Tranford Tales - Covid

Hannah

Bernie was the first real pandemic casualty. He survived after nearly a month in intensive care, but was not the same man.

We knew exactly how it had happened. In the early days before everyone got serious about it, a visitor to the Community Centre had actually coughed into his face. Two weeks later he was in hospital on a ventilator.

I was fortunate that I didn't catch it from him, and desperately glad that he survived.

The silver lining was that Tranford started using masks early on and we all continued to be cautious, so we got off lightly. Liz and I organized the manufacture of masks until commercial supplies became available (when the government finally started to do its job).

I saw the relief when he was able to put on a frilly nightie, and come to bed with me. We cuddled and he put his head on my breasts. Then when he got up, he put on a work dress and pottered around a little, trying to do a bit of work cleaning the community centre, but had to stop and rest quite soon. He got a little stronger after a few weeks but was far from the man he had been.

It was the end of our lovemaking. He couldn't get it up, and he got distressed when I tried but failed with my mouth, so we had an unspoken agreement to ignore the situation.

He had just lost the maleness which made it so inappropriate, and so good. I really missed the combination of pink frills and lace with a stiff cock. When we cuddled together, we ignored his cock. I still noticed it, of course, but so small and limp.

Sophie said that the virus could affect various parts of the body, and had probably changed his hormone levels, but because of the pandemic, this was not the time to find out. I was just glad that he was alive.

I missed the stiff cock for his sake more than mine, but was grateful for the few years we had enjoyed it together.

In my mind, Bernie had gone into hospital, but it was Bernadette that came out. I was not the only one who saw the change. The women agreed that he had been the most wonderful sissy. A proper masculine man in silly dresses. I rather regretted that I had tried to tone it down to make him more like a respectable older Jewish woman back home in Leeds. My repressed life, of course.

Now he dressed more modestly, like a respectable older Jewish woman. Like me.

He had been very weak when he came back, and I took him out for walks each day to build up his strength. As soon as he was able, we both wore heels rather than the sensible shoes I favoured.

Not being able to meet up, and many people away from work, there was a lot of walking around in Tranford, in opposite directions on the pavements so we had the road width between us. The Highway Code says on a road without pavement you walk facing the traffic, so that was what we did, but on the pavement, of course. There were some arrows painted to remind you.

During the first lockdown we were only allowed an hour a day outside for exercise, so people organised it so that they could see each other. In the good weather it was nice to show off summer dresses, and fortunately the summer of 2020 had some good long spells.

Sometimes we called greetings or compliments across the road. Quite often we got out our phones for a chat, with strict etiquette to allow other walkers to pass by and keep their distance.

Anyway, Bernie never quite got the hang of makeup, but I made sure he had a good face for our walks.

We were caretakers for the Community Centre, but that wasn't being used, so there was no real work to be done.

The pub had closed, which was a disaster for the lovely couple who had taken it over.

It was internet suppliers which actually did well, and that included the dress business which I helped to run along with Liz. Female clothes for men.

It seemed that stuck at home, many crossdressing men decided that some new clothes would cheer them up. As we were getting more customers, it seemed that maybe some couples had decided to explore the husband's feminine side.

In order to cope with the increased orders, we recruited help from Tranford residents. I had done it before, when we had a wedding. There were women with sewing machines and training who now had some extra time and welcomed it. Before, I had set up a production process in the community centre. Now it had to be done differently, though the principle was the same.

While the others cut and sewed, Bernadette had both the skills and equipment for steaming, pressing and shaping. She was still nimble with buttons, so that gave her an interest.

One night in bed, it was Bernie rather than Bernadette I heard.

"I'm sorry, love," he said.

"What for, darling?"

"Not being a proper man."

"It's not your fault," I said as tears came into my eyes.

"I know. I just got old. I knew it would happen gradually, but it's like I woke up fifteen years older. I still want you as much, but it was so frustrating when I failed."

Of course, that was exactly it. He was weaker and less capable. Old. As I would be soon enough. We had just not done it together.

I was smothering him with kisses and tears.

Eventually he shared more with me.

"I now understand why so many older men like to crossdress. It's a relief to just let go of your maleness when it's failing anyway. Just to be an ordinary woman, one who can pass in the street. Not being sexually attractive, but to join the wonderful people you've admired for so long."

"That's Bernadette."

He kissed me, and I realised there was something else.

"That wasn't me, of course. I wanted women's clothes long before I got old. I didn't know the name, and I didn't understand it till I came to Tranford. I was just ashamed. I was a sissy. Women's underwear was a sexual turn-on and I wanted everyone to know that I was a man. I wanted the sexiest girliest clothes possible, but to be a man. When everyone admired me at the Christmas and New Year parties I thought I was going to explode with happiness."

"Of course, it doesn't work for Bernadette. I wasn't hard all the time in my pink dress, but it was important to know that I could be. Now I know it's not possible, so it's not the same thrill."

"I just still want it, like I want you. In my head I'm just the same."

I asked Sophie whether Bernie could have Viagra or something like that.

"I don't think so," he said. "He's doing relatively well, but it's a fair description to say he's a lot older, and with the current medications I doubt they would think it worth the risk."

"What you could do, is use a strapon."

So far as I was concerned, Tranford was about people being whatever gender they wanted to be, and dressing accordingly. I knew that all kinds of sex went on, and there were vibrators, but I didn't know and hadn't been interested about all sorts of sex toys, as they call them. So it was good of Sophie to explain.

"It's a rubber penis. By itself, it's called dildo, and some men with erectile dysfunction use it to penetrate their partners. It can be put in a sort of harness, and then the man moves as he would during intercourse. That is a strapon. Some couples find it very effective for both the man and woman. It is also used by trans men. I'll send you some information about ones that have been recommended."

Bernie and I were a bit hesitant, but agreed to give it a try. Perhaps unfortunately we looked on the internet, to see why people were so enthusiastic. The main use seemed to be women dominating men, and the harness reinforced the effect.

The one recommended had a hollow inside for his sad little cock. We could see why the harness needed to be so strong and firm, but it wasn't very nice. Even thinking of it as a medical appliance didn't help.

Well lubricated, it did feel like a cock, but he wasn't getting any joy out of it and it was difficult for me to respond.

We thanked Sophie, and resumed life with Bernadette. No sex and no obligation for sex.

But for Christmas I had a surprise for Bernie. I had worked on it secretly for two months, pretending it was something for Liz's business. A new costume, which I had on one of our tailoring dummies with the thighs, which we use for trousers, shorts and undergarments.

"It's beautiful," he said. "What a bride might wear. A lacy suspender set, with lovely panties. Oh, I do love you."

I dressed him, with love.

"You lost quite a bit of weight, so I've taken the opportunity to give you more of a waist with a cincher, and I've moved your bra cup up one size."

He admired himself in the mirror. Bra, waist cincher, suspenders and stockings all in white, and split panties from which a nice cock protruded, disguising the harness.

We went to the bedroom and I was lovingly fucked by my wonderful sissy man. It was with the strapon, but now it felt right for him. It only lasted a couple of minutes before he was tired, but it was good to have Bernie back again! We do it once a week.

If anything, it looked more rude with a dress. In the French maid, the knob could just be glimpsed occasionally from under the petticoats. If we loosened a strap, the cock could be pulled closer to the body under panties, giving a major bulge in other dresses.

I had made another set, in pink to go with his favourite pink dress.

There was no actual Christmas party, but Bernie strutted around on people's computers and they said he had got his mojo back. I didn't show the one with the cock sticking out, of course, just the bulge, but it was mainly his attitude.

(But I discovered that some people begged him, so he posed in the bridal underwear as what they call a shemale for I don't know how many individuals!)

Mrs Patel

The shop sign says 'Mr and Mrs Patel' but any Hindu woman would know that means 'Mrs Patel's'.

And don't think that just because I have taken his name that means he owns me. On the contrary, it means that I took over ownership of him from his mother. Hindu women are very strong. Bossy by English standards, but it's necessary, because our men are such little boys. They strut around and think they are important, and women let them enjoy the pretence, but at home it is first the mother that rules, and then the wife. Nicely, of course, but firm.

My big man little boy Mr Patel had been happy serving in a village shop while I ran the business, and wearing saris or pretty dresses, while I had practical clothes to deal with some of the stock and the boring details of life. It was real old-fashioned village life in Tranford. Shopping was socialising, and we also had friends round for dinner, or visited them. There was also the pub and the community centre, so we were never bored.

Until the pandemic.

Dinners, the pub, events in the community centre all went.

Social distancing took all the life out of the shop, and there were so often shortages. The cash and carry took ages spacing the customers out.

Business-wise we managed. We arranged to deliver like the supermarkets, and Tranford people were good enough to use us rather than getting the big companies as far as possible. Along with some other small shops, we bought directly from some local food from the producers, paying more than they got from the big supermarkets, but less than we would pay from the middlemen.

Things were tight, but financially we survived. I was OK, but he desperately missed actual shopkeeping - seeing people and getting news rather than leaving a bag or crate on the doorstep. When people came in we were all masked and it was a quick in and out, no more than two people in the shop at a time. No impulse purchases or those people who just bought something as an excuse to chat. We could speak online, and either deliver or people could collect, but it was not the same as our cosy village shop had been, sometimes crowded and people in no hurry.

In order to keep him busy, I insisted that if he was going to wear a sari or dress he had to be properly shaved. This meant his arms and his legs as well as his face. He had to shave his chin three times a day and use concealer. There had to be eye makeup and a bindi (red dot) on his forehead whenever wearing a sari.

He had actually been playing at a woman, like a little boy dressing up as a cowboy. I made him do it properly. Which actually meant I had to be less casual as well. It seems from the internet that in the lockdown many women relaxed and bothered less with clothes and makeup. In Tranford, it seemed the other way around. I guess others were also keeping occupied.

Shampoo and conditioner on the hair; careful drying and combing with a spray for volume. Makeup and a bra from morning to night. Nail varnish on the toes and fingers.

He had to do all this even to go to the cash and carry. It wasn't very glamorous, with a facemask and raincoat, but he knew that he had lipstick on and what he was wearing. He had thick black tights instead of trousers, and a midi dress just showing under the raincoat. Trainers for shoes, like most of the customers. We both had our hair covered, and his was getting quite long. It wasn't Tranford, and he was rather big for a woman, so he was nervous, which was a bit exciting for both of us, I think. But all we had to do was show our cards, and there was none of the former chit-chat with the staff and other shopkeepers, so no-one bothered us.

I pierced his ears and nose myself and put in some small gold ear-rings and my daughter's first silver nose ring which we had as a souvenir. Sometimes a henna pattern on his hands.

Keeping himself up to my standard of female appearance took time and effort each day. Taking time and concentration away from him which he might have used to get depressed.

Though we couldn't have actual dinners with friends we took to having internet dinners, each with our own dinners on one side of the table, and the laptop on the other. Our daughter sent us some stick-on bindis which the young people use these days, and he wore a nose ornament and earrings which had belonged to my grandmother. He might wear a western dress, a glamorous shalwar kameez, or (my favourite) a sari in the traditional way, which means a bare midriff so that he had to shave his considerable and very hairy belly.

After each dinner, in full makeup, with his lacy panties pulled aside, he always fucked me most enthusiastically.

Now things are getting back to normal (apart from the prices!) I think I'll let him decide how much he wants to keep up the full Indian wife play!

Alf

It had been a dream come true. My best mate Roy had become my best girl Ginger, and we were running a village pub. It wasn't really about the sex, though I had no complaints. It was just being an ordinary married couple running our own business. I liked serving and she liked cooking, and we both loved pubs. Living together and running one was the ideal life, and we would be glad to grow old together.

Until the pandemic.

Never mind what the government said, there were a couple of nurses who knew better, and some of the folks were vulnerable. Bernie - the sissy at the community centre - was one of the first to catch it from a visitor who had just come back from Italy. It nearly killed him, and he was really drained when he recovered. So we all understood the dangers and started taking precautions. Face masks appeared and dinners in the pub stopped. The pensioners' weekly minibus to us stopped.

The builders and some of the visitors did not, except in actual lockdown. So we continued to serve wearing masks and with hand-gel, worried by both the health risk and the loss of income.

Everything we worked for, time and money, was going.

The thing is, I had never really believed it would last. Just five or ten years would have been nice. And I didn't really get high finance, so expected it would creep up on us, and we would pack it in and retire before we got into debt.

But Ginger, my love, had seen that it was actually possible for us to own and run a pub until we were physically unable, then pass it on to new tenants that Tranford deserved.

Then in March 2020 there was lockdown with suddenly no income and the golden future had vanished into dust.

Building work continued in a limited way, so we managed to sell some lunches as takeaways when restrictions allowed, but that was about it. In August we were opened for a government subsidised scheme called 'Eat Out to Help Out' which helped businesses like ours a bit but increased Covid infections. We were very careful and the Tranford folks were very cooperative. Sophie got us the best masks to wear, so we didn't catch anything. But that was just a bit. Hospitality and catering businesses were failing all over, and Ginger saw it.

I had never seen her more down.

"It's all for nothing," she cried one day. "We were just two blokes doing bar work and bumming around. All that money and effort. What have we got to show for it?"

"I'll tell you what I've got," I said. "We'll be two penniless people who once ran a pub, the thing we thought we would never do. Maybe we'll never do anything again, but they can't take that away from us. You have got your dream of being a waitress with nice tits, and I've got the woman I love. There's nothing in the world I want more than you as the girl you are now, and I'll always be happy if I've only got you."

We went to bed. Not for sex, but just to hold each other tight. Though she did suck me off later.

Then I got a little idea. Tranford has full fibre internet, but we also have an intranet, connections just in Tranford. She made up some meals so that they could be microwaved. Folks could order them on the intranet, and I would deliver and leave it on the doorstep. (I promise you, Ginger is an expert on hygiene, so there was no risk of disease, even if we had had the coronavirus.)

Through the intranet we coordinated, so as they sat down to eat, Ginger would be there on the screen to serve it and have a word or two. She bent down to give a good view of her boobs. She is so proud of them and grateful to the builders and Tranford residents who gave her the money. People could also pour themselves a drink and I would pretend to serve it.

One of the residents, Robyn, did IT stuff professionally, and she decided to do something better, so organized the software and hardware to do it as a present to us.

Two or three couples could come in and sit at a virtual table. They could get drinks from me on the screen, and order from the menu. Ginger would pack the meals, put them on a table in the entrance, and a volunteer would deliver within a few minutes. Then, given the signal, Ginger would serve in her usual charming manner, walking from the kitchen with a dummy meal (covered plates) and going to a table with a laptop, which would show the people being served and of course display her to their screens.

This was takeaway with class!

There were the same number and size of tables as in the pub. When we were full, we were full. People could come in early and leave, and someone else could take the table later.

It didn't take long for the Tranford folks to get the hang of it. They were kind enough to buy alcoholic drinks from us, and had them in the house of course, but the meals were paid for online on the day. And Ginger was pretty busy, cooking the meals in advance, but having a little more time to chat as she served in the evening, though serving often enough.

You could only speak to people on your table, but could have dinners in turn with all your friends, so people could keep in touch, in a sociable way.

It was enough to keep us going, and meant that some of the social life of Tranford continued. Now we are starting to get back to normal she thinks we'll make it financially. The cost of energy is a bit of a worry, of course. We hope it's only going to be temporary.

Oh yes. Freddie has at last actually moved into a room in the pub like he was going to before the pandemic! And his mate Bob is going to take the next room, so we'll get a bit of money from that.