Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

Synopsis: A pregnancy simulator seems an ideal way of convincing Paul's wife that pregnancy is really not that bad, and they agree to try it on holiday on Seacombe Moor. But it's not just the jailbreak from Seacombe Prison that turns everything upside down for Paul. This story is complete but is being serialised in six chapters, to be released at approximately daily intervals.

All people, places and events in this series are entirely fictional. If you need medical advice about pregnancy, consult a doctor rather than the pages of this fictional story.

Chapter 1 - Conception

"Marianne, I'm sorry about that argument," I said, going into our study, into which she had promptly disappeared after our flaming row, loudly slamming the door. That had been over an hour ago, so I thought it might now be safe to make peace.

"I should think so too," she said, pulling a face at me. "I mean, Paul, it's not as though we disagree about having children - it's just the timing. I simply don't think I'm ready to grow to the size of an elephant. If you had to do it you wouldn't be so keen. Look at these pictures."

She swivelled the screen of the computer around so I could see what was on the display - several naked, highly-pregnant and rather butch-looking women.

I nodded sympathetically. "I know, Marianne, but you would never look like that, and in any case, they're not quite elephant-sized. Most women put up with it, sooner or later." I didn't say she was now thirty-five, and if she didn't do it soon she'd be saying it was too late.

Of course, the big problem was that she was a fashion model: Marianne Black - you've probably heard of her - she's in all the classy fashion magazines. Of course, it would certainly mean putting her career on hold, and I knew that Marianne thought she would never get back into modelling after a break for childbirth.

"Actually," she said, "you may think these are pictures of pregnant women but they're not."

I stared at the women more carefully, with their heavily distended stomachs and huge breasts. "They certainly look heavily pregnant to me."

"They're wearing pregnancy simulators," she said.

I stared some more. "You're kidding me," I said. "I thought those sort of things were made of canvas and fastened around the neck with Velcro straps."

"Not these," she said. "They're from a company called Big Busts. All their products are highly realistic. Here..." She clicked on a link and the picture changed to what looked like a pregnant woman's torso, without arms, legs or neck. "That's their Pregnancy Torsolet."

"Fantastic," I said.

"I thought we could try one - just to see what it was like," she said.

"Really?" I was overjoyed. At last Marianne was getting serious about becoming pregnant. "That would be absolutely brilliant. Shall we order one now?"

She smiled at my enthusiasm. "We ought to plan how we're going to use it," she said. "I mean, it's not simply a thing you put on for a few hours and then take off whenever you get a bit of backache. You have to wear it continually otherwise it's simply not a proper simulation - I'd have thought two weeks was the minimum we should try it, if you agree?"

Knowing I would sound over-excited if I spoke, I nodded. A couple of weeks sounded an excellent period.

"Clearly," she continued, "we'd have to go away somewhere for a while, otherwise everyone would be pointing and jeering."

"Maybe," I cautiously said, although I didn't think people would really jeer at her, "and obviously it's got to fit in with your work."

"Yours too," she said, "although, of course, yours is a lot more flexible."

She was right about my work being fairly flexible. As a computer software consultant, I spent most of my time working at home producing special applications for clients. I wasn't certain why she felt I needed to be around all the time she was wearing this simulator, but that would be a small price to pay if it overcame Marianne's reluctance, so I shrugged. "What do you suggest?"

"It needs to be somewhere we won't meet anyone we know, so it should be quite remote. A few months ago, I did a photo shoot at the Manor House on Seacombe Moor? That's when someone told me about Big Busts products - they're a local company.

"Do you remember how I raved over the hotel?" she continued. "It was really superb, set in a delightful wooded valley just on the edge of the moor. I thought I'd quite like to go back there sometime. How about if we booked that for some time in April? The long-range weather forecast says it's going to be nice, then. I have a few bookings scheduled, but it would be fairly simple for me to pop off for a day or two for any I can't reschedule."

"That sounds great," I said. "I used to go to Seacombe on holidays with my parents when I was a kid, and we'd go onto the moor for a day outing. I wouldn't mind going back there." Mind you, I wasn't certain Marianne would be that keen on the place if she knew there was a prison only a few miles away. And whilst I would love the numerous walks that led across the moor, Marianne was never keen on walking and I was certain she'd be even less so wearing a pregnancy simulator.

"It's a deal then," Marianne said. "I'll make the bookings."

Marianne wouldn't let me get involved in any aspect of planning the holiday, apart from borrowing my credit card when it came to paying. The price of the hotel I was prepared for, but hell, you should have seen the price of the pregnancy simulator thing.

"Well, it's you that's pushing for us to have a baby now," Marianne said, "so I reckon you can put up with all the discomfort that causes."

I shut up. I certainly didn't want to restart an argument in that area.

As we approached the start of the trial, I bought a couple of walking maps of the moor and a guidebook - although I had to do it all fairly surreptitiously whilst Marianne was at work; I didn't want her thinking I'd be out enjoying myself whilst she was mimicking a whale in the hotel swimming pool. (I didn't say that, OK?)

There were several public footpaths which twisted their way across the moor; the guide book advised never to stray from the well-marked paths by as much as one yard, as the bogs were notoriously dangerous and could swallow a horse and cart as easily as a man. Great! I loved the challenge of walking in wild country.

And even Marianne seemed to be really looking forward to it - not just to the holiday but to the whole idea of simulating pregnancy. She went out and bought a load of pregnancy wear, asking my opinion about it much more than she normally consulted me about clothes - after all, as a fashion model, she had a pretty good idea for herself about what suited her.

But she dragged me around all the shops; did I prefer this colour of sundress or that? Did I think it was decent for a pregnant woman to wear low-cut tops to expose her boobs? What about short-skirts? What did I think about men looking at a half-naked pregnant woman?

"For heaven's sake, Marianne," I said. "This is the twenty-first century. Women don't have to go into mourning when they're pregnant. They can and should still look sexy, and the woman carrying my baby is going to be the sexiest pregnant woman on earth."

She gave me a kiss, and said, "Thanks, Paul. It's really great knowing you're prepared to stand by me on this idea."

"How could you ever doubt it?" I asked, grasping her around her waist and pulling her towards me for a really big kiss - we were in the middle of Mothercare at the time and a few customers smirked at us.

"The real problem," Marianne continued when we'd finished our snog, "is that I don't really know what size to choose. Normally, women grow a bit at a time and buy bigger clothes as they grow in size. This time it's going straight from conception to nine months pregnant in zero time, so I'm having to guess at most of the sizes. I don't even know how shoe sizes change during pregnancy. I'm a size five." She stared down at my feet. "What size are you?"

"Marianne," I said, "I'm a size eight, but I don't really see what that has got to do with anything. This is a pregnancy simulator we're talking about. It doesn't make the feet grow.

She shrugged. "You're right of course. I guess I'm getting carried away. Well, do you think pregnant women can still wear heels?"

"I should think so," I said. "In any case, they always look far sexier."

She nodded. "I suppose so. OK, let's go next door to the shoe shop and you can help me choose a few pairs of shoes - say some sandals, and some court shoes."

Marianne thought the heels should be quite wide, as otherwise it would be easy to topple over, but otherwise she seemed quite happy for me to chose her shoes, so I’m afraid I indulged myself - I always love high heels, and I selected those with heels at least as high as those she normally wears - one pair even higher, but she didn't demure.

"Thanks, love. Do you want to take some of this other stuff back to the car whilst I discuss the shoe size with the assistant?"

I was quite glad to get out at that point as I knew from experience how long Marianne could spend choosing the right-sized shoes - she always made such a fuss about getting them fitting properly.

Marianne was working away for most of the week before our holiday, so when the carrier delivered a large box for her on Tuesday I was sorely tempted to open it. To be honest, I found the idea of this pregnancy suit quite erotic. I knew it was unlikely to look as convincing as it had done in the pictures, but all the same, to be able to make a woman look nine months pregnant simply by slipping it on had been occupying my mind ever since Marianne had shown it to me on the website. (I'd tried to have a look at the website next day, but you needed a password to access it - presumably to prevent people like me gawping at it.)

Unfortunately, when Marianne telephoned me on Tuesday evening, she absolutely forbade me from opening the box. So that was that. She’d arranged to take Friday off work, but she didn’t arrive back home until about seven on Thursday evening.

"Hi honey," she said, a big grin on her face. "God, I've missed you. Why don't we go straight to bed, and have dinner a bit later."

"Er, right," I replied. After being married for a few years, it had become unusual for Marianne to take the initiative like that, but who was I to complain?

I didn't!

I jerked awake some hours later. The alarm clock said it was ten-thirty, and we'd missed dinner but, bloody hell, what did I care? We'd not had sex like that for years. When we'd first met, it had been non-stop sex for days on end. Then she'd go away on one of her photo shoots for several days before returning to rapturous joy and even more rapturous sex.

Later, I realised that when she was away, her sexual appetite did not remain unfulfilled. When I had challenged her, she'd replied that this was modern Britain, and I didn't own her and she was a healthy woman with a healthy sexual appetite. She was quite happy if I had occasional flirtations with other women, as long as it didn't affect our long term relationship. It was one of the issues one either comes to terms with or the relationship splits up. I guess one of the reasons for my wanting a family was to try to stabilise what, at times, had appeared a volatile relationship.

I could hear some kitchen-type noises from below, so presumably Marianne had gone down to make herself a snack. I got up and put on a dressing gown so I could go and join her.

"Hi sexy."

"Hi," she replied. "I didn't know whether to wake you up or to let you sleep on. You looked so relaxed."

"No wonder after what you did to me."

"I thought we ought to celebrate our last night as a normal couple. It will be pregnancy day tomorrow."

Thank God! I'd been wondering whether she was giving me a sweetener in order to cry off from her commitment, but give Marianne her due, she was going ahead with it.

"What do you think of her?" She gesticulated towards the seat next to the kitchen table.

"Bloody hell!" I said, almost jumping out of my skin. I hadn't expected to see a dismembered pregnant woman's torso sitting at my kitchen table. I gave a little shudder.

"Isn’t it horrible?" she said, pulling a terrible face.

"There’s nothing horrible about the sight of a pregnant woman," I said. "It's the missing arms, legs and head which made me wince. Sure the stomach is huge, but that is one of the facts of life of being pregnant."

"But it’s not just the stomach," she said. "Look at the size of the boobs."

This was one of those areas where I always had a difference of opinion to Marianne. The fashion industry as a whole — and Marianne was no exception - thought the idea of an attractive body was to try to appear like a starving African refugee. So she was almost anorexic in her desire to avoid putting on a single extra ounce.

Me? I prefer nice, big tits, but that’s hardly the kind of comment I could make to my 34-AA wife. The tits on this thing were not just nice and big — they were absolutely enormous, with nipples as big as the ends of my thumbs.

"They’ve probably gone a bit over the top in estimating the effects of pregnancy," I said. "You could complain and exchange it for a slightly smaller size." But please, please, please don’t, I silently added to myself.

"Well, I did order their Maxi Pregnancy version," she admitted.

"Then this actually isn’t that bad," I said, thinking that was a stupid thing to have done, clearly with the intention of trying to make pregnancy appear as awful as possible.

She smiled. "I think after wearing it for a couple of weeks, you might think so."

Well, I won’t be wearing it, I thought, but I reckon you’ll be regretting ordering the Maxi version straightaway — and you’ll never stop complaining about it. "Well, let’s just see how it goes," I said philosophically.

"Fine," she said. "I’ve got beauty treatments and hairdressing appointments taking up virtually all of tomorrow, but they’re all coming here, rather than us having to go to the salons."

It never ceased to amaze me how much beauty treatment Marianne thought she needed. I mean, she was incredibly good-looking, even with her minute tits. She simply did not need to spend so much time at the beauticians.

"All day!" I said. "That’s a hell of a lot of beauty treatment."

"Well, let's think," she said. She started to list the treatments on the fingers of her hand. "There's a complete leg and body wax; a full facial electrolysis; shaping eyebrows; a manicure with acrylic extensions; a pedicure; and a facial. We've then got a break which will give us time to put on the torsolet. After that, the hairdresser's coming at 4 pm; and finally the beautician is coming back at 6.30 to do a full make-up."

"Wow," I said, "that's pushing it, even for you."

"Don’t be stupid," she said, giving me a surprised look. "The treatments are not for me - they're for you."

"For me?" I couldn't understand what she was talking about. "Why should I need..."

Gulp! A terrible thought had just hit me. She could not be serious. Could she?

"Why are you looking so puzzled?" she said. "You agreed to it."

"Agreed? When did I agree to it?"

"When I showed you those pictures of men wearing the Pregnancy Torsolets," she said. "You said it was a brilliant idea and we should order one."

"Men? You showed me pictures of pregnant women, except you told me they weren't pregnant."

"And I also told you they weren't women," Marianne said.

Had she? I certainly couldn't remember that, but then I couldn't recall the actual words she'd used. "Marianne, you can't seriously be expecting me to wear this pregnancy simulator. I'd look ridiculous."

"Why on earth," she said, "do you think I took you to all those maternity shops asking which you clothes you preferred? You surely don't think I'd need to ask you about my clothes, do you?"

"Well..." That had puzzled me at the time.

"In any case," she gave me a little smile, changing her tactic to persuasion rather than attack, "I think you'll find that after the beauty treatments and putting on the torsolet, you will look exactly like lots of other pregnant women, and if you think that means looking ridiculous, then so be it."

To be honest, I was undergoing really mixed emotions at this stage. Obviously, I was appalled at the very idea of dressing up as a woman - I mean, any bloke would be, wouldn't he? Except that - well, my heart had started to pump like mad, and the idea was - I suppose I could say incredibly exciting. Just suppose I could...

"The idea is crazy," I said. "People would obviously suss me straightaway."

"And I'm telling you they won't," Marianne said. "After all, you didn't realise the pictures you saw were of men, not women."

Now I came to think of it, I did recall they looked quite butch.

"But if you really don't want to do it," she continued, "then I guess there's nothing for it but to call the whole thing off."

"No!" I realise I'd fallen right into her trap. She'd guessed all along that when I discovered what she was up to I would refuse - and then it would be my decision that meant she never became pregnant. I had to call her bluff. The fact that incredible excitement was racing around and around my brain at the very thought of it was irrelevant. I was going to do this for our not-yet-conceived child.

"I'll do it," I said. "I'll become a pregnant woman."

Marianne didn't look at all nonplussed that I'd called her bluff. Instead she said, "That's great, Paul. I am really pleased you're going to join the pudding club."

And she sounded it as well, so perhaps I'd misjudged her.

I was feeling incredibly embarrassed as we waited for Marianne's beautician, Tracey to arrive, but she was so understanding, it all quickly slipped away.

"I think it's really considerate of you," she gushed (she was a very gushing person). "I can't imagine my boyfriend going through that to make me feel easier about getting pregnant. Marianne doesn't know how lucky she is."

"Yes she does," Marianne's voice came from behind us, having silently re-entered the room after switching on the kettle. "I think it's really sweet of Paul to do this for me. But I'm just so uneasy about giving up my career at this time. Anyway, let's see how these next couple of weeks go. Do you want Paul to strip down to his trunks?"

Marianne had already warned me to put on my swimming trunks beneath my trousers.

"Yes please." She gave me a smile. "Get ready for the journey of your life - from red-blooded male to nine-month-pregnant woman in just a few hours."

I gave a sickly smile and started to pull off my tee-shirt.

"See you again," Tracey said with a chuckle, several hours later. "Or at least, I'll see Marianne again quite shortly, but I shan't be seeing you, Paul, for a quite while. Good luck."

"Thanks, Tracey," I said with a grin. I'd really got to like her as she'd applied herself to making me more beautiful, and there'd been absolutely no embarrassment at all, apart from my frequent erections making themselves noticeably visible beneath my trunks. I really couldn't understand it. Why should I have an erection when I realised how smooth my newly-waxed legs felt? I was turned on by them, for goodness sake, as though they were really the shapely legs of some sexy woman. Actually, it was amazing just how shapely they were, but I'd never even noticed that before.

It was even worse when Tracey finished my nails, and I held up my hands before me and saw those bright red talons. OK, Tracey had not made them all that long, but God, they felt erotic! Of course, I then had difficulty handling anything at all, and that included trying to adjust the position of my massive hard-on. Tracey and Marianne laughed at my discomfort, and teased me in a good-natured way, but then they were good enough to turn their backs for a few seconds whilst I readjusted myself, trying not to pierce my genitals with my nails as I did so.

With Tracey gone, it was time to start the major part of my transformation - putting on the torsolet. I've already mentioned that it looked exactly like the torso of a pregnant woman, but with the arms, legs and head cut off. Of course, in reality it was a skin-coloured leotard with the breasts and stomach padded out by liquid-filled membranes. The realistic looking vagina unfastened between the legs like a gusset, enabling the torsolet to be slid over the head and pulled down the body.

"First we have to apply the gel," Marianne told me. "Otherwise, you'd perspire as though you were in a Turkish bath." She had a large plastic tub of red gel, and she slipped a disposable plastic glove over her right hand, before dipping it into the tub and then smearing liberal quantities over my torso, from my neck just beneath the chin right down to the top of my trunks.

"Do you want me to take them off," I offered, knowing full well what would be springing out at her as soon as she did so. After the morning's events, I felt incredibly randy, and I was hoping that Marianne had arranged for Tracey to disappear in order to take full advantage of my last moments of being a man.

"I think we'd better hold that bit in reserve for the time being," Marianne said. "Let's get the torsolet over your head and down your body as far as your trunks."

It was made of quite stretchy material, and although there was a narrow, high neck which came right under the chin, it slipped easily over my head, and then I could push my arms through the armholes and Marianne pulled it down my body. I looked down.

Jesus! What a pair of knockers! Fancy carrying those around all day long.

Enormous nipples, like large, ripe, red grapes. But beneath them, protruding even further than my breasts was my stomach. It distended outwards like a huge cushion. Only, I now realised, there was a huge difference between stuffing a cushion up your sweater to simulate pregnancy, and wearing this Pregnancy Torsolet. The sheer extra weight felt like carrying a sack of sand strapped to my waist. I staggered a little, unused to the difference in balance.

"Get used to it," Marianne said, "and think yourself lucky. You only have two weeks like this. I'd have nine months of it."

I suppose I could have argued that for most of pregnancy, her weight increase would be nothing like as big, and that in any case, she'd chosen the Maxi Pregnancy model, so this was far heavier than she would be likely to suffer, even towards the end. Instead, I was wondering how the hell I was going to manage carrying this load around for the rest of the day, never mind for weeks. And if I had to give up, that would mean the end of any hope of Marianne becoming pregnant.

"We'd better get to the bit you've been waiting for all morning," she said. "Pull your trunks down and let's have a look at what we've got to try to stuff between your legs."

"Yes please." I'd been rock hard all morning, but the effect of seeing those knockers on my chest had given my prick the characteristics of a rod of steel.

"My, you are enjoying this, aren't you?" Marianne said, admiringly. "We'll have to do it more often."

I certainly didn't dissent from that idea.

"I think you'd better lie on your back," she said, "there's no way I want your weight on top of me. In fact I'm not enamoured with having sex with a man who looks like a pregnant woman.

"It's OK," she added as she sensed my horror, "but I'll turn my back on you, if you don't mind."

She did too, slipping off her shoes, jeans and panties, and then squatting over my bump facing my feet, and slowly sliding down it like a kid tobogganing down a snow drift.

"Mmm, you are hard," she murmured, as she eased herself onto my rod of iron. She leant backwards so her back curved around my bump, her hair tickling my chest.

"Oooh!" I grunted. That manoeuvre was certainly pushing my prick at a funny angle. Not exactly painful, but certainly not as pleasant as entering Marianne's cunt usually was.

"Mmm, that is good," she said, using her legs to push herself up my bump, and then sliding down again - and again - and again.

And so we both eventually came to orgasm - hers a crashing one that took her onto Cloud Nine; mine an urgent pumping, ejaculating gallons of semen, relieving my frustration, but without very much pleasure. I only hoped that was not to be the measure of things to come for the next two weeks.

"We have to work quickly, now," she said, slipping another disposable glove over her hand, dipping it into the tub of gel, and then lathering it all over my stomach and groin. When I obligingly turned over to kneel before her, she rubbed it over my buttocks, and between my legs.

Then, she took hold of my cock and slid it into a pocket on the inside of the gusset, and reached between my legs from behind and took the gusset in her hand.

"Say goodbye to your manhood," Marianne said, and pulled it hard back between my legs.

"Yeaow!" I screamed, for an instant doubled up with pain, but by the time I'd thought about it, the sensation of pain in my testicles was just a memory, and when I felt down where they should be, I had a hairy slit.

"That's right," Marianne said. "You now have a vagina. You'll be able to spread your legs, lay back and think of England."

But it wasn't just my replacement vagina that was unexpected; there was another sensation. I reached my hand up to cup my huge dangling breast.

"I can feel my breast," I said.

"Of course you can," Marianne said. "You're holding it in your hand."

"No, no," I said. "I meant my breast can feel my hand squeezing it."

I ran my other hand over my bump. "I can feel my hand tickling my stomach."

"They said in the blurb something about the torsolet having Sensotouch," Marianne said. "I thought they were bulling so I didn't bother with the adjustable version, which cost a lot more. I simply ordered the static one with sensitivity set to maximum.

"Ooh!" I gasped, as I rolled my grape-sized nipple between forefinger and thumb. "That was half painful and half erotic."

"Then you know how I feel when you do it to me," she said. "When you've stopped playing with yourself, do you want to stand up and we'll look at you properly in the mirror?"

"Bloody hell!" I said.

"Jipes!" Marianne said.

"It's good, isn't it?" I said.

"I'd never even guess you were a man," she said, "except for your haircut, and we'll sort that out later. Add a bit of make-up and you would fool anyone."

She was right. This was no man disguised as a pregnant woman facing me in the mirror. It was a pregnant woman. The fact was brought forcibly home to me just a few seconds later when I got a kick in the stomach.

"Jesus!" I gasped. "What was that?"

"I would guess that," Marianne said with a great deal of satisfaction, "was your baby giving you a firm kick, just to remind you she's always there."

"Bloody hell, I thought I was just going to wear a bulge," I said. "I didn't know it would have a football player inside. How often does it happen?"

"How should I know?" She was quite unsympathetic. "One of the reasons these things are so expensive is that they include little treats like your baby kicking you."

At last, I realised, I was beginning to understand what being pregnant was all about.

"What time did you say the hairdresser is arriving?" I asked.

"Just time for you to make yourself half decent," she said. "Let's get you fitted into a bra."

Marianne had brought several different bra sizes, and we'd spent quite a long time in trial and error before Marianne decided I was a 42-DD. She seemed to think that was an abhorrent measurement, whilst I, of course, thought it was superb.

The hairdresser came and spent ages on a completely restyle, and I now sported short, spiky, coppery-coloured hair. Afterwards, Tracey, the beautician, had returned and spent a long time with me experimenting upon the best shades of make-up to use. Then, she'd spent even longer showing me how to expertly apply it, until I became quite competent at making-up my own face.

When she'd left, Marianne produced a pack of pills. "Take one of these and let it rest on the back of the tongue until it melts," she said, "then swallow it."

"What is it?" I asked, always nervous of pills.

"They're voice-changer pills," she said. "They came with the Torsolet. They say they increase the tension in your voice chords in the same way as helium gas does. Take one of these twice a day, and you'll sound just like a woman."

I was highly suspicious, but I took one all the same. When I swallowed it, it felt as though my throat was being burnt away, but afterwards, my voice had certainly increased in pitch. I may not have sounded like many women I knew, but I certainly didn't sound like a man.

"The instructions say you need to practice," Marianne said. "I guess you'll have plenty of that. Now let's go upstairs."

She took me into the guest room, where she'd been assembling her collection of maternity outfits.

"What would you like to wear tonight, darling?" she asked, pointing to the clothes she'd spread over the bed.

"Um, well, I'm not really sure," I squeaked. It all seemed so complicated. As a bloke, I simply put on whatever came to hand, but I knew the time that Marianne spent deciding upon an outfit, and then changing her mind when she had it on, then trying on another one - and so on. "What do you suggest?"

She smiled. "I really think you have to learn to make up your own mind as a woman," she said. "Now is the best time to experiment a little."

"How about that dress?" I pointed at what I thought was probably the prettiest of the dresses she'd bought.

"That's a lovely dress," she said. "Absolutely wonderful for sitting outside in the garden on a warm evening like this."

She glanced out the window as she did so, and my eye followed hers out to the garden below, where our neighbours on both sides were taking advantage of a warm spring evening.

"Er, no," I hurriedly said. "Perhaps it would be better if we didn't sit outside tonight. How about that pretty dress?" I pointed to a rather more formal dress.

"That's a super choice," Marianne said. "Put that on and we can go out for a meal at that new Italian restaurant."

"Er, no," I said. "What about that skirt..." I pointed, "with that top?"

Marianne only had to say one word. "Dancing."

"Well, what then?"

Another smile. "Well, darling, if we're going to stay inside on a warm night like this, perhaps that simple matching floral top with the flared skirt?"

"Er, right," I said.

"It will go nicely with these wonderful heels you suggested," she added, picking up the red shoes from the floor.

"Oh!"

"Of course, if you're wearing those shoes, you simply must wear stockings to go with them..." she opened a drawer and pulled out a new pack, "and of course a suspender belt and matching panties. Perhaps a little formal for a quiet evening with just the two of us, but I do know how much you enjoy stockings and suspenders."

She left me to get dressed.

In fact, far from setting me up, as I suspected she was doing, she used the whole of the evening to coach me in the intricacies of being a woman.

"Learn to walk properly with your tallest heels," she told me, "and you'll be able to walk like a woman in any heels."

In fact, Marianne had to undergo a learning process as well, as she simply wasn't aware of the difficulties of how a woman moved with a 40 pound weight strapped to her stomach. There was a lot of trial and error, but by the end of the evening, I not only felt totally exhausted, I could waddle about fairly realistically like a pregnant woman; I could sit and, usually with a bit of help, stand up again. My voice started to sound more like a woman and we both felt I would probably pass without difficulty as a pregnant woman.

"That went fairly well, didn't it," I said to Marianne as I removed my top and skirt. I twisted around to undo my suspenders and slid my panties down my legs. Finally, I released my bra and let my huge tits swing free, bouncing against each other, delightfully quivering as they did so.

"How do I take off the torsolet?" I asked.

"Take it off?" Marianne said, a note of puzzlement in her voice. "You're wearing it for two weeks, not just for one evening."

"Yes but," I said, "I'll put it on again tomorrow, but I can't sleep with this weight strapped on me."

"Well you'd better get used to sleepless nights," Marianne said, "because that gel is an adhesive which will last for the whole two weeks. The torso is bonded to your skin until then, so there's no popping it on or off when you get fed up. You are a pregnant woman, so as they say, you can like it or lump it." She grinned at the pun which I failed to find at all humorous. "As you probably now realise, that's what pregnant women have to do all the time."

"But," I paused, uncertain how to put the question. Marianne could be tricky sometimes. "What about sex?"

"Darling, didn't you realise?" Marianne said. "Pregnant women do not have male genitals. Yours are safely tucked up inside the torsolet, which is all glued in place. They won't be coming out to play for the next fortnight!"

Shit! Shit! Shit! I smiled and said nothing.
The baby kicked me at regular intervals all through the night, and I barely slept a wink. Why the hell had I agreed to this? (Only if Marianne asks, I never said that, OK?)

To make up for my sleepless night, Marianne uncharacteristically fetched me a cup of tea after the alarm went off at seven. As always when you can't sleep all through the night, I then fell into a deep sleep and she almost had to pull me out of bed and push me in the shower in order for us to get off by nine-thirty.

Author's Notes: To those of you around the world who may not understand the derivation or even the meaning of "Up the Khyber" in the alternative title, I should explain that it's a phrase of Cockney Rhyming Slang, created in the 19th century to enable London street traders to talk cryptically in front of their customers. Typically, the slang comprises two associated words, such as butcher's hook, Bristol City, Berkshire Hunt or Khyber Pass. The word that was being hidden rhymed with the second of the two words, and usually - but not always - only the first was said.

So if you overhear someone say, "Have a butchers at those bristols," the translation is, "Have a butcher's (hook = look) at those Bristol (City = titty)s." It means they're admiring your breasts! I will leave the reader to work out the translation for: "That berk needs a kick up the khyber."

There are two interesting things about that last translation. Firstly, as (non-Cockney) kids, we often used the word "berk" in the hearing of our parents, with neither us nor them being aware of the real meaning! Secondly, depending upon the pronunciation of the word "Pass" associated with "Khyber", the slang conveniently provides the two words used on either side of the Atlantic for the same item. These Cockneys think of everything!