suckle them. Despite the situation Abigail was becoming aroused as Robert lapped and nipped at her engorged teats. She was still squeezing his cock through his jeans bringing it to full tumescence.

Abigail began to fumble with Robert's flies but he became impatient. He disengaged from her, unzipped his fly, unbuckled his belt and yanked down his jeans and underpants in one swift movement. His prick stood out proud and throbbing and Abigail's instinctive response was to reach for it.

"Oh no girly. I want more than a wank from you," Robert pulled her away from the table and pushed her to her knees.

His turgid shaft was right in front of her face.

"You know what to do you whore," Robert pressed forward and Abigail obligingly opened her mouth.

At least his cock was clean, Robert had obviously taken the time to freshen up before she got home. She wondered what else he had been up to alone in her house but she let that train of through pass for now and concentrated on working on the magnificent erect member that was entering her mouth.

She knew how Robert liked it, working her lips slowly up and down his shaft whilst using the tip of her tongue on his fraenulum, she smiled around his cock when she heard him gasp. He put his hands to her face and guided her head as she bobbed up and down on his cock. Although she was a prisoner in her own home that feeling of power and control that she always felt when she was having sex with a man returned. Also she couldn't control her body's instinctive reaction to sexual stimulus. She was becoming hard.

Abigail knew that she would have to put on good performance to lure him into a situation where she could get the upper hand. They had been jailbird lovers and he would know if she were faking it. She freed her erection and began to stroke her penis, she looked up at Robert with feigned devotion, she knew that he liked to look into her pretty green eyes while she fellated him. She felt his cock pulse in her mouth and knew that she was having the desired effect on him; she saw that he was looking at her engorged penis while she stroked it whilst sucking his cock, he liked that too. For all his faults Robert had always liked her to enjoy having sex with him, even if he was effectively violating her, just like that first time in the cleaners closet.

She could feel his cock become fully turgid, secreting a constant flow of precum, a sure sign that he was about to climax.

As she fully expected he would, Robert pulled her to her feet. He liked fellatio as much as the next man but to him sex meant fucking and Abigail was intent on giving him what he wanted. She hiked herself up onto the kitchen table and opened her legs invitingly. Robert stepped between them and pulled her panties aside exposing her puckered bud. Abigail was about to protest when Robert snatched up the small tube of lubricant that he had shaken from her purse.

"You always were a good Girl Guide, what's their motto... 'Be Prepared,'" he chuckled as he lubricated his shaft.

Abigail smiled at him, lewdly stroking her erect penis. The phase that came to her mind was 'Lie back and think of England' as she concentrated only on giving Robert a good time to lure him into a false sense of security. Robert daubed a gobbet of lubricant on the entrance to Abigail's anus and then slid his finger inside her. He knew where her 'special place' was and she moaned like a harlot when he found it.

Robert leaned over her and kissed her and she instinctively locked her arms and legs around him and drove her tongue into his mouth. Robert interchanged his finger with his penis and very slowly began to slide it inside her. Abigail tried to push against him, to fill her void with his hard cock but he held her down and teased her, putting just hus glans inside her and then pulling it out, then pushing it back inside her again, but only just.

"You want it don't you, you whore," Robert murmured around their crushed lips.

Abigail nodded, still not breaking their kiss, trying to force more of him inside her. Robert broke the kiss and gazed down at her pretty face, contorted with lust and need.

"Beg for it!" Robert sniggered.

Abigail conceded that she had lost the upper hand for now, she just wanted to be fucked.

"Fuck me Robert. Please fuck me," she pulled his face to her again and kissed him passionately.

Abigail gasped into his mouth as he slid his cock all the way inside her. She locked her legs around him, ensuring her stockings rubbed on his flanks, she knew that he was captivated with their gossamer tactility on his sensitive skin.

It triggered the response she wanted.

Robert took her buttocks in his hands and squeezed them as he began to thrust his cock in and out of her back passage, slowly and steadily building the pace. Abigail had forgotten where she was and the danger she was in, she was filled with carnality and a compulsion to sate her desires.

Their mouths were locked and tongues working frantically as they both gasped and moaned. Abigail's tight rectum gripped Robert's engorged cock like a velvet glove, she contracted the muscles in her anus to stimulate them both. The shaft of Robert's penis triggered little wavelets of pleasure from her sphincter whilst his glans pressed on her prostate inducing a deep quickening that would soon trigger her orgasm. Her cock was rock-hard and pulsating, a dribble of pre-ejaculate oozed from it and soaked into her satin blouse. She didn't care, she just wanted release.

And so did Robert. He thrust harder and deeper and then Abigail felt a growl resonate from back of his throat as he drove his cock deep inside her as far it would go. She knew he was coming and she clung to him and writhed on the table, skewering her buttocks to encourage him to climax.

Robert roared as he peaked, his cock convulsed and spewed forth a geyser of hot creamy semen. Abigail screamed and raked his back with her nails and locked her ankles behind him, grinding against him, draining him of his seed as her own cock spasmed and erupted, spattering her blouse with her issue.

They kissed and ground against each other, eliciting every scintilla of pleasure for each other. Their orgasms seemed to go on forever until finally they were both spent and Robert pulled away from her even though she clung to him wanting more. His sperm flowed freely from her sphincter and dripped on the kitchen floor.

Abigail lay panting on the table almost exhausted; her legs akimbo, her blouse saturated with seminal fluid. Robert pulled up his pants and buckled his belt or but did not zip his fly. He staggered over to fridge and opened a can of lager and drained it in one continuos swallow.

He took something from the fridge and pushed it into the waistband of his jeans.

Abigail got up on her elbows with some difficulty and watched him and when he turned around she was amazed to see that he was still erect. His swollen member jutted from his flies like a steely pole.

"Wow! Already?" Abigail's lust had abated sufficiently that she was ready to try to take control of the situation.

"Yeah already babe. You know the effect that you have on me and I've missed you for so long," he slammed the empty can down on the top of the fridge and strode over to her and pulled her upright so that she was sitting on the edge of the table.

He stepped between her legs and began to kiss her tenderly and she responded, mewing with contentment.

She held his face between his hands and gazed at him lovingly.

"I could get used to this," she smiled up at him, hiding her deceit from him.

"I could too Abigail, we could live together and make love every day," he tenderly brushed her fringe out of her eyes.

"Why don't we go up to my bedroom and make love where it's more comfortable and then we can discuss our future," she mewed.

Robert's countenance changed in a split second and she saw violence and hate replace the lust in his eyes.

He hauled her off the table and spun her around and then hurled her back into it and bent her over; he pressed her head into the tabletop and then slammed the pistol down next to her face. Her pistol.

"Yeah Abigail, lets go upstairs and make love. You fucking whore! Did you really think you could sucker me a second time you fucking bitch!" Robert's growled.

"Live with me Robert. Make love to me Robert. Let me give you half of all I have Robert," he mocked her.

"I know why you keep that tube of lubricant in your purse. Because you are a fucking tranny whore! A conniving bitch!" his anger was becoming more intense and Abigail began to shake.

Bent over and pinned down on the table she was defenceless.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen you trollop. We're going for a drive into London and you are going to get everything out of that safe deposit box. Then we are going to go online and you are going to transfer every penny you have into an account of my choosing," Robert was so angry she could feel his spittle on her back as he bellowed at her.

Abigail tried to nod her consent but she couldn't move her head.

"Then we are going to transfer the deed to this house into my name too," he continued.

"After we have done all that, it will take some time so I will need to fuck you now and then to keep me amused, I'll decide what I'm going to with a penniless tranny whore. I probably won't need you any more," his rage had abated and his tome was now icy and distant.

Abigail preferred him angry, this cold-blooded emotionless Robert was not one she had encountered before and she was genuinely scared for her life.

"But before we do anything, I'm going to fuck you up the arse like the slut you are," Robert took his hands from her head and pushed her body down hard on the table.

He locked her wrists together behind her back with one hand and held her down and kicked her feet apart.

"I don't think you are going to enjoy this at all you trollop, but I don't care because I am. In fact the more you squeal the more I'm going to like it," Robert hissed and then drove himself deep inside Abigail, viciously penetrating her.

She screamed and so did Robert. Then Robert suddenly went limp and she felt hot liquid soak into her back and the coppery smell of fresh blood assailed her nostrils.

Robert's body fell to the floor and Abigail spun around to see Steven Balfour standing with a bloody carving knife in his hand. He was in shock staring at the man on the floor. Robert began to groan and tried to get up despite the blood oozing from a sucking chest wound.

Abigail snatched up the pistol off the table and emptied it into Robert Brinkley.

The kitchen was deafeningly quiet after the loud report of the pistol. The air reeked of cordite and blood. Abigail held the gun limp at her side and Steven likewise stood shivering, loosely holding the knife down beside his leg. They were both in shock and speechless and remained that way for what seemed like an eternity.

Then Steven spoke.

"What do we do now?" he whispered.

***

The van went up in a whomph. The deserted carpark at Black Tree Bluff was suddenly lit with a crimson glow and then illuminated almost like daylight when the flames found the Transit van's petrol tank and it exploded.

"And the police won't be able to identify him and come looking for us?" Steven Balfour shivered even though the heat from the burning vehicle was scorching his face.

"After what I did to his teeth and what happens to his body in that fire his body will be unrecognisable. You can guarantee he stole that van so it can't be traced back to him," Abigail took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and offered one to Steven who declined.

"Good boy," she smiled at him briefly and then turned her face to the burning van.

She lit a cigarette and inhaled.

"Robert Brinkley was degenerate criminal, a vicious standover man. When and if he's reported missing the Old Bill won't give a toss, probably throw a party. They'll think that Larry Connelly had him put down or someone he wronged in the past reeked revenge. Either way, the fucker's gone from our lives forever now," Abigail crushed out the cigarette with her high heel and then though twice about it and picked up the butt and dropped it in her purse.

She and Steven were leaning against her BMW.

"Come on," she pushed herself off the car and hopped into the driver's seat.

Steven had driven her car here and she had driven the Transit van. As they left the carpark and descended the bluff there was a faint orange glow above the treeline.

"The cops won't get out here for ages. Kids are always knocking off cars, taking them for a drag and then burning them out," Steven said almost unconsciously.

"Criminal mastermind are we?" Abigail chided him playfully.

"No, but you are. I didn't hear everything that bloke said to you, but I get the gist that you committed some sort of crime that put him on your trail and you certainly knew him well enough," Steven retorted.

"Speaking of criminality, I suppose I'm lucky that you're a perv. If you hadn't been watching that man shag me you couldn't have come to my rescue," Abigail decided to take the conversation down a notch.

"I only came in for a glass of water but when I saw you lying on the table being shagged by that bloke I decided to watch for a while. You seemed to be enjoying it until he bought out the gun," Steven said candidly.

"Let's just say that Robert and I had a chequered history and leave it at that. I suppose that we are now partners in crime so it goes without saying that this remains our secret," Abigail patted his knee.

Steven just nodded.

Abigail was wondering when Steven was going to ask her about the other elephant in the room... that he had just found out that she was transsexual woman.

They drove in silence for a few minutes and then Steven spoke.

"Now that we are partners is there any chance of shag?" he said.

Abigail was so shocked that she nearly left the road, then she burst out laughing.

"You're not backward in coming forward are you?" Abigail was amused at the boy's audacity.

"Anyway, we need to get home and get cleaned up before Beatrice returns from London," Abigail smiled at Steven.

They were both wearing the same clothes they had been wearing since Steven had rescued her from Robert. They were ripped, bloodstained and reeked of petrol and smoke. Abigail would burn them as soon as they got home.

It was then that Steven remembered that his Aunt Beatrice had invited him to share her bed that evening. The wheels in his head went around and a grin formed on his lips.

"About Aunt Beatrice... there's something I have to tell you," he smiled.

The End

Comments, criticism and encouragement is always welcome xxx Michele