Date: Tue, 27 Aug 2013 17:12:54 +0100
From: Nick Wyatt <nickwyatt42@gmail.com>
Subject: It was all Shakespeare's fault - Part Three

It was all Shakespeare's fault, Part Three

Here is part three of my story. As usual, I must say that I have changed
names and disguised identities, to protect characters and myself. If you
like what you read here, please let me know – nickwyatt42@gmail.com
Thank you.

After the constriction of wearing the girdle, I was really enjoying the
pants-less freedom inside my trousers, and just because of that I got a
little stiff as I walked along. Then I started thinking about the girdle
again. I needed to try it again; properly, with some stockings and a
skirt. And now I had a full bloodied, monstrous erection and I couldn't
wait to get home

Walking home, the open sky and scorching sunshine had been replaced by
thick clouds and the hot, still air seemed to hang heavily between the
trees. I felt sure there was going to be a storm; I knew I was going to
have my own thunder and lightning too.

I walked into the yard from the Old Town gate and I could hear the sound of
the radio in Mum's studio in the stable block as I passed. So I shouted a
hello and got the same back before I hurried in to the house with the
intention of going straight to my room. To be honest, I didn't like going
into her studio any more as once when I was a bit younger, I had wandered
in innocently and found my mother heaving and grunting beneath the man who
had come to prune the trees. She'd seen me, yelped and screamed until her
lover got the message and disengaged himself. But I'd gone by that point,
terrified by what I'd seen. I locked myself away in the little cupboard in
the open attic for hours until my father arrived home and I thought it was
safe to come out. Nothing was ever said of course, that was the English way
of sex and infidelity.

 On the way upstairs, I poured myself a glass of Tizer in the kitchen and
carried it and my satchel with its naughty contents up to my room.



The thing about living in an old house is that they move about a bit as the
weather gets warmer or colder. Things creak and groan, click and sometimes
twang as boards and beams expand and contract. And of course, it's pretty
well impossible for anyone to walk anywhere without causing a creak or
thump on a stair or floorboard.

I went up the back stairs to my room above the kitchen. There was a
bathroom up here and the other room was my sister's. You could not walk
from this portion to the rest of the house that was served by the front
staircase from the hall. But if you were small – or very lithe – you
could wriggle your way into a low cupboard in my sister's room and then
into the back of the airing cupboard in the front of the house.

All this meant that I could hear anyone approaching my bedroom from the
creak of the latch on the door at the bottom on the stairs in the kitchen,
to the squeaky stairs part way up and the clonk of the floorboard right
outside the door.

But I still jammed a bedroom chair under the door handle, just in case.

I opened the window wide and stuck my head out. The studio doors were still
open, so Mum was still in there. My father was at work still and my sister
was on an archaeological dig somewhere way out west. Good.



I opened the satchel and dredged the paper bag up from the depths. I
examined the girdle carefully again. Now there were folds running across
the front where my stomach had forced it to bend, and I wondered if I ought
to iron it. But shouldn't I wash it first? How on earth could I do that?

I rubbed the taught fabric between my fingers and examined the jangling
suspenders. I needed some stockings. And a skirt. And panties.

Easing the chair out from under the door handle, I crept across the tiny
landing and into my sister's room. Annie is three and a bit years older
than me and was currently away digging up Vikings or Saxons or something; I
really had no idea. Naturally, she'd taken some of her clothes with her,
but there were still plenty here to keep my perversion satisfied. Knowing
exactly where to go, I collected an old, pleated school skirt, some pale
blue knickers and a pair of grey stockings. My heart was thumping in my
chest as I silently opened each draw and cabinet as I had many times
before. It was still particularly exciting this time, as I had something
new to play with as well.

Back into my room, door secured, look out the window – studio door still
open and therefore still occupied.

Tie off, shoes and socks off, trousers off. I left my shirt on as I liked
the sort of school blouse idea. My penis poked out lewdly at half mast.

Now, knickers on first or girdle on first? I had no idea. It had to be
knickers first, didn't it? But then how did they go to the loo? Maybe
that's why women took so long.



Little blue panties on first, and my penis stiffened again.

Now I drew on the strict girdle, but with my knickers underneath it didn't
feel quite so cruel. I ran my hands down my buttocks and my vertical penis
strained in excitement. I rolled the stockings onto my thighs and set about
clipping them into the wire things with the rubber things. Thye were
slightly different to Annie's suspenders, and it took a while to get it
done. But at last, the stockings were secure and as I straightened up, I
felt that lustful tug of stockings against girdle, making it tight against
my body. It felt like heaven, and it felt *right*: I felt feminine.

I stepped into the skirt, zipping and clipping it at the side. I pulled it
up around my waist and tugged my white blouse neatly into place under the
waistband. Now I twirled as I had intended to in Juliet's dress. The
pleated skirt flared out enticingly and I wondered how much I was
showing. I needed a mirror to tell me.

So I removed the chair again and tiptoed back into Annie's room to stand
before her mirror. I looked marvellous. My belly was flat and neat, no lewd
bulge of wanton willy was visible at all. I tucked the skirt under and
marvelled at the shape of my bottom. Now I twirled and skipped carefully
observing what was on display in the mirror. I dragged Annie's chair over
from the desk, sat and crossed my legs; how high up my skirt could I see?
If I sat like this and leant over . . . I could see my suspenders. Gosh it
was so beguiling, I wanted to stay like this – `en femme' – forever.

My penis strained; I needed to masturbate now.

But first I wanted to look at my bottom more closely. I stood and turned
away from the mirror and flicked up my skirt. Compressed by the girdle, my
buttocks had a pretty `smile' line beneath them. I knelt on Annie's chair,
bent over and pulled my skirt right up. The smile lines had disappeared,
and there was the girdle hem and the neat blue knickers beneath.

I turned and sat facing the mirror straight on, pulling the skirt hem above
my knees. Nothing naughty yet, a bit higher and just parted my thighs a bit
– and there it was; a tiny flash of blue knickers. God, how exciting.

I felt neat and lovely and hugely excited all at the same time. I wanted to
whip it out and wank off immediately as well as staying pretty and tidy in
my femme persona. Things were churning up inside.

I stood and lifted the skirt hem in both hands, right up. There were the
stockings linked by strict suspenders over my thighs to this all encasing
girdle, but with a tiny blaze of blue panties peeping out below.

I tried to tug the panties down, but struggled to do so, so I hoiked the
gusset to one side and pulled my willy out. Staring straight ahead at my
actions and underwear in the mirror I started wanking.

I'd like to say that I am fabulously well-endowed, but I'm not. Five
inches, if I'm honest.

Back and forth I pulled the stretched skin about the purple head, getting
perilously close to eruption.

Then I sort of came to my senses. Not in Annie's room, no semen on the
carpet. Careful of the clothes too, I didn't want to have to wash any of
it.

Back into my room, chair in place, I took the skirt of and laid it
carefully on my bed. Now I wiggled the panties down as far as the
suspenders would let me before laying down on my bed and enjoying the
vastly inflated length of my penis. God, it felt powerful, and almost
independently vital and potent.

I wanted to look down at my underwear as I masturbated, but as I was lying
down it was a bit of a problem. So I span up off the bed and I took my
round shaving mirror from the top drawer, propping it against the foot of
my tallboy. I retrieved my hairbrush and a tiny bottle of Johnson's Baby
Oil as well. Kneeling down before the mirror I adjusted the angle so that I
could look up my thighs to my crotch. I quickly oiled my hairbrush handle
and with the brush head on the floor, I sent the smooth and rounded handle
straight into my bottom. Oh what a lovely, feminine feeling; I was being
possessed by the hairbrush handle. I just wished it was a nice hot willy
instead of cold plastic.

Knickers down as far as they would go and girdle up, my erection sprouted
from the gap between the two, pointing up and showing me what I think is
called the frenelum underneath.

Now with a tiny splash of baby oil on both hands, I began to thrust myself
between my lubricated palms which also had the affect of wiggling the
hairbrush handle most deliciously, and I watched the disgusting sight
lustfully in the mirror. Quicker, harder; increasing in urgency and
power. I was now about to come. Up on my knees quite suddenly, I erupted
semen between my hands, sending it all down the front of my tallboy and
over the mirror. Another thrust and another spurt, and another. I tightened
my buttock and anal muscles onto the hairbrush handle still captured in my
bottom. The pleasure in my penis and anus was overwhelmingly intense, and I
closed my eyes as I spurted yet again and again and almost lost
consciousness.

Subsiding now, I held my willy in one hand and removed the hairbrush with
the other, before sinking back onto my heels in delicious exhaustion. I
opened my eyes and calmly noted the semen on the furniture, but now I
looked down and realised that cables of sticky mess also lay across my
stockinged thighs too. Damn, hadn't wanted to do that. I quickly checked
the girdle front, but thankfully it seemed clean and dry. I wiped off my
hands and willy onto a handkerchief before rising rather weak and light
headed to my feet.

I picked up a pair of my khaki shorts, removed the chair from under the
door handle and padded into the adjacent bathroom to clean up.

I washed out the stockings and the blue knickers – into which I must
have leaked loads of pre-cum as they were very sticky – checked that the
girdle was still clean and put the shorts on. Arming myself with some
toilet roll I returned to my bedroom and cleaned the tallboy and shaving
mirror.

Shaving mirror. Hmm.

I tidied up, returned the skirt to my sister's room and went back into the
bathroom to shave.

I shaved my legs, thighs and around my bottom hole. Then I reduced my pubic
hair to a neat triangle surrounding my penis and testicles. I didn't dare
go too close – this was with a Gillette safety razor, after all.

Feeling a little strange, slightly sore and rather fresh, I took my damp
undies into my sister's room and opened the low cupboard in the
corner. Here, I could wiggle around, right into the corner and place the
knickers and stockings onto the hot pipes at the back of the airing
cupboard. Annie's room was always warm because of the airing cupboard and
in the heat that summer, it was positively stifling. I reckoned that the
knickers and stockings should be dry in just a couple of hours.

Back in my own room, I checked that nothing would give me away and hid the
girdle in the space behind the blanket drawer at the bottom of my wardrobe.

And just as I finished that, I heard the scraping slam of mum closing the
studio doors for the evening; she'd be coming back to the house
now. Perfect timing, and somewhere in the oppressive, humid distance,
thunder began to growl.



Alone and in bed that night, I tried to analyze my feelings and
motivations. Outside I heard the thunder roll and crash across the
countryside, inside I raged across my personality looking for the roots of
my perversion.

It was all Annie's fault, I decided.

Annie was three year older than me and as I grew and became aware of her,
Annie was always off doing the exciting things to which I could only
aspire. She was one of life's enthusiasts, full of tales of exciting
experiences wherever she went. Annie would be off having fun at school, at
ballet class, everywhere, while I was left alone with Mum and Dad. And at
the age of four or five, I wondered what the difference was between me and
Annie? What made that fundamental difference between her having fun and me
staying at home? To my open and innocent mind, the answer was
dresses. Annie wore dresses and I didn't. So to have fun, I needed to wear
dresses. And so when Annie went out, I wore her dresses and imagined having
fun. As my ideas developed, I went beyond dresses and wore her shoes,
socks, underwear and made believe that I was having fun as a girl.

Annie was always ahead of me, always my idol and hero – as well as being
my big sister. Whatever Annie did or saw, she reported back to us in
thrilling tones. And to me, her reportage represented the most exquisite
human experience possible, and so I wanted to have all the attributes that
Annie had and to access her special world of fun. And so I cross-dressed
and dreamed of turning into a girl.

The once distant storm now arrived right above me and rain suddenly
hammered onto the shallow roof of the back half of the house and settled
into a steady drumming background as the temperature fell and I was able to
seek the comfort of my crumpled sheets and blankets and finally slept.





With the tremendous thunderstorm in the evening and most of the night, and
I think the whole of England must have suffered a night of shattered
sleep. But when we all awoke, the air was sweeter and cooler, the gardens
positively radiated their damp perfume and it was a lovely, summer day
again.

I met Adrian as arranged in one of the rehearsal rooms, ready to be
sketched. He'd come in especially for me as he was on his way to London for
a rehearsal or something, so he wasn't in school uniform at all. In fact he
was dressed quite distinctively and differently. He wore quite tight, rust
brown trousers or slacks which seemed particularly close around his hips
and bottom. Tucked in to them (they were held up by a lovely crocodile
effect belt in maroon), Adrian wore a cream coloured shirt in poplin. But
it wasn't the colour or material that took my eye, it was the fact that
that the shirt had a collar, short sleeves and almost a cleavage front –
but with no buttons. It was quite loose fitting and very attractive, but it
did look just a bit like a girl's blouse.

Anyway, he sat and played his `cello and I drew him. I've no idea whether
he played Schubert as he'd mentioned, but he was certainly animated and I
felt quite happy with the sketches I'd rattled off.

He glanced up at the clock. "Now I've got to run. Mother's collecting me
and the train's at twelve twenty."

We packed away our respective work tools.

"Are you handing the drawings in today?"

"No tomorrow as it's the last day. And then they go on display in the
library on Monday."

"Will you work on them again later today?"

"No, what I have drawn is what I have drawn!"

"Ooh, get you!"

Well, that was a strange moment. I started to express the kind of idea that
I have been working towards since I was barely a teenager without really
knowing it: whatever I see I commit at that moment, even if it evokes
abstract in the figurative. My work can be seen as the result of many
instantaneous photographs that may or may not fit together. Anyway, that's
for others to figure out!



After school, I went home of course. And just before dinner Mum absolutely
floored me with these two words.

"Those stockings."

I nearly collapsed. I'd left them balanced on the hot pipes in the bloody
airing cupboard that morning. And the knickers too. How on earth could I
have forgotten them?

"Did you wear them for rehearsal?"

Here was a way out. "Yes, really hot and uncomfortable."

"How did you keep them up?"

"My old Scout garters. Much too tight, though. And I had to rinse the
stockings out because they were all sweaty."

She grunted.

"Looking forward to seeing you in the play. Your father's taking the
afternoon off, and we thought we'd go out to supper afterwards. Or are you
having a party with the rest of the cast?"

Hadn't she found the knickers then?

"No, there's going to be party after all the performances are over. You're
coming to the first night, aren't you?"

"Mmm."

Nothing about the knickers at all.

"Do you want something proper to keep the stockings up?"

Oh my goodness, no! Not another girdle or suspender belt! She was my
mother, after all.

"No thanks mum, I've got something from the school to take care of that."

As soon as I decently could, I crept into Annie's room and grovelled my way
into the back of the airing cupboard. They were still there, wrapped around
the hot pipe! Crisp and dry, the knickers were still there! How on earth
did mum not see them, I wondered. But then I stopped, struck by the thought
that maybe she had seen them and didn't want to see them. Maybe this was
her gift to me for not saying anything about her shagging the tree surgeon
all those years before.



The next day - Thursday - I presented my sketches for the Art Competition
to Mrs Trellis in the Art Room. He studied them for a long time, shuffling
the papers back and forth in his hands. At last he seemed to be on the
point of making a pronouncement about them.

"These are rather nice, Wyatt". Mr Trelawny sat and passed one sketch after
another between his hand.

"You're sitting quite closely to this fellow and there's a nice perspective
effect to the figure." He tapped one of the drawings with a sharp scrape on
the stiff, grey Bockingford paper. "Be careful with the moulding in areas
like this; should be very delicate and this is a bit too coarse, y'know."

"Yes, sir."

"Actually, I like the chalk highlights. Didn't think I would. It seems as
though you know this fellow quite well. There's a lot of confidence in the
way you've drawn his face. And you are physically very close to him."

Trelawny turned and looked at me carefully

"Hmm?"

"Yes, sir!" I floundered, what was I supposed to say?

"Anything you want to tell me, Nicky? Anything at all."

"No sir." I was getting flustered and confused.

"It certainly looks as though you know this fellow well. Lots of movement
and enthusiasm. Very nice." Mr Trelawney placed the drawings back on the
table.

"I expect you're quite fond of Adrian."

He turned to me and interwove his fingers across his middle.

"Do you know him well?"

Mr Trelawny's voice had dipped several notes on the word `well'. Looking
back I realised that he was asking if Adrian and I had enjoyed sexual
relations, and trying to draw me out. Mr Trelawny was interested, but at
the time it all meant nothing to me

"Sir?"

"Nothing my boy." He straightened himself up in the chair and cleared his
throat.

"Very good, Wyatt. This a good quality set of sketches. I look forward to
the exhibition next week. Well done!"

And that was it. I almost felt as though I was sleep-walking out of his
office. Nothing made sense any more. What had he expected me to say?



I scrunched my way down the gravel drive towards the school gates.

At the end of gravel, there was a figure waiting for me. Adrian.

He smiled as I approached. This delicate spirit inhabited a world of
absolutes: cello good, electric guitar bad: Hugh at one point good, Hugh at
this point bad. I needed to find out why.

"Well, how'd yer get on?"

"Not sure, really. Mrs Trellis really liked the sketches, but . . ."

I trailed away. I couldn't explain what had happened or my funny feelings,
or even who I thought I was at that moment.

"Anyway. How was the rehearsal thing in London yesterday?"

"It went very well and I'm very happy. They want me for the String Quartet,
too!"

"Oh Adrian, bloody well done. I'm so happy for you. That's absolutely
wonderful!"

"Ooh, Nicky!"

And he stepped sideways and up to me and squeezed my hand.

 "Adrian!" I hissed at him "there are people!" And he froze, and then he
took a step away, looking attentively into the distance. He knew what he'd
done and he knew what his movement had implied. I hadn't smacked his hand
away or rejected the action, I just warned him to be discrete.

Adrian continued looking away from me, and his voice drifted back to me on
the warm breeze.

"Come back to my house? It's just round the corner."

"Okay."



End of Part Three.

Tell me what you think. nickwyatt42@gmail.com