Delectable Debbie

I phoned her a couple of days before I travelled down to London and I was impressed. Her voice was not in the least bit mannish, with a soft Scottish brogue, and it was clear she was intelligent and had a nice personality. We immediately seemed to hit it off, and she wasn't at all fazed by the fact that our meeting would be an entirely new experience for me; she assured me that she enjoyed meeting first-timers, and would ease me into my first T-girl encounter.

So, two days later, I took the train from Manchester to London, checked into my hotel, and prepared with mounting nervousness to meet Debbie. Showering and dressing carefully I left in plenty of time and, rather than get on a hot, crowded tube train during the rush hour, I walked across St James's Park in pleasant early evening sun to her place, an upstairs flat in an undistinguished looking terraced house in Victoria. She buzzed me in at the front entrance and I walked up a narrow flight of stairs to her front door, which was already open a crack as she peeped out. She hustled me into a dimly lit hallway, then nodded me towards a large brightly lit room, with a double bed to one side.

I certainly wasn't disappointed by my first view of Debbie in the flesh. She was as pretty as in her photos, dressed in a silky black nightdress, trimmed with red lace, which ended at mid-thigh, giving me a generous view of her bare legs. On her small pale feet she had a pair of fluffy pink slippers which revealed slim toes, the nails painted a dark cherry red. Taking my coat she offered me a drink and, my heart racing with nerves, I gratefully accepted a crisp white wine.

Debbie sat on an old saggy sofa and patted the seat next to her with a wide smile. I left a few inches of space between us but she shuffled beside me, her thigh pressed to mine, her warmth radiating through my trousers. We chatted and sipped our wine for a while and I began to relax, more or less forgetting this was more than simply an attractive young woman sitting next to me.