CHANGE HERE FOR MARILYN MONROE
By Charlotte Dickles

It was meant to be a walking holiday over the Easter Bank Holiday weekend, but somehow it got terribly confused with the Marilyn Monroe conference in the next town. Alec was not to know it, but those first few words of the announcement at Dorton Station might have been declared apocalyptic. "Change here for Marilyn Monroe..."

'Change here for Marilyn Monroe...' the announcement said, and the end of the announcement was virtually inaudible, as most people on the train stood up and started yelling to their travelling companions to get off the train quickly, before it pulled out of the station, whilst at the same time they hurriedly collected together their own assortment of baggage.

But for me, the Marilyn Monroe connection had started two hours and fifty-four minutes earlier: as the train had left Paddington Station.

***

I saw Marilyn Monroe as soon as I got on board the train. It had been a bit of a dash, caused because, as usual, Celia had left everything to the last moment. As the whistles blew, we'd had to sprint the last few yards along the platform, wheeling the two suitcases frantically behind us. We'd only come away for a few days, but somehow the suitcases weighed a ton. Of course, I was pulling Celia's suitcase, which was the heaviest of the pair, whilst she pulled my lighter one.

Anyway, we managed to get on the train, just before the doors slid shut, and the initial sight meeting my eyes was of Marilyn Monroe. She was sitting in the first row of seats facing the door, and from this distance, it was easy to see she hadn't stood up well to the passage of time. She had on a thick layer of make up, but even that couldn't really disguise the wrinkles that creased her face. She was wearing a bright red, low-cut dress, exposing breasts now just a fraction of their former size, with a texture like orange-peel.

But a quick calculation made me realise that the real Marilyn Monroe would have now been around eighty, even older than the woman in front of me. In any case, Marilyn had died back in the early sixties in either a tragic suicide or an equally tragic CIA assassination. Ergo, it was not the real Marilyn facing me, only some pathetic creature who wanted to be her. I mentally shrugged - and why not?

I realised I had been staring at her for some seconds, fortunately with an impassive face, but which I now allowed to break into a smile, which she returned. I was just about to turn my attention to getting the suitcase on the luggage rack, when a glance to the left revealed another Marilyn. She was much younger than the first, wearing a black, equally low-cut dress which exposed her boobs to perfection. OK, I rather suspected she was making full use of a gel-filled bra, but she still looked pretty gorgeous. The bra was pushing her boobs up so well, and the dress plunged so low, that I would swear I could just glimpse the top of her…

'If you've finished looking at the girls,' Celia's icy tone broke through my reverie, 'perhaps you could put my suitcase up on the rack.' She pointed to the top shelf. 'There's a space up there.'

Whilst I'd been Marilyn gazing, she had neatly slipped my own suitcase into the only empty baggage space at floor level, which meant I would have to give myself a hernia, lifting hers into the only other available space, on the top shelf. The task was made all the more difficult because the train had now started to move, and was crossing the points just beyond the platforms, lurching violently from side to side

'Celia,' I said, as she watched my struggles with some amusement, 'there are two Marilyn Monroes on this train.'

'Well if you look properly,' she said, 'you'll see there are dozens of them.'

'What?' I glanced along the compartment, and was so surprised to see a score of Marilyns, all watching me struggling with the suitcase, that I almost dropped it back onto the floor.

'What is this?' I asked, turning back to her. 'A Marilyn Monroe convention?'

'Of course,' she said, and promptly led the way up the aisle of the compartment towards our reserved seats.

After managing to get her suitcase in place, I walked up the aisle to join her, taking full pleasure, as I did so, in seeing more cleavage on that short walk than I had in the last year. Fortunately, our seats were facing the engine, so Celia now had her back to me and I could give the journey my full attention. Several Marilyns noticed my observations and instead of scowling at me, as appears to be the norm nowadays with modern woman, they gave me pleasant smiles. By the time I reached Celia, my heart was pounding in a way it hadn't done for some time, and I had to a work hard to prevent the smile on my face stretching from ear to ear.

Meanwhile, Celia was already deep in conversation with a Marilyn in a similar red dress to the one the old biddy at the end had been wearing - only on her it was so tight that her tits almost toppled out with every jiggle of the train. As I sat down opposite her, I mentally whistled. This was going to be a real tough journey.

***

The Marilyn Monroe convention was at the Grand Hotel in Seacombe, our informative Marilyn told us, and would commence with a dinner that evening, followed by two days of meetings, talks and discussions, ranging from Marilyn's choice of make up, to the "real" cause of her death. There would also be an exhibition, with plenty of suppliers selling Marilyn memorabilia and fashions.

All in all, I thought, an event to be well avoided, were it not for the abundance of cleavage - not that we were likely to go into Seacombe, anyway. Celia and I had planned to spend the few days over Easter at a holiday cottage, about fifteen miles inland and at the start of a beautiful wooded valley from which a myriad of public footpaths led through some of the most beautiful countryside you have ever seen.

'You're going RAMBLING!' Marilyn exclaimed in horror, as though we'd confessed to boiling children in oil.

'Alec really loves it,' Celia said, 'but he's always coming away on holiday to places where I want to go. I thought that this Easter, we should go on the kind of holiday he enjoys. And it's only for the long weekend. I'm back at work on Wednesday.'

It was a shame she hadn't been able to get Good Friday off as well, I thought. Travelling on the Saturday not only meant we missed a day's walking, it also meant the trains were even more crowded with holidaymakers. Marilyn gave a big sigh and her bosom heaved out the top of her dress again. I gave another mental shrug, I guess I could get used to that kind of inconvenience. Celia and Marilyn spent the rest of the journey nattering to each other, whilst I simply watched and admired Marilyn's heaving breasts.

I know that I haven't yet described Celia, and no doubt you're expecting that she's a well-built woman with breasts the size of melons. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, throughout my life I had never seemed to have much luck with those kinds of women.

In hindsight, I guessed that, when I was younger, I'd put off a lot of them. You see, I was never particularly subtle about the way I ogled women. Why would a woman, I had naively reasoned, expose her breasts to the public and then complain when some guy lets his tongue hang out as he innocently catches sight of them?

But women were imponderable. When Celia came to work in my department as a new graduate, she was simply a short, skinny kid, hard working and keen to learn from a middle manager who had rapidly risen through the grades in his first years in the company (ie me). She was clearly going places, and I wanted to help set her off in the right direction, so I really enjoyed mentoring her.

It was actually a complete surprise when she asked me one evening, after we'd spent several hours sorting out a problem on the production line, if I wanted to take a MacDonald's back to her place and fuck; at least, I'd had the presence of mind to say I preferred pizza. Six months later, we became Mr & Mrs Alec and Celia Smith, and a year after that, Celia had not only been moved sideways into Marketing, she'd also had two promotions.

Now she was Head of Marketing, and I, at the grand age of thirty-nine, had been made redundant! 'Don't worry,' she had said, 'on my salary, I can support us both until you get another job.'

In fact, that other job had never materialised. Oh, there had been one or two openings I could have taken, but usually it was Celia who had suggested waiting for something better. To be honest, I thought she probably got a buzz out of being the breadwinner in a reversal of conventional male/female roles. In return, I had become a reasonable house-husband, cooking the meals and cleaning the house, although I was never really comfortable doing that work, rather than having a "proper" job.

I was wakened from my reminiscing by the train, without warning, coming to a sudden halt at a station, and a loudspeaker on the platform blaring out its message immediately next to our window. It was so distorted that the first few words were lost, although I suspected they probably announced that, 'This is Dorton.'

The next few sentence had obviously been newly recorded: 'Change here for Marilyn Monroe Convention and all stations to Seacombe.'

The end of the announcement was virtually inaudible, as most people on the train stood up and started yelling to their travelling companions to get off the train quickly, before it pulled out of the station, whilst at the same time they hurriedly collected together their own assortment of baggage.

'Oops, I'd better get moving, too' Marilyn said, struggling to her feet.

Everyone headed for the doors, except that our Marilyn delayed them all by bending down to pull out her luggage from between the backs of the seats. There were mutterings from several passengers, anxious to get onto the platform before the train departed, but I was barely conscious of them for, in a gravity defying moment, her breasts stayed firmly embedded inside her dress whilst she bent double to reach an elusive cosmetic bag.

***

It was only after the train had left Dorton that my heartbeat returned to something approaching normal.

'Alec, you wouldn't like to go into Seacombe and see the convention, some time, would you?' Celia asked. 'It sounds quite interesting.'

I realised this was a trap. In the normal course of events, she wouldn't get me within one hundred miles of attending. If I admitted that I would prefer that to country walking, it would be a virtual admission that I was completely infatuated by the women I had just observed.

'Nah,' I said. 'Give me a nice walk in the country, anytime.'

'Shame,' she said. ' I thought you'd say that.'

***

Dorton Halt was only a twelve minute journey after leaving Dorton - one of those stations which would have been closed down decades ago, had the local MP not lived in the village. The train was now virtually empty, no one else was alighting there, and our bags were the only ones left on the rack, so our departure from the train was quite leisurely, compared with the frantic scrabble there'd been at Dorton.

Ten minutes later, we'd walked the short distance to our holiday cottage, found the key exactly where the owner had told us it would be, let ourselves in and started to explore.

'Alec. Are you alright, love?'

I turned to stare at her. It was unusual to hear such concern in her voice.

'Yes. Shouldn't I be?'

'Have you got diarrhoea, or something?'

'What are you talking about? I'm fine.'

'I don't think so. Look at the seat of your trousers.'

'What?' I twisted my body but couldn't see anything amiss, so I walked over to the mirror next to the front door, and peered at my arse.

'Shit!' The brown stain on my off-white trousers stretched from anus to thigh.

'That's what I thought, as well.'

'But I've been alright.' At least, I thought I had, but perhaps in my excitement, I really had shit myself. No. Surely not?

'You'd better go up and have a shower. I'll come straight up and dunk your clothes in water, and see if I can get the worst off. It would be shame to ruin those trousers.'

***

By the time I'd finished my shower, Celia had rinsed all my clothes in the washbasin, and was scrubbing the stain on my trousers, desperately trying to get it off.

'I'm sure it wasn't really shit,' I said, with some relief, as I wrapped a towel around my hips and tied it at the waist. 'There was nothing inside my pants. It must have been something I sat on in the train.'

'I was just coming to the same conclusion,' Celia said. 'This is more like brown sauce than shit. But I think it really has ruined your trousers, unless dry cleaning will get it out. I'll leave them soaking for now.'

'Never mind,' I said. 'Let me get into something clean, then at least I'll feel better.'

'I've washed everything you were wearing, but I've put your suitcase on the bed, so you can get something out of there.'

'Thanks,' I said, and then added, after unzipping the lid and flicking it back, 'I see your huge suitcase wasn't big enough for you, for just three days away from home. No wonder my suitcase felt so heavy. You've been packing your clothes in it, as well.'

'What are you talking...' Celia started to say, and then followed it with an, 'Oh!' as she stared at the selection of dresses and blouses bulging out the top of my suitcase.

'But that's impossible,' Celia said. 'I saw you pack your clothes in there last night.'

'And afterwards,' I added, 'you stuffed your own clothes on top because you couldn't get them in your own suitcase.'

'Well, when have you ever seen me wear a dress like this?' Celia said. ' She selected one from the top and held it up. A carbon copy of the black dress that several Marilyns on the train had been wearing!

CHAPTER TWO

I gawped at the sexy dress, with its low-cut front and startling slit up the side. Celia was right; she'd never worn anything like this before, but on the other hand, if she was prepared to give it a try, I'd be more than willing for her to convince me to attend the MM Convention.

'Well, perhaps you have some other explanation for it,' I said. 'This is my suitcase...'

'It isn't,' Celia said. 'Yours is much tattier than this one. Look, it's almost brand new.' She pointed to the pristine appearance of the outside.

'But my clothes MUST be in here underneath this lot,' I said, desperately rummaging beneath the top layer, and finding... More of the same!

'Shit! How did that happen?' I mumbled.

'At a guess, someone who got off at Dorton took your suitcase instead of hers. I noticed there was a very similar suitcase next to the space where I slotted yours. And at another guess, it was someone going to the MM Convention.'

'Hell! What am I going to wear? You'll have to lend me some jeans for tonight, Celia. Then I'm afraid that tomorrow morning, I'm going to send you off to Seacombe to buy me some clothes from Marks and Spencer's. You should be back here by lunchtime, so we could eat at the pub round the corner...' My voice faded away as Celia determinedly shook her head. 'Well, why not?'

'Firstly, I'm five feet-two inches high, size eight and you'll never get into my jeans, or anything else of mine for that matter. Secondly, tomorrow is Easter Sunday.'

I couldn't see the problem with that. 'So what?'

'So all shops are closed by law.'

'Closed! Hell, I thought this was supposed to be a secular nation. You mean you won't be able to buy any clothes for me until Monday? By the time you've got back here it will be lunchtime.'

'Afraid so.'

'And we're going back home on Tuesday. That means we're going to waste the entire holiday, stuck in the cottage, with me stark-bollock naked.'

'Let's see if there's anything in this suitcase you can wear. At least the woman who owns it looks a bit more your size - well, actually, it would difficult not to be. Anyway, perhaps we can find some of her jeans.'

But a quick rummage failed to reveal any jeans, and an item-by-item examination did the same. There were, however, several dresses and lots of frilly items of underwear, including a lace-up corset, which gave me quite a turn on. I'd always regretted that Celia never wanted to wear such garments, although with her figure, a corset was rather redundant.

'Look, there's a Marilyn wig, here,' Celia said, opening a green plastic bag and exposing Marilyn's curls. She put her hand inside in order to pull it out for inspection. 'At least we can... That's strange.'

She had pulled out the wig, but it looked as though the wig itself was bonded to a flesh-coloured garment.

'What is it?' I asked, thinking that Celia, being a woman, would know everything connected with clothes and make-up.

'I've no idea,' she said. She held it by the hair and let the rest of it fall down, so it hung between us.

'It's got a leotard attached to the wig,' I said. 'How strange.'

'More than a leotard,' Celia said, reversing the item so I could see it from the front.

I gawped, open-mouthed. 'It's got nipples and, er... pussy hair,' I stuttered, staring downwards. Surely, beneath the pussy hair, I could see a slit, and...

'Even more than that,' Celia said. 'It has a Marilyn face mask as well.' She pointed, forcing my eyes away from that pussy hair, and up to the mask.

'What the hell is it?'

'As a reasonable guess,' she said, 'I'd say it's a Marilyn disguise kit.'

She bent down to pick up an instruction leaflet that had dropped out when she let it unfold. She thrust the garment into my hands as she started to read, and I stared at the face staring blank-eyed back at me. I wondered whether I could let my left hand slip down to investigate the pussy area without Celia noticing.

'It's called a Torsolet,' she said, and started to read. ' "Be the size you want to be, depending upon your mood. Feeling shy? Then go for the little girl look. Want to get noticed? Then instantly become the biggest girl in town. So quick and simple to change, you can alter your breast and hip sizes in the cloakroom!" ' She read a little more, and then quoted, ' "Torsolet can now be combined with the full head mask of your favourite character, so you can instantly turn into him or her." '

She turned to look up at me, a beaming smile on her face. 'It must be your lucky day, Alec.'

'What are you talking about?' I asked, totally confused. 'It's the first day of our holiday and I've just lost my suitcase full of clothes and had them replaced with Marilyn Monroe's dresses and underwear. What am I going to wear for the next few days? I'll have to stay naked in the cottage all day, and you're saying it's my lucky day! You must be absolutely raving...'

I broke off as a thought hit me; an idea so extreme that surely Celia could never have conceived it; an idea so weird that I must immediately decry it as being totally stupid; an idea so exciting that I could feel my erection growing underneath my towel.

'Celia, you're not suggesting I put that thing on, are you?'

'There's no harm in giving it a try, is there? After all, there're only the two of us here. The thing is obviously miles too large for me to wear, and it would also give us a quick solution of what you're going to wear for the next few days.'

She looked at me standing naked in the bedroom, and added, 'Anyway, you must be cold, standing there with no clothes on. You can't remain like that until Monday afternoon. Why don't we give this a try? It will simply be a bit of fun, and it might provide a stopgap solution to your immediate problem.'

Actually, I wasn't at all cold - it was a comparatively warm evening. So why did I give a little shudder, as though I'd only just noticed how cold I was, and say, rather lamely, 'But I'd feel absolutely stupid putting on that thing, and there are no trousers in the suitcase. I'd have to wear one of those dresses, only they would never fit me. Have you noticed how narrow the waists are?'

'Let's cross that bridge when we come to it,' Celia said, and I knew that she'd also noticed the corset but was wisely keeping quiet about it. 'Hang on, let me read the instructions some more, and see how we get this thing on you.'

'I'm sure it won't fit a man,' I said, the flutter in my stomach hoping that I'd be wrong.

'No, that's alright,' Celia said, reading down the instructions. 'It says here quite clearly that it's a unisex item, so that won't be a problem. I can't see what we have to do with your dick, but that probably means we'll have to cut it off.'

She grinned at my horrified face. 'Only joking,' she said, 'apparently there's a little pocket for your goolies and dick to go in. So, let's get going.'

***

There was a pot of gel that I had to spread all over my face and hair, apart from the area around my eyes.

'It's to prevent sweat forming,' Celia said, reading some more. 'When we have the mask properly fitted over your head, we carefully apply a bit more gel right up to the edge of the eyes, and on the eyelids, and then smooth it all down, but taking care not to get any in your eyes.

'After that, we spread the gel over your torso, and then pull the leotard down your body, and fasten it between your legs.'

'What about my prick?' I asked.

She looked down at the bulge pushing through the towel. 'I think we'll have to get over that hurdle when we come to it,' she said.

The words sent another shiver down my spine. Hell I was feeling randy. I'd got a hard-on, the like of which I hadn't had for ages. You see, to be honest, our sex life hadn't been that exciting recently. Well actually, to be really honest, our sex had comprised little more than a few mild thrusts followed by a couple of tiny squirts, and that not more than twice in the last month. If Celia was going hurdle climbing this evening, she was going to get one hell of a surprise.

Anyway, we applied the gel in stages, as directed, starting with my head and neck. The mask was certainly a tight fit as it went over my head, and it was all a bit claustrophobic for a second. But then Celia got the mouth, nose and eyes lined up, and I realised the mask was of such thin material it was just like a second skin, and I started to feel OK. Celia spent a bit of time with a small brush, lifting the edge of the mask around the eyes and carefully brushing gel onto my eyelids and around the edges of the eyes.

After that, I spread the gel over the rest of my torso down as far as my goolies, and we started the next phase, which was much more difficult. You see, the leotard really wasn't big enough for me. Getting my left arm through the one armhole was alright, but as soon as I tried to push in my right arm, I realised it was all so tight my shoulders were never going to fit inside. Damn!

'Come on,' Celia said. 'You need to push a bit harder.'

'It's too small,' I said. 'I'm frightened of tearing it.'

'The instructions say it's almost impossible to tear, and not to worry about that,' she said. 'Now come on, don't be such a wimp.'

That was all the encouragement I needed. God knows how we were going to explain it to the owner if it did tear, but if Celia was game, then I certainly was. I forced my right arm as hard as I could into the stretchy material, until finally the arm popped through the armhole with a rush. It was incredibly tight across my shoulders, but that had the advantage of pulling my rather broad shoulders together, and making them appear much smaller than they really were.

'Help me pull it down your body,' Celia said, grabbing a bundle of material at front and back, and pulling it down for all her worth. I grabbed it at the sides and did the same, wriggling from side to side a bit to ease its passage. Slowly, we forced it down to my waist - it was all a bit like trying to force a tiny condom over a barely erect cock - the effect was to squeeze my body so tightly, I could hardly breathe, but at the same time, it was slimming me down substantially.

Surprisingly, after we'd passed my waist, it wasn't quite so tight on me - I guess because in spite of being a unisex garment, it was really sized for a woman with her wide hips and big bum. Finally, we had it down to the point where it was resting against the shaft of my throbbing cock, and we were both staring at the obstacle with the same interest. Poor old Celia hadn't seen it like this for weeks, and to be honest, neither had I - not with the veins standing so proud, purple and throbbing.

'We need to fit that monster inside this little pocket,' Celia said, reading the instructions some more, and pointing to the flap hanging down from the front of the leotard with the pussy hair on the front, which I'd found so fascinating earlier.

'I don't think it's going to go in its present state,' I said. 'Do you think...'

I broke off as Celia read something in the instruction leaflet and interjected. 'Oh, before we do that, we have to inflate you,' she said.

'Inflate me?'

'Of course. Didn't you hear me say earlier? Look, you've virtually got the thing on, and it's slimmed you down beautifully.' She gave an admiring glance, which made me preen myself a little. 'But you can hardly claim to have a Marilyn Munroe figure, can you?'

That had been puzzling me a little, as well, but it all became clear as Celia continued.

'We inflate your breasts and buttocks with water. Hang on...' She reached underneath my prick, slightly brushing my testicles (which nearly made me ejaculate), and then as she withdrew her hand she was pulling out a length of plastic pipe.

'There.' She smiled. 'We connect this to the water tap and force water inside the Torsolet...' She stopped speaking as she read some more. 'Oh, we need to find the remote control that goes with this, and which enables us to direct the water to your bust or your hips.'

She rummaged in the original bag and pulled out a black remote. 'This will be it. Now...' She studied the instruction book some more, and then fiddled around, connecting the plastic pipe to the tap on the washbasin, and keyed several digits into the remote, whilst pointing it at the leotard. Finally, she turned on the tap, and turned to me.

'OK, we're ready to start inflating you. But first, slip on this bra so we can get your size right.'

I'd been wondering when the instruction would come, and also wondering what the reaction of my prick would be. A quick glance down revealed that, if anything, it was even harder, more purple, and throbbing even more violently.

'I really must not come,' I thought. 'That would totally give the game away.'

Fortunately, no such event happened, even as I obediently slipped my arms through the garment Celia held out for me and turned so she fasten it at the back.

'Hmm, it's quite a good fit on you,' Celia said.

'I don't think so,' I said, glancing downwards at the bra cups, which flapped loosely over my leotard-encased chest.

'I meant the back fits well,' Celia said. 'But let's start inflating you now,' and she pressed a button on the remote.

P-s-s-h-h-h. My breasts stated inflating under the pressure from the tap.

'Wow!' I stared at them as they grew bigger. They had looked rather strange in their uninflated form, but as they gathered size, I was captivated at seeing a pair of tits grow before my eyes.

Thirty seconds later, my two large, beautiful breasts filled my bra cups to perfection.

'That is really impressive,' Celia said. 'I never realised just how incredibly realistic they can make artificial breast look nowadays. I might try one of these myself, someday.'

As for me, I couldn't bring myself to speak. Never had I been so close to such a lovely pair of tits, an event I had wanted above all else throughout my life. Now they were mine to play with as much as I wanted. But not whilst Celia was looking at my appearance so critically.

'Let's get your bum inflated now,' she said. A few more presses on the remote and my hips had grown, and my bum was wobbling behind me.

'Not bad,' she said, with not a little admiration in her tone. 'Now, I think it's time to do something about that,' she pointed at my prick, 'before we move onto the next stage of proceedings.'

I eyed her tentatively. I thought she might not be beyond giving it a huge smack to bring it to order. 'Do you want me to go and, er...'

'I want you on your back on the floor,' she said with a smile. 'Do you think I'm going to allow that to go to waste?'

She didn't! She fucked me.

***

That last remark needs a little clarification. You see, until about a year ago, when things started to go off between us, we hadn't simply had sex - we'd always made love. It had been all about giving the other pleasure, rather than ourselves. We'd laughed and we'd joked, we'd tickled each other and excited each other, and got our own enjoyment out of pleasuring the other. We'd been like that right up until the time when I lost my job, after which everything seemed to go rather flat - in all senses of the word.

So when I say that Celia fucked me, it was something totally different and unexpected. She hurriedly pushed me to the ground, and then frantically pulled down her jeans, her shoes coming off inside the trouser legs, as she tried to pull her feet through without waiting to remove them properly.

Then she was stepping astride my legs, and lowering herself down on top of me. Now the pure physiology of someone Celia's size taking a reasonably-sized cock inside her small pussy meant that she had to stretch her legs wide open, and she did this in her usual way. She spread her knees as wide as possible; in this case forcing them apart even wider with her hands as she lowered herself down, impaling herself onto my huge, throbbing organ. There was nothing unusual about that, except that, for ages, I hadn't had such a huge organ, throbbing so hard I thought it would burst.

But what happened then was unusual. For she shut her knees tightly together, clamping my cock inside her tiny cunt like a walnut inside the nutcrackers.

'Bloody hell, you're tight!'

She smiled through gritted teeth. 'Yes. I am aren't I?' She felt behind her back, so she could rest her hands on my knees, picked up her left foot from where it was resting on the floor next to my chest and deliberately placed it on my chest between my newly acquired tits, taking the full weight of her lower body onto it. Then she lifted the right leg, moved it right next to the left one and crossed her ankles, forcing her thighs even closer together.

'Fuck, that's good,' she said, as she started working herself up and down on top of me.

It was obviously doing things for her, but there was no pleasure in it for me.

'Open your legs,' she commanded.

'You first,' I said. 'You're a bit tight on me...'

'Just do as you're told,' she said, moving her crossed feet along my chest until they were pushing under my chin, and forcing my head back, and to the side. 'I don't want you to come until I'm ready for it.'

Well, that was a bit of a dig about me doing that too often in recent months. I could hardly blame her for wanting to take more control, and with her feet in my face, I couldn't even open my mouth to protest, so I obediently opened my legs.

'Wider,' she ordered, grasping my wrists in her hands. 'I want to be able to slip backwards between them.'

'Go careful,' I said, slightly spreading my knees further apart, all too aware that when she slipped backwards between my legs, she'd be taking my prick with her.

'Oh for fuck's sake,' she said, and pushed me hard under the chin with her feet. Short of gaining a dislocated neck, I had to open my knees wide apart, allowing her to move right back.

'Aaghh!' I'd been right about the pain when my erect prick was forced to point down towards my toes. And somewhere between our two bodies, my balls were being compressed, then released, compressed, then released, as Celia pulled herself onto me.

'Don't be such a baby,' she said, alternately pulling on my arms, then pushing me away with her feet under my chin, her nutcracker cunt working hard on my prick. By now, my prick should have been turned into mince-meat, but there was no doubt it was a glutton for punishment, for there was no sign of my erection disappearing with the intense pain it was under.

'Oh God! Yes' Celia shouted. 'Hell that's fucking good! Yes! Yes! Y-e-e-e-s!'

It continued like that for about ten minutes, with Celia exhibiting ever increasing signs of imminent orgasm, before the feet disappeared from beneath my chin, and Celia was pulling herself upright again and - oh that was good - spreading her legs wide. Suddenly, from being in hell, my prick had entered heaven. Celia was lifting herself slightly, and then sliding down my prick; lifting herself, and then sliding down...

'Oh shit! I'm coming,' I yelled.

'Yes! Yes! Yes!' we both yelled at the tops of our voices, and I could feel great dollops of cum squirting inside her. Squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt...

Finally, I was empty.

CHAPTER THREE

'That WAS good,' Celia said, as she went to the bathroom.

'Yes,' I said, although for me it had been only a few seconds of pleasure before I'd had that incredibly intense orgasm. 'What about fastening the bottom of the leotard?'

'It's done,' she called from the bathroom. 'I did it whilst you were still coming down from your ecstasy.'

And I thought she had just been playing with my prick!

I looked down, beyond my flattened breasts, past my flat tummy to...

Nothing! Well, there was pubic hair there, but there was nothing protruding from the centre of it, as there always had been until now. I gaped at the transformation. I'd expected it to be bloody uncomfortable, but it wasn't. I slipped my hand down there and let my finger feel my slit.

Unexpectedly, it felt nice. How could that be? I had a vagina made out of plastic in place of my cock and it felt nice. I let my finger enter my slit. Mmm. Yummy!

'I hope you aren't going to finger yourself all evening. We have to get you dressed.'

Celia's voice cut through my thoughts.

And dressed I was - although firstly I had to be prepared. No wonder Celia' suitcase was so heavy, she'd brought away a ton of beauty products, not only including loads of leg wax (I mean, why on earth would a woman take leg wax away with her on a walking holiday?) but also this UV machine which she used to bond false nails onto my own. At first, I thought I was going to have nails about one inch long, because that was the full length of the nails she originally stuck onto me.

'Stop complaining,' she said, when I protested about their length. 'Women have to go through these things in order to look feminine. Now, let's get on with waxing your hairy arms and legs.'

All I can say is, thank God my goolies were safely tucked away by then. If they hadn't been, she'd have waxed those as well, and that would probably have been more painful than having them ripped from my body!

Whilst I was recovering from my waxing, she turned her attention back to my nails, cutting them down so they were just flush with the end of my fingers - still about half inch longer than I was used to, but at least they didn't look tarty. Then she gave them a coat of varnish, and I had to hold them still whilst they dried.

Only then did Celia turn her attention to my clothes - no wonder that women take so long to dress!
The corset went on first - Celia fastened it around my tummy and then drew in the cords with a firm pull. It was nothing like the tight lacing you hear about, where the victims pass out with pain - no, this was simply a few firm pulls which changed my already slim figure into a quite delicious one.

Then Celia was pulling stockings over my toes, and up my legs and fastening them to the suspenders on the corset.

'Did Marilyn wear suspenders?' I asked. I was no Marilyn Monroe expert, but I couldn't remember ever seeing photographs of her in them.

'I'm not certain,' Celia said. 'But bear in mind, suspenders were on the way out in her hey-day. I'm quite certain that if she was alive today, she definitely would wear them. Anyway, the owner of this suitcase patently thinks she would, and she's probably a bigger expert on the subject than either of us two.'

I had to concede that point. In any case, I could hardly tell Celia what an incredible turn-on the suspenders were for me.

'And I think,' Celia continued, 'that Marilyn certainly would wear satin panties.'

She held them up for inspection, and I tried not to gasp with delight.

A few minutes later, and I was fully dressed in one of Marilyn's black dresses, with black shoes to match. Celia pulled me in front of the mirror.

'What do you think?' she said.

What I thought could never be confessed to Celia. 'Well, I suppose I really do look something like Marilyn Monroe,' I admitted, as though it was of academic interest to me. 'Although far taller than she was.'

'Well, you are taller than she was and we're not going to change that,' Celia said. 'But I think it's an unbelievable transformation. I'm surprised you're not more thrilled.'

'The face is terrific,' I said, 'and those boobs look so real. I guess most people would accept me as a reasonable Marilyn look-alike, as long as they don't get too close,' I admitted.

'Great! That's what I hoped you'd say,' Celia said. 'Let's go out.'

'OUT? You mean out into the road? You must be joking!'

'Well, let's just go out into the front garden,' she said. 'After all, it's hardly as though we're stepping into Oxford Street.'

It was true that only an occasional car passed down the lane outside, and there were even fewer pedestrians. And it was also true that I really wanted to step outside, looking for all the world like a woman. Dare I walk into the lane, I wondered. The way that Celia was pushing me, there would be no option.

'OK, but just into the front garden,' I conceded.

'It's a deal,' Celia said, but in the mirror I could see she was crossing her fingers!

***

'You're doing really well - you're not nervous at all, are you?'

I admitted that I was, indeed, doing reasonably well. I'd allowed myself to be led out into the lane, and we'd walked a hundred yards along it, tottering slightly on my two-inch heels. They hadn't looked particularly high, before I put them on - the typical height that Celia would wear to work - but now my ankles were aching like mad.

'Can we go back to the cottage, now? My ankles are starting to hurt. I need to sit down.'

'Heavens! We've covered hardly any distance, and don't forget you're always trying to persuade me into heels at least twice as high as these.' It was a valid argument, and in the light of experience, I realised I had perhaps been a little hard on her. 'Anyway, if you want to sit down, it will be far shorter to walk round the corner to the pub, than it will to walk back to the cottage.'

'Walk to the pub? Are you out of your mind? I can't go in the pub like this.'

'I don't see why not.' She pointed up the side lane, where we could see a pleasant looking pub. 'I think it's the kind of pub where unaccompanied women can go in without too much hassle.'

'Evening, girls.' The voice came from behind us and we both swivelled around. Reluctantly, I had to acknowledge that the bloke eyeing me up from tit to toe must have followed us all along the road.

'Evening,' Celia said. 'We were just debating going into the pub. Is it alright in there? Do they do bar snacks?'

'They certainly do,' he said, 'and they pull a good pint of bitter too.'

Well I knew that already, as it was one of the items I'd researched before picking on our holiday cottage: three local real ales, plus a guest ale.

'Don't even think about beer,' Celia said under her breath, so that the departing male wouldn't hear. 'That would be most unfeminine.'

'In any case, I've told you, I can't go inside,' I protested. 'I'd be rumbled.'

'Tumbled more like,' Celia said with a grin, 'if you're not careful. With a cleavage like yours, I don't think anyone is going to guess that you're not all female.'

'Well in that case,' I said, in a sudden burst of courage which surprised even me, 'I'll have a beer.'

'OK, just a half, then. Agreed?'

And we went inside.

***

I'd never have guessed what it was like to be on the receiving end of all those male stares as two unaccompanied women enter a pub. I'd always assumed it must be great to be admired by so many people who wanted to have sex with you, but that was when I presupposed that women wanted sex as much as men do.

When you are terrified that a man might try to chat you up, or even worse, touch you up, pinch your bottom or, horror of horrors, rub his prick against you as he pushes past, it's an entirely different feeling. I can tell you, I was scared stiff, but Celia seemed to take it in her stride. I guessed she must be well used to the feeling.

***

An hour later, we'd been fed, and I had two halves of the local ale sitting inside me. Normally, a pint was the sort of quantity that would have been just a warm up for serous drinking later on, but this evening it was as much as I could take. I guessed the corset was limiting the space available for temporarily storing such thirst-quenchers, until I'd had chance to rid myself of them.

'I need to go to the toilet,' I said, standing up.

'I'll come with you,' Celia said, picking up her handbag.

I was about to say there was no need, before the realisation struck. This would be no leisurely stroll to the men's room, where I'd unzip my fly, point my dick into the urinals, piss, wash my hands and then speedily return back to where the drink awaited. Instead, I'd have to go to the Ladies, where women spend hours touching up their make-up and nattering to each other. If they need to pass water, that would take at least an extra half hour. And if anyone tried to talk to me, I'd be sunk without trace.

'Er, right,' I said, and I followed her into a side corridor, and then into the Ladies toilet. There was no one there.

'We'd better use that one,' Celia said, pointing towards the larger cubicle, for disabled customers.

We went inside and shut and bolted the door.

'Does this thing come off?' I asked her.

'No need,' she said. 'You can simply sit down and let your waters flow.'

I was surprised. 'You sure? It sounds a bit unhygienic.'

'Well, we women have to do that all the time.'

'No, I meant... Oh never mind.'

I pulled my satin panties down my legs and sat down, and let go.

'Phew! That's good.'

'It also means you don't splash all over the seat or the floor, as you normally do,' Celia, rather bitchily added.

I could have argued, but I thought she probably had a point. It was certainly far more convenient sitting down like this. The thought surprised me, and I smiled slightly.

'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

I considered Celia's question, and thought it might be acceptable to admit the truth. 'Well, yes. I am actually. It's quite exciting, not knowing whether I'm going to get found out. The biggest problem is my voice - I wish I could make it sound a bit more feminine.'

'You can. I read something in the instruction leaflet about a built-in voice synthesiser. If we've finished here, why don't we go back to the cottage and have another read?'

***

Sure enough, there was a voice synthesiser connected to a throat mike. All I had to do was to speak in a whisper, whilst Celia made adjustments to the synthesiser using the remote. Within minutes, there was a very passable Marilyn voice speaking as I spoke.

'Pretty good, eh?' Celia said. 'You sound just like Marilyn.'

'I sure do, honey,' I quipped back.

'That's alright then. It means we can get on with my plan, tomorrow morning.'

'Er, plan? We haven't talked about a plan - apart from rambling that is, and I'm certainly not equipped for that.'

'Oh!' Celia looked a bit evasive. 'I thought I discussed it with you at the pub, but perhaps I didn't.'

'So what IS the plan?'

'Well, I thought that rather than waiting until we can go to the shops on Monday, we could visit the Marilyn Monroe Convention tomorrow, and see if we could hook up with the woman who accidentally swapped suitcases with you.'

'You mean, not just you going on your own. You mean ME going with you into Seacombe?'

'Sure. Why not? You have the looks. You have the voice. What's the problem?'

Wow! Going into a country pub dressed as Marilyn Monroe was one thing - but going to a Marilyn Monroe convention - well that was quite another.

Celia was watching my reaction. 'What do you think? At least, you haven't dismissed it out of hand, which I thought you might.'

Privately, it both terrified me and excited me like nothing I'd previously experienced. But I had to continue to be circumspect in front of Celia. 'No, I haven't dismissed it out of hand. Obviously, you're trying to get me back into my normal clothes as soon as you can, which is great, but surely someone at the convention will suss me for what I am.'

'You mean someone will suspect you're not the real Marilyn Monroe?'

'Yes. I mean no... You know what I mean.'

'Look,' she said, 'there are going to be hundreds of Marilyn impostors at the convention. I don't think anyone is going to notice an extra one.'

'But when we find our woman,' I persisted, 'she'll have opened the suitcase and realised she has swapped with a man.'

'So what? She will probably be wearing your clothes, and I suspect, she'll be more than ready to swap them back for her own. We could go back to her hotel and change there.'

'Yes,' I said. 'I suppose we could.'

It crossed my mind that I really didn't want to find this woman, but I could hardly tell Celia that.

The plans for tomorrow had made me feel incredibly horny. I thought it would be rather enjoyable to simply release the bottom of the Torsolet and have a really nice, slow fuck, whilst rubbing my huge tits against Celia's.

I gave a mock yawn. 'Mmm. I think it's time for bed now. Shall we go up?'

Celia gave me a big smile, reading my invitation. 'Again? Wow that's twice in one evening. But after what I've just been reading in the instruction leaflet, I'm more than game.'

That puzzled me a bit as I climbed up the stairs. I'd have to get a good read of the instruction leaflet, as Celia had been hogging it all evening. Anyway, it sounded like fun.

I took off my shoes and put them in the base of the wardrobe, then stripped off my dress and hung it. Normally, I'd have thrown my clothes over the back of a chair, but I couldn't bear to treat these lovely garments as I would my own. I placed everything else in a drawer, and turned round to see Celia smiling at me.

'What?'

Her smile broadened. 'Oh nothing,' she said.

I fumbled around the crutch of the Torsolet, trying to release the catch, but without success. In fact, I couldn't actually feel the catch; it all felt just like brushing my hands against a woman's crutch, and as I struggled for release, I was getting hornier and hornier.

'How the hell do I release this catch?' I asked Celia, who was almost laughing at my efforts.

'Oh, I'm not going to tell you that,' she said.

'Why not?'

'Like I said, I've been reading the instruction leaflet, and there are far more interesting things to do than plain, old sex.' She picked up the remote control, pointed it at me and pressed a button.

Zing! I felt my nipples pop out. I stared down at them. A minute ago, they had been rather attractive little pimples, surrounded by modest areolae. But I had felt them instantly grow, and now they resembled miniature rose buds, about a centimetre diameter, and protruding by about the same distance.

'How did that happen?'

'It's one of the remotely operated features of the Torsolet.'

'But I felt them grow. The thing is made of plastic. How could I have felt anything?'

'Because the Torsolet includes Sensotouch, which, we're told, gives the wearer full touch sensitivity. It sounds like one of those touch sensitive computer screens; only the signal is used to trigger an array of tiny electrodes in contact with your skin. And the really neat thing about Sensotouch is that it can be turned down.'

She pointed the remote at me again, and pressed another button. 'Or up,' she said.

I jerked. My chest had come alive. The Torsolet with its swelling breasts had been sitting there, perfectly comfortably for some hours, and whilst I'd obviously always been able to see them in the lower part of my vision, I had felt virtually nothing. Now, I could feel my breasts joggling, swaying slightly after my initial jerk as they had come alive. I could feel my breath upon their upper surface, and upon my nipples. And I felt even hornier.

I raised my hands to clasp my breasts, my thumbs at the ready to stimulate my nipples.

'Don't you dare touch yourself up in front of me,' Celia said. 'They are all mine, and I demand my conjugal rights.'

CHAPTER FOUR

'I had a brainwave before we left,' Celia said, as we walked towards the Conference Centre at the Grand Hotel, just a few minutes' walk from Seacombe Station. 'I had a look at the luggage label on the front of the suitcase. I know the name of the person we're looking for.'

'Brilliant,' I said, wondering why I hadn't thought of such an obvious thing. Well, actually, I knew why I hadn't thought of that. It was because I was totally knackered, having had hardly any sleep last night, as I had zoomed from one orgasm to another.

I'd started off by letting Celia suck on my nipples, and had been amazed at how wonderful it felt. In less than a minute, I was having my first climax. Can you believe that? A climax simply from having your nipples sucked.

Well, after that, Celia had insisted on the same treatment for her, only I made her wait a little for her first orgasm, licking all over her upper body first, and moving slowly to her breasts, and finally her nipples. Her orgasm had been all the more intense for the wait, so we decided we'd better do everything over and over again until we got it perfect. So we did - and we did - at about four in the morning.

This morning, we were both a little tired, but with that "Just been fucked" feeling, which made us glow with satisfaction. I was wearing my white, "Seven Year Itch" dress today, with the halter neck, and I knew I looked bloody good in it. Fortunately, the original design had quite a high back, so we'd been able to get the corset on without it showing. Celia had insisted on doing up the corset rather more tightly than yesterday evening, so that the dress now really showed off my super waistline.

Unfortunately, there had been only one pair of panties in the suitcase, and Celia had not allowed me to wear the same pair for a second day.

'If we don't find your own suitcase,' Celia had said, 'we'll have to buy some more. In the meantime, it won't hurt you to walk around without any on - you're always suggesting that I do that, so you can feel what it's like.'

So I was walking around knickerless! It was quite scary since I was still learning to walk properly on heels, and I thought at any moment I was likely to fall head over heels. I realised now the kind of pressures I'd unfairly put onto Celia over such things. It was one thing to have a bit of fun at home - quite another to put them in a position where one slip and they'd be exposing themselves to the world.

I'd already seen two other women wearing the same dress as me. I guessed the normal rules, that women went into apoplexy if they saw someone else in the same garb, would be in abeyance at an event like this. After all, there were only a limited number of dresses we could wear and many would choose the more popular outfits.

One of the benefits was that no one was taking any particular notice of me - indeed it was Celia who stood out far more than I did, as someone not dressed like the others. We marched up the flight of steps and into the foyer of the Conference Centre, and then Celia noticed the Conference check-in desk and went over.

'Hello, I wonder if you can help us,' she said to the receptionist. 'We're looking for Norma Jeane Baker. Can you tell us if she's checked in, yet?'

'Oh!' I said.

'Which one are you looking for?' the receptionist asked. 'Can you tell me what her home address is?'

'Does it matter,' Celia asked. 'There can't be more than one Norma Jeane Baker, surely?'

'Well actually, Celia, it does matter,' I said, but the receptionist interrupted.

'We have fifteen registered,' she said, 'and seven Norma Jeane Mortensons. We don't allow people to register as Marilyn Monroe, you see, so those delegates who don't want to publicise their own names generally go as one of those two.'

'It's Marilyn's original name,' I muttered to Celia under my breath, not wanting to further demonstrate her ignorance.

'Thanks,' she said, icily. ' I think I'd worked that out for myself.'

'So what do we do now?'

She nodded towards a couple of delegates entering the foyer. 'Look,' she said, 'everyone's wearing a name badge. Let's register for the conference, then go inside and look out for Norma Jeane Baker.'

'But there are fifteen registered,' I said. 'How will we know it's the right one.'

'My guess is she'll be the only one wearing men's walking trousers,' she said.

'But I can't register under my real name,' I said. 'I suppose I could check-in as Norma Jeane Baker.'

'No,' Celia said. 'There are too many of those already. Why not pretend to be - say - your sister.' She held up a hand to prevent my interruption, 'I know you haven't really got a sister, but that doesn't matter. You could register as Alice Smith, which would mean that technically we'd be sisters-in-law, so we'd have a ready-made explanation of our relationship. Alice is close enough to your name that you might even identify with it, and don't forget that it's my middle name, so I could probably find some identification in my purse if you did need to show any.'

Her suggestion made sense, so we completed the registration forms (without any need to prove our identity), paid our fifteen pounds each entrance fee, and went inside.

***

I had never realised just what fun these event could be. We started walking around the huge exhibition - there were memorabilia, clothes, posters, books - if it had any connection with MM - or simply if it had her name written on it - it was there. And we were constantly surrounded by dozens of Marilyn Monroes - skinny ones, plump ones, shapely ones, old, young, dressed in fur wraps or skinny bathing costumes. I was in heaven.

'Not a single pair of waterproof walking trousers in sight,' Celia said.

'What?' I said, at first not understanding the significance, and then rapidly adding, as I cottoned on, 'No, I've been looking everywhere for any of my clothes.'

'Really,' Celia said, rather dryly. 'I thought you were the only Marilyn who spent time looking down other people's cleavage.'

'I'm just checking what bra they're wearing so I could get one like it,' I said, thinking on my feet. 'I'm not certain the bra I wore last night will go with all the clothes I have in the suitcase.'

'I'm impressed,' Celia said. 'Not only are you absolutely correct, but even more remarkable, I think that's the first time ever that you've taken an interest whatsoever in clothes. We shall need to get you some more panties, of course. Look, there's an underwear stall over there. Let's go and get a few things.'

It appeared that the law about shops opening on Easter Sunday didn't apply to stalls in conference centres - or perhaps they simply broke the law. Whatever, within seconds Celia was choosing another bra for me, and then panties, and stockings.

'We're giving all our customers free entry into the conference competition,' the assistant said as she took Celia's credit card. 'Take this ticket to Stand E4 and they'll take your photo on the spot. The winner gets one thousand pounds to spend on clothes with any of the exhibitors here.'

'One thousand pounds on clothes,' Celia said, as she took the package and we started to walk away. 'That's fantastic. Let's go find Stall E4.'

I was surprised at Celia wanting to enter what sounded like a glamour photo competition - she normally scorned such things. Still, I obediently followed her to the stall, and stood patiently whilst she went over to talk to the photographer, who had his camera equipment set up on a slightly raised dais. He nodded a few times as she discussed her requirements, and then started to move the camera about on its tripod. I was watching with interest - I was really curious to see what pose Celia would adopt for the photograph.

Celia noticed me watching from a distance and beckoned me over to her. Surely, I thought, she can't be going to ask my advice. I got to the edge of the stage, but still Celia motioned me to come up onto the stage.

With my first step forward, there was a blinding flash in front, and then another, and another. With horror, I realised there was an incredible gale blowing from a grill beneath my feet. It was not only making my pussy and thighs cold, it was lifting my skirt, and everyone would see that I had no panties on underneath.

Flash! - Flash! - Flash! - Flash!

The photograph they officially published was, I think, the last one taken. I had just managed to get a hand onto my skirt and push it down between my legs, leaving just a trace of curly, pubic hair on display, next to my pale-white thighs.

And that wasn't all. Celia, the evil witch, had pushed a button on the remote control at just the right moment to make my nipples stick out and turn my boobs into ultra-sensitive, pleasure globes. The instantaneous rush had left me with a look of shocked bliss on my face.

'Don't worry about the pics, love,' the photographer said. 'If they're too revealing, the organisers won't let me enter them for the competition.'

I grimaced at him, but as soon as we'd got off the stand I vented my anger on Celia.

'How could you have set me up like that?' I shouted

'Because you deserved it.'

'Deserved it? How do you make that out?'

'How often have you pressured me into going without panties? How do you think I felt? What happened to you could easily have happened to me. As it is, just be thankful that no one knows your real name, or even what you really look like.'

I calmed down a bit then. Celia was absolutely right. It was Alice who had been caught out. No one knew who I was or what I actually looked like. In fact, I thought, I can do anything as Alice/Marilyn with complete anonymity.

'Look,' Celia said, changing the subject, 'there's a presentation on selecting the right Marilyn clothes for your shape of body. That would be really interesting.'

I accepted the olive branch. In any case, I really wanted to know what kind of clothes I should choose when I won my  £1000 prize, because I reckoned I was in with a fair chance.

As we moved towards the conference suite, Celia said, 'Do you really hate me for doing that?'

I gave her a grin. 'Short of sex, it's the most erotic thing you've ever done to me.'

***

And so, the rest of the day continued. Needless to say, I paid lip service towards finding the Norma Jeane Baker who was wearing men's walking trousers - boots as well, for all I knew. To be honest, I was approaching the same attitude towards rambling as the woman who we'd spoken to on the train. After all, who would go walking through the countryside, when they could dress up as Marilyn Monroe and wander around a conference surrounded by lots of other beautiful Marilyns. I guess many of the girls felt that way, too

That night, we got the last train to Dorton, having stayed to see a late night showing of "Seven Year Itch". I was surprised to find I had never seen the film before, even though that scene with the skirt blowing up immortalises Marilyn like no other. Although it's not regarded as one of her best, Celia and I simply loved it, and we came home talking endlessly about the plot, and Marilyn's and Tom Ewell's respective performances.

It was only when we both staggered up to the bedroom, having had quite a few complimentary glasses of wine at one of the sponsored events, that I suddenly faced the important question. Did I want to have sex with Celia as a man, which would mean taking off the Torsolet, or as a woman, which meant I could keep it on?

Actually, I knew the answer to that question. The real question was should I tell the truth, or should I try to pretend that I hated being a woman, and that I wanted to return to being a man immediately.

'Darling,' Celia said. 'I have to tell you the truth about something.'

'I know,' I said. 'You invited that photographer to set up his camera in our bedroom, and it's installed behind a two way mirror.'

She grinned. 'Well, apart from that, there's... Well, there's something else. You see, I didn't read the instruction manual properly yesterday.'

'And?'

'The gel we spread on you was not just for lubrication.'

'You told me. It was to stop perspiration, as well.'

'Yes. And apparently, the way it stops perspiration is by sealing the skin with an adhesive, which bonds the Torsolet to the skin.'

'Well, so what? Presumably it washes out in water?'

There was an uncomfortable silence.

'Not exactly. You see, if the adhesive was water soluble, then perspiration would dissolve it.'

'OK, so there's some a glue remover we have to use.' I stared at her blank face, and added, 'And clearly, we haven't got any of that in the suitcase, so we'll have to buy it tomorrow. Thank goodness the shops will be open. I guess that means we'll have to do it woman to woman again tonight.' I grinned at her. 'It will still be fantastic, even if it's only half as good as last night.'

'No.'

'No to which bit of it?'

'All of it really, except the last sentence which you got absolutely right. No, there's no special glue remover. We have to wait until you shed the outer layer of skin, and then we can remove the Torsolet with the skin. So that means, no, it's not a good job the shops are open, because we can't buy the glue remover. But the good news is that, no, it doesn't mean we have to do it woman to woman tonight.'

I worked through what she had said. Privately, I was delighted that it looked like I couldn't take the Torsolet off until we got home, although it might take some explaining to the neighbours - how Celia went off with her husband and came back with Marilyn Monroe.

'But you said,' I worked it through slowly, 'that I was stuck in this Torsolet for, presumably, a few days, whilst my skin sheds. So that means I have to stay a woman until then.'

'Yes, but I don't,' Celia said. Her face broke out in a wide grin. 'Sorry, I'm teasing you. The point is that I bought a Marilyn Monroe vibrator dildo thingy this afternoon. I thought it might be fun to give it a go.'

Hell, just the thought of it made me go weak at the knees!

***

When I saw it, I almost had an orgasm. It was a model of Marilyn, about six inches high, with enhanced breasts, hips and bum which made wonderfully protruding bumps that would presumably rub against the sensitive bits. She had one leg in front of the other, and her knee made her dress flare out - 'that's supposed to stimulate your clitoris,' Celia said - and the whole statuette was on a knobbly shaft, which presumably could be inserted the other way round so that Marilyn would appear to be standing on the outside of the vagina. What I couldn't quite work out was the arrangement of straps fastened to Marilyn's ankles.

'What are these for?' I asked. I had got undressed in about thirty seconds and put on the flimsy dressing-gown from the suitcase that I never got around to wearing last night.

'Didn't I tell you? It's a strap-on, and they're to keep everything in place. The woman explained how everything worked. It's quite simple.'

I wondered about that. No instruction appears simple to Celia; the problem with the gel was a superb example.

'So how do I put it on?'

She smiled. 'You don't. I do.'

'Oh. I thought, me being the man...'

'Neither of us are officially men tonight, and it's my toy so I'll decide who's going to wear it.'

I couldn't argue with that. 'Alright. Are you going to show me how it goes on?'

'Mmm. Let me see... Oh yes, it's quite simple. I step into these straps in the same way that I step into a pair of panties.' She stood up and removed her clothes in twenty seconds flat. Normally, she takes ages to get undressed.

Then she demonstrated stepping into the contraption and pulling it up her legs, so Marilyn was right against her crack. She sat down on the bed and lay back so she could examine the next step.

'Then I simply slide this knobbly shaft inside me,' she said, 'so that the feet come to rest against my... Oooh. That was nice.'

She was left with two sections of strap, one of which had a buckle on the end, the other had a flat plate. When Celia pushed the plate into the buckle, it fastened with a kerchunk. With everything tightened Marilyn was now standing upright on top of Celia's vagina, one foot inside, and the other resting on her Mons Pubis.

'Mmm. That IS nice,' she said, with a big grin on her face. She put a hand onto Marilyn and stroked it up and down, in the same was as she used to stroke my penis. 'That's quite nice as well, but I think you know where Marilyn has to go now.'

I goggled a bit. 'You mean, inside me?'

She sat up on the bed and nodded. 'Absolutely. They told me in the shop that this dongle was the closest a woman could get to having sex as a man. So, lay back on the bed and think of England, because I am coming for my conjugal rights.'

'Celia, don't forget that I haven't got a proper vagina, only a kind of simulated pussy. It can't be anything like big enough to get that inside. You'll rip me to shreds if you get going with it.'

'Fuck that,' she said, standing up beside me. 'This thing is driving me wild, and I don't remember you being overly concerned on our first night, that your enormous cock was tearing into my tiny, little vagina.'

That wasn't strictly true, but before I had a chance to debate the issue with her, she grabbed hold of my arm and twisted me around with surprising strength and violence, so that I went flat on my back on top of the bed. Then she threw herself between my legs. She may have been small, but with the extra weight in my breasts and buttocks, I'd found it much more difficult to manoeuvre when I was on my back. Already she was lifting my knees over her shoulders and spreading them wide, and fumbling between my legs for a few seconds, before...

'Fuck, that's good,' she said, just as I said, 'Jesus! That hurts!'

It did too. Can you imagine being impaled upon a statuette of Marilyn Monroe? Well neither could I until that moment. It wasn't as though I'd had lots of practice at shoving things up my pussy. After all, I'd only been given it as a present the previous night, and what with Celia and me taking such delight in each other's tits, we had simply never got around to playing pussy.

So, this was the moment I was losing my virginity - to a Marilyn Monroe statuette. Claire starting shoving her dongle in and out at such a speed, I couldn't work out whether I was coming or going. Well, actually, after a while, I could. In fact, once I'd got used to the agony and realised it wasn't particularly painful at all, but rather nice, and that Claire was shagging away at me because she found me so irresistible, well, I really could lay back and think of...

'God, I'm coming,' I shouted.

'Not yet,' Claire responded.

I thought that was a bit of a cheat. If she was acting the part of a man, it was her duty to match her orgasm to my own, not the other way round. Anyway, with the speed that Claire was fucking me - about five thrusts per second - there really was no way that I could slow down what was now becoming inevitable.

'Yes! Yes! Y-e-e-e-s-s-s-s!!!!! Oh that's good. Don't stop, darling, go on, go on.'

And that's just what Claire did. She went on, and on, and on, and... Came to a halt.

'Shit I'm not going to come.'

'Don't stop darling. You will. Perhaps you need to go a little slower.'

'No. It's your fault. You pussy's not deep enough for me. I'm hardly getting Marilyn in past her shoulders.'

'Well, if you pushed it in more firmly...'

'It's no good blaming me. OK, let's do it the other way.'

She was lifting my knees again, this time right into the air.

'That's a bit uncomfortable, Claire. Ouch!'

She had now forced my knees up so they were stuck up in the air above my shoulders. Then I felt something else.

'Claire, you're in the wrong place. That's the wrong hole you're putting Marilyn against. She doesn't want to go there. I can tell you, she really doesn't... A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!!'

'That's better,' she said, and gave a tremendous thrust up my arse, forcing aside all bits of my inside that tried to prevent her. Then she was pulling it out again, until I could feel cool air around my arse, and then...

'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!!'

'That's good for you, isn't it?' and she pulled Marilyn out, and then forced her back inside again.

'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!!'

'Hell, Alice,' she said, 'you certainly know how to turn on a guy. That shout is so erotic, so... encouraging.'

I knew I should stop making that noise. It was only egging her on.

'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!!'

She could have no conception of what she was doing to my insides.

'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!!'

Actually, neither did I, because that time, I pushed back against her thrust, so Marilyn penetrated me just a little harder.

'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!!'

'Oh, that's just wonderful, Alice. Now I'm in the rhythm, I'm sure I could keep this up all night.'

She pretty well did.

CHAPTER FIVE

'Look,' Celia said, pointing at the notice board next to Registration. 'You've made the final round of the Miss Marilyn Monroe Competition.'

I stared at the photographs of the ten finalists - or rather, more accurately, I stared at the one photograph at the end of the ten that several other delegates were pointing at. They were giggling at the wisp of pubic hair that emerged from the edge of the skirt where my hand had it clamped between my legs. Other delegates were pointing at my nipples pushing through the front of my dress like the proverbial organ-stops.

'Oh, it's you,' a woman standing next to me said.

I nodded. 'Yes, it's me.'

I was expecting her to say something like, "Shameless slut", but instead she said, 'Oh, we were there yesterday when your friend tricked you into the photograph. We thought it was really clever of her - it's obviously such a totally candid shot.'

I nodded wryly. 'It certainly was.'

'The next round is the swimsuit competition,' she said, looking me over. 'I'm certain you'll do really well in that.'

'Thanks,' I said, and waited until she'd started to walk away from us before turning to Celia, 'Swimsuit competition! What have you got me into? I haven't even got a swimsuit.'

'That's alright,' the woman on Registration had been listening in. 'I'll give you a ticket and you can exchange it at any of the suppliers in the exhibition for a swimsuit you can wear in the competition.'

'But I...'

'That's great,' Celia said, taking the ticket the woman was holding out. 'She could do with a new swimsuit,' she continued. 'Come on, Alice. Let's go chose something cool.'

***

In fact, there were only two suppliers with Marilyn swimsuits, and Celia honed in on a red, strapless one, with a V cut-out at the neckline, which exposed my tits quite disgracefully.

'They'll all be able to see down my cleavage,' I protested.

Celia smiled quite wickedly. 'My, you have changed. You've always encouraged me to display my cleavage, even though I've hardly anything to show. At least, you don't have that problem.'

'But I have too much on display,' I said. 'Everybody will be ogling at me.'

'Well, you'll just have to get used to it. Women do, you know.'

And that was that.

We decided to attend two different seminars, that morning, and agreed to meet in the central foyer at midday, where the judging was due to take place. I'd been on tenterhooks during the presentation I attended on making-up like MM, but by the time I got to the foyer, I had calmed down.

I felt even better when I learnt there was to be no catwalk parade, which would have totally outed me. Instead, we simply stood in a row on the platform, with the (mainly male) judges sitting immediately before us, and the packed audience beyond them.

When I'd been working, I had done enough business presentations to large audiences not to be phased by appearing in front of a crowd, although my experience had obviously not extended to appearing as a half-naked woman. Although I hadn't noticed many males around the conference centre yesterday, they appeared to make up at least two-thirds of the audience of about a hundred people. I shivered under their gaze. I knew exactly what they were thinking about us girls - been there, done that.

Still the same rules applied as for a large business presentation - look confident, even though you're quaking inside - push out your chest, (even more appropriate today) - and speak in a low, deep voice - OK, I'd ignore that last rule.

The MC came down the line, introducing each of us in turn, and asking us each to do a pirouette. Since I was at the very end of the line, I had chance to pick up a few tips from the others about the best way to do it before he got to me, and I did a nice swivel without even falling over backward on my heels.

'Now, then,' the MC said into the microphone. 'You've all had a chance to look at them - now we'll see how they fare with general knowledge questions about Marilyn.'

He turned to me. 'Alice, we'll start with a simple question. In what year was Marilyn born?'

Oh shit! 'Erm.'

I may not know the answer, I thought, but remember to speak in my best Marilyn voice. 'Was it 1930?'

There was a gasp of surprise from the audience, and even the MC looked shocked that I hadn't known. 'No it wasn't 1930, it was 1926; so we'll go onto the next question.'

'Alice, in which film did Marilyn appear with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon, in which they took the part of females?'

'Oh, was it... erm... Was it Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?'

Another gasp of surprise.

'No, it was Some Like it Hot. Now the final question. What did Marilyn say she would become, someday?'

'Er, rich?'

'She said she would be a great movie star, someday. I'm afraid that's zero points you've scored in the general knowledge round. So let's move onto the next contestant, who's called...'

So there were my five minutes of fame. Looked quite good, but totally blew every question.

Of course, the next contestant knew the entire cast list of every film Marilyn had made, every line of every song she had ever sang, and for all I knew, the number of times she normally farted before breakfast; as did the next contestant, and the next, and so on.

***

'Congratulations, Miss Marilyn Monroe, 2006.'

I turned to face the speaker, a large woman with skin so black I could scarcely see it, although I could make out the plunging cleavage between gi-normous breasts.

'Thanks, although I didn't deserve it at all. I guess the judges thought I was simply playing the part of Marilyn's dumb blonde to perfection.'

'But the photographs were pretty impressive.' She gave me a wide smile, displaying a gleaming set of teeth stretching from ear to ear. 'I've purchased the complete set to use for publicity for my business. Incidentally, I'm Toni Phillips from Big Busts.' She looked at me as though I should recognise her name.

'Hello, Toni. Is that a local...'

'Of course, Alice,' Celia broke into the conversation. 'Big Busts manufacture Torsolets.' She gave me a steely glance, warning me to shut up in front of all the people milling around the champagne reception in my honour.

'Of course,' I meekly complied. Toni obviously thought I was the woman to whom she had originally sold the Torsolet. No wonder she was delighted I had won. But Celia was right; I certainly needed to keep quiet, as it wouldn't do to let the cat out of the bag about my credentials. They might try to take my title away from me. Mr Marilyn Monroe didn't sound so good.

'I'm hoping you'll come to a reception I've put on this evening, and meet some of my customers and potential customers,' Toni said. 'Of course, if I make further sales, as I fully hope to do after today's result, I'll be willing to give you a generous commission. You will come, won't you?'

I nodded assent. 'What time does it start?'

'It's in two sessions. The women wearing Bustlets are invited for seven o'clock. We're expecting about twenty to that, and it's scheduled to last one hour. That then gives us time to clear out the stragglers and set up for the next session at nine, which is for those interested in Torsolets. We have around twelve people coming to that session, including four people who are wearing them today.'

'What's a Bustlet?'

'Oh, it's similar to a Torsolet, but it ends below the bust.'

No good for me, then, I thought.

'And why are there two sessions?' I asked.

'Many of the women would feel uncomfortable if they knew the truth about the Torsolet wearers. So it's better to keep them separate.'

I glanced around. The champagne bottles had been emptied and it looked like people were starting to disappear. I knew I shouldn't have asked the question, but I thought we could speak without being overheard. 'The truth about Torsolets? What truth?'

Toni gave me a strange look, and she also looked around before answering. 'That most Torsolet wearers are men, of course. A lot of women just don't feel comfortable with that. Anyway, see you just after seven?'

I was too shocked by her response to do more than nod.

***

'So what,' Celia said in response to my challenge as the room finally cleared, 'most people who wear Torsolets are men. You're a man. I really don't see what the problem is.'

'But it means the suitcase I swapped probably belonged to a man.'

'So?'

I shrugged. 'I dunno. I just kind of assumed I was in a woman's disguise and I was fooling everybody. Now I realise that Toni could see straight through my disguise.'

'She makes the sodding things. She ought to recognise them. Anyway, don't forget there are four others here wearing Torsolets. That means that four of those Marilyn Monroes you've seen in the last two days were really men.'

'Bloody hell.'

'That also means the other eight people are all potential Torsolet customers, and God knows how many potential Bustlet customers there are, and she's going to give us a commission on sales. That should be worth a lot. So you'd better do your best to sell them, tonight.'

CHAPTER SIX

We caught the early afternoon train back to London on Tuesday, as planned. I'd originally envisaged that would mean a short ramble in the morning, followed by our final pub lunch. In fact, it had been a long, drawn-out bonking session, followed by a mad dash to the station. Plus ca change... and all that.

For lunch, Celia had to dart off the train at Dorton, and quickly purchase a couple of sandwiches from the platform buffet, whilst I made certain the train didn't depart without her.

Just a few days ago, I reminded myself, it would have been me doing the dashing and Celia holding the door, but now with my high heels and bouncing breasts, it was far safer for nimble Celia to go, instead.

Presumably, all the conference goers had travelled on the morning train, for there was no one I recognised who got on our train at Dorton - and certainly, no Marilyn Monroes. So we were left in peace for the whole journey, and Celia settled down to read a paperback. I hadn't brought anything to read, but I had a sudden thought, and got out the instruction leaflet for the Torsolet that I'd finally managed to prise out of Celia.

I'd been meaning to find out exactly how long I'd have to wait before I could take off the Torsolet and return to normality. Not that I wasn't still enjoying being Marilyn Monroe, and we had worked out a cover for when we got home, which was not dissimilar to the one we'd given at conference. I was Alec's sister, Alice Smith, and yes, lots of people thought I looked like Marilyn Monroe. I was going to be staying with Celia for a day or two, whilst Alec continued walking a long distance footpath.

I found the appropriate paragraph in the instruction leaflet and read it; then I re-read it, and read it again.

'Ten to fourteen days!'

Celia looked up. 'Sorry?'

'It says it take ten to fourteen days for the adhesive to come loose from my skin.'

'Oh, right. That's nice, dear.' She continued to read her book.

'But I don't know why you didn't see that right at the start. It's written quite clearly in large letters in the instruction leaflet.'

'Oh, perhaps I did. I can't remember.'

'But don't you see the problem?'

She looked up again, and spoke to me as though talking to a petulant child. 'Alice, you're perfectly happy in your Torsolet. Obviously, we'll have to get you some more clothes, but I'll willingly come with you and help you choose - quite looking forward to it, in fact.'

'But your dinner party is tomorrow night. You wanted to return early from the holiday so that you could go to work tomorrow and remind all the important people to come. You were hoping to make a good impression with your Managing Director. I was going to help you serve the drinks and the buffet.'

Celia gave the matter some more thought. 'Well, you're now my sister-in law, so you can still help me serve the drinks and the buffet. In fact...'

She paused for a moment, which got longer and longer.

'In fact, what?' I asked.

'I was just thinking that it would create an awfully good impression if we got a waitress to serve it all.'

'Got a waitress to serve it? That would cost a small fortune. And I don't see what that has got to do...' I stopped speaking as another of those outlandish ideas suddenly came into my mind. Surely Celia couldn't be suggesting... It was preposterous, absurd, laughable...

'Celia? What exactly did you mean when you suggested getting a waitress to serve at your dinner party?'

'Well, it would really kill two birds with one stone. I know you really don't enjoy those events very much. You hate trying to be nice to the MD because it was him who got you sacked, and you feel very self conscious about small chat with your ex-colleagues, who always ask you questions about whether you've got another job, and then sneer at you because you haven't. And if you go as Alec's sister, they'll probably ask you similar questions about Alec. Whereas having a waitress to serve the food and drink would really give me an edge over all the others jockeying for position in the promotion stakes.'

'So what are you suggesting?'

'In fact, there's a third bird to kill with the same stone. You've really been enjoying yourself, these last few days; you've come alive again. Sex between us has been absolutely fantastic - just like when we first met. And we're having fun.'

'Go on.'

'So what I'm suggesting is that we buy a waitress uniform for you - not one of those tacky French Maid uniforms - just a simple waitress dress. Like they wear in the coffee shop in the High St.'

'Oh.' I paused a little, and then added, 'That's what I thought you were going to say.'

'And?'

'I'm not certain.'

I thought about it some more. After all, I had no choice but to be a woman for the next two weeks, and a waitress wouldn't be open to interrogation by those miserable bastards on the Management Board, as Alec's sister-in-law certainly would.

I grinned. 'I suppose I could do it. But on one condition.'

'What's that?'

'I want something a lot better than the dresses the waitresses wear in that grotty coffee shop in the High St. Something like Elke Sommer wore in "A Shot in the Dark" - not tarty - just incredibly attractive.'

'OK,' Celia said, 'It's a deal. But since we're going to get you a nice dress...'

'Yes?'

'I was wondering... Well, we could get you a few of them, and rather than you just helping during the dinner party, you could... Well, become our housekeeper. I could employ you and pay you a proper wage - well, it wouldn't be much, but it would be yours.'

'Phew!' I sat back in the seat, and added, 'That's quite a proposal.'

She smiled at me. She knew she had me hooked. 'It's a deal, then.'

I smiled back. 'Deal.'

***

I unlocked the door then stepped aside to let Celia in first.

'I'm glad to see you know your place as a housekeeper,' Celia said. 'You can pick up the post as you come in, and deliver it to me on silver plate.'

'Ha-ha-ha,' I said, but I picked up the post anyway. 'There are a couple of letters for you, and there's one for me...'

'I think you mean,' Celia said, as she took the two letters I passed to her, 'that there's also a letter for Alec. We have to keep to the cover story even when we're just on our own; otherwise we'll slip up when we're in company. So, from now on, you are Alice, and my husband, Alec, is away walking a long-distance footpath. However, you may open his post and deal with it.'

'Thank you, milady.' I gave a little curtsey.

'My,' Celia said with a delighted smile. 'You are learning fast.'

She threw the envelopes and the junk mail from one of her letters into the bin and then said, 'The bin needs emptying.'

'Yes, milady.' I gave another little curtsey and, as I bent down and picked up the bin, I added in a voice that was just audible, 'And don't push your luck.'

'I can see we're going to have fun, Alice.'

'Yes, milady.' I removed the junk mail from the bin - an advert for Bank Holiday Monday Sales - and took it to the recycling bag.

When I returned, I opened the letter addressed to Alec, which I noticed had been hand delivered. Inside, it had Saturday's date at the top

'Dear Mr Smith,' it read.

'I am extremely sorry about the mix up with your baggage on the train, this afternoon. I didn't notice the mistake until I was about to check into the hotel, and I realised I wasn't carrying my own suitcase.

'I really didn't know what to do. With you being called Smith, they couldn't find your name in the London telephone directory, so I decided to return to London and come to the address on the luggage label, hoping that someone would be at home who might have a contact address for you. Unfortunately, there is no one here, and I suspect you will be away for some days.

'I've therefore had to cancel going back to the Marilyn Monroe conference, which I was really looking forward to, although I know it's all my own fault. I only hope it hasn't inconvenienced you too much.

'I have left your suitcase in the shed at the rear of the house. There's no need to return my belongings, as I only bought them to use at the conference, and as you can probably understand, I prefer to retain my anonymity.

'Best wishes

'Norma Jeane Baker'

I showed it to Celia, and when she'd finished reading it, I said, 'I feel quite sorry for "Norma". I got all the enjoyment out of her things, and she got none.'

'Oh, I never thought of that,' Celia said, which surprised me because she was usually very aware of people's feelings. 'You'd better go out to the shed and bring in Alec's suitcase. Not that he'll be needing it for some time.'

'Yes, milady.'

I unlocked the kitchen door and went out to the garden shed. The suitcase had been pushed just inside the door, and I retrieved it and took a little look around the garden before returning to the house.

I guessed that since Alec wasn't here to tend to the garden, then Alice was going to have to do so. It was strange, I thought, that Alec had been moping around the house doing very little in recent months, yet I was looking forward to getting on with things like tending the garden, and tackling the jobs that Alex had continually put to one side. Which reminded me of something, and I had to go and check it out.

***

'Do you not want to go to this Sale, milady?' I had recovered the letter from the recycling bag, and put it in front of Celia.

'I've missed it,' she said. 'It was only on for one day - Bank Holiday Monday. I guess the letter arrived on Saturday.'

'Yes, milady,' I said. 'That's what I thought.'

There was a silence, whilst Celia tried to work out the significance of my comment, and then she said, 'So?'

'Well, it's strange that the Saturday morning post should have been ON TOP of the hand-delivered letter from Norma, which she couldn't have pushed through the door until Saturday evening.'

'You must have made a mistake,' she said, and followed it with a big sigh, and said, 'You simply can't get the staff, nowadays.'

'No, milady,' I said. I paused a little before adding, 'No, you can't get the staff nowadays and no, I didn't make a mistake about the letters, or the fact that Alec finally got around to fitting a bolt to the side-gate on Friday afternoon, because he was worried about leaving the house unattended over the holiday period.

'Which means,' I continued with a flourish that was every bit as fanciful as that of Hercule Poirot, 'Norma couldn't have put Alec's suitcase into the garden shed, simply because she couldn't have got into the garden.'

'Perhaps she climbed over the gate.'

'It's six feet high with spikes on the top.'

I'll give her credit; Celia simply shrugged. 'She must have done it somehow.'

'Or perhaps,' I said, 'after Alec had gone to bed on Friday night, you exchanged the suitcase that he had already packed, for the one which you'd secretly prepared for him. And you took his suitcase out to the garden shed. And as you and Alec left on Saturday morning, you dropped the letter from Norma onto the doormat before closing the front door.'

She looked at me and grimaced, uncertain what to say.

'I had found it strange at the presentation by Big Busts,' I continued, 'that they went to such trouble to precisely fit the mask to the wearer's face, when my face fitted into someone else's mask without a problem. When I asked Toni about it afterwards, she said it would be a remarkable coincidence to fit properly into a mask made for another customer. At the time, I simply thought it was a remarkable coincidence. Now, I realise those photographs you took of me a few weeks ago were to send to Big Busts so they could make up the Torsolet to fit my face.

'And finally,' I said, 'when I empty your suitcase, I don't suppose I shall find the sachet of brown sauce that you managed to smear over Alec's trousers. Other than that, I think the term is: "It's a fair cop, guv." '

'No,' she said. 'The term is: "It's a fair cop, milady!" '

And her grimace turned into a grin, and then into a laugh. Within seconds, I was laughing with her.