"EVE"
by Chelsea Brown

The first time I "spoke" to Eve, it was through an on-line chat service.
If you're not a computer buff, or geek, or nerd, then it would take me more
time than I want to spend to describe one.  But, briefly, these on-line
computer services are where you can "chat" to others by typing messages.
Unlike e-mail, you get an immediate response.  You type a line, they type
an answer, you type something else, and so on.  You don't get to see them
(unless they have a GIF posted) and it's a bit difficult to judge their
mood, but it can be a fun way to spend an evening, especially if you're
stuck in a hotel in, say, Bakersfield, with the rain hissing down outside
and nothing on the television.  And, if you have a vivid imagination, a
decent command of English, and some typing skills, there's always
cyber-sex.

Cyber-sex?  Well, imagine an interactive pornographic novel.  It's still
on-line chatting except that, this time, it's in private (usually) and can
get very graphical.  One of the things you need to know about on-line
services is that a large proportion of the "women" on-line are actually
men.  As a friend of mine says "Welcome to on-line chatting, where the men
are men -- and so are the women."  For some men that would be a definite
turn off -- if they were ever to find out.  And there are some that are so
lonely and horny that they really don't care.  I guess they prefer not to
think about it.  Then there are people like me who considers these "girls"
a turn on.  I find guys dressed as girls extremely alluring -- if they look
pretty.  I try to see all the drag shows I can when I'm out of town:
Finoccio's, Boylesque, La Cage and the Queen Mary are regular haunts.  I
also have all the mainstream movies ever released on video on the subject
of drag or female impersonation and a growing collection of 'special
interest' movies.

Don't get me wrong.  I love real women, too.  I've had a succession of
girl-friends.  But they are never as careful with their makeup as
transvestites are.  They just don't seem to take the same pride in their
appearance.  Most of the ones I've known hate high heels and prefer to slop
around in a tee-shirt and no bra as soon as they come home from work.  I've
dated a couple of transvestites in my time, too.  But they were both
disappointing.  One had a definite mustache and the other -- well, the
least said about that encounter, the better.

There's a name for guys like me.  Not perverts.  Transophiles.  I know,
because I made it up.  TV groupies, I guess.  Most transvestites,
surprisingly, are straight.  Oh, they'll lead you on -- let you buy them a
drink, perhaps even dance with them -- but, after that, it's no go.  And
those that do allow you to get intimate with them are often 'working
girls'.  Not that I have any problems with prostitutes, but I like to think
that it's not just my money that's making them moan.  And there's the ever
present risk of AIDS.  So these days, my sexual outlet is normally
cyber-chatting.

Eve was on channel 42, which I'd selected as soon as I'd logged on.  She
was logged on as "++Eve (tv)++", which I hadn't seen before, but the plus
signs told me this was her main User Name so I checked out her profile,
which didn't tell me much except that she was logged on out of Dallas,
Texas.  I lurked for a bit and noticed that she had a decent knowledge of
English and a quick -- if somewhat acidic -- wit.  So I sent her a private
message.  Nothing clever, just a simple "Hi."  She could ignore it if she
liked and I'd try someone else, or she could reply and we'd take it from
there.

"Hi, hon," she replied, "how are you tonite?"

I replied that I was well, was logged on from a hotel room in Chicago and
asked stupid question #1 -- "What are you wearing?"

"Nothing special, just a turtleneck, blazer and skirt.  Wig and makeup, of
course, and jewelry.  I've just come back from doing some shopping."

I was impressed.  "You go out en femme?"  I asked.

"Oh yes, I have no problems passing.  I guess I spend about half of my life
-- outside of work -- cross-dressed, and it would be stupid to get back
into drabs just to go and get some groceries."

That led to some questions about her size (36B-28-34), height (5' 7"),
weight (170#) and coloring (blonde/blue).  There were some other questions
back and forth but they were of a more personal nature and I won't bore you
with them.  We both discovered that we were in the mood for some gentle
loving and so we started a session.  I logged it, like I do all my
sessions, and saved it, like I do the successful ones -- so that there is
always something to fall back on.  To replay it here would not do it
justice.  I'll give you an example:

++Nick++ > So I call for you.  I leave the car outside your front gate and
ring the door bell.  ++Eve (tv)++ > How are you dressed?  ++Nick++ > Oh,
let's see.  Dark gray trousers, royal blue jacket, black brogues.  Cream
polo-neck.  I'm carrying a single red rose as a corsage.  ++Eve (tv)++ >
How sweet.  I'm wearing a long gown.  Strapless, cream.  My hair is soft
and flowing round my face.  My makeup is flawless.  I have a single gold
purse -- evening clutch bag.  I'm wearing 4" cream pumps.

... and so on.  See what I mean?  Boring, in the cold light of day.  But if
I was to take the fantasy and relate it as if it was reality, it would go
something like this:

Eve had given me detailed directions to where she lived, and I was glad to
note that it appeared to be in the better part of town.  The house I pulled
up at was a detached colonial, with a sweeping front drive.  I pulled the
rental through the double gates and felt, rather than heard, the gravel
scrunching under my tires.  I'm glad I had dressed conservatively in what I
thought of as my "James Bond casual" look.  I stopped the car, picked up
the corsage off the passenger seat and climbed the steps to her front door.
I didn't have long to wait after ringing the bell; she must have been ready
and waiting for me.  The person who opened the door was stunning.  She had
obviously taken a long time over her makeup ... lengths that most real
girls won't go to (well, just look at Tammy Faye, who shovels it on with a
trowel).  Her dress clung to her, accentuating every curve.  In the night
air, I could smell "Shalomar."  I held out the corsage and she took it with
a smile.

"That's sweet!"

"I'm a sweet kind of guy."  I grinned and proffered my arm to lead her to
the car.  Once she was sitting comfortably, dress all tucked inside, I
closed the door, ran round to the driver's side and jumped in.  Soon the
engine was purring and we were backing out onto the road.

I took a good look at her.  Utterly beautiful, at first glance.  If you
looked closer ~ if you knew what to look for ~ there were signs that things
were not what they appeared to be.  She was a trifle too tall ~ for a
woman.  Her hands were a touch too large ~ for a woman.  Her jaw was a
little too square ~ for a woman (although skillful makeup softened the
lines tremendously).  And, later in the evening, when first my hand brushed
her hair, it felt obviously acrylic.  But then, I knew what to look for, I
had spent years identifying those elements that assured me that the woman I
was watching was, indeed, anything but.  However, these are things that
'normies' don't usually notice and I had no doubts that Eve would pass as
my girlfriend anywhere she chose to take me.

"Well, this is your town, so where would you like to go?"  I asked.

She smiled at me.  For a while, she said nothing, content to sink back into
the leather upholstery.  I left her alone, just guiding the car by
instinct, towards what appeared to be the down-town area.  We were fairly
close to what appeared to be a fairly built-up area of town, judging by the
street lights, when she stirred.

She put her hand on my arm.  "At the next lights, turn left."

She guided me down side roads around the very edge of the built up area
until, finally, she had me pull over into a parking lot just off the road.
We were by a rather seedy looking door with a neon sign above it that
proclaimed "The Blue Parrot."  I put the car into neutral, set the
hand-brake, and walked around the car to let her out.

Once inside, the "Blue Parrot" had the stamp of 'sameness' about it that
most hotel chains have.  I could have been in the "Wild Side" in Toronto,
the "Queen Mary" in Hollywood, the "Drag Strip" in Chicago, or any of a
dozen or more clubs I have visited around the country.  Behind me, as we
sat down, was a bar, staffed by a pair of extremely twee bartenders.  There
were three bathrooms to my right; one with a pictogram of a guy, one with a
pictogram of a girl, and one with a question mark on the door.  In front of
me was a low stage separated from the audience by a faded fire-curtain.
Even the show, when it started, was identical to shows I had seen before.
First, a Joan Rivers look-alike told some crude and unfunny jokes.  Then a
troupe of 'girls' one by one, lip-synched to Barbra Streisand, Cher,
Ann-Margret, Bette Midler, and the divine Judy Garland.  Halfway through,
the em-cee came out, told some more jokes and picked on a member of the
audience to embarrass.  Towards the end, a girl came out, sat down at a
makeup table and changed back into a guy while lip-synching "I am what I
am."  Finally, all the girls came out together for the grande finale, a
high-kicking number called "Blue Bayou."  The em-cee came out for a final
curtsey, thanked all the cast, the lighting and sound crew, the
choreographer, her parents, her doctor (with several suggestive winks) and
the audience for coming (more winks and a leer).

If I sound jaded, then really I am not, it's just that after so many shows
and so many clubs, they do tend to get a little boring.  But Eve was
enjoying it immensely.  When we had sat down, she had placed her hand in
mine and continued to keep it there during the show.  Any time an
extra-passable 'girl' came on stage, she would grip my hand a little
tighter, her nails digging into my palm.

After the show was over, we left the club and headed back to my car.  I
naturally went to the passenger door, unlocked and opened it for Eve to get
in.  Instead of doing so, she pushed me back against the metal and kissed
me, passionately, while her hand cradled my sac and rubbed it.  To say I
was shocked is an understatement.  I was utterly amazed.  But powerless to
do anything about it while she pinioned my body between hers and the car.
And I had to admit that "Hercules" was thoroughly enjoying it, growing
harder by the second under her expert ministrations.  I was beginning to
relax and try to be the aggressor when she suddenly changed tactics.
Pressing me against the car with both her hands, she slid down into a
kneeling position.  There was a ripping sound and a blast of cold air, and
she had unzipped my trousers, slid her hand inside my shorts and scooped
Hercules out.  Seconds later, she had begun to give me the best blow job of
my life.  At first, I was horrified but, after a quick look around, I could
tell that the place was quite deserted.  I could see people walking along
the sidewalk at the other end of the lot but we were hidden from them by a
row of cars.  Of course, there was always the chance of someone leaving the
club and discovering us but, in a perverted way, I guess that added to the
excitement.

The location and Eve's expert mouth combined to work their magic and it
wasn't too long before I was shooting my load down her throat.  By now, my
hands were on her shoulders and I was bucking my hips, fucking that lovely
face for all I was worth.  Eventually, it was over and I collapsed back
against the car with a moan.  Eve tucked everything away, zipped me up
again and straightened up in one fluid motion.  She smiled and, with her
little finger, wiped away the glistening drops of cum that had accumulated
at the corners of her mouth.  She smiled at me and climbed into the car
without saying a word.  I made sure that her dress was tucked inside, shut
the door, went around to the driver's side, got in, started the engine, and
backed out of the lot in a kind of daze.

The drive back to Eve's house was made in silence.  By the time I got
there, I was beginning to wonder if it had been a dream and may have
actually written off the whole experience as one, except that Hercules was
throbbing the way he does only after really good sex.

At Eve's house, I ran round to let her out of the car.  We walked up to her
front door and she took a key out of her purse and unlocked it.  I was
naturally assuming that we'd go up to her bedroom for at least a replay,
and hopefully a continuance of what had already happened.  But Eve had
other plans.  She turned around, in the doorway, slid her arms round my
neck and gave me a long kiss.  Her lips tasted salty and it didn't take me
too long to realize why and exactly what I was tasting.  Finally, she broke
loose.

"See you around, lover," she smiled, backed into the hall, and shut the
door in my face.  I stood on the doorstep, dumfounded, for a minute or
three, and then got back into the car and drove back to the hotel.  I was
angry and disappointed and yet terribly excited and happy at the same time.

My session log ends with:

++Eve(tv)++ > See you around, lover.  (++Eve(tv)++ has gone off-line)

When you get down to it, just some clever typing and fevered imagination.
But that cyber-fuck was as real to me as any face-to-face encounter.  I
logged off, switched off the lap-top and collapsed back onto the sheets in
my lonely hotel room.  Hercules was still throbbing.

After that, I saw Eve's handle on-line several times, but never broached
the idea of another session.  There was something about her that made me
cautious.  Eve obviously liked to be in control; she got off on the power
aspect.  I am not by nature a submissive.  Nor am I dominant (and I am
amused by the number of 'girls' who feel you have to be one or the other)
but I do like to be in control and I felt that Eve would never allow me
that pleasure.

And yet, when my boss informed me that I would be spending a couple of
weeks in Dallas, my thoughts immediately turned to Eve.  What would she say
if I suggested meeting in person?  Would she welcome it, or would she shy
away, to hide the fact that 'she' was actually a 6'4" trucker called Carl
(or "Adam", or whatever) built like a brick shithouse?

I logged on every evening after I learnt of my trip to Texas but, as luck
would have it, I kept missing her.  So I sent her e-mail, telling her that
I would be in Dallas in a few days and asking her to contact me if she
wanted to meet.  I kept logging on every night, but there was no reply.
Finally -- on the night before my flight, when I should have been packing
-- I logged on and found that I had a reply.  She just said that she would
love to meet up and asked me to e-mail her a phone number where I could be
reached.  Now, I am naturally wary when it comes to giving out anything
that could link the lonely transophile on-line with a real person.  You
never know what someone might do with that information.  It wouldn't be
hard for someone to trace me back to my home and employer.  Once that had
happened, blackmail wasn't too far away.  At least, that's how my paranoid
brain worked.  But after thinking it over for a while, I decided to take a
risk.  I created an e-mail, telling her my hotel number and full name
(which she would need to get hold of me), and the dates that I would be in
Dallas.  With a gulp, I pressed the "Send" button, logged off, powered
down, and got on with my packing.

I flew into Dallas on the Tuesday and was busy with work for the rest of
the week.  Although I had taken my lap-top with me, I didn't even get a
chance to log on in the evenings.  On the Tuesday night, I was too tired
from the jet-lag, I spent the Wednesday evening typing up my customer visit
report and checking my business e-mails and, on the Thursday, the customer
took me out to dinner which got rather liquid, so I poured myself into bed
about 11 p.m. without even bothering to log on.

I had gotten back to the hotel on Friday and was in the shower, cleaning
off the emotional grime from the day when the phone rang.  I threw one of
the hotel napkins that they laughingly call towels round my waist and
rushed over to the bed.

"Hi, this is Nick Peters."

"Hi, hon."  The voice, even over the phone, was soft, melodic and feminine.
And unrecognizable.

"Er.  Who is this?"

"Eve."  I thought I noticed a trace of petulance in her voice.  Rightly so.
After all, I was supposed to be expecting a call from her.  I guess the
voice had thrown me.

"Oh, great to hear from you!  Where are you?"

"In the lobby."

"Where?"  Suddenly I panicked.  I had assumed that Eve would have wanted
"Adam" (or "Carl", or whoever) to meet up with me for coffee or something
prior to my meeting Eve but now I had visions of an obviously gay male
standing at the reception desk, with a femme voice and calling himself
'Eve' asking to be put through to me.  I'd be lucky if news didn't get back
to my office before the Monday morning.

"In the lobby of your hotel.  I thought we could go out for a meal or
something.  That is, if you're up to it?"

"Yeah, sure.  Look, you caught me in the shower.  Let me get dried off and
changed.  Give me fifteen minutes, okay?"

"Fine.  I'll be waiting in the bar."

"How will I recognize you?"

"I'm wearing a yellow dress and matching blazer.  Long blonde hair, but you
know that already."  Now I was really panicking.  A cyber-session was one
thing, where I could imagine my partner to be as passable as I wanted to,
but in real life, who really is 100% passable?  I had two choices.  One was
to stay put, or slip out of the back exit ~ anything to avoid meeting her.
The other was to walk into the bar, head high, and acknowledge 'Eve' as my
date, regardless of how she looked.  I had a quarter of an hour to make my
decision.

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"Oh, take your time.  I wouldn't want to rush you."  Was it just a fevered
imagination, or had she put extra meaning into that sentence?

"Bye for now."  I put the phone down and started drying myself off.  Twelve
minutes later, I was dried off, shaved, hair brushed and dressed in my
'James Bond casual' look.  Five minutes more and I was striding into the
bar, my heart in my mouth.  I scanned the room for anyone who fitted Eve's
description.  As the bar area was pretty empty, my choices were limited.
In fact, only one person came close to fitting the bill, sitting on a
barstool in the corner, chatting to the bartender, but I dismissed her
immediately.  I carried on looking round, in case I had missed anyone but,
if Eve was present, she had to be the girl in the corner.  The description
was right on.  Long blonde hair, brushed off her face, a yellow sun-dress
that stopped short of her knees, a matching blazer draped over the next
chair.  I was still unconvinced.  But ....

I walked over and tentatively said "Eve?"

She span round, a big smile on her face.  "Nick?"

Then the penny dropped into place.  Eve wasn't a guy who pretended to be a
girl, she was a girl who pretended to be a transvestite.  Now, you are
probably asking yourselves how I reached that rather strange conclusion.
Remember that I have been around the t-community long enough to know the
difference.  I could give you a list of things to look out for, but it
would be several pages long.  There's no cut-off point ~ "answer 'Yes' to
75 or more of these questions and she is definitely a transvestite" ~ kind
of thing.  It's just that the more questions you can answer "Yes" to, the
more likely it is that she's a transvestite.  Even with all questions
answered "Yes," there's a small chance that she is what she seems to be,
and with all questions answered "No," that she is isn't what she seems to
be.  But I've never been wrong before, and I was sure I wasn't wrong this
time.  As I say, the full list of questions would take several pages, but
here are just a few of the ones I used to make my judgment call.

Is her hair in bangs?  A quick guide as to whether she's wearing a wig.
Not all hairstyles with bangs mean they are wigs, and not all wig-wearers
are transvestites, but certainly, a wig would never be worn in a
brushed-off-the-face style, because you'd see the hard edge of the wig.
Eve's hair was brushed back, showing her hair-line.

Does she have 'big' hair?  i.e., lots of it, in curls.  Transvestites favor
this kind of hairstyle to make their faces look smaller and minimize their
shoulders.  Eve's hair was straight, but it almost touched her waist.

Is the hair all of one color?  All real hair is a mixture of many colors,
often including gray (sadly).  But the cheaper wigs are all one color.
Eve's hair was basically straw-blonde but ranged from red to ash.

Is the hair the same color as the eyebrows?  If not, then she dyes her hair
~ or wears a wig.  Eve's eyebrows were slim and tapered.  And exactly the
same color as her hair.

Is she taller than average?  Say, 5'10" and above.  A definite pointer.
I've seen a group of really attractive girls who only gave themselves away
when a real girl came up to them and they towered over her.  It was
difficult to say, with Eve sitting down, but I'd believe her to be the 5'
7" she claimed to be.

Is she big-boned?  Again, something to make you be very suspicious.  Eve's
bone structure was delicate and feminine.

Does she wear heavy makeup?  If so, she's either Tammy Faye, or a
transvestite.  Eve wore the kind of makeup that looks as if you're not
wearing makeup.  Cleverly applied, and with restraint.

Does she have false and/or heavily painted nails?  Eve was wearing light
tan kid-skin gloves, but that in itself counted as a "No".

Is her dress-sense exotic or fetishistic?  I'm talking about heavily
sequined evening gowns, bustiers, PVC or leather, sky-high heels, that kind
of thing.  Real women may get dressed up in the privacy of their bedrooms,
but only Madonna and transvestites wear that kind of stuff in public.
Eve's sun-dress was one of those very simple cuts that could have only come
from a famous couturier and probably cost a fortune.

Do her breasts ride high on her body?  Remember the old joke about what
does an old hag have between her breasts that a young virgin doesn't?  (The
answer is "Her belly-button").  Most transvestites buy bras that are too
small and overfill them, which makes their 'breasts' stick out just
underneath their chins!  Eve's breasts seemed to be perfectly proportioned.
I could just see a touch of very natural-looking cleavage before her skin
disappeared inside her dress.

Are her arms and legs smooth?  This is one of the biggest give-aways.
Especially when you see a guy who obviously keeps his body shaved.  He's
either a long-distance swimmer, bicyclist, or a transvestite (or all
three).  Eve's arms were sparsely covered in a soft blonde down.

Do you see what I mean?  None of these questions, by themselves, is enough
to make anyone suspicious.  But, if Eve had answered "Yes" to all of them,
then I would have tagged her as a very passable transvestite. But she had
answered "No" to each and every question.  Not just the ones listed above,
but also to a host of others to do with her posture, voice and mannerisms.
Everything about Eve told me she was a real woman.  And when I added to
that her obvious fondness for playing head-games, a picture began to
emerge.  I relaxed, interested in seeing how far she could keep the
pretense up.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting."  I apologized.

"Oh, no trouble.  I guess I should have phoned before I came round.  But it
was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment thingie."  I wasn't sure I liked
being a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment thingie, but I let it drop.

"Have you eaten?"

Eve's smile was soft, charming, and simply evil.  "Not for ages."  Even the
bartender caught that one, smirked and moved away.

"You mean you missed lunch?"  I said, loudly, for his benefit.

She giggled.  "Yes, of course.  What did you think I meant?"

"Er.  I think I'll take the fifth on that one.  What would you like to eat
... I mean", I added hastily, "where would you like to eat."  Damn, I was
digging myself in deeper. "What restaurant?"

After some discussion, we decided to drive back to Eve's place, drop her
car off, and then go on to a nightclub she knew.  I followed her car ~ a
Mazda ~ out of the parking lot, and through a tangle of lights to a housing
complex.  Not the old Colonial with the winding drive that Eve had
described in our cyber-session, but a modern apartment on the second floor,
with a car port underneath.  I checked off another "No" from my mental
list.

Once her car was locked up safely, and Eve was in my passenger seat, I set
off back into town.  As we drove, I took every opportunity to scrutinize
her.  At no time did I have to revise any of the "No"s checked from my
list.  But I did discover something.  Eve was not beautiful.  Don't get me
wrong, she wasn't ugly, either.  But she was the girl next door.  The
distant cousin that your Aunts keep on trying to set you up with.  Ali
McGraw in "Love Story."  Mia Farrow in any Woody Allen movie.  Pretty, yes.
Attractive, yes.  But no knock-out.

I was disappointed in the nightclub when we arrived.  I was expecting the
"Blue Parrot" but what I got was a very up-market, normal club with valet
parking and a maitre d'.  Small tables huddled around a dance-floor.  The
food was adequate, but not great, and the wine was young and domestic.
Still, I was more interested in the company than anything else.  Eve was a
wonderful companion.  Charming, witty, and a great listener.  Although we
chatted about inconsequential matters, at no time was the subject of our
cyber-session brought up, or why she had pretended to be a transvestite
on-line.  I had long since put any thoughts of dating a transvestite out of
my head and just settled back to enjoy Eve's company.

After we had let our dinners settle, Eve said she wanted to dance.  So we
danced.  Modern stuff, '60s pop, a bit of formal ballroom, and some slow
ballads.  Eve was a great dancer.  The kind of dancer that makes her
partner look good.  She obviously could tell a waltz from a fox-trot, she
frugged with the best of them, and she was content just to sink into my
arms and sway gently during the ballads.  Strangely enough, although she
had again taken off her blazer, she left her gloves on during the entire
evening.

Eventually, when we both realized we were sitting out more dances than we
were participating in, I decided to call it an evening and take her home.
When we arrived back at her house, I got out of the car and walked her to
her front door.  I started to thank her for a lovely evening, figuring I
was just going to get a goodnight kiss, when she unlocked the door, and
pulled me through the door-step and into her living room.

I took a quick look round.  The room was furnished in a contemporary style.
The wall opposite the front door was mainly given over to a huge
entertainment system.  A large screen television, VCR, laser disk player
and audio system with surround-sound.  In the corner next to it was another
door that appeared to lead off into the rest of the apartment.  To my right
was a kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter top.  Behind me,
next to the front door, was a well-stocked drinks cabinet, and a modern,
black leather settee in front of the window On the other side of the settee
was an end-table with some magazines scattered around a table-lamp.  A
chair that was the match to the settee was to my left, next to a unit that
housed books and curios, and which had some drawers and cupboards
underneath.

"Mix me a drink, lover."  Eve commanded.  "I'm going to get changed."  She
then hit a couple of buttons on the entertainment center, twisted a button
on the wall to dim the light to a soft glow, and disappeared through the
back door.  Her bedroom must have been just the other side of the wall
because I could hear her unzip her dress quite clearly.

She'd been drinking martinis all evening, so I figured that's what she
would want now.  I made us a pitcher of very dry martini.  Once that was
ready, I turned my attention to the television.  The video that was playing
was one I had seen often before.  A transvestite movie starring the
delectable Karen Dior.  It kept me interested for the fifteen minutes or
more that it took Eve to get changed.  Once I heard the clatter of her
heels, I poured two martinis out of the pitcher.

When Eve said she was going to change, she really had meant it!  The girl
who walked back into the room was almost unrecognizable as the one who had
left a few minutes earlier.  Firstly, she was wearing a translucent black
robe, left hanging open.  Underneath, I could see a black satin bra,
garter-belt, and matching panties.  Erect nipples were clearly visible
through the material of the bra, and a pair of pussy-lips were outlined
through the panties.  Her legs were encased in sheer black stockings and
she was standing on a pair of the tallest heels I had ever seen, easily 7"
or 8"!  But the transformation was not limited to her clothes.  On her
head, she wore an ash-blonde, "Dolly Parton" style wig, and she had
re-applied her makeup.  Her eyes were framed by a curtain of false lashes,
thick and feathery, and her lips were painted deep red.  She had taken off
her gloves and I could see that she was wearing long fake nails painted the
same color.  The ultimate kink.  She was a girl pretending to be a guy
pretending to be a girl.  Victor/Victoria eat your heart out.  She came
over to me, took one of the martinis out of my hands and downed it.

"Is this what you were after, baby?" she purred.

Before I had a chance to reply, she had sunk to her knees, had unzipped my
trousers, unhooked Hercules and had her lips locked around him.  Not that
Hercules was complaining.  He was rising to the occasion, enjoying whatever
was going.

This time, Eve played me like a taut string.  Every time she felt me
getting close, she eased off and either just licked my tip slowly, or
gently stroked my shaft while sucking on my balls.  Then she would reapply
herself again for a while.  Eventually, just as I was about to tell her to
stop f*cking about and let me cum, she let go of Hercules and stood up.
With a shrug of her shoulders, her robe fell off.  She reached behind her
and unhooked her bra.

By the dim glow of the table lamp, I could make out a pair of alabaster
breasts, tip-tilted with large nipples and aureole.  Without support, they
did not provide the same cleavage as before, but they were still
magnificent.  I've always been a boobs man, and so the sight of them were a
real turn-on.  I moved forward to admire them close up, but Eve raised her
hand in the universal gesture for "Halt" and retreated a couple of steps
into the gloom.  Then she did something utterly amazing.  She used the nail
on her right index finger to dig into the skin by her breast-bone.  I
wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I was sure that it would involve
blood.  Instead, Eve lifted a small flap of skin.  By digging her
fingernail under the edge of the flap, she widened it.  It was so
unexpected that it took me a few seconds to understand what I was seeing.

The beautiful breasts were false.  Top of the range; custom molded; custom
colored.  Held on to her chest by a thin layer of spirit gum applied at the
edges.  From a few feet, indistinguishable from the real thing.  What
manner of a woman, regardless of how desperately she wanted to pretend to
be a transvestite, would have a double mastectomy, then spend in excess of
$3,000 to look how she did before?  The alternative was that I was in the
presence of the most passable transvestite I'd ever seen.  But I lowered my
gaze to Eve's panties, and the pussy lips that could be seen through the
material.  Who was Eve?  What the hell was Eve?  I decided it didn't really
matter.

As Eve finished removing her left breast, she lifted it to her lips and
gave the nipple a slow, sensuous kiss.  Then she placed it on a table next
to her and started on the right breast.  I stood, watching, entranced.
When the right breast was free she kissed it, too, and laid it down.  Only
then did she step forward, in an implicit invitation.

I needed no further prompting.  I stepped forward (feeling mighty silly
with my pants round my ankles), knelt and started kissing Eve's own nipples
which were, I could hardly help but notice, erect and hard.  Eve encouraged
me with small moans and by caressing my hair.  At one point, she dug her
nails into the nape of my neck and, startled, I chomped down on the teat I
was attending at the time.  I could feel a shudder travel up Eve's body.
She arched her back, spread her legs and moaned "More, baby!"

Now, spanking and other forms of pain are not in my makeup.  I once lost a
girlfriend because I wouldn't paddle her backside with a Ping-Pong bat.
But I was so aroused by this gorgeous creature in front of me, and the raw
passion that she was experiencing, that I pushed myself to my limits.  I
nibbled and chewed and pulled and sucked with such force I was worried that
I was going to draw blood.  But Eve was made of sterner stuff.  The more I
bit her, the more she seemed to like it.  After about four or five minutes,
a huge spasm convulsed her body.  I sat back on my heels while she caught
her breath.

After a minute or two, Eve slid her hands inside the waistband of her
panties and slipped them over her hips.  They fell to the floor and she
stepped out of them.  Through the gloom, I could just about see that,
underneath, she was wearing something else.  As she started to take that
garment off, too, I finally realized what it was.  A combination gaffe and
pussy-pants, made out of some form of plastic or rubber.  Form fitting,
hip-hugging, with a pair of molded pussy-lips.  Sure enough, as they came
away, Eve revealed that 'she' was the proud owner of a cock and a pair of
balls that rivaled mine in every respect.

I had never been that close before to a man's cock and, despite myself, I
was fascinated.  I put my hand forward and took it between my fingers.  It
twitched and grew.  I took my other hand and stroked it.  It grew some
more, stiffening as it did so.  My heart was beating faster and I took it
fully in one hand, stroking it more urgently, as I caressed Eve's balls
with my other hand.  I felt Eve's hand on the back of my neck, urging me
closer and closer.  Finally, I took the plunge and wrapped my lips around
it.

What I lacked in experience, I seemed to make up for in other ways.  Eve
coaxed me on, purring and moaning softly, and it wasn't long before my
mouth was full of a warm, sticky, salty, load of cum. When it was over, I
stood up, confused and frightened.  What had I just done?  Up to this
evening, if you'd asked me, I would have told you I was straight.  I know I
love transvestites, but I'd never gone this far with one before, never been
tempted like I had been tempted tonight.  Never been used like this before.
Did it make me gay?  Suddenly, I was angry.  I gestured at Eve, at her flat
chest, and her now-limp cock and balls.

"Why did you do that?"

Eve smiled at me.

"Oh come on!" she exclaimed.  But my lovely Eve now spoke with a man's
voice.  I knew I had better start thinking about this creature as a guy to
save my sanity.  He walked out of the room and I could hear his heels
clicking on the other side of the wall.  He continued to talk from his
bedroom.  I could hear him quite clearly.

"You knew what I was even before you first spoke to me on-line," he said.
I never pretended to be anything I wasn't. Face it, if I'd been a real
woman, you'd never have invited me into group for that session."

I had to admit that he had a point, but I was sure there was more to it
than that.

"I happen to be a gay guy, and I like myself just as I am.  Oh, sure, I
love to become Eve ~ she lets me do things that I couldn't do as Brian ~
but I'm the same person underneath, no matter how I'm dressed.  You wanted
to get Eve undressed in the worst possible way and you knew she had a cock
and balls, so why should you be upset at seeing them?"

  At that moment, he returned into the living-room.  He was totally naked
and had removed everything that belonged to Eve except, strangely, for the
long red fingernails which now seemed totally out of place.  I could see
that Brian had short brown hair, except for a long blonde fringe that fell
across his eyes.  Rather punkish, but I could see how it could be used to
hide the edge of a wig.  His face was devoid of makeup, except for some
black smudges around the eyes, and was pink and shiny.  He was carrying a
towel that had traces of makeup on it.  There was a gleam in his eyes as he
caught me perusing his body, and the penny dropped into place.

"You get off on it, don't you?"  I accused.

"What?"

"You get off on it."

"Get off on what?"

"The power!"

"What power?"

"The power to make straight guys desire you ... even when you're more Brian
than Eve!"

He smiled, walked over to me, and placed his arms around my neck.  When he
spoke, it was with Eve's voice.  "Do you still desire me, lover?"

I looked at his eyes, twinkling with mischief, and they were Eve's eyes.
He grinned, and it was Eve's grin.  I was helpless, closed my eyes, and
bent forward to kiss him.  It was Eve's lips that kissed me back, and Eve's
tongue that darted between my teeth.  I could feel the long finger-nails
play with the hair at the nape of my neck.  And when Brian knelt down in
front of me, it was Eve's lips that softly enveloped my cock.

I guess I knew what was coming next when I felt the coldness of gel being
applied to Hercules.  I could have run then.  Dammit, I could have run
earlier.  But Hercules was enjoying himself, and the evening had been so
erotic that I just stood there, until Brian was satisfied I was lubricated
sufficiently.  Then he turned and knelt on the chair .  He grasped his
buttocks to part them.  What I saw was Eve's long red fingernails pointing
the way home.  I moved forwards, helplessly.  Hercules slid easily into
place, and Brian used his muscles to coax me deep inside him.  I fucked his
ass in a fury.  Even after I was spent, I kept pounding inside him.  I
guess part of me wanted to hurt him badly.  Eventually, Hercules was so
soft that he just slipped out.  Brian turned and smiled at me.  He picked
up the towel he had brought with him and tossed it at me.

"Clean yourself off, lover."  he said in his own voice, and disappeared
into the back again.

I was just zipping myself up again, when he reappeared.  Now, he was
wearing a bathrobe and, with his hands in his pockets, there was nothing
left of the sexy transvestite I had met earlier that evening.  He walked to
the front door and opened it.

"Have a safe drive back."

I left and climbed into my car in a haze.  I sort of followed my nose back
to the hotel, parked extremely badly, and went up to my room.  I stripped
off and had a long hot shower, scrubbing every inch of myself clean.  But I
still felt dirty when I finally flopped down on the bed.  Sleep took a long
time coming and, when at last it did, I was troubled with nightmares.

I've seen Eve on-line often since that night.  I tried to talk to her, the
first few times, but she would say she was busy, or she was tired.  I
quickly realized that, now I was a 'conquest', she didn't want to have
anything more to do with me.  At first I was angry about what had happened.
That quickly turned into self-pity.  I got an AIDS test done as soon as I
could and spent many months totally celibate, until I felt confident enough
to venture out again.

I have a live-in girl friend now.  A real one.  Intelligent, funny, and as
pretty as a picture.  She loves the sexy clothes I buy her.  She has a
closet full of high-heeled pumps.  On Saturday nights, for a special treat,
she will even wear false eyelashes and a wig.  But she gets really annoyed
when I start chewing on her nipples.