We lay with our arms twined around each other and played tonsil hockey. Hugging and cuddling was not exactly what I had been dreaming about for a month or so but now that we were doing just that I didn’t want to stop. My imagination had been turned to more carnal pursuits. I had wanted to feel his cock inside me (and still did) but somehow things were not going that way. Yet.

A few weeks before, this man and I had met for the first time in six years. He had been my best friend at school for the whole of our secondary years, from age 11 to 17 and then we had gone different ways. The path I chose was a little more drastic than his. I was a girl now and he was still male and a very nice looking male too. I hadn’t really appreciated that before.

I had come back to my home town to try making peace with my parents and that had been a miserable failure. The silver lining in that visit was my reunion with Geoff, but even that had turned out to be totally different from what I had expected.

What I had wanted was a friend. The acceptance by my former best buddy of my new gender was my goal, and I got that in spades. Circumstances led to our becoming lovers on that very same day; something totally unplanned and unexpected. As far as I knew until it happened I just wasn’t into men, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t get enough of him.

I had gone back to London and just about drove Lucy, my lover and mentor, round the bend raving on about him. I had no secrets from her so I gave her all the juicy details and over the following weeks had talked to him almost daily on the phone like some love-sick teenager. When she answered before I could get there she took the mickey out of me unmercifully.

“Suzie, it’s your lover-boy,” she would yell as if I were at the other end of the flat, when actually I was right next to her trying to rip the phone out of her hands while she held it over her head. She couldn’t get it out of my reach because I was taller than her and always wore heels anyway.

Don’t get me wrong. Lucy is the light of my life and she knows it too. Even though I had this thing for Geoff I wasn’t going to leave her, but we talked it through, and we knew that I had to sort out where he fitted into our lives and now that I was suddenly interested in men...well, one man ... where that took us. We agreed as we kissed and cuddled and fondled each other in bed that I was going to have to spend some more time with him. That was the measure of our trust in each other; a love grown over the last six years and her utter support for me in becoming the girl I am now. She knew I would never betray her.

Even so, I would get wet down below when I was thinking about him and I would go off into space imagining him inside me and my fingers entwined in the hair on his chest. I would dance around the flat while I was doing my chores singing “I Feel Pretty” and other such nauseating tunes. We agreed there was only one cure and that was for me to go and spend some time with him. Not too much though.

That’s how come I was driving us to Brighton on a fine sunny summer Wednesday and bopping along to the Stones’ latest “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” as we passed Reigate. It was making Lucy nervous as she reckoned I wasn’t putting enough concentration into driving. I was actually, but I humoured her and stopped jumping up and down. I still kept on singing along with Jagger, though I was having some problems with the lower notes. Lucy winced every now and then.

The plan was that we would go to her flat in Brighton, in The Lanes, Black Lion Street. And on Friday I would go to meet Geoff at the railway station as if I had come down by train and stay with him for the next week. We weren’t trying to be deceptive, but if things went pear-shaped I would have a bolt-hole. Lucy was going to return to London on the Friday so as not to be a wallflower or cramp my style.

We spent Thursday reopening the flat and getting everything prepared for a hypothetical emergency and later on readying ourselves for a week apart in the best possible way. On Friday we got me ready to meet Geoff as if I were a bride about to go to the church and I was probably as nervous as if that had been what was happening.

But all eventually went as planned and she dropped me off at Brighton Station at about 4.30 on Friday afternoon and we kissed each other good-bye. If everything went well I would spend the next week with Geoff in his flat in Hove (actually). I have to explain that. Brighton and Hove are twin towns. Only the locals can tell where one stops and the other starts, but Hove has the reputation of being the posh part, so when snobs were asked, “Do you come from Brighton?” the answer would be “No, Hove, actually.”

So there I was with two suitcases standing under the clock next to the departures board on the station concourse. I had put a lot of thought into how I should dress and decided that casual was the way to go. After all, this was the seaside in summer. I was wearing black matador pants and an oversized beige man’s sweater with a V-neck, sleeves pushed up to my elbows, 4 inch heels (because I knew that turned him on) and a large raffia bag matching the beige colour of the sweater and shoes. Simple but sexy, not sluttish. My hair this week was a la Britt Eklund, Peter Sellers’ latest squeeze, fringe cut straight across the eyebrows, long face-framing tresses and very blonde, courtesy of my own salon and our manager Angela’s whims. She always used me as her guinea-pig. This time I thought it had turned out all right. My make-up was light except for my eyes, where I had put in a lot of effort with liner, mascara and shadow to get that big doe-eyed melting innocent look.

In my heels I stood 6 feet 2 inches and I felt like a lighthouse standing there waiting for him. He wasn’t going to be able to miss me. I was the tallest girl in sight. The lighthouse image began to play erotic games with my mind and I was imagining the Eddystone with a huge pair of ruby lips descending from the sky to engulf it when I spotted him coming towards me across the station. I don’t know if I mentioned it but he’s only 5 feet 5 inches tall, perfectly proportioned and with black curly hair. He looks like Tony Curtis. He was very smart in a dark suit and tie, coming straight from work.

I watched him come and I wanted to throw him to the ground there and then, rip both our pants off and make love. Wouldn’t that cause a sensation? But then again maybe not. This was England after all and it could just as easily have resulted in all the bowler-hatted business types tipping their hats and saying “Excuse Me” or averting their eyes and ignoring us as we rutted in front of them on the station concourse.

Of course, when he reached me, what I actually did was bend my knees a little and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. He took my hand and smiled up at me.

“Hi, you look smashing and I’m glad you’re here. I was a bit worried you wouldn’t come.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, and why wouldn’t I come? I said I would and here I am.” I could see he was nervous and wondered why. I brushed some imaginary fluff from the shoulders of his jacket, feeling again a surge of affection.

“Well, it is a bit of a weird situation, you and me.”

Ah, that was it. Was he having second thoughts? I certainly wasn’t. Then he cut the conversation short by picking up my bags.

“Will we go and get a cab and go home?” he asked. I just smiled and nodded. I wanted to take his arm but it was hard when he was carrying my bags, so I walked beside him towards the taxi rank and waited until he and the driver put the cases in the boot and he opened the door for me before climbing into the back seat. He walked round to the other side and got in himself.

“79, The Drive, Hove, please,” he told the cabbie and we were away.

It was only about a ten-minute journey from Brighton station but I wrapped an arm into his and held him tight all the way. He laid his head on my shoulder and relaxed. We didn’t say anything; I think both averse to an intimate conversation in front of the driver. We arrived, unloaded, and he paid the fare and carried the luggage to the front door. His flat was on the first floor and as soon as he had unlocked the door and carried my bags inside I shut it and grabbed him, forcing him to put down the cases. I took his face in both my hands and kissed him properly like I’d wanted to as soon as I saw him. This time he put his arms around me and held me to him while I made sure he knew I was glad to see him.

When we broke for breath I let my arms slide around his neck and we stood for a few seconds with our faces inches apart, just looking at each other. He gave me one of his trade-mark grins.

“Really weird,” he said.

“OK, explain yourself. I thought you were all right with me.”

“Oh, I am. If I wasn’t do you think I would have asked you to come down here?” He took one arm off me and stroked my hair. “It’s me I guess. Don’t forget, you’ve had six years to get used to yourself and I’ve only seen you once and had a month. I keep on getting flashbacks to when you were still a boy and I wonder how we’ve both changed. I mean, can you ever have imagined the two of us standing like this? We just kissed and we’re holding each other and I want to kiss you again.”

“So shut up and do it. Save the introspection till later.” And like a good boy he did what he was told.

Eventually we let go of each other and he carried my gear to the bedroom, obviously the main one, with a queen-size bed and built-in wardrobes, and a shower/toilet opening off it (what today would be called an en-suite). He sat on the bed while I unpacked my stuff and hung it or put it in drawers. I checked his clothing quietly as I did and it was clean and tidy but could have been better ironed. The bathroom was tolerably clean but I would make it sparkle tomorrow. Men! They might try but they’re not very good at looking after themselves.

“So I’m supposed to share your bed, am I?” I asked mischievously, “and is that where you and Carole used to cavort?”

His mouth twisted and I knew I had been insensitive. There were wounds there.

“There wasn’t much cavorting after we’d been married a few weeks,” he said, “and, yes, I want you to share my bed. That’s all right, isn’t it?” He was almost apologetic.

I stopped unpacking and went over to the bed and sat with him, putting my arms around him and pulling him close to me.

“I’ve wanted you to make love to me again ever since I was down here before, so of course I’ll sleep with you, although sleeping will come second I hope, and when you’re ready you can tell me about Carole, but I always knew she was a bitch,” I said cattily and feeling my previous dislike for her grow stronger. How dare she hurt my lovely Geoff?
He returned my embrace and snuggled his face into my cleavage, which I loved. I wanted him to suck my nipples there and then and I wanted......

I pulled away from him and pushed him back down on the bed; the rest of the unpacking could wait. I proceeded to undress him. He had already taken off his jacket, so I removed his shoes and socks, unbuckled his belt and undid the zip on his trousers, then pulled them down together with his underpants, letting them fall to the floor. I wasn’t going to bother with his shirt but decided I wanted him totally naked, so I got rid of his tie and unbuttoned him, pulling him semi-upright so I could strip off his singlet too. Voila! He was stark naked and a surge of pure lust ran through me. I fondled his cock and kissed the tip, then stopped.

It was soft. I looked at his face and he was totally miserable. I thought I knew how to fix that, so I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my sweater and shimmied my pants down to my ankles, sitting on the bed next to him before removing them altogether. I made a bit of a production of taking off my bra and sliding my panties down and kicking them away. Then I struck a pose with my arms behind my head to make my breasts stick out and one knee forward, like a porn magazine model.

He didn’t even laugh and his body didn’t react at all. He just lay on top of the bed and then I saw tears streaming down his face. I hadn’t noticed because he was lying on his back and they were going to the side beneath his ears. What was wrong with him? I moved forward and cupped his cheeks in both hands.

"What's wrong, love?"

“I’m sorry, Suzie. I’ve been like this for the last couple of years. I thought I was over it when I met you last month, but I’m not.”

“Is it her?” I asked, as I stroked his face, wiping the tears away. I was on the bed kneeling astride him now. My poor boy, who used to be so cocky. I laid myself down next to him and put my arms around his neck. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. She really became an out-and-out bitch after we were married and she seemed to manage to make every little thing my fault. Sleeping with her.....the bed was a war-zone. She found all the right buttons to press and made me feel inadequate. I was so relieved when she left, but then afterwards, every time I tried to get a girl it ended up like this; until you came along and I thought I was over it. Obviously I’m not.”

“But you were OK a month ago.”

“I think the situation was so unreal that I forgot about it, but now it’s all back again.”

As I cuddled him and stroked his hair I remembered how terrified I had been about not being able to perform as a man. How much worse it must be for him, who I always remembered as an effortless Don Juan. Of course, what we think we see and what really is are often different things, and we were teenagers then, with all our bravado and pretences. I tried to kiss his hurt away but I could tell it wasn’t working.

I got up and went and got dressing gowns for both of us.

“Come on. I’ll make us a cup of tea.” How British can you get?

I towed him to the kitchen and with him telling me where to find the makings I did just that and we sat at the table with our mugs and looked at each other. He began to talk.

“I still can’t understand how she seemed to change almost from the day we got married. They say wedding-cake is the most effective contraceptive in the world and in my case that was just about true.

“She really hated you, you know. She kept on going on about you being a queer and that I must be a queer too because I liked you. She used to say I must have been sticking my cock up your arse and I only pretended to like girls and she didn’t want my filthy shitty prick inside her. In fact, now I think back on it she went on about you so much I think she must have been jealous, although I don’t know why.

“If I stayed out for a drink, like Friday night after work, it was because I liked men more than her. So, after a few times, I hated going home and I would get pissed so I could let it go over my head. She would just wait until the morning and give it all to me again when I was hung-over. Then there was money. Honestly, I set up a joint account straight after the wedding and she could have as much as she wanted, but it was never enough. The third week of the month there was nothing left. It would get really embarrassing when I used a cheque to pay a bill and it bounced.

“I changed it and gave her her own account with half my earnings. That meant I didn’t trust her, which was true, of course, so I copped hell over that. I couldn’t believe she was spending that much so I hired a private detective. Can you imagine? I never thought I’d do anything like that. He found she was giving money to her no-good shit of a brother, who was spending it on booze and horses and her little sister, who was into clothes and drugs, so I was supporting half her family and their bad habits.

“What pissed me off the most was when she threw my gipsy blood in my face. You know, “we’re shiftless and we’re wastrels and we steal and we’re not to be trusted”. It shouldn’t have, I know, but it all got to me. So after she left every time I got near a girl I would wonder if she would be another Carole, and if I could cope with her, and I’m sorry, but it even happened with you just now. I don’t know what I can do about it.”

What could I say? Now, this shows how much I had changed, because I actually said, “All right, we’ll come back to all that later. What did you plan on doing for dinner tonight?”

“Uh, I was going to take you out.”

“Well, we’re obviously not going out now, so what have you got in the fridge? I’ll cook something for us.” The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right? So we checked and basically all there was were eggs and cheese and some cold ham and a few other bits and pieces so I rustled us up an omelette. There was wine so we drank a bottle and a bit and afterwards I sent him off to have a cigarette while I cleared away and washed up and then we sat together in the lounge and had another glass and I joined him with a cigarette.

“Thanks for all that. You’re a much better cook than me,” he said.

I cuddled into him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“For you, anything,” and I meant it.

All this time I had been thinking about how I could make him better and now I had Plan A and Plan B and maybe even Plan C. I tell you, I hadn’t come down here for a week not to get laid.

A little later we showered together and I made sure I soaped him ALL over but nothing happened except we both got clean. Oh well, so much for Plan A. So we went to bed. I suppose the food and the wine had an effect and he went to sleep fairly quickly after we had an extended snog and lay with our arms around each other, but still no action in strategic regions. I couldn’t sleep because I was scheming and didn’t want to anyway. When he started to snore gently it was time for Plan B.

Making sure he was well asleep I pulled down the bedding and looked at him as he lay naked in all his glory. Just looking made me horny. My god, was I the same girl that didn’t like men only a month or so ago? Time for philosophy later, I was on a mission. I got to my knees and started to fondle his cock, running my fingernails very lightly along it. YESSS! Things began to harden up and soon he was standing like my mental lighthouse, but I never heard a lighthouse snore before.

Decision time. Would I take this lovely erection in my mouth? No. I decided it was meat-and —potatoes time. Embellishment and frivolities could come later. The first objective was to get him past the state of mind which that bitch Carole had left him in. I wondered why the cow had hated me so much. Well, I’d give her something to really hate me for in a minute.

I carefully straddled my beautiful sleeping boy, squatting over his rigid prick as he slept.I slowly ran my nails through the small tuft of hair and spread my legs wide. I parted both sets of lips, one in a smile, and slipped down slowly and gently as he slept, already lubricated, savouring the feeling as I engulfed him. Oh yes. This was what I wanted. I began to slowly move up and down, flexing my vaginal muscles as I did so. We didn’t have Toyotas in those days but “Oh, what a feeling!”. I don’t know exactly what my surgeon did, but whatever it was he surely did it right.

He seemed to get harder and I certainly got wetter. I moved a little quicker and lengthened my stroke. I was enjoying this and if he woke up I wanted him to enjoy it too, but I figured that he would remember it sub-consciously if he didn’t waken and it would alleviate that feeling of inadequacy she had bequeathed to him. He was definitely harder and I was close to climaxing. Normally I scream or yell when I come (as Lucy is fond of reminding me) but I was restraining myself. I felt that extra swelling inside me which signifies when a man is about to fire all his ammunition and I knew I was on the verge too, and suddenly we both lost it simultaneously. It was lovely. Juices surged in both directions and I shook like a dog that had got wet.

He still didn’t wake up! But there was a smile on his face that wasn’t there before. My pussy was absolutely drenched and leaking as I squatted over him, so I disengaged and quickly went to the bathroom where I grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped myself before going back and dealing with him. His cock had deflated now but I thought that I had achieved my aims. I finished cleaning us both up and rejoined him in bed, stroking his chest-hair and snuggling in. The last thing I remember before going to sleep was making a mental note to get up early in the morning.

I did indeed wake up first in the morning. That was good. Although Plan B had worked, at least subliminally, I wanted to put Plan C into action. While he still slept I went and showered. Then I dressed in the French maid’s uniform that I had brought with me for fun. I didn’t put on any undies, because if my plan worked they would just get in the way.

I went to the kitchen and began to prepare breakfast. I knew we had eggs and I found some bacon and tomatoes and bread which was still OK. There was coffee too, real stuff, not Camp or Nescafe, thank goodness. Actually he looked after himself quite well for a guy, which I thought a good sign.

I had turned on the radio and was singing along to Eric Burdon and the Animals in “House of the Rising Sun” when there was this roar of laughter behind me and I turned to see Geoff doubled over, dressed only in his dressing-gown.

“Good morning, you. What’s so funny?” I actually had a fair idea, which was part of my plan.

“My very own French maid. I never thought of that,” he gasped out.”And you still can’t sing.”

“Eh bien. Zen m’sieur is vair lerkee. Please to sit and eat ze petit dejeuner.” His timing was good and I placed a plate on the table and got cutlery for him and poured the coffee. I fussed around cleaning the cooking gear while he ate and generally filled in time until he finished his toast and marmalade. Then I straddled him, sitting on his lap and kissed him, tasting the orange sweetness on his lips.

I guess men will always get a laugh out of French maids, because we are the ultimate expression of submissiveness and sexual titillation apart from being chained up naked with our legs apart. I know wearing the uniform has always turned me on. I like being submissive. I want somebody strong to take care of me. I wanted him to take care of me, even if I had to teach him how to do it. And I like to serve and take care of them, to an extent. Anyway, back to the matter not quite in hand.

As I sat astride him I felt him become erect. I slid from his lap and knelt in front of him, parting his robe as I did.
“Ah, m’sieur. Ze next course. Saucisse Anglais,” and I bent forwards and took his prick in my mouth and this time there was no problem. I sucked and kissed and licked and stroked until he came quite satisfactorily. You know, long nails really work well as a stimulant in some circumstances. Then I stood before him and raised my skirt, revealing my naked clitty and advanced towards his face.

“Zair is a dessert, M’sieur. It is called Huitres Francaise. Do you wish to eat?” and I lowered myself onto his face, and he licked me and sucked me and I held his head against me until I screamed and came and collapsed back into his lap again.

“Wow! Much better than kippers. Can I have that for breakfast every morning?” he asked, licking his lips. Obviously Plan C had worked. I had banked on the fact that it’s hard to be impotent when you are faced with a symbol of submission.

I hugged him and cradled his face in my hands and we both grinned at each other.

“Could you handle it?” I asked.

“Probably not, but it’s a nice thought. I had a dream last night too, that you and I were OK and those bad feelings had gone away.”

I just smiled and kissed him again. I felt all proprietorial (is that a word? You know what I mean). He belonged to me now, not that bitch. I could have sat there all day on his lap, arms around his neck, except that something kept poking me between my legs. I felt really soppy and happy and I wanted him to fuck me until I couldn’t stand up, but we didn’t do that. We went back to bed and I took off my uniform and he fucked me and I sucked him until we were both exhausted. I could still stand up though...just enough to get to the toilet. And that only took us to lunchtime!

I loved him and now I knew he loved me. We must have told each other a hundred times (I know. I shouldn't exaggerate. It was probably only fifty) that morning and my heart sang with every repetition. Somehow I didn’t have any problem with the new relationship between us. I wasn’t a boy any more and had probably never really been one, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall having any sexual feelings for him before a month ago. A kind of fondness, yes, and if he had ever wanted or needed help I would have been there for him. Would you call that camaraderie? I don’t honestly know, but what I felt now was definitely love.

If someone wanted to harm him I would stand in the way. I would kill them if need be. I wanted his arms around me, his hands on my body. I wanted his lips on mine. I wanted to cuddle him and......you know... everything. If I could have had children I wanted them to be his. I wanted to spend my life with him. And I still wanted my Lucy. Was this going to work out?

On his part he was still having problems with “us”. He would suddenly shake his head and hold me tighter and I would say, “What’s wrong?” And he would say, for instance:

“I just thought about that time you cried in class over that poem. Everybody thought you were weird. A couple of the dickheads said they would beat the shit out of you and I told them they would have to go through me first and they backed off. They couldn’t understand why I would stand up for you, and I asked them how it hurt them and they couldn’t answer me. It’s funny. Even then you were actually teaching me to be a better person.”

“No,” I said. “You were nice already.”

His problem was not really with my sex change but trying to reconcile his relationship before with his feelings for me now. It made me love him more because he had basically been a very decent boy before any of this had happened and he had looked out for me without my even knowing about half of it. And as he had said, he had only had a month to get used to all of this and I had had six years.

Saturday morning we had sorted out the basics and hopefully got over the hang-ups left to him by Carole. Now we still had a long week-end in front of us and we couldn’t make love ALL the time, worse luck. So Saturday afternoon we went for a walk down to the sea-front and along the promenade. The weather was lovely, a cloudless day, temperature 79 degrees F, a light breeze. It took ten minutes down The Drive and Grand Avenue and then we walked towards Brighton past the beach-huts lining the promenade. I wore a strapless sundress, white with a pattern of big red roses, a big straw hat and oversize sunglasses. He insisted that I wore high heels, and I had on rope-soled wedgies, and so, of course I towered over him, but that’s what he wanted and I went along to please my man. He wore casual slacks, deck shoes and a Hawaiian shirt and looked delectable. I wanted to eat him, and later I would; one bit anyway.

In the evening we went out to eat and had a steak dinner at the Grand Hotel, still casually dressed. I admit I needed the protein after my earlier exertions. I wanted to cook for him but there wasn’t a lot in his fridge. Breakfast was the limit really or a sandwich. I would make up for it next week.

Back home and we may have set some kind of record stripping off but we had to pause and clean our teeth before leaping into bed giggling and tickling each other. He had ticklish feet and I never knew before. He couldn’t stand it and thrashed like mad trying to get away from me, until he had me pinned down and I stopped struggling. I remember his face coming down to mine and me waiting for the kiss and then we were locked together and I felt him getting hard between my legs and my hand steered him in to safe harbour.

When you’re in love it’s such a beautiful feeling to have that stone-hard pole moving inside you and feel your control disappearing, dissolving into a kind of mindless euphoria until your whole body spasms and bucks like some kind of trapped animal. Oh, Lucy, I just hope I made you feel like this when my cock was still working.

It struck me then that I was one of the luckiest people in the world. I had experienced making love as both a boy and a girl, and how many people could say that?

We only made love once that night. It seemed to go on and on and on and I lost count of my orgasms, not that I was counting anyway. It must have been because of our wild morning, but we fell asleep in each other’s arms with his tool still inside me.

I woke first again in the morning and disengaged carefully so as not to disturb him. I left him there while I did my ablutions and had a shower. I wore my maid’s uniform again, but with full underwear this time. I think I was too sore to play too much this morning anyway. I made myself properly presentable, make-up and hair nicely done, stocking seams straight and heels on, very professional, and went looking for breakfast. It was going to be baked beans on toast this morning, not a great deal of choice. The coffee was holding out though. I was going to have to get some orange juice later.

When everything was nearly ready I went and kissed him awake and asked if M’sieur was going to get up. He grinned and asked if he was having the same as yesterday.

“Don’t be greedy. Only baked beans today. Dry bread and water tomorrow if we don’t go shopping. Besides, I’m too sore. You’ll have to wait.” That made him laugh as he rolled out of bed and put on a dressing-gown.

“Um, I do like having a French maid. I could get used to this very easily.”

“Well, buster, don’t get too used to it. I’m only here for a week.”

He grabbed me and I squealed, struggling (weakly) to free myself. “But you’ll come back, won’t you?”

“Don’t know, depends what I’m offered.” That’s all I got out before he kissed me. His beard really scratched, but I didn't care. I freed myself and pulled him to the kitchen to eat. I served up his baked beans on toast and coffee and sat opposite him and watched him eat. There was something really satisfying in feeding him even if it was very ordinary fare. I poured him a second cup of coffee and had one myself. At least the coffee was good.

He made it obvious after breakfast that he wanted a repeat of yesterday. So did I, but it was time for a little discipline, so I sent him off for a shower while I cleaned up the dishes and told him to get dressed because he was going shopping while I cleaned the place up. Shopping on a Sunday in those days wasn’t that easy. There were all these crazy laws dating from the Puritans in the sixteenth century or there-abouts which said you could buy things ready to eat but not things that needed cooking, so you could buy an apple, for instance, but not bacon, so you had to shop around and find places that were actually open and also prepared to turn a blind eye to the law.

He went off grumbling something about, “Put a bloody boy in a dress....”

When he came back I gave him a list; eggs, orange juice, milk, bacon, tea, etc.

“You could‘ve just told me. I’m not stupid.”

“No. You’re a man. Now be a good boy and go and get them.” I kissed him.

“Bloody women. All the same.” Don’t you just love ‘em?

As soon as he had gone out I phoned Lucy and gave her a very quick report that everything was OK, but boy did I have lots to tell her when I got back. I signed off with an “I love you, darling,” and a kissy sound into the mouthpiece.

Then I got into making the place decent; made the bed, cleaned the bathroom properly, found the dirty clothes and put them in the washing-machine, scrubbed the kitchen surfaces, dusted the worst bits, swept the floors. There was plenty left to do but it was a start. I could get into it properly when he went back to work on Tuesday. One thing he needed was a vacuum-cleaner. Had that lazy cow Carole ever really cleaned this place? It didn’t look like it to me.

He came back after a couple of hours with everything I had listed. I think he might have been scared that I’d give him a hard time if he didn’t. If that was the case he got it back-to-front. I wanted him to give ME a hard time and once we had everything put away I gave him his reward. I suppose it had been a waste of time making the bed, because I had to make it again afterwards, and change the sheets to boot, but I didn’t object to lying back there as a maid and letting him have his wicked way with me. I was going to have to get those clothes dry-cleaned too.

We went out again later in the afternoon. This time we decided to go for a swim. I was nervous because I hadn’t swum in public since I was a boy, but I wore a plum-coloured bikini beneath an identical coloured caftan to go to the beach, same big hat and outsized sunglasses, although this time I wore flat thong-type sandals. He wore shorts and sandals and a polo-shirt over a pair of boxer-type bathing-trunks. We took a couple of huge beach towels.

I still don’t know why anyone swims at the beach in Brighton or Hove(actually). You have these big pebbles all over the beach proper with a tiny bit of sand exposed at low tide, and the water is freezing. So when you’ve changed you hobble over the stones and immerse yourself in this ice-cold sea and try to pretend you’re enjoying it, while the goose-pimples pile up all over you. On top of that I was as white as a ghost, no tan at all. The upside was that nobody took any notice of me. Thank goodness, because I think my breasts shrank to the size of crab-apples and my nipples (which nobody could see) to the size of raisins. Bloody Geoff cavorted in the water and kept on splashing me, the bastard, and the more I screamed and cowered the more he seemed to enjoy it. I was glad to get out. The things we do for love.

Eventually we dried off, changed back to street gear and went home. There are a lot of things that I don’t miss about my home town, and that’s one, but I clung to my man, teeth chattering on that warm afternoon as we made our way up The Drive, and when we got home I went straight into the shower to get warm and wash the salt off. He came in too and I helped him freshen up. Bugger. Nothing happened, but I think it was the cold even though he was trying to be all nonchalant, but I could tell because he had shrunk dramatically down there.

We had to go out for dinner again that evening, no choice, no food (suitable that is) at home. I insisted that this time it was on me and, when he reluctantly agreed, I rang the Metropole and booked a table.

This meant dress-up and of course I did it deliberately. First I laid out a nice white shirt and paisley tie for him to go with a navy-blue suit. He was easy to dress with those dark good-looks of his. Naturally though, I was rather selfishly thinking of myself. I had brought down a lovely LBD cocktail frock which wasn’t going back to London without being worn. It had a halter neck with a very deep Vee neckline and a low back, the skirt was tight around my bum and thighs before flaring a little to my knees and splitting into triple layers of tulle as it did so, making it nice and swishy as I moved.

Being a girl isn’t all about dresses and glamour but there’s something about being able to put on a show that I think appeals to the female in all of us. To be able to look as nice as you can and not only pretty yourself up but to look good on the arm of your man and maybe turn a few heads. That evening I wore dark grey panty-hose so as not to spoil the line of the skirt with suspenders, and evening sandals in silver to match a 3 inch wide silver belt. I couldn’t wear a bra but the dress had built-in half-cups which pushed my breasts in to give great cleavage. I took special care with my make-up, again emphasising my eyes, but not forgetting to use a deep crimson lippy. My hair was easy, the Britt Eklund style fell into place with a little brushing and I finished off with some dangly ear-rings, a necklace pointing to my cleavage and a bangle, all in silver to go with my ash-blonde hair, the Nordic goddess look, completed with a silver clutch-purse and a black knitted shawl. I gave myself a couple of spritzes of Chanel No.5, always a safe bet, for good measure.

When I looked at myself in the mirror I knew I looked pretty good and when I went into the lounge-room he was waiting for me.

“Christ, I thought you were going to be all night,” and then he did a double-take when he really looked at me.

“Fuck me dead. You’re really gorgeous. Forget I said anything. If you wind up looking like that you can take as long as you like, anytime.”

“Is that a compliment? You phrase things so elegantly. You look quite nice too,” and I stepped close and straightened his tie a little, mainly so he would get a chance to ogle my cleavage. I was using all my charms to make sure his attention didn’t wander and remind him what would be waiting for him when we got home. “Well, have you called a cab?”

“Uh, no. I was waiting for you. I’ll do it now,” and he picked up the phone and dialled, all the time gawping at me. I loved the effect I was having on him.

The taxi company said there would be one with us in five minutes, so we walked outside and waited in the lovely evening air. Being summer it was still daylight and the cab came very quickly and ten minutes later we were at the Metropole, arguably Brighton’s premier hotel. The doorman opened the cab door for me while Geoff paid the fare and I stepped out and waited for him so that I could put my arm in his and let him escort me in. A lady must make a proper entrance, after all.

Another uniform held the hotel door open for us and I gave him a big thank you smile as we walked in and headed for the signature French restaurant, where the maitre d’ checked our reservation (made in my name) and ushered us to a table, where he made a point of seating me, and taking my wrap. Being a holiday the place was quite crowded, probably Londoners down for a dirty weekend. I felt like sticking my tongue out at them. I was here for a dirty week. I sensed a few eyes on me and was suitably gratified and hoped they envied Geoff. Occasionally it’s nice being a lamp-post. One does get noticed.

“Hey!” I said to my man mischievously, “How do you think I’d go as a French maid here?”

“You’d be a sensation if you served up those Huitres Francaises. We could sell tickets. All the men would want seconds and the women would be royally pissed. I think Saucisse Anglais would be very popular too. Of course, I’d have to kill you.”

We both laughed, but I mentally patted myself on the back for the little display of jealousy.

A waiter came and gave us menus and asked if we would like a drink to start. I ordered a Chardonnay and Geoff asked for a Manhattan, wow, very sophisticated. I was impressed. He also ordered a bottle of Chablis for our main meal.
When they brought our drinks I ordered grilled salmon and Geoff Dover Sole. The meals came and we ate but it was him I was devouring. Do you recall that scene in the movie “Tom Jones”? It was a bit like that but not so blatant. Although I loved the dress that I was wearing I wanted to get out of it and be naked close to him. Still, you can’t rush these things and they do say that half the pleasure is in the anticipation (bullshit!), so we ate our mains and then had some pudding, which for the life of me I can’t remember eating, and coffee. I paid, after a quiet argument. While he wasn’t poor I was relatively well off.

It was a lovely meal, good food and drink served promptly and unobtrusively and garnished with love. What more needs to be said? He pulled my chair out for me when we left, the maitre d’ produced my shawl and Geoff placed it over my shoulders. I took his arm and left that place feeling like a princess.

We got a cab and went home and it was all I could do to restrain myself from ravishing him. When I rested my hand on his lap I was reminded of that gorgeous Mae West line “Is that a pistol in your pocket....?” so it wasn’t clear who was going to be ravishing whom, although I was keen to be the “whom”.

I won’t keep going on about our love-making or you’ll either get bored or think I’m a dirty-minded bitch (OK? So?). Let’s just say it was great. The demons had been laid to rest and we revelled in each other. Over the next six days we both got a good sexual workout. For me it was like when Lucy showed me what it was all about but being on the receiving end. For Geoff?.....Well, he certainly seemed to enjoy himself. I didn’t hear any complaints.

So Sunday was a lovely day all round and Monday, the last of the holiday weekend, was just as good. We went swimming again and I started to get a tan-line, the first female one I ever had, with cup marks and a bikini line across my back. I still hated that water though. Next time I went swimming it was going to be somewhere like the French Riviera. In the evening we went to a nice little Italian restaurant and filled up on pasta, before going home and shagging each other silly.

Tuesday I again got up early to make his breakfast, but wore my matadors and a tee-top, much to his disappointment. We didn’t have time before he had to go to work and my maid’s outfit needed cleaning anyway. He was very uncomplimentary about my singing on “Eight Days A Week” which was playing when I got him up. Some people just don’t appreciate music.

So I sent him off to work like a good little (well, not so little) wife. Oh God, I just said the “W” word. I wanted to be his wife! I oh so wanted it! Would he? What was Lucy going to think? But I loved him and I loved Lucy. To put off thinking about it I began to clean the flat. It was a nice flat. I haven’t said too much about it because I’ve been wrapped up in our personal relations so far. It had two bedrooms, an en-suite bathroom and a second shower/toilet, a kitchen, a laundry, a living/dining room and an entry hallway. The rear faced on to a beautiful common garden, which all the flats had access to and was maintained by a gardener paid for jointly by the tenants. He obviously loved it; you could see the care and attention he put into it. Geoff later told me that they had a resident badger, but I didn't see it.

The building itself, like all in The Drive, was a solid late-Victorian or early-Edwardian mansion which had been sub-divided into flats without losing its charm and there were communal tennis courts immediately across the road. Altogether, a very nice piece of property and a very salubrious address in Hove (actually). I knew he had stretched himself to the financial limit in buying it and he had had to fend off attempts by Carole to have it sold so that she could get half the proceeds.

I waited until about ten before phoning Lucy, to give her time to get herself organised, having worked theatre hours. I told her that everything was going well and I was sure I would stay the rest of the week, and that he needed looking after.

“So do I”, she said and I could almost hear the pout in her voice.

“Oh, darling, I know you do and I’m coming back to you on Saturday, and then I’ll make it up to you. It’s only a few more days.” I didn’t mention the marriage bit. There are some things you shouldn’t do over the phone, but I felt guilty.
Instead I said, “We’ll have so much to talk about. I have to tell you about this cow he was married to, as well as everything else we’ve been doing. What about you? Anything interesting happened?”

“No. All quiet this end. I just want you home. I miss you. Do you realise we’ve hardly been apart in six years? It never struck me how noisy you are. I even miss your singing,” and she laughed.

My singing’s not THAT bad. I can't understand why everybody goes on about it.

When we finished I went back to cleaning and did the second bedroom and toilet, leaving myself the ironing and dusting to do on Wednesday. Then I got ready to go out. I had to do more shopping and take my uniform to be dry-cleaned. Tonight I wanted to cook him a decent dinner. I changed my clothes, putting on a pair of jeans that I had to jump up and down in to get into, making myself giggle as my boobs bounced. I had to wear a black front-fastening bra to go with a black boat-necked top with short sleeves, a waist-hugger that I then tucked into my jeans, so my shape stood out, hips, waist and bust; flat black slippers and just a pink lippy and some mascara to let me bat my eyelashes at anyone interested; a quick brush of my hair and I was away down to George Street to do some basic purchases.

It was a pleasant quarter hour to get there, bringing back memories of the streets I hadn’t seen for years. The stone horse-trough still stood outside the church near the top of George Street, opposite Woolworths. I dropped off my maid’s dress at the dry cleaner’s next door to Woollies and paid for express service so I could get it back the next day. The lady behind the counter raised an eyebrow when she unfolded it but just smiled so I smiled back.

“Will one o’clock be all right, dear?” she asked me.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

I walked all the way to the bottom of the street, remembering the shops. There was the little lingerie shop half-way down over the road from the music store. It had always fascinated me but I had been too timid to look in the window except at night when nobody was around, so now I stopped and had a good look at the pretty stuff on offer.

I walked on past my old primary school, St. Andrews Anglican, where I had tried to pee over the toilet wall into the street. Other boys could do it but I couldn’t. I could hear the little kids inside. It must have been playtime. The ice-cream shop, Di Marco’s, was still there and the toy-shop. Ah, memories! Not all bad, down there. I still hadn’t been aware of my gender discrepancy in those days, at least not until later. I turned around and went back to the butcher’s, where I bought some sausages; pork chops with the kidney still in them, a couple of pieces of nice rump steak and a small leg of lamb for tonight.

Then I crossed the road to Sainsbury’s, where I filled up on veggies, potatoes, carrots, peas, cabbage and bits and pieces like mint sauce and tea. After that I went to my favourite shop of all. Still there; I had never forgotten the glorious aroma of roasting coffee that seemed to waft halfway down the street when I was a kid, but I’d never been in there. My parents used Camp and Nescafe! It wasn’t till I met Lucy that I knew what REAL coffee was. Even the stuff in the coffee-bars wasn’t that good. I went in and savoured the smell and bought half a pound of ground espresso from Kenya, a luxury.

Shopping done, I headed back towards The Drive. I saw a pudgy woman about my age and Geoff’s height coming towards me. As soon as I saw her I knew. It was Carole. Well, well! What a coincidence. I looked at her. She definitely wasn’t taking care of herself, a roll of fat hung over the top of her skirt, and her bra showed through a white blouse. Her make-up was overdone for this time of day. She looked like a tart. I smiled to myself and wondered how to handle this situation.

Actually it was obvious. She didn’t know the new me so the best revenge was to ignore her and get on with our lives. She was yesterday’s woman, but I couldn’t help smiling as I walked towards her and I saw her looking at me in puzzlement. Did I see a flash of recognition as I swept past? I didn’t look back, but I saw her reflection in an angled shop window in front of me turn and look back. I already had my victory.

One more thing I needed before going home was a pinafore and I stopped in Woollies and bought myself a cheap and cheerful floral pinnie to wear while cooking and then headed back feeling very happy and self-satisfied.

I got back and unpacked and stowed everything in its proper place except what I was going to need for tonight’s dinner. I’m sure you all know how to cook a leg of lamb so I won’t bore you. While everything was cooking I changed out of my shopping clothes, had a shower to make myself smell better and put on a fresh summer skirt, bright orange in cotton, all swirly round my legs, a white linen peasant blouse and white heeled sandals.

By 5.30 both the meal and I were all ready and I had some wine uncorked and in the fridge cooling. He came home at about 5.45 and I gave him a good wife’s greeting at the door, letting him know I was glad to see him. I took his jacket and hung it, sat him down and asked him if he wanted a drink. He was obviously not used to this kind of attention after work so I took off his tie too and got him a glass of Shiraz. I told him to relax while I served dinner.

I probably made him more nervous because he wasn’t used to being waited on. If I had my way he was going to be waited on for the rest of his life. Anyway, I served up the leg of lamb and had the veggies in bowls ready to go and asked him did he want to carve or would I do it. I think another day he would have opted to carve but he was still taken aback so he let me do it and so I soon had us both at the table with lamb, peas and carrots, roast potatoes, gravy and mint sauce at the ready. I poured him another glass of wine and one for myself and clinked glasses with him.

“Suzie, how long is this going to last?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. This is great, but are you going to do this all the time?”

Now was a kind of crunch time. I had had these wifely thoughts, but did he share those feelings, particularly after his experiences with that cow from before.

“Do you want me to do it for the rest of your life? I will if you want me to, as long as Lucy goes along with it. Eat up before it gets cold.”

He ate and made nice noises and thought while he ate.

“Can we talk about things in bed tonight? That’ll give me time to think and we’ll be more relaxed.”

“Will that be before or after we make love?”

He grinned evilly. “Both.”

“OK. Sounds good to me. Lamb to the slaughter, already.”

“Who? You or me?”

“To paraphrase Hamlet, that is the question.”

“Bloody overeducated bird.”

“You had the same opportunities as me. It’s hardly MY fault if you didn’t use them.” But we were laughing. It was like stepping back in time when we used to take the piss out of each other at school.

We finished eating. I wrapped the remains of the lamb in foil and put it in the fridge for sandwiches, then cleared up the table and washed up. He had gone into the garden for a smoke and I joined him on the bench seat in a lovely summer evening. He put his arm around my shoulder and we just sat, not talking. One of those little interludes you wish would last forever, quiet, domestic and.....perfect. I leaned into him to kiss him at the exact same moment that he leaned towards me. My lips parted as we closed together. I felt so female, feminine, wanted, cherished, and weak in the knees, in love.

By unspoken agreement we both got up and went back inside. As if in a romantic dream we undressed each other and entered the shower, leaving our clothes in a heap on the floor. We soaped each other all over and there was no doubt that he was not feeling inadequate. My nipples were like hard rubber, swelling as he kissed them and my vagina was wet with more than water as I slowly made sure his cock was ultra-clean.

We got out and dried each other, not rushing, just deliberately. We had all night. The bed was waiting for us and we made love......really made love. I wasn’t me any more. I was half of US, a creature with two backs, joined at the hips, the hands, the breast and the lips, my legs clamped around his back to pull him deeper inside me and the new muscles that my surgeon had magically given me clamping on him to make him forever mine.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but eventually we parted and lay side-by-side looking at each other.

“Nice,” he said.

“Yes, you are.” I stroked the hair on his chest, “but you lied to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said we would talk before we made love.”

He grinned his shit-eating grin. “I said we would talk before and after we made love. So now it’s after the first time and before the next time. You apologise now or I’ll tickle you.”

“I’d say ‘yes please’ but I don’t think you’re up to doing it again just yet. So OK, I’m sorry. It’s talking time.”

“You have to tell me more about you and Lucy. To tell you the truth I’m jealous of her and I need to know how your relationship with her is going to affect you and me. I don’t want to lose you.”

“OK. First, don’t be jealous of her. Look at it this way. We both owe me to her. We wouldn’t be lying here like this if she hadn’t helped me to become what I am today. She’s a wonderful woman and I’m dying to take you home to meet her. I’m sure you’ll like each other. After all you both have me in common!”

He grimaced a little. “A sort of meet the parents bit, eh?”

“Look, it won’t be like that. She’s not a dragon...well, not ALL the time.” I laughed as I thought of Lucy breathing fire if he upset her. “Really, I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire. Gee, that’s a stupid saying, isn’t it?

“Seriously, I love you, but you have to understand that I love her too. I want you both to get on and I don’t want to have to choose between you. Darling Geoff, Lucy was there first and by rights I should be married to her, and don’t forget, she agreed to me coming here to stay with you.”

He lay propped on one elbow and with his free hand played with my left nipple as he pondered what I had said. He sighed.
“I guess I have to wait and see. I hope I don’t have to fight her for you, ‘cos I’m scared she might win.”

“I promise you there’ll be no fighting. She’ll love you.” I hoped that would be true.

My nipple grew hard as he played with it, and one thing led to another and soon we made love again. We probably could have kept going but he had to go to work in the morning and I was determined that he would go off properly fed and dressed, so we went to sleep instead.

That night defined what happened on Wednesday and Thursday, except that I went and retrieved my maid’s uniform on Wednesday and wore it the following two mornings to remind us both of our new relationship. Besides, like I said, I wanted to be submissive...to an extent. So I cleaned the place up properly, did the shopping, washed and ironed our clothes, cooked his dinner and afterwards we would sit quietly for a while before going to bed and making love; and we would talk.

We talked about us; about school days. “The first time we ever met, why did you like me? I never could figure it out.”

“I don’t know. You were such a long skinny, bony kid, a skeleton with skin, and I was the opposite. Something about you just appealed to me. I didn’t know any other kids there and I thought we could be friends.”

“Oh, so it was a physical attraction. You actually fancied me.” I teased him.

“God no! It was your mouth that fascinated me. You were such a smartarse.” And we wrestled. Of course he won, because I let him.

Sometimes the strangest things would emerge, and we exorcised memories of him and Carole.

On Wednesday he said, “You know, now I think about it, and how she used to go on about you, I think she may have actually married me to spite you. But there was no reason unless she knew you were going to become a girl, and how could she have known that?”

“I hate to say this, but maybe woman’s intuition?” and we both laughed, but I wondered. Was it possible?

We talked a lot about Lucy. He wanted to know exactly how she had figured in my change. He started with an unspoken suspicion that somehow she had made me do it and I had to tell him that she was my fairy godmother, a facilitator not an evil dominatrix. Wanting to be a girl was in me long before I ever met her, and when it had come out and I had admitted it to her she had wanted my happiness above her own, and she had helped and comforted me when I was terrified that she would reject me.

“What would you have done if I had confessed to you that I wanted to be a girl?” I asked him.

“At 17 I probably would have freaked out. I don’t think I would have been violent with you but I think I would have wanted to put some distance between us. Maybe when I had time to think about it and let it sink in it would have explained things about you that I’d wondered about, but I honestly can’t guarantee I would have been all right with it, not then.”

“That’s probably fair enough and thank you for an honest answer. The experiences we each had in the next six years made us both better people, I think.” I was running my fingernails along his cock and he was massaging my fanny with one hand. A wordless interlude soon followed.

We talked about Ashford, where he had gone after leaving school, and we talked about London. He was fascinated by London. Although he had been there as a visitor and occasionally for work he knew little about it as a place to live. The news stories about the city were sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. It was a cesspit, a den of iniquity, Sodom and Gomorrah, a magnet to young innocents. I really disappointed him telling him it was not like that, well, not hardly. Sure, you could find all that, but you really had to go looking for it. Satan was not actually hiding on every street corner.

I think he was sort of hoping I would show him the underbelly of the place. Yes, I could regale him with stories of showbiz personalities but most of them did not live up to their reputations, not even The Rolling Stones. Because of our theatrical contacts we knew some of the seedier places but had never used them. I dangled all this as bait to get him to come and spend some time at Finborough Road. I wanted him there for himself (myself) and to get to know Lucy. He was nervous about her, and, in truth, so was I. I mean, I was sure she would like him but what if she didn’t?

By Friday we had arranged for him to take a week’s holiday in late September and come and stay with us at Finborough Road. I had talked to Lucy and she was relaxed about it. She wanted to meet him as well, mainly so she didn’t have to put up with my blathering on about him, with her having no basis of comparison. Plain old curiosity too, on both sides. I was really looking forward to it, having both my loves to take care of, but I was a bit nervous as well. Suppose they didn’t get on. What would I do then? Oh, well! Sufficient unto the day and all that.

Geoff asked me to join him at the pub with his workmates on Friday evening after work and then we would go and eat out somewhere. He promised he hadn’t told them anything about me except that he had met me more or less by accident a month or so ago. I should bloody well think not!

Anyway, I was this mysterious bird from London and they were all as curious as hell about me. They knew his marriage had gone west. Before agreeing I checked that there were no old schoolmates or friends from coffee-bar days. So I met him after work at Brighton Station and we went down to this hole-in-the-wall pub underneath the station which they used as a local. It was actually quite nice in a grotty kind of way, your typical unpretentious English pub. His crowd were all friendly and a couple of wives and girlfriends came in a little later, so it soon turned into one of those affairs where the girls were at one end and the men at the other. The girls grilled me, as women do.

They wanted to know my life story and was I serious about Geoff? How had I met him? What did I do? Where was I from? I kept up the London origin bit and I had an interest in a salon and I had been visiting a friend in the theatre here and then had a cup of coffee and got talking to this nice man. Yes, he was a nice man. Pity about his wife. He needed somebody new in his life. He seemed so FORLORN sometimes. I like him very much but it’s a bit early to tell. I do like your dress dear. You’re so tall and elegant. I wish I could wear clothes like you. Thank you dear. That's a nice frock you're wearing, too. Are you staying with him? Of course, or why would I come here? That caused a general giggle.

You get the drift of things. They would have a good old chinwag about me later. Don’t get the idea the men ignored me either. I heard the odd comment. “Where you been hiding her, then?” “Bloody looker you crafty bastard.” I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how men with a bit of lubricant in them talk about girls. My man didn’t ignore me either. He would come and put his arm around me every now and again and ask me if my drink was OK. I was being careful with Mateus Rose (actually, it may have been the only wine you could get there).

Then, after a couple of hours, he said, “Do you want to go and get some food?” and I said, “Yes.”

So we said goodbye to the crowd and went out into the twilight evening.

“I think they liked you.”

“I’m glad I came. They seem like decent people, and they were relaxing rather than just drinking. I won’t mind you coming here on Fridays.” Oh, shit. I just said a wifely thing, but if he noticed he didn’t say anything.

“Where would you like to eat then?”

I smelt an old familiar smell. “Would you mind a lot if I said fish and chips and we could take them home?”

He gave me a squeeze. “A girl after my own heart. Sounds good to me.”

So that’s what we did. Four pieces of cod and two bob’s worth of chips, a bit of salt and vinegar and all washed down with nice Chablis at home.

Our lovemaking that night was slow and gentle. Partly the alcohol made it last, but the next day was Saturday so he didn’t have to go to work and I was planning on catching a fast train at 4 p.m. to get me to Victoria at 5, and being the weekend I would get home at around 5.30. I would be able to get up about 9 a.m. and in no particular order, make his breakfast and make him rise to the occasion, before cleaning up and packing my clothes.

As it happened, we made love first and this time it was urgent, almost desperate. I tried to pull every last drop of juice out of him, both with my fanny and my mouth and he seemed to be trying to push his way right through me. I swear we both nibbled and sucked and licked every erogenous zone on each other’s body and kissed and cuddled like this would be the last time we saw each other.

“I wish you weren’t going.”

“I wish I wasn’t going, either, but I am and it’s time I got you some breakfast. I’m going to shower and don’t you dare come in or we’ll never eat.”

I showered and dressed casually in jeans and a kind of leopard print fitting top and flat sandals and went to make him breakfast. Today was kippers and I didn’t know if he liked them or not. It turned out he did, although I think he’d have eaten anything that morning.

I must have worn him out, just like he had worn me out, because he came into the kitchen fully dressed in jeans and a polo shirt with deck shoes and no socks. It would seem that by mutual agreement we decided that we were satisfied for the day. So we both ate our kippers and toast with Marmite and drank the Kenyan coffee and looked at each other.

“It’ll be six weeks until I see you again,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to be. You can always come and see me at a weekend. Just because we’ve arranged for you to stay later on doesn’t stop you from coming up on the train on a Saturday or Sunday and taking me out somewhere nice.”

He brightened, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “Won’t Lucy mind? Maybe she’ll think I’m monopolising you.”

I crossed mental fingers. “No. She’ll be OK with it.”

“What about you coming here?”

“Hmm, maybe we’ll see. I’ll tell you what. I’ll leave some of my clothes here in case. How about my maid’s uniform?”

I got the shit-eating grin. “Great, but no underwear. I want those breakfast dishes again.”

I laughed. “Hey, I only said maybe.”

“You have to promise you won’t stop when we’re married.” Then he realised what he’d said, turned bright red and gulped a couple of times, speechless.

“Did you just propose to me? So romantic. “Don’t stop giving me blowjobs and let me lick your pussy”. Only you would think you could get away with that as a line to your fiancée.”

I couldn’t contain myself. I burst out laughing but I was cheering inside, and then he was doubled over and next thing we were hugging and kissing. When we regained control he said, “Well?”

I took his face in my hands. “I really want to, but I told you already. Lucy has to be in there too. I love you both and I don’t know how I’m going to do it but it’s going to be a three-way union.”

He looked at me in a strange way. “You know, you’re a funny girl. You come on with all this submissive bit, cook and look after me, French maid and all, but you’re actually much tougher than when you were a boy. I think I could be scared of you, and I think you WILL handle Lucy. I wonder what I’ve gone and done.”

“You’ve just made the best move of your life. I’ll look after you really, really well, but I may just wear you out!”

“I think that’s what I’m worried about.”

“Do you want to start practising now?”

“Why not? I’m doomed anyway.” And so to bed, in the words of Samuel Pepys.

I managed to catch the 4 o’clock train. It was a wonder either of us could stand. It was going to be a tough challenge to wear him out before he did for me.

I was glad to see my Lucy less than two hours later. She looked a little frazzled and the flat needed some work. She was about as good as Geoff at looking after herself, but she was still my beautiful darling and I knew I had to make it all work between the three of us, and I had a bit to do.

I took the decision not to see Geoff until he came to stay with us. It was hard but I thought I would send the wrong message to Lucy, and abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, isn’t it? Not that Lucy and I abstained. I made absolutely sure that she knew I still loved her. I really pampered her for the next five weeks and told her everything that had happened between me and Geoff, although I went a little light on the marriage stakes.

Of course she wanted to know all about it. I told her about the way he had been the day I got there, incapable of any sexual activity, and what I had done to “cure” him, including my performance in the maid’s uniform at breakfast.
She both peed herself laughing and almost cried at his plight.

“If I had known what you would become I don’t know if I would have helped you, but you rescued the poor boy. I have mixed feelings about that, but that awful girl! How could she have left him like that?” This took place in bed, of course. “God, you’re a bad girl, but you’re a good girl too. Can I have some of those Huitres Francaises?”

“You’ve been having them for years, old lady. Don’t you remember? If not, you can remind yourself right now. Sheesh! Am I in love with a decrepit old cow?” That was the end of that sensible conversation, as we both remembered.

“You know, Suzie, I’m jealous,” she said later. “I must admit to missing those Saucisses Anglais since your dick stopped working. You used to love it and so did I.” She giggled. “How did you think of the name?”

“It was the French maid thing and I also had it planned. It was my last effort to get him out of the funk she left him in. I figured he wouldn’t be able to resist me without undies and dressed like that.”

“Well, it certainly worked.”

“Yes, it did, didn’t it?”

I had a sort of subdued panic attack, wondering where all this would lead.

To Be Continued

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