Be Bop Gina

So be-bop Gina — that’s how he liked to be called — applied his make-up, shaping his eyelashes with a small mascara brush and carefully applying glossy lipstick, folding his lips in and moving his jaw backwards and forwards, then sideward to spread the lipstick evenly.  Pulling his wig down tight, he patted the curls into the desired shape, making sure that no hair was out of place and that it was on just right, turning his head this way and that and admiring himself in the mirror, pursing his lips and giving his reflection a smacker of a kiss, sucking the air back through his puckered lips to create a loud kissing sound.  “You gorgeous thing, you … I’d fuck you any day.”  Gina ran his hands down his dress, caressing the cloth, smoothing out the wrinkles, and then sliding them lustfully over his hips.  He wore high heeled shoes, which made him seem ridiculously tall for a woman (he was 5’10” without his shoes on), but he had a cute face and a shapely body, very feminine features which he emphasised when out and walking the streets, wiggling his hips and swinging his Coccinelle handbag and looking at himself in shop windows, seeing his reflection and thinking: “You’re a peach if ever I saw one …” and all the while glancing at men passing and seeing the lust in their eyes — genuine lust for the person they thought was a woman.  “Come and fuck me, baby,” Gina would think, a coquettish smile on her face.  “I’d suck you off any day …” — imagining a juicy cock, quivering, hard, sliding between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.  “Oh yes I’d suck you good …”

His fetish started when he was around thirteen years old.  Be-bop Gina, or Harry to be precise, couldn’t wait for his parents to go out so that he could fulfil his licentious desires, waiting impatiently as they drove away, then rushing to his mother’s bedroom, opening the wardrobe and taking out her clothes, lovingly selecting a dress or a skirt, then removing his own clothes and putting his mother’s on, loving every second of dressing up, constantly looking at himself as his naked male body gradually transformed into a woman’s.  He loved stockings, the sheer feel of the nylon as he rolled them on and then smoothed out the creases, opening his legs and gently rubbing his hands on the inside of his thigh and up to his balls and around his cock, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning back but not too much for he didn’t want to lose sight of himself in the mirror, his dress up around his waist, cock hard, exposing the pink head as he pulled his foreskin back, then wanking himself slowly at first, changing his position, lifting one leg up, letting it flop to the side, eyes fixated on the white flesh above the dark stocking tops — white flesh of his thigh leading up to his genitalia, and wanking vigorously now, edging it several times, imagining multiple men lusting after his body — some grimacing, some with mouths open and others baring their teeth as they squirted spunk over his face and balls, Harry wanking faster and faster, then thrusting his hips forward, stiffening, and with a gasp ejaculating pulses of semen onto the mirror and floor.

Harry or Gina (when dressed up as a girl) finished college and began a career working for Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, collecting tariffs and controlling the flow of goods coming in and out of the country.  He was a shy youth who kept himself to himself, an introvert with a fierce sense of duty, paradoxically unafraid to confront or advise people who deliberately or unknowingly flouted the law.  Dressed in a suit and tie and wearing glasses — his hair styled as it always had been, short at the sides and back and with a parting down one side — Harry diligently got on with his job, earning himself a reputation as a thorough and professional employee who would happily fulfil any task required of him.  Good boy Harry, clean cut Harry, righteous good man Harry.  Who in their wildest dreams would ever have imagine that he (be-bop Gina) had a dark side.  Harry?  A misfit?  A sexual conundrum?  Impossible! 

It was a hot summer’s day when two young men dressed in white shirts and wearing ties, a name-badge pinned to their shirt, knocked on his door.  In their sturdy hands they carried a book of Mormon and a holy Bible.  Introducing themselves as elder Jack Rickman and Daniel Brown, they extended an eager hand of friendship.  Harry reached out and shook them.  Their grip was firm and friendly.  Elder Brown began the conversation, explaining they were from Salt Lake City in America and were on a divine mission.  “We are here to tell you that Jesus Christ is indeed alive and that he has restored the priesthood.”  Elder Rickman chipped in: “We have a living prophet who communicates with God …”  They were polite, friendly and seemed genuine.  They spoke about Joseph Smith and the gold plates that he had found in a wooded glade — a record of an ancient civilisation descended from Jews that existed in America 2000 years ago. 

Harry wasn’t particularly religious.  The only time that he had ever gone to church was when a friend of his got married.  Religion?  Nah!  Yet there was something about the young men standing in front of him — something very wholesome.  Should I invite them in?  He was tempted.  Maybe it was their charm rather than their message that persuaded him to open the door wider and welcome them in.  The young Americans with their guileless mannerisms and middle-class American accents stepped over the threshold, sparkling, clear eyes displaying sweet innocence and divine spirituality.  Harry was off again, his mind conjuring all sorts of wild imaginings — imaginings of a more earthly nature.

They stayed for an hour, talking about the church and giving a well rehearsed presentation about the history of Mormonism.  Harry felt as if he was being made love to by their soft, sincere voices.  On the way out of the house he politely thanked them for calling and said he would think about what they had said, then shook their hands again and said goodbye.  Closing the door, he rushed to his mother’s bedroom.  There he opened her wardrobe and ruffled through her dresses.  Harry had his favourites, of course.  Top of the list was a dress his mother wore when she was a teenager.  It was black and short with a lace top.  Licking his lips, he took it off the coat-hanger.  As he pressed it against his body, twisting this way then that, thrilling at the thought of putting it on, a distant memory surfaced in his mind.  A long time ago he had heard his parents discussing a scandal involving a Mormon missionary called Kirk Anderson.  He had been kidnapped by a sex crazed couple.  They forced him to engage in numerous deviant acts, including oral sex.  As he stood in front of the mirror, he fantasised about the two young men who had just knocked on his door.  In his wild imaginings they had abducted him.  He was a helpless victim — theirs to be used and abused. 

Harry took his mother’s stockings from a drawer and wriggled them on.  Sliding his hands up his legs, he smoothed out the creases and made sure they were tight around his thighs.  “Oh, that feels real good!”  Next he put on his mother’s dress.  Sitting on the edge of her bed, he peered at his reflection in the mirror.  He loved seeing his body clothed in women’s garments.  “You delicious peach!”  Harry slid the dress up and opened his legs.  His cock was hard.  He visualised the missionaries touching their cocks to his and then taking turns to fellate him.  Enthralled by the fantasy, he imagined elder Jack Rickman pressing his cock against Harry’s mouth and forcing him to suck it.  “Suck my cock you slut!”  Squirming on the bed now, Harry whisked his cock to orgasm.  Gasping, his seed splashed against the full-length mirror.  “Oh my God!” — Harry tenderly cupping his balls with one hand and gripping his pulsing cock with the other.  “Gina, I love you!”

The young Mormon missionaries had made an impression on him.  Maybe he would join the church.  But would he ever change?  Would Harry be prepared to give up his fetishes for a lifetime of religious bondage?  How many people in the church had repressed sexual fantasies?  Perhaps he ought to go after all.  Maybe he would fit in just fine.