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Matt fights losing battle on Brambleton end maneuver.
It soon became apparent that this worked for him and we started to outline our fantasies; he spoke of keeping me captive in my female gear, making me parade around in nothing but an imaginary black leather miniskirt and stilettos, which was a thought so kinky that I nearly came on the spot.
Our chats went on for about 18 months, with the comfortingly vague yet wank-worthily exciting promise that one day we might meet up, until one night after I had moved to the other end of the country - much closer to where Dave lived - I found myself on Messenger after my social plans for the evening had fallen through. He told me his wife was away from the night and casually asked me to come over. I checked the distance to his town online. About 60 miles. I could be there in an hour or so. In one life-changing moment, I was seized by a single urge - do it. Just get in your car and go. Go to his house and live out your fantasies. The erotic thrill at the thought of actually doing this stuff was overwhelming. I told him I just need to get my clothes and shoes together and I would be on my way. Clothes and shoes of the female variety! This was real. I shaved my face; having any traces of masculinity would ruin the whole effect for me. And then, checking all my stuff was present and correct in the naughty rucksack that lived at the bottom of my wardrobe, I set off.
I spent the drive in a strange trance. He sent me a couple of text messages making promises like "you're going to suck me and serve me". It sounded like the stuff of fantasy Messenger conversations, hard to reconcile with the reality of me being in my car on my way to his house. Eventually I found a parking space in his narrow terraced street, some way from his house. I paced around for a while, trying to summon the courage to do something. I sent him a text message confirming his house number; the last thing I wanted to do was turn up at a random person's house on the promise of cross-dressing sexual shenanigans. My indecision was ended when a door opened and a face appeared a few yards away. I was drawn towards it in my trance, my sense of unreality heightening. Awkward, formless introductions followed. He was a normal looking bloke, the sort of guy I might have a pint with, and again I found his physical reality difficult to reconcile with my purpose for being in his house.
I dimly remember him emptying out my rucksack on his kitchen table, inspecting my shoes and bits of PVC and leeringly asking if I was going to be his little slut; I muttered some kind of assent. I couldn't get into the sexual stuff until I was dressed. He told me he had a room ready upstairs and showed me up; a spare room, cross-dressing porn playing on a loop on a computer monitor. He promised me he'd be back in 10 minutes.
So here I am. On the floor are a pair of women's shoes. High heels in the classic profile; black patent, pointed toes, classic tapered five-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels. The last piece in my kinky jigsaw. Taking it one step at a time, I haven't really taken in the overwhelming nature of my transformation until I slip into the shoes and examine myself properly in the mirror. My God. This is it.
His timing is impeccable. I am completing this self-assessment - my left foot still wiggling as I snuggle it into its patent stiletto-heeled shoe - as he arrives in the doorway. I automatically turn my transformed body to meet his gaze, although I can't look him in the eyes. I have a phrase in my head, from the half-formed notion that we might scale things back from our initial arrangement: "Maybe you could just wank." I'd thought I could walk around in my PVC fetish gear and five-inch heels while he pleasured himself.
I'm not sure how close those words were to my lips, but I never get them out. After a period (it could have been two seconds or two years) of surveying me - and what a transformation it must have been - he says simply: "On your knees."
Only later will I know how the