Malcolm Nyland was looking forward to his farewell party; he was leaving a job that had not only been a drudge, but had been a constant source of angst and worry.
Malcolm worked for MI6; not in any capacity that involved glamour, mystique, danger or intrigue. Malcolm was a database analyst, and although he had a top secret security clearance, his job was one of constant drudgery and routine. He spent his days in front of a computer screen analysing boring data; forecasting everything from the weather, stock market trends, public transport efficiency in so called "countries of interest to the Allies," to the travel patterns of selected "persons of interest". He supposed that somewhere in the large grey building where he worked that people with more interesting jobs and the ever elusive "need to know" used his data for subversive and clandestine means, but he had no idea how.
All in all Malcolm was really nothing more than a boring public servant with a boring public service job. He was glad to be going; not just because his job was boring, but because he was terrified that during one of the constant security checks that MI6 routinely carried on all of its employees, his secret would be revealed.
Malcolm had a secret; a deep dark secret that very few people knew about.
Malcolm was a closet transvestite with suppressed gender dysfunction morphia. Every chance Malcolm got he transformed into his alter ego, Michele Nylons.
Ever since he could remember Malcolm had loved the feel of silk, satin and nylon against his skin; he adored short skirts, high-heels, makeup, perfume, nylon stockings and tight blouses. His heart flipped over a well fitted, revealing, full-length satin gown or a sexy business suit with a short skirt and a tight jacket. He liked all of these things when they were worn by women; but he loved them predominantly when he was wearing them himself.
At an early age he had surreptitiously tried on his mother and sister's panties, hosiery and underwear and had graduated to trying on their skits, dresses blouses, shoes, accessories and wearing their makeup. By his mid teens he was quite adept at transforming from a skinny teenage boy into a fetching femme-fatale.
It was inevitable that he would get caught. He almost wanted it to happen, but he was ill prepared for the consequences when it did happen just after his seventeenth birthday. His mother blamed herself and bemoaned that, because she was a single parent, she had not provided her son with a suitable male role model. Malcolm tried to explain to her that it was not her fault; he had always felt more himself when he was dressed as a woman. He was not gay; had not been molested by a pervert; he was not a pervert himself. He just liked to dress as a woman.
That's not to say that Malcolm did not get sexually aroused when he transformed into Michele; he found himself constantly aroused and fantasised about being "taken" by a handsome man who would accept Michele for what she was. Almost all of his dress-up sessions ended with him masturbating whilst having wild erotic fantasies. But Malcolm had never consummated those fantasies.
He left home as soon as he entered university and his mother was glad to see him go. She loved her son but couldn't bear the guilt that she felt about his crossdressing tendencies. Malcolm got himself a small one-bedroom flat where he could indulge in his transvestite peccadilloes whenever he wanted to. He was a loner with few friends who studied hard and had little social life, what with his studies and after school job which paid the rent, the utilities, and for his girly requisites.
Malcolm was recruited into the public service from university and by sheer coincidence was interviewed by MI6 for one of the vacant positions in the so called "Data Analysis Department". Malcolm took the job because of the pay and for no other reason. He longed to transform from a man into a woman but he knew that it would cost a fortune even if he could find the right physiatrist who would recommend him for treatment and then find a doctor who would perform the surgery.
His plan was simple; work for MI6 until he had saved enough money to travel to Asia where he could undergo a series of sex reassignment surgeries with no questions asked as long as he had the money to pay for it. He had researched the internet and talked with other transvestites and transsexuals in online chat-rooms. He had been propositioned on many occasions, and although he was sometimes tempted, he had not taken up any of the offers made by the many crossdressers, transvestites and admirers who trawled the net looking for casual sex.
Michele was a member of many transvestite websites and was more than willing to indulge in chat, one-on-one instant messaging and was even willing to perform on webcam. She was quite a little slut on the net and had spent many an evening entertaining other TVs and admirers with her live sex shows. She had a box full of toys that she was more than willing to use to pleasure herself for the self-gratification of others. But she refused to meet any of her online friends. She was absolutely terrified of MI6 discovering Malcolm's dark secret.
Malcolm had been petrified when MI6 had undertaken his initial security clearance screening; he had lied on his questionnaire and also during his interview when questioned about his sexuality. His mother had obviously withheld what she knew of her son's penchant for crossdressing when she was interviewed by MI6 because he had passed the security checks with flying colours. His heart was in his mouth when he signed the Official Secrets Act but he justified his deceit by telling himself that he was only going to be a back-room nobody without any access to sensitive information for which he could be blackmailed. Besides; he was only taking the job for a few years to bankroll his gender reassignment.
Malcolm was very naive; a victim of his loneliness and his desperation to finally feel normal, he was setting himself up for the greatest transformation of his life; although not the transformation he was hoping for.
Michele Nylons looked at herself in the mirror and liked what she saw. She was slim, sexy, had great legs and an attractive face. She wore her hair in a black bob; the fringe framed her hazel eyes which were accentuated by shades of pink and mauve eyeshadow, black eyeliner and mascara. Her face was expertly foundationed and powdered; her cheeks rouged and her lips glossed with plum-red lipstick. Silver drop earrings glistened from under the jet-black nape of her hair and her long neck was accentuated by a silver necklace, the simple stone hanging from the necklace rested between her ample décolletage.
She wore a mauve satin long-sleeved blouse under her fitted dark-grey jacket; the matching skirt clung to her shapely thighs and buttocks; the hem resting a considerable distance above her knees. Her legs were clad in expensive 15 denier smoky-black, fully-fashioned stockings. She adjusted the garters on the shimmery welts of her stocking-tops and then she ran her long fingers, accented by her long elegantly shaped, plum-red fingernails, down the back of her legs ensuring the seams were straight. 'Every girl knows that her lipstick should match her nailpolish; just as her handbag should match her shoes,' she thought to herself. Soft light sparkled on the bracelets that adorned her wrists and the rings on her fingers.
Her feet were clad in black, patent-leather, four-inch, high-heeled pumps exposing a glimpse of the dark reinforced toes of her stockings. Inside her shoes her toes were painted with the same nailpolish as her fingernails.
Under her outer garments she wore a cream coloured soft satin half-slip, a black satin brassiere with lace trimming, matching satin full-cut panties and a blood-red satin and lace suspender belt.
She liked what she saw. Of course her tits were merely synthetic breastforms, her hair was an excellent quality wig, and her penis was tucked away with the aid of a gaff. She was also aware of her tell-tale Adam's-apple but her face had good bone structure. She decided that her first priority would be to get breast implants, followed by an Adam's-apple shave. She wasn't sure about whether she needed any facial surgery and she was totally undecided about what to do about her penis; the idea of having a sex change was tempting; she could probably afford to have sex reassignment surgery if she wanted to but she actually liked her penis. She would definitely undergo electrolysis to remove all of her body hair; painful but entirely necessary. Of course her body was completely hairless at the moment but this had been achieved after hours of painstaking shaving and countless applications of depilatory cream.
Yes, she was quite a stunner already and although she had never been out in the world as Michele, except of course on her nightly webcam sessions in the many chatrooms and meeting places on the web, she was sure she was eminently passable.
She pondered these all things as she sipped a glass of a good quality vintage Shiraz, finally safe and alone in her little flat; the farewell party with its awkward goodbyes and faux demonstrations of regret at Malcolm's departure by the staff of the Data Analysis Department a fading memory. The people where he had worked hardly knew him at all.
"Wouldn't they just shit if they saw me now!" Michele giggled to herself as she sat in front of her computer and fired up the webcam.
A pleasant night of girly chat awaited; and when she was ready she would invite some fortunate soul to join her in a see-to-see webcam session. It would be one of her last. Tomorrow she would purchase tickets to Bangkok; she had the address of doctor who was willing to talk to her about sex reassignment; he came recommended from a number of transsexuals she had chatted with online and was only interested in cash payment. The years of psychiatry, counselling, and legal paraphernalia required by British law before a person could undertake a sex change did not apply in third world Asia.
Then came the fateful knock on her door.
Not the front door; Michele's bedroom door!
Michele turned to the door, a look of dread spread across her pretty face.
"Michele Nylons I presume," said the tall, middle-aged man who entered her bedroom.
He was handsome, in that snooty British public-school sort of way; rangy, with longish wavy hair, smart suit, expensive shoes and toffee-nosed accent. Sort of what Hugh Grant would like in his sixties Michele thought.
Michele recognised the man immediately; he was none other than Sir Giles Winthrop OBE; section head of the department in which Malcolm had worked at MI6. He walked calmly into Michele's bedroom and sat on the bed.
Michele sat in stunned silence; she dropped her glass of wine and it soaked into the cheap rug. Her mouth opened and closed like a freshly landed fish and her mind went completely blank.
"Don't mind if I sit do you dear?" Sir Giles smiled at her, adjusting the sharp crease of his pin-striped trousers as he crossed his legs.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" was the word that Michele finally managed to wheeze out when she got her breath.
"I'm afraid not Michele; you're really not my type," Giles Winthrop responded.
"Now before we go any further; it's best if you just let me speak uninterrupted dear," he went on.
"You've been a very naughty boy; or is that girl?"
"Whatever? Let's not digress," he went on.
"MI6 has known about your peccadilloes for dressing as the fairer sex for some time now Malcolm. Of course we could have dismissed you or even charged you under the Official Secret's Act. And of course; not that we use the option very often – but we could of just made you disappear; if you know what I mean."
"The first two options were actually considered by my superiors; but I came up with a better plan; a mutually beneficial plan."
"Before I go on let me get me take care of this little mess."
Michele sat in stunned silence riveted to her chair; her head spinning. Sir Giles went into her little kitchenette and came back with a dish towel and dabbed at the puddle of wine soaking into her rug. He picked up the glass and placed it back on the desk beside her computer and refilled it. He filled a glass that he had bought in from the kitchenette and sat back down on the bed with it.
Michele reached for her wine and gulped down half the glass. Sir Giles reached inside his suit jacket and produced a silver cigarette case, flipped it open and offered it to Michele. Michele took the offered cigarette without thinking and Giles lit it with a Dunhill lighter and then lit one himself.
"Knew you smoked of course. Know everything about you really," he said matter-of-factly as he sipped at his wine.
"Not a bad vintage," he smiled, holding the glass up to the dimmed light.
"So..........let me go on," he continued.
"We know all about this crossdressing business; the little games you like to play on the internet; and of course your plans to travel to Bangkok to that dreadful backstreet clinic."
Michele's mind raced. What the hell was going on here? Why was Sir Giles here? Why weren't the police here to arrest her; or some MI6 goons?
"Dreadful business really. Sordid! You've left yourself open to all sorts of blackmail. If our friends on the other side found out they'd have you selling secrets to them quicker than it takes you to take off your knickers," Sir Giles chuckled.
"But I don't work for MI6 anymore!" Michele blurted out.
Sir Giles raised a hand to silence her; tapped his ash into the ashtray on the bedside table, and went on.
"Now, now, let me finish."
"As I said; dreadful business. Of course we have video of you doing those dreadful things you do on webcam and copies of your IMs, chat logs, and emails."
"MI6 is nothing if not thorough ..............but as I said, rather than throw you to the wolves so to speak; I have a proposition for you."
"Sort of what our American friends would call: an offer you can't refuse."
Michele drained her glass and shakily refilled it.
"We can out you of course. Your family and friends would be shocked to say the least. Also I doubt that you would ever get your passport back; and the chances of getting a descent job? We'd feel obliged to inform any prospective employer of your shameful past," Sir Giles said gravely.
Michele froze and the blood drained from her face. She felt feint.
"There, there dear," Giles leaned forward and patted her hand.
"I'm not against what you do personally. Good Lord I come from a public school background........full of Nancy boys, panty-wearers, faggots and pederasts. Most of them in the civil service too!" he chuckled.
"In fact, If I may say so; you're quiet the dish..........just the ticket so to speak; nothing like those pot-bellied, hairy-legged, stocking wearing politicians who Fleet Street expose every now and then."
"So here's the pitch....................You work for me. Well for MI6 actually. Clandestine ops; special missions old girl."
"No one would know of course, well that is, very few of us..............deep cover.......you know the sort of thing?" he trailed off and sipped his wine.
"Jesus!.................this is a lot to take in," Michele whispered hoarsely.
She shakily lit a cigarette and took another gulp of her wine.
"I have no choice do I? You're blackmailing me!" she sobbed.
She crushed out her cigarette.
"Now, now, old girl...........there will of course be benefits. We will pay you very well, you will get to travel, and the real bonus is; we will pay for and fast track your gender reassignment. The best Harley Street has to offer; not some backstreet butcher."
"Of course the work will be dangerous; and we won't authorise your gender reassignment until you've completed your contract. One year; that's all we want. One year undercover; starting from when you finish your training of course."
"After that we will provide you with a new identity," Sir Giles finished his cigarette and immediately lit another.
Michele's mind began to slow down and she began to think coherently. Except for the danger, what did she have to lose? If she turned down the offer, her life was fucked! If she accepted the offer she would get what she had always wanted.........and MI6 would pay...............and she would get a new identity.
"What's the catch..................beside the blackmail I mean?" Michele asked.
"Well you would be working deep undercover and; some of the work will, shall we say, be a little sordid. And dangerous of course..............but you will always have backup," Sir Giles explained.
"Sordid? Backup? What the devil do you mean?" Michele asked.
"I'm sorry that's all I can say for now. This is a one time offer and you have to decide now I'm afraid."
"It's a couple of years in Wandsworth prison and after that a life living as persona-not-grata.............or a year working undercover with us? You decide!"
Sir Giles stood up and walked over to where Michele sat at her desk. He dropped a single sheet of typed paper in front of her and placed a gold Mont Blanc fountain pen on the desk beside it. He drained the last of the bottle of wine into his glass.
Michele stared transfixed at the document before her as Sir Giles once more sat on the bed.
"Waste of time trying to read it; legal gobbledygook and all that. Sort of says what I've just said to you only in legalese."
He shot his cuff and looked at his Rolex.
"You have five minutes to sign or then I leave and the Bobbies come in and take you away. Don't suppose they'd give you time to change either...........Malcolm," Sir Giles sniffed and sipped his wine.
Michele burned with indignant anger but what could she do? She snatched up the pen and signed the document without even bothering to read a word.
"There! Is that all for tonight?" Michele fumed.
"Afraid not quiet old dear. Now that the preliminaries are over with I need to, shall we say, inspect the merchandise," Sir Giles smiled and stood up from bed.
"Just what the fuck do you mean by that?" Michele snapped.
"Well we are going to use your special talents as an undercover transvestite femme-fatale. We have already selected our first target for you. But I need to know that you look as feminine and sexy in real life as you do in your many little internet video snaps."
"I mean you look quite attractive sitting there in dark; but will you pass further scrutiny my dear?" Sir Giles grinned.
"What on earth do you mean?" Michele asked incredulously.
"Well you see old girl, in a nutshell, our intention is to have you travel to various countries where we have, shall we say, certain interests. You will travel in your male persona using false documents of course; and then we will have you transform into Michele and engage with the targets we have selected for you," Sir Giles explained.
"Engage? Targets? I don't get it?" Michele relied.
"Oh don't be naïve dear; there are certain men who have a penchant for transvestites; all of the detail will be provided when you undertake your training."
"But first, as I said, I need to ensure you pass further scrutiny."
"Scrutiny? What on earth do you mean?" Michele looked nonplussed.
"Oh for fuck sake! I'm going to make sure you are attractive and feminine enough!"
"I'm going to have you do certain things that you seem to have no problems performing and talking about online; but have not yet had the opportunity to do in real life."
"What??????" Michele's head was spinning from the wine and from the extraordinary events that had occurred this evening.
"Oh it's probably best if I just show you," Sir Giles said and sprang from the bed.
He pulled Michele to her feet and before she could react he pulled her against his body and pressed his lips to hers. He pried open Michele's lips and slid his tongue into her mouth. Michele was like a rag doll in his arms; her mouth complaint and moist; she tasted of cigarettes and red wine but her breath was sweet and her scent was delightful.