extra for you. Sorry, dear, but that’s the way it is. Market forces. Extra for special treatment, extra for gross deformities.”
“How much?”
“It’d be best if we discuss it at my place. The narks are around and they’re being right buggers at the moment. Something about a cabinet minister being shortchanged the other night. D’you mind?” She climbed in beside me. She was lean and brassy, her makeup applied in dense layers of primary color, her legs sheathed in black net. “Bit parky at this time of night, innit? Just carry straight on and turn left at the pub. You should find an empty meter at this time.”
Her room was over a Chinese restaurant. The Tu Can. “Only two can play,” she said, and shrieked with laughter. She greeted the owner by name as we went in, and muttered “Slit-eyed bastard” after him as I followed her up the stairs. You could smell the cooking and hear plates crashing around in the kitchens below.
“My boo-dwar,” she announced, opening the first door.
The room was all pink ruches and fluffy teddy bears and flowery perfume. There was a large mirror at the head of the bed, and another on the wall. A dressing table was flooded with a mess of makeup and tubs of cream and boxes of paper tissue. There was a tube of lubricating jelly, economy size, on the bedside table.
“I don’t want the mirrors,” I told her.
“No problem.” She drew discreet curtains, and the severalimages of diminutive me and angular, glittering her vanished. “D’you want to get straight down to it? It’ll be fifty quid for straight penetration, if that’s all right. Twenty quid for a hand-job. I try and avoid too much of the tricky stuff, know what I mean? Can get a bit dangerous at times. Done it before, have you? Well, there’s got to be a first time. Oh, and you’ll have to use a Johnnie, I’m afraid. I used to charge extra for doing it without, but I reckon these days it just isn’t worth it …” She unbuttoned her blouse, then hesitated and looked at me quizzically. “What you reckon? Everythin’ off, or do you fancy the underclothes?” She tossed her brassiere aside to display implausibly pneumatic breasts with carefully rouged nipples. “Like that okay? Come on, dearie, don’t be shy. Let me unbutton you.” There was a thoughtful pause as her fingers worked. “My, that’s not bad,” she said.
“It’s the only part of me that’s unaffected,” I told her.
“Let’s see what it can do, then.” She slid her knickers down—wide-mouthed, loudmouthed French knickers—and presented herself to my gaze. “What you think of that, then?” She was entirely hairless. A gleaming, nude mons veneris was creased delectably by the pout of naked labia. Of course, it may have been the result of an assiduous use of razor and depilatory cream but, truth to tell, it was probably because she was a victim (happy? resigned? indifferent?) of testicular feminization syndrome (X-linked recessive, mapping to the long arm, Xq11), which condition renders chromosomally normal males (2A + XY)—I quote the literature—“voluptuously female but devoid of axillary and pubic hair.”
She was a monster, like me.
I wondered, oh yes, in my desperate palpitating tumescence I wondered whether her mother had shown the developmental asymmetry of breasts, body hair, and vulva that carriers of the recessive condition sometimes manifest, the consequence of Lyonization (delicious, feline term), which turns off one of the X chromosomes at random in each body cell of every normal female,and so allows the feminization syndrome to show itself and not show itself, show itself and not, depending which X chromosome is active in which area. Now you see it, now you don’t. Genetic prestidigitation, chromosomal sleight of hand.
“What you think of that, then?” she asked, and I demonstrated my feelings there and then, standing in front of her, while she tutted and commiserated and fumbled around with the Handi Wipes
“How much?”
“It’d be best if we discuss it at my place. The narks are around and they’re being right buggers at the moment. Something about a cabinet minister being shortchanged the other night. D’you mind?” She climbed in beside me. She was lean and brassy, her makeup applied in dense layers of primary color, her legs sheathed in black net. “Bit parky at this time of night, innit? Just carry straight on and turn left at the pub. You should find an empty meter at this time.”
Her room was over a Chinese restaurant. The Tu Can. “Only two can play,” she said, and shrieked with laughter. She greeted the owner by name as we went in, and muttered “Slit-eyed bastard” after him as I followed her up the stairs. You could smell the cooking and hear plates crashing around in the kitchens below.
“My boo-dwar,” she announced, opening the first door.
The room was all pink ruches and fluffy teddy bears and flowery perfume. There was a large mirror at the head of the bed, and another on the wall. A dressing table was flooded with a mess of makeup and tubs of cream and boxes of paper tissue. There was a tube of lubricating jelly, economy size, on the bedside table.
“I don’t want the mirrors,” I told her.
“No problem.” She drew discreet curtains, and the severalimages of diminutive me and angular, glittering her vanished. “D’you want to get straight down to it? It’ll be fifty quid for straight penetration, if that’s all right. Twenty quid for a hand-job. I try and avoid too much of the tricky stuff, know what I mean? Can get a bit dangerous at times. Done it before, have you? Well, there’s got to be a first time. Oh, and you’ll have to use a Johnnie, I’m afraid. I used to charge extra for doing it without, but I reckon these days it just isn’t worth it …” She unbuttoned her blouse, then hesitated and looked at me quizzically. “What you reckon? Everythin’ off, or do you fancy the underclothes?” She tossed her brassiere aside to display implausibly pneumatic breasts with carefully rouged nipples. “Like that okay? Come on, dearie, don’t be shy. Let me unbutton you.” There was a thoughtful pause as her fingers worked. “My, that’s not bad,” she said.
“It’s the only part of me that’s unaffected,” I told her.
“Let’s see what it can do, then.” She slid her knickers down—wide-mouthed, loudmouthed French knickers—and presented herself to my gaze. “What you think of that, then?” She was entirely hairless. A gleaming, nude mons veneris was creased delectably by the pout of naked labia. Of course, it may have been the result of an assiduous use of razor and depilatory cream but, truth to tell, it was probably because she was a victim (happy? resigned? indifferent?) of testicular feminization syndrome (X-linked recessive, mapping to the long arm, Xq11), which condition renders chromosomally normal males (2A + XY)—I quote the literature—“voluptuously female but devoid of axillary and pubic hair.”
She was a monster, like me.
I wondered, oh yes, in my desperate palpitating tumescence I wondered whether her mother had shown the developmental asymmetry of breasts, body hair, and vulva that carriers of the recessive condition sometimes manifest, the consequence of Lyonization (delicious, feline term), which turns off one of the X chromosomes at random in each body cell of every normal female,and so allows the feminization syndrome to show itself and not show itself, show itself and not, depending which X chromosome is active in which area. Now you see it, now you don’t. Genetic prestidigitation, chromosomal sleight of hand.
“What you think of that, then?” she asked, and I demonstrated my feelings there and then, standing in front of her, while she tutted and commiserated and fumbled around with the Handi Wipes
Similar Books
