Scandinavian Rhapsody

I was about to leave the University of Oxford, with no idea of what I wanted to do with my life, when I saw an advertisement for the post of tutor to the eleven- year-old son of a Scandinavian count, initially for a period of one year. I had travelled very little but I had studied Swedish, Danish and Norwegian for my modern languages degree and I liked the idea of seeing something of Scandinavia. I applied for the job, met the count's representative in London and was appointed to start at the count's country estate in July.

My name is John Graham. At the time this story began I was twenty- two years old, an orphan with no money and an adequate but unspectacular degree, but with an unbounded enthusiasm for languages and an entirely naive belief that the world was a wonderful place. I am six feet tall, with slender muscles, dark brown hair and eyes and a secret. Although I am clearly male, with a six- inch cock and a pair of furry balls (I shave the rest of my pudenda), and I am not obviously effeminate, I have always thought of myself as, first, a girl, then, a woman. I took with me to Scandinavia a small stock of ladies' panties, bras, stockings, suspender belts and tights, to wear under my man's clothing. (I love the feel of tight silk around my cock and balls and along my shaven legs.) I also treated myself to two almost, but not quite, transparent nightdresses, a short black one and a long, white one. This luggage was in addition to my more conventional male clothes.

I arrived at the house in the early evening. It faced west over a small lake. Behind it rose a gently swelling hillside covered in the sort of broad-leaved woodland I was used to in the English midlands. Indeed, the whole picture was oddly familiar to me. The house itself had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century, based on an English Palladian design of a central block with a portico and a pediment, with flanking wings. Before it stretched the sort of English park which proliferated throughout Europe from Spain to Russia in the eighteenth century. Had I been born into an English aristocratic family instead of into an English middle-class family this was the sort of house I might have called home.

The house sat serenely in its parkland; the declining sun added a mellowness to its painted stucco. I felt as though I had arrived in paradise.

That first evening the butler and housekeeper welcomed me and explained that the count sent his apologies for not being there to greet me. He was on a business trip which would take him to Berlin, Paris and London, but he hoped to see me in a month's time. Meanwhile, they said, he had left instructions that they were to make me comfortable and that I was to meet my pupil tomorrow and begin our lessons. The count was particularly anxious that I should improve his son's English.

The next morning my pupil was at the breakfast table before me. He was the most astonishingly beautiful child I had ever seen. He was blond haired and golden skinned with a straight nose and widely-placed eyes of a startling blue. The previous night the housekeeper had told me that Eric, who was named after his father, was also the image of his father, except that, whereas young Eric was delicate, his father was an athlete of almost Olympic standard. She was clearly and justifiably proud of both the father and the son, as was Eric's old nanny, who was a force to be reckoned with; fortunately, she and I took to one another within minutes of meeting.

I soon realised that, although young Eric was being educated at home, this did not mean that he was at all slow of intellect. In fact he had a bright, curious mind, and the promise of real intellectual distinction. In that first week I realised that his mind needed feeding to keep him happy but that my problem would be restraining him from overtaxing his strength.

Each morning we worked in the schoolroom, a light airy room on the second floor (using the English reckoning of floors), next to Eric's bedroom and four rooms along a corridor from mine. The count's bedroom and private sitting room and study lay between. The servants occupied rooms on the top floor but the servants' hall, the butler's pantry and the housekeeper's day room were on the ground floor, as were the kitchen and the family's breakfast room. The first floor, as in all such houses, was the piano nobile, where the main reception rooms, the formal dining room and the library were situated.

I soon fell into the pattern of life of the household and devised a study programme with Eric which suited us both. After our morning's work we lunched together, our main meal of the day, then each of us had an hour's reading time. If the weather was fine we then walked in the park before a light tea. Eric was supposed to rest after tea but often he continued with his reading. My dinner time was at 8 o'clock but Eric and I decided that, instead of me sitting in solitary state, he and I should share a supper at that hour and talk or play chess or billiards or read or listen to music until he went to bed at 10.30.

Obviously, I concealed my feminine clothing by locking it in my suitcase, the only way in a house where well-trained servants automatically take your clothes for washing. I rinsed out my flimsies in my bathroom and dried them on the heated towel rail. As I got used to the life of the house I began to want to explore the house as a woman. I had been there for two weeks before I felt I knew enough about times of going to bed and of rising for me to venture out of my room as the real me. Eric was in bed by 10.30 and the whole household seemed to sleep between midnight and 6.00am.

Under my floating white nightdress I wore flesh-coloured silk panties, bra, suspender belt and stockings. I took one of a pair of candlesticks from the chimneypiece in my room so that I should not need to turn on any lights (I could always say I preferred to read by candlelight in my room when the servants noticed that it had been lit, odd as it would sound.) I waited until 2.00am then, opening my bedroom door a little, I peered out. The corridor was deserted. My adventure began. I walked slowly along to the head of the stairs. I imagined I was the mistress of the house, as my nightdress slid over my silk-clad legs, clitty and buttocks. I listened and was met by silence. I decided to risk going down the stairs and into the grand drawing room. I sat down on a brocade- covered armchair, clenching my cock and balls delicately but firmly, by crossing my legs with a satisfying whisper of one silk-clad leg over the other. I caressed my right breast, imagining a virile man treating me as a desirable woman. It was bliss. However, I daren't spend too long, just in case anyone should stir. I walked, swaying seductively, up the stairs and into my room, where, after making sure that my door was locked, I allowed my imagination to run riot as I became the beloved of a man who did all those things to me which I longed for.

First he slid his hands under my nightdress before lifting it over my head. He ran those same hands over my clitie cock and balls. He moistened his fingers in my lips and rimmed my rosebud with them until she opened to his touch, when he invaded her depths and my clitie cock gave up her juices, which he collected on his fingers and fed to me. And yet I longed for so much more.

Each night I would spend a little more time in the great rooms and still my desire grew, but suddenly my secret life had to be put on hold. Eric fell ill. We had heard from his father that he had had to prolong his business trip and this had upset Eric. Also he had become so assiduous in his studies that, despite my warnings, he had overstretched his strength. One morning his old nurse found him in bed delirious and with a high fever. The doctor who attended the family was sent for; day and night nurses were appointed, and, freed from teaching duties, and having grown genuinely fond of Eric, I lent my hands to doing whatever caring the nurses would allow.

I was sitting beside him the day after his collapse and his mind kept wandering but he insisted on holding my hand. It seemed to calm him. His old nanny sat on the other side of the bed.

He looked directly at me. 'Mummy,' he said, 'When is daddy coming home?'

Nanny took his other hand and said, 'Daddy will be here soon, Chicken, probably tonight.' The housekeeper had sent for him as soon as we saw the severity of Eric's condition.

When we left Eric's bedside I said to Nanny that I had not realised how ill he was, if he could mistake me for his mother.

She took me into a room I hadn't entered before, the count's study. She opened a small leather case which stood on the desk and showed me a watercolour portrait of a woman. Her colouring was the same as mine and there was a slight resemblance of feature.

'I saw the similarity as soon as you walked through the door. So did the other servants,' she said.

'When did the countess die?' I asked.

'Six years ago this month,' she replied.

'Should I go before the count comes? I don't want to be a ghost sitting at his table.'

'No. We shall see what we shall see. Eric loves you; do you know that?'

'I think he is becoming fond of me, as I am of him. He is an exceptionally good child.'

'No. It is more than that. He does not give his trust or his love easily. You have gained both in a matter of weeks. That is why he called you 'mummy' in his confused state, even more than the slight but unmistakeable resemblance. Your coming here is meant. Wait, and let us see how his father reacts to you. I think all will be well. I sense that the Good Lord has brought you here for a purpose.'

She was a small woman. She came to a stop, turned round to me and looked up into my face. She said, very quietly, so that we could not be overheard, 'The old do not sleep well. The other night I decided to get a book from the count's library; I often do; I saw you in the drawing room.'

I must have looked as though I was about to faint because Nanny pulled a bottle of smelling salts out of one of her many pockets and thrust it under my nose.

'You make a beautiful woman. I have lived in this house for seventy years and I know the family better than they know themselves. You would not be the first countess in this family who was born male. Obviously it is a matter between you and the count. He may not want you; you may not want him; but I doubt both of those things. I think,' and she took my hand in hers and peered even more closely into my eyes, 'you would be a good mother for my little Eric and a good wife for my big Eric.'

I realised that this wonderful old woman needed my reassurance that I should not reject out of hand any approaches from either of her beloved boys.

I said I should remain.

When the count arrived I made sure that I was in my room so that he didn't have to bother with me until after he had seen his son. He spent an hour with Eric, another hour with his servants and then he summoned me to his study. Clearly he had been told of my slight resemblance to his late wife for the case stood open where he could compare our faces. He looked at me searchingly for several minutes and, covertly, I looked at him. He was stunningly handsome, magnificently built and almost overwhelmingly alive. He was at least six feet eight inches tall; his chest, his shoulders, his arms and legs were those of a god and I fell in love literally at first sight. He was a Viking brought back from the heroic past and his blond hair had golden highlights which gave the impression of glinting from a war helmet. I knew immediately and without a doubt that I wanted to be the wife of this man.

He said, 'They are partly right. You and she share the same colouring, and your eyes and your skin glow as hers did before she became ill. You have almost the same mouth and lips but yours are a little fuller, I think.'

He said. 'I am not surprised that my boy, in his state, could think of you as her. I suggest we dine together tonight as a belated welcome. I am very glad you are here.'

I came down to dinner at 8. Nanny had told me that the count usually dressed for dinner and so I had put on my dinner jacket. He was in the drawing room and I joined him there for a glass of sherry before we ate. He took my arm and led me into the formal dining room. Young Eric and I had not eaten in there.

'I told them to lay places for us next to each other at one end of the table. I hope you don't mind,' he said.

'So much easier to talk,' I replied.

'Exactly what I thought,' said the count.

I am sure that the food was delicious but I have no recollection of it. I was so conscious of the proximity of this glorious man and of my reaction to him. My little silk and lace panties were stretched to their utmost and my cock was escaping from them. I was terrified that I should come and a wet patch would spread over my dress trousers.

The count talked well. He is a highly sophisticated man of broad tastes in literature, music and the visual arts. He drew my attention to fine family portraits by Roslin from the eighteenth century and even a small still life by Chardin which an ancestor had bought from the artist in Paris. He spoke of his business as though I should understand and he explained his activities so well I actually did follow quite a lot of it, though, since it was technical and scientific, this says more for the count's skill as a communicator than for my powers of comprehension.

He drew me out about myself, my family, my interests and what I intended to spend my life doing. I found my answers rather lame and childish but he seemed amused and, indeed, pleased, that I had not yet made up my mind as to where I was going. As the meal progressed I felt, with a lightening of my heart, that he and I were growing closer and closer. Even an element of flirtatiousness appearing in the count's attitude towards me.

When it came time for coffee he led me into his study and sent away the servants, saying we should serve ourselves.

'It's getting late, Karl,' he said to the butler. 'Clear these things in the morning. Mr Graham and I have much to discuss. Don't wait up.'

The butler withdrew and we were alone together.

'I think you should call me Eric,' said the count.

'I am John,' I replied.

Eric smiled. He gestured for me to sit on a chair at one side of the porcelain stove, which dominated the room. He took the chair next to mine, from which he could pour the coffee. Courteously he pulled a small table within my reach so that I could rest my cup and saucer on it.

As he handed me my cup he asked, 'How long have you been wearing a suspender belt, John?'

I almost dropped the cup, coffee and all.

'Steady,' he said and smiled again.

'How do you know?'

'I can see the mark of the fastenings under the material of your trousers, particularly when you are sitting and your very nice thighs are as near to me as this.'

I blushed and stammered something.

'Please don't be embarrassed. I am not. As we have been speaking together something extraordinary has happened to me. You have opened your mind to me as no one has opened to me for a long time. I shall be equally open. I am fourteen years older than you but as we sat together, just now, I realised that, out of the blue, I am falling in love with you and I do not think you are entirely averse to me. Am I right?'

'I fell in love with you the moment we met. But, Eric, I am not your late wife returned to you. I am myself. I think of myself as a woman who has a cock and balls.'

'As I gained my first view of the house from the road I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it contained my future life's happiness. Some of the men of my family are fey like that. As we talked I recognised you as the part of my life which has been missing.' He paused, then went on, almost pleadingly, 'Please let me see you without your masculine disguise.'

I stood up, removed my jacket, my tie, my shirt and my shoes. Eric hesitated then reached out and undid the zip on my flies. I took off my trousers. I stood before Eric dressed in my white lace and silk panties, stockings, suspender belt and bra. He asked me to turn around and then back again. I did as he said. He gestured for me to come closer. I stood between his legs and he ran his hands over my body. I quivered with the sensuousness of his touch. He unloosed my bra and stroked my breasts, then he took each nipple into his mouth and gently bit my titties. He went lower and unfastened my stockings so that he could remove my panties. He slid both his hands inside the delicate fabric and eased them down from my hips; he cupped my balls and my cock in his hands before he turned me round. I heard his gasp of delight and the next thing I knew was his tongue exploring my pucker. I leant backwards into his tongue and he grasped my buttocks and separated them to dig deeper into my cunt. In that moment I was no longer a man who liked wearing women's clothing. I had become his woman entirely.

Rapidly he stood, gathered me up in his arms and carried me to his bedroom.

'Are you sure it is me you want?' I asked.

'I want you as I have never wanted anyone before,' he replied.

He laid me down on his bed; he removed his own clothes and stood before me in his full magnificence. Six feet eight inches of virility. His upper arms and chest were sprinkled with a dusting of fair hair, his pecs and abs were superb; I longed to lick into his belly button. His thighs were as tree trunks and between them his cock was growing from eight inches to ten to twelve. I took it in my hands and worshipped. It was a veined column of magnificence with a perfect helmet head and I kissed his slit, then took it into my mouth. Eric took hold of my head and fucked me until he shot his first load into my throat, finishing off on my tongue so that I could savour the taste of his ambrosia.

I grasped his balls, kissing and licking them. Then he turned me on my face and placed a pillow under my stomach.

'I think you have never been fucked before. Am I right,' he asked.

I said 'Yes.'

'So, my little virgin, I shall take you first from the rear. It will be easier for you.'

He began to lick my pucker. His tongue rasped across my pussy and darted in as my hole pulsed open. I had never felt such delight. He moved and presented his cock to my lips for me to lick it. I again tasted heaven. Then he began to tease my hole with his fingers and his cock head. I opened and he entered. Slowly and gradually he built up my capacity to contain him until his whole wonderful cock was lodged inside me. Then he started to fuck me properly. For half an hour we sweated and I plunged into and out of consciousness as he ploughed me. To my infinite joy I became part of my lover and he became the greater part of me. As he came inside my cunt for the first time I knew that from here on I was entirely woman and that my cunt and all the rest of me belonged to my husband, Count Eric, my Viking Lord.

Eric turned me over so that he and I lay face to face. He supported his weight on his elbow as he gazed into my eyes.

'I love you, girl of my dreams. Will you be my wife?' he asked.

Of course I replied, 'Yes.'

Our first night of love remains in my memory as the defining experience of my life. Since that night I have been his wife and he has been my husband. When we travel we travel as husband and husband and I dress, on the surface, as a man. At home it is a different matter. Here Eric likes me to be entirely woman. He loves me to dress in the daytime in a skirt and blouse or in a day dress and in the evening he loves to see me in a long dress and wearing his jewels. I favour cream or dark blue materials, whether linen, silk, wool or cotton, and I love the feel of the pearls my husband has given me against my skin.