Murmuring with Starlings 3
First Dates are Kissing Dates
By Frances Penwiddy
Copyright © Frances Penwiddy 2016
Photo collage: European Starling by simonglinn via birdshare
Murmuring with Starlings contains material of an adult nature and is not suitable as reading material for minors.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Emma explains herself to her mentor Samantha and gives the wrong impression.
I made myself a coffee, sat at the kitchen table and went over the evening in my mind. I had enjoyed our date and I also knew that if John had come in, we would be undressing each other by now and I sighed, I must change my ‘Golden Rule’ about first dates when I was with a man like John and as for the rule for second dates, ‘Kissing and some petting, no further’ we’d have to wait and see if that needed modifying.
I had to make an early start if I was to get all my work completed before I went into hospital and I would like to see John a couple of times within the fortnight before that so with a great deal of reluctance, I pulled myself away from my rapidly becoming erotic daydream, went into my office and switched the computer on, I had promised to let Samantha know I had got back home safe and sound. The messenger icon started flashing immediately. It was her. “Hi, you’re late, how did it go? Message, phone or send somebody round to let me know you’re okay and had a good time before I phone the police and have a fingertip search made.”
I smiled, Samantha was the psychologist who ran my support group and took the job very seriously. She was a genetic girl who probably knew more about the weaknesses and in some cases the randy lusts of transsexuals than she did of her own sex.
“I’m home in a sad, sad mood. I had a lovely evening.”
She must have been sitting beside her computer because a reply came back almost immediately, “You’re the only person I know who can make two sentences into one oxymoron – why sad?”
“I wanted him to help me get undressed for bed.”
“But he didn’t?
“No but I hinted I was willing to break my Golden Rule.”
“So why didn’t he take up your offer, a man would have to be mad to refuse to go to bed with you. Is he gay, misogynistic or 8 years old?”
“He was a gentleman and when I asked him in for a nightcap he refused on the grounds that if he came in he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off me. And as I had a little too much wine he would be taking an ungentlemanly advantage of me.”
“No. It was a beautiful evening. We both enjoyed ourselves but I admit to having three and a half glasses of wine and was a tadge merry and when he kissed me on the doorstep and I asked him in, he did say no because he thought he might not be able to control himself and would say or do something that would spoil the evening. He did ask me for another date though, next Wednesday.
“Whew! Marry him, marry him on Wednesday, you’ll never find another like him. Does he have a good job that would enable him to keep you in champagne and diamonds?”
“He’s a consultant engineer, self-employed and up to his neck in work, so yes, I think he could but I don’t do so badly myself and don’t really need a rich husband. He’s just a lovely man.”
“You at home tomorrow?”
“I’ll be round at about eleven for coffee to hear the full story. Pleasant dreams.”
“I’m wearing my little white baby-doll in case he breaks in later, good night”
I switched off, managed to walk unaided to the bedroom, undressed and went to bed with a broad grin on my face, knowing Samantha as well as I did, meant that her promise to be round for coffee would probably include lunch and dinner as well.
I was sitting at my desk by seven the next morning and wasn’t interrupted until eleven fifteen when Samantha rang the doorbell, “Hi, sorry I’m a bit late but I overslept.” She didn’t wait for a reply but walked in and went straight into my flat and then the kitchen and switched the percolator on and handed me a small carton, “Chocolate muffins.”
“Thank you, do you want to have coffee here or in the sitting room?”
“Here, I’m inpatient, now tell me what happened.”
“I told you last night.”
“You gave a brief summary, not the full story.”
“Let me get the coffee first.”
“Don’t wait for that to start bubbling, start now, from the beginning, what were you wearing your little black dress or the red one.”
The percolator started issuing its Columbian finest so I started laying out the cups, “Neither, I wore my black skirt, the full circle one and a tulle petticoat.”
“You were going dancing?”
“No but those skirts also qualify as smart casual, summer evening wear or leg flashers in a jive or Latin American.”
She grinned, “I know I’ve seen you dancing in them. Go on what sort of top and did you go braless, you can with a figure like yours.”
“No, I’m not a tart, I wore a basque.”
“And stockings, I bet.”
I grinned, “Yes, tan stockings not the black, seamed nylons.”
“So you were planning to sleep with him from the start.”
“No, you know my rule about first dates.”
“Liar and you’ve not had a date for months, you were as randy as hell.”
“I was no such thing, I just wanted to feel sexy underneath and had no intention of flashing my stocking tops.”
“Yeah, yeah, bla-bla-bla, I’ve been there and done that and I know what I really want when I just need to feel sexy underneath.”
I poured the coffees and sat down, “Well I can’t be sure what my subconscious was doing but I did wear my heels, the black ones so it was obvious I wasn’t going to do any fast spinning.”
“You can spin in heels, I know girls who say they dance better in heels.”
“I can’t, well I don’t think I can, I’ve never tried,” and then I remembered the little twirl I had done at the top of the steps, “I’ll try it one day but I think I’ll wait until after my operation.”
“Go on then what did he say or do when he first saw you?”
I grinned, “He asked me if my tits were real?"
“He did what!”
“Asked me if my tits were real.”
“Did you slap his face, I would have done and then gone straight home.”
“I’m not violent like you, I just unbuttoned my blouse, slipped it and the basque off my shoulders and shook my torso so the tits wobbled a bit.”
She nearly choked on her coffee, “You showed him!”
“It was the best way to prove it. Then I told him he could have a feel and tickle my nipples just in case he thought they were gel implants.”
She put her cup down so forcibly it was a wonder it didn’t shatter, “In the street!”
“Of course, if I’d done it in the cab the driver might have seen them in the rear view mirror and I’m a bit shy about things like that.”
“What about the people in the street?”
“I forgot about them but there weren’t many people about, I don’t know, I didn’t notice anybody staring, I was busy watching him to see if he liked them, my tits I mean not the other people.”
“I think so, he sort of leaned forward to take a closer look and his mouth opened a little and I thought for a moment he was going to suck or kiss the nipples and it made me tremble at the knees so I buttoned my blouse up and we got into the cab.”
She dropped her head and shook it, “I just don’t believe this. You meet a bloke for the first time and before a few minutes have elapsed you’ve invited him to grope your tits and wanted him to kiss them.”
“It’s just as well you don’t believe me because it’s all lies.”
She looked up at me and grinned, “And I fell for it, after all the years I’ve been helping trannies and got to know what they will say or do, the tricks they can play, you come out with a story like this and I believed you, I’m losing my touch. Now go on and tell me what really happened.” So I did but she kept asking questions and then opened her briefcase, took out a notebook and started jotting things down. “Why are you making notes, not going to post this on Facebook are you?”
She shook her head, “No; I’d like to, it would get a million hits in the first week but I’d lose my job. The notes will be handy when I write my Social Services article about the group and what my job entails, no names, just a factual report aimed at the media mainly and society generally to prove that trannies aren’t the threat to society that a lot of people believe. How did he respond when you told him you were going into hospital for your sex reassignment surgery in a couple of weeks?”
“He asked me how dangerous it was, would it make me very ill and how long I would be in hospital and asked if it would be okay for him to visit me.”
“He didn’t ask how long it would take for you to be ready for sex, full penetration I mean.”
“No. He did ask how long it would be for me to make a full recovery and when I told him that provided I had no complications or infections, anything from two to six months, then he asked me if I would like to go away for a rest, rent a cottage in the country or perhaps go somewhere overseas, somewhere where the weather would be warm and sunny. A place where I had nothing to worry about and have a lot of time to relax and give myself time to recover completely. I said I wouldn’t know until after the operation, I explained that I might be nervous about being too far from the hospital in case there were complications. Then he told me to tell him if I did want to go away so he would arrange something and if for any reason he couldn’t accompany me, he would find a qualified nurse to look after me full time until he could join me.”
“He’s in love with you, Emma, in love with you big time.”
“I did think that might be the case but I dismissed it because I can’t believe somebody would fall in love to that extent after only one meeting.”
“But you said you talked a lot yesterday evening, told each other a great deal about yourselves.”
I nodded, “Yes but we talked about other things as well, ordinary things.”
“When you chatted on-line, how long were the sessions and how personal the conversations?”
“Quite long sometimes, two hours perhaps longer but on occasions the chats were quite short, those were days when one or the other of us had urgent work that needed our attention. We did leave messages about what was happening in our lives if we couldn’t chat and there was always a good morning or goodnight message from him in my mailbox.”
“And the topics?”
“Varied; sometimes it was music or books we were reading, other times but not often, a little about work, we even discussed the news and politics occasionally but typically they were about something we both liked, even a bit of sport and on one occasion fashion; I told him I had bought a couple of miniskirts and he asked me to send him a picture he wanted to see my legs and when I did send them he told me it showed I had an adventurous side as well as nice legs.”
Samantha smiled at that, “Short were they. Did he ever ask for nude pictures or close-ups of specific parts of your anatomy?”
“Never. No wait, he did ask me to take a close-up of my face, a portrait. That was a week ago but I didn’t have the time to do one before we met.”
“And you’ve told me he never asked you away to a hotel for the night or invite you to his place.”
“That’s right, the only time we discussed sex seriously was last night and I’ve told you about that.”
“He sounds like a good one, Emma. He certainly doesn’t sound like a one-night-stand merchant or the casual sex from time to time type. He is definitely interested in you, even in love perhaps. It does happen like that to some people, a casual encounter leading to something permanent and beautiful. I must read your chat sessions and try to get some tips about your prose and conversation style,” she grinned, “It probably has something to do with the fishing trips your father took you on, you learned how to reel them in.”
“Want me to catch one for you?”
“No, my fiancé wouldn’t approve.” She stood, “Shall I pour us more coffee and then I must be away to write a long report on another group member. She’s like you, has plenty of jokes and leg-pulls tucked down her bra, she asked me to get her a prescription for estrogen and testosterone last week and when I asked why both because it was counterproductive she answered with, “Well I definitely want a sex change but I haven’t made up my mind yet which sex to change to.”
“That sounds like Annie.”
“It is and I started calling her Connie and when she got fed up with correcting me, I told her it was an abbreviation of confused.”
Samantha went off to write her report immediately after lunch and I went back to my computer and drawing board and apart from spending an hour chatting with John, I worked non-stop on my web designs for a soft furnishings manufacturer.
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