Knickers Challenge - Dressage
Aug. 11th, 2003 11:14 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
chesamus.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionDressage, a carefully researched piece (well, it’s been googled, anyway) of 1331 words based on a chance comment by Patrick Stewart on some advice William Shatner gave him and the Star Trek Generations t-shirt my nephew gave me this weekend which reminded me of it. So this one is all Bill's fault!
Dressage
by chesamus
Ray and Dief waited by the door, tolerant of my need to make one more circuit of the consulate. Every room was occupied - an unusual occurrence, but in these days of budgetary oversight, the Inspector could not justify housing the visitors at a local hostelry. Even my office had been appropriated. And if it was cramped with one occupant, I could only imagine the conditions under which the four current occupants were suffering. Canada’s representatives to Chicago’s Fourth of July Parade would be returning home in the morning, but in the meantime, we were housing thirty-six members of the RCMP Musical Ride.
After checking in with the Officer in Charge and receiving an update on the sick list (everyone was expected to make a full recovery from the food poisoning, thank heaven) I made my way over to my partner.
“I appreciate your patience, Ray. Are you certain my presence at the apartment will not disrupt your holiday?” Ray had graciously offered me his couch after he heard about the crowded conditions at the consulate.
“Nah, I’m good. I don’t do anything special on the Fourth except watch some baseball and gorge on pizza.” We left the consulate and made our way to the gleaming black car illegally parked at the bottom of the stairs. I decided to forego the customary reprimand - it was a holiday, after all.
Climbing into the still running car, I was thankful for the air conditioning blasting from the vents. It was a relatively mild July by Chicago standards, but riding a horse while dressed in full regimentals was not conducive to comfort. “Ray, if I may presume on your hospitality, I would appreciate the opportunity to shower once we arrive at your apartment. The bathrooms at the consulate are slightly overtaxed at the moment.”
“Hey, no problem. What did Turnbull poison those guys with anyway?”
“It wasn’t intentional, Ray, but I believe it was the chicken salad. We were fortunate that most of the troop had cold cuts instead.”
“You look good on a horse. They were lucky you could fill in.”
“Riding skills are an essential part of being a Mountie, Ray. While I would not presume to consider my equestrian skills up to the standards of the RCMP Musical Ride, I feel I did not embarrass myself in my temporary role as a member of the forward color guard.”
“It was greatness - didn’t know horses could dance - but I bet you’re ready to peel out of that getup. Don’t you guys have a summer uniform?” Ray maneuvered the car with great skill through the crowded holiday traffic.
“We rarely have a need for a summer uniform, Ray. Under normal circumstances, the serge is exceptionally well-suited for the job.”
“Usual circumstances? Usual circumstances don’t include wearing a long sleeve red coat in July. Man, that is just asking for trouble, like heat stroke or something.”
“The wool breathes more than you would expect, Ray. And the humidity is relatively low today.”
Ray wasn’t convinced. “Heat is heat, Frase, I don’t care if it’s dry or wet. And wool pants on a horse cannot be a good idea. Just the idea of it gives me a rash.”
“Ah, chafing. Of course, every rider has preferences about how they handle the situation. I find pantyhose to be the simplest solution.”
To say Ray was stunned would be understating the case. “PANTYHOSE? You’re wearing pantyhose?”
“Well, yes. It is the friction caused by fibers sliding against the skin that causes chafing. Pantyhose add a stable layer of protection, and prevent the fabric from rubbing with the movement of the horse. It’s common practice among riders, Ray.”
“And just where does someone your size find pantyhose? Hanes doesn’t make them in your size.” Ray held up a finger. “And before you ask, I used to buy them for Stella, so I know brands, OK?”
“I would never presume to think otherwise.” Much to my regret.
“Yeah, well, so where do you get them?”
I didn’t think he was going to approve of my answer. “A fine establishment over on Western Avenue. They cater to a particular clientele with certain unique clothing requirements.”
“You went to a sex shop!?” I was correct - Ray was not amused.
“It is not a sex shop. Sally Ann’s Corset Shop is an established business serving the transgender community with a reputation built on trust and discretion. They have always been more than helpful.”
Ray spent the rest of the drive to his apartment lecturing me on law enforcement taboos and my definition of discretion. I found his concern for my welfare endearing, if slightly misguided, and was relieved to climb the steps and enter his apartment.
Dief jumped into the armchair and stared at the television waiting for Ray to turn it on. He had become quite the Cubs fan. Unfortunately Ray appeared to have forgotten the ball game.
“You’re really wearing pantyhose?” Strange - he didn’t seem to believe me. I thought by now Ray would know I don’t lie, even in jest. I removed my tunic and hung it in the closet, along with my stetson.
“Yes, Ray. Pantyhose.” I leaned against the back of the sofa, took off my boots, and unlaced my jodhpurs.
“I don’t believe you.” Ray was not baiting me - he was truly unconvinced, or perhaps he was in shock; it was hard to tell. His reaction to such a small matter seemed wholly out of character for him.
‘You require proof?”
Ray moved to my side and thrust out his chin. “Yeah.”
I popped the suspenders, pulled my t-shirt over my head and removed my trousers, leaving only the pantyhose. I stuck out one leg. “Pantyhose, Ray. Midnight black, extra long, reinforced toe.” My vanity did not permit me to tell him they were control tops (I felt they improved my posture in the saddle).
What Ray did next stunned me. He moved his hand ever so lightly along my thigh. He seemed mesmerized by the feel of it. I was mesmerized, too. It was astonishing how warm his hand was against my leg. Gracefully he slid to his knees next to me, all the time running his hands over the thin nylon.
“You’re really- that’s just- you shaved?” He didn’t look at me, but I could feel his eyes on my body.
“I- yes, I shaved. It’s, well, hair can get caught in the- so naturally I-”
"Everything?"
"Yes."
“I bet it feels good.” Oh, it did. His hands were stroking me from ankle to quadriceps.
“It feels wonderful, Ray.” He leaned in, rubbed his chin against my knee, my thigh.
“You’re not wearing boxers, Frase.” I felt his breath against my genitals, then his tongue.
“That-that wouldn’t be practical.” He was sucking me through the nylon - the sensation was almost impossible to quantify except to say it was remarkably sensual.
By now he was kneeling between my legs (when had I spread my legs?) lapping at my cock and testicles. I succumbed to temptation and pushed my fingers through his hair. “Dear God, Ray!”
He obviously approved of that reaction. He mouthed around my length, then gave the impression he was trying to suck me dry through the fine mesh. I reached orgasm an embarrassingly short time later. He didn’t seem to mind.
********
I didn’t fully understand why this had happened. How we had moved from summer uniforms to Ray on his knees performing fellatio. I gave the matter as much thought as I could muster with the twenty or so brain cells that were actually receiving oxygen.
“I hope it wasn’t just the pantyhose that prompted your actions, Ray. As much as I love you, I am not going to make a habit of wearing them.”
“It wasn’t the pantyhose. It was the idea of your legs in the pantyhose.” And that’s when he finally kissed me.
As I kissed him back, I thought to myself that perhaps, on special occasions...
NOTE - For more information, go to:
RCMP Musical Ride
http://www.rcmp.ca/musicalride/home_e.htm
Chicago transgender clothing and supplies
http://www.chicagotransgender.com/shopping-chicago.html
Dressage
by chesamus
Ray and Dief waited by the door, tolerant of my need to make one more circuit of the consulate. Every room was occupied - an unusual occurrence, but in these days of budgetary oversight, the Inspector could not justify housing the visitors at a local hostelry. Even my office had been appropriated. And if it was cramped with one occupant, I could only imagine the conditions under which the four current occupants were suffering. Canada’s representatives to Chicago’s Fourth of July Parade would be returning home in the morning, but in the meantime, we were housing thirty-six members of the RCMP Musical Ride.
After checking in with the Officer in Charge and receiving an update on the sick list (everyone was expected to make a full recovery from the food poisoning, thank heaven) I made my way over to my partner.
“I appreciate your patience, Ray. Are you certain my presence at the apartment will not disrupt your holiday?” Ray had graciously offered me his couch after he heard about the crowded conditions at the consulate.
“Nah, I’m good. I don’t do anything special on the Fourth except watch some baseball and gorge on pizza.” We left the consulate and made our way to the gleaming black car illegally parked at the bottom of the stairs. I decided to forego the customary reprimand - it was a holiday, after all.
Climbing into the still running car, I was thankful for the air conditioning blasting from the vents. It was a relatively mild July by Chicago standards, but riding a horse while dressed in full regimentals was not conducive to comfort. “Ray, if I may presume on your hospitality, I would appreciate the opportunity to shower once we arrive at your apartment. The bathrooms at the consulate are slightly overtaxed at the moment.”
“Hey, no problem. What did Turnbull poison those guys with anyway?”
“It wasn’t intentional, Ray, but I believe it was the chicken salad. We were fortunate that most of the troop had cold cuts instead.”
“You look good on a horse. They were lucky you could fill in.”
“Riding skills are an essential part of being a Mountie, Ray. While I would not presume to consider my equestrian skills up to the standards of the RCMP Musical Ride, I feel I did not embarrass myself in my temporary role as a member of the forward color guard.”
“It was greatness - didn’t know horses could dance - but I bet you’re ready to peel out of that getup. Don’t you guys have a summer uniform?” Ray maneuvered the car with great skill through the crowded holiday traffic.
“We rarely have a need for a summer uniform, Ray. Under normal circumstances, the serge is exceptionally well-suited for the job.”
“Usual circumstances? Usual circumstances don’t include wearing a long sleeve red coat in July. Man, that is just asking for trouble, like heat stroke or something.”
“The wool breathes more than you would expect, Ray. And the humidity is relatively low today.”
Ray wasn’t convinced. “Heat is heat, Frase, I don’t care if it’s dry or wet. And wool pants on a horse cannot be a good idea. Just the idea of it gives me a rash.”
“Ah, chafing. Of course, every rider has preferences about how they handle the situation. I find pantyhose to be the simplest solution.”
To say Ray was stunned would be understating the case. “PANTYHOSE? You’re wearing pantyhose?”
“Well, yes. It is the friction caused by fibers sliding against the skin that causes chafing. Pantyhose add a stable layer of protection, and prevent the fabric from rubbing with the movement of the horse. It’s common practice among riders, Ray.”
“And just where does someone your size find pantyhose? Hanes doesn’t make them in your size.” Ray held up a finger. “And before you ask, I used to buy them for Stella, so I know brands, OK?”
“I would never presume to think otherwise.” Much to my regret.
“Yeah, well, so where do you get them?”
I didn’t think he was going to approve of my answer. “A fine establishment over on Western Avenue. They cater to a particular clientele with certain unique clothing requirements.”
“You went to a sex shop!?” I was correct - Ray was not amused.
“It is not a sex shop. Sally Ann’s Corset Shop is an established business serving the transgender community with a reputation built on trust and discretion. They have always been more than helpful.”
Ray spent the rest of the drive to his apartment lecturing me on law enforcement taboos and my definition of discretion. I found his concern for my welfare endearing, if slightly misguided, and was relieved to climb the steps and enter his apartment.
Dief jumped into the armchair and stared at the television waiting for Ray to turn it on. He had become quite the Cubs fan. Unfortunately Ray appeared to have forgotten the ball game.
“You’re really wearing pantyhose?” Strange - he didn’t seem to believe me. I thought by now Ray would know I don’t lie, even in jest. I removed my tunic and hung it in the closet, along with my stetson.
“Yes, Ray. Pantyhose.” I leaned against the back of the sofa, took off my boots, and unlaced my jodhpurs.
“I don’t believe you.” Ray was not baiting me - he was truly unconvinced, or perhaps he was in shock; it was hard to tell. His reaction to such a small matter seemed wholly out of character for him.
‘You require proof?”
Ray moved to my side and thrust out his chin. “Yeah.”
I popped the suspenders, pulled my t-shirt over my head and removed my trousers, leaving only the pantyhose. I stuck out one leg. “Pantyhose, Ray. Midnight black, extra long, reinforced toe.” My vanity did not permit me to tell him they were control tops (I felt they improved my posture in the saddle).
What Ray did next stunned me. He moved his hand ever so lightly along my thigh. He seemed mesmerized by the feel of it. I was mesmerized, too. It was astonishing how warm his hand was against my leg. Gracefully he slid to his knees next to me, all the time running his hands over the thin nylon.
“You’re really- that’s just- you shaved?” He didn’t look at me, but I could feel his eyes on my body.
“I- yes, I shaved. It’s, well, hair can get caught in the- so naturally I-”
"Everything?"
"Yes."
“I bet it feels good.” Oh, it did. His hands were stroking me from ankle to quadriceps.
“It feels wonderful, Ray.” He leaned in, rubbed his chin against my knee, my thigh.
“You’re not wearing boxers, Frase.” I felt his breath against my genitals, then his tongue.
“That-that wouldn’t be practical.” He was sucking me through the nylon - the sensation was almost impossible to quantify except to say it was remarkably sensual.
By now he was kneeling between my legs (when had I spread my legs?) lapping at my cock and testicles. I succumbed to temptation and pushed my fingers through his hair. “Dear God, Ray!”
He obviously approved of that reaction. He mouthed around my length, then gave the impression he was trying to suck me dry through the fine mesh. I reached orgasm an embarrassingly short time later. He didn’t seem to mind.
********
I didn’t fully understand why this had happened. How we had moved from summer uniforms to Ray on his knees performing fellatio. I gave the matter as much thought as I could muster with the twenty or so brain cells that were actually receiving oxygen.
“I hope it wasn’t just the pantyhose that prompted your actions, Ray. As much as I love you, I am not going to make a habit of wearing them.”
“It wasn’t the pantyhose. It was the idea of your legs in the pantyhose.” And that’s when he finally kissed me.
As I kissed him back, I thought to myself that perhaps, on special occasions...
NOTE - For more information, go to:
RCMP Musical Ride
http://www.rcmp.ca/musicalride/home_e.htm
Chicago transgender clothing and supplies
http://www.chicagotransgender.com/shopping-chicago.html
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