Timevestite               by: Paula Mortenson

 

Prologue

An extract from A Brief History of the World 1975 to 2375

In the years following the Great San Francisco earthquake of 2044 the human race teetered on the edge of an abyss. Even when the population had stabilised at late 16th century levels technology and human nature found more ways to self destruct.

In the period of confusion following the Great Earthquake and the meteor showers of the next three years the only source of news and information were the satellite channels that had become so popular in the late 20th century. As the population rebuilt their shattered civilisation the influence of the broadcasts from the sky brought a single language to earth and moulded and manipulated the viewers. The voracious marketeers controlled both the skies and the manufacturing capabilities but needed to sell to a declining population. No government was powerful enough to control them and the absolute power they wielded ultimately corrupted absolutely.

The battle of the sexes continued unabated, as it had done for millennia but now the dice were heavily loaded in favour of women. The local wars that broke out as civilisation declined reduced the number of men and strangely reduced their importance. Advances in genetic engineering enabled women to choose the sex of their children, resulting in 75% of all babies being female.

The women who desired male children also consulted the geneticists resulting in a generation of muscle bound giants but then the fashion was craftily manipulated by the satellite channels to more effete and androgynous sons. Males became playthings created for women's pleasure just as likely to be at home in dreamy silks as trousers, a product to be marketed and a new market for the satellite channels to target Boys were now brought up to be pleasing to women and to be fashionable, as dictated by the advertisers. Within three generations there were few males capable, owing to the genetic manipulation, of fathering children.

The crisis was overcome by raiding into the remote and undeveloped areas of the world for new breeding stock. Within a few more generations the problem was even worse with two mutually loathing subspecies of males, prepared to kill each other on sight. Inevitably the two groups` hate sparked into violence and so began the Fashion Wars.

The human race sped headlong towards annihilation as the last few breeding males were forced into hiding, hated by those women who did not have access to them and hated by the feminised sub species. Ironically they were forced to hide as women in female communities, going further than any twentieth century transvestite in their efforts to mimic femininity. Technology developed undetectable plastic surgery that could be changed as easily as slipping on a glove and so were developed the human race's last chance for survival. The friendly males incapable of breeding were sent, not to the far corners of the earth but once time travel was discovered to the far corners of historical time in search of men. These were the brave frontiers people known in legend as Timevestites.

and now back to the present day........

As a Social Worker at Barminster General Hospital I came across quite a few odd cases but none quite as odd as Clarissa Hunter. Her file told it all. Brought in as a victim of a hit and run accident she was described as "Caucasian female, 25/30 years, natural blond. 5` 6`` tall, 140 llbs, slim and shapely, no noticeable scars. Fit, none smoker, probably teetotal." Her injuries had been superficial but she suffered from amnesia and her handbag had not enlightened us, nor her, as to her address, occupation or background. Her clothes were not identifiably British nor any other nationality for that matter. In fact, the lack of labels on anything was probably the least odd of what subsequently transpired.

Amnesia is unpredictable, sometimes lasting minutes or hours. Occasionally it might last a lifetime. It might blank out a name or the ability to recognise a particular person but only very rarely does it eliminate everything so completely as it did for Clarissa. Memory can return as suddenly and traumatically as it disappears but the suspicion does linger with a loss so complete that the amnesia is a convenience. A way of hiding from danger or the past. How wrong we were.

Since she had no idea where she belonged and I had a spare room due to my boyfriend deciding a dim-witted supermarket checkout girl was more attractive than my irregular working hours she was billeted on me as a temporary lodger. Having prised emergency funds from Social Services for a change of clothes and rent I decided her first need was clothes, so we called into town on the way home.

As I had collected her from the ward the Sister remarked, "I hope you've plenty of rice and chicken at home, it's the only things she eats and she won't drink anything but water. She's an odd one." Clarissa followed me from the ward, dressed in the clothes she had been found in. A tiny kilt showed off her long legs and I noticed she wore high stiletto heels that must have gone out of fashion twenty years before. I had to remind her and then show her how to fasten her seat belt as we drove away from the hospital. I was looking forward to a mooch around the shops to cheer myself after the departure of John, my boyfriend. Conversation was difficult. She seemed worried about my driving ability and the common sense of other drivers not to bump into us but equally she was fascinated by everything she saw. The journey was punctuated by a series of exclamations from her. "What's that?" "Mind her!" "He's going to hit us!" "I've never seen so many!" and most strangely, "I've seen that in the museum."

Her reaction in a well-known departmental store was incredible. First, she stopped dead, obviously overcome with amazement and then she proceeded to dash from one counter to another like a child let loose in a toy shop. I had to firmly remind her that others were staring before she gained control of herself and allowed me to direct her to ladies' lingerie. My whispered enquiry about her size produced a complete blank. It was as though she had forgotten clothes came in different sizes rather than forgetting her own statistics. Since we were about the same height and weight I wondered whether I should grab size 12 in a selection and head for home. But I had no idea about cup sizes and the like and I was only too well aware that on a good day I might be a 10, if I drew my tummy in but on a bad day I might be a 14. I always went on a crash diet when that happened.

I contemplated grabbing something that looked about right and hustling her into the changing rooms, perhaps I might take a look at her labels. Then I remembered, no labels for either size or manufacturers. It was very odd. In my desperation I recalled a shop my mother had taken me to, years ago. She'd taken me there to get my first bra and then later when I`d needed something more sophisticated. The memories flooded back. It had been not long before my parents had been killed in a car accident. Mum and Dad had been going to a posh do and I`d was invited, too. Mum decided I needed an evening gown and had commented Pearsons had everything a lady might need, for every occasion. I wasn't even certain the shop was still there.

I found it, eventually, tucked away in a side street, no longer as forbidding as it had seemed all those years ago. The bright lights of modern shops were not for Pearsons. Discreet lighting and thick carpets discouraged speaking above a whisper. An assistant, who looked like a 1950`s fashion model, glided up, placed her impeccably manicured hands together and enquired how she might help us. My voice momentarily disappeared, this was a style of shopping I assumed had died out.

I realised as I spoke with the mannequin she probably knew all the customers, by name and probably their daughters, too. After all they were the customers of the future. I indicated Clarissa`s needs and we were ushered into an inner sanctum, devoted entirely to lingerie, ranging from the merely utilitarian to the utterly exotic. I began to wonder whether my mother's words had had more meaning than I had realised, all those years ago.

We were now left to the tender mercies of Eleanor, a younger and more casually dressed version of the mannequin. "My friend, she's looking for underwear. She's had everything stolen and she's not familiar with English sizes." It sounded lame but it was the best I could manage at the time. Eleanor looked Clarissa up and down and in a flash ran a tape measure around her vital statistics.

"Would Madam like to see how this fits and then we'll see about style.", muttered Eleanor handing Clarissa a bra from the more utiltarian range.

A strangely silent Clarissa took the proffered article and reluctantly disappeared into a curtained cubicle. Within seconds her head peeped around the curtain, her eyes pleading for help. The assistant smirked over politely at me as I stepped, red-faced, into the cubicle. I was not surprised to find Clarissa standing in her bra but it was its style that shocked me. It was one of those my former boyfriend seemed to think I should wear permanently and featured in the magazines to which he was addicted. It was scarlet, with a quarter cup that left little to the imagination.

"I can't get it undone. Can you help me?"

She squirmed, searching for the fastening behind her. It was not surprising she was having no success, for there was no hook and eye there. I turned her around to find, as I expected, the fastening tucked deep between her amply displayed breasts. She waited, expecting me to free her twin white orbs. Her firm breasts swayed tightly as I released them and despite my care my hand brushed against them. Her nipples stood taut and colourfully above the milky white skin. As my hands dropped hurriedly to my sides I heard a sharp intake of breath from Clarissa and she huskily asked me to fasten the bra lent by the assistant. Hardly daring to touch I stretched the elastic to fit the hook and eye into place. Despite my care my hands touched her skin and the milky coolness burned at me. Hastily I retired from the cubicle, hardly daring to look Eleanor in the eyes.

Eleanor remained distantly polite as Clarissa, with increasing confidence, chose several sets of the most exotic (and erotic) underwear available and insisted I should treat myself to a set matching her frothiest selection. By the time we had bought more mundane outer clothes Eleanor`s carefully plucked eyebrows were very distinctly raised. I held my breath as the bill was totalled and my credit card only just managed to take the strain. It appeared having Clarissa to stay was fun but a financial disaster.

As we left the shop you could almost feel the nodding and winking going on amongst the staff as they jumped to conclusions about our relationship and Clarissa, to my embarrassment, publicly thanked me by hugging me and planting a kiss on my cheek. I might have been more offended by the looks we were getting if I had been able to get the thought of those milky white orbs out of my mind.

Later,as I sat sipping tea in my lounge Clarissa dashed back and forth from her room displaying her purchases in an impromptu fashion show. I wondered about her amnesia, the erotic underwear which I had suddenly found exciting and those fascinating breasts. My own sexual tastes had been more boringly conventional in the past but John, my wayward former boyfriend, had only ever managed to satisfy himself and had always left me feeling there was far more. I wondered, ashamedly, whether a female might provide me with the satisfaction John had denied me. Those twin white orbs had burned at my fingers, promising so much.

I hurriedly turned my thoughts to Clarissa`s amnesia. For a woman to forget her name was improbable but to forget how to fasten a bra, that was impossible. Other thoughts nagged at me. Her exclamations in the car, her initial excitement at the shops, her shoes which were at least thirty years out of date and her clothes with no labels. Each on their own not significant but taken with her amnesia, a definite puzzle. At that moment she paraded into the lounge and halted, hands on hips, shoulders thrown back, her stiletto heels shaping her legs so attractively. She could have been modelling the matching lacy black French knickers and bra. She regarded my silence and slowly and very deliberately blew me a kiss as she unfastened the bra, allowing it to fall to the ground.

My eyes were drawn to her nakedness as her fingers plucked at her already tumescent nipples. "Clarissa, we ought to talk.", I stammered, fearing yet drawn to what she seemed to be offering. "Wouldn't you rather?" The invitation was unmistakable. I longed to know how those fingers, intent on her own body might feel on mine.

Within moments I found out. Her amnesia obviously did not extend to her sexual preferences as her hands reached and then touched my face, neck and on downwards. Here I was, never having even had a schoolgirl crush allowing myself to be undressed and when her fingers caressed my intimacies, they were everywhere, I found there was very much more than John had ever offered. Her breasts were nuzzled at my lips and a whispered suggestion saw my tongue tasting those orbs, resulting in a gasp from above my head and her hands, fingers and whole body renewed their onslaught upon me.

After Clarissa`s knickers followed mine to the floor her fingers found the spot John had steadfastly refused to hit. I was putty in her hands and the occasional huskily whispered comment told me to enjoy myself, I could return the compliment the next time. Yes, there was certainly going to be lots of next times and as wave after wave of pulsating ecstasy washed through and over me it was a wonder the neighbours didn't call the police as I screamed for more.

My eyes struggled to open. I could sense the warmth and aroma of the unmistakably feminine body beside me but it was dark and I was in bed. I vaguely recalled us desperately dashing to the bedroom for more comfort but that had been lunch time and as I peered at my bedside clock I discovered it was well after midnight. I grinned as I realised what must have made me sleep so soundly and rolled over to cuddle against Clarissa. I wanted to offer the complete satisfaction she had given me and so my hands gently explored. The tips of my fingers crept over the smoothness of her tummy and burned as they reached her silky pubic hair. They dared to go on. Yes, there was her love mound and here were those other lips and...... The lips were there but nothing else! Externally her body was perfect but where my fingers should have explored there was no entrance.

I was puzzled, then disappointed and then felt cheated. Unreasonably, half in guilt at the forbidden pleasures I had enjoyed I began to wonder. I was ready to give myself and now I had been thwarted. Was she a freak or perhaps......? Why I became suspicious, I have no idea but I thought the unthinkable. Had I been fooled by a clever transvestite? A man who had set out to trick me? As she dreamily awoke I challenged her, hoping for the denial that would confirm my new found status.

There was no denial. There was only avoidance of my questions and as my doubts grew so my anger rose. I became convinced I had been cruelly tricked and I spat accusations at her but she never denied nor confirmed them, her soulful eyes regarding me sadly. I was hurt and I now wanted to hurt her so more than once I stood my face close to hers screaming abuse. Never once did she reproach me, never once did her voice rise above a regretful whisper but she never explained and I turned from her, tears pouring down my cheeks. It was me, as I had done with John, who retreated to the solitude of the spare room and cried myself to sleep.

My fitful sleep was interrupted by the doorbell. Firstly there was just a couple of bursts on the bell but with my reluctance to move there came a bad tempered insistence played with short and long bursts on the bell, accompanied by knocking and a distant voice demanding entry. Throwing a short robe over my nakedness I hurried to the door which was in danger of being burst open by the hammering figure of John, whom I could see through the glass. He still had a key but his constant visits at unsociable hours had encouraged me to slip the chain in protection. "I've come to collect a few of my things.", he muttered pushing past me into the lounge. These visits had become intrusive, as despite assurances after each visit there was nothing more to collect he always seemed to forget something.

I followed him into the lounge and was met by an inappropriate slobber on the cheek and a hand enquiring what I wore under the short robe. He was not exactly threatening but he always stood closer than was strictly necessary and seemed to be waiting for me to breathlessly fall into his arms. He nodded at my robe and commented, "You must have been expecting me." and turned away to throw himself on the sofa, his legs suggestively apart with one hand lain across the top of his thigh. I compared his overweight, slightly sweaty figure with my memory of the slim, clean and exciting body that had pleasured me on that very sofa the afternoon before. It was a shock, at the time, to realise he lost hands down. He patronisingly patted the sofa beside him for me to sit but I firmly and very decorously perched opposite him.

In the pause as I waited for the next smutty suggestion Clarissa breezed in. Dressed only in French knickers, which left little to the imagination and with her magnificent breasts tautly bouncing she nodded to John and casually turned to me. I could see John's eyes standing out on stalks as he took in the sight and I could sense his reaction as Clarissa leaned over to kiss me. It was no mere peck. It was a full blooded searching, tongue sucking groping invitation of a kiss. Her hands were not still, either. They ran so tantalisingly over me and in full view of John. As she came up for air she looked back over her shoulder, nodded to John and then reached behind my head to the table.

I had forgotten my pinking shears, large dressmaking scissors, had been left there. I caught a half smile playing across her face as she held them up for John to see and whispered, "Girls only, I'm afraid. Care to join us?" As she uttered the final word she viciously snapped the scissors shut. It was clear that John understood, or perhaps misunderstood her meaning and his legs snapped shut as his face went a deathly white. Within seconds he made his excuses and bolted for the door, desperate to escape the female madhouse.

I sat frozen as John slammed the door behind himself. Clarissa smiled and throatily suggested we breakfasted together and talk. Her eyes gazed pleadingly into mine. My admiration at her dismissal of John in such a masterly manner and the shivery memory of the night before made me put aside all doubts. As we sat at the breakfast table she toyed with me as well as her food. Her tongue suggestively plucked crumbs from her lips, reviving memories of the pleasures it had induced. My nipples stood uncomfortably against the silk of my robe and a heat built within my thighs. I was determined, despite my body`s needs, to get answers to my questions but it took a concentrated effort to break the spell of her eyes and the promise of those lips and tongue.

"Who are you?", I pleaded in desperation.

She smiled and so slowly and tantalisingly considered her answer before confessing she had, indeed, not lost her memory. "If I had told the truth, everyone would have thought me utterly mad." She paused again before telling me the most fantastic, yet completely believable story. As I listened she played with me, not touching me but in a pause for effect her tongue would remind me of its power or she would brush an imaginery crumb from those incredible twin orbs. She confessed that within her outer shell, created by plastic surgery, she was a male but that in her time men were bred to be gentler and wore frilly, frothy creations and often, for reasons not entirely clear, lived as females. Advances in technology had made such surgery as simple as slipping on a glove, in fact as common place as the time travel she spoke of.

She was a history student, required to perform a form of community service by visiting our time. It was more convenient for certain specially bred men to time travel as women, they were closer to the physique of present day females. Her sexuality was very peculiar, there was no doubt, as she had the aassertiveness of a male but the tastes and body of a woman. She had forgotten about traffic in England coming from the wrong direction and now she had missed her pick up. My heart leapt as the prospect of her being with me, perhaps permanently but she described how she only had to place an advert in a newspaper and it would appear in a museum nearly four hundred years in the future. The only hesitation or reservation in all she told me was the purpose of her visit but now I was fascinated and had forgiven her her true gender and longed to touch and be touched.

My questions were designed to achieve a resumption of our lovemaking and so I asked about sex in her time. It was certainly the right question. That cheeky, so appealing smile played across her lips as she described how many women liked their men as Clarissa was now. In fact she herself had been brought up to provide every pleasure a woman might desire and craftily she reached across the table to compliment me on my body, brushing her fingers into the cleft of my robe. There was no holding us as we indulged in a four day orgy of mutual gratification, interrupted only by our visit to the newspaper office to place her advert and to buy one or two extra, interesting things from Pearsons. My taste for exotic underwear had been awakened by Clarissa along with an appetite for every variation of mutually pleasure. As the days passed our desperation increased, with the knowledge the time of her return home was close. In the moments as we relaxed together my doubts about the purpose of her visit were proved right as she confessed all was not perfect in what she had described as a paradise.

The fashions for men who were slim and girlish had wreaked a terrible havoc on their ability to be fathers. Genetic engineering over the generations had changed men for ever and she, along with others had been sent in time to search for men who were willing to become perpetual bonking machines. Unfortunately, there were certain requirements. Obviously they didn`t want men to mate with their great great etc grandchildren so they had to identify men who`s descendants had not survived to their time. Their population was apparently very much smaller than ours.

We knew our time was now short so we were wasting no time on what proved to be our last day together by eating food and trying to eat one another at the same moment. As I leaned back in pleasure with Clarissa kneeling before me I glanced up to see John`s leering features drinking the sight before him. He still had his key and I must have forgotten to put the chain on the door. Clarissa looked up from where she had been trying to lick strawberry jam off my now shaved love mound and smiled at John. His eyes were popping out, nearly on stalks, as she finally brought me to a screaming climax. I was disappointed as she stood to thow her arms around his neck. At that very moment the air shimmered as if on a summer`s day and she disappeared with John, waving a satisfied farewell to me.

By the time I had recovered my composure there was no sign of either of them, Clarissa had returned to her time and with her prize. I managed a smile as I recalled she had told me the women of her time demanded and expected absolute satisfaction from men. I have never been able to decide whether John has gone to his paradise or his hell. He had a lot to learn

When Clarissa`s disappearance was reported to the police and John`s as well they sent around a rather attractive young policewoman. Of course, I couldn`t tell her where they had really gone but when she asked whether Clarissa and I had been friendly there was a certain tone to her voice. My confession that we had been very close seemed to interest her as did my remark we had bought underwear together at Pearsons. Just how much it had interested her became apparent after Sally sat beside me and the roughness of her heavy skirt brushed against my bare thigh. I had been too upset to dress that morning and she soon discovered there was nothing but french knickers beneath my short robe.

Sally is such a consolation and we love going to Pearsons together to get those special things we enjoy wearing for one another.

 

 

 

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© 2000 by Paula Mortenson. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.