“You’ve got a free trip to Singapore? You lucky sod!”
David’s best friend, Lucy, had him chuckling into his phone. “Yeah, but hey! I have to work for it.”
“Work, my arse! You’re just gonna chat about your precious topic on some quantum physics shite, and then have a ball with whoever’ll fondle yours for you.”
“Fat chance of that with Singapore’s lack of LGBT rights. Anyway, I’m scheduled to give three lectures with Professor Amanda Lo. I’ll be flying home before I know it.”
David cast a quick glance at the sleek turquoise gown hanging on the back of the door. At the very least he planned on having an evening out, just for himself, with the chance to be who he wanted to be.
“You’re just jealous.” He laughed, relaxed now that he was almost ready to leave his apartment for five days. “I promise I’ll bring you something back.”
First of all I’d like to say that I hope you are loving my programs. We have over 2500 gurls enjoying my helping hand… Wait, that sounds a little wrong. If you are not already in one of the programs you should sign up today. Anyway, I thought I’d share what I’ve been getting up to this week.
With all this sunshine I’ve been spending a lot of time in the garden and at the beach. I do love to sail, and Bernard’s boat is finally in shape. It’s so good to live in a city in which the outdoor lifestyle I love is so accessible.
My gardener, Ali Ibrahim, pulled into my drive way in his Smart Car this Tuesday. He’s been doing some topiary in my garden. With him was Sylvester, my mechanic. Now, Sylvester is a very large man and seeing him struggle out of Ali’s tiny car was rather like watching a man get out of an overcoat that is three sizes too small for him.
“I had no idea you knew Ali,” I said to Sylvester.
“I don’t. He gave me a ride from the highway. My truck broke down, again! Very kind of your friend Mr. Ibrahim to pick me up.”
The irony of this was not lost on me.
Sylvester was speaking very slowly, so Ali would understand him. So slowly, actually, that one might assume he thought Ali had some extreme form of learning disability. Sylvester was, of course, unaware that Ali had been a professor in a university in Damascus until fleeing the country and finding his way to Canada.
“He just pulled over and offered me a lift, and it turned out we were both coming to your place.”
“How fortuitous,” I said. Sylvester was looking a little dubiously at Ali, who in turn was smiling happily, as is his nature.
Sylvester took me aside and looking a little worried said “he keeps saying he can’t get his whores in his car.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s very small.”
“Car no good for hoes,” said Ali, catching my eye, and nodding and smiling happily.
“Yes, Ali. I’m sure,” I said smiling.
I turned to Sylvester and said, “Ali is struggling a little with his English, but I think he’s trying to tell you that he doesn’t like the smart car because he can’t put his rakes and hoes and spade in the back. He’s got his small tools for working in the garden, but his large tools get… stuck. But you’d know all about that.”
Sylvester sniggered and turned to Ali and said, “Hoes, eh? Well come by my shop in the morning, ok?”
Ali smiled his enormous smile and nodded enthusiastically.
When Ali showed up at my place the yesterday to continue his work on remodelling my bush he came with the most extraordinary collection of tools on the back of his Smart Car. Sylvester had given him a nice new gun rack, salvaged from a car that had been written off.
Ever the inventive soul, Ali had fitted it and now uses it to carry his hoes and rakes and larger tools. And we all like larger tools.
But that’s not the main reason I am writing. I am thrilled to say I have a few spaces available in our Whatsapp Group. You can find all the details here, if you like chatting with other CDs.
David ripped the last length of wax from his leg, wincing only slightly and pressing his hand against the newly smoothed skin to relieve the sting.
A broad smile smile stretched across his face as he remembered his first encounter with a spatula of wax and strip of tape.
David shot bolt upright on the makeshift massage table. “Fucking hell! That hurt!”
There was no compassion from the sadist already applying another strip of hot wax—was Lucy sure it had to be this hot?—to the next stretch of hair on his leg.
This was a bad idea. Why didn’t he just stick to the black leggings? They felt good on him, beneath the grey chiffon dress.
“Come on, don’t be a wuss. Are you gonna’ man up to be the woman of your dreams?”
“Argh!” Wince, wince. Maybe he’d just have one leg done today, the other next week?
But Lucy’s torture was relentless. “Keep still, or I’ll have to go over that bit again.”
David could hear the taunting in her voice. For a petite five foot nothing slip of a lass she was a formidable character. It would make her day to keep him here all afternoon, subjected to burning pain, followed by everlasting smarting.
I’ve been sorting a few things out in my house for summer, and as I have no doubt you can imagine in this heat I’ve found a little help from my nephews helps a great deal. Moving some of the furniture to give my place a lighter and more spacious feel has made it so much nicer in the heat.
In my living room is my husbands old sea chest, one of my last mementos of the dear man. He disappeared in the south seas many years ago, though I don’t really like to talk about it. Needless to say, as a widow I do like to keep some of his things about the place, even if it has been 25 years since he went beyond his last horizon. I used to put a few photographs of him and his shipmates on it all arranged nicely in their frames, but they’re all packed away now.
“Goodness, Auntie,” said my nephew Gerald. “You really do have a big chest,” trying to move it.
“Ah, yes,” I replied. “And not so very long ago it was covered in seamen.”
This week I have learned that Stacey, my little helper, has
been a very naughty little girl. I admit
she is strikingly good looking, and she’s never allowed her age to stand in her
way. Even with my most mature of clients she is unafraid to step forward and
take the bull by the horn, as it were.
I am thrilled to introduce you to Mollie Blake, a wonderful writer from England’s west country. In this, her first piece for FionaDobson.com she’s going to lead you through a story telling the tantalizing crossdressing story of a date night to remember. You can find more of her stories at MollieBlake.com
“Professor Forbes, I’ve got a…er…Lucinda de Vilish on the phone for you.”
David glanced up to check his office door was closed. “Thanks, Edwina. Put her through.”
“Professor Forbes. This is Lucinda de Vilish.”
Before responding he waited for the “click” to make sure his inquisitive secretary had put her phone down. “Lucy. You’ve rung me at work! This had better be a matter of life or death.”
“Well, hi, David. How nice to hear from you! And it is a matter of life, and my future happiness.”
“So what’s that then?”
“I’ve set us up on a double date.”
“A double date?” The frown David had been wearing for most of the day so far, slowly morphed into a broad smile. He pressed his hand over the top of his dark grey trousers.
“Oh, come on! You know you want to. It’ll be fun. I met this guy and his friend in the bar last night. I said we’d see them tonight. At Don Antonio’s, your favourite Italian. You can pick me up at 7.30…and David, I’m relying on you. 7.30 okay?”
“What if I’ve got plans—”
The line had gone dead.
Who was he kidding anyway? Lucy knew he didn’t have plans. During semesters, the only thing he had going on was teaching a bunch of students about quantum technology. He focused on the report he had been writing with renewed zest—his day had just got better.
I had just disconnected from a Zoom meeting with a client who was looking at rebranding his chain of laundries when Ali, my Syrian gardener, arrived for his English lesson. I have been concerned about his use of English and offered to help him as best I could. The Trimark Laundry Company would have to wait for their report about renaming their stores.
As a busy advertising account executive I find I do have to prioritise my private life. If Mr. Skid of the Trimark Laundry Company expected to be prioritized over my own personal interests he was very much mistaken.
I spend a half hour each day helping Ali to advance his use of English.
“So you see, Ali,” I explained, “using capitalization properly can completely change the meaning of a sentence. For example, ‘I was helping my cousin Jack off his horse…”
At that very moment the door swung open and Bernard bustled into the kitchen.
“Goodness,” I said. “You gave me a start, Bernard. What on earth’s the matter?”
“I’ve got a leak,” he said hurriedly.
“Well, you know where the bathroom is,” I replied.
“No. It’s the boat. I need to go and pump it out. It seems to be taking on water.”
I should explain. Bernard keeps a small sloop in the mariner near Huckleberry Close.
“Well, can I help with anything? Biscuits perhaps?” I got up to put the kettle on.
“No. We have to get down there right away. I wondered if you and Ali could help out,” he said.
“Of course,” I replied reaching for my new London Look lipstick. I wouldn’t want to be caught out in a sinking boat without a nice shade, and went to find a nice pale pink sweater.
“It’s just that I need someone to help pump it out.”
I remembered the hours I’d spent onboard pumping my arm up and down seemingly for hours on a previous occasion. Anyone who’s been around boats will know this feeling. Up down, up down, and up down. And all to drain the scuppers.
“Oh, I’m sure I can help with that.”
“Can I come too,” piped up Ali.
“Of course,” said Bernard. “The more the merrier!”
What a fun morning we had. And all because Bernard’s worm gear clamp had not been properly adjusted. I admit this does sound rather more like something in Mistress Meg’s realm than mine. Which brings you to the main reason I’m writing today. I put out a lovely story for my all my members this week – The Long Game. And true to form Mistress Meg has released one of her great self hypnosis files. You can find Mistress Meg’s Denial self hypnosis here. You’ll need to be a Seahorse member to access it and if you’ve not already done so you can do so here.
Now, I have to go and massage my bicep. All that pumping is quite exhausting. However, at least Bernard’s boat is all shipshape now.
With the fine weather comes the chance to wear more exciting clothes. I love to get into a mini skirt in the summer. And equally the sun brings out the more eccentric dressing styles.
Not least among these are my friends that cycle. Seeing Sebastian cycling up the road to my quiet house in Huckleberry Close is both a curious and disturbing sight. While my bicycle has a very pretty wicker basket and I added a few pink tassels for style to the handlebars, Sebastian prefers a more sporty style. Crouched over the handle bars he looks like nothing so much as he’s being prepared for a very sporty mobile enema.
“You look so athletic,” I mentioned to Sebastian as he dismounted. “But where do you put your shopping?”
He looked a little disdainfully at me and then said, “I cycle for my body, not my shopping.”
I felt a little as though I had been put in my place, but replied, “Well, those pants look as though you pushed your vegetable order down them.”
I feel strangely liberated commenting on others clothing, as I glide across the grass wearing a bright lemon pleated skirt and pale blue tee shirt. I should try not to be unkind to Sebastian. And it has to be said that his vegetable order is nothing if not plentiful.
He shifted awkwardly as I chatted. But that does rather neatly bring the subject onto food and soon it will be time for the Huckleberry Close summer party. We usually each bring a dish, and everybody shares in the wide diversity of food often from our own cultures. This year I am preparing boerewors, a lovely South African sausage dish with Sebastian’s help. Now there really is a man who knows his way around a sausage. Auntie Kittie is making a lovely Pavlova, and so I asked Ali what he would be making.
“I was thinking of a Syrian soup, Shakriya. It’s lamb with yoghurt,” he said.
“That does sound delightful,” I said excited to try some new dishes.
Have a delightful week. I know Mistress Meg will be posting some hypnosis files this week, so we have that to look forward to, and I think the next episode of Clothes Maketh The Man should land in the next few days.
I said nothing, instead staring at my feet. She sat quietly on the bed, and motioned me to sit beside her. I did so, doubtful of her good intentions, but aware that this was surely better than the beating she could so easily have resorted to.
“Now, tell me the truth. Did you do it because it feels nice?”
I continued to look at my feet, but nodded silently. I couldn’t face her.
“Well, at least we have the truth, now.”
She put her arm around my shoulders. Her body was warm and soft, and she said softly, “Michael, you’re not the first young man to put on panties. It’s ok, you know.”
I was twelve years old when my step sister caught me. I was in her room, returning her panties. She was older than me, a beautiful 19 and fully a woman. I stood in her room, guiltily holding her red silky panties.
Inside I could feel the tears welling up. I was confused, and had been taking her panties now and then, unsure why, but enjoying pulling them on and posing in front of the big mirror in my mother’s room, when the house was empty.
“I should tell your mommy, you know. It would break her heart, of course,” she said condescendingly. “You wouldn’t care about that though. Why would you care for other people’s feelings, if you think it’s ok to creep around taking their clothes.”
I would like to say it was a morning like any other. I would like to say I didn’t receive a string of texts from friends and family asking if what they were reading on line were true. I would like to say I wasn’t being outed by my stalker.
But we don’t always get what we want, do we?
Instead that morning, as I drove to work I made an awkward phone call to my son and asked, “So what are you seeing online?”
“Some weird guy says you’re a crossdresser. He say’s a load of stuff.”
I avoided sliding the car into the oncoming traffic and said, my voice a little strained, “And what did you say back?”
Yes, I know. It seems incredible. However, it is true. The iconic serial about poor Andy, a man who stumbles from disaster to crossdressing disaster, all the time under the tender gaze of Davina, is now available free.
I was just getting ready to go out this afternoon, when a very distraught Max came and pleaded with me. I had my favorite heels on, and Hannibal was staring at me looking forward to his walk.
“You can’t make it all free,” protested Max, who has been handling our site rebuild.
“But my members love Andrea, and Davina,” I said. “We can’t just take it offline.”
“I don’t think I can separate it out,” he said pouring over some code. “At least not in a way that’s going to be easy to work with.”
“Then we’ll give it to our members free,” I said, and applied a little more lipstick. I have a spectacular crimson shade on today.
Enjoy the very best in crossdressing stories. There’s a new episode of Clothes Maketh The Man out later this week. Maybe Andrea is going to get a lucky break. Or not. Be sure to enjoy it when I post it later this week, free.
The other morning I walked into my kitchen and immediately knew something was wrong. I should explain that my morning yoga is a sacred time for me, and I let nothing interrupt it. I’m only ready to start the day once I feel grounded and settled.
I usually follow my morning yoga with some tea, and a piece of toast, so I was surprised to find a deputation of some of my team waiting for me as I entered the kitchen.
Max, Katia and Mistress Meg fell silent as I entered. I glanced at them, and walked over to the kettle and put it on. To say the atmosphere was tense was an understatement.
“Well,” I said. “What are you all looking so worried about? Has someone died?”
Max, who was backed up against the wall looking a little scared, was the first to speak.
“Meg wants to hang me up by my…” he faltered.
Then Mistress Meg cut in, “I want to hang him by his wrists and have Stacy give him a damned good strapping.”
Katia just looked angry.
“What on earth’s going on,” I asked. “Max, tell me what’s the matter.”
Now, perhaps you remember that Max is my neighbour’s twenty year old son, and looks after much of the technology side of the work I do. There’s a surprising amount of work running the blog. He also manages my Patreon and a few other things, including entering Auntie Kittie’s content. He’s our tame techie.
“It’s Patreon,” he said and everyone fell silent.
“Oh yes. They recently named me as one of their top adult writing creators, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they’ve done very well from your Patrons. You’d think they…”
“Tell her what they’ve done, Max. Stop blabbering,” said Meg.
Max, who by now was close to tears, turned to Mistress Meg and said, “You’re not the boss of me! I’m just doing my best. You can’t tell me what to do!”
Mistress Meg picked up a breadknife, rubbed her thumb against the blade and then said menacingly, “Odd choice of last words, Max.”
“I think perhaps we should all calm down,” I said gently. “Now, Max let’s sit in my study and see what’s the matter.”
I took Max through to my study, usually my sanctuary away from others, and sat him down on the couch. His eyes were brimming over, and a tear ran down his cheek.
“It’s ok, Max. Just tell me what the trouble is.”
“We’ve been kicked off Patreon. They say our content is too adult.”
“What? Make up tips and hypnosis?” I said looking a little shocked. “Or was it that joke you said I should take out?”
“You mean the one about stuttering?”
“Yes, where I said that jokes about speech impediments were a big big ‘no no’?”
“No,” he replied. “I pulled that out before we posted that piece. It’s more Mistress Meg and Katia’s content. They say it’s too adult and they don’t want it on their servers. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“Really? What else is there?”
“We have hundreds of members there. And they’re not going to be happy. And Mistress Meg and Katia depend on the revenue from there,” he said clearly upset. “I’ve let them down. And I think Mistress Meg might want to do something horrible to me.”
“Mistress Meg does horrible tings to people all the time. It’s sort of her thing,” I said softly. “I won’t let her do anything to you, don’t you worry. She just want’s to look after the Seahorses.”
“I didn’t mean to get us kicked. Really. I thought we were ok, but they’ve just clamped down.”
“Don’t worry, Max,” I said soothingly. “We’ll take care of Patreon. If we have to be off it then I’m sure our members will understand. We got along just fine without Patreon before, remember? We’ll just have to accommodate the members on the website.”
I thought about it for a moment and then said to Max, “Mistress Meg is just concerned because her writing is more edgy. She probably thinks it really her fault. None of this is anyone’s fault. Patreon are just trying to be careful.”
Max looked a little awkward for a moment and then added, “Well, there’s more to it than that. I was thinking of saying we should get off it anyway. Some people feel it’s a bit of a scam. You should see the review of it.”
“Well, if that’s the case then we should get off it anyway. They’ve done us a favor. I want the best for my members,” I said.
Max stared into he distance and then said, “I can build a membership system on the site. We can ask Patrons to switch over. That way you can chat to them when they visit the site, using that chat window you use some evenings.”
“I love chatting with them,” I said. “Now, I’d better go and calm down Meg and Katia. Don’t you worry about a thing. It’s not your fault.”
And with that I left and went out to the kitchen. It didn’t take long to calm down Meg and Katia.
“We’re just going to build a membership system on the blog instead,” I told them. “Besides that way we can service them much better. Patreon has never been that great. I know people can’t find half the content you write, because their navigation is so outdated.”
Katia cut in, “You’re right. Someone wrote to me the other day saying they couldn’t navigate properly in their app. Half the time it doesn’t work properly.”
“Now, let’s not be unkind to Max. He’s going to have our website updated in a few days with a bunch more content for our members and we’ll let everyone know exactly how to switch over to our website,” I said. “Besides, it gives us an opportunity to do more on the website itself, rather than someone else’s platform. We can do even more cool things for our members.”
And that’s why I’m writing to you today. This has given us the great opportunity to improve the way we serve up content. It’s also a heads up that Clothes Maketh The Man is soon going to be served entirely free. You probably know that the first 24 episodes are currently free, but that subsequent episodes have only been available on Patreon. Well, I’ll be making them freely available on FionaDobson.com in the next couple of days.
Now, if you’re a Patron you’ll need to subscribe to one of the services here to continue your membership – and I want you to know how very much I appreciate each of you that does so. And if you’d just like to support the work my little team and I do then you can simply join for $1 a month in my Good Gurls membership here. You know how very much I appreciate each and every one of my members, and over the years we’ve overcome hurdles like this plenty of times.
If you’d like to tell Patreon what you think of their decision to throw us off their platform, don’t let me stop you. You can email them here: firstname.lastname@example.org – It won’t change their decision but it might remind them that they’re a bunch of homophobic self righteous dicks.
Don’t worry. This isn’t going to stop us delivering the very best crossdressing content, just as I always have. Now, I have to hide the cooking sherry. I can see Auntie Kittie coming up the drive, and if I don’t she’ll be here all night.