Company of Slaves Read online

  Company of

  Slaves

  Christina Shelly

  Rover Books

  New york

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. In real life, make sure you practice safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2004 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Christina Shelly 2004

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-10: 0-7952-9968-0

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7952-9968-1

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  One

  My aunt, or rather the woman I know as my aunt, made me what I am today. After my father and mother were killed in a car crash when I was three years old, Jane, my mother’s oldest and closest friend, brought me up alone. A single woman acting as a surrogate single mother, she lavished upon me her fierce, unyielding love and, following my eighteenth birthday, her not inconsiderable physical charms. She was thirty when I entered her home and tomorrow will be her fiftieth birthday.

  Our relationship has always been intense, unconditional and, by any normal standards, distinctly perverse. Yet in it, I have found truth, beauty, and my destiny, a destiny that forms the core of this kinky tale.

  Aunt Jane, for that was always the title by which I have known her, is a tall, sensually buxom woman. Her thick, silken hair is still jet black and worn at shoulder length. She retains the light brown skin colour of a Southern European (her father was Italian), and her large hazel-coloured eyes are filled with a soul-melting golden light. Her love of life’s simple pleasures, particularly good food and wine, has left her with a distinctly Rubenesque physique, but her height and robust posture ensure she has never appeared fat.

  In her I have always seen an almost inexplicable physical perfection, a mature, stately form which boasts full, firm breasts and very long and perhaps surprisingly shapely legs. And as well as physical beauty, Aunt Jane possesses an intensely erotic sense of style. She has worked as a model since her early twenties, and even approaching fifty finds regular employment modelling for clothing catalogues. She dresses with a deliberate and very classical feminine style, favouring elegant, even formal (yet always sexy) outfits that very effectively accentuate her ample good looks. In her style and grace, she has been, as in so many other things, my role model.

  Although she is always keen to work, she has no real need for the money: her first and only husband was a wealthy businessman. A man nearly twenty years her senior, he had died suddenly from a heart attack just before I arrived in her life. Not yet thirty, my aunt had found herself with lifelong financial independence, and had purchased a beautiful seventeenth century cottage in the depths of the Cornish countryside. This cottage has been my home for twenty wonderful years.

  Aunt Jane travels regularly to London on modelling assignments for various agencies. She specialises in so-called ‘outsize’ clothing catalogues, for whom she provides a stunningly impressive vision of the larger, more mature woman, a vision I am still privileged to behold on virtually a daily basis.

  I arrived at her home a confused, sad and sickly child. My aunt, still grieving from the sudden death of her best friend, found in me a very real connection to my mother and very quickly made me the centre of her world, overwhelming me with a fierce, bottomless maternal love, a love I was desperate to receive. We very quickly became a comfortable, independent universe; the outside world was merely background noise to a love and friendship that would not diminish over time or distance.

  By the time I was ten, it was clear that I had inherited both my mother’s colouring and build. Physically I was (and am) almost the exact opposite of the beautiful, generously proportioned Jane. I had my mother’s pale skin, her blonde hair, and her pale blue eyes. I also had her slender frame. I was thin and small, and frail. Until my early teens, I was dogged by one minor illness or another, and this significantly increased my reliance on Aunt Jane, a reliance she seemed to relish and often encourage. Yes – she spoilt me rotten. No toy, no exotic food, no passing childish pleasure was denied me. I had everything that money could buy, and something it couldn’t – an endless supply of pure, maternal love. Yet while there were distinct advantages to being a delicate, pampered ‘mummy’s boy’, it soon became apparent that I was ill-prepared for the real world, and in particular the rough and tumble of school.

  By the time I entered my teenage years it would not be an exaggeration to say that I was a mildly effeminate sissy, an impression greatly enhanced by my feminine build and looks. I was subject to the cruel whims of bullies and the teasing laughter of girls, and school was a terrible test that, in many ways, I failed. Despite an obvious and powerful intelligence that allowed to me to outperform virtually all of my peers academically, physically I was painfully weak. Yet, strangely, this was something I was never ashamed of. Indeed, even at the tender age of twelve, I was aware of a simple, but still-disturbing fact: I didn’t like being a boy. The violent world of the male was totally alien to me. Instead, I found myself almost helplessly drawn to the world of the feminine, a world whose spectacular queen was my gorgeous, loving aunt. And although I was to some extent an object of ridicule, I found complete acceptance and confirmation in the warm, encouraging smile of my aunt, whose response to my increasing lack of interest in masculine ways was to love me even more.

  At home, in the evening, as she served me dinner, I lost myself in her smile and in her physical perfection. As she dismissed the boys who tormented me and the girls who mocked me, I wanted to proclaim my deep love for her and, even then, to confess a desire that was every day becoming stronger: a desire to express the femininity that was so apparent in my appearance and manners in a much more complete and immediate manner; a desire I felt with increasing power as my teenage eyes beheld the glorious spectacle that was Aunt Jane; a desire that began to drive me, whenever the opportunity presented itself, to her bedroom, to the drawers and cupboards that contained her clothes.

  As I watched her, as I studied her, as we laughed and joked, I immersed myself in her style, I examined her beautiful, elegant clothes, the most powerful symbols of the classic femininity she so perfectly embodied, and I felt a terrible, profound stirring. My first erection came as I imagined the feel of the sheer nylon hose that caressed my Aunt’s perfect legs against my own pale skin, a sensation I soon became familiar with after the brutal power of teenage desire transformed a tentative fondling of my aunt’s nylons into a slow, fear-shrouded slipping of a scented
black stocking over a bare foot and then up a long, disturbingly feminine leg, an act that inspired a gasp of sudden, beautiful shock and sent my heart into a high gear of pounding excitement. This, I was sure, was my destiny.

  Within days of my first secret visit to her bedroom, I was slipping into her delicate, achingly soft silk panties, her sensually sheer nylon tights, her shimmering slips and even her generous bras, immersing myself in intimate feminine fabrics and feeling not only excitement, but a strange inner peace, a sense of confidence in myself, a confidence I had never felt before.

  Even though most of her clothes were too big, even though I probably looked quite ridiculous, I was truly at one with myself, and set on the path of lifelong transvestism.

  And as my transvestism developed, so did my fascination with feminine style, with glamour and with art. Indeed, all three were quickly fused together in my ability to draw and paint, which was both instinctive and inherited (my mother had been a graphic artist). I had drawn obsessively since I was old enough to write, and it had already been made clear to me by teachers and by my aunt that my future would be determined by my artistic skills. My aunt was particularly encouraging, and spent a considerable amount of money on drawing and painting materials and trips to all the major UK art galleries. However, despite this encouragement, my ability was soon very much driven by my growing, deeper desires. By my early teens, I wanted only to to draw beautiful women, and in particular the clothes of beautiful women. My gorgeous aunt noticed this almost immediately, and began to encourage me to think about a possible career in fashion design, a field she knew well and where she had ‘connections’. Although only fourteen years old, I was already being gently pushed into a very predetermined future, yet the true, bizarre nature of this future was a million miles from the sort of future my aunt was, at this point, expecting.

  I would spend hours poring over my aunt’s fashion and style magazines and drawing the actresses, models and other female celebrities who filled their pages. Each intricate line of each glamorous dress, shoe or perfect female form held a terrible, addictive fascination, at the centre of which was another equally powerful addiction: my identification with these women, my desire to be like them, and to be wrapped in their gorgeous attire.

  Within a few years, I was spending every hour left alone in the house either drawing women’s clothes or dressing in my aunt’s real clothes, experimenting with everything from her sexy undies to her dresses and skirts, even playing with her perfumes and make-up. And the older I got, the more apparent it became that at the core of this near obsessive dressing was a growing, extremely powerful sexuality, a sexuality that drove me into my strange she-male destiny with a dreadful and irresistible power and led directly to a profoundly life-changing moment on a wet afternoon during the Easter holidays.

  I was eighteen and a few months away from completing a largely wasted two years in the sixth form. Although I had still excelled at art, my earlier academic promise had waned considerably as my desire had become stronger, and any thought of university was now out of the question. As usual, as soon as my aunt had left the house, I had slipped up to her room to dress. That day, however, I found myself particularly distracted by a terrible sexual urge. I had stripped naked and then slipped into a pair of my aunt’s pretty silk panties, a slender, elegant and very pink pair that had left me with a furious erection and an uncontrollable need to masturbate. As I exploded into the panties, I screamed out in a frightening, volcanic ecstasy very rarely experienced. Unfortunately, my aunt had that very moment just returned early from a shopping expedition, opening the front door as my cries of pleasure filled the house. Hearing my screams and mistaking them for fear and pain, she had rushed up the stairs into her bedroom, only to discover me on her bed in the cum-soaked panties. The most intense pleasure turned very quickly into the most appalling fear and humiliation. I was discovered, revealed – exposed as a sissy pervert before my glorious aunt!

  I leapt from the bed and, in a fit of stupid, blind panic, tried to rush from the room, tears pouring from my eyes. But she very easily blocked my path. I tried to struggle past her, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the centre of the room.

  ‘What on earth are you up to!’ she shouted, looking down in what I took to be horror at the large damp stain soaking through the front of the panties.

  My response was simply a loud, desperate sob. I was unable to talk, to look at her, even to move. I was paralysed by fear and self-disgust. This was surely the end of my paradise; my sweet feminine utopia.

  ‘I’m…sorry.’

  These were the only words, useless, pathetic words, that staggered from my mouth between more desperate, painful sobs.

  Then she released her angry grip and I fell back onto the bed. On the bed was a skirt, a blouse, tights, more panties – the evidence of an afternoon’s covert cross-dressing, the evidence of my addiction.

  I stared down at the bed as she inspected the mess I had made, her silence surely about to be shattered by a cry of awful betrayal. But this cry never came. And when I eventually found the courage to look up, I discovered her holding the skirt and looking back at me with a strange curiosity.

  ‘I knew something was up,’ she whispered, her dark eyes eating up my embarrassed, slender form. ‘I thought it was me – that I was going senile. But no, you’ve been going through my clothes, for God knows how long…probably years.’

  I nodded weakly, baffled by the increasing sense of amusement in her voice, an amusement cut through with something even more amazing – arousal.

  ‘You naughty little thing,’ she whispered, a smile slowly curving her beautiful, cherry-red lips into a crescent of hope. ‘All this time, you’ve been sneaking up here and putting on my clothes. Of course you have. I mean, the drawing, the way you behave. It’s the logical…’

  She stopped in mid-sentence and burst out laughing. Momentarily humiliation returned: once again a woman was laughing at me, and worse, the only woman who mattered to me. But it soon became apparent that this was a different kind of laughter – a laughter of genuine surprise, a laughter of pleasure!

  ‘You should have told me, you silly boy,’ she said, suddenly leaning forward and embracing me, squashing my face into her marvellous, ample breasts and sending a shudder of electric pleasure shooting through my body. ‘I could have helped you.’

  Then she paused and a light entered her beautiful eyes, the spark of an idea that would change everything. ‘I can help you.’

  As her powerful rose-scented perfume flooded my nostrils, a sense of almost total disbelief gripped me. Surely, this was some kind of bizarre dream, or some traumatic misreading of her words. She could help me?

  ‘You don’t mind?’ I gasped, fighting free of her strong, loving grasp.

  She laughed again and stood back. ‘No. I’ve known for ages that you’re…well, effeminate. And I love you all the more for it. There’re plenty of boys – and men – who…well, who want to be women, or to be treated like women. That’s just the way some males are. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘Of course not! God, look at the world, Michael, look at what all the so-called real men have done to the world. Then tell me that wanting to be a woman is wrong!’

  ‘But I don’t want to be a woman…I want to be…feminine.’

  Her warm, gentle smile broadened. ‘Yes, I understand. And you’re very lucky to want that. Very lucky.’

  After a brief, contemplative silence she pulled me to my feet. ‘If you’re going to do this, let’s make sure you do it right.’

  Shock had turned to determination. Her smile widening, she whispered a sharp, merry ‘come on!’ and led me from the bedroom.

  * * *

  The next twenty hours changed everything – forever. My world was destroyed and rebuilt. Years of secret need exploded into a strange, highly erotic flowering of new, transgendered life. Barely a week after my eighteenth birthday, I became a she-male.
r />   My aunt took me to the bathroom and helped me undress. My erect cock popped up before her as she slipped the sodden panties down my legs and her smile grew darker, harder, more concentrated. She looked up at me and giggled.

  ‘My, my,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse, her eyes filled with a quite brazen sexual intent.

  Then she washed me, helping me into a bath filled with steaming, soapy water and cleaning my shaking body with hands sheathed in thick gloves of heavily perfumed lather. I moaned helplessly and she laughed gently, my erection a periscope of desire emerging from the water and viewing this ample, mature beauty with a single hungry eye. At one point her hands slipped beneath the water and very gently massaged my balls. I squealed with shock and pleasure and her beautiful smile widened.

  ‘Careful, Mikey – not yet,’ she whispered, her hot breath brushing against my crimson cheek, her perfume an awful, teasing promise.

  After the bath she wrapped my slender, diminutive form in a huge, pink towel and smothered me dry. Then, she took a golden jar of female hair-removal gel from the bathroom cabinet. She massaged its thick, lightly scented contents into my body, and soon I was covered from the base of my neck to the bottom of my ankles in a body stocking of pale yellow goo.

  She used a special ‘lady shave’ razor to strip the gel and the very slight layer of blond body hair from my already effeminate form, paying special attention to the slightly pathetic whispy strands around my pubic region and, in the process, inspiring yet more moans of pleasure, moans laced with anxiety.

  A damp flannel was used to wipe the residue gel from my now totally denuded body and I sighed with an awful, painful arousal as the soft cotton material brushed lightly against my freshly shaven and now ultra-sensitive skin.

  As she worked on my body, my eyes feasted on Aunt Jane with a renewed and even more powerful sexual attraction. She had returned early from a trip to the nearest town and was dressed in a very smart and quite deliberately sexy business suit made from grey silk, with a very short skirt. Beneath the suit jacket she wore a high-necked white blouse tied at the neck in a fat yet delicate bow. As she knelt down to wipe the residue gel from my legs, the jacket slipped open and I was treated both to a splendid view of her plump breasts struggling against a lace-edged brassiere and, also, her splendid, grey nylon-sheathed legs as the short skirt travelled teasingly up her ample thighs. My poor, tormented cock twitched and my heart pounded desperately against the wall of my modest chest. Dreams that had fermented over the last few years were suddenly exploding into reality in a totally unbelievable way. Time seemed to have both ground to a halt and sped up frantically. As she looked up at my sex-riddled eyes and smiled, a whirlpool of insane pleasure opened up and dragged me down into a strange new world of bizarre desire.