Transgender Erotica – Book Two

Transgender Erotica – Book Two

The queen of transgendered sexuality and the exotic lives of the dominant and wealthy, brings you a collection of her female-led work.

Book-Two contains two more works of men conditioned – and sometimes surgically altered – to become submissive to the sexually dominant women in their lives: “Jayne and Me”; and “The Omani”.

Two classic studies of the ultra-wealthy, with the economic and social clout to satisfy their depraved desires, and the powerless men upon whom their desires fix.


A quiet October Friday evening, the business guests having departed for their weekends, the Coburg Bar in the Connaught only half full in comparison to their normal customer numbers, a quiet murmuring of discreet conversation filling the room.

The Coburg Bar, synonymous with luxury, the wealthy, lifestyles that can only be imagined by the population at large, the guests tonight more casual than a full weekday, couples there for the weekend, the occasional businessman or woman staying over as part of a long international trip, folk enjoying a cocktail before dining at Hélène Darroze’s two Michelin star restaurant in the hotel or heading off to enjoy other worthy dining establishments in the Mayfair area and beyond.

The head barman, Mark Jenner, a Connaught’s long-timer was on duty, quietly and efficiently handling orders for regular drinks, the slick handling of his cocktail mixer for the numerous cocktails on the menu or even bespoke ones such as his prize winning ‘Ramos Gin Fizz,’ ‘Rum Flip’ or a favourite of his, the ‘Sazerac,’ a Cognac and Bourbon mix.

The room was set for the evening, the subtle lighting reflected in the mirror over the fireplace, the down-lighting in the actual bar adding drama, the countless bottles lining the four shelves, the candles on the tables giving personality to the room and an intimate atmosphere, the up-lighting into the ornately decorated white and beamed ceiling dimmed down, as were two small chandeliers, the room exuding opulence.

The bar was looking resplendent in its rich and dark olive-green painted paneling, the lightly patterned carpet, the round highly polished tables with their metal bands, each table accompanied by the comfortable winged-armchairs and then a fire burning away inside the impressive black mantelpiece and place, the mantelpiece bearing this most unusual mirror set in what looked like an Art Deco frame, a three dimensional effect to it.

In front of the bar, there were six barstools, dark brown leather padded tops to them, so comfortable to sit on and enjoy a drink if by oneself or to share with a friend, Mark and his staff there to engage one in idle and discreet conversation.

Three couples were sitting in the room, one pair probably in their late thirties, another an older twosome, probably there for a nightcap having had an earlier dinner, the final couple businessmen finishing off their long week with relaxing scotches in hand, one of their Glenfarclas Family Cask whiskies or a vintage Lagavulin drawn from a sherry cask.

The atmosphere, serene and calm, relaxing, that wind-down feeling that the week was over permeating the room, the chatter from the guests quiet and discreet, no place for boorish behaviour here.

For a louder, more raucous ambiance, head over to the Connaught Bar and enjoy a gin and tonic or a long beer or vodka cocktail over there, more the partying sort of place with its Ultra-stylish décor and mouth-watering cocktails that puts the Connaught Bar in Mayfair into a league of its own, the appeal of its inspired English Cubist and Irish 1920s art, with textured walls shimmering in platinum silver leaf overlaid with dusty pink, pistachio and lilac, a gem of a London bar.

Two women strolled in.

Not that the bar was loud but their very presence was enough to quieten the conversation, the businessmen and both male partners of their wives or girlfriends turning to see these two beautifully presented arrivals and, it must be said, gorgeous looking females.

Perhaps even the women themselves broke their thought processes to look at these two, an appreciative criticism of the way in which they were turned out, their looks, their mannerisms, so elegant and smooth, both newcomers of model quality.

The woman leading the second one came up to the bar to lean against the stool, her long legs in quality carbon-black hose, her feet sporting a pair of Laboutin platform heels, the shoes with a little elevation to the sole in front and five inch stilettos, a soft and pale blue colour with a hint of light grey to them, the tone what some would call ‘Dix Blue’ if painting a room with a Farrow & Ball colour.

Was she wearing stockings? The tautness of the nylon suggested so.

To the casual observer, this was hard to determine, her legs long, the skirt part of her pale pink silk outfit just long enough to conceal her stocking tops if she was wearing them. However, they were short enough to entice any red-blooded alpha man or woman to look up her front and see what lingerie she was sporting.

Her outfit oozed class, as did her make-up and hair, her posture and demureness pouring off her, a woman of substance and obviously very skilled at her profession, a woman that had probably been privately educated and well used to venturing into bars and restaurants like the Connaught offered.

The men’s eyes, those of any female critic too, would have noted that the short skirt rose up into a matching pink tunic style jacket, large pink buttons to it along with a soft floppy collar and lapels, her arms also covered in the fabric and underneath the hint of a matching top.

This was pure haute couture.

Her hair was full and thick, a brown mousy colour but beautifully cut shaped and a fabulous sheen to it, so deeply conditioned, perhaps the personal mark of Nicky Clarke who operated from his premises right across the road from the Coburg.

She had a long tail down over her left shoulder, her hair sweeping back over her right eye from a diffused parting that ran obliquely from her crown to the left, a pair of diamond studs in her ear lobes, each one over one and a half carats.

Her make-up looked like it had been professionally applied, very subtle, the emphasis on her eyes, a smoky finish using browns and greys, and then her cheekbones set high on her face, her lips quite small and adorned in a Chanel Coco ‘Rouge Shine,’ a discreet pink colour softening her face.

Her fingers were long, as were her nails and those were varnished in the same pink colour as her lips, her wedding finger suggesting that she was engaged or married, a band of emerald cut diamonds on the inside, a four to five carat square cut diamond on the front of it that spoke of her wealth, its colour and clarity suggesting a D or E, Flawless or WS1 stone of some considerable note.

What was her profession?

An escort perhaps, her friend also in the trade or her companion for safety’s sake, her pimp?

No, she was too well presented and manicured for this, a degree of refinement to her that suggested that she should be taken seriously, very seriously. If she were ‘of the trade,’ her rate would be several thousands of pounds a night.

However, that would be too demeaning and a potential libel; it did appear that Mark Jenner knew her, a little conversation to welcome her back to the Coburg.

If she was professional then she had a heavyweight job, a leading advertising professional perhaps, a lawyer, a magazine editor, it was difficult to say.

Her friend was not quite as glamorous but very pretty, more feminine perhaps in the way she was clothed, her dress a little black Chanel number but beautifully stylish on her, black hose on with black pumps, a wide silver bangle on her right wrist, matching up with what seemed to be a similar necklace, diamond earrings similar to her friends and also a very similar wedding band, a beautiful engagement ring behind it, all of three carats in an emerald-cut diamond, set into a pavé mount on top of a split-shank band, that covered in small diamonds to add to a spectacular piece, one that could have come from Garrard’s or Mappin & Webb.

There was serious wealth being expressed here, not in a showy manner, but stunningly presented for the attentive observer, quality the name of the game, definitely not bling.

Around her right pinkie, she had a very unusual and striking ring, an iron band with a large sapphire cabochon hanging off it; that was mounted in a plain platinum bezel, the chain also in platinum.  Her right wrist bore what looked like a Hermès watch, the familiar ‘H’ clearly showing, the strap black crocodile or alligator.

A string of pearls adorned her neck, a second string of deep red garnets beneath that adding depth to the pearls, the redness playing off her nails and lipstick.

Her hair was equally as well coiffured, redder in colour and even thicker than her friend at the bar, the woman having chosen to sit down at one of the spare tables, a little way from the bar and nearer the fireplace. It wasn’t as long, coming down to her shoulders, turned in underneath and showing a highly professional cut and finish. Perhaps they had both been to the salon across the road.

Her make-up was just as well presented as that of her colleague a lighter finish that showed some cute freckles on her cheeks, those replicated on her arms, her lipstick and fingernails a slightly darker red in colour, the cosmetics Chanel as well, the nails so beautifully manicured and painted up.

Her clutch bag was on the bar table and she sat there waiting for her friend to come across to her, intently watching the other guests in the bar, taking everything in as if making mental notes.

What was the relationship between them?

That was hard to ascertain, friends, relatives, perhaps business partners or associates, definitely not a customer-driven meeting, their eyes meeting, smiles and sign language between them.

The girl at the bar seemed to be a little on edge, glances towards her friend and then down to her watch, the impulsive flick of her fingers through her hair, all those wiles that women can use, leaning rather than sitting on the stool.

“I’ll have one of your ‘Dark and Stormys,’ Mark, please and also a Hemingway Daiquiri for Maddy over there, please.”

“Yes, Ma’am, coming up. Constantino Ribalaigua of the Floridita Bar in Havana created this and it’s liquid heaven. Hemingway wrote, ‘My mojito in La Bodeguita, my daiquiri in El Floridita,’ you know.”

A sweet smile at Mark, perhaps to offset her impulsiveness, “I know. You have told me before, Mark that the Stormy originated in Bermuda to become their island drink.”

Mark expertly poured and mixed the dark run, fresh lime and ginger beer of the ‘Stormy’ and then the white rum, maraschino liqueur, fresh lime, pink grapefruit juice and sugar for the Daiquiri, his hands moving so quickly, everything at his immediate fingertips, his measures from the bottle so precise that he didn’t have to use those silver cups that many barmen do.

Once poured, Mark served the girl, who continued to sit at the bar, and then went over to the girl by the fireplace, an appreciative thank-you from her, her voice quite trill but very refined, plummy one might say, the sign perhaps that she was from a good family or well educated.

They ‘chin-chinned’ each other from the distance between them and respectively took sips of their chosen nectar.

The girl at the bar was definitely a little impatient, yet another glance at the watch on her wrist, a pearl-banded Chanel one and then a quick natter with Mark, something on the lines of “Have you been to Bermuda then, Mark, a conversation that couldn’t be really heard as she spoke quite sotto voce, her voice soft and a margin lower in tone to her companion.

The fact that they continued to sit apart was most odd, the occasional look and smile at each other, the girl at the bar, her glances being that more furtive as if she was covering something up.

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