A Story of Forbidden Love Ch. 03.1

3.1 Willow: My Cousin, My Lover

At the hotel, halfway between Mont-de-Marsan and Dax, the hotel concierge showed us into the double bedded room that comprised our suite. Hazel had made the booking in advance to ensure a double.

She didn't admit to that until later, of course, not until we'd become lovers. Additionally, Hazel and the concierge entered into a charade of a dialogue on the unavailability of either separate rooms or a room with twin beds -- all, I was later to learn, for my benefit.

I also learnt later that my cousin and the concierge, Marianne, a striking looking woman in her late forties or early fifties, were lovers of some standing; as were my mother and Maria, when either or both visited the area.

The first thing Hazel did once Marianne had left us was to start removing her clothes.

'I'm for a shower and change,' she said, 'before a quick stroll outside and then dinner. Oh! By the way, one of the services here is that anything you drop in this basket ...' indicating an 'Ali Baba' type linen basket ... 'will be laundered and returned in twenty four hours. It saves us taking back a lot of dirty clothes.'

By now she was naked. Hazel and my mother are only a couple of years different in age and are daughters of sisters who married brothers. They're very much alike. It was a bit like ... quite a lot like seeing my mother naked, slender but womanly. The same slightly sallow but flawless skin, pretty firm little breasts -- B-cup at most -- with pert nipples and bubbling aureole, flat stomach and slim waist descending into a slightly mounded and cleanly shaven pudenda, and shapely hips and legs. The whole surmounted by an elfin face and rich chestnut hair cut in 'Pageboy' style.

The outer lips of her quim were clearly visible at the point of her naked crotch. The curse of my pale complexion, I could feel the blood rising in my face and I knew that I was flushing a deep scarlet. My face wasn't the only part of my body affected either; blood rushed into my cock, I could feel it stiffening and growing at an unprecedented rate; thrusting against the non-existent restriction of my lacy panties and overtly tenting out the light fabric of my summer skirt.

'Oh my,' Hazel exclaimed, catching sight of my double predicament, 'I forgot! I've got too used to thinking of you as Willow, I kind of consider you to be a girl! I just didn't think!'

[Willow's transformation, from William, and the relationship between Willow and Hazel and Rowan, Willow's mother, are described in 'A Story of Forbidden Love Ch. 1 and 2' ........ fp]

She turned and I was treated to the sight of her neat, pert derriere as she retreated into the bathroom, from where I soon heard the sound of the shower.

I barely had time to bring my raging erection under control, beneath the shroud of my femininity, before I registered the sound of the shower turning off ... or, I suppose, the sudden cessation of the shower noise, when she returned this time decently with a large bath sheet wrapped around her body secured with a twist and tuck above her breasts. The sheet was wide enough to fall below her thighs but afforded a fair view of her elegant legs.

'Okay,' she said, 'showers free. I'd stick your travel clothes in the basket with mine if I were you.'

Was it some kind of a challenge?

Slowly I removed my skirt and blouse reducing myself to bra' (complete with breast forms), panties, suspender-belt and stockings. My rebellious cock was beginning to slip out my control again; I contemplated retiring into the bathroom in my undies, when Hazel spoke again.

'Come on,' she said, 'you've seen mine; it's only fair that I should see yours.'

Thus challenged, again, I unclipped my bra', slid out of my panties, unshipped and removed my stockings and shed my suspender-belt. My cock, free at last, sprang to attention again and thrust out before me like a little signpost as I made for the bathroom door. Hazel's giggles prompted me to turn towards her, just in time to see her loose the knot in the bath sheet allowing it to slide off her body, treating me to another view of feminine assets. My giggles now echoed hers, as I finally turned towards the shower.

It took me some time to get my body under control, shower properly and dry my profuse auburn main.

By the time I returned to the bedroom, draped in a towel in the same manner as I'd seen my cousin, Hazel was sitting at the dressing table adequately, if not exactly decently, clad in lacy satin bra', panties, suspender-belt and stockings brushing her short chestnut hair and making up her face. A matching full length slip, in the same burn umber colour, lay on the bed.

'I've fished our dresses, skirts and blouses out of our cases,' she informed me, and sent them down to be pressed. They'll be back in about an hour. Meantime, I'm getting ready for a short stroll before dinner. Obviously,' she giggled again, 'not quite like this; after our clothes are retuned, of course.'

It seemed as good a plan as any. After deciding that I'd wear a skirt and blouse that evening, and which skirt and blouse I'd wear, I made my choice of underwear a set in pale lemon, lace trimmed nylon, and shrugging my towel off I clipped on the bra' and slipped in my breast forms, fastened the suspender-belt, drew on my stockings and fastened the suspender clips, bent to step into my panties and pulled them up around me and settled my cock comfortably in the front. I lay my slip on the bed besides Hazels and finally joined my cousin, at the dressing table, to brush my hair and arrange my face.

'Before you joined us in the business,' Hazel said, 'that evening we saw you dressed up for the first time, you told us that you'd then been dressing for four years and that Gran had caught you quite early on and helped you buy suitable clothes and taught you how to act and carry yourself like a girl. What you didn't tell us was why? What made you want to become a girl in the first place?'

*********

It started because of a chance remark by the games master, at my single sex school. Hopeless at any sport that involved kicking, throwing, catching or hitting a ball; and being an indifferent runner and swimmer; it transpired out that I was far and away the most natural and best gymnast in my year and, by the time I was thirteen, the best in the school -- bar none; any feat of tumbling, vaulting or flinging myself around. Or anything requiring a high degree of physical flexibility came easily to me. I was to find that, at the onset of puberty, my ability didn't diminish, if anything, it developed still further as my physical strength increased.

The master, basking in the reflected glory of my developing prowess, opined that it was I was 'built more like a girl than a boy'. It became his habit to call out, when any one else made a fool of them selves over some gymnastic exercise, or when he wanted to introduce any new regime, 'come on the girl, show them what I mean and how it's done'.

Strangely, I found that there were other more scholastic subjects in which I was more proficient -- like languages, art related classes, literature -- where my understanding and skill were equal to, if not superior to most of my fellows. Naturally, the somewhat inane sobriquet 'The Girl' found general currency around the school, amongst pupils and teachers alike. Before long other masters too, joined in the same demand when other pupils were driving b them to despair with their inadequate efforts in subjects at which I excelled 'come on the girl, show them what I mean and how it's done' -- and I always could.

At first I was utterly embarrassed by it all but gradually, as the call came, it engendered a feeling of competence, and being referred to as 'The Girl' became a signal of superiority. I liked it!

It wasn't long before I began to wonder what it would be like to be a girl. Well, I couldn't change my gender but I could, I decided, a least see what it felt like to dress the part. Being by now of an age where I could be trusted to remain at home on my own I had opportunity to indulge my fancy and, eventually, plucked up sufficient courage to do so.

Initially of course, like most boys in my situation, I contented myself with sneaking a pair of the most feminine panties or knickers I could find in either my mother's or my cousin's drawers, pulling them up around my naked electrified flanks thighs and throbbing genitals and luxuriating in the exotic and erotic sensations they produced -- masturbating wildly. But, I soon came to realise tat this wasn't enough. I would need more than a just pair of lacy panties to give me the perception of what it would be like to be female. I began to experiment with wearing a bra' and other underwear and putting on a dress or a skirt and blouse. And even make experiments in trying to arrange my hair and put on make-up.

That's when Gran discovered my new passion.

I expected to be roundly berated, if not actually physically chastised. Instead, after listening to my explanation of how she had caught me dressed in a combination of my mother's and my cousin's clothes, she asked me if I thought I'd sufficiently satisfied my curiosity or whether, and she adjured me to be honest about it, it was likely I would persist. Not daring to lie, and taking a while to consider, I eventually admitted that I thought it likely that I wouldn't be able to stop.

'Somehow,' I told her, 'I feel right dressed like this.'

'In that case,' she replied, 'we'd better make sure you understand what you're doing and make sure you do it properly. If you're going to try to pass yourself off as a girl we'd better do our best to make it convincing. And while we're at it, it's okay to rely on your mother's and your cousin's wardrobes for some of your clothes, but it's not fair to anyone to borrow their underwear without their express consent, we'd better get you some underwear of your own and we might as well make sure it's the best; we'll go to Bravissimo's.

And there and then she took me out shopping, dressed as a girl, to buy underwear from one of the most expensive outlets in Chester. In the next few weeks she showed me how to construct some lifelike breast forms; taught me how to fasten a bra' behind my back and clip on and adjust a suspender-belt and attach a pair of stockings; how to arrange my hair and make-up my face; how to launder and store my new clothes; and, above all, how to speak, move and deport myself as a girl -- an early lesson being to train myself to sit down to pee, and not to stand in front of the pedestal, hoick up my skirt, haul my cock out of my panty leg and let flow a cascade!

It's true that your body gets used to anything. At first I had great difficulty keeping my cock under control. As soon as I pulled on a pair of flimsy lacy panties, or French knickers, a substantial and persistent erection would ensue; but familiarity made this more and more easy and I was able to go out with confidence when Gran took me out, without of a sudden bump in the front of my skirt 'giving the game away'. And by then, when anyone at school called for 'The Girl' or referred to me as such I wasn't only aware that this acknowledged my superiority in what ever we were then engaged in, but I got an added thrill form the secret knowledge of my 'alter ego' -- 'The Girl' who could move and look and act in a truly feminine manner but, who when she did so, carried a surprise package in her panties.

Gran's advice and training remain with me. That feeling of superiority persists; the femininity that encases my body gives me added confidence in my business and my social life. I'm always aware that those I speak and treat with take me to be what I appear, unless they know me intimately, unaware of the unorthodox contents of my underwear -- underwear which, despite my deliberately cultivated somewhat sober and restrained although still feminine exterior, I like to ensure is always the most delicate and luxurious available; underwear that moves across my body with soft flimsy caresses interspersed with occasional teasing abrasions from slightly harsher inset lace panels and trimmings.

Hazel said earlier that she had forgotten that I wasn't really a woman; well, I feel truly feminine but more than feminine with my hidden masculinity now well used to it's external appearance, and properly under control in it's repose -- although still capable of massive response to the right stimulus.

*********

Our outer clothes were returned immaculately pressed enabling us to take an early evening walk in the edge of the woods backing onto hotel, and lingered a little quietly watching the less timid woodland creatures and birds, before we found our table in the dining room for an extended but delightful French evening meal, with just the right amount of wine. At Hazel's invitation Marianne joined us for desert and coffee, before we finally retired for the night.

Back in our bedroom we immediately became aware of a dilemma.

It took me no time to remove my clothes and drop then m in the linen basket, shake my hair loose and remove my make-up before I slipped into one of the long skirted lace trimmed satin nightdresses and matching French knickers that I liked to sleep in. Hazel had followed suit with regard to her initial preparations, but she and my mother were accustomed to sleeping naked and it hadn't occurred to her to pack any night wear.

Clasping her hand to her mouth as she regarded the double bed we were to share, she admitted the deficiency and asked whether she could borrow one of my nightdresses. Of course I readily assented and offered the matching knickers, as well.

'No,' she said then, echoing Gran's words from over five years past, 'it's not really fair to wear someone else's knickers unless there's no alternative, I'll put my panties back on, they were clean this evening anyway.'

Thus prepared we both climbed into bed.

If you've never shared a bed before the first experience is quite striking; the amount of room you've got to move around is suddenly severely limited and it seems that every time you do move you're impinging on the other occupant of the bed. It took me quite a while before I finally drifted off to sleep, to be awoken after what seemed a short while, but was probably nearer two hours, by Hazel sitting up and slipping off the bed.

'Sorry I woke you,' she said, 'but it's no good, I can't sleep wrapped up in these things. I'm going to have to return to nature.'

So saying she stood up and as I raised myself up on one elbow, in the half light, I saw her lift her nightdress off over her head, drop it on the floor and slide her panties off down over her thighs to let them slide down her legs to fall around her ankles from where she kicked them off. She didn't return to bed straight away. Instead she moved towards the window, threw back the curtains, opened the French door onto the balcony and stepped out over the threshold.

'Come out here,' she called softly, 'it's a magical night.'

Curious, I scrambled out of bed and did as she bid. It was a clear night outside but with only a meagre strip of crescent moon.

'Let your eyes grow accustomed to the light,' she instructed me, 'then look up and around.'

Again, I did as I was bid and suddenly in that remote place, far away from the usual light pollution you get from big communities, the expanse of the heavens was filled with a myriad sparkling a twinkling lights, singly and in clusters and constellations the name of which I had not a clue. Hazel was right, it was a magical night.

And she was like a magical elfin creature. Her slender grace, sallow but flawless skin, pretty firm little breasts, flat stomach and slim waist slightly mounded and cleanly shaven pudenda, and shapely hips and legs made a spectacle as entrancing as that in the heavens above us. My cock began to expand and stiffen inside its satin and lace adornment but, for the moment at least, the flowing skirts of my nightdress disguised the problem.

'Back to bed,' Hazel ordered briskly, 'we've things to do in the morning. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me like this in bed for the rest of the trip.'

Back in bed I couldn't help myself turning towards my cousin and snuggling into the naked back she presented to me. My erection raged and I was conscious of it pressing into the crease between her buttocks. So, evidently, was she. She slid her hand behind her a closed it around my rigid member.

'Well well,' she said, 'it's like that is it. Well, I suppose it's my fault as much as yours ... if not more so. Tell me, have you ever made love to a girl or a woman?'

Wide awake now, the pair of us, I confirmed my virgin condition.

'My darling child,' she said, without any suggestion of patronage in her voice, 'I would be honoured to be your first, but only, only if you are happy for me to be so. A lot of junk is talked about women not being able to rape men. They can ... we can, you know. We can make love here, now if you want to, but it must be because you want to; it must be your decision, not mine.'

My erection apart, my feelings were ablaze by now and I replied by sliding my hands up over her breasts then down over her stomach towards the dark secret of her quim. Gently she took my hands in hers and began to instruct me in the manner of pleasuring a woman with my fingers, bringing her to a state of readiness, then, just as I anticipated that she would urge me to enter her she moved under me and brought my mouth, lips, teeth and tongue into play. Again, she began the process of showing how to use those organs of pleasure for the benefit of my partner -- gently moving my face to hers, then to her shoulders, arms and breasts, down over her body and finally to the font of her being. I shall never forget that first taste of the sweet honey musk that flows from a woman, preparatory to the fuller, heavier, more aromatic flow that finally accompanies her orgasm.

When she knew she was ready, she turned again and disrupted the skirts of my nightdress, turned back the lacy hem of my knicker-leg and released my straining cock. She bent over my rigid member, standing up stiff and proud from the froth of the lace trim to my knicker leg surrounding its root, and took it in her mouth. Again, I shall never forget that first experience of a woman's mouth taking my cock inside, and gently sucking and raking it to bring to what she considered to be the necessary condition. Finally, at last, she straddled me and guided my cock into the sweet velvet, wetness of her vagina, and she gently rode me until I could feel the gathering rush of my explosion and I shot my load deep, deep inside her.

It certainly wasn't rape -- either way. Seduction maybe; but if it was I was a willing partner.

Next morning Hazel whisked my nightdress and knickers off and led me into the bathroom and under the shower for a mutual douche. Light heartedly we shampooed and lathered one-an-others bodies, lingering long and sensuously over each other's more erogenous regions, before we tore ourselves away to continue our mutual ministrations as we assisted each other to dry and dust our bodies with talc.

'You need a shave,' Hazel told me.

Startled I ran my fingers over my chin. My complexion and skin is such that, if I didn't want to pass myself off as female, one shave a week would be enough for respectability. As it was, two shaves a week was more than adequate to control my negligible growth and maintain my subterfuge. I'd shaved my face only the previous morning, before we'd left for France. And, at Gran's insistence, I'd learned to keep my under arms shaven a long time before.

'Not there you chump,' she told me, grinning, 'down here,' as she twined her fingers into my scanty pubic bush. 'Most people don't particularly want a mouthful of hair when they're making love. At least, I don't. That's why your mother and I both shave. Besides,' she added, 'it gives you a nice prickly sort of sensation when your bush begins to grow again, and the tiny hairs get caught in the lace panels of your panties.'