Driving Miss Michele

Stan and Davo began to whisper to themselves in the back; they were in heated conversation and were not paying attention to what was happening in the front seats other than Stan directing Michele to turn left here or right there. As they drove along the darkened backstreets Michele resigned herself to letting the fat man beside her stroke her legs.

Out of the corner of her eye Michele saw the fat guy she now knew as Wassa give an evil grin and begin to fumble around in his lap. 'Oh my god!' she thought to herself; 'he's going to take IT out!'

Then over the hiss of the tyres and the mumbled conversation in the backseat she heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being opened. Wassa glanced back and spoke to Stan.

"I'll tell the bitch where to go Stan; you guys see what we got away with."

"Ok but don't let the bitch do anything stupid," Stan replied.

Stan handed his gun to Wassa and he and Davo rooted around in the carrier bag and began to excitedly discuss the contents.

"Left here," Wassa ordered, pointing down another dark street, when they came to a stop sign.

After he finished pointing Wassa quickly dropped his hand onto Michele's left hand and lifted it off the steering wheel and pulled it down into his lap. He waved the gun in Michele's face, tacitly emphasising to her not to take her hand out of his lap or to say anything. If the men in the back seat noticed anything they would have just thought it was Wassa intimidating the driver with his gun.

Michele bit her lip as she realised what the fat man wanted. With his free hand Wassa forced Michele's fingers inside his flies and imperceptivity waggled the gun at her. Michele stifled a sob and pushed her painted fingernails inside Wassa's underpants. His crotch was hairy, hot and sweaty and a musky smell wafted from it. Her fingers wrapped around Wassa's spongy semi-erect penis and he grinned in the dark. He was going to get a handjob off this well dressed sexy bitch.

He looked at her closely in the glow of a streetlight. She was a big woman but well proportioned. She was wearing heavy makeup: lots of black eyeliner and mascara, blue and pink eyeshadow, rose blush and plum red lipstick. Her hair was glossy; brunette with subtle red highlights which fell to her shoulders; the fringe level with her brows. Her perfume was sensual and arousing. She was in her forties and quite attractive; sort of sophisticated but slutty at the same time. His cock began to harden in her hands; he loved women who looked like her.

She wore a navy blue skirt; the hem hiked to mid-thigh because she of the way she sat in the driver's seat. Her blouse was red or mauve and looked like it was satin or silk; her nylons shimmered in the dim light, the sheen on her legs drawing his eyes down to her feet shod in black patent leather high-heel sandals. He thought he saw the gleam of red toenail polish through the reinforced toes of her stocking. She had big feet he thought; but she was a stunner all right!

Michele kept her hand loosely wrapped around Wassa's hardening penis and tried to concentrate on driving one handed. When she came to a slight bend in the road she tried to take her hand out of Wassa's crotch and put it back on the steering wheel but he grabbed her wrist and held it in place. He gave her a vicious stare and Michele stopped fighting and resigned herself to driving one handed.

Wassa glanced back and saw that Stan and Davo were still engrossed in the contents of the carrier bag. He encircled Michele's fingers in his own and began to slowly slide them up and down his now fully erect penis. Once she realised what he wanted he took his hand away and looked across at her and smiled. A single tear ran down Michele's cheek leaving a trail of black mascara.

Michele was horrified. She had fantasised about doing this with Paul in the confines of the backseat of his car whilst parked at Picnic Point. She wanted to be held by the man she desired; to be kissed as he sensuously fondled her; to kiss and fondle him back; she not want to be forced to masturbate this fat pig at gunpoint in her cold dark car.

In a way she was more worried about what this man would do to her when he found out that she was actually a man. Would he beat her in disgust? Would he shoot her? God! What was she to do?

She realised that at the moment there was nothing she could do except to comply. Michele slowly stroked the hard stubby penis poking out of the front of Wassa's trousers. Wassa gave a satisfied groan in the back of his throat.

"What's that Wassa?" Davo asked mistaking Wassa's groan of contentment for a mumbled phrase.

"Oh nothing Davo; just clearing me throat," he sniggered.

Davo and Stan went back to their hushed discussion about the contents of the carrier bag.

Wassa hadn't had a root in a long time and he knew that he would come soon, which was just as well as they weren't that far from the warehouse now. He pulled Michele's fingers off his cock and clamped her hand between his thighs so she couldn't pull it away. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a packet of Winfield cigarettes and offered them over the back. At the same time the stocking that he had worn over his head during the robbery dropped out of his pocket and fell into his lap.

"No smoking stupid!" Stan ordered, and went back to his conversation with Davo.

Wassa didn't care about the smokes one bit; he wanted the stocking. Well it wasn't a real stocking as such; it was the leg cut from a pair of pantyhose. But it was translucent and sheer; just the thing for a bankjob; or a handjob, he giggled mentally to himself. He slid the diaphanous nylon over his stubby engorged member and moved Michele's fingers back onto his phallus.

Michele was no stranger to masturbating into nylon; she had done it herself often enough over the years; but this was just plain grotesque; wanking off this smelly pig of a man into a stocking whilst driving to god knows where. Before she could get too involved with these thoughts she felt Wassa poke her on the ribs with his gun and she returned to what she was doing before; driving one handed and masturbating the pig with her other hand.

Michele felt the heat of Wassa's cock through the sleek nylon stocking; she could feel the thick veins and the spongy glans. She knew how to get this disgusting act over with quickly. She used her fingertip to rub the slinky material of the stocking against his frenulum, the sensitive piece of skin on the underside of the penis that joins the shaft and the glans. From her own experiences she knew that it is excruciatingly sensitive and that the exquisite sensation of a silky stocking rubbing on the area soon leads to orgasm.

Wassa was no exception and he stared at the sexy bitch sitting beside him in the darkened car and imagined what he would like to do to her as hot semen flooded into the stocking. He held Michele's hand in place and she felt Wassa's penis pulse and throb and then her fingers were covered with hot viscous semen as it seeped through the sheer nylon. Wassa fought hard to hold in a cry of pleasure but he did let out a small pig-like grunt.

Michele could smell the musty odour of semen and wondered how the two men in the back could not know what was happening. Wassa's semen felt hot and slimy as she stroked his shaft, milking him of the last of his spend. Then, one handed, she wiped his softening penis with the stocking and wiped her own fingers as best she could and dropped the stocking on the passenger side floor. She returned her hand to the steering wheel as Wassa surreptitiously closed his flies.

Michele looked down at the instrument panel and caught a glimpse of her left hand on the wheel. A small globule of Wassa's semen glistened on one of her painted red fingernails. She stared at the glistening white bead for a few seconds; fascinated by it. Without thinking, she bought the finger up to her lipsticked lips and licked the morsel off her fingernail. She flinched when she realised what she had unconsciously done, and came back to earth with a jolt.

She didn't know what scared her more; the knowing smile on Wassa's face, or the fact that her own penis was rock hard inside her satin panties.

"There; turn into that driveway!" Wassa ordered; and Stan and Davo stopped their conversation and started peering out the car windows looking up and down the deserted street.

"All clear," Davo said and hopped out the car as soon as it came to a stop.

He unlocked a roller door and pushed it up allowing Michele to drive into the darkened warehouse. Michele was now visibly trembling with fear and thoughts of what might happen to her now ran around in her head; none of them good. Davo slammed the roller door closed behind them.

There was only a couple of weak diffused lights but combined with car's headlights there was enough illumination for Michele to look around the warehouse. It was dark, dusty and obviously abandoned. Large dark shapes covered in drop cloths hulked in the corners and various pieces of disused and rusting machinery were scattered around in disarray. The musty smell of mould, rodent shit and neglect seeped through the air vents of the car.

"What you waiting for bitch," Wassa threatened, waving his gun in Michele's face.

"An invitation? Get the fuck out of the car!"

Michele turned off the ignition and headlights. The gloom closed in on them as she opened the door and got out of the car. She felt totally vulnerable; a middle-aged transvestite kidnapped by three brutal criminals who may become volatile at any moment and who had no idea that she was a man.

"Move it!" Stan ordered and pushed Michele in the back and she staggered forward, tottering on her high heels.

"Over there; see that office? That's where you're going."

Michele could just see the dirt smeared windows of a small office in the gloom and she started walking cautiously towards it; her high heels echoing ominously on the concrete floor.

"Christ she's got a great arse and look at those legs; I didn't think women wore seamed stockings anymore," Davo whispered to the others but his voice echoed around the deserted warehouse.

"Let's just get into the office and sort out the cash boys; we'll worry about the woman later," Stan growled.

The door to the office creaked open when Michele pushed against it; she heard the scampering and squeaks of mice scurrying away. The office had a fusty odour of old dust and stale cigarette smoke, overlaying a faint scent of stale urine. Michele shuddered as she was pushed through the door.

"There!" Stan pointed, to a mouldy overstuffed sofa set against one of the walls.

Stan sat at a depilated old desk and turned on a desk lamp, which lit the office with a faint glow. The other two thugs joined him at the desk dragging up rusty folding metal chairs. Michele sat on the dusty sofa pulling down the hem of her short skirt as much as possible. Wassa and Davo leered at her in the gloom; openly ravishing her with their eyes. Davo stared at her legs and Michele attempted to pull the hem of her skirt down even further attempting to hide her thighs.

"Those fucking stockings man!" Davo sighed.

"Shut the fuck up! Now will you two pay attention to business and forget about the cunt for a minute," Stan said the exasperation evident in his voice.

To block out her fear Michele allowed her mind to wander; she had not worn her fully fashioned stockings for the pleasure of these thugs. They had no right to be excited by her legs; that was a privilege she was saving for Paul; the man who was supposed to be her first ever lover. She cast her mind back to when she had selected her lingerie for this evening's encounter.

First she had to select her stockings. Why stockings? Except for the obvious fact that they allow accessibility where pantyhose do not. Well; stockings create beautiful lines. What do the seams invite the hand and the eye to do? They invite them to slowly follow the seam up from the ankle to the gap of hidden flesh at the top of the leg. This tiny warm space of flesh, exposed between stocking top and the line of the knickers is one of the most erotic images and really stirs the sensations. She selected a pair of taupe 15 denier nylons with contrasting black welts, seams and Cuban heels. These she laid out gently on her bed in reverence to their magic power.

Then she selected a suspender belt. She decided on a black lace belt with three suspenders for each leg. She vividly recalled stepping into the suspender belt earlier that evening. The placement of the belt around her waist had always to be just so, while the attachment of the stockings was a delicate procedure that required concentration, so that the stocking not only remains in place but does not drag the belt down when she walked. The most enduring impression of the suspender is that of a frame for her 'special place'; the curve of the fabric over the top of the hips leads down to the top of the stockings. The suspenders straps, in delicate tulle, no knickers at this stage, focusing attention on the centre of pleasure. Michele loved the feel of her suspenders gently rubbing against her thighs, naughtily pressing together the bare tops of her legs under her skirt.

Michele debated what knickers she would wear tonight. Tight satin full cut panties? Sheer nylon boy-leg knickers with lace trim? Shiny briefs of silk or satin? She never wore G-strings or bikinis; they just weren't her style. She made her decision and looked down into her panty drawer. Scraps of silk, satin and nylon in bright touch-me-feel-me colours of deep red, purple and fuchsia were her everyday favourites. They contrasted with the shiny black panties and black lace camiknickers that she sometimes wore when the mood prevailed.

She selected a pair of deep red satin full-cut panties with lace trim at the waistband and a little bow in the middle. They rasped gently against her nylons as they slithered up her legs. They contrasted magnificently with black lace suspender belt and her taupe stockings with their black back-seams and welts.

For every pair of panties she owned she had a matching brassiere, she selected the matching deep red satin brassiere and adjusted it around her breastforms. She sat on her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of black patent leather high heeled sandals with ankle straps. She chose the shoes to show off her plum red painted toenails through the reinforced toes of her stockings. Why go to all the trouble to paint your toenails if you don't show them off she thought. Beside Paul had hinted that he had an intense weakness for painted toes peeking out of high heels.

She looked at herself in the full length mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her hair and makeup were perfect and the skirt she was going to wear had a satin lining so she did not need to wear a slip. Her silver drop earrings, matching necklace and bracelets were set wonderfully; she accessorised well she thought. She'd even clipped a silver ankle bracelet around her ankle. Her favourite 'Poison' perfume floated around her.

"So are we're agreed then!" Stan said in loud voice, waking Michele from her reverie.

She realised that the criminals had finished their deliberations and had shared out their takings and had also made their final decision about what to with her.

She wished now that she hadn't dressed like this before she left home; she wished she had never arranged to meet Paul at the parkland rendezvous; she wished she had never given in to her transvestite fantasies. She knew of hundreds of TVs in cyberspace who were happy to dress up and have fun alone in their own home. Sure, most of them advertised that they were looking for a man to 'make their dreams come true' but mostly they just stayed at home and fantasised.

Michele plucked up the courage to ask THE question; the answer to which she was dreading.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked in her smoky, faux feminine voice.

"Well it's sort of a good news; bad news situation," Wassa said sarcastically.

"Remember when we said if you behave yourself you will come to no harm?" he asked.

Michele nodded.

"Well that is still the case."

"The bad news is that Stan has allowed me and Davo here do whatever we like to you for half an hour before we leave here."

"If you behave we will leave you alive," he finished matter of factly.

Michele was astounded! Deep down she expected that, thinking that she was a woman, these yobbos would want to sexually assault her. But now the reality of the situation finally sank in.

"I'm a man!" Michele blurted out, reaching up and pulling off her wig.

"I'm a man dressed as a woman!" she screamed at them.

"Well fuck me!!!" all three gangsters yelped at once.

"She's a fucking trannie!" Stan exclaimed after a moment of stunned silence.

Michele sat there on the filthy couch utterly dejected, looking down at the wig in her hands, waiting for the bastards to start beating her.

"Well I'm afraid that sort of brings in another good news; bad news scenario for you," Wassa replied.

"The bad news for you is that being a trannie makes no difference to me and Davo," he smiled.

"You see we've all done time inside. Inside prison that is. And we've have had our fair share of poofters in jail; have to see; no women in jail. Some of the poufs would dress up in drag a bit; you know, grow their hair long and wear makeup and women's underwear that had been smuggled in for them."

"So you see we've had our fair share of trannies before," Wassa said; Davo nodded adamantly beside him.

"The good news for you is that the deal stands; if you behave yourself we won't kill you." Stan interrupted.

"Now put that fucking wig back on!" Davo ordered.

Mike was no fool. He realised the dire straits he was in; he made a life or death decision right then and there. He pulled his wig back on and adjusted it as best he could, levelling the fringe with the top of his eyebrows. He took a deep breath and dropped back into the persona of Michele.

Michele stood up and looked down at Wassa and Davo with her heavily mascaraed eyes.

"Ok; I'll behave," she whispered.

Davo stepped forward and pulled Michel roughly into his arms. His mouth fell on hers with ravenous hunger; his tongue thrusting into her mouth. He crushed her hard against his rangy body and Michele could feel a huge bulge thickening through the material of his jeans. 'My God,' she thought; this is going to be appalling. She relaxed and allowed Davo to kiss and grope her.

"What about me?" Wassa whined in the background.

"You've already had a taste Wassa; let Davo have some fun," Stan said.

Michele realised with some disgust that Wassa must have told the others about how he had forced her to give him the illicit handjob in the car.

Davo pushed Michele backwards until she felt the dusty sofa against the back of her legs but Davo kept pushing her so that she was forced to sit back down on the sofa. Davo swiped half heartedly at the dust on the sofa and then sat down next to Michele and reached for her again. Michele didn't resist as Davo kissed her passionately, snuffling and groaning with lust.

She heard the scraping of metal chairs on the concrete floor and opened her eyes and saw Wassa and Stan setting up their chairs next to the sofa so they could watch what Davo was doing to her. They intended to be an audience and witness her being debased at the hands of Davo.

Davo pulled Michele sideways and she realised what he was trying to do. She allowed him to pull her onto his lap so that she was straddling him with her knees apart on either side of his thighs and her face level with his. He kissed her deeply and his hands slid under her skirt up her silky nyloned thighs and stroked her stocking tops as his breathing quickened.