Flawed Red Silk Ch. 10

On three evenings I spent time with Joyce’s psychiatrist friend. Nothing seemed to be changing how I felt about myself. I could sense the three girls getting more and more tense as the end of Friday approached. They had just one more week to produce a made-over Hazel and it looked as if I would just be a robot.

The depression around the dinner table that evening could be cut with a knife.

Raoul looked round at the five miserable women and snorted.

“Fine company you lot are! Look at you. All down in the dumps. You have all been working too hard and haven’t stopped. I have decided to do something about it. After dinner you have half an hour to get ready and then we are going dancing.”

We looked at him as if he was mad. None of us felt like dancing. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and I found that when a French father says do something it had better be done or else.

We all got in the car and he drove us to Calais. He turned into one of the suburbs and then into the grounds of a school. We didn’t see the notices as we swept past the gate but we soon found out when we entered the school hall. He had taken us to a Country and Western dance for which we were not dressed.

It didn’t matter. Five women and one man were very welcome because there were more men than women. The French have an odd idea of Country and Western. Some men were dressed like cowboys, some in evening suits and even a couple in tails. Very few of the women wore appropriate clothing. Most looked dressed for waltzing or modern ballroom. We fitted in quite well.

I barely sat down all evening because I had so many partners. I was whirled around by experts and tyros, had my feet trodden on, was whirled around in mid air and landed on my bottom twice.

It was impossible to stay depressed. Everyone was enjoying themselves and letting their hair down, some literally, in a way that I thought was alien to the French.

I had innumerable compliments murmured in my ear or shouted in my face. Frenchmen are skilled at the art of complimenting a woman and an Englishwoman was a challenge. Most stuck to the truth and said kind things about my dancing but some praised my complexion, my hair, my breasts and my legs. The girls had made improvements during the week but not enough to justify the extravagant language.

When we returned to the house several things that had been working away inside me began to gel in my head. The psychiatrist’s analysis, the example of femininity that Joyce and the girls displayed unconsciously, Simon’s love – they all played a part aided by the appreciative Frenchmen even if I thought the last were lying through their teeth. It was just a faint glimmer but I thought perhaps, maybe, I had enjoyed being a woman tonight and therefore I must be a woman and not a neuter. I went to sleep on that thought.

I woke up next morning feeling good. I came down to breakfast and greeted everyone happily. The response from the girls as they saw me was a sharp intake of breath. What was wrong? Had I forgotten to button my dress?

Dress! I was wearing a dress, one of the ones they had found for me. I had put it on without thinking. I had also put make-up on. They had been unconscious actions as if they were part of my morning routine. They had been but not for the last two years.

I sat down in my chair with a thump. I examined myself discreetly. I was wearing a bra, a slip, panty hose, and low-heeled shoes but still heeled, a dress and make-up. I looked like a woman. I felt as if this was how I should be.

I looked at them with a tentative smile.

“Well,” I said, “I did this myself, without even thinking about it. Do you approve?”

They approved. I was swamped in caresses. This time even Raoul joined in.

As I was revelling in their approval, one diatribe from an irritated Joyce surfaced in my mind:

“Hazel – this is ridiculous. Of course you are a woman. Every cell of your body has an indelible marker announcing ‘female’. No matter what bits you lose, every part of you is still female. And what have you lost? The bit that would soon have been useless anyway.”

Now I could see that Joyce had been right. I was still female. I might be unsure of my femininity but I had turned over a page in the book of my life and was starting again.

The next week began much better for the girls and me. I wanted to co-operate; to learn to be a woman again.

On Monday afternoon I was on a couch, naked except for a pair of panties, while Katarina massaged me. I rolled on to my back and she started on my stomach moving upwards towards my breasts. I was relaxed and enjoying her firm hands. She stopped suddenly. I raised my head and looked down my body to see why she had stopped.

She was looking at my erect nipples. I knew I had been enjoying her attentions and had been feeling warm and contented but my erect nipples were a surprise to both of us. One of Katarina’s hands reached out and cupped my breast. I pushed back against her hand.

She pulled me into a sitting position leaning against her. While her hands caressed my breasts we kissed, gently at first and then with increasing passion. One of my hands moved up under her white uniform dress and came to rest between her legs. One of her hands slid inside my panties and her fingers played with my outer lips.

We became more daring until we were pleasuring each other. Eventually we were entwined on the couch wrapped in each other’s body. I was on a high. I was a woman, proud of her body and sexually aware. It didn’t matter that my first experience for years had been with another woman.

We were so engrossed in each other that we didn’t notice when Anne and Jeanne walked in on us. We were aware when their hands joined ours. I hadn’t been aware that Katarina was their lover. I was now. The three of them stripped to match my nakedness. I was pleased that one of them had remembered to lock the door when Regina knocked.

“Just a minute,” said Katarina. She pushed me flat on the couch and handed me my panties. The three of them dressed with speed. Anne unlocked the door.

“Why was the door locked?” Regina asked.

Katarina answered for us.

“Hazel has rediscovered that she is a woman. She is sensitive about her body and slightly worried that someone might walk in when she is like this.”

Regina ignored most of the explanation.

“Hazel. Are you sure?”

“Yes, Regina. I know I am female. It wasn’t just these three. I have been seeing a psychiatrist as well. It just clicked over the weekend. I’m still nervous about it but I’m beginning to enjoy life as a woman again.”

Regina was delighted for me. Her face lit up with a broad smile.

“I am glad for you,” she said, “but please take it slowly. It would be hard if you had a relapse.”

“I don’t think that is likely,” I replied. “Not only do I have these three to help, but Joyce and Raoul are there for me as well, and the psychiatrist. I’ll see her tonight.”

“That is a good idea. So, do you think you will be ready for the assessment on Friday?”

“I will be. Whether these three will think they have done enough I don’t know. They have been trying hard.”

“I know they have, Hazel. I can see results even in the raw.”

Regina looked pointedly at my naked body. I followed her gaze. My breasts were firmer, my stomach was flatter, my skin was smoother and my legs were free of the hair that I had let grow for years. My nipples were still erect. I moved my hands to cover them. Regina laughed.

“Don’t be ashamed of that. That convinces me, more than your words, that you are thinking of yourself as a woman. What would you want to do if your husband walked in now?”

I blushed. The blush spread over my face and down over my breasts.

“That is an eloquent answer,” Regina said. She turned to her students.

“Well done, girls. Keep at it and I’ll see you all on Friday afternoon. I’m away until then so you are on your own. Remember what you are supposed to be doing.”

Regina left.

“Do you think she knew what we had been doing?” I asked.

“Yes. That is why she said “supposed to be doing”,” Anne answered. “It may be good for you, fun for us, but it isn’t what we are here to study. Besides, you would ignore us if your husband was here, wouldn’t you?”

I blushed again.

“Sorry, but yes I would. Now I am a woman again, I want my man. I appreciate all of you, but…”

“…but we haven’t got penises.” Jeanne finished for me.

“Not just that. Simon and I have lived together for a long time and we love each other. There is more to a relationship than fitting parts of the body together.”

“We know,” replied Anne, “We like men too. What the three of us have isn’t just physical. We like each other and love each other. Jeanne and I are sisters and love each other as sisters, but nothing more than that. We share Katarina. We are happy to share our love with you as well. We have got to know you, Hazel, probably better than our English and your French can express. We like you and we know you like us. Perhaps there is even some love as well.”

I nodded. I think I did love them.

The four of us shared a hug.

The rest of the day was back to normal.

In the evening the session with the psychiatrist went well and reinforced the change that had already happened.

By Thursday evening I was flirting with Raoul. Joyce didn’t seem to mind.

After dinner we were sitting down with a drink.

“Hazel, do you remember that you brought a sealed package with you?”

I had forgotten until then.

“Yes. What was in it?”

“I don’t know,” was the surprising reply. We all looked at her.

“It’s true. I really don’t know. I knew Simon was sending it but not what it is. He wanted me to give it to Hazel tonight IF she had rediscovered herself as a woman. If not I was to give it to her to take back to him unopened.”

She paused.

“Hazel, are you a woman?”

We laughed. I was sitting there in an evening gown, my face made up, my hair carefully dressed and wearing perfume. I was a very different Hazel from the person who came to France a couple of weeks ago.

“Yes, Joyce, I am a woman.”

“I thought you were. Here you are. Open it.”

She passed me the padded envelope. It had a rip-tape. I pulled it. Inside was an envelope and something soft wrapped in white tissue paper. I opened the envelope carefully. The letter was from Simon.

“Darling Hazel,

Congratulations on finding yourself again.

The enclosed is the second part of my Valentine’s Day present to you. You have probably guessed that the first part was the visit to France to stay with your friend Hazel and everything that has happened to you in the last couple of weeks. If you have opened this letter then you have discovered that you are a woman, something I have never doubted.

The next part of your present was made to be owned and appreciated by a woman who wants to show herself to a man. I think the revived Hazel will like them.

There is something else to help you re-equip yourself with your friends’ help. A woman needs a new wardrobe from time to time. Where better to buy one than in France?

All my love,

Simon.”

Tears were rolling down my cheeks as I finished. I couldn’t speak so I handed the letter to Joyce who read it aloud.

I fumbled with the tissue paper. Under the first layer was a transparent envelope with the equivalent of a thousand pounds in Euros. The envelope was labelled “New wardrobe”.

“That is a good idea,” Joyce said to Raoul. “Why couldn’t you do that from time to time?”

Raoul’s answer was a typically Gallic shoulder shrug. Joyce aimed a mock blow at him.

“Oh well,” she said, “I cost you much more than that each year, don’t I?”

I unwrapped the last layer to reveal red silk. I held up a pair of French knickers in my size. They were carefully embroidered with several scenes that showed women revelling in being women. Their enjoyment was obvious. How had the artist conveyed so much in embroidery? I watched jealously as the knickers were passed from hand to hand. They were mine. I wanted them back in my hands and preferably around my hips as soon as possible. They were a treasure to be savoured and enjoyed.

Joyce, her daughters and Katarina were envious. These knickers were feminine in every sense. Apart from being a delicate piece of lingerie they were a hymn of praise to being female. Whoever had made and embroidered them had no doubts about her femininity. They were fit for a goddess. Even the re-born me was awed by them.

They encouraged me to put them on. I reached up under my long skirt and removed my delicate panties bought in Lille. Those were much more feminine than the utilitarian panties I had brought to France but seemed coarse by comparison with the red silk.

Even through my stockings the silk of the knickers made goose pimples on my legs as I lifted them. Once they were against my bare skin I could feel my nipples come erect and a warm glow between my legs. I’d never been aroused just by an item of clothing. These knickers were not just clothing. They were the essence of exultant womanhood, an in your face statement that the wearer is female and knows it. Three weeks ago I would have run a mile from them. Now...

I shimmied as settled my dress back down my legs. I couldn’t have moved like that.

“We have another surprise for you, Hazel,” Raoul said. “Turn round, please.”

I turned and came face to face with Simon. I hadn’t heard him come into the room. I flung myself into his arms and kissed him over and over. Then the others joined in to welcome him. At last I sat down on his lap with my arm round his shoulder.

“Well, Hazel, did you like my presents?” he asked.

That got him a few more kisses.

“And how have your French friends treated you?”

I started babbling happily. Everyone’s faces were smiling broadly as I went on and on about how wonderful they had been and how much I owed them.

I wanted to drag Simon off to bed and get him to take the French knickers off me. I thought about getting him to do it with his teeth but they were too delicate and valuable for that. He would have to remove them reverently and carefully. Perhaps he could rip my Lille-bought panties off with his teeth. Those panties could be replaced. The red silk French knickers couldn’t because they were, and are, unique.

When I let Simon breathe he asked:

“Could someone bring my briefcase? I don’t think Hazel will let me go.”

“No, I won’t,” I replied. “I’m holding on to what I’ve got.” I hugged him while Katarina brought his briefcase to him.

He opened it and gave Katarina four packages each labelled for Joyce, her daughters, and Katarina. They opened them and showed red silk knickers, beautiful ones, but not so exquisitely embroidered as mine. I think if they hadn’t seen mine they would have been worried by his generosity. Their knickers looked expensive but not such works of art.

Simon reached into his briefcase again to produce a genuine panama hat for Raoul. It came in a tube and is the type that can be rolled up and springs back into shape. Simon explained that the silk manufacturers didn’t do anything for men but asked Raoul if the present was acceptable. Raoul was very pleased but teased Simon for buying knickers for the females of his, Raoul’s, family. In olden days that could have led to pistols at dawn, he joked.

I wanted to get Simon to bed but I couldn’t let my friends down. They wore their presents. Raoul wore his panama at a most un-English angle; the women hauled up their skirts to show off their knickers. I had to take mine off again for a further examination and comparison. The material of all five pairs was equally fine and the shade almost the same. Mine were just perceptible as a different shade but the embroidery set them apart.

When we did get upstairs I made up for two years’ lost time. The next morning as we dressed Simon complained that I’d raped him. I threatened to do it again. Dressing stopped as I did. I rode him to a climax and my muscles clamped around him until I too had reached an orgasm.

We were a couple of minutes late for breakfast, which seemed to amuse everyone else. Simon and I were behaving like honeymooners.

The girls’ assessment at the end of the two weeks went well. Simon watched as I paraded for the still photography and video and we both were shocked by the contrast between before and after.

Regine was delighted. I think she would have flirted with Simon except that he was so obviously attached to me. She did kiss him a few more times than was strictly necessary for a social greeting. I watched, confident that I had nothing to fear from Regine or even the girls. Simon was my man. I was his woman and when I wore those red silk knickers I was all the woman he could handle and more.

The red silk knickers are framed on our bedroom wall. The glass can be swung aside so that the knickers can be removed for use but just looking at them is enough to start another accusation that Simon is about to be raped by his wife – again. That reminds me. It is about six hours since I last “raped” him. Where shall I do it next? The garden shed perhaps?