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The Omani - The Complete Edition

The Omani - The Complete Edition

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The Omani - The Complete Edition

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Jan 14, 2020


Clare Penne brings us the complete edition of yet another adventure into the erotic, perverse, and life-changing with this tale of a most unusual – and irrevocable – relationship.

After meeting two fascinating women in a high-end bar, one man's life will be changed irreversibly.

And he will not live it as a man!

Female-led and LGBT fiction for the devotee of dominant and controlling women.

Transgendered or otherwise.
Jan 14, 2020

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The Omani - The Complete Edition - Clare Penne

The Omani - The Complete Edition

The Omani

(The Complete Edition)

A Work of Female-Led LGBT fiction


Clare Penne

Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved

This adaptation may not be reproduced without prior written permission from the publisher.

All rights reserved

© 2020

The right of Clare Penne to be identified as author and adapter of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the copyright, designs and patents act 1988. This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The Omani

(The Duchess and Her Girls)


Clare Penne

Chapter 1

The Coburg Bar ‘Pick-Up’

A quiet October Friday evening, the business guests having departed for their weekends, the Coburg Bar in the Connaught only half full in comparison to their normal customer numbers, a quiet murmuring of discreet conversation filling the room.

The Coburg Bar, synonymous with luxury, the wealthy, lifestyles that can only be imagined by the population at large, the guests tonight more casual than a full weekday, couples there for the weekend, the occasional businessman or woman staying over as part of a long international trip, folk enjoying a cocktail before dining at Hélène Darroze’s two Michelin star restaurant in the hotel or heading off to enjoy other worthy dining establishments in the Mayfair area and beyond.

The head barman, Mark Jenner, a Connaught’s long-timer was on duty, quietly and efficiently handling orders for regular drinks, the slick handling of his cocktail mixer for the numerous cocktails on the menu or even bespoke ones such as his prize winning ‘Ramos Gin Fizz,’ ‘Rum Flip’ or a favourite of his, the ‘Sazerac,’ a Cognac and Bourbon mix.

The room was set for the evening, the subtle lighting reflected in the mirror over the fireplace, the down-lighting in the actual bar adding drama, the countless bottles lining the four shelves, the candles on the tables giving personality to the room and an intimate atmosphere, the up-lighting into the ornately decorated white and beamed ceiling dimmed down, as were two small chandeliers, the room exuding opulence.

The bar was looking resplendent in its rich and dark olive-green painted paneling, the lightly patterned carpet, the round highly polished tables with their metal bands, each table accompanied by the comfortable winged-armchairs and then a fire burning away inside the impressive black mantelpiece and place, the mantelpiece bearing this most unusual mirror set in what looked like an Art Deco frame, a three dimensional effect to it.

In front of the bar, there were six barstools, dark brown leather padded tops to them, so comfortable to sit on and enjoy a drink if by oneself or to share with a friend, Mark and his staff there to engage one in idle and discreet conversation.

Three couples were sitting in the room, one pair probably in their late thirties, another an older twosome, probably there for a nightcap having had an earlier dinner, the final couple businessmen finishing off their long week with relaxing scotches in hand, one of their Glenfarclas Family Cask whiskies or a vintage Lagavulin drawn from a sherry cask.

The atmosphere, serene and calm, relaxing, that wind-down feeling that the week was over permeating the room, the chatter from the guests quiet and discreet, no place for boorish behaviour here.

For a louder, more raucous ambiance, head over to the Connaught Bar and enjoy a gin and tonic or a long beer or vodka cocktail over there, more the partying sort of place with its Ultra-stylish décor and mouth-watering cocktails that puts the Connaught Bar in Mayfair into a league of its own, the appeal of its inspired English Cubist and Irish 1920s art, with textured walls shimmering in platinum silver leaf overlaid with dusty pink, pistachio and lilac, a gem of a London bar.

Two women strolled in.

Not that the bar was loud but their very presence was enough to quieten the conversation, the businessmen and both male partners of their wives or girlfriends turning to see these two beautifully presented arrivals and, it must be said, gorgeous looking females.

Perhaps even the women themselves broke their thought processes to look at these two, an appreciative criticism of the way in which they were turned out, their looks, their mannerisms, so elegant and smooth, both newcomers of model quality.

The woman leading the second one came up to the bar to lean against the stool, her long legs in quality carbon-black hose, her feet sporting a pair of Laboutin platform heels, the shoes with a little elevation to the sole in front and five inch stilettos, a soft and pale blue colour with a hint of light grey to them, the tone what some would call ‘Dix Blue’ if painting a room with a Farrow & Ball colour.

Was she wearing stockings? The tautness of the nylon suggested so.

To the casual observer, this was hard to determine, her legs long, the skirt part of her pale pink silk outfit just long enough to conceal her stocking tops if she was wearing them. However, they were short enough to entice any red-blooded alpha man or woman to look up her front and see what lingerie she was sporting.

Her outfit oozed class, as did her make-up and hair, her posture and demureness pouring off her, a woman of substance and obviously very skilled at her profession, a woman that had probably been privately educated and well used to venturing into bars and restaurants like the Connaught offered.

The men’s eyes, those of any female critic too, would have noted that the short skirt rose up into a matching pink tunic style jacket, large pink buttons to it along with a soft floppy collar and lapels, her arms also covered in the fabric and underneath the hint of a matching top.

This was pure haute couture.

Her hair was full and thick, a brown mousy colour but beautifully cut shaped and a fabulous sheen to it, so deeply conditioned, perhaps the personal mark of Nicky Clarke who operated from his premises right across the road from the Coburg.

She had a long tail down over her left shoulder, her hair sweeping back over her right eye from a diffused parting that ran obliquely from her crown to the left, a pair of diamond studs in her ear lobes, each one over one and a half carats.

Her make-up looked like it had been professionally applied, very subtle, the emphasis on her eyes, a smoky finish using browns and greys, and then her cheekbones set high on her face, her lips quite small and adorned in a Chanel Coco ‘Rouge Shine,’ a discreet pink colour softening her face.

Her fingers were long, as were her nails and those were varnished in the same pink colour as her lips, her wedding finger suggesting that she was engaged or married, a band of emerald cut diamonds on the inside, a four to five carat square cut diamond on the front of it that spoke of her wealth, its colour and clarity suggesting a D or E, Flawless or WS1 stone of some considerable note.

What was her profession?

An escort perhaps, her friend also in the trade or her companion for safety’s sake, her pimp?

No, she was too well presented and manicured for this, a degree of refinement to her that suggested that she should be taken seriously, very seriously. If she were ‘of the trade,’ her rate would be several thousands of pounds a night.

However, that would be too demeaning and a potential libel; it did appear that Mark Jenner knew her, a little conversation to welcome her back to the Coburg.

If she was professional then she had a heavyweight job, a leading advertising professional perhaps, a lawyer, a magazine editor, it was difficult to say.

Her friend was not quite as glamorous but very pretty, more feminine perhaps in the way she was clothed, her dress a little black Chanel number but beautifully stylish on her, black hose on with black pumps, a wide silver bangle on her right wrist, matching up with what seemed to be a similar necklace, diamond earrings similar to her friends and also a very similar wedding band, a beautiful engagement ring behind it, all of three carats in an emerald-cut diamond, set into a pavé mount on top of a split-shank band, that covered in small diamonds to add to a spectacular piece, one that could have come from Garrard’s or Mappin & Webb.

There was serious wealth being expressed here, not in a showy manner, but stunningly presented for the attentive observer, quality the name of the game, definitely not bling.

Around her right pinkie, she had a very unusual and striking ring, an iron band with a large sapphire cabochon hanging off it; that was mounted in a plain platinum bezel, the chain also in platinum.  Her right wrist bore what looked like a Hermès watch, the familiar ‘H’ clearly showing, the strap black crocodile or alligator.

A string of pearls adorned her neck, a second string of deep red garnets beneath that adding depth to the pearls, the redness playing off her nails and lipstick.

Her hair was equally as well coiffured, redder in colour and even thicker than her friend at the bar, the woman having chosen to sit down at one of the spare tables, a little way from the bar and nearer the fireplace. It wasn’t as long, coming down to her shoulders, turned in underneath and showing a highly professional cut and finish. Perhaps they had both been to the salon across the road.

Her make-up was just as well presented as that of her colleague a lighter finish that showed some cute freckles on her cheeks, those replicated on her arms, her lipstick and fingernails a slightly darker red in colour, the cosmetics Chanel as well, the nails so beautifully manicured and painted up.

Her clutch bag was on the bar table and she sat there waiting for her friend to come across to her, intently watching the other guests in the bar, taking everything in as if making mental notes.

What was the relationship between them?

That was hard to ascertain, friends, relatives, perhaps business partners or associates, definitely not a customer-driven meeting, their eyes meeting, smiles and sign language between them.

The girl at the bar seemed to be a little on edge, glances towards her friend and then down to her watch, the impulsive flick of her fingers through her hair, all those wiles that women can use, leaning rather than sitting on the stool.

I’ll have one of your ‘Dark and Stormys,’ Mark, please and also a Hemingway Daiquiri for Maddy over there, please.

Yes, Ma’am, coming up. Constantino Ribalaigua of the Floridita Bar in Havana created this and it’s liquid heaven. Hemingway wrote, ‘My mojito in La Bodeguita, my daiquiri in El Floridita,’ you know.

A sweet smile at Mark, perhaps to offset her impulsiveness, I know. You have told me before, Mark that the Stormy originated in Bermuda to become their island drink.

Mark expertly poured and mixed the dark run, fresh lime and ginger beer of the ‘Stormy’ and then the white rum, maraschino liqueur, fresh lime, pink grapefruit juice and sugar for the Daiquiri, his hands moving so quickly, everything at his immediate fingertips, his measures from the bottle so precise that he didn’t have to use those silver cups that many barmen do.

Once poured, Mark served the girl, who continued to sit at the bar, and then went over to the girl by the fireplace, an appreciative thank-you from her, her voice quite trill but very refined, plummy one might say, the sign perhaps that she was from a good family or well educated.

They ‘chin-chinned’ each other from the distance between them and respectively took sips of their chosen nectar.

The girl at the bar was definitely a little impatient, yet another glance at the watch on her wrist, a pearl-banded Chanel one and then a quick natter with Mark, something on the lines of "Have you been to Bermuda then, Mark, a conversation that couldn’t be really heard as she spoke quite sotto voce, her voice soft and a margin lower in tone to her companion.

The fact that they continued to sit apart was most odd, the occasional look and smile at each other, the girl at the bar, her glances being that more furtive as if she was covering something up.

The answer was provided fifteen minutes later, when a distinguished man walked in, a dead ringer for Omar Sharif when he was a young man, this gentleman in his forties, his hair black but showing signs of changing to being what they term as ‘salt and pepper.’

His eyes were dark, his face chiseled, a man of about six foot one, fit, broad shouldered, large hands, and beautifully attired.

He was wearing a blue blazer, possibly of Gieves and Hawkes origin, a pale blue twill shirt, darker blue tie from Ferragamo, black laced shoes that looked like they were from Duckers in Oxford, tailored grey slacks, a Breitling watch on his right wrist, no ring on his wedding finger.

He could have been of Arabic origin, though he wasn’t that dark in skin colour, his eyes and hair colour suggesting that. If he was an Arab, he was out of his normal wear; no thawb or keffiyeh was on show here.

He stood at the entrance of the bar, looked around, a glance at the young woman sitting by the fireplace and then at the girl still leaning against the bar stool, she having turned her head to see who had come in.

‘Omar’ approached her. He held out his hand in greeting.

Kirstie, isn’t it? Rahim.

Yes, good to meet you, at last.

Want another drink? What are you on?

One of Mark’s Dark and Stormys please, they are delicious.

I know he’s one of the best in London.

He turned to Mark, My usual Blackwood and Tonic, Mark, another Dark and Stormy for the young lady here.

His English was good, suggesting that he had been public school educated, however there was a light lilt to it, suggesting that his origin was overseas, again the Middle East coming to mind, the son of some one very wealthy, perhaps with connections to one of the royal families from any country out there such as Pietrina, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia through to the Emirates.

Was this business or pleasure, the opening gambit overheard in the quietness of the room suggesting that they had never met before?

Was a date from an internet site being witnessed?

Or was it an arranged blind date by a mutual friend?

Or perhaps everyone was witnessing high-end prostitution, the pick-up under way, drinks then fucking for a lot of money, thousands to be spent by him if she was going to stay the night with him?

Only the woman, this Maddy, sitting by the fireplace knew; however Mark appeared to be comfortable with them both, obviously knowing both of them, even if it was a first time recontrement.

‘Kirstie’ positioned herself more onto the stool now, rapt on what ‘Rahim’ had to say, their conversation muted and very much between them, Mark the only person who possibly could overhear what they were saying.

The woman by the fire resigned to a long wait, her eyes watching and listening to everything that was going on, not only with her friend and new bf, or whoever he was, but the bar at large, soaking up the genial atmosphere that the Coburg offered its guests.

A glance to Mark and he mixed her another of those Hemingway Daiquiris.

Her thoughts – may be to be transported to Cuba and shake the square hand of her literary idol, whom she fashioned her writing after, the embellishment of his story with the power of his observation, the very essence of life around him captured in his carefully crafted words so effortlessly laid down on paper.

That is speculation though.

The tranquil environment now present in the Coburg Bar continued on, one couple getting up to leave, the quiet conversations carrying on, Rahim and Kirstie ignored, except for Maddy who just sat there, as if she was contemplating life at large.

What was her role in all of this? Was she some employee of Kirstie’s, there to witness events or perhaps a deal and produce the paperwork, or was she there to protect her friend if this was indeed a first date?

That really was hard to ascertain.

‘Rahim’ ordered a second gin and tonic, ‘Kirstie’ declining the offer for a third cocktail, a giggle that she needed to keep herself moderately sober, and then their conversation resumed its low-key murmuring.

‘Maddy’ watched on, a slow sip of the remaining liqueur in her glass, no doubt pondering whether she should go to the bar or ask one of the waiters for another glass.

Finally, ‘Rahim’ rose from his stool, ‘Kirstie’ following, the slip on of one of her shoes as she dismounted from her perch, the picking up of her clutch bag from the bar in front of her, ‘Rahim’ signing the bill for Mark.

‘Kirstie’ turned to ‘Maddy,’ a lovely smile on her face and a small wink of acknowledgement that all would be alright, that Maddy wasn’t to fret. This man was what she wanted.

Maddy, I suggest you have dinner and then retire to the room. I’m going to have dinner with Rahim here and will be back at some point. You know what to do, don’t you.

Maddy nodded back to her friend. She was more than aware of what Kirstie wanted her to do and would ask her when she eventually did return to their suite.

With this, they left the bar, Kirstie slightly ahead of Rahim, affording him a view of her delicious rump so nicely presented in that soft, pleated pink skirt of her outfit and how sorely it must have been for him not to feel her bottom.

Her posture, her small strides, her legs so beautifully long and set in their expensive hose. What man couldn’t fall for this woman and what a couple they would make as they made their way out of the hotel, destination unknown but probably some Michelin starred restaurant or exclusive club that Rahim knew of.

She would be safe.

That flirtatious act of touching out to feel her was evidently far too early in the evening and certainly not the action of a gentleman in such a refined environment as the Coburg. Indeed, they weren’t even hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm.

That would likely come later when Kirstie started to give herself to this hunk of an alpha man.

Maddy rose shortly afterwards, settled her bill and also left, her destiny the Espelette Brasserie of the Connaught Hotel, that across the building and facing out towards Mount Street.

Dinner would be alone, a glass of red wine, the Daily Telegraph and comforted by their Scottish Salmon Steak served with a Tarragon beurre blanc accompanied by a green salad, the setting relaxing and casual in this conservatory that wound itself around the building, the mesmerizing new water sculpture, ‘Silence’ designed by Tadao Ando spot-lit and flowing away outside in Carlos Place, a good distraction for her if she so wanted.

It was going to be a long night.

She knew that.

Chapter 2

The Long Night

I sat there in the brasserie thinking about Kirstie, where they would have gone and what they would be eating. Would this Rahim be trying to hold her hand by now, their conversation already engaging, things clicking, the leading in towards returning to his bedroom, the one that we had set up?

This was all part of the play that we had going on between us, Kirstie needing a ‘proper’ man from time to time, even men by the pair, having had two take her simultaneously, that session lasting well into the early hours of the morning. Yes, it was a man that was alpha in personality and very well endowed that got her going, a man with breeding, education, refinement and well presented, a real gentleman as such – and yes money went with it as she was used to being spoilt and demanded the best in life.

Hence the Connaught Hotel being used as our base when we were in London, the hotel reflecting that level of luxury, discretion and refinement.

Race didn’t matter, just the above also in terms of discretion. Gentlemen very much her preference, hunks of alpha men but they had to be interesting, engaging and mannered.

She had been with Brits and European men, as well as black men, mainly American, appreciating any man who then offered her a long girth with amazing girth, the sort of penis that could really push her cunt open and fuck her all the way up to the cervix or feel good in her anus or down the back of her throat.

However, he did have to know how to use it; after all, sex is all in the brain and therefore the whole package of how he presented himself and then teed her up, his touch and oral skills were important to her, a man that was successful in the sack as he was in life at large.

There’s not many of them around.

I couldn’t do that when it came to the cock size. It was that simple and from when we first knew each other sexually, she had wanted more. This was our solution, a long one in getting to the point of me sitting in the Connaught brasserie waiting for her to return.

It wasn’t by any means the first time that we had done this, anything but.

It was, I think, number twelve for Rahim as a candidate for Kirstie, not even counting the two men dumped before they had left the meeting place, not suitable for what she was looking for.

After all, the internet, the telephone, or the dating club have their limitations and it is only when one meets the prospective beau that true assessment can be made; the trigger of that personal chemistry, the body language, the meeting of the minds, the flow of those sexual pheromones beginning, the subconscious mingling of magnetic attraction taking the man and woman towards the eventual bed.

This was as important for Kirstie as the feeling of that hard penis entering her, rubbing up against her ‘G-spot,’ widening her vaginal walls, creating more pre-cum in her love area and setting her nerves on end, slowly building her mind to that splitting orgasm that she so enjoyed – and then to be kept up there by him.

Not that it was always a man. Kirstie had been out with a few women, mainly submissives but she had got a big thrill when the tables had been turned and she ended up as the submissive to an experienced and well versed domme – not one’s average mental map of what a domme is but rather on the end of a dildo and all the rest by one female banking Chief Executive and also that of a Duchess, again reflecting her high standards, this one with whom a special relationship had started to develop.

It was with the women that I now felt it most, the emotional turmoil that she was making or being made love by another woman and that it wasn’t me who was there to offer my service to her.

The men I had become accustomed to, even though the feeling was strange, just as it was now and would be later when I lay in bed and let my mind wander, as well as my left hand, thoughts of her and her beau becoming strong images in my mind, the vision of her face and chest becoming red, her eyes closed, the purring and all the rest as she approached her orgasm.

The first level was always her safety and that, to me, to us, was paramount, not that we had had any incident to be concerned about. It was all about who they were and the meticulous checking out of their ‘credentials,’ the references, the medical reports, the feelers put out to see if we could identify who their friends were, the press searches and all that.

To some extent, their position in society did help to give us a security blanket – after all what CEO, Duke or Duchess was going to risk trouble if it was going to end up in some Sunday rag, gossip magazine or the Sun or Daily ‘Wail.’

Rahim was no exception to this.

As I sat there, the salmon absolutely on the money to what I wanted, not to heavy as a food as my mind wasn’t all there but a delicious flavour, a glass of their Pommard Les Perrières to hand, I thought about the wooing that would go on, Kirstie so beautiful and such a natural and talented flirt when she wanted to be, that coy half turn of the head and fingers through the hair, or the lifting of the head backwards, very much her signature traits.

Everyone in our families and circle of friends as well as our work colleagues knew about us. It wasn’t a surprise when Kirstie had received a call from a close friend, Janine, that she had met this hunk of a man, so delightful and meeting all the requirements that had been set for this latest encounter, a rendezvous that would see the continuance of an enormous step change in our lives and relationships.

Janine worked in one of London’s private schools teaching French, Economics, History and Philosophy, not that she needed to financially. Her ex had been from a well-known Scottish family with close ties to Clarence House with both incumbents and it had been somewhat of a surprise when she had been ‘dumped’ in favour of an Indian girl, albeit a wealthy one and rather stunning. She herself came from a well-connected family, her father well known in shooting circles and counting many of the House of Lords as his friends and gun partners.

Janine, now a bit of a cougar and always on the prowl it seemed for the younger, more supple and submissive man, was an ideal companion and source of ‘Mr Alpha-Man’ information.

Rahim had, apparently, been looking for a school for one of his daughters and she had been the designated guide around the school, even having lunch with him afterwards in a Chelsea restaurant.

She had volunteered to make the hook-up and that is what had happened.

As always, and as part of my overall submission, Kirstie had charged me to run the security checks whilst she started an on-line conversation with him, then phone calls and extracting things like his medical records.

Honestly, we should have been working for the intelligence services with what we could find out on a candidate, even down to their sexual activities and peccadilloes, all of course incredibly useful information ahead of the first meeting.

We had our contacts high up in the police and across the River Thames and they provided a lot of the information but with our wide network and the nature of our business, we could usually get pretty close to the intended man, or woman, as to gaining more intimate insights to their character and sexuality.

Our business - well, I could guess one could say that it was related in being in the actuary science field, the assessment of risk for insurance and pensions, the management of financial systems, particularly where complexity was involved.

We had founded the business post University and it had grown to having offices in London, Geneva, Chicago and DC, affiliates in Hong Kong and Singapore, as well as our base operations in Ludlow and Oxford.

Kirstie was President and CEO and me, well I had been CFO and now was her secretary but that is a story that I shall return to. One of our distinctive business marks for which we were rather famous, or infamous, was that we were all female – one of the main reasons that we had stayed out of the Middle East.

So, the ability to unravel people’s background wasn’t that much of a challenge when we set about it.

So Kirstie went about her e-mail tease and then onto the phone to find out more about this alpha man and I went to work on his background.

Rahim Al-Lawatia اللواتية الرحيم،, age 43, from Muttrah, the family really a tribe of some eighty thousand members living in the Oman. The Al-Lawatia have been known as prominent merchants on the Omani coasts around Muscat.

Their businesses were largely based around incense (بخور), jewellery and clothes as well as in general trade, Rahim though running quite an empire of jewellery, art galleries, luxury brand retail and real estate investments not only in the Oman but out into the Emirates and even as far as London, Amsterdam and Paris now, those largely in commercial property. 

He was also an adviser inside the royal palace to Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said’s family, a man of some distinction and prominence therefore, ideal for ‘protecting’ Kirstie’s reputation therefore.

The Al-Lawatia community occupied a gated quarter of Muttrah known as Sur al-Lawatia, that area boasting attractive houses with a unique Islamic architectural view and a large mosque known as the Al-Rasul Al-Aadam or The Greatest Prophet’s Mosque.

Rahim still lived in the family area, a very substantial Omani house, one could say a small palace, built within the tight and narrow streets of the tribal quarter.

This comprised of a main house and four quarters for the women, two given over to his wives, Arifa and Maysa and his young daughters, the eldest, Asima, being aged fourteen and the candidate for Janine’s school, Rahim believing that his children, even if they were girls should be internationally educated and savvy.

The two other quarters were linked together and were used by the family for a small harem of girls, mainly attendants to Arifa and Maysa but also the girls were available for Rahim’s pleasure, his sexual appetite quite voracious.

Living as an elder of such a well-known tribe meant that it wasn’t exactly hard to unearth his background and details of interest to Kirstie and myself.

He was educated in England at a decent public school, moving onto Oxford, before Kirstie was there I hasten to add. He had returned to the Oman and into the family business and took over his father’s enterprises when the old man passed away, rapidly transforming the business and growing it into what it was today, one of the most prominent and forward thinking businesses in the Gulf, one that also advocated equality of women in business, an appealing factor for Kirstie.

He was well read with an avid interest in the arts, a major connoisseur of Omani artefacts and art, and seen in Sotheby’s, Christies, and Phillips as well as the auction houses of Cairo and Amman, again an appealing side to Kirstie.

He was well mannered and, apparently, respected women, also very generous to his close friends.

He was a hunk though and it didn’t take me long to find that he had a voracious appetite for sex, both female and male, elements of BDSM to it, something that Kirstie was okay with and if they were to have sex, he would like to have her lightly restrained the first time, maybe some light spanking and teasing before taking her, an aficionado of anal sex too, something that was permissible in her book too, as I well knew.

He had a massive penis with an equally impressive pair of testicles, a cut foreskin as most of the Middle East are, and a preference for his women to be depilated – that wasn’t an issue. His reputation was that he was an extremely talented lover.

As one can imagine, this made him an attractive candidate to be a bull to Kirstie and the date was duly set up as we were now experiencing, Kirstie off for a romantic dinner with him, me left by myself to contemplate life at large and imagine what was going on at any given minute.

I finished my main course, poured another glass of the excellent wine and asking the waiter to save the bottle under our room number for the next day. I opted for a ‘Temptation glacée,’ the Connaught’s enticing mix of chocolate and praline, an indulgence to sweeten my cum if Kirstie wanted to take me later, a coffee to follow as a wrap up.

Should I make a fuss of myself in having a pousse-café? Why not? A little Domaine de Coquillon duly tempting me.

The bill signed off, I returned to the room but not before thinking about how far along Kirstie would be, probably on their main course wherever they were, sharing information and chat about their respective backgrounds, perhaps some early sword play to the inevitable sex ahead, an exploration of their minds as to the sort of things that they liked - with BDSM themes and scenarios at the fore, perhaps a short briefing to Rahim about her partner and how we had got into this scene.

I lingered over the dessert, then the coffee and Armagnac.

How far we had come with this, our preparations for Kirstie’s dates now so well-established and, I would say, polished, in the way that we could get her ready for her partner, a thorough programme for her welfare, dressing and, above all, the preparation of her mind to what lay ahead, be it as a submissive to her male partner or as a domme or submissive to a girlfriend.

However, one thing hadn’t changed and that was the mental anguish that I was put through, such an expression of her domination over me.

She was the lead queen in our relationship and always had been since we were dating, never mind married, the one who had to be worshipped and pampered, praised and obeyed, the one that led me, made our big decisions and when sex was to be, a firm but fair domme to me, her submissive, her partner and now her wife.

We had practiced a well-trodden routine, the trip into London, the Connaught our usual base, the morning of the ‘date’ involving early sex first thing, the worshipping of her cunt, toilet usage, and then, once breakfasted, some shopping for lingerie or an outfit if needed, massage from the hotel’s team for both of us and then an appointment with Nicky Clarke for our hair to be done.

Part of my job and my involvement in all of this started with having to make all the bookings, a reminder on each one that I was giving my Kirstie up to a well-endowed, alpha man, something that I wasn’t or never could be.

His penis would be sliding in and out of her orifices and there was nothing I could do but imagine her being taken, she enjoying the delights of being in the arms of a proper man, the huge thighs and bubble butt controlling his substantial member.

She had transformed me into her gurl and successfully so to the point that the man or woman in the street could not tell that I was a male.

To the outside world, I was an attractive woman through and through. For example, here I was, sitting by myself in a luxury café, beautifully dressed myself, made up and able to move and handle myself like any woman - and speak like one too.

Kirstie had taken me on a long journey, sometimes a painful one I hasten to add, to get to this level of transformation.

Before our massage and then hair and make-up sessions, we had shopped for both of us, Kirstie making me pay for her items, even though it was really her money when it came to control, this adding to my knowledge of what shortly would be commencing, the imagery of what he would be seeing in terms of her lingerie when her outfit was lifted off her.

This always ‘got’ me mentally.

I had ended up buying a Wacoal lingerie set for myself in Selfridges, their ‘Seduction’ set in black, a lovely deep suspender belt from my tummy button to my mons, a beautifully placed inset which exposed the nape of my bottom valley behind, a rich lace effect to it and four gorgeously long suspender straps to hold my Wolford stockings, a matching bra with its lightweight cups that held my C-cup breasts, those being real now, my full breasts that Kirstie adored on me, my nipples pert and large, a pale brown in colour.

The bra was adorned with a similar finish to the suspender belt, then taken through the bikini panties, those sitting so comfortably on me.

This was what I was wearing now beneath my Chanel little black number.

We had then visited the I.D.Sarrieri boutique in-store to buy Kirstie one of their Innamorata bustiers, with its full moulded fitting to her B-cups and in a praline-fumée colour, the silky finish and fine sheer tulle with Chantilly lace appliqué and satin, the bustier then traditionally boned, making it closer to a corset.

With the soft, dusty pink outfit that we had chosen at home to besot Rahim, its silky top, short skirt and dramatic top coat, this bustier would be a beautiful revelation underneath, the ultra-long suspenders to hold up Falke carbon-black stockings with a discreet lace top, the hose a dark grey rather than black and a good contrast to the chosen Laboutin shoes.

Underneath she was now wearing a matching V-string, the actual string in the pale off-cream colour of the bustier straps and appliqué finishing, the ‘V’ just the tulle leading down into a cotton gusset and that would show the top of her waiting wet vaginal area around her pert clitoris and her completely shaven mons to Rahim.

I had paid for this outfit with my ‘Black American Express’ card, my brain starting to turn over at the very thought of seeing her dressed in this.

From Selfridges, we had returned to the hotel for a deep massage and then, after a light salad lunch and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, stepped over the road into the hallowed sanctuary of Clarke’s, his team going to work on our hair.

Three hours later we had come back to the hotel spa in the depths of the Connaught for our manicures and then our nails to be varnished, Kirstie choosing a soft pink to match her outfit and lipstick.

This was all rather frenetic and some would say over the top, but this was a special date and so every detail had to be measured and tackled. Perfection was the name of the game.

Back upstairs in our suite, things became more serious; the final run-in for the evening ahead, the preparation of Kirstie’s body for Rahim, the same for any of her men or women that she had dated outside our marriage and with my full knowledge.

To say that I gave my consent was probably a bit rich; this was her choice, her want and I could only cede to a proper man, a man with a decent penis rather than my five or so inches which had now shrunk considerably as a result of the transition hormone diet that she had me on, everything duly monitored by my sex-change doctors.

It was rather a case of my tacit approval, the fact that she told me all about it and involved me as far as possible up to the bedroom door, her taking a matter between her and her boyfriend.

What she actually wanted was a regular man with which to develop a relationship and somehow involve me in it. That we hadn’t found yet. The longest dating over three months and involving four meets. As to women, she had had the Duchess and her banker CEO girlfriends and, with these women, she had regular dates and, as we shall see, the Duchess in particular.

The thought of Kirstie as their submissive was intriguing and somewhat beguiling.

Our first act back in the suite some could see as a submissive one for Kirstie. Maybe it was, but it was really targeted at me.

I would lay out the towels on the bed, along with a hot damp towel, cut-throat razor, shaving cream and moisturising oil while Kirstie undressed, this time saving her day panties, grey and white striped bikini panties, and placing them in a ziplock for my later enjoyment, a reminder of her when I inhaled her love juices and natural stains from their gusset.

She had been depilated, it was true but this process was designed to catch any little hair that may have sprung up before she had her next treatment as well as ‘torturing’ me. She well knew that this was a commensurate act of subjugation on my part and this was one way to show that she was in charge and she was going to get fucked this evening, and royally so too.

She had laid back on the towels, a pillow placed under her bottom to elevate her pussy towards me and I had the task of carefully shaving her so that she was totally depilated in any stray hairs being captured and executed, the process beginning with the hotel towel to open her follicles up, then the cream brushed in, followed by the razor and finally a wash-down with the towel and moisturiser, the smell of her wet cunt getting to me, my final act of the process to kiss her vaginal area lightly but not to bring either of us off.

How delicate and sensitive my hand had to be, the blade of the razor doing its work, the shaving cream lifted off along with any remnants of her pubic hair was there, leaving her completely naked as if she was a pre-pubescent girl, her mons a little higher than most girls and adding to her sexual attraction, almost as if she had Oriental blood in her, their pussies so much more raised than their Caucasian counterparts.

It was also tricky working around her labia and clitoris too, those having been pierced, three little studs in each lip, a clitoral ring and then one down on her frenulum, not forgetting her nipple rings.

This was always such a mental tease for me and indicative that her man’s penis was now only four to six hours away from entering her.

Our next step was to bathe but, with the water drawing, my next task was to lay out Kirstie’s lingerie and outfit, ready to help her into it after I had dried her and the cosmetics girl from the Annan Spa downstairs had visited us to make us up with the proverbial war paint.

A good soak and careful wash followed, that focusing on her breasts and nipples, my fingers trailing around her pink love points.

And I couldn’t forget her armpits, anus and now-naked pussy area, everywhere, Kirstie also having taken an enema, something that I was more used to doing.

This was always powerful stuff, my cuckolding in effect, the confirmation that I have lost control of her, not that I ever had it, even from the day that we had met. She was her own independent spirit and expected her ‘man’ to comply and obey, what the porn-writers term as the ‘female-led marriage.’

The drying and make-up session over, it came to the dressing, Kirstie going first being the lead in our relationship and I also suspect to allow me more time to think about her as I put my lingerie and clothes on.

There on the bed was the new bustier and I lifted it off to wrap it around her body, Kirstie slipping her arms through the straps and with me doing up the hooks at the back, top down. An adjustment of her shoulder traps and a check that it was fitting comfortably, I moved on to the stockings.

I had already removed these from their pack. I rolled them up and slid them over her foot, up her shins and onto the thighs, Kirstie sitting on the bed, her naked pussy displayed before me, her love altar and that was shortly to be worshipped.

Routine had it that I was not to touch her, even if I was tempted and that was hard, especially when she was oozing her sex smell, as she was this evening, building the anticipation and her natural animal magnetism that would hopefully attract Rahim into making love to her later on.

I took the suspender clips, slipped them out of their metal sockets and over the stocking tops to refit them and lock the hose onto her bustier, the stocking increasing its tension as the suspender took charge, that sensual feeling and buzz that I always got from wearing such hosiery.

Kirstie stood up, looking glorious in what I had put on.

Now came her panties, her fragile V-string that accompanied the bustier.

I kissed her gusset, always a mark of my submission to her and part of our ‘service of worship,’ this representing the epicenter to her sex and what was to come.

The next move was for me to hold the string open so that Kirstie could step into it, allowing for me to lift it up her legs and into position, the string sitting on her hips, the smoothing out of that little piece of fabric covering the nape of her bottom valley and the front too, her pussy now masked but still visible through the fabric.

Now I was allowed to kiss her right on the join of the gusset and the ‘V’ and take in her aroma, which had been thick and heavy earlier this evening when I had done this.

The memory, her smell, the powerful attraction of her aroma that had filled me and I had her panties from the day to enjoy; the enjoyment of being hooded in her panties for long periods, such as through the night, taking her in, a major fetish of mine and always had been.

This had been the reason, in part, of taking us down the route we had chosen, the life of a very dominant woman and her submissive, now a woman for all intent and purpose.

From her panties, it was on with her outfit, helping her into her silk top, on with the short skirt and then her silk jacket-cum coat for want of a better expression.

Finally, I slid on her shoes and she was ready, short of her jewellery, watch and perfume, her choice this evening a Molton Brown Shisur, a heady mix of refined orris, decadent notes of saffron and smoky wisps of precious frankincense and ideal for someone with Middle Eastern origins, whereas I would be wearing Coco Chanel.

I had dressed in my new lingerie, loving the feel on me, and then my Chanel ‘number,’ always nice to wear and giving me a sense of ‘fragility’ in being exposed in such a revealing piece. Even though I could carry it off, there was always that edge there, that I would be rumbled and something appearing in the paper because of who we were, ideal material for the rags to latch onto.


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