Two Nights in Spring

Two nights in spring

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a short story by Vee Cesario

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(revised 2023)

This is a work of pure fiction, any resemblance to actual events or people is coincidental

Prologue

I worked for SecTrak, a company that supplied surveillance and tracking equipment to banks and security firms. During April a few years ago one of their customers was robbed, it turned out to be an "inside job", and because of a series of coincidences initially the police thought I was involved. The truth soon came out, but not until after the press had had a field day with sensationalised leaked evidence that placed me together with the perpetrator and helped to end my failing marriage in a messy divorce.

Not just was my car stolen, I was a victim of circumstances in so many other ways.

That spring changed my life forever.

1. Tennis man

There's a sort of southern English accent where the words 'wan' 'won' and 'one' all sound the same, a sort of mix between 'a' and 'o'.

He had that sort of accent. He'd been playing tennis, I thought. Although tall, he had the slim frame and look of agility that a casual tennis player might have, his clean-shaven face had that sort of flushed moist freshness you carry from recent exercise, and I could smell sweat - not old musty repellent body odour, which I hate, but a clean healthy perspiration. I'd seen the tennis courts as I'd driven up to the hotel and thought I recognised him as one of the players although in truth my eyes had been drawn to his opponent, a gorgeous girl with shoulder-length auburn hair topping off a freckled face and muscular but stunning figure dressed like a Wimbledon star. She'd seen me looking, and smiled at the attention before thumping off an athletic and faultless serve that flexed her perfect limbs and bounced lightly all those things that should be bounced lightly.

Apart from that, he was dressed in tennis shoes, towelling socks, not-so-white shorts and baggy T-shirt, and was carrying an old racket and 2 worn tennis balls. A bit of a give-away, really.

He came up to the bar and found a space next to where I was sipping the top off a pint so I wouldn't spill it as I carried it over to where I'd eat my solitary evening special with my back to the wall overlooking the pub-grubbers and TV sports enthusiasts, alone with my book. There was little chance of him being served for a while and he turned to me with a grin and said

'Busy tonight?'

The way he said it I wasn't sure if it was a question, a rhetorical question, or just a comment. I decided to take it as a comment, as his friendly grin was a little unnerving.

'Good game?' I indicated the racket he was holding loosely down by his legs. Apparently hairless legs.

I wasn't sure what he said in reply - it could have been a triumphant 'won one!', inviting a celebration of a little victory, or it could have been 'one won', a sort of unneeded reply to a rhetorical question stating the bleeding obvious to a stupid northerner, inviting a kick in the teeth. I decided to be charitable. Just as well.

'She normally thrashes me'

Instantly I had a vision of the redhead in figure-hugging leather whirling a cat-o-nine tails around her head. A wonderful and exciting vision. He couldn't say his 'th's or 'r's so well, it almost sounded like 'fwashes'.

'Really?'

'I was playing my daughter,'..

My flame-headed dominatrix disappeared in a cloud of sparks with an almost audible pop.

..', and she's very good'

He drawled 'vewy'.

'Oh - how old is she?'

I immediately wished I hadn't said that. In my mind the vixen had re-appeared. I thought she was very good, as well, and perhaps could be very bad. He regarded me as if thinking 'he saw us playing and he fancies my daughter. He's a lecherous, dirty old man.' I took a sip of beer to hide my irrational guilt, trying to will away the growing flush on my cheeks. Then he laughed.

'She'll be twenty this year. Have you got kids?'

'Yes - two. Same sort of age. But you don't look old enough?'

I didn't mean to say it, but I meant it. I would have said he was at most in his early thirties, with his fresh smooth face and thick sandy hair. His eyebrows were very light, and his eyelashes were long, but you didn't notice at first, because they too were sandy. Brown eyes, dark, dark liquid kind eyes. Nice eyes. Why was I thinking that? I could see a family resemblance now, if only to the eyes I'd half-glimpsed and half imagined on the tennis court. My collar was hot.

'I can assure you I am' he said quietly, looking at me steadily.

Then it was his turn to be served, and I went to my table to await the bowl of chicken curry and rice followed by sticky toffee pudding which was what constituted the evening's 'special'. I fished out my reading glasses and thumbed through my book, trying to remember whereabouts my bookmark had been before I'd had to surrender it to the barman to prove my allegiance to room 113 in the less salubrious wing of the hotel. I'd already lost the previous bookmark (a receipt) somewhere in my bag, so I'd done this before and should have been able to find the page quickly.

'Mind if I join you?'

It was tennis man again.

'No, not at all!'

I surprised myself because it was genuine. Normally I would shun company, making the necessity of eating into a short, self-contained and painless interlude between arriving at the hotel and getting on with my evening pursuits. I would read my book until my meal arrived, looking up over my glasses at each newcomer, scanning the crowd for faces that may know me, those to avoid and those that were no threat, a paranoia I felt necessary to preserve the balance of my life. Someone who might recognise me later. Someone who would see me at breakfast and whisper to their companion. But now I was welcoming someone into my space, to share my table, to talk with me.

He put down his drink and sat down opposite me.

'Looks like you've got the same as me', indicating my glass

'Yes? I've got the local brew, it's OK..

..despite having no head' I added, to emphasise my northern-ness, just in case it wasn't obvious from my plain vowels. It got a laugh, as intended.

'The brewery's just ten miles away. I always have it when I'm here. Where're you from?'

'Yapham'

'Where?'

'It's near York. And you? Epsom?'

'That obvious is it? Nearer Esher, actually.' I smiled. I could so do his accent, if I wanted. I was quite sure he couldn't do mine.

Curry arrived. For both of us.

'Oh - you're having the special as well?'

I had been quite sure that he was just quenching his thirst before showering and taking dinner in the restaurant with his daughter, perhaps keeping out of the way whilst his wife monopolised the bedroom preparing to glitter before the other guests. She would be an older, self-assured and more ravishing version of her daughter. I started thinking about leather and whips again.

'Yes. Emily's gone back to town with her friends and there seemed no point in getting changed just to eat before getting changed again. For bed.' He finished lamely, his turn to look uncomfortable.

Why? Was he going to spend the whole evening in tennis gear, a little bit sweaty? Maybe the ravishing wife was getting prepared for something else, perhaps involving whips...

'Emily?'

'My daughter. She's at college there'

Of course. College, not uni. We were about ten miles from Oxford. I started to feel a little envious of tennis man and his domme wife.

'...I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself and I'm grilling you about your wife and daughter. I'm Steve'

I offered him my hand across the steaming curries and he took it, with that laugh.

'Hallo Stevie, I'm Pete, and I'm not married any more. Sore point, but, life goes on'

I expected to hear 'stiff upper lip and all that', his accent was so amusing, but at the same time I was acutely embarrassed not so much at the fact I'd mentioned the wife that existed only in my wild imagination, but because he'd called me Stevie, which was my private name I so wished everyone could use for me, the name of my alter-ego, the person I planned to be later in the evening. It caught me off-guard. But he couldn't possibly know. It was just his manner, and he was very easy to talk to.

'Are you married, Stevie?'

He was calling me Stevie, and I liked it. The little extra letter is important to me, it is an 'i' and it makes me who I want to be, which isn't a middle-aged man. But there again, I was a little uncomfortable that he was calling Stevie. We were both middle-aged men, we'd met just ten minutes ago, I'd told him my name, 'Steve'. It was just his manner. I couldn't call him Petie. The thought made me almost choke on a piece of chicken.

'Yes - but I'm here alone, on business' I spluttered. 'We've got an office a couple of miles from here and I'm down for a couple of nights each fortnight or so'

'Oh really? I'm here all week on a training course. The rest are having dinner in the posh bit.'

'I escaped this afternoon' he added, conspiratorially.

'In fact, I'm not staying with the rest of them anyway. They're all in the main house, but I've got a room in the motel end with a door straight out to the garden.'

Damn. Exactly where I was. This could get awkward later, I didn't want to have to change my evening plans.

'That way, you see, I can come and go as I please without disturbing those hawk-eyed gossips at reception'

Damn again. Exactly why I was in room 113. A short unobserved walk to my car. I came clean.

'Really? I'm there as well, room 113.'

'What a coincidence - right next door to me!'

Well, at least I knew exactly where he was. Since my room was the end one it could still be OK. I changed the subject.

'So - do you play tennis much?'

'No - not at all, really just when I see my daughter. I ought to play more - I ought to get fit, I seem to be carrying a little extra here and there..'

He didn't look like he was, if anything, he seemed to have well-developed pecs.

'.. how about you - you look like you work out Stevie?'

It wasn't so much the corny line, more the appraising look he gave me, I suddenly thought 'he's hitting on me!'. I felt flattered and uncomfortable at the same time.

'Not really, no, I don't. I maybe watch my diet a bit nowadays' I mumbled. As if on cue the waiter appeared with sticky toffee pudding. Pete watched me as I finished my beer. It really didn't go with sweet stuff. I stopped the waiter just before he left.

'Could I have a coffee with this please? No milk.'

'Make that two - both black - and strong' He looked at the waiter, who was particularly well-built, meaningfully.

'Yes sir, of course' He was completely unruffled. Pete watched him leave. I waited until he was out of earshot.

'You go for black men, then?' I said, drily, hoping Pete hadn't noticed me watch the waiter leave as well.

'For men?' he laughed and left the question hanging. I didn't respond and we managed to talk about other things after that. He'd been divorced for four years, he didn't really say why, just that it was a loss and great disappointment for him. Emily was their only child, and he said he was very close to her. He said don't you think she is lovely? I had to agree, wholeheartedly.

Sticky toffee finished and coffee cup dry, I picked up my unread book.

'Well, I'm off back to my room now'

'Stuff to do?' he said almost knowingly

'Yes - stuff to do.' I replied non-committally

'I've got stuff to do, as well, I'll walk back with you'

Pete stood up. He was about my height, that is 6' (183cm), and was not as muscular as I'd first thought. Perhaps he was a little podgy around the thighs and bum, I still couldn't believe he was as old as me, his skin seemed too young and soft. I supposed because he was fair haired.

We walked back along the verandah - although it was still very early evening, it was getting dark now, I noted with satisfaction. We chatted easily about nothing really. He stopped at the door before mine.

'Well, this is me. Look, I've really enjoyed meeting you Stevie. Do you fancy a nightcap later? I have some good whisky. Just knock - you won't be disturbing anything.'

'Thanks, but I'll give it a miss tonight if you don't mind'

'Stuff to do, eh? No problem. I'll probably see you at breakfast. You're here tomorrow night as well?'

'Yes. Just the two nights'

'See you later, Stevie'

'See you later, Pete.'

----

2. Stevie

I suppose I must tell you about my evening pursuits. When I had arrived at the hotel, I parked up in the car park between the tennis courts and the verandah where I'd asked for a room, and set about unpacking my car. For a stay of two nights, that, you might think, would be a case of lifting a small bag out. But I had some things hidden in my car. Hidden very well. So well in fact that I needed to remove two screws and lift out the floor of the boot. I was quick, but I was fumbling about at the back of the car for a while. When I'd removed everything from hiding I put it in my over-large overnight bag and I dropped something. I bent down to pick it up and as I did so noticed that red-head again on the tennis courts, watching me. Her opponent had gone to fetch a stray ball he'd obviously missed. She was gorgeous. I suppose that's when I saw her eyes. Did she see what I'd picked up? I didn't really care. So I took my bag, checked-in and dumped the bag in my room before getting an early meal. This was my routine on these trips, and now Pete was back in his room, I was back on schedule.

I unpacked my bag. Toiletries etc. arranged in my bathroom. Clothes hung up, and those I was wearing that evening laid out. I must tell you, perhaps you've already guessed.

I'm a cross-dresser.

I shave my face with my electric razor as close as I can, then take a shower. Then it's time for shaving oil and a disposable blade to get as smooth as I can. I wish, I wish I could shave everywhere, but I'm a married man who wants to stay that way. I hate my hairy legs, arms, armpits and belly. It could be worse, I don't have a single hair on my back and hardly any on my chest. I splash on the cold water. While my face is recovering it's time for nails - a real faff but worth it. It's even more faff getting the stuff off later, especially since every last trace has to disappear. I've tried false nails but can't get any wide enough, another curse of my genes. But this is too much detail.

What I liked to do is get dressed and made up as a woman, or as much as a woman I could, and at that time I'd taken to going out for a stroll. I'd drive to the nearest town in the evening, park up and just wander around the streets, using darkness for comfort and daring myself to walk in the lighter and busier places. I call it 'strutting'. Always very conscious of my male build, however well I disguised my face, I started to not worry about hairs showing through my stockings, thinking perhaps it was as much fun being seen around as a transvestite as being seen as a woman. Just so long as no-one could actually recognise Stevie as Steve. The mind is a weird and complex thing. I was just happy walking around in those clothes. There was a buzz from the daring, but also just a calm happiness and contentment. Sometimes people look at you and you know they've seen a tranny. Sometimes you know they don't know. Sometimes you don't know. I've had wolf-whistles before now. I love it, I don't care if they think I'm male or female. The one time I once did shave my legs (did not go down at all well at home) I wore really nice 10 denier hold ups and felt a lot more convincing. As I got back into my car in the middle of a well-lit street there were two guys in a van parked opposite and I treated them to a little show. I walked around the car and made sure they were looking before getting in, woman-style (you sit down sideways before swivelling your legs in), and smoothing both my stockings from the ankle to the thigh, slowly, in their full view. It's fun. I just like to please.

Anyway, back to that night. I was doing my nails. I could hear Pete in the next room having a shower - the rooms weren't that well insulated for sound. There is absolutely nothing you can do when you have wet nail varnish on all your fingernails and toenails. Absolutely nothing. You just have to wait, and wish you'd put the telly on beforehand. Working the remote carefully I put it on without damaging the finish on my nails. It was a distraction for a while. Then I turned it off and I just waited and listened to Pete showering. I started wondering what he looked like naked and bizarrely started getting aroused. That was a new one for me. Yes, when dressed up as Stevie I would fantasise about being penetrated, or sucking cock, or specifically being made to suck cock, but it was always about me being a sex object, being used, not about me actually being attracted to men. I had always had the mind set 'I like women so much I want to be a lesbian, but I'll also be such a slut anyone can use me'.

I heard Pete finish his shower, go to the loo and turn his telly on.

My nails were dry, next was my bra. Just a padded bra, nothing to put in it. Oh to have breasts! I would love to have breasts. Not too large - C cup would be ample. I'd settle for B, and I could probably hide that when I was being a man, except of course, at home. Actually I'd settle for A, no bigger than I could easily get in a couple of months with some weights, but breast tissue, not muscle, a different shape. And bigger nipples.

I chose a thong and hold-ups. Sometimes I have everything tucked back out of the way, you can't do that so well in a thong. That night it was at the front, my dress was fairly full so unless I got a raging hard-on there was nothing to see. Hold-ups were a risk. They don't stick so well on hairy legs - wonderful if you shave, not so if you don't. But I had some new ones, and I liked them. Slightly shiny and thick enough to hide my hairs, and at the top of my legs I wasn't so hairy anyway. I knew I'd like the feel of the cool air around my naked buttocks when I was walking around later. I must get a suspender belt and stockings, I thought. Better still, perhaps a corset?

So there I was in my underwear. Black bra, black hold-ups, pale pink thong with bows and lace at the front. Not matching. But I didn't have many clothes, and although I'd brought some black silky panties I liked that thong. It was only for me, and I was happy with it. I put on my ankle boots - black suede with a modest heel, and felt good. It was one of those boots I'd dropped in the car park earlier, and I brushed the dust off the upper. They fitted well, I'd managed to get the right size - it was a little revelation to me that I needed one size smaller in women's shoes, because of course I never wear them with socks! These were an English size 9 (a 43) and the largest stocked in the shop. I looked at myself in the mirror, avoiding the face, and trying to ignore the hairs on my tummy. Not so bad. I liked the look of my penis lying sideways with the pale pink material smooth over it. I liked the feel of it, too. I liked the feel of the thong between my cheeks, pressing against my bum hole. I liked the look and feel of the nylon on my legs, and my smooth butt-cheeks - did I say I'd shaved them? Yes, I get away with shaving my balls and bum - she likes that.

My dress was the only dress I had, size 14 to fit my chest and rather loose on the waist. It had pleats and a lining so made me look a little fuller around the hips, but not really enough. It had no sleeves and because it wasn't the warmest of nights and also because of armpit hair I would be wearing a zip-up fleece over it. I put on my wig-cap.

Make-up, so time-consuming, was next. What to do about my eyebrows? I could pull them up with tape on my forehead or glue them and try to cover them with foundation. Neither method seemed to work well. The tape could unexpectedly come off, and my attempts at covering them I never thought were very successful. That night I just tried tightening the wig-cap around my forehead and it seemed not only to lift my brows a little, but to remove some of my forehead lines. That was actually quite good, and I could adjust that easily later if something slipped. As I said, make-up took a very long time, I was clumsy at it and the hotel room was badly lit. Lipstick was last and as I did that I heard Pete leave his room next door, now clearly changed out of tennis shoes. Good, I thought. One less thing to worry about when I leave. I prepared my emergency bag - make-up remover, trousers, shoes, jumper - that I always put in the car, just in case. Not so much in case I bottle out and can't return to the hotel en femme, I'd already got over that one, but more in case of a puncture. I didn't want to be changing a wheel dressed up, or even worse have someone offer to help me. Maybe sometime I'll get over that one and even stage a puncture!