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Stranded, Sissified, Seduced

It is a contradiction of island life that people come looking for isolation and end up craving companionship.

I moved to Gugh last year, suddenly and rudely, telling only my parents and closest friends that I would be going away for a while. "I will write," I told them. I do, in grey ink on sun-washed postcards, telling them nothing much but that I am still alive.

I roll the pen out of my hand so that it clinks against my tepid half-cup of tea and close my eyes for a moment, listening to the Atlantic's rhythmic thrash on the shoreline.

At low tide I am part of a community of about 80, milling among the tourists who visit St Agnes on the Isles of Scilly for a contentedly old-fashioned seaside holiday.

For the other half of the day, or nearly half, I am marooned; alone but for R and S, two kindly men, grizzled and ponderous, who live in the other two sheltered spots in Gugh's wind-twitched heath.

I have tried to divine from skirting walks of their cottages which of us escapes the harshest of the weather. Although my windows rattle and my chimney whistles I am convinced that their ramshackle bungalows have it worse.

I told them in our first encounters I was an artist looking for a retreat, a fabrication that has grown legs as I make use of the materials I bought to maintain the pretence. Lies become brittle quickly in a community as small as this. My work is derivative and inept, but the romance of its setting has lent it enough shine to sell at the quayside gallery as fast as I can produce them.

The locals regard me as a dusky eccentric, a reputation I have idly cultivated with a bohemian wardrobe of gypsy tops and flowing skirts, headscarves and hooped earrings. My Irish mother's first gifts to me were dark hair and blue eyes that once prompted a fairground fortune teller to remark that I reminded her of her youthful self. It was a compliment I stowed away as treasure.

My reputation is far more interesting than my inner mundanity: a woman of 40 jilted by her long-term lover, seeking escape from a city where her vivacity had been muffled into listless routine.

I add the postcard to the stack that awaits the low tide and take the too-pink pashmina from the back of the chair. There are no unfamiliar walks to me on Gugh but as I begin my evening constitutional I see a figure by the submerged causeway who is instantly out of place. His stance and, when he starts toward me, his gait are nothing like those of R and S.

I shade my eyes against the setting sun. He is a slight man, early 30s perhaps, not an obviously outdoorsy type. He is not dressed against the wind or the rain that begins to spot us now, softly at first. As he closes the gap between us I decide that I shall look after him.

Is there a way across, he wants to know. "Not for three hours," I say. "You'd better come with me."

The raindrops are gobbets now. "Come," I say as I turn my back and lead him briskly home. We are not fast enough, not on the route I choose. Our sodden clothes drip onto the flagstones in my hallway. I have a last moment of doubt about my plans for him and then push it away.

"You'd better take your clothes off here," I say. "I'll find you something to wear."

I leave him in the hall and set the bath running. "Have you eaten?" I call to him along the passageway. He has not, since lunch. "I'll fix that, too," I tell him.

I look at him in the hall, half-dressed and shivering. "Your bath will be ready in a few minutes. Mind it doesn't overflow and I'll leave your clothes outside the door."

My plan had been to lend him the least feminine garments in my possession, the baggy jumpers, woolly socks and tracksuit trousers. With the bath and the clothes and the food he would be obliged to me, enough for a kiss and a cuddle at least.

As I open the chest of drawers to replace my own damp wet clothes another thought takes root. I take out a pair of black knickers and pause. They are plain briefs, without lace, but the front panel is satin while the back is a semi-opaque mesh. Could these help to turn a kiss and a cuddle into something more? I put them in his pile and delve to see what else might suit.

Rather than trousers he could wear leggings. They are for fashion rather than sport, high-waisted and shiny, but they are ambiguous enough. For a top I choose one in sober-looking bottle green. It is a polyester blouse, silky in texture with a cowl neck and three-quarter length sleeves.

I consider my black satin button-up blouse as an alternative but it would never fit him. I put it in a pile for myself along with a silk gypsy skirt and wide patent belt. I consider knickers but decide against.

Until it is my turn in the bath I shall settle for my dressing gown.

I decide that it would be better to put his pile of clothes inside the bathroom. "Don't mind me," I say as I place them on the chair by the door and gather up the ones he left there. All of our wet clothes and even his drier ones go in the washing machine for a long cycle.

It will be fisherman's pie for dinner, reheated from last night. As I prepare some vegetables I hear a querulous voice.

Do I want him to leave the bathwater for me?

"I'm just coming," I call, and find him sheltering behind the bathroom door, unclothed but for a towel that is too small to wrap around his waist.

"Oh," I say, disappointed not to find him dressed as I intended. "Well, get dressed then."

He makes as if to speak. I interrupt. "Quickly please, unless you want my bathwater to get cold."

He ducks back inside. The sound of a petulant sigh is followed by the whispering stretch of material as the clothes go on.

"Good," I say as the door reopens. "Now be a darling, won't you, and finish chopping the vegetables? They're on the sideboard."

I brush past to bathe. Where are his clothes, he wants to know. "Having a good wash, like me," I say. I slip off the dressing gown, hoping to catch him staring, but when I turn he is gone.

I am too excited for a long soak. Perhaps this catches him off guard, too. I find him in the bedroom, quickly closing my wardrobe doors. "Something to complement your outfit?" I ask.

He apologises. He is looking for something less girly. He doesn't mean to sound ungrateful but...

I cut him off. "I find that being grateful is about doing, not saying," I say. "Have you chopped the vegetables?"

He shakes his head, chastened. I usher him to the kitchen and stop him by the doorway. I unhook my apron and pass the neck ribbon over his head. The red-and-white polka-dotted fabric sits tightly against him as I fasten the waist ribbons into a bow. "Better get to it, then, cupcake."

He does his best to ease the tension when I return, dressed, with make-up, looking and feeling dangerous. I absorb his small talk over dinner, smiling as he gives away little weaknesses. He is on holiday with a girlfriend - not his girlfriend, not yet, anyway. She hadn't been feeling well that afternoon and retired to their hotel on St Agnes while he remained on Gugh, for the birds. I raise an eyebrow. The seabirds, he clarifies.

He needs to call her but there is no signal. Is there any way?

I shake my head sadly. "After dinner I can ask my nearest neighbour to call the hotel, but until then you're trapped with just me," I say, squeezing his knee as if it is only a joke. "I hope she won't be too jealous."

He blushes. He writes down his friend's number on a tissue. As he nervously resumes his bird-watcher's chatter I reach a hand to his neck to untie the top ribbon of his apron. My other finds the bow at the small of his back.

The apron falls to the floor but I do not move away.

"Let's talk about something else," I say. "Tell me how cute you feel in your new clothes."

The blush spreads to his neck.

"They really suit you, you know. Have you worn women's clothes before?"

He shakes his head.

"Not even for a role play?"

He won't look at me.

"You're missing out."

My hand returns to his knee. I run it along the smooth seam of his inside leg. I wonder how far his embarrassment will permit me to go.

Our faces are close enough for me to feel the shortness of his breath on my cheek. I cock my head a little, tacitly offering a kiss if only he would look up. He stares down determinedly at my fingers crossing the ridge in his leggings where his knickers begin.

He murmurs that he doesn't want this. He's sorry, he says.

I lazily trace circular patterns in a continuous spiral. "Hmm?" I say as if I haven't heard him properly. "You're sorry?"

We gaze together at the way his arousal distorts the line of his leggings. "So, so sorry," I muse.

I wish now that I had put him in a skirt. I convince myself that I still can.

"Let's get you out of these leggings, then," I say. I escort him to the bedroom. We both know that their removal will show the compromising tautness of his knickers. He asks to go to the bathroom. "I have a better idea," I say. The skirt I am looking for wraps easily around his waist and fastens with a button and side-tie. The silver material shimmers, its asymmetric hem reaching to his knee on one side and shin on the other.

I position my face next to his again as we stand together. Still no kiss.

I stoop to reach beneath the skirt for a good grip on the waistband of the leggings, then help him pull them to his ankles. "There, you see? All covered up. Nothing to be ashamed of here, is there?"

I smile. A pause. "Shall we just check?"

He pleads for me to let him go.

I can't help but laugh. "Go where, darling?" I curl my left hand around his neck while my right finds the gap in the wraparound skirt, snaking to the warmth at the front of his knickers.

"I'm longing to tell your girlfriend about this," I say, then correct myself. "Your not-quite girlfriend. What shall we say to her? Do you think she'll understand the truth about you trying on a pair of knickers, hmm? Putting on my knickers and being unable to hide your arousal?

"Or shall we tell her something else?"

His breath hisses between his teeth, a display of wishful self-control at odds with his responsiveness beneath his skirt. I feel my own thrill rising to match his.

"We could tell her that I made you do it - do you think she'd buy that? That you couldn't help yourself?"

He sighs once, then again

"That would make you seem a bit pitiful, though, wouldn't it?"

I draw his neck towards me. We kiss unsatisfactorily.

"Or would you rather I lied to her? Told her that you were the perfect gentleman? Hmm? How might you persuade me to do that?"

He responds better to our next kiss. My attentions waver for a moment as I back him onto the bed. I hitch my skirts to shuffle towards his face, planting myself expectantly.

He takes the hint. He is unexpectedly able. I have to remind myself to let him breathe.

My breath catches in my throat. I gulp it away. I know I am ready for him.

Slowly, reluctantly, I wriggle back down his body to perch on his thighs. The hem of his skirt, already hitched up, falls open like ripe blossom. His semi-concealed excitement is barely diminished.

"I don't think this needs to stay hidden any longer, do you?" I flip his cock free from the waistband, holding it with thumb and forefinger, positioning it just so.

He feigns discomfort as I sink onto him. I savour it, that look. How long will he retain it? How long can I make it last? I feel him moving within me.

Flickers of resigned pleasure play on his face. "Uh-uh," I chide him. I reach for the folds of the cowl on his blouse that cover his chest and trace them with my fingertips, scuffing at his nipples. "What would your girlfriend say?"

The discomfort returns. The pattern repeats as my orgasm builds but his furrows are fleeting. The resignation expressed first as lolling comes out in moans.

I become so absorbed in my own excitement that his helpless murmurings fade into abstraction. My face is flushed with joy and anticipation. I have but one thought: I am going to come.

I am not responsible for the noises I make. They come from somewhere outwith my control.

There are gasps both whispering and shrill, soaring over groans welling from the pit of my stomach.

I open my eyes and see him writhing too, lost to the call of his own orgasm, a desire so primal it feels like a need. It bursts within him, and within me.

I stare at him while we subside. "I want to keep you." I pant as I laugh. "I'm going to keep you. I waggle up the bed till my knees press down on his upper arms then lean over to take my mobile phone from my bedside drawer. This one connects to a working network. I tuck my hair behind one ear as I dial his friend's number and give him a satisfied smile.

She picks up almost instantly. I introduce myself as an islander who has taken him in to shelter from the rain. "I wanted to let you know he's okay and he's going to stay the night with me rather than risk tramping back through the dark. Do you want to speak to him?"

I hand over the phone and make a point of tugging and snapping his knickers back into place, smoothing his skirt down on top.

He apologises to her. He'll see her tomorrow. Yes, he says, he's alright. He's just tired.

"Do you think she guessed?" I ask as he ends the call.

He doesn't answer. I don't push it.

"Your clothes will be dry by the morning," I say. I dismount him and stand by my wardrobe. On the back of its door are a couple of old-fashioned flowing nylon nightdresses, one pink, one mint green. "Until then..." I wave my hand theatrically. "It's your choice."

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