Lady Writer

by Abby Rhodes

  

It was a bright, sunny June morning and I was relaxed and ready to get up off my pantied butt and get to work. I'd recently got home from a tour of the East Coast promoting my new novel and, after a week of lying around the house doing nothing but watching television, reading and eating and drinking at regular intervals, I was recovered and feeling good. My new novel, my fifth, was my best to date and it was selling fantastically well, but the publishers had me out promoting it, doing readings and signing copies. The tour had been a killer, but it was worth it. My name is Ryan King and, yes, Quick Kill is the novel and I'd really like you to buy it because I need the money to buy more silk lingerie and stockings.

This was my eighth day home and I wanted to do a bit of writing so I fired up the computer and started a new document but I didn't intend to start a new novel right away. My other writing career involves short stories about the trials and tribulations of cross-dressers caught in strange situations in wisps of nylon or lace by people with ulterior motives. The stories are bought off the Internet by faithful fans at five or six dollars a time and have kept me in pocket money when I was less well known as a mainstream author. For the record, I am a cross-dresser and have been since I was about five.

 

I had a story in mind that came to me one night in Boston while I was on the book tour. I'd come across a tall, cool blonde in the bar where I went to have a nightcap after a dinner with a group of local booksellers. The blonde was a male, but I doubt if anyone else but me noticed. She was dressed in a long, black, satin dress that was split up the side to halfway up her thigh and she showed just a little bit of black lace stocking-top. Her makeup was perfect and she had poise to burn. I'd say she was about thirty, but it was hard to tell. I caught her eye and she knew I'd read her. I just smiled and carried on to a table at the back of the room where I could slip my shoes off under the table and relax.

The blonde was with a man in a business suit who seemed to know her quite well. He touched her hand and arm and thigh in a manner that was intimate and caring so I assumed they must have some kind of relationship. I continued to watch her and she had the movements exactly right. Her arms and shoulders were bare and immaculate in the halter-neck gown and I envied her the slim waist she was showing off. Her jewellery was tasteful and not particularly flashy, more gold than diamonds.

They talked for an hour while I had several whiskies and by the time they finally left hand-in-hand I'd made up a story for them. I wanted to get that story down on paper.

 

I'm just about to turn thirty-three and I own a place in upstate New York that my parents used to own. They aren't dead, they just moved to Boca Raton and sold me the house at a good price. It's secluded and private and suits me perfectly. The security system is state of the art and no one can sneak up on me, which means I can do what I want and dress how I please, and most of the time it pleases me to dress as a woman.

I'm not a closet cross-dresser. When I go out locally or into the city I'm dressed up and made-up far more often than not.

My parents built the house on one level but it has big rooms and lots of them. I changed it around when I took it over and there are now two dressing rooms off the master bedroom. The bigger one is where I keep my female clothing and that's where you'll find me wandering about in lace and satin and trying to decide what to wear.

I suppose I have what some would call a fetish, but it seems that all cross-dressers have a favorite outfit. Look at all those fabulous fifties dresses and skirts with the big petticoats. I own a few of those big petticoats. When I write novels I tend to do it dressed in whatever I'm wearing at the time, because I write in spasms and without any kind of timetable, but when I write The Forbidden Tales of Cross-Dressing, I like to wear a business suit and by that I mean a woman's business suit.

I've always liked business suits and I own about fifteen right now, all with skirts, no trousers, and mostly black, grey or charcoal with a pinstripe. I usually wear a white or black blouse, tank top or camisole and you can be assured I'll always have perfectly matched bra and panties, garter belt and stockings, or sometimes a corset or teddy, under the suit. I like two or three inch heels but that doesn't stop me breaking out the four-inch heels when the mood takes me and my shoe collection is enormous.

Being a successful author means I've been able to spend almost as much as I want to on whatever takes my fancy. I don't have a big flash car and the house is paid for and It's been a while since I was in a position where I had to stop myself buying a pair of panties I liked the look of because I couldn't afford them.

I wear the very best wigs because that's one area where you get what you pay for and the extra cost for a prime quality wig is well worth it. It's the same for make-up. Any one who visited me while I was in the middle of a story would never guess I was a male, but I don't get read in the street either. If I say so myself, I make a really good-looking and convincing woman. Oh, by the way, I tend to be a brunette most of the time. It just seems to suit my skin color best and my own hair is dark. My eyes are green and my lips are red, mostly.

Having said all that about business suits, I guess it would be no surprise for the reader to learn that I sometimes forget my suit fetish and I select stuff from my wardrobe that is simply so good I always love wearing it. That includes some brilliant evening dresses and silk and satin nightgowns, and I'm not beyond describing two-fisted testosterone-fuelled mayhem while clad in a chiffon baby-doll nightgown. On a whim I once bought a lipstick-red latex mini-dress and spike-heeled red boots to match and that's what I wore when I wrote the climax (if you'll pardon the expression) to my fourth novel.

So here I was, indulging my fetish for business suits and getting into the story. I write under the pen-name of Anna Ryan and Anna is a really cool lady.

 

The story took me by surprise. What was intended as a short story of about thirty pages turned into a much longer story and I could see early on that here was something quite different from what I usually write. It had romance, humor, excitement and adventure as well as immaculate lingerie, but it was still a story about cross-dressing, or more accurately a cross-dresser and I decided to go with the story and see where it went. The essentials of any cross-dressing story are a need to dress, often an uncontrollable need, ambitions to dress up all the time and a large degree of risk-taking, along with an adventure that in the end will see the hero/ine safe and in a relationship of some sort, possibly subservient, but a willing subservience. She may have been treated badly by a mother or sister or often a maiden aunt with lesbian tendencies, but her lingerie will always be wonderful. The wonderful lingerie should always be described in detail, because that's the kind of information that needs to be shared.

In this story it seemed easy to intersperse silk and lace and sheer stockings with a tight plot involving a transvestite who went out dressed one day and started a new life. She got involved in a situation. Naturally, there was a women involved who was surprised but supportive and helped the main character, who I named Sophie, one of my favorite names. If you check out my stories on the web you'll find a number of Sophies in the past. I worked at the story for five hours non-stop and only paused when Fifi brought me a snack.

Fifi? Fifi is the French Maid who lives with me and shares my house. More accurately, she's my house guest who simply prefers to dress as a French Maid. I have to state here loudly and clearly that I'm totally heterosexual, and Fifi is adamant she is as well. I met Fifi at a club in New York where regular transvestite gatherings take place and we'd shared a drink and chatted quite often. Because of her looks she attracts attention like a garbage truck attracts flies, and this particular night she'd been minding her own business, in a miniskirt about three inches long and a top you could barely see, when a group of somewhat intoxicated youths had decided to give her a hard time, not because she was a cross-dresser, just because she stood out like a beacon.

Unfortunately the club didn't restrict entry to just cross-dressers and we occasionally had confrontations with visitors, although most straight strangers left immediately. Anyway, I successfully interceded on Fifi's behalf, but not before she'd fallen to the floor and broken her wrist. I took her to the emergency room and found out after her wrist had been set and plastered that she'd just had to leave her apartment because of a relationship dispute and she had nowhere to go. Because I knew her, I took pity and invited her to stay with me while her wrist healed and she found new accommodation.

She explained to me on the way home that she had a major ambition in life; she wanted to be a French Maid – a real French Maid. All she had in her suitcases were five French Maid costumes and a pile of lingerie.

Somehow, she never left my place. In return for having a place to live she offered to dust, clean and cook and do the laundry and now she thinks she's in heaven because she never has to take her uniform off unless she wants to. I get waited on hand and foot and occasionally I give her a lump of money that she never seems to spend mostly on new French Maid costumes and lingerie, although she now has some fabulous clothes for going out in as well.

She's blonde and about six foot tall in her four inch heels and pretty as a girl can be, a vision in satin and white lace and tulle petticoats. Her legs seem to go on forever and if I didn't have a preference for women I'd be after her like a shot. You remember Lesley Ann Warren in Victor Victoria? That's Fifi, except Fifi's slightly prettier. Oh, and she has a Ph.D. in Fine Arts and knows more about 18th Century etching than you ever will.

The one major difference between me and Fifi is that Fifi has a pair of very fine breasts.

I ate the food Fifi brought me and we chatted briefly about my plans for the next week or so because she wanted to plan ahead for meals. That done, she went back to whatever it was she was doing and I returned to my story.

I never had a story unfold so neatly, even though the original story got buried in it somewhere. I'll do that one again as I originally planned it – maybe in a month or two. As it all fell into place I could see how it would proceed through to the happy ending when the heroine would be united with the love of her life and they would share fine lingerie and make-up tips forever. But it had far more than just the usual clothing changes every hour. It had serious potential as a novel and I grew more and more excited about the prospects.

I worked through until midnight, eating only a chicken leg for supper and only because Fifi threatened me with an unnamed forfeit if I didn't, but I ate it with one hand and kept typing with the other. I finally succumbed to tiredness and went to bed, but at eight the next morning I was dressed for the office and processing words. I didn't stop for seven whole days except to slip on a silk nightgown around two every morning and fall asleep.

 

When I finished the story I gave it to Fifi to read. She could be relied on to give an honest and constructive opinion and I was gratified when she brought it to me the next morning and there were only about a hundred post-it notes sticking out of the manuscript. Usually there's a lot more. Not only that, she said she loved the story and couldn't remember ever reading a proper story about cross-dressing where the plot revolved around the cross-dresser in a believable and novelistic fashion.

That made me feel good and we went to the small village a few miles away to celebrate. It's very much a country town where many of the local houses are only used at weekends in summer, but it has a couple of very good restaurants and a cafe or two.

Naturally we went fully dressed. Fifi managed to tone herself down to a beige skirt that nearly reached halfway down her thigh and a sand-colored tank top that matched perfectly. She's good like that and I think it's her art training – she puts the colors together beautifully. I wore a blue skirt a few inches longer, plus a white cotton tank top and a white silk blouse over that. We rolled into The Candle In The Wind at noon and rolled out again at three, somewhat intoxicated.

We hit the bookstore next door. It's called The Bookstore because the owners claim they couldn't agree on a name. It never ceases to amaze me how good the shop is for a town this size. It's run by two women of about thirty who have impeccable taste, and I can't remember ever going in and coming out empty-handed. The women are Bethany and Suzanne and they both have university degrees involving literature but love crime and mystery as much as the really serious stuff. They also know Ryan King reasonably well and I never go into the shop as Anna unless my make-up is perfect and my clothes are perfect because they're two of only a few people who see us both, Ryan and Anna that is, reasonably often.

I went to the shelves where the action novels are kept, because I still get a kick out of seeing my own name on real books. As usual, they had a good stock of my stuff to back up the window display, which was totally given over to Quick Kill. After a short period of smug satisfaction I moved on to a shelf close by, where the girls keep a small selection of erotic fiction. My intention was to see who was publishing stuff like that.

Over lunch Fifi and I had discussed the new story and decided the best fit for it was as an erotic adventure so I was looking at the synopsis on the back of each book and seeing who the publisher was when Suzanne said, "Looking for something spicy, Anna?" I was miles away and she startled me so that I dropped the book.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, Anna." She was grinning though, as she knelt down to pick the book up. I was a little flustered and for some reason embarrassed to be caught off-guard looking at books about sex.

"That's okay," I said. "I was engrossed and didn't hear you coming. Tell me Suzanne, who puts out the best erotic fiction these days?"

"That would be, in my opinion, Serotica, a small but well-regarded publisher down in the city, somewhere in the Village I think. Here." She pulled out a paperback with a tasteful lavender colored cover that featured a stocking-clad thigh and a hint of suspender clasp. The title was 'Silk and Seduction' by Renee Balfor. "This is one of theirs. Why do you ask, Anna, are you going to write an erotic book?"

"You never know Suzanne, I just might," I said. "I'll take this one and I'll just have a look at the rest and see if there's anything else that appeals."

"Good luck, just yell if you need a hand." She went back to the front desk where she was pricing new stock.

I took my time and finally picked out four from Serotica to get a feel for what they published. If Fifi and I shared the reading we could be through two each by morning and compare notes over breakfast. I went to the desk where Fifi was deep in discussion with Bethany about the merits of Terminator 2. Suzanne took my books and I could see she wanted to say something about my choice. Suzanne is someone Ryan King fancies quite a lot. She's a pretty brunette but I've often wondered if she and Bethany had a thing going. They lived together but I'd never seen any signs of anything other than friendship between them. I decided there and then that Ryan King should ask her out, and soon.

Suzanne held her thoughts in check but didn't stop grinning as she put the books in a bag. As she gave me change she said, "Let me know what you think of them next time you call in." I thanked her and said goodbye and dragged Fifi back to the car and headed home.

I knew from previous visits to the bookstore that the girls had trouble reconciling Fifi's looks with her intelligence. Fifi always went out made up to kill, with her short, curly blonde hair set exactly as it is when she's in a French Maid costume. That is, her make-up is a little heavier than you normally see during daylight hours, but it's always flawless. I've overheard women talking about her in stores and shops and they disapprove of her mightily. I'm sure that's because they see her as a threat to their men, who just fall at her feet all the time.

Even today in the restaurant we'd been visited by the staff every couple of minutes to check our comfort and satisfaction with the food, just so they could get a look at her. (I suppose it was her, but I'm attractive too!!) Generally we just ignore them and act like they aren't there at all, otherwise we'd never finish a conversation.

 

Once we were back at the house, Fifi immediately changed into a red maid's costume and settled herself onto a daybed in the sunroom out the back to read the first novel straight through. I went to my bedroom and lay down on the chaise there. The books were only 150 pages or so long and it didn't take long to finish 'Silk and Seduction'.

By the time I got to The End I could hear Fifi in the kitchen. She reads about 20% faster than I do and was making coffee. I went down and poured myself a cup and went back to my office to make a few notes about the first book. It was erotic and quite well written and examined the needs of a woman who found almost every man she met attractive. She always went to bed with them if they didn't say no outright, and the sex scenes were so well written that I sometimes found my hand between my thighs and stroking myself through my panties. No, I didn't come in them.

I answered some e-mail messages and responded to a query from my agent that evening and went to bed at around ten to continue reading. I didn't feel particularly tired because I'd been working until at least early morning for the last seven days. The second novel, 'Lust at Dawn', by Amanda Satinique, wasn't as good as 'Silk and Seduction'. There was a lot of sex and a lot of sex in unusual places, but the finesse wasn't there. Renee Balfor had a gentle loving touch that made the sex attractive, but Amanda was into quickies. I suppose some people would like that, but I didn't. I made some notes and went to sleep.

At nine the next morning I met Fifi at the table in the sunroom for breakfast. She was fully made up, as she always is, and was wearing an astonishing nightgown and peignoir. It was a genuine vintage set from the late fifties or early sixties, one of those confections in nylon and lace you don't see much any more, except on e-bay, which is where I believe Fifi got it. It's a full-length double chiffon set in pale green with masses of lace trimming on the gown and robe, huge puffed sleeves with bows here and there and it involves huge amounts of fabric. I'd seen the outfit before, but it never failed to astonish me. As ever, she looked gorgeous and once again I wished she was a woman!

She reported that the two books were not up to the standard of my new story. They were both written by the same woman, Emma X, and were titled 'Secret Lusts' and 'Seducing Sidney'. Fifi felt the sex descriptions should have been written with more tenderness and love than they were and suspected Emma was really a man writing under a pseudonym.

I gave her my report and asked her to read 'Silk and Seduction' to confirm my opinion about it. I trusted her judgement and had no intention of reading the Emma X sagas for myself. A man writing erotic fiction under a pseudonym? How very strange.

Fifi went off to read the book and came back about two hours later in a cloud of pale green. "That's more like it," she said, "Still not as good as yours, but you can get a sense of a woman writing for her own pleasure in describing love. I'm not sure if this publisher is right for you, Anna. Why don't you call Danielle and ask what she thinks?" Danielle is my agent. "Call and say you have a friend who's written something spicy and see what she says. She might even handle Anna Ryan herself."

The same thought had crossed my mind, but I wasn't totally comfortable with the idea. Firstly, I wanted to keep Anna Ryan and Ryan King completely separate. Secondly, Danielle was another woman I had fantasies about. She was a tall, slim and gorgeous redhead who had carved a name for herself as a literary agent by sheer hard work and I was more than pleased with the deals she'd set up for me. It was Danielle who made me rich. I envied Danielle her figure and her business suits.

I called her and told her about my acquaintance, Anna Ryan, who had this erotic story I quite liked and who would she recommend as a publisher?

Danielle thought for a moment and said "Send the story to me. I'll read it and see who might be best to publish it, but I need to form my own opinion first, for all the obvious reasons." I packed the manuscript into an envelope to send off to New York the next day.

 

A thought came to me late at night as I slipped on a black silk nightgown with spaghetti straps and sufficient lace to satisfy anyone heavily into black silk nightgowns. Suzanne had asked about Anna writing an erotic book, but I was absolutely sure Anna had never mentioned any writing ambitions to Suzanne or Bethany. In fact, I'd told them Anna was an architect who worked from home. Where did the question come from? Was it coincidence or had she made a connection between Anna Ryan and Ryan King?

  

  

  

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