Down Under

No persons under 18 were involved with this little story. It is quite true, and was one of those little adventures in which something precious is shared between casual friends. It is copyright 2021 VickyMalacca and Literotica. -Vicky

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Down Under!

There are secrets and mysteries, and the two lie in uneasy parallel. I have had to keep secrets about things that were mysterious, though perfectly ordinary in their way, and there were mysteries that I had to attack with great vigor to reveal a certain truth. This happened when we were headed for the millennium, and anything and everything seemed possible.

Underlying it all was the more mundane mystery of who and what we are, really. I don't have any answers on that, except what fun it has been!

I have gone out to Australia a few times over the years, and the time before last was to Sydney, the amazing sister to San Francisco and Hong Kong, all looking into the vast Pacific from their perches on the great rim of water.

It was an opportunity to go native, so to speak, without the slightest chance of either of my worlds meeting. That is one of the things that is so striking about your journey- the pictures are works of art and performance all in one.

My last professional make-over had been a couple years before this trip, and I didn't save anything from the experience, except the very unsettling image of myself in the mirror that made me look a little like Elizabeth Taylor on a bad day. I was still in a relationship with a woman then and it was just too complex to hide my wardrobe and I was scared to death of getting caught. I don't know why.

Things are much easier now that I have just accepted who and what I am. I don't know if the lady who did the makeover for me a few years ago is still in the business. She was very nice, but she also had a dominance business on the side- she had been a slave and branched out to become a Dominatrix. She was really nice, but I understand that line of work has a pretty good burn-out rate.

It is a mystery to me.

Submission is not one of my big fetishes, since pain and humiliation aren't that much fun. Although I can resist everything but temptation as Oscar Wilde used to say. I like a good spanking when I have been especially bad, though, and who wouldn't? There is something immensely satisfying about the 'swack' of a hand that has whistled through the air to 'smack' on my bare butt, accompanied by words of admonition in soft tones or coarser male guttural demands.

Anyway, this trip I had a conference and a project kick-off to attend and started to do some research on the Web on that far away landscape. In so doing, I found the Seahorse Society in Sydney. Apparently, the species of seahorses can change genders, or something, but their logo was very striking.

I wrote a note to their "contact us" address and actually received an on-line response from someone who claimed to be named Desiree. 'She' indicated the monthly meeting of her support group was going to be during the week I was in town. So, I packed a nice blouse, skirt, heels, hose and a short pert wig in a carry-on bag. I'm not sure I could do it with the new baggage rules today, and even then I got a strange look from the guy who x-rayed my bag.

And a smile. I just smiled back.

Sydney is a great town. It has to be to justify the 13 hours it takes to fly there. I was in economy class because the company is run by a bunch of cheap bastards, but I took comfort in the fact that Qantas has never crashed an airplane.

Actually, they have, but they have never lost one, and spent an astonishing amount of money fixing up one very large mistake. I had a decent seat with an empty one next to me and there was a handsome flight attendant who radiated a certain approachable personality and it made the flight tolerable. I mentioned that Sydney is a sister to San Francisco, and it shared many things. This trip, I had a room in a hotel near King's Cross downtown near the navy yard. That is the wild district of town, where almost anything goes.

Of course that is Australian anything goes, so it is quite civilized compared to New York or LA. My jet lag only took a couple days to get over. I made contact with Desiree by e-mail and made a plan to hook up with her before the meeting. I didn't have a car, which is just as well since they drive on the wrong side of the road there, and everything you do instinctively behind the wheel is wrong. Desiree was nice enough to pick me up at the hotel.

I got dressed after business was done Thursday, in my room. I took my time and had fun with it. I soaked myself in the tub and shaved my legs (that was going to take some explanation when I got home, but I was going to be gone long enough that I thought I could get away with it). I did my nails and toes in rich red and the make-up a little heavy, with a lot of mascara and blush and a deep rich ruby lipstick.

I wore panty hose and a girdle and heels with four-inch heels and open toes. I wouldn't stand out in The Cross, since a lot of gay/Transgender stuff goes on. There are a lot of T girls, and not all of them amateurs like me!

My ride was way late and I was beginning to panic, being all dressed up and nowhere to go. Then I got a call from the lobby and gulped, picked up my purse, and waltzed right down to the fire exit to walk the four flights down to the street. I hoped I wouldn't see anyone from the conference at the bar, and I looked into the lobby from the street to see if I could see Desiree.

I saw a very passable lady, slim and blonde, who was seated in one of the easy chairs. I walked in the side entrance and asked if she was Desiree and she said she was, and that she was happy to meet me. She got up and we walked back out to the street. We talked in the car as we drove out of town. Desiree was English. His wife put up with her hobby but didn't like it. It caused tension in the relationship and she preferred not to think about it. I asked her hopefully if she was bi and she just smiled.

She drove one of those little Australian Vauxhall cars, and we had a wonderful drive out to the outskirts of town- I was getting a little antsy about where I was, but it was fine. There was a neighborhood clubhouse where we met a collection of ladies, decent blokes, one real brash, a brunette who was a lawyer and didn't care who knew it. She was the Alpha Queen of the group and very brassy and a real bitch. I wondered what intimacy with her would be like.

Everybody else was nice, including a gal who was on hormones. I was really impressed by the change the chemicals apparently had made in her. She had a picture of herself as a guy. One of the other gals said she wasn't that good looking before, but the metamorphosis was remarkable. Soft and smooth skin, nice stockinged legs and a button undone on her blouse to show a hint of cleavage. I wondered about the level of commitment it takes to do that, though I confess it would be exciting to have a real natural cleavage.

That is a big decision, and not one for holiday outings. It takes commitment, as you might imagine, to strip off all those clunky men's clothes and wear something soft and silky and free-flowing.

After the chapter meeting was over, we went to a coffee house, about six of us. We didn't get a raised eyebrow. This was shortly before ANZAC Day, the week that all the Aussies and Kiwis go crazy. It had started as their Memorial Day to the soldiers of the First War. Over the years it had turned into a full-out Bacchanal, sort of their version of Mardi Gras.

After coffee, three of us decided to go to the Taxi Club, a place they said was THE place for Sydney's transgender crowd most nights of the week. It's on Flinders street. During the day it is a staid place called the Governor Club. It is reasonably small and comfy, with a couple of bars, bistro meals and a disco.

It cost the princely sum of $5 (Australian, a little more than ours) to join for a year although admission to the main part of the club is free. I treated myself and bought a year's membership, since I would be there another few weeks. I realized that the stop for coffee was partly to kill time, since the disco usually gets going starting at midnight. That is usually closer to when I get up than when I go to bed, but my body clock was on its head anyway. Desiree told me there was usually a dozen or twenty girls there, some sex workers, bunch of gays and admirers and most just out for a good time.

The Taxi Club was in full swing when we got there. I told you it was nearly ANZAC eve, and the crowd was boisterous. If you saw the movie Pricilla: Queen of the Desert you get the idea. My new friends introduced me to the crowd at the bar, but it was hard to hear anyone talk and the when the Aussies get going it its hard to understand them anyway.

The restaurant was very nice, not funky like some of the places I have been. Very civilized and no mystery at all. The Taxi Club only opened up after nine PM. The back of the place was cleared out and there was the predictable thumping music.

We had enjoyed a cappuccino at the coffee house, so between that and a cold Fosters Lager in a pint glass the girdle quickly became the center of my world. I couldn't concentrate on anything else. The pain was excruciating! I was wondering what to do, the music pulsing in that club sound. There were two blondes at the bar that looked like twins, both well over six feet, in heels and big hair and I talked to them for a while. They had on minis and bare tummies and huge boobs and looked like Valkyries. Very striking.

The crowd was thick at the bar and I lost track of my new best friends. I could hear the lawyer in the background making some fashion pronouncement in her nasal accent, and almost got lost in the swirl of the music and the flashing lights. I felt giddy and comfortable at the same time. I let myself go with the moment, on adrenaline, caffeine and embrace of the moment. I was starting to sway with the music and swayed right off my heels when a young man pushed his way to the bar. I got a pint of beer spilled down my shoulder, making my blouse cling to my bra and darkening the pastel color.

He was very apologetic but there was nothing he could do. I was soaked! My false décolletage was highlighted (water balloons- I liked the texture and weight and had filled them up pretty well!) and he looked at my faux bosom intently.

Long story short, I solved all my moisture problems by daubing the beer with toilet tissue in the WC and hiked up my skirt and peeled the girdle off. What a relief! My young man had tagged along and seemed fascinated by the whole thing. We went back out on the dance floor and swayed around and I discovered he was aroused. I thought that was the nicest compliment.

I saw Desiree and the other girls in a nook in one of the corners. I was relieved they were still there and gave a little wave over my young man's shoulder. We kept swaying and he held me closer and closer and he gave me a peck on the cheek. I was enjoying his embrace and kissed him right back.

After the next dance I took his hand and we went back to the WC. I pushed him into one of the stalls and closed the door behind us. I unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down with his briefs and had him sit down on the toilet. He leaned back with a smile and his proud cock waved over his lap.

I got down on my knees facing him on the somewhat grimy floor and my pumps stuck out under the door. I bent down lavished his proud manhood with my tongue, licking him like a lollipop, bottom to top, and then plunging him into my mouth. I kept a good but gentle suction on him and his hardness surged with desire for the pleasure I was giving him. Despite my balanced position between his knees apparently my pumps wiggled suggestively and there was a round of applause from the other girls and boys in the bathroom watching the part of the show they could see. He began to squirm a bit and I slowed my bobbing so I could look up to him, my lips pursed around the top of his hardness and gazed into his eyes with mine. He clutched my ears and my wig shifted as he erupted into my waiting mouth, three solid squirts of manjuice that I gobbled greedily. When his load was delivered, I pulled off and showed him the creamy white liquid on my tongue, smiled and swallowed. We got up from the tangle and slid the lock open on the door. I gave the audience a big smile and ran my tongue across my lips. I was going to need a decent session with a mirror to fix my makeup, but my smile was large and genuine.

Having his tension relieved and I suspect being a little sobered, my young man lost his ardor and explained he had to meet his mates. I nodded, a little disconcerted with what I had done so naturally. I returned to Desiree and the girls. She told me I looked like the cat that had just had the canary and I told that I had. She helped me fix my face and we chatted and watched the dancing couples until very late. When she decided to go home, I went with her. We piled into her Vauxhall and rolled across the darkened streets back to my hotel in The Cross.

She dropped me off in front of the hotel and it occurred to me that the front desk might wonder about me. My makeup had not been fixed properly and despite Desiree's repair job I am sure I looked more like a raccoon than a man in a dress and makeup. I reeked from the beer that soaked my blouse and my girdle was in my purse. But the front desk staff barely looked up. I assume they have seen just about everything in The Cross. Back safely in the room I removed my makeup and nail-polish but decided to leave my toes painted.

One of the girls called the next day and asked me to go to Church with her that Sunday, dressed, and that too was an eye-opener, even if no one asked for oral sex in the vestry. I decided I loved being Down Under, since it meant that there weren't any secrets to keep, and all the mysteries could be revealed. Well, I knew it was bullshit, but the cushion of a few thousand miles of distance made me feel relaxed, and honored to have helped a nice young man pass his evening.

I can't believe it seemed like such a big deal at the time.

Oh, make-up was Revlon from CVS, foundation and blush, Max Factor mascara and Cover Girl eye cover. Fashions by Marshall's, wig from one of the two places in Old Town. All of it wound up in the dumpster in back of the hotel when I finally packed up to come home, since back here there was a job to keep and secrets to be kept.

Vicky Malacca