Charlotte Dickles
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Charlotte Dickles
Welcome to my author page. Below, you will find a complete listing of my stories in alphabetical order. Most are just plain fun, but I would like to put a little order to some of the stories. It's also well worth saying that all my stories are complete. The first chapter of a serial is not published until all the chapters are ready for publication. Generally, the chapters are then published at daily intervals.
Most, but not all, of the stories are set in the fictional seaside town of Seacombe, located on the south coast of England. It's about four hours journey time from London, and when asked for more information, I reply it's somewhere between Seaton and Salcombe, which fits in rather nicely with the name. It's worth saying there is a real Seacombe, on the Wirral in the north-west of England, and there is also a holiday house for rent called Seacombe in Devon - maybe they supply products from Big Busts.
Which takes me on nicely to the main components of my stories - products from the Big Busts shop in Seacombe which are designed to make men look like women. The Bustlet - similar to a crop top with built in breasts, the Hiplet - like a control brief which pads out the bum and hips and gives the wearer a useable vagina; and the Torsolet - like a leotard which does a combination of the two.
There are two series:
- SIGHS - Stories involving pupils from the Seacombe Independent Girls High School. The stories have teenagers as their protagonists who get up to mischief, but it's all fairly innocent fun. Click on the SIGHS link to find details of all the stories.
- A Decade of Big Busts, which are stories originally published on Fictionmania and ported over to BC. Again, click on the link for details.
Most of my longer stories are split into chapters and published at daily intervals.
Now, select a few stories, sit back and enjoy.
'Till There Was You
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Synopsis: It had been years since Chris had imitated pop singer Princess Kristiana. When he does so at his aunt's birthday party, he is shunned by his cousin Pete. But it won't be long before Pete is desperately longing to get into Chris's panties.
This is another story from the Ten Years of Big Busts archives. All people are entirely fictitious. Warning: contains humour, sex and crossdressing. Don't read it if you don't like such things.
'TILL THERE WAS YOU
by Charlotte Dickles
1 PARTY
I'd never intended to go to my Aunt Sue's 60th birthday party. After all, my father - my aunt's brother - had died some twenty years ago, when I was a spotty faced teenager. We'd had no communication with my father's side of the family ever since, other than the obligatory exchange of Christmas and Birthday cards. But my mother wanted to re-establish contact, and she asked me to accompany her.
'Chris,' she said, 'you know you'd enjoy it if you went. And, there are hotel rooms booked and paid for in that posh, new hotel where the party's being held, for people like you, who don't live locally.'
So, we went. I travelled up by train on the morning of the party, and spent the afternoon with my mother, and then we shared a taxi to the hotel that evening. Surprisingly enough, I really did enjoy it - or most of it, anyway. The fact that a huge barrel of real ale was freely flowing helped to push aside the twenty year rift between the two families, and within a few minutes, my cousin Pete and I were chatting about the quality of the beer (excellent), the chances of the local rugby team winning the league cup (zero) and, of course, the attractiveness of the women present (rather poor to start with, but they did improve with the quantity of beer consumed). Since both Pete and myself were divorcees, we had much in common, and spent most of the evening talking about the advantages (few) and problems (many) with women. After a few hours' debate, we'd really got it into perspective.
'I mean,' Pete said. 'Don't get me wrong. Sex is good, right? In fact, it's absolutely fucking great. But women... who needs 'em, apart from sex? I reckon that pretty soon, someone will invent a really good sex robot, where you can't tell the difference from a real woman, and then we'll be able to get rid of women altogether. Apart from having babies, of course, and they'll be making those in laboratories, anyway.'
'Absholutely right, Pete,' I said.
I paused a little then, because I hadn't realised I'd consumed so much alcohol that I was already at the slurring stage. After all, there was a time when I'd have consumed six pints simply as a warm up for serious drinking later... but I was losing track of what I'd been about to say. I carried on quickly, vaguely along the lines I'd been about to spout.
'Absolutely right,' I made certain there was no slurring that time. 'You know, I reckon this beer is twice as good as sex. I mean, if there was an absolutely gorgeous woman came into the room right now, I'd just ignore her, you know that.'
'This beer,' Pete looked through his glass, 'is three times as good as sex. If a gorgeous woman came into the room right now, I'd pick up our glasses and go over to the bar and fill them, because all the randy gits waiting there to get served would go chasing after the woman.'
Just then, a really sexy woman came into the room. I don't simply mean a sexy woman; I mean an absolutely drop-dead, gorgeous, sex-goddess. She had long, straw-blond hair which flowed over her shoulders, big, round, gold earrings pushing through the hair, and a really cute face with a small upturned nose and pouting, kissable lips. She had on a little black dress with a halter neck plunging down past her navel, which also had a matching gold ring through it. There was a long slit up the side of the dress, and as she walked past, I could see her left stocking from stiletto heeled shoe, right the way up to the band at the top, where a white, lacy suspender briefly appeared. From the rear, her dress was backless all the way down to her buttocks, where it formed a cleavage equally as exciting as the one at the front.
Great to look at, but... I sighed. Such women were untouchable. Pete was absolutely right. Within ten seconds, every dickhead in the room would be salivating over her. It had been a good idea of Pete's, and I turned to remind him of it.
'Right, you're going to get the beer, Pete...'
But Pete had gone - not to the bar, but following in the wake of sex-goddess, along with most of the male population in the room.
I sighed again, shaking my head slowly. 'No principles, these guys, no principles. They swear an allegiance to beer, then the first sight of a randy bird, and they're off.'
'Sorry, what did you say, dear?' It was my mother, calling across the table, from where she had been talking incessantly with my Aunt Sue.
'Who was that, who just walked past?' I asked.
'That's Sir John,' my Aunt Sue replied. 'My old boss.'
'What!' I took another look at the departing back, almost hidden by the gaggle of blokes surrounding her. Either cross dressing had reached state of the art or... To the side of the sex-goddess was an elderly man in a wheelchair, being pushed by one of the hotel staff.
'No,' I responded to my aunt. 'I was talking about the woman at his side.'
My aunt looked across at the couple. 'Oh that's just one of his floosies,' she said. 'I'd heard he'd got some poor little girl chasing after him...
'...well, after his money, really, she added. 'Not that she'll do any good. He's too hard-nosed for that, then he'll toss her aside. Randy old git.'
But she said it without malice - indeed, almost with affection.
I sighed again. If you were rich, you simply had beautiful women falling at your feet, whereas I...
'I worked for him for thirty years, in all,' my aunt was continuing. 'He said I was absolutely invaluable. That's why he's paying for this birthday bash, as part of my retirement present.'
So, it was Sir John who was paying, not only for the excellent beer, but also for my room tonight. Perhaps he'd send his floozy over to keep me company for the night.
'And pigs might fly,' I muttered, as I went over to the bar to top up the glasses.
***
Some time later, the Karaoke started with a guy trying to do an Elvis impression which was almost painful to listen to. After that, it improved - mainly girls in twos and threes, but occasionally one on her own - and they all sounded reasonable. Then Miss Sex-Goddess walked over to the low staging, whispered her choice to the DJ, and turned to the audience, microphone in her hand.
'Allo everybody.'
I've experienced it before - that surprise that the voice is completely at odds with the looks, but never has it been so shocking. Here was this beautiful sex-goddess - with a voice like an East End tart. Deepest Cockney, and, as my mother was probably thinking right now, as common as muck.
'Oiy must say it's reelly noice ta see ya all 'ere. Oiy'm delighted to be 'ere meself. Course, this 'ole party fing is really all down to good 'ole Sir John 'ere, so Oiy think a roun' of applause for 'im, don' you?'
There was a moment's silence, whilst people translated her words into English, followed by enthusiastic clapping for St John, who politely inclined his head with a smile all round.
'Now, as it's Sue's birfday party, Oiy fink we should all sing 'Appy Birfday, for 'er, don' you?'
She nodded to the DJ who started the music, and we all sang "Happy Birthday", followed by a round of applause for Sue, who smiled at everyone.
'Now, it's the moment ya've all bin watin' for - me singin'. As sum of ya might know, Sir John is arrangin' for me ta record this very song. It was a fantastic 'it once - Oiy'm sure it will be agen, when me record is released.'
She gave another nod to the DJ who commenced the backing for "It's Been a Hard Day's Night".
No-one should ever do that to Beatles' music - it's like pissing in good beer, or slashing a Van Gogh - a complete travesty. I've heard about a banshee wailing, but never experienced it before. She sang (if that is the right word) it all the way through, except that she got some of the words wrong, and then got out of step with the backing. At the end, she received a totally undeserving round of applause, that could only have been due to her left breast popping out of the side of her halter neckline, when she strained for the "Tight, Yeah!" bit.
Finally, the applause died, and there was an embarrassed silence, as no-one knew what to say to her. After all, "Nice tit!" is hardly the kind of encouragement one shouts at your aunt's sixtieth birthday party. But the DJ eventually recovered and asked for more volunteers for the Karaoke.
'The girls have done us proud, so far,' he said. 'How about some of the fellers, this time?'
Another embarrassed silence, then before I realised it, I was walking across the floor towards him. Shit! This was the beer walking, not me! I only hoped the beer could also sing - but then, I could hardly do worse than the last performance - and wasn't I really doing this, because I knew I could do a damn sight better? I whispered my choice to the DJ, took the microphone and then turned to the audience and spoke.
'Ladies and gentlemen. After such a remarkable rendering of a Beatles' song by the beautiful young lady, I would like to sing another Beatles song for you: "Till there was you". But instead of trying to imitate Paul McCartney, who made this into such a tremendous hit, back in 1963, I would like to sing it as recorded by another performer of that era. In my opinion, and I think that of most people who heard this alternative, this version was an even better recording than Paul McCartney's original. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Till there was you", as recorded by Princess Kristiana.'
The backing started, and I sang it, as she had sung it all those years ago. For those of you who don't remember Princess Kristiana, that fantastic pop star of the 1960s, let me recap. She always claimed her title was genuine; maintaining that, had history worked out differently, she would have been in line of succession to a Latvian Prince. She had an incredibly beautiful, extremely high, haunting voice, that should have been an instant hit. But she never really made it. Maybe it was a weak manager or agent, or simply she had the wrong songs at the wrong time. For example, "Till there was you" was one of her best recordings, but she released it within a week of Paul McCartney's recording. As that shot to instant success - hers was doomed to failure.
Not surprisingly, Princess Kristiana's soprano rendition is rarely attempted by male performers. But it's all a matter of technique, training and practice, and whilst I hadn't attempted it for years, I was still bloody good - as good as the old days, I reckoned. Perhaps the six pints of beer really helped. Whatever - as I sang those first lines, a shocked silence hit the room:
"There were bells on a hill
But I never heard them ringing
No, I never heard them at all
Till there was you"
I glanced around the room. Mouths were open everywhere at my performance. I took heart, and continued, giving it all I'd got, right through to the last "Till there was you".
The backing died to be replaced by... Ongoing silence. After a few seconds, a few people started enthusiastically clapping, with several others politely joining in. I looked around the room. My mother and Aunt Sue were two of the enthusiastic applauders, and the guy in the wheelchair was the only other. I nodded and waited the few seconds until the applause had died down before returning to my seat.
'Oh you were wonderful,' my aunt said.
'Your father would have loved that,' said my mother.
'Thanks,' I replied. 'I haven't song that for ages, so I'm pretty rusty.'
I picked up my beer glass and finished off the contents, and held the empty glass out to Pete.
'How about a top up then, Pete.'
'Christ,' he said. 'I think you've had enough alcohol for this evening, don't you? I've never been so embarrassed in all my life. And I was seen talking to you earlier! How am I going to face my mates after that?'
And he walked away from me without a backward glance. I looked around the room, and noticed people hurriedly averting their shocked or jeering faces away from me. I even strolled across to another group of relatives who I'd been introduced to earlier in the evening, but as I approached, they turned their backs on me and formed an impenetrable circle.
I walked back to my mother's table, where she was in the process of getting ready to leave. I took her arm and helped her out of the room and across the lobby, and waited for a taxi to arrive for her.
'Bye, love' she said as she got into the taxi. 'And don't be too surprised at the reaction you got back there. People in this town are a narrow-minded bunch of old farts.'
I'd never heard my mother swear before, and that was almost as shocking as the reaction to my singing. I strolled back towards the party, but decided I didn't really want to go back in. So, I went up to my bedroom and had another couple of drinks from the mini bar, courtesy of Sir John, before getting into bed.
2 BREAKFAST
'Do you mind if I sit here?'
I looked up from my newspaper, caught by surprise because I hadn't expected anyone else to come into the breakfast room at 7 am, that Sunday morning, after a party which had lasted well into the early hours.
This morning she was wearing a white blouse and a tight, black, short skirt, this time with a slit which ended well short of the top her stockings. But what made her look absolutely stunning, was the black, peaked cap, out of which her long blond hair cascaded around her pretty, smiling face.
I smiled back, pleased, but slightly puzzled, because there was something different about her that I couldn't quite fathom.
'Of course not,' I said. 'Please join me.'
Within five seconds, the waiter was by her side taking her order - it had taken him the best part of ten minutes to come to the table to take mine, of course - and it was whilst she was reeling off her list of cereal, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomato and fried bread, that I realised.
'Your voice is different,' I said when the waiter had departed.
'Wiy mista. Ya fort Oiy was a Cockney, did ya?'
'Yes,' I honestly replied.
'Well, that would never do for Sir John's chauffeur,' she said in her little, debutante English voice.
'Chauffeur! But last night I thought you were his...'
'You thought I was his tart?'
'Well, yes,' I said.
'Good,' she said. 'That's exactly what you were meant to think.'
'But... Why?'
'Because that's my job. Last night, Sir John wanted a tart, so I was a tart. This morning, he needs a chauffeur to take him home in his big BMW, and no doubt, when he gets home, he'll want a parlour-maid to serve him tea and scones in his drawing room. I am exactly what Sir John wants me to be.'
'What a changeable job! How did you get into it?'
She threw back her head and laughed. 'Oh, that would be telling. Let's just say that I saved his life.'
'I might have guessed it,' I responded. 'You're one of the beauties from Baywatch.'
'No,' she said, 'nothing like that.' Then she added: 'Actually, I was his nurse. He was quite poorly about six months ago - well, actually, he was slowly dying. I managed to bring him back to life.'
'Fantastic! How did you do that?'
Another throaty laugh. 'You're really a nosy bugger, aren't you?'
'Sorry. It'll be in medical confidence, won't it? Just forget I asked.'
'Well, I'm not a nurse anymore, so I guess it doesn't hurt to tell. You see, I was brought in to nurse him whilst he died - that's what everybody was expecting, especially the doctor. After I'd been with him for a couple of days, I noticed him peeking down the front of my dress, where I'd accidentally left a button undone. "Poor old sod," I thought. "Well, why not, if it gives him a bit of pleasure." So the next day, I went in with two buttons undone, and started giving him a blanket bath. He only has an erection, doesn't he? I mean, what's the proper medical treatment under those conditions?'
'What did you do,' I asked.
'Gave him a blow job,' she answered.
Somewhere behind me, a waiter dropped a tray of cereal bowls, but she carried on without appearing to notice: 'Brought him to life like nothing else could have done. I kept the treatment up - twice daily, before meals - and three weeks later, he's cured and doesn't need a nurse, at all. "Stay on," he says. "What as?" I ask him. "You're my everything," he says. So I did, and I am.'
'You don't regret giving up nursing?' It was almost a tongue in cheek comment, just to see her reaction.
'I realised almost as soon as I started the training course that I wasn't cut out for it, but I was damned if I'd give it up, especially as that's exactly what my mother had told me I'd do. So I passed my exams, and nursed for a few months before I came to Sir John. I'm afraid you need a calling for it, which I simply don't have.'
'Even worse than being a tart?' I asked.
'But this is FUN.' She laughed at my expression. 'Seeing all those pathetic jerks, last night, all trying to chat up Sir John's little Cockney bird, telling her what a fantastic voice she has, and how they knew someone in the record industry that would give her a contract. We both enjoy that kind of amusement. We laughed ourselves silly, over that, last night.'
I'm all for having fun in life, but there seemed something rather cruel about her idea of humour. On the other hand, the crowd last night had hardly been kind to me.
She must have noticed a frown cross my face, because she said: 'Sir John tremendously enjoyed your performance. He said you sang just like Princess Kristiana. He closed his eyes and said he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.'
I was really pleased at that - the first unbiased comment I'd received.
She paused for a moment, as though hesitating about saying something, then added: 'Look, pardon my ignorance, but exactly who was Princess Kristiana? From what Sir John said last night, she must have been dead before you were even born. Did you get interested in her because you had similar names?'
So she'd found out my name, had she, and she'd realised the similarity between Chris and Kristiana. I wondered who she had asked about me, and what response she had received. But her comment reminded me that I still didn't know her name.
'I'm sorry; you have the advantage over me. I'm Christopher Walker, as I take it you already know.'
'Bridget Montague,' she said, and held out a hand for me to shake, her fingernails protruding like talons. As I shook it, I had a momentary vision of her digging those nails into my naked buttocks and pulling me onto her like a frenzied, wild animal. I shook my head, and answered her earlier question, before I let my imagination carry me away.
'No, it was the other way round, actually.'
She looked puzzled, so I explained.
'My father was her number one fan - he ran her fan club. When she died, just a few months before I was born, it was inevitable I'd be called Christopher - and no prizes for guessing my name if I'd been born a girl.
'I think he probably idolised her more after her death than before. He kept the fan club going as her memorial. It was inevitable that he taught me all her songs, and with my mother being a music teacher, I learned to sing them exactly as Princess Kristiana used to. That was, of course, until my voice broke.'
'What happened then?'
I felt the nostalgic smile fade from my face. 'My father died. He was killed in a car accident when I was fourteen.'
'Oh how dreadful! But you still continued with Princess Kristiana's singing, after your voice had broken?'
'I'd been going through a rebellious period with my father, which I've regretted ever since. When he died, that seemed the best way of trying to make up for it. At his funeral, I sang the same song as I did last night. I spent the whole week between his death and the funeral just practising it, with my mother helping. It seemed fitting somehow. Afterwards, we just carried on, with me relearning to sing all of Princess Kristiana's songs, and somehow, it got us through those dreadful months after his death.'
'I can see how that must have helped the two of you to cope with his death, Chris. I think you should be proud of last night's performance. I'm certain your father would have been.'
'That's what my mother said,' I told her.
Another slight hesitation from Bridget before: 'Chris, now I realise Sir John has such an interest in Princess Kristiana, I'd rather like to find out a little more about her. Do you have anything left over from your father's fan club that I could read? Newspaper cuttings, or anything like that?'
'I can do better than that,' I told her. 'My father wrote her biography. He spent years trying to get it published. After he died, my mum and I published it ourselves, and got it printed. We sold it to all the members still in the fan club. Made a nice little sum out of that, which at the time, helped to make ends meet. I think there are still a few boxes of them left in my mother's house. It's not far away. If you wanted, you could drive me over there now, and I could get one out for you.'
She smiled at me, and I suddenly felt like standing up and singing "Till there was you," all over again.
'That'd be great, Chris. But will you mother be up at 7:30 on a Sunday morning? It was a bit of a surprise seeing you at this time, after last night's party.'
'I'm always an early riser,' I said. Had I meant to make such a risqué statement? I hurriedly continued: 'But I've got a house key. We can go in without disturbing her.'
'OK, that'll be great,' she said, with another huge smile, and we both stood up and headed for the car park.
3 PHONE CALL
'Chris, it's Bridget.'
It was over two weeks later, and I'd pretty well given up waiting for her to telephone.
'Great to hear from you. How are you?'
'OK. How are you? Did your mother suspect anything after I left?'
For the hundredth time, I re-lived those thirty minutes on that Sunday morning, in my mother's lounge.
I'd called out as we entered, to let her know we weren't burglars, then shown Bridget into the lounge whilst I went upstairs to tell her what I was looking for. Two minutes later, I came back into the lounge with the biography clutched in my hand.
My mother has one of those ridiculously low settees, which you just sink into and can't get out of. Bridget was sitting on it, her knees considerably higher than her bum, and with her short skirt ridden up so that I could not only see her suspenders, I could also catch a glimpse of her white knickers at the top of slim, brown thighs.
Rather than spend the next few minutes with my eyes popping out as I stared at her knickers, I sat down next to her, and started to leaf through the pages of the biography, and I explained a little of Kristiana's life. As we examined the many photographs of Princess Kristiana, we casually rubbed shoulders which sent a tingling all down my right side, and aroused more than a flicker of interest from my groin.
I couldn't help comparing Kristiana with Bridget. Bridget had a very different type of beauty to Kristiana: Kristiana was big-boned and voluptuous, whereas Bridget was skinny. Kristiana wore wonderful, filmy-white, long dresses, whereas Bridget wore hardly anything at all. Given a free choice, Kristiana would have won every time. However, Kristiana was dead, and Bridget was sitting right beside me. The question was, how did I take it further.
In fact, I had no need to deliberate, for after we'd spent ten minutes or so looking through the book, Bridget took it off me and said: 'Thanks for bringing me over here and showing me the book. How much is it?'
'Consider it a gift.'
'No! No! I insist on paying for it.' She looked on the rear and found the price. 'Seven pounds fifty. That's a bargain. I'll just get my money from the ca... Oh shit!' Bridget looked embarrassed, and then she added: 'After insisting I'm going to pay for the book, I've realised I left the hotel without collecting my purse from the room.'
'Look, it's really no problem,' I said. 'You don't have to...'
'No,' she said. 'I've said I'm going to pay for it, and if I haven't got cash, then I'll pay in kind.'
'You mean...' I didn't really know what she did mean, but she soon made it clear, slipping her hand onto my thigh, and then sliding it up towards the bulge which was rapidly growing inside my trousers.
'I mean,' she said, as she tugged at my zip, 'that Sir John thinks I'm very good value for the huge salary he pays me, so I reckon you'll think this worth much more than seven pounds fifty.'
It bloody well was!
She knelt in front of me, unzipped my fly, and then helped ease out my cock, which stood excitedly to attention in front of her. She bent her head to the side, and used her tongue to give me long, slow strokes, in a way which drove me wild.
Before I could get too excited, she quickly bobbed her head over the top, so all I could see was her peaked cap with the blond hair cascading out, rising and falling above my groin, which felt like the centre of heaven. Then, just before I was about to climax, she lifted her head and sat back on her haunches, squeezing my prick with a grip like a navvy holding a pickaxe, allowing not one throb of an orgasm to commence.
Seconds later, she was repeating the whole operation, over again - and again and again. Finally, after ecstasy had been and gone so many times that I'd lost count, I was spurting great gobs of spunk into her mouth, and she was taking it like it was finest nectar she had ever tasted.
'Are you alright, dear?' My mother called from the top of the stairs, as she started to descend.
I realised I'd been grunting like a pig - my mother must have thought I'd been having a heart attack. Bridget was already standing up, pulling down her skirt, and then demurely sitting down in an upright chair, over by the window.
'I'm fine, Mum,' I called, as I looked down at my prick, which was still standing up like a lamppost. There was no way I was going to be able to zip that back in my trousers in its present state. I took the only cover available - the biography - and pulled it across my lap, an instant before my mother came into the room.
'This is Bridget, Mum,' I said, before she could look too closely at my sweat covered face.
'Watcha, Mrs Walker,' Bridget said, in her Cockney accent. 'Chris was just showin' me the Princess Kristiana biografee. It's reely interesting, innit?' She turned to me, and added: 'Chris. Oiy gotta be goin' now. Is there any chance Oiy could 'ave a glass a warta before Oiy go?'
She left her mouth open after she had finished speaking, and I could see the cum covering her tongue and hanging down from her teeth. I prayed my mother was looking elsewhere.
'I'll get some,' I said, keeping the book by my side as I got off the settee and dashed to the kitchen. Once there, I was able to shove my prick back into my trousers and zip it up, before returning with a glass.
'Fanks, Chris. You're a mate.' Bridget drank it down in great gulps, and handed back the glass. 'Gotta go now. Oiy'll give ya a call, sometime. Bye, Mrs Walker.' And she was gone.
'Well!' my mother said. 'She's certainly got a mouth on her, hasn't she, Chris?'
To which I had no reply.
***
I realised I hadn't replied to Bridget's question, and said: 'I'm not certain. Sometimes I think my mother knows far more than mothers are supposed to.'
'Well, parents get like that. Anyone would think sex was invented before we were born. Anyway, I was ringing to ask if you'd come and do a repeat performance for Sir John. He really loved your Princess Kristiana impression.'
Remembering the general reception I got last time I had song it, I was embarrassed. 'He doesn't really want to listen to me. I can probably find some cassette tape copies of the original disks, if he wants.'
'I've told you Chris, it's you he wants to hear. How about this Sunday evening. Sir John's going to be away until then, so you could come over after you finish work on Friday. I want to give you a little present, that I know you would love to have more than anything else in the world. We'd then have the whole weekend to play with it.'
It was a no-brainer decision.
***
'What's that?'
I pointed down to the shape lying on the bed, looking for all the world like a deflated sex doll.
Bridget frowned. She was wearing her parlour maid's outfit today, and she had greeted me at the front door of Sir John's enormous mansion, in her eloquent English with no trace of recognition that the last time we had met, her mouth had been full of my semen. After giving me a welcome cup of tea, she had told me she wanted to give me my present immediately.
Well that suited me, and she had led me to a guest suite, where this shape was lying on the bed.
'That's your present. The one I think you've wanted for years.'
'But what is it? A sex doll, or... What?'
'It's not a sex doll. It's a suit - a bodysuit. To be more accurate, it's a Princess Kristiana bodysuit.'
Why did I feel a surge of adrenaline shoot around my body, as though she had suddenly suggested a round of sex. What the hell was a bodysuit, anyway?
'I don't understand. What's it for?'
Why was my heart beating so loudly, I could barely hear her soft reply?
'I think you probably know the answer to that, Chris. What do you think it is?'
'I don't...' My voice had come out all squeaky, and I stopped speaking in order to regain my breath, before continuing. 'I presume that you wear it, and it makes you look like someone else - in this case, Princess Kristiana.
'But anyway,' I continued, 'you don't need this. I think you're perfect the way you are.' That was hardly a lie, more a slight exaggeration.
'Thanks, Chris.' A pause, then the words I knew were going to follow: 'But it's not for me. It's for you, Chris.'
'For me?' I gave a silly laugh. 'Why would I want to wear this?'
'I think you told me the reason why at breakfast, two weeks ago. The real question is, are you going to try it on?'
'Me? Try it on! Don't be silly. It... it wouldn't fit.' I was grasping at straws, now.
'I had it made especially for you, Chris, from the photographs taken at the party. It'll be a perfect fit.'
I said nothing. On the one hand, I knew I should tell her I wasn't at all interested in her kinky bodysuit, and that we should get down to some good, straight shagging. On the other hand, I knew that, if I opened my mouth, instead of those words, I'd say the words my mind was silently screaming at me. So I said nothing.
Seeing my dilemma, Bridget said: 'OK, let's see if I can convince you.'
She walked over to the wardrobe, slid aside the door, pulled out a white gown and placed it on the bed next to the bodysuit. It was made of layers of lace so delicate, they almost floated; it had little butterfly shaped bows around the waist; and a neckline scooped out so low that only a full breasted woman could have worn it, without looking ridiculous. I gasped at the sheer beauty of it, for it was one of the most beautiful gowns I have ever seen in my life - except that I had seen it before - in the photographs in my father's biography of Princess Kristiana.
'It's one of Kristiana's original gowns,' Bridget said. 'It would be only right that it should be worn by Kristiana, don't you agree?'
'Oh yes!' I slipped my hand under the hem of the gown and felt the filmy material slide over my fingers. 'Kristiana, herself, must wear this wonderful gown.'
'But Kristiana is dead, Chris.'
'But if I was to put on the suit, it would be obscene, me trying on this dress, like...' I unsuccessfully struggled for words.
'You don't know what it would be like until you try it, Chris. It really wouldn't do any harm, would it? If you do look obscene, then we give it up and have a good shag instead. How does that sound?'
My mind silently screamed at me: 'Yes, but please, please, let it fit - that would be a hundred times better than sex with you.'
To her, I said: 'I suppose I could try it. As you say, it wouldn't do any harm, even if I look totally stupid.'
***
Bridget made me strip naked and take a shower in the en-suite. When I came out, she was waiting with a bottle of cream, which she started to rub all over me.
'It's a mixture of anti-perspirant and lubricant, so that you slip into the suit more easily. The instructions also spout some crap about it making the skin more sensitive, to overcome the loss of feeling through the material, but I'd treat that with a pinch of salt.'
The suit actually came in two halves: leggings, with built in feet; and a sleeved leotard top, with built in head and hands, which fastened between the legs over the top of the leggings. It was made of a smooth nylon type of material, wafer thin for the most part, but extremely thick in places like the breasts and hips.
Bridget helped me into the leggings, locating each toe in the right hole. When my feet were properly located, we pulled them up, and they came all the way up to my rib cage. My legs were no longer hairy and knobbly kneed, but were smooth and hairless.
I closed my eyes and ran my fingers down them, past my knees to my calves - if I hadn't known they were my own, I'd have sworn they were Bridget's, they felt so good. And despite Bridget's scepticism, the cream really seemed to make my legs more sensitive, for I could feel my legs being stroked, as though I was rubbing my hands directly over my own skin, rather than the nylon material.
The leggings were fastened at the back, and hanging down the front, from a point just above my genitals, was what appeared to be a long tail. Unfortunately, I'd already guessed which bit was going in there and I didn't fancy it! For one thing, with Bridget's manhandling over the last few minutes, I had this enormous erection, and plainly it had no intention of entering a tube clearly far too small for the purpose.
''That's alright,' Bridget said. 'I have a way of dealing with this problem.'
Well, I knew that already, and I'd been hoping she was going to offer. Bridget stepped in front of me, reached out towards my straining monster and gave it a tremendous slap.
'A-a-a-gh!' I shrieked. 'What did you do that for?'
'We had a problem, and now I've solved it,' she said. 'Look.'
She pointed downwards, at two testicles frantically trying to make themselves small enough to climb up inside my body, and a penis smaller than my thumb.
'It worked, didn't it? And it didn't really hurt that much. Men are such babies. Anyway, slip your bits into this tail.'
She was right. It was more the shock than the pain which had caused the reaction. I fed my poor maltreated prick into a holster, and my balls into little pockets behind it. Bridget then passed the tail between my legs and pulled it up hard from behind with a tug which made me gasp.
'Right, all we have to do now is lace up the back.' She fumbled with the laces and then started to heave in.
It was less of a constriction than I thought it would be. Bridget explained: 'As you can clearly see from some of the photographs in your father's biography, Kristiana was no lightweight, so this bodysuit is simply replicating the size of her own body.'
'But surely,' I said, 'that gown you showed me earlier had a much slimmer waist. I'm never going to fit into it.' I should have been relieved that it wasn't going to work, but instead I was worried - a point Bridget immediately picked upon.
'Don't worry about that,' she said. 'Kristiana was heavily corseted for that dress, and we'll do the same for you.'
Another surge of adrenaline through my body. This was ridiculous - I should be shocked at such a suggestion - not excited. Anyway, the mask built into the leotard top would never fit properly. Bridget noticed me looking it over.
'Shall we give that a try, now?'
I nodded, and sat down on the bed, whilst she picked up the bodysuit top and rucked up the main body part of it, so that she was ready to slip the stretchy material over my head.
'Take a deep breath,' she said. 'It may take me a few seconds to get the mouth and nose located over the appropriate bits. After we've got your breathing sorted, we can line up your eyes, properly. OK?'
I took a huge breath and nodded again. It took a lot of pulling and stretching and twisting before the mask was located to her satisfaction. After that, I stood up, and we pulled the top down, over my hairy chest and stomach, and Bridget pulled the gusset, which was covered in pussy hair, between my legs, and fastened it to the equivalent bit on the rear. She gave the whole thing a bit more pulling and twisting before she was finally satisfied, then she stood back and admired the effect.
'Are you ready to see Princess Kristiana - the first time she's been able to look herself in a mirror for more than thirty years?'
I was so excited, I was almost wetting myself.
'Close your eyes,' she said, and took me by the hand and led me over to a free-standing mirror, and shuffled me about in front of it until she was satisfied with the view I would see when I opened my eyes.
'OK,' she said.
Princess Kristiana was truly beautiful. She was big boned and heavily breasted, with wide hips. She had long black hair which fell straight down from either side of her square fringe, to end in a straight edge, cut with geometric precision one millimetre above her shoulders. Her jaw was also square and her full lipped mouth was breaking into a wonderful grin, and her eyes were shining with excitement.
'Oh,' Kristiana said. 'That's wonderful!'
Bridget nodded, as excited as I was. 'I simply never believed it would turn out as successful as this. It was just like magic, as you turned from Chris into Princess Kristiana.'
I turned and twisted in front of the mirror, and Princess Kristiana moved in front of my eyes.
'Your Highness,' Bridget said, giving a little curtsey. 'I made an offer, a little while ago, which I think you should now consider. Does her Royal Highness, the Princess, desire to turn herself into a mere commoner, a male called Chris Walker?'
She gave another little curtsey, and added: 'It can be so arranged, if your Royal Highness desires it, my lady.'
'Turn into a commoner!' Princess Kristiana said. 'A male! Are you mad? Why would I want to turn into a male, and a commoner at that?'
'Have you noticed,' Bridget asked, 'that you're talking with Kristiana's voice.'
I hadn't, and I said: 'I didn't realise I was actually speaking in her voice. I learnt to do it as I developed her singing - you know, to make the act more complete, but it just seems to come naturally, now, without me thinking about it.'
I looked in the mirror, again. 'Are we going to try on the dress, now? What were you saying about me having to wear a corset?'
'Patience, your Highness, patience, and no, we are definitely not going to try on her dress, yet.' She plucked it off the bed, and carried it to the wardrobe.
Seeing the look on my face, she said: 'Before you can wear the dress, we need to visit a corsetiere, and get you properly fitted. I've guessed at your size, and have got you some clothes to wear for now. As for the job of fitting Princess Kristiana into that dress, it needs an expert. And before we can visit her, we have to develop your stance, and get you standing, moving and behaving like a woman.'
I gave myself a critical look in the mirror. She was right - I may have a wonderful body, but I was slouched, standing like any man would.
'We have a busy weekend ahead of us,' Bridget said. 'I want to spend a couple of hours, this evening, in getting basic stance and body movements, and I then go onto even more fundamental things - eating, drinking, and using the toilet. Tomorrow morning we'll carry on developing walking and body stance.
'By midday, I think you'll be ready to be tested on the outside world, so we'll go to a wine bar in the Town Centre for lunch, and then onto the corsetiere. We can buy you some more clothes, as well, if you want. We'll spend Sunday getting you ready for your performance in the evening for Sir John. How does that sound?'
My mind was reeling, partly because I was only now comprehending the enormity of the change that being a women entailed. Looking just like one was only the very first step. But her penultimate sentence triggered another thought.
'Does Sir John know it will be me singing on Sunday?'
She gave me a cheeky grin. 'He will, but there'll be a small audience, as well. Obviously, they won't know.'
'Are you doing this just to give him a party piece?'
Bridget shook her head. 'No. I'm doing it because when I met you, I saw someone else inside, trying to escape the physical body in which they were trapped. That's why I'm doing it.'
I shook my head in puzzlement, at the same time thinking how nicely my hair splayed out, as I did so.
'I don't understand, Bridget. One hour ago, I have said you were talking rubbish. But I've experienced so many weird emotions in the last few minutes, that I don't know who I am. Perhaps when I was conceived, my father was really conceiving Princess Kristiana. Who knows? Anyway, let's make a start. What's first?'
'Shoes.' Bridget bent down into the wardrobe, and picked up a pair of stilettos with three inch heels.
I looked at the heels dubiously. 'Shouldn't I start with smaller heels, and then work up to this size.
Another shake of her head. 'Shoes form the foundation of your stance, so from now on, you wear heels at least this size, every moment when you're not in bed. We haven't got time to work up to it, so slip these on, and off we go.'
4 WEEKEND
The rest of that weekend was a whirlwind of events - a mixture of pain and hard work, which should have been just miserable grind - but instead was absolute ecstasy. Never before had I felt so at one with myself, and so excited by every little task I accomplished.
To start with, Bridget made me practice stark naked, apart from the shoes - and, of course, the bodysuit.
'You need to see how your body is moving,' Bridget said. 'Clothes will only hide what you're doing wrong.'
Later on, she consented to me wearing a bra, to stop my breasts swinging me off balance as I practised turning to right and left, but even before we started the hard work, she made me think myself into my role.
'Actors look realistic because they believe they are the characters they're portraying. I want you to be Kristiana, from this moment on. I want you to remember your upbringing, and what you are, because it will show through, in every stance you take and every movement you make.'
She had studied Kristiana's biography in minute detail, and recalled it for me now. 'Your parents were killed in World War 2, shortly after you were born in Latvia. You were then raised in a convent until the war ended, when you were evacuated to another convent in England. It was a very hard life in the convent. Remember, when you were thirteen, you were upset because all the other girls had developed breasts and you hadn't. So what did you do?'
I could vaguely remember the story from my father's biography. I closed my eyes, willing myself to remember the story - not as written in the book, but as though it had happened to me. 'I prayed to God for my breasts to grow bigger than Elsie Fowler's.'
'That's right,' Bridget said, 'and next day, you woke up and thought a miracle had occurred and that God had heard your prayers. Your breasts were just a tiny bit larger, and they grew the next night also, and the night after that. Soon they had grown bigger than Elsie Fowler's, and still they grew. They grew so large, you thought they were going to burst. Do you remember confessing to the Sister about your prayer to God? What did she say?'
What had Sister said to me? Then I remembered: 'Sister said that large breasts were a symbol of a woman's depravity. It had been wicked to ask God for such a sign, and God had made them grow to such a size as a punishment - to show the world how wicked I was.'
I looked at myself in the mirror, and tried to withdraw my breasts into my chest. 'I used to stand in front of the mirror, just like this, hoping that God would forgive me, and make them smaller again, but He never did.'
Bridget had pulled a white sheet over the top of her head, and it draped past her shoulders, just like a nun's habit. 'You're a very wicked girl,' she said. 'How do you think you are going to hide those evil breasts when you go into the world outside this convent? You must take orders, and stay in this convent forever.'
'No, Sister,' I cried. 'I'm so sorry I prayed for my breasts to grow, but I didn't know it was sinful to have such large ones. I don't want to take orders. I'll pray to God for my breasts to get smaller.'
'You'll do no such thing,' she said. 'God has given you those breasts as a reminder of your depravity. You will see them, and recall God's words, every time you look in a mirror. Go now, in disgrace.'
I looked in the mirror again. I wasn't really a depraved girl, was I? I hunched my shoulders, the more to pull in my breasts.
'Young lady! Stand up straight and stop hunching.' Her words were like a whiplash. Shoulders back, chest in, stomach in, chin up.'
I tried to contort my body to meet all of her conflicting demands.
'Stomach IN, I said! And STAND UP STRAIGHT!'
So it went on. After Bridget had got me standing more or less correctly, I spent hours on Friday night and Saturday morning walking on a treadmill in the gymnasium. There was a mirrored wall, and Bridget had rigged up a TV camera behind me, with a huge monitor in front, so that I could see both my front and rear views, as I walked.
By mid morning, I was mentally allowed to leave the confines of the convent, and take on my first job, as a typist in London. Bridget now took on the role of Mavis Sidebottom, a girl of my own age and fresh down from Yorkshire, with whom I shared a room. Mavis gave me lots of useful advice, but of a rather different nature.
'Push your bum right out, so I could use your buttocks as a book rest. As you walk, keep your back straight but swing your hips from side to side... No, further than that. Pull your Tummy in... Shoulders back and push those breasts out as far as they will go...'
After being embarrassed by my breasts earlier, I shyly became rather proud of them, especially as Mavis tried every trick offered by Playtex to try to make hers look as large as mine.
By eleven am on Saturday, my feet and legs were hurting as though on fire. Bridget said she was reasonably satisfied with my walk, and agreed to my getting dressed. She produced a selection of clothes in different sizes, to allow me to get the best fit.
To go to the wine bar, and for our shopping afterwards, we settled on a dark green sweater, with a green, tartan pleated skirt - nothing too sensational, which might pull me into a situation I wasn't yet ready for. She helped me into the clothes, and applied a little make up to my face. Then, we were off.
***
The wine bar was great - there were a group of about eight guys in one corner. From the sports bags next to them, I guessed they were rugby players, getting drunk before the game. They clocked us as we walked in, and then made catcalls and whistled at us. Bridget gave me a happy, excited smile, which I returned. I felt confident with myself, and good at being ogled by the blokes.
'Bridget, hi. How are you?'
I looked around, taken by surprise at the man's voice at my shoulder, which I recognised from somewhere, although I couldn't place it.
'Hiya, Pete.' Her cockney accent was back in place. 'D'ya enjoy Sue's birfday party the ovva week?'
Fortunately, Bridget gave her reply before I'd swivelled all the way round, and so I was partly prepared for the horrible sight of my cousin's face leering only inches above my shoulder.
'Yeah, great party. Who's your friend?' He indicated me.
'This is Princess Kristiana. Ya remember, Chris imitated a song by 'er mum at the party.'
'Don't I just! It was so...'
'...fantastic, wan't it,' Bridget interrupted. 'God, it was so terrific, Oiy almost wet me knickers.'
'Blimey,' Pete said, 'I suppose it was er... quite good.'
'And sexy,' Bridget added. 'Oiy 'ad the 'ots for 'im all night long. Oiy simply 'ad ta ring up Kristiana next mornin' and tell 'er all about 'im. We all met up at 'is mum's house, an' Oiy gave him a blow job - sort of as a thank you.'
This time there was no crash of crockery, as there had been when she uttered those words in the breakfast room.
'You gave him a...' Pete's tongue was hanging out.
She turned to me. 'It reelly turned ya on, din't it?' I nodded my head enthusiastically, and she turned back to Pete. 'She 'ad a fantastic orgasm, right on the spot.'
I nodded again. 'Out of this world.'
'It was reelly funny,' Bridget continued, ''cause Chris's mum 'eard all the noise, and came downstairs. Oiy 'ad a gobfull of cum, and Kristiana 'ad to crawl behind the settee, with 'er 'and up 'er twat still bringing herself off.'
Pete's eyes were goggling so hard I thought they would pop out.
'Anyway, noice to meet ya again,' she turned back to me, dismissing him. 'They do fantastic salads 'ere - just right for slimmers like you.'
'But I'm not a...' my words faltered as I met her gaze.
'Remember that dress ya gotta get inta for ya performance,' she said.
'Oh, are you doing a performance?' Pete turned to me, desperately trying to stay in the conversation.
'She sure is,' Bridget replied before I could get a word in, and then turned back to me. 'Ey, why don' we invite Pete and 'is mates tomorra night?'
Gulp!
'I don't think that's a very good idea. I mean...' I searched around for some excuse, '...Sir John may not like it.'
'Cause 'e will. The more the merrier. Bring all ya mates, Pete.' She wrote down the address on a serviette and handed it to him. 'Now, piss off, so me and Kristiana can 'ave a good ol' chinwag, there's a luv.'
Pete went back to his mates, his mouth still wide open. I heard him say to them, 'God, you'll never guess what she just said...'
'What a joke,' Bridget's voice was back into cultured mode. 'Last week they thought you were queer - this week they'll all be lusting to get inside your knickers.'
'Bridget, I can't sing in front of them. No way.'
'Well you did last week, so I don't see why you can't do it tomorrow.'
'But I was pissed last week.'
'That's no problem, then.'
'Bridget, I just can't do it - I won't do it, and that's flat.' My mind was made up, and there was no way she was going to shift me.'
'Fair enough,' she said. 'Call Pete back and I'll explain why he can't come tomorrow night.'
'You wouldn't...' My voice died as I looked at her. I knew she would.
'Two large glasses of dry white wine, and two of your slimmer's salads, please,' she said to the waitress who'd appeared at her elbow.
************************
'She needs to get into this dress tomorrow evening,' Bridget said to Marlene, the corsetiere.
Marlene measured my waistline and then measured the dress and slowly shook her head.
'I'm afraid she needs to lose far too much.' She looked at me, 'You haven't worn a corset before, have you love?' I shook my head, and she shook hers again. 'No, it's just too much.'
'Isn't there anything you can do. We're really desperate.'
Marlene looked at the seam in the dress. 'I know a dressmaker who could let the waist out as much as it will go. But even then, it would be the most dreadful squeeze to get you into it.'
'That's no problem,' Bridget said. 'Kristiana will do it.'
I just wished she'd consulted me before answering.
********************
It was fortunate that Bridget was still driving Sir John's huge BMW, for I was corseted so tightly I had to be virtually loaded sideways into the rear seat. It was also fortunate that no-one told me I would have to wear the thing for the next thirty-six hours, with Bridget pulling it tighter still, at least every hour, as we continued to practice my stance and movement. On Sunday morning, I actually started rehearsing my singing. I thought the corset would have totally messed it up, but it didn't. If anything, it made my voice even sweeter, so by the time the dressmaker brought back the Princess Kristiana gown, just before lunch, I felt more than ready for the part.
She had let the dress out to its fullest extent. Although it was slightly too small, both dressmaker and Bridget were convinced that a continual tightening of the corset throughout the rest of the day would do the trick. I would be wearing it for my performance that evening!
*********************
I was.
My last tightening of the corset was sheer hell, but I'd have endured it ten times over to get into that dress. With it on, I was no longer just an imitation of Princess Kristiana - I was Princess Kristiana.
The dress was wonderful. Frothy lace on the shoulders, dropping down to a cleavage to outshine the Grand Canyon, and the gown flowing over my hips to within a inch of the ground. Each time I moved, it had a life of its own, swirling around and floating out, and the swing of my hips, which I'd perfected over the last two days, served to exploit it to the full.
When I swept onto the minstrels' gallery above the dining hall, that evening, it was as though the clock had been put back to 1963, and I was making that same performance in which I had once appeared on Top of the Pops. The fans, in the form of Pete and his mates shouted praise at me, and I could see the lust in their eyes, for at that moment, not even Bridget was more desirable than me.
At the head table sat Sir John, with Bridget, in her sexy little parlour-maid outfit, attending to his every need. It was extra stimulating that, when I looked closely at him, looking at me, I could see the desire in his eyes also.
And I knew I had every one of them in the palm of my hand.
5 OFFER
Actually, as soon as I finished singing, I knew that the palm of my hand wasn't going to be big enough. For one thing, my dress was likely to get ripped to shreds by that bunch of louts as soon as I went down the spiral staircase to the floor of the hall,. Even if it wasn't torn, it was certainly going to get semen splattered all over it.
And I knew there'd be lots of semen flying about. For one thing, I'd seen the bulges in their trousers whilst I'd been singing, and realised this was due in no short measure to the fact that every time I moved, the dress swirled outwards, and I wasn't wearing any knickers. ('Better not wear knickers, or else the knicker-line will show through the dress,' Bridget had said. 'The dress almost reaches your ankles, no-one will see anything.') Of course, I hadn't counted on my elevated position almost above their heads, giving them a worm's eye view; when I looked at Bridget, smiling at their excitement, I reckoned that was exactly what she had counted upon!
I suppose I should have been upset to be another cruel victim of her humour - instead, I felt incredibly aroused. Those guys - the very same ones who had scorned Chris at the party three weeks ago - were lusting after me. So instead of keeping my legs tightly together, I spread them well apart, and turned and twisted my body, so my dress soared outwards, and they could see right up.
Oh, foolish woman! Most girls discover the results of sexual provocation at a very early age. I had managed to arouse a whole rugby team, who even as they applauded me, started to push their way to the bottom of the spiral staircase - my only exit.
But Bridget had it all under control. She darted to the base of the staircase ahead of the first of the mob, and went up a few steps so she could make herself heard.
'OK guys. It's bin reely good listnin' to the Princess, 'ere. Now, Oiy know many of ya 'll want to get 'er ortagraf, but for those wot don', we've arranged some naked gals to look after your every need in the bar down the corrida.'
Thirty seconds later, the dining room was empty, apart from me and Sir John. And from the sheaf of papers on the table before Sir John, I knew he was going to offer me the record contract that Bridget had told everyone was hers.
*****************************************
I tottered down the tiny spiral staircase and walked over to Sir John and gave him another bow, showing him all of my cleavage. He smiled, and picked up the contract, and waved it slowly in front of me. My eyes followed it, like a Wimbledon spectator watching the men's finals.
'It's all in here, Princess. Sign on the dotted line, and you become a millionaire.'
'A millionaire?'
'Within six months, you'll reach the first million. By the end of the year, you should have trebled that.'
'Sounds good. What's the catch?'
'Why should there be a catch?'
I didn't answer his question, but Bridget's comments two weeks ago had convinced me I should trust Sir John a good deal less far than I could throw him.
'Are we talking pounds sterling?'
He grunted, almost jeering at my naivety. 'No way, Princess.' I was starting to hate the way he called me Princess.
'I'm quoting the number of recordings you'll sell,' he continued. 'CDs, cassettes, videos. You'll get five pence royalty for every one.'
I did the sum in my head. It was a lot of money, compared to my current earnings, but insignificant compared to the profit Sir John was going to make out of me.
I shook my head. 'Fifty pence.'
'Take a run, loser.'
I started to turn away from him before he continued. 'But even if you're not interested in stardom, consider the alternative.'
I already had. 'It's quite simple. I continue my nine till five job, and make about one fifth of the money I would with you, but without any of the hassle. I'll stick to that.'
'You work for IJK Ltd, don't you?'
'So what?'
'My company owns it, and we don't want perverts working there.'
'Pervert! I'm no...'
'It's all on videotape.' He waved towards the camera I'd seen Bridget set up before the performance. 'You're a transvestite and have just performed in public, to an unsuspecting audience. You made a number of sexually provocative actions to the men present, and no doubt, would have had sex with some, or all of them, if I hadn't been here to prevent it.'
But he wasn't talking to a naíve teenager, desperate for her first recording contract. 'That's ridiculous! Even if I was that way inclined, those guys would have discovered the limitations of the bodysuit pretty quickly, and then they'd have beat the shit out of me.'
Sir John smiled again - I'd seen crocodiles with more sincerity. 'When you have the money to pay for the best, there are no limitations. That bodysuit allows you to have full heterosexual sex. You could have totally fooled every one of those blokes - they wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between you and the real thing.'
I gasped. 'Full sex! That's incredible. Why...' And then it all became clear.
'That's what you want, isn't it? You want to have sex with Princess Kristiana. Can't Bridget play the part for you? She told me she was exactly what you want her to be.'
'You've heard her singing. Besides, I want to fuck Kristiana whilst she's singing. No one else.'
'What was it? A teenage fantasy?' He inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'And now you can afford to live the fantasy. That's what the whole charade is about. That isn't a real contract, is it?'
He shrugged with a smile. 'Not worth the paper it's printed on. But the offer of a contract usually works. So, you'd better name your price.'
'Not this time. I'll go and take off the dress...'
'No!' I'd wrong footed him, astonished that I could refuse his offer. He recovered himself, and said more calmly, 'I want to have sex with you, Kristiana. I'll pay you.'
I shook my head. 'Sorry, I'm no prostitute. Get someone else.'
'A thousand pounds.'
Hell, that was a lot of money, but there was no way I was interested. I was going to say 'No' but, at the last minute, changed it to, 'Ten.'
Shit! Why had I said that? There was no way I was going to let him fuck me, even for ten thousand pounds.
'Five.'
On the other hand, he'd simply be shoving his cock into an artificial vagina in the bodysuit whilst I sang. He wouldn't really be fucking me.
He could see my hesitation. 'You can come and wear the dress again, and I'll pay the same again, every time I fuck you.'
Jesus! The chance to wear this beautiful dress again. I'd have shagged him for that alone, but I had the presence of mind to say, 'Cash.'
'Bridget.' He hardly raised his voice, but Bridget was there in an instant. She must have been listening to every word we said. 'Go to the safe, get out five thousand and give it to the Princess.'
Five minutes later, the largest pile of banknotes I had ever seen was between my arms, as I bent over a table with my hands firmly holding the far side. I started my favourite song again:
"There were bells on a HILL
But I never heard them RINGING
No, I never heard them at all
Till there was YOU"
The reason for the unevenness of my intonation was that, as I sang, Sir John, his hands grasping my tits for leverage, rammed his cock as far up my arse as it would go. For a man who was supposed to be bound to a wheelchair, he seemed to have no problem rising to the occasion!
A Christmas Carol
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A Christmas Carol
by Charlotte Dickles
Ben Scott, otherwise known as Ebenezer Scrooge, was the company hit man, and his idea of a Christmas gift was to announce the downsizing of the medical laboratory, along with huge redundancies, on Christmas Eve. But as he found to his cost, always beware scientists bearing gifts.
Author's Note:
This is another story from my archives. It was, in fact, the first story I wrote as Charlotte Dickles, and you may now understand where my name originated from. It's unlike most of my other stories but as it's that time of year, I thought it was appropriate. For those who tend to take my stories more seriously than they're intended, this is simply fun fiction. No humans were harmed in the writing of this story!
***
I walked into the Research Director's office, a deliberate ten minutes late, and purposefully strode over to his vacant chair at the conference table. Rather than sitting in it - which would have given everyone else the height advantage - I pushed forward my chest and stretched up to my full five-feet, five inches height.
'Ladies and gentleman. Thank you all for coming here today.' Not that they had a choice if they wanted any hope of keeping their jobs. I gave them my crocodile smile, before I continued.
'As you know, we last met on the 24th of September, exactly three months ago to this very day. You will remember that was just a few days after the Seacombe Medical Research Laboratory was acquired by Imperial Medical & Drugs. I am certain you will also recall that, following my assessment of the Laboratory's achievements as being mediocre to poor over the last ten years, the previous Director of Research immediately resigned and I took over his role in a temporary capacity.'
'But Mr Scott...'
I held up my hand as Dr Oliphant started to utter her usual protests. 'Yes, Dr Oliphant. I am well aware that the Laboratory has conducted millions of experiments and valuably assisted the development of several cancer busting drugs. But I repeat today what I told you before: the name of Seacombe Laboratories has not appeared on a single patent application for over a decade. In other words, not one of your customers has considered you have significantly contributed to their product, and your Director has calmly accepted that fact.'
I could afford another crocodile smile now that I'd ground their achievements into the dust. 'It was only because of the Laboratory's prior excellent record that I allowed you the opportunity to show once more what you could do, and I set you a challenge. Three months for each of you to prove the worth of your individual departments. Those of you who today demonstrate to me a patentable, and more importantly, marketable product, will find a secure future with IM&D. The best product will secure you the role of Laboratory Research Director. But for those whose departments are not able to meet the challenge, I regret there is no future here for either you, or your staff.'
For the first time I looked around the conference table, at which the four Heads of Departments sat staring stonily-faced at me. On my left was the aptly named Dr Tina Sparrow. She was the only one of the four who was actually shorter than me, and her flat chest, close-cropped hair and small frame made her appear just like a tiny sparrow. At fifty-two, she was the most senior of the four, and in the old days, that would have made her the natural successor as Research Director. But her rigid mind-set was laid bare by the way she fastened her white laboratory coat from throat to hem, giving her the appearance of a dental technician, rather than someone who could take absolute control of the Laboratory.
Directly facing me was Dr Nigella Oliphant, otherwise known as Nelly the Elephant, for fairly obvious reasons. Overweight to the point of obesity, she totally obscured the chair on which she squatted. Her huge V-necked white coat revealed an enormous bosom, which would have been quite good, were it not resting upon her even larger stomach. Her legs, fortunately obscured at this moment, would have done adequate justice to an elephant. In fact, the hateful scowl on her fat face reminded me of a very angry bull elephant I'd seen on a TV nature programme last week. Physically, I was terrified of her - after all, she would only have to sit on top of me to crush me to death - hopefully I didn't let my fear show.
I tried not to let my gaze drift too quickly onto the third person around the table. Dr Lucy Smiles was the most gorgeous creature I had ever set eyes upon. At least four inches taller than me, but with her soft features, round curves, and of course, her ready smiles, she wasn't the least bit intimidating. Even with the seriousness of the situation, she was able to find a very quick smile for me, which brightened my day. I daren't return it as the others would see, but I think she understood. She sat well away from the table so I was able to properly admire her. Her laboratory coat was not fastened - underneath she wore a pastel yellow blouse, the top three buttons carelessly undone, revealing the wonderful curve of her breasts as they formed the deep valley of her cleavage. Her tight black skirt had a side slit which exposed far more of those wonderfully slim legs than she could possibly have suspected. It always amazed me how innocent were many of the most beautiful women, with little idea of the lecherous thoughts which were surging through the minds of every man.
I quickly passed onto the fourth and final Department Head sitting next to Lucy, and the only male: Dr John Ladd, aka Jack the Lad. Second in seniority to the Sparrow, he would have been the other natural contender for the Director's role, had I not already made up my mind that it was Lucy who was going to succeed, regardless of the merits of their respective schemes. By reputation, he'd had sex with at least half the women at the laboratory, but I really could not imagine any woman fancying him.
OK, he was about six feet tall, and looked as though he practised with weights every day, but did woman really simply desire a man for his body, rather than a fine mind, such as mine. Reluctantly, I had to admit they did. Anyway, it was obvious from their body language that there was no love lost between Lucy and Jack. They put as much space between them as possible, and Jack was half-turned so he almost had his back to Lucy.
I'd always had this theory that our names have an incredible amount of influence upon our lives, and nowhere was this displayed more obviously than in the people sitting around that table. Of course, I was perfectly aware I could not exclude myself from my generalisation. With my surname - Scott - perhaps I might have become an explorer or a poet, were it not for a single utterance by my headmaster, twenty years ago. Trying to show an informality with us boys which was, until then, non-existent, he had gone around the class giving his end of term review, calling us all by our first names. When he'd come to me, he didn't use the name by which everyone knew me 'Ben', but the name from the register - 'Ebenezer'. The other guys could hardly stop themselves from bursting into laughter in front of him, and from then on I was always called Ebenezer. Of course, next term when we read 'A Christmas Carol' in class, it was obvious how my nickname would be corrupted into Scrooge.
So, Scrooge by name - it was little wonder I became Scrooge by nature. It had led to a succession of failed marriages, but, in my business life, it had worked wonders. I had been IM&D's hit man for three years now, and was well on the way to making a board position soon. Screwing Seacombe Labs into the ground would, I hoped, be the final catalyst to prove I was ready for the job.
The silence had served to heighten my own power over them, and I gave another little smile, before speaking. 'I will see you today more or less in the order in which you're arranged around the table, commencing with Dr Sparrow immediately after this meeting, Dr Oliphant at midday, Dr Ladd at two pm and Dr Smiles at four. Is that clear?'
I thought the words had come out as though they'd been decided on the spur of the moment; in fact, I'd worked it all out carefully beforehand. The Sparrow would obviously have nothing to offer, and I could get her quickly out of the way. By midday, Nellie would be thinking only of the number of beef-burgers she would be stuffing down her throat for lunch to prevent herself wasting away. If she tried to drag out the meeting, she'd be in competition with her own stomach. As for Jack, the rumour was that he was shagging the wife of the restaurant manager, so while that stalwart was in the canteen serving up the Christmas Eve lunches, Jack would be serving the manager's wife with her own choice of turkey and stuffing. Jack would come to my meeting totally shagged out, and be incapable of properly presenting his case. I would therefore be forced to accept the final submission from Lucy, and make her the new Research Director. Admittedly, the Laboratories would be considerably slimmed down from their current size, but undoubtedly she would show her appreciation in the normal way. Of course, because of her limited management experience, she would be on probation, and I would have to carefully supervise, monitor and assess her performance over many months ahead - all in all, an excellent arrangement.'
I'd expected some dissension over the timing, but in fact they all appeared happy with it. Within seconds, all but the Sparrow had disappeared, and I sat back to listen to whatever hare-brained scheme she would come up with.
***
'Do you know what percentage of men will suffer erectile dysfunctional problems at some time during their lifetime?'
The question staggered me. I hadn't considered the Sparrow would know what an erection was, never mind the problems associated with getting it hard. I took a guess.
'About eighty per cent?'
'Not bad. Slightly over that actually, but it's in the right ball park, if you'll excuse the pun.'
I really didn't want to get into talking about whatever personal problems she might have with her partner - indeed, I didn't even know she was in a relationship - so I decided to bring the meeting back to the subject. I gave another of my infamous smiles. 'So have you invented a cure?'
'Yes.'
That wiped the smile off my face. 'Sorry?'
'I have developed a cure for erectile dysfunction.'
'And it works?' It was staggering. Why it was the kind of development which would outsell any stupid cure for cancer or AIDS. Why it could...
'Obviously, there are some men for whom an erection is medically impossible. At the extreme, for example, would be someone who's had his genitals blown off with a shotgun. But as for the others, I believe it will cure the vast majority.'
She must be joking, but the expression on her face was serious enough. 'Presumably you would have to put it through a testing period over several years before you could try it on humans?'
'Already done.' She saw the look of incomprehension on my face, and clarified. 'It's basically a chemical we've tested as part of our cancer programme. It was thought it could cause cancer, and we proved it couldn't. But we noticed the side effects on our laboratory rats, which were really quite remarkable. We've given it a working name of Stiffen, which is an acronym of some of the chemicals it contains. The product is completely safe and I can demonstrate it today.'
I was still foundering, and I sought for something to say. 'Assuming you have a handy male with erectile dysfunction.' At least I couldn't be accused of that.
'Unnecessary. It will give a tremendous erection to any male. I can demonstrate it on you, if you like.'
Bloody hell! Any male. The profits were now soaring into hyperspace. 'How is it applied?'
She gave a wry smile, and for the first time, it suddenly occurred to me that she could appear quite pleasant. 'That was the really tricky question. It's a liquid, and we have to keep closely controlled doses directly in contact with the testicles. We played around with several ideas before we went to a professional garment manufacturer. They produced this.' She pulled a white garment from her briefcase, and tossed it over to me. 'We call it a ball-bra.'
I fingered the item - it appeared an apt term with two cups of stretchy material into which the balls would obviously fit, whilst the whole would be fastened around the shaft of the penis.
'What's this?' Hanging from the underside was something similar to one of those Sparklets canisters, used for pressurising soda siphons.
'It contains the liquid Stiffen, along with a gas propellant, which forces it into the bra cups surrounding the testicles. We're still fine-tuning the exact quantities to use, so we have a simple remote control device to apply measured doses.' She held up a small metal box with a single button on it. 'Do you want to go behind the screen and slip on the bra?'
I hadn't noticed the folding screen in the corner of the room until then. Suddenly embarrassed, I rather timidly stepped behind the screen, and, nervous that she might be peering through the cracks, turned my back on her whilst I lowered my trousers and pants. It was remarkably easy to slip on - simply a matter of feeding each testicle through a fairly small aperture into the cup, then using a hook and eye fastening - the same as you find on any bra - to fix it in place around my limp cock. I pulled my trousers back up and returned to my seat.
'OK. Are you going to show me what happens?' I was feeling incredibly stupid. After all, if I did get an erection when she pressed the button, was I going to dash back behind the screen to examine it? I could hardly go running off to find Lucy in order to show her.
The Sparrow was giving a really eerie smile as she held up the metal box and pressed the button, and I could feel the cool liquid squirting around my balls. At least, it was cool for a few seconds, and then after a little tingle in my balls, it began to grow hotter and hotter. Suddenly the liquid was boiling, and my balls were burning.
With a horrified glance at her face, I knew exactly what she had done. Unable to meet my challenge, and knowing she was subsequently facing the end of her career, she had taken her revenge on me by inventing this ridiculous story, which I had fallen for, hook, line and sinker. This was no erection producing liquid - it was concentrated nitric acid. The bitch was burning my balls off!
I stood up, pulled down my trousers and had started fumbling with the fastening on the bra, when it happened. One instant, my prick had been trying to see how small and wrinkled it could appear in the face of horrific danger - the next it suddenly inflated to rigid attention, with the speed of a rubber dinghy connected to a high-pressure air line. I gawped down at it. Blue veins standing out along the shaft, and the foreskin stretched as tight as a drum skin over the purple head. I could not only feel it throbbing, I could actually see the head pulsing.
'Jesus!'
'Well,' the Sparrow was staring down at it, a delighted smile on her face. 'Nowadays, I don't very often get men dropping their trousers and thrusting their highly aroused penis under my nose.' She twisted her head, so she could see it from different angles. 'I think you would agree, it is highly aroused?'
'Oh, yes. It's fantastic. Um...' A thought had occurred. 'How long will the erection last?' It was no good if it only held for a few seconds.
'We're still determining that. A minimum of twelve hours.'
'Twelve hours! What even if....'
'Even if you have an orgasm? Oh yes. That's the beauty of Stiffen. Why I remember when I was a young girl, my boyfriend and I tried to see how far we could get through the Kama Sutra without stopping. I think position number eighteen was the highest we got to.'
Bloody hell, I thought. When I tried that, I'd only got to position number three before having to give up.
'Look,' she continued. 'Do you mind if I take a few scientific measurements, as we're still gathering data about the effects.' Without waiting for my permission, she reached forward and ran a finger from base to head. I shuddered. 'Would you say the shaft is as sensitive as before?'
I thought I might be about to orgasm. I nodded. 'Ughh!'
'Good. What about the head?' She slipped finger and thumb around it and gave a slow reciprocating action.
I nodded vigorously. 'Ugh! Ugggghhh!'
'That's good. Seeing my delicate position, she hurriedly withdrew her fingers, and moved them to my balls. 'And what about the testicles. Are they as sensitive as they were before?'
I don't know where the idea came from, but I carefully placed a hand on each lapel of her white coat, and then deliberately ripped the two halves apart, buttons flying everywhere. Underneath, she had the body of a slim teenager, dressed in matching white, almost transparent chemise and French knickers. As I watched, her nipples hardened beneath the chemise, and then she was stepping away and pushing something towards me, before I could take it to the next step.
'Put this on,' she ordered.
I looked at down at it - it was a foil. Why the little vixen had known exactly what was going to happen after she'd given me Stiffen. Well, if she was game, then I certainly was. I grabbed the foil and tore it open, sliding the condom over my throbbing prick.
'Before we do that,' she said, this time from the safety of the far side of the table, 'there's something you need to sign.' She thrust a sheet of paper towards me.
'What is it?' Not that I was interested in anything, other than fucking her.
'It's your agreement that Stiffen meets all the requirements set for your project, and that I shall be the new Research Director.'
Even if she hadn't been threatening to withhold sex, I'd have willingly signed it. She truly deserved it. We were going to bring a lot of happiness to an awful lot of people, and make billions of pounds in the process. I scribbled my signature on the bottom, added the date and slid it across the table. She checked my signature, and then slipped the paper back into her briefcase.
'Right,' she said, sitting on the table, then swivelling around and sliding herself across the table towards me. She didn't have to go very far before I'd grabbed both her legs, separated them and was pulling her hard towards my prick. She barely had time to slip aside the gusset of her French knickers, before I was thrusting inside her.
I'd never before had to take any woman so urgently. I thrust forward and back so quickly my movements were almost a blur, slamming into her each time like a steam hammer. Within seconds I was squirting inside her, almost sobbing with relief that I'd come, and she was stroking the back of my head, murmuring, 'There, there, there.'
When it was over, she said, 'We'll certainly have to warn women to apply lots of Lube, in advance. Now we have your urgency out of the way, we can do it again properly.'
As she wriggled slightly against me, I realised I was still rock hard and raring to continue.
'But first,' she continued, 'get rid of the used condom and slip on a new one.' She pulled a large box of condoms from her brief-case, and pushed them towards me. Whilst I was completing the task, she pulled something heavy out of the case and dropped it on the table before me. 'We can work through this, page by page.'
It was a hardback, heavily illustrated sex manual. 'We'll start on page one and see whether we can get through to the end.'
Sometimes, I'd had excellent sex, which lasted for a relatively short duration. Occasionally, I'd had lengthy bouts of reasonable sex. But never before had I had such absolutely fantastic, continual sex, which lasted for hours and hours.
Even better, after my first few earth-shattering orgasms, my needs stabilised, and I was able to give much more attention towards bringing off Tina. Once I got her on the boil, she seemed to have orgasms that lasted for twenty minutes at a time. And when she got into that phase, I found I was having my orgasms almost end to end, commencing the next orgasm only seconds after finishing the previous one.
But all good things must come to an end. We were interrupted about two-thirty by the intercom on my desk buzzing. I was prepared to ignore it, but we were having a brief intermission, and Tina walked over to the desk and answered it.
'Yes?'
'It's Miss Pearce, Miss Sparrow. I know Mr Scott said you weren't to be disturbed, but the restaurant has sent over some food. Would you like to take it?'
Tina raised her eyes at me, and I nodded. Talk of food had suddenly made me feel a different type of hunger to the one I'd experienced all morning. I vaguely wondered whether we could eat and shag at the same time. Tina slipped on her white coat, and refastened as many of the buttons as were still on it. When she was reasonably respectable, she stepped over to the door and opened it. She barely had chance to utter the word, 'You!' before she was seized by the wrist and with a jerk she shot out of the door and out of my sight.
An instant later, a human elephant walked through the door and closed it behind her.
'You!' I couldn't help echoing Tina's words before realising the hopelessness of my situation. I was a small man, she was an elephant of a woman; I was stark bollock naked, and she was completely dressed. Worst of all, my prick was still standing to full attention. I would hardly be able to pull my trousers over it, assuming I could find them from wherever they had got tossed in the heat of the moment.
'I can see that Stiffen was very effective, then.' Nelly might have been discussing the result of any laboratory experiment, perhaps looking at one of her rats, rather than impassively staring at my prick. She came over and bent down, to give it a closer inspection.
'It's an incredibly small penis, isn't it? Is it usually that minute?'
I know I really shouldn't be so sensitive about the size of my prick. With it being only four inches long, and less than an inch diameter across the rim, I should get used to such comments. I never have done, and nothing is more likely to send the poor thing shrivelling up, than some woman scorning it. Not that day. It stood proud, and so did I.
'Hasn't anyone told you, it's not the size that matters; it's the way you use it. I didn't notice Dr Sparrow complaining over the last four hours.'
'Dr Sparrow is so small she wouldn't complain if one of her laboratory rats fucked her. In fact, the way she looks after them, I think they do. But you'll need to make it bigger than that if you want to get it inside me.'
Right at that moment, I realised I really did want to get it inside her. A few hours ago, I'd thought that she was the most unappealing woman I had ever seen, totally devoid of sexuality. But my needs had changed since then. As she'd bent over to inspect my prick, I'd had an incredible view down her cleavage. If I hadn't been erect and raring to go before, I certainly would by now. I wanted her like crazy, and I knew there was simply no way it was going to happen unless she agreed.
But there was something about the way she'd phrased her last statement that puzzled me. I replayed the words in my head.
'So how do you suggest I make it bigger?'
Nelly looked surprised, and said, 'My, you do catch on quickly, don't you?' She delved in her briefcase and extracted what appeared to be an identical garment to the ball-bra which Tina had handed over. She tossed it across to me and commanded, 'Put it on.'
'What is it?' As I examined it, the difference was obvious. This was intended to be worn over the prick, not the balls.
'The canister contains a substance which will make your cock bigger than you have ever dreamed. I've decided to call it Growit. No acronym for chemicals, but it sounded good, and I thought IM&D could package the two substances in one - called Stiffen and Growit - which sounded even better.'
I rehearsed the words a few times over in my head. It was the kind of name which would make more money than had yet been invented. With a sudden shock of pride, I realised that both these products had been invented solely because of the challenging target I had set for my Heads of Departments. I could quite truthfully go back to IM&D and claim I was the person who had created this gold mine. But first, I needed to try out Growit.
'How does this go on?'
It really wasn't complicated. It fitted snugly against the ball-bra with the two canisters hanging neatly, side by side. As I was fastening the final hook and eye, the intercom buzzed again. Without asking my permission, Nelly walked over and answered it.
'Yes?'
It was Miss Pearce, again. 'Dr Ladd is awaiting his two pm appointment, and is asking at what time Mr Scott will want to meet with him.'
'Tell him it won't be today,' Nelly said without even looking in my direction. 'Tell him to be here at ten am tomorrow.'
'But it's Christmas Day, tomorrow, Dr Oliphant.'
'Needs must, Miss Pearce. And you'd better tell Dr Smiles to be here at seven am.'
'Seven am! But that's...'
'Thank you, Miss Pearce.' Nelly flipped the switch on the intercom, and muttered, 'Silly old bag.' Then she turned back to me, and continued her description of her development.
'Once I discovered what Dr Sparrow was up to, it was a simple step to move onto Growit. I got the same manufacturer to make this bra, as part of a co-ordinated set. Now we've admired the design, let's give it the real test.'
She had Tina's little metal box, and was squeezing the button before I'd twigged that the device was not only going to give me a shot of Growit, but also another dose of Stiffen.
'Don't you think... A-a-a-a-h-h-h! It wasn't just my balls burning off this time; it was my cock as well. Again it was a short term agony, and when I'd recovered I stared down at my prick. Apart from appearing even more erect than before, if that were possible, it was the same size.
'It hasn't worked.'
'We'll soon sort that out.' She pressed the button again, then twice more. This time the burning was so intense it was impossible to believe I would ever have an erection again, or even a set of genitals left in place. But when the pain had subsided, my prick came throbbing up again, although still with no discernable increase in size.
'Give it a bit of time,' Nelly said. 'You can't expect growth to occur instantly. I think a bit of foreplay might be needed.'
I had no choice in the matter. She simply placed one hand on my shoulder, and another behind my bum, and forced me back onto the ground until I was lying flat. She squatted over me, and then knelt astride my shoulders. Amid the activity, her white coat had risen around her waist. She was not wearing knickers, and I was staring at one extremely hairy, fat cunt.
'Right. Get stuck in there,' she said. 'See if you can tongue my clit.' She spread her knees and then used her two hands to open her cunt lips as wide as possible, and believe me, that was incredibly wide. Then she slid forward, ramming her cunt against, and completely enveloping, my face.
The whole thing reminded me of a joke I'd heard as a schoolboy, where a punter had pushed his head inside a prostitute's enormous cunt, and found an American GI wondering about inside. 'Christ! What are you doing here?' the punter demands. 'Looking for my fucking tank,' was the answer.
Of course, the reason that joke is unrealistic is not because you could not have driven a tank inside Nelly's cunt; it was simply that, once inside, it's impossible to breathe. My mouth was full of pubic hair as I forced my tongue through layers of crinkly, folded skin. My lungs were bursting; I knew I was going to die, and I was starting to hallucinate before Nelly lifted herself off my face.
'Can't you do better than that?' she said, as I gasped in air. 'You're nowhere near my clit. Next time, I'm not letting you up until you've reached it.'
'But how is this going to help my cock to grow?' I stuttered, hoping to gain a few more seconds before she forced her twat down on me again.
'It's not,' she said. 'It's just to get me in the mood for what's about to follow. Now, remember, you're not coming up for air until you've located my clit.'
Desperation added that extra spur. My tongue found her clit amongst the folds of flabby skin. 'Hell,' I thought (I certainly couldn't say it), 'her clit is bigger than my prick.'
My reaching it seemed to do something for her, for she let me have another gasp of air, but then she wanted incessant tonguing of her clit for what seemed like hours. It was ages before she relented, and then, whilst I was getting my breath back, she pulled off her lab coat, and reached behind her and unclipped her considerable bra.
'You can give these beauties some attention now.'
She simply pulled the underside of the bra away from her body, and her breasts came tumbling down to meet me, with as much firmness as water-filled condoms. She swayed her body from side to side, so her tits playfully slapped me in the face - about as erotic as being slapped with a luke-warm, hot-water bottle.
'Go on, suck them,' she ordered, and I obediently took the soft nipples, and sucked upon each of them until they were like large, hard cherries.
Finally, as I recovered from her idea of foreplay, she slowly slid backwards along my body until she was sitting astride my legs.
'I told you we should give it a bit of time.'
I shall remember for ever my first sight of that monster towering between the two of us. OK, at about nine inches length and one and a half inches diameter across the rim, it was probably the kind of size many blokes think of as normal. But for the first time in my life, I had a prick which women would admire.
'It's still not as big as I like, but I guess it'll do for the time being. Let's give it another shot of Growit.'
She had the remote control in her hand, and was pressing the button again, and again, and again. This time, I knew the agony would be followed by the ecstasy, and it didn't seem as bad. In less than a minute, she was positioning herself over my body, until she was just poised over the top of my magnificent prick. Flabby cunt or not, I wanted to plunge into her like crazy.
'I think it's time to sign the agreement.'
I might have guessed. 'What agreement?' I asked.
She produced a typed letter. 'You agree my development has fully met the terms of your project, and that I shall be the next Research Director.'
I shook my head. 'Sorry, Nigella. Your development is great, but I've already promised the job to Tina. I've signed her agreement.'
'It doesn't matter. If you sign this now, and put the date and time, it will post-date Tina's letter. It will override anything agreed in it.'
'Well, it's not just a matter of legality. I gave my word to Tina. I can't just tear up our agreement.'
'Fair enough.' She stood up, located her white coat, and slipped her arms into it.
'You can't go!'
'Why not? If you don't want to sign the agreement, I'll accept that I'm being fired, and take my development elsewhere.'
'No!'
She looked at me, waiting to clarify.
'It's an excellent development. It certainly meets the requirements of the project.'
She still remained looking at me, waiting for some additional words. She might as well have been holding a shotgun to my head. I had no choice. I had to say it.
'And I want to fuck you, something rotten.'
She smiled and held out the sheet of paper. I scribbled my signature, the date and the time, and handed it back to her. She looked at it carefully, and then gave a little nod of satisfaction. 'That's OK. Let's get going.'
In less than ten seconds she was back in her original position, poised above my prick, almost touching, but not quite. Then she dropped - two hundredweight of elephant dropping onto my hips, my prick plunging deep inside her.
Her upper lip curled in what I hoped was an expression of satisfaction. It was. With a grunt, she lifted herself upwards, until I was almost slipping out of her, and then she dropped again. And so she fucked me. Over and over, and over again.
All through my life I've had some pretty ungrateful partners, who've complained I've never been interested in satisfying their needs, only my own. I'd always thought their reactions were pretty unreasonable. After all, it wasn't as though I didn't want them to enjoy my body - it was simply that at the start of the exercise, my needs were unstoppable, and that as soon as I'd had my orgasm, my dick would go limp, and I'd be totally incapable of doing what they demanded.
Now, I was beginning to understand how they felt. Nelly was using my prick simply to bring herself off, completely oblivious to my own feelings. In fact, I soon realised she wanted to humiliate me, and gained pleasure from it. Take my semen for example; there'd been no opportunity to put on a condom for sex with Nelly. The prick bra itself had a hole in the end so I should have done, but obviously Nelly didn't care about the health risks, and she didn't bother to ask me.
It quickly became obvious that I was generating huge quantities of semen. Far more than I'd been squirting when I'd been with Tina. This was all building up inside Nelly's cunt, but then, during a convenient break, she'd slide herself up my body and hover over my face, so that all the semen would come sliding out and drip onto my mouth. Sometimes she'd ram her cunt on top of me, again, and tell me to drink up. I either had to do as she bade, or drown in my own semen.
On occasions in these lulls, I'd see my own cock, larger than it had ever been before, and, I noticed, getting larger, hour by hour. It was when it had reached twelve inches long, with a shaft diameter of around three inches, and probably about four inches on the rim that I thought it must really have reached the peak. It surely could never be a better size. It would presumably stop growing soon.
'You're still not really filling me. I think it needs to be a bit bigger,' Nelly said, giving a few more pushes of the remote control.
And the bigger it got, the more excited Nelly became, and the harder she raped me. For rape was how I'd come to view the whole business. It wasn't pleasant, what I was doing, simply behaving like an automaton. On the other hand, given the choice, I knew I couldn't stop.
But stop we did, suddenly and without warning.
'Jesus you're too fucking big for me, now. It's time for me to leave. Thanks for the fuck, and giving me the Director's job. See you after the holidays. Bye.'
She disappeared through the door, pulling on her lab coat as she went, her bra-less breasts hanging around her waist, making it impossible for her to do up the coat.
I had just finished an orgasm, leaving me totally drained. In fact, I'd been noticing over the last hour or so that the orgasms were totally wrecking me. For several minutes, I couldn't take in that my fucking for the evening was ended. When it did sink in, I started to panic. I had been shagging solid for almost twelve hours. I couldn't go all through the night without sex. I glanced down at my prick, and that's when I realised I had a real problem
***
The shaft was probably about eighteen inches long from tip to base, and a good six inches diameter for most of its length. However, the rim must have been at least eight inches diameter, and the head itself would have done justice to a large hand-bell, made them of a vivid purple material, which looked as though it was about to explode. The balls were the size of large grapefruit, so large there wasn't room for them to nestle in the space at the top of my legs - instead, they jostled against each other, in a quite uncomfortable way. I got the feeling I would have to move very carefully, to avoid them banging into each other.
As a set of genitals, they would look good in a porno movie, but would be totally useless for their real purpose. There wouldn't be a woman in the world who would contemplate having sex with me. And I had never wanted sex more than I did at that moment. I ran through the door which connected to the Director's flat, heading for the bathroom, and the biggest wank which had ever occurred in the history of mankind.
***
'Ben. It's Lucy. I've come to give you your Christmas present.'
Her voice came over the intercom, and I waddled through to the Director's office to answer it, glancing at the wall clock as I did so. Seven am, on the dot.
'That's great Lucy. Can you give me five minutes, and I'll be with you.'
I waddled back to the flat, reminiscing it was only yesterday that I'd been able to dash about, instead of the cautious waddling necessary to avoid my heavyweight prick slapping about too wildly, or my balls banging into each other.
I searched my suitcase for the clean shirt I'd brought with me, slipped it on, fastened a tie around my neck and put on my jacket. Then I waddled back to the office, and very quietly unlocked the door, so that Lucy, standing outside, wouldn't hear.
I returned to the desk, and carefully fed my prick into the kneehole unit. Until now, I had always hated the courtesy panels which prevented one from looking up the skirts of the woman seated at the desk. For the first time ever, I thanked my lucky stars they were there. I pulled the chair up behind me and carefully lowered myself into it, which had the effect of forcing my prick up against the underside of the desk. Fortunately, it all felt very smooth. I gradually eased myself forward, rubbing my prick along the surface. It actually felt quite good. I gave a few more experimental thrusts. Perhaps fucking a desk would be the closest I was ever going to get to sex again.
'You can come in, now, Lucy,' I called over the intercom.
At first, I thought it was Father Christmas coming through the door: red cape and hood with white furry trimming, a red sack strung over the shoulder, and black boots with white furry tops. Then I noticed the boots had high heels, and between cape and boot were red-stockinged legs. When the figure turned towards me, it was Lucy's face beneath the hood.
'Happy Christmas,' she said, and she leaned across the table to give me a Christmas kiss on the cheek.
It was a mixture of things which caused it. Firstly, the absolute innocence with which she leant forward to kiss me - a simple act of Christmas friendship. That alone made me feel incredibly emotional, when I thought back to the way in which Nelly had treated me yesterday; even Tina had blackmailed me into signing her, now useless, promotion letter. Yet here was Lucy giving me a simple kiss, unfettered by the conditions which had forced her to come to work on Christmas Day, to face possible disgrace for her department and subsequent dismissal of the whole team.
But more critical to the event which occurred was that, as Lucy leant forward to kiss me, I could see right down the front of her outfit. Hanging directly inside the neckline of the loose fitting garment were the two most beautiful tits I had ever seen in my life - large, but wonderfully firm, barely held in place by a quarter cup bra which not quite obscured two rosebud nipples.
After the kiss, I gasped a little, and sat back in my chair, the better to admire the view as she withdrew, and that was the final link in the chain of events. For as I did so, my prick gave another rub against that smooth underside of the desk, and I was reminded of Tina's pussy, as I'd penetrated her, at the height of our passion. I gave another little shrug whilst Lucy was explaining she had seen her outfit in a shop yesterday, on her way home from work, and had bought it on an impulse. Whilst she spoke, she was looking behind her for the chair on which to sit. I gave a slightly bigger shrug, that time. And then another and then...
'Are you alright?' Nothing but concern in Lucy's voice for the look on my face, as I shot my load under the desk. She probably thought I was having a heart attack.
'Yes,' I croaked. 'I'm fine.'
She could see I wasn't though, and after a second she asked, 'Then why is there something nasty dripping down from underneath your desk, and for that matter, why aren't you wearing shoes and socks?'
I then did something of which I was so ashamed. I burst into tears. 'Oh Lucy, I'm so sorry. Tina and Nelly - they've turned me into a monster. I think I'm going to be stuck like it for ever, and I don't know what I'm going to do.'
***
Lucy was absolutely fantastic. She found a packet of tissues from her Father Christmas sack, took one out and then came around the desk and carefully dried my eyes, and passed me another for me to blow my nose.
After I'd stopped snivelling, she said, 'Look, Ben. I qualified initially as a GP. Do you want me to take a professional look at you, as a doctor, and see whether I can help?'
I shook my head. 'It's not fair on you. I told you I was a monster, but it's not just a physical deformity. I'm afraid of myself - of what I might do - to you. I think it's better if you keep away from me.'
Lucy thought for a second, and then said, 'That's OK. Look, I'll use my belt to secure your arms behind your back and tie you to the chair.' She waved the end of her belt, which encircled her narrow waist. 'That way, I'll be completely safe whilst I take a look at you. Now, is that alright with you? Are you happy for me to secure you like that?'
I nodded. 'Oh Lucy, you're fantastic. But make certain the knots are tight, and don't untie me under any circumstances, no matter what I say. Promise me.'
She nodded. 'I promise.' And she came round behind my back pulled my arms behind the chair back, and then bound my wrists firmly together. It was fortunate she was fairly quick, because without the belt, her coat flopped fully open, totally exposing the whole of her wonderful body - those huge breasts supported by that tiny red bra, her wonderfully slim waist which then curved out to beautifully rounded hips, just concealed by red French knickers.
Lucy misread the look on my face. 'After I got the Father Christmas outfit, I decided I'd better get some matching underwear. These were the only ones I could find. I know they don't quite match the outfit, but you don't think they clash, do you?'
I was still trying to reassure her that her underwear was perfectly respectable when she pulled the chair from under the desk.
***
Even if I hadn't already made up my mind to make Lucy the new Research Director, she'd have convinced me over the next half hour. She didn't curl her lip in disgust. She didn't laugh. She didn't even gasp.
She simply examined my genitals with careful interest from all angles, before pulling a set of gloves from her sack, slipping them on and then removing the prick-bra. She used a further tissue to wipe the semen from the end of my prick. Actually, she needed half a packet of tissues to complete the task, as there was an incredible amount of goo hanging down.
'Can you take the ball-bra off as well?'
She considered, and then gave a sympathetic smile. 'I don't think that would be a good idea. Your testicles may be uncomfortable now, but with their current size they must weigh...' she did some mental arithmetic '...I should say at least one kilogram each. That's the same weight as a bag of sugar. Without the support from the ball-bra, it would feel as though you had a bag of sugar hanging from each testicle.'
I shuddered.
'OK,' she said. 'Tell me exactly how all this happened.'
And I did. Simply telling it all made me feel so much better, whilst she quietly listened, without criticism or scorn at the way I had fallen into their trap. At the end of my story I told her, 'You're an incredibly good GP. Why did you give it up and turn to research?'
The question took her by surprise, as she'd been concentrating so thoroughly on me, but after a moment's thought, she said, 'I guess you could call it good old sexual discrimination. I worked in a practice where everyone was used to a male doctor. They simply couldn't cope with me being a woman. I didn't handle the situation particularly well, and so I decided to get out and go into research. It may not be as profitable, but there's certainly far less hassle.
'Now,' she continued, 'I've been thinking about what we should do about you. I'm afraid as a medical practitioner, I can only recommend one course of action. I go and get my car, and then drive you to the Casualty Unit at Seacombe General Hospital. Having said that, there are a couple of provisos I have to give. Firstly, to the best of my knowledge, there is no simple cure for your condition, short of major reconstructive surgery.'
Hell, that meant cutting huge lumps of meat out of my genitals!
'Aren't there any drugs that could cure it. After all, it's only grown like that as a result of the drugs that Tina and Nelly forced on me.'
Lucy shook her head. 'I don't think there are any drugs on the market which will tackle your problem, which is probably unknown to medical science. Which takes me onto the other issue. There's bound to be repercussions back to the Laboratory - about such experiments upon human beings being allowed to take place. I'm afraid there will be all kind of inquiries into the ethics and legality of it. The blame is bound to fall upon the Director of Research.'
'But he left three months ago. I've been the temporary....' My voice totally died as I realised the implications. Oh shit! I was responsible. Not only was I the victim of this cowboy research, I was also going to get the blame for it. IM&D would immediately sack me and no doubt pictures of me would appear in all the newspapers. I could see the headlines now: 'Frankenstein Prick in charge of medical laboratory'.
Lucy could see the way my mind was working. 'I'm afraid Tina and Nigella are almost certainly waiting until you leave the Laboratory before they leak it to the press. If I did take you to the hospital, you'd probably be under siege as soon as you arrived.'
'Oh my God! What am I going to do? There must be something.'
'If I now stop being a GP, and start talking as a medical researcher, I think my own development project will overcome your problem.'
She said it so quietly, I couldn't believe the words could have such importance.
'You mean...'
'Look,' she continued, 'my project was never designed for the mass appeal of those of Dr Sparrow and Dr Oliphant. In fact, there are only a very small percentage of males who would benefit from it. But I did think their problems were an important issue to tackle. You see, their difficulties have been almost ignored by medical science, and I didn't...'
'Lucy,' I interrupted. 'Never mind the background. Will your development help my condition?'
She smiled, actually smiled. 'Yes,' she said. 'It will give you the kind of genitals that men dream about. I think it will totally cure your problems. '
If only my hands hadn't been tied, I'd have grabbed her and hugged her and... But fortunately, they were.
'When I got wind of what Tina was doing,' she said, 'I decided to borrow part of her idea. I've incorporated my drug into her ball-bra. Do you want to try it?' She held up another Sparklets canister.
'You ask some ridiculous questions,' I told her. 'But just before you do, can you get a piece of paper and a pen. I want to write a promise out to you.'
She shuffled around until she found them, and then wrote, as I dictated: 'I agree that Dr Lucy Smiles' development not only meets all the requirements set for my project, but as the best of all developments submitted for the project, Lucy will be the new Director of Research at Seacombe Medical laboratories.'
'Really!' She looked so surprised and pleased, almost to the point of embarrassment. 'There was no need to do that. I'll help you simply because you're a human being who needs help, but...' She hesitated, and then added in a rush, 'I do think your good turn deserves another.'
She quickly wrote some extra words on the paper. 'There. I've written an extra condition.' She read out the words: ' "The test of success for the development will be for Lucy and myself to have sexual intercourse, with full vaginal penetration." '
She gave a shy smile. 'That's a fair test, isn't it?'
I nodded, unable to talk as I strove my hardest to avoid a premature ejaculation at the very thought. She handed me a pen and helped to guide my hands as I signed the piece of paper behind my back, and then she dated and carefully checked the time, and wrote that on, as well.
***
With the ball-bra already fitted, appliance of Lucy's drug was simplicity itself. She simply unscrewed the old canister from the bra, and inserted her own. Then she gave three distinct squirts on the remote-control button. 'The dosage is precisely calculated,' she said. 'Not too much, not too little.'
I felt the cold liquid hitting my balls again, but there was no burning after-effect, the liquid simply warmed up to my own body temperature, and then I could hardly feel it. Whilst nothing appeared to change in size, one immediate effect was that my erection disappeared, and my prick flopped down between my legs, the head jostling against my knees. This was followed by a strange feeling in my balls, as though someone had gently squeezed them.
'If you felt something strange then, it was simply that your testicles have reduced in size so much that they've pulled out of the testicle sacs, which are still in the bra cups.'
I looked down. The cups seemed full of the wrinkly kind of skin that surrounds the balls. Although my prick was still the same obscene size, it was not at all erect, and the monster was laid out between my legs, looking for all the world like a white elephant's trunk
'I think we can apply the second drug now. I'll simply remove the first canister and slip in the second.'
A few seconds later, she was using the remote control again - five complete pushes, this time. Then she left me, explaining she would be back in a few minutes.
***
Just as one normally feels the penis getting erect, so I could feel it starting to get smaller. I looked down - the massive head was being slowly dragged across the surface of the chair back towards my groin - it all felt faintly erotic, although it wasn't.
Everything appeared to be working perfectly, until I noticed that the reduction all appeared to be happening at the base of my penis. It wasn't really a problem at first, but as the shaft reduced in size, so the ratio between it and the massive head got totally disproportionate. After all, a head of about six inches on the end of a twelve inch shaft is OK. But when the shaft has shortened to four inches and is continuing to shrink, it starts to look a little strange.
I looked nervously around for Lucy, but she had disappeared. If I could have got my hands to the front, I'd have removed the ball-bra until she returned to give some advice, but with my hands tied I was powerless to act. By then, the shaft was down to only one inch long, and my prick was virtually all head.
When the rim of the head reached my groin, the movement appeared to halt for a second, and my prick was comprised simply of a massive head, but then something happened which took me straight back to my school geography lessons. In a movement which reminded me of a coral atoll forming round a sinking volcanic island, so the main part of the head seemed to subside inwards, whilst the rim stayed resting against my groin. The head was down to four inches, then two, and then with a final move, it descended beneath the level of the rim, which promptly closed over it. My prick had totally disappeared!
But I could still feel movements happening down there, and within a second, the rim was being dragged inwards, pulling the two testicle sacks with it, until they were almost flush with the rest of my groin. Then it all appeared to stop.
'Brilliant! I got the dosage exactly right.' In the midst of that terrible event, I hadn't noticed Lucy had come back into the room. She had obviously seen the last few seconds of activity.
'What the hell! Lucy, it's all gone wrong! Do something!' I practically shrieked the last words at her, as she was still smiling at the results.
Now she looked me in the face and said, 'Gone wrong? Of course it hasn't gone wrong. Didn't I tell you I would give you the kind of genitals men dream over?'
'Exactly! And look at it. It's like a woman's...' I stopped, suddenly gob-smacked.
'So just tell me, how often do you dream about pricks and testicles?' The Father Christmas coat dropped from her shoulders leaving her standing in her bra and French knickers.
'Well I...'
'And now tell me how often you dream about pussies.' Her bra dropped to the floor, leaving those two perfect breasts thrusting forward, their nipples erect.
'Well I...'
'Precisely. I've given you exactly what I promised.' The French knickers dropped to the floor. Underneath she wore a matching red suspender belt, securing her red stockings, and a red thong.
I knew I'd caught her out there. 'You promised we'd have sex with full vaginal penetration.' I was fascinated by the bulging red thong.
'And I shall keep my promise.' The thong came off, and a ten-inch prick leapt to attention from underneath.
'I've paid tens of thousands of pounds in surgery so far,' Lucy said, 'and I've been saving up for the final sex-change operation. It's a good job I haven't had it done, yet. Not only will I save a fortune by using my own invention, but I can also give my prick a combined farewell and Christmas present.'
She moved over towards my chair in which I was imprisoned, her prick pointing at me like a lance in the hands of a mediaeval knight. She bent over the chair, and touched a lever at the side. The rear of the seat, around which my arms were pinioned, fell backwards, leaving me lying flat on my back, my legs waving in the air. She grabbed one leg, pulled it to one side and slipped her torso in between my two legs.
'Lucy. Stop this immediately. It's rape!'
'It can't be rape,' she (or do I mean he) said. 'You signed a piece of paper agreeing to it, in exchange for my curing your monster prick.'
'But I didn't mean like this.' I could feel her prick nuzzling against the lips of my... It was too horrible to contemplate. Surely, I hadn't really got a pussy between my legs. It was beyond belief that... A-a-a-a-r-r-r-r-r!'
'I hope I didn't hurt you too much. It's just that... Oh Jesus, that's good.' Lucy forced herself hard inside me, making me utter another enormous shriek.
'Bloody hell, that's fantastic,' she continued. She withdrew her prick, until I could feel its head expanding my rim, in preparation for flopping out. Then she shoved it back in, as powerfully as she could. I screamed again.
And again. And again. The thrusts were coming faster, now, and they weren't so painful. I noticed her tits jerking wildly, with each thrust - something I found incredibly erotic. Actually, the pain had turned into a kind of almost masochistic pleasure. As she thrust inwards, I started to push back against her. He thrusts developed an urgency, which I matched. For the first time in my life, I was going to have a female orgasm, and I felt absolutely great.
Then she was slamming into me with sledgehammer force - once, twice, three times, and I knew that on the next thrust, I would be having one hell of a climax, and...
Lucy was standing up, and pulling up her thong.
'Thanks Ben,' she said. She fastened the bra behind her back.
'But you can't leave me like this.'
She gave me one of her really nice smiles, as she pulled up her French knickers. 'It's OK. I'll untie you before I depart, and Dr Ladd will be here in a few minutes.'
She pulled a dress out of her sack, and was slipping it on as she said, 'Sorry I have to go now and cook Christmas lunch for my mother. I'm sure you'll understand that I can't be late for that. After all, Christmas comes but once a year.'
After picking up my promissory note, she bent over and gave me another kiss on the cheek. Then she slipped the knot from my wrists, and was out of the door before I even knew what reaction I should take.
***
I'd barely released the belt from my wrists, and straightened my chair, before Jack the Ladd was poking his nose around the open door.
'Good morning and Happy Christmas. Are you ready for me.'
I pulled myself and the chair back to the concealment provided by the desk. I blustered a bit. 'Well, Dr Ladd, it is a bit inconvenient at the moment...'
'It takes the wind out of your sails, doesn't it? When Lucy slaps her cock in front of you like that.'
I gasped a little. 'You knew?'
He nodded. 'Just the same with me. I took her out, wined and dined her, and then back to my place for coffee. Got my tongue in her ear, then it was a simple job to ease off her blouse and release her bra clip. I sucked her nipples until she was almost coming, then off with her skirt, slip down her knickers and....'
He slowly shook his head. 'Phew! Bloody hell! I don't want another shock like that again. Could almost put you off beautiful women for life.'
'Why didn't you warn me?'
'You weren't in the listening mood yesterday morning. I left a message with Miss Pearce for you to call me at home, but I guess you never got that. Still you live and learn. No harm done in the long term. Eh?'
I was silent for a moment, wondering how to respond, and Jack leapt into the vacuum, 'Sorry. That was a bit presumptuous. Perhaps you're one of these guys who fancy a chick with dick.'
'No.' I shook my head. 'It wasn't like that. The real problem is that Lucy used me as a guinea-pig for her experiment.'
'Which was?'
I was again silent for some time, but Jack didn't leap in, this time. Eventually, I said, 'She developed something to meet her own personal needs.'
'You mean...' He thought for a second, and then said, 'Hell! You don't mean she... That is...'
'She transformed my prick into a cunt.'
'Bloody hell! That's horrific' Then professional curiosity got the better of him. 'Would you mind if I had a look?'
I pushed myself and the chair away from the desk, and he came round and impassively stared at it, and then bent right down and peered at it closely.
'My guess is she gave you massive dosage of female hormone mixed with Dr Oliphant's Growit. That would cause your system to go almost into shock, and frantically start creating cells in line with your new sexuality. Pretty impressive that she managed to make it happen so quickly. I should think the process won't immediately halt, but will continue, so that by the end of the week, you'll have a complete womb to go with it. You'd better be careful about having unprotected sex.'
'Surely it can be stopped?'
He shook his head. 'After the massive dosage you've already received, I reckon it would be quite dangerous to mess about with that area any more, until it's had a chance to stabilise. Even then, I wouldn't think that any doctor would want to try to reverse the process, if that's what you're thinking.'
That was exactly what I was thinking. 'But I can't stay like this for ever.'
He shrugged. 'I don't know. You probably need to go to hospital, but I guess you've worked out the consequences to yourself if you do so. They won't have a cure, and it's bound to cause publicity to yourself.'
God! My position was getting worse. I'd not only allowed huge genitals to be grown in the laboratory, but also a sex change using an untested process.
'So you think I'm going to be a woman for some time to come?'
He hesitated. 'Well, technically a woman, yes. But that's rather different from being a real woman.'
But I'd already realised there was one aspect of being a woman in which I was in desperate need. 'What about sex? Do you think it will be alright, as long as I use protection?'
'If you could find a partner, yes. But you're unlikely to do that, are you? After all, runt with cunt is hardly the same as chick with dick.' Another hesitation. 'Look, do you mind if I ask you: Do you feel horny?'
Bloody hell, yes, I was feeling incredibly horny, but a girl doesn't say it quite like that. 'Well, since you mention it, I wouldn't mind having sex, if you're willing.'
He tried to be kind to me. 'Ben, you're forgetting. You're not a real woman. Simply a man with a cunt. I don't get a hard on, looking at you, and I don't suppose any heterosexual man would.'
He hesitated a bit. 'It's important to remember that most men fancy sex most of the time. I heard a bit about what Dr Sparrow's invention was about, which could well amplify those feelings one hundred fold. It's my guess you are going to feel so incredibly horny that you'd literally do anything for sex, and you'll probably stay like that for several weeks, if not months. On the other hand, there's hardly a man who'll be interested in fucking you. I suspect it's going to be quite a frustrating time for you.'
My God! It was going to be Hell! I had to have sex - now - without delay, and even Jack the Lad didn't fancy me!
'Of course,' he said, 'I suppose there is one option.'
'What's that?'
'Well, I guess I'm the only one of the four of us whose project involves something other than male genitals. I concentrated on what I thought was another money spinner - making women more beautiful. You could use my development to make yourself more attractive to men.'
'You mean you could make me look like a woman?'
He smiled. It's obviously your choice. You can stay as you are; there are some quite good vibrators on the market nowadays. Alternatively, with my invention I can turn you into a beautiful woman. You'll be able to fuck almost any man you chose, if that's what you want.'
I considered. I was getting hornier by the minute. I could feel juices gathering in my new pussy. Even if a vibrator provided real satisfaction, where does one buy one on Christmas Day? I was desperate; I had to have sex today. Jack had said I had a choice, but it was no choice.
'I'll do it,' I told him.
He whipped out a piece of paper. 'Sign here,' he said. This time I didn't even bother to check it. Hopefully, he'd included the bit about full vaginal penetration.
***
'First of all,' he said, 'we need to do something about your hair.'
I thought that was probably the last item we should think about, so I said, 'Aren't there more important things, Jack?'
'I'm thinking more about your facial and body hair, rather than the hair on your head.' He bent down and reached into his large medical bag. 'Let me spread this paste all over your body. That will cause all the hair on your face and body to drop out, and it will be permanent. No need to keep re-applying.'
He started to spread the stuff over my face and chin, and talked as he worked. 'You know, this invention alone is worth a fortune, Ben. Just think how much women currently spend on hair removal products. This product completely replaces them.'
I'd forgotten the original reason I'd come to the laboratory, but he was right. A simple, permanent hair removal product. Mind, I wasn't too keen on having a permanent solution. Far better to have a product women have to carry on buying.
Jack moved onto the rest of my body, liberally spreading the paste all over, apart from leaving me a nice pubic bush.
'You can always have that removed later, if you choose,' he said. 'Now, what kind of breasts do you want?'
I thought about it. I wanted to attract plenty of men, so there was only one answer. 'Large and firm.'
'No problem.' He reached into his bag and produced a hypodermic. 'I'll simply give each breast a dose of growth compound, and they should swell up wonderfully.'
I had a sudden worry about the way in which my cock had grown to a mammoth size. 'They won't get too big, will they, Jack?'
He smiled. 'Don't worry. I'm afraid the Elephant must have got a bit carried away in the heat of the moment and injected you with far too much Growit. I'll give you controlled doses, which should give you a nice set of curves, but certainly not gross.'
He made the injections. 'OK. Now what about your bum and thighs. Women are always trying to reduce the size of their arses, but I think that unless we make yours much larger than it is now, you'll still resemble the shape of a man.'
'OK, quite large then,' I acquiesced, 'but can you make my waist slimmer?'
'No problem.' A few more injections followed.
'Now, about the face. We can't alter the basic shape, but I could thicken your lips and reduce the size of your nose a little, get rid of your Adam's apple, and perhaps...'
'I'll let you be the judge, Jack. Just do it.'
More injections, and a different coloured paste.
'I guess you didn't get much sleep last night,' he said, when he'd finally done.
I thought back, to the hours I'd spent wanking, and squirting bucketfuls of semen into the shower cubicle, which was the only receptacle large enough to contain my ejaculations.
'You could say that.'
'OK, well, there may be some discomfort as all these modifications start to take effect. I suggest I give you some sleeping tablets, and let you rest for a few hours on the stretcher behind the screen. I'll turn the lights out and come back about four pm, and we can see how you look.'
***
I was awakened by the light coming on, as Jack entered the darkened room.
'Now, let's have a good look at you,' he said, 'and see how successful... Oh!'
'What is it?' I asked, blinded by the sudden light in my eyes. 'Has it not worked?'
'Well, yes,' he admitted. 'It's worked bloody well.'
I sat up and stared down at the two, firm melons pushing out of my chest. Hell! I'd always dreamed of meeting a girl with tits like those. Now I had them!
Jack had produced a mirror from somewhere, and held it in front of me. I looked into the face of an angel - blonde hair tumbling over my blue eyes and cascading down my shoulders. I swivelled around, and looked down at two long, slim legs which connected with an incredibly spankable arse.
'Jack. That's fantastic.'
He smiled at me, and nodded in agreement. 'It's strange,' he said. 'You make all the calculations and you're pretty certain it will work, but when it does...'
But now I'd seen myself, I had an even more pressing need. 'Fuck me Jack, and quickly.'
He shook his head. 'Sorry.' When he saw the look on my face, he hurriedly added, 'Well, it would hardly be professional, would it? If we're going to work together...'
I'd forgotten about the Research Director's job, and I suddenly became aware of my own predicament. Here I was, Ebenezer Scott, chief hit-man for IM&D, looking like a centrefold girl, and desperate for sex with any man who offered.
Jack understood exactly where my thoughts were going, and said, 'We rather hoped you'd come to work for us, when the management buy-out goes through.'
I was puzzled. 'Management buy-out? What management buy-out?'
'The one you signed up to before I carried out my little modifications to your appearance.' Jack waved a photocopy of the document with my signature at the bottom. 'You really should have read it before signing, you know.'
He read it for me: ' "On behalf of Imperial Medical and Drug Company, Ltd, I agree to sell for the sum of one pound sterling all assets and liabilities of Seacombe Medical Laboratories to Dr Tina Sparrow, Dr Nigella Oliphant, Dr Lucy Smiles and Dr John Ladd."
'Dr Sparrow personally took it to the home of your Managing Director, as soon as you'd signed it,' he added. 'It interrupted his Christmas lunch, but apparently he thought it was a very good deal, because it let the company escape all the redundancy payments they thought they'd have to pay, when they closed down the labs.'
'But... but... but the lab now has assets worth billions,' I stuttered.
'Well, it was rather careless of you to sell them so cheaply, wasn't it?' Jack smiled.
'But you tricked me!'
'Don't worry,' Jack was still smiling. 'This is a Christmas tale, so it will all end happily. We're offering you a job working for us. We start touring the big cosmetic companies in February, offering to license them our products. You will be our showpiece model. Of course, you may also have to sweeten up their directors in the usual way, so you'll be getting paid for something you desperately need.
'In the meantime,' he continued, 'you can start working for us this evening. We need a Father Christmas for the party here tonight, to celebrate the buy-out. After you've given out presents to the kiddies, there are plenty of people to have more grown up fun with. Because of the time of year we thought we'd call you Carol, so you shall be the Laboratory's very own Christmas Carol!
'Are you any good at singing?' he asked with a smile.
A Day in the Country
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by Charlotte Dickles
'How would you like me to buy you lunch at the Kingsford Manor, in return for you doing me a favour?' It seemed an innocent enough question that his photographer friend Rosemary asked. She wanted him to pose wearing some of Charley's clothes so she could sell them on e-bay. There was only one problem.
There were five of us who fairly regularly met up. My wife, Sue, and her friend from her office, Rosemary; my mate from my office, Pete, and his wife, Janet; and then there was me, John. Every Saturday lunchtime, we'd meet in a local pub, and then probably arrange to see a film or a play over the course of the next week.
There were plenty of mild sexual undercurrents, although it was mostly platonic. From the way Janet smiled at me and winked when she told risque jokes, she obviously half-fancied me. Her clothes were always incredibly sexy - short skirts and low cut tops, which exposed a wonderful pair of tits - so who was that for if it wasn't for me?
It certainly wasn't for Pete who she mostly ignored, and he in turn appeared hardly to notice his wife. Instead, he was besotted with Rosemary, which was a shame since she was gay. He was one of those guys who could never accept that a woman might prefer another woman to him, and he saw it as a constant challenge to try to bed her.
I often wondered whether Sue might fancy Rosemary, but I figured that if there had been anything going on, she would never have introduced her into our group.
I really liked Rosemary. She was always pleasant and jolly, and pretty on the eye as well. With her openly declared sexuality, I could view her as a good female friend, without any of the normal complications with female friends, when I'm generally thinking about sex with them, as I was with Janet. Not actually doing it, you understand, since Sue and I have a great relationship, but just thinking about it.
As often happens with a group of five, we'd got into two conversational streams. There was Pete, Janet and I discussing which film we preferred to see midweek, arranging who was going to book the tickets and where we'd meet for a meal beforehand, whilst Sue and Rosemary were having their own little tete-a-tete. It was those little, intimate chats that tended to make me wonder about them, but again if they were at it, they'd hardly be so obvious. Anyway, Sue and I trust each other.
As usual, Pete and Janet would leave the group first, to get in a full afternoon of shopping, whilst Rosemary, Sue and I would always stay for another drink. As they were leaving, Pete and Janet said that they wouldn't be able to make next Saturday as they were going to a wedding. Since Sue was also planning to spend the weekend at her mother's, it appeared that next Saturday was definitely a no-no.
'I'll get them in,' Sue uncharacteristically said, as soon as Pete and Janet had departed, and shot off to the bar, whilst I breathed a sigh of relief.
You see, Sue and I were coming up to our tenth wedding anniversary, and she had been talking about taking our vows again and making it a big, formal occasion. Personally, I'd thought it was all a bit over the top for just ten years, so I had gently resisted until now. But with Pete and Janet talking about weddings, I thought it might start Sue off again.
'I have two questions to ask of you, John,' Rosemary said, breaking my reverie.
'Fire away,' I said, thinking that Sue had obviously put her up to something, which is why she had shot off to the bar, and wondering if it had anything to do with wedding vows.
'How tall are you?'
That seemed a safe question. 'Five, eleven. Why?'
'That's good; so, second question: How would you like me to buy you lunch at the Kingsford Manor, in return for you doing me a favour?'
I smiled. Set in the tiny village of Kingsford, about twenty miles away, the Kingsford Manor was generally regarded as one of the best hotels around. But I wondered just what kind of a favour I would need to do to earn that. 'Well the lunch sounds great. I'm not so certain about the favour.'
'I want to take some photographs of you.'
'Oh, right!' Rosemary was a photographer who worked with Sue, producing company publicity brochures. 'Does that mean it's all expenses paid?'
Rosemary shook her head. 'Afraid not. This is a personal thing for me - not the company. You remember me telling you about my cousin, Charley, who died a few months ago?'
I nodded.
'Well I've inherited Charley's personal effects, and I want to put some of the better quality clothes onto e-bay. Charley was five foot, ten, so I think you'll make an excellent model.'
Sue returned at that moment, bearing a tray of drinks, and we spent a few moments distributing them and taking first sips out of the glasses.
'Since Sue's going to be at her mother's next week, you and I could spend Saturday over at Charley's cottage in Kingsford, and get it all done.'
See the advantage of Rosemary's sexuality? Sue would never have trusted Janet and I together for the day, which is not surprising because I wouldn't have trusted the two of us together, either.
'Well,' I said. 'I suppose...'
'Hang on,' Sue said. 'Rosemary, have you told John about Charley?'
'Well,' Rosemary said, 'I've said that Charley was my cousin who died three months ago.'
'This is my husband, Rosemary,' Sue said. 'He would give me absolute hell - and quite right to - if I let him go off, without you telling him the important fact.'
Rosemary smiled and shrugged. 'Well, it's really no great shakes. It's simply that Charley's full name was Charlotte. Charley was a woman.'
I deliberately overacted agog. 'You mean,' I said, 'that you want me to model dresses and skirts?'
Rosemary smiled again. 'Sure. Like I say, it's really no great shakes. They're only clothes, but some of them are full length, so on any of my female friends they're going to drag along the ground. After all, it's not as though I'm asking you to change sex or anything.'
'Well don't you think,' I said, 'that customers on e-bay may not be attracted by a photograph of a man wearing a dress?'
'Sure,' Rosemary said, 'if that's how it was going to look. But I've got plenty of experience as a photographer in making things look like I want them to look, rather than as they really are. Sue will tell you how bloody good I am. With a bit of make-up, I could pass you off as a woman, easy - peasy.'
'You're kidding me. This is a joke, right?'
'Look,' Rosemary said. 'It's not a joke, and there's no way that anyone other than the three of us will know unless you tell them. You'll be unrecognisable in the photographs, and if you do still look like a man in spite of all my efforts, there's no way I'll want to use the photographs. Does that satisfy you?'
I shrugged. 'I suppose so.'
'You mean you'll do it?' Sue was incredulous.
'Rosemary's a friend I trust,' I said. 'She's said she won't tell anyone else, so I don't mind looking a bit of a prat in front of her. Anyway, I've been dying to go to the Kingsford Manor for ages. We can bring you back a doggy bag.'
I reckon that I played that just right. I don't think either of them appreciated the rush of excitement I experienced when I realised Rosemary wanted to dress me up as a woman. I've always found women's clothes so erotic, but on the occasions when I've rummaged through Sue's underwear and held it against me, I've felt both guilty and - well almost a pervert - as though there was something sexually wrong with me. Now, I could help out a good friend as well as exploring my fantasy a little. But I knew I had to play out the part of the reluctant helper very carefully, otherwise my innermost feelings might come under scrutiny.
We'd agreed that Rosemary would do the driving (allowing me to have a few pints at the Kingsford), so, Rosemary picked me up from my house the following Saturday. It took a few minutes for Rosemary to navigate the car out of our housing estate, and we didn't start talking until we were on the B-road heading towards Kingsford
'Great! It's going to be a nice, sunny day,' Rosemary said, pointing at the clear blue sky.
'I don't suppose we'll see much of it,' I said.
'Oh no!' Rosemary replied. 'I want to make the shots more interesting than plain, boring, old indoor photos set against a neutral screen. I want us to get outside a bit and get some action shots.'
Gulp! I had a sudden panic. 'What kind of action shots are you thinking of. You never said anything about going out in public.'
'Nothing to worry about,' Rosemary said. 'For example, Charley had some lovely sundresses. I thought we could go into the garden and get some shots there. That kind of thing.'
Another gulp. The enormity of what I was about to take on was suddenly hitting me. 'Is the garden secluded,' I asked.
'Oh yes,' she replied. 'The whole village is very quiet. It's like being in the middle of nowhere.'
I can't say I was totally reassured by her words, but I can say that they had served to send another blast of adrenaline coursing through my blood. It was one thing to get dressed as a woman in the privacy of Charley's house - quite another to go out into the garden with the consequent risk of exposure. So I gave a kind of non-committal, 'Hmm,' and was going to leave it at that, but Rosemary picked up my unease.
'Look, John,' she said. 'There's a good reason why I asked you rather than anyone else - Pete, for example. It's because you don't come out with this macho thing, like Pete does. You can almost see him banging his chest and doing the "Me Tarzan" bit. He could never handle what I'm asking you to do. You simply take things as they come, and I sensed that you'd be just right for this. I know you're a little nervous, and that's understandable, but simply look on it as a job. You do whatever I say, and I give you a great meal at the Kingsford Manor in return. And there's no reason for either of us to be embarrassed. Right?'
I smiled at her. 'Right,' I said, and I really did feel so much better after that. As she'd said, there was no reason why I should be embarrassed at doing whatever she asked me to.
Kingsford is one of those dream villages comprising pretty cottages with thatched roofs - the kind of cottages that, fifty years ago, would have been filled with poverty-racked yokels, trying to make a few shillings by ploughing fields or milking cows. Nowadays, even a tiny cottage must have been worth half a million, with the Chelsea tractors and Porsches parked outside giving a more objective display of their inhabitants wealth.
There was a triangular green in the centre of the village and Charley's house was directly facing onto it. To the one side of the green was the church, whilst at the opposite corner was the entrance to the old manor house, now with a discrete sign that read, 'The Kingsford Manor.'
'Nice cottage that Charley had,' I said.
'Very,' Rosemary said. 'Her sister inherits the cottage, but she's going to use it as a second home, so that's one more nail in the coffin of traditional village life.'
It was a constant source of irritation to locals in beauty spots across Britain that wealthy city dwellers bought up country homes and kept them empty for most of the time, depriving local shops, restaurants and pubs of the business they would otherwise have enjoyed from the residents. The villages become denuded of life and, as had patently happened here, it inevitably increased the price of housing until it was unaffordable to the locals.
'There are some packages in the boot,' Rosemary said as we got out of the car. 'Could you bring them in?'
So whilst Rosemary carefully took out her boxes of camera paraphernalia from the rear floor of the car, I went around to the boot and lifted out a large make-up box, and a few Jiffy bags and brown paper covered packages. I couldn't help wondering what was inside. The contents of the carrier bag from Boots The Chemist were no secret - I could see several boxes of Nair on the top and numerous creams and cosmetics underneath. I had another tremor of excitement which went down my spine, but fortunately Rosemary didn't appear to notice.
'Fortunately, I'd always admired Charley's lovely clothes,' Rosemary continued her previous conversation as we walked up to the front door, 'so she willed all the contents to me. It was silly really, as she knew they'd never fit me. On the other hand, being that tall she didn't have any other relatives whom her clothes would fit, so I guessed she thought that at least I'd make certain they were passed on.'
Once inside the house, Rosemary switched into her professional mode, as she carefully put down her camera boxes. 'Right,' she said. 'Let's go straight up to the bathroom and get you started with some hair remover. And before you start arguing that you don't need it, you don't want anyone to guess you're a man in the photographs. I'm the expert so just do as I say. OK?'
I smiled at her. 'I'd been about to say that, but you're absolutely right. From now on, I'm in your hands and I'll do whatever you ask without question. How's that?'
Another smile. 'Thanks John.'
So, Rosemary's straightforward position made the whole process of my conversion so much easier. I obediently followed her instructions, and in thirty minutes I had a totally hairless body. I was a bit startled when she produced a cut-throat razor and gave me a shave. Those things scare me shitless, even in my hands, never mind someone else's. But to give her credit, it was one of the best shaves I'd ever had, and afterwards, my chin was as smooth as a baby's bottom.
That's when Rosemary started pulling open the packages to reveal her pieces de resistance in my conversion, which she'd purchased off the internet. There was a vest-like, skin-coloured garment, with a pair of boobs pushing out the front, and another skin-coloured item which appeared to be the reverse of a panty girdle - it made my legs and bum fatter, not thinner. But at the crutch, it had pubic hair and the appearances of a slit, which I'd love to have explored more fully (but under Rosemary's watchful eye, could not).
It looked like there was going to be a problem in getting it on, since by that time I was sizing an enormous erection underneath the brief swimming trunks Rosemary had asked me to wear.
'No problem,' Rosemary said, without any hint of the embarrassment I was suffering. 'I have just the cure for that.'
I was quite surprised when she started reaching down towards my erection, as I thought she was going to give me a hand job, surely a taboo for someone of her sexuality. Still, I guessed she was simply treating it as professionally as everything else she was doing.
Instead, she suddenly waved the cut-throat in front of my face. 'This won't take long,' she said, moving it down towards my groin.
'Jesus, Rosemary!' I said, as my erection disappeared more quickly than her hand could travel. 'That's evil.'
'I know,' she said with a grin, 'but it certainly worked.'
Worked! Hell, my genitals had shrunk to the size of two peas and a green bean as I pulled off my trunks, prior to putting on the panty-girdle. But I had to give credit to Rosemary; by the time I had pulled that garment up my body to complement the breasts pushing out of the vest, I looked for all the world like a curvy woman.
Rosemary had managed to match my skin colour just right, and the joins between garment and skin looked simply like slight creases in the skin. The boobs looked incredibly realistic, as they joggled and quivered as I moved about, and so did my wobbling bottom.
'Only your head, face and nails to sort out now,' she said, reaching for her huge make-up box.
By ten-thirty, a tall woman faced me in the mirror. Rosemary had performed a miracle on my face, blending out the male features to perfection, and highlighting curves that weren't really there to produce a female face that was reasonably attractive. A dark-brown wig and long, bright-red nails totally completed the picture.
'Your face obviously looks different to Charley's,' Rosemary said, 'but your body is so similar. I'm certain you're going to fill her dresses to perfection.'
'You sound as though you knew her well,' I said, emphasising the ambiguity of the word "knew".
Rosemary grinned. 'You bet. Why do you think she left me all her lovely clothes?
'So,' she continued, 'let's start getting you dressed.'
I gave a philosophical shrug, but underneath I was glad we already had my prick under tight control, otherwise it would be rearing its ugly head again in no uncertain manner.
Rosemary picked up something white from the bed. 'Slip this on, first,' she said.
'Hang on,' I said. 'You told me my body was almost identical to Charley's. So why do I need to wear a corset?'
'Don't be stupid,' she grinned. 'like most women, Charley always worried about the size of her body. She generally wore a corset. So that means you're going to have to, as well. It's alright, with these fairly loose sundresses, I won't need to lace it up very tight.'
Again, I reckoned I'd played my reluctance just right. Fortunately, my prick was well and truly constrained by the false bum and hips I was wearing. Otherwise, I'd have been sporting a boner the size of my forearm. If Rosemary even had a hint at how horny it was making me feel, she'd have run a mile! If my prick had been loose, I'd probably have caught her!
Ten minutes later, I sheepishly followed Rosemary into the rear garden. She was right, it was completely secluded there and I did a little prancing around whilst Rosemary clicked away with her camera. I was wearing a pale yellow, low-cut sundress with shoestring straps, with matching yellow sandals and a yellow hat with a wide brim, and large yellow, clip-on earrings.
But I could sense that Rosemary was not overly satisfied, and asked what the matter was.
'It's my own fault,' she said. 'I suggested coming out here, but until the sun moves round, I can't get any decent shots. Let's go round to the front of the house.'
'The front!' I said. 'But I'll be in full view of everyone.'
'The village is almost deserted,' Rosemary said. 'Even if someone comes by, they'll only see two women together. You know that you really do look exactly like a woman.'
I hesitated. On the one hand, I really wanted to go round to the front and be a woman in public - on the other hand...
'I'm kinda scared that I'll be sussed. Suppose someone talks to us. As soon as I open my mouth they'll realise I'm a man.'
'Good point,' Rosemary said. 'Come back into the cottage. I've got something to resolve that problem.'
Inside, she made me swallow a pill. 'It's a voice-changer pill,' she said. 'It tightens the voice chords the same way as helium gas.'
As it went down my throat, I thought it was burning my voice chords away, but after the stinging had gone away, I was left with a squeaky voice.
'It sounds like a child's voice,' I squealed.
'Well, it certainly doesn't sound like a man's,' Rosemary said. 'I don't think you need worry about your voice anymore.'
'As long as I don't get stuck like this,' I shrilled.
We went out to the front of the cottage, and Rosemary was right on both counts. She was delighted with the pictorial scenes presented by the front of the cottage, with the small garden, which had gone wild with colour since the death of Charley; and there was no one around, apart from the occasional passer-by who would bade us 'Good Morning.' After the first had gone by, I plucked up courage and returned the greeting of the second person in my squeaky voice.
Within a few minutes, we were back in the house putting on another dress, shoes, hat and earrings.
'I think we need another prop,' Rosemary said, producing a bottle of wine. 'I hope you don't mind red, but it will go with this pink dress so much better than white.'
I indicated that a glass of red wine would be very acceptable, and of course, a couple of glasses of that helped me relax. Naturally, when I changed into the white dress, I had to also change my glass of wine, so by the time we'd finished with the sundresses, I had well and truly relaxed into my modelling role.
The next outfit was a smart suit with pastel pink pleated skirt and jacket, and a matching blouse.
'I need to tighten the corset a little for this,' Rosemary said, untying the strings, and then heaving on them as hard as she could.
'Oooh!' I squealed, although that was more for effect than because I found it uncomfortable.
As soon as I'd got into the suit, I realised what a dramatic improvement tightening the corset had made to my figure.
'Was it worth tightening it?' Rosemary queried.
'You bet,' I squeaked. 'I never realised what a fantastic figure I had.'
Rosemary laughed. 'That's just what Charley used to say, although she never convinced me to put one on. But that outfit really suits you. Do you feel good in it?'
'Well...' I thought a little, and added, 'Yes I do, actually. It seems to fit my figure very well, and it makes me feel more confident.'
'In that case,' Rosemary said, 'let's go to lunch.'
'Lunch?' I squealed. 'But I've only just got dressed in this, and you haven't taken any photographs, yet.'
'I'll take the camera with us to the Kingsford Manor. I'm certain there'll be some fabulous backgrounds there for us.'
I gasped. 'You mean, I go dressed? Like this?'
She smiled. 'It's really suitable for the Kingsford Manor. In any case, you could hardly have expected that, having taken about ninety minutes converting you, we convert you back to a man to go to lunch, then spend almost as much time again converting you this afternoon. That would be silly. You must have appreciated that we'd go dressed for our lunch.'
''Well, I...I mean, I never really thought about that. Can't we...' I realised I was garbling; that secretly, this was something which I would love to do if only I had the courage; and that I would have Rosemary by my side, telling me what to do. 'Lead the way, Rosemary,' I said. 'But don't you dare leave me for a minute.'
She didn't. She got shots of me in the entrance porch to the manor house, looking as though I owned the place. Then we went in and had our superb meal, during which she got some more shots. Finally, just after she had paid the bill, we went into the ladies and she produced yet another outfit from a carrier she'd brought with her - a beautiful evening gown - which I slipped into (more tightening of the corset) and she got some shots of me on the terrace, sipping the last of our wine.
When we at last got back to the cottage, it was almost three, and I was brimming with the excitement of it all. Having had well over two bottles of wine (Rosemary hardly drank anything whilst on the job), I was fairly tipsy as well.
'Are you ready for the final dress?' Rosemary asked.
'I didn't realise there was another one,' I shrilled. 'What's it like?'
'The sundresses this morning were just to get us warmed up, and you comfortable with being photographed,' Rosemary said. 'I may not even put them on e-bay. The suit and the gown should fetch a reasonable price, so I'll certainly put those on. But the next dress is my real raison d'etre for this photo shoot today. Come and see it.'
She led the way upstairs and into the spare bedroom and opened the closet. Inside was a beautiful, white wedding dress. It had a heart-shaped neckline cut so low it would leave little to the imagination, a tight, buttoned bodice, and then a beautiful full skirt, which tumbled down to the floor, with a short train to the rear.
''Oh Rosemary! That is gorgeous! I've never seen anything so wonderful.'
'Isn't it. I hate to sell it, but it's no good me keeping it. It's not as though it was my wedding dress.'
'You want me to wear this?' I squealed delightedly. 'Wow!'
But then I looked more closely. 'But I'll never get into that. Look at the size of the waist!'
Rosemary tilted her head a little. 'As I said before, you look virtually the same size as Charley, and she got into it, wearing just the same corset as you're wearing now. So, it's possible, but we do have to really tighten the corset. Are you game?'
Was I game? I, too, had worked out the sundresses wouldn't fetch much on e-bay but now I could fully understand why we'd started with them; and also why we'd started in the back garden and worked round to the front. I could also understand why she'd plied me with drink, and insisted that, in spite of being in such a magnificent restaurant for lunch, we'd only eaten sparsely. For she was leading up to getting me into this wonderful dress - probably the most expensive dress I had ever seen - certainly the most expensive I had ever worn in my life, or was ever likely to again.
I knew the answer to the next question before I'd even asked it. 'And just where,' I shrilled, 'are you intending to take the photographs?'
I could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew that I knew, and she also knew that I couldn't resist that dress. 'I thought we'd start with the side gate here and then move onto the lych-gate at the church. Afterwards, at the church door. What do you say?'
I deliberately turned my back on her. 'Start tightening the corset,' I giggled.
We both knew that Rosemary was taking classical photographs, ones that would display the gorgeous wedding gown to its very best, ones that, were I really the bride, I would treasure probably long after my marriage had broken up! The sun was shining from just the right direction, at just the right height, the flowers in the churchyard were all in bloom, and what was really good was that we were on our own, with no one to gawp at a bride without any guests.
I was even glad that Rosemary had tricked me into wearing such wonderful earrings - large, dangling, and covered in sparkling diamante. As soon as she showed them to me, I knew they would complement the dress to perfection, and I never thought to wonder why she even had to ask. Not until I had agreed, and she used a needle to pierce my left ear and then quickly slipped the earring into place. After I'd screeched a bit and calmed down, it seemed pointless to prevent her repeating the operation with the right ear. But now, I knew those earrings were essential to complete those pictures of absolute perfection.
Then, it all went pear-shaped.
'Oh, you're here at last,' a familiar voice said, from just inside the church door.
My heart dropped into my stomach. I turned to see Pete staring at me.
'Every one of your friends and relations are here. We've been waiting for you for ages.'
Of course, it all became clear, now. Our wedding anniversary was next week. Clearly Sue had set up a surprise service-with-a-difference to celebrate our wedding vows; a service where the joke would be on me. Had I not been so totally smitten with being a woman, it might have been a funny joke - might have been, although I'm one of those people who hate surprise parties. But today had been something of a turning point in my life. I had enjoyed being a woman.
I turned hopelessly towards Rosemary, but she'd gone, and left me in the lurch, so I turned back to Pete. 'I'm sorry, I can't do it,' I squeaked.
'Of course you must do it,' he said. 'The vicar's waiting. Come along.'
With that, he interlinked his arm with mine and gave me a tug that, on my heels, unbalanced me. It was a case of walking with him or toppling over onto the ground. He was at least six feet, two inches high, and built like a brick shithouse. There was no way that, once we'd started walking through that door together, I could do anything but trot beside him.
As we entered the vestibule, the organist saw us, and the church reverberated to the sound of the Bridal March, played as loudly as possible.
Until now, I'd been elated by my wonderful clothes, my spiky stiletto heels, my squeaky voice, but one of the major problems of having all three is your inability to take action. I'd managed fine on the heels all day - after all, they were only an inch high - but the narrowness of the heel ensured I was tottering about and in no position to take an immoveable stance. My squeaky voice meant I couldn't even be heard above the noise of the organ. Then I caught sight of the groom.
I'd imagined that Sue would be there, dressed in a black suit with top hat, with a huge grin on her face. The groom was certainly wearing a black suit and clutching a top hat, but that was the only similarity. Indeed, the look on his face, as he turned around and stared at me, contained as much horror as surely my own must have done.
I realised that I recognised him; it was Perry from Accounts - the guy who was supposed to be screwing the boss's daughter.
Well, that did it for me. It was one thing to be totally embarrassed in front of my mates, but I certainly had no intention of being married to Perry. I think that Pete noticed the look on Perry's face at that moment and realised that all was not well, for he faltered in his stride. That was just the opportunity I needed, for I didn't falter at all - I simply drove my heel down hard onto Pete's instep.
'Oh! Fuck me!' he bellowed at the top of his voice, which even the organist heard and the Bridal March came to an abrupt halt. Pete dropped down low over his foot, I think with a view to prevent the blood from escaping, or even of kissing it better.
I decided not to wait around to see which was more appropriate. I picked up my skirts, turned tail and went as fast as my tottering heels would take me back up the aisle. It was unfortunate that, just as I was about to run through into the vestibule, another bride and her escort were coming the other way. With our wide-tiered dresses, we kind of bounced off each other, but my momentum sent me charging head first into the escort, my forehead bounced off his nose with a crack. He collapsed backwards onto the floor, blood starting to dribble out of his nose.
'Who the fuck are you?' the other bride said.
'Perry offered me first refusal for today,' I shrilled. 'But you're welcome to him. He's simply not up to giving me the kind of sex I need.'
With that less than brilliant repartee, I dashed outside
As I hurried down the path to the lych-gate, Rosemary fell into step beside me.
'Where did you get to?' I asked. 'I thought you'd abandoned me.'
'Pete only knows me because of you two,' she replied. 'I thought that if he simply saw a random bride, he wouldn't assume that he knew you. But if he saw me, he'd start looking around for you and Sue. I didn't want to give him any ideas.'
I had to admit her logic was faultless. What's more, I had escaped what had appeared an inevitable disclosure without problem - well, on my part anyway - the growing howls, yells and shouts from the church indicated that I had left one or two problems behind.
I hadn't realised just how quickly a girl could move in heels. I found out that day. Before the mob had even spilled out into the churchyard, we were inside Charley's cottage watching from the windows.
'I hope I haven't permanently damaged the marriage,' I squeaked.
'It will have bigger hurdles than that to face over the course of a few years,' Rosemary said. 'If a little incident like that causes it to fail before they're married, it's probably better they didn't get married at all.'
'You mean,' I squeaked, 'it was like a social service?'
Rosemary looked at me and started to giggle, and within seconds, we were both laughing helplessly. I guess, for me, it was the relief from the stress of the last few minutes, combined with the high I had been on all day long.
'Once she'd calmed down, Rosemary said, 'I've completed all the shots I need for e-bay.'
Then, seeing the look of disappointment on my face, she added, 'But there's no need for us to dash off straightaway. Why don't you change into one of your sundresses and we'll go sit in the back garden and have a glass of wine?'
Now that the sun had moved around, the rear garden was delightful to sit in. There was a little gazebo in the one corner, and we took our glasses over and sat inside it, and chatted about the day - the clothes I had worn, the meal at the Kingsford Manor, and the shots Rosemary had taken. She showed me on the camera display several of those she considered the best. They certainly looked fantastic, and who would have guessed that the woman wearing all those dresses was me?
'Thanks for everything,' Rosemary said. 'I really owe you. And it hasn't been too bad, has it?'
'You know it hasn't,' I shrilled. 'It's been incredibly exhilarating. Even having to break off my wedding service was pretty good - in retrospect.'
'I think you should tell Sue about it all,' she said.
'Well she knows what we're doing,' I shrieked, rather alarmed at what she might be indicating.
'You know what I mean,' she said. 'I mean you should tell her how exciting you found dressing up as a woman.'
I shrugged. 'You noticed. I thought I'd kept it pretty close.'
'If you call that keeping it close,' she said, 'I should hate to see you when you're being obvious. But there is nothing to be ashamed of in enjoying being a woman.'
I shook my head. 'Not if you are a woman, no. But there is if you're a man. It's like a perversion.'
'It's certainly different from accepted practice, yes. But homosexuality was considered the same forty years ago; now it's respectable. The act hasn't changed - only people's attitudes.'
'So what do you think Sue's attitude would be if I told her?' I nervously squeaked.
'Hi Rosemary. Hi John.'
The voice came from behind and I'd swivelled around and squeaked out, 'Hi,' long before I'd thought that I shouldn't have responded to being called John.
'Hello, Janet,' Rosemary said. She looked over Janet's shoulder. 'Are you on your own?'
'It's alright,' Janet said with a smile. 'I knew you wouldn't want Pete here. I've left him chatting up the bridesmaids. I said I had a friend called Rosie who lived here.
'You make a wonderful bride,' she continued turning to me. 'I almost wet myself with laughter when I saw Pete drag you into the church, and the organist started playing the Bridal March.'
'Thanks,' I shrieked, 'although it didn't appear so funny at the time.'
'It certainly didn't to Perry', Janet said. 'that's what made it all the more enjoyable. I really hate that slimy toad.'
'But you recognised me straightaway,' I shrilled. 'Surely I wasn't that obvious?'
'I heard what Rosemary was saying to Sue when they were talking last week,' Janet said. 'I knew Charley was a woman who lived in this village, so when Pete dragged the wrong bride in from the street, who was exceptionally tall for a woman, it didn't take much to put two and two together.
'Did Perry get married in the end,' Rosemary asked.
'Yes,' Janet said. 'We're going over to the Kingsford Manor now for the reception. I thought I'd pop over here first and see how everything went.' She turned to face the cottage, and added, 'This is certainly a lovely cottage, but it's not yours, is it? Are you going to be able to make use of it?'
'I'm sure I could if I wanted,' Rosemary said. 'Charley's sister now owns it, although she won't be living in it much. But I'm not terribly keen on living in a village.'
'It would be handy as a secret love nest,' Janet said.
'Well I'm not married so I don't need a secret love nest,' Rosemary replied.
'No, but I do,' Janet said.
I gave a little gulp, then. It was fine having a little risque conversation with Janet, but I really didn't want to get involved in a steamy affair. The problem was, I knew I wouldn't be able to say no.
'Come and have a look inside,' Rosemary said. Then, obviously recognising my discomfort, she turned to me and added, 'You've seen it already and you look quite comfortable out here. Help yourself to another glass of wine whilst I show Janet around.'
She didn't quite wink at me, but she'd obviously guessed my concern and was manipulating things so I remained pure - well, you know what I mean. So, Rosemary and Janet disappeared inside the house and I filled up my glass and enjoyed the sunshine.
It was only when I finished my glass of wine and was considering refilling it again that I realised the girls had been inside the cottage for ages. I guessed that, before taking another glass for myself, I should offer them one, so I wandered over to the open window, with a view to giving the girls a shout.
After being in the bright sunshine, it looked dark inside, but I could just make out a paleness on the floor that looked like... As my eyes became accustomed, I realised that my guess had been right: two rounded breasts topped by erect nipples!
The woman was lying on her back on the floor with her blonde head towards me, naked from the waist up, but with her long skirt still covering her lower half. The skirt bulged over her knees, which were spread wide apart. In fact, I realised that her knees alone could not account for the dress bulging up in the air as much as it did, and finally, I could make out Rosemary's bottom emerging from the bottom of the skirt.
'Oh, yes,' Janet whispered. 'Oh yes!'
I stood transfixed for a moment, until a voice behind me said, 'Hello. You must be Rosie. I'm looking for my wife, Janet. Is she around?'
I jumped, and then slowly turned, trying to collect my feelings and think of something to say. Fortunately, I didn't have to.
'Hell, you're the Runaway Bride!' Pete said. 'Janet didn't say she knew you.'
'Maybe she wanted to avoid me being crucified,' I squawked. I moved towards him, so that he didn't come any closer to the window.
'You being crucified?' Pete said. 'The problem was they all wanted to crucify me for dragging in a random bride, without checking who you were before I took action. I hope I didn't mess up your big day.'
'It wasn't my big day,' I squeaked. 'I was simply modelling a dress for a friend to take photographs.'
'Oh! You're a model,' he said. 'I thought you were rather good looking.'
Who did he think he was fooling? Me? Good looking? He must have thought I was the most naive girl in the world to fall for that one. Still, it did make me feel rather good, and I think I may have smirked slightly before saying, 'I'm no model, but thanks for the compliment. My name's not Rosie either - I'm Jenny.' (The name came on the spur of the moment - my first girlfriend was a Jenny.)
'Oh.' Pete looked confused. 'Well where are Janet and Rosie?'
'They're inside looking at... dress material,' I improvised. Rosemary certainly had been looking at dress material, but I suspected that by now Janet was not wearing any.
'Well I guess that means,' he said, 'that there's just time for a kiss for the bride.'
Suddenly, I was in his arms, off-balanced by his sudden tackle, and completely relying on him to prevent me falling flat on my back. His lips were on mine, and his tongue was inside my mouth.
And it felt great!
I knew I should have been punching him in the throat, or kneeing him in the goolies, but I felt helpless to do anything. All I could do was to hang onto him tightly, and open my mouth wider. But if I was hanging onto him so tightly, how come my one hand could slide down the front of his trousers to feel his bollocks through the material, and then cup them in my hand, and very, very gently squeeze them. Then, my hand drifted upwards, and started stroking his shaft.
'We're not interrupting anything, are we?'
Janet's voice cut dryly through our kiss and suddenly I was on my feet again, and Pete was withdrawing.
'No, darling,' he said. 'Just giving the bride a little kiss for tradition's sake.'
'Your tradition,' Janet said, 'is to try to shag anything in a skirt.'
I gave her a sharp glance - after all, she appeared to have a similar tradition - and she had the grace to look bashful.
'I suppose you've come to drag me to the reception,' she said, 'and force champagne down my throat. Come on then.'
The two of them disappeared around the side of the house, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Thanks for covering up for us,' Rosemary said, coming out of the house, holding a cordless phone. 'Janet said she'd noticed you come to the window and look in, which I think turned her on even more.'
I shrugged. 'No problem.'
'But did you think it a problem when Pete turned his attention to you? My impression was that you were enjoying it rather more than you would expect of a heterosexual male, even if dressed as a woman.'
I shrugged again. 'I really don't know Rosemary. There were a whirlwind of emotions passing though me - one part telling me it was wrong, and the other telling me it was great.'
She nodded. 'That's what I thought. That's why I rang Sue. After all, I am responsible for what happens to you today.'
'You rang Sue? What did you tell her?'
She smiled. 'Only that I thought you'd be more than willing to take your wedding vows again, except that I reckoned you'd like to make it a more personal occasion - just for the two of you.'
'Is that my penance,' I asked.
'I don't know about that,' Rosemary said. 'I offered to lend my wedding dress for the occasion.'
'That's a lovely offer, Rosemary,' I responded, but then a thought struck me. 'But Sue is only five feet, six inches; that dress will be far too long for her.'
She smiled. 'Did I suggest that Sue would be wearing it? Sue thought it was a lovely idea - her going as the groom and you as the bride. What do you think?'
I felt myself flushing with the rush of excitement that went through me.
'That sounds quite good, actually,' I said.
'In that case,' Rosemary said, 'it's my turn to kiss the bride. And don't you dare mention a word to Sue about this.'
On our second honeymoon, Sue had orgasms like she'd never had before. She didn't know it, but she had Rosemary to thank for that bit of schooling.
A Decade of Big Busts Stories
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My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.
To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year, starting with my very first Big Busts' story, explaining how the store started up. It was originally published under the authorship of Marianne Nettes, but rather than causing confusion, I have now switched to the name I have used since 2004.
It's worth saying that the vast majority of my stories are meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with mystery, sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 1 - BIG BUSTS, the start of it all
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My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.
To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year, starting with my very first Big Busts' story, explaining how the store started up. It was originally published under the authorship of Marianne Nettes, but rather than causing confusion, I have now switched to the name I have used since 2004.
It's worth saying that the vast majority of my stories are meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with mystery, sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
BIG BUSTS
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 1 - BIG, BLACK AND BEAUTIFUL
=================================
Tony Phillips woke up feeling as if a brand new world had just started. He struggled to sit upright in the bed, a childish grin breaking out on his face as he stared over towards the dressing table. The woman smiling back at him in the mirror was fantastic — big, black and beautiful, and naked from the waist up, her lower half obscured by a white drape across her midriff.
There were a number of brightly coloured dresses hanging in the open wardrobe, but the simple white dress with the deep cleavage, which she had worn last night, was still lying on the floor where it had got strewn in the heat of the moment. God knows where his own clothes had ended up — at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less, for life ahead was far too exciting to be bothered about a trivial detail like trousers. With a bit of luck, he wasn’t going to need them for ages.
He blew her a kiss, and the woman in the mirror returned it with an even bigger smile, her breasts giving a pleasant jiggle, as she moved.
She said, ‘I’ve finished in the bathroom, if you want to use it.’
‘I think I’d rather lie here and wait for you to come back to bed.’
‘Uh-uh. Sorry baby. Business calls — I have to go across the water and see the landlord about extending the lease; then on to my equipment supplier. It’s almost nine am. Aren’t you going in to your bank?’
‘Nine! Hell, I must have slept like a log after you finished with me, whatever time that was.’
They both smiled at shared memories.
‘We could both play hooky,’ Tony suggested. He didn’t think he’d ever played hooky in his life, before, and here he was, suggesting that the two of them spend the day screwing. Disgraceful!
‘Not for me. I’ve got too many things to do. You can stay here if you want, but you’ll have to play with yourself. Sorry.’
Tony shrugged, philosophically. There’d be other times. ‘Shucks. I guess I’ll have to take a shower and go into work, then.’
‘OK.’ She pulled some white knickers from a drawer and slipped them on. From the same drawer she took a white bra and, leaning forward, lowered those fabulous breasts into it, then fastened the clasp behind her back.
She looked at him and gave a complicit smile as she said, ‘Thanks for a great night, and thanks for organising the loan, as well.’
‘We bank managers are here to serve our customers.’
But never before in that way. Not with him, anyway.
Since she was rapidly becoming respectably dressed — if the bright red dress she was slipping into could ever be classed as respectable — Tony decided he had better have a shower, and make his first efforts towards getting into work. He was actually singing in the bath (which he hadn’t done since he was seventeen) when she popped her head round the door and announced she was going.
‘How are you going to get there?’ he asked. They had travelled in his car, last night.
‘I’ll hitch,’ she said, and added with a grin, ‘Hitch up my skirt. I’ll soon get a lift that way.’
Tony had a sudden pang of jealousy, that she should flaunt herself like that, but she had gone before he could offer her a lift. It wasn’t too far to walk, anyway, and at that time of day, it would probably take him as long to drive through the rush hour traffic.
As it happened, Tony wasn’t more than thirty minutes late, and he concocted some trivial excuse to satisfy his secretary, Val, and the band of female cashiers who mothered him like broody hens. Confessing to spending the previous night in bed with a female customer would probably have pleasantly surprised most of them. But if he’d told anyone that he’d spent it with that young, black sex-bomb who, yesterday afternoon, had walked into his branch of Barkwest Bank asking for a business loan, they would have been shocked to the core, and never again been able to look him in the eye.
It was probably because of his middle-age and very respectability, that Val suggested that he, rather than his junior manager Nick Brown, should interview Ms Carmine Ross. Val had given Tony the excuse that Nick was running late with his previous appointment, but most likely she had taken one look at Carmine and decided she’d have Nick’s trousers off him before they even got the office door closed.
Carmine was twenty-three years old, big boned and tall — in her heels she loomed over Tony. She had a firm, confident grip as they shook hands, and Tony tried hard to look her in the eye, rather than down at the incredible cleavage revealed by that plunging V-neck dress. The dress was white, and made of material so light it had floated out as she walked towards him. On her feet, she had white, high-heeled sandals, with thin straps which wound above her ankles. She would have looked completely at home in one of the discos on Seacombe’s Sunset Strip — but in the bank, the appearance of Lucifer himself could not have more shocked Tony’s staff.
She looked at him, looking at her, and said with a directness, which both surprised and delighted him: ‘I guess I’ve kind of blown it with the dress, haven’t I? I thought I’m going to come in here and knock ‘em out, and er...’ she gave him a little girl look, ‘I guess I have.’
He smiled. ‘If you mean, “Have you totally traumatized all the female staff in my bank”, then the answer is “Probably”. If on the other hand you mean: “Have you brightened up an otherwise dull afternoon, for one middle-aged bloke who is absolutely enthralled by the sight of a really pretty girl?” then the answer is definitely “You bet!”.’
Tony had never seen so many shiny white teeth as was displayed by her grin. She wrinkled her nose in a quite appealing way: ‘Jeez. Thanks for making me feel OK. I felt like shit when I saw how your secretary looked at me, as though I was a tart on the game.’
‘I apologise on behalf of the bank. She shouldn’t have looked at you like that. Now, what can I do for you?’
She wanted a business loan to start up a sculptor business in the old town. She’d been renting a shop for a few weeks, making busts for visiting tourists. She’d taken enough business to make her believe she could earn a living out of it, but she needed to take out a lease on the shop, and buy some better equipment. Could the bank lend her the money?
To be honest, Tony wasn’t over enthusiastic. The old town in Seacombe, originally based around the fishing port, had gone through one bad patch after another, after decades of over fishing had totally depleted the sea of life, and the package holiday industry depleted the town of tourists. Many British seaside towns were in the same position as Seacombe — they survived on day trippers, most of whom were more interested in the amount of alcohol they could consume, rather than a visit to a sculptor.
‘Doesn’t it take you a long time to make a bust of someone? Don’t you have to charge a lot of money?’
Another toothy grin, but this time with a knowing look in her eyes, as though she had expected him to ask that question, and had the answer ready.
‘Simply ages.’ A pause, for effect, then she added, ‘...if you do it the conventional way. But I use modern technology. A few digital photographs, which I feed into my computer, and I then produce a three dimensional digital image of the person. I’ve got a peripheral on the computer, which cuts out the two halves of a cast for the bust. Pour in the moulding material, and bingo! Less than half an hour’s work, and less than one-day elapsed time, and you have a perfect replica. I’ve been charging £25 each, and they’ve been selling like hot cakes.’
She produced a folder and clumsily withdrew a spreadsheet, which she passed across to him.
‘I need to buy some better equipment, and materials, and take out a lease on the studio, but I’ve done a discounted cash flow which shows I’m well in profit, even if I only get one third of the trade I’ve been doing these last three weeks.’
She blushed suddenly, as though embarrassed at airing words which she had not used before. Tony smiled back at her; keen to show she had not been talking rubbish. Unless, of course, it was all rubbish. Suppose she didn’t have a shop with equipment to make busts — she was simply trying to con money out of the bank. It had done before, sometimes by people as appealing as Carmine — in fact, usually by people as appealing as Carmine.
The spreadsheet looked as good as she had indicated. If she was telling the truth, he’d be happy to advance a loan. After all, she was hardly asking for a large amount, but... was she telling the truth, or was it a con?
There were two ways of searching out that kind of problem — one was to look at the books, but with a business that had only been going for a few weeks, they were meaningless. A much better way was to visit the business at work, and make certain that everything stacked up with what she claimed.
‘That sounds fascinating. If your figures are as good as this spreadsheet shows, I think we’ll be able to arrange a loan, but the bank will need to visit your business and satisfy itself. When could we arrange that for?’
‘The sooner, the better. You can come now, if you like.’
Tony hesitated. Normally, he’d have sent Nick out on this kind of visit, but why should he have all the fun? He had no further appointments that afternoon. And a snap visit like this ensured there was no chance to prepare in advance.
He made up his mind. ‘Why not? I’ll just go and tell my secretary where I’m going, and then we can drive out there.’
When Tony told Val where he was off to, she replied, ‘Can you hang on for a few minutes? I’ve sent Jean out for some extra strength condoms. She’ll be back soon.’
It was a measure of the trust that she had in him that made the joke possible. Had she the slightest suspicion of how things would turn out, she would never have dared to make such a comment. Tony declined her offer with a grin, and led Carmine out to the staff car park, using the steeply climbing passageway at the side of the bank.
She gave a squeal of delight when she saw his company Jaguar. ‘Sh-i-t! Is this really your car? It’s fantastic. Do I get to ride up front, or does the little black girl have to get in the boot?’
‘Nothing as luxurious as the boot, I’m afraid. You have to run behind.’ Tony was shocked by his own words. They’d been meant as a joke, but taken the wrong way, they could have been deeply offensive, and if she made a complaint... He shuddered at the thought.
Fortunately she was laughing, and telling him how terrified she had been at the thought of going into the bank and asking a load of stuffy, old, farts to part with such a huge amount of money. He breathed a sigh of relief and concentrated upon navigating the car through the start of the afternoon rush hour traffic, towards the bridge to the old town.
Seacombe is in two parts, separated by the river. Barkwest Bank was in the new town, which although built on the steep sides of the river valley, had several straight and reasonably level main roads, which ran along the contours. Unfortunately, this meant that all the roads and alleyways at right angles to them sloped steeply, and even in his smart new Jaguar, Tony always had a terror that his brakes would fail as he approached the river, and he would plunge into the cold water, and be immediately swept out to sea.
As usual, Tony drove without incident across the lift bridge, which joined the new and old towns. On the other side of the river, the old town was fairly flat, but with a maze of twisty little roads and passages housing tiny, fishermen’s cottages, which had mostly been converted into bed and breakfast houses. But the package holiday trade had taken its effect, and local holiday businesses had slumped, leaving many houses boarded up and derelict.
He was pleased that Carmine directed him to the area of the old town closest to the beach, where a number of tourist and antique shops, and small art galleries, still survived. To get to her shop, they had to leave the car in a public car park, and walk the last few yards along what had once been a narrow road, and was now a pedestrian passage.
The shop had a narrow frontage with living accommodation above, but it looked attractive, and there was a steady stream of people browsing the shops on either side of the passage. Tony noticed that even the name above the shop window, Big Busts, created a little stir of interest, especially amongst the men.
Tony was impressed with Carmine’s business. She showed him around, gaining confidence now she was on her own ground and in her specific field of expertise. As they’d entered the shop, she’d turned the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN, and within a few minutes a family of three walked in and placed an order. The ten-year-old child sat on a swivel chair in front of the camera whilst Carmine took the photographs, turning the chair through forty-five degrees after each photograph. Afterwards, the parents happily paid the deposit; Carmine gave them a receipt and told them when it would be ready for collection.
Whilst that was going on Tony looked through the books, and quickly made up his mind. She had good business sense and a sellable product.
‘You’ve got your loan,’ he told her when the three had left. ‘You’re in business.’
‘Oh fantastic,’ she cried. ‘You superhero.’ And she clasped him round the shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek.
The launching of an Apollo rocket may be more spectacular, but for Tony, nothing could have sent such a sudden surge of adrenaline through his body, as those two incredible tits pushing into his chest. She seemed totally unaware of his reaction — fortunately, he was half turned away from her, so she didn’t feel his penis abruptly turn into an iron rod.
‘I’m going to buy you a drink to say thank you,’ she said.
‘You’re a customer of the bank, now,’ Tony said, ‘so the bank can foot the bill. And let’s make it a meal instead.’
********************
Carmine was the most fantastic fuck of his life. She was so much younger than him, yet how was it that she had so much more experience? She rode him like a champion jockey on a steeplechase, letting him have his head for a time, but then calling him in check — urging him on to buck harder, then calming him down again — trotting, cantering, and mad galloping, but never letting him onto the winning straight until she’d enjoyed her ride to the full.
And God, did she enjoy riding! She had one superb climax after another. Surely, Tony thought, no man had ever before given her such a tremendous fucking. And unusually for him, he was standing proud again, just a few minutes after each of his orgasms, ready for his next unbelievable ride of a lifetime.
He lost count of how many times they fucked that night. He could remember, sometime after midnight, they sat naked in her shop drinking a bottle of red wine, on view to any passers by who might look into her shop window. Fortunately, the passage outside was lit, and they were in the dark, but they both found the risk so erotic that he fucked her on the shop counter, as they finished off the bottle of wine.
Afterwards, Carmine pulled aside the swivel chair she had used to photograph the child, and put a low wooden turnstile in its place. She ordered him to stand on it, then, after using her lips to bring his cock to another massive erection, swivelled the turnstile around as she took photographs of him from every angle. Had he not been drunk with both her beauty, and the alcohol he’d consumed over the evening, his natural caution would have prevented him getting into a position so open to compromise, but right at that moment, he didn’t care a damn. So, the local bank manager is photographed with an erection to be proud of — so what?
They went upstairs and continued their night of lust. At about four am, as Tony finally dropped off to sleep, he knew he had met the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.
********************
‘But why, Carmine? Why can’t we meet up again?’ Tony knew that he was whining, but over the phone, her rejection had sounded petulant.
‘Because I don’t want to.’
‘We had a fantastic time on Monday night. You enjoyed it too.’
‘Course I did. Look,’ she seemed to struggle to find the right words, ‘You gave me the loan, we had a nice meal, you fancied me like mad, and I thought you deserved a little thank you present. We had a great time, but that doesn’t mean I want to repeat it every night for the rest of my life.’
‘No one’s talking about the rest of our lives, only about continuing something which worked so well the first time.’
‘I saw the look on your face yesterday morning as I was leaving. That look said “long term commitment, move in together, and perhaps in time, wedding bells and the patter of little feet”.’
‘No way!’ he denied, but he knew that she knew he was lying, so he changed tack. ‘Is that so bad?’
‘Not if the two people are right for each other, but we’re not.’
‘But we are...’
‘You’re white, I’m black. You’re rich, I’m poor. You’re middle-class, I’m working class. You’re respected in high society, I’m not. You go to concerts at the Art Society, I go to black raves...’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t it? Perhaps that’s because you think it will all be one way. You take me into your nice, four bedroom house, in a respectable part of Seacombe, and buy me wonderful clothes and diamond tiaras. You take me to your white, middle-class, cocktail parties and show me off to your friends. And all the women think how lucky I am to be taken in by you, and all the men think how lucky you are to pull such a sexy girl. Is that what you’re thinking?’
‘Well, I...’ That was exactly what Tony was thinking, but it didn’t seem diplomatic to admit it.
‘Well how about if it was the other way round. If you came and lived with my parents, in their damp, cramped little tenement, with the smell of curry coming up from the Indian restaurant in the basement. Or went to events with my black friends, who all look at you and call you a white honky. How about that?’
‘That’s OK. I wouldn’t mind.’ Would he?
But Carmine was in full flow, and nothing was going to stop her. ‘You don’t realise what it’s like to be poor, or black, or even a woman. When you’re all three, you see the discrimination — you see people openly despising you. It would be different if the boot was on the other foot.’
‘Carmine!’ Tony shouted down the phone and managed to silence her for a second. ‘I’m not asking you to marry me. I only want to take you out and get to know you better. And if you’d prefer to do it in places where you feel at home, then that’s fine with me. I don’t mind if the boot is on the other foot.’
‘You don’t?’ She sounded surprised, and was quiet for a minute, then added, ‘You wouldn’t mind?’
‘No!’
‘OK. Come round to the shop about eight, and I’ll cook a meal for you.’
CHAPTER 2 - DINNER AT EIGHT
==========================
She looked superb when Tony got round there, in a bright yellow dress, with matching yellow, high-heeled pumps. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and whilst she was putting the finishing touches to a curry, she got him to open the bottle of wine he’d brought with him.
They chatted about her business, and the progress she was making with developing it, with the money from the loan. As her bank manager, Tony should have been more than delighted at her business prowess, but his thoughts kept drifting to other things.
She never warned Tony about the curry. One moment, he was tasting the subtle flavours as the first mouthful went sinking down his throat, the next a napalm bomb detonated somewhere inside him. He downed his glass of wine, then hurriedly refilled it and drank that as well.
‘It’s not too hot for you, is it?’ She was smiling sweetly at him. She seemed to think his discomfort extremely amusing. ‘Only, it’s just the way me and my mates like it, and you said you wanted to be treated as one of them.’ She paused, waiting for him to complain.
Fortunately, for a few seconds, his voice was beyond speech, but after another glass of wine, he had to see the funny side. He grinned back at her, and said in a hoarse whisper, which was all he could manage, ‘Touché.’
It was the right reaction, her face lit up again, showing every one of her teeth, but if he hoped that she’d remove the bowl of curry in front of him and replace it with another dish which she’d been hiding until now, he was disappointed. He hesitated, and then took another mouthful, better prepared this time.
Actually, the more Tony ate, the better that curry got, even though his face went the colour of beetroot and the sweat literally dripped off him. Carmine opened another bottle of wine to feed his thirst, and he drank most of the contents of the two bottles before they’d finished.
‘I made you a little present,’ she said.
She reached behind the curtain and withdrew a bronze statue about twelve inches high. It was of a naked man with an enormous erection that shot up to a point level with the man’s nipples.
‘Er, that’s for me?’ he queried, looking embarrassed.
‘You don’t recognise it, do you?’
Tony looked more closely at it, trying to avoid staring at the penis, a horrible thought looming in his head.
‘It’s me!’ he gasped. ‘But... but I don’t look like that.’ He pointed at the massive erection.
‘That’s the advantage of a computer,’ she said. ‘I can stretch reality. You know — morph it. Huge cock, slim waist, big tits — you name it, I can do it.’
‘Wow!’ The implications for her business hit him. ‘You mean you can make statues of people, which improve on their good features and minimise their bad ones?’
She nodded.
‘Can I become your partner?’
‘We’ve talked about that already, and the answer’s “No Way!”.’
That had been another type of partnership, Tony thought, but it didn’t seem worth pointing it out. He picked the statue up, and remarked how light it was.
‘It’s not really bronze at all,’ she said. ‘Simply a plastic that looks similar. It’s much easier to mould than having to work with molten metal. I made this statue with my existing kit. Come downstairs and see what I can do, now I have the extra gear.’
She led the way to her workshop at the rear of the shop. She flicked on the light, and Tony jumped in fright. There was a naked man in there, with a huge erection. In fact, not just any man, it was...
‘It’s me, again!’ He stared at it with horrible fascination. It was a life-sized copy of the bronze she had just shown him, except it was in a material the colour of his own skin.
‘The full size computer driven cutting machine was delivered this morning. You’ll be pleased to know that yours was the very first mould I cut on it.’
‘It’s fantastic.’ It was too. He held his hand next to the hand of the statue. Only the fact that the one had hair differentiated the two.
‘I had to use a wig for the hair on your head,’ she said. ‘But other than that, it’s all exactly how it came out of the mould.’
‘Carmine, your business is going to turn into a goldmine,’ he said.
‘Hope so.’
She seemed to suddenly lose interest in her business, and changed the subject.
‘Did you mean what you said, this morning, about being happy if the boot was on the other foot, and wanting to live in my world?’
He nodded. ‘Of course. I love being with you. I want to be as close to you as I can.’
‘That’s good, because I have a test for you to prove it.’
Tony had a sudden foreboding. ‘What type of test?’
She walked over to one of the large drawers set underneath the workbench, and pulled one open. ‘I can use all kinds of materials in the mould,’ she said. ‘This one is made of black latex.’
She withdrew something black from the drawer. It wasn’t a statue, at all — more like a diver’s wetsuit, flopping over her arms.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s not a statue.’
‘It’s actually a reproduction of me,’ she said. ‘But by positioning another statue in the centre of the mould, before I pour in the latex, I effectively get a bodysuit, made to fit over the original statue.’
Tony was feeling incredibly dense. Carmine was obviously leading up to something, but he couldn’t work out what. ‘But why would you want to put a latex bodysuit over a statue,’ he asked. ‘Why not simply mould your body in the same way you moulded mine?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I only used the statue to produce the bodysuit. It’s made to fit on you, of course.’
******************
Tony should have been appalled. If he’d understood what she’d said, the bodysuit would fit on him, and make him look exactly like Carmine. A big, black woman with breasts the size of melons. How could he, a heterosexual male even contemplate donning the suit? How come he was staring fascinated by it, wondering just exactly what it would feel like to turn into a beautiful black woman?
Their telephone conversation earlier that day had echoed through his mind all afternoon. Tony had been poor in his younger days, but he certainly didn’t know what it was like to be black or female, and he had difficulty imagining it. It was easy enough to say he could ignore discrimination when he came across it, but could he?
Then there was the sexual element. Tony thought Carmine had the most beautiful body he had ever seen. He’d been dreaming of being close to her for the last two days — being able to touch her cheek, squeeze a breast, or stroke her thigh. In that suit, he’d be able to do that whenever he felt like it. Would it make a difference that he would be doing it to himself? He wanted to find out.
Carmine had been watching him whilst the thoughts whizzed through his mind. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘It would be interesting to try it on — see how well it fits.’
She smiled. ‘You’ve passed the first test. I thought you’d say “No”, out of hand.’
‘So did I,’ he said.
**************************
The suit was in two parts. She handed him a pair of leggings, with built in feet and toes. The latex was incredibly thin from the toes up to above the knee, but then it started to thicken on the outside of the thigh, right up to the buttocks and hips, where it was almost two inches thick.
‘I told a little lie when I said it would make you look exactly like me,’ she said. ‘The problem is your shoulders are much broader than mine, so I’ve had to make a corresponding increase in the width of the hips to balance it out. It will also compensate for the size of your rather large waist, so overall you should look more or less in the same proportion as me.’
It was a valid point and Tony didn’t argue — not until he’d pulled the leggings up to his waist, anyway, and the latex squeezed his stomach down to an impossibly small size.
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she said in response to his gasps. ‘It’s one of the features of being a woman you will just have to get used to. Women have to suffer to make their figures look good. So stop complaining.’
She’d left a small slit in the groin of the leggings for his cock to poke through, and after he’d pushed it through, the tight constriction gave him an instant erection.
‘That doesn’t look very ladylike,’ he said. ‘What am I going to do with that?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a special way of dealing with large cocks.’
He smiled. He’d hoped she was going to say that. He was beginning to enjoy this more and more.
The other part of the bodysuit was like a leotard top, with built in arms and hands, and a head mask. It was very difficult getting the thing over his head, particularly as he couldn’t breathe or see, but between the two of them, they managed to get it in position, and pull it down over the top of the leggings. There was a fastening between the legs, and they both looked down at his purple cock, still throbbing after forcing its way through the small slit at the groin.
‘I said I had a way of dealing with that,’ she said, and she brought her hand smartly down and gave it a terrible slap. Tony howled with pain, but her action had worked. His cock had shrivelled to the size of his little toe, and was clearly trying to climb back inside his body, before it received another slap.
Carmine bent down and fiddled around with it in a most uncomfortable way for a few seconds. Then it was over, and she was fastening the two halves of the leotard between his legs. She stood up, and critically stared at him.
‘That’s better, now let’s adjust it on your face a little.’
She had to stretch and pull it quite a bit, so it fitted around his eyelids, and his mouth, but eventually, she was satisfied.
‘One final thing left to do,’ she said, and she reached down and pulled a black wig from the drawer, and flipped it over his head.
She stood back and admired her work. ‘Hmm, not bad,’ she said. There’s a mirror next door. Why don’t you go and admire yourself?’
The first problem Tony discovered about being black is that in dull light, you can’t see yourself properly in a mirror. He flicked the light switch and then gulped with joy. The woman who stood in front of him wasn’t quite the same as Carmine — certainly broader in hip and waist, but she had those same tremendous breasts and her face was almost identical.
He swivelled in front of the mirror, turning first one way, and then the other. He looked pretty good. He stepped back. His breasts gave a delicious quiver as he moved, so he stepped forward again — another quiver. He shrugged his shoulders — a jelly-like wobble. He swung his shoulders violently left and right, and his tits went swinging vigorously to the left then the right, then the left and right again, before they settled into their natural place — on the front of his body.
‘Fucking hell!’ said a voice outside. Tony turned towards the shop window. There were at least a dozen men staring in at him.
************
‘I want you to step out of the shop into the passageway.’
A surge of panic hit him. What the hell was he thinking of? He could imagine the newspaper headlines, ‘Bank manager exposed in public.’
‘No way! You saw those men gawping at me just now.’
‘But that was because they saw a pretty woman standing stark naked in the shop with the light on. You have clothes on now.’
After he’d leapt back into the workshop, she had laughed at his panic, and taken him upstairs to get dressed. She’d offered him the choice of her wardrobe, but for him there was no hesitation. He wanted to wear the dress, which she’d been wearing on Monday, when she walked into the bank, and stunned him and everyone else. It was a good choice, for the full skirt hid the extra inches on his hips. When he looked in the bedroom mirror, he could have been the twin of the woman who had come into his bank on Monday.
He was grinning at himself as he turned in front of the mirror, this time with only Carmine as the audience, but that was when Carmine had uttered the words, which had thrown him into panic. But if he didn’t go outside, how else would he experience what it was really like to be a black woman? He would only have to step outside, walk a few paces up and down and quickly dart back into the shop if there was a danger of being discovered.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘So I can do the talking, if necessary.’
She led him by the hand back down the stairs, through the shop and out into the passage. Fortunately, Tony’s crowd of admirers appeared to have dispersed, and there were only one or two people walking along the lane. The women hardly appeared to notice him, whereas the men gave him the kind of glance that men normally give to gorgeous women, which sent the adrenaline surging through Tony’s blood.
‘Keep your footsteps small,’ she whispered. ‘One foot in front of the other. Chin up, shoulders back, bum out, tummy in...’
And so they proceeded down the lane, turning left at the end, walking a short distance along the road, than making another left down another pedestrian passage, and finally completing a full circle to return to her shop. As they turned the final corner, Tony noticed a policeman standing in a shop doorway directly in front of them. There was nothing for it but to carry on as though they hadn’t a care in the world, and as they walked past, Carmine smiled at the policeman and gave him a wink. She appeared quite laid back, but Tony’s heart was banging in his ears. It got even louder when they got to Big Busts.
‘Oh dear,’ Carmine said. ‘I think I’ve left my keys inside.’
‘What!’ Tony’s hoarse whisper was almost a shout. They were locked out! He’d be discovered and ridiculed. The newspaper headlines were already being written... He glanced over his shoulder. The policeman had been watching their progress up the passageway, and now he left his doorway, and started to walk towards them.
Carmine’s teeth suddenly glowed in the darkness. ‘Only joking,’ she said, and she fiddled with the door, and suddenly it was open and she disappeared inside. Tony tottered after her, quivering with fright — or was it excitement?
‘Are you the owner of this business?’ The policeman’s voice cut through Tony’s short-lived jubilation.
‘Yes.’ Carmine was totally composed — and why shouldn’t she be. She stepped between Tony and the policeman, and added, ‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘I didn’t see you use a key to open the door.’ The policeman was suspicious, but thank God, it wasn’t about Tony’s sex or style of dress.
‘I left the keys inside the shop. I used this instead.’ Tony almost had a heart attack when she gaily waved her credit card at the policeman — and not even any old credit card, but one of his own bank’s credit cards.
‘So how do I know you’re not breaking into the place?’ Even the policeman couldn’t believe that a thief would be so stupid.
Carmine turned towards Tony. ‘Could you get the lease, please, and show it to the nice policeman. It’s in the bottom drawer behind the counter.’
Aware of four eyes scrutinising his walk, Tony tottered behind the counter, bent down and found the document. But neither the policeman nor Carmine had moved, and he had to totter back to the position where he could pass it to her. She took it from him, and passed it onto the policeman.
‘This should satisfy you.’
He took the thick bundle of pages of small print and perused it.
‘How do I know that you are the person whose name is on this lease?’ He read the name off it, ‘Ms Carmine Ross.’
‘Why,’ she said with a huge grin on her face, ‘here’s my credit card.’
**********
When he had gone, Tony breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘My God. That was close. What rotten luck to have forgotten to take your keys.’
‘It wasn’t bad luck. I don’t have a set of keys.’
‘No keys! Why not? How have you been getting into the shop?’
‘I’ve used my credit card, each time. It’s not a very secure shop.’
‘But why haven’t you got the keys from the landlord?’
‘We still haven’t finally agreed the terms of the lease. He’s asking far too much money for this dump. I’m slowly bargaining him down.’
‘But when you rented the shop, he must have given you the keys. And you just showed that policeman a copy of the lease.’
‘Ah well...’ Carmine paused for a second, before adding, ‘I didn’t actually formally rent the shop. It’s been empty for months, and the door wasn’t very secure, so I’ve just been... using the space. You know, sort of squatting.’
Tony was horrified. ‘But squatting only applies to living accommodation — not business premises. What about that lease?’
‘I got it from the stationers around the corner. Filled in the blanks and got one of my mates to sign it. It certainly looks official enough to fool the fuzz, as you can see. It also allowed me to get the electricity connected.’
‘Oh my God!’ Tony put his elbows on the counter and dropped his head into his hands. ‘I can’t believe what you’ve just done to me. You’ve not only involved the bank in a fraudulent deal, dressed me up as a woman and paraded me in front of the town, you’ve knowingly presented false documents to the police with me as a witness.’ Carmine was silent. ‘Well, what do you say?’
‘I say...’ and she bent her head down so it was level with his, ‘that you make one hell of a sexy woman.’ And her tongue slipped between his lips, and started to play games with his own tongue.
****************
Tony woke up feeling as if a brand new world had just started. He struggled to sit upright in the bed, a childish grin breaking out on his face as he stared over towards the dressing table. The woman smiling back at him in the mirror was fantastic — big, black and beautiful, and naked from the waist up, her lower half obscured by a white drape across her midriff.
He could see a number of brightly coloured dresses hanging in the open wardrobe, but the simple white dress with the deep cleavage she had worn last night was still lying on the floor where it had got strewn in the heat of the moment. God knows where his own clothes had ended up — at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less, for life ahead was far too exciting to be bothered about a trivial detail like trousers. With a bit of luck, he wasn’t going to need them for ages.
He blew her a kiss, and the woman in the mirror returned it with an even bigger smile, her breasts giving a pleasant jiggle, as she moved. He gave another shake of his shoulders so he could watch the effect upon her breasts in the mirror.
The previous evening after their first lovers’ tiff was abruptly brought to an end, Carmine and he had almost run upstairs to the bedroom, and pulled off each other’s clothes. Then they’d made love like lesbians — kissing, stroking, and squeezing, before getting into a 69 position — giving each other long strokes of the tongue on their most sensitive of spots. They both came countless times, but Tony’s orgasms were very different from those he’d experienced on Monday, or for that matter, ever before. Gone was the violent thrusting and jerking which culminated in squirting semen as far as he could inside his partner — this was a sweetness that filled him from head to toe and made him softly gasp with pleasure, and which went on for minute after wonderful minute.
Then he would be returning the favour to her, bringing her to blissful climax. And so they continued through into the small hours of the morning, when they’d fallen to sleep in each other’s arms. There was no sign of her now, although he could hear movements down below as she prepared the shop for its normal ten am opening.
Jesus Christ! He was late for work. Again! Tony shot out of bed and frantically tried to undo the bodysuit fastening between his legs. He couldn’t even find the catch!
‘Carmine! Carmine!’ He shouted down to her, and when she didn’t respond, went dashing downstairs.
‘Carmine, have you seen the time?’ He stood at the bottom of the stairs, and mindful of his public display yesterday evening, kept well out of view of the shop window.
‘That’s alright,’ she said. ‘It’s still a few minutes before we open, and I can manage on my own for a while, until trade builds up. Take your time.’
‘What are you on about? I’m talking about the bank, not the shop. How do I get the bodysuit off? I can’t find the catch.’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘We agreed. You’re in my world now — not a bank manager’s world. You’re working for me in the shop for the rest of this week.’
‘But I can’t. What about my bank?’
‘It’s OK. I telephoned them and told them you had flu, and wouldn’t be in for the rest of this week. After all, it was you who suggested we play hooky on Tuesday morning.’
‘But who did you say you were?’
‘Why I gave them my name, of course. I had to remind your secretary who I was — that I’d been in the bank on Monday afternoon — but then she remembered me quite distinctly.’ She looked at his face, and added, ‘Why? Is there a problem with telling them you’ve been sleeping with a black woman?’
CHAPTER 3 - GIRLS NIGHT OUT
==========================
Tony had never realised how much pleasure working in a shop could be. In his previous life, he imagined it must be quite boring, standing around waiting for customers to come in, then having to be nice to them, even if they were extremely rude.
But in Big Busts, it was all so interesting, and there was simply so much to do. Carmine had a long list of outstanding orders, and they had to work non-stop to meet her promised delivery times. Customers had been continually popping in — some just to make enquiries, but a number placed orders and had their photographs taken, whilst others collected their orders.
Tony — or Toni, as Carmine had now named him — had been incredibly nervous at first, about dealing with customers, or more accurately, about speaking to them.
‘They’ll realise I’m a man as soon as I open my mouth,’ Toni said.
‘Course they won’t,’ she replied. ‘OK, most women have higher pitched voices than you, but there are many who have quite deep voices. And remember that the way that you talk is far more important than the pitch. Women put much more animation into their speech. Anyway, looking like you do, there’s no way anyone could possibly question your sex.’
It was true that, with the dress Carmine had selected as the shop’s uniform, it was impossible to believe that people might think Toni was a man. A white, cotton smock dress with puffy sleeves, and a deep square neckline which allowed a breathtaking view of their ‘Big Busts’, pushed up by the best that Gossard could provide. A lace up leather bodice pulled in their waists, but their hips and buttocks swelled out gracefully beneath. A matching smock cap and little, spike-heeled booties completed the outfit.
‘Remember, men are generally not interested in purchasing head and shoulder busts of their loved ones. But show them another type of bust, and they’ll agree to a purchase without question, especially if it means they have an excuse to come back the next day to collect it.’
She was right. Toni had no end of interest in her tits, and she had to admit, it felt good, being gawked at by every bloke who came in. It wasn’t even as though it was difficult to be pleasant to people. They were mostly on holiday, so they tended to be in a good mood — the blokes all had their eyeballs popping out, and the women were generally agreeable anyway. For the first time ever, Toni regretted he had spent his life developing a career in banking, when he could have been doing something so much more interesting.
That Thursday, they worked all through the day with hardly a break, until they shut up shop late in the evening. Toni was far more tired than Carmine, who had got used to the routine over the last few weeks, and they barely had the strength for one quickie, when they finally fell into bed.
Friday was even more frantic. Two families had come in shortly after they had opened, and explained they were on a day trip and their coach left that evening. Could they take delivery of their busts before they left, they asked. Within fifteen minutes of accepting their orders, it appeared that every other occupant of the coach came in with the same request. Carmine had to do some frenzied calculations, working out how she could break the jobs into batches, and how long each batch would take. But finally, she accepted every one of the orders, and the two of them were working flat out until the last order was collected only a few minutes before their coach departed at eleven pm.
Even then, they had to get on with the back orders, which were being picked up on Saturday morning. They finally got to bed about one am, too tired to even give each other more than a little cuddle before they fell asleep.
Saturday morning, they had to get up at six am to remove the casts from the moulds, and clean them up ready for collection. By nine-thirty, they had them all completed and ready for business to open at ten, and they even had time to snatch a proper breakfast. It was over breakfast they had their first real argument.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so frantic, Toni,’ Carmine said. ‘We haven’t had any time for each other.’
Toni grinned back at her. ‘It’s been fantastic,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember when I’ve ever enjoyed myself so much. You women complain about discrimination, but I’ve never had so many offers in my life, as I’ve had in the last two days as a woman.’
‘What about being black?’ she asked. ‘How did you feel when that man yesterday was so horrible?’
She was referring to an incident when a customer’s delivery hadn’t been ready for him when promised. Even worse, they had trouble finding what had happened to his order, and the man commenced a tirade along the lines of, ‘You fucking wogs come to this country and...’ Fortunately, Carmine located the bust and was able to pacify him enough to collect the money outstanding.
Toni wrinkled his nose. ‘I felt like smacking him in the teeth,’ he said, ‘but I guess that’s the hidden male in me, making its presence felt.’
‘I guess it is,’ she said. ‘I always want to cut off their balls.’
Toni winced.
‘Never mind,’ Carmine continued. ‘We’ll shut up shop at five, this afternoon. Then we’ll get dressed up and I’m going to take you out on the town. You can meet some of my friends, and later on, we’ll tour all the best black clubs.’
A shadow passed over Toni’s face. ‘Oh, sorry baby. I’m OK for the early evening, but then I have to get back to the bank for a special job.’
Carmine was furious. ‘Had enough of being a black woman, have you? Want to go back to being a nice, comfortable, middle-class, boring, old, bank manager FART!’ She shouted the last word at him, and he visibly cringed. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘can’t Nick Brown handle the bingo money?’
‘Bingo money! What do you know about the bingo money?’ Toni had suddenly disappeared, and it was a very male Tony who was now shouting at her.
Carmine looked at him in disbelief. ‘Everybody knows about the bingo money. They advertise it all over town. One million pound prize jackpot, which can be won any Saturday night. They have the money on display in an armoured glass box at the front of the bingo hall. It’s hardly a fucking state secret.’
‘I mean,’ Tony said, ‘how do you know...’ He stopped himself and decided to rephrase his question. ‘That is, what makes you think that my bank handles the cash?’
‘Toni, you’re being stupid,’ Carmine said. ‘Two months ago, I won a hundred quid at bingo. Rather than taking the money in cash, which I knew I’d blow in one evening, I decided to take a cheque. The address of your branch was on the cheque. So, I sort of assumed that you’re the bankers for the bingo hall, or is that a wild assumption? Which also kinda leads one to think that on Saturday night, when they’ve finished with the money at the bingo hall, they put it in an armoured car and take it to your bank. OK?
‘And incidentally,’ she continued, ‘I hadn’t got a proper bank account when I won the money, so I decided to open one at your branch. Which is why on Monday, it was to your bank I came, to ask you for a business loan.’
With her explanation, Tony had calmed down. ‘Sorry, I was being stupid. There we were in the bank, keeping it all top secret, when anyone with a brain could work out where they take the million pounds to be stored.
‘But it is my responsibility to ensure it’s properly dealt with,’ he continued. ‘Besides, I telephoned the bank yesterday to tell them I was still intending to come in and do it.’ He could still vividly remember the icy reception he’d received from Val, fuming over his liaison with Carmine.
‘I overheard you ring them,’ Carmine said. ‘That’s why I telephoned your bank again, this morning, and told them your flu had taken a turn for the worse, and you wouldn’t be coming in after all.’
She continued hurriedly, before Tony could recover from his surprise and explode. ‘You promised me that, this week, you’d let the boot be on the other foot. If our relationship means anything to you, you can’t just walk away tonight, just because it doesn’t fit in with your bank’s schedule. Please come and meet my mates, and after tonight, your trial is over and you’ll have passed. Tomorrow, Toni, we can decide how our relationship is going to work, for the rest of our lives.’
It was such an impassioned plea that the anger inside Tony instantly subsided.
‘OK,’ Toni said, and she smiled at Carmine. ‘Let’s put on our glad rags tonight, and go out on the town.’
******************
They wore matching purple gowns — backless to the waist, with halter necklines that exposed, more than hid, their breasts. Layers of light, filmy lace flared out from their waists, but not so many layers that you couldn’t just make out the tiny pair of purple knickers and suspender belt, highlighted against their black skin. Matching high-heeled sandals and tiny handbags completed their outfits, and they looked for all the world like not-quite-identical twins, out for a night of fun on the town.
They first of all called at the pub not far from the shop, where they had a couple of stiff drinks each — to calm Toni’s nerves, Carmine said. Then they got a taxi to the new town, and got it to drop them off at the end of Sunset Strip. Sunset Strip wasn’t its real name of course. It actually had the rather snappy title of Alderman Cleckheaton Boulevard, so it wasn’t surprising that the road which housed almost every nightclub and disco in Seacombe had been dubbed with a much more appropriate name.
Carmine took them down an alley off the main drag, and into a club where the air was thick with the smell of cannabis, and a jazz band was making the kind of music worth dying for. Carmine introduced Toni to a group of her friends who were sitting in the semi dark, rattling through their names so rapidly, she could only remember that the tall guy who moved to make room for her was called Mitchell. A joint was passed around, and Toni hungrily inhaled — it had been decades since he’d last taken one, at university. Then Mitchell was pushing drinks into their hands, and sitting down so close to Toni that his leg pressed against hers. It was, Toni realised with an incredible thrill surging through her, going to be a long evening.
At some point they moved on to a disco, where they danced energetically as a group, although it always appeared to be Mitchell who was closest to her when the slow dances commenced. And it was whilst he was clutching her during the slow dances that Toni realised Mitchell had a friend, who kept popping up between them. It was the sort of friend who initially made his presence felt by pushing between her knees, and then, by some miraculous process which Toni didn’t quite follow, suddenly leapt up to become a massager of navels.
The problem with having false tits is that you can’t feel when someone’s stroking them, and Toni suddenly realised that Mitchell had probably been squeezing her nipples all evening, without any dissuasion from her. She pushed his hand away now, firmly but with a smile, and went to join Carmine, where she was sitting with the bloke who’d been dancing with her. Toni made a face at Carmine, and they both went to the toilet, as girls do.
After Toni had finished in the cubicle, she joined Carmine who was standing looking into the mirror above the washbasins, and touching up her makeup.
‘How you going?’ she asked.
‘I’m a bit worried that Mitchell is getting a bit too frisky.’
‘He’s a nice guy. What’s the problem?’
Toni glanced over her shoulder at the other girls in the toilet, and lowered her voice. ‘You know what the problem is. I’m attracted to you, not to Mitchell.’
The girl at the next washbasin gave a quick, sideways look at the pair of them, then concentrated back on her makeup.
‘But I’m not available at the moment. Mitchell is.’ Carmine popped her lipstick back into her handbag, and withdrew a joint from it. She slid it between her lips and lit it, then blew smoke into Toni’s face. ‘He is an exceptionally well built guy,’ she said, ‘if you know what I mean.’
Toni opened her mouth to speak, but Carmine pushed the joint between her lips, before she could say a word. As Toni dragged on it, Carmine moved her lips to Toni’s ear and whispered, ‘He has the biggest cock in the world.’
There was a sudden look of interest from the girl next to them, but Toni choked on the joint, pulled it from her mouth and said, ‘I’m not concerned.’
Carmine pushed the joint back into Toni’s mouth, and she obediently closed her lips and inhaled.
‘The largest pair of balls you could imagine.’
Toni shook her head, as though to clear the vision from her eyes, and took another drag on the joint.
‘His prick is so thick you can’t wrap your hand around it.’
Toni gulped.
‘You can hardly open your mouth wide enough to get it inside.’
‘Look!’ Toni had withdrawn the joint and was trying to think of all the reasons why she didn’t want sex with Mitchell, but she could actually only think of one thing to say. ‘You know I’m not interested in men — only you.’
‘How do you know, if you’ve never tried it?’ Carmine pushed the joint back into Toni’s mouth, who took another drag before removing it and saying.
‘I just don’t fancy him.’
Carmine pushed the joint back between Toni’s lips, and said, ‘Well, that’s not a problem. We women have to do things all the time that we don’t particularly fancy. But that’s not a valid reason not to do them. If you’re really telling the truth about being happy to experience life as a black woman, then you’ll be happy to take Mitchell outside. You’ll simply be dying to release the belt on his trousers, and watch his great black cock force its way out the top. You’ll love to play with it in your hands, and softly cup his bollocks, and squeeze them. You’ll crave the moment when you sink to your knees and run your tongue from balls to head, and back again. And you’ll be ecstatic when you get that monster inside your mouth, and you give him the blow job of his life.’
Toni should have been horrified, but in a sense, Carmine was right. There was no reason why she, Toni, should be frightened of getting better acquainted with Mitchell. After all, hadn’t she enjoyed his company all evening? In fact, she’d hardly spoken to Carmine since she’d met Mitchell. Somewhere, right at the back of her mind was another person telling her not to do it, but that person was a bit of a bore, wasn’t he? She really didn’t know why Carmine had taken any interest at all in that dreary, old, bank manager.
‘This will be the end of your trial, Toni. When you’ve passed this test, you’ve graduated, with honours. We can go back home then, and plan our future together.’
He who hesitates is lost, thought Toni. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘and find lover boy.’
‘Shit!’ said the girl at the next washbasin.
***************
Within five minutes, Mitchell and Toni were outside the disco, and walking down a dark, narrow passageway at the side of the building.
‘I think you’ll be pretty impressed with the monster I’ve got waiting for you,’ Mitchell burbled. ‘Most women are absolutely gob-smacked.’
They’d reached the end of the passageway, where a row of dustbins lined the base of a high wall, and obstructed the entrance to a wooden door.
‘This is a good place to come,’ Mitchell said, and swivelled Toni around so she was in his arms. He pulled her against him, and within seconds, his hands were inside her dress, his tongue was inside her mouth, and something very much bigger was pushing against her stomach. She wriggled against him, and pushed her tits into his chest.
‘Fucking hell, baby,’ he groaned. ‘Never mind the foreplay, or I’ll be coming in my trousers.’
He grasped her head in both hands and forced her down onto her knees in front of him. In one impossibly speedy action, he’d undone the belt on his trousers and pulled them down to his knees.
‘Take a look at that, baby,’ he said, but before she had chance, he was pulling her head forward, onto him.
As Toni took him inside her mouth, she couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that Carmine had been somewhat overselling Mitchell’s attributes. OK, he was a big boy, somewhat larger than bank manager Tony, but it was hardly anything to write home about. As she sank her mouth down his shaft, Toni almost giggled at the thought of writing home to her mother about the events of that evening.
Mitchell was gasping loudly now, and Toni had got him almost as far inside her mouth as it would go, when he gave a sudden jerk inside her. Not having previous experience of this kind of action, but having read all about it in a myriad of books which gave the impression of being well researched on the subject, Toni had expected to drink down the dollops of cum as they were squirted out. In fact, she choked on the very first, tiny squirt as it hit the back of her throat, and she involuntary jerked her head back and closed her mouth.
Fortunately for Mitchell, her actions were in that order, and his second squirt struck her in the left eye, virtually blinding her. Turning her head away, the third stroke caught her in the right ear, and then it was all over.
‘Thanks, baby,’ Mitchell said. ‘I really needed that. Here’s a little thank you present.’ He flicked something towards her, which she couldn’t see. ‘Are you coming back into the disco, now?’ He was pulling up and fastening his trousers, oblivious to the cum streaming down Toni’s face, although in fairness to him, it was difficult to see anything in the darkness of the passage.
The beam of torchlight rectified that, and Toni, still with semen in her eye, was now totally blinded by the light shining directly into her face.
‘Police! Hold it right there,’ the voice snapped.
With his back to the light, Mitchell didn’t have Toni’s disadvantage, and in an instant, he was clambering onto the top of the dustbins. His arms just reached the top of the high wall and in a second he had climbed over the top, and disappeared out of Toni’s life forever.
The torch beam swung back to Toni and picked up her large boobs pulled from the halter top, the semen dribbling down her face, and a twenty pound note, which appeared to have got stuck to a glob of semen on her right shoulder.
‘You’re nicked,’ the voice said.
**************************
This time last week, Toni thought as they waited for a police car to pick them up and take them back to the police station, bank manager Tony Phillips had a quiet evening watching a romantic drama on TV, and had then gone to bed and read himself to sleep with a novel by his favourite author — Agatha Christie. He had a decent job at the bank with good career prospects. He had a comfortable house and a Jaguar. His sex life was a little lacking, but then a guy couldn’t have everything, could he?
If he’d been asked to imagine his worst nightmare, Toni thought, it could not have been as bad as it was going to get when the truth was revealed and his humiliation started. It wasn’t just his friends and family he was worried about, but when the bank found out, he’d undoubtedly lose his job and his company car. Even the low-cost mortgage on his house came from his bank, and he’d have to sell up and move out. He’d be ridiculed everywhere he went, and his mother would be so ashamed of him.
Should he admit everything straightaway, he wondered, or try to bluff it through. If he tried to bluff and was eventually discovered, surely it would be even worse for him — on the other hand, could it get any worse? Although Toni had no way of knowing, in fact the answer to that question was, yes, not only could it get very much worse, it was going to do so before the night was over.
Toni immediately recognised the arresting officer as PC Swan, the one who had interrogated them on Wednesday evening. Obviously he was one of those stupid honkies who thought that all blacks looked the same, and he didn’t appear to have connected the woman in front of him now, who said her name was Toni Curtains — he’d almost said it was Toni Curtis, but had managed to change it at the last minute — with the one he’d seen in a shop in the old town, three evenings before. This was fortunate, because it meant that Toni was able to lie about her address, saying she had no fixed abode. After all, she reasoned, she didn’t want to give the police any clue which might lead back to the shop, and hence the bank.
When the police car arrived, driven by a rather pretty woman constable, Swan had pushed Toni into the back seat, and then got into the passenger seat.
‘What’s she done?’ the driver asked, giving Toni a sympathetic look.
‘Prostitution,’ PC Swan replied. ‘Caught her on the job with cash in hand.’ He grinned at Toni. ‘Well, it wasn’t quite in hand, was it love?’
‘Do you want a tissue?’ the driver queried. She’d noticed the mess on Toni’s face, and she passed her a box from the glove compartment.
‘Thanks.’
‘That’s OK. My name’s PC Sally Wright, by the way.’
‘I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you,’ Toni replied.
The remarks appeared to annoy Sally, which was a pity since Toni hadn’t meant it offensively. But the car set off with such a sudden lurch that Toni was thrown back in the seat, and the semen she’d just wiped off her face with the tissue, was smeared right across her lips.
‘Didn’t you get enough in the first time?’ PC Swan smirked at her, and she felt like smacking him in the face.
She was cleaning the last of the gunk off her face when the call came through on the police radio — a fight in The Market Tavern pub, at the end of The Strip. Assistance required.
‘Oh shit!’ Swan said. ‘Let me out here. I don’t want to get involved in a punch up.’
Sally smiled sweetly at him, and gesticulated at Toni. ‘You can’t leave your arrest behind, and there isn’t time to drop you both off.’ She’d pushed her foot to the floor and switched the siren on. ‘Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be seen to be neglecting your duty in front of the public.’
‘Fuck you,’ Swan muttered.
Three minutes later, they were pulling up outside the Market Tavern. There were people tumbling out of the door, noses bleeding and hands clutching various parts of their anatomy. Inside, the fight was obviously well underway, and both Swan and Sally went inside, leaving Toni in the car.
Time to escape, Toni thought. The problem was that the rear doors of the police car were locked, and Toni found it bloody difficult to climb over the back of the front seats to get to the front door. When she’d done so, she found the bastards had double locked the whole car. The only way to get out would be to smash the windows. Toni had a think about that. Being done for prostitution was one thing, but smashing up a police car was likely to result in having not only the book thrown at her, but the desk and chairs as well.
On the other hand, if she wasn’t here when they came back, it didn’t really matter, did it? She wriggled her legs up onto the passenger’s seat, and lay back on the driver’s seat. Now all she had to do was to bring her knees up to her face, and smash her stilettos against the passenger window.
‘Hello, having a little lie down?’ Sally had pulled the driver’s door open, and she smiled down sweetly at Toni. Sally had used her left hand to open the door, so that she could employ her right to keep a big guy secured in an arm lock.
She opened the rear door of the car and fed him inside. He gave a horrific scream as, prior to releasing his arm, she gave it a final, vicious twist. Now Toni could see him, he looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger might have done, after his face had been fed through a food processor.
‘You bitch, you’ve broken my fucking arm,’ he moaned, tears almost in his eyes. ‘You might have pulled it off.’
‘You ought to be grateful it’s only your arm,’ she said. ‘I normally grab blokes by the balls.’
She gave Toni a friendly grin. ‘I realise you’ve always wanted to drive a police car, but could I ask you to sit in the back seat again.’
Toni looked back at Schwarzenegger. ‘With him?’
‘Fraid so. I think it’ll probably be safer putting you in there, rather than PC Swan.’ She pointed behind her to the pub, where Swan was just emerging with a swollen eye and a hunched figure, obviously having been kicked in the goolies. ‘I’m afraid our friend got a bit aggressive with him.’
Toni reluctantly levered herself out of the driver’s seat and Sally opened the rear door so she could get in. As she sat down, Schwarzenegger grinned at her, and said, ‘What ho, baby. If she’d told me she was providing entertainment on the journey, she wouldn’t have needed to use force to get me inside.’ He dropped his giant hand onto her thigh, and gave it an almighty squeeze.
‘Oh shit,’ Tony thought. ‘Please let this nightmare be over soon.’
It was not to be. Barely had the car started when another message came through on the police radio — panic alarm at Barkwest Bank — all units respond.
CHAPTER 4 - THE BIG BUST
=======================
The nightmare was definitely in full swing now. Here was a bank manager in transvestite dress and under arrest for prostitution, locked in the back of a speeding police car with an Arnold Schwarzenegger mutant, who had one hand squeezing her tits, the other under her dress trying to get inside her knickers. They were en route to a robbery at the manager’s own bank, where for the last hour he should have been managing the security of one million pounds in cash.
When the car was still some distance away, they all saw, illuminated in the floodlights outside the bank, the man come dashing out carrying a large, heavy black suitcase. But of the four of them, it was only Toni who realised how very similar that man looked to himself, in his normal business suit. The man was in view for only seconds, before he disappeared up the passageway leading to the staff car park.
‘Turn left here,’ Toni shrieked at Sally. ‘You’ll be able to cut him off at the top of the passageway.’
‘Rubbish,’ Swan yelled. ‘He’ll double back if we do that and we’ll lose him. Stop next to the passage and I’ll chase after him, then you drive on and go round to the car park.’
By that time, they had already passed the turning on the left, and further argument was wasted. Sally skidded to a halt outside the bank, and almost before it had stopped, Swan was out of the car and running up the passageway. Sally dropped the car into first gear and accelerated up the road. Toni could have told her that it really would have been quicker to do a U turn and go back to the turning he had suggested, but knew it was useless.
It took them well over five minutes to get round there, and they were still several hundred yards away when Tony’s Jaguar came screeching out of the car park and accelerated off into the distance at more than a hundred miles an hour. Sally’s Fiesta simply wouldn’t stand a chance of catching it.
Swan should have been waiting for them, but he’d only just appeared on the pavement by the time they drew level with the car park. Blood was pouring down his face as Sally skidded to a halt beside him.
‘Did you get a crack at him?’ she asked.
‘No, I ran into a fucking skip,’ he said, climbing into the car beside her.
‘You’re missing a trick,’ she said, as they accelerated off. ‘You should have claimed credit for trying to arrest him.’
‘Get on the radio,’ Toni screamed at them, frustrated at their chatter, ‘and get them to raise the lift bridge to the old town. If he gets in there, you’ll never find him.’
They both looked at each other, and Swan said, ‘That’s the first decent suggestion you’ve made all evening.’
He barked his orders into the radio. Two minutes later, as they came over the brow of the hill and into view of the bridge, they could see it already starting to lift, with the Jaguar speeding towards it. As the bridge got higher and higher, so the Jaguar appeared to travel faster and faster.
At the last minute, the driver obviously realised he wasn’t going to make it, and stamped on the brake. Consequently, the car was only moving quite slowly when it smashed though the entrance barriers, careered up the highly sloping lift bridge, and unhurriedly toppled over the top. Despite that, it fell with a tremendous splash into the river flowing beneath, and immediately disappeared beneath the surface.
*****************
It was after midnight before Toni got back to the shop. After getting the bridge re-opened, Sally had driven across so they could search the old harbour-front for any signs of the driver or his booty, whilst other police officers who’d arrived on the scene, had stayed to search on that side of the river.
As soon as they pulled to a halt on the old quayside, Swan had gone running off to the water’s edge, and with him out of the way, Sally had taken a more tolerant line with her prisoners, and released both Toni and Schwarzenegger from their captivity.
‘Too much paperwork already,’ she said. ‘You’ll only create more. Now piss off.’
Schwarzenegger had been enjoying himself with Toni until now, and was rightly upset that he was in danger of losing her. Deciding that brute force was likely to be far more successful than smooth talk, he ran round to her side of the car, arms held wide apart, effectively trapping her between car and harbour-wall.
It had been a long night. Toni had diced with despair for the last two hours. She’d had semen squirted down her throat and into her eye, and her bank had lost a million pounds entrusted into her care. And now Arnold Schwarzenegger was trying to fuck her.
As her foot travelled upwards, she put every ounce of frustration and annoyance into it, imagining that if she kicked hard enough, she would make his balls pop out of his eyes. They almost did — certainly his eyeballs almost popped out, but he gave barely more than a tiny whimper, as he collapsed on the ground, and proceeded to writhe about in agony.
‘Well done, Toni,’ Sally said. ‘I feel just that way myself.’ And she gave Schwarzenegger an enormous kick in the small of the back.
*****************
As Toni got back to the shop, she felt just a tiny glimmer of hope that she might come out of everything unscathed. As soon as she was safely inside and out of view, she frantically pulled off the bodysuit and became Tony once more.
As he searched around desperately for his own clothes, he tried to work out exactly what had happened that evening. Firstly, he knew that Carmine had taken him for a sucker. She’d enticed him right from the start. He’d let her take the three-dimensional photographs of his naked body, which had allowed her to make a bodysuit for someone else, so that person would look exactly like himself.
Secondly, according to Carmine, she had telephoned the bank and let them know he wouldn’t be coming in to do the special job that evening. But of course, she’d lied about that, so the bank was still expecting Tony to arrive. The impostor had simply walked right in and stolen the million pounds, whilst Carmine kept Tony occupied on Sunset Strip.
Probably — and this hurt — she was also in cahoots with Mitchell, and the pair had engineered events so that, whilst Toni was giving him a blowjob, Carmine had shopped the pair of them to the police. Mitchell had been ready when they appeared so he had escaped, after throwing the money at her, thus setting her up for a prostitution charge.
Although the heat appeared to be off shop assistant Toni, Tony the bank manager knew he would be coming under increasing pressure. The bank staff would believe it had been him who’d stolen the money, and the police would pretty quickly be going around to Tony’s home to try to find him. If Tony wasn’t there, they would know without doubt he’d been the person in the car that had gone into the river. There’d be an immediate all points bulletin out for him, in case he had managed to escape.
He left the shop as Tony Phillips and ran the two hundred yards to the nearest taxi rank. He offered a ten pound tip if the driver could get him home in less than ten minutes.
Perhaps if the taxi driver had done it in less than ten minutes, things would have worked out differently. As it was, he had just paid off the driver when the police car rolled up behind him.
‘Good evening sir,’ said PC Sally Wright. ‘Just been out robbing a bank?’
CHAPTER 5 - DARKEST AT DAWN
===========================
The harbourmaster knew exactly where the body would be discovered at first light. The rescue helicopter found it within a few minutes of looking, and brought it back to the waiting ambulance and the small group of police, on the quayside at Seacombe. Even PC Swan could see the body looked exactly like, Tony Phillips, the man who Sally Wright had arrested some hours earlier, and who CID had been grilling ever since. Of course, it would not be until the autopsy that anyone realised that the body was disguised with a bodysuit, and actually looked nothing like Tony.
Reluctantly, the police decided they had no grounds to keep Tony Phillips any longer, and he was released about seven thirty on that cold and dreary Sunday morning. They kindly offered to give him a lift home, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being in police presence for a moment longer, and he decided to walk home, instead.
In fact, the walk helped to clear his brain of the fug, which had built up, after the hours of repeating the same simple story he’d originally spun them. He’d been off work, ill, he’d said, and his girlfriend had looked after him at her flat above a shop in the old town. On Saturday evening, she’d decided to go out with a girlfriend, leaving him in bed. He had meant to telephone the bank and tell them he was sick, but he’d been feeling so very bad that he’d dropped off to sleep without doing so.
He had awoken sometime after midnight, and realised his girlfriend hadn’t returned. Suspecting her of being unfaithful, he had become annoyed, and decided to go home. Only when he went to collect his Jaguar from the car park, did he discover it had been stolen, and instead he had taken a taxi home. Like the best of lies, it had been simple to remember and repeat. After repeating it to the police so many times, he almost believed it himself.
After walking for a few minutes, he felt so much better that he even decided to make a slight detour in order to pass his bank, and see what was happening there. Perhaps he would be able to talk with whoever was still on duty and discover more about the raid, of which up until now, the police had told him absolutely nothing. In fact, when he got to the bank, there was no one around. The bank door was locked, and it all appeared remarkably normal. No one could have guessed the bank was presumably missing one million pounds from its vaults.
From the bank, the quickest way home on foot was to walk up the alleyway at the side and pass the staff car park — the same alleyway that the robber had taken the previous evening. But the big problem with walking anywhere in the new town was that almost every minor road sloped steeply, and this alleyway at the side of the bank was no exception. Tony started to sweat slightly, as he often did as he climbed to the car park at the top of the hill.
The robber must have had a tough time, he thought, lugging that suitcase full of money with him. The idea brought him to an abrupt halt. After all, one million pounds in notes was extremely heavy. Surely, he thought, no one carrying the suitcase could have run up that slope, so why hadn’t PC Swan managed to catch up with him? Tony looked back down the alley to the lower end beside the bank — because Swan had bumped into the builder’s skip — that was why. But even with that interruption, surely Swan could still have overtaken a man trying to drag such an enormous weight up the steep hill?
Tony walked back down the hill towards the skip. Swan’s blood was still on the outside — congealed red dribbles down the dirty yellow paintwork. Inside, the blood had splattered all over the large, black suitcase which had been stuffed in there, as the robber had suddenly come to terms with the difficulty of dragging that heavyweight up the hill, with the police hard on his heels.
Tony was torn. On the one hand, he realised he shouldn’t disturb evidence until the police and Scene of Crime Officers had played about with it for a few hours. On the other hand, the suitcase presumably contained the million pounds, and since he didn’t have his mobile with him, he would have to leave it in order to find a payphone and call the police.
He decided it was better to be safe, than sorry. He pulled the suitcase from the skip and continued his journey. Several times on that journey home, he wished he had left the case where it was. It was bloody heavy, after all, and there were so many sodding hills to climb. He would have taken it to the police station himself, had they not treated him so dreadfully. No, let the buggers wait! In fact, when he got home he would have breakfast before telephoning the police. That would teach them to arrest him for robbing his own bank!
The blue and white police tape was draped across the entrance to his garden. Even from there, he could see a big split down the side of his front door, where the police had smashed their way inside. He lifted the tape and walked over to the door, and pushed it slightly. The door lurched to one side, with only one hinge still holding it in position.
Inside, the place had the appearance of being hit by a tornado. The contents of every cupboard and drawer had been turned out onto the floor, and then shovelled into one big heap in his lounge. The carpets in every room had been lifted, and then tossed aside. Pictures had their backs ripped off, stuffing from the cushions pulled out, even holes knocked through some of the partition walls.
In the kitchen, they’d tipped the flour, sugar and salt out of their containers into the sink, and when Tony turned on the tap to try to wash it all away, he found they’d taken the plumbing apart, and the water from the plughole poured over his feet.
****************
‘Well, Phillips. What have you got to say for yourself?’
Tony turned, to see Dick Thompson, his Area Manager, standing in the doorway. He pointed hopelessly around him. ‘The police have fucked up my house.’
‘Well, what do you expect? The bank has lost a lot of money, and it appeared as though you had stolen it.’
Tony pointed at the discarded flour bag. ‘They were looking for a million quid. They wouldn’t find it in a bag of flour.’
‘Obviously looking for clues. Now I suggest you start tidying it up. Not of course, that there’s any hurry. After all, you will have plenty of time, now that you’re not working.’
‘Not working? What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ Dick Thompson said, ‘that you’re suspended from duty. The police have given me your version of events. It appears that, at best, you have been incredibly careless. Forgetting to telephone in when you were too sick to attend an important security function is total dereliction of duty. Now, can I have your pass card?’
CHAPTER 6 - BORN AGAIN
====================
It was late afternoon before he awoke. After Thompson had left, the events of the last twelve hours had swept over him, and he almost fell unconscious on the spot. He’d gone upstairs to his bedroom, found some bedclothes from the heap on the floor, and had immediately fallen into a deep sleep on his partly shredded mattress.
He went downstairs to the kitchen and managed to find enough food to stave off the hunger pains. He switched on the local radio, and as the clock struck five, the news headlines came on. There was no mention of any bank robbery, but Tony wasn’t surprised. It was fairly common for news of such robberies to be concealed, to avoid embarrassment to the bank and loss of confidence in the banking system. The main item was the story of a late night police chase after a stolen Jaguar, with it ending by plunging into the river after trying to leap across the opening lift bridge.
A man’s body had been recovered from the sea that morning, the news bulletin continued, and it was thought to be that of actor Jonathan Beggs, who’d last worked at Seacombe’s Summer Pavilion Theatre, several months previously.
Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Although he hadn’t dared to admit it, he’d been terrified that it had been Carmine who had used the bodysuit to disguise herself as Tony. Not only would Tony have felt that was an even worse betrayal of him, it would also have taken the police straight round to Big Busts. As it was, the police would be concentrating their investigation upon Jonathan Beggs, allowing time for Tony to ensure he had left no evidence at the shop.
He once more reviewed the story he’d given to the police. The problem, he’d already realised, was that the police would go around to Big Busts to get Carmine to confirm his story. She obviously wouldn’t be there, and when they eventually got fed up of knocking on her door, they would probably decide to search the place, instead.
Then, they would discover the bodysuit he had left there the previous night and, forensics being what they were, they’d be able to prove he had been wearing it. To avoid his unintentional involvement becoming public, he realised it was inevitable that he was going to have to go back to Carmine’s shop, recover the bodysuit and destroy it. But better safe than sorry, he thought. Best to wait until darkness fell.
************************
Tony was wearing a dark blue sweater above black jeans. He quietly toured the area three times before he’d satisfied himself there was no police watch on Big Busts. No policemen lurking in doorways; no silent men sitting in parked cars; not even any vans with dark glass windows.
As he walked up to Big Busts, he had his credit card ready and it took barely a second to slip the latch, walk through the door and close it after him. There was enough light coming in from the passageway for him to walk across the shop without switching on the light, but as soon as he reached the central hallway, he realised he would have to do so, or run the risk of falling over and hurting himself in the dark. He first made certain the door from the shop to the hallway was tightly closed — he didn’t want anyone who might look through the shop window to realise there was someone at home.
With the light on, Tony looked around. From where he stood at the base of the stairs, he could see the bodysuit lying on the floor in the workroom. He breathed a sigh of relief that he’d got into the shop before the police, for that would surely be the first item they’d have noticed.
He went into the workroom, picked up the two halves of the bodysuit, and draped them over his arm. As he did so, the face stared up at him, with that wonderful sexy smile. A little shiver ran through him. Whilst he was here, he thought, why didn’t he put on the bodysuit for one last time?
It was, of course, an absolutely stupid idea. He had already decided he would pack it, along with any other incriminating evidence, into the black, plastic sack he had brought with him, and drop it into the big dustbin, which stood behind a nearby pub.
On the other hand, he thought, now the police had Jonathan Beggs’ body, and no doubt, all kinds of clues to follow up, they weren’t going to be too concerned about not being able to immediately get hold of Carmine. Therefore, it was hardly as though it mattered too much if he spent a bit longer here than he’d anticipated. After all, he did so enjoy turning into the voluptuous Toni.
Thirty seconds later, he had frantically yanked off his clothes and discarded them on the floor. The problem began when he tried to pull on the lower half of the bodysuit, for it appeared that, in the space of twenty-four hours, he had become wider in the hips. The leggings just would not go over them.
In the last three days, he’d got used to taking the bodysuit off to shower, and putting it back on again. With practice, it had got very much easier than that first time he’d donned it. But on past occasions, he’d always used plenty of talcum powder on his body. Although at the moment he didn’t feel at all sweaty, he thought that perhaps he needed to put some on now, in order to lubricate the suit as he pulled it on. He picked up both his clothes and the bodysuit and carried them upstairs to the bedroom.
The bodysuit was lying on the bed, where he had left it when he had hurriedly changed last night! And yet, he was holding the bodysuit in his arms. Tony looked from the bodysuit on the bed to the one in his arms and back again — there were now two bodysuits!
Tony felt as though his brain had ceased up — there was no rational explanation for one bodysuit to turn into two, like an amoeba dividing. Even if there were, how could one of them have walked downstairs to the workroom, and waited there to be found?
Except, of course, the bodysuit he had found in the workshop was not the twin of the one on the bed, because he hadn’t been able to pull it over his hips. Ergo, it had been made to fit someone else. He laid the two bodysuits flat on the floor, side by side, so he could directly compare them.
They certainly looked almost identical. The wig was the same; the lips were the same; the nose was the same shape; the height was the same. In fact, if it hadn’t been that they were obviously slightly different sizes, the two could have been identical twins.
As identical as Carmine and Toni had been!
The thought hit him like an express train striking a donkey — it was as though every bit of him had been splattered into tiny pieces. He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to fathom out how the world had suddenly turned upside down. But the answer was simple — Carmine looked like Carmine because she had been wearing a bodysuit!
The real Carmine could look completely different, he realised. There was no reason why her skin should be black — it could be any colour. Her height was presumably unchanged, but her shape could be dramatically altered, and instead of those superb tits, she could be quite skinny. He felt inside the leotard top — sure enough, the breasts were heavily padded — why with that amount of padding, her breasts must be smaller than Tony’s own, but...
He had a sudden thought, and he snatched up the leggings again and closely examined them. The slit at the groin was identical to that in his own bodysuit but the padding on the hips was even thicker, which was totally illogical. A woman always had wide hips, not narrow ones and she would have had terrible trouble peeing through that slit. Unless, Tony thought, it had not been a woman wearing this bodysuit at all, but a man! A man such as the actor, Jonathan Beggs!
Tony had a sudden urge to slide down to the floor and cry, but men aren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, so he did the next best thing.
He quickly pulled on his own bodysuit, and then Toni sat on the floor and cried her heart out.
********************
Only now, was the total scale of the deception clear. Jonathan Beggs had set up the whole thing. He’d disguised himself as Carmine, and come into the bank asking for a bank loan, with the sole objective of trapping Tony. It had been inevitable that they should fuck, and that Tony would fall into the trap, hook, line and sinker.
After Beggs had set up the blowjob with Mitchell and fixed it for Toni to be arrested for prostitution, he had assumed that Toni would be safely out of the way. He would have jumped into a taxi and come back to the shop, where he’d taken off his Carmine bodysuit, and donned his bank manager Tony bodysuit. He’d dressed and then got into Tony’s Jaguar and driven back to the bank and conned his way inside.
He’d have got away with it as well, but for the fight in The Market Tavern, which had meant that Toni was still in the police car when the bank alarm went off. Only Toni had the presence of mind to get them to lift the bridge, perhaps because she had silently suspected that the eventual destination of the robber would be Big Busts.
If Beggs had managed to get over the bridge and reached Big Busts, he would have removed his Tony bodysuit, and left the building disguised as Carmine, getting clean away with the million pounds. As it was, the money was still sitting in Tony’s hallway, where he had dumped it when he had returned home and found his home devastated.
**********************
The thought hit him like a brick. Since arriving home and finding the chaos left by the police, all thought of the loot had completely deserted him. He’d simply plonked the suitcase down in the hallway, and staggered around looking at the mess. Then Dick Thompson had walked in and compounded his confusion by virtually giving him the sack. It was ironic that Thompson must have stepped right past the suitcase containing the million pounds as he arrived and left. More importantly, it was still standing there now, ready for any passing thief to walk in and remove it.
Tony had tried that afternoon to get someone to come out and make the house secure, but as usual when you want them, all the 24 hour emergency repair services appeared to be having their day off, so he’d simply found a piece of plywood which he’d screwed across the front door entrance to give some semblance of security. But any burglar could just as easily unscrew the plywood, which Tony had so painstakingly put in. Toni had to get back there straightaway.
Without further thought, Toni slipped on the little white dress she had first worn and ran down the stairs. She was halfway across the shop towards the door, when she became aware that someone was standing outside the door with his hand raised, about to knock on it. It was PC Swan, and he was staring right at her.
**************
‘Well, fancy seeing you here,’ he said, a malevolent smile spreading across his face. ‘It’s funny, but last night I knew I’d seen you somewhere before, but I couldn’t place it until I started to walk along this passageway. Well, well, well.’
Toni smiled back at him. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Escaping from police custody is a very serious offence, you know. You can go to prison for that.’
All the horrors of last night’s arrest suddenly returned. ‘I didn’t escape,’ she gasped. ‘PC Wright released me.’
‘It’s not what she told me. She said that the pair of you had run off, whilst she was searching the wharf. So I think I’m going to have to arrest you again. Unless of course, you can help me with my enquiries?’
A glimmer of hope. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for Carmine Ross. Is she here?’
Of course, Toni realised, the police were still trying to confirm the statement that Tony had made last night. All she had to do was to stand in for Carmine and give Tony an alibi.
‘I’m afraid she hasn’t returned from her evening out, last night. She often does that — finds some bloke and shacks up with him. Last night, she left one bloke here whilst we went out to pick up some more. Can I help you?’
‘Do you know Tony Phillips?’ he said. ‘Did you see anything of him last night after you returned?’
Toni almost gasped with relief. No problem in giving the right answer. ‘Yes. I got in just after midnight, and he was still here — just about to leave.’
Swan was looking suspicious. ‘He didn’t say anything to the police about meeting you.’
‘No, he wouldn’t.’ Toni was ready for him. ‘There’d been a bit of a row before we left, and I didn’t want to see Tony again. So when I got in and heard him at the top of the stairs, I nipped into the workroom, and stayed there until he’d come down and left. He didn’t see me at all, but I certainly watched him leave.’
‘Hmm. I suppose that stacks up. If you came straight here after you escaped custody, there certainly wouldn’t have been time for him to get himself out of the river and into here ahead of you. I’ll need you to come down to the police station tomorrow and make a formal statement.’
There was no way Toni wanted to go into the police station ever again. ‘Couldn’t I write the statement now? I’m going to be terribly busy tomorrow with Carmine being away. I’ve got a computer in the workroom. I could write the statement up on that.’
Swan gave her a leer. ‘Sounds good to me. Save me some typing.’
************
It took less than five minutes for Toni to switch on the computer, type up a simple statement, print it out then sign it. ‘There, is that satisfactory?’
Swan read it carefully, then said, ‘I guess that matter is resolved, but there are still the other issues. Escaping from custody and prostitution — they are very serious matters.’
‘But you said that if I helped you with your enquiries it would be OK.’
‘Oh, you wogs always make up this kind of crap, don’t you?’ Swan suddenly had her by the wrist and was twisting it painfully, making her spin around. ‘I’m arresting you for prostitution and escaping lawful custody.’
She heard a click behind her back, then her other wrist was being grasped and forced backwards, until she heard another click, and her wrists were handcuffed together.
‘You do not have to say anything, but if you...’
‘Why are you giving me all this crap? PC Wright released me. Ask her.’
‘She’s off duty now until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll ask her then. In the meantime, you can enjoy the pleasures of the nick for twenty-four hours.’
Toni was panicking. ‘Oh look, please. Don’t do it. I’ll do anything...’
Swan swung her violent around. ‘Anything?’
Too late, Toni realised what she had said, but she knew she had no choice. If she was kept in prison for a whole day, detection would be inevitable.
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Anything for you, officer.’
Swan grabbed the front of her dress with both hands and brutally tore it down to her waist. ‘Well, now we’re talking,’ he said. He pointed his thumb downwards. ‘Let’s start with a blowjob. Fact is, it really turned me on yesterday when I saw you with spunk all over your face. Thought I might like to try it myself.’
He undid the belt of his trousers, and released them so they fell around his boots. He slipped down his pants to reveal his dick. It was so small that Toni almost laughed out loud, but she had more sense. With her wrists still handcuffed behind her, she sank to her knees and started to take him inside her mouth.
‘Come on, black bitch.’ Swan grabbed her head and forced it completely over his cock. If his prick had been any decent size, she’d have choked on it, but fortunately, it wasn’t.
‘Harder, come on you fucking, black slag, harder.’
As she was giving him head, Toni realised she only had Swan’s word that after this was over, he would not continue with his arrest. However, as it turned out, it was an academic point. Just as Swan was reaching his climax, the workroom door suddenly burst open, and somebody shouted, ‘Police raid! Nobody move!’
***********************
It probably wouldn’t have been so bad for Swan if he hadn’t been standing directly behind the door. As it was, the door handle banged him hard in the small of the back, violently knocking him forward. Unfortunately, with his feet firmly trapped by his trousers, he fell on top of Toni, and the pair of them fell on the floor, with Swan’s dick still in Toni’s mouth.
Toni really had no alternative. With the violence of his thrusts, she had almost been choking anyway, and with Swan’s weight on top of her and his belly pressing against her face, she couldn’t breathe. It was all simply too much - she did the only thing possible — she clenched her teeth, and bit as hard as she could.
The scream hurt everyone’s ears, except Swan, who clearly had other things on his mind, and he jerked upwards, away from the pain, striking his head with a loud thud against the corner of the workbench. The screaming abruptly ceased.
‘Phew. I bet that hurt.’ PC Sally Wright did not seem at all sympathetic to the plight of the unconscious Swan. Instead, she pulled Swan’s body to one side and carefully looked Toni over.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked, helping Toni regain an upright position.
‘I think so,’ Toni said, looking around, expecting to see the room full of police. ‘Where’s the rest of the raid?’
Sally smiled. ‘Only kidding,’ she said. ‘I came round to get a statement from Carmine Ross, but the shop door was open, so I decided to come in. I could see through the crack in the door that Swan was up to his usual tricks, so I thought I’d do a bit of coitus-interruptus.’
She turned to inspect him. ‘That’s a very nasty mess you’ve made of his dick,’ she said. ‘I think he’ll have to go to hospital and have it sewn together again.’
She gave Swan a kick between the shoulder blades. ‘Oi, Swan! Wake up.’ She gave him another kick, and he grunted.
‘Wassup? Warrisit?’
‘You are in deep shit,’ Sally said. ‘The Sergeant has been and gone. He was most pissed off with you for sexually attacking a witness. He’s going to try to cover it up, although you don’t deserve it. But he said one more bit of trouble from you and you’re out the force. Got it?’ She gave him another kick for effect
‘Oh, fucking hell, my prick hurts. Jesus Christ! That black bitch has almost bitten it off.’
‘Then get down the hospital straightaway, and let that be a warning to you. And the Sarge says stay away from this woman, or else. Do you hear?’
Muttering some extremely nasty comments, Swan staggered to his feet, gingerly pulled up his trousers, and carefully walked out of the shop.
‘Oh, I see you made out a statement.’ Sally had caught sight of the sheet of paper still lying on the desk. She picked it up and read it. ‘Well, that seems to clear up all the business I came round for.’ She tucked the statement into her inside pocket.
‘Do you think you could remove the handcuffs, please?’ Toni asked.
Sally smiled. ‘I will, but not yet. After all, the night is still young, and you haven’t shown me where the bedroom is.’
******************
Several times that night, Toni wondered just exactly what would happen if Sally found out the truth. No doubt, she could make out a very long list of charges, which would ensure that Tony Phillips was locked in prison for the next twenty years, leaving all lesbians safe to roam the streets in peace.
But more likely, Toni thought, Sally would combine her skills at ju-jitsu with her contempt for the male anatomy, to cause him such incredible pain that Swan’s mishap would appear like a tiny scratch.
Having said that, she was very good in bed — even better than Carmine had been, and they both had countless climaxes, each of which lasted for ages. Sally was so much more versatile and knowledgeable about lesbian sex than Carmine — which was hardly surprising, since Carmine had really been a male, middle-aged actor.
The sun was rising as Sally left, and as Toni finally dropped off to sleep, she knew she had met the woman with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.
***************
Toni Phillips woke up feeling as if a brand new world had just started. She struggled to sit upright in the bed, a childish grin breaking out on her face as she stared over towards the dressing table. The woman smiling back at her in the mirror was fantastic — big, black and beautiful, and naked from the waist up, her lower half obscured by a white drape across her midriff.
There were a number of brightly coloured dresses hanging in the open wardrobe, but the simple white dress with the deep cleavage, which she had worn last night, was still lying on the floor where it had got strewn in the heat of the moment. God knows where Tony’s own clothes had ended up — at that moment, she couldn’t have cared less, for life ahead was far too exciting to be bothered about a trivial detail like trousers. With a bit of luck, she wasn’t going to need them for ages.
She blew a kiss, and the woman in the mirror returned it with an even bigger smile, her breasts giving a pleasant jiggle, as she moved.
But she knew she couldn’t stay in bed staring at her image for long. She had to go over to Tony Phillip’s house to pick up a rather valuable suitcase, and then get back to Big Busts before opening time. There really was no peace for the wicked, she thought, and undoubtedly, she was truly wicked. She really should have told the bank she had recovered their money.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, Sally had told her that, tonight, she would bring over a spare uniform and let her try it on. Then they would walk around the block together, and pounce upon any bloke who stepped out of line. There was always at least one, Sally had told her, with an enigmatic smile which more than rivalled that of Mona Lisa. And Toni had smiled back at her, her own secrets concealed even more closely than those of Mona Lisa.
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 2 - The Long Weekend
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When Mike's wife, Sue, wins a weekend break for one in Scotland, it suited both of them that Mike should go instead. The problem was that the organisers wouldn't let her change the name on the ticket. Fortunately, Sue had a ready solution: Mike could simply pretend to be her.
Things may have been less eventful if Sue hadn't purchased such a large pair of false breasts for him. As it was, the new Mrs Susan Martin found she had a number of admirers, to whom she had great difficulty in saying, 'No.'
This story contains adult themes, and is entirely fictional.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.
To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. The stories are not being published in chronological order, but are intended to give a mix of different types.
Like most of my stories, this is meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site). Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
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The Long Weekend
by Marianne Nettes
CHAPTER 1
'Hi Mike, it's me.'
I was surprised. Sue had a pretty frantic job as a Personal Assistant to the MD of a marketing company, and she rarely had time to call me at home during the day.
'Hi, darling. How are things?'
'I just won a short break in Scotland, for this weekend. Do you fancy going?'
'Are you sure it's not one of these tricks? You know, you get there and then find you've got free accommodation, but have to pay for food at inflated prices.'
'Nope. It's genuine, alright — first class rail travel to Glasgow, road transfer to the hotel, three nights' accommodation, from Friday to Sunday, all meals included, and wine with the evening meal. It's at a place called Hunters Lodge, near Loch Lomond. Have you heard of it?'
'I'll look it up. How did you win it?'
'Do you remember that survey I completed at work, a few weeks ago? I moaned about it to you, because it took up so much of my time. They told me the best responses would be entered in a draw for a free holiday, but I didn't take too much notice. I got a letter in the post today.'
'And it's for two people?'
'Uh-uh. It's only meant to be for me, but this weekend I'm going on that conference in Birmingham, so I couldn't go anyway. And you know a long weekend in Scotland would be absolute purgatory for me. But you'd love it, wouldn't you? You could go out walking every day.'
It was true that Sue and I had wildly different tastes. Sue loved the bright lights and hectic pace of city living, which is why we lived in south London, whereas I couldn't wait to get out into the country, and breathe fresh air.
It was also true that I hated it when she went away on all too frequent weekend conferences. It was bad enough that she worked long hours during the week, leaving me at home as a househusband — one of the casualties of the financial crash. But at the weekend, especially Sundays, I really disliked being alone. So a couple of days walking in Scotland, whilst she was away at her conference, sounded a pretty good deal all round.
'Will you be able to change the name to mine?'
'Course I can.'
*********************
So, even though it was only Tuesday, I got out my walking trousers and anorak, and stuck them in the washing machine, and located my walking boots, and gave them a good polish. I found an OS map of the area, and found Hunters Lodge — on the edge of a tiny loch, a few miles from one of the remote parts of Loch Lomond. I traced out all the footpaths, and by the time Sue had come home that evening, I'd plotted my two days of walks, with options and escape routes, in case of bad weather.
I showed them to her, and she politely smiled, as she handed over the information pack.
'Were they alright about changing the name?'
'Oh God! They're complete bureaucrats. Said the prize was non-transferable, and I had to be the recipient.'
'What! You mean I can't go!' I was all too aware I sounded like a little child denied a treat, but to be honest, that's exactly how I felt.
'Of course you can. All you have to do is say that you are me.'
'That's ridiculous!' I pointed at the name on the literature. 'How can I say my name is Mrs Susan Martin?'
Sue shrugged, and smiled that impish grin that had first attracted me to her. 'Well, it's only checking into a hotel under someone else's name. It's hardly as though they're going to give you a medical examination, is it?'
'Don't be stupid, Sue. I'm not going to wear a skirt and high heels, thank you very much.'
She laughed at the thought. 'It's you that's being stupid. It's a walking holiday, not a Vicars and Tarts' Party. If I was going walking in Scotland, do you think I'd be wearing skirt and high heels? I'd probably arrive wearing jeans and sweater, exactly the same as I'd have thought you would have worn.'
'Sue, you may wear the same type of clothes, but there's no way people will believe that I'm a woman.'
'Mike, if you really want to stay at home this weekend, instead of walking over cold, wet, Scottish countryside, then that's fine with me. But I thought you desperately wanted to go on this holiday. All it would take are a few simple changes to your appearance for you to make a very passable woman.'
I paused and considered. 'It's not really that easy, Sue. I mean, I'm totally the wrong shape.'
Another impish smile from her. 'You've just expressed a view shared by ninety per cent of women. I think you're well on the way to having the right mind set, and as any actor will tell you, that's the biggest hurdle.'
She saw I wasn't convinced, so she continued, 'You say you're the wrong shape, but what is the right shape. How does your shape need to change so you look like a woman?'
'Breasts.'
'Oh that's a typical response from a man. Look, there are lots of women with miniscule or non-existent breasts, right?'
I nodded agreement.
'So if someone doesn't have any noticeable breasts, do you automatically assume they are men?'
'Well… no.'
'Exactly. So if a woman's shape isn't typified by the breast, what is it typified by?'
I thought hard. 'Well, I dunno, really. They just look like women.'
'Arse!'
For a second I thought she was calling me one, but she amplified her statement, 'Women have big arses, and big hips. Right?'
'I suppose so. But they're always trying to reduce them in size, so doesn't the ideal woman have a small arse?'
'We're not trying to make you into the ideal woman. You're not competing for Miss World. We want you to look like an ordinary woman, who won't be noticed by a suspicious receptionist. In other words, you need a big arse.'
I wasn't convinced, so she took me upstairs, told me to take off my jeans, and then made me squeeze into a long legged panty girdle. But just before I pulled it over my bottom, she folded a couple of towels and stuffed them down the sides and rear. It was so packed that I could only just pull my jeans back over my hips, and had to wriggle them from side to side to get them up. I thought the zip would burst when I pulled it up, but when I looked in the mirror I was gob-smacked. There were the curvaceous hips and thighs of a woman!
'Hmm. Not bad. But I think you need some better padding. These towels are not smooth enough. They've rucked up at the back. But you have to admit, they make the difference.'
'Maybe to my body, but it doesn't alter my face.'
She stared critically at it. 'The beard will have to go, of course, but it will grow again easily enough, and I bet underneath it, your face is as soft as a baby's bottom. Your hair is long enough to be styled into something quite passable. You know, Mike, I think we're almost there. The question is, do you want to give it a try, and go on this holiday, or simply sit at home and vegetate whilst I'm away at the conference?'
I considered. Scotland was awfully tempting, and really, what was the worst that could happen? People might suspect that the rather boring looking woman in the hotel was rather too mannish and was really a bloke. As Sue said, they were hardly in a position to prove it, were they? They couldn't force me to have a medical examination.
'OK,' I said. 'I'll give it a go.'
CHAPTER 2
The next evening, Sue came home loaded with packages.
'I found a shop which sells just what you need,' she said, pulling what looked like a pair of flesh-coloured knickers out of a plastic bag, and holding them up in the air. 'Very realistic.'
She turned them round so I could see them from the front. There was a patch of dark pubic hair at the crutch. They weren't knickers — more like a false arse and thighs, with a hairy cunt.
She giggled at my expression. 'It's a Hiplet. I'm told it looks — and works — just like the real thing, even if someone catches you having a pee in the middle of a field. In these, you have to squat down like a woman.'
God! I hadn't even thought about trying to keeping up the pretence of being a woman whilst on a walk, and having to take a piss, en-route, but Sue obviously had. From our previous experiences, I remembered she had been less than happy with that particular aspect of country walking.
'It also keeps your manhood under control. No nasty erections every time you see a piece of crumpet. Perhaps you should wear it all the time.' Another giggle. 'No seriously, I'm pretty certain once you're have them on, it will be pretty difficult for anyone to tell the difference, even if you are caught with your trousers down.'
This seemed to be taking the pretence a bit too far, but I had to admit, when I tried them on, they provided a much smoother and rounder line to my figure than the towels had done, the previous evening. When I stood with my back to a mirror, and twisted my neck to view myself, I realised I had one enormous arse, with hips probably about nine inches wider than normal. Unable to see my head reflected in the mirror, I would have been certain I was looking at the rear of a woman's torso. With my hair modified a little, I reckoned I would make a very passable woman.
'OK, take them off. Let's get your hairy body defoliated.'
'There's no need to do that. I was just going to shave my beard.'
'If anyone does see you with your trousers down, they'll wonder why you have more hairs than an orang-utan on your lower legs, but which stop at the knee, where your false arse starts. Come on, I've bought a large pack of wax. Get naked, and we'll make a start.'
*****************
I will never understand why women put up with that kind of pain instead of using a razor. Can you imagine your skin being flayed from your body? Well that's what being waxed is like — every hair slowly and painfully ripped from your skin. Mind you, at the end of it, my skin was as smooth as that proverbial baby's bottom, even my beardless chin. I hoped it wouldn't be too long after the weekend before my beard would re-grow. There are limits as to how far I was prepared to go for this farce.
After Sue had spent ages washing and then styling my hair, I had to admit I was impressed. OK, I was no great beauty, but I certainly looked like the kind of woman you pass in the street, every day, without noticing — quite big, but without being obese.
Sue had bought several pairs of jeans and tee shirts of different sizes, from Marks & Spencer's, so she could take back those that didn't fit. I told her I didn't need anything special — I would simply squeeze into my old things, but she always would buy clothes on any excuse, and this was more than good enough.
Unfortunately, she hadn't estimated my new size very well, and nothing seemed to properly fit. With my enlarged hips, there was no way I could squeeze into my existing jeans, so we were both a little dissatisfied at the end of it. She put all the clothes back into their original packaging, and we agreed she would have another shopping expedition tomorrow.
******************
Surprisingly, I was really looking forward to Sue's arrival home on Thursday evening, with my new clothes, so I was quite perturbed when she rang to say she'd be late home.
'Sorry, love, but the MD is getting in a panic about the launch next week, especially with me being away at the conference this weekend. He's called a complete review, starting at seven pm, so it's likely to go on until at least nine. I'll give you a call when I finish. Incidentally, I've bought you some super clothes.'
Why did my heart give a little leap of pleasure at the thought? Sue was always complaining I was never interested in clothes, and yet for the next three hours I was aching for her call. When it came, it was to say the meeting was still continuing — they had only paused for a few minutes to take a comfort break.
'It looks like it's going to be at least midnight before I get home. I know you have an early start in the morning, so why don't you get to bed now, and we'll both get up early in the morning and you can try on the new clothes, then?'
I grumbled a bit, but it seemed the best compromise, so I went to bed.
CHAPTER 3
'I decided to get you some false breasts after all.'
'But I thought you told me I didn't need them — that lots of women have miniscule breasts.'
'I know, but I think it was because you were so bottom heavy that the clothes I brought home on Wednesday didn't look so good. I took some advice from the shop where I bought your false arse, and they suggested you should try some. They had so many kinds and sizes, I had trouble deciding which to buy, but I got these in the end.' She withdrew a single quivering breast from a bag, cupped in both hands.
'God, it's enormous!'
'I thought you'd be pleased. You always said you liked large breasts. Don't you remember, you kept suggesting I should get an enhancement?'
'That doesn't mean to say… Oh, never mind. I can't wear that.'
'But I've bought a load of clothes which should fit you. And I really can't see the logic that says you like large breasts on me but small ones for you. Anyway, it can't do any harm to just try them.'
I was fascinated the way the breast wobbled with every movement of her hand, like a plateful of jelly, and the way the large nipples poked upwards. I wondered what it would be like to have two of those stuck on my chest.
'I suppose I could give them a try.'
'Attaboy. These are the top of the range models, so you shouldn't have any problems with them. There's a separate adhesive, which I have to spread on first, and let dry.'
She spread it on, and we left it dry, whilst I pulled on my false arse and fumbled about with my cock until it was in the right position inside.
Over the top of my Hiplet, I pulled on the sexy little knickers that Sue had bought ('They'll see the knicker line through your trousers,' she had said, 'so you'll have to wear proper knickers.'), and tried on the selection of jeans until I found a pair that fitted really well. I put on some ankle-sox and found a pair of the plain, black, low-heeled shoes, which were not at all painful to wear. I looked in the mirror. I had to admit, from the waist down, I looked bloody authentic.
'OK, let's get on with these.' Sue took the left breast in her hand and carefully positioned it over my nipple, pressed it against my chest and smoothed it down.
'There you are. Just hold that in place whilst the adhesive sets, and I'll fix the other one.'
I grasped the soft quivering breast. Jesus, if only I'd met a girl with breasts like these!
'OK, hold this one in place with your other hand. I think I've probably guessed the right bra size, but I've bought a couple of other sizes, just in case.'
In fact, she'd guessed right at a 42 DD, which sounded pretty big, but it was only when I pulled a tee shirt over my head, and I glanced down, that their true enormity became apparent.
'God! I can't go about with these. They're huge.'
'But Mike, you're tall and broad shouldered, which is why we had to give you the wide hips. Everything about your body looks in the right proportion, now.'
'Sorry, Sue, no way. I'm going to take them off.'
'Suit yourself, but you'd better hurry up. The taxi will be here at any minute.'
A horn tooting outside indicated the accuracy of her forecast. I hurriedly tugged at the join of breast and skin.
'Ouch! That's stuck fast.'
'Look, don't bother to take them off now; otherwise you're going to miss your train. Get your train into the city and then go into the toilets at Kings Cross Station and remove them there.' She brushed my hair a little, and pushed and pulled it about a little. 'There, you look perfect. Slip on your anorak, and off you go.'
I was about to argue with her, but her logic was indisputable. If I missed the train into London, I would subsequently miss the Glasgow train, and with it my chance of the holiday. Out of the corner of my eye, I could also see myself in the mirror, and there was no doubt about my proportions being exactly right. I really looked quite a dish. An angry beeping came from the taxi, so I put on my anorak and dashed down the stairs.
'I bought a few extra items for you to wear in the hotel,' Sue said, as she passed me the suitcase, and added with her grin, 'just in case you're feeling adventurous. I packed them in your suitcase last night.'
Vowing to not even look at them when I got to the hotel, I grabbed the suitcase and went out the door.
CHAPTER 4
When I arrived at Kings Cross, I almost went marching straight into the men's toilets! It was only the man coming through the door in the opposite direction, who stared at my tits as he finished buttoning his flies, that stopped me.
'The Ladies are over there, luv.' He pointed, and added under his breath, 'and I bet you don't get many of those to the pound.'
Since leaving home, it was the third time I'd heard that same comment, along with at least a dozen others on a similar theme. To be honest, observations about the size of my breasts didn't upset me too much. The main problem was that the nipples were protruding like organ-stops — a fact which a number of men had remarked upon.
That really embarrassed me, since I had always associated such a state with a readiness for sex. So too, did many of my admirers, some of whom plainly expressed their desire to assist in giving me what I so obviously needed.
I abruptly turned and headed in the direction he indicated, but then paused as I approached. Until now, I had done nothing illegal, but if I entered those toilets, I would be stepping over a line which could result in my accommodation for the next few days being significantly different from that which I had planned — in jail! Far better to wait until I'd boarded the train and then go into the unisex toilet on board.
As a strategy, that was fine. The problem was that the train was late coming in, and only arrived a couple of minutes before it was due to depart. Consequently, I had to hang about on the concourse, getting all manner of comments and offers. Then I had to dash, with hundreds of others, onto the train before it left without me.
Fortunately, I had a reserved, first-class seat. Unfortunately, within ten seconds of locating it, there were at least half a dozen blokes all offering to help me put my suitcase up on the luggage rack. I almost automatically refused their offers, but just in time, I realised they'd all be ogling my boobs as I stretched up to do it myself. So I let the tallest guy help, who then promptly took it as an excuse to sit down opposite me and start chatting me up.
He was in his mid-twenties, and he was so good looking that, when I was a bloke, I'd have taken an instant dislike to him. As it was, I felt rather elated that he'd chosen me to talk to. The other guys who'd offered to help, all took seats a short distance away, where they could keep a discrete eye on me (and presumably, my boobs).
Of course, I then realised my strategy was totally blown, since I could hardly disappear off to the toilet, and return five minutes later without my tits. Damn! I'd have to wait until a few minutes before the train came into Glasgow, and then go to the toilet and dispense with my tits. Hopefully, by the time I came out, my travelling companions would have disappeared. In the meantime, I had almost six hours of blokes staring at my tits and trying to engage me in conversation.
Over the last two days, realising I would need to have a passable female voice, I had spent many hours practising with a tape recorder. I had developed a reasonable tone, but I'd mainly concentrated upon phrases like, 'I'm Susan Martin. Can I check in?' I certainly wasn't equipped to discuss my favourite type of theatre or restaurant, which is what the tall guy wanted to talk about. I struggled for a while, but then it seemed to get a bit easier with practice. In fact, by the time they called the first serving of lunch, I was quite happy for the two of us to go to the restaurant together.
By this time, I'd realised the advantage, for a woman with breasts like mine, of having a male companion. Blokes still looked at me, of course, but in a much more subtle way, and no longer as though I was easy pickings, just because I had huge tits, with protruding nipples. They would still give me the eye, if they thought my companion couldn't see, but I felt much more secure.
'Damn it!' I thought. 'I've only been a woman for four hours, and already I'm using blokes to provide me with security.'
The real bad news came as the meal was drawing to an end, when Jason, for that was his name, revealed he had won a long weekend break at Hunters Lodge. My heart sank. I would now be forced to keep company with my breasts for the whole of my holiday! Damn! Damn! Damn!
But I didn't let my annoyance show, as I gaily told Jason that I, too, had won the break and was on my way to Hunters Lodge.
'I wondered whether there'd be any other prize winners on the train,' he said. 'I know there were several winners.'
'Oh great,' I said. 'That means there'll be plenty of people to walk with.'
'Walk?'
'Well, why else would anyone go to a hotel in the wilds of Scotland, in the middle of March?'
'Didn't you read the leaflet?' I shook my head. 'It's only one of the best places to stay in the UK — and they get very stroppy if you call it a hotel. You're going to Hunters Lodge as a house guest. There's a cordon-bleu chef, a butler and personal maid service.' He added with a grin, 'That's the bit I'm looking forward to — at least it was, until I met you.'
'Gerroff.'
'No seriously, there's an indoor pool, sauna, gym and massage parlour. You name it — they've got it. They don't serve meals in a restaurant; they hold dinner parties that last into the early hours of the morning, and breakfasts they serve until midday. In the afternoon, perhaps a little shooting or riding — the kind with horses I mean, and then it's time to get dressed for dinner again.'
His final words brought home a suspicion that had gradually being forming in my mind. This was no walkers' hotel, where people slouched about in jeans and sweaters. We'd all be wearing dinner jackets and… evening dresses!
The words went crashing through my mind. Disaster loomed. It would have been bad enough if I'd gone to Hunters Lodge as a male, with all the wrong clothes, and meeting snotty-nosed people whose idea of a long walk was the ten yards from their front door to their Jaguar. But to do all that disguised as a female would lead to total exposure. I'd be…
'Are you alright? You're looking a bit pasty.' Jason was looking at me with real concern in his eyes.
'Well, I… I didn't realise it was that kind of holiday. I was going for the walking, not for a luxury weekend break. I haven't got the right clothes, or anything.'
'That's alright. You'll look good in any clothes. Just wear what you've got.'
And have the total attention of the restaurant focussed upon me, masquerading as a woman!
'I don't really think so, thanks very much. I think I'd better…'
My words were cut short as the announcement came over the speaker system: 'Ladies and gentlemen. We are now approaching Glasgow station. Would passengers please ensure they have all their belongings with them before leaving the train. Thank you.'
'Come on Susan. We need to get our bags. Don't worry about Hunters Lodge. You'll be fine.'
CHAPTER 5
'I told you it would be fine, didn't I?'
We were seated in the back of an ancient Rolls Royce, winding its way through the Glasgow traffic. I had fully intended, after alighting at Glasgow, to immediately catch a train back to London, but Jason had grabbed my bag and led the way off the platform, where we had been met by a uniformed chauffeur.
My suitcase had smartly changed hands, and before I knew it, I was being shepherded into the Rolls. Now, we were together on the back seat, his thigh pressing against mine.
On top of everything else, I'd realised in the dining car that this was going to be a problem. Wearing my false arse, I had virtually no feelings along the outside of my thigh and my buttocks, because of the thickness of material.
So when Jason had reached under the table and slid his hand up the outside of my thigh, I hadn't even noticed. It was only when he slid it around to the inside of my legs that I realised exactly what he was up to.
I'd given his hand a sharp slap, and he'd laughed as he'd withdrawn it, but I didn't know how long he'd been caressing the outside of my thigh, without any objection on my part. Presumably, if later on in the holiday his hand started brushing my nipples, I'd have an even worse problem. I could see, I was going to have to keep my senses about me, with this guy around.
I twisted around in the seat to give a bit of space between us, and he smiled at me and settled comfortably into his corner. Within a few minutes, his eyes started to droop, his breathing became heavier, and he fell into a deep sleep. The smooth, quiet ride in the Rolls was soporific. I'd been travelling for well over seven hours by then, and I, too, felt sleep start to sweep over me. I snuggled into my corner, and deliberately put out of my mind all worries about what lay ahead.
*****************
It was the change in ride that awoke me. Not even the ultra-smooth suspension of the Rolls could hide the enormous potholes in the unmade road, which stretched up the hill ahead of us.
Feeling a weight upon my chest, I looked down. Jason's head rested on my right breast. His eyes were closed and his hair was tousled. For an instant, I wondered what it would be like to have an infant in that position, about to take nourishment from my breast. But it was only an instant before I regained commonsense. I swivelled my shoulder to throw his head off my breast, and it dropped with a satisfying clunk onto my knee.
'O-h-h-h! Fuck! That hurt.'
'Good.' He would get no sympathy from me. 'And don't try that again, buster. Especially when I'm asleep.'
'Well, you didn't object when I put it there. You said it was nice.'
There was no winning that kind of argument, so I didn't try, and there was a mutual silence between us, until the car reached the brow of the hill and the chauffeur said, 'That's Hunters Lodge next to the loch.'
From its name, I'd expected a tiny building, little more than a cabin, where hunters could rest overnight. So the mansion towering up by the side of the loch took me completely by surprise. It was huge. Why the hell hadn't I turned around at Glasgow station, and gone home?
We drove through an arched gate into a courtyard, and a butler in a formal black suit, and a maid in a black dress and frilly white apron waited by the entrance to the house. The chauffeur pulled the car to a halt beside them, leapt smartly out, and opened the door for us to alight.
'Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, madam.' The butler eyed with distaste my jeans and bulging, tee shirt covered tits, pushing through the open front of my anorak. 'My name is Jones, and this is Nicole, your room maid during your stay.'
She flashed us a nice smile. 'Welcome to Hunters Lodge. Mr Jones will show you to your room, sir, whilst I show the lady to hers.' She took my suitcase from the chauffeur, whilst Jones took Jason's, and led the way inside.
'It's this way, madam.'
Fortunately, she led me up a separate staircase to the one that Jones and Jason were taking. I felt I needed some space from Jason. I said as much to Nicole, and added, 'Please call me Susan.'
She smiled. 'Thanks Susan. Some of the guys can come on a bit heavy when they're staying here. You know, they think the normal rules don't apply.' At the top of the stairs was a small lobby with two bedrooms leading off it. Nicole pointed to one. 'This is your bedroom. I think you'll find it's very pretty.'
She opened the door and went in, and I followed her into a huge room, with a wooden floor with shag pile rugs scattered liberally about. In the centre was a four-poster bed, with lots of white lace cascading down from the canopy.
'Oh, it's beautiful Nicole.'
She smiled back at me. 'I'm glad you like it. Would you like me to unpack for you?'
I shrugged. 'I'm afraid I have a problem with my clothes. I didn't read the instructions properly and I haven't brought anything suitable. I really don't know what I'm going to do.'
Nicole lifted my suitcase onto a stand and opened it. 'Oh, I think this will be perfect,' she said. She held up a long black dress with a scoop neckline, and a long slit up the side. Fortunately, she was gazing at the dress rather than at me, so she didn't see my jaw gape open. 'It's beautiful,' she continued, 'it'll be perfect. Do you have anything else?'
How the hell did I know? On the other hand, I certainly knew someone who would — Sue! She'd known this was a posh do, and that I'd never have come if I had realised, so she'd kept it secret from me. I felt betrayed!
Nicole was now holding up a bright blue dress, covered with shimmering sequins. 'Oh yes. There's no need for you to worry about your clothes, at all. They're ideal. What about day wear?'
She looked into my suitcase and nodded approvingly, and opened a wardrobe and started to put the dresses onto hangers. Then she was opening drawers and putting in garments I hadn't seen before — indeed, I wasn't even certain I knew what they were!
'Oh, I think someone's slipped this in here, for you.' She handed me an envelope with 'Susan' written on the front, which she'd withdrawn from the side pocket of the suitcase. 'Dinner's at eight, and I really think your black dress would be superb for that. If you need any help, ring the bell. Otherwise, I'll see you at dinner.' And she was gone.
*********************
My darling
I saw right from the start how much you really wanted to come on this short break, but knowing how easily embarrassed you get, I was certain you'd refuse if I told you all the detail. Please forgive me, but this seemed a heaven sent opportunity for you to enjoy a fun weekend, whilst I have a hard grind at the conference.
I hope the clothes fit. I had fun choosing them. As long as you keep a cool head, I'm certain no one will find out about Mike. Have fun.
Love
XX
My anger subsided as I read Sue's note, which she'd been careful enough to phrase so that even if someone else read it, my secret would not be revealed.
I'd realised in the past that Sue sometimes felt guilty that, even when she was able to take time off from her busy job, she never wanted to walk in the countryside with me, and we always ended up doing what she wanted to do, which was usually shopping. But she'd gone to a lot of trouble to get me onto this holiday, when she could so easily have simply told me I wasn't allowed to go. I vowed I would make this holiday a success, and enjoy it to the full.
CHAPTER 6
Surprisingly, I really enjoyed that evening. I had chosen the black dress, as recommended by Nicole, and spent some considerable time getting prepared. I had intended to remove my false breasts before showering, but they appeared firmly attached to my chest, and not even a long shower loosened their grip. They were a slightly different colour to my own skin, and I dusted a little blusher across the join, which made them look as one with the rest of my own body.
Sue had included a teenager's make up kit, which was great because it included instruction on how to do it. I practised for ages, several times wiping the whole lot off and starting again, but in the end, I actually looked quite passable.
There was also a suspender belt and lacy-topped stockings which looked as though they were just the right length to be seductively glimpsed though the long side slit in the dress.
There were also several pairs of shoes, and when I saw the black sling-backs with three-inch heels, I almost wet myself with excitement. They were beautiful. I knew I'd have trouble with the heels, but I put them on straightaway, and spent ages practising walking in them, turning, swivelling, striding and ambling.
When I put it all together, by slipping on the dress, I looked fabulous! Quite large, but with a femme fatale appearance. I spent several minutes admiring myself, before I heard the gong sound downstairs.
***************
'Wow, you look good enough to eat.'
Jason had seen me coming hesitantly down the stairs — hesitant mainly because I thought I might go arse over tit in those shoes, rather than because I was frightened of meeting everyone. (Well, OK, I was a bit nervous, but more about meeting people for the first time, rather than them detecting I was not really Susan Martin.)
Jason had quickly disengaged himself from the rest of the group (all men!) and come over to greet me at the foot of the stairs.
I gave him a quick smile, and said, 'Well, I suggest you have the canapés, instead of me. They look delicious.' I smiled at Nicole, who brought a large tray of them over to me. Jones the butler offered me a sherry, which I gratefully took and almost downed, in one. Nothing like sherry for getting rid of nerves.
'You'd better come over and meet the rest of the group,' and he drew me over to the three men, and started to introduce me. There was Scott, who was in his mid-thirties. He had a rather craggy appearance, which I guessed many women would find attractive. Next to him was Paul — about the same age — with a much softer, almost effeminate face. When he spoke, his voice was so sweet and sexy, it set my pulse racing.
'Hang on!' I thought, 'I'm really a bloke.' My pulse really should not be pounding at meeting a man who, I guessed from his appearance, was really gay.
Harold was standing on the edge of the group, looking as though he wanted to join in, but nervous of doing so. He was fairly elderly, probably in his late seventies, and looked somewhat frail. I felt sorry for him.
There's always something interesting about seeing a group of people meet for the first time, none of them certain about where they will fit into the scene, but each wanting to steer events in their own direction.
Paul was frantically trying to chat up Scott, who, by his body language, clearly was not interested. In turn, Scott was trying to engage Jason in a discussion on football. Jason was torn between continuing to talk about an obviously popular topic, and chatting up the big-boobed woman he'd met earlier. Having been in similar situations myself on past occasions, I guessed he'd be thinking that: a) The opportunity of sticking his dick into a woman came before all else; and b) It would never do to lose the important ground he'd already made.
Well, I wasn't keen on Jason being too successful with his courting, so I turned to Harold with a smile. He was probably rather shy, I thought, and I tried to put him at ease.
'Did you win this holiday, Harold?'
He looked pleased that I had asked the question, and was about to reply when Jason took the opportunity to break in on the conversation, 'Presumably you didn't win it from a survey at work, granddad. You look as though you haven't worked for about fifty years.'
Scott thought this was highly funny and guffawed loudly, presumably believing this would keep him in the dialogue with Jason. 'Did everyone else win the holiday?' he asked.
There was a general murmur of assent, although I noticed Harold didn't answer.
'Are there any more guests expected, Jones?' Scott put the question which we'd all been wondering, as Jones distributed more sherry amongst us. Five didn't seem a very large number to attend a house party in a mansion of this size — I'd expected dozens of people.
'Everyone is here, sir. The original booking was for nine guests. I regret several of those have subsequently decided not to attend.'
No wonder, I thought, when partners weren't allowed, and the tickets were non-transferrable.
'What about you, Harold? You didn't say whether you won the holiday.' I had been annoyed at Jason's interjection, and wanted to make certain Harold didn't feel left out.
'Oh, I heard that Hunters Lodge was the prize in the survey, so I made certain I was asked to complete it, and I guess I got lucky. I've wanted to come here for ages. It's beautiful countryside, and there are some excellent walks in this area.'
'Ugh! Walks. You can keep those, thank you very much,' Scott said. 'I shall be sticking by the gym and the bar.'
'Well, I enjoy walking,' I said, and added, more out of sympathy for Harold than because I really wanted to walk with him, 'Why don't we walk together, Harold?'
He looked pleased, and inclined his head in acceptance.
'Count me out,' said Paul, 'I'm with Scott on this.'
A pang of regret went through me, that I wouldn't have chance to talk to him, all day. He looked a really interesting person, and rather dishy. For an instant, I thought of telling Harold I'd changed my mind, and would stay at home, but he'd looked so pleased, and after all, I had come here for the walking.
'The walking sounds great to me,' Jason said. 'I'll come with you two.'
'You didn't sound very interested in walking when we talked on the train,' I challenged him, as though I didn't know exactly why he wanted to tag along.
'I thought it sounded rather nice, actually,' he said, but what he really meant was that where the big breasts went, he would follow.
I sighed. I was going to have to be very careful here. If the walk got too much for Harold, and he turned back, it would be just Jason and I left alone, and if he had his way, he'd be inside my knickers within five minutes.
There was no need to worry. Within the next five minutes, first Scott, then inevitably Paul, changed their minds about the next day.
'Seems a pity not to be part of the group,' Scott said. 'I'll come on the walk after all.'
'Well, I can hardly stay here on my own,' Paul added. 'I'll come too.'
**************
Dinner was fantastic. I lost count of the number of courses, but it must have been at least seven, each served with its own wine — and that didn't come from the discount store, either. The wine loosened the conversation, and with the exception of Harold, who kept fairly quiet, we all had a fairly lively evening.
Towards the end of the evening, we all moved into the library to take cognac. I took the opportunity to dive to the toilet, remembering at the last moment to go into the ladies, rather than the gents. Apart from Nicole, it appeared I was the only woman here, so I was unlikely to get compromised.
I'd already used the toilet several times, so I was getting used to sitting down and letting it all go. It really seemed quite a luxury, compared to having to aim it in the right direction, making certain it didn't splash my shoes, or spray out sideways onto my trousers, or issue a few drips after I'd zipped myself up.
'I could really get used to this,' I was muttering to myself as I left the ladies.
'What was that?' Jason was waiting outside.
'I said I could get used to this place,' I said.
'I'm not so certain,' he said. 'Look, I have a bit of a problem, and I want to enlist your help.'
'What is it?'
'You've seen how Scott is all over me?' My face must have indicated I didn't know what he was talking about, so he elaborated. 'He's gay. Surely you realised that?'
'Scott? Er, no. It didn't cross my mind.'
'Just like a woman. You are so naíve. Well, anyway, he's coming on so strong, you have to help me out.'
'Jason. I seem to remember that earlier, you were coming strongly onto me.'
'But that's different.'
'Well, women have to sort this problem out by ourselves, all the time. I suggest you sort it out for yourself.' God, I'd only been a woman for less than a day, and already I was thinking like one.
'But have you seen the size of him?'
I considered. 'He's about your height, isn't he?'
'Not his height, you prune. His… well, you know, his equipment.'
My interest was alerted. 'You mean his prick?'
'Yes. It's enormous.'
There was really no reason why I should have been excited by that statement. I was a heterosexual bloke, who happened to be dressed as a woman. So why did that shiver of apprehension go all through my body.
'Are you certain he's gay?'
Jason smiled. 'I'm certain. You must have realised that Paul is as queer as they come, as well, and he's trying to pull Scott. Good job Paul's not after me. He's even bigger. Built like a horse.'
I felt the adrenaline souring through my body, and I'm certain my neck flushed. Fortunately, Jason was too concerned with his own plight to notice.
'So you will do it, won't you?'
'Do what, Jason?'
He looked surprised. 'Why, be my girlfriend, of course. Once Scott realises that I'm with you, he'll lay off.'
'Jason, that is an absolutely pathetic attempt to get close to me. Can't you do better than that?'
'No, I'm serious. Look. You don't even need to sleep with me. I'll simply come up to your room and wait until everyone else has gone to bed before…'
'Jason. There is absolutely no way you get past my bedroom door, especially with such a feeble excuse as that.' I realised as soon as I said it that the rider totally weakened my statement. He'd take it that he only had to find a better excuse. Still, there was no harm in a girl keeping a guy on edge. 'As I said just now, women are always having to sort out these kind of problems for themselves. Now, if you've quite finished propositioning me, I'd like to go to the library.'
I swept off, with Jason meekly following in my wake.
***************
'I expect you think men are pathetic.' Hurray! It was Paul who'd spoken to me.
We'd met Harold leaving the library, as we were about to enter. He was off to bed, he said, and we agreed to meet at eight, the next morning. I ignored Jason's cry of horror, at leaving at such a horrendous hour. As far as I was concerned, if he wasn't there, it was no great hardship to go without him.
As soon as we entered the library, Scott swept straight past me and buttonholed Jason, to discuss their favourite footballer. I'd had a chance to glance downwards as he walked past, and had been duly impressed.
Now, as Paul addressed me, I had a peek down at the front of his trousers, and was totally gob-smacked. When men talk about a penis the size of a horse, they're inevitably exaggerating. Only Jason had not been!
I could see it bulging through Paul's trousers, hanging down the left leg, almost as far as his knee, where it swelled into a large knob. I knew the flush was back in my neck, and probably every other part of my body. If my nipples had not been false, they'd have probably tore holes through my dress.
As it was, I said, 'I don't think all men are pathetic, Paul. Only some of them.' I glanced over my shoulder at Jason, as I did so, before I returned my gaze to look deeply into his eyes. 'I don't find you pathetic, Paul.' And please, please, please, I mentally added, don't turn out to be gay.
The gorgeous hunk didn't even acknowledge the compliment. 'I'm not surprised you told Jason to get lost.'
'Sorry. How do you know what I told Jason?'
Paul smiled at me, and the whole world brightened. 'Well, you both came back here.'
I was still puzzled. 'But how did you know what Jason asked me?'
His smile turned into a grin, and I realised he was simply returning the stupid grin on my face. 'Men are so predictable, aren't they? It was obvious Jason was going off to ask to spend the night with you, so that Scott would lay off him.' His glance turned back to the pair of them, and saddened, and my heart saddened, too. 'I quite understand that you didn't. It's probably what any woman would have done.
'Only,' and he turned back towards me, and looked me in the eye, and my heart turned to slush, 'if you had done, I'd have been able to talk to Scott, properly. We met on the train coming up, you see, and we seemed to get on so well. I thought… Well, never mind.'
My hopes were dashed to pieces. It looked like Jason had been right — Paul was gay, but I needed to be absolutely sure. 'What about your partner, Paul?' I pointed to indentation around the third finger on his left hand, where a ring had been until recently. 'Wouldn't your partner mind?'
'It looks like my partner's being unfaithful. I'm not certain our relationship has any future. I thought this weekend might be the start of something new.'
'That's a shame about your relationship, Paul. What was your partner's name?'
He looked as though he wasn't going to tell me, but then said, 'Melissa.'
Yes! Yes! Yes! He'd had a relationship with a woman. There was hope for me. But then, I remembered with a terrible sinking feeling in my heart, that I wasn't a woman at all, I was really a heterosexual man. What the hell was I doing, trying as a woman to chat up a man? I almost cried with despair.
'You suddenly look sad.'
I put on a brave smile. 'Not really, but I have decided I am going to give you a hand. You can thank me properly, tomorrow.'
I stood up, and walked towards the door, before turning round and calling out, 'Jason, are you coming to bed, now?'
CHAPTER 7
I was at the top of the stairs before Jason caught up with me. 'Quick. Let's go. Scott was leaving immediately after I left, and I think he's following me up the stairs.'
I blanked him outside my bedroom door. 'Sorry Jason. Exactly where were you thinking of going?'
'In your room, of course. You said…'
'I did as you asked me to. I got you out of Scott's clutches. However, just because I gave you the excuse for leaving the library, it doesn't follow that you have to come into my bedroom. So, if you'll excuse me.'
'No, look. Scott's coming.'
Certainly there was the sound of someone coming up the stairs.
'Well, you'd better run along, then, before he comes.'
He gesticulated hopelessly around the lobby. 'But there's nowhere to go.'
The footsteps on the stairs were getting louder. I relented.
'OK, but if you come in, you do so on my terms. Agreed?'
'Yes. Yes. Anything.'
'Right, take off your belt and hand it to me. Then turn round and put your arms behind your back.'
'Oh, no! No way. Sorry.'
'It's your choice, Jason.'
The footsteps were only a few treads away, now.
'OK. OK. Here you are.'
In seconds, the belt was in my hand, and his arms were behind his back. I wrapped the belt twice around his elbows, and then pulled it tight and secured it. I already had my key ready, and it took only another second to turn it in the lock, pull Jason in after me, and shut the door again.
'Oh, thanks, Susan. You've saved my life.'
'Well, you can sit on the chair over there…' I pointed, '…for a few minutes until you can safely leave.'
'But he might be waiting for me.'
'Jason, you're being just too pathetic. Sit down and shut up.'
'I need to go to the toilet. Can you release my arms, please.'
I considered. It was almost certainly a trap, but on the other hand…
'Come on,' I grabbed hold of him and marched him into the en-suite. I undid the fastening on his trousers and unzipped him, then pulled down his trousers and underpants.
'Are you going to hold it for me.'
'Don't be disgusting.'
'But I'll wet myself or do it all over the floor unless…'
'Sit down like we women do. That way you won't miss.' I stormed out and slammed the door shut, trying to shut out of my mind the sight of that rather nice chunky prick, and the hairy balls.
******************
I have always been heterosexual — never felt the slightest desire to grab hold of a bloke and have sex with him. So why was it so different now that I was dressed as a woman?
I thought about it quietly for a minute. Perhaps I was simply playing the part well. I'd tried to completely immerse myself into the character of Sue. But then, surely Sue wouldn't be letting strange men into her room in the middle of the night and helping them to take down their trousers.
Would she?
Of course not.
Would she?
'I've finished.'
Of course, it was really an academic question about whether Sue would or wouldn't. The point was that I was playing the part of a character with huge tits and protruding nipples — that was not Sue — simply someone with her name. There was really no question about what I should do now. I went into the en-suite. Jason was standing up, and so was his prick.
He grinned at me. 'Could you pull my trousers up?'
'You're very trusting.' I crouched down in front of him so I could grab hold of his trousers in both hands, a move that put his prick only an inch away from my face. I stared back at it — it looked as though it was getting very excited, with the veins on the shaft standing out and the head turning purple. 'I might bite it off.'
'I wouldn't mind if you gobbled it off.'
'Is that so?' In one smooth movement, I stood up, pulling his trousers with me, right up and over that bulging prick, until they were around his waist.
'Ugh! Shit! You might have caught it in the zip!'
I smiled benignly, 'As I said, you were very trusting.'
I fastened the trousers at the top, and slipped a hand into his waistband, and pulled him out of the en-suite into the bedroom, and drew him over to the foot of the bed. There was a ribbon tie securing back the lace curtain. I undid it and pulled it free. Then I unfastened his trousers again, and they dropped to the ground, exposing that wonderful monster.
'Oh Jason,' I said, 'I told you I wasn't going to have sex with you.' I pushed my body forward until my boobs were pushing into his chest, and his prick was pushing against my navel, and I wriggled a little from side to side. 'You do understand that, don't you?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Anything, please, anything. Just let me spend the night with you.'
I undid the buttons on his shirt and pushed it over his shoulders and down his arms, until it wrapped around the belt securing them. I lowered myself down his body, wriggling slowly as I did so, until I could lick and suck his right nipple.
'Is that all you want, Jason? To spend the night with me?' I transferred my mouth to his left nipple.
'Oh, yes please.'
I slid further down his body until I was kneeling before him. I lightly ran my hands down his magnificent cock, and gently squeezed his balls.
'I bet you'd like something else, though, wouldn't you Jason?' I took the ribbon and wound it twice tightly around his cock and balls, then tied it underneath. Then I passed the ribbon around the bedpost and tied his cock and balls tightly to it.
'What are you doing?' Alarm in his voice, now.
I stood up. 'I'm simply making certain you don't get up to anything else while you're in the room.'
'But I can't move.'
He was right there. His arms were tightly tied behind his back at the elbows; his trousers were dropped around his feet, and since he had his shoes on, he wasn't going to be able to take them off; and his cock and balls were tightly tied to the bedpost at the foot of my bed. He couldn't move an inch without tearing them from his groin.
'What more could any maiden want, than a beautiful male ornament at the foot of her bed?' I gave him a wonderful smile. 'Now, I really must get undressed and ready for bed.' I want you to close your eyes, whilst I do so.'
Poor Jason. He really didn't know whether I was kidding or serious. To be honest, neither did I! This was a situation like no situation I had been in before, and the power I felt at the moment had gone to my head. I felt an elation as though I'd just injected half a kilo of heroin into my bloodstream — absolutely fantastic, but at any moment, I would explode — but in exactly what way, I wasn't certain.
I noticed that Jason had squinted up his eyes, pretending they were closed, so very, very slowly, I wriggled out of my little, sexy knickers. Keeping my back towards him, I bent down so he had a superb view under my dress, and slipped them over my shoes. Then I turned round and pulled my knickers over his head.
'I told you to close your eyes. That will teach you obedience.'
I could see he was breathing in the smell of me, and revelling in it. With the knickers over his head, he could now open his eyes properly, and since the material was translucent, he had a far better view of me than before. But I pretended not to notice.
I lifted one foot onto a footstool, and undid the buckle on my shoe, then slowly slid my hands up my leg, lifting the skirt of my dress as I went, until I reached the top of my stocking. I released the suspender, then just as slowly, slid the stocking down my leg. I removed the shoe and stocking, and then stood up and half turned, so that Jason would have just as good a view, as I repeated the same operation on the other leg.
Then I reached up behind my back and pulled down the zip, and shrugged first one shoulder forward, then the other, so the dress slowly slid down to my breasts and snagged on my nipples. It took several shrugs for it to slip over first the left nipple, and then the right, but once those beautiful obstacles had been cleared, it was a rapid fall to the floor. That left only my bra and suspender belt, and I reached behind me and released the suspender belt, and then lifted my hands to unhook my bra.
For one nasty moment, I thought I couldn't get it undone, and I had visions of that Peter Sellers' scene where he had the girl in his room, but couldn't get his clothes off. But then it was free, and rather than just letting it off, I turned my back on Jason to remove it. Poor boy!
I remembered that when Nicole had unpacked my suitcase, she'd slipped a nightdress under the pillowcase — another item that Sue had sneakily packed in place of my boring, old pyjamas. Still, when I held it up for inspection, it was so pretty it took my breath away. A virgin white material, so thin it was almost transparent, with a plunging neckline and slits from the waist downwards. Keeping my back towards Jason, I slipped it over my head and adjusted it.
'What do you think of this, Jason?' I turned to show him, and I heard him gasp with pleasure, at seeing my breasts and nipples staring back at him through the material. I pulled the knickers from his head, so he could see me more clearly.
'You're beautiful,' he whispered.
'Thank you,' I said. 'I bet you're pleased to be spending the night with me, aren't you?'
'Oh, yes. Yes I am.'
'Good.'
I pulled back the sheet on the bed, sat on the edge of it, then demurely lifted my legs up, keeping the hem of the nightdress around my shins, and lay down. Then I pulled the sheet back over me, and said, 'I'm feeling very tired, now Jason. You don't mind if I turn out the light, do you?' and I fumbled for the pull cord over the bed.
CHAPTER 8
'You can't leave me like this.'
'Leave you like what, Jason?'
'Like this.' He nodded violently downwards. 'I've got to have you.'
'But Jason, we already agreed.'
'Oh, please.'
He looked at me so beseechingly, that my heart missed a little beat.
'W-e-l-l-l. I don't know.' My foot found its way from underneath the sheet, and I used my big toe to trace a line down the underside of his prick. My God, he was hard. The ribbon tightly tied round his balls had played an important part in making him harder, of course, and as he got harder and larger, so it dug in more tightly around him, to make him harder and larger still.
'Perhaps I should turn around in the bed, so I can admire my beautiful male ornament more closely.'
'Please. Oh, please.'
I swivelled around in the bed, and ended up lying on my tummy, so he had a first class view down the cleavage of my nightdress. 'Is that better, Jason?' and I poked out my tongue and touched the tip of his prick.
'U-g-h-h-h.'
I could sense that he was so close to coming, I was likely to have a bucketful of cum in my face if I did that again. I got out of bed and knelt down in front of him.
'Oh Jason. You're very big, aren't you?' and I used my tongue to lick one of his balls.
'Ha-a-a-a.'
From the difference in his tone, I thought it was probably a bit safer doing that than touching his dick. I licked the other one, with similar results, and then I sucked his complete ball into my mouth.
Yuk! Hairs! I spat them out, wriggling my tongue to locate the elusive ones.
'Why don't men wax their balls?' I complained. After all, we woman always took good care to defoliate.
'Sorry.'
'Well, I'm not doing that again.'
'You're not!' His voice started to rise in a panic, fearing I might be packing up totally.
'Oh, don't worry.' I smiled at him. 'When you have a body like mine, there are other ways to satisfy a man.'
I slipped the strap of my nightdress off the left shoulder, and then did the same with the right one, and pulled the nightdress down over my boobs. 'Now, how do you fancy a good time with these beauties?'
He didn't have to speak, his face said it all. I grasped a breast in each hand and moved forward to saddle his cock. It was shining so brightly, I could almost see myself reflected in it, and it was so hard, and throbbing. I moved my breasts together to enfold it, and then moved one up and the other down, and back again.
His balls were pressing against my chest immediately under my tits, and I could feel the pressure starting to build. I moved both my tits together — up, and down — up, and down — up, and…
Jesus Christ! A jet hot spurt of liquid caught me under the chin and splayed out along my jaw line. I vigorously shoved my tits up and down again, hard.
I'd thought his first ejaculation was hot and forceful, now I realised it was his pre-come. The second load was so hot it almost burnt me, and it came with such force it bounced off my chin and splashed out towards my shoulder. Not quite reaching them, I could feel it hanging down in great gobs from my chin.
I glanced down to see, just as his next ejaculation was shooting upwards. It caught me on the nose and part went up my nostrils, the rest went into my eyes. The smell of his cum filled my head and my eyes were stinging, my eyelids stuck open by the cum on them. All I could see was that enormous, shining, purple knob, preparing to shoot another load in my direction, and I think it was that feeling of helplessness that pushed me over the edge. I felt a sweetness sweep through me that was so wonderful.
I knew another ejaculation would be coming at any second, and I wanted to capture every wonderful part of it. I opened my mouth and bent my head, just in time to catch the next load, and it slammed into the back of my throat, and slid down inside me. And the syrupiness inside me just swamped out every other feeling. This, I realised, was an orgasm like nothing I'd ever had before, and I wanted it to last forever.
***************
Needless to say it didn't, but bloody hell, compared to the normal duration of my orgasms, it was like War and Peace had been turned into a sex manual. I don't know how many more spurts Jason performed. It didn't really matter. I was in my own version of paradise that seemed to last for half the night, but was probably only a few minutes.
When I finally looked up at him through my cum sodden eyes, I could see he was well into his post-coital depression. He was looking down at me, my face covered in his own cum, and huge gobs were hanging from my chin and my nipples down to the floor. He was obviously thinking what a dirty little slut I looked, and probably wondering how he could even have bothered to get an erection up for me. Such is the lot of women!
I stood up and released his arms from the belt, and left him to sort out everything else, whilst I went into the en-suite. When I came out after taking a long shower, the bastard hadn't even left a note. I knew that was the last connection I'd had with him, in all senses of the word. Good riddance to bad rubbish!
CHAPTER 9
It was only as I started to get dressed next morning that I realised how completely Sue had replaced the contents of my suitcase, when she'd come home late on Thursday night. She must have tipped out everything I'd spent the last few days carefully packing, and completely replaced them with the things she'd bought.
Fortunately, I'd separately packed my rucksack with my walking boots, first aid kit and survival bag, but everything else was gone. Most importantly, my waterproof, breathable, walking trousers weren't there! Instead, there was a short, flared, grey skirt, which the labels promised were 'ideal for walking.'
Sue had obviously chosen it against her most important criteria — that it colour coordinated with my anorak — and she'd also included sexy tee shirts, a sweater, little white woollen socks and a dinky little hat. I reckoned that they would give me no protection, whatsoever, when the rain came sweeping horizontally across the cold, Scottish mountainside. I was in for a miserable walking weekend.
***********
Harold had already eaten when I got down to breakfast, and there was no sign of anyone else, apart from Nicole who served me. I asked her if she knew whether the others were on their way.
She looked rather apologetic, as she said, 'Jason came back to the library, last night at about midnight, and told me not to bother to wake him this morning, as he'd decided not to go on the walk. Scott and Paul promptly decided they weren't going, either, so I'm afraid it's just yourself and Harold.'
'That's fine,' I said. 'I'd really prefer not to walk with Jason, anyway.' A thought struck me. 'But I thought Scott followed us up to bed. How come he was still in the library at midnight?'
Nicole looked puzzled and shook her head.
'Well, certainly someone was coming up the stairs behind Jason, last night. Doesn't Scott have the room opposite mine?'
Enlightenment dawned on Nicole's face. 'Oh, no, that room's empty. No, that was me coming up the stairs behind Jason to ask if you wanted a hot drink, but I saw you dragging Jason into your room, and thought that things would be hot enough.'
So Jason — the bastard — had lied about Scott following him, specifically to trick his way into my room. It was a good job I'd got rid of him. My thoughts turned to Paul, and I said, 'It's a shame that Paul's not coming walking. I really like him.'
'Did things not work out with Jason last night?'
'He was upset that I wouldn't let him put his minute dick inside me, and jiggle it about for a few seconds. And he didn't seem to enjoy being tied up, very much.'
'Wow! Are you into bondage? Fantastic! Has he really got a minute dick? I rather fancied him myself.'
'You'd have more fun playing with your little finger, but you're welcome to him if you want. Personally,' I gave her a knowing look, 'I'd have thought Scott was better equipped, in all respects. Have you noticed him? He's massive.' And, I thought, if you took Scott out of circulation it would leave Paul at somewhat of a loose end.
'I thought he just liked men, but do you think he might be bi-sexual? Mmm. If he is, I suppose he has got somewhat of a major advantage over Jason. Perhaps I'll get a chance to speak to him today, if you think he'd be worth it.'
'I think he would, Nicole.' I nodded sagely. 'I think he would.'
'Well, in that case… I'm bound to see him around this morning, I'll see if I can have a word.'
****************
Harold eyed my outfit, apprehensively.
'It looks very attractive, my dear, but I think you'll find it quite impractical out on the mountainside.'
'I know. Unfortunately, my walking trousers got left behind. It's all I've got, apart from jeans, and they'd be even worse.'
He nodded agreement. Better to have wet, bare legs, than wet, jean-encased legs.
'Well, it's your decision. If you'd rather stay behind, I'm quite happy to walk on my own. But I'd also be very happy if you came.'
'It's a shame about my trousers but it can't be helped. I really want to walk, and I think I'd very much enjoy walking with you.' At least, he wouldn't be looking at my tits all day. On second thoughts, he was a man, so late seventies or not, he probably would. But at least he wouldn't be trying to get my knickers off. Little did I realise.
**************
We had a really great morning. Unusually for Scotland, the sun stayed out all morning, and the air was fresh and clean. As we reached the first crest of the hill, we could see for miles in every direction, and we both felt on top of the world.
The skirt was far more practical than I expected, since it was so short it didn't get splashed with mud within a few minutes of leaving the hotel, as my trousers would have done.
We met several other hikers, generally in groups of two and three, and I was pleased that all the men eyed me appreciatively. It was strange, I reflected, that my initial apprehension when Sue had first muted the idea had been so negative, whereas becoming a woman, which for all intents and purposes I was, had actually increased my enjoyment of the walk.
We stopped about midday to eat the packed lunches Nicole had prepared for us, and we sat on the side of a hill with the sun shining in our faces, and enjoyed it as if it was a childhood picnic.
We sat about twenty feet above the footpath, and several hikers passed us by, generally giving us a friendly wave. But there wasn't a single male that didn't have a quick glance up my skirt as he did so. And I let them all see, because I was in heaven! It was simply so nice, for once, to be the object of desire, rather than always being the subject.
Harold and I shared my folded survival bag as a seat, and his thigh nestled comfortably against mine. I could see his eyes were closed, and his breathing became more regular. In the heat of the sun, I, too, felt my eyes closing.
*****************
The heavy spots of rain took us completely by surprise. The storm cloud had crept up from behind, and the sun was still shining as the squall hit us. Even as we rummaged inside our rucksacks for our anoraks, the spots turned into a torrential rain, which would drench us in seconds.
'Get inside the survival sack,' Harold shouted.
It was a great idea and I quickly unfolded it and laid it flat, scrambled inside, feet first, and pulled the bag right over my head. In case you don't know, survival bags are large bags made of thick plastic, usually bright orange for visibility, which any sensible walker carries with them. Lost in mist, perhaps drenched through, or with a twisted ankle — a survival bag will keep you alive when the elements are conspiring to kill you.
You can just about get two people inside, for it means a warm, healthy person can keep an injured person warm with their own body heat, but it's a tight squeeze, deliberately so. So I was rather startled when Harold scrambled in beside me. OK, he was only small and elderly, but I had breasts like melons, and a huge arse and hips. He wriggled around to get down the bag, past my tits and bum, until finally we were wedged together like a pair of mummified Siamese twins.
'You didn't mind me getting in here, did you?'
The rain cascading over the outside of the bag was keeping my bum cold, but between our bodies, the heat was building like a furnace.
'Well, it's a bit late, asking now, isn't it?'
'Sorry. I suddenly realised I was getting absolutely drenched. I thought there'd be plenty of room inside. I didn't realise how… big, you were.'
'I find it strange to hear you say that, when you've been ogling at how “big” I am, all morning.'
'Sorry.'
I smiled at him. 'That's alright. I always take a stare as a compliment.' I did as well. Shameless hussy! 'Are you comfortable there?'
God, he should be. His face was cushioned by my breasts on either side. Heavens knows where my nipples were poking. Probably into his ears.
He smiled back. 'Yes thanks. A bit hot, maybe, but very comfortable.'
Down below, I could feel something harden between us. There was no point in trying to ignore it — it would only lead to embarrassment all round.
'Harold, you're getting an erection.'
'Oh, er… Am I?' As though he didn't realise it himself.
'Yes, Harold. A great horny erection.'
'Sorry. I er… haven't had one of those in years. Not really since my wife died.'
Poor bugger.
'How long ago was that?'
'Five years ago, when I was seventy-one.'
Christ! His first erection in five years!
'Well…' I gave a little wriggle against him, and felt it go harder still. 'Seems a shame to waste it. I mean…' another wriggle, 'with that monster stuck between us, I don't think we'll be able to get out of this bag without assistance. We'd better do something about it.'
'What do you suggest?'
I forced my arm down between our bodies. He was such a tiny guy, until… 'Christ, your prick is thicker than your leg.' Well, I may have been exaggerating slightly, but I thought, at that age, the guy might need some encouragement. He didn't!
I unzipped him and undid the waistband of his trousers, then pushed them and his underpants down, until the monster leapt into my hand.
'Bloody hell, Harold! What a gorgeous prick you've got.'
My skirt was around my waist, anyway, so all I had to do was to pull the gusset of my knickers to one side, and he was nuzzling his way inside.
The instructions for the Hiplet had been quite boastful of their ability to simulate a vagina during intercourse. Personally, when I'd read that, I'd considered that anyone who tried it on an unsuspecting male was dicing with death, since if the deceit was discovered, it would be fair to say the victim would be more than a little upset.
But with Harold and myself tightly squeezed inside that survival bag, I have to say the thought didn't even cross my mind. I was a person with a vagina; Harold had something he wanted to put inside it, and once he got going, he was an incredibly rampant pig. I lay on my back, since I'd probably have crushed the life out of him if we'd done it the other way round, and he was between my legs and on top. And he fucked the life out of me. Well almost, anyway.
The people who'd designed that Hiplet hadn't just concentrated upon getting the external shape right. They'd managed to locate the knob of my prick in just the same position that the clitoris would go. So with a skilled lover, which Harold was, my prick was continually being caressed by his own, as he shafted in and out.
Oh, absolute heaven! I was totally helpless. I couldn't have stopped him if I'd tried, but there was no way I wanted it to stop. I wanted him to go on forever, and ever. Finally, he was squirting deep inside me, and he was shouting, and I, too, was screaming with orgasmic pleasure.
We spent wonderful minutes just moving slowly against each other, making certain that every drop of semen had entered my body, to make babies…
Make babies! The thought brought me up sharp.
'It's alright. I've been sterilised, and I don't think I have any nasty illnesses,' He was considerate to the end, thinking about my concerns. A real gentleman.
'Well, I don't have any nasty illnesses either, despite the impression that my appearance may give.'
'I know that.' He stretched up to kiss me on the chin, the only part of my face he could reach. 'I pride myself I can tell what kind of a person they are.'
I hoped he could not.
CHAPTER 10
We arrived back at the hotel tired, happy and completely fucked.
'Thank you, Harold. You've given me a marvellous time.'
'Thank you, Susan. I really enjoyed it. Do you fancy the same thing tomorrow?'
I looked into his face, smiled and nodded. 'Yes please. I'd like that.'
'Good. Then shall we say the same time, tomorrow morning? I shall see you at dinner, this evening, but I'll get an early night afterwards. Leave you young people to have fun on their own, without oldies like me interfering. See you later.'
The smile remained on my face as he walked away. He knew I was probably going to have frolics later, and had wisely decided to keep out of the way. My thoughts turned to Paul, and I wondered whether Nicole had managed to charm Scott, and take him out of the competition for Paul's charms. I decided to seek her out.
****************
'You were right. He is bi.'
'Told you.'
'The only thing is… well, I wanted to know what you thought. You see, although he says he's happy enough with women, he's still an…' she looked around to make certain we weren't being overheard, then continued in a whisper, '…arse man.'
'What?'
'Well he likes to shove it in the back passage rather than the front. What do you think?'
Well it was her decision where she allowed men to stick their tools. Personally, with the size of Scott's tool, I wouldn't have let it within ten feet of my arse, but with my vested interest, I really didn't want to discourage her. 'I've heard that lots of women find it much more erotic than doing it the conventional way. I think it would be a good experience to give it a go.'
'Great.' Nicole's face lit up with delight. 'I'll fix it up for this evening.'
'Sounds good to me, Nicole. Well done.'
********************
When I got back to my room, I went to bed and zonked out until it dinnertime, leaving barely enough time to shower and dress. Dinner was another immensely enjoyable meal, everyone contributing to the lively conversation, and it ended far too soon, especially as I thought I was starting to get on so well with Paul.
After the others broke up from the table, he and I stayed talking for a few minutes, before wandering down to the library for coffee. Nicole was in there serving, but everyone else had disappeared.
'Hi, I'd just about given up you on you two,' she said. 'It's my early night, tonight, so I was anxious to get away.'
She handed us our coffees, and whilst Paul was helping himself to sugar, she silently mouthed to me, 'Scott's upstairs in the bedroom,' and she grinned and gave a thumbs up gesture to me, which I returned before Paul turned around.
'Well you'd better get off, then Nicole,' I said, 'and have a good evening.'
'You too,' she said with a wink. And she disappeared.
Might as well go for the direct approach, I thought, and I looked Paul in the eye and asked, 'Do you think I will have a good evening?'
He met my eye, unblushing, but with a tiny smile crinkling the edges. 'I'm certain you will,' he said.
'It would obviously be better if I spent it with someone I was attracted to.'
'I think you'll be well satisfied,' he said.
Yes!!!
I smirked at him, and he said he was feeling a bit tired, and would go straight up to bed. As for me, I couldn't keep the smile off my face.
*****************
The room was in complete darkness as I opened the door, but in the light from the doorway, I could just see a shape under the sheets, with an enormous tent pole pushing them up in the middle. For what I was about to receive, I knew I would be truly grateful.
I didn't want to ruin the moment by putting on the light, but knew that as soon as the door closed, it would be totally black inside, which would also rather spoil the effect. So, I stayed where I was, knowing Paul could see me in silhouette, and I reached behind and unzipped my dress, and let it slide to the ground.
I turned sideways on as I released my bra, knowing there'd be no flop as I let those two beauties have their own way. Then I bent over and slid my knickers to the ground. Only then did I allow the door to close behind me, plunging the room into darkness, and went over to the bed in stockings, shoes and suspender belt, my heels making a superb click - click - click noise on the wooden floor.
When I thought I must be about level with the bed, I reached out my left hand, until it touched the sheet and the tent pole beneath. I felt it through the sheet. It was like the pole of no tent I had ever erected before. So thick my hand couldn't encircle it, and a good twelve inches from base to head. Even through the sheet, I could feel the veins standing proud, and the knob just had me wetting myself at the thought of it thrusting inside my pussy.
I pulled the sheet to one side, and lifted my one leg right over the top of Paul's legs, and straddled him so that I had my knees on either side of his. It was these initial manipulations, in the complete dark, which I always found most difficult. My nose came into contact with his prick, and I gasped with shock, because it was far higher than I thought.
I opened my mouth to its fullest extent, and tried to get the head of his cock inside, but it was far too large. In fact, I think I must have caught it with my teeth, for Paul suddenly said, 'Shit!' in a rather hoarse voice, and shot up and grabbed my head between his hands, and kissed me violently.
In the past, it's always been me doing the kissing. OK, perhaps my partner might respond, but I have never before been given the kind of kiss that says 'I am going to fuck you rigid, and you're not going to be able to do anything about it, except lay back and enjoy it.'
My knees went weak, and I crumpled in Paul's arms. His prick was pushing me under the chin, and all I could do was to bring my hands round and feel for his wonderful testicles, and carefully hold them, so soft but throbbing with the pressure of his semen, which he would force inside me later. His tongue explored the inside of my mouth, his face pressed into mine so hard I could barely breathe.
Somehow, we had swivelled around, so that I was lying on my back and he was squatting between my legs. He picked up my right leg and, starting at the point just above my stocking top, kissed it, and then slowly moved his lips down to my shoe. He undid the buckle and pulled it off, and threw it into the corner of the room.
Then his fingers travelled back up my legs to the suspender fastening, and he undid it and slowly pulled the stocking down my leg and pulled it off my foot. He repeated the whole operation with my left leg, spending extra time kissing my inner thigh.
He moved his whole body up mine, until he was kneeling on my shoulders, and his testicles were resting against my lips. Mindful of my experience with Jason's hairy balls, I carefully kissed Paul's and felt their smooth skin. They were hairless! He'd shaved them. Wonderful. He wriggled so that one of them was resting over my mouth, and I was able to suck it right inside, and massage it with my tongue. I could feel it throbbing with excitement.
Whilst that had been going on, Paul had been fiddling about with my arms. I wasn't quite certain why, until with one swift movement, he leaned his body backwards, and my arms were yanked upwards and sideward, towards the bedposts at the head of the bed. The bastard had tied my stockings over my wrists and then looped them round the bedposts and drawn them tight.
'I hear you enjoy bondage, so I thought I'd give it a go.'
Well, I could hardly complain. Not only was my mouth full, but it was so erotic that I almost climaxed on the spot. However, I didn't want him to think he could get away with anything, so I pulled up my left leg, to give him a good kick. He caught it in the crook of his arm, and pulled hard on the stockings to lever himself back to the kneeling position. Not only did this stretch my arms apart to the limit, it meant that my leg was forced up right over my shoulder. Then he was winding the other end of my stocking around my ankle, so that my left wrist and ankle were virtually tied together above my head.
It was starting to get extremely uncomfortable, but his testicle was still filling my mouth, so I couldn't even object. Already, he was trying to grasp my right leg to give it the same treatment, but I thought things were going too far, so I gave his testicle a quick bite, just to show him he couldn't get away with anything.
'Bitch!'
I must have bitten it rather harder than I planned, for he violently jerked his testicle out of my mouth.
'I'll teach you never to do that again.'
The bastard started to stuff a pillow inside my mouth, and that's when I began to get a bit worried. Not only wouldn't I be able to protest about his actions, I could choke on the pillow. I tried biting his fingers, but he used the bulk of the pillow to protect them, stuffing more and more into my mouth, until it was full.
After that, it took him only a few seconds to grab hold of my right leg, and painfully force it over my head, and truss it against to my right wrist. It was so fucking uncomfortable. I was bent double, with my knees somewhere over my shoulders, and my arse poking in the air. I'd never been into S & M, and I was extremely pissed with Paul. I'd asked Jason's permission before I'd tied his arms behind his back, and I had not thought of Paul as a man of violence. I would have wriggled, but every time I moved, it was more painful.
'Sorry about the gag, but I always hate the screams of agony when I start to arse fuck a woman. I find they tend to complain far more than men.'
With those words came the realisation — it wasn't Paul in my bed, it was Scott! Nicole had misunderstood my hints this morning, thinking it was I who wanted to sleep with Scott, rather than me suggesting that she should! All I could think was, 'Oh my God! What had I done?' Well, I found out soon enough.
*****************
To be honest, Scott was an absolute gentleman when it came to getting his monster into my arse. I thought it would be just brute force — not so. He shoved lots of Vaseline inside me, to start with, using his fingers to get it as far in as he could. Then he told me he was putting on the condom, and finally, I could feel the giant nuzzling against my hole.
It wasn't one great lunge, more a slow wriggling from side to side, and I could feel myself being stretched wider and wider, and then wider still. Then I could feel him sliding deep inside me; one enormous tool filling my arse like it had never been filled before.
He held it there for a few seconds, just so that I could marvel at how completely I was being stuffed, before it was sliding out again, then in, and out, and in again. Once Scott was certain I wasn't going to scream, the pillow was pulled from my mouth, and I could start moaning with every plunge. As I did so, Scott started moving faster and faster, and making his lunges deeper and deeper each time, until it felt like I was being fucked by a pneumatic drill.
I climaxed at least three times before I felt his balls tighten as they banged against my arse, and with his next thrust, I was being filled with gallons of hot semen. Jesus, it felt good, and my climax was the best yet.
But of course, only seconds later, he was withdrawing, complete with the condom full of all that nice semen, and I was left with a feeling of emptiness. He searched around for some nail scissors to cut my bindings, and then he'd gone.
CHAPTER 11
I had to keep my legs well apart as I staggered down to breakfast next morning. Otherwise, somewhere deep inside me, one well-fucked part of my body came into contact with another well-fucked part of my body, and they both complained.
'How was it?' Nicole and I were on our own again, at the breakfast table, and she was gagging to know.
I could hardly blame her for the misunderstanding. I guessed it was as much my fault as hers, so I told her all the gory details.
'My God! How fantastic. I guess you and he will be a thing, now?' She turned it into a question, by raising her voice at the end.
I shook my head. 'One enormous arse-fucking is enough for one holiday,' I said. 'I'm sticking to lesser men, now. Of course,' I added, 'if you wanted to get to know him better…'
It was the only prompt needed. 'Don't you mind. I mean, it was your idea in the first place, and they do say first come, first served…' She trailed off, hopefully.
'Well, I certainly came first, and frequently, so I was well served. He's all yours if you want him.'
'Thanks. I think I'll just go and see if he's around, yet.'
She disappeared so quickly; I had to serve myself to the rest of my breakfast.
***************
'I thought we might have a shorter walk today.' Harold gave me a smile. 'After all, no point in trying to push it too hard.'
I took note of his words. I thought I might be reminding him of them later.
'Where do you suggest?'
I thought we could walk up the stream for a bit. There's a rescue hut not too far along. Perhaps we could stop there for a break?'
*****************
I never dreamt a seventy-six year old could have so much stamina. We spent the whole day inside the hut, and I think we probably used every move from the copy of Kama Sutra he'd brought with him.
'There's a very well equipped library, here,' he said, as we went inside the shed, whipping out the leather bound volume. 'I just happened to find this.'
Within thirty seconds we were in position number twenty-eight — or was it seventy-two? I know I lost count of the moves as soon as my first orgasm hit, and I lost count of my orgasms after my fifth, which was about thirty minutes after commencing.
So, all in all, a pretty good day, and we returned to the hotel that evening with huge smiles on our faces.
Just before we got there, Harold said, 'I wanted to warn you that I haven't been altogether honest with you all.'
'What, you mean you're really a twenty-five year old in disguise? That would explain everything.'
If it were possible, his smile got even wider, and I returned it.
'Not quite, but I was... Well, I was a bit of a ram when I was younger. I could never resist a pretty woman. But I did make it a personal rule never to mix business with pleasure, as I quickly discovered it inevitably ended by messing up both. I thought at my age that phase had ended, especially with the experience over the last five years, but it obviously hasn't.'
I shook my head, not understanding what he was getting at. 'So why are you telling me all this?'
'I shall be making an announcement this evening.'
An announcement! Jesus Christ! He was going to announce our engagement!
'Not that.' He'd guessed my thoughts and was laughing at them. 'Something else, but I wanted to explain in advance the reason why I didn't choose you, so remember, I don't mix business with pleasure.'
'Harold. You're talking double Dutch. Explain what you're saying.'
But, even though I pressed him all the way back to the hotel, he refused to be drawn.
************************
Harold's announcement came as the meal drew to a conclusion. He brought conversation to a halt in the conventional way, by tapping a spoon against his glass.
'Lady and gentlemen. This is our final evening together, and I have something important to tell you.'
Jason and Scott looked rather angry at having their conversation interrupted, but held their peace for the time being.
'Firstly,' Harold continued, 'we have all been on first name terms here, and no one, particularly me, has been circulating their surnames. I must now tell you that my name is Harold G Sutton.'
I'd never heard of him. Neither, I think, had Paul, but both Jason and Scott looked astonished — Jason to the point where his jaw dropped. Not wanting to hurt Harold's feelings, I tried to look politely surprised, but Paul came straight out with it.
'I'm sorry. The others obviously recognise your name, but I'm afraid I don't.' He gave a little nervous smile, to show he wasn't trying to be offensive.
Jason and Scott looked even more astonished, not only that someone should not know Harold G Sutton, but also confess to the outrage. Harold sat back in his seat and burst into laughter.
'Well, it's good to be taken down a peg. Especially by you, Paul. For your benefit, I am a rather successful dealer on the stock exchange.'
From the expression on the faces of the other two, I gathered that was similar to the Pope confessing to being religious.
'Although I officially retired many years ago, my considerable wealth does mean I continue to be highly active in many businesses, including Chairman of several highly successful companies. As such, I employ a Personal Assistant to help me with the day-to-day duties. My current PA is due to retire in two weeks' time, so I recently placed this advertisement in the press.'
He held up a newspaper cutting for inspection. I heard a gasp around the table, but to me, sitting next to Harold, it appeared to be the normal kind of ad you see: “Retired businessman needs Personal Assistant to manage his multi-million pound investment portfolio. Live-in post, on unaccompanied basis, mainly on employer's country estate, but also in Knightsbridge penthouse. Must be…”
Harold lowered the cutting before I could finish reading, so I glanced around the table to see where the gasps had come from — Jason and Scott, again, and from their appearance, they had obviously applied for the job. Oh dear, neither had been particularly friendly to Harold, in fact Jason had been downright rude on that first evening.
'I'm sure it has now become obvious that all of you applied for the post, and that after sifting the hundreds of applicants, I made a shortlist, which included the four of you.'
He looked around at us, all looking rather astonished, but none, I was certain, looking quite as surprised as me, for I was completely gob-smacked! Susan had applied for a job without telling me! An unaccompanied, live-in job, which would have taken her semi-permanently away from home! The bitch! How could she do that? I dragged my attention back to Harold, who was continuing.
'…excellent on paper, so never having much confidence that interviews produce good results, I decided to make the decision in a rather unique way. All the short listed applicants were invited here, in the same way as yourselves — by being asked to complete a questionnaire and then “winning” a prize. More than half did not turn up, so they failed at the first hurdle.'
He turned his smile onto Jason and Scott, and I could guess what was coming. 'I'm afraid that when Jason made my age the butt of his joke on the first evening, and Scott found it rather funny, that also ruled out those two.'
He turned to me. 'I have already explained to Susan why I shall not be employing her, and it has nothing to do with her suitability for the job.' Everyone knew what he meant, and I felt my face burn with embarrassment.
Then he was turning to Paul. 'Over the course of the weekend, I have had a number of interesting conversations with Paul. He is very well qualified, and I think we will get on well together. I have therefore made my decision. I am pleased to invite Paul to become my Personal Assistant.'
All eyes turned to Paul, who was looking almost as surprised as I felt. 'I er… I just didn't realise. It's all a complete shock. I don't know what to say.' He looked as though he was about to cry. 'I think I'd better…' He stood up and abruptly left the room, and we heard him running up the stairs.'
'I think it's time we adjourned for coffee, don't you?' Harold had a broad smile on his face, as he stood up.
CHAPTER 12
'I need to talk to you,' Paul said. 'A kind of heart to heart.'
With the thoughts of Susan's betrayal running through my heart, I hadn't felt like a casual chatter over coffee, so I'd gone straight up to my room. I'd only been there a few minutes, before the knock on the door, and Paul had stuck his head around.
'Of course. Come in.' I smiled at him. 'I guess congratulations are in order.'
'The point is, it wasn't a fair competition.'
'The best person won, Paul. That's the most important point.'
He looked down at a photograph he was holding in his hand, then back up at my eyes. 'But you're not listening to me. You see, I know it wasn't fair competition.'
He stared earnestly into my eyes, and I had a flutter of unease. He was holding the photograph so that I couldn't see the picture, and I desperately wanted to know what was on it. Some evidence about me, perhaps? Did he realise that Susan had actually not been here on this crucial weekend, whilst Harold was supposedly making the final decision between Paul and her?
'Why do you say that?' I asked him.
'It's a bit difficult to put into words. Embarrassing.'
Embarrassing? Oh shit. He had me sussed. Well, he could hardly complain about it, could he? It wasn't as though Susan had been awarded the job instead of him. But it sounded like he was feeling guilty about getting selected, so I guessed I would have to talk it through with him.
'Paul, just start at the beginning. I'm listening. OK?'
He nodded. 'It was all a bit sneaky of Harold to get us up here, like this. Pretending it was a competition we'd won. In a sense, he's responsible for the end result, wasn't he?'
I slowly nodded. 'Yes, Harold was responsible for the result, but it all turned out alright in the end. You got the job, even though you didn't know you were being interviewed.'
'That's why I have to tell Harold about it.'
He was still being evasive, and I wasn't going to admit to my deceit unless he challenged me directly.
'What is it, Paul?'
He stared me in the face. 'The ticket for the holiday was non-transferable, but maybe the ticket holder didn't want to go. Maybe the ticket holder passed it on to someone else.'
So he not only knew I was a fraud, he'd worked out why, as well.
'I suppose that could be possible, Paul.'
'But if they passed the ticket onto a spouse, the gender would be wrong, wouldn't it?'
'Yes of course. So the idea wouldn't work, would it?' But I knew that he knew. I was only trying to evade the issue. I added, 'You're suggesting that the spouse would have to change gender, aren't you?'
He nodded. 'That's precisely it. The spouse would have to dress up as a member of the opposite sex. It wouldn't be easy, of course, but it could be done. There are those specialist shops you can go to. They have a superb range of equipment to meet every need. Expensive, but the result is very realistic.'
'Yes.' I stared back at him. 'They can be very realistic.'
'The question is, how do I tell Harold?'
'I understand you're in a difficult position, but are you certain you need to tell Harold?'
'Of course he needs to know.'
'He'll be awfully upset, Paul. I think it might be kinder not to tell him.'
He looked directly into my eyes, 'I thought you'd have realised by now. I'm not Paul. He's my husband, and I came in his place. My name's Melanie.'
Gulp!
'What?'
'You heard correctly. Do you want me to spell it out?'
I nodded.
'OK, I'll start right at the beginning. My name's Melanie, and I'm married to Paul. On Tuesday, he told me he'd won a weekend break, but since he didn't fancy going and I did, he said I could go in his place. However, they wouldn't let him transfer the name on the ticket — you can understand why, now, but we couldn't then. So Paul suggested that I go disguised as him, which obviously meant me pretending to be a man. Do you follow so far?'
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As I listened, the voice, which I had always thought so sweet and sexy, turned into a sweet and sexy female voice.
'I've always been totally flat chested, so that wasn't a problem, but when I tried on Paul's clothes, my hips and bottom were far too big. Even after I'd bought clothes that fitted properly, I still looked like a woman wearing men's clothing. Paul suggested I get something to put down the front of my trousers to balance it out, which sounded a good idea, in principle. On Thursday, he came back with the monster you can now see lurking down the front of my trousers.'
There was a glint in her eye, as she said, 'I know you won't understand this. On the one hand, I was incredibly embarrassed about it — but on the other, I was fascinated to experience what it was like to have that thing permanently hanging down my leg. It made me feel so… well built, so masculine, so… powerful, and... well, it touched me in sensitive places. It continually aroused and excited me.'
I looked Paul — that is Melanie — in the eye, and said, 'I understand. It must have been a strange and exhilarating feeling.'
She nodded. 'You're taking this very well. I thought you might be furious with me, for deceiving you and the others, like that.'
I looked back at her, and gave a deep sigh. 'No. For a very good reason.'
She looked puzzled. 'What's that?'
'Exactly the same thing happened to me.'
She looked even more puzzled. 'But you came as a woman. That's not what happened to me.'
'My name is really Mike. I'm pretending to be my wife, Susan.'
Her eyes widened; her mouth gaped. 'That is absolutely disgusting!'
'Well it's…'
'Disgraceful. How could you possibly do such a deceitful thing?'
'But you did the same.'
'That's different. What I did was nothing like as bad. Especially with your… behaviour. What about being faithful to your wife?'
'OK,' I said. 'I acknowledge that, masquerading as a woman, I got on close physical terms with some of the men here. You may feel I was being unfaithful to my wife, but I saw it simply as totally playing the part of the woman into which Sue turned me. I didn't have sex with another woman. I accept that you took a higher stand on that, and didn't have physical relationships with anyone, but…'
My voice tailed off, as her look of disgust turned to one of guilt.
'Melanie? You didn't have sex with anyone, did you?'
'Well, I'd been fancying Scott ever since we travelled up on the train together. After your epic with him last night, Nicole suggested a threesome with him this afternoon, and it worked out really well.'
I gaped. 'You mean that you, and Nicole, and Scott had sex together?
She gave a little grin. 'Yes. And it was absolutely great. I've never been the man before. Scott had Nicole in the… the reverse way, and at the same time, I used my er… monster on Scott in the same way. Then Scott and I reversed, and I had Nicole in the... conventional way.'
'Bloody hell. And I thought I was playing the field. You accuse me of being unfaithful, but what about your loyalty to Paul?'
'It's not as bad as that. There were two things I hadn't realised when I arrived. One was that Paul had applied for this job, which would mean him moving away from me. The bastard! How could he do that?'
'That was exactly the same for me. I never knew Sue was thinking of getting a new job and leaving me. But you said there were two things?'
'Paul wanted to get me out of the way for the weekend, because he's having an affair with some bimbo from work. My sister has been trying to convince me about it for weeks, but I wouldn't believe her. So she went round to our house and waited outside with a camera. Yesterday morning, she emailed me this photograph. I think it's pretty conclusive.'
She showed me the photograph she'd been clutching in her hand. It was taken with a telephoto lens through a bedroom window — one of those windows with reflective, darkened glass, which people believe makes everything inside invisible. Judging by the clarity of the photograph, this was obviously a mistaken belief. I could not only see both participants quite clearly, I also recognised them. The photo showed my wife, Susan, giving a blowjob to the smarmy accountant from her office!
EPILOGUE
The three of us have a great time together, now — Harold, Paul and me, Mrs Susan Martin.
I convinced Melanie she should continue in her new role, and she — that is, he — went off to accept Harold's offer of employment. Afterwards, Harold came to my room to very politely ask me if I would consider becoming his mistress. I didn't have to think twice about it.
It was obvious that Paul and Sue had plotted the scheme together. How they must have wet themselves with laughter at the thought of getting their respective spouses to go on the same holiday, each dressed as a member of the opposite sex, whilst they stayed at home and shagged themselves silly.
Still, Melanie and I had the last laughs. We sent Paul and Sue copies of the photograph, with a short note stating we weren't intending to come home, but without a return address. And Harold's new PA sent a job rejection letter not only to Susan, but to Paul, as well (although the new PA obviously didn't use his own name on the letters). They, poor fools, never realised just why they had been rejected.
I continue to love being a woman. Mind you, I still take care not to use a public convenience. Paul, on the other hand, seems to take pleasure going into the Men's' toilet, standing next to some poser, and letting his prick out, to hang down to his knees.
Harold is a wonderful lover, and as long as I keep his balls drained (which is no mean task), he's very understanding about Paul and myself. Paul keeps suggesting a threesome, but that's men for you. I certainly hope he doesn't suggest it to Harold, because he'd probably agree to it, and I think that being fucked by those two at the same time would be more than any woman could cope with.
Still, if one day you see me with a smile on my face stretching from ear to ear, you'll know what happened!
AUTHOR's NOTE: I hope you enjoyed this story. If so, please click on the "Good Story" button - it only takes a second. Although this story isn't open for public comments, I'd be happy to receive your Private Messages - click on "Send author a message" below. Why not read some of my other stories at Charlotte Dickles Stories
Love Charlotte
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 3 - A Bun in The Oven
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Synopsis: Three girl students decide their friend, Stevie, has a dangerous passion for Lecherous Len, the manager at the bakery where they all work. Surely, they're only doing her a favour by exposing his weird behaviour, even if they do have to trick him into it.
Author's Note: My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.
To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year.
This story was first published six years ago, and the bodysuits sold in Seacombe were rather different then. For Big Busts aficionados, there was a simple catch with a special tool which locked everything in place, and none of that red and green gel to get confused about.
It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
by Charlotte Dickles
'Why do men never look you in face?' Sharon demanded, as she struggled into the back seat of Stevie's tiny car.
'Are you talking about all men in general, or Lecherous Len in particular?' queried Lindsay, squeezing in next to her.
'Well, both, I suppose. I mean, even quite nice guys never look directly at my face, it's always down at my chest, but they usually try to be discrete about it. With Len, he drools over my tits in the most revolting way.'
'Blimey,' thought Stevie from the driver's seat, 'I wish Leonard would drool over my tits.' But she kept her thoughts to herself. Instead, she slid the front passenger seat back into position, so that Nicola, the biggest member of their group, could get in.
'Why does he always have to prance around in a suit and tie,' Nicola moaned. 'I mean, it's totally unsuitable for working in that heat. If he dressed in more casual gear, he wouldn't look such a dickhead.'
'Maybe he feels he has to wear a suit,' Stevie said. 'Perhaps when he was a little boy, his mother told him that managers always wear suits, and that's become fixed into his mind. He told me last week how fortunate women are, to be able to dress how they please, rather than how convention dictates.'
'Did his mummy also tell him only to look at women with big tits,' Lindsay said, 'Have you noticed that every woman who works for Len wears at least a 'C' cup bra.'
'Wow! I hadn't spotted that,' Sharon said, 'but you're right. It just shows what a dirty bastard he is.'
'Apart from Stevie,' chipped in Nicola, turning to her. 'Aren't you an 'A' cup?'
'AA, actually,' she responded, rather sheepishly.
'Well,' Nicola said (rather ingenuously, Stevie thought), 'you must have had some special way with Len to get through the interview.'
Stevie smiled. 'Not really. It's just that when we went for the interview, I realised straightaway what it seems to have taken the rest of you all this time to notice. I mean, I thought the breasts on the University mascot were so huge as to be unrealistic, until I saw that every woman in the bakery had ones at least as large. So, seeing that I was at a bit of a disadvantage in that department, and that I hadn't really got anything to lose, I er...'
'Yes,' they all three prompted.
'Well, there were some trays of bread stacked outside Leonard's office, and I stuffed a couple of large rolls into the front of my bra before I went in. It looked as though I had a pair as big as Lindsay's.'
'Fantastic!' 'Well done, Stevie.'
Another grin from Stevie. 'Bloody uncomfortable though. Still, I got the job, but Leonard looked pretty fed up with me when he saw I didn't really have big tits.
'Anyway,' she said, recalling the earlier theme of their conversation, 'aren't you lot rather forgetting what breasts are for?'
Four o'clock in the morning is not the best time for deep philosophical thought, and there was a moment of silence as Stevie put the car into gear and they set off back towards Seacombe University. Since term commenced, they had been supplementing their student loans by working an 11 pm - 4 am nightshift at the Seacombe Bakery, packaging bread ready for delivery to local supermarkets. Although the hours sounded anti-social, they actually worked out quite well. The bakery was only a few minutes' drive from the university campus, so an 11 pm start not only gave them the whole evening to socialise, there was also time for a quick shag if you were so inclined (which three of them were) before setting off for work. At the end of the shift, they could get a few hours sleep before either dragging themselves to the first lecture at 10 am, or as three of them commonly did, missing that, and commencing their day with lunch.
'It's bloody obvious isn't it?' Nicola finally responded to Stevie's statement. 'Breasts are pumped full of milk so that kids can suckle on them. Have enough kids swinging on your tits, and eventually they stretch down to the ground like cows' udders.' She glanced sideways at Stevie. 'Well, probably not yours, Stevie. I don't suppose your breasts will ever reach the ground, but I don't give much chance for the rest of us.'
'There are thousands of species of mammals that suckle their young without breasts,' Stevie continued her theme. 'Cats and dogs are two obvious examples. No, the reason women have breasts is to wave a sexual flag which says, "mature woman ready to bear children." Men are programmed to be captivated by tits. They don't have any choice in the matter, so it's no good complaining when men react like that. Anyway, I think Leonard is rather sweet.'
'Sweet!' All three of them shouted, in shocked amazement.
'It's alright for you, Stevie,' Lindsay said. 'He doesn't dribble saliva as he stares at your tits, but it's not very pleasant for the rest of us.'
'But, at the student disco last night, you all wore low cut dresses designed to expose everything you've got, and you seemed quite happy that every one of the guys were salivating over you like crazy. Anyway, look how Leonard gave Sharon the week off work, as soon as he discovered her mother had died.'
'That's true,' Sharon said, 'and he even fiddled my timesheets so I didn't lose any pay.'
'It was all the more praiseworthy,' Lindsay said, 'because Sharon's mother died five years ago.'
'What!' Stevie exclaimed, dangerously twisting her head round as she drove, to stare at Sharon. 'You lied to Leonard about your mother's death, in order to get time off work.'
Sharon shifted uncomfortably. 'I didn't actually lie,' she said. 'I simply said she'd died on Saturday. Well, she had - only it was a Saturday five years ago. It wasn't my fault he got the wrong end of the stick.'
'Of course it was your fault. You deceived Leonard, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'
'I think,' Nicola said, 'that Stevie has got the hots for Lecherous Len.'
Stevie coloured slightly and said, 'Don't be stupid. He must be at least ten years older than me.'
'He's got plenty of money though, hasn't he. Unmarried, with a good job, and he lives in that big house on the edge of town with his mother. There must be worst prospects, if a girl's thinking of getting hitched.'
'Well, I'm not,' Stevie said. 'Anyway, you can see he hardly notices me. It's you lot with your mammoth boobs that he fawns over.'
'Well, you have been a bit slow, there,' Nicola said. 'We've been at the bakery for a complete term and there's only one more week to go. If you really did fancy him, you should have made your move long before now. You should at least have been wearing a Wonderbra.'
Stevie didn't like to tell the girls she'd worn one on every shift, without success.
'Hey listen girls!' Lindsay said, 'I've had an idea. Since next Saturday is our last shift this term (and I, for one, am not certain whether I'm going to carry on working there next term), why don't we invite Leonard to a little drinks party before the shift.'
'You want to invite Lecherous Len for drinks!' Sharon couldn't credit it.
'Sure. Why not. It'll give Stevie a chance to get to know him better.'
'Look, I've told you. I'm not sexually interested in Leonard. I simply think you girls are pretty shitty to him.' Stevie wondered whether she'd protested too much, and added, 'Mind you, I suppose inviting him to drinks would be a way of making up to him for the way you've all behaved.'
'That's agreed then,' Lindsay said. 'I'll ask him tomorrow. Stevie, don't forget to drop us off at our house before you go on to yours.'
Stevie, her mind on other things, had almost driven past the student house shared by the three girls. She pulled the car to an abrupt halt at the kerbside. 'Sorry. I don't know what I was thinking of.'
'Well, we all know what you were thinking of,' Lindsay said, as the three girls piled out onto the pavement. 'See you tomorrow, same time, same place.'
The three girls watched Stevie start the car off with such a sudden lurch that the engine almost stalled, and then go roaring off towards her own group of student houses. Only when the car had turned the first corner and was out of sight, did the other two turn on Lindsay.
'What the hell are you thinking of?'
'Have you taken leave of your senses?'
Lindsay held up her hands to quell their protests. 'Girls! Girls! I only have Stevie's best interests at heart.'
'You think that pairing her up with that obnoxious creep is in her best interests? No way!'
'I agree.'
Lindsay's reply took them by surprise, and she continued before they could respond. 'But we can all see that Stevie lets her conscience rule her mind, and she's naíve enough to think everyone else is as trustworthy. We have to show Stevie what Lecherous Len is really like, and that's why I suggested we get him here next Saturday night.'
''Why you sneaky little bitch.' Nicola's voice was full of admiration, and even Sharon had to give a reluctant nod of approval.
'As soon as Len arrives, we start spiking his drinks. When we think he's sozzled, we get Stevie out of the room on some pretext. When she comes back in the room, she finds Len stark bollock naked, doing something dirty to one of us.'
'When you say one of us,' Nicola's voice was cautious, 'who exactly do you have in mind?'
There was a tiny silence, which dragged into many seconds, as each girl waited for one of the others to volunteer.
'We could get Betty to do it,' Sharon suggested, a malevolent grin on her face.
'Betty?' The other two couldn't immediately place any student called Betty.
'Yes. Betty Bristols.'
'Oh!' They both spoke in unison, enlightenment slowly dawning.
'That's an incredibly shitty idea,' Nicola said. 'Brilliant! We could get Len to jerk himself off, between her gi-normous tits.'
'Up her arse would be better,' Lindsay said, a huge smile on her face. 'I know she takes it that way.'
'Those are two excellent suggestions.' Sharon was at her most diplomatic. 'But I was thinking of something which Len would never live down, and Stevie would think the most terrible abomination she'd ever seen, and never speak to him again.
Lindsay and Nicola leaned forward, and Sharon started to explain her plan.
***
'Now I know what paradise is like,' Leonard thought, as Nicola bent down to offer him more peanuts. She had on a little black dress with a heart shaped top, which just (and only just) covered her nipples, and left on full view her vast areas of bulging bosom trying to escape the dress.
And Nicola was not the only one. Sharon had on a white halter-neck, through which her nipples protruded like thimbles, and Lindsay, a long red dress, which would have been totally respectable, were it not made from a material that was almost translucent.
Even Stevie, with her bean-pole figure, was wearing a black skirt with a long side slit exposing her stocking top, and a white blouse unbuttoned almost to the waist. Of the four, only Stevie could have got away without wearing a bra, and as she turned her head to chatter with Nicola, Leonard had another attempt to look sideways through the gap, to get a better view of the tiny rosebud nipple he had glimpsed earlier.
'Would you like another beer, Leonard?'
Stevie must surely have caught the direction of his gaze as she turned in his direction, but from her smiling face, she wasn't at all upset about it.
'Well, yes. I think I would like another one. This one has gone down extremely well.' In fact, he couldn't remember when he'd last had a beer with such fantastic taste, and a kick which caused the blood to surge through his veins with a rush.
He'd have to watch his driving tonight, he thought, since he'd already had two. He'd hardly arrived, clutching his statutory bottle of Vin de Blanc, before they'd pushed a glass of this nectar into his hand, and Lindsay had offered to take his jacket.
'Oh, I'll leave it on,' he'd said, always feeling slightly undressed without it, but Lindsay wasn't having it.
'Don't be silly,' she'd said. 'It's very warm in here.' And she had slid her hand up his chest and undone the jacket button, and then was helping him take it off.
'And the tie, I think.' She'd pressed right against up him as she relieved him of that, giving him an instant erection. Such were the delights in which he was surrounded, his erection had stayed with him all evening. As Stevie got up to fetch his drink, he used the opportunity to make it more comfortable.
After a muttered conversation with Nicola, Stevie left the room, and it was Nicola who brought over the drink. She had to bend right down to place the glass on the low table next to him, and as she did so, her left breast fell forwards and toppled right out of the front of her dress.
'Oops! Good job Stevie isn't here,' she said, carefully locating the drink on the table before bothering to attend to the wayward breast.
Leonard was wondering if he was going to orgasm. Never before had he seen such a tremendous breast at such close quarters. It was huge, enormous, in fact...
'Stevie would be most shocked at such wanton behaviour,' Nicola continued. She glanced around, making certain that Stevie had not returned to the room, and added, 'Of course, she's a really nice person, but she's not into adult fun, like us three girls are, if you know what I mean.' She accompanied this statement with an enormous wink.
Leonard tried hard to look cool, as though enormous bosoms almost dropping onto your knee, and talk of 'adult fun' was quite normal. He forced a grin, to show he'd understood Nicola's message. 'Oh, I...' He had to stop his sentence right there, because it came out almost falsetto. He cleared his throat and restarted an octave lower. 'I know exactly what you mean.'
'That's great.' Nicola popped her boob back inside her dress, and gave another look around before sitting down next to Leonard. 'She's going back to her room to change into her work clothes now.'
'Work clothes?' Leonard glanced at his watch and was amazed to see it was already 10:45. They would all have to get moving if they weren't going to be late for the start of the shift.
'The plan is that once she's changed, she'll drive her car over here to pick up us girls, and take us to the bakery. Of course,' Nicola moved her lips to within inches of Leonard's ear, 'if you were to offer to take the three of us in your car, it would give us more time together. For a little of that adult fun we were talking about.'
Jesus Christ! He was being offered sex with three beautiful, buxom girls. He took a huge gulp of his beer, to stop himself from self igniting, and then almost choked on it. Hell, it tasted even stronger than before.
Nicola kept smiling, concerned that she may have overdone the vodka in his drink. He'd seemed perfectly happy with the stiff measures she'd been feeding him all evening, but perhaps half beer, half vodka was really too strong. 'So what do you think?'
He realised he hadn't answered her question, and hurriedly uttered his response, worried in case the offer should be withdrawn. 'Of course, I'll be glad to give you girls a lift to the bakery.
'After all,' he lied, 'it's not as though there'll be too much work to do, tonight. There's no need for us to set out for some time.'
'Great.' Nicola stood up, saying, 'I'll go and catch up Stevie, and tell her there's no need for her to give us a lift. She can drive straight to the bakery.' She went dashing out of the room.
'So you're staying for some fun, Len?'
It was Sharon who'd spoken, and as Leonard nodded, both she and Lindsay moved over towards him, until they were towering on either side, continuing their conversation about the latest exploits of some pop star, which he had difficulty concentrating upon. He didn't know whether he should stand up and join in, but realised that his erection would become very obvious, so he stayed seated, his face just level with those two wonderful pairs of tits.
'Right, I've sorted Stevie out.' Nicola came back into the room, and added, 'Now it's time to sort you out, Leonard.'
She strode across to Leonard, and launched herself on top of him. With her top heavy weight, it was no contest. He sank back on the settee under her weight, and as he did so, the other two girls each grabbed a foot and pulled it high in the air. Then they pulled off his shoes and socks, and after Nicola had released the waistband and zip of his trousers, they came off as well. Five seconds later, his shirt and pants joined the pile of clothes on the floor. Stage One of the mission accomplished.
***
'Len! When I suggested adult games, you surely didn't think I meant YOU having SEX, with US!' Nicola made it sound the most perverted thing she'd ever heard.
'But... but... why did you undress me?'
'Because Betty Bristols has been waiting to meet you,' Sharon said. 'We think you'd like to meet her. Can you guess why?
Leonard was hopelessly confused. His mind was reeling as though he'd drunk gallons of alcohol, rather than the three beers he'd actually consumed. The girls had invited him to the party, they'd dressed to please him, they'd suggested adult fun, they'd stripped him bare, and Nicola, still fully clothed, was sitting astride his chest. Now they were saying they didn't want to have sex with him, and suggesting they bring in another girl who wanted to meet him. He was afraid to put his thoughts into words, so he simply shook his head.
'We really thought you'd guess that Len. We think you'd like to meet her because she has an enormous bust - 42 F, can you believe that? Shall I bring her in?'
A girl with 42 F tits! He tried, with some difficulty, to envisage them. They must be so much larger than Nicola's, and hers were the best tits he'd ever seen in real life. He nodded his head, and the girls looked so pleased, he thought he must have agreed to take the booby prize. His pun took him by surprise, and as Lindsay and Sharon went out to fetch their friend, leaving Nicola squatting astride his chest, he started to giggle uncontrollably.
'Here she is, Len.'
They were holding Betty between them. She certainly had huge tits, but there was one major drawback. 'She's a sex doll!' he gasped.
'Well that's not exactly right, Len,' Lindsay said. She and Sharon grabbed his feet and pulled them right into the air again, whilst Nicola continued to sit on him. He was totally helpless, and he couldn't even see what the other two were up to. 'She's the University mascot, and it's actually a bodysuit so someone can wear it at events. We're going to pop it onto you, to give you the kind of body you've been dreaming about.'
'No! You can't do this to me!' The problem was that he could feel them feeding his feet into the latex legs, and with Nicola on top of him, he could hardly breathe, let alone do anything to stop them. Panic started to take over. 'Unless you stop this immediately, you're fired!' he tried.
'It's our last night,' Sharon said. 'We weren't intending to come back to your crappy job next term, so you can't fire us. We quit.'
'I shall get the police to charge you with assault.' He was desperate now. Nicola had turned around on his chest so she was facing his legs, and she leant her efforts to pulling the bodysuit over his hips. Leonard was not really an arse man, but he had to admit that Nicola's arse, bulging through her dress, was the best he had ever seen. He had a momentary vision of her moving back and sitting on his face, and suffocating him to death. What a way to go!
But Lindsay was responding to his warning. 'I really think that threats are inadvisable. For instance, we could throw you naked out of the door, and then tell the porters you tried to rape us. How does that sound?'
Jesus! It sounded all too easy. The police would surely believe the three girls rather than a middle-aged, single male, running naked around the university grounds. He'd be arrested, he'd lose his job, his mother would be so ashamed of him. He tried a different tack; after all, they were in private, and wasn't he really rather excited by the idea of having such a superb body?
He cautiously gave his assent. 'OK, so if I go along with your games, what am I supposed to do?'
Nicola got off his chest and he saw that the lower half of his body had been fed into a skin coloured pair of leggings, that the girls were now pulling tight around his waist. Hell, it was a squeeze, but his waist was actually becoming quite shapely. But when they finished on that and stood back for a second to admire their work, he had to gasp with astonishment. He had broad hips, and although he couldn't properly see his arse, it must be every bit as large as Nicola's. He experimentally lifted a leg to see a hairless leg, and an incredibly sexy knee. The girls pulled him to his feet.
'Just feed your arms into here.' Whilst he was still admiring the new shape of his lower half, the girls pushed his hands into the arms of the top half of the bodysuit, which was a bit like a leotard with a hood and a built-in facemask.
There was a nasty moment when the hood went over his head, and he couldn't see or breathe, but to be fair, they quickly got the mask into position, and were then pulling the whole thing down over his stomach.
He was able to lift his head and stared down his body. He had breasts like boulders! Between them, he could see that Nicola was on her knees, and the three of them were stretching the leotard down between his legs, and securing it to the tail which they'd pulled down between his buttocks. His monstrous erection, which had been with him all evening, was nowhere to be seen. The three girls stood back and stared critically at him, and then simultaneously burst into applause.
'Fantastic!' 'Superb! 'Incredible!' They pulled him across the room to a mirror mounted on the wall, and he gawked at his reflection. They were right. He, or should he say "she", did look incredible. The kind of girl he would instantly have employed if she'd come to him for a job in the bakery.
'Come along, Betty. It's time to get dressed.'
Lindsay was holding out a black corset, which sent a shiver of excitement down his spine and, before he even thought that he really should be objecting to the garment, he was raising his arms so they could wrap it around him. There was a surge of exhilaration running through him like one he'd never experienced before. It was as though he was having an orgasm - not the mind-blowing-but-over-in-five-seconds type, which was his norm, but one where the excitement continued for minute after wonderful minute.
When the girls tugged the corset laces so tight, he thought his body might be cut in half at the waist, it wasn't pain he experienced, but a roaring of blood through his head that was sheer ecstasy. They pulled black, fishnet stockings over his legs and fastened them to the suspenders, fed his feet into stilettos with five inch heels he knew he'd never be able to walk in, and adjusted his tits so they nicely nestled on the bra top of the corset.
'Hang on, girls,' Sharon said. 'I think Betty is looking too good. No one is actually going to realise it's really Lecherous Len inside.'
He was puzzled. That was surely the object, so that he could pretend to be one of the girls, and they would go to a bar or a disco and some fantastic guy would walk up and...
'I see what you mean,' Nicola agreed. 'We're going to ruin everything if Betty looks too good.'
'Girls, I think you're missing one important point,' Lindsay said. She turned to Len and said, 'Tell us your new name, young lady.'
'Betty Bristols,' he replied.
'A-a-a-h-h!' The three girls screamed together. 'That is so good.' 'This fantastic looking woman...' 'with a voice like a hairy-arsed plumber!' 'A-a-a-h-h!'
Len looked at them, slowly coming to the realisation that things, once again, were not going as he'd expected. 'But there must be something I can do about the voice,' he said.
'There's a little pack of capsules in the kit,' Lindsay explained, 'which slowly releases helium into the voice box, so your voice goes up in pitch and gets softer.'
'Well that sounds the answer,' he replied. 'If you can get me one of those, I'll...'
All three girls were firmly shaking their heads. 'No way, Len. That would spoil our entire game.'
'Game?' His virtual orgasm came to an abrupt halt and he suddenly felt completely sober, as he realised he wasn't a joint participant in their adult game, he was the victim of it.
'We only have to slip on your negligee,' Lindsay said, a malicious smile on her face, 'and then we're going to take you down to the student union and parade you around. We told Stevie to meet us there, so when we've finished your humiliation, she can put you into her car and take you onto the bakery.' She held up a black lace negligee. One minute ago, he'd have been shivering with anticipation of wearing it; now he was sick with fright.
'But she can't take me to the bakery. Everyone will see me and...'
'Everyone will know just what kind of a dirty pervert you are,' Sharon said.
'I expect you'll lose your job,' Nicola said, with considerable satisfaction.
'I refuse to go anywhere,' he said. 'I'm staying here until you take this thing off me.'
'Oh dear! A dirty lecher in our rooms, dressed up as a woman. We'd better call the porters, and they can...'
Exactly what the porters would have done was never expressed, because at that instant, all the lights went out.
***
The three girls uttered expletives, of various types, but for Leonard, he thought the blackout might just provide him with some opportunity for escape. He tentatively moved away from the girls and fell straight over the settee he had been sitting on earlier. The scuffle wasn't really noticed, since the girls were bumping into things as well, and making just as much noise.
'It must be a blown fuse,' Nicola said. 'The fuse box is in that cupboard under the stairs... Fuck!' The latter had been preceded by a sound of a shin colliding with the low table.
'I'll get it,' Sharon said, and they heard her footsteps move towards the door into the hallway. There was a loud thump, followed by, 'Shit! Who shut the fucking door?' But then she'd opened the door and they could hear her in the hallway outside, 'Damn! The cupboard door's locked,' she said.
'It can't be locked,' Lindsay said. 'There's no lock on that door.'
'Well, you come and open it, then,' Sharon responded.
There was the sound of a large crack, as a knee came into contact with a dining chair, followed by, 'Shit! Shit! Shit!'
'I'll go,' Nicola said, and they heard her carefully shuffling out to the hallway. 'She's right,' she said. 'It is locked.'
'Oh for hell's sake,' Lindsay said. 'I tell you there is no lock on that door.'
Len heard her go shuffling past him, and through the door into the hallway. Now was the time to make his move, but he had two major problems: firstly, he couldn't see any better than the girls; secondly, he didn't know in which direction he should be moving to make his escape.
As he stared into the blackness, he became aware that the sound of the girls in the hallway had become muted, as though they had shut the door on him to prevent his escape.
'Damn!' he muttered, trying to remember the position of the windows. He started to shuffle forward, his hands outstretched to prevent painful collisions, when a torch beam caught him straight in the eyes.
'Well, you've got yourself in a right pickle, haven't you?' Stevie's whispered voice came from the darkness behind the torch.
***
'Stevie! What are you doing here?' he whispered back.
'I came to rescue you, you stupid idiot.' The torch beam flashed across the room to a corner alcove, where he could see a doorway to the outside world. 'Come on, there's the fire door. Let's get out through there.'
Now he could see the way, he simply shot across the room, even in his five inch heels. In an instant he'd pushed the panic bar on the door, and was tottering through. He held the door open for Stevie, but all he could see was her torch still bobbing around inside, pointing this way and that.
'Come on,' he whispered. They'll be back any second.'
His words were prophetic, for there was a sudden crash at the doorway from the hall, followed by Lindsay's, 'Shit! The bastard's managed to lock this door as well.'
'Come on.' Stevie had darted past him, and he tottered after her as fast as he could. She ran, and he hobbled for fifty yards, and then she was standing against his car. They were saved. He only had to open the doors and they could...
'I've left the keys in the house!' he wailed.
'Do you mean these?' Stevie had searched the pockets of the jacket she was carrying, and had produced the all important keys. 'I'll drive,' she said, and before he could argue, she was behind the wheel and starting the engine. He scrambled into the passenger seat.
There was a crash of gears, and then the car was surging forward, out of the car park and towards the university exit.
***
'It was lucky that fuse blew when it did.'
They'd driven to the edge of town, and had parked in the darkest corner of an almost empty public car park. Leonard was counting his lucky stars.
Stevie snorted. 'Lucky! That was no blown fuse. Someone threw the main circuit breaker for the student house, and who do you think that was? And put wedges under the doors, so the girls thought they were locked? And thought to collect your clothes together, so we had the keys to your car?'
Leonard's mouth almost fell open as she spoke. 'You did all that? But... how did you know I needed rescuing?'
She grinned this time. 'I was suspicious right from the start that the girls were going to set something up, and I was surprised that nothing had happened sooner. I knew it must be some kind of a hoax when Nicola sent me off to get changed, and then came dashing out after me, to tell me to meet you all at the student union, as you wanted to have a look around. So, I followed her back inside and listened at the door whilst they helped you into your new self...'
'They didn't help me into it! They forced me into it! You surely don't believe I wanted to get dressed up like this?'
He was still wearing the bodysuit, corset, stockings and shoes, and nothing else. Stevie smiled, 'That's not how it sounded to me, but that's OK. I don't mind. Anyway, you make a very good woman.'
'Do you think so?' Leonard had been thinking much the same thing, and the elation he'd felt earlier had started to return. 'Anyway, I suppose I'd better get out of it now and back into my work suit. If we get a move on, we shouldn't be too late for work.'
'I think you'll find it's not as easy as that.'
'What do you mean?' He fumbled though the bundle of clothes Stevie had brought with her from the student house. 'You managed to pick up everything I was wearing, and a few of the girls clothes as well, from the look of it.'
'Whilst they were getting you dressed, I sneaked into Nicola's room where they'd been keeping Betty Bristols, until she was needed. I rummaged through the box and had a quick read of the instructions that came with her; it seems you need a special tool to release the catch between your legs. Without that, you're stuck inside her.'
'But I can't stay like this!' Could he? Why did that feeling of euphoria surge through him? 'You must have some scissors. We'll cut it off.'
Stevie shook her head. 'There was a special warning about trying to do that. It seems the suit is made of some kind of carbon fibre, which is very tough. If you use a blade sharp enough to cut through that, you're likely to slash straight through your flesh as well. You'll have to stay like that for the time being.'
This was madness! His senses said he should be in a blue funk, as his world was about to collapse around him. In reality, he thought he really was having an orgasm, this time.
Stevie sought to reassure him. 'Don't worry. As soon as I read that, I took the liberty of borrowing Nicola's interview suit from her wardrobe.' She turned and pulled a white blouse from the bundle. 'With the size of your boobs,' she said, 'this is going to be a tight fit, but I think that if you're careful, you can fasten it up without tearing off the buttons.'
She continued to rummage through the bundle and produced a black skirt, adding, 'Then you can slip this on. You should be able to pull it up over your bottom without getting out of the car.'
After a moment's hesitation, Leonard hurriedly complied. 'This is fine whilst we're in the car, Stevie,' he said, 'but I need to get to work. It'll be chaos there, otherwise.'
Stevie thought of the other workers at the bakery, chosen for their breast size, rather than mental agility, and she nodded - she had to agree with Leonard's summary. 'I've been thinking about that,' she said, 'and I have a plan. Try on Nicola's jacket, and see if it fits.'
It did, after a fashion, and although it could never be buttoned up, Stevie seemed relatively satisfied.
'OK,' she said, producing her mobile phone from her handbag. 'Telephone the bakery, and tell them you're sick, but that head office are sending down a substitute called...' she paused for thought, '...Liz... Bath.'
'Liz Bath? Who's she?' Leonard didn't know anyone from head office called Liz Bath, and anyway, how was he going to get her to attend the bakery in his place?
'Well, you can hardly call yourself Betty Bristols, can you?'
***
His heart didn't miss just one beat, it must have missed several. Common sense told him he could never pass himself off as a woman in front of his employees for five minutes, never mind the whole of the shift. On the other hand, he wanted to try - was almost confident of success only...
'My voice. I'll never be able to disguise my voice.' His sentence virtually ending in a wail of despair.
Stevie smiled and took a white box of capsules out of her handbag. 'The tool may have been missing from the kit, but this wasn't.'
He took the box from her, and hurriedly read the instructions contained inside. 'The instructions say it will take about ten minutes for the capsule to come into effect.'
He popped a capsule from the blister pack, and slipped it into his mouth, gulping it down his throat, before reaching for the mobile. 'Let me make that phone call now, before my voice changes.'
He made the call. Fifteen minutes later, Liz Bath was entering the bakery, and announcing herself as the relief manager, to take over the shift in Leonard's absence.
***
'Could I have your attention for a few minutes, ladies.' Liz had a voice that was soft and low, and she immediately broke through the high-pitched chatter of the unsupervised bakery packers, who were not even making a pretence of work.
'I'm Liz Bath. I understand that Leonard has already spoken to someone here to tell you that he's sick and won't be on this shift, and that I'm filling in his place.'
Liz looked around, and there were a few reluctant nods of assent. 'I know we're a few girls short, this evening, which means we're all going to have to work a bit harder and longer to get the job done.'
Quite a few looked disgruntled at this, but Liz pretended not to notice as she continued. 'However, I've talked this through with Leonard, and he tells me what an excellent team of people he has working for him.'
That surprised them. 'He's convinced that you ladies will cope, and just to make certain we get the job done, I shall be taking off my jacket, as well, putting on an overall, and joining you. Now, I want you to call me Liz, and before we start, I'd like to go around the group so I get to know all of your names.' She turned to Stevie, and added, 'So you are...?'
'Stevie.'
'Stevie.' Liz repeated it so she would remember her name, before turning to the next member of the group.
'Jane.'
'Jane.' And Liz went round the rest of the group, who were quite impressed that she so readily picked up and retained their names. After everyone had told her their names, she went round the whole group, pointing to each person and repeating their name, sometimes with a little hesitation, but always accurately.
Her credibility went through the roof when, ten minutes after disappearing into Leonard's office, she reappeared without her jacket and, good to her word, donned an overall and sat on the line and stuffed the bread rolls into plastic bags.
Especially since she packed at least as fast as Sue, generally regarded as the fastest amongst them. Liz made a little game of trying to race Sue, who packed even faster, and as a result, they all speeded up until their hands were moving so fast they were a blur. Conversation dried up, as they each tried to keep up with Liz and Sue, with the result that, even though short-handed, they completed the job about the same time as usual.
'Well done, everybody,' Liz called out. 'Leonard was absolutely right about you. You are fantastic workers.'
Everyone was surprised by the compliment. Indeed, several went home and told their nearest and dearest that they'd actually enjoyed the shift, a first for most of them!
Apparently, Stevie had not brought her car into work that day, so Liz very publicly offered to drop her off at the university. At the end of the shift, the two set off together in her car, which, by a strange coincidence, happened to be just the same make and colour as Leonard's.
***
'Liz, I think you managed that really well, considering it was your first shift at the Seacombe Bakery,' Stevie said. She stared at Liz for a second, before the pair of them burst into laughter.
'You fraudster!' she continued. 'I don't know how you had the nerve! "Let me see if I can remember everybody's name. Now, you're Stevie aren't you?"'
'Desperation,' Liz said. 'I was living on my nerves for the whole time, knowing it would take only one slip for someone to notice. And that would result in the destruction of my whole life.'
'Well, you really appeared to be enjoying your desperation,' Stevie said. 'Leonard never got anything like as much enjoyment out of a shift as you did.'
'It was like driving in a car race, knowing you could be killed at any minute, but loving any minute of it.'
'Have you thought,' Stevie asked, 'what you're going to do now?'
The question took Liz by surprise. 'Well... no. Er... The thing is, I'm dead tired, I really need some sleep. But I can hardly go back to my, that is Leonard's, house and go to bed, because my - his - mother takes him in a cup of tea at ten. She'd scream blue murder if she found a strange woman in his bed, and no Leonard.'
'Well, we can't go back to my student room,' Stevie said, giving Liz (or was it really Leonard) a piercing stab of pleasure that she'd considered the option. 'Given that the girls must still have the tool to your bodysuit, they'll know you're still wearing it and are bound to suspect that you might be hiding somewhere around the campus. They'll be banging on my door first thing in the morning.'
'I suppose I'll have to check into a hotel,' Liz said. 'There's that motel on the bypass that caters for passing motorists, so they're open all night. I guess I could go there. Do you...' she paused as she wondered whether she dare ask, and then rejected the idea. 'That is, shall I drop you off at the university?'
'I think we'd better stick together, don't you? A woman looking like you, trying to check into a hotel at that time of night on her own is bound to arouse their suspicions that you're a prostitute. If it's a couple of women, no one will think twice. The worst they'll assume is that we're a couple of lesbians, and I think I can face up to that.'
'That makes good sense,' Liz said, her heart performing little loop-the-loops inside. She set the car in motion, and they drove in a relaxed silence for ten minutes, leaving the lights of Seacombe behind them. They had just passed the university when Stevie had a thought.
'The thing is,' she said, 'I have hardly any cash with me. How about you?'
Liz shook her head. 'No. But I've got my cards. Money's no problem.'
'And the cards are in the name of...' Stevie prompted.
'Oh shit!' Liz thought for a second, and then added. 'We'll have to find a cash machine.'
'The students' union building is locked up at night, so you can't use the ones in the university,' Stevie said.
'That means we have to go back to the centre of town,' Liz said, despair creeping into her voice.'
By this time, their hotel was only about a mile away. Going back to the centre of Seacombe for cash would involve a thirty minute return journey.
'I don't know whether you've noticed that light flashing on the dash, but it seems to indicate you're almost out of petrol.'
Liz glanced down. 'Jesus! We're right on empty. Why didn't you tell me before?'
Stevie smiled. 'You've been a woman for less than five hours, and already you've picked up our bad habits. I thought you were driving the car. You're supposed to look at the dashboard occasionally, and check the warning lights.'
'Well, what are we going to do? We don't have money to check into the motel There's a filling station next to the motel, but we don't have the cash to buy petrol. We don't have enough petrol to drive back to Seacombe to get cash, and then drive back to the filling station. We're going to get stranded in the middle of nowhere. With me looking like this!'
Another, rather enigmatic, smile from Stevie. 'Relax,' she said, reaching into the back seat of the car. She pulled Leonard's jacket from the bundle, and slipped first one arm, and then her other into it. 'There you are. It's not a bad fit. I think if I put on the rest of your gear, I can pass myself off as Mr Leonard Russell, don't you? So hand over your credit cards, and I'll spend a few minutes practising your signature.'
***
When she awoke, Stevie knew she wasn't in her own bed. She also immediately realised she was not alone. The problem was, she couldn't remember who she'd gone to bed with.
She slowly turned her head so she could see the long blonde hair of her companion. Had she suddenly turned lesbian? It took her several seconds to realise. Suddenly, everything came flooding back, and Stevie gave a little smile, and rather shyly sat up in bed.
'Hi.' It may have been Liz who smiled back at her, but it was definitely Leonard's voice, which spoke. Almost automatically, Stevie reached for her handbag and passed Liz the blister pack of tablets that would bring her voice back to Liz's normal voice.
'Thanks.'
'Good morning.' Stevie looked at her companion and smiled, properly this time.
After swallowing the tablet, Liz's right hand had returned to its former role of encircling her mammoth breast, whilst rolling her large nipple between finger and thumb. Her other arm stretched under the bedclothes, and it was not difficult to follow its line down to the top of her legs, where a regular movement of the bedclothes betrayed their activity.
Liz's gaze followed Stevie's. She would have blushed if she'd been able. 'I was fiddling about with the catch to see whether I could release it without the tool,' she stuttered.
'Do you want me to have a try?'
Stevie could not believe she'd really made the offer, but Liz nodded furiously. 'Oh yes, please.'
Stevie crawled down the bed, and Liz spread her legs wide apart. Stevie had never been this close to someone else's vagina before, and was fascinated at such a close up view.
'I see you're a natural blonde,' she said, and they both started to giggle. With Liz's legs spread wide apart, her outer lips were open, the folds of her inner lips wrinkled like a deflated balloon. She'd never examined her own genitals in a mirror, and had no idea there could be quite so many whorls, and twists and curls. She was fascinated.
'I'm going to see if I can reach the catch,' she said, but instead her index finger traced a line along one side of the canyon. It was so soft and silky, the swirls instantly giving way to her finger, as she moved it along the rim.
She moved her arm, so that her palm was resting above the canyon, and softly allowed her middle finger to penetrate slightly deeper than her index finger had done.
'U-g-g-h-h-h!' It was more an intake of breath than a word from Liz.
'Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.'
'No! No! That didn't hurt at all. It was... er... well, I think that was probably the best spot... for finding the catch, that is. I think you should try again.'
Stevie did, with much the same result, but this time instead of rather hurriedly withdrawing her finger, she changed her hand so that she was making tiny circular movements around that same spot.
Liz started loudly gasping for air, uttering little noises like, 'Jesus!' and 'My God!' and 'Go on, the catch must be THERE!'
After a minute of unsuccessfully trying to locate the catch, Stevie swivelled her body around so that her legs were level with Liz's head, whilst keeping her active hand in the same position.
'I think it might be better if you could look at me, and perhaps offer some guidance,' she said. She then lifted her one leg and moved it over Liz's head, and squatted down so her own groin was virtually resting on Liz's chin. Liz was afforded the same incredible view of Stevie's genitals, as Stevie had been of her.
'Yes. I think that makes it much easier to understand,' Liz said. 'I can't reach it with my hands...' then Liz had her brainwave, '...but perhaps I could just touch it with my tongue.' She experimentally pushed her tongue into the silky swirls, and this time it was Stevie who was gasping, and begging for more.
Liz let her tongue explore further, until Stevie started to scream with pleasure, and then she was vigorously applying her finger to Liz until the pair of them were screaming at the tops of their voices.
After minutes of ecstatic pleasure, the screams turned to groans, and finally to murmurs.
As Stevie rolled off Liz, someone shouted from the next room, 'Can you do an encore?'
They looked at each other, and grinned, then Stevie turned her body around so they could hold each other in their arms. And they fell asleep together.
Author's Note: This story continues in the final chapter. Click here for the FINAL CHAPTER.
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 4 - Waiting for Godo
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I knew it was absolute lunacy to a have an affair with Godo's wife. Simple common-sense should have kept me well away. But when has common-sense been able to overrule the needs of the penis?
Author's Note: To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.
It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
by Charlotte Dickles
I knew it was absolute lunacy to a have an affair with Godo's wife. Simple common-sense should have kept me well away. But when has common-sense been able to overrule the needs of the penis?
I met Carol when she and Godo walked into the restaurant of The Crown Hotel, where I worked as waiter. I'd never met him personally before, but his reputation went before him. His real name was James Godolphy, but everyone just called him Godo (although never to his face). He was just over six feet tall — a good six inches taller than me — and built like the proverbial brick shithouse, with a face which looked as though it had once been really ugly, before being hit with a sledge-hammer. Legend said that he'd been given the facial adjustment when he played rugby, and that after extracting revenge on his opponent, he'd got thrown out of the club for being too aggressive!
But no one said he was too aggressive in his current role — no one would dare. He'd turned to crime after leaving school and never regretted it, something which had terrified both police and criminal alike. Definitely a man to give the very best of service you could, and just as definitely, not a man whose wife you should have an affair with.
The thought never crossed my mind when they walked into the restaurant on that Sunday evening. I was my usual attentive self; a professional waiter, well used to putting guests at their ease, and these were extra-special guests.
'Good evening, sir — madam. Can I take your coats for you? And can I get you a drink to start with?' (There's none of this: 'I'm your waiter for the evening and my name is Philip,' crap in our restaurant — every waiter attends meticulously to every guest, and we're all called 'Waiter' — or should be.)
Godo was first to peel his raincoat off, and he thrust it into my arms. It was pouring down outside, and his coat was absolutely sodden; it was like having a wet nappy slapped in your arms. 'Pint of bitter, sunshine. And make certain it's from your best barrel.'
He marched off towards the table where the manager was holding back a chair for Mrs Godolphy, and he promptly sat down on it. I turned back to Mrs Godolphy who had just removed her own raincoat to properly reveal herself for the first time.
'What a lovely dress.' At that time, it was nothing more than a small compliment to put her at her ease, although undoubtedly it was a dress which made the very most of her figure. To put it more bluntly, it superbly displayed her tits which were the size of boulders.
Now before I give a wrong impression, I'd better add that her tits were by far the most attractive part of her. OK, her face was round, and was quite pretty when she smiled, which she did after I paid her the compliment. But the rest of her body was even rounder: thighs the size of tree trunks; a chubby waist; and biceps which would ensure no one challenged her to an arm-wrestling match.
And there was no doubt that the dress did an excellent job of hiding all her less attractive features, whilst displaying those wobbling jellies to full advantage. As she followed me to the table, I watched her in the mirror behind the serving area. I held the chair out for her as she sat down, and had a splendid view down the grandest of canyons. It was enough to make any man feel good to be alive.
'Watch your step, sunshine, or you might find you've stepped into something very nasty. Now, run along and get my beer.'
His words brought me crashing to earth. One did not play any kind of footsy with Godo's wife, unless you wanted to spend the next three months in hospital — if you were lucky!
'Certainly sir. Can I get you a drink, madam?'
***
The meal all went perfectly. The manager had warned the kitchen exactly who they were cooking for, and as one might have expected, it all came up swiftly, properly cooked and piping hot. I served it with panache, learnt during my many years as a waiter. It was only at the very end that things went wrong.
I was bringing them their coffees, with mints and a couple of complimentary brandies when another diner, with his back to me, stood up just as I was about to walk past. It was really no great shakes — that kind of thing happens countless times, and you learn to have quick responses. I did a kind of twirl through the air with the tray — which probably looked pretty spectacular but it was actually completely under control — and the diner suddenly realised the danger and stepped to one side.
By the time I'd finished my acrobatics, I was standing almost at their table and Carol had an admiring grin from ear to ear. I smiled back, realising I must have looked something like a circus clown.
Then Godo noticed Carol's smile and in an instant, his head turned and he was looking at the stupid grin on my face. He stood up quickly and before I knew it, with one hand he had deftly removed the tray from my hands and left it on the table, whilst the other he had behind my shoulder blades and was propelling me towards the lobby.
'No need to keep the coffee warm,' he called to Carol. 'This won't take long.'
We were in the Gents before I could even take a breath, and then I was being turned towards him, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a knee travelling upwards, towards my goolies.
'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!!!'
'Say hello to the wash-basin, sunshine.'
I was crouched on the floor, gasping with pain when he grabbed me by the hair and forced my head back from my doubled-up position. The wash-basin was a foot in front of my nose, and I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent him ramming my face into it.
'Stop that at once!'
In the mirror, I could see Carol standing behind him, just inside the half-open door.
'Listen.' He turned to her with a look on his face which he probably thought resembled a conciliatory smile. 'Me and sunshine, here, have got some business to attend to. I'm not having you two crooning like love-sick teenagers. OK? Now, piss off.'
Instead of doing as he bade, she pulled a mobile out of her handbag, short-dialled a number, and then held it to her ear.
'Audrey? Hi, it's Carol, here. Listen, I need to speak to Tommy urgently. Is he around?'
I could see the look on Godo's face was indicating he hadn't got a clue who Tommy was, but caution made him hesitate, my precious head still clutched between his enormous hands.
'Tommy, it's Carol. I'm afraid Jimmy's up to his old games. He's just hit a waiter at The Crown where you're having your meeting of the Round Table tomorrow, and he's just about to rearrange his face on the wash-basin.'
She listened for a second, and then passed the phone towards Godo, saying, 'The Chief Constable would like a word.'
By the way, did I mention that Godo was a Detective Inspector at the local nick?
As Godo realised that Tommy was none other than his Chief Constable, my head was released and Godo took the mobile as gingerly as an unexploded bomb.
'It's nothing sir. The waiter just appears to have had an accident. I was simply help… Yes sir… Yes sir…'
Carol grabbed hold of my shoulder as he spoke and helped me stand. She gave a swing of her head to indicate we should leave the immediate vicinity. I was more than happy to oblige.
The knee in the goolies hadn't been as bad as it might have been. I could almost walk upright back to her table, although I wasn't in a position to hold back the chair for her to sit down. Instead, I grasped the table for support.
'I'm, terribly sorry about my husband. I do hope he hasn't done any lasting damage.'
I gave her a forced smile. 'I don't think so, madam. A bit painful, but I think I'll live.'
She gave me a sympathetic smile. 'Please call me Carol. What's your name?'
'Phil, madam, er… Carol.'
'Well, Phil. We need to ensure you're not permanently damaged. You'd better get them tested.' She said it with such a broad smile that I had a sudden panic that Godo might see her.
'Well I don't think…'
'There's only one way that I know to test them,' she said, still smiling. 'Shall we say nine am tomorrow, at my place.'
There was a tremendous thump across my shoulders. I turned my head, fearing the worst. It was Godo, but he was forcing a smile onto his face.
'The Chief Constable would like a word with you,' he said, pushing the mobile towards me.
***
They left shortly after, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she had made no further attempt to set up an assignation. I mean, no man wants to turn down a woman's request to shag her, but since I really wanted to keep my balls attached to my body, the Chief Constable's apology had been a well-timed interruption.
Except that, as I was clearing the table, I found Carol's glove stuffed down the side of the seat; her address was written inside. So there was the fateful decision. Logic; common-sense; self-preservation — call it what you will — all said keep well away, but my prick ignored all three, and where my prick went, the rest of my body inevitably had to follow.
***
She and I were the classic large woman/small man couple. OK, we were both about the same height at five-feet, six inches, but she was at least twice as powerful as me and three times my weight. It worked extraordinarily well. She decided the action and set the pace, and I simply did as instructed. Any time she felt I was getting too far ahead of myself, a simple twist of the hips would shrug me off, and then a hand would clamp around my head and force my lips to the place where my prick had been, just a second before.
Some men, who feel that man always has to be on top, might have felt emancipated in such a situation, but I've never had preconceptions about man or woman's rightful roles in life. I can only say that the sex was great.
Almost as nice, was the knowledge that not only was I fucking Carol, I was also fucking Godo — the guy who, but for Carol, would have slammed my face into the washbasin for the simple act of smiling at his wife. And the thrill and the danger — the knowledge that at any moment, Godo might suddenly come strolling into his own home, just as Carol was rolling about in orgasmic pleasure on the end of my prick — it made our affair irresistible.
***
On the Wednesday of the first week, Godo came strolling into his own home, just as Carol was rolling about in orgasmic pleasure on the end of my prick! Fortunately, the sound of the front door slamming would have stopped an elephant shagging and we stared at each other, aghast.
The sound of his feet thumping up the stairs broke our spell. I dashed through to the en-suite whilst Carol had slipped on her dressing gown by the time he came through the bedroom door. Fortunately, I'd always made the point of keeping my clothes tidily in the en-suite, just in case of such a situation, so there was nothing to give the game away in the bedroom, other than the potent smell of our lovemaking.
'Hi! It's me,' he said with a smile. 'I just came home for a quickie.'
From my position behind the part-opened door, I could see a narrow slice of the room through the crack by the hinge. I applied my eye more closely to it.
'Just fancied a quick fuck,' he said, unbuttoning his trousers, and letting a monster dangle out.
To be honest, I hadn't seen another bloke's prick since I was at school. I'd always accepted that, at three inches in length when erect, my prick wasn't the biggest in existence — indeed, some women had been downright rude about it. But I never imagined monsters like that could fit into a pair of trousers.
It was almost as thick as mine was long, and hung right down to his knees. At least, initially it hung down to his knees; but within a few seconds, it was pointing up in the air, and the knob had turned a deep shade of purple.
Carol appeared totally unmoved by it. She simply sat down on the edge of the bed, undid the belt of her dressing-gown and pulled it apart, letting it drop from her shoulders and then flopped backwards, her thighs and buttocks mainly supported by her spread-eagled feet on the floor.
He pushed his monster between her legs and she used both hands to stretch the lips of her cunt wide apart, and helped him feed it in.
'Fucking great,' was Godo's sweet murmurings of tender love, as he brutally grabbed her by the tits and forced inch after throbbing inch into her, until she'd taken the whole, right up to the hilt.
Then with a vicious lunge, he pulled it out, until I could see the purple head just lurking between Carol's pussy lips — but only for an instant, for it was being shoved back in as quickly as it had come out.
In — Out — In — Out. And then he was shouting, 'Fucking hell!' and 'Yes! Yes!' There were two more ferocious thrusts before he pulled the monster right out of Carol, stood up and pulled up his trousers.
It was only at that moment that I realised my own actions whilst that had been going on. I had my prick in my hand, all highly aroused three-inches of it, and was giving it long, slow strokes. I sped up slightly, as I could feel my balls tightening and tingling. And then, just as I started to ejaculate, the bastard walked towards the en-suite.
***
I shall never forget that moment of exquisite pleasure combined with absolute danger, as he stepped in, opened the front of his trousers again, lowered his monster towards the toilet, and let his waters flow. I watched him in the mirror as I stood behind the door, holding my clothes under one arm, whilst with my free hand, I silently ejaculated into what was obviously his dressing-gown, hanging on the back of the door. I knew that as soon as he stepped over to the wash-basin to wash his hands, he would see me, and if, somewhere a little voice was muttering something about being hanged for a sheep instead of a lamb, another little voice was pointing out that the important difference was between being hanged by the neck or by the balls.
But then, without bothering to wash his hands, he used the towel (the towel I had frequently used up to that point, and never since) to wipe both his hands and the end of his prick, and left the en-suite.
'I'll be late home tonight,' he said. 'Nice fuck. Bye.'
***
You'd have thought that I'd have got the message then — or at least, my prick would, since I'd known my folly all along. Not one bit. OK, I was a bit put off after Carol came into the en-suite with her hand firmly clamped between her legs, sat down on the toilet with legs wide astride, and then allowed the bucketful of Godo's semen to ooze down into the bowl.
'I used to think this was really erotic,' she said, working her hand inside her pussy and scooping out another great splodge of semen and dropping it into the bowl. 'Now, it's just a mess. Still, I am a lot better organised now.'
She reached behind her and withdrew a douche, which she started to feed inside her cunt. 'I've tried to convince James to get a bidet installed, but he won't have it. He says I can always lick his arse clean if it needs it.'
'He's er… quite a big guy, isn't he?' I'd been wondering how to phrase it, without seeming envious, when in fact, I was livid with jealousy.
She sensed my feelings, and gave a quick smile. 'Phil, don't worry about that. One mammoth prick is more than enough for me. If you think having something that size rammed inside you is pleasant, you should ask him to stick it up your arse.'
Bloody hell, the thought was horrifying.
'No,' she continued. 'Your prick is the ideal size for reaching the parts his prick can't reach.' She sensed my lack of understanding, and clarified. 'My clit of course. Your prick is just the right size for the end of your knob to reach my clit and give it a wonderful massage. It's the best sex I've ever had. Are you OK for tomorrow?'
***
It was in the second week that my lunatic infatuation started to wear a bit thin. We'd met every morning, and fucked from nine until eleven-thirty, when I had to leave to begin my lunch shift. But as my time of departure approached on the following Monday, and I was extricating myself from her clutches, she asked, 'Don't you ever get an evening off from your job?'
I shook my head. 'No. That's one of the problems of working in the catering trade.'
'But you must get some time off. What would happen if you needed to attend a funeral?'
I shrugged. 'I guess something like that would be OK, but it would be the lunch shift I missed — not an evening.'
I knew I should have left it there, and never have asked the question. But I did.
'Why?'
'It's just that I've got an important dinner-party on Saturday. I was wondering whether you could serve it up for us.'
I almost shit myself, and then tried to play it cool, hiding the panic which was bubbling underneath.
'Look, Carol. Aside from the problem that I never can get time off during an evening, especially Saturday evening, there's no way I could serve a dinner-party hosted by you and James.'
She was innocence, itself. 'Why not? It's very important. I'm trying to get James made up to DCI so I'm inviting Audrey and Tommy, as well as three other senior police officers with their wives. It's going to have a Victorian theme, so I want a butler in a proper uniform, who really knows how to serve properly.'
I didn't like to say that if she wanted to get promotion for her husband, she really should not have telephoned the Chief Constable to tell him he was beating seven kinds of shit out of a member of the public.
'Carol. I don't know how good a detective James is, but even if he's absolutely abysmal, he's probably going to recognise straightaway that there's a special relationship between us two — after all, he suspected as much, even when there wasn't. And even if he doesn't suspect, there will be four other police officers who undoubtedly will. The story will be all around the station on Monday morning.'
'When I saw how good a waiter you were at The Crown, I knew I had to have you for my dinner-party.'
So there it was — she didn't want me for my body, she was simply using me to get her own ends. Still, a guy has to make some sacrifices, and I guess I could live with being used as a sex object, just as long as I could head her off from this ridiculous idea.
'Look, Carol. You're a fantastic woman, but you must see that if I was to agree to wait at your dinner-party, it would not only be the end of our relationship, it would also be the end of me, and almost certainly the end of James's career when he kills the waiter in front of the Chief Constable. Let's not do anything to damage our relationship because I want it to last and last. Don't you?'
'I suppose you're right.'
'Look, I know a number of staff agencies who'll be delighted to supply a butler for your event. I'll give you their contact details.'
'I've already been to the agencies. The problem is there's a huge society wedding the same night, and no one has any spare people available.'
'Well, why don't you try going back to them again, or perhaps trying to get a student, or a casual worker.'
'But I want the service to be perfect — like you do it.'
Nonetheless, she agreed to have another think about it. I left with trepidation in my heart. I could sense the end of our fantastic sex was approaching.
Fortunately, the next day she told me she'd found a catering agency who claimed they had someone with experience. I was saved.
The next few days were almost as good as the first. We shagged ourselves silly every morning, and I spent the rest of the day thinking about what we'd been doing that morning, and what we would be doing the next morning.
***
The telephone call came about four am on Friday morning.
'Hello?' Only bad news arrives at that time. I was right.
'Phil, it's Carol. Listen, did you tell me sometime that you once had a conviction?'
It was true. My crime had dated back to the days when credit card slips were made out by hand, and they were passed to the customer for signing, with a space in which they could write a gratuity. I'd made the mistake of falsely entering a £10 tip on a £100 bill, after the customer had signed and returned it, with the gratuity space left blank. No one checks their card statement against the flimsy slips, I had reasoned; unfortunately, I was wrong.
'Why the hell do you need to know that at this time of night?'
'It's important. Look, James and I have been to a police function, this evening. We got back to our house only about an hour ago. It had been burgled.'
'Look!' I was livid. 'Just because I did a stupid thing with a credit card slip, several years ago, it doesn't mean I'm your automatic choice of burglar.'
'Sorry, I didn't mean to say that. It's just that James got forensics down here, and they took fingerprints. They found a load of fresh fingerprints, mainly in the bedroom, which were neither his nor mine.'
She let the fact sink in, before continuing. 'If you were convicted, it means your prints will be on record.'
Shit!
'I don't know how long it will take them to match the prints up, but James went off to the police station with them a few minutes ago. I think they'll probably do a dawn raid.'
Bloody hell! I couldn't confess to the truth. Godo would crucify me. It would be better to confess to the crime, except I didn't know anything about it. Why was my brain not working? I ought to be planning what I should do, but I couldn't get it into gear. Which presumably was why the police do dawn raids.
'You need to pull on a few clothes and get out of your house, now.'
She was right.
'Right,' I said.
'Leave by the back door and go into that area of park behind your house.'
But what did I do then?
'But what do I do then?' I asked.
'I'll come over in my car and pick you up. Be waiting just inside the trees, on the corner of Victoria Rd and London Rd. But I can't afford to be seen, so if you're not there, I won't wait for you. Grab a few clothes, and get out of the house, now.'
She rang off, and for a second I was left listening to dial tone. But only for a second, since, a long way off, I heard a police siren commence its wailing.
***
The pick-up went smoothly. By that time, I'd pulled trousers and a coat over my pyjamas, and I had an odd pair of shoes on my feet. If I was seen by the police, they'd probably arrest me simply for my lack of dress sense. But I got into her car without incident, and Carol made kneel on the floor so I couldn't be seen from outside.
'Are you going to take me to the railway station, or what?'
'Do you have anywhere to go by train?'
'Not really.'
'Then it seems silly taking you to the railway station. I'll take you back to my house.'
'Your house! But James will be there!'
'James's never there in the mornings; you should know that by now. OK, he left for work a lot earlier than usual, but he's going onto an overnight conference this afternoon, so won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. We can go home and then decide the best action to take.'
***
Once inside her house, with a cup of tea in my hand, I started to feel a lot calmer, even though I could now see my position was hopeless. Once Godo realised who the fingerprints belonged to, he would probably guess exactly what we'd been up to. He'd have my details circulated to every force in the country, the ports closed, a watch kept upon my house and restaurant, and my bank account would be frozen. When I was eventually caught, he would personally rip the balls from my body. Or perhaps I'd be a "death-in-custody" — the kind you hear about all the time.
I needed to run away, but where could I run to?
'You can stay here, if you like.'
'Stay here? But James will be home tomorrow. He'll kill me!'
'Only if he recognises you.'
'Yes, but… You mean… disguise me, in some way… but…'
'The catering agency rang yesterday afternoon. The person they'd promised to send has cancelled.'
'Look Carol, I know you're concerned about your dinner-party…'
'Don't be stupid. The point is that the only way I could get someone for our dinner-party was to provide them with accommodation. They were scheduled to arrive today, and depart on Sunday.'
'Right.' At last, I could see some sense. 'So, I could put on a false moustache and pretend to be your butler until Sunday.'
'They were also going to help with cleaning the house in preparation for the party. I could suggest to James that we keep you on permanently. I could tell him you were an illegal immigrant or something, so we'd hardly have to pay you any wages.'
'Wouldn't James have a problem with that, him being a policeman?'
'Good God, no. Laws are made for other people to follow, not policemen. And which police officer is going to start investigating James?'
'The Chief Constable?'
'Heavens no! Audrey and Tommy already have an illegal working for them. How do you think the economy would survive if we all had to rely on legal workers?'
I had no answer.
'Anyway, I'm afraid if we're going to convince James, it will need much more than a false moustache. You see, I've already given him a description of the person from the agency, so I'm going to have to make you look similar. It's a bit of a radical change, I'm afraid, but on the other hand, the more radical the change, the less likely James is to recognise you.'
'Sounds logical. But what kind of a change are you talking about? After all, I can't act to save my life.' I had a think about that last sentence, and then added, 'Well, I suppose to save my life, I'm going to have a bloody good try.'
She smiled at my pathetic joke. 'That's great. I'm hoping that by putting you into the disguise, you'll simply fall into the role. After all, acting is just about being natural in someone else's shoes. I'm going to turn you into a black woman.'
'What!'
'Well, you're not racist, are you?'
'Well, no, but…'
'I'll dye your skin as black as I can. That will help to make your features more difficult to distinguish, and nowadays you can buy very dark suntan dyes.'
'But you told me you wanted a butler. They never had women butlers in Victorian times.'
'Oh, I had to abandon the butler idea, when you wouldn't go along with it. I thought I'd go to a Victorian maid, instead. And Victorians certainly occasionally did have black maids, as some of the slave-traders brought them back as chattels. It may have been unusual, but it certainly wasn't unknown. Anyway, apart from anything else, I didn't have a lot of choice when it came to finding someone with experience — it was taking a black waitress or nothing.'
'But now you have me, I could be the butler you wanted in the first place.'
'And of course, James would never recognise you, would he? Even if he did, it wouldn't matter as he would see the funny side of it, wouldn't he? I'm sure, he would never think of ripping off your testicles, just because you've been fucking me something rotten.'
She had a point. 'But I couldn't look like a black woman. Could I?'
***
I decided to leave everything up to Carol. I was already totally beholden to her, and I simply had to trust her, as I had no one else. Anyway, women are so much better at disguising themselves, since they do it every time they apply make-up. If she couldn't disguise me, I was lost anyway.
She went out to the shops, leaving me on my own, and terrified in case Godo came back unexpectedly. She only seemed to be gone for a short time, considering the armfuls of parcels she carried in from the car.
'I think I've got everything we need, so let's make a start, straightaway. Now, before we can put the dye on you, we need to defoliate you all over. Jump into the bath, and I'll spread this cream all over your body. It may tingle a little.'
It was fine at first. She slipped on rubber-gloves, and starting with my legs worked it all the way up, giving my balls and the shaft of my cock a rather nice massage, but leaving the head of my cock untouched. She carried on right up my torso to my face, and had just finished covering my face when my legs started to tingle.
'Oooh! My legs are hurting like mad. Can we take it off, now.'
'Don't be such a baby. It can't possibly be hurting you yet. Now, just keep still for a while, and I'll…'
'Bloody hell! My balls are burning now. It's murder. I'm sorry, I have to wipe it off.'
I reached out to grab a towel. But Carol grabbed my arm and gave it a vicious twist, spinning me round. I heard something click in her hand, then she was pulling my arm upwards, to where a water-pipe came through the ceiling. She passed something behind the water-pipe then pulled even harder.
Jeez! I was almost being pulled off the ground by the chain around my wrist. I grabbed upwards to try to stop her dislocating my arm. There was another click, and I found I was handcuffed to the water-pipe, my body almost hanging from the ceiling.
'Did I ever tell you I used to be a police-officer? I always enjoyed that bit. Still do, actually.'
'Carol. My skin is burning. All over. Please let me down.'
'I have to be cruel to be kind. Just think how much it would hurt if James found out about us. It's a bit of pain now, or a lot of pain later. Anyway, I'm not going to let you ruin my marriage. You'll simply have to put up with it.'
And I did!
After the agony of the hair-removal cream, the rest didn't seem too bad. After a few minutes, she showered me off, washing all my body-hair away with it and leaving a wonderfully smooth skin. Then, she applied the dye to my body; putting on layer after layer, so that my skin went progressively darker, until it was a very dark-brown. Another shower to remove the residue of the dye, and then she let me inspect myself in the mirror.
'I may look black,' I said, 'but I'm never going to look like a woman. I'm just the wrong shape.'
I should have known better. She pulled a garment out of one of her bags.
'Right, feed your legs into this.'
It was like a black panty-girdle, made of a smooth latex-like material, except that, as she pulled it up my legs, I realised that far from slimming me down, it was going to make me substantially bigger. The buttocks and thighs had padding at least two inches thick.
'I thought women were always trying to lose weight in those parts, not put it on,' I ventured.
'And why do you think that is,' Carol replied. 'You want to look a typical woman, and typical women have large arses and thighs. And if men gave birth and had a baby's head pop out from between their legs, I wonder how wide they would want their thighs to be.'
There was no arguing with that logic, so I kept quiet, especially as she'd arrived at a particularly sensitive part of my anatomy. She'd raised the girdle up my legs until it was prevented from further travel by my prick, thrusting out further than I had ever seen it before.
She carefully took it in her hands and then slid one hand down until it was cupping my testicles. 'The shop told me exactly what to do at this point,' she said, and then she slapped my prick as hard as she could.
'Jeezz!'
'That's fine,' she said, watching my three inches wither down to a measly half-inch. 'That's exactly what the assistant said would happen.'
She gently squeezed the testicle sacs until my balls popped up somewhere inside my groin. Then she rolled the sacs around my limp prick and pushed the whole lot into the same place.
'I simply have to feed the head of your prick through this slot in your new vagina,' she said, 'and then I can pull the garment all the way up into position,' she said.
Thirty seconds later, I was staring down at the place where, until recently, I'd had a cock and testicles, and now there appeared the protruding lips of my vagina. I was itching to slip my hand down there to investigate, but I was still strung up to the pipe. Now that my skin was no longer burning, the ache in my arms was becoming increasingly unbearable.
'Carol. Can't you release my hands now? I can hardly bear the pain.'
She smiled, sympathetically. 'Sorry Phil. Just one thing left to do which will be much easier whilst you're trussed up like that.'
She pulled another black garment out of a bag, and my heart was suddenly pounding in my mouth.
'Er… what… what have you got there, Carol?'
She held it up so I could see, but I already knew the answer.
'It's a corset,' she said. 'I told you it's a Victorian function tomorrow night, so all the women will be wearing corsets — the Chief Constable as well, I shouldn't be surprised. Presumably you haven't worn one before, so we need to do a bit of urgent training.'
'But I'm really not that fat. Couldn't I manage without?' I wasn't certain why I was arguing about wearing a garment I found so incredibly erotic. I think probably for the sake of form.
Carol firmly shook her head, and said, 'Hardly. Even I appear to have quite a reasonable figure when I'm wearing a corset. If they weren't such murder to wear, I'd probably wear one all the time. If you don't wear one tomorrow night, everyone will notice.'
'Well, you won't need to fasten it too tight, will you?'
'Look, I've got to get you into the serving costume I got for the agency girl. That means I'm going to have to reduce your waist by six or eight inches.'
Shit, that sounded frightening — but also incredibly exciting.
'So, the corset goes on now, as tight as I can get it. Then, every half-hour, I tighten it some more.'
I gulped, realising that protest was absolutely useless.
She slipped a chemise up my body, and then wrapped the corset around me and fastened it with the metal busks at the front. Then she went behind my back, and I felt her start to draw in the strings. It was incredibly erotic, to start with. In the mirror, I could see my body starting to take on a new shape. I already had the superbly round buttocks and hips, and the corset started to produce the kind of waist that every woman wants, but most would never achieve.
Tighter and tighter the corset got, and smaller and smaller my waist, until it was getting to the point where I was having difficulty in breathing.
'That's tight enough, Carol. I can't breathe now.'
'Christ! I don't think we're even half-way there. Hang on, let me get a tape measure.' I felt her tie a quick knot in the strings, allowing them to slip slightly, and me to draw a slight breath of air.
'No, you're nowhere near. Your waist has only gone down by about three inches. I need to get at least another inch to start with; then I'll be able to slip on your temporary dress.' She grabbed the strings and started to vigorously pull them tighter.
'No, but Carol, I can't breathe…'
'If you couldn't breathe, you wouldn't be able to talk, so I'll know it's too tight when you pass out.'
I thought she was joking at first, but as the corset got tighter and tighter, I realised she wasn't. I had brainwave, and I let my legs collapse and my head roll to one side. The whole weight of my body was hanging from my arms. It was absolute murder, but surely Carol would stop now.
'That's really helpful,' she said, drawing in another few inches of string. 'But don't let your head loll about like that, or else I won't know when you've passed out and you'll probably end up with a crushed rib-cage.'
I hurriedly pulled my head upright. I would have taken the weight off my arms, by pushing down with my feet, but there was a buzzing in my head, and I no longer knew what I should do to relieve the pain.
***
'There, there. Feeling better?'
I was lying doubled up over the bathroom stool, my head resting on the floor.
'Ehhh-hhh.'
You might as well lie there for a minute, as I can slip on your Bustlet quite easily in that position.'
I opened my mouth wide and managed to suck in a tiny gasp of air — there was just nowhere inside me for it to go. I released that little puff, then sucked in another, and another — all tiny little gasps.
'What's a Bustlet?' I asked, her words at last sinking in.
She produced another black garment from her bag. 'One of these,' she said. 'It's a flesh-coloured singlet which goes over your shoulders and stops below your nipples. There are bags inside which you can inflate with water — you can get breasts any size you like.'
I was intrigued. 'But they won't be very realistic, will they?'
'Well, you've never thought my tits were false, have you? I've been wearing them for years. They're not cheap, but they are incredibly life-like. I first got them when James picked up a nice bribe from a drug dealer. He gave me some of his kitty and told me to get a breast job.'
She pushed her breasts towards me, so as to display them for inspection. 'I found a Bustlet was a lot cheaper, looked just as good, and gave me a bit of cash left over for myself.'
I stared up at her. Her tits were the redeeming feature that had turned a fat, middle-aged woman into a Sex-Goddess.
'But they can't be false,' I protested. 'There's no join with your neck.'
'It comes right up to my chin, look.' She lifted her chin and pointed to an almost invisible line along the underside of her jaw. 'It also hides my double chins and wrinkly neck, so I think it's a bloody good investment. Fortunately, my supplier had a black one in stock, so we'll be able to give you a really nice pair of tits. With those poking out the front of your dress, there's no way James will even look at your face.'
She had a point.
***
After she'd pulled the Bustlet over my head and as far down my chest as it would go, she led me over to the washbasin and took a piece of plastic tubing out of the package, which she fitted onto the tap. Then she turned on the tap and flushed the tube through with water, before fitting the other end onto my left nipple.
'The nipple's porous,' she explained. 'I can force water through it to inflate the breast, and there's a one-way valve to prevent it coming out when I remove the pipe.'
She turned on the tap, and my left breast went from a size AA to a size B in about twenty seconds. 'It's like magic, isn't it. Now, let's get the other breast inflated to the right size.'
After blowing it up, she took off the pipe and then stood back and stared at me for a few seconds. 'Looks like I've over-inflated the right breast. I'll put a little more in the left one.'
My left breast went from a size B to a C; then Carol decided she'd over-inflated the left breast, so she topped up my right one. I was beginning to have visions that I'd end up with tits the size of basket-balls, but she stopped before they'd even reached football size. When she came to measure me, she reckoned they were a whopping 40DD!
'Well, that's fortunate,' she says. 'That happens to be the exact size of bra I bought when I was out shopping.'
So, the bitch had intended me to reach this size all along!
***
I thought the indignity must be virtually over by then; little did I know! She pulled stockings carefully up each leg, and secured them with a lacy garter. Then she made me step into little booties, with high heels (she said they were three inches, but to me it felt like I was tottering on the top of a skyscraper).
After that, she brought out a strange bundle of concentric hoops, all attached to each other by tape. She dropped it on the ground in front of me, and had me step into the centre of them. Then she lifted the smallest hoop up around my legs and as she did so, the other hoops followed, one-by one. This, I realised was a Victorian bustle. She secured it around my waist.
A petticoat went over my head and she spread it down over the bustle, followed by a black skirt. I had to admit, with my narrow waist, and large breasts, the bustle gave me a wonderful shape.
'Why did I need the padded girdle, if I'm going to be wearing a bustle?' I demanded.
'Well, it needs to be realistic when you take it off,' Carol said. 'Or say you tripped over whilst you were carrying a tray, and we all saw your prick hanging down. People might suspect there was something wrong.'
'But aren't I going to wear pantaloons or something?' I protested.
'Don't be silly. Servants could rarely afford such luxuries in those days. You have to look authentic.'
I said nothing more. Personally, I was going to make bloody certain that I didn't trip over and expose everything under my skirt, and anyway, I couldn't see why I wasn't allowed to wear even a pair of normal panties.
Carol had a modern-day top made of black stretchy material for me, which she said I could wear in the meantime, until my corset was tight enough to allow the Victorian bodice to be worn. As I stood in front of her mirror, and swirled around slowly, I looked bloody sexy — and very much the kind of maid that, in other circumstances, I'd have taken a great deal of pleasure in working with.
***
'Good evening, master. Can I take your coat for you? And can I get you a drink to start the evening with?'
Godo hardly knew what had hit him when he walked into his house on Saturday evening, for in front of him was this gorgeous Victorian maid, with huge tits and an unbelievably tiny waist. He ogled me, and then ogled me some more.
Carol had continually tightened my corset until I'd been able to slip on the slim bodice, which buttoned up at the back. Over the top, I was wearing a lacy, white apron, with ribbon ties which crossed over at the back and then tied in a beautiful bow. In my black Afro wig, I had a matching white bow, with the tails hanging halfway down my back.
'Bloody hell. If I'd known there were women like you in Africa, I'd never have been against immigration in the first place.'
I smiled at him. 'Thank you, master. Now, can I take your coat?'
It had been a frenetic couple of days. Carol had made me practice everything about being a female — my walk, my voice, my behaviour, even how to handle my bustle, and now I felt pretty confident I could handle virtually everything that might come along.
I took his coat to the cloakroom, and followed him into the lounge.
'Well, I'm really impressed,' he said, his eyes running up and down my body. 'When Carol said she'd get a Victorian maid, I never realised it would be anything like you.'
I gave a little curtsy — Carol had shown me how. 'Thank you, master.'
'There was just one thing I want to check.' He was staring down at my boots, which were poking out from under my skirts. I wondered whether I hadn't spent long enough polishing them to a mirror-like surface. He bent down onto one knee, but instead of touching my boot, he grasped the lowest hoop of my bustle and lifted it — higher and higher, peering under my skirt.
Damn Carol, I thought. That was why she'd made me wear this garment with the false vagina.
'Well, I never,' he said, presumably as he realised I wasn't wearing bloomers. Then, with a swift movement, he stood up, pulling the hoop upwards with him, so that the rear of it caught me behind the ankles. Before I could react, he was thrusting the front of the hoop into my chest and pushing me backwards.
Unable to step back, I fell back, landing on the floor just behind me with a painful thump. He continued to force the hoop of my bustle up and over my head and shoulders, so the top part of me was encased in the hoop and skirts, whilst the bottom of me was totally exposed, my naked legs waving in the air — that's to say, my totally naked legs waving in the air, apart from the padded girdle which looked just like a woman's thighs and vagina.
Author's note: The story continues in the FINAL CHAPTER
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 5 - The Beach Picnic
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The beach picnic was almost surreal. Even as it was happening, I knew it was one of those events that would be lodged in my mind for decades to come.
Author's Note: To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. I have decided to also include this one, although it does not actually incorporate Big Busts products. Still, it was written in a similar vein.
It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
by Charlotte Dickles
The beach picnic was almost surreal. Even as it was happening, I knew it was one of those events that would be lodged in my mind for decades to come.
There were four of us there on the otherwise empty beach: Helen Noble, aged in her mid-forties and pleasantly attractive with a large frame. She was wearing a white, one-piece swimming costume from which her ample breasts and buttocks agreeably bulged. If you live in the UK, you'll almost certainly have heard of her absent husband, John Noble, a junior Cabinet Minister, who's been picked as a potential prime minister. Maybe. He's a devious, evil bastard with a disarming smile, so he undoubtedly has all the necessary qualifications.
Then there was John and Helen's nineteen-year old daughter, Annabella - not shortened to Anna, I'd been firmly told more than once, and definitely not shortened to Bella. We'd picked her up from university - Cambridge, of course - the previous day, for the start of the summer break. Fortunately she had none of her father's attributes, except for the disarming smile, which in her case was almost certainly genuine. She threw it at people without restraint - a smile to warm the heart of everyone it touched. For her age, she was quite small, and had a slim teenager's body with pert breasts. In her skimpy, bright red bikini, she was definitely a sight for sore eyes.
The third member of the group was the Nobles' housekeeper, Brigit Walker. I reckoned she must be in her mid-twenties, and in her yellow bikini she revealed a body almost as slim at the waist as Annabella's, but with a gorgeously succulent pair of tits and a nicely rounded arse. Until today, I hadn't seen much of Brigit (in all senses of the expression). Sometimes, I'd had to knock on the door when I collected John or, more often, Helen; occasionally Brigit had answered, wearing her black, uniform dress with white pinafore apron - the kind of vision from which erotic fantasies (especially mine) are created. She was obviously treated as one of the family - on the journey down in the car, she and Annabella had chatted like sisters, and Helen joined in with no apparent distinction between employer and employee.
Then there was me, Steve Owen, recently employed chauffeur: thirty-eight years old, divorced, five-feet, nine in height, with a prematurely balding hairline. I was the only one of the four not to be wearing swimming gear. I'd driven them down to their beach villa in Seacombe, that morning - a four hour drive from their Hampstead home - and since I'd been expecting to return to London that afternoon, I'd been wearing my normal uniform: grey suit and peaked cap, white shirt with grey tie, and black leather shoes.
I'd better explain here that I'm not a Government driver. Obviously, John gets his own chauffeur for official business but he was narked that, since he was only a junior minister, the official chauffeur wasn't available to him for social occasions. Then came the 7/7 London bombings, and Helen got worried about travelling by public transport. So they decided to hire a private chauffeur who, during the day would ferry Helen around on her shopping expeditions, museum visits, and lunch dates with her friends, and in the evening would be available to overcome difficulties created by Britain's stringent drink-driving laws.
I'd only been in the job for a week. So far, I'd found it comfortable, provided I could put up with John's whip-lashing tongue, which apparently the previous series of chauffeurs could not. Fortunately, the majority of driving was for Helen, the work was not arduous, and I got live-in accommodation above the garage where the cars were kept - worth an absolute fortune in London.
So, to get back to that picnic on the beach, the four of us had arrived that Sunday at their villa at around midday, and they'd decided they were going to have an immediate picnic on the beach.
'Steve, you can help us carry the stuff down there, and then you can stay and have lunch with us.'
It sounded a fair deal to me, so as the others all dashed into bedrooms and changed into swimming gear, I took off my jacket, cap and tie, and started carrying the stuff down to the place where Helen indicated, at the edge of the sand dunes. After a couple of journeys, they had got changed, and they helped me carry down the final load.
That's when the first surreal event occurred. I've already mentioned the skimpy bikinis that Annabella and Brigit wore. No doubt in London, they'd have given me hell if they'd caught me staring at their tits; consequently, I was admiring their forms with discretion. But no sooner had they dropped their towels on the huge beach-rug I'd spread out on the sand, than they were slipping off their bikini tops without a shred of embarrassment.
I gulped.
'Some wine, Steve?' Helen offered, as she passed the bottle and glasses around. 'You look as though you could do with something to stop you imploding. Don't mind these two. They have no shame.'
'I don't think Steve does mind, Mummy,' Annabella said. 'He appears to be quite appreciative.'
There was no answer to that, so I responded directly to Helen's question. 'Sorry, I'd better not have any wine. I'm driving back, later.'
'No you're not,' Helen said. 'I've decided.'
'Er, sorry?'
'I'm still annoyed about those people in the car following us down here,' she said. 'I've decided I'm going to keep you here for the next few days so you can drive us around.'
The previous Tuesday, the second day of my job, I noted a white Peugeot had been behind us for some distance. It's one of the things they teach you on the defensive driving courses; essential training nowadays for any professional chauffeur. I'd made a couple of turns until I was satisfied we were definitely being followed, and then I discretely brought it to Helen's attention, as a prelude to dialling 999 and asking for police assistance to catch the potential terrorists, or whatever.
'Bugger!' she'd replied. 'He's doing it again.'
'Sorry, madam?' I'd asked.
'I keep telling you,' she said, 'call me Helen. They aren't terrorists in that car; they're simply private detectives hired by my husband to record my infidelity.'
'Oh,' I said, unprepared for such honesty; and then: 'Do you want me to lose them?'
Her eyes twinkled. 'Not today,' she said.
I'd seen the same car several times, over the rest of the week; each time I'd pointed it out to Helen, who had been unperturbed. This morning, as I'd driven up to the Noble's beach villa, I noticed a white Peugeot parked at another villa, about a hundred yards away. I mentally checked the registration number - it matched - and when we'd got into the cottage, I quietly told Helen about it, not wanting the others to hear.
But it seemed Helen had no such inhibitions now, and she relayed the news about the private detectives with relish to the others.
'But isn't Daddy still having that affair with his secretary?' Annabella asked.
'Of course he is,' Helen said. 'And he's tried it on with Brigit enough times. Threatened her with the sack as well, when she wouldn't drop her knickers for him.'
'I don't really understand,' Brigit said. 'Does he want a divorce?'
Helen shook her head. 'He simply wants to intimidate me - to show that he expects me to behave according to the rules, whilst he can simply ignore them. That's just the way he is. Well, I'll show him two can play games. I'll tell him tonight that I want you, Steve, to stay with us for another day and ferry us around as necessary. And if he finds that inconvenient, that's bloody tough luck.
'Now then, Steve,' she continued, her moment of anger behind her, 'pass some of this food around, and for God's sake fill up your wine glass. I'm not having you behaving as a party pooper.'
***
So, we ate, drank and were merry. After lunch, the women stretched out in the sun and, feeling comfortably bloated and ready to do the same, I removed my shirt, to some 'Woo!'s from the girls, and then started to take off my shoes and socks.
'Oh my God!' Brigit exclaimed, as I removed one of my socks. 'He's got a huge, erect... big toe,' to which we all burst into laughter.
As I removed the other sock, the girls der-rahd to the tune of 'The Stripper', and then, with the revelation of my other big toe, Annabella pretended to swoon in horror, whilst Brigit shouted, 'He's got another erection there. That's three in total!'
'Girls! Calm down,' Helen shouted, but she was laughing as much as the rest of us. And Brigit was perfectly correct about the number of erections (if you included my big toes). I had found the whole picnic with fun and games, in the midst of the three, half-naked, beautiful women, incredibly erotic.
Things did calm down a little, until Helen pointed out that, with my white skin, I was going to burn in the fierce heat of the sun. Whereupon, Brigit got onto her knees, held up a tube of suntan lotion and told me to sit up whilst she spread it on me. I'm sure she deliberately let her boobs drag across my back as she worked the lotion onto my shoulders and leant around the front of me to reach my chest. After months of sexual isolation following my divorce, I had entered paradise.
***
Later on, probably around three o'clock, Helen picked up the beach-ball which had been lying next to her and threw it so it landed with a smack on Annabella's tummy.
'A-a-h-h-h! You rat!'
'That's enough lazing about,' Helen said. 'It's time for a swim. Come on, Brigit, and you too, Steve.'
'I haven't got any swimming trunks,' I said. 'I suppose I could go in wearing just my underpants.'
'Presumably, they're your only pair,' Helen said. 'You don't want to get those sopping wet. And I'm not really happy if you come in naked and start waving that thing...' she gesticulated at the bulge still showing in my trousers, '...at us. We might think it's a killer whale.'
My respect for Helen, at that moment, went through the roof. We'd all been fooling around plenty, with lots of innuendo, and her daughter and housekeeper were half-naked, but Helen was drawing the line in the sand which I must not cross. Fine to joke with everyone, and frolic around, but pulling out my throbbing, bare prick, in company, was definitely off- limits. I nodded. I could understand that.
'Easily solved,' Brigit said. She stood up, and with as little embarrassment as she'd shown when removing her top, she slid her bikini briefs down her legs and threw them across, with both considerable force and accuracy, into my face.
By the time I'd pulled them from my eyes, she was racing, completely naked, down to the sea, with Annabella close behind.
'I promise not to look around as I go down to the sea,' Helen said, a big smile on her face. 'But I want you there in two minutes.'
I suppose I could have protested to Helen's receding back, but it seemed such a trivial issue - slipping on the bikini briefs that only seconds before, had been nestling around a pussy I would very much like to get closer to - much, much closer to. I undid my trousers and pulled them, and my underpants, off in one movement, pretending to ignore the wolf- whistles which came from the girls playing in the surf.
The bikini briefs were very tight as I slid them up my legs but, with a bit of force, they went to the top and adequately covered my throbbing prick. One minute after Helen, I was racing into the water.
***
As kids, we used to play a game called 'Piggy in the Middle'. Two people would toss a ball between them, and the 'piggy in the middle' would try to catch it in mid-flight. If successful, the person who missed the catch would become the new piggy.
With four people, we played a variation of that game based upon two teams - one the throwers and catchers - the other, the piggies. The main object of the game seemed to be for the piggy to manhandle the catcher out to the way of the ball, just as it was about to descend, so that the other piggy could catch it in their place. And when I say 'manhandle', of course for most of the time, I meant 'woman-handle'.
As the rules were explained to me, it was suggested that one should handle one's partner with relative dignity, grabbing them around the waist, and throwing them to one side. But as soon as I realised that both Helen and Annabella had a habit of grabbing me and 'accidentally' squeezing my bum, or brushing against my erection, I developed the technique of grabbing them just under their breasts (well, almost under, anyway), and in Annabella's case tweaking her nipple as I lifted her aside. As for Brigit, she would slip her hand into my bikini bottom as she grabbed me. Since she didn't have a bikini bottom into which to slip my hand, I couldn't reciprocate in the same way, so I usually gave her pussy a stroke as I threw her aside.
Remarkably, no one called 'Foul' for the whole of the game, a mark of the close bond, which had developed between us. It was Annabella who first decided she'd had enough, saying that she'd got too cold and that she'd leave the sea to get warm. The game reverted to the conventional three- person variety, but that didn't reduce the amount of man/woman-handling, which we all enjoyed. Finally, we wrapped our arms around each other's shoulders as we walked back though the surf to the beach, and up to the point where our gear was.
***
We sat wrapped in our towels, smiling at each other for a few minutes; perhaps each of us was wondering just exactly where this was leading. For my part, I'd willingly have had sex on the beach with all or any of them, but knew that pushing it at that moment was the worst possible thing I could do. So, I was happy to grin back at them, while we all contemplated the immediate future.
'Where are my trousers?' I asked, looking around. I thought I'd left them lying in a heap, on top of my shoes and shirt, but now I couldn't even see those.
'Annabella?' Helen said.
'Sorry Mummy?' Annabella said, in a tone of mock innocence. 'Was there something you wanted?'
'Steve has lost his clothes,' Helen said. 'Do you know anything about that?'
'Of course not, Mummy,' she continued. 'But there was this note I found on the rug when I came out of the sea, about buried treasure. I don't know whether that's got anything to do with it.' She pointed at a scrap of paper covered in handwriting.'
Helen picked it up. 'That's strange,' she said. 'Whoever wrote this has handwriting remarkably similar to my daughter's. What a coincidence.'
She read aloud from the paper. 'To find the buried treasure, take ten paces from the beach rug towards the house, turn right and take eight paces, then turn left and...
'Hmm,' she continued. 'Instructions to find buried treasure. I think you'd better see if they lead to anything, Steve.' She held out the scrap of paper towards me.
I grinned. OK, so I was the butt of another joke called 'Find Your Clothes'. Well, if the girls didn't want me to get dressed yet, I wasn't complaining. I stood up and obediently pointed towards the beach villa and started my ten paces forward.
'Your paces are too long,' Annabella said. 'That is, I'm certain the pirates who left this message would have used shorter paces.'
So I went back to the rug and paced out ten Annabella-sized paces, then turned to the right and started eight paces...
'You've turned in the wrong direction,' Annabella called.
I looked down at my instructions. 'It says 'Turn right.' '
'Are you sure? Well, it should have said 'Turn Left.' '
I moved back to the point where I'd turned, and faced the opposite direction. Eight paces from there took me to the top of a small sand dune.
'I don't think you can be doing it right,' Annabella said. 'You should be to the right of that dune.'
'Annabella,' Helen said, 'the joke's starting to wear a bit thin. It's one thing burying his clothes, but you might have got the instructions right. Why don't you go and do the pacing for Steve?'
So Annabella got up, and started pacing out the instructions. The problem was that as soon as we got amongst the dunes, we lost all sense of direction. Were we facing the sea or the house? Was that a ninety-degree turn, or a seventy-degree turn? Was that a straight line, or did it bend? If it did bend, was it meant to bend? Then, there were so many instructions - twenty in all, and an error in writing down just one of them would break the chain of clues. Annabella had wanted to make it challenging; in fact, she made it impossible.
After half an hour of us all making attempts to find the buried treasure, digging dozens of holes in every likely spot, we had to give up. My clothes were well and truly lost.
'You'll have to go with Steve into town, tomorrow,' Helen said, 'and buy him replacements.'
'Excuse me,' I said, 'but I don't actually have any clothes to wear. Can't we go into town now?'
'It's Sunday,' Helen said. 'All the shops close at four. You'll just have to make do for tonight. I would make Annabella lend you her best jeans, except she's so sickeningly thin that you'd never get into them; so is Brigit, for that matter. So, I guess I'd better lend you some of my things.'
'Thanks, Mummy. And, er, sorry Steve,' Annabella said.
'Thanks Helen, and as for you,' I said, turning to Annabella, 'I think you need your bottom spanking.' I raised my arm and made as if to slap her, and she went shrieking into the dunes, with me racing after her.
Needless to say, I couldn't catch her! We spent a few minutes racing around, before we returned breathless to the rug. Helen had already gone up to the house, taking some of the picnic gear with her, and the three of us spent a few minutes packing everything up. Between us, we managed to carry it all in one load.
The beach villa is one of those wonderful art deco buildings dating from the 1930s, which would never have got planning permission today. It bordered the road, with the main accommodation being at that level, whilst beneath, the floor at beach level was mainly devoted to a large storage area, used for keeping a speedboat and a couple of jet skis, along with quad bikes which could be used to tow them down to the water. At the one corner of the building, was a shower, and it was to this that Brigit raced as soon as she'd unceremoniously dropped her load on the ground.
'Race you to the shower,' she shouted, when she was almost there. 'Last one in's a wimp.'
Annabella raced after her and squeezed inside, to the accompaniment of girlish screams.
Brigit's head popped out. 'That makes you the wimp,' she said, and added with obvious innuendo, 'Are you coming or not?'
'I didn't know I was invited,' I said, a huge grin breaking over my face, 'but yes, I think I might be coming.'
'I'll rephrase that,' Brigit said. 'You're welcome to share our shower, provided you keep on those bikini briefs.'
There it was again: the line showing what was off-limits and what was not. I could live with that.
'Sounds great to me,' I said, racing to the cubicle.
It was certainly a tight squeeze, made all the tighter because as I entered, Annabella was bending over removing her bikini briefs, presenting her own bottom to me, with just a trace of the slit between her legs on show.
'Just what I wanted,' I said, and gave it a sharp slap with my hand.
'A-a-g-g-h!' She jerked upright, her head lifting one of Brigit's tits and pushing it to one side as she did so. 'You rat! Take that!' She slapped a wet and soapy sponge in my face.
'O-o-h-h!' The soap in my eyes stung like crazy.
'Stop moaning,' Brigit said, 'and use that sponge on my back.'
'Oh dear, I've dropped it,' I said. 'Never mind, I'll put some soap on my hands and use that instead.'
'Well, if you're going to use your hands,' Brigit said, turning around, 'you'd better start with my front.'
It was the best foreplay I'd ever experienced in my life. Normally, I'd be in hurry to move onto the next stage, but this time, I knew there'd be no next stage. I was in a shower with two naked, beautiful, young women, who were perfectly happy to indulge in a mutual soaping and washing session. It really was slapstick at its very best.
Unfortunately, all good things eventually come to an end.
'You lot are not STILL in the shower, are you?' Helen's voice came through the curtain.
'Well, Helen, one of us is very dirty,' Brigit called. 'We keep rubbing him but he doesn't get any cleaner.'
'Time to get dressed,' Helen replied. 'Perhaps this will encourage you to speed up.'
The shower turned icy cold.
'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h!' we shouted simultaneously, ejecting from the shower in a bundle of arms, legs and boobs. Helen was waiting outside, and she threw a large, fluffy, white towel at each of us.
'Come on, I've sorted out something which I think Steve can wear. And you all need to get dressed.'
She, I now noticed, was already wearing a pretty, sleeveless, pink dress, showing off the tan she'd developed that afternoon.
***
Five minutes later, we all crept upstairs, our towels wrapped around us.
'Steve, I've laid out a couple of things on my bed,' Helen said. 'Go with him, Brigit, and decide the best thing for him to wear.'
Brigit slipped into her own bedroom first, and put on a short dressing gown. Then she led the way into the master bedroom, and I followed. There were a couple of dresses on the bed, but I couldn't see the clothes she'd laid out for me.
'Oh, that's a nice dress, don't you think, Steve?'
I glanced at it; a fairly long, red dress, which buttoned right up to a high neckline, with tiny pictures of beach balls, lilos and surfboards scattered randomly across it.
'Yes. Is that for you?' I asked. 'What did she do with my clothes?'
'Steve, these are your clothes.'
I looked at them again, staring suspiciously, and then I twigged. 'OK, very funny, ha-ha. Don't tell me, Helen never wears trousers or jeans, so I'm going to have to wear a dress, right?'
'Well, you must have noticed that during the week you've been ferrying me around,' Helen's voice came from behind me. 'I never do wear trousers - they simply don't suit my shape. I'd far rather hide these monster hips beneath a flowing skirt than expose them in jeans.'
I turned to face her, expecting a smile to break out on her face, as she was unable to keep up the pretence any longer. But the smile was already there. 'I'm sorry, Steve, I know that a man wearing a dress represents a great attack on his virility, his penis will immediately fall off, and everyone will laugh at him, but you're amongst friends, here. OK, we might laugh at you, but we've been doing that all afternoon, and you can't deny you've enjoyed it.'
'But there must be something else I could wear,' I said.
'Oh, come on, Steve,' Brigit said. 'We've been having fun together all afternoon. Let's have some fun now, dressing you up. I'm sure we'll all enjoy doing it. And I reckon we'll make a pretty passable woman out of you.'
I shook my head, but couldn't help smiling, partly because I'd glimpsed a flash of Brigit's nipple as she'd turned, but also because I could see the fun and games of the afternoon were going to continue all evening. Well, I was game if they were.
'Now, you're wrong about making me into a passable woman,' I said. 'But OK, I'll go ahead with your games. I'm not entirely convinced there are no trousers I could wear in the entire house, but what the hell, I'm amongst friends.' I splayed my hands out. 'So, you do your damnedest on me. Treat me as your little dolly, to dress up. Only don't be disappointed with the results.'
'OK,' Brigit said. 'That's a challenge. You say we'll be disappointed. Well, I say you'll be astounded by the results. Is that a contest?'
'You bet,' I said, thinking how nice it was that we trusted each other to tell the truth at the end. And it was going to be fun, I thought, just like the rest of the day had been.
***
'I thought the good thing about this dress,' Helen said, pointing to the one Brigit was still holding, 'is that it's got a high neckline, so we don't have to worry about Steve's hairy chest, and it's long enough that when he wears it with boots, it won't show any of his leg, either.'
'But that means we won't have to wax him,' Annabella said, coming into the bedroom. 'I was really looking forward to that bit.'
'Well, never mind, Annabella,' Brigit said. 'I think we'll have our work cut out to get him presentable in a reasonable time for dinner, anyway.'
'We could eat before you've finished with me,' I protested.
'Absolutely not,' Helen said. 'The one thing I insist on here is that we dress up properly for dinner. We may be slobs all day, but we become civilised for dinner. Incidentally,' she turned to Annabella, 'did you ring Morrellis?'
'Yes. No problem.'
'Who are Morrellis?' I asked, suddenly suspicious.
'They only sell the best, takeaway pizzas in the whole of Seacombe,' Brigit answered.
'Oh,' I said, silently thinking, 'and I bet they want me to drive them there in these clothes.' A flutter of excitement went soaring through my body. 'And why not?' I thought.
'So, Brigit,' Helen continued, 'do you want to get him into some underwear? You can use any of my stuff you need.'
I knew it was useless to protest that underwear was unnecessary. In any case, wasn't I rather intrigued to discover what it would be like wearing the kind of garments I usually took such delight in removing? I wasn't going to confess it to the girls (or anyone else, for that matter), but in fact, I found the whole idea incredibly erotic.
'First thing,' Brigit said, 'is we get rid of all traces of your stubble. It's a shame that you haven't got a proper beard, because then we would be able to wax it off you. It might have been painful, but it would have given a super finish. As it is, we'll have to rely on shaving. Come into the en-suite, and we'll get you lathered up.'
She led me in, carefully positioned the stool in front of the washbasin, and then plonked me down on it and made me lie back so my head was resting on the edge of the washbasin, cushioned by a towel. Personally, I thought she had only made me sit like that so that it made my cock (and yes, my throbbing erection still showed no sign of abating) stand even more proud under the material of the bikini bottom.
She found some shaving soap from somewhere, and massaged it into my twelve-hour stubble.
'Are you alright if I leave you like that for a few seconds for it to soften the beard,' she said. 'Then I'll sort out some underwear.'
She went out, and had a little discussion in a low voice with Annabella. When she returned, she had a cutthroat razor in her hand. As she started to shave me, she said, 'Fortunately, John always uses a cutthroat, and keeps one here. Good job he doesn't keep any of his clothes here.' ('I wonder,' I thought.) 'We thought stockings and suspender belt, rather than tights. Are you OK, with that?'
'I suppose it's no use protesting that you're not going to see them, so there's no point.' As I said the words, I wondered whether I'd phrased them in such a way they encouraged a 'No' answer.
Brigit gave the prompted answer. 'No. To look good as a woman, you have to feel a woman all the way through. That's why we wear sexy underwear, regardless of whether we're expecting to get laid that day.'
I had to admit that she was doing a half-decent job of shaving me. I'm always terrified of cutthroats, so I would never use one, but I could tell, as she ran her fingers across my throat, it was a perfect shave. And my throat was still intact!
'We're also going to use a towel to pad out your hips and bum,' she continued.
'I thought most women were always trying to shed inches there, not add to them,' I said.
'Of course, you're right,' Brigit said, 'but that only goes to show that most women are very broad there. For you to look like a woman, we have to get your basic body shape right, so we have to make your hips stick out wider than your shoulders.'
'I didn't realise you'd be doing all this,' I said. 'I thought a bit of makeup, some rolled up socks in my bra, and that would be it.'
'I've told you, you are going to be astounded by the results. We won't achieve that with a bit of make up and some rolled up socks. There, I think I've finished your shave. How does it feel to you?'
It felt pretty good to me. As Brigit was washing off the final traces of soap, and then patting my face dry, Annabella came back and said, 'I got everything.'
'Great,' Brigit said. Without further ado, I felt her fingers trace a line down my stomach to the top of my bikini briefs; she slipped her fingers under the elastic and lifted. With my head supported on the washbasin, I couldn't tilt it to see what she was up to, but I reckoned any second, she'd bend down and give me a blow job, or at the very least, a hand job.
There was a Schhh noise, as though someone was delivering coals, and then the pain hit me right where it hurts most.
'Y-a-a-a-h-h-h-h!' I sat up with a jerk. The bikini briefs were bulging far more than they had been all afternoon, but I knew it was not with erect penis. Brigit was still holding the empty ice bucket, after she'd dumped its contents around my genitals.
'Fucking hell!' I screamed, standing up and pulling down my bikini briefs, the ice cascading onto the floor. The rampant monster, that had been there just a minute ago, had totally disappeared.
'That's great,' Brigit said. 'Just the effect I wanted. Now take the towel, quickly dry between your legs, then slip on this pantie-girdle.'
She made me push my prick backwards between my legs as she pulled it into its final position, and as she gave one last pull upwards, I felt my testicles move in a way that it felt they really shouldn't, but then the discomfort was gone.
'You could have achieved that in a more humane way,' I grumbled.
'Well, if you know a better way to get rid of a massive hard-on, we can try that next time. The important thing is that it's done the trick for now. So now, let's put on your suspender belt and stockings.'
They'd selected black lacy stockings for me, and they showed me how to put them on for myself, and clip them to the suspender belt. It was a good job my prick was firmly under control, for I felt incredibly sexy, and I knew, it would have been surging up between us, otherwise. I think Brigit knew that as well, for she was looking extremely pleased with herself.
'I think make-up next,' Brigit said. 'That's going to take some time, so Annabella can be getting on with your manicure whilst I'm doing that. Let's spread some towels on the bed so you can lie down whilst I get on with it. You can even have a sleep, if you want to.'
***
It's funny, but if you'd told me at the start of the day that by six pm, I'd be lying on the bed with a beautiful woman standing over me, clad only in a dressing gown only loosely done up, through which I could glimpse wonderful sights, and that I'd then fall asleep, I'd have said you were mad. But that's what happened.
Part of the problem was that she made me close my eyes for much of the time, so she didn't get any make-up in them. And the fact that my prick was no longer standing to rigid attention seemed a sign to my body that it could get a brief respite. I didn't know what Annabella was doing to my fingers, but the work of both girls felt very therapeutic. After all, they were making me beautiful.
***
'Time to wake up, now, Steve.' Brigit's voice woke me from my slumber. 'We have just a few more things to do, and then you'll be ready to look at yourself, and agree that we have won the challenge.'
'Yeah, and there's a flying pig just gone by,' I said. I glanced down. My body was unchanged from earlier, with just my erotic suspender belt and stockings and the pantie girdle. I moved my arms in order to help myself sit up, and that's when I saw the flash of red. I moved my hand in front of my face.
'Holy shit!'
'They're wonderful, aren't they? Hasn't Annabella done a superb job.'
I was looking at my inch-long, blood-red nails. Totally impractical, but hell, did I feel sexy. The two girls were poised, awaiting my answer. I could have given a begrudging acceptance that they were 'all right', but I felt Brigit was bang-on. In transforming my chipped and uncared for nails into these fabulous fangs, Annabella had done a truly wonderful job.
'I think they're fantastic, Annabella,' I said. 'They're incredible.' I daren't ask if they would come off easily. Those kinds of thoughts were best left until tomorrow.
I'd obviously said the right words, because both their faces lit up.
'OK,' Brigit said. 'We have a few things left to do now. The first, let's get your hips and bum padded out. Can you slip on those panties.'
She pointed to a pair lying on the bed; they looked enormous. I stepped into them, and pulled them up. The waist elastic was so slack, they barely stayed up. Then, Brigit took a couple of hand towels, folded them each a few times, and proceeded to stuff them into my panties, so they formed a thick padding around my hips and bum.
She stood back and inspected me. 'Much better,' Annabella said, although to me I simply looked like someone with towels stuffed into their panties.
'Breasts, next,' Brigit said. 'Now, am I right in thinking that, like many men, you admire big breasts?' I nodded. 'Thought so,' she continued, 'the way you keep ogling mine. Breasts the size of melons is what men usually say is the ideal, but I'm afraid we couldn't stretch that far. So come on through into the en-suite.'
She turned and led the way. 'Some people will pay a fortune for a pair of silicone breasts to stuff in their bra, but we have spared no expense in finding an ad hoc substitute.'
She pointed into the washbasin and I stared at a pair of balloons, obviously left over from a birthday party some years ago, for they were inscribed, 'Happy Birthday, Annabella.' Only now the balloons had been inflated with water, and they formed huge globes.
'Like I said,' Annabella said, 'we wanted to make them melon sized, but as soon as we started to approach anything like, we realised they would never work. So, these are probably only half-melon sized.'
'God, they're enormous,' I said.
It's only when you see something half-melon-sized that you realise how ridiculous the original comparison was. I guessed that Brigit's breasts could realistically be compared to large grapefruit; Helens slightly larger perhaps, but not as firm. These balloons must easily be twice as large as theirs. Which led me on to a question.
'Do you have a bra these are going to fit into? Surely, neither of you have anything to hold these monsters up.'
'We know men prefer bra-less breasts,' Annabella said, 'so we thought we'd give you the opportunity to experience them.'
'How will they stay in place?'
Brigit held up a roll of elastic. 'Simple,' she said. 'We hang them around your neck with this.'
'Won't that put an awful strain on my neck?'
'Yes.' Both Annabella and Brigit spoke together, with smiles on their faces.
'You bastards.'
'Oh! Really, Stevie! We cannot have you speaking like a man,' Helen said, returning to the room. 'From now on, you'll talk like a proper young lady, and I want you two,' she fixed Annabella and Brigit with a glare, 'to set a fine example for Stevie.'
I took it that Stevie was to be my name for the evening. OK, well I'd gone along with everything else. I guessed this was no great shakes.
Brigit tied a noose in the elastic and slipped the neck of the one balloon through it, and pulled it tight. Then she stretched the elastic around my neck and let the balloon hang from it, estimating the position of the noose for the other balloon. She had to adjust it a couple of times to get it right, but then I had two enormous balloons hanging around my neck; they looked in the wrong place.
Brigit and Annabella deliberated about the problem, and eventually solved it by passing the elastic right around my back and pulling the two balloons apart, sufficient to position them in front of my nipples.
Without any clothes, they looked like exactly what they were, but I suspected that as soon as I pulled on the dress, they would resemble an enormous pair of knockers. Would I have the courage to drive to the takeaway with these? Hell, would I have the courage to walk from the front door to the car, no more than five yards? My heart gave another flutter of excitement. I guessed with the girls behind me, I'd have no choice.
'Stand still whilst I put your wig on,' Annabella commanded. I did, and she flipped it over my head, and spent a few minutes pulling it here, and pulling it there, then giving it a brush, until she was satisfied.
'Time to put on the dress, Stevie.' It was Brigit who spoke, but I could sense an exhilaration running through all three of them, now. This was when they would see the final result. Brigit held up the dress, unbuttoned all the way down the front for me to slip into. I fed my arms down the sleeves and Brigit pulled it on and buttoned me up, and then stepped back to admire me.
'She needs a slip,' Helen said. She turned round and rummaged in a drawer. 'Here you are.' She held out a frilly, white slip; it was so pretty it gave my heart another flutter. Helen handed the slip to Brigit, who bent down in front of me and made me step into it. She pulled it up under my dress, and then stepped back again.
'Boots,' Annabella said. 'Which ones do you suggest, Mummy?'
'The black, Italian pair.'
Annabella rummaged in the closet and brought them out. Another shiver of excitement ran through me as I noticed the narrow, high-heels.
'I won't be able to drive in those,' I said.
'I always manage it,' Helen said, 'so I don't see why you shouldn't.'
Almost simultaneously, Annabella said, 'Oh, Stevie. Are you suggesting you'll do the driving to Morrellis? That's great.'
Damn! I'd fallen into a trap of my own making. I stared around at them, all smiling at me. I smiled back and said, 'Just deny that you hadn't got that in your minds, all along.'
No one spoke, apart from Brigit who said, 'We really can't imagine what you're accusing us of. But be a sweetie and slip your left foot into this boot.'
'Aw! That's impossible,' I said, as my foot went in and Brigit zipped it up. 'I can't even stand in this, never mind walk or drive.'
'It'll be much easier when you have the pair on,' Brigit said, opening up the other boot. 'Now, your other foot in here.'
Annabella and Helen steadied me as I tottered on the one foot, whilst locating the other. Then Brigit was zipping that boot up too. She stood up, stared critically at me, flicked a lock of my hair, and then said, 'OK, time to see yourself, Stevie.'
Helen and Annabella turned me to face the full-length mirror that Brigit now turned away from the wall.
'Bloody hell!'
'Stevie, you know what I've said about your language,' Helen said.
'She does look fucking good, though, doesn't she?' Brigit said.
'Absolutely amazing,' Annabella said.
They were right. OK, I was never going to rival Miss Universe, but I was an entirely credible woman, with fantastic breasts, which pleasantly joggled under my dress as I moved. Yes, my arse was too big, but then that's what every woman thought about herself.
'Well?' Brigit asked. 'Disappointed or astounded?'
I couldn't stop the grin spreading from ear to ear. 'Astounded,' I said. 'You win.'
***
I'd already conceded the position about driving to Morrellis, so I didn't even bother to argue about it. But I did have to take deep breaths as I paused before stepping out of the front door. All three women were really supportive.
'Come on, Stevie, you can do it.'
'You ARE a woman, Stevie. It's really no great shakes to step outside.'
'You're with friends, Stevie. We'll look after you.'
I nodded. Brigit pulled open the front door and stepped through, with me immediately on her tail, and Annabella and Helen following behind. The car was only a few paces away and I had a quick glance around; there was no one in sight who could be suspicious of the woman with such enormous boobs amongst the party of four. As I got into the car, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had done it, so far.
'So what was the great big deal?' Annabella asked. 'You're one of us. If you get any weird looks from men, it's because women are always getting weird looks from men. If women look at you strangely, it's because they think you should be wearing a bra.'
She was right. There was nothing to worry about - except being able to drive the car properly in these boots with such ridiculous heels!
'Put the car seat a bit further back,' Helen advised. 'Remember, you drive with the soles of your shoes, not your heels.'
It was certainly different, but I practised with the pedals for a few minutes before starting the engine and setting off, and I was actually fine, once I got going. Brigit directed me towards the town centre.
Even as I was driving there, I was thinking, 'Why have they ALL come to collect a takeaway?' I immediately answered my own question: 'They're going to insist that I go into the shop to pick up the order.'
Incredibly, rather than finding that terrifying, I thought it was tremendously exhilarating. I knew my voice wasn't good enough to deal with the assistant, but I guessed they appreciated that too. Presumably, they would all come into the shop with me, to provide moral support and do the talking. I would just be there to be viewed as one of a group of four women. The really great thing was that I had real confidence they would support me, rather than trying to make me look a fool.
Brigit guided me to a car park adjacent to Morrellis. I glanced across at the Italian restaurant, and that's when the sheer audacity of their plan hit me.
'My God!' I said. 'It's not a takeaway, it's a restaurant.'
'But Stevie, they do make the best takeaway pizzas in Seacombe,' Brigit insisted.
'Maybe,' I retorted. 'But tell me that you haven't booked a table for the four of us.'
There was a moment's silence, before Helen said, 'We were going to try to get you in there without worrying you. We know you'll be fine, and we'll all be there to support you. But if you really don't want to go in, then we'll get a takeaway and take it back to the house. No hard feelings.'
My heart was banging against my ribs; my breath was coming in short pants; the adrenaline was coursing around my body; I felt like a sexy woman; if I turned around now, then not only would my relationship with these three women be gone for ever, but my chance to be a woman would be ended.
I let my breath steady for a few seconds, getting a little more oxygen into my lungs. 'OK,' I said. 'Let's go in.'
Smiles broke out onto all three of their anxious faces. 'That's my girl.' 'Fantastic.' 'You can do it.'
I got out the car first, and a couple of blokes passing nearby did a double take of my boobs and then let out a wolf-whistle. I turned my back on them, but I think they saw the grin of sheer delight before I did so.
'Take my arm, Stevie. Then you won't fall over as you get used to your heels,' Helen said.
And so we proceeded into Morrelli's restaurant. The manager took one glance at us four gals and immediately decided we should have the table in the window; no doubt thinking it would attract plenty more clientele.
'Can we order some wine, Mummy?'
Damn! As always, I had to be careful about drinking. I'd already broken my no-drink-driving rule once today. It was a pain, but it was my career at stake.
'Helen,' Brigit said, 'why don't we get a taxi back, and then Stevie can drink as well?'
'No need, Helen,' I said, using the voice Annabella and Brigit had tried to coach in to me on the way in. 'I don't mind going without.'
'Brigit's right,' Helen said. 'Having got you here by deception, getting a taxi home is the least we can do. Waiter, a couple of bottles of Chianti, please.'
***
'So which of you devised this dastardly plot?' I asked, some time later. The wine had been freely flowing, the food good, service brilliant, and the conversation great. I had lost all trace of self-consciousness; we were just a bunch of girls together.
'Plot?' Brigit said. 'What makes you think it was a plot?'
'It all fitted together too well. You, Brigit, showed no surprise when Helen left dresses on the bed for me. The way you'd been teasing me up till then, you should have been merciless over that. But you knew that if you were, you'd never get me to wear them.
'And you, Helen,' I continued. 'When you initially offered to sort out some clothes for me, surely, you'd have explained the problem.
'And Annabella,' I said. 'Wasn't that just unfortunate that you managed to lose all my clothes in the sand?
'So, I ask again, who was the architect of this scheme?' I smiled at them all. None of them would meet my eyes, so I knew I was right.
'OK, I can't tell a lie,' Brigit said. 'It was Annabella.'
'You pig!' Annabella said. 'Anyway, you started off the whole idea by throwing your bikini briefs in his face and getting him to wear them.'
Brigit looked slightly abashed, at that. 'OK, I admit, the bikini briefs were the catalyst. I only did it as a show of bravado - a flash of my naked body in front of you to entice you into the sea, because I knew we'd have a load of fun down there.'
'As we were running down to the sea,' Annabella continued, 'I said, 'He won't put them on,' and Brigit said, 'I bet he does.' Then you did, and I suppose I might have said, 'Wouldn't it be a great laugh if we could get him to wear a complete female outfit.' And that's when Mummy caught up with us.'
Helen's smile was stretching from ear to ear. 'I said that getting you to wear female clothes would be easy. The real challenge would be to get you out in public. So, yes, your right, Stevie, we all connived at getting you here.
'But in return for us being honest with you,' she continued, 'you be honest with us.' She looked me directly in the eye, and I knew the question that was coming. 'Are you enjoying this evening, or hating it? So, did we do wrong in turning you into such a good looking woman.'
I thought a little about her questions. 'Tonight has been an incredible experience; wearing different clothes, I've become a different person entirely - moved into a whole new world - and everything looks different and feels different.'
I gave each of them an enormous smile. 'Then there's the exhilaration of people not realising the truth. Those blokes that came in a few minutes ago, and they all clocked every one of us, and I knew exactly what they were thinking.'
'You must have dirty mind,' Brigit said. 'Perhaps there's a bit of male left inside you, somewhere. Only it's not very obvious from the outside.'
***
I guess we'd all had quite a lot to drink, me especially, so I didn't feel at all nervous about the taxi ride home. Helen sat in the front with the driver, whilst us three girls squashed into the rear - me on the left, Annabella on the right with Brigit comfortably nestling in between us. The girls talked a bit, but I couldn't, since - drunk or not - I had enough sense to realise the driver would suss me the second I opened my mouth.
When we arrived, I got out first, and then held open the car door and helped Brigit and then Annabella out of the car - it was good to see my professional training hadn't left me after my first evening as a woman. My professional training had also meant I'd been able to accept the note that Brigit pressed into my palm as she got out, without either Helen or Annabella noticing. After the taxi had disappeared and the women had gone into the house, I opened my hand.
It wasn't a ten-pound note lying there, or even a miserable fiver; instead it was something much more valuable. A used paper serviette from the restaurant! When I unfolded it, the words leapt out at me, causing my heart to do a gambol. 'WAIT 10 MINS AFTER ALL HAS GONE QUIET. END ROOM ON THE LEFT.'
'Yes!' I said to myself, and punched the air in exuberance.
***
It seemed to take forever for Annabella and Brigit to get me undressed and the make-up off my face. I made a bit of small talk with the two of them, but made no reference - not even obliquely - to the contents of the note. Brigit had not wanted the other two to know, so I wasn't going to upset her by giving away her secret passion for the chauffeur.
After the make-up, Brigit had to make cocoa for everyone, which I took to my room. I got undressed and lay in bed, sipping my cocoa, listening to Helen and Annabella chattering away in the lounge for almost half an hour. Even after that, I heard toilets flushing and taps running for seemingly ages. Finally, all fell silent.
I slipped on the flimsy dressing gown that Helen had lent me, then turned out my light, opened my bedroom door and padded into the pitch-black corridor. Living in London, you never experience anything like real darkness - the sky is always illuminated by thousands of advertising signs, car headlights and streetlights.
On the beach at Seacombe, the only light is from the moon and stars, and there was little of that finding its way into the corridor. I felt completely disorientated as I fumbled my way around, desperately trying to remember the layout from this afternoon - but then, my mind had been on other things. Finally, I bumped into the wall which I thought must be at the end of the corridor, then shuffled to the left until I could feel the door and door handle. I turned it, opened the door and stepped inside.
'Hi, it's me,' I whispered.
'Stevie,' the whisper came back. 'This is very wicked of you.'
The whisper was sufficient for me to get my bearings, and I shuffled forward until I bumped into the side of the bed. I reached forward and felt for the quilt, which I folded back, then slipped off my dressing gown and got into bed.
'I really don't think you should be doing this, Stevie,' she whispered.
'It's OK,' I whispered back. 'It's not Stevie, it's Steve. We don't have to be lesbians - we can do it the normal way.'
My lips found her lips, and I flicked my tongue into her mouth as she opened it to say something else. Then her tongue was flicking back, and working its way into my mouth. We tongue jousted for a few seconds, ending in giggling laughter.
'Be quiet,' she said. 'The others will hear...'
Her words were submerged as I kissed her again, and my hand slid across to where I thought her breast should be. Bang on target, a lacy nightdress covering a large, soft, squeezy breast, with a nipple which went rock-hard as soon as I touched it.
'A-a-h-h!' she gasped, and then, 'Steve, do you mind if I come on top?'
'You can come as often as you like, wherever you like,' I said, turning over onto my back.
'Silly boy,' she said, sitting up.
I thought it strange that Brigit should call me that, since I was easily more than ten years her senior, but I wasn't complaining; I was quite happy to lie back and think of England - except that football was the last thing on my mind at that moment. Then I felt her towering over me, and a well-rounded thigh crossed over my hips, and her weight settled onto my legs. And when I say HER weight, I don't mean Brigit's weight. OK, she has nice, large tits and a rounded bum, but everything else was so slim that surely she couldn't be so heavy.
'Oh Steve,' she whispered, lowering her body towards mine. When she was halfway down, her breasts touched my chest, and that's when I KNEW who was on top of me. Annabella had pert breasts, Brigit had succulent, firm breasts, but only Helen had large breasts which, for reasons that were now obvious, she did not allow to play about unsupported.
Then Helen was feeding her breast into my mouth, and I was sucking at it like a baby.
'Oh God! That's good, Steve. Now the other one.' And she pulled the one breast away and was feeding - indeed pouring would be a better word - the other breast into my mouth, and I was sucking on it.
'Oh, Steve. I thought you'd be chasing one of the others into bed. I can't think why you chose me.'
She removed her breast from my mouth long enough for me to say, 'Helen, you're the most beautiful of all. The others are only kids.' (I may not be the best chatter-up of women, but even I knew it would have been extremely bad form to say that I was only there by mistake.)
'You stupid man,' she said, bending right down and kissing me again. 'Look, when I said on top, would you mind if I... well, took control?'
'Course not,' I said. 'Enjoy yourself.'
'Thanks Steve.' By this time she'd worked herself up my body so she was now kneeling on my shoulders. I could sense her reaching up, and the nightdress, which she'd been wearing, was lifted over her head, and then she was wriggling forward some more, so her shins were resting on my shoulders, she had my wrists pinned down and her torso was hovering directly over my head.
And then she did the splits.
'Lick me, Steve! Lick me!' I heard, just before her thighs settled around my ears and my face was forced into her pussy.
So I did! I licked for all I was worth. Helen was very considerate, because every few minutes, she'd let me come up for air, except when an orgasm took her, in which case, I'd have to hold my breath for longer, until she'd done. I reckoned after that practice, I'd be able to take up pearl diving for a living.
Finally, she was wriggling herself down my body again. As I struggled to adjust my position, I realised she'd taken the opportunity whilst I'd been submerged in pussy to use the ribbon from her nightdress to tie my hands to the bedposts. I was spread-eagled like a laboratory specimen!
'Do you mind if I put the light on?' Helen asked. 'This is so much better if we can see each other.'
Without waiting for an answer, she leant over and switched on a bedside lamp, and for the first time I could see what a tremendous woman she was. OK, the breasts did sag a little, but with their size, you'd expect them too. Wide hips, with a big bum behind, which she settled down on my hips, my prick trapped somewhere behind. Her legs straddled me, her hairy pussy on full view, which even as I watched, she slipped her fingers down to stretch the lips apart.
'Best bit coming up,' she said. She lifted up her body and moved it backwards. I could see my poor innocent prick rising to meet the challenge, and then it was engulfed inside her.
And it felt fucking great!
I think she screwed me for the best part of two hours. Not that my prick is normally capable of keeping itself bottled up for two hours - normally it's spurting semen after just a few minutes. But the reason why Helen wanted the light on soon became obvious.
As soon as she saw the glint appear in my eyes, in response to the message my prick was telling me, she was moving backwards to tilt my poor prick to a most extreme angle. It was a wonder she didn't break it in half, but she certainly broke my intending orgasm, and after a few minutes grace, we were off again on the ride of a lifetime. Helen had orgasms of volcanic proportions, which went on and on; yet still she kept me from having mine.
Finally, when I could sense that she was growing weary, she let me come, and turned it into a bucking bronco event that had me spurting gallons of semen deep inside her. My hands still tied to the bedposts, she lowered her torso onto mine, and kissed me, then snuggled down onto my shoulder.
'John hates doing it this way,' she murmured. 'He always has to be on top. Don't you think he's missing fantastic sex?'
'Fantastic,' I said, and I meant it.
***
Sometime later, I felt a wet mouth latch onto my prick and started sucking, and kissing, and caressing. Ten seconds later, it was hard as rock again, and we spent another hour or so in paradise.
So it continued until the morning. Sunlight was streaming through the window, and Helen was shaking me awake.
'Come on,' she said. 'You can't stay in bed much longer. Brigit will be bringing me a cup of tea soon.'
In need of at least six hours more sleep, I drowsily got out of bed, found my dressing gown and pulled it on.
'Oh, and Steve?'
I looked at her. 'Mmm?'
'Thanks for last night. I enjoyed myself, and I think you did too.'
'You bet,' I said. 'That was absolutely fantastic.'
'I was wondering,' she said, 'whether you wanted to continue the relationship.'
Gulp!
'Well, actually I mean the sex,' she added. 'I'm not looking for love. I just want to have lots of orgasms, and I can't remember the last time John gave me a tiny thrill, never mind the kind of blood-tingling, earth- shattering, heart-throbbing, made-in-heaven ecstasies of last night.'
Perhaps if I was ruled by my brain rather than my dick, I'd have turned her down, but I don't think I'm much different from most other blokes in that respect. Still, my response showed I still had some kind of thinking capability.
'I'd love to, Helen,' I said. 'Only don't you think that John might suspect if I stay down here for much longer. You said he was continually jealous.'
Helen smiled. 'I think we can get around that problem,' she said. 'Didn't you once tell me that you had a sister who was also a chauffeur?'
I nodded. 'Yes, but what's that got to do with anything.'
'It means,' Helen said, 'that you can use her identity when I decide to replace my current male chauffeur with a female chauffeur. Like I said last night, John would never suspect a woman.'
'You mean,' I said, 'you want me to continue dressing as a woman.'
'Don't try to tell me,' she said, 'that you weren't turned on by it. I certainly was.'
She put her hand on my cock and gave it a few strokes. 'So, are we on? Or are you going back to being a full-time man?'
'Is the Pope Catholic?' I asked.
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 6 - Sun, Sand and Seacombe
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by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS: Apart from sun, sand and Seacombe, there was one other essential ingredient for a good holiday for aging Abigail. Unfortunately, as she lay on the beach at that British holiday resort on the first day of her holiday, it looked as though that particular component might be in very short supply. Until, that is, the bloke just in front of her goes for a swim in the sea and has his clothes stolen. But how on earth can Abigail ensure that he doesn't go dashing off home as soon as his immediate problems are resolved?
***
Author's Note: To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.
***
'From thirty feet away she looked like a lot of class. From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away'.
Abigail knew what she looked like in the mirror, and as she put her paperback down with a slap, she thought again about whether she should have cosmetic surgery on her face.
OK, it was fine for Mr Raymond-bloody-Chandler to put wise-cracking words into the mind of that biggest dick of them all, Philip Marlowe, but did he ever consider the feelings of the blond, herself? It wasn't her fault that she was no longer as young and beautiful as she had once been.
'It happens to us all, sometime,' she spoke the words aloud, getting a strange look from the people sitting closest to her.
Philip Marlowe's words had a particular significance to Abigail, for today was the first time she was airing her new breasts, pushing out of the top of her Baywatch swimsuit like grapefruit on a greengrocer's shelf. Her swimsuit itself was a miracle of modern design, keeping her tummy as flat today as it had been forty-five years ago, when she had first sat on Seacombe beach with her parents. Even her scraggy neck was superbly concealed from sight.
And it appeared to be working. Every male walking along the beach on that Sunday afternoon had sussed her from fifty yards, and had subtly altered course so as to pass directly in front of the sun-lounger - many with their wives and family dragging along behind. But as soon as the blokes came close enough to see her face, they realised she was far older than they had presumed. There would be another subtle change of course, and they'd go veering off in order to avoid getting too close to the woman who was obviously trying to put back the clock. So predictable was their path, they were almost wearing a path in the sand, as they weaved between the little groups of families and sunbathers scattered across the beach. Damn them all! Every man in the world!
The guy with the bald head, she realised, had the opposite problem to her. From a distance, he'd looked at least as old as she was - not that she was averse to someone her own age, provided he was fit. Unlike the others, he didn't veer away when he saw her close up, giving further evidence towards her assumption of his age. But when he plonked his towel on the ground only five yards in front of her, she could see she'd been completely mistaken - he could only be in his early thirties.
She would really have to get some new contact lenses, she thought. She'd taken these at short notice because they made her eyes such a nice shade of blue, but it was really serious if she couldn't sort out the young virile blokes from the oldies. And since she was wearing dark wrap-around shades, no one could see the colour of her eyes, anyway.
To her absolute delight, the chap stripped off in front of her. She'd learnt a long time ago that leching at blokes got all the worst reactions from the very ones she wanted to impress; far better to appear to be reading her book, which she now realised she was holding upside down. With her wrap-around shades, no one could see she was actually watching every movement of his body, and just imagining it under different circumstances.
When he'd stripped down to his trunks, he strode off towards the sea, without a glance at her, leaving his clothes in an untidy heap on top of his towel. Never mind, in a few minutes time, he'd be walking out of the sea, his tiny trunks clinging to his body in a kind of sex-reversal of the moment when James Bond watched Honeychild Rider walk up the beach.
She closed her eyes, visualising the scene as he would walk up to her, take her by the hand and pull her into the bushes just across the promenade, the very bushes in which, all those years ago, she had lost her virginity to a boy who bore a startling resemblance to Keith Moon from The Who. Strange that she could remember who he looked like, but for the life of her, she couldn't recall the boy's name.
The shadow blotting out the sun made her open her eyes with a start. The sky was rapidly filling with black clouds heralding the start of a thunderstorm; the afternoon was suddenly cold and, horror of horrors, the bloke's towel and clothes had disappeared. Damn! She'd fallen asleep, and missed her golden opportunity - perhaps the only opportunity she would get all week.
Already, the beach was almost cleared, as everyone packed up and headed back to their cars, caravans, or bed and breakfast houses. The sky went even darker, and Abigail felt a large spot of rain on her shoulder. She stood up and hurriedly started to pull on her clothes over the top of her swimming costume, starting with her white blouse with the large poppies, which she'd originally bought to emphasise the swell of her breasts. However, with her new breasts, such emphasis was totally unnecessary; indeed the blouse only just continued to fit.
The short, straight, red skirt exactly matched the colour of the poppies, and showed off her trim bottom to perfection, although her daughter said it made her look like an old tart. Cheeky little madam!
'I suppose it's a bit of a cliché, but I didn't recognise you with your clothes on.'
She turned to identify the speaker, and her heart leapt into her mouth. It was her balding James Bond, now looking rather sorry for himself, and still wearing just his swimming trunks. Abigail couldn't resist flicking her eyes quickly down his body, forgetting that in the darkening light, she'd pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head.
He obviously mistook her glance, and hastened to reassure her that he wasn't going to pull his cock out in front of her. If only he'd known how much she'd have welcomed it.
'It was you I sat down in front of, a few minutes ago, wasn't it?'
So, she'd only been asleep for a few minutes, and hadn't missed him dressing.
'It certainly was. But where are your clothes?'
'That's what I was hoping you'd tell me. It looks like someone else has picked them up by accident. I thought I must have made a mistake, when I came back here and found they'd gone, so I've wondered along the beach in both directions. I just can't see them.'
Her heart melted. The poor boy was sounding so distressed, and he looked cold and miserable.
'Here,' she said, rummaging through her large beach-bag, and pulling something out. 'Take my beach-robe and slip it on.'
It was plain red, to match her swimsuit, so it looked a bit feminine for him, especially when he buttoned up the elasticated waist, and it flared nicely over his hips down to mid-thigh. Clearly at that moment, he considered his looks less important than his well-being.
'I hate to suggest this,' she said, 'but there are notices along the promenade that warn about thieves operating on the beach, and taking things left unattended.'
'But you'd have seen someone taking everything,' he protested.
'Sorry, I er... well I closed my eyes for a few minutes and when I opened them, everything had gone. I thought you must have come back and got dressed.'
'But what am I going to do. Without my car keys, I won't be able to get into it, and I haven't even got a phone...'
'Was there much money there?'
He shook his head. 'No, I left my wallet with most of my money in the car. I suppose I'd better find my way back there, except I'm not really certain where it was. I couldn't find any space in the beach car-park, so I went to the centre of the town, and found a car-park somewhere near the Town Hall.'
'I know it,' she said. 'I'll walk there with you, and then we can use my mobile to call the RAC or whoever, to get you into your car. It's not far from there to my hotel, so we can go onto it and have something to drink, while we're waiting. I always feel better with something warm inside me.'
He totally missed the innuendo. 'That's really nice of you to go to so much trouble. My name's Lawrie, by the way. Lawrie Baker.'
'Abigail Simpson.' She held out her hand and he took it and gave a little squeeze. His hand felt cold to the touch. Well, she knew a fantastic cure for that - but even now, she mustn't rush it.
She led the way across the sand as far as the promenade, where she stopped so quickly that he bumped into her, which had precisely been her intention.
'It's going to be painful for you walking through the streets with no shoes on. Hang on.' She slipped off the plain beach mules she'd been wearing, with heels barely one inch high and passed them across to him. Slip into these.'
He looked at them, eying the heels with trepidation. 'But what are you going to wear? And I'm really not certain that I could walk in those.'
She rummaged through her bag again, and produced her white sandals with the three inch stiletto-heels, and the matching poppies on the buckles. 'You could wear these instead, if you'd prefer.'
For the first time, he gave her a smile, and her heart gave a little lurch. 'I guess the beach shoes are the better deal.'
They both slipped on their respective shoes, and with the heavy drops of rain threatening to turn into a torrential downpour, they set off at a brisk walk. Fortunately, when Lawrie stumbled on his modest heels, Abigail was able to grab his arm and steady him, and they continued walking with her arm linked through his, which again had been her exact intention.
***
'It's gone! My car's gone!'
Lawrie stared around the now rapidly clearing car-park, in horror. 'I parked it just here, and it's been stolen.'
'Oh dear,' Abigail said aloud, whilst thinking, 'Thank you, God! Thank you!'
All the way to the car-park she'd been wondering how she was going to ensure that when Lawrie got his car unlocked, he didn't take the opportunity of putting as much mileage between him and Seacombe in as short a time as he could. Now, the initiative was firmly in her court.
'Right,' she said. 'I guess your thieves toured the car-parks, pressing your remote at random, until it unlocked a car. I presume that you left your credit cards in the car...' Lawrie nodded in confirmation, 'so you need to get onto the credit card companies, straightaway. You can use my phone.' She produced her mobile - a small, white one with pretty poppies over it. Abigail was always a well co-ordinated woman, and today was poppy day.
'I should call the police.'
'Afterwards. Get the credit cards stopped first.' She took his arm again, and started to lead him across the road. 'In the meantime, let's get back to my hotel.' He was barely aware of where he was going, as he contacted directory enquiries and then started speaking to the credit card companies.
***
They were in her room before he'd completed his calls, and as she removed the mobile from his hand, she replaced it with a large brandy which she'd poured from her mini-bar.
'Oh, er, thanks.' He looked at the glass in his hand, and then around the luxurious bedroom, with its four-poster bed, as though wondering how he'd got to that position.
'Drink up. You've had a nasty shock, and you're also cold and wet.'
The skies had opened in earnest when they were still fifty yards from the hotel. Abigail had found an umbrella in her bag, but it had been big enough to only partly cover the pair of them, even though she'd hugged him tightly to her. Lawrie had got soaked, which is exactly what Abigail had intended.
Lawrie obediently emptied his glass, choking slightly at the strength of the drink. Abigail immediately refilled his glass and beckoned him to drink up again.
'I think you'd better get into the shower straightaway, otherwise you're going to catch your death of cold.' She pulled him to his feet and led him across to the entrance to the en-suite bathroom. 'Take a nice long shower, or have a bath if you prefer. Meanwhile, I'll sort out some clothes you can wear.'
'Oh right, er... thanks... for everything.'
She smiled at him sympathetically until he'd shut the door of the en-suite, whereupon she punched the air in exuberance, and uttered another set of thanks to the God watching over her. Then, she opened her wardrobe, and considered what clothes he would like.
***
She was now reasonably certain of making a conquest tonight - or rather, of letting Lawrie make a conquest. From the way he had periodically stared at her new breasts, she was convinced he wasn't gay. There was a faint mark where a wedding ring had been worn at one time, but it didn't look fresh. So she would only need to wine and dine him, and suggest he spend the night on the settee in her room. Odds on, that the settee would be the last place he would spend the night.
The problem was, she didn't want it to be a simple one-night stand. Sure, she was desperately hungry for sex, having abstained for longer than was healthy for a woman of her needs. But she also wanted a relationship - one of those where you go to places together; have fun; make silly jokes that your partner finds incredibly funny; and generally behave like little children.
And she was dreadfully frightened that in the morning, having shagged her silly all night, he'd be asking to borrow the cost of the train fare back home, and that would be the last she would ever see of him.
She pulled her Levis out of the wardrobe and laid them on the bed. They were incredibly taut on her so they'd probably be a fairly loose fit on his beautifully tight arse, but that was the best he was likely to get from her wardrobe. It also wouldn't matter if it was a few weeks before he returned them - unlaundered, of course - because blokes were like that. So, how was she going to prevent a one-night stand?
She rifled through a few more of her clothes, wondering whether there was anything more suitable than the Levis. She certainly had several other pairs of trousers, but then most women did, nowadays; not like her mother's generation. What would he have done then? The solution to her problem hit her with all the strength of a cocaine snort. Of course!
Then she was frantically pulling out all the trousers in her wardrobe, and making a neat pile of them on top of the Levis. She went across to the chest of drawers, and found her Bermudas and some cut-offs, and she placed those on top. Finally, from the bottom of the wardrobe, she grabbed a couple of pairs of track-shoes.
Her suitcase was in the cupboard in the lobby, and as she heard him turn-off the shower in the en-suite, she quickly opened the cupboard, wheeled the suitcase across to the bed, flopped it onto its back and flipped open the lid. Then she stuffed the pile of clothes and shoes inside the suitcase, shut and locked the lid, and just as quickly wheeled it back to the security of the cupboard.
Lastly, she pulled open her drawer of underwear, and rummaged right to the bottom for a couple of items which she slipped into her handbag.
'Hi. Thanks for letting me use your shower...' He stopped, staring open mouthed at the open drawer of the frilliest - and sexiest - underwear he had ever seen.
Meanwhile, Abigail noticed that on show above the towel wrapped around his waist, he had an incredibly hairy chest and, beneath the towel, incredibly hairy legs. She couldn't help wondering whether he had incredibly hairy bollocks to match.
'I think I can probably manage without the underwear,' he joked, trying to cover his embarrassment.
'Sorry,' Abigail smiled at him, 'I was just getting something out. I've been looking for things you could wear, and I think there are several items that would be suitable.'
She led the way over to the wardrobe and pulled the doors wide open. 'It really depends what length and style you'd feel comfortable in.'
Lawrie looked puzzled at that, so she sought to explain as she pulled out a dress. 'This is my - every woman should have one - sleeveless, little, black dress, which has a high neckline and comes down to mid calf,' she said. 'The only problem is it will expose your beefy shoulders and it has these long slits up the side, so you may not be too happy with that. On the other hand, there's this bright red dress which has quite a low neckline, so...'
'Ha-ha-bloody-ha,' Lawrie said. 'Do you think I could just borrow your jeans, please?'
'Jeans?'
'Oh, come on. You're pulling my leg.' He stared at her blank face. 'You have to be. You must have a pair of jeans.'
She shook her head. 'Well, no. I mean, with a body my shape, I simply don't look good in jeans, so I stick to skirts and dresses. I always think they suit me better.'
'Oh God!' He turned and stared inside her wardrobe, as though not believing the word of a lady. He almost went as far as flicking through the contents, but at the last minute realised that would be incredibly rude, and might well result in his eviction into the corridor, sans towel. 'What am I going to do?'
'Well, I've told you. I'm sure we'll find something suitable for you to wear amongst this lot. After all, we're not that different in size.'
'But I can't wear a dress.'
'Why not?'
'I'd look totally stupid.'
'Well of course you would, if you simply slipped it on at the moment, but I was kind of assuming that we'd make you up so that no one could tell you were really a bloke. After all, I'm hardly keen to be seen taking a man wearing a dress to dinner in this hotel restaurant. I have my own reputation to protect.'
'You're taking me to dinner in the hotel restaurant, wearing a dress?' Lawrie could hardly believe he was hearing right. She couldn't be serious. Could she?
Abigail realised she had to be careful how she answered this. First of all, she had to play down the dressing up aspect, otherwise he simply wouldn't do it and she'd be forced to come clean about hiding her jeans. But almost as important, she didn't want him to know she was reasonably wealthy, and could afford the best this superb hotel could offer, and more. OK, she wanted sex, but she certainly didn't want it on the basis he was only doing it for her money. So, a little subterfuge was called for.
'I'm on the package deal which includes all meals. In fact, I'd better tell you I was due to come here with a friend, and it's all paid for in advance, so you'll be entitled to have his meal, without an extra payment. Since you haven't got any money on you, or any way of paying, that might be quite useful.'
Lawrie looked around the room properly for the first time, taking in the four-poster bed, with the white drapes around it, and the comfortable furniture spaciously arranged around the huge room.
'So what happened to your friend?'
The trouble with telling a lie, is that you have to tell more lies, in order to protect the original one.
'He decided he was going to stay with his wife. I'd given him an ultimatum; we either come away together on this holiday, or our relationship is ended. He booked and paid for the hotel as a sign of good faith, and then chickened out. So, I came on my own.'
'Might he not suddenly turn up?'
For God's sake, why this interrogation?
'The bastard went off on a cruise with his wife. So, as I said, if you want it you can have a free meal in the best hotel in town. Of course, if you don't want to hang around here...' She didn't use the words, 'You can piss off,' but it was fairly obvious.
'Oh no! I didn't say that! It's just that... Well, I could never pull it off, wearing a dress. Surely you must have some trousers, or... Shorts! You must have some beach shorts. I could wear those.'
Abigail shook her head. 'Sorry, no. I told you, with my size of bottom, those kind of garments don't suit me.'
She sensed she still hadn't convinced him so she tried another tack. 'Look, as I said before, I'll only go to the restaurant with you provided you're bloody convincing. Why don't we try a few things on, and I'll put some make-up on you, and a wig, and we can see how realistic you look? How does that sound?'
Lawrie shrugged his shoulders, as though to say, 'We'll try it, but it ain't gonna work.'
Abigail breathed a sigh of relief. Stage One of mission accomplished. Now she had to make it work. Fortunately, she had a couple of cans of hair-removal mousse, so she could get going with that. It was a crying shame, though; she really liked his hairy bits.
She got him to put his trunks back on and get into the bath. Then she sprayed him all over with the mousse. The instructions said it should only be used on the legs, but it was really no use pussy-footing about.
Twenty minutes later, she had a totally bald man in front of her; she had even made him pull his trunks down as far as decency would allow, so he would have a nice triangular bush of pubic hair. She'd be interested to see how good that looked later, but she had to crack on with getting him dressed, if she wasn't going to lose him.
She made him put on some tights, and then stuffed the hips and bum with folded towels, giving him an arse and hips much bigger, even, than hers.
'It's important that the widest part of your body is not your shoulders,' she explained, 'because that would scream out "Man" to everybody. So, we give you a nice big arse and wide hips, and that immediately suggests "Woman".
After she'd smoothed down the towels inside the tights, she made him slip on a panty-girdle to keep it all in place; it would never do if his arse slid down to his knees! After that, she stood back and eyed him up and down, and then pulled him in front of a mirror and let him see for himself.
'What do you think so far?'
'I'm trying to be positive, but it'll never work. No hair and no tits.'
'A wig should fix the hair, and I tend to think you're right about the tits, as well. Strictly speaking, you shouldn't need any, as lots of women have miniscule breasts, but I do think that having a nice pair sticking out the front of your dress should seal any speculation about your sex.
'Now, that would have been a problem, except that earlier today I was in the bar and I got talking to another woman guest who I think may be able to help. Now, I wonder if I can remember which room she's in - 216... or was it 261?'
She went over to the phone, picked it up and dialled.
'Hello, Is that Jose? This is Abigail here... Yes that's right, we met at lunchtime... Look, you know you said you were wearing a Bustlet, and I could borrow your spare if I wanted to give it a try... Well, it's for a friend actually. She wants to wear one of my dresses, and she really needs something to fill out the top... Is that alright... OK, I'll be straight down to collect it... Great! Thanks very much. See you in a couple of minutes.'
She picked up her handbag and said to Lawrie, I won't be long. I'll take the key with me and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so you should be alright.'
She went out, leaving Lawrie wondering what would have happened if a chamber-maid had brought in fresh towels whilst there were in the middle of removing his hair.
***
Abigail waited for the lift, got in it, went down to the ground floor, walked around the Reception area a few times, before taking the lift back to her floor, and walking along to her room.
'I've got it,' she said as she walked in, producing the garment she had earlier stuffed into her handbag. (Well, there really was no point in revealing that her breasts were as false as his were going to be, was there?)
'What is it?'
'It's called a Bustlet. It's a bit like a singlet made of flesh-coloured skin-like material. You fill it with water to give you a set of breasts any size you like. It's got a very high neckline that goes all the way up to fit under the jaw-line, so that it hides a wrinkly neck and double-chin or, in your case, your Adam's apple. Apparently, it's really best if it's glued on, as it stops perspiration forming underneath, which can be pretty uncomfortable.' And please, don't let him ask any questions about it, she thought.
She reached into her handbag, and withdrew the aerosol of glue. She smiled. 'It's all pretty straightforward. Shall I spray it over your body?'
Lawrie shrugged. She'd done enough things to him already. It might as well be done properly. Five minutes later, Abigail was smoothing the Bustlet in place; and five minutes after that, she had connected the plastic piping to the tap in the wash-basin and inflated the two breasts to a nice D bust. Nothing too extreme, but plenty there to draw the eye away from any more male features; as well as conveniently making Lawrie the same cup-size as Abigail.
They spent some time choosing the dress Lawrie was to wear, and eventually settled upon a grey, full skirted dress, with a startlingly low-cut square bust-line. Abigail had thought of corseting Lawrie, but since that would mean Lawrie would have a much narrower waist than her own, decided not to. A nice, frilly, platform bra completed the underwear, and then Abigail slipped the dress over Lawrie's head, and sat him in front of the mirror whilst she made him up.
She spent some time explaining what she was doing as she went along, so that by the end of the week, she hoped that Lawrie would pick it up and be able to apply it himself (although she didn't explain that bit). As one might expect, Abigail was an expert upon make-up, and to get the right shades, she had to pop out a few times to Boots The Chemist, which was conveniently located just across the road from the hotel. It was only at that moment that Lawrie realised that if she could buy make-up for him, she could have bought him some jeans, instead. Still, when all this failed dismally, no doubt, that's what she would be doing.
As she brought the job to completion, Lawrie had to admit that his face would more than pass muster. Then Abigail produced the Pamela Anderson wig she'd also bought, carefully located it on his head, and then glued it into place. She stepped away, so that Lawrie could see his whole image in the mirror.
Except it was definitely the image of a woman - not a man dressed as a woman. OK, the woman was never going to win a beauty contest, but there was no doubt about the sex of the person facing him in the mirror.
'Wow!' he said, and that immediately spoiled it. 'Shit! It's obvious as soon as I open my mouth.'
'Don't worry. You're not going to have to say a lot, but when you do, talk more softly, almost as though you were whispering. Now, whilst I get dressed, I want you to practice walking a little, and talking a lot. Remember, when a woman walks, her hip is the most prominent part of her, so push each hip forward as you walk, and pull your shoulders back and together, and slump them downwards. If you glance down your body, your hips should stick out more than your tits.'
Lawrie walked up and down the room a little.
'Slump your shoulders back and down. You're not strutting on the catwalk. Hips forward - further than that - further! Now, I'm going to have a shower, and I want you to talk to me through the bathroom door. Let me hear you place an order for your food. So, what's for starters?'
***
It was almost eight o'clock before they got to the restaurant, but by that time Abigail felt that Laura (as she was now calling her) was really giving quite a credible performance - both in the way she moved and the way she spoke. Certainly, there was no trace of suspicion in the waiter's face as he showed them to a discrete table, in the corner of the huge dining-room.
The meal was everything Abigail could have wished for. Laura even got flirtatious leers from a couple of guys, just after they had sat down.
'You get used that as a woman,' Abigail said, following Laura's eyes, 'especially when you stick your tits forward, like you're doing at the moment.'
Laura had sub-consciously resumed her man-type stance, with her chest pushed out and shoulders back. She hurriedly brought her shoulders forward and let her tits slump between them. The men laughed at her sudden change, but Laura didn't panic at all.
In fact, once Laura had overcome her initial nerves, and realised that she was accepted as a woman, she relaxed into the part and the two women had a great time together. They told each other about their past. They had both been married - twice in Abigail's case - and they had both come to Seacombe on holiday as children. Abigail even told Laura of losing her virginity to the Keith Moon look-alike, which they both had a chuckle about.
'It's because we used to have great family holidays here when I was a child, that I decided to apply for the job here,' Laura said.
'Job?' Abigail said, but really thinking, 'Oh shit!' She had imagined he was on holiday in Seacombe, like her. Not applying for a job! In fact, she needn't have gone through this whole charade if she'd known he was going to be around for a few days, anyway.
'The trial's tomorrow morning, and they'll make the decision straightaway.'
A trial? Oh shit! Rather than putting her thoughts into words, she instead asked, 'What type of job is it?' Assuming Lawrie didn't need a medical, he would probably get away with bandaging up his breasts.
'It's a lifeguard's job. You know, like Baywatch.'
Oh shit! She was clutching at straws, now. 'So presumably there'll be a lot of interviews and theory tests, and things like that, tomorrow?'
'Oh no. I've got all the right qualifications, you see. There may be an interview at the end, but for the main part of the day, I'll be competing against other applicants in speed trials, endurance, life-saving and first aid techniques. All that kind of thing.'
Oh shit!
'Right,' she said. 'I bet you'll be absolutely great at it. Shall we go upstairs now and fuck like rabbits?' Let's just hope this is a one-night stand, she thought, otherwise he'll kill me if he ever sees me again.
'Well, I'm not certain about that,' Laura said. 'It's supposed to give you an edge if you don't have sex, the night before.'
'Oh, right,' Abigail said, thinking, 'What a fucking nerve! I've wined him and dined him, and now he's closing his legs like a fifteen-year old virgin. Well, if he thought he was getting away with that, especially now she knew their relationship was doomed to failure...'
'That's not a problem,' she abruptly said, 'I'm an expert in these matters. If you really don't want to have an orgasm tonight, then I know some moves that will prevent you.'
She let that sink in before continuing, 'On the other hand, if you think you're coming back to my room wearing that sexy outfit without giving me the benefit of your body, then you'd better find somewhere else to sleep for the night. It's your choice.' She smiled, just to show how fair-minded she was being.
***
'I can't get these tits off,' Lawrie yelled from the bathroom.
Abigail woke with a start. She had meant to get up early, pack her suitcase and vacate the room, leaving Lawrie with a change of clothes he could use - a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, pairs of trainers and socks, and, of course, a bra, since it really wasn't fair to expect him to walk around with his bra-less tits flopping around. Then she would have got the hotel manager to allocate her another room, where she'd have hidden until Lawrie disappeared.
As it was, she had been so well and truly fucked last night, that she had slept like a new-born baby. And now, she'd overslept and Lawrie had sussed the problem.
'Can't you?' she replied. 'I'd better ring my friend.'
'What the hell did you say?' Lawrie's head came shooting around the edge of the door; he really looked extremely upset.
'I said I'd better ring my friend and get her to tell me how to get them off.' She wondered whether it sounded as false to Lawrie as it did to her ears?
Lawrie looked even more pissed at that remark than he had before. 'Your imaginary friend, you mean.'
'Sorry?' Yes, he'd sussed her.
'I saw you putting the things in your handbag as I came out of the shower yesterday. When you produced it, a few minutes later, having been to see your imaginary friend, I realised it was your own spare Bustlet we were using, only you didn't want me to know. Fair enough, and I didn't let on that I knew your secret. Now, can we get that out of the way, and you simply tell me how to get these tits off my chest?'
Abigail took a deep breath. 'Well, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you weren't on holiday for the week. That's why I suggested we use the glue. I'm afraid that they're permanently bonded to the skin. They won't come off for a few days, until your skin grows a new layer underneath and sheds the outer layers.'
'Abigail, this is no longer a joke. Now, you must have some instructions. Let me look at them.'
***
Five minutes later, Lawrie had gone beyond being cross, as he gave up reading the instructions, and stared down at his firmly embedded tits. 'All my life I wanted to be a lifeguard,' he said. 'My parents pushed me into becoming an accountant. It was an incredibly boring job, but I stuck it out until I finally had my breakdown, after my marriage split up.'
He looked up at her, like a wounded puppy. 'Now, I have the chance to fulfil my life's ambition, and I'm going to the trials with a pair of tits stuck to my chest.'
'There is another option.'
He stared at her for a full minute. 'Go on.'
'The supplier of Bustlets is a shop called Big Busts, located here, in Seacombe. They open at nine. We could go round there.'
'You think they'll be able to get them off me?'
'No. Apparently, they're made of some incredibly tough carbon-fibre material. You're more likely to cut the flesh off your chest than cut off a glued-on Bustlet.'
'What then?'
'Well.' She had to put this so carefully. 'I know they do products for men, as well as women.'
'Well thanks. But I don't think that having a two-foot long prick is going to make up for the fact that I have a pair of tits on my chest.'
'No, I didn't mean that. It's that they... well they make something called a Hipster that conceal men's... genitals, and pads out their hips like we did last night with the towels. Apparently, they can make a man look just like a woman - well, in fact, not just look - the Hipster gives him a sort of... false vagina.'
She waited for the explosion, which didn't come.
'You mean, I get one of these Hipsters, then borrow your swimsuit and go into the trials as a woman?'
'Yes.'
He looked hesitant for a moment, muttering, 'If they're as realistic looking as the Bustlets, it might just...' but then he shook his head. 'What do I do if I get offered the job?'
'You wait until you've got the offer in writing, and then you write back and tell them the whole truth. After all, it's hardly unreasonable, is it? Just... unusual.'
Still he didn't explode. In fact, he started nodding his head. 'I don't know. If you'd have suggested this to me yesterday afternoon, I'd have thought you were mad, but after last night in the restaurant... I don't know. What about make-up? I won't be able to wear that in the water.'
'I can get some water-resistant stuff that will do.'
'Jesus! I don't know.' Then, 'Oh well, it's not as though I have anything to lose, have I?'
***
From her balcony, Abigail could see them assembling on the beach. There were five tremendously hunky, extremely fit-looking young men; there were three incredibly slim but athletic-looking young women; none of them could be a day over twenty-five.
Then Laura wobbled up to them. Through her binoculars (bought for bird-watching - definitely not for looking at the blokes on the beach) she could see the others turn to stare at her. The blokes all stared at her wobbling tits; the girls all stared at her huge bum. Fortunately, Laura was wearing Abigail's slimming swimsuit underneath the beach-robe, so her stomach hardly bulged at all. Abigail nodded, approvingly; that swimsuit had been an excellent buy
Laura had some kind of argument with the man holding the clipboard, presumably because, for some reason, he had her name down as Lawrie, and thought she would be a man rather than a woman. Eventually it was resolved, although the man appeared to grumble a bit.
Then they spent ages milling around, waiting to be told what to do. Finally, the head-lifeguard - another sexy hunk - got them all assembled into a row, parallel to the sea-shore, and about thirty yards away from it. It was obvious they were all being lined up ready to start some kind of a race. The man with the clipboard walked down towards the water's edge, turned around and faced the group, and then nodded at the head-lifeguard. Although she couldn't hear the words, the lifeguard was obviously shouting words to the effect of: 'On your marks!' - 'Get Set!' - 'Go!'
The five beefy blokes went hurtling down towards the sea in one group, and the three slim girls were only a few feet behind as they all raced into the surf. Unfortunately, Laura stumbled as she started running, and had problems getting her bits into any kind of rhythm as she ran, so she was only half-way down the beach when the others were diving through the first waves.
Abigail watched as she entered the water and pulled the first few strokes, and then turned around and went back inside to the comfort of her hotel room. Watching Laura get slaughtered was really not her idea of a pleasant morning's experience.
***
'How did you get on?'
Even before Laura had left for the tests, Abigail had diplomatically decided the best place they should meet afterwards would be the hotel bar. If things went as badly as she expected, at least Laura wouldn't be able to murder her in the privacy of her bedroom.
She'd had time for a couple of G & Ts, just to calm her nerves, and was now feeling much better about dealing with Laura's outburst, when she returned from the beach. So as Laura walked up to the table, Abigail's greeting appeared interested, but very casual.
Laura sank down onto a chair. 'Could you get me a beer?' She looked over at the bar. 'That looks a nice real ale they have here. A pint, please.'
Well, at least Laura hadn't tried to kill her - yet. She went over to the bar and replenished her own glass, and bought Laura a large glass of dry, white wine.
'Beautiful young ladies don't drink pints of real ale,' she explained, as she placed it before her. 'Now, tell me how you got on.'
Laura looked slightly rebellious about the drink, but then meekly picked it up and downed the glass in one gulp. 'OK,' she said, passing the empty glass back to her. 'I'll have a refill.'
'Not before you tell me how you got on.' Abigail really didn't want to be on the receiving end of drunken violence.
Laura shook her head. 'Every one of the men beat me at every test,' she said.
Abigail put on her best surprised look. 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Laura, and it's partly my fault. If only I hadn't aroused you so much last night that you had to shag me rigid.'
But Laura was shaking her head. 'No, that wouldn't have made a difference,' she said. 'Those blokes just totally outclassed me. Even the women were bloody good. I was in last place in every test except two. In the first-aid test, I couldn't even put on a simple arm-sling without my boobs getting in the way. The thing is...' She again pushed over her empty glass towards Abigail. 'I really need a refill before I tell you the rest.'
***
'The start of the first test was absolutely disastrous,' Laura continued, after taking a small sip of her second glass of wine. 'It was a sprint to the sea, and then a one hundred yard race around a buoy and back to the shore. But my balance was all wrong, so I couldn't get running properly, and I was yards behind the others by the time I got into the water.
'But once I was in the water, it seemed as though my new shape made me more streamlined - a bit more like the shape of a fish - and I regained all my lost ground. I beat the other three women in the first race. It was the same in the life-saving test, pulling a body through the water - which needs plenty of stamina. I beat all the women in that test, as well.' She shrugged. 'It was just the other five tests where I flopped.'
'Never mind, Laura,' Abigail said. 'At least you gave it a try. I'm sure you'll find another job fairly soon.'
'But they offered me a job.'
'What?'
Laura was obviously feeling awkward about it. 'Well, the thing is, they decided to employ one male and one female, and... well, they offered me the female post.'
'But you said the other girls thrashed you in five out of the seven tests. Why did they offer you the job?'
'Well, they said,' - she emphasised the word "said" - 'it was because I came first in those tests which were assessing the real attributes of a life-saver - the ability to swim fast, and pull a body through water.'
'But...' Abigail left the sentence unfinished.
Laura looked incredibly sheepish. 'Well, as I was running down to the water's edge in the first test, I obviously hadn't a clue about how to control my tits - I just thought they'd sit inside the swimming costume, but er... Well they bounced out, right in front of the guy with a clipboard - the Council's Leisure Services Manager. By the time I'd swum back to the shore, I'd got them inside my swimming costume again, but... well, afterwards, he couldn't take his eyes off my tits, and he kept winking at me. I think it may have been my tits bouncing out that influenced the decision.'
'Laura,' Abigail ventured, 'can you not see a basic problem with the situation you've got yourself in.' (Now was not the time to discuss her share of the blame.) 'The rationale for you taking the test this morning was that if you got offered the job, you'd accept it and then, in a few days, write to them and explain about the situation.'
Laura nodded, forecasting what Abigail was about to say.
'The problem is,' Abigail continued, 'you have been offered a job which is specifically for a woman, so when you explain that you're really a...' she lowered her voice as she said the next word, 'man, they're going to withdraw the offer of the job.'
Laura nodded. 'I know. It's totally dishonest of me. Men naturally have more stamina than women, so I won those two tests on false pretences...'
'...not to say the false pretences when that manager saw your artificial tits flying about.'
'As you say, not to mention those false pretences. But... Well, it's my life's ambition to be a lifeguard. After this morning's test, I realise this is the only opportunity I'm ever going to get. I can't turn it down, even though it means cheating and...'
'Being a woman for the rest of the summer?' Abigail completed the sentence for him.
He nodded. 'Perhaps not the whole summer, but just a couple of weeks would be great. I know I'm bound to get found out sooner or later, but I'm going to give it my best.'
Abigail stared at her for a few seconds, and then pursed her lips and said, 'Attaboy, or should I say Attagirl? But there's one thing you're going to need.'
'What's that?'
'Lots of training in the finer points of being a woman.'
Laura looked at Abigail questioningly. 'Will you do that for me?'
Abigail nodded. 'For the kind of fucking you gave me last night on a regular basis, I'll do anything,' she said.
'Great,' Laura said, but really he was thinking, 'Oh shit!'
***
When he had first walked along the beach yesterday afternoon, looking for somewhere to drop his towel and undress, he had, of course, noticed the beautiful woman with the huge tits, and casually changed his course across the beach so he would pass directly before her. But as he got closer, he noticed that, right in front of her, was quite a large area of empty sand on the otherwise crowded beach.
It had seemed a shame to waste the opportunity of having a reasonable amount of space around him, whilst providing not only a superb view of the sex-bomb, but also the chance to chat her up. For example, he could ask her to look after his things whilst he swam and then nicely thank her when he returned, and that would be an excellent way to get talking to her and...
He was careful not to look directly at her as he approached the spot - it would never do to make out he was only sitting there because she had such superb tits. So he kept his eyes on the space and walked over and laid out his towel on the sand. He then made a big show of stripping off, still apparently not even noticing she was there. Then, as he was removing his last garment - his tee-shirt - he took a quick peek at her, just to see if she had noticed and was looking interested. He only had the merest flash of a scene as he pulled the tee-shirt over his head, but the sight was indelibly burned onto his retinas.
Christ! She must have been about sixty! Almost twice as old as he was. OK, the tits were fabulous, but she'd evidently only just had them enhanced, and clearly, she should have had her face done, instead. What's more, she was obviously staring at him through her dark sunglasses; the book in her hands was upside down!
He casually dropped his tee-shirt on top of his pile of clothes, and was halfway down to the water's edge before he remembered he'd been going to ask her to look after them. Well, he could hardly go back now, as she'd think he was making an excuse to chat her up.
***
'I suppose it's a bit of a cliché, but I didn't recognise you with your clothes on.'
Without her boobs sticking out of her swimsuit, she wasn't so easily recognisable, although the mini-skirt emphasised her still shapely legs. He'd walked past twice, trying to relocate the spot where he'd left his bright-orange towel, and it was only when she had turned around that he was certain he was in the right location.
She was marvellous. In just a second, she'd turned from an old sex-vamp into a motherly figure, who did exactly the kind of things his own mother had done when he'd been in Seacombe all those years ago, and had lost his football. The next thirty minutes seemed to pass in a daze, and he didn't come out of it until he'd emerged from the shower, and Abigail was explaining that she didn't have any jeans or trousers and that he'd have to wear a dress. She'd opened her wardrobe and showed him all of her sexy dresses, and he was taken straight back to the moment when he was a little boy, and his mother would let him dress up in his elder sister's ballet-dress.
Just like his mother in those distant days, Abigail had a wonderful wardrobe - much prettier than the clothes his wife had ever worn - the inevitable trousers or jeans, with an occasional knee-length straight skirt to give herself a power-woman image.
But Abigail's wardrobe was full of frothy dresses, brightly coloured skirts, and blouses with wonderfully pretty patterns and plunging necklines. He wanted to slip his fingers amongst them, and feel their sexiness, but she was looking at him a bit strangely, and it crossed his mind she might throw him out naked into the corridor if he wasn't careful. He had to play this extremely cautiously, otherwise she might suspect what an incredible turn-on this was for him. When his mother had realised that, there'd been no more access to his sister's ballet-dress.
So, he'd had to pretend he thought she was joking, and that it was an absolutely ridiculous suggestion - but without protesting so much that she abandoned the idea.
It had worked. She had dressed him with the same innocence that his mother had, before she'd discovered how it aroused him. Even better, she'd allowed him to wear a spare pair of her false breasts, although she'd pretended they belonged to someone else. And then she'd taken him for dinner - the most erotic meal he'd ever had in his life, especially when those guys had started leering at them.
Finally, the realisation that she only wanted him for his body was like a punch in the stomach, just as severe as if his mother had suggested the same thing. He'd tried to put her off; indeed, he'd imagined he'd never get an erection once his wonderful clothes were removed and it was just him and her in bed. But he'd reckoned without Abigail's years of experience, and a mouth that could turn a piece of damp string into a massive erection - not just once, but over and over and over again. He now knew how a woman felt in that same position - every moral fibre in his body wanting to stop, but his treacherous body simply aching for more.
As Abigail finally fell into a deep slumber, he knew how he would make his escape next morning. He would silently get up as soon as it was daylight; pull off his breasts, which had erotically stuck to his chest throughout their lovemaking; have a shower, and then leave for the beach, 'borrowing' Abigail's beach-robe and a hotel towel to provide him a minimum of protection. Once the lifeguard management turned up, he'd fall on their mercy and they'd be bound to come to his assistance.
But when he'd got into the shower, he'd been unable to remove his wonderful - no, his dratted breasts. He'd pulled them - it was like pulling at his own flesh; he'd tried to get his fingernails into the join - he'd scratched his own skin; he'd soaked himself in a bath of warm water until all his skin went wrinkly - apart from his wonderful breasts. Finally, he had to admit defeat; and then Abigail had come up with a plan more breathtaking than anything he could ever have dreamed.
The only problem was, Abigail clearly expected ongoing sex-sessions like the one they'd had last night. He guessed he would have succumbed, were it not for the fact that he'd allowed the woman from Big Busts to glue on his Hipster. There was going to be no sex with his willy, until the glue had released - at least ten days, the woman in the shop had told him.
So he had a problem. He needed Abigail, but she was going to be mightily pissed when she found out his penis was out of bounds.
***
'There's one problem,' Laura was saying.
Abigail dragged her mind back from the wonderful dreams she'd been having, of hours and hours of non-stop screwing with her fantastic new stud, fluttered her eyelashes at Laura and said, 'I can't think of any.'
'Well, you know you said that the glue wouldn't come off for days.'
Abigail smiled, sympathetically. 'Look Laura. I really don't mind screwing a man with fantastic tits. After all, last night was pretty good, wasn't it?' In fact, even though she'd known the breasts were totally false, she'd them found incredibly erotic.
'Yes, but it's not just my tits that are glued on.'
For a second, she didn't know what Laura was referring to. After all, his prick certainly hadn't been glued on. In fact, he had the most delicious prick she had known (in the biblical sense) for years. How he had managed to hide it beneath that Hipster was truly a miracle...
'Oh my God!'
'Sorry.' Laura was so sheepish. 'They said in the shop that if I didn't glue on the Hipster, it would come off in the water.'
They had actually told Laura it MIGHT come off in the water, but if it was glued on then he certainly wouldn't be able to use his prick for sex for ten days. With thoughts of Abigail waiting for him outside the shop, it had been the latter which had made up his mind.
Abigail was so disappointed, but she could hardly complain, could she? After all, the whole thing had been her idea, right from the start. 'Oh... That's a shame. I was really looking forward to... Well, you know...' 'On the other hand,' she thought, 'how on earth was she going to share a room with a virtual woman for the rest of the week? One way or another, Laura would have to go.'
Laura shook her head. 'I am really so sorry, Abigail. I was looking forward to it, as well. Last night was simply so good, but...' Laura trailed off, slowly shaking her head in disappointment.
'Hello ladies.'
The greeting startled them both, and they hurriedly turned their heads, wondering if they had been overheard. It was the Council Leisure Services Manager, and he had with him the hunky head-lifeguard. Now they were close up, Abigail could see the lifeguard was much older than he'd appeared through her binoculars. Why he must be well into his fifties, old enough to be her... lover?
'Laura, aren't you going to introduce us?' Abigail asked, smiling sweetly at them.
The introductions were made - Reg Bateman was the Leisure Services Manager and the head-lifeguard was called Phil Walker. Drinks were purchased and then the two men pulled up chairs and sat at their table.
'Laura, I'm afraid I've got some bad news,' Reg Bateman said.
'Oh?'
'Well, this morning, I thought I'd be able to swing it so that I could offer two jobs - one for you and one for the most qualified male. Unfortunately,' he pulled a grimace, 'I've just been talking to my Department Head, and he's not having it. I'm afraid I can't offer you the job.'
'Oh, but you...'
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It was quite wrong of me to offer it to you, and Phil here advised me I could be getting into trouble, but the fact is.. well, the fact is...'
'What he's trying to say,' Phil broke in, 'is that he totally fell for you this morning, and was trying anything to keep you in Seacombe.'
'Well, that's no problem,' Abigail broke in. 'Laura has got to stay in Seacombe for...' she turned questioningly towards Laura, 'ten days, wasn't it Laura?'
Laura was looking incredibly bemused by this time, but she nodded, realising that she could hardly go back home with huge breasts and an enormous arse.
'And Laura has a problem because she has nowhere to stay,' Abigail continued, ignoring Laura's eyes widening with surprise. 'She crashed out in my hotel room last night, but she can hardly stay there the whole week. You don't know anyone with a spare room, do you Reg?' She turned to him with a public smile, and a very private wink, which only he noticed.
'Well, actually,' he said, 'I've got a... well, that is, it's not very big...'
'I don't think Laura would be too worried about size,' Abigail said, thinking how appropriate a statement that was, 'but if you have a room, or even just a settee, I'm sure she wouldn't mind, would you, Laura?'
'Well, I er...' Actually she minded a hell of a lot. Abigail had got her into this mess, and now she wasn't even going to let her share her room. It was obvious why. Everyone could see she was mentally undressing Phil as they sat there. And he wasn't even making a fuss about it, simply smirking back at Abigail as though he'd be quite happy to jump into bed with her right-away.
When she turned back to Reg, wondering whether he was feeling as disgusted about that as she was, he had a Cheshire cat smile across his face - and it was directed at HER!
'I need to go to the Ladies.' Laura stood up, and grabbed hold of Abigail, saying, 'And so do you.'
'I'll be back in a minute,' Abigail said, then mouthing at Phil. 'I won't be long.'
***
'What the hell do you think you're doing,' Laura cried.
'What's the problem?'
'WHAT'S THE PROBLEM? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT...'
'Ssshh. Calm down. The men will hear.'
'Well I don't care if the men do hear.'
'Well, I'd think about that statement a bit more carefully, Laura. Because I can tell you, all men are bastards, and if one man finds out you're not what you appear, then every other man will know about it within five minutes. And you might like to think about how you'd handle...'
Her thoughts were interrupted by a toilet cistern flushing, and they stared at each other in horror, trying to recap their words over the last few seconds, wondering if either of them had given the game away.
'That's it, you tell her, love.' The woman who emerged from the cubicle must have been about eighty, but she cackled with laughter and added, 'All men are bastards but that's why we love 'em so much. Eh?' She gave Laura a dig in the ribs, before giving her hands a quick wash and marching out.
They both turned to inspect the open doors of the other cubicles before continuing their conversation.
'Look, I offered you clothes and a bed for a night because you had everything stolen. That doesn't mean to say I have to accommodate you for the next week.'
'But you didn't tell me these breasts would be stuck on me for ten days.'
'And you didn't tell me you were getting your dick glued down. You can hardly expect me to have a whole week's holiday of total sexual abstinence. And now you're out of it, Phil looks quite capable in that department.
'Look,' Abigail continued, trying to be more reasonable, 'I've fixed you up with somewhere to stay. Reg looks quite a decent guy. I'm sure you'll have a great time together.'
'But he'll expect to have sex.'
'So what's your problem. You haven't got any money, so you can't pay him in any other way.'
'But he's a bloke.'
'Well you're not sexist, are you?'
'Well, in these kind of matters, yes I am.'
Abigail tried her reasonable approach again. 'Look, you have your Bustlets, so you can give him plenty of tit fucks without even physically touching him. The same with your Hiplets, he can screw you for all he's worth but you can let the Hiplets take the strain. It's not as though he's got a big prick...'
'How do you know that?'
Abigail shrugged. 'He had an erection the moment he came into the bar and looked down the front of your beach-robe. His prick is about this size.' She held her thumb and forefinger about three inches apart.
'What! Diameter?' Laura shrieked.
'No, you idiot. Length. He's got a tiny prick, and I'd say it would be excellent training for someone in your circumstances.'
'But he's a man...'
'And you're a woman. Don't ever forget that, otherwise you'll be found out, and you'll become the laughing stock of Seacombe. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if the national press didn't get hold of the story and you'd be on the front page of all the newspapers. So, my advice is to forget what sex you used to be, and remember you're now a woman. Spend the next ten days with Reg and give him exactly what he wants. I suspect he hasn't the experience to find you out, whereas if you became a lesbian and shacked up with a woman, she'd realise within a few minutes.'
'Couldn't you lend me the train fare home?'
It must have been female intuition that put the words into Abigail's mouth. Or perhaps she simply remembered how much fun the pair of them had at dinner the previous evening, and how Laura had so naturally fallen into her role.
'Trains are so expensive nowadays, and I don't have that much spare cash. But I will lend you some of my dresses. We could go up and chose them after these guys have bought us lunch. What do you say?'
For Laura, the excitement that surged through her when she thought of Abigail's wardrobe turned it into a no-brainer decision. And Abigail was right; she didn't have to have real sex with Ray - tit fucks would probably keep him perfectly happy, and if she felt like it later in the week, who knows, she might even test out the Hipster. It was hardly as if she was likely to get pregnant.
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Decade of Big Busts Stories - Just a Dusty, Old Suitcase
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The discovery of what appears to be a sex doll whilst Bill and Lucy help their friend Gemma to move into her new house provides a weekend of fun and games for all three of them
Author's Note: Warning contains humour and sex and is not to be taken too seriously. Don't read it if such things upset you. All people, places and events are fictitious.
A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 8 - Just a Dusty, Old Suitcase
by Charlotte Dickles
"There's a sex-doll in that case you found in the loft!" Gemma yelled from the bedroom.
"What! No way!" my sister Lucy shouted back from the kitchen. "Let me see."
I, too, was irresistibly drawn from the lounge, where I'd been removing books from a large box and stacking them on the bookshelves. I followed Lucy up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Gemma had been unpacking a large, dusty, old suitcase.
I had found it earlier that morning in the loft, left behind by the previous occupants of the house into which Gemma was moving. She had pulled several items of women's clothing out of the suitcase and spread them over the bed, including a couple of dresses which I recognised as late 1970s Laura Ashley - the age when I had first become aware of the opposite sex! There were also a number of frilly white items, the kind of stuff which had always sent a thrill down my spine.
But still lying in the base of the suitcase was the object Gemma was referring to: it looked a bit like an empty diver's wetsuit, and about as sexy. Very dark-brown-skinned, almost ebony, with protruding dark-brown lips, but with holes where the eyes should be, it lay limply in the bottom of the case, as though it had been there for a long, long time.
Which it probably had, I guessed. Elderly Mrs Lawrence's had lived in this house for at least the last nine years - the period Lucy had been her next-door neighbour - and she had been a widow when Lucy moved in. Presumably, this suitcase had been left in the loft since the time when her husband was alive and active; probably for almost thirty years, judging from the dresses.
Now that Gemma, Lucy's friend from work, was moving in, Lucy and I had been roped in to give a hand. Well, that's to say that Lucy had volunteered my services, more because she hoped that Gemma and I might become good friends than because it was a particularly large job.
M
Several times on that Saturday morning, I had cursed Lucy. I know she meant well, and it certainly wasn't the first time that she had found potential female friends for me, her only brother, since my marriage had split up two years ago. But Gemma was totally out of my league.
Lucy had invited me for supper on Tuesday, without telling me that Gemma was also invited, following her appointment to inspect the house to rent next door. I guessed Gemma must be about thirty, compared with the big 4 - 0 that I'd just reached, and our age was probably the closest thing we had in common! She had a slim figure with tits so small she had no need to wear a bra - a fact quite apparent from the blouse unbuttoned virtually to the waist. She looked incredibly sexy in her flared miniskirt - and dirty with it!
I reckoned she was the kind of girl that most of the blokes in her office would queue up to screw the arse off; and once she had finished with one, she would go on to the next in the queue, and spit all the bits out afterwards! And Lucy thought she and I would make a nice twosome! It had been inevitable that at the end of the meal, Lucy offered our help with the move, and even more inevitable that Lucy's fat slob of a husband, George, had something more important to do.
So the three of us had toiled all morning, emptying the rear of the small van Gemma had hired for the occasion, carrying the large boxes along the road from the nearest place she could park and into the house, and then helping to unpack them. An ideal way to spend a Saturday! You can imagine how pleased I was to take the opportunity of a break from that toil, even if it was only to gloat over a thirty-year-old sex-doll.
But I was even more pleased when after a few seconds in which Lucy and Gemma prodded and pulled the doll without even letting me get a look in, Gemma said, "Hey, look at the time. It's midday. Time to christen the flat. I, er, 'borrowed' a bottle of champagne from work and it's cooling in the fridge. Bill, can you help me open the bottle, and Lucy, why don't you bring the doll down to the kitchen, so we can inspect it at our leisure?"
I was more than happy to oblige. Lucy and Gemma worked at a publicity agents, where they consumed bottles of champagne like other companies use bottled water, so it was not unusual for bottles to 'go astray' and end up at Lucy's house. Gemma, it appeared, had a similar habit. We spent a few minutes in the kitchen opening the champagne, pouring it into the glasses - incidentally spilling some of it in the process - and then drinking Gemma's health in her new home.
"It's not a sex-doll at all," Lucy said. She'd been closely examining it whilst Gemma and I had been seeing to the more important issue of serving alcohol. "See," she held up the doll's face for inspection, "there are holes where the eyes should be and the mouth is open. There's no way you could inflate this, or fill it with water."
It surprised me that my little sister knew what one did with a sex-doll, but before I could tease her about it, she continued. "And there's a zip to open it right up, underneath the bust line." Without a trace of embarrassment, she lifted a heavy breast with huge chocolate brown aureole, and protruding charcoal-black nipple, and showed the zipper opening, stretching from side to side of the torso.
"Wow, that's weird," Gemma said. "What is it?"
"I think it's a kind of body-suit which Mrs Lawrence wore to disguise herself as a West-Indian woman," Lucy said. "I know she used to work for Social Services. It may have been a way in which she could more easily gain the confidence of some of her coloured clients."
I'd heard of some outlandish things, but that sounded ridiculous. Gemma obviously felt the same, since she looked at me, I returned her stare with a wry smile, and then we both turned to grin at Lucy.
"Well why not?" she said. "That's obviously what it's for. You think of a better idea."
"Are you sure?" Gemma asked. "It still looks like a sex-doll to me."
Lucy eyes sparkled, annoyed that her idea had been challenged. "I'll soon show you," she said. "I'll go and put it on." She dashed out of the room, the bodysuit flung over her arm.
"I'd give it a good wash before you do," Gemma called after her. "You don't know where it's been."
Which of course, left me alone with Gemma. Would she immediately rip off my clothes and rape me? I should be so lucky. I topped up our empty glasses, and tried to think up something original and witty to say.
"She's a great girl, isn't she?" Gemma said.
"Lucy? I suppose so. She's five years younger than me, but I guess we're probably closer than many brothers and sisters with that age difference. We shared a flat in London for many years until I got married, and then she came back to Seacombe and met and married George. When my marriage split up, I came to live with them for a few weeks. She helped me through a bad time."
"How does she put up with George?" Gemma continued. "He's a revolting pig."
I was saved having to answer her question - all the more difficult because of her perfect assessment of George - by Lucy choosing that moment to reappear, still wearing her original clothes.
"OK," she said. "You were partly right. I should have realised when I was down here that the amount of padding in the hips and bum was extreme. It would have given me a figure like a Sumo wrestler. In fact, I couldn't even get the suit on past my thighs. Then I discovered this tail, thing."
She held up the bodysuit so that its hairy, imitation pussy hung down between the legs, just like a short tail.
I was confused. "Sorry, Lucy. I still don't understand what it is. What has that tail got to do with it?"
She smiled at me. "It's quite simple," she said. "It's got a tube inside it, and then the whole thing pulls back and fastens between the legs, so it looks just like a woman's pussy."
"Right," I said, still not understanding.
She could sense my lack of comprehension. "OK, so work out what goes inside the tube before you pull it through?" she asked.
I shook my head, still mystified.
"A willy!" Gemma exclaimed. "A bloke's willy goes into the tube. The suit doesn't turn a white woman into a black woman. It turns a man into a black woman."
Lucy beamed. "Absolutely right. It's incredible, isn't it?" She pushed the suit over towards me. "Here you are then, Bill."
I looked down at it. "Why are you giving it to me?"
Lucy beamed back. "Because it's for changing a man into a woman, not a woman into a woman. That means that we need a man to try it on."
I pushed it back at her. "I'm not going to put it on."
"Oh come on," Gemma joined in. "It's only a bit of fun. Lucy was quite prepared to give it a go. Don't be a bad sport."
"Yeah, but..."
"There's only the three of us here," Lucy added. "No one else is going to know."
I paused. They were both laughing at my embarrassment. Lucy was right, of course. She hadn't hesitated about trying to get into it. Why should I?
"Promise you won't tell," I asked them, just like when Lucy and I were kids. They both nodded.
I stared at Lucy. "You won't mention it to George?"
"Oh come on. No way. It's just between the three of us. It's only for a joke. Here." She pushed the suit back at me. "Go to the bathroom and slip it on."
I shrugged, and took the suit. It was strange but it felt totally different from the way I'd imagined. I had guessed it was made of rubber, but it felt just like real skin ought to. As I carried it upstairs, a few experimental tugs revealed it was made from very stretchy material. From its age, I guessed it was some kind of thin Terylene.
I went into the bathroom and stripped naked, hanging my clothes over the edge of the bath. There was only one place to sit, so I put down the toilet seat and sat on it, then I held up the bodysuit in front of me. It still looked a bit like a diver's wet-suit, except that it had a built-in head with long, black hair, and gloves and feet complete with red-painted nails on fingers and toes. Lucy was right that a zip stretched across the body in a wavy line from one armpit to the other, following the curve of the side and underside of the breasts where they joined the body. Even when naked, the sag of the breasts would conceal the join from all but the closest inspection and any slight mark would be seen as the indentation left by a bra.
I flopped the part of the body above the zip backwards, so that the head, shoulders and breasts hung down the back, and slid first one leg, and then the other, into the legs of the bodysuit. I could understand now what Lucy had been talking about, for whilst most of the suit was made of extremely thin material, the outside of the thighs, from mid-thigh right up to the hips and around the bum had thick padding. After I'd got my feet located, I stood up and pulled the suit up to my waist. Peering behind me, I saw I had one hell of a shapely arse!
Even more obvious was that I had an enormous erection! The material felt extremely erotic against my skin, and in its current state, my prick was quite patently never going to bend backwards between my legs. However, the tail was hanging next to it, and I could feed my prick into the tube on the underside of the tail without problem - indeed, it felt just like inserting my prick into a smooth, juicy cunt. Had I known the task would be as pleasant as this, I certainly wouldn't have raised any objection with the girls.
"How are you going, in there?" Gemma's voice came from outside the bathroom door.
"I've partly got it on, but I think I'm going to have trouble going any further."
"Are you decent?"
Before I could say 'No', the door jerked open and all I could do was turn away in order to hide my erection pushing the tail up in the air so it pointed towards the ceiling.
"No problem," Gemma said, reaching between my legs from behind! Fucking hell! I knew she crushed blokes' nuts for a hobby, but I thought she might give me a bit of respect.
Her hand closed over the end of the tail that was left hanging down from the extremity of my prick, and then she was yanking it backwards between my legs.
"Oh, fuck! Shit! Stop it!" Incredible pain as my prick disappeared between my legs, followed by some very weird moments as I think my balls disappeared inside my body. All I could do was cling to the washbasin to stop myself writhing in agony on the floor.
"There," Gemma said, "that's fixed it." She gave the tail another tug, which was uncomfortable, rather than painful, and then she'd fastened it somewhere and I was released from her grip. "That wasn't too bad, was it? What do you think, Lucy?"
"Fantastic! That's incredible. Turn around Bill so we can see the new you."
I glanced down to check I was respectable, but really knowing that my prick would have totally disappeared; perhaps Gemma had wrenched it off and thrown it down the toilet!
"Wow!" "That is so realistic!" "Great!"
The girls were peering around either side of me to stare down at the spot where, just a minute ago, I'd had my enormous erection. Now, there was simply a bush of black hair at the point where my black legs joined my black torso.
"Right, let's pull it up to your shoulders," Gemma said, and between the two of them, they eased the suit up to the point where the back of it was touching my neck, with of course, the hood, arms and breasts hanging halfway down my back.
"I think we're going to have to experiment a bit," Lucy said. "We need to sort out whether the hood goes over your head first, or we slip your arms into the sleeves."
It took a bit of manoeuvring, and in the end, we found it was a combination of the two to get my head inside the hood with all the holes lining up with my own orifices. My ears came through small holes in the side of the hood, my hands were fully located inside the gloves at the end of the sleeves, and then the breasts were slung forward over my shoulders so they were hanging in their natural place. Lucy fiddled about underneath my breasts, and it was all a bit of a stretch, until she managed to pull the zipper closed and I carefully stood upright.
"There. What do you think?"
I looked in the mirror on the door of the bathroom cabinet. A black woman's face with long, black hair falling over pink ears, peered back at me.
"My ears are still pink," I protested.
"There were some little bottles in the suitcase," Gemma said. "I guess there'd be some kind of stain for your ears. They'd never be able to make the hood fit the complex shape of an ear so they'd have to do it that way. But what about the rest of your body." She said it with all the expectation of the mother proudly displaying a teenage daughter.
I glanced down. Gulp! A superb pair of tits were pushing from the front of my chest.
Now, I have always been a tit man. In fact, to be honest, I'm a big tit man. But although I have often chased after girls with big tits, I have to admit it has inevitably been fruitless, and never before had I been this close to such a magnificent pair.
"Well I think it's quite good that you're overweight," Lucy said, totally misreading the way I was gawking at my breasts. "It sort of balances out your overall size, and anyway, if you had a slim, beautiful body, people would probably look at you more critically, and notice your stance was not quite ladylike."
Something that Lucy has never appreciated when she's been setting me up for a girl friend is that I am a tit man. Gemma's flat chest was probably one of the reasons why I didn't find her particularly attractive.
"Mmm, you're probably right... Hang on," I interrupted myself. "No one is going to notice my stance, because no one is going to see me."
"Course not," Gemma said. "But in the meantime, let's get you dressed." Already, she was slipping one of those frilly, white garments from the suitcase around my waist and fastening the fixings down the front with a speed which quite astounded me.
"Hang on, who said I was going to get dressed." I was fumbling with the fastenings of the garment, trying to get them undone, but I couldn't seem to release even one. I felt something tightening around my rib cage. Too late, I realised she was drawing on the cords of a corset. "Look, I only said I'd try on the bodysuit for a bit of fun. I'm not putting on those clothes... U-u-g-g-h!" The latter as every bit of breath was squeezed out of me.
"It's alright," Gemma was saying. "I'm not going to draw it too tight."
"It's already too tight," I tried to say, but I had no breath in my lungs to object.
Two more gigantic squeezes, and Gemma was tying off the cords.
"I'll just put a couple of granny knots in this lot," she said. "We don't want the knots coming undone accidentally."
"Gemma, you are dreadful," Lucy came to my defence. What a wonderful sister! "Do you want me to help her slip into her stockings?"
"Help who slip into her stockings," I gasped.
"Why this big, black naked woman who we've discovered in Gemma's house," Lucy replied. "We'd better get her dressed before Bill returns."
The traitor! She was bending down in front of me and feeding my toes into a lacy, white stocking, and then drawing it up my leg. She clipped it to the suspenders attached to the corset. Seconds later, she had the other one in place.
"Slip your arms through here," Gemma commanded, holding a white bra in front of me. Without being able to properly breathe, I was too weak to do other than comply, and I did the same as Lucy fed my feet into white sandals and fastened them. Finally, Gemma made me step into one of the Laura Ashley dresses.
"There," Lucy declared. "You're complete, Billie."
"Billie?" I cried. "You've never called me Billie in my life."
"I never called my brother Billie," she agreed, "but Bill sounds so masculine, and I think that only very feminine women can get away with it. So, in your new role I'm going to call you Billie." She stared at my dismal face, and added, "Oh come on. This is only a bit of fun amongst the three of us. Cheer up."
"You didn't tell me you were going to force me into women's clothing," I complained.
"Oh Billie, you are making a fuss," Gemma said. "You agreed to put on the bodysuit. So why is it so much worse if you get dressed? Look, as a 21st century male you're probably not familiar with this fact, but did you know that champagne was developed specifically for people in your position?" From somewhere, she had produced the almost empty bottle of champagne and my glass, which she held in front of my nose.
I wrinkled my nose, focussing on the glass. Certainly, another glass of champagne would make me feel a lot better at this moment. "Developed for people in my position? What's that?"
"Well, in the early nineteenth century, when champagne was finally turning into the product as we know it today, it was discovered that the drink particularly suited tightly-corseted ladies. Apparently, the fact that it continues to bubble as it descends inside the closely contained rib-cage increases the absorption into the bloodstream, and the extra supply of blood to the brain intensifies the effect of the alcohol. In other words, when a woman is tightly-corseted, she will get totally squiffy on fairly small amounts of champagne, without any unpleasant after effects. Didn't you know that?"
Every now and again, you come across one of these fascinating facts of English, or in this case, French history. I found the story quite riveting. "Really? That's remarkable."
Gemma was smiling at me as she topped up my glass from the bottle. "I think you had better test this out for yourself."
Now I have to say that I am not a particularly keen champagne drinker. To be honest, I prefer a good beer anytime - or even a mediocre beer! But as I sank that glass of champagne with the corset compressing every inch of my torso, I realised she was completely right. I could feel the bubbles still bursting as they sank down my throat, and then come bubbling back up, making me give a large burp. And I did feel really great.
I giggled in embarrassment. "Sorry. Do you know, I think you must be right about that?" I pushed my empty glass towards her. "Perhaps I'd better test it some more."
Philosophically, Gemma upturned the bottle over my glass to show it was empty.
"Well, that's where we have a slight problem," Lucy broke in. "You see, I too 'borrowed' a bottle of champagne from work as a house-warming present for Gemma. But it's in the fridge in our house. I've also baked a quiche, and I've got some salad ready for lunch, but it means we'll have to go round there for it."
I wasn't quite certain why that posed a problem. I'd eaten at Lucy's house plenty of times in the past without difficulty.
"George is out at the pub with his football mates, and they'll watch a match on the pub TV all afternoon, so there's no chance that George will come back." Lucy paused, looking at me with concern.
That's when it hit me. She expected me to go round to her house for lunch dressed as I was! "I'd better change back into my own clothes, hadn't I?"
"Come on, Billie," Gemma said. "This is just for fun. Lucy has said that George won't be back for hours. Let's have a girls' lunch together. Besides, you properly want to test out whether wearing a corset really does make champagne go to your head, don't you? You won't be able to do that if you revert to your other self."
Another thought hit me. "I'll have to go into the street to get from this house to Lucy's."
Gemma gave me a quizzical look. "So what's the problem? Come on, take another glance in the mirror. We'll blacken up your ears, and in the few seconds it's going to take to go out this front door and walk to Lucy's, no one is going to detect you're a man. There probably won't even be anyone outside in the road to see you."
She was right of course. The road outside wasn't a busy thoroughfare. I could easily nip from the one door to the other without being seen. And wouldn't it be fun! The adrenaline surged through my body as I realised that was exactly what it would be. Hell! That was an exciting thought. "OK," I said.
***
Gemma went back to the old suitcase on the bed and rummaged through the contents in the bottom until she found the bottle of dye, which she handed to Lucy. "Here, you'll probably do this better than I will."
Lucy soaked the dye onto some cotton wool and then deftly dabbed it firstly around my left ear, and then my right.
Five minutes later, I was ready. We went downstairs and Lucy cautiously opened the front door and looked out. She turned back to look at me. "All clear," she said.
She stepped out and I followed, almost stumbling as my one-inch pointed heel twisted on the cobbled road. Gemma grabbed hold of me before I landed on my arse. A few seconds later, we'd reached the safety of Lucy's front door, and we were inside. Phew! That had been exciting. Little did I know what more was in store!
Lunch was really superb. Lucy got the second bottle of champagne out of the fridge, and we downed the first glass whilst we helped her lay the table. Over lunch, we talked about Gemma's new house and the work she wanted to do on it, the pros and cons of the area, and eventually our mutual excitement at finding the bodysuit, and me putting it on.
After a few minutes, Lucy summarised that last bit of our discussion with a startling statement. "You know, Billie, over lunch you've been the same kind of fun person, as my brother, Bill, used to be, fifteen years ago."
The honesty of that simple statement shook me. "What do you mean?"
Lucy looked thoughtful, reminiscing about an earlier life. "Oh when Bill and I we were in our twenties," she might have been speaking of someone else, "we shared a flat in London and he was just so much fun that he made life really exciting and enjoyable. Then he met a girl and got married, and I think that, quite early on, the marriage went wrong. Unfortunately, instead of splitting up straight away, they hung on together for years. Even after he'd got divorced, he was still so serious, and..."
"When I met Bill at your house for dinner," Gemma broke in, "he was a real, miserable, old bugger. And he was pretty grumpy this morning too. It's a good job Billie came to replace him." She gave me a quick smile, to take the sting out of her words.
Both Lucy and Gemma looked carefully at me, awaiting my reaction, and for an instant I was lost for words, it was all so true. But then I couldn't help a smile coming to my face and I said, "Well, it's a good job that miserable, old, bugger has gone away, and left me here instead."
Lucy and Gemma grinned back at me, and then we were laughing and pouring more champagne into our glasses and toasting Gemma's new house and Billie's new life. As I sank that toast, the truth suddenly hit me. It was Bill who was constrained by the miserable existence he'd had for the last ten years - not me. I was Billie, a big, fun loving, bloody attractive (at least by my standards, if not Lucy's), West Indian woman. I was so excited by the idea, I almost missed Lucy's next words.
"...so as it's Bill's birthday next week, I thought, Gemma, that you could give him the contents of that old suitcase you found today. I'm certain he'd find it really useful. Would that be alright?"
Gemma smiled. "Of course. I was wondering how to get rid of it, so if Bill would like it, I'd be more than happy to give it to him."
"The only problem is," Lucy continued, "that I simply can't bear to see Billie looking like this." She stared at me and then paused for a moment, deliberately teasing us, before continuing, "That dress is so passé, it beggars belief. Billie, let's go out this afternoon and I'll buy you a new dress for your birthday."
Gulp! "You mean, we go out like this? With me dressed... like this?"
Lucy nodded. "Mmm. Gemma will come with us, as well, won't you, and give us the benefit of your advice?"
"Of course. I'd love to."
"But... I mean, it's one thing to wear these things in the house, with just a quick dash between the two front doors... But I'd have to go into the shops..." (Billie would love that!) "...and try on clothes..." (and she'd love that, too) "... and talk to the assistants, and things."
"Talking isn't going to be a problem," Gemma said. "When I was rummaging through the junk at the bottom of the suitcase, I found these capsules." She produced a tattered, old box from the pocket of her jeans, and held it up for our inspection.
"What are they?" Lucy and I asked almost simultaneously.
"They're called Voice Changer capsules." Gemma read from the label on the box. "It says it will increase the pitch of your voice so any man will speak just like a woman. Hmm, it sounds a pretty wild claim. I wonder if they had the Trades Descriptions Act in those days." She read from the directions on the side of the box, "'Place a capsule on the top of the tongue and wait for a minute until it melts. Swallow the contents straight down the throat. Within minutes, you will have the sweet voice of a woman.'" She looked up at me. "Sounds exactly what you need."
I almost hesitated, but then I realised that hesitating was exactly what Bill would have done. He'd have procrastinated until he died of old age. I smiled at the pair of them, both looking rather anxiously at me, as though worried I might not go along with it.
"Well, pass one over," I said. "I can't swallow it from here."
Gemma extracted a capsule from the box and passed it to me. I slipped it in my mouth and held it on my tongue at the back of my mouth for a few seconds. Then it melted, and I swallowed. It was a bit like taking a gulp of a strong brandy - the fire that starts in the back of the throat and slowly sinks to your stomach. Except that this was more like a furnace of red-hot coals, which slowly, so, so slowly descended partway down my throat and then stopped, and there it got hotter and hotter and hotter. I gasped air in and out through my mouth, forcing it down my throat, trying to prevent it going into meltdown. Finally, the burning gradually subsided to a dull warmth.
"W-o-w!" I gasped. My voice sounded hoarse rather than sweet, as though my voice-box had been burnt away. "I t-h-i-n-k t-h-e p-i-l-l-s may have deteriorated over the..." I paused. My voice had changed as I uttered the sentence. OK, no way could it be described as sweet, but it was certainly higher in pitch, and had far less base to it.
"That's remarkable," Gemma said. "It sounds less... powerful, I guess. Talk some more."
I did so. "I was thinking that was incredibly stupid of me - to take tablets which must be twenty years old, have passed their use by date years ago, and even then, were probably obtained from some rather dubious source."
"Billie. You sound incredible!" Lucy said. "Nothing like your normal voice. The capsule really worked. But I was a bit surprised when you took it. Bill would never have done that."
It was really strange, I thought, that we were all - even me - talking about Bill as though he was somewhere else. And why not? He certainly wasn't here. I put my thought into words.
"Well, Bill's not here, Lucy. I am. Now, do you really think I can dare to go to the shops with you?"
They both looked at me, hardly believing my words. "Absolutely no problem," Lucy said.
"You just need one addition to make you complete," Gemma said. "A nice, large, pair of gold-hoop earrings, and I just happen to have brought a pair with me from my house."
She held her hand open in front of me; the two hoops were so large they almost covered the palm of her hand. "I didn't know whether you would want to try them. What do you think; do you want to give them a go?"
"But they're..." Lucy broke off as Gemma shot her a look.
"What Lucy was going to say," I said, settling back in my chair, "was that those earrings are for pierced ears, and I haven't got pierced ears."
Gemma stared back at me. "It may be a bit crude, and it may hurt a little, but we can pierce them now if you want to."
Bill would have refused outright, so I said, "I'm game."
Bloody hell! Gemma should have a Nobel Prize for understatement. Hurt a little! It was like having fingernails ripped out - not that I've ever had that done, but I now know what it would feel like. But having had my ears pierced, the earrings inserted, and my ears re-dyed around the casualty area, I had to admit, as I looked in the hall mirror, that they really completed the picture.
The large hoop earrings wonderfully framed my black, round face; by Lucy's standards my dress may have been passé, but it had a low scoop neck through which my breast pushed up nicely; my corset gave me a slim waist and combined with the padding on my hips resulted in a superb hourglass figure; and as I murmured, "You look great," at myself, my voice was definitely that of a woman, not a man.
"Oh! Hello. I didn't know Lucy was having friends round." George's voice came from the kitchen, where he must have just entered through the back door. "Especially," he added, "such beautiful women friends."
Bill would have frozen on the spot. As Billie, I took a deep breath and then swivelled round and stared back at him. "I'm Billie, Gemma's friend." And then the devil in me made me add, "Well you fancy yourself, don't you?"
I realised it was the different way he was standing that had caused me to say it. He'd pulled in his stomach, expanded his chest and thrown back his shoulders in the way that males do when they are trying to impress a bird. HE WAS TRYING TO IMPRESS ME! The adrenaline surged through me as I realised. OK, he still had a large beer-belly, and even in his long-lost youth, he had never been handsome, but HE BLOODY FANCIED ME! I could get used to that.
"I see you've met Billie," Lucy said, giving George a bit of a dirty look, "and Gemma is here as well. I thought you weren't coming back until dinner-time."
"It's only Arsenal on the box down the pub this afternoon, and it's going to be a wipe-over for them. Couldn't bare to watch it." He eyed me up again. "Do you like football, then, Billie?"
I shook my head. "Naw. All those blokes dressed in white, playing with their wickets. It's not my thing."
George looked as though I'd slipped a turd into his hand. "Blokes playing with their wickets? That's not... Oh, it was a joke, eh? Ha-ha, very funny."
"We're going shopping," Lucy said, and we three girls marched out together.
***
"Why don't we stop and have a drink at the Harbour Wine Bar?"
We'd had a whale of an afternoon. We had shopped and shopped and shopped, and now we were ready to drop - me in particular, since I simply wasn't used to walking on inch-high, pointed heels. ("Only an inch," Gemma and Lucy had repeatedly remarked) My ankles were on fire, every bit as fierce as the one that had changed my voice earlier that day.
But, my God, it was worth it. My arms were full of parcels, and Lucy was carrying the beautiful dress she'd bought for my birthday, whilst Gemma carried the rest of my other purchases.
Earlier, as we'd headed for the main shopping area, Lucy had said, "Billie, you really need to get a whole range of clothes if you're going to spend any decent time as yourself." Rather than as Bill, she could have added, but by that time, we had all got used to the absent Bill.
I was already totally into my new self. I felt so good that the idea of taking off my bodysuit at the end of the day and returning to the world of the miserable Bill seemed extremely depressing, and Lucy's suggestion had been a God-send. So, Lucy had lent me money to make all kinds of other exciting purchase. We had bought tops, skirts, shoes, bras, panties, stockings, and another corset, which Gemma reckoned would give me a far slimmer waistline than my current one. God knows how much money I'd spent that afternoon, but for the first time in my life, I didn't care!
As we traipsed back across the bridge towards the old part of Seacombe where the girls lived, it was Gemma who had made the suggestion about the wine bar, and we all turned and looked at the Harbour Wine Bar. It had been converted a few years ago from an old fish store on the harbour side. The whole of the front wall had been replaced by single pane of glass, and now it provided a ready venue for tourists who, regardless of weather, could watch over the activities in the harbour whilst devouring vast quantities of whatever took their fancy.
With dusk just arriving, the lights were twinkling inside, and we could see empty tables next to the window, on the upper floor.
"OK, let's go in," Lucy said, "but we are not sitting in the window with Billie still wearing that dress."
I'd tried on and bought dozens of clothes that afternoon, but much to Lucy and Gemma's disgust, I was still wearing my original Laura Ashley. I know it had sounded silly, but I had wanted to delay properly putting on my new clothes until we returned to Gemma's house, and I could give them a fashion-show.
"Why not make an early birthday present?" Gemma suggested to Lucy. "You go and bags a table, and I'll go with Billie to the Ladies and help her into her new dress, and I could also put on the mini I've just bought. It would be good to sit up there and show it off."
Inside the wine bar after dark, it wasn't particularly obvious that taking a seat at the front was like sitting in a well-lit shop window. In particular, the view from the quayside of women sitting at the upper-floor tables was outstanding, and most of the men around the harbour made a point of continual bird-watching. Fortunately, my new dress had a very full skirt, so I wasn't too concerned about them staring up at my legs, but it was just so typical of Gemma that she would want to put on her new, mini skirt.
However, it was an arrangement that satisfied us all. Gemma took me into the Ladies, which was fortunately empty. She helped me remove my old dress, and then she slipped Lucy's present out of its carrier and held it up, and I gasped again at its beauty. Just a simple, white dress with a full skirt, made of a material so light it would float out with every swirl of my waist. It had a plunging neckline - indeed Gemma had been most insistent that everything I bought should properly display my breasts. ("Just to emphasise that they're real," she had said. "With your height, you need to confirm your femininity.")
She slipped the dress over my head and zipped up the rear. I did a few practice swirls before Gemma was shooing me out, to go and keep Lucy company, whilst she slipped into her skirt.
"You look fantastic," Lucy said. "I simply can't believe that only twelve hours ago you were someone completely different."
"I am someone completely different," I agreed. "I can't believe it either. You two have been so good to me today." I slipped into the bench seat on the opposite side of the table to Lucy, and slid to the end nearest the window, thinking that it was all right by me if blokes outside wanted to admire me in my new dress.
I filled my glass from the bottle of wine that Lucy had already got in, before raising an issue I'd been giving some serious thought all afternoon. "Lucy, when you talked at lunchtime about how I stayed for too long in my failing marriage, it made me wonder whether you felt you might be having the same problem."
Lucy paused, hesitating before giving a grimace and speaking in a very quiet voice, "I never could hide anything from you. Yes, I'm very unhappy with George, and we seem to have nothing in common nowadays. I'd suspect he might be having an affair, except he's become such a fat slob in recent years, that I don't think anyone would have him. I don't know whether it's worth continuing." She shrugged philosophically. "On the other hand, he continues to bring in the money - he's on a really good income now - so I think I've decided simply to keep on faking the orgasms."
"Well, that's what we all have to do with blokes, isn't it?" Gemma's quip broke the rather sombre feeling that had settled between Lucy and me.
Lucy looked up with a smile. "That's right. We always have to do that." She slid out from behind the bench seat to allow Gemma to slide in next to the window, facing me.
"I don't know how you have the nerve to say that." I, too, was anxious to lighten the mood. "Considering that when you were sharing a flat with Bill, he had to put in earplugs every time you brought home a boyfriend, to avoid being deafened by your cataclysmic climaxes."
"No! Really?" Gemma was impressed.
Lucy smiled. "Actually, that started when I was at university." She turned to me. "You remember I was a bit plain and flabby then?" I shook my head - we'd had this argument before. "Well, I quickly discovered that if my screams of orgasm reverberated all the way down the men's' corridors, I would never be short of a boyfriend. In fact, I almost had guys fighting to take me out."
"Wow! And you were faking it? That's cool!" Gemma was even more impressed.
"Faking it! You weren't faking it in the flat. You enjoyed every minute, of every boyfriend you brought in." But I recalled that Bill had found it bloody frustrating!
"Uh-uh." Lucy shook her head. "Don't you remember, it was the 'in' thing in those days - every woman had to have fantastic orgasms? It was compulsory. Still is now, to a lesser degree. But you can't just decide you're going to have one, and then do it. So, I simply made it all up. The boys always loved it. Made them feel really great."
"You mean you never had an orgasm?" I was incredulous.
"Schh!" Lucy said.
We all looked around, as we realised our voices had been rising in volume, but the place was almost empty. We continued our conversation in lower voices.
"I've had one, now and again," Lucy continued, "and they're quite nice. But I really don't see why there's so much fuss about them. Certainly no reason why they should be compulsory. How about you, Gemma? Do you have lots of incredible orgasms?"
"Well I certainly have some," she said, "but never when it's just the conventional 'prick in a hole and jiggle it about' kind of sex. I always have to fake it then..." (Wow! That shook me to the core!) "...but it's always well worth faking it, because otherwise some blokes can take all day about it, and let's face it, sex can be so bloody uncomfortable."
I was gob-smacked that I had totally misjudged Gemma.
Lucy nodded her head. "That's just how it is with George. He'd go on for hours and hours if I didn't fake it."
"You should remember that the tongue is mightier than the penis," Gemma said. "For me to have an orgasm, my lover has to get to work with a tongue." She stuck her tongue out of her mouth and flicked it in a quite suggestive manner. "But when that happens," she continued, "I really crash out. You should get George to give it a go."
"Fat chance of that," Lucy replied. "He's never liked putting his tongue in the place where I wee from."
"Miserable bugger." We all agreed to that.
It struck me then how completely the girls had adapted to my new self. Here we were, three girls together in a wine bar, having the kind of conversation about female orgasms which could never have occurred if there'd been a man amongst us.
I was so engrossed by that thought that I almost missed Lucy's next statement.
"...so I suppose I'd better get back and cook George's dinner."
I owed Lucy more than that. "Why don't we eat here?" I suggested. "It's on me as a 'thanks for everything'. And you could call George and invite him along."
Lucy and Gemma agreed that was a brilliant idea, so we asked the waiter to bring us some menus, and Lucy gave George a call on her mobile and told him to come down.
"Have you noticed, you two are getting lots of admiring glances from the guys on the quayside?" Lucy asked, when she'd finished her call.
"I think it's mainly Billie they're admiring," Gemma said.
"Don't be silly." I was embarrassed for a second, until I realised that Billie would never be embarrassed by an admiring glance. "Do you think so?"
They both laughed at me. "I think it may be to do with the fact that the lights in here are shining straight through the thin material of your dress, and they can see your underwear," Gemma said. "I guess, in particular, they are trying to work out whether the reason why they can't see your panties is because you're wearing black ones, or because you're not wearing any at all."
"Oh my God!" Lucy said. "Do you want to move, Billie?"
This morning, when the girls had dressed me, I had been positively resisting their efforts to put more clothes on. During the afternoon, although I'd bought several pairs of very sexy panties, neither of the girls had suggested I put them on during our many visits to the changing rooms. My guess was that Gemma frequently went about in the same condition, and that Lucy felt it would appear far too prudish for her to have made the suggestion. But would a lack of panties embarrass Billie? Would it hell!
"I'm fine here," I said.
"This is just like Dr Jeckle and Miss Hyde, all over again," from Lucy.
"That's my girl," from Gemma, and then she added with a smile, "I'm not wearing any panties either." (Told you, I thought.)
"Oh my God!" again from Lucy, then she added, "But Billie, how do you really feel about being admired by men?"
I glanced down at the quayside, where a couple of young guys were unashamedly staring up. They caught my glance and one of them raised his fist - not in the aggressive way he might do it towards a man, but in a manner simulating an erect penis with a large head. HE WANTED TO FUCK ME! It was such an exhilarating thought, I almost wet myself with excitement. Instead, I gave jerk of my head as though to say, 'Go toss yourself off, buster,' and turned back to the girls.
"You're loving it, aren't you, Billie?" Gemma could see right through me.
I couldn't deny it. "As a male, Bill lusted after the desirable women he saw every day, virtually all of whom were totally beyond his reach. Now, I'm Billie, the opposite sex want to have sex WITH ME."
"But how do you feel about having sex with men?" Lucy asked. "Bill was totally heterosexual."
"That's precisely it, Lucy. I'm hetero, just like Bill, except that he's a man and I'm a woman. It seems natural to be admired by men, if you see what I mean.
"Look," I continued, "I'm not saying I am going to go outside and have sex with the first bloke I meet, but I am saying I feel differently today, to the way I felt yesterday or the day before. I think I need to explore my new self, and determine exactly what my limits are."
"But what about the physical limits?" Gemma asked. "Surely a bloke would notice it wasn't the real thing if you got too intimate."
"Oh, I don't think a man would find anything suspicious," Lucy said. "I had a real good look at the suit this morning, and anatomically it's pretty good, and what's more, it feels just like human skin. OK, your vagina is very small, but provided the bloke isn't enormous, I reckon he'd just think you've got a nice, tight cunt."
"Well, that would be suspicious on its own," Gemma said. "Billie looks as though a tight cunt is the last thing she'd have."
"Thank you," I said, and I meant it.
"Uh-uh!" Lucy said, looking onto the quayside again, "George is out there, and he's giving you a real eyeful, Billie. Perhaps you should explore your limits with him. I wouldn't mind, but in the meantime, let's stop him behaving like the lecherous old sod he's become."
She knocked on the window and gesticulated to him, and he looked guilty about being caught watching. But there was no guilt about him when he came upstairs.
"Hi Gemma. Hi Billie. You two girls look great." Did he give rather more emphasis to me, than to Gemma?
"Lucy looks great as well, don't you think George," Gemma replied, rather cattishly.
George glanced quickly at her and said, "Yeah, course she does. It's just that she knows what I think about her, but I've only met you once before, and this afternoon was the first time I've come across Billie." Was that an innuendo there? He casually turned his back on Lucy in order to stare enquiringly at me. "Hope it's not going to be the last."
Well, two could play at innuendo. "Oh, I'm certain you'll see much more of me, George," I said.
I gave a quick glance at Lucy to make certain my mild flirting with her husband didn't upset her. But behind George's back, Lucy was pulling a face of pretend revulsion at Gemma, who, aware that she was in George's line of sight, was trying not to laugh at Lucy's expression.
"Well, that's really great," George said, leaning towards me and quite deliberately looking down the front of my dress. No wonder Lucy was unhappy, if he was so openly leching at other women.
But she appeared positively radiant as she said, "Oh George, do stop peering down Billie's cleavage. Sit down next to her and look at the menu. We are ready to order."
***
To give George his credit, he listened carefully to every word I said that evening (which was more than many of Bill's dates had done) and made much more intelligent conversation than I'd have expected from him. I chattered endlessly about all kind of stupid things, from the décor in the bar, the new country-life museum which had just opened nearby, and the way the blokes outside kept looking at me. George promptly leant over and shook his fist at three guys staring upwards at my legs as they walked past, and I think he might have gone out and started a fight if they hadn't promptly disappeared. It was really nice, I thought, having someone to stand up for you like that.
It was surprising, but after the superb conversation I'd had with the girls all afternoon, they seemed to go very quiet. They generally listened to the two of us, and occasionally made hushed jokes to each other about George and me, and then going into fits of giggles over them. I was a bit uncertain whether Lucy was unhappy with George and me having fun together, but she certainly gave no impression she was.
It was while I was on the main course that I felt hot fingers on my right knee, which then proceeded to pull up my skirt and slip beneath it and trace a path along the inside of my thigh, towards the top of my stockings. I rapidly put my hand under the table, grabbed George's hand and forced it back in his direction. I gave him a hard stare which he innocently returned with a puzzled looking smile. Dirty bastard!
I glanced at Gemma and Lucy who had quite obviously picked up what had happened, and appeared to find it highly amusing. Gemma deliberately sat back in her seat and slipped her hand under the table, and an instant later, Lucy gave a little jump, a shocked glance at Gemma's face, and then they both collapsed in laughter. I sighed. I was obviously on my own in this skirmish.
For the rest of the meal, it was a non-stop onslaught on my legs, made all the more frantic on my part because I wasn't wearing panties. So with George's hands continually wondering up my legs, my pussy was totally unprotected. And do you know what? I found it incredibly, bloody horny! Just suppose, I thought, I let him succeed and reach my hairy vagina. What a surprise he'd get.
I looked across the table at the other two and they were still endlessly parodying George and myself, taking turns to touch each other under the table and pretending to be shocked. George seemed completely oblivious to what they were doing. I think he was so intent on accosting my vagina that he'd tuned out every other part of the meal, including his wife and her friend.
Again the thought went through my head; just suppose I let him succeed. What a shock he'd get. Well, I was Billie, not Bill. Why not? After all, Lucy seemed totally laid-back about it, if the term 'laid-back' could be applied to the childish way in which those two were behaving.
Having finished my dessert, I put down my fork, wiped my mouth with my serviette and sat well back in my seat. "That was a fantastic meal," I uttered. "I really enjoyed it." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George's hand disappear beneath the table again, but I appeared not to notice.
A second later, it was resting on my knee, and then starting the same journey towards the top of my stocking. Twice, he had already got that far before I'd stopped him. This time, I continued to dab my mouth with my serviette, whilst his hand moved up onto my bare skin (OK, my bodysuit skin), which almost made me shiver with excitement. Bodysuit or not, I was extremely sensitive there. I could feel the slight shake of his fingertip as they moved even further upwards, and when I didn't resist, they suddenly jumped the last inch and landed right in my bush!
I think he almost came in his pants; his Adam's apple jolted up and down several times, and he locked rigid for a while, but when I felt his fingers start to explore the jungle, I had a moment's apprehension. Suppose he realised it was false.
But that was definitely a Bill-type thought. Firstly, he wasn't going to realise, and secondly what could he say if he did? I've got my hand up your false pussy!
I gave him a long sideways glance, and he looked back at me, as his hand groped inside my labia. At least, that's what I assumed he was doing. There was actually a total lack of feeling around that area. Considering it was probably made of several layers of Terylene, it was really no wonder. At least, from the excitement in his eyes, he had no idea that Billie was other than the genuine article.
"I think I'd better go to the toilet." George released my pussy and was almost out of his seat before he had finished speaking. All three of us watched his back disappearing towards the toilets.
"Billie, you are absolutely shameless!"
Lucy was incredulous. "You don't mean you actually let him touch you there?"
I nodded, and smirked. "Well, you two didn't help me. Why didn't you stop him, Lucy?"
She considered. "Well, you obviously didn't mind too much, otherwise you'd have put a stop to it yourself, the way we girls have to. So I thought that if he was happy to do things with you, then why should I complain?"
"But how could I put a stop to it? He was continually trying it on."
"Forks are quite good in this kind of situation," Gemma spoke quite factually, "as long as you don't attack your own leg. Otherwise, you could spill your soup in his lap."
"But I didn't have soup!"
"Well, it's all worked out alright. Are you going to have sex with him? He's obviously gone to the bog to buy some condoms."
"Sex?"
"Well you could give him a tit fuck to start with," Gemma said.
"And then decide how you feel about the real thing," Lucy added.
"Lucy! You can't really be suggesting I have sex with your husband!"
"It seems the ideal arrangement. I mean, you're not going to want him to get divorced from me and marry you, are you? He can have a little fling with someone I trust and everything works out nicely.
"And perhaps I shouldn't say this," she added, glancing around to make certain George hadn't returned, "but he's got a very small cock. I don't think there'd be any physical problem getting it in."
"But I'm not certain I want sex with him."
"Oh." Lucy sounded quite disappointed.
"Billy only said she wasn't certain," Gemma said. "She didn't say she definitely didn't want to."
I did a retake on my own words. Gemma was right; that was exactly what I had said. Was I really contemplating sex with the fat slob George? For a few seconds, someone called Bill started voicing his protests, but I shut him out. This was for Billie to decide. After all, George may not be the most attractive person in the world, but on the other hand, he was available, and his wife - my sister - was not only willing, she sounded positively enthusiastic about it.
"I really am not certain," I said. "What happens if I get part of the way and then change my mind? He might cut up a bit rough."
"Billie, that's a question that every woman has to resolve in her own way," Gemma said, "and to an extent, you've already gone past the point of no return by letting him play with your doo-dah. You can hardly turn round now and say you're not up for it. That would be a right prick-tease. Now, I suggest that you and George go back to their house for coffee, whilst Lucy and I pop into my house..."
"We could say you needed help to put up the curtains," Lucy offered.
"Yes, we could say that," Gemma continued. "So when you get in Lucy's house, you ask to use the bathroom, and you can guarantee that when you come out, George will be waiting to push you into the bedroom. You go with him and do what you will, and when you've finished, you come round and get us. So, it's all agreed, then?"
Was it? I didn't remember agreeing.
"Sorry I've been gone so long. I hadn't any change in my pockets and I needed some for... er... well..." George stuttered to a halt by the table.
I smiled up at him. "Oh George, you've paid the bill after I'd offered to do it," I said. "You are really so masterful. Thank you very much. I really am grateful to you for such a wonderful evening." And I gave him a long look, and let my tongue flick between my lips.
***
In the bathroom, I had a wee, and then lifted my skirts and had a good stare at my pussy. Lucy was absolutely correct. It did look perfectly normal from the outside - not that any two pussies ever look the same. I slipped a finger inside and explored a little.
It really was quite a small pussy compared to every pussy that Bill had ever known, but Lucy had intimate knowledge of George, and she'd said that shouldn't be a problem. It also appeared that the angle of my vagina was much shallower than most. But then, to be honest, the angle of entry was not one of the key features that a man noticed at these kinds of times. There would only be one matter of concern to George - would he be spurting semen into my cunt?
I stood up and flushed the toilet, rinsed my hands at the washbasin and dried them. Then I unlocked the door and went out.
"You are so fucking sexy!" It was like being attacked by an octopus. His arms were round me, crushing me to him; his lips were against mine and his tongue was down my throat; he lifted a leg and wrapped it around my thighs, pressing my belly against something very hard.
Hell! Lucy had said he had a small prick, but it more than made up for its limited size by being incredibly rigid and pointing directly outwards, rather than up at the ceiling as Bill's did. As he thrust it into my belly, it was like being pierced by a sword.
"Help me take off my dress." I somehow managed to gasp the most important words of all. If he damaged that, I would kill him.
He only got the zip halfway down before it jammed, and then he was almost tearing the dress off my shoulders and over my breasts. There was no way it would go over my hips like that, and my arms were trapped by the sleeves of my dress which I was terrified of tearing, but he didn't care a shit. He picked me up as I was, carried me into their front bedroom, which they used as a storeroom, and dropped me onto a camping mattress lying on the floor.
I had just managed to get my arms free from my dress before he'd removed his trousers, shirt and pants, and then he dropped his entire bodyweight on top of me.
Every ounce of breath left my body. Hell, there was no way I could utter a single word in this state, let alone tell him I'd changed my mind, or even offer a tit fuck in place of the real thing. He grabbed my bra and forced it up and over the front of my breasts, and then he roughly grabbed them and squeezed so hard I was glad I was less sensitive in that area than most women.
"Jesus! I am going to fuck you hard!"
He forced his knee between my legs and twisted, so my legs were forced apart, and he - and his iron rod - were slipping in between them, and forcing my legs even further apart. Bloody hell, I could see why the girls said it was so uncomfortable.
"Fucking hell! What a fucking tight cunt!"
I wasn't even aware he'd entered my Terylene vagina, although I'd assumed by his shift of body position that was what he was doing. He gave another enormous thrust, which apart from banging my head painfully against the wall, shaking my whole body and giving a nice wobble to my tits, produced no sensation inside at all.
"Fuck you! Fuck you, you black, fucking bitch!"
Another massive slam inside my body, which even more painfully smacked my head against the wall, making me feel a little dizzy.
"You fucking, dirty, little whore."
Gemma's words echoed in my head, "Sex can be so bloody uncomfortable," and then Lucy had said, "That's just how it is with George. He'd go on for hours and hours if I didn't fake it."
"Oh God, George," I said. "You're so hard inside me."
***
"Fantastic orgasm!" Lucy's eyes were brightly shining as I entered the house, and she had a grin from ear to ear.
I hadn't realised the walls of these houses were so thin, but then I guessed that George and I had been making so much noise, that the whole neighbourhood would have heard.
"Absolutely brilliant!" Gemma said. "A first time, as well. I've never known anyone climax like that." She looked directly at me. "Yours was pretty good as well."
"Mine?" What did she mean? Had she been talking about George? His orgasm was the normal kind of ten-second event that blokes always have. "Who were you talking about?"
"Why me, of course," Lucy said. "I've just had my first, non-faked, cataclysmic climax."
"You? But..."
"I told you the tongue was mightier than the penis," Gemma said.
"Bugger me! You mean that you and Lucy..."
"When she first came to work in our office," Lucy interrupted, "I thought she was simply the most beautiful person I'd ever seen in my life. Then I heard she was looking for a place to rent..."
"When Lucy told me about her next-door-neighbour's house, and invited me for dinner after I'd inspected it, I just knew she was hitting on me," Gemma said. "But then Bill was also invited to dinner and it looked like it was a nice foursome..."
"I realised that if it was just the three of us," Lucy took up the tale, "George would see how we were behaving and suspect straightaway, so I invited Bill along as well. George always moans about how I'm always trying to pair him off with some girl."
"Trouble was," Gemma said, "Bill, and I think even George, recognised I was a lesbian straightaway, and showed no interest at all in me, so we couldn't have continued that pretence for long. Finding that bodysuit in the loft was a heaven sent opportunity, and when George obviously took a shine to you..."
"We couldn't keep our hands off each other once you'd distracted him in the wine bar," Lucy continued. "You probably didn't realise, Billie, but when I went to the toilet, I slipped off my panties. I thought if you two can do it, so can I."
I hadn't even noticed she'd been to the toilet, so engrossed had I been in defending myself from George.
"Well, I certainly realised," Gemma said. "I almost wet myself with excitement."
"And it was really so good of you to keep him occupied all evening," Lucy continued, "and lose your female virginity to him, of all the men you could have chosen." She came over to me and gave me a hug. "Bill was a great brother, but you are an absolutely brilliant sister. Thank you."
"How do you feel about men, now you've lost your virginity?" Gemma asked. "It sounded as though he was almost raping you."
I smiled back at them. "A girl enjoys a bit of rough, now and again. I'm not certain I'd want to make a habit of it with George, though."
"That's a shame," Lucy said. "At breakfast tomorrow, I was going to suggest that George gives you a call and offers to take you to that country-life museum you were chattering about tonight."
She gave me a real nice smile. "Please, Billie. Gemma and I want to spend a little time together. You were a fantastic sister tonight, and if you were to do that for me, you'd be an absolutely fabulous, superb, incredible sister tomorrow, and I'd buy you lots more beautiful clothes. Please."
How could I refuse?
***
Well, my decision was a lot easier than I had made out to them. You see, I didn't want to admit that when I started to thrust back against George, something deep inside me started to feel 'Wow'. It took me straight back to Bill's teenage years when he had a motorbike, and used to drive it like the fun-loving maniac he was in those days. He would regularly do the ton on some of the straight, country roads behind the town. That combination of incredible power, speed, and fear was an enormous turn-on and Bill had never found anything to rival it, except sex itself.
Being shagged by George was an uncomfortable and painful bore, until I realised that I had the throttle; I could lay back and think of England or I could turn up the speed. Well, what do you think I did?
I bent my knees so I could get my feet flat on the floor on either side of the mattress, and as he came to the end of his next downward thrust, I thrust upwards with all my strength and in spite of his enormous weight, I pushed him upwards. Yes!
"Oh! You fucking bitch! You're really loving it, aren't you?"
Another slam down inside me, and another thrust from me to push him back up.
"Come on then, big boy," I snarled. "Fuck me harder."
As he started to drop again, I slipped my hands around his back, and dug my fingernails deeply into his buttocks to mercilessly pull him inside me.
"A-h-h-h!" he yelled, as he slammed inside me all the more brutally. "You fucking clawed me!"
"Play with a tiger, big boy, and that's what happens." I thrust him back upwards so hard I thought his cock was going to pop out at the top of the projectory. Fortunately, it didn't and he came slamming down on top of me again, accelerated by my fingernails boring deep scratches across his buttocks.
"Bitch!"
"Just fuck me harder, big boy!"
And so it went on, until his frenzy came to a climax.
"Y-e-e-e-e-s!" And he was starting his final run down for landing.
I lifted my feet from the floor and as he landed, I wrapped my legs right around him, driving my pointed heels into his buttocks and using them like spurs, in combination with my nails, to ensure that every drop of his semen went squirting inside my pussy, as his thrusts diminished in force, until he was lying quietly, firmly clamped in my arms and legs.
He looked at me and grinned. "That wasn't half bad, was it, gal?"
I thought back to the very first time when Bill had topped 100 mph on his bike.
"No," I said, and grinned back at him. "That wasn't half bad."
***
Next morning, I got the invitation from George to go to the country-life museum. I accepted, although in fact, we never managed to reach it. As soon as we'd left the built-up area, George stopped the car to show me a local beauty spot. Three rounds of sex followed.
By then, it was time for lunch, and we found a nice pub with good food. George had a couple of pints of beer, whilst I drank champagne. (Incidentally, I'm still not convinced by that old wives tale that Gemma threw me.) Afterwards, we reckoned it was too risky for George to drink and drive, so we booked into the motel next door, to sleep it off. Then George quite correctly decided that vigorous exercise was a much better way of getting alcohol out of the blood stream. (Four rounds of sex.)
By that time, it was getting dark and we thought we ought to return home. George stopped the car where we had paused that morning, just to check we hadn't left anything behind. He had me in three different positions on the bonnet of the car, before our final climax of the day.
Oh, and Gemma has invited Lucy, George and myself around for supper tomorrow night.
LIke a Woman Scorned
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SYNOPSIS
The women's self-help group was dedicated to making men suffer for their marital sins, and what more fitting humiliation could there be, than to force them to be the kind of woman they most desired. When the narrator wakes up as a Dolly Parton look-alike, he expects the worst, but actually gains more than anyone could possibly have imagined.
This story was originally published on Fictionmania in 2003 under my other nom de plume of Marianne Nettes. It is posted here virtually without modification. It's basically a light hearted story with lots of sex of all types. Please don't read it if that is not to your taste. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy!
by Marianne Nettes
'Hell Hath No Fury'
The words had been staring me in the face for some time. I knew they should have meant something to me - perhaps they were part of a saying or quotation, but for the life of me, I couldn't think what.
I read the words again, scrawled in large letters in bright red lipstick across the mirror above the dressing table, but still they meant nothing. It was strange - my mind felt as though it was switched off - but not in the way it normally was when I awoke with a massive hangover. No, it was more similar to the time after I'd had my tonsils removed, and my body had regained consciousness, whilst my mind was still dormant. I'd been aware of my surroundings, without being able to think too deeply about them.
At that moment, I couldn't even remember where I was or how I'd got there. From the furniture and the decoration, I was clearly in one of those standardized hotel rooms, which look exactly like each other, no matter what part of the country you happen to be in. I turned my head to the bedside cabinet on my left, hoping for sight of a hotel logo on an information card, which might jog my memory.
'Hell hath no fury like...' The words were there again, on a folded white card on the bedside table, this time with a valuable one-word addition, and a few dots, which bade the reader to look inside.
The missing words were on the tip of my tongue. I knew that I should know them. Hell hath no fury like... But in my befuddled state, I couldn't bring them to mind.
A hand reached out to take the card. I vaguely wondered whether it might be my own hand, but it was as though it belonged to someone else - as if it was disembodied from me. Inside the card were the words I'd been racking my brain for.
'A WOMAN SCORNED', it read, in glitzy red print, to match the colour of the lipstick on the mirror. Of course, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Underneath the heading, in smaller type: 'A WOMAN SCORNED is the name of a women's self-help group like one you have never experienced before. You won't find us in any phone book or directory of business services, for we can be approached only by personal recommendation.
'We exist to provide fitting revenge to men who are unfaithful to their partners. You have been selected by your partner...' the word 'Sheila,' had been written in, '...who has nominated you to receive our full treatment. A letter from your partner is enclosed.'
The disembodied hand brought an envelope in front of my eyes. That hand was joined by a second one, which tore open the flap, and took out the handwritten letter, inside.
It read, 'You bastard! At last, you get what you deserve. This is for...' and there followed a list of about twenty girls' names, together with dates stretching back over the last eight years.
'I hope you detest this weekend, and remember it for the rest of your life. Incidentally, don't even contemplate complaining to the police about this or mentioning it to the divorce lawyer, else I may recall details of that nasty car accident you had in Seacombe last December, after you'd had far too much to drink at that Christmas Party.
'May you rot in hell.'
'Sheila'
I lay back on the bed, in a shocked daze. Things were falling into place with an all too startling clarity. The disembodied hands were shaking so badly now, they could hardly pick up the original card, and hold it still enough for me to continue reading from where I had left off.
'You have been temporarily turned into a woman by members of A Woman Scorned, using gender transformation products, secured in place by powerful adhesives. In a few days, the adhesives will lose their strength and you will be able to revert to your former self with only a little discomfort. However, we strongly advise against trying to force an accelerated reversal, since you are likely to remove large areas of skin, as well as less important human tissue, such as your genitals.
'After discussing your preferences in women with your partner, we have designed a body for you, which should be in accordance with your perfect shape. It will be interesting to observe whether you find that shape as perfect for your own body as you seem to find it for others. The body shape chosen by your partner is...' and the words 'Dolly Parton' had been written in.
'For the next forty-eight hours, you will experience life as a woman has to experience it, as you undergo a series of demeaning tasks and tests. Do not expect to enjoy this experience, for you will be A WOMAN SCORNED.'
As my senses returned to normal, I was left staring at those two disembodied hands holding the card. The hands were quite large, and had crimson fingernails that were so long, they projected at least half an inch beyond the end of the fingers. But it wasn't the length or colour of the nails that was the problem, it was the fact that the hands weren't disembodied at all - they were my hands! I could open them and close them, and clasp the card or release it, so it dropped onto the quilt bulging over my chest.
I had, of course, been conscious of the bulge for some time, but like everything else, had not thought deeply about it. Now, I grasped the quilt and threw it off me and tried to sit up as hurriedly as I could. The problem was the heavy weights sitting on my chest, holding me down. I had to turn my body to the left, and I could feel the weights slide sideways - but not very far, as though they were a permanent attachment. I levered myself up onto my left elbow, and looked down.
I guess Dolly Parton doesn't get a shock like that every morning when she levers herself from the horizontal into a sitting position on the bed. Just imagine two flesh coloured water-filled footballs attached to your chest, and you get the idea. In fact, although I'd never had the opportunity to see at close quarters the pair that Dolly carries around every day, I reckoned these two beauties must be even bigger than hers.
As I pulled myself into a seated position, they hung down over my stomach, almost touching my thighs. Somewhere under there, I knew, was my groin, or at least, the position where my groin used to be. I dreaded to think what had happened to it.
I put one hand onto either breast, and spread them apart, so I could peer between them. There was nothing, other than pubic hair, to be seen. I released my right breast and felt down below. As I had feared, where yesterday I'd had my manhood, there was only a slit!
I swivelled my feet onto the floor, noticing that my toenails were painted crimson, to match my fingernails. I stood upright, staggering forward a little, as the extra weight at the front unbalanced me, and walked over to the full length mirror on the wall.
I guess if I really had looked like Dolly Parton, it wouldn't have been so bad, but then, I guess if it was that easy, there'd be millions of women imitating her. I had a Dolly blonde wig; my eyes carefully made up with the same dark eye shadow as she wore; the same kind of heavy, ornate earrings hung from my ears; and my lips were the same crimson red as my nails. They'd even changed the shape of my cheeks slightly, and I raised my hand to my cheek, to try to work out what had happened, almost poking out my eye with a fingernail, in the process.
But the overall impression was that of a very poor imitation of Dolly by someone who, apart from a simply massive pair of tits, simply didn't have the looks to carry it off. Down below, it wasn't just my cock they'd changed. Swivelling around, I could see I had an arse the size of a hippopotamus, and hips to match. Overall, I had the appearance of a cheap tart.
The clothing hanging in the open fronted wardrobe looked as though it had been chosen to give the same impression. There was a flared black skirt, not more than twelve inches long, and a white tee shirt, with a deeply scooped neckline. Next to those was a white corset, with four long suspenders hanging down, and on the shelf next to the wardrobe, a pack of black, fishnet stockings, and a tiny pair of black panties, made of the sheerest material.
On the floor, was a pair of black sling-back shoes, with heels at least four inches high. Everything chosen to make me look conspicuous, as I undertook my demeaning tasks, which presumably would involve being seen as much as possible.
I considered. Of course, I didn't have to go through with everything they had dreamed up. Obviously, I'd have to dress in these clothes for the time being, since they were the only ones available. There was no phone in the room, but I could go to Reception, get them to call a taxi and then get it to take me home.
But my keys and wallet were missing, and without them, I'd have to smash a window to get in, to find the cash to pay the taxi fare. I had normally considered that having nosy neighbours was an advantage, since the house was usually empty all day long. But they would certainly call the police when they saw a prostitute trying to break into my house. The thought of speaking to the neighbours beforehand and trying to explain what had happened was more than I could bear.
On the other hand, I reasoned, perhaps I could stay right here in this hotel room, and order meals on room service. As a solution, it appeared too easy. I turned back to the Woman Scorned card, and continued reading.
'You could choose not to take part in the tasks we have devised for you. It is your choice, but we should warn you that this hotel room has to be vacated this morning and you will be without food and shelter, since all your money, credit cards and keys have been put into safe keeping. Only if you satisfactorily complete your tasks will you receive food and accommodation at appropriate times.'
Finally, at the bottom of the card, someone had scrawled: 'Suggest you get dressed and have breakfast, which is served in the restaurant until 10 am. No room service! For your first task, you may like to select a less revealing dress from Tweeds Fashions in the old town. One of our representatives will find you in the changing rooms at around 11.30 am.'
Thank God! They weren't so heartless after all. I was not going to have to wear this all weekend. A bit of humiliation, just to show me what it was like, and then they were going to let me wear something more respectable. I didn't know Tweeds Fashions, but it sounded very Town & Country. But first, I had to get dressed, and suffer my embarrassment over breakfast. Looking at the radio clock, I saw I only had an hour before breakfast ended.
***
Several times in the past I had hopefully suggested that, if my wife was concerned about her figure, she should try a corset, but she had always treated the suggestion as a joke. I'd always thought that a great pity, for I found corsets extremely erotic - now I was to be tested to see whether I still found them so attractive from the inside.
I knew enough about them to know I had to fully loosen the cords, unfasten the busk at the front, wrap the garment around my waist and then refasten the busk. That task, at least, was relatively straightforward, although even before I started pulling on the cords, it was all a rather tight fit.
The corset had a built-in bra, although the cups barely covered my nipples, and appeared to function solely as curved platforms upon which my breasts could rest as they were pushed outwards to their fullest extent - a bit like large jellies perched on top of tiny dessert bowls.
I drew in the cords until I felt I had gained rather a nice shape. It wasn't even particularly uncomfortable - in fact, I found it rather erotic simply being pulled into such a wonderful shape. I stood in front of the mirror, swivelling left and right to admire myself. Then I took the tee shirt of the hanger, and slipped it over my head and pulled it down.
Jesus Christ! I looked good. OK, not the kind of woman I'd have wanted to take home to have tea and cakes with my mother, but certainly the kind I'd have wanted to take home when no-one else was around.
I turned to the little, black skirt. I reckoned that once I had that on, I was going to look so incredibly sexy that I'd probably have an orgasm just looking at myself.
The skirt didn't fit! I couldn't get it to slide over my hips and bum. I made certain the zip was fully open, and the waist fastening was undone, but there was no way I was going to be able to pull it up.
Then I had my brainwave. I could pull it over my head.
Well, my head wasn't a problem, of course. I even managed to wriggle it over my fairly broad shoulders, but when it came to my tits, I had one hell of a job. I finally managed it by twisting so that I could feed the skirt past first the left breast, and then the right. But the skirt still wouldn't fasten around my waist! It was at least four inches too small!
***
The answer of course, was obvious. The Scorned Women hadn't wanted the corset to give me a 'nice' shape - they wanted me to have the kind of hourglass figure that most men drool over. I was going to have to do some serious tightening of the cords, if I was going to fit into that tiny little skirt.
I tried drawing the cords tighter in the same way as I had done previously, with my arms behind my back, but I couldn't get any real leverage to give the cords the kind of pull they needed. I cast my eye around the room for something to assist.
Eventually, I found the solution in the bathroom. There were a couple of handrails on the wall by the bath - the kind which disabled people use, and which will bear the full weight of a person. I stood in the bath, pulled the cords as tight as I could, and then tied them to the handrail, and lowered myself so I was hanging from the cords.
It took a bit of wriggling, and I twice had to repeat the process, but eventually, I had a waist narrow enough for the skirt to fasten.
Success! Combined with absolute agony!
But when I climbed out the bath and stood in front of the mirror, again, I realized the agony was worth it. I had a figure to die for - the tee shirt stretched over my tits like barrage balloons, a tiny waist, and the short, black skirt splaying out over my huge arse. All I needed now to complete the picture were the stockings and shoes. Oh, and of course, the panties!
'Shi-i-i-i-t!'
The busk of the corset almost gouged a hole through my stomach as I tried to bend over to pick up the pack of stockings. That was a lesson I wasn't going to forget in a hurry, to keep my torso dead straight at all times. No wonder women had been so keen to forgo their corsets and their wonderful figures, to avoid having their stomachs ripped open each time they bent over.
This time, I bent my knees in order to lower my body downwards until I could grasp the pack, and then stood up again to consider my next move. The problem was, my feet, as usual, were at the end of my legs, and I had to get the stockings over them. I realized that I should have put on the stockings and the panties before the corset, but there was no way I was taking off the corset and going through the whole process all over again.
After a while, I worked out the solution. I sat on the edge of the bed, and brought my ankle up until I could grasp it in my hand. Then I fell backwards so I was lying on the top of the bed, with my ankle still in my hand. Now I could slide the stocking over my toes and up my leg.
It was only at this point I realized how utterly hairless were my legs, and for that matter, the whole of my body. The Scorned Women had certainly done a fantastic conversion job on me, and must have spent most of last night on it.
Only now could I vaguely remember deciding that, since it was a Friday evening, I would pop into the West Beach Hotel, on Seacombe's sea front, for a couple of drinks on the way home from work. I had hoped that perhaps I might get lucky and pick up a beautiful woman on holiday on her own, looking for a little romance. It was an image I'd had many times before, which was the main reason I tended to frequent the West Beach Hotel, rather than the more conventional hotels and pubs in the town centre.
Unfortunately, until last night, it had never worked out that way. Only occasionally did you find women in the bar on their own, and as soon as you'd got chatting to them, some hunky bloke inevitably turned up and whisked them off, often with quite an aggressive look towards me.
Then, last night I had literally bumped into the woman of my dreams as I left the Gents toilets. She'd been looking behind her as I came out, and she walked straight into me. She had on a low cut dress, and although her boobs weren't one quarter of the size of my current ones, I had found them exceptionally attractive. We got chatting, I bought her a drink, and then another, and finally she'd suggested we go up to her room. We had kissed, she had told me to get undressed and get into bed whilst she went to the bathroom, and...
And nothing. Presumably, at some stage, she'd dropped a date-rape drug into my drink, and then the Scorned Women had done their dirty deeds upon my body whilst I lay unconscious.
To be fair to them, although their intention was clearly vindictive, I really could not complain about the woman I'd been turned into. I smiled. No doubt they had thought to have this kind of body was the worst fate that any woman could suffer. Typical women! They never did understand what made a woman look attractive.
'Mind you,' I thought, 'neither did I.'
After I'd put on my other stocking and fastened on my shoes, using the same principle as before, I stood in front of the mirror once again, and I had to confess I looked absolutely breath-taking. OK my face wasn't pretty, but with a body like mine, who was going to be looking at my face anyway?
The only parts of my clothing with which I was really not happy were the four-inch stiletto heeled shoes, in which I could barely totter across the floor. I needed to spend ages practicing walking in them, but I looked again at the clock, and realized I had barely ten minutes before breakfast ended. I had to go.
***
It was one of those hotels where you have to walk miles to get anywhere. I'd realized I needed some practice in walking - well, I certainly got it on that trek to the restaurant. Fortunately, there was a handrail along most of the corridors. I certainly needed it, for by the time I got to the restaurant, I was barely able to stand up. My ankles were aching as though they were about to drop off. I'd passed one or two guests on the way, and they had all given me rather strange looks - no wonder really - I looked like a prostitute with artificial legs.
But when I got to the restaurant, I let go of the handrail, stood up straight, and made an entrance they would never forget. Body straight (well the corset ensured that, anyway), one foot in front of the other combined with a nice sway of the arse, which the skirt amplified into a wonderful swing. I could see everyone's head turn to watch me, and I felt like a million dollars, until my foot turned, and I went sprawling arse over tit, to end up on my hands and knees at the feet of the head waiter.
The bra cups failed to control my tits, and they flopped forward out of the front of the tee shirt, and my skirt was up around my waist. It was only then I remembered I had forgotten to put on my panties!
***
The waiting staff was quite nice about it all, really. OK, they threw me out of the restaurant, but in a very polite way.
'Madam needs assistance to visit the Ladies Powder Room,' the headwaiter directed, and I had no shortage of beefy waiters who were more than willing to slip their arms around my waist, accidentally squeezing breasts and bum as they did so.
Once inside the Ladies, I made a few lightning adjustments to my clothing, all the time wondering if I had the nerve to walk back into the restaurant. In the event, I was not given the choice. When I left the Ladies, the door to the restaurant was shut, with a large 'Closed' sign on it, with the headwaiter standing implacably inside, his back to the glass door. I knew there was no way I was getting past him. So I commenced the epic journey back to my room, where I'd noticed tea-making facilities, together with a complimentary biscuit.
***
There were only two ways to leave the West Beach Hotel - one to the west, to the next town, ten miles along the coast; the other to the east, and towards Seacombe town centre, located around the river mouth.
The problem was that it was the best part of a mile to the town centre, along Seacombe's promenade, which lined the West Beach. Without even the money for the bus fare, I'd have to walk the whole distance in my heels.
That wasn't all. Until then, I'd thought Seacombe was in serious decline as a seaside resort. How wrong can you be? There were more holidaymakers on that beach than you got in Baywatch when Pamela Anderson was due to appear.
Families with kids, elderly couples, students from the university, as well as the other kind of day trippers, who were simply wetting their toes in the sea before beginning the serious business of drinking dry the local pubs.
The crowds weren't just confined to the beach. They milled around the little huts on the promenade, selling all the usual beach paraphernalia - ice creams, suntan lotion, children's fishing nets, and swimming aids. And every adult, and many of the more mature children, stared at me - the men with looks of open admiration and lechery, as though it was Pamela Anderson, herself, walking by, whilst the women looked on in open disgust.
I'd only gone a few hundred yards before my ankles started to burn in agony, and I had to drop onto an empty bench. Within five seconds, I was sharing the bench with three blokes, who were looking for a bit of fun on their day out. They were keen to point out that on principle they wouldn't pay cash for sex, but they could be very generous to a girl with the right attributes (and I had them) who would be happy to contribute to their enjoyment.
Of course, the male part of me would probably have punched them on the nose, were it not for the fact that there were three of them, all of whom looked far more capable in that respect than I was. So I let my female side dominate, smiling sweetly at them as I shook my head. It was only at that moment I realized, with a sinking feeling, my biggest problem would occur as soon as I started to speak, for surely, I would be sussed out within a few seconds.
Yet those three blokes seemed determined to engage me in conversation. 'Do you live here, luv?' 'Are you married?' 'Got a boyfriend?' 'How do you fancy a stroll into the dunes?' 'Do you want a lift into town?'
That last question went straight to the core, because over the last few minutes, I had been rubbing my flaming ankles, and wondering exactly how I was going to complete the journey into town. I decided to take my courage into my hands, knowing that if these guys realized they were really chatting up a bloke, they would beat me into mincemeat.
'Have you got a car?' I said the words as softly as possible, with a little smile in my eyes, hoping he would notice the smile, more than the maleness of my voice. It seemed to work.
'Yeah. We could give you a lift.'
They were all leering at this. 'What, all three of you?' When they started to nod, I added, 'You must think I was born yesterday, getting into a car with the three of you.'
I looked the one I presumed was the car owner in the eye. 'I'd come with you, though, if you were to offer.' Too late, I realized the ambiguity of the words I'd used.
His face lit up. 'Right on! Great!' He turned to the other two. 'I'll see you guys a bit later - say in the pub at about twelve. I reckon me and the Princess will be done by then.' Thirty seconds later, he'd loaded me into an old Ford Capri parked by the side of the road, and we had shot off into the traffic.
'Gary's my name. How about you?'
Shit! What was my name? I could hardly tell him the truth.
'Donny Partem.' The name slipped out before I'd even thought about it, and I sought to justify it. 'That's my professional name, anyway. I do a Dolly Parton look-alike act, round the clubs and bars. Do you think I'm like her?'
'Fucking hell.' He leered at my tits. 'I'll say.'
'You're going the wrong way. The town centre is in the opposite direction.'
'I've just got to find somewhere to turn the car round.'
'You've just passed the West Beach Hotel. You could have turned round there.'
'Yeah, but they get really snotty-nosed about people having sex in the car park.'
I gulped. I knew it was a bad idea getting in the car with him, aching ankles or no aching ankles.
'We can turn round up here,' he said, turning the car off the main road and taking a side road into the dunes at the rear of the beach.
'Oh God,' I thought 'I've asked for this.'
I looked around. We were now completely surrounded by the sand dunes, with not a person in sight. I could be in serious trouble.
'Gary, I'm not going to have sex with you.'
He looked at the expression on my face, then stopped the car with a lurch. 'Sorry, that's what I thought you were suggesting. Still, I'll never force a woman to have sex with me, so if you want to get out here, it's OK by me.'
'But you've taken me away from the town centre. It's miles back there, and I can't walk through the sand in these heels.'
'Well, I didn't make you wear those shoes, did I?' He hesitated a second, then said, 'Look, if you don't fancy full sex, how about a tit fuck?'
It was my turn to hesitate. After all, it wasn't as though they were my tits, were they?
'And you'll take me into town, afterwards?'
'Course I will,' he said.
The problem was, I saw the bastard cross his fingers as he spoke.
***
'Come on, then.' I jerked my head, indicating we should get out of the car.
His leer turned into a huge grin. 'Great.' He switched off the engine and got out, walked around the car, and held the door open whilst I got out.
The road was about three feet higher than the sand at this point, but a few gorse bushes had grown by the side. I thought that these, together with the car, would probably conceal us from anyone strolling amongst the sand dunes. Hopefully, we'd be able to hear if a car was coming, and take cover before it came into sight.
'This place is as good as any,' I said, not really certain how I was going to play this, and trying as hard as I could to remember the few times when I had been a recipient of this kind of good fortune. It was all going to be made so much more difficult, I realized, by the restrictions so uncompromisingly imposed by the corset.
Taking care not to bend forward, I knelt down before him, released his trouser belt, and unzipped him. His trousers fell to the ground, and his prick was bulging beneath his underpants. I grasped them and gently eased them down over the bulge, and his prick suddenly sprang out towards my face.
'I'm not doing a blow job,' I said. 'Sit down.'
'Any scrubber can give me blowjob,' he said, dropping down onto his bum, leaning back on his elbows and pushing his legs forward. 'But I've never seen a woman with tits like yours before. This is going to be unique.'
I pulled up the front of my tee shirt, and shrugged first one tit out of the bra, and then the other. Then I edged forward on my knees until my tits were hanging over his balls, and sat firmly astride his thighs. With my weight on top of him, he wasn't going to move until I was ready. I didn't want him deciding he wanted to extend the range of our activities, and suddenly reversing positions.
So we commenced. I didn't have to lean forward very far for my huge tits to be hanging either side of his prick, and I simply pushed them together with my hands until his prick was totally hidden. Then I rolled my tits down the side of his prick, until the purple head came poking through. I pushed them back up again, and then violently jerked them down.
'Fucking hell! That's good,' he moaned.
'Lie down on your back,' I commanded, 'close your eyes, and think of England. You'll last longer that way.'
He obediently complied, resting his head on his hands, for comfort. I allowed the purple knob of his prick to protrude once more, and then got into a smooth rhythm - up and down, up and down, up and down. Every now and again, I gave a violent jerk downwards, and he would grunt in response.
We continued for another five minutes or so, before I could sense him about to spurt. Well, one thing I was determined was not going to happen was that he squirted over me. I had him pointing in exactly the right direction when his knob protruded the next time. I gave another violent jerk, he gave an enormous grunt, and his cum shot into the air.
I guess a schoolchild could make some kind of scientific deductions about gravity, by observing the parabola of that splodge of semen, as it soared almost three feet in the air and then, with quite a large element of luck, landed exactly where I'd planned - right in his gob!
But he'd already shot his next load by then, and this time it was sheer chance that, as he wrenched himself upright in a choking spasm, he was hit straight between the eyes by his own semen.
Well, that suited me even better, because he was half blind now, as well as choking. Whilst he frantically rubbed his eyes, I grabbed hold of his trousers, and yanked at the one side, causing him to roll off the edge of the road towards the sand beneath. His head and torso slid down the steep slope to the sand, but I kept hold of the trousers, with his feet trapped inside the legs, so he was left hanging upside down.
Just to make certain he wasn't going to easily free himself, I pushed the trousers over a few branches of a gorse bush, and wedged them as deeply in the centre as I could.
I'd carefully noted what he'd done with his car keys as he got out the car, so after I'd managed to stand upright again - no mean task in that corset - it was simple to retrieve them, get in the car and prepare to drive off.
'Thanks for offering me the lift into town,' I said. 'It's a pity your feet appear to be enveloped inside a gorse bush...
'You fucking bitch! Get me out of here or I'll... Shit!' The last remark came as he tried to extricate himself from the gorse and rather badly scratched his bare leg.
'Be careful,' I warned, 'Gorse can be very sharp.' I gave him a nice smile, and added, 'I'll leave your car in the harbour car park. Thanks for lending it to me.'
I shut the window and drove off.
***
Tweeds' Fashions was nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be full of respectable middle-aged ladies buying their tweed suits. Instead, it was full of teeny boppers, buying club wear - short, sexy dresses, brightly coloured catsuits, bustiers and hot pants.
'Select a less revealing dress in Tweeds,' a Woman Scorned had written. Looking around, I could see very little which matched that description.
I wondered whether, when they said 'dress', they would let get me get away with trousers. Unfortunately, time was fast approaching 11.30, when I was supposed to meet them in the changing rooms. I had a nasty feeling that if I wasn't on time, they would simply walk away and leave me abandoned. I hurriedly grabbed a few outfits in the largest sizes, which looked as though they might be slightly more respectable than my current garb, and headed for the changing rooms.
Inside, I'd expected to find separate changing cubicles - the same as you get in men's clothes shops. Not so, it was one long room, with a bench down either side and hooks at intervals along the walls. Not that you could see much of the benches, for there must have been twenty girls in that room, all in various stages of undress, including several who were stark naked, apart from the tiniest pairs of knickers I'd ever seen.
'You going through luv, or waiting for a bus?' The voice came from an impatient woman, behind me. 'Look, there's some space right at the end.'
She pointed past me, to the far corner, almost hidden by the seething half-naked bodies.
'Thanks. I hadn't noticed.'
I took a deep breath and moved forward, hoping the bodies would move aside to let me through. They didn't.
'Oh, for God's sake!' The woman pushed past me in exasperation, and started worming her way into the crowd. She had almost disappeared into it, when she turned round, grasped my wrist and added, 'Come on. You'll never get through this lot if you're polite.' She pulled me into the crowd.
When I was a schoolboy, I'd had this dream of being pushed by the other boys into the girls' changing-rooms, and not being let out. It might have been a premonition of that moment, except that I wasn't certain whether it was a dream or a nightmare!
On the one hand, wriggling my way amongst dozens of half-naked girls was fantastic - on the other hand, there was a part of me that was screaming to get more deeply involved, but it was trapped immobile by whatever contraptions it had been glued into. I was in the middle of twenty naked women and I couldn't get an erection! And of course, I was doing something highly illegal and I might be found out, to my everlasting disgrace.
'There you are luv, there's a couple of spaces here.' My companion had pulled me all the way through the heaven/hell zone, and we had some clear space around us. 'Will you undo my zip?' She turned her back on me so I could oblige.
As I pulled the zip down her back and her dress gaped opened, I realised she was bra-less. She pulled the dress off her shoulders and it fell to her waist, as she turned round to step out of it.
'What's the matter? Not seen a waspie like this before?'
She was proudly displaying the bright red foundation garment around her waist. I gulped, trying to concentrate on that, rather than those wonderful boobies.
'No... well, yes. I was admiring it. I wear a corset, but it's nothing like as attractive as that.'
'Gives you the nice figure, though, doesn't it? I wish I had a figure like yours.' She nodded at one of the outfits I had selected, a midnight blue catsuit. 'That's nice; I might try one of those myself, later on. Can I see you in it?'
'Yes, of course, although I'm not certain it'll fit.' I took a deep breath and pulled my tee shirt over my head, followed by my skirt, and stepped out of my shoes. I pushed my feet into the legs and, surprisingly, managed to pull it over my hips and feed my arms into it. It had a long back zip, and my companion obligingly did it up.
'You look good in it,' she said. 'There's a mirror over there.' She pointed into the crowd. 'I'm just going off to show this to my friend. Back in a minute.' She had pulled on a red dress that was almost as short as the skirt I had been wearing, and she disappeared towards the door.
Now I was starting to get used to all these naked women, I didn't find them so distracting as I forced my way over to the mirror. I stared critically at my image. Jesus Christ, I looked good! I would actually enjoy walking around in this outfit, especially watching the look on blokes' faces as they saw me. Hopefully, the Women Scorned wouldn't veto it, simply because it wasn't a dress.
I went back to the hook where I'd hung my clothes, thinking that I might as well try on the other garments before making my final decision. Unfortunately, when it came to undoing the zip of my catsuit, I couldn't reach it. Damn! Hopefully, my companion would return soon, as I really didn't want to risk starting up a conversation with someone else in there.
I examined my other outfits fairly carefully, and as I looked as the white dress, I recognised one of the labels hanging from the zip. It had three words written on it: 'A Woman Scorned.'
I glanced around. One of these half naked girls must have tied it on there whilst I'd been looking in the mirror, but I couldn't see anyone taking the slightest notice in me. I turned over the label, and read the handwritten message:
'The police have just been given a description of a man masquerading as a woman in the changing rooms at Tweeds. You have only a few minutes to get out.'
My first reaction was to bolt for the door, pushing aside everyone who got in the way, and run out of the shop, but a quick glance at the Amazon guarding the entrance to the changing rooms indicated there was no way anyone was going to get past her wearing the, as yet unpaid, shop goods.
'Do you think you could unzip me, please?' My voice was as sweet and soft as it had ever been, and the girl next to me didn't even break her conversation with her companion as she did as I bade. The catsuit was off in ten seconds flat, and I was fully dressed and leaving the changing-rooms within a couple of minutes, carefully handing over the outfits to the Amazon as I did so.
I could hear a siren as I went through the shop door, and I hurriedly turned in the opposite direction. I was ten yards down the street before the police car turned the corner and I quickly darted inside the nearest doorway, which happened to be that of a wine bar called Jed's.
***
'You're late.' The man, who I presumed was Jed, had been clearing one of the tables, and he scowled at me as I stepped inside. 'You were supposed to be here by 11.45. It's now almost twelve.'
'Sorry. Er... I think you must have the wrong...'
'Woman scorned?'
My mouth almost dropped open, but I managed to nod.
'You think I don't recognise my own uniform?'
'Uniform?' I glanced around. There was a waitress serving another table wearing the same white tee shirt, black skirt with fishnet stockings, and ridiculous heels. But she also had on a frilly white apron, tied in a large bow at the rear, a white hair ribbon, also tied in a large bow, and a black bow tie around her, otherwise bare, neck.
'You'll find the rest of your things through there.' Jed indicated a door behind the bar. 'Get them on straightaway, and you can finish clearing this table.'
'But...'
'I don't want no buts. If you're not going to work then piss off, but make certain you leave the uniform behind, otherwise I'll have the law on you.'
'But I haven't got any other clothes...'
'Not my problem, is it? As far as I'm concerned you can walk stark naked down the street, or get properly attired and start serving.'
I sighed. This was obviously the next part of my humiliation.
***
Fortunately, both the bow tie and the hair ribbon were of the pre-tied, elasticised variety, and I managed, on the third attempt, to put a half decent bow at the rear of the apron. As I went back into the bar area, I felt pretty good, and I reckoned that as demeaning jobs go, this was not going to be too bad. Little did I know.
The problem was that with that uniform, every male that came into the place regarded the waitresses as easy meat, and dressed in that way, it was mainly males that came in. It was called a wine bar, but it was really a pub for lager louts, with waitress service, which meant they could drink huge amounts without realizing they were so pissed they couldn't even stagger to the bar.
And the more pissed they became, so their suggestions became cruder, and were generally accompanied by a grope. A hand wandering between my thighs and up my skirt, to feel the skin between stocking top and panties, or grabbing a tit and rolling the nipple between finger and thumb.
The first time it happened, I poured the guy's lager straight into his lap, but I got a tremendous rocketing from Jed, and was told that, not only would I be out the door without my uniform if I did that again, but that I'd have to pay for his trousers to be dry cleaned out of my share of the tips.
The other waitress was quite philosophical about it, pointing out that, the more she let the guys touch her up, the higher the tips became. She had a point, and for the rest of the day, I became as co-operative as she was. The only problem was, at the end of the day, I didn't get any tips.
It was well after midnight. I'd been on my feet in the wine bar for the best part of twelve hours, with barely a rest. My ankles burnt, my feet throbbed with pain, my legs ached, even my shoulders felt as though they wanted to drop off, tired of carrying the weight of those enormous breasts.
'No way luv. You've been skiving all day long. You poured that beer over the guy and we've had to pay for his trousers to be cleaned. We've had to spend so much of our own time in just showing you what to do. There's no way you get a share of the tips.'
So Jed shared the pot out with the other waitress, and she left with a smirk over her face.
'Where do I sleep?' It was a question that had started to bother me over the last few minutes. A Woman Scorned had told me I'd get accommodation if I did what I was told. I'd been totally obedient, so Jed ought to know what the arrangements were. But he'd made no reference to a room, and he was now turning out all the lights in the building, and there seemed a clear desire to get rid of me.
'Sleep? I don't know where you're sleeping. It's not my problem. I'm not a bed and breakfast, you know.'
'But...' I looked outside. There were still dozens of drunken yobos roaming the streets. 'I've got nowhere to go. Can't I stay here?'
'You're kidding!' He stared at me, then his gaze softened. 'Got nowhere to go? I guess you could stay here, but what's it worth?'
'Worth! You've taken all the tips I earned. I haven't got any money.'
He smiled. 'I wasn't thinking of money.'
I was about to tell him to get lost, but there was a sudden bout of raucous shouting outside, and I knew if I was out there on my own, I was going to encounter far worse than Jed.
'I suppose I could give you a tit fuck,' I tentatively offered. After all, I'd managed earlier on that day, even though it seemed a lifetime before.
'On yer bike. It's the full thing, or you're out the door. And don't forget I need the uniform off you before you leave.'
I glanced down. There was an enormous bulge appearing in the front of his trousers. Whilst I didn't know what kind of device the Women Scorned lot had used to convert me, it was a sure fire cert I wouldn't be able to find a home for that monster.
'Sorry. It's that time of the month. I could give you a blow job.'
He shook his head. 'Like I say, it's the real thing or nothing' He gave another smile. 'Course, if it's just your period that's putting you off, I'm quite happy with any port in a storm, if you know what I mean?'
I did.
He could sense my hesitation. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it flat on his palm. 'I've got the protection, so what's the harm?'
I looked at the condom in its foil pack. He was right. It wasn't as though he was actually going to do anything other than use me as a receptacle in which to masturbate. I nodded. 'OK, you're on.'
'Right, get the uniform off. We don't want to mess it up, do we?'
He helped me out of my clothes but told me to keep on my corset, stockings and shoes. 'A corset really keeps me hard on for hours.'
Well that seemed a bloody good reason for removing it, but I could see I wasn't going to get away with that argument.
'Look, I'd better tell you,' I confessed. 'I've never actually done it this way before.' That was certainly no lie. 'Will you be... gentle with me?'
He smiled at me. He really had a rather nice smile, I thought.
'If you've never had it this way before, then you don't know what you've missed. You'll be screaming for more within five minutes, and mighty glad your corset will keep me hard for so long.'
He was right in one respect, I thought, I would certainly be screaming but it would probably be within ten seconds of starting, and I certainly wouldn't be asking for more.
He slipped his hands around my waist, and pushed me over one of the round tables in the bar, forcing me to lie flat. Of course, once I was in that position, there was no way I could escape, since the corset prevented me from twisting about. His hands slid down to my hips, and he pulled my body slightly back towards him. I felt a shiver of... was it fear, apprehension or excitement? I wasn't certain which.
Then I felt something nuzzling at my back passage, something very large and very hard, and very intent upon finding its way inside. It squirmed to the right, then twisted to the left, to right and left again, then lifted a little, dropped and...
God! My ring was being stretched over something the size of a pickaxe handle - something so large, it was surely going to tear me apart - something...
'U-g-h!'
He was inside me, and I could feel it tunnelling its way up towards my navel. I never dreamt a prick could go that far inside, but then it was sliding out again, until the knob started to stretch my ring.
'Jesus Christ!' It felt bigger, as he slowly withdrew it, than when it had forced its way inside. The pain was... delicious! Yes, I had to admit it; after only one insertion, I was hooked. I wanted him to shove it in again, but he was pausing, as though deliberating whether to continue.
'Please. Give it to me.'
'I thought you weren't too keen on this. Shall I stop now?'
'No!'
He must have heard the panic in my voice, for he teased me, 'Well, I'm not so certain. I wouldn't want...'
'Please. Fuck me. Hard!'
'What? Really hard?'
'Yes! Please. Fuck me really hard!'
It was like an express train entering a tunnel. An explosion of pain from rectum to navel.
'How was that?'
'Good. It was very good.'
'But I bet you prefer it a bit slower, don't you?'
He was withdrawing, slowly - oh so slowly. As his knob approached my ring, he went even more slowly. The pain was so exquisite I screamed in delight, and he kept it in just the right spot for a second, before his prick was sliding out of my hole.
This time, he didn't make be beg for it - in an instant, he was slowly sliding it back in again, just far enough for my ring to be stretched to the full, and then start to close over his knob, before it was sliding out again. In, out, in, out. He wasn't bothering about pleasuring himself - only in bringing me to the most fantastic climax of my life.
I screamed and screamed with pleasure. Nothing had ever been that good before, and it went on for minute after wonderful minute. Finally, he realized I was over my peak, and he changed his rhythm to long, powerful thrusts, pulling hard against my hips to impale me fully on his magnificent tool, and then withdrawing almost all the way, before thrusting into me again.
We continued like that for ages, before I could feel his balls, which were slapping into my bottom at every thrust, start to tighten in preparation for shooting his load. Once again, he changed his rhythm to the short, slow movements, which sent me into a screaming orgasm again.
God knows how he managed to keep that monster satisfying me for so long, but when he finally shot his load into me, and I slowly got myself into an upright position, I noticed that the clock over the bar stood at 2.15 am.
'You can kip down over there,' he said before he left, pointing to a fairly comfortable looking settee in the corner of the bar. 'I've been told to give you this, for tomorrow morning.'
He dropped a bulky envelope into my hands.
'Have a good time tomorrow, and if you er... want a repeat performance anytime, just pop round and see me.'
It sounded a bloody tempting offer.
***
The white bikini barely covered the crucial parts of my body, as I walked down the main shopping street towards the beach. I got plenty of appreciative shouts, even though I'd draped the tiny towel, which had also been in the envelope, over my shoulders, trying to hide as much as possible of my wobbling breasts. The problem was, the towel was miniscule, and my breasts weren't.
I had thought of using it as a wraparound skirt, to hide the bikini bottom, which was in reality, little more than a thong. Unfortunately, the towel wasn't long enough to go all the way round my waist, and I couldn't even get it to stay in any worthwhile position about my lower half. Instead, I draped it around my neck, so it at least covered my nipples thrusting through the thin material of the bikini top.
I'd kept the high heels from yesterday, but I wasn't certain whether they were an advantage or not. OK, it would have been dangerous walking on the pavement without shoes, since last night's yobos had left plenty of broken beer bottles lying around. But the shoes made my bottom move from side to side as I walked, which sent sympathetic wobbles out to the rest of my body, considerably enhancing my entertainment value to the crowds. I noticed at least three blokes following me along the road - crossing the road when I did, and speeding up and slowing down to match my own progress. No doubt, I was providing them with their sexual thrill for the week. If only they knew!
When I reached the beach, at least I felt far less conspicuous, and I could remove my shoes and carry them to the spot where I needed to settle down. I chose a part of the beach that was already fairly crowded with families, giving little space to lurk for my three followers.
All the fathers openly goggled at me, whilst the mothers gave me dirty looks, and then even dirtier looks at their spouse. At least I was relatively safe here, and I guessed there'd be no shortage of people to look after my towel when I went swimming in the sea.
The instructions in the envelope had been brief, but specific. I was to put on the bikini that was enclosed, and arrive on the beach in time to swim out to the bathing raft for 10.30. I would be met there, and my next instructions given.
I hadn't swum in British waters since I was a kid, and I had forgotten how incredibly cold they could be, even on a warm summer's day. For the first time, I appreciated the conversion job the Scorned Women had done on my testicles. With those safely tucked out of reach of the icy waters, and the breasts insulating my front, I wasn't as bad as I might have been. The cold had the additional advantage of discouraging a couple of blokes who'd followed me into the water. Presumably, their ardour was not only cooled, they were also suffering the brass-monkey problem.
I'd always been a strong swimmer, and it only took me a few minutes of fast crawl to reach the bathing raft. There was one nasty moment in the swim when I twisted my head to breathe, and found I'd inadvertently swum into a kid's Mickey Mouse tee shirt that was floating about. I thought I'd been attacked by a giant jellyfish, but having realized my mistake; I swept the shirt to one side and continued.
I pulled myself onto the bathing raft, and flopped down on my bum, propping up my upper body with my elbow, in a manner not dissimilar, I thought, to a mermaid displaying herself on a rock. The effect on the men on the beach was every bit as impressive, for several walked to the water's edge and simply stood there, their mouths agog.
It was strange, I thought, but all my life I'd tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, dressing conservatively, saying nothing controversial, and conforming in every respect with the middle-class neighbourhood in which I lived. However, in the last twenty-four hours I had become someone completely different. And I was enjoying it!
I should have been cringing in shame at having men want to stick their pricks inside me. Yet not only had I experienced that very event last night, which had resulted in me having a series of orgasms like none I'd ever experienced before, I was incredibly excited by the prospect of it reoccurring.
'Were you waiting for me?'
The voice had come from the water on the seaward side of the raft. I turned and looked. It was one of the weedy looking blokes who'd followed me along the seafront.
'Should I be?'
He smiled. 'You look suspicious,' he said. 'Very beautiful, but very suspicious. Like a woman scorned.'
I smiled back. 'You have something for me?'
'Maybe. But you have to earn it first.'
I shrugged. 'I thought maybe I would. What do you want?' Why was I feeling excited, I wondered, rather than shocked.
'A blow job?' He sounded extremely nervous, as though he had never asked for that before.
I looked him over, and thought that he probably never had. 'Out here? We'll get arrested.'
He had it all worked out. 'If I stay this side of the raft, we can't be seen from the shore. I could float on my back, whilst you just lean over the edge of the raft and er... do it.' He was half pleading, almost certain I was going to tell him to get lost.
I knew that if I acted shocked and outraged, he would cave in. I'd be able to bully the next clue out of him, simply by threatening to report his obscene suggestion to the police.
On the other hand, I felt rather sorry for him. I had been in a not dissimilar position often enough to recognize his nervousness. I looked around. There were no other bathers out this far, and he was right, he couldn't be seen from the shore. It would simply look as though I was lying on my tummy, staring at the sea whilst I sunned my back.
'OK,' I said.
'You'll do it?' He couldn't believe his ears.
I rolled over onto my tummy and edged forward so my head and shoulders were over the edge of the raft, and I could reach him with my mouth. He was trying to pull down his swimming trunks and obviously having difficulty, because his head dunked under water a couple of times, and I had to grab hold of him to stop him choking.
Finally, he was floating on his back, his prick standing proud towards me. I had to admit that, even though his balls had shrivelled to the size of walnuts, his prick was showing no such inhibition. I lowered my mouth towards him, and started by kissing the end.
He gasped, and a flush of excitement surged through me, at the power I had to bring him to a shattering climax. I stretched out my tongue, and slowly licked him, commencing with his glans, and then working all the way down his shaft. I briefly gave the shrivelled walnuts a lick, but they seemed to be taking no interest in the affair, so I moved back to his cock and worked my tongue back up the shaft, until I was giving his glans long strokes.
'Oh God! That's gorgeous.'
Well, I felt pretty good about it as well. I didn't think I would reach a climax, but I did feel a little sweetness inside. I slowly eased my lips over his knob. It was, of course, the first time I had been in that position, and had never before realized how wide one had to open the mouth in order to get a decent sized cock inside.
I pushed my head right down the shaft as far as I could, until I felt his cock at the back of my throat. I almost gagged then, but had the will power to stop myself, and withdrew to the point where I could use my tongue on his knob for a few seconds. Then I was working my mouth down his shaft again.
When I knew he was on the point of orgasm, I delicately pulled my mouth off him, knowing I would never be able to keep my teeth apart with a gob load of cum shooting to the back of my throat. But I used my tongue on his glans to finish him off, and then he was shooting his load into the air.
'O-h-h-h Y-e-s-s-s! That's fucking great!' he shouted at the top of his voice.
I looked around, anxious whether anyone had swum close by, and stared straight into the faces of around fifty people on a pleasure cruiser, which had just set off from the landing stage on the beach.
'Oh that was so fucking g...' His eyes had followed my gaze, and I noticed that in the space of a second, his prick reduced to something the size of my little toe. He took a deep breath, then ducked underwater, so that I was left on my own to outstare the fathers, mothers, boys and girls who looked back at me.
'Mummy. Was that a sea serpent that dragged the man underwater?'
The boy's mother was saved having to explain, by the tannoy, which boomed into life. 'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board the Seacombe Belle, the only glass bottomed boat in the area, where we promise you a full view of sea life.'
The speaker had obviously only just noticed me, for he went on, 'On our right is one of the beautiful mermaids who inhabit this particular part of the sea, and... bloody hell.'
The last bit was in response to my raising myself into a sitting position, to more fully mimic a mermaid. However, I did think his response was over the top. OK, I was extremely well built, but a skipper should have more self-control when he's on a public address system.
I glanced down, with a sudden suspicion that perhaps my bikini top had failed to contain its ample payload. It was still properly in place, but whereas this morning, it had been a virginal white in colour, now it was as transparent as a clear plastic bag. To all but a careful observer, I appeared stark naked!
***
'I've got to tell you two things,' my cowardly cock-sucked companion said, after a lot of quite unnecessary puffing and blowing, following a mere thirty seconds submersion. 'The first is that your swimming costume becomes transparent when it gets wet. The second is that you have to go to Star-A-Gram in Back Lane, by midday, to continue with your next clue.'
He gave an evil leer as he stared up and down my body. 'Thanks for er... it, and if you need anything else, just let me know.' He started to swim in the direction of the shore.
'There is one thing I need from you,' I said, standing up.
He stopped swimming and turned to look at me, as he frantically trod water. Not, I thought, a very confident swimmer.
'I need to borrow your swimming trunks, I said.
His reply was lost to me, as I made a passable dive into the water.
I've never been bad at diving in and swimming underwater, and it took no effort at all to reach the point where I could see him paddling overhead, his trunks still not properly back into position after our earlier activity. He was frantically treading water, turning to left and right to see where I was going to surface. The sea was only about eight feet deep there, and it was a simple matter to push myself up to the point where I could grab the rear waistband of his trunks, and then expel air from my body so that I sank back to the sea bottom.
He had a choice: try to swim the pair of us back to the surface, whilst choking on the water he inhaled as I'd pulled him under, or to wriggle out of the garment by which he was being held down, and make his naked way back to the surface.
For a few seconds he tried the former, but the more he struggled, the more breath he needed, which he hadn't got. Meanwhile, I conserved my own breath by staying motionless, holding the pair of us weighted down on the bottom by hooking my foot under the chain securing the bathing raft. In the end, he realized the choice between life itself, and a pair of swimming trunks was a no brainer decision. Twenty seconds later, I bobbed back to the surface having pulled his trunks over my bikini bottom.
'Stop!' he croaked, between the chokes. 'You can't leave me like this! I'm naked. I won't be able to get out of the water.'
He desperately swam towards me, but I could easily keep well out of his reach. I gave him a nice smile, and said, 'I don't remember you being too concerned when it was the other way round. Anyway, look on it as a charge for services rendered.'
I struck out towards the shore.
Fortunately, I remembered the Mickey Mouse tee shirt floating in the water, so by the time I arrived back at the shore, I was, if anything, more respectably dressed than when I went in. I headed for Back Lane.
***
Back Lane was one of the seedier roads in Seacombe old town, and Star-A-Gram was undoubtedly the seediest looking premises in the road. The shop window was full of pictures of almost naked look-alikes - not just women, but men, as well. In fact, it was the pictures of the men that I found more shocking. Clint Eastwood, for example, had such an enormous tool, barely concealed by a thong, that I...
'You're late!'
I looked up at the speaker, a middle-aged man, with a beer belly as big as my arse. He'd poked his head around the door to berate me.
'Fred Baine's the name and I own this business. You should have been here ten minutes ago. The act starts in fifteen minutes, and you've got to get dressed and get over to a hotel in the new town.'
I followed him inside, and he gesticulated to a sequinned dress on a hangar. 'Get straight into that, and I'll order you up a taxi.'
I looked around. 'Where do I change?'
His lip curled with disdain. 'Why? With tits like those, you can hardly be modest. You haven't time for any niceties. Now, get dressed.'
I peeled off the wet tee shirt and bikini. There was no underwear with the dress, apart from a pair of self-supporting stockings (fishnet again, I noted).However, the dress had a built in bra top, which looked about the right size, and I could probably manage without panties, unless the dress turned transparent like the bikini.
'Where am I going and what do I have to do?'
'Haven't they told you anything? It's the Police Booze 'n Buffet over at the Seacombe Heights Hotel. You're singing four Dolly Parton numbers. Is that a problem?'
'Singing! I can't sing.'
'You're going to be miming to the fucking karaoke machine, of course.' He pointed to a ghetto blaster on the counter. 'You don't think anybody wants to hear you sing, do you? And remember to joggle your tits around while you sing, so everybody thinks they're going to pop out. OK?'
Fortunately, he hadn't said anything about being a Strip-A-Gram, and I certainly wasn't going to ask, so I nodded.
'Afterwards,' he continued, 'there's a private function at 3 pm, at the Hilton, out on the Bramley Road. You'll need to get back here before then to change your dress, but you can do the same four Dolly Parton's, with plenty more tit joggle. Any problems?'
I shook my head. After what had happened to me over the last two days, a bit of karaoke with tit jiggle would be an easy ride.
***
In the taxi, I managed to work out how to operate the karaoke machine. It was a bit like a ghetto blaster, with a small screen that displayed the words, so I could get the lip synch right, whilst it played Dolly's songs. I sorted out which songs I was going to do, and by then we were outside the hotel and I was stepping inside.
The first song went like a dream. OK, I was a bit nervous, and I messed up the start so no one was under any illusions that I was simply miming, but they ogled my tits as I jiggled them about, and were quite appreciative.
I could see during the next song, Country Road, they were getting a little bored. The noise level increased, as they started talking to their neighbours, but they still kept an eye on me, with the prospect of a wayward tit display. Now I'd settled down a bit, I started to recognize one or two policemen from around the town. There was the bastard who'd pulled me up for speeding, and then been incredibly upset that I had passed the breathalyser test. At the rear was the chief constable, totally pissed, and one of the few people still captivated by my performance.
As I commenced my third song, Jolene, I decided to put some extra gip into my gyrations. I was quite pleased with the effect it had, as I saw that several members of the audience suddenly sat up, and then start nudging their neighbours to take note. By the end of Jolene, I had everyone's attention riveted on me. I felt bloody good. Perhaps I had missed my true vocation. It was just a pity I couldn't sing!
In the fourth song, they were cheering me on, and clapping in time with my singing, and the applause at the end was tremendous.
'More! More!' they shouted.
Well, I could hardly deny them could I? I bent down to reset the karaoke machine, and it was then I realized. The stitching had come apart on my dress. The seams across the bust were totally undone, and my nipples were poking through, and the seams in the skirt had almost all come apart, and the whole thing was in tatters. Most importantly, the seam running right down the centre of the skirt had opened up from navel to hem, and I knew then exactly what the audience had been cheering about. Not only had they seen my stocking tops, they'd had full frontal view of my pubic bush, as well.
The audience saw my shock as I realized what I'd been displaying, and went wild. They whistled and cheered, and almost brought the roof down. Of course, I should have been totally embarrassed. Instead, I felt elated. I had the power to achieve this affect. These blokes were turned on by me. They all wanted to fuck me!
I switched on the machine and repeated a couple of numbers. I would have done more, but they were starting to get restless at that time. When the chief constable came on the stage, his prick pushing out of his flies, I knew it was time to leave. My next performance called.
***
I gave Fred Baine a right earful, but he was unrepentant.
'Yes, of course we fix the dresses so they fall apart. And if I'd warned you about what was going to happen, you wouldn't have been surprised by it. As it was, I bet you looked totally natural, and the crowd loved it. You'll now know exactly how to behave when it happens during your next performance.'
I sighed. He was right, and I could hardly say I hadn't enjoyed the performance, could I?
The party at the Hilton was a different sort of affair altogether. I spoke with the hotel manager as he led me to the function room, and quizzed him about the state of the guests, thinking that if they were any worse than the last lot, I was likely to be the on the wrong end of a gangbang. He reassured me, saying they were a very respectable looking group, who'd been there less than an hour, so they were still pretty sober.
That made me extremely apprehensive about going on stage with a dress that I now knew was going to fall apart. It was one thing when it happened in front of a load of drunken policemen, quite another in front of the town's upright citizens. However, the golden rule was that the show must go on. Presumably, someone had booked me, knowing exactly what they were going to get, and they would get it.
The manager had been given specific instructions, which he repeated to me. I was to enter onto a darkened stage, walk to the centre, and as soon as I started the music, they'd put a spotlight on me. It all worked like a dream. I entered through the wings of the stage, quietly moved to the centre, then switched on the ghetto blaster. The spotlight came on and I started my performance.
But I was only part way through the third line when someone stepped up onto the stage, switched off my music, and a woman's voice said, 'Who the hell are you?'
The lights were switched on and we stared at each other. She was in her mid-thirties, tall and quite busty, although, of course, her figure wasn't a patch on mine. The fifty or so people in the audience looked at the two of us in puzzlement.
After a few seconds, she shook her head and said, 'I'm sorry, there's been a most frightful mix up.' She looked around at audience, all gaping at the two of us, and added, 'Can we go outside somewhere, and I'll explain.'
***
'My name's Sheila Barton,' she revealed, a few minutes later. 'I'm really sorry about the mistake. I simply can't imagine how it happened. You were supposed to be my husband, you see.'
I nodded, and took a long drink from my beer, the first pint I'd had for days. 'I assumed that,' I said.
Sheila had taken me out of the function room and we'd headed for the hotel bar, where we could talk in private.
'I'd invited all his friends and business colleagues to a surprise party for him. I'd told them he was going to come on the stage in disguise and give us a performance. After he'd finished, we'd put the lights up, and only then would he see who was in his audience. By that time, all his friends would have realized it was my husband in drag, and his reputation would be in tatters, along with his dress. Instead of which...' She looked at me, questioningly.
'Did you describe your husband to the Women Scorned, and tell them that he'd gone into the men's toilet in the West Beach Hotel?'
'Yes. Is that where the mix-up occurred?'
I nodded again. 'I was already in the toilet when your husband came in. I remember him, since he looked a bit similar to me - same height and build, same colour hair, similar suit. But he went into a cubicle, whilst I finished washing my hands and left. That's when I was picked up by your friends, and from that moment, I had no hope of opting out.'
'I'm most dreadfully sorry about the mistake. It's so embarrassing. When you realized it was all a cock-up, why didn't you do something to stop it?'
I smiled at the aptness of her description. 'Such as what? I was given no choice, but to go along with everything you lot told me to do. But I did think the mistake would be discovered as soon as your husband turned up at home. Where do you think he's got to?'
'John must have spent the weekend with his girlfriend, as he'd been planning. I dropped him off on Friday evening at the hotel for his so called weekend conference. But I knew he was really going to meet her there, and that she wasn't due to arrive until late Friday evening. I thought that, in the meantime, he wouldn't be able to resist a quickie with someone he met in the bar. The problem is, we trapped you instead.'
'John Barton? Is that your husband's name? I feel as though I recognize it,' I lied. 'Where do you live?'
'Not round here. We live in Dorton. John is a Sales Rep for Dorton Engineering. He has a few customers in Seacombe, so he's here quite a lot. It takes less than half an hour in the car.'
'Longish way to come for a Christmas Party.'
'What?' Sheila was suddenly cautious.
'You said in your note to John something about coming here for a Christmas Party.'
'Oh yes. John got an invite to a Christmas Party at one of his customers in Seacombe. I think it was mainly because she fancied him and hadn't realized he was married.'
'As I said, quite a long way to come for a party.'
'Yes.'
'And you had a nasty accident on the way home?'
She tried to brush it off. 'Well, a bit of one. Now, how can I compensate you for the horrible experience I've put you through this weekend? I'd really do er... anything to make it up.' She smiled at me.
I looked carefully at her. She was rather sexy, and I thought John Barton must be stupid to go chasing other women when he had her. Still, there was no accounting for taste. I wondered, was she really offering her body? It was, I thought, time for revenge, or perhaps I should have said, justice.
I returned her smile. 'Well, Sheila, that is really very nice of you. There is something I would like you to do for me.'
Her face lit up. 'Anything. Anything at all.'
'That's great Sheila. You see, what I'd like you to do is to tell me about the hit and run accident that John had on 12th December last year, when his car mounted the pavement outside my house and killed my wife, as she took our dog for a late night walk.'
***
John Barton got a jail sentence for manslaughter, and Sheila, a hefty fine for helping to conceal it.
Sheila had been right to question why I went along with their scheme, when I should simply have waited for a chambermaid to appear on Saturday morning, and then called the police and explained everything.
But I knew that, if I had done that, the Women Scorned would have simply melted away, and I would never discover the identity of Sheila and her anonymous husband, who, I was certain, were the people responsible for killing my wife. So, I had fallen in with their scheme of revenge, until the moment when it had brought me face to face with Sheila.
Fortunately, both sides in the court case realized there'd be no advantage in revealing exactly how I'd happened to discover John Barton's identity, so details of that weekend were never made public.
Which means that when I go onto the beach as Donny Partem, as I do most weekends, no one is aware of my real identity. And whilst the men all continue to lust after me, I am still, as far as their wives are concerned, A Woman Scorned.
Ships that Pass in the Night
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Synopsis: A short story about two people who meet aboard a cross-channel ferry. Even ships that pass in the night can be affected by the other's stern waves.
Author’s Note: This story is a little darker than my usual stories.
by Charlotte Dickles
(A story from the Decade of Big Bust Stories Archive)
"You look as though you're about to jump overboard."
The voice took me completely by surprise - it wasn't so much that the words were spoken in such a hoarse, croaking voice that the speaker had probably had their voice box removed - it was simply that I hadn't expected anyone to be here at this time of night.
Whilst I'd been in the ferry terminal that evening, waiting to embark, I had scanned the ship looking for the most suitable part of the deck to suit my purpose. I had made a bee-line for it as soon as I'd got aboard, gaining valuable time as a foot passenger over those driving their cars onto the roll-on/roll-off ferry, so I had been able to commandeer the bench seat on the boat deck, immediately outside the rearmost door.
But then, there had been an endless procession of passengers, initially just milling around, but as the evening wore on, bringing drinks outside to stand against the rail in the balmy air, watching the sea go by, as the engines drove us relentlessly from France to England. At about 10.30, I'd got fed up of waiting for a lull, and gone inside to select a reclining seat where I could sleep for a few hours.
I had set my watch alarm to 4 am, but I had been awake just before that, so I had avoided disturbing the other sleeping passengers. I pulled my rather heavy rucksack onto my shoulders and made my way through the now deserted companionways, back to the door on the deck next to my selected spot.
And I hadn't checked the bench seat behind the door, which I'd occupied earlier!
I turned to face my accoster, but my planned words of complacent denial froze on my lips as her eyes stared into mine, and looked directly into my soul. We remained staring at each other for a few seconds before I shrugged, and looked away.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, the words rasping painfully, as though it hurt her to even speak.
It was the first decent offer I'd had all day, and I realised I very much did want to talk about it.
I moved towards her, and it was only then that I started to notice the face surrounding those eyes. It was mutilated beyond belief. Terrible pockmarks covered her skin, her upper lip and her left eye were pulled towards her left cheek, and most of her hair had disappeared.
"It's alright, I'm not contagious," she said. "You can sit next to me without catching anything."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to stare."
"I can cope with the staring," she said. "It's when little children run away screaming that they've seen a monster that it hurts."
I nodded. As someone who had wanted to have children ever since we had been married, but was now never likely to, I could sympathise with that.
"But you were going to tell me about your problems," she rasped. "Sit down, and start talking."
***
So I told her about how Fiona and I had been married for eight years, but that Fiona had always put her career before motherhood.
"I always accepted it was her choice," I said, "but I also felt that our marriage wasn't complete without children."
Being a dual-income, no kids couple, we had been comfortably off, and had even bought a villa in Brittany, where we'd gone as often as we could.
"I should have twigged something strange when Fiona said last week, that she didn't want to fly there," I said. "We only lived a short distance from Gatwick Airport, and our villa was just a taxi ride away from St Marriott Airport. It seemed madness when she said she wanted to travel by sea. It meant I had to drive her car all the way down to Seacombe, and then catch the night ferry over to St Marriott, at an absolutely extortionate price.
"I didn't even work it out when she was sick in our cabin as she woke up next morning," I added. "I simply thought she was sea-sick.
"But when she was sick again in our villa, this morning, it didn't take a mastermind to work out the cause. Obviously, I was over the moon - just on the point of dashing out and buying a bottle of champagne until Fiona said the baby was not mine, but Jacque's - the guy living next to our villa.
"She wanted a divorce, so she could marry the father of her child. And I realised my life was over."
"Is that it?" The woman had been silent whilst I spilled out my tale of woe. Now, with three hoarse words, she had demolished my twisted rationale.
"Well, I..."
"Millions of people have been through what has just happened to you. They may not feel full of glee, but they don't make up their minds to jump over the side of a ship with a rucksack full of rocks on their backs." Her eyes turned to my rucksack. "I assume it is full of rocks?"
I nodded, miserably. "I went onto the beach this afternoon and chose a few."
She eyed it sceptically. "To me, it really doesn't look heavy enough to pull you straight under water. That might lead to a lot of splashing on the surface, and a long, drawn-out death. Anyway, rather than thinking about suicide, you should think yourself lucky that you've got rid of a faithless partner without any hassle. You can go on to live another life - perhaps have children by someone else. But don't pin your whole success in life onto having children; there are plenty of other things to enjoy. I, for one, envy you that luxury."
The silence following her words lengthened as I considered their significance, and started thinking outside the box I'd walled myself into that morning. I sat back a little and stared at her more deeply than I had thought polite, just now. It was easy to see why children ran away screaming - her face really was like some creation from a horror movie.
"So perhaps you should tell me what you're doing here." I pointed down at her wrist. "And why you have a piece of string tied around your wrist."
It was her turn to pause for a little while, before nodding, and saying, "The string was to make certain that I couldn't let go of my suitcase." Then she took her small suitcase and laid it on its back, prior to opening. She unzipped it and threw back the lid, and I could see two large rocks inside.
"I think the term is 'Snap!' " she said.
***
I was about to tell her not to be so stupid, that her face really wasn't as bad as all that, and that I could see by her eyes what a lovely person she was inside. But, perhaps I had learned from the way that she had treated me - it was better to listen before passing judgment.
"I think it's probably your turn to tell me all about it," I said.
She nodded. "Fair's fair. I really asked for this, didn't I? Perhaps I should simply have let you leap overboard." But her lips twisted in a way I thought was probably a smile, to take the heat out of her statement.
"Like I said," she said, "you were fortunate that your marriage split up so easily. My husband tried to kill me."
"What?" I wondered whether she was mad. Those kinds of things didn't happen to people in real life.
"He's in prison now. For attempted murder, grievous bodily harm, and a few other miscellaneous offences. He put poison into a curry he left out for me. The stupid fool! He paid ten thousand pounds to a man in a pub who told him he could get hold of an undetectable poison that would cause what appeared to be a simple heart attack.
"It turned out to be a blend of five different types of rat poison! Fortunately, I was able to call an ambulance before I passed out, and they had the good sense to bring the bowl of curry back with them to the hospital, thinking it a simple case of food poisoning. Of course, when it was analysed, the police were called in. As soon as they interviewed Peter, he simply collapsed and confessed everything.
"But that was three years ago. Since then, my life has been hell. Practically every organ in my body is damaged. I've been in hospital almost as much as he's been in prison, and he'll be out of jail on parole in four years time. It was me who received the death sentence. The doctors have now given me a maximum of six months to live. And a very uncomfortable six months, too, judging from what they don't say."
There wasn't much I could say to any of that, except a rather limp, "God! How dreadful for you."
"It was made much worse because he contested the divorce from his prison cell at every opportunity he could. I think he was hoping that I would die before it was finalised. In the end, I had to accept a miniscule lump sum payment, in return for very high monthly maintenance payments; otherwise, it would have to be dragged out in court. If I die soon, he'll have paid me hardly anything. So, I discharged myself from hospital. And here I am."
"Because," I said, as the thought clicked into place in my mind, "if instead of dying in hospital, you were to mysteriously disappear, it might take years to realise you were missing, and even longer to have you declared officially dead. And all that time, he'd be paying alimony."
"Precisely. Officially, I'm trying alternative remedies, but I've never placed any faith in those. They say you can't take it with you, but I'm having a pretty good try."
"It may be poetic justice," I said, "but it doesn't make your position any better. Now you're out of hospital, the kids run away from you screaming. That must be terrible."
She gave me another lop-sided, twisted smile. "Actually, that hasn't been too bad recently. I've been wearing a mask." She pointed down into her suitcase, where I could see a dark-brown wig. She reached out and picked it up. Attached to the wig was something flesh-coloured, but which appeared far bigger than simply a face mask. She manipulated it in her hands, thrusting her right hand inside the mask and covering the lower part of it with her left arm. A face appeared with gaping eye sockets and mouth, with a fringe of dark-brown hair.
"The really neat thing about this mask," she said, "is that it's got false boobs built in." She moved her left arm so the lower part of the item was revealed.
I whistled in appreciation. Attached beneath the chin was a neck, and a skimpy, flesh-coloured, vest-like top with a wonderfully large, rounded pair of breasts protruding from it!
"You can fill them with water to inflate them to any size you choose," she said. "I decided I'd got nothing really to lose, so I bought a 38D bra, and inflated my breasts to fill the bra. What do you think?"
"Fantastic. I bet you get lots of admiring looks."
"It's certainly done my ego a lot of good," she admitted, "and I've even pulled one or two blokes with it, for a last fling on my part."
Those words were said with a finality that hung uncomfortably between us. Had I been a Christian, I guess I'd have tried to convince her not to end her life. But I hate to see an injured animal suffer unnecessarily; far less a human who was going to suffer unbelievable pain and indignity. So I kept quiet with my thoughts.
"I think the mask would fit you," she said, trying to lighten the sombre mood.
And why not, I wondered. If she was going to end her life before the ship reached England, far better to go out with a little joviality.
I grinned at her, eyeing the mask. "I don't think so," I said, "but I'm game if you want to give it a try."
She grinned back. "Great! Hang on. I've got some gel in my suitcase that will help it slide over your head. It also stops the perspiration, and I can tell you, without it, it gets pretty damp inside, pretty fast."
She rummaged in her suitcase, and brought out a large, round, plastic tub, and a pack of tissues. She opened the tub and used a tissue to scoop out a dollop of a red gel.
"It looks very messy."
She shook her head. "It's not really. It spreads very thinly so it's hardly noticeable before you put on the mask."
What the hell, this was simply a bit of a lark before this woman ended her own life. Who was I to complain about a bit of goo over my face and hair? I slipped off my anorak and put it on the seat beside me, then unbuttoned my shirt almost down to my waist, so I could pull it clear of my neck and shoulders.
I gave her a rather sheepish smile - after all, I was going to look incredibly foolish when she got this mask on me - if it went on at all. "OK, do you damnedest!"
Surprisingly, it was extremely stretchy material, and the gel meant it slid with ease over my skin. It was a bit claustrophobic for the period when I couldn't see, or even breathe, but she quickly got that sorted. Then she was sliding my shirt right off my shoulders, and applying more gel to them, my chest and back, before getting me to slip my arms through the armholes, and sliding the vest part of the garment down my chest.
"There. What do you think?"
I looked down, and gasped.
"Bloody hell! They look real, but... what's my face like? It can't look anything like as realistic."
"Actually, it looks pretty good. You'd better go to the Ladies Toilet and look in the mirrors in there."
I made to get up, but she stopped me, laughing.
"Before you go in there, I think you ought to get properly dressed. You might shock anyone who's around, if they see you walking about with your boobs exposed like that."
"Hell you're right." I pulled my shirt into place, and went to button it.
"I don't think so." She placed a hand on mine, to stop me buttoning. "You need a proper bra first, otherwise with breasts that size, they'll wobble about so much under your shirt that you'll draw as much attention to yourself as if you were naked."
She selected a white bra from her suitcase, and after slipping my arms out of my shirt, I obligingly held them out so she could feed the bra over them, and then fasten it at the back.
"Not so fast," she said, as I again went to feed my arms into my shirt. "I have a nice pastel-blue sun top that will go nicely with those jeans you're wearing, and show off your figure at the same time."
Five minutes later, I was wearing the sun top, as well a pair of pale-blue trainers over a pair of matching socks, and we had exchanged my dark green anorak for her matching blue one. I clutched her blue handbag under my arm.
"So, go and have a good look at yourself," she said. "You'll find a hair brush in my bag, so you can give your hair a brush in the mirror. And if you're really feeling bold, have a little wander around the deck until someone sees you. Then you'll realise how realistic you appear."
I timidly went to the toilet, although I had secretly decided there was no way I was going to wander the decks inviting inspection from anyone who might be around.
***
"I got a wolf whistle from some teenagers," I said, as I came back out onto deck. "It felt so..." My voice died out as I realised she wasn't there.
Neither was my anorak or rucksack. Only her suitcase remained, now closed and tidily set in the corner between the seat and the bulkhead. Pushed under the handgrip was a folded sheet of notepaper.
"My dearest friend," the letter began.
"I feel closer to you than I have felt to anyone else in a long, long time, yet it wasn't until I found your passport in your anorak pocket that I even knew your first name.
"As I spoke to you, I realised the weakness of my plan for taking my own life whilst deceiving Peter into thinking I was still alive. That's often the case, isn't it? You work something out perfectly in your mind, but it's only when you tell someone else that you realise the problems.
"You see, although it may take months or even years for Peter to realise I'm missing, as soon as anyone investigates, they'll realise this boat journey was the last thing I was ever known to have done. There'll be a record of me getting on it, but nothing from then on. In fact, I'm not certain whether they keep records of people's passports as they enter the country. If so, they'd be able to tell I had never left the ship. So that would never do. Peter would deduce the truth, and no doubt make a plausible case in court, in order to reclaim from my estate all the money he had paid.
"So, I need you to continue wearing the mask for a little longer - or a lot longer, if you choose. I want you to use my passport, which you'll find in my handbag, to enter the country. As you will see, I had the photograph on it changed to show my false face, rather than my hideous, real one, as I simply couldn't bear the thought of having to strip off my mask when I went through passport control.
"Once you're in the country, I'd like you to make a few purchases with my credit card, and go back to the house I've rented in Seacombe and stay there for a while. I'm sure you will appreciate having somewhere to stay whilst you decide what to do about your own marriage.
"In fact, if you choose, feel free to use my identity for as long as you like, and spend as much of Peter's money as you want. My only condition is that, if the truth ever is discovered, and I see no reason why it should be, you will maximise the financial damage to him.
"Well, I can't force you to take on this role, except that you may find it difficult to enter the county without your own passport, especially as I didn't tell you the whole truth about the gel we used under the mask. I'm afraid it's a strong adhesive, which bonds itself to the skin in order to seal off the perspiration. This means that it is impossible to remove the mask, until in about a fortnight's time, when the skin sheds its outer layer.
"However, if you wish to continue longer than that, there's plenty of gel left in the tub, and you can get more from the supplier, whose details you will find at my house. Incidentally, they also manufacture devices to disguise men's twiddly-bits, and make them appear, for all the world, just like a woman.
"Good luck and best wishes, whichever decision you make about your future."
She had signed it simply with an X.
***
The passport controller must have thought it was his lucky day, as I wheeled my little suitcase up towards his desk. The suitcase felt so light without the rocks inside, which presumably were inside my rucksack at the bottom of the English Channel, complementing the weight of the ones I had selected from the beach.
He opened my passport and stared at my photograph, then at my face for a second, before his gaze drifted down to the gap at the front of my unzipped anorak. I could visibly see him gulp, as I turned my head, giving him a slightly improved view.
Guiltily, his eyes flicked back to meet mine, and he knew that I knew he'd been clocking me.
"Have a nice day, miss," he said.
I smiled at him, rather than speaking. I thought I had a lot of work to do on voice development before I risked doing that. Even imitating someone with their voice box removed would be difficult.
Still, I had plenty of time.
Travelling Hopefully
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Synopsis: The woman awakening in the empty rental cottage hadn't a clue how she'd got there or even who she was. However, as she tries to discover her identity and how she got there, she quickly realises how much she really enjoys sex,.
The story is set in England and is a longer length story, so sit back and enjoy. Caution: Contains explicit sex and some sexual abuse, as well as humour.
Author's Note: Strictly speaking, this story shouldn't be published under the Decade of Big Busts banner, as the products used are not sold by Big Busts in Seacombe, but are manufactured in the Far East. However, they are similar and the story was written at a similar time to the other stories. I have extensively revised it from the story originally published on Fictionmania in January, 2005. To some extent, the original was an experiment, with alternate chapters switching between the first and third person, on different days - it didn't seem to work very well! In this edition, I have changed it all to third person and separated out the days.
1 AWAKENING UNDER A DARK CLOUD
By Charlotte Dickles
When she woke up in the middle of the night, she was sitting fully dressed in an armchair. She wasn't certain exactly where she was, how she'd got there or even who she was, but she was absolutely certain of one thing: she had to find a toilet desperately.
Fortunately, a table-lamp had been left on, and she was able to stagger to the bottom of the stairs, and then she pulled herself, arm over arm, up the banister rail until she reached the landing. There were only two doors leading off the landing, and since the door to the bedroom was standing open, it was pretty clear she had to dive through the other pretty smartish, if she was not to urinate over the carpet.
Even when she was in the small bathroom, it was a pretty close call, since her panties were underneath her suspenders rather than on top, and in her befuddled state she couldn't pull them down without getting them tied up in suspenders and stockings. In the end, she simply put a hand on the gusset and pulled them as far down her legs as she could, as she thankfully sank down onto the seat and let her waters flow.
After emptying her bladder, she staggered through into the bedroom, pulled back the quilt and dropped onto the mattress. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her body before falling again into a deep sleep, bordering upon unconsciousness.
***
It was sometime next morning before she vaguely started to wonder what the hell she was doing there? She had got up several times overnight, in response to the calls of nature; sometimes to empty her bladder; and sometimes to cure her raging thirst by drinking gallons of water from the tooth mug in the bathroom.
But this time, she remained conscious long enough to register that, at some time during the night, she had shed all of her clothes — she could see the remnants spread over the floors of the upper rooms — and that she was now totally naked in a small house, empty of any other occupants. She was still very much the worse from something, and she couldn't even walk in a straight line over to the bathroom window. She released the blind over the window and looked out, at a countryside of wooded hillsides and empty meadows.
She smiled, suddenly aware that, unusually for a bathroom, it was not fitted with obscured glass, and she could have opened the blind onto a busy city street, revealing every part of her upper anatomy to the crowds, below. Fortunately, there was no one in sight to take notice of the naked woman at the window.
She lurched through to the bedroom and, this time more cautiously, repeated the operation, revealing an almost identical view, apart from the lane which passed in front of the cottage, with a sports car parked directly outside the door.
She hadn't got a clue what she was doing there, where exactly she was, or even which day it was. She appeared to have the place to herself. Perhaps she was a guest of a new lover? But a trawl through the empty wardrobes and bare drawers proved she was wrong — instead, she appeared to be in some kind of rented holiday accommodation. More importantly, it placed her right in front of the mirror over the dressing-table, and she was brought face to face — with herself!
It wasn't as if she didn't recognise her own face (which she did). But she might just as well have been looking at a photograph of a well-known model in a magazine — recognising her features, but totally oblivious to her real life.
Even her own reaction to her ignorance was strange. Most people in similar circumstances would have started to panic — perhaps tried to telephone for a doctor or an ambulance. She simply shrugged as though she couldn't be bothered, then staggered downstairs, and lifted the blinds down there.
It was her stomach which drew her to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and found a pot of yoghurt to cure the stabs of hunger in her stomach. But she had barely finished the pot, before she had to race to the toilet, and vomit it all up. Afterwards, she went back to bed and slept.
2 EVERY DARK CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING
'I was wondering if you were alright?'
The words jerked her out of her half-sleep, and she sat bolt upright, looking at the man who was in her bedroom, who appeared transfixed by something on her chest. After a few seconds, she stared down to see what had attracted his attention, and realised she was naked from the waist up, her huge boobs jutting out with quite commendable firmness. It took her another few seconds before she realised that modesty dictated that perhaps she ought to cover herself, and she belatedly pulled the quilt up to her neck.
Victor Walters, the owner of the holiday cottage, was in totally uncharted territory. It was obvious that the girl had not been well when she'd arrived last night — brought in by a couple who'd told him they had found her unconscious at the wheel of a car blocking the lane about half a mile away. He had spent the morning vacillating between calling the police, the ambulance, going in to see her, and doing nothing.
All morning, he had continued to let indecision take the lead, and perhaps if she hadn't started moving about, followed by her vomiting, he might have continued to procrastinate forever. But it was obvious she needed some help, and since she was his client, he could hardly go to the police. For once, he had to take action himself.
When she had so quickly sat up, revealing those fantastic tits and clearly totally unaware that she was doing so, he had been at a complete loss about what to do. Was it polite, under such circumstances, to point out to a lady that her tits were on show, or would that merely cause her embarrassment? More importantly, if he simply kept quiet, would she carry on exposing them for the whole of their conversation, and could he think of sufficient topics to keep the conversation going, forever?
His eyes ultimately let him down, as he knew they would. If only he was able to discretely look at a woman's tits, as other men appeared able to do so, without his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets.
After pulling the quilt around her torso, she thought she ought to respond to her questioner. 'I'm not really certain. I feel very… strange.' She gave him a little, hesitant smile, and asked, 'Who are you?'
Victor could have made all kinds of witty retorts, or diversionary responses, which might have led to a more interesting scenario, but that was totally beyond him. Instead, he said, 'I'm Victor Walters, the landlord.'
Aware that his first response was less than adequate, he sought to clarify. 'I could see you weren't very well, Mrs Peters, when they brought you here last night. I've been looking out for you, and then I saw you — I mean heard you er… throwing up, so I thought I'd better come round.'
'Mrs Peters?' Was she a Mrs? Her eyes flicked down to the third finger on her left hand, where the indentation showed a ring had been recently worn.
'Is it alright if I call you Joan?'
As she stared back at him, he could feel his cheeks starting to glow redder and redder. God, how he hated the way he blushed whenever he tried to chat to any woman.
But she was trying to make sense of her name. Joan Peters? It sounded both right and wrong at the same time. Still Victor seemed to know her better than she did. What on earth had she been on?
But as she stared at him, she became aware that, although her body was still feeling like shit, it was starting to think about sex, as it often did on first waking. Actually, she realised, her body thought about sex most times of the day and night. Normally, she knew, it would not be available, but Victor was looking definitely interested. Already, the blood was coursing through her body, making her tingle all over. She didn't know what the hell had been wrong with her, but she was pretty certain what was likely to cure it.
She gave him her cutest smile. 'Oh, Vic, of course it is. Thank you so much for caring about me enough to check that I'm alright. In truth, I've been feeling absolutely dreadful. I can barely remember who I am, and it's as though I wasn't here at all, but somewhere else. I don't know what's wrong with me, or when I shall get better.'
'Do you want me to ring for a doctor, or…'
'No!'
Joan couldn't, for the life of her, understand why she had so hastily rejected Victor's kind offer. But she did know it was a subject that, for the time being, she did not want to go down. In the meantime, she had to find out much more about what she was doing there, and also attend to the pressing needs of her body.
'Sorry Vic, I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I'm not at my best. I can't even remember when I went down with his sickness. Can you help?'
'Well, not really. A couple found you along the lane, last night. You'd stopped your car in the middle of the road, and weren't fit to drive. They thought you were drunk or… something. Presumably, you must have told them you were trying to get here, so they brought you along.'
'That was good of them.' She unexpectedly felt quite overwhelmed by events; she didn't know what she was doing here, or even who she really was. She felt her eyes pricking, and then a tear rolled down her cheek.
'I'm sorry.' She brushed the tear away. 'You must find it a real pain, me being here, and you having to come in and check me out, but I feel awfully vulnerable, at the moment.'
Without warning, the single tear turned into a dozen, and Joan flung her arms around his neck and started crying into the side of his head. Victor couldn't help noticing that this had meant she'd released the quilt, which had slipped down, again exposing those fabulous tits.
'There, there,' he comforted, using the same words his mother had, years ago. 'It's alright. I'm here and I'll look after you.'
'Christ,' Victor thought, 'I'm out of my depth here.' He lifted a hand, desperately wanting to squeeze that magnificent tit, but discretion made him move it around her side, and hesitantly pat her shoulder blade.
He'd expected her to immediately scream louder, and call him a pervert for touching her, as the woman in the lift in Debenhams had once done. In fact, his touch had the opposite effect; Joan's sobs became more controlled, and she moved her body closer to him, so her tit was nuzzling against his chest. Through his thin tee-shirt, he could feel her hard, protruding nipple rubbing against his chest.
His abrupt erection could not have come at a worse time — it was so very uncomfortable, and needed urgent adjustment, but both his arms were wrapped around her, and even if he released his right arm, he'd have to perform the adjustment right under her eyes.
He tried a little wriggle, which seemed to make his situation worse. God, he had to do something! He gave a bigger wriggle.
'Oh dear! What have I done to you?' She was staring with tear-filled eyes, down at the bulge in his trousers.
'Here we go,' he thought. 'She's about to utter a scream to wake the dead.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I've put you in a terrible position. Your wife or girl-friend would kill me if she knew how stupid I'd been.'
'But I don't have a wife or a girl-friend!'
'You don't? Heavens, someone has missed a good catch.' A slight pause. 'In that case, I wonder if you'd do something for me?'
He nodded, 'Of course, anything…'
'I'm feeling so strange, and it's so nice of you to do all this for me, but... well, do you think you could… well... it must be a maternal urge, or something, but it would just feel so very nice, and… relaxing, and… comforting, if you'd... get into bed with me and give me a cuddle.'
She saw his eyes widen in surprise, and sought his reassurance. 'You wouldn't mind, would you? Please.'
If he'd thought he was out of his depth before, he was drowning now. Beautiful women with fantastic tits didn't permit blokes like him to enter their bedrooms, never mind… he gulped, and thought he might choke on his Adam's apple.
'No, no that's fine. I'll er…'
He didn't know whether her invitation had included him stripping naked, but in the end he simply removed his shoes and socks. He slipped into bed beside her cool body, and was cautiously slipping his arm around her when she grabbed hold of him and pulled his head down onto her chest.
"Uugh!" He knew what his instincts were telling him to do, but should he... he lowered his mouth towards her breast, and at the last moment hesitated, as he wondered whether she would start screaming as soon as his lips…
She clutched him behind the head and forced his mouth against her, and breathed a deep sigh of contentment as he took his first tentative suck. 'Mmm. That's wonderful. Oh, yes! Do you want to suck on my other one now, and perhaps you could suck just a little bit harder.'
She fed her left breast towards his mouth, and gasped as he sucked it hard inside his mouth. 'Oh, my God, that's nice. Here, let me…' The latter in response to another uncomfortable wriggle. She undid the belt on his trousers and unzipped him.
'Oh hell! What an enormous cock.' In fact, Joan was exaggerating slightly, here, but it was well worth it because it grew even stiffer in her hand. 'Would you mind if I…'
Well aware that she was probably about to deflower a male virgin who must be almost thirty, she'd been about to suggest that she should sit astride his lap. That way, she could initiate the action, control the pace and even make certain his cock went in the right hole (not that she was averse to a little anal action, but she felt that, the first time round, he should do it the conventional way).
But before she could do so, his fingers had traced a path down her tummy and through her pubic hair, and very lightly, he'd touched her in a very special place, and the fireworks started exploding inside her head.
'J-e-e-e-e-e-z!'
He moved his fingers slightly, and the fireworks multiplied in intensity a thousand times, until her head was inside the fireworks, and it was her head exploding with orgasmic pleasure. Every tiny movement of his fingers sent her into deeper and deeper ecstasy, until she was losing consciousness with each orgasm.
Finally, after a lifetime in seventh heaven, he was bringing her down off the clouds, and she was returning to reality. Her body was covered in sweat, her breath coming in short gasps, and she knew she had been well and truly finger-fucked!
'Oh thank you, Vic. Thank you so much! That was absolutely wonderful. Where did you learn to do that?'
Well that was a rather embarrassing question, but fortunately, he correctly assessed it was meant rhetorically. In fact, as a twenty-eight year old male virgin, he'd had a sudden panic attack when she'd grabbed his cock and was about to tell him to shove it inside her. Suppose he did it all wrong, shot his load before he'd got it in, or even put it into the wrong hole?
But he'd learnt his skills from a video camera, hidden inside the smoke-detector above the bed. It gave him an excellent view of the many women who lay on the bed and masturbated.
The most common type of visitor to his holiday cottage would be the unaccompanied woman. With a woman lying on her back on the bed or in the Jacuzzi, the smoke-detector cameras, with their fantastic zoom facility, would be pointing directly at the woman's vagina, as she used her hand, or a vibrator, to bring herself off. Victor had seen dozens of different variations on the same theme, and hundreds of different vaginas. He knew exactly where women should be touched to produce results, and he had to say, he was more than a little pleased with his achievements with Joan. He lay back on the bed for a brief instant, well aware that he urgently needed to go to the toilet and have an enormous wank.
But Joan would not let debts go unpaid. Before he could even think about moving, she was swinging a leg over his, and sitting on his thighs, her breasts hovering an inch above his glistening cock. She was no lightweight. Even if he wanted to get out of this situation, he wouldn’t be able to do so, but at that moment, sexual need was easily overriding fear.
She read his thoughts. 'Lie back, and think of England.' And then she wriggled forward until her cunt was directly above his prick. Slowly, the two became one.
***
After three hours of almost non-stop fucking, Joan felt decidedly better. OK, she was still extremely confused about who she was and what she was doing in the cottage, but her body was no longer feeling so dreadful. She still staggered a bit when she walked, but that was probably because she was walking with her legs wide apart, to ease the soreness inside her. At least she'd had the sense to take the birth-pill from the pack she'd found in her handbag.
They came to a natural halt from their romping, both of them in that wonderful post-coital bliss.
'So Vic, you're telling me that I booked the cottage for four weeks?'
'Well, not you personally, of course. The booking came via email, after you saw an advert in "The Lady".'
He always kept a copy of the weekly magazine in the cottage, handy if guests complained he'd wrongly advertised it, and he got out of bed to fetch it. He flicked through the pages until he came to his ad, which he then passed across to Joan.
"Spoil yourself with a luxurious cottage break, set in the secluded heart of the beautiful Cotswolds, in easy drive of an abundance of art galleries, antique shops, hairdressers/beauty salons, and delightful restaurants eminently suitable for the single female diner, or a couple wanting to share discrete moments together. Single bedroom with Queen-sized bed, en-suite with Jacuzzi, comfortable lounge and well equipped kitchen. Lady(ies) or couples only. Contact Virginia Walters, Tel…"
'Isn't Virginia Walters your wife?'
'It's my mother, actually, and er… she's dead, but I er… always think her name sounded better and more ladylike, than mine.'
'Well, yes. Victor doesn't sound at all ladylike. Do you only advertise in "The Lady"? Have you thought of any other magazines?'
'It brings in a much nicer type of client.'
In fact, it frequently brought in women on their own, desiring a little solitude from the world — and they often spent a lot of time in simply finding themselves. Unfortunately, it sometimes also attracted couples who wanted a discrete place to fuck. Whilst it made for entertaining television, the problem was, it often left him feeling unhappy that he was missing out on such activity. He far preferred unaccompanied women, who might spend their time alone in discovering, and pleasuring, their own bodies.
Joan nodded sagely at his response. 'That must be what attracted me,' she said, wondering why on earth she had really chosen to come here.
3 EVERY SILVER LINING HAS A DARK CLOUD INSIDE
'Look,' she said, 'I know this must sound a stupid question, but what day of the week is it?'
'It's Sunday, of course,' Victor replied. 'You booked the cottage for four weeks commencing yesterday, and that couple brought you round at about eleven, last night. When they found you unconscious in the driving seat of your car, I think they pushed you across into the passenger seat, and one of them drove it here, whilst the other one followed in their own car. They explained what had happened, and I let them into the cottage, and helped to carry you in.'
He could still remember the excitement he'd felt as he'd accidentally brushed her breast three or four (or was it five?) times.
'Did I have any other clothes with me?'
'We didn't check the boot. Do you want me to go and look now?'
'No, it's OK. I'll go and do it.' Whatever she had been on last night, she really didn't want Vic finding it. She slipped into her shirt-waister dress and buttoned it up, noting that her hard nipples pushing through the thin material was having an appropriate effect upon Vic's rather flaccid dick. As she was about to go outside, a sudden thought occurred to her.
'I must have given you an address when I made the booking. Where do I live?'
'Your husband, Frank, made the booking, and he lives in Singapore.'
'Frank Peters? Singapore?' A pause for thought, then, 'Why, of course I was living in Singapore until…'
She stopped, suddenly unsure of her facts, 'I'm not certain.'
Another pause. 'I'll go and check whether there's a suitcase, and see whether that throws any light upon what I'm doing here.'
In the boot of the sports car, was her huge suitcase. She gasped in relief; at last, she'd found her clothes. She dragged the trunk back into the cottage, where Vic was speaking on the phone. As she came in, he put down the receiver, then picked it up and dialled another number.
'I rang the car-hire company that's displayed on your rear window,' I said. 'They're based at Norton Airport. It seems that BA paid for the car-hire, after one of their flights from Singapore was diverted there from Heathrow on Friday night. I'm ringing BA now to check whether you were on that flight.'
'That's great, Vic.'
She looked at him with affection. He was trying so hard to help her out, when lots of other blokes, having had a good fuck, would be leaving. She bent over him and gave him a kiss. She couldn't help noticing how his eyes peered down the front of her dress, so she sat down on his lap and slowly undid one button on the dress after the other, wriggling a little from side to side so that he had an ever increasing view of her boobs.
Unfortunately, the other end answered then and he turned his attention back to the telephone. 'Hello, my name's Victor Walters, and I wonder if you can help me. It's about the flight from Singapore that was diverted from Heathrow, on Friday evening.'
She pulled the dress from her shoulders so that it fell down and snagged on her nipples. Once again, she had his attention. She gave another wriggle and let the dress slip off her nipples, and in one smooth move, pulled his head down so that he was sucking on her left nipple.
'Oh,' she gasped. 'That is just so wonderful. You can't imagine how good it feels.'
She heard someone talking at the far end, and then Vic struggled to remove the nipple from his mouth, made all the more difficult because Joan tried to make it as difficult as possible. They were giggling like mad, by the time he was able to speak.
'I wanted to know whether a certain passenger was on boa…' His voice was cut off as she slipped her right nipple between his lips. He gave a little suck on it, but then twisted so that he could listen to what was being said on the phone. She slowly slid backwards down his knees, undid his zip, and applied her mouth to his rock-hard cock which came shooting out to meet her.
'Well, she's with me now… Eh-h-h-h' (as she sank her mouth down on his cock until it was thrusting past her tonsils) '…but she's not able to talk at the moment. Her name is Peters, Joan Peters.'
'Yes! Oh yes!'
Joan wasn't certain whether that was in response to the words he'd heard, or the fact that she was sliding her mouth up and down his cock in a fast rhythm. Worried that she might be letting events go too fast, she gave his cock one last lick, and then brought her body back up, so she was hovering only an inch above his prick.
'Do you want me?' she mouthed at him.
He pressed the handset against his ear and said, 'Yes, that would be excellent.'
She lowered herself an inch, so his prick was nuzzling against her pussy, but then moved it slightly so that he couldn't thrust inside her, as he tried to do. She laughed, then teased him more by moving herself in every direction except the correct one, until finally he let go the phone for a second, pushed her sideways and then thrust violent upward.
'Yes, that's it,' he gasped. Another press of the phone against his ear
She raised herself off him, further and further until his prick popped out.
'Oh no!'
She laughed, and then guided herself onto him again, so he was just nuzzling inside her pussy lips. She kissed him, and asked, 'Do you want me?'
'Yes, of course.'
She dropped vertically down his shaft in one long, hard thrust.
'Oh God!'
She quickly lifted herself up until he was almost popping out, then thrust down again — and again — and again.
'You're going to come,' she laughed at him, as he shook his head, desperately trying to avoid it.
'Oh no!'
Faster and faster she screwed him, until she was moving so quickly she was almost a blur.
'You're really going to come,' she whispered.
'Yes. Oh God, it's… I'm coming!'
'So am I,' she screamed. 'I'm coming too!'
'We're both coming.'
'We're coming! We're coming!'
'Yes.'
'Oh no!'
***
'What was the phone call about?'
It was several minutes after her exquisite orgasm that Joan remembered there had been a phone call.
Victor had never had to pass on a message of real sensitivity before, and his social skills were, as always, totally useless. 'British Airways say that your husband's dead.'
'What?'
'Your husband died whilst he was at Norton Airport on Friday. Er… I'm sorry… and all that.'
'You mean… Frank? Frank's dead?'
'Er, yes.'
'And you were fucking me, whilst taking the death message?'
'Er, well, you were fucking me, actually. But er, sorry.'
'You bastard.' She hit him under the jaw, and he went down like a sack of coal.
***
The drive to Oxford in Victor's old Morris Minor took absolutely ages. After Joan had brought him round by throwing cold water over his face, Victor had timidly explained that the coroner wanted her to go there and identify Frank's body, before the post-mortem tomorrow. Since she realised that she was still drunk or drugged up to the eyebrows, she made Victor take her in his car. It smelt of petrol, it chugged slowly along holding up every other car on the road, and the heater didn't work.
Joan had changed into the most suitable garment she had, a black cocktail dress with a matching jacket, which looked almost respectable when the jacket was buttoned up. But on that wet afternoon, with the windscreen wipers grunching across the greasy windscreen, it was not warm enough and she felt decidedly miserable in that car. She was almost happy when they arrived at the mortuary.
The Coroner's Officer was absolutely professional — kind and sympathetic, but making absolutely certain the correct procedure was followed. Did she have identification? Fortunately, she'd spent a few minutes recovering the documents from the envelope in her suitcase, so she was able to hand over her passport. Did she have her marriage certificate with her? She found it and showed that. Could they now go and view the body?
She didn't know how she'd feel when she saw her dead husband. Would she even recognise him in her present state?
She did, of course, but she had very little feeling at all about his death. Perhaps it was because she was still drunk or drugged; the Coroner's Officer obviously thought she was a very cool fish, but answered her questions about Frank's death as accurately as he could.
It appeared Frank had landed at Norton International Airport on Friday evening. After picking up the suitcase from the carousel, he'd gone into the men's toilets, probably because he felt ill, where he'd locked himself and his suitcase into the disabled cubicle.
The toilet had been cleaned at the airport's normal 9 pm closing time, but the airport had remained open to receive the flight from Singapore, and the next scheduled clean was not until midday on Saturday, which was when Frank's body was discovered. No, they didn't know the cause of death, but there were no suspicious circumstances. They would notify her as soon as possible.
Could she take Frank's suitcase away with her? Unfortunately, not; it appeared that Frank had mistakenly collected someone else's suitcase from the carousel, and they were trying to contact that passenger. She could take Frank's personal effects and hand-baggage with her.
The drive back was far more cheerful than the drive there. Joan had now forgiven Victor for his lapse of social skills, and realising that she probably had not been that close to Frank, didn't feel so guilty about her own unfaithfulness.
In fact, now she was officially a widow, she should perhaps become a merry widow. The thought made her nipples start to tingle again, and she considered asking Vic to give her breasts some serious suckling when they got back. She slipped her hand onto his thigh, and moved it upwards until it was just touching his left testicle, where she played with it with her little finger. Fortunately, they managed to get back to the cottage without accident.
***
It was as Joan was about to have a shower, following their particularly messy coupling, that she noticed the smoke-detector above the Jacuzzi. It was unusual to have a smoke-detector in a bathroom, since they would normally be triggered by the moisture in the air, so she was more than a little curious. She stared up at it, registering the maker's name, and then her look of curiosity turned to anger.
She stormed into the bedroom, where Victor was still lying on the bed, totally knackered, and she stared at the ceiling above him.
'What is it?' he stammered, already blushing as Joan stared at the smoke-detector. 'Is there anything wrong?' He cleared his voice, hoping to get rid of the squeak into which his voice had abruptly turned.
'Where did you get these smoke-detectors from?'
'I can't remember. I think some guy came to the door offering to install them at a knock-down price.'
'Don't give me that crap,' Joan said, 'because I've seen this type of detector, with built-in camera and control system at the manufacturers in Singapore. They're one of the most sophisticated models on the market — a high-precision eyeball lens, which the software converts into a conventional view, but able to zoom onto any point in the room with fantastic magnification, and of course, totally silently, since there are no moving parts.'
'I don't know what...'
'Where's the control system?' she demanded.
He thought of trying to bluff it out, but knew he was beaten. 'Next door, in my house.'
'Right,' she said, slipping on a dress from her suitcase (without any underwear, Victor noticed), 'Let's go and have a look.'
***
Victor's set up was very impressive. As Joan had said, the video spy system was very sophisticated, and it covered all six of the holiday cottages in the complex which he owned. He'd copied all the best bits of action by his clients onto videotape, so he had fantastic archives on which to draw.
'So what are you doing with this?' Joan demanded. 'Blackmail?'
'No!' Victor shrieked. 'I'd never do that.'
'Selling it on the web, then?'
'No! It's just for my own personal… education.' He was rather pleased with that last word — he'd only just thought of it, but considering the way he had Joan writhing the second he'd first touched her, he felt it was perfectly justifiable. Certainly, she didn't challenge it.
'Presumably, the picture is initially stored on disc?' He nodded. 'With a movement detector, so you only record activity?'
He nodded again. He couldn't help wondering how it was that Joan knew so much about the equipment. She'd told him her husband was a buyer for an electrical company, but she must have taken a fantastic interest in his work.
'Does that mean you can view everything on me, from the moment I first arrived?' Another nod. 'Show me.'
He did so, setting up the picture in fast reverse mode, and flicking from camera to camera at the appropriate times, so her complete series of actions (and his, for much of the time) was played backward until the moment when the camera over the front door showed her arriving in the passenger seat of her car, with another car following right behind. She had viewed it silently until then, but now she spoke.
'You said this morning that a couple had found me and brought me here. But those are two men bringing me in.'
'They're a gay couple. Their names are…'
'…Gerald and Lesley,' Joan finished the sentence for him.
4 ANOTHER DAY - ANOTHER DARK CLOUD
They say that troubles come in threes. They're lying! Either that, or the counter which was supposed to record Peter Jones's threesome had got permanently stuck.
OK, as problems go, the first wasn't really a very big one. He and his business colleague, Frank Peters, were on the thirteen hour flight from Singapore to London Heathrow, returning to England for a month's break after a long period of working abroad. The flight itself had been perfect, the very best that British Airways could give, except for the announcement half an hour before their scheduled landing time, at nine pm on Friday evening.
'Ladies and Gentleman. This is your Captain, again. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, due to a security alert at London Heathrow, the airport has been closed. We have been diverted to Norton International Airport, where we'll get coaches to meet you and take you on to Heathrow. British Airways apologises for the delay and the inconvenience caused.'
Hardly an unusual event, and it didn't disturb Peter too much. To be honest, he had never heard of Norton International Airport, but then he'd been out of the country almost continuously for eight years, and if Heathrow was closed, they'd be looking for spare capacity over most of central and southern England.
Nor was time particularly critical that evening; he was on his way to his son, Nick's wedding in Cheltenham, at four pm the next day. Tonight, Frank and he had rooms booked at one of the Heathrow Airport hotels. Frank had a car-hire arranged for the morning and he would take Peter to the wedding, before going on to the Cotswolds. There, Frank would meet up with his recently estranged wife on the neutral ground of a rented holiday cottage, and see if he could talk her into going back to live with him.
The change of airports would mean they would arrive at their hotel a bit later, but that wasn't really a problem, since they'd both had plenty of sleep on the flight. In fact, Peter went back to sleep until they were on the point of touchdown.
There are two ways in which people disembark from planes. There's the type who immediately get up as soon as the seat-belt warning sign goes off, and then stand waiting, with their heads bent at an awkward angle under the luggage bins, or caught in the crush in the middle of putting on a coat, and stuck with one arm in the sleeve, and the other trapped behind their backs. This wait can be for five minutes or fifteen, depending upon how long it takes them to get the steps in position outside, or move the disembarkation equipment against the doors and open them.
Peter was definitely of the other type. Realising that it would take ages for the baggage to get to the baggage-halls, and that no one was going anywhere until the coaches arrived to transport them back to London Heathrow, he sat back in his seat and allowed himself to properly awaken whilst the crush subsided, and he could get off the plane in a civilised way.
It was fortunate that Frank had been sitting in the aisle seat, since he was unquestionably one of the former. In fact, he already had his coat on and his hand baggage under the seat before they landed, so he was able to make a fantastic dash towards the door before everyone else stood up. But he was still caught for the whole of the fifteen minutes it took to get the door open. Then he disappeared from view. Peter shook his head and sighed. He'd catch up with him in the baggage-hall.
***
When he got to the baggage-hall, the bags were already in full flow around the carousel. He searched the hall, looking for Frank, hoping he'd had the nous to get two baggage trolleys for the extra-large suitcases they both had with them, and he was a bit surprised to see that Frank had already left the baggage-hall. He sighed again. Presumably, he'd gone out to secure a place on one of the transfer coaches which, the announcement said, had now arrived at the airport.
Problem Number Two; his suitcase didn’t arrive on the carousel. Again, hardly a unique event if you frequently travel by air, but this time it could be bloody inconvenient. His suit for the wedding was inside. If the suitcase didn't catch him up within the next few hours, he'd have to find a place where he could hire a replacement, which was going to disrupt the whole of the next day. He found an official who made him fill in lots of forms in triplicate, requesting his contact details for the next two weeks. It took ages, but at least he knew that Frank would be holding the coach outside — preventing it from driving off without him.
***
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! He should have guessed Problem Number Three. It was totally deserted outside the terminal building. In spite of its title, Norton International was obviously one of those small, provincial airports which normally close at nine every evening. Tonight, they'd obviously held it open especially for their flight. It would have been difficult to hide a shopping trolley on the deserted tarmac around the terminal; certainly, there were no fifty-seater coaches!
He went back inside the terminal, and after walking around the empty building for ages, finally found a manager, who firstly told him all the British Airways staff had left on the coaches and he couldn't do anything, and then, reluctantly, got on the phone to their Customer Service.
They were superb. Whilst he was on the phone, they booked him a room at the Norton Airport Hotel, and proposed that a car would pick him up tomorrow morning and take him to Heathrow.
He did some quick mental calculations, and made an alternative offer: a three day self-drive car would be cheaper for them, and more convenient for him. They instantly agreed, booked it, and promised it would be at the hotel for eight am, next day.
***
He'd seen the neon signs illuminating the Norton Airport Hotel when he'd gone outside before, so he knew it was only about a quarter-mile away. He would have taken a taxi and charged it to BA, but there was no sign of one outside, so he set out to walk across the car-park towards the three-storey building.
It didn't help that, after living in Singapore for so long, he wasn't acclimatised to cold and clammy British weather, or that it started to slightly drizzle when he was half-way across the car-park. But what really didn't help was the ten-foot high security fence at the edge of the car-park, which prevented him walking the last fifty yards to the hotel!
To his right, he could see some construction work in progress to extend the car-park. He traipsed over there, climbed the temporary barriers and trudged over the uneven surface, stumbling in the pitch darkness after the glare of the flood-lighting. It only took a couple of minutes, and a couple of bruised shins, to reach the point where the security fence ended, and then he was only separated from the hotel by a four-foot high wall. Without any baggage, it was a simple matter to put both hands flat on the top of the wall, leap up and twist at the same time, so that he was sitting on the top of the wall, then swivel first one leg, then the other, over the wall and leap down.
***
In the instant after he should have hit the ground and did not, he realised that Problem Number Four had arrived. Had the drainage ditch not been full of mud, he might have broken an ankle or something more serious. As it was, he landed face down in the mud which was several feet deep. He floundered, gulping air and mud at the same time and choking, and struggling to free his feet from a tree-root, which was trying to hold him down.
Eventually, he crawled up the sloping side of the ditch, and sat for a moment to get his breath, covered in horrible slime. He sat there for quite a bit longer than he needed, staring through the plate-glass of the entrance foyer of the hotel — at the deep pile carpets and smart pot plants, realising he was going to have to walk in there dripping slimy mud, or stay outside all night!
The Assistant Manager was outstanding. Don't worry about the mud. The important thing was that he was safe. BA had made the booking, so he could go straight up to his room and grab a shower. There would be a dressing-gown in the room, so he could put all his clothes in a laundry bag, and he'd get Housekeeping to immediately wash them and get them dried, ready for 7 am tomorrow morning. Oh, and did he want to register a credit card to pay for any extras, such as telephone calls?
He reached for the bum bag he kept at his waist, which contained his wallet and travel documents. It was at that moment he lost count of the number of problems he'd experienced so far, as he remembered something caught around his legs when he was in the ditch, which he'd kicked free.
No problem, the Assistant Manager said; he would personally go out there with a flash-lamp and search for the missing bag. He would telephone him in his room as soon as he returned.
His call came just after he'd finished his shower, and had taken his mobile-phone to bits and was washing the mud from each bit in the wash-basin. The Manager found the spot where he'd fallen in, but there was absolutely no sign of the missing bag. First thing tomorrow morning, he would get Maintenance to try dredging for it.
He couldn't have done any more. Peter thanked him, and after drying and assembling his mobile-phone and finding it still didn't work, went to bed.
5 THE DARK CLOUD GETS BLACKER
With the difference in time zones, he woke up at some stupidly early hour on Saturday morning, and lay in bed, contemplating his position. Firstly, there was the strange fact that his friend, Frank, had abandoned him at the airport.
Frank and he had worked in Singapore for many years, doing virtually the same jobs as Overseas Buyers, but for competing British electrical retail companies. Whatever electrical product you may have recently bought in the UK — kettles, radios, CD players — if it was made in Singapore, one of them probably arranged its purchase. They were actually quite similar in many ways, but since they were direct competitors, they had never been particularly friendly. Perhaps if they happened to bump into each other, they would have a drink together, but that would be all.
But just over a month ago, Peter's wife, Susan, had left him, to live with his boss — the head of their Singapore office. For him, a bad situation was made much worse because it appeared that, for well over a year, virtually everyone in the company, apart from him, had known the two had been having a steamy affair. As a result, he became very disillusioned with his former colleagues, especially his so-called friends.
A few days after Susan's departure, Frank's wife, Joan, left him and returned to England. To be honest, Peter didn't think anyone was surprised by that. Even from across a crowded restaurant, the flighty glances she gave to every male in sight were as obvious an invitation as he had ever seen. Had he not been one of those people who believed in being faithful to one's partner (unlike his shitty wife), he'd probably have been crowding around her himself. So, to most people, the surprise was that their marriage lasted so long; and if that sounded just a little like having the same attitude as Peter had found so obnoxious in his closest friends, perhaps that explains why he went out of his way to make contact with Frank and talk through his problems.
They had since become the closest of pals, and met up several times a week to eat, get drunk, and moan about the bitchiness of women. But while Peter never wanted to see Susan again, Frank desperately wanted Joan to return. After he'd told Frank he was going to England for Nick's wedding, it had seemed quite natural that Frank should book the same flight, to try to obtain a reconciliation with Joan. So, with their recent close friendship, and shared itinerary for the onward journey, it was easy to see why Peter was so surprised that Frank hadn't held the coach for him.
But as he lay in bed reflecting, he thought that maybe he was being unreasonable. There would probably be a dozen coaches waiting outside to take all the passengers from a Jumbo. It was dark; people would be dashing from coach to coach to find seats or places for their luggage, or their friends and relatives. Frank may have saved him a seat to start with, but how could he be certain he hadn't got on another coach? It would have been chaos, and Frank would not have stood a chance.
Presumably, he'd tried to call him on his mobile, but he hadn't switched it on before he fell in the ditch, and it hadn't been working since. So, he concluded, Frank should receive a full pardon.
Unfortunately, the question of Frank's loyalty was only a minor part of his problems. Apart from the hotel dressing-gown, he had absolutely nothing to wear, and no money or credit cards with which to buy anything. In theory, his clothes should be laundered and arrive by seven am, his breakfast at seven-thirty, the hire car at eight, and there would be sufficient time for him to drive to the home of Nick's future in-laws (where he was staying until the wedding), borrow some cash, hire a suit, and get to the church on time. But there were a hell of a lot of things which could go wrong — and knowing his recent luck, they probably would.
They did!
Seven am came and went, and no clothes appeared. He tried ringing Housekeeping. The phone rang unanswered, until it diverted to an answering machine. He left an urgent message.
Ten minutes later, they hadn't responded, so he rang again, and when the same thing happened, rang Reception. There was a different Assistant Manager on duty, who was far too busy to speak to him personally, but, the woman told him that Reception couldn't do anything anyway, since Housekeeping were a law unto themselves.
He continued to ring Housekeeping at ten minute intervals, and at seven-thirty, telephoned Reception again. Line busy!
So it went on. His breakfast was late, and when he rang the restaurant, was told it was on its way — but in the kind of voice which indicates they'd never seen his original order.
Eight o'clock, his breakfast finally arrived, and after explaining his plight to the waitress, she assured him she would go down to Housekeeping and get them to call. They didn't, and even worse, by eight-fifteen, the promised car hadn't arrived, either.
He tried to make a call to BA, but his telephone was not authorised to make outside calls. 'Please contact Reception to set up an account.' Reception was permanently engaged!
He rang the Restaurant to enquire whether the waitress had discovered anything about his clothes, and was told it was not their job to sort out Housekeeping; if he had a complaint, he should see the Manager.
And then, just before nine, the airport baggage-office telephoned to tell him they had found his suitcase sitting in the Customs' area, and would send it straight around. It was fortunate that call came just before the next, since it was Housekeeping, to tell him they'd been unable to do anything with his clothes in the hotel, so they'd sent them to their laundry service, and would be back at the hotel on Wednesday! He didn't even explode, simply gave them the forwarding address, expecting never to see his clothes again.
To complete the series of calls, the local car-hire firm telephoned. 'Sorry we haven't delivered a car to you yet, Mr Jones. The truth is we weren't expecting that flight from Singapore last night, and it's totally cleared out our stock. Our driver is collecting a car at the moment, and he'll be passing your hotel quite soon. Obviously, we'd normally bring it back here for full servicing, but we understand you want it quite urgently. If you're happy to accept the car as it is…'
'Send him straight here,' he ordered. 'I can empty the ashtrays myself.'
At last, he thought, things were starting to look hopeful. Little did he know!
***
His suitcase arrived at ten. He hadn't got the key for it, of course, but he used a knife from his breakfast tray to slip the inadequate locks and threw the lid open, already to leap into tee-shirt and jeans. The silk dress lying on top was pure white, with a plunging cleavage, and made of such light material, it must surely be translucent.
The problem was that he hadn't packed a white, silk dress in his suitcase. Even if Susan hadn't taken all her clothes with her, her treachery had made him so wild he'd have shredded them, rather than keeping them until he could return them to her.
There was, however, a very obvious solution which sprang to mind. A week ago, he'd showed Frank the case he'd bought to carry all the junk he was going to bring back to England. It was huge, and more resembled a ship's trunk than a suitcase. Frank wanted to get into Joan's good books by taking her all the clothes she'd left behind in Singapore, so realising that he needed one just as big, he went to the same store and bought an identical trunk.
In the baggage-hall, Frank must have seen Peter's case as it came along the carousel and grabbed it, thinking it was his. Meanwhile, Frank's own suitcase had gone astray, and now it had been found and returned here. No doubt, Frank had been frantically trying to call him all morning, desperately hoping that he had his suitcase.
If he hadn't been so anxious to regain his wedding suit, he'd have let the bugger sweat as a punishment for abandoning him in the airport. But in the meantime, he didn't have any conscience about borrowing a few of his clothes from his suitcase.
Just to be certain it really was Frank's suitcase, he pulled out the thick document envelope stuffed in the inside pocket of the suitcase, and tipped the contents over his bed. There were all kinds of credit cards and documents belonging to Joan — more importantly, there was £1000 in notes!
Naturally, he wouldn't steal Frank's money, since he would eventually return it to him in full, but the money would certainly help him out of his current cash crisis. Since it didn't look as though he'd recover his suit before the wedding, at least he now had the cash to hire a suit, as well as buy himself a lunch.
The phone rang again — it was the car delivery driver. 'Just leave the keys at Reception,' he told him. 'That will be fine.'
'Sorry,' the man said, 'I can't do that. I need to fill in your licence details.'
Shit! His licence was at the bottom of a muddy creek. He tried explaining nicely, why he couldn't give them to him, and then tried to bully him, but he was immoveable.
'You wouldn't be covered by insurance unless we have your licence details. I'm sorry sir; I simply can't let you have the car.'
A flash of inspiration. 'Hang on,' Peter told him, then riffled through Joan's documents lying on his bed: birth certificate, marriage licence, credit cards, passport AND…
A driving licence!
'My friend will drive,' Peter told him. 'If you come up to our room, you can see her licence.'
OK, he knew that was rather naughty. Driving without insurance is a highly irresponsible crime, but he reasoned that he was not going to have an accident, and that even if he did, he could surely bluff his company into making a claim from their company-wide motor insurance.
With Joan's licence details duly entered on the driver's forms, he handed over the keys, and departed, while Peter started to flick through the contents of the suitcase, looking for Frank's jeans and shirts.
Then he went through it again, more carefully. Finally, he removed every item from the suitcase and painstakingly laid everything out on the bed, looking for the items he had missed. The problem was, he hadn't missed any items. Every article of clothing in the suitcase not only patently belonged to Joan, but it also appeared that she didn't own a single pair of jeans or trousers!
6 EVEN BLACK CLOUDS HAVE A SILVER LINING
There was not one item which was remotely suitable for him to wear without looking totally stupid. Almost all the tops and dresses were brightly coloured with revealing cleavages, and there wasn't a single pair of shorts or trousers. It appeared that Frank had packed all the clothes he'd needed for the duration of his four week stay in the UK in his hand-baggage!
It was seeing Joan's wig which started to make him think. Although he'd never met Joan close up, he knew about the nasty scars to both sides of her face — he thought as a result of being caught in a fire during her childhood.
She had always done her best to hide the impact, partly by focusing men's eyes on much more interesting parts of her — which is why she always displayed her revealing cleavages — but also with her thick, light-brown, shoulder-length hair. It half covered her eyes, hid most of her cheeks, and then curled at the front under her chin, so that little could really be seen of the majority of her face. It didn't surprise Peter very much to learn this was a wig. He pulled it out of the wig-box and twirled it in his hands, ideas spinning through his mind, and then, as quickly, being dismissed.
It would never work. He had more than a day' stubble on his chin, and even if he was to remove every hair on his body with the wax in her beauty kit, he'd still be a long way short of filling the front of the low cut blouses and dresses. He needed something else to help him there, and he vaguely wondered whether Joan had any padded bras, which he could stuff with cotton wool.
He spent a few minutes looking through her bras, all of which were definitely non-padded, before he turned his attention to the large cardboard tube, with the picture of the beautiful woman on the side. 'Singapore Girl,' the banner said, with underneath, 'You can have the sexiest body in town.' He pulled the end cap off the tube, and removed the flesh-coloured garment from inside.
It turned out to be two garments actually. The first was a leotard, with long sleeves, and a high collar, fitting right up the neck and under the chin. He couldn't identify what the leotard was made from, but it was a very thin, stretchy material and smooth to the touch, almost like skin. In fact, with it being flesh-coloured, it felt and looked exactly like real skin.
He'd thought the garment was wrapped around something soft and bulky when he'd first pulled it out of the tube, but as he spread it out before him, he realised that the bulkiness was due to the huge gel inserts in the breasts which, as he hung the garment before him, formed tits the size of honeydew melons.
'So all along,' he thought, 'the superb tits that Joan had been displaying to the world were totally false, and we were all taken in.
'And if Joan could do it,' he speculated, 'why not him?'
But it was the second garment which really fascinated him. It was in the same flesh-coloured material, and was like a pair of footless tights, except that there was thick padding all around the buttocks, hips and outer thighs.
It was strange; he'd always thought women were trying to minimise the size of their hips and bums — not make them much bigger, but that's certainly what this garment would do.
The instructions enclosed with the bodysuit were written in several languages, including poor English, and it took him a few seconds to find the start of the English.
"Male to Female Bodysuit." He did a re-take, and then read on to check his assumption: sure enough, the bodysuit was designed to make a male look like a shapely woman. So what was it doing in Joan's suitcase? Except of course, the bodysuit was in Frank's suitcase — not Joan's.
***
It didn't take long to work out the solution. He knew that Frank had felt terribly shamed by Joan's departure, and desperately wanted her back. Clearly, he'd misled him when he told him she'd agreed to see him. Instead, he'd intended to spend the time recreating Joan for himself. And why not?
He was going to have to tread extremely carefully when it came to returning the suitcase to Frank, revealing that he knew his secret. Not that he had any problem with his pastimes; especially as it now appeared, he was going to get acquainted with them himself. Needs must!
According to the blurb, the bodysuit provided the ultimate dream for any male wishing to temporarily become a beautiful female. It provided a: "realistic, sensitive vagina, allowing full male penetration" and breasts that were: "so responsive, the user could reach orgasm with oral sex". Yeah! And pigs might fly!
The secret, he was told, was the touch-sensitive artificial skin connected to a micro-chip, which would digitally amplify the minute signals, and transmit them to the appropriate parts of the wearer's own skin. It all sounded good, but on the other hand, as a buyer of electrical goods from the Far East, Peter had seen lots of fantastic promises and learnt to be always sceptical until he'd witnessed the results for himself.
The important question was, could he don this bodysuit, get dressed and look realistic enough to step outside his room? To some extent, the answer was irrelevant — he had to go out, and he must look better than he would do simply wearing Joan's clothes on his unmodified body. The question was a no-brainer.
***
The most intricate part of putting on the bodysuit was getting his genitals inside the false cunt, which was an exceptionally uncomfortable operation. He had to pull the leggings over his feet and up the legs as far as his groin, then fumble around inside, feeding his balls and prick into a "filament bag", shaped to fit and made of a stretchy-material almost like a sheer stocking. When he'd finally got his goolies packed inside the bag, it clung tightly to his skin, and the constriction especially around the hilt of his shaft served to give him a massive erection. "An erection should be encouraged," the poorly written instructions said, "but do not masturbate or permit ejaculation, as this may damage the filament bag. When fully erect, use the spray compound to completely cover the genitals.
The compound made his prick swell even more, and he could now see the bag was made of a fine diamond mesh, through which everything bulged, a bit like a woman's thigh bulging in tiny diamond patterns through fishnet-tights which were too tight.
He read the next step of the instructions: "Take one of the pills to progress to the next stage of your conversion. The pill will not only eliminate any chance of an erection for the rest of the day, but also slowly release helium into your throat so that your voice will rise in pitch, and sound like a perfect female voice."
He wasn't too keen on taking strange pills, but he had to not only get rid of the massive erection, which showed absolutely no sign of subsiding on its own, but also ensure it did not return at an inopportune moment. Hopefully, he wouldn't need his voice converting, since he hoped not to speak to anyone except Nick, but it might come in handy for the odd word, here and there. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He decided to take a pill.
The pills were in a bubble pack which looked just like a pack of birth-pills, and the instructions said that he would have to take one every day that he remained in the bodysuit.
He swallowed one with a glass of water, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Then, his hard-on disappeared with the speed of a bursting balloon, and for a few more seconds, his balls seemed to be competing with his prick as to which could nestle up closest to his torso, by occupying the smallest space possible. His balls won, as with quite considerable discomfort, first the right ball and then the left disappeared inside his body, leaving the empty sacs shrivelled up and wrinkled. His prick had reduced to about two centimetres in length and one in width.
He desperately read the instructions to check whether that was supposed to happen; it was. "When the balls have disappeared inside the body, push the ball sacs after them, where the adhesive component of the spray compound will ensure they are kept safely tucked out of the way." They were right; the compound was sticky and as soon as he'd pushed the sacs up inside his body, they stayed there. Finally, he had to pull the leggings up to his waist, and locate his minute cock into the tube in the false vagina through which he would piss. Again, the adhesive kept it nicely in place.
The leggings had a zip fastener at the rear, from anus to waist. It was a bit difficult to do up, but when he'd done so, it pulled in his tummy wonderfully, and with his newly enhanced wide hips and round bum, gave him the lower half of a perfect hourglass figure. The leotard went over his head and down his body, and then the gusset had to be drawn firmly between his legs and fastened at the rear. There was even a pubic wig to give added realism.
He read on: "You now have a fully functional female body. You will be able to feel every touch to your vagina, by means of the minute filaments glued to your genitals, which apply small electrical discharges to the skin."
Damn! He knew he should always fully read the instructions before commencing any operation. He certainly didn't like the sound of having electrical filaments glued to his testicles, but it was too late to go back, and in any case, what else could he have done? He guessed that as long as he didn't start playing around with his new pussy, he wouldn't get his balls blown off by a faulty circuit.
However, when it was all in place, he actually felt very comfortable. With his huge hips and bum, he looked like a woman, and if he showed a nice cleavage, no one was going to look at his face too keenly. It had taken him some time, but having done everything according to the instructions, at least he could be certain he wouldn't be risking the chance of an embarrassing erection pushing through his dress at a crucial moment — provided, of course, the pill worked as it was supposed to, which in itself was a huge assumption.
Only the final pieces of disguise were left: a painful waxing process to remove his facial hair; and then he spent a few minutes sticking on false nails, which gave him reasonably attractive hands for when he handed back the hotel key. Finally, the wig slipped onto his head, and he secured it in place with adhesive from a tube.
As he critically stared at himself in the mirror, he was more than impressed with the reality of his transformation. If he didn't know better, he would be well and truly taken in by the naked girl before him, marred only by the scars on the side of her face.
But he didn't have time to stand and stare at the beautiful girl. He had to get dressed and on his way. He discarded the white silk dress in favour of a cream, shirt-waister dress, with a large, bright floral pattern. It was a suitable length since it would fall below the knee, but it could be unbuttoned at both top and bottom to the wearer's taste. He guessed Joan would have chosen it for just the same qualities which he particularly wanted; to draw attention away from the face and onto the body, whilst preserving a little decency, which the white silk dress certainly would not.
Having selected his dress, he chose a white platform bra, and matching white panties, suspender-belt and stockings, and shoes with two-inch heels. He slipped them all on, but just in time remembered from his earlier days with Susan, that knickers go over the suspender belt and stockings, and not underneath, otherwise they all have to be undone, simply in order to have a piss.
Then he put on the dress and buttoned it fully at the bottom, but left as many top buttons undone as he could without his bra showing. He had a cleavage which would draw the lustful attention of every male, and the jealous attention of every female. Anyone glancing at his face might see the scars, but he was convinced that absolutely no one would consider for one moment that he was a man.
He kept out the lovely white handbag which he thought would match his outfit quite nicely, slipped his mobile-phone and the money inside and put all Joan's other things — he meant HIS things (the instructions had given strict directions about thinking himself into the role) — back into the suitcase, and shut it up. Strictly speaking, he should have sorted out his driving licence from the other papers, and put that in his handbag, but it had taken him so long to get ready, he thought he ought to get on the road as soon as he could.
As he was about to leave the room, he had one of those nasty little nagging doubts that he'd overlooked something very important, so he took another look around the room and en-suite. There, on the washbasin, was the pack of voice-changing pills. Although he definitely wasn't going to need them again, it looked so similar to a pack of birth-pills he thought someone might take the wrong thing by mistake! He slipped the pack into his handbag, took a deep breath, opened the door and went out into the hotel corridor.
***
He released that breath as he took the first few steps along the corridor ("Lead with the hips forward," the instructions had said, "and pull your shoulders back and down"). He was on his way. Fortunately, he had no bill to pay, so he'd be able to simply hand in his room-key, find his hire-car, drive to Cheltenham, and borrow some of Nick's clothes to go out and find a hire-suit — all without speaking to anyone except Nick.
'That's a huge suitcase. Can I help you with it?'
The guy had been approaching from the direction of the lifts, and for some reason, instead of merely moving to one side of the corridor to allow him to wheel the case past, he stood in the centre of it, so Peter had to come to a halt before him. He wondered if he was drunk and perhaps trying to start a fight. He was about to draw himself up to his full height and tell him to get out of his way, before realisation came with a rush.
'I'm fine, thank you,' he whispered in his softest voice. Surprisingly, it sounded OK. The helium pills must have worked.
Unfortunately, the guy wouldn't take no for an answer. 'It's no problem.'
He reached past him to take the suitcase from his hand, accidentally brushing against his body as he did so. Peter considered punching him in the stomach, or kneeing him in the balls, or just telling him to go and get fucked, but that's not what women did.
'There's no need, really, but… Oh, thank you!'
He even managed to give the man a smile. After all, he could pull the bloody thing around the car park until he'd found the rental car left for him, and since he only knew the registration number and make — a BMW — it might take ages.
He called the lift, allowed Peter to go in first, but then, as the doors started to close, had to rush to get himself and the suitcase inside, which meant he had to squash up against him again. With a sudden rush of excitement, it occurred to Peter that, far from being terrified of meeting anyone on his journey, he was so thrilled by the thought that he could feel his nipples tingling.
He'd hardly had chance to reason that his nipples were inanimate bits of plastic, and there was no way they could tingle, when they arrived at the ground floor and the doors opened.
It had been deserted in the lobby when he arrived yesterday evening, and he'd been assuming it would be much the same now. Was he wrong? There must have been at least five coach parties who were either just arriving or just leaving, including a group of fifteen-year-old schoolboys who took one look at him and then started making comments like: 'Look at the tits on that!' or 'You don't get many of those to the pound!'
The more mature males in the foyer didn't make any remarks, but he could feel their eyes drilling through his clothes, as he walked over to the Reception counter (remember, hips forward — shoulders back), and posted his key through the slot in the surface. He rejoined his volunteer porter, and they went outside searching for his car.
He almost walked past it, as he was looking for a conventional saloon. It was a Z4 Roadster; the kind of sports car that looks as though it's designed for Le Mans; the kind of sports car that neither Frank nor he would normally have hired, but Joan certainly would. It suited him, with his cream-coloured dress, casually unbuttoned and exposing his superb breasts to the world.
His volunteer porter almost wet himself with excitement, and he got him to lift the suitcase into the boot — which Peter thought practically gave the man a hernia — whilst he got into the driver's seat. He started the engine, gunned the accelerator, put it into gear and gave the man a nice wave as he took off with a squeal of tyres.
***
The next problem came almost immediately: no petrol in the tank! If the car had been properly serviced, the tank would have been full, but as it was, the warning light was flashing. If he hadn't had his confidence boosted by the willing services of his volunteer porter, the thought of going to a petrol station would have given him a big problem. As it was, he decided he could undo a few buttons on the lower part of his dress to provide plenty of distraction as he got out of the low-slung roadster. The art of concealment, he was learning, was to make oneself more conspicuous. Even more important, he knew, was to think himself into the role. He started mentally saying: 'I am Joan Peters. I am Joan Peters.' It was only then that he realised how his name and Joan's were almost a reversal of each other; somehow, that made it much more easy to identify with her. 'I am Joan Peters. I am Joan Peters,' he repeated.
There must have been at least three guys who clocked him getting out of the car. As he drove onto the forecourt, they were all simply standing next to their cars, minding their own business as they filled their tanks. Suddenly, as one, they all spun to follow the progress of his car as he drove it to the furthest set of pumps. Two of them had to change the way they were standing ¬— turning round so their backs were towards the cars they were filling, to keep him naturally in their view.
All three must have seen the glimpse of suspender belt after he opened the car door, swivelled in his seat, and stretched one leg to the ground. All three must have stared down his cleavage, as he bent forwards to stand up. But he was absolutely certain that none of them looked at any other aspect of him.
Him, he was just an unsuspecting woman, totally unaware of the attention he was getting as he bent over to put the petrol nozzle into his filler cap, and stayed in that position whilst the tank filled. It was only as it was almost full and he glanced sideways towards the shop, that he saw himself reflected in the plate-glass window.
He hadn’t really noticed, when he put on the dress, that there was a long slit up the rear of the dress. However, from the view he could see, of stocking-tops and lacy white suspenders, he was pretty certain that all the men on the forecourt had discovered that fact well before him.
He stood up and returned the nozzle to the pump, giving a friendly, but innocent smile at one of the blokes goggling at him. He guiltily smiled back, then turned back to return his own nozzle to the petrol pump. As he moved towards the garage shop, he noticed that, coincidentally, all the men appeared to have finished filling their tanks at exactly the same time, as they all came rushing over to the shop doorway, and then courteously stood back to permit him to enter first. And they say that gallantry is dead!
With his soft voice, paying for the petrol with Joan's cash was no problem, and he returned to his car, and moved it away from the pumps into a parking spot, so he could study the map from the car-rental pack.
Fantastic! Norton was in rural Oxfordshire, far closer to Cheltenham than he could have hoped, and probably only about an hour's drive, taking him right through the Cotswolds — one of the most beautiful areas of countryside in England.
The sun came out from under its cloud and shone down on him. In a fit of bravado, he flicked the switch to take down the top, and then set off with a squeal of tyres, his hair blowing in the breeze.
***
The journey was as easy — and pretty — as he had hoped, and it was only eleven-thirty when the road-sign indicated he was a mere twelve miles from Cheltenham. Until then, he'd been enjoying the drive; even the town centres, crowded with Saturday shoppers had been easy to negotiate, since so many drivers seemed happy to give way to the pretty girl in the open-top roadster.
But the closeness of his destination suddenly concentrated the mind, and he realised it would be absolute madness to drive to Nick's in-laws' house. Susan and her lover would be there by now, and only a few hours later, there'd be at least three wedding speeches being made. It was a dead cert that at least two of them would feature the groom's father arriving at the bride's house in drag.
The pub had a large sign outside: 'FOOD SERVED ALL DAY.' He abruptly turned in and parked. Apart from anything else, his body clock, still set to Singapore time, was telling him that he was hours late for lunch. He would eat, whilst he considered the best option.
At that hour, there were few customers and plenty of empty tables, so he chose one in a secluded corner, hoping as most woman would on their own, not to attract the attention of every male in the place. He should have known better.
When he returned to his table after placing his order at the bar, there were a couple of blokes sitting at the next table. Surprisingly though (perhaps even disappointingly), they didn't even look at him as he walked past carrying his large glass of Chardonnay — a luxury, he knew, but he reckoned he'd deserved it for what he'd done so far, and anyway, he wasn't intending to drive much further.
By the time his food arrived, he'd decided exactly what he had to do. His experiences this morning had given him sufficient confidence for him to drive into Cheltenham town centre, park, and then walk into Marks and Spencer and purchase a man's tracksuit and track shoes. He'd have to find a unisex toilet somewhere ¬— perhaps a disabled one — and remove his bodysuit and put on the tracksuit. Then it would be a simple matter to leave as a male, and find a shop to hire himself a wedding suit and everything to go with it.
That resolved, he got on with his meal. The food was excellent, and the mystery of why the two blokes never looked at him was explained by surreptitiously listening to their conversation: they were gays. The larger of the two was called Gerald, and he was rather dishy looking, but it was the smaller man, Lesley, who spoke in the affected voice, with every other word being 'Darling' or 'Sweetie'. He gave a mental sigh of relief; he'd thought he'd lost his power of attraction to heterosexual men! Then he grinned for thinking himself into his part so thoroughly. Gerald caught his eye as he grinned, and smiled back at him; he really was rather dishy, he thought, and if he was woman…
'Don't even imagine it, girl,' he told himself, but added self-congratulations for so completely thinking himself into his role.
But that tiny interaction between himself and Gerald did give him pause for thought about how he'd so naturally fallen into character. Certainly, if he was not to be publicly exposed, he had been compelled to think himself into the part. But how far did that take him towards sitting in a pub and making eyes at an obviously gay male, something that would have been absolutely unthinkable yesterday?
Yet as a pretty woman, he felt such action was reasonably safe. Lesley appeared so intent upon flickering his eyelashes at Gerald, he didn't notice any potential competition from him.
'Would he,' Peter pondered, 'risk making eyes at a heterosexual, unaccompanied male?'
'Not at this moment — he had a wedding to attend,' was his instantaneous response. The answer shocked him all the more so because it was an instinctive reaction — rather than a reasoned one. But as he thought about it some more, his answer did not even appear that unreasonable. After all, yesterday he had been a male who enjoyed heterosexual intercourse — the erect penis plunging inside a pussy, and moving about in an extremely pleasant manner, to the benefit of both parties, until semen squirted deep inside the vagina. Now he was a female, he could contribute a different piece of his anatomy to the action, but there was absolutely no reason at all why his love of heterosexual intercourse should be changed.
He slightly surprised himself at such a rationale, but he did recall how sexually excited he'd been all morning. Not that sexual excitement in itself was a particularly unusual event for him; in fact, he guessed, like most men, he was continually sexually excited throughout his normal day. A pretty girl with a short skirt would get into the lift with him, and he'd be imagining lifting the skirt and sticking his erect penis into her pussy; the buxom personal manager at work would pop into his office to discuss some staffing issue, and whilst she was talking about National Insurance and pension contributions, he'd be thinking of shoving his prick between her tits and jerking off.
On a typical day, he'd probably think about having sex with some random woman on ten or fifteen separate occasions. It's what men did. Except that even now he was a woman, he was still thinking about having sex with random men on numerous occasions. And women didn't normally do that. Did they?
He glanced over towards the bar, which by now was reasonably full. Several men had obviously been gazing at him, and they hurriedly averted their eyes, but he knew what they'd all been thinking. A shot of adrenaline flushed through his body as he realised that, right at that moment, he could walk up to any one of the unaccompanied blokes and ask if they wanted to fuck him, and almost every one of them would take up his offer.
He couldn't help wondering what it would feel like. The pain as a large prick was shoved into a small opening; the power of the man working like a steam-hammer towards his own orgasm; the exquisite stroke of his cock against the walls of your vagina; and finally, the hot spunk squirting deep inside.
And what about afterwards? One of the sad things about being a man in his mid-forties was that his staying power had definitely dwindled. No longer could he follow one fantastic ejaculation with another, only a few minutes later. But since a girl doesn't ejaculate, would his libido remain undiminished, no matter how many orgasms he had? Wow, if his artificial vagina worked half as good as the instruction manual had indicated, he could be a convert to the life of a woman forever!
He smiled then, as he realised he had been completely taken in by the guff written in the instruction manual. There was no way he could have any kind of feeling in his artificial bits. As for having an orgasm simply because some bloke stuck his tool into the piece of plastic between his legs, and jerked off into it, he was living in dreamland.
He had to laugh to himself as he thought about the number of men who'd been staring at him all morning, lusting after the sexy woman on her own, little realising they were looking at a complete sham. A bloke at the bar caught his smile and returned it, so he hurriedly turned back to his food — he had a wedding to attend.
7 CLOUDBURST
It was just after he had finished his meal and was savouring the remaining half-glass of wine, when the phone in his handbag rang: that same phone which had been into the muddy ditch and back, and never worked since — until now. He pulled it out and glanced at the display — NICK. Brilliant! But first, he needed to make certain he could take the call in privacy.
He answered the call but didn't start speaking until he'd gone into the lobby by the toilets.
'Nick. High! How is everything?' Perhaps someday he would tell him his tale, but certainly not today.
'Oh Dad! Am he glad I've managed to get hold of you, at last. I tried ringing you in Singapore, yesterday morning, but you must have taken off by that time. Then I've been calling last night and this morning. Where are you? And why does your voice sound so funny?'
He ignored the question about the voice. 'I'm just outside Cheltenham. My baggage went missing at the airport, so I need to go into town and rent a suit, but I don't see any problem in getting to the church on time. So don't worry about me.'
'No, Dad! The wedding's off!' He paused for a second before continuing: 'It wasn't going to work out, especially when her parents started putting the boot into me.'
If troubles come in threes, how far over the limit had his counter gone? He sighed. 'Oh, Nick! I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong with the parents? They seemed really nice people when I met them.'
'You'd think people of that age would know better.'
When you bring up a child, you get to know the meaning of every nuance. Nick was definitely guilty of something. 'Better than what?'
'At their age! Going to bed in the afternoon in order to have sex. It's disgusting!'
Since they were probably within a couple of years of Peter's own age, he didn't think it was that outrageous, but there was something else behind this. 'Well, I guess that's their business. Why was it a problem?'
Nick gave a verbal shrug. 'They went to their bedroom, and they found me and Laura in their bed, banging away like rabbits.'
He smiled at the thought. 'Well, their reaction seems a bit over the top. After all it's not as though…' he paused. 'Hang on! You were getting married to Lucy. Who's Laura?'
'She was Lucy's bridesmaid. She's always been quite a stunner, but when she tried on her bridesmaid's dress, she looked absolutely fantastic. I just had to have her on the spot. So, I did…'
'And she was willing.' Hardly mitigation, but…
'Well, she's always been willing, Dad. She made it quite clear she'd still have been willing as soon as we got back from honeymoon, but now we've bypassed…'
His next words were lost by the call announcement. 'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'
Damn! Hardly surprising. Nick had telephoned him by dialling his Singapore mobile number, and he was paying for the outward part of the call. He, on the other hand, was paying for the call to be shipped all the way back to the UK.
'Sorry, Nick, I lost that.'
'I said that we’re staying in the Heathrow hotel where you were supposed to be, last night, so I'd hoped to see you as soon as you landed. We came here when Lucy's parents threw us out...'
'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'
'…so we've managed to get on an earlier flight to Singapore. Hope that's alright to continue with the honeymoon as planned?'
He'd paid for Nick and Lucy's air tickets to Singapore, along with a couple of nights in a smart hotel. After that, they were going to stay in his flat for three weeks.
'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'
'But I thought you'd split up with Lucy.'
'No Dad. I'm going to Singapore with Laura. You don't mind do you Dad? I mean, taking Laura instead of Lucy.'
Actually, he damn well did mind. He'd only come over for his wedding, and here he was, not even bothering to stay and see him, before he pissed off on honeymoon with some bird he'd been shagging whilst leading Lucy on, and paid for by him under totally false pretences.
But whether he minded or not was irrelevant, because right at that moment, the announcement came: 'Your calling credit has expired. Please arrange a top-up.' Followed by silence.
***
He stared at his useless mobile, and as he did, he could feel a large tear gathering in his eye. His problems had really started when Susan left him, one month ago, but the last twenty-four hours had been absolute murder; the fates had gathered forces against him; everything had gone wrong; and now, he couldn't even go back home to Singapore, because it was being used as a love nest for Nick's latest conquest!
The single tear ran down his face, dropped off the end of his nose, and was then promptly followed by another one; and another. Damn! It must be the effect of the pill he'd taken, which had done something stupid to his hormones.
'Are you alright?'
He glanced up. It was Gerald, the dishy gay, on his way back from the toilets.
'I'm fine, thanks.' But his voice quivered as he said it, and the sentence ended in a huge sob, after which the waterworks opened up.
'You don't look fine. Here, have his handkerchief. Now, you'd better tell me what it's all about.'
Feeling incredibly foolish, Peter took his handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes, and blew his nose. It must have been almost a minute before he could speak.
'My son, Nick. He was going to get married today, and now it's all off, and he's left on his honeymoon, which I paid for, with some tart he's just picked up, and I can't even go home, because he's going to be there for the next three weeks and…'
'Hold on! Hold on! I think we'd better go back to the table, and you can tell Lesley and me all about it whilst you finish your wine.' Gerald put his arm around Peter, and it felt so comforting to be led back into the lounge, having someone who was really concerned for him.
***
And so Peter told them all about it. OK, his glass of wine tasted as sour as if Nick had personally pissed in it, which effectively, he had, but Lesley bought him another glass from the bar, and he told them both his story. He left hardly anything out, except about how the wrong suitcase had been delivered from the airport; and since they didn't happen to ask whether he'd had a sex change in the last twenty-four hours, he didn't tell them about that either.
It wasn't until he came to the end of the story that he had to start improvising.
'Isn't your husband here, with you?'
'Oh well, there was so much chaos, Frank and I got split up at Norton Airport. In any case, Frank isn't Nick's father and they've never really got on…' (Probably because they had never met!) '…so Frank has gone on to the cottage we're renting for the next month, not far from here, in the Cotswolds. I was due to go on there after the wedding.'
'In the meantime, you feel absolutely dreadful… go on, drink it up, it will be good for you.' The latter as Lesley fetched another round of drinks from the bar.
'No, I shouldn't really. I have to drive. Frank will be expecting me…'
'…later this evening. Plenty of time to recover before then, and you need it. You've had a nasty shock to the system. If the worst comes to the worse, you can always get a taxi or, if you're really pushed, we can drive you there.'
'Oh but I couldn't…'
'Of course you could.' Gerald looked at Lesley, seeking permission for what he was about to suggest, and Lesley gave a little nod. 'Look, we're staying in the motel here, and we have a huge family room. When you've finished your drink, why don't we go back there and have a coffee, and you can have a little rest on the settee? A shower as well if you want one.'
Of course, Peter realised, the really nice thing about a woman having a gay male as a friend is that she doesn't have to worry that friendship and sex will get confused.
Although he hadn't had much wine, he felt incredibly woozy as we walked towards their room. In fact, after he'd stumbled a bit, Gerald put his arm around him to support him. It felt incredibly nice, and he had all kinds of mixed emotions about him being gay, and whether he could convert him to heterosexual, and how that wouldn't be fair on Lesley.
But when we got through the door of their room, he took the initiative right out of his hands, by swivelling around and taking Gerald in both his arms, and pulling him forward until they were almost touching. Peter stared into Gerald's incredibly sexy eyes, and opened his mouth so that he could properly kiss him.
The kiss went on for ages, and he could feel Gerald's erection grow hard against him. Peter gave a little wriggle, and pulled Gerald hard into his pelvis.
God! He wanted him desperately, although deep inside, he could feel a little warning bell ringing, saying 'Careful girl. You're getting somewhere you really ought not to be.' He shut it out of his mind, as any girl has to at certain times.
He didn't even notice Gerald undo another button on his dress, and then slip a hand under his bra and lift it over his breast. But he certainly noticed when Gerald's finger brushed across his nipple.
'Jeez!' he gasped.
'You do have sensitive nipples,' Gerald whispered, and then he was bending down and flicking Peter's left nipple with his tongue.
'O-h-h-h-h!' It was so good, he thought he might pass out with pleasure. He grabbed Gerald's head and forced him hard onto his nipple, making him take it inside his mouth and suck.
'Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!!!'
He thought it couldn't get any better, but he'd forgotten all about Lesley. Suddenly, Lesley was sucking on his right nipple, and Peter started screaming as his orgasm commenced.
***
Never before had an orgasm lasted, and lasted, and lasted, for precious minute after minute. When they finally let him down onto the real world again, he was just so grateful to them, that he knew exactly how he needed to please them.
'I think this is what you want,' Peter said, putting his feet wide apart and keeping his legs straight as he bent at the waist so that he could go down on Gerald's magnificent cock, right in front of him. But before he gave it the first lick, he turned his head and added, 'Lesley,' and wriggled his arse so there was no doubt what he was offering. 'Just use plenty of Vaseline; otherwise I might bite off Gerald's balls as you shove it in.'
He'd had a quick squint at Lesley's prick before finalising the offer, just to make certain it wasn't a monster. It was actually quite a narrow prick, but fairly long, and with a delicious curve to it he'd never seen before, which gave it quite a wicked look. Well, after the orgasm they'd given him, he was game for anything.
He could feel Lesley nuzzling against his back passage as he licked Gerald's balls, and he had to give Lesley credit for experience, because it slipped in scrumptiously smoothly. Then Lesley started moving it in a slow rhythm that was divine. Peter carefully stood upright, and even leaned backwards slightly, so that his pussy was on display to Gerald. Gerald's cock was so absolutely enormous that he was really pleased he hadn't given him the first offer on his back passage.
'It's your turn,' he said to him, 'I want you to make a Joan sandwich.'
Gerald stepped forward, the head of his cock at least one foot in front of the rest of him. He pushed it down, so that the monster sat between Peter's legs, and simply moved it slowly across the lips of his pussy — forward and back, forward and back.
'God, I want you inside me,' Peter said, and he reached down and touched the beast with his fingers. He could feel it throbbing though his fingertips, and he shivered as he forced it up between his pussy lips, so that the movements caused by Lesley's thrusting from behind, pushed him bit by bit onto the end of Gerald's cock. He couldn't believe how tight his cunt was, and he thought even Gerald was a bit taken aback at such a tight fit. Peter screamed a little as the head finally went right though his pussy lips, but when it was inside, it was fantastic.
Gerald and Lesley started working together to create the perfect sandwich; sometimes thrusting together, so their cocks were practically colliding somewhere in the middle of him; at other times, one would be going in as the other was coming out. Now he knew the origin of the saying about not knowing whether one was coming or going! But he thought he came several more times than he went.
Of the two men, Gerald came first, and after he'd reached his climax, he pulled out of him, and Peter bent down to lick up the cum on the end of his prick. The different position caused Lesley to lose control, and within seconds, he too was splattering semen up Peter's arse.
After cleaning Lesley, it was time for an all change, and Peter offered his arse to Gerald for the ultimate sacrifice. Unfortunately, it was about that time, that he realised he'd really had too much to drink. His head started buzzing, and he collapsed forward onto the edge of the bed.
It didn't put Gerald at all off his stroke; he simply came down on top of him and he must have used lots of Vaseline because his cock slid into his arse a lot more easily than it had gone in his pussy. Even so, the pain was exquisite, and he went into another orgasm on the strength of it. Peter got a bit confused then, and he thought he was on the point of passing out. He muttered something about not forgetting Lesley's needs, and didn't remember anything more.
***
It was later, much later, when Peter realised he was drowning. He choked and spluttered, and he heard someone say, 'Pull her out the water for fuck's sake, otherwise we'll kill her.'
Someone grabbed him under the armpit and heaved upwards, and as he choked some more, Gerald's voice was saying, 'There, there. You're OK. Your face just slipped underwater. You're alright now.'
Peter opened his eyes and saw he was lying in a bath full of warm, soapy water. Lesley was leaning over, holding his right hand, and with a nail-brush, was furiously scrubbing under his nails.
'Fucking hell, Gerry,' he said, in a voice, strangely different from the one he'd been using earlier. 'It's me doing all the hard work. All you have to do is stop her face from going under, alright?'
It took him a second to work out the difference, but then he realised Lesley's voice had lost its gay affectation. He was talking as any other bloke might.
'You're not gay?' he asked, puzzled.
Lesley looked at him and smiled. 'It always works,' he said. 'Women feel safe with gays.'
It took a few more seconds for shocked realisation to dawn. 'You bastards fed me a date-rape drug. Shit! I'll fucking…'
'Don't be bloody stupid, Les,' Gerald's voice came from besides his left ear, and then he murmured softly into mine. 'You were fantastic, babe, the best woman I've ever had. And I've never known a woman enjoy sex as much as you do. You wanted it so much; you've left us totally shagged out.
'We're getting you cleaned up now,' he continued, 'and then we'll take you on to the cottage where your husband's waiting for you. We'll simply tell him we found you trying to drive your car, and you'd obviously had too much to drink. Just stick to that story, and no one will be any the wiser — you had your fun, and we had ours. OK?'
Peter nodded, too tired to argue, and felt his eyes growing heavy.
8 DAYLIGHT
It's strange, but from the time Peter/Joan had first awoken early on Sunday morning, until that moment when his memory came flooding back, everything had seemed as if it had been happening to someone else — as indeed it had.
But on that Sunday evening, as soon as he saw Gerald and Lesley on the video recording, the whole series of events over the previous forty-eight hours came slamming back to him. His immediate feelings were a total mixture: abused by Gerald and Lesley; relief that the predicament had ended; guilt at the things he'd been doing with men; excitement at the way he had behaved as a woman; and totally and completely fucked, as only an enormous, and very satisfying overdose of sexual intercourse can provide.
After a few seconds deliberation, there really was no reason to feel guilty about what he'd done with either Gerald and Lesley, who had date-raped him, or Vic, who had been spying on him with secret cameras. That thought alone made him feel a little better.
Well, actually, with the abundance of sex over the last twenty-four hours, he was feeling bloody good. He did, however, resolve that there was no way he was ever again going to have sex with men; at the first opportunity, he would leave Vic to his own devices, buy some male clothes and convert back to a heterosexual male. In the meantime, he would need to keep well clear of Vic.
He'd noticed on the video taken when Gerald and Lesley brought him home, that for just an instant, the number plate of their car was visible, so he was leaning over the desk, writing down the registration number, when it happened.
He hadn't taken note of what clothes he'd put on to come to Victor's house, and he didn't even feel Vic lifting his skirt. But hell, what he suddenly did feel was a finger slipping inside him and going straight onto his spot. Suddenly he was gasping, and opening his legs wider, and within ten seconds, he was hitting the first orgasm since making his well-intended resolution.
He lost count how many more orgasms he had that evening, some from Vic's fingers massaging his pussy, some from Vic's mouth sucking on his tits, and some when Vic's prick moved against his clitoris, or spurted semen deep inside him. By the morning, he regarded himself as a totally fallen woman.
***
It was a couple of days before he got around to going through Frank's hand-baggage. The letter was in a side-pocket, handwritten on plain white paper.
"Dear Frank
It probably won't come as any surprise to you when I tell you I have finally decided to leave you and go and live with Paul. As you know, we've been lovers for almost three months, and he makes me feel such a very special person — I simply can't describe the excitement I feel when I'm with him.
Please don't feel bad about my departure. We've always been totally honest with each other, and there's no doubt we both benefited from our relationship. For two years, you had an attractive wife to take to company functions, as well as a huge salary increase, simply because I had sex with your boss. In return, I got a steady stream of extremely good-looking men, who would do almost anything to get inside my knickers — and very often did! And we always knew our arrangement wouldn't last forever.
But I felt I was changing into something I didn't really want to be. Sure for a while it was nice to be the beautiful wife of the Head Buyer, seeing everyone's heads swivelling as I walked past with my breasts almost popping out — the men because they desperately wanted to fuck me; the women because they suspected their husbands desperately wanted to fuck me.
The problem was, I started to behave like that woman. Hell! I even started wondering what it would be like to have babies suckling my breasts! But you changed also. It got to the stage where you preferred hetero sex with Joan, rather than gay sex with me! As for all the other men I had, I can tell you that having sex with a man who thinks you've got the loveliest tits in the world, isn't half as good as making love with a man who thinks you have the most heavenly cock.
Paul has found a job in Hong Kong, and I'm going there to live with him. So, I'm leaving behind the bodysuit and all the passports and certificates you managed to obtain for me, as well as our wedding certificate. Perhaps you will find another man to take over Joan's role, but I really feel it's time you came out of the closet. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck in your life.
I think it's best if we don't try to communicate with each other from now on, so this will be the last you will ever hear from me.
I'll just say: Thanks for all the good times.
Lots of love
John"
***
Frank had surprised most people when he'd come back from holiday married to such a curvaceous wife — now the explanation was clear — it was simply an arrangement he'd made with a gay male who'd taken on the role of a wife by wearing that most realistic bodysuit. Joan had never existed and her passport and other documents were false.
But that explanation suddenly gave Peter a jolt of alarm. When the Coroner's Officer had asked for identification, he'd handed over Joan's passport without realising it wasn't even his own. Thank God, the coroner couldn't have looked too closely at the photograph; otherwise he would now be under arrest. He picked up the passport, opened it to the back page, and then sat down with a lurch.
They say that in Singapore you can get anything you want for money. The photograph was evidence of the truth of that remark, for there, staring back at him was not the image of Joan as she was known in Singapore; instead was Peter's own photograph!
***
After that, he had to think afresh about everything. The passport looked genuine enough, but clearly, the photograph had been doctored in the last few weeks. It would be easy enough for Frank to get a photograph of Peter Jones from a trade journal, but it had been so expertly altered, one would never have known that the thick, dark-brown hair was anything but genuine.
Until then, Peter had supposed that Frank had come to England, because he wanted to temporarily turn himself into Joan. Now it was clear that he wanted his new friend, Peter Jones, to undertake that role.
Peter recalled their conversations over the last few weeks and realised how he had unknowingly cast himself for the part. His bitterness with his existing friends and colleagues, and the desire to get away from them; and how his hatred of Susan had turned into a general loathing of females in general, and the tremendous power they had to enslave mere males with a quick glimpse of thigh or cleavage. Hell, they had even talked about the excitement men got from seeing women's underwear, and the exhilaration they must get from wearing it!
Frank's first step in persuading him to take on his new role would be to convince him that he could play the part. He'd deliberately bought an identical suitcase to Peter's so that at the airport he could engineer a mix-up. Presumably, he had believed he would talk him into wearing the clothes, or perhaps even contrive a situation similar to the one he'd actually found himself in. That was why he'd dashed off the plane so quickly and why, when he was found dead, he was in possession of Peter's suitcase, rather than his own. Probably it was the stress of the moment which had brought on his death.
It was partly as a tribute to Frank that Peter decided to continue as Joan for a while, especially with Frank's "real" wife conveniently out of the way. But perhaps more important was that Joan was having such fun with Vic, there seemed no reason why 'she' shouldn't continue in her role for the rest of the time Peter was scheduled to stay in England.
There were several things which convinced him to make it a more permanent arrangement.
Firstly, his dissatisfaction with his life in Singapore without Susan, and the disenchantment he felt about his previous friends did not diminish with time. And as the end of the four week holiday approached, he felt less and less inclined to leave Vic, and his non-stop fucking. Victor may have led a life of abstinence until Peter met him, but he was certainly making up for it since.
And while John/Joan may have felt something lacking about sex as a woman compared to his gay relationship, Peter felt it was far better than any sex he'd had for years. Not only were his orgasms more intense and pleasurable, they went on for ages, and only a few minutes after finishing one orgasm, he'd be starting on his next.
He also knew that, if his relationship with Vic did come to an end at some stage in the future, there'd be no shortage of volunteers to take over. The same could definitely not be said about Peter Jones.
The final (and some might cynically say, most persuasive) argument which convinced him to stay was Frank's life insurance and pension. His company provided one million pound air-travel insurance, and since he'd had the good sense to die before passing through HM Customs, he was still classed as an air traveller.
Frank had no other living relatives and hadn't made a will, so the money would go to the government unless Peter nobly offered to take the payout. And since he was Frank's widow, he could hardly refuse to take Frank's company pension which, following a death-in-service, was generous in the extreme.
All in all, a highly satisfactory arrangement.
***
That left, of course, one piece of unfinished business: Gerald and Lesley. He had to acknowledge that, without them, he would never have taken that ultimate step in being a complete woman. Not only had they pulled him through the barrier, they had launched him into a sex life which was infinitely better than it had ever been before.
So for his own part, Peter reluctantly had to be grateful to them. However, whilst his own story might be a very happy one, he suspected they had carried out similar attacks on many other women, who they had left feeling abused and, since they didn't use any protection, possibly pregnant.
However, it was easy enough to find a private-detective who could access the police computer, feed in a car registration number, and then follow the individual around until he and his friend committed a similar crime. As a responsible citizen, the private-detective then only had to dial 999 and call the police, for the law to take its rightful course.
Peter made certain that they saw him in the public gallery on the day they were each sentenced to five years in prison. He gave them a nice little wave and a smile, but they looked too upset to reciprocate.
An Unexpected Engagement for Christmas
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by Charlotte Dickles
Synopsis: He thought it was simply a case of helping a friend out of difficulty over Christmas, at the same time solving his own problem with a faulty central heating boiler. OK, when Bob was told what he had to do, he was both terrified and exhilarated by the prospect, but no one could have forecast how it was going to turn out.
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as: crossdressing, sex, illegal acts, and humour. So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
***
"Hi, Grant," I called. "How are things? What are you doing for Christmas?"
Grant had been about to step onto the Underground train just in front of me when I'd noticed him. He turned and his face broke into an easy grin as he caught sight of me.
"Hi Bob. You sloping off early from work, as well?"
I stepped onto the crowded train beside him, and we both twisted our heads sideways so the train doors would slide shut without decapitating us. We worked at the same office, and although we only ever met at the tea-point, or standing at adjacent urinals, we'd always got on well together. In fact, it was Grant who'd told me about the house in his road which was up for sale, and was an absolute bargain - a mixed blessing actually, as the house had been a liability from the moment I'd bought it and moved in.
"Grant, this is my last working day before Christmas, and it's almost two pm. This isn't sloping off early - going to the pub at eleven-thirty was sloping off early, and I've already done that."
His grin broadened, as he said, "Me too, and I'm nicely pissed, now. But I've got to get home to finish our packing. Robert and I are going to Shropshire for the Christmas hols."
Even in this age, lots of my male colleagues felt uncomfortable with openly gay Grant, as though he would rape them at any opportunity. In fact, he'd been living with Robert for several years in what sounded like a stable relationship.
"Sounds nice. You going to a hotel, or staying with relatives?"
Grant pulled a face. "It's my Great Uncle Silas. It's certainly not our idea of an ideal Christmas, but my Mum tells me he's remaking his will, so we have to be there. He’s been an invalid for years — virtually bed-ridden, I understand. Mum has always said that he's a millionaire, but I'm not so certain. Mind you, he lives in this enormous mansion which has been in his family for years, so she may be right. Anyway, we've decided to spend the week there. What about you?"
"Just a quiet Christmas for me," I said. "My divorce came through three weeks ago, and I'm still finding absolute peace and quiet a novelty. I shall do a bit of DIY around the house, watch The Great Escape on TV, and sip my malt whisky that I've got in especially."
He nodded. "Sounds good to me. All this fuss about Christmas that starts months beforehand, having to see relatives, and all that crap makes it a real bind - especially this year, with Great Uncle Silas."
"How is he about you and Robert?" I asked. "Elderly relatives can get a bit dogmatic about those kinds of relationships."
He raised his hand, in a touch-and-go gesture. "It's tricky, but I think we’ll manage it. In fact, we're going to announce our engagement on Christmas Day, just for his benefit."
"You and Robert are getting engaged? Grant that's brilliant! Well done. I hope you'll be very happy together."
"No, no, no," he said. "We're only announcing our engagement for Uncle Silas's benefit. I'm not certain we'll ever actually have a formal partnership."
"Well, I hope it works out," I said. I had a thought about the last time I'd seen Robert, and added, "Is the rest of your family going to Shropshire with you, or is it just you and Robert?"
"It's just a small family do," he said. "My mother's coming, and her brother, Richard - he's one of those shyster solicitors who get shady clients out of trouble. And he's so homophobic I suspect it might really be a front, because he's in denial about being gay."
That was so like Grant, I thought. He knew lots of people were suspicious of homosexuality, but he simply couldn't accept that some people - not even a dodgy solicitor - thought it evil and abhorrent.
"What about your sister?" I asked.
Did I notice a sudden stiffening in Grant as he said, "I haven't got a sister."
For the rest of the journey we exchanged tales about just how bad Christmas with relatives could get, but all the time, my mind was tumbling over the paradox of Grant's sister. For I was certain that last week I'd seen Robert in a local restaurant, having an intimate meal with a sexy woman who was so similar to Grant that she must surely have been his sister; even though he told me he didn't have a sister.
***
The forecast over Christmas had been for snow, so before leaving for work this morning, I'd turned the central heating onto its highest setting, and I expected it to be like a furnace as I went into my house. Instead, it was not far from being an ice-box.
I headed straight for the central heating boiler, and spent twenty minutes trying to relight it, to no avail. After that, I rang the emergency plumbing service that I subscribed to. Three hours later, after sitting in my house wearing two sweaters and my thickest overcoat, I heard the bad news.
"It needs a new gas valve," the maintenance man said, as he switched off his mobile. "I've been on the phone to the warehouse, and they don't have any in stock, so with everybody on holiday on Monday and Tuesday, it's going to be at least next Friday before it arrives."
"Friday! But I can't live without heat for a whole week!"
He shook his head, sadly. "A lot of people go away for Christmas nowadays. Maybe you could find something on lastminute.com. Otherwise, you could go out now and buy a few electric heaters. It's all I can suggest, I'm afraid." And he was gone!
The amount of money left over after my divorce definitely would not cover the cost of a Christmas break at a hotel. As for buying electric heaters, I'd been told only last week that the wiring in the house was likely to burst into flames at any moment, and I was to plug in nothing more powerful than my electric razor.
"Bugger! Bugger! Bugger..."
My buggering was interrupted by the phone ringing.
"Bob. It's me. Grant."
"Hi Grant. How's the packing going?"
"It's not the packing that's the problem, I'm afraid. Is there any chance I could come round to your house and cry on your shoulder?"
Shit! It sounded like Robert's sexy woman had reappeared and got in the way of the Christmas engagement.
"Grant," I told him, "it's so cold in this house, your tears would turn to ice. Why don't we meet at The Angel, have a drink and cry on each other's shoulders?"
***
"Poor Bob! No heating over Christmas. You'll die from frostbite in your willy!"
By the time Grant had arrived at The Angel, I had a brandy warming the cockles of my heart. Fortunately, Grant didn't appear hysterical, and so we'd talked about my heating problems whilst the barmaid had served him with his large glass of wine.
"Fortunately, Bob, I have just the solution for you. Why not come away with me, to stay with my Uncle Silas over Christmas? He'll have log fires roaring up the chimneys, as though he's personally trying to destroy all the world's forests. You'd be plenty warm enough"
"Grant, you can't seriously be inviting me for Christmas with your uncle - he doesn't know anything about me."
"I don't see why not. I'm sure he'd welcome you with open arms."
I eyed him carefully, and noticed how he wouldn't meet my eye. "Grant, there's something behind this offer, isn't there? What did you want to talk with me about earlier, when you said you wanted to cry on my shoulder?"
He shrugged. "It's no great shakes, really. Robert and I had a row when I got home, and he's decided he's not coming with me to stay with Uncle Silas. He's going home to stay with his parents, instead. Which means that there'll be a spare place with Uncle Silas."
"Grant, I'm not sleeping with you."
"Oh, God, no! Great Uncle Silas would never have agreed to Robert and I sharing a room under his roof. We were always intending to sleep separately - although there may have been a little creeping along silent corridors in the middle of the night. But anyway, you can rest assured that your innocence will remain unsoiled."
"But you want me to take Robert's part, don't you, so you can announce our engagement on Christmas Day?"
He gave another shrug, and managed to both nod and shake his head at the same time. "More or less, Bob. You get the idea. Uncle Silas is rewriting his will, and I need a fiancée for Christmas. You're the only person I could think of, and since otherwise you'll suffer your own personal inconvenience over Christmas, by having your little willy frozen off, I'm offering a mutually advantageous solution. It's also incredibly convenient that you and Robert share the same name. Come on, you can be my little Christmas helper. It'll be a lark. So what do you say?"
He accompanied his proposition with a wide smile that was meant to totally disarm me. Instead, it made my blood run cold; for I had seen that smile before - on the mouth of the sexy young woman who Robert had been with, the week before in The Angel's dining room!
"Will this lark involve you dressing as a woman?"
He stared at me a little, and then said, "Ah. I wasn't certain whether or not you'd recognised me last week. When you asked me about my sister this afternoon, I realised what conclusion you'd leapt to. But I can tell you that I definitely won't be dressing as a woman at Uncle Silas's Christmas House Party. That would certainly destroy any hope that I might have of an inheritance."
I gasped at his audacity. "But?"
"I don't know what you mean," although his tone of voice said that he knew exactly what I meant.
"OK, Grant," I said. "Let me be more specific. You said just now that you wanted a fiancée for Christmas. I think that Uncle Silas is expecting you to be betrothed to a female, and that Robert was going to pretend to be a woman. Am I right?"
Grant grimaced a little, and then, realising the game was up, he nodded. "Robert wasn't happy about doing it. It's always me that plays the female part. I told him it was simple - that there was nothing to it - and initially he agreed. Then this afternoon, he got cold feet about everything, and simply took off to his mother's. It's left me right in the lurch."
"And you're expecting me to fill the part?"
Another nod.
"So exactly when were you proposing to tell me I was going to have to dress as a woman?"
"I was getting round to it, but I thought I'd get you well and truly pissed first. Would you like another drink, by the way?"
"No thanks, Grant. You're out of your mind. It would never work." Those words were a big mistake.
"Is that all you're worried about - that it wouldn't work? Does that mean that if I could convince you that it would work, you would do it?"
"I didn't say that." I paused for a second, thinking. On the one hand, Grant clearly had considerable expertise at cross-dressing and ought to know what he was talking about. I had never for one moment thought the person in the restaurant had been a man. But then Grant was a far more suitable size for a woman, than me.
On the other hand, the alternative option was an extremely cold and lonely Christmas. So what did I have to lose? Total embarrassment, humiliation and disgrace in front Grant's family - but since I didn't know any of them apart from Grant, did that matter? In any case, I liked Grant and I would like to help him. Also, I had to admit that the thought of fooling every one into thinking I was a woman was tremendously exhilarating - not that I was anything other than heterosexual, you understand, but somehow the idea of passing myself off as a woman was sexually thrilling.
"I still don't think it would work, Grant, but if you can convince me that I stand a decent chance of getting away with it by tomorrow morning, I'm prepared to give it a go. How's that?"
"Brilliant!"
He looked so delighted that for one tricky moment I thought he was going to give me a kiss, but then he realised that would probably kill his plan stone dead, and he stopped himself.
"Come on," he said. "Drink up. We have some work to do."
***
"Just a few props, a bit of make-up, and a few hours coaching is all it will take," Grant said, as he took me back into the house that he and Robert shared.
"Has Robert already left?" I asked.
Grant nodded. "He almost ran out of the door as soon as I produced this," he said, holding up a skin-coloured vest with a huge pair of lifelike tits built into it.
"Bloody hell," I said. "You didn’t have massive tits like those, when I saw you last week."
"No," Grant said. "I don't need to as I have a much smaller frame, and I can get away with B cup-sized breasts. But both Robert and you have fairly wide shoulders. That changes the proportions of everything else. It's normal for a woman to have an A-shaped figure - narrow shoulders and wide hips - although an X-shape is acceptable. But if you see anyone with a V-shape figure - wide shoulders and narrow hips - you'll immediately assume they're a man - even before you get up close to them and can see they're wearing a dress, with boobs poking out the front.
"So, that means we have to pad out your hips and bum," he continued, "to balance out the shoulders, and then we have to give you a large pair of breasts to balance out the big bum. Having a nice pair of tits also has the advantage that you can expose sufficient cleavage that no one is in any doubt that you're a woman when they get close up to you, as they're too busy looking there rather than looking at the stubble on your cheek."
He passed the skin-coloured vest with the built-in tits to me so I could inspect it properly. I rubbed it between finger and thumb, and was surprised at the feel of it.
"It feels just like skin," I said.
He nodded. "This is called a Bustlet," he said. "It's probably one of the best items of its type on the market. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes - and some are adjustable for size. This isn't, as I thought it would be too complicated for Robert to mess with. It does have a facility called Sensotouch, though. The skin has a membrane like you get on touch-sensitive computer screens, and that's connected via a built-in computer chip to tiny electrodes resting against your skin. You'll feel someone gently stroking your tits - I find that incredibly arousing, but you may have other ideas."
"Well, no one's going to be stroking my tits," I said, "so I won't be able to experience that."
"Well I promise I won't," Grant said, "but I can't make any promises for either of my randy, old uncles."
Another surge of excitement flashed through me. Why should I be excited at the thought of a man wanting to stroke my false tits? I didn't know why, but I certainly was!
Grant had picked up another garment whilst I was still admiring the pair of tits I was about to receive. "This is called a Hiplet," he said. "It's made by the same company as the Bustlet, and it incorporates Sensotouch into the buttocks, and the built-in vagina."
"It's got a built-in vagina! You're kidding me?"
Grant shook his head. "No kidding. When you put it on, you put your genitals into a specially designed pocket, and then pull it all back between your legs and fasten it. Your testicles are pushed safely up out of the way, and have no further part to play in activities, and your penis is squashed into a position where it can't get erect, but you can still urinate - as long as you sit down, of course. The vulva is padded out quite a lot, and the vagina slopes backwards, so as to give quite a decent-sized vagina. And there's Sensotouch in all the appropriate places, to give you one hell of a thrill when you're being fucked. I don't know whether it's that good for a normal woman, but it sure as hell beats the enjoyment a man normally gets out of sex."
I shook my head, sceptically. "I'll believe it when I try it," I said, and quickly followed it up by saying, "And I'm not going to try it."
He smiled. "Please yourself," he said. "If we do a good job of converting you, you should have plenty of offers on the train to Shropshire."
I violently shook my head, whilst silently thinking, "Bloody hell! Suppose I did. Better than normal sex with a woman? Impossible. Isn't it?"
***
Over the next few hours, Grant helped me get dressed, after first doing some basic operations such as removing all my body hair with cream, and plucking my eyebrows. He'd already got all the stuff ready for Robert, and since Robert and I were more or less the same shape, everything fitted, after a fashion. By the time he was finally locating a wig on my head, I was desperate to get a look at myself in the mirror, Grant having denied me that all evening.
"Wow!" Even my voice was changed, Grant having got me to swallow a voice-changer pill, which had slid down my throat with a burning sensation equivalent to sipping nitric acid. Now my voice was quite shrill - not particularly sultry as I liked in a woman, but certainly there was no question that the owner was female.
There was no denying the woman facing me in the mirror was large, but Grant had chosen my clothes with care and style: a bright red dress ('Thought it would do for Christmas Day," he said, "when we announce our engagement'). I had a long, flowing skirt, which flared out nicely every time I swivelled my hips; a deep scoop neckline, which showed just enough to get the heart pounding, without making me look tarty; and matching red shoes with spiky heels, which didn't increase my height too much.
Grant had shown me how to apply the make-up, but I guessed I'd need a lot of help in the first few days making me look as good as I did now. No trace of a shadow around the chin; subtle shading around the eyes, which highlighted and made them look wider; and medium length hair cut in a smart style, stopping just above my shoulders. I looked absolutely fabulous!
"So Bob," Grant said. "Do you stand a reasonable chance of passing as a woman, or not?"
"You win," I said. "Shropshire, and Uncle Silas, here we come."
***
"Mr Silitoe says to go straight in," the elderly housekeeper said.
We'd arrived at Great Uncle Silas's house in the mid afternoon, after a gruelling train journey with two changes, each with long waits on freezing cold platforms. At least, my Bustlet and Hiplet kept my vital parts warm, although my legs and feet, without the protection of trousers, were freezing cold.
Finally, we'd arrived at the tiny halt a few miles from the house, and waited there for another half hour for our lift to materialise. In the Good Old Days, I had reminisced, the chauffeur-driven limousine would have been waiting at the station to meet us. Nowadays, it was an elderly housekeeper, Joan, who had met us in a clapped-out Renault Espace.
She had driven us back to the house, and there I had met Grant's mother, Helen - one of those highly superior women who looked down her nose at me, as though certain I was not good enough for her son. If she thought I was not good enough, I wondered what she would think of Grant's real choice of partner. I guessed the idea of her son living with a man was absolutely unthinkable - she simply could not comprehend that he might have tastes different to what society said was acceptable.
Grant's Uncle Richard was also there, and he eyed me up and down, his eyes lingering over my wobbling breasts. Then he gave a shark-like smile. Maybe that was how he smiled at all his clients, but I couldn't help but think that I would have to be very careful with Uncle Richard. And there was Grant thinking he might be gay!
Also staying at the house was the Reverend Bartholomew Bassinger-ffrench ('Call me Bart," he said with a friendly smile). It appeared that he, also, had been invited to stay over Christmas, but - and get this - only so that he could conduct a Christmas Day service in the family chapel attached to the house! And I thought that family chapels went out in the last century!
Bart seemed far friendlier than his stuck-up name might have suggested, especially compared with Grant's mother. He had one of those good-looking faces that meant he would be an immediate hit with most women.
"But not me," I thought. I guessed I had some way to go before I took on all the attributes of a woman - like being sexually attracted to men. Thank heavens for that!
Anyway, we had a cup of tea, and I tried to be nice to Helen - as she had told me to call her, in a manner that suggested that was a great privilege - and talk as any potential daughter-in-law might when first meeting her potential mother-in-law.
After a few minutes, Joan had appeared and told us that Uncle Silas would "see us now", and she had taken us upstairs to the master bedroom. She had knocked on the door, and in response to the curt command, had bid us to enter.
Silas was sitting up in bed - a huge four-poster with curtains all around — in a dressing gown, and he had been working on a laptop - something which appeared quite incongruous in that position. Next to him, was a huge briefcase.
"So, this is your lady friend, Grant?" He eyed me up with a far more approving eye than I had expected, judging from his mother's reception of me.
"Yes, Uncle," Grant said. "This is Roberta. We met at work, and I immediately fell for her, although it took me ages to pluck up courage to ask her out." It was the script we had agreed - and practised - on the long railway journey up; based as closely to the truth as my position would allow.
"Mmm," he said, eyeing me up and down, which I found quite unnerving. Was he about to pronounce me as a man dressed as a woman?
"Looks like you've got some good taste, at last," he continued, his gaze finally returning to Grant. "OK, you can go back downstairs now. I'll send Bobbie down when I've finished with her." He turned to me. "You don't mind if I call you Bobbie, do you?"
Gulp!
"Oh," Grant said. "I thought you might like to talk to the two of us together."
"I've spent years listening to the stupid twaddle you talk, Grant," Silas said. "Let's see if Bobbie can talk a bit more intelligently. Anyway, she might read to me with a bit more compassion than I've ever heard you do. Now bugger off, and leave us alone."
"Oh. Right. I'll, er, go then." Grant cast a hopeless look at me, and then turned and abandoned me.
I gave another silent gulp as the door closed behind him!
"Right," Silas said, in a businesslike tone. "Are you really a friend of his from work, or are you simply a tart he's hired for the house party?"
"I'm sorry?"
He snorted. "You heard me perfectly well. I asked if you were really a friend from work or a..."
"Yes, I did hear you, and I can assure you that I am a friend from work, and definitely not a tart."
"Pity," he said, looking me up and down again. "Only I quite fancied you, and I thought I might be able to afford more money than Grant is likely to be paying you."
"I think I'd better leave now," I said, turning towards the door.
"Not if you want to help Grant," he said.
I paused. "What do you mean?"
"That's why you came, isn't it? To help your friend Grant."
"We really like each other. We've known each other for several months and we enjoy each other's company." None of that was a lie. "Grant invited me as a guest at your house because he thought I might enjoy being with him, rather than staying on my own in London."
"I bet you haven't had sex with him."
Outwardly, I bristled, but inside, I realised, I was actually beginning to enjoy this rousting. "That is none of your business. But I can tell you that Grant and I are very close."
"I've always known that Grant was more bent than a nine-penny coin," Silas said, "so it's no good trying to convince me that he's about to tie the knot with a female, even one as good looking as you.
"And don't bother to contradict it," he added, as he saw the denials flashing through my mind. "I even suggested to Helen that he could bring along a male friend for Christmas, but she refused to countenance it - thought it would be 'most unwise'. Silly bitch!"
"Oh!" I said, a little lost for words.
"So tell me why an attractive woman like yourself is spending Christmas with a gay male friend from work, when you could be properly enjoying yourself."
So I told him the truth. How I'd recently got divorced; how I'd always liked Grant at work; how we'd met on the Underground train the previous afternoon; how I'd got home and found the central heating not working; and how Grant had invited me as houseguest because another friend had let him down at short notice. Oh, I forgot to tell him I was actually a man.
"You have beautiful breasts."
I gasped. As a man, I had never had the gall to come straight out with it like that. Oh, I'd certainly thought it enough times, but usually a woman only had to observe that I'd noticed those protrusions from the front of her body, and she'd be telling me not to be offensive.
"Will you show them to me?"
"How dare you!" That's what a few of the women had said to me, when they saw me peering sideways into their blouse, trying to catch sight of a nipple. "I most certainly will not."
"Five hundred pounds if you do." From his briefcase he pulled a wad of money, held together with an elastic band, and threw it towards me, landing just a few inches from the edge of the bed where I stood.
I eyed it. It was a pack of fifty-pound notes, and I could well believe there were ten of them. Five hundred pounds, simply for showing my tits. Money for old rope, or...
"And I suppose, if I was to be so foolish as to expose my breasts in front of you, you wouldn't try to touch them at all."
He spread his arms and indicated his lifeless legs. "It's not as though I can chase you around the bedroom, is it? I give you my word, I won't try to touch your beautiful breasts. Only, it's been so long since I've seen a woman's breast, perhaps this will be the last opportunity. That's why I'm prepared to offer you five-hundred pounds for the privilege."
I considered. The last time he might see a woman's breast. How sad? Perhaps if he'd been poor I might even have refused his money, but he wasn't and I was, so I didn't.
"You promise?" I said. "Absolutely no touching?"
"I promise," he said. "No touching."
So I put the wad of money in my handbag, and then undid the buttons on my blouse, and let it slide off my shoulders and down my arms, until it was hanging from the waist. I pushed my bra-covered breasts in front of his face as I fumbled behind my back for the fastening. I guess he thought I was teasing him, but in fact it was sheer inexperience that made me take ages to release it.
Then I slowly lowered my bra away from my breasts, and Silas gasped as I exposed myself.
"You ARE beautiful," he whispered.
I gave a little shake of my torso, which sent a delicious quiver through my breasts. Even I thought it was superb; he looked so excited I thought he might have a heart attack. I kept up the shaking as I moved closer to his face, and closer, and closer, until my boobs were wobbling either side of his nose, and his eyes were going cross-eyed, trying to keep them in focus.
"Another five-hundred if I can touch them," he gasped.
"But Silas, you promised," I declared. "No touching."
"And now I'm offering five-hundred pounds more to touch them," he said. "I simply have to stroke them, and lick them and squeeze them."
Maybe if they'd been my own breasts I might have felt differently about it - but then, if they'd been my own breasts I would be a real woman and I very definitely would feel differently about it. As it was, how could I deny him a play with my plastic breasts for another five-hundred, much-needed pounds? I could buy a new gas boiler with the money I received this afternoon.
"OK," I said. "But please don't expect me to go on making these concessions."
He threw me another bundle of money, which I slipped into my handbag, and then he used both hands to grab my breasts and squeeze them hard.
"Ow!" I yelled. I hadn't expected them to hurt like that — after all, they were simply made of plastic. But what had Grant said about them? Something about having a touch-sensitive covering which was connected to electrodes on my own skin, so I would feel them being stroked and squeezed. Well, I certainly felt that.
"That's enough," I yelled at him, as he gave another fierce squeeze. "Go gently with them, otherwise the deal's off."
"I'm sorry my dear," he said. "It was just too exciting for me. I'll try to be careful."
He flattened his hands and moved the palms in a circular motion about my nipples.
"O-o-o-o-h-h-h-h!" I said. If I hadn't expected the pain before; I certainly didn't expect the pleasure this time. I felt the blood suddenly surging through my veins. Wow, I think I'd pay Silas five hundred to do that again.
In fact, he did it without me offering. Then he bent his head forward and his tongue shot out and started giving me long slow licks.
"Oh, yes," I said.
"Yes?" he said, looking at me expectantly.
I suddenly caught the drift of what he was leading to.
"No!" I said. "Touching my breasts only, was the agreement."
"I'll give you another five hundred for a tit fuck."
Hell! He wanted me to get out his prick and rub it between my tits. What a revolting thought. "Absolutely not."
"OK, a thousand, then. One thousand pounds, on top of the thousand I've already given you, for a tit fuck."
"A thousand?" Bloody hell! It was, after all, only a pair of plastic tits he'd be rubbing his prick against, and he was only an old man. It was almost a charitable act, accepting his money in return for favours.
He passed over another two bundles of money, which I put into my handbag, and then he lay back.
Hell! I thought, he's expecting me to get out his prick and do all the fondling. On the other hand, I had two thousand pounds of his cash. I could get the house rewired as well as a gas boiler with that.
"My God! You feel hard," I said, as I ran my hand down the front of his dressing-gown. He did too, although thankfully he wasn't that big. As I parted the two halves, his prick came lurching through to meet me.
"That’s nice," I said, reaching out for it, and I think I meant it, although it was probably more a sign of how relieved I was not to be looking at an obscene monster. It was quite a bit smaller than my own prick (and I'd have been gutted if it was not) and without any horrible blue veins protruding from the shaft. All-in-all, I thought, a perfectly respectable penis.
I lifted my skirt so I could straddle his legs, and sit astride them. I thought that might cause him to yell, but he gave no sign, other than excitement, as I did so. Then, I bent forward and lowered my torso towards his prick. It was all a lot more difficult to manoeuvre than I'd thought it would be. I simply wasn’t used to controlling breasts (not my own, anyway) which had a weight - and a life - of their own, and his dick was so small I had to lean forward a long way to get within straddling distance.
Eventually, we managed to connect, with my hands squeezing my breasts against his prick, and I even got as far as getting a rhythm going, whilst he closed his eyes and muttered a series of thanks.
But after a while, it became obvious that he wasn't going to come. I worked his prick harder and harder, but still he was nowhere near ejaculating. I did it fast, and then gave him slow, long strokes. Still, he didn't come.
I considered what I should do. If he didn't get his tit fuck, then he might want to claim back his thousand pounds, and I needed that. Oh well, a girl has to make sacrifice if she's to earn an honest crust. I moved back a little, nervously licking my lips before taking the plunge.
I'd never have been able to do it if I'd considered he had an obscene prick, but it did look so innocuous that I simply opened my mouth and went down on him. There was a gasp of pleasure as I allowed most of his prick into my mouth. Personally, I was amazed that I managed to get so much in without gagging. OK, we're probably only talking about three inches, or so, but it wasn’t the kind of thing I’d had previous experience in.
For him, he was in heaven. He started to groan, as I went up and down on him, and I could see he was going to come at any minute. That's when I pulled my mouth away, and went back to sliding my tits around his prick.
"Oh, you bitch," he said.
"That's right," I said, and we both grinned.
I reckon I kept up the rhythm for a remarkable thirty minutes before finally allowing him to come — in my mouth, can you believe it? I didn't think I was going to go through with it, but towards the end it seemed so churlish to deny him what he desperately needed.
And he was so grateful, profusely thanking me, and having just enough strength to throw another bundle of five hundred pounds at me before I left, after promising that I would visit him again the next day.
***
I couldn't wait to tell Grant exactly what had just happened, as I thought he'd probably be mad with jealousy. So I went down to his room, threw the door wide open and marched in. But the words, "You'll never guess what just happened to me," were frozen on my lips, and in fact, were never to be uttered. For, in front of me, amongst the tangle of legs and buttocks on the bed, was the largest cock I have ever seen.
It was the size that would make a horse envious - at least as thick as my wrist - and all the distasteful features, which had been thankfully absent from Silas's tool, were here in overabundance. The throbbing blue veins which protruded around the shaft, a glistening purple head, although from this angle I could fortunately only see the underside, and the hairy testicles hanging like coconuts from a palm tree.
As I stared at this apparition in shocked amazement, so the purple head started to disappear; then the shaft did the same. By now, I'd worked out that the monster belonged to the person on top, and I realised it was slowly being shoved into an orifice in the body underneath.
"Jesus, Bart," Grant's voice said. "Don't keep me waiting. Shove it all in. Hard."
I silently stepped backwards and closed the door.
***
"It would be most unfortunate," Richard said as I met him on the landing, "if Helen was to find out what you had just been doing with Silas."
"Silas wanted me to read to him," I said.
His shark-like smile appeared. "Bollocks," he said, "Silas is well known to try it on with every woman who enters his room. They either leave immediately, or they stay; you stayed. When Helen hears, I think she will tell Silas exactly what she thinks of him, and when he rewrites his will, that won't do me any harm at all."
"Then why haven't you gone directly to Helen?"
His grin grew wider. "Oh I think you realise that I'm not a vindictive man - as long as I'm kept sweet. In other words, you have to treat me exactly the same way as you treat Uncle Silas."
***
Everything that was nice about Silas was abhorrent with Richard, particularly his large, throbbing, purple-headed prick, with the blue veins standing out from his shaft as though they would burst at any minute. So why did I have such a wonderful orgasm when he shot his load into and over me?
As soon as we'd entered my bedroom, he'd pushed me to my knees and grasped me by the hair (thank God my wig was glued firmly on). His trousers were released in a second and then he forced his prick into my mouth. All I could do was to try not to choke and to breathe at every opportunity.
With his hands grasping my head on either side and forcing me onto his prick, I realised I was being totally fucked! This was how it was for a woman. I felt an excitement run through my body. Again and again he thrust his cock hard down my throat, and I was powerless to stop him. I was suddenly reminded of that film where the girl had a clitoris in her throat, and I realised I, too, could feel the glans of his cock against my tonsils.
He suddenly held me rigid for one second, then rammed his prick further into me than ever before and I felt the burning semen shoot down my throat. As I started to choke, he pulled right out of my mouth - probably worried I might bite off his prick as I did so - and his next load hit me straight in the eyes, blinding me. I lifted my hands to try to clear my eyes, and got another smack of semen on my nose, blocking my nostrils. I turned my head to one side and he shot semen into my ear and all over my hair.
In the middle of all that, a wonderful sweetness swept though my body. It was all the nicer because it was totally unexpected. I lost all control of my senses - all I could do was to keep still as he sprayed the rest of his lovely semen over me, whilst I made silly noises like, "Gah! Gah! Yah!"
Afterwards, as he left my room, he said, "If you think Helen would have been upset by your frolics with Silas, you can imagine how upset Silas would be with your frolics with me. There really would be a curse on Grant's house for bringing such a little tart here. So you'll keep our little affair quiet, and ensure that I am serviced as regular as Silas - or else."
What could I do? Except get used to it.
***
"I invented the Christmas Day church service in the family chapel as an excuse to get Bart here," Silas told me on my visit next day, after I'd relayed details of my visit to Grant's bedroom. "Don't tell Helen, but he was defrocked as a clergyman, after giving his choirboys more of an education than their parents appreciated."
I shuddered at the thought of that monster being used on a choirboy.
"In any case, the chapel was deconsecrated years ago," Silas continued. "I heard that Bart had just been released from prison, and I thought he might be good company for Grant. From what you say, he is more than adequate."
I had been totally honest with him about Grant and Bart. Needless to say, not a word had passed my lips about Richard.
"That's rather an understatement," I replied. "It was frightening seeing that monster." But nothing like as frightening as being on the receiving end of Richard's somewhat smaller one - whilst at the same time it had been thrilling, exhilarating, tremendous and quite simply awesome.
"And I thought that size matters to a women," he said with a twinkle. "But you're obviously different. Perhaps that's why we get on so well together. Now, shall we say the same business arrangement as yesterday?"
"Silas," I said. "You're such a smooth talker."
***
Later, after being on the receiving end of a bag full of money, and a squirt of semen in my mouth, we talked together as only lovers (for that is what I now classed the two of us as) can.
"So is it true you're remaking your will?" I asked him.
His eyes twinkled. "Maybe."
"Who have you left your money to?"
He smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know. Wouldn't THEY like to know." He burst into a forced laughter.
"If it's a joke," I told him, "it will be funnier shared."
He considered what I'd said, and then nodded. "You're right of course. When I first made my will, I thought it was so funny - just thinking of their faces when they heard it - but it does wear a little thin after a while. So, you want to know who I've left my money to; the answer is a cats' home."
I thought about that a little, and then said, "But you don't keep cats. Do you like them?"
"No," he said, "I absolutely loathe them. And the really great thing is that all my family know that I loathe cats."
"So when they hear your will," I said, "they'll realise you hate them more than you hate cats?"
"Exactly," he roared. "Isn't that a laugh?" and he chortled away for some time. Then, "You're not laughing."
"Humour is a very personal thing."
"And you don't find this funny?"
"By the time the punch line is delivered," I said, "I don't suppose you'll be laughing that much."
That took the laugh off his face. "You think I'm being cruel?"
"Yes."
"But they never come to see me."
"They’re here now, and you really should be honest with them."
He nodded. "I'm a bit of a bastard, actually, aren't I?"
"I think you could do a lot of good with your will, and make people happy."
"You mean people like you?" he suggested.
I shook my head. "You've paid me for the services I've given you. I was thinking of Helen and Grant."
"But not Richard?"
"I don't really like him." Even though he'd given me a fantastic fuck - or perhaps because of that.
"You're telling me you like Helen? In truth, I don't like her very much."
I shrugged. "They are all your family."
It was his turn to nod. "I guess it would make me feel more self-righteous. It wouldn’t be as much fun, though." He thought for a little, and then added, "Unless…"
"Unless what?" I asked.
"Unless we make a bit of a game with it," he said.
"What sort of game?" I asked suspiciously.
"The kind of game that's better left as a surprise. You'll know when it comes - just go along with it, and I'll see you're appropriately reimbursed. Alright?"
I nodded. He was a rich old man and had realised he couldn't take his millions with him. He was more than happy to pay for services received from me.
Unlike Richard, who later that afternoon demanded exactly the same service in return for keeping quiet - and giving me another great orgasm!
***
It was Christmas Day; we’d had our turkey with all the trimmings, including a compulsory dollop of overcooked Brussels sprouts - a vegetable I hated, even when properly cooked. But apart from the sprouts, it had been a more than acceptable meal. An excellent wine had been freely flowing, and we were all rather merry.
I'd even been able to have a conversation with Grant, although from his lack of concentration and the expression on Bart's face, he was plainly fondling Bart - or vice versa - under cover of the tablecloth.
Helen seemed blissfully innocent of what he was up to, and I think she thought Grant was fondling me! Certainly, she gave me a number of knowing smiles during the course of the meal, and we'd had quite a good chat about the best fashion houses. At least, she'd told me about them and I had politely listened and asked occasional questions, just to show I was taking note.
We had finished our Christmas Pudding and cheese and biscuits, the bottle of Courvoisier had been passed around and we were taking the first sips from our glasses, when Silas brought the general hub of conversation to a halt in the conventional manner, by tapping a spoon on a wine glass.
"Family and friends," he said. "I'd like to say how much I have enjoyed Christmas, surrounded, this year, by my family and friends." He gave a rather evil grin. "I have to tell you that I deliberately announced that I was about to remake my will because I thought it might encourage you to put up with a miserable old bastard like me over Christmas.
"Had you known," he continued, "that under my existing will, none of you inherited my wealth, you would probably have appeared well before I made that announcement."
There was a slight shiver - almost a gasp - which ran around the table. They all sat poised, staring at Silas, wondering just what he was going to say.
It was Grant who, in the end, asked the inevitable question. "So exactly who does inherit under your existing will, Uncle?"
Silas nodded his head, acknowledging it was a fair question, and that Grant had had the courage to ask it.
"The cats' home."
This time an audible gasp ran around the table. "But Uncle Silas," Helen said, "you don't like cats."
"After this Christmas break," Silas said, "I fully intended to change my will to leave everything to the dogs' home, instead. I thought it would be an incredibly amusing joke to play upon you, at the wake, when you were all sat around the table listening to the solicitor reading the will."
Clearly, his sense of humour was not shared by anyone else.
"It was this lady here," he pointed towards me, "who convinced me that I was hardly likely to find it funny at the time."
They all turned and stared at me, wondering what part I was going to play in Silas's will.
"She argued," he continued, "that my responsibility lay with my family. Maybe she's right. I certainly respected her for not trying to get me to leave some of my money to her. So I have decided that, when my solicitor arrives after you have all departed on Monday morning, I shall tell him to amend my will exactly in accordance with Bobbie's instructions."
They all looked just as puzzled as I was.
"What do you mean, Silas," Richard said. "In accordance with Bobbie's instructions?"
"Simply that," he said. "Between now and Monday morning, I shall ask Bobbie to draft my will, and whatever she puts into it, I will accept."
There was a gabble of panic-stricken responses, this time. "What do you mean?" That's ridiculous!" "How can you trust her?" "She'll take it all for herself." The latter remark from Helen.
Silas chortled. "She might well do that, Helen. She might do. But there is going to be one other significant event between now and then which will also have a major effect upon my estate.
"I never realised," he continued, "that inviting you all for Christmas would lead me into making the very happy announcement that I am now about to make."
Helen, who from the expression on her face had been wondering what was to come, gasped, and a wide smile broke out on her face. She turned to Grant, and said, "Oh, Grant! How wonderful. I never suspected."
In turn, Grant looked at me with a question in his eyes. Since I had barged into his room and caught him being snookered by Bart on that first afternoon, we hadn’t managed to talk about anything that had happened to me. He was far too involved with rushing off to impale himself upon Bart again - and again - and again.
"Helen," Silas said to her, "whatever you allowed yourself to suspect about Grant, I’m certain it wasn’t true, and it certainly has nothing to do with the wedding announcement I am about to make. You see, Bobbie has agreed to be my bride." His smiling face wandered around the table. "Isn’t that wonderful?" he asked.
There was a moment of shocked silence - followed by another - and then another. Finally, Richard said something like, "Why you old bastard. You are a dark horse. Congratulations," and the others chipped in with muttered congratulations. It was fortunate that no one looked at me for a few seconds, as my mouth had dropped open as wide as everyone else's. After Silas's promise of a 'bit of a game', I'd been expecting something, but nothing like that.
By the time the others remembered to congratulate me, I'd recovered sufficiently to become the blushing bride to be.
"Presumably you'll be planning a long engagement, Uncle Silas?" Helen said. "After all, you hardly know Roberta, and until a few minutes ago, she was engaged to be married to Grant."
"Not a very long engagement," Silas said. "I've had a word with Bart, and he tells me we can dispense with the formalities and get married tomorrow, in our family chapel, here."
More shock and horror. "But that's impossible." "What about calling the bans?" "You need more time to think about it, Silas." And so on.
"The bans are unnecessary," Bart said. "Because Silas and Roberta will be getting married in a family chapel where there are no regular services, it won't be necessary to have called the bans. There is no bar, whatsoever to the pair of them being married tomorrow, here in the family chapel."
It was said so emphatically that no one could doubt its accuracy, but it was at that moment I remembered Silas's earlier comments about the chapel being deconsecrated and Bart being defrocked. Of course, it was a great big sham; something to wind up the family.
"OK," I thought. "This is going to be fun."
***
"What the hell do you think you're up to?" Grant said. As soon as I had left the dining room, he had come dashing after me, temporarily abandoning the attractions of Bart's enormous dongle.
I smiled at him. "You heard Silas," I said. "He's asked me to marry him and I have accepted."
"Look, let's set aside for the time being the issue of you laying your grubby hands on Silas's millions. What I'm saying is that you can't legally get married in a church. A civil ceremony would be OK, but what you're doing is against the law."
I checked there was no one in the vicinity who might overhear. "Not if it's a deconsecrated church, and the vicar is defrocked," I said.
"What?" He stared into my face, then as realisation dawned, his face relaxed and broke into a grin. "Jesus!" he said. "That's some fucking con trick..."
He broke off as Helen left the dining-room and walked up to us.
"For once," she said, in her most caustic voice, "I think you are totally justified in using that kind of language to this little slut. She was engaged to you just a few minutes ago, and now look at her."
"Helen," I said. "I don't think you should forget that I shall be rewriting Silas's will at the end of the weekend. I do think you might be a little nicer to me."
She stared at my face and then turned and walked away. "Oh, I don't have any hope," she threw over her shoulder as she retreated, "but perhaps you will think kindly of Grant. He has been very good to you, and you have behaved abysmally towards him."
And she was gone.
I pulled a face at Grant, and he grinned back.
"Did Silas mean what he said when he talked about you rewriting his will," he asked.
I shrugged. "I don't know. That is certainly what he told me he'd do, but you never know with Silas."
He nodded agreement.
"Why don't you come up to the attic with me?" I continued. "Silas says that his wife's wedding dress is mothballed up there. Do you want to come and help me find it?"
"Wow!" Grant exclaimed. "Just try and stop me."
***
We found the wedding dress in a trunk, which reeked of mothballs, but which, miraculously, was fully preserved. We pulled it out and hung it up on a rail - a beautiful white creation with a long train, and a wide sash ribbon around the waist. Underneath the dress, was a frilly white lace petticoat, and underneath that, some other items of underwear, including a corset.
"Mmm," I said. "I don't think I'll be wearing that."
"Yes you will," Grant said. "Have you seen the size of the waist on that dress."
He pointed, and I gaped.
"There is no way I could possibly get into that dress. Perhaps your mother could alter it."
"If you'd ever seen my mother with a needle in her hand, there's no way you'd suggest that. She would butcher it. In any case, there's hardly any spare material to let it out. I'm afraid we're going to have to get you down to size with the corset."
Ten minutes later, I was staring at my waist getting smaller and smaller as Grant heaved on the laces of the corset. I was half mesmerised by the increasingly shapely figure I was becoming, and half by the pain and difficulty of breathing I was experiencing. One half of me wanted to tell Grant to stop, whilst the other was silently encouraging him - I was hardly up to cheering him on.
Finally, Grant tied off my corset laces, stood back and said, "I think we could give it a try now."
He lifted the dress from its hanger and held it down so I could step inside it. He pulled it up over my arms and fumbled at the rear with the buttons.
"Hmm," he said. "I'm afraid we still need to take in the corset by another inch, but look at yourself in the mirror. Don't you think it will be worth it?"
He pulled me over to a dirty and blackened mirror by the wall. Even in that, I had to gasp at the beauty of the woman reflected in it.
"God Grant! It's beautiful."
"It will look far better when we get it properly buttoned," he said, "and the petticoats on beneath the skirt. We need you to try on the shoes and make certain they'll fit you. Silas's wife was obviously no miniature and most things seem to more or less fit you. I suggest we take the dress off you and just leave you in the corset whilst we play about with the petticoats and the shoes. In fact, you've got to get used to it. I suggest you wear it for the rest of the evening."
"Rest of the evening!" I gasped. "Grant, I can hardly breathe. You must take it off now."
He smiled. "Sorry old girl. You know you want to look your best for your wedding day so you'll just have to suffer for a little while. After all, it's what women always have to do, isn't it, suffer for their beauty."
I smiled at him. I couldn't help but agree and, when I glanced again in the mirror, I realised I was deliriously happy!
***
The wedding went absolutely beautifully. I got into the dress without tearing it and I looked absolutely ravishing. Grant gave me away, and Richard was best man, whilst Helen fumed behind me in the tiny chapel. Joan took all the photographs. I knew I rather towered over Silas in his wheelchair, but I thought it would make things even more comical when the joke was finally revealed.
Afterwards, we had our reception in the grand hall, and Silas, Grant, Bart and I got merrily drunk on excellent champagne. Then Silas and I went to our wedding bed.
***
"That went pretty well, I thought," Silas said with a rather weird grin on his face, after his second orgasm of the evening.
I had to admit, he'd certainly pulled a few bells for me. I may have been wearing a false vagina, but it unquestionably tickled the right spots.
I was debating how I was going to raise the difficult question of Richard when Silas said, "I don't think I'm feeling so good."
I turned to look at him. The smile had disappeared, and in its place was the haggard face of an old man in terrible pain.
"I'll get an ambulance," I said.
***
"I am Gerald Harker of Harker, Bateman and Harker," the solicitor said. "I know this reading of the will is a little premature, but I am instructed to do it immediately after Mr Silitoe has been pronounced dead. I'm afraid Mr Silitoe feared that some of his personal artefacts might disappear if I failed to make an immediate presence."
Helen had gone to the hospital with Silas, after pushing me brusquely out of the way. She had returned several hours later to say he had not recovered consciousness before his death. Barely an hour later, Harker had appeared.
"Mr Silitoe's will is very short and concise," Harker continued, although I was hardly listening. My mind was in turmoil after what Bart had just told me.
After expressing my condolences to everyone, I had gone into the chapel for some quiet contemplation - not that I'm religious, you understand, but I simply felt I needed a little quiet time after the whirlwind of events that had happened since first meeting Grant on the tube.
Bart had already been in there, kneeling before the alter and offering a prayer for Silas. I let him continue, and quietly sat in a pew, lost in my own thoughts.
"You have my sincere condolences, Mrs Silitoe," Bart said. "May God be with you."
"Thank you," I said, "and I'd rather you still called me Bobbie. Death is always shocking but this time... well, I feel I caused it."
Bart smiled at me. "It is God's will. I suspect you brought more joy to Silas in the last hours of his life than he'd had for many years before. You should not punish yourself for that."
He hesitated a little before adding, "This is rather a delicate time to raise the subject, but you will be asked about the funeral arrangements."
I hadn't even thought of that! I'd been wondering how on earth I was going to break the news to Helen that Silas and I were not really married. I wanted to ask Bart about it, "Yes, but..."
He butted in before I could say any more. "I should like to conduct the funeral service here, and bury him in the family cemetery outside."
"Is that legal?" Surely if Bart was defrocked, he couldn't conduct a funeral?
"After Silas announced his wedding," he said, "Helen informed me that not only was it well known that I had been defrocked, but this chapel was deconsecrated. Obviously, I could reassure her on the former, but I had to check the latter before conducting your wedding service. I discovered that although both chapel and cemetery here had not been used for many years, they had never been formally deconsecrated, so your wedding was perfectly legal, as would be the funeral, if you wish it to take place here."
His words hit me in the stomach, and I had to mentally repeat them to make certain I hadn't misheard. "But Bart, I don't understand your status. Silas said it would be alright, but..."
"It's perfectly alright," he said, and I gasped with relief.
"At the time of my trial," he continued, "it was expected that I would be defrocked. But my Church believes in forgiveness. I admitted my sins and the Church forgave. I don't have a parish at the moment - perhaps I never will - but I am still a member of the clergy. Your marriage is perfectly legal."
Legal, I thought, except that I was the wrong sex.
***
"There are instructions that if anyone does contest the will," Harker was droning on, "I am authorised to take all possible measures to prove the will, up to the point where the whole of the capital has been used up in legal expenses."
Helen slumped at that point, and I could sympathise with her. No one could possibly afford to take on a legal challenge against that opposition.
"Mr Silitoe has left his entire estate to the Feline Home of St Felix," Harker said.
The silence was deafening.
What a miserable bastard, I thought. All those relatives and he hated them so much, he gave it away to a cause which he hated almost as much.
"Of course," Richard said, "you would only try to prove the will, if it was a valid will. Is that not correct."
"This will is perfectly valid," Harker said. "It was made and signed by Mr Silitoe and properly witnessed."
"The will is only valid if later events do not overrule it."
"This is the last will and testament," Harker said. "There was no later will than this. I spoke to Silas on Christmas Eve and he said he might alter it after Christmas, and we made an appointment for me to see him tomorrow."
"I'm afraid," Richard persisted, "that Silas's marriage yesterday made the will you are holding invalid."
"Marriage?" Harker stared at him suspiciously. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"That's certainly what we thought when he announced it on Christmas Day," Richard said. "However, Silas was deadly serious - and I use my words advisedly. Meet Mrs Roberta Silitoe."
He pointed towards me and I forced a smile at him. Was this the right time to confess all - to tell everyone it had been a terrible mistake? I kept silent.
"But how could he get married?" Harker blustered. "He'd have invited me. Which church would perform the ceremony at such short notice?"
"I performed the ceremony," Bart said, and went onto explain the legality of the wedding. Fortunately, I was not asked to intercede, although I was asked to produce the wedding certificate which I duly did.
"Then I have to agree that the will I hold is invalid and that Silas Silitoe died intestate," Harker said. "I will withdraw from any further participation in this estate." He stood up, packed his briefcase and went to the door.
"Helen, perhaps you'd show Mr Harker out," Richard said.
Helen obediently stood up and left the room with Mr Harker."
"Bart, would you excuse us. We have some family business to discuss."
Bart also left the room, closing the door behind him.
"Right," Richard said, looking directly at me. "Bart has just assured us that your marriage to Silas is absolutely legal, so we have absolutely no reason to think otherwise, do we, Robert-a?" He separated the "a" from the rest of the word, so it came out as 'Robert' with an 'a' on the end.
As the implications sank in, I tried not to let my jaw drop open, but I don't think I wholly succeeded. He had me sussed.
Grant started to say, "You mean you know about Roberta being a..."
"Don't say the word," Richard hissed. "I have my professional reputation to uphold."
He'd known I was a man all along! Yet, he'd made me give him several blow jobs. Grant had been right - Richard was a closet gay!
"Bugger me!" I muttered under my breath. Well, he hadn't yet but it was probably on the cards.
"Of course," Ricard continued, "we would all lose out if it transpired the wedding was not legal - the estate would go to the cats' home and you, Roberta, would undoubtedly go to prison for providing false information to the clergyman. It's in all our best interests that we reach an amicable settlement over the estate."
"Richard! What are you stitching up whilst I'm out of the room?" Helen's voice came aggressively from the door, which she had silently opened.
"I was simply asking Roberta to agree that it was in all our best interests to reach an amicable settlement over Silas's estate. I suggest we split it 50:50 between you and I, Helen. If you want to give part of your share to Grant, that's up to you."
"Why should Roberta agree to that?" Helen was suspicious.
"As his widow, she will receive half of Silas's pension. That should equate to about fifty thousand pounds a year." He turned to me again. "Would you find that an acceptable deal? I'm sure it's far better than the alternative." He didn't have to say that meant going to prison.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. Things were happening faster than I could cope with. "You and Helen share Silas's estate, and I get fifty thousand a year as a widow's pension? What would I have to do for that?"
"Give me permission to undertake probate, and I will do all the paperwork. Clearly, you would have to remain here until I get everything completed, but you're more than welcome to stay in my half of the house. In fact, knowing you as I do, I'm sure we'll get along perfectly."
And he gave me another of those shark-type smiles which sent a tingle through my body, much to my annoyance.
"I didn't quite say, "Fuck me!" but that's what I meant when I replied, "That seems a perfectly acceptable arrangement, Richard."
You may be interested to read the author's notes which tell a little about the trials and tribulations of writing of this story. Click on the link below but first...
Unexpected Engagement - Author's Notes
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Even though this story has been gestating for two and a half years, it was still an incredible rush at the end to finish in decent time for Christmas. I had originally planned to publish for December 2008, so I started in the summer of 2008, giving me, (I thought) plenty of time to complete. I got the vast majority of the story completed as you read it now, but with a few elements missing. When I read the whole story, it seemed flat, with Helen taking a part at the end which was totally out of character. It didn't make it Christmas 2008.
I got it out last year in preparation for Christmas 2009, tinkered a little with it and came to the same conclusion.
This year, I was determined to publish. I tinkered some more, and whilst it was still far from satisfactory, I decided to publish as it was. That's when the inspiration hit, and I replaced Helen's role at the end by Richard, who until then had been completely passive, with a wife and kids also present. He became a shyster solicitor who would deal with the probate. From there, it was a simple step to his more active involvement during the story.
With time ticking away, it was all thrown together and then published. It's still rough around the edges, but it's far better than it was. The fact that you are reading these notes hopefully means you enjoyed it.
Best wishes to you all
Charlotte
An Unsuitable Job for a Man
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When Chris's ex-girlfriend asks him for a favour but explains that it's actually an unsuitable job for a man, he cannot turn down the challenge. In any case, a few days by the seaside spent clearing out the effects of her deceased cousin would make a break from the routine of work. But his startling realistic dreams drive him to pursue the mystery of her death, regardless of the challenges it poses. This story is complete, but serialised over six chapters, which will be published at intervals of 1 - 2 days.
Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
An Unsuitable Job for a Man - Chapter 1 of 6
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Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
***
"Hi Chris. It's Suzanne. I need you to do something for me."
How typical, I thought, that those should be Suzanne's very first words since we had ended our steamy relationship almost a year ago. No, "How are you?" or, "Are you in another relationship?" or even, "Do you miss me?" Simply, "I need you to do something."
That had been the whole problem with our relationship. The sex had been incredible, but Suzanne wanted little else, except perhaps someone to perform a few trivial tasks or accompany her to the occasional official function. If she'd been born a man, she'd have had no problem in having a little wife who played the mouse to her dominant role. But I believe it will take a long time for human relationships to catch up with the changes in society that sexual equality has brought on. Plenty of women are turned on by rich and powerful men; but not many men by rich and powerful women; and certainly not me.
Whatever. Suzanne had departed to a high-powered job working for the European Commission in Brussels and I hadn't heard from her since, until that Wednesday afternoon, when the telephone in my home office rang.
"Hi Suzanne," I replied. "How are you?" I deliberately didn't respond to her demand.
"Oh, er, great, actually." She seemed a little put out at my diversionary question, which pleased me, in a childish way. "I've had a promotion since I've been here, and I'm pretty certain I'm going to get another one fairly shortly. And er..." she paused slightly, as though the thought of social niceties had just struck her, "How are things with you? Are you... seeing someone?"
"Nothing serious," I replied, when what I really meant was: no one at all. "How about you?" I asked. "Are you in another relationship?"
"I'm quite close to one of the Commissioners," she said, "but he's already married, so we're both quite happy to keep it low-key."
I idly wondered how much her career advancement had resulted from being 'quite close' to a Commissioner, but instead of pursuing it, I gave her the conversational lead she wanted. I was gaining no pleasure from prolonging this exchange. "You said you wanted me to do something."
"Yes." I could hear the relief in her voice that we had got back onto safer ground. "A few months ago, my niece, Lucy, died in Seacombe. As I'm her only living relative, I had to go there to identify her. The problem is that they want me to go over again and clear her effects from the cottage where she was living with her boyfriend. Only I'm right in the middle of difficult talks over the EU Budget, and I simply can't get away. I wondered if you could pop down there for me?"
Seacombe was a long way from London - a four-hour drive I guessed, so 'pop down' was not quite the phrase I'd have used. "It's a long way. Can't you get the boyfriend to send you the things?"
"Jason Farr? He was a real slime-ball, and it was all his fault. He was a drug pusher - it was him that got Lucy into drugs and it was a drug thing that killed her. Good riddance to him. But Lucy's name was on the lease agreement for the cottage, so it's my responsibility to get it cleared." She sounded more upset that her name might somehow be linked with drugs, than she was about her niece's death.
"Well, there are companies who will do house clearance for you..."
"But I don't know whether there's anything of value in the cottage. I need someone I can trust to go through it all.
"Look," she continued, "I'll be honest with you; I've tried several of my female friends in London who have all refused. I realise it's an unsuitable job for a man - but all you have to do with Lucy's clothes is simply stuff them into plastic bags and take them to a charity shop."
Suzanne always did find the way with words to goad me into action. Her comment about it being an unsuitable job for a man was a deliberate challenge - a reference back to a remark I'd made to her when she obtained her first project from the Commission - a report on the affects of pornography on males. I'd argued that a woman wouldn't have a clue what drives men to read pornography. She had proved me wrong - even I had to admit her report was not only unbiased, it was excellent. So of course, she had reasoned that I would now have to rise to her challenge.
"If there's any of Lucy's furniture in there," Suzanne was continuing, "do a deal with the landlord, or simply take it to a refuse tip. Obviously, take anything you want for yourself, but if you do find the family jewels around, or insurance policies or anything like that, then let me have them."
She didn't say what I was to do if I found any illegal substances; presumably, that was the real reason why she wanted someone else to take on this job. A person in the European Commission certainly could not be allowed to come into contact with illegal drugs. The thought didn't particularly bother me; I could either flush the stuff down the toilet, or contact the police. There was no skin off my nose either way, although I guessed I'd get involved in a far fewer procedural issues with the former.
"It's not difficult," she continued.
"I suppose not." I sighed, thinking about all the good times we'd had together. I guess I owed her something. It was also true that my computer consultancy business had been so busy that I hadn't had a break for months, but I was now in a lull between projects - I could afford a little time away from work. A trip to the seaside - even in April with the current forecast of continual showers and chilly weather - would make a nice change provided I didn't try to rush the job, as Suzanne would obviously like me to do.
"It's a good drive," I said, "and it will probably take some time to clear out the cottage. I may need to spend a few days down there."
"No problem. The rent is paid until the end of the month, so you have almost two weeks. I'll email the coroner's office, who are holding the keys, and tell them you'll be picking them up, and I'll email you with all the details. Thanks Chris." And she was gone.
After I put the phone down, I turned that conversation over in my mind several times. I had intended to ask a few questions about her niece's death, but she had abruptly rung off, perhaps predicting my questions and unwilling to discuss an issue which disturbed her.
On the other hand, if I was going to stay in Lucy's cottage, using her mugs, sitting in her chairs, and sleeping in her bed, perhaps I, too, did not want to know too much about her. After all, it was an unfortunate fact of life that young women are dying all the time - car accidents, cancer, drugs - and you can't get emotional about their deaths - unless you knew them.
So when Suzanne's email had come through, I deliberately didn't try to look up the details of her death on the web. The email gave the address of her cottage, the coroner's office, and the landlord's agent.
Like Suzanne, Lucy's original surname was Richards. But she'd been calling herself Mrs Lucy Farr, using her boyfriend's surname, although there was no record of them ever having got married.
Hell, I thought that habit had died out before Lucy was born.
Suzanne had added a note at the bottom of the email, "You don't have to tell anyone they weren't married or what her real name was." No doubt it was not concern for Lucy's reputation that had prompted that rider - more likely she was worried that her own name might be linked to her drug-user niece!
***
The drive down to Seacombe the next day was an easy one. I deliberately left later, rather than earlier, thus avoiding the normal horrendous congestion around the M25, and once I was clear of the motorways and suburbia, the traffic dropped to a trickle, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and the journey became enjoyable. I found a pleasant pub to stop for lunch, and consequently arrived in Seacombe around three pm.
Conveniently, the coroner's office and landlord's agent were within a minute's walk of each other, so after picking up the keys from the coroner, I called in at the agents and got an inventory of the contents that I'd need to check were all present when I handed the property back to the agents. A few minutes later and I was back in my car, heading for the cottage.
In Britain, there are two meanings of the word, cottage. The first is the classic chocolate-box picture of a small house, probably hundreds of years old, set deep in the countryside or in a small village. In more recent years, estate agents have purloined the word, and used it to describe any small, elderly house they are trying to sell, usually in the middle of a town, almost certainly a terraced house.
With Lucy's boyfriend pushing her onto drugs that led to her death, I wrongly assumed that their cottage would be a run-down version of the latter. So I was surprised at the quiet country lane on the edge of Seacombe, with the scattering of small country cottages spread along it. Lucy's cottage was almost at the end, at the point where the tarmac ended and it turned into an unmade road. It looked absolutely delightful, apart from one boarded-up window.
Inside, it was certainly compact - just a kitchen and main living room downstairs, with a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Not much in terms of rooms, but the rooms were by no means tiny, and they were nicely furnished, although the window in the bathroom had been broken and boarded-up, and there was no natural light. I guessed the place was mainly used as a holiday cottage, for most of the essentials, including plates and cutlery, a TV and small Hi-Fi were on the agent's inventory.
The only problem was that everywhere was covered in a layer of white dust. At first, I thought it was simply because the place had been empty for some months. Certainly, I would need to clear it up before bringing in my suitcase, or getting anything out of the cupboards or drawers, otherwise, the contents would quickly become as dusty as everything else.
But after I'd found a vacuum cleaner, cloth and spray cleaner and started to clear up the mess, I realised there was a more sinister cause. This was no normal dust - it was fingerprint powder. Presumably, after Lucy's death, the police had fingerprinted the place to find who had been involved in whatever drug dealing Lucy's boyfriend had been up to. I sighed. An all too close reminder of the untimely end met by poor Lucy. On the other hand, it meant I probably would not have to deal with a cache of heroin under the floorboards - the police would have already thoroughly searched and taken away any illicit substances.
I did hesitate for a few seconds before opening the Jiffy bag lying on the doormat beneath the letterbox, along with a pile of junk mail and free newspapers. It had obviously been delivered subsequent to the police search, since it hadn't been opened or covered in fingerprint powder. It was addressed to Mrs Lucy Farr, and it had a return address of a company in Seacombe, so I found a pair of scissors and slit open the bag.
I wasn't quite certain about the contents of the two clear plastic bags inside; each appeared to contain a skin-coloured garment, and the packing note referred to them as a Bustlet and Hiplet, and came with an apology: "This completes your order. We regret the extensive delay in delivering these products for reasons outside of our control." Obviously some kind of clothes that Lucy had ordered for herself. I took the things upstairs and popped them on top of the now-clean dressing table. I could put it inside the bags of clothes I would take to Oxfam next day.
It was only at that moment that I noticed that the mattress was missing from the bed. That was really a nuisance. Not only had I been counting upon sleeping there for the next few nights, having brought my own clean bed linen, but a quick check on the agent's inventory showed that it had been provided and they would certainly be expecting it still to be there when I handed the cottage back. If I didn't buy a new one, the agents would charge me an extortionate price for replacing it.
It was almost six pm. Many shops would already be closed. My only hope was to find an out-of-town trading estate with a bed store. I groaned, and pulled the Yellow Pages from its shelf.
***
It was eight o'clock, dark, and pouring down with rain by the time I returned - a mattress filling the inside of my car to the point where I had to drive with my head twisted down to my shoulder. Fortunately, I'd chosen the cheapest - and consequently the thinnest - mattress the bed store had in stock, so, with a bit of assistance from the store, I'd been able to double it up and feed it through the rear hatch. At least there had been a McDonald's on the trading estate, and I'd popped in there for a Big Mac, so I didn't need to eat. Without further ado, I could get straight onto the difficult handling bit.
But I seemed to have even more of a fight pulling the mattress out of the car than I'd had getting it in, and then I had to carry the thing up the narrow stairs and around the tight bend at the top, and finally plop it down on the bed. The combination of the rain, and the sweat that was pouring off me by the time I'd finished, meant my clothes were wet through and I felt cold and miserable.
The cottage was heated by night storage heaters, which had unfortunately been set to their frost setting, and were completely cold. I turned them right up, but of course, would not get any heat from them until the early hours of the morning.
Fortunately, I had switched on the immersion heater as soon as I'd arrived that afternoon, so the water was plenty hot enough for me to take a shower. I pulled off my sticky clothes, ran the shower and stepped inside.
Of course, it wasn't until I had stepped out of the shower and dried myself off on Lucy's towel, that I realised my clothes were still in the suitcase in my car. Damn it! The things I had been wearing were soaking wet and felt most unpleasant. Still there was a flowery dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door and, wonder of wonders, it was large enough for me, although I can't say it did anything for my masculinity.
I switched on the heated towel rail and draped my clothes over it. Hopefully, by morning they would be dry enough to put back on again. I certainly wasn't intending to go out to the car that evening wearing the pretty dressing gown; Sod's law would dictate that someone would come out of the cottage opposite at just the wrong moment!
I had a rummage through Lucy's drawers and wardrobe - I hoped wherever she was, that she wouldn't mind - and pulled out a pale blue sweater and a pair of jeans. I'd been expecting them all to be too small for me, but in fact they were both quite a loose fit.
A quick check on other clothes hanging in Lucy's wardrobe established she was a size 18, which surprised me. Suzanne was tall and very thin, a shape made fashionable by Princess Di all those years ago, before people realised her associated health problems. Suzanne had determinedly remained thin ever since, and rather foolishly, I'd assumed her niece would have been the same.
Which of course got me thinking about the two items I'd pulled out of the Jiffy bag, which if I remembered correctly, were called a Bustlet and a Hiplet. I went over to the dressing table and shook the two items out of their bags. I picked up the nearest and held it up in front of me. It was like a skin-coloured crop top, with a long neck, and with painted rubber nipples protruding from the front.
"Adjustable Bustlet," said the heading on the leaflet packed with it, followed by, "Be the breast size you want to be, depending upon your mood." I smiled, and sat down at the dressing table. This sounded like a good read.
"Be the breast 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 size in the cloakroom! Includes Sensotouch for the ultimate in touch sensitivity."
Reading the instructions, it appeared that the breasts on the Bustlet could be inflated with water to make them any size a girl wanted. I couldn't help but be amazed just how gullible some people are at buying such a device and expecting blokes to be taken in by it.
I stared at it. Just for a laugh, I thought, I could put it on and fill it until I'd got a superb pair of mammaries, and have another laugh about how stupid they looked. Well, why not? I'd got the rest of the evening to myself, I could hardly go down the pub dressed like this, and I didn't even fancy sitting downstairs in Lucy's clothes, in case the Mormons came knocking on the door, trying to save my soul. They'd be in for a shock!
So I took off Lucy's sweater, pulled the Bustlet over my head, pushing my arms through the armholes, then pulled the garment as far down my chest as it would stretch. Well, I had to admit that, when I looked in the dressing table mirror, everything appeared all right. The join at the top was hidden under my chin, and I could hardly see the join where my arms protruded. Even the breasts looked like - well - breasts. Admitted, they weren't inflated, so my tits were hardly bigger than normal, but without my chest hair and with the rather prominent nipples, they looked just like the tits on a slim sexy woman - Suzanne, perhaps.
Still, the real test would come when I filled them. I went into the bathroom, taking the dressing table stool with me so I could sit at the washbasin. The flat, flexible piping was exactly where the instructions had said it would be, underneath the lower edge of the garment, and I pulled it out. The end fitted snugly over the hot tap and I turned it on.
Sure enough, my breasts started to fill out, and although I'd been pretty sceptical about them a few minutes before, I had to admit that as they filled, they looked bloody good - in fact, they looked exactly like the real thing.
Whilst still holding the pipe onto the tap with one hand - I'd had plenty of experience of being liberally sprayed with water whilst connecting washing machines and the like - I raised my other hand to cup a breast. Well, that's where the illusion failed. I hadn't let the hot water run though the tap before fitting the pipe, so my breast was full with cold water.
But hot water was now coming out of the tap, and I could let it continue to fill my breast until the temperature was about right. Only then did I turn off the tap, pull off the pipe (fitted with a one-way valve, the instructions said, so my breasts didn't immediately deflate) and stand up so I could look at them in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet.
What a pair of beauties!
Never before had I been this close to such a large pair of knockers. OK, you can see them in porn magazines and on the internet, but never before had I seen them on a real woman. Except, of course, I wasn't a real woman! What a bloody pity! For the first time ever, I thought about what I had missed.
"Don't be stupid," I thought, "these aren't real tits, just inflatable ones." But, I had to admit, incredibly realistic-looking inflatable breasts. It crossed my mind that perhaps one or two women whom I'd recently dated might have been wearing a Bustlet - although inflated to only the half the size of my two. Why would any woman, I wondered, choose to have surgery, when she could have a beautiful-looking pair as easily as this?
Of course, what really spoiled my look in the mirror was the head above the torso - mine. I hadn't bothered to shave recently - I only did that when meeting clients - and I had several days' growth. Having lived with a few women, off and on, during my life, and being a fairly curious person, I'd always taken note of what women did to enhance their beauty, so on a sudden whim, I wondered whether Lucy had any face wax - after all, that's how some of my girlfriends had got rid of unsightly facial hair.
I took my stool back into the bedroom and sat in front of the mirror. A quick rummage through the dressing table drawers and I found Lucy's face wax.
"Hmm," I thought, "this is going to hurt."
***
Forty minutes later, I sat and stared in the mirror, astonished at the face staring back at me. It had almost been as though Lucy had been sitting at my shoulder, advising me on what to use at each stage, and where everything was stored. Perhaps even, I thought, goading me on at each step to achieve an even more realistically feminine look.
Sure the waxing had hurt quite a lot, but the little voice inside told me that if women like Suzanne and Lucy could put up with it, then so could I. Afterwards, I'd smoothed a little cream over my wounded skin, and then figured that a little camouflage make-up would disguise its raw appearance. Then I'd added a little powder, and gone on to trim my eyebrows with a pair of Lucy's tweezers.
After that, I'd discovered some brown contact lenses in a drawer. Although in the past, I'd never been able to get used to lenses, I managed to get these in without difficulty. What's more, the prescription was more or less right for me. Then I'd found some mascara and eyeliner, and gone on to use a little eye shadow. Finally, I lined my lips with a pencil, and then used gloss to give my lips a wonderful sheen. The piece de resistance had been when I'd rummaged through the cupboard next to the dressing table and found a shoulder-length wig of dark brown - almost black - hair.
So now, as I looked in the mirror, I wasn't looking at myself, but at a woman, naked from the waist up, exposing firm, large, rounded breasts, and a face which, although not particularly pretty, was definitely female beneath the make-up.
What was truly amazing is that I'd had so little problem with the make-up. Most women seem to take ages to do the simplest make-up jobs, but without any previous experience, I had totally transformed my face.
I grinned back at the reflection. "Thanks Lucy," I said to it. "You were a great help with the make-up."
I shuddered, suddenly cold, as though a draught had come through the open window, but a glance around showed that all the windows were as tightly closed as when I had come into the house. I turned my gaze back to the mirror. What really spoilt the effect, I decided, were the hairs on my lower body. I glanced downwards. For my legs, I thought, I would need all the wax Lucy had, and more, if I wasn't careful.
***
In fact, Lucy had plenty of wax, which proved sufficient to do my arms, legs, and the rest of my torso. I'd even given myself a nice triangular patch around my genitals. The next stage, I reasoned, would be to put on the Hiplet. I wasn't quite certain what it was, but since Lucy had purchased one, then I wanted to wear it. I found the instructions for the Hiplet and read a similar blurb to before.
"Be the shape you want to be, depending upon your mood. Want to look the little girl? Then stay slim. Want to get noticed? Then instantly get the biggest curves in town. So quick and simple to change, you can alter your hip size in the cloakroom! Includes Sensotouch for the ultimate in touch sensitivity."
It was strange, I reasoned. Most women I knew (especially Suzanne) had wanted to be as slim as possible. They would use girdles and waist-clinchers to pull in their shape, but I'd never heard of women trying to add inches to their hips. Personally, I'd always found a round arse and shapely curves added attraction to a woman, but just try telling that to a modern woman! I read a bit more of the instructions.
The Hiplet was normally worn by transvestites!
So why had Lucy bought one? Okay, the instructions did say that women who wanted to gain curves could also use it. There was even a special instruction enclosed to show how to push the artificial vagina inside a real vagina, allowing 'fully-protected sex without a condom'.
I pulled the Hiplet over my legs and up my body. There was a gusset hanging from the front, and I had to feed my prick inside a pouch, and then pull it back between my legs and fasten it. A glance in the mirror confirmed it appeared to function like an invisible panty-girdle, slightly compressing my waist, but not adding appreciably to my dimensions.
A further look at the instructions told me to pull out the piping from the waistline, and attach it to the tap in the same way as I'd done for the Bustlet. Five minutes later, I had a wonderful round arse and well-padded hips. I needed some clothes, and with a shape like I had, something far more elegant than the sweater and jeans I'd put on earlier. I turned to the wardrobe.
***
No one could have guessed that the person facing me in the mirror was anything other than a woman, with vivacious curves in all the right places. I had on a black dress with a deep scoop neckline. I wore black, high-heeled sandals, having first painted my toenails to match the colour of my acrylic fingernails. I had a dazzling necklace, which matched the long earrings hanging like chandeliers, almost to my shoulders.
I still couldn't believe that, without a moment's hesitation, I'd pierced my ears, when I discovered that none of Lucy's earrings were clip-ons. It had hurt a bit, but nothing as bad as the waxing. I knew that I'd have to take care of the piercings for a few days, but what the hell, I looked fantastic!
I was ready, I reasoned, to go downstairs. So what if a couple of Mormons did come knocking on my door? I could flash my tits at them and tell them to piss off and go and bother some other poor women.
Anyway, it was almost ten pm. Far too late for any casual callers to come knocking at the door. I paced around the bedroom a little before trying to walk downstairs - I didn't want to fall arse over tit in my new heels - but quickly got the hang of it, even managing a sexy little swing of my hips as I did so. I went downstairs.
***
Considering the police had presumably been all over the cottage, I was a little surprised that they'd left Lucy's supply of wine untouched. I'm not accusing police of being bent, you understand, but I would have thought they'd have sent all those bottles to the police laboratory for 'checking'.
I found a rather nice red wine. In fact, every bottle in Lucy's wine-rack looked 'rather nice' - she had obviously not wasted all her money on drugs, and she certainly hadn't wasted it on the wine. As I took the first sip, it tasted excellent. I switched on the CD-player. One of those smoochy, romantic songs was already in the deck so I let it play - it matched my mood. I sat down on the settee, and relaxed. Yes, this wine really was excellent. I replenished my glass and wriggled down in the settee. It really was very comfortable, and I'd had a long, hard day. I closed my eyes and relaxed.
An Unsuitable Job for a Man - Chapter 2 of 6
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When Chris's ex-girlfriend asks him for a favour but explains that it's actually an unsuitable job for a man, he cannot turn down the challenge. In any case, a few days by the seaside spent clearing out the effects of her deceased cousin would make a break from the routine of work. But his startling realistic dreams drive him to pursue the mystery of her death, regardless of the challenges it poses. This story is complete, but serialised over six chapters.
Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
Chapter 2
The rattle of the front door opening made me jump, even though I'd been looking forward to it. The guy who came in from outside was in his early twenties, about five feet, nine inches high, rather thin, with a pasty complexion and a shaved head, and a stud in his nose. He wore a dark-green fisherman's sweater and blue jeans. He looked at me, and a big smile lit up his face.
"Hi Lucy, darling," he said in his Liverpudlian accent, which made him sound just like Paul McCartney. "You look incredibly hot tonight."
"I'm waiting for you, my super stud. I've been thinking about you for so long that I'm all wet down here." I wriggled my hips at him, to show the area of wetness, but I think he'd guessed that already. Unfortunately, the wriggle caused the wine to slop out of my glass and over my hand. I transferred the glass to my other hand and used my tongue to lick first the back of my hand clean, and then, in an incredibly suggestive way, each of my fingers.
He stepped over to me, took the glass from my hand and placed it on the side table. Then he leant over and kissed me. His kiss, as always, was fantastic. His lips were so warm and soft, and then they parted and his tongue was forcing its way into my mouth.
I let myself flop sideward on the settee, so I was lying along it, and he followed me down, so he was almost, but not quite, lying on top of me. My hands slid down his body to the hard bulge that was already trying to push its way out of his trousers.
"Oh Jason," I said, unzipping his trousers and helping to ease out his wonderful prick. "I do love you."
I think I almost did too. Okay, maybe I'd started this relationship purely for what he could bring to it, but I'd got to like him very much. And there was no doubt he knew how to pleasure a girl. My hand gave a few thrusts on his prick, just to spur him on a bit.
"Fucking hell, Lucifer," he said, "you're gorgeous. I've got to have you. Now."
He sharply pulled my dress down my shoulders until my tits burst out, popping off a couple of buttons as he did so. I should have been angry with him because it was one of my favourite dresses and I think he might have torn some of the buttonholes, but I found the experience so incredibly erotic that I almost had an orgasm on the spot.
"Ah, you are so beautiful," he breathed on my tits, and that's when I did have my first mini-orgasm. I had the Sensotouch on my Bustlet turned onto eight, which I'd found was about optimum. I knew from experience that a setting of nine could be incredibly painful if he got too rough.
"I'm going to give you the fucking of your life," he said.
"Yes, please," I said, getting both my feet flat on the floor and thrusting my pussy up towards him. Simultaneously, I pulled up my dress so he could get at me without doing any more damage to it. My panties were expendable; I'd specially chosen them to be so flimsy that they would easily tear off.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Not a gentle tapping on the door; certainly no Mormon missionaries. There was only one group of people who knocked the door like that, making it sound as though they would kick the door down if you didn't answer it.
"Shit! Who's that?" Jason stuttered.
"The Old Bill, of course," I told him, pushing myself to my feet and pulling down my dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it, and button up the top. Damn! The buttonholes really WERE torn. I'd have to get them mended now.
I strode over to the door as the knocking was repeated.
"Okay, okay," I said. "I'm coming.
"At least," I added, purely for Jason's benefit, "I almost was."
I turned the latch, glancing back towards Jason to make certain he was respectable before letting them in.
Except that Jason wasn't there! The room was empty!
Of course it was empty. I was staying here on my own. I'd taken a shower and then put on Lucy's clothes and made myself up to look good. After that, I'd come downstairs and sat down on the settee and drunk too much wine. I must have fallen asleep and been dreaming, and now I'd opened the door to...
I turned my head to look through the open doorway. A policewoman stood there. Shit!
"Sorry to bother you," she said. "I'm PC Sally Wright, and we've been keeping an eye on this place, and I noticed the lights on. Can I ask you who you are, and under whose authority you're here?"
Gulp! I had to say something.
"Yes officer, of course." God knows how I'd managed to produce the voice. I think by creating the sound in my mouth, rather than in my throat and chest, but it sounded all right. "My name is Chris Jones, and my friend Suzanne Richards asked me to come down here and clear the flat, and hand it back to the landlord. There's no problem is there?"
She smiled at me - not a nasty, police-type, cynical smile, which according to the TV, they always give before arresting or baton whipping you - but an open, wide smile, that made her whole face light up.
"Oh no, but in view of what happened, we are obviously still taking an interest. Do you have any documentation with you to prove what you say?"
An instant's panic, and then, "Yes. I brought the emails down with me that I had to show the coroner's office, before they'd release the key."
Thank God I'd brought my laptop case in from the car, into which I'd stuffed a printout of the emails. And for once, I also thanked God that my name was Chris, and not Bob or John or Jason. At school, I'd been nicknamed Christine, but at last, my ambiguous name had turned out to have some benefit.
I got out the email and showed her. She gave me another smile to show she was satisfied.
"Thank you very much, Chris. I'm sorry if I disturbed you." She paused for a second before adding, "That's one of Lucy's dresses, isn't it?"
I nodded. "Yes, officer. Suzanne said I could take anything I wanted, so I thought I'd try it on."
"Please call me Sally, and I wasn't trying to suggest you were stealing it. It's that it really suits you." Her glance dipped to my bust line, before returning to my eyes. "Of course, you have the figure to fill it properly, rather than having to pad it out, as Lucy did. It fits you really well, and you look very good in it."
"Thank you, Sally," I said, and I gave her a nice smile.
"I suppose..." Sally said.
"Yes?"
"No, that's silly. I can sense you are one of those women who really like men." She gave a little smile. "I'm the other way, myself, but that's life. I'll leave you now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," I said, watching her walk down the path to the gate onto the road, where her police car was parked. I closed the door on her, and then punched the air in exuberance.
"Yes!" I gasped, in my little girl voice. I had fooled her. I went over to the settee, poured some more wine into the glass, slumped down on the settee and spread my legs wide, making my skirt ride up my legs, and exposing my panties.
I giggled. So, lesbian PC Sally Wright had not only been taken in by my makeover, she had fancied me enough to almost ask me out. Only she could sense I was 'one of those women who really like men'. Where had she got that from? I had another giggle, and then took a large gulp of wine.
***
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Well, at least I knew who knocked in that fashion.
"The Old Bill, of course," I said, pushing myself to my feet and pulling down my dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it, and button up the top, made all the more difficult by the torn buttonholes.
I strode over to the door as the knocking was repeated.
"Okay, okay," I said. "I'm coming.
"At least," I added, "I almost was."
I turned the latch, glancing back at the room. Jason was zipping up his fly over his huge bulge. He gave me a leer, and mouthed, "You just wait."
I would too. I turned my head to look through the doorway. Shit! There was a gun pointing at me!
In fact, there were two men standing there, pointing guns at me.
Before I had time to even think about shutting the door in their faces, they were marching through it, one stuffing his gun into my stomach, the other pointing his directly at Jason.
"Ed. Barry. What are you doing here?" Jason sounded very nervous, and, surprise, surprise, his erection had completely disappeared.
"On the floor. Both of you." The taller of the two, an evil-looking bastard spoke with a Dorset accent. Of course! Jason had spoken about a couple of hard nuts that he'd known in Bournemouth - Ed Little and Barry Tool. No one ever called them by their surnames, in case they thought you were taking the piss!
Both men gesticulated with their guns, and Jason and I did as they said. As I got down, my mind was working overtime. Jason was frightened, which probably meant he was going to get a slapping. I had to make certain they didn't do the same to me. Well, there was one way of making certain of that, and after all, I was still feeling bloody randy after my foreplay with Jason.
As I got down onto my hands and knees, I pushed my bum in the air, so that my dress rode up and exposed my little panties.
"Fucking hell, Ed! Look at the arse on that," the shorter of the two men, the one who had been covering me, spoke. He, I reasoned, must be Barry Tool. I hoped he had the equipment to match his name.
"Shut your face. Cover them, whilst I tie them up," Ed said. "Both of you, flat on the ground, and put your hands behind your backs. Any funny business, and Barry gives you another arse-hole."
He flicked the safety on his own gun and thrust it into his pocket, and followed that with such a tremendous coughing fit I was pleased he'd managed to put his gun away in time.
With Kung Fu training, we might have leapt up at that moment, kicked the gun out of Barry's hand, and then swiftly dealt with Ed. Instead, both of us lay flat on the floor and kept our hands behind our backs until Ed had recovered.
Lying in that kind of position limits your view, but it didn't take much to work out that Ed fastened our wrists behind our backs with those plastic ties. Once pulled tight, they are impossible to get off without cutting them with a sharp knife, preferably wielded by someone else. I had a feeling we weren't going to be given that opportunity.
Time to put Plan A into action.
"Please," I whimpered, struggling to turn over, and incidentally managing to let my left breast topple out of the torn front of my dress, "they're very tight. Couldn't you loosen them a bit?"
"I think I could." Now we were both tied up, Barry also put away his gun, and he knelt down astride my torso, slipped his left hand inside my dress to squeeze my right breast. With his right hand, he viciously tore open the dress, almost down to the waist.
Jesus! That was erotic. I almost had another instant climax. I have to say that I found being tied up was an unbelievable turn-on. I'd thought about trying it in the past, but you've got to have a lover you can put a lot of trust in, and I'd never been in that position. Now it was being forced on me, I could hardly wait until one - or preferably both - of the buggers raped me.
"Leave her alone."
Ah, Jason had responded at last. It was a pity that he sounded such a wimp, terrified in case they told him that little boys should be seen and not heard. Both Ed and Barry turned to stare at him, and I managed to give Jason a wink without them noticing, to try and calm him down a little. Provided things didn't get out of hand, we could talk our way out of this, come to some kind of agreement. But only, of course, after they had both shagged me something rotten.
"Have you got a problem?" Barry asked, standing up, and walking over to where Jason lay on the ground. We all heard Jason gulp, as he tried to swallow.
"She's my wife," he said.
Well, at least he was keeping up the pretence, I thought.
"Well, we're all going up to the bedroom now," Barry said. "And I'm going to fuck your wife, and you are going to watch me do it. And if you raise one word of fucking objection, I'm going to cut off your balls and make you eat them. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No," he said, in a quiet voice.
No heroics there, I thought. Good job that I don't mind.
Mind? Hell, I was getting so horny at the thought of being shagged by these two baboons that I was on the verge of climax. Normally at this point, I'd have been fingering my clit to bring relief, but with my hands behind my back, there was absolutely nothing I could do. Sweet ecstasy.
Barry turned round and bent over and grabbed me around the shoulders, and lifted me to my feet. He must have been pretty powerful to do that, since I'm no lightweight with my Bustlet and Hiplet on, but he hardly seemed to struggle. As for Jason, Ed simply grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled. A few buttons came off, but no worse than what Jason had done to me earlier, so I didn't think he could complain.
So, we proceeded up the stairs, which goes straight into the bedroom, and Barry pushed me towards the bed, and twisted me at the same time, so that I fell onto it on my side. He grasped one of my ankles and lifted, and then grasped the other ankle, so he was standing between my legs.
"Oh please don't do anything," I whimpered. (I thought that would add to the excitement.)
Barry had pushed himself between my legs, and was pulling down his trousers and underpants. Lying on my back with my arms tied behind me, it was bloody uncomfortable, but it did mean my head was elevated slightly, so I could see his prick leap into view. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed by it. It was far shorter and thinner than Jason's, but in that kind of bargaining position, you don't have to be totally honest.
"Oh God! You can't put that inside me. It's evil. Please! No!"
"Condom," Ed said.
"Fuck off, I'm going to make her pregnant," Barry said.
"No, please," I sobbed. (Although the makers of my Hiplet ought to sob more, because I'd sue the bastards if he did.)
"And leave your semen inside her cunt?" Ed said. "Grow up. Fuck her if you want, but use a condom."
Fortunately, Barry was still wearing his jacket, and he had a condom in his inside pocket. Thirty seconds later, he was slamming his prick inside me. It may have been smaller than Jason's, but it was still a very nice feeling. But then, I never could resist a nice prick - even less could I resist a nasty one!
"No! No! No!" I moaned.
There was no finesse about Barry, but to be truthful, finesse was the last thing I wanted at that moment. I was tied up; I was being raped by a gunman in front of my boyfriend. All I wanted was to have a bloody great orgasm.
"Please stop it!" I groaned.
Suddenly, I knew I was going to achieve it. I felt my body responding to his thrusts. I wrapped my feet around Barry, and dug my heels into his inner thighs, to give him a bit of extra leverage.
"Fucking hell! Your wife's enjoying it, Jason. Just look at the bitch on heat. She can't get enough."
"No, he's horrible. His thing is so big. He's hurting... Ah! Oh God! Oh yes! Yes! YES! Y-E-E-E-E-S-S-S!" I squeezed my eyes tight shut as the wave came over me, and then I could feel Barry squirting his load. What a shame he had on a condom. I always like to play with semen afterwards, and there appeared to be an awful lot there.
"No!" I heard Jason shout.
Bloody hell, I thought, don't tell me Jason has found his balls at last. I only hoped that Barry didn't go looking for them as soon as he'd finished with me - I had grown rather fond of them, after all.
Just then, Ed pushed a pillow over my head, and that was followed by a massive explosion of pain as the bullet passed through my head.
An Unsuitable Job for a Man - Chapter 3 of 6
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Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
Chapter 3
"H-u-u-u-u-h!" I gasped, struggling upright. It was as black as hell. Where was I? What was I?
I had been on the bed, flat on my back, hands tied behind me, with Barry giving me a superb shagging. I'd had a wonderful climax. Jason had shouted, "No!" and Ed had pushed a pillow over my head and the world had blown up.
The bastard had shot me!
It was unbelievable!
Things like that happened to other people, not me.
But I'd been instantly transported to this world of blackness. I was sitting on something soft but my hands weren't tied behind me, and I didn't have a nice cock inside me, and certainly not half a pint of squidgy semen.
My vision was adjusting - it wasn't totally black. In front of me, I could see a ghostly white shape, some distance away. Was it St Peter, I wondered, come to tell me whether I was allowed in or had to go to that other place.
I moved forward towards the blurred shape, and as I did so, the shape moved towards me. As we got closer together, I could see it definitely formed the silhouette of a figure, so I guessed it must be St Peter. How weird, since I didn't believe in heaven and hell, and all that religious stuff.
Closer and closer we got, until I could reach out a hand to shake St Peter's hand, and beg for entry.
Then my hand struck the wardrobe door, and I said, "Shit!" and the image of St Peter disappeared as the mirror swung to the side.
***
Thirty seconds later, I'd managed to locate the light switch and the bedroom was bathed in light so bright that I had to tightly close my eyes. I fumbled my way back to the bed, and sat on it until my eyes had adjusted enough for me to open them.
I remembered everything quite clearly now. After PC Sally Wright had left, I had finished off the bottle of wine and then come up to bed. Not having any pyjamas of my own, I had rummaged through Lucy's drawers to see what she had, and found this wonderful, white, full-length, sleeved nightdress, in a filmy fabric that was so beautiful, I wanted to weep. I hadn't hesitated for a moment, before slipping it on and standing in front of the mirror.
I looked ravishing! I must have spent five minutes simply staring at myself, before realising that I was not only getting cold, I was also very tired and fairly tipsy. It was time to go to bed.
I found where Lucy kept her clean bed linen, and made the bed. I removed my make-up and earrings, took out my lenses, but left on my wig because I didn't want to revert to being a man just yet, and slipped into bed. Then I quickly got out of bed and opened the wardrobe door and adjusted it so that I could look at myself in the mirror as I lay in bed. I'd turned out the light and promptly gone to sleep.
And had a continuation of my earlier dream.
***
Of course, many people would have presumed I'd had some kind of contact with the dead - or perhaps picked up vibrations left in the building of a dreadful murder. But I'm a computer engineer. Everything has a scientific explanation. Ghosts don't exist, although, of course, I am frightened of them!
But at times like this, one should behave like a scientist. First record, then investigate and analyse.
I pulled on Lucy's sweater and jeans over my nightdress and went downstairs. I located my laptop, plugged it into the mains, and booted it up. I went into my word processor and started to type in everything that I could remember since I'd arrived.
An hour later, I'd written as full an account as I could recall, and had been through it several times, until I was fairly satisfied it was reasonably complete. Only then, did I plug the laptop into a telephone line, and connect to the internet.
Entering 'Lucy Farr OR Richards Seacombe' into Google produced hundreds of hits, from sources such as TV news, the national press and The Seacombe Echo, the local newspaper. I turned first to the most authorative, unbiased source of news in the world, the BBC.
"Rape, murder and torture in seaside town.
"A young couple were shot dead in their home in Seacombe last night, after the woman was raped and the man tortured. Police were called to the scene at about midnight, when neighbours dialled 999 and reported hearing breaking glass, a man shouting for the police, and the sound of a gunshot. An armed response unit was sent from county headquarters, but unarmed officers arrived at the scene first and established the intruders had already left.
"The dead man was later identified as Mr Jason Farr, from Liverpool, who has been living in the area for some time. The dead woman is thought to be his wife, Mrs Lucy Farr, although formal identification has yet to be made. Police say they hope to make an arrest very shortly."
The national daily papers gave a lot more sensationalism to the story, and reported how Jason had been tortured before being murdered (and I'm definitely not going into that detail - read the papers if you're interested). In a fit of desperation, he appeared to have smashed his head through the glass in the bathroom window and screamed for the police. He had promptly been shot in the head, and just as promptly, the intruders had got in their car and driven off.
The papers went quite deeply into Jason's background. He'd been in trouble with the police since his early teens in Liverpool. When he'd left home - or, as some papers suggested, been thrown out by his parents - he'd moved first to London, and then gone to Bournemouth on holiday. He had found the relaxed atmosphere of a seaside town provided easy pickings for petty thieving, so he stayed on, until the police got to know him, whereupon he moved to Seacombe.
It was the local Seacombe Echo which found a number of unnamed people who said they had bought cannabis or Ecstasy from Jason, although in more recent times he seemed to have stopped dealing in small stuff. The suspicion was that he'd got onto dealing in more serious drugs, and was a casualty of the gangland warfare that regularly accompanies their distribution.
Lucy had arrived in Seacombe as the wife of Jason, although at the time of the press reports, no one seemed to know where she had come from. The police couldn't find any trace of their marriage, and their investigations were hampered because the bullet, which had entered the back of her head, had removed most of her face. There were no photographs around of either of them, so the police had to undergo a time-consuming process of circulating dentists around the country with details of the teeth in her lower jaw, the only part of her face still intact.
All newspapers described Lucy as a lovely girl-next-door, who had got dragged into the dirty world of drugs by her no-good husband. She had worked as a barmaid at the local Smugglers Inn.
***
So there it was, the life and death of Lucy Farr, nee Richards. No doubt many readers will, by this time, believe that the press reports proved that my dream WAS a direct communication with her spirit. But as I indicated earlier, I am a scientist; I believe science can always provide an answer, even if that answer has not yet been discovered.
A simple analysis of my dream from a different angle provided a much more logical solution. A double murder of a young couple would inevitably have been broadcast on national TV news and I'd seen the ample evidence of the abundant coverage in the national press on the internet.
Although not a regular reader of any newspaper (I appreciate the truth too much for that!), I do watch TV news. I would undoubtedly have seen the report, sandwiched somewhere between an account of the dozens of Iraqis killed that day in Baghdad, and the number of times that day that a ball had been kicked between two white posts into a net.
I may not have taken much note of a 'trivial' murder story, but the news would have been stored somewhere in my memory and, when Suzanne's email arrived, my sub-conscious would have associated the name. It had now taken the opportunity to point it out to me in a highly graphic manner.
The opportunity to live the life of Lucy for just an hour, following on from the excitement I'd experienced by cross-dressing, was something I'd tremendously enjoyed, even in the knowledge of hindsight of how that life had ended. Hopefully, I thought, I might have some more nice dreams about being Lucy.
I went back to bed with a warm feeling of excitement in my heart, and willing another sexy dream.
***
I awoke next morning without having experienced any more of Lucy's life. As I stared at myself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that, in daylight and without makeup, I didn't look nearly as convincing as I had done last night.
So, I decided I had better get out of bed, take off the Lucy attire, put on my own clothes which hopefully had dried overnight, and return to the world of Chris Jones. I had to get my living arrangements sorted today, go to the supermarket and buy food, as well as start to clear out the cottage.
But I have to confess that my heart gave a little beat of pleasure when I went into the bathroom and discovered that, although the heated towel rail had supposedly been switched on all night, it was stone cold. My damp clothes from last night were, if anything, even worse after being in the cold, condensation-ridden atmosphere of the bathroom.
Oh dear, I thought, I'll have to put on some more of Lucy's clothes, at least until I'd gone out to the car and brought in my suitcase. Last night, I'd been terrified of anyone seeing me as I did so, but that morning, it didn't hold the same terrors. For one thing, my attire had passed the fairly stringent test of being observed by a policewoman (and a lesbian at that), and almost being asked out by her.
Secondly, people walking about are generally not so noticeable during daylight hours. Last night, in order to avoid falling over in the pitch black as I walked up the garden path, through the gate and around to the car, I'd had to have put on an outside light, which would have illuminated me like an escapee from Stalag 13.
Now it was daylight, I could check through an upstairs window there was no one in the lane outside, before going out. Then I could creep out of the front door and up the path under cover of the tall front hedge. Finally, I could keep the car between me and the cottage opposite, whilst I opened the hatch and whipped out my suitcase.
And most of that went according to plan. I selected a pretty, white dress with a scoop neckline, which I thought would really show off my boobs a treat. I found a white suspender belt and white stockings with flowery pattern, white panties and decided to go without a bra. After I'd put on my underwear, I felt I had better put on some make-up as well, just in case I did bump into anyone - better safe than sorry - so I spent another twenty minutes making myself look just as good as I had done last night. I put a couple of one-inch gold hoops through my ears, although it hurt quite a lot as I slipped them through the holes I had made the previous evening, and I vowed to keep these on for as long as I could.
I was right about the dress nicely showing off my boobs, but decided it needed something else to finish it off, and rooted around in the wardrobe until I found a nice white hat with a wide brim. I really did look, I thought, like the girl-next-door. Finally, I found some sandals with relatively low heels, which looked OK to go into the muddy lane outside.
From the bedroom window, I was able to see the lane was completely deserted. I went downstairs, quietly opened the front door and silently walked down the path towards the gate set in the high hedge.
I lifted the latch on the gate, pulled it open, and stepped out into the lane. Behind me, the gate slammed shut with a loud bang. Damn! Just the thing to attract the attention of my neighbour. I had to get on with things quickly.
I turned to my car and...
My car wasn't there!
It had gone! I'd left it there last night, as I struggled to carry the mattress up to the house. Had I locked it after that fight to get the mattress out of the car? Had I even closed the hatch? Shit!
After a brief thought, I decided that for the purpose of my insurance claim, I had definitely closed and locked the car. In actuality, I thought I had probably not. Now, I would have to ring the police and tell them it was missing and, certainly for the time being, I would have to continue wearing Lucy's clothes. I turned back towards the gate, reaching towards the latch to open it.
"Lucifer!"
The cry had come from the cottage almost opposite mine. Too late to try to open the gate and disappear; several hours too late to hide behind my car! I turned towards the sound, trying to put a nice smile on my lips, and thinking, "Lucifer. That's what Jason had called me in my dream."
She came through the front gate of her cottage, and walked towards me as though she was in a trance. On her face was a weird look, almost as if she had seen a ghost. Judging from her grey hair, I guessed she was around sixty-five or seventy, although it's difficult to tell nowadays, and she still looked attractive in her black jacket with a contrasting scarf.
When she was only ten yards away, she stopped abruptly, her face relaxed, and she said, "You're NOT Lucifer."
"No," I confessed, in my little girl voice. "I'm not Lucifer." Then I added, although I thought I already knew the answer, "Do you mean Lucy? Lucy Farr?" As I said the words, I realised how obvious the nickname was.
"Yes," she said, giving a little smile to hide her embarrassment. "I... it's just that... well, from the cottage you looked just like Lucifer - off to get milk and eggs from the farm - she did that every morning - and... Well, I've never been able to accept it was her that was killed. Lucy was such an innocent, and the face of the body they found was unrecognisable. You see, I've always hoped that someday the real Lucy will turn up alive and well."
She shrugged her shoulders and added, "I know, it's just the hopeless ramblings of an old woman, but she was such a lovely child."
She gave me a more critical appraisement and said, "It's strange. From the cottage you looked just like her, yet now I'm close up, there's little physical resemblance. But there is something about you that makes me think of Lucy."
"I'm wearing one of her dresses," I said. "Perhaps it's that."
"No," she said. "I realise the dress is the same, but it's something deeper than that. Presumably, you're a relative?"
"My name's Chris Jones. I'm from her aunt's side of the family." Why had I not confessed outright that I was not a relative?
"That must be it, then; you have some family resemblance. Incidentally, my name is Irene Collins." She scrutinised me again as we formally shook hands, and I smiled back at her. It was strange, but I ought to have been terrified she was going to realise I was really a man. Instead, I felt a tremendous exhilaration.
"You have that same excitement inside you," she said, "but tempered with experience. You know what the world is about. Lucy was such a child in a woman's body. I was always afraid for her. She used to work at the Smugglers Inn, you see, and she had to wear such a low-cut blouse, and she simply didn't realise the effect it had upon men."
"So you expected something like that to happen?"
"Oh no," she quickly said. "Nothing like a shooting. I was always worried she might be attacked and raped - well, you do, these days, don't you - but I never thought she might be murdered. The police think it was all to do with her husband. You could see he was no good, as soon as you set eyes upon him. I simply didn't know what she saw in him. Everyone said the same; she was an innocent and he was a piece of shit."
Her description strangely shocked me, as though sixty-five-year-old ladies should never swear.
"You looked upset, when I saw you from my house," she said. "Is there a problem?"
"My car," I said. "My car's been stolen. It's such a quiet lane, I wouldn't have expected any car thieves to operate down here."
"They're coming home from The Smugglers, you see."
"I didn't realise the lane went anywhere." After reaching our cottage, the tarmac surface turned into an unmade road, and sloped sharply downhill. Surely, there was no pub down there.
"It's a path down to the foot ferry across the river. The Smugglers Inn is on the other side. If you've got a car, you can go into town and over the lift-bridge and drive around, but it's about four miles that way. If you haven't got a car, this is the shortest route. The problem is that you sometimes get people coming home from the pub late at night, drunk. They walk past here looking for a way of avoiding a long walk all the way home. With a bit of luck, the police will find your car near one of the estates on the edge of town."
"Thanks. I'd better go and call them."
"Of course, if luck isn't with you, it will have been stolen by one of the early-season holidaymakers, who want to get home. In which case they'll find your car in London or Birmingham, or somewhere like that.
"And it will probably be burnt out," she optimistically added.
"Thanks," I said, and went inside.
***
I felt quite pleased that my scientific scepticism of my dream had turned out to be justified. Lucy wasn't the sex-mad vamp that my dream had attributed her to be.
"Just a child in a woman's body," Irene had said.
In fact, I reasoned, not even that, for even her body was false - or parts of it were. I'd assumed, for no apparent reason, that Lucy would be in her late twenties, but she might have been much younger, perhaps still a teen. Maybe giving herself the wig and big boobs and hips was a way of making herself look older.
It was weird though, the way that Irene had said there was something inside me that made her think of Lucy. Perhaps it was the dress I was wearing, but I, too, felt very close to Lucy, living in her cottage, wearing her clothes, and putting on her make-up.
***
The police seemed hardly interested in my car theft. They took down the details over the phone, gave me a reference number I could quote to the insurance company, and told me they'd be in touch if it turned up. They weren't even as optimistic as Irene had been.
Which left me without any food or drink, or transport to get to the shops, even supposing I plucked up the courage to go out dressed as a woman. But hunger is a tremendous motivator. Irene had said that Lucy used to go out every morning to the farm and buy milk and eggs. Therefore, the farm must be close by.
Fortunately, I had stuffed the local map, which I had printed off the net, into my laptop case. I pulled it out. On the map, I could follow the lane down to the river, which was still tidal at this point, with the ferry across to the inn the other side. But going back along the lane which I'd driven yesterday from Seacombe, I could see there was a farm marked only a short distance away - a few minutes' walk.
I got my wallet out of my still wet jacket pocket, extracted the cash and found a purse of Lucy's to put it in. Then I took three deep breaths, before opening the front door again and stepping outside. This was to be my first intentional meeting with other people since my transformation.
***
And it all went OK. The farm really was only a few minutes' walk. I opened the five-bar gate and went into the farmyard, and could hear the hum of machinery in a shed to one side. I walked over to the door and glanced into the dark interior. There was an elderly man bending over some equipment. He noticed me standing in the doorway and stood up.
He was quite short, say five feet, five, and stooped, with a well-weathered face (to give it a polite description). He must have been well into his seventies. He tilted his head to one side, and peered at me. I guessed it was difficult to make me out, silhouetted against the brightness outside, so I stepped inside and walked towards him.
"Lucifer?" he said in a hushed voice.
"No," I said, and turned slightly so he could see me more clearly in the light from the door.
"Fuck me," he said. "You gave me a fright. Only you reminded me of someone I know. I thought she'd come back from the..."
"I know," I said. "I'm Chris Jones. I'm staying in Lucy's cottage. I've come to clear it out and close it down."
He nodded. "I'm Mick Walters," he said. "Such a terrible thing to happen to her. I couldn't believe it. She was such a lovely girl, very pretty, but very young for her age. She reminded me of my daughter when she was about seventeen. Always smiling and ready to lend a hand."
He looked at me some more and asked, "Are you a relation? Because it's funny, I thought you looked just like her when I first saw you. But you're not really like her, except for the..." He trailed off, clearly not wanting to say "big tits".
I smiled at him. "I'm from her aunt's side of the family," I said. (Always be consistent in your lies.) "I was hoping to buy some milk and eggs. And do you have any other things, like butter?"
"No problem," he said. "We always keep a few things for the people on the campsite down the lane." (I'd noticed the campsite as I passed it, yesterday, further down the lane.)
His eyes narrowed as he added, "Did you, er... want to open an account?"
I shook my head. "No thanks," I said. "I'll only be here for a few days. I'll pay cash."
"Fair enough," he said. "Come through to the farm shop." He led me though an internal door into the farmhouse, where he showed me the simple range of goods they sold. There were a couple of cats running around, which I never really like when food is being served, and they would never compete with the supermarket in price, but their goods were fresh, and it was convenient. I came away with enough produce to keep me alive for the next few days.
As I was leaving the farm shop, I turned to give him a friendly wave.
***
"Hi, there," I said, as I walked into the farm shop, giving him a friendly wave. "I've just moved into the cottage along the lane." I stuck out my hand towards the wizened old man, who looked as though his dream woman had just stepped inside his store.
"I'm Lucy Farr," I said, "but everyone calls me Lucifer." I gave his hand a nice squeeze as I shook it. I noticed his eyes flicking between the wedding ring on my other hand, and the cleavage revealed by my low cut dress.
"Nice to meet you, Lucy," he said. "I'd heard a young couple had moved into the cottage, but they didn't tell me how beautiful you were. I'm Mick Walters."
"Well I think Mr Smoothy is probably a more appropriate name," I laughed. "I bet all the women have to watch out for you."
"Maybe once upon a time," he grinned back, "but not for a long time. "
"Yes, and I believe that," I said. "Oh what a lovely pussy." I deliberately bent down to stroke the cat, so he could have a direct view down the front of my dress. I'd left my bra off on purpose, and spent some time practising in front of the mirror, learning exactly how far to bend down without making it look too obvious.
I quickly glanced up and met his guilty gaze staring down the front of my dress, mouth agog.
"Told you," I said triumphantly, as I stood up again. "It'll be many years before I'm safe with you around."
His grin returned, even wider than before. "If only," he said.
"If only, what?" I asked, and I stepped up to him. He was far shorter than I was, so his nose was almost pushed into my cleavage.
He went cross-eyed staring at me, and gave a big gulp.
"Actually," I said. "I'm always looking for a bargain. I wonder whether I might set up an account with you? You provide me with our food, and I'll make certain that every week you're well recompensed."
I moved my hand move forwards until it was touching his inner thigh, then moved it up until I could feel the bulge of his left ball. I let my finger lightly rub his ball, before moving my hand upwards across the bulge of his dick straining against the zip. "What do you say?" I slowly rubbed my hand up and down the bulge of his jeans.
"My wife's round the back feeding the hens," he said.
"Then let's make this a quickie," I said. "How about a blow job? Is it a deal?"
He nodded. "Yes please."
I slid down to my knees, and slowly pulled down his zip. "Deal sealed with a loving kiss," I said.
***
"Hi Chris. You're looking a lot happier than you did earlier on," Irene said.
"What?" I realised I had jumped like a scalded cat.
"Sorry to make you jump, but I said you're looking a lot happier that you did when I saw you this morning. Have the police found your car?"
"Er, no," I said. "It's just that I was, er... thinking of something."
"Thought so," she said. "Let me guess. You were thinking about a man, weren't you?"
I nodded, guiltily. "Well, actually, yes I was."
She nodded back. "Lucy was just the same, only she was perpetually thinking of that good-for-nothing bastard of a husband. Head-over-heels in love, and completely wasted on him. Still, that's life, I suppose. So who's your man?"
I shook my head. "Oh, no one permanent. Just someone I came across." Or did I mean, someone who just came across me?
"I can take a hint," she said. "But I forgot to tell you earlier that I owed Lucy some money."
"Oh?" I said. People didn't usually volunteer that kind of information.
"Call me stupid," she said, "but I can't cheat on Lucy. It would be like cheating on my own daughter. Lucy would always lend me some money when I got a bit hard up. A few times I tried to give her an extra tenner back, but she absolutely refused to take it. It would make her 'like a money-grubbing money lender,' she said."
She reached inside her pocket and pulled out a sheaf of notes. "Two hundred pounds. You can count it if you like, but Lucy always trusted me. At least, she did once I'd accepted I couldn't pay her back any extra."
"Fair enough," I said, reaching for the money and then pausing. What was I going to do with the cash I was about to accept from this elderly woman? Give it to Suzanne, who would probably blow that much on a single meal in Brussels with her Commissioner friend? "Why don't you keep it?" I said.
"I couldn't. It's Lucy's."
"Then why don't you buy a present with it, from Lucy to you? I'm certain she would have loved to have done that as a parting gift."
"Oh what a lovely thought. I can see you are just like Lucy. Thank you so much." She leant forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek, and I could see tears welling in her eyes. Then she abruptly turned and went back inside her house, sniffling a bit as she went.
***
Once inside the house I sat down and had a good think. Not about my giving away two hundred pounds of Suzanne's money to a perfect stranger - I had no problems with that. No, my problem was that I had daydreamed in a way I had never done before.
Usually people use the term to describe thinking about things other than their immediate surroundings. They may not be particularly conscious of the surroundings, but their thoughts are entirely under their own control.
The daydream I had just experienced was just like the kind of dreams we have at night: completely immersed inside a character, with the events being totally uncontrollable.
And it hadn't been just any old character, but the same character as I had been last night - Lucy Farr, or Lucifer - a very different Lucifer to the one that people described to me.
And not just any old events, but events based around the place where I physically was; with Lucy doing things which the childlike person described by Irene and Mick Walters could never have contemplated.
Where did all this leave my scientific assertion that we could never communicate with the dead?
"Unchanged," I said the word aloud, just so there was no doubt about it. Last night, I had dressed in Lucy's clothes, and there was no doubt I had found it an erotic experience. After falling asleep, my mind had created a pleasant erotic dream around my sub-conscious memories.
This morning, I had continued to wear Lucy's clothes and continued to get a buzz from it. And I had allowed my mind to wander in an amusing continuation of that dream. That was all it was.
I packed away the goods I had bought from the farm shop, still revelling in the excitement of duping three people into believing I was a woman. The problem was, I found it addictive. It was approaching midday and I'd had nothing to eat all morning; I could prepare a simple meal of bread, and cheese, and wash it down with another of Lucy's excellent wines.
Or I could walk down to The Smugglers Inn, purchase a Ploughman's Lunch, and wash it down with a glass of beer, surrounded by probably a dozen or more customers.
I checked my make-up in the mirror, and left the house.
An Unsuitable Job for a Man - Chapter 4 of 6
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When Chris's ex-girlfriend asks him for a favour but explains that it's actually an unsuitable job for a man, he cannot turn down the challenge. In any case, a few days by the seaside spent clearing out the effects of her deceased cousin would make a break from the routine of work. But his startling realistic dreams drive him to pursue the mystery of her death, regardless of the challenges it poses. This story is complete, but serialised over six chapters.
Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
Chapter 4
It was a five-minute walk to the river down the narrow lane through the woods that lined the sides of the valley. Although still wet from last night's rain, the trees already had most of their water shaken off them by the gentle breeze, so thankfully I didn't get badly dripped upon. The road surface was rough, but not particularly uneven or slippery, and the glimpses of the river through the trees, as lane meandered slightly left and then right, made it an absolutely delightful walk.
The trees suddenly opened out, and I was standing on the shore of the tidal river, perhaps fifty yards across at this point. On my side of river, a row of expensive looking motor-yachts were moored between buoys, in a line which stretched both upstream and downstream. Right in front of me was a simple landing stage, comprising a wooden gangway with primitive handrails, floating on fifty-gallon oil drums.
The tide was going out; the boats were beginning to tilt as they bottomed on the mud, and the walkway was floating half in the water, and half out on shore. A sign at the shore end announced: "Smugglers' Ferry. Please ring the bell on the gangway for service."
Across the river, The Smugglers looked extremely picturesque with its thatched roof, and tables with umbrellas in the garden overlooking the river. Even today, not a particularly warm day, a surprising number of people were sitting out there. It was Friday, I suddenly realised - typically the day when office workers would go out for a lunchtime drink and a meal, at a convenient and pleasant country pub.
I walked along the gangway - not a particularly enjoyable experience, as it lurched with every step I took, and I had to hang onto the handrail to stop myself being thrown to my knees. At the end was one of those large ship's bells, hanging from a post, with a length of rope tied to the clapper. I grabbed the rope and vigorously woggled it from side to side. Gong-Gong-Gong. The sound reverberated across the valley.
It took a couple of minutes before anyone came out of the pub, and I was almost on the point of ringing again. But then a man with a captain's cap on his head appeared on the quayside next to the pub. He got into a little motorboat, started the engine, cast off and chugged across to my side of the river.
***
"She was a lovely girl, Lucy was."
We had gone through that bit where, on first sight, he thought I WAS Lucy. After that, he asked me if I was a relative, to which I'd given my same evasive answer. Now, he was complying to form by telling me what an innocent, lovely girl she had been, albeit with big tits.
"She worked here as a barmaid," he continued.
"If she was such an attractive, but innocent girl," I asked, "surely some of the fellers took advantage?"
"Nah." He shook his head vehemently from side to side. "All the regulars cared for her and looked out for her. If anyone tried it on, they'd get thrown in the river."
I wondered whether Lucy had generated some jealousies. "Did that happen often?" I asked him.
"Nah." Another shake of the head. "A little warning was all it took. Blokes got the message pretty quick."
"Hmm," I said.
***
It was occurring to me that everyone I spoke to was protesting her innocence too vehemently. If she really was so sweet and childlike, why did she wear the Bustlet and Hiplet, with almost every item of her dress designed to expose as much of her breasts as possible? Surely, no woman would choose not only to have such large knockers, but to openly display them, unless she wanted to attract men like moths to a naked light bulb.
I went inside the pub, which had lots of seafaring and smuggling items such as mariners' lamps and brandy barrels (presumably empty) fixed on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. It was easy to see why so many people were sitting in the garden; inside, it was packed with people, with a three-deep crowd jostling for service at the bar.
If I'd arrived there in my car, I'd have driven off and found somewhere else, or gone back home for my bread and cheese; but the thought of getting the ferryman to again relinquish his pint and take me back across the river, was more than I could bear. I joined the queue at the bar.
There were three people serving: the middle-aged landlord and landlady, and a younger barmaid. The two women wore serving-wench uniforms - full, black skirts with colourful aprons tied around the waist; white smock blouses with peasant-style necklines, which displayed ample amounts of cleavage; and a black, front-lacing bodice, along with a white smock cap. All rather appealing, I thought. It was easy to see why the mainly male clientele flocked here, in spite of the crowd and resultant slow service.
"The Special Bitter needs the barrel changing." The barmaid at the far end had been pulling the pint - I had been admiring the way the work made her boobs squash together and then release - and she now shouted above the general hubbub of conversation in the pub.
"Can you do it, Sue?" the landlord shouted back. "Give me a shout if you need a hand."
The girl nodded and turned towards the rear of the bar, opened a four-foot high door, and bent over double before disappearing through it. The crowd sank back in front of where she had been serving, accepting it would be some minutes before she returned.
***
"The Special Bitter needs the barrel changing," I shouted at Sam above the general noise in the pub.
"Can you do it, Lucy?" he shouted back. "Give me a shout if you need a hand."
I nodded and turned towards the rear of the bar, and went through the tiny door and down the steep steps to the cellar below. Sam's wife, Sally, had shown me how to change a barrel when I'd started work as barmaid, the day before, and it had seemed pretty simple.
A few seconds was all it took to swap the pipe from the empty barrel to the full one. I'd almost finished when Sam's voice came from behind me.
"Joe decided to have a pint of Best, instead, so I've served him to it. Are you getting on all right?"
"Fine," I said.
With the low ceiling in the cellar, neither of us could stand up straight, and I was bent double over the barrel, having just connected the pipe. I had to twist my body completely round to look at him. I knew the operation would enable him to peer straight down the front of my blouse. I had on a quarter-cup bra, which pushed my boobs up and out, but wouldn't at all interfere with his view.
"Ph-e-e-w!"
"Enjoying the view?" I asked him.
"Not half," he said with a wicked grin.
"What would Sally say?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Sally wouldn't say anything," he said. "She's gone to the cash and carry."
"Well in that case, we can't afford to keep the customers waiting," I said.
I turned back towards the barrel, bent right over it and moved forward, straddling my legs, until I was astride it. Then, with both hands, I simply flicked my skirt up my back, so that Sam could see I wasn't wearing panties.
It was a good, quick fuck; actually the first of many we were to have over the next few months in that identical position. The customers were generally quite understanding about it, as long as it wasn't too busy, and we didn't take too long. After all, most of them were getting their share of my generous nature.
***
"What will you have, luv?"
"What?" I jerked back into the real world. "Sorry, Sam, I was miles away."
Sam smiled at me, and looked a bit quizzical. "Do I know you?" he said. "Only normally I pride myself on never forgetting a face. People may come in this bar only once and I'll remember them. But not you. Mind you, you do look like someone who once worked here..."
"I'll have a half of lager, please, Sam," I said, and added in response to his query, "I'm from Lucy's aunt's side of the family. A few people have said they think there's a resemblance."
That gave him a good-enough explanation of how I knew his name, and he started talking along the same lines that everyone else had adopted. "Can I say how upset we all were over that horrible event," he said. "We simply couldn't believe it. She was such an innocent..."
"So everybody says," I agreed. I looked around at the bar. The crowd had almost gone. "What happened to them all?" I asked. "Everyone seems to have disappeared whilst I was in my daze."
"They're mostly from the offices in Seacombe," he said, "and they all arrive about the same time and don't have that long for lunch. It's a bit of a rush for a few minutes, but you're the last. They're all out in the garden now.
"Trade is starting to pick up now that spring is here," he continued. "Lucy was a godsend. She worked hard, all through last summer, and the customers really loved her. I'm trying to recruit another barmaid, but it's too far out of town for most of them, especially for the relatively short lunchtime session. Sue's only doing it for us as a favour, and she can't continue next week." He looked at me. "You're not interested, are you? If you're living in Lucy's cottage, it would be very convenient for you."
I simply don't know what I was thinking about, except continuing to wonder how I knew that the landlord's name was Sam. The only scientific explanation I could find was that someone had called him by name whilst I'd been waiting at the bar, lost in my daydream, and the name had infiltrated itself into my dream, in the same way that last night, PC Sally Wright's knocking at the front door had.
So there was a kind of explanation there, although I didn't feel particularly happy with it. My explanations were starting to appear more and more contrived. It seemed quite sensible to conduct a scientific test, and observe the results. I realised he'd asked me a question I hadn't answered.
"I'm not certain about working for you," I said. "After all, don't you have your bar staff over a barrel?"
The results of my experiment were made all the more dramatic because Sam had just taken a gulp of beer from the half-pint glass he kept below the bar. Fortunately, he wasn't pointing in my direction when the contents of his mouth sprayed liberally across the bar.
"Jesus Christ! Keep your voice down." He took an anxious glance across the lounge towards where his wife was clearing glasses from a table, whilst talking to a couple of men.
"Look, I don't know what Lucy said to you, but it's all untrue."
"If you don't know what she said, how do you know it's untrue?"
He energetically applied himself to cleaning the mess he had made on the bar, saying nothing, but looking extremely worried.
Since he hadn't responded, I decided to apply a little pressure. "Having your staff over a barrel is a common expression, so why did you react so strongly?"
"Exactly," he said. "No reason at all. It's simply that my beer went down the wrong way."
"So there's no problem in me talking to the police about it?"
"Jesus! Don't do that. They'll suspect me, and start asking all kinds of embarrassing questions, and then the whole story will come out. What do you want?" he asked.
"I want to know the truth," I said.
He nodded, slowly, eying his wife as he did so. "Fair enough," he said, "but not now. Were you really serious about working here as a barmaid, because we certainly need someone, and we could talk properly then. And, er..." He gave a smile. "No barrel. Okay?"
Afterwards, I couldn't believe what I said in response. For I replied, "Okay."
***
As I walked home, I recounted my latest daydream, and the simple experiment I had conducted on its authenticity. There had to be a scientific explanation. There just had to be.
It came to me in a flash - a totally obvious solution. The barmaid had shouted, "The Special Bitter needs the barrel changing." In the general mutter of conversation, I hadn't consciously heard anything, but my sub-conscious had detected some wag muttering words to the effect of, "I bet Sam sends her down to do it and then he'll go down and give her one over the barrel." From that, my imagination had leapt into action, and created another highly effective daydream.
I shook my head. It was an explanation of a sort, but...
It was also strange, I thought, that I had arrived at Lucy's house less than twenty-four hours ago, but I already felt completely at ease with dressing in her clothes, staying in her house, and living her life. In particular, the very idea of dressing as a woman had never crossed my mind when Suzanne talked about an unsuitable job for a man. Yet hadn't there been a bit of cross-dressing involved in that book by P D James? And now, I had agreed to take on Lucy's job as a barmaid, and I didn't feel at all stressed by it. Weird!
I went inside the cottage and went upstairs to check my wardrobe. Sam had said that Lucy's Smugglers Inn gear had never been returned to the pub. It hadn't, and I tried it all on. Lucy had been right to choose a quarter-cup bra to wear with it, since the bodice itself provided no support for my breasts, and the bra really pushed them up nicely, and I looked extremely pretty.
"Damn!" I muttered. Of course, it had been my imagination that had provided the quarter-cup bra, not any communication from Lucy. Which proved, I guessed, that I actually knew far more about women's attire than I had previously assumed. As well as, I reminded myself, the expert way in which I applied my make-up - a task which many women had difficulty with.
I shook my head in frustration. I was letting my imagination take hold again. Everything had a scientific explanation. Everything.
***
I'd agreed with Sam that I would work lunchtimes, a rota which suited me - since I didn't want to work until late at night and then negotiate the ferry, followed by a climb up the dark, narrow lane on my own. It also mirrored, Sam said, the rota Lucy had done, as he found it much easier to get evening staff who would generally arrive by car.
I'd also agreed that I would start work the next morning - Saturday. I would go in early so that I could be given a brief introductory training session. In fact it was Sam's wife, Sally, who gave me most of the training - yes I know that was her name in my dream, but just like all the other things, I must have heard someone call her that before my dream started.
"She was a nymphomaniac, you know?"
"Pardon?" I said. Sally and I were in the cellar, and she had been showing me how to change a barrel of beer. Although I'd never done this activity before, I realised my dream had been uncannily accurate. Still, it was fairly obvious stuff, really. Wasn't it?
"The doctors call it Compulsive Sexual Behaviour, but everyone else knows it as nymphomania," Sally said. "Lucy told me that. She admitted quite freely that she had it, which is why she had sex with most of the men in this pub."
"Oh," I said, thinking, "Christ, this is getting onto sensitive ground."
"It's all right," Sally said, "I know that Sam had sex with her as often as everyone else - probably more often, knowing him - but I didn't mind. He became much more gentle when he was having sex with me, you see. It was about us pleasing each other, rather than seeing how quickly he could spurt inside me. I think we both benefited from Lucy's nymphomania."
"Right," I said.
"That's the way most of the other wives felt, as well," she continued. "You've probably heard lots of people saying how nice Lucy was, and thinking that didn't square with the Lucy you knew. But she really was a wonderful person; we all loved her. Most of the men had sex with her, and there was no jealousy, or anything like that.
"That's why we all agreed to keep quiet about Lucy's little problem when she was so horribly murdered. We knew the police would simply waste all their time investigating us, and not look for anyone else. Our lives would be turned upside down and exposed in the gutter-press, and the killers would get away with it."
"I see," I said. I did too. Here was a bunch of people with obvious motives for Lucy's murder, and whom the police knew nothing about. Maybe most of them were totally innocent, but one of them could have got jealous or obsessive. Now I understood why Lucy had brought me into this job.
"Damn!" I muttered. It had been my decision to work here, not some figment of my dream.
"I can understand why you think someone here was the killer," Sally went on, virtually reading my mind, "and why you wanted to work here to discover who it was. But honestly, I'm convinced it was some men from outside the area."
"Weren't you worried about Sam, er, catching anything from Lucy?" I asked.
"Oh no!" Sally said. "That wasn't a problem. She explained to me straight away, and I gradually told all the other women, so it just became common knowledge."
"What did?" I asked.
"Apparently a doctor in Bournemouth recommended it. Said it was very good for people with her kind of compulsion. It was called a Hiplet, or something like that. It contained the equivalent of a permanent female condom, which fitted into her vagina. You still get most of the feeling, but you can't get pregnant, or catch anything, and as long as you douche out afterwards so there's no sticky stuff left around, disease can't be carried between your partners. Sounds ideal to me."
So that's why Lucy had started wearing the Hiplet, I thought. "Do men know it's there?" I asked.
"Apparently not," Sally said, "or they didn't until one of the wives let it out the bag. Sounded quite good actually, and I thought I might get one, until Lucy told me they cost well over a thousand pounds."
"Where did Lucy get that kind of money?" I gasped.
"She used to work in a club in Bournemouth, she told me. And you really don't want to know how she made so much money. Needless to say, it involved lots of men, and her favourite occupation."
I nodded. I could imagine.
***
Over the next week, I really got into the swing of being a barmaid. I also got to know most of the customers very well, especially the males. I won't go through all the names, but there were a few characters of note.
Jack was the ferryman. Apparently, he had an arrangement with Sam to spend most of his time in the pub - with an occasional refill over the course of the day - and work the ferry as needed. In the summer, it would virtually be a non-stop job. Now it was April, there were only the occasional users such as Mick Walters (who was in the pub most lunch-times) and me. Jack and Mick would spend hours talking to me, whenever I was free.
It was quite obvious from conversations I had with Mick and Jack that they, too, had had sex with Lucy. At their ages! It was disgusting. But I quickly ruled out both Jack and Mick as murder suspects. After all, why would they? They were probably getting more frequent sex with Lucy than they had had all through their adult lives.
As Sally had intimated, that also appeared to be the case with almost every other male regular in the pub. As soon as they knew that I knew Lucy's medical problem (to put it delicately), they were completely open (except in front of their wives or girlfriends). All of them clearly liked her, and were terribly distressed by her death.
The one regular male visitor to the pub who didn't have sex with Lucy was pointed out to me as a novelty. He always came into the pub with his wife, who kept him on a short leash. He hadn't even been allowed to go to the pub toilet, the regulars joked, in case Lucy crept in with him. Edward and Elizabeth, the couple were called - definitely not Ted and Liz - and they were recently retired with presumably, a fairly comfortable pension to go with it.
Edward owned one of the smart cruisers moored in the river across from the Smugglers, and it was called Bolshoi - presumably after the name of the Russian ballet company. However, most of the regulars called it Bolshie - and thought it a highly appropriate name, based upon the prickly nature of her owners.
They would often have lunch in the pub before he rowed his tender across to Bolshoi. Elizabeth would watch until he had cast anchor (or whatever you do to mooring buoys) and motored down the river towards the sea.
Later, I was told, she would arrive back at the Smugglers in good time to watch him motor up river to the mooring, tie up and row back to the Smugglers, where, if the time was right, they would have an evening meal.
Unless one could count not having sex with someone as adequate reason to murder them - a complete reversal of normal - that meant I had to rule out Edward.
Which left, for suspects... Absolutely no one, apart from the names of the two men in my dream, who I was determined, I would not try to identify. I certainly wasn't going to condemn a person whose name just happened to be the same as someone I dreamt about. In any case, if I went to the police they would laugh me out of the police station, or charge me with wasting police time, or perhaps even try to frame me for the murder.
You can see that I was settling in to my life as the new Lucifer. Quite surprisingly, I really enjoyed my work as a barmaid. I'd expected that, since I'd never worked in a bar before, I would have tremendous difficulty in learning the ropes, remembering the price of everything and recognising the strange drinks that many people ordered - in my formative years, it had been halves or pints, mild or bitter. But I grasped all of that fairly easily, and Sam and Sally remarked how quickly I had settled into the job.
I also discovered that the changed location made me enjoy my own professional computer consultancy business far more than I had for many months - probably since Suzanne had left me. One of the advantages of being a computer consultant is that you can work wherever you take your laptop. On Monday, I'd started working on A Round Tuit - a project which had to be done but which I'd being meaning to get 'around to it' for some time, as I expected it to be incredibly boring. In fact, I as soon as I got into it, I found it much more challenging than I'd expected.
I adapted my working day to suit my own preferences. I would usually wake up about four am, and immediately get up, have breakfast and do my professional work almost unbroken until ten, when it was time to prepare for my bar duty at the Smugglers. I'd put on my make-up and uniform, arriving at the pub by eleven, and have an early (by most people's body clocks) lunch on the house.
I would serve all lunchtime, and be back at the cottage by about three pm, whereupon my body clock was telling me it was time for bed! I'd sleep for a few hours, then get up, do another couple of hours professional work, followed by a normal evening in front of the TV, before having an early night to bed.
The fact that I was able to continue my normal business, as well as making a bit of pocket money as barmaid at the Smugglers, made me decide I could pay the rent on the cottage for a few additional weeks' stay. The agent was delighted, and gave me a good deal on the rent if I stayed for another month. I took him up on his offer.
***
I wasn't quite certain how important the cross-dressing aspect was to my enjoyment. In the course of my bar work, I obviously met lots of blokes, and it was inevitable that they tried to chat me up. After all, I did have tits the size of melons (Okay, small melons), and even with my expert make-up, I was no beauty, but when has that stopped a man from fancying a shag? If only they knew the truth!
I often played mental 'what ifs' with myself. What if he offered to take me out, would I accept? What if he squeezed my bum, would I punch him on the nose, or tell him he was 'saucy'? What if he asked me to give him a blowjob around the back of the pub, where Lucy used to operate?
Blokes would often offer me a drink, and mostly, I'd take a half of bitter or a glass of wine - even the house-white was pretty decent - or charge for it and slip the money into my tips box. However, on the day that I made the breakthrough, the customer looked fairly wealthy so I said I'd have a brandy, instead.
Well, he looked a bit shocked by that, so rather than taking a glass of the Courvoisier, as I'd planned, I put the glass under the optic on the standard house brandy and poured out a measure. It was a quite cheap brandy, and I was surprised how popular it was with many of the regulars. Even the customer was mollified when I told him the price.
But when I took my first sip of the brandy, I realised this was a drink of real quality, at a damn good price. I took another look at the label. Impossible. There was no way this nectar came from that bottle.
Except that, of course, in a pub called the Smugglers Inn, there was one way in which quality brandy could be sold at a knock-down price. I thought again about the quality of the house wine, and the superb collection of wines that Lucy had at home. (At least, when I first arrived, she had - they all seemed to have disappeared now.) It would be very good, I thought, to restock her wine cellar. Therefore, I needed to find the supplier. But there was a sudden flurry of customers, and I didn't have chance to think about it until later.
***
As I walked back to the cottage, my mind kept thinking about smuggling. The inn was on a tidal river, with the sea just a few miles downstream and from there, France was the next stop. Plenty of sailing and motor boats along the South coast would cross the Channel, spend a day or two there, load up with all the booze and tobacco they could carry and sail back to England.
One of the incredible benefits of being in the EU was that it was all perfectly legal, provided it was for 'personal use only' - you didn't even have to declare it. Only if you subsequently sold the goods would you have been guilty of smuggling. And once the stuff had been sold to someone else, it would be difficult to prove it had been smuggled.
There was, of course, one obvious contender as smuggler: Edward, with his motor cruiser, Bolshoi, moored just across river from the Smugglers. On the one hand, so what if Edward was a smuggler? It was hardly as though it was harming me or anyone else. You could theoretically argue it was damaging the economy, but it had the kind of value that the Chancellor of the Exchequer wouldn't bother to pick up if it dropped out of his back pocket as he was running for a bus. (Even supposing he could remember what a bus was!)
But the more I thought about it, the whole issue started to take on a lot greater importance than being able to buy a few bottles of wine at a knock-down price. I knew that violence and death often accompanied the work of serious smugglers. Suppose Jason had got involved with Edward in bringing a little white powder across the Channel? That would put the smuggling into a very different ball game - a game where a drug smuggler and his girlfriend might very easily get 'taken out', because they had strayed onto someone else's ground.
It would be good, I decided, to surreptitiously have a closer look at Bolshoi. I would wait until it was dark, and then go down to the river. With that thought, I went up to the bedroom for my customary afternoon nap.
An Unsuitable Job for a Man - Chapter 5 of 6
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Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
Chapter 5
I stayed in bed quite a bit longer than normal, but finally got up and dug out the black bikini from a drawer. I knew that at this time of the year, the water would be bitterly cold, but I also knew precisely what I had to do about it.
I turned on the shower and waited until it was running hot before stepping in and washing myself. When I had finished, I let the shower continue running as I emptied the water out of my Bustlet and Hiplet.
I found it rather sad watching how my fabulous tits and arse shrivelled up to almost nothing - a bit like watching a tremendous erection do the same. Once the two were properly deflated, I unscrewed the shower rose from the flexible hose and pulled the pipe from my Bustlet over the end of it. Then I inflated my tits with piping hot water, and repeated the operation for my Hiplet.
I now had most of my torso protected by an all-embracing hot-water bottle. My legs below the knees, my midriff and my arms would not be protected, but then I would only be in the cold water for a few minutes, as I swam out to Edward's cruiser.
When I returned to the bedroom, Jason was still in bed.
"Get out of bed, you lazy bugger," I told him, but letting a bit of affection creep into my voice. He really had incredible staying power - the kind that a girl like me found invaluable. The session we had just finished had given me more orgasms than I'd had all day - and it had been a busy day! Jason had squirted so much spunk inside me, so many times, that I could have half-filled a bucket with it when I'd cleaned myself out in the shower.
"I'm just thinking of you," he said, turning over, so his prick lifted the quilt like a tent pole. "I want to watch you put on your bikini."
I couldn't deny him that, but I'd have to be careful that it didn't degenerate into another bout of sex. I was so easily persuaded, and I simply didn't have time for that. I slipped my arms through the bikini straps, and let my tits dangle into the cups, before I fastened it behind my back, pushing my tits upwards towards my chin in the way that Jason loved.
"Jesus!" he said. He flicked the quilt to one side, exposing his enormous erection, and added, "Come here. I want you again."
Fortunately, I was prepared for him, and I had the sponge soaked with cold water already to slap around his balls.
"A-g-g-h-h-h!" he screamed.
"That'll teach you, you randy git," I said. "Now, I have to get off, or I'll be late." I grabbed my bikini bottoms, my dress, flip flops and cosmetic bag, and dashed downstairs.
***
Ten minutes later, I was down at the ferry crossing, although for my next leg of the journey, I wasn't going to be using any ferry. It was now virtually dark, but there was just sufficient light for me to check there were no anglers on the banks, who might observe. Across the river, the floodlighting of the Smugglers had been turned on, and it blinded you to all else if you stared at it. I took care not to.
I slipped off my flip flops, and put them into my transparent sealable bag - designed especially for swimmers. I pulled my dress over my head - my dark-blue beach dress made of a material that would not take up too much space inside my bag and put that in, also. I always kept my wig on for this operation - my natural blonde hair stood out too easily in the dark, and in any case, I preferred people not to know too much about me. I carefully sealed the bag, and slipped the loop on the end of the cord around my wrist, and checked the state of the tide.
For most of the time, there were strong currents running along the river, as the tide filled and emptied the long valley. For just a few minutes either side of high and low water, the current slowed and then turned, and that was the moment to swim out towards Edward's boat. I was quite a strong swimmer, but if I had missed the moment, I would had to have entered the river upstream, and tried to catch hold of the boat as the current swept me past.
Fortunately, the current was just coming to a halt - I could tell from the way the boats were changing their position on their moorings. I had just a few minutes.
I stepped quickly into the cold water. This was the moment I hated, but it was better if I did it quickly. Underfoot, was the horrible, slimy mud, that I imagined contained all kinds of nasty creepy-crawlies, which might bite me as I walked. I always found it strange as the water moved up my body, that I had alternate bands of freezing cold and piping hot.
It was only a few seconds before the water was deep enough to swim, and I pulled forward with a strong breast-stroke, taking care not to break the surface of the water. Now I was fully in the water, it would be extremely difficult to see me in the dark, but I preferred not to chance it.
It was barely twenty yards before I was at the bathing platform at the rear of the Bolshoi. I pulled myself out of the water and half-turned, so I could sit on it with my legs still in the water. It was always tempting to dash straight up onto the deck and into the saloon, but I knew Edward would be furious if I brought mud on board, so I spent a few seconds rubbing the mud away from my toes, and washing my feet clean.
The spare key was where it always was, in the third deck locker on the left, on a little hook at the back, and I unlocked the sliding door into the saloon, and then returned the key, before entering. Once inside, I helped myself to one of the fluffy white towels kept in a locker next to the door, and dried myself. Only then, did I unseal my bag, and pull my out dress and shoes, and slip them on.
There was a little light from the Smugglers coming through the windows, revealing that the saloon, as always, was completely clean and tidy. Edward told me that Elizabeth would come in at least once a week and help him clean it, which was why I could never leave any of my things on board
I heard a soft bump outside, as the tender bumped against the bathing platform, and then it was all silent until the saloon rear door slid wide open against the stop with a thud, and Edward was standing there, staring at me.
"Lucifer," he gasped, his mouth agog, peering at me in the half shadows.
***
My mouth, too, I realised was agog. I had been dreaming again, and now I was aboard the Bolshoi, and Edward was looking at me as though he'd seen a ghost.
"No," I said, totally bemused at how I had got there, and then having the presence of mind to step forward and add, "It's Chris Jones - the barmaid from the Smugglers."
"Bloody hell!" he said. "You gave me a fright. You looked just like her in that light." He peered at me a bit more closely. "Mind, you look very different now."
I had a sudden panic. "I need to repair my make-up," I said, and I dashed down the companionway and into the guest toilet, clutching my bag containing the all-important cosmetic kit.
I'd chosen the guest toilet because it was on the side of the boat facing my side of the river rather than the Smugglers - which meant I could put on the light without it being noticed from the pub car park, where Elizabeth might still be watching. I stared at myself critically in the mirror. Actually, I didn't look too bad.
A rummage through my cosmetic bag revealed that all the items in it were waterproof. Presumably, I had put these on before leaving the cottage. But I could remember nothing about using them, or any other aspect of my afternoon since falling asleep after returning from the Smugglers.
On the other hand, I knew exactly what Lucifer had done, and had obviously done on any number of past occasions. She had been Edward's mate on his smuggling trips, no doubt finding plenty to keep them both occupied on the long journey across the English Channel.
"But only if you believe the dream," I said aloud.
"What did you say?" Edward's voice came through the door. It sounded as though he'd been waiting outside. "Look," he continued, "I think I deserve an explanation, don't you? What are you doing on my boat? I've a good mind to call the police."
"No," I said. I unlocked the toilet door, and went out to face him. "You won't call the police, because I know too much about the purpose of where you're going tonight."
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
It was time to go with my instincts rather than my logic. "Lucy told me about it," I said. "The little trips over to France to purchase a few goods for 'personal use', and how you illegally sold them to Sam."
"She must have been making it up." But his words lacked conviction.
"And the trips had another benefit, didn't they," I continued, ignoring his response. "What did you and she get up to on the voyage? Does Elizabeth know about that little extra? I think not."
"Alright," he said. "Come this way."
He made his way back to the saloon and I followed. He motioned for me to sit down.
"I give you that Lucifer and I enjoyed each other's company on voyage and that Elizabeth doesn't know about that," he said. "I'll also accept that sometimes I accidentally brought back more goods than I actually needed, so I sold them onto someone else. But that still doesn't explain what you're doing here. Are you trying to blackmail me?"
Blackmail? That opened another avenue of motive for Lucy's murder.
"No! Was Lucy?" I fired back at him.
"No," he said. "She wouldn't do that kind of thing." Then he had a little think about it and added, "At least, I don't think she would. She didn't anyway, and you still haven't told me what you're doing here."
I'm not certain where the words came from. "I want you to take me with you, just like you took Lucy."
"You mean, just like I took Lucy?" He put the emphasis on 'just' and 'took', so I would know exactly what he was talking about.
"Apart from the sex," I said.
"Why should I?"
"Because I'm not going to let go of this, now. If you don't help me, I'm going to carry on digging around and asking embarrassing questions until I find out the truth. Or you can assist me, which means I'll then turn my investigations elsewhere."
He paused, considering, and then sighed and nodded. "Have you got your passport with you?"
Again I went with my instincts. "Lucy never brought hers. I'll go through the borders just the same way that she did."
He shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure that's what you want. Now, I'd better get underway, otherwise Elizabeth will be wondering what's happened to me."
He stepped across to the helmsman's seat, flicked a few switches, then started the engines.
***
There's something about motor-yachts that look so enviable. You see the adverts in the colour supplements; of beautiful babes lazing on the sundeck, sipping champagne, the boat flying through the waves over a blue sea, leaving behind a huge white wash. You think, "I want to be there, doing that."
But when you actually get to do it, you realise how incredibly boring it is. Especially with all the automation that's crept into it. Can you believe it? There was a GPS navigator-thing with the exact course already programmed in. Once Edward had slipped the mooring buoys (that's the term I was looking for earlier), he simply switched control over to it, and it guided us along a precise route out of the river.
"If we meet another boat, I may have to take action," Edward said, "but it's unlikely at this time of evening. Once we're out at sea, it will automatically increase the speed, and set the course for St Marriot. All I have to do is keep a lookout. Fantastic, eh?"
I muttered appropriate noises, but personally I thought about how much more fun it would be on a sailing cruiser, splicing the main brace and shouting out, "Avast ahoy!" On the other hand, perhaps everything is done electronically on sailing boats as well. I silently sighed and made myself comfortable in the saloon.
***
The voyage took around ten hours, which Edward told me was a reasonable time. If the sea had been flatter, he could have typed a higher speed into the GPS thing, and it would have obeyed, but as it was, we simply smashed our way through every wave between England and France with a crash that made my spine judder.
I periodically made cups of coffee for Edward, and around four am, I got him some breakfast, and even took over from him whilst he went for the occasional piss. Mind you, it was an incredibly skilled task, and he had to give me precise instructions.
"Don't touch a thing, and holler if you see any lights in front of us, except for those... and those." He pointed to the permissible lights then went dashing down to the heads (not toilets).
Finally, at about six am, the engine note lowered, the crashes subsided, and Edward was turning to me.
"We'll be there in about ten minutes. Lucy used to go below at about this point to get ready to swim ashore."
"Swim?" I asked, looking with alarm into the blackness that surrounded us.
"You wanted to do it the same way as Lucy," he said, with a sickly smile - the smug bastard!
"But... how far is it? Which direction will I go? I can't see a thing!"
Thankfully, he took pity on me. Presumably, he wasn't into making his unwanted guests walk the plank.
"I anchor just off shore until the tide's right to enter St Marriot," he said. "It's only about fifty yards to the beach, and there'll be a light on the villa that Lucy visits. Just point at that, and swim."
"What about coming back?" I asked.
"To get the tides right, I'll be back here at 20.13 hours, BST," he said. "I'll stop in the same place, although I won't drop anchor. As soon as you see my stern light from the villa, start swimming. If you miss me, see if you can get back to Seacombe before me."
He grinned, to show it was a really funny joke. I curled my lip at him, and went below to prepare for my swim.
***
It really wasn't much of a villa. A single-storied building about twenty feet square, with steel shutters on every window. One of the keys on my key ring fitted the door (I'd wondered what that key fitted), and I stepped inside.
It was furnished as a small holiday bungalow - lounge, kitchenette, bedroom and shower room/toilet, equipped with all items necessary for a pleasant holiday - including plenty of holiday spending money in one of the cupboards - about fifty thousand pounds, I reckoned, although I didn't bother to count it all - and a large stash of illegal drugs. At least, that's what I assumed it was, but having no expertise on white powder inside sealed plastic bags, it could have been sugar, for all I knew.
I would have done it straightaway, but there was already a man walking his dog along the surf line. The dog played in the surf for ages, and by the time they had finished, a few other early dog-walkers were coming onto the beach.
So, it was just before Edward's pick-up time that dusk descended and the beach cleared sufficiently for me to carry out my task. I found a sharp knife from the kitchen, picked up the plastic bags and took them down to the water's edge. There would be some very crazed-out fish in the sea that evening.
Once I'd done that, I returned to the villa, prepared for my swim back, then locked up and stood outside, awaiting sight of the Bolshoi's stern light.
An Unsuitable Job for a Man - Concluding Chapter 6 of 6
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Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.
***
The pickup went as smoothly as the drop off. The Bolshoi was precisely where Edward said it would be, at the right time, and having prepared my hot-water jackets exactly as Lucy had shown me the evening before, the swim in the cold water was bearable - just.
Edward helped me onto deck from the bathing platform, and then led the way to the saloon. He handed me a towel, then went and switched in the autopilot, and the boat surged forward, on its way back to Seacombe.
"Just a moment, my dear."
I paused, my dress in my hands, prior to pulling it over my head.
"What's the problem?"
"You may think me an old fool with regard to Lucy, but I'm not a complete fool. I'm going to search you, just as I used to search Lucy. I want to make certain you aren't carrying any illegal products."
I might have quarrelled with him over that, in view of the dozens of boxes of wine, spirits and beer packing the saloon, and which I could also see stacked down below. But the contents of the villa made me keep my peace. I wondered just how thorough a search he had made of Lucy - obviously, not thorough enough.
"Your bikini, please." He nodded at my only coverings, and I shrugged, removed both top and bottom, and handed them to him. He felt them carefully, to make certain there was nothing in the lining, and then dropped them on the settee.
Then he turned his attention to me. "Stand up straight and let me look at you."
I did so.
"Now turn around and face the bulkhead."
Once again I complied, thinking that when it came to him examining my swimming bag, he was going to get a little surprise. I guess I should have left that £50,000 behind in the villa, but I am only human.
"Let me see your fingernails. Put your hands behind your back."
I did so.
Click-click.
"What the hell?" My hands were secured behind me. I turned, furiously towards him.
"What do you think you're doing? Take these handcuffs off me, immediately!"
"I'm afraid I'm not going to do that."
"This is illegal. I'll have the police on you."
"Oh, I think not. Now, come here. I really have been missing the pleasure of Lucy's company, and I think it's time to make up for that."
He stepped forward, his hands reaching towards my tits. I kicked furiously towards his bollocks, but he simply smiled, twisted, and his hands had grasped my ankle and were lifting it higher, and higher, into the air. I toppled backward onto the settee and he came with me, so he flopped down between my legs and onto my body, driving the breath out of me.
"Bastard! You bastard!" Struggle as I might, with my hands secured behind me, and my legs either side of his body, I couldn't push him away. "You fuck pig!"
"I really do not like young ladies swearing, you know," he said, "and nowadays, many seem to do it all the time. Fortunately, I came prepared." His hands were reaching behind my head.
When they came into view again, they were clutching a length of parcel tape, which he pressed across my mouth.
"Bushtard." I could barely squeeze out the word. And after he had applied two more layers of tape across my mouth, I could make no sound apart from "Mmmm!"
"That's much better, my dear," Edward said. "Now, I am really going to enjoy fucking you. It's been so long since I had Lucy."
His hands were at the belt of his trousers, then he was lifting his body off me so he could slide his trousers down, before dropping back down, and I could sense he was penetrating me.
"You fucking bitch!" He thrust downwards.
Surprisingly, I felt something. I'd thought that I would be totally senseless down there, but I wasn't.
"You're no better than that fucking bitch, Lucy."
Another hard thrust which wasn't particularly unpleasant. Dear God! I thought back to the dream I'd had that first night. This was definitely deja vu.
He must have seen some expression of surprise on my face, for he said, "That shocks you, does it, you cunt? That I should call Lucy a fucking bitch, when everyone else says she was an angel. Well, I know what she was bringing into the country - just as I know what you're bringing in."
He clearly wasn't talking about the money, although with the parcel tape over my mouth, I could hardly tell him that. He gave another massive thrust, which again was not unpleasant - well, actually, it was rather nice.
"You think I'm that stupid to fall for the same trick twice?" (Thrust. Mmmm. Yummy.) "It was obvious, once I knew what to look for. Oh fuck."
He slammed inside me harder, giving me another pleasant surprise. And then again. And again. It was obvious this particular round was reaching a conclusion, and unlike Lucy in my dream, this was not going to be one of those wonderful joint orgasms. He slammed once more, and then I could feel him spurting inside me. I had a cunt made of plastic! How on earth could I feel anything? It was impossible.
Two more smaller thrusts, and he was done. He looked at me, with a curl to his lip. "You cunt," he said. "You evil cunt."
I shook my head as he stood, and pulled up his trousers, and fastened them.
"You're wondering how I knew what you were up to? Simple. Your bra was warm."
What on earth was Edward talking about? If only he'd take off this gag, we could have a proper conversation.
"Still trying to play dumb?"
That was hardly fair. I had no choice. I gave another, "Mmmm," just to make the point.
"Well, let me tell you how I found Lucy out. Last September, Elizabeth hosted a ladies bridge evening at our house. I made myself scarce for most of the time, but I did pop into the kitchen to make myself a coffee, and that's when I overheard the conversation through the serving hatch. They were talking about Lucy, so I kept quiet and listened in.
"Sally was there, from the Smugglers," he continued. "She was telling everyone how Lucy had breasts that were inflated with water to make them so enormous. And her hips and bum were the same. 'What a laugh,' Sally was saying, 'even her pussy is false and none of the men have a clue.'"
Edward's face revealed unimaginable rage. Right from my first night in Seacombe, I had considered that blokes would get pretty pissed off when they discovered the truth about Lucy's tits, but I'd never realised just how pissed off they might get.
"That's when the truth hit me," Edward continued. "I'd been diligently searching Lucy every time she came back aboard, when all she had to do was dissolve the drugs into hot water, and pump it into her inflatable breasts and arse. She'd taken me for sucker alright, but she didn't know who she'd taken on."
Edward's face softened temporarily. "You see, three years ago, our son got hooked on heroin and eventually, he died from an overdose." The look on Edward's face hardened again. "And I'd been helping Lucy smuggle the shit into the country."
He shrugged. "That's why she and her no good boyfriend had to die."
Gulp! This was a confession that, in my rather precarious position, I didn't particularly want to hear. But obviously, there was nothing I could say to dissuade him. There was nothing I could say, full stop.
"I had these friends from my army days - long time back. Oh, I was an officer, and they were only privates, but they owed me a favour; a big favour. I'd saved their miserable lives in the Falklands. I knew they'd gone bad ways since, so I went to Bournemouth and offered them five thousand pounds each to kill Lucy and Jason."
Gulp!
"They already knew Jason from when he'd lived in Bournemouth, and they'd had a few arguments with him then, so they were more than willing to do me a favour. Since Jason had got Lucy into the filthy business, I told them to make it a slow and painful death.
"On the other hand, I couldn't be as hard on Lucy. I told them to kill her quickly. It was probably an act of humanity on their part to give her a last request - knowing what she was like, there was only one thing she'd want."
He looked down at me, dispassionately. "And you come back on board my boat trying exactly the same trick, with your tits full of hot water mixed with drugs. You must think I'm absolutely stupid."
I vigorously shook my head from side to side. He had to understand I'd washed the stuff into the sea.
Instead, he shook his head, rather sadly. "I'm afraid you're going for a little swim - with a length of anchor chain around your feet."
Oh shit! Someone help me.
"I don't think so."
We were both taken by surprise at the voice behind Edward. He swivelled around but I could already see the young woman standing there wearing my dark-blue beach dress - how had she got that out of the bag without me noticing?
"Lucy," Edward gasped, but I guess I already knew that.
She was a slim woman without her Bustlet and Hiplet - with a pretty face and short blonde hair which had always been concealed from the people of Seacombe by her dark-brown wig.
At first sight, it was impossible to understand why so many people had confused her with me, but then she had that certain look in her eye, and that way of standing which I realised I had been sub-consciously mimicking, even though I had never met her! I found her whole appearance so incredibly attractive that it was also easy to see why countless men had enjoyed fucking her.
She took a step toward him, and he a step back.
"What do you want?" he said.
"Retribution," she said, and took another step towards him, and another and another. And with each step forward, he took a step back, until he was edging out of the saloon onto the rear deck.
Still they shuffled along until they were right at the stern of the boat. As the boat ploughed through the next wave with a judder, Lucy pushed at Edward with both hands, and her hands and arms simply went straight through his chest! The look of fear on Edward's face turned into absolute terror, and he lurched backward over the stern and disappeared from sight. There was an audible clunk, presumably as his head crashed onto the bathing platform below, and then silence - apart from all the other crashing that was the norm for a motor boat travelling at speed in a choppy sea.
Lucy came back inside and stepped over to me.
"Well, you took your time getting the confession," she said, ripping off the tape from my mouth. "Still, I'm glad you did. Even in the afterlife, I'd never been able to work out why Ed and Barry killed us - and you can't go on to the other place until the reason for your own death has been resolved. That's why I had to work so hard on you to take over my role."
"You mean you've been directing me - you made me dress up in your clothes?" I was gob-smacked. One simply could not have these kinds of conversations with a ghost. I must be hallucinating.
She smiled at me. "I couldn't MAKE you or anyone else do anything. Let's just say I exposed your latent desire, and when that was combined with your scientific craving for knowledge, it turned you into a passable detective. I'm afraid I also encouraged those drunken slobs to nick your car so you were stranded without your clothes."
She shrugged in an innocent way, and with such honesty, I could instantly see why everyone she had met had fallen in love with her.
She nodded down at my bag, where the thick wad of money could be seen through the transparent sides. "I see you've taken my money."
"It seemed a shame to waste it." Why was I justifying myself to a figment of my own imagination?
"Of course," she said with a shrug. "I can't take it with me, and you can have it as a reward for services rendered."
"But..."
"Why did I smuggle drugs?"
She accurately forecast my unasked question, but since she was in my imagination, that shouldn't have been a surprise.
I nodded.
She smiled. "You know, I think I really must have the devil inside me," she said. "I was always wicked, and drug smuggling was exciting, it was fun, and it made us a lot of money - for a short time. Jason was just a small-time villain - he hadn't got the brains to work everything out, or the guts to put it into action. But he had a lot of contacts, and I thought that if we did get caught, he could conveniently take the blame.
"He was also incredibly good at sex," she continued. "So when we moved to Seacombe, I really enjoyed playing the innocent wife, and portraying Jason as the evil husband. I didn't expect it all to end quite so soon, but still that's life - and death."
She gave me an angelic smile. It was easy to see why she'd fooled everyone into believing her an innocent. "Enjoy yourself," she said.
Then she quite simply disappeared. The dress she was wearing floated down to the floor, as though she had never been wearing it, and I was alone in a boat full of contraband, charging across the English Channel, having lost its owner overboard, with my hands handcuffed behind me, and having just witnessed a ghost disappear.
***
You can probably understand that afterwards I had a great deal of trouble trying to rationalise what happened on the Bolshoi that evening with any kind of scientific explanation. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that when I'd slit open the plastic bags in the surf, I had probably ingested sufficient of the contents to cause me to hallucinate.
Edward, of course, must have accidentally fallen overboard in the process of trying to throw me into the sea, and my imagination had built the dream around that, just as all my dreams since arriving in Seacombe had been constructed around other bits of information I'd picked up.
If Lucy and Jason had been using their cottage as a laboratory to extract the drug from the solution, then her clothes might well have been covered in a fine layer of dust, and I could have been inhaling it, right from that very first night that I'd worn them. Which could explain all of my vivid dreams.
Well, that's to say that the logical side of my mind concluded that was the explanation. My irrational side decided that there were more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of, even by my mind.
***
I guess that after Edward 'fell' overboard, I should have done something about rescuing him. Afterwards, I noticed there was a 'Man Overboard' button on the GPS autopilot that would presumably automatically bring the boat back to the exact spot where the button had been pushed. But in the dark, it would have still been almost impossible to find him.
And what if I had? With my hands handcuffed behind me, I could hardly have got him on board if he'd been unconscious. And if he'd been conscious, I would never have let him back on board, to give him another chance at murdering me.
Apart from the practicalities, one develops a certain hardness about someone who has tried to murder you. If I had found him swimming around in front of the boat, I'd probably have opened the throttle and run him down, rather than trying to save him.
But that's the kind of feeling one can never openly admit, so I had all kinds of excuses ready as the boat approached Seacombe. Fortunately, I'd found some bolt cutters in Edward's extensive tool kit, and eventually managed to remove the handcuffs without also removing any of my fingers. After that, I found some nylon gloves and spent some time cleaning every surface that my fingers might have touched whilst on board, for I hoped not to argue such philosophical issues with the local police force.
Thanks to the GPS autopilot, it all worked perfectly. It was around five am and still dark, but the autopilot cut speed as we headed into the river at Seacombe, it negotiated all the turns in the river up to the Smugglers Inn, and then did a neat U turn to halt directly next to the buoy where Bolshoi was normally moored. Once there, it adjusted engine speed so it kept precisely on station in the slight current as the tide slackened.
I was all set, with my Bustlet and Hiplet filled with hot water, ready to slip into the river and swim back to shore. Once there, I slipped on my dress and shoes, and walked up the hill to my cottage. My home.
***
The next day I learnt that Elizabeth had been waiting in the car at the Smugglers for the Bolshoi to arrive. When Edward failed to appear on deck to moor the boat, she had woken Sam who, in turn, had got hold of ferryman Jack, and they'd gone over to the Bolshoi to find her deserted.
Fortunately, they'd had the presence of mind to bring the Bolshoi back to the wharf by the inn, where they'd unloaded her contraband cargo and hidden it, before calling the coastguard, and reporting Edward missing.
Edward's body eventually turned up, several days later, and a lot further up the Channel, and the police were apparently satisfied that he'd accidentally fallen off the Bolshoi after suffering a massive heart attack. Case closed.
***
Incidentally, my stolen car was discovered in Bournemouth shortly after they recovered Edward's body. Fortunately, it was still in reasonable shape, so of course, I'd had to go all the way there to collect it. However, I took the opportunity to do a bit of shopping whilst I was there, and also send a few post cards and a letter, since there was no post box near to the cottage or the Smugglers.
As for me, I'm continuing to stay on in Seacombe, and still working lunchtimes at the Smugglers, and really enjoying myself. You see, as I previously mentioned, when Edward raped me, I could feel his prick inside the false vagina on my Hiplet.
I re-read the instruction manual, and it appeared there was a facility called Sensotouch built into both the Bustlet and the Hiplet. The skin had a touch-sensitive membrane, similar to that used on a computer screen, and the signals from that were amplified and then applied, by means of tiny electrodes against my own skin. What's more, the sensitivity could be adjusted by a remote control.
Up until that time, the sensitivity had been set to Level One. However, when I located the remote control and increased the sensitivity, I started getting feelings that were remarkably intense! A stroke of my breast would have me gasping; a finger slipped into my vagina would bring me to a shattering orgasm within a few minutes. No wonder Lucy had had such fun!
So I guess it was only natural that after I'd played with myself for a while, that I wanted to experiment with other people, and see what different kind of pleasures they could give me. All I can say is that being a barmaid at the Smugglers was a wonderful opportunity, both for the customers and me.
***
Oh, one last thing to say is that, a couple of weeks after Edward's death, two guys named Ed Little and Barry Tool from Bournemouth were charged with the murder, rape and torture of Lucy and Jason.
The pair protested complete innocence. However, during the subsequent trial, it was revealed that the police had found a condom floating in the toilet bowl in the cottage on the night of the murder; traces of recently coughed phlegm had also been found on the floor. DNA testing proved the pair of them had been there that night, and their subsequent conviction rested on that evidence.
Apparently, they had only been apprehended because of an anonymous letter posted in their home town. Although the police were never able to trace the sender, it was presumed to have been sent by someone they knew, to whom they had let slip their guilty secret. Fortunately, no one ever connected the letter with my visit to Bournemouth, the day before it was received!
So, the moral of the story is that when you can no longer trust in science, then trust your instincts. Oh, and also there's no such thing as an unsuitable job for a man!
Barbie Doll at the Station Newsagents
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Barbie was the kind of doll that every boy would want to play with. I certainly did, that first time I saw her on display in the station newsagents. But boys should remember that playing with dolls may lead them in unusual directions!
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as: crossdressing, sex and humour. So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
by Charlotte Dickles
I first saw Barbie at the railway station on a Wednesday afternoon, as I was on my way home from college. Wednesdays were always a half day off from lectures and tutorials, in order for us students to develop our sporting and other activities or, as I intended to do, get on with an essay due in the following Monday, and which I hadn't yet started.
Barbie was one of those dolls to die for - blonde hair, tumbling down to her shoulders, framing a gorgeous face with a pert, turned-up nose; large breasts barely contained within a white, scoop-necked tee shirt; and tight-fitting jeans hugging her well-rounded hips. A century ago, they'd have described her figure as hour glass. Nowadays, most women would have called her overweight, and most men would do as I did, and lust after her. Not that I held any hopes of getting anywhere with her.
For one thing, she was obviously much older than me - in her mid-thirties, I guessed. (I later found out she was a positively-ancient forty-two - that's older than my mother, for God's sake!). Oh yes, and she was kissing her husband goodbye before he went off though the ticket barrier.
But neither of those factors prevented me from doing what most males would, and having a good lech.
She turned to go into the station newsagents, and as her husband and I passed in opposite directions through the barrier, I decided that perhaps I might go in there and have a look through the magazines.
I want to tell you now, it was all quite innocent. Sure I fancied her like mad, but there was no way someone like me, who couldn't string together three words when trying to chat up girls of my own age, was going to make even an inane comment about the weather to this sex bomb. The idea of suggesting that, now her husband was safely on his journey, we could go back to her place and shag the afternoon away would have been laughable, if I'd even considered it. OK, I did consider it, but it was still fantasy.
Except that the newsagents was quite cramped, and we happened to meet in the aisle. She was on her way out after buying a Telegraph; I was on the way in, having carefully positioned myself so that our meeting was inevitable and we would have to squeeze by each other, giving me a bird's eye view down her tremendous cleavage as we did so.
As she realised we were about to collide, she gave me a quick smile and twisted sideways so we could pass. But her handbag, into which she'd been putting her loose change, slipped out of her hands and dropped to the floor, spreading its contents everywhere. She immediately squatted down and began stuffing everything back into the bag, and incidentally giving me the opportunity to see not just her cleavage, but her incredible torpedo-shaped breasts barely contained within a tiny, white bra.
"Oh, I'm awfully sorry," I said, lying through my teeth, and I instinctively squatted down with her to help collect her belongings. That rather destroyed my superb view, but I was more than rewarded by her glancing up and smiling at me. My heart was suddenly pounding like crazy (as though it hadn't been before).
"My own stupid fault," she said. "I really shouldn't carry so much in this bag."
I'd have been happy sharing that moment forever, squatting on the floor of the newsagents and picking up the usual collection of garbage that women keep in their handbags. Of course, my mind was frantically trying to think up something witty to say, something which perhaps would enable us to go to the station buffet and have a coffee, but as usual, I was mesmerised.
"Do you fancy a coffee?" she said.
Why didn't I think of those words?
"I was just thinking the same," I said. I handed her the last of the items from the floor and stood up. Squatting on her heels, she tottered a little as she tried to stand, and without thinking, I held out my hand to help.
"Thank you," she said, giving me another tremendous smile. "You're very strong," she added, as I pulled her up.
"Not really," I replied, and then kicked myself. I should have told her how I regularly worked out at the gym, and was incredibly fit. But then, as I was to find out later, honesty can be the best policy.
"OK, let's go get that coffee," she said, and led the way - not to the station buffet, but out of the station!
I imagined she would turn right outside the station, towards a coffee house further down the road. Instead, she turned left towards the car park.
"Don't you find that all the coffee served in this town tastes like mud?" she said, seeing the surprised look on my face.
"Well, yes," I said. "I much prefer Nescafe."
She burst into laughter, clearly thinking I had made a joke, and led the way towards a bright red BMW sports car.
"Wow!" I said. "Is this yours? Fantastic!"
"Jump in," she said as she unlocked it and glanced up at the sky. "It's temporarily stopped raining and normally I'd put the top down, but the neighbours might talk, so I think we'll keep it up, don't you?"
"We must avoid the neighbours talking at all costs," I said, smiling as I went along with what I thought was a little joke.
"Absolutely," she said, as she put the car into gear and we shot forward. "It would never do for the neighbours to start wondering what we were getting up to."
OK, so I was then able to work out what you had probably realised ages ago. She was seducing me! She had noticed my interest in her as I approached the ticket barrier. On the spur of the moment, she had decided not to leave the station. Instead, she went to buy a newspaper, even though she rarely read them. She had deliberately dropped her handbag, and leant forward as she picked up her things so I could look at her breasts. She wanted my body, or to be more accurate, she wanted the body of an innocent young male, and who could blame her for that?
It was only after our first round - which lasted over an hour - that we exchanged names. She was Barbara Healey - Barbie to her friends - and since I haven't yet introduced myself, I'm Joe Edwards. Nineteen years old, studying computing at college, and some might say a bit of a nerd - although I don't particularly look it. No, all my mates at college say I look like a twelve-year old, and they call me Baby Face, which does nothing for my confidence in chatting up girls. Now, it seems, my boyish looks were just what Barbie was looking for, and for the first time, I wasn't complaining.
Complaining? I was in heaven! She knew exactly how to ride her new mount for the maximum pleasure of all concerned. She knew how to delay me, whilst pleasuring herself, and how to pleasure me without prematurely bringing things to a conclusion. We were at it all afternoon, and by the end, I was in love.
Not in a "Get divorced and we will marry and live ever happy," way, but certainly in a, "You're the most incredible woman I have ever met, and I want make love to you for ever and ever."
"Can we meet up again?" I asked. There, I had done it; I had actually made a move to prolong our relationship.
"Next Wednesday?" she suggested. I had already told her of my free afternoon.
"Do we have to wait that long?" I whined.
"The weekends are definitely out and most other days are risky. Wednesday is the day when Barry is always late home, as he has to attend a weekly sales meeting."
"Wednesday afternoon it is," I readily agreed. I definitely did not want to meet up with Barry. "I can get the bus over here if that's better for you."
"Probably best if I meet you at the station, again..." Barbie started to say, but was interrupted by the phone ringing.
"230 19... Oh hi. Don't tell me - you're going to be late home again?"
Pause, whilst she listened.
"OK. Another lonely dinner for me..."
Her eyes suddenly widened and met mine.
"That was one of James's friends," she said into the phone. (She'd already told me of her son, James, who had gone off to university.)
"He's called Peter Barker," she continued, "not that you've ever shown the slightest bit of interest in any of James's friends. I was giving him a lift. You know the Barkers live quite close to us."
Pause.
"No! I am not getting up to my old tricks! I simply offered him a lift home. Ring up his parents if you don't believe me. Now go back to your precious sales meeting." She slammed the receiver down on its rest.
"Phew! I had to think on my feet there," she said. "He saw you getting into my car from the train. Damn! He's just so suspicious of everybody I meet."
Not without justification, I thought, but wisely did not say, but she must have detected something from my silence, for she added, "OK, you're not the first attractive young man I've known - in the biblical sense. It must be obvious I have a healthy appetite."
I grinned to try to break her tension. "I think that's reasonable accurate, although I suspect your husband wouldn't agree it was at all reasonable."
She grinned back. "At least he won't ring up Peter Barker's parents," she said. "They are so incredibly boring, he hates speaking to them. The problem is..."
She paused, and with a sudden wrenching in my heart, I knew what she was going to say.
"The problem is," she continued, "I wouldn't put it past Barry to hire a private detective to try to catch me out. I'm afraid that means an end to our planned wholesome and long relationship."
"Shit!" I cried. "No! It can't!" I had only just found sex and it was going to be taken away.
She gave me a sympathetic smirk. "Dear. You are smitten, aren't you? But you must see that if Barry has me watched, we're going to be found out?"
"Isn't there any way I could sneak into the house, perhaps whilst you're driving Barry to the station. The detective will be watching you..."
"And the neighbours will be watching you," Barbie said. "A young man lurking about until the residents leave their house unattended. I think you might end up at the police station."
"But there must be some way?" I was trying to stop a tear forming in my eye.
"Well..."
"Well, what?" I asked. "Have you thought of something?"
"Well," she repeated. "It's just you were almost crying then, and I thought how much you looked like a girl."
"A girl! Thanks a lot!" I felt bitterly hurt.
"Not like that. I know you're a man." She reached down, and grasped my prick, and it responded with predictable results. "It's just that..." she started to move her hand up and down my shaft, "I have an idea."
"Ugh!" I gasped, then, "What idea?"
Barbie knew how to hold a man, and already my balls were indicating that the pleasure to my prick in the next few minutes was of far greater importance than whether the world was about to end in one hour's time.
She said, "It's an idea that would only work if you really, really wanted to continue our relationship."
"Ugh!" Hell! That felt good. "Of course I do."
"You're only saying that. You'll tell me to get lost when I tell you my idea." She was shafting me a bit harder now.
"Ugh! God! Of course I won't. I'll do anything to carry on doing this."
"Anything?" She sank to her knees and her tongue protruded from her mouth, awaiting my answer.
"Anything," I agreed, and she leant forward and her tongue flicked the glans of my prick.
"You're kidding!" I said.
"You said you'd do anything," Barbie said.
"Anything to carry on with our relationship. There's just no way that would work."
"Trust me, it will," she said.
"It will draw attention to me," I said. "Not the reverse."
"We have at least three hours before Barry's return. Let's try it out."
"What?"
She smiled. "You heard. I want to disguise you as a woman. Now, go and take a shower."
An hour later, I stared at the reflection of the naked woman in the mirror. She had large breasts which gave delightful quivers as she breathed. She had medium-length blonde hair, and her face was exquisitely made up with bright red lipstick, black eyelashes and eye liner, pink eye shadow and a skin which appeared to have perfect complexion. She looked the kind of woman I would willingly fuck (all right, yes, that applies to most women).
Barbie's face appeared in the mirror next to the woman. "So what do you think? Is she a passable woman or not?"
The woman spoke, and that's when the illusion disappeared, for she had my voice. "She looks fantastic but the voice is useless."
"It will do for today, and I think there's something you can get to alter your voice. I need to show you how to apply make-up - it's not difficult but you will need to practice over and over. The breasts are good, aren't they?"
I had to admit that the breasts were not only incredibly good - they were the most shocking part of my conversion.
It wasn't so much that the skin-coloured, long-necked vest with large, liquid-filled boobs looked, felt and behaved exactly like the real thing. The neck came right up to the edge of my jaw line, so my Adam's apple was invisible, and it had all been stuck down with a green gel which apparently stopped perspiration from forming beneath. A Bustlet, she called it.
But it was shocking because there was only one explanation why Barbie had such a product in her house - her boobs were as phony as mine! I was wearing her spare Bustlet.
The idea that all afternoon she had been wrapping false tits around my cock and I'd been sucking on them like a new born baby came as a bit of a surprise. On the other hand, I'd suspected from the start that they were false, only in a rather less obvious way.
So Barbie spent some time explaining how to apply make-up to achieve the same brilliant affect she had done, and she made me practice each operation. Then she suggested putting on some clothes.
"Nothing too fancy," she said as she noticed the look of apprehension on my face. "White tee shirt and denim jeans will do very nicely - the same as I was wearing this afternoon."
"You mean you're not expecting me to wear a skirt?" I was relieved.
She laughed. "Most women don't wear skirts nowadays, except for special occasions. Tee shirt and denims are fine. They are also quite anonymous. If I was to lend you one of my skirts, someone might see it and say, 'That's exactly the same skirt as Barbie has,' and you can't buy my clothes from Marks and Sparks."
The fear hit me in the stomach, and I could hear panic in my voice as I said, "What do you mean, 'Someone might see.' I'm not going to wear these outside this house."
"If we're going to make this work, you're going to have to wear them outside, sooner or later. I was going to suggest we get you dressed, and then I drop you off at your flat as I go to pick up Barry from the station."
"Drop me off, dressed like this? But I'd have to walk along the pavement and into the house and up the stairs, and people I know are bound to see me and..."
She held a finger to my lips. "It's up to you, lover. If you want to call this whole thing off then I shall be sorry, but I'll understand. But if you want to carry on shagging me every Wednesday, then you have to pluck up your courage and go through with it. With the breasts, the wig and the make-up you look so different. No one who sees you is going to think that you are really the Joe that they know."
I thought a little and nodded. "OK, I'll give it a go. If I'm outed as soon as I get out of the car, it clearly wasn't going to work anyway."
"Attagirl!" Barbie said.
She turned to a chest, opened a drawer and started pulling out frilly white underwear, tossing it onto the bed. From her wardrobe, she took out a pair of jeans, tee shirt, and a pair of high-heeled sandals.
"The underwear may be a bit frillier, the jeans more stylish, but apart from the bra there's nothing here which is so different from men's wear," she said.
"What about the high-heeled shoes?" I pointed.
"Goodness," she said, "these aren't high-heels, they're the shortest heels I have - they can only be two inches - that's almost flat to me."
"Two-inch heels are not flat to me."
"Oh don't be so picky. Come on, I'll show you how to slip into your bra."
Thirty minutes later, I was moving around Barbie's kitchen, making us both a cup of tea. I smiled to myself as I realised we never did get that coffee she'd offered.
"I've put your money and your keys into this handbag," Barbie said, coming into the room. "All your clothes and everything else are in this bag. She held out a shopping bag. We have about an hour before we need to drop you off and pick up Barry from the station. I suggest..."
I didn't hear whatever she was going to suggest as we heard a key turn in the lock, the front door open and someone come in. I stared at Barbie, whose face reflected my own horror.
"Hi Barbie. I got home early than I expected. Are you..."
The man who came into the kitchen - and it really couldn't be anyone other than Barry - broke off as he saw me.
"Hi," he said, staring down at my tits and coming forward with his hand held out for me to shake. "I'm Barry, Barbie's husband."
I couldn't believe it. If he'd looked me in the eye, he'd have seen the sheer terror there, but he did not. He remained staring at my tits, and they obligingly wobbled as we shook hands.
"This is Jo," Barbie said. "She's here to... clean for us."
"Clean?" For the first time since seeing me, Barry looked at Barbie. Good job he still didn't look into my eyes, as he'd have seen the terror turn into astonishment.
"Oh Barry! We've been talking about getting a cleaner for ages. I decided to do something about it."
"Oh right, well..." This time he did turn and look me carefully up and down, but with obvious approval. "I can see you've made a good choice. Where do you live, Jo?"
I had my terror under control now, and I paused a little as I tried to develop a suitable voice to answer his question. Apart from saying "Hi," in a sort of soft, breathy voice as we'd shaken hands, I hadn't said a word and I definitely was not up to answering questions about my address.
"I think a rather more important question," Barbie said, "is that you told me you wouldn't be home until eight, and here you are at six, forty-five."
"We decided to postpone part of our meeting," Barry said.
"Then why didn't you ring me to ask for a lift from the station?"
Barry gulped a little. "I told you. I wanted to give you a surprise."
"Obviously not the kind of surprise," Barbie said, "which involves a bunch of flowers or a bottle of champagne. Why not tell the truth. You came home expecting me to be in bed with James's friend, didn't you?"
"I thought the chap I saw you with was older than that."
My opinion of Barry improved slightly for at least identifying me as an adult.
"But you still didn't believe me, did you?"
Barbie suddenly turned to me, winked and said, "Jo. What must you think of us? I'm sorry, but I think it's better if perhaps you leave now, and Barry and I can continue our discussion on our own."
"Leave?" Again I managed to make it a soft, breathy gasp rather than a spoken word.
Barbie nodded. "I think it's best, don't you?"
Did I? Out of the frying pan of cuckolded husband returning unexpectedly home and finding wife's lover dressed in her clothes - and into the fire of going out in public wearing women's clothes, finding a bus stop, waiting for a bus, travelling into town and then walking to my flat. I wasn't certain which was worst.
But then common sense broke in. The latter could only result in ridicule, the former in physical violence. I nodded, and had the sense to look around for the handbag Barbie had sorted out for me, and the shopping bag containing my clothes. I picked them up and went to the front door, with Barbie accompanying me.
"Thank you so much for coming to be interviewed," Barbie said in a voice loud enough for Barry to hear. "I really am sorry you had to witness our row, but we're not always like that. I hope it doesn't change your mind about coming to work for us. Give me a ring tomorrow."
She opened the door and stepped outside with me. "I'm sorry you'll have to go home on the bus," she said in a much quieter voice. "And sorry about dropping you in it about the cleaner's job. It came on the spur of the moment, but I actually think it will turn out quite well. It will give you the perfect excuse to come around every Wednesday.
"The other thing is," she added, "Barry was absolutely fooled by you, so you should have no problems in pulling the whole thing off. Back to my row, now. Bye." Before I could say a word, she was through the door and had closed it in my face.
Barbie may have thought there was no problem in pulling the whole scam off, but I was stranded in the middle of an upmarket housing estate somewhere - and I didn't know where - which must be at least ten miles away from my flat. Oh yes, and I was wearing women's clothing, with high-heeled shoes and a pair of melon-sized boobs poking out the top of my tee shirt. Great!
"Oh, Jo!"
I turned. Barbie had pushed her head out of the front door again.
"I forgot to tell you the best way to walk to the bus stop from here is to go along Fir Rise," she pointed to a turning further along the road, and followed it with a number of other directions to the bus stop. "Bye."
The door shut before I had a chance to repeat her directions or even return her goodbye.
I sighed and started walking.
Barbie had given me brief instruction on walking in heels, and I was rather pleased that I could manage to walk along the road without falling flat. But within twenty yards, my ankles started to ache! Damn! I tried to remember what Barbie had told me - settle back and thrust your pussy forward. Put the weight down on your heel, rather than trying to walk on your toes. My ankles still ached, and now my calves had joined in.
I followed her first direction without problem, but then got confused about what I should do next. Within a minute, I was hopelessly lost! Damn! I was going to have to ask someone.
I could feel my breathing quicken as I prepared what I was to say, and more importantly, how I was going to say it. "Can you tell me the way to the bus stop," doesn't sound difficult but you try saying it in a female voice. I rehearsed it a few times as I walked, looking for someone in the deserted streets to ask.
"Excuse me." A car had pulled up just next to me and the driver had wound down his window and interrupted my concentration.
"Hello." There, I hadn't even rehearsed that word and I managed to say it all right. I leant over so I was level with the driver's window.
"I wonder if you can tell me the way to Fir Clo... Bloody hell!" The driver was staring at my chest, and I realised I must be giving him the same kind of view as I had seen in Barbie in the newsagents. I raised my body to block his view, and he had the grace to blush.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm lost myself. I was looking for the bus stop." My words may have sounded a little masculine, but after the butcher's he'd just had, he wasn't going to start quibbling.
"It's just behind you, love. You should have turned right instead of left. There's a bus waiting but I think he's just about to move off."
I turned and stared. Sure enough, the bus was standing there a mere fifty yards away, and I could hear the hissing noise as he closed the doors.
"Stop!" I didn't care whether my voice sounded masculine. This was my only hope of getting out of this maze, and I had to catch that bus. I sprinted towards it, feeling my boobs flying up and down as I ran. My ankles were on fire, no, they were exploding with pain, but I had to catch that bus. My calves were screaming at me. Any minute now, they would pack up.
But they didn't. The bus didn't move, and as I ran up to it, the driver obligingly opened his doors for me to get on board. I got on, bent over double from lack of breath, until I looked up and saw the same look on the bus driver's face as I'd just seen on that of the car driver. I stood up. "Single into town, please."
"We're not going into town, love. You need the other side of the road for that. It'll be along in five minutes."
I grimaced at him but it really wasn't his fault. "Thank you."
"No," he said. "Thank you."
I looked puzzled.
"Best view I've had all day," he said.
After that, I really had no more terror about being outed. All I had to do was to bend over slightly, and every male would immediately transfer all thought to their balls. It was best, I quickly realised, to avoid contact with females who would not be so easily fooled.
Bloody buses! It took me over an hour to get to my flat. But all fears I'd had of being recognised as I walked up the stairs were groundless. The stairs were devoid of life, as they were most days.
I rang Barbie next day.
"Hi sexy," she cooed. "I'm so sorry about what happened last night, but I think we got out of it all right, don't you, and we had so much fun yesterday afternoon, it was well worth a bit of inconvenience. I've been feeling randy all morning, waiting for your call."
I suppose I could have told her it was all right for her - she had not gone through the nightmare to get home that I had, but somehow it seemed rather churlish. After all, it was not her fault her husband had come home early, and he could have arrived in far more compromising circumstances.
"Me too," I said, catching her mood and returning it. "You were fantastic!"
"Do you know what I'm doing with my hand?" she asked, and for the next fifteen minutes proceeded to tell me!
I was telephoning her from the college refectory within hearing distance of half the college, so I was severely limited in the words I could use and, especially, the actions I could take upon my own body to bring some kind of relief. Her talk made me feel bloody ready for it, though!
"Barry tried to make it up after our row," Barbie eventually said. "He was very interested in you."
"What did he say?" I asked, alarmed. Surely, if he had sussed me out, he'd have thumped my head in?
"He asked me a few questions about you - your experience about the job and everything - and I had to make up most of it. After all, if I'd interviewed you, I'd have asked those questions. But essentially I told him you were hard up student, and you had to get a job as a cleaner in order to make ends meet."
"That's virtually the truth."
"I think he fancies you."
"You're kidding me."
"Blokes." I could imagine Barbie shaking her head in bewilderment. "I spend half my life making myself look beautiful, and he fancies a bloke with boobs and a bit of make-up."
"We're easily fooled," I said, a slightly pointed remark in view of her false boobs.
"That's true," she said, "but it was a good job that I, rather than Barry, saw you through the kitchen window as you walked off."
"Why's that?"
"I think we'll have to improve things in the lower half."
I didn't know what she meant. "What?"
"You weren't quite the right shape for a woman."
I was quite hurt. "Most blokes seemed to think I was."
"After they'd leered at your tits, of course they did. But looking at you from a distance, as the neighbours will, you need wider hips and thighs."
"That sounds awfully complicated to achieve," I said.
"The company who make the Bustlet make something called a Hiplet. It's for men like you who want to look like women. It gives them more shape, with padding around the hips and thighs."
"I suppose that's exactly what I need."
"It also hides your cock, and gives you a vagina."
"What!" I gasped.
"It's alright," she laughed. "You can release the gusset and let your rod out. That sounds quite erotic actually, making love to a she-male." She then went on to describe exactly what she would do to that she-male.
A large parcel was delivered early on Saturday morning. Inside was the Hiplet she'd ordered. It was a lot like a skin-coloured, long-legged control brief, except it had padding to make the hips and thighs wider, not narrower. And Barbie was right - it had a cunt!
It was quite a clever design. You had to feed you cock and balls into a pouch on the inside of the gusset and then pull it through your legs and fasten it into a clip on the rear half. It all felt very uncomfortable as I did so, and my balls seemed to go places where they were never designed to go, but once it was in place, it was fine. I decided to shave my legs, as it looked incongruous to have smooth sexy legs from just above the knee, and hairy legs from there downwards. Then I slipped on the Bustlet and the wig.
I'd been fastidiously practising the make-up lessons Barbie had given me, and by now I was quite accomplished, so by the time I stood up and looked in the full length mirror - Hey Presto - there was a nude woman standing facing me.
There had been a pack of pills, labelled "Voice-Changer Capsules, included in the same parcel. I read the instructions then slipped one into my mouth. For a few seconds, it felt like it was burning my throat, but afterwards my voice was quite shrill.
Barbie's jeans were an incredibly tight fit over my wider shape, but when I was dressed, I had to admit that my overall look was very much better.
"You look fantastic, baby," I muttered. Unlike Wednesday, my voice was all female. My illusion was complete.
I was plucking up the courage to go out as Jo onto the busy shopping streets - mingling with people, talking with shop assistants, mimicking the traits of other women and generally gaining confidence prior to next Wednesday.
Then I remembered I had to get on with my neglected essay this weekend and my heart dropped. This would not be the first time I had missed a submission date, and my tutor had made it very plain that this would not be allowed to continue.
Reluctantly, I decided to get changed back to being Joe, and go into college where I needed to look up some references.
Why get changed? The idea smacked me between the eyes, and the blood raced through my head. I could go as Jo.
In the old days, when they employed porters to man the entrance, it would never have worked. They knew every student by sight and no one else would get in unless as someone's guest. Nowadays, a swipe card combined with passkey did the same job, which meant "Jo" would be able to gain access on Joe's card.
I plucked up my courage, gathered together my things, and left to catch the train to the college.
"Excuse me, you're not related to Joe Edwards, are you? Only you look incredibly like him."
I looked up into the eyes of Clare Walker, one of the many pretty girls in the college that, as Joe Edwards, I lusted after. Her photo had recently appeared in the student mag and I had frequently jerked off looking at it.
I'd already prepared my answer for just such an eventuality. "I'm his sister - also a Jo. We're twins."
"Hi." She smiled. "I'm Clare Walker, I'm on the same course as Joe. I thought non-identical twins usually had little resemblance to each other but you two really are almost identical."
"So everybody says," I said. "I think Joe hates it as it makes him look so baby-faced. Apparently that's what all the other students call him."
"I know," she said. "He looks a lot younger than you and I feel quite sorry for him, but he's never shown any interest in me. He's not gay, is he?"
"No." I shook my head a little too emphatically. "He's definitely not gay."
Wanting to change the subject and feeling so at ease with her, I put into words something I had never before dared to say. "That's a superb photo on your student card."
We all had to wear our student ID cards on lanyards whilst in college and hers bore the same photo as had appeared in the mag which I had found so attractive.
She squirmed. "I think it's embarrassing. It makes me look like a little girl who's just been given a big ice cream. I keep meaning to get it changed." This time it was she who changed the subject by glancing down at my work and saying, "That looks like the essay we have to hand in on Monday."
I smiled at her. Thank heavens I'd used the time on the train to think about a few of the questions that might crop up. "I'm giving Joe a hand with it."
She smiled back and we got chatting about the essay. She was so helpful; I wondered why I'd never been friendly with her in the past.
"Hi Clare."
We looked up; it was Wayne Clark - WC he was called.
"Hi Wayne," Clare said. "This is Joe Edwards' sister, who's also called Jo."
"Hi... Wayne." Damn! I'd almost called him "WC".
"Hi Jo. I don't think I've seen you here before."
And so the day went on. I got lots of useful hints for the essay, and the friendly chat made writing the essay so much more fun than when I did it on my own in the flat.
When I woke up Sunday morning, I again got dressed in my Jo gear. After all, I told myself, I needed to be absolutely convincing when I went round to Barbie's on Wednesday. It would be disastrous if her neighbours suspected I was a man.
I was intending to stay in the flat to finish my essay, since I didn't need to do any more research in the library. However, as soon as I sat down at my laptop and started to write, I was bored and restless and thought how much nicer it would be to work in the library.
So after five minutes, I decided I'd go into college anyway and work there.
Wayne asked me for a date!
Can you believe it?
We'd been having a nice chat, and by that time, I'd got used to blokes going cross-eyed as they tried to both look me in the eye and stare down my cleavage. (By the way, did I tell you that on the way home yesterday, I'd gone into town and bought some more tee shirts - similar to the one I already had, but in different colours, and with even more-revealing necklines?)
Then right out of the blue he asked me if I fancied going to the disco in the student union on Monday evening. I was absolutely overjoyed. Sure, some guys in similar circumstances would be upset, but to me it was confirmation I was a convincing woman, and I need have no fears for Wednesday.
I smiled at Wayne and thanked him for asking me, but told him I already had someone special, whereupon he apologised for asking. Isn't it strange how you see different sides of people, when you're looking from a different perspective? I'd always thought Wayne rude and arrogant - certainly, he was one of those who took great delight in belittling me - yet now he was apologising to me for simply asking a question.
"There's nowt as queer as folk," my Yorkshire grandfather used to quote, and I can see he was absolutely right.
As I'd gone through the weekend, I'd had to develop my cover for Joe, giving a bit more padding to the basic stuff I'd come out with on Saturday morning. I'd decided it would be best if he'd caught a nasty cold, which was the reason why Jo was having to fill in for him.
So it seemed only natural that it was Jo who went to the Monday morning lecture in his place. There were so many students who attended each lecture, all on different syllabuses, that I had no problems in slipping in without the lecturer wondering why a new student had appeared.
Clare saw me and came to sit next to me, and then so did Wayne. I was really pleased that I hadn't upset him by refusing his date. If Joe'd had the courage to ask someone, he'd have been mortified to have been refused.
The next two days worked out fine with Jo continuing to fill in for Joe. But it was Wednesday morning when things went haywire, when I attended the Dr Markson's eleven am tutorial.
Attending tutorials as Jo had been a bit trickier than lectures, since the classes were smaller and the tutors knew their individual students, but after explaining about Joe's sickness, none had any problems in allowing me to stay so I could pass on my acquired knowledge to Joe.
But Dr Markson was uncharacteristically late for his tutorial and, after ten minutes of chatting to Wayne and Clare - we'd very much become a threesome - the Bursar, Rick Brooks, came in to tell us that Dr Markson had been taken ill and the tutorial was cancelled. I certainly wasn't displeased, since I was getting quite excited about my impending visit to Barbie.
The other students, including Wayne and Clare, were equally delighted at commencing their free half-day ninety minutes early, and they all disappeared in about ten seconds, which left me and the Bursar alone, and I realised he was staring at my tits in a most unprofessional way.
As I've already said, I'd quickly got used to it, but at the same time I realised there are some situations it's better for an attractive girl not to be in, and this was one of them.
I stuffed my books in my bag, slipped it over my shoulder, and gave him a polite, little smile as I headed towards the door.
"I don't think we've met before, er..." he peered at my student card, "...Joe?"
"No, I'm standing..."
"I can see you're standing," he quipped with a smile, "and very nice you look, too. But I also see we've made a mistake with your student card. We've misspelt your name."
In an instant, he'd reached forward, slid the card sideways out of its badge holder and in so doing "accidentally" brushed my nipple.
"Oh!" I gasped.
I guess I'd better explain here a little more about the Bustlet and Hiplet. They have a membrane embedded on the surface like a touch-sensitive computer screen, and the signals are then decoded and applied to tiny electrodes on the inside of the skin. It means that even though my breasts were projecting several inches from my chest, I could still feel a touch as though it was on my own skin. My nipples were particularly sensitive, and yes, I have played with them at home - along with other parts of my new anatomy - and yes, it's very enjoyable, but that's all beside the point.
The point is that when he brushed my nipple, although I was taken by surprise, I didn't find it unpleasant. Well, actually, it was bloody nice. So nice, in fact, that whilst the right course of action would have been to react angrily, in fact I may have slightly smiled.
It was the only encouragement he needed. He lifted both hands to cup my breasts and gently squeeze and roll both nipples between finger and thumb.
"Ugh!" Another, delighted gasp. "Stop it," I told myself, but unfortunately could not voice it in those same words that would tell him, because I desperately did not want it to stop. Instead, I pushed my breasts further out towards him.
He pulled my tee shirt over my head, and yanked my bra up and over my tits, letting them hang free. He sank to his knees, applied his lips to my left nipple and sucked.
"Urr!" I moaned.
He switched his mouth to my right nipple, lifted his hand to my left breast and rolled the nipple again.
"Urr! Urr! Urr!"
I could feel my knees collapsing, but he caught me before I fell to the ground and pushed me backwards into a chair. Before I even realised it, he was standing before me with this huge, horrible prick thrusting towards my mouth. It looked about twice the size of my own (that is, Joe's) prick!
"No!" I managed to say it that time, and shook my head and rapidly closed my mouth to emphasise it.
He quickly pushed his prick down so it was aiming between my tits, and I obligingly squashed them together, in the same way that Barbie had done for me last Wednesday. He thrust inwards and upwards and for the first time, I had the novelty of seeing the glistening, purple dome of a man's prick emerge from between my tits, and only inches away from my face.
It should have been horrifying; instead, it was not just fascinating, but highly erotic as well. His prick disappeared into the crevice, and then came lurching back up; and again; and again. My nipples were now being viciously rolled and squeezed by my own thumbs and fingers, urgently pushing myself to orgasm before he shot his load.
"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" he grunted.
"Urr! Urr! Urr!" I moaned, and then, "URR!" - "URR!" - "URR!" - "A-A-A-A-G-G-G-H-H-H-H!!!!!"
"Y-E-E-E-A-A-A-H-H-H!!!" he shouted, and ejaculated straight into my face!
It hit me under the nose, blocking my nostrils and then shooting upwards into my left eye. Half blinded, I opened my mouth to breathe and his next load went straight inside it, causing me to choke. The rest of his cum covered my lips and chin. His final load hit me on the forehead and spread itself all over my hair.
"One final smile for the camera," he said.
"What?" I blearily lifted my right eyelid to see him holding his smart phone in front of me.
Click, it went, and I realised that was not the only click I'd heard in the last few minutes.
"Just for my private collection," he said. "Apart from one, of course."
He was zipping up his trousers and turning towards the door, when he suddenly bent down and picked up something from the floor. He held it out for my inspection; it was my student card.
"I'll get the name corrected," he said with a smile, slipping it into his pocket before going out of the door.
Thank God the wig was synthetic!
I was able to wipe off most of the semen with a damp tissue, and then I used my hair brush to remove the remaining traces. Fortunately, the ladies toilets were empty during what was left of the ninety minute session, and I was able to wash my face, reapply my make-up and put my wig back on before anyone else appeared.
I had intended to go directly to Barbie's, but decided that first I ought to go home and have a shower. But before I could do any of that, I had to recover my student card from the Bursar. I went to his office where Miss Primrose, the Bursar's secretary, sat in her normal tweed skirt, twin set and pearls, with her hair tightly pulled into a bun. Most of the students called her Miss Prim!
"Hello, you must be Miss Edwards," she said. It was the first time I'd seen a pleasant smile on her face. "I've made the corrections to your student card. You should have come to us before, instead of waiting all this time. It's a wonder the mistake wasn't discovered by one of the staff. Your new photograph has come out really nice."
"What!" I stared at the card she held before me. Thank heavens he hadn't used that final photograph, with my face covered with cum. Instead, it was one he must have taken as I'd reached my orgasm. My face was alive with happiness and excitement, my mouth wide open as I screamed, my eyes open wider than I'd have thought possible, with my eyes sparkling with pleasure.
"That makes you one of the Brooks' Babes," she said. "We're virtually sisters now, but most of us don't have such good photographs." She held her ID card up for inspection.
She, too, was clearly in the throes of an orgasm, but her eyes were almost closed and her mouth gaped in a rather unattractive way, as might mine if my photo had been taken an instant before or an instant after.
My mouth must have gaped as wide as hers did in the photograph. "Oh. I hadn't realised... I thought..."
"You thought that Miss Prim could never enjoy sex?" Another smile. "I only dress like this to fulfil Rick's fantasies. The very idea of giving Miss Prim a crashing orgasm turns him wild."
"Oh." I couldn't think of anything else to say.
"I think your photograph is even better than Clare Walker's," she continued.
"Clare Walker?" I repeated, my mind reeling hopelessly. Then I remembered Clare's photo which made her look like a little girl who's just been given a big ice cream. It wasn't ice cream she'd been given - simply the Bursar's cream in its normal hot and steamy form. She, too, was one of Brooks' Babes! No wonder I'd found the photograph so erotic that I'd continually wanked over it.
Miss Prim looked at the clock on the wall. "Your half-day started five minutes ago. You'd better get off unless, that is, you'd prefer to stay all afternoon." She nodded her head towards the inner office. "The Bursar has a meeting with the Principal at the moment. You can bet when they've finished they'll call me in to take something down. They both say I have wicked shorthand." She curled her fingers and thumb, and moved her hand in the traditional gesture.
"Er, no, I think I'd better get off," I said, grabbing the student card and heading for the door.
"One last thing," she called after me. "Mum's the word about Brooks' Babes. Not a word to anyone who isn't a member."
On the train journey home, I thought long and hard about what had happened that morning. The logical part of me said I should feel defiled and abused; that I should report it to the authorities, even though it would mean my own position being exposed.
But it had been fun!
The more I thought about it, the more I grinned like a Cheshire cat. Sex as a woman had been very different from when I had sex with Barbie. The urgency to shoot my semen into a woman's body to make babies was simply not there. Instead, it had been all about pleasuring not just myself but my man (presumably because evolution said that women needed them to keep coming back for more, and getting into all that fatherhood stuff).
And I had my student card photograph to prove I was one of Brooks' Babes.
But as I smiled over that, the realisation hit me. My own name and photograph, and presumably my sex, had been changed in the college records. It would not be Joe Edwards who got a certificate at the end, it would be Jo Edwards! When I applied for jobs after qualifying, I'd have to do it as a female! I would have to remain living as a female for the rest of my life.
"Would that be such a bad thing?"
I'd murmured the words quietly to myself, as though surprised I had even had to form the question. Until a few days ago, I would never have contemplated it, but since then, my life had become so much more enjoyable. What I had really loved over these last days was finding it so much easier to talk to people.
And have sex.
It was undeniable. It had taken me nineteen years to have sex as a man; as a woman, I'd been asked for a date within a couple of days, and given a tit fuck in less than a week. I knew, there'd be no shortage of volunteers to give me whatever I needed. It was strange, I thought, that even Barbie was expecting me to arrive and leave as a woman, and that she'd been excited about sex with a she-male in-between.
Perhaps, I thought, I should stop worrying and see what the world brings.
By going home to have a shower, it meant I'd missed meeting Barbie at the station after she'd dropped off Barry, but we'd already agreed that if that happened, I would simply get the bus out to her estate and walk round to her house. No one would query a girl student working as a cleaner for Barbie.
I managed the bus journey and the walk far better this time, but of course, it meant I was much later than we'd been the previous week. I hoped Barry had telephoned to say he'd be late home again, and so give Barbie and me the maximum screwing time. With a female cleaner in the house, he should have little fear that his wife was with her lover.
I rang the doorbell, and Barry opened the door!
"Hi Jo," he said. "Come on in."
"Hi Barry," I replied, trying not to let my mouth sag open in surprise. "Have you a day off work?"
"My time is pretty flexible," he said. "I normally have a sales meeting on Wednesday afternoon, but the boss is sick so it's been cancelled. I thought I'd hang around and make certain you have everything you need. Barbie can be a bit hopeless when it comes to organising cleaning."
"I'm sure I'll make out alright," I said, trying to think what a cleaner would say.
"I'm sure you will, but I think it's best if we first go around the house and I explain what needs cleaning."
"Er, right..."
"Come into the kitchen and I'll show you the special floor tiles. I'm afraid they have to be hand-scrubbed but at least it means there's plenty of work for you to do. Barbie said you needed to make as much money as you could; shall we say you do four-and-a-half hours today?"
"Er, well..."
"That's fine then."
He led the way through to the kitchen, where Barbie was looking murderous as she watched a jug of coffee being made.
"Hi Jo, I'm glad you decided not to let our little argument put you off coming."
"Hello, Barbie," I said, uncertain what else to say.
She directed a black look at Barry and said, "Look Barry, I can look after Jo. You don't have to hang around." She turned back to me and said, "I'll get you started on something simple."
"Barbara," Barry said, "I have just told Jo how hopeless you are at running the house. I have arranged to have the afternoon off to look after her, and I've instructed her on what needs doing so I'd rather you didn't contradict me."
Noticing Barbie's face getting even blacker, he quickly added, "Perhaps it's better if you went out whilst Jo is here. We really can't have another argument in front of the staff, and we can hardly ask her to leave."
For a moment, I thought that Barbie was going to kill him, but then she abruptly stood up, grabbed her handbag and left the kitchen. Seconds later, the front door slammed, and a minute after that, her car roared off leaving me behind to scrub the floors.
"Right," Barry said turning to me with a smile. "Now I've got rid of her, we can forget about the bloody floor tiles. Shall we go upstairs and I'll show you what needs to be done on the bed?"
Big Busts - The Real Thing? A Review
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SYNOPSIS: I first created the Big Busts shop in a story in 2002. I was frustrated as a writer that I couldn't find the kind of products which would transform my male characters into realistic-looking women. So, I set out to design my own fictional items which I developed in that and subsequent stories.
But look around the internet now, and you'll find many items which bear more than a passing resemblance to the fictional products in my stories. So I thought it would be both interesting and useful to review the real life items which are similar to Big Busts Products.
Big Busts - The Real Thing? A Review
by Charlotte Dickles
I first created the Big Busts shop in 2002, in a story of the same name posted on Fictionmania, writing as Marianne Nettes. I was frustrated as a writer that I couldn't find the kind of products which would transform my male characters into realistic-looking women. So, I set out to design my own fictional items which I developed in that and subsequent stories.
In real life at that time, falsies would be placed inside a bra or stuck onto the chest. Unless worn with a high neckline, a quite obvious join was exposed between real skin and plastic breast. There were panties with padding to enhance the hips and bum, but neither products gave any resemblance of being a real body part.
But look around the internet now, and you'll find many items which bear more than a passing resemblance to the fictional products in my stories. It would be nice to think that their developers followed my fictional lead, but I have no evidence to suggest that, and in all likelihood, there's absolutely no connection.
Still, I thought it would be both interesting and useful to review the real life items which are similar to Big Busts Products, and I have given prizes for what I consider the best. I must state that, in making these judgements, I have no personal experience or business connection with any of them, and can only comment upon the details obtained from their websites. However, if readers do have personal experience, or know of other products, please PM me or add them as a comment and I'll incorporate them here. I had intended to include pictures from the websites, but there may be copyright issues and it's easy enough for readers to click on the links for themselves.
WEBSITES
I think it's important to state at the outset that the products advertised may appear sophisticated, but that sophistication is not generally borne out by their websites. A website is a company's shop window - the only way by which new customers can judge it. Most have poor navigation, inadequate descriptions, a lack of clear photographs of the actual products in use (for example, showing "with and without" pictures of men from different angles)), lack of any information about the company, such as their legal name and address, and many are out of date. You may be considering buying a product worth hundreds or, often thousands of pounds/dollars/euros, but you get little confidence from most of the websites that the items will meet billed expectations. If you're thinking of laying out that kind of money, I can only say, "Let the buyer beware."
One of the notable exceptions is Hourglass Figure's website which gives me a confidence that few of the other suppliers do. It has company name and addresses, contact telephone numbers, a picture and details of the owner, "with and without" photographs, and user reviews, combined with simple, effective navigation. It's not rocket science - simply the kind of standard I expect of all respectable sites.
UPDATE: Well, I don't know whether Femskin read my comments, but they now have a new and very impressive website at Femskin. Unfortunately, it still does not show before and after photographs of men wearing the products - indeed, because the models are wearing masks, it's impossible to determine whether they are men or women! Castle Supply's website is also of high quality, and has some photographs of their use by customers. It appears the message is getting through.
Now, let's move onto my reviews.
BEST PRODUCT
The first item I review is not particularly similar to any of the Big Bust products in my stories but this product takes an innovative approach to try to make a man "turn into" a woman, in the same way that I have tried to do in fiction.
The device is called the Vee-String Vagina Prosthesis from Castle Supply. It's the basic shape of a G-string, but has the appearance of a vagina. It can even be colour matched to your own skin. There are several versions, giving extra features such as:
- a "Bladder" to allow urination;
- a Sheath which goes up the anus to allow "vaginal" penetration; and
- a "Masturbator" version where the head of the penis protrudes in the same position as the clitoris to allow both urination and "female" masturbation.
There are a lot of user reviews on Castle's website, and almost all rave about the Standard, Bladder and Masturbator versions (particularly the latter), with some users wearing them continuously for days on end. Some have even glued them semi-permanently in place with medical adhesive - remind you of anything? However, not many seem to rave over the Sheath. Anatomically, I suspect having a vagina in the place where your arse normally is looks a little strange. Maybe the idea I use in the Hiplet of having sufficient padding beneath the groin to allow space for a small vagina is still best.
The Masturbator version looks particularly interesting (although from the photographs I've seen, the hood could be a little larger to disguise what is obviously the head of a penis).
The downside of all the products is that, just like a G-string, the item is tied in place with a cord passing around the waist and between the legs, which not only ruins the realism of the product, but can also be uncomfortable, according to some reviews. You can find some suggested modifications to that on the internet. Of course, perhaps the best way of overcoming this would be to mold the device into a flesh-like brief, add a little padding in the buttocks and... Oh! You have a Hiplet!
For its innovative approach and realistic looks, it gets my OVERALL BEST PRIZE.
HIPLETS
For the item most similar to any Big Busts product, I have awarded my BEST HIPLET PRIZE to:
Femskin's Padded Girdle. It's very similar to the Hiplet, enabling (false) vaginal and (real) anal penetration, as well as urination. With this device, the genitals are held upright in front of the stomach, rather than bent between the legs, as is the case with the Hiplet. Clearly, this will be more comfortable than my arrangement, but presumably at the expense of a bulging tummy. It also means urination appears rather unhygienic, with urine having to pass over a U-bend called a pee-trap before exiting downwards. Presumably, it's called a pee trap because urine is trapped in the piping above the penis for however long you're wearing it. Urinary infections beware! The two methods available on the Vee-String appear a far more satisfactory arrangement.
FemPads by Femskin and Silicone Hip Enhancers by Hourglass Figure and In Shape (both in the UK) are similar to each other, and enhance thighs and hips, by means of pads. Whilst not falling within my definition of looking like a real body part, they are flesh coloured and might be disguised beneath a pair of tights. They will give feminine curves in the most important area of all - the hips and thighs.
Inflatable pants by 2nd skin also provide curves in the hips, thighs and bum, but presumably at the expense of not allowing access to the genital area, including not being able to urinate. I suspect that if you inflate them too hard, you may sit down accompanied by the sound of a large fart, as the air is expelled at the knees and waist from inside the pants! They look a bit Mickey Mouse, but may be better in practice.
UPDATE: I have now tried Silicone Hip Enhancers by In Shape, which you can usually see advertised on this website. I bought one pair of each size, on special offer. The smaller size, which they called CurvyPads, gives a slight extra curve to the hips. Fine if you already have a female shape and want to be a little more curvy, but for the normal cross-dressing male, especially one like me with a typical inverted triangle shape, their MegaPads (now called Large) gives 3" increase (ie 1.5" each), but certainly still not one I would label "Mega". In the photograph, you can see a picture of me with/without the megapads (only the face has been changed to protect the guilty).
You do need to experiment with the positioning, so I recommend wearing a control vest long enough to reach the hips, rather than panties, to hold everything in position. That way, you simply pull the vest up at the side to move one of the pads - much easier than trying to pull one side of the pantee up to your waist, or locate the pad through the leg of the pantie.
I usually locate the top of the pad level with my navel, which also has the effect of giving a higher waist. The front of the pad should be pretty well vertical, and try to get the thickest part of the pad over the widest part of the hips - it's fairly obvious as you look down on it.
Finally, these pads only enhance the Hips. FemPads apparently enhance the bum as well, and appear to look a much better shape. However, bear in mind FemPads only add 1 ¼" to the hip - fairly insignificant - so you're going to need at least two pairs on top of each other to get a decent improvement. (All the measurements I give detail the thickness of the pad, not the increase in hip measurement.)
BUSTLETS
There are now several products on the market which are similar to the Bustlet. Currently, limitations in the elasticity achievable in practice means that the fictional close-necked Bustlet cannot be yet matched in reality and, to permit access, they all have either some kind of neck fastening or a wider neck opening.
My BEST BUSTLET PRIZE goes to:
MakupArtist (stet) with their range of Breast Torsos, the Short Female Torso being most similar to the Bustlet, but there are longer torsos, available in a range of breast sizes going up to J-cups (and gi-normous!). They come with a lacing/zip arrangement at the rear of the neck, and for most, beneath the arms as well. I give this one first prize over the next, simply because it has a high neck, which will conceal the Adam's apple and can be hidden beneath the chin.
The Cleavage Range of the UK company ProActive Prosthetics come in cup sizes C, D and E. They appear good, but have a relatively low neckline which needs concealing with a scarf or necklace. The device is slit beneath the arms to allow access.
There are a couple of backless items which obviously cannot be classified as Bustlets, but provide a similar function when dressed: UK company Bountiful Bosoms comes in two sizes and is fastened by bra-type straps at the rear and narrows towards the neck, with a low neckline. Celes Masks Torso comes in three breast sizes and is fastened by a cord around the back of the neck and the rear. The neck can be trimmed to fit below the jaw-line.
BODYSUITS
There are two items in this category; the Femskin appears to be the main bodysuit on the market, but 2nd skin also make them. Neither look particularly impressive, but that may simply be the way they are presented.
MASKS
At last, there are some masks coming onto the market which appear very realistic. Have a look at Realfleshmasks. You can see videos of some of the male characters speaking with some realism. There are currently four female versions, with breast torsos. They're not cheap at around US $600 ($710 with eyebrows) but they do look good.
SUMMARY
There are now several items available on the internet which appear similar to the fictional Big Busts products created by me. They are not cheap and judging from most of the websites, I have low confidence they will perform as sold. This is made worse because there are few independent reviews from users.
USERS, WE WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU. PM me if you don't want your identity to appear.
This information has been obtained from the companies' own websites at the time of publication. Corrections or additions to this material are welcome - please either PM me or add a comment.
Charlotte Dickles
Blame it on the Receptionist
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by Charlotte Dickles
Afterwards, Jonathan realised it was all the hotel receptionist's fault.
"I'm Jon Jacobs. I have a room booked."
The receptionist's face lit up. "Ah! Yes, Mr Jacobs, we've been expecting you. Welcome to The Grand Hotel, Seacombe. We have an Executive Room ready for you on the first floor. Room 112. The paperwork has already been completed, so I'll give you your key card and you can go straight up. We'll have your baggage brought up to your room within a few minutes."
Jon's face clouded as he reached for the proffered key card. "An Executive room? I only booked a Standard. Is there an extra charge?"
If it were possible, the receptionist's smile broadened even further. "That's all right, Mr Jacobs. The bill is all taken care of by the conference organisers."
"Oh right!" Jon said, thinking that things were looking up. He'd already given pretty well the same talk on Ethical Investment for Africa at conferences four times this year, and this was the first he'd been offered anything more than his train fares. An Executive Room as well. Perhaps it would have a mini-bar... "Did you say all my expenses were being paid?"
"Everything. There's a very nice bottle of champagne on ice in your room, which I can fully recommend."
"Thank you very much," a delighted Jon said. "Room 112, did you say?"
"On the first floor. You can take the lift, or the stairs, Mr Jacobs." The receptionist pointed behind him towards the grand staircase.
Jon glanced behind, and then gave a second glance as he noticed the shapely hips of a woman gracefully swinging from side to side, as she climbed the staircase. "I'll take the stairs," Jon said.
***
Jon caught up with the woman in the hotel corridor, where she was hopelessly thrusting her key card in and out of the lock on the door of a bedroom. He realised with delight, her bedroom was directly opposite his own.
"Are you having problems?" Jon asked. "Can I help?"
She glanced up and her worried expression turned into a wonderful smile as she looked at him. "If you could." She waved her card towards him. "I've been having problems with this lock ever since I arrived."
"Let me have a try."
The technique, he knew, was to slowly slide the card in, and then to pull it out again, just as slowly. But try as he might, the red light came on each time. If he wasn't careful, he was going to look a right pillock in front of the most beautiful woman in the world. The solution came to him from nowhere.
"Why don't we go into my room," he suggested, "and you can use the phone to call reception." He had quite surprised himself with that suggestion.
His next suggestion would leave him totally gob-smacked. They had entered his own room without problems, and she'd spoken to reception on the phone, when he said, "They've left me a complimentary bottle of champagne and I hate drinking on my own. Will you join me whilst you're waiting for them to come to fix your lock?"
Her wonderful grin returned, lighting up her face. "Complimentary champagne. Now there's an offer I can't refuse. But I'd better warn you, I do get awfully squiffy on champagne." She held out her hand, and added, "My name's Trixie."
***
It was about an hour later when the receptionist smiled a greeting at a surly-looking man as he approached her desk.
"Joe Jacobs. You have a room reserved for me." A statement, rather than a question.
"Mr Jacobs? Surely..." The receptionist was puzzled. Her fingers flicked over the computer keyboard. "But someone has already registered in your name. Oh!"
"Oh what?" demanded the guest.
"I'm afraid we have two Mr Jacobs staying this evening. Did you say you were Mr Joseph Jacobs?"
"Of course. Don't you recognise me?"
The receptionist looked even more flustered as she glanced up at him, vaguely recognising his face from TV. "Of course, sir. I'm most sorry for the confusion, but it appears there's been a mix up. I need to speak with the manager. Perhaps you would like a glass of champagne whilst you wait?"
***
"What do you mean?" the manager asked the porter, as they both stared around room 112. A chambermaid was straightening the rather ruffled bedspread, and the champagne bottle was empty, but apart from that, there were no signs of occupation. "The first Mr Jacobs arrived over an hour ago. Why is his luggage still in the porter's lodge?"
"There was no response when I knocked on the door," the porter replied, "so I used my pass card. He was lying on the bed with a naked woman on top of him, and they were going at it like rabbits. I quietly shut the door and left them to it."
Hearing the conversation, the chambermaid asked, "Do you want me to change the bedspread?"
They all three stared at the bedspread, which after being straightened, appeared unblemished.
"No," said the manager. "He wants his room immediately so he can have it as it is. I suppose this other Mr Jacobs will turn up some time. Make certain he's headed off before he tries to come up here."
***
Jon couldn't stop a wide grin spreading across his face as he woke up next morning. He could count on his fingers, the number of women with whom he'd ever had relationships; with only one of those had he scored on a first date. But never before had he pulled the most gorgeous woman in the world within fifteen minutes of first speaking to her.
"If I have one more glass, I shall be anybody's," Trixie had said, experimentally bouncing up and down on the bed. She wasn't anybody's - she was his.
They'd had a good, swift fuck, and then she'd suggested they have another glass of champagne before having a good, slow fuck. The big problem with champagne, he realised, was remembering the wonderful events resulting from it.
He glanced at the clock by the side of the bed, and that was when the grin disappeared from his face.
"Jeez!" It was gone nine o'clock. He'd planned to set the alarm for seven, have a leisurely breakfast, followed by a final read-through of his conference speech, including his recent amendments. His taxi was booked for nine-thirty, giving him ample time to get to the conference hall and check that the computer and overheads were properly working, before his ten-thirty speech.
He reached out an arm to sweep aside the duvet, and that's when his heart momentarily stopped. His arm was black!
He lifted his other arm before his face and stared at two black arms. Here was he, British born, Anglo-Saxon heritage, and definitely Caucasian, staring at two black arms which were undoubtedly coming from his shoulders and under his control. Not just black arms, he realised but his hands had grown long, finger nails.
It must be a joke, he thought. Trixie had painted his skin and stuck false nails onto his fingers. He moved his arms to his sides to help him sit up, and he felt something move on his chest as he struggled upright. It felt like... He glanced down. It couldn't be...
He had two huge, black tits!
He thought it must be a dream, but when he raised his two black hands to cap his two, huge, black tits, he could feel his hands grasping them, squeezing them, and when his thumbs brushed his nipples, he gasped at the sensation.
Mmm, he could get used to having tits. But he suddenly realised what else normally went with tits. He threw the quilt off his lower body, and parted his tits so he could peer between them at...
A pussy! His cock had disappeared and been replaced by a pussy!
He felt his head spinning. He needed to lie back for a few minutes.
***
Later - he wasn't certain how much later - but he was properly awake and smiling as he thought about his nightmare. Of course, it had been a nightmare. There was no need to raise his arms to check they were not black, for that would be impossible, wouldn't it?
He raised two arms in front of his face - they were black! He got out of bed and looked in the wall mirror. Facing him was a shapely black woman!
At least she had his face. The relief surged through him as he realised that recognising his own face was a first step to a return to normality. Clearly, Trixie had set him up to play this trick. Even as he mentally spoke the words, he realised the significance of her name! Trixie. Who plays lots of tricks? Trixie the Trickster!
Of course no bird as good-looking as her would bounce into bed with him without an ulterior motive; the room, as well, all paid for! He must have been stupid to fall for it - but then didn't they say that the punters always wanted to believe what they were being told.
But how had she done it and why?
Blacking his skin would be easy enough, and sticking on false nails, but where had these breasts come from. He searched for a join where a false breast might be adhered to his chest, but in spite of the most detailed search, there was none. Not only that, but he could feel his fingers on his breasts. And when he slid a finger along the slit between his legs, he was gasping with pleasure.
What then? Micro-surgery. Small incisions beneath the breasts, then silicone pumped inside? Surely that would be hurting like hell now, not feeling rather good? He twisted his neck to the left and pulled his left breast as far to the right as he could, and that was when he found the solution - a tiny seam running from beneath his breast around the side of his body. He traced the line with his fingers right around his back, to where it appeared on his right side. There were similar lines around his shoulders, almost indiscernible in the mirror. That meant some kind of vest-like garment stuck down on his own skin, probably made of a touch-sensitive material which somehow transferred feeling to his own skin beneath.
After inspecting his lower half, he identified a kind of long-legged panty-girdle, giving him the appearance - and the feel - of a woman. He heaved a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't really been converted to a woman. But the question still remained - Why?
Now he had a chance to look around, he realised he was no longer in the spacious Executive Room, but the bedspread was the same design, so presumably he'd been moved to another room in the Grand Hotel where they'd carried out his conversion.
He slipped on the hotel dressing gown hanging on the inside of the door, before slightly opening it and peering out. He was directly facing room 112. So he was in the room Trixie had been trying to enter when he'd first seen her. Presumably, she'd slipped him a Mickey, and then they - it would certainly need more than Trixie to move him - had brought him in here and transformed him.
The door of 112 opposite abruptly opened and a man came out - a man about the same age as Jon, with the same kind of haircut - a man Jon vaguely recognised.
He looked at Jon and sniffed. "You'll have to do a lot better than that to tempt me into bed with you."
Glancing down, Jon realised his dressing gown was gaping open from top to bottom, revealing all! The embarrassment rushed through him as the man slammed shut his hotel door and walked off towards the staircase.
"Joe Jacobs." He recognised the man now, and he'd whispered the words almost to himself. He was startled when someone responded.
"That's right. An obnoxious git, isn't he?"
Jon hurriedly pulled his dressing gown around him before turning towards the voice.
"Is he still..." He'd spoken without considering that he'd sound like a man, but actually his voice was completely different - high-pitched, like a woman's. How had they done that to him? "... running the British Fascists?" he lamely concluded his sentence.
"He's supposedly given it up."
The man was smiling at Jon in a way that made him uncomfortable. He pulled his dressing gown more tightly to his body, which had the effect, he belatedly realised, of emphasising the size of his huge breasts.
"He'd have us believe he's turned over a new leaf," the man continued, still staring at Jon's curves, rather than at his face, "running a group developing Genetically Modified maize that can be used in semi-desert areas. AmazinMaize, it's called. They claim it could feed most of Africa from the sub-Sahara region. He's giving a talk to the conference today. Fascist pig or not, it certainly sounds interesting, and I'm not going to miss it. See you there, maybe?"
"Er, yes, maybe." Jon smiled, as he withdrew to his room and shut the door.
So that explained everything, he thought. Trixie - or whatever her name was - and her friends had decided to pay a trick on Joe Jacobs, transforming the black-hating, woman-despising fascist into a big-breasted, black woman. But it had all gone wrong when the hotel receptionist had mistaken Jon for him, and so had given him the all-expenses-paid Executive room. That meant he'd been taken as the fall guy. Ha-ha-bloody-ha.
Clearly, everything had been super-glued onto his body, so Joe Jacobs would be stuck in it for at least a day. There was nothing for it, he realised, but to accept his lot and get on with it. As a male, he should be furious, but maybe he could take it as a learning exercise. What would it really be like to be a black woman; what would it be like to be a woman with huge jugs? He surprised himself by grinning. As long as he didn't take it too seriously - and now he had an explanation, there was no reason why he should - it was going to be fun finding out.
***
The good news was that they had left him some clothes; the bad news was that they were all clearly designed to humiliate him. A short, black pencil skirt, with a white, low-cut top; kinky white boots with four-inch heels, and, the piece-de-resistance was the white corset.
He quickly realised that the skirt could not be fastened around his waist without the corset, the strings pulled so tight he could hardly breathe. The bra cups supported his breasts and pushed them outwards creating a deep valley between. But the bra barely covered his nipples, and the white blouse exposed vast areas of breast. The skirt was just about long enough to cover his stocking tops, but the least movement would expose inches of bare thigh and white suspenders.
Of course, there were no panties! Sitting down anywhere, he realised, was going to be a real challenge to avoid everyone getting an eyeful of his pubic bush!
At least they had left him a conference pass in the name of Josephine Jacobs, containing a well-doctored photograph of Joe Jacobs, with his skin suitably coloured, and a wig added. It would pass. They had even left him a handbag containing twenty pounds, probably sufficient to get him through the day.
He slipped the lanyard of his pass card around his neck, stuck the handbag beneath his arm and left the room. He needed to move quickly now, if he wasn't to miss the scheduled time for his talk, although he still wasn't certain what he was going to do about it.
***
Fortunately, there was a taxi just dropping someone off at the hotel, so Jon got in it and instructed the driver to take him to the University, where the conference was being held.
But just as they were about to drive off, Joe Jacobs came out of the hotel, and commanded, "Stop!"
The driver pulled to an abrupt halt. Without looking inside, Jacobs opened the rear door and was about to get inside when he saw Jon.
Jon was amused at his reaction. Clearly, he was angry that someone should already dare to occupy the taxi he needed, especially a black woman. No doubt in his world, he'd have dragged her out of the taxi and left her lying in the gutter, but he knew that would never work. Which meant he had to ask a black woman for a favour!
"I'm in an awful hurry. Would you mind if I took this taxi, and you wait for another?"
"That's no problem, sweetheart," Jon said in his best black-mama voice, trying hard not to laugh. "I'm going to the conference as well, so we can share a taxi there - provided you pay for it, of course."
He moved over to the other side of the taxi, watching the hatred in Joe Jacobs's face as he realised that he was not only going to have to share a taxi with a black woman, but she was ripping him off as well.
"Thank you." He slid into the taxi in the position which Jon had just vacated, shut the door and the taxi started off.
"Aren't you the fellow who's giving that talk this morning on that AmazinMaize stuff? Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you? Doesn't your talk start at ten?"
The other said nothing.
"I'd have thought for someone as important as you, they'd have sent a car."
"They were meant to." Clearly, he was very bitter about the events that morning, which overcame his hatred of talking to his inferiors. "I rang them twice to ask where it was, and they told me it was on its way; the third time, they said the car must have picked up the wrong speaker - there's another speaker called Jacobs staying at the hotel. It caused a lot of confusion at the hotel, yesterday."
"Oh dear," Jon said, pondering the significance. Since he hadn't taken Joe Jacobs's car, it meant someone else presumably connected with Trixie was pretending to be him. It sounded like there'd be fun and games when Jacobs got to the conference and found someone pretending to be him giving his talk.
It was about ten-fifteen when they arrived at the University, and he followed Jacobs into the conference hall. The Security man carefully scrutinised their passes, which scared Jon because of the photo but he seemed to accept it.
They both checked the schedule of room allocations displayed on a board. Jacobs, Jon noted with jealousy was in Lecture Theatre 1, whereas he was in 10 - presumably the most insignificant.
The best plan, Jon thought, would be to go into his room at the last minute, so the conference organisers had no chance to check the credentials of Josephine Jacobs, which meant he had some time to kill. He followed Jacobs into Theatre 1.
Jacobs had come to a stop just inside the door, staring almost open-mouthed at the podium, where his duplicate was giving the talk. Not wishing to be associated with Jacobs, Jon quickly moved past and found an empty seat towards the rear.
"That man is an imposter!" Jacobs bellowed.
Jon was highly impressed with what happened next. As one, the audience turned to face the objector, but even as they did so, two Security Officers, built like brick-shithouses, pounced upon the real Joe Jacobs, bodily lifted him up and ran him backwards, using his body to batter their way through the heavy swing doors and remove him from sight. It was even more satisfying in that both the Officers were black.
"Mr Jacobs doesn't like interruptions," a voice to Jon's right murmured, and he turned to find he was sitting next to the guest he'd spoken to in the hotel corridor.
"They dealt with it very quickly," Jon observed.
"After last night's fiasco they had to be ready for a repetition," his friend said. When Jon clearly looked puzzled, he added, "Did you miss the fun at the opening ceremony? The Deputy Prime Minister was giving his speech when some female student appeared at the back and claimed he was an imposter. Caused lots of confusion. Mind, the students are getting better at it. Did you notice how the guy they just threw out looked quite similar to Joe Jacobs?"
Last night had been a decoy, Jon realised, so that when the same thing happened at Joe Jacobs' talk, the objector would be promptly dealt with.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the pseudo Jacobs was saying. "I must apologise for the interruption. Perhaps before I continue with my speech, we'll have a break for questions." He looked around the audience as a few hands rose, and he pointed at one of them.
"Tracey Dixon from the Sun."
The woman stood up and Jon realised she was none other than Trixie, the gorgeous woman who had tricked him last night. Presumably, that meant that whatever happened next she was doing in cahoots with the pseudo Jacobs.
Trixie turned towards the audience and added with a smile, "That's the Seacombe University News rather that other, rather downmarket, national newspaper." She turned back towards the pseudo Jacobs. "Mr Jacobs, a professor at this university has suggested that long term use of AmazinMaize could produce permanent sterility. Is that why you're involved in promoting it - to sterilise most of the African population?"
A buzz of interest went around the room, particularly amongst the press and cameramen who were right at the front.
Jon had to give credit to the stand-in Jacobs; he had clearly rehearsed many times over the anxious, but quickly-concealed look which portrayed total guilt. "I can assure your readers," he replied, "that AmazinMaize has been carefully tested by our scientists and it will only improve the health of its consumers."
"Are you stating," Trixie responded, "there have been absolutely no effects upon the fertility of the laboratory animals used in the experiments?"
A nervous Jacobs held out his hands in an open gesture. "I'm afraid I do not know details of every laboratory experiment carried out on this amazing maize."
"So you're claiming you have never been briefed on the sterility factor. Could I remind you of a meeting you attended in November last year..."
"I'm sorry," pseudo Jacobs pseudo-blustered. "I'm not prepared to take any more cross examination. I'm leaving this meeting now."
He darted towards the fire exit to the side of the stage, as the room erupted in questions.
"The Guardian: Why don't you answer the questions, Mr Jacobs?"
"BBC News: Why are you leaving, Mr Jacobs?"
"The Independent: Can we see the results of the test, Mr Jacobs?"
But they were all ignored as the pseudo Jacobs went through the fire exit, pursued by a number of journalists who happened to be close by. The room erupted in chaos, as the rest of the press pressed towards the exit. It was time, Jon realised, to go to his own meeting.
But as he reached the rear exit door, he came face to face with Trixie, clearly also getting away from the scene before she could be questioned too closely.
"So Trixie, we meet again. Or should I call you Tracey Dixon?"
She looked at him and gasped. "You!"
He smiled at her. "Absolutely. And I suggest we depart this room immediately whilst we still can." He took her arm and led her through the exit.
"We couldn't understand how the real Jacobs got out of the gear," she garbled. "That's why Gary took the questions straightaway."
"Never mind that, for the moment," Jon said. "It's time for atonement. I need you to do something for me." He had led her down the corridor, following the signs pointing towards Lecture Theatre 10. "I want you to go in there and explain that Jon Jacobs has been taken ill, but an alternative speaker has been arranged, Miss Josephine Jacobs, who will be there shortly."
"You're Jon Jacobs?" Trixie gasped. "Oh shit!"
"That's exactly what you will be in if you don't do as I say," Jon said. He pulled open the door of Theatre 10. "Now, get in there and do it." He gave her a push and closed the door after her, leaving it slightly ajar. He could hear the buzz inside the room die down as Trixie took the stage and did as he had said.
He was gratified to hear a number of grumbles about the change, but before anyone could think about leaving, he opened the door and marched into the Lecture Theatre.
***
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Hopefully you have been told that Mr Jon Jacobs has been taken ill. I am Josephine Jacobs - no relation to Jon - and I am very familiar with his work and have been asked to give his talk.
"No doubt, many of you are surprised by my dress. I can only say that you are probably not as surprised as I am by the way this day has turned out. If some of the men find it distracting, I ask that they enjoy the view, but do not allow their minds to be defocused from the incredibly important subject I am talking about today."
Jon paused for a moment to allow the audience to settle and then started: "Most African leaders today face immense difficulties - from AIDS and starvation, through to endemic corruption in their own governments. Many devote their lives to trying to solve those problems, but I suggest that every leader needs to have a wider vision - that of attracting Ethical Foreign Investment - for that can provide the solution to many of the problems.
"But how to attract it? I am going to give you a five point action plan to help you achieve the funding your countries need."
Jon looked around his audience. In spite of him wearing a mini-skirt barely covering his bum, and his tits pushing out of his blouse, he had his audience spellbound - or perhaps, he thought, it was because of those assets.
***
"I don't know what to say," Trixie said.
"How about 'Sorry'?" Jon asked.
She had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry," she said.
"I should think so." He grinned at her. "By the way, that was a nice fuck last night. Thanks." He could afford to be magnanimous. His talk had gone well.
In fact, after Joe Jacob's speech had obviously ended in chaos, dozens of his audience obviously came in to hear Jon's talk, and stayed, spell bound, as he highlighted ways in which countries could get hundreds of millions of dollars in aid from organisations and companies desperate to improve their ethical credibility. Afterwards, the questions had seemed to go on forever, and even after that, there were many who wanted a quiet word with 'Josephine', many of which involved discussing things over a meal, including one from Gerald Mbuto, a Prime Minister of a major West African country who Jon had been trying to involve for years. Knowing what the meal would undoubtedly lead to, he had prudently refused those opportunities.
"Glad you enjoyed it," Trixie quipped. "But I'm afraid that's the last screw you're going to have for a while - that is, unless you fancy bonking a few men. You're stuck with your appendages for the next two weeks."
"I'm stuck in this for two weeks! But what am I going to do?"
Trixie grimaced. "I'm not certain. When we thought you were Joe Jacobs, it didn't really matter. But now..."
"Josephine." It was Gerald Mbuto, that pesky West African Prime Minister again. "Did you say you were stuck here for two weeks?"
"Er, well..."
"Yes, I'm afraid she is," Trixie jumped in. "She was just saying, she had nowhere to stay."
"Then stay at my villa," he said. "You can show me your five point action plan, and I can show you mine."
"Er, well..."
"Of course," Trixie said, turning to Jon, "Persuading Mr Mbuto of the value of what you say will surely save hundreds of thousands of lives. Surely, that would be worth it?"
Jon paused for thought. Hell! That would be worth any amount of personal discomfort.
"OK," he said. "You're on."
Boats and Boobs
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Author's Note: Like most of my stories, this is a light-hearted cross-dressing romp. If humour, cross-dressing or romping is not to your taste, then please do not read. Otherwise, enjoy!
by Charlotte Dickles
"Did you have to chat up those two girls in the next boat?" Helen hissed at him as he returned to the boat they had hired for the week.
"I was only being friendly," Dan replied, his heart sinking. When Helen had suggested taking a week off work over the Spring Bank Holiday and hiring a boat to tour some of Britain's inland waterways, he had been delighted she had suggested it, but astonished she had done so. They'd only been on the boat for twenty minutes, and already she was in a bitchy mood. "In any case, why are you whispering?"
"You can hear every word they're saying on the quayside," she said.
Dan grimaced. "I guess it's bound to be like that whilst all the boats are so close to each other. But we'll be on our way soon, with lots of room to make as much noise as we wish." Not that Helen ever screamed with passion as they made love. Their marriage was far too staid for that. "But during the course of the week, we'll probably meet up with the other people hiring boats from here, so we might as well be friendly with each other from the start."
"Have you put the empty suitcases back in the car?" she asked.
"Naw," he replied. "I thought I'd throw them in the river, and we could pack all our stuff into plastic bags when we come back."
"There's so little room on board. I thought you said it would be a luxury motor yacht."
"That's what the boatyard said on the internet site, which you found," Dan protested. "It was your idea to come on a boat, because you said your precious friends, the Crawfords, enjoyed it so much. Anyway, we have managed to pack away all the clothes you brought." Despite what Helen said, there was quite a lot of room, considering it was a boat. "It's almost three o'clock. We'd better go to that safety briefing."
"You're not going like that, are you?" She gesticulated at his dishevelled tee shirt and shorts.
"We are on holiday," he said.
"That girl in the next boat may look a dumb blonde, but she has fantastic clothes - they must be haute couture. I'd have thought you'd have wanted to dress to impress her."
He shrugged. He knew he could never win that argument. "We'll be on our separate ways, soon. Let's just go to the safety briefing."
She stared critically at his apparel. "At least you can take out all that stuff bulging from your pockets. What is it?"
Dan sighed, pulling out the contents of his pockets. "My phone. My wallet. My keys."
"Well you don't need any of that now. Isn't there a safe somewhere on board? You can put my handbag in there, as well."
"OK, I'll stick it all in the safe. Then, can we go to the safety briefing?"
***
The room where they were to have the briefing was almost full when they arrived.
"Hi," the girl called Tracey called out to him with a smile which set his heart fluttering. "We've saved you some seats." She pointed to two seats next to her and Fiona, the other girl of the pair, at the far end of the row.
Helen led the way and pointedly sat down next to them, forcing Dan to sit next to the wall, effectively cut off from the girls.
"OK, we're going to run a video, now," said Jake Tobbins, the owner of the boatyard. "We'd ask you all to pay attention as it's for your own safety." He pressed the play button on the remote, and then, in response to a buzzer from the next room, left to deal with a late arrival.
As the video started to play, the room erupted in conversation, and Dan could barely hear a word from the video, which he thought was probably quite important. Helen started talking to Fiona, and in spite of her apparent earlier hostility, was now all smiles as they talked about clothes, clothes and more bloody clothes.
Dan smiled to himself. Helen may have thought Fiona was the more attractive with her size ten frame, dressed in haute couture, but it was Tracey, who had the lovely knockers beautifully displayed in the low-cut top, who held his attention. They were sisters, apparently, but you'd never have guessed it. They had come on holiday together to celebrate Tracey's birthday.
On the other side of the sisters were a couple of guys who were clearly trying to make out with Tracey and Fiona. The one called Gary was sitting next to Tracey and going cross-eyed, trying to peer down at her tits without appearing to, whilst his mate Tim was enthusiastically chatting to her. If Dan really had been trying to pull the girls, he'd have been jealous. OK, so he was a bit jealous, even though he was perfectly happily married to Helen (wasn't he?). He decided to try to concentrate on the video.
After the video had stopped - and presumably, hardly anyone else had a clue what it had been about - the conversation continued unabated until Jake returned to the room. "OK everybody. Thank you for your attention. Now I just need you to sign the insurance form, ticking the box that says you have seen the video, and then you can all get on your way."
Of course, since Dan was sitting against the wall, he was the last person to sign the form and Helen insisted on having a long moan at Jake about the lack of storage on the boat, which he bore stoically. When they finally got to the quayside, all the other boats, including Tracey and Fiona's, had already departed, which Dan thought had probably been Helen's intention.
"Can we get off, then?" Helen had the nerve to say. "Everyone else has gone."
"I'll start the engine," Dan said. "You can stand by to cast off the mooring ropes."
Surprisingly, with everyone else departed, Helen started to enjoy herself, and as Dan put the engine into gear, she released the mooring ropes and skipped nimbly aboard. The boats had all been moored stern onto the quay, so moving off was easy.
Leaving the boatyard went quite uneventfully and, following the instructions in the video, he steered the boat towards the navigable channel in the centre of the River Combe.
"I know we talked about heading off up-river initially," he said, "but it would only take hour and a half to get to Seacombe. We could stock up there with things that were missing from the food box they gave us."
"Hmm," Helen replied with a smile. "That wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that Fiona and Tracey are heading down to Seacombe, would it?"
"Oh are they?" he said, as innocently as he could. "It's really no great shakes to me, whichever way we go."
"Let's stick to the plan and go up-river," Helen said. "We agreed that if we had time at the end of the holiday, we'd go down to Seacombe."
"Up-river it is," he said, turning the boat. It was a shame he wasn't going to see more of Tracey's knockers, but the way Helen was starting to prance around, perhaps they might enjoy this holiday after all.
***
You want me to jump over there?" Helen said, expressing so much disgust in her voice that he might have been asking her to leap into a cess pit.
"It's not far," he said rather curtly. Didn't she realise how difficult it was holding the boat in this position against the current, whilst she dithered about leaping a few feet onto the river bank with a mooring rope. He added, "You women are useless."
"In that case," she said, "I'll drive the ship. You can leap the gap."
After his scorn, which he was already regretting, he could hardly refuse, so she came and took the wheel, and he showed her how to manipulate the throttle to keep the boat in the same position relative to the bank. The problem was that when he got to the side of the boat, he realised it was much further away from the bank than he'd estimated. He thought of asking her to get nearer, but after his remark, he knew he'd never live it down. So, he pulled plenty of slack in the mooring line and leapt.
He'd have done it, to, if his foot hadn't slipped away from him as he landed, and he felt himself toppling backward.
S-p-l-a-s-h-h-h-h!
Actually, after he'd secured the mooring line to a tree and wiped the mud from his eyes, he felt it had probably been worth it, for Helen was laughing so hard, she had tears in her eyes - a sight he hadn't seen for years.
After a few more minutes of hysteria, she eventually managed to gasp, "You men are hopeless." The remark sent her into another bout of giggles, and Dan snorted good-naturedly as he climbed aboard, in desperate need of a shower. There was no one in sight along the river, so he stripped off his wet clothes on deck, rather than dripping all through the cabin.
***
"Helen. I don't mind you using some space in my wardrobe, but there was no need to remove all my clothes. What have you done with them?" Dan had come out of the tepid shower, still chilled and he was anxious to put on some clean, dry clothes.
"Oh! You men are hopeless," she said, still chortling as she came down into the cabin. "I haven't moved your... Oh!"
She stared into the open wardrobe filled with feminine clothes. She knew exactly who those haute couture clothes belonged to, but how had they got into Dan's wardrobe? He'd have to be a magician to be that quick a worker.
She turned to her wardrobe, and it was easy to see it contained Tracey's clothes. "Why would anyone change our clothes for Fiona and Tracey's?" she pondered. "It's crazy."
"They've what?" Dan asked. Then the realisation hit him, and he shouted. "Oh God! Oh my fucking God!"
"What is it?" she asked.
"You women are..." He'd been about to say 'fucking imbeciles,' but after glancing at Helen decided against it - she wasn't the imbecile. "...useless," he finished rather lamely.
"I haven't done anything," she protested.
"Not you," he said. "Fiona and fucking Tracey. They've gone off in the wrong, fucking boat. They've taken our boat, and we were left with theirs."
"I said she was a dumb blonde," Helen said, and she started to giggle again.
"What's so funny?" he shouted.
She stopped long enough to say, "It's just that the only clothes you currently posses are soaking wet, and that you'll have to wear something of Tracey's until they're dry. I'm sure you'll look very fetching."
To Dan's annoyance, she went off into peals of laughter again. It was all the worse because the day was starting to go cold. After his immersion in the river, the tepid shower hadn't properly warmed him. Now, the idea of putting his wet clothes back on filled him with dread.
He turned back to Tracey's wardrobe, since clearly Fiona's clothes would be far too small to fit him. There were a couple of Tracey's brightly-coloured sweaters that looked very inviting, but no trousers that he could see.
"OK, you win," he said. "Can you sort out something suitable of Tracey's for me to wear?"
She looked at him, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks wet where tears had been running down her face, and he couldn't help but share her enjoyment of the moment.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" he groaned. "OK, do your worse."
It was all the invitation Helen needed, and she pulled out a red and white sweater and a short red skirt. "Fiona told me that Tracey doesn't wear trousers," she said. "They make her bum look too large."
As he made to pull the sweater over his head, she said, "Oh you must wear something underneath, otherwise you'll sweat into it. Hang on..." She bent down to the drawers beneath the bunk, opened one and pulled out a frilly pink top with shoestring straps. "How about this?" She was desperately trying not to laugh, which contorted her face into one of absolute joy.
He sniffed and slipped it over his head.
"And you'll need some panties, as well," Helen said, pulling a pair of French knickers from the drawer. "Here you are."
She had to turn away from him then as she creased up into more laughter, which was fortunate as Dan realised he suddenly had an enormous hard-on. He pulled the French knickers up his legs pushing his erection down one of the legs where it poked out beneath the lacy material.
"You're obviously enjoying this more than I expected," Helen said, turning around at that moment and looking down at his panties. "You'd better put on your skirt, straightaway."
The trouble was he found wearing a skirt even more erotic, and when Helen turned around to pick up the sweater, he grabbed her around the waist and then grasped her breasts tightly.
"You are enjoying this," she repeated, after lifting his skirt with one hand and feeling his hard cock through his panties.
"And you're about to," he said.
They both did.
***
"We have to get going," Dan suddenly sat up. "We need to motor down to Seacombe, find the girls and swap boats. Presumably, they'll have discovered their mistake by now, so they are probably heading back up river to find us. I'd give the boatyard a call, but both our phones are in the safe on the other boat."
"I could do with a shower," Helen said, "but if you want, I'll come up on deck and help you to cast off."
"It's alright," he said. "I won't repeat the same mistake twice."
He didn't. With the boat properly moored, it was relatively easy to step ashore, cast off both lines and then nip back on board before the boat drifted away from the bank. It was strange walking in a skirt with the fresh air circulating around his balls. His penis, which had been relaxed after its strenuous exercise a while ago, suddenly went rock-hard again.
Helen couldn't see him now, so he allowed a big smile to cross his face. He sat in the helmsman's seat, giggling like a schoolgirl as he wriggled his legs and demurely pulled down his skirt, before opening the throttle and setting off.
The boat was well downstream by the time Helen came up from below.
"I think this quite suits me, don't you?"
He turned around to find Helen in an outfit he hadn't seen before.
"That's Fiona's!" he gasped.
"Dead right it is," she replied with a smile. "But I can be hardly expected to wear the same, boring, old clothes all day, and if those girls are stupid enough to drive off with someone else's boat, they deserve to have their clothes worn by their poor victims. In any case, they can try on your clothes and mine, if they wish."
"If they wish," Dan mused, thinking how unlikely it was that Fiona or Tracey would want to wear his clothes. "There's something else, isn't there?" he asked, noticing that Helen was not only obviously excited, but that she held something behind her back.
She grinned such a wide grin, he knew it was going to be another dig at him. "I was wondering," she said, "whether you wanted to be a blonde," she pulled a short blonde wig from behind her back and held it before him.
"Or a brunette," she added, pulling out a long brown wig with her other hand."
She was so happy, Dan couldn't help but respond, with a smile. "Hmm. I'm not certain. Which do you think?"
She pranced over to him. "Oh I think definitely a brunette. The long hair and the fringe would suit you much better." She dropped the blonde wig and flicked the other over his head, and adjusted it into position.
"There." She held a mirror before him. "What do you think?"
For the first time that afternoon, Dan actually could see a woman staring back at him, and he was startled. "I think you were right," he said. "I am definitely a brunette rather than a blonde."
"That's not all," Helen said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, "I found something else in Tracey's drawers. Something which explains those enormous breasts she has."
"What is it?" he asked. "A Wonderbra?"
"Oh something much more impressive than that," she said, stepping back down to the cabin to pick up an item she'd left just inside the doorway. She came back to him with it clasped behind her back. "Do you want to hazard a guess?"
He shook my head, revelling in Helen's excitement. "I haven't got a clue."
"Well," she said, "how do you fancy these for a pair of tits?"
She quickly brought something from behind her back - something flesh-coloured and quite heavy - and pulled it across her own chest.
"Bloody hell!" Helen was sporting a massive pair of tits on top of her own blouse. Dan took another look. "They're false tits."
"I should hope they are. I can't imagine many women wanting to have this pair permanently attached to their chest. I reckon they must be at least Double-Ds, more likely, an E-cup."
"But hang on," Dan said. "You're saying these are Tracey's but she has a large pair of tits already. She couldn't have been wearing these this afternoon."
"From the label on the box," Helen said, "they are made in Seacombe. My guess is that she's just replaced these tits with a pair she picked up earlier today."
Dan shook his head, trying to grasp what Helen was saying. "You mean those tits Tracey was showing off this afternoon were as false as these? Impossible. In any case, they were smaller. Why would a woman decrease her breast size?"
"Lots of women do," she said, "and you're going to find out why, in a minute."
"In a minute..." Dan was puzzled, and then realisation dawned, "No! No way, Jose."
"Come on," she said. "Don't be a spoilsport. No one else will see."
"We'll be in Seacombe, soon," he rambled. "There's not really time..."
"Look," Helen said, pointing out the window, "we're only just approaching the boatyard we left two hours ago. It's another ninety minutes to Seacombe. That's bags of time. You pull off your sweater and top and I'll just go below and get the gel we have to spread on you to stop you sweating."
It was rather unfortunate that Dan and Helen were so engrossed with his new breasts that they failed to notice a boat identical to theirs docking at the boatyard, and two girls go charging off to find the manager to tell him their clothes had been spirited away and replaced by someone else's. It took Jake ages to work out what had happened, and then, having earlier watched Dan and Helen leave upstream, he could only suggest the girls follow them and try to locate their boat.
***
"Hell!" Dan said. "These are enormous - like some porn queen might have."
What made them look so realistic was that it wasn't simply a pair of huge, false breasts stuffed into a bra, it was more of a skin-coloured crop top with wobbling, joggling breasts built into it. It had a long neck which started just beneath the jaw line, stretched from shoulder to shoulder and reached down to end beneath the breasts. You could just about see the join where the arms emerged from the shoulders, but that could easily have been a mark made by a bra strap, as could the slight line around his back.
"I'm surprised you know many porn queens," Helen said. "But if they don't make pots of money, I'd say it was hardly worth the agony of carrying that pair around with you, all day long."
"Thank God they invited bras," he said. "My back was aching within seconds of putting these on. It's much better now you've found a bra to fit me."
"You really fill out the sweater nicely," she said. "Stay there, it will only take me a few minutes to make up your face, then we two girls can enjoy a little time together."
She saw the look in his eye and said, "No! No, Dan!
"It would be too dangerous whilst you're steering.
"No!
"Oh God! Yes!"
***
"Where did you put your wet clothes?" Helen asked, coming in from the deck as they approached the first signs of Seacombe. "I can't find them."
"Well you took them off me after I got undressed," Dan said. "Didn't you hang them up?"
"Of course," she said. "I hung them on the trees where we were moored. But what did you do with them when you cast off?"
"Hung them on the trees! Why didn't you tell me? I didn't know. They must still be there. We have to go back."
"We can't navigate when it's dark," Helen pointed out. "There's no time to go back, and then return here. If we can find Fiona and Tracey's boat, I'll go and see them, and bring back some of your clothes. In the meantime, you'd better take off those breasts. I expect that will be a relief."
"You bet," Dan said, although actually he'd been fascinated at having those wonderful boobs stuck on his chest. "Can you take the wheel whilst I strip off?"
The wig, sweater, top and bra quickly came off, but when Dan tried to remove the breasts, they appeared to be adhered to his body. "Can you help me?" he asked Helen.
She tried to get a fingernail under the edge but apart from causing him a lot of pain, she was unsuccessful. He had another try, and then she did. Finally, they had to give up.
"What the hell are we going to do?" Dan asked.
"There must have been some adhesive in that gel that came with the boobs to stop you sweating," Helen said. "Once we've done the changeover with the girls, we'd better find the shop that sold them. In the meantime, isn't that the girls' boat - or should I say our boat - moored over there?" She pointed towards the Seacombe quayside.
"It looks like it, but remember all these boats look the same. It could be anyone's. But what am I going to do?"
She looked at him, unable to stop herself grinning at his predicament. "You'd better slip on the pink top, just in case anyone sees you whilst you steer the boat alongside theirs. There's no time to put your bra back on, and in any case, they'll only see you from the distance. As soon as we're alongside, I'll nip on board with the mooring line and secure it, you cut the engines and get below deck. Prepare to go into the toilet, just in case I can't stop them coming on board. I'll tell them you have wet clothes and bring back some jeans and one of your sloppy sweaters for you to change into, and perhaps that anorak as well, to bulk you out. It's not perfect but it's the best we can do."
The best laid plans! He managed to expertly bring the boat right up to the side of the other boat, and Helen nimbly stepped on board with the mooring line. Before she could secure it, Gary and Tim promptly came out of the cabin! Tim took the mooring line from Helen and secured it to a cleat, whilst Gary stepped aboard their boat, picked up the rear mooring line and passed it across to Tim. Then Gary turned towards Dan.
"Hi. Glad you could drop by..." Gary's mouth dropped open as he stared at Dan's massive, bra-less boobs, barely contained within the pink, frilly top."
"This is my... sister-in-law, Daniella," Helen said, having hurriedly scrambled back onto their boat.
"Hi, Daniella," Gary said. "You look..." he struggled for words, "...very nice in that top."
Dan smiled, frightened to open his mouth.
Having secured the mooring line, Tim came aboard, saying to Helen, "I must say, Helen, you look absolutely stunning in that outfit. Is it haute..." Then he saw Dan -- or more accurately, saw Dan's breasts - pursed his lips and gave a small whistle. "I was expecting to see your husband steering the boat," Tim said. "I hadn't realised you'd got a third person on board."
"This is Daniella," Gary said. "She's very... pretty, isn't she?"
"Yes," Tim agreed. "Very pretty."
Since neither of them had yet looked at Dan's face, Helen thought they had a strange definition of prettiness. "We left Dan at the boatyard," Helen said, thinking on her feet. "Daniella is Dan's sister."
Gary briefly looked at Dan's face and said, "Oh yes. I think I can see a resemblance," before his eyes switched back to Dan's breasts.
Tim said, "I wonder if we could take you two ladies out to dinner, this evening?"
"That's probably not a good idea," Helen said. "You see..." For an instant, words failed her; then she knew what she had to say. "We're lesbians," she said.
***
"Do we really have to shave my legs?" Dan whined. "Surely, if I just wear thick tights, no one will see the hair."
Helen smiled; earlier that day it had been she who'd been whingeing. But ever since they'd cast off, they'd had so much fun. Admittedly, most of it had been at Dan's expense, although it hadn't all been misery for him - she secretly thought he was tremendously enjoying the whole thing, but that his male ego wouldn't allow him to admit it.
At least they could now talk without being overheard. They had moved their berth away from the boys, and with the wind increasing, the chop of waves slapping against the hull and the wire rigging of the adjacent sailing boats clack-clacking against their masts, it was difficult enough hearing each other without shouting; no one else was going to overhear.
"We're not going to shave your legs," Helen said. "We're going to use Fiona's hair remover to ensure you have beautifully smooth legs. And you can't wear thick tights with that sexy little black dress - it's going to be semi-sheer stockings, so you'll have to wear a suspender belt, as well."
Dan groaned. "Oh why did you tell them we were lesbians? Surely you know that the challenge is irresistible to many blokes - especially those like Tim and Gary."
"Well I didn't know, actually," Helen said. "And it's hardly as though you were coming up with any useful input to the conversation. Anyway, we're going to have a much better meal than I could have conjured up from the miserable food box provided by the boatyard. Don't forget, we're relying on these guys to pay - all of our cash and bank cards are in the safe on the other boat."
Dan had not forgotten that. In fact, although he wouldn't admit it to Helen, the lack of money was the only thing which really worried him. Secretly, he was ecstatic about dressing as a woman with these enormous breasts, and even if he was discovered, it was hardly as though any of their friends back home would find out. He knew Helen would never give the game away, for back in the world of the Crawfords, it would be regarded as seriously-freakish behaviour.
"Incidentally," Helen said, "you appear to have stopped practising your new voice." They had experimented for some time, and eventually Dan had succeeded in forming the words at the top of his throat, rather than in his chest, which produced a quite plausible female voice.
"Well," Dan said in his new voice, "I hope you're not expecting us to have sex with those guys."
Helen grinned. "You can if you like, but I'm strictly a one-woman woman." She gave him a kiss on his nose, but before he could take it further, she pushed him towards the shower with the hair remover.
***
"It's really all our fault," Tim said, later that evening as they perused their menus.
They were sitting in one of the larger pub chains which concentrated on food - hardly the kind of smart restaurant the 'girls' had expected, so they both felt rather overdressed. Of course, for Dan, anything would have been overdressed.
He had on a little black dress, cut low enough to reveal his tremendous cleavage whilst still remaining semi-respectable. Helen had forced him to wear the stockings (and he could feel the suspenders erotically digging into his legs), and black shoes with spiky heels high enough to make walking difficult, but without raising his height too much.
Ever since he had de-haired his legs, he had been besotted with their sexiness, so although he had protested to Helen, he was revelling in the sensations provided by the shoes, stockings and suspenders. Even his bra straps digging into his shoulders made him feel good, knowing that it was the very size of his breasts which caused the problem. The one garment he was not happy with was the control brief he wore to keep his prick under control. Helen had chosen one of Fiona's, stating that Tracey's bum – and hence her panties – was far too big to properly control his monster. The brief was incredibly tight around his legs, almost cutting off his circulation, and although his cock had felt alright as they set out, it was now extremely uncomfortable. Pretty soon, he'd have to go to the toilet to straighten it out but the thought of going into the Ladies terrified him.
Oblivious to Dan's difficulties, Helen smiled at Tim. "Why is it your fault?" she asked.
"Gary was totally smitten with Tracey," Tim explained. "So after we'd signed the insurance form, we thought it would be rather fun to open a bottle of wine and share it with the girls. We nipped back to our boat, opened the bottle and then took it with some glasses over to their boat."
"They still hadn't arrived," Gary said, "so we thought..."
"Gary thought," Tim interrupted, "that it would be a neat trick to be standing on their boat with wine in our glasses when they got back. That way, it would be difficult for them to refuse our offer."
"So when Tracey and Fiona came back from the briefing," Dan said, understanding flooding through him, "they saw you standing on the deck of a boat, which they obviously assumed was your boat. They got onto the boat next to it, thinking that would be theirs, when of course, it was actually ours."
"We thought it was even more of a laugh," Gary said. "That they would quickly notice they were on the wrong boat and come over and we could have a joke about it."
"The problem was," Tim continued, "the boatyard had left all the ignition keys in the locks on all the boats, so all they had to do was to start the engine and cast off the moorings. By the time we'd started yelling to them, they were already setting off, and they either couldn't hear us above the noise of the engine or they chose to ignore us."
Dan said, "You let them go? Just like that?"
"We immediately jumped into our boat and chased after them," Tim said. "The problem was their boat was slightly faster than ours. Try as we could, we couldn't catch up with them and eventually, they were out of sight."
"Later, we saw them coming back," Gary said, "but they looked so ferocious, we decided not to try to stop them or say anything. After all, there wasn't much we could do."
"Except apologise?" Helen asked, and they both had the grace to look sheepish.
Just then, one of the bar staff brought over their drinks and took their order.
"Is it possible to turn the TV off," Helen asked him, nodding to the set on the wall behind her. She hated TVs in pubs.
"I'm sorry, madam. The football will be on soon. A lot of our customers wouldn't want to miss that."
Personally, Helen thought that missing football on TV was a good reason to go out to a pub for a meal, but she kept her silence and it was a few minutes before conversation resumed.
"From the way that Dan was watching that safety video and pointedly refusing to join in with your conversation with the girls," Tim said, "I rather assumed he was coming with you on the boat. I was rather surprised he's not here."
"Unless perhaps," Gary interjected, showing he was rather more astute than Helen had suspected, "you were not very happy about the way he was trying to chat up Tracey and Fiona."
"You're right," Helen said. "I did have words with Dan about it, but it was after that he fell in the water..."
"He fell in the water!" Both Gary and Tim were jubilant, whilst Dan was annoyed she had mentioned it.
"He fell in the water," Helen continued. "That was when we discovered our clothes were missing and worked out what had happened about the boats. It meant that Dan had nothing to wear, so off he went, leaving Daniella and me together to enjoy ourselves."
She gave Dan a sweet smile, which he returned. She had given, he realised, a very plausible account.
"Does that mean Dan might return when he gets some fresh clothes?" Tim asked, rather apprehensively.
"We certainly hope not," Dan quickly got in. "Don't we, Helen?"
Helen looked at him, smiled and nodded. "We certainly do."
"That's great," Tim said. "That leaves the four of us together."
"It leaves me and my lover, Daniella, together on one boat," Helen said, with a smile to take away the sting, "and you and Gary on another, currently trying to pull us two lesbians."
"But you must swing both ways, Helen," Tim said, "since you're married to Dan."
She shrugged, but thankfully her reply was interrupted by the football starting on the TV. Tim and Gary lost all attention to the girls to stare goggle eyed at a point three feet above their heads for the next forty-five minutes.
Meanwhile, the girls enjoyed eating the most expensive steaks on the menu, and paid a couple of trips to the Ladies to sort out Dan's plumbing problems.
It was during the first trip that Dan expressed his unease. "Look, they still think they're in with a chance of pulling us," he hissed at Helen. "Why didn't you tell them to clear off."
"They are paying for our meal," Helen pointed out. "The least we can do is give them a little hope."
"The story of a successful girl's life," said a woman coming out of a cubicle. "Lead 'em on and keep 'em hoping."
"You bet," Helen smiled at the woman. She turned back to Dan. "The trouble is, Daniella, you are just too naïve."
"How can you be naïve?" the woman asked, "when you have boobies that size."
"She's just getting used to the effect they cause," Helen explained.
The woman paused to stare carefully at Dan's bust and neck, and then said, "Oh they're from Big Busts, aren't they? You're very brave to wear them - I'd never dare wear any that size but I do keep thinking I should purchase a pair - perhaps just a C or a D-cup."
"Daniella has been trying to explain to me whereabouts in Seacombe Big Busts were," Helen said, "but she's hopeless with directions. Can you explain?"
The woman gave explicit directions and after she had left the Ladies, Helen said, "At least we know where they are now. Shouldn't take long to pop down there tomorrow morning and ask them how to remove the breasts."
"Thank heavens for that," Dan said. "I'm dying to get rid of them."
"Liar," Helen said.
"What?"
"I said you were a liar," Helen said. "You're enjoying all this as much as I am." She gave him a quick kiss on his nose. "It's alright. You don't have to pretend. This is fun and we don't need to make up any excuses to have fun together. Right?"
Dan looked at her and said, "Right."
"You know," she said, "when Tim said that I swung both ways, I was thinking that sex with Daniella was so much better than sex with Dan. What do you think?"
He paused. "It's certainly different and... well, yes, it's bloody good. But I wouldn't want to be like this forever."
"How about for the rest of this holiday?"
"You're crazy," he said."
After they returned to their seats for the second time, the football match had just called half time. Now, it was Tim and Gary who went dashing off to the Gents.
"You can see why I quite like you, now," Helen said softly to Dan. "A night out watching football is par for the course with lots of blokes."
Gary was first to return from the toilets. "Are you enjoying the match?" he asked Daniella.
"Great, isn't it," Daniella said, winking at Helen.
"Abso-bloody-lutely," Gary said.
A waitress clutching a TV remote control interrupted them. "I've been asked to change the channel just for a second. A customer wants to try to catch the lottery results."
"Turn the bloody thing off," Helen said, but no one took any notice.
"Oh!" Dan said, glancing down intently at his breasts as though he'd only just seen them. He lifted his hands and cupped his breasts in both hands. "Amazing," he said.
"They're incredible," Gary said.
"Looks like we've missed the lottery," the waitress said. "I'll turn it back to the football."
"Turn it off," Helen said, but was again ignored.
"Oh God!" Dan suddenly shouted, grabbing hold of his breasts with both hands. "That's so amazing!"
People were turning around to stare at them. Even Tim and Gary looked embarrassed.
"Oh God! That's so fucking erotic!" Dan screamed.
"I think we'd better get a breath of fresh air," Helen said, grabbing Dan by his arm and dragging him to his feet. "We'd better see you guys back at the boat."
***
"What happened?" Helen asked as soon as they'd got aboard their boat.
"I'm not certain," Dan said, tenderly clutching his breasts, as he'd done since leaving the table. "It's totally weird, but my breasts have come to life."
"Come to life?" Helen wondered if perhaps the stress of the day had been too much for Dan.
"Look," Dan said. "I put them on this afternoon and they felt just like what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Well, just like putting on a vest, or something. You feel it against your skin when you first put it on, but don't notice it afterwards."
"And?"
"That was it. I could feel the weight of my breasts pulling on my shoulders, but my breasts had no feeling whatsoever, just as you'd expect."
"And now?"
"Well, Gary came back from the toilets and was wittering about the match, and suddenly it was as though real breasts had been grafted onto my chest. I could feel the edge of my dress rubbing against them. That's when I grabbed hold of them, and I could feel my hands squeezing my tits. I couldn't work it out. Inanimate objects are not supposed to behave like that."
"But something else happened after that, didn't it?" Helen asked.
"My breasts went into supersensitive mode. I felt my nipples go hard, and when I rubbed them, it was exquisite. I couldn't stop myself from screaming."
Dan turned towards her. "I'm sorry I embarrassed you. I don't know what's happening. These breasts must be magic or something."
"There's no such thing as magic," Helen said. "That woman we met in the toilet knew about them and she said they were good, but not magic."
"But I can still feel the slightest touch on them," Dan said.
"Close your eyes," Helen commanded, "and then you can tell me when I put my finger on your breast."
Dan obediently did so, saying, "Don't touch my nipples. They are just too sensitive." Then he added, "You're running your finger down my left breast... now you've moved it to my right."
"This is remarkable," Helen said, "but it's hardly beyond the limits of technology. Lots of laptops have touch-sensitive screens, and I guess somehow that feeling could be transferred to your own skin. But what suddenly turned it on? It's not as though we haven't grappled with your breasts several times since you first put them on without that happening."
"The waitress had a remote control for the TV," Dan's mind was suddenly crystal clear. "She pointed it at the TV just above my head to switch it to BBC 1. That's when my breasts first came alive. Afterwards, she switched it back to the sports channel, which is when they became so incredibly sensitive."
"Let me get the remote for our TV," Helen said, moving across to the TV set and picking up the remote, "and I'll point it at you and press zero."
She pressed the button and Dan's breasts became inanimate objects again.
"It's worked," he said, grabbing his breasts and squeezing them. "I can't feel them at all."
Helen pressed another button on the remote and Dan gasped. "Oh that's nice," he said.
"Good," Helen said. "We'll keep it at sensitivity seven all night long."
Such were the delights of their bed, it was eleven o'clock next morning before they had breakfast. Helen had found a note stuck on their door. "Sorry you had to leave the pub. We thought it would be better if we headed off early this morning. I expect we'll meet again sometime over the next week. Love, Tim.
"Looks like the boys have departed," she called to Dan.
"That will save an embarrassment," he said. "I still can't believe how I behaved in the pub when my tits came alive."
"Erotic, though, wasn't it?" she said. "The sex was fantastic afterwards."
What had really been fantastic was that after an exquisite orgasm, a few licks on his supersensitive nipples gave him a wonderfully hard erection within seconds, and they were at it again - and again - and again. Helen had enjoyed herself, as had Dan.
They grinned happily at each other for a few seconds before Helen said, "I think we should go over to Big Busts this morning, and see if they can get you out of these tits." Seeing his reaction, she added, "You'll still wear them, of course, until we meet up with the girls."
He gave a shrug of resignation. "If I must."
"After we've been to Big Busts," Helen continued, "let's set off up river. Provided we don't take too long to get off, we could probably get up to Dorton, tonight. That's only half a day behind our original plan."
"Sounds a good idea to me," Dan said.
***
"Money is going to be a problem," Helen said over breakfast.
"It's been worrying me quite a lot," Dan said. "We don't have a penny to our name. We can't even buy a drink."
"Do you think the girls left their valuables in the safe, like we did?" she asked.
"They did," he said. "I checked the safe and the combination is no longer set to 0000."
"Then all we have to do is to try every possible combination."
"Ten thousand combinations," Dan said. "If it takes ten seconds to try each number, that's 360 per hour, or about thirty hours. It'll take us several days... That is unless..."
"Unless?"
"Tracey told me her birthday is this week. We could try using the four digit combination of the day and month for every day this week. That's only seven combinations - six if you discount yesterday. Let's give it a try."
Tracey's birthday was on the following Tuesday - at least, 2705 was the combination which opened the safe to reveal two handbags, which between them contained quite a lot of cash.
Having got this far, Dan was having second thoughts. "But we can't simply take their money," he said. "That would be stealing."
"We leave IOUs in its place," Helen said. "Sign and date it, and put our address on it. Then no one can stay we were stealing the money. Don't forget, they took off with our belongings. We're simply trying to minimise the inconvenience."
***
Getting Dan dressed took far longer that morning than it had the previous evening, as Helen was not satisfied with any of the clothes Dan put on. Whilst he had looked great in the little black dress last night, this morning, his breasts looked grotesquely large in almost everything he tried on. And he tried on almost everything! Twice!
Eventually, Helen settled for a blue, skinny top and a matching skirt that was so short, Dan knew his panties would be exposed with every step he took.
As they walked through the streets of Seacombe, Dan realised the problems of living with large breasts which Helen had identified last night had a great deal of truth about it. Everyone stared at him! To be accurate, the men stared spellbound at his breasts, whilst the women looked at him as though he was a tart.
After just a few minutes, he said, "I don't know how Tracey coped with this attention. I really do feel like a freak."
"You can see why she went to a smaller breast size," Helen said. "What makes it worse for you is that your hips are so narrow, it makes you far more top heavy than Tracey. Her bum was so big, it balanced everything out. We'd better get you some Minimiser bras before we go back."
"Yes please." Dan could not believe he was saying that. A day ago, he'd thought that Minimiser bras were the devil's creation – now he desperately wanted to wear one!
***
"I'm afraid the red gel is permanent," the assistant in Big Busts told them.
"Permanent! You mean I'm stuck in it forever!" Dan screamed.
The assistant smiled. "No, nothing like that. Eventually, the outer layer of skin is shed, and the Bustlet can be removed with it. It normally takes about two weeks."
"Two weeks! That almost is forever," Dan moaned.
"I am really sorry," the assistant said, "but the user guide is quite specific about this."
"Can't it be cut off?" Helen asked.
"There's a high risk your skin might be damaged in the process," she replied. "Look, what I can suggest is that rather than trying to fight your situation, you adapt to it. You'll find the Bustlet is extremely comfortable for the next two weeks; why not get a Hiplet to go with it?"
"What's a Hiplet?" Helen asked.
"It's a similar garment which goes around the hips and groin area," she replied. "The advantage is that it will make your hips and bum so much wider, that you will look much more balanced than you do now. And the gel will make everything feel much more comfortable."
"You want to glue my genitals between my legs?" Dan said with horror.
"We can use a different type of gel between your legs," the girl said. "The green gel keeps everything comfortable for a few hours, but you'll need to open the crutch of the Hiplet at least three times a day and thoroughly wash it."
"That sounds a good idea," Helen said. "I'm sure we can manage to do that. If you're going to be a woman for a fortnight, you might as well look a proper woman, and it's not going to interfere with the important things in life."
"But we're only on holiday for a week," Dan said. "What do we do then?"
"We don't have to worry about that just yet, so let's go with the Hiplet. How much is it?" she asked the assistant. It cost more than all the money in Tracey and Fiona's handbags!
"Hang on," Helen said, "let me try a card." She pulled a credit card out of her handbag, fed it into the PIN reader and keyed in the PIN.
"That's fine," the girl said, handing Helen her the receipt. "Now, she said, turning to Dan, "let's get you fitted with a Hiplet."
***
"Why didn't you tell me you had a credit card?" Dan asked as they walked back towards their mooring. "I've been worried stiff about the money."
"I didn't realise it was being worried about money that made you stiff," Helen quipped. "Perhaps I should worry you some more, as I do feel decidedly like a little more fun when we get back to the boat. You do look absolutely delightful in your Hiplet and I'm really converting to being a lesbian."
"You randy cow," Dan said, a delighted smile on his face.
Fortunately, it completely took his mind off the sudden appearance of a credit card, and even more fortunately, he hadn't noticed the PIN Helen had entered for the card was 2705.
***
"I hadn't realised that Dorton was such a thriving hub," Helen said, as they chugged up river in the late afternoon, and she stared at the boats moored both in the river and in the canal basin.
"It's the point where the Dorminster canal joins the River Combe," Dan said. "In the eighteenth century, three-masted sailing ships would have come up from the sea, and offloaded their cargo onto the canal narrow-boats on the other side of the quay. The cargo would then be transported all the way up to Dorminster, and they'd bring back with them the building stone from the quarry, that gave Dorminster its fame."
"Not many cargo boats now," Helen said.
"Nor three-masted sailing ships," Dan added. "The railways, and eventually the roads, put an end to that trade. It's all pleasure boats now. Fortunately, in the early nineteenth century, they had the foresight to extend the Dorminster canal so that it looped back to join the River Combe much further upstream. It means that, nowadays, pleasure boats can take the route around three sides of the triangle, which, with lots of stops for drinks at the plentiful waterside pubs, takes just one week to complete."
"I didn't know about all the pubs," Helen said. "I thought we came because the Crawfords suggested it."
"The video recommended going through the lock into the canal basin to moor," Dan said, making the point that he had watched it.
"So did the Crawfords," Helen muttered.
Thanks to a combination of the Crawfords briefings and the safety video, their passage through their first lock would have been uneventful, were it not for the gongoozlers. For those not familiar with the term, this is not some rare breed of wild bird or animal, but those people who take pleasure in watching the activities on canals.
Helen had decided that lifting the sluice gates was a male job, and for this purpose, it didn't matter, that Dan was temporarily a woman. So, Helen did the steering whilst Dan got off with the paddle - an L-shaped handle to wind the sluice gear up and down. Even before people realised the size of Dan's breasts, there was a crowd, but as word spread, so the crowd expanded.
There were several willing helpers to open and shut the lock gates, but when it came to winding the sluices, Dan was on his own. And as he cranked the paddle round and round, so his breasts wobbled alarmingly, almost popping out of the low-cut top Helen had insisted he wore. He could even hear some of the guys taking bets upon whether they would come completely out, whilst others were excitedly declaring they could "see her nipples". If only they knew, Dan thought.
Finally, after he'd finished and was stepping back aboard the boat, he got a round of applause, until some wag said, "You've come the wrong way. You need to go back again," whereupon the crowd burst into laughter.
As they moved the boat forward looking for a spot to moor, dozens of boys waved and jeered at her and helpfully suggested mooring points and, when they eventually chose somewhere, took their mooring lines and secured them.
"I'm so sorry," Helen said, once they were alone. "I dressed you up as a game - almost like dressing a little doll, and I forgot the impression you would make on others in this kind of place."
"I blame you entirely," Dan said, and added, "But on the other hand, it was erotic, knowing everyone of those gongoozlers thought I was a huge breasted woman. It's time to exact my revenge on you."
And he did.
***
"I suppose you're not overkeen on wondering around this place," Helen said some time later, "knowing you'll be followed by all your fans."
Dan indicated that was indeed the case.
"One of us does need to find out whether the girls are still here," Helen continued. "I suspect they'd have stayed last night, and then carried on chasing us up river. I still don't understand why we didn't meet them yesterday afternoon. We may have had our distractions, but they would have been looking out for us."
Dan shrugged. "We need to go to the canal office to pay our overnight fee," he said. "If you went, you could check up on the girls at the same time."
Helen nodded. "I think I'll also pop into town and buy us some food. We can eat in tonight."
"Sounds good."
"You can take a shower and get dressed. I'll sort out something for you to wear. After all, we may be eating on our own but there's no need for us to let standards drop."
"Of course," Dan said, "it has nothing to do with the fact that the more erotically you dress me, the more it turns you on."
She smiled. "Maybe."
***
After Dan came out of his shower, he smiled at the dress lying on the bed. They had laughed about wearing it to the restaurant the previous evening - a long, pink fishnet dress, which came complete with a matching pink G-string. A halterneck plunged almost to the waist, the transparent material of the two inch wide straps revealing everything they attempted to cover. Slits ran up both sides from ankle to hip, whilst at the rear, it was cut low enough to expose a startling buttock cleavage.
Dan grinned as he stepped into it. It looked like he and Helen were in for some fun and games that evening.
***
A quick visit to the canal office established that Tracey and Fiona had moored in the canal basin the previous night and, discovering that Helen and Dan's boat had not been into the canal basin, assumed they had continued up river. So this morning, they had returned to the river, frantically trying to catch them.
Helen went into the town centre and did the shopping.
When she got back, Dan was wearing in the dress she had laid out for him. "You look fantastic," she said.
He grinned back at her. "Thanks," he said. "I feel like a million pounds."
She hesitated a little and said, "Look, I haven't got the food yet, but most of the crowds have gone home. Why don't we go out for a meal instead? Just two girls, having a great time together."
"That's a great idea," he said. "But I think you mean two lesbians having a great time together."
She smirked at him. "You bet."
***
The meal that night was much more enjoyable than the one the previous evening. Everyone looked at them in the restaurant. A couple of guys tried to start a conversation, but the girls cut them off, much preferring their own company.
"Incidentally," Helen said. "I discovered that the girls have headed off up the river as fast as they can, trying to catch us up. I don't suppose we'll be able to catch them now. So if we really want to meet up with them as soon as we can, we could go around the loop in the opposite direction, and we'll meet them halfway round.
"Of course," she added, "the problem is that when we do meet them, your own clothes will no longer fit you with your new shape."
"Oh dear," he said, as though he hadn't realised that already. "In that case, why don't we simply follow behind them, and accept we're not going to meet up until next Saturday?"
Helen smiled. "Sounds good to me. Except that with the amount of time we're going to be spending in the cabin, I suspect we won't get very far at all on this holiday."
"What will you tell the Crawfords?" Dan asked.
"I'll tell them the holiday was a drag," she said.
Change Here for Marilyn Monroe
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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.
Childhood Games
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"I was eleven and you were nine," she said. "I think it was the first time I'd seen an erection, and certainly the first time I wanked a boy off."
Tony flushed even more at the memory. "I didn't really understand what I was doing," he said, "but bloody hell, it felt good."
"Afterwards," Toni said, "I panicked that by putting my knickers back on with all your semen inside them, I might become pregnant. I always brought a spare pair of knickers with me when we did it again."
"How long did it go on for?" Tony asked.
"Just a few weeks in the school holidays, before I went to comprehensive school. After that, I got into a new circle of friends, and then we moved away, and we virtually lost touch for all these years. Still it's really nice meeting you again. I'm glad I looked you up."
She had telephoned him out of the blue; she was in London for a few nights; could she come round and see him? Perhaps they could get a takeaway delivered. So, she had come round to his house, they'd ordered a curry and then Toni had begun her embarrassing childhood reminiscences.
"Do you want to do it again?"
Tony looked startled. "What? You mean dress up in each other's clothes?"
She nodded. "Same terms. You put my clothes on and I put on yours. Then we can eat our takeaway and finally, I give you a hand job. Incidentally, I'm much better at that now than I used to be."
"Well, I, er..." He nodded at her cleavage exposed by the scoop-necked dress and said, "I don't think your clothes would fit me very well, now. You've filled out in all the right places since you were eleven."
"But we're still about the same height and build," she said. She thrust her breast forward so he could look at them more closely. "Do you think these are pretty good?"
"They're gorgeous," he said.
"They're false," she said.
He shrugged. "Lots of women have enhancements," he said.
"No," she said. "These aren't enhancements. They're totally false. Look, I'll show you."
She reached behind her and unzipped her dress, and then pulled it forward off her shoulders and down her arms. She unclipped her bra and took it off, revealing probably the best pair of breasts Tony had ever encountered at close range.
"Do you still think they're real?" she asked.
"Of course they are."
She folded her arms across her breasts and fumbled with her fingertips at either side of her body. Then she lifted her arms as though pulling off a tight fitting top, and Tony could see she was actually pulling off a flesh-coloured vest that had been indistinguishable from her own skin. But when she'd pulled it over her head, she was left completely flat-chested.
"Bloody hell! What's happened to your breasts?" he asked.
"I told you. They're false," she said. "Here they are." And she handed over the flesh-coloured vest.
"It's heavy," he exclaimed, then examined it in more detail. "These are your boobs. That's fantastic!"
"It's called a Bustlet," she said. "It can transform any flat-chested woman into a large-breasted one."
"Bloody hell!"
"Or a flat-chested man," she added.
Tony gulped. "You mean I could wear this as part of the dress up."
"Of course. Are you on?"
He thought of the hand job that was promised. "You bet," he said.
***
Toni had come prepared, with a can of Veet, a wig almost identical to her own dark-brown hair, and her extensive beauty kit. It took well over an hour to convert Tony into a female, but even he had to admit it was a fantastic conversion. Toni had been right, they did still have similar build and height, and they'd still retained the facial likeness they'd had as young cousins. And the fantastic boobs given him by the Bustlet made it impossible to believe he was really a man.
"I think we'd better change names, just like we used to as children," Toni said. "From now on, I shall be Anthony and you'll be Antonia."
"Fine," Antonia said. "I still can't believe how good I look."
"Shall we eat?" Anthony asked. It hadn't taken him anything like as long to get ready as it had taken Antonia. Apart from getting dressed, all he'd had to do was to cover his longer hair with a cap and then slip on a male wig, which was a good-enough approximation to Anthony's hair. So, whilst Antonia was still pulling on her stockings, he'd answered the door to the delivery man, managed to find his way around the unfamiliar kitchen, and popped the meal into the oven to keep warm.
"Can we close the curtains," Antonia asked, moving towards the dining-room windows. "We don't want everyone to see us."
"I want everyone to see us," Anthony said, stepping in front of her. "When a man entertains a beautiful woman in his home, he wants to display her to the world.
"And it's alright," he added more quietly, "I won't wank you off in public."
"But..." Antonia protested.
"But nothing," Anthony said. "Let's eat."
So they did. They ate in full view of the road outside, and drank the rather nice wine that Toni had brought around (or was it Anthony who'd brought it). Anthony talked endlessly about life over the last eighteen years, where she'd been, the schools she went to, the jobs she'd had, whilst Antonia did less talking, content to enjoy Anthony's chatter.
***
Afterwards, Anthony stepped around the table, went down onto one knee and gently kissed Antonia on the mouth. Then the gentle kiss turned into a thorough snog.
"I think we'd better stop this," Antonia said, pushing Anthony back after a few minutes of delightful pleasure on both sides. "Then we can draw the curtains and go onto the next stage."
"Sounds good to me," Anthony said. "Shall we clear the dinner table, or leave it until tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, I think," Antonia said. She stood up and drew the curtains she had not been allowed to touch earlier. "I'm ready for an early night."
"We have to go outside first," Anthony said.
"What?"
"You agreed the same terms as before," Anthony said. "So it wasn't simply a case of putting on each other's clothes; we had to go outside wearing them. It really wouldn't have been much of a challenge without that, would it?"
"But we can't go outside," Antonia said, her heart leaping into her mouth at the very idea.
"But you agreed," Anthony said. "Come on, no one will suspect, so it's best not to think about it too much." He took her by the hand and gave a tug. On those unfamiliar high-heels, Antonia could do little except totter after him. He pulled her out into the hallway, put her coat over her shoulders, and then opened the front door.
"But I haven't got a key," Antonia said.
"I've got the key," he said, patting his pocket. He put his arm through hers and they marched outside, where he pulled the front door closed, and made certain it was properly locked.
"It's alright, I'm going to be the perfect gentleman," he added, as they walked down the front path and out onto the road. "I'll walk with you to the Tube station."
"What?" Antonia said, aghast. "But you're still wearing my clothes. You can't go home like that. Besides..."
"Besides, I haven't played with your little clitoris. That's what you were going to say, wasn't it Antonia?"
She nodded. "Yes. We agreed that. Can't we go back now?"
"We agreed the same terms as before," Anthony said. "Surely you remember what they were?"
"Well," Antonia said, thinking back to childhood, "I had to cross the road by myself and..."
"Go into Toni's bedroom," Anthony finished for her, "and change into the pretty clothes which had been laid out for you. Only when you returned to Tony's house wearing those pretty new clothes, would you get your little clitoris massaged. That's how we played it, wasn't it?"
"But I can't possibly go back to your house," Antonia said. "You live two hundred miles away."
"Of course not," Anthony said. "All you have to do is to take the Underground train to Russell Square, which is, of course, two changes from your local station, and then go into Toni's hotel room. You'll find the details and key card in your handbag. The clothes you're to wear are all laid out on the bed. When you've put them on, you return here and we proceed with the bit you're longing for."
"But I can't go on the Underground dressed like this," Antonia said. "People will realise I'm a man, and I might be attacked."
"Then you'll simply have to make certain everyone thinks you're a beautiful female," Anthony said.
"I can't do it," Antonia said, disengaging her arm from his. "I'm going back to my house and getting changed. I'm sorry, but..."
"You'll need the key to the house," Anthony said, dangling the key from his pocket, but keeping it well out of her reach.
"I keep a spare key in a secret place," Antonia said.
"You mean this one?" Anthony said, dangling another key next to the first. "You're a creature of habit, and you keep it in just the same place as your parents did at their house when you were a child."
"I'll have to break a window," Antonia said.
"I wouldn't advise it," Anthony said. "Someone would call the police and that would lead to all kinds of complications."
Antonia couldn't help shuddering about where that might lead.
"But I can't go down the Tube," she said.
"Why not?" Anthony asked. "Even more importantly, tell me truthfully that wouldn't be the most exciting thing you've done for years."
Antonia thought for a second and then said, "Scary - not exciting."
"Don't the two go together? Come on, Antonia, you agreed to our cross-dressing tonight because the thought excited you. Now I'm pushing you beyond your comfort zone. That's just as it should be. And you just tell me this whole thing isn't thrilling the pants off you."
Antonia thought for a second and then grinned. "I hope it doesn't scare the pants off me. Otherwise, my cock will be sticking about ten feet in the air."
"That's my girl," Anthony said. He gave her a peck on the cheek as they approached the Underground station, and then turned and walked quickly away.
***
Antonia's heart was pumping wildly as she stepped inside the Tube station. She'd be outed within seconds, and people would start jeering at her. But no one did; in fact everyone seemed in a dreadful hurry and far too busy to even notice her. The first obstacle she reached was the ticket barrier. Did she have a return ticket in her handbag? Did she have the coins to go into a ticket machine? Or would she have to go to the ticket office and purchase one from an official.
She opened her handbag. There on top was an Oyster card, the pay-in-advance card that would take her anywhere on the transport system. She breathed a sigh of relief. First obstacle overcome. She went through the barrier and walked down the steps to the platform, her shoes making an incredibly loud click-clock-clicking sound on the steps.
She held her breath as a few people on the platform turned to stare at her. But the stares from the men were of lust, and those from the women analysing her dress sense. What do I do now, she wondered.
Exactly the same as everyone else on the Underground, she decided. Pretend that no one else exists. She smiled to herself, and for the first time since stepping outside the door, she relaxed.
The journey itself was alright, once she'd got used to the blokes all leching after her. She kept her knees closely together whilst seated, and had to keep pulling down the skirt which insisted on riding up her thighs. In fact, she thought, it was rather nice to have people of the opposite sex lusting after her; a complete reversal of life as it normally was.
She made the changes of line without problem, making sure she kept up with the crowd of passengers doing the same; she really didn't want to be alone in a deserted tunnel. Finally, she was crowding into the lift at Russell Square station, with everyone else pushing in behind her to make certain they didn't get left behind. That's when she felt the hard bulge pushing into her buttocks.
Shit! She thought. What do I do now?
She moved forward slightly, to give the person behind more room. The hard bulge moved forward with her. Then it gave a little wriggle, from side to side.
"Fuck this for a game," Antonia thought. She shifted her stance slightly, lifting her foot and then bringing the heel down hard on the point where she thought the man's instep would be.
"Fuck me!" a woman said. Antonia turned round to see a woman with a large handbag, staggering backwards. "You silly cow!" she yelled, "Why don't you look where you're stepping."
"Sorry," Antonia said, and then froze. Her voice was all wrong.
One or two people gave her a double take, but appeared reassured by the cleavage that she'd been careful to ensure remained in full view. Fortunately, the lift doors opened, and the crowd surged forward, Antonia with them, leaving the other woman hobbling behind.
She had already found the hotel details, which was only a few minutes' walk, and she got there without problem. The commissionaire even saluted her as she went up the steps to the hotel and walked with a confidence she didn't feel towards the lifts, and the safety of her room.
***
"Shit!"
When the two of them had played the game as children, there'd have been perhaps a tartan skirt or a school uniform lying on Toni's bed. On the bed in the hotel room was, what the packaging described as, a sexy police uniform. A short, black dress with a plunging cleavage and a wide belt which looked more like waist cincher, and cap, baton, handcuffs, and a black suspender belt with fishnet stockings. On the floor was a pair of black boots with spiky heels which must surely be five-inches high.
"She couldn't do this to me." But Antonia knew that Toni could.
The first time they had played the game, fearful of being discovered by Toni's mother who was in the garden, he had chickened out of getting changed and gone running back to his house in Toni's original clothes. But she'd refused to let him in, and he'd been stuck on the doorsteps for eons, terrified his mates would come along, whilst he'd pleaded with her. Eventually he gave in and had returned to her house and changed into the proper clothes in order to gain access to his own house.
It was a dead cert that wearing anything other than the chosen clothes would result in non-admittance to the house. She shrugged and smiled. So what! She'd got away with it this far.
On the dressing table was a notice: YOU'LL PROBABLY NEED TO SPEAK ON YOUR RETURN JOURNEY. TAKE ONE OF THESE TABLETS. There was a box on top of the notice which said: Voice-Changer capsules. Take one capsule every eight hours.
She took one as directed; it burnt her throat, like swallowing nitric acid, but afterwards, her voice was as high, if not as sweet, as a nightingale. "The rain in Spain," she chirped, "falls mainly on the plain."
Getting dressed took only a few minutes, but getting used to the heels took forever. She staggered round and around the room, until she got a phone call from Reception, saying that the guest downstairs had complained about the herd of elephants clomping around in her room. She took the hint, and left the room, her handcuffs and baton swinging from her belt.
***
Actually, once she got walking properly, she found it was not so difficult. The trick was to keep her weight right back, whilst provocatively pushing forward the pelvis. Of course, her provocative walk was assisted by the fact that the dress was just, and only just, long enough to cover her stocking tops, and with every flounce of her dress, they were revealed. As soon as she was out onto the pavement, the cat calls and whistles started, along with declarations that they had bigger truncheons than she had, and offers to let her hold them.
Antonia revelled in it. As long as they continued, she reasoned, it meant that no one had a clue that she was really a he. Her aching legs and ankles, which commenced within fifty yards of leaving the hotel, did nothing to lessen her confident stride, and she thanked her lucky saints for the visit from Toni.
She was also grateful to the speech changing capsules. Several times on the tube journey back to the house, she was accosted by semi-drunk guys who offered to let her to do everything to them from baton whipping to handcuffing them to a rail and then having sex with them. But a mean "Go fuck yourself," was usually sufficient to send them on their way, although she had to strike one guy with her baton on his shin, and he fell down yelling. She didn't hang around to see whether she had done any serious damage.
She was just about to ring the door bell on her own house when she saw the note taped below it: HANDCUFF YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK BEFORE RINGING THE DOORBELL. She knew better than to try to argue it out on the doorstep. Anthony could continue it indefinitely, and sooner or later, the neighbours would start taking an interest. So, she pulled the cuffs from her belt, snapped one around her left wrist, then put her arms behind her back and tried to clip them around her right wrist. It took several attempts, but finally they clicked into place, and Antonia knew she was well and truly secured.
She turned towards the bell, and then realised she couldn't push it! Eventually, she managed it with her nose, and the door opened almost immediately.
"Come in, Antonia," Anthony said, reaching out and pulling her inside. "I've invited all the neighbours in to see you." And he shut the door with a bang
***
"You shit, shit, shit, shit!" she said to Anthony a few minutes later. "You might have given me a heart attack."
"Well, I was only having a little joke," he said. "You should have known that you could trust me. I wouldn't really invite all the neighbours around."
"Well I had trusted you until that moment."
"Does that mean," Anthony asked, "that you don't want to complete on the rest of the deal?" He reached forward and started to massage her breasts,
"Agh!" Antonia said. "I felt that."
"Of course you can," Anthony said. "These are the best false breasts you can get, and they have something called Sensotouch. A touch on the skin of the Bustlet is transferred through tiny electrodes onto your own skin." He smiled. "The real beauty of it is that it's adjustable."
He held up a remote control for her to see, which looked just like one for a hi-fi or ghetto-blaster. "I set it to zero before putting it on you and letting you go off, and I put it up to four just now." He pointed the remote at her. "But if I put it to eight, you'll be writhing in pleasure. See?"
His finger pressed the 8 button and her breasts were suddenly alive, and being gently squeezed by her bra. "If I just brush your breast, you'll be in heaven," he said.
And he did.
And she was!
"If I start massaging your nipples, you'll be on Cloud nine."
And he did.
"Oh God, Anthony! That's exquisite. Yes, please, don't stop. Don't stop."
But he did. "I think it's time," he said, "that we allowed little Percy to emerge." That's the name Toni had given it all those years ago. "Then he can join in the fun. And I've decided I'm not going to give you a hand-job."
"But you promised," Antonia said, panic entering her voice. She had to have sex. "You can't leave me like..."
Her words ended as Anthony closed his mouth over hers and kissed her. "You've been so good about everything," Anthony said, "that I think you deserve the whole thing."
"You mean," Antonia said. "We're going to bonk?"
"Only if you want to. I don't want to force a girl whose hands are handcuffed behind her back into having sex. What do you say?"
"Oh please, Anthony, let's do it."
"Are you quite certain?"
"Oh please, please, please."
"Hmm. In that case, let me pull down your panties," Anthony said, "and I think for the time being we should revert to our original names."
***
Toni was as good as her word; she had hurriedly pulled off her shoes and socks, and then removed her trousers and panties. Then she reached beneath Tony's skirt and pulled down his pantie-girdle. Out lunged his incredibly hard, throbbing cock.
"My, you are excited," she said, and went onto her knees so that she could kiss it, and run her tongue down the shaft to his balls. "Oops. Not too much of that, otherwise we'll end our excitement all too early, just like that first time we did it. And that would never do."
She grabbed his cock in her hand and pulled it hard downwards, so he was forced to his knees, and they were kissing, and she was massaging his wonderful tits. Hell, he thought, it's better to have your tits massaged than your cock.
Then she was pushing him backwards, but keeping hold of him at the same time, since, with his hands handcuffed, he couldn't help himself down to the ground.
"Time to eat muffin," she said, "and we didn't get this far when we were kids."
"Perhaps if we had," Tony said, "I'd have turned our completely differently. Not been such a mmmm." His last words were lost as Toni pushed her pussy against his mouth, using her fingers to separate her own lips. She wriggled against him in ecstatic pleasure, quickly reaching a mini-orgasm.
"Mmm. That was nice," she said. "But I promised you a treat and I don't go back on my promises."
She certainly didn't, moving backwards until his throbbing cock was resting against her cunt and then slowly wriggling until he was inside her, she slowly lowered herself down - and then up - and then down again.
"Oh yes! Yes" Tony said.
"Not too quickly," Toni said, sitting down firmly on top of him, so that he completely filled her. "We don't want to end the pleasure too quickly."
They went at it for almost two hours, before Tony had the most wonderful orgasm he'd ever had in his life and Toni had a huge grin on her face. She had so much semen inside her she decided to move her cunt back over Tony's face and let him lick it all out - an act he did without dissension - and which gave her another incredibly nice orgasm.
***
"Where did you put the key to the handcuffs?" she asked him, looking inside the policewoman's little pouch attached to the belt.
"The key?" he quizzed. "I haven't seen the key. Has it been in that pouch all the time?"
"Well no," Toni said. "It was on the dressing table in my hotel room, right next to the voice-changer tablets. There was a label attached, saying DON'T FORGET TO BRING THIS."
"I didn't see it," he said, then: "Oh shit! Does that mean you can't release me?"
She grinned. "I'm afraid it does," she said, reaching down towards him. "I think I'd better help you to bed, and obviously I'm going to have to stay the night and hold your willy whilst you wee. That means we can bonk all night long, then sort out this in the morning."
"But what happens then?" he said. "I mean, I'm certainly not averse to bonking all night long, but I'll still have the handcuffs on, and I have to go to work."
"No problem," Toni said. "You work in the City, don't you?"
Tony nodded.
"In that case," she continued, "we can set out early and go to my hotel room, and get the handcuffs off. Then you can take a shower and get dressed for work."
"But why can't I have a shower here?" he asked.
"Isn't it obvious?" she asked, then continued as it clearly wasn't. "You can't take off the dress with the handcuffs on, so you're going to have to stay in that uniform until we get to my hotel."
"But it will be the morning rush hour. I can't travel into London dressed like this amongst all those commuters!"
"Do you have any other suggestion?" she asked.
"You could cut the dress off me."
"But we wouldn't be able to put a shirt or jacket onto you," she replied with another smile. "Don't worry, we'll repair your make-up so that even your own mother won't recognise you.
"And don't try to deny," she continued, "that you would dearly love to bonk me all night long, and then wear a sexy uniform on the commuter train into work."
He opened his mouth to do so, then realised he shouldn't tell a lie.
***
Later, Toni said, "Have you ever had sex with a nymphomaniac?"
He smiled. "I think I just did."
"Oh no," she said with an appreciative smile. "That's just good healthy sex. I'm talking about the sort of woman who simply has to have sex all the time."
Tony shook his head. "In my dreams."
"You think so?"
"Along with every other male on earth. We all dream of that woman who wants non-stop sex."
"But look," she said. "We're lying here feeling kind of yummy, and well pleased with ourselves, and that this is what life is all about, and perhaps thinking that a bit later on we might have a bit more of the same."
Her hand slipped down to his limp penis and started to fondle it. "Whereas a nymphomaniac can never be sexually satisfied; OK, she has orgasms - probably great screaming ones - but they don't leave her feeling fulfilled. Right now, she'd be yelling at you to give her some more. How would you feel about that? Me, I'm much more ready to let nature take its course - with a little help of course." She rolled over and leant over his penis, letting her tongue flick lightly over the head.
He grunted and then said, "I think it's much better to lick bollocks than talk bollocks." Then he gave a gasp as she did.
***
"I bet that journey was rather more exciting than your normal travel to work," Anthony said, as they travelled up in the lift towards Toni's hotel room. Anthony was wearing a smart business suit, whilst Antonia continued to wear the sexy police uniform, with the five-inch heels and with her hands handcuffed behind her back.
"I think even the commuters found it so," Antonia said. "Especially when you asked whether anyone wanted to buy your sex slave."
"I didn't expect five people to start bidding for you, though," Anthony said. "And it was really embarrassing when that Transport policeman came over to see what the commotion was."
They grinned, two friends sharing an enjoyable moment.
"Of course," Anthony said, "when we get to the room, you need to decide whether you want me to remove the handcuffs."
"Bloody hell!" Antonia said, "I've got to get to work." A note of panic entered her voice. "You wouldn't make me go to work like this?"
"Don't be silly," he smiled at her, "but I could hold the phone whilst you called in sick."
"Anthony!" she said, seemingly outraged. "That's absolutely disgraceful!" But she rather spoiled her sense of outrage by adding, "What would we do?"
"That takes us into uncharted territory," Anthony said, "and I'm not going to tell you the answer until you decide whether you ask me to remove the handcuffs, or hold the phone while you call in sick." He smiled again. "It's your decision: boring old work; or the great unknown."
"Get the phone," Antonia said.
***
In fact as soon as he'd made the call, Anthony took the handcuffs off her.
"We're going to postpone the bondage for now," Anthony said in response to her surprised look. "Right now we have to get you dressed and looking pretty. We're going to something special. What do you think of that?"
He pointed towards the wardrobe, and Antonia's heart missed a beat, for hanging inside was the most beautiful gown; a red, mid-length dress, with a plunging, heart-shaped top, and a full skirt which would flare out whenever she moved.
"It's gorgeous!" she gasped. "Am I going to wear that?" As she thought through the implications, she added, "And where are we going with it?"
"We're going for lunch," he said. "To the Daily Chronicle's Short Story Writer of the Year Awards." He took her by the hand and led her to the bathroom. "Time for your shower, and then we'll get you dressed.
***
"OK," Antonia said to Anthony sitting on the opposite side of the dining table, as she sipped her fourth glass of wine - or was it the fifth, she idly wondered. "I reckon you were incredibly nervous about coming to this classy event, and the whole reason you came to see me yesterday was to use me as a stand in for you here."
She glanced down and had a heart-stopping moment as she thought she had spilt a spot of soup on her fabulous dress. Fortunately, it was only a crumb. She flicked her hand to brush it away, and once more her breasts 
gave a wonderful wobble.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guy sitting on her right give yet another gulp, pick up his glass and rapidly swallow some more wine. Damien somebody, he was called, and he reckoned he was going to win the award.
Anthony shrugged. "I know it's not very likely, but I got terrified in case I won and had to stand up and give a speech like they do at the Oscars, with everybody watching and all the TV cameras focussed on me." He waved around the huge dining room, packed with hundreds of hopeful award winners, most of them dressed to the nines 'just-in-case'.
"Don't they tip off the prize-winners in advance?" she asked.
Anthony shrugged. "I suppose so, but I was still terrified. I should have brought a friend, but I've kept my writing a secret and I didn't want anyone else to know."
Antonia could understand that. Lots of authors were very shy about their work. "Well, I'll be taking your glory if they announce Antonia Braddock as the winner," she said.
"I've prepared a speech just in case," Anthony said. "It's in your handbag."
She gave him a look. Anthony really was quite serious. Suddenly she started to have some misgivings. Toni couldn't win an award, could she? The wine was clouding her judgement; what was that woman's name? Then it came to her. "Everybody seems to be suggesting the winner's going to be Maxi Morgasm, with her sex story. Have you read it…"
"It's total crap," the guy on her right interjected. "The workings of a pathetic mind. Not like my story for example. With only five hundred words to play with, one has to ensure that every word is put to its full use. I've left out all the inconsequential words, and each word I've used has at least two meanings - three or four in some cases - so the story has as much body as a full length novel."
"Really," Antonia replied, turning to him and leaning slightly forward so he got a good look down her cleavage. "How much body do you like?"
She couldn't believe she just did that! She was really a bloke, for God's sake. What was she doing? But she knew what she was doing. Last night on the Tube had been erotic enough, but today in this fabulous dress, she not only felt fantastic but every man gave her a second look - and in many cases third and fourth looks. They wanted her. They were drooling over her.
This guy flushed a little and said, "Some words even had five fuckings… I mean meanings. Don't you think that's amazing?"
Antonia slipped her hand onto the guy's leg and brushed over his cock. "I think that's amazing," she said. "Not the shit you write."
"Oh God!" he said. "I didn't realise. I think I'm going to…" He stood up and dashed towards the exit.
"You got things sussed, then," Anthony said, begrudging surprise showing in his eyes.
Exactly what she had sussed had to be postponed for a while as the MC started to bellow over the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen. Could I have your attention please. This is the moment you've all been waiting for. The announcement of the Daily Chronicle's Short Story Writer of the Year Awards. And here to present the prizes, is none other than…"
***
You've probably already seen the event on the television so there's no need to bore you with the details. In any case, it was exactly the same as every other award ceremony you see at all too frequent intervals.
"Exactly who cares a shit who wins," Antonia mused. What was more important was that the wine was flowing freely, the boring jerk sitting next to her had not returned to his seat, and she continued to get admiring glances from most of the blokes in the room, which she returned with a bashful grin. Antonia had learnt her lesson about being too forward with men - it only scared them off.
In fact there was a guy with a roaming TV camera who came over and spent ages drooling over her in his viewfinder. She could see he was clearly focussing on her cleavage for most of the time rather than the beauty of her dress, but what did she care?
Of course, it takes about an hour for them to actually get to the point where they announced the winners. Antonia wondered whether Toni might have won a runner-prize. She had checked the speech really was in her handbag, just in case, but they went through a long list of runners-up and, thank God, she wasn't mentioned. Of course, all the runners-up had to give speeches saying how surprised they were, and how proud their families would be, and so on and so on. Boredom!
Finally, they were announcing the real winner, and, surprise, surprise it was that Maxi Morgasm woman whom everyone seemed to be talking about. There was a pregnant pause as everyone expected her to stand up, and she did not.
Antonia looked around, wondering where she was, and suddenly realised all eyes were on her; even the TV camera was pointing at her.
"Go on," Anthony whispered. "We won. And don't forget, your speech is in your handbag."
She looked around and gave a sickly smile as she got to her feet and watched everyone watching her. "Little do they know," she thought.
Then, she shuffled through her bag and removed the sheaf of papers and folded them tightly in her hand. She stood up straight, took a deep breath and marched towards the podium.
***
"I am both man's most wonderful dream and his worst nightmare.
"If I was male, I'd be arrested, for women easily cry "Rape!" whereas men never do - certainly none whom I choose. The quacks call it Obsessive Compulsive Sexual Disorder, but to everyone else, it's Nymphomania..
"So starts my entry for the short story competition," she continued to an enraptured audience. The Broom Cupboard was easy to pen; I simply wrote about what I am, and what I do…"
The words of her speech were totally bullshit, but they reverberated around the dining room and would be broadcast to tens of millions of TV screens. Antonia felt great! No wonder Toni had chickened out of attending the ceremony, having been tipped off she was a winner. Now, every male in the world would know her by sight, and want to get to know her biblically. Except that it was Tony they were looking at.
She knew this would not be the last time she had to don the Maxi Morgasm persona; and she revelled at the thought!
Cinderella Shall Go To the Masquerade Ball
Author:
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As I walked up the garden path towards my own front door, my next-door neighbour called to me through her open front window. "Jim!"
I turned to face her with a smile, and she added in a quieter voice, "There was a parcel delivered here today, but I think it was meant for you. You are Jim Brown, aren't you? Only it was addressed to my house, 11 Albert Road. It is for you, isn't it?"
I had only been in the house for a week, and we'd soon exchanged first names - but not yet surnames.
"Sorry, Brenda," I said, "I must have put the wrong address on the order."
"No problem," she said. "I know what it's like when you first move in to a new home. So many different things to remember; it's easy to get confused."
I shrugged. It had been stupid all the same. "It's been delivered very quickly," I said. "I only ordered it last night. I'll come round and collect it now."
"It's a home brewing kit," I explained as I stepped through her front door. "My parents used to brew their own beer all the time, so I thought I'd give it a go. Much cheaper than buying it in the shops."
"Oh," she said, looking rather surprised. "It seems quite large for a home brewing kit."
She took me into her lounge and I looked at the parcel she indicated, and then took a second look. She was right; it was a huge box - about four feet high and almost too wide to go through her door. "I think it must have a barrel inside," I joked.
I picked up the huge box as best I could - actually, it was quite light - and returned to my house, setting it down in the lounge. I was really looking forward to brewing my own beer; a bit like doing a chemistry experiment, only with more worthwhile results. And with it having arrived on Friday, it gave me the whole weekend to get brewing.
But when I'd laid the parcel on its back, used the scissors on the parcel tape and hinged back the lid, there was no collection of hops, chemicals, pipes and tubes inside, but instead an enormous, folded garment bag. Clearly, this hadn't come from the brewing company; and I certainly hadn't ordered any items of clothing recently.
So, obviously a mistake.
Even so, I grabbed hold of the coat hanger protruding from the garment bag to lift it out of the box, and let the bag unfold to its full height - almost as tall as I was. I realised that my heart had started to pump wildly. I hooked the hanger over the top of the open door, and then, even though I knew this package couldn't possibly be for me, irresistibly I pulled the zip down from top to bottom.
Inside was the most gorgeous gown I had ever seen; a gown with layers and layers of lace in the most beautiful shade of blue imaginable; a gown with a wonderful heart-shaped neckline that would surely show off a woman's breasts to their very best; and, when I pulled the garment bag wide open and let it drop off the shoulders and fall to the floor, I could see the puffed-up sleeves that turned the gown into a dress fit for a princess.
I realised I had been holding my breath, and now I took huge gulps of air as I stared at this fantastic creation. It was only as I looked at it more carefully that I saw the pastel-blue envelope pinned to the hanger, with the words carefully written in a beautiful script.
To Cinderella,
You shall go to the ball after all.
With love from your Fairy Godmother.
"Oh God!" With a burning flush to my cheeks, I realised not only who had sent it - Aunty Helen, my real godmother - but that she understood more about me than I had ever dared to reveal to anyone.
You see, I had always had this fascination for women's clothing. As a small boy, I had envied the Sindy doll which belonged to my sister Jenny; how I wished that my name was not Jim, but Sindy, and that I could be continually dressed and undressed in that wonderful range of outfits she had. But even at that age, I knew enough to keep quiet about my desires.
Later on, as my sister and I grew through our teens, and she bought one shocking piece of apparel after another (unknown to her, I always kept a very close eye upon her wardrobe), I fantasised that I was Cindy (Sindy was such an immature name to a teenager!) able to wear the sexy outfits my sister wore. OK, maybe I borrowed one or two items of her clothes and tried them on. Later, I was so consumed with guilt at being a nasty pervert, that I grew up having real difficulties with my relationship with girls.
Even to this day, at the age of twenty-nine, and unlike every one of my friends, I still don't have a live-in girlfriend, and my sexual experiences have been incredibly limited.
And Aunty Helen had sussed me!
***
Actually, once I'd got over my initial embarrassment and started to think more clearly, I suddenly realised that Helen was empowering me to wear the dress. She was really saying, "It's alright to do what you enjoy doing."
I reached for the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a ticket to the University Masquerade Ball for that very evening. For a moment, I was furious with Aunt Helen for leaving it until the last moment, but then I realised she had done it for a reason; if I'd had time to think about going to the ball dressed as a woman, I'd never have the courage to do it. As it was, she had handed me the chalice; I could deal with it as she thought best; or I could run away. It was, after all, I reasoned, a University Masquerade Ball; there could well be lots of male students dressed as women. Even if there were not, I was only doing something in keeping with the wishes of the organiser. I made my decision.
I turned back to the box, which had several other items inside. Another bulging garment bag contained a petticoat that was so white and frilly, I thought my heart would explode with pleasure. I forced myself to put that to one side and turn to the other items: a black, lace-up bodice; transparent, high-heeled shoes (made of strong plastic rather than the glass of Cinderella's shoes); and a pair of lacy white stockings with matching suspender belt. Then, beneath all of those, was a package labelled: "Voluptuous Body Skin by Big Busts." In smaller letters beneath, it stated: "Size: L. Will fit average to tall male of slim build."
I stared at the package for a moment, puzzled about it, then pulled a garment out of the packaging to examine it more carefully.
It was a bit like a flesh-coloured body stocking, although the material was quite different; when I ran my fingers over it, it had the texture like... well, I suppose just like real skin. I held it by one end and let it unravel, and could see now that it was an all-over body stocking, with attached hood with face-mask and long, curly black hair, attached gloves for the hands complete with long finger-nails inset into the tips, and attached socks for the feet with individual toes, again with inset nails. It was a bit stretchy - the whole thing was only about five feet high, and about twelve inches across the waist, but I guessed it would fit me, if I could only work out exactly how to get into it.
There were openings for the mouth and eyes, but clearly I wasn't going to squeeze through any of those, and, er, well yes, there were openings for vagina and rectum, but that was it. Until I looked a little more closely around the genital area, and realised there were concealed plastic zips at the rear, which reached from side to side beneath the curve of the buttocks. Releasing the zips left a sizeable hole into which I could push my body.
In fact, the whole procedure was carefully outlined in the instructions on the packaging. Firstly, I had to insert my head through the gap around the arse and right up inside the torso until I could force it through the narrow neck into the head-mask itself, and adjust the position of the nostril so they fitted inside my own.
I then had to spend some time making certain it fitted properly around the eyes and mouth. It was slightly adhesive to the skin immediately next to the eyes, so I could spend time manipulating it until the lower eyelashes on the suit just lined up to my own. There was an incredibly thin membrane above the eye which came down over my eyelids, and again I was able to merge my own eyelashes in with the long ones on the bodysuit.
The lips on the suit fitted over my own and curved just inside my inner lips. Again, the slight adhesion kept everything in place after I had manoeuvred the lips so they fitted just right.
After that, I could start pulling the bodysuit over my shoulders, thrust my arms down the sleeves, and locate my hands in the gloves. The fingers were a very snug fit, and it looked really strange when I turned over my hands and saw the long, red finger-nails, which were now on my fingers.
They made every other operation a bit more difficult, and it was easy to see why the instructions recommended getting the hood properly fitted around the face before moving to this stage. Fortunately, getting onto the rest of the suit was not particularly difficult. I pulled the suit down my body as far as my hips, and I then had to sit on the floor, bend over double, and in turn, grasp each leg by the ankle and so I could slip it into the top of the leg. Fortunately, the material was extremely stretchy here, and I managed to do it all without tearing. Then I could stand up again and pull closed the concealed zips on the underside of my buttocks.
The trickiest operation (made much worse by my long finger-nails) was to slip my genitals inside a little sac on the underside of the gusset, but when that was done, I could pull the gusset between my legs and fasten it to the rear with the concealed clip.
For the final part, I was told to locate the rip-cord emerging from my vagina, stand upright and pull it to release the valve on the small cylinder, packed into my vagina. I had originally thought the cylinder was simply a packing tube, to demonstrate that the vagina really could hold a medium sized prick, but when I'd looked more closely, had realised the device had a more useful purpose. It looked a little like a Sparklet's canister, and the instructions said it contained a jelly-like foam which would expand within the bodysuit to fill out all the necessary places, such as the boobs and buttocks.
It was a bit like pulling the rip-cord on an inflatable dinghy. One second I was standing there in an ill-fitting coverall - the next, I was filling out into one of the shapeliest women you have ever seen. My boobs grew melon-sized, and my hips and arse balanced them to form a superb hourglass figure. When I looked in the mirror, I could see that even my face had filled out: my cheeks becoming round, and my lips full, and looked very kissable.
"Bugger me." My words served to emphasise that whilst my body might look like that of a fabulous woman, my voice was anything but. I scanned the instructions for the Voluptuous Body Skin, and there, right at the end, it told me to take a shot from the bottle of Voice Changer liquid, to increase the frequency of my voice. It worked in a similar way to helium, I was told, to tighten the vocal strings. It seemed to work more like sulphuric acid when I swallowed it, with a burning sensation that I thought would remove my vocal strings.
But in fact, I sounded as sweet as a nightingale when I spoke to myself in the mirror. "Hello beautiful."
It was time to get dressed.
Stockings and suspender-belt first, I reasoned, followed by the shoes. Otherwise, I'd have a hell of a job even seeing them underneath the layers of lace, once I started to put on the petticoat and dress.
It all worked fairly well. Once I had on the shoes and stockings, I was able to step into the hole in the centre of the petticoat and pull it up around my waist and tie it. Pulling the wonderfull ball gown over my head made my heart beat fit to burst, but was easy to do. But I knew the difficult part would be to put on the bodice. It was clearly too small for my waistline, and it would look stupid if I didn't get it on properly.
In fact, the bodice worked exactly like a corset. After slipping into the bodice like a waistcoat, I could thread the long cord through the lace holes from bottom to top, and then painstakingly draw them tighter and tighter. And as the bodice grew tighter, so my body took on an ever increasingly attractive shape. The improvement was seductive, and I thought I was probably going to crack a rib as I drew the cords in so tight I could barely breathe. But gradually, I narrowed the gap between the two front halves of the bodice, until finally they met, and I was able to tie the two ends of the cord together in a double-bow. Fortunately, I could push the spare lengths of cord down my bosom, so when I had completed everything, I looked every bit like Cinderella, as she went to the ball.
***
I reckoned there'd be no mice to turn into horses to pull Cinderella's carriage, so I telephoned for a taxi instead.
I kept a careful eye on the driver's face as I climbed into the taxi, as he eyed my breasts bulging out of the top of my dress. He could hardly believe his luck. I sat down, gave him a big smile in the mirror, and gave a huge sigh of relief, causing my breasts to heave in and out of my dress in sympathy. I heard the driver gulp at the vision in his mirror, and I gave myself an internal pat on the back. So far, so good.
Afterwards, I realised I must have been drunk - not on alcohol, but on the sheer beauty of the dress and of me in it. Although I had tried on my sisters clothes, and found them highly erotic, I'd been realistic enough to realise that I had no chance of passing in public as a woman.
But now, wearing this bodysuit had not only given me fantastic tits, it had also moulded my face into a different shape. Combined with the fabulous dress, I knew I was going to be the belle of the ball. Of course, I should have known better. I had no experience as a woman. Even walking on the high-heels was a continual challenge, and as for picking up the character traits of a woman, I stood no chance.
So what? I asked myself. Even if I threw back my shoulders and staggered about like some of more macho mates, there was no way anyone would suss I was a man. Not with those tits.
In fact, it all worked perfectly. OK, as soon as I arrived at the ball, I received plenty of stares from men and women - the women glaring at me for having such enormous tits poking out of that fantastic gown; and the men admiring me for the same reason. I plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
"I knew that the most beautiful girl at the ball wearing the most beautiful dress would be coming as Cinderella."
I turned to view the speaker. It was Prince Charming himself! I grinned back at him. "Or perhaps I knew you would be coming as Prince Charming," I replied.
"Well since you have to disappear before midnight, do you mind if I kiss you now?"
He leaned forward and planted his lips on mine. Wow!
I took a step backwards, my heart thudding wildly. How had I allowed that to happen? It wasn't as though I was gay or anything; I simply liked wearing this beautiful gown. And, I realised with a thrill, I enjoyed being Cinderella in all its guises. But I said, as coolly as I could manage with my heart thumping like that, "You certainly don't waste your time, but wouldn't it have been polite to wait for an answer?"
"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly aghast. "But you are the kissogram, aren't you?"
"What!" I gasped, totally gob-smacked. I had thought I might be sussed as a guy in disguise, but mistaken for a kissogram…
"How dare you. I certainly am not." I turned from him, walking away as fast as my heels would carry me.
Which wasn't very fast. He had no trouble keeping pace with me. "Look, I'm awfully sorry. It's just that I'd heard whispers that my so-called mates were going to set me up. They're always having a go at me; they make my life a misery, and you looked so incredibly beautiful. When I saw you wearing that absolutely stunning Cinderella dress, I thought you must be part of it. I'm so sorry. Will you let me buy you a drink to make up for it?"
"It's a ball," I said, pausing to face him. "The drink is free." Just to make the point, I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
"I know," he said. "It's just that I'm really clumsy when it comes to talking to women, especially incredibly beautiful ones, and I didn't know what else to say."
I took another look at him as I strolled towards the doors leading outside. There was no doubt he made an excellent Prince Charming, as attractive as any I had ever seen at a pantomime. But at the pantomime, Prince Charmings are always women, I silently told myself, which, I reasoned, was probably the reason why he was teased by his mates. He had a kind of beauty that would make him a natural target from homophobic male students.
By this time, we'd reached the terrace overlooking the grounds. I sat down at a table.
"I can't believe you're clumsy with women," I said. "You must have lots of girlfriends."
He shook his head, sitting down opposite me. "No," he said. "The problem is that I'm doing a computer engineering degree, and there are only a few girls on the same course. All the other blokes cluster around those like flies around the jam pot."
"There are plenty other girls at the university," I replied.
"We're not sited on the main campus," he said. "We're located at the Faraday Annex and it's miles away, on the other side of town. We hardly ever get over here."
I almost felt sorry for him, but then thought again. After all, he was incredibly good-looking, with his long hair falling down to his shoulders.
"It's not my hair," he confessed, following my eyes. "I got it with the suit when I hired it." He leaned a little closer so that the couple walking by would not overhear.
"In fact, I think the suit's intended for a woman to wear," he added. "I mean, it would normally be a woman who dressed as Prince Charming in a pantomime, wouldn't it?"
At least he'd realised that, I thought, but said, "I suppose so. What made you choose Prince Charming as your character?"
"I told you," he said, "I'd heard they were setting me up with a Cinderella kissogram, so I thought I would beat them at their own game, and go as Prince Charming. When the assistant in the fancy dress shop realised the suit was for me, she suggested the wig, and some really-good stage make-up to hide my spotty... that is, to cover up a few minor blemishes on my face, and it's worked incredibly well - I hardly recognise myself.
"Anyway," he continued, "when I saw you wearing that beautiful dress, I assumed you were the kissogram and thought I'd take my mates by surprise, rather than the other way round. By the way, I'd better tell you, my mates are all watching us; hoping to see you tell me to get stuffed, I guess."
"Where are they?" I deliberately avoided turning around to look.
"In the corner by the wall," he said. "It's quite dark over there, I can hardly see them."
"Well why don't we give them something to watch," I said. I leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips.
"Oh God!" he said, and then kissed me back. In a second, his tongue had slipped between my lips and was playing with mine; in another second, his hand was resting on my breast and gently squeezing it, then caressing my nipples.
Shameless hussy that I am, I was enjoying it.
"My name's James, by the way." We'd taken a short break to sip more champagne.
"That's a nice name," I said, stopping myself just in time from adding that he had the same name as me.
"I'm Lucinda," I quipped, "and my friends all call me Cindy." Those were the words I'd rehearsed countless times whilst wearing my sisters clothes. "So you see, there really was no choice which character I should come as."
"Are you a student here?" he asked, "and where did you get that wonderful dress."
"No, I'm not a student," I said, "I work and live the other side of town. My aunt got my dress for me as a present, together with a ticket for the ball. I wouldn't have come otherwise."
"Then I must thank your aunt," he said. "She must know all the best shops in town. I hadn't realised anywhere sold such fabulous clothes."
"I guess it's hired," I said, and added, following a hunch, "Do you find my dress incredibly sexy?"
"Yes," he said.
I picked up my dress by the hem, along with the petticoat beneath and thrust it over his knees. As I did so, I accidentally brushed my hand against the bulge I'd noticed in his trousers. At least, I think it was an accident.
So why did I add, "You mean very, very sexy?"
I couldn't believe what my hand was doing as, beneath the petticoat and all of its own accord, it slowly rubbed up and down against his bulge.
"Oh, yes!"
"Like," I said, as my hand pulled down his zip and let out his erection beneath my dress, "incredibly sexy."
"God, yes!" he said. "Yes, yes, yes!" as I my fingers and thumb encircled his prick and started working him up and down.
Harder and harder, I jerked him, slowing down slightly when I saw the glazed look appearing in his eye.
"Don't stop," he said. "Please go..."
"Are you two entering the fancy dress competition? It's just about to start." It was a woman's voice behind my shoulder.
"No," I said, just as James was saying, "Yes." But I suspect he was probably talking about something else altogether.
"You're both very good," the women said, appraising us both. "You might win."
"OK," I said. "Let's do it."
"In any case," the woman added, bending forward to whisper into my ear, "it doesn't do to wank them off too quickly. You never see them again."
James was about to protest some more, but I abruptly stood up and my dress started to slither off his legs, so he hurriedly had to hide his prick.
After he'd got his penis under control, I grabbed him by the hand and walked him towards the ballroom. There were a bunch of guys standing by the door. They jeered at us - I presumed they were James's mates but I didn't understand what was meant when one of them said to James, "You had a lucky escape there, mate."
Another one added, "And you'll know just how lucky in a few minutes time."
Surely, they couldn't have worked out I was a man, could they?
"What did that mean," I whispered to James after we had left them behind.
"Hanged if I know," he said. "It was almost as though they hadn't recognised who I was. But if that was the case, why were they watching us?"
"Don't you think they may simply have been watching me?" I preened myself. "After all, am I not the sexiest girl at the ball?"
***
The competition was fairly straightforward. In response to the MC's instructions, we had to parade around the dance floor in a circle. Initially, there must have been forty or fifty people, but the judges rapidly whittled it down to five couples. Then we had to walk around once more, only much more slowly so the judges could get a proper eyeful of us.
Then the MC came onto the floor and announced that the judges were having difficulty deciding, so they wanted us to walk around once more. We should have the result at midnight, he said.
"Well that's no good," James said with a smile. "You have to leave before then, otherwise you'll turn into a pumpkin."
"I don't think it works quite like that," I said. "In any case, I reckon we're in with a chance of winning this prize, and I'm not running away before then."
Sure enough, the clock had just started striking twelve when the MC returned to the microphone and said he was ready to announce the result. In third place were a couple dressed as Mickey and Minnie Mouse - and pretty pathetic I thought they looked. In second place, were Julie Andrews and Chris Plummer Sound of Music lookalikes.
"And in first place," the MC announced, "are Cinderella and her Prince Charming." Rapturous applause, and I sank into the arms of Prince Charming as the clock struck the last chime of twelve, and he gave me a wonderful kiss. We walked up to the podium, and I was presented with a lovely bunch of flowers, whilst James was given an envelope containing a voucher for a weekend for two at the Ritz in London. Cameras flashed, and we posed for them. A wonderful moment.
"Before we finish here." It was one of James's mates striding forward and speaking very loudly, and bringing the hall to silence again. "I think everyone should know about the absolutely splendid effort made by Cinderella to win this prize. Indeed, perhaps Cinderella will wish she had left the ball at midnight." (My blood suddenly ran cold.) "For Cinderella is not a female, but a man." (Oh my God!) "Well known for his love of female clothing - in fact you could say the only reason he'll undress a woman is so that he can wear her clothes." (That was just not true.) "Yes, Cinderella is none other than Jim Brown from..."
I picked up my skirts and ran from the ballroom leaving his words echoing in my ears. I ran out onto the terrace and down the steps to the dark garden beyond. The problem was as soon as I stepped onto the lawn, my heel sank into it and my shoe came off. I ran on without it.
***
It had all been a trap, I realised. Somehow, James's friends had discovered my secret and realised what tremendous fun they could have by playing me - dressed as a woman - off against him. It was not my Aunty Helen who had sent me the package containing the wonderful dress and the method by which I might disguise myself - it had been James's so-called mates who had sent it, knowing I wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity.
Poor James, I thought. He seemed such a nice guy, and now he'd believe I had betrayed him. I had, too. I hadn't meant to lead him on, but it had seemed so natural, dressed as Cinderella to behave as Cinderella naturally would. (OK, I know that on stage she doesn't give anyone a wank, but that is pantomime.)
I started to work my way back towards the exit, where hopefully I'd be able to pick up a taxi to get home. The problem was, it was very dark in that garden, and I kept losing my way. Also, I was terrified of meeting anyone since they would know all about me, so every time I heard someone else close by, I ran in the opposite direction. When I finally got to the taxi rank, there was a long queue, and I remained hidden in the shrubs for ages. Eventually, when there were only a couple of people waiting, I plucked up courage to get into the queue, jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take me home.
***
"Cinderella. Would you try on this glass slipper, so I may know that it is yours?"
God knows where he sprang from, but I had stepped out of the taxi and paid it off, turned towards my front door, my key at the ready, and he just stood there in front of Brenda's house, holding my transparent shoe before him.
"James! You gave me a start. How did you get here?"
"Not James, Cinders, but Prince Charming." He gave me a disarming smile, and went down onto one knee before me. "Now if you would like to try on the shoe?"
I thought he'd want to punch me, not go through the Cinderella routine, but if he wasn't going to re-live the embarrassing moments we had been through, then I certainly wasn't. I put a foot forward and he slipped it onto my foot.
"A perfect fit," he cried. It wasn't actually, but it was good enough. "Do you feel up to walking?" he asked. "I only live five minutes away, and I've got a bottle of champagne on ice."
Clearly, he wasn't going to punch me. I vaguely wondered why not as I said, "Five minutes' walk for a bottle of champagne sounds good."
He put his arm through mine and we started walking.
"Presumably your friends told you where I lived?" I asked. Ever since my exposure at midnight, I'd been wondering how his friends had found out about me. As far as I was aware, my cross dressing had always been a well-kept secret, and I certainly didn't know any of them, so how did they know that occasionally I cross-dressed?
"My friends no more," he said. "Well, they never were my friends but I used to put up with them as we were all on the same course. I'm so sorry about all that, and sorry that you got inadvertently dragged into it."
James words made no sense, so I said, "How do you mean, inadvertently dragged into it?"
"Well, it was all a stupid mistake, of course. They'd taken a dislike towards me, and they thought - well this is something totally stupid - but they thought I was a cross dresser."
"They thought YOU were a cross dresser?" I was losing the plot here.
"Yes. Stupid, isn't it? But they thought they'd have a good laugh at my expense. Hire me a dress, and buy me a ticket for the ball, assuming that I'd go along with it and dress up as Cinderella - as though anyone would. Then they'd watch me making a fool of myself, and expose me at midnight."
"But if they hired the dress for you, why did they send it to my address? Well…" I had a sudden thought. "Well, actually, they sent it to my neighbour's address and she assumed it was for me."
He smiled. "And your neighbour's address is 11 Albert Road, right?"
I nodded.
"My address," he continued, "is 11 Albert ROW. So it's easy enough for the delivery driver to make a stupid mistake, and deliver to Albert Road, instead of Albert Row. It's happened previously, so that's how I guessed where you lived. I got a taxi down here and waited for you."
"Oh," I said.
"So when your neighbour received a beautiful, Cinderella gown and a ticket for the ball, she presumed it was for you because Cindy is your nickname."
"I thought my aunt had sent it," I said, carefully evading the question.
"Meanwhile, the whole college was buzzing with the rumour that I was being set up for some kind of trick involving Cinderella, and I assumed it would be a kissogram, so I dressed as Prince Charming to counter it. And the really funny thing was that they didn't recognise me because I had on the wig and the make-up, and they believed that you, looking so absolutely gorgeous, was really me in disguise. How could anyone believe that you could possibly be a man?"
"So at midnight," I said, not wishing to go there, "when your friends made their big pronouncement about Cinderella, they thought they were going to expose YOU? But they called ME Jim Brown." I was still trying to work this out.
"You should have seen their faces," he said, "when I whipped off my wig and pronounced they were talking absolute rubbish about you, since I was James Hadley-Brown."
"That's your name?" I asked. "James Hadley-Brown
He nodded. "Yes, but they always called me Jim Brown just to annoy me. I mean, Jim Brown sounds so common, doesn't it?"
I'd been wondering whether I should come clean with him - that decided it.
"The Vice-Chancellor was in the audience," James said. "You should have heard how he shouted at them - bringing the reputation of the University into bad repute, he said - and told them to be in his office at 9 am on Monday.
"I mean, my make-up was good, but it wasn't that good," he continued. "What kind of disguise did they think I had, to believe that I could possibly look like YOU?" He shook his head in wonderment. "Just shows what a bunch of morons they all are, doesn't it. They probably conceived and planned it all when they were drunk."
"That must be it," I said.
"This is my house," James said, gesturing towards a huge Victorian edifice.
"Wow," I said. "Very impressive."
"It belongs to my parents, actually," he said, unlocking the front door and stepping inside, "but they only use it occasionally."
"You mean we're all on our own?" I asked.
"Absolutely," he said, drawing me to him and planting his lips on mine.
***
Later, much later, I said, "My dress drives you wild, doesn't it?"
He looked rather sheepish. "It is very sexy."
"But men usually want to get a dress off a woman," I said. "I've never known any man who wants to keep my dress on whilst we make love." (That was certainly true.)
"It's just so beautiful," he said.
"Would you like to try it on?" I asked him.
"Look, you don't believe all that nonsense about me wearing dresses, do you?"
I looked at him carefully and said, "Yes, and I don't mind at all. In fact, I find it incredibly exciting. Now do you want to try on my dress or don't you?"
"Yes please," he said.
Come fishin'
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by Charlotte Dickles
When Kevin's boss, Rick, suggests a walking and fishing weekend, Kevin little realises he will have to act as a decoy for Rick's latest girlfriend.
"You know, Rick," Kevin said, a stupid grin on his face, "I can't tell you just how pleased I am you suggested this fishing and walking holiday over the Bank Holiday weekend. I simply never put you down as one of those guys who enjoyed those kinds of things."
Rick shrugged, noncommittally. "When Sarah said she was going away for a chamber music long weekend, it seemed a good idea. Just two mates from work, fishing, walking and maybe drinking a few beers."
"Great," Kevin enthusiastically agreed. "I've got a schedule all worked out to make the most of our time. There are some fantastic walks around here, but they're quite long so we'll need to devote a full day to each one. Maybe a bit of fishing in the evening, assuming we get back a reasonable time. They provide some brilliant fishing gear in this place."
"Well, er, Kevin, I was thinking of a rather more relaxing time. I'm not keen on walking all day long."
"Well, we don't want to get bored and waste our break, do we?"
"Of course we don't want to waste it, Kevin, but it doesn't mean we're joined at the hip. I did say I'd meet up with a few friends whilst I was down here. Maybe stay with them overnight."
"Stay overnight?" Kevin was puzzled. "But I thought we were going to have a holiday together."
"Sure, we're on holiday together, Kevin, but we've got to do our own thing. You do your walking and fishing, and I'll take some more leisurely pursuits."
"Male or female?"
"What?"
"The friends you're going to stay with overnight. Are they male or female?"
"Does it matter?"
"It probably matters to your wife."
Rick shrugged again. "We have a fairly relaxed relationship."
"So that's why you told her you were going on a blokes' weekend with me, rather than spending the weekend shagging some bird you picked up."
"Hey!" Rick's tone abruptly changed. "Remember I'm your boss, so don't get uptight with me. You live life by your morals and I'll live mine by mine. Is that clear?"
Kevin pulled an apologetic face. "Sorry mate. It's none of my business. It was just a surprise to find out you had other plans, that's all."
"Maybe I should have told you before now, but I didn't want you to start chattering to the other guys in the office. Before I knew it, the story would have been all over the building. You know Sarah still has lots of friends working there."
"Sure mate. I understand." Kevin said. But he didn't! He'd met Sarah several times at office functions, and she was the most drop-dead-bloody-gorgeous wife a guy could have. He'd do anything just for one of her smiles; as for the thought of burying his head between those luscious tits and sucking on her... And there was Rick trying to get his end away with some slag he met in a pub! Stupid tosser!
But reluctantly, he had to admit the person most likely to be tossing that holiday was himself. He was interrupted in his thoughts by a knocking on the door of their fishing lodge.
"I guess that'll be my cousin, Miranda," he told Rick. "Did I tell you she was coming down to Seacombe for a course on local churches at the Grand Hotel?"
"You mentioned it," Rick said. "Now do you want to go and let her in or have I got to go?"
But it wasn't Miranda at the door.
"Sarah!" Kevin said, raising his voice a little so Rick would be warned.
"Hi Kevin," Sarah said, marching straight past him. "At least Rick wasn't lying about you."
"Sarah!" Somehow, Rick managed to sound delighted at the sight of his wife who, only seconds before, he'd been planning to betray. "What brings you here?"
"The musicians all went down with some nasty virus - the whole music weekend was cancelled. It seemed a shame to waste the break so I've booked for a course called 'Historic Churches in and around Seacombe,' at the Grand Hotel."
"That's a coincidence," Kevin said, "my cousin Miranda Slater is on the same course. We were expecting to see her here this afternoon."
"Were you really?" Sarah said, noticing the sudden look on Rick's face and adding, "I bet you call her Randy, don't you?"
Kevin grinned. "Actually, at school Miranda Slater became Randy Slut. She is, as well - although don't tell her I said so."
Sarah turned to Rick and said, "Have you met Randy?"
Rick changed the fierce grimace he'd been directing at Kevin into a look of total innocence. "Of course not. As far as I know, Kevin's never brought her to any of the office functions. How would I have met her?" He turned to Kevin for support. "That's right, isn't it, Kevin?"
"Absolutely," Kevin agreed, having been far too entranced with the way Sarah's tits joggled as she moved to have noticed Rick's glare. "It would be so embarrassing if I brought her to an office party. She'd probably be having sex in the stationery cupboard with..." he'd been about to say Rick, but he quickly changed it to "...half the office."
"Huh!" Sarah sounded singularly unimpressed, but couldn't believe Kevin would pull off a double-bluff like that with such a straight face. "Well remember, Rick, I shall be just up the road in Seacombe, and I'll be keeping a close eye on you. So don't stray from the straight and narrow. Right?"
"I don't know what you mean," Rick said.
***
"Phew! That was close," Rick said as soon as she'd left. "But I think your being so open about Miranda put her off the scent. I don't think she suspected anything, do you?"
It seemed to Kevin that Sarah had been full of suspicion, but knew it was little use in saying so. "I guess not," he concurred. "But it's just occurred to me that Miranda did come into the office a few weeks ago to return a book I'd lent to my aunt. You could have met her then."
"No," Rick corrected. "That was the day I was coming back from Manchester and got delayed. Remember?"
"How do you know?"
"What?"
"How do you know," Kevin repeated, "which day Miranda came into the office if you weren't there?"
"You must have mentioned it."
"No reason why I should. I got back from lunch and the book was on my desk. I did wonder how she knew which was my desk, as the office had been deserted over lunchtime."
"She must have found someone to ask."
"Like maybe your train wasn't delayed after all, and you were able to assist her?"
After a moment's pause, Rick shrugged. "I guess I'd better come clean. You're right; I got back to find her looking for you. I hadn't had lunch and neither had she, so we went to the pub."
"And you never got back to the office that day," Kevin said.
Rick simply shrugged again.
"And the reason we are all down here is not for fishing, walking and historic churches?"
Rick nodded, but any further debate on the issue was cut short by a knock on the door.
***
Long, blonde hair, huge juggs delightfully exposed by her low-necked white dress, and long legs with only the top few inches concealed by the shortest skirt Kevin had ever seen. Kevin often thought Miranda dressed like a tart, but never before had she been quite so brazen about it.
"Hi, sexy," she said to Rick, after marching past Kevin in just the same way as Sarah had done. "I've come to take you away from all this."
"There's a problem," Rick said. "Sarah's been here. She's staying at the Grand on the same course as you."
"Sarah! I thought she was going to Harrogate or somewhere?"
"She says it was cancelled due to illness although I'm not certain I believe her. I think she's here just to spy on us."
He sounded so indignant, Kevin thought, but surely Rick could see his behaviour demanded such treatment.
Miranda looked suddenly suspicious. "What's Sarah look like?"
Rick looked vague. "Nice boobs, but of course, nothing like yours. Brown hair, sort of shoulder length."
"What was she wearing?"
Rick looked even vaguer.
"Pastel blue blouse," Kevin said, "with a dark blue, pleated skirt, and matching pumps."
"Drives a blue Audi?"
A nod from Rick.
"She was in the car park when I arrived," Miranda said. "As soon as I parked, I noticed her in my mirror, sitting in the car behind. She was staring daggers at me, but I had the top down on the Mazda and I thought it was just normal female jealousy."
With the top of her sports car down and Miranda's long blonde hair flying behind her, she would look dazzling, Kevin thought. She'd be used to catty looks from women.
"Shit!" Rick said. "She'll have watched you come in here and she'll be waiting to see you leave. You'd better go straightaway. I'm afraid it looks as though we're not going to be able to get together this weekend after all..."
"No!" Miranda snapped. "I've got a better idea."
She fumbled in her handbag and produced a set of keys. "It will look suspicious if you stay inside here with me, so Rick, there are a few carrier bags in the boot of my car. Go and bring them back here. I noticed an outside seating area by the clubhouse, so afterwards you can go and get yourself a beer and sit there, facing into the sun. It will mean Sarah will be able to keep an eye on you, without you making eye contact with her."
It wasn't the first time that Kevin had been surprised that such an apparent bimbo should actually have a very keen mind. Without demur, Rick took the keys and made to leave.
"And don't even glance around when you hear me driving off, do you hear," Miranda added.
Rick shrugged and did as Miranda had commanded. After taking the carrier bags back to the lodge and buying a beer at the clubhouse, he sat outside in the sun and contemplated his position. Personally, he wouldn't be too upset to cancel the whole arrangement. Miranda was excellent in bed, and had promised him something different this weekend which would drive him wild with lust, but she was looking decidedly more tarty than when he had met her that day at work. And a guy did want to be able to go into a restaurant and gain some respect. He didn't know what crazy scheme she was hatching up, but at least he was sitting here in full view of Sarah who could see he was totally innocent of any involvement in it. He could feel his eyes starting to close.
***
It was the roar of the Mazda's engine which jerked him awake. He turned round, startled, and saw Miranda accelerating quickly away, her long blonde hair blowing in the wind. Rick kept his glance firmly away from Sarah, as she started up her car and drove off after Miranda.
It was time, Rick thought to get back to the fishing lodge, and try to modify Kevin's horrendous walking plans.
After coming in from the bright sunlight, it was difficult seeing anything in the shade inside the fishing lodge. But Kevin was standing there before him in his scruffy tee shirt, his hands on the waist of his dirty jeans. But then he did a really weird thing. He quickly pulled his tee shirt up and over his head. As he did so, his jeans dropped down to his ankles.
"Bloody hell!" Rick said.
***
"Do you remember when we were kids and you used to dress up in my clothes?" Miranda had asked Kevin.
"What?" Kevin replied, trying to make sense of her question, before the truth hit him. "Whoa! No way! On yer bike!"
"I think I still have some photographs at home. If I have to abandon this holiday, I can look them up when I get home and let Rick have some copies. I'm sure it would brighten up your office notice-board."
"That's blackmail!" Kevin shouted.
Miranda gave her sweetest smile. "Absolutely."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
"It'll never work. Just compare the two of us." He dragged her into the bathroom, in front of the only mirror in the lodge. They stood side by side and stared at themselves.
"Same height," Miranda said. "Our faces have a family likeness. Your shoulders are a bit wider, but nothing too noticeable."
"Except for your long, blonde hair and..."
Before Kevin could include her most noticeable assets, Miranda reached up and removed her wig exposing her own short hair, and placed the wig on Kevin.
Kevin blinked at his image in the mirror - his face had completely changed, although the unshaven look he'd been trying to cultivate for the last two weeks clearly spoilt the image.
"I have some wax in the stuff Rick's getting from the car," she said. "I think that underneath that hair, your face will be as soft as a baby's."
"But I still haven't got your huge tits. There's no way I can imitate those with some rolled up socks in my bra. Remember, I'd have to be wearing your clothes as I leave, and your top leaves nothing to the imagination."
"OK," Miranda said, "I give you that, but if we ignore the tits for a moment, don't you think we're quite similar
"But she's seen both you and me. She'll notice the difference."
"She's only seen me from the rear, getting out of my car. If you were masquerading as me, she'd recognise the family likeness and simply think I was a rather ugly cow."
"But I still don't have any bloody tits!" Kevin was almost shouting now.
Further conversation was halted by the front door opening and Rick calling through in a loud voice, just in case Sarah could hear from her car. "I've left your bags by the door, Miranda. Kevin, I'm going off to get a beer now. Come and join me when Miranda leaves."
"Thanks," they both shouted back, and the front door slammed shut.
"It's time for a girl to reveal herself," Miranda said. She reached behind her and unzipped her dress, and then pulled it over her head, and Kevin could only gasp at the sight of her huge, firm tits supported by a miniscule red bra. A second later, the bra joined the dress on the floor, and Kevin was going goggle-eyed.
"So how would you like a pair like these?" Miranda gave a little shake of her shoulders which made them quiver delightfully.
"They are fucking fantastic," Kevin said. It was, he realised, quite frankly impossible for him to replicate those with rolled up socks. He should have felt relieved, but instead he felt envy that girls had all the fun. "So, get me a pair of tits like those and I'll do it," he added in a show of bravado, knowing he was on safe ground there.
Miranda grinned at him. "Thanks Kevin, I knew I could count on you. You're a super cousin."
"Hang on," he said. "I said I can only do it with tits like those. There's no..."
"Why you can have these," Miranda said. She crossed her arms across her boobs and seemed to hook her fingernails into her skin at the side and pulled upwards, lifting her breasts higher and higher, until they were above her head. "Here you are," she said, handing them across to Kevin.
"What the... How did you do that?" He stared down at the heavy garment in his hands, uncomprehending what had happened.
"It's called a Bustlet," Miranda said. "Made especially for girls like me who want to change from being an A-cup into an E-cup. Are you ready to try it on?"
"Er..."
"Except that before you do so, I need to spread some gel on you to stop perspiration forming beneath. Fortunately, I've just bought a new tub of it as my old one had run out, and I have been getting quite sweaty underneath. It's in the stuff Rick just brought in from the car. I'll go and get it."
She was back in a few seconds, by which time Kevin had chance to comprehend the garment was like a skin-coloured crop top, with boobs and nipples built in.
"We'll use the red gel," Miranda said. "It's much more effective than the green. Now, off with your tee shirt."
Without even thinking, he slipped off his tee shirt and Miranda covered his chest, back and shoulders with a red gel.
"Now let's slip on the Bustlet," she said, taking it from him and holding it so he could slip his arms through the armholes. She pulled it down over his head and as far down his body as it would go, smoothed it down and then turned him to face the mirror again. "What do you think?"
"They're fucking fantastic," he said, reaching his hands up to cup them, then he jerked a little. "It's as though I can feel them," he said.
"They're touch sensitive," she said. "The feel is transmitted to your own skin by tiny electrodes. It's quite safe and you can even adjust the sensitivity."
"Bugger me!"
"You'll do it then?"
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see how I look. How long will it take?"
Of course, the answer was absolutely ages. It takes long enough for a woman to prepare herself to go out. For a woman to make a man look in her image takes far longer.
***
"What on earth are they doing in there?" Sarah kept asking herself. If Rick had still been inside the fishing lodge, she'd have known exactly what they were up to, but Kevin... Clearly, when he'd spoken about his cousin to Sarah, he'd had no sexual intentions - and when Sarah had seen Miranda get out of the car, she'd have given Kevin absolutely no chance of succeeding, but all the same...
She gave another quick glance over to where Rick was seated, but he had fallen asleep, and she knew him well enough to know that was something he never did with sex on his mind! Perhaps she had been wrong about this whole trip - maybe she shouldn't have cancelled her concert weekend after all.
She shook her head. No, she had been convinced over the last week that he was going to be having an affair this holiday - it was still early days, and there could be a dozen women turning up later.
The door to the fishing lodge opened and the tart came out, a smile on her face. Had she and Kevin...
Miranda's smile broadened as she walked back towards her car, and Sarah sensed it came not from recent sex but from the confidence of brimming over with her own beauty. Not that her face was even pretty! She was not dissimilar to Kevin, Sarah realised, but had that look of inner happiness that Kevin clearly never had.
Watching Miranda walk towards her, Sarah felt a sudden stab of excitement shoot through her, the like of which she hadn't felt since she'd first seen Head Girl, Gemma Yates, at school. A flush crept to her cheeks as she remembered the things she and Gemma had got up to whilst ostensibly doing homework together in their bedrooms. Surely, after all these years of heterosexual relationships she wasn't still interested in other women. Was she?
As Miranda opened the door of her car and made to get in, she briefly glanced towards Sarah's car and their eyes met. Sarah saw Miranda's eyes suddenly widen with excitement, combined with a look of terrible guilt, as though she recognised her own lesbian desires and had to suppress them!
Miranda hurriedly got into the car and made a terrible mess of reversing out of the space, showing none of the skill and confidence at driving she'd had earlier. As Sarah started her car and followed, her mind also was in a state of complete confusion and excitement.
***
It would never do, Kevin knew, to admit he was incredibly turned on by the very thought of having those magnificent tits pushing out the top of his dress, his skirt so short it almost exposed his bulging panties, and shoes with heels that went "Clack-Clack-Clack," as he walked along the path towards Miranda's car. But as he walked, his tits joggled inside his bra, and as they joggled, his excitement swelled to the point where he knew he was going to have a bloody great orgasm.
It wouldn't be the first in the last hour. When it had come to the point where Kevin's huge erection had to be squeezed inside Miranda's impossibly tiny panties, Miranda knew that matters would have to be taken in hand - and in hand, she took them.
She was not inexperienced in giving a good hand job. And although she took pride in knowing every delaying tactic possible to make the experience last forever, she also knew that time was of the essence. The speed at which she wanked off Kevin surprised even him. Yes, it was extremely nice for a sexy woman to do the work, and certainly, he desperately needed to be relieved, and yes, it had the effect of reducing his erection so that his genitals could be pushed back between his legs and then the panties pulled up firmly, keeping everything in place.
But his willy started going hard again almost straightaway, trying to force their way out of his tiny, sexy panties, so when Miranda pushed him out of the door and he commenced his walk towards the car, his breasts joggling and his nipples rubbing inside the bra, he knew another orgasm was inevitable. As he reached the car, he had to hold onto the door handle to stop himself dropping to the ground, and his eyes met Sarah's just at that moment when he came.
For a second, they held each other's gaze, and then he managed to open the car door and pull himself inside. Fearing she would come over and ask if he was all right, he fumbled for the keys, and then reversed out of the spot, stalling the engine in the process.
***
"Miranda. It's me"
"Oh God, Rick! Oh God!" Miranda's voice changed. "Yes, I thought it would be. Oh G-O-D!"
Kevin had telephoned her from the car as soon as he'd got going. Clearly, Rick had returned to the fishing lodge.
"It's not going to work."
"More! Oh please, more. Why not?"
"I shot my load into my panties before I reached the car. It's going to be impossible to walk into the hotel with semen dribbling down my legs and my prick bulging through my panties."
"Oh Rick! Please! Fuck me hard! You're going to have to manage as best you can. I'll get something delivered to the hotel for you that will cover up your prick. Smear on more red gel before putting it on. OK? Harder! HARDER!"
"But Miranda, I don't care what..."
He stopped speaking as he discovered the call was disconnected.
***
It wasn't as though he had anywhere else to go, he realised. Looking like this, he could hardly go home, and in any case, he was extremely exposed driving in this open-topped car - far better to park at The Grand and then quickly walk through the foyer and up to Miranda's room.
Driving into Seacombe was a nightmare. The lights were against him at every junction, and then dozens of pedestrians would cross the road, surging all around his car.
Of course, most of them stared down at the blonde girl with the big boobs, and the short skirt with a hint of panty visible. Again and again, Kevin frantically pulled down the hem of his skirt, only to find it had ridden up again next time he stopped.
At last, he pulled into The Grand's car park and breathed a sigh of relief. All he had to do now was get quickly up to Miranda's room.
***
"Oh, Miss Slater," the male receptionist called across to him.
Kevin turned and looked at him. He hadn't thought he might have to talk to someone. He'd give the game away as soon as he opened his mouth. So he gave a kind of smile and walked towards the reception desk.
He needn't have worried. The receptionist almost had his tongue hanging out, staring at Kevin's tits bouncing as he walked up to him. Kevin should have been shocked but instead felt even sexier than he had done earlier. He desperately hoped he wasn't going to have another orgasm.
"I'm sorry," the man blustered as Kevin gave him such a strange look. "I didn't mean to stare. A parcel arrived for you a few minutes ago."
He picked up the fairly large box and placed it on the counter. "I'll carry it up to your room, for you."
"No!" The last thing Kevin wanted was for this man to go up to his room with him - conversation would be almost inevitable, but his gasped rejection had been emitted without thought. Fortunately, the man had not proclaimed that the big boobed woman in front of him was clearly a man.
"Can you manage it?"
Kevin smiled and the man reluctantly handed over the parcel.
It was bulky and difficult to carry, and as he walked away, he knew the man was just dying to come to his assistance. He carried on walking to his room.
***
The parcel was from a company called Big Busts, as though Kevin's weren't already big enough. Their latest design, the packaging said, which would allow a man to completely feel like a woman. Inside was something called a Hiplet, which was like a control brief made of skin-like material, except that it added inches to the hips and bum, rather than removing them. He spread it on the bed and carefully examined it. There was a pocket on the inside of the gusset for his willy to slide into, and then the gusset could be pulled back between the legs so that it would look for all the world as though he had a pussy.
In fact, there really was a vagina in the garment which would presumably accept someone's penis, only Kevin couldn't quite work out where that was going to sit - after all, when the gusset was tightly fastened, there'd be no space inside for a vaginal cavity. He shrugged. It would probably all work out when he put it in place. In the meantime, he needed a shower to get rid of the dried bodily fluids around his prick.
Afterwards, as he dried himself, he marvelled again at the difference to his legs that waxing had made. They were really sexy legs, and once he had on the Hiplet, it would be difficult to tell that he was really a man, even when he was naked.
He spread the gel over his buttocks, upper legs and lower torso, and then pulled the Hiplet up his legs. His prick went into the pocket all right, with just the knob pushing through a slot into the area between the lips of his labia, and as he pulled the gusset between his legs, the head looked, for all the world, like a rather large clitoris.
When he'd pulled the gusset back as far as it would go, it suddenly became very obvious just where the cunt was going to fit. Ooh! He couldn't do that. Could he? He had to make a decision quickly, as the gel was beginning to dry. He grimaced, and then slipped a thumb into the vagina and worked it into the only cavity available in his body.
Incredibly, after fastening it, his new vagina didn't look too much out of place. Perhaps it was a bit further towards the rear than those he'd seen on the few women he'd had experience with, but certainly not so extreme as to be beyond belief. It did feel strange, and he also wondered how he was going to shit whilst still wearing it.
It was time, he guessed, to telephone Miranda again and see how long he had to stay in his hotel room before he could respectably leave. He gave her another call.
"Ooh, is Ricky upset that he has his hands tied with fishing line?"
Kevin heard Rick say, "This isn't fucking funny, now release me."
"Oh, what a naughty man, swearing like that," Miranda said. "I think I'm going to have to stuff Kevin's underpants in your mouth to stop you swearing some more."
Kevin pulled a nasty face.
"You fucking won't, you bitch... Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"
"Now then Kevin. What's the problem?"
"Has Rick really got my underpants in his mouth?"
"It's all right, Kevin," Miranda reassured him. "I'll thoroughly wash them before I return them to you. Now, how's everything going there? Did you get the Hiplet?"
"It was waiting for me when I arrived at the hotel," Kevin said. "They were very quick."
"The shop's only around the corner from the hotel," Miranda said. "They said they'd run it round. Are you wearing it?"
"Yes. It feels a bit strange."
"Never mind. Did you use the red gel to stop the sweat?"
"Yes. It's actually very comfortable, apart from the... Well, you know."
"I have one all the time, Kevin, so I certainly do know. They said they'd put some voice-changer capsules in with it. Have you taken one?"
"I saw them but didn't know what they do."
"They make your voice go quite high in pitch, so that you sound nothing like a man. Take one of those and the transformation will be complete."
"OK, but isn't this all a bit over the top. How much longer do you want me to carry on standing in for you? I was looking forward to having a pub meal with Rick quite soon."
"Are you kidding? You're going to have a slap up meal at The Grand, tonight. It's all inclusive so you needn't worry about the cost."
"Yes but," Kevin thought Miranda was being particularly obtuse, "that meal will be for Miranda Slater, not me."
"Kevin, you are Miranda Slater until Tuesday morning."
"Until Tuesday morning!" Kevin was aghast. "But I can't do that. I'd have to meet other people in the hotel and..."
"Of course you will, Kevin. You're standing in for me for the whole of my course, whilst Rick and I have fun. That means that Sarah won't suspect that Randy Slut - as you called me, thank you very much - is actually shagging her husband. So she'll be happy; we're happy; and you'll have to be happy."
"I can't do it," Kevin said. "I'll go out now and buy some men's clothes, come back here and change and then I'm getting the train home."
"Kevin, you may buy men's clothes, but I doubt they'll fit you with those enormous boobs sticking out the front."
"They're coming off. I'll leave them at the hotel with the rest of your things."
"Sorry, Kevin. They're stuck on you. You won't be able to remove them without stripping off your skin. Why not give it a try." The line went dead.
***
Twenty minutes later, he had to admit she was right. He had tried everything to try to remove his Bustlet and Hiplet. Nothing worked. He was stuck in them for the rest of the holiday.
It was even worse when he read the instructions which came with the Hiplet. The red gel permanently bonded the Hiplet and Bustlet to his skin until the top layer of skin was shed - probably in 10 - 14 days.
"Miranda, I'm stuck with these tits for two fucking weeks."
"Just a minute, Kevin. Ricky, if you wave that horrible thing around much more, I'm going to get one of those fishing rods and tan your bottom with it until it's raw. Do you understand? Now Kevin, what were you moaning about?"
"But they're Sharpe's Gordon rods," Kevin said. "You can't do that with them."
"Do you want to bet?" Miranda asked. "Rick, Kevin has bet me I can't whip you with one of these rods." There was a swishing sound followed by what sounded like a heavily-attenuated cry of pain. Kevin's underpants were clearly still in use.
"I win the bet," Miranda said to Kevin. "That means you owe me. Oh, I know; you can stand in for me for the next few days."
"But I'm stuck in this stuff for two weeks," Kevin repeated.
"You can come and stay at my place afterwards," she said, "and we'll do girlie things together. Now, is there anything else you want to ask me before I get back to tanning Ricky's hide - like what to wear for dinner tonight, for example?"
***
Thanks heavens that Miranda had told him how to reduce his enormous breasts to her normal size - a rather pleasant D cup. The Bustlet was inflatable with water, and that afternoon she'd inflated her breasts to gi-normous especially for Rick's benefit. So Kevin put on one of Miranda's normal bras and deflated the breasts until they comfortably fitted inside. Then he found the dress Miranda had told him to wear - a low-cut (of course), pretty red dress.
He spent quite a long time first of all messing up his make up, removing it several times and then finally making a presentable job of it. Then he went downstairs to the first session of the Historic Church group.
***
"Hello, aren't you Kevin's cousin?"
Kevin had noticed Sarah as soon as he'd entered the bar where the group were to meet, but deliberately had not looked in her direction. So he now made a great play of being startled that someone appeared to know him.
"Yes that's right," he admitted, his modified voice rather trill, "although I don't think I know you, do I?"
"I just caught a glimpse of you as you arrived at the fishing lodge this afternoon. I'm Rick's wife, Sarah."
"Miranda Slater," Kevin said, and smiled.
"You look a little different now to how you did this afternoon."
Sarah was definitely probing, Kevin decided, wondering whether Miranda had gone there this afternoon to shag Rick.
"It was a sort of a joke," Kevin said. "When we were at school together, Kevin always used to call me Randy Slut, so I dressed like one in order to embarrass him with his friend - your husband.
"Did you say his name was Rick?" He added, thinking that was an excellent touch, pretending he couldn't quite remember Rick's name.
"I have to confess I had evil thoughts about you and my husband when I saw the way you were dressed. Sorry about that."
"I'm not surprised," Kevin said. "I could tell the moment I walked through the door he was giving me the eye over. I didn't realise he was married then, but Kevin put me straight about that, and told Rick to clear off if he couldn't behave properly in front of his cousin. He's very protective about you, you know? The way he spoke about you, I think he probably fancies you."
"Kevin fancies me?"
She looked pleased, rather than upset, Kevin realised, his heart lifting.
"You're joking," she continued. "Why would he?"
"Because you are absolutely gorgeous and I can tell straightaway you're a really nice person." Kevin could say that straight from his heart.
"But I'm married," Sarah said. "I could never betray my marriage oaths."
"Even though Rick clearly does," Kevin said, his heart sinking to his feet. "That was obvious the moment I met him."
"Just because he does, it doesn't mean to say it's alright for me to the same. Whilst I'm married to Rick, I could never have sex with another man." Had she emphasised the 'man' a little too much, Sarah wondered.
When she said 'man', Kevin wondered, did that mean she might contemplate a relationship with a woman? His heart leapt upwards, doing a little gambol as it did so. Perhaps he could get used to being a woman.
There was a brief pause before they both started talking at once.
"It looks like the class is starting now." "That must be our lecturer who has just come in."
They both nervously grinned at each other, wondering where the relationship between them was going, and then Sarah decided to take the initiative.
"I bought something this afternoon I'd like your opinion about."
***
It was turned midnight when Miranda finally dropped off to a well-sated sleep, and Rick was able to go into the tiny kitchen, wedge a knife into a drawer, and use it to saw through the fishing line securing his hands behind his back.
He should have had the guts to awake her and throw her naked out of the fishing lodge. But he had been devastated by the masochistic pleasure he got from being Miranda's slave. She had tanned his hide raw, and each time she whipped him with the fishing rod, his cock had got harder and harder. She had used and abused him, but not once, since their initial frolic all those hours ago, had she permitted him to orgasm. And she'd been absolutely right - he had loved it!
So he knew that if he did wake Miranda up, she would simply order him to bend over a chair, and he would obey. He silently dressed and left the fishing lodge, his trousers painfully rubbing against his raw buttocks, and got into his car. He was in desperate need of sexual relief, and he knew exactly where it would be available.
Rather than trying to convince the officious-looking night porter at The Grand Hotel to telephone his wife's room in the middle of the night, he simply booked into another room, carefully watching as the porter logged into the computer system to register him. It was then a simple matter to order a hot drink, and whilst the porter went off to get it, log back into the system using the porter's password, find out the number of his wife's room, and then program up another key card, all before the porter returned with his drink.
***
After the fishing lodge, Sarah's room in The Grand was absolute luxury.
"Hi, it's me," he whispered as he let himself into the darkened room.
There was no reply, so he let his clothes drop to the floor, and slipped into bed beside the warm body, his erection aroused all the more as the sheets slid across his sensitive bottom. As he always did when he wanted sex, he slipped a hand across to Sarah's tummy, and then let it slide down to her groin, a finger slipping between the lips of her vagina. He felt her obligingly spread her legs wide, and he moved his body in between them.
But then she did something he'd never known before; she pulled her knees up towards her tummy. Well, he was always game for a change and he fingered her even more to show how keen he was, at the same time getting his cock into position ready to impale her.
As he thrust inside, he realised this was not Sarah! This was one hell of a tight pussy! He hadn't had a pussy this tight since his days at school, and then only with the virgin first-formers he used to regularly deflower.
He knew he should withdraw and get out of the room fast. How could he have been so stupid as to take down the wrong number of Sarah's room? But he'd been in a hurry, knowing the porter might return at any minute. And after a day of absolute frustration, he was now fucking one fantastic pussy, and from the way she was grunting, she was up for it. Clearly, she might be pretty pissed when she discovered he was not who she thought he was, but if he could make it incredibly good for her, she probably would not complain. In any case, his cock ruled his brain, and he simply had no choice in the matter.
He started to use all those decades of experience to give her the ride of her life, and she rapidly went into a crashing orgasm which went on and on. Rick was well satisfied with her screams, and he kept her going for ages.
Finally, it was time for him to get to the point he'd wanted to reach all afternoon. He made his thrusts harder and longer, and could feel his semen starting to boil in his bollocks. He was about to fill her with so much semen, she'd...
The light was abruptly switched on and Sarah's voice came from behind him. "I see you're already acquainted with Miranda."
Rick turned his head to stare at her, and then her words became unscrambled in his brain. Surely, Miranda could not have got here before he did. He turned back to the woman on the bed, wearing the wig Mirada had been wearing earlier, which framed the well-fucked face of Kevin. Clearly, he was equally as shocked as Rick at the sight of his sexual partner.
"Your arse looks very tender," Sarah conversationally said, admiring the cross-hatched welts across Rick's bum. If only she'd had the courage to do that to the bastard. Well, why not? Things, she decided, were going to change.
"You're not stopping what you were doing, are you? Perhaps you need some encouragement." She bent over, and with both hands, grabbed the cheeks of his bum, digging in her finger nails as far as they would go.
"Yaooh!!!"
But the intense pain had its effect upon Rick. His prick, which had been starting to falter, went rock hard, and as Sarah shoved him forward, and deeper inside Kevin, so he too took up the rhythm, fucking Kevin for all he could. He knew he wasn't gay; he didn't like men, for fuck's sake; but his cock had decided and poor old Rick had no alternative but to obey.
And as Rick rapidly approached his climax again, he could feel something nuzzling against his anus, and then forcing its way painfully inside. It was all too much for him; he exploded in an orgasm the like of which he'd never experienced before.
***
It had been quite clear to Sarah, as soon as they had their clothes off that afternoon, that Miranda hadn't a clue what was between her legs. As Sarah had strapped on her new double-ended dildo, and experimentally offered it to Miranda, she was like a baby who'd not even stuck a candle up that all too inviting passage.
Then it had hit her - no, not the double-ended dildo, but the fact that she was actually a he - that it was far more than a family resemblance which accounted for Miranda's similarity to Kevin. Perhaps, Sarah thought, she should have screamed the place down, although that might have been embarrassing as she hadn't worked out how to unfasten the double-ended monster. Instead, she decided to simply lie back and enjoy it - well, actually, not lie back, but be up and thrusting into Kevin's inner passage for all she was worth.
So when Rick arrived, having clearly been just as guilty as Sarah, she could hardly react as she might normally have done. For the rest of the weekend, she became the Mistress, ordering Rick to fuck Miranda for all he was worth, and taking her own pleasure from fucking Rick's tight little arse, like he once fucked the school's virgins, and digging her nails into the cheeks of his arse as she did so.
Of course, both Kevin and Rick knew that the other knew, but what could they do about it, except admit to Sarah they had tried to deceive her? On the other hand, they were both having fantastic sex like neither had had before.
And a good weekend was had by all (even including the real Miranda who met a couple of guys from the next fishing lodge who really enjoyed having their arses whipped by Sharpe's Gordon fishing rods!).
Demon of the Fallen Angels
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Demon of the Fallen Angels
by Charlotte Dickles
All Rights Reserved. Why did most people stay away from Great-Aunt Selma's funeral? Was she a witch - or worse? Could her soul have taken over the virginal Hayley? Of course not - such things don't happen in real life. Unless it's Halloween!
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WARNING: CONTAINS NUTS, cross-dressing, fun, hetero and same sex intercourse, naughty swear words, and demon worship. If reading these subjects is illegal or not to your taste, then don't do it, or at least don't moan about it afterwards. New readers may be interested to know that the Torsolets included in this story have a regular appearance in many of my other stories; whereas Demon worship is just for Halloween.
"I do love you," Hayley said, giving Dan a kiss on the cheek as he turned the car in a westerly direction, and she let her hand trace a path upwards along his inner thigh, just to show how much she loved him. "You were hoping to get back to London in time to meet up with your mates, and now you're going to drive all this extra distance, just because I might get some interesting stock."
Hayley was a fashion designer with her own internet clothing business, or to put it rather more bluntly, she'd employed a Chinese company to make up her small collection after leaving college at the age of nineteen with a certificate in fashion design. She was now selling her clothes on the web. She was just about keeping her head above water but clearly had a long way to go before she became a household name.
"I love you, too," Dan said with a grin. He knew how Hayley would show her appreciation later that evening.
He and Hayley had been living together now for two months, and he was still intoxicated with her. That's why he had agreed to take this Friday off work - he was a newly qualified solicitor - and drive her the two hundred miles to Leeds for her Great-Aunt Selma's funeral, and hopefully return in time to meet up with his mates, that evening.
But when Hayley had asked her Uncle Tom what was happening to Selma's wonderful collection of period dresses and evening gowns, he'd told her quite bluntly that he had no interest in them and he had no objection if Hayley took the lot. She might be able to add them to the stock on the web, she had suggested to Dan.
Which is why instead of turning the car southwards towards London, they were heading towards the industrialised myriad of small mill towns - each running into the next - once highly profitable - now looking rather run down on this dark and dismal late October afternoon.
"I told you before," Dan added, "It's no problem not getting back in time to go out with my mates - I'd much rather spend the time with you. Anyway, your great-aunt's place sounds interesting. It was good of your uncle to suggest we could stay the night there if we wanted."
"It all sounded incredibly weird to me," Hayley said. "This thing about her living in a disused church - only what was all that about the place not actually belonging to her but to some kind of religious sect?"
Dan shrugged, trying not to show the erotic thoughts passing through his head, some of which involved Hayley, sex and the altar. "To be honest," he said, "I think your uncle doesn't stand a chance in hell of getting title to the place. From what he said, it seems as though your Aunt Selma sold her house and effectively gave the proceeds to this religious group. She then bought this church on their behalf, and lived in it rent free. But that doesn't give her son any right to the property.
"Anyway," he added, "I didn't like the way he was leering at you all the time."
"Was he?" Hayley said. "I didn't really notice. But he's positively ancient. He must be easily twice my age so why would he do that?"
Dan couldn't help but marvel at the innocence of Hayley. He knew for a fact she had retained her virginity all through college, right up until the time when he had met her and been totally intrigued and captivated by the tom-boy-come-fashion-designer, dressed in sloppy sweater and jeans.
She was now almost unrecognisable as the same person. Under his encouragement, she took the advice she'd trained to give other women, and wore pretty blouses with short skirts and heels. Today she had on a black dress - which, as she sat beside him, was exposing large amounts of thigh - and black boots. Dan had suggested that, with her five feet, one inch frame, she could wear incredibly high heels without looking stupid, but she'd replied that her boots with two-inch heels were high enough. She'd had her hair done and learnt how to apply make-up, but she still had this air of sweet innocence that would drive most men - including him, and clearly including Uncle Tom - wild with lust.
"And why did he get so angry," she added, "about my not having a cross?"
"Perhaps he thought you were a virgin," Dan tentatively suggested, "and that Aunt Selma would take over your soul."
"After fifty-nine days, one hour and twelve minutes with you, I'm safe enough there," she replied with a grin. "I reckon that must be almost six-hundred shags - sufficient to see off any ghost."
"Why weren't any of your cousins there?" Dan asked, smirking as he thought about the great sex he'd had with Hayley. "And where was that friend of Selma's - the one who telephoned you to tell you about Selma's funeral?"
"It's strange isn't it," she said. "Uncle Tom said the rest of his family had all got diarrhoea, which I suppose could just about be true. But apart from the vicar, why wasn't there a single other person at the funeral? You don't think she really was a witch, do you?"
"Do you know," Dan said, thoughtfully, "I think your uncle does. That's why he kept his family away, and didn't tell anyone she'd died. He was hoping no one else would come to the funeral, to have their bodies taken over by Selma's displaced spirit. It's a good job we don't believe in that garbage."
Hayley didn't speak.
"You don't believe in it, do you?" Dan asked her, noticing her silence. "It's all stupid superstition."
"Of course, it is," she said. "Only..."
"Only what?"
"Well, it's just that I used to love going to see Great-Aunt Selma. It was she who first got me interested in clothes and fashion. Then suddenly, when I was about seven, we stopped going and I was told never to even mention her name again. She'd still send Birthday and Christmas cards but - this was what was so weird - my parents would throw them straight in the bin. Of course, once I learnt what they did, I'd get them out of the bin or pick up the post before they did.
"I only saw her once more - and that was quite recently. Just after I'd passed my final exams, I telephoned her to say how much she'd inspired me. She said she was coming down to London the following week, and did I want to meet her for dinner at her hotel. The day after I'd seen her, my dad found out and was furious."
"I'm not surprised," Dan said. "You'd have been a virgin when you went to see her, so if your aunt really was a witch, she'd probably have taken over your soul."
Hayley shivered. "You don't really think so, do you?"
Dan laughed, rather taken aback that Hayley had taken his joke so seriously. "I was kidding," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him. "There are no such things as witches - just elderly ladies who get picked upon as scapegoats."
"I hope you're right," she said, "or we're all goners - and we'll be goners even more quickly if you don't put your hand back on the steering wheel."
***
The sat nav found it without difficulty - a typical urban church set on a street corner, with terraced housing butting against it. Further along the road, the occasional boarded-up shop front gave evidence of the urban decay in this area. Dan parked the car down the side street, glancing nervously up and down, wondering whether the car would still be there when they came out.
Hayley was far more nervous of never coming out again. She stared at the dirty, old church, with its square bell tower looming large above them over the west entrance, and she handed the large key that her uncle had given her to Dan. "You open it. I'm a bit scared."
"It's a deconsecrated church, for God's sake. Even if it had a crypt, they'd have emptied it of bodies before they left."
"But what about the souls?" Hayley said. "They might not have taken those."
"For God's sake," Dan repeated and he purposely stepped forward, put the key in the lock, turned it and pulled open the door, which screeched in a way that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.
"For God's sake," he repeated, but in frustration over his own reaction, rather than that of Hayley. He stepped inside.
***
Neither of them had expected the church to be occupied, and they were both amazed to see a congregation in progress. There were about twenty people, all scattered about the first few pews.
"We'd better leave them to it," Dan said, taken aback at this unexpected event.
"Don't be silly," Hayley said, regaining confidence at seeing a crowd of people. "I'm sure they'll make us welcome when they hear who we are." Without further ado, she walked up the aisle, and Dan was horrendously aware of the click-clack noise her heels made on the hard wooden floor.
Not one of the women - and they were all women in the congregation - turned their heads to see who the intruder was, and Dan sheepishly followed Hayley, almost tip-toeing as though to make up for Hayley's lack of discretion. Hayley went right up to the front pew, where there was a space next to the aisle, slid into the space, turned to the woman next to her, and said, "Hello, I'm..."
The words died on her lips, turned to a shocked gasp, and Dan's blood ran cold. What kind of sect was this, for God's sake? For an instant, he was tempted to run back to the street to fetch help, but he knew he couldn't leave Hayley behind. He quickened his pace so he could grab her and pull her outside.
"Come on, Hayley. Let's go. We know when we're not welcome."
But Hayley resisted his pull, and then turned and looked at him and smiled sweetly. If his blood had run cold before, it froze now as he wondered whether Great-Aunt Selma really had taken over her soul.
"Aren't you going to say hello to the congregation?" she asked.
He turned to the woman next to Hayley, about to make some excuse to depart and met...
The eyes of a tailor's dummy stared blankly back at him. "What the..." He turned to the woman standing in the pew behind and she too had the face of a dummy. His glance flicked across the whole congregation - they were all the same.
"This is Aunt Selma's costume collection, silly," Hayley said. She swept her arm to indicate the whole of what he had supposed was the church congregation. "Isn't it magnificent? Do you see why I made you come all this way?"
Relief seeped through him, draining him of energy, and suddenly making him feel extremely stupid, but Hayley's infectious grin lifted him, and he grinned back.
"If you were frightened of these ladies," she said, "it's a good job you didn't see who was in the pulpit."
She nodded to indicate the direction and he turned to look up to the pulpit, and face Satan himself! Black shiny body with long horns on the head, sharp fangs protruding from the mouth, wings partly extended, and huge claws on each hand, ready to rip the throat of anyone it didn't care for. It was fortunate that by this stage the only reaction Dan could give was to go into a petrified stance, whilst his senses came to terms with the apparition.
It was another model! The realisation ran through him. Just like the tailor's dummies.
"It's quite realistic, isn't it?" He was incredibly proud of the nonchalant way he spoke those words.
"Realistic?" Hayley retorted with a smile. "I thought you didn't believe in the devil."
"Well... I don't but..."
"It's OK." She put a finger to his lips. "I'm only teasing. It certainly seems to confirm that Aunt Selma was into witchcraft, or the occult, or something. Oh..." She broke off, turning towards a dummy on the other side of the aisle. "Isn't that the most wonderful dress?"
She pushed past him and went over to look at a long, black dress, with a neckline which plunged halfway to the navel and was held together by a silver ring below the bust - out of which the dummy's breasts bulged in an extremely pleasant manner.
"It's lovely," Dan said, as delighted by the cleavage as the dress itself. Now he looked around he could see that most of the dummies exposed similarly delicious cleavage.
"Wouldn't it be lovely to wear it?"
Wouldn't it just, Dan thought, but did not say. Since she was standing immediately next to the dummy, he felt it much safer to point out the mannequin was at least six inches taller than she was. "It's too long for you," he said. "You'd need really high heels to be able to walk." Now there was an erotic thought to distract his mind from other things.
Hayley gave a little laugh. "Don't be silly. I didn't mean me wearing it - I meant you."
The shock was greater than when he had come face to face with the devil. Did she know? Had she seen through his nonchalant gaze at these wonderful clothes? Oh if only... But he had to pull himself together. He didn't think he'd given himself away but...
"Yeah, fine," he said, putting every ounce of sarcasm he could muster into the words which were absolute truth. He had to change the subject before she took it further, and he waved around at the congregation. "These are all fantastic dresses. Each one must be worth thousands. Did Uncle Tom know he was giving away a fortune?"
Hayley shook her head with a smile. "They're not as valuable as you think. They're all modern reproductions, many of them made for budget films, where historical accuracy takes a poor second to cleavage. I think some have even come from fancy dress shops."
"Oh," Dan said. "I thought they'd be worth quite a lot of money." If they weren't worth much money, he thought, why had they driven all this extra distance to get them? Not that he was complaining.
"Fraid not," she said. "But I've noticed the way you've been looking for the last few minutes. I've also noticed that monster in your trousers getting all excited."
Shit! he thought. She's realised how these clothes turn me on.
"So, it's put me right in the mood for what you fancy," she said.
"What I fancy?" He pretended to be bewildered, dreading her outing him as the kind of guy who wanted to put on a woman's dress.
"Don't tell me you haven't been fantasising about having sex on the altar?"
"Oh!" He blushed slightly. "Well, I er..."
"You are so obvious," she laughed. "But with that monster almost bursting out of your trousers, I'm up for it."
To be honest, Dan was almost disappointed that Hayley was suggesting sex rather than dressing him up. But Hayley ran over to the altar, hitching up the black dress she had worn for the funeral, so that she could clamber up onto it. Beneath the dress, she had on black stockings with black suspender belt and no panties! Suddenly he was very ready for sex on the altar. He caught a glimpse of the bush between her legs as she grabbed hold of the brass rail which ran around the altar and levered herself up. She stood upright on the altar and her dress fell back into an almost respectable position.
"I'm queen of the castle," she chanted, "you're a silly, old rascal." She reached behind and unzipped her dress, shrugged her shoulders from side to side to let the dress slither over them and down her body. It momentarily caught on her bra but, with her boyish figure, not for long.
Then she was stepping out of it and kicking it hard towards him so it caught him fully in the face.
"Phlugh!" He pulled it to one side and walked purposely towards her. Normally she was so much shorter than him, but now, standing on the alter she towered above him.
She took off her bra and waved it in the air, making an erotic sight dressed only in boots, stockings and suspender belt.
"Repel all borders," she said, and wacked him around the head with her bra.
"Ouch!"
"Ah-ha! You'll have to do better than that."
"Is that right?" he said. "Well how about if I..." He tried to grab her ankle, but she nimbly skipped out of the way. As she made to slap him with the bra again, he made a grab for it, but she flicked it up out of his reach.
"Damn!"
"If you want to come up here to pay homage to the queen, you'll have to be my serf," she said. "First of all, take off all your clothes."
That was something he could agree on. He frantically pulled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor, and then he was clambering up onto the altar to join Hayley, his enormous erection making a very welcome third member to their group.
"On your back," Hayley directed with rather more urgency than Dan was used to. Normally, it was he who took the lead but with the devil watching on, it seemed that Hayley had taken on a whole new identity.
As Dan obediently lay on his back, she dropped her knees on top of his shoulders, pinning him down. Then she wriggled forward so his arms too were were under her control.
"I need to ensure my serf knows who is in command," she said, grabbing a decorative leather strap which ran over the top of altar beneath the brass rail. In a second she had made a loop and slipped it over his right wrist, and was tugging the other end to tighten it and secure his arm. Seconds later, she had repeated the operation with his left arm, in spite of Dan's half-hearted efforts to stop her.
In fact, he was finding it an incredible turn on - not that he wasn't already turned on - but this was something new and exciting. Now that his arms were trussed to the rail on either side of the altar, she turned around and wriggled down his torso and onto his knees, so she could secure his legs in a similar manner.
"My serf is going to give me a ride," she said, "and he is in for the journey of his life. But first, let's warm up my mount, and let my mount warm up me." Still facing his feet, she wriggled backwards until his face was pushed against her pussy, and commanded, "Lick!"
And that is what he did.
And so did she; except that she started by slowly licking his balls, and then, tantalisingly slowly, she let her tongue lick further and further up his shaft, until she was licking his knob, until it throbbed with excitement. Normally at that stage, she'd have let her mouth sink down over his prick, and gone down on him until he could feel her tonsils. But instead, she merely reversed what she had just done, slowly descending his shaft, licking for all she was worth, until once again she was slowly licking his balls.
"Let's do it now," he gasped.
"Goodness," she replied. "You haven't given me one orgasm yet. We can hardly start on our proper ride until I'm properly warmed up."
"No but I'm desperate," he said, further words being rendered inaudible as Hayley sank her pussy down hard on his mouth.
"Go on," she commanded, "bring me off."
Dan's tongue had never had to work so hard as he fiendishly brought her to her first orgasm.
"Mmm, that was nice," she said afterwards. "Now let's do it again, only I want you to give me a much bigger orgasm this time."
They continued in this fashion for almost half an hour. Dan was powerless to give Hayley the fucking of her life, the fucking she now richly deserved. If he hadn't have been tightly bound to the altar, he'd have been climbing on the ceiling with frustration. Each time he tried to tell Hayley how urgent his need was, she rammed her pussy onto his mouth and prevented him doing anything except pleasuring her.
Finally, after her third very satisfactory orgasm, she turned around and said, "I think it's time now for our ride, don't you?"
"Oh God, yes," he muttered.
She was still wearing her boots, stockings and suspenders, and now she squatted over his enormous cock like a jockey in the stirrups, and lowered herself so she could work it inside her. Then she slid down onto him,
"Jeez, that was good," Dan said. "More, please."
"Don't expect me to do the work," she said, "get trotting."
He had to arch his back in order to lift her up, but she made no effort to support herself, so as he dropped back down, she was still firmly embedded around his prick.
"Come on," she said, "I want a bit more effort than that." She drove her heels into his thighs to make the point.
"Ouch!"
He realised he would have to thrust upwards much more quickly, so that she would momentarily be thrown into the air, slightly withdrawing from his cock as she did so. It worked, but she immediately landed back on him, and he would have to repeat the whole process over again.
"Hell, I can't keep this up for long," he said after a minute or two. "Can we do it an easier way?"
She grinned at him. "The devil's got into me," she said, "so the answer's no. Come on. No slacking. Keep it up." Another painful jab of her heels into his thighs.
Keeping it up was not Dan's problem. His need was more urgent than any he'd ever had before; he had to squirt his semen inside her; he just had to. With Hayley spurring him onwards by the continued use of her heels, he increased his pace and started to get into the rhythm of it. The sweat was pouring off him, and his muscles were screaming at him to stop, but yes, he was starting to enjoy it.
And so was Hayley. She stopped using her heels to bore holes in his thigh, and instead placed her feet flat on the altar and used them to help the action, producing the kind of rising trot her riding instructor would have been proud of.
For some reason he'd never figured out, Hayley had the most incredible vaginal muscles. As the action started to get easier with her help, so she prevented him getting too far ahead by contracting those muscles and squeezing his prick like a navvy holding a pickaxe. Oh God, he so desperately wanted to squirt semen into her, but for minute after precious minute, he couldn't get there. Surely, he would have a heart attack if he didn't stop. His muscles would seize.
Feeling him slacken slightly, she gave him another satisfying dig in his thighs with her heels. She had really enjoyed doing that - riding him as though he was a thoroughbred horse. Perhaps she was a bit of a sadist - perhaps she really did have the devil inside her.
But Hayley could now feel herself ready to come, and she relaxed her vaginal muscles and accentuated her rising trot.
"Faster, faster!" she urged. Another dig in the thighs. "Go on, go on. Fuck me!"
Dan could feel his testicles start to tighten as he approached his climax, and he realised this would be the most incredible orgasm he'd ever had in his life.
They reached the finish post together in a screaming, shouting climax, so loud it would have deafened the congregation, had they not already been so. Hayley could feel squirt after squirt of hot semen filling her more completely than any fucking she had ever known.
"Mmm, that was a nice ride," she said to him, using her vagina muscles to work the last drops of semen out of his penis.
"Mmm," he agreed. Then he fell asleep.
***
It had been a very tiring day for Dan. The previous night, Hayley had been even more demanding than normal and they had made love all-night long. By the time the two of them had fallen asleep, it was almost time for the alarm to wake them to make an early start on the journey ahead. Hayley had soundly slept all the way to the crematorium, but of course, Dan had to keep his wits about him as he drove through the rush-hour traffic. The motorway had been full of idiots all wanting to drive at an illegal eighty, whilst only ten feet behind the car in front, with any hiccup causing a panic of frantic braking to avoid a massive pile up. After all that and his mammoth efforts during their lovemaking, he was totally shagged out.
It was quite dark in the church by the time he awoke, with the only illumination being the street lamps outside filtering through the stained-glass windows. For a moment, he didn't realise where he was, and he opened his eyes to face the devil.
"Ugh!" It was still in the pulpit, but in the half light, it looked even more terrifying and - well, just plain evil. He shuddered, turning away from it and - well his chest felt different, somehow. He glanced down.
"U-G-G-G-H-H-H!"
It was a sight even more terrifying than that of the devil. He had breasts!
Not just man-breasts. No, these were wonderfully large breasts - the kind you see on American film stars or on porn internet sites, and hardly ever on women walking down the High Street on a Saturday morning. Was this a dream? It must be. He should try squeezing a breast, just to make certain.
He sat up, his breasts swinging to hang vertically below him. He could feel them moving! That did not happen in dreams. Did it? Cautiously, he lifted a hand to cup one.
"Mmm." He'd half-hoped that Hayley was playing a joke on him, that she'd been out and bought some false breasts and stuck them on him. But he could feel his breast, and his hand cupping it - and it felt nice. He raised a thumb to his nipple, and gasped out loud as a sexual excitement shot through him.
This was so not-right, he thought, but he couldn't help dropping his other hand to his penis - except it wasn't there! He stared downwards at the bush of dark hair covering a slit, at the top of long, very sexy legs.
"S-H-I-I-I-I-T-T-T!" He was almost crying. This was no dream - not even a nightmare - this was for real. The devil had taken away his cock and turned him into a woman.
"Fooled you," Hayley said from somewhere above his head.
***
"I might have died from a heart attack," Dan moaned.
"Rubbish," Hayley said. "If you were going to die from a heart attack, it would have been whilst I was riding you to that tremendous climax."
"I'd still have been dead."
"Yes, but what a way to go."
Dan shook his head, sadly. "So tell me again how you managed to change my sex."
"I haven't really changed your sex." She led him over to one of the other mannequins which she had stripped of its costume. "When you look at the naked model, it's easy to see the difference between the face and hands, and the torso." She pointed.
"The face and hands are obviously plastic, just like any other tailor's dummy," she said. "But the torso looks just like real skin - like some fantastic waxwork model.
"On this plastic dummy, you can see it's actually a skin-coloured, sleeveless leotard which fits from just beneath the chin down to the groin. After I managed to find the fastening, which is between the legs, it was easy to see that all the shape - the breasts and the hips and bum - are built into the leotard. I found the user guide for it in the vestry at the rear. It's called a Torsolet and it's specifically designed to transform men to look like women. That's when I had the idea of putting it on you whilst you were still asleep, and watching from the gallery whilst you woke up. After all, you did agree to wear that fantastic dress."
"Agree? I didn't agree to it."
"You said: 'Yeah, fine,' when I suggested it."
"I was being sarcastic."
"Were you?"
From the intonation of her words, Dan couldn't work out whether she was being deliberately obtuse to prove her point, or whether she'd seen right through him, so he kept quiet.
"It was quite difficult getting it on without waking you," she continued, "but you really were dead to the world. It was made more difficult because there's this gel I had to smear over your body to stop you sweating. But you have to admit, it's very effective."
Dan indeed had to admit that. Secretly, his heart was pounding with excitement, but he was trying to keep a deadpan expression so that he didn't give the game away. Still, he permitted a wry smile. "I certainly have to admit that."
He stared again in the full-length mirror Hayley had found in the vestry, and brought to him. In spite of his face and hair, it was impossible to believe that the reflection was anything other than that of a naked, curvaceous woman, with breasts to die for. "But my legs look so sexy. You said the Torsolet thing isn't covering those, didn't you?"
"They're your own legs," Hayley said. "I simply shaved them."
"Wow," Dan said, then a puzzled look came on his face. "But do you normally carry a razor with you?"
She laughed. "Of course not. No, I used a ceremonial dagger I found in the vestry." She suddenly pulled it from behind her and waved it in front of his face. "It's very sharp."
"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed. "That's scary. Look, do you mind not holding it in front of my nose. You might slice it off."
"Of course." She grinned again as she put it down. "But you can't deny it gave you an excellent shave."
Dan felt his face which, by this time of day would normally have signs of stubble. "No," he said. "I can't deny that.
"But what I don't understand," he continued, "is how I can feel my breasts swinging, and how come my nipples are so sensitive?"
"I've had another read of the user guide," Hayley said. "It seems there's this feature called Sensotouch. It works a bit like a touch-sensitive computer screen, only it results in tiny electric shocks applied to your own skin, which gives that sense of feel. I'd have thought it was rubbish, except that it so obviously works for you."
"So I assume," Dan said, hoping against hope that his assumption was right, "that you want to dress me up now, like a little dolly."
"My little dolly never had boobs like yours," Hayley said, "but yes, I'd love to try a few dresses on you. You don't mind too much, do you?"
He smiled, putting just the right degree of resignation into it. "You'll pay for it later."
She grinned back at him. "I always pay for it later - that's part of the pleasure."
"Alright," he said. "Do your worse."
"I was hoping you'd say that," she said. "Only the first thing I have to do is to lace you into a corset."
***
Who could have believed that the person facing him in the mirror was not only a man, but it was him. He smiled, and the woman smiled. He gave a little shake to his shoulders and the woman's breasts joggled in a most pleasing way. He was wearing the black, full-length dress Hayley had pointed out earlier, and with the help of the corset, it fitted him perfectly. You really couldn't see the join where the Torsolet met his skin, and his breasts were fantastic. Even his face looked more attractive, framed by the long, brown wig.
"You look so sexy in that dress," Hayley said.
Something in her words surprised him. He'd have expected her to say another woman looked good, or even beautiful, but not sexy. He should have kept quiet, but instead he said words he regretted as soon as he'd mockingly spoken them. "Why would you think a woman looks sexy?"
Hayley looked puzzled. "Well of course I do. Why else would I have sex with them if I didn't find them sexy?"
"Sex with them? You mean... you're a lesbian?"
"Well of course I am. I'm nineteen for God's sake. You didn't think you were the first person I'd had sex with, did you?"
"Well, er..."
"I can't believe this! Just because my hymen was intact when I met you, you have the audacity to think that I've never enjoyed sex. Oh, men are so self-centred."
"Sorry, it's just that you didn't say, and I assumed."
"You haven't said anything about your past lovers. Does that mean you've never had any? That you were a virgin?
"Oh, it's alright," she continued, seeing the look on his face. "I really do not want to know about your past loves, just as I assumed you would not want to know about mine. But to put it all into the open, yes, I've had sex with several women and I tremendously enjoyed it. Now I've had sex with you and I've enjoyed that as well. And..."
Her voice softened as she continued, "Well I have a tremendous affection for you that I've never had with anyone else. I really do love you."
Dan smiled at her, and said, "I love you, too. It was stupid of me to make assumptions like that, and thanks for telling me I look sexy." He hesitated, making a judgement over what he was to say next, and then decided to go with it. "Does that mean you want to have sex with me?"
A wide grin spread across her face. "Too right it does, and I think you're in for a bit of a surprise at how good it is to be a woman." She stepped forward, lifted a hand and ran it down Dan's breast.
"Wow!" Dan murmured.
S-c-r-e-e-e-e-c-h, the church door went as it opened.
As they guiltily stepped apart, Dan once again felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
***
"Good evening, Haley." The voice boomed the length of the church, and echoed all around them. They peered into the darkness trying to detect someone standing there, but with the door open, they could only see those items illuminated by the street lamps outside.
Haley took a deep breath and then stepped forward. "Good evening," she said. "I'm afraid I can't see you."
"Sorry love," the voice said, "I'm trying to find the light switch..."
A click, followed by the church flooding with light, showed he had done so. At the far end stood a nondescript man - middle-aged, medium height and build, balding, and wearing a dark raincoat.
"I'm John," the voice announced. "I'm the person who rang you to tell you about Selma's death. Welcome to the Church of the Fallen Angels. I wanted to make certain you'd found your way in and had everything you need."
He walked towards them, smiling a welcome, which Hayley and Dan returned.
"Thanks for letting me know about Selma," Hayley said, and she gestured towards Dan. "This is... Daniela ."
"Pleased to meet you, Daniela ," John said. "I'm glad to see you entering into the spirit and wearing one of our dresses. That Torsolet fits you really well. Is it comfortable around the goolies? Some people have a bit of difficulty when they put it on for the first time."
Dan felt a blush coming to his cheeks. He had hoped that John might have been fooled. "I know you think this is strange..." he started before John interrupted him
"There's nothing strange about people enjoying wearing lovely dresses, man or woman. What's strange is the way that most people get upset about something that doesn't affect them. I take it Selma explained everything to you?"
"Well, not really," Hayley replied. "She told me she hadn't long to live, but she wouldn't go into any details. She said I was her chosen one, and when I asked if that meant she'd named me in her will, she replied that she had little to leave, apart from the soul of Semias, or something like that. I didn't really understand what she was saying."
" Semiazas," John said. "Let me explain. Selma was a lovely person who helped lots of men like me to explore our needs. She let us dress up in this wonderful collection of clothes. We knew she'd always had unusual religious beliefs but it wasn't until we'd known her for several years that she revealed she was some kind of Satanist. She explained that didn't make her evil - that was the way most of the conventional religions - including the Christian Church - portrayed them. She said she was Semiazas - the Demon of Fallen Angels."
John paused for a moment before continuing, "I know it sounds kind of weird, but we'd known her for years by this time as kind, generous, warm-hearted and open-minded person. Compare that with the fire and brimstone local vicar, who condemned people like us to hell, and you can see why we were happy to convert.
"When the local vicar was later exposed for buggering his choirboys," John continued, "his congregation obviously stopped attending this church, and it was forced to close. Selma decided to sell her house and she used the money to buy this church and form a proper religion. We all became her Fallen Angels. Sure others thought we were all a bunch of religious nutters, but that's almost respectable - it's cross dressers who are persecuted nowadays."
He gesticulated up to the pulpit. "She got the Demon specially made by the company who make the Torsolets. She'd always wear it for our meetings, and sometimes I'd come round and find her wearing it during the day. Now Selma has gone, the Demon is empty and she waits to be filled by Semiazas' appointed one. That's you, luv," he said, turning to Hayley.
"Me?" Haley looked shocked, as well she might. "No, I mean, that's silly. I can't become a Demon. I'm just a normal girl."
"The church can't exist without Semiazas, and she appointed you as her successor. If you don't agree to succeed her, the church will have to fold, and there'll be a legal battle over ownership with her close-minded son, Tom, that will go on for years."
"But it's stupid," Hayley said. "I wouldn't know what to do, or anything."
"You've already encouraged Daniela to dress how she wishes," John said. (Dan didn't want to get into that argument, so he let it pass.) "You are already qualified in Semiazas' skills."
"But I couldn't wear that." She pointed towards the pulpit.
"Hayley," John said, "the church is your friend. We're not going to try to force you to do anything you don't wish. Selma has a flat in the crypt, and you and Daniela are welcome to stay as long as you wish. At least stay for the weekend. If you want to don your rightful garb for our special Sunday service - it's Halloween, you know and maybe you'll even stay a little longer - then that would be excellent, but if not, then so be it. It's your choice."
He gave a brief smile. "I'll be on my way now, unless there's anything else you want from me."
***
"Bloody hell," Daniela said, once he had left, "what a nutter."
"He wasn't a nutter," Hayley said. "He cross dressed, but then that's what you're doing at the moment, so you're hardly in a position to preach."
"I'm talking about the Demon, and Semiazas, and all that crap. It sounded like he believed in it."
"How do you know it's crap?"
"Well, of course it is."
"But couldn't you say that about all religions?" Hayley asked. "They all rely upon some supernatural entity. In fact, none of what he talked about was supernatural. It was simply a shunning of the Christian Church, prompted by the evil vicar."
"I'm an atheist," Daniela said, "so I suppose you're right, it is the same for all religions."
"But you don't call all Christians and all Muslims and all Jews a bunch of nutters. You'd soon lose all your clients, for one thing."
Daniela considered. "I suppose it's that I'm pragmatic. I don't believe what they believe, but I accept their right to believe it."
"So you must equally accept the right to believe in Semiazas, the Demon of the Fallen Angels?"
Daniela wriggled uncomfortably. "Put like that, I suppose the answer must be yes. I guess it's just something I'm not used to."
"Just like most of society are not used to cross dressers. Which is a shame, because you look so sexy in that dress."
Daniela realised those were exactly the words Hayley had used just before John had arrived when they were about to have sex. Her nipples suddenly felt very sensitive and she wanted Hayley to do magnificent things to them, and she hadn't even had a chance to properly explore down below. So Daniela did not ask her why she thought a woman looked sexy. Instead, she said, "Do you think so? It makes me feel very sensual."
"No time for that now," Hayle said, frustrating Daniela's hopes. "I want you to help me put on the Demon garb."
"Later, Hayley. Let's do that later."
"No," she said. "I must do it now. I shall need the help of the church virgin."
"Don't you mean verger?" Daniela asked.
"I know what I mean," she said, "especially since you are a virgin."
"You must be kidding!"
"Your Torsolet still has the hymen intact. You are now a female virgin, just as I was when I met up with Great-Aunt Selma." Hayley smiled. "She said I shouldn't confine myself to having sex with women and I should find a good man. I thought she was just going on, as elderly aunts do. But she said I would know when I met him, and she gave me a love potion to use."
"A love potion? There's no such thing. They're just a myth."
"Maybe." Hayley's smile became even broader. "I only know that I sprayed it above your head just before I bumped into your table in that café, and we've been in love ever since."
"You're crazy," Daniela said. "We fell in love just like people are doing all over the world, every minute of the day. OK, maybe spraying that stuff over me gave you the confidence to engineer our meeting, and to take me to bed on our first date, that you otherwise would not have had. So I'm very grateful to it, but that's all it is."
"Maybe," Hayley said. "But if you don't believe there's anything in it, you won't worry about me becoming Semiazas. So, bring her down here and let's see how I have to get into her."
Daniela climbed the steps to the pulpit and brought down the Demon. Now they could look at it properly, they could see how fantastic it was. Haley fiddled around between the legs and managed to release a catch letting the gusset hang free. The upper torso, along with wings, tail, arms with the claws instead of hands, and the head mask with its horns and fanged teeth, could then be lifted off. Beneath, were the leggings with cloven hooves in place of feet and toes. Unlike the Torsolet, the material was nothing like human skin. It was more like a thick black leather, although there was no stitching visible so they presumed it must be synthetic.
"I'm not certain how my feet are going to fit into these hooves," Hayley said, but let's give it a try." She sat in a pew and removed her boots and stockings. Then she inserted one foot into the leggings and pushed it down towards the hoof.
"Hell, it's a tight squeeze," she said, "and I don't think I'm going to be able to walk in it. My foot's pushed upright, like walking on impossibly high heels, or like you do en-pointe in ballet. Good job I did ballet when I was a kid. I remember Aunt Selma insisted I learnt..."
"Learnt en-pointe?" Daniela finished the sentence for her. "But I thought she only took up her interest in Semiazas a few years ago. That almost sounds as though she's been a closet Demon for years."
"Maybe," Hayley said, trying to brush it off as insignificant. "Let's try the other foot."
She did so, and then Daniela helped her to stand up and pull the leggings up to her waist.
"Heck, as we pull them up, everything is getting tighter, and tighter still, and...
"Ooof! That felt a bit funny, still they're up now. Let me try a little walking." She tottered around a little and then said, "It's more comfortable than you might think - it's probably because it's all so very tight and the hoof is quite stable on the floor, unlike walking en-pointe, or high heels for that matter. It seems as though my heel and ankle are locked together and they're taking most of the weight. Let's try the torso now."
Daniela pulled it open at the bottom and held it above her head. She straightened her arms and thrust them up inside, followed by her head. Daniela heaved it down her body, and with a great deal of wriggling and struggling, she got her arms into the arm holes and then her head into the head-mask. Finally, Daniela could pull the whole thing right down and fasten it between her legs.
"H-g-g-g-g-h-h-h!" It was like the growl of a dog, only a dog with a human voice. A growl which sent a shiver right through Daniela, as the Demon raised its long, sharp paws towards her.
"No!" Daniela cried, cowering away in mock horror, but somehow her horror felt a little too real.
"It's not uncomfortable," Hayley's voice came through the mask, but this suit clearly doesn't have any Sensotouch. In fact, it's is so thick, I can't feel a thing. I shall have to be mighty careful of these paws, otherwise I shall slash someone."
"Don't give me a love bite, either, Daniela said, "or with those fangs you'll be drinking my blood. Are Demons the same as vampires, or do they draw the line at bloodsucking?"
"Demons have nothing to do with bloodsucking," Hayley said. "But I can see why people might get two trails of blood dribbling down their chins after they've been French kissed by this mouth. Oh, I can feel my tongue. Hang on, let me poke it out and you can tell me what you think."
A black forked tongue slithered out of the Demon's mouth, making Daniela jump. "I wasn't expecting that," she said. "It's forked."
"R-ly?" She had difficulty in speaking with her tongue sticking out. She flicked it up before her eyes and wriggled it about, "Dn't u thik iss erothic?"
Daniela hadn't thought that until she suggested it, but now she could imagine it sliding into her mouth and... " How are you controlling it?" she asked, trying to change the subject from that vision which was both terrifyingly horrific and erotic. "I knew you normally have a long tongue, but it's not that long.
"Rrr." The tongue slid back inside her mouth, and she said, "I'm not certain, actually. My own tongue fits inside the Demon's - a bit like sliding a half-erect prick into a condom."
How did she know about that, Dan (rather than Daniela) thought. She's never seen my prick half-erect, and we've never bothered with a condom since the first time she'd told me she was on the pill and a virgin.
But Daniela said, "Well you can hardly do the same thing with your tail." She motioned the Demon's tail which was waving from side to side behind her. "It's not as though you have a prick to control it with. Even if you had, I can tell you that a prick wouldn't give much control over it."
Hayley flicked the tail so it moved forward between her legs and reared towards Dan's face, where it stopped, motionless just a few inches away.
"That's good," he said. "How do you move it?"
If it was possible for a demon to look sheepish, it would have done so now. "When we pulled up the leggings, you'll never guess where the inner end of the tail slid into. On second thoughts, you probably will. I can control it with my vaginal muscles." She didn't add that she now understood why Selma had directed she find herself a man to break her hymen and strenuously exercise all the right muscles.
"I can move it about," she said, and proceeded to demonstrate, waving it from side to side in front of his face.
Dan had expected that, when seen close up, the end of the tail would be a barbed spear, but actually the barbs were similar to the comb on a chicken's head - only more fleshy and engorged with purple blood, almost as though it was...
"It seems there are only two parts of my body which have any sensitivity," Hayley murmured. "One is my tongue. But I can also feel your breath on the end of my tail."
It was a cross between a penis and an inverted vagina, Daniela realised, both revolted and aroused.
"Lick my tail, Daniela," the Demon commanded.
Daniela controlled her initial revulsion by remembering this was simply a fancy dress plastic moulding. So she obediently stuck out her tongue and licked the engorged fleshy protuberances.
"Good! Good!" the Demon grunted. "More. More."
Presumably, Daniela thought as she licked, this was the one spot on the Demon's skin which had Sensotouch, and judging by the way the Demon was starting to grunt, this was doing as much for Hayley as his tongue had done for her when they were on the altar.
But not quite. It was quite clear that Hayley - or was it the Demon - was not reaching an orgasm.
"Other way," the Demon said, and promptly withdrew the tail from Daniela's mouth and moved its own mouth forward, fanged teeth coming towards her throat
"No! No! You'll slash me," Daniela gasped, reeling away.
"Yugh!" the Demon roared, its claws flashing forward so quickly she was taken unawares as its arms encircled her own and the claws hooked into her dress behind her, and she was pulled towards the monster.
The Demon lowered its fanged teeth towards her bare neck.
***
Afterwards, Daniela would have many wet dreams about that moment when, in the middle of absolute terror, she had her first crashing orgasm as a woman. The Demon's teeth were at her neck, they were about to tear out her throat and she felt - not those fangs slicing through her skin - but the lightest touch imaginable as the Demon's tongue traced a path from her throat to her ear. As the orgasm hit her, the tongue traced its way back again and did the same on her right ear. Then again, and again, and she cried in anguish that her ecstasy might never end.
***
When she came to, she was still being clasped by the Demon, her arms trapped beside her and through her dress she could feel its claws painfully digging into the cheeks of her arse, supporting her body weight. She realised her legs must have collapsed under her, for they were splayed out and although she tried feebly to regain her feet, she couldn't do so.
The Demon's tongue was inside her mouth. It slipped beyond her tonsils and she could feel herself starting to choke, but it moved and found her tongue. She tentatively responded and the Demon's tongue wrapped itself around hers, stroking her tongue in a way that was so erotic, she found her body starting to tingle again.
As she did so, she felt something brush her right knee, sliding past it and upwards. She tried to struggle but it was useless. Something brushed her left thigh, something like a large snake exploring the darkness under her skirt. She squeezed her legs together, but it was already between her thighs, still gliding upwards to her maidenhood.
And then, it was there, gently exploring, slightly parting her outer lips, moving backwards and forwards until it made contact with her clitoris. She immediately went into a bucking orgasm as exquisite as any she had ever encountered so far. For that is the effect that demons have on our human women.
"Take me," she said coming out of her orgasm as the tail moved away. "Oh please take me."
"No," the Demon replied. "You are a virgin, and the rules of Demonhood state we're not allowed to break a female's hymen. Instead, I will show you how fantastic sex with a demon is whilst keeping your virginity intact."
"How will you do that?" Daniela asked. Then her eyes widened as the tail left her pussy and slid between her legs. She knew exactly how the demon was going to have sex with her. "No Haley. Not there. I don't like it... A-a-a-g-g-h-h-!"
"Haley is not here," the demon said. "Only Semiazas is here. She will have sex with you anyway she chooses."
"Oh no! Oh NO!" Daniela's eyes went so wide, they almost popped from their sockets. "Oh yes. Yes! YES! Y-E-S-S-S!
***
Afterwards, the Demon carried Daniela once more to the altar and left her there, to recover in her own time. Now she felt restless, uncertain where to go and what to do. At some stage Hayley would need to emerge from the demon's skin, but certainly not yet.
She practised opening her wings and spreading them wide, and closing them but she knew she had to do more than that. The Demon looked around assessing the church.
When Daniela came round, she realised she was lying on the altar in just the same way as before, with the Demon still staring down at her. But the Demon shouldn't be there, she thought. Surely Hayley hadn't taken it off already. Then, the Demon moved.
"Agh!" she cried. A moving demon, she realised, is a hundred times more frightening than a still one. Huge claws grasped the edge of the pulpit, huge horns and fangs protruded from the head - this was a creature that she knew could tear her inside out as easily as she could tear a piece of paper.
In one move, the creature vaulted up so it was crouching on the top of the pulpit, its cloven hooves gripping its edge. Then it stood up, revealing its black shiny body and expanded its black wings on either side. They were massive - not the kind of joke wings you see in fancy dress shops, or the silly tiny wings that artists attribute to angels. These must have been twice the arm-span of a human. The edge of the pulpit was about seven feet above the ground and this apparition was so enormous, it filled her complete vision with horror.
"No!" Daniela wailed.
"A-g-g-g-g-h-h-h!" Again the creature roared, only this time it gathered itself and toppled forward off the top of the pulpit. Its wings caught the air and it flew down towards her, soaring along just a foot above the floor. Three feet before the altar, it soared upwards to where Daniela was lying, but just failing to reach the right height and smacking into the stone side of the altar.
"Shit! That fucking hurt!" Haley cried.
"You were crazy to try to fly like that," Daniela said. "You could have killed yourself."
"Well that's what we demons do," she said. "I shall just have to get better at it. Fortunately, this suit is a bit like motorcycle leathers. It protected me from injury."
She got to her feet, gingerly straightened up and grabbed hold of the brass rail as best she could - it's not easy holding things when each finger ends in an enormous claw - and pulled herself upright next to the altar.
"What do you think?" she said.
"You're as mad as your Great-Aunt," Daniela said.
***
Maybe her virgin was right, the Demon thought as she climbed the spiral staircase in the bell tower to the top. She was still trying to come to terms with what had happened over the last twelve hours to turn Hayley into Semiazas. Of course, she thought, she could still return to being Hayley as often as she wished, and for as long as she wished.
But privately she knew she would only do it to give an air of normality to those who did not understand that Demons were a force for the good, rather than a force for God, or whatever they called the spirit Gods in this neighbourhood.
She had reached the top floor in the tower where the bells hung, wedged immobile now, as it was considered unfashionable for Demons to disturb the peace by ringing the bells. She continued to climb, up a stepladder which led to the trap door in the ceiling.
Pushing that open she climbed through and onto the roof. A castellated balustrade ran all around the edge. Not only was she protected from falling over the edge, but also from being seen from below - not that the Demon was worried about the former - but people passing-by might cause a stir at the latter, which would interfere with her plans.
There was no moon visible and the only light was coming from the streetlights, far below so it was virtually pitch black on top of the tower. A distant clock struck midnight. It was raining a fine drizzle which would persuade all but the most hardy to stay indoors. Glancing down between the castellations, the Demon could see it was completely deserted, although there were still a few illuminated windows, mostly with curtains drawn across, but here and there, one or two remained undrawn.
Excellent. It was time for her to roam.
She had nothing definite in mind at that stage - just a little practice with her wings with a bit more space around here than that embarrassing episode in front of Daniela. She moved to the side which overlooked the pitched roof of the church and checked. The highest part of the church roof was about ten feet below her, and on either side the lowest part of the roof was probably a further ten feet below that - plenty of space for her to exercise a little.
She climbed through one of the castellations, extended her wings fully and let herself fall forward.
***
It was nothing like her short flight inside the church. It was so exhilarating, speeding along, first of all above the church roof, and then above the gardens between the rear of the two rows of terraced housing. She had occasional glimpses of people through an uncurtained window - people preparing for bed, watching TV and in one case, having sex on the bed.
Suddenly aware that she had flown some distance from the church, she tilted her wings and turned around in an arc. Only then did she realise her predicament. She was well below the church roof, indeed, she was below the roofs of the terraced houses, and had probably dropped about thirty feet on her outward leg - more than halfway to the ground. Not only did she have to retrace the same distance as she had just covered to return to the church, but the rows of fences and privet hedges between gardens made the Grand National appear a doddle in comparison. Still losing height, there was no way she was going to clear them all and get back to the church
She tilted her wings to give her more lift. Alas, if only Selma had advised lessons in flying as well as sex, she might have fared better - or at least chosen a better landing place. For as every pilot knows, tilting the plane upwards results in loosing speed, and it is speed which keeps the plane in the air.
Unfortunately, the same rule of aerodynamics applies for Demons as it does for aeroplanes. Her speed dropped and so did she, smacking full-length into a seven-foot high, stout timber fence. She slithered down the fence to the ground, her claws making grooves in the fence. Once her feet had touched the ground, she managed to turn around and rest her back against the fence, as she slithered to the ground.
"G-r-r-r-r!" It was a sound to chill anyone's blood, but particularly anyone who has just made an impromptu landing in someone's garden in the middle of the night. There was no moonlight and the only illumination came from a bedroom window, casting a pool of light part way across the garden. Something briefly flashed into that pool of light; something very large; something moving very quickly towards her, with a row of bared teeth that terrified her. In a millisecond it had sped into the darkness towards her, but in that millisecond, the word Rottweiler implanted itself in her brain.
She opened her mouth to scream; she held up her hands in a gesture of submission, but she knew she would be dead meat the second it reached her. Only somehow, the pounding of its feet abruptly turned into a slithering noise, and as her eyes adjusted, so she saw the Rottweiler, all four legs outstretched, come to a sliding halt just an inch in front of her face.
For a second, they were face to face, until the Demon tried a smile. To the Rottweiler, the creature was baring even more of its fangs ready for the fatal bite whilst those horrific claws slashed his body to pieces. The Rottweiler whimpered, and then turned tail and ran away faster than it had arrived. It disappeared inside its kennel at full speed, smacking into the back wall with a speed which knocked it senseless, almost turning the kennel over.
"What the fuck has got into that dog?" a man's voice could be heard in the bedroom above. A window was abruptly flung open and a middle-aged man thrust his head out. He stared all around the garden, including directly at the Demon, but her black skin meant she was invisible in the poor light.
"Adolf?" he called. "Adolf? Are you there, boy?"
"What is it?" a woman's voice came from somewhere behind the man.
"Dunno, but he's quiet now. Must have been a cat."
"I'd better go down and make certain he's not ripping the thing apart. You'd think cats would have more sense than to come around here."
"Right." The man closed the window, and his voice faded as he said, "Turn the light out as you go down. I'm going to bed, and don't disturb me when you come back."
The Demon knew she was in full view to anyone coming out of the rear door, and she quickly stood up and moved behind the only cover in the garden, the trunk of a small tree. She could only hope that her black skin would continue to conceal her when the woman came down.
The woman opened the kitchen door without first putting on the light, and the Demon thought she might stand a chance of remaining concealed. Except that the woman left the kitchen, and walked directly over towards the tree and softly said, "Blimey. You made enough noise to wake the devil himself." She giggled, nodded towards the bedroom, and added, "But it's alright, he'll be asleep again in thirty seconds."
She came around the trunk of the tree and the Demon realised she was exceptionally plump, although quite prettily attractive and clad only in her nightdress, with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I have missed you," she said, and stepped right up to her, "and don't you dare slice me with those fangs. I had enough trouble explaining them away last time." She flung her arms around the Demon's body, opened her mouth as wide as it would go and leaned her head forward towards the Demon's.
It seemed almost a natural reaction for the Demon to slide her tongue into the woman's inviting mouth and play with her tongue. When she obviously showed no inhibitions, she slipped it further back and played with her tonsils.
"Im nt lnla lvlace," she said.
The Demon removed her tongue from the woman's mouth and said, "What?"
She repeated her words. "I'm not Linda Lovelace. My clit isn't down my throat. Get your tail to work, or I shall die of frustration."
It seemed the Demon's tail worked of its own accord, slipping under the woman's nightdress and up her legs, to rub against her vagina until she could locate her clitoris.
"Jesus!" she whispered, and then added, "Sorry, I know I shouldn't swear in front of you but it just slipped out - and if you could get fucking I'd be might appreciative."
As soon as the Demon had slipped her tail inside, the woman went half crazy, lifting the Demon bodily in her arms and thrusting her against the trunk of the tree. "Go on," she gasped as softly as she could. "Fuck me! Fuck me!"
And so they fucked, and both woman and Demon came in one incredible, mind-blowing orgasm.
"Please when I die can I go to Hell, and fuck like that every day," the woman said. "And please..."
"Oi! Have you finished?" Another woman's hushed voice sounded from somewhere above and behind the Demon. She twisted her head to locate the source, and strained to see her in the darkness. It was someone peering over the fence behind her, she realised.
"Only there's some here as want a little of what you've just been having," the voice continued.
"Too right." Another woman's voice came from the top of the opposite fence. "As soon as I heard that tree shaking like that when there's no wind, I thought: Oi. Oi. Denise is having a shag with the Demon again. OK, I don't mind Janet going next, but I'm right in the queue behind her. Can we get a move on, please?"
"What about us?" Two women's voices from the top of the third fence demanded. "We were here before you two."
"Fuck me," the Demon said.
"Yes please," they all replied, and they all clambered over the top of their respective fences and dropped into Denise's garden.
***
Daniela woke in the early hours of the morning. She pulled herself up off the altar - it really was an incredibly uncomfortable place to lie - and looked around for any sign of either Hayley or the Demon.
The streetlights came dimly through the windows, but it was just enough for her to see to the far end of the church where she could see a small door was open which she hadn't noticed before. She walked down the aisle and peered through the door; inside, a spiral staircase wound its way upwards. Hayley, she guessed would be somewhere up there, in one form or another.
The first floor was clearly where the bell-ringers stood, but Hayley clearly was not there. She continued up - and up - and up. Finally, she reached the floor where the bells were suspended, out of breath and vowing she should get more exercise. Still there was no trace of Hayley, and there was nowhere else she could be, unless she had gone up the ladder and through the trapdoor to the roof of the tower.
She climbed up it until she could push open the trapdoor, stick her head through the opening and peer all around to view the wet and windswept roof. Clearly no Hayley - indeed, why would she be up there? She went back down to the bell floor, admiring the mechanism that enabled the ringers to ring bells that were several times their own weight.
It was quite drafty, for in the middle of each of the four sides were tall, louvered double-doors, which allowed the bells to sound out for miles around. She went over to one of the doors and pulled it open in order to look out.
It was an incredibly long way down to the ground, and she shuddered at the very thought of overbalancing. She was just about to pull the door closed when a shaft of moonlight suddenly burst through the clouds.
Illuminated in that one moonbeam was a garden, some distance away from the church, which appeared to be full of naked women - there were young, beautiful women, plump, middle-aged women, and even elderly, most unattractive women. In the centre of them all was the Demon, who appeared to be fucking three of them with her tail, whilst simultaneously licking the breasts of five others, who had gathered around her.
As abruptly as it had come, the burst of moonlight disappeared, and Daniela was left staring into blackness blinking rapidly. Had she really seen what she'd seen? Or was it all in her imagination? It had been a long day, she realised. It was time to find the flat that John had mentioned, get out of her clothes and Torsolet, and get some decent sleep.
As she pulled away from the doorway and closed it, she knocked the piece of wood wedging the largest bell from moving. To Daniela's horror, the bell slowly started to spin on its axle.
***
"I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm coming," Janet gasped, somehow managing to avoid screaming it at the top of her voice.
B-O-N-N-N-G-G-G! went the bell in the Church of the Fallen Angels, just as she reached her climax, and it tipped Janet right over the edge into paradise. "Y-E-E-E-E-S!" she screamed as loud as she could. "Oh fucking Y-E-E-E-S-S-S-S!"
The others all fell silent, looking anxiously around in case...
The window above the garden exploded open and the same man's head appeared.
He yelled towards the church tower at the top of his voice "WHY DON'T YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!. GO TO FUCKING HELL." Just as abruptly, his head withdrew inside and the window slammed shut.
In the garden below, Denise said, "At least I know one way of waking him now."
"But it's no good if you do," Janet said to her neighbour. "If a dozen naked women fucking the devil won't stir him, I don't think anything will."
"She's a Demon, not the devil," Denise said.
"Still a good fuck though," Janet said, with which no one argued.
***
The Demon came staggering in at about five-thirty, totally shagged out and covered in rain, sweat, mud and a little blood and other bodily substances. She found Daniela in bed in the flat in the crypt, and looking very beautiful in a gorgeous Victorian nightdress.
"Daniela," she urged her awake. "I need to get out of this gear. Can you undo the catch for me please. There's no way I can do it with these claws."
Daniela shook herself awake. "I couldn't take off the Torsolet when I came to bed," she said. "I wanted to take a shower, but it seems the catch beneath the gusset is jammed."
"Ah," the Demon said.
"Ah, what?"
"Well, before putting on your Torsolet, I had to spread a gel over your body. I'm afraid it's a strong adhesive which glues the Torsolet to your body so you won't sweat into it. The problem is..."
"The problem is..." Daniela repeated.
"Well, the problem is, it's permanent. I'm afraid you're stuck in the Torsolet until your top layer of skin is shed, which should be in ten to fourteen days."
"I'm stuck in this for two weeks," Daniela screeched. "What am I going to do about work?"
"Now you're a Church Virgin, you're going to have to give up your other job," the Demon explained.
"Give it up!" Daniela shouted. "I can't give up my job!"
The Demon shrugged. "It's up to you. However, if you go into the office on Monday looking like that, I suspect the job will give you up. But don't worry, there'll be plenty of legal work here for you to do. Aunt Selma reckoned Uncle Tom would do his best to try to fight the Church over ownership. That's why she told me I had to find a good, young solicitor to fall in love with, who'd be a great stud and wouldn't mind cross dressing. It took me ages to research likely candidates, but as soon as I saw you, I knew you'd fit the bill superbly. I sprinkled the love potion over you and, as they say, the rest is history. Now, could you open the catch on my gusset, please, and get me out of this outfit."
"I'll help you remove your outfit just as soon as I can get mine off," Daniela said. "In the meantime, you can go to hell!"
In the deep recesses of Hayley's mind, Semiazas reflected over the lost years she had spent grooming her Fallen Angels. They were all really nice guys, but somehow they didn't have it in them to become her Church Virgin. Daniela really was an excellent choice. Hayley would be invested at Halloween on Sunday as the new Demon of the Fallen Angels, and everything was going to work out fine. In the meantime, Daniela had to be brought back onside.
"Why don't we fuck?" Hayley said.
As she took Daniela into her first orgasm, Semiazas idly wondered just how upset Daniela would become when she discovered she wasn't actually wearing a Torsolet at all. She decided it would be better to delay that discovery as long as possible.
Desperately Seeking Stephanie
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Inspired by, but not a direct copy of, one of my all time favourite films. When she wakes up in an anonymous hotel room after a nasty crack on the head, she doesn't know who she is, where she is, or even recognise her own face. But as always in Seacombe, one should not take things too seriously.
This story was first published on FictionMania, with just a few changes from the original.
Author's Note: This story is entirely fictional, and none of the characters or places exist in real life. Enjoy the story!
My head felt as though someone had hit the right side with a meat cleaver, and was now trying to force the two halves apart. Somewhere, someone was screaming to get an ambulance, please. I didn't know what had happened; I didn't really care.
Sometime later: a minute? An hour? A week? I didn't know. It only mattered that the pain in my head had subsided to a splitting headache. Bad enough, but relatively comfortable, compared to the way it had been.
I opened my eyes to stare at a bed quilt. Anyone, who has stayed at any RestEasy Motel, up or down the country, will recognise that same design of bed quilt, covering every bed in their chain of motels. I wondered what I was doing, laying by the side of a bed in a RestEasy, I didn't know where.
But there was something needing more urgent attention than my splitting headache. My right arm was lying trapped underneath my body, and had lost circulation. I had to move, or it would fall off. That's how it felt, anyway.
I used my left hand to push up my torso from the floor, and then got first one knee beneath me, and then the other. Finally, I managed to get one foot flat on the floor and push myself up so I could sit on the edge of the bed, my right arm hanging limply beside me, my hand still grasping its important possession.
I used my left hand to massage the top of my right arm - the pain got worse as the circulation returned, but it didn't matter. At least the circulation was returning. I kept the massage up for several minutes, working my way down from shoulder to elbow, until finally I could lift my arm and ease it onto my lap, all the better to massage my lower arm.
That's when I first noticed it. The item grasped in my right hand - the item I had known, even as I'd regained consciousness, that I must hang on to at all costs. It was a pistol.
Now for those who don't live in the UK, I'd better explain that handguns are illegal here, except for the armed forces and the like. Simply being caught in possession of a handgun would result in a minimum of five years in prison - and a bloody good thing too.
Except that I was holding one!
I placed it carefully beside me on the bed and stared at it, as I continued to massage my wrist and hand. Why did I have a gun in my hand? Was it mine? Had I ever handled a gun before in my life? I didn't know the answer to any of those questions.
Why not? What was I doing in this room? What events had led up to it? What was my name?
The last question rang hollowly around my brain. I didn't know!
I didn't know my name; I didn't know who I was; I didn't know where I was! On the wall facing the bed was a full-length mirror. I slid sideways along the bed until I could stare at my own reflection.
I didn't know the woman staring back at me!
She wasn't pretty, but she was quite attractive, if that makes sense, and with her large breasts, she would be an immediate hit with men. She was quite tall, with a big frame, and was wearing a smart, royal blue, pleated skirt and jacket, over a pale-blue blouse, casually unbuttoned to expose the deep valley between her breasts. She had matching heavily patterned stockings covering shapely legs, which descended to dark-blue, sling-back sandals, with a low, pointed, heel. It was difficult to explain why her face was appealing. It shouldn't have been with the combination of deep-set eyes which were rather too close together, a nose which was too long, and a square jaw line.
But of course, the attractiveness of the woman in the mirror had little importance, compared to the fact that I didn't recognise my own face. The crack on the head was to blame, of course. I guessed I needed some medical attention. Except that I had a gun, and as soon as anyone saw it, they'd be calling the police.
I stood up in front of the mirror, and peered more closely at my face - at my rounded cheeks and full lips, and at every minor imperfection on my skin, seeking to recognise just one element of myself. Nothing.
I did a swirl in front of the mirror, and that's when I caught sight of the man - in the chair in the corner of the room, over by the window. It made me jump, and I turned and started to say, in a voice I didn't even recognise, "Why didn't you tell me you were..."
The blank, staring eyes informed me that he would never be telling anyone, anything, ever again, even before my gaze had taken in his slumped position, and the hole below his left shoulder, through which a bucketful of blood and gore had poured, staining his clothes down to the floor, and forming a puddle there.
It didn't take an expert to work out he'd been shot. From the mess on the wall, he'd been standing up when the bullet went right through him and smacked into the wall behind. He'd dropped into the chair, and there he'd slowly bled to death. Vaguely, I could remember someone screaming for an ambulance. Perhaps it had been him.
Had I been dashing over to the telephone to call for help when I'd stumbled and smacked my head against the bedside table? I wondered: would I really have dashed to call for help, after shooting him?
The question hit me straight between the eyes. The gun had been underneath my body ever since, tightly clasped in my right hand. Therefore, it must have been me who had shot and killed him!
Salvation! I found another dead body!
OK, that doesn't sound a good reason to celebrate, but it was. I turned away from the body in the chair and immediately saw the other body, lying in the hallway by the hotel door. All RestEasys have that same hallway just inside the hotel room, with the door to the en-suite bathroom on one side, and a hanging space for clothes on the other.
He was lying on his back, half in the hanging space. He also had that vacant look in his eyes. But he had a third eye in his forehead, and judging by the amount of brain splattered on the door behind where he would have been standing, and the lack of anything coming out the hole at the front, death must have been instantaneous.
Still doesn't sound a good reason to celebrate? Next to his right hand, there was another gun lying on the floor. Now that opened up all kinds of possibilities.
For my money, it was him who'd shot the first guy in the shoulder, and me who, obviously in self-defence, had shot the second guy in the head. That made me feel a little better, and in turn, it made me start to think with a little more cunning.
Firstly, the scenario I'd just imagined was only one of several the police would consider. Since I couldn't remember a single event that had occurred in the few hours before I awoke, or even the whole of my life, I wasn't in a strong position to argue in favour of mine.
Indeed, there was, for me, an even better scenario. Still alive for a few seconds after being shot, the guy in the chair had managed to lift his gun and shoot the other in the head. Afterwards, he too had passed on to the next world.
The only problem with that scenario was that his gun had miraculously transferred itself into my hand, and my fingerprints would be all over it. A problem, I surmised, which could be overcome.
The TV clock indicated 09:52. Any minute now, the chambermaids would be knocking on the doors to make up the rooms. Even if there was a 'Do Not Disturb' sign outside, they'd still come in shortly after the eleven o'clock check-out time. I had to make haste.
I'd flicked on the safety-catch of the gun and then took a bunch of tissues from the complimentary box and spent ages wiping the gun clean of fingerprints, especially around the trigger and the butt.
Then, holding the gun in a tissue, I went over to the body in the chair, carefully took his right hand (I just hoped he was right-handed) and wrapped it around the barrel, and forced his index finger onto the trigger. Finally, I dropped it onto the floor.
Dimwit!
I'd left the safety-catch on. A dying man would hardly think about flicking on the safety-catch before expiring. I leant over and used the tissue to pick up the gun again, and that's when disaster happened. My skirt touched his left leg, which was covered in blood and gore.
I stared down at it, aghast. The royal-blue skirt had a huge patch of purple, running from mid-thigh to hem. Shit! Shit! Shit!
I flicked off the safety-catch on the gun, and left it lying beneath his right hand, before stepping back towards the safety of the bedside. I painstakingly took off the jacket, careful not to get it covered in blood as well, then unzipped and stepped out of my skirt. I folded it inside-out, and then looked around for the plastic laundry bag, provided, I noticed, "...for my convenience by the Seacombe RestEasy Motel". Seacombe! At least I now knew where I was.
With my dirty washing safely concealed, I reviewed my position.
I was almost naked on my lower half. No panties, I noticed, only stockings and suspender belt.
Hanging in the open wardrobe were some men's clothes, but a quick inspection showed they had been sprayed with the brains of the second man!
I desperately looked around and then my eyes alighted on the small vanity case by the side of the bed where I'd been lying. Mine, without doubt.
I popped it onto the bed and opened it. Inside, was a large toilet bag with all kinds of cosmetics and pills; a change of underwear; a white swimsuit; and then, neatly folded underneath all that, a dress. I slipped it out and held it up for inspection.
I gasped. It was the yellow sundress, the one with black polka-dots, and the deep V halter-neck. It was that dress which had started it all off; the one which had been recognised. I couldn't even explain what I meant by my statement, but I knew it was that dress which had got me into this mess.
I couldn't put it on!
Does that sound stupid? Here I was, half-naked in a hotel bedroom with two dead bodies, I'd wiped my fingerprints off a gun and planted the gun onto one of the bodies, got my only skirt covered in blood, and I couldn't bring myself to put on the only spare dress I had, because it was a yellow dress with black polka-dots.
It may have been stupid, even insane, but I couldn't do it. I stuffed it back into the vanity case, and did the only other thing I could.
I took off all my clothes: blouse, bra (nice firm tits, I noticed - hardly any sag, in spite of their size), flat-heeled sandals, stockings and suspender belt. Then I took the swimsuit out of the suitcase, stepped into it and pulled it up over my body.
I slipped my jacket over the top to give a slight air of respectability, put my shoes back on, and stuffed everything, including my dirty laundry bag into the case. Thirty seconds later, I was stepping into the hotel corridor and rapidly walking towards the stairs, my vanity case in my hand.
"Have a good day, Miss Stewart," the hotel receptionist bade me as I got to the bottom of the stairs opposite Reception. She was dealing with a customer, and I'd rather hoped to avoid her notice, but it was an exceptionally useful, albeit short conversation. I had a name!
Miss Stewart. Stewart. It was familiar, but what was my first name? Suzie Stewart? No. Sandra Stewart? No. Sheila Stewart? No. Stephanie Stewart? YES!
The other piece of knowledge that came back to me as I stepped outside the motel was that the Seacombe RestEasy was only one block away from the seafront, on the edge of the town - but I guessed I'd subconsciously known that already, which is why I'd put on the swimsuit.
Seacombe still got a fair number of holiday visitors, especially families, who loved the wide, safe beach, so there was nothing unusual in seeing people in swimming things walking a short distance from their hotel rooms and bed-and-breakfast houses to and from the sea.
Once on the seafront, I could take off my jacket and stroll along almost inconspicuously. Well, I would have been able to do that if my rounded tits hadn't been poking out my swimming costume like large grapefruit. I drew the glances of every passing male, which felt a bit strange. Why it felt strange on that occasion when it must happen every time I went out, I could not explain.
As I walked towards the town centre, I realised I had virtually jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. There was a limit as to how far a swimsuit-clad woman could wonder from the seafront and not look suspicious. So, I could hardly go to the station and get the train for London, even if I had the fare.
I HAD NO MONEY!
The thought struck me rigid. There had been no purse inside the case, and a quick examination of the two pockets in the jacket revealed they were totally empty except for a set of keys - to what? I was penniless, dressed only in a swimsuit, and by now probably wanted for murder. Not an enviable position.
"Bingo hostess urgently wanted. Uniform provided."
The notice was in the window of Seiza's Palace, Seacombe's answer to Las Vegas. Imagine a Vegas casino without a couple of billion dollars investment, continual sunshine and the good taste(!), and you have an idea what Seiza's Palace was like. Absolute tack!
On the other hand, a uniform was a uniform. I went inside.
OK, the uniform looked more like a nightdress than a uniform, made of white chiffon through which my breasts could tantalisingly just be made out. It had a full skirt down to mid calf, which conveniently hid the fact that I had no underwear worth wearing. Harry Jones, my new boss, found some white sandals with three-inch heels left by a previous worker, who had been only about two sizes smaller than me, so I had to stagger around in those.
My job was fairly straightforward. The bingo session started at eleven, and the customers - most of them elderly - were already flocking in by the time I'd got kitted up. I had to help behind the bar in that first crush period, and then once everyone got seated and Harry had started calling the numbers, I had to serve customers at their seats.
It was pretty hard work but I really enjoyed it. For the first time that day - and I suppose you could say in the whole of my living memory - I knew what I was doing, and why I was doing it. The pay wasn't good, but at least I'd have enough to buy myself a meal. If I did alright, Harry said, he'd hire me for the afternoon session as well.
The customers were great - everyone was there for an enjoyable time and you don't get the hassle you would with younger people. All the old blokes leched at me, and at the end, Harry was really pleased because bar takings were up - we both reckoned this was solely because the old geezers wanted to have another oggle at me as I bought over their Horlicks and pulled their half pints of bitter shandy.
I, too, was more than delighted because so many customers left tips - only a pound here, and fifty pence there, but it all mounted up. When Harry told me he would employ me for the afternoon session, I thought I'd probably earn enough to pay for a bed-and-breakfast overnight.
I was behind the bar finishing off the cleaning-up when the man's words took me by surprise.
"A pint of bitter, lass, and it's on the house."
"I'm sorry?" I peered at him, a huge, incredibly ugly-looking man in a well-used suit, who was openly leering at my tits - the dirty bastard.
"You heard me."
"Give him what he wants." Harry's voice came from over by the bingo area, where he'd been cashing up. He shut his till, and strolled over to us. From his expression, there was no love lost between him and the visitor. "I'd better introduce you, Stevie."
Unfortunately, Harry had insisted on calling me Stevie all morning, a diminutive I hated. Stephanie was my name. Twice I'd reminded him of it, before giving up when I realised he was deliberately doing it to tease me.
"This," Harry continued, "is Detective Inspector Godolphy, from Seacombe nick." Harry turned towards him, "Have you come here to ask if I'm responsible for the double murder?"
Godolphy looked at him sharply. "How do you know about that?"
Harry smiled. "It was on local radio five minutes ago," he said. "So what's it all about?"
Godolphy looked around at me. "What happened to that beer, then?"
Harry nodded at me, and I proceeded to pull a pint of beer. The hand-pumps in there were incredibly stiff, and Godolphy enjoyed the picture of me straining my tits off to pull his pint just as much as the old geezers had, half an hour before. Except that I didn't begrudge making their day a bit brighter, whereas I really hated being leched by this fat slob.
He sank half a pint down in one go, and wiped the froth off his lip with the back of his hand. "Not fucking bad," he said, and then added, whilst eyeing me up and down, "The beer's alright as well."
"So what's with the murder," Harry asked.
"That's what I'm here for," Godolphy replied. He took another swig from his beer, and then reached into his inside pocket for two photographs. "Seen either of these guys in here before?"
Harry glanced at them and shook his head. "Naw. We don't get murder victims in here."
"Don't give me that bollocks. You get every kind of law-breaker in here, and these two were certainly that." Godolphy passed the photos in my direction. "What about you, love?"
I looked down at the faces of my two dead bodies. I pulled a face, shivered and was about to speak when Harry said, "Stevie's only just started here. She won't have seen anything."
"Let her answer for herself."
"No." I shook my head.
He shrugged, and put the photos back in his inside pocket. "It's alright," he said. "We'll have this thing fucking solved by the end of the day, anyway."
Harry grinned, unbelievingly. "That simple, is it?"
Godolphy grinned back, obviously wanting to see the expression on Harry's face as he revealed how easily he would crack the crime. "It's obviously drugs related," he said. "Guy called Brian Mitchell, telephones the RestEasy motel last night."
It was a good job that Godolphy was looking at Harry at that point, rather than at me, for I recognised the name and I'm sure my eyes would have shown it.
"He books a room for the night," Godolphy was continuing, "and an hour later at 9:57 he checks in to Room 107. He lives over at Dorton, so everything lines up with him suddenly deciding to stay here, and then driving over from his house.
"This morning, he goes down to breakfast at 8:12 - fucking marvellous these computers in hotels. They almost tell you the exact time anyone farts. Anyway, he starts his breakfast at 8:12." He sank another enormous gulp of beer, and repeated the exercise with the back of his hand.
"Around 8:20," he continued, "another guy sees one of the chambermaids outside Room 107, and tells her he's left his key inside the room, and it's a fucking emergency, so can she let him in? Against all the rules, of course, but she opens the door for him.
"Now it looks like chummy waited in the en-suite for Mitchell to return from breakfast. Mitchell walks in, goes over towards the window, and then hears chummy coming out of the en-suite. He swivels around to find chummy has a gun on him. From the position of his body, it looks like Mitchell goes for his own gun, but chummy shoots him. He was probably aiming at the heart, but the bullet goes a little high and doesn't kill him outright.
"Mitchell already has his own gun out, and he shoots chummy straight through the brain, and then, according to the doc, it probably takes Mitchell a few minutes to die. So, we've got two stiffs, both of whom are obviously up to no good, since they've got shooters, and incidentally, there was over a thousand quid in Mitchell's jacket pocket. All we have to do is identify the other stiff - and his fingerprints will probably be on record - and work out what they were up to."
He held up some keys in his hand, and added, "I'm going over to Mitchell's house in Dorton after lunch, to have a snuffty around, and probably find a few million quid's worth of drugs. After I've pocketed my share, I'll be rolling in it, but in the meantime, one of your baguettes on the house will set me up very nicely, Harry."
Harry started to look expectantly at me, so I quickly said, "I need to go off to my lunch, now, Harry. See you at three."
I walked as quickly as I could back to the RestEasy, trying to put everything in my confused mind into order. Firstly, the police appeared to be buying the clues I had left at the scene of the crime.
Secondly, I knew Brian Mitchell. He lived at 23 Laburnum Crescent, Dorton. At least, I thought I knew him, and how else would I have known his address, presuming that address hadn't come from a figment of my imagination.
Thirdly, that had not been Brian Mitchell lying dead in the chair in the hotel room, but please don't ask me to describe what the real Brian Mitchell looks like, because I can't.
Fourthly, I needed to see Brian before Godolphy did, and discover whether he could throw any light on my circumstance, and also ensure he didn't tip the police off about me.
And fifth, one of the keys on the key ring from my jacket pocket was a car-key, so presumably, I had a car which, I hoped, would be parked at the RestEasy.
In the old days, trying to match a car-key against a car park full of cars would have meant the highly suspicious behaviour of trying the keys in every car door. Nowadays, I only had to stroll around the car park, pressing the button on the remote until a BMW flashed its indicators at me. I went over to it.
"Did you stay at the motel overnight?"
I turned. This time it was a policewoman who'd surprised me. She smiled at me, and remembering I was a totally innocent member of the general public, I smiled back at her. "That's right. I've just called to collect my car."
I had a brainwave. "There isn't a problem with me leaving it here for the morning, is there?"
"Oh no." Her smile was very broad now. "But there was a serious crime committed here in the hotel this morning. Can I ask you your name?"
"Stewart. Miss Stewart." Better not be too clever about my assumed first name.
She looked at a list on her clipboard. "Oh yes, Stephanie." Not only had she confirmed my name, she'd also said it properly. "You were in Room 108. Is that right?"
I nodded, non-committally. I'd seen on TV how Columbo lays these traps for the victims to fall into. "Some number like that."
"OK, so your room was immediately opposite where the crime was committed. Can I ask whether you heard anything unusual between eight and ten am?"
I shook my head. "No. Why? What sort of thing?"
"An argument? Shouting? Gun fire?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Did you see the man in the room opposite?"
"No."
"Could you look at these photographs?" She held them out.
I shook my head. "I've already seen them. Your Sergeant Godolphy was showing them around, down at Seiza's Palace."
Her face crinkled into laughter. "Gosh, don't let him hear you call him that. He's Detective Inspector Godolphy, and God help anyone who forgets it." She eyed my dress. "Do you work at Seiza's?"
"Just a temporary job. I... had a bust up with my boy friend - walked out on him. I needed the money."
She nodded, sagely, looking at her clipboard again. "I wondered why you were staying here when you lived close by. Men are shits, aren't they? He let you go without any cash?"
I nodded back.
"Well just be careful down at Seiza's. There are some right villains down there, not the least of them is Harry Jones. We reckon he's into all kind of things - drugs, prostitution, fencing stolen goods - but we've never caught him at it. That's why Godolphy went down there just now. Harry's certain to be mixed up in this murder. You take care if you continue to work there."
She delved inside her pocket and produced a card, and then wrote something on it. "Here's my card, and I've put my home number on it, just in case you need any help when I'm off duty. Don't hesitate to call at any time of the day..." she paused for a second and stared me in the eye as she added, "...or night."
What did that mean, I wondered. I glanced down at the card. "Well, thanks for the offer, PC Wright." I started to get into my car.
"Call me Sally," she said.
The drive over to Dorton took about forty-five minutes, and when I reached the outskirts of the town, I simply let the car drive itself until I was turning into Laburnum Crescent - it certainly seemed to know the way better than I did.
Number twenty-three, I knew, was the white painted house, halfway down on the left side of the road. I drove slowly past, making certain there was no one else around - such as a police patrol car, waiting for Godolphy to arrive. I parked almost at the end of the road, and then got out and walked back, my heels making a loud clack-clack-clack. Fortunately, this was a commuter area, with no nosy neighbours peering through their windows all day long.
I knew that Brian kept a key behind one of the white stones bordering the edge of his drive, and I picked it up almost without pausing on my way to the front door. From my detailed knowledge of Brian and his house, I certainly knew him pretty closely. I guessed he was my lover - but why the hell couldn't I remember him?
I rang the doorbell, and waited a few seconds before slipping the key into the lock and letting myself in. Inside, there was that empty feel about it, and I knew I was not going to be talking to Brian that lunchtime. Never mind, my instincts were telling me, there were other pressing things to do. I let my instincts rule.
The lounge was on the left of the hallway, and I went in and turned directly to the computer, just behind the door. That's what I needed to get at.
It took forever to boot up, but once on, my fingers flew over the keyboard. Onto the internet, into Favorites, and then clicking on a site from the list. "Desperately Seeking Stephanie" flashed in front of my eyes in lurid purple and yellow - an obnoxious combination.
An instant later, a photograph filled the screen of a man with his arm around a girl wearing a yellow sundress with black polka dots! A photograph of me.
According to the caption, the guy standing next to me in the photograph, with his arm casually around my waist, was called Billy, although when I'd last seen him, he was lying in a RestEasy bedroom with a bullet through his head!
This, apparently, was Billy's site. He was in love with me, but we'd had a stupid argument about whether we should get married in Hawaii or Las Vegas. I had walked off in a temper, and had never been seen again. Billy was desperate to find me. If anyone could tell him where I was, he would pay for them to go to the wedding, wherever in the world it was.
It wasn't a very professional site, but the whole story had a certain charm about it. One could imagine people all over the country coming across the site and wanting to help. If that resulted in a trip to Hawaii, so much the better.
But when I looked at the photograph more carefully, I reckoned that his image had been carefully superimposed onto the photograph, so that presumably meant we hadn't really been lovers at all.
I didn't have time to think. The very fact that this site was in Brian's Favorites would be incriminating evidence. It was easy enough to delete from the Favorites, but with computers, life is never that simple. My fingers started to fly across the keyboard again.
Fifteen minutes later, I'd logged into the account of the "Desperately Seeking Stephanie" web address (don't ask me how I knew the password), and made a few changes to it. The photograph had gone and the text now read: "Thanks to a tip off from a user, I have made contact with Stephanie. Unfortunately, I realise we have nothing in common, so there will be no wedding, and we will not meet each other again. Thank you to everyone who helped. I'm sorry it hasn't worked out."
The response form, which allowed users to give information about where Stephanie had been seen, would automatically send off an email to two addresses; one was to billy.walker@..., the other was to brian.mitchell@.... I removed the response form along with both email addresses.
I logged onto Brian's email account and located the email which had come the previous evening from the one of the chambermaids at the RestEasy in Seacombe via the website. "Stephanie had just checked into the motel," it said, "and I will love to come to your wedding, wherever it is." I deleted the email.
I also logged into Billy's email account and deleted the same email. Then I changed his password. Hopefully, the police might not even make the connection between Billy and the account. Finally, I went into all those places on the computer where Bill Gates insisted on storing extra copies, just in case the police wanted to find out what you'd been up to, and deleted everything of relevance. I had just finished, when the front door crashed open, and Godolphy stormed through!
Fortunately, the half-closed door to the lounge concealed me from the hallway, and I only caught a glimpse of Godolphy through the crack in the door as he dashed into the downstairs toilet. I heard the toilet seat crack as it was smashed back against the cistern, then a noise like Niagara Falls abruptly commencing, with a, "Oh fucking hell! I needed that."
I brought up the screensaver on the computer and, offering a silent prayer of thanks to Brian for his wall-to-wall carpet, crept out of the lounge and past the open door of the toilet. Godolphy was making a pretty poor job of aiming the yellow deluge streaming from his elephant's trunk of a cock in the general vicinity of the toilet bowl. I made a mental note to ensure the whole area had been thoroughly cleaned before using that toilet again.
"I'm glad I've caught you."
I had parked my car in the town car-park, and was heading towards the casino when the voice I recognised came from behind me. The words were scary, but even so, I turned and smiled at PC Sally Wright.
"Is there a problem?" I queried.
"I need to ask you some more questions. Can you come down to the station with me?" Sally opened the passenger door of her police-car, which she'd drawn to a halt, immediately behind where I'd been walking.
"Don't Panic! Remember, I'm totally innocent," I thought to myself, whilst actually saying, "Couldn't it wait until later. I need to start work at Seiza's in ten minutes time."
She continued to hold open the car door. "I'm afraid not. We need to talk now."
I sighed, and got in.
Once we'd set off, Sally said, "I'm glad I caught you. Godolphy has decided to raid Seiza's this afternoon, and I thought it would be better if you were out of the way when it happened. Some of our guys can be right pigs when there are half-dressed, pretty women like you around. And of course, we don't have to go to the police station; we could go round to my place, instead."
I nodded. I thought I was starting to get an idea of where PC Sally Wright was heading.
"You did say white, no sugar, didn't you?" Sally asked, holding out towards me a large, yellow mug of coffee.
I nodded and took it from her.
"Same as me," Sally said, as though having things in common was important. She took a sip from her green mug and flicked her tongue around her lips in a rather suggestive manner.
The strange thing was, I found her rather attractive. If I had been having an affair with Brian Mitchell, I was presumably a normal heterosexual woman. Yet here was this big-breasted but rather butch-looking policewoman, who was obviously making a play at me, and the only issue I was worrying about was whether my criminality made it too dangerous to have sex with her. I was quite convinced that I seriously wanted to.
"It looks a nice place you have here."
"Oh, it certainly is," she said. "I've just had my kitchen refitted. Come and have a look." She put down her mug onto the tiered stand packed with hi-fi equipment and marched through to the kitchen.
My mind must have been on other things, because as I went to put down my own mug next to Sally's, I knocked her mug over, and its contents poured liberally down the back of the hi-fi.
Common decency said I should have called Sally back and confessed to buggering her equipment, but that would definitely have put an end to the dalliance we were both leading up to. Instead, I took a quick glance round to make certain the coast was clear, and then righted her mug and poured the contents of my own mug into it.
As I followed her into the kitchen, I was pretending to drain the last dregs from it. "Mmm, excellent coffee," I said. "I really needed that." I held the mug under the tap and rinsed it out. "Thanks." I gave her a nice smile to follow it up.
We spent a few minutes in the kitchen, whilst she showed me all her built-in units. When we went back to the lounge, I got rather worried as Sally went over to the hi-fi unit, because I thought she might be going to switch it on, and she'd be electrocuted, or the whole thing would explode. Fortunately, she only went to pick up her coffee and drink it.
"Oh, I didn't tell you, did I?"
Since I didn't know what she was referring to, I could only shake my head.
"Well, I shouldn't really gossip like this, but we are good friends, aren't we?"
I nodded brightly. Even if we weren't at this moment, the way things were shaping, we certainly would be before the afternoon was over.
"We got the ID back from the fingerprint check. It seems that the guy just inside the door who'd been shot through the head was called Billy Walker. He was released from prison three months ago, after serving five years of an eight-year sentence for armed robbery of a British Museum security delivery.
"But what was really interesting," she continued, "was that other the body wasn't Brian Mitchell, as we thought. It was a guy called Stuart Stevenson, wanted for questioning in connection with the British Museum hoist, six years ago."
"So they pulled the same job together."
"Of course. Didn't I just say that?"
It may have been glaringly obvious to her, but I had to work it out bit by bit. "Billy Walker got caught and sent to prison," I continued, "whilst Stevenson got away with it. Did they recover the stolen goods?"
Sally shook her head. "Nope - a load of artefacts which we believe have gradually been seeping their way onto the black-market. Difficult to put a value on them, but certainly worth millions."
"So presumably, when Billy Walker was let out of prison he got in contact with Stevenson, with a view to sharing the booty," I said.
Sally nodded. "The police in London think he's been looking for him ever since being released," she said.
Or perhaps, I conjectured, looking for the woman who would lead him to Stevenson. Did that mean I was Stevenson's girlfriend? Then why didn't I recognise him?
"And this morning," I brightly interjected, "it looks like he found him and demanded his share. They had a row and killed each other." All very nicely sewn up, I thought, without the need for anyone else to be involved.
"It's not quite as simple as that."
I frowned. "Why not?"
"There are a few problems. For example, where's Stevenson been hiding all this time, and where are the missing artefacts now? Then there's something which is really strange - the guns had been reversed. The gun lying next to Billy Walker was the one which had been used to kill him, fired from a distance of three to five metres.
Oh shit!
"The gun used to kill Stevenson, again fired from a distance of three to five metres, was lying just beneath his fingertips. We thought it was the gun he had just used to kill Billy Walker. But both guns had Stevenson's fingerprints on them. So explain that."
I shook my head. I knew from watching Columbo how hazardous it was for the guilty one to try to put an answer to these kinds of questions. "Don't know," I said.
Sally smiled, pleased that the police could work out things which others could not. "Neither Stevenson or Walker could have shot themselves, or were in a position to mess about rigging fingerprints after they had been shot. Therefore, someone else rigged the evidence. Our assumption must be that this third person killed both Stevenson and Walker, probably in order to make off with the stolen artefacts. In the heat of the moment, this person fouled up rigging the evidence, and got the guns confused."
God! This policewoman was far cleverer than Columbo. She completely had me sussed, and must be about to arrest me. I had to ask the question - it would sound even more suspicious if I didn't. "So who do you think that was?"
"Why, Brian Mitchell, of course. He obviously set up a trap so both Stevenson and Walker would be killed and he could get away with the loot. We suspect Harry Jones is involved, simply because this is all happening in Seacombe, and he's involved in everything around here. Perhaps he'd been fencing the stuff that Stevenson was slowly selling off, and got greedy. That's why we're raiding Seiza's anytime now. Hopefully, we'll find both Brian Mitchell and some of the stolen goods there."
She looked me fully in the eye, "That's why I wanted you well out of the way."
A little shiver ran all over her body, and a beautiful smile spread across her face, and she said, "We've been talking about serious things for far too long. Why don't you have a look around the bedroom now? I think you'll find it's really pretty."
It was too. Pretty Dutch drapes at the windows; matching bed linen, which looked totally fresh, as though Sally had only put it on a few minutes before; pleasant furniture which blended nicely together, and a large bed with brass bed-posts - the kind which are so useful for tying up your partner.
"Oh, how beautiful it is, Sally. It must be lovely to go to bed in here." Was I misreading all the signals and pushing my luck here? I'd soon find out.
"Oh, it's a bit hot in here, isn't it?" she said. "I think I'd better take off my tunic."
Nope, I think I'd read her correctly. She slipped off her tunic and went to hang it on the back of a chair, but missed it and it dropped to the floor. Her hat dropped besides it, and then she sat down on the edge of the bed and stated to untie her shoe-laces, except she got them in a knot.
"Oh, what must you be thinking of me?" she said, giggling slightly. "It's just that I seem to have gone very hot, all of a sudden, and I need to get my clothes off." She seemed to find that even funnier, for she giggled some more.
Then she flopped right back on the bed and stuck her left foot up in the air. "Do you think you can get my shoelace undone? I seem to have got it knotted." Another giggle.
I smiled back. Her transformation from police officer, about to nick a murderer, into a giggling girl had been almost instantaneous. I took her ankle in my one hand and carefully picked at the knot on her shoe with the other. It wasn't difficult, and I was able to pull the shoe off and drop it on the floor. Rather than simply dropping her leg to the floor, I carefully lowered it, using both hands, my one hand creeping up her calf beneath the trousers she was wearing.
"It was so much more convenient when we wore skirts instead of trousers," she giggled. "We didn't even have to take them off for a quick bit of fun. Can you undo the other shoe, now." She obligingly lifted her right leg in the air and waved it at me.
I grabbed hold of it, removed the shoe, and this time slid my hand as far up the leg of her trouser as it would go.
"Ooops! I think I'm getting your drift, Stephanie. And don't you know you should never put your hand up a police officer's trouser leg?" She paused a second before adding, "It's much better if you pull the trousers down, first." This was enough to send her into a fit of raucous laughter.
She waved both legs in the air in an open invitation to do as she had invited, and I willingly assisted her in that action, also in removing her panties and tights.
"Do you know," Sally said, "I have never before been with a girl who has got me undressed so quickly. Why it's almost like..."
Her voice dried up as a flash of enlightenment crossed her face.
Then, "You switched them, didn't you? You switched the mugs of coffee. That's why it's me giggling like a schoolgirl, and you who's pulling off my knickers. Why you randy little bitch on heat. But how did you know I'd slipped you a happy-orgasm pill?"
The idea had hit me at the same time. Sally had slipped something into my coffee with the direct intention of getting me into bed. I had accidentally reversed her plan by spilling her coffee and replacing it with mine.
I was about to start the explanation, when Sally said, "Oh hell! Don't bother with the excuses, just get your tongue on my pussy."
I don't know what the pill was, but crikey, it was a superb advert for illegal substances. No sooner had my tongue slowly traced a path along one lip of her pussy, and then back along the other until it reached her clit, than she hit the kind of orgasm that many people only dream of.
She screamed so loudly, it was a wonder the neighbours didn't call the police, except that perhaps they'd heard the effect of these pills before, and knew she was the police. Her climax must have lasted for about ten minutes, until I thought she ought to come down before she had a heart attack.
Then she was frenziedly applying her tongue to my nipples, and my clit. Unfortunately, with my headache still throbbing, I could hardly feel a thing. I really did not want to use the old headache excuse, so I simply suggested we reversed roles again, with me going to work on her tits. Another deafening blockbuster!
I have to say, I was feeling incredibly frustrated, for I was giving her everything she wanted and wasn't getting any reward myself. I'm not certain how much longer we'd have gone on together like that, but Sally's next orgasm was cut off in its prime.
"Bravo Tango One. Come in please." The metallic voice of a police radio interrupted.
"Oh shit! I gorra ansa dat. Werisit?"
I picked up her tunic from the floor and pulled out the radio. She desperately tried to sit up on the bed, and I helped to lift her to a sitting position as the radio repeated its message. Looking at the size of Sally's big tits, I wondered which wag at the police station had allocated her the BT1 call-sign.
"Bravatangawonere." As she finished speaking, the radio slipped from her hands, and dropped to the floor. Sally tried to catch it, but ended up collapsing onto the floor after it. I went around the bed and turned her over so she could sit up again, and rummaged between her legs until I found her radio. She started to giggle again as I pulled it out.
"Bravo tango one. We've just heard the School Crossing Warden at Seacombe Middle has gone sick. Can you fill in for him? His duty starts at 15:55."
"Bravatangawon. Noproblum. Owt." Sally dropped the radio on the floor and struggled to get upright. "Gemeup. I gorrahelpthekidsacrosstheroad."
"Sally!" I shouted at her, to try to get through. "You can't do that in this condition. Why didn't you tell them you were ill?"
She shook her head. "Lookinforascusetagerridame. Elpmegedressed."
"No way. You'll get one of the kids killed if you work in this condition." I eyed her uniform lying around the floor. "I'll do it for you."
She looked puzzled for a second, and then enlightenment lit up her face. "Goodidee," and she flopped backwards, her eyes closed, and an enormous snore started from her mouth.
For the first time that day, I felt as though I looked pretty good. Sally's uniform fitted me really well. Sally was right - it was a shame that policewomen no longer wore skirts, but even the cut of her trousers suited my well-rounded arse to a 'T'. I'd found a fresh blouse and tie - you know, the one with the black-and-white check - in Sally's wardrobe, and simply taken the rest of her things from the floor as I didn't have that much time, especially as it had taken me so long to pin-up my hair underneath the cap. It was almost as though I'd never before had to pin-up my hair.
Fortunately, my sub-conscious knowledge of Seacombe served to get me to Seacombe Middle School, just before the kids all came streaming out.
Within seconds a whirlwind of kids descended on me, and I was kept busy helping children and parents across the reasonably busy road. The first time I stepped off the pavement and held up my arm in front of a car, I felt terrified the driver wasn't going to stop. But after a few attempts, I was enjoying the fantastic power of halting huge juggernauts to let across children who were so tiny, they didn't come halfway up the wheels.
Quite a few of the drivers, particularly the lorry drivers gave me whistles, or shouted things like, "You've stopped me - I'll buy one," or "You haven't got a lollipop, luv, do you want to grab hold of mine?" - a play upon the round STOP sign-on-a-pole carried by the normal Crossing Patrol Wardens, or Lollipop Men and Ladies as they were usually called.
I guess I should have come heavy with them, got out my truncheon and whipped them for being so cheeky, but it was all good-natured fun, and what's more - I really enjoyed it. The kids were lovely; one showed me a picture she had drawn, and another, a birthday card he'd made for his mum. So by the time the flow of kids had stopped, I had a really big smile on my face.
I'd borrowed Sally's police car to take me to the school and I was still smiling as I got back inside it and noticed the clipboard on the back seat - the clipboard upon which Sally had the details of every guest who'd stayed overnight at the RestEasy motel.
Room 108 - there I was: Miss Stephanie Stewart, Sea View Court, The Promenade, Seacombe. No wonder Sally had remarked how close I was to home when she'd checked my details in the RestEasy car park.
The strange thing was, I didn't have any recollection of that address, in the way that I had so certainly known Brian Mitchell's address in Dorton. Obviously, I knew Seacombe Promenade - it was the road that ran along the sea front, with the beach on one side and, on the other, all the large Victorian edifices which at one time had been splendid hotels, but were now either rather seedy bed-and-breakfast places or had been turned into apartments. Sea View Court was presumably one of the latter. It would only be a minor diversion to pass it by on the way back to Sally's house.
By now, I'd got so used to my uniform, that I never gave a second thought to the fact that I was parading around the town, masquerading as a police officer in a police car. At least, I didn't until I was driving along the Promenade and I saw a policeman about one hundred yards in front, walking towards me.
Shit! He'd be sure to give a wave towards the driver, and then notice that the policewoman inside was not someone he recognised as one of his colleagues. A call on his radio, and every police officer in the area would be looking out for me.
As those thoughts flashed through my mind, I saw Sea View Court on my left. I wasn't driving fast, so I gently braked and turned in to the car park at the front of the building. I gave a silent sigh of relief as I parked, at the same time noticing the man casually looking out the window, and then doing a double take on the police car. A look of panic crossed his face.
What it was, I revelled, to have the power to cause such concern. If I'd really been a police officer, I'd have been asking him some questions. As it was, I simply had to go through the entrance door and get out of the way before PC Plod walked by, outside.
When I got inside, I realised the man I'd seen would have been behind the porter's desk. He appeared to have disappeared now, no doubt to ensure he wasn't asked any embarrassing questions. Well, that suited me fine. I, too, didn't want to be asked any embarrassing questions about why I, a resident of these apartments, should be dressed in a police uniform and lurking in the entrance foyer, waiting for a police officer to walk by. And it was hardly as if I could go up to my apartment, as I'd failed to include the number on the motel registration card.
"Can I help you?"
I turned. The woman facing me had a friendly smile on her face, but she wore a crisp, grey dress with a white collar and a wide leather belt with a large buckle, indicating she was some kind of nurse - probably a very senior one; a matron I guessed.
Hell! This was some kind of nursing home. If I lived here, did that mean I was a nurse? She obviously hadn't recognised me in my change of uniform, and there would be hell to pay when she did.
"Stephanie Stewart," I murmured in a tiny voice.
Matron continued smiling. "Do you want to see her?"
Gulp! But then I recovered sufficiently to realise she must be talking about a patient - and clearly not me! I smiled and said, "Yes please."
As she led the way up a wide staircase, she turned and asked, "Can I ask why you need to see her?"
I smiled back. "I'm sorry. It's a bit like patient confidentiality. We're not allowed to talk about our cases."
"Of course." She accepted it without question, and led me along a corridor to the rear of the building, and then into one of the bedrooms.
"Stephanie, you have a visitor," she announced.
As I'd been following Matron, I'd been inventing my inquiry, based partly on the truth. I was checking that she was not the same Stephanie Stewart who'd been staying at the RestEasy...
My inventions came to a halt. Stephanie was a woman of about thirty, lying on her bed, eyes closed, with absolutely no trace of movement to betray the fact she was even alive.
"Stephanie's parents were both killed in a car accident almost ten years ago," Matron said. "Three days later, Stephanie took a massive overdose of heroin. She's been in a coma ever since."
"I didn't realise."
"Does this mean she's not guilty of whatever heinous crime you thought she might?" she asked, the broad grin taking the sting out of her words.
No, I thought, but I've been illegally using her identity. But if I wasn't Stephanie Stewart, just who was I? I smiled at her again, hiding my thoughts. "No, I don't think she's the person I need to see, but thanks for showing me."
I glanced at the cards displayed by the side of her bed. "Is it her birthday?"
"Yesterday. The cards are mainly from the staff here, but the big one is from the solicitors who act as her trustees."
As we left the room, I noticed the sign on the door: Miss Stephanie Stuart - so it was even spelt differently. It made me think some more.
"What happens to her post?" I asked.
"Apart from things like that birthday card - which is marked 'For her personal attention' - It gets sent to the trustees. They're in London, I think, but you'll have to check with Eric, our porter. I'll take you back down to him and ask him to find the details."
But when we got back down, there was no sign of Eric. "Where on earth has he got to?" Matron bristled. "Wait here. I'll see if I can find him."
She disappeared down a corridor, and thirty seconds later, I could hear her voice returning. "...and what would have happened if Mrs Whitely had wandered out onto the road? She could have been knocked down and killed, and it would have been your fault."
Matron was obviously giving Eric an earful for disappearing, and as he and Matron appeared, he looked incredibly sheepish.
"Sorry Matron. It won't happen again." Without even glancing at me, Eric returned behind his porter's desk and started busying himself with some paperwork.
"And you can give this officer the forwarding address for Stephanie Stuart's post." Matron called over her shoulder, as she disappeared down the corridor.
"It gets sent to her solicitors," Eric said, again not looking me directly in the eye.
"Here," he abruptly turned to a set of pigeonholes behind him, extracted an envelope and passed it to me. "That's something that needs forwarding."
It was junk mail, advertising a magazine promotional offer. The address of Sea View Court had been crossed through, and written in felt pen was another address in Lincoln's Inn, London WC2. Stephanie's parents must have been very rich, I surmised, to afford solicitors in one of London's Inns of Court. Why, even to discard a redirected junk mail envelope, they probably charged a hundred pounds.
"Do you forward everything to the solicitors?" I asked. "Even this junk."
"We're not allowed to exercise discretion," Eric said. "Everything must go to them."
"But what about," I asked, inspiration suddenly hitting me, "mail addressed to the other Stephanie Stewart. The one spelt S-T-E-W-A-R-T?"
He physically jumped. "Don't know nothing about another Stewart," he said. He was shaking like a leaf.
"I think you do," I said. Annoyed he still hadn't looked directly at me, I snapped at him, "Look at me!" God! I was really enjoying this police work.
Slowly, he looked up at me and then I saw recognition dawn in his eyes, followed by hope, and then by shocked horror.
"It's you!" he cried. "You're in the police. That's entrapment. I only did it..."
"Quiet!" I said the word quietly, but with sufficient force to cause him to stop.
I glanced around to see if we'd been overheard, but we were still alone.
"Actually," I said, "I'm not a police officer. I simply borrowed this uniform to give you the shock of your life. And I think I've succeeded, don't you?"
"You're not police? Fucking hell, that's dangerous! Where did you get the uniform?"
"I have connections."
"Fucking hell!" And then, "Look, I'm sorry about the delay."
What delay? No point in revealing I couldn't remember what he was talking about, so I ad-libbed. "I should think so, too."
He bent down and rummaged under the desk in a big cupboard. He pulled out a large, bulging Jiffy bag and hesitantly pushed it towards me. "Sorry," he said.
I took it from him. This envelope had been originally addressed to Miss S. Stewart at Sea View Court, and that had been crossed through. At first glance, the forwarding address appeared the same as before. I looked more carefully and noticed the change: Lincoln's Inn Mews, London W2.
London W2 instead of WC2 meant West London, rather than West Central London. I thought it was probably the area behind Paddington Station, rather than the hallowed cloisters of the Inns of Court - quite a difference.
The date on the postmark, for once entirely legible, gave the date of posting two weeks before. Eric noticed me looking at it.
"Sorry," he repeated. "I was just about to take it to the post when Matron came round, and I shoved it into the back of the cupboard to get it out the way."
"And?"
He looked extremely embarrassed. "Well, I just kinda forgot about it. In my mind I'd posted it, you see. It wasn't until you appeared in your police car that I had a little check around and found it still lying there. I almost shit myself.
"Look," he continued, seeing the impassive look on my face which was actually hiding the total confusion reeling through my mind, "why don't we say half price for this delivery. Five hundred. How's that sound?"
"Why don't we say this is a freebie, and if you make another cock-up like that, you pay me five hundred?" It wasn't as though I had five hundred pounds to give him. But hadn't Godolphy said that Stevenson had one thousand pounds in cash in his pocket? That would have been Eric's full payment.
It was almost eight pm by the time I reached Lincoln's Inn Mews. I'd had to go back to Sally's flat, get changed into my Seiza's uniform, write a note for Sally as it was impossible to awaken her, get a taxi to the car park where I'd left my car, and then drive to London in the rush hour traffic.
Oh yes, and as soon as I got into my own car, I opened the Jiffy bag just wide enough to see it was packed with bundles of fifty pound notes. It should have been a jubilant moment, but the money just served to heighten my confusion, not reduce it. It had been a long day, and the headache, which had been nagging me all day long, had returned with a vengeance. I felt shattered.
Lincoln's Inn Mews was like most other mews in London. Originally, the mews were the roads leading along the backs of the grand houses, used to access the stables and garaging for the carts. Now the stables were mostly converted into twee flats with a garage beneath - highly desirable bijou residences.
There was a remote device in the car glove-box which operated the auto garage door, and the key on my ring fitted the interconnecting door to the flat. Inside, the burglar alarm started beeping. Shit!
A moments thought, and I punched in yesterday's date - Stephanie's birthday. It worked.
Then I went upstairs to the flat and spent only a few minutes looking around. Once I'd wandered into the bedroom, and seen the bed, I simply pulled off my shoes and slipped between the sheets.
I slept like a log all night, and then as it was getting light, I lay awake for a few minutes, recapping the events of the previous day. It was too much for a girl to take in, and I felt my eyes growing heavy with sleep, again.
The dream was quite strange, because in it, I was someone else - a computer security consultant called Brian Mitchell. I had come across the "Desperately Seeking Stephanie" website by pure chance, but had been absolutely captivated by a photograph of Stephanie wearing a yellow dress with black polka-dots. They say there's no fool like an old fool, and as Brian, I certainly proved that true.
Thirty-eight years old, and I fell in love with the girl who could only be in her late twenties, and whom already had a guy called Billy wanting to marry her. It wasn't even as though she was a classical beauty. So what? When a man gets an obsession with a woman, logic doesn't come into it.
As a computer security expert, I had no problem hacking into the website and adding my own email address to that of Billy's. The site had been produced by Microsoft software, so there was a shed-load of extra garbage in the HTML that no one wanted, or ever bothered to read. I was pretty confident that Billy would never notice my unauthorised addition hidden amongst that lot.
Slowly, messages started coming in, from locations as near as London, or as remote as San Francisco. I suspected the majority of them were false, some even maliciously false, but what the hell? I lived the dream that someday I would beat Billy to find - and marry - the beautiful girl.
Then, one evening, I'm watching TV when an email drops onto my computer from the website. Stephanie is staying in Room 108 at the RestEasy in Seacombe, barely thirty miles from where I live.
I don't hesitate. I telephone the RestEasy. Yes, they have accommodation for the night. Yes, there's no problem in allocating me Room 107, although all their rooms are to the same high standard.
Within the hour, I'm checking in. As I'd guessed, Room 107 was immediately across the corridor from 108. I could keep an eye on her door through the security spy-hole. A walk around the outside of the building shows that Room 108 is in total darkness. She's either asleep, or out for the night. I keep a lookout for a while, and then decide it would be better for me to get an early night, and restart my vigil early next morning.
Next day, my patience is rewarded. After a two-hour wait, at just after eight am, she emerges from the room, looking as beautiful as she did in the photo, only wearing a smart blue suit. She's not carrying any luggage, so I assume she's going down to breakfast. I am about to go dashing after her, when I remember I haven't got my key card handy, and I panic, wasting precious minutes trying to find it.
Eventually, I get down to the crowded dining room and check-in, resisting the waiter's offer to allocate me a table. I'm looking for a friend, I tell him.
I grab a glass of orange-juice and a coffee from the self-service table and wander the length of the room looking for her. There she is, right at the end, by the window.
"Hi," I say. "It's a bit crowded in here. Do you mind if I join you?"
She looks up with a not unfriendly expression and shrugs her shoulders to indicate acquiescence.
I'm never any good at chatting-up women, but within minutes we fall into a natural conversation - talking about computers, actually, although every time my eyes wander to her fantastic cleavage, my logical mind shuts up and my words almost fade away. She is obviously clocking my eyes, but the tiny smile at the corner of her mouth indicates she doesn't seem to mind.
Then, her glance locks on something outside the window, and hardens for a second. I follow her gaze. Shit! Billy is outside, just getting out of a car! I guess he'd responded to the same email, but obviously lived much further away than me. How am I going to make certain he doesn't snatch the girl away from me? I needn't have worried.
"Tell me," she says, "do you want me to fuck you?"
"What?" I say.
"You heard," she said. "I was hoping to get off quite quickly, but there's someone outside I'd rather not meet, so I need to keep out of sight for a while. You look very suitable for my needs. I was wondering if you'd like me to fuck you."
In my dream, we seem to float upstairs and suddenly we're inside her bedroom, and she has her tongue down my throat, and I'm pushing my rock-hard prick against her tummy, and she's wriggling against it and murmuring all kinds of sweet things.
"Get undressed and into bed," she says. "I need to go to the bathroom."
She's in there quite a long time, before the bathroom door opens and a naked man comes out, carrying some kind of garment over his arm.
"Fuck!" I say. "Who are you?"
And I'm leaping out of bed because he's moving very quickly and aggressively towards me. As I stand up, he punches me in the stomach. It didn't seem a very hard punch until it landed, and then I'm folded up double on the floor, gasping for air.
"You said you wanted me to fuck you, so I did," Stephanie's voice says, and I look up, and the words are coming from the man's mouth.
I think that even if I'd been able to speak I'd have been speechless. As it was, I simply shook my head from side-to-side, uncomprehendingly.
"I'm afraid you were deceived by the bodysuit I was wearing." He points at the garment he'd thrown onto the bed.
I stare at it. It looks like a skin, but it seems impossible it could transform the athletic looking guy standing in front of me into a beautiful woman.
"Now I need you to help me get rid of my admirer," he continues. "I want you to put on the bodysuit, get dressed in her clothes and drive off in her car, whilst I borrow your clothes and your car. We can meet up later on."
As he speaks he's putting on my clothes, and I'm too frightened to argue with him. He gets a bundle of money out of a vanity case and waves it at me.
"I'll pay you one thousand pounds," he says, "if you do as I say. Otherwise, I'm going to get very angry with you." He puts the bundle of money into his jacket pocket - that is, into the jacket pocket which ten minutes ago I'd been wearing, but he has now taken for his own. Then he folds his right hand into a fist and starts massaging it with his left, his knuckles making horrible, cracking noises.
"I only have to break a few of your ribs," he says, "and it will be very, very painful, and take a long time to heal. So," he nods at the bodysuit, "just put it on. Now!"
I put on the bodysuit. It's in two halves - the bottom half is like a pair of flesh-coloured tights, only with individual toes and painted toe nails. There's soft, thick padding around the hips and buttocks to give a shapely rear end, and at the crutch, there's a slot to allow my genitals to poke through.
The top half is like a matching leotard, with a face mask and wig, and individual fingers and finger nails. Again, there's plenty of squelchy padding to give me enormous breasts. The guy helps me on with the top, and shows me how to get my head inside the mask, and feed my tackle into the bag on the underside of the gusset, and then pull it between my legs and fasten it without causing me too much pain.
When I look in the mirror, I'm looking at a naked Stephanie, not Brian. Now I truly know what is meant by the expression, "Beauty is skin deep." (By this time in my dream, I'm bloody confused about who I actually am.)
"I was right," he says, admiringly. "I thought you'd be just the right shape to fit inside the bodysuit. Do you know, in Seacombe they make the best bodysuits in the world? Kept me out of trouble for years. That's one of the reasons I'm down here, to have a new fitting - that and to sort out someone who was supposed to be doing a little job for me."
I tell him that I hadn't known they made bodysuits in Seacombe, but I could see they were very fine quality bodysuits, and actually quite comfortable, but I really wasn't very confident about being able to fool his (or did I mean her?) friend.
He grimaces at the sound of my voice. "Take this pill," he says, handing me a capsule. "It'll change your voice so you sound more like me. Put it on the back of your tongue until it melts, and then swallow it."
I'm not over-enthusiastic about taking strange pills - indeed I hadn't been over enthusiastic about any of this, but another look at his face convinces me to do as he says. As the pill goes down, it starts to burn and I think he's given me a cyanide capsule, but after a minute's agonising pain, I manage to get over it. A few trial sentences show that my voice has dramatically changed, although still not very much like Stephanie's.
He hands me Stephanie's clothes and I start putting them on, fumbling with the clothes a little - more used to taking such things off than putting them back on again. Then he says that if I don't get a fucking move on he'll hit me seriously hard, not like the little smack he'd just given me. Within a few seconds, I'm dressed, and looking, for all the world, just like Stephanie had appeared at breakfast.
"Where are your car keys?" he asks, patting his (that is, my) pockets.
"They'll be in my hotel room," I answer, "by the side of the bed. Room 107, just across the corridor."
He doesn't look very happy about that, but there's nothing he can do about it, so he finds my key card in his pocket, and hands it to me. Just before we leave, he takes something else from the vanity case and puts it into his right jacket pocket, something large and heavy; I don't see what it is, but I can guess; it's something which makes me very frightened.
He passes the vanity case to me. "Now, you carry this and we'll go to your room. And I'm certain you won't try to run away," he says, seeing I've guessed what is in his pocket.
By this time, I am seriously shit-scared. I step outside the room into the corridor, whilst he hides behind the door.
"Is there anyone around," he whispers.
"No," I whisper back.
"Open your own bedroom door then," he says.
I put in the key card and open the door to Room 107, and then he dashes across before I can close it on him. He follows me inside and shuts the door behind him.
"Get the fucking car-keys," he says, so I walk up the side of the bed towards the bedside table, whilst he goes over to look out of the window.
"Hello, Stuart," another voice says, and fucking hell, Billy has appeared from behind us and he's holding a gun. He must have been hiding in the en-suite when we came in. Presumably, he'd got into this room for exactly the same reason that I'd chosen it - so that he could keep a lookout for Stephanie in the room opposite.
Whilst these thoughts are racing through my head, I'm standing there mesmerised like a rabbit in front of a stoat, and that's when everything starts to happen in slow motion. My captor, the one whom Billy had called Stuart, is spinning round like a fucking spinning-top, and there's a gun coming out of his pocket, and I'm thinking it was time to hit the floor.
The two guns go off simultaneously, and whilst I'm still in that slow motion fall to the carpet, one of the guns comes flying past my nose. When I was at school, I made the First XI cricket team purely on the basis of my skills at First Slips. I hadn't forgotten them; as the gun sails past, I reach out and grab it, and hug it to my body.
But I'd forgotten that landing in a RestEasy bedroom is far more hazardous than on the cricket field. The crack as my head hits the bedside cabinet feels as though someone has hit it with a meat cleaver, and is trying to force the two halves apart.
Somewhere, someone is screaming to get an ambulance, please, as he's bleeding to fucking death. And he'll throw down the gun, just so as I'll know it isn't a trick.
I hear a thump somewhere behind me, but I don't really care about anything, except my poor head.
You have probably been ahead of me all the way through this tale. I can only say that the accidental crack to my head not only made me temporarily lose my memory, it also stopped me thinking clearly. I should have realised right at the start that I wasn't really a woman, but I was in such a daze, I had trouble challenging the obvious.
After I'd properly awoken, rather than being in the half awake/half asleep phase, when I wasn't really certain which was dream and which the return of my memory, I lay in bed, retracing the fantastic events of the previous thirty-six hours.
I really was computer consultant Brian Mitchell, hopelessly fallen in love with a picture of a woman on a website who had never been a reality - but instead, the disguise adopted by wanted robber Stuart Stevenson. He had evaded capture by the police for five years, living in the female bodysuit, and totally becoming Stephanie Stewart - and why didn't I suss out the similarity of the names?
Obviously, Billy Walker had known of Stevenson's transformation, but never knew where s/he was living, although, he'd somehow obtained a photograph of Stephanie in her polka-dot sundress and used it on his "Desperately Seeking Stephanie" website, after suitably doctoring it to include himself in the photograph. Eventually, the site had come up trumps as, one evening, a chambermaid reported that Stephanie had checked into the Seacombe RestEasy.
Next morning, he had come hot-foot from London down to Seacombe and managed to talk a chambermaid into letting him into the room opposite Stephanie's, from where he'd kept watch.
He must have had a nasty surprise when Stephanie came out of her room and stepped straight across the corridor to open the door of the room he was in. He'd darted inside the en-suite, and waited as first Stephanie walked past, and then Stevenson! That must have given him cause for thought!
So Billy had his gun in his hand as he stepped from the en-suite and greeted Stevenson. I'm pretty certain that he had never intended to have a shoot-out with him - but instead to use the gun as a bargaining tool to convince Stevenson to fairly share out the proceeds of the robbery.
But Stevenson's lightning reaction had led to their mutual self-destruction. Maybe Stevenson, too, had never intended to kill Billy - only to meet him on a level footing - which only goes to show what bloody dangerous things guns are.
Personally, though, I'd thought Stevenson was a very nasty piece of work - just look at how, as Stephanie, he led me on to get undressed and into bed, and had then come out of the bathroom without his disguise and hit me. I'd been convinced he was going to murder me when I'd completed all he asked, so I could understand why Billy didn't give him the benefit of the doubt when Stevenson was spinning round with the gun in his hand.
Certainly Stevenson appears to have been the more expert gunman of the two - which, in itself, to me indicates he was the more evil. Stevenson was spinning round, yet managed to put a bullet directly through Billy's forehead, whereas Billy was standing, with the advantage of surprise over the other, yet he only managed to wing Stevenson - although that wound also proved fatal.
There were two items that really confused things for me when I regained consciousness. The first was that when Billy was hit, his gun flew from his hands, and as I was diving for the floor I had caught it as it sailed past my nose. So, I arrived at the point I could only vaguely remember as my first recollection of Stephanie's life - I was lying on the RestEasy bedroom floor after hitting my head on the bedside cabinet.
Stevenson was screaming for an ambulance. He obviously thought I was hiding from him because I suspected his screams were a trick and that he would shoot me when I popped my head above the bed. In desperation for me to call an ambulance, he had thrown away his gun towards the centre of the room. That's when the second highly confusing event occurred, for the gun had landed next to Billy - the gun I had thought Billy had been holding when he killed Stevenson. So, when I rigged the evidence, I got everything the wrong way round.
Still, you could say it all turned out for the best. As I lie on the bed, I'm looking at a statuette on the stand in the corner of the bedroom. It could, of course, be a worthless novelty made of concrete - I'm no expert - but I reckon it's more likely to be some priceless antiquity from ancient Greece. Well, if the British Museum can take the Elgin Marbles and not give them back, I don't see why I need to worry about a few little things like that hanging around the flat!
Of course, I'm hardly in a position to come clean and return them. According to the report I heard just now on the radio news, the police are still searching for Brian Mitchell - well convinced that he performed the double murder of Walker and Stevenson, and also walked off with the British Museum artefacts. I'm quite certain that if Godolphy was ever to find Brian Mitchell, he would twist the evidence as necessary in order fit him up with a double-murder charge.
So from now on, Brian Mitchell is no more and Stephanie is starting on a new phase of her life. Fortunately, there seems to be no shortage of money in her life. When I popped into the bathroom just now, I noticed all the fittings were made of gold, and I've just counted up the notes in the envelope I got from Eric the porter. Fifteen thousand pounds! That's enough to keep me going for a few months, and maybe then, if I can't find any more cash around the flat, I'll have to sell off another antiquity.
But the main thing is that, as I look in the dressing table mirror facing me, I again realise that Stephanie is one hell of a good-looking woman. OK, she'll never be a beauty queen, but right now, she has one hell of a Narcissus complex! I may have been Desperately Seeking Stephanie for a long time, but now I have definitely found her.
Hell of a Wedding
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Synopsis: Ben's sister, Bev, and Joe were planning to have a quiet wedding with hardly anyone present. But when Joe's mother hands down her wedding dress to Bev it creates a big problem — for unknown to Joe's mother, Bev is highly pregnant and the mother mustn't find out.
by Charlotte Dickles
"Hi Bev," I said, standing up as my twin sister and her fiancé, Joe, approached the restaurant table. "You're looking blooming."
I gave her a kiss on her head, and put my hand on her bump. What is it about pregnancy that makes women look so unbelievably attractive? I guess it's the knowledge that for the next few months, they are fulfilling the very purpose of their womanhood. She grinned back at me, clearly still very happy, but I could tell there was something she was uneasy about.
"Hi Joe," I said to her partner, and we shook hands. He also looked — and felt — a little tense.
"Hi Ben," he replied. "It's good to see you."
"Only ten more days before the big one," I said, as we all sat down at the table. They were getting married the following week.
"That's right."
I looked them over once again, and said, "So what gives? Why aren't you bubbling with joy, like the last time we met up?"
It had been three weeks' ago when they'd told me they were getting married, and both had been seriously nervous about my own reaction to it. After all, having a twin is a bit like being married to them, and I know Bev thought I'd be upset about it. But I'd been overjoyed when they told me. I'm all for free love and all that, but – and call me old fashioned if you like – I do think that when children are on the way that marriage gives the stability that's needed. So last time, after I had greeted their news with enthusiasm, we had eaten, drunk (except for Bev) and been extremely merry.
"You know that we'd decided to have a small wedding – not invite any guests apart from yourself and Gavin, Joe's best man from his office."
"Ye-es." Bev and I had no living relatives and although Joe had quite a big family, he was American, so it had seemed over the top to invite them all over to England for the wedding.
"We'd agreed," Bev said, "that Joe would tell his family just a day or so before the big day, so they had no time to try to muscle in on it. Unfortunately, he told them about it last week."
"Right," I said.
"They were a bit upset about not being invited to the wedding but seemed to accept it. Yesterday, a huge box was delivered to us. It was Joe's mum's wedding dress."
"Uh-hu," I said.
"They're expecting me to wear it for the wedding."
I nodded. "I kind of guessed that."
"But it's never going to fit me with this bump."
I nodded again. "So you're going to have to tell them you're pregnant and won't be able to wear the dress."
"You don't understand," Joe said. He was right about that. "My parents are very religious…"
"They're bible bashers," Bev helpfully added. "They are going to go spare when they discover that not only have we not waited until marriage to consummate our relationship, but I have been disgraceful enough to become pregnant."
I looked at Joe for confirmation that such people still existed in the world, but he nodded his head. "That's about it," he said.
"Couldn't you tell them the dress simply doesn't fit," I suggested. "After all, people are all kinds of different sizes."
"I sent them a photograph a few months back before Bev knew she was pregnant," Joe said. "It was seeing that Bev was about the right size which inspired them to send the wedding dress as soon as they knew we were getting married."
"Then you're going to have to give them a rude awakening," I said.
"No," Joe said. "The shock would kill them. They would never live down the shame."
Somehow, I suspected there was a little more to it than that but it didn't really matter. Whilst I sympathised with him, I couldn't see any alternative. "But what else can you do? In any case, at some stage they are going to have to know they are grandparents."
Joe held out his hand and gave an "iffy" wave. "Maybe we won't tell them straightaway, and maybe it will be a 'premature' birth."
I shrugged. Joe's avoidance of the truth seemed crazy, but I knew what parents could be like.
"We were hoping you would help us," Bev said.
"I'll do anything I can, but I really don't see how I can help."
"The wedding is organised for nine-thirty, a week next Wednesday at the Registry Office," Bev said — rather unnecessarily, I thought, since I'd been there when she made the booking.
"Yes."
"We thought we could set up a dummy wedding at a church that afternoon, and use the wedding dress. We could send them the photographs afterwards."
I paused, trying to work out what difference that made. "But if you can't fit into the dress at the Registry Office, how are you going to fit into it at a church?"
"We wondered if we could get someone else to wear it, pretending to be Bev," Joe chipped in.
I shook my head. "But that would be no good," I said. "Bev is bound to meet up with the in-laws at some time, and then they're going to ask what happened to the woman in the photo who you married."
"Unless we could find someone who looked just like me," Bev said.
OK, call me thick. I should have seen this coming ages back and headed it off. You see, Bev and I may not be identical twins, but there's plenty of similarity between us, including our unusually large noses. But it's never too late to introduce common sense. "Whoa, whoa," I said. "Is this heading where I think it's heading? No way."
"Look, Ben, we will hire the church ostensibly for a photo shoot, so it will be empty apart from us. No one else is going to see you. But we are the same height and build, and our faces are almost identical."
"What about those?" I pointed to her breasts, which she'd had seriously enhanced a few years' ago, and which she'd used mercilessly in trying to pull any guy she'd fancied, up to and including Joe. In pregnancy, they were developing into porn-star size.
"We can stuff something in your bra, but let me worry about making you look good. The important thing is that you'll agree to help us."
I paused. The realistic part of me told me to have nothing to do with it, but my sister needed my help and I couldn't ignore that. Also, somewhere deep inside my mind, there was an excitement which had kicked in when Bev talked about stuffing my bra. I couldn't really understand it, but I knew I had no choice but to say the words. "OK, I'll do my best."
"Oh Ben." Bev leant over and hugged me, and Joe gave me a friendly punch on my shoulder.
"You're gonna be a great brother-in-law."
"Do you really think you can pull it off?" I asked.
"We'll need to get a few more people involved," Joe said. "I know someone at work who's a member of an amateur dramatic society. I'm sure he'd love to pose as a vicar. Gavin will be the best man, for the second time that day, and Bev is going to get her friend Sharon to be a bridesmaid."
"She's a beautician," Bev said, "so she can also help with the make-up. And there's Simon, at work, who's a pretty good photographer."
"We can always edit the photographs if they're not quite right," Joe said. "But the main thing is that you and Bev have similar shaped faces so it'll be a piece of cake."
"Talking of cake," I said, picking up the menu. "Shall we order? I fancy a nice big steak."
"Sorry, Ben," Bev said. "You need to fit into the dress. I'm afraid it's salad for you."
***
Joe went back to work after our meal, whilst Bev took me back to their flat to get me to try on the dress. We had to go into Marks & Spencer's on the way, and purchase some underwear for me.
"We'll buy some sexy underwear for the wedding," Bev said, "but this will do for today's fitting."
Once again, I experienced a thrill run through me at the very idea, but felt I should protest. "But no one's going to see my underwear."
"But what you're wearing underneath affects the way you feel. You have to look a radiant bride - as though it really is the happiest day of your life".
My tummy did an abrupt somersault. What was I getting myself into?
She laughed at my face. "Don't be silly. This is going to be fun."
"But your wedding will be fun," I protested. "You don't need more fun on top of it."
She gave a wry smile. "Funnily enough, weddings seem to be all about stress. That's one of the reasons why we wanted to keep it small. But your wedding will be fun."
I grimaced. Fun was not the word which sprang to my mind, and I tried to put my unease into words. "Bev, are you both certain you want to go ahead with this scheme? It's quite a deceit you're playing on your in-laws, which doesn't make a good foundation for your future relationship with them."
"I know, I know. But you should have seen Joe's reaction when he saw the dress. All his life, he's lived beneath his domineering parents who persecuted him for not following their beliefs. The reason he came to live in England was to get away from them. That's the real reason why we're having a small wedding - Joe doesn't want his family around because they would give him hell about everything, especially me being the kind of slut who gets pregnant outside of marriage. Believe me, Ben, what you're doing is incredibly important to Joe and to our happiness together."
"OK, sis," I said. "Let's get on with it."
When we got to their flat, Bev showed me the dress. It was just absolutely beautiful. A white satin sleeveless dress with a low-cut bodice that was so slim I was never going to fit into it, the skirt falling in an A-line from a wide, satin ribbon around the hips.
"I can never wear this," I protested. "I'll look ridiculous. For a start, you're never going to be able to stuff a bra without it being totally obvious."
"Look," Bev said. "There are ways, believe me. Now why don't you take a shower before trying on the dress? I'll leave you some bikini bottoms in the bathroom. Put them on and tell me when you're decent, and I'll come in and we'll get started with the hair remover."
"Hair remover? You mean from my upper chest?"
"Oh don't be silly, Ben. I told you just now that in order to look the part, you have to feel the part. You can hardly wear such a beautiful dress with hairy legs. We're going to remove all your body hair."
So I took a shower to wash my body and then slipped on the bikini bottoms and let Bev into the bathroom. She brought in some hair remover and then sprayed it all over my body, except for my face.
"We have to leave it to do its job for a while," she said. She looked at her watch and said, "I'll make some tea whilst we're waiting."
I was left waiting like a lemon with this white foam all over my body. After a bit, it started to tingle
"It's tingling," I shouted to her in the kitchen.
"It's meant to," she shouted back. "Leave it alone."
In fact, the tingling got worse until it became quite painful, and I was pleased when Bev returned with our tea.
"It's really painful," I said.
She looked a bit sniffy, but put down the cups and took a sponge and experimentally rubbed a bit of skin on my leg.
"Not long enough, yet," she said. "We'll give it a few more minutes. Drink your tea and then we'll take it off."
I don't think I've ever drunk down a mug of tea so quickly, but eventually Bev was rubbing off the foam and then showering all the stuff off. Wow! You should have seen the sexy legs I had. They were as good as Bev's.
"See what I mean?" Bev crowed as she saw my look.
I nodded.
"OK. So from now on, can you stop being a pain in the arse every time I tell you what we have to do? Joe and I are both really grateful you're helping with our first problem of our married life, but just trust me and do what I say."
I nodded again. In honesty, my complaints had come more because it was what I thought was expected of a heterosexual man, than from my own concerns.
"OK, so I'm going to leave you now, whilst you get dried. Take off the bikini briefs, and put on this control brief. And do something with your willy so it's not sticking out."
I looked down and realised I had a hard on, presumably created by looking at my own sexy legs.
When Bev had gone, I did as she said, pushing my cock between my legs and then pulling up the control brief to keep it in place. It looked respectable, and I went out to Bev.
"First thing," she said, "we need to get you corseted up."
I opened my mouth to complain and then saw her look and closed it again.
"OK," I said, adding, "but I didn't see you buy a corset in M & S."
"I already had this," she said, pointing to the garment on the bed. "In fact, I was wearing it in the photo Joe sent to his parents. That's obviously why they thought the dress would fit me."
She made me step into a body slip and then wrapped the corset around me, squeezing me in somewhat as she fastened the busk. Then I obediently turned around and she started to pull in the strings.
In spite of the discomfort, I watched enthralled, as my waist got smaller and smaller. Finally, she tied it off.
"Phew," I said, "I thought you were going to squeeze my insides out."
"We have a long way to go, yet," she said, "but at least we'll be able to pull the dress around you. Now we can put on your bra and we'll give you some stuffing."
She opened one of the boxes of bras and pulled it out, opening it so I could slip my arms through the straps. "This is a full bra, and completely unsuitable for the dress, "she said, "but I can properly stuff it with some socks and we can make certain we get the size right."
I had to try on several bras before she was satisfied she had the correct band size.
"Now, step into this hoop underskirt, "she said, "and then we'll try putting on the dress."
At last! I know that sounds crazy, but it really was such a lovely dress, I wanted to wear it. The problem was, she was absolutely right. There was no way we would fasten up the bodice.
"You'd better tighten my corset some more," I said, with just enough reluctance in my voice.
She shook her head. "Not yet. We do it bit by bit. You have to be trained into a corset, and we have ten days to do it."
"You mean," I said, as I worked out where she was going, "I'm going to have to wear this every day?"
"I'm afraid so," Bev said. "You can have a little practice latter on at putting it on by yourself, but we'll need to work out a plan so that you progressively reduce your waist to the right size."
"How long each day do I have to wear it?" I asked.
Bev looked a little apprehensive. "All day, I'm afraid. You won't be able to do any gymnastics in it, but it shouldn't be noticeable under your normal clothes."
"I didn't know what I was letting myself in for, did I?" I said with a grin, and Bev relaxed. "And you didn't tell me," I admonished.
"Sorry, " Bev said, "but thanks." I think she would have given me a hug, but with my billowing skirt, she couldn't get very close.
I turned to the mirror and examined myself — a male head perched above the beautiful dress looked obscene. "Is it going to work? What do we do about my face?"
"I think it'll be all right," Bev said. "I'll purchase a wig similar to my hair, and get you some decent boobs. Then, with a bit of expert make-up, I think it will be fine. Don't forget, Joe can always edit the photos a bit — you know, put my face on top of yours."
"If he's going to do that," I asked, "do we need to bother with make-up?"
"Don't forget there'll be the other people in the church with us, all trying to look their part. It would much more difficult for them all if you are obviously a man."
I shrugged. "Actually," I said, "now I'm committed to doing it, I think I would want to go the whole hog."
Bev grinned at me. "Thanks, Ben," she said. "I love you."
"I love you too," I said.
***
We agreed to call a halt after that. Bev would order a wig and some boobs on the internet, and I went home wearing my new corset, determined I was going to pull in my waist those few extra inches. It was fortunate, I realized, that I didn't currently have a girlfriend — but then, that was hardly a novel circumstance.
A couple of days later, Bev telephoned me. Her internet orders had all arrived and she wanted me to go over and try them on.
"There's one other thing," she said. You obviously need some good make-up and it's a bit beyond my capabilities. You remember I told you about Sharon, who's a beautician? I'd like to ask her to come over and do it for you. Are you OK with that?"
My heart gave a little lurch at being seen by another person, but I steeled myself. "It seems sensible, Bev," I said. "I'm just a little nervy at being seen, but I have to get used to that before next Wednesday. Does she really need to see me before the day?"
"Definitely. She might have to especially order some cosmetics for you. You are, after all, not a run of the mill client. I could see if she's free this afternoon, and we could try on the other things which came this morning. "
***
"Sharon is coming round at three," Bev said when I entered her flat. "That gives us a couple of hours to try on your other things."
"It's not going to take that long to try on the wig and put the padding into the bra cups, is it?" I asked.
"It's a bit more than that," she said. "I took your words to heart about wanting to go the whole hog."
"OK, I don't really want to marry Joe," I hastily said.
"You'll have to fight me for him, first," she said. "But no, I really appreciated how you wanted to get into the role you're taking on, so I lashed out a bit with the female bits."
"You mean the padding for the bra?"
"I actually got something a bit better than that. As you said, it was always going to be difficult stuffing a bra when the dress has such a low cut top. So I got you a Bustlet."
"What's a Bustlet?"
She bent over to reach inside a large box which was on the floor by the wall. "This is a Bustlet," she said, lifting out some heavy object.
She plonked a pair of tits on the table. Well, not just a pair of tits, there was the upper part of the chest and shoulders to go with them.
"It fits like a crop top," she said, "and you don't get anything more realistic than this."
"Bloody hell!"
"Do you want to try it on?"
"Er..." To be honest, I was itching to do so, but thought I shouldn't appear too keen. "I guess so." I unbuttoned my shirt and removed it.
"We have to spread this anti-perspirant gel over you first," Bev said. "There are two types: the green is for short term use, the red for longer term. To be honest, I only got that in case the green wasn't very effective. After all, you'll only be in it for a few hours on the day."
I shrugged compliance as Bev pulled on a disposable plastic glove and proceeded to smear the green gel over me. Then she took off the glove and picked up the Bustlet.
"Lift up your arms and we'll feed those through the armholes first. Then we can slide the whole thing down your body."
It worked perfectly and in just a few seconds, I had sprouted the kind of tits to die for. It was all I could do to stop myself grabbing them and giving them a squeeze.
"What do you think?"
"Brilliant," I said. "Absolutely brilliant. They look just like the real thing."
"They should feel like the real thing, as well. Hang on, there's a remote control in the box which alters the sensitivity." She reached into the box again and pulled out a small remote, pointed it at me and pressed a button.
Zing! My tits came alive. I could feel them bouncing slightly, as I jumped at the new sensation.
"Blimey." I did cup a breast in my hand that time and could feel my breast being squeezed by my own hand. "That's really impressive."
"I didn't know whether I was doing the right thing in buying them. I thought you might be a bit stuffy about it."
"Me? Stuffy? Never let it be said."
"That's good, because I got you a vagina as well."
There was a brief silence as I tried to grasp her words. "You got me a vagina."
"Well, you said you wanted to throw yourself into it totally, and I noticed that the company who made the Bustlet also make a thing called a Hiplet, which pads out your thighs and gives you a vagina. I thought that nothing could give you the feeling of being a woman like a vagina."
I couldn't argue with that.
She was turning round to the box on the floor again, and this time she pulled out a pair of hips and bum. Sure enough, at the top of the thighs was a beautiful pussy.
"Blimey!"
"Apparently, it can really be used for sex with a man, but if you're looking towards Joe, you'll still have to fight me for him."
"But it means that any men who see me will be thinking of fucking me, and they could too."
"You're assuming that all men will want to have sex with you."
I supposed there were some men who wouldn't think of sex when they saw my huge knockers poking out of my low cut dress, but probably not that many.
"Are you going to spread that green gel over my genitals?"
She grinned. "You'll have to go to the bathroom and do it yourself. I'm sure you're well practised at that sort of thing."
Ten minutes later, I stood before her, totally woman from neck to toe.
"I don't think anyone would doubt you're a woman now," Bev said.
"The problem is, they're not going to see me naked," I replied. "Can we have another go at getting into the dress?"
***
Sharon was superb. She totally transformed my face, creating shadow where there should have been none, and softening the male lines. But what made her superb was that she explained what she was doing all the time, and then wiped off the make-up and allowed me to practice over and over again. By the end, I was nowhere near as accomplished as she was, but I could do a reasonable job for myself. We booked her to come on the following Wednesday to give me my bridal make-up.
Provided I continued to make progress with my corset training, I reasoned, everything was on track for me to be the beautiful blushing bride on the following Wednesday. I left with an invitation to dinner on Friday evening.
"Why not come over beforehand," Bev said, "and dress for dinner?"
"Dress," I asked, "as in Dress?"
"Precisely. I'll select one of my posh frocks. It'll give Joe opportunity to get to meet his new bride before the wedding."
***
The dinner went superbly. I was wearing one of Bev's pre-pregnancy evening dresses in which I looked and felt great. Joe had been duly appreciative of my transformation, and had behaved towards me as though I really was a beautiful woman. But it was as we came to the end of the meal that Bev dropped her bombshell.
"Now we have got to know the new Beverley, I think it's time we practised the Kiss."
There was a moment's deathly silence from both of us, before we broke into indignant protest.
"No way!" from Joe, and "Get stuffed!" from me.
Bev smiled calmly at us. "You're going to have to do it for the photographs. You'd better get used to it now."
"We could miss out that photo..."
"Don't be silly," Bev said. "Every set of wedding photographs has to have the Kiss. Your parents, Joe, would immediately smell a rat if it wasn't there. So you two had better get snogging."
We looked at each other, but made no move.
"Oh for heaven's sake," Bev snorted. "Good job one of us had the sense to think about this beforehand, otherwise you'd make a right mess up of it on the day."
"Joe," she continued. "You have been dining this evening with two beautiful ladies. Beverley is your fiancée. You love her, you want to kiss her. Beverley," she turned to me, "you are a pretty girl who is marrying this gorgeous hunk of a man. You want him to kiss you. So get on with it."
When neither of us moved, Bev repeated. "Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm going to stack some of these plates in the dishwasher. By the time I return, you two had better be snogging one another."
She picked up their plates and departed to the kitchen.
We eyed each other, both acknowledging the accuracy of her words, but not wanting to take the plunge. Still, I thought, I've come this far, and I'd already committed to going the whole hog.
I fluttered my mascara covered eyelashes at him and tried to speak as softly as possible, "Oh Joe. I've been longing to do this all evening." I stood up and leant across the table, exposing my beautiful breasts to perfection. I'd been amazed throughout the meal by the way Joe's eyes had been drawn to my cleavage. Although Joe knew he'd been looking at a man, he couldn't stop looking at my tits. It did the trick now for as I moved my lips to his, he responded, and kissed me back.
"Oh Joe, I murmured, and nibbled his upper lip.
"This is crazy," he said, and made to pull away.
"The whole idea is crazy," I said. "Do you want to come clean with your parents?" As I waited for his answer, for some stupid reason I was willing him not to say yes.
"Oh, what the hell," he said, and he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me hard.
It took both of us a few seconds to realise that the flashes were not of stars exploding, but of Bev holding a camera and photographing us.
"What are you doing?" we both yelled.
"That was fantastic," Bev said. "I thought that if you two are not so good on the day, we could edit one of these pictures into the other."
I looked at Joe and said, "It will be fantastic on the day. We're both up for it."
Joe nodded and Bev gave a satisfied smile.
***
On Sunday, I at last managed to put on and fasten my wedding dress. I had been wearing my corset every day, and rigorously reducing the waist size according to the schedule laid down by Bev. At last, I looked absolutely gorgeous in it. Bev and I decided that since I wasn't really marrying Joe, it wouldn't be bad luck for him to see it. He couldn't take his eyes off me. I think both him and me had almost forgotten I was male.
So when Bev said, "I think you should practice the Kiss again," neither he nor I demurred. He walked slowly up to me, took me in his arms and softly planted his lips on mine. Hell, he knew how to kiss a girl. He had a way of moving his lips which sent quivers through my body, and all I could do was to hold on and hope it would go on forever.
Eventually, Bev said, "OK, I think both of you have managed to overcome your prejudices. Well done, guys."
Joe slowly pulled his head away, taking those sensuous lips with him, and I tried to look as though it was all run of the mill for a talented actor like me, but inside my head, I really was that girl wearing her magnificent wedding dress, kissing her groom just days before her marriage to the man she loved.
"Well," Bev said, "I think everything is going to go smoothly, don't you?"
We both agreed that it was, and I went home on Sunday with an excitement tingling through me.
On Monday morning, the bombshell exploded.
***
"Ben, we've got an emergency. Can you get over here straightaway?"
"Is there something wrong with your pregnancy?"
"No, I'm fine, Ben, but it's to do with our little plan. Please, Ben, get over here now."
I drove straight over, rather than walking as I normally did. Bev let me in and led the way to their kitchen, where Joe was sitting at the counter uttering a continuous string of profanities.
"Bastard. Fucking bastard. Fucking, fucking bastard..."
"What's happened?"
"I'll tell you what's fucking happened," Joe said. "My fucking parents have just telephoned from fucking Heathrow Airport to say they've flown in for the wedding. Why couldn't they just fucking keep away? Why do they always have to fucking interfere in my life?"
"Christ!" I said. "That blows everything."
Joe turned to Bev. "They're going to call you a slut," he said, "and I won't have it."
"There is a way round this," Bev said.
We both looked at her expectantly. Suddenly, my stomach turned a somersault. I knew what she was going to suggest.
"You're crazy," I said. "No way. Absolutely no way."
"What?" Joe said
"It would work," Bev said.
"What?" Joe said.
"Of course it can't," I said. "It's impossible."
"What?" Joe shouted.
"Bev is suggesting that I become her for the next three days. That I could deceive your parents face to face, rather than by using a photograph album separated by three thousand miles from each other. It's crazy."
"That could work," Joe said.
"Don't be stupid."
"Friday night and last night," Joe said, "the way you looked and the way you behaved, you could pull it off."
"But they'd want to talk to me, ask me questions. What about my voice? I couldn't keep up the pretence for three minutes, never mind three days."
"If you just talk softly, Ben, I think it will be all right. But you will give it a try, won't you? For the sake of Joe and me, and our marriage and our unborn child?"
They both paused, awaiting my answer, but how could I do anything else?
I nodded. "I'll give it my best."
"Thanks, Ben," Joe said. "You are the best." He looked at Bev. "But what do we do now?"
"I have just become Benjamina, Beverley's pregnant twin sister," she said. "Which means I'd better move out of this flat, damn sharpish." She turned to me. "Have you got your car with you?"
I nodded.
"Right. Let's pack everything up. Joe, do you know how long before your parents arrive?"
"They hadn't gone through Immigration when they telephoned. Say an hour to clear Heathrow, an hour to drive here."
"Then let's shift," I said, "but Joe and I do the work; Bev supervises."
"Don't be stupid," Bev started to say, but Joe interrupted.
"No, don't you be stupid. That's our baby you're carrying, so Ben and I will do all the work, and you can be bossy like you always are." He gently kissed her on the lips.
She gave him a big hug.
"Joseph," I said. "Can I remind you that we are getting married in three days' time. Will you please leave my sister, Benjie, alone, and help me pack my things?"
"Great," he said. "Now I've got two women to boss me around."
***
An hour later, we'd shifted all of Bev's things back to the flat which she and I had shared for seven years. She'd never properly moved out, so it was a lot simpler than it might have been.
"Hell," Joe said. "I've just remembered I was supposed to book a table for lunch. I'd better book it for five of us, and then we can introduce Bev's sister to them."
"Better not," Bev said. "It will be very obvious that you're more intimate with me than you are with Beverley. They're sure to suspect something."
Bev's words made good sense, but they made my stomach roll again. Meeting prospective in-laws for the first time would be bad enough, but to do it whilst trying to pass for the opposite sex in public, and all without the help of Bev was simply terrifying.
"Let's sort out a pretty dress to wear that will show you off nicely," Bev said seeing my face.
"Don't make it too revealing," Joe warned. "That would be almost as bad as being exposed as a man."
"No it wouldn't." Bev and I said the words almost in unison.
"Come on, Beverley," she said to me. "Let's see what we can find."
As we went into her bedroom, she added, "I think you'd better use that red gel for your Bustlet and Hiplet from now on. You remember, the green stuff was only for a few hours' use, and I suspect that you're now going to be wearing them continually until it's all over on Wednesday."
It seemed sensible, so I made the switch.
***
"Hello Mother, hello Father. I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Beverley. Beverley, this is my mother and father."
"Oh, what a lovely girl you are," Joe's mother said, shaking hands with me. "Call me Anne, and this is Luke."
"Hello Luke," I said turning to where Joe's father stood up for me and shaking his hand, too. "It's really nice to meet you both."
Under both Bev and Joe's instruction, I had been given a Country Girl look. Bev didn't quite have a gingham dress, but it was the same shape and created the right effect of innocence and naivety. If only they knew.
"We really didn't know what you'd be like, Beverley. Joseph has such strange tastes."
"Not that strange, Anne," Luke said. "I think Beverley would please the eye of any red-bloodied male."
"She's certainly very shapely," Anne admitted, "but clearly not one of those girls who are too pretty for their own good. It's so easy for girls to go astray in this world."
To me, grudging approval seemed a pretty good response, but I could see Joe was annoyed.
"Your idea of going astray is a bit different from the rest of the world, Mother."
"I hope you two haven't been doing anything untoward," Anne said.
"We have kissed," I quickly confessed, hoping to defuse what looked like turning into a row. "But nothing more, have we Joe?"
Joe suddenly relaxed and smiled at me. "No, he said. Beverley won't let me go any further. Not until we're married, she says."
"Very sensible, too," Anne said. "I can see we're going to get along together well."
"Anne," I said, "there's one thing which puzzles me."
"Ah, yes dear," she replied. "You're wondering about the wedding dress I sent you, and why I'm not as shapely as you are."
"I don't understand how it could ever have fitted you."
"Well it didn't," Anne said. "But when Joe told us you weren't having a wedding dress, I was so saddened for you, I bought one secondhand which I thought would fit you. We weren't planning to come here then, so I didn't think you'd discover my little white lie, and I knew Joe would never think of it."
"You lied to us," Joe said, "so you could manipulate Bev into wearing the dress."
"As I said, just a little white lie." She turned back to me. "Now dear, have you got your trousseau ready for your honeymoon?"
"Not really," I said.
"We weren't planning to go on honeymoon," Joe said.
"Oh, you must go on honeymoon," Anne said. She turned to Luke and said, "Luke, book a nice hotel for them."
"Yes, dear."
"Then this afternoon," Anne said, "we'll go shopping for clothes for you."
"There's no need," I started to protest, but Anne cut me short.
"Of course you must, my dear. After all, we wouldn't want the rest of the family to see you go off on honeymoon in such cheap clothes, would we?"
The insult to my clothes was nothing compared to the words Joe picked up. "Rest of the family. What rest of the family?"
"Oh, didn't we tell you dear. When we let everyone know that you were getting married in England, they all said they would fly out here for the wedding. I think there must be about sixty who are coming, even though you didn't give us much notice, dear."
"Now, Beverley." She turned back to me. "Luke and I are just dying to go to Oxford Street, aren't we dear? I think you'd better come along with us."
As a bloke, my heart would normally have sunk into my shoes, just as I guessed Luke's was doing at that moment. On the other hand, if someone was going to buy me some nice clothes...
"But Bev and I wanted a small, no fuss wedding," Joe shouted, interrupting my thoughts. "Why do you have to interfere? I'm thirty-two, Mother. Why can't you treat me as an adult?"
"Perhaps if you behaved like an adult, dear, we'd treat you like one."
"Yeah? Well perhaps if you'd ever treated me like one, I'd have learnt how to behave like one. I'm going out for a smoke."
"But you don't smoke, dear."
"No? Well just watch the smoke coming out of my head."
He stood up and stormed out of the restaurant. There was a moment's silence after he'd gone, as the other diners stared open-mouthed at the scene. Then one or two people started to talk, no doubt about what they had just witnessed.
"Well, dear," Anne said to me, "I'm sorry you've had to witness Joseph at his worst. I hope it won't put you off marrying him."
"I think I'd better go out and find him," I said. "Please excuse me."
Joe was standing just outside the door, in the spot where smokers normally huddle. Well aware we would be on full view to all the diners in the restaurant, I went straight up to Joe and put my arms around his neck.
"I think you played that just right," I said, adding as he looked disconcerted by my action, "and bear in mind that we can be seen from the restaurant."
"I didn't play it at all," he said. "I lost my temper with them. How could they humiliate me like that in front of you? They always do that to me, and I always feel so inadequate."
"That's what parents do," I said. "In any case, they did it in front of me, not Bev. It doesn't matter about me."
He brightened a little. "I suppose you're right."
"And remember that all these sixty people who are going to gatecrash your wedding are going to the wrong wedding."
He brightened even more. "You're right. Why should I get upset about them rearranging my wedding, when they're actually rearranging the dummy wedding?"
"Actually," I said, "we have nothing arranged to rearrange with the dummy wedding, apart from hiring the church and arranging for your friend to play the part of vicar. We need to start telling all your family the details. What about catering for them?"
"Hell! That's why we wanted to keep it a small wedding. And do it all ourselves."
"Your wedding is being kept to yourselves," I said, "but someone has to organise the dummy wedding. I think that's a job your mother would enjoy, don't you?"
He actually laughed. "You're right. That's brilliant, Beverley. Thanks." Then he kissed me.
I think that by now I'd got into the mindset of playing the part of Beverley, willing myself to believe I was her, and I think he was doing the same. To me, the kiss was a bit of a shock, but conscious that my every move was being watched, I allowed my mouth to open, and his tongue flicked inside. Let that shock the buggers. But then we both came to our senses, and I pushed him away.
"I think you'd better go back and apologise to your parents," I said. "Meanwhile, I have to go and repair my make-up." I grinned at him. "Men!" I added.
***
I walked into the men's toilets by mistake. The guy standing at the urinal gave me a quick glance, and then a long look. What's he looking at, I wondered, and then it hit me. "Sorry," I said. "Silly mistake."
By the time I got back to the table, Anne was in the middle of arranging a wedding for sixty people in two days time. In fact, the afternoon shopping was abandoned in favour of inspecting the potential venues for the reception.
"Never mind," she told me, "we'll go to Oxford Street tomorrow, and spend all day there."
"That's great," I said, as I thought about all the nice clothes I could get. "Thank you, Anne."
***
I actually got on great with Anne and Luke over the next few days. OK, they did funny things like saying grace before we could eat a meal, and looking down their noses if they thought Joe and I were getting too familiar with each other, but you got used to that. Even Joe seemed to have cheered up — I think it was the thought of his mother doing all the hard work in arranging a wedding which was totally false. I felt a bit guilty about it all, actually. If they had been my parents, I'd have simply told them the truth about Bev's pregnancy, but clearly, there was a long-standing difficulty between Joe and his parents.
We'd agreed we wouldn't introduce Bev to Joe's parents until Tuesday evening, when we were going out for a pre-wedding meal, so we didn't see much of her during the day as she stayed in our flat. Meanwhile, Joe and I went dashing about with Anne and Luke, checking the possible venues for the reception, talking with florists, inspecting the church we'd rented for Wednesday afternoon (ostensibly for a photo shoot), and getting the orders of service printed. It was that latter thing which caused the difficulty, as Anne wanted to know what hymns we were having, what was the format of service and all kinds of other things which neither Joe nor I had a clue about. Joe had virtually washed his hands of the whole lot, and so all that sort of stuff came down to me.
I realised we would also have difficulty with the guy playing the part of the vicar, as he was only someone from Joe's work who was an amateur actor. He hadn't expected he'd have to go through the whole wedding ceremony with considerable attention to detail. We deliberately ensured that he could only be reached by email or texting. The last thing we wanted was for Anne to start cross-examining him about the service.
The final problem on Monday came as I was getting undressed for bed. "I can't get off the Bustlet and Hiplet," I called out to Bev.
"Ah," she said, coming into my bedroom, "I meant to tell you about that."
My heart sank. "Tell me about what?"
"The red gel you used today is semi-permanently bonded to your skin. I'm afraid you're stuck in them until your next layer of skin is shed, probably in about two weeks' time."
"I'm stuck like this for two weeks?"
She nodded. "Actually, I was lying," she said.
"Phew." I gave a gasp of relief. "You had me going there. How do I get them off?"
"No," she said, "I was telling the truth about them being stuck on for two weeks, but I was lying when I said I meant to tell you. This morning, I realised the red gel would be crucial to making this work, and I thought if I told you the truth, you'd reject the idea out of hand."
"Oh yee of little faith," I said. "Look, the issue was about whether it would work and not whether it's inconvenient or even embarrassing for me. OK?"
She grinned at me. "Thanks, Ben."
"Beverley," I said. "You're Benjamina and I'm Beverley."
***
With all the issues to resolve, we delayed the trip to Oxford Street until late Tuesday afternoon. But within just a few hours, Anne seemed to buy up half the street for my trousseau. Again, I felt rather guilty since I was hardly going to wear them, and it would be ages before Bev would be able to get into clothes that size. On the other hand, it was wonderful having someone buy beautiful clothes for you, so I told my conscience to shut up.
Anne, Luke and I were quite late getting back from Oxford Street, so we arranged we would meet Bev and Joe at the restaurant. There was no sign of Joe when we arrived, but Bev was already there.
I introduced her to Anne and Luke as Benjamina and we all chatted amicably. Benjie was wearing her new wedding ring, and she told us how her husband was out in the Gulf on business, and unfortunately was not able to return for the wedding.
I just wondered how she was going to square all these lies up with her in-laws in a few years' time.
Joe finally turned up thirty minutes late.
"Where on earth have you been," Anne said to her son.
"The vicar suddenly found he had a prior engagement, so I've been trying to find a replacement at short notice."
"But surely, he'd committed to marrying you when you booked the church. He can't just drop out on a whim."
"Perhaps it was the funeral of an elderly parishioner," Bev suggested, trying to be helpful.
"But it's no problem," Luke said, "my brother Mark is a preacher at our church back home. He'll be happy to officiate."
There was a pregnant pause from all three of us, which Anne quickly filled.
"Well that sounds an excellent idea. At least we know he'll do it properly."
That, the three of us knew, was the problem.
"Well, I'm not sure..." I started to say.
"Call him now," Anne commanded and Luke obediently pulled a phone from his pocket and started to make the call.
"Mother," Joe said, "can we go outside, or do you want to argue here?"
She set her face in a stern line, then stood up and followed him out of the restaurant.
Luke was talking over his phone by now, so I whispered to Bev, "Do you think Joe's going to tell Anne the whole truth?"
"Who knows?" She moved her head closer to mine. "But it doesn't matter about Mark taking the service."
"It doesn't?"
"He has no legal jurisdiction in this country. He has no more right to perform a wedding than you or I."
"OK, it's all fixed up," Luke said with a grin of satisfaction on his face. "Mark will officiate at the wedding tomorrow."
"Oh thank you so much, Luke," I said. It had been an incredibly stressful few days, and it just seemed so natural for me to lean over and kiss him on the cheek.
He seemed really pleased at my reaction, and said, "Joe and his mother have always been at loggerheads and it seems to be getting worse. But I think you and I will have a - what do you Brits call it - a Special Relationship."
"Yes," I said. I picked up my glass of wine and held it up as a toast. "Here's to our Special Relationship," I said.
Luke did the same whilst Bev politely tilted her glass of mineral water.
"To our special relationship," Luke toasted, giving me a nice smile.
But the smiles were wiped from our faces a few moments later, when Anne returned to the table alone, and said, "Joe's gone home and he says he's calling off the wedding."
"Oh!" I know this sounds completely stupid, but I felt tears pricking my eyes. "I'd better go back to the flat."
"No!" Anne and Bev said it simultaneously.
"You don't know what might happen if you did that," Anne said in a voice which suggested we all knew what would happen.
"It would be better if I went to see him," Bev said.
"Oh." It was such an obvious action that I couldn't believe I'd not thought of it. "Would you do that, Benjie?"
"I think your virtue is safe, my dear," Anne added.
"Benjie," I said, "when you find out, you'd better ring me to tell me whether my wedding is on or off.
"Yes," Bev said. "I'll do that."
"But you'll see her back at the flat," Anne said, confused.
"I meant ring me here," I said. "Because the three of us are going to enjoy our meal."
"We certainly are," Luke said, giving me another smile. I smiled back at him.
"Don't eat too much," Bev said. "Remember, you have to get into your dress tomorrow."
"Let's hope so," I said.
"I'll drink to that," Luke said, holding up his glass.
***
It was gone midnight and I was at home before Bev rang me. "Sorry," she said. "It took longer than I expected to resolve our problems."
"You mean the sex was good," I said.
"Yes. But we've decided to go ahead with both weddings; that is assuming you're still up for it."
I paused. I'd been having mixed feelings ever since I'd got home. Obviously, it would be easier if my wedding did not go ahead. It had always seemed an over-reaction to a relatively simple problem, and all kinds of things could go wrong. But on the other hand, I had thought myself into my role. I was Beverley, wanting to make a good impression with Joe's parents, and yes, wanting to get married. At the same time, sixty of Joe's relatives had come all the way from America on the expectation they would see him getting married and to wish him and his new wife well. They would be really upset if it was all called off.
"Is there any chance," I asked Bev, "that you could invite everyone to your wedding?"
"Absolutely none," she said. "Joe is quite adamant he doesn't want them anywhere near his wedding."
"So I'll see you at the Registry Office at nine-thirty and then get me to the church on time. Good luck, my lovely sister."
"Thanks, my wonderful sister. Tomorrow, we shall both be beautiful, blushing brides."
***
Bev and Joe's wedding went without a hitch. Sure, it was embarrassing when the Registrar looked around the waiting room and said to Bev, "Are you waiting for your brother, Benjamin Cook, to act as witness?" and I stood up wearing one of Bev's smart suits and said, "That's me." But we'd realised that with me glued inside the Bustlet and Hiplet, there was no way around the embarrassment. The Registrar was totally professional about it and simply smiled nicely.
We were out of there just after ten and Joe and Bev were husband and wife. Bev and I headed back to our flat where we were meeting Sharon, who was going to give me a makeover, whilst Joe went off to his flat to deal with the final arrangements, hopefully without having another row with his parents.
Sharon spent hours doing my hair — gone was the wig I'd been wearing for the last few days, and she gave me a hair extension; my nails — no bride can walk down the aisle with nails like mine, I was told, so I now sported long talons, making me unable to drink a cup of tea without incredible difficulty; and my make-up — I was fine about that. Finally, I was slipping into my wonderful dress and feeling fantastic.
Luke had agreed to give me away and he was waiting for me outside the church when the limousine dropped me off, only a few minutes late. The photographer insisted on taking several photographs of us at the lych-gate and at the church entrance. Then we stood in the vestibule, Luke's brother, Mark, dressed in his preacher vestments nodded to the organist, and the Bridal March commenced.
It was like being a princess. They all turned and smiled at me as I entered and started walking down the aisle, and I could hear them making comments such as, "Isn't she beautiful," and "Joe's a lucky guy." I stared at Joe, my groom, as he stood waiting for me at the front of the church, and grinned like a ten-year-old.
I can barely remember the events that followed, until we went into the ante-chamber to sign the register. There was a woman sitting there, presumably the church warden, who seemed vaguely familiar, and she suddenly looked at me, clearly with the same feeling. I dearly hoped she was not going to out me. Things could get decidedly tricky.
We signed the register, as did Gavin and Sharon as witnesses, and then did it all over again for the benefit of the photographer. It was as Joe and I were standing like lemons waiting for the photographer to take his photographs of Gavin and Sharon signing the book, when Joe made some trivial remark to the woman about how nice it must be to work in such a beautiful church.
"It is beautiful, isn't it," she agreed, "but I don't work here." Seeing Joe's lack of understanding, she added, "A Church of England vicar normally officiates at weddings at this church, but today you have a visiting preacher, who cannot. Therefore, I have to come as Registrar to make your wedding legal. The preacher only contacted us this morning; you are very lucky we could fit you in. You may have gone through all this wonderful wedding and not been legally married at the end."
Afterwards, I told everyone that my corset must have been too tight, or perhaps it was just the stress of the day. But the sudden buzzing that went through my head seemed to have a life of its own, and the room started to spin.
***
"Are you all right now, Ben?" Bev quietly said to me. Sharon was standing besides her. She had looked after me when I'd fainted, shoeing everyone else out of the room and raising my feet and letting me rest for a few minutes. Then she had helped me to my feet and and into the limousine, which brought us to the hotel where we were holding the reception.
"Yes," I said. "I'm feeling much better, now. I guess it was a combination of things: the stress, my tight corset, the beauty of the occasion."
"And?"
She guessed I had missed out the most important of them all. "Let's talk about it later," I said. "Otherwise, we're going to miss my wedding reception."
We were in a small ante-room and I could hear a mumble of polite conversation as drinks were served in the next room. I smiled at Bev. "Where's my husband?"
She smiled back. "I think you mean my husband." She didn't realise we had both spoken the truth. "He's entertaining his family. If you're ready, we can go and join them and have fun."
Her words were clearly tinged with irony, and I could see why as soon as I entered. Most of the guests had refused the glass of sherry and instead were standing like prunes, holding glasses of fruit juice.
"OK," I said to Bev, "let's party".
It certainly was a lousy party, but there were three conversations which burned a place in my memory.
"It was a real surprise that you're such a dish," said Joe's brother, Abraham. What he actually meant was that I had a superb pair of knockers, as his eyes had been unashamedly staring at them and nothing else since I'd entered the room.
"Well, really," he qualified his remark, "the surprise was that you're female at all."
"Sorry," I said.
"Well, surely you knew. Joseph is not natural in his tastes. In fact," he moved his head closer to add intimacy, "when you find him lacking in bed, you can always come to me. I know how to pleasure a woman."
"Well in that case," I said, "why don't you fuck off?"
I moved further into the room, thinking it was easy to see why Joe had been upset about the arrival of his family.
"Beverley," Anne greeted me, "you're looking very pretty. I'm glad I was able to give you that dress."
"Thank you, Anne," I said.
"Now that we are mother and daughter in-law, can I have a word? I didn't like to say anything before the wedding, but I do need to warn you about Joseph. It's the reason why we had to send him abroad."
"You sent him abroad?"
"You see, dear, he developed some unnatural relationships. He was rather too close to some of his men friends. In fact, when he takes you to bed tonight, you must make certain he - well you may not understand this - but you must make certain he doesn't try to do it the other way."
"Oh, that's all right," I said. "We've talked about this and we're both agreed that we won't do anything like that. Not yet anyway. Maybe in a year or two, when we want to have babies. I suppose then we'll have to start doing it the other way." I walked off, leaving Anne with her mouth wide open.
"Heck, you look ravishing," Luke intercepted me as I purposefully moved across the floor towards Joe, who was nervously watching my progress towards him.
"Thank you, Luke," I said.
"Listen," he said, "if you find Joseph a little lacking in some areas..."
"I won't look in your direction," I said, and walked past him and on to Joe.
"Darling," I said. "I need to give you something." I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a great big kiss.
The kiss went on for so long that people started to applaud. When we finally broke up, I said, "My darling husband. Will you take me up to our room, now, and make love to me?"
Fortunately, we were close to the main exit, so we managed to leave without shaking too many hands (in Joe's case) or being kissed (in mine).
Bev was waiting for us by the door, and we left the room together and got into the lift without speaking. But as soon as the lift doors closed, she asked the question.
"Were Joe's family really telling you that he was gay?"
"You know?" Joe gasped
"Oh, Joe, you silly idiot. Of course I know you're attracted to men and women. I tried to drop a few hints that I knew, but you were always very defensive about it, so in the end I thought I would let time bring it out.
"I do love you, Bev."
"I know," she said. "That's why I married you and that's why I'm having your baby."
The lift stopped at our floor and the doors opened. "I'll leave you guys here," I said.
"You can hardly do that," Bev said. "Everyone will assume that Joe has failed at the first hurdle, and they'll probably give you a family gang-bang."
"In any case," she added, "Sharon told me about the Registrar being at the church, so that means he's your husband as well. Come on, sis. Let's make love to our husband."
***
It was just before dawn before we got to talk properly - as opposed to some very improper talk, along with lots of animal-like grunts and moans.
"I thought if you found out about me," Joe said, "you'd break up with me."
"And I did," Bev said, "and I haven't."
"I can understand now," I said, "why Joe didn't want his family here. What is really a mystery is how did such a great guy as Joe come out of a family like that?"
"I think," Bev said, "that it shows the importance of being open with your loved ones. Don't you agree, Beverley?"
I gasped a little. "Erm," I prevaricated. "I'm not..."
"Remember, it was you who first pointed Joe out to me when we were in the pub. You said he was giving me the eye. It was a long time before I worked out it was you he was fascinated by."
I flushed and then took a deep breath and talked. "I thought Joe was the most beautiful person I had ever seen," I said. "I knew when I pointed him out to you, you'd have no inhibitions about going over to him, shoving your tits under his nose and chatting him up."
"I thought the same about him as you did," she said," but I couldn't understand why he hadn't already been pounced on by some sexy girl, and why he even looked twice at a woman with a nose like mine."
"It was probably," Joe said, "because she took me to bed that evening, and showed me that doing it the other way can be even better."
We all grinned, especially me because I'd just discovered that having a vagina and using it was the most divine thing on earth. (Well, I suppose I should say that having a vagina with Sensotouch was the most divine thing on earth.)
"Where do we go from here?" I asked. "I can understand if you two..."
"We're both married to Joe," Bev said, "so we have to ensure we keep him satisfied - make certain he doesn't ever need to look elsewhere in either direction. Are you up for it?"
I gulped, nervous and excited at the same time - but then I guess that's how girls are on their wedding day. "I'm up for it," I said.
"That sounds," Joe said, "like a marriage made in heaven."
Hilary's Test
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Hilary, an out-of-work tailor, said he'd do anything for a job. Little did he realise how quickly that view would be tested.
Hilary's Test
by Charlotte Dickles
"You're a man," she said.
Hilary Jones grinned to cover his guilt. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice," he shamelessly admitted.
"But this job is for a seamstress in a corsetieres," she said. "It's exempt from the Sex Discrimination Act. It's for women only."
"It didn't actually say 'Women Only' in the ad," he said, "but I do realise I was pushing my luck in coming here. But you've seen my CV; you must think I have the qualifications you want, or you wouldn't have asked me in for interview." For once, he thought, his first name, Hilary, had worked in his favour. "Why don't you give me the interview and if you think I'm suitable, then perhaps we could find a way to work around the issues?"
Tracey Clarkson – at least, Hilary assumed it was her as she hadn't introduced herself – shook her head and swept an arm to indicate the small shop, with the work area at the rear. "You can see the impracticalities of a man working here. Clients come in to discuss intimate details of their bodies, they don't want to find a bloke leering at them. On the other hand…" She broke off, not wanting to tell him that on paper he appeared better than any female she'd seen so far.
"On the other hand," Hilary prompted.
"The interviews last only a few minutes," she said, having quickly decided it was completely impractical to hire a man for this job. She'd have to make do with one of the others. "Most of the time is spent on a test, and you wouldn't want to do that."
"I'm quite willing to do the same test as anyone else," he said. "I've worked as a tailor for decades; I'm not going to be embarrassed by a bra or a foundation garment."
It was Tracey's turn to grin shamelessly at him. "We'll see about that," she said. "Over there," she indicated two chests of wide, flat drawers at the rear of the shop, "are the presses which contain all the separate-sized pieces of the bras and corsets we make here."
Unlike the other interviewees, Hilary actually got up from where they were sitting and walked over and opened a few drawers, noting their contents. "It's all nicely labelled," he said. "Often the arrangement of these kinds of drawers is hidden in the mind of the person who was previously doing the job. It means you can't start sewing any item until you've spent hours categorising what's in there"
"This is my mother's shop," Tracey said. "She lives in the flat upstairs. She knew she was going to be in hospital for a long time and she arranged things so someone else could take over. But she was suddenly admitted last week, before she had chance to recruit anyone. I've had to come over and try to sort things out."
"Are you in the same business?" Hilary queried.
"Heavens! No. I'm an investment banker." Seeing his look of query, she added, "but I did work here when I was a girl, so I know my way around."
"Are you going to manage the business?" Hilary asked. As an interview, he seemed to be asking more questions than she was. Still, it was establishing a rapport between them, essential if he was going to convince her to employ him. And he'd been out of work for so long, he'd do anything for a job. Little did he realise how quickly that view would be tested.
"Mum's quite poorly," she said. "I've taken time off work for the next few weeks. We'll just see how things work out. But that's an aside; we need to get you started with the test – that is, if you want to go ahead with it."
"Like I said," Hilary said, "I'm not going to be embarrassed."
"OK," Tracey said. "The major income for this business is making made-to-measure bras for larger sized women – and I'm talking about cup size rather than band size – anything from DD upwards."
She was mistaken, Hilary thought, if she'd hoped to faze him by mentioning porn-star cup sizes. He nodded, trying to appear intelligent, and said, "I understand bras of that size cost a fortune. I guess that nowadays, producing a high-priced, low-quantity speciality is the only way a small business like this can compete against factory production."
"You obviously understand the economics, but I suggest you have little idea of the problems our customers face on a daily basis."
Hilary nodded. "That's true," he said. "But then in honesty, I bet most of the women who applied for this job have little concept of what it's like carrying breasts of that size."
"All of them, actually," Tracey said. "They were all so slim, damn them. That's why I devised the test. Each applicant has an hour in which to make a bra of their band size, but for an H-cup. After they've made it, they have to wear it, and I have some silicon bra enhancers so they feel the real weight they have to carry." She smiled sweetly and was rewarded by seeing his mouth gape slightly. "You did say you wouldn't be embarrassed by undertaking the same test, didn't you?"
Delightfully, he blushed, and she could see stupid male pride fighting itself – whether to admit defeat at the first hurdle against a woman, or to overcome all his stupid male prejudices by putting on a bra. Which was a shame, really, she thought, as he seemed to have some good ideas. Far better than the gormless women she'd seen so far, but a man working here would never work out.
"An hour seems a bit short in which to produce a quality bra for the first time," he said, clearly looking for a suitable excuse to leave. "I suspect your mother took that time after decades of experience."
"Some of the applicants have asked for extra time at the end to complete the task," she said, "which I have given, provided I thought they weren't wasting both my time and theirs." In fact, most of them had produced absolute junk. "But the key question is whether you're prepared to wear the bra with enhancers to mimic the weight and feel of real breasts."
He grinned again. "You certainly took me by surprise," he said, "but it seems a very fair and a very useful test. If we can't experience what our customers are experiencing, how are we going to deliver something they really need?"
"Then you'll do it?" Tracey was incredulous, if not to say a little shocked that a man would do such a thing. Did she really want this kind of weirdo working for her anyway?
"It's only an item of clothing," Hilary said.
"The silicon enhancers are not really clothing," she said. "Actually, with you having no breasts to start with, I think you'll probably have to wear the Bustlet to get you up to an H-cup."
"What's a Bustlet?" he asked.
"It's like a skin-coloured crop top with built in breasts. You can inflate them from the tap so it's adjustable for a range of cup sizes – ours is the larger model so it goes from DD up to H. It's very realistic." The very idea of a man putting on breasts was repugnant to her, but having virtually tricked him into this, she could hardly backtrack. But, she would definitely not be employing him.
***
"I've pretty well finished," he said to her, just over an hour later. "Here, what do you think?" He handed over the best made bra by far that she'd seen during the tests. In fact, it probably equalled the quality of those made by her mother.
"That would certainly be acceptable," she said. "Now the test is whether you're prepared to wear it."
"I wouldn't have started the test if I wasn't prepared to complete it," Hilary said. "Do you have the Bustlet device you were talking about?"
Tracey had already gone upstairs to the stockroom where it was kept, and she'd inflated it with water until it was an H-cup. "I've left it in the kitchen upstairs," she said. "You can change into the Bustlet and put on the bra up there. I've left a pot of gel with it, which you need to spread over your chest, shoulders and back before putting on the Bustlet. It minimises the perspiration you'd otherwise have.
"Fair enough," he said, and made his way upstairs to Tracey's mother's flat. The Bustlet was prominent, resting on the kitchen table. The huge breasts looked absolutely gorgeous; they were incredibly heavy as he lifted them from their box. Hell, he could hardly believe he was going to be wearing them in a few minutes. But first, there was a pot of red gel he had to smear all over his upper torso.
***
The bra fitted him like a glove. Even so, it was a hell of a weight to carry around, and within seconds the bra straps were digging troughs into his shoulders.
"I think you'll find," Tracey said as she inspected the fit, "that you have fitted conventional narrow straps on this bra, rather than the wider straps that this weight demands. Wear that bra for a few hours and you'd see why you wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Apart from that I can tell you that you have completed the test and the bra is very satisfactory. I have some more interviews to conduct, so I'll let you know the result within a week or so."
Hilary knew a brush off when he saw one. "But you confirm I've satisfactorily completed the test and I get the idea you haven't been over impressed with the other applicants. I can see that my sex is a problem, but how about if I worked at night, outside shop opening hours?"
It was certainly an idea, but after thinking about it for a second, Tracey shook her head. "That would be no good. Customers come in to discuss the fit of their current bras and the seamstress needs to examine and understand the changes that need to be made. I'm sorry, but I don't see how it could work out. Now, unless you want to go home like that, you'd better go upstairs and change out of the Bustlet."
Trying to fight off the depression that inevitably followed a job rejection, he pondered the weight of the breasts stuck on his chest. Was bra cup size the same as the US cup measure of half a pint? If so, each breast would be – he worked through the bra sizes on his fingers – five pints, he decided. Well over a gallon between them – say ten pounds, permanently hanging from your chest. No wonder, large women were prepared to pay so much for a comfortable bra.
Not being used to undoing a bra behind his back, he removed it the reverse of the way he'd put it on; he pulled down the straps off his shoulders and slipped out his arms, then slid the bra slightly down his torso. This left the entire weight of his breasts unsupported by anything except his shoulders, which rapidly began to ache. Then he rotated the bra around his torso until he could unclip it.
He sat at the kitchen table for the next bit, letting his breasts rest there, whilst he fumbled at the lower sides of the Bustlet to get his fingers between Bustlet and skin. Except that the two appeared to be joined together. After trying several times, he called down the stairs. "Tracey, I'm having problems removing the Bustlet. Do you think you can help me, please?"
"Men," she good-naturedly grumbled as she came up the stairs. "Can't they do anything?"
Except that she had the same problem, and her finger nail was a lot more painful than his as it appeared to scratch a hole in his side.
"Ouch!" he muttered.
"You wimp. You should try having a baby.
"It's strange," she continued. "Mum was slipping this on and off several times a day when she was working. She never had any problems. It must be the gel. I found a new pot for you to use, which looked a lot nicer than the pot she had been using. I'll get hers and we can see if they're the same."
When she brought it back, it was clear the two were different: one was green, and the other, the one Hilary had used, was red. Hilary grabbed the pots and read the labels.
"It says it's long-term!" he yelled, holding up the red pot. "I'm stuck in this forever."
"Don't be silly," she said. "It won't be forever. I'm due to go to the hospital to see my mum now. I'll ask her about it."
"But you said the Bustlet was adjustable. Can't we completely deflate it?"
"Not until you've removed it, since the water valves are on the inside. But it's a large size anyway, so even if we could, it would only reduce to a DD-cup. I suppose you'd better stay here whilst I go and see my mum."
"Of course I've got to stay here," he said. "I can't go home like this."
"No," she agreed. "I suppose you can't. You'd better put your bra back on, and I'll get you a dressing gown you can wear."
***
"Mum says you're stuck in it for two weeks."
"Two weeks! You are kidding me. What am I going to do?"
"Mum and I agreed we had better give you the job on a trial basis, and you can stay here, in Mum's flat. At the end of the trial, we'll keep you on provided your work is satisfactory. Actually, this little difficulty nicely overcomes the problem of employing a male seamstress."
"It does?"
"Mum says the company who produce the Bustlet also make a thing called a Hiplet, which gives a man wide hips and a big bum, and keeps your nasty male bits under control. We'll also need to get you some clothes to wear and a wig. The really good thing is that your H-cups will go down very well with our customers, who know that you'll understand their needs."
"I suppose so," Hilary said, nodding agreement. Actually, he'd worked that out before putting on the gel, after reading the label on the pot. It was clear Tracey wasn't going to employ a man and he'd taken the high risk strategy of getting stuck inside the Bustlet. Heavens knew what would have happened if she'd thrown him out!
For Tracey, it had also been a risk. He could have failed the test as badly as the others, but she'd trusted her instincts, as she did in her investment banker job. It had taken her ages to find the pot of red gel, and then carefully remove the extra label her mother had stuck onto it, marked, in thick red felt tip capital letters, 'Permanent Gel. Do not use'.
In the Freezer
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by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS: Nigel, and his wife, Angela, are happy to offer a temporary UK home to Nigel's Aunt Nancy, following the death of her rich husband Frank, in Australia. On their first evening together, they are absolutely delighted when Nancy signs her will leaving all her fortunes to them when she dies. But wills have to be properly witnessed, and with Nancy's premature departure, someone has to witness her signature. Although the family resemblance is fortuitous, Nigel has reservations about the whole scheme. With just cause, it would appear.
This story is complete but will be released in three parts at daily intervals.
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as (and the more sensitive readers may wish to close their eyes whilst reading the next 17 words): crossdressing, sex with multiple partners of both genders, illegal acts, getting drunk, humour and extra marital sex. (If you've had your eyes closed, you may now open them.) So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste (or if you've had your eyes closed), then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
In the Freezer - Part 1
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IN THE FREEZER - PART 1
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS: Nigel, and his wife, Angela, are happy to offer a temporary UK home to Nigel's Aunt Nancy, following the death of her rich husband Frank, in Australia. On their first evening together, they are absolutely delighted when Nancy signs her will leaving all her fortunes to them when she dies. But wills have to be properly witnessed, and with Nancy's premature departure, someone has to witness her signature. Although the family resemblance is fortuitous, Nigel has reservations about the whole scheme. With just cause, it would appear.
This story is complete but will be released in three parts at daily intervals.
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as (and the more sensitive readers may wish to close their eyes whilst reading the next 17 words): crossdressing, sex with multiple partners of both genders, illegal acts, getting drunk, humour and extra marital sex. (If you've had your eyes closed, you may now open them.) So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste (or if you've had your eyes closed), then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
CHAPTER 1 - IN THE FREEZER (Friday and the days that led up to it)
"Hi, Angela, I'm home."
Faintly, I could hear her call from upstairs. "Hi Nigel. I'm in the bedroom."
"It's been a sod of a day," I shouted, walking over to our drinks cupboard and preparing to mix a gin and tonic. "Where's Aunt Nancy?"
I'd opened the ice bucket and was grimacing because Angela hadn't filled it, when she replied faintly from upstairs, "In the freezer."
Knowing my normal first action when I came home, Angela was presumably heading off my complaint. I went through into the kitchen, emptied the water from the ice bucket and then got the ice-tray from the fridge-freezer and squeezed the cubes into the bucket. It was a job that I always found so fiddly that I hated doing it, whereas Angela never seemed to mind. Still, by the time she came downstairs, I was sitting down and had taken my first huge gulp of G and T.
She was looking pretty miserable even before I'd told her the news. Part of me wanted to ask her about her day first - to delay the inevitable tale of woe I had to give her - but I knew the longer I delayed, the more difficult it would become to say.
"Angela. I've got the sack."
"What!"
I shook my head, still hardly able to believe the day's events. "The whole computer system went down. Internet banking was off the air practically all day long. As Operations Manager, I get the blame, regardless of the facts."
"But I thought you had a backup system in Manchester?"
I shrugged. "We do. But last year, the Chief Accountant decided we could get a cheaper communications deal with a cable company than we had with BT. I argued that they wouldn't be as reliable, but they promised the earth. When it came to it, the links to Manchester weren't working. We were totally buggered."
"They should sack the accountant instead."
Another shrug. "He left three months ago to work for one of our rivals."
"And you're left holding the baby."
I nodded. "They're actually getting me to resign rather than sacking me. That way, they'll give me a reference and I'll take leave in lieu of notice. But with all these takeovers going through in the industry, it's not a good time to be looking for work in computer banking. Every bank seems to be shedding staff - not taking them on."
Angela smiled at me. "Poor Nigel. No wonder you couldn't deal with my phone call this morning." (I couldn't even remember her phoning, it had been so frantic.) "Still, never mind, you managed to give me a good enough hint about Aunt Nancy."
My heart gave a sudden lurch. Christ! I'd forgotten all about that. An appalling day was just about to get worse - much, much worse - and my mind darted back to last night, and the four days that had led up to it.
***
It had been the previous Sunday evening when everything had started. Angela and I had been rowing about our normal subject - money. She had been made redundant a few months earlier, and whilst I was on a good salary (little did I know what was to come), it simply did not stretch as far as our joint incomes had done a few months previously. But Angela insisted she still needed to buy new clothes for every job interview she took - and to give her her due, she took plenty but with no results so far.
The phone rang, providing a thankful intervention to the row which was going nowhere. Angela grimaced at me and went to answer it. She was gone a long time and I thought she must be chatting to one of her friends, so I started to watch TV. When she returned, she said, "That was your Aunt Nancy, from Australia."
"Really? That's unusual." Apart from Christmas cards, we hadn't heard from her for years.
"She rang to tell us that Uncle Frank has gone," and added, when she saw the lack of comprehension in my eyes, "as in passed away; deceased; died."
"Oh dear. What a shame. Was it sudden?"
"Seems to have been, although she didn't want to talk too much about it. The point is, she's coming back to England, and wants to stay with us."
I pulled a face. We only had a small house, and with Aunt Nancy living with us, three would definitely be a crowd.
"Before you start complaining," Angela said, "one thing she did say about Frank was that he owned a sheep farm."
"A sheep farm?" That sounded interesting. "A big, sheep farm?"
"Nigel, it's in Australia. Sheep farms are either big, or absolutely gi-normous. And either way, I expect they're worth an awful lot of money."
"Do you know, Angela, it'll be nice having Aunt Nancy staying with us. Perhaps we'll be able to cheer her up after her sad loss."
She smiled. "I imagined you might say that. I thought the same."
"How long does she want to stay for?"
"Well, what she's suggesting is that she flies over this week and stays with us for a couple of days. But then she's proposing that she takes us away to a nice hotel for a week's holiday. I told her we were a bit strapped for cash at the moment and she said not to worry - she'd pay for us all."
"Wow!" That did sound attractive. A nice hotel for a week's free holiday. "Any idea where she wants to go?" I hoped it wasn't London. Working in London, one gets a different view of the place to the tourist.
"Do you remember going to Seacombe on holiday as a kid?"
The question took me straight back to my childhood. "I must have been about eight years old, I should think. We all went to Seacombe for a seaside holiday - Mum, Dad and me, and Aunt Nancy came along as well. She was great fun - she really livened up the holiday, and we all had a great time. But shortly after that, she emigrated to Australia, met Frank there, and settled down."
"Apparently Nancy has to visit some shop in Seacombe, so she's suggesting we go and stay at the Grand Hotel there."
"The Grand?" I reminisced, "We used to walk past that hotel on the way home from the beach to our bed and breakfast. Nancy and I would pretend we were staying there, and we'd talk about ordering champagne breakfasts, and caviar for supper. I didn't know what they were then - I do now, but I still can't afford them."
"Well, perhaps that's just what Nancy will order when we go there. Do you fancy it?"
I nodded. "Yes please, and The Grand sounds quite nice as well."
Angela snorted. "Don't you ever think of anything else?"
I sighed, deciding it was diplomatic to suppress my answer.
***
She rang me at work the next day. "Nigel, I've made a temporary booking for The Grand - seven nights from Saturday. I've spoken to Nancy and she's happy with the price and everything. She'll fly into London Heathrow on Thursday morning. Could you have the day off work, and we'll go and meet her? And are you also alright to book the whole of next week off?"
"No problem. There's not much happening here at the moment," I said, blissfully unaware of what was to come.
"Oh, there's one problem, Nigel. The hotel seems to be in a time warp, permanently stuck in the last century. They don't take credit cards by phone, so we'll need to send them a cheque for the 25% deposit. Obviously, Nancy can't do it from Australia in time for it to get there before she does, so is it alright if I write them a cheque. Obviously it'll take us above our overdraft limit, but Nancy says she'll pay us back as soon as she arrives."
She told me how much the deposit was, and I almost had a heart attack. It was getting on for half a month's net salary!
"I guess you'd better," I said. "It would sound churlish otherwise, but you know the bank will charge us for an unauthorised overdraft." (That was on top of the credit card bill interest.)
Anyone might think that working for a bank, one would get special attention - you do, you're treated worse than anyone else!
***
Meeting Aunt Nancy at Heathrow turned out to be relatively easy. I remembered her as a tall, willowy young woman. She was still tall, about the same height as my five feet ten inches, but she'd broadened out everywhere, including, I was delighted to notice, a very nice, round pair of tits pushing through the front of her track-suit. I'd reckoned she must be twenty years older than me, so that made her fifty-eight. However, rather than being almost an OAP, as I'd expected, she was like Joan Collins had appeared at that age. Indeed, her hair was similar to one of the styles that Joan Collins has - you know, where it cascades down to her shoulders and underneath her chin.
"Nigel! My favourite nephew," she said, throwing her arms around me and forcing my chest so hard against those breasts I could feel her nipples trying to pierce me. At the same time, she smothered my cheeks with kisses.
"Nancy, my favourite aunt," I replied, sharing the small joke we'd had when I was eight years old. I only had one aunt, and she, only one nephew.
She turned to Angela. "And this must be Angela," she said. "You didn't tell me she was so beautiful, Nigel." She relinquished her hold of me and went through the same kind of hugs with Angela.
"Have you eaten?" she asked, when she eventually released Angela.
We shook our heads; it was barely midday.
"Well, that's fine," she said. "I had a meal on the plane, so I don't need anything, but I do need to see someone in Slough about the lock on my little jewel box. Slough is quite close to here, isn't it? I rang them whilst I was waiting for the baggage to come through and they're expecting me, so we could pop over there and you could go into a pub for some lunch whilst I go in and see them."
Slough was a bit out of the way, but not significantly, so when we got back into the car, I obediently turned it towards the address she had given us.
***
"Well, that's got that little job done." Nancy sat down next to us in the pub where we'd agreed to meet after she'd gotten her jewellery box fixed. "And I'll have a pint of Fosters, please Nigel."
Angela gave me a look. In her absence, Angela had been criticising Nancy's weight - as women do - and we'd had a bet upon whether she would drink pints or something smaller. I lost. Angela had also suggested the Joan Collins hairstyle was a wig, and the breasts were silicon, but we hadn't placed a bet on either of those, since we thought we were unlikely to discover the answers.
When I returned from the bar with Nancy's drink, Angela said, "You know, Nigel, I can't help noticing how similar you and Aunt Nancy are. Your faces are almost identical."
"Even when he was young you could see how he took after his grandmother, just like me," Nancy said. "He was a really pretty boy, and I think he's still very pretty now."
"Thanks," I said. "That was a bit of a back-handed compliment."
"Well, Angela's absolutely spot on, but her comparison doesn't really say much for my femininity, either," Nancy said. "But I compensated for that by having my tits done." Without a trace of embarrassment, she grabbed hold of her tits and gave them an affectionate squeeze.
Angela gave another knowing nod at me, whilst I tried not to notice the guys at the next table who were openly leering at Nancy. As a distraction, I supped some beer, whereupon Nancy let go of her tits, picked up her lager and started to gulp it down with a speed that astonished me.
"Would you like me to drive home tonight?" Angela offered. "Only someone gave Nancy a flier as she was coming into the pub, about a closing-down sale of evening-gowns and dresses just around the corner. She needs to buy some new clothes for the hotel next week, so I thought I could go with her and help her choose, whilst you stay here and have an extra couple of pints. How does that sound?"
It sounded pretty good to me. They had an excellent cask of local ale behind the bar, and because I was driving, I'd been limiting myself to one pint. It wasn't often that Angela positively encouraged me to drink without close monitoring, and this seemed an excellent opportunity.
So, after Nancy had quickly finished her drink, the two women departed for the shop, and I went to the bar for a replenishment.
***
"Nigel, could you come round to the shop and help carry Nancy's parcels back to the car?"
I had just been finishing off my fourth pint, and was feeling nicely inebriated, when my mobile went off and Angela made her request. Under slightly more sober conditions, I would probably have started to make some comment about the quantity of goods she must have bought, but it had all been extra drinking time for me, and I couldn't care a fig. Angela gave directions, and five minutes later I was walking through the shop door.
"Nigel, look! Nancy's bought me a present." Angela held up a large bag and waved it at me. "It's so lovely, and I'd been thinking I really need something extra for the hotel next week."
She was about to open the bag and show the contents to me, when Nancy said, from the counter where she was standing, "Nigel, this till won't accept my credit card. Could you pick up the tab and I'll pay you later?"
If I'd been sober, I'd have undoubtedly checked the amount before handing over my card and entering the PIN, but as it was I didn't notice it until afterwards when the assistant handed me the receipt. The total cost was the equivalent of more than two months' salary! I sure hoped Nancy settled her debts pretty quickly, or I'd be bankrupt.
***
Dinner that night was pretty good. I'd had a chance to sleep off my excess alcohol, whilst Angela had prepared one of her superb meals. (Well, actually, that meant microwaving the Marks and Spencer packs, and then presenting them on her own serving dishes, but Nancy didn't know the difference.)
Nancy told us about life in Australia, and we told her about our own lives - how we'd met; our jobs; our social lives - without going too deeply into the rather rocky state of our marriage. Conversation was free and easy, and it wasn't until the end that I got the chance to bring the conversation around to more important matters.
"Nancy? I need to talk with you about money."
"Oh, of course!" she said. "I was forgetting. Just a minute, I need to get my papers from my bedroom."
She was back a minute later with a sheaf of official looking documents. "With Frank gone," she said, "it made me realise how vulnerable I felt, and I realised you were the only two living relatives I had.
"Before making it official, I wanted to see you and make certain I felt the same way afterwards, but now I have, I can tell you I've had a new will drawn up, leaving everything to the two of you."
She pulled a foolscap document of thick, legal paper from an envelope, opened it out, and then took up her pen and signed it.
"There. I only need you two to witness it, and it will all be legal," she said.
Angela reached forward for the document Nancy was holding, but I said, "That's no good, Nancy. The solicitor should have explained: the will can only be witnessed by people who don't benefit under the will, otherwise it's invalid. We'll need to get some other people to witness it."
I turned towards Angela. "Do you think it's too late to go round next door to the Sharps?"
She looked at the clock and nodded. "It's gone ten-thirty. They'll be tucked up in bed by now. We can get them sometime tomorrow."
We all nodded. After all, it wasn't as though there was any desperate hurry.
"Talk of bed has got me yawning," Nancy said, demonstrating her statement. "Do you have any drinking chocolate or cocoa?" she asked Angela.
"Oh yes, I'll go and make it," Angela said, rising to her feet.
Nancy firmly stood up. "You've done enough today, already, Angela," she said. "I'll make it. Now, would anyone else like some?"
Angela said she would, but after my pre-dinner sleep I still felt wide-awake. I said I'd stay up for a while and stack the dishes in the dishwasher. It was only after they'd both gone off to bed, that I realised I hadn't asked Nancy for any money.
***
"My favourite nephew."
I'd met Nancy as I was leaving the bathroom, clad only in my pyjamas. She was wearing a full-length nightdress, with a deep-scoop neckline.
"My favourite aunt," I politely responded, trying not to peer down that tremendous valley between her tits. In spite of her years, they were still perfect, and didn't have that orange-peel effect you see on some older women.
"My favourite nephew admiring his favourite view."
I blushed slightly. "Sorry Aunt."
"Nothing wrong with a man admiring a juicy pair of tits. Do you want to see them properly?" She didn't wait for an answer, simply pulled the nightdress off her shoulders and down her arms. The neckline snagged for a minute over her nipples, but then dropped down, exposing a fabulous pair of knockers with rosebud nipples.
I gasped, before remembering that only the bedroom door separated us from Angela. "Look, it's a bit difficult really, Aunt."
"Rubbish," she said, and pushed open the door to our bedroom.
I almost had a heart attack on the spot, until I saw that Angela was lying in bed, fast asleep.
"I'm afraid I slipped a couple of sleeping pills into her cocoa," Nancy said, "because I am bloody hungry."
Her hand darted through the fly on my pyjamas and grabbed my hard prick. She smiled as she gave it a little squeeze and I groaned. "And it looks like you're very willing to feed me," she said, leading the way to her bedroom.
Afterwards, I told myself I had the choice of following, or having my prick pulled off, which was no choice at all.
***
Sex is always good, but sometimes for very different reasons. With Nancy, it wasn't that she kept me on the edge of orgasm for hours, or that she knew hundreds of different erotic positions. It was just a great, straight fuck.
Once in the bedroom, I went to stroke her breasts, but she held both my wrists and said, "Don't bother with the foreplay. I've been jigging myself all the time you've been stacking the dishes. I'm ready for it. Just shag me like a bull in a fucking china shop."
She certainly was ready for it. She had a condom to hand, and she had it slipped over my prick in less than a second. As I entered her, her juices were freely flowing, and as soon as I set up a rhythm, she started groaning and growling - almost like a dog with a bone. Within seconds she was on the point of orgasm. She grasped both her hands onto my arse and started frantically working me against her. Harder and harder - faster and faster. Her growls had turned to grunts, like a pig rummaging in a trough, and then she was coming in a fantastic climax. She didn't scream - thank God or she'd surely have woken Angela, sleeping pill or not - but her breath was coming in huge long rasps and that was the moment when I also came.
I slammed into her, and she used her hands and her legs to force my prick hard inside her; a moment's withdrawal, and then we were slamming together again - and again - and again, until every drop of my semen had squirted deep inside her. (Well, OK, into the condom.)
Slowly, I came to a halt and looked at her. There was a huge grin right across her face, and she looked totally fucked. I closed my eyes, moved my mouth to her breast and gave a sharp, little affectionate bite on her nipple.
***
I awoke with a jump. Jesus Christ! How long had I been lying in bed with Nancy? What time was it? Had Angela noticed my absence?
Nancy still had her legs wrapped around my bum, crossed at the ankles. It must have been an uncomfortable way to sleep, but I guessed she'd had such a long time without sex, that even subconsciously she didn't want to let go. I wriggled a bit, to try to get her to release her legs, but she was dead to the world and I couldn't shift her.
In the end, I had to grab hold of the headboard and pull myself up through those pincer legs, until I could get free. I grabbed my pyjamas from the floor and dashed into the bathroom. I flushed away the condom, thoroughly washed my cock, put on my pyjamas and went to our bedroom and slipped into bed. Angela didn't stir.
***
Back to Friday
Only now, it appeared, that sometime during the frenzied day, Angela had telephoned me about Nancy, and had obtained some kind of hint about what had happened. What the hell had anyone at work said to her? It wasn't as though I'd mentioned last night to anyone. Well, better get it out the way.
I looked around, and smiled. "Where is Nancy? When I asked earlier, I thought you said she was in the freezer." Best to try a little joke to lighten the mood.
Angela looked puzzled. "Er, yes! That's where you said to put her."
It had been a mad day. Angela seemed to have joined the rest of it. "Well, she wasn't there when I went to get out the ice-cubes, just now," I quipped.
"Not that one, you stupid idiot! The chest freezer in the garage."
I looked her in the face, not understanding the joke, but ready to meet her smile with one of my own. Wasn't it great, I thought, that even after I'd told her about today, my wife could still have a little joke like this.
Except that she wasn't smiling! A sudden dread filled my heart. Without saying anything further, I put down my drink and went into the kitchen and through the interconnecting door to the garage.
I lifted the lid. We didn't tend to use the big chest freezer much now, since we'd stopped bulk buying from the farm shop, so it should have been empty, apart from a couple of tubs of ice cream. Instead, it was full of plastic sheeting - what looked like the huge bag in which the mattress for the spare bed had been wrapped when it was delivered - only now it was wrapped around something other than a mattress.
I found the edge of the plastic sheeting and pulled it back, to reveal my worst nightmare. For there was Aunt Nancy, her eyelashes covered in frost!
***
I stared at her for a few seconds, and then turned to Angela.
"Angela. Why have you put Aunt Nancy in the freezer?" Quite a reasonable question, I thought, and calmly put, considering it was obvious Angela must have found out about our illicit sex and murdered her. Perhaps she was just about to murder me and pop me in besides Nancy, but there was no sign of any weapon in her hands. Not even any sign of aggression on her face. This was so weird, I thought. Perhaps the strain of the day has sent me mad.
"Well, I'd thought that was the best thing to do," she said, "even before I telephoned you. Then I rang your office and you suggested the same."
"Angela. I didn't speak to you today. We had the emergency on, you remember?" But hardly as big an emergency as what had happened here.
Angela looked totally puzzled. "No, but Adrian answered the phone and said you couldn't speak, so I told him to tell you that Nancy had gone, hoping you'd understand the hidden message. And when he came back, he said that I should put her on ice."
"Oh my God!" I whispered. I remembered now. With the internet banking system collapsed and the whole office in panic mode, Adrian had come to me with a message from Angela that Nancy had gone out. Big fucking deal! I'd told Adrian to put ANGELA on ice - in other words, get rid of her - and the half-wit must have relayed the message verbatim.
"When did she die?" My mind was scrabbling to find some logical fact I could cling to.
"I found her dead when I went to wake her this morning. She was quite cold by then, and rigor mortis had set in, so there was no hurry to call a doctor or ambulance. It meant I had time to think."
"But why did you need time to think?"
She looked at me as though I was stupid. "Don't be daft. Nancy signed her will last night, but we didn't get it witnessed. Therefore it's invalid. We need to hide her death until a respectable time after the witnessed will has been lodged with her solicitors.
"Bloody hell! You must be joking. It's illegal!"
"Alright, not reporting a death is illegal, but it's not as though we've murdered her or anything. And she properly signed the will, so we're not trying to steal money she didn't want us to get. It's just the paperwork we need to sort.
"Don't forget that she owes us a packet of money," she continued. "I booked the hotel for her and paid the deposit, and you paid for those clothes yesterday - and also don't forget it was a closing-down sale, so they won't take them back. Can we prove she owes us the money?
"And what happens if the will stipulates that Nancy has to outlive Frank by, say, a month, before she inherits. That's often in wills to avoid double-death duties in the event of them both dying within a short time of each other, like in a car accident. If that was the case, she may have no money at all, and we could go and whistle for our overdraft. No, I thought it out fairly carefully, even before I tried to get hold of you, and I'm convinced it was the right thing to do."
"Bloody hell!"
"I was right about the wig, also" Angela said, pointing towards a carrier bag next to the freezer. Aunt Nancy's hair could be seen poking out the top.
I shuddered.
"And Nancy told us her breasts were false, but at the time, I didn't realise how false." She bent down and rummaged inside the carrier bag beneath the wig. "Look," she said, pulling out something large and skin-coloured.
I stared at it. "What is it?"
"They're called Bustlets," she said, holding the object in front of her chest, as she twisted round to face me. Nancy's tits appeared to be stuck to Angela's chest!
"Bloody hell!" I could see now that it was a long-necked, skin-coloured vest, with boobs imbedded in the front. The kind of thing you sometimes see in Joke Shops, only these looked very, very realistic.
"They look very good when they're on her," she said. (Well, I knew that!) "I almost didn't notice them, but they were a little too tight for her, and there was a slight indentation where they met her skin. If she'd only recently taken off her bra, I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but since she'd only been wearing a nightdress, it looked a little strange. I felt the indentation with my finger, and then realised the whole garment came off."
She turned back to face the body in the freezer. "She looks very different now, without her wig and boobs. But still, just look at the lovely smile she had on her face when she died. I think she died happy, knowing that we were going to inherit her money."
I looked at her face again, and saw the same smile on her face as she'd had last night, as she'd come to a heart-stopping climax! Oh my God! And I'd lain inside her for ages after she'd died! I shut the freezer with a slam and went back to replenish my G and T.
***
"I don't think the Sharps will witness her will, just on our say so that she signed it in the first place," I said to Angela when we'd gone back to the lounge and each of us had a large G and T in our hands.
"Of course, we can't even ask them to," Angela replied. "It would be far too suspicious."
"So does that mean we have to forge the witness signatures?"
"That would be dangerous as well. It only needs some other person who feels they should have inherited to start checking things, and we could end up in prison."
I shivered at the thought. "Well, what then?"
Angela smiled at my air of desperation. "Nancy's booked to go to The Grand Hotel tomorrow, for a week. No one knows her there, so if someone else registers in her name, who's to know the difference. And then what would be more natural than that a few days later, she asks a couple of the staff to witness her signature on a document?"
"Of course," I said, as Angela's plan came clear to me. "With the wig and the boobs..."
"The perfect disguise," she said. "Especially if we ask the male staff to sign and she's wearing a dress with a low-cut cleavage."
"Brilliant! But what about... later? Finding the body, you know. And if there's an autopsy, won't they know the body's been frozen?"
"I think it's important not to rush it," Angela said. "Too many people come to grief because they try to do that. So, after our holiday, we send the will to the solicitor, and tell him Nancy will use our home as a base, but she intends to travel around the country for a few months, doing some sightseeing.
"We'll need to keep an eye on the weather forecasts, choosing our moment carefully. At the right time, Nancy will go for a holiday in a cottage in Snowdonia or Ben Nevis, or somewhere like that. She'll be seen walking by herself for a few days, and then there'll be a nasty snowstorm, and she goes missing. Eventually, they find her frozen body buried under six feet of snow. Poor Nancy."
"Absolutely brilliant!" I sat back and considered Angela's masterpiece. "Fantastic and... Hang on, there's a flaw there."
I thought for a moment before continuing. "Look, it could be that one of the police or mountain rescue guys sees Nancy walking in the area before her 'death'. When they find her body, they'll immediately realise that it's a very different person from the person they saw walking."
Angela stared at me, and said nothing.
"Well, you must have thought of that, Angela. You always think of everything."
Still Angela said nothing.
"OK," I said, "Do you not understand what I'm saying? Nancy is about five feet, ten high, and quite stocky, whereas you're only five, six and very slim. Even with Nancy's boobs on, they're not going to mistake you and Nancy for one and the same person."
"Right," she said. "And similarly, at The Grand, if anyone asks the witnesses to describe Nancy, they'll need to give a plausible description."
"Precisely!"
"So we'd need someone about five feet, ten inches high, with a face that looks quite similar to Nancy's."
Her words were like a blow in the stomach. "No!" It was absolutely ridiculous! "No way!" Totally preposterous! "You must be out of your mind! It would never work."
"Why not?"
"I couldn't pretend to be a woman."
"Well Nancy never seemed to try very hard to be like a woman, apart from the hair and tits."
There was one other way in which she'd been a woman, but I didn't want to go into that.
"Look," Angela said, "I realise you've had lots of shocks to the system today, and you'd probably like time to think about it. The problem is, we haven't got a lot of time. If we go along with my plan, we'll be checking into The Grand tomorrow afternoon. So my suggestion is that, rather than trying right at this moment to decide Yes or No, let's assume you're going to do it, and if you want to withdraw tomorrow, that's fine.
"We could even go to The Grand with you in disguise and still decide not to get the witness signatures if we think you've been rumbled. After all, it's hardly illegal for a man to dress as a woman. And if you're very good, as I intend you to be, no one will rumble you."
I shrugged. She was right, and given that we already had a dead body illegally stored in our freezer, one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
***
We spent the whole evening getting me ready for tomorrow. Firstly, I had to strip naked, and then Angela applied wax all over my body, covered it with bandages and then ripped the bandage off again, taking with it my body hair and most of my skin. Hell, it hurt! How do women go through that all the time?
Perhaps I should have protested, but secretly I knew I had to grin and bear it. Thank God Nancy had made me use a condom last night! Without it, my semen would be in her vagina, frozen along with every other bit of her insides. Come the post-mortem, as she would undoubtedly have, they would have been able to analyse the DNA to show that, immediately prior to her death, Nancy had sex with a close relative.
Of course, Nancy only had one male close relative, so regardless of where her body was discovered, under what kind of highly credible conditions, the suspicion would be pointed directly at me! And if I were shown to be several hundred miles away at the time she supposedly died, there'd be a lot of very searching questions asked. Even if, by some miracle, I managed to avoid a criminal conviction, our marriage would be abruptly ended.
As it was, if we could pull off this incredible deceit, I'd be saved. So, as Angela ripped off my skin, shred by shred, I took it in the same way that a member of Opus Deus bears the self-flagellation, until finally, the agony was over, and Angela was smoothing cream over what was left of my skin.
"I suggest you try on the Bustlet now," Angela said, "and see how it fits. Then, we can put some make-up on you. I'll need to teach you the basics of make-up, so you can do it yourself, especially when you go into the Ladies and need to touch it up."
I guess I should have been horrified at the thought, but actually, once the waxing was over, I started to enjoy the thought. Suppose I could get away with it - go into a smart hotel and have men admiring my boobs pushing out the top of my dress. The very idea was so erotic, it brought a flush to my cheeks.
Angela looked at me and for once gave me a sympathetic smile. "I know it's horrible for you Nigel, but it's not only going to get us out of a bit of a financial mess, it's also helping Aunt Nancy to have her dying wish fulfilled."
Personally, I thought I had already achieved that, but that was a comment which could never be aired. Instead, I put on my brave face, and said, "Let's give it a go."
"Great."
Angela took the Bustlet out of the carrier bag and we both looked at it a bit more closely, before trying to fit it onto me. It was in the form of a short, sleeveless vest, but with a long neck which would stretch right up to the chin, with the huge pair of boobs pushing out the front. I wasn't certain what it was made of - I guessed some kind of nylon, with silicon inserts - but it looked, and felt, just like real skin, although perhaps slightly more tanned than my own.
Fortunately, the join under the chin could be disguised with make-up, and the shoulders of a dress or a blouse would hide the point where my arms protruded through the armholes. The join at the lower edge would be hidden at the front underneath my boobs, but the difference in the tan would probably be obvious at the back. Still, since I wasn't intending anyone other than Angela to see that, it wasn't going to be a problem.
I held my arms straight forwards towards Angela, and she fed the garment over them and down towards my head. It was a terrible squeeze getting my head through the narrow neck, but when it was done, Angela could pull the garment as far down my body as it would go. One final stretch and she was satisfied.
"Wow, you look fantastic!" she said. "Perhaps I ought to get one, as well."
I looked down at the breasts protruding from my chest. "Bloody hell! They look good."
And, not only did they look good, well... they felt good. Does that sound weird? How could inanimate objects sewn into the garment I was wearing on my chest have any kind of feeling? But I could feel the way they gave a little b-o-y-n-n-g-g-g as they wobbled under their own weight. I raised my two hands to cup them and give them a firm squeeze, in the same way Aunt Nancy had done in the pub on Thursday.
"Jesus!" I screamed. "Hell, that hurt!"
"What is it?" Angela was shocked by my scream. She moved to touch my breasts as though they were real and they needed a stroke.
"Don't touch them!" I yelled, grabbing her by the wrists and holding her hands well away from my tits. "They're alive. They bit me."
"Don't be stupid. They can't be alive. There's nothing inside them."
I shook my head. "I don't know what it is, but when I gave them a squeeze, it was as painful as when you were waxing my chest, just now."
"That's unbelievable. They simply can't..." She paused for a second and then said, "Look, I promise I won't try to touch them, but close your eyes and tell me what you can feel."
Still holding her wrists, I did as she bade. "Nothing really, except that... U-u-g-g-h-h!" It hadn't been painful, but certainly I felt something brush my left nipple. I opened my eyes, but Angela was still standing as motionless as before. "What did you do?"
She was shaking her head now. "That's incredible," she said. "I simply blew on the nipple, and you felt it. Look." She gave another little puff from her mouth, this time at the right nipple on my Bustlet. Again, I felt it.
"Hell!" I said. "That really is amazing. The Bustlet has got sensitivity. In fact, it's extraordinarily sensitive. When I grabbed them, the way I sometimes grab you, it was incredibly painful. I don't know what they'd be like if you did something incredibly painful to them, like giving them a nip with your teeth, or something..."
It was fortunate I'd pretty well finished my sentence as the realisation crept in. Nancy had physically prevented me playing with her tits last night, in much the same way that I was now holding Angela's wrists. I hadn't thought anything about it at the time, but afterwards, just as I was dropping into my post-coital slumber, I'd given her an affectionate bite on her nipple and now she was dead.
"What is it?" Angela was trying to interpret the look on my face.
"I don't know. Something seems wrong, somehow. I mean, it's great having false tits which are sensitive, but these are just too sensitive. I'm frightened to let you touch them. That's not how tits should be; they should be a delight to play with."
"Well you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Angela said with a sarcastic smile. "But you're right. Your breasts just seem wrong. I wonder if there's some setting underneath we can get at and adjust. Do you want to take them off."
I shook my head. "Yes, I want to take them off, but No, I'm not going to let you touch them. It's absolute agony."
"Well, we have to get them off. Clearly, you can't go to the hotel screaming every time someone joggles your tit. Do you want to see if you can slowly work them off by yourself?"
Thirty minutes later, we had to admit defeat. I'd tried my best on my own, and then Angela had carefully tried to help, all to no good. Every time a breast was even joggled, I was in agony.
"What the hell are we going to do, Angie?" I asked in desperation.
"I suppose we could try to find who the suppliers are, and ring them up."
"What, in Australia?"
"Well, at least it will be the start of their day, rather than the evening," she said.
"Yes. The start of a Saturday morning," I cried. "They may not even be open today, and we don't know the name of the supplier, anyway. I'm going to be stuck in this forever. I shall probably die in it, just like Aunt Nancy."
"Well, at least I'll get some peace," Angela said.
CHAPTER 2 - I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE
I was interrupted from further panic by the phone ringing. I was closest, so I picked it up.
"Is Mrs Brown there?"
Damn! We'd only been running the conspiracy for a few hours, and not only was I trapped inside a woman's breasts, we now had a woman looking for Nancy.
"I'm sorry, she's not here at the moment. I'm Nigel Simmons, Mrs Brown's nephew. She's staying with us. Can I help you?"
"Hello Mr Simmons. This is Toni from Big Busts in Seacombe. Mrs Brown was due to visit us tomorrow sometime, but she was going to telephone today and confirm her arrival. Can you confirm she is still intending to come, and what time it might be?"
I was about to fob her off, when it struck me.
"Sorry, did you say 'Big Busts'?"
"That's right. We manufacture a range of goods, including head and shoulder busts."
"But it's not just head and shoulder busts, is it? You also manufacture big busts, as in a Bustlet. Is that right?"
"Well, yes, we do manufacture a number of other products, including the Bustlet."
"It's just that my Aunt Nancy... well she's gone away for a few days and she left her Bustlet behind, saying she didn't need it for the time being - it was too sensitive, and we could use it, and, well..." I took a deep breath. I had to say the words; there was no point in delaying them. "The silly thing is, I tried it on and now I can't get if off." The last few words came out in a rush - I felt so stupid.
"You mean you tried on Mrs Brown's Bustlet?"
"I know it's absolutely stupid. I mean, it's not as though I'm homosexual or anything, it's just that..."
"No, no! It's not stupid at all, and your sexuality is of no concern to us. In fact, we have lots of heterosexual male customers who enjoy wearing a Bustlet. No, it's just that I was surprised that Mrs Brown left her Bustlet with you, without warning you it was faulty. She was coming in tomorrow to change it. So, can I just confirm that you're wearing the Bustlet now?"
"Yes, and the problem is, it's so sensitive, I can't get it off."
"Alright, it sounds as though you've got the sensitivity level set too high. We warned Mrs Brown not to go above five. What have you got it set to?"
"Sensitivity level? Er, I'm not certain what it's set to or how to change it."
"Do you have the remote control?"
"Hang on." I turned to Angela. "It's Big Busts in Seacombe. They're the company that supplied Aunt Nancy's Bustlet."
She nodded. "I gathered that."
"They say there should be a remote control unit. Have you seen it?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think so. I'll go upstairs and have a look."
I told Toni that Angela had gone to look for it and, added, "Did you say the unit was faulty."
"Mrs Brown telephoned us last week, and from her description, it sounded like she'd got a fault on the unit. That's highly unusual, they're normally very reliable."
"A fault? That sounds quite dangerous."
"Well, it could be if you had it on a high sensitivity setting, which we warned Mrs Brown against. The skin of the Bustlet is made of material like a touch-sensitive computer screen, and there are electrodes in contact with your own skin that simulate those sensations. If there is a fault on the unit, it could result in a nasty electric shock. It could be lethal in the extreme."
I checked Angela was still upstairs, before I asked, "So if she had sex with someone and they gave her nipple a bite..."
"Oh! Don't even think about it. We suggested to Mrs Brown that she stop using the Bustlet, but she insisted. So we gave strict instructions not to use it above a sensitivity setting of five. From your own reactions, it sounds like she left it on quite a high setting. The important thing at the moment is to find the remote and set it much lower."
Just then, Angela came back in the room waving a remote.
"OK," I told Toni, "we've found the remote."
"Simply point it at the front of the Bustlet and press zero," the woman said.
Angela heard her words and did as commanded. In an instant, my breasts changed from super-sensitive orbs, detecting every breath of air in the room, to totally inanimate objects, as I'd originally expected them to be.
"Phew! I think that's done the trick." I gently touched my left breast with a finger. Nothing. I gave it a harder squeeze. Still nothing. "Yes. Thank you so much. I was getting into a real panic, there. I thought I'd be stuck in it forever."
"Glad to be of service. Now, did you say your aunt has gone away for a few days? Presumably, that means she won't be bringing the Bustlet into our shop in Seacombe."
"My wife and I are coming down to Seacombe. We could bring it in."
"That would be excellent. Er... did I understand you to say that your aunt had now lent you the Bustlet?"
"Yes, she did. She said she wasn't going to use it."
"I'm sorry she's stopped using it, but we did advise her to discontinue until the fault was fixed. However, if you're now the owner of it, then we'll be happy to give you a proper fitting for a new Bustlet to replace the faulty one. And to make up for the pain and discomfort caused to you this evening by the faulty appliance, we'll also throw in a free Hiplet, as well. If you'd like one, that is."
"Er, what's a Hiplet?"
"It's a garment we've developed in response to demands from our male customers who want to look convincing women. It's a bit like a long-legged control brief, only it has padding from knee to hip, to produce a much more female shape. Like the Bustlet, it is absolutely lifelike, so it's very difficult to tell it from the real thing."
"Well, I expect there's one way," I said, with a smirk on my face.
"Not at all," she said, detecting my innuendo. "The Hiplet has a built in vagina. You can enjoy full heterosexual sex as a woman wearing a Hiplet."
"Bloody hell! Well, I don't need that."
"The choice is yours. If you want to look a convincing woman, then you need a Hiplet, and we only make them to be absolutely realistic. How you use it is your choice, but we'll be quite happy to give you one to make up for the pain you've suffered tonight. Does that sound acceptable?"
"That sounds great."
"Alright, what time will we see you here?"
"Can we make it about two pm?"
"See you then."
SATURDAY
Toni in Big Busts was, appropriately, a very big-busted woman. (I couldn't help wondering if her breasts were enlarged with the aid of a Bustlet; I rather suspected they were.) She had a skin as black as any I had ever seen, and she greeted us with a broad smile.
"You're early, Mrs and Ms Simmons, but that's no problem at all."
Her smile was infectious, and I grinned back. "We made good time, and we've just had a nice lunch." And I very self-consciously added, "Please call me Nigella."
As we were getting dressed this morning, I'd suggested to Angela there was really no point in wearing Nancy's Bustlet, since we were going to change it anyway, and that I should drive down to Seacombe as a man. Of course, Angela had overruled me.
"You need to get the feel of being a woman straightaway," she had said. "You haven't got much time before you have to be really convincing. After all, if you need to buy some petrol..."
"But I do," I'd interjected, "that's why..."
"That's a very good reason why you should go en femme," she'd said. "It will give you some practice in front of others. If you're detected, it's not the end of the world and if you're not, it will give you some confidence."
"But I'll have to pay for the petrol. My voice..."
"You spent all last night practising your voice. It's time to give it a trial with something simple. After all, you'll only have to give the number of the pump and say thank you. You should be able to manage that, shouldn't you?"
It was true. I'd practised with a tape recorder under Angela's guidance for hours. In the end, we'd managed to find a voice which I created in my mouth, rather than deep down in the throat, and which we thought would probably fool most people. If I couldn't do something as simple as giving a pump number to a bored assistant, there was no chance of success of the rest of our scheme.
So I had put on the Bustlet and wig, and dressed in Nancy's tracksuit. Then, Angela had made-up my face, so I looked - and felt - quite presentable, and I'd actually managed perfectly well in the filling station. It was true, I'd only had to say, "Three," in response to the assistant's "What pump?" and then "Thank you," but I'd come out feeling a whole lot more confident than when I'd gone in. So much so that Angela had coerced me into going into a roadside cafe for lunch! Again, I'd had no problems.
As for my new name, we'd agreed that we shouldn't involve Toni in any part of our deceit, and that I should say I was simply changing my gender as an experiment. Angela had proposed my new name, Nigella.
So, now I was facing Toni. She knew I was a male in drag, yet she seemed to have no awkwardness about the situation. I might just as well have been Aunt Nancy.
"Alright, get stripped off, and take off the Bustlet, and we'll see if we can find a better skin match for you than the one you have at the moment."
"No," Angela said. "I think we'd better stick with the original shade of skin.
"After all," she added, turning towards me, "Aunt Nancy will probably want it back at some stage, so she'll be very upset if the Bustlet doesn't match her skin."
Christ! Angela was right. If I'd had a colour to match my skin, it would have stuck out a mile, when Aunt Nancy's dead body was found, if her Bustlet didn't match her skin.
"Of course, I was forgetting that," I said to Angela. "Alright, we'll stay with the same shade."
"No problem," Toni said. "I presume that doesn't apply to the Hiplet, though. You'll want that to blend in with your own skin."
I was going to say it didn't matter as there was no way anyone other than Angela was going to see it, but Angela spoke before I could.
"Oh yes, please." In response to my look at her, she added, "Well, you might want to have a swim in the hotel pool. I'm sure we could get a nice bikini for you."
"Before you go buying the bikini," Toni said, "remember that Nigella is going to be very large around the hips. She may not look that good in a bikini."
Angela look perturbed, and said, "Oh, does she have to be that large? Nigel has a lovely trim bottom. I was rather hoping Nigella would be similar."
Toni shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she said. "The problem is that Nigel has wide shoulders. Unless we pad out Nigella's hips to compensate for them, she will look like a man dressed as a woman, regardless of the size of her boobs. That's the most important feature of the Hiplet; it gives a person wide hips, even though that's the very shape that most females want to change.
So, by the time we left Big Busts, I had a figure that Angela despaired over.
"I thought you would make such a lovely woman because you had nice slender thighs and legs, not fat like mine." (As usual, Angela was exaggerating the size of her body.) "Now, you're really fat."
"Thanks," I retorted. "How am I supposed to have any confidence when you make remarks like that?"
"Oh, don't worry, darling. No one could possibly imagine that you could be anything other than totally genuine. After all, no one would TRY to make themselves look like that." She gave another look over me. "Well, I suppose you do look quite similar to Aunt Nancy, and that is the reason we're going through all this."
"I'm glad you reminded me of that. After the way you were gloating over my changes, I thought we were doing it to fulfil your own fantasies."
Angela actually blushed, but I should have known better, because within seconds she came back fighting. "Oh yes? Well, who was it that had a massive erection in there, when you saw the woman you'd turned into. It's a good job we elected to go for the red gel to stick down your Hiplet. Once we'd got your monster under control, we couldn't afford the risk it might escape again."
"Well, it was a pretty cruel way the way you got it under control," I said, responding to Angela's point. "Hell, that hurt."
Toni had explained to us that Hiplets needed a gel to prevent perspiration forming, and that there were two options: green gel was fine for a few hours wear, but for longer term wear, the red gel was recommended, which sealed the pores and totally prevented perspiration. I'd be able to wear the Hiplet comfortably for ten to fourteen days. After that, my top layer of skin, to which the Hiplet would be glued, would be shed, and I'd be able to take off the garment. After Toni had explained that I wouldn't be able to remove the Hiplet for that period, I'd said I thought I should use the green gel, but Angela had taken me aside and told me in no uncertain terms not to be a stupid idiot, and that I had to use the red gel. So red gel it was.
With the Hiplet in place on my hips, and only the gusset to pull back between my legs, there had been one part of me preventing that - the enormous hard-on to which Angela had referred. There was no doubt I found my new shapely figure very erotic. But with the gel setting, there was limited time to get everything in place. Angela had solved the problem by giving my erection a hard slap. My rampant prick had promptly shrivelled, and just as promptly, Toni had pulled the gusset into place and my genitals had disappeared from my sight for a whole fortnight.
"I wouldn't worry too much about your willy," Angela said. "At least, it can have a little rest for a few days now. I think it's been too demanding recently." (God, if only she knew how recently!) "Anyway, two women going to a hotel together are bound to get a few offers over the course of the week. You'll probably get lucky."
"Jesus Christ! You don't think that blokes will try to pull us, do you?"
"Of course they'll try to pull us. I shall be mightily upset if they don't. And since my husband isn't here to satisfy me..."
"Angela!"
She laughed at me. " If it makes you feel a little safer, we can pretend to be lesbians. But from what I hear, men see that as more of a challenge."
"Oh hell! I never thought about that side of things. I'm going to be in the shit, aren't I?"
"At least your voice is much better now, after Toni gave you those pills. However, you do need to speak as a woman would speak, and that kind of comment is most unladylike."
Toni had produced a pack of Voice-Changer capsules. I had to let the capsule rest on my tongue until it melted, and then let the goo slide down my throat. For a minute, it had felt as though I'd drunk sulphuric acid but afterwards, my voice had gone right up in pitch, and now sounded as sweet as a nightingale.
However, Angela was right; I certainly needed to get in character as a woman, which meant talking like a woman.
"OK," I said, "let us girls go check in the hotel and have a great time."
"That's better," she said.
***
The hotel was superb. Angela had booked the Victorian suite, and she checked in for the pair of us (which reminded me that I still hadn't managed to extract any money from Aunt Nancy's bank account.) The spacious sitting room was located between the two bedrooms, with a Chesterfield suite of armchairs and sofa. A beautiful Victorian dining table and chairs were located in the bay window, with a French window leading onto a balcony, directly overlooking Seacombe's main beach.
In the master bedroom, there was a four-poster bed, but even the secondary bedroom had a canopy over the bed; and both had superb bathrooms and walk-in closets.
"Wow," I said, bouncing on the four-poster, "if only I wasn't wearing this silly get up, we could exercise the bed-springs."
"We'll have to see what we can do, later," Angela said.
(Presumably, I thought, she was hoping to get a good tonguing, tonight. Hell, that would be frustrating with my prick encased in glue.)
"In the meantime," she continued, "I suggest we go and explore the hotel. It will give you a good chance to get acclimatised to being a woman, and for members of the staff to see you and get to know you."
"Do you think that's wise?" I had a bad attack of nerves. "I mean, I might blow it completely, and then we'd have to abandon the whole idea."
"I can do most of the talking, but what's important is that people see you around the hotel, and know you by name. That way, when we get round to asking for signatures on the will, they won't question things. As we said before, even if a disaster occurs and you're rumbled, you haven't done anything illegal so far. Remember, I checked us in, so they couldn't even have you for passing a false cheque."
It was true. Everything was fail-safe up to now - apart from sticking the body in the freezer - and we wouldn't try to get the signatures until I was fairly confident of pulling it off. So, we did a tour of the hotel, promenaded through the grounds, tripped across the road to the beach and spent only a few minutes amongst the riff raff there, before returning to the tranquillity of the hotel.
"Fancy a drink before we go up to change for dinner?" Angela asked. "I'll order them." (That was a pleasant change - it was always me who had to do that.) "Is it the normal pint of lager for you, Nancy?"
"Thanks Angela," I said. At least, Nancy had been a beer drinker - even though it was only lager - which meant I could follow suit. A gin and tonic was all right for a quick injection of alcohol after coming home from the office, but I still preferred beer for most occasions. Perhaps sometime during the week, an adventurous woman like Nancy might graduate onto that cask of local real ale I could see behind the bar.
I glanced around the bar area, looking for an empty table. At that time in the late afternoon, there were plenty free, but I couldn't help noticing how many of the hotel residents gave friendly smiles of welcome. I chose a table next to a couple of guys who I thought might have heard the football results. They had given me the friendliest smiles of all.
"Are you here on holiday with your friend?" It was the taller and younger of the two who'd spoken.
God! What had I done? I was trying to avoid conversations with people, not have a nice chat about what a superb hotel this was, or even how Chelsea was getting on and which team was going to avoid relegation.
"Angela's my niece, actually, and yes we're on holiday here for a few days."
There, I'd answered his question; now hopefully he would shut up. But as I looked more fully at him, I could see he was obviously one of those guys who fancy themselves as God's gift to women; especially unattached women like the image that Angela and I must present! I guessed he must be in his early forties.
"Nice hotel. Have you stayed here before?"
Shit! Why couldn't he leave me alone? But I already knew the answer to that - he was male and I was unattached female. At least, he plainly didn't suspect a thing. I gave a glance at the bar. Angela had got our drinks and was waiting for her change. She gave an encouraging smile to me, and nodded, eagerly, urging me to continue the conversation.
"It's my first time here. I've been in Australia until recently."
The shorter man now joined in. "Australia? Great. I was out there last year. Where did you live?"
Oh my God! Where did I live in Australia? I'd been worrying for the last twenty-four hours about trying to pull it off as a woman, to the total exclusion of all other issues. I didn't know the first thing about Nancy's life.
Angela saved the day. "Here's your lager, Nancy. Did you always drink that in Australia?"
I nodded. "Mostly."
"Hmm. That explains why you're overweight."
"I was just talking to your aunt, and she was about to tell me where in Australia she lived. I was out there last year."
"Oh really," Angela replied. "That's nice." She turned towards the taller of the two, and with a flash of resourcefulness which amazed me, added, "Tell me, have you heard the football results today?"
"Chelsea won, 2 - 1," (Well done, Angie! Chelsea won. Great. If only all problems could be solved as easily.) He proceeded to reel off another dozen crucial results, ending with, "Want to know any more?"
Angela shook her head. "No, it was those I was interested in. Thanks."
"It's unusual in this kind of hotel to get a woman asking for football results. Especially a really pretty woman."
(Cheeky bastard, I thought.)
Angela flashed him a smile. "Thanks. But it's for my husband. He won't have had chance to listen to the scores today."
(Well done, Angie. That's shown him you're not going to be picked up.)
"Oh, is he in the hotel then? I'm surprised he didn't watch it on TV."
"Oh no! He's not here. He hopes to come down in a few days. No, he's having to do a special job at the moment, so in the meantime, it's just the two of us, all on our own."
(Hell, did she have to put it like that. It was almost as though she was trying to get us picked up. I could almost predict his next words.)
"Well, it's always a shame for people to have to dine on their own. Why don't we eat together this evening? My name's Jake, by the way, and this is Simon."
"This is my Aunt Nancy and I'm Angela. Thanks for the offer of dinner, but it's our first night here. I think we'd rather dine alone tonight." (Thank God she'd said it at last.) "Perhaps later in the week?" (Bloody hell! What are you doing, Angie?)
"That would be great... Oh, are you going now?" (This as I downed my lager and stood up.)
"I'm afraid we have to change for dinner," Angela said. "See you later."
***
"Bloody hell, Angie. What the hell are you..." I had to break off as a couple I guessed were a few years older than us came up and joined us, waiting for the lift.
"I'm only being friendly," she said, "and I do think, aunt, that you shouldn't get too excited if a couple of guys try to pick us up. You have to get over your husband's death sometime, and you're still young and good-looking. You should regard it as a compliment when that happens."
"I wish men chatted me up," the woman said, and we both smiled at her. She added, with a good-natured smile, "It's usually Pete, here, that manages to get chatted up by members of the opposite sex."
Pete gave a nonchalant smile, "It's always tough that women find me irresistible, but I guess some men have to be that way."
Angela and the woman found this incredibly funny, but I simply smiled politely. I wanted to stay in character, and I wasn't certain how Nancy would have reacted to him.
Thankfully, the lift arrived then and we all got in. We had the ritual, "What floor do you want?" and then the woman said, "My name's Mary, by the way, and you've already met Casanova, who goes by the name of Peter."
"I'm Angela, and this is Nancy, my husband's aunt."
We all smiled at each other.
"Are you here all week?" Angela asked.
Mary nodded, enthusiastically. "Yes, we are," she said. "We were hoping to meet another nice couple who we could enjoy our holiday with."
"That would be great," I said. It had suddenly occurred to me that Mary and Pete would make an excellent couple to befriend as witnesses. Whilst Pete might enjoy chatting me up, it would be under the supervision of Mary, so was unlikely to prove dangerous. And I really should make an effort to behave more friendly, as no doubt, my aunt would have done. "We can have lots of holiday fun together," I added.
Both Mary and Pete appeared really pleased with my suggestion, and Angela gave a nod of approval. But any talk of further plans was interrupted by the lift arriving at our floor.
"As it's the first night, we were planning to eat alone," Angela said. "But why don't we get together tomorrow sometime?"
"Sounds great," they both said, as the lift doors closed on their smiling faces.
"Well, I'm glad you got talking at last," Angela said, as we entered our suite. "I thought the way you suddenly stood up was quite rude to Jake and Simon. Aunt Nancy wouldn't have been like that."
"Angela, those two blokes were trying to pick us up. That's why I was like that, and you seemed oblivious to the danger. I was friendly enough to Mary and Pete."
"Look," Angela said, as we entered our suite. "I'm trying to get you in character. Aunt Nancy was a gregarious woman who, judging from what she told me in the dress shop, fancied sex with every man in Adelaide. She certainly gave a few lecherous smiles to some of the husbands who were in the dress shop with their wives. If it weren't for the fact you were her nephew, I'd have kept a pretty close eye on you two whilst she was living in our house."
(Gulp!)
"So if she was really staying here, she'd probably have been playing Strip Jack Naked with those two guys in the bar, by now. Why do you think she had those enormous tits, if it wasn't to say, 'Come and get your hands on these, sport.' "
"Bloody hell! I never realised she was like that." I had to think about what she had said. "But you can't expect me to copy Nancy in that respect!"
"All I'm saying," Angela said, "is that Nancy would have behaved very differently from the way you were intending to behave. Alright, that may not be critical. But if anyone does investigate the signing of the will, you can bet they'll come here and be talking to the staff about what she was like. If they say she was a retiring violet, they won't believe it was Nancy who signed the will."
"Why didn't you tell me this yesterday? It totally changes everything."
Angela smiled at me. "That's why I didn't tell you. If you'd known you had to go out and pull a few blokes, you'd have refused."
"Of course I'd refuse! I can't pull a bloke."
"Why not?"
Her question took my breath away. "Why not? Why not! It's obvious, isn't it?"
She smiled again. "No."
I gasped in shock. Here I was, a bloke, married for a decade to a reasonably attractive woman, both of us faithful to each other (until Thursday). OK, we had our disagreements but in the space of one day, she'd got me dressed as a woman and was suggesting I had sex with men.
"I'm not homosexual, for God's sake."
"I never suggested you were. But for the next week, YOU ARE Nancy Brown, and she was a woman with a sizeable sexual appetite. You have to act in character. And whilst you're in her character, having sex with men is not homosexual, it's heterosexual."
"But I don't fancy sex with men."
"I'd be surprised if you did. But you won't be doing that because you fancy it; you'll be doing it because you ARE Aunt Nancy. Don't you remember Toni saying you could have full heterosexual sex?"
"But she didn't mean with unsuspecting men; she meant with men who know I'm a man and want to simulate heterosexual sex."
Angela shook her head. "I wondered about that myself, so I asked Toni directly."
"And?"
"She said that provided he wasn't the size of a donkey, you should be able to fool an unsuspecting man into having sex with you. But she also added that a man might cut up rough if he discovered what you were doing.."
My turn to shake my head. "Bloody hell! Cut up rough? He'd cut off my fucking balls! And you're suggesting I have to lay back and think of England for the good of the cause?"
"Absolutely. Or to put it another way, lay back and think of your bank balance and a body in our freezer. Either you are going to be a very believable Aunt Nancy, or we are going to be in real trouble."
"But how do I know Toni is right about this? It's easy for her to say a man won't notice the difference, but if he does, it's not only the end of our personal project, it's probably the end of my life. I'm not particularly keen on either event."
Angela gave me a sympathetic smile. "Look, it's first night, right? It's definitely bad taste to drop your knickers on the first night, so tonight it's just you and me. And we can explore the capabilities of your new body. Alright?"
I agreed. It crossed my mind then that Angela had probably brought her vibrators, which she kept at the back of her bottom drawer, but which, until now, she had never introduced into our relationship. I wondered whether they would work on my pussy. Time would tell.
IF YOU'VE ENJOYED THE STORY PLEASE CLICK ON THE GOOD STORY BUTTON...
...and I'd also love to read your comments. Although this story is not a mystery, like many of my stories it does contain a few twists which hopefully you were not expecting. Some of you will have your suspicions, but in the time-honoured way, please do not spoil the surprise for others by airing them in a comment.
In other words,
In the Freezer - Part 2
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SYNOPSIS: Nigel, and his wife, Angela, are happy to offer a temporary UK home to Nigel's Aunt Nancy, following the death of her rich husband Frank in Australia. On their first evening together, they are absolutely delighted when Nancy signs her will leaving all her fortunes to them when she dies. But wills have to be properly witnessed, and with Nancy's premature departure, someone has to witness her signature. Although the family resemblance is fortuitous, Nigel has reservations about the whole scheme. With just cause, it would appear.
This story is complete but will be released in three parts at daily intervals.
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as (and the more sensitive readers may wish to close their eyes whilst reading the next 17 words): crossdressing, sex with multiple partners of both genders, illegal acts, getting drunk, humour and extra marital sex. (If you've had your eyes closed, you may now open them.) So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste (or if you've had your eyes closed), then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 3 - SATURDAY NIGHT & SUNDAY MORNING
Angela had always taken forever to get dressed for dinner, but in the past I'd never realised just why. It took even longer now there were two women, and one of them didn't have a clue. Firstly, there was all the bathing, rubbing in cream and checking for any hairs not ripped from my skin last night - and there were a few which Angela energetically attacked with a pair of tweezers. Then we had to select the gown for the evening.
I hadn't really noticed the items Nancy had bought from the dress shop on that first day - only the size of the bill - but there wasn't a single dress which didn't expose Nancy's (ie my) boobs to the full.
"See what I mean about Nancy's agenda?" Angela said. "All you have to do is sit back in your seat and let these dresses - and your tits - do the work for you."
How easy it was for the woman, I realised. Just push out your tits and all the blokes come chasing after you.
"In any case," Angela said, "exposing your boobs proves more thoroughly than any other way that you are completely woman."
I'd pretty well come to the same conclusion; in for a penny, in for a pound. I shrugged. "Okay, let's get on with it."
I'd have grabbed the first dress on the rail, but of course, Angela had to agonise over every one. Would this one clash with the colour scheme in the dining room? Would that one merge with her own attire? After absolutely ages, we decided on a lemon-coloured dress, with a full skirt that had a slightly more respectable neckline than the others, but not by much.
"My dress is not too dissimilar, only it's a peach colour," Angela said. "I think we'll go together nicely." She looked at her watch. "Come on, we have to get on with the preparation for dinner."
"Angela," I said, "there's another side to preparing to meet people which I never thought about until we met those guys downstairs. I know hardly anything about Nancy. For example, where was her farm in Australia? You suggested just now that it was near Adelaide."
"Haven't got a clue," she said. "The important point is not to get trapped into revealing things about yourself. Tell them you've just lost your husband, so you'd really rather not talk about that part of your life - ie the last thirty years. If they push it, you can even get mellow, start talking about your poor husband, what a noble man he was (although Nancy suggested he was an absolute shit with a willy the size of a worm). You could even start weeping a bit and then say you're going to retire to your room.
"Once men realise that asking you about your personal life is a total turn-off, they'll keep well clear. But regard the weeping as the ultimate deterrent. Don't use it if you can help; otherwise they'll remember you as being extremely upset over your husband's death, which is definitely not what Nancy was indicating."
"Did he really?" I asked.
"What?"
"Have a willy the size of a worm?"
Angela shrugged. "I don't know. It's what Nancy said when we were shopping."
"How come women always go into intimate personal details within five minutes of meeting each other?" I asked. "I would never talk about your personal details to anyone else." Another thought struck me. "What did you say about me?"
Angela smiled. "I agree with you, actually. She was far too intimate, far too quickly. So, I just made it up. I said you had tackle the size of a bull's, and you went about sex as though you were in a china shop. I thought it was quite a witty response."
A witty response with unintended consequences. No wonder Nancy had snared me in her trap, and told me to shag her like a bull in a china shop!
All this time, Angela had been working on making-up my face. Now she threw the wig over my head, adjusted it ad infinitum, and then told me to face the mirror and see the result.
Wow! I'd have fucked myself without a moment's hesitation. I was still only dressed in bra and knickers, with my grapefruit-sized tits pushing so nicely out of the bra, and down below, the flesh flowed around my rounded hips. Angela had cleverly used make-up to the opposite effect of the norm - she'd made me look older - and with the Joan Collins hair framing my face, I didn't recognise it as my own. I looked one hell of a fuckable woman.
"I'm sorry you have to be so overweight," Angela said, "but I'm afraid you'll just have to grin and bear it. Some men have such bad taste, I'm certain there'll be plenty of takers for you during the week."
Poor Angela, I thought. She still doesn't understand what makes women attractive to men. On the other hand, I hadn't a clue what made men attractive to women, so I guess I had better shut up.
***
Dinner was really great. Superb menu, exquisitely cooked food and all delightfully served. Nothing was too much trouble for the waiters, and as the meal progressed, I realised how well Angela's new dress suited her, with her boobs pushing out almost as much as mine and I started to feel very randy.
I tried not to show it, since I was now Nancy, and Nancy would not have looked at Angela in the same way. Instead, I chatted wildly about all kinds of stupid things: planning the events for the week (including shopping!); asking about many of the technicalities of make-up, which were a complete mystery; and even co-operating with Angela when she started talking about the eligible males (ie for sex - not marriage) in the dining room.
After all, I reasoned, once I had a bit more confidence I could flirt dreadfully. That didn't mean I had to have sex with them. I was a woman, after all, and that's exactly what we women did all the time. Well, not all the time because otherwise the human race would have ceased to exist, but you get my meaning.
As we were waiting to order coffee, I had a quick glance around to make certain there wasn't a waiter within hearing distance, and said, "This may not be what the other Nancy might have said, but this one wants to take you to bed and make passionate love to you."
Angela looked a bit startled and went red in the face, and then said, "There's no reason why the other Nancy wouldn't have said that. I thought I told you that Nancy was bi-sexual. She liked women as well as men."
"You didn't tell me that."
"Oh, didn't I? I meant to."
When you know a person really well, you can often instinctively tell when they aren't telling the whole truth. Angela's casual, "Oh didn't I?" screamed that the words had been rehearsed ten times over.
I thought a little, and then said, "She said at the airport how beautiful you were."
"Yes, she did."
"And then the pair of you went off buying clothes together."
"Yes."
"She bought you a dress."
"Yes, it's the one I'm wearing tonight."
I looked at it again. "It's very beautiful, but I've said that already. It must have cost a lot of money."
"Yes." Then, "Six hundred and eighty pounds."
I silently whistled. The kind of money I'd never been able to give her to spend on a dress.
"She said we should all be good friends, and that's what friends are for."
I nodded.
"And that she thought I was very beautiful and that I should have beautiful clothes. And that she gave beautiful things to her beautiful friends. And that she was thinking of willing us all her money when she died. When she came out with the will at dinner, I was just so overjoyed."
"And the two of you went off to bed together, well before me," I added, with deliberate innuendo.
She took it straight. "Yes." Another pause, whilst she looked at my face, then she obviously made up her mind. She took a deep breath. "I was feeling incredibly sleepy, and I got into bed and that's when Nancy came into our bedroom and sat on the bed."
"Go on."
"She slipped her nightdress down her arms and asked me if I thought her breasts were nice. I said I thought they were fantastic. They were too; but then we know why. That's when she asked if I would suckle them, like the baby she never had.
"Well, I felt very indebted about the will and the dress and everything, and I felt really drowsy. Comforting her like that really seemed no great shakes, so it seemed simplest to do as she asked. Within seconds of my suckling her left breast, she had a mini-orgasm."
Angela's face, which had been so serious until now, broke into a huge grin. "I'd never given a woman an orgasm before," she continued, "and I was so proud of myself that almost without thinking I suckled her other breast, and she had a much bigger orgasm. Of course, I realise now she had the setting on her Bustlet turned right up, but I didn't know that then. She seemed so thankful for my giving her an orgasm, that I let her kiss my pussy." On her face was a look which was a combination of both guilt and excitement.
"Nigel, I thought you were half decent at kissing pussy, but she was better. She brought me to a climax in about twenty seconds. I'd never before experienced anything like it. One minute, I was sitting up in bed, feeling incredibly embarrassed because your Aunt Nancy had her head between my legs - the next I was writhing in the throes of a fantastic climax.
"It lasted about five incredible minutes, then we heard you coming up the stairs and she darted out the room back to hers. I must have dropped off to sleep at that point because I don't remember anything until the next morning, when I took in her tea, and she was dead. But she still had that happy smile on her face which I can remember beaming at me from between my legs."
She turned tearfully to me. "Nigel - shit, I shouldn't call you that - do you think I killed her - you know, with that fault on her Bustlet - by licking her nipples to hard, or by catching her with my teeth, or something like that?"
I suppose that could have been the time when I owned up to the events that had happened subsequently, but I had too much sense. It was one thing for my wife to confess to lesbian sex with my aunt; quite another if I confessed to heterosexual sex with her.
So, I simply said, "I'm quite certain that if it was anything you'd done, she'd have immediately experienced the effects and she'd have collapsed there and then. As it is, I think you can be absolutely certain it was nothing of your doing."
"Oh Nigel - sorry Nancy - I've just confessed to having sex with someone else, and you're so nice about it, and totally supportive." She gave me such a smile. "Look Nancy, I know it's still only fairly early, but why don't we skip coffee and go upstairs now. I've got a little surprise for you."
***
Well, that set me thinking. It sounded more than loaning me her vibrator. Had she found some way to extract my dick from its glued-in position inside the Hiplet, and was going to give it a nice big jolly? Certainly, she had gone into a little huddle with Toni after she had explained that the Hiplet would be stuck on me for the next two weeks.
But funnily enough, I'd got into the spirit of being a woman. Somehow, I felt that reverting to maleness in our bedroom would be a cop-out. On the other hand, I was a male inside, and if Angela presented herself on a plate, I was hardly going to refuse. Just as I hadn't refused when Nancy had seduced me.
I noticed as we waited for the lift, Angela was impatient to get upstairs; standing on first one foot then shifting her weight to the other, almost as though she was going to wet herself with excitement. That, in itself, was strange. After we'd settled into the norm of married life, Angela had usually been a cooperative partner, seemingly enjoying the experience, but she had never been the one to instigate the action, in the way that Nancy had on Thursday evening.
Unfortunately, some other guests joined us as we waited for the lift, so we couldn't talk to each other on the ride up to our floor. However, as soon as we'd got out of the lift, Angela grabbed me by the hand and pulled me along the corridor to our room.
"Wow. What's got into you, all of a sudden?"
She looked over her shoulder at me, gave me a wink - a wink! Angela never gave winks - and said, "You'll see," and then seemed to drag me even faster along the corridor. Of course, she was used to high heels, but I felt that any moment I was going to land flat on my face, and then where would our illusion be?
However, we reached our suite without incident, and as soon as she pulled me inside, and closed the door, she stood with her back to it (almost as though to prevent me escaping!) and said, "I talked with Toni about your not being able to have sex, and she said there was a simple solution."
There! Wasn't that exactly as I'd predicted?
I started to lift my skirts to get at my Hiplet. "Well that's great. How do I get out of this Hiplet?"
"You don't."
I stared at her. "I don't? But you said..."
"Toni's solution was chick with dick."
"What?"
"Chick with dick. You know, people whom to all intents and purposes look like a woman, except in one vital respect - they have a dick. I think you get a lot of them in the Far East."
I let my skirts fall back to the ground. "But how does that help me?"
Angela dropped her hands to her own skirt and started to lift it. As I'd said previously, we both had similar shaped dresses, with a full skirt which needed a crinoline underneath. As Angela lifted the skirt higher and higher, she exposed her stocking tops and suspenders, and the bare flesh between stocking tops and...
"Oh my God!"
She pulled the skirt right up now, so it was level with her tits and I could have an unrestricted view. It was easy to see why Angela had chosen a dress that needed a crinoline. It was also easy to see why she wasn't wearing panties. For her panties would never have fitted over the grotesque monstrosity sitting at the top of her legs - an absolutely enormous penis, with blue veins running up the side, and an even larger, purple, shiny knob.
"It's obscene! It's hideous! It's..."
"A cock. The kind of thing that men stick inside women all the time."
"But... But... It's huge!"
Angela smiled. "Well, it is bigger than yours, darling, but I wouldn't get a complex over it."
"But... what are you going to do with it?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No way! Absolutely, no way!"
"Why not?"
"Because..." Her question threw me. Why not? Wasn't it obvious?
"It's far too big. It would never fit inside my vagina."
Angela smiled. "That was the reason why Toni suggested I get the Large size strap-on penis rather than the Extra-Large..."
"Extra-Large!"
"...which would never penetrate the vagina on the Hiplet. The Large is alright with a bit of a push. When I explained to her that you'd got to put yourself around a bit, she thought it a good idea to practice with me first, and then you'd know the limit of what you can take. If you do meet any men with pricks bigger than this, you'll just have to cry-off full sex, and give them a blow job, or something."
"Pricks bigger than that? You don't get pricks bigger than that."
"Oh, are you the world's expert on pricks?"
"Well, no, but..."
"Do you remember Paul, who I was dating when I met you?"
I wrinkled my forehead; I'd been really taken with Angela and hadn't really noticed who she was with. A vague memory returned. "You mean that little squirt?"
Angela smirked. "I can tell you that 'Little Squirt' was a description that definitely could not be applied to Paul."
"You're not telling me his prick was bigger than that thing..." My words died out as Angela nodded. "But he was such a tiny guy..."
"He wasn't tiny where it mattered. Why do you think he had so many girl-friends?"
Why did I feel so insanely jealous? "But you chose me in place of him."
"Exactly. Because actually taking something this big inside you is quite painful, and you get to worry that your vagina will be terribly stretched, and never recover. When I met you, sex became pleasant again."
"So you opted for me because of the good sex?" Well that rather mollified what she had just told me?
"Well not really. More attractive was the size of your bank balance before we took on the mortgage."
"Oh."
"Look Nancy, never mind the days of pre-history. Nigel and Angela are a great couple. But Nigel's not here now, and Nancy is. We have some serious rehearsals to do to make certain you can cope with the part."
The theory was fine, but the practice? To be honest, the sight of that enormous prick had terrified me; it was like nothing I'd ever before seen at first hand, and the very thought of it even getting close to me was horrific. Alright, I knew it was going into my Hiplet, which had been specially designed to take such a monster, but it might touch my leg on the way in. I gave a little shudder. No, I really did not want to even contemplate that tonight.
She may have wanted fun but, to be honest, I was still smarting that even before we'd met she'd been having fun with Paul, with a monster even bigger than the one she sported now. I know it sounds unfair, but I felt betrayed by that; what must she have felt when we went to bed for the first time and there was a prick, half the size of the one she'd last had inside her, without the horrible blue veins and huge purple head. No wonder she'd been incredibly turned-on now by this prick. Well sod her!
"I suppose it could be fun," I said, "but... well it seems a bit mechanical, and it's not as if we're going to particularly enjoy it, are we? I mean, it's not real sex, is it?"
"Look," Angela said, "When her assistant fitted me out with this, she didn't say that the thing had a mind of its own. It was fine, this evening, until we started talking about Nancy coming into my bed - then suddenly I got a hard-on like a flag-pole, and it's been like it since. The problem is - well, I suppose it's not a problem really - that it's not just an external appliance, it fits inside me as well. As soon as it went erect, it's been nuzzling against my clit every time I move, and driving me wild. I really need to have sex with you. Like... desperately; really, really desp..."
Just as I was on the point of relenting, having been in that position of need many times before, she broke off in mid-flight - as though she'd suddenly thought of something important. Then she continued, "Of course! How stupid of me. I'll go and get it."
She went darting off into the bedroom, and returned a few seconds later with the TV remote control.
I gave a sigh of relief. "That's a good idea. You can watch TV instead, and the erection will probably disappear."
"Don't be stupid. This isn't the remote from the TV." Instead of pointing it at the TV, she pointed it towards me and pressed the red button.
Ping! My nipples went rock-hard and thrust out the material of my dress, as though I'd slipped a couple of pebbles down there.
"I didn't think Toni would have time to demonstrate the remote to you, so I got her assistant to explain it," Angela said. She continued to point the remote at me, and pressed another button.
Zing! Since getting a new Bustlet fitted at Big Busts, my tits had been attractive but comfortably senseless mounds on the front of my chest. Suddenly, they were the most sensitive part of my body. I could feel the material of my dress grazing against them, as they wobbled in rhythm with my breathing. I could even feel my breath on them, just as when Angela had blown at them, last night.
But instead of it being painful, as it had been last night, it was something gloriously erotic. I needed them to be fondled and stroked and...
" Angela." I gave her my most pleading smile. "Will you suckle my breasts? Please? I really need you to, desperately."
"Well," she said, "that depends whether you want anything else doing afterwards."
***
I certainly did!
I almost tore my dress getting it off, for I desperately needed Angela to suck my breasts. She leapt at me and roughly pulled it down my shoulders, so my arms were trapped but my titties fell free.
Angela lifted her hands to cup my breasts, and gently squeeze them and stroke them, and then, tantalizingly, she let her thumbs brush across my nipples, which made me gasp with excitement.
"Wow," she said. "It was only two days ago I touched another woman's breast for the first time, and now I'm addicted to them."
I was just so grateful to her when she lowered her mouth to my left nipple, and started to suck on it.
"Oh Angela. Yes! Please! Suck them harder! Oh yes!"
Whilst she was sucking on alternate breasts, she pulled my dress down my arms and allowed it to drop to the floor. Then my panties were following. Frustratingly, she stopped her work on my breasts just as I thought I might be about to orgasm, and took me by the hand and led me through to the bedroom and across to the four-poster, where she turned me and made me sit on it.
Again her mouth dropped to my nipples, sucking the one whilst gently kneading the other. She pushed me back on the bed, following me down with her mouth working fantastic things on my nipples, a process which conveniently left her lying between my legs. She grasped me underneath the knees and lifted and separated them, so she could let her mouth attack my pussy.
Alright, I can't deny I'd already had a play around that area, and found it all a bit unresponsive. Yes, there was a hole there into which you could probably stuff a decent sized prick and jiggle it about, but I guessed that would give me little satisfaction. Compared to the erotic feelings I'd got from having my nipples sucked, which I was certain would lead to an orgasm pretty quickly if only Angela would turn her attention back to them, this was going to be a dead loss.
Still, that's the age-old problem we women have; we want men to concentrate on arousing us by sucking our tits, and all anyone with a prick wants to do is to shove it in the hole and spurt semen inside. Still, I thought I ought to go through the motions and make a few realistic groans, just in order to spur Angela on. I suspect that over the years, she had done the same for me many times.
I saw her open mouth and pink tongue moving down between my legs. I'd have to get the timing right. I mustn't moan before she'd licked me; that would give the game away. Perhaps I ought to count to five, just to make...
"A-a-a-h-h-h-h!!!" Now in case you're wondering, that was a genuine cry. It was impossible to describe the wonderful feeling that started in my groin, and sent blood surging through every part of my body.
I didn't know what had happened since I had played with myself earlier that afternoon, but... Yes I did. Angela had used the remote to up the sensitivity on my breasts; and it had also worked on my Hiplet. I could feel Angela's tongue flicking along one lip of my pussy, and then working its way back again, but not quite touching the spot I wanted her to.
"O-o-o-h-h-h!" Well she touched it then.
"J-e-e-e-e-e-e-z!" And again.
Hell, this was sex with a difference! Like nothing I'd had...
"U-u-u-u-g-h!" ...before in my entire...
"C-h-r-i-s-t!" ...life. What had I been missing?
I knew my orgasm was approaching; I could feel it building up inside; all my nerves were singing tales of joy to me. Yes, I was almost there; almost...
"Can we try to get my cock inside, now? I am really so desperate." Angela had withdrawn her wonderful mouth and was moving her body up, and positioning her gigantic prick near my crack. I couldn't see it from where I was but it seemed incredible that something that size could fit inside the hole I'd explored earlier. I wondered whether I'd have any feeling as it went in.
Then the monster bumped into me, somewhere between pussy and arsehole, and started pushing hard, as though trying to dig a new hole.
"Oh shit, that hurts. You're in the wrong place."
"Now you know what it feels like," Angela said. "You've done it to me enough times."
"Yes but... Oh fuck, you're in the right place, and that hurts even more! It's so big. It's very painful. Angela, stop it! I mean that. Stop it now! Oh God, it's really, really excruciating! I can't take it! It's splitting me wide open! A-a-a-h-h... Oh." The latter as Angela's monster prick slid inside the place it was trying to get. I still felt there was a huge beast inside me, but it was no longer trying to rip me apart.
"O-o-o-o-o-h!" That as Angela slid the beast in as far as it would go.
"A-a-a-a-a-h!" as she slid it out again. Then "O-o-o-o-o-h!" "A-a-a-a-a-h!" "O-o-o-o-o-h!" "A-a-a-a-a-h!" "O-o-o-o-o-h!" as she set up a rhythm. Hell, this was better than the real thing. Just the movement of my tits as they joggled in time with Angela was absolute bliss, and the Hipster had obviously been designed to improve on the human anatomy. I was getting rapturous feeling from every stroke of Angela's super cock.
I had my first orgasm about ten seconds later, and Angela rather than letting go with her climax, as I tended to do, she carried on, and on, whilst I wriggled in ecstasy on the end of her cock.
A few seconds after coming down from that orgasm, I went into another, and another, and another. In fact, I lost count of the number of orgasms I actually had, especially as after a while, they all seemed to merge into one long one.
Finally, Angela started building up for her climax. She increased the pace, and worked harder and harder with every thrust. The gentle wobbling of my tits was changed to a violent pitch, backwards and forwards, and that in itself, was so erotic that I had another orgasm on the strength of it.
Then I could feel Angela's hot fluid spurting into me - thrust after thrust after thrust. Even her ejaculation went on far longer than any natural penis could have done. Finally, she was spent.
She slumped on my shoulder, kissed my nipple, and asked, "Was I any good?"
I turned her mouth towards me, kissed her, and said, "Brilliant."
I was about to suggest that we do it all over again, when she reached over, turned out the lights and dropped fast asleep.
***
It must have been about an hour later when I felt a wonderful sensation in my breast. It was almost as if... I woke up.
Angela was kissing my nipple. She smiled at me. "I thought that would wake you," she said. "My cock has gone rock-hard again."
CHAPTER 4 - SUNDAY
By morning, we were both totally shagged out, and I managed to slip away from Angela without waking her. It was about eight-thirty, and I decided I'd have breakfast downstairs.
The very first thing I did was to grab the remote and reset the sensitivity on my tits to... Well, I was going to set it back at Level Zero, where there was no feeling in my boobs whatsoever, but it had felt so nice having those cuddly puppies nestling against me, that I decided to set it at Four. That setting meant that, whilst I wasn't frantically desperate for sex, as I'd been last night when they'd been on Nine, there was plenty of sensitivity there.
So I could feel them joggle as I walked about the room, and when I took a shower and started to soap them, I got a really whizzy feeling all through me; so whizzy that I almost reached for the remote and set them back to Nine, but managed to desist.
After my shower, I took my daily Voice-Changer capsule, slipped on bra and panties, pulled on a skirt and a matching top (another low neckline!), slipped my feet into some sandals and spent about fifteen minutes trying to copy everything Angela had taught me about making up my face to look old. Then I went downstairs.
In the dining room, it was the conventional self-service for the main items, with a waitress called Kerry delivering tea, coffee and toast to the table. She was a pleasant-faced girl, who bade me, "Good Morning," as soon as she saw me, and gave me a joyful smile. It's funny, I conjectured, but a woman would never smile at a man like that, because he would immediately read it as an invitation for sex. How nice that, when we women meet each other, we don't have to worry about those kind of issues.
Kerry took my order for tea and toast, and I went and helped myself to the rest of my breakfast - orange juice and grapefruit. Kerry was back at the table within a few minutes with the tea and toast.
"Is she really your niece?" she enquired with an even wider smile
"Sorry?"
"Sorry, I know that sounded very rude, but I was curious about Mrs Simmons. She's very pretty, isn't she? I wondered whether she was really your niece?"
"Yes, Angela certainly is very pretty, and actually, she's my nephew's wife. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, she's not a blood relative then. No reason for asking. I wondered; that's all.
"By the way," she added, "my close friends call me Kermit."
I gave her another nice smile at the invitation to become a close friend. "That's an unusual nickname. How did you get it?"
"Isn't it obvious?" she asked with an even wider smile.
The only Kermit I knew of was Kermit the Frog, but I didn't like to glance down to check whether she had webbed feet or hands. Instead, I simply smiled back and said, "Nope. You have me completely foxed."
"Kermit the Frog," she said. "What feature do I have that I share with a frog?"
I stared at her closely, and as I did so, she gave a quick glance around the dining room to see if she was being observed by any of the guests. Then she poked out her tongue a little way and flicked it from side to side - then she stuck it out further - and further, pushing it down until she could have touched herself under the chin. Then it all slithered back into her mouth, and she was left with the same smile on her face as when she had started.
It was such an erotic gesture that if my prick had been free I'd have slapped it in front of her and told her to lick - in the middle of the hotel dining room or not. As it was, I merely flushed a bright red and said something like, "I bet an ice-cream wouldn't last for very long with you."
"Nothing can withstand my tongue for very long," she said in an incredibly suggestive way. Then she added: "Do you know Seacombe very well?"
"Not well at all," I said, trying to gather my thoughts and taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. "I was last here with my sister's family thirty years ago. Angela's husband was a little boy then."
"Thirty years ago! Things must have changed a bit since then."
"Well, actually," I said, "I'm surprised how little has changed."
"I was thinking of places like The Spring Lamb. You know about that, do you?"
"No. What is it; a good pub?"
"A good pub? It's the ONLY pub for people like us."
She must have seen the look of incomprehension on my face, for she clarified. "It's a gay bar - there's only one in Seacombe."
"Oh." I said, realisation coursing through my body, "What makes you think I'm gay?"
She blushed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. It's just that every evening at nine we come around the rooms to turn down the bed-quilts. Naturally, I knocked on your door and as there was no reply, so I used my pass-key to enter the sitting-room."
"Oh."
"The two of you were in the bedroom with the interconnecting door left wide open. You were both having a fantastic time. Naturally, I left the suite straightaway, but it made me feel incredibly horny. It's been far too long since I had a session like that. Obviously, your secret is safe with me because we all have to stick together, don't we? Like I say, I shouldn't have mentioned it and the manager would fire me if he knew I had done. You won't tell anyone, will you? "
"Of course not."
"Do you mind me asking, are you two in a permanent relationship, or are you free spirits?"
"Oh, we're absolutely free spirits." Angela's voice came from over my shoulder, making me jump; I hadn't seen her come up behind me. She smiled back at the beaming Kerry, as she sat down at the table. "Nancy has only been in this country for a few days and we simply kind of hit it off." She looked over at me with affection. "That's right, isn't it, Nancy?"
I took my turn at smiling and nodded. Thankfully, I thought, Angela's sex drive must have abated since last night, as she hadn't immediately tried to fuck me on the breakfast table!
"I thought that might be the case," Kerry said. "You both have all the enthusiasm of being in a fresh relationship. That's really nice. Now, madam, can I take your order for tea, coffee or toast?"
After Kerry had left the table, Angela said, "Nancy, that was brilliant! You said just the right things to enhance your reputation, and I also thought it was really great the way you behaved when Kerry barged into the suite last night. I simply took my lead from you."
My jaw dropped. "You mean that you heard her come in?"
"Of course. You mean that you didn't?"
I shook my head.
"She knocked quite loudly on the sitting-room door," Angela said, "and I'd got my mouth full at the time, so I thought you'd tell her to go away. But instead, you simply kept quiet and let her come in. You even said to me, 'Suckle my tit harder, Angela.'
"When I did," Angela continued, "you went straight into another of your orgasms that was so intense, I thought you were pretending for the maid's benefit, so I threw in a few screams of my own. After about five minutes, perhaps a bit longer, I heard her leave.
"I found the whole voyeurism thing incredibly erotic and my erection came back with a vengeance, so of course, we never got to discussing what the maid must have seen. I'll go and help myself to some breakfast. For some reason I'm feeling extremely hungry."
***
It was only when she came back, I noticed she was wearing her tightly cut jeans.
"You've taken it off," I said, accusingly.
"Taken what off?"
I glanced around to make certain I wasn't going to be overheard. "Your penis. When you said the assistant fitted you with it, I thought you meant it was glued on, just like mine."
"Don't be stupid! I only have one dress suitable for a crinoline, and I can't go around the hotel all week wearing that. And if I wear anything else, it's going to stick out a mile." She grinned. "Well, almost."
"That's not fair you can take yours off!"
"You're being idiotic. You must have realised I couldn't have been wearing it yesterday afternoon. I had these jeans on then. I simply couldn't have a prick semi-permanently stuck on to me - it wouldn't be practical. Or perhaps the reason why you are so upset that I've taken it off," she continued, "was because you enjoyed it so much last night that you want more of it today?"
"Oh, don't be crude," I snapped. (Ouch, that comment had been close to the bone.)
"Because if it is," Angela went on, "we can definitely say that it achieved its objective. Except that you'll have to get your cock from another source now."
"Oh, do you swing both ways?" Kerry interrupted, putting Angela's coffee and toast down on the table.
"We both do," Angela replied. "That's why I married in the first place. But it's good to get away from a husband now and again."
I snorted, and Angela said, "Oh, I'm sorry Nancy. That was in such poor taste. You see," she turned to look up at Kerry, "Nancy lost her husband quite recently."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Kerry said. "I didn't realise." Embarrassed, she went dashing off to tend another table.
***
By the time we'd got back to the suite, our row had mulled. Angela gave me a reconciliatory smile and said, "Do you now agree that sex with men is perfectly feasible."
I smiled wryly back at her. "I think you've proved your point. If I can take a monster like yours inside me, continually for a whole night, without any signs of wear and tear, I think that physically I could cope with a real prick without a problem. What's really great is that I don't have any soreness inside, as you used to have when we had non-stop sessions like that. It was all simply sheer, unadulterated pleasure."
"So what about some adulterous pleasure?"
"Adulterous?" I thought guiltily back to Thursday night with Aunt Nancy, and then realisation sank in. "You're talking about with a man?"
"Yes, of course with a man," Angela agreed. "Nancy swung both ways. So is sex between you and a man still a mental taboo?"
Hell, Angela had only had a cock for a day, and she was already pushing back the borders. She really did have the devil in her.
"Hang on Angela. Can we just step back a little?"
She smiled at me, but said nothing.
"Until Thursday, you and I were a perfectly conventional, married couple. We had a few rows, but overall we got on pretty well. I loved you and you loved me. We had a reasonable income, a nice house and plenty of sex."
"And a boring life."
"What?" I was staggered. "You were bored? You never said."
"What could I do about it?"
"If you'd have told me," I said, "we could have done all sorts of things differently."
"I knew you wouldn't understand what I was complaining about, and we had enough rows anyway. Also, I didn't really know what I wanted to change. Then, Aunt Nancy arrived, and suddenly life is fun and different and exciting and, and... lots of things."
Her eyes glazed over and she continued, "Before Thursday, I couldn't have imagined having sex with your aunt, or stuffing a dead body in the freezer, or you becoming a woman and me getting a prick, or... or..."
"...or me having sex with some man you pick up for me?" I ended for her.
"Yes, exactly." She was beaming with excitement. "Just deny that what we're doing is tremendous FUN."
I thought for a second about the incredible sex we'd had over the last twelve hours, the surges of adrenaline I felt every time I went out as Nancy, and the mind-boggling rush I was getting as we talked about having sex with a male, without him knowing the truth.
I reluctantly nodded. "You're right. It is fun. Physically, last night was fantastic. I didn't realise women enjoyed themselves so much whilst they're being shafted."
"Put it down to the quality of your partner," Angela quipped.
"I understand what you're saying about imitating Nancy's habits as far as I can," I continued, deciding to ignore that interruption. "But I'm still nervous because it would be so dangerous if he did find out."
"But you'll give it a try?" Angela asked.
I nodded. "Alright," I said.
***
Sometimes (like now, as I write these words), I think I must have gone a bit crazy to do the things I did. Alright, everything up to the point where we got to the hotel, I can logically justify in my own mind.
Sure, becoming Aunt Nancy for a week sounded strange, but we'd got forced into it by the combination of my lending Nancy too much money, accidentally killing her whilst giving her an illicit shag, getting the sack from work, and Angela being given a confusing message from my office. After all, once Nancy had spent most of the day in the freezer, it was always going to be difficult explaining it away at the end of a hot, sunny period in August.
But it was the events leading on from there that are really difficult to justify. Angela had talked about Nancy's nymphomania, but at the back of our minds, we both knew that anyone investigating Nancy's movements would not be checking up on the number of lovers she had whilst staying at the hotel. In any case, she had just lost her husband of thirty years, so a change in behaviour patterns would be perfectly normal at that life-changing time.
Angela had already explained why she wanted to go out on a limb - she was bored with life, and I guess (at a year older than me) depressed to be rapidly approaching forty. As for me, I'm not really certain why I consented to everything Angela suggested.
Undoubtedly, Angela is an expert at getting her own way with me, so that might be part of it, but I certainly can't put all the blame there. Perhaps to an extent, I too was looking for a change to the humdrum existence we led. Getting the sack was a terrible shock to my system, and that forced me to confront my, until then, comfortable position. Our project had to succeed; otherwise we'd go bankrupt.
But I think it was more than that. I believe that I immersed myself so thoroughly into being Aunt Nancy, that I took over her soul - warts and all. If she was a sex maniac, then I had to be one, too. Of course, what I didn't realise at that time was that there was a big difference between Nancy's sexual needs, and her sexual fulfilment, which is why she'd been so ready for it on Thursday evening. But I would only find out that some time later, so let's get back to our fun.
***
"Why don't you go down and sit in the lounge for a bit?" Angela suggested. "That will give the odd male a chance to strike up a conversation with you. Remember, you don't have to do anything except have a pleasant conversation. You can save thoughts of deeper delights for later in the week."
"I'd feel a bit stupid sitting in the lounge on my own," I said, suddenly uncertain about my venture. "I'd have nothing to do."
"I noticed a small library of books left by other users on the bookshelves down there," she said. "You could choose something from that and read it. Only don't choose a car magazine. Pick something suitable."
So with that sage advice, I went down to the lounge, selected a woman's magazine from a rack, and started learning more about the art of applying make-up.
"Hello."
Wow! Ninety seconds. That's all it took for the first male to pounce on a women sitting on her own in a hotel foyer, with breasts the size of large grapefruit pushing out of her low-cut tee shirt. And I was made up to look middle-aged! Perhaps if I'd looked younger, I could have done it in half the time!
I looked up, smiling. It was Pete, the husband of Mary who we'd met yesterday in the lift.
"Hello to you," I said. "Enjoy the meal last night?"
"Very nice," he said. "I've just been for a walk along the sea-front, admiring all the pretty ladies on the beach. I guess if I'd known you were sitting here, I needn't have bothered to go out."
"Oh, listen to Mr Smoothy," Mary said, appearing from nowhere, and giving me a grin to show it was all friendly.
"Anyway," she added, turning to Pete, "I thought you said you were going for a walk to clear out the cobwebs after too much to drink last night. Not ogling all the dollies on the beach, and then coming in and chatting-up Nancy."
"Oh, shucks," Pete said, pretending to be admonished. He turned to me. "She's found out about our affair already, and it hasn't even started yet."
It was impossible not to smile back. "Never mind, plenty of time left."
"I'm glad we found you," Mary said. "We were intending to drive up to the castle and have a look around. Apparently, there's a pub which does good food quite close by. Do you two fancy coming and having lunch with us?"
Since I had Pete and Mary lined up to witness my will, it sounded a good idea for us all to get to know each other better.
"That sounds great," I said. "I'll pop up to our bedroom and get Angela. How about if we meet by Reception in about fifteen minutes?"
It was agreed. I went back up to our suite, and as I approached it, I could see the maid's trolley outside. Presumably, she was inside servicing the rooms, so I'd have to watch my words carefully. I went in.
There was no one in the sitting room, so I called, "Angela," and poked my head into the master bedroom.
"She's in the toilet," a voice said from the other bedroom, and I turned round to see Kerry in there, in the process of making the bed.
"Oh, hello again," I said. "You have a busy life, don't you? You can only just have finished serving breakfasts."
"It's always hard work in the hotel trade," she said. "As soon as the rush of breakfasts has eased, the manager sends me up here to start servicing the rooms."
Just then, the toilet in the en-suite could be heard flushing, and Angela came out.
"Hi," she said. "You weren't downstairs for very long. I thought you were going to be there most of the morning."
I told her about the offer from Mary and Pete, and she pulled a face.
"It sounded a good idea to me," I said. "We want to get friendly with Pete and Mary. Don't you want to go?"
"I suppose so," she said. "Only, I was looking forward to a restful morning around the hotel, after last night."
She grinned at me, and I gave a sickly smile at Kerry, who unashamedly grinned back at us. "Don't mind me," she said.
"We don't have to go if you don't want to," I said. "We can stay here, but I thought it was too good an opportunity to miss."
Angela nodded in agreement. "You're right, of course," she said. "Give me ten minutes to get ready. Why don't you go down and tell them I'll be a few minutes late?"
***
The trip to the castle proved to be both interesting and enjoyable, for we all four of us got on well together. The pub lunch was every bit as good as promised, and it was almost three pm by the time we returned. We agreed to meet up for supper, but in the meantime, we all decided to sleep off the effects of the copious quantities of alcohol we'd all consumed, apart from Mary, who'd driven us home.
The hotel room was immaculate when we went back into it, with no evidence of the mess we had left it in that morning.
"It's nice having someone to do all the tidying up and cleaning for us, isn't it?" Angela said, looking around.
"That reminds me, " I said. "Why did Kerry have to make up the bed in the spare room? Or did she simply do it because they have to make up every bed, every day?"
"Don't be silly," Angela said. "I decided that in order to have some reputation left, after Kerry barged into the room last night, we should give some semblance of having slept in separate beds. So I rumpled it up before following you down to breakfast this morning."
"Poor girl," I said, thinking of the extra work for Kerry. "They have a tough time of it, working here."
"Well, we're paying a small fortune to stay here so that they can give us all the extra things we want," Angela said. "Now, after all that alcohol we've just taken, are we going to bed for a while before we get ready for dinner?"
I readily agreed, until she made it quite clear that sleep was all she had in mind. Then I lay on the bed and read a book for a while, before I felt my eyes growing heavy. I really shouldn't drink so much at lunchtime, I thought.
***
It was almost six o'clock when I was awakened by Angela's whinging. (She gets into these moods occasionally, and it's best when it happens to be attentive and caring, otherwise it degenerates into a full-scale row.)
"What HAVE you done with it?" (When she puts unnecessary emphasis on certain words, prepare for the worst.)
"Done with what," I mumbled, still half asleep.
"Well, where did you PUT it?"
"What are you looking for, my darling?" I cheerfully asked. ('Caring' does not mean 'timid' - that's fatal at this stage.)
"Why, the WILL of course. Where did you put it?"
I was confused. "The will? Well, you packed all the paperwork - all Nancy's papers from the bank - and everything."
Angela looked extremely cross. "Oh God! That's really great isn't it! Why don't you LISTEN to what I say? I TOLD you, I was bringing all the bank papers and YOU should bring the will."
"Oh shit!" was all I could say.
"You mean, you haven't brought it! That means that our whole trip here has been WASTED!"
Unfortunately, she was right!
"Shit! Shit! Shit!"
"Is that all you can THINK to say?"
Thoughts of death concentrate the mind wonderfully. "I'll have to drive back home and pick it up."
"Don't be STUPID! It took us FOUR HOURS coming. And don't forget that Nancy isn't INSURED to drive our car - I'm not even certain she's got a LICENCE - so if you have an accident or are stopped by the police, not only is our story BLOWN, but you'll also get prosecuted."
"Well, I'll change back..."
"If people see you without tits, that will BLOW your cover as well." She set her face in that certain way, and I knew we were about to enter the self-sacrificial phase. "I shall have to go, WON'T I?"
This stage had to be dealt with extremely carefully.
I sighed, and looked as though that was equivalent to her donating a leg for live medical research. "Oh Angela. You know you hate driving."
On the way down, I'd done all the driving wearing Nancy's tracksuit, without even considering the risk of being stopped by the police or having an accident.
"And you'd have to drive both ways," I continued. "It's too much."
"Well, what CHOICE do we have? It's all your fault, and it's ME who has to pay the price."
"I'm sorry, Angela."
She appeared to be slightly appeased by my apologies. "I'll drive down early tomorrow morning. It's Monday, so I'll have to set out at a RIDICULOUS time to avoid the traffic." (She was right. The traffic in the whole of South-East England on Monday mornings was always abysmal.) "I'll start about three am, so I should be home before the WORST of the congestion starts.
"But it's too much for me to drive back the same day," she continued. "I'll set out early on Tuesday morning for the return journey. That means you'll have to take care of yourself for the whole day, and I don't want you HIDING from everybody."
I promised I would be good, and go out as Nancy, and meet lots of other guests.
"Well you'd better get ready for dinner NOW," she said. "We only have an hour before we're due to meet Pete and Mary for aperitifs."
***
I was a bit miffed over supper, because rather than Pete giving me all his attention, as he had done during our trip to the castle, he spent the whole time chatting up Angela. I could read his mind like a book; he was obviously wondering how he was going to: a) get Angela into bed; and b) do it without his wife knowing.
The annoying thing was that Angela played up to him, as though her husband wasn't sitting just a few feet away. Of course, I had to pretend it was of no interest to me, at all, so I spent the time talking with Mary. Actually as I talked with her, I realised that, although her clothes were drab, underneath she was really rather attractive. A well-rounded body (which Angela of course insisted was fat), with a pleasant face, and an interest in every word I spoke. So, by the time we went to our respective beds, my earlier irritation had completely disappeared.
"Have you got your penis all at the ready?" I asked Angela, as soon as we got into our suite. Obviously, she hadn't been wearing it tonight, since she had on a tight-fitting dress.
"Don't be stupid," she said. "We had plenty of that last night and, unlike you, I only have a few hours sleep before I have to get up and drive through the night, all because you didn't listen to what I said. If you think I'm going to wear myself out pleasuring you all night, you've got another think coming."
I sighed. I'd hoped that being chatted up all evening by Pete might have got her in the mood, but clearly, it had fallen flat. I resigned myself to a sexless night.
"I think I'd better sleep in the spare bedroom tonight," Angela said, adding salt to the wound. "That way, I can get away without disturbing you," (her sudden consideration amazed me), "and it will also mean that you're not keeping me awake all night by touching me up to try to get your own way."
That hurt me a bit, and with a simple, "Please Yourself," I retired to the master bedroom to commence the task of removing my make-up.
CHAPTER 5 - MONDAY
I didn't hear Angela leave in the middle of the night, and I was rather upset next morning that she hadn't even come in to kiss me goodbye. Still, I supposed she did have a point. If I hadn't forgotten to bring the will, her eight hour round journey, spread over two days would have been unnecessary.
The problem was, I couldn't remember her instructing me to pack the will. Now I'll freely admit that my memory is often pretty poor, and I'm always forgetting all kinds of things. But that is to say that my problem is that I'm absent-minded - I forget to do things I'm supposed to be doing, but normally, once I've been reminded of them, my memory is clear.
So it was perfectly feasible that Angela would have said, "Pack the will," and I had forgotten to do it. But if that had been the case, then as soon as Angela reminded me of it, the memory - and the associated guilt - would have returned. Yet, I had no such recollection. Reluctantly, I decided that, at only two years away from forty, my memory was starting its long-term decline.
As these thoughts passed through my mind, I'd been lying on my back in the same position in which I'd awoken, a few minutes previously. I wasn't certain of the time, so I looked over to the right to the Victorian wall-mounted clock. The movement caused my body to swivel slightly, and I felt my weighty breasts shift across towards my right side; not much, since they were very firm, but just sufficient such that the nipples rubbed against the sheet and sent a tingling feeling all through me.
Eight-thirty. Plenty of time before I had to do anything. I moved back to my original position. Again my breasts shifted and the nipples rubbed against the sheet. Another warm, tingly feeling, which brought a smile to my face. It had been much the same when I'd awoken yesterday, and I'd had to immediately reach for the remote to turn down the sensitivity, simply so that I could get on with getting ready for breakfast.
Of course, today, there wasn't any rush. I could spend a little time in bed playing with myself. My hands reached up to my nipples - hard, round buttons protruding through the front of my nightdress - no wonder they had felt every sensation as they had rubbed against the sheet.
I sat up with a jerk, then, the movement sending more wonderful feelings through my body. With Angela giving off ice-cold isobars last night, why should my nipples be erect when my breasts had been on the 'Four' setting all the previous day? The sheet dropped off my breasts and, through my sheer nightdress I could see my engorged nipples, a good centimetre in diameter, and protruding about the same amount from my breasts.
My hands raised to cap them, and roll them between fingers and thumbs.
"A-a-a-h-h-h!" That was wonderful. I rolled them again.
"O-o-o-o-h-h-h!" Fantastic.
But the question forced its way through to my consciousness. Why were my nipples erect, and my breasts on a far higher sensitivity setting now than they'd been last night?
There was only one answer. Angela had come in my room before departing, perhaps given me a kiss, and clicked on the remote to give me a pleasant thrill as I awoke. With such encouragement, my hands started to work in earnest on my breasts, making me utter more moans and whimpers. It really was wonderful waking up as a woman, and being able to play with yourself like this.
My left hand dropped to my groin, and explored anew the slit there, and the little, almost hidden, knob at the point where the two sides joined. More ecstatic pleasure. I guessed that, if I'd still have been a man, I'd have climaxed by now, with the resultant sticky mess on the sheets, and the feeling of depression that went with it.
Harder and harder I worked at exciting myself, and faster and faster. It really was fantastic that I could keep it going for so long, so close to orgasm. My tits were bursting with excitement, my clitoris throbbing with pleasure, just a few more strokes and I'd be there...
Just a few more...
Just a few more...
More, more, more.
More... more... more...
I wound to a stop, physically exhausted and sexually frustrated. I had really wanted that orgasm; I was so close to it. Yet it had evaded me. Damn! Time to give up, set my sensitivity back to one, and forget my breasts had any life in them.
The remote wasn't on the bedside table, where I expected it; nor had it been left on the bed. In fact, a glance around the bedroom showed it wasn't there at all. I got out of bed, my heavy tits obeying the laws of gravity, and rubbing my nipples against my nightdress as they swung down into their normal position.
I walked through to the sitting room, feeling my tits quivering with every step I took. Angela had left a letter on the dining table. She'd obviously written it to be non contentious in the event that anyone else should see it.
"Dear Aunt Nancy
"I'm just about to set off, and I shall probably be at home by the time you awaken.
"I expect by now you'll have discovered I've taken a remote control with me, and I'm not talking about the TV. That's because I want you to get the same buzz from things today that you enjoyed on Sunday - my way of ensuring you have a great time whilst I'm away.
"Should be back tomorrow.
"Love, Angela."
Damn! She'd upped the sensitivity of my Bustlet to some high figure, and walked off with the remote. I was stuck in the nymphomania setting. I thought back to the hours of fun that Angela and I had on Saturday, with my setting on max and her enormous strap-on penis. Today was going to be a long, frustrating day.
Anyway, I thought, what did she mean by SHOULD be back tomorrow? The plan was that she WOULD be back tomorrow. There was no reason at all why she should miss more than one day's enjoyment at this splendid hotel. And perhaps when she arrived back in the early hours of tomorrow morning, she'd put on her penis and awaken me with the shagging of my life.
I showered, spending much more time than was good for me in playing with my parts, to exactly the same fruitless end as before. Then I got dressed.
At least, I started to get dressed, but with my nipples erect, no matter what dress or top I wore, they pushed out the material making my state of excitement all too obvious. Eventually, I had to concede, putting on the sloppiest sweater I had, with the organ stops pushing through the front. After doing my make-up and taking my Voice-Changer pill, I finally got down to breakfast only a few minutes before it had closed.
"No Kerry today?" I asked the new waitress.
"It's the end of the season," she said. "Kerry was due to leave at the end of this week, but her grandmother is ill, so she's left a few days early."
To be honest, I was slightly pleased about that; not that her grandmother was ill - I'm, not that cruel - but I felt Kerry was too familiar with us guests. Alright, she was delighted she'd found two supposed lesbians, but there was no reason why that should occasion remark, any more than if a heterosexual waiter found two guests who were also heterosexual.
"Hello, Nancy. Did Angela get off alright?" Mary had come over to my table as she and Pete were leaving the dining room. We had discussed Angela's planned trip last night at dinner.
I smiled at her. "I think so, although I don't remember her going."
"Oh well, never mind," Mary said. "I expect she'll be back in a few days, and in the meantime we'll look after you."
"A few days?" I said, confused. "She's only away for one night, and that's just because it was too far for her to drive in one day."
"Yes, of course," Mary said, sitting down at my table. "Look, you know you said you'd let me try on that dress you were wearing Saturday night. Do you think I could come back to the room with you when you've finished breakfast? Pete's going for his walk along the beach, leching at all the women, so we'll have the whole morning together."
"Alright, that would be nice."
I thought it would be, too. I got on very well with Mary; she made me feel good about myself, and she was an excellent friend to have.
****
The phone was ringing when we got back to the room. I dived to answer it. As I expected, it was Angela.
"Hi there," I said. "I've just come back from breakfast. I have Mary with me." (So she'd know I couldn't talk freely.) "Have you only just got home? I expected you to get there hours ago."
"Oh, I did," she said, "but I felt ready for bed, so I came straight up. Since you've got Mary there, you won't be able to say anything, but knowing how I left you, I expect you're almost up the wall with frustration." She seemed to enjoy taunting me, and she continued in the same vein. "I'm lying in bed now, as it happens, completely naked, my little pussy is begging to be stroked and she's really enjoying it."
It had been years since we'd had this kind of conversation over the phone. I'd ring her up from work, and she would explain in great detail what she was doing to herself whilst thinking of me. On its own, it would have made me feel horny, but with my nipples tingling with every joggle of my boobs and unable to masturbate to a climax, it could drive a person insane.
"I've just been down to collect the post," she said, thankfully changing the topic before I imploded. "There's a letter for you from your bank. As you aren't going to be around, I thought I'd better open it. You didn't tell me you'd changed your address to our house."
"I meant to tell you," realising the remark really was addressed to Nancy, rather than me, "but I forgot."
"Well the letter says that your new UK bank card and cheque book will be sent here within a couple of days," Angela said. "I thought, in that case, it would be better for me to hang on here until they arrive and bring them with me. That way, Nancy, you can pay the hotel bill directly from your account, rather than putting ours under further strain."
It made a lot of financial sense, although I was going to miss Angela terribly, particularly since she'd left me climbing up the wall with frustration. I really would be going mad.
"I'll pop the will in the post, and you should get it tomorrow morning," she continued. "Then you could get Pete and Mary to witness it."
"I'll do that as soon as I can," I said.
I failed to catch some indistinct words over the phone. "What did you say," I asked."
"Oh, I've just put on the radio," Angela said. "I guess if you have Mary there you'd better go now. Enjoy yourselves."
After Angela's declaration yesterday that she would kill me if I committed adultery with a woman, I wondered what she meant by that.
In the master bedroom, where she'd opened a wardrobe, Mary said, "Oh, what beautiful dresses. Is it alright if I try them on?"
Seconds later, she was pulling a dress out of the wardrobe, and her own clothes were dropping to the floor.
***
Last night, it had been Angela who had brought the conversation round to the beautiful clothes I had in my wardrobe. Under Angela's prompting, I had casually agreed to let Mary try some of them on. It had never occurred to me at the time exactly what that would result in.
As a bloke, if I agreed to lend someone a suit - which would be a pretty unlikely event anyway - they would have taken it to a bathroom to try it on. Certainly, no bloke would pull off his clothes in front of another one unless he was either gay or in a sports' changing room.
So I was unprepared for Mary to strip off her blouse and skirt and then, realising her bra was the wrong shape to fit underneath my dress, pull that off too. Fortunately, I managed not to gasp in delight.
For Mary may not have had very noticeable tits when concealed under clothing, but when naked, the small pert breasts with sizeable brown nipples looked exceptionally attractive. Especially as within seconds of meeting the colder air, the nipples popped out almost as prominently as mine.
"I think I could wear this dress without a bra, don't you?" she asked, swivelling around, the nipples clearly making their presence noticeable.
"I think with a figure like yours, you could," I said. "I don't think I'd get away with it."
"Oh, but you have wonderfully firm breasts," Mary said. "I'm sure you could if you felt brave enough. Why don't you try it now, and I'll give you my considered opinion."
So, just seconds after she had shed her own clothes, my floppy sweater came off, followed by my bra.
"Wow!" Mary said. "What fantastic breasts. How do you keep them so firm? Do you mind if I touch them?"
IF YOU'VE ENJOYED THE STORY PLEASE CLICK ON THE GOOD STORY BUTTON...
...and I'd also love to read your comments. Although this story is not a mystery, like many of my stories it does contain a few twists which hopefully you were not expecting. Some of you will have your suspicions, but in the time-honoured way, please do not spoil the surprise for others by airing them in a comment.
In other words,
In the Freezer - Part 3
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SYNOPSIS: Nigel, and his wife, Angela, are happy to offer a temporary UK home to Nigel's Aunt Nancy, following the death of her rich husband Frank in Australia. On their first evening together, they are absolutely delighted when Nancy signs her will leaving all her fortunes to them when she dies. But wills have to be properly witnessed, and with Nancy's premature departure, someone has to witness her signature. Although the family resemblance is fortuitous, Nigel has reservations about the whole scheme. With just cause, it would appear.
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as (and the more sensitive readers may wish to close their eyes whilst reading the next 17 words): crossdressing, sex with multiple partners of both genders, illegal acts, getting drunk, humour and extra marital sex. (If you've had your eyes closed, you may now open them.) So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste (or if you've had your eyes closed), then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
PART 3
CHAPTER 6 - FUN AND FROLICS
Well, what would you have said? Here I was feeling incredibly horny after walking from the lift to our suite with my high-sensitivity boobs joggling like crazy, Angela talking about stroking her pussy, and Mary stripping off in front of me and waving her tits in front of my face. Perhaps if I had considered it for a few minutes, I'd have come to a sensible answer.
But I didn't have a few minutes. As she spoke, Mary's hand was moving towards my breasts. Short of jerking them away with a "No!" there was little I could have done, even if I'd decided I wanted to. And perhaps I found it convenient to be indecisive, just as I had when Nancy had assaulted me last Thursday evening.
"A-a-a-h-h-h!"
"They're very sensitive, aren't they?" Mary said. "And I didn't even touch your nipple. Let me just..." With a touch so light, I wondered that I could feel it, she simply grazed her finger across my nipple. But feel it, I did. I gasped as the most wonderful sensations coursed through my body.
"Oh, is the other breast as sensitive?"
It was! My legs felt so shaky that I collapsed onto the bed.
"Oh you poor thing. I suppose with your husband dying, it's been ages since you've had anyone to play with these properly. Well, don't worry about a thing. I can help you; and there's no reason to worry about being unfaithful to his memory, or anything like that. This kind of enjoyment doesn't count. Now I think you probably need someone to suckle your breasts." Her head moved downwards.
***
It was almost midday when Mary's mobile rang. She crawled across the bed to take it from her handbag.
"Hello Pete. Are you back in the hotel now?"..."I'm in Nancy's suite. I've been helping her with stress relief."..."Yes, that's right."... "Well, I'll put it to her and call you back. Bye."
No doubt Pete was thinking of his lunch.
Mary disconnected the call and turned towards me, smiling. "The old bugger guessed immediately what I meant by stress relief," she said.
"Oh," I said, feeling incredibly embarrassed.
"That's alright, don't worry about it," she said, putting out a hand and giving my breast another little stroke. (Heaven!) "The point is, he asked whether you'd like the full works to go with it."
"The full works?"
"Yes. You know. With a man? Only he is a perfect gentleman, and very good with it. And he's only got a thin willy - only don't tell him that - so he slips it inside without any pain, and then he can move it like heaven. If you're a bit nervous about doing it again with a man, I thought it would be the perfect re-introduction for you. But it's your decision; there's no compulsion."
"But he's your husband."
"Yes, but we've just had very nice oral sex, haven't we?" (I couldn't deny that.) "And we always take precautions, so it's quite safe, and it's not as though you're going to take him away from me. No, we both enjoy safe sex with others, and we trust each other."
I guessed that if you're unconcerned about your partner having sex with someone else, then there's no reason not to trust them. I hesitated somewhat. It was, after all, what Angela had been encouraging me to do, and in character for Nancy, but...
"I'm not certain. This morning has been a bit unexpected."
She was so sympathetic. "That's alright. Look, how about a compromise. I'll get him to come up to the suite and I'll meet him in the sitting room and tie his hands behind his back before I bring him in, so you'll feel totally safe with him. Then we can strip him off and you can look him over and see what you think. If you don't want him, then I'll certainly give him one, so he'll have no hard feelings about it - literally, after I've finished with him."
She was being so understanding, it seemed rude to refuse her offer of sex with her husband, so I said, "Mary, you're so nice about everything. I'm a bit nervous but... let's do it."
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Mary went into the sitting room to open it. A minute after that, Mary put her head around the bedroom door and said, "I've brought back a prisoner for interrogation. Shall I bring him in?"
She pushed him through the door first, and sure enough, his arms were strapped behind his back with his own belt, and over his head was pulled Mary's tee shirt.
"I thought you might not want him to see you naked if you were going to send him back," she said. She shuffled him over to the bed and made him stand in front of me. "Now," she said, "do you want to pull down his trousers and take a look at the goods on offer?"
"Don't catch the zip," Pete's voice came from beneath the tee shirt. "Anything else, but please don't catch the zip."
I pulled down the zip, careful to comply with Pete's wish, released the waistband on his trousers and pulled down his trousers. Underneath, his underpants were bulging with excitement.
It's strange, but in retrospect I realised that I didn't hesitate before pulling down his underpants. After all, I was really curious to see what his dick was like, and Mary had done a good job of selling it as a fully acceptable prick. Whilst Nigel would never have pulled them down, Nancy was keen to inspect the goods.
"Oh, how beautiful!" I exclaimed.
I'd fully intended to make some positive comment about it, even if I thought it was every bit as horrible as Angela's false prick, but my words were totally reactive, rather than some considered statement. For quite simply, it was beautiful.
The shaft was only about a half-inch diameter, with no throbbing blue veins standing proud from its surface, but smooth skin all the way up to the knob - say one-inch diameter - giving it a mushroom-like appearance. Similarly, there was no wrinkly skin on his chestnut-sized balls and they looked as innocent as table-tennis balls.
I instinctively reached a hand forward to cup them, and he gasped slightly, not expecting my touch. Then I slid my hand up his prick and circled it between fingers and thumb, and gave a couple of pumping motions. Finally, I bent my head forward to inspect the goods more closely, and could not help flicking out my tongue and giving it a slow lick around the head.
"Shall we take that as a 'Yes'?" Mary asked.
For the first time since Pete's phone call, I suddenly realised what I was about to commit - taking a man inside me in the same way as any normal woman would. Was I crazy to have gotten into this situation? Probably, but the buzz of adrenaline through my head was like nothing I'd experienced ever before.
"Take it as a 'Yes, please'," I said, "but go gently with me."
He did. Mary released his arms and removed the tee shirt from his head, then he dropped to his knees and went at my pussy as though he was trying to get his head slowly inside.
In itself, that had me aching for more, especially as Mary decided to start work on my nipples, sucking them so tenderly, I was almost weeping for the next phase.
It came so gently, I might almost have missed it, had the results not been so exciting. He pushed me back on the bed and Mary followed me down, her mouth sucking my tits like a hungry baby. There was no attempt to drill a hole in my body where there was not one already, as Angela had done; instead, I simply felt his prick nuzzling between my lips, and then he was inside.
***
Recent medical research indicates that the clitoris is far larger than its external appearance might indicate. Big Busts had obviously used this knowledge to completely wrap my artificial clitoris around my artificial vagina.
What was incredible was that Pete's prick, with a head of barely one inch, created such a feeling of paradise, when Angela's false prick which was at least twice the diameter, was nothing like as good (although I had thought it pretty good at the time). I guess it's that a light touch feels far more erotic than a heavy touch. Angela's prick had strained everything to get inside me. There was no pain when Pete's beautiful head slipped in, and I could concentrate solely on the pleasure.
As a man, it's impossible to imagine an orgasm that simply goes on and on and on. Mine started within seconds of him slipping inside me. Every slow thrust in was orgasmic, as was every slow withdrawal. Pete said afterwards that he could play me with his prick in the same way that a violinist uses the bow on his instrument. Sliding it either way produced shrieks of unadulterated pleasure from me.
I was in ecstasy for almost an hour, before he withdrew his wonderful tool, and we came to a gentle halt
"I don't know about you, girl, but I could do with some food," he said. "We haven't had lunch yet."
I could willingly have starved to death in order to prolong my pleasure. I looked at the clock; it was almost three pm.
"Why don't we order some food on room service?" I suggested. "Then we'll have time for a bit more pleasure before getting ready for dinner."
As an offer, they both found it irresistible.
***
After dinner, we continued until almost midnight, when Mary drew the action to a halt.
"I don't want to spoil any more fun," she said. (She'd got a nerve, since Pete had been servicing her almost as much as me.) "But we ought to get to bed, now. Remember, we're going on the Murder Mystery tomorrow."
"Murder Mystery?"
Mary nodded. "It's an excursion the hotel organised as an extra. We get the coach at nine, tomorrow morning, which takes us to a manor house, not far away, where a dastardly crime takes place, which we have to solve. We'll be there all day, and we don't get back until ten or eleven in the evening."
I was distraught at the thought, and I only let them out of the room after another heavy session with Pete.
CHAPTER 7 - TUESDAY - THE BREWERY AND THE TEA DANCE
Sixty seconds on Tuesday morning. That's all it took standing outside Reception waving off Pete and Mary on their coach, before a man noticed my tits pushing out the top of my blouse and spoke to me.
"Are you on your own for today?"
I looked around. It was Simon; one of the pair of guys I'd chatted to in the bar on Saturday - the one who'd been interrogating me about where in Australia I had lived.
"Yes," I said. "Pete and Mary have gone off on the Murder Mystery excursion. I tried to get on it at the last minute, but it was fully booked."
"Tell me about it," Simon said. "I was already booked to go on it with Jake, only it turns out the woman he met here on Sunday called Susan-bloody-Bracknell, who he's desperately trying to pull, wanted to go and she hadn't got a place. So, Jake convinced me to give up my place to this Ms Bracknell. I wish I hadn't done it now. She didn't even offer me the cost of the excursion."
"That's mean," I said, "but very noble of you to allow Jake to try to get friendly with her. Not many friends would do that."
"I only came on holiday with him because he persuaded me we could have a great time together. I don't really like coming to this kind of hotel since my wife died last year. But Jake's divorce has recently come through and he said he wanted a break, so I agreed to come with him for a blokes-together holiday. He's been chasing everything in a skirt since we arrived, and I've hardly seen him."
"So, since you've been pushed off the Murder Mystery, do you have any plans for today?"
"There's a good local brewery here," he said. "I thought I might do the brewery tour."
"Brewery?" I said.
"Seacombe Ales," he said. "Are you interested in looking around it? I mean, I know women aren't usually interested in breweries, but I did notice you drinking a pint of lager on Saturday. You never know, I might be able to wean you onto real ale."
"Do you think so?" I asked. "I hope you're not trying to lead me astray."
***
He certainly did. Not by converting me onto real ale, of course - I regarded that as promoting one of life's essentials, as natural as mother's milk. And I'm also not talking about the sex which we got onto by the end of the day, for which I took full responsibility. No, it was the tea dance that really led me astray.
You see, I'd never intended to have sex with Simon. Alright, I pretty soon realized he was a nice enough guy, probably in his early forties. He told me, as we walked down to the brewery, that as a widower he simply hadn't wanted to start a relationship with anyone new. Of course, he was diplomatically telling me that we were going to the brewery as two strangers, thrown together by fate, who might become friendly, but nothing more.
I respected that. If he didn't want to bonk me, or any other woman in sight, then he was a rather unusual male, but that was fair enough. So I played the part of an innocent female friend, as we went around the brewery.
I pretended to know nothing at all about the brewing process, and he meticulously filled in any details that our guide - an elderly, retired brewer with a great sense of humour - didn't properly explain. Mind you, I did notice that he tended to touch me quite a lot - all quite innocent, you understand. A little tap on the arm to draw my attention to the huge supplies of hops, or perhaps taking me by the hand to draw me across to see the steam heaters.
I noticed he also developed a habit of peering down my cleavage at every opportunity. Since every other male in the brewery was doing the same, I could hardly criticise him for it, even if I'd found it objectionable, which I certainly did not. So, regardless that the brewery tour in itself was absolutely riveting, I really enjoyed his company.
The end of the tour coincided with an early lunchtime, and since there was a well-stocked bar selling beer at cost price, which also sold a few incidentals such as sandwiches, it made good sense for us to stay on, sample several of the brews on offer, and grab a bite to eat.
***
It was about three-thirty when we got back to the hotel. By now, the occasional contact between us had turned into quite essential interlinked arms around each other's shoulders, providing mutual support as the ground moved beneath us. Indeed, I noticed his arm around my shoulder had moved to an arm underneath my shoulder, and that he had amazingly long arms. With my breasts still on high sensitivity, I was getting nice w-s-s-s-hing feelings going through me as his hand caressed the side of my breast.
It had been my intention on getting back to the hotel to go to bed - not for sex, but simply to close my eyes whilst the world regained some kind of reality. But that was when Simon saw the tea dance.
"Lesh go," he suggested.
"Go where?" I asked.
"Ish a tea dance," he said.
"Don't need any tea," I said. I had to speak deliberately for the next bit, as it was quite complicated. "Ju know, reality ish an illushon caused by a lack of alcohol?"
Simon thought that incredibly funny, so funny I had to turn and hug him to stop him from falling over. "Didn' know that," he said. "Who shaid it?"
"I did," I said.
We both thought that so funny we had to hug ourselves again, to stop the floor from coming up and hitting us.
When we'd finally recovered, he made the suggestion again. "Lesh go dancin'."
The spirit was willing, and who cared that the flesh was weak? "You're on," I said.
"No. We're on," he said, as the music started in what may have been a rumba, or perhaps a waltz, or a tango. I know that as he led me onto the dance floor, Simon told me what it was called. Indeed, he knew every step, and did his best to get me to move my feet in the right direction at the right time. For the life of me, it's all now just a blur of him grabbing various parts of me and trying to push them in one direction, and it seemed, simultaneously pulling them in another, whilst he gave instructions which contradicted both.
To me, it was all an excellent excuse for a bit of grapple and squeeze, without him acknowledging that his period of official mourning had now ended. But whilst he wouldn't verbally admit it, there was a certain part of his anatomy which was in no doubt. He had a hard-on which, as he held tightly on to me, tried to bore a hole into my stomach.
In spite of the fact that I was three parts sizzled, the effect of all this was doing wonderful things to my body, and I know that my voice came out a lot louder than I intended when I said I thought I was on the point of having a fucking, great orgasm.
Well, I'd meant it to be quite loud because the orchestra were playing noisily. It was unfortunate that they chose that moment to stop, and the sound of my voice carried right around the room, causing most of the old dears, who I now realized comprised every other person in the room, to reach either for their heart pills or their packs of Viagra.
Both Simon and I thought this more cause for hilarity, and when the music started again, he then took us through another dance that more resembled sexual intercourse than any of the modern day equivalents.
I think it was at that moment that the hotel manager came into the ballroom with the porter, and sprouted some words about retiring to our rooms. When we failed to take note, the porter grabbed hold of Simon and yanked him in one direction, and the manager grabbed me and pulled in the other (having a good feel of my nipples as he did so) and then we were all in the lift and it was shooting upwards to our rooms.
But as the porter pressed the lift buttons for six (my floor) and three (presumably his) Simon said, "Ish no good you takin' me to my beroom, cause my fren Jake ish currently in there shaggin the arse of Lady fuckin Bracknell, and she's going to be pretty fuckin upshet when you throw me in with them."
I have to say that it was at that moment that my respect for Simon rose out of all proportion. It was as much as I could do to work out where my bedroom was, and here he was, outthinking two sober people by inventing a completely fictitious story. The manager and the porter looked at each other, and I could see they were wondering, "Oh shit! What do we do with this drunken slob now?"
So I solved their dilemma. "There'sh two berooms in my shuite. He can come with me."
"Yeah!" Simon added. "You tek me there and we can all come together."
They didn't really have much alternative, so they took us both into my suite, and made a great show of carrying me into the master bedroom and laying me on the four-poster, and taking Simon into the other bedroom, and presumably doing the equivalent for him, and closing the doors of both our rooms.
Thirty seconds I heard the outer door close, and I was stumbling through the door into the sitting room at exactly the same time as Simon. We both managed to crawl to each other, somewhere in the general vicinity of the settee and start some serious grappling - you know the kind of thing; trying to get each other's clothes off when we couldn't bother to undo the buttons, and with the lining of the zips getting stuck in the zips and so on.
I know it all heightened my passion, and when we were eventually both naked and I could see that Simon's cock was every bit as magnificent as Angela's artificial prick, I didn't even bat an eyelid - I simply took it all in - and I'm not talking here about my powers of observation.
CHAPTER 8 - WEDNESDAY
I guess millions of women have awoken feeling exactly the same way as I did. "Why did I get so drunk? Why did I let myself get talked into bed like that?"
Of course, the answer for me anyway, if not for a large number of other women, was that I was undoubtedly responsible for the first, and that led directly onto the second. I could hardly blame Simon for having sex with a woman who - after he'd sucked her nipples so nicely - had told him she was absolutely desperate for it, and it didn't fucking matter about him not having a condom.
Fortunately, it didn't. I was hardly going to get pregnant, and I didn't think I could catch aids through a Hiplet. I had swallowed quite a lot of his semen, and my face and body (and all the bed linen) had been liberally sprayed with it. Hell, with testicles the size of tennis balls, he ejaculated a gallon of spunk each time he came!
Further contemplation was interrupted because my body was indicating an urgent need which could not be put off. Fortunately, I managed to get to the toilet before I wet myself, then I drank two glassfuls of water and went back to bed to nurse my hangover. It was only as I was dropping off to sleep that I noticed that Simon was no longer in my bedroom. For that matter, where was Angela? She should have returned this morning clutching the chequebook and bankcard. I turned over and let my hangover submerge me.
***
It was early afternoon before I was awoken by the phone ringing. Fortunately, my hangover had all but gone, and I was feeling well enough to answer it.
"Where have you been?" Angela asked. "I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday."
"Just entering into the spirit of being Aunt Nancy," I said. I really didn't think it politic to tell her that whilst she had been presumably getting on with all the housework and other jobs that needed doing around the house, I had been getting paralytically drunk in Seacombe.
"Well, at least you haven't been stuck in your bedroom all the time," Angela said. "Hopefully, you've got the will witnessed by now."
The will! I'd forgotten all about it. Hopefully, it was waiting for me at Reception. "Er, not quite," I replied, but I've got several people lined up who can do it."
"I should think so too," she said. "Anyway, I was ringing to tell you the bank card hasn't yet arrived, so I'm still hanging on here. Hopefully, it'll arrive here in tomorrow's post, so I should get back there for Friday."
"Hope so, Angie," I said. "I'm missing you." (Well, I HAD missed her when I'd awoken this morning.)
"Me too," she said. "Hope to see you then. Bye."
I got out of bed and slipped on my dressing gown, then I went out into the sitting room, only to see Simon slumped on the settee.
"I didn't realise you were still here," I said. "I thought you'd shagged me and left me." (Actually, after I'd said the words, I realised they sounded harsher than I'd intended.)
"No, I'm sorry, I should have explained."
I smiled at him and sat down next to him. "No, it's me who's sorry. That was very nice what you did to me last night, and I enjoyed it very much." I gave him a kiss on his lips, and snuggled against him.
He smiled back at me, and said, "Thanks, Nancy. I thought we had an absolutely great time. Only... Well..."
"You don't want to make it a permanent arrangement," I interrupted.
"No," he said.
"Thank God for that," I replied. "I certainly don't. We had a great time together; that doesn't mean we have any kind of commitment to each other. Now, are you feeling ready for a little lunch?"
Simon nodded. "I could eat an elephant."
"No elephants on the menu," I said, "but you could have a ploughman instead." I glanced at the clock. "We're too late for the bar, so why don't we have room service? And how about a bit of the horse that bit you?"
"Do you mean a pint of real ale?" Simon asked, visibly brightening.
"I didn't," I said, "but we can order that on room service as well. No, I meant the other horse that bit you. Ne-i-g-h-h-h-h!"
***
It was around four o'clock when I heard a knock on the door. We were in a temporary intermission with Simon in the toilet, so I got up, slipped on my dressing gown and went to answer it.
"Any drunken parties going on here?" Mary asked.
"Hi Mary. Hi Pete. Come in," I said, having a quick glance over my shoulder to make certain a naked Simon hadn't come into the sitting room.
"Wow! We heard all about your antics at the tea-dance," Pete said. "And since we haven't seen you all day, and Jake was saying he hasn't seen Simon, either, we can only guess what you two have been up to."
"Then you must have a pretty vivid imagination, Pete," I retorted.
"Naw," he said. "It's because I've been led astray by Mary. She's already got me to do every unimaginable sex act, you could ever not imagine."
"Did someone mention unimaginable sex acts?" Simon said, poking his head around the door.
"My God!" Mary said, staring at the gap in the door, level with Simon's knee.
"Sorry," Simon said, rapidly withdrawing his huge cock from sight. "Didn't mean to embarrass you."
"I'm not putting up with that kind of behaviour," Mary said, getting up and marching over to the bedroom door. "Tantalising us with a quick glimpse, and then withdrawing it before we've had proper chance to admire it."
She barged thought the door, shouting as she went into the bedroom, "Come here, you cock-teaser. Let me see."
It was followed by a shriek from Simon, and a second later, Mary came back through the bedroom door dragging something behind her.
"Pete, just look at this beauty," she said, holding up Simon's cock as though displaying a trophy. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"
Pete shook his head. "Christ, it puts me in my place, doesn't it luv."
"Course it doesn't, you silly old bugger. Mind you, no wonder Simon got Nancy pissed before showing it to her." She looked up at Simon. "I bet most women faint when you slap that in front of them, don't they?"
"Don't be so personal." I rounded to Simon's defence. "There can't be many men who are as considerate as Simon - well apart from Pete," I added, keen not to hurt his feelings.
"But isn't it a monster?" Mary said. She slid her hand down his cock and was now fondling one of his balls. "Can we see it in action?"
"I'm not displaying to a peep-show," Simon said, "and please, can I have my ball back."
"Sorry, I didn't mean like that," Mary said. "I thought perhaps a party piece."
"A party piece?" both Simon and I spoke together.
"Mary's party pieces are famous," Pete said. "Or perhaps I should say infamous. They're a bit like synchronised swimming, only with sex. Great fun."
Simon and I looked at each other. "Well, I don't know," I said.
"Oh, don't be a silly," Mary said. "We've already done a three-way with you."
Simon looked gob-smacked by that, so I said, "Thanks, Mary."
She was undeterred. "This will only be with one extra. Come on, Pete, let's get undressed."
I have never seen two people get undressed so quickly. One second, they were standing there with their clothes on, the next they were both naked, and Pete's thin prick was pointing up towards my face. Gulp! This was getting out of hand.
"I see you like sandwiches," Mary said, looking at the remains of our lunch.
"Well it wasn't really a sandwich..." Simon was starting to say, when Mary gave him a quick squeeze, which shut him up, and then led him by the balls across to our Victorian dining table.
She pulled out a chair and said, "Right, hop up onto the table, luv, and lie on your back."
I think Simon would have protested, but Mary was already moving his balls up there, so he had to follow. She handed a foil package to him, and added, "Slip this on."
Then she turned to me. "Take off your dressing gown, get onto the table and straddle Simon. Don't get him inside you yet, but you can let him nuzzle against you if you want to start getting ready."
"But why are we using the table?" I protested. "What's wrong with the bed?"
"Too soft," Mary said. "You need a firm foundation for this kind of set-up. Come on, don't let Simon feel lonely. Get up there."
It was easier to comply than to argue. I stepped onto the chair and then knelt on the table, and worked my way along his body until I was level with Simon's knees. I straddled him, his prick settling between my tits and I used my hands to wrap my tits around his shaft, something I'd done a number of times before.
"Don't get him too excited," Mary directed. "We want him to last the course. Now," she said, examining the table, "I could really do with another person to..."
A knocking at the door interrupted her words. She picked up my dressing gown from the floor and slipped it on, before answering.
"Jake!" she said. "We were just wondering where you'd got to."
"I was looking for Simon," we heard him say from the corridor. "I was hoping he might..."
"Come in, come in," Mary said, "we need an extra prick." She reached through the door and an instant later he was pulled inside the door, and his mouth dropped open as he saw first Pete, absolutely stark naked, his boner pointing to the ceiling, and then Simon and me, lying on the dining table.
"Right, get stripped off," Mary said.
There was no hesitation from Jake. In fact, he was naked almost as fast as Mary and Pete had been.
Mary pulled a chair up to the other end of the table and said, "Alright, I want you to kneel by Simon's head - no, you don't have to dangle your balls in Simon's face. Move forward so that Nancy can give you a gobble. And slip on this condom, first." There was another foil packet in her hand. I couldn't work out where they were coming from.
I gulped a bit at that. Obviously, I'd been eyeing him up, as soon as he took off his clothes. His prick was about the same size as mine - average sized. "God," I thought, "I'm starting to realise what an average sized prick is like!"
If Angela had instructed me to gobble off a bloke on Monday then I'd have refused without thinking. However, since then I'd had my drunken session with Simon, during which time I'd had gob-fulls of semen squirted into my mouth, up my nose and into my eyes. The idea of taking a condom covered prick of medium size was no challenge at all.
"This table's a bit rocky," Jake said, giving a little jerk of his body to demonstrate. He was right, the table did move quite noticeably.
"Rubbish," Mary said. "In Queen Victoria's time, they built tables to take this kind of punishment all the time. They're built to last. Now, Peter. Condom on?"
I couldn't see him from where I was lying, Jake's cock almost poking me in the eye, but I assumed he waved his condom-covered prick at Mary, for she continued, "You like making sandwiches, don't you? Up behind Nancy, then."
I started to have a fit of the giggles, then. The idea of Pete making sandwiches, presumably with the left-overs of our lunch, whilst the rest of us had an orgy was ridiculous. I felt sorry for poor Pete, being left out of it, presumably because his cock was so small.
"This table is really wobbling," Pete said, behind me. It was too, and he had to grab the cheeks of my bum for support.
"Rubbish," Mary said. "Now, I'm coming to stand astride the lot of you, facing Jake, whilst we all get connected up."
She climbed onto the table; even she felt it move now, as she said, "Hmm, it does seem a bit rickety. Never mind, we're all in place now."
She stepped astride us, and then I had to move forward and lie flat on top of Simon, so she could stand either side of my shoulders, which resulted in my arms being trapped by my sides
"So Nancy, move down onto Simon and take him inside you.
Well, I'd had plenty of practice, now, first getting onto Angela's huge prick, and then the many sessions I'd had with Simon over the last twenty-four hours. I moved my body a bit further forward until his prick slipped between my legs, and then wriggled gently from side to side, working him through my narrowest parts, before I could finally slide down his cock.
"O-o-o-f-f-f!" I said, with deep satisfaction. "That feels good."
"Great," Mary said. "Now, Jake, move forward and slip your cock into Nancy's mouth."
I was expecting him to be as gentle with me as I had been with Simon. Instead, as soon as he'd got his prick between my lips, he grabbed the back of my head with his hands and lunged right inside, his cock going halfway down my throat. I almost gagged, and with Mary standing where she was, I couldn't get my hands around to grab hold of him, but then, fortunately, he was sliding out again, and I decided I'd give him a right piece of my mind as soon as I could speak.
It was not to be, for he pulled back to the point where his knob was just inside my teeth before lunging forward again. "Fucking hell! That's good," he said.
I expected Mary to notice my predicament and stop the proceedings. Instead, she said, "OK, Pete. Make a sandwich."
Why on earth she was going on about that when Jake was ramming his prick right down my throat, almost choking me to death, I couldn't imagine - until I felt Pete's prick nuzzling against my back passage. Suddenly, I knew exactly what type of sandwich Pete was going to make.
"N-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!" I said, or something like it. What I wanted to say was, "No, I've changed my mind about all this. Can we stop?"
To be fair to Pete, as always, he was the perfect gentleman. He slid past the ring of my arse with minimum of pain, and then he was pleasuring me with all the skills he knew. What's more, as he thrust backwards and forwards in time with Jake, they were moving me on top of Simon, and his monster was thrusting against all my best parts.
"A-a-a-o-o-o-h-h-h!" I said, as, with all three orifices being fucked, I started one tremendous orgasm.
CHAPTER 9 - THURSDAY
It was the early hours of Thursday morning when Simon drew his car up outside my house.
"Is this it?" he asked.
"Yes, thanks," I said. "This is it. It was really decent of you to give me a lift, after everything that happened."
"No problem," he said. "They've said I can probably go and collect Jake in two or three days, but I don't want to stay down there on my own, especially as I'd have to find another hotel."
"Yes," I said. "I thought the hotel were really snotty, the way they threw us all out, simply because their furniture was so inferior that it collapsed, causing a great deal of embarrassment to us all."
"I know," he said. "It wouldn't have been so bad if that kid on the beach hadn't seen us through the French windows as soon as I got onto the table, naked. Even then, he didn't have to draw the attention of everybody on the beach to us."
"No," I said. "But they did give us a nice cheer as we all crashed through the French windows onto the balcony. It was a shame that all that glass got embedded into Jake's arse and back."
"Not really," Simon said. "He saved everyone else from getting hurt. But it was a pity you clenched your teeth as we all hit the floor. But then let's not forget, it was his fault in the first place. If he hadn't made me give up my place on the Murder Mystery trip, we wouldn't have met and got drunk, and everything else."
"Yes," I said, and paused for a second, before adding, "Quite fortunate he did make you give it up, really."
"Yes," he said.
I gave him a nice kiss before getting out the car. He also got out, and helped me out with my suitcase. We had another little kiss, and then he got back into his car and drove off. I watched him with a smile on my face.
***
It was totally silent as I let myself into our house. In the rumpus after the accident, I hadn't been able to call Angela as I couldn't find my mobile phone.
The manager and a couple of porters had burst into our room immediately after the accident, whilst we were still untangling limbs and Jake was screaming his head off. OK, the porter called an ambulance for him, but they made us all get dressed and go downstairs. A few minutes later an ambulance arrived, and Jake was put into it and taken off to hospital.
Then they'd escorted the rest of us into the manager's office, where he'd shouted and raved about the cost of the damage and the reputation of the hotel, whilst we shouted back about the inferior quality of his furnishings.
Unknown to us, whilst that was going on the porters packed everybody's suitcases, and as we left the manager's office, we were all shown the front door. Fortunately, Simon had given me a lift for the four-hour journey home.
I left my suitcase downstairs and went up to our bedroom. I went in quietly, without putting on the light, so as not to frighten Angela - after all, she wasn't expecting me - then bent over her head on the pillow and kissed her fully on the lips. Perhaps she'd heard me enter the house and come upstairs, for she didn't seem a bit surprised. Unexpectedly, her tongue slipped into my mouth - Angela had never previously liked that part of a good snog - and we played with each other for a few seconds.
In fact, Angela was doing fantastic things with her tongue intertwined with mine - even tickling my tonsils, when the light went on, and Angela's voice came from the other side of the bed: "What the fuck is going on here?"
We both jerked away from each other, and I found I was staring into the face of Kerry, the breakfast waitress from the Grand Hotel.
***
It would be somewhat of an understatement to say that Angela and I had a disagreement; it was the mother of all rows, the worst that we had ever had. Alright, I have to say that I didn't go fully into the reason why I'd left the hotel in the early evening and returned home without warning. But then I felt I should not have needed to give a warning.
Unfortunately, Angela did ask about my success of getting the will witnessed - something I had only remembered as I was leaving the hotel - too late for any signatures apart from Simon's.
But then she admitted that she HAD taken the will to the hotel on Saturday, but had simply invented its absence in order to have an excuse to bring Kerry home. It had been the same with the bank cards, which had arrived in the post on Monday morning, but which Angela used as an excuse to prolong her period of debauchery with Kerry. She also admitted that she'd been having sex with Kerry in our hotel room on Sunday morning, when I'd gone back there to collect her.
Fortunately, Angela had asked Kerry to leave the room fairly early on in our row, so she didn't pick up any of the real truth behind the façade, and I'm not going into much of the other pointless arguments that we both used during our debate. (At least, my activities with Nancy never came up!)
At the end, we came to a kind of natural break, more through exhaustion than of victory and defeat. Kerry spent the rest of the night in the spare room, whilst Angela and I slept as far apart as we could in the double bed.
***
Fortunately, by next morning, things had calmed down. Kerry announced she was leaving us, and she even consented to be the other witness on the will before she went. Angela apologised for deceiving me about Kerry, and in turn, I apologised for over-reacting about it. After all, she had given me permission - which I had utilised - to make love as a woman with others.
So when the phone call came at around nine-thirty, we were more or less a couple again. Angela answered it.
"Yes. Yes. Mrs Brown does live here."
I moved forward to take the handset from her, but Angela held up a cautionary hand. "I'm sorry, she's not here at the moment, but I'm helping her with her personal issues."
It made sense that Angela spoke, rather than myself, I reasoned. She couldn't be caught out by any questions which I should, but did not, know the answer.
"Oh? Is it really that urgent?" Well, yes, I suppose we could come in this afternoon - say about two-thirty, if that's alright. It is? Okay, we'll see you then. Bye."
Angela put down the phone and said, "That was a Mrs Sullivan who is the UK representative of the executors of Frank's will. She says there's something rather unusual in the will that she needs to talk with us about, urgently. I said we'd get there for two-thirty."
My stomach did a loop-the-loop. "Did you have to make it so soon?"
"Well, she said it was urgent. I thought it was better to get it out of the way. Otherwise, we'd be worrying about it all weekend."
She was right of course. In any case, she'd made the appointment. Better get it over with.
***
"Thank you for coming in to see me, Mrs Brown," Mrs Sullivan said. "I'm sorry to call you at short notice, but I only got notification this morning."
We both muttered inconsequential responses.
"Now, Mrs Brown, as I explained over the phone to Mrs Simmons, I am acting on behalf of the executors of your late husband's estate. I need to read the relevant section of his will to you, and make some checks, as required by the will." (Hell! That sounded ominous. Was she going to check my identity?) "I advised her this morning that it might be in your best interests if you could bring along a professional advisor, but you have chosen instead to bring Mrs Simmons, who I understand is the wife of your nephew."
"Yes, that's right," I said.
"Fine," she said. "You may think I'm being unnecessarily formal, but when I read the will, I'm sure you will understand the reasons."
I nodded to indicate I understood, although I was puzzled by what she said. What the hell was she talking about?
"Alright," she said, "in that case, I'll go ahead with the reading of the relevant sections of the will. Firstly, I need to tell you that the residue of the estate, some eleven million Australian dollars is shared equally between Mr Brown's two sons by his previous marriage, which I understand you were already aware of."
I smiled sweetly, thinking, "Hell, Nancy had never even mentioned sons by a previous marriage, never mind Frank leaving them the main part of the estate."
"So, I'll now read the relevant part of the will," she continued.
" 'To my wife, Nancy Brown, I bequeath the sum of two million dollars,' - that's about one and a quarter million pounds sterling," she added for Angela's benefit (and unknowingly, for mine) " '...provided that she has remained chaste to my memory for a period of two weeks following my death, this to be evidenced by my executors using the key enclosed with this will to unlock the chastity belt which I have insisted she wear for the majority of our married life together.' "
Chastity belt? What the hell!
Mrs Sullivan waved a key in the air. "So, the question I have to ask you, Mrs Brown - and I confess I am embarrassed at having to ask it - is whether I can use this key to unlock the chastity belt you are hopefully wearing."
I was speechless, but Angela came in, "So that's what you meant, Aunt Nancy, when you arrived at Heathrow and said that you needed to see someone about the lock on your little jewel box. I thought it was strange at the time, because when I helped you unpack your huge suitcase the next day, your jewel box was inside it - and it wasn't even a lockable jewel box."
"Do I take it from your niece's remarks Mrs Brown," Mrs Sullivan said, "that you are no longer wearing the chastity belt?"
I couldn't even speak, as the thoughts whirled around my head. My God! That's what Nancy had been doing in Slough - having her chastity belt removed. No wonder she'd been so ready for sex that evening after being chaste, perhaps through many months of her husband's illness. And the sum of two million Australian dollars was dependent upon me still wearing a chastity belt that I knew nothing about.
"No," Angela said. "Mrs Brown is no longer wearing the chastity belt."
"Mrs Brown," Mrs Sullivan said, "can you confirm that?"
There was no point in lying, for she had the key and would want to use it if I claimed it was there. "That's right," I said. "I'm afraid I had the belt removed as soon as I arrived in this country. I thought it was rather an antiquated custom, you see, and certainly not..."
"You don't have to explain to me, Mrs Brown," she said. "I think it's the most appalling way to treat a woman, and almost unbelievable that could happen in a so-called civilised country.
"However, I am not at liberty to debate the issue, I can only carry out the wishes specified in the will, and I'll read on to explain."
She started reading again. " 'Should my wife no longer be wearing the chastity belt (and one can make one's own judgement about the morality of such a person who, less than two weeks after her husband's death, feels the need to remove a device provided solely to protect her pureness), then the sum of two million dollars will be ring-fenced and put into trust. The trust shall pay my wife the sum of twenty thousand dollars per annum, payable monthly in advance, for the rest of her life.'
"That's about twelve and a half thousand pounds," she added for Angela's benefit, "or around a thousand pounds per month."
A thousand pounds per month! It would take years to pay off the debts we'd incurred since Nancy arrived - the cost of the hotel, the gowns she'd bought in Slough, and even the money Angela had spent on purchasing her willy from Big Busts.
"There is an important rider I must tell you about," she added, starting to read from the will, " 'Should my wife, in a fit of remorse, decide from this moment on to commit to remain chaste to my memory, the annual payment shall be increased to two hundred thousand dollars. Such commitment is to be demonstrated by her donning a new chastity belt, the key to be kept by the trustees, and its presence checked on a monthly basis prior to handing over the payment. Should the trustees discover at any time that the belt has been removed or tampered with, then payment will immediately revert for all time to twenty thousand dollars per annum.' "
Mrs Sullivan looked up from the will. "So there you have it. If you agree to wear a chastity belt from now on - and I have one here ready for you to put on - your annual income will increase to two hundred thousand dollars, but every month I must check that you are still wearing it. If at any time you ask me to unlock it, or if I discover during the monthly inspection that it has been removed or tampered with, then your allowance reduces to twenty thousand per annum. I'm afraid I need you to make the decision today, before you leave this office."
I was gob-smacked. That would equate to over ten thousand pounds a month. It would pretty quickly solve our financial position. But there was no way I could put on a chastity belt.
"Could you give us some time together," Angela asked. "I'm certain you understand that this is an entirely preposterous stipulation of the will, and we may want to contest it."
"Of course you can have time together," Mrs Sullivan said, "but I must warn you that the trustees are required to protect Mr Brown's wishes to the best of their ability, regardless of personal feelings. This would inevitably mean you taking any challenge to court, and the cost of any such challenge would come out of the trust fund. My suspicion is that the costs of such action would easily consume the whole of the amount contained in the trust, so effectively, you'd be fighting over nothing. Anyway, let me give you and your niece some time together." She got up and left the room.
"Fucking hell, Angela," I said. "Nancy has done for us. We're going to be bankrupt. We can't pay back the money we owe, with me out of work and a mere twelve thousand quid a year from the trust."
"No, but we'd be alright if we take the higher amount," she said.
"Don't be stupid!" I screamed. "I'd have to wear a chastity belt. No way!"
"I can understand why you might say that," Angela said, "but you don't have to commit for all time. You could agree to put it on today, and you'll immediately receive seven thousand pounds. Even if you decide to cut the belt off tonight, the first payment would pay off a large part of our overdraft. Keep it on for another month, and we'd be in profit."
"But you can't expect me to go without sex for a month. Besides, Big Busts said that the Hiplet will need taking off every week to ten days."
"We can ask them about that. They seemed fairly flexible; they might be able to suggest a way around the problem. But I do think the important point is you agree today to wear the chastity belt. At least, you can then change your mind tomorrow. If you decide to say 'No" now, we're condemned to bankruptcy."
I shook my head and gave a huge sigh. The problem was, she was right. I had to have the chastity belt put on today if we were to remain solvent.
So I said, "I suppose so," and then immediately remembered that it was exactly this same argument - about trying it and then changing my mind later - which had got us into the scrape we were in.
It was too late. Angela had already called Mrs Sullivan back into the room and told her I would wear the belt.
EPILOGUE - TWO MONTHS LATER
Alright, so I'm still playing the part of Aunt Nancy, and still wearing the chastity belt. Angela was right; Big Busts had been able to fix me up so I could continue to wear the Hiplet beneath the chastity belt. Every two weeks or so, when I shed a layer of skin, the Hiplet comes loose and Big Busts slide a thin pipe between the garment and my skin, and wash it all out. Then they squib more glue inside, and fix the Hiplet back in position.
As for sex, well Angela had a good look at the chastity belt and felt there was no way a conventional prick, or even a finger, could be slipped inside either my vagina or my arse. But she did suggest that a certain someone had a remarkably long and versatile tongue, and that she might be able to satisfy me.
Indeed, she did. Her tongue can work its way inside the chastity belt from the hole where my anus is, and then she only has to put it against my clit and jiggle and that, combined with Angela sucking on my nipples makes sex as good as it can get. And of course, we all have to return the favours for each other, so we're all happy.
I have now received my third monthly payment, and we are comfortably in credit. Oh, and the other thing - Aunt Nancy is still lying in our freezer. Obviously, she must continue to remain 'alive' in order for her income to continue, but we're keeping her on the eventuality that someday, perhaps, we might want to bump her off, when we have sufficient money.
Some hopes of that. The way we're starting to spend, we'll never have enough money. Why, only yesterday, we were passing a dress shop in town and they had this utterly beautiful dress in the window. We simply had to buy one each. We look great when we go out together now. It's almost a shame that I'm not allowed to screw any more men as there's no shortage of volunteers!
Keep it in the family
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A round of sex with Emily was fantastic, Patrick discovered, and he would do almost anything to repeat the experience. But it seems Emily's enjoyment of sex ran right across the family.
This story contains humour, sex and crossdressing. If you don't like any of those, don't read it. This story is entirely fictitious and is not based upon any living person.
Keep it in the Family
by Charlotte Dickles
"I'm afraid I have to leave you now," Emily said, adding with a huge smile, "That was fun."
"Fun!" Patrick echoed. "That was absolutely fantastically, gorgeous, orgasmic paradise. I didn't know people of our age had sex like that."
"No?" Emily paused, considering. "I picked most of that up when I was young and I don't think anyone ever told me to stop doing it."
"Well, I'm certainly not going to. In fact, I think we should repeat it as soon as possible. "
"It's not as easy as that."
She took her clothes to the bathroom, leaving Patrick briefly pondering her remark, before switching back to thinking about the sexual athletics they had just undertaken. Even when he'd been young, he'd never had a partner with such a repartee of sexual positions. As he'd gone through the years, he had settled down to a straight missionary fuck, three times a week if he was lucky, less often as the relationship with his wife gradually fell apart.
After their son had gone off to university, there seemed nothing to keep them together, and they'd split up by mutual consent. He'd met Emily a few months ago at the Bridge group he'd joined. In contrast to the other players, who were all deadly serious about the game, she laughed at him when he made a stupid call or played the wrong card as her partner. Anyone else and he'd have been executed. They went out a couple of times, but the relationship seemed to be going nowhere in a hurry. When he'd suggested they get to know each other better, she had said things with her family were 'awkward', without explaining further.
Then, that very morning she had telephoned and suggested that rather than going to that afternoon's meeting of the Bridge club, she come round to his flat. As soon as she got through the door, she'd had the hots and they hadn't diminished over the next two hours.
"Patrick," Emily said, coming out of the bathroom, "I'm sorry but this afternoon was a one-off. I'm not going to be able to do it again. It's a sort of family problem."
"But we must," he said in horror. "You enjoyed it as much as I did... Unless... are you married? "
"Oh, no. Long divorced. The problem is with my son, daughter and her husband. They'd make a terrible fuss."
"But what's it got to do with them? Surely, they're old enough to be adult about it?"
"They're very protective," she said. "About a year ago I met this guy, Darren, and we had a relationship. He asked me to marry him which, to be honest, I wasn't so keen on, but I said yes because I didn't want to lose him.
"Then I discovered he was having an affair with one of my friends. They went off to get married! Three months later, she came back with her tail between her legs. He was a bigamist. He'd cleaned out all her money and then taken off. My family haven't let me have another relationship since. But they don't know how much I want to have sex. They think people our age don't need it."
"Then tell them to go to hell."
"That's something a mother can't do to her children. I love them, and being with them and the grandchildren. It would create hell if I took up with another man."
"You don't have to tell them. We could have a secret affair, every Wednesday afternoon when they think you're playing Bridge."
"No! For one thing, it wouldn't work. My daughter normally takes and collects me from the Bridge group. She's having her hair done this afternoon so I said I'd take a taxi."
"And for another?"
"For another... Well I want to have a proper relationship, where we do something other than have sex."
"How did your children feel on these two occasions when I've taken you out for meals?"
"Hmm, well, you're going to kill me for saying this, but I changed your sex. When I've spoken about you, I've simply called you Pat and let them think you're a woman."
"Oh thanks!"
"It's quite fun actually." She giggled. "It means I can talk about you, which I do quite a lot, without them knowing I'm talking about this sexy bloke who I really fancy. They're far too straight-laced to consider I might be turning into a lesbian."
Rather pleased she'd been talking about him quite a lot, even though it was as a woman, he rather lamely added, "Well we must do something."
Another giggle. "You could pretend to really be Pat."
"Ha. Ha. Very funny. "
"Actually," she said, looking at him more carefully as though she'd had a brainwave, "that could work."
"You mean you simply tell them you're meeting a woman..."
"Oh no, they'd have to meet you, soon. Make certain you weren't a con artist. Mind, they didn't recognise Darren as such."
"You mean... "
She stared at him. "I think you'd make a very nice woman."
"No way."
"No," she challenged, "there is a way. The question is whether you'd do it for us, Patrick, for our relationship?"
And for the kind of fucking he'd had that day on a regular basis. "Could I really look like a woman?"
"Why don't we give it a go? I could order you up some things to try. In fact, it would be rather fun."
Almost everything in Emily's life was fun, he realised, which was one of the reasons why he agreed to give it a try. The other reason being, of course, she fucked like crazy.
***
"Hi Pat, it's me."
There was an excited sparkle in her voice as she said his new name, and Patrick couldn't help but be drawn into her mood.
"Hi Emily," he raised the tone of his voice - not too successfully - to try to mimic a woman.
"I think the voice needs working on, but don't worry too much. I've found this great company that will turn you into a voluptuous woman."
"I'm not certain I'd want to be a voluptuous woman," Patrick said. "Just a quiet, plain Jane."
"From the way you looked at that woman in the restaurant the other day, I rather thought you liked voluptuous women." (Damn! He didn't realise she'd noticed.)
"Anyway, it's too late now," she said, "I've ordered it all on Express delivery. It should be with you this morning, which is why I'm ringing to tell you not to go out."
"So what exactly is it?" He asked.
"Wait and see," she teased. "Then put it all on and give me a call.
"You'll be fantastic," she added, before ringing off.
Patrick very much doubted that, but her excitement was contagious. He was rather looking forward to turning into a voluptuous woman - especially if it led to having another round of sex with Emily.
***
By ten-thirty, he was staring at the two boxes he'd removed from the carton, leaving a number of smaller items inside.
The one was labelled: Bustlet - breast enhancement without surgery - the most realistic false breasts in the world. With Sensotouch - to make your breasts more sensitive than you have ever known.
The other said: Hiplet: Hip and bum enhancement without surgery - the most realistic hips, bum and vagina in the world. With Sensotouch - to provide the most sensitive vagina ever known to woman.
Patrick gulped. He wasn't expecting to have a vagina, regardless of its sensitivity. He opened that box first. It was like a padded, skin coloured control brief, except that between the legs there was an incredibly realistic-looking vagina. He picked up the user guide which was in the box and started to read.
***
"Hi Emily, it's Pat."
"Pat! Hi. I didn't recognise your voice. "
"There were these voice-changer tablets in with the stuff you ordered, but more importantly, you know that voluptuous woman you were talking about? Well, she's here. I'm looking at her in the mirror."
"Pat, that's great."
"Well, it's not really. These breasts are enormous. Everyone will be looking at me."
"They may look at you," Emily said, "but I bet they won't think you're a man dressed up as a woman."
"Well, no, but the Hiplet even has a vagina, and you can guess where that fits, and very uncomfortable it is too."
"You'll get used to it. We women have to. Now, I want you to get a tape measure and give me your measurements; I can then start ordering you some clothes. This going to be fun."
Patrick silently sighed, and thought again of the wonderful sex, then he grinned. "Emily, it's going to be brilliant."
***
"Hi Mum, it's me... Oh, I didn't realise you had company"
Hello, love. This is my friend Pat from the Bridge group. Pat, this is my daughter, Abigail."
"Hi, Abigail."
"It's really good to be able to put a face to the name. Mum's always talking about you. She was on the verge of leaving the Bridge club - load of stuffy old farts, she said - when you joined. Mind you, I thought it might be because some of the dirty old men there were trying to hit on her, and Mum's really not interested in any of that, are you Mum?"
"Well..."
"So we were so pleased that she's found a nice friend to keep her company. Are you single or married, Pat? Mum never seems to say much about that."
"I've been on my own for the last year, since I split up with my..." (He'd been about to say wife, for God's sake) "...husband."
"Well, I suppose men who are attracted to sex bombshells like you are more volatile than men like my Tim who prefer more normal-sized women. Those are enhancements, I presume?" She nodded at Pat's breasts."
"I think sex bombshell is a bit over the top," Pat said, "but I confess, I don't look exactly as nature intended."
"No, I thought not." She gave a slight sniff. "Well, I must be off. You can't keep me talking here all day."
After they heard the front door slam, Emily said, "Sorry about that. Abigail always tended to open her mouth before putting her brain in gear, and she seems to be getting worse."
"I'm not really a sex bombshell, am I?"
"Perhaps I went a bit overboard with the voluptuous. By the way, those breasts are 'Natural' rather than 'Enhanced'. I thought you'd prefer that.
"What 's the difference?"
" 'Enhanced' are always a perfect conical shape, whereas 'Natural' flop about just like real breasts. The company recommend then for additional authenticity. Still, look on the bright side; it never crossed Abigail's mind you might be a..."
"I forgot to ask the question why I came," Abigail said, coming back into the room. "Can you babysit tomorrow at about eleven? I've got a doctor's appointment."
"Err, yes, that'll be all right love."
"Great. Love you. Bye, Pat."
"Bye," they both said, waiting for the front door to slam
"Hell, Emily, we can't make love here. She'll be coming into the bedroom to check out the firmness of my tits."
"She's not usually this bad. Her brother, Jonathan, is completely the opposite."
"Then let's go over to my place. In fact, you can telephone your daughter this evening and tell her you're going to stay the night."
"Oh. Yes."
Then, "Oh yes!"
Then, "No, stop it. You'll smudge your lipstick and Abigail will come back and ask if you want to borrow hers to touch up."
***
As soon as they got through the door into Patrick's flat, they were undressing each other, in amongst kissing and stroking. What Pat did not expect was that as soon as his bra was off exposing his enormous breasts, Emily would go to work on them in a big way, and he was left gasping for pleasure as he went into an orgasmic climax.
"The Sensotouch seems to work all right," Emily said, some time later.
"I've never had an orgasm before, simply from having my nipples licked," he said. "That was incredible."
"What's even better," Emily said, "is that a man normally takes time to recover after an orgasm, whereas we woman can just go on and on. Shall we try a little 69 now?"
Emily's mobile rang at about eight next morning.
"Hi, Mum." Patrick could clearly make out Abigail's voice. "Jonathan is going to pop over there to collect you at about ten."
"But I was planning..."
"Don't forget you're babysitting at eleven. We don't want you late for that, do we?"
"No darling."
"Bye."
Emily looked at Patrick. "Kids, you love them and you loathe them. Now I want one more serious orgasm before I leave here."
They were back to having hetero sex by now, as Patrick's Bustlet and Hiplet had got incredibly sweaty inside and he'd pulled them off in the middle of the night.
"Do you think I should become a semi-permanent woman?" he asked. "There's a different gel I can use to prevent sweating but you can't remove the things for two weeks."
"So you think that sex as a woman is better?"
"I've never had a three hour non-stop orgasm before. The user guide says I can arrange it so I can still let my cock out to play."
"Then why don't you shower and become female again, and then we'll have a nice big girlie orgasm."
Of course, they were still at it when Jonathan rang the doorbell just before ten.
"Damn!" Emily said. "We got a bit carried away there. You put on that nice silk dressing gown I bought you and answer the door to Jonathan, whilst I go have a shower."
***
"Hi Jonathan. I'm afraid we've had a late rise, this morn..." Pat faltered to a stop as he realised Jonathan was not listening to his words, but was staring goggle-eyed at Pat in his silk dressing gown pulled tightly around his body Pat hadn't wanted to leave any gaps to expose his body, but he now realised the consequence was that the thin material followed every curve of it.
"Sorry," Jonathan stuttered as he realised Pat had noticed his transfixed stare. "I didn't mean to... That is, I was a little surprised by how..."
Pat smiled. "Come in Jonathan. Your mother's still in the shower but you can have a coffee whilst you wait."
He led the way to his combined kitchen and lounge, barely able to contain the exhilaration running through him. Jonathan had been aroused at seeing him! Pat knew he should be appalled by this, rather than excited. After all, he wasn't gay.
But I'm a woman. It's great to be admired by a man. The words flashed through his mind as he turned to ask whether Jonathan wanted tea or coffee, and again revelled in Jonathan's lustful look
"Coffee, please," he replied.
Women's dressing gowns are fastened in a different way to men's; that was Pat's excuse anyway that he let the front droop open slightly as he leant forward to pass Jonathan his coffee. He heard a sharp intake of air, and quickly glanced up, catching Jonathan in full drool.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Jonathan apologised. "I didn't mean to look. I was just..."
"Jonathan, it's all right," Pat said. "It's my fault for accidentally letting my dressing gown gape open like that; not yours for reacting like any man would."
"Right."
Pat thought what a much nicer person Jonathan was than his sister. "Are you married, Jonathan?"
"Er, no. No. I simply haven't met the right girl, yet."
"You don't meet any girls," Emily said, coming through into the kitchen. "If you're making a coffee, Pat, do one for me."
Pat obediently made Emily a coffee. She was back into mother mode, impossible to consider how, earlier that morning, she had been doing a deep throat on his engorged prick.
"Mum keeps trying to get me hooked up with some woman or other," Jonathan said to Pat. "Most of the time, they clearly don't want to get hooked up with me."
"Don't be stupid, Jonathan," Emily said. "I've introduced you to some very nice girls. I wouldn't mind if you came straight out and said you were gay."
Jonathan blushed slightly, and glanced at Pat who gave him a wink with a quick smile. Jonathan laughed in response and said, "Mum, I'm not gay. Like I said, I simply need to meet the right girl..."
"Or woman," he added, and Pat knew he was talking about her. She felt a thrill run through her that a young man actually fancied her, a much older woman.
But I'm not, Patrick said to himself. I'm a bloke.
Not at the moment, Pat said. So it's quite all right.
"I just want you to be happy, Jonathan," Emily said. "Have so much more fun than you do."
"Don't go on Mum."
"Don't worry, Jonathan," Pat said. "Mothers always do go on about something. It's because they love you."
"We'd better be going, Mum," Jonathan said, and with a shy smile at Pat, they left the flat.
***
When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, Pat assumed it would be Emily, no longer required for her baby sitting. Instead, it was Abigail.
"Hello, Pat. I hope you don't mind me coming round like this." It was a statement, not a question, and she walked past Pat into the flat.
"Don't you have to be at the doctor's shortly?" Pat said, closing the front door and following Abigail into the lounge.
"Oh, I made that up, just to get Mum out of the way so we could have a chat."
"Oh! What sort of a chat?" Pat thought that rather a shoddy trick for Abigail to play on her mother.
"Well, I was rather intrigued by your breasts. I've been thinking of having an enhancement, and I wanted to talk to you about yours."
Pat's heart leapt into her mouth. Did Abigail suspect her real enhancement? "I'm really no expert," she said.
"Of course not," Abigail said. "But look at my problem." She quickly unbuttoned and removed the floral blouse she was wearing and just as quickly took off her bra, exposing two small, pert breasts.
"But your breasts are beautiful," Pat said, trying not to gulp.
"But I've noticed Tim more and more looking at other women, especially those with large breasts. Would you mind if I looked at yours properly?"
"Er, well." Pat paused, considering. The male reaction to such a request would have been to punch someone of the same sex on the nose, but she knew that women were completely different in that respect. She would appear very unusual to refuse. "Of course." She shyly removed her blouse, and then took off her 44-DD bra.
"Those are magnificent," Abigail said. "They're so firm and beautifully shaped. Do you mind if I just feel them?"
Without waiting for permission, she reached forward and gently squeezed Pat's left breast. Pat did gasp a little at that.
"These feel so natural. When did you have them done, and who did them for you?"
This was starting to get complicated. "Well, when I said I was not quite as nature intended," Pat said, "I actually meant that I was very late developing any breasts at all."
"Go on." Abigail was now gently squeezing her right breast.
No, you go on, Pat wanted to say, but did not. "All my girl friends had wonderful breasts, whilst I was still flat-chested, and I was getting quite frantic." At not being able to get his hands on them, he meant.
"Yes." Abigail had her hands on both Pat's breasts and was gently massaging them.
"Yes," Pat said, and then followed it up with a downright lie. "The older sister of a school friend was taking some breast enhancement pills, and she started stealing them to give to me. Well, I took them for months and months, and still nothing happened. Then suddenly, they started growing and they didn't stop, not even when I eventually stopped taking the pills."
"What were they, those pills?" Abigail was firmly grasping her tits now, and squeezing them hard.
"I don't know. In any case, they are probably banned now from sale, so it's rather academic."
"I suppose so," Abigail said, adding, "If you lie on the floor, I can lie on top the reverse way round, and we can suck each other's breasts."
Seeing the surprised look on Pat's face, she added, "It's something I learnt in the dorm at boarding school. Don't you dare tell Mum - she simply wouldn't understand such things."
Pat didn't like to tell her that was exactly what she and her mother had been doing a few hours previously.
***
"Hi, Patrick."
"It's Pat, now. You remember? Patrick disappeared when he used the semi-permanent gel this morning. The only reminder is her exceedingly large clitoris."
"Mmm. Quite delicious. But I'm really ringing to thank you for talking to Jonathan this morning. He's usually completely tongue-tied with women. Heaven knows, I've tried so hard to get him off with someone. I even hired a prostitute once to come to a party at my house and take him to bed, but he ran a mile."
"He's not like his mother. Just give him time. He'll find someone."
"I hope so. Anyway, he seems to chat to you, so could you please try to convince him that women don't bite."
"I'll do my best," Pat said.
"I thought we might go shopping this afternoon. Get you a few more clothes."
"But you've already bought me lots of clothes..."
"A woman can never have too many clothes. Afterwards, back to your place for tea and crumpet."
They were both crumpet now, Pat realised with a pleasant thrill. "The problem is," she said to Emily, "I'm not exactly flush with money. I can't really afford..."
"It's on me," Emily said. "Let's call it for services rendered. Also to say thanks for talking to Jonathan."
***
They spent a couple of hours shopping, a process which as Patrick she would have found incredibly boring, but which seemed to transform as Pat to be an exciting process, with Emily helping her choose some wonderful essentials to her wardrobe.
But it all came to an abrupt end when they came out of one department store and Emily's phone started ringing.
"Mum, where have you been? I've been trying to get hold of you for ages." Pat had no difficulty identifying Abigail's strident voice.
"I've been shopping with Pat. We've just bought her a lovely..."
"Mum, I've got no time for that trivia. The school's just telephoned to say there's a fault with their electric supply so they're closing early. You need to get there straightaway and collect Jodie. I've told Tim to take time off work and meet you at Pat's - I assumed that's where you were."
"There's no need for Tim to do that. I can get a number 43 bus from here which will take me straight there. Now stop worrying. I'll be at school in just a few minutes."
"Well, for heaven's sake, get a move on." The call was abruptly terminated.
Emily turned to Pat. "I'm sorry about this. I have to go."
"Abigail treats you abysmally," Pat said. She was still feeling guilty about her frolics with Abigail, that morning. "It's time you put your foot down."
"I'm sorry, Pat, but you're over the line. She's worried about Jodie; that's all. Now, I'm sorry we won't be able to finish our day nicely, but I have a bus to catch."
Pat returned to her flat feeling rather depressed. They'd been having such a superb day, and Abigail treated her mother like a servant. Not finishing the afternoon with a bout of sex was a downer, but to be honest, whilst Pat was still enjoying the sex, it was no longer the only thing in life. She pondered the cruelty of life; when you were denied sex, it really was the only thing you wanted; yet when you had it in abundance, it became something that was simply nice to do.
"A penny for them."
"Oh Jonathan! What are you doing here?"
"Abigail rang me in a complete panic looking for Mum. I thought I'd come over here on the off chance she may be here with you."
Pat explained what had occurred, and Jonathan said," Oh! Never mind. I guess I'd better get back to my job."
"You could stay for a coffee."
"Would you mind? I could really do with a coffee actually, as I didn't get chance to take a break after Abigail rang me."
"Come in, Jonathan and I'll put the kettle on."
"Thanks. It's really nice of you."
"Take your coat off and sit down," she instructed, as he hovered nervously about. "Tell me Jonathan, she added, what is your job? It seems very convenient you can take time off whenever Abigail tells you to."
"I'm a sort of technical journalist. I write articles for the technical and scientific press - it always involves a lot of research which I do at home, so I can choose the hours I work."
"Then it's probably quite lonely, working at home."
"I'm happy enough, working on my own, but I do sometimes feel like a chat."
"Of course you do, so tell me, what are you working on at the moment?"
It wasn't in order to please Emily that Pat coaxed Jonathan into opening up; she really enjoyed talking with him. In fact, Jonathan was extraordinarily interesting: he'd been writing a series of articles titled Environmentalists against the Environment about people using environmental arguments against the provision of wind farms or Energy from Waste projects. They seemed to talk about it for ages, before they were interrupted by the doorbell.
"That can't be Emily, back already, can it?"
"Shouldn't think so," Jonathan said. "She'll have taken Jodie back to Abigail's. Do you mind if I use your toilet while you're answering it?"
"Of course not," Pat said as she went to the door. It was a man in his late twenties, a very handsome man, some women might have said, but Pat wondered whether he might be gay.
"You must be Pat?" he said. "I'm Tim. Abigail sent me round to collect Emily."
"I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey," Pat said, and told him what had happened.
"Oh well, never mind," he said. "Do you mind if I come in?" Just like Abigail, he walked straight past her into the flat without waiting for an answer. "After what Jonathan said about you, I wanted to meet you. He said you were stunning, but as usual, he hasn't a clue about women."
"He said I was stunning?" Pat couldn't help but be flattered.
"But you're not stunning," Tim said. "You're beautiful."
"Don't be silly."
"I'm not being silly." He suddenly swept forward and held her lightly in his arms. "A wonderfully curvy figure and so kissable lips."
His lips were only inches above hers, but Pat was turning her face away and pushing him back before it got too embarrassing.
"Let's have sex, together," he said.
"No. For one thing, you're married; for another, I don't fancy you."
Tim was obviously about to say more when they both heard the toilet flush. He paused. "Who's that?"
"It's Abigail," Pat rather cruelly said.
"Shit! Why didn't you warn me?"
"Of course," he added, "my suggestion was only a little joke..."
Just then, the toilet door opened and Jonathan emerged.
"You bitch," Tim angrily turned on Pat. "Winding me up like that."
"Don't talk to Pat like that," Jonathan said.
"What are you going to do, squirt?"
"I think a better question is what Abigail is going to do when I tell her what you suggested to Pat."
"Don't you dare!" Tim clenched his fists.
"Well I'm going to anyway," Pat said.
"Bitch!" Tim repeated, and left.
***
"I'm really sorry about that," Jonathan said. "He's not normally as nasty as that."
"Abigail and Tim make quite a family," Pat said, adding, "Did you really call me stunning?"
Jonathan blushed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know he'd repeat it to you, like that. And asking you for sex! It was disgusting."
"Some men do," Pat said. "If ninety percent of women refuse, that leaves ten percent of women who do. It's something a woman has to get used to."
"Oh," Jonathan said, and then quickly blurted out the words, "Let's have sex, together," and then quickly added, "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was saying..."
"Jonathan, it's all right," Pat said, "but I'm not the kind of person who says yes to a question like that."
Seeing the look on Jonathan's face, she added, "But if you were to ask if you could give me a hug, I wouldn't mind that at all."
His eyes widened. "You wouldn't mind?"
"You haven't asked me anything yet."
"Pat, can I give you a hug?"
Pat held out her arms. "Come here you silly boy."
Jonathan cautiously put his arms around her
"If we're going to hug," Pat said, "let's do it properly." And she pulled herself against him, pushing her breasts firmly against his chest.
"Oh Pat, you're so soft."
"Which is more than I can say about you," she said, as she felt something hard push into her tummy.
"I'm sorry..."
"Don't apologise for being a man," she said, and wriggled her tummy against him.
"Oh God!" he gasped.
"Look Jonathan," she said. "I've said I'm not going all the way, but if we go any further, it's on one condition."
"Anything."
"You tell no one about us. I don't want this getting back to Emily, do you hear?"
"But she'd be delighted."
For a second, Patrick wondered whether he was being unfaithful to Emily for the second time that day. On the other hand, she had begged him to try to bring Jonathan out of himself. In any case, a little fondling was hardly being unfaithful.
"Not with me as your partner. In any case, I'm not arguing. Either promise you'll breathe a word to no one or we stop now."
"I promise. I promise."
"Well, in that case, seeing as you're so interested in my breasts, you'd better unbutton my blouse."
Pat wasn't quite certain how it got to the point where Jonathan sucked on her nipples to bring her to a crashing orgasm that dwarfed anything she'd had with Emily. As for sucking on Jonathan's lollipop to return the favour, she would never have contemplated it had it not looked so delicious - long and thin, but with a gorgeous purple knob. Then it seemed churlish to not let him look at her vagina, and it was probably the clumsiness of his tongue licking her that gave her another super orgasm.
"Let's have sex, together," he said.
Pat glanced down at his lollipop to see it had sprung to life, again. "Jonathan, I have to tell you my vagina is not like a normal women's."
"I'm not in a position to draw up a comparison chart," he grinned at her.
"No, but... It's very tight, and it would be painful for both of us."
"Then why don't we just try, and if I hurt you, I'll stop straightaway."
Pat smiled at him. "If you weren't so innocent, I'd know you were lying. But if we're going to do it, I'm on top, OK?"
"Yes, please."
She made him lie on his back with his knees raised, and she squatted astride him and then simply slid slowly down his knees.
The pain was excruciating as he entered her vagina, which or course was really her anus, and she was about to say they would have to give up, when Jonathan reached forward, grabbed her hips with both hands and lunged right inside her.
Ten minutes later, Pat came down from her orgasm as Jonathan gave his final jerk inside her.
"I hope that wasn't too painful." He gave her a stupid grin and she grinned back. How to describe the sheer agony mixed with the ecstasy which made it like no sex she'd ever had before.
"It was wonderful." The words escaped her lips without thought.
"Listen," he said, "I've just remembered I was supposed to meet my editor five minutes ago, but why don't we meet for a meal this evening, and afterwards..."
She returned his stupid grin. "OK," she said, "only remember, not a word to Emily or anyone about us."
"I promise," he said.
***
Pat was sitting in the wine bar where she'd agreed to meet Jonathan that evening, when her mobile rang.
"Pat! What's this about your having sex with Jonathan?"
Emily sounded incredibly pissed, and Pat cursed Jonathan under her breath. He'd promised to keep quiet and immediately spilled it to his mum.
"What's Jonathan being saying? In any case, you did say you wanted me to convince him that women don't bite."
"Yes but I didn't expect you to do that by gobbling him off. In any case, it was Tim, not Jonathan who told me. He caught the pair of you in flagrante."
"Timothy! Listen, he said that just to defend himself from his own misdeeds. This afternoon, he..."
"Tim said you'd threatened to lie about him, if he told the truth about you two. I'm sorry. That's the last straw. Goodbye, Patrick."
Pat's, "Goodbye..." was cut off midstream as Emily put the phone down on her.
"Damn!" She felt quite tearful about the ending of such a wonderful relationship. On the other hand, sex with Jonathan had been good; very, very good. Her phone rang.
"Hi Pat, it's Jonathan. I'm sorry, I'm not going to be able to make it this evening, after all."
"That's all right. Do you want to make it another time?"
"Well... I mean... Thanks for this afternoon, and everything, but..."
"But?"
"Well, I've fancied my editor for ages and this afternoon, I asked her if she wanted to have sex. I'm round at her flat now, so..."
"For heaven's sake," Pat heard a woman's voice say in the background. "Get off the phone and shag me something rotten."
***
"I'm sorry to intrude."
Hearing the voice behind her, Pat might have thought it was Jonathan playing a trick, if she had not heard the woman in the background over the phone. She looked up to see an older version of Jonathan sitting at the next table.
"You are Emily's friend, aren't you?" he tentatively said.
She gave a little smile. "You're obviously Jonathan's father."
He nodded. "I'm Jim, Emily's ex. I saw you shopping with her the other day and you looked deliriously happy then - now you look very sad."
Pat shrugged. "I suppose all good things must come to an end."
"She's fantastic in bed, but I guess you know that."
In response to her look of surprise, he added, "It's all right, I know Emily. She taught me everything I know about sex, and then some. But she was never satisfied with one partner. Not just the milkman, but the post woman and the newspaper boy, and probably the local girls' hockey team as well. I suppose you wouldn't like..."
"Yes," Pat said, quickly deciding.
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll have sex with you."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I was going to ask if you'd like another glass of wine."
Pat blushed, and then grinned. "The answer is still yes. You decide what the question was."
"Well, er... That is..."
"OK, that's enough," Pat said. "I'll decide, and I'm certainly not going to ask whether it's your place or mine, or we'll still be here tomorrow morning. Come on. We're off."
Jim followed Pat out of the wine bar, wondering where there was another wine bar which served better wine than this one!
***
That was fun." Pat said next morning, a huge smile on her face.
"Fun!" Jim echoed. "That was absolutely fantastically, gorgeous, orgasmic paradise. I think we should repeat it as soon as possible."
Further thoughts on the subject were suspended as Pat's phone rang, the first of three calls over the space of the next ten minutes.
"I'm sorry I sounded off, yesterday," Emily said. "Can we meet this morning and kiss and make up?"
Two minutes later: "I'm just not compatible with my editor," Jonathan said. "Can we meet tonight in that wine bar, and I promise not to stand you up this time."
Five minutes after that: "If I get Mum out the way this afternoon," Abigail said, "can I pop round and discuss breast enhancement?"
"We could make it tomorrow," Jim said hopefully, after he'd heard Pat's end of all three conversations.
Patrick knew that one of his problems was that he never could say no. As Pat, she realised that was not a problem!
Murder at the Vicarage
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When Sam finally discovered the house where his mother lived and died, he thought it would be the end of his search. He little realised that events would soon plunge him into the search for his mother's murderer. Even less did he realise he would have to stand in for her in the re-enactment.
Murder at the Vicarage - Part 1 of 5
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Murder at the Vicarage
or Who Killed Sally Brown
by Charlotte Dickles
When Sam finally discovered the house where his mother lived and died, he thought it would be the end of his search. He little realised that events would soon plunge him into the search for his mother's murderer. Even less did he realise he would have to stand in for her in the re-enactment.
The complete story has been serialised into five parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
PART ONE - SUNDAY
Sam was nervous as he rang the doorbell - it had taken him several years to reach this point in his search, and he had a sudden doubt it might all turn into yet another red herring.
The house was called The Vicarage, one of those huge houses built at a time when vicars would have ten children and a few dependent relatives. Nowadays, one vicar probably covered half a dozen churches, and lived in a small house which allowed the church to sell off all the other, much larger ones at considerable profit.
No one answered the door and, with the sound of an organ emanating from the church across the green, Sam wondered whether he had maybe pre-judged the church's desire for profit, and the incumbent vicar was doing what all vicars do on a Sunday - taking a service. He looked across the green to read the church board displaying the times of service; the Sunday afternoon service had started half an hour ago.
Sam shrugged and went to sit on a bench facing the green. He'd waited this long; another half hour or so wasn't going to hurt. Besides, it wasn't as though he had anywhere else to go, except back to an empty flat on a dreary October, Sunday afternoon. The last bus left the village at 6.10, so he had plenty of time before that.
After the service ended, it didn't take long for the vicar to shake the hands of all those leaving - half a dozen people from a church which, Sam guessed, would comfortably seat two hundred. But after completing his duties, the vicar hurried out of the churchyard, got into a car and drove off. So, Sam thought, he had been right all along about the Vicarage.
An elderly woman was heading his way from the church. Still quite sprightly, he guessed she'd be about seventy. In the twenty-five-year old newspaper photograph he'd found on the web, the mother's age was given as forty-five, which would make this lady about the right age. She glanced at him as she approached, and then gave him a closer, more detailed look which made him feel uncomfortable.
Sam sighed. Most people in these twee little villages were highly suspicious of men on their own lurking around their properties. He didn't want to get off on the wrong foot so he stood up and smiled at her, and called across.
"Mrs Lockhart?" he asked. "You don't know me, but I believe that some time ago my mother worked for you. Her name was..."
"Sally Brown!" she declared, her face breaking into a delighted smile. "I recognised you straightaway. You're just like her."
"Really? I... I never knew her. I was adopted, you see, after she died and..."
"Come inside the house," she said, leading the way to the front door. "I knew that someday you would find us. Please call me Emily."
"Sam Crawford," he said, holding out his hand for her to shake.
"Where's your sister?" Emily asked. "Presumably you're still in touch with her."
He pulled a face. "I'm sorry. Samantha, my twin sister, is someone else I never got to know. She died of meningitis when we were six months old."
***
"When I was eighteen, I was allowed to know my real Mother's name," he said, as he followed her into the house. "But they only told me her dates of birth and death, not where she'd been living. With Brown being such a common name, it's taken me years to get this far. Then the Charminster Echo put its back copies on the internet and I found the item about her accident."
"She was such a lovely woman," Emily said. "She'd been working for us for about two years when it occurred."
They had stopped in the Hall, a grand affair large enough to act as a place where the vicar could offer sherry after the Sunday service to selected members of his congregation. They both stared at the Great Staircase which ran up the right-hand side.
"That's where it happened," Emily said. "That's where your mother fell and died."
He walked over to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. They didn't look dangerous. He turned back to face Emily. "Tell me what she was like."
Emily's face lit up. "Lovely. She was absolutely lovely. But come through to the kitchen and I'll make some tea and I can tell you all about her.
***
At one time, the kitchen must have been state of the art - now, like the rest of the house, it looked shoddy and desperately in need of refurbishment.
"We had this kitchen replaced the year before Sally came to us," Emily said, noticing his glance around as she put the kettle on. "Richard, my husband, was vicar in the parish and we lived here at a low rent. Then his father died and his inheritance enabled him to buy the house from the church, giving us somewhere to live after Richard retired - if he'd only lived that long. We had it refurbished throughout, and still had plenty left over for the little luxuries in life. 'Why don't we get a cook/housekeeper?' Richard said. Before Sally came to work for us, we had a couple of other girls in quick succession. They were both quite useless."
Her face lit up again as she thought of Sam's mother. "When Sally came, it was just like Mary Poppins arriving. We had three grown up sons and a daughter-in-law living here and it was a chaotic mess. Then Sally turned up and suddenly everything was in order. To me, she was the daughter I'd always wanted, and to her, we were the family she'd never had - she was an orphan, too, just like you, although she never spoke about it."
She looked again at his face. "You really are quite like her," she said, "although a bit slimmer. To be honest, she was plain, and very overweight, which I saw as an advantage. With all the testosterone in this house, I didn't want anyone living here who was too attractive. We'd had trouble with both the pretty girls who came before her. At that time, Matthew was taking his accountancy finals and engaged to one of those strange girls who wanted to remain a virgin until their wedding night. Mark had given up college in order to hurriedly marry his pregnant girlfriend, and they were living here whilst they waited for their new house to be finished. Meanwhile, Luke was doing his GCSEs, and the last thing he needed - or at least, we thought he needed - was a distraction from his studies.
"It was ironic that we partly chose Sally for her appearance, and yet when she arrived, she proved to be far smarter than either of the other two, who always slouched around in sloppy tee shirts and jeans. After a few days, she said she'd found some servants' uniforms in the attic - I didn't know anything about them and they looked as though they'd been there since the 1950s. She suggested that in a vicarage, a proper servant uniform would be more appropriate and I thought it would be a nice touch.
"As they say, she scrubbed up well. Smart black dress and white frilly apron; her shining face, always smiling, and she even wore one of those white smock caps when she was dispensing sherry or tea to the masses. It certainly impressed the bishop, and it was whilst she was here that Richard took over several of the other parishes as congregations dwindled."
"So was there still a problem with testosterone?" he queried.
"I didn't think so at the time," Emily replied, "but in retrospect, I suspected it was simply that she was more discrete than the others."
He was intrigued. "Oh?"
"When she became pregnant, she told us the father was someone she met in London when she went up there on her Mondays off, but wouldn't give us his name. Fifty years ago, a maid would have been thrown onto the streets if she became pregnant, but in the 1980s, of course, it was perfectly respectable to have a baby without a named father. I've already told you she had become like a daughter to me and I enjoyed helping her through pregnancy, and was absolutely enchanted with you two babies. When Social Services took you away, I was heartbroken."
"So she told you," he said, trying to summarise the meaning behind her words, "that my father was someone she met in London, but you thought that perhaps..."
She shook her head. "Maybe we'll talk about it later. I think we might find some photographs of her and you two babies in the attic. Would you like to see them?"
***
The attic was huge, running the entire length of the house, and absolutely full of decades of discarded junk, much of it under dust sheets. It was easy to see why servant uniforms from the 1950s had remained there unnoticed. Emily led the way to the end, and pointed to a trunk in the angle of the roof.
"I think you'll need to pull it out in order to open it. I packed all of Sally's effects in the trunk, expecting Social Services to take them, but when they realised there was nothing of real value, they simply weren't interested."
He pulled the trunk forward so that he could open the lid without it hitting the sloping roof, and then hesitated before reverently opening it. There were several items lying on the top of the clothes: an order of service for his mother's funeral; a scrapbook; as well as several miscellaneous envelopes such as one marked 'Birth and Death Certificates', some from the Inland Revenue, and letters addressed to Emily from Social Services, presumably about how he was being cared for and his eventual adoption.
"We made up the scrapbook for the funeral," Emily said. "It contained all the photographs and other details we could find about her. Why don't we take it downstairs, then you can read it properly."
For some stupid reason, he had tears in his eyes as he picked up the order of service and the scrapbook. She led the way back downstairs and he followed.
***
He spent an emotional couple of hours looking through everything, acquainting himself with the mother and twin sister he never knew. There were several, rather blurred close-up photographs of his mother with Samantha and him, but there were only three where he could see his mother properly. They'd been cut from the local newspaper of functions held by the vicar - a small, weedy looking man - with Sally serving tea and biscuits or sherry. One of them showed her smiling as she shared a joke with the bishop, and this part of the photograph had been enlarged and used in the newspaper when it reported her death - the photograph he'd seen two weeks ago in the newspaper archives.
There was no doubt she had a striking face - certainly not a face to call pretty - and he supposed it did have some resemblance to his own, though he hadn't noticed it before. He had to smile that Emily had chosen her because she thought her plump - he'd have called her curvy, or even voluptuous, with large breasts, hips and bum, and a reasonably trim waist that, he suspected, was due more to a foundation garment than to her natural lines. If the men in the house had not lusted after her, then they were probably not interested in women.
Emily fed him cups of tea, and filled in the answers to all his questions. All except the question he didn't ask - about his father.
Finally, he got back round to it. "Emily, earlier on you suggested that my father might have been closer to home than London. Please, please could you elaborate on the comment you made about my father's identity?"
Emily paused and then said, "The reason I have so much difficulty with this is that it goes well beyond your father's identity. It's actually about Sally's death."
He shook his head. "Her death? What about it? According to the newspaper article, she tripped and fell from top to bottom of the stairs at a family function, in front of you, your family and the bishop. She was pronounced dead when the doctor arrived ten minutes later."
"Come upstairs again."
She led the way back up the Great Staircase until she was a few steps below the landing. She turned to face him and looked down the stairs. "It was my forty-fifth birthday party. We were all in the Hall, below, drinking sherry as a prelude to dinner. Sally had come upstairs to make certain you two were asleep in the bedroom. It was as she was hurrying back downstairs to serve dinner that she appeared to trip and fall. We all rushed to her and crowded around her body at the bottom of the stairs. She was unconscious, but we didn't know whether she was dead or alive. Richard went to call for an ambulance and the local doctor. Meanwhile, I came running upstairs to bring you both down, thinking she might regain consciousness and would want to see you."
She turned to face up the landing. "I was in such a panic, I didn't notice anything at the time, but in bed that night, I re-lived the whole event in a kind of slow motion replay. I recalled that, as I reached the top of the stairs, there were two little round hooks screwed into the newel posts on either side of the stairs. I got out of bed to investigate. The hooks had disappeared and there were small indents where they'd been screwed in, and the hole later filled. You can't see the marks now, after all this time, but they were just there..." She pointed low down on the newel posts on either side of the stairs. "...and there."
She sensed his incomprehension, and she sighed. "I know it's straight out of Agatha Christie, and I sound like Miss Marple, but it is a very effective way of tripping someone at the top of a flight of stairs. You feed a length of fishing line through the hooks and push the line down out of sight into the stair carpet. You feed the free ends some distance away - in this case down the wall to the Hall below, where you can innocently stand, sherry in hand, waiting for your victim to appear. When the victim is about to cross the line, you pull on the free ends to raise it tight, a few inches above the stair. The victim trips over it and falls down the stairs. In the chaos surrounding the fall, you pull the length of fishing line clear of the hooks and hide it. Later on, you surreptitiously remove the hooks from the stairs and fill the small holes in the newel posts." She finished with a grimace as though to say, "Make what you will of that."
"If that night you remembered seeing the hooks and worked all that out, why didn't you contact the police next morning?"
She climbed the four stairs to the landing before answering, and he was left looking up at her like Romeo staring at Juliet.
"Because apart from the bishop, it could only have been one of my three sons, my daughter-in-law or Matthew's fiancée - now his wife. In fact even the bishop can be ruled out because he was talking to Richard and me."
"So you suspected my mother was murdered?" he gasped, "leaving me an orphan, and you concealed it to save your sons?"
"Your mother was dead; whatever I did wouldn't bring her back, and yes, I protected my sons from a charge of murder. I have no excuse."
"But why would any of them murder her?"
She grimaced. "I told you that, when you were born, I was absolutely enchanted with you both. Once - just once - I said a silly thing in my baby talk, and I murmured to you, 'It's your granny.' I could see Sally's face reflected in the window, and she showed a shocked recognition. Sally never realised I'd seen her face, but I believed then that you two were my grandchildren."
The silence lengthened between them. The evening was beginning to draw in, and they were standing in semi darkness.
"It still doesn't explain why the father should murder his child's mother."
"Because I pushed it, that's why," she said. "Because I was stupid."
She looked down at him as she said, "We recruited Sally because she wasn't a good looker in the hope that our sons wouldn't want to get involved with her. But that certainly didn't mean it was all right to make her pregnant and not take responsibility. I privately challenged all three and they each denied it, so I was forced to take more extreme measures.
"I persuaded Richard to change his will in favour of Sally. After all, since all three of our sons had good careers ahead of them, it seemed only right to leave the house to the mother of our new granddaughter, who was a single mother with nowhere to live. Under the will, after Richard's death, I would live here for life and then it would pass to Sally.
"Whoever killed her realised that with no known father, you and your sister would be taken away and we would have no further contact with you. Richard would have no alternative but to change his will back to our sons."
Sam looked around. "It's a nice house," he said, "but you're still here twenty-five years later. It was a bit of a long term killing."
"Richard was tremendously strong spiritually, but his body was weak. He'd had a number of serious illnesses, and he died the following year. So there was quite a short timeframe in which Richard could have changed his will back again.
"But can't you see?" she added, "By getting Richard to change his will, I'm as responsible for the death of your mother as much as the person who set the trap."
"No," he said. "That's not how responsibility works. In retrospect, you may have done something that was less than wise, but that doesn't make you a killer." He thought some more and added, "Of course, nowadays, it's quite easy with DNA testing to determine whether one of your sons is my father, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he is also the murderer - it could have been anyone who lost out under the new will, including their wives."
"DNA testing is only easy if you get a sample from them. Remember, they're all in their forties now, comfortably off, with teenage children. I'm certain that neither Matthew nor Mark would be willing to give you a DNA sample, since it would prove they were being unfaithful - I suspect even Luke would not want that kind of disruption into his well-ordered life. I think there'd have to be a certain amount of subterfuge."
She thought some more and added, "There'd have to be even more subterfuge to determine the killer."
"You didn't want to do that twenty-five years ago. Do you want to do it now?"
She paused and then said, "Your feelings about your children do change as you get older. I had supposed that when the grandchildren were growing up I'd see a lot of them, but I rarely see them or their parents. They're always too busy to come and see me. Of course, they'll all be coming here for my birthday next Saturday. That might be a good opportunity for you to meet them."
Then she shook her head. "The problem is that until we have proven your paternity, it will be difficult to justify your presence at what is essentially a family occasion, unless..."
"Unless?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Oh, nothing. Just a silly idea I had."
***
"Emily, I need to leave now to catch my bus," he said, sometime later.
"Do you have to get back home, tonight?" she asked him.
He shook his head. "There's nothing to make me go home, but obviously I hadn't planned to stay overnight. I haven't told you this, but I've been out of work for a while and I'm getting no interviews or even much prospect for a new job. Continuing the search for my heritage was a way of taking my mind away from it."
"You could stay in your mother's old room, if you don't mind slumming it," she said. "Or there's no shortage of larger bedrooms you can use."
But he plumped for his mother's bedroom. It wasn't big, but he was closer to his mother than he'd been since those first few weeks of his life. Emily got him fresh bed linen and he made up the bed as she watched.
"You're much better at doing that than my husband or my sons ever were," she said.
He smiled at her. "Your husband and sons had it easy. When you live on your own, you get used to doing everything for yourself. I'm also not a half bad cook."
"Why don't you go up to the attic?" she suggested, "and bring down Sally's chest. You could go through the rest of the contents this evening after dinner. I always retire early, so it will give you a chance to get to know your mother a little more."
***
She suggested that he cook the meal - it wasn't difficult, as she had plenty of food in the fridge and he made one of his speciality omelettes. She opened a bottle of wine and had one glass for herself, and he had a few glasses. They chatted easily together, about nothing in particular, and then Emily went off to her bedroom and he stayed behind to clear the table and fill the dishwasher.
Then, he too went to his bedroom, opened the chest and started to pull out his mother's things. She had several black, uniform dresses, and a few other dresses, skirts and blouses which he hung in the wardrobe. Her shoes he put into the base of it, and her underwear went in the drawers. And that was it - the entire possessions of his mother put into a wardrobe and a few drawers. It made him feel very sad.
He wasn't certain how long he stared at the open wardrobe before there was a knock on his door, and Emily entered, wearing a long dressing-gown.
"Don't be sad," she said, seeing his face. "She gave birth to two lovely children, and you're here to remember her spirit. It's all any of us can hope for."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"I was thinking," she said, "that it would be good to bring your mother to life again."
"What?"
"I want to recreate my birthday party in 1986, and re-enact the events surrounding your mother's death. That's the way they solve Agatha Christie murders, and it's a reason to give to my family to explain why you are here at a family event."
"But why should your family agree to it, and who'll play the part of my mother?"
"Why, you will of course!"
***
It was a crazy idea. She thought he could simply put on his mother's dress and he'd look just like her.
"But I've seen the photographs," he said. "She had boobs, for heaven's sake, and hair, and... a big bum." No one could deny that. His mother had an incredibly large bum.
"There are ways around those kinds of things," she said. "But no one could deny that you have your mother's face..."
"Complete with a beard and Adam's apple," he said.
"OK," she said, "let's not worry about the practicalities just now, as most of them can probably be overcome. Let's just look at the idea itself. They will all stay overnight for my birthday next Saturday, and in recent years, it's been quite tiring to look after them. So, I'll tell my family that Sally's daughter, Samantha, has looked me up and I've suggested she do her mother's old job for the next week and help me prepare for the party. The family might privately whinge about it, but there's not much they can really complain about. That gets you into the house, in the ideal position to go cleaning their rooms and extracting a few hairs from a hair brush. Right?"
"I can see the idea," he said, "but I could do that job as a man. Nowadays, you don't have to be female to work as a cook/housekeeper."
"Call me old-fashioned," she said, "but I really believe a cook/housekeeper should be a woman, and I just would not feel comfortable with a man doing it."
"But I'm a man and you want me to do it."
"For the next week, you will be a woman, and that's how I would feel about it. Besides, if we're re-enacting your mother's death, you have to take the part of Sally."
He shrugged acceptance.
"I shall explain that Samantha has asked to find out how the accident happened and I've agreed to re-enact the scene on my birthday - just as it was on the night she died. Again, they might whinge, but there's nothing they can really complain about. Right?"
"Unless they twig that Samantha is a man." He stated the obvious.
"Sam, remember, we're both doing this for your mother. Why don't we give it a go and see if we can disguise you as a woman. If we can't, then clearly it won't work. But if we can, what then? I understand your reticence about wearing women's clothes, but surely, if it exposes your mother's killer then it will be worth it, won't it?"
He hesitated. "Will it, Emily? Remember, this is most likely one of your sons. Do you want to expose him?"
It was Emily's turn to hesitate. "Well, let's do a deal. If you're prepared to give it a go, then we both have to accept the consequences, right?"
He nodded and they shook hands on it.
After she had left the room, he took his mother's uniform dress out of the wardrobe and held it against himself. It was a hypnotic idea, but then he caught sight of himself in the mirror and came to his senses. Oh well, it would all be quickly resolved in the morning.
Author's Note: I have turned off comments for this serial, as I don't want readers to second guess who has done what to whom, and give the game away to everyone else. Make your own deductions, but in the normal who-dunnit tradition, please keep them to yourself.
Murder at the Vicarage - Part 2 of 5
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Murder at the Vicarage
or Who Killed Sally Brown
by Charlotte Dickles
When Sam finally discovered the house where his mother lived and died, he thought it would be the end of his search. He little realised that events would soon plunge him into the search for his mother's murderer. Even less did he realise he would have to stand in for her in the re-enactment.
The complete story has been serialised into five parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
PART TWO - MONDAY
Emily had told him that breakfast would be a do it yourself affair, so he spent a while browsing the internet on his phone before going downstairs.
After exchanging their good mornings, he asked, "Emily, how far is Seacombe from here? Only there's a shop there called Big Busts which I think might help us with our project."
Her face brightened. "You're still willing to give it a try? Only I thought you might have changed your mind in the night."
He nodded, not telling her that, after lying awake for a long time, his thoughts twirling around his mind, he had slipped out of bed in which he had been lying naked, pulled open a drawer and put on a silky nightdress. In the dark, it didn't matter what he looked like, but it felt so good sliding over his body. He had got back into bed and quickly gone to asleep.
"It'll take you about an hour and half, including the bus journey to Charminster Station. I'd come with you, only on Mondays, I go to the cathedral in Charminster and change the flowers." She thought for a second and added, "I think I know Big Busts. It's in the pedestrianised bit behind the High St. But they make head and shoulder busts for the tourists, so I don't know what you want from them."
"Apparently, they produce far more than head and shoulder busts," he said. "Look, I have to say I still have tremendous doubts about this whole thing. But I can see it's probably the only way we're going to find any answers, so I'll give it my best shot. I think the stuff I can get from Big Busts might help."
"Presumably, you'll need some money," Emily said. "Do you have any?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "I've still got my credit cards."
"But they're probably over the limit," Emily correctly surmised, "and you can't afford to pay them off?"
Sam nodded.
Emily went to the sideboard, opened the top drawer and rummaged through the contents until she located a key. "Here's the key to the safe in the study. You'd better make certain you have plenty. Take a thousand pounds."
"Emily, you can't..."
"Of course I can. Let's call it an advance on your wages as cook/housekeeper. I'd have thought one thousand pounds cash for a week's work with all keep found would be acceptable, wouldn't it?"
Sam confirmed that would be very acceptable indeed.
The safe contained ten bundles of one thousand pounds each! Sam extracted one bundle, and then carefully locked the safe and returned the key to the drawer, showing the bundle he had taken to Emily. Whilst he was delighted that Emily trusted him to that extent, it showed how easy it was to steal from older people.
"Emily, you shouldn't hand over the key of a safe containing all that money to someone you don't really know. I might have walked off with it."
She smiled. "That's just what Sally said when I asked her to get out some money for me. I guess honesty runs in your genes. Anyway, take the money and I hope you get something useful."
Sam nodded. "Thanks Emily. I really appreciate your confidence in me. Let's hope that Big Busts give me a big bust."
***
They certainly did. As he faced the mirror in his bedroom that afternoon, he was staring at a woman with large breasts, wide hips and a huge bottom. He'd taken his mother's photographs from the album with him and had embarrassingly explained what he wanted to do. Without any trace of embarrassment on their part, the staff had been more than helpful, matching his skin colour to two products.
One was called a Bustlet - which was like a high-necked singlet with built in breasts - the other, a Hiplet - a long-legged control brief with padding which, unlike a normal control brief, expanded his dimensions, rather than reducing them. Between the legs, there was all the appearance of a vagina.
Not only the appearance, he realised, as he tentatively explored the slit between his legs with a finger. He wasn't quite certain where his own genitals had been squashed as he fastened the garment but, after a moment's discomfort, they had made no further protest. Big Busts had even produced a wig in a similar style to his mother's.
He pulled on a pair of panties over his new wide bottom, and slipped his breasts into a bra. He fumbled behind his back for ages with the bra clip, before managing to hook the two bits together. He pulled a black uniform dress over his head, but there was no way he could bring the two halves of the back together to button them up. Like his mother, he was too large around the waist.
He'd seen the girdles when he'd put away his mother's clothes the previous evening, and he got one of them out now. Emily said the clothes appeared to have come from the 1950s, and going by the films he'd seen of that period, he now realised how the actresses achieved such tiny waists. It was a long garment, stretching from just beneath the breasts down to the hips, with a back zip. It used elastic rather than laces to draw in the waist, but the downside of that was there no way of adjusting the size it was designed to squeeze a person down to. Emily had said Sally was overweight, but it seemed impossible to believe her waist could have been any larger than Sam's, for as he held it up before him, it had an impossibly tiny waist.
He pulled the girdle over his hips, and then reached behind him and pulled on the zip. Sally had left a piece of cord slipped through the zipper so that she could heave it up really hard. It took all his strength to pull it right up, and then all his strength of character not to immediately pull it back down again. It was only when he again looked in the mirror and saw his figure looked rather like Jane Russell, that he knew why women through the ages have worn foundation garments.
He had no problems buttoning the dress now - except he had to fumble behind his back to do it, and with a final, heart-stopping glance in the mirror, he headed downstairs to where he knew Emily was waiting.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"That's fantastic," she replied. "You're so like her. There's no way anyone is going to think you are not your mother's daughter. From now on, that's the only way I shall talk to you and think of you. Agreed?"
"Agreed," he said. "But I still have some work to do to improve my femininity. They gave me some pills to swallow that will raise my voice in pitch. I'll try those later."
"OK," Emily said with a grin. "And really, Samantha, you do have quite a lot of body hair for a young woman. Has no one told you about waxing?
"After that," she continued with a wicked smile on her face, "you had better start your day's work as housekeeper. There's an awful lot of cleaning to get this house ready for my birthday party at the weekend."
TUESDAY
The following afternoon, Emily had gone out to see one of her friends, whilst Sam was taking the opportunity to sit back and relieve the weight off his shoulders. Emily had not been joking about the amount of cleaning necessary to ready the house for the weekend party, and he'd been working almost non-stop since the previous afternoon. But it wasn't just the work itself which was the problem. He guessed that women with large breasts eventually got used to the constant pull, but he was finding it quite literally a real pain.
The problem was that Big Busts had told him that it was necessary to spread a gel on the skin beneath the garments which prevented perspiration by bonding the garments to the skin and blocking up the sweat pores. The downside was that this was a semi-permanent bonding. The garments would only come off when the outer layer of skin was shed. Until then, his breasts and Hiplet would be a part of him!
Which meant the weight of his breasts gave him a perpetual back ache, and he couldn't even take them off at night. The only way to relieve the pain was by lying back in a soft chair and relaxing. He closed his eyes for a few seconds.
***
He was awoken by the front door opening, which surprised him. Surely, he hadn't been asleep that long. But it wasn't Emily who came through the door into the lounge, but a middle-aged, very angry-looking man.
"Oh," the man said, in a highly sarcastic voice, "I do hope I didn't wake you up."
Sam smiled politely at him and confirmed that was exactly what he had done.
"That's strange," he said, "because Mother told me that she'd employed someone to work here, not to swan about the place."
"You must be Matthew," he guessed, remembering the family photos.
"And you're this person masquerading as Sally Brown's daughter. Well, let's have a close look at you." He came right up to stand closely in front of his chair, towering right over Sam, whilst peering down at his face and, he suspected, down his cleavage as well. "Hmm. There's certainly a resemblance there, but that gives you no right to come in and trick my mother into giving you money. And I suppose next, you'll wheedle your way into getting her to change her will, just like your mother did to my father."
Ah! He thought. That was why Matthew was so sensitive. He thought about trying to stand up, but Matthew was standing so close, Sam's boobs would have pushed against his chest, and he'd have fallen back down again. He wasn't going to give him that pleasure, so he relaxed and leaned back in the seat to address him, a posture which, if done well, gives the seated person the position of power, rather than the person standing over them.
"Firstly, it was your mother who suggested I could work for her and she who suggested the salary. Secondly, she told me that the idea of changing your father's will in favour of my mother also came from her. I have no intention of wheedling my way around your mother, so you can stop being so thoroughly rude and bad mannered."
From the way his face turned a shade of puce, he thought Matthew probably hadn't been spoken to like that since he'd been a child, and he didn't like it.
"I'll stop being rude and bad mannered when the person causing it is thrown out of this house and onto the street where she belongs. That's exactly what I'm going to do."
He bent over and grasped Sam's right arm tightly in both hands, rather hurting him, but he wasn't going to admit it. Instead, he remained relaxed in the seat and Matthew was forced into trying to pull his body up from the reclining position. It's difficult enough with even a small person, but when they're quite large with tits the size and weight of melons, there's simply no way it could be done.
Matthew's face turned an even brighter shade of purple and he grabbed at Sam's hair.
OK, his wig had been taped into place, but there was no way it would resist a violent pull like that. Sam had no choice but to quickly move his head as Matthew tugged at it. Since the rest of his body was attached to his head, he had to stand up straightaway.
As he'd guessed, it pushed his boobs hard into Matthew's chest, throwing him slightly off-balance and as Matthew moved backwards and sideways, so Sam continued to move forward with him, spinning slightly as he did so, and pulling Matthew's body closer to his, and twisting. It only needed the slightest lift of his hip for Matthew's legs to leave contact with the ground, and as Sam continued to spin and twist, so Matthew's own body described an arc through the air until it was dropping like a sack of potatoes onto the floor, with a pleasant thump.
Pleasant, that was, for Sam who'd been on the receiving end of Matthew's aggression, but from the way the wind left Matthew's body and had him gasping for air, clearly not so pleasant for Matthew. At times, Sam was very pleased that he'd kept up his judo after leaving school.
"Well done," a voice said. "I wish you'd been around when we were kids and he was bullying us."
Sam turned and looked in the direction of the voice. Two middle-aged men stood there, clearly Matthew's brothers. The younger of them walked over to Matthew, dropped to his knees, felt his pulse and then started muttering to him about taking slow, deep breaths.
"I'm Mark," the other one said, "and my brother, Luke, is the person tending the injured. He's a doctor by the way. You've clearly already met our other brother, Matthew, and realised the best way of dealing with him."
"Samantha Crawford," Sam said with a smile.
"She assaulted me," Matthew gasped. "You two witnessed it."
"We saw you attacking her," Mark said. "Attempted rape, I'd have said. The poor girl was simply defending herself. Do you want me to tell the police that?"
"She's dividing us, already," Matthew said. "Can't you see that?"
"Matthew," Mark said, "we've been divided ever since you kicked the football through the church window and blamed me. Now if you've finished attempting rape, or at the very least, constructive dismissal against Mother's employee, perhaps we can talk sensibly."
Matthew said nothing, and Mark took that as a sign of assent. He turned towards Sam. "Mother telephoned each of us last night to say she'd taken you on for the week up to her birthday party. I must say, I think you'll brighten up the party. Perhaps I could commit adultery with you, then my wife could use it as grounds for divorce."
"Shut up, Mark," Luke said without animosity. He stood up from tending Matthew and came over to shake Sam's hand. "I'm very pleased to meet Sally's daughter. Don't tell mother, but Sally taught me about sex."
"Then you admit..." Sam started to say, but Luke immediately butted in.
"I admit that Sally was the first naked woman I saw," he said. "I admit a number of other acts with her, but as a doctor I know for a fact that oral sex cannot result in pregnancy, therefore I deny being your father."
"She had some man in London," Matthew said, getting up from the floor, and dusting down his trousers with hateful looks at Sam. "Maybe she had a different man every Monday she went up there. That's what tarts generally do. But her pregnancy was nothing to do with us."
"Only she didn't go up there on Mondays," Luke said.
"What do you mean?" Mark asked, and Matthew added, "Of course she went to London on Mondays. That was her day off."
Luke shook his head. "Every Monday morning during the school holidays, I used to take extra lessons from one of my teachers who lived in Charminster. I'd often see Sally waiting at the bus stop, and after the bus journey, we'd walk together to Cathedral Way, where he lived. She used to help Mother change the flowers in the cathedral, didn't she?"
"But Mother goes flower arranging on Monday afternoons," Mark said.
Luke shrugged. "Perhaps the time changed. I only know I'm certain it was Monday mornings when I used to see old Mr Lawrence, and I'd often meet Sally on the way."
"Christ!" Matthew said. "You realise what this means. If Sally wasn't going up to London on Mondays, then it really was one of us who was the father of this bastard." He pointed towards Sam, as though anyone was in any doubt as to who he was talking about.
"Shit! You're right," Mark said, suddenly looking very pensive. "But it couldn't have been me. We always used a con..."
"Jesus Christ!" Matthew exploded. "Don't admit you had sex with her. Condoms do go faulty. Keep your mouth shut."
"Well I don't have a problem," Luke said, taking his medical case over to the hall table and opening it. He withdrew four small, cardboard packs and laid them on the table. "These are DNA testing kits," he said to Sam. "One for yourself, and one for each of us. Mother suggested I bring them along."
"We're not taking them," Matthew said. "No way. Sally always said it was someone in London, so there's no reason why we should."
"I agree," Mark said.
"Well I'm quite happy for you to take a sample from me," Luke said, looking towards Sam with a smile. "So that will narrow down your search."
"London's a big place," Mark said. "It doesn't narrow it down at all."
"But guys," Luke said, "the problem we have is that Mother is convinced that Samantha is her granddaughter, and if we're not careful, we're going to have a repetition of the events of twenty-five years ago. If one of you confesses to being the father, it will take the heat out of the situation. If not, I bet things will get awkward again."
"Let's just throw the bitch out," Matthew said. "If we do it together, we'll be able to overpower her."
"You go first," Mark said. "She's bigger than I am."
"No one is going first," Luke said, "otherwise I'll call the police."
"Well done Luke," Emily's voice came from the doorway, and they all turned. "As usual, my youngest son is the most responsible of you all."
"Hello Mother," they each muttered. Clearly, none of them were pleased to see her. Sam was surprised, as he had always been delighted to see his adopted mother.
"I see, Luke, that you brought the kits as I asked," Emily said.
"A DNA test is too intrusive," Matthew said. "Sally always said the father of her child was in London, and there's no reason to believe it was any of us."
"Absolutely right," Mark agreed.
"Then you refuse to take the tests?" she said.
"I've nothing to hide," Luke said. "I'm happy to take the test." He opened one of the packs, broke the seal on a little plastic bottle, took out a swab and pushed it into his mouth. He then put the swab back inside the bottle, screwed on the top, took out his pen, and wrote on the bottle label. "I shall be brother number three," he said. Then he handed the bottle to Sam.
The others said nothing whilst he did so.
"Very well," Emily said. "Is there a reason why you others came to see me, or were you simply trying to bully Sammie into going away?"
"We wanted to see her for ourselves, Mother," Mark said. "See if she was as similar to Sally as you made out." He turned to wink at Sam and added, "Or as sexy."
"And is she?" Emily asked.
Mark smiled. "Oh yes."
***
"Thank heavens they've gone," Emily said.
"You've relaxed, now they have," Sam said.
She considered his words. "One of my sons never admitted to being your father; one murdered your mother. Perhaps they are one and the same, I don't know. I can only tell you the suspicion builds over the years. It intrudes on the relationship."
He could understand that.
"Now you've met them, who do you think are the most likely suspects?"
He considered. Not wishing to make a judgement based upon first impressions, he made a joke of it. "In Agatha Christie, it's always the most unlikely person, so on that basis Luke must be my father, and Mark, who's the most personable, must be the murderer."
She laughed. "I'm glad to see you've at last stopped wondering about your sexuality and are thinking like a woman. All women think Mark is the most personable and I think you'll be having sex with him before long. That Hiplet thing allows you to do that, doesn't it?"
"That's silly, Emily," he said, incredibly embarrassed.
"Maybe," she said.
All the same, he went and checked the instructions for the Hiplet. It did indeed say it was possible to insert a penis inside his vagina and have sex as a woman!
***
As usual, Emily went to bed immediately after dinner, and he stayed up and watched a repeat of a who dunnit on TV, which he'd seen at least twice before.
"The butler did it," said a voice from the doorway, startling him.
Sam turned to see Mark standing there. "Butlers rarely do," he said, "and in any case there isn't one in this house - nor was there in 1986."
"Well, we all make mistakes," Mark said with a smile. "I always try to be careful but sometimes it comes out wrong." He flicked his eyes towards Sam and smiled.
"Damn it!" Sam thought. "Why did that surge of excitement run through me?" He was a bloke, for heaven's sake, and since he wasn't gay, he wasn't interested in men. On the other hand, he reasoned, he was trying to immerse himself into being a woman - to think woman, talk woman, and behave like a woman. What would be more natural than to be attracted to a personable bloke? The more logical side of his brain worked out it would also give him opportunity to get Mark's DNA sample.
"Would you like a coffee?" Sam asked.
Mark looked at him, smiled and said, "Yes please."
***
As Sam came back into the lounge, Mark took the coffee from his hands and placed it on a side table. Then Mark turned and kissed him.
Sam had never been kissed before! Oh yes, he'd done plenty of kissing, but his partner had never pulled him irresistibly forward, pushing their own body against his, lightly planted their lips on his and caused fireworks to explode in Sam's head.
Mark's tongue was jousting with his, and suddenly Sam could feel Mark's hardness rising between them. Sam shamelessly pushed his stomach against Mark and ground his body against his.
"The hearth rug in front of the fire is a wonderful place to make love," Mark said, switching off the lights so the only light in the room was coming from the fire. He led Sam across the room and pulled him down to his knees. Sam could feel Mark fumbling with his zip, then he was pulling Sam's dress down from his shoulders, kissing his neck, his shoulders and his breasts. Sam didn't even feel Mark unclip his bra - Mark was certainly far better at it than he was - but his breasts were free and he was sucking on his nipples.
Then he was pushing Sam backwards. His dress was up around his waist and Mark was pulling down his panties.
"Mustn't forget this," Mark said, holding up a foil wrapping.
"We don't need it," Sam said, quickly grabbing it and pulling it towards him.
"Oh yes we do," Mark said, holding Sam's wrist with one hand, whilst he uncurled his fingers to take the condom off him. "I told you I'm always careful, but I'm going to be more careful than normal not to leave a semen sample behind." He undid the foil and rolled the condom down his prick, which Sam was pleased to see, was considerably smaller than his own.
"Lay back," Mark said, "and enjoy the ride of your life."
Sam did as he was bid, not because he wanted sex with Mark, he told himself, but because he wanted to know his father's identity. The excitement running through him as Mark slid between his legs and moved forward was nothing to do with it.
But any excitement he'd felt before sex was nothing to that which Sam felt as Mark slipped his cock inside. Although they'd told him at Big Busts that his vagina had sensitivity, he'd never been able to feel much when he played about with his fingers. But as Mark's cock tunnelled its way upwards, the most exquisite feelings he'd ever had exploded inside him. Not just once, but each time Mark partly withdrew and then moved upward again, a different part of his vagina screamed pleasure. Mark was incredibly skilled at pleasuring a woman, Sam realised, as he started the longest and best orgasm he'd ever had in his life.
***
Half an hour later, as Mark finally pulled out his penis, he gasped in horror. "Damn! The condom's burst. Shit!" He stared for a second at Sam and then said, "You did it, didn't you, you little bitch, when you grabbed it. You damaged the condom."
Sam felt totally fucked. Mark's fucking had that effect on women, he realised. So he continued to smile at Mark as he said, "I really don't know what you're talking about,"
"It's not funny, you bitch!" Mark slapped Sam hard across the face. It hurt, and pulled Sam out of his reverie. Then he grabbed Sam's wrist rather more fiercely than the way Matthew had, earlier, giving Sam no opportunity to throw Mark off balance. "Come on, we're going to douche you out, whether you like it or not. And don't give me any trouble or you'll regret it..."
"Sammie?" Emily's voice came down from upstairs. "Could you turn the TV down a little, please? It's rather loud."
Sam pulled his wrist free, and stood up. "Of course, Emily. I'm sorry I disturbed you. Did you want me to make you some cocoa?"
"Yes please, dear. That would be lovely."
***
Mark had left by the time Sam took the cocoa up to Emily. She was lying in bed with a big smile on her face. "You got the DNA sample all right then?"
Sam gasped in surprise and then said, "You heard what was going on?"
"Darling, the way you were screaming, they heard it in Charminster. That was a magnificent act. But how did you sabotage the condom?"
Sam didn't like to tell her the screams had been no act, so he said, "When I made his coffee, I got a needle from your sewing kit and threaded it into my dress. When I grabbed the foil, I simply impaled it on the needle."
Emily smiled. "My, you are devious, aren't you? I wonder which of my children you get it from."
Murder at the Vicarage - Part 3 of 5
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Murder at the Vicarage
or Who Killed Sally Brown
by Charlotte Dickles
When Sam finally discovered the house where his mother lived and died, he thought it would be the end of his search. He little realised that events would soon plunge him into the search for his mother's murderer. Even less did he realise he would have to stand in for her in the re-enactment.
The complete story has been serialised into five parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
PART THREE - WEDNESDAY
The next day, Sam was packaging up all three samples for testing, having added his own to it, when his answer to Emily's "most likely suspect" question popped into his mind. Had Luke been rather too helpful in providing the DNA testing kits? It took him just a few minutes on the internet to discover that the name on the packaging, Charminster Laboratories, did not exist, and that the address given for the laboratories was the address of Dr Luke Lockhart's surgery! So perhaps the Agatha Christie logic was correct after all.
Without discussing it with Emily, he went out to a chemist and bought several more off-the-counter DNA testing kits, repackaged the samples, and posted them off. The lab would email the results back to him, and it would take a few days to get the results. A thrill went through him; was he really this close to discovering his father?
***
When he got back to the house, Emily was just going up to bed for her afternoon nap. "You still have plenty of work to be going on with, don't you?"
Sam told her he'd had, rather looking forward to having some time on his own. Emily was lovely, but he found her rather overpowering as she supervised his work. But she'd only been upstairs for a few minutes when the doorbell rang.
"You're Samantha, aren't you?" The woman was looking extremely cross, and she pushed past Sam and went into the Hall.
"I'm sorry, I don't know who you..."
"I'm Rachel, Mark's wife."
Sam had already suspected as much, and had just a few seconds to decide how to handle it. "I'm pleased to meet you Rachel. I met Mark yesterday with his brothers..."
"Don't give me that innocent shit! You shagged him, didn't you?"
"I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about. Mark left here the same time as Matthew and Luke; I think he'd given Luke a lift down here."
"But Luke came back with Matthew. Mark stayed on."
"Have you spoken to Mark? What did he say?"
"Oh, the same as always. He stopped for a drink somewhere - which is his way of saying he had sex with some tart."
"Well, in that case..."
"You're just like that slag of a mother. Well you'd better watch out. You shag my husband again and you might find the same thing happening to you!"
With that, she stormed out of the house, slamming the door after her with a loud bang.
***
Sam was still trying to decide whether that made Rachel a murderer, or simply the wife of a wayward husband, when a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hello, you must be Samantha."
Sam turned to see a slim, blonde woman facing him, who added, "I'm Fiona, Matthew's wife."
"Hello," Sam greeted her. "It's nice to meet you." It seemed they were all coming to take a look - or perhaps size him up as a victim for murder!
"Matthew told me how similar you were to your mother, so I thought I'd come and see for myself."
Sam smiled at her. He found it quite easy to smile at her, particularly if you like your blondes slim, as he did. "I never knew my mother, so you'll have to be the judge of that."
"Oh, I got to know her very well," Fiona said. "Very well indeed. I found I was coming over here most days."
"I'm glad my mother had a good friend," Sam said, wondering just slightly whether there was any inuendo in her words.
"Oh, we were more than good friends," Fiona said. "We were lovers."
"Oh," Sam said. "I didn't realise..."
"Sally was always discrete," Fiona said. "It wasn't that I was ashamed of what we were doing, but I do so hate being the subject of vicious gossip."
"I guess most of us do," Sam said.
"It was to cover my abhorrence of sex with men that I invented a story about wanting to stay a virgin until I was married. I thought that would put all males off. But I was in the choir and suddenly the vicar's son, Matthew, was being thrust upon me. He wasn't bad looking then and was training to be an accountant. I thought that in exchange for very occasional sex he could provide me with a life of comfort, whilst I seduced every woman in the congregation."
"And did you?" Sam asked with a smile.
"Oh no! Most were far too indoctrinated by male society to consider letting their female urges roam freely. But it was great when Sally arrived, and we had some fantastic times together. In fact, I think I'd better show you what we got up. Now, come over here and kiss me."
***
"You must have missed Sally when she was killed," Sam said, afterwards. Fiona had reached a very satisfactory orgasm, but frustratingly, he had not. It was weird; he'd had sex with Mark and had the most incredible orgasm of his life, but sex with a woman had been flat. Was he really turning into a woman?
"We'd had a tiff by then," Fiona said. "She'd said I was rather a selfish lover, and I rarely gave any pleasure to her. I mean, I know she was your mother, but she was only a maid. It was hardly my job to give her earth-shattering orgasms."
"So how did you feel about that?" Sam asked, feeling rather better about his own predicament.
"How did I feel about Sally calling a halt to the best sex I'd ever had? I thought she was an absolute bitch and I danced on her grave when she was dead."
THURSDAY
"Hi Sam," Luke said as he came into the kitchen.
Sam looked up and smiled. "Hi, Luke. I heard Emily talking to someone and I thought it might be you."
He shrugged. "I occasionally come over here to see her on a Thursday, but it was you I wanted to see more than Mother."
He grinned rather sheepishly. "The thing is, you look so much like your mother. As soon as I saw you, it was as though I'd immediately gone back twenty five years. You see... I was so much in love with Sally, when she died, I wished that I could die too."
"You were in love with my mother? You didn't say before."
He shrugged. "Sally said we had to keep it our secret, especially with our age difference. She said that if we told the other two, they'd only get jealous. After she died, I wanted to keep it our special secret."
Sam nodded. "I can understand that."
"The reason I arranged to see Mr Lawrence specifically on a Monday was because I knew Sally went to the cathedral that day. We'd go on the bus together into Charminster, and walk to Cathedral Lane."
Sam smiled. "Was she your first love?"
"My first and my only love, to be honest. Oh, Sharon was fine when I first met her, but after we got married, I realised I never loved her at all - not in the way I loved Sally. We've separated now and the divorce is going through, and all my life, I've thought about how it would have been if only Sally was still alive."
"You must have been young then."
"That was the problem. I was only fifteen, and Sally wouldn't have sex with me. Like I said, she'd do everything else, but we never had sex." He paused awkwardly. "The thing is... Well, the thing is..."
"You want to have sex with me!" Sam pretended to be shocked, but underneath his facade, the excitement ran through him. It couldn't be as good as it had been with Mark, could it? After the debacle with Fiona, he felt desperately in need of relief, but been unable to find it on his own.
"I need to exorcise Sally's ghost. Put her to rest in my mind in a way I've never been able to do in the last twenty-five years. Does that make sense?"
Sam nodded. "I guess so, but you need to understand that I don't have my mother's sexual experience, or even her body. I may look similar to her, but I am a different person beneath the skin." And he'd never said a truer word, Sam privately thought.
Luke smiled. "Of course, but you are just as beautiful." He suddenly moved very quickly across to Sam, and clumsily grabbed him and pushed his lips onto Sam's. Sam smiled, opened his mouth a little, and let his tongue flick forward into Luke's mouth.
"Oh God!" Luke said after some time, withdrawing his mouth from Sam's. "You are more like Sally than you can possibly imagine. Please, can we make love?"
Luke had pushed Sam backwards as far as the kitchen table, and now he fumbled beneath Sam's dress and pulled down his panties. He let a finger slide down against Sam's slit, and Sam let a moan escape his lips as he reached forward and unzipped Luke's trousers. He helped Luke shrug them off to fall to the floor around his knees. Then he slipped his hand beneath Luke's underpants and... he almost had to stop himself from laughing - he'd never felt such a small, fully erect penis.
Sam giggled openly then. The only other penis he'd felt apart from his own had been Mark's, and somehow he thought this was going to be a less experienced penis, but all the nicer for it.
As he rested his buttocks on the kitchen table, spread his legs wide and let Luke slip his prick inside, Sam thought he was going to have an even better orgasm than Mark had given him.
***
"You don't know how good it's made me feel," Luke said. "Thank you."
"I'm sure it wasn't as good as your dreams," Sam said. He'd had been right, he realised. He'd had a much nicer orgasm with Luke than with Mark - not in terms of the strength of his climax, but simply because Luke was not quite as mercenary about getting a shag with every woman he met.
"Of course it wasn't," Luke said, in a rather more brutal way than Sam was prepared for. "In fact really, it was a lousy screw, but that's why it was so good for me. All these years I've been fantasising about it, and now I realise that it was just childhood imagination."
Luke shook his head. "In fact, I think after that, I might go and be nice to Sharon again, and see if we can't make it up."
"Oh, right," Sam said, feeling more hurt than he had reason to be. After all, he was deceiving Luke in a quite abysmal way, but Luke didn't know that so he could have been nicer than he was.
But Luke was already moving onto the next subject. "I wondered whether you'd sent off the DNA samples, yet?"
Of course, Sam realised, trying to stop himself from crying, Luke would have been expecting the samples to be arrive at his surgery. Perhaps that was the main reason why he'd come over to his mother's house and shagged him.
"Yes," Sam said. "Only I had a problem after I'd packaged them all up. I had the envelope here and I accidentally dropped it into a sink full of water. The samples were all sealed so they were fine, but I had to go out and buy some new kits from the chemist, as all the paperwork was ruined."
"What!" Luke almost hissed through his teeth. "You stupid idiot. How could you be so careless?"
"Well it didn't really matter," Sam said. "There was only a nominal charge for the packs and both laboratories charge about the same price.
"Or perhaps you're cross," he added, "because I didn't think it ethical to ask your surgery to check your DNA?"
"How dare you! Are you suggesting I'm lying about not having sex with Sally?"
Sam paused for a second, thinking. No, he really believed Luke's story about his mother not doing it with a minor. "I'm wondering," Sam said, "whether there's any way that you could be my father without actually having sex with my mother."
Luke's reaction astonished him. He began to cry. A few seconds ago, Sam would have comforted him, but now he simply let him blub to a halt.
"The DNA will tell the truth," Sam said, "whether or not you do. I take it from your attempt to falsify the result that you could be my father, and I have just had sex with you."
Luke shook his head. "I wouldn't have had sex with you if I thought you really could be my daughter, only..."
"Only what?"
"Sally would let me masturbate over her."
"And you squirted between her legs?"
"I squirted everywhere. When you're fifteen, you have so much semen. But Sally complained when I squirted in her hair because it was so difficult to wash it out, whereas squirting at her vagina was all right - all she had to do was to drop her skirt over it and no one would be the wiser."
"So that's why you wanted the DNA samples to be sent to your surgery. Presumably, you were going to do the 'testing'?"
Luke didn't answer. Instead, he turned on his heel with a growl and left the kitchen.
Sam really hoped that neither Mark nor Luke were his father - and not just because he'd had sex with both of them!
Murder at the Vicarage - Part 4 of 5
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Murder at the Vicarage
or Who Killed Sally Brown
by Charlotte Dickles
When Sam finally discovered the house where his mother lived and died, he thought it would be the end of his search. He little realised that events would soon plunge him into the search for his mother's murderer. Even less did he realise he would have to stand in for her in the re-enactment.
The complete story has been serialised into five parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
PART FOUR - FRIDAY
Sam's hopes of learning who his father was were demolished early Friday morning, when the email came. It gave him the answer he didn't want to know:
More than 90% confidence that Samples B2 and B3 are full brothers (ie both parents common).
100% confident that neither B2 nor B3 is the father of Sample SAM.
In response to your additional question, a lineage test shows there is a greater than 98% confidence that sample SAM does not share male lineage with samples B2 and B3 (thus the father of B2 and B3, or any of the father's other sons, cannot be the father of SAM).
So, he surmised, he was back to his father being some pick up in London on his mother's day off! But then, that didn't line up with Luke's statement that Sally went to Charminster Cathedral on her Mondays off to arrange the flowers.
The thought came from nowhere and hit him in the stomach.
The photograph of some gathering which included a shot of Sally, laughing with the bishop. He went upstairs and found out the photograph, and stared carefully at the pair of them. Were they simply sharing a small joke, or were they really lovers?
***
"Your husband obviously got on very well with the bishop."
Emily turned towards him, rather surprised. "Why do you say that?"
"The bishop must have been invited here a lot," Sam said. "He was in all three photographs where my mother was serving. You also told me your husband was the person the bishop chose to take over all the other churches when congregations dwindled."
Emily shrugged. "You need to look at it the other way round. The photographs were from the newspaper archives - the press only came when Bishop Michael visited. Remember at that time, Archbishop Runcie was making such a mess of things, it seemed only a matter of months before he resigned. Michael was being tipped as the next Archbishop of Canterbury. However, you're probably right that if Michael had become Archbishop of Canterbury, there'd have been a role for Richard somewhere."
"It was obviously all before my time," Sam said. "I didn't realise Bishop Michael was in such a powerful position within the church. But surely, the fact that he came here a lot meant he must have got on well with Richard."
Emily shrugged. "We all got to know each other in our final year at university - Cambridge in 1962." Her eyes lit up as she thought back almost fifty years. "It was the most marvellous time of my life. Richard, Michael and I were a threesome - we were always together. After we'd completed our finals, both Richard and Michael proposed to me, and I had to choose one or the other."
Her eyes twinkled as she looked at Michael again. "There's no doubt Michael was the more handsome and personable. But he was so relaxed, it seemed he'd never get any job. Richard was the worker, who held strong opinions and spoke in the university debates - and often persuaded opinion. And physically, he may have been shorter than Michael, but he made up for it in other areas. When he got a Double First, compared with Michael's Lower Second, my mind was settled. We married and Richard got an almost immediate posting here." Emily shrugged and sheepishly smiled. "Within a few months, Michael got a better parish than this, and eventually became Bishop of Charminster. I guess that's the luck of the draw."
"I've never seen Charminster Cathedral," Sam said, "but I've been thinking I might go over and have a look at it. Why don't you come and show me around?"
Emily shook her head. "There are voluntary guides there on Friday mornings, and I might put their noses out of joint if I went with you. Incidentally, there's a good pub just up the road from the cathedral which does excellent lunches. So you go and enjoy yourself - you can work your hours off tonight."
Sam sheepishly had to admit he'd thought working for Emily would be money for old rope. Instead, he was earning every penny of his one thousand pound salary.
***
The cathedral was not one of the classic cathedrals that draw in thousands of visitors every day. In fact, that Friday morning, there were no other visitors and Sam had to wonder around looking for anyone. He found a woman changing the flower displays, and he asked her where he would find the guide.
She smiled at him. "That's me," she said. "Jack of all trades. We don't get many volunteers nowadays and we all have to fill in as and when we can." She wiped her hands on a cloth, and then went into her guide monologue.
"OK, if you like to come over to the entrance vestibule, I'll show you..."
"There is a question I'd like to ask..."
"If you don't mind, I'll take questions at the end. Now, the entrance vestibule was built in..."
***
"...Now, do you have any questions?" she asked him, forty minutes later.
"Is Bishop Michael still here, or has he retired?" Sam asked the one question he'd been unsuccessfully trying to put since the tour started.
"Bishop Michael?" She gave him a strange look which he had trouble interpreting. "He became ill - to be honest, he went rather doolalley. He was retired about five years ago, which was just before I began here. Several other volunteers who had known him decided to go at the same time, and the new bishop was desperate for replacements, so here I am."
"Do you know where Bishop Michael lives now?"
"He's in a nursing home the other side of Charminster. Sunny Pines, it's called."
***
"He's in Room 66," the nurse said, and added with a wry smile, "Mind, it should be 666, with him. He may have been a bishop when he was compos, but he's a real devil now. I guess he suppressed it for too long."
"Oh?" Sam said.
She smiled cheerfully. "Don't sit too close to him or he'll have his hand up your skirt. Even if you keep three feet away, he'll probably get out his dongle and wave it at you."
"Well no one's done that for several days," Sam said, "so it'll make a nice change."
The nurse laughed. "That's the only way you can deal with it, because it's almost the only part of his body that still functions - and his mind has only one track. Don't say you haven't been warned."
Sam found the room without problem, and knocked gently on it before entering. It would have been hard to recognise the old man from the photograph taken all those years ago. But the bishop knew her, or he thought he did.
"Sally!" he said. "Sally Brown. I wondered if you'd come to see me today."
Clearly, Sam thought, he had more of a mind than the nurse gave him credit for. He could still remember Sam's mother from twenty-five years ago, enough to confuse her with Sam.
"That's right, my Lord," Sam shamelessly said. "What can I do for you?"
Twenty minutes later, Sam left Room 66 with a plastic bag containing a semen-soaked tissue.
***
As Sam took his first sips from his large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which he felt he thoroughly deserved, he couldn't help grinning. He had calmly walked into a nursing home, wanked off a retired bishop, and just as calmly, walked out again. And not only that, but...
"You're looking very pleased with yourself."
Sam looked up and was surprised to see Matthew standing above him. "Oh! Er..."
"It's all right," Matthew actually looked embarrassed. "Mother told me I would probably find you here. She also told me to apologise to you. I'm not here to make more trouble."
"Er, right," Sam said. He waved to a seat. "Would you like to sit down?"
"Thank you." He sat down and then paused a little before continuing. "My problem is that I'm a terrible coward. I've never been able to face up to the consequences of my own actions. Mark was right: I kicked the football through the church window and blamed him for doing it."
"And you think I'm another consequence of one of your actions you haven't been able to face up to?"
Matthew didn't answer for several seconds, before he said, "It's possible. Yes.
"You see it was because I was the oldest child," he continued. "It was always me who was to blame if the other's misbehaved, and I couldn't control them. Mother and Father were so strict, I had to do everything they told me, and Mark took no notice."
"Emily doesn't appear strict to me."
"That's because you're only seeing one side of her, and she's trying to be nice to you to make up for one of her sons making Sally pregnant. And I think it might be me."
"You're wrong," Sam said. He had been considering keeping quiet about the DNA results, but he simply wasn't that mean.
"Wrong?"
"I sent DNA samples from Mark and Luke to the laboratory for testing. They told me that neither of them was my father, and that my DNA was so different to theirs that their brother could not be my father."
His face lifted. "I can't? But... you see, the condom burst several times when I... and Sally's doctor had told her to go off the pill. I was convinced it had to be me, but was too terrified to admit it when Mother grilled me."
"The DNA proves you didn't make my mother pregnant," Sam said, "but what did you do?"
He shrugged. "I might as well tell you everything, I suppose. I mean, it all happened because Mark had got Rachel pregnant and he had to marry her. Mother and Father were so ashamed, they insisted on me getting engaged to Fiona, as she had quite openly made such a thing about remaining a virgin until she was married."
"And you did as your parents told you?" Sam couldn't believe Matthew could be such a wimp.
"Of course. I've told you, I have no courage."
"But how did that lead to... later events?" Sam phrased it carefully, not wishing to break the mood that seemed to have grown between them.
"I was a young man. I was desperate for sex. Sally could see my predicament and she came to my aid. She was so wonderful and... she never refused me. It wasn't just in bed, we'd have sex in the garden, or in the kitchen whilst she was cooking a meal. When she got pregnant, I immediately proposed to her and didn't care about Fiona - my one act of bravery in my life. But she told me the baby wasn't mine - that the timing was all wrong. I never believed her, of course, I thought it was just an excuse not to marry me. Afterwards, I felt relieved. Then, I felt guilty that I had felt relieved."
"Yes but, apart from having sex with my mother," Sam broke in, "what else did you do? Like when your father changed his will."
"Oh, you mean that." He shook his head. "I was so ashamed of my greed. I tried to get Father to change his will back to us, even though he was absolutely right; Sally did have nothing except two small babies, and nowhere to live if she stopped working for us."
"And when she wouldn't change her will?" Sam asked.
Matthew looked puzzled. "Well, there was nothing I could do, was there? Secretly, I still hoped she might marry me before I got married to Fiona. But she was killed and my dream along with it."
"And that was it?" Sam said.
"Isn't that enough?" Matthew replied. "The one woman I ever loved was dead."
***
They both had a pub lunch, and then Matthew gave Sam a lift home.
"Do you want to come in for a coffee?" Sam asked him.
"Really?" Matthew replied, his eyes wide with astonishment at the offer.
Too late, Sam realised the ambiguity of his offer. He knew he should have explained he really had meant just coffee, but Matthew had been more than generous in the pub, and had listened carefully to the rigours of Sam(antha) growing up. They had gone into the pub as enemies and had come out as friends.
So Sam smiled back and said, "Like mother, like daughter."
***
"You put that inside my mother," Sam gasped, staring at the monster which lurched up from Matthew's groin. He'd been rather proud of his own tackle until he saw what lurked down Matthew's trouser leg.
"I know it's obscene," Matthew said, "but Sally loved it. Right from the first time she saw it, she simply couldn't get enough of it."
"Christ!" Sam said. "Did it er... did it... all go in?"
"Oh yes," Matthew said. "All the way."
"Bloody hell! Look, er... well it's..."
"You don't want to have sex with me," Matthew said, biting back his frustration. "That's all right. I mean I understand."
"How does your wife manage?" Sam could not help but wonder.
"We don't have sex."
"No." Knowing Fiona, Sam could understand that. "But you must have had it sometime. I mean, you have children, don't you?"
"She would milk me and then squirt it up her vagina. Hers was the second virgin birth."
"You mean that you haven't had proper sex since my mother..."
"No," Matthew said. "It's... frustrating."
"Frustrating! It's enough to drive anyone insane." Sam eyed the monster, trying to assess its size. It actually was not that wide - not like some of the huge cocks he didn't look at on the internet - it was just the length that was so terrifying - a good twelve inches long. "Look, I have a very small vagina so there's no way much of it will go inside, but I'm prepared to give it a go, for the sake of family goodwill, OK?"
"You will?" He was like a little boy - and no wonder.
"Only I have to be in control," Sam said. "I'm not going to let you see how far you can force it in."
"Of course not. That's just what your mother insisted - at first anyway."
"What position did you use?"
"The first few times, we did it in Father's study," Matthew said. "She'd sit on the chair at his desk - she never wore panties so she could keep all her clothes on. I lay on the floor beneath the chair and she simply lowered herself down onto me. Once, Father came in and I had to pull myself right under the desk whilst she pretended she was dusting the desk." He smiled. "If only he'd known the debauchery that was going on at the very desk at which he wrote his sermons. He'd have died of shame."
***
So that's exactly what they did. Michael lay on the floor, slid his legs beneath the desk and then slipped his trousers right down so that his monster lurched upwards. Sam was surprised to see he had a condom ready - so he'd obviously been hopeful of more than a coffee when they left the pub. After he pulled it over his knob, Sam took over rolling it down the length of his shaft, making Matthew grunt with excitement.
Matthew was quite slim so Sam was able to pull the chair right over his torso, the chair legs fitting astride him. Sam took off his panties and sat in the chair.
Such was the length of Matthew's prick that it wasn't so much a case of lowering himself down, as sliding forward to meet the monster. All the same, Sam kept a careful hold of one arm of the chair as he manipulated the cock towards his own opening. He had a sudden vision of slipping off the chair and being impaled on that enormous prick - except of course that in his case, his artificial cunt would probably get torn to shreds!
As the prick slid inside, once again Sam felt wonderful feelings sweep through him. He managed to get a good four inches inside whilst Matthew continued to make little grunting noises, which Sam felt incredibly arousing.
"It's funny," Matthew said, after a few minutes, "but your vagina runs at a different angle to Sally's. I get the impression I'm going to come bursting out your bum if it goes in much more."
Of course, Sam realised, with this position, Matthew had a unique vantage point and he was in danger of twigging that Sam's cunt was not real. Sam couldn't take the risk of exposure - he had to call a halt.
"All vaginas are unique," Sam said, "but you're right, this is very uncomfortable and I'm going to have to find another way."
He could sense Matthew's disappointment, as he knew what Sam also realised - there would be no easier way of being poked by this monster.
Unless... Sam shuddered at the very idea, even though it was incredibly exciting. No! There was no way he was going to do that. It was a repulsive idea - or did he mean compulsive.
"Why don't we try it a different way," he said, pulling his vagina off Matthew's cock and then moving forward until it was nuzzling against another aperture - a real aperture in Sam's body.
"I'm not sure..." Matthew started to say, but then Sam was wriggling around, trying to work his cock inside him. When it went in, it was with the pain of a knife wound. But like a Samurai warrior committing hari Kari, Sam bravely slid down on his sword.
***
Afterwards, Matthew said, a big smile on his face, "I'd never done it that way before."
"You gave me the most incredible orgasm of my life," Sam said, his grin even wider than Matthew's, "and now you tell me you've never done it that way before!"
"Does that mean we're friends, now?"
Sam nodded. "I guess so. It's rather good being friends with a man with such a big cock."
Matthew gave a wry grin. "When you have a cock the size of mine, you don't get many friends. The other boys at school all jeered at me, and the girls all ran away from me. I guess I am what I am as a defence mechanism for not being liked. Even my brothers hated me because I behaved so abysmally. I think the only person apart from Sally who didn't hate me was my father, but hating would have been against his religion."
"Tell me, what was he like, your father?"
"He was one of those old-fashioned vicars who preach hell and damnation. I was always terrified of him, but as I got older, I did respect him more. You always knew where you were with him, and as long as you pretended to follow the Bible, he left you alone. Mark and Luke openly rebelled and there were always rows with those two, but I simply conformed."
And took the easy way out as always, Sam reasoned.
SATURDAY EVENING - PARTY
"Thank you all for coming to my seventieth birthday party." Emily looked around at the people assembled before her: her three sons, Matthew, Mark and Luke, with wives, Fiona and Rachel. Luke's wife was not there, and all the grandchildren had found excuses not to attend. Bishop Michael had been brought over from the nursing home. He'd clearly been sedated so that he didn't keep showing off his erect penis, and he was asleep in his wheelchair, so it was almost exactly the same group as had been there twenty-five years before.
Then there was Samantha, looking just as Sally had done, all those years ago. Just like Sally, Sammie had 'scrubbed up well', and today she could feel for her exactly the same emotions as she'd had for Sally, all those years ago. She beamed at her now, and Sammie grinned back.
"As you know, this is rather a special event because of Samantha's appearance on the scene just a week ago. She had recently discovered that her mother had died at my birthday party, twenty-five years previously and needed closure. We are here tonight to ensure she gets that closure.
"Of course," she continued, "one of the big mysteries surrounding Samantha's life is the identity of her father. When her mother was pregnant, I suspected that one of my three sons had been involved, but with the wonders of DNA testing and samples provided by my sons - admittedly, some of them rather belatedly (and she grimaced at Matthew and Mark) - Samantha told me just before this party began that I am not her grandmother. That is rather a disappointment for me, as I would have loved to have Samantha as a granddaughter, and it means that she must continue to live her life, like many other people, never knowing the identity of her father. I would like..."
"But I do," Sam interrupted.
There was suddenly a deathly silence and all eyes turned to Sam.
"The DNA results confirmed it. I got the final samples delivered express to the laboratory this morning and they were able to run some quick tests. I now know who my father is, and it's really rather a surprise. Sorry, do you think you could all wait here whilst I go and get the results? They're in my room."
Sam went running up the stairs and when he got halfway up, he turned around to smile at all those staring open-mouthed at him and added, "Of course, this is exactly what happened at the party twenty-five years ago, when my mother went to check on us two children." He proceeded quickly up the stairs.
It only took him a couple of minutes to get the folder of DNA results which he'd kept hidden under the mattress. Then he ran back along the corridor to the top of the stairs. Of course, he wasn't so stupid not to check for a fishing line across the top of the stairs before he commenced down.
But as he looked down at the assembled party below in the Hall, all waiting his return, he didn't notice the third stair down, and the line suddenly tautening across it. Not until his right foot suddenly caught in something, and he felt himself tripping forwards, unable to prevent himself falling headlong down the stairs.
Murder at the Vicarage - Part 5 of 5
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PART FIVE - DENOUEMENT
One of the first things one learns in judo is how to break your fall. As he lurched head-first downwards, he was tucking his head into his shoulder and lifting his arm to form an arc, and it was his arm and shoulder which took the initial impact. But even the brunt of that was absorbed, as he curled his entire body into a ball and rolled down a couple more steps.
When he was a kid, he'd learnt it as a show off at judo. It had always impressed people then, but it was even more impressive now. As the calves of his legs came in contact with the steps, he straightened his entire body, and his momentum was just right to bring him back up to a standing position halfway down the stairs, with a simple grasp on the banisters to steady himself.
He could stare at the astonished faces looking on, initially in shocked horror at a repetition of the events twenty-five years ago, then their faces had rapidly turned to amusement at the way he had recovered. Except that one of the party below was not looking at him but facing the rear wall of the Hall and appeared to be reeling in something which was too fine to be seen.
"You can stop that now," he said. "It's too late to hide what you've done."
All eyes turned towards the person at the wall, who only belatedly became aware of their scrutiny. No one spoke as the person turned to face the others.
It was Matthew who eventually broke the silence which filled the room. "Mother! What on earth are you doing?"
"Don't ask such silly questions," Emily said. "I'm trying to kill her. It's in all our best interest. Now can someone help me finish her off?"
***
"I came here knowing absolutely nothing about my mother," Sam started, "and quickly realised she was a lovely person who enjoyed sex, and had absolutely no inhibitions about dispensing it freely."
Emily snorted. She was seated at the dining table, flanked by Matthew on one side and Luke on the other. They'd been 'caring' for her since Emily had suggested cutting Sam's throat with a carving knife.
"But I quickly had to face two important questions," Sam continued. "Who was my father, and who murdered my mother?"
There was a gasp from around the table as Sam put the second question.
"I, too, was shocked when Emily told me how she had seen evidence of a tripwire across the stairs after my mother's fall. She convinced me the best way of discovering the murderer was to re-enact the scene, with me taking on the role of my mother.
"Emily said she believed that one of her sons was my father, which seemed to be borne out by their reluctance to give me a DNA sample. But she was being economical with the truth. There was someone else she thought was more likely to be the father, whom she wished to protect."
He couldn't prevent his eyes flicking towards Michael, asleep in his wheelchair, and everyone else followed his gaze.
"A person who," Sam continued, "was posturing to become the next Archbishop of Canterbury, so there had to be no hint of scandal."
Emily again snorted and shook her head, which disconcerted him.
"However," he said, deciding to change tack, "the story really started a long time before - fifty years ago, at Cambridge when Richard, Michael and Emily were at university together. Emily gave me part of the tale yesterday, but she withheld the more personal bits." He stared at Emily and said, "I think it's time to tell us about the actual relationship between you all."
Emily's eyes lit up, just as they had before when she spoke of Cambridge. "It was the 1960s and free love was everywhere. Richard, Michael and I were a threesome - not so much a love triangle as a love sandwich - with me as the filling. For heaven's sake, Matthew, don't look so shocked. After we'd completed our finals, both Richard and Michael proposed to me, and I had to choose. In spite of Michael's superior skills in bed, I chose Richard and we married. Richard got an almost immediate posting here, and we decided to start a family straightaway.
"But twelve months went by without me missing a single period, and I decided that perhaps Richard needed a little help. I asked Michael to assist and Matthew was born almost nine months to the day afterwards."
"Mother!" Matthew was aghast. "You mean all these years you haven't told me who my father really was. That's horrible."
"Calm down Matthew," Mark said. "I suspect that Mother hasn't finished, yet, and she's going to give us all news of our real father."
Emily smiled. "It's true. A year later, when we decided to go for another baby, I immediately involved Michael, and Mark promptly came along. A year after that, Michael helped bring Luke into being."
"But it didn't end with impregnating you, did it Emily?" Sam asked. "I realised when I went to the cathedral yesterday that the flower displays were far older than a few days. Even now, you still see Michael under the cloak of flower arranging, and you've been doing so throughout your married life."
Emily looked at Michael who was still asleep. "I promised Michael I would always protect his reputation, but I guess nothing I say now will harm him. So, yes, we've continued our affair ever since. Do you know why I specifically employed your mother?"
Sam shook his head.
"Because," Emily said, "I was looking for someone to distract Richard from continually pestering me for sex. There were several applicants for the job, but one of your mother's previous employers gave her an excellent reference: they said that she had the morals of a prostitute without the business sense."
She accompanied her words with an offensive smirk. Sam should have been upset; instead, he felt dispassionate.
"I knew Richard would be totally engrossed with her," Emily continued, "but I thought he was sterile so I was astonished when Sally became pregnant. I interrogated the boys, thinking it would be one of them, but although I was surprised to discover they'd all been having some kind of relationship with the ugly bitch, they all denied being the father of her child. To cap it all, Richard changed his will in her favour, cutting out the boys."
"And then my mother told you," Sam said, at last beginning to understand, "that Michael was going to marry her. And you were bitterly jealous."
"You found out!" Emily said, clearly surprised.
"When I went to see Michael," Sam said, "he mistook me for Sally. As I was leaving, he said: 'You will marry me, won't you Sally?' At the time, I thought his mind had been simply wandering."
"Just before my birthday party, Sally said that she'd been having sex with Michael and had told him he was the father of the twins. He dearly wanted to become Archbishop of Canterbury and couldn't afford the scandal, so he'd agreed to marry her. I was absolutely livid."
"Which is why you murdered her," Sam said, "using the trick you just pulled on me."
"Precisely. I was already thinking about it because of Richard's will, but it was the final straw when she manipulated Michael and was going to take him away from me.
Her admission put the room into total silence.
Emily suddenly laughed. "The ironic thing is that it was all a mistake, because afterwards Michael told me Sally had made it all up - he'd never had sex with her and had never discussed marriage with her."
Of course he told you that, Sam thought, but he said, "What is more of a mystery is why you had to try to murder me. In fact, why did you tell me about my mother being murdered, and convince me to stand in for her in this charade? If you hadn't, I'd simply have done my nostalgia trip and then gone home and not bothered you again."
Emily looked confused, as though it was obvious. "Why, it was Richard's will, of course. I had the right to live here with a reasonable annuity until I died, but then Richard specified the estate would be divided equally between his natural children. All of my sons were Michael's, so you were obviously Richard's only child." She had a sudden thought. "You are Richard's child, aren't you?"
All eyes were riveted on Sam as he considered how he should answer - with the truth or a lie. He was not to know that just a few minutes later he would bitterly regret his decision.
"Yes," he said. "I am Richard's child."
Emily nodded. "I knew Michael would never betray me like that with your slut of a mother. Of course, twenty-five years ago, no one could have proved a thing, but now they can, and I'm sure Richard realised that would be the case. Remember, we were at Cambridge in 1962, the year that Crick and Watson were up for the Nobel Prize for finding DNA - and they subsequently got it. Everyone was talking about the possibilities. So, with you being Richard's only natural child, you had to be got out of the way."
"But I didn't know anything about the will," Sam protested. "I never even thought about it. Even if..."
"But you wondered about your father," Emily said. "Whether or not I helped you, you'd have been finding a way to DNA test the boys, and when they proved negative, you'd have been thinking about the only other man in the house. You'd have found Richard's brother and proved you were related, and then you'd be demanding the estate. Especially when you found out about the shares."
"Shares?" Virtually everyone said it together.
"Richard was an excellent theologian; he even embraced the theory of DNA, but technology simply turned him off. When he inherited some IBM shares from his father, he wasn't interested - he didn't even mention them to me or anyone else. They're worth just over four million pounds today." Emily smiled at the open mouths of all around her, but spoke specifically to Sam. "You can see why I tried to buy you off."
"Buy me off?" Sam was puzzled. "When did you do that?"
"I asked you to get some money from the safe. Do you remember? If you'd only stolen the contents of the safe, you could have walked away with ten thousand pounds in your pocket. Then I'd have been sure you would never return. As it was, you were simply too honest for your own good. That's why you have to die."
Sam shook his head at the insanity Emily had concealed within her.
"I'd been expecting you for years, of course," Emily continued, "except I thought there'd be the two of you, and I'd done all my planning around that. I'd decided to let you both stay in the little flat above the coach house, with the defective gas heater. As it was, I had to think on my feet a little. In the end, it seemed a repetition of Sally's demise would be more poetic.
"I also needed to know that you were the same kind of tart as your mother. That would be the final justification I needed to kill you. It all worked like a dream. You let each of my sons screw you within hours of me telling them you were a little slut who'd have sex with anyone."
Which explained, Sam realised, why Emily had originally come up with the idea of him changing sex and becoming her housekeeper. Clearly, in her mind, she now completely believed he was a woman, and had forgotten who he really was. His exposure as a man, which he'd been expecting at any moment, had never come.
"So," Emily spoke to the rest of them, "do you all see why Samantha has to die? With her dead, there'll be no one to question who was really the father of my three sons, and you will all inherit the estate. Let her live, and you can kiss goodbye to everything."
"I'm in," Mark said, standing up and quickly moving to lock the door and pocket the key. "But we have to make it look good. Luke, you'll need to sign the death certificate."
"Oh shit!" Luke said. "It's too dangerous. Any kind of accidental death and the coroner would be involved."
"Then give her a fatal injection," Mark said, "and call it a heart attack. What was used in that hospital to murder those patients?"
"Insulin," Luke said, "I have some in my bag. But we could be found out..."
"Not if we all stick together," Rachel said. "Remember, we've been counting on getting a share in the house. It's even more important now, with the four million in shares."
That's right," Fiona said. "This little slut is cheating us out of our rightful inheritance."
"Matthew," Mark said. "Help me hold her whilst Luke gets his medical bag."
"You want me to kill her?" Matthew asked.
"Oh shit!" Sam thought. It was not meant to be like this. The other members of the denouement were supposed to be shocked and horrified when the murderer was identified, not gang up with her to kill the detective. Even the women were ready to give him the chop. And whilst with his judo, he was an even match for any one of them, he was no Bruce Lee; he couldn't take them all on and win. What the hell was he going to do?
***
"You really want me to kill her?" Matthew repeated.
"It's probably best if you just help me hold her down," Mark said, "whilst Luke injects her."
"If you kill Sam," Matthew said, "then you have to kill me as well. I'm not going to murder anyone, or cover up a murder."
"For fuck's sake," Mark said. "She's going to steal our inheritance."
"And you'd all kill, just for money?" Matthew said. "You all disgust me."
"You obviously have something of your father in you." Sam said, suddenly remembering he hadn't played his master card. "Your mother said he was always outspoken."
"Father was a good man," Matthew said, "and I don't care about my biological..." He paused for a second and then added, "What exactly do you mean?"
"Everyone has assumed," Sam replied, "that in order to prove that Richard was my father, I took a DNA sample from his brother, but I didn't even know about him until now. The proof actually comes from another route entirely - because the DNA shows I am Matthew's half-brother, and our common father is not Bishop Michael. We are both the children of Richard."
"Fuck!" "Shit!" and, from Emily, "We can still kill her.
"But now we're better off than we were before," Fiona's face cleared as she spoke directly to Matthew. "You and Samantha will split the estate between you, rather than you only getting a third if you share it with your brothers."
"But what about us?" Rachel indignantly declared. "We'll end up with nothing."
"Winners and losers," Fiona shouted at her. "We win and you lose."
Rachel turned to Mark. "Do something. We have to kill them all."
Mark looked around, but he knew it was hopeless. He smiled and said, "That was, of course, a rather silly joke we were playing on you, Sam. I hope you'll consider it as such."
"Yes, of course," Luke said, relief flooding his voice. "It was a joke."
"A joke?" Bishop Michael had suddenly come to life. "Apart from Matthew, you were all going to kill this lovely young lady." He turned to Emily. "And I blame you for the way you have brought up my sons. It's all your fault. If only I'd married Sally. She was a lovely girl, and she fucked like rabbit."
With a horrific scream, Emily leapt up from the table and threw herself at Michael, punching him and kicking him, and trying to gouge out his eyes.
***
"I think Father knew that Sally had been murdered," Matthew said later that evening.
After Emily's total breakdown, Mark and Rachel had helped Luke take her to a mental hospital and have her committed. Sam had agreed there was little point in reporting Emily to the police, since she was clearly mad. Where she was going, she would pose no further danger to Sam, Michael or anyone else.
Shortly after that, an ambulance had arrived to take Michael back to his nursing home.
Finally, Fiona had started to rant at Matthew for having sex with Sam, and Matthew had calmly told her he wasn't prepared to live with someone who would commit murder for money, so she could get the fuck out and he never wanted to see her again.
Which left Matthew and Sam on their own, with Matthew pondering over events. "The day after Sally was killed," he continued, "Father quite pointedly asked us all what had caused her to trip, and he stared at us as though one of us knew the answer. He made me feel guilty, and I hadn't done anything."
"Do you think he realised it was Emily?" Sam asked.
"I don't think much got past him, actually. He was incredibly pious, but that didn't mean he didn't have a good sense of judgement. Clearly, he suspected we weren't all his children. It was obviously bitter jealousy which made Mother kill Sally. I'm sure she regretted it later, but you can imagine how having that on your conscience for twenty-five years would prey on your mind."
"Especially knowing that eventually Sally's children would come looking, poking, prying and demanding their fair shares," Sam added. "She must have been on tenterhooks in the months leading up our eighteenth birthday, with our right to find out about our biological parents, and it would get worse as another seven years went by, knowing that finally they would come. You can see why it tipped her mind."
Matthew nodded. "Smart detective work, Miss Marple."
"No way," Sam said, shaking his head. "I should have used the Agatha Christie principle to give me the answer straightaway. Who was the person least likely to have done it? Why, Emily, of course!"
"What I don't understand," Matthew said, "is why you bothered to get a DNA test done on me, when you'd already told me that I couldn't be your father."
"It was something your mother said," Sam replied, "about when she was deciding whether to marry Richard or Michael. She said that Richard was shorter than Michael, but he made up for it in other areas. At the time, I wondered whether it was a roundabout way of saying Richard had a big plonker. After seeing you and knowing that..."
Sam had been about to say that he, too, had a big penis, but realised Matthew still thought he was Samantha. "So I linked a family by putting two big pricks together."
"Talking of big pricks," Matthew said, "do you fancy..."
Sam simply nodded.
My Russian Wedding
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The UK Immigration authorities will do everything they can to prevent Tommy's Russian cousin from marrying a British citizen. Tommy is asked to help the wedding go ahead.
Author Notes: This story, like many of my others, is based upon products by Big Busts in the fictional town on the south coast of England, Seacombe. If you're not familiar with their products, you can click on a pamphlet at the appropriate point in the text. Use the Back button to return to the story.
My Russian Wedding
by Charlotte Dickles
"You must be a relative of Tomochka Petrov," the smartly dressed woman said to me, as I waited in the taxi queue outside Seacombe station.
I smiled at her. "I'm her cousin, Tommy Peters. Presumably you're on your way to The Grand Hotel as well, for the wedding. Do you want to share a taxi?"
"Sounds a good idea. I'm Deborah Geeson-Jones, Tomochka's solicitor."
"You mean, you were the person employed to sort out the immigration people? Sounds like it's been hell."
"It's always hell with immigration, especially at the moment with Russian citizens. Compared with Immigration, the police are total gentlemen. The problem is, you fix one problem and then they invent another. That’s really why I've come to the wedding, just in case. Are you a British resident?"
"Second generation," I said. "My grandparents came over from Russia immediately after the war, they anglicised the name and the family's been here ever since."
"Wise move," she said. "Have you met Tomochka before?"
"We had a big family get-together as soon as the family visited England," I said. "Before that, we'd only exchanged cards and letters. But she's a lovely woman. I'm not surprised that Grant fell in love with her."
The taxi arrived just then and we got in and she directed him to The Grand with a familiarity that indicated she was no stranger to the place. Meanwhile, I thought about Tomochka. When I'd said she was lovely, I was talking about her character. To be honest, she had a rather plain, square set face, not unlike mine, which is probably why Deborah D-J had recognised me as family. But what totally transformed her was her curvaceous figure, the kind that dreams are made of – mine anyway. I'd totally fallen for her, but of course, Tomochka had been immediately surrounded by blokes who admired exactly the same attributes in a woman as me, but had a lot more pulling power. I hadn't got a look in, but then, that's the story of my life.
"Tomochka was lucky to find you," I said as the taxi made its way to the hotel. "I hear you worked miracles."
She grimaced. "The problem is that it's not over until the fat lady sings, or in this case, the vicar announces them man and wife."
Tomochka had enrolled on an English-speaking course and her close family had accompanied her to England for a short holiday, which is when I'd first met everyone. Then, her family went home, leaving Tomochka to do the course, and it was in those six months that she met Grant Newton, who was not only considerable older than her, but apparently stinking rich. He'd asked her to marry him and she'd accepted.
In the way they do, the Immigration Service had decided that she only wanted to marry him in order to get residence in the UK. I'd never admit to it, but I thought they were probably right, but then, I'm not one of those who obsessively think that foreigners should not be allowed this side of Dover. Also she was family, so I'd have done anything to help her stay. And maybe, I always had a hope that she would see what a fantastic guy I was and… No, I know that's stupid, but we can all dream.
Deborah nodded out the window. "Taxi's arrived at the hotel now. Enjoy the celebrations tonight."
"Will you be there?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I need to keep a clear head for the next eighteen hours. I'll celebrate then."
***
It was a big family gathering of Russians, and Russians know how to celebrate. The evening started with early drinks in the hotel bar, waiting for everyone to turn up. Eventually, there was a message from Tomochka and Grant that they'd had to stay behind to sort something out and they would catch us up. So we went out to a nearby pub where the drinks were one-quarter of hotel prices, and drank some more. Then we went to a restaurant and had a great meal, and were just about on the way to another pub to start drinking seriously, when a waiter came over and asked for me by name. It was a telephone call.
"Tommy? It is Tomochka." She sounded very upset. "Do not tell anyone else. Maybe we have to cancel wedding. Can you come to hotel to help us?"
***
It took just a few minutes to make my departure and walk back to the hotel. I went up to Grant’s room, as instructed.
“Tommy, come in,” Deborah said. “As I suspected earlier, Immigration have thrown another spanner in the works. After that incident with nerve gas, which may or may not be Russian, they're using any excuse to make things difficult for Russian citizens. So they’ve told us to delay the wedding. If we attempt to go ahead with it, they’ve said, they will take Tomochka to an immigration centre to face questioning about her involvement in the terrorist incident. They may even have a police officer present in case of difficulties, for example if there was violence.”
“Can they do that?” Tommy asked.
“They can get away with almost anything,” Deborah said. “I’m assuming they’ll be waiting outside the church and if Tomochka turns up, they’ll take her off somewhere and question her.”
“Tommy,” Tomochka said, “Deborah thinks you may help us.”
“I’ll do anything I can,” I said, “but I really don’t see what I can do.”
“We need a decoy,” Deborah said. ”Someone who can appear at the church wearing Tomochka’s bridal gown – for which they’ll need to have a very narrow waist – with sufficient likeness to fool them into taking her into custody. Then, Tomochka can slip into church and the service will proceed.”
I nodded. “Seems a good idea,” I said, “but will you find someone who’s a good enough match?” As I’ve mentioned, Tomochka had this incredibly curvaceous figure, but had our family's plain and rather square face. Our family were not renowned for their slight figures, so the need for a narrow waist ruled out practically everyone. I quickly thought through the family members and immediately wrote them all off. There was no one suitable, and Immigration were hardly going to arrest someone who was nothing like.
“We have thought of someone in the family,” Deborah said. “The question is whether they’ll agree to go ahead with it.”
“If they’re in the family, then they’re honour bound to help,” I said, “but I simply can’t think of...”
“It is you, Tommy,” Tomochka said.
“Me!” I was gobsmacked. “We may be about the same height and our faces may be similar...”
“Almost identical,” Deborah said.
“...but I’m a skinny runt with none of Tomochka’s curves, my hair is nothing like and... My God, you want to pad me out and do my hair and... things?”
“You are our one hope, Tommy,” Tomochka said “It is much to ask, but Grant and I need you.”
“But do you really think it will work?” I asked. “Grant? You’re a third party. What do you say?”
Grant looked at me and said, “I have to say I’m cynical. Your face is a good match but transforming you into a woman with Tomochka’s curves is beyond credibility. Tomochka has told me a little about the wedding dress, and you’re going to need more than some socks stuffed into a bra.”
“But you not listen to Deborah,” Tomochka said. “She know company here who make men look like women. “
“Well, the proof is in the pudding,” Grant said. “If Tommy is game enough to go ahead, then we have nothing to lose. Let’s do it.”
“Hang on,” I said. “You say I have nothing to lose but I’m masquerading as someone else when I’m arrested. They’ll charge me with something, surely?” I looked at Deborah.
“My plan is that you deny being Tomochka. I’m not certain how your voice will sound but at the minimum, you’ll shake your head when they ask if you are her. Keep shaking it as though in terror. I’ll be close by and I’ll advise you to say nothing, not even admit your name. I will agree, on your behalf, to be taken in for questioning, in order that you’re not arrested, which has its own consequences. By the time I get to wherever they’ve taken you, I’ll have a copy of the wedding certificate with me. Neat, eh?”
It certainly sounded all right, put like that, but I had an instinctive mistrust of solicitors. "You say there are consequences of being arrested?"
"You'd be fingerprinted and a DNA sample taken, and no one wants those things on record. But you can't go to prison for remaining silent. You are a British citizen so a lot of the tricks they'd try if you were Russian are denied to them."
"It's not going to be very comfortable, detained in some Immigration Centre," I said.
"It will only be for an hour, or so, and the result is that these two lovely people will be married."
"Tommy, I will be very grateful," Tomochka said. She accompanied her words with an action which threw everything upside down. She winked at me.
Not one of those obvious winks that everyone could see and treat as a little joke, but a very tiny wink using the eye that no one else could see. It was a wink that said, "Sex, Tommy, Sex."
"Hmm," I muttered, trying to hide the feelings racing through me. No normal bride would promise that on the day before her wedding, so the marriage really was one of convenience, designed to flout the UK immigration regulations. To be honest, that bothered me not one jot. Maybe Cleopatra gave a similar wink to Anthony, and the future of two nations had been altered by a wink. Certainly, it made my decision a no-brainer. "I will do whatever I can to help," I said.
"Wonderful, Tommy," Tomochka said, and she leapt up and kissed me on both cheeks, managing to press her luscious body against me in a most agreeable way.
"Right," Deborah said. "In that case, we need to take action quickly. First of all, swap phones with each other now, and turn them off, as Immigration may be tracking yours, Tomochka. Tommy, I need you to go to the transformation company called Big Busts. They're a ten minute walk from here, and they'll be expecting you. Agree with everything they suggest. The bill will all be taken care of.
"In the meantime, Tomochka and Grant will go to join the others for a drink. Tomochka will stay for just one drink and then I will take her on to a different hotel, where she will stay the night, so there's absolutely no chance of anyone seeing the two of you together. Big Busts will telephone me when they've finished with you, Tommy, and I will come and collect you, and bring you back here where you will sleep in Tomochka's room.
"Tomorrow, Tommy, your bridesmaids will visit you to dress you for your wedding. I will brief them a little beforehand about our operation, and Tomochka, you will leave the hotel and buy a smart suit and then be near the church as the time approaches. You should turn on Tommy's phone tomorrow morning, Tomochka, so we can liaise with each other. Is that all clear?"
Those last four words were said in a way that said we all needed to get on with things, regardless, as time was pressing. I nodded.
"Good," she said.
***
As I left the hotel, I realised how crazy I had been to agree to the plan. It was, of course, the promise from Tomochka which had swayed me, but which actually was no promise at all. Of course she would be grateful; she'd buy me a bottle of good wine. But we all clutch at straws, and that's what I was doing.
Of course, there was another part of me which was totally thrilled at the whole idea. There had been times when I was younger when I may have touched my mother's panties and bras, and just wondered what it would be like to wear them, and maybe once or twice I had slipped them on but that was all a long time ago. Now, I was going to be padded out into that wonderful figure of Tomochka, dressed in a bridal gown and taken to the church. Who could resist that, even if I did end up in prison at the end?
When I arrived at Big Busts, there was a Closed sign on the door, and the shop had every appearance of being so. But as I walked up to the door, it opened and a voice said, "Hello, you must be Tommy. Come in."
She told me her name was Joyce, and took me upstairs and into a treatment room, where a woman called Sally joined us. They were both women of an age and friendliness that they might have been my aunts.
"Deborah has told us what we need to do to you," Sally said. "She's supplied us with Tomochka's measurements and plenty of photographs."
"There's no chance of this working, is there?" I asked. "She and I are completely different."
"Actually, you're both very similar," Joyce said, staring at the photos on her computer. "OK, Tomochka has large boobs and hips but we can easily sort those. What's important is that your face and body structures are very similar. Clearly, your hair will require the most work to get right, but we have a hairdresser coming in a bit later to sort that out. So let's get moving straight away. We're going to leave you for a few minutes. Could you remove all your clothes and put on this dressing gown. You might like to look at this pamphlet whilst you're waiting for us to return with some products we'll get you to try on. OK?" They both smiled.
"Can we bring you back a tea or coffee," Sally asked. "Or something a little stronger which will help you relax."
"A beer would be nice," I said.
Sally smirked. "It might be nice but I understand you have to squeeze into a wedding dress tomorrow morning. I could bring you a glass of wine, or perhaps even a gin and Slimline?"
***
It was after midnight when Deborah came to pick me up. Sally and Joyce had been right. Fitting me into their wonderful products had been easy; it had been lengthening my hair which had taken most of the time. They had decided that Tomochka's hips and thighs were so voluptuous compared with her narrow waist, that I needed a combination of a Torsolet, to pull in my waist, and Hiplet to pad out my thighs. They showed me the products in their pamphlet before getting them and then fitting me into them. Then I spent hours in their hairdressing salon, having my hair lengthened and blonded. I'd also spent some time in being coached in the ways to move, to walk and sit down, get in and out of cars, and so on. And I'd been given some voice-changer liquid which had seemed to burn out my throat at the time, but now gave me a much squeakier voice.
"Wow!" Deborah said. "You look fantastic."
I had to agree with her as I stared in the mirror, and the voluptuous Tomochka stared back at me.
"Is this really going to work?" I asked Deborah.
"I'm never one to forecast outcomes," she replied, "but with you looking like that, it stands a hell of a chance."
We left Big Busts and walked back to the hotel. When we arrived, we could hear the family party making lots of noise in the bar, so we headed straight for the lift.
"Tomochka," someone called, right behind me.
I froze initially and then turned; it was my revolting cousin Ivan.
"A last kiss before you’re married," Ivan said.
Before I could stop him, he'd planted his lips across mine and had me in a bear hug. For a few seconds, I hopelessly struggled to escape, but then I succumbed.
"Ivan, leave something for me," Grant's voice cut through with quite a little bitterness.
Ivan released me and Grant looked at me and I could see him wondering. Was this Tomochka or was it really Tommy pretending to be her? I smiled at him and he realised. He smiled.
"You look fantastic," he said.
"Big day tomorrow," Deborah said. "I think we should all get to our respective beds.”
As Deborah and I ascended in the lift, she handed me a room card and said, “Your room number is 120. Tomochka says she’s left out some pyjamas on the bed for you to wear."
***
It was as we split up with those parting words that the reality of what I had done hit me in the face. In the space of a few hours, I had committed to changing my gender, to spending the night as a woman, to dressing for my wedding and then getting arrested and thrown into some detention centre.
Logic said I should be in a blind funk; in fact I had an exhilaration running through my bones as never before; I felt alive as though now I was as I always should have been; I felt good in myself.
Room 120 was fabulous. Overall, about ten times bigger than the room I’d booked into this afternoon: a separate lounge and bedroom with a huge bed with wonderful drapes surrounding it. There were walk-in wardrobes and a long dressing table. Doors led out onto a balcony overlooking the sea and I could hear the waves breaking on the beach below. It was a room I could swoon around in all night, trying on different clothes and watching myself in the many mirrors surrounding me. Instead, I knew I had to get some sleep. I had a challenging day ahead.
When Deborah had said Tomochka had left out some pyjamas for me, I'd imagined striped winceyette, but the filmy creation lying there had more relation to heaven than to winceyette. I tentatively held it up and it floated down to reveal a kind of Arabian Nights creation. A piece of paper fell out. I picked it up and read the words.
‘Dear Tommy. I owe you. Wear this tonight and next I wear it for you. xxx’
Surely that meant what I thought it meant; that Tomochka’s wink had been more than a blink; that she was going to honour her promise after she was married.
I slipped out of the clothes which Big Busts had given me, a plain track suit over bra and knickers, and stared at my naked reflection. A surge of happiness shot through me, I felt so completely right in myself. As I stared at my body, no one could imagine I was not a real woman. The skin of the Torsolet and Hiplet were not totally uniform, as a plastic normally is, but had a skin-like variation, with minor blemishes here and there. The joins with my own skin, at neck, shoulders and knees had been blended in, and they looked nothing more than the kind of creases you get in skin. The Sensotouch meant that, as I ran my hands over curves, it was though I was running them over my own skin. My large boobs bounced and wobbled with every movement, and between my legs, the slit of my pussy led to the ultimate prize.
I again looked at my beautiful pyjamas and picked up the harem trousers and slipped my legs into the silky material. As I pulled them up my legs, I realised they were harem trousers in the real meaning of the word; two independent legs which fitted over the waistband, where they could be drawn together like curtains or pulled wide open. Either way, they would provide no barrier to a rampant prick!
The top was a full length gown with long wide sleeves attached to the gown along their length. I slipped into it and tied the front together, beneath my bust. As I moved around the room, the material was so light it floated out behind me, and if I spread my arms, they turned into wings, as though I were an angel.
I’m not certain how long I simply walked around, wondering if I had gone to heaven. Whatever tomorrow might bring, it had all been made worth it by those last few minutes.
I slipped into bed, and my eyes immediately closed.
***
I woke early next morning and I spent lots of time dancing around my room and balcony, my arms outstretched, feeling like the angel in heaven, until I noticed a couple of males tidying the beach who were having a good gawp up at me. I gave them a cheery wave before retiring back to my room.
That made me wonder just who I had become. Tommy Peters would have been incredibly embarrassed at being caught giving such a display, and felt like a fool for most of the day, concerned in case he met one of those men. But she was someone else. She didn't get embarrassed by men gawping her stupendous body, because that is what nature decreed.
A knock at the door and the room maid was bringing in breakfast: fruit salad and orange juice, along with the morning paper, which I placed straight into the bin. I really did not want to be introduced into demonised hate news when I was feeling so good on such a wonderful day.
At half-past eight, my bridesmaids, Anya and Evva, came to my room. They were from the Russian part of my family, and had bodies typical of much of our family, in other words, they were built like brick shithouses! Deborah had briefed them on my position. That's to say, she'd told them that I was substituting for Tomochka until the wedding, but not told them my gender. I think she'd also told them to ask no questions about the whole affair, for they seemed remarkably incurious.
There was a hairdresser arriving at nine and a beautician at eleven. In the meantime, they had lots of things to do with me, including dressing me in my oh-so-sexy lingerie.
The morning simply flew by, with people coming and going and pampering me in between. The beautician spent ages on my face and then turned my grubby unkempt nails into inch-long, delicate pink talons, and by midday, I felt pleasantly exhausted. That's when Evva showed me the shoes.
"Oh my God!" I said. There was hardly any structure to the sexiest shoes I had ever seen. An S-curved sole with a tall, spiky heel, and a few straps, all in the most delightful shade of pink. "I can never wear that. It's got heels and it won't even be the right size."
"You wear," Evva said, holding the shoe next to my foot. "Almost right size. We make it fit." She pushed me so I fell back on the bed, but held onto my foot, so she could force my toes into the straps, and then she managed to do up the buckle on the end hole. "Next foot," she said, dropping my one foot to the floor and reaching down and grabbing the other, and forcing it around the other shoe in the same way. "Now stand."
I tentatively put both feet firmly on the floor, and could feel their impossible height. "No way," I said.
"Yes, you stand," Evva said, and they both grabbed me unceremoniously from either side and forced me to my feet.
"Ouch! That's painful," I said, as my weight settled in them. "I can never walk in these."
"Yes. You walk," Anya said, and they started to frogmarch me up and down, bellowing out instructions as to how to put my weight on the heel, thrust out my breasts, take tiny steps, put one foot in front of the other, and so on. After a while, they could let go of me and I tottered around on my own until my legs and ankles were aching.
"There. You do it," Evva said. "We break for lunch now. You can take off shoes."
That surprised me, but I reckoned they realised I needed the break if my feet weren't going to fall off during the wedding ceremony.
We had a break and the hotel brought in some food: sausage, chips and beans for them and a small salad for me. Conversation was difficult and restricted to basics since they had very limited language skills, as did I in Russian. Finally, we cleared away all the food and the large box containing the bridal gown was opened.
We'd all had little peeks in it during the course of the morning, but nothing prepared me for the sheer beauty of it when we pulled it out of its box, still on the form which held it upright. It was in the lightest shade of pink imaginable, with a heart-shaped neck, little puffed up sleeves, a waistline which I knew I could never fit into, but was determined I would, and then at the hips, the skirts ballooned out like those of a fairy-tale princess. It was so wide at the base, I didn't even know how I was going to crawl into it or how I could move when I did.
"Shoes back on first," Anya said, "and then in to crinoline." She pointed it out in a separate part of the box, pulling out a large pale-pink disk and letting it unfold from her hands. Suddenly it was transformed from a disk into cone of wonderful ruched material. Then she let go of it all and let it fall to the floor, where it formed back into a disk.
I reluctantly put my feet into shoes and since I couldn't do up the buckles, Evva did them for me again.
"Step into centre of crinoline, then we pull it up around you," Evva said.
She tied the lace in a bow around my waist, and suddenly I was surrounded by the cone of lacy material, which followed me wherever I moved, separating me from everyone and everything else.
Meanwhile, Anya was releasing the laces at the rear of the dress bodice so I could fit into it. "Now, we lift the dress and lower it over your head," she explained.
So bulky were the skirts, it was fortunate there were two of them to lift it so I could manoeuvre myself into the bodice. It was a struggle, even though Anya had released the laces as far as she could, and it meant them manhandling my boobs, squeezing them up quite painfully (yes, the Sensotouch is very realistic) in order to force them through the narrow waist. Then they were pulling the dress down over the crinoline so it flared out for several feet all around. Or that's how it seemed, anyhow.
"Time to corset your waist," Evva said, and I turned my back on them to let them have their wicked way with me.
It's worth mentioning that the Torsolet I was wearing was already doing a wonderful job of reducing my man waist to a size that looked not far off Tomochka's. On the other hand, Tomochka had envisaged some corseting in order to get into her dress, which meant even more serious corseting for me.
"You do it," they kept saying, as they pulled the laces. "Breath out, we pull."
Tighter and tighter it became until I could go no further.
"We take rest for moment," Evva said. "We well over halfway."
"Halfway!" I said. "There's no way it can go any tighter."
"Tomochka, we fit you into this dress or you bust," Anya said. "Wait. I have idea."
She wondered over to the window and fiddled around with the curtains. "I think this will do," she said, holding up one of the thick curtain ties.
"What do you want that for?" I asked.
"Put your hands together," she ordered.
I did, and she wrapped the curtain tie around them, binding them together, and then tying them in a simple knot. "Walk to bedroom door," she told me, whilst Evva looked on with as much mystery as I was in.
"Keep walking," she said when my skirts were touching the door.
I did as she said, aided by a shove from behind until I was partway through the door between lounge and bedroom.
"Now lift your hands as far as they will go."
I realised she wanted me to lift them to hook my wrists over the top of the door, but I couldn't reach up that far.
"I'm not certain this is a good idea," I said but the two women grabbed me under the armpits and physically lifted me the few inches to hook me over the door. As they slowly released me, almost my whole weight was hanging through my arms, with only the extra height of my heels able to take any of my weight.
"Help! This really hurts," I yelled.
"Evva," Anya said. "Let us tighten those laces now."
"No! No! No!" I yelled. But the pain in my arms was being superseded by the pain in my rib cage as it was crushed. "No," I whispered.
"Yes!" they said, as they pulled the laces tighter and tighter, but there was a buzzing in my ears and it all seemed to fade into nothing.
***
"There, I knew you come to with water on face," Anya said.
I opened my eyes. They were standing looking down at me.
"Is OK," Evva said. "You faint. Stay there. Have rest. Then we get you up. Beautician come back to touch up makeup and we go to wedding."
"To my wedding! Is it time?" I asked.
"Cousin Ivan is knocking at door. Say you are late," Anya said. "But bride cannot be late for own wedding. Stand up, now?"
I nodded, and they all carefully helped me to my feet, stroking down my skirts before the beautician appeared to make certain I looked just perfect. Finally, I stood in front to the mirror as my veil was placed over my head. The crushing pain around my chest and stomach, and my screaming feet and ankles were all pushed to the back of my mind. I had a wedding to attend.
"OK," Evva called out, opening the door. "Time for bride to go."
***
Cousin Ivan was the perfect gentlemen as he led me down to the hotel reception, all trace of last night's stolen snog forgotten. Deborah was waiting in reception.
"Darling, Tomochka," she said. "You look absolutely beautiful." She came and gave me a kiss. "Is everything all right with you?" she whispered. "You look fantastic."
"So far so good," I muttered back. "Does Ivan know?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. I want completely natural reactions from everyone."
"What are you two muttering about?" Ivan asked.
"Girl talk," Deborah said.
It was a real crowd in the limousine, me with my huge dress, Ivan, Anya, Evva and Deborah who sat with the driver. In just a few minutes we were arriving at the church.
"Strange," Deborah muttered. "No sign of Immigration."
It took even longer to get me out of the car and straightened up than it had to fit me in, and I was far too busy doing that to actually worry about an Immigration Inspector. But then, suddenly, we were standing in line, ready to enter the church. Me with Ivan on my left arm, the two bridesmaids behind, holding my skirts off the ground. Now we had nothing else to do, I was suddenly terrified of being arrested.
"What are we waiting for?" Ivan asked. "Shall we go in?"
"Not yet," Deborah said. "Let me go inside and check."
"This is stupid," Ivan said. "Don't worry," he added to me. "It will all go perfectly.”
"What's holding us up?" he called to Deborah as she came out, giving a little shake of her head at me.
Presumably that meant no Immigration officials around to stop the wedding. Deborah was on her phone, clearly with no response. She rang the number again.
Just then, another phone started ringing and Anya riffled through her handbag to pull one out. "Is your phone, Tomochka," she said, handing it to me.
Of course, it wasn't mine but Tomochka's and it took me a second or two to fumble with the unfamiliar controls.
"Let me," Deborah hissed, snatching it out of my hands. "Yes? Hi. There's no sign of you know who so we're ready for you. Where are you? WHAT!"
She looked at me, despair on her face and then said, "Stay here," and darted inside the church.
"What the hell is going on?" Ivan asked.
I shrugged. I hadn't a clue, either.
A minute later, Deborah came out of the church and walked straight over to me. "Tomochka," she said. "You're going to have to go through with the wedding."
"What?" I said.
"Of course, she's going through with it," Ivan said.
"But I can't," I said.
"Yes, you can," Deborah said. She stared at Ivan. "Time to walk the walk."
"Yes but…" I had no choice. Ivan was walking and I had no choice but to totter beside him, into the church and down the aisle, as the Bridal March commenced playing.
***
Everyone turned to look at me and smile as I walked down the aisle. At the very end was Grant, and he was looking as confused as me, but he mouthed at me: "It's all right." He gave a little smile and suddenly I knew I could go through with it. Whatever had delayed Tomochka meant that I simply had to stand in for her. Assuming she didn't arrive halfway through the ceremony and expose us all as fakes, I would come away with a marriage licence in her name, which we could hand to her and I could walk away.
As I arrived at the altar, I relaxed and smiled at Grant, and he smiled back.
I suppose I should have remembered some details of the wedding service but it was all just a blur. I'd been to several weddings before so none of it was new, but it's all rather different when you're the main player in the drama.
Whatever, it all went fine until Grant lifted the veil in order to kiss me. As he planted his lips on mine, I saw his eyes widen in surprise, and then stare wildly into my eyes. Clearly, he was as surprised to find me there as I was.
"What's happened?" he mouthed, as we separated from the kiss.
I kind of shrugged with my eyes, which is about the only movement I could make.
***
Outside, there was the whole rigmarole of wedding photographs. Stand here, stand there, now can we have the parents, and so on, and so on.
It must have been half an hour before the pair of us could get back into the limousine. Deborah scuttled in after us.
"What the hell is going on?" Grant asked. "I have just married the wrong woman."
"I can explain," Deborah said. "Tomochka was walking to the church and she almost came face to face with the Immigration Inspector. She dashed into a dress shop and he followed her to the door, but didn't enter. Apparently, it became a kind of stand-off. He realised she couldn't get to the church without passing him and was content to stand outside and bar her way."
"But we have just taken part in a fraudulent wedding ceremony," Grant said.
"Oh did you?" Deborah said, trying to sound surprised. "I told Tommy to go inside and tell everyone it would have to be delayed."
"No you didn't." I protested. "You told me to go through with it."
"Well, it doesn't really matter," she said. "We're here, now."
"Where?" We both looked around. We were stopped in a shopping street.
"Close enough to wave at the Inspector," Deborah said. "Give him a wave when I point you out." She got out of the car and walked briskly along the road.
"Jesus!" Grant said. "We could go to prison for this."
"But when I came into the church," I said, "you turned around to look at me and tell me it was all right. You knew it was me who’d be wearing the bridal gown, rather than Tomochka."
"Because bloody Deborah told me there was a change of plan, that Tomochka was now wearing the gown and we'd be married as planned. But you needed reassurance, so I was to mouth to you that you'd be all right. That woman has really stitched us up."
"Look," I said. "She's talking to the Inspector."
"Not only that," Grant said. "She's showing him our marriage licence."
That's when the Inspector looked along the road in response to Deborah's pointing arm. When he caught sight of us, we both waved and his face turned to rage. At that distance, it was impossible to make out his words, but there appeared to be a number of four-letter ones.
"Drive on," Grant said. "Deborah can make her own way back to The Grand. Presumably, she'll meet up with the real Tomochka and put her into hiding, again, whilst you and I celebrate our wedding."
"But if Deborah works for you," I said, "why don't you refuse to pay her."
"She doesn't work for me," Grant said. "Deborah works for Tomochka, or her family, anyway.
"That's to say," he added. "Your family. Russian oligarchs."
"My family! They're nothing to do with me except for a blood relationship."
"Clearly, blood is no thicker than water, since you've been set up as surely as I have. OK, I'll accept I went into it with my eyes open. A tidy sum of money for marrying a sex bomb like Tomochka. We'd live as man and wife for long enough for me to satiate my desire for wild sex and for her to get Immigration off her tail and then separate."
"So what do we do now?" I asked.
"We go and enjoy the wedding feast," he said. "Afterwards, we do what married couples always do after the wedding feast."
"I don't think so," I said.
"We have to make this look realistic, otherwise people are going to start smelling a rat, and neither of us can afford that. I was watching you last night at our meeting, I watched you snogging Ivan when you returned to the hotel, just as I watched your wonderful dancing display on your balcony this morning. Tell me honestly. Are you really not enjoying your experience as a woman? If so, then you must surely be fascinated to know what it would be like to have sex as a woman."
I thought. "Erm… well, I'm not certain. Gerroff, Grant, we're arriving at the hotel. People are staring."
"Then we must let them see what they would expect a newly-married couple to be doing." He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me like I've never been kissed before.
Not the Cup Final
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Not the Cup Final
By Charlotte Dickles
Synopsis: When most of the male members of the book group decide to go to Wembley to see the Cup Final, the others decide to run a Murder Mystery Game on the same day. The problem is, they don't make games for seven women and one man.
It was Emily who suggested that our Book Group should hold a 'Not the Cup Final' day. For almost six months, the group had been meeting in the library at weekly intervals to discuss a different book each time in a friendly atmosphere. We called ourselves ABC (Alphabet Book Circle): "circle" because each week, the choice of book rotated around each of us in turn; and "alphabet" because of the sheer coincidence that the initial letters of our first names ran from A to K. There were the four couples: Adam and Bethany, Chloe and Dan, Emily and Frank, my wife Gemma and me, Harry, and three women: Isobel (divorced), Jenny (widowed) and Kim (determinedly single).
After each session, we would adjourn to the pub for a sociable drink, and naturally divided into two groups; Adam, Dan and Frank would form the football group, and their conversation ranged over such a diverse range of topics as the performance of the local team the previous Saturday, to its expected performance the following Saturday.
As someone with no interest in football, I joined the women to continue talking about the book we'd just been discussing, as well as all the other things going on in the world, not forgetting - since there were seven women and only one man - fashion. I got on with them all fairly well, except for Kim. She was one of those women who hated men. Now in her late forties, I was never certain whether she was of the right age group to have been a bra-burner, but she certainly embodied their spirit. That week, she raged about how the protagonist of the book had been attracted to his partner by the size of her breasts.
"How can you have any empathy for a guy like that?" she moaned.
"Oh, I have a lot of empathy with Adam," Bethany said, thrusting out her considerable bust, to which the other women laughed and I simply gulped. "If it wasn't for these, he'd never have asked me out in the first place, and we'd never have got married."
"Pathetic!" Kim scorned.
"You may think it pathetic," Isobel said, "but catching men is a bit like catching fish. They are just as predictable, so the bigger the net, the more you catch." She thrust out her breasts which were far larger than Bethany's, and I tried not to let my mouth drop open. "Large nets may be bloody expensive, but hell, they're worth it."
"What do you think, Harry?" Emily asked - afterwards I thought rather ingenuously but at the time I leapt in without thought, or at least, not much.
"All through nature you see evidence of features with no functional purpose, other than to attract a mate," I said. I was rather proud of that sentence. What a shame, I followed it with, "Female peacocks choose their mates according to the size and colouring of the male's plumes; human males do so according to the size of the female's breasts."
"Then why are most fashion models size zero?" Emily innocently asked.
"So you do fancy me?" Isobel said, with a twinkle in her eye, playfully thrusting her breasts in my direction. I was always a bit nervous of Isobel. Fine for a bit of light-hearted banter, but she was quite a bit older than me, and I was never certain how serious she was. She loved ballroom dancing, and she was always trying to get me to go with her, saying there simply weren't enough men to go round.
"And you're not attracted to me?" my wife, Gemma wailed, pretending outrage at my rejection of her A-cup breasts.
"Typical man," Kim said, sitting back with a 'case proven' expression on her face.
"It's not just breasts that make a woman attractive," I defended. "It's all kinds of other things as well. So although I obviously fancy Isobel," I returned her cheeky grin, "I am of course extremely attracted to you, Gemma." I was confident I was on safe ground with Gemma over Isobel because she knew I was terrified of Isobel's man-hungry approach.
"As for fashion models," I added, "they want to be pleasing to other women, not to men, so boobs are irrelevant."
"Then why do they wear short skirts and ridiculous heels?" Kim asked. There had been a fashion show in the news that week with just those admirable features.
"But we women like short skirts and high-heeled shoes, as well," Chloe said, stretching out a long leg and displaying her red shoe with the incredibly sexy high-heel, which I'd been secretly ogling all night. Hell, she made me horny.
"Oh, I think men like short skirts and high heels more than women," Gemma said, with a knowing look at me. I had a sudden panic that my secret ogling had not been so secret after all.
"The shorter and higher they are," I defiantly retorted, "the sexier they look."
"You wouldn't say that if you had to wear them," Kim said.
Wisely, I didn't respond, and the conversation fell into one of those awkward lulls where we probably all realised that we'd been close to having an argument, and searched for some way of changing the subject. And that's when the football discussion at the next table came to our attention, and Emily made her suggestion.
"It's the Cup Final in four weeks' time, and Portsmouth is through to it," she said. "It sounds like the men are planning a day trip to Wembley. We should have a 'Not the Cup Final' day."
We all jumped at that idea, not only as a way of changing the subject, but also because it sounded fun.
"What would we do?" Chloe asked.
"Shopping!" several of them replied.
"But that's not really fair on Harry," Kim said.
Somehow, I managed to avoid falling off my chair. Kim concerned about me! I couldn't believe it.
"What sort of thing are you thinking of?" Chloe queried.
"I don't know really. Something different from what we normally do with ABC," she vaguely said, "but it must be something that we all really want to do."
"How about a Murder Mystery Party?" I suggested.
"What's that?" Kim asked.
"My brother had one a few weeks ago," I said. "I think I probably mentioned it." Actually, I was damn certain I'd talked about it, but it just shows, if it's not about fashion, women forget.
"It's a sort of who-done-it game," I continued, "which he bought off the internet. Each person had to pretend to be one of the characters in the who-done-it, and turn up in costume. The evening started with a briefing which gave details of someone who'd been murdered, and gave some background information about it. Then each character had their individual briefings, with more information and one of them was told they were the murderer. As the evening developed, additional information was fed in, and we all had to ask questions and try to find out who the murderer was. And it was all based around a dinner party."
"That sounds great," Emily said, and there were several others who agreed.
"Who's going to organise it?"Chloe asked. She looked at me and suggested, "Harry? It was your idea."
"But I'm useless on the internet," I said. "I wouldn't know where to look for a game. Couldn't someone else do it?"
"I will," said Emily. "How many are interested?"
We all put up our hands. So it was agreed.
***
At the end of the next ABC session, Emily said that she'd been doing some digging about the murder mystery, and suggested that Adam, Dan and Frank went on to the pub, whilst she showed the rest of us some games available on the web. She led the way over to the library computers, and got us arranged so we could all more or less see the screen.
"When I first started looking" she said, "there seemed so many games to choose from we were spoiled for choice, and I found some really interesting ones." She brought up a few titles on the screen. "But then I came up against a problem."
"What was that?" Chloe asked.
"Sex," Emily said.
"Well, couldn't you have asked Frank to wait?" Chloe replied, and we all laughed.
"No," Emily said, "It wasn't Frank. The problem was finding a game for seven women and one man. They simply don't make them, and nearly all are made for a 50/50 split of male to female. That would mean that three of us women would have to take the part of men."
"Oh! It's supposed to be fun," Jenny said. "I don't want to dress up as a boring man." Then she looked at me and added, "Sorry Harry. I didn't mean that you were boring."
But as I shrugged forgiveness, Bethany quickly said, "And I think that Isobel and I would have particular problems in trying to look like a man." She again thrust out her tits to make her point. I liked it when she did that.
"I'm not over keen," Emily said, "but I'll be a man if two others will as well. Who else will join me?"
I put up my hand which raised a snigger, but no one else did.
"Does that mean we'll have to drop the Murder Mystery and find some other theme for our party?" Chloe asked, looking around the group. I think we all felt a little deflated at that, as we'd been looking forward to it
"Hang on," Kim said. "Look at that Murder Mystery site you've got up on the computer at the moment. On the menu on the left, it's got a choice of All-Girl games. We could play one of those."
"But we can't leave Harry out," Chloe said. "That wouldn't be fair."
I was pleased that several others muttered agreement.
"Well, I wasn't thinking that," Kim said. "It's just that the first of our options is that three women play the part of men in a 50/50 split game, and we haven't got enough volunteers. The second option is that one man plays the part of a woman in an All-Girl game, for which we'd need only one volunteer." She paused and looked at me, expectantly, as did all the other girls.
Gulp!
"You want me to dress up as a woman?" I asked, feeling myself start to blush.
"Well it's really no different from a woman dressing up as a man," Kim said.
It was to me. "How would you all feel about it?" I asked.
Several of the women looked at each other, and some appeared a bit uncomfortable. Emily summarised the position, "To be honest, the idea doesn't bother me at all, but I don't think Frank would be comfortable with it. So I'll probably 'forget' to mention to him that the Murder Mystery is All-Girl."
There was a general nodding from the other women, and Chloe said, "Me too. But are you alright with the idea, Harry?"
"I'd feel a bit of a prat," I said.
"But you'd be amongst friends," Gemma said, coming into the conversation at last, but not in the way I expected. "It's not as though it would be in public. And no one's going to tell anyone else, especially their less-than-understanding husbands. Are you?" She appealed to the other girls who all concurred.
"But I wouldn't have a clue where to start," I said. "And I'd look stupid. Don't you think so, Gemma?" pleading for support
"Mmm," she said, looking me up and down, and then turning to the others. "It will be difficult, and I'm not as experienced with make up as some of you. I might need a bit of help on this."
"Isobel and I will help," Chloe said. "Actually, it might be quite fun getting him converted. We could make it part of the day and everybody could join in. Turn it into a real challenge. Come on, Harry. What do you say?"
They were all smiling at me, and egging me on.
"OK," I said, my heart leaping into my mouth. "I'll do it."
***
Over the next three weeks, I thought of little else but what I had committed to doing. Actually, although they'd had to talk me into it, it wasn't because I really objected to pretending to be a woman; it was more because I was concerned about what others would think about me. And the more I thought about becoming a woman, the more I found an excitement racing through me which made my heart pound. I'd lie awake at nights, fantasising about what I might look like.
"Are you worried about becoming a woman?" Gemma asked one night, after I'd spent an hour tossing and turning. "Only Chloe rang up today and I gave her all your measurements."
Obviously, I couldn't tell Gemma my real thoughts, but I did concede I was thinking about my conversion. "Am I going to look a complete prat?" I asked her.
"I did some research on the internet, today," she said. "Do you know, I never realised how many blokes do it. It's as if every other man is into cross-dressing, and it has little to do with homosexuality, did you know that? Most cross-dressers are heterosexuals."
"I didn't realise it was about sexuality," I said, lying through my teeth. "It's really no great thing."
"Of course not," she agreed. "It's simply a little game. You're absolutely right; it really is no great thing. Now, can we get to sleep?"
She turned over and soon went into a deep sleep, whilst I continued to fantasise.
***
The following week, Emily produced details of the game she was recommending. It was based around a hen party, the day before the wedding of one of the girls, pole-dancer Melons Delight, to the effeminate TV cook, Ivor Slakhaus (pronounced I've a slack-arse). Unfortunately, someone is found murdered just as the party is about to begin, and the girls need to find out who done it, before the police start poking their noses into events which are better kept out of the public domain.
"The reason I'm recommending it," Emily said, "is because it has a couple of character parts which I think are quite appropriate. The Reverend Debra Black," She smiled at me, "otherwise known as the Rev Deb - is wearing a shapeless, black vestment and appears plain and unattractive. But she does have a little secret."
I smiled my thanks back at Emily, although in truth, after the excitement I'd been feeling, I was disappointed that I wasn't in a rather more challenging role, maybe wearing a dress.
Emily was going on to describe a part she obviously thought suitable for Isobel. "Then there's also Melons Delight," and she started to read from her notes, "who is the not-so-beautiful, pole-dancing bride who does everything to excess, from her inch-long fingernails and the highest heels you have ever seen, right through to her over-enhanced breasts. She is wearing a mock bridal dress, which reveals more than it covers, over a tightly-laced, white corset and white, lacy stockings.' How does that sound?"
Everyone said that sounded great, although I thought it rather cruel that people clearly thought that man-hungry, ballroom dancing Isobel would make such a good pole-dancing Melons Delight.
***
A few days later, we received a letter in the post from Emily with the briefing notes for the game, as well as Gemma's character description. She was to become Iona Ferrari (get it - I own a Ferrari!) - a multi-millionaire friend of the bride, and (unknown to the bride) a lover of Ivor Slakhaus .
"I thought he was gay," I protested, to which Gemma told me to stop picking holes in everything.
There were detailed notes on the kind of clothes that Gemma should be wearing, but there was nothing for me, except a little note: "Harry, I've passed your character notes on to Chloe, who agreed to help you prepare and get the outfit ready. Emily."
I was a bit miffed at that. After all, if I was wearing a vestment, I thought I'd be able to sort that out for myself, although Gemma said that it would obviously need to have a feminine cut. I grumbled a bit, but since I wasn't over keen on spending hours and a lot of money in a clerical outfitter, I shut up.
***
"Harry, Isobel's on the phone," Gemma shouted to me out in the garden. "She wants to talk to you about your part."
"Hi Isobel," I said, coming in and picking up the phone.
"Don't worry about anything," she said. "Gemma gave me your measurements, and I've got it all sorted."
"Well I didn't think it would be that difficult," I started to say.
"Not too difficult," Isobel said, sounding exasperated. "A woman can't walk out of her house without going through dozens of difficult decisions. What should she wear? Which shoes will match? What about a belt? What bag will go with it? It's an endless task."
"Yes but," I tried to explain, "I thought that my character..."
"...will be a particular challenge," Isobel said. "I've been reading a lot on the net, and it seems you either go about this seriously and look realistic, or you will look a prat. Now, which one of those do you want to do?"
"I don't want to look a prat," I said.
"Good," Isobel said. "That's what I'm working on. Now, I've just given Gemma the timetable for the day, but I'll run through it with you as well. Emily has booked a small function room at the Crown Hotel from eleven am. It will be quite private in there, so you needn't have any worries about being seen as we get you ready. Fortunately, the function room is also used as a normal guest room, so it has its own wardrobes and en suite bathroom, which will come in really handy. I want you and Gemma to come over for eleven, and Chloe and I and a few other girls are going to get you transformed."
A shiver of anticipation ran down my spine at that thought.
"We think that will take a couple of hours to do," Isobel continued, "so the one or two remaining girls are coming over at one o'clock for us all to have lunch together. We thought we shouldn't start the Not The Cup Final Event proper until kick-off time at three, but we can all be in character over lunch and there's some prologue we have to go through, and that should be a whole load of fun.
"We start the Murder Mystery at three o'clock," she continued, "and that will probably run for two to three hours. So we should be complete by about six pm. Then we can either stay behind for drinks or go straight home. How does that sound?"
"That's fine, Isobel," I said, "and, er, thanks for helping me with this. Is there anything I need to do or bring?"
"Only two things," Isobel said. "Don't shave for at least a week beforehand. OK?"
"OK," I agreed. I knew it would be easier to get a close shave with a longer beard. "What else."
"Before you come to the event, put on a pair of tight-fitting swimming trunks. It will make getting you converted and dressed so much easier. OK?"
"Sure," I said, thinking about Chloe and Isobel getting to see me stripped down almost to the buff. I had a hard-on just at the thought!
***
As agreed, Gemma and I arrived in the function room just before eleven, and Chloe and Isobel were already there, hanging garment bags in the wardrobe. Gemma took the bag containing her outfit and hung it next to a bag which reached almost to the floor.
"Is this the wedding dress you've made," she asked Isobel.
"Yes. I'm really proud of it," Isobel said. "Take a look." She reached forward and unzipped the bag from top to bottom and a white chiffon-like dress bellowed out.
"Wow! That looks good," Gemma said, as Isobel pulled the garment bag from around the dress and held it up for inspection."
It reached right down to the floor, lacy material billowing out from the waist, with puffy, princess-style sleeves, a long train at the rear, and a veil which reached almost to the ground. "I made it from a pair of net curtains we used to have on our patio door," Isobel giggled.
"Fantastic!" Gemma said, and she turned to me. "What do you think, Harry?"
"You're incredibly skilled, Isobel," I said. "I think Melons Delight will be very lucky to wear such a lovely dress. Wow, you can see right through it," I added as Isobel held it in front of her.
"It'll be worn over the white corset," Isobel said, anxious to reassure that we wouldn't be seeing her naked body - not that I'd have minded. "With suspenders and white stockings, and..." she reached down into a carrier bag to pull out a shoe box, "I managed to get these off e-bay for seven pounds, fifty."
She opened the box to reveal a pair of white shoes which made my heart start pounding. The heels must have been at least five inches high! Were they erotic, or what?
"Shit! No one could wear those!" Chloe said.
"I bet Harry thinks they should regardless of the discomfort," Gemma said to me with a knowing look.
Hell! They must all think I was born yesterday. I was being set up. I only had to say "Yes" to that, and they'd be swapping Isobel's shoes for the ones I was due to wear.
"They do go wonderfully with the dress," I said. "See how the bow on the shoe almost matches the pattern on the material."
"Incredible," Gemma said. "Never before have you noticed that any of my clothes match each other."
"Harry's practising being a woman," Chloe said, "which is as it should be." She unfolded a large plastic sheet and spread it across the conference table. She smiled at me. "Shall we get going?"
I shrugged. "What do I do?"
"I've been longing to say this for ages, Harry," Isobel said. "Gerrem off!"
"That's everything except your trunks," Chloe said.
I gave a nervous smile and pulled off my tee shirt. Then I sat down to remove my shoes and socks. Just as I was about to stand up and move onto the next stage, Bethany, Emily and Jenny walked in.
"Hello," Bethany said, laughing at my discomfort. "I see we've just arrived at the interesting stage."
She started to Rah-Rah-Rah to the tune of The Stripper, clapping along, and the others joined in. With a grin, I played along, unzipping my trousers, then zipping them back up, then shrugging my trousers slowly over my arse.
"Come on, we haven't got all day," Chloe chastised. "Get your trousers off, then climb onto the table."
I looked at her, and then at the table. "You're joking!"
"Of course not," she said. "We had a think about the best way that several of us could work on different bits of you at the same time, and we thought this would be the best." She patted the table. "Come on. Lie flat"
I took a deep breath, pulled off my trousers and climbed up onto the table, now covered with a plastic sheet, and then settled onto my back.
"Spread out your arms," Isobel said, so I did so.
In a flash, she had grabbed my right arm and Chloe my left, and they had slipped loops of ribbon over my wrists. With the aid of the other girls, they were pulling them tightly in opposite directions so I was spread-eagled.
"What's this?" I yelled, as Chloe secured her ribbon to the table leg, and then nipped round the other side to do the same there.
"It's alright," Gemma said. "They told me about it beforehand. It's just that they think you'll be a right coward once they get going, and it will delay things too much if you keep leaping off the table."
"Well what are they going to do?" I whined.
"Waxing!" Jenny yelled, waving a pack of Nair at me.
"Trimming your eyebrows," Bethany said, waving a pair of tweezers.
"Cutting off your testicles," Emily said, holding up a pair of scissors, at which all the girls laughed.
That, I gathered, was their idea of a joke!
***
Actually, it was all quite jolly fun, once I'd got used to being the subject of total indignity. And lying flat on the table really did help all the girls to get on with their respective jobs almost independently of each other. And I had to admit that, had I not been tied across the table, they'd have had difficulty completing the waxing, as I'm sure I'd have leapt off the table; especially when Jenny waxed my face! Bloody hell, it hurt!
After about thirty minutes, Isobel, who was working somewhere around my upper thighs, said, "Gemma, I think we're about ready for you to use a wifely hand to smear the gel over his thighs and his thingy."
"Oh, OK," she said, moving down to join Isobel.
"What?" I asked. "What gel are you talking about?"
"It's OK, Harry," Gemma said. "We need to smear some stuff over your hips and bum and your dangly bits, and the girls think it will be more respectable if I do it."
"What gel is it?" I asked, concern creeping into my voice.
"I use a similar stuff all the time," Isobel said, "except that I use a more permanent type, which takes ages to remove. This stuff will wash away as soon as you take everything off tonight."
"But what's it for?" I persisted.
"It's to stop you getting all sweaty down below," she said. "If it gets really bad, you can get a rash if you don't use this stuff."
I consented, although I didn't understand why I needed special stuff.
So Gemma put on a plastic glove, then dipped her hand in a plastic tub and started smearing the green gel over my upper legs. "I think we're getting to the embarrassing part," she said after a minute. "Have you got a towel there?"
Chloe threw her a towel and Gemma draped it across my trunks, then got me to lift my hips in the air so she could remove my trunks. I'd had an erection for most of the morning, which nobody seemed to notice, and even Gemma made no comment as she used her gloved hand to smooth the gel up and down my prick, and around my balls.
Mmm, I thought, I could get used to that, except that Gemma caught sight of my face.
"Oh God! Look at you," she said. "Did anyone bring in the ice-cubes?"
The mere threat caused my prick to subside to a tiny, shrivelled willy, and Isobel suggested they were now ready to slip on the Hiplet.
"What's a Hiplet?" I asked.
"You'll soon see," Isobel replied, pulling some garment up my legs. "Gemma, can you feed his dangly bits down there, and with your other hand, grab this and pull it right up to his waist?"
The two of them struggled for a bit, and I could feel one of them - presumably Gemma - fumbling with my prick and testicles. But before I got hard again, Isobel was pulling something between my legs, something which...
"Jesus Christ!" They were crushing my genitals to pulp!
"It's alright," Isobel said. "I think it's all done. Let's work on the upper torso, now."
"What are you going to do there?" I gasped, trying not to cry with the pain in my testicles, although in honesty, the pain rapidly dwindled.
"Much the same," Isobel said, "except you don't have any dangly bits to get in the way. Gemma will spread some gel over your upper chest, shoulders and neck, then we'll pull a Bustlet over you."
I knew if I asked what a Bustlet was, they'd give me the same answer, so I kept silent whilst they got on with it. The up-side was that they had to release my arms so I could sit up as they fed this garment over my head and shoulders.
Once they'd smoothed it down, I was able to glance down at it. It was like a skin-coloured crop-top, with protruding rosy-red nipples, which all looked remarkably lifelike, if somewhat flat-chested. I knew I should not have been surprised. After all, I could hardly have big tits if I was wearing a shapeless vestment.
"Come on, you can get off the table now and we'll start getting you dressed," Chloe said.
"OK," I obliged, but as I sat up on the table, I was able to see my lower half. "Oh my God!"
I thought they'd been pulling on some kind of control brief over me. In fact, they'd turned my prick into a vagina!
"What have you done?" I garbled. Surely it would have hurt more than that if Emily really had cut off my testicles. Of course, on close inspection, I could see I was actually wearing a skin-coloured garment - a bit like a control brief, only I appeared to have a vagina between my legs. A very realistic, hairless vagina, I noted.
I swung my legs down onto the ground and walked over to the bathroom so I could stare in the mirror. OK, I may be flat-chested, I thought, but I definitely had a woman's curves.
"My hips are much wider," I said, turning around to inspect my rear, and adding, "and my bum's bigger."
"There's padding in the Hiplet to bring them out," Isobel said. "It's a special garment to turn little boys into little girls. Apparently, the vagina really will take a bloke's prick."
"I bet it wouldn't take Adam's prick," Bethany said. "You should see the size of that."
I nodded and smiled at them all. "No thanks," I said. "I'm doing this simply for a murder mystery, OK? I've no desire to see Adam's prick."
"What about Dan's?" Chloe asked. "That must be much smaller than Adam's."
"Jesus!" I said. "Do you women all discuss the size of your husband's equipment?"
"We don't discuss them at all," Gemma said.
"No but we all leer at them," Bethany said. "Gemma's always staring at Adam's trousers."
"I am not," Gemma said, obviously embarrassed, "I simply feel that he always wears nice trousers."
Not that it worried me. After all, I certainly leered at the women. In fact, as I regarded myself in the mirror, I realised I was actually leering at myself. "I really am quite shapely, now, aren't I?"
"You ain't seen nothing yet," Chloe said. "It's time to put on your corset."
"Corset! No way!"
"I thought it was a garment you thoroughly approved of," Gemma said, glad to change the subject. "You're always trying to get me to wear one."
I deliberately forced myself not to say the phrase I hate so much - That's different - even though it was so appropriate in this case. "But if I'm wearing a shapeless vestment," I reasoned, "you're not even going to notice if I'm wearing a corset."
"A vestment?" Chloe looked confused. "But it's the Rev Deb who wears a vestment. Kim's taking that role."
"Kim!" I was aghast. "That's my part."
"We never actually agreed that," Emily quickly jumped in, "although I did hint that you might have the part of Rev Deb. But I can't tell a lie. Kim made me do it."
"What?"
"She grabbed hold of me after the meeting," Emily said, "and told me that Rev Deb's part was right for her."
"You mean," Kim's voice took us all by surprise as we hadn't heard her come in. "...that Kim fell right into the trap you laid, hook, line and sinker." She had a wry smile on her face.
"I really don't know what you mean," Emily said, with such an innocent expression she was plainly guilty - but of what I couldn't tell.
Kim turned to me. "It's true I convinced Emily I should play the part of the Reverend Debra Black," she said. "And after we've completed the Murder Mystery, you'll realise why I think Emily trapped me into it. However," she shrugged, "never let it be said that I can't take a joke on myself."
Actually, I'd said exactly that about her to Gemma many times, but thought it not very diplomatic to say it now. Instead, I asked the $64,000 question. "But what part am I going to play?"
When I saw their smiles, my heart sank into my stomach. "Oh, you wouldn't. Would you? You couldn't be so mean?"
Their smiles broadened, and I realised that if Emily had tricked Kim, she had certainly taken me for a complete sucker. I knew I shouldn't have got involved in that stupid discussion about breast size, and high heels and short skirts. On the other hand, there was a sexual excitement suddenly running through me that I knew I had to conceal.
"You bastards!" I grinned at them to show that I, too, could take a joke. Inside, I thought I might explode with excitement, so I covered it by sniggering. "You absolute bastards," I said. "That wedding dress..."
"It's for you," Isobel said. "I think you'll make a wonderful bride."
"Bastards!" My snigger turned into a giggle until another thought struck me. "But what about the shoes? I could never..."
"They're for you," Isobel said. "After all, you agreed they go wonderfully well with the dress."
"Bastards!" By now, my laughter had turned into an infectious guffaw, and the others were all joining in. It was a good job my cock was well-strapped down, somewhere beneath my Hiplet. Otherwise, I'd have probably have ejaculated on the spot!
"Ladies," Chloe said. "I think it's time to open the champagne I brought in." She pulled a chiller box from the wardrobe, and withdrew a couple of bottles. "There are some glasses over there. Let's get pouring."
A minute later, she was raising her glass and making a toast, "To a great Not The Cup Final Day."
We repeated her toast and drank champagne.
"Hang on," Chloe said. "Something sounded wrong with that toast. What did I do with those tablets?" She was fumbling in her handbag, until she found a pill box. "Here," she said, withdrawing a blister pack and passing it to me, "take one of these and hold it on your tongue until it melts - then swallow."
I didn't even question it, and obligingly did as instructed. It felt as though I'd swallowed nitric acid!
"What was that?" I shrieked, my voice unnaturally high.
"Simply a voice-changer pill," Chloe said. "It's got some product in it like helium, and it raises the pitch of your voice. Now let's toast again. To a great Ladies Not The Cup Final Day."
I toasted with them, emphasising the 'Ladies' bit, and then we drank some more champagne, and then they all turned around and applauded me - even Kim!
***
"I thought you said you weren't really going to tight-lace it," I gasped, barely managing to get enough breath to push out the words.
"No," Isobel said. "We thought with it being the first time in a corset, we'd just do a gentle tighten. Just to give you a nice waistline."
"A gentle tighten! You're crushing my rib cage. I can't breathe," I groaned.
"Of course you can breathe," Chloe said. "You're speaking to us. You'd be dead if you weren't breathing."
With those comforting words, they both paused their heartless tightening of the corset laces, and stepped back for a minute to observe my figure.
"What do you think, Isobel?" Chloe asked.
"I think it could go quite a lot tighter," she said.
"No! No! No!" I squawked. "You can't."
"Of course we can," Chloe said with a grin, then relented. "But we won't. That's more than tight enough. Corsets aren't meant to be punishment. We only did it to see how much you'd complain, and you were really quite good. Let it out, Isobel."
Between them, they allowed the corset to slacken to the point where it almost felt comfortable. After they'd tied off the laces, I looked at myself in the mirror, turning right and left and felt rather proud of my new waistline.
"It will look all the better when we get proper boobs on you," Isobel said.
"Proper boobs?" I said. "But I already have these..." I gesticulated at my prominent nipples. I presumed the corset was Isobel's or Chloe's, as the built-in bra cups were made for much larger breasts, and were flapping uselessly around my miniscule ones.
"Melons's breasts have been enhanced to excess," Isobel said. "Why do you think she's nicknamed Melons, so they have to be far, far bigger than mine." She pushed out her breasts in that wonderful way, to demonstrate what I had to beat. It was an erotic thought.
I pointed down at my relatively flat-chest. "But how?" I asked.
"We inflate them," Isobel said. And as I looked blank, she added, "With water. That gives them a really nice, realistic wobble."
They led me to the bathroom, and Isobel produced a length of clear plastic piping, with a T piece towards the end with two sections coming off the single pipe.
"If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill you," Isobel said, although I couldn't work out why at the time.
She pushed the two ends of pipe over the tips of my nipples, and then connected the far end to the cold tap.
"Fill 'em up," Chloe said, and Isobel turned on the tap, and my nipples started to inflate. They went from being slight mounds to bigger mounds, then to breasts the size of apples - about the same as Gemma, I guessed.
But as they continued to inflate, they became the size of small grapefruits - well, quite large grapefruits, actually. Well, no, more the size of small melons - that is large melons.
As they grew, Chloe did a bit of fiddling with the bra cups, pulling them around my boobs so they properly fitted. Finally, Isobel stopped. "Do you think they're over-enhanced?" she asked.
I ogled them. Every time I moved, they wobbled like jellies on a plate, and I moved quite often because I found it difficult to keep my balance with the extra weight at the front. In spite of the support given by bra cups on the corset, it was like having the weight of a bar bell stuck to your chest. Already, the weight was starting to make my shoulders ache.
"To perfection," Chloe said. "Just like Melons would have them."
"You're teasing me like you did with the corset," I said, a wry smile on my face. "You're going to let them down a bit to a reasonable size, aren't you?"
"I seem to recall," Kim joined in the conversation, "that it was you who suggested that the bigger the breasts the sexier they were. Melons wants to be sexy and she does everything to excess. QED."
The problem was, she was right. Once I'd conceded that I was Melons and not Debra, my case was lost.
***
Fortunately, Isobel gave me some advice me on the best way to stand whilst sporting a huge pair of tits, which really helped.
"How come you're such an expert on this?" I asked her. "After all, my breasts are a hell of a lot larger than yours."
"Oh, boasting now, are you?" she said with a grin. "Actually, I tried them at this kind of size a few times just to see what they were like, but I quickly realised they were way over the top. You only get the jerks chasing after you with tits like this."
"So you've worn these before?" I asked.
"Sure," she said. "I wore this pair for a few months, but after I'd lost the enthusiasm for having massive jugs, I decided to get a fixed-size pair. It takes all the guesswork out of it, you see." She thrust out her tits again.
"You mean," I goggled, "you're wearing a Bustlet, just like me? Your tits are false?"
"Come on, Harry," she said with a smile. "You've always suspected my tits are false. It's simply that you never realised quite how false they were."
"You can say that again," I said, adding as the practicalities struck me, "But when you meet that perfect guy, and you start to get friendly, isn't it a bit of a let down when he starts, well, er..."
"Fondling my tits?" Isobel suggested.
"Precisely," I said. "When he starts fondling your tits, isn't it a bit of a let down?"
"Not really," she said. "Look, can you really keep a secret, Harry?"
I nodded. "Of course."
"Well," Isobel said, "the skin of our Bustlets and your Hiplet - especially the vagina - are touch-sensitive - a bit like a computer screen, and the signals are then applied to electrodes on your skin. That means you can actually feel someone fondling your tits."
I rubbed my finger across the top of my rounded breast. "Well I can't," I said.
"That's because the sensitivity is adjustable," she said. "Yours is on the lowest setting, because I didn't really want you asking questions, but being as you have, I'll demonstrate." She picked up her handbag from one of the wardrobes and pulled out a small, black remote-control - the kind you have for CD players.
"OK, now you feel nothing," she pointed the remote at me and prepared to push a button, "and now your tits come alive."
As she pressed the button, my tits really did burst into life. They were no longer simply wobbling footballs attached to my chest - they were wobbling breasts which were part of my chest.
"Oh my God!" I shouted, startling Kim, who jumped like a Jack-in-the-box.
"Don't do that, you prats," she said crossly. "You scared the shit out of me."
I'd never before known Kim to be jumpy like that, so we both apologised, and Isobel turned the sensitivity back down to zero.
"I'll probably sneak it up again later on," Isobel whispered to me. "So don't get complacent about your lifeless tits."
***
Bethany worked in a local beauty parlour, so it was she who applied my make-up and did my nails. I did suggest to her that there was really no need to do the nails to excess, but she disagreed.
"You have to be realistic, Melons," she said. "There's no point in half-doing a performance.
I might have argued with her more, were it not that: a) I knew I wasn't going to win; and b) My attention was distracted by Isobel getting changed into her costume, as she now seemed to regard me as one of the girls. OK, she didn't strip naked in front of me, but she was certainly down to bra and panties, and that was not a sight to be ignored!
Pretty soon, all the other girls apart from Kim, who had come already attired in her vestment, started doing the same. Obviously, I was used to Gemma, but when you have seven women all strip down to their underwear, I can tell you, it's a bloody great turn on. So much so that I didn't monitor exactly what Bethany had been doing to my nails after she'd finished making-up my face.
"Melons, it's time to get you dressed," Chloe said, and added, "Oh, nice nails."
I glanced down at my right hand which Bethany had finished some time ago and gaped. On the end of each finger were crimson red, inch-long talons. I held the hand before my eyes. My God they were erotic, and when I glanced at my other hand, Bethany was just finishing the same fantastic work of art.
"Blimey!" I said. "Out of this world" A sudden thought hit me. "Hang on. Gemma says it's incredibly difficult to use your fingers when she has longish fingernails. And these aren't longish," I experimentally flexed my fingers, "it's like having ten lances stuck to my fingers. Look, I won't be able to do anything with these. You are going to cut them down to size, Bethany, aren't you?"
She and Chloe both shook their heads. "Uh-uh," Chloe said. "It's part of Melons' character - everything to excess, especially the finger nails. Sorry. Obviously, we'll have to help you get dressed. First of all, your clothes. Stockings first." She held up a white, lacy stocking and then pulled over a chair so she could sit in front of me.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" I said to her.
"It's a bit like going back to the days when I had a dolly," she said, as she pulled the stocking over my toes and up my leg, fastening it to the front suspender on my corset. She smiled, "Great fun."
She repeated the operation on my other leg.
"Stand up, then we can fasten the rear suspenders."
Although I'd always admired the female leg, I had never realised my own were so sexy. Without their normal covering of hair, they looked as though they belonged to someone else.
"Wait until we put your shoes on," Isobel said, coming over and looking me up and down. "I think you'll probably get a Narcissus complex, you'll look so good."
Ridiculous thing to say, I told myself, smirking with self-satisfaction. I sat down again so they could put my feet into those outrageously heeled shoes, and then fasten them. But the heels were so high, my feet were contorted downwards in a really painful position.
"My feet are at a stupid angle," I said. "I'm never going to be able to stand in these. You'll have to find some others."
"I thought you said the higher the heel, the better," Kim chipped in.
"Yes but..."
"Yes but nothing," she said. "You've made your bed. Now's the time when you have to lie on it."
"Try standing up," Isobel said. "It will feel easier when you do that."
Her and Chloe stood before me and offered their hands to help me rise. They virtually had to pull me to my feet, and then I stood tottering before them.
"It's no good," I said. "I'll never succeed with these. Can you take them off, please?"
"I think the dress can go on now," Isobel said to Chloe, as though I hadn't spoken. "Then Melons can practice walking around in her new outfit. I'm hoping I have the length of the dress just right so she won't trip over the hem."
"Er, hello?" I said. "Did you not hear me? I can't walk in these heels."
"Never mind," Kim said. "That's a cross we women have to bear if they want to look really sexy for their men. Fortunately," she grinned as she stamped her clerical flat-heeled, black shoe, "members of the clergy do not have to worry about such stupid ideas."
***
After they had pulled the dress over my head and belted it in around my waist, they slipped a pink and green wig on my head, followed by the veil.
"There," Chloe said, proudly standing back admiringly, "doesn't she look good?"
There were calls of "Wow!" "Fantastic!" and "Out of this world!" from the rest of the girls, and Kim said, "I think Melons is the epitome of what every man wants."
"If you mean that every man would want to fuck her," Bethany said, "you're absolutely right. I think I might get one of those Bustlets."
Gemma held my hand as I tottered over to the mirror. "But I can't walk," I moaned.
Isobel looked at her watch. "Well you have half an hour before it's time to go to lunch," she said. "Plenty of time to practice walking in those heels."
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I said you had plenty of time..." Isobel began.
"No. No. I meant about going to lunch," I said.
"I told you," Isobel said. "Emily booked lunch at one o'clock. It's now twelve-thirty so you have thirty minutes before we go the restaurant."
"But surely, we're having lunch in here," I said. "We can't go to the restaurant."
"I'm afraid this function room is booked over lunch," Emily said. "We have to go to the restaurant."
"But there'll be... people there," I said. "They'll see me."
"So what?" Isobel said. "With those breasts pushing out of your corset, clearly visible through your dress, no one is going to imagine you're a man. We've fixed your voice as well. OK, you may be tall for a woman, but there are a few tall women around so no one is going to suspect."
"But even if they don't realise I'm a man," I said, "they'll think I'm a sex-crazy bimbo."
"Ah-ah," Kim said. "I think Melons has got the point, at last."
***
I had, too. I had been well and truly set up by at least a few of the girls, and I was highly suspicious that all of them, including my loyal and faithful Gemma, were all in on it. I should have been furious with them, especially Gemma.
I fact, I was still floating on air. I looked exactly like the character I was playing: my semi-transparent bridal dress over my corset and stockings certainly did reveal more than they covered. Fortunately, the girls had put a minute pair of panties on me, to just about cover my hairless pussy. So when they had told me I had to go in the public restaurant for lunch, obviously I had to protest, but the excitement almost gave me another orgasm! I was in heaven!
I spent the next half-hour walking around and around the conference table. Both Bethany and Isobel were masters with high-heels, and they gave me lots of useful advice. Fortunately, Isobel had got the length of the dress just right so the toes just peeked out the bottom, and the dress swirled around in a most delightful way. And of course, you could see my fantastic high-heels through the dress.
So when lunch time came, I was relatively steady on my heels - a fact which several of the other girls marvelled about. The tallest heels they'd ever had were a measly three inches!
***
"Melons, it really is time to go to lunch." Chloe and Gemma had waited for me as, with a sudden fit of nerves, I had gone to the toilet - and yes I really had to wee sitting down. But I'd finished my toilet five minutes ago, and still I sat there.
"I'm terrified to go out there," I said.
"They want to come in and set up this room for the other party," Gemma said, poking her head around the toilet door. "I know it's a big step, but we really have to go out to the restaurant. I'm certain no one will realise you're a..."
"Don't say it," I said, "because I'm trying to convince myself about what I am." I took a huge breath, and added, "OK, let's get it over with."
In spite of my practice, I stumbled a bit as I stood up and walked forward, and Chloe and Gemma caught me and got me walking in stride with them. As we reached the entrance to the restaurant, they both stepped to one side and allowed me to enter first.
"Oh, look! It's the bride," a woman at the table next to the door said, pointing at me.
I grinned at her! Can you believe it? I actually grinned.
"Isn't she pretty," a little girl said.
"Phwoar! Look at those knockers," a bloke on my right said, which I determinedly ignored.
But the rest of the diners in the restaurant started applauding me! I let myself be overwhelmed by it all, just like the less-than-innocent bride I was. I gave a silly, little smile and wended my way to the table at the end where I could see the rest of my hen party gathered.
"This is Fernando," Emily said, pointing at a young waiter who obviously fancied himself. "He is going to be our personal waiter today."
"Ah! The beau-ti-ful bride," he cried, pulling out a chair at the head of the table. "Please seet down." As I did so, he pulled the serviette from the side plate and with a flick unfolded it and laid it across my lap. Before I knew what he was doing, he added, "And now, a keess for the bride."
I had barely started to say, "Er, no..." when he gave a sudden sideways tug on my sleeve and I was falling skew-whiff. The problem was, with the sheer weight of my tits, combined with my total inexperience with them, I was basically unstable.
But Fernando was ready, and he expertly caught me in his arms. "Ah," he said, "my be-uuu-ti-ful virgin bride," and his mouth was closing on mine with a speed I could nothing about.
"Ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!" the girls chanted, whilst his tongue explored halfway down my throat.
I should have smacked him one, but firstly, he was only doing what came naturally; secondly, my arms were flapping uselessly behind his back, and all I could really do with them was to hang on to him tightly; thirdly, Isobel had plainly turned up the sensitivity on my breasts to maximum. I could feel Fernando rubbing his thumb over my left nipple and it was driving me wild. So, overall - and I have trouble saying this - I was enjoying it like crazy!
After what felt like ten minutes - and was probably ten seconds - he brought me back to the upright position. "My be-uuu-ti-ful virgin bride," he said, "I 'ave just 'ad the most wonderful keess in the world. I shall never again clean my teeth..." (I saw Chloe mouth at Gemma, "I bet he would if he knew the truth") "...I am in love, and I will keel your man, before I let him marry you."
"Get on with it," I smirked, wondering whether my lipstick was smeared. It was fun being a woman.
***
"Melons?" Bethany was the first to speak as we commenced the Prologue of the Murder Mystery, turning to me with her usual air of innocent naivety. (We'd all been given character names for it, but with one or two exceptions, they weren't important, so I'll continue using their real names, otherwise we'll all get confused.)
"Is Ivor Slack-arse really a raging poofta, as they make out on TV?" she asked.
"No, he is not," I rather angrily responded, as my character notes had instructed me. I gave an irate flick of my head, then shuddered as my breasts moved in sympathy. After Fernando's kiss had ended, Isobel had not turned down the sensitivity of the Bustlet, and every wobble of my breasts sent shivers of sexual anticipation through me.
I tried to surpress such thoughts as I continued. "I can tell you he is 100% heterosexual, pure, lunging, thrusting, perpetually-hard-cock male. We meet up most afternoons, after he's returned from his location shooting, and before I go off to whatever club I'm working, and he shags..." I was about to say, 'the arse off me,' but in view of the public image of Ivor, I thought that was a term I had better avoid, "...me for about three hours solid - nonstop."
"Oh," Bethany said. "Does that mean you haven't actually slept with him?"
Since that was a subject the notes had instructed me to discuss, I was glad that she had raised it. But did I notice a certain tension around the table? Had Bethany, as usual, put her foot in it?
"Well I don't normally sleep with Ivor," I said, emphasising the sleep word. Did everybody relax slightly when I said that? "But yesterday, we moved into this wonderful new house." I gesticulated around the restaurant as though we were really there. "So we spent our first night here, together."
There was definitely an air of tension now. I continued, trying hard not to grin at my ham acting. "I hadn't realised until last night that Ivor talked so much in his sleep." I let my voice go flat. "It's amazing what he comes out with."
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife, now. "He said something about one of you," I added.
"One of us?" Emily said, with a tight little smile. "Which one?"
"Actually," I said, "I felt rather betrayed when he said that he and my friend had had sex together. However, I am prepared to forgive them if they come clean with me now, and apologise." I lowered my head so I was staring at the table rather than at any one of them. "So would you like to do that, please?"
"You haven't said who it was," Gemma said.
"No," I said. "I haven't. I'd like the guilty person to confess without me directly challenging them. I'm sure the other girls won't mind."
There was a long silence, eventually broken by Bethany who said, "I'm sorry Melons, it was me. I had sex with Ivor. I thought that asking whether he was gay would establish I didn't know he was built like a stallion." Then she added, "But I wasn't the only one. You're right, Ivor does talk in his sleep, and there are two others here who he also had sex with. So I think they ought to confess as well."
If there was murder to be done, I thought, Bethany was lining herself up for it, but I said, "Thanks for being honest with me, Bethany. Now are the others also going to be honest?"
After a few seconds of dagger-like looks from several of the girls, Gemma said, "Sorry Melons. I shagged him as well. Apart from saying sorry, I can only say you're a very lucky woman to be marrying him. He really is a bull of a man."
"Thank you Gemma," I said, and added, "I'm still waiting."
Chloe and Emily started speaking together, "Sorry Melons..." then they both stopped as they realised only one need have spoken.
"OK," I said. "Let's make this slightly easier. Will you raise your hand if you haven't had sex with Ivor in the last month."
Isobel, Jenny and the Rev Deb all raised their hands. I stared at them, then back down at the table. "The woman who Ivor talked about in his sleep last night has not yet confessed. I've already said, I can put up with disloyalty from my friends, but I'm really getting pissed off at your dishonesty. Now, will you keep your hand raised if, and only if, you haven't had sex with Ivor in the last month."
I waited a second before looking up. Only the Rev Deb had her hand still raised. I looked at her and shook my head. "I'm afraid it was you who Ivor spoke about in his sleep yesterday. He said you'd been a fantastic lay," I said, "and he didn't mean a lay preacher."
"Wowy!" Bethany said. "The so-called poofta Ivor Slackarse even shagged the vicar."
"I'm sorry Melons," the Rev Deb said to me. She wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. "After we'd had the wedding rehearsal, do you remember he said there was something confidential he wanted to discuss with me? We both stayed behind after you left, and he knew me - in the biblical sense - over the alter. I accept it was totally wrong, and it only happened once, but I confess it did happen and I beg your forgiveness."
"I'm only sorry it took you, of all people, so long to be honest," I said.
"You filthy whore!"
We all turned in surprise. The elderly male diner at the next table who'd been ogling me all the way through the meal was now standing up and striding over towards Debra. "I knew it was a mistake to allow females into the clergy. I knew things like this would happen."
The Rev Deb looked completely nonplussed by this. It was strange, I thought, how playing a part affects your character. As Kim, she'd probably have fed this guy through the shredder, but as it was, she was looking extremely ill at ease, crossing and uncrossing her legs. I decided this was a case that Melons would have a view upon.
"Of course," I was surprised as anyone that I could respond so rapidly. "Male clergy never had sex with parishioners or with their choir boys, did they?"
He goggled a bit then came back with, "That's different."
"Only because you're a sexist pig," I said.
The other girls all applauded me! Did I feel chuffed?
***
We reconvened in the function room and were all waiting as Emily watched the clock tick to three pm.
"OK," she said, "Let the Murder Mystery Proper formally begin. Here are the second round of character notes for you to peruse in a minute, but first I have to tell you that Ivor Slakhaus was found murdered in this house only ten minutes ago. I have checked that the whole house is locked and alarmed, so no one could have got in or out. We have to assume that he was murdered by one of us. The police will arrive in a few minutes, but they advised me over the telephone that we should all stay in this room and keep in sight of one another, and that we shouldn't talk to each other about what has happened.
"Personally," she continued, "I would rather not have everything we talked about over lunch broadcast throughout the gutter press. Therefore, I would like the murderer to confess their guilt, so the rest of us need not be investigated too thoroughly."
She paused and waited for a response - and waited - and waited.
"I don't think anyone's going to confess," I said.
"Oh come on, Melons," Bethany said. "We all know it must be you because Ivor Slackarse was being dreadfully unfaithful to you. Why don't you just confess?"
"I'm not going to confess because I didn't do it," I said.
"In that case," Emily said, "I feel we need to investigate the murder ourselves, and deduce who is guilty. If we can solve this case whilst the police are still getting their Scene of Crime people sorted, they won't need to investigate the rest of us. So Melons, why don't you tell us what you were doing between finishing lunch and being called to see Ivor's body?"
I reached for my character notes to find out what Melons had been doing.
"Firstly, I went to the toilet," I said, reading from the notes, "where I met..."
***
"I think everyone has ignored the first law of detective fiction," Gemma said, several hours later. "That is: the most obvious suspect is never guilty."
In this final phase, Gemma was the fifth person to give their opinion of who the murderer was. As organiser, Emily had abstained - she said she had an unfair advantage - and so far, everyone else had chosen Melons (ie me).
"Consequently," Gemma continued, "Melons cannot be the murderer." She gave me a smile, which I returned. It was good having a wife who took your side.
"The second law of detective fiction," she continued, "stipulates that the most unlikely person is really the murderer, so using that rule of logic, I pronounce the murderer is the Reverend Debra Black."
Debra gave a little wriggle of appreciation, whilst I considered what Gemma had suggested. It was certainly true that the Rev Deb appeared to be the least unlikely murderer amongst us, but on the other hand, she too, would not have wanted her brief 'knowledge' of Ivor over the alter to become public information. As yet, I had to voice my opinion, and to be honest I hadn't a clue. There were only Chloe and I left to give our verdicts, and as she looked at me prior to speaking, I thought it was probably a good job this was not a real jury, and they no longer executed murderers in Britain.
"I think Gemma has forgotten," Chloe said, the penultimate person to take up the baton, "that in detective fiction the most likely person is allowed to be the murderer, if their guilt is so plainly obvious that people start thinking exactly as Gemma has done - that the most obvious person cannot be guilty - in other words a double bluff." She gave another smile. "Now, let me just review the evidence which brings me to the conclusion I have..." and she started to repeat much of the stuff which others had talked about over the last ten minutes.
As she droned on, for once I appreciated how much she liked the sound of her own voice, for it gave me time to think. I had to find a better solution than what had been given so far. Then, it hit me.
"...and so," Chloe was coming to an end of her monologue as I was collecting together my thoughts, "I pronounce Melons as the murderer."
"Well, Melons," Emily said, "is it worth you trying to pass the buck onto someone else, or do you want to confess straightaway?"
"I'm always in favour of passing the buck," I said with a grin. "In this case, I, of course, have an absolute advantage over you all. I know that I didn't do it."
There was a mutter of disbelief, but I held up the inch-long talons on my right hand to suppress it. "Gemma was right of course," I started my denouement, "that in detective fiction the most innocent person is always supposed to be the murderer, but that set me thinking. If the Rev Deb had committed murder, why would she have done it?"
I glanced around in my best Poirot-like manner. "To hide the fact that she, like everyone else, had been seduced by my fiance?" I asked rhetorically. "She wasn't married and it's hardly likely to be a sackable offence in an organisation which is based upon forgiving our sins. In fact, looking at it absolutely objectively, murdering Ivor will put the shameful way you all behaved onto the front page of every newspaper in the country.
"Consequently," I continued, "the reason for murdering Ivor cannot have been to cover up what we girls know already. It must have been to hide something that only Ivor knew. But what could that be. We are now all well aware that Ivor uttered indiscretions in his sleep, and since most of you have slept with him far more than I, it stands to reason that at least one of you should probably also be aware of what Ivor was keeping secret.
"Except," I said, "that apart from the murderer, no one appears to know any further secrets. But just suppose that it was the Rev Deb who has the additional secret. I was the only person to sleep with Ivor after he had it away with her. Unfortunately, I was so surprised at his initial disclosure that I woke him up and gave him hell. Perhaps, if had let him sleep on, I would have heard him say something else about Debra - the secret for which she murdered."
"You've heard me confess my only secret," the Rev Deb said. "There is nothing else to confess."
"Really?" I said. "But that brings me on to something that Kim said before the hen party started - that she had been trapped into playing your role. What's so bad about this part that she should feel she was trapped into it? That you, like everyone else, had sex with Ivor? I don't think so."
Another pause as I looked around. "There is one other piece of evidence that clearly none of you have noticed. The quality of Kim's acting of the Rev Deb. It's so good, you haven't even realised she is acting."
They all looked a bit dumfounded by that, but Debra shifted uncomfortably again.
"There you are," I said. "What is it that keeps causing Debra to wriggle about? What is it that Kim would hate above all else?"
"I'm waiting to hear," the Rev Deb said. "There is nothing."
"The one thing that Kim would hate, and the Rev Deb simply could not afford to be made public," I said, building to fanfare, "was that the Reverend Debra Black was really..." another pause for effect, "a transvestite!" I declared.
"Oh go on," someone said; another, "Don't be ridiculous."
"When Ivor had Debra over the alter," I continued, "it was because he was having anal intercourse with her, as she doesn't have a vagina."
"That's a fantastic accusation," Emily said, then added, "Debra, would you like to disprove it?"
"I certainly would," Debra said, standing up, reaching to the buttons on the top of her vestment and releasing them, so her vestment dropped towards the floor. "Unfortunately, I'm unable to do so." She spread her arms to reveal a hairy chest over impressive pectorals; further down, a thick penis hung down halfway to the knees, topped by testicles the size of plums.
"'ave you 'eard?" Fernando said, taking us all by surprise as he came through the door with his tray, holding glasses of champagne. "Portsmouth 'as won the Cup Final! Champagne all roun..." As his mouth fell open at the site of the Rev Deb, he dropped the tray onto the floor with a tremendous crash.
"We did ask you to knock before entering," Emily said.
***
"I just never realised that Kim was really a man," Bethany said, in a voice so loud that several other people in the bar turned around to look at her.
"Well it's the Rev Deb who was a man," Emily said. "Kim was playing the part."
Apart from Kim, who'd gone to the toilet, we had all adjourned to the hotel bar, still in our characters. Can you believe it? There were at least four blokes who were ogling me more than some of the really attractive women surrounding me.
"Yes but," Bethany was not deterred, "we all saw it. The pecs and that huge dongle. Blimey, I wouldn't mind that inside me, but don't tell Adam."
The people who had been looking at her turned back to their own groups in embarrassment. However, I suspected they were all still tuned into our conversation.
"Why don't we move over to that corner unit," Emily said. "It will be more private there."
We did as she suggested, and were just getting seated when a bloke came up and tried to sit down with us.
"Sorry," I said. "This table's taken."
"I thought a sexy bride-chick like you wouldn't mind a bit of male company," he said, slipping a hand onto my upper thigh.
I was just about to put one on him when Gemma said, "Stop it Kim. Melons hasn't realised who you are."
I gulped and stared at the intruder. "Kim?"
"Did I surprise you?" she asked. "Having got this male conversion thing on, I thought I'd stay in it all evening, but since I didn't want to stand out as a vicar, I brought some of my brother's clothes."
We all looked at her.
"How did you do it?" Emily eventually asked the question we'd all been nervous of putting.
"Isobel gave me the name of the company where she gets her tits from, and where she bought the Hiplet," she said. "They also make this Torsolet, for transforming females to males. It's pretty realistic, don't you think?"
"You mean," Bethany said, "that you're not really a man at all?"
Everybody else tried not to giggle, but Kim answered it straight. "Sorry to disappoint you," she said. "The answer is no, I'm really a woman, so I'm truly not interested in having sex with you."
The rest of us laughed good-naturedly, but Bethany looked quite disappointed that she wasn't going to have Kim's huge cock, after all.
"I don't know how the rest of you girls feel," Emily said, "but why don't we order some bar food, and follow it with a few more drinks? We can tell our blokes to meet us here when they get off the coach from Wembley, then we can all share taxis back to our houses."
It all sounded a highly acceptable arrangement, except... My heart gave a sudden lurch. "Hang on! We can't have the guys seeing me dressed like this."
"I don't think the guys will get as far as looking at your face," Emily said. "We can introduce you as Harry's twin sister, say er..."
"Harriet," Gemma suggested. "Harriet, who Harry asked to stand in for him, after he decided he didn't want to play a game with a load of women."
"But what happens if they talk with me?" I asked.
"Of course they'll talk with you," Chloe said. "You've got huge knockers, heels the height of the Eiffel tower, and are wearing a see-through wedding dress. Who do you think they're going to talk to?"
"Perhaps you could talk football with them," Gemma said.
Traitors! The lot of them.
***
I couldn't believe they didn't recognise me!
Well, I guess if they'd looked at my face without first clocking the huge tits (in itself an impossible feat), they might have wondered. But Emily was exactly right. If they did see any resemblance between Harriet and Harry, it was all explained away by us being twins. Fortunately, none of them appeared to realise that different sex twins cannot be identical!
"I'm surprised Harry hasn't introduced us to you before," Adam was saying.
I gave a downwards glance at him. Surely his cock wasn't as big as Bethany had been making out. Certainly nothing like the size of Kim's false prick. So how could Bethany even consider having Kim's cock inside her? I shook my head.
"It's alright," Adam said. "I won't object to you leering at the front of my trousers if you don't object to my looking down the front of your dress." To my incredible embarrassment, he proceeded to do so.
"Would you like another drink, Harriet?" Dan asked me, reaching across to get my glass and accidentally brushing against my breast. I pretended not to notice, but since that was at least the tenth time one of the guys had nudged against my boobs or my thighs, they must have imagined I didn't mind.
Didn't mind! Every touch virtually gave me a orgasm. All the same, I was glad of the protection of the other women. I'd hate to be on my own with these three guys. I reckoned they'd have my panties off me in thirty seconds, and I certainly didn't want to go down that route. The thought was obnoxious.
"I've ordered taxis for us," Frank came back from outside, "but seeing as Portsmouth won the fucking FA Cup Final, and everybody is out celebrating, it's probably going to take hours to get them over here."
So we continued to drink and be merry. It really was great fun being wined at the expense of the three blokes, who were certainly in a more-than-generous mood, following their Cup Final win, so when a barman came over an hour later to announce the taxis were here, I was not only highly inebriated, I was just a little reluctant to depart. I stayed for a little longer, insisting on finishing my almost-full glass of wine. Fool that I was!
By the time I got outside, the first taxi had departed with Isobel, Jenny and Kim inside, and the second, with Bethany, Chloe, Emily and Gemma was just about to leave. That left Adam, Dan, Frank, and me to share the final taxi. It was a stupid arrangement, because two of the couples, Adam and Bethany, Emily and Frank, lived miles away from us other two.
I was barely in the car for ten seconds before I found hands reaching up to squeeze of my tits, and gliding up the inside of my thighs.
"Hold on a minute, guys," I said.
"That's what we're doing," Dan said, "except we're planning on holding on for rather longer than a minute."
"But that's..." My words were submerged as Adam placed his lips on mine and kissed me. By rights, I should have been horrified, pushed him away, and then socked him one on the nose. But I'd already thoroughly enjoyed kissing with Fernando, and actually, Adam was a much better kisser. Also, as he moved towards me, it gave me a chance to feel what felt like a rolling pin down the front of his trousers!
***
All the same, I was mighty relieved by the time we arrived at my house, and glad that they had agreed to drop me off first, rather than going to Dan's. They'd had fingers all over my body, tongues right down my throat and my hands had been pushed against trousers covering rock-hard cocks. Sure I was on an incredible sexual high, but I really did not want to let it go any further.
"Let me ring the doorbell for you, Harriet," Dan said, climbing out of the taxi first.
"Thanks, Dan," I said, following him out onto the pavement. "And thanks guys for the journey."
"We're glad you enjoyed it," Frank said with a big grin, then added, nodding towards the house, "Gemma should have got back before us, but there's no sign of a light on in the house."
He was right. Our taxi had not taken the most direct route - I suspected the guys had told the driver to take his time whilst they touched me up - so Gemma should have been here ten minutes ago. She didn't come to the door in response to Dan ringing. He knocked again, very loudly, still with no response.
It doesn't look like she's back, yet," Dan said. "Have you got a key?"
I shook my head. Gemma had my keys along with all my clothes. I had nothing. "I expect she's just got delayed," Dan said, and he bent his head down so he could speak to the taxi driver.
After a minute, he turned round to me and said, "The driver's been on the radio. The other taxi has broken down, and they haven't been able to get anyone else to pick them up. Look, I only live around the corner. Why don't we all go round there, then we can send our taxi back to pick up Gemma and the rest of the girls?"
It sounded a sensible solution, except I knew that, if a girl on her own didn't want to be gang-banged by three rampant blokes, it was about the most senseless thing she could do.
"Come on, Harriet," Frank had taken my hand and was pulling me back inside the taxi. "You can hardly wait out on the street for her to return. It's simply not safe for a girl on her own to be waiting around, when so many blokes are pissed out of their minds and on an Cup Final high."
The problem was, he was right. It wasn't safe on the streets. A car came roaring past, Portsmouth scarves hanging out of the window, and blasting its horn at me.
"Hi, everybody." We turned. It was Kim.
"Hello Kim," I said, never before so pleased to see her. "We were just trying to decide what to do. You see, Gemma's taxi..."
"...has broken down," she continued. "I know. She phoned me on her mobile and asked me to pop round and make certain you were alright."
"We were going to make certain she was alright," Dan said.
"Of course you were, guys," she said. "But now, you don't have to worry about Harriet. I only live round the corner, so we can go there. You can all go off to Dan's, then send the taxi back for the girls. OK? Harriet" She gave me an angelic look.
"OK with me," I said, and added, "Thanks guys for looking after me." I gave them a sweet smile, which they grumpily returned.
"See you guys," I said, linking my arms with Kim and we walked off.
***
"Thanks Kim," I said. "I was shitting myself back there."
We had reached her flat, only a few minutes' walk away from my house.
"It was our fault really," she said, having the grace to blush. "We girls all thought it would be a complete gas if we manoeuvred it so you were on your own with the guys. But getting fumbled in the back of a car is different from getting semi-raped in Dan's house."
"Well you weren't to know Gemma's car would breakdown," I said magnanimously.
"It's strange that it did though, isn't it?" she said. "Tell me, can you do anything to a car with sugar? Only I saw Frank getting a cup of it from the kitchen."
"The bastards," I said. "It's an old trick. Put sugar into a car fuel tank and the engine will cease up within about half a mile."
"I agree about most men being bastards," Kim said, "except, of course, when I'm being a man. In the meantime, it's likely to take at least half an hour for the taxi to drive back to the breakdown and bring Gemma back to your house. I told her to ring me as soon as she arrived at the house, and I'd walk round there with you. Which means, we have ages to kill. So, what's a guy with a girl's parts, and a girl with a boy's parts to do for all that time?"
My mouth dropped open. "You mean... you and I..."
Kim smiled. "You know that the same firm made my equipment, yours, and Isobel's, which means the same remote works for all. When Isobel twiddled about with her remote control this morning, my false cock went into an instant erection. It's made so that, as it does so, it arouses my most sensitive of spots. That's why I shouted at you and Isobel.
"After she sneaked the sensitivity up when Fernando was kissing you," she continued, "I've been getting incredible hard-ons every few minutes. You said I was a great actor during the Mystery Murder. It wasn't that at all. It was simply that I was trying to wriggle around to make my cock more comfortable. However, I think now is the time for a bit of joint relief, don't you?"
"Well, yes, of course I do," I said, adding as I justified a little infidelity, "After all, it's hardly as though I'm going to be sticking my penis inside you, is it? Quite the reverse."
"That's just what I thought," Kim said. "You've probably guessed that I always like to be the dominant one in any relationship - not S & M, you understand - I simply like to be in control. Most blokes are simply not happy with that. I can see the way you and the other guys at ABC look at me when I start bossing you all around. However, now I'm the man, and you're the little woman..."
"Well, I'm not so certain..." I started, but my words were abruptly cut off by Kim grabbing me and kissing me hard. His tongue (his tongue?) was down my throat in seconds, and I was gasping for air.
The advantage of doing it this way," he said as we parted for breath after half a minute, "is that I know exactly what it takes to pleasure a woman." He had pushed me back so I was lying along the settee, one foot still on the floor, whilst the other had somehow got pushed up onto the backrest.
"For example," he said, running his fingers along my leg beneath my dress, "simply touching you here."
My vagina suddenly exploded in pleasure. "Oh my God!" I screamed.
"Was that really nice?" he asked. "Would you like me to kiss you there?"
"Oh please, please," I gasped.
He had the most exquisite tongue. Within thirty seconds, he'd brought me almost to orgasm, and he kept me there for minute after squirming minute.
"I think it's my turn now," he said. "Is that alright?"
"Oh God! Yes!" I said. "Fuck me, fuck me hard!"
It was only an expression, you understand. I was simply joining in with the spirit of our sexual game. I wasn't quite prepared for how hard he was going to fuck me. He firmly grabbed hold of the ankle that was resting along the back of the settee, and lifted it and forced it back over my head, moving along with it so he was on top of me, his cock already at the entrance to my vagina.
The Hiplet really was a fantastic device. I could feel his huge cock rubbing against my crack, trying to push its way inside. My leg forced backwards over my head may have been bloody uncomfortable, but the feelings my pussy was giving me made it all...
"Shit! Jesus! That hurt."
The bastard had simply lunged inside me, using brute force to push through my pussy lips, and he was shoving it in until...
"Aagh! Oh my God! Kim. Stop it! It won't go any further."
Then he was withdrawing it, the head of his cock stretching my lips to breaking point with excruciating agony, but at least it would be over now...
He lunged in again.
"Yaah! Oh shit! You're too long for me. You've reached the end of my pussy." After all, it wasn't a real pussy he was fucking. My artificial pussy presumably ran between my legs but there was only a finite space for a cock to enter, and his was simply too long.
"Your right," Kim said. "This is no fucking good whatsoever. Hang on..
He pulled it right out, thank God! It was a bit painful again as my lips stretched over his knob, but then it was gone and I could feel everything settling back into its proper place.
"Er, no, Kim. That's the wrong hole... Oh shit! Shit! SHIT!!!"
He was shoving his cock into my rectum. If I thought a cock going into a pussy was painful, this was like a million times worse. And instead of Kim's prick going in a few inches and stopping, this time it went in, and it went in, and still it went in.
"Oh, that's fucking good!" Kim said, starting to withdraw it. "That is really fucking good."
"No, Kim! You've got to stop..."
"Ye-e-e-e-s-s-s!" he roared the top of his voice as he again lunged inside. The pain was so intense, it was as though my insides were being ripped open from rectum to navel.
"Kim! Stop!" I wailed. "Kim! Please!"
"Yeah! Fuck you, you little whore!" he said. "Cock-teasing all us poor guys with your huge melons. You're just a little slag.
"Fuck you!
"Fuck you!
"Fuck you!"
Needless to say, between each shout, he withdrew his cock to the point where it was stretching my ring to breaking point, and then as he shouted, he lunged in with all his strength. Actually, now I was starting to get used to it, it wasn't so bad. At least, I thought, I now know what it's like having your arse shagged off.
"Oh God! Yes!" I moaned, and I pushed against him as he lunged.
"You little bitch! You're enjoying this, aren't you? Well take that!
"And that!
"And that! Oh fuck you! I'm coming! I'm coming! Y-e-e-e-e-e-e-s-s-s! Oh, fucking y-e-e-e-s-s-s!"
I could feel him filling my arse with his semen - actually, he'd already told me it was natural yoghurt, but it was so hot, it was almost burning me inside.
Another massive thrust accompanied by more burning semen, then couple of quite small thrusts and then he was still.
I wanted to say, "Is that it? Don't I get an orgasm?" but wisely I kept quiet.
***
"Have you enjoyed the day, Harriet?" Kim asked, as he walked me back to my house. At least, the bastard had the manners to do that.
"You bet," I said. "Fantastic! How about you?"
She smiled and her face changed. (It was definitely 'she', now). "The same. I may have lost the bet, but it was well worth it."
"Bet," I said. "What bet?"
"Oh," she said. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned that. It must be my post-coital serenity."
"What bet," I repeated.
She looked at me with a sheepish smile. (Kim? Sheepish? I'd never have believed she could have put on such an expression.) "I guess I'd better come clean. Do you remember that detective book we read at ABC five weeks ago?"
I creased my brow, trying to remember details of that unmemorable story. "It was called 'Murder at Spring Hill'. The one where the woman living upstairs was really a man, and..." I broke off as the comparison struck me. "What's this got to do with your bet?"
"Afterwards," she continued, "you and Gemma didn't come to the pub."
"No," I said. "We had to go and collect something from Gemma's mother."
"So we got to talking, as we always do," Kim continued. "And most of us felt the plot was totally unrealistic - the very idea of a man being able to fool everyone he was a woman was ridiculous. But Bethany said that for a professional beautician like her, it was not that difficult. With the right make-up, lots of men could be made-up to look like women."
"So you decided on me," I stated the obvious.
"For one thing, you weren't there," she said. "It's so much easier to talk about someone when they aren't there, and the other men were all at the next table talking football, as they always do."
"And?" I prompted.
"And we just picked on you as an example of a typical man and Bethany explained what kind of make-up she'd use to make your face appear more feminine. Then Isobel piped in and talked about her Bustlet - I'd never realised hers were that false until that evening - and she said the company made these other things for male cross-dressers. It just kind of continued on from there."
"It didn't just continue," I said. "It went from a hypothetical discussion through to a plan to trick and deceive me."
"OK," she agreed. "Bethany kept on about how easy it would be, so I simply said, 'I bet you couldn't do it?' and she said, 'Done. I accept your bet.' Well, that kind of surprised me, but I couldn't back down. So we agreed on a five pound bet - it wasn't so much the money, more the challenge.
"After that of course," she continued, "we had to work out how to convince you to agree to do it. You'd been talking at the start of the meeting about that Murder Mystery Game at your brother's house, so we thought that would be the ideal opportunity."
"Hang on," I said. "The whole thing only came about because Emily suggested a Not the Cup Final Event, which must have been the following week. If the men hadn't been talking about going to the Cup Final..."
My words died out as Kim shook her head slowly from side to side. "The reason the men were talking about it was because, before she left home that evening, Emily had asked Frank if he had thought about going to the Cup Final. Having had the idea put into his head, he talked about it to the guys. I suppose if they hadn't have jumped at that, we'd have invented something else."
"So everything was set up," I said. "That conversation about the size of breasts," (Kim nodded.) "...actually getting me to suggest the Murder Mystery Game," (Kim nodded.) "...Emily just happening to open the website with the All Girl games on the menu," (Kim nodded.) "...and you taking the part of the Rev Dev, so I was left with Melon Delight."
"I think the term that we males use," Kim said, "is you were well and truly shafted." She smiled. "And after the last thirty minutes, you've been well and truly shafted twice. But, according to men, that's a woman's role in life."
"You believe all men think like that?"
"OK," she reconsidered. "I think you are an excellent honorary woman."
I'm sure that I heard her add beneath her breath, "And a real good fuck!"
But we'd arrived at my house, and Gemma was waiting at the door, so I could hardly challenge Kim over that.
After we'd said our goodbyes to Kim, and closed the door, Gemma said, I've got a little surprise for you." She was holding something behind her back.
"A surprise?" I said, thinking that Gemma obviously felt guilty about being involved in the plot to convert me - as she must have been - and was trying to make it up.
"Yes," she said. "I knew you've been excited in the lead up to today, and we'd have a lot of fun. But the real fun is only just beginning." She brought her arm from behind her back to reveal a huge, double-ended, penis-shaped dildo.
***
Frank and Emily were a bit late for the next week's ABC meeting and we'd already started. After muttered apologies as they came in, interrupting Chloe pontificating about this week's book, Frank sat down in his usual place next to Adam, giving him a wink as he did so.
As Chloe came to the end of her talk a few minutes later, and a bit of an argument raged about what she'd said amongst Kim and Gemma, Frank leant towards Adam and whispered, "You just won't believe what Emily told me, just now. You could have knocked me over with a..."
"Are you guys in this discussion or not?" Kim turned with a frown, annoyed at trying to talk above the sound of Frank's mutterings.
Meanwhile, my heart was pounding. Surely, Emily wouldn't have told Frank about my role in the Murder Mystery. She promised! If she had, I was totally compromised. I felt myself flushing with embarrassment.
Fortunately, it was Frank who was asked to speak next, and even more fortunately, he said something controversial about the book - I really can't remember what it was since my mind was in a spin, but it got everybody else arguing with him, so he appeared to forget all about it, right until we all went to the pub at the end.
Dan went to the bar with our usual order, whilst Frank pulled Adam to one side. Unusually, instead of immediately joining the girls, I hovered behind them so I could listen in.
"I just couldn't believe what Emily said," Frank was saying. "I was going on - you know how you do - about how enjoyable it was going to Wembley, and she said that they'd enjoyed the day as well. Then she said..."
"Two pints for you guys," Dan said, sarcastically adding, "and don't feel you have to help me carry everything."
"Sorry Dan," they both muttered, moving to help him, and once more I was put into suspense over what Frank was going to say.
A couple of minutes later, all three of them had reconvened. "So Emily said to me," Frank continued yet again, "'You probably think Wembley was really good, but don't you think there are more exciting things for a man to do?' 'Like what?' I asked and she said, 'Like doing something you've never even thought about doing before,' and when I still couldn't see what she was talking about she said, 'Like going to see football at the Olympics.' "
All three of us blokes expired air at the same time, me the loudest of all, and the others turned to notice me standing behind them.
"Fantastic!" "Bloody hell!" "Even Harry's interested," Frank added.
Then, of course, reality bit in. "It would cost a fortune," Alan said, and "Chloe would never stand for it," from Dan.
"It wouldn't cost a fortune," Frank said. "Emily told me the Olympic tickets aren't selling like they thought they would, so there are some good deals around. I'll show you some prices in a minute. As for the women - well Emily said that if we did want to go, she'd manipulate them so they'd agree."
"Manipulate them?" Adam said.
"Well you know what she's like," Frank said. "When Emily suggested us going to Wembley, she said she'd distract the women with that Murder Mystery thing, so they wouldn't complain."
Yeah, right, I thought.
"Blimey, I didn't know that," Dan said.
"Are we all in, then?" Frank asked. "Harry. What about you?"
I shook my head. "Not really. I wouldn't mind seeing China, but not when the Olympics are on."
They shook their heads sadly, then turned their attention to some prices Frank had printed off the internet. I returned to the girls.
Emily was saying, "It rather sounds as though the men are planning a follow up to Wembley."
"What kind of follow up?" Gemma asked me.
"That would be telling," I said, not wanting to get between the husbands and their wives.
Emily smiled. "It's alright, Harry," she said. "Only I noticed that the Seacombe Book Festival is on just the same week as the football finals at the Olympics. It sounds really good this year. They're concentrating on Chic Lit, but they've also got some quite dishy, male authors giving talks. If the men went off to the Olympics, we could have a 'Not the Olympics' week. We could also get the Murder Mystery group to run a few events, if you see what I mean.
"With all that Chic Lit," she continued, "I don't suppose Harry would want to come, but there's no reason why we shouldn't invite his sister, Harriet? What do you say, Harry."
"I think you're probably right, Emily," I said, a grin spreading wildly across my face. "I could spend that week moving the compost heap from one end of the garden to the other, but I'm certain Harriet would be delighted to come in my place."
"I thought so," she said.
Pregnant Pause
Author:
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Here's a collection of all my stories involving pregnancy, although in the case of Four Princesses, it is only a minor involvement.
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TG Elements:
Caroll's Capers
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When Carl meets his Aunt Carrie at his father's wedding, he little realises he will be quickly transformed into someone he really wants to be, and within a few months, married and experiencing the effects of pregnancy. But pregnancy and motherhood is not much fun, as Carl will find out.
If you're new to my stories, this may sound like fantasy; it's not. Set in Seacombe, a fictional town on the south coast of England, a company called Big Busts can supply garments to those who want to appear to be a different gender.
For those who are not familiar with my stories, a pamphlet is clickable at the appropriate point in the text to explain the range of Big Busts products available. When you get there, have a read before clicking the Back button to return to the story.
Enjoy
Carol's Capers
by Charlotte Dickles
CONTENTS
TRANSFORMATION
INTRODUCTIONS
ENGAGEMENT
MARRIAGE
PREGNANCY
CHILDBIRTH
MOTHERHOOD
TRANSFORMATION
"Don't you think," Caroline said, "that some women should never be allowed to wear pretty dresses?" She was speaking to the young man standing on his own at the wedding reception as they both watched the antics of the three bridesmaids doing a version of the Can-Can, kicking their legs as high as they could so that the world could see their stocking tops, if not, Caroline conjectured, the fact they weren't wearing panties. Fortunately, the world was spared that confirmation as their fat legs just wouldn't go that high.
The young man had been staring, transfixed, not ogling as all the other blokes around were, but clearly as disgusted as she was. "Yes," he agreed, without looking at her. "They're beautiful dresses but those three girls should never be allowed to wear anything as pretty as that."
"You obviously know them," she observed.
He grimaced at her and said, "Their names are Mercedes, Crystal and Tiffany, and they're the daughters of Roxy, the bride. As from today, they're my step-sisters."
"So you must be…"
"Carl," he said. "I'm Kevin's son, and you must be Mum's cousin, Aunty Carrie." He smiled at the middle-aged but not unattractive woman, wearing a very pretty floral dress and jacket.
"You're right," she said. "I'm afraid we've been out of touch for a long time, almost since you were born. I didn't know your mother, Sandra, had died until well after her funeral, which is why I came down today to try and make amends." She paused a little before adding, "But I thought your name was…"
"Don't say it," Carl interrupted. He gave a quick look around to make certain they weren't being overheard before adding, "The girls don't know and Dad admitted he was drunk when he registered my birth and got it wrong. We decided that it would be better if I was just known as Carl to everybody, all right?"
"Fair enough," she said. "I certainly understand the sensitivity with people like your father and now your new step-sisters."
She smiled to show empathy with him but he simply bit his lip with anguish.
"Is it really that bad?" she asked.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," he said. "Living at home. Dad and Roxy are swooning around like love-sick teenagers and we only have a two bedroom house. Those three slappers kicked me out of my bedroom so I'm havung to sleep downstairs on the couch. I'm supposed to be going off to university in the autumn, but I've just heard I've flunked my exams so I can't get admitted. That means I'm going to have to continue living here like Cinderella, packed in like sardines with my stepmother and three stepsisters, and it's going to be hell."
"Is there nowhere else you can stay?"
He shook his head, close to tears.
Again, Caroline paused before saying, "I'm not certain I would want to offer a room to a sulky teenage boy with a chip on his shoulder, but I do have a spare room in my house in Seacombe."
He looked at her, puzzled. "I don't understand what you're saying."
"What I'm saying," she said, "is that I know of several teenage boys and they're all trying desperately to appear grown up by behaving as total yobs. Knowing your father, I don't see why you should be any different – except that, having spoken with you, I think you are different. If you were prepared to let go of all your prejudices and be the person who's really underneath, then I think we could get on with each other. There's a reasonable college in Seacombe and you could retake your exams, or maybe go into other subjects entirely, since the current ones clearly haven't inspired you. And I also think you could help me, as well, if you were prepared to let go."
"Help you. In what way?"
Caroline smiled. "Time enough to discuss that when you've left all your baggage behind, and are on the way to Seacombe. So, what do you say?"
***
"I don't understand," Carl said, as Caroline drove southwards in her beat up Ford Escort. "Why did you want me to only pack my toothbrush?"
"It was just symbolic," Caroline said. "In actual fact, I have spare toothbrushes in the house, but I wanted you to leave the rest of your life behind. You're starting a new life now, with no baggage from your old."
After making his decision at the wedding reception, the two of them had gone up to Carl’s dad, Kevin, and explained what was happening. At the time, he was already three parts drunk, and clearly distracted by other things, barely taking in what they were saying. Then, Caroline had driven Carl back to his house where he'd ceremonially packed his toothbrush, written a brief note explaining he'd gone to live with Aunt Carrie, and they'd departed.
"But I haven't even got a change of underwear or another tee-shirt or jeans."
"I'm terrible about throwing away old clothes. I'm sure I'll have some jeans and tee-shirts which'll fit, and plenty of underwear."
"But…" He flushed a deep red.
"They're all perfectly respectable," she said. "Remember, no baggage."
His aunt clearly meant him to shut up and stop asking stupid questions, but it wasn't only the tone in her voice which kept him quiet; there was also a strange fluttering in his heart. "Yes, Aunt," he said.
***
They drove another twenty miles in amiable silence before Caroline said, "Have you heard of Caroll’s Capers?"
"Caroll’s Capers? What are you talking about?"
"Caroll’s Capers was a cartoon strip drawn by my Uncle Joseph," Caroline said. "It was very popular at one time and syndicated in newspapers worldwide, making him very rich.
"And I," she added, "was the inspiration for it."
He stared at her. "What happened?"
"I was orphaned when I was twelve, a result of a car crash which killed both my parents. I went to live with my Aunt Alice and Uncle Joseph. Uncle Joseph took one look at me and said I was just the inspiration he needed for his new comic strip. I never knew whether he said that just to distract me from the horrors of the previous two weeks or I really did inspire him. Whatever, he started using me as his model and the strip took off.
"Every day I’d come home from school and change out of my school uniform and put on a pretty dress – not too dissimilar to the dresses your stepsisters were wearing today – with frothy petticoats which made them flare out and made a wonderful rustling sound every time I moved. Then I had to pose in different positions whilst Uncle Joseph drew the cartoon. A few days later, I’d see myself in the cartoon in the newspapers.
"Caroll was an incredibly sassy girl. Uncle Joseph always made me wear a padded bra so my breasts poked out – I think that was what attracted many readers – and she always got the upper hand."
"So did life imitate art?" Carl asked. "Did you become a sassy girl?"
Caroline smiled. "I guess," she said. "I became a commercial negotiator, and people say I can be pretty persuasive in my job."
"And out of it," Carl said.
She grinned at him. "Unfortunately, my breasts never grew like Caroll’s did. By the time we were eighteen, hers were huge and mine were still a meagre 34A."
As she felt Carl’s eyes move down to her breasts, she smiled and added, "I’ve had enhancements since, so I can measure up to Caroll."
"Sorry," he said, "I didn’t mean to stare."
"That's rather the purpose of enhancements," she said with another grin. "By the time I was eighteen, the comic strip was reducing in popularity and I was about to depart to university, so it seemed a natural time for it to come to an end and Uncle Joseph went onto other things, but his later successes were founded upon Caroll’s Capers."
She took a deep breath before adding, "I think that’s probably why you were named Caroll, rather than Carl. Your mother was so impressed by Uncle Joseph's fame. After all, Caroll is a perfectly respectable name for a boy. Kevin hated it, of course, and they argued about it, but I think when he went to register your birth he relented and then immediately regretted it."
Carl – or Caroll to be accurate – blushed a bright red. "Dad always said he made a mistake although I felt Mum wanted to talk about it but was too frightened by Dad’s behaviour. He used to bully Mum mercilessly, you know."
She shrugged. "It doesn't surprise me. Let's hope that Roxy doesn't have to put up with what Sandra did. Did he bully you?"
"I guess. He thought I was a wimp because I was no good at sports, and got bullied at school."
"Well that life is all over now. You're going to be the person you want to be when you live at my house."
"You think I want to wear your clothes? Is that what this is all about?"
She glanced at him and smiled. "I think you're uncertain about things which you would never admit to, publicly. I first noticed you in the church, the way you were looking at your stepsisters in their dresses. I couldn't work it out at first and then, when you later watched them doing the Can-Can, it struck me you were envious of them."
Caroll went a deep red and blurted out, "Why should I be? Just because my name's really Caroll? It doesn't make me gay."
She patted his arm. "No, it's not because of your name. Lots of people thought those bridesmaids' dresses were beautiful and would love to wear them, including, I suspect, quite a few males. The point is that when you're with me, it's all right to say that."
When he remained silent, she added, "Uncle Joseph still has that collection of dresses I wore when I was modelling for Caroll's Capers. I reckon the later ones would fit you, and that favour I was going to ask you. I want you to wear some of those dresses for Uncle Joseph."
"What? Is he some kind of kink?"
"He's a lovely old man, but getting very frail and losing the will to live. I think you look very similar to me at that age, and seeing you in one of Caroll's dresses might bring him back to life. Would you do that for me?"
"I'll just look stupid."
"If you do then we certainly won't show him, but I don't think you will. In any case, wouldn't it be worth it just to try on one of those wonderful dresses, with the petticoats which make the rustling sound every time you move?"
He shrugged. "S'pose."
***
They stopped for a meal on the way to Caroline's home in Seacombe so were quite late when they finally arrived at a pair of arched wooden doors in a high, white-painted wall.
"It was once a stable block for the house where Uncle Joseph lives," she explained as she pushed a remote and the doors started to automatically open. "It's quite separate from the main house so we can live entirely different lives, but on the other hand, it's handy to pop in regularly and see him."
She drove the car into what had once been a coach house, and they got out and walked over to the stable block, where Caroline lived
"It'll take me a few minutes to make the spare bedroom presentable so I suggest you wash away all remnants of the old you. But first, I want to put some cream on your skin. Hang on."
She popped into her bedroom for a few seconds then emerged carrying a pair of black bikini bottoms. "Go into the bathroom, strip off and then pull these one.
"It's OK," she said as Caroll stared at them with suspicion. "They won't make your willy fall off. Slip them on and then give me a shout to say you're decent."
He shrugged and then disappeared into the bathroom. A minute later he timidly called, "I'm ready."
She went in to see he had put on the bikini bottom and had wrapped a towel around his waist. She smiled. "You have a lovely slim body, and it's not very hairy, but I want to spray on some hair-removal cream." She showed him the spray can. "It may tingle a bit but it's not painful. I use it frequently."
He shrugged compliance and she made him step into the bath and remove his towel, before spraying him from head to foot.
"I know you're pensive about all this," Caroline said. "It's perfectly understandable. I expect your dad talks a lot about how men must be brave, but I bet he wouldn't be brave enough to do what you're doing now."
Caroll grinned. "He'd think it was sissy. Ouch! It tingles a bit more than you said."
"But women put up with it," she said with a smirk. "And I reckon you're as brave as a woman, which makes you much braver than your dad."
He couldn't help but smile back. "Guess."
After she'd rubbed off and showered the mix of cream and hair, she ran a bath for him, filling it with lots of nice, smelly bubbles. "Have a long bath," she said. "I'll sort out some pyjamas and a dressing-gown for you, and get your room ready. Then I'll make some cocoa and you can come down and drink it."
***
"This is really crazy," he said, twenty minutes later as he came into the kitchen wearing a white dressing gown over white pyjamas with a happy face motif.
She looked him over and said, "Do you know, you have a nicer smile on your face than I've seen on you all day. You look comfortable in those clothes."
"Maybe. It's just… strange."
"It's bound to be when you've been brought up to accept one thing, when inside, you're different from what your father wants you to be. But in my book, that's an advantage, not something to feel bad about."
He gave another lovely smile. "I guess."
***
"I brought you a cup of tea."
Caroline jerked awake, trying to grasp who might be in her room. Having lived on her own for so long, it took some adjustment to get used to someone else being there.
"Thanks," she said. "I'm not used to such luxuries."
She sat up in bed, well aware that her boobs were protruding more than they should from her nightdress, but what the heck? Carl was now Caroll and was going to have to get used to such things. And that thought brought a smile to her lips. "I've got a present for you," she said. "It's in that box on the dressing-table." She gesticulated towards the thick cardboard box. "But don't open it yet. I need to explain something first. Bring it over here and come and sit on the bed."
Caroline adjusted her attire and took a sip of her tea before continuing. "I told you that Caroll's boobs far outgrew mine when I was a teenager. I became incredibly jealous of her, actually, so as soon as I could afford it, I had a boob job done."
"Right," Caroll gulped, trying not to stare at Caroline's boobs.
"You probably heard a few years ago there was a health problem identified with leaking silicone implants, and I was one of those affected. I had to have them removed, and rather than having the implants replaced, I turned to a local firm here in Seacombe called Big Busts. In the box is my spare Bustlet, which I think will fit you fine. Open it and have a look."
Tentatively, not knowing what to expect, Caroll pulled out the tab securing the lid and opened it. Facing him was the upper torso of a woman with a pair of large boobs, wobbling like jellies on a plate. "My God!" he said.
"They're very realistic," Caroline said. "It fits like a crop top and there's adhesive in those two plastic tubs to prevent perspiration. We'll use the green adhesive to start with which lasts only a few hours, so we'll have to renew it before we go out this afternoon."
"You're expecting me to go out of the house wearing these!" Caroll gasped. "But they're huge. I can't…"
"Lots of girls of your age have D cup breasts," Caroline said. "They're almost the norm now.
"And of course," she added, "it will mean you properly fit into the Caroll's Capers dresses I want you to wear later on. Come on, let's try them on you."
***
"Oh my God!" Caroll repeated for at least the fourth time, as she stared down at her breasts. "They are fantastic."
"After you've worn them for twenty-four hours," Caroline said, "you'll be fed up of both the jerks who stare at them just as you're doing now, and the inconvenience and weight hanging from your chest. Believe me, you'll wonder what all the fuss is about such an awkward pair of assets, and you'll certainly understand why I reverted to a reasonable C-cup after a few months, leaving you my Ds. Now, let's get you dressed. Fortunately, I still have D-cup bras that will fit you, and then we'll get you into tee-shirt and jeans."
Ten minutes later, Caroll stared into the mirror. "My hair will need some styling, I guess," she said. "And I'm sure you'll tell me all about makeup, but I guess I pass quite well. Thanks Aunt. I feel wonderful."
"We can certainly do something about your hair and makeup," Caroline said, "but I'm sorry, to me you will still look like a boy with boobs. You're the wrong shape down below."
"But I've tucked it all away," Caroll protested. "You can't see anything of a bulge."
"That's the problem," Caroline said. "Girls are supposed to bulge around the hips and buttocks. You're straight from the waist down. Here, look at this Big Busts pamphlet (click here to view pamphlet). I think you need a Hiplet to go with your Bustlet. We'll go into Big Busts and get you sorted out. I'll give them a ring; see if we can go in there this morning."
***
"Aunt Carrie. Everyone's staring at me."
"Actually, it's all the men who are staring at you. I think Big Busts have really done a superb transformation. Those voice-changer pills really make so much difference, as does giving you hair extensions and that lovely bob. And Caroll…" She turned to put a hand on Caroll's arm, "I'm really delighted you went in for the red, semi-permanent gel for your Bustlet and Hiplet, rather than the green gel. It will not only be so much more convenient and comfortable, but you'll feel everything is part of your own body, rather than simply garments. Of course, the Sensotouch helps tremendously."
"I think once you convinced me I could look like a girl rather than a boy," Caroll said, "it became common sense to get properly into it. So in for a penny, in for a pound."
"That's brilliant, Caroll, and can I say, you seem so happy in yourself. Now let's go into a café and have some lunch, then we can pop around to see Uncle Joseph afterwards. See if we can persuade him to let you try on some of those pretty dresses. Then you really will be a knock out."
"Yes Aunt."
INTRODUCTIONS
After parking in Caroline's coach house, they walked along a footpath through a wooded area until they reached the large mansion in which her uncle lived. Caroline had a key to the side door and she let them in. "Hi Uncle, hi Maggie," she called out. "I've brought my niece around to meet you."
"We're in the lounge," a female voice called out. "Come on in."
Caroll followed Caroline into the room where Strictly Come Dancing was blaring out on the TV.
"This is my niece, Caroll," Caroline introduced her. "She's staying with me for a while."
"Hello Caroll," the older woman said. "I'm Maggie. I'm the Housekeeper come Carer in the house. It's nice to meet you." She gave a wave of her hand rather than offering a handshake and Caroll waved back."
"Maggie was the live-in housekeeper when I first came to live here," Caroline said. "Then she moved out to get married and bring up three daughters, and, so far, two grandchildren. When Uncle's condition worsened and Tom, her husband died, she moved back in to be Uncle's Carer."
Caroline's attention moved to her Uncle and the TV. "Uncle. You were watching that same episode of Strictly before I went off to the wedding."
For the first time, Uncle Joseph's attention turned away from the TV screen. "You're losing your marbles, young Carrie. This isn't a recording; it's live so I couldn't have been watching it last week. Hello, love," he added to Caroll, before turning back to the TV.
"Hello, Great Uncle Joseph," Caroll said, aware that not only had she lost his attention, but that Strictly was always broadcast live on Saturday evening, rather than Sunday afternoon and that the presenter on the screen, Bruce Forsyth, was now dead.
"Uncle," Caroline said, "have you noticed how similar Caroll looks to me at her age? You wouldn't mind, would you, if she tried on some of the Caroll's Capers' costumes."
He remained staring intently at the TV, and since he hadn't objected, Caroline took that as permission to proceed. "Come on," she said to Caroll. "Let's go upstairs to the attic."
"I'll come, as well," Maggie said, "and help you sort them out. I was struck straightaway how similar Caroll was to you as a girl; just as plain a face, although a bit shapelier than you were at that age."
"Thanks for pointing out I was flat-chested," Caroline amiably said. "Caroll is so lucky to have such a wonderful shape. But I'm hoping that seeing her in one of my old costumes might bring a sparkle back into Uncle Joseph. What do you think?"
Maggie shrugged as she followed Caroline and Caroll up the stairs. "Anything is worth a try, but I haven't seen a sparkle from Joseph in months. I think it's downhill all the way from here. I'm afraid."
"So that's what's behind everything," Caroll said to Caroline. "You inviting me down here to stay with you and… everything else. It's all because you're hoping I can rekindle some spirit into your Uncle."
Caroline stopped climbing the stairs and turned to Caroll. "Caroll, I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't thought this would be a wonderful experience and opportunity for you, as well. But I owe so much to Uncle Joseph. You are justified in thinking I manipulated things to try to help him, but I hope you'll forgive me." She stood up straight and added, "And I suspect that when you're wearing a wonderful dress in a few minutes' time, you'll thank me for the opportunity."
"Aunt," Caroll said, "I'm already so grateful for the last twenty-four hours. Anything I can do to help someone you love, I'll do it, OK?"
Caroline wrapped her arms around her niece and kissed her on the head. "Thanks darling. Everything has turned out tremendously so far. Let's keep our fingers crossed that our good fortune continues."
"And so say all of us," Maggie added, not really certain what the two had been talking about but recognising a good result.
***
When Caroline had led her up to the side of the mansion, Caroll hadn't realised just how big it was. Now as they climbed up the main staircase to the first floor, and then the narrow servants' staircase to the second floor, and then the tiny staircase to the attics above, she realised it was huge and, from appearances, only the rooms on the ground floor were currently in use; all the other floors having an appearance of desolation.
"We all live on the ground floor, now," Maggie explained. "Joseph can't manage the stairs very well and it suits us all to be nearby, in case I'm needed."
When they entered the attic, Maggie made her way over to the corner, where the eaves hung low, and a large, dusty trunk was wedged in amongst all kinds of other junk. "Let's pull this out," she said, "and then we can get it open."
They all heaved it towards the centre of the room, and then Caroline undid the catches on the trunk and threw the lid open. They all gasped a little, at the array of bright, pretty colours which lay before them.
"Oh, how beautiful," Caroll said, reaching forward to touch the topmost dress and lift it out. "Will this really fit me?"
"That one won't," Caroline said. "I think I wore that when I was twelve, but if we rummage down to the bottom, we should find the larger sizes."
Actually, right at the bottom was a collection of frilly petticoats and a couple of other garments, wrapped around with bundles of cords.
"I think we'll probably need one of those," Maggie said, pulling out one of them and starting to unravel the cords from around it.
"What is it?" Caroll asked.
"I'd forgotten all about those," Caroline said. "The pleasure of having a narrow-enough waist to wear one of these lovely dresses goes with just a little pain from the corset you have to wear to fit into it." Seeing the look on Caroll's face, she added, "I remember, I got quite rebellious when I was your age about wearing a corset, but I'm sure you will simply be magicked away by the wonderful figure it gives you."
Actually, she had misinterpreted Caroll's feelings, whose heart had started beating like crazy at the very idea of wearing a corset. "You made me come here with an open mind," Caroll said, careful not to reveal her true feelings, "so I'm willing to give it a go, especially if it's the only way I can get into one of these dresses."
"Attagirl," Caroline said.
They took a collection of attire downstairs to the bedroom Caroline had used when she had lived here, before departing for university. There were still posters of 1980s' pop stars decorating the walls, and Caroline threw open the windows to allow the warm spring afternoon air to enter, and freshen up the rather musty smell.
"Right," Maggie said. "Strip off then."
Caroll did, realising how fortunate it was she was wearing a Hiplet, so her boy bits were well and truly hidden. She left on her bra and panties, until Maggie said, "You won't be needing those, and from your shape, nor will you be needing the chicken fillets we used to slip down the front of Caroline's slip. Now, let's start by slipping this suspender belt around your waist, then you can put on your stockings and knickers and get into your shoes."
Caroll felt the discomfort in her groin, frequently experienced over the last day, which came every time she was asked to perform feminine actions, but she managed to slip on the stockings without laddering them. Then Maggie held out a pair of the frilliest panties Caroll had ever seen and told her to put them on.
Finally, she sat back on the bed and put on the shoes. Maggie told her the heels were only two inches but they appeared enormous to Caroll.
Maggie then took the frilly petticoat and pulled it over her head, getting Caroll to stand up so she could pull it down her body.
"Stop tottering about like that," Maggie ordered. "Surely you’re used to low heels like that?"
"I don’t think she is," Caroline said. "So many girls today only ever wear trainers."
Maggie gave a kind of a "Tsh," noise, adding, "We’ll have you walk up and down a bit so you can get used to them. It won’t take long."
As Maggie pulled the petticoat down over her tummy, it was quite a tight fit.
"No need to worry about that," Maggie cheerfully said. "That'll be gone in a flash as soon as I get heaving with the corset."
"That's what I'm worried about," Caroll said.
"Huh," Maggie said, "the discomfort is always hyped up, to make it seem worse that it was. That's right, isn't it Carrie?" She was already wrapping the corset around Caroll's waist and fastening the busk at the front. She gave it a little tug, here and there, to get it seated properly, and the action squashed Caroll's breasts upwards.
"No comment," Caroline said, "except to add that I know Caroll has guts and she'll be up for whatever tightening you have to do to wear that dress."
"I may have guts," Caroll said, "but I'd prefer to keep them inside of me, rather than being squeezed so hard I explode like a balloon. I think that's probably tight enough, isn't it Maggie?"
"Tight enough," she scoffed. "I haven't started yet. Now. Let's get going." She gave a long pull on the corset cords, followed by another and another. "And don't even bother to complain, as Caroline always used to," she added, "otherwise I'll pull it tighter still."
"You wouldn't, would you?" Caroll gasped, finding it difficult to speak normally.
"You'd better believe it," Caroline said. "The best thing is just to let her get on with it and then admire the results.
"Assuming you're still alive," she quietly added.
Actually, the greatest discomfort Caroll was experiencing was in her groin, which was being affected by the way her breasts were being pushed up her chest with every pull of the corset cords. They had looked large when constrained by one of Caroline's D-cup bras, but now they looked twice as big.
"Right," Maggie said, temporarily tying off the cords. "Let's see how the dress fits you now." She picked up that wonderful garment and held it over Caroll's head and let it drop down over her, smoothing it down over the flared petticoat. Then she walked around the rear and said, "I'm afraid there's still another inch to go before we can do up the buttons, but it is going to look ravishing on you. Reach as far up one of the bedposts as you can and grasp it, then let your body hang down. That'll make it easier to draw in. It won't take long now."
Five minutes later, Caroll was examining herself in the mirror. OK, the corset was so tight, her breasts were heaving up and down with every tiny breath she could take, but as Maggie had said, she looked ravishing in it and she felt she might explode with excitement.
"OK," Caroline said. "Try walking up and down the landing a few times to get the feel of the heels. Then let's go downstairs and see if we can awake the old fart from his stupor."
The heels were fine, actually, but what was so disconcerting was the way her boobs quivered and wobbled with every movement.
***
"Hi Joseph," Caroline said. "How do you think Caroll fits into Caroll's dress?"
"What?" reluctantly Joseph lifted his eyes from the TV screen, and then over to where Caroline was pointing. "My God!" He leapt to his feet. "Carrie? No of course not, you're standing here. Then who is this?"
"This is my niece, Caroll," Caroline explained. "Kevin and Sandra's child whom I met at the wedding, yesterday. As soon as I saw her, I recognised how similar she was to me at that age. Things weren't going particularly well with her father and his new family, so I persuaded her to come and live with me for a while."
"You look fabulous," Joseph said, then as an extra loud bust of cheering came from the TV, he turned around and said, "Maggie, I really don't know why you need the TV on all the time. Turn it off so we can talk properly to our visitor."
Maggie did so without even raising an eyebrow and the room fell quiet.
"Caroll," Joseph said. "Come over here and tell me all about yourself… No, better still…" His eye drifted out of the window to the sunshine outside. "Let's go for a walk in the garden and we can talk there without these busybodies listening in."
Whilst Caroll looked embarrassed and started to stutter that she wasn't sure, Caroline gave Maggie a look which said, "I told you so."
***
"Come on," Joseph said to Caroll, "let's go."
Seeing Caroline and Maggie smirking at each other, she realised she had no alternative, and sheepishly followed Joseph through the French window into the garden. There was a path leading from the French window across a short section of grass towards a wooded knoll about twenty yards away.
"You can take my arm," Joseph said. "Make certain I don't stumble…" As Caroll's heels trod the uneven path she tottered, and he added with a grin, "Or I can do the same for you."
"Yes, Great Uncle."
"Don't Great Uncle me," he said. "Not only does it make me feel positively ancient, but it makes it seem as though you're just trolling me around like an ancient relative, whereas of course, we're not related except by marriage through my deceased wife Alice. That means we can simply be friends walking through the woods on a sunny afternoon. That all right with you?"
She smiled at him, suddenly aware of his lust for her, even at his age. "Yes Joseph."
"Call me Seph," he said. "That's what my wife, Alice, used to call me, so I tend to reserve it for special friends, and I reckon you're one of those."
Caroll hugged his arm closely, well aware she was pushing it into the side of her breast. "I reckon you're an old rascal, Seph," she said.
The path had entered the trees and started to climb upwards. "Are you OK on this slope, Seph?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "I had these pathways constructed when my wife got ill and was wheelchair bound. When we first moved into this house, there was simply a steep path to the top, but I wanted something that was wheelchair friendly, so I created this little maze of paths, with bridges and tunnels." They had come to a crossroads in the path. "There's only one way to the top," he continued. "You have to guess which is the correct way."
"To the right," Caroll said, since that path led slightly uphill before turning out of sight. Then a sudden hunch made her change her mind. "No. Let’s go to the left."
"Fair enough, let's walk and see where we come out."
As they walked, Joseph told Caroll about his life with Alice; how they had tried for years to have children and then Alice had miscarried, leaving her infertile. Shortly afterwards, Alice's sister and her husband were killed and they adopted Caroline.
"She was the most wonderful thing that ever came into my life," he said. "Well, until I met you," he added with another of his grins.
"Get off with you," she smirked, giving his arm another hug and doing a twirl with her skirts. Actually, she really enjoyed doing that. It was a wonderful feeling, having the air moving between her legs all the way up to her frilly-panties. Even they were quite a loose fit, so the air moved around inside them in a very erotic way.
"So tell me about your life," Joseph said; and she did with almost complete honesty, only leaving out her gender.
"So you're planning to go to college here in Seacombe," Joseph said. "And what? Retake the subjects you failed this year, or switch onto something new?"
"I'm not certain," Caroll said. "Aunt Carrie suggested changing subjects, but to be fair, I really don't know what I want to do."
"Is there any career that attracts you?" Joseph asked.
"I wanted to train as a chef, but Dad said that cooking wasn't a proper career for a b… Well, I mean, it has long, unsociable hours and doesn't pay very well unless you get to be very famous. Being realistic, I'm unlikely to do that."
"You enjoy cooking?"
"Yes, I do. Since Mum died, I've taken over the cooking for the household. Well, until now, and Dad's new wife has thrown me out of the kitchen, saying it's her domain now."
"You'd make someone a wonderful wife," Joseph said.
"Don't be silly," she replied, blushing like crazy. "Oh, we've come back to the same crossroads, but from a different direction."
"Are you certain it's the same junction, or simply another which looks identical?"
She stared around; it was very difficult to be certain. They were completely surrounded by tall trees, all of which looked almost identical. "If this was the same junction and we set off down that path," she pointed, "then we must have initially arrived at the junction on that adjacent path."
"Except that we have been over a couple of bridges as we've walked so we could have crossed over other tracks."
She grinned. "You are an old rascal, Seph. You're teasing me. OK, which way do you think we should go?"
He shrugged. "Maybe we should go to the left."
So they set off walking again, slightly downhill at first and then the path turned and started uphill. "Carrie says your career really took off with Caroll's Capers. What happened when you moved onto other things?"
***
"I can't believe," Maggie said to Caroline as they watched Joseph and Caroll walk towards the trees, "that a modern-day eighteen-year-old girl has never walked with a two-inch heel before."
Caroline shrugged. "It happens, I guess."
"That's when I remembered," Maggie said, "that when Kevin and Sandra named their child Caroll, I thought it was an unusual name for a boy. And I also know that the company you get your breast enhancements from in Seacombe do things for boys as well as girls."
"Ah," Caroline said.
"Ah, indeed."
"As soon as I saw Caroll," Caroline said, "I was struck by several things: one was his resemblance to me, but also, that he was very unhappy within himself. And the way he was looking at the three bridesmaids, who were complete slappers, made me realise he was captivated by their dresses, rather than their bodies. So I took a chance on everything and it all seems to have worked out all right. You're not going to spill the beans, are you?"
Maggie touched Caroll's hand. "Carrie, the way Joseph has suddenly come alive again, they can have a love affair and elope to Gretna Green as far as I care. But let's make certain no one gets too disappointed, eh?"
***
"Oh, that's magnificent!" Caroll said, staring around from the peak of the knoll. A short inclined tunnel had suddenly brought them onto the grassy circle, with a pagoda in the centre where they could sit companionably side-by-side and look around. Somehow, they were holding hands and it felt… well, quite nice.
"We can see out through the trees, but this feels a very private spot, here, as though we can't be seen."
Joseph nodded. "If you go to the top of the house you can just see this spot through the trees, and your brightly-coloured dress would stand out, but we can't be seen from the main rooms.
"Why," he saucily added, "did you want to have frolics with me?"
Caroll realised she should have been deeply shocked at the suggestion. Firstly, a cross-dressed male receiving a sexual proposition from another male was shocking enough, but even if she had been a teenage girl, to receive such a suggestion from someone sixty years her senior should have been disgusting. Instead, she couldn't prevent herself from laughing at his impudence. "I think you're a wicked old man," she said. Then on some stupid impulse, she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Surprised, Joseph raised his hand to where her lips had grazed his cheek and slowly rubbed the spot, wondering if such things could give old men a heart attack. "You think I'm wicked," he said, "but I think, it takes one to know one." And his arm reached behind her head to bring her lips on to his.
***
"Better set the satnav for Gretna Green," Maggie wryly observed as they watched the couple from the window in the old servants' quarters.
"Hmm," Caroline said, "you put the kettle on and I’ll go outside and shout up that tea’s ready."
***
"It worked, didn’t it?" Caroll excitedly said to Caroline as they walked back to the stables. "It brought Seph alive again. That’s why you manipulated me into becoming a girl and it’s done exactly what you wanted."
"Yes it has," Caroline agreed, "although I only considered the idea because I thought it would be good for you as well as him. And looking at you, I was right about that, too. You look so comfortable in yourself as a girl."
"I feel it, Aunt. I just feel so good simply dressed in jeans and tee-shirt with my figure making everything seem right, and when I put on that wonderful dress, I thought I was going to burst."
Caroline grinned. "I could see."
Caroll paused a little, as though wondering whether to say something, and then said, "I kissed him. Just a little peck on the cheek. I mean, I’m not gay. I’ve never fancied boys at all, and I am attracted to girls, but it seemed a natural thing to do. Because I’m a girl not a boy, and it seemed OK to give him a little kiss on his cheek to say thank you for his kindness to me."
The silence lasted a few seconds before Caroll added, "Maybe it was stupid of me, because he took my head in his hands and gave me a proper kiss back."
"Were you shocked?"
"More surprised than shocked. I’d have expected a teenage boy to push his luck but not an elderly man. It... It so excited me, to know that I attracted him, that he wanted my body. My heart was pounding. I wanted to melt into his arms and let him have his way."
"And did you?"
"I pushed him away after a few seconds and told him he was a wicked old man. He smiled at me and said that being with such a beautiful woman made him like that."
"I think you were very wise."
"Do you? For some reason, mothers don’t tell their boys what to do under such circumstances."
"Let me try to speak as a wise aunt to her niece, rather than a mother to her daughter," Caroline said. "Firstly, the object of the exercise was to bring Uncle to life; not to kill him with a heart attack an hour after meeting him. That has to be a real consideration with men of that age if things get too physical.
"Secondly, men of all ages tend to feel anti-climax after sex. They have sowed their seed, their body is saying, bugger off now and sow it somewhere else. So there should be something more than physical desire between two people before they have sex, otherwise, it won't last for longer than it takes to ejaculate inside you. Believe me, I've had plenty of experiences like that. Maybe, if I'd have listened to the advice my mother gave me, I'd be in a relationship now. But I didn't and I'm not."
"Are you saying," Caroll asked, "that you want me to get into a longer term relationship with your uncle?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to infer that, but I thought you two could be friends whilst you're living with me."
"I know this is crazy," Caroll said, "but I really enjoyed being with him today – not just as a person visiting an elderly relative – but as someone who I enjoyed being with. As I said, he excited me."
"Even more reason why you don't let things go too far. A little kiss and a cuddle are fine, but don't let it go further. Do you understand?"
"Aunt, when you say, 'Don't let it go further,' I'm not certain how much further I could go anyway with this Hiplet thing. I mean, I know it's got a… thing, but surely I couldn't actually have… well, have sex with a man, could I?"
"Apparently it gives you all the capabilities, and it's supposed to be realistic for both partners, although I'm not certain how much of that is marketing hype and how much reality. But remember, just because you can, it doesn't mean you have to, particularly if you want to continue to enjoy time with Uncle Joseph."
"Do you know, he thinks I should take up Art?" Caroll said. "He's offered to teach me the basics of drawing. I thought I might give it a go."
"I'm sure he'll be a wonderful teacher," Caroline said, "and he'll want to properly thank you for being such a wonderful student. So take care."
***
"Will you be all right on your own, tomorrow," Caroline asked later that evening. "I have to go to work, but I'm hoping to get a bit of time off later in the week, and I can show you around Seacombe."
"Actually," Caroll said, "Seph asked me round for elevenses tomorrow, and he said stay and have some lunch. He said he'd get me started with drawing."
"That's brilliant, Caroll," Caroline said.
Caroll hesitated a little before saying, "I was wondering if you had a dress, say, that I could wear or something a bit prettier than jeans and tee-shirt. You do want me to keep him perky, after all."
Caroline smiled. "OK, let's go upstairs and you can choose something, but just remember that auntly advice I gave you, OK?"
"Yes, Aunt, and thanks."
***
Before setting out for the main house, Caroll knew there was one thing she must do. She'd had no contact from her father since she left two days before and she knew she had to clear the air. She called his mobile.
"Hello Dad, it's me."
"Karl? You sound funny."
"It must be a cold coming on, Dad," she said.
"So, you're all right with Aunt Carrie?"
"Yes, Dad."
"That's great. I must say, it's provided a bit more space around the house. I really wasn't certain how we were going to cope until you went off to university. By the way, you left all your stuff here."
"Aunt Carrie suggested I should have a clean sweep, just bring my toothbrush."
"But what are you wearing? The clothes you left home in?"
Caroll took a deep breath. She could lie, or… "Aunt Carrie's lent me some of her clothes. Jeans and tee-shirts and things."
"But what about… underpants?"
"She's lent me some of her panties. They're fine."
"What!" His voice was suddenly hushed as though frightened he might be overheard. "You're wearing…" another pause as he considered his words "…things like that. You're some kind of weirdo. OK, you're eighteen now, which means you're responsible for yourself. But for God's sake, don't ever appear here dressed like that, otherwise Roxy will wonder what kind of family she's married in to. So, good luck with it all, kid. Bye."
And he had rung off.
***
Not wanting to use Caroline’s key to the side door, Caroll went around to the front door and pushed on the large brass bell push. It was rather disappointing to hear a naff ding-dong from inside.
The front door opened immediately and a woman aged in her early twenties in a gingham overall stood before her, a pregnancy magazine, which she’d clearly just been reading, in one hand.
"Hello," she amiably said. "You must be Caroll. I’m Sharon, Maggie’s youngest daughter, and I do the cleaning here. Mum told me you’d be coming round. I hear you woke up the old man, a bit, yesterday. You’re very shapely; it’s easy to see why."
Caroll smiled at her. "Thank you, but I’m nothing really special." She nodded at the magazine. "Are you expecting?"
Sharon’s face lost its smile and said, "No. I’ve just had my period again. I’ve been trying for a baby for so long, I think I’ll die if I don’t have one soon."
"Oh I’m so sorry," Caroll said. "I hope you’ll be lucky soon."
"Fat chance of that," Sharon said. "Kevin, my partner has left me after I accused him of firing blanks. Best thing really; hopefully I’ll get someone who’s more fertile."
"Hi Caroll," Maggie’s voice came from the hallway beyond Sharon. "I thought I heard the doorbell go. Joseph’s waiting to see you. Don’t let Sharon bore you with her ongoing saga to motherhood. Come on through."
As she led the way, Carroll asked, "Do your two other daughters live locally?"
"Jenny does," Maggie said. "She’s my eldest and she’s married to Keith, who’s a gas-fitter and they have two children. Rachel is a marketing manager in London. She’s living with her partner, Melanie, and apparently they’re waiting until the science will allow them to have children without male input." She pulled a face. "So my hopes are on Sharon eventually finding someone. The problem is she’s so obsessed with having children, it puts blokes off, especially on a first date."
Carroll was still smiling as Maggie waved her hand to indicate she should go through to a study, where Joseph’s face immediately brightened as soon as he saw Caroll.
"Caroll, it's wonderful to see you."
"Hello, Seph." She gave him a kiss on his cheek, considering it safe in front of Maggie who looked as though she was playing chaperone.
"I'll get the tea," Maggie said. Actually, playing chaperone was exactly the part she'd agreed with Caroline on the phone last night.
"Come through into my studio," Joseph said, "and we'll make a start.
"Then maybe this afternoon," he added, "we’ll go down into Seacombe and I’ll show you the delights."
"That sounds brilliant, Seph," Caroll said
ENGAGEMENT
"Carrie," Caroll said to her as soon as she got home from work. "Something significant happened today."
Caroline stared at Caroll’s face, which looked as bleak as when she had first seen Carl at the wedding. "What is it? What’s happened?"
"Seph gave me a drawing lesson this morning and it was really brilliant. He made it seem so easy. In the space of a few hours, he pretty well convinced me to take it up at college and make a career of it."
"OK," Caroline said, "but is that what’s worrying you?"
"Oh, no. Taking up drawing seemed to make so much sense. But after lunch, we went into Seacombe and Seph and Maggie showed me around the town. We seemed to be having so much fun. Then, whilst Maggie went to get the car to take us home, Seph and I walked around the rear of the theatre at the end of the pier, where it’s very secluded and there’s a little shelter there with a bench inside. That’s when it happened."
"What happened?" Caroline croaked.
"Seph went down on one knee and proposed to me."
"You’re joking!" Then Caroline said, "What did you say?"
"I said I thought I was too young and we should be just good friends for a while."
"That sounds a pretty good answer," Caroline said.
"Well, Seph said he didn’t have a lot of time left and wanted to marry me quickly so we could have babies."
"Holy cow!" Caroline said. "How did you respond to that?"
"I don’t know how I managed to think of anything to say, but it was something like I wasn’t having regular periods so I didn’t think I could conceive."
"What did he say to that?"
"He said you must take me to a specialist doctor who would sort out my problems. Then we could be married and have lots of babies. I sort of made a fuss then and said we should go home."
"That was quick thinking, Caroll," Caroline said. "Let me have a think about everything. Is that a meal I can smell in the oven?"
"It’s Beef Bourgeon," Caroll said. "I found it quite calming to cook whilst my mind was in such turmoil."
***
"There is a reason," Caroline said, later that evening, "why Uncle Joseph would want to quickly make his new wife pregnant."
They’d had an excellent meal of Beef Bourgeon followed by a wonderfully light meringue, all washed down by a bottle of Merlot. Throughout the meal they had carefully avoided talk of the marriage proposal, and had both chatted noisily about their respective days. Now the conversation returned, as they both knew it must, to the dominant issue.
"Much to the frustration of Uncle's father, Edgar, it was several years after he married Alice before she became pregnant. Shortly after the pregnancy was announced, Edgar contracted bowel cancer. He immediately made a new will, and hoping to avoid death duties, he left the whole estate in trust to Uncle’s first born, giving Uncle and his spouse the right to live here for life. But shortly after Edgar’s death, Alice miscarried and they never had another child. Many years ago, he fought to get me the right to inherit the estate as adopted daughter, but failed in the courts. So, when Uncle dies, the whole estate will pass to the Crown, who no doubt will auction it to the highest bidder."
"So you and Maggie will be homeless when that happens," Caroll said.
"We’ve both saved up for that possibility," Caroline said, "but property prices always seem to exceed savings, so the basic answer to your question is yes, we’ll be homeless."
"Whereas if Seph remarried and his wife became pregnant, then their child would inherit the estate, and the mother would have the right to live here."
"But Maggie and I would still have no rights unless the new wife allowed us to live here."
"Unless," Caroll said, "she was already part of the family and was sympathetic to them."
"Yes."
"But being as I can't have children, that scuppers the whole thing. If only I'd been born a girl."
"Then by now," Caroline said, "you'd probably have a boyfriend, I wouldn't have particularly noticed you and brought you here to introduce you to Uncle Joseph. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. It's simply no good saying, 'If only.' Far better to say how can we influence the future for the better?"
"Well, I can't biologically have children, full stop. There's no way around that."
"Could you go and bring down that Big Busts pamphlet I gave you?" Caroline asked. "I think there might just be a way forward."
Caroll ran to her bedroom and came back clutching it. "What is it you think… Oh!"
"They talk about a Pregnancy Torsolet, don't they? Let's enquire in the morning."
"But Aunt, it's no good looking as though I'm pregnant. I have to deliver a baby, and presumably they'll check the DNA against Seph's, so I can't just borrow any old baby."
"Have you heard of surrogate babies? That might be an option?"
"I don't really understand what they are."
"Basically, it would be using Joseph's sperm to create a baby with a surrogate mother, who would commit to giving over the child when it's born."
Caroll looked quizzical. "Would a baby's mother do that? I mean, she might say she would but when it came down to it…"
"We need to investigate," Caroline said. "First thing, let's arrange in the morning to go into Big Busts in my lunch break. You don't have anything arranged with Uncle, do you?"
Caroll shook her head. "No, we sort of left it open."
"OK, until tomorrow lunchtime, then."
***
Caroll took the bus into town next day and spent a few minutes wandering through the shopping area which, as men do, Joseph had rapidly passed by on his introductory tour the previous day. As Carl, he had always been embarrassed at staring into the windows of dress shops, but now she could spend ages simply admiring every pretty dress and blouse. So much so that she suddenly realised it was getting late for her appointment with her aunt. Fortunately, she just made it in time and she timidly went into the downstairs shop. Upon explaining she had an appointment, she was rapidly shown upstairs, offered a comfortable seat and a cup of tea or coffee.
Caroline arrived a few minutes later and they were immediately shown into the same consultation room where Carl's transformation had taken place on Sunday.
"Is everything all right with your transformation?" Susan, the consultant asked them.
"It's wonderful," Caroll answered. "I just can't believe how I've changed over the last few days and how happy I've become."
"That's excellent news," Susan said. "You'd be amazed how many of our first time clients say exactly the same. So how can I help you today?"
Caroll nervously looked at Caroline, who said, "We realise it's a bit quick, but an opportunity has come up and we wanted to investigate the Pregnancy Torsolets you talk about in your brochure."
"Wow, that is quick," Susan smiled. "Can I ask is it just for a single occasion, or do you want to go through several months, or even a full-term pregnancy?"
"It would be full term," Caroline explained.
"Then let me explain about our complete surrogacy package, designed to provide a total pregnancy experience, from conception through to childbirth."
"How would that work?" Caroline queried.
"Well, firstly, I need to say that we are not allowed by law to become involved in any surrogacy arrangement. What we can do is to provide equipment to facilitate any arrangement you may make with others. Is that OK?"
They both nodded affirmative.
"With the surrogacy package, we’d fit you with a series of Torsolets for the full term, and beyond. Obviously, conception is a hugely important moment in your pregnancy, and the vagina in your pregnancy starter Torsolet will have special facilities to collect and harvest your partner's semen, so you would have normal intercourse with your partner in order to start fertilisation. Whereas our conventional vaginas are designed to be realistic but also easily cleanable, this vagina has a Fallopian Tube fitted with a special collection condom so semen will be stored in the Fallopian tube after intercourse until you harvest it."
"Harvest it?" Caroll asked.
"We’d recommend harvesting once a day when you’re having regular intercourse," Susan said. "Essentially it means removing the condom from your Fallopian Tube and freezing it for storage. You’ll have a little tool to remove the condom, then you seal it, rinse the outside and pop it in the freezer. You'd then use the other end of the tool to insert a new collection condom in your Fallopian tube.
"Our company cannot be involved in the arrangements for transportation and insemination in the surrogate mother," she continued. "And we appreciate the relationship between you and the surrogate may be very close or totally remote. So we have built in what we regard as a very nice feature to make you feel much more connected to your pregnancy. We will issue a 'I am pregnant,' button for the surrogate. As soon as she presses it, a message is sent to your Torsolet via the internet; a valve will operate and the bladder in front of your tummy will very slowly start filling. During the first three months, a pregnant woman gains between one and two kilograms. So your first suspicion of being pregnant will be when you experience slight discomfort as the bladder in the Torsolet stomach grows and you start putting on weight."
"Wow," Caroline said. "That is fantastic. It would be your body telling you that you were pregnant."
"Where does the liquid come from?" Caroll asked.
"Liquid?"
"You said the first thing I'd notice would be the pressure on my stomach as I put on weight, so therefore you must be adding liquid to the bladder and I wondered where it came from."
"You're obviously interested in those aspects," Susan said, "but our intention with our surrogacy package is to totally immerse the mother-to-be in her pregnancy, from conception to childbirth and breast feeding. If you go ahead with this package, I would urge you to let us worry about the how, and you simply concentrate upon being a pregnant mother-to-be." She smiled. "Pregnancy is a fantastic experience, and we want you to experience it to the full. So you would come in here for regular check-ups, and with each Trimester we would change out the Torsolet for one designed for your next period of pregnancy. With the Torsolet for the third trimester, you'll be able to feel your baby kicking."
"That's incredible," Caroline said.
"As you and the surrogate approach childbirth, we can make arrangements with the surrogate’s midwife to synchronise delivery. Again, handover from surrogate to mother cannot be our responsibility, but we can make the physical things happen. You will experience a physical childbirth."
"That sounds just wonderful," Caroline said. "Don’t you think so, Caroll?"
"I’m not certain," Caroll said. "It sounds rather scary."
Susan touched Caroll’s hand and said, "It’ll be tremendously exciting, Caroll, but I do understand it’s a huge step for you. Go home and think it through carefully. Obviously, you’ll need to discuss it with your partner and the surrogate; I suggest getting a solicitor involved as well, as there are all kinds of legal issues. But if you decide to go ahead, as far as we know, we are the only company which offers this kind of service."
As Susan watched the two leave the premises, she thought she’d handled that quite well. The surrogacy package was an idea they had tossed around at team meetings. Now they were hopefully going to have to put it into practice.
***
"What do you think?" Caroline asked Caroll as they walked away.
"I just don't know," Caroll said. "Just a few days ago, I was a teenage boy; now I'm a teenage girl which would be change enough; but I'm facing up to marriage and childbirth. It sounds…"
"Yes?"
"It sounds like a dream but I’m not certain whether it’s nightmare or fairy-tale. Then, if I did decide to go ahead, there's also the issue of what I tell Seph? Are you suggesting I cheat on him? Tell him nothing about a surrogate mother?"
"I think it's better if I talk to Uncle about it. I will probably tell him a limited amount and then say it's better for him not to know anything else. He knows he can trust me, and it's then up to him if he wants to hear further details."
"What about if something goes wrong with the surrogacy, like Susan seemed to suggest could happen? It all seems fraught with problems."
"We'll have to make certain the surrogate is someone we can trust."
***
Caroline telephoned Maggie later that afternoon.
"How’s Uncle this afternoon? What’s his reaction to Caroll’s response to his proposal, yesterday?"
"He’s like a cat on a hot tin roof. He’s desperately hoping Caroll will come round here or you’ll have some news. You’d better speak to him in a minute."
"I will, but first I’d better bring you up to date on our meeting at Big Busts at lunchtime."
After telling her of the meeting, she added, "I’ve also just spoken with the Trust solicitor and sounded him out about a surrogacy."
"What did he say?"
"Provided we could trust the surrogate, he thought it would work fine. The crucial thing is that it would be Uncle Joseph’s semen which created the baby, so the baby would inherit when it came of age. In the meantime, Joseph’s widow would have right of occupancy."
"But he said we’d have to trust the surrogate absolutely?" Maggie asked. "There’d be no legal agreement we could draw up which would force the surrogate to keep her word?"
"No," Caroline said. "We’d have to absolutely trust the surrogate. What about one of your daughters?"
They chatted for some time about potential surrogates, until Maggie finally said, "It seems to me there’s only one suitable person out of all those we've discussed. Do you agree?"
"Yes," Caroline said. "I suppose you’re right."
"Do you want me to ask her?" Maggie said.
"I guess you’d better."
***
"Hi Uncle. How’re things?" Caroline asked.
"I'm in a turmoil," he told her. "Presumably you know I proposed to Caroll yesterday and she fobbed me off. Said she had some medical problem and couldn’t give me children?"
"Yes, Uncle, I know all about that. I’ve been with Caroll to see a specialist this lunchtime."
"And?" He was desperate for an answer.
"I think there could be a solution to her specific problems..."
"Thank God!"
"But I'm not going to give you many details unless you really want me to and I don't recommend that. You'll just have to trust me. Also, it will be very expensive." She named a price to which he made no comment.
"It will mean you can marry Caroll and have sex, and you may produce a beautiful baby. But you of all people know there are all kinds of risk with pregnancy. And even though it’s possible, it doesn’t mean Caroll will want to marry you at her young age. I mean, why should she? What can you offer her apart from pregnancy, childbirth and bringing up kids? Young people don’t want that nowadays and who can blame them?"
"I think she quite likes me."
"Of course she likes you, but that’s not the same as undying love, the kind you’ll sacrifice the rest of your life for. And we have to be realistic, Uncle, you’re not going to live forever, so what about her financial security? I have checked with the Trust solicitor and he’s happy that if Caroll was pregnant with your baby she could remain living here after your death. But will she have money to live on?"
"I have given that some thought. Of course, Carrie, it would mean I’d have less wealth to will to you when I’ve gone..."
"Don’t be stupid, Uncle. Of course you’ll have to support Caroll and your child or children properly. Maggie and I will be grateful if we can stay living at the house."
"Thanks love. In that case, can you tell her?"
"It would be better if you did. Shall I ask her to come round tomorrow?"
"Wonderful," Joseph said.
***
When she got home that evening, Caroline said to Caroll, "Maggie and I have found a trustworthy surrogate who would bear your child if that’s what you wanted. I’ve also spoken with Uncle about your ability to give him a baby
"What did you tell him? The truth?"
"I didn’t tell him any lies although I was economical with the truth."
"But he needs to know."
"Why? I thought what Susan described at lunchtime was absolutely fantastic. If you choose to marry Uncle, you will have sexual intercourse with him resulting in a baby being born. That’s what he wants to hear. What’s more important to me is how you feel about marrying Uncle and carrying his child. If the idea is repugnant to you then clearly there’s no point in going on."
"Carrie," Caroll said. "What’s happened to me over the last few days has been a whirlwind. I’m so overjoyed at everything you’ve done for me. So I will do almost anything I can to help you and I can’t deny that the idea of carrying a baby excites me like hell. But I’m not going to be able to go to university if I have a young child to bring up. I’d have to put my career on hold for years."
"Uncle is quite wealthy. He will make a substantial allowance for you in his will. Maybe you don’t need to worry about a career."
"Not worry? How much is he talking about?"
"He’d like to meet up with you tomorrow and you can discuss things. Will you do that?"
"Of course. I’ve been feeling I’ve treated him badly. I’d like to make it up to him."
"OK, but remember what I said about not going too far. If you’re really considering marrying him, don’t make him drop dead beforehand!"
Caroll smiled. "I won’t."
***
"Hi Caroll," Sharon said as she opened the front door to her, next morning.
"Hi Sharon. How are things with you?"
"Well, actually," Sharon said. "Things have moved forward a little on the chances of me becoming pregnant. You see there's this…"
"Sharon," Maggie‘s voice cut through. "Don't keep Caroll standing on the doorstep all day. Bring her in."
"Oh sorry, Mum. Yes, come in, Caroll."
"Before you see Joseph," Maggie said, "can I have a quick word with you?"
"Of course," she said, and Maggie led the way to the empty lounge and shut the door.
"I think you know that Carrie and I have been trying to arrange a surrogate mother, to, er… assist matters along to give Joseph and you a child, and it looks like we have found someone."
"Yes, that's so good of you to do this, although I'm still not certain..."
"It's important," Maggie interrupted, "that you don't know the identity of the surrogate for certain legal reasons. So can you promise me that you won't try to find out? If say, Sharon becomes pregnant or you see a pregnant woman visiting this house, it doesn't mean she's your surrogate and you mustn't try to find out if she is. Do you understand?"
"Legal reasons?"
"Don't ask, and we won't have to respond to your question. I know it's a little strange, but it's for everyone's benefit. Is that all right?"
Caroll nodded. "I guess so. Ask no questions and get told…"
"Absolutely," Maggie said. "Now let me take you in to see Joseph."
"Before I go in," Caroll said, "do you think I could put on another of Caroll's Caper's dresses?"
"Oh love! Of course you can. Let's go upstairs to the attic."
***
"Oh God, Caroll." Joseph almost ran across the room towards her, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the lips. "You look absolutely ravishing," he said, once the kiss had ended.
Caroll smirked at him. "Thanks, Seph. That was a nice greeting."
"Look, Caroll. I'm sorry I sprung things on you on Monday, but I'd had such a wonderful day, I felt I couldn't contain myself. Obviously, if you don't want to get married and have babies and things, then I completely understand, but…"
"Seph," Caroll interrupted. "I have thought about it very carefully, and I am sorely tempted, but I hopefully have some kind of a career ahead of me. I need to get qualifications and a job."
"And I'm asking you to put your career on hold for years," Joseph said. "Obviously, I will provide for you, both whilst I'm alive and when I die. So you'll have a dowry when we marry, and a regular income which will increase for each baby born to you." He named the sums and Caroll gasped.
"But that’s huge. If I had four children, I’d be getting more money than most people can ever expect to earn."
"The one proviso is that I can do nothing about your residency here after my death if you don't conceive. As long as you bear at least one child of mine, you can live here for life. And I hope I can depend on you to provide a home for Carrie and Maggie."
"Well if time is short," Caroll said. "We'd better get married straightaway."
MARRIAGE
It was to be a small wedding, everyone agreed. With time at a premium, a larger, more lavish wedding would simply take far too long to organise. From Caroll’s side, she certainly didn’t want to invite her family or step-family, as the truth would certainly come out of the bag. So, the notice was served on the registrar, and everything else was minimised, with only one exception, Caroll wanted a beautiful dress based upon a Caroll’s Capers' design. The original dressmaker was found and she was delighted to design a dress for this occasion. The wedding ceremony, wedding feast and the honeymoon would all take place no further away than Seacombe’s Grand Hotel, and Joseph and Caroll would continue staying at the Grand until the refurbishment of their downstairs master bedroom was complete.
***
"You look absolutely beautiful," Caroline said, as the dressmaker did her final smoothing down of the dress, before they would step outside of Caroline's house and meet the photographer, who would do a series of photographs around the stable block, before getting into the limo to take them to the Grand Hotel.
"Thanks, Carrie. Do I really look as beautiful as I feel."
"More so. You look ravishing. Have a lovely day and the rest of your life."
"Thank you so much, Carrie, for the wonderful way in which you have changed my life."
"I'm just so pleased everything has turned out right," Caroline said. "Now, let's go and have a wedding."
***
It was many hours later before Caroll and Joseph were finally in their bedroom at the Grand. When booking the rooms, they had looked at the Bridal Suite but found it just too ostentatious for them, so had chosen one of the Grand's State Rooms, which they both found much nicer and more comfortable.
"Thank you so much, Seph, for making such a wonderful day. Now, we shall have a wonderful night together," Caroll said.
"Well, actually," Joseph said, "I'm feeling a bit sleepy. Let's get to sleep now, then we can canoodle in the morning."
Caroline, who'd apparently had some experience with older men, had told her what might happen and why, and the way to overcome such issues.
"Seph, I am yours, now, but that also means that you are mine. I'm not after a five minute quickie, but I do want to show my love to you. Now, why don't you show your love to me by sucking on this pair of beauties?"
Joseph gasped as Caroll pulled down the front of her dress, and before he could say a word, she pushed his head down and filled his mouth with her breast.
Later, much, much later, Joseph said with a wide grin on his mouth, "I guess the words, 'How was it for you?' are rather superfluous. I've never given a woman a screaming orgasm before."
"No man has ever touched me down there, before, never mind given me what you just have," Caroll said. Of course, she thought, turning up the Sensotouch on her new Pregnancy Torsolet had no doubt helped with the screaming orgasm, and her Fallopian tube must now have its first dollop of semen inside.
"Why don't we have a little rest now," Joseph said. "Then we can see what comes up, later."
"Just remember," Caroll said, "that what comes up, goes up."
"Love you," he said.
***
Next day, Caroll used the special tool to remove the collecting condom from her Fallopian tube, amazed at how much sperm there was inside the little balloon. She inserted a replacement and had just made herself decent, when she got a pre-arranged text message from Caroline to say she was outside their room in the corridor. Caroll put the condom into a hotel envelope, opened the door and silently passed it to Caroline.
"Wow," Caroline softly murmured, peering inside the envelope. "That's a lot. Those instructions I gave you must really have worked."
"They did, too," Caroll said. "Now, you'd better give that to the surrogate and get me pregnant."
Caroline gave a little grin. "No problem."
"Who's at the door?" Joseph called to Caroll.
"It's the cleaner," Caroll fibbed. "I told her to come back a bit later. Are we going for that walk down to the sea front?"
"You bet," Joseph said. "Then perhaps afterwards we could come back here and have tea and crumpet in the room?"
"Well, I don't think they'd let you have your crumpet on a coffee table in the lounge," Caroll quipped.
***
And so married life progressed, as it does for most new couples. They enjoyed each other's company, went for walks and then enjoyed each other's company again. Once their master bedroom had been refurbished, they were able to move back to the house, and the arrangements for passing on the little packages of semen were simplified. Caroll simply had to put the little packages into a used ice cream box in the freezer, and periodically, Caroline would take them out and pass them onto the surrogate.
Then, a month after their wedding, Sharon came into the lounge, buzzing with excitement. "I'm pregnant!" she yelled. "Yes! Yes! I'm pregnant."
"That's wonderful news," Caroll said to her. "When are you due?"
It was a simple question, but Sharon poured out mass of information: how many weeks she was gone; how she was going for a scan soon and would be able to tell everyone all about it; and how she wasn't quite certain who the father was.
"You don't know who the father is?" Joseph asked. "Are you…"
"We really don't want to know about your sex life," Maggie almost shouted at her, suddenly entering the room. "We're all absolutely delighted for you, but we'd rather not know the details. All right."
"Oh, sorry, Mum," Sharon said. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'll get on with the cleaning. But I am just so happy."
When Sharon had left the room, Joseph said, "You were a bit hard on her, Maggie. I'm sure we can cope with Sharon's sordid sex life."
"Sorry," Maggie said, "but I’d just rather she didn’t blab out personal details."
"Well, she can't hide for long the fact that she’s pregnant," Caroll said. "She can’t keep that quiet."
"Talking of that," Maggie said, "is there any news of your event yet?"
"Not yet," Caroll said, regretting ever discussing the subject, "but we’re really hopeful."
***
The following day, Caroll noticed a slight discomfort in her lower abdomen. It was too early to get excited, but she did wonder whether there was any connection between Sharon’s announcement and her own condition. Wisely, she kept quiet until she’d had chance to have a consultation with her Big Busts specialist.
PREGNANCY
"Seph. I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant! Oh, you’re going to be a father. Isn’t that wonderful?"
"Oh darling. It’s the best news any man could have."
"I must go and tell Maggie and Sharon. I know they’ll be thrilled by our news."
But after telling Maggie her news and being congratulated, Maggie was quite grumpy about Sharon. "She hasn’t come in today. Morning sickness, she says, although when I was working, I always got into work in spite of it. I hope you’re going to bear your baby with pride, Caroll, and not make a song and dance about it, as many women nowadays do." Maggie had never told Caroll she knew her birth gender; indeed, she stoically refused to even consider it. As far as she was concerned, Caroll was a married woman who needed help bearing children, and that was that.
"I’ll do my very best," Caroll replied, trying not to grin.
"And now you’re pregnant, you must keep up the exercise. Take Joseph a walk around the knoll, and make certain you do it every day. And make certain you keep him satisfied. You don’t want him looking around at other women at this stage in your lives."
"I’ll do my best, Maggie," Caroll said, recognising that Maggie had made an important point. It would be far too easy to get totally involved in her pregnancy, real or not, and as far as she was concerned, this was a real pregnancy. "But please don’t be hard on Sharon," she added. "She’s been waiting so long for this pregnancy you can understand why she’s so careful." After all, she thought but did not say, she has got to produce my baby.
***
For the first few months, pregnancy was really fun. Caroline took her out to buy a whole new wardrobe and as she started to swell, Caroll felt an incredible sense of achievement. This was a woman’s most basic purpose in life, and she was doing it. Joseph was incredibly proud of his input and, as Maggie had suggested, Caroll and he continued to bonk like rabbits, if rather elderly rabbits. Caroll continued to harvest his semen throughout the first trimester on the basis that Joseph might be poorly when it became time to start their next child. When it was time to move onto the Torsolet for the second trimester, she and Maggie agreed there was little point in continuing to collect semen since there was now an ice cream box full of it in the freezer; surely sufficient to fertilise Caroll’s pregnancy into old age.
With the excitement of pregnancy, Caroll didn’t notice at first, but her relationship with Caroline seemed to grow more distant. Obviously, now she had moved from living in Caroline‘s stables into the main house, they were not continually on top of each other, but after a while, Caroll noticed Caroline was coming round to the house less often. She suspected that she (Caroll) probably bored Caroline with her endless chatter about motherhood; indeed, she now spent endless time talking with Sharon, which rather indicated how boring she had become.
Caroll tried to make a special effort to re-engage her relationship with Caroline, but Caroline explained that her work was becoming extremely hectic at the moment, which was why they were seeing less of each other. Caroll suspected something rather deeper than that; with Caroline in her early forties, she would see the menopause looming on the horizon and be reaching the conclusion she would never have her own children. Apart from making intrusive suggestions about Caroline’s personal life, there seemed little she could do to help in that area, so Caroll eventually accepted they had grown more distant.
Then, when Caroline said she was being temporarily transferred to her company’s Edinburgh office, Caroll wondered how much Caroline had encouraged the move. In any case, she thought, moving to a new office would bring Caroline into contact with new people; she might find love as a result. So they all wished her good luck and said goodbye, for the time being, with Caroline promising to return hot foot, as soon as the baby was born.
***
It was as Caroll entered her third trimester that pregnancy stopped being fun, and more something to be endured in order to give birth. As a genetic male, she thought she'd be inherently stronger than genetic females, so would have no problems coping with the extra weight. She was astonished at the stamina she needed to carry her bulge around, all day and every day. The gentle curves she'd had until then were now expanded so she looked and felt like a huge shapeless balloon, but a balloon filled not with air but with flesh and blood, which was so heavy to carry around, she just wanted to keel over. She became worn out just walking around the house.
Her lactating breasts made it even worse. During her second trimester, Susan had explained that recent medical trials had shown that genetic males were able to breast feed their babies. If Caroll wanted, Big Busts could include built-in breast pumps in their third trimester Torsolet.
"How would it work?" Caroll had asked.
"Your next Torsolet would be fitted with a pump in each breast." Susan said. They had discussed this very element within Big Busts just before Caroll’s appointment, so she was having to go carefully. "It will take many weeks of pumping before you start expressing milk, but when you do, it will be pumped into sterile bladders connected between your own nipples and the nipples on the Torsolet. So when your baby's born, he or she will have a ready supply of your natural milk to feed on."
"You mean I'll produce milk which will be stored inside the Torsolet breast?" Caroll asked.
"Yes it will," Susan replied. "But until your baby is born, you'll need to express your milk in order to avoid your breasts inflating like balloons. After childbirth, you'll be able to feed your baby from your own natural milk. Of course, you'll need to replace the bladder every day with new sterile one.
"We suggest you start using the breast pump as soon as you're fitted with your next Torsolet. Frequent pumping throughout the day and night appears to be the key to getting even male breasts to lactate, although you may need some hormone enhancement, which we can give you advice on."
"Won’t the pump be noisy?"
"It's reasonably quiet, but not silent, so we recommend pumping in private if your partner is not aware of what's happening."
The idea was exciting both in theory and in practice; she found the act of pumping a very emotive experience. However, it meant going to the bathroom every two hours in order to switch on her breast pumps and try to start lactating. After a month or so, she started getting minute drops of milk, after another month, there were reasonable quantities and in the final month she was producing milk like a prize cow. Of course, creating the milk inside her body was in itself enormously tiring, which was compounded by having to get up throughout the night at two hourly intervals in order to pump.
But the real problem was the increased size and weight of her breasts. For a start, because her natural breasts were lactating, they had grown to a size almost unique for a genetic male without hormone treatment or implants. Then, the milk pumped from them was being stored in the bladders inside the Torsolet breasts. Add that to the original silicone implants which came within the Torsolet and Caroll had massive breasts. She could remember how a year ago, large breasts had been erotic; now they were as erotic as a cow’s udder and were just extra weight which had to be carried around. But then, on the other hand, her natural breasts were lactating, which was tremendously stimulating and moving, knowing that all being well, her new baby would shortly be feeding from them.
Caroll had long ago abandoned any thought that this was a sham pregnancy. She was carrying the weight of a pregnant woman, she waddled as she walked, leaning right back so that the weight of her bulge was carried straight down her legs; her breasts were lactating, and every few minutes, the baby was kicking hard. She had got to the point of wearily looking forward to childbirth in order to have a rest. Little did she know.
CHILDBIRTH
As Sharon approached her final weeks of pregnancy, she gave up working at the house and Maggie’s eldest daughter, Jenny, stood in for as cleaner. As a mother of two, she knew all about the trials of pregnancy, and was initially very helpful to Caroll, without continually talking about it, as Sharon had done. The problem was, as Jenny got to know Caroll better, she started becoming quite bossy about her pregnancy. It got even worse when Maggie told her she was going up to London to stay with Rachel for a few weeks. Apparently, she was off work with some unspecified "woman’s problem".
"Caroll, I can't understand," Jenny said, "why you're not having your baby at the Maternity Unit at Seacombe General Hospital. They have a really good record; everyone says they're brilliant, so why are you going to this other unit which I've never heard of?"
Sharon, of course, had never asked her such questions, presumably because she knew Caroll's pregnancy really was all a sham.
"I've had complications with my pregnancy since before conception. I have every confidence in the team I'm dealing with."
"Well I can't understand why they're not inducing you. You said you've gone well past your due date and you're clearly ready for it."
"My due date was only very approximate since I hadn't been having regular periods."
"Never mind. Dr Shah at the Maternity Unit is brilliant. You shouldn't be messing with these others."
"I'm sorry Jenny, it's all arranged and I really don't want to start changing things."
Jenny sniffed in a way that said it wasn't done at all, but just then the telephone rang and she went off to answer it.
"Seacombe... Oh hi... Really? Oh that’s brilliant news. I’ll tell Caroll. OK. Bye."
Jenny put down the phone and turned to Caroll. "Sharon’s had a little boy, seven pounds, five ounces. They’re both doing well. Isn’t that marvelous?"
"Er, yes. Absolutely fantastic," Caroll said, but was really wondering why she hadn't been summoned to the Big Busts pregnancy suite, as she'd been told she would. Maybe with Maggie being away, a chain of communication had broken. She left Jenny and went to the study in order to ring them up.
"I'm sorry," Susan said. "We've had no notice that the surrogate's given birth, although obviously it will be soon. But don't worry, Caroll. Even if the surrogate has delivered early, we can still go through your own childbirth a day or so later, as long as the arrangement with the surrogate is still intact. Have you spoken with Maggie or Caroline? They were coordinating arrangements with the surrogate."
Caroll tried telephoning both of them, but Caroline's phone was switched off and Maggie didn't answer hers. She tried several times over the course of the afternoon and into the evening, without success. Joseph kept asking what was wrong with her, but she obviously couldn't tell him anything, so she just worried on her own.
***
Jenny was upstairs when the doorbell rang so Caroll went to the front door and opened it.
"Caroll," Sharon greeted her, holding a little bundle in her arms. "I've brought little Randolph to see you."
"Oh," Caroll exclaimed. "Isn't he wonderful? But shouldn't you have…" She broke off as she realised Jenny was coming up behind her, admiring the baby and listening to their conversation.
"Shouldn't I have what?" Sharon asked.
"I mean," Caroll flustered, "you shouldn't really have named him. That's for us to do, surely?"
"Caroll. Have you taken leave of your senses? Why should my employer name my baby?"
A sense of dread swept through Caroll. Something had gone horribly wrong with the surrogacy, and she was on the point of childbirth without a baby to be born.
"Sharon," she said, "you're looking awfully worn out after what you've gone through. Why don't you come in and lie down for a little and I'll look after Randolph?" What a terrible name she thought; we're certainly going to name him something else.
"I really am fine," Sharon said. "Anyway, I couldn't bear to be parted from Randolph. I'm never separated from him."
In any case, Caroll thought, if she ran away with Randolph now to the Big Busts pregnancy suite, surely the police would come looking for her. But further thought on the subject was pushed aside as the first contraction ripped through her body.
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll.
"It's all right love," Jenny said, comforting her. "It's only the first contraction. You're just in pre-labour. No need to do anything yet."
"That contraction," Sharon said, "lasted for almost a minute. She's moving into active labour. She needs to go to the Maternity Unit now."
"There's plenty of time," Jenny countered. "No need to panic."
"Aagh!" Caroll yelled, as a second contraction ripped through her.
"My car's outside," Sharon said. "We'll use that. It will be quicker than waiting for an ambulance."
Between her and Jenny, they manhandled her towards Sharon's car. Sharon ran back to get Randolph and then, as Caroll went into another contraction, Jenny dashed back to get Caroll's ready-packed suitcase.
"I need to go," Caroll said, "to my special birth unit on Edward Street."
"Right, no problems," Sharon said, getting behind the wheel of her car. She hadn't a clue where Edward Street was but she knew where the Maternity Unit was. They could sort things out there.
***
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll as the car rolled up to the Maternity Unit.
A couple of porters near the door ran over with a stretcher and helped her onto it. She was wheeled into a bay inside the Maternity Unit and slid onto a bed.
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll.
"Let me just listen to the baby's heartbeat," a midwife said, sweeping into the bay, stethoscope in hand. She placed it onto Caroll's stomach and listened, moved it slightly, and then again. "Doctor in Bay Six," she called out.
Within seconds, an Asian doctor came in. "I can't hear a heartbeat," the midwife said.
"Thank heavens," Jenny said. "It's Dr Shah. Don't worry, Caroll, he'll sort it."
"Where am I?" Caroll asked, looking around for the first time.
"You're in Seacombe General Maternity Unit," Dr Shah explained as he used his stethoscope all over Carroll's tummy. "What's your name?"
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll.
"It's Mrs Caroll Harper," Jenny said.
"Mrs Harper," Dr Shah said. "We can't find your baby's heartbeat. We're going to have to do an immediate Caesarean Section, do you understand? Do we have your permission?"
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll.
"Go ahead," Jenny and Sharon said, almost simultaneously.
"What relation are you to the patient?" the midwife asked.
"We're the cleaners," Jenny explained.
Dr Shah shook his head. "Mrs Harper. Can you understand me? I need to do an immediate Caesarean section. Do I have your permission?"
"What?" Caroll's eyes suddenly shot wide open. "No! No! N… Aagh-aagh-aagh!"
"Mrs Harper. You will lose your baby and maybe your life unless you allow us to do…"
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll.
"If only she'd pass out," the midwife muttered, "we could take emergency action and get on with it."
"Who's her next of kin?" Dr Shah asked.
"Her husband, Joseph," Sharon replied. "I've got his mobile number here." She put Randolph into her other arm and searched her mobile with her one hand. It's 07790…"
"That's his old number," Jenny said. "He's changed it now. I'll find it."
"Can we get everyone out of here?" Dr Shah ordered the midwife, and she unceremoniously bundled them all out of the bay.
"I've got the number here, Dr Shah," Jenny shouted from outside the bay.
As soon as the last of them had left the bay, Caroll still bent double, slid off the bed and crawled on her hands and knees beneath a curtain into the neighbouring bay. There was a woman screaming on the bed, her legs splayed wide facing Caroll whilst a midwife called "Push! Push!" Caroll continued moving on her hands and knees around the bed and then out into the corridor. By the time Dr Shah had managed to speak with Joseph, she was climbing into a taxi outside.
"Are you all right, love?" the taxi driver asked her. "It looks like you ought to be arriving here, not driving away."
"Edward Street," she said. "Number twenty-one." Then, "Aagh-Aagh-Aagh!"
***
The woman who helped Caroll out of the taxi wore a label saying 'Midwife', but in fact she hadn't been a midwife for several years. Now she was employed by Big Busts to go through the motions of it.
"I've lost my baby," Caroll said to her between contractions. "She was so close. But I simply couldn't pull her out of the surrogate's grasp."
"Don't be silly," the midwife said. "The surrogate is here now and she's just going into labour. I'm afraid it will be some time before your baby is born."
"The surrogate is here?" Carol’s mouth dropped open. "But I thought... Who is it? Can I see her?"
"I’m sorry, love. There’s no contact with the surrogate allowed. But your friend, Maggie’s here, as well. I’m sure she’ll come through when you’re about to give birth."
"Maggie’s here?" Relief flooded through her. Of course! Everything made sense, now, especially the surrogate's identity. "Oh, that’s wonderful. I’ll just wait here until things are about to happen."
"I think things are happening..."
"Aagh-aagh-aagh!" yelled Caroll.
"…now," the midwife concluded "I’m afraid it’s going to be slightly painful."
MOTHERHOOD
"I still can’t get over just how much milk you produce," Caroline said, as three-month-old Josephine slurped noisily at Caroll’s breast. Caroline had wangled some sabbatical time away from her job in Edinburgh so she could help Caroll with her newborn, although Maggie had provided most of the help whilst Caroline had hovered around as a virtual grandmother. "Josephine is such a big girl, now, and you're still feeding her from your breasts. Many genetic females have switched to formula by now."
"I guess it’s the frequent pumping," Caroll said. "It's every hour, now. Seph prefers to sleep separately so he’s not disturbed by Jo waking in the night. It means I can have my breast pumps on automatic, so I don’t even have to wake up properly to express milk, so it’s all there ready for when little Jo wants it. Isn’t it my lovely darling?" Caroll smiled down at Jo and she smiled back at Caroll.
Caroline couldn’t help smirking at the pair. "I’m so glad everything turned out all right," she said.
"The only thing," Caroll said, "well, this morning, I felt a little pressure against my abdomen, the same as I did when I became pregnant."
"You mean you may be pregnant again?" Caroline grinned.
"I can’t understand why," Caroll said.
"Aren’t you and Joseph having sex?"
"Yes, we are, but..."
"That’s fine then. You’re not on the birth pill, since it wouldn’t work for you. Even if you were using condoms, there’s still a relatively high pregnancy rate."
"But it’s not about me, is it? We’d need to get the surrogate involved again."
"The surrogate was tasked originally," Caroline said, "to have up to four babies. She’s received all the semen you harvested, which should be sufficient for dozens of babies so we don’t need to do anything for her to become pregnant again. As far as you're concerned, it will just happen and then all she needs to do is to push her 'I am pregnant' button, again."
"But I don’t think I’m ready, just yet, for my next baby."
"Then get used to the idea," Caroline said. "Women everywhere have to accept the fact that pregnancy happens.
"And I think," she added, "that it’s wonderful news. I’m so pleased for you both."
"But Aunt," Caroll said. "That means I may have my next baby and then become pregnant again, a few months after that."
"Now you understand what it means to be a woman," Caroline said. But at the same time, she couldn’t help thinking back to that conversation with Maggie, a year previously, about choosing the surrogate mother.
***
Maggie had said, "It seems to me there’s only one suitable person out of all those we've discussed. Do you want me to ask her?" and she had replied, "I suppose you’d better."
"OK," Maggie said. "Carrie, you said just now that you've always wanted to have babies."
"Oh yes," Caroline replied, "Lots of them. But the problem was I never wanted to put my career on hold whilst I brought up a family. In any case, there was only one man I ever loved sufficiently to want to have his babies."
"And the irony was," Maggie responded, "he was the one man you could never marry, even though you weren't biologically related to him."
"Yes," Caroline said. "And he would never have felt comfortable having a sexual relationship with his adopted daughter, so it was always sexual love unrequited."
"So, Caroline, will you be the surrogate mother for Joseph and Caroll?"
"Maggie, I think that would be illegal, so I must reply 'No' to your question. But what I will say to you is that I know someone who will do it, and you can leave all that side to me. Caroll will be the mother on the birth certificate and no one but me will know who the surrogate is. OK?"
"Absolutely," Maggie replied. "The name of the surrogate will be known only to you. I’m so pleased that you’ve made the right decision. Joseph has said he’s thinking of having up to four children. How would the surrogate feel about that?"
"Well I’m..." Caroline broke off with a laugh. "Better get it right. I'm certain the surrogate will be absolutely delighted."
Four Princesses, a Frog and a Castle
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Author's Note: This story was originally published on Fictionmania under the title of "The Princess and the Frog." It has been modified, and is republished under its new title. This story contains adult subject matter, some of which includes illegal acts, as do many of my stories. Most of the characters are nice, and one is just plain evil. Do not read it if such material is likely to offend you, or it is illegal to read it in your country. Otherwise, please sit back, read and enjoy.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 1
"Mr Hughes, please come in," Mr Bain said, "and thank you for coming to see us so promptly."
He could hardly have done otherwise, Steve Hughes reflected, with yesterday's letter from the solicitors Bain, Bain and Bain burning a hole in his pocket; "He might learn," the letter had said, "something to his advantage provided he acted swiftly." Nevertheless, when he telephoned the solicitors he'd been astonished to be given an early-morning, next day appointment; clearly things did need to move fast. He returned Mr Bain's greeting, and they conducted the normal thirty seconds of small talk, prior to getting down to business.
"As I mentioned in my letter," Mr Bain commenced, "I need evidence that you are Stephen Frederick Hughes, and that your mother was Charlotte Fredericka Hughes (nee Mansfield). Hopefully you've brought your passport, and your own and your mother's birth certificates..." (he paused and looked for Steve's confirming nod before continuing) "...so I'm going to ask you some questions, and then at the end, should the answers to the questions prove satisfactory, I will take a DNA sample, which will be sent to the laboratory for confirmation. Is that acceptable to you?"
Steve said that would be perfectly acceptable, thinking that considerable money must be involved if the client was prepared to go to the expense of a DNA analysis.
So, the solicitor examined the documents and then went through a series of questions about both him, and his mother, ranging from the date and place of birth, his parents' marriage and deaths, and finally coming around to everything he knew about his mother's estranged twin sister.
"I know that, like most twins," Steve said, "they had been really close. Then, when I was about five or six, they had a bust up and they never spoke again. Later, in the early 1990s, I heard that she'd emigrated to Europe and, as far as I know, she's never returned."
"Do you know where in Europe she lives?"
Steve shook his head. "No. When Mum was alive, we never exchanged a Christmas card with her. When Mum died last year from breast cancer, I tried to find her to let her know. The only clue I had was that my great-grandmother was supposed to have come from Russia sometime prior to World War I, and she was rumoured to have been a minor royalty before the Revolution. That's why Mum, my grandmother and I all have Frederick or Fredericka in our names. Personally, I think it's all rubbish but I did feel that perhaps Aunt Freddie might have gone there looking for her roots. Unfortunately, all my queries to the Russian Embassy were met with total silence."
"So your aunt's name was Fredericka, as well?"
Steve nodded. "I suppose so, although we always called her Freddie."
Mr Bain nodded for a few seconds, before saying, "Well, Mr Hughes, I believe that, rather than you finding your aunt, your aunt has found you. My client is Fredericka Mansfield. I'd like to take a DNA sample to confirm it, and I'll be passing that onto the laboratory, but since time is short, I can't wait for the results before proceeding to the next stage. I need to gain your assurance that everything I now tell you is in strictest confidence."
"In strictest confidence? Why's that?"
Mr Bain smiled. "I can't answer that until I have your assurance that you will not divulge the answer to anyone else - no one else whatsoever."
Steve shrugged. "I guess that's OK." Seeing the solicitor's dissatisfaction with that as a firm statement of intent, he added, "Yes, I will keep everything you tell me from now on in confidence."
"And not just what I tell you. You will need to see your aunt, and you will also keep all details of that in confidence."
Steve nodded. Clearly, he wasn't going to learn anything without that commitment. "I agree."
Mr Bain smiled. "Excellent. In that case, I can tell you that your aunt lives, not in Russia, but in Molvania." He withdrew an envelope from his desk drawer. "Here is a British Airways Club Class Return ticket to Budapest, and the flight is booked for 2 pm this afternoon. You'll be met at Budapest Airport for onward transportation to Molvania. I trust that is satisfactory?"
Steve tried to stop his jaw from gaping. "You're expecting me to fly to Eastern Europe this afternoon. I haven't even packed a toothbrush."
Mr Bain looked at the wall clock. "You'll have ample time to purchase a toothbrush at Heathrow Airport," he said. "As for everything else, I've been advised that you should travel light. Everything you need will be provided in Molvania."
"But don't I need a visa or paperwork?"
"You have your passport with you," Mr Bain said, "and Hungary is in the European Union so you have full EU citizenship rights, there. As for Molvania, I have been assured there will be absolutely no problem with your entry into that country."
"But..." Steve faltered as he hopelessly tried to grasp the reality of the situation he was faced with.
"Of course," Mr Bain continued, "you don't have to travel this afternoon."
Steve gasped at the straw. "I don't?"
"Of course not. It's entirely up to you when you travel. All I can say is that I have been told that the matter is of the utmost urgency. In my experience, that can mean anything between two extremes: the first is that the client is incredibly impatient and expects everyone else to run around for them; the second is that the client - perhaps a wealthy client - is dying and wishes to see a potential beneficiary prior to remaking a will. As they say, it's your call to decide which it might be. All I can advise is that you really have nothing to lose by acting quickly, and potentially a huge amount to lose if you do not."
CHAPTER 2
"Mister Hughes?" (She pronounced it, " Meester Hug-Heez.")
When the door had opened and three sexy girls had come out to greet him, his heart had immediately filled with joy. He'd had a long journey, commencing with the BA flight to Budapest. Then he'd been met and put as the only passenger onto an elderly, twin-engined aircraft that had seen better days. The interior would have been called luxurious in 1950, when it would clearly have been the top of the range in executive planes. Now, it had all looked extremely dated and rather shabby.
But his spirits sank to the dregs of his stomach when he realised that the guide book to "Moldavia", which he'd bought at Heathrow and read with great interest all through the flight to Budapest, was of absolutely no relevance whatsoever, since he was going to Molvania! He'd had a long day, he felt stupid, and he didn't know where the hell he was going.
From the limited information on the plane - and the only stewardess was under specific orders not to converse with him - Molvania was a tiny state, about ten miles long, set in the Carpathian Mountains, which, since the break up of the Soviet Union, had returned to a monarchy. Great!
After a two-hour flight, the plane had landed at a small airport and he'd been picked up by an elderly Rolls Royce and taken to what looked like a fairy-tale castle, with portcullis and drawbridge, and spires and turrets shooting into the air.
The car had driven over the drawbridge and stopped immediately outside the wooden door, which gave entrance to the castle. The driver made no effort to get out and help him, so Steve got out by himself, walked over to the door and used the gigantic door-knocker to create a sound to wake the dead.
Rolls Royces, even quite elderly ones, do not make much noise as they move, so after being deafened by the door-knocker, Steve wasn't even aware that it had departed until he heard the rattling of the portcullis, and looked around to see that the huge iron gate had already fallen into place and the drawbridge was lifting, totally cutting him off from the rest of the world. As a large frog sitting next to the door started croaking, Steve felt the whole situation was rapidly taking on the scenario of a horror movie, except that this was real life, and he was really frightened to face he-did-not-know-what the other side of the door.
In fact, he was faced with three pairs of beautifully large tits on display, on teenage girls wearing unfashionable dresses which made them resemble fairy princesses - scooped necklines with puffy sleeves, narrow waists, then swirling chiffon which swept down to the floor. They wore bands in their hair - not quite crowns, but giving the same impression of regality.
"Hughes," he said, correcting the pronunciation of the shortest girl.
"Whose?" the shortest girl repeated, looking puzzled. Then her face broke into laughter as she followed his eye downwards. "These are ours," she said, thrusting her breasts forward. "Not belong to anyone else. At least, "and she made eyes at him and her smile widened, "not yet."
He couldn't resist another glance downwards in their general direction, and the three girls laughed and obligingly shook their shoulders for him, and their boobs wobbled like jellies.
"Sorry," he said, unsuccessfully trying not to blush. "I meant my name is pronounced Hughes."
"Ah, Hews," the second girl said, nodding. "I am Princess Beatrix. Thees," she waved at the taller girl behind her, "is my eldest sister, Princess Angelika, and she," indicating the smallest girl, "is my younger sister, Princess Caterina. Can we call you Steep-hen?"
"Call me Steve," he said. "Pleased to meet you." He was even more pleased when the princesses, in turn, gave him a kiss and a hug, pressing those lovely boobs against him, and giving him an instant hard on. Although, now he'd had a chance to clock them properly, he realised that, apart from their wonderful boobs, the three girls were not what one would call beautiful. Their faces were square-looking, with heavy jaws and foreheads. It made it quite difficult to guess their ages, probably about...
"I am of age eighteen years," Angelika said, guessing his thoughts.
"Seventeen," Beatrix said.
"Just sixteen," Caterina said, "and we are steep kuzan."
At least, that's what Steve thought she said. He was gradually getting used to their heavy Eastern European accents, but steep kuzan was not a term he could grasp.
"Steep kuzan, did you say?" he asked. "What does that mean?"
"Our father marry your aunt," Angelika explained.
"Ah!" Steve said. "Step-cousins."
"That's what I say," Caterina said, but further conversation was halted as an inner door inside the castle was flung open with a crash.
The three girls immediately swivelled around to face it, dropped onto one knee, lifted one side of their skirts in a curtsy, and said what Steve guessed was the equivalent of, "Your Majesty."
Steve felt rather out of place, having had no warning that a real king or queen was in the castle, and since it was not the kind of normal thing which happens to a guy living in Clapham - even when he visited historic castles - he wasn't even certain what he should do.
For a moment, he thought that the woman who came through the door was his own mother. A more careful examination made him realise that, simply by the way she carried herself, she was someone with immense presence, much younger-looking than the fifty-five years she must be. Perhaps a fortune spent on beauty treatments had considerably helped. Unfortunately, as soon as she opened her mouth she totally destroyed the illusion.
"Steve, love," she said, in a deep Cockney accent. "Your Aunt Freddie is simply dying for a kiss."
***
C-r-o-o-a-a-k," went the frog, as the man and the three princesses disappeared inside the castle.
In frog language, that meant something like, "If only one of you princesses had kissed me, I would have given you any wish you desired." But since he wasn't interested in the kisses of middle-aged queens, he turned his back and kept a look out for any passing food - he suddenly felt quite hungry and really fancied a nice, juicy fly.
CHAPTER 3
"Molvania is so difficult to get to, and there's so little to see when you do get here, that the marauding armies which periodically swept across this part of Europe, tended to leave us alone," said Aunt Freddie (or Queen Fredericka as she was officially known).
"But the monarchy was a direct challenge to the Bolsheviks," she continued. "When they took control of the region, they arrested every member of our royal family. They said it was for their own protection, but, in fact, they immediately executed them all. Fortunately, my grandmother - your great-grandmother - had been sent to England for schooling, and stayed on in England, hoping to return sometime, but of course, she never did."
Steve and his Aunt Freddie had adjourned to the Royal Chamber, leaving the girls in the main ceremonial hall. The Royal Chamber was a bit of an anti-climax, since the throne was covered in a drape and pushed to one side of the room and they sat in conventional swivel chairs at a boardroom table. Freddie had started to explain how she had got there.
"After the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991," she continued, "the Molvanians decided they wished to return to a monarchy, and sent for me, the eldest daughter of the only remaining bloodline of the original Molvanian royal family. I am now Queen Fredericka of the Monarchy of Molvania."
"Blimey!" Steve said.
That not may have been a response covered by normal royal protocol, but somehow, her Cockney accent removed any sense of awe he might otherwise have held her in. Which, he thought, just shows what a prejudiced mind I have! "But Aunt, how on earth could you suddenly take on the job of being a queen of a state, without a lifetime's training and being brainwashed into thinking that you're better than everyone else?"
She smiled. "I'd already had my training," she said. "Prior to that, I'd been Chief Executive on an Inner London council. Now, I have less money to spend and fewer population to manage than I did then. Of course, my job is made a lot easier since we don't have that stupid democracy thing to worry about, here. If I believe something is a good idea, I just do it. We may only be a small country, but Molvania has advanced faster than any other in the region since the fall of the USSR, and I'm certain that's down to me and to the monarchy."
"And you have a husband and three lovely step-daughters," he added.
"It's actually seven not-so-lovely step-daughters and one not-so-bad step-son," she replied. "The others are at our palace in the capital with my husband, Rudi. The sole reason I chose him as a husband was that his children were mostly girls, and I needed a daughter to continue the line. And so far, I'm afraid that Rudi has failed me. I remain a monarch without a heir."
"Why do you need a daughter rather than a son," he asked. "I thought the heir to the throne always went down the male line."
"Not in Molvania," his aunt said. "Between 1762 and 1884, there were a series of disastrous kings - who continually wasted money and lives on war - alternating with excellent queens - who promoted peace and prosperity. From then on, Molvania has only had female monarchs."
She smiled. "I'm afraid that means that, even if I pop off tomorrow, you, as the sole surviving member of the family, won't inherit the throne."
"Thank heavens for that," Steve said. "I don't think I'm really up to that kind of job."
"The big problem is that I don't know who will inherit. My failure to bear a daughter is causing a lot of unrest generally and I've been desperate to resolve it.
"A while ago," she continued, "I had a miscarriage, and my doctor has told me that was definitely the last baby I can ever conceive."
"So what," Steve asked, "am I doing here?"
She smiled again. "The sixty-four thousand pound question. Have you eaten by the way? I think we could do with a slight break before we continue."
***
"I need to bear a daughter of royal bloodline but cannot," Aunt Freddie continued some time later.
The five of them had eaten a pleasant meal, which the girls themselves had served. Indeed, it appeared to Steve there were no servants in the castle, a fact he found surprising. He would have thought a royal household would be brimming with them. But the meal had been appetising and tasty, and Steve had enjoyed it. After finishing it, he and Freddie had gone back to the Royal Chamber and continued their discussion.
"On the other hand," she continued, "as the son of my twin sister, you could conceive a child with one of these girls with a similar mixture of genes as a child conceived by Rudi and me. It's fortunate that you have inherited our strong family nose," (a feature Steve had always wished he did not have), "and they their father's rather ugly face.
Over dinner, Steve had already worked out which way the conversation would be looming, and had made up his mind.
"You mean," he said, "that you want me to marry one of my step-cousins, and quickly father a child. Well I can tell you..."
"No," Freddie said.
"What?"
"I said no, I don't want you to marry one of these three girls," Freddie said. "That would take far too long, and your first child might be a boy. In any case, the population wouldn't be satisfied, since the daughter needs to be mine, rather than that of my nephew, who is not in line to the throne."
"Well if you don't want me to marry one of these three girls," he said, "what am I doing here?"
"I want one of them to bear a daughter I can present as my own," she said. "Obviously, the mother will take the role of nursemaid and care for the baby, but the population will believe it is my child, and therefore, the natural heir to the throne.
"So I want you to make these three girls pregnant," she continued. "As soon as one of them is carrying a daughter, I will immediately announce to the world that I am pregnant, and start the equivalent of pushing cushions up my blouse - although there are actually far more sophisticated ways of pretending to be pregnant."
"Don't the girls have any say in this?" Steve asked, horrified that Freddie appeared to be giving them away like common prostitutes. "After all, they have only just met me. I'm more than thirteen years older than Angelika, and fifteen years older than Caterina."
"I've spoken to them all and they are agreeable," Freddie said. "Your age is immaterial; neither is your appearance nor prospects. What is important is that the first of them to have a daughter by you will be the mother of the future Queen of Molvania. An offer that no sensible woman could refuse."
Steve nodded. He was, he realised, being exceptionally pickity about an offer of sex with three, willing, busty teenagers - and presumably lots of it if they wanted to be the first to conceive. "I suppose I can understand that, but it certainly seems weird. Still, if they're happy..."
"You will be happy too," Freddie said. "Not only will you have unlimited sex with three teenage girls, I will also pay you fifty thousand pounds on the day that I "give birth" to a healthy daughter. Does that make you happy enough?"
"Tell me what I have to do."
"Most importantly, you agree to keep this matter secret forever. If you ever mutter a word to anyone, even after I'm dead, there'll be people who'll come looking for you. You will live here for the time being. All the servants have been sent elsewhere. All the food will be cooked in my own palace kitchen and then transported here, so no one else will see you; the girls will do what work is needed around the place. But that means there are only the four of you on this site. If the secret leaks out, it's one of you four who will be responsible. Do you understand?"
Steve indicated that he did understand. He could keep a secret without the need for threats, but he understood why Freddie felt it necessary to do so.
"Secondly, you'll stay around here until at least two, preferably three of the girls are carrying female foetuses."
"But what happens if they conceive a male baby?"
"In that case," Freddie replied, "their pregnancy will be terminated and you'll do your best to get them pregnant again."
"Terminated! Will they agree to that?"
"They already have done," Freddie said. "Remember, they want to give birth to the next Queen of Molvania. They won't do that if they spend a year bringing a boy into the world."
"Well what happens if they don't all become pregnant? One of them could be sterile." Steve didn't want to mention the fact that so might he.
"I want at least two of the girls carrying female babies," Freddie said, "so that if one pregnancy goes wrong there's a back up ready for me. Three would be preferable, but obviously, as you suggest, there could be complications. For example, two might become pregnant straightaway, whilst the other takes several months."
"Several months! You can't expect me to stay here for several months. I thought you were talking about a few weeks."
Freddie smiled. "The sooner you get them all pregnant, the sooner you can go home, so you'd better put everything you've got into achieving that."
Steve sighed. "Bloody hell!"
"One last thing. No one must know there's a man in this castle, otherwise someone is sure to smell a rat. Stay out of the way when the deliveries are brought in. The rest of the time, there's no problem as long as you stay indoors; if you want to go outside, remember that much of the grounds can be seen from a distance, or by planes coming into land at the airport. So only go into the grounds at night, and stay out of the floodlit areas."
You mean I'm imprisoned in here!" Steve gave her a horrified look.
"Oh for heavens' sake," Freddie stormed. "It's only during the day, and you'll be shagging the girls silly most of the time. Now is there anything else, or are you ready for me to hand over the keys?" She stood up, as a preparation for going back out to the ceremonial hall.
"Keys? What keys?" he said, following her out to the main chamber where the girls were waiting.
"Why," Freddie said, tossing a key ring with three keys towards him, "the key to the girls' chastity belts, of course."
"Yer-hooo!" Caterina yelled at the top of her voice. The other two wasted no time in shouting; they simply pounced on him and started tearing off his clothes. Freddie watched them for a few seconds, smiling, before gracefully leaving by the main entrance.
"Well," she said to the frog who was still sitting there, "I'm sewing my seeds in a rather different way to normal, but I think it's all going to work out nicely."
"C-r-r-r-r-o-o-o-a-a-a-k," said the frog, which in frog language meant, "You're sailing close to the wind. You'd better watch out."
CHAPTER 4
The next three days were like no other that Steve had ever experienced. Sure, he'd occasionally had flings with girlfriends; and once, at university he'd been invited to a party that turned into an orgy. But never had he been to a never-ending orgy.
What was remarkable was the carnal knowledge of the girls who had been virgins until now - the chastity belts had ensured that, and Steve had seen the evidence. But Freddie had taken the girls out of school and sent them for several months' instruction by an experienced "Madame'. Without any real practice at all, they were now Olympic standard sexual athletes!
Steve had never considered himself as having incredible staying power, but these girls seemed to have no trouble in making him climax continually, hour after hour, day after day, and night after night; each girl desperate to be the first to get herself pregnant.
Until the fourth day!
***
Caterina noticed first. She was the one who normally slept between his legs, her head resting on his thigh only inches from his groin. Her task was to awaken him with an erection every few hours, and each of the girls in turn would then service him.
But on that fourth morning, no amount of tongue or handiwork, by either her or the others could get him hard. The more they tried, the more ashamed and depressed Steve felt, which in itself made the task almost impossible. Finally, Angelika suggested that Steve patently needed a day off. No man could work continuously without a break, and that's exactly what Steve had been trying to do, she said. Indeed, it was more the girls' fault than his, since they shouldn't have pushed him so incessantly.
The other girls agreed. Caterina suggested it would be really fun to go for a picnic in the castle grounds by the stream. Even Steve cheered up at that and the girls contacted the kitchens at Freddie's palace and got them to prepare a picnic lunch.
***
"What have you done with my clothes?"
In the frenzy on that first night, Steve couldn't remember what had happened to his clothes. He guessed that one of the girls must have taken them and had them washed, ironed and repaired - he could remember one of the girls tearing several buttons off the front of his shirt - but surely they would have been returned from the palace laundry by now. In the meantime, he'd been wearing Angelika's satin dressing gown on the few occasions when he wasn't naked.
"I burn them," Beatrix said.
"Burnt them!" he spluttered. "What the hell for, and what am I going to wear?"
"No man here in castle, you remember? I cannot send man's clothes to be washed and made better at palace. Burning is best way get rid of them. I put on fire."
"As for what you wear," Angelika took over the response, "Queen say you must not be in garden in daylight. You could be seen from aircraft. Yes?"
Steve thought back to the spiel he'd been fed that first day. "Vaguely, yes. But you've all said it's OK for me to go out."
"Only if we disguise you."
"Disguise me? What sort of disguise?"
Both the girls smiled. "Come with us," Beatrix said. "We find something perfect for you."
***
"This is what Queen has ready for when she 'become pregnant'."
They had gone into the well-equipped medical centre, with its combined delivery/termination room and adjacent three-bedded ward, and then up the narrow spiral stairs into the tower above. There were several small, circular storage rooms - one above the other - with cupboards of medical supplies, racks of bedding and other paraphernalia.
Caterina had pulled open a drawer and extracted the garment. It was a bit like a flesh-coloured leotard, except that there were protruding nipples on the front, which made it look almost like the torso of someone's body.
Steve eyed it, suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Is pregnancy Torsolet," Beatrix said the unfamiliar words carefully. "Specially made to same colour of Queen's skin."
"It fits her like second skin," Caterina said. "You think she was naked."
"So what's the point..." Steve began.
"This is the point," Angelika said, pulling a length of plastic piping out of the drawer. "This end," she held up one end of the pipe, terminating in a small rubber cup, "fit onto nipple, this end onto tap. Fit to right nipple," she loosely held it against the nipple on the garment, "breasts inflate with water. Queen can be any size breast she choose."
"Put onto left nipple," Caterina said, and Angelika obligingly moved the rubber cup to the other nipple, "pouch on stomach inflated."
"Each week," Beatrix said, "she add more water to stomach pouch, and look more pregnant."
"Fantastic," Steve said. "But I thought we'd come up here to find a disguise for me. What else have you got in here? A gardener's uniform, or something like that?"
"Silly man," Caterina said.
"We show you disguise," Beatrix said.
Steve shook his head, as though someone had just told him something stupid. "But this is your Queen's pregnancy disguise kit. What do I get?"
"Is alright," Angelika said. "She buy several Torsolets at same time so no problem if one is damaged or wear out. You wear this one."
"But I don't want to look pregnant."
"We explain that," Beatrix spluttered, with mounting frustration at Steve's apparent denseness. "If you connect pipe only to right nipple, only breasts inflate."
"You mean," Steve was having trouble grasping the situation, not for the first time that week, "that you're expecting me to put that on and go outside pretending to be a naked woman?"
"Silly man," Caterina said again.
"Phew, thank heavens for that."
"You not go in grounds," Angelika said, "looking like naked woman - pregnant or not pregnant. We find you dress, and put on make-up. Also we have wig for you."
"What!"
"You have to look good woman," Beatrix said. "Else someone see you from plane and think you a man. They put together two and two."
"Unless you are a man," Angelika gave a glance down at his limp genitals before continuing, "and I see you not. You get ready for picnic."
"Anyway," Caterina said, "we think it be fun. Like dressing doll, only with real person. You enjoy too. Yes?"
***
It wasn't so much enjoyment, as an incredible sense of exhilaration, that Steve felt as he came out of the shower without a hair on his body. The hair removal cream they'd given him, (made from goats' milk they'd said, but he thought it was probably goats' piss) had been extremely effective.
"Look," Caterina said, staring at his erection, "he is cured. We have sex now, yes?"
"No!" Angelika snapped. "One quick fuck, he go limp. We agree we go for picnic. We do it."
A man shouldn't feel delighted to be denied a quick fuck, but for some reason, he was.
"Curiosity, really," he muttered to himself.
"What?" Angelika turned, holding the Torsolet in her hands, ready to pull it down over his head.
He smiled at her. "I'm curious what it will be like wearing that, with boobs sticking out, and... well, just simply looking like a woman."
"He curious as well." Caterina pointed downwards at Steve's prick, which was now rock solid and pointing at her.
"Hell!" Steve said. "What are we going to do about that? I'll never get the Torsolet over it."
"Cunt!" Caterina said.
"It's a perfectly reasonable question," Steve said, feeling rather wounded.
"No. Caterina mean the Torsolet is designed to fit man or woman." Beatrix held out the gusset of the Torsolet for inspection. It was clearly designed to contain his genitals, and she demonstrated the small vagina which was built in behind it.
"It give you cunt," Caterina said with great relish. "You able have sex with man."
"No men here' Beatrix said. "Steve cannot have sex with man."
"Steve does not want sex with man," Steve said. "I'm going to wear it just for disguise, and maybe I'm a bit curious. But there's no way I'm getting into the general proximity of a man, never mind having sex with him."
"Sex with good man F-A-N-T-A-S-T-C," Caterina said, rolling her eyes at him. "You be woman - maybe you enjoy too."
"Well it's hardly going to be the same, is it?" Steve said. "That's simply a plastic, er, cunt that goes between my legs. It won't feel fantastic for me."
"No, no, no, we not explain," Beatrix said. "Torsolet has thingy called Sensotouch."
"Skin of Torsolet like touch-sensitive computer screen," Angelika said. "Stroke on Torsolet," she lightly stroked the skin of the Torsolet, "passed to many electrodes touching your skin."
"You feel like it your own skin," Beatrix said.
"But more sensitive," Caterina said.
"And cunt is most sensitive of all," Beatrix said, holding up the false vagina to demonstrate.
"You're all crazy," Steve said, trying his hardest not to wonder what it would be like with a man's prick thrusting into an artificial cunt between his legs.
***
It appeared the instructions that came with the Torsolet were written in Hungarian. Since the girls' first language was Rumanian, Beatrix hesitantly read them whilst the others tried to make sense of what she said. There was an accompanying tub of red gel, which, she said, had to be smeared over Steve's torso prior to putting on the Torsolet, to prevent sweat rashes. So, Angelika put on a disposable plastic glove that came with the tub and smeared the gel all over Steve's torso.
It felt incredibly erotic to Steve, and once they had pulled the Torsolet over his head and down his body, it became clear that he had been absolutely right about the difficulties of fitting the Torsolet over his throbbing erection. Consequently, they decided that in spite of their earlier agreement, someone had to be chosen to relieve his tension.
Normally, there'd have been a squabble over who was to get first mating rights, but Caterina reckoned the other two always got more than she did, and they didn't challenge it. It was not the greatest of sexual gymnastics, lasting a little over three minutes, but at least Steve knew his equipment was working again, and Caterina got a small dollop of spunk, which if they did but know it, would make Caterina the first of the girls to become pregnant.
But Steve's prick had returned to its former floppy state, and he was able to feed it into the hole on the inside of the gusset without problems, and when Angelika pulled this firmly between his legs, it was clearly never going to be erect again until it had been released. As she tugged the gusset hard enough to fasten it to the matching bit at the rear, his balls were squeezed into oblivion, bringing water to Steve's eyes. Fortunately, by the time he'd got sufficient breath back to yell, the pain had disappeared and it all felt comfortable again.
"All men like large breasts, yes?" Beatrix said, fitting the one end of the piping to a tap. "You to?"
"He like large breasts," Caterina said. "He love ours."
"Actually," Steve confessed, "I do quite like large breasts, but better not make them too big, eh?"
"Every man need to know what big breasts like for woman," Angelika said. "We make breasts HUGE!"
"...and see how he enjoy them as woman," Caterina added.
"No girls, just normal kind of..."
His words were lost as they all pounced on him and held him down. Beatrix connected the pipe to the right nipple and turned on the tap, and let it run, and run, and run. Of course, the problem was that with Steve lying on his back, it was quite difficult for them to judge exactly how big his breasts were as they formed shapes like huge bell gongs on his chest.
It was not until he tried to sit up with two melons hanging down, they all realised just how big his tits actually were. They whistled and jeered at him in a way that was not dissimilar to the way that, when he'd been at school, a bunch of boys - not Steve, of course - had whistled and jeered at a particularly large-breasted girl. Only now did he realise how embarrassed he - that is, the other boys - had made her.
"OK, very funny. Can you let them down, now? Please?"
Beatrix looked at the instructions again, shook her head and pointed at a picture in the instructions. "No. You see - non-return valve." She quoted the words carefully, anxious not to get it wrong. "Pull cup off nipple," she gave a tug on the pipe and it came free, "water does not come out."
She was right; Steve's breasts remained melon-sized.
"Sorry, Steve," Angelika said. "Your breasts very large. Do not be upset. Only for few hours."
The other girls made similar apologetic noises.
"Well it won't do me any harm to carry these around for the day, and I guess I do deserve it."
"You not deserve it, Steve," Beatrix said, thinking that Steve wouldn't feel so magnanimous after he'd carried that colossal weight around for ten minutes. She smiled at him. "You very nice about our large breasts."
"Mmm," he replied, actually still feeling bad about that girl at school.
"To support your breasts," Angelika said, "you need good corset. Put on camisole to start."
"Corset!" Steve said with trepidation, as he obligingly allowed her to feed the cami over his head. He'd read lots of stories on the web about corseted women. "I don't need a corset."
"If you put on princess dress," Caterina said, "you need corset. Dress not fit properly without corset, and you not look like fairy-tale princess. We all wear corsets."
Steve tried not to gulp when she told him about looking like a fairy-tale princess. It really wasn't normal for a man to find that an incredibly erotic suggestion - was it? A dress, with puffed up sleeves and...
"For picnic, we dress properly," Beatrix said. "You must too."
Angelika was already wrapping a corset around his back and fastening the front busks, so it was too late for him to argue about it. But he would make damn certain they didn't tighten it too much.
CHAPTER 5
"But I can't breathe," Stephanie said.
"You still able to talk, Princess Stevie," Caterina said. "For that you must breathe."
"And I watch your breasts push out the top of your dress," Beatrix said. "They inflate like baboons."
"Balloons," Stephanie corrected.
"Do not walk quickly, Princess Stevie," Angelika said. "Princesses must walk at royal pace. You look better, and you not gasp for breath."
Beatrix and Angelika were carrying the picnic set between them. Steve had offered to do it, but the three girls looked at those enormous boobs and tried to imagine just how much energy it would take simply to climb up the valley side to the point where they intended to have their picnic - where a pretty stream emerged from the woods. Then they had declared that, since Stevie was a visiting princess, they would do all the work and she would be the guest.
Stephanie was glad to take Angelika's advice. She had heard of people training with weights in a rucksack, but never with breasts as heavy as dumbbells stuck to their chests. Already, in spite of the supporting corset, her back was aching, and her feet, were throbbing in her tight shoes with two-inch heels - the smallest heel, on the largest-size shoe in the castle.
But (and this was an incredibly big but) Princess Stephanie felt absolutely marvellous. The dress she was wearing was simply so beautiful - a peach-coloured chiffon dress over a wide bustle, which swept the ground as she walked. And with each pace, the Sensotouch system allowed her to feel her boobs bouncing in their bra undercups, and her nipples rubbing slightly against the fabric of the dress, and she could feel the soft breeze underneath her skirt, making her bare pussy feel cool, but so very sexy.
Even now, she couldn't really understand how she had got into this position. Steve had been having incredible sex with three, very willing, large-boobed teenagers - the kind of situation that every man dreams about. Then of its own free will, Steve's prick had decided it had had enough, and he had willingly gone along with being dressed in this most beautiful of dresses, and walking in the gardens with them. Definitely weird.
***
The picnic was great. The sky was bright and the sun was warm. They laid a blanket on the ground, and all four girls laughed and giggled when Stephanie first sat down, and the bustle pushed the front of the dress right up in the air, exposing her stocking tops and bare buttocks and pussy for all the world to see.
And it had to be admitted, that since the girls had such a wonderful view of most of Molvania from this elevated vantage point, presumably most of Molvania could also see them!
Just as their laughter was subsiding, Angelika pointed across the valley and said, "All people look with bipolars," which made them all laugh some more.
"Binoculars," Stephanie corrected.
The girls showed Stephanie how to sit down properly in a bustle, by lifting the dress from the rear before sitting, and gave her a few more tips on princess-like behaviour. The picnic had included a couple of bottles of excellent wine, and they had to finish those off, simply so that Stephanie could learn to hold the glass correctly!
It was just as they were finishing their meal that Angelika said, in a very small voice, "I think my period comes."
"Oh, Angelika, you poor kitten," Beatrix said.
"You pregnant next time," Caterina said.
"There'll be lots more opportunity for us to make babies," Stephanie said.
The three of them rallied around and offered support and comfort. After a few minutes, Angelika said she would go back to the castle and lie down for a while.
"We go for stroll in the woods?" Beatrix said, as soon as Angelika had gone out of earshot. "On this part of hillside, like in shop window. Nice and secluded in woods."
"Yes," Caterina agreed. "I ready for us be secluded."
So they got up and followed the path into the woods. After they'd gone only a few yards, Caterina said, "We secluded now. No need go further."
She pointed at a bench by the side of the path. "We sit here, yes? Stevie, you in the middle. We sit either side."
They followed her suggestion.
"I think Angelika is mean," Beatrix said, "to say no sex all day."
"She knew period coming," Caterina said. "She want to stop us while she not fertile. I think we should take opportunity." She was not to know that her opportunity had already been well and truly taken.
"But Stevie most important person," Beatrix said. "Stevie, you ready for sex?"
In fact, Stephanie had been feeling ready for it all through lunch. Every time she'd reached for a sandwich, her nipples had moved against the fabric of her dress, and given her a feeling that was so squiffy, she thought she might have a climax on the spot.
"Well, yes. But I'm a woman at the moment. Much as I'd like to..." Stephanie's words died on her lips as the other two slipped her dress off her shoulders and down her arms, and eased it over her enormous breasts.
When she'd been dressed this morning, there was clearly no corset in the castle into which her oversize breasts would fit, so Angelika had selected one with a simple undercup platform on which they could rest. With her dress lowered, those two enormities were exposed to the fresh air. So wonderful was the Sensotouch feature, that Stephanie could feel the breeze upon her nipples.
But not for long. With perfect synchronism, Beatrix and Caterina lowered their mouths to her nipples and sucked.
"Jeez!" Stephanie gasped. "That's just... A-a-a-h!"
"Nipples of Stevie very sensitive," Caterina said, coming up for a breath. "Much more than my nipples."
"Can vary Sensotouch," Beatrix said, as she, too, came up for air. "I set very high."
"Oh my God!" Stephanie, too, had to gasp a mouthful of air. "That's the most exquisite..." Her words were cut off as Beatrix and Caterina ducked their heads down to their task again. Never before had she been on the verge of an orgasm for more than a few seconds. Now the experience went on and on, for minute after precious minute.
"Cunt also important," Beatrix said. "You agree, Caterina?"
They lifted her skirt up over the hoops of the crinoline so that Stephanie could just see the unfamiliar shape of a hairless slit between her legs. Beatrix reached down and slipped a finger inside her cunt.
"Oooh!" Stephanie said.
"There is way," Beatrix said, as she fiddled around, "to let bud poke out... There!"
She withdrew her hand so they could all see what was happening.
Stephanie could feel movement between her legs - the kind of movement that no girl normally feels. As they all stared at her slit, so the tiny bud of her clitoris appeared. It grew larger as they stared at it - and larger, and started to emerge from its hiding point. It became the size of Stephanie's thumb, and still it steadily grew until it was not dissimilar to the shaftless head of a man's penis. Finally, it grew no more.
"It's stuck," Stephanie said in despair. "How do we get it completely out?"
"I sorry, Stevie," Beatrix said. "With this Torsolet, it make larger no more. No worry, is plenty for us."
She stood up, swivelled round to face Stephanie, and then lifted her own skirts to the waist and sat astride Stephanie's lap. With the two sets of skirts and hoops, further observation of their mutual point of interest was impossible.
"Caterina," Beatrix said, "Get on knees and look. You guide us come together."
Caterina did so, crouching between Stephanie's legs - practically beneath Beatrix's buttocks - and gave instructions. "Stevie, open wide the legs. More wide. That is right. Beatrix, fall down between legs of Stevie. Stevie, more wide. No, Beatrix, push close to Stevie. More close."
"Yes! Go on," Beatrix said.
Caterina put a hand onto Beatrix's bum and gave a helpful push, to press the two bodies together.
"That's it," Beatrix shouted. "Push harder. Harder."
Stephanie could feel her clitoris starting to penetrate Beatrix, but nothing like far enough for proper sex. She thrust her pelvis forward.
"Harder," Beatrix shouted. "Harder."
Caterina got off her knees, put both her hands onto Beatrix's bum and pushed as hard as she could. She shuffled her feet backwards, so she was leaning her entire weight against Beatrix, and thrust with all her might.
"Go on, Stevie," Beatrix screamed. "Push!"
Stephanie did, and she felt her clitoris pop between Beatrix's outer lips, but, she realised, she was never going to penetrate Beatrix properly whilst wearing the Torsolet. So near, yet so far! She felt despair creeping upon her.
"Stevie, harder," Caterina yelled.
Of course, Stephanie thought, I'm thinking about this as a man. Now I'm a woman, I don't need to penetrate Beatrix, only to rub my clitoris against Beatrix's clitoris, until we reach mutually satisfactory orgasms. She moved her body so that, instead of trying to push her clitoris inside Beatrix's vagina, she was simply bringing her clitoris into contact with Beatrix's.
"Oh! Y-e-e-s!" Beatrix shouted. "Oh, that is fucking good. Oh, my orgasm is coming! Oh yes. Y-e-e-e-s! Oh fuck me!"
With those final words, Stephanie felt an explosion happening somewhere deep inside herself, which came surging outwards, through the only outlet open, pumping buckets of semen (did girls have semen, Stephanie wondered) into Beatrix's cunt.
"Y-e-e-e-s-s!" Stephanie gasped
"Y-e-e-e-s-s!" Beatrix screamed.
"Y-e-e-e-s-s!" thought that tiny spermatozoa spurting into Beatrix's vagina, and racing against all the others to be the first to the prize - the only prize that mattered. And it was!
CHAPTER 6
It was almost four o'clock before they awoke from a slumber, returned to the picnic area, packed up their things and went back to the castle. It was fortunate they didn't leave it any later, for just as they were entering the castle courtyard, and Stephanie was saying hello to the frog - much to the amusement of the other girls - the drawbridge lowered, the portcullis lifted and the royal Rolls Royce swept in.
Angelika came out of the castle to greet the Queen, as they approached the door. She curtsied, and the two spoke together before they both turned to watch the princesses walk over to them. The three girls curtsied - one a little clumsily, and Angelika said, "Your Majesty. Allow me to present Princess Stephanie."
The smile on Freddie's face froze and hostility flashed across her face. "How dare you! You must all be drunk!" She stared hard at Stephanie and said, "You! I want to speak to you now."
"Yes your Majesty." For the first time, Steve (definitely not Stephanie) had not referred to her as his Aunt Freddie.
***
"So, you're not as ignorant as you made out, are you?"
Steve (and definitely not Stephanie) didn't know what she was talking about, but he had recovered his composure in the half minute it had taken to walk into the Royal Chamber.
"I'm sorry?" This time he didn't call her Majesty, but he felt it definitely unwise to call her Aunt Freddie. "I don't know why you're cross with me."
"So why did Angelika call you Princess Stephanie?"
"But Aunt... Your Majesty, I know you had told me not to venture outside, but we did think that disguising me as another princess would be a fairly innocuous way for me to get some relaxation outside, without arousing anyone's suspicions."
"I realise that now," she said. "Angelika told me, and I thought it was quite an inventive solution, in spite of those ridiculous breasts, but why did you call yourself that name?"
Steve couldn't work out what she was getting at. "The girls said it would sound silly, continuing to call me Steve or Stephen. Stephanie was the female equivalent."
"Oh!" She sounded surprised, but then added, with extremely bad grace, "Yes, I suppose I should have thought of that."
She paused for a few more seconds, thinking, and then said, "I suppose I had better explain. But remember, I have never told anyone else in Molvania about this, so if it leaks out, you're the one I shall blame."
She said the words with such an evil grimace that Steve felt a shudder pass down his spine.
***
" Charlotte - your mother - and I met your father, Stephen, at university, and we both fell for him in a big way. It was the late sixties, and free love was everywhere, so what was more natural than that twins should share the man they both love. We continued the open relationship for a few years after we left university, until Charlotte got pregnant.
"She insisted upon marriage, and both your father and I were happy about that, assuming that it wouldn't change our threesome relationship. It did. Charlotte wanted monogamy, and made things so difficult that I moved out."
She gave a shrug. "I didn't see why your mother should have sole rights to your father simply because she was careless enough to get pregnant. So your father and I secretly continued our relationship and it went on for another five years or so, until I, too, became pregnant. When Charlotte discovered who the father was she blew her top. We had an argument that we never made up. I moved away to make a new life with my baby daughter, whom I named Stephanie."
"Oh!" The silence between them lengthened. She had clearly said on their first meeting that she needed a daughter to inherit her reign, and Steve was frightened to ask the obvious question.
"Stephanie died of cot death when she was only three months old."
"Oh Aunt, I'm so sorry." In spite of her previous hostility, Steve felt impelled to go over to her and give her a hug. "I simply never realised."
"Of course you didn't, but when Angelika introduced you as Princess Stephanie I thought your mother must have told you about her, and you were making a game of pretending to be her. I made a wrong assumption, when I should have remembered that both Charlotte and I named our children after the same father."
She looked at her watch. "The others will be wondering what's going on. Let's go back to them, and," she gave an evil scowl, "don't mention what I've just told you, or else."
Steve nodded. He could keep a secret without threats, but a threat from Freddie certainly concentrated the mind.
***
"Incidentally," Freddie asked him as they were re-entering the main chamber, "Why do you have such ridiculously large breasts. Don't they make your shoulders ache terrible."
"It's absolute hell," Steve said.
"Then why did you inflate them so large?"
"It was our fault, your Majesty," Angelika said, coming into the conversation. "We make the fool of Steve. We make the breasts big. Then we could not let them down."
Freddie turned on Steve. "Didn't you read the instruction manual? That tells you precisely how to reduce the size of the breasts. It's quite easy." So easy, her tone dismissive tone implied, that even an imbecile like Steve could do it.
"Hardly," Steve replied. "It was written in Hungarian, so I left it to Beatrix."
Freddie sniggered, rather cruelly Steve thought. "Beatrix is hardly a master of Hungarian. In any case, there are only a few basic, very badly translated paragraphs in Hungarian. If you'd bothered to look in the next drawer along, you'd have found the full instruction manual in English."
"You're kidding me!"
Freddie irately shook her head. "I'm not in the habit of kidding anyone. The Torsolet comes from an English company, and their manual is excellent, so it's a pity you didn't bother to read it. Anyway, I suppose there's no harm done, just as long as you didn't use the gel."
There was a moment of silence, which stretched into several seconds.
Freddie looked at them all, shocked incredulity on her face. "You didn't use the gel, did you?"
"Aunt, it said something in the manual about preventing sweat rashes," Steve said.
"Oh you stupid imbeciles. Don't you realise what you've done? Yes, you're right, Steve, it does prevent sweat rashes. But it does so by bonding the Torsolet to the skin and sealing the sweat glands. You're stuck in that thing now for the best part of two weeks. You have completely blown the whole project."
"No," Beatrix said. "We have sex in woods, no problem."
Freddie looked to Steve for confirmation. "Is that right, Steve?"
Steve wouldn't exactly have described their sexual union as no problem, but given the look on Freddie's face, he thought it best not to admit it.
"Sure," he said. "The three of us had sex in the woods after Angelika left us. It was great."
Freddie still looked suspicious, but fortunately she decided not to challenge them further, and instead changed the subject. "I shall be going away next week to Brussels. I'm meeting with the European Parliament."
"That sounds very impressive aunt," Steve said, trying to lighten the tension.
She turned to Beatrix and Caterina, and said, "Your periods should start Monday, is that right? "
They both nodded.
"Well, I'm not leaving until Wednesday," she said, "so we should know one way or another by then. I'm hoping I shall be able to make an announcement about my pregnancy to the European Parliament."
Beatrix and Caterina both nodded warily, probably not following her English. Stephanie thought it highly probable the parliament would not be overly interested in the monarch of a non-EU state, but thought it diplomatic not to voice his opinion.
"It was bad luck about your period this time, Angelika," Freddie said in a sudden mood of magnanimity, and then spoilt it by adding, "so you'd better try a damn lot harder next month."
Angelika smiled and quietly said, "Thank you, your Majesty."
***
"Wow," Stephanie said as soon as the Queen had left. "What rattled her cage?"
"She angry my period come," Angelika said.
"Angelika, you know. She always angry like that," Beatrix said. She turned to Stephanie. "How you see her last week, all smile and she talk funny English..."
"You mean Cockney?" Stephanie asked.
"Yes, that is it," Beatrix said. "She talk funny to make friendly with you. Normally, she never smile."
"She evil witch," Caterina said.
"Then why did you agree to give her a daughter?" Stephanie asked.
The three exchanged glances, and Angelika said something in their own language, then she turned to Stephanie. "Queen say she lose baby because my father give her bad seed. He guilty of treason. If we not do as she says, he will be head chopped. She take all his money and our house. We have nowhere to go."
"That is evil," Stephanie said. "I can't go ahead with this knowing that. I'll tell her..."
Beatrix interrupted. "She said, even if no babies with you, we still use our sex training. We earn money with men on streets to buy food for our brother and sisters. She very evil."
"We hope that our babies be like you, Stevie," Caterina said, "not like her. We have lovely babies if like you."
Stephanie looked at the three of them, sickened at the position they had been put in by her mother's twin sister. "Then we better make more babies," she said.
CHAPTER 7
Stephanie managed to find the instructions for the Torsolet written in English, and studied them at length. Freddie had been perfectly correct in saying that the gel was a powerful adhesive that was permanently bonded to the skin, and it would only come off when the outer layer of skin was shed. If they had only known, they could have used a different gel around the penis to allow it to fully emerge to serve its proper purpose, but they had not, and Stephanie had been lucky to be able to take things as far as she had.
She did, however, manage to reduce her breast size, although the girls insisted that since she was quite large for a woman, she should have boobs to match. Which meant that she still ended up with boobs far larger than she thought necessary, but she gave in with good grace. After all, she only had breasts for a few weeks - the girls had them for life.
In fact, sex in the Torsolet proved to be so problematical that after a few attempts they decided to cut out the intercourse, and simply milk Stephanie for her semen. Each girl went to work on a breast or clitoris, frantically licking until Stephanie squirted her semen into a small bowl. The girls carefully divided it between them, and then they improvised the final operation with a piece of plastic tubing. Each sucked up the semen from the bowl into the tube (taking care not to suck too hard!) and then inserted the tube deep inside them, and gently blew it out.
The whole operation worked out rather well, so that was the way their sexual relations continued for the next few days. Stephanie felt she should have been upset at failing to have proper sex with the girls, but for some reason she felt perfectly happy that they were able to take her milk and use it.
As Monday approached - the day that Beatrix and Caterina were both due to start their periods - everyone was in a state of nervousness. To their absolute delight nothing happened, and as the day wore on, nothing continued to happen!
Tuesday morning, Freddie arrived. As soon as she heard their news, she was on top of the world. Her previous bad mood might never have been there. She immediately went back to the palace and returned an hour later with the royal doctor.
A few minutes with each, and he confirmed that Beatrix and Caterina were both pregnant! However, he would need to take samples and send them to the laboratory for pregnancy sex testing.
First thing next morning, Freddie arrived clutching a champagne bottle, and proclaiming that Beatrix had a female foetus inside her! She pushed the champagne bottle into Angelika's hands, and told her to open it and get pouring - none for Beatrix of course - clearly she had to be thoroughly cosseted from now on.
"What about Caterina, Aunt?" Stephanie asked. "Have you had her results?"
"Oh, yes," she said, in the same sort of tone she might have used to discuss the weather. "Caterina has a male foetus. The doctor will come around this afternoon to perform the abortion."
Caterina immediately burst into tears.
"Don't cry, child," she said, without a trace of pity. "This will only put you out of the running for a few weeks. And you never know your luck, Beatrix's daughter could easily be miscarried or deformed, so there's still hope for you and Angelika to win the race. It's an ill wind, as they say... Beatrix, Why on earth are you crying, now? You're pregnant with a female, for God's sake."
She simply could not understand why no one wanted champagne on such a joyful occasion, and no one felt able to try to explain.
"Well if you're not going to open that champagne, Angelika, give it back to me," she eventually said. "I'm flying to Brussels this morning, so I might as well celebrate by myself, rather than with you miserable lot. I really don't understand any of you." And she stormed outside.
She took the driver by surprise, and he had to hurry round to open her door for her.
"For God's sake, get a move on. We can go straight to the airport, now."
Unfortunately, the driver didn't understand English, so she had to repeat it in Rumanian, which annoyed her even more.
"C-r-r-r-o-o-a-a-k," went the frog.
"And fuck you," Freddie said, stamping on it.
Actually, she stamped on the spot where it had been sitting an instant before. Fortunately, frogs have lightning reactions, and the instant before her foot reached the ground, it had leapt forward two feet. Freddie could have swore the thing croaked, "And fuck you too," but that may have been her imagination.
Actually, that was exactly what the frog had said, and for a few seconds it felt extremely mean towards Freddie, queen or no queen. But it wasn't a malevolent frog, and knowing how powerful a frog wish is, it decided it really ought to recant it.
It was just on the point of doing so, when the car moved, and the frog was sandwiched between five tons of armoured Rolls Royce and the granite slabs of the courtyard.
Some day perhaps, a frog will survive such a situation, and it will be able to tell all the other frogs, "Whatever you do, don't take cover underneath a car, particularly wedged beneath those large, round, black things which keep the car off the ground." Unfortunately, no frog has ever been able to relay that message, and our frog died before it could retract its deadly wish.
CHAPTER 8
Three days later, things were starting to return to a kind of normality - although quite different to what it had been before. Only Angelika was now milking Stephanie, as Caterina had aborted her baby and the doctor had told her to avoid becoming pregnant for a few weeks. Privately, she decided to give it a week and then get going again!
They all agreed that the really good thing about those few days was that with Freddie in Brussels, they could relax, and not worry about her pouncing in on them. So they were all totally gob smacked when the entrance door suddenly crashed open one evening and a young man walked in - about sixteen or seventeen years old, Stephanie guessed.
He greeted the girls in Rumanian, then turned to stare at Stephanie, and added something, to which the girls replied.
"This, our brother, Andrei," Angelika explained to Stephanie. "He has important news of family."
"Hello Andrei," Stephanie said, nodding at him. "In that case, I'll leave you to talk alone."
"No," Angelika said. "He say you stay."
"OK." Stephanie said, thinking that it was all the same to her since she wouldn't understand a word of their Rumanian conversation. Andrei smiled at her in a pleasant way, no doubt, Stephanie thought, ogling her boobs.
She was wrong about not picking anything up. With the boy's first sentence, the girls all gasped in horror, clasped their hands to their mouths, and then looked at each other, and particularly at Beatrix, who appeared as though she was about to burst into tears.
"Queen go to special doctor in London," Angelika told Stephanie. "He tell her she have the cancer of the boob. She very bad. She not live long."
"Oh my God!" Stephanie said. It was not just the shock of losing an aunt whom she'd only just been reunited with, but it meant their entire plan would have to be abandoned, leaving Beatrix pregnant with his, Steve's, child.
"Why she wait to see doctor in London?" Caterina asked. "We have good doctors in Molvania. They would find cancer months ago."
"What about my..."
Beatrix's wail was sharply interrupted by Angelika. "Do not say the word. We talk later about it."
She was right. The boy probably knew a few words of English, and "baby' might well be one of them - a word which should have no part in their current discussion.
"What is Aunt..." Stephanie stopped herself just in time. That was another word which should not be used alongside the next word she had been going to say. "What is the Queen doing now? Is she staying in Brussels for her talk to the EU?"
Caterina asked the question of the boy, and gave Stephanie his answer. "No, she return home now. She must give news to people."
The boy added something, and Caterina translated, "Andrei needs to see you in private. He has message from Queen."
"Well he's going to have difficulty giving me a message," Stephanie said, "when he can't speak a word of English."
Beatrix translated again. "He says, message written. A private message."
"OK," Stephanie said. "I suppose we'd better go into the Royal Chamber."
Beatrix translated and the boy gave a little grimace - as though nervous of what he had to do - rapidly walked over to the door to the Royal Chamber, opened it, and then stepped back with a smile, a bow and a sweep of his arm, to indicate that Stephanie should precede him.
Stephanie was surprised. She wasn't used to having men opening doors for her - indeed, neither were most women in Britain, particularly by sixteen-year-old boys. She realised that being a woman in Molvania had certain advantages she hadn't thought of before. She smiled at him and went over to the door, and said, "Thank you," as she went through.
It was only when he had followed her in and she heard him lock the door, she had some reservations. She turned smartly around, to find him rapidly bearing down on her, his hands reaching forward to grasp her tits.
"Now hold on," she said, stepping backwards as quickly as her heels would allow, and throwing up her hands to block his.
But his hands were no longer where she thought they were going. Instead, he had bent forward and grasped the lowest hoop on her bustle and pulled it up and towards him. She was in mid-backward stride as the rear of the hoop caught her at the back of the ankle. With her body moving backwards, and unable to put her foot onto the ground behind her, she fell heavily to the rear and hit the solid floor with a thud that knocked the wind out of her.
Even without that, she probably wouldn't have stood a chance of avoiding what happened next, for Andrei was now pushing the front of the hoop away from him, past her chin, past her eyes and over the top of her head. Only then did he force it down on the floor, his entire weight on top of it, with Stephanie's torso trapped beneath her dress. Even worse, his knees were between her naked legs, his body lying on top of her, and she could even feel him reaching down to fumble with his fly.
"Fuck off, you shit!" she shouted, her voice muffled by her dress and petticoats. "Rape! Rape!"
It didn't make any difference. She could feel something rubbing against her pussy lips - something hot and hard - and it was starting to thrust against her slit.
***
When Stephanie had first been given a vagina, she expected that she'd spend lots of time exploring it and playing with it. In fact, with the girls milking her so frequently, she'd hardly had time to do more than slip a finger inside and play a little. She'd been astounded that the Sensotouch was so responsive that just a light stroke with a fingertip produced a feeling inside her that was divine.
But now, that very sensitivity turned Andrei's amateurish attempts at fucking her into an excruciating nightmare. It was bad enough when he was trying to force his way through her lips, but as soon as he penetrated her, it was like having a chain saw shoved inside.
"U-u-u-u-g-h!" she yelled. "You bastard, get off me."
Needless to say, it didn't make any difference whatsoever. In fact, now he was getting the hang of it, his thrusts were getting harder.
But Stephanie also was getting used to it, and the pain seemed to lessen - in fact, the feeling seemed to seamlessly change so that it was no longer pain but a collection of strange but vivid sensations which felt - well, different - it might even be said, marvellous. With every thrust, her boobs were wobbling and her nipples erotically rubbing against her dress. Was it possible she was leading towards an orgasm?
"No," she gasped
"Fuck good," Andrei said.
Oh, so he does speak some English, Stephanie thought. "Fuck hard," she replied, then she was cursing herself for saying it. How could she have?
Andrei obviously understood sufficient to realise he no longer had to use sheer force to continue restraining her, and he lifted the hoop and pulled it off her face, and down her body so he could see her boobs shuddering beneath her dress. He let go of the hoop and grabbed her dress with both hands, tearing it apart to get at her tits.
But instead of the gentle caress of a more caring lover, he grabbed her nipples and screwed them cruelly between fingers and thumb.
It was sufficient to push Stephanie over the edge.
"A-a-a-g-g-h!" she screamed, and she tightened her legs around his back (how on earth had they got there?) to squeeze him more deeply inside her.
"Fuck good! Fuck good! FUCK G-O-O-O-O-D!" he roared, ejaculating inside her.
So good was the Sensotouch that Stephanie could feel his spunk filling her pussy, and then squelching down around his penis and dribbling out of her lips as he withdrew his cock.
"Fuck good," he repeated, standing up and zipping up his fly. "Fuck good."
He went over to the door, unlocked it and left.
CHAPTER 9
"Stevie? You stay in here?"
About a minute had passed since Andrei had gone out of the Royal Chamber and presumably left the castle. Angelika had come looking to see why Stephanie had not emerged. She found her still lying on the floor where Andrei had raped her, her breasts hanging out of her torn dress, and with her skirts still lying across her midriff, her legs and vagina were fully exposed,.
"Stevie!" she screamed, running over to her. "You alright? He rape you?"
Stephanie nodded. "Sort of."
The others, alerted by Angelika's scream, came running in. A rapid conversation in Rumanian took place.
"My brother do this? I kill him," Beatrix said.
"He shit. I cut off his bits, and make him eat them," from Caterina.
"You tell us what happen?" Angelika asked.
Stephanie nodded. "Help me sit up, first."
There really wasn't much to tell that they couldn't guess. It was, after all, not a novel tale, although a completely new experience for Stephanie.
"I guess I was a bit stupid allowing myself to get trapped in the room, like that," she said. "I simply didn't expect it. After all, he's only a boy."
"He is sixteen years," Caterina said, "older than..."
"Enough years to know wicked," Angelika cut in. "No excuse."
"The Queen is going to be furious," Stephanie said. "She will..."
Her words ceased on her lips as a sudden silence filled the room. "What's wrong? What did I say?"
"We not tell Queen," Angelika said. "We cannot."
"But why not?" Stephanie said. "Surely, she..."
"In Molvania, punishment for rape is as I say," Caterina said. "They cut off men's bits."
"Castration," Stephanie said horrified, and wincing at the mere thought. "You can't be serious."
"They used to execute; now they castrate," Angelika said. "Which you prefer?"
"I'm not certain," Stephanie replied. "But I can see that changes things about Andrei, and why you don't want me to report it. After all, I suppose that apart from tearing my lovely dress, there's no harm done. It's hardly as though I'm going to become pregnant."
"Maybe," Beatrix said rather slyly, "Stevie enjoy sex with man, even if rape."
They all looked at Stephanie to watch her reaction. She blushed!
"Ah-ha, Stevie," Caterina said. "You like man in cunt. Yes?"
"No!" Stephanie said. "I mean, I don't like men, but the act itself - it was different. A novelty, if you like."
"You orgasm, Stevie?" Beatrix asked.
Stephanie blushed some more.
"So," Angelika said, "we worry no more about rape. Instead, we worry about news of Queen."
"Hell," Stephanie said, "I'd forgotten about that. What shall we do?"
***
As Freddie would have said if she was there, that was the sixty-four thousand pound question, although there didn't appear to be a lot of options.
"Without Queen to take baby as her own, I not want baby with no husband," Beatrix said.
She saw the look on Stephanie's face as she took in the implications, and added, "No. I not want Steve as husband. Too old for me. I take young man - but not yet. I give up baby."
"Look," Stephanie said. "Freddie is returning shortly. We don't know how long she might live. There may be time for her to "give birth" to your baby. There's really no point in trying to make a decision now."
"But Queen may say she live for year," Beatrix said. "She may die after six month. Where am I then?"
It was a good question which no one could answer. Privately, they all thought that the Queen would do as she chose, regardless of the risks it posed for Beatrix. However, since Beatrix was stuck in the castle and certainly couldn't arrange her own termination, there was nothing they could do anyway until Freddie returned.
CHAPTER 10
"Why such miserable faces?"
No one could have told by looking that Freddie had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. She came striding in the next afternoon, with all the appearance of having just returned from holiday.
"Your Majesty." The three girls went into their normal curtsey, and then spoke to her rapidly in Rumanian.
"Silence!" she commanded. "Now, we agreed we would speak here in English for the benefit of our visitor."
"We are so very sorry..." Angelika's commiserations were cut short by Freddie.
"Haven't got time for all that crap. Now," she turned to Stephanie, "I need to speak with you, privately."
Stephanie followed her into the Royal Chamber, thinking that Freddie should really have spoken to Beatrix first, to reassure her. But then, reassurances were rarely top of Freddie's agenda. Stephanie closed the door on the three girls, thinking of the last time she had come inside the Royal Chamber.
"Right, you've obviously all heard the news," Freddie said. "The best estimate is that I have one to two months left to live, and," she raised a hand as Stephanie tried to cut in, "that means we have to revert to Plan B."
"Plan B?"
"I always have a Plan B ready," Freddie said. "In this case, I suspected the worst, so I paid extra attention to it."
"What is Plan B?"
"I think you've already met Andrei?" Freddie said.
"Yes, he..."
"I told him to come round and get to know you. I'm glad he's on the ball. Right, I'm going to announce that I have been reunited with my long-lost daughter, Stephanie, given up for adoption because I was a single mother."
"But I thought you told me," Stephanie said, "that your real daughter had died. I mean, it's great news that she's still alive..."
"You are incredibly stupid, sometimes," Freddie interrupted. "God knows how you're going to cope when you're queen. Yes, strictly between you and me, my daughter is dead, but that also provides us with an excellent opportunity. To the rest of the world, I will announce that you are my daughter, and you will inherit the throne when I die."
"But," Stephanie gasped, reeling with the impact of what Freddie was proposing, "you can't get away with that. There'll be records of your daughter's death, and..."
"After Stephanie was born, I went to live in France for a while. Stephanie was born in England and died in France, twenty-five years ago - no one will make the connection."
"But I couldn't run a country," Stephanie said.
Freddie nodded in agreement. "Not on your own, no. But I want you and Andrei to get married, and you will give him a baby - actually, you'll give him Beatrix's baby, but he's not to know that. The marriage will have to be arranged very quickly of course, but we'll make the excuse that I haven't got long to live..."
"No fucking way!" This time it was Stephanie who did something others had rarely done - interrupted the queen.
"I beg your pardon."
"Freddie, Andrei is a young boy - a male. There is no way I am going to marry him. Full stop. That's it. No argument. I refuse. Do you understand?"
Freddie spoke extremely quietly, which according to the girls was when she was at her most dangerous. "No! Do you understand, Steven? The future of an entire state is relying upon you. Twenty-two thousand people who need a monarch to lead them..."
"But I've told you, I can't lead a state, Aunt." Again Stephanie had interrupted her. "You were a Chief Executive of a local authority; I'm a web designer - a techie. I can't be a king, or a queen."
"Andrei is the only one of Rudi's children for whom I have any respect," Freddie said. "He's got his head screwed on, and he's not afraid to be ruthless when necessary."
Like when he wanted to "know" me better, Stephanie thought, but did not put into words.
"If you marry Andrei, he can do all the necessary day-to-day work. You would only need to let him get on with it."
"He's only sixteen," Stephanie said. "He can't run a country."
"There's no choice," Freddie said. "I don't have a Plan C. He's the only option."
"Well, you'll have to find another option," Stephanie said, "because I'm not marrying him."
"I'm sorry you've adopted that attitude," Freddie said, "because I really did not want to explain what your other option is."
"My other option is that I go home," Stephanie said.
"I'm afraid not," Freddie said. "You see, there's the little matter of you having sex with my stepdaughters. I invited my nephew into my home, and he has sex with all three, and impregnates two of them."
"But you asked me to..." Stephanie stopped as realisation dawned. "Oh, I see. You'll deny it. But even so, it's not against the law, even in this God-forsaken country, to have sex between consenting adults."
"Precisely. There's barely eleven months between each of Rudi's oldest children. Andrei is sixteen, going on seventeen, Angelika is fifteen, and Beatrix and Caterina are both fourteen - in fact, Caterina had her fourteenth birthday a few days before you arrived. So how does it feel to be a child fucker?"
"What! You're kidding me! They told me that Angelika was eighteen and Caterina was sixteen."
"My stepdaughters do not lie, which obviously means that you're lying. We'll see who the court believes - the queen's stepdaughters, speaking under oath, or the man who got them pregnant."
"With you putting pressure on them," Stephanie said. "You'll tell them they either say what you want them to or else their dad gets chopped." "
"Don't be silly. That doesn't go on here."
Stephanie knew she wasn't going to win that argument, so she tried another. "But the girls all look like mature young women. Their breasts are huge..."
Stephanie stopped, suddenly aware of her own Torsolet.
Freddie smiled, "So are yours. Of course, you realise that since they're minors, they cannot give permission to have sex, so that means you're raped them. In Molvania, the punishment for rape is..."
"Oh God! I know," Stephanie said.
"Andrei is sitting in my car," Freddie said. "Shall I bring him in? Then he can propose to you properly."
CHAPTER 11
Nine Months Later
Since becoming Queen, Stephanie had worn many beautiful and expensive items of jewellery, she had lived in a palace filled with antique furniture, surrounded by valuable paintings by famous masters, but never before, absolutely never before, had she ever held anything as precious or as beautiful.
OK, Princess Fredericka definitely had her nose, but it went so well with Beatrix's square jaw that it looked a match made in heaven. It was slightly spoilt at that moment as Fredericka puckered her face and made as though she was about to cry.
"Don't cry, my darling," Stephanie said. "This is what you want." She held Fredericka against her breast and slipped a nipple into her mouth. Immediately, the puckered face turned into one of happiness, and she smiled contentedly as she sucked.
Stephanie, also, felt incredibly contented at these moments. She was so glad they had managed to get the company that made the Torsolet to produce a modified version, with a system for feeding sterile milk to her baby. It was working perfectly - there was a detachable nipple complete with sterile balloon behind it, which sat inside her breast. They would connect a breast pump between Beatrix's breast and her own, and transfer the milk into the balloons inside. Fortunately, Beatrix had developed large breasts during pregnancy - almost as big as the false ones she had first worn - which meant there was always ample milk for Fredericka.
It was also good that Beatrix understood why it would never do for her to be seen feeding the baby - someone might just make an association and start a vicious rumour. As it was, Beatrix was happy to be the doting nursemaid, looking after the child as she would her own.
Happily, Andrei was simply not interested in parenthood, and was perfectly content that his sister was willing to devote so much of her time to looking after the royal child. With proper training though, he had made an excellent lover, and far from hating it, as she had initially expected, Stephanie had come to adore the nightly sessions that went on for hours. What it was to have a younger man for a husband!
Angelika was now, of course, of age, and was happy to bear Stephanie's next daughter. They had planned to wait a month after Fredericka's birth, and then start trying. Caterina had made it clear she could hardly wait until she was of legal age before she, too, bore a daughter for Stephanie. Queen Stephanie was determined that, never again, would the population be worried about the absence of a royal bloodline.
Andrei was managing the affairs of state very satisfactorily, and Stephanie did little except keep a watching eye upon him. Molvania seemed to be doing better now than ever before. It was surely only a matter of time, she thought, before they would be allowed to join the EU.
Stephanie thought back, as she often did, to the last conversation she'd had with Freddie. It had been in the medical centre in the castle, where Freddie ended her days.
***
"How are you feeling, mother?" (They had agreed they should always address each other as mother and daughter, rather than aunt/nephew.)
"Like shit. How do I look? Can't you think of anything more sensible to say."
"Is there anything you want me to do for you?"
"Yes there is."
Stephanie had expected another rude response, as was the norm with her visits to Freddie. That's why they were growing less frequent.
"What is it you want?"
"They've reduced my painkillers. They say that if I slip into unconsciousness, my body will simply collapse and I'll die within days."
"I'll get the painkillers increased again."
"Don't be a silly cow! I want you to end my pain immediately. Switch off my life-support machine and let me go quickly. Please."
It was the first time Stephanie had ever heard her use the P-word, and she was moved by it. Personally, she had no problems with the morals of such an act - she had never been able to understand why it was humane to put a dying dog out of its misery, but not humane to do the same for a human. But she did have to consider the implications to the monarchy of the only heir killing the reigning monarch.
"One of these do-gooders, are you, who think God will be cross with them? Well, I'll tell you something, and after that, you'll be only too glad to switch off the machine."
"Tell me what?" Stephanie asked. She had made up her mind: she would do it. Afterwards, she would switch everything back on, so there was no need for anyone to know. Even if the doctor suspected, she thought she could count on him to cover her back.
"If we'd gone through with Plan A, you'd have been executed by now."
"What!"
"You knew too much, you see. I could never have rested easy knowing the whole future of Molvania relied upon you keeping stum for the rest of your life. So, as soon you had all three girls carrying daughters, you'd have been for the chop."
"But people in England would have asked questions about me."
"No one there knew you were in Molvania. I told the solicitor that you'd returned home next day, and I gave your house keys to someone who does 'jobs' for me in England, and told him to clear your house and tell the landlord you'd moved away."
"The girls would know."
"Well obviously, they had to be executed as well, along with any unwanted babies they produced. They were far more a security risk than you."
Stephanie could not believe what she was hearing. "You'd kill the young mother of the child you called your own, and her pregnant sisters and any unwanted babies!"
"Now will you switch off my life-support?" Freddie asked, smiling.
Stephanie hesitated. "Of course I would - if I believed in heaven and hell - because there's no doubt where you'd go. But I don't. There's only one place where you'll find hell, and that's here, in this ward, as you wait to die. Goodbye, Aunt - I really can't call you mother anymore."
On the way out, Stephanie spoke with the doctor and told him to make certain the Queen lived as long as possible. All painkillers were to be stopped.
"Absolutely, your highness. I do exactly as you command. The Queen will be in much pain, and we make her as uncomfortable as possible."
The doctor's English was little better than the girls, it seemed to Stephanie. Surely he had said they would make her "uncomfortable".
Then the doctor winked at her and added, "I overhear your talk - accidentally, of course. But we doctors and nurses also know too much. We were for the head chopping, as well."
Proxy Pregnancy
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When five month pregnant cousin Jessica needs a stand in, Joshua is both shocked and exhilarated she should ask him. No self respecting man would take on such a thing, but a cousin in need...
Author's Note: All people, places and events in this story are entirely fictitious (apart from Croydon, which is a real town). Any connection you may make with any person, living or dead, is between you and your conscience. This story is a light-hearted crossdressing romp, and contains items such as humour and non-explicit sex between consenting adults. If any of those offend you or are illegal to read, then please do not do so. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
by Charlotte Dickles
I'm going to have Ronald Fluck's baby.
Well, not really, of course, for two very good reasons: the first is that I've never had sex with him; the second… well, the second reason is that I'm the wrong sex to carry any baby. You see, it all started when my mother rang me up one evening.
"Hello love. Any success on the job front, yet?"
I was a computer support engineer, made redundant from one of the big UK banks, and had been seeking a job for so long it seemed I was never going to work again.
"Fraid not, Mum. How are things?"
"I had a letter from Jessica, today. She's pregnant."
Jessica Jones was my cousin, a few years older than my twenty-six.
Oh, that's good news," I replied. "But to be honest, I didn't know she was in a relationship with anyone."
"Neither did I," Mum pointedly said. "She wants to meet up with us on Friday. Are you free to come down for the weekend?" Mum – Harriett Jones, to give her proper name – lived in one of those south-coast retirement towns where the average age is eighty-seven; I still lived in Croydon, where I'd worked.
I knew there was no need to check my social diary. "No problem, Mum. But did you say Jessica wrote you a letter. Why didn't she telephone?"
"I'm worried about her," Mum said. "You're right; why not ring me up rather than write a letter. In fact, she's specifically asked us not to ring her before we meet. It sounds strange, almost ominous."
Neither us mentioned it but Jessica's mother had committed suicide ten years ago and Jessica had followed it with a nervous breakdown.
"So is she coming to stay at your house? Is that OK?" Mum had enough bedrooms but she only kept one functioning as a spare room, which I stayed in on my occasional visits to her.
"I can make up one of the other rooms. It's not a problem as long as she doesn't bring her partner. She hasn't said anything about that."
"All very strange," I said. "See you Friday, then, Mum."
***
With money being tight, I'd taken a bus from the station and walked the half-mile or so from the bus stop to Mum's house. Jessica arrived by taxi half an hour later; time enough for us to get settled into a cup of tea and start exchanging gossip. As requested, Mum hadn't telephoned Jessica, but that hadn't stopped her from ringing around the family to discover the latest news.
"She went to America on holiday five months ago," Mum told me before Jessica arrived. "Her brother reckons that's when it must have happened. But there's no man around, or even talk of one, so it sounds as though it was a brief liaison. I hope she's all right about it."
So did I. She showed me Jessica's letter and I stared at it. It was very brief; not so much a letter, more a note, as it didn't even have her home address and was signed simply with a J.
'Dear Aunt Harriet
'At last, I'm in the club but I really need your help. Could I come and stay with you and Joshua this weekend? I could be there about four on Friday. Things are all a bit tricky so please don't phone me beforehand.
'Lots of love. J.'
"Surely," I said, "when a woman announces she's pregnant, she gives all kinds of details. When it's due, what sex it is, how many weeks she has to go and so on. She couldn't have made this note any briefer. Are you sure she simply hasn't joined a tennis club?"
"When she told us she was in that long term relationship with her boss and was trying to conceive, she kept saying she hadn't yet joined the club. I'm sure that's what she's telling me here."
"But Mum. She wasn't in a relationship with her boss. She was stalking him. She got fired for sexual harassment and eventually was in court for it."
The doorbell rang then and I went to answer it. Jessica was definitely pregnant. She seemed fine although a little nervous, glancing anxiously around as though wondering if the neighbours were going to stone her for having a baby out of wedlock.
Mum made her immediately feel at home. "Hello, love. Take the weight off your feet. Would you like a cup of tea?
"Joshua," she turned to me, "can you take her suitcase upstairs to her room whilst I make some more tea? Doesn't she look absolutely blooming?"
I had to admit she did, although to be honest, she always looked fantastic. She'd had her boobs massively enhanced when she was trying to pull her boss and her bulge was noticeable rather than huge. She'd let her once short dark brown hair grow longer, and it hung down to her shoulders. Her face, as always, was well made up. To be honest, I'd usually been terrified rather than attracted by her. I much preferred a mousy, normal looking woman rather than this sex bomb. I took her huge suitcase up to her room. It weighed a ton; no wonder she'd come in a taxi.
"So why did you want to meet up with us?" Mum raised the subject as soon as we were comfortably seated. "Was it just to tell us your news?"
"I wanted to ask a favour," she said. "A real big favour, but I need to give you the background first. Can you keep a secret? A huge secret?"
"Of course," Mum said, looking at me, and I nodded compliance.
"Of course, the one thing it's impossible to keep secret is that I'm pregnant. The big question is, who's the father?" She stared at us as though she'd said something original and we both stared back. "It's a Very Important Person," she said, emphasising the capital letters. "Ordinarily I wouldn't have told anyone, but I'm frightened for my baby."
"Do you think the baby's got some genetic defect?" Mum asked.
"Oh no, nothing like that," Jessica said. "Quite the opposite really."
"Then why are you worried about the baby?" At last, I asked a question.
"Because people are trying to protect the father. He's married you see and they think it would harm his position if people found out he'd had a child out of wedlock."
"But since you have decided to have the child, what can they do? It's too late to get an abortion. They can't stop you having the baby."
She grimaced and said, "I need to fill you in on how we met. You probably know I went on a long holiday to the US with Alice, an old school friend. After a couple of weeks, we had a blazing row in Florida and split up. I decided I would visit California as planned and was in the airport, waiting for my flight. Then suddenly the airport was filled with police; some kind of security alert and a plane was making an unscheduled landing. Personally, I couldn't care less; I was far more upset about the row with my best friend, so I toddled off to the toilet along one of those service corridors. I was just emerging after a good cry when the doors at the end burst open and a load of suits came through, charging along. I had to duck back inside the toilet to avoid getting trampled to death.
"When they were level with me, a man in their midst suddenly stared me in the eye, and I realised it was Ronald Fluck – you know, that weird US politician – and my heart was beating like crazy. He stopped walking just to stare at me, and then he said, 'I think I need to take a leak.' He stepped towards me and pushed me back into the toilet, and within seconds, we're humping over the washbasins. Five minutes later, he's zipping up his flies and I'm pulling up my shorts and off he goes with a, 'Thank you, ma'am.'
"Sorry," she added, standing up. "I need to go to the toilet. One of the inconveniences of pregnancy." And she had departed towards the downstairs cloakroom.
"What do you think, Joshua?" Mum asked me.
I shrugged. "It's all plausible, I suppose, but…" I hesitated. "…highly unlikely."
"You think she's making it all up?"
"Some of it must be true. You know, the sex in the toilets probably is, but… I don't know."
"You probably think I'm making it all up," Jessica said, re-entering the room and taking us both by surprise. "But when I realised I was pregnant, I sent a message to Ronnie explaining that I was having his child. A week later, I got a visit from an American lawyer who absolutely denied Ronnie was involved but offered me a wodge of money as long as I promised not to make trouble for him. I took it."
"So what's the problem?" I was, of course, dying to ask how much but hadn't the gall.
"It was only ten thousand dollars. I mean, it's fine for buying the baby milk and push chairs and all that, but it's not going to go far when it comes to buying an education, or even a car, is it? So I sent him another letter asking for more. That's when things started happening."
"Things?"
"People following me and giving me funny looks; I was sick the other day after a meal in a café. I think they slipped something in my food to try to make me miscarry."
I looked at Mum again and she looked back at me. Real or imaginary, that was the question.
"So the reason you sent a letter to Mum rather than phoning…" I said.
"They tap my phone calls but I knew they couldn't easily intercept a letter," she said. "I posted the letter a few minutes before it was due to be collected so it would be difficult for them to arrange a false collection. Even if they did manage to open the postbox, they wouldn't know who the letter was addressed to so they'd have to open and read every letter to try to find mine and I made it all fairly vague, so even if they read it, they wouldn't know what it was about."
Mum and I looked at each other again. It all sounded complete paranoia.
"Look. You must believe me," she said. "You're my only hope. They're going to kill my unborn baby unless you help me."
"What do you want us to do?" Mum asked.
Jessica's answer showed she was well into crazy illusions. "I want Joshua to pretend to be me," she said.
"You're crazy," I said. "It would take more than a cushion up my jumper for people to believe that."
"Hang on, Joshua," Mum said before Jessica could respond. "Let's hear what Jessica is thinking of before we judge." I realised she was trying to ensure we didn't drive Jessica over the edge.
"We're about the same height and weight," Jessica said. "Everything else can be changed."
"But we look totally different. Your hair for a start and as for those…" I nodded down towards her scoop neckline exposing her wonderful cleavage. "I don't have those."
"Your face is a dead ringer; it's because I'm so plain that I have to use so much makeup. This hair is a wig. As for my cleavage, there are ways I'll show you shortly. The question is, will you help to protect my unborn baby?"
"We'll do whatever we can, won't we Joshua." My mum broke in before I could rubbish it. "I have to say, Jessica, that I don't think Joshua would make a very good stand in for you, but he'll give it his best try."
"Joshua?" Jessica looked directly at me.
I shrugged. "It's not going to work but at least I'm prepared to give it a try."
"That's brilliant, Joshua." She was suddenly on her feet and bending over me to give me a kiss. Hell, it was like looking down the Grand Canyon.
She took us upstairs and got me to put her suitcase on the bed. When she threw back the lid, it appeared to be full of frilly underwear and pretty dresses, but she removed those from the top, shockingly exposing two large breasts lurking there. "This thing is so big, I had to pack everything else around it and inside it," she said.
More clothes were removed to expose a huge belly to go with the breasts. "It's called a Pregnancy Torsolet," she said. "It's designed for men to wear to simulate pregnancy."
"Bloody hell!" I said.
***
Imagine the torso of a pregnant woman without arms, legs or head, and with all the organs and stuff inside removed. So that's what a Pregnancy Torsolet is like. I was both horrified and fascinated by it. Could I really put it on and appear like a naked pregnant woman? Obviously, I had to appear reluctant, but I knew there was no way I could not try on this thing.
First, I had to go to the bathroom and shave off every hair from my body. I hadn't realised how sexy my legs were without hair; they could have belonged to any sexy woman. I put on the swimming trunks I'd taken in with me before slipping the catch and letting Jessica in, carrying the Torsolet.
"I see the idea turns you on," she said, nodding down towards my trunks, where a huge bulge was showing itself. She grinned at me. "Don't worry, I can sort that out later, but first, let's put this gel all over you to prevent you sweating." She had a pot of a red gel in her hand, and she put on a rubber glove and proceeded to rub it all over my torso. My erection got decidedly harder.
"Help me lift this thing and slip it over your head."
It was remarkably heavy – no wonder her suitcase had weighed a ton, but once we had it held between us, I slipped my arms and head into it like putting on a heavy jumper. It was quite claustrophobic until I could push my head through the narrow neck, but once I could stand upright, it was all right. Jessica pulled it right down my body, until it was down to my bulging swimming trunks.
"Is your mother still downstairs?" she asked.
I went to the door and listened. She had the TV on. "Yes, I said. She's watching Pointless."
"In that case…" She went down on her knees before me, pulled down my trunks and proceeded to get rid of my erection in the nicest possible way. Minutes later, she was spreading the gel over my now limp member, tucking it inside a pocket on the underside of the gusset and then pulling the gusset between my legs and clicking it into a catch at the rear.
"My God!" I stared into the mirror. My body had disappeared and there stood a sexy, pregnant woman with huge boobs and a bush of hair between her legs. "It looks so realistic."
"I'm told you can have sex as a woman, but I'll leave that for you to establish. Let me turn on the Sensotouch, so you can feel your skin."
Before I could ask what Sensotouch was, she picked up a little remote control and pressed one of the number buttons. Zing! Suddenly everything seemed to come alive. Jessica ran a hand lightly down my body and I could feel it as she moved her hand.
"The skin's touch sensitive," she said, "like a computer screen. I'm told it's very realistic."
Fantastic," I said, running my own hands up and down my body, and giving my breasts an experimental squeeze. It felt great.
"Let's go back to the bedroom and I'll put some makeup on you, and show you how to do it. Then you can get dressed and we can show you off to Aunt Harriet."
***
"There's no denying," Mum said, "that Joshua does look incredibly like you, Jessica. But the question now is how does he act as a decoy for you? What are you suggesting? That he goes and lives in your flat for a while?"
"Mum. I can't do that." To be honest, I hadn't thought about that aspect of events. I'd simply been fascinated by the idea of becoming a pregnant woman.
"Let's just see how it goes, first," Jessica said responding to Mum's questions. "I'm presuming I've been followed here and that they're watching the house now. Tomorrow, you and Joshua can go into town and he can practice being me. At the same time, you can keep an eye out for your tail. They don't seem particularly worried about concealing themselves. I think they're partly trying to terrorise me into miscarriage."
Mum didn't look convinced, but said, "It's certainly worth giving it a try."
"Ooh!" I gasped. I felt as though someone had kicked me in the stomach.
"It does that from time to time," Jessica said. "It simulates the baby moving inside you. It's quite uncomfortable, isn't it?"
"Yes, it bloody is," I said. I turned to Mum. "I can't step outside this house dressed up like this. People will realise I'm a man and laugh at me."
Mum shook her head. "They won't realise by looking at you. Your voice is a bit of a giveaway, though."
"Oh, I've just remembered," Jessica said. "I haven't given Joshua his voice change pills.
"They seem to work in the same way as helium," she added. "They make your voice much higher. You probably still won't sound like me, but you certainly won't sound like a man. I'll go and get them."
When she had left the room, I said, "Mum. I can't go out like this. It's crazy."
"We have to keep an open mind with Jessica," she said. "But I have to say I rather like the idea of a pregnant daughter. We can go out and choose some more clothes for you. And we may also find it establishes the truth about Jessica."
"Mum. We're not going to see anyone following us, so it'll prove nothing. What do we do then?"
"Let's just give it a try and see." To be honest, I think she was so captivated by the idea of a pregnant daughter that she didn't worry whether or not Jessica was bonkers or not.
***
"Don't worry about night clothes. You can borrow one of my nightdresses to sleep in."
I smiled at Jessica. "Thanks Jessica, but I think I'll give that a miss. I was going to remove the Torsolet overnight."
"It won't come off," she said. "That gel to stop you sweating is an adhesive. It works by sealing the skin firmly to the Torsolet."
"But it must come off," I said. "Otherwise I'd be stuck in it forever." My heart was suddenly pumping like crazy.
"No. Not forever. The skin is shed after about two weeks and you can remove it then."
"Two weeks? Two weeks! But I've got to go to sign on the dole on Monday. I can't go like this."
"But you've said you'll help me out. You'd have to take the time off anyway. In any case, how are you going to get in the mood of being pregnant if you can pop it on and off whenever you feel like it? That's not how pregnancy works."
"But I don't want to get in the mood of being pregnant. I'll go out with Mum tomorrow but that's it."
"Well, in that case, you'll either have to stay with your mother for two weeks or go back home. Now stop behaving like a horrible man and become a wonderful pregnant woman, and enjoy your pregnancy. I'll get you pretty nightdress."
***
So there it was. I had a wonderful but scary two weeks ahead of me. I reckon I'd played my shock and horror just right to conceal my delight, for after all, what kind of weird male would actually want to spend time as a female, and a pregnant one at that? It certainly made no sense to me.
I think Jessica deliberately gave me her most sexy nightdress to wear that evening, I pretended horror, which made her grin, and I spent the night in continual ecstasy. If I'd been my normal self with such feelings, I'd simply have masturbated and quickly gone to sleep. But such relief was not achieved, in spite of the way my fingers explored my new body. Added to that problem were the frequent painful kicks from my baby to be.
I think I finally fell asleep as dawn was approaching and in next to no time Mum and Jessica were shaking me awake and planning my wardrobe for the day.
It was only when I was showered, dressed and breakfasted that the enormity fully hit me of going out into a world which, unlike my mother and cousin, had not encouraged me into this situation.
"I can't go out there," I said. "Everyone will know."
"I've told you over and over to keep practicing with your new voice," Mum said. "That voice changer pill may have raised your pitch, but you really need to get used to it. Now, give us your nursery rhymes again."
Last night, she'd made me go through Mary had a little lamb, and all the others, a hundred times, but I obediently went through them again. As I listened to my new voice, I felt much calmer, and as Mum and I stepped through the front door and into the real world, I really felt like the pretty, pregnant woman I was impersonating.
At the bus stop, shock, horror, my mum met a couple of her friends and introduced them to me as Brenda and Pat. Immediately, they pounced on me, wanting to know everything about my pregnancy. Fortunately, Jessica had coached me on all the salient facts the previous evening, and I managed to sate their curiosity. As we got on the bus together, I felt more confident in myself than ever. I was going clothes shopping with my mum and we were going to have fun.
It was fun when all the men leered at my low cut top, which Mum and Jessica had insisted I wore – even the old blokes went goggle-eyed over me. There was one incredibly ugly old guy with a horrible mole on his face, who gave me a leer, which sent a thrill of excitement though my body at the idea of being shagged by him. You can have sex as a female, Jessica had said, and the idea had both revolted and thrilled me.
It was also fun looking at all the pretty dresses in the shop windows, and then going in and trying them on. We went from shop to shop with Mum finding all kinds of pretty clothes. I wanted them all, but Mum was rarely satisfied.
"It'll make you look tarty," or "It makes you look fat rather than pregnant."
Then suddenly it wasn't fun. Mum said, "Have you noticed that old bloke standing across the road before?"
She gesticulated with the slightest inclination of her head and I looked at a man peering into a shop window. He was probably in his fifties, with a bald head and as I watched him, he turned his head to glance casually across the road directly at me. He had a large dark mole on his right cheek and I instantly remembered him looking at me as I got off the bus.
"I saw him at the bus station," I said.
"He was also waiting across the road when we came out of that last dress shop," Mum said.
"You mean he really is following us?" I said.
Mum was tight-lipped as she said, "Yes. It looks like it."
I shivered. "I'm scared," I said.
"No reason why you should be," Mum said. "It's not as though you really can lose your baby."
"No, but…"
"But it certainly means we have to take what Jessica was saying very seriously; very seriously indeed."
"Yes Mum."
***
"Did he have a large mole on his right cheek?" Jessica asked as soon as we told her about the elderly man.
"Yes," I said. "Yes, he did."
"He's the most noticeable. Did you notice anyone else following?"
"No," Mum said.
"If he's on my tail, then they've followed me all the way from my flat, so there are almost certainly one or two others," Jessica said. "It's just a matter of looking for them. The others are far less noticeable than him. In time, I expect you'll recognise several."
"What are we going to do now?" I asked. "I'm not certain I want to go ahead with this."
"You must," Mum said. "There's no choice. Jessica's baby is at risk. You must protect them both." She turned to Jessica. "What were you planning, love? For Joshua to live at your flat for a few weeks until it looks like it's dying over? You're welcome to stay here."
"I don't think it would work, Joshua staying at the flat. There are too many people who know me well who'd see through the disguise," she said. "Ronnie's spooks clearly know I'm down here so I think it's probably better if Joshua stays with you. They'll probably think it's so you can guard me from them, as well as caring for me in the latter stages of pregnancy. I'll find somewhere else to live."
"Have you got anywhere else?" I asked.
"I can stay with a friend," Jessica said, "but I don't think I'd better tell you where she is. That way if they do torture you to reveal my whereabouts, you won't be able to tell."
"Torture!" I gasped, "but…"
"Jessica's teasing you," Mum said. "Firstly, they won't suss you if you act the part well. Even if they do, they're not going to harm you. All right?"
She put on such a fierce look I had no alternative but to say, "Yes, Mum."
***
Over lunch, we agreed that Mum would hire a car and return with Jessica to her flat, pack several suitcases and bring them back here. Tomorrow, Mum and I would go out somewhere, hopefully drawing attention of the spooks away from the house, whilst Jessica departed to stay with her friend. That meant, when Mum and I returned to the house later on, the real Jessica would have gone and only her stand in, ie, me, would be left, so the spooks would then be permanently on my tail.
I was a quite freaked out after they'd departed to the car hire company and then on to Jessica's flat in London. Taking the part of a pregnant woman was partly to blame, although I had been really enjoying that. But the very idea that Jessica's supposed paranoia had now turned into real life was quite scary. It's one thing to see it on TV, quite another to actually experience it for yourself.
And what was Ronald Fluck's motive? Everyone knew he was a nutter, but would he really employ people to make a woman miscarry, when he was so vehemently against abortion. But then, what politicians said was one thing; what they did quite another. There again, Jessica had indicated it was friends of Fluck who were carrying out the actions, rather than his employees working on his orders. But how did she know? These spooks had hardly introduced themselves, and wasn't her thought motivated by her reluctance to see Fluck as the hateful man he really was, rather than as the father of her child.
It was clear I was going to have to keep a very sharp eye out for anything suspicious, and avoid dark unlit streets. But then, I supposed, women generally had to do that all the time and they came to terms with it. Perhaps I should just concentrate upon taking Jessica's place and let the rest sort itself out. Otherwise, I'd go as bonkers as she was.
***
The following morning, Jessica came into my room first thing to show her appreciation for my services. Doing that in the same way as she'd done on Friday evening was clearly not possible, but she gave me the female equivalent and it was very, very nice. I could, I thought, get used to being a woman. Then the sprog kicked me in the stomach again and I realised that pain, quite a lot of pain, goes with the pleasures of womanhood.
Mum and Jessica helped me chose my clothes and Jessica gave me final instructions on makeup. I had got reasonably adept at it since Friday, but still had problems around my eyelashes. Mum said she'd continue to help me for a few days until I got the hang of it.
Then we left the house to continue the shopping we'd finished early the previous day. Being Sunday, the buses were only hourly, so there was a big queue when we got to the bus stop. Brenda was there again, but not Pat, and I managed to have a reasonable chat with her.
Of course, by the time we got on the bus, there were no seats available. But two teenage boys immediately stood up for me and Mum, and we both had seats. I gave them a nice smile, which seemed to embarrass them.
There was no sign of mole face during that day's shopping, but I noticed a couple of women seemed to follow us from shop to shop. Jessica hadn't mentioned whether her followers were all men or a mixture. I guess that since we were going into dress shops, it would be easier for women to keep a close eye on us. I wondered whether the women knew the objective of their project; hopefully not. Even in these times of equality, I still like to think that few women are evil in the way that men frequently are.
So having women following us didn't seem so threatening and Mum and I enjoyed our shopping trip in a way we never had done before in our lives. I could see why Mum was pleased at having a pregnant daughter. We chatted about clothes and my new baby in a way that really made me think I was going to have one. When niggling thoughts came into my head that this was all make believe, I firmly rejected them. I was going to BE Jessica Roberts until...
We stopped at a pub for lunch; I was feeling quite thirsty but I knew that beer would be a no-no, so it would have to be a glass of wine.
"I'll have a large glass of Sauvignon," Mum said. "Have you settled on any particular drink now you can no longer drink alcohol?"
No longer drink alcohol! No one had said that was one of the conditions of pregnancy. If they had done, I'd certainly have refused. And I certainly wouldn't have suggested a pub lunch if I'd known I'd have to sit around like a lemon watching everyone else get drunk
"Why not try a lemonade and lime?" Mum suggested, grinning at the look on my face.
So I did, and actually it was quite nice. And although I've always found that drinking alcohol makes me much more sociable, Mum and I seemed to have no difficulty chatting about all kinds of things over lunch, including stupid things like how we would decorate the nursery. But eventually, my mind came around to that disquieting 'until' I'd thought about earlier.
"Aunt, do we have any way of contacting Joshua?" (We'd agreed that when speaking to each other, whether in public or private, we would refer to her as Joshua, and Mum as Aunt Harriet.)
"No," she said, "I thought he'd given you his friend's address." We both grinned at calling Jessica 'he'.
"No, I don't have any details," I said. "Josh loaned me his mobile phone again this morning, as he did yesterday, so the spooks could triangulate, or whatever they do to find its location and it would point to me. But he suggested that once he'd left the area, I kept it turned off so I wouldn't have friends and relatives ringing up and wanting to talk to him. He bought me a new mobile phone yesterday and I assumed he'd also bought one for himself and given you the number."
"But that would be no good," Mum said. "Presumably the spooks were following us yesterday afternoon and they'd be able to find out Joshua's new number, so they could then triangulate that. He can only buy a new phone now he's incognito."
"Let's hope he calls with the number quite soon. I do think we need to contact each other in case of emergencies."
"Duh!" Mum gave me a 'don't be stupid look'. "Presumably, our own phone is now being monitored by the spooks. He can hardly announce his new number to them as well as us. In any case, I think this conversation really shouldn't be conducted in a public place. We don't know which of these other customers are spooks."
It was true. We'd chosen a quiet corner seat but since then, the pub had filled up and one or two others were sitting quite close to us. I stared at them, trying to memorise their faces, until a male sitting at an adjacent table gave me a wink and a questioning look, as though to say, "Want to come back to my place?" I hurriedly turned away. As a man, the idea of being able to have sex with virtually any member of the opposite sex seemed idyllic; as a woman, it's horrifying how easily any glance can be taken as an offer.
We arrived back at the house with several carrier bags containing underwear and some very pretty dresses. As we'd expected, the house was empty and it brought home to me how isolated I was. I was stuck in this Pregnancy Torsolet thing for at least two weeks and would be the target for an unknown number of spooks attempting to make me lose my baby, or worse. I had no way of contacting Jessica, even in emergency, and my fifty year old mum was bouncing around as though I really was expecting a baby.
"We're going to have such fun," she said, seeing the look of apprehension on my face. "Maybe we should think about setting you up with a boyfriend. He'd be able to take care of you much better…"
"Mum!" I burst out. "I don't want a boyfriend. I'm your…"
She slapped my face.
"Sorry darling, but you were getting a little hysterical." She leaned right forward to whisper in my ear, "Remember, we must assume they've planted listening bugs in here by now. It's vital we don't reveal any secrets, so never call me Mum again or reveal your relationship. It's probably better if you think of me as Aunt, as I'm thinking of you as Jessica."
"Right," I said, still rather in shock over her slap. "But I really don't want a boyfriend."
Mum slowly nodded. "It's a shame but I suppose you’re right. But that doesn't stop us dressing you as though you were looking for a boyfriend. Remember, a few more weeks and you'll be gestating like an elephant."
"I don't think so," I whispered, aware of the potential bugs.
Mum simply smirked and nodded her head. When I looked puzzled, she beckoned me to lean forward so she could whisper into my ear. "We have to add half a litre of water to your Torsolet every week, so it mimics normal growth in pregnancy. Jessica's told me how to do it."
"Seems hardly worth it for a fortnight," I whispered back. "It won't make any noticeable difference."
"Why are you talking about a fortnight?" Mum asked. "You know we have to continue this until your full term, and we hear that Jessica's baby has been safely delivered."
"No! That wasn't what we agreed." I shouted rather than whispered that but it was hardly controversial.
"Yes it was," Mum replied. "After we realised that Fluck's spooks were following you yesterday, we agreed it would be best if you stayed here until you've had the baby, rather than just for the first two weeks, which we'd been discussing earlier. So you'll just have to get used to living here for the next four months.
"And," she added, "Jessica has agreed to pay you a wage for doing this, out of the money she got from that Ronald Fluck, equivalent to what you would have got on the dole. So you can shut up moaning and get on with your pregnancy.
Wow! Did I have some weird feeling surging through me? On the one hand, I'd clearly been tricked into this situation; on the other, the idea of carrying my baby until I was able to give birth, was thrilling and strangely satisfying. The regular kicks should have been simply uncomfortable; instead, they made everything seem totally real.
***
So, I've settled into my pregnancy. It was incredibly exhilarating at first, with lots of blokes giving me the eye as I went out with Mum. But gradually, as I looked more and more like that gestating elephant, so those lecherous looks reduced. Instead was this wonderful sense of satisfaction with my own womanhood (I know that sounds strange) as well as the comradeship with other women, in particular my mum. I think both of us had almost forgotten that I wasn't really pregnant, there was no real baby inside me; indeed, I wasn't really a woman. Deep inside our minds, of course, we realised it, but the thought was pushed to one side and we roller-coasted on the excitement it brought to both our lives.
Over the weeks, we both got to recognise the people who seemed to be following us. We could never be absolutely sure, of course, but when you're looking out for it, it's easy to identify a few faces who you see time and time again. I had bought a bug detector, one of those things which allows you to detect any secret listening devices, and the good news was that our house was bug free, so our earlier inhibitions had been unjustified and we no longer had to whisper inside our own home.
As the months went by and the final weeks of my pregnancy approached, I became so heavy I could barely walk. I kept begging my mum not to add the half kilo of water per week towards the end, but she said that was what every pregnant woman had to go through and I was no different. I guess I should have been hoping that Jessica herself would soon give birth and that my ordeal would be over. But I also knew that would be the end of my pregnancy, and I'd be losing my child. So somehow, I think we both hoped her pregnancy would go on forever.
Then, a letter arrived in the post saying I was being admitted the following day to St Margaret's Maternity Hospital in Seacombe, which is a seaside town further along the south coast, well over a hundred miles away. Mum suggested it was a mistake: that Jessica had arranged the admission for herself, giving my address as her own. It seemed reasonable so at last we knew where Jessica was going to be. As long as I could first shake off my followers, I would be able to meet up with her.
It was an opportunity too good to miss. Mum and I made plans for our escape with the help of Brenda and Pat, our friends we frequently met at the bus stop. We didn't tell them the whole story, of course, simply that my non-British ex-partner was having me followed and I wanted to shake him off before I gave birth. There have been so many publicised incidents where fathers have taken their children from the mother, I didn't have to elucidate.
Brenda agreed to give us a lift in her Ford Fiesta, whilst Pat, driving behind us in her Morris Minor, would block any attempts to follow us. Quite the James Bond.
We set out six am the following morning. Mum and I were waiting when Brenda's Fiesta stopped outside the house. We were out of the front door and Mum was climbing into the back seat within seconds. It took rather longer for me to squeeze my enormous bulk inside the tiny passenger seat, and Brenda insisted on my fastening the seat belt before we set off, but even so it seemed quick enough to take our watchers by surprise.
We turned onto the main road, still quiet at that hour, overtook Pat's Morris Minor which was idling along and then drove in convoy, with Pat ready to block the road at the sight of any car following us.
Initially, we headed towards London, but after we felt reasonably safe that we weren't being followed, we veered across to the coast road using isolated B roads. Although it was a misty morning, Mum even kept an eye out for helicopters tailing us.
After we'd travelled for twenty minutes, or so, Mum telephoned Pat on her mobile and suggested she go back home and we cracked on towards Seacombe.
***
St Margaret's Maternity Hospital was one of those large houses with several brass plates next to the door, clearly a private hospital no doubt paid for from Ronald Fluck's money. There were no parking spaces left on the forecourt, so Mum and I got out whilst Brenda went off to find somewhere to park. Inside, a sign indicated that St Margaret's Maternity Hospital was on the second floor. As we squeezed inside the tiny lift, I couldn't help feeling grateful that I wasn't on a stretcher in the throes of childbirth.
We found a door bearing the St Margaret's name and stepped inside, where there was a woman in scrubs with a badge bearing the word 'Midwife'.
"Jessica Jones?" I enquired of her.
She rapidly took in my condition and said, "Come in," with a sympathetic smile. "We were expecting you." Before I could explain that we were here to visit Jessica, she added, "Presumably, you are really Joshua Jones?"
I think my mouth sagged wide open.
"Er, yes," I said.
She smiled at my surprise. "The real Jessica will be here later on to visit you and your new-born baby, but in the meantime, we have to get on with your delivery."
"My… delivery? What do you mean? If you know I'm really Joshua then you'll realise that I'm a man. I can't give birth."
"You're wrong," she said. "Let me explain. I'm not really a midwife, but I work for the company called Big Busts here in Seacombe, the company who make your Pregnancy Torsolet. We pride ourselves that our Torsolet is capable not just of simulating pregnancy, but of a realistic childbirth, as well. Miss Jones tells us that a video is required of you giving birth to prove some kind of legal case. We'll take the video, of course, but we in Big Busts don't involve ourselves in the legal side of things. However, we're all set up, so if we can get you into the delivery ward, we can make a start."
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" I said. "I'm sorry, this is totally unexpected. I can't do that. It'll be painful, won't it?"
"I think you'll find it's quite realistic," she said.
"You mean it will hurt like crazy?"
She smiled. "I'm afraid it may hurt a little."
"Or it may hurt a lot," Mum helpfully added. "It's what pregnant women have to put up with in order to have their children."
"But Mum, Jessica never mentioned this."
Mum gave a little grimace. "Well, I didn't like to worry you but she told me about it when we hired the car to pick up her things."
"So you knew all along. You tricked me into coming here."
"Well, obviously you couldn't go into our local maternity hospital to have your baby delivered. Jessica told me the company had this place they can set up to do the job. So I had to get you here. Apparently, your delivery date was already arranged and programmed into your Torsolet."
"No!" I said. "I'm sorry, but I'm not going ahead with this. I'm walking out of here now… Oooh!" There was a strange wetness running down my legs.
"I think your waters have broken," the midwife said.
***
They told me afterwards that it was a quick and relatively easy first birth. I can fortunately remember few things from those few hours, which mainly involved an incredible amount of pain and screaming on my part, the sweat running down my forehead as I followed the commands to, "Push! Push!" when I didn't really know what I was pushing.
Finally, there was the sound of a baby yelling and a little bundle wrapped in a blanket was thrust into my arms.
"He looks just like his father," my mum said. To me, he looked absolutely beautiful.
***
Jessica came to visit me later, and she dutifully admired the baby sucking my breast. (OK, I have to admit that this was a very realistic doll which they had produced, and which could yell like a real baby, suck milk like a real baby and shit like a real baby. I mean, what else do babies do at that age?)
"He's beautiful," she said, I think more because it was expected of her than because she believed it.
"He is, isn't he?" I said. I knew he wasn't a real baby, but I was attached to him like any other mother who's carried her baby for months, and then gone through hell and back in order to give birth.
I looked at her properly for the first time. Clearly, Jessica was no longer pregnant; indeed, she looked far slimmer than me, even now I'd given birth. "But where's your baby?" I asked.
She gave a kind of apologetic smile and shrugged.
"Actually, I never was pregnant," she said.
"What?" I couldn't believe what she'd said. "But… we saw you. You were five months gone."
She shook her head. "No, I was simply wearing another Pregnancy Torsolet."
"You weren't pregnant? Then why did you say you were?"
"Isn't it obvious? I was putting the screws on Ronald. I was quite happy for him to screw me in that toilet, but he can't just cast me aside like that. He has to be made to pay."
"But you told me you'd got ten thousand dollars out of him."
"I've got a bit more now. As soon as I emailed the video they took this morning and they saw the baby, there was no doubt about the father. They paid up straightaway."
I looked down at my baby, still heavily sucking my breasts. "They never tried to make the baby miscarry. So why did they go to the expense of having you, and then me, continually followed."
"Ah." She looked even more apologetic now.
"Ah, what?"
"They weren't actually following either of us around."
"But Mum and I have seen them, continually; ever since I took over your role. First, there was that old bloke with the mole, who you identified, and then there have been several women who we notice virtually every time we go out."
"I'm afraid that old bloke was me," she said. "Wearing a mask. As soon as you left the house that morning, I pulled off my Pregnancy Torsolet, slipped on the mask and a few clothes. I got a taxi into town, and could watch you getting off the bus. I then followed you until I was certain you'd noticed me. After that, I got a taxi back here, put on the Pregnancy Torsolet and was waiting for you when you got back."
"That's rubbish," I said. "Once it's on, you can't pull the Torsolet off again for two weeks."
She gave me a wicked grin. "It depends which gel you use. There's a temporary gel I was using. You can pop the thing on and off as convenient."
"But the other people following us…"
"Once I'd convinced you there really were people watching you, your imagination did the rest. In a small town like that, you're bound to frequently see the same people over and over again."
"But if you weren't being watched," I said, trying to work everything out, "why on earth did you want me to pretend to be you?"
"In order to pursue my claim against Fluck," she said. "I had to show I was continually pregnant right up to the moment of childbirth. I was going to do it all myself, but I realised after a few months that it was incredibly uncomfortable and painful, not to say it restricted my social life. So I spun the yarn to you and your mum about the spooks following me in order to get you to stand in for me. You and I really are alike, you know. I simply told the solicitors I was dealing with that I'd changed address. I think they probably sent an investigator to come and look at you once or twice, and make certain you really were pregnant. It all worked perfectly."
"You mean I've been taking the part of a pregnant woman for four months in order to help you extort money from someone, because you were too lazy to do the difficult bit yourself. You did really have sex with him in that toilet, didn't you? I mean, he wasn't just taking a leak?"
"I'll cut you in on the deal," Jessica said, ignoring my question. "Say ten percent."
"How much was it?" I asked.
"One hundred thousand dollars. That makes it ten thousand dollars for you."
"Stuff that," I said. "I did all the hard work. I want half, and if you don't want to pay up, I only have to mention to Fluck's solicitor what you did and you go to jail."
She opened her mouth, about to argue, and then closed it again. "Done," she said.
Actually, the money didn't seem that important. What was important was that I keep my baby.
Enjoyed this story? Then you may also enjoy The Pudding Club or my other stories.
The Pudding Club
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Up the Khyber and On the Run
When first we practice to deceive
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.
The Pudding Club - Chapter 1 of 6
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or
Up the Khyber and On the Run
When first we practice to deceive
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!
The Pudding Club - Chapter 2 of 6
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Up the Khyber and On the Run
When first we practice to deceive
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 2 - Escape from 'The Moor'
Marianne drove us down to Seacombe in my Mondeo, rather than her BMW sports car. Normally, I found the Mondeo a comfortable car, but with a baby inside me kicking me every five minutes, the suspension seemed to make agony of every bump in the road. And with me having overslept, it seemed that Marianne was trying to make up for lost time by driving at breakneck speed.
After a while though, she calmed down, and settled down to a more appropriate speed for carrying her unborn child. I closed my eyes and let myself drift off to sleep again.
I was awakened by the blast on the horn from a car going in the opposite direction, and I felt the car suddenly swerve.
"Stupid idiot," Marianne said. "He was coming straight at me."
Behind, I could hear the sound of several vehicles colliding. I awkwardly twisted around in my seat. It looked like an almighty pile-up.
"Don't you think we ought to stop?"
"There's not much we can do. There'll be plenty of other drivers who will testify how crazily he was driving."
Right at the very back of my mind a little voice reminded me that Marianne, too, could sometimes drive crazily. But, I resolved that the back of my mind was where that thought was firmly going to stay. I closed my eyes again.
"What do you think of it?"
Marianne's words jerked me wide awake, and I stared at a gently-mellowed Georgian manor house built in an ivy-covered, brown stone.
"Are we here already?" I'd lost all track of time. I knew I'd been heavily asleep for some time and I'd had some vivid dreams, which I now struggled to remember.
"If by that you mean have you been sleeping for the last four hours whilst I've driven you non-stop all the way here, the answer is a definite yes." There was a smile on her face to take the sting out of her words.
"Sorry," I said. "I think the extra work in carrying our baby around has exhausted me."
"Well now you know how I'll feel."
Again, there was no sting to her words so I didn't bother to argue that she would probably have half the extra weight I currently had.
"It looks lovely," I said, nodding towards the manor house.
"You can see why I fell in love with it," Marianne said. "Check-in doesn’t start until two. Why don't we park the car and have a wander around for a few minutes until then?
"That is," she pointedly added, "if you feel up to it after your tiring journey."
I gave her a grin and confessed I might be able to have a walk around the park surrounding the house.
It was easy to see why Marianne had been so attracted to the place when she had come for the fashion shoot. The delightful wooded grounds were as enjoyable as the house itself, with a stream which tumbled over numerous waterfalls as it made its way down a little valley, to fill the duck pond situated directly in front of the house. We walked slowly up the valley for about ten minutes, before the extra weight I was carrying had me gasping for air.
"Can we sit down on this bench for a minute," I suggested to Marianne, heading for it before she had chance to walk past.
She grinned. "Not up to motherhood yet, Paul?" Then she hurriedly looked over her shoulder to make certain she hadn't been overheard. "Sorry. That was stupid of me. I won't make any more references to you-know-what."
We'd already agreed I would adopt Marianne's real first name for the whole of our stay here, regardless of whether anyone else was present; otherwise, we could give the game away by anybody overhearing a casual conversation.
I'd better explain about Marianne's names. When, she'd decided in her teens to go into modelling, she'd felt that her own name didn't sound right for a model. So, Anne Brown had turned into Marianne Black - just as decades before Pricilla White had changed her name to Cilla Black.
Our marriage further complicated things, and Marianne flicked between using Anne and Marianne, in combination with Black, Brown and my surname, Johnson, with an ease that left me hopelessly confused.
She had decided - and only told me last night - that I should use her Anne Johnson name, which would allow me to use one of her bank accounts in that name. She'd already ordered new credit and debit cards on that account, so I now had (slightly illegal, I expect) bank cards in the name of Anne Johnson, which bore my new signature.
In the meantime, she would continue to be Marianne Johnson, and if asked, we would say we were sisters. Marianne normally loved to be recognised in public and she nearly always used her professional surname, but she'd decided that for this occasion she didn't want people asking too many questions about her. I thought it was all probably over the top, but agreed the bank cards would be useful if we got separated at any time.
She glanced at her watch. "Look, it's almost two. Why don't I go back to reception and check in whilst you stay here. We don't want to overtax you, after all."
That sounded an excellent suggestion, so Marianne set off downhill and I made myself more comfortably and closed my eyes a little. This pregnancy thing really was a tiring business.
"I think the term is snap."
I hurriedly opened my eyes to stare at the smiling face of a woman, standing just a yard in front of me.
"Sorry?" I stuttered. This was my first real encounter with someone who didn't know my situation. It was far scarier than I'd anticipated. Had she seen through me straightaway?
"Snap," she repeated, standing back a little so I could see her properly. She was pregnant! And not just pregnant, but heavily pregnant as well, although her bump was nothing like as big as my maxi bump.
"Hello," I said, inwardly delighted that I'd passed my very first test. "Are you staying here?"
She nodded, and plonked herself down on the bench next to me. "That's right. I arrived about an hour ago, and I've been wandering the grounds waiting to check in. They're very delightful, but also quite tiring."
I nodded, pleased it wasn't just me that got tired so easily. "My sister has just gone down to check us in. Is that where your husband is?"
She grimaced. "My husband is about two hundred miles away. We're getting divorced."
"Then it's snap again," I said. "Only I haven't a clue where my ex disappeared to." Another part of the pretence Marianne had worked out to avoid awkward questions.
"To be rather mercenary," she said, "I'm glad you're not with a partner. It looks like most of the other guests are young couples staying here on romantic breaks. I was beginning to despair."
Actually, I too felt relieved there was another pregnant woman here. "I was thinking the same," I said. "Incidentally, I'm Anne Johnson, and my sister is Marianne Johnson."
She smiled and held out her hand for me to shake. "I'm Sharon Smith. Are you booked into the hotel or the bungalows?"
"The bungalows," I said. The bungalows were scattered around the hotel grounds, and whilst still enjoying all the hotel facilities, it did mean guests had more personal space, complete with their own patio area. "With me being pregnant, we thought it would give us more privacy. In fact, we're booked into one of the rooms for disabled, so there'd be no steps to fall down."
"Me too!" Sharon said, with a delighted grin on her face. "I think that means we'll be next door to each other."
"Great!" I said. And I meant it. In just the few minutes we'd been talking, I'd got to like Sharon. The fact that she was pregnant did not detract from her being a very attractive woman, tall with well-rounded breasts which, although not quite as large as mine, were certainly attractively large and quivered delightedly with every movement. Being a heavily-pregnant woman, I realised, had not stopped me finding other women attractive.
"Is this Marianne coming now?" Sharon asked, nodding her head behind me.
I glanced around and saw Marianne striding towards us, giving us both a really nice smile.
"That's right," I said, and raised my voice so she could hear. "Marianne, this is Sharon Smith, and it sounds as though she'll be in the bungalow next to us. Isn't that marvellous?"
"Great!" she said, clutching Sharon's proffered hand and shaking it warmly. "She'll be good company for you."
"So will you, Marianne," I said, wondering why she'd put it like that. After all, it was Sharon, here on her own, who'd be more appreciative of our company.
Marianne hesitated and then said, "I'm sorry, Anne. I've just had a call on my mobile. There's an urgent job just come up in Bath. I'm going to have to go there straightaway, for a shoot tomorrow morning."
Hell and damnation! "But you can't leave me here on my own," I stuttered.
"We did agree I might have to pop off now and again," she said. "I simply didn't realise it would be so soon after we arrived. I'm sorry sis. Still, fortunately you've found a new friend already, so you won't be on your own." She turned towards Sharon. "You'll look after her, Sharon, won't you?"
"We can look after each other," Sharon said with a smile. She turned to me, "We could form The Pudding Club."
That sounded like fun, the kind of thing we'd have done as kids, and I couldn't stop my anger from melting away and smiling like a Cheshire Cat.
"Marianne," Sharon added, "I've got to go down to Reception to check in, and the walk is a bit much for me on my own. You couldn't walk down there with me, could you?"
"No problem, Sharon. Here, let me help you up." Marianne reached out her hand so Sharon could more easily rise off the bench, an offer which Sharon gratefully accepted.
"Are you going to help me up as well, Marianne?" I pointedly asked.
"Of course." She held out her hand and it took much more of a pull to get my tremendous weight off the seat.
Marianne handed me the key to bungalow and went back to Reception with Sharon. I heard Sharon asking whether, since Marianne was going to shoot someone, she was a paid assassin? I felt slightly jealous that Marianne appeared to take more care in helping Sharon than she did me; then I realised that Sharon was really pregnant whereas I was just an imposter. Still, it didn't help in carrying this bloody great load around
"So your sister is Marianne Black?"
We were sitting outside on our patio, drinking some of the home-made lemonade we'd found in the fridge. Hell, I could have done with a proper drink, but pregnant women kept off alcohol. That, I realised, was going to be another tough part about being pregnant.
Marianne had already departed, and we'd spent a little time unpacking our luggage before agreeing to meet for drinks on the patio outside the door of her bungalow. And after a bit of small chat, Sharon had come out with that rather embarrassing question.
"She is," I admitted, "although normally she likes to keep it quiet, otherwise she gets too much attention." Obviously, Marianne hadn't kept her mouth shut about her profession, as we'd agreed; if Sharon knew anything of Marianne Black's history, it might lead to my early exposure. Damn Marianne!
"How exciting," she said. "I was wondering whether..."
But whatever she was wondering was cut off by the sound of a siren wailing, some distance away.
"What's that?" I asked. "A fire?"
Sharon shook her head. "I think it probably warns that someone has broken out of The Moor."
"You mean the prison?"
Sharon nodded, and said with a grin. "Presumably it means we have to look out for a man carrying a ball and chain with arrows printed all over his suit."
I glanced around. We were quite separate from the main hotel buildings. "Do you think we're safe sitting outside here?"
Sharon shrugged. "Seacombe Moor's hardly a top security prison where they take violent offenders. I don't think an escaped prisoner will see two pregnant women as much of a threat to his freedom. In any case, the prison is miles away. Let's stay out here."
But her complacency was shattered a few minutes later when the hotel manager came around. "I'm sorry ladies; we've just heard that a prisoner has escaped from a prison van not too far from here, and that his accomplices had guns. Could I suggest you come down and wait in the main hotel building until we hear more?"
I thought: A prison van? That's strange, although I couldn't explain why it felt strange.
"It might be hours," Sharon protested, "and I really need some rest. Couldn't we lock ourselves into one of our bungalows?"
The manager looked a little doubtful, but admitted we would be perfectly secure inside, with the shutters bolted across the windows. So, he made us secure both our premises and Sharon and I went into her bungalow, which was almost identical to mine, and promised not to open the door without checking first with Reception on the house phone.
"So here we are in a locked room," Sharon giggled in a way I found incredibly sexy. "What can we do with ourselves?"
I certainly knew what I'd like to do with her, if only I hadn't been wearing the Pregnancy Torsolet.
"Did you bring a swimming costume with you?" Sharon asked. "With this sudden heat wave, I thought we ought to make the most of it. That swimming pool looked rather nice for tomorrow. And once we're in the water, it doesn't matter if we look like porpoises."
"I didn't bring a costume," I said. "I thought I'd look simply terrible." Actually it was the thought of prancing around as a half-naked woman that had really made me tell Marianne there was no way I was going to go swimming.
"I have a spare costume," Sharon said. "You could borrow that. Come and look at it."
She led the way into the bedroom, and I followed - part of me frustrated that, as a woman, I couldn't take advantage of being led into the bedroom of a sexy, albeit pregnant, woman; the other part relieved that there was no chance in betraying Marianne's trust in me.
And then a little thought passed through my mind: Marianne had always declared we had a modern relationship, so temporarily enjoying a good bonking with someone else was perfectly acceptable.
But then another thought said that since I was a pregnant woman, I could hardly contemplate having sex with another pregnant woman.
But there again, another little thought said it would be nice.
In any case, I reasoned, by going into Sharon's bedroom, I was only behaving how any woman would.
"I bought two," Sharon explained, "as I didn't know how much more I'd grow. I'm certain the bigger one will be fine for you." She opened one of her drawers and I had quick glimpse of frilly underwear before she pulled out a grey swimsuit, shut the drawer and slowly stood up.
"Here." She thrust the swimsuit into my hands. "Try it on."
"Right," I said, and hesitated as she stood looking at me. "You mean now?"
"Well of course I mean now," Sharon said. "Look, I'll put mine on as well so we can see how well we coordinate together." Without more ado, she unbuttoned the front of the smock she was wearing, pulled it off and dropped it on the bed. She reached behind her and unfastened her bra, letting her wonderful breasts wobble free. They were exceptionally firm and it was as much as I could do to stop myself reaching out and cupping them in my hands.
"Get a move on," she said, turning her back on me as she got her other swimsuit out of the drawer.
With her back temporarily turned, I pulled my own smock over my head.
"I was really pleased the way this swimsuit doesn't make me look too much like a whale," Sharon said. "I think we'll look great together. Do you want me to unhook your bra?" This, she added as she saw me struggling behind my back to remove it.
"Thanks," I said. "I'm simply not as agile as I was a month ago." I obediently turned and she unhooked my bra and I let it slide down my arms and onto the bed.
"What wonderful breasts you have," Sharon said. "They're much larger than mine but are just as firm. I'm really quite proud of the way mine have grown without getting slack. What do you think?"
"I think they're wonderful," I said.
"But your breasts are stupendous and those nipples are something to die for," Sharon said. "I bet they're very sensitive. Do you mind if I just..."
Without waiting for an answer, she bent over and licked my left nipple.
"Yeraoohh!" I gasped. That Sensotouch facility Marianne had talked about was fantastic. She'd said something about touch-sensitive skin, like a computer screen, with the signals then amplified and fed to tiny electrodes on the skin. It was mind blowing.
"I was right. They are sensitive. Is your other nipple the same?"
"Erhhh!" It was. My legs felt very unsteady, so I sat down heavily on the bed.
"My poor dear," Sharon said, "your nipples haven't been getting proper attention without a husband."
"Well, no, but..."
"You're on Seacombe Moor, now - on holiday. It's time to forget your inhibitions. Allow me." This time she closed her lips over my nipple and sucked it into her mouth.
"Agghh!" It was divine; there were fireworks starting to explode in my head. They multiplied in intensity when Sharon switched to the other nipple and suddenly I was into a crashing orgasm which went on and on as Sharon alternately sucked and licked.
"Sharon. That was beautiful," I groaned, as I gradually came back down to earth.
"Glad to be of service," she said. "But you could return the favour."
She hovered above me and slowly lowered her breasts down onto my face.
Now whilst I had absolutely no experience of having my nipples sucked and licked, I certainly did have experience at doing the sucking and licking.
"Mmm," she said."That is nice. Now I reckon I can always tell when a girl has licked nipple before, and you certainly have, haven't you?"
I nodded, my mouth too full to answer.
"And here's me thinking I'd have to seduce you so carefully, when all along you're a bi," she said.
"Well, not really..." I started to say, then realised it was simply better to suck nipple and say nothing.
"After that, I think I could eat a horse. How about you?"
I hadn't thought about food until that moment, but I suddenly realised I hadn't eaten since a very early breakfast. "Sounds good. But with the prisoner on the loose, are we allowed to walk to the hotel on our own?"
Sharon shrugged. "We can telephone Reception and get someone to come over to escort us. Presumably you want to get back into your room in order to dress. Do you want me to walk round with you?"
I hadn't thought of getting dressed for dinner until then, but I realised that was something a woman in a hotel would always do. Although rather nervous of going out of the door on my own with an armed escaped convict on the run, I was about to instinctively reject the offer from a pregnant woman - as any bloke would - but then I remembered I had to act in character. "You could just watch me from your door and telephone for help if I need it."
"No problem." She gave another shrug. "But there's no way that someone who escapes from a prison van just up the road is going to hang around a hotel here waiting to get caught. He'll be long way away, by now - probably on a boat heading to France."
What she said made perfect sense, but I was still a little nervous as I stepped out of Sharon's front door and walked over to mine. The manager had made me lock my door before going into Sharon's, so I felt reasonably safe once I was inside. But that didn't stop me doing a thorough search of the bungalow, just in case.
We'd agreed we'd be ready to leave in thirty minutes. I smiled at that. If I had really been Marianne, there was no way I'd be ready in that time. It would take longer than that to choose an outfit. But Marianne had instructed me back home about what clothes to wear for what occasion, so I reckoned it would be a simple decision - something a man could do without problems. All I really had to do was to shower off the sweat I'd built up during that wonderful girly tumble with Sharon, and then put on my rather pretty dress, which so nicely displayed my breasts. With any luck, Sharon would be so entranced by them over dinner, there'd be some fantastic treats for afters!
The Pudding Club - Chapter 3 of 6
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Up the Khyber and On the Run
When first we practice to deceive
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 3 - On the Run and Up the Khyber
"Ladies and gentlemen. Could I have your attention for a few minutes?" The pleasant hubbub of conversation in the restaurant died out as the hotel manager spoke. "I'd like to bring you up to date over the prison escape, this afternoon, and the police would like to speak to anyone who might have witnessed anything.
"As I'm sure you all know by now, the escape was from a prison van only a mile up the road from here, at about one-thirty, this afternoon. A gang of phoney workmen diverted the van into the loop road over the old bridge."
"Blimey," I muttered. "That's strange."
"The gang then held up the guards with what we now know were imitation firearms. The guards were tied up and put into the back of the van as the prisoner was released, and it took some time for the alarm to be raised."
A worried murmur went through the diners, and the manager hurriedly continued. "The guns were left at the scene of the crime, so fortunately we don't have to worry about armed gunmen. The police believe they are still in the Seacombe area, but they are not dangerous. If anyone has any suspicions about their whereabouts, or if you were driving anywhere on this side of the moor between one pm and two, please contact the police. Thank you for your time; now please enjoy your meals."
"But this man is a paedophile, isn't he?" a thin woman with her husband and two children asked from the other side of the restaurant. "Our children are in danger."
The manager looked embarrassed. "The man was convicted of looking at pornographic images on his computer. The police say there is absolutely no evidence he has ever harmed a child."
"It doesn't mean to say he won't do it, though, does it?" the thin woman retorted.
"The police stress there is absolutely no reason to believe he will harm anyone unless cornered."
"Well they would do, wouldn't they?" said a short, fat woman at the next table, with one child. "I mean, they don't want to affect the holiday trade, do they? Even if it means our children getting murdered."
There was a angry buzz of agreement from the other parents, and the situation may well have got worse, but one of the kids started to yell his head off, and then a couple more joined in. As parents tended to their children, the rebellion fizzled out and the manager gratefully retired.
"What were you muttering about?" Sharon said.
"I saw them," I said. "When we were almost here. There was some crazy driver who caused an accident behind us. Then we overtook the prison van just before we turned off the main road. A minute later, we passed the workmen cordoning off the approach to the bridge. Marianne gave a toot on the horn to warn them of our approach."
"I thought you said you'd been fast asleep all the way here," she said.
"The accident woke me up, and that policeman reminded me about the prison van and the road workers. I thought I'd been dreaming it all," I said, "but I must have been half asleep and saw what was happening. I'd better go and find the police."
"Before you do, let's just clear your head so you can give a better picture. Can you describe the workmen?"
I closed my eyes and said, "There were only two of them and they were wearing yellow jackets and helmets."
"You mean like any road worker."
"Well, yes but..." I paused, closing my eyes and trying to remember. I shook my head. "I can't think of anything else about them. They were just ordinary workmen."
"Anne?" Sharon said in a rather cautious voice.
"What?"
"There is something else you need to consider."
"What?"
She hesitated and then launched in. "Look, it's difficult to say this, but I get the impression you're holding back some big secret."
Bloody hell, I'd been sussed.
"It's alright," she reassured me as I struggled to respond. "I mean, we're simply having a holiday fling; there's no reason why you should open your entire life to me; nor me to you. But..." She paused again.
"It occurs to me that if I feel you're holding something back, then it's odds on the police will too. But they're likely to get quite officious if they can't get to the root of it, and take you back to the police station so you can help them with their enquiries."
"They wouldn't, would they?"
I was having difficulty keeping the panic out of my voice. Hell, Sharon was absolutely right. What a fool I was to imagine I could get away with this. And what then? When they discovered I was a man pretending to be a pregnant woman? Could I be prosecuted for wasting police time? It would all come out in court, and the hostility we had just seen would be turned on me.
"Look, Anne," Sharon said, noticing my anxiety. "It's not as if you saw anything of use in catching them. Is there any point in speaking with the police? Why don't you just keep quiet about it? If you like, I'll answer any questions for the two of us."
"But they're asking for anyone driving on the moor between one and two. We arrived just after half past one."
"Then say you arrived just before one," she suggested, "as I did. If you like, I can say we arrived together and give you an alibi."
I gasped at her, overwhelmed by her generosity. "Would you really do that for me? Even though you think I haven't told you everything?"
She smirked. "After what you did to me this afternoon? I need some more of that and I won't get it if you're rotting in a police cell."
"God! Thank you, Sharon."
"Well why don't you show your thanks in a more appropriate way? Rather than having coffee here, why don't we have it in the room?"
I nodded. I didn't bother to ask whether she meant having coffee in the room or something else altogether. "You bet."
We got stopped by the police as we were about to step outside!
"Excuse me."
I managed not to jump through the roof. We both turned to view the police-woman walking towards us.
"Yes. Can we help?" Sharon said, bless her.
She smiled. "I'm PC Sally Wright. Could I check your names off the guest list and ask you a few questions?" She was really so nice, I wouldn't have minded helping her with her enquiries.
"I'm Sharon Smith, and this is Anne Johnson."
Sally checked her list and gave us both ticks, then glanced around the foyer and asked, "There's a Ms Marianne Johnson booked in with you, Ms Johnson. I understand she's your sister, is that right? Was she in the dining room with you?"
"She's had to leave," I said. "Something came up with her job."
"OK," Sally said, putting a cross on her list, and then said to the two of us, "Are your partners not here?"
Gunk! Now it was going to get complicated.
"They're our ex-partners, actually," Sharon said, "so the answer is definitely no."
"Men are such bastards," Sally said, surprising me with her vehemence, then added: "I see all three of you checked in just after two. Presumably, you'd arrived a few minutes before?"
"Naw," Sharon said, with a shake of her head, as I was only just realising it was a trick question. Answer yes to that and there'd be a dozen more to follow.
"They don't allow check-in before two," Sharon continued, "and we got here just before one, so we wandered around the grounds for a while. Then Anne went to sleep on a bench until it was time to check-in."
"OK," Sally smiled at Sharon. "Thanks for your help, Sharon. You too Ms Johnson," she added, giving me a little glance, before turning back to Sharon. "I may need to speak to you again. Is that alright?"
Oh bloody hell! She was suspicious!
"I'll look forward to it," Sharon said with another smile. How the hell did she manage to smile like that at a time like this?
"It's always good when the public cooperate fully," Sally said.
"I think you'll find I'm very cooperative," Sharon said.
It hit me straight between the eyes. PC Sally Wright was as bloody gay as Sharon. They were making an assignation. And I was bloody jealous!
"She's a lesbian."
Sharon gave me a glance as we walked towards our bungalow. "You sound shocked. You know people in glasshouses shouldn't throw stones."
"Yes but..." I could hardly say that I was a man so my desires were perfectly conventional.
"But?" Sharon asked
"Nothing," I said. "I'm sorry. I have no right to be shocked."
"But you are rather jealous?"
"Yes."
Sharon smiled. "Good. I'm glad I mean something to you. I played up to Sally so she'd remember me and not you. To take the heat off you, remember?"
I nodded. "I'm really grateful." We'd arrived at the door of Sharon's bungalow.
"Will you come in and show me how grateful."
Marianne rang me on my mobile a few minutes later. "Hi," she said, "it's me. I've just got to the hotel. I had a hell of a journey."
"Hi Marianne, "I said, and added, "Sharon's here," to warn her I wouldn't be able to talk freely. "We're just having coffee." We were too, as a prejunct to a round of sex. After all, I wouldn't lie to Marianne.
"That's good. Done anything interesting this afternoon?"
"Not really," I said. OK, I would lie to Marianne but then I was pretty certain she'd lied to me about what happened on her fashion shoots.
"Except that a convict has escaped from the prison," I continued. "I think we must have passed where it happened on the way just before we arrived. But I didn't really see anything and Sharon feels it's probably not a good idea to go bothering the police."
"I'm sure she's right," Marianne replied. "It could lead to embarrassment all round." (Fortunately, she didn't emphasise the "all round" too much, but I knew exactly what she meant.)
"I certainly can't remember seeing anything unusual," she continued. "In any case, I was interviewed by the police on my return journey. I got caught in the tailback from that accident we saw on the way."
"That sounds bad," I said, thinking about the interview with the police rather than the accident.
"The entire road was blocked in both directions for miles. I was stuck for over an hour, by which time the police came along, telling us about the jailbreak, and searching every car and interviewing everyone."
"What did you tell them?" I asked, my fingers mentally crossed.
"Not much. They simply asked where I was going and why."
"Sharon thought we arrived just before one," I said, putting the words into Marianne's mouth.
"That sounds about right," Marianne agreed, catching on quickly. "The police didn't ask me about the journey up, this morning." (Which, of course, meant our stories wouldn't contradict. Thank heavens.)
"OK," I said. "Take care of yourself. When will you be back? Monday?"
There was a pause. "Er, I'm not certain yet. It may drag on for a few days, but I'll definitely be back by the weekend."
"The weekend, Marianne!" I yelled. "You can't leave me here..."
My flow was interrupted by Sharon, who leant over, pulled down the front of my dress and applied her lips to my nipple.
"Sorry," Marianne said. "Give my love to Sharon," and she rang off.
My anger seemed to have melted away as Sharon sucked alternately on each nipple.
I'd expected that our evening session would be very similar to our afternoon session. My God was I in for a shock!
"I think it's time you took some male replacement therapy," Sharon said, pulling me into the bedroom, opening one of her drawers and taking something out. "What do you say to this?" She waved a dildo at me, and I goggled a bit. It looked frighteningly realistic.
"It's a strap-on," she added, "so you and I absolutely do not need a male to be involved in our sex lives."
"I'm not really certain," I said hesitantly. Marianne had told me the torsolet had a proper vagina, but I wasn't certain whether it would fool such an expert on the subject as Sharon.
"Oh, of course, I was forgetting," she said.
"Forgetting?"
"SIDS."
"Sid's what?" I was confused.
"Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. That's what you're worried about, isn't it?" she said. "The school of thought that blames higher infant mortality upon penetrative vaginal sex during the later stages of pregnancy."
Blimey! Was I? I didn't know anything about that, but then I guessed that a pregnant woman would certainly know all about it.
"You see, I haven't used this on a pregnant woman before," she continued.
She considered some and then added, "Of course, we could do it the other way."
"Other way?" But I thought I knew what she was getting at.
"Oh, you're such an innocent," she scoffed. "But how were you and your husband having sex before he left you? You surely haven't been risking your unborn child?"
"Of course not." I was indignant - there was no way I would do that, even though my real child was not yet conceived. "No, well, we didn't have sex for quite some..."
"Then I'd better bring you up to speed upon the delights you've been missing. I think as long as your partner uses her fingers to give you clitoral stimulation, it's every bit as good as having it up your vagina."
"But Sharon, I'm not sure..." I started to say, but she only had to put her hands onto my breasts beneath my dress, and tweak my nipples with her thumbs, and my words faltered to a halt.
I'd never before realised how much pleasure there was in being rogered up the back passage. For the first time, I understood the attractions of male homosexuality. Mind you, I still had no desire for sex with a male, whereas anal sex with Sharon was unbelievably good, even if it started off - as I guess it usually does - in a rather painful way.
"The more you relax," Sharon said, "the less it will hurt."
I was kneeling on the bed with my legs apart, and my face buried in a pillow, with my huge tum resting on the bed. Sharon had her hand between my legs and was using her fingers mercilessly on my clitoris - and yes, the Pregnancy Torsolet actually had one. At least, I had something down there which, with the Sensotouch, felt divine whenever it was stroked.
"I have some oil on my fingers now. I'm going to work it around your passage. It won't hurt a bit."
It didn't. Not even when the finger slipped inside and I gasped - with excitement, not pain.
"OK, my love," Sharon said. "I have the thing strapped on me now so it will be just like your ex giving you one, as I ease inside you."
Ease inside me she did, so carefully that it didn't hurt more than (say) a red-hot poker being shoved up. But I gritted my teeth and stayed as relaxed as I could. Once inside, it felt alright and in fact, as she slowly moved in and out, it felt bloody good. She started thrusting harder - and faster - and harder still. It became exquisite. Just like normal hetero sex, but with my partner doing all the work and me just enjoying the sensation as I approached my orgasm.
"Go on, Sharon. Harder! Harder! Don't stop." I encouraged her, just as Marianne might encourage me. "Fuck me. Oh, go on, fuck me hard. Harder! Harder!"
As the orgasm hit me I started to scream so much that Sharon put her fingers across my lips until I'd calmed down. "There, there, there; we don't want people to think you're being raped by a paedophile gaol breaker."
After I'd regained my senses, we switched on the TV in time to watch the regional news, and see what was said about the escape. Very little we didn't already know, except for one fact which set me thinking.
"...Police were anxious to reassure people in the area. They say the prisoner was not regarded as a high-risk prisoner and is not considered dangerous; he has no record of molesting children and, whilst imitation weapons were used in the hold up, they were left at the scene. Sean Brown has served six months out of an eight-year sentence for viewing pornographic images on the internet.
"Council taxes in Exeter may rise by up to..."
"That's strange," I said.
"You're muttering again. What's strange?"
"Only that the prisoner has the same name as my brother-in-law."
Sharon looked at me. "What? Brown? That's hardly uncommon."
"Sean Brown," I corrected.
"Even that is hardly unique. There must be thousands of Sean Browns in the UK. I presume you mean your ex-husband's brother?"
"What?" I was taken by surprise, and was about to add I meant Marianne's brother, but stopped myself in time. If Marianne was my sister, it would mean that Sean was my brother as well. Instead I said, "Yes of course."
"Surely you must have seen him sometime during the last six months. This Sean Brown has been in prison that long."
"But no," I said. "That's just it. I've never seen him. He's supposedly been in Africa for years. He's a volunteer aid worker wherever the latest humanitarian disaster is happening."
"Even if your brother-in-law really was the jail breaker," Sharon continued, "does it matter? You've divorced your husband - you don't get to keep the brother-in-law - more's the pity. I've had some great sex with mine."
This was getting ridiculous. "No, of course not. My mind's working in strange ways. It must be the influence you're having on me. Shall we have sex again?"
She didn't say anything - simply gave me a look that said it all.
The Pudding Club - Chapter 4 of 6
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Up the Khyber and On the Run
When first we practice to deceive
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 4 - Probed by the Police
"Good afternoon ladies. I wonder if I could have a word?"
"Of course."
I had my back to the speaker and it was Sharon who answered. But I knew from the way it was said that this was the police. Fortunately, I had time to control my looks before turning to face the policeman who stood there.
It was mid-afternoon on Sunday. We'd been sitting on her patio in the hot sunshine, drinking lemonade and talking idly about all kinds of things. We'd just decided to go for a swim in the pool, so I had reluctantly gone inside my bungalow to put on the costume that Sharon leant me. Now, I stood facing her, as she tried to convince me I looked respectable.
But the policeman's eyes as they travelled down my body showed I was anything but, and, as I saw the desire appear in his eyes, I realised I didn't care. What's more, my reaction to his lust gave me a courage which had been previously lacking.
"We spoke to PC Sally Wright yesterday," I said. "I'm not certain there's anything else we can tell you."
"I'm PC Bull," he said. "And when PC Wright interviewed you, she marked you down for a follow up investigation." (Well, that was hardly a surprise after Sharon outrageously flirted with her!)
"Isn't she here?" I queried. "She was very understanding about our condition."
"I shall be just as understanding, I can assure you," he said. "But it's quite normal for follow ups to be done by another officer, in case they pick up something the first missed. So, shall we go inside where it's probably a bit cooler?" He looked exceptionally hot in his thick uniform. He gesticulated towards the door to Sharon's bungalow.
We had no choice so Sharon led the way, I followed and PC Bull brought up the rear. Sharon and I took a seat on the settee, and Bull sat on an upright chair by the table.
Sharon started the questioning, which clearly took Bull by surprise. "So, PC Bull. Don't you have a first name?"
"First name? Er, why do you want to know that?"
"You said you were going to be understanding. Using first names is a way of showing compassion. I'm Sharon and this is Anne. Now, what's your name?"
He looked a bit sheepish. "Richard, miss."
"It's Sharon, not miss, if you please," Sharon said. She eyed him up and down and then added with a grin, "I bet they call you Big Dick, don't they? Someone of your size?"
That surprised me, as he didn't seem particularly tall for a policeman, and he visibly jumped at the remark. Then he grinned back at her and said, "Only a few of my closer acquaintances call me that."
The two of them were smirking like Cheshire cats, and I was left feeling completely in the dark. What on Earth were they talking about? I gave him another glance up and down and that's when it hit me between the eyes - well, it didn't actually do that, you understand, as I'm certain you are already ahead of me on the particular part of Richard's anatomy which was large. Now I looked at it, it seemed enormous. Surely, he must be one of those freaks who stuffed rolled-up handkerchiefs into his pants. No man could have a prick that big, surely...
"Now Dick, would you like some home-made lemonade?" Sharon asked with a smile
"That sounds very nice, mi... Sharon. It's very hot outside."
"Then could I ask you to get some out of the fridge, and bring glasses for us all. And please take off that heavy jacket. It's making me feel hot just to look at you."
Bloody hell, the double entendres were coming out! Of course, now I'd had time to think about it, Sharon was doing to Dick what she had done for Sally, the previous evening. Making certain she was the centre of attention, rather than me. I had to give it to her, and no doubt would after we'd got rid of Big Dick.
I smiled at the two of them. Dick was clearly disconcerted by having to serve drinks to pregnant women, but realised he had no choice.
"No problem."
He got up, removed his jacket, prepared the drinks and then came back and handed them to us. I noticed as Sharon leaned forward to take hers, his eyes locked onto her deep cleavage.
"Shameless little hussy," I thought. "You wouldn't catch me displaying myself like that." Then a surge of excitement ran through me as a tiny voice replied, "Why not?"
"Your drink, Anne." Dick said as he passed the drink towards me.
I said, "Thank you, Dick," and leaned right forward to take it. I kept my eyes firmly on the glass, and managed to take it from his fingers as his hand started to shake.
"So Dick," Sharon said, "ask away."
"I'd like you to go again over the events yesterday between one and two pm. Now, PC Wright says that three of you travelled down together from London - you two, plus Anne's sister, Marianne Johnson. Is that correct?"
Well, of course, he'd got that wrong. I was about to correct him and say that Sharon had travelled separately by train, as we didn't know each other before yesterday when I noticed Sharon give a little shake of her head.
"Yes, it is," I said, realising as I obeyed her signal that she was now giving me an alibi for the whole day. "We arrived a few minutes before one pm, then we wandered around the grounds until check-in started at two. I know I went to sleep for a few minutes..."
"Thirty minutes," Sharon interjected.
"It wasn't as long as that, was it Sharon?" I asked.
She nodded, "Yes."
Dick nodded and ticked something in his notebook. "So what time do you think your sister started her journey back to London?"
"It must have been about half past two," Sharon said. "We checked in just after two, and then she carried the suitcases up from the car..."
I'd enjoyed seeing Marianne do that, whilst Sharon and I had sat on the patio and watched. She'd had to carry Sharon's suitcase even further, from where the taxi driver had dumped it, next to Reception. I could see she was seething with anger at me, but there was nothing she could say.
"...Then she helped us get organised in the bungalows, and stayed for a few minutes," Sharon concluded. "So would you say about half past two, Anne?"
"That sounds about right," I said, speaking with absolute truth for the first time.
"And your sister's name is Marianne Johnson?" He'd already asked me that, but he asked it rather differently this time, as though the name suddenly meant something to him.
"Yes," I said, whilst thinking, "Please, please, please, don't make the connection between Marianne Johnson and Marianne Black."
"Of course," Dick said. "I remember interviewing her on the road yesterday."
I was nonplussed. "You did?"
"That's right." He was flicking back through his notebook. "Yes, here it is. She was in a car stuck in the traffic jam near the accident." He suddenly grinned. "She's very attractive, isn't she?"
"Yes," I smiled back, and managed to bite back the words: "That was why I married her."
Then he said something which shook me to the core. "Her husband is quite a good-looking guy, as well, isn't he. The two of them appeared a very attractive couple sitting in that car, yesterday."
What did he say? I struggled to make sense of it.
Meanwhile Sharon covered for me, sensing I was upset by his remark. "He certainly is attractive," she said, ad-libbing like mad. "I quite fancy him for myself when Marianne finishes with him. But I'm surprised a man like you should look at him." The implication in the remark was evident.
"Looking out for the escaped prisoner," he justified. "We have to look very carefully at everyone's face."
He grinned. "We've even occasionally had 'em pretending to be women, but you can usually tell them." He stared directly at me.
He's sussed me! I thought, somehow managing to return a nice smile.
"Some have even tried stuffing a cushion up their jumper to look pregnant," he added, staring carefully at my breasts, clearly wondering whether they could possibly have been stuck on without a noticeable join.
"You appear very fascinated by our breasts," Sharon said, with an even nicer smile.
I think his mouth opened almost as wide as my own, although it didn't take me long to work out why she said it - she'd seen I was upset about Marianne having a man in the car and was trying to create a diversion, not even realising the real secret I was hiding. I wondered whether Dick would realise he was being led on.
"I'm sorry," he said, blushing deeply. "I didn't mean to cause any offence, but er..."
"And none taken," Sharon said. "I must say, I'm rather proud of what pregnancy has done for my breasts." She reached up both hands to the shoulder straps of her swimming costume and pulled them down her arms until her breasts popped out from beneath. "There. What do you say to those beauties?"
"They're gorgeous," Dick gasped.
"Well, if you think these are beautiful, you should take a look at Anne's. They are even more splendid." She turned to me. "Anne, pull your costume down so Dick can look properly."
"What?" I'd been thinking that Marianne had been in the car with another man pretending to be me, whilst at the same time, a prisoner with the same name as Marianne's brother had escaped from prison and was trying to get away from the area. Was I putting two and two together and making five?
"Oh, don't be such a prude." Sharon obviously couldn't know what was going on inside my head; presumably, she was imagining I suspected my sister was having an affair with another man. On the other hand, Marianne probably was having an affair with another man, and it was nothing to do with helping her brother escape prison. I'd always known she had lots of frolics and fun on these shoots, which is why I didn't feel too guilty about my frolics with Sharon.
"You're pregnant, after all," Sharon continued. "It's hardly as though your tits have never been seen by a male."
I suddenly realised that her diversion tactics would not only cover my turmoil over Marianne, they would also prove to Dick I had no cushion shoved into my swimming costume.
"OK," I said, "although I'm sure Dick has seen far more wonderful breasts than mine."
I mimicked Sharon's action and pulled my swimsuit down until my breasts - and most of my bump - were totally exposed. "Isn't that right Dick?"
"Oh God!" he said. "Your tits are so beautiful. You both are," he hurriedly added, in case he'd upset Sharon.
"I'm afraid sex is out of the question," Sharon said, "with us both being pregnant."
"Oh," Dick said, the disappointment sounding in his voice.
"But a tit-fuck and a blow-job would be alright. That is," she added, "provided you fancy one?"
"Oh yes," he said. "I really do fancy that."
I was amazed what Sharon was offering. After all, she was a lesbian who, I thought, hated men after her husband had left her pregnant.
"Do you want to make a start, Anne?" Sharon said.
"Me!"
"Well I can see that Dick would love to get going with a tit-fuck, and you're best qualified for that. After that, I'll give him a blow job. Unless you want to reverse rolls, that is?"
I almost said, "Bloody hell! No," but managed to avoid the first two words. After all, I reckoned it would be not too bad rolling my make-believe tits around his cock. Getting my lips around his cock and going down on him, as Sharon was prepared to do, was something I found revolting.
"Sorry," Sharon abruptly said. "I've got to go to the toilet," and she promptly disappeared into the en-suite and shut the door.
Going to the toilet, I realised, was something pregnant women did a lot of. I made a note that I should do the same.
"I bet you haven't seen many cocks this size before," Dick said, dropping his trousers.
Even if Dick had a tiny cock, those words would have been absolutely true. But he didn't have a tiny cock; he had a large beast, of a size that, if I'd still been Paul, would have made me feel inadequate.
But I wasn't Paul; I had to show him I was definitely Anne. To start with, I slipped off my swimming costume completely, so he could see I had a pussy rather than a prick and a set of crushed balls.
"Hell that is one tremendous monster," I said. "Let me get my tits around that."
Actually, it was incredibly difficult manoeuvring into a position where I could wrap my tits around it. It would have been difficult enough if I'd been pretending to be a non-pregnant woman, as it's not the kind of activity that men get any practice at doing. But with a bulge the weight and size of sack of cement stuck on my front, it meant I could hardly get close to him.
But needs must.
Eventually, I sat on a low stool with my back to a wall, whilst he stood with his legs astride me and leant forward against the wall. Once we'd got into position, it all became quite easy. I rolled my tits up and down his cock, whilst he screwed up his eyes, and muttered things like: "Oh God! That's wonderful. Go on! Go on!"
It gave me plenty of opportunity to observe not only the size of it - I've seen cucumbers smaller than that - but also the pure ugliness of the male penis seen from the receiving end. His huge, glistening, purple knob throbbed with excitement, and the horrible, blue veins stood proud from his shaft. With every heave of my tits along his cock, it seemed to throb even more, until I could sense he was about to come.
"My turn now," Sharon said, almost to my disappointment. I had really enjoyed giving him so much pleasure, and had been incredibly fascinated at the thought of him ejaculating up my neck and into my face. Ugh! Can you believe I said that?
She pulled Dick away from me, turned him around so he was facing her, then gently lowered herself to her knees and started kissing his cock.
"I'd better go to the toilet," I said, managing to get myself back on my feet.
Sharon now had her hands on Dick's arse, squeezing his cheeks with her nails digging into his flesh, whilst she took the whole length of his cock inside her mouth. I couldn't understand why it wasn't coming through the back of her neck, but I guess she was taking it down her throat.
"I'll go next door and leave you to it," I said, but I don't think they heard.
***
"Marianne. I wanted to talk to you. Are you somewhere you can speak without being overheard?"
With Sharon otherwise engaged, it gave me an opportunity to phone Marianne and challenge her about this man who'd been in the car. Who knew, perhaps he was in the hotel room with her now.
"Yes, of course I can speak," she said. "I'm glad you called anyway because I forgot to tell you that Wayne sends his love."
"Wayne!" I was taken by surprise. The only Wayne I knew was the outrageously camp, top fashion designer - one of the few who to my knowledge had never employed Marianne as a model - indeed there almost seemed to be an antagonism between the two. I'd met him a few times at functions, and he'd always pretended to make a play for me. (At least, I assume he was pretending!) I'd always wondered whether he did that to wind Marianne up, but she said he was like that with all males.
"You mean Wayne Williams?" I asked. "When did you see him?"
"I didn't like to say it in front of Sharon," Marianne said, "but the reason I got this job was because Wayne had been on a shoot in Seacombe, and since he lost his driving licence, he hasn't been able to get about very easily. He knew I was coming to Seacombe; this job suddenly came up in Bath, so he rang me and said, 'Give me a lift and the job's yours.' I could hardly refuse, could I?"
"Oh," I said. That took the wind out of my sails. "I thought you didn't like him very much."
"I think I may have misjudged him," Marianne said. "He was quite a lot of fun, actually. The really hilarious thing was when the police came up the line of cars looking for the escaped convict, Wayne said, 'Oh no! If it gets out that I've been on my own in a car with a beautiful woman, I'll lose my reputation. People will talk.'
"So I told the policeman," she continued, "that he was really you. Can you believe it? We could have got into terrible trouble if we'd been found out. It certainly puts you swanning around a hotel pretending to be pregnant into perspective."
Gulp. I kept silent.
"But Wayne was so funny," she continued."We couldn't stop laughing about it afterwards. And I think I might get some more work from him in the long term, so it's not done my career any harm.
"Anyway," she added, "what is it you wanted to talk about?"
"On, nothing, "I said, feeling bad about not trusting her. Of course her brother wasn't a paedophile and an escaped convict; of course she wasn't having an affair.
***
It never crossed my mind that Dick and Sharon would still be at it when I returned to her bungalow. After all, I'd made the phone call to Marianne, and spent some time in my toilet, and how long can a man uphold the kind of blow job that Sharon had been administering? (In Paul's case, I knew it would be about thirty seconds!)
But even as my eyes swept around Sharon's lounge, and realised there was no one there, I heard Sharon's little cries.
"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Go on!"
"The bedroom opened directly off the lounge and the door was wide open. Sharon was on the bed in the same position I'd been in last night, whilst Dick was sliding his huge cock in and out of her arse.
Knowing how painful it had been taking the much smaller dildo that Sharon had been using, I couldn't imagine how much it hurt when he'd slid that inside her. But it didn't seem to make any difference now. She was in heaven, and he was clearly approaching his.
His thrusts were getting harder, slamming his entire length hard into her, so her face was being pushed into the pillow, and her entire body was shaking in time with his thrusts.
"Yes! Yes!" he yelled. "Y-e-e-e-e-s-s-s!"
I silently let myself out of the bungalow and went back to my own.
***
I was jealous. I was bloody jealous!
I thought Sharon didn't like men; that after leaving her husband she was a fully committed lesbian. Instead, she'd had it with the first man she'd met. And not only having sex, but having anal sex. OK, I appreciated the thing about SIDS, but she didn't have to enjoy it so much, did she? I mean, when I'd tried wearing the dildo last night and shafting her arse, she'd smiled nicely and said how much she'd enjoyed it. But then we'd quickly reverted to her shafting my arse, to both of our mutual satisfactions - I'd found wearing the dildo was nothing like as enjoyable as her arse-fucking, but...
"I'm sorry I left the bedroom door open," Sharon said. She'd entered quietly into my bungalow without me realising. "It's never pleasant coming across people at it like we were."
"It was my fault," I said. "I should have thought about it and knocked.
"But," I continued, "I thought you didn't like men - that you'd given them up."
"I've certainly tried to," she said, "and I only started the thing with Dick to distract you and him from what we were talking about. Did you manage to telephone Marianne?"
I was surprised. "How did you know I'd telephone her?"
"You were so clearly pissed that the man in the car wasn't her husband. Let me take a guess; she's been having an affair with your ex-husband, right? She's probably told you she's given up on him after he left you in the lurch like that. And now you find she's still shagging him. So you are incredibly pissed, and who can blame you."
I decided the best thing was to keep quiet and let Sharon make whatever assumptions she wanted, so I changed the subject. I smiled and said, "I can't believe you took that enormous cock inside you."
"I certainly hadn't meant to when I first suggested a tit fuck and a blow job," Sharon replied, recognising and going along with the change of subject. "But when I saw that wonderful monster, there was absolutely no way I could not have it inside me."
"But didn't it hurt when he shoved it in?" I asked.
"Hell, it hurt so much I thought he was splitting me in half," she said. "It was like being impaled on a pick-axe handle, only bigger. I had an immediate orgasm. It was fantastic."
"I think I'll leave that pleasure entirely to you," I said, shuddering at the thought.
"You have a wonderfully tight little arse at the moment," Sharon said, "because you've only just started using it for its most joyful purpose. But give it a few days of me hammering away at it, and I reckon we'll be able to slip Dick's cock inside you without you a murmur."
"If I don't murmur," I said, "there really doesn't seem much point in shoving it in." Then I couldn't believe I'd said that, because it meant I was actually contemplating the unthinkable - having sex with a man. But of course, I told myself, I'd only said it because I was acting the part of a rampant pregnant woman. Hadn't I?
The Pudding Club - Chapter 5 of 6
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Up the Khyber and On the Run
When first we practice to deceive
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 5 - Oh What a Tangled Web
Next morning, we watched breakfast TV in bed together. OK, so Sharon had spent most of the night shagging me rigid, and we only caught the last part of breakfast TV before it changed to the usual daytime TV rubbish. But we did get the regional news and we both stopped our mutual titillation to pay attention when the bit about the escaped prisoner came on.
A police inspector called Godolphy was being interviewed - he looked obnoxious, ugly and fat. He made it more than obvious that the private company who'd handled the transfer of the prisoner from Brixton Prison in London to Seacombe were totally incompetent.
"I've seen kids playing cowboys with more realistic guns than the ones the hijackers used," he said. He pointed to a table where they were laid out. "They're clearly made of plastic, and you could buy them in almost any toy shop. The so-called Prison Transport Security officers should have taken one look at them and fallen about laughing."
"So you're suggesting this was an amateur operation?" the reporter asked him.
"Look," Godolphy said. "Brown was caught looking at pictures of little boys' dongles on his home computer, for which he was put into prison. He's not a hardened professional criminal, and since prisoners accused of paedophilia have to be kept separate from other prisoners for their own protection, it's doubtful he's formed an alliance with such people since he's been inside. We believe he may have been assisted in the escape by his friends - probably other paedophiles."
"I understand you are anxious to make contact with anyone who knew him prior to his arrest?"
"Well of course we bloody are," Godolphy said. "But it's hardly likely the people who sprung him are going to come running to us, is it? He appears to have led an isolated life prior to his arrest, but we are trying to trace any of the people he knew."
Such as his sister? I tried not to audibly gulp.
"We do believe he is still in the Seacombe district," Godolphy continued, "as the main road was blocked by an accident shortly before the hold-up, and we were able to search all vehicles leaving the area - as we have continued to do. We believe he does not pose a threat to the public unless cornered. Anyone believing they have seen him should dial 999 immediately."
"There you are," Sharon said. "No mention of a brother." Of course, Sharon was still working on the basis that Sean Brown would be my ex-husband's brother. But then, there'd been no mention of a sister, either.
"You're right," I said. "It was absolutely silly to imagine they could be one and the same."
But, I was thinking about the coincidence of the prison van coming all the way from Brixton Prison in London - only a few miles away from where we lived! We must have virtually followed the vehicle all the way down to Seacombe. Suppose - just suppose - that Sean Brown really was Marianne's brother, and that she had deliberately followed the van, and as we approached the spot, had overtaken it - causing the accident as she took risks to get past it in time - and then given warning of its approach to the bogus road workers.
That was a silly idea. But then why had I slept so much on Saturday. I'd thought it was because I had a restless night and the extra weight on my tummy was wearing me out, but that hadn't stopped me being awake most of last night whilst Sharon and I shagged each other.
Suppose - I mean, it was an even more ridiculous idea - but just suppose that Marianne had dropped a couple of her sleeping tablets into that early morning cup of tea she had brought me on Saturday morning, for the first time ever in our marriage.
But then if all that was true, where was Sean? I'd seen how PC Bull had scrutinised me the previous day, highly suspicious I was a man until he'd seen me naked. I had every confidence that he had just as carefully looked at every occupant of every car in the queue waiting to leave the area, as well as every person he'd met since. Of course, it didn't mean that every police officer would be as diligent - PC Sally Wright didn't appear to have sussed me, but to be fair, she and every other police officer were not looking specifically for a man dressed as a woman; they were looking for someone who matched the photograph of their escaped prisoner.
So, Marianne couldn't have taken Sean with her to Bath, and the police in Seacombe would have been looking for him in every hotel, boarding house and holiday flat. Surely, he'd have been found by now if he was still in the area. The only solution was the one we had first thought of: the prisoner must have immediately got on a boat over to France before the alarm was raised. And if that was the case, why would Marianne have gone to Bath at all, unless everything she had said had been absolutely true?
"A penny for them," Sharon said.
I shook my head. "I was wondering," I said, "when you're going to strap on your dildo and give me a good seeing to up the Khyber."
The answer was immediately.
We rapidly settled into a routine of sex, lying in the sun, more sex, swimming, more sex... well, you get the general idea - we were at it like rabbits. Something that felt rather strange about the whole relationship was that it was purely a physical one - OK, we got on well together, joked, and chatted, but neither of us felt this was anything but a holiday tryst, which would be ended when our holidays ended. Maybe we'd send cards at Christmas, but then maybe we'd forget after the first year.
News about the prison escape died out after a day, and the police toned down the search for the prisoner and the perceived wisdom was generally that he had got onto a boat and escaped. All the same, throughout the week, guests at the hotel reported random police road blocks, and cars being searched.
The panic I'd been experiencing about the possibility of the prisoner being Marianne's brother seemed stupid, and I let it drop from my mind, as the pleasures of the flesh took over. Until Wednesday evening.
I'd tried to ring Marianne on Tuesday evening, and her mobile was either turned off or, more likely, she'd forgotten to charge it. I wasn't particularly perturbed until I did the same on Wednesday evening and got the same response. So I rang Marianne's agent, Susan McManners.
"Hi Paul," she said after I'd introduced myself. (I'd tried to put on a deep voice to counter the voice changer pill's effects). "Or should I call you Anne?" she added. "I must say, we all think you're wonderful to even wear that pregnancy suit at all, never mind going around in public, and for so long. Well done. How's it all going?"
I mentally cursed Marianne for telling her, but went on to relate how I was getting on, and we chatted for several minutes about my life as a pregnant woman. Naturally, I left out the exact nature of my experiences with Sharon!
"It's been years since I went to Seaton," Susan said. "I bet it hasn't changed much, has it?"
"It's Seacombe where we've been staying, not Seaton," I said, and muttered under my breath, "At least, it's where I'm staying."
"Oh dear," Susan said. "I think I've given the police the wrong information."
My heart leapt into my mouth. "Police. What did they want?"
"They said it was just a routine enquiry and nothing to worry about. In any case, I gave them Marianne's mobile number as well, so presumably they've been in touch?" Her voice rose at the end of the sentence to turn it into a question.
"You mean you're not in contact with Marianne?"
"I thought she was on holiday with you."
My mind was whirring. On the one hand, the police call could be a simple follow up to her interview on the road on Saturday afternoon - perhaps even because they realised she'd told a lie about the identity of her passenger. Maybe Marianne was also keeping her job with Wayne Williams a secret from her agent so she wouldn't have to pay her commission on the deal.
On the other hand, suppose she'd lied about the job in Bath; she really had helped with the prison escape and she'd smuggled her brother out of the County disguised as me. When I rang up and was clearly angry about something, she'd had the story about Wayne all ready prepared and she'd quickly got it in first to take the heat out of my anger.
"Paul? Are you there?" Susan sounded suddenly worried.
"She said she had to go away for a few days," I said. "I expect she'll be back tomorrow."
"Look Paul," she said. "You know that Marianne is a bit of a free spirit. I don't believe you will ever tie her down to be an obedient, dutiful housewife."
Which I think was her way of saying that Marianne put it about a lot. "Thanks, Susan," I said. "I expect she'll turn up tomorrow."
Marianne telephoned later that evening.
"Hi Anne. How are you?"
"Well I'm OK, but I've been trying to get hold of you. Your phone's been turned off for the last two days. And Susan McManners didn't know where you were."
"You've spoken to Susan!"
"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"
"Of course not." Then she added, "Well actually, I hadn't told Susan about the job in Bath, since it came up on the spur of the moment. I'd better ring her afterwards. Sorry about my phone, only I couldn't find my battery charger - it's probably in the side-pocket of your suitcase. I've had to go out and buy a new one."
"Susan said the police had been trying to get hold of you. Did they contact you?"
"Oh! That's how they found me, was it. I wondered about that." She paused for a bit, and then added, "Yes they found me alright."
The tone of her voice indicated it had not been a simple interview.
"Was it because you lied to them about Wayne?"
"Wayne?" There was a moment of silence, then she added, "Oh you mean about me telling them that Wayne was really you. Yes, that was it. They were less than amused by it. I thought they were going to arrest me at one time for wasting police time or something stupid like that."
I could have said that I thought she'd been stupid to lie to the police like that, but thought it better not to.
"Anyway," she continued, "I managed to convince them it was irrelevant to their search for the missing prisoner regardless of whether the man was you or Wayne Williams. After all, they had a photograph of the escaped prisoner, so they were hardly going to let go someone who looked exactly like him, on the strength that he gave them another man's name."
"Sean Brown," I said.
"What about Sean?" she replied. "Has he been trying to contact me?"
"Sean Brown was the name of the escaped prisoner."
"Oh, was it? Well what about it?" She sounded puzzled. "I thought you were talking about my brother."
"I was making the point that your brother has the same name as the escaped prisoner," I said.
"Well, what about it?" She repeated. "There are millions of people called Brown, so there must be thousands called Sean Brown. I hardly think it's worth telephoning Sean in Ethiopia to tell him that - even supposing he was on the end of the phone, which he usually is not."
"It's funny," I said. "We've never really talked about Sean before. Has he been married?"
"Not Sean," she said. "He's not that way inclined. As we speak, he's probably giving a bit of aid to some hunky black guy, and unlike this paedo who's gone walkies, he definitely prefers older men. Anyway, we've hardly talked about you, this evening. How have you been getting on being pregnant?"
I could recognise a change of subject when I saw one, but since I didn't know where to take the conversation next, I started telling her about my week, and how much enjoyment Sharon and I had been having - no, not that enjoyment - I meant the simple lazing about and swimming stuff you normally do on holiday.
"Hello Ladies." The voice came from behind my back. I didn't have to turn to recognise the voice of PC Dick Bull.
"Hello Dick," Sharon smiled at him, and I also turned and smiled a greeting.
"I'm pursuing my enquiries," he said.
"That's good," Sharon said."We were hoping for a cock and bull story. The only thing you're pursuing is the chance of sticking that massive tool inside us again. I've been trying to convince Anne to take it up her arse," she added conversationally, "but she's a bit shy of it."
He smirked. "Well, there are quite a few women who've said that, but they always enjoy it in the end."
"You mean after they've been sown back together again," I quipped.
He inclined his head. "Well, I've never had a woman who took it up her back passage before," he admitted, "and I was a bit surprised when Sharon said she wanted to try it. But she loved it." He looked across at Sharon, and added, "Ready for some more?"
"You bet," she said, "but I really want to introduce Anne to the delights of it. You don't mind if she sits in, do you?"
"Er, well look..." I started to say, but Dick spoke over me. "Of course, I don't. And perhaps when she sees how easy it slips inside you, she'll be asking for a length for herself."
"How about it, Anne," Sharon asked. "No harm in watching."
I shrugged my shoulders in compliance, trying to pretend I wasn't fascinated by the idea.
Sharon could hardly pull her swimsuit off quickly enough, and Dick was hardly hanging around - at least he wasn't when he'd dropped his trousers - his throbbing, purple monster reared upwards, the knobbly veins standing proud around the shaft. Hell it was the most horrible thing I had ever seen.
"Isn't that the most beautiful thing you have ever seen," Sharon said. "One magnificent fucking machine."
"I'd certainly be fucked if I had that inside me," I said, trying not to show the exhilaration running through me at the very idea of it.
"You certainly would," Dick said. "I've never had any complaints that a woman feels she's been short-changed."
"Come on, Dick," Sharon said, placing first one knee and then the other onto the bed, and lowering herself down so her head was on a pillow, with her arse sticking right up in the air. "Cut the talk, and get those bollocks slapping against my arse."
He was actually really considerate in the way he penetrated her, lubing her up first, slipping a condom over his prick and then very gently separating the cheeks of her arse and wriggling from side to side as he pushed his prick against her anus.
I suppose when you see the size of turd that occasionally comes out after constipation, you can understand how a large prick can get through a relatively small hole, but I still found it terrifying. OK, as that monster slid inside her, I also found it incredibly exciting, and erotic, but there was no way I was going to let it inside me.
Well, that's what I'd resolved until Sharon started moaning. In all our sexual activities, I'd never heard her moan in quite such a way. In and out, Dick went, and she moaned in time with his strokes - as though she was a violin being played by the world's worst violin player, but who somehow made the most enthralling and exhilarating music I had ever heard.
I think she reached orgasm instantly, and it just went on and on - ten minutes? Perhaps twenty - I lost all idea of time as she continued in her ecstasy.
And at some point, I thought "It's not fair! When do I get my turn?"
I started to get impatient. I slipped one hand up to my breast and started rolling my nipple between finger and thumb. Mmm, that felt good. Then I slipped my other hand between my legs and pressed against my clitoris. That was even better. "Oh God! Why didn't Dick finish?"
"I think Anne is ready for it now," Dick said. He was grinning lewdly at my self-titillation. "Go on, love. Leap up onto the bed, same as Sharon."
Whilst I slipped off my swimsuit, climbed onto the bed and squatted forward in the same way as Sharon, he slipped on a fresh condom. Then his monster was pointing across the room at me; then it was moving forward towards me.
I was petrified; I wanted to shout out, and say I'd changed my mind, but I felt like a rabbit caught in a stoat's gaze; too terrified to do anything. Then I felt him entering my anus.
It wasn't too bad - no worse than Sharon's dildo. I gasped with relief.
"OK, I've lubed you up," Dick said. "Now I'm going to slowly slide inside you."
One instant, I was coming to terms with the realisation that he'd only been playing with his finger, the next he seemed to have split my arse in half as he rammed his cock inside me.
"Oh God!" I said. "You're killing me. You need to stop. NOW!"
"That's OK," Sharon said, stroking my forehead. "It will turn to magic in a minute."
"It can't do," I cried. "It's hell! Make him stop! Please, please, stop."
Instead of stopping, I felt my arse being slit even wider apart as I realised he wasn't even yet inside me. I thought it couldn't get any worse.
Then it did!
He was sliding the monster inside of me. It went into my arse - and in - and in - and in. It felt like it was passing my navel and still travelling.
Somewhere around the bottom of my lungs - I'd certainly been incapable of breathing for ages - he stopped. Then he was pulling it out again. Past my navel; through my arse, and he was just about to thankfully withdraw it when he changed direction again.
"Oh no!" I gasped.
"Oh, yes" he grunted. But he was moving faster this time. Through my arse, past my navel and up to the bottom of my lungs - and then out again.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His thrusts were becoming more urgent. He was thrusting harder; faster; harder; faster.
"You must stop," I groaned.
"I think it might be a little late for that," Sharon said, as Dick started to grunt.
Faster, he went. Harder, he lunged. Faster! Harder!
Suddenly, I realised the pain had virtually disappeared. It was almost... well actually, it was quite nice... In fact one could say it was...
"Oh my God!" I muttered. "Oh my God!"
And then I started to wail like a badly-played violin!
"How's the hunt for the escaped prisoner going?" I asked Dick as he was putting his clothes back on.
He scratched his balls, and said, "It seems to have slowed right down. We thought we had a breakthrough when we found Brown's sister - she's that fashion model Marianne Black, you know."
(Thank heavens he wasn't looking at me as he spoke for I almost had a heart attack. I could see the look of surprise on Sharon's face also. Damn Marianne for telling her who she was!)
"Anyway, she had travelled from London to Bath on the day of the escape. Obviously, it would be easy enough for her to come down to Seacombe, help with the escape, and then nip up to Bath with her brother. But the Bath police couldn't shake her story, and even when DI Godolphy went up there to interview her, he couldn't get her to confess. I've never known Godolphy fail with any crook.
"Of course," he continued, "because of the major car accident just before the breakout, we were also pretty certain that no one who could have been involved in the breakout had got away before we got the road blocks set up. There's also no record of her BMW being in the area, so..." He shrugged his shoulders. "It looks like she's innocent. Which leaves our investigation absolutely nowhere."
"Presumably, this isn't public knowledge?" Sharon said, giving me a look.
"God! No!" Dick said. "I'd have my balls cut off if Godolphy found out what I'd told you. You won't tell anyone, will you?"
"Well we won't," Sharon said, "But you never know about other people. I should keep that story very quiet, otherwise it is bound to leak out."
"You're right," Dick nodded. "Mum's the word."
He was dressed by now, and with a, "I guess I might have to come back and interview you wonderful ladies again," he was gone.
"I think we need to speak," Sharon said.
I had been racking my brains about what to tell Sharon as soon as Dick had let the cat out of the bag. Why, oh why had Marianne told Sharon about her being the famous fashion model? And how the hell had she managed to talk her way out of the interview with Godolphy. Thank God PC Bull hadn't gone to Bath with Godolphy. Otherwise, he'd have recognised Marianne Black as the same person he'd interviewed in the car calling herself Marianne Johnson. And why the hell had Marianne got me into this situation in the first place. At least, she might have let me into the secret.
"You mean," I asked in response to her prompt, "about me telling you that Marianne and I were sisters?" God knows where my inspiration came from, but the words just seemed to come of their own volition. "Of course, really we are both ex-wives of the same man - Paul Johnson, that is. She was first Mrs Johnson and I was the second. As soon as I met Paul, she and I became really close - like sisters - and now I've split up from Paul, I'd rather not even think that Paul is the common bond between Marianne and me. We both kept Johnson as our surnames. It made it easier to pretend - I guess mainly to ourselves - that we were sisters." I realised I had been gabbling, but I think it all made sense.
"Oh!" Sharon said, sounding rather surprised at such a simple(!) explanation. "So that explains why you were so cross when you found out that Marianne had Paul in the car with her on Saturday."
Hell! That fitted in nicely with what I had said - that was lucky.
"But why didn't you tell me?" she added
Gulp! "It's all very complicated," I said. "It just seemed simpler not to try to explain."
"I can see that," she said. "So Sean Brown is...?"
God! Where did Sean fit into the story I had just invented? "Marianne's brother," I said. I think that was consistent with what Bull and I had each said.
Sharon shrugged. "Oh what a tangled web we weave," she said. "I'd have thought it would have been simpler to tell the truth."
"I only wish Marianne had told me the truth about Sean," I said. "I never realised he'd been arrested and sent to jail. I suppose she thought it would damage her career if it got out." But why hadn't she told me?
"Perhaps," Sharon said, "she was totally ashamed about what Sean had done, and didn't want anyone to know."
"Maybe," I said. "This has all come as a bit of a shock to me. I simply can't imagine Marianne getting involved in a jailbreak. And could she really sneak her brother out of the area, when all the police were searching for him, and hide him away somewhere. Obviously, he can't be staying with Marianne in Bath as the police are bound to have checked that."
"I guess it doesn't really matter to us," Sharon said. "At least, having seen you naked, I can be certain that you aren't Marianne's brother in disguise."
"Bloody hell," I thought, "let's not go down that route."
"Marianne," I said over the telephone, "Sharon and I have spoken to the policeman who questioned you at the roadblock. He told us about your interviews in Bath."
"Shit!" she said.
"We'd better be careful not to say too much over the phone," I said. "Obviously, you can't come back here as someone might see you and put the two Mariannes together. I think we'd both better go back home."
"No," Marianne said. "I'll go back home, but it's better if you stay for the time being. After all, the last thing we want at the moment is for you to get sussed for what you really are as you try to get on a train."
It was a valid point, and I seemed safe enough where I was, with Sharon to keep me company and PC Bull with his enormous truncheon.
"How long do you think I should stay?"
"Stick to the plan," she said." Stay the two weeks and enjoy your holiday. Sharon's staying two weeks as well, isn't she?"
I confirmed that Sharon was due to leave on the same day. "We can travel together back to London on the train," I said.
"That will make it much safer for you," Marianne said. "Don't worry about me. Everything here is fine. OK?"
"OK," I said, and, "Love you." In spite of my infidelity, I realised that I really did.
"Love you too."
The Pudding Club - Concluding Chapter 6
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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 6 - The End
For a while I was frightened that Sharon might say something to the police. Clearly, she'd worked out much of what had happened, but equally as clearly, she did not want to get involved, and who could blame her.
She continued to have fun with her policeman's truncheon, whilst I ducked out of that particular relationship. However, PC Sally Wright came round to ask if there was anything we could add to our statements, and I'm afraid I gave her everything she wanted - I came clean about how being pregnant doesn't impair one's sexual appetite, and confessed how much I enjoyed fun between two women. She was perfectly understanding about my confessions, and was a firm believer that the punishment should fit the crime.
She brought in a dildo on one occasion, but although she quite enjoyed it, I found that her action up my back passage simply wasn't a patch upon Sharon's, so we left that alone and concentrated upon some of the more exquisite actions possible without any sex aids, whatsoever.
And of course, somehow, Sharon seemed to take sufficient time out of being fucked by Dick to give me a good rogering on a regular basis.
So the second week ecstatically passed by, and in next to no time, Sharon and I were being helped out of a taxi in front of Seacombe Station. There was no army of policemen looking for escaped convicts, simply some harassed-looking station officials who took time out to see that two heavily pregnant women were properly tended to. Presumably, there'd be a dozen forms to fill in if we'd given birth on the platform.
What a shame they no longer have compartment trains, so we could have continued the bonking all the way to London. However, we travelled first class so we had plenty of room, and the long train journey gave us chance to revert to our proper roles - or at least, to the role I was pretending to be. We chatted as two pregnant women might chat, but with no mention of the real fun we two women had had together. All the same, it was nice to get so many admiring glances from males who passed along the aisle. In fact, I may have surreptitiously tugged at my dress to reveal rather more cleavage than a respectable pregnant lady should. Who cared?
Personally, I couldn't help feeling a little sad that my term of pregnancy was coming to an end. Hopefully, by now, Marianne had sorted out something more permanent about Sean - smuggled him abroad or set him up with another identity. Perhaps, I thought with a smile, she could give him my Pregnancy Torsolet and he could pretend...
I felt as though a horse had kicked me in the stomach.
It couldn't be true!
I glanced at Sharon. Surely not! But then, how would I know - I'd never seen any family photographs of Sean, apart from when he was very young. Sharon and Sean: the names were very different when spelt, but when spoken sounded so similar - a good way of ensuring one doesn't get caught out when someone calls out your name.
But it must be impossible, I thought. No man could pretend to be a pregnant woman for two weeks and get away with it, even fooling policemen on the alert - except that I just had!
Sharon, feeling my eyes upon her, turned towards me and looked at me.
"Ah!" she said. "You've worked it out at last."
"It's true?" I asked.
She nodded. "Sorry, Anne. Marianne and I both thought it better not to involve you in what we had to do."
I glanced around to ensure that our conversation was not being overheard. "But when you and I..."
Sharon shrugged. "Sorry," she said (or do I mean "he said"?).
He added in a whisper, "You looked so attractive, I really couldn't resist it. I completely made up the whole thing about SIDS, so I could shaft you. But I always wore a condom. I'm not irresponsible, like that."
"But you tricked me!"
"Whereas you thought you were tricking Sharon."
I opened my mouth and shut it again. The words "That's different" would have rung hollow.
"Anne. Did I ever do anything to you which you disliked?"
I could only shake my head. It was true; I had enjoyed every minute with Sharon, or I should have said, with...
I shook my head again, unable to put it into words. I had been well and truly shafted!
I gave another glance around to ensure we weren't been overheard. "Why weren't you recognised by the..." There was no need to say the final word.
"My torsolet is a more expensive model than yours - it cost a fortune. It's got a built-in face mask, so Sean looks very different from Sharon."
No wonder she'd looked so convincing, and fooled PC Bull.
"But after Marianne had told me that Wayne Jenkins was in the car with her," I said, still trying to work it all out, "I thought it must really have been you escaping from the area."
Sean shook his head. "Marianne was telling you the truth," he said. "It was Wayne in the car." He hesitated a little before adding, "Wayne and I have been lovers since I was thirteen."
Noticing the look on my face he added with a smile. "Wayne really loves young boys. When he chats up older men," (I presumed that included me) "it's really just an act to cover it. It was him who'd been using my computer to download the images that the police found."
I gave another glance around to check we weren't being overheard. "And you went to prison for him?"
"I love him, although I realise I'm getting too old for him now. But he did help me escape, and so did Marianne."
He grimaced. "You need to understand that Marianne is fifteen years older than me, so she left home when I was a toddler. It meant we were never very close, and I think that probably helped when it came to her lying about me. The press would have had a field day if they discovered that internationally acclaimed model, Marianne Black, had a brother who firstly was having under-age sex with fashion designer, Wayne Williams, and that he later got arrested and sent to prison for paedophilia. I guess that being in denial over me helped when she was being interrogated by the police."
He shrugged. "She refused to be directly involved in the breakout, or even drive the getaway car out of the area - a good job as we'd have been trapped by the road accident and caught, and Marianne would have lost everything. Instead, we had to go through this charade with the Pregnancy Torsolets.
"Godolphy was right; it was an incredibly amateur operation. Wayne's brother, little Willy (and he does have a little willy) is a road-worker; he had all the gear and he quietly borrowed his van from work. Marianne followed the prison van all the way here, and then overtook it at the last minute and warned Wayne and Willy it was just around the corner - it was rather a pity she caused that nasty pile-up, but fortunately, no one was seriously injured.
"After Wayne and Willy had freed me from the prison van," Sean continued, "we drove to the hotel in Willy's borrowed van, whilst I put on my torsolet in the back. It was much easier for me since I didn't have to worry about my face or hair - that was all built into the Torsolet. And I didn't glue in my important bits, as Marianne did for you. Then I simply walked up to where you were asleep on the bench, and that was the start of our wonderful relationship."
"But you're saying that Marianne set me up."
He shook his head. "She and Wayne were certain the Pregnancy Torsolet would be totally convincing, and all you were doing was staying at the same hotel as me. Oh, maybe we'd occasionally share a lunch together, but nothing more. That all went out the window the moment I saw you asleep on the bench, and immediately fell in lust with you."
He shrugged. "You know what sex is like. Your mind says one thing and your balls another - it's always the balls that win. Offering you an alibi to the police bonded us together, even if the frolics we'd just had did not. So blame me for that and everything else."
I shook my head, unable to trust myself to speak, for a minute. I suppose it would be fair to admit I was sexually confused. I'd never considered having sex with a man, and now I found that was exactly what I had been doing for the past fortnight. And I'd enjoyed it!
Sean grinned. "It was very funny when PC Bull revealed to you that Marianne Black, the model, was my sister, after I'd told you on the first day that I already knew the person calling herself your sister was also Marianne Black. I didn't realise it was supposed to be a secret, you see, and I was just making polite conversation. Well, as soon as Bull had left us, I was going to tell you the whole truth, but you leapt in so quickly with that complicated alternative that I just went along with it. Of course, it made it awfully difficult for you, but you were very clever, and the story really was believable."
I couldn't help but grin back at him.
When first we practice to deceive."
"I'll drink to that," Sean said, but before we could put that into action, the train was rolling into Paddington Station, and there was a sudden frenzy as people stood up and grabbed hold of bags and suitcases.
"Would you like some help?" One of the husky guys who'd been ogling my tits stood over us.
I smiled up at him. "Thank you. We'd really appreciate that."
***
Marianne was waiting for us just beyond the ticket barrier. She gave us both hugs and then took our arms and led us towards the taxi rank.
"Paul knows," Sharon said.
"That's good," Marianne said as though it was of no consequence, and then added, "Paul, I have some great news."
She whispered in my ear. "I'm going to have a baby."
"A baby?" I stopped and stared at her.
"Isn't it terrific! Sorry I had to con you about not wanting a baby, and trick you into wearing that thing, but it was the only way I could see for us to pull this off without making you part of the conspiracy. I'm also sorry I let you think I was seeing a lover, when really I was going down to Seacombe to get everything planned with Wayne and Willy."
I wrapped my arms around her, picked her up and swung her around me, whilst giving her a great big kiss - much to the consternation of the other passengers on the station, who thought my waters must be about to break.
"Join the Pudding Club," I said, and we all three cheered.
Author's Notes: I wanted to document a little about the derivation of the plot elements, since looking back afterwards on completion of most of my stories, it usually seems much of a blur. I've put them in a separate Author's Notes file; there should be a link to the file. But please leave any comments you wish to make against this story, rather than the Author's Notes.
The Pudding Club - Vote
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The Pudding Club - Author Notes
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Author's Notes: Spoilers below. Don't read unless you've finished the story.
Firstly, I want to emphasise that Sean invented the connection between SIDS and vaginal sex in the late stages of pregnancy, purely in order to get his wicked way with Paul. To the best of current knowledge, there is no connection between the two, but if you are in any doubt, consult a doctor, rather than the pages of a fictional story.
You may find it all pretty boring anyway, so feel free to skip, and please add your comments to Chapter 6, rather than to these notes (unless they are comments about the notes!).
I wanted to document a little about the derivation of the plot elements, since looking back afterwards on completion of most of my stories, it usually seems much of a blur. In this case, the basic story had been in embryo form for about three years but had several times been put aside. If you think the plot is complicated now, you should have seen it six months ago!
The base storyline started off much as you read it now. After seeing what Big Busts products were capable of, Marianne (although that wasn't then her name) wanted to spring her brother from jail, and realising they would be unlikely to escape the area, gave him an unlikely disguise as a pregnant woman. Marianne wanted a pregnant partner with whom Sean could hide. She felt sure the police would want to interview her after Sean's escape, so that ruled her out, and she didn't want to involve a really pregnant woman. Not only might she detect Sean was false, but the potential shock of discovery could harm the mother or baby. Hence Paul's involvement in the scheme. Fine so far.
The real complication in my initial plot was that Paul and Marianne swapped places, so they became Mrs & Mr Johnson. After leaving Paul and Sharon, Marianne then swapped back to being female. The complications of a female pretending to be a male, talking with (and chatting up) two pregnant females who were really males, one of whom knew about the other, whilst the other did not, was just unworkable, and the draft kept being thrown aside. Keeping Marianne consistently female by turning her into a 'sister' really made it much simpler to keep the plot going. Even so, it was difficult creating the consistency in the lies told by Marianne and Paul.
There was always going to be a person travelling in Marianne's car to Bath who had assisted in the jailbreak, but it was planned that gay fashion designer Wayne Williams was to have no other part in the proceedings. If you think Paul was surprised to learn that Wayne was a child pornographer, imagine how surprised I felt, as I was writing the final scene on the train, to realise that Wayne would provide the perfect vehicle for Sean's criminality.
The car accident which trapped all those involved in the Seacombe area was an essential part of the initial story. However, it was only in writing the final chapter that Marianne became the cause of it! The wonders of creative writing - and the reason why I would never want to publish unfinished work - meant that it was simple to go back and embroider a few necessary elements into the story, to create something that now appears to be integral to the story.
Finally, I too was surprised to learn that Marianne was pregnant. Certainly from my perspective, it was an unplanned pregnancy! But to me, one of the joys of writing is when you find the characters you have created take off and start doing spontaneous and unexpected things.
With any mystery, there's always a difficulty in deciding just how many clues to give to the reader so that they feel they could have worked out the solution, even though they were not able to. Those who have read a few of my stories will know there's often an unexpected twist at the end, so I guess I tend to make them more complicated than I might otherwise do. Thank heavens I did, as I was unprepared for the combined brain power of all those who commented: Could it be this? Sharon appears suspicious; Is she really a he? What about this? Or that? In the end, I think the complexity of the plot stood up reasonably well against the onslaught, but many of you were far too close for comfort and I was on tenterhooks the whole time.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.
Love
Charlotte
SIGHS - Stories from Seacombe Independent Girls' High School
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Seacombe Independent Girls' High School is one of three secondary schools in Seacombe - the fictional seaside town on the south coast of England.
For various reasons, the girls of SIGHS seem to enjoy making the boys look like girls.
These stories are all light-hearted cross-dressing romps. Definitely not to be taken too seriously. Sit back, laugh and enjoy.
The stories listed below are in chronological order.
Jolly Hockey Sticks
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JOLLY HOCKEY STICKS
by Charlotte Dickles
The problem was there weren't enough girls prepared to play the so-called friendly hockey match against the brutes at Seacombe School. So what could Fiona, the captain of the team, possibly do?
AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as crossdressing. So if reading such material is either illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards. Otherwise, sit back and ENJOY.
"Girls, I don't have to tell you that yesterday was the last day of exams," announced headmistress, Miss Harper, to the assembly of SIGHS (Seacombe Independent Girls High School), and the girls roared approval, exchanging high fives with their mates.
"And," she continued, waiting for the assembly to quieten down, which it rapidly did, "we have two and a half weeks left to the end of term. We're not going to idle away that time, are we?"
"No, Miss Harper," the girls over-enthusiastically responded, suggesting that was exactly what they had in mind.
"So we have several new items on the curricular." A groan from the girls. "Miss Walker will be again running her very popular Beauty and Make-Up sessions." A flicker of interest from the girls. "Miss Jones will run a Dress to Impress course. She told me it was about impressing interview panels, but I secretly suspect that it's just as much about impressing those young men from SPS."
The girls "Wooed".
SPS (pronounced Spus) stands for Seacombe Public School. For the information of those who don't live in the UK, the term Public School means that it's not a school for the public. Public Schools are actually very expensive private schools with histories dating back hundreds of years. Until recently, almost all were boys' schools; in the last few years, many (but not SPS) have turned co-ed.
"Miss White," Miss Harper continued, "who produces computer games in her spare time under the title WhiteWitch Games, will be running a course continuing right through the holidays on Writing Games Software." As Miss Harper expected, that did not draw any response from the girls.
"Now girls," she continued, "as you all know on Saturday in two weeks time we have our annual friendly hockey match with the SS." (Sorry about all the acronyms but you've probably guessed that she was referring not to the Nazi Schutzstaffel, but to Seacombe School. However, since SS was the local co-ed, state, comprehensive school, many at SIGHS considered the two were synonymous.)
"Mrs West tells me that we only have eight girls down to play," she continued. "Now I know that a number of girls were injured in last year's so-called friendly, and I have spoken about this with the headmaster, Mr Bates," (Head Master Bates, the kids there called him, but not normally to his face), "and he assures me this will not be repeated this year.
"It has also been pointed out to me several times that, given the academic capabilities of many of the girls at SS, they have to retake their exams so many times that all the hockey team are not just adults, they are several years older than our girls." She paused. "I'm afraid I've rechecked the terms of our friendly matches and there is nothing to prevent that so I'm afraid we're just going to have to live with it. I've always made it quite clear that at SIGHS we live by the rules, rather than spending our time moaning about them. Obviously, there's no compulsion on anyone to play, but I shall be very displeased if we have to pull out.
"Now. Let's move onto Junior School activities..."
"Good day, Fiona. How did your law exams go?"
Fiona Jolly had knocked on Miss Harper's door during the lunch break. She was hoping to get to Cambridge to study law, and had taken some additional law exams.
"They were tough," Fiona said, "but I think I did all right. It's difficult to know afterwards."
Miss Harper smile. "It is indeed. You've done your best; it's better now to put it completely out of your mind until the results. Now, what did you want to see me about?"
"It's about the hockey match, miss, with the SS."
Miss Harper stared at her, suddenly alert. "You are still intending to play, aren't you, Fiona? You are captain, and you need to show leadership to the other girls. They do play it at Cambridge, you know."
"Oh yes, I'm still playing, Miss Harper, and I'm trying to get a full team together, with at least one substitute, as well. I was reading the terms of our friendlies with SS and I think I can see an opportunity."
"Excellent! You're putting your legal mind to work. Well?"
"It says in the agreement that SS have to field a girls-only team to play against SIGHS. But it doesn't actually say that SIGHS also has to field a girls-only team."
"Because we are a girls-only school. Neither of us are allowed to bring in players who are not pupils at our respective schools."
"Precisely." Fiona looked very pleased with herself, which in turn pleased Miss Harper thinking that Fiona really did have the makings of a good legal brain.
"But," Fiona continued, "our school constitution does allow male pupils onto extra-curricular activities, does it not?"
"Ah-ha," Miss Harper nodded in satisfaction. "No doubt you are not thinking of Beauty and Make-Up or Dressing to Impress."
"No, Miss Harper."
"And I believe you're younger brother is rather a fine hockey player at SPS."
"As are several of his friends."
"Hmm," Miss Harper again nodded. "Legally, of course you are absolutely right, but it's not really in the spirit of the game, is it? Fair play is as important to SIGHS as the rules."
"I completely agree," Fiona said. "But since all the SS team are adults, I thought it was only fair to pit them against a mixed team of children."
Miss Harper grinned. "You're right, Fiona. That is only being fair. Of course, SS would claim foul play, but since it's within the rules, we'd get away with it this year. I'm not certain we'll continue it next year anyway - I only agreed this year's match because Mr Bates begged me the opportunity to show his girls could play fairly. I hope they're turned out a lot better this time; they looked so scruffy last year in their... Oh, Fishhooks!"
"No doubt you have seen the potential difficulty," Fiona said. "The agreement stipulates the teams shall play in the uniform of the school they're representing. However, I suggest there are ways around that."
"I'm not going to ask the Governors to authorise a boys' gym uniform. They have steadfastly refused any change in uniform for fifty years."
Fiona's white blouse with school tie, black, pleated skirt, and black Mary Jane shoes were testament to that. The athletic kit was even worse, with white tee shirt and gymslip, for heaven's sake. Miss Harper was convinced that several of the Board of Governors had a fetish about gymslips - too much St Trinians when they were teenagers, she suspected.
"I thought that route would be too complicated and time consuming," Fiona said, interrupting Miss Harper's train of thoughts.
"Well, what then?" Miss Harper asked.
"Miss Harper, will you accept the principle that the extra-curricular courses are open to pupils outside the school, which includes boys as well as girls?"
"Yes, but..."
"Miss Harper, might I suggest there are some things it's better for a headmistress not to know?"
Miss Harper paused, taken aback. Fiona really was coming on well, she thought. "Can I have your assurance that you are intending to abide by the school constitution and the terms of the friendly?"
"Absolutely, Miss Harper."
Fiona went away from the meeting delighted. She had handled that well. But the next bit was going to be much more tricky. Her younger brother, Nick, would be meeting up with his hockey-playing chums that evening in the cyber-cafe. He was always telling her that the other guys would love her to come along.
"You sneaky cow!" As usual, Nick's praise was backhanded.
She smiled back at him. Cow she could put up with, and sneaky was a fine attribute for someone aspiring to the legal profession.
"Don't say it too loudly," she quietly admonished. There were no other customers in the cafe, but the waitress, who was in the kitchen at the moment, would almost certainly have been to SS, and probably still had mates there. "The point is there's nothing in the rules to prevent SIGHS from fielding a mixed team."
"Whereas the SS have to field an all-female team," whispered Nick's mate, Sam, who also played hockey for SPS. She quite fancied Sam.
"So are you guys up for it?" she asked.
"You mean," Sam quietly paraphrased, "do we want to play a game of hockey and knock the shit out of those slags from the SS, the very same ones who slaughtered our girls from SIGHS last year?" There was always a close relationship between the two independent schools, with SS regarded as the enemy.
"Have you seen them?" asked Steve, another of Nick's friends, holding out his hands as though cupping huge breasts. "I'd be happy to play any game with those tarts."
There was general agreement from them all.
"There's only one thing," Fiona added. "You have to attend an extra-curricular course in order to qualify as a pupil. I'm afraid the only one suitable sounds pretty boring - Writing Games Software by Miss White, who runs WhiteWitch Games."
There was a deadly hush for a moment, then a buzz of excitement.
"Miss White runs WhiteWitch Games?" repeated Dan, the fourth member of the group, his mouth agog.
"Yes," Fiona said. "Do you know it?"
"Know it?" Steve incredulously said. "They only make the best RPG in the world."
"Oh that's nice," Fiona said. "I haven't heard of it before."
"You're always complaining about the noise coming from my room," Nick said. "I can tell you you've heard plenty from WhiteWitch Games."
"So does that mean you wouldn't mind too much if I put you on the course? Only I'm not certain there are enough places for you all."
"I'm your brother. You have to put me on," Nick said.
"Why don't you and I go out for a meal tomorrow evening and discuss it?" Sam said.
There was a clamour from Steve and Dan that they, too, needed to go on the course and would do anything to win favour, and Fiona was happy she had them exactly where she wanted. Yes, she thought to herself, she certainly was a sneaky cow.
"The good news," Fiona said to them on Monday evening, "is that only one girl from SIGHS has put her name down for the course, so I've enrolled you all onto it. We can all play hockey against the SS."
"Brilliant!" "Fantastic!" "Super!" "So what's the bad news?"
Trust Nick to know me too well, she thought, but instead said, "The bad news would be a lot worse if I hadn't spotted the problem in time. I realised they posted up the team list in each school a week before the match - this coming Friday. They'd have realised you were all guys and immediately put a spoke in it."
"But we'd still have been on the course."
"But the entire object of the exercise is to make certain we win the hockey match."
"Sure. Sure," they were all saying, apart from Nick, who said, "So how did you get around the problem?"
"I had to change some of the first names on the list I gave Mrs White." She looked down at her list and read them out. "I changed Dan to Danny, Steve turned into Stevie, Nick became Nicky, and Sam stayed the same."
"But she'll think we're all birds!" Nick moaned.
"Maybe, but it's not as though any of those names couldn't belong to a guy. They're all nicknames, after all."
They agreed they were all nicknames.
"Hi guys," Fiona said, in the café the following evening . "Miss White has arranged the time of the course to suit you - five-thirty pm, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays - with the first one tomorrow afternoon. She also says that when the school holidays start, she'll let you work longer hours if you want - she's thinking of getting you to help design her next game, as a project to work on."
"Fantastic, Fiona," Sam said, and the others all added similar comments, except for Nick.
"But?" he said, and then added, "There's always a but with you."
Fiona shrugged. "It seems that Miss White gave the list of names to the office and when they entered them into their database, they input what they assumed were your given names, rather than the nicknames I wrote down."
"Oh shit!" "Bollocks!" "Piss!" etc, etc.
"So Miss White is expecting Danielle, Stephanie, Nicola, and Samantha to arrive tomorrow afternoon," Fiona said.
"Well you can simply tell them," Nick said, "to change them back to our correct names."
"But then SS would realise that we're playing a mixed team," Fiona said. "Sorry guys, but that's just not on."
"But that means we can't go on the course." Nick said. He was almost crying with frustration.
"Of course you can all go on the course," Fiona said. "Miss White doesn't know you, and she's got terrible eyesight anyway. Your hair is all fairly unisex; you'll all wear jeans, tee shirt and track shoes - the same as most girls from SS."
"But we don't have tits," Steve said.
Fiona looked at him. "To be honest, neither do most of the girls Miss White teaches, but it would be easy for us to rectify that."
"You mean wear a bra?" Nick said, with disgust in his voice.
"It's up to you," Fiona said. "Look everybody; I'll buy cheap bras for everyone. Nick and I live right behind SIGHS, so why don't we all meet at our house directly after school tomorrow? I'll see what I can do about your hair, and you can try on the bras and see what difference they make. If someone feels they look better without one, they're welcome to leave it off. And of course, if you really want to chicken out from playing the part of a girl, you needn't go to the class at all. But if you do go, you're committing to play the hockey match, OK? That's the condition."
She knew they would all turn up. As soon as Miss Harper mentioned WhiteWitch Games, she'd realised it was bait that none of them would refuse - it was simply a matter of using the right hook, a fine line and reeling it in, little by little.
She'd ordered the bras on the internet the day she met Miss Harper, and she'd deliberately gone into the school office to make certain they had the "correct" given names for the "girls". It was all working perfectly. She even got Jessica Davis around, the one girl who had enrolled for Miss White's course who fortunately was also a hockey player, and she'd let in on the secret. Jessica was doing the Beauty and Make-Up course, and she knew quite a lot about doing hair, which Fiona thought could be useful. She also had a valuable connection, which would be even more useful.
It was all a bit hectic , especially brushing out their hair properly, and she'd never have managed without Jessica, but in the end, the "girls" all went off to Miss White's lesson in the IT lab, wearing their bras under their tee shirts, and all looked passably female. Afterwards, they all came back to the house talking energetically about the course, and the plans Miss White had for them.
It was at least ten minutes before she was able to put the question. "Was there any issue raised about your sex?"
There was a brief pause as they all looked around, wondering what to say, and then Sam said, "No, there was no problem at all. It was a bit strange wearing a bra at first, but then I forgot I was wearing it. After all, it's hardly as though you gave us very big tits, is it?"
Fiona smiled. That was exactly the answer she had expected. They all had A-cups, with cotton wool filling - just large enough to make slight bulges under their tee shirts.
"That's great then. Could you all take off your bras and leave them here, and I'll wash them. We can meet up same time, same place on Friday if that's alright?"
Sam had summed up the position of all the boys about going to the class en femme. They had all been pretty embarrassed to start with, but Fiona and Nick's house was virtually next door to the rear entrance to the school. After Fiona had checked there was no one in the street, they had slipped out of the house feeling incredibly self conscious, walked quickly to the school gate and through.
At that time in the late afternoon, it was deserted at the rear of the school. The IT lab was only a few yards walk from the gate and within seconds they were in the confines of the building.
"Ah Jessica. I see you've already met the new girls."
The boys had turned as one to look with awe up the stairs at the White Witch of the games legend - the woman more admired by teenage boys than Lara Croft. She was a rather elderly, thin woman, dressed in a shapeless dress, grey hair cropped in a definite man's style (but then, who were they to judge), and a twinkle in her eye that caught their attention.
"Come in, come in." She ushered them into the computer suite. "Fiona tells me you were really excited about coming on my course."
"That's right, Miss White," Sam said in as soft a voice as he could manage. "We've all played your games and found them so exciting."
"I'm really pleased when I hear that girls enjoy them," she said. "Mostly it seems to be boys. I put in lots of shoot-em-ups to keep them happy, but plenty of more thoughtful things as well. Now, before we start, I want to go round you all and you can give me your names, and tell me which part of the game you most enjoy.
"So..." she pointed at Dan, "what's your name?"
After their initial fear about being found out, they realised she was a fascinating teacher, who got through to them as few other teachers had. The lesson went so quickly, and then they were out the door and counting down the hours until Friday afternoon when they could continue.
Friday's lesson was even more interesting, as Miss White started telling them about the way she had set out to design her latest game, and how she had planned each section.
Once again, the lesson finished all too rapidly, and before they knew it, they were walking down the corridor towards the building exit.
"Oh look," Steve said, "there's the notice about the hockey match next Saturday."
They all gathered around it. "Oh hell!" Dan said, starting to read, "They've used our full names. We're going to have to play the game as girls!"
All their names were there, interspersed amongst the girls from SIGHS, but each of them had an asterisk against their name:
SEACOMBE INDEPENDENT GIRLS HIGH SCHOOL
vs
SEACOMBE SCHOOL
Saturday 27 March
SIGHS Team
Michelle Adams
Danielle Barnard*
Christine Campbell
Victoria Clements
Jessica Davis
Anna Evans
Jennifer Field
Stephanie Hall*
Fiona Jolly
Nicola Jolly*
Jessica Keates
Samantha Lambert*
Tracy Stevens
Alexis Thomas
SS Team
Julie Dale
Wendy...
They eagerly skipped to the bottom to see what the asterisk indicated: "*Girls on extra-curricular courses who do not possess SIGHS gym uniform can loan it free of charge from Mrs West. Please make contact with her to give her your size."
"Holy shit!" It was only Dan who spoke that time - the others were in total shock.
"Alright girls?" It was Miss White, who had followed them out of the IT suite. She came up and stood next to them, reading the same notice. "I say, you're all playing for SIGHS," she said. "That's wonderful. You're all from SS, aren't you? I imagined you'd be playing for them."
Nick opened his mouth to say that actually they were from SPS, and then remembered that was for boys only, so he closed it again.
"That's right, Miss White," Steve said. "We're all from SS."
"Well they must be quite cross with you, for playing against them. I hope you'll be alright. They almost killed some of our girls last year." She gave them a pleasant smile as she walked off.
"Getting killed on the hockey field seems easy compared to going to see Mrs West to get measured for SIGHS uniform," Dan said.
"It's a gymslip," Sam said, but he was only stating the obvious. There wasn't one of them who hadn't watched the girls on the hockey field, and then gone home and wanked over the memory.
"Shall we all go and kill Fiona?" Nick said.
"But I told you on Tuesday the names that had been entered into the database," Fiona said. "You all chose to turn up on Wednesday. Did you imagine they would have one set of names in the database for Miss White's course and another set of names for the hockey list? Even I know that's crap, and you guys are pretending you know something about computing."
"But why can't we simply turn up in our SPS kit?" Nick said.
"Isn't it obvious?" Fiona exasperatedly asked. (At least, she pretended to be exasperated - this was exactly what she'd been expecting.) "Your real names aren't on the list of players so you can't play as boys."
"You could pretend there'd been a tummy bug and many of the original girls had been taken ill," Steve said. "We could be pulled in as substitutes."
"But you're not pupils of the school," Fiona said. "You wouldn't be acceptable.
"I'm sorry," she continued, "but I told you on Tuesday that it was a condition of going on the course that you had to play hockey as girls." That wasn't quite how she'd phrased it, but it was close enough.
"OK," Sam said, "perhaps we were a bit stupid. The question is what are we going to do now?"
"You simply have to pluck up courage and go ahead."
"It won't work," Nick said. "The cotton wool would come out and our bras would shift in the general melee. We'd all be outed."
"Added to that," Dan added, "we could get kneed in the goolies by the tarts from SS. Girls might find that a bit of a pain - for blokes it would be excruciating."
"So at last you guys are talking sense," Fiona said, taking them all by surprise. "Those are practical problems and we need a practical solution. Fortunately, I had already predicted this and I have the solution in hand. Jessica Davis's mother works at a place in town which has the answer to your problems."
She looked around and was delighted to see they were all intrigued. "They produce a one piece garment called a Torsolet, which is used to give males the shape of a female. But it looks and behaves like your own body, and it will protect your goolies from attack. Janet has arranged for her mother to "borrow" some from the shop."
"Are you sure it will work?" Steve asked.
"We have a chance to trial it," Fiona said. "I've already given Mrs West your measurements, and she's supplied me with your kit. She also suggested our team has a practice session tomorrow afternoon at two. Our parents are out shopping all-day so come round here for twelve. Bring sandwiches and you can change into your Torsolets and your kit, and then nip through the back gate to the sports field." She looked around again. "Any problems?"
They all looked at each other, but no one said anything.
"Coming ," Fiona shouted, "ready or not," and she secretly rather hoped it was a not, in Sam's case, at least.
But when she and Jessica stepped back inside Fiona's lounge after leaving the boys to change, they might well have walked into her school changing room. For there were four naked girls prancing about before them.
"Just look at these," Nick shouted, shaking his body from side to side and watching his boobs following.
"I've got TITS!" Dan said, viciously kneading them.
"I've got a pussy," Steve said, running his fingers along his slit.
"THAT WILL DO!" Fiona bellowed, bringing immediate silence to the room. "The object of this exercise is not to spend all afternoon playing with yourselves. You were supposed to be not only putting on your Torsolets, but also getting dressed."
But privately, she had to admit the Torsolets had totally converted four boys into four girls. Even Jessica looked impressed - Fiona guessed it was the first time she had seen the things in action. The Torsolet itself was a flesh-coloured, leotard-like garment, with a high neck which finished right under the jaw line, and a crutch which, when fastened, safely concealed the boys bits and displayed what looked incredibly like a girl's vagina.
Fiona had inspected the things when Jessica had brought them around that morning, and been sceptical they would achieve very much. The breasts could be adjusted in size by inflating them with water, and she and Jessica had spent a long time filling them with a measured quantity to give them A-cup tits. The buttocks and hips were padded, and the boys now had lovely rounded bums and hips wide enough to clearly state: Female.
"Come on, you lot," Fiona shouted again, as the boys - make that, girls - showed every inclination to start playing with themselves again. "Put on your frilly panties and bras."
Fortunately, the Governors had never specified the underwear that went with the gymslips, so most girls went for the kind of frilly panties worn by tennis players. The boys were used to the bras, by now, and the tee shirts were obviously no problem, but they all looked a little flummoxed when it came to putting on the gymslips.
"The shoulder straps are Velcroed to the rear bodice," Fiona advised, "Once you've undone that, you can either slip it over your head, or step into it. Stepping into it may work better for those with wider shoulders.
"Get used to putting it on by yourselves now," she added, as one or two went to lend a friendly hand, "as you may have to do it on your own at some time."
They all twisted and turned, and eventually they all managed dress themselves.
"Brilliant," she said when they were all done, and she meant it. "Socks and shoes, before we do a final inspection."
They had their own hockey shoes so they'd be no problem, but the thigh length socks that most girls wore caused some ribald comments.
"Let's get out there now," Fiona said, five minutes later.
"We're a bit early," Nick said, and she could see the others squirm at the sudden thought of going out in public dressed like that.
"Face up to your fear," she said, "and it will go away. The sooner we get out there, the sooner you can get used to playing in your kit. By the time Mrs West arrives, I want you to have forgotten you're wearing something different to normal. So let's GO."
Jessica led the way out of the room, and they all obediently followed her out of the front door and towards the school.
"Well I didn't realise that wearing gymslips would sap your strength like that," Fiona said two hours later as they returned to her house. "You boys were pathetic. We girls ran rings around you." They had too; the other six girls from the SIGHS team had turned up and the girls had totally outperformed the boys.
"It was the heat, Fiona," Sam moaned. "As soon as we started to run, we began to burn up. We're drenched with sweat beneath these Torsolets, but there was nowhere for it to go."
The boys were rapidly tearing off their clothes. It was noticeable that all the arms of their tee shirts were sodden with sweat, as were their socks, whilst the rest of their clothes were dry.
"We've promised we'll go through with the game next week," Sam continued, "but wearing these Torsolets, there's no way we're going to outperform the SS."
They were all naked girls now, and most were feverishly trying to unclip the gusset, to allow them to pull the Torsolets over their heads.
"OK," Fiona said. "Jessica, could you ask your mother whether there's a way around this problem? In the meantime, can you all remove your Torsolets and your uniforms and leave them in the basket in the corner. I'll make certain they're all clean and ready for you next Saturday. Can you please be down here by nine - and Nick, I really don't want to see your genitals, if you don't mind."
"I'm afraid the only solution," Jessica told Fiona on Monday , "is to use a red gel in place of the green anti-perspirant gel they were using on Saturday. The basic problem is that with their level of exertion, the green gel wasn't powerful enough and they were still sweating. The sweat builds into a thin film of water which creates an insulating layer between skin and Torsolet, in exactly the same way as in a wet suit, and they simply get hotter and hotter, and sweat more and more.
"The red gel bonds the Torsolet to the skin," she continued, "sealing off the sweat glands, so there's no build up of water between the two, and it will conduct heat away from the skin very quickly."
"That's great," Fiona said. "Can you get some of that for us by Saturday?"
Jessica shook her head. "No, you don't understand. The red gel bonds the Torsolet to the skin and it will stayed bonded until the outer layer of skin is shed, typically in about two weeks' time. Use the red gel and they'll all be stuck in their Torsolets for two weeks."
"Hmm," Fiona mused, and then she came to a decision. "The honour of our school is at stake, Jessica. Get a large pot of the red gel."
"But will the boys agree..."
"They're not going to object," Fiona declared, "because I'm not going to tell them about it until afterwards."
"But..."
"Jessica, I'm determined we're going to win this match for the sake of SIGHS. Get the gel." She somehow forgot to mention to Jessica that her plans to become a Cambridge Hockey Blue could be ruined by failing to win a friendly match against a crappy comprehensive school, who'd sent only one student to Oxbridge in the last five years!
"Good morning girls," Mrs West said. "Good to see you're all bright and early." She smiled at the twelve girls in gymslips who were hanging around the changing room. Any sign of SS yet?"
"No, miss," Fiona replied.
"It's nine-forty-five. They should have been here ages ago. And there are hardly any parents on the field. The match wasn't cancelled whilst I've been away was it, with no one telling you and me?"
"That's the strange thing, miss," Fiona replied. "Someone went around the school on Friday morning putting up Cancelled stickers on the notices. I checked with Miss Harper, and she checked with Mr Bates and the match is definitely on. Someone must have been playing a joke, but that explains why there are few parents here."
"You girls are from SS," Mrs West accusingly turned onto the boys. "Is this your doing?"
"Miss, the girls weren't here between Wednesday evening and Friday evening," Fiona said. "It couldn't have been them."
"Very strange. Well, I'd better ring SS and see what's happening."
Fiona hadn't told the boys about her intention to stick the Cancelled signs over the notices, as she hadn't wanted them to look guilty when challenged, as they surely would be. But the signs had the desired effect - there were hardly any parents on the touchline who might recognise the boys dressed as girls and create mayhem.
Mrs West came back five minutes later. "I've spoken to Miss Sidebottom, the Games Mistress at SS," she said, "and she tells me hardly any of her girls have turned up, and the ones that have are not in top condition. Reading between the lines, I suspect those girls were on a bender last night and have hangovers this morning. Obviously, we mustn't be pleased about our opponent's ill fortune, but it won't do us any harm, if the match does take place and the sooner, the better."
She gave a conspiratorial smile. "I've therefore suggested it would speed things up if we get in the minibus and go over there. We wouldn't want them to recover too fully before the match starts. I'd better go and tell the parents outside what's happening." Mrs West disappeared through the door leading to the sports field.
"What are we going to do?" Sam whispered to Fiona, aware of the six other girls who were not in on the secret.
"It's alright," Fiona spoke loud and clearly, so everyone could hear. "We all know you're from SS and not too keen to meet up with others from the school. I'll have a word with Mrs West about it, and make certain we can keep you segregated." She went off to catch up with Mrs West.
"It's a bit of luck about the SS getting sloshed," said Alison, one of the other girls. "They might feel too poorly to kill us."
That conversation rapidly led to a busy chatter amongst the seven girls about exactly what would happen to them, whilst the four boys kept quiet with their nerves. Their instincts told them it was time to get out, but the fear that it might make matters worse and lead to exposure kept them in their seats.
When they got to SS, the pseudo girls actually got on with the opposition far better than did the SIGHS girls. They swore far worse than the boys at SPS, but the boys saw that as something to respect, rather than despise. And Steve had been absolutely right; all the SS girls seemed to have huge breasts and as girls, they could stare without risk of being called dirty little perverts.
SS only just managed to field eleven players; Mrs West had been right, they had been out on the town the evening before. Apparently, they had all started out with good intentions (as one often does), but some "little tart with enormous tits" (the boys tried to visualise the size of breasts which even the SS girls called enormous) had been trying to steal their boyfriends away, and somehow it had turned into a drinking contest.
Fiona smiled as she heard them relaying the tale. Suffice to say, she had been surprised at how large the breasts of the Torsolet could be expanded whilst still looking extremely lifelike, and her performance last night would do no harm at all to her admission into the Cambridge Footlights.
The important final score was 5 - 1: five SS girls were sent off for serious fouls, hurting their opponents, and one SIGHS girl went off injured. Fortunately, all the boys recovered remarkably quickly from their injuries which, only seconds before, had them writhing in agony on the ground. After that, it was relatively easy for the four boys and seven girls to virtually walkover the six remaining SS players and achieve a final goal score of 0 - 10.
"Well done, team," Mrs West told them as they walked off. "You all played incredibly well. It's a pity we lost Michelle, but I've checked her out and she's fine now." She hesitated for a second before saying, "Fiona, could I talk with you, please? Perhaps you can stay out here, whilst the other girls go in and shower."
"Miss, I don't think we all need a shower," Fiona promptly said.
Mrs West stared at the muddy and dishevelled girls standing in front of her. Jessica and Fiona both looked worried, whilst several of the others looked almost excited. How strange! "Don't need a shower! What on earth are you talking about Fiona? Don't be ridiculous!"
"But miss..."
"I've told you, everyone has to have a shower." She turned as the last of the SS hockey team walked by with Miss Sidebottom. "Well played SS," she encouraged, and the SIGHS girls obediently applauded, whilst the SS team looked sullen, and did not return the cheer.
"Miss Sidebottom," Mrs West continued, "Could you make certain, please, that all of my girls get into the shower. I'm going to have a word now with Fiona, but she'll be along in a minute."
Miss Sidebottom smirked. "Certainly, Mrs West," and she added, in a last minute attempt to regain esteem, "I have no problems with my girls not showering."
"Right you lot," she bellowed, "come this way."
The SIGHS girls obediently followed - many of them secretly excited, but one or two reprehensive as well.
Surprisingly, Miss Sidebottom realised, it was Jessica Davis who was most reticent about going into the showers with the other girls, and when Fiona eventually arrived, she too was a pain. She'd met both girls on previous occasions and always been nauseated about how obedient the two little tykes were. This time, they were completely the reverse and she almost had to beat each of them with a hair brush to get them to undress and go into the showers.
She really couldn't understand it as the other girls were all being incredibly pleasant to each other, offering to soap the others' backs, and she even noticed them having a little ribaldry fun in the shower - she closed her eyes to that, as she was fully in favour of a little fun now and again. It was a pity that with the current obsession with child assault, she was no longer allowed to join in!
Eventually, she had to leave the guests' changing-room - they were actually the boys' changing-room, but all the boys' teams were playing away, that day, so there were not being used - and return to her own little tramps and make certain they weren't up to their normal tricks.
It was some minutes in the shower before the SIGHS girls realised the extra-curricular girls were all raging lesbians. It was the first time any had experienced a lesbian first-hand, and they found it far more fun than they'd thought possible. After all, there was nothing really wrong in a girl complimenting another on her beautiful breasts, and then checking them for firmness, was there? The same went for grasping each other's bums. Some were a little uncomfortable when it came to having their pussies stroked, but they were all willing to give it a go.
"TEAM!" Fiona's voice reverberated through the shower, bringing them all to stop what they were doing. "Please remember your position as visitors to this school. I don't have to remind any of you how embarrassing it would be if I reported details of what had gone on here to the staff, your friends and family."
The extra-curricular girls looked far more chastened than the others, who were used to Fiona bossing them around as a prefect.
"Fiona, you wouldn't," Sam said, only now realising that Fiona was as naked as the rest to them, and finding her body incredibly beautiful.
"Well, I will if you don't start behaving properly," Fiona relented, having seen the way Sam looked at her and being extremely moved by it. "Now I suggest you all leave the shower, get dry and get dressed. Those who didn't bring their change of clothes with them will have to put back on their gymslips. And please, no more playing about."
"Yes Fiona," many of them muttered as they left the shower. However, it didn't stop several of them from quickly feeling the breasts of others in the few minutes before Fiona left the shower.
"It's taking you a long time to get dressed!" she bellowed as she came out of the shower. "I can see I'm going to have to complain to your parents."
The SIGHS girls quickly slipped into their clothes and, apart from Fiona, left, whilst the others frantically tried to dress, but were having all kinds of problems such as putting on their bras inside out, or even in one case, upside down. Within a couple of minutes, just Fiona and the extra-curricular girls remained.
"I think you were a bit unfair, Fiona," Sam said. "After what we've done to help you and SIGHS."
"Sorry, guys," she said. "It's just that Mrs West knew I was up to something with you lot, but couldn't work out quite what. She grilled me over and over, until I had to admit it had been me who'd put up the Cancelled notices, because you lot did not want to be seen by parents. But she's agreed that in view of the fact that it's all worked out for the best, she's not going to take it any further. But if she'd come into the changing room just then, she'd have immediately grasped the real situation and used your testicles for garters."
"I guess we did get a bit carried away," Sam admitted. "But everyone had fun."
"Well you've probably converted all our girls into lesbians, so they'll not be interested in boys, any more."
She paused for a little before continuing. "Which is probably not a bad thing. I'm afraid you're going to be stuck in those Torsolets for a while."
There was a deathly silence before all hell broke loose. "What do you mean?" "Why should we?" "They were alright when we used them before."
"I know. I know." Fiona held up her hands for silence. "I think you'll all agree that the red gel you used today worked like magic. None of you appeared to have any problem with overheating. True?"
A cautious, "Y-e-s."
"I'm sorry, but it is also a strong adhesive. The suits are stuck on you for the next two weeks. I'm afraid that means you're going to have to continue being girls for that time."
Another deathly silence, followed by, "You're joking." "It can't be true." "What's my mum going to say?" "What's my DAD going to say?"
"I've had a word with Miss White," Fiona said. "She would be happy to make your Games Software course into a residential one, if you wanted. You know we have a dozen rooms for weekly boarders in the school, and it's the end of term on Tuesday. We could bind up your breasts with bandage until Wednesday."
She looked around nervously. No one looked on the point of murdering her, but there was a range of expressions on their faces from anger to plain uncertainty.
"The other girls from our team did say they'd appreciate some hockey lessons from you," Fiona added, and she saw their faces soften as the realisation sank in.
"We could fit in a few training sessions for them at SIGHS over the next few weeks," Sam said. "You know, give them the benefit of our experience."
There was a general nodding of heads, then Steve started smirking. "Bloody right, we could!" he announced.
Suddenly they were all grinning and patting Fiona on the back, prior to leaving the changing rooms and returning to the minibus. "Good old Fiona." "Well done, a great idea."
Finally, it was just Nick and her left.
"I suppose it's worked out alright," he said.
"Only alright?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, slipping her arms around her favourite brother (OK, her only brother), "that I won't have you borrowing my gymslip again, at least, not for the next two weeks."
He turned his face away from her, a blush coming to his cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."
"I mean," she repeated, "that my whole idea for beating SS came from you secretly trying on my clothes. I thought that if you did it, that probably lots of the others at SPS also did it."
"Of course they don't."
She smiled at him. "How do you know? Because they don't tell you about it at school? Maybe they haven't all done it before, but they were all intrigued enough to go through with it. So tell me, Nicky, what's it feel like to be my sister?"
Nicky smiled at her. "It feels great, sis."
They might have spent a little more time simply hugging each other and smiling, but their peace was disrupted by the door to the changing-room suddenly bursting open and fifteen, jostling, jeering, SS rugby players crowding in and forming a semi-circle around the girls in their gymslips.
"Allo, babes. Lost your way?"
"Come to look for some real men?"
"Why do they call them SIGHS?" one boy quipped.
"Because that's the sound they make when they see a SPS prick." His mate gave the standard reply.
"They'll have to call them SCREAMS after they've seen my prick."
"They'll have to call them a sandwich after we've all fucked them. Who else is game?" The boy pulled down his rugby shorts and both Fiona and Nick were shocked at the size of the monster which shot upwards to meet them.
"We all are," someone shouted. Suddenly, they were all crazily pulling down their shorts and a variety of different sized and shaped pricks leapt into view, but none of them, Nick realised, was less than twice the size of his.
In a fit of bravado, Nick pointed at the boy with the absolute monster of a prick and said, "I've seen all the SPS pricks, and there isn't one as small as yours."
The boy's face turned ugly. "Yeah! Well let's see you take it in your gob."
"No problem," Nick said reaching forward and adding, "but you go first."
His hand seemed to accelerate, change direction upwards and bunch so quickly that the boy had little time to react before his jaw exploded in pain, and he was toppling backwards, measuring his length on the ground.
"Why you little rat..." The biggest boy was stepping forward towards Nick to kill him, when Fiona's hockey stick shot out.
She had played many devastating shots in the match, and her instinct was to hit his ball at least as hard as any she had played that morning. But Dan's comment the previous week about the sensitivity of male testicles made her suddenly pull the shot, and she completely fluffed it, giving him a relatively light tap under the bollocks.
"O-o-o-o-o-o-g-h!" he whined, as he collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony.
Afterwards, they would argue over what caused the events that followed. Nick maintained it was him grabbing for his hockey stick which so frightened the boys, their precious jewels exposed, that they tried to quickly move away from the danger, whilst their shorts were still around their ankles. Fiona said it was simply that the boy she knocked down cannoned into the others and they all fell like nine pins. Whatever, as one or two started to topple, they grabbed hold of others and within seconds, all but three were cavorting on the floor in a heap of arms, legs and pricks.
Although neither of them mentioned it afterwards, they were both surprised that most of the pricks stayed fully erect as they tumbled into a pile, Fiona was convinced she could see more pricks than arms or legs; Nick, that their pricks were larger than their arms.
The three boys left standing edged nervously backwards, clearly frightened of the pair of schoolgirls in gymslips, both now wielding hockey sticks.
Fiona said, "I think it's time we little girls left the boys to play with themselves," took Nick by the hand and together they skipped towards the door, as they had done when they were five and six years old.
But the door opened before they could reach it, and Mr Payne, the sports master entered.
"What's going on here?" he bellowed, staring at the two SIGHS girls in the boys' changing-room, with three boys standing behind with their shorts around their ankles, and still with enormous erections.
"Miss Sidebottom said we should change here," Fiona said, "but the boys are too sissy for us, so we're leaving."
They stepped around him so he could see the dozen SS boys on the ground; one out cold, and another clearly still in tremendous pain as he thrashed around on the floor.
"By the way," Nick added as they left. "SIGHS beat the hell out of SS at hockey."
"Jolly Hockey Sticks," Fiona added, waving hers in the air.
So it was that in years to come, when people talked about SIGHS being all Jolly Hockey Sticks, they were definitely not comparing them to Cheltenham Ladies College; St Trinians was much closer to the truth. As for SS, they decided it was probably better not to foul SIGHS in future matches, and that perhaps their end of term, so-called "friendly" game was something best avoided.
Your Starter for...
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Author's Note: University Challenge is a long running UK TV quiz game between teams of four students from two competing universities. A starter question for ten points is offered and if the first person on the buzzer gets it right, three bonus questions, each worth five points, are offered to the team as a whole, before the game again returns to: "Your starter for ten points."
This is a work of fiction and all people, places and events (apart from the obvious ones) are imaginary.
by Charlotte Dickles
Friday Morning
This was going to be the day, Michael decided. OK, he'd thought that for the last seven days, but this was definitely IT. In any case, this was the last day of the Summer term. It HAD to be the day.
It had been last Friday when he'd first cast eyes on Safia, at a University Challenge organised between his school - Seacombe Public School (or SPuS as most people pronounced it) - and hers - SIGHS - the girls' independent high school. She'd been on the opposing team, and he'd fallen in love as soon as he'd seen her. Oh, he'd been attracted to girls before and lusted over them. But never before had he seen anyone as beautiful as this slender Asian girl, who gave him a quick smile across the floor when he gave his team's first correct answer.
In fact, the smile made the adrenaline surge through his body, inspiring his performance and he carried the rest of his lacklustre team for the whole evening. When the results were announced, they had a credible, rather than a miserable, score, and as he stood up to make his way over to another of her smiles, he was bombarded by congratulations from everyone from the headmaster downwards. By the time he'd freed himself, he could see her disappearing through the exit with her father.
Eight times he'd cycled past her house over the weekend, staring through the automatic gate at the huge house set in its own grounds with a BMW parked outside, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Every day, he'd walked an extra mile to school in order to pass along her road, in the hope he would catch her emerging - or perhaps she might see him as her father drove her to school, and she would ask her father to stop and offer him a lift. At the end of each day, he'd waited outside her school hoping to catch sight of her.
All to no avail. In fact, she didn't appear to have been to school that week, and her friends didn't know why.
He'd determined that morning to ring the bell, to see if she was sick, perhaps to offer to collect her things from school before the end of term, whatever. In fact, when he was just a few yards from the drive, her father's BMW shot out. It would surely have run him over if he'd been any closer. The car turned away from him and accelerated quickly along the road, but not so quickly that Michael could see Safia was not in the car.
Which meant she must still be in the house. As he turned towards it, he could see the automatic gates closing - he sprinted and got through the gap just before they clanged shut.
Suddenly nervous, he looked around to check her father had not seen his actions and returned to eject him, but all was quiet. He made his way to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Somewhere in the house, rather naff doorbell chimes sounded.
He heard steps rapidly walking up to the door, and it was thrown open.
"What's wrong now?" Safia screamed at him, and then stopped, her eyes boggling with astonishment in a way that Michael found very appealing. She was wearing tight jeans and a tee shirt with a Mr Happy face printed on it, and Michael found it very easy to grin back at her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought it was my father coming back, and we'd had a little..." She paused, uncertain what to say.
"Row?" Michael prompted.
She smiled and her face lit up. "Yes. Actually, it was a great big row - that's all we seem to do nowadays."
"I'd been hoping to bump into you to say how good I thought you were at the University Challenge," he said, using one of the lines he'd rehearsed over and over.
"I was just a member of the team," she said, "but you were quite brilliant. The rest of your team were useless. You should have been the captain." She looked over his shoulder, presumably at the gate and added, "Incidentally, how did you get through the gates?"
"I saw your father leaving and he said to go on in," he said.
She grinned again, her face lighting up. "Now I know you're lying," she said. "My father would never let a single, unescorted man be alone in the house with me."
He grinned back. "I managed to dash through the gate before it closed after your father drove out," he said. "But I have been looking out for you over the last few days. Your friends say you haven't been to school, and I wondered if you were ill?"
She glanced at the gate and the road beyond, suddenly cautious. "You'd better come in," she said. "It doesn't do for a man to be seen standing on the doorstep."
She opened the door to allow him to enter, and as he passed by her, he could smell her perfume and peer down at the gentle curve of her small breasts pushing out the tee shirt.
She smiled at him some more; then after closing the front door, she gesticulated that he follow her through to the back of the house.
"Would you like some tea or coffee?" she asked. "Or a Coke?"
He chose a Coke, and said, as casually as he could (which wasn't very casual at all), "Are you going to school today. If so, I could walk you there." His heart was racing as he awaited the answer.
"My father has forbidden me to go to school any longer."
"Forbidden you! How can he do that? Why?"
She chose her words carefully. "You don't understand Asian culture. He saw me smiling at you at the competition. As soon as we were in the car, he called me a prostitute, and said that Haresh would not marry me if I behaved like that."
He was aghast at her words. "You're getting married?"
"My father has arranged for Haresh to marry me," she added.
"No!" he gasped. "Are you old enough... I mean, I thought you might be..."
"I am sixteen in three months time and I am to be married on my birthday. Haresh is thirty-one."
"Thirty-one! He's an old man. That's disgusting!"
She smiled at him. "When we rowed on Friday, I told my father I would not marry Haresh. He said, 'In that case, you will marry no one.' I am to remain in this house until I consent to marry Haresh. I will not do that, so I will remain here forever."
"Let me take you away now," he said. "You could stay at my house until we find you somewhere more permanent."
"How do you suggest we leave?"
"The same way as I came in. Through the front door."
"Between the garden and the road is a high gate which is locked. The security fence runs all the way around the garden. We cannot leave."
"You mean you're imprisoned here?" A further thought struck him. "And that I'm trapped here as well?"
"Yes."
"But I have to get to school."
"Not today. You are here today."
"Oh. I could call my mother at work and she could go home and get a ladder."
"No." She spoke softly, but very firmly. "Your mother would be very angry with my father, and the whole story would leak out. When it was discovered that I had been alone in the house with you, my father's name would be ruined."
"But he's keeping you a prisoner. His name should be ruined."
"He is still my father. I will not allow it."
"Oh." The implication of his situation sank in. "You mean I have to stay with you until your father comes home tonight to release us?" He suddenly had a broad grin on his face. "But what would we do, all day long?"
She smiled back at him. "It is nice having you as a guest, but when my father returns he will fly into a terrible rage with you. He will accuse you of soiling his daughter, of dishonouring him and me. He will probably want to kill you."
"Oh, that's alright then. Well we might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb."
"I am serious. If you saw how angry he got when I simply looked at you on Friday, you would realise what he will be like when he learns you and I have spent all day here, alone. When he is calm, my father wouldn't hurt a fly, but when he is in a rage..."
Michael thought a little. He knew there were plenty of examples of murder in the Asian community because of dishonouring someone's daughter.
"I shall have to sneak out, the same way as I came in. I can hide behind the gate when your father returns - then after he's driven inside, I can nip out."
Safia shook her head. "It won't work. Don't forget the drive is laid with gravel. The moment you start moving, he'll hear you - and his reaction in those circumstances is likely to be even worse than if I can calmly tell him what's happened."
"Then what do I do?"
She suddenly smiled. "I have an idea. Come upstairs with me."
"Now we're talking," Michael said.
"Father is right," she said. "Men do have one-track minds, even when they're facing death."
She paused and added, "But first I will telephone the school to tell them that my son, Michael, is sick and will not be in today. Can I use your mobile?"
***
"This is my sister, Anika's bedroom," Safia said.
Wow, Michael thought, his tummy doing a cartwheel, this is getting serious. I never really expected her to take me to bed within a few minutes of meeting her. OK, although she was under sixteen, he was just over. That made it all right, didn't it?
"It looks very nice," he said and added with a fit of bravado he wasn't feeling, "Shall I test the bedsprings?"
He sat down heavily on the bed and bounced on it.
"I think my sister has probably already done that," Safia said. "For some reason, she managed to get away with all kinds of things that I cannot. Of course, mother was alive then. She was English and she made father see reason. Now..." She trailed off, lost in thought.
"I'm sorry about your mother," he said, taking her hand, "but I'm sure she would want you to find a nice boy like me and make him happy."
"Don't be silly," she said, shaking his hand off hers. "We haven't come here for that."
"Well, what, then?" he was getting terribly confused, and so was his rock-hard penis. He shuffled, uncomfortably, trying to surreptitiously adjust its position.
"When Anika left home, she left many of her older clothes behind, including her school uniform."
He couldn't work that out. "But why can't you wear your own school uniform?"
"I don't need a school uniform today as I was never intending to go to school. Whereas you were, and although my uniform wouldn't fit you, I'm sure that Anika's would." She opened a wardrobe and rummaged through it until she could pull out a hanger holding a white blouse and black pleated skirt. She tossed them on the bed. "There. What do you think of those?"
"Fit me?" he said. "You're expecting me to wear Anika's school uniform?"
"I'm sure it will work out fine," Safia said. "Father might be a bit annoyed if one of my girl friends from school was passing by and managed to get in as you did, but he wouldn't go into a rage. He wouldn't feel dishonoured."
"So you're suggesting," he said, "that I put on your sister's school uniform and pretend to be a girl? It would never work. Your father would see through me straight away."
It was so embarrassing. Here he was trying to impress the most beautiful girl in the world and here she was, trying to get him to wear girls' clothes.
She tilted her head on one side and smiled at him in a most appealing way.
"Look," he said. "I really don't feel comfortable about this. Surely, if I reason with him it will be alright?"
"Michael, I'm asking this because I thought you rather liked me, and I like you, and I don't want my father to feel, for the rest of his life, that his daughter has been dishonoured. Is it really more than you're prepared to do for me?"
"Well..."
"Please, Michael."
He shrugged. "OK, but I'll feel so stupid wearing girls' clothes."
"Why?"
"I just will."
"Do you think girls look stupid when they wear them?"
"Of course not, but..."
She said the words for him. "That's different?"
"Yes."
"Only because you think you'll look like a boy wearing girls' clothes. If you looked like a girl wearing girls' clothes, you wouldn't look stupid. Right?"
"Well, yes, but I don't see how that can be."
"We'll have to do a few things," she said. "You can shave your legs and I could wash and style your hair, and put on a little makeup. I think you'll be fine. Please Michael."
For some reason, a surge of excitement went through his body, which was nothing to do with being alone with Safia. He should be shocked, even disgusted at her suggestion - instead something inside him was urging him to go ahead. But he knew he must not appear too keen so he gave another shrug and said, "I've already said yes. So do your worst."
She gave him a ladies' razor and made him go to the bathroom and shave his legs. "And don't forget to shave your face as well." Fortunately, he was still only shaving occasionally so he didn't have any stubble.
It took ages to get all the hairs off his legs, but when he'd done so, they were a real surprise. He was amazed how sexy they were - he had to admit to himself they looked like most girls' legs. She'd given him a pair of white cotton panties to put on but he still had a huge erection - indeed, it seemed to have got harder since admiring his legs - so he used the trick he sometimes used at home, filled the washbasin with cold water, and dunked his testicles into it. It was rather painful, but everything rapidly shrivelled. He pulled up the panties and then pushed his tackle between his legs and pulled them up even tighter. It felt a bit uncomfortable, but at least it looked respectable. He only hoped everything would stay like that.
"I'm decent," he called, and she came into the bathroom.
She looked his near naked body up and down - it was sufficient to make his cock start to get hard again. Thank heavens it was constrained by the panty, he thought.
"I'm going to wash and style your hair now, so sit on the stool and make yourself comfortable."
He grimaced, but did as she said.
***
Forty minutes later, he stared critically into the mirror at the person facing him in white school blouse and black pleated skirt, with white ankle socks and black Mary Jane shoes. Putting on the blouse had been fine - it was not dissimilar to the white shirt he wore for school, except it buttoned on the opposite side, but the skirt was different. For one thing, it was far shorter than the SIGHS regulation knee-length.
"Anika always shortened her skirt as much as she could get away with," Safia said, noticing where he was staring in the mirror. "She was always getting told off for her short skirts."
"Couldn't I wear one of yours?" he asked. "If the wind blows, everyone will see up my skirt. They'll see my panties." Actually, it wasn't his panties he was worried about; it was his enormous erection which by now, must surely be reaching halfway down to his knees as it forced itself against the panties.
"My skirts are too slim around the waist," she said. "They won't fit you. In any case, we're not going outside. There won't be any wind." Rather unwisely, she added, "Not until you go home, anyway."
His stomach did a complete somersault. "What do you mean, when I go home? I'll need to change back into my clothes before..." His voice faded as he worked through the logistics of leaving the house.
"I'll have to go home in a girl's uniform? No! No way! I can't do it. It's a stupid..."
"Schh," Safia said. "It's alright. I have it all worked out. To walk home from here, you'd turn left out of our gate and then go along the footpath through the woods. Right?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"You'll have your own school uniform in your bag. As soon as you get into the woods, get well away from the footpath and change back into your own clothes. I'll give you some wipes to clean the make up from your face, and you'll have to try to flatten your hair as best you can. But you can always say you were experimenting with a different hair style. Talking your way out of a skirt would be more of a problem.
He thought through her plan and nodded. "I suppose it will work. But it will be a bit scary, getting changed in the woods. Suppose someone sees?"
"Make certain no one sees."
Again he nodded. "I suppose so." Fortunately, the distraction had served to slightly take the edge off his erection, but as soon as he realised that, the hardness came back again with a vengeance. Constrained by the soft material of the panties, it surely felt the same as being inside a girl's...
"How confident do you feel now, about looking like a girl?" Safia asked.
He took another glance in the mirror. In spite of the short length of his skirt, it wasn't possible to see his cock poking beneath the hem. Thank God! He took another look at himself and said, "Safia, the hair and make up are fantastic, but it's just as I said, I still look like a boy dressed as a girl. I'm sorry, it's not going to work." Mind, he'd look even more like a boy if she could see his cock poking out beneath the skirt.
"What do you think is still wrong?"
"I'm just the wrong shape." That was one way of putting it.
"Yes," she said, "You are right. You need a little help with your shape. Anika also thought she was the wrong shape, and she got something to help her. I think she's left it here." She opened one of the drawers and reached inside.
"There," she said, tossing something onto the bed which looked like... It couldn't be. She'd thrown a pair of tits onto the bed.
"What the..."
"It's called a Bustlet," she said. "My sister was paranoid about her small breasts so she wore this to make them appear much larger. I think it will be right for you, too. Fortunately, she took after our mother rather than father, so her skin tone was light, like yours."
The sight terrified him. The breasts were huge, like those of his aunt who always wore low-cut tops. He never knew which way to look - on the one hand, he was fascinated by them; on the other, he was incredibly embarrassed. One of the reasons he was so smitten with Safia was for her wonderfully slim breasts which he could glance at without it being obvious.
He reached out and gingerly picked up the thing from the bed. He'd expected it to feel like plastic - instead it felt just like real skin. Not only did it feel like skin, but the breasts wobbled, in the same way as his aunt's when she moved. He shivered slightly, and his cock, damn it, quivered in anticipation.
"Your sister wore this?"
"Yes," she said. "Did any of your friends realise?"
Anika must have been five years older than him, but he could still remember the older boys at his school talking about her fantastic tits. There'd sometimes be half a dozen boys jerking off behind the groundsman's hut, all shouting 'Anika, Anika!' and seeing who could ejaculate first. Hell, if only he could jerk off now.
"I don't really remember anyone saying anything about her," he said.
"Before you slip into it," she said, "you have to spread gel over your upper body. Apparently, it cuts down the sweat from forming beneath. Now, take off your blouse."
Thank God she hadn't told him to remove his skirt. That was the only thing protecting him from total embarrassment. He removed his blouse and she slipped on a disposable plastic glove, and dipped her hand into a large plastic pot of the gel and started to smear it over him.
It felt so erotic! His cock got harder still as her hand slid around his neck, over his shoulders and down over his nipples. He gritted his teeth, willing himself not to ejaculate, and as she turned her attention to his back, it seemed as though he might succeed.
She pulled of the glove and picked up the Bustlet, and held it before him, the neck slightly stretched so his head could go through the hole.
Seconds later, he'd fed his arms and neck through the holes in the shoulders and she had pulled the Bustlet as far down his chest as it would go. He opened his eyes, peered down, and saw...
An incredible pair of tits!
He had tits!
He shook his head and his tits wobbled. Not only could he see them wobble, but unbelievably he could feel them wobble. He wobbled them again, and again he could feel them.
"It's weird," he said. "It's like I can feel them moving."
"They have something called Sensotouch," she said. "Anika had a remote control to alter their sensitivity, but I think she's taken that with her, so it will have to stay as it is. Keep still for a second and I'll wipe off the excess gel from the edges."
She took a wet wipe and first wiped away the excess gel from his neckline, then the armholes and finally, she placed a hand on his left breast and lifted it so she could wipe away the gel from beneath.
"Agghh!" he gasped. The feelings that shot through him as she brushed against his nipple were incredible.
"Soon be done," she said, then she did the same for his right breast.
That was when the orgasm hit him, and he felt his prick jerking as it started to shoot semen into his panties.
"Sorry. Is it a bit painful with the Sensotouch?" She had noticed the look on his face and thankfully misinterpreted it.
"Just a bit," he gasped, "and not painful exactly, just different."
"Sorry," she repeated.
"That's OK," he said, praying that she wouldn't notice the smell of his semen, which now filled his panties.
Thankfully, she turned around and started rummaging through Anika's drawers, so he was saved having to explain his plight. He could feel it was a complete mess inside his panties. He felt rather depressed after his orgasm, as he tended to be after masturbating.
"Here you are," she said, turning around and thrusting something white at him. "I think this bra will fit."
"You want me to wear a bra!" How had he got into this mess? He thought he'd coped superbly with wearing the white panties, the blouse, the ankle length white socks, even with wearing the short skirt, but to wear a girl's bra would be the height of embarrassment - all those hooks and eyes and straps. What would his mates say if they found out? On the other hand, he felt incredibly excited by the idea.
"Of course," she said. "You can hardly appear in front of my father with boobs flopping about like that without a bra."
His cock was getting hard again at the very idea of wearing a bra, but he must keep up the pretence. "But a bra is so... girly," he said.
"You have quite large breasts. What could be more girly than that?"
He stared down at his breasts and amid all the stickiness, he felt his cock getting harder and harder. This was so embarrassing. Another shrug and his breasts gave another wobble. Hell at least the bra would stop them wobbling like that.
"Can you help me put it on?" he capitulated
She smiled at him and held it out for him to slip his arms into it. She touched his breasts again - already he'd come to think of them as his breasts - but thankfully his cock didn't react. Then she was pulling it tight around his back and his boobs pushed upward and together giving him a deep cleavage.
"Much better," she said, eyeing him up and down. "Slip your blouse back on and we'll look at the overall effect."
But he was staring downwards, and then at himself in the mirror.
"Hell, they're enormous," he said. "The bra has made them even bigger."
"It's shaped them and given you a nice cleavage," she said. "Now slip your blouse back on."
He put the blouse back on and nervously did up the buttons, pulling the blouse tight across his breasts. His cock was going into overdrive again.
"Leave the top buttons undone," Safia commanded. "I know it's against school regs but everyone does it - at least on the way to and from school."
He stared into the mirror. He had the most fantastic tits pushing out his blouse.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"I don't think I'll be mistaken for a boy now," he said.
He was amazed to see Safia shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she said. "You are still the wrong shape."
He stared again into the mirror at his wonderful breasts. "They're the wrong shape?" he repeated. "They look just like the real thing." Certainly, they looked better than his aunt's enormous breasts.
"No, no," Safia said. "I mean that you are still the wrong shape. You look like a broomstick with breasts. Look," she paused, suddenly uncertain, "promise me you will never tell anyone what I am about to tell you."
"Of course not." As though he could ever tell anyone about what had happened today.
"At one time, Anika agreed to marry Haresh, and it was very important to him that she was a virgin." She smiled. "It used to be the case that once virginity was taken it couldn't be put back, but that was before the days of Big Busts."
"I thought women had always had big busts," Michael said.
"No," Safia said. "The company who make the Bustlet are called Big Busts. They also make something called a Hiplet which can give a woman back her virginity."
"I don't really understand," he said.
She smiled. "Of course you don't," she said. "Men are not supposed to understand. But today you are a girl, so you are allowed into the secret." She opened another of Anika's drawers and pulled out what appeared to be a flesh-coloured control brief, made of the same realistic material as the Bustlet.
Until she dropped it onto the bed!
Michael gasped. It had dark pubic hair and, just discernable beneath the hair, a slit. He flushed with embarrassment.
"It's alright," Safia said. "Today you are an honorary girl so you are allowed to look. In fact, you must go to the bathroom and put it on."
"But surely it won't fit a man?" Michael said.
"Anika told me it would," she said, "although I cannot understand why that would be. Anyway, you must try your best." She held the garment up before him. "You can see how there is padding in the hips and bottom to make a woman look wider. Again, I cannot understand why a woman would want that; I suppose it's to show she has wide hips capable of bearing strong children. But wider hips will balance out your shape - stop you looking so top heavy. Take the gel with you and smear it all over before pulling on the Hiplet."
He went to the bathroom, as directed, and after removing his skirt, shoes and socks, took the opportunity to carefully pull down his soiled panties and fold them to safely contain the semen inside. There was a laundry basket in the bathroom and he slipped it in there.
After washing and drying his penis, he looked carefully at the inside of the Hiplet. There was a fastening at the rear between the vagina and the hole for the arse to do its business. Once he'd discovered how to release it, the vagina hung free and he could carefully inspect the inside. He wasn't certain how a woman would wear it, but Safia had been right, there was a place for a penis and testicles and it was clear they would be squeezed between his legs, in the same way they had been beneath his panties. A soft hymen at the entrance to the vagina prevented him exploring inside, but clearly, there was some kind of passage, although whether it could take a man's cock, he was doubtful.
He smeared the red gel all over his upper legs, hips and buttocks, deciding to leave his genitals to the last minute. He pulled the Hiplet over his feet and right up to his waist. Looking in the mirror, he could see how it ballooned out his hips and bum, which together with his big boobs, gave him a very female figure. Apart, that is, from his prick standing stiffly to attention in front of him.
He used the cold water treatment again to bring it down to size, and then quickly dried it and smeared the gel all over, apart from the head of his prick. Then he slipped them inside the pocket behind the gusset of the Hiplet, and pulled it back between his legs and clipped it into place. Another look in the mirror had him gasping with astonishment. No trace of the sixteen-year-old boy remained.
In his place, was a girl in a white school blouse which bulged out around her large breasts, with a deep cleavage observable through the gap at the top of her blouse. Without her skirt, the girl's pussy was on blatant display. Michael suddenly felt extremely exposed and he hurriedly bent over, picked up the skirt, stepped into it and fastened it around his waist.
"Are you going to take all day?" Safia's voice came through the door.
"I'll be right out," he said. He hurriedly pulled on his white socks, and stepped into his shoes and fastened them. Then he unlocked the door and said, "There. What do you think?"
"Michelle," Safia said with a grin, "I think you look very pretty."
Why did he feel so pleased at such a compliment? Boys shouldn't do that, should they? And they really shouldn't feel elated about being called a girl's name!
***
He felt incredibly nervous as Safia gave him basic instructions upon how girls walk, talk and sit. For one thing, he hadn't confessed to making the mess in his panties, and so he wasn't wearing anything underneath his skirt. Even without that problem, he found the fresh air around his legs was both stimulating and scary - add to it that there was nothing covering his pussy and bottom, and it was terrifyingly exhilarating. It was certainly sufficient incentive to ensure he always kept his legs closed as he sat down!
But he also felt incredibly self-conscious about the size of his boobs. It was all right for Safia; she had wonderfully slim boobs whose tops didn't wobble with every slight movement. Something as simple as a shrug would send the upper parts of his breasts quivering like jellies, even with the support of the bra.
And they stuck out so far. Oh, it was fine whilst it was just Safia there, but as soon as her father came through the door, he knew his eyes would lock onto his boobs and be transfixed. As for the walk out of the gates and along the road as far as the woods, he was bound to attract attention from every passing car - and many of those might be his friends on their way home from school. Even worse was the thought that some might be cycling home or even walking past the gate!
Friday Afternoon
"For heavens' sake calm down," Safia said for the tenth time. "You look like a girl, you can walk like a girl, and you can even talk like a girl. There's nothing to worry about."
She was certainly right about all three. He'd rehearsed and rehearsed the best way to keep his voice soft, whilst allowing it to become more animated than normal. The walk was fine, and with his new body shape, no one could confuse him with a girl. Only...
"I've got an idea," Safia said, after lunch. "We'll go outside and play a game of tennis." She had already pointed out the tennis court as she'd walked him around the gardens earlier on.
"But I haven't got any tennis kit," he said, aghast that his panty-free pussy would be exposed at the first serve.
"That's alright," she said. "Anika has some very pretty tennis dresses."
"A tennis dress!" He pretended to be shocked, but inside he was both terrified and excited by the thought of wearing a pretty tennis dress. He really shouldn't feel that way, he told himself, but could not explain why he did.
She took him back to Anika's bedroom and quickly produced a beautiful tennis dress with, joy of joys, some matching frilly panties. She also found some socks and tennis shoes, which he guessed would more or less fit.
"Let me wipe off your make up," she said, picking up a wipe. "Otherwise, it will get awfully messy when you start to sweat. Are you all right getting changed, or do you need some help."
"No, I'll be fine," he said, then hesitated, "Do I need a... you know... a sports bra?" Even now, he still felt embarrassed in saying the word.
"Anika never bothered," Safia said, as she removed the make up from his face. "After all, it wasn't as though it was her own breasts bouncing around and banging against each other."
"No, I suppose not," he said.
"OK, I'll go to my room and get changed. Come there if you finish first."
"Right," he said.
As soon as she had gone, he slipped the panties on. Even if she came straight back now he wouldn't have to admit how he'd soiled his original pair. After that, it was a simple job to remove his school uniform and pull the white tennis dress over his head. It took him ages to do up the rear zip, but he eventually managed. Then he put on the socks and tennis shoes.
A glance in the mirror had him gulping at the way the front dipped to expose his deep cleavage. Thank heavens that Safia was the only person around.
He left Anika's bedroom and went across to knock on the door of Safia's.
"Come in," she bade.
He did so and the sight of Safia's pert, naked breasts made him gulp even more. "Er, sorry," he said. "I did knock..."
"That's all right," she grinned. "I asked you to come in because I'm having trouble fixing my sports bra. The hooks don't appear to line up properly with the eyes. Do you think you could do it up for me?"
"Er, right," he said.
"It's all right," she said. "We're all girls together, now. We don't worry about seeing each other naked."
"Right," he repeated, and then added, "I can see there are real perks to being a girl."
She grinned back at him. "You bet. It's a shame you can't come to school and go into the school showers."
It was a good job his penis was well and truly hidden beneath the Hiplet, otherwise he would have ejaculated on the spot.
She found him a tennis racket and some balls and they went outside to the tennis court. "You need to be careful how you talk out here," she said in a low voice. "There's only a hedge separates us from the neighbour, and if old Mr Walters is out in the garden, he'll hear every word we say."
"I'll be careful," he promised. "At least the hedge is so thick they can't see me."
"Not from the garden," Safia said. "But as soon as he hears us playing, Mr Walters will go upstairs to his bedroom and watch us play."
"You mean he'll be looking at our panties when we bend over?" he said, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. "Have you reported him to the police?"
"Don't be silly," she said. "It's not illegal to look out of your bedroom window. In any case, it's what men do all the time. You just have to get used to it."
They knocked a ball between them a few times, before Safia quietly said, "You cannot see him from where you are, but Mr Walters is now in position in his bedroom window, so make certain you show him your panties."
Michael grimaced with embarrassment. "I don't think I can go on," he said. "It's just too humiliating."
Safia grinned at him. "Don't be silly. Let's start playing a game. That will take your mind off it. You are the visitor, so you should serve first."
Knowing he was a pretty good player, he courteously suggested she should go first but she was insistent, so he planned to give her a fairly gentle first serve.
Everything went wrong. His weight had completely changed, as had his equilibrium, so his whole body moved differently. Added to that, his stupid boobs got in the way of his serve, and kept on moving long after he had stopped, putting him off balance to prepare for his next shot. By the time he'd got himself together, the ball was bouncing on the court on his far left, and then smacking against the wire netting.
"Love - 15," Safia said with a grin, promptly followed by: "Love - 30;" "Love - 40;" "Game Safia."
The first set was a walkover, and as they had a short break she gave him another of her wonderful grins. "I'd heard you were pretty good at school, but not quite good enough for a SIGHS girl, ay?"
"It's the boobs," he protested. "It makes everything different."
"We have to play with them all the time," she said, and quietly added, "and don't forget our neighbours are probably listening."
"The next set will be different," he promised, and actually, it was.
He'd got used to his new weight distribution and his bouncing boobs, and he just managed to get ahead and win the set.
He was doing well in the third set, as well, until he won a tough point, to hear clapping from the side. They both turned towards the source to see a man - obviously Safia's father - standing there, watching them, looking at Michael with a quizzical look upon his face.
"Hi," Safia called. "This is Michelle, from school."
Michael made as though to walk over to him, but he waved her back. "Carry on. Carry on," he said. "Enjoy your game. We can talk afterwards."
Safia continued to enjoy her game, but Michael went to pieces. By now, he'd got used to Mr Walters peering at them from his bedroom window, but it was different for a man to be standing so close, watching him play, whilst he was wearing a tennis dress with frilly panties, and with large breasts which joggled with every movement he made. Gradually, Safia regained the lead and went on to win the match.
Finally, they were both walking towards Mr Hussein, with Michael definitely lagging behind. He certainly didn't want to try to explain his position to him.
As she approached her father, Safia said, "Father, this is my friend Michelle Barker from school. She was passing by the house when you left in such a hurry, and she thought she would pop in to see how I was. She didn't realise the security gate would close behind her and trap her here all day long."
Mr Hussein's face which had been looking quizzical turned to one of concern. "You have been trapped here all day long through my own carelessness? That is terrible. I am most sorry. I must ring your school and apologise..." He shook his head. "This is awful. I shall have to explain..."
"I have already telephoned the school and told them that my daughter, Michelle, is sick," Safia broke in with a smile.
"Safia, you shouldn't lie - even if it is to prevent your father's embarrassment." He smiled. "But thank you all the same."
He turned to Michael. "I presume that Safia has told you why she is being kept indoors?"
Michael nodded. "Yes, she told me you were both at loggerheads over an arranged marriage." He was quite pleased at the way he said his first words to someone who didn't know his secret. Clearly, Mr Hussein didn't suspect a thing.
"No doubt you support Safia?" He gesticulated for them all to start walking towards the house.
As they walked, Michael considered. His mother always told him never to tell someone they were wrong - instead tell them how you felt about it. "I think Safia should go to school. My mother would be angry if she discovered I had missed only one day."
Mr Hussein nodded. "You mean I have let my own stubbornness get in the way of my daughter's education?"
"Safia may disagree with you, but she respects you. She wouldn't let me telephone my mum to tell her I was trapped here."
He nodded again. "She is a good girl, even though she smiles at boys too readily. But then I suppose most modern girls do. Is that right?"
"Girls do smile a lot more than boys," Michael said, "but they smile at both boys and girls." Damn! He'd used 'they' to talk about girls. He'd have to watch that in future. In fact, Mr Hussein was staring at him with a strange look. Oh sh..."
"Do you have a relative at the boys' school?" he asked. "Only you look remarkably like the boy Safia was smiling at last Friday."
"That's Michelle's cousin, Father," Safia answered. "Michelle came to tell me that Michael was asking about me at school."
"There you are," he retorted, suddenly angry again. "You smile at him and he immediately wants to take you to his bed."
"My mum says that all men want to get a girl into bed," Michael said, "but the girl doesn't have to go." She hadn't really, but he thought it was the sort of thing she might have said if he'd been a girl.
Mr Hussein smiled again. "Your mother is very wise," he said. "Safia's mother also was very wise, but unfortunately she is not with us now."
"I'm sorry," Michael said. "It must be horrible when that happens. My mother and father divorced and that was bad enough."
They had reached the house, and Mr Hussein held open the door for Michael and Safia to pass through. It was the first time an adult had done that for Michael and he felt self conscious as he entered, suddenly aware of his wobbling breasts. He'd forgotten all about them until now, except as an impediment to good tennis.
Mr Hussein smiled, breaking the slight pause. "Safia tells me I should remember how her mother would have dealt with things."
It was Michael's turn to smile. "Such as not forcing Safia into an arranged marriage?" He couldn't believe he'd said that. As Michael, he'd never have dared to make such a challenging statement to one of his friend's parents. But taking on the persona of Michelle somehow seemed to make it all right. He didn't understand why, but he knew he could get away with saying things that Michael never would.
He was right, for Mr Hussein smiled and said, "Yes. Safia's mother had a hatred of arranged marriages. I know many English think it is a barbaric custom, but it is our culture."
"We English also have problems with changing culture," Michael said. "Every time I go to see my one grandmother she's asking me how to do things on her computer. But when I visit my other grandmother, she's complaining about everything being on the internet and how much better things were in the 1950s. My mum says we can't hang on to the past, no matter how attractive it might be." He was both pleased and surprised at his words. Usually he had trouble collecting together his thoughts to produce a single sentence. But as Michelle, it seemed he was capable of greater things.
"But your country is riddled with tradition," Mr Hussein said. "Would you get rid of it all?"
Michael couldn't believe it. He was arguing with a grown up and enjoying it. Of course, he'd had arguments with his parents about all sorts of things, but they were anything but enjoyable. And if you ever argued with a teacher, you'd be in trouble. Now, Mr Hussein showed no signs of anger at his words.
"We have got rid of all kinds of traditions which subjugate women," Michael said. "Women are the equal of men, not chattels to be traded in an arranged marriage."
"Father," Safia broke, "we really need to be showering and getting changed if Michelle is to return home at her usual time."
"Of course," he said, "but I can run her home in the car."
Michael's heart leapt into his mouth, but Safia had a ready response. "I don't think Michelle should be seen arriving home in the car of a strange man," she said.
"Of course," he repeated, "I understand. As you wish." He stood aside so they could go upstairs, and Michael was suddenly aware of his frilly panties which Mr Hussein would see if he glanced upwards. There was no way he could hide them, so he ran quickly up the stairs, realising halfway up that his boobs were positively bouncing around. A girl simply could not win!
"Thanks for speaking up for me," Safia said. "I couldn't believe it that father didn't get angry at the things you said. I thought I'd better break it up before it went too far. Now, are you all right to take a shower? Let's fetch your school uniform from Anika's room - then you can get dressed straightaway."
"Could I wear another of Anika's bras?" Michael asked, adding, "and some more panties?"
Safia didn't even query it, and seconds later, Michael was locking the door to the bathroom and peeling off his clothes to reveal the shape of the curvy girl beneath. He still didn't understand why he felt thrilled rather than horrified to have the shape of a girl. In fact, he felt that if he only had the same-sized pert breasts as Safia, he'd be perfectly happy with his shape. Having huge wobbling breasts like these was just ridiculous.
He decided to remove the Bustlet and the Hiplet for his shower; he could slip them back on again before getting dressed. But the catch between his legs, which had been so easy to snap open and shut before, obstinately refused to come undone. He tried for several minutes before switching his attention to the Bustlet. It was impossible to slip even a nail under the edge of the Bustlet; it appeared to be glued firmly to his skin.
He became more and more frantic as he tried all around the edge of the Bustlet.
He opened the bathroom door and shouted, "Safia."
Only then did he realise he could see straight across the landing and through the open door into Mr Hussein's bedroom. He was in there, and although he had his back to the bathroom, he was looking at himself in the mirror, and Michael could see his own naked reflection in there alongside Mr Hussein's startled face!
"I'm sorry," he said, quickly closing the door, his cheeks turning blood red with embarrassment. How could he have been so stupid? What must Mr Hussein think of him?
There was a knock on the bathroom door and Safia's voice said, "Did you want me, Michelle?"
"Yes." He pulled open the door again and let Safia in. He was too embarrassed to mention revealing his all in front of Mr Hussein, so he launched straight into the real problem. "I can't seem to remove the Bustlet or Hiplet."
Safia looked puzzled. "Really? Anika used to take her Bustlet off every night and she never had any trouble." She lifted a hand to Michael's rib cage and tried to insert a nail beneath the edge of the Bustlet, just as Michael had done. "Hmm. It seems very firmly stuck. I'd better go find the instruction manual and see what it says. In the meantime, you can shower without removing them. I suggest you do that and then put on your school uniform. I'll see you later."
***
Safia wasn't in her bedroom when Michael returned to her room, dressed in school blouse and skirt, so he made his way downstairs to the lounge where Safia was giving her father a cuddle.
"Great news," she told him. "I've asked father if you can sleepover tonight, and he's agreed. That is, if you want to." She gave him a wink.
"Oh! Er, that's very kind, especially as I'm a bit of an embarrassment to you and your father. Perhaps I'd really better get home..."
"Don't be silly." Safia went over to him, took him by the arm, and pulled him out of the lounge and through to the kitchen.
"There's a slight problem in getting the Bustlet and Hiplet off," she whispered, "so I've fixed this to give us some time. Now, please telephone your mother and tell her you're staying here - on second thoughts, perhaps you'd better tell her you're staying with one of your other friends, as she doesn't really know me."
The implication of Safia's offer suddenly hit him. "You mean you want me to spend the night here - with you? Only I have to pretend to be a girl?"
She smiled. "Yes, I do want you to spend the night here, but I'm afraid it will be strictly as a girl. I telephoned Anika whilst you were in the shower. It appears I should have given you a green gel to spread over your skin. Instead I gave you the red which lasts for much longer."
"You mean I'm going to have to wear this all night?"
"Rather longer than that," she said. "I'm afraid it's a semi-permanent adhesive which will last until your top layer of skin is shed, which will probably be in about two weeks' time."
"Two weeks? You mean I'm a girl for the next two weeks?"
"I'm afraid so,"
"But what am I going to do?"
"Let's sort out tonight first. Telephone your mother and explain about the sleepover. We can then think about how to deal with the two weeks. Anika says you could stay with her, but she lives in London now, and your mother may not be happy with that."
Safia left him to make the call.
***
"Hello Mum."
"Hello love. I expected you to get home before me today, since it's the last day of term."
"I've been round at a friend's house. Mum, I've been asked if I want to do a sleepover - is that alright?"
"Are you at Gavin's? Is it alright with his mother?"
"It's the father, actually, and he's fine."
"Oh. I didn't know Gavin's father still lived with them."
"Well... It's not actually Gavin. It's another friend."
"Are you going to tell me which one or do I have to go through the whole class?"
"Well, actually it's Safia. Safia Hussein."
"That's the girl from SIGHS you were making eyes at during the University Challenge? I thought her father kept her more securely locked away from males than were the women in Holloway Prison."
"Well, he's letting me stay the night."
"That's very good of him. I'd better have a word with him and thank him for having you."
"Well, it's a bit awkward at the moment. He's... he's gone out."
She was suddenly suspicious. "Is it awkward or has he gone out? Because I can always call back later."
"Well... it's awkward. Look, Mum, it's really better if you simply trust me."
"Michael, I'd trust you with anything on earth - except a fifteen-year old girl. You're both too young, and in her case, she's not yet reached the age of consent."
"Well nothing like that is going to happen with Mr Hussein around." In fact, regardless of Mr Hussein's presence, nothing could happen whilst he was wearing the Hiplet.
"I'll say one last thing. If, in spite of what I've said, you do have sex with her then use a condom or I shall murder you. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
"Yes, Mum."
As Mrs Barker put the phone down, she wondered whether she was doing the right thing. Why didn't Michael want her to talk to Mr Hussein? She shook her head, puzzled, and then her heart gave a little skip as she turned her mind to other things. She picked up the phone again and dialled.
"Hello, Peter? It's Sarah Barker. I wondered if that offer of a date tonight was still open? Only Michael has just telephoned to say he's staying the night with a school friend, so it appears I now have a gap in my diary."
She listened and smiled. "That's great. So, pick me up at about seven?"
She listened some more. "Great."
***
Immediately after Michael disconnected the call to his mother, his mobile rang.
"Hi, Mike. It's Gavin. Where were you today?"
Hi Gav. Something a bit awkward came up and I had to take the day off school."
"Like?" Gavin asked.
"It's a bit difficult explaining over the phone."
"OK, you can tell me when I come round to your house, tomorrow."
"Er, well, no. You can't come round tomorrow, Gav."
"I can't! But we had it all worked out. What's the problem?"
"As I said, it's difficult explaining over the phone. Look Gav, I have to go now. I'll call you in a few days time. Bye."
Michael rapidly ended the call, and then switched off his mobile. Inventing some kind of excuse for Gavin was the least of his problems at the moment. He took a deep breath, then went to find Mr Hussein in the lounge.
***
"My mother asks me to thank you very much for allowing me to sleepover," Michelle said to him.
"I'm only too happy," Mr Hussein said, thinking how he would never allow Safia to stay with a school friend, without at least speaking to the parent and ensuring there were no boys in the house. Indeed, he'd have put down his foot if he'd discovered that only the father was present.
It was even worse because Michelle was obviously so much more sexually developed than Safia. Any man would lust after her, and he couldn't deny that he'd been entranced as soon as he saw her boobs bouncing around on the tennis court. As for that moment when she'd put her head - not to say the rest of her voluptuous body - around the edge of the bathroom door, it had taken all his powers of self-control not to leap on top of her! It had been well worth waiting for those five minutes, carefully positioned in front of the bedroom mirror, in the hope of the merest glimpse.
"Michelle, I have to thank you," he said. No, he couldn't thank her for the sight of her splendid body, but there was something else that was actually more important. "Your presence here has meant that Safia and I have been able to make up over our ridiculous argument. We still disagree, but at least we can talk about it properly, without simply shouting at each other."
"Oh!" He felt so pleased. An adult had never complimented him in that way before. "Well I haven't really done very much - just been a sort of referee."
"To properly thank you, and to apologise to Safia for my part of the argument, I suggest we all go out to a restaurant tonight. The Kashmir in the town centre serves excellent food. Are you agreed?"
"That sounds wonderful, Father," Safia said, turning to Michael and adding, "The Kashmir is the best Pakistani restaurant for miles."
"Go out!" Michael said, full of horror. "But I can't go out."
"I suppose you're worried you have nothing to wear," Safia said. "It's no problem." She turned to her father. "I'm sure the clothes that Anika left behind would fit Michelle. Can we go up and try them on?"
"I was thinking exactly the same," Mr Hussein said. "Show Michelle to Anika's bedroom and help her chose something that will look good on her.
"She has left behind lots of her clothes," he added to Michael. "There will be plenty of things for you to wear."
"But..."
Safia took him by the hand and said, "Come with me."
Michael allowed himself to be led upstairs.
***
"I can't go out dressed as a girl!"
"You mean because you'll look stupid?"
"Yes. Of course."
"But we've already been through that argument. As long as you don't look like a boy dressed as a girl, you won't look stupid."
"But the Kashmir is a very popular restaurant. Lots of my friends go there with their parents - especially today as it's the end of term."
"Michelle," she said, "let us just do the same as we did earlier on. We'll find some of Anika's clothes and you can put them on, and only if we both believe you look like a girl will we show my father. If you pass his inspection at close range, then you will certainly pass in front of anyone who may see you across a dimly lit restaurant."
"Yes, but..."
"But nothing. Now, let us select you a pretty dress."
"A dress? But why can't I wear jeans?"
"Because I don't think Anika's jeans or trousers will fit you properly around the bum - she didn't normally wear the Hiplet, remember - but, I'm sure the dresses will fit superbly. Look, let me select a few and you can try them on."
She made him take off his school blouse, skirt, shoes and socks. He stood before her in bra and panties, shivering slightly, shivers which had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the excitement running through him at the thought of putting a dress onto his girl-like body, and going out in public to a restaurant frequented by many of his friends' families. It was absolutely crazy! He should make an excuse; but the thrill inside him kept him from speaking.
Safia pulled several dresses from Anika's wardrobe and laid them out on the bed
"Which one do you prefer?"
He stared at them - brightly coloured red and blue dresses, as well as white and black ones. None of them looked the kind that a girl like Safia would wear. No, these would be worn by the kind of sexy bombshell that terrified him.
"Haven't you got something a little more demure?" he asked. "I'd feel uncomfortable in those."
Safia laughed. "Anika didn't do demure, and with your curvy body, I don't think you can either. Now which is it to be: red, blue, white, or the little, black dress?"
He chose the black dress as he thought it would make him less conspicuous, and he was pleased when Safia said that was a good choice.
She rummaged through the drawers some more and said, "Slip off your panties and we'll put you into these slinky tights." She held out the shiny black tights before him and he shivered some more.
She laughed and said, "You're actually enjoying this as much as I am, aren't you?"
"No," he said, and then added, "Well, it's frightening and thrilling at the same time. I guess it's the same as climbing a mountain."
She laughed and said. "Except that what you're doing is braver than mountain climbing. How many male mountain climbers would have the courage to put on a dress?"
He laughed with her and said, "I can't think of many. Now, can you help me on with these tights?"
She showed him how to bunch up one leg of the tights and then slide his foot into it and pull it part way up his leg, and then to do the same for the other.
"We'll need to change your bra," Safia said, when the tights were up around his waist, and he was staring in the mirror at his even sexier-looking legs, "otherwise with the low neckline on that dress, people will be able to see it."
She found a black one for him, which pushed his breasts up and together even more, and gave him an incredibly deep cleavage. Then Safia was holding out the little, black dress for him to step into.
He did so, and she pulled it up his body and zipped it up at the rear.
"There. What do you think?"
He'd realised the dress was short, but only when he stared in the mirror did he realise why Safia had called it a little, black dress. It only came halfway down to his knees! And at the top, the whole of his plunging cleavage was on display.
"I can't wear this," he said.
"Why?" Safia grinned. "Because people will think you're a boy dressed as a girl?"
"Of course not, but... It's too sexy."
"Don't you see?" she said. "That's how we establish your sex beyond doubt. Oh, you could wear some poorly fitting jeans, and a sloppy sweater, but people might look and wonder which sex you are. No one's going to do that with this dress."
He was forced to agree with that.
"Pop on your panties and that will keep you respectable," Safia said.
"But they're white," he said. "Don't I need black ones? This dress is so short someone might see them if I bend over."
"A girl doesn't bend over for that very reason," she said. "You're not playing tennis. Remember to keep your knees together. And if some man does actually glimpse them, it will give him a little thrill, just as it thrills you to even think about it. And don't try to deny it."
The thoughts tumbling around Michael's head were so complex, he kept quiet rather than trying to explain them. But he had to agree. He was thrilled at the thought of some boy glimpsing his white panties and being turned on by them.
Meanwhile, Safia was on her hands and knees (with her tight little bum pushing out her jeans) rummaging through the bottom of the wardrobe. She pulled out some shoes and said, "There. Aren't they just perfect?"
He stared at the high-heeled, strappy sandals before him, the excitement welling up inside. "But I can't wear high heels," he said. "I'd topple over."
"These aren't very high," she said. "Just a couple of inches. Think yourself lucky you didn't choose the white dress - the shoes to go with that have four-inch heels."
He shook his head, wondering whether it was too late to opt for the white dress. No, that would completely give away his feelings. In any case, far better to start with a more modest heel that he should be able to master. He sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up one of the shoes and tried to slip his foot into it. It was much more difficult than he thought; he had to tilt his foot downwards in order to cope with the heel, and then there was a fiddly strap and buckle which it took him ages to fasten. He was quicker with the other, and then he realised he couldn't stand up.
"Can you help me up," he helplessly asked, holding out his hand to her.
"You have to learn that for yourself," she said. "I can't help you up in the restaurant. Push your weight down through both your heels, and you won't find it difficult."
It wasn't actually, and then he was tottering about a little, trying not to lose his balance.
"Stand up straight and look at a spot in front of you, then walk towards it. Remember to put your weight onto your heels, and try to push your pelvis forward as you walk, and your shoulders back. Now have a little practice along the landing."
He strutted along the landing, waddling his hips as he went. Safia watched him from the bedroom and laughed. Then he turned and realised Mr Hussein was again in his bedroom watching him walk.
"Very good." He was smiling too, and he added, "Are you not used to heels?"
"No," he said, truthfully adding, "My mother doesn't think they're very suitable for me."
Mr Hussein considered and said, "Well, I may be old fashioned in many ways, but I do think heels improve a woman's stance. They make you look very adult."
His words sent another flash of excitement through Michael. Not only was he fooling Mr Hussein into thinking he was a schoolgirl, he was now being looked at as a young woman.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll certainly keep them on."
"That dress fits you very well, also," Mr Hussein said. "I'm sure there are many boys who want to be your friend."
Michael flushed. Thank heavens Mr Hussein didn't know the truth. "Not in that way," he said.
Mr Hussein shook his head. "You amaze me," he said. He raised his voice and called to Safia in Anika's bedroom, "Safia, can we leave in a few minutes?"
"Don't be silly, Father," she said. "I haven't finished getting Michelle ready, and I haven't started on myself, yet."
Michael's father used to get very impatient with his mother before they split up, and he was fearful Mr Hussein would be the same. Instead, he simply grinned, shook his head and said he would book a table for seven pm.
***
"Well Father," Safia asked, "what do you think of us?"
Safia was wearing a similar kind of dress to Michael's, but with her slim figure and her small breasts just lightly pushing the material into shape, she looked absolutely fantastic. She also had a pendant and hoop earrings which, to Michael, made her look almost like a princess.
"You are both very beautiful," Mr Hussein said. "I shall be very proud to take two attractive ladies to the best restaurant in town." He hesitated a moment and then said, "Safia. I think Michelle would look even better in your mother's diamond earrings and pendant."
"Oh but Father..." Safia started to say.
"No. No," Mr Hussein said, quite firmly. "It's a shame not to get proper use from them, and I have decided that Michelle should wear them tonight. Now, please go and find them."
Safia and Michael looked at each other, and then they both turned and went back upstairs to Mr Hussein's bedroom. Safia opened one of the wardrobes, and Michael could see an electronic safe on the floor, to which Safia bent down and started keying in numbers.
"This is going to be very difficult for you," she said, standing up again with a tray of beautiful, glittering jewellery in her hand. "But I think my father would be very upset if you did not wear it."
"It's no problem," Michael said. "If I wear earrings and a necklace, I may even look half as beautiful as you."
She smiled. "It's not as simple as that," she said. "The problem is that these earrings are for pierced ears."
"Pierced ears!"
"Yes. I'm afraid so."
"But... isn't there some way around it?"
She nodded and smiled. "Of course. There is a very simple way around it. I sterilise a needle and pierce both your ears."
"But... Won't it hurt?"
"Not to someone as brave as you."
"And you think your father would be very upset if I refused?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. "OK, you've already had your wicked way with me all day long. I guess this is just one more little thing."
She was lying! It did hurt, but once she'd done his left ear, he didn't have the courage to say he wasn't as brave as she thought.
Five minutes later, the pair of them went downstairs. For Michael, the large diamond pendant felt so good nestling in the valley of his cleavage that the pain of the piercings and the weight of the diamond earrings, which felt heavy enough to pull off his ears, were but a small price to pay.
"There," Mr Hussein said to Safia when he saw Michael, "didn't I say how good Michelle would look if she wore them?"
"Yes, Father."
"Mr Hussein," Michael said. "They are absolutely beautiful. I really can't thank you enough for letting me wear them." It was strange. Never before had he felt jewellery had much value, other than providing a bit of sparkle to a dull outfit. But the diamonds clearly cost thousands of pounds, and he was wearing them and they made him feel so special. He could see why diamonds were a girl's best friend.
"As I said, they are only going to waste if they are kept in the safe. They are meant to make a woman look even more beautiful."
Michael smiled. "Thank you." Afterwards, he couldn't believe he did what he did, but it seemed so natural at the time. Just the kind of thing a girl would do for someone who had loaned her such beautiful objects. She leaned forward and kissed Mr Hussein on the cheek.
Friday Evening
"Well done," Safia whispered as they got out of the car next to the Restaurant Kashmir and waited for Mr Hussein to join them. "I knew you were brave, but I never realised just how far you were prepared to go."
"I suppose it's about thinking myself into the role," Michael said.
That's what he'd been telling himself for the last ten minutes, as Mr Hussein had driven them to the restaurant. Why else would he have done such a ridiculous thing? Of course, if he was a teenage girl, it was a natural thing to do, rather than ridiculous. But oh, why oh why was life so complicated?
"Shall we go in," Mr Hussein said as he joined them, and he led the way inside.
It was busy, and as Michael had forecast, a number of boys from his school were there with their parents. Several stared at him as they entered, and Michael knew that exposure was only seconds away. He flushed a deep red as he thought about the names he'd be called, and the continual harassment he'd receive next term. Brave! That's what Safia kept calling him. In fact, he was only in this mess because he was too cowardly to refuse.
"You get used to being looked at by boys," Safia spoke quietly to him as they moved through the tables towards the rear of the restaurant.
Of course, he realised. That's what boys did all the time - they looked at girls, especially girls with big breasts or short skirts, and very particularly at girls who had both. The boys were looking at him, not with a suspicion that he was really a boy, but because they lusted after him! They were looking at his legs and his breasts and dreaming of having sex with him! He felt the excitement coursing through his body that was almost as strong as when he'd ejaculated earlier that day.
Fortunately, they were seated in a kind of alcove at the rear of the restaurant. As they sat down, Michael had a quick scan around to check whether there was anybody who might recognise him, but he realised he was shielded from all the boys who'd been staring at him as they'd entered the restaurant. Thank heavens!
At the next table, were a couple lost in intimate conversation and clearly, they weren't going to pose any threat. He took a more careful look at them just to make certain they wouldn't know him...
"Oh my God!" he thought. "It's Mr Blake."
Mr Blake was Michael's physics teacher, and he had done a lot to coach Michael during the year. As a result, Michael had come to like the subject and enjoy a good relationship with his teacher. He'd almost certainly be recognised if Mr Blake gave him anything more than a quick glance. He could only hope that Mr Blake's attentiveness to the woman continued all through the meal. Michael moved his chair slightly, so that the woman was directly in between him and Mr Blake.
"A menu, madam?" The waiter interrupted his chain of thought and he took the proffered menu and read it for a few seconds, before glancing back towards Mr Blake and his partner.
Amazingly, he realised the woman was very sexy. He'd never appreciated anyone could find his physics teacher attractive, and certainly not someone as striking as this woman. Her hair was the same colour as his mother's, but there the similarity ended. It was piled on top of her head with a diamante clip holding it in place, to expose a long, graceful neck, flanked with matching diamante earrings. Clearly, they were nothing like as expensive as Michael's, but they still gave the woman an air of class.
Like him, she was wearing a black dress. He could see from where he was sitting that it was of respectable length, but there was a slit which went right up the side almost to her hip, exposing black stocking tops beneath. Hell, and he thought he was being daring! He turned his chair away from the pair of them and concentrated again on the menu.
"Tell me, Mr Hussein," he said. "You told me this was a Pakistani restaurant, but I'd always thought it was a..."
"Don't even think the words!" Mr Hussein broke in. He had a smile, which took the edge off an underlying tension, but it was clear Michael was stepping into dangerous territory.
"Kashmir really belongs to Pakistan," Safia explained, "but India disputes that and claims it for its own. It is a source of great anger for us, and causes further instability in an area which already has tremendous problems."
"I'm sorry, Mr Hussein," Michael said. "No one has explained that to me before. I shall make certain in future that I call it a Pakistani restaurant."
Mr Hussein smiled. "You are a good girl, Michelle. It is clear you have your own opinions, but you are careful not to hurt those who have different views."
The waiter came then to take their order, and Michael had to hurriedly read the menu as he'd hardly looked at it until then.
"It's very complicated," he said. If he'd been with his mother, she'd have helped him choose, so it seemed only natural to look at Mr Hussein and ask him. Only how would a girl put the question? "Do you think you could recommend something?" he asked.
Mr Hussein smiled. "Of course. Now are you feeling hungry? Do you like spicy food?"
***
The three of them had an extremely enjoyable meal. Safia and her father were clearly delighted to be back on speaking terms, and Michael was in heaven to be in Safia's presence. He knew he should have been upset that all day long it had been a girl to girl relationship, but in fact he'd enjoyed being a girl! How weird was that? And not just enjoyed, but been absolutely exhilarated by it.
"Waiter. Could I have the bill, please?" As he heard Mr Blake's words, he realised he was going to be in trouble. The classy woman had disappeared to the toilet a few minutes ago, and he could hear the scrape of Mr Blake's chair as he stood up. Any second now, he'd be moving round the table towards the exit, to bring him face to face with Michael.
There was no way out, he realised. Any movement he made now would only draw more attention to him, and without Mr Blake's girlfriend to keep him occupied, exposure was inevitable.
"I need to go to the toilet," Safia said. He wasn't certain whether she had recognised his plight and thought this was the only way out, or she really did want to go. But if he went with her, it wasn't going to stop Mr Blake from immediately spotting him.
"Your bill, sir."
"Oh, thank you," Mr Blake said, and then, "Ooh! That's rather pricy."
"Is there a problem, sir?" the waiter asked.
It was Michael's chance. "Yes, I want to go, too," he softly said, quickly standing up and following Safia towards the Ladies' toilets. He'd never been in a Ladies' toilet before, but he guessed he'd manage, somehow, as long as he didn't try to wee standing up!
***
Michael hadn't realised that some Ladies' toilets, just like Men's, contained a vending machine, and the classy woman was just pulling open one of the vending drawers and taking out a pack of something. As she moved away from the machine, Michael could not stop himself from nosily looking at the drawer she had opened, which said 'Durex'.
She'd bought a pack of condoms to have sex with Mr Blake! Michael felt incredibly embarrassed and, as the woman turned away from the machine and towards them, he quickly lowered his eyes to avoid meeting hers.
He felt her gaze sweep briefly across him before she looked at Safia.
"Hello. It's Safia isn't it," an extremely familiar voice said, which she followed up with, "Is Michael with you?"
His mouth dropped open as his mother's gaze returned to Michael, her friendly smile of greeting suddenly turning to one of shocked amazement.
"Michael," she gasped. "Tell me this is not you."
Michael tried to get his head around everything. It wasn't so much being found out - after all, he'd been expecting that all evening - it was more the shock of discovering that the classy woman with Mr Blake was his own mother - and buying condoms at that!
"Michael has been brilliant today." Safia's voice broke the short silence. "You should be very proud of him, Mrs Barker. He is helping to resolve what has been a difficult problem in my family."
Mrs Barker looked from her son to Safia and back to her son, and then back again to Safia. "Presumably," she said to Safia, "your father is unaware of the exact way in which Michael is helping you?"
"My father does appreciate Michael's help," Safia's response was so matter of fact, "but he doesn't know all the details which allowed Michael to become involved."
"Such as Michael being a boy?" his mother said.
"Precisely," Safia agreed.
"Isn't that rather deceitful?" his mother asked.
"Mum!" Michael said. "I could say the same thing about you and Mr Blake. Why didn't you tell me you were dating him? I mean, half my school are in this restaurant tonight. I'm going to get non-stop ribbing over it from now until doomsday, and you didn't even bother to tell me!"
"This is my first date with Peter," his mother said, "although he's been asking me all term. I did try to call you back after I'd fixed it up with him, but you'd switched off your phone, and I left a message instead. I'm sorry you didn't get it."
"Oh," Michael said, rather nonplussed and the silence lengthened between them.
"Oh well," he added, and gave her a quick smile. "At least you're going to use a condom."
He looked at her, she looked at him, and then they both burst into laughter.
***
"I wish I could talk to my father the same way you talk to your mother," Safia said, as they waited for Mr Hussein to pay the bill.
Michael shrugged. "She's never believed there should be one rule for her and one for me, so she's always treated me as an equal. Even so, I thought she'd blow her mind when she saw me dressed like this."
"I suspect you haven't heard the last of it," Safia said, "but she'd hardly want to create a scene which involved displaying her cross-dressed son in front of the whole restaurant, including her boyfriend. I don't think she'd need a pack of condoms after that."
"You two are looking very serious," Mr Hussein interrupted with a smile. "Shall we go to the car?"
He held open the door for Michael and Safia to exit the restaurant, and then held open the car door for them to get into the car.
"I think we should invite Michelle to stay a little longer, Father," Safia said as she squeezed into the back seat beside Michael. "I could get used to you holding open doors for us."
"I'm sure that Michelle would never speak to her mother the way you sometimes speak to me," Mr Hussein said.
"You may be right," Safia said with a wink at Michael.
"Thank you for buying that meal for me," Michael said. "That was extremely generous. Are you sure I can't pay you for it?"
"Don't be silly," Mr Hussein said. "As I said earlier, your intervention has got Safia and me talking again. That is well worth the price of a meal with a beautiful, young woman."
Michael flushed a bright red at his words, and Safia, noting his embarrassment said, "Don't you think I'm a beautiful, young woman, also, Father?"
"Of course," he said. "You are my daughter so you are beautiful by definition and I don't need to say it."
"The only beauty I have," Michael said, "is due to the beautiful earrings and pendant you loaned me."
Mr Hussein shrugged. "It is true that such things can make a beautiful woman look even more beautiful, but they cannot turn someone who is ugly into a beauty."
Michael was feeling more and more uncomfortable at the way the conversation was going, so he decided the best idea was to say nothing more, and they enjoyed a comfortable silence for the rest of the way home.
***
"Would you like a hot chocolate before you go to bed, Michelle?" Mr Hussein asked as they entered the house.
"Yes, please," Michael said.
"I will go and make some for us all," Safia said.
"No, that is all right," Mr Hussein said. "Why don't you go with Michelle and find her some of Anika's nightclothes to put on? Meanwhile, I can make the chocolate, and you can both come down here to drink it."
"Anika has left some gorgeous nightdresses," Safia said as the two of them climbed the stairs. "Even some sexy, little, baby-doll outfits. You'd look very cute in them."
"Didn't she have any pyjamas?" Michael asked, squirming at her words. "I'd feel more comfortable in those."
"Of course," Safia said. "You go to the bathroom and clean your teeth and get undressed, and I'll sort them out and bring them to you. You should find a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet."
***
"It's me," Safia said through the bathroom door, and Michael unlocked the door and let her in.
"I've sorted out some pyjamas," she said, handing him some turquoise, chiffon-like garments.
He eyed them with widening eyes. "When I said pyjamas I meant something a bit plainer," he said.
"Anika didn't do plain," she told him. "She has several more pairs but I thought these were the most suitable for you."
Michael sighed, trying to conceal yet another flush of excitement running through him. "If you say so. Can I give you the jewellery back now so you can lock it in the safe?"
Safia hesitated. "I think my father would appreciate it more if you returned it personally to him," she said. "Keep it all on for now and put on your pyjamas, and I'll go back to my bedroom and do the same. Then we can go downstairs for our hot chocolate together. But first, take a wipe and remove all your make up."
When she had gone, Michael looked more carefully at the pyjamas. There were long, baggy pants and a top which tied with a bow at the centre and ended just below the breasts, with long, baggy sleeves, all in the same turquoise, light - almost translucent - material.
A harem set! He could remember, as a child, watching an Arabian Nights fantasy - or maybe it was a Carry on film - where a dozen women had been clad in similar attire, and probably for the first time in his life, he had lusted for them. Now he was going to wear the same. Did that explain his racing heartbeat and the silly smile on his face?
He had already slipped out of the dress, and now, with some difficulty (he would have to get used to that, he vowed), he unclipped his bra and let his breasts swing free. He pushed his arms into the harem top and tried to pull it around his breasts.
His breasts did not appear to fit inside it! He had to either tie the bow loosely, which left a revealing gap between the two sides, or tie it tightly, which pushed his breasts up and gave him an even more fantastic cleavage than ever. He slipped off his panties and tights, and stepped into the harem pants and pulled them up his bare legs. They barely came up to his hips, leaving a huge gap between top and bottom.
He stared in the mirror at the buxom concubine facing him. He could just see the point of his small nipples protruding through the material. The sight was so erotic he thought he was going to have another orgasm.
"Aren't you ready yet?" Safia's voice came through the bathroom door, breaking the spell.
"I don't think I can wear these pyjamas," Michael said. "They're far too revealing." He unlocked the bathroom door to allow Safia to enter.
She looked at him and smiled. "Well, it's all right. There's only my father here. It's not as though we're going outdoors."
"But you can see my nipples," he said.
She smiled. "If you'd bothered to look at me, you can see mine as well."
He turned, suddenly aware how rude he'd been and gasped at Safia's short, white nightdress through which - she was absolutely right - her nipples protruded.
"You look so beautiful," he said.
She smiled at him. "Thank you, and remember, you're only seeing me like this because you're a girl. Right?"
He nodded, his own looks forgotten. "I think it's fun being a girl," he said.
"I think it's fun having a girlfriend to stay for a sleepover," she said. "Come on, let's go down and get our hot chocolate."
***
"Hello, you two," Mr Hussein said, with barely a glance at either of them. "You've been so long getting ready for bed, your hot chocolate is almost cold."
In fact, he was very proud that he hadn't allowed his tongue to hang out when Michelle came downstairs in that harem set. He always found it amazing that teenage girls didn't have the slightest clue of the tremendous effect their erotic dress had on men of all ages.
"Thank you, Father," Safia said, taking the two mugs from the kitchen bar.
"Thank you, Mr Hussein," Michelle said. Then she added. "I want to thank you so much for allowing me to wear this wonderful jewellery. But I think I'd better return it now." She walked over to him, fumbling with the clasp of the necklace. Clearly, she wasn't as used to necklaces as Safia, for she still hadn't released it by the time she was standing in front of him. He thought he might burst, so wonderful was the sight of her breasts heaving as she leaned slightly forward to undo the clasp.
"Let me help you," he said. "Turn around and I will undo it for you."
"Thank you," she said, and she swivelled around and stood just inches before him. It would have been so easy to slip his hands around her breasts and squeeze and knead them - but not, he told himself, a girl of his daughter's age, and especially not in front of his daughter!
He undid the clasp and lifted it from around her neck, and then as she fumbled with an earring, he said, "Let me," and reached forward and deftly unhooked the earring from her left ear. Then he did the same for the right one.
"It was really wonderful wearing it. I shall treasure that memory for years." And she reached forward again and kissed him on the cheek!
***
Michael couldn't believe he had done the same thing again! Last time, he'd told himself he'd been thinking himself into the role of a teenage girl. Now, it appeared, he had become a teenage girl, and he was rejoicing in it.
He switched on the bedside light, extinguished the room light, and then slipped into Anika's bed. From this position, he could see into the mirror on the dressing table, and he had to admit it was no boy facing him in the bed, but a teenage girl.
He was just about to switch off the bedside light when the bedroom door opened and Safia came in.
"Hi," she said. "I thought I'd come for a chat and a cuddle with my best girlfriend." She lifted the quilt and slipped into bed beside him. She rested her head on his shoulder and said, "You're enjoying being a girl, aren't you?"
"It's strange to admit it, but I think the answer is yes," he said. "However," he added, "I think I'm about to become a lesbian."
He lifted her chin, moved his head forward, and rather clumsily kissed her.
***
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The knock came just a few minutes later, during which their hands had wandered all over the upper halves of the other's body - Safia had firmly prevented any lower exploration - and their tongues had twisted and jousted each other. They both sat up, startled by the sound, and tried to look innocent, as they adjusted their dress.
"Come in," Safia said, with a note of welcome in her voice which she certainly did not feel.
"I thought you hadn't gone to bed, yet," Mr Hussein said to her. "It's almost twelve o'clock. No midnight feasting in the dorms."
"Sorry, Father," Safia said.
"Since you both were clearly not asleep, I thought we ought to do something about Michelle's ear piercings. Safia, you should have told me that her ears were not pierced before Michelle put on the jewellery. I wouldn't have offered the earrings if I had known."
"That's why I'm pleased she didn't tell you, Mr Hussein," Michael said. "It was wonderful wearing such beautiful jewellery."
"All the same," Mr Hussein said, "you need to take care of your piercings. I have brought you some stud earrings with gold posts, which will prevent the holes from closing up. Put them in now, before you go to sleep, and you'll need to keep them in for several weeks."
He handed Michael a small box, which he opened. Inside were two gold stud earrings, each containing a tiny diamond.
"Oh Mr Hussein! I can't take these," Michael said. "As you say, I'd need to keep them for weeks. I might lose them... or anything."
"They are yours as a gift," Mr Hussein said. "It was foolish of Safia to pierce your ears, and you must take these in compensation."
Michael was torn. On the one hand, he knew he shouldn't accept such an expensive gift from Mr Hussein; and it had been his decision, as much as Safia's, which had led to him having his ears pierced. On the other hand, he really wanted those stunning earrings; like really, really wanted them for his own. Perhaps if he borrowed them for the time being, he could always get Safia to put them back in the safe when he returned to being a full-time boy.
"Thank you, Mr Hussein. That is a wonderful gift, and there really was no need to have given it, but thank you again."
He knew exactly what he had to do now. He pulled back the quilt, put his feet on the ground and stood up, prior to giving Mr Hussein a further kiss. Unfortunately, he hadn't realised that Safia had loosened the bow holding together the two halves of his top. As he stood up, the bow slipped and the two halves, under pressure from his bulging breasts beneath, sprung apart, revealing his two large breasts.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he cried, desperately grabbing the two halves of his top and pulling them around his body. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry. What must you think of me?"
Mr Hussein grinned and said, "Michelle, when you've had two daughters, I can assure you, you see far more shocking sights than that. Think nothing more of it, but I will retire now and let you reassemble your clothes. And Safia, it's time for your bed."
***
He should be eternally grateful, realised Mr Hussein, that Safia had answered his knock when he'd been expecting Michelle to be on her own. Otherwise, he'd have made a complete ass of himself. He was just a stupid old fool, infatuated with a pretty young girl. He'd been stupid to give her the earrings and he would put their value down to experience. Tomorrow, Michelle would go back home and he would not see any more of her.
Shame, really, as she did have absolutely fantastic tits combined with that wonderful schoolgirl innocence, which meant she was embarrassed about them and all the more appealing for it.
Saturday Morning
"Hi, Mum."
"Hello love. How are things?"
He'd called her on his mobile as soon as he woke up, anxious to clear the air with her about... well, everything.
"It's all a bit strange," he said. That was the understatement of the year. "But you..." he added, "well, you sound really happy this morning."
"Oh. Do I?"
"Yes, Mum."
"I can't think why."
"Could it have anything to do," Michael asked, "with the sound of that toilet I just heard flushing in the background?"
"Oh that? Er, yes, well, I suppose it could have something to do with that."
"I'm really happy for you, Mum."
"Are you? Really?"
"You were so sad when you and Dad split up, and you haven't been happy since. But you sound very happy this morning. I'm glad."
"Thanks, love. You don't know how important it is to me to hear you say that. Now, tell me how you got yourself in that mess."
So he did. He told her almost everything. Oh, he left out the bit about him kissing Safia (which actually, she guessed) and Mr Hussein (which she certainly did not), and about Mr Hussein giving him the diamond earrings, and about him exposing himself to Mr Hussein, not once but twice.
"So to summarise, you are stuck in that girl suit for the next two weeks?"
"Yes, Mum."
"And you'll be coming home later today, and when Gavin comes round to see you, you can show him a new side of you."
"I just don't know what to do, Mum."
"Hmm," she said. "You say you're getting on all right with Mr Hussein?"
"Yes. He's being very nice. I think he felt guilty about locking me in his house all day. I suppose he could have got into trouble over that, and if it leaked out about the way he'd been keeping Safia virtually a prisoner, there'd be a lot of people who'd be angry with him. And also, I really think I helped him and Safia to start talking to each other again."
"OK," she said. "Let me think about it and I'll get back to you."
"Bye, Mum."
"Bye."
***
Mr Hussein was drinking tea and reading a newspaper when Michelle entered the kitchen wearing her school uniform of white blouse and pleated black skirt. She was dressed for going home, he realised, and that was obviously for the best. A good job he hadn't made a fool of himself over her, last night. She might look physically mature, but she was just a schoolgirl.
"Michelle," he said. "Good morning to you. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you, Mr Hussein."
"Is Safia coming down? I was hoping she would lay out breakfast for us."
"She let me use the bathroom first, so she should be down in a few minutes, but I could lay out the breakfast. What do you normally have?"
"Could you really do that? Cereal, toast, tea. You'll find them in the cupboards over there." He waved his arm and Michelle obligingly started to lay the table. As she moved, he couldn't stop himself admiring the way her breasts delightfully wobbled with every slight movement she made. Yes, he thought. It really was best that she was leaving.
The telephone rang, startling them both, and Mr Hussein picked up the handset.
"Is that Mr Hussein? This is Helen Barker, Michelle's mother. I wanted to thank you for letting her sleepover last night."
"That's no problem Mrs Barker. She is a lovely girl and we enjoyed having her." Nice tits, too, he might have said but did not.
"That's good to know," she said. "My child never ceases to amaze me. But I'm afraid I have to ask another favour of you - do you think she could stay with you for another hour or so? I'm in a bit of a fix as my mother has had an accident and I have to leave for Yorkshire immediately. I'm trying to contact my mother-in-law, and get her to come over and collect Michelle, but she's not home at the moment, and she won't carry a mobile with her, and I'm not certain..."
"Mrs Barker, Mrs Barker," he interrupted her flow. "We would be very happy for Michelle to stay with us all day, if that would be helpful. In fact... How long are you likely to be away? Michelle could stay here."
"But that's the problem," Mrs Barker said. "Mum has her leg in plaster, so I'm going to have to stay in Yorkshire here for about two weeks. Obviously, you couldn't be expected to have her stay with you for that time."
"Mrs Barker," he said, "could you hold on for one minute?"
He turned to Michelle and explained the problem about her grandmother. "Your mother is trying to arrange for you to stay with your other grandmother." He saw the dismay in Michelle's face, and added, "Of course, if you wished, you would be welcome to stay here."
He was delighted to see her face light up.
"But would that be alright?" she asked.
He returned to the phone call. "Mrs Barker," he said, "Michelle would be very welcome to stay with us for two weeks, if you were happy with that."
She was overwhelmed by his suggestion and it took all of his powers of persuasion for her to accept his offer. But when she had done so, he couldn't stop a big smile spreading across his face as he turned towards Michelle.
"Your mother has agreed you can stay here," he said, and was delighted to see a smile light up her face also. "Have a chat with her and you can fix everything up. He handed the handset over to Michelle and she started talking to her mother.
***
"Mum, I'm sorry about grandma. How did she do it?"
"Well, we'd better say she slipped as she was coming down the stairs. That sounds all right, doesn't it?"
"You mean that..."
"You'd better not give the game away after I've made up such a convincing story. Now we'll also invent some reason why you can't go back home to pack a suitcase. How about if you lost your key at school this week, and I had the lock changed yesterday, but I haven't yet had chance to give you the key. That should work, shouldn't it? You'd better check with Mr Hussein that he doesn't mind you continuing to use Anika's things."
Michael turned to Mr Hussein and relayed the problem.
"Of course that is no problem," he said, "It us good you are getting the use out of them."
"Mr Hussein kindly says that's all right, Mum. But how are you going to manage over the next two weeks?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you? Peter has suggested we go away somewhere for a few days, so I'm packing my suitcase as I speak."
"Mum!" he protested.
"It's all right," she said. "I shan't forget the advice I gave you yesterday. Now bye, love. And enjoy your girlie time with Safia."
***
Safia had come down by the time Michael had finished the call, and she was as pleased as Michael at the news. Whilst Mr Hussein's back was turned, she mouthed at Michael, "Is it true?"
He shook his head, and she gave him a big smile.
"It looks like it is going to be a hot, sunny day," Mr Hussein said, as they started eating breakfast. "Would you like to go to the beach, this morning?"
Michael was aghast at the idea. He'd be expected to put on a swimming costume and cavort half-naked in front of loads of other boys from his school, many of whom would be down there on this first day of the holidays.
Safia said, "That's a lovely idea, Father. We can take a picnic and it will be great fun."
"I'm not really dressed for the beach," Michael said.
Mr Hussein nodded and smiled. "I'm sure Anika has some swimming costumes and other beach clothes."
"But I'm not very keen on exposing myself on the beach," Michael, persisted, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. He'd got away with it last night in the corner of the dimly lit restaurant, but there was no way he'd do so whilst he was being ogled from just a few feet away by a dozen lusting school friends.
"Michelle is embarrassed that her body has matured so quickly," Safia explained to her father. She turned to Michael and added, "It will really be all right. We drive right out of Seacombe to the area where there are lots of sand dunes, and we'll be quite private. Father would never allow it otherwise."
Mr Hussein said, "Safia is absolutely right. I would never allow my own daughter to parade herself half-naked on a beach in full view of boys, so I certainly would not permit a girl in my charge to do the same. We'll find a spot where just the three of us can sunbathe in private. And you really should not be embarrassed by your growing body. All girls go through this period, sooner or later. I can remember, Anika suddenly grew very rapidly, but she enjoyed the attention it gave her. I'm sure, when you are a little more used to it, you will do the same."
"Father's right," Safia said. "Wearing a costume with just the three of us together will give you more confidence later on."
Michael could see he was beaten. "I suppose so," he said.
Mr Hussein turned to Safia and said, "I'm sure you can find some nice clothes for Michelle from Anika's room?"
"Oh yes," Safia said. "She has plenty of beachwear."
That gave Michael the chance to ask a question which had been puzzling him. "Why has Anika left so many of her clothes here? Does she often come and stay with you?"
There was a momentary silence before Safia said, "Anika had to suddenly travel to London and she didn't have chance to pack."
"Presumably, you are going to send them on..." Michael started to say, but he was interrupted by Mr Hussein.
"Safia has given you only part of the answer," he said. "In fact, Anika left home after I forbid her from going to live with a boy, without being married. I told her that if she went, I would disown her."
"Oh, Mr Hussein," Michael said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
He shook his head, softly. "This is also something which has come between Safia and myself," he said. "Perhaps it's better out in the open."
"It must be very difficult for you," Michael said.
"Ah, Michelle," Mr Hussein said. "As always, you see problems through other people's eyes, even though you probably disagree with what they do. You are right, it is difficult, but I lost my temper, and I let it, rather than my mind, control my words. For that, I must pay the price."
"Anika now has a little baby girl," Safia said.
"And you have never seen your granddaughter?" Michael said. "That's awful."
"I have said what I have said," Mr Hussein said. "I cannot undo my words. I would lose face."
"I can understand your position," Michael said. "It's never easy to tell others you said something in haste."
"Shall we get ready to the beach, now?" Safia said. "Michelle, let us go upstairs and find some clothes for you to wear."
***
"I am frightened you push my father too far," Safia said. "You haven't seen him when he loses his temper. If I were to have said the things you say to him, we would be back where we were before you came."
"But that's the point, Safia. I can say things as a guest that he wouldn't tolerate from you. They are things which need to be brought into the open. Not seeing your sister or her child is horrible for both of you."
Safia gave a wry grimace.
"Now, I know you said Anika's jeans wouldn't fit me," he continued, "but could I just try them? I really don't want to go to the beach wearing some silly dress."
Five minutes later, Michael had to admit defeat. There was no way he was going to zip up the pair of jeans over the padded Hiplet, which he had only just managed to fasten at the waist.
"It's weird that the dresses seem to fit me quite well," he said, "whereas these jeans are just hopeless. OK, you'd better find some dress suitable for the beach."
"Even if you could get them on," Safia said, "I think you look far better in a dress than jeans." But she didn't try to explain the excitement she got from dressing up this wonderful boy in pretty dresses. She couldn't really understand herself why she'd selected an older pair of Anika's jeans from her wardrobe that were at least two sizes smaller than the rest of her clothes!
***
Whilst Safia was packing the picnic, Michael got the chance to call his friend Gavin.
"Sorry about last night," he said, "but everything was in a bit of a panic. My grandmother..."
"Panic," Gavin said, "It must have been in crisis. How long has your mum being going out with Mr Blake?"
"Ah, you know about that?"
"I couldn't believe it when Mark Thomas rang me up. He'd just got back from the Kashmir and he recognised your mum, even though she was really tarted up to the nines. So how long has it been going on?
"That was their first date," Michael said.
"Well it didn't look like it to Mark," Gavin said. "He went to the toilets and Mr Blake was buying condoms out of the machine. Does your mum..."
"Gavin!" Michael said, "This is my mum you're talking about. Do you have to spread rumours about her just like the other plonkers at school?"
"Sorry mate. It must be tough on you. Still, it explains why you've been Mr Blake's favourite all term."
"What do you mean? I get on well with Mr Blake because I'm interested in Physics."
"Yeah! Right. We all thought he must be gay and he was grooming you. It's a bit of a relief that he was simply trying to shag your mum."
"Look," Michael said. "That's not fair and it's none of your business anyway, so back off."
"Sorry, Michael, I should have kept quiet."
There was an awkward pause between them, before Michael gave the spiel he had rung up to say. "My grandmother's had an accident in Yorkshire. We have to go up there and stay with her whilst she's recovering, so I won't be around."
"That's a shame," Gavin said. "My family's going for lunch tomorrow at the Grand and they'd said I could invite you."
"Sorry," Michael said. "But thanks for the offer."
***
It has been described as one of the sexiest moments on film, when Honeychile Rider walks out of the surf and up the beach towards James Bond.
But this, Mr Hussein thought, was no Ursula Andress recorded on celluloid. This was Michelle Barker in the flesh walking out of the surf in the skimpiest of bikinis. She walked with a natural ease which made each breast, barely supported by the bikini, bounce with every step she took, sending a quiver rippling up the height of the breast. Surely, it could only be seconds before one of them became unseated from the bra, as he was certain had happened a couple of times whilst they were in the water. If only he'd brought some binoculars - but then his attentions would have been far too obvious.
She and Safia had been frolicking in the sea - throwing a beach ball around, ducking each other under water, swimming, and all with a rumbustious behaviour between them that Mr Hussein had found incredibly erotic.
But in spite of her voluptuous body, Michelle had an air of childish purity that made her utterly delightful. Even her hair which, now it was soaking wet, more resembled a boy's haircut, gave her the appearance of an innocent virgin.
As the two girls returned, Michelle had clearly forgotten her earlier embarrassment when she had to disrobe in front of him, when she had shyly turned her back, slipped her beach dress over her head and then immediately run down to the sea after Safia.
"Are you all right, Father?" Safia's voice broke into his thoughts. "Only you are looking rather strange."
"I was simply thinking," he said, trying not to reveal his feelings of guilt. Michelle was his daughter's school friend; he had a duty of care; to protect her from the very kind of thoughts he was harbouring.
Safia smiled in a carefree way he hadn't seen on her face for a long time, and he couldn't help smiling back.
"What about?" she asked.
He gulped. Yesterday, she'd never have dared ask the question because she knew he would have flown into a temper. It was imperative he didn't behave like that now, but she had put him on the spot.
"I was thinking," he said, "that I might give Anika a call." Where had those words come from, he wondered. Desperation, partly - but surely he had not really been thinking along such lines, had he?
"Oh, Father, that's wonderful," Safia said. She ran forward and hugged him, and kissed him in a way she hadn't done for years. She half turned towards Michelle, and added, "This is your doing, Michelle. Come here and join in and be hugged."
Michelle shyly came forward until Safia could grab her with one arm and bring her into the embrace between all three of them. He slipped his arm around her beautiful shoulders and hugged her to him. He could feel her one breast pressing into his chest, the soft nipple making the merest of impressions against him. He could also feel a hardness gathering below which, if he didn't do something quickly, would be making itself known - not just to Michelle, but to Safia also!
He abruptly pushed both of them away with a: "OK, I can see you are both delighted that I have capitulated." But not as delighted as he had been at holding that innocent, but beautiful, girl in his arms. "But I am ready for our picnic, so let us eat and I will then telephone Anika."
As Safia opened the picnic hamper and started taking out the contents, Michelle said to him with a smile on her face. "It's not about capitulation. It's about wanting to see your baby granddaughter. You must be excited."
Heck, yes, he was excited - and it wasn't just about being so close to Michelle. He really did want to see his daughter again, and his granddaughter. He gave Michelle an even bigger smile that, for once, was not totally motivated by sex, and hoped that his hard prick wasn't very obvious.
Michelle had picked up her towelling dress and had pulled it over her head, and was trying to pull it down her body. But whilst it had easily slithered off when she was dry, the waistline now snagged on her most outstanding area. She wriggled a little, and then a little more.
"Here," he heard himself saying. "Let me help."
He grabbed the waistline of the dress on both sides and pulled downwards, carefully avoiding touching the very parts of her he most wanted to. His action did the trick, and the waistline slid over her breasts and down her body.
"OK?" he asked, giving her a smile, suddenly realising that, as the waistline had stretched over her breasts, it had freed them from the restraint of her bra, and they now jostled nicely in the low-cut neckline of the dress. He could see her nipples!
"Thanks," Michelle said. "That's great. I know it's silly, but I'm still getting used to having breasts. They've only recently grown like this, you see, and I'm very self-conscious of them."
He nodded, trying not to go cross-eyed as he peered down the front of her dress without making it too obvious. "I guess every girl is different," he said. "Anika developed a very shapely figure when she was quite young, but even so, it wasn't soon enough for her. Safia, on the other hand, is I think only a few months younger than you and yet she is still very slim."
"And hopefully going to stay that way," Safia said. "Mother was slim and I shall be like her. Now, the picnic is ready for you to tuck in, so why don't you both sit down and enjoy it."
Michelle sat down immediately next to Safia and he sat opposite the two of them. Entirely coincidentally, he realised he had a superb view of Michelle's nipples. He wondered whether he should have said something, but clearly, that would only embarrass the poor girl. Much better for her to discover the problem when he wasn't around. Perhaps he'd suggest later on that they go behind a sand dune and change out of their wet costumes. Not just yet, though.
***
After they had eaten, it was in fact Mr Hussein who wondered off with his mobile phone to telephone Anika. Whilst he was gone, Safia whispered to Michael, "First rule of being a girl is to keep checking that you're decent."
"What do you mean... Oh heavens! How long have I been like that?" He hurriedly stuffed his hand down the front of his dress and started to make himself decent.
"All through lunch," Safia said. "Fortunately, my father is too old to be interested in staring at teenage girls, otherwise he'd be thinking you were giving him the come on. But watch it, if any other males are around."
"There's so much to learn and go wrong, being a girl," Michael said. "In fact, I don't think I'll ever..."
"They are all coming over for lunch tomorrow," Mr Hussein said, coming up behind them with a huge smile on his face. "Anika, her... partner, Martin, and Sophie, my granddaughter. They've named her after you, Safia. What do you think of that?"
"That's wonderful, Father. Everything is wonderful. But are you expecting me to prepare a meal for them all. I'm not certain..."
"No, no. I told them I would take us all out for a meal at The Grand Hotel - the finest English restaurant in town - especially for Martin's benefit. So you two girls will need to put on your best dresses."
"You won't want me there," Michael said, as he realised that was where Gavin would also be eating Sunday lunch.
"Don't be silly," Mr Hussein said. "Anika is looking forward to meeting with you. You can have a good talk with her over lunch."
"But..."
"Michelle, you are the reason why, after all this time, I am going to see my daughter and granddaughter. I will not permit you not to be part of the celebrations."
As they cleared away the picnic and started carrying stuff to the car, Michael whispered the cause of his concerns to Safia, who nodded and said she would think of something. Michael, meanwhile, knew that total ridicule was just one day away. Having a mother dating your Physic's teacher was pretty bad, but he guessed he hadn't seen anything yet.
"Father," Safia said, as they started the drive home, "I was wondering about Michelle's hair. It seems to have got a bit bedraggled after being in the sea. Do you think..."
"Make an appointment for her this afternoon at the best hairdressers in town," Mr Hussein commanded.
"Well, I'm not certain..." Michael started to say, but both Safia and Mr Hussein told him to be quiet.
Saturday Afternoon
"I've told Michelle that her present hairstyle makes her look like a boy," Safia said later that afternoon.
"Absolutely," Judy the hairdresser agreed, running her fingers through the offending hair. "Who on earth has done this to you?"
"It was a friend of her mother's," Safia said. "Father says that money is no object. She needs something to totally change her appearance and make her look a bit more mature, and very sexy."
"Money no object?" Judy said. "Then leave her to me. You'd better come back at about eight. Is that OK?"
"Eight o'clock?" Michael said. "But that's hours. Normally when I go to..."
"Which is why your hair is such a mess," Judy said. "I am going to make you look so different your own mother won't recognise you."
"But Safia," Michael said, "Don't forget that in two weeks' time I need to..."
"Don't worry," Judy said to him as Safia left them with a wave. "The style I shall give you will look as good in two weeks time as it does now."
Michael didn't say that was exactly what he was worried about.
***
"Michelle! Is that really you?" Safia said, gasping at the sight of what was clearly a young, beautiful woman before her,
"Yes, it is," Michael admitted, "although I can hardly believe my own eyes,"
"You have been transformed from a schoolgirl into a young woman," said Mr Hussein.
"Mr Hussein," Michael said. "I'm so very sorry about the price. I never dreamt that it was going to be so much,"
Mr Hussein smiled at her and said, "You have become a woman that any man could proudly take on his arm. It would have been cheap at..." he almost said ten times the price, but that would have gone too far. "...twice the price," he finished.
"Mr Hussein, I don't know how I can thank you enough. You've been so generous to me." Michael leant forward to kiss him and hoped Mr Hussein wasn't too embarrassed when his damn breasts got in the way again. In a sudden fit of daring, he crooked his right arm and added, "Will you take my arm?" After all, it was Mr Hussein who had suggested having his hair done.
Mr Hussein delightedly slipped his left arm through it, and they walked out of the hairdressers and along the road toward the car park, arm in arm, side by side, and thigh by thigh.
Michael couldn't explain his own feelings. A boy shouldn't be excited about having his hair blonded, about being given long hair extensions and then styled into golden curls which tumbled over his face and down his shoulders. What was even worse was knowing this hairstyle would still be with him when he was due to return home in two weeks' time. On the other hand, he had the confidence of knowing that he looked absolutely stunning. When he saw Gavin at The Grand tomorrow, there was simply no way that his best friend would associate him with the sex symbol he saw before him. Even Mr Hussein seemed impressed with his new style.
***
As Mr Hussein drove them home, he was rather more than impressed. He had sensed the excitement running through Michelle at her stunning new looks, and knew she had suddenly realised the sex goddess she was. Tonight was definitely the night when she would be in need of a man who could gently introduce her to the ecstatic pleasures that awaited her - not some sixteen-year-old boy who would give her a grope and then ejaculate inside her within minutes. No, she needed a mature man who would know how to keep her pleasured for hour after rapturous hour.
It was obvious from the way she had kissed him and nuzzled her breasts against him that she had chosen him for the part, and then they had walked arm in arm to the car, with her thigh pressed firmly against his. This was to be IT.
If only Safia would not keep chattering on. She was so excited about Michelle's new hair, and how it really made her look so different, and how they should choose which dress Michelle would wear to lunch tomorrow, and which shoes... so on and so on.
He could see that Michelle was as disinterested in her conversation as he was, but on the other hand, it filled the gap between having the quick meal which Safia prepared and a time when it was respectable for them all to go to bed.
He decided he would shower, and then make certain Safia was in her own bed - no repeating last night's mistake - before going in to compliment Michelle on her new hair, and tell her how beautiful she looked. She would be overwhelmed by his words and he would give her a goodnight kiss, which would turn into the most passionate kiss she'd ever had. After that, it would be simple to slip into bed beside her and take her up to the heights of ecstasy, and keep her there for hours.
He was just about to suggest it was time for bed when the phone rang. Suppressing a swear word, he went through to the kitchen to answer it.
"I hear you've at last come to your senses about Anika," a very familiar voice said.
"Mother." Mr Hussein groaned. The last thing he wanted now was a long chat with his mother. "Have you been speaking with Anika?" Surely, Safia had not telephoned her grandmother this afternoon to tell her the news?
"Of course I've been speaking with her," his mother said. "I have never stopped speaking with her all through this ridiculous argument you've been having with her. Now what's this Anika tells me about you having a young girl staying with you?"
Mr Hussein's heart leapt into his mouth and he cursed his luck. "It's simply one of Safia's school friends, Mother," he said. "Her grandmother has had an accident and her own mother has gone to visit her in Yorkshire. The girl is staying here whilst her mother is away. There's nothing wrong in that."
"You forget I know what you were like before you got married," she said. "Of course there is something wrong with it. Let me speak with Safia."
"That was many years ago, Mother. I have two daughters of my own, now."
"A leopard never changes its spots," she said. "Let me speak with Safia."
"I'm sure she will tell you I have been the perfect host," he said, mentally crossing his fingers.
"Safia is too loyal to her father to do otherwise," she said. "Far too loyal for her own good. Thank Allah that Anika was not the same. Now, let me speak with her."
He took the phone back into the lounge and said to Safia. "It's your grandmother. She would like to speak with you."
Safia's face lit up and she eagerly took the handset he held out her.
"Hello, Grandmamma," she said. "Has Father told you the good news about Anika?"
She listened and then said, "Oh, that's a ridiculous idea. Father's far too old for... Very well, Grandmamma... Yes, Grandmamma... No, I'm sure she will not mind... Yes, Grandmamma. Goodbye, Grandmamma."
After she had rung off, she turned to them both and said, "Grandmamma has some very old-fashioned ideas. She is very shocked that Michelle should be staying in a house with only you here, Father, so I have had to promise that I will sleep in Michelle's bed, and not leave her alone with you during the day. Isn't that ridiculous?"
Damn the interfering old... But he didn't let his feelings show. Instead, he nodded. "Your grandmother certainly does have ridiculous ideas. I don't know how she survives in today's world. Well, I certainly won't tell on you, Safia, if Michelle wants to remain in twenty-first century Britain, rather than the past, and have a bed to herself."
Michelle smiled at him and his heart lit up again. Mr Hussein knew she had immediately realised the problems of Safia sleeping in the same bed, and how his quick-thinking response had got around the problem.
"Does that mean you no longer wish Safia to have an arranged marriage?" Michelle said.
He gasped with shock. How could his lover-to-be have turned everything around like that?
"Well, I'm not certain what Safia's marriage has to do with your sleeping arrangements," he said.
"I thought it was about whether we lived according to modern Britain, or the traditions of your culture," she said.
Damn, he thought, she was so innocent she really had not realised his intentions. Or perhaps she was playing hard to get. Whatever the facts, her unavailability made her even more attractive than ever. If anyone else had said her words, he'd have thrown them out of his house, but with this girl...
"Father," Safia said. "It is nothing to do with our traditions or our culture. I have promised Grandmamma. Therefore Michelle and I have to sleep together."
He wasn't going to have sex with Michelle tonight! He knew it. His mother had outwitted him, curse her. Indeed, with Safia following her grandmother's instructions to the letter, he was going to have difficulty having sex with her at all!
"Very well. Michelle, I'm afraid you are going to have to sleep with Safia, tonight, and every night during your stay." But he so dearly wished she was going to sleep with him. If only she knew... Damn! Damn! Damn!
***
Michael could hardly stop himself from grinning at Mr Hussein 's words. If only he knew... On the other hand, he still had on the Hiplet, with his cock embedded firmly inside it. He and Safia would have lots of frolicking fun together, that night, but both he and she would still be virgins in the morning. Damn! Damn! Damn!
Sunday Morning
Mr Hussein was rather pleased next morning to see that both girls had not slept well. He'd had to wake them from their slumbers, something he'd never had to do before with Safia, and even then, it seemed to take them ages for them get down to breakfast.
He was delighted they were still wearing their night clothes - Michelle looked fantastic in her harem suit, although she had taken care this morning to properly secure the bow. All the same, she was a picture to delight the heart.
Michelle gave him a special grin; he thought she probably regretted challenging his suggestion that they should ignore his mother's orders, but did not want to be disloyal to her friend. She was a good girl - indeed, she was just too good.
"Sorry we're so late Father," Safia said. "It is certainly a very different experience when you sleep with someone else."
He smiled, thinking that for Michelle, it had unfortunately not been the kind of experience she should have enjoyed.
"It is not a problem," he said. "Have you decided yet what you are going to wear, as you only have a few hours before we meet your sister? I know it always takes women so long to get ready - especially beautiful ones."
He obviously aimed that remark at Michelle, but it was Safia who responded. "That is because the result is always worth waiting for. I have an idea for Michelle, but you will have to wait and see Father."
"Well, we are meeting them at The Grand at 12.30, and it would be inhospitable to arrive late."
"We shall be on time, Father," Safia said.
***
"Anika is expecting to see a boy wearing a dress, who will just about pass as a rather butch girl," Safia said when they had returned to Anika's bedroom. "I want to show her a beautiful, sexy girl who could never be mistaken for a boy. Now, put on this shower cap and go to the bathroom, shower and shave, whilst I sort out your clothes."
Michael did as instructed. When he returned wearing just a housecoat, Safia had put the same white dress on the bed which she had shown him on Friday evening.
"I'm really glad you chose the black dress on Friday," she said, "as this dress is far more stunning. Now you have your new hair style, this is going to knock everyone dead."
She held it up before her, and Michael could see this dress not only had an even more revealing cleavage than the black dress, it was very much shorter, barely reaching down to the tops of her legs.
"It's all right," she said, "seeing the look on his face. "There are matching panties and tights to go with this dress."
"I should think so, too," he said. "That dress is far too revealing. I don't think I can wear it." He should have been horrified at the very thought, and his words reflected what he should have felt. But ever since he'd had his hair done, he had felt incredibly good. He so wanted to wear it, but boys really should not want that, should they?
"Let's try it on you and you can make up your mind," Safia said. "Slip off the housecoat, and slip on the tights and panties. You'd better put on the shoes, as well, as the dress is a bit tight and it will be more awkward with it on."
Michael stared down at the white shoes. Safia had mentioned them when he was getting dressed on Friday evening, and he'd experienced a momentary thrill when she had mentioned the four-inch heels. Now he could actually see what four-inch heels looked like, he was both terrified and excited at the thought of wearing them. The two-inch heels he'd worn Friday evening had been difficult enough to put on and walk in. But after a while, he'd got used to them to the point where it felt strange when he'd taken them off when getting undressed.
But these were twice the height of those. He'd never be able to get them on his feet - would he? He knew he was going to have a good try.
Safia helped him bunch up the tights and slip them on his legs, and pull them up, and he managed to slip on the panties all by himself. Then he was bending his feet at an impossible angle to his legs, in order to feed them into the shoes. They fastened by a strap that went around the ankle, and when he had them both fastened, he used the same trick as before to stand up.
They were impossible to walk in. He staggered a little and Safia caught him.
"Remember, get your weight down on the heel - it will support you - pelvis forward and shoulders back and look ahead. Try taking a few steps."
He did. He was a bit shaky, but he didn't stumble.
"There," Safia said. "Let's put on your dress and then you can go and practice your walk again. Everything is going to be fine. Hold onto my shoulder whilst you step into the dress."
It wasn't so much a dress, Michael realised, as a short white sleeve. It had a halter neck and there was a gap partway down the back which was laced together in the same way as a corset.
"Keep still," Safia commanded, "whilst I lace it up. I'm going to have to pull it quite tight, as I think you may be slightly thicker around the waist than Anika."
"Do you have to pull it so tight?" he puffed. "I can hardly breathe."
"It's one of the pitfalls of being a woman," she said as she pulled some more. "The things we do for beauty."
"Yes but... Ooh!" as she pulled even harder.
Finally, Safia was tying the two ends in a bow at the top and Michael could stare at himself in the wardrobe mirror.
"Wow!" he said.
Safia came to stand next to him and stare into the mirror with him. "Was it worth it?"
His boobs had been pulled in by the dress, but this had the effect of giving him a fantastic cleavage, which quivered with every breath Michael took. The dress fitted him like a glove, and reduced his waist by several inches, so that the curve as it flowed over the wide hips and bum of his Hiplet gave him an hour glass figure.
"I can't go out like this."
Safia smiled. "Why not?"
"Well, it's just..." The hem of dress was only an inch below his panties. Every movement he made would expose them, and every male would gawp. Sitting down would be murder.
"Too sexy?" Safia finished his sentence.
"Yes... well, not just too sexy but too tartish."
Safia smiled some more. "That's good. Now you really are thinking like a woman. But perhaps looking tartish is a small price to pay to avoid your friends realising that you are a boy who dresses in women's clothes."
"Maybe," Michael said, "but I guess your father would be even more humiliated if I was exposed."
In his heels, Safia had to stretch up to kiss him on the lips. "You did it for my family, and I am truly grateful. I thought I showed you how grateful last night."
Michael was forced to accept that Safia had been grateful to the limit of his own physical limitations. He smiled. "Yeah. You were very grateful, but not as grateful as it might have been if things had been different."
"Maybe," Safia said, "but we shall be leaving the house in less than an hour. I have to dress myself in that time. Now let me quickly put on your make up, then you can spend the rest of the time practising in your new heels, whilst I get dressed."
Sunday Lunch
"Father!"
"Anika! I am so pleased to see you."
"This is Martin, and this is Sophie."
"Hello Martin and... Oh! How beautiful she is! Her tiny nails. Her lovely face."
"Isn't she just? Safia, how are you?"
"Fine. This is Michelle."
"Oh! Michelle!" Anika said it in a way that said she had both recognised the significance that Michelle was really Michael and, as she stared at the woman who faced her, astonishment that Michelle really was Michael! "Wow! Michelle. You look very beautiful," she said.
"Thank you, Anika," Michelle said, returning her smile. "It's mainly because I'm wearing your lovely dress. Safia said you wouldn't mind me borrowing your things?"
"Er, no," Anika said. "In fact, I think that dress looks better on you than it did on me. Your hair is fabulous. I don't understand?"
"Never mind Michelle's hairstyle," Mr Hussein said. "Let us get in some drinks. Martin, what will you have?"
So the lunch got underway. Michael was happy to take a side seat whilst the family buried the rift which had torn them apart and admired the new baby. He certainly did not want to become the centre of attraction, for any reason.
The drinks came and they ordered their food - and Michael was much more confident in an English restaurant than he had been on Friday, and didn't need Mr Hussein's advice, which was fortunate, as he was totally engrossed in baby things.
"I remember you at school."
"What?" Michael turned in surprise to his right. "Oh, er... Martin. Er... what school are you talking about?"
"SPuS, of course," he replied. "I was in the sixth form when you joined. I thought then that you must be gay, when you used to watch us wanking behind the groundsman's hut."
"Oh. I don't think I remember that," Michael said, feeling the blush creeping up his neck. "But I'm not gay. Anyway, I'm surprised you recognised me."
"Only because Anika told me what had happened," he said.
"Then you know I got forced into it," Michael said.
"Yeah, course you did," Martin said. "Like I was forced into having sex with Anika. Well, I can tell you, if I was put on the same spot you were in, I'd have told Safia to get stuffed. Dressing up in a girl's school uniform. You must be gay."
"Well, I'm not," Michael said, turning his head away and hoping for some kind of a distraction that would get him away from Martin.
"Hello," Gavin said, who had clearly been hovering there, trying to catch Michael's attention. "You look just like Michael Barker. Are you related?"
Michael realised he had jumped out of the frying pan, into the fire.
"Sorry," Gavin continued. "I didn't mean to startle you. This is my friend, Mark Thomas."
"Hello, Mark," Michael said, and had the presence of mind to add, "Sorry, you didn't tell me your name."
"It's Gavin," he said. "We're having lunch with my parents and as soon as I saw you walk in, I thought you looked just like Michael."
"He's my cousin," Michael said, continuing the previous story. "But I don't think I look that much like him."
"Well, no. Not in that way, obviously, but I thought your face was very similar."
"Well thanks very much, er, Gavin." Michael emphasised the name, just to show his anger at being compared with... himself. Not that he was angry - he simply thought that was what a girl would do at being compared with a boy.
"Don't mind him," Mark said. "He's not very good with words - that's why he hangs out with your nerd of a cousin."
"You think my cousin's a nerd!"
"Well, of course. Everyone thinks your cousin's a nerd."
"Well, I happen to like my cousin," Michael said, "And I think you are very rude."
"You haven't heard anything yet," Mark said. Then he leant over and whispered into Michael's ear, "Why don't we go somewhere and fuck?"
"Get lost, jerk," Michael said. He turned his back on him, only to see Martin leering at him
"You could be in there," Martin said.
Michael was about to give a very rude reply when the waitress came between them and said, "Soup?"
***
Michael enjoyed the meal far more than he expected. The food really was excellent, and although Mr Hussein was infatuated all through the meal with the baby, Anika was more than ready for a distraction from baby care, and she talked happily with Michael.
"You really do look fantastic," she said in a low voice. "When Safia told me what had happened, I thought there was no way you could carry it off. I was amazed Father hadn't seen through you straightaway. But you do look such a natural girl."
"Thanks," Michael said with a wry smile. "I'm not certain whether that's a compliment or not."
"Definitely a compliment," Anika said. "When I was your age, I was boy crazy, but you can go off them. Don't get me wrong, they still have their essential uses, but we girls are far superior."
Being included in the description gave Michael a warm glow inside, and he said, "I've always thought that, even as... from the other side. But it certainly seems very different from this side of the fence."
"I think it would do every man good if they had to be a woman for a fortnight," Anika said.
"Count me out," Martin said.
"See what I mean," Anika said. "Anyway, I think you look terrific and you should be proud of yourself."
"Thanks," Michael said.
"Except that Safia is not so good with your make up, especially on pale skin. We'll go to the Ladies after the meal and I'll give you some tips. In fact, I have some make up in my bag that will suit you far better than what you have on. You can keep it, afterwards."
"Thanks, Anika," Michael said.
"Poofta," Martin muttered under his breath.
"As a woman, you'll get used to the rubbish that comes out of the mouths of men," Anika said. "Talking of which," she raised her voice slightly so her father would hear, "Father, you're not still trying to pressurise Safia into marrying that creep, Haresh, are you?"
"Haresh is a very fine man," Mr Hussein said. "He has made his business highly profitable, and is well respected."
"Only because he treats people mercilessly," Anika said. "He'd treat his wife the same way."
"I have decided he is a suitable husband for Safia," Mr Hussein said in a voice which brooked no argument. "It is arranged."
"It must always be difficult," Michael cut in quickly as he saw Anika's temper about to burst, "predicting what someone will be like as a husband or wife, when you've only met them in a completely different context."
He paused, aware that all eyes were on him and waiting for him to continue. Why on earth had he spoken? What did he say now?
He took a deep breath and launched in, hoping his words would make some kind of sense. "The reason many English people are against arranged marriages, is that bride and groom hardly seem to meet before they are married. They might find each other obnoxious, or they might fall in love."
He'd been looking directly at Mr Hussein when he spoke, and as he said those last words, he saw the hostility in Mr Hussein's eyes soften. Then he nodded. "Michelle, as always you speak the words of wisdom," he said. He turned to Anika and said, "You can see why I am happy for her to stay in my house.
"I have always found the behaviour of Haresh to be beyond reproach," he continued, "but I can see it would be better for Safia to get to know him better. I am sure she will then agree Haresh will make a fine husband."
"Father," Anika said, "It's amazing. Michelle really has a good affect on you. I haven't heard you talk this much common sense since Mum was alive."
Mr Hussein shrugged. "Maybe you are right. Maybe a man does need a good woman to keep him in order." He glanced around the table and caught Michael's eye.
Michael nodded, he could certainly agree with that.
"I guess every man needs that," Martin reluctantly admitted, and the mood suddenly lightened, and everyone was talking at once.
***
"You know Father has fallen in love with you, don't you?" were Anika's first words as they stepped inside the Ladies.
"What?" Michael gasped. "That's crazy. He's middle-aged for heaven's sake."
"There are plenty of men older than him with teenage brides," she said.
"But it's preposterous. I mean, I'm a..." They suddenly both looked around the toilets, to check there was no one else there.
"But you look a sexy, young woman," Anika said, "and he's fallen for you. Why do you think he spent a fortune on that hairstyle?"
"Oh my God!" Michael said. "What am I going to do?"
Anika smiled. "First of all," she said, "let's wipe off your make up and I'll apply a little of this foundation to your face."
Michael obligingly held up his face for Anika to start work. "I meant, what am I going to do about your father?" he asked.
"Do nothing," she said, as she started to apply the foundation.
"But... What do you mean?"
"Look," she said, "men fall in love at the drop of a hat. They see a girl at the bus stop and they fall in love with her. They can think only of her - they want to have sex with her, to marry her, to have babies with her. Then, another pretty girl comes along and they fall in love all over again and the first girl is forgotten. It is the way of men."
"I'm sure they are not all like that," Michael said.
"Those words are fatal," Anika rebuked, as she turned her attention to his eyes. "Of course, men do have stable relationships, but only because the woman grabs them and keeps them sated. But that is beside the point. What is important is for a girl to understand men, and to use that understanding to her own advantage. Now that I have seen him with you, I know he is in love with you, and you must realise that."
"But you must have guessed yesterday, when you telephoned your grandmother to warn her," Michael said.
Anika smiled and shook her head. "The reason I telephoned Grandmamma was because I knew exactly how she would react when I told her a young girl was staying there. I did it to get you and Safia sleeping together."
"What?"
"I owed you for getting Father talking to me again, so consider that a part payment for services rendered. After all, with your man bits glued into the Hiplet, it wasn't as though you were going to make her pregnant or give her AIDS. But now I've seen the situation, I want you to stay around and use your feminine charms to get Father to abandon his ridiculous plans to marry Safia off."
"But I don't have any feminine charms," Michael said.
"You have huge tits, for a start," she grinned, as she used a lip pencil to line his lips. Then she applied lipstick. "For many men, that's all the charm you need. But it's not just that. Most men think with their balls. When you packed yours away inside that Hiplet, I think you stopped using them in place of brains. You've started using your mind, and that's how women get men to do what they want. I saw how you defused the argument which was just about to explode out there, and I think you will win the argument with Father over Safia's marriage."
"There," she said, standing back from Michael and getting him to look in the mirror. "What do you think?"
He stared at himself. Could this really be the same person he had looked at in the mirror as he cleaned his teeth on Friday morning, determined to get to see Safia?
"It's much better, Anika," he said, "But do you really think I can change your Father's mind over Safia's marriage?" he asked.
"Absolutely," Anika replied.
"And that she'll marry me?" he said.
"Who knows?" she said. "You're both young and should have fun before thinking about lifetime partnerships. Maybe it will be together, maybe you will both move on."
With that, he had to be content. But as he left the Ladies, he was determined he was going to get Mr Hussein to abandon his plans for Safia's wedding.
***
"I'm sorry about my friend, Mark, being so rude," Gavin said to Michael as they were leaving the toilets. Clearly, he'd been waiting for Michael to emerge.
Anika gave Michael a big smile and said she would see her back at the table. To be left alone with Gavin was the last thing that Michael wanted, and he made to follow Anika, but Gavin moved to block the way and they almost collided.
"Michael is my best friend," Gavin continued, "and my mum said I could invite him here for lunch today. But he's had to go to his grandmother's up north, so I invited Mark instead. Michael is a much nicer guy than Mark."
Michael smiled at his best friend. "That's OK. I wasn't blaming you for Mark's comments." He again went to pass by him to return to the table, but Gavin again moved to stop him. It left them standing very close to each other.
"I'm surprised Michael hasn't mentioned you before," he said.
"Distant cousins," Michael said. "One side of the family doesn't talk to the other. You know what families are like."
"But I haven't seen you around here before. Do you go to the girls high?"
Michael paused. He knew it was always best to be consistent with a lie, otherwise you could get into a terrible muddle. On the other hand, if he admitted to going to SIGHS, he'd be bombarded with questions - which class was he in, and did he know...
He didn't have to answer, he realised. Gavin was trying to chat him up. All he had to do was to use his feminine guile to fob him off. "Why the interest?"
"I... That is... Mark dared me to come up and talk to you, after I said you looked very pretty."
"Do you think so?"
"Oh, you're absolutely gorgeous!"
Michael couldn't stop an enormous grin from spreading over his face, and for an instant, he almost confessed the truth to Gavin. But the madness left almost as soon as it came. Gavin would tell Mark and the mobiles would be buzzing all afternoon. "Thank you," Michael said. "So have you won your dare, now?"
But then Michael was taken by surprise as Gavin suddenly lurched forward and planted his lips on Michael's. "That was my other part of the dare," he said.
Michael's reaction was instantaneous. He slapped Gavin's face, pushed him to one side and marched past.
Sunday Evening
"Mr Hussein, when are you thinking of arranging for Haresh to meet Safia?"
Mr Hussein smiled. "I was rather hoping you and Safia would forget all about the idea, but I can see that was a forlorn hope."
They had returned home after spending the whole afternoon at The Grand. Michael now felt completely at ease in his sexy dress. Besides, he realised that Mr Hussein liked him to look sexy. It was only when he verbalised it like that that he realised how silly it sounded, and he gave a little grin.
"What are you smiling at?"
"At your hope we'd forget all about Haresh meeting Safia."
"You think I'm making a big mistake about the arranged marriage, don't you?"
Michael smiled again. "It's not a big mistake at the moment because it's not too late to change your mind. It would only be a big mistake if you tried to force Safia to go through with it and she disobeyed your command or - even worse - if she obeyed your command and discovered what a mistake it was."
"It is so easy for a woman to change her mind. You are all renowned for doing it. But for a man, it is a loss of face - of honour."
"But haven't you heard?" Michael said. "We have sexual equality in this country. You have the right to be like a woman and change your mind."
Mr Hussein burst into laughter at her words, and then he paused. "I haven't laughed like that since Aneka died. It seems wrong to laugh now she is not here."
"From what I have heard from you and Safia," Michael said, "she was a lovely woman. I'm sure such a woman would not want you to be unhappy forever."
Mr Hussein's reaction was totally unexpected. He burst into tears.
It seemed only natural to Michael to go and put his arms around him, as his mother still did for him when he felt the same. "There, there, it's all right. You have two lovely daughters and a granddaughter to remember her by."
Suddenly, Michael realised, Mr Hussein was snivelling in his breasts, and then nuzzling between them in a way he had never done when his mother hugged him. He awkwardly stepped back, pushing Mr Hussein away.
"I am sorry," Mr Hussein said. "I didn't know what I was doing."
"It seems to me, Mr Hussein," Michael said, "that is not the proper way to behave with a school friend of your daughter's."
"What's he been doing?" Safia asked as she came into the room, wearing her customary tee shirt and jeans and, Michael thought, looking all the better for it.
There was an instant's silence before Michael said, "Your father was crying over your mother."
"Really?" Safia sounded delighted. "Oh, Father, you never cried at the time. Both Anika and I thought you would feel better if you could only cry a little. I guess it was the emotion of seeing your granddaughter, today. Wasn't she beautiful? Oh, Father, life goes on."
Mr Hussein looked at Michael and then at Safia and said, "You are absolutely right, Safia. And I am proud of my daughters and granddaughter, and I only want what is the best for you. You understand that, don't you?"
"Of course, Father."
"Michelle wants me to organise the meeting between you and Haresh as soon as I can. Is that what you want?"
Safia looked at Michael, then at Mr Hussein, and then back at Michael. "I'm not certain, Father."
Michael wanted to leap in and explain all the reasons why she should meet Haresh and tell him to get lost, but for once caution made him hold his tongue.
"I thought you agreed with Michelle that such a meeting was necessary," Mr Hussein said.
"I kept silent," Safia said. "I didn't say I agreed or disagreed."
"Why do you hesitate?" her father asked.
Safia said nothing for a minute and then said, "Anika found her partner in the English way. She wore sexy clothes, she flirted dreadfully, she went out with lots of boys, including Haresh, and eventually she settled with Martin." She shook her head. "I didn't like him."
"You are not his partner," Mr Hussein said. "You don't have to like him."
"But did you like him, Father?"
At last, Michael found his voice. "Fathers are required to like the father of their daughter's child. It's the rule, and I'm sure your father would not say otherwise. Actually, I didn't like Martin very much, if that's any help."
They all smiled at that and Mr Hussein said," As usual, Michelle is right. Of course, I like Martin, but I understand why some people might not."
Then he added, "Michelle, you were very keen for Safia to meet Haresh. What do you say about her uncertainty?"
Michael hesitated slightly, before he said, "You're asking Safia to make an incredibly important decision, yet she is still only fifteen. At our age, most of us are still trying to understand life, and making mistakes as we do so.
"Most English women are twice that age before they have their first child," he continued. "Anika had her child much earlier than that, but at least she was an adult when she chose Martin. Haresh may or may not be right for Safia. Regardless of whether or not she has an arranged marriage, I believe that at sixteen, she is too young to marry."
Mr Hussein nodded, for a few seconds and then said, "We have had a good discussion on this, but we don't have to make a decision at this moment. We shall all be more the wiser for sleeping on it. Now Safia, why don't you make us some coffee?"
When she had left the room, Mr Hussein said, "Thank you for keeping quiet about my actions, just now. I don't know what came over me."
"Don't be silly, Mr Hussein," Michael said. "We all do stupid things at times. I hope you don't mind, but I have come to think of you as a very good friend, rather than simply the parent of a school friend. Is that all right?"
"Of course it is," Mr Hussein said. "You speak so much good sense that I have come to respect you as an adult woman. Perhaps that is why I let my emotions get the better of me. Do you understand?"
Michael smiled. "Yes, I understand. But you must not forget I am Safia's school friend."
"Of course," Mr Hussein said, but he had mentally crossed his fingers.
***
"I saw Gavin kissing you. How could you do that?"
They had gone to the bedroom to get ready for bed, and Safia spoke to him for the first time that evening.
"I was taken by surprise," Michael said. "I simply didn't expect him to do that."
"It was obvious what he was going to do."
"Look, it's all right for you. You're a girl and you've always been one. You've learned what to expect and what to do. I'm trying to learn everything in a few days and sometimes I take the wrong decisions."
"Martin said you were gay. Is he right?"
"No! At least," Michael paused for a second, "I don't think so. If you remember, the reason I came through the gate on Friday morning was to see you. But ever since I have been trying to behave and think as a girl would. A girl wouldn't be regarded as gay if she lets a boy kiss her. It's confusing."
"Martin said that a normal boy wouldn't let himself get into the situation you are in."
"But it was you who got me into this mess!"
"Perhaps it was a mistake. Maybe I should have let you try to sneak past the gate on Friday afternoon, but I thought if I did that, I would never see you again. Anika always tells me a woman has to trap her lover, but I don't think even she thought of turning him into a woman."
She gave a little smirk, and Michael couldn't help smiling back. Within seconds, they were laughing at each other and then Michael had his arms around Safia and said, "You turned me into a girl, so if I'm gay, it's when I'm with you. You have made me into a lesbian."
"Well, there's nothing wrong in that, is there?" And she kissed him more passionately than she had ever done before.
Monday Morning
Mr Hussein left for work at his normal time, apologetic that he had to go and leave them alone. Nonetheless, he still insisted on locking them in. "I am responsible for you, too, Michelle," he said. "I have to care for you as I care for my daughter."
"But we are mature girls, Mr Hussein," Michael said. "We are quite safe going out on the streets of Seacombe."
"I know you think that," Mr Hussein said, "but you cannot know it. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you, and I am certain, neither would your mother."
"We could have a game of tennis," Safia suggested when he had left, adding with a grin, "or perhaps you're worried you might lose again?"
"No way. The only reason I lost last time was because your father was watching and I felt self-conscious," Michael said. He shook his head. "It's difficult to believe that was only on Friday. So much has happened since. It's as though the world has changed its axis."
They went upstairs and changed, before going out to the tennis court and knocking up. Michael's nervousness of the last game had gone now, and he grinned as he thought about how scared he had been about old Mr Walters seeing his panties.
"I won last match, so you had better take the first serve," Safia said. "Let's see whether you can do any better than last time."
Although it took again some time for him to get used to his breasts bouncing around with every movement, his game was much better. But then, so was Safia's who seemed much more nimble than she'd been on Friday. He won the first set, but she won the second, and as the game wore on, the sun got higher in the sky and the day hotter, and their game so much more competitive. Eventually, the extra weight of his breasts and hips began to take its toll. In the end, it was her ability to keep going whilst he flagged that gave her the match.
"Well played, Safia," he gasped, "the best girl definitely won."
"Well played, Michelle," she said. "Wasn't that a great game? I have never played so well before. My best friend brings out the best in me."
"But I'm so hot," Michael said. "What a shame you don't have a swimming pool as well as a tennis court," he teased. "Some houses just don't have the facilities one expects." The closest his own had come to either of those was the inflatable paddling pool he'd had as a child.
"You're welcome to use the pool here," an old man's voice came through the hedge behind them. "Just like the children who lived in the house before you did."
They both gasped, surprised their conversation had been overheard.
"That's good of you, Mr Walters," Safia called back. "But we can't get round there."
"You don't have to come all round by road," Mr Walters replied. "The kids before you climbed up that oak tree and along that large branch. I can put up a ladder here so you can get down."
"I'm not certain," Safia started to say, but Michael cut in.
"I would love a swim. It's very good of Mr Walters to offer. Why don't I try climbing the tree to see how difficult it is?"
"Well, I'm not certain we should," Safia said.
"Oh, come on," Michael said. "Let's try it. Are you certain that would be all right, Mr Walters?" he asked, raising his voice.
"Of course," came the reply. "I have some fresh lemonade in the fridge, and I probably have some gingerbread in the larder. The kids before loved gingerbread. Climb up the tree and I'll go and get the ladder."
"I'm still not certain..." Safia said.
"Just watch me," Michael said. "It doesn't look a difficult tree to climb.
It wasn't. There were a few short stubs of branches to grab and knot holes which made good toeholds. Within a few seconds, he was standing at the point where he could look over the hedge and see old Mr Walters struggling with a wooden ladder which he placed against the branch of the tree on his side of the hedge.
"That looks a beautiful swimming pool," Michael said.
"I keep it properly maintained for when my grandchildren come around, but that's not very often, now. Just walk along the branch and then you can step down into my garden," Mr Walters said.
"I'd better watch Safia climb up this side, first," Michael said.
"No," she responded. "I'll go and get our swimming costumes and towels. Is there somewhere we could change, Mr Walters?"
"Yes," he said. "There's a little changing room you can use."
"OK, I'll be back in a minute," she said. "You go on."
Michael found it quite easy to walk along the wide branch and then put his one foot onto the ladder, which Mr Walters held steady for him. Within seconds, he was standing next to Mr Walters who looked him up and down delightedly. "Why, I could see you were a pretty girl when I happened to glance out of the bedroom window just now, but I never realised quite how pretty."
"Not really," Michael said, rather embarrassed at Mr Walters's stare. "I must look a mess after that tennis match."
"Pretty as a picture," Mr Walters said. "Now, I know your friend lives next door. Are you staying there or just visiting?"
"My name's Michelle," Michael introduced himself. "Mr Hussein has let me stay here as my mother has had to go to Yorkshire to look after my sick grandmother."
"Well her ill health is my good fortune," he said. "I don't get many children around here now. The kids who lived in Safia's house before they moved in were always popping around."
"I can see why," Michael said looking at the pool. "It looks so inviting."
"I have our swimming things," Safia's voice came from the other side of the fence. "I'm going to throw them over?"
They came flying over the fence, two towels wrapped around Anika's bikini and Safia's one-piece swimming costume.
Michael picked them up and then shouted to Safia, "If you reach up, you can grab a short branch sticking out..."
Two minutes later, she nimbly climbed down besides them and stood admiring the pool. "How wonderful. I can see it from my bedroom window, and I've often fancied climbing that tree to have an illicit swim."
"Well you won't have to do it illicitly now," Mr Walters said. "I'm happy for you to use the pool anytime, provided you bring a friend. You mustn't ever swim on your own in case anything happens."
"Yes, Mr Walters," Safia said.
"There's the changing room," Mr Walters indicated the small wooden hut. "I'm afraid it's only big enough for one at a time, so who's going first?"
"You go first," Safia said to Michael.
So he took the towel with his bikini and went inside the small cubicle, removed his clothes and pulled on the bikini.
It really did expose an awful amount of his breasts, he realised. He hoped it wouldn't give Mr Walters a heart attack. He went out, and let Safia enter the cubicle.
"Don't forget to use the swimming cap," she said, picking it up from the floor where it must have fallen, and thrusting it into his hands, "otherwise your hair will be ruined."
It was a good job she'd thought of it he realised. He sighed; there were just so many things to think about as a girl.
"Here's some suntan lotion," Mr Walters said, handing Michael a bottle as he was still struggling to put on his swim cap. "Put it on as the sun is very fierce at the moment."
"Thank you." Michael said, realising that was something else he hadn't thought of. He took the bottle and rubbed it into his face and body. "Do you think you could do my back?" he asked, turning around and holding out the bottle for Mr Walters, in the same way he'd have asked his mother if she'd been there.
"Of course," he said, and proceeded to rub ample quantities of lotion into the rear of Michael's body. It was only when he had started on Michael's buttocks right down to the top of his bikini that he realised that perhaps it hadn't been the most sensible thing to do."
"Thank you, Mr Walters," he said, turning around but making sure he had a smile on his face, rather than the scowl his boyish instincts suggested. "I think I can do the rest myself."
"It was a good job you thought of suntan lotion," Safia said to Mr Walters, coming up besides them. "Can you do my back afterwards," she added to Michael.
"It's important," Mr Walters said. "Especially with young skin. Now, Safia, once you have the cream on, you can both get in the pool. Never dive in here, though, it's not deep enough."
They both sat on the side of the pool and then slid down, letting the deliciously cool water sweep up their bodies.
"I'll go get the lemonade and gingerbread, Mr Walters said. "You two just have fun."
***
They certainly had fun galore in the pool, although always aware of Mr Walters's watchful eye, they refrained from anything which he might construe as petting. But there was plenty of pushing and jostling and ducking and grappling.
"What larks, you two have," Mr Walters said as they climbed out of it twenty minutes later. "I haven't seen young people having this much fun in years. Now, have some lemonade and gingerbread."
They tucked into it with relish. The lemonade was deliciously cold and fresh, and they both drank gallons of it. Neither of them had eaten gingerbread before and they wolfed it down. After all, it must be lunchtime by now and they hadn't eaten all morning. They took extra slices to eat, as they flopped down on the sun beds arranged next to the pool.
It had been a strenuous morning for both of them. Now relaxed, they felt a great tiredness creeping over them, and they both fell asleep.
Monday Afternoon
"I think you ought to wake up, now," Mr Walters said. "You've been in the sun for long enough, even with suntan lotion. You mustn't get burnt."
"Gosh," Michael said. "You're right."
"I am glad to see the pool getting some use," Mr Walters said. "The grandchildren are now at university, so I hardly see them. And I must say it's an absolute delight having such pretty girls frolicking in my pool. You are both very lovely women."
"Thanks Mr Walters," Safia said. "But it's Michelle who is really pretty. I'm just normal."
"Don't believe that," he said. "You are very pretty too, Safia. One day you will make some man very happy." Then, he added, "Or woman."
"Sorry?" Safia said, blushing to the routes.
"No need to be," he said. "You are what you are and take your time to decide what that is. There's no hurry. In the meantime, you give old men like me a lot of pleasure in admiring your youthful bodies, whatever your inclinations. OK?"
They both nodded.
"So I'll be delighted to see you again, as often as you wish. If I'm not here, you can make yourselves at home, but you mustn't swim on your own. There must always be two of you, all right?"
"Yes, Mr Walters."
"That bikini fits you rather better than it did Anika," he said to Michael.
"Anika?" Safia said. "When did you see Anika in that bikini?"
"Oh, she often used to play truant from school and come round here to swim. Who was I to complain? We chose that bikini off the internet and I bought it for her. It was the skimpiest one I could see!"
***
"The old dog," Michael said, almost admiringly as they entered Safia's house.
"I never knew Anika played truant," Safia said. "And I certainly didn't know she was swimming at Mr Walters' house and that he bought her a skimpy bikini."
"How do you feel about continuing to go round there?" he asked. "It's quite clear that he wants to lech at us."
She smiled and said, "So, you need to get used to being a girl, and a sexy girl at that. I don't think he's likely to rape us, so it doesn't bother me. Let's go again tomorrow."
It rather bothered Michael, but he thought it would sound childish to say so, so instead he said, "Well, you've always got me to protect you."
"That's nice," she said and she kissed him.
"Very nice," he said, and he kissed her back.
"Safia! Have you turned into a lesbian?"
The words were snapped at them from the lounge doorway. They both guiltily turned.
"Grandmamma! What are you doing here?" Safia gasped at the woman standing in the doorway.
"I mean," she added, "how nice to see you."
"I should think so, to," the tall woman said. Her similarities with Safia were undeniable, and she wore Western dress - a smart suit which gave her an elegance in spite of her years. She turned towards Michael and added, "I presume this is Michelle."
"I'm sorry, Grandmamma, I should have introduced you. This is my friend Michelle, who Anika told you about."
"How do you do, Michelle?" She held out her hand for Michael to shake. "Or perhaps," she added, staring closely at him, "it's really Michael?" She pulled his hand so he had to turn half sideways onto her.
Seeing their look of surprise and guilt, she said, "I recognise Anika's Bustlet, and presumably you're also wearing her Hiplet. Take those away and it becomes obvious you're a boy. But the hair is excellently done. It completely disguises you. Is Anika in on this con?"
Michael kept his mouth firmly shut, as he had done up until now, whilst Safia hesitated long enough for her to draw her own conclusions.
"So that sneaky little madam made me telephone your father and get the two of you to share a bed. I shall have words with her. I presume you are wearing the red gel, rather than the green? Even Anika isn't that stupid."
"Yes, Mrs Hussein." Michael spoke for the first time.
"Then there's no harm done, other than to my son's pride if he ever found out." She turned to Safia. "Aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea?"
"Yes, Grandmamma."
As Michael and Grandmamma waited in the lounge for Safia to make the tea, she started to smirk slightly, which then turned into a definite laugh.
"It's all right, Michael," she said, noticing his discomfort. "I'm not laughing at you; simply the thought of my idiot son making a fool of himself over a boy dressed as a girl."
Michael found he was laughing with her, and as Safia brought the tea in, she look pleased that the ice appeared to be broken.
"You're not cross with us, Grandmamma?"
"You'd better tell me how it happened, and I can make up my own mind."
After they had relayed the story, more or less, as it happened, she was again laughing. "So this whole story arose because of the stubbornness of my idiot son.
"And if I hear either of you repeat those words, you'll both be in trouble. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Grandmamma." "Yes, Mrs Hussein."
"Grandmamma. It is really nice to see you, but I still don't understand why you have come to visit us."
"Because your father rang me to tell me he has invited Haresh to dinner this evening. It is important to ensure that you are properly prepared for Haresh. There is a very strict protocol we will need to follow."
"Yes, Grandmamma," Safia resignedly said.
Monday Evening
Safia looked stunning when Mr Hussein arrived at the house that evening, wearing a red tunic with deep V multicoloured insert, over red trousers, which Grandmamma had bought especially for her.
"Safia, you make me so proud," Mr Hussein said, with a huge grin on his face. "Haresh is waiting in the car. I shall go and invite him in."
"Not before Safia has retired upstairs," Grandmamma snapped from behind him.
"Mother!" Mr Hussein exclaimed, taken by surprise at her presence. "What are you doing here?"
"You surely didn't think I would allow you to supervise such an important occasion for my granddaughter, did you?"
"Well, I don't see why not..."
"Tch! Don't be ridiculous. Safia is not quite ready to meet Haresh, so Michelle, will you look after him for a few minutes." She turned to Michelle and said, "Offer him a drink, Michelle. Safia, go upstairs and I will be with you shortly."
Safia obediently returned upstairs and Mr Hussein stepped outside to invite Haresh into the house. Michael took an immediate dislike to him, and not just because he wanted to marry the love of Michael's life. He looked incredibly old and very shifty.
Haresh was introduced to Grandmamma and he made all the right, smarmy noises at her. Michael thought he might throw up.
"And who is this young lady?" Haresh turned to Michael who had been hovering behind Grandmamma, hoping he wouldn't be noticed.
"This is Safia's friend, Michelle," Grandmamma pronounced from the lounge doorway. "She is going to host the evening whilst I act as chaperone to Safia.
"Go on then, girl," Grandmamma snapped at Michael. "Get on with it."
"Yes, Mrs Hussein." Michael tried to smile at him, but found it difficult. "Would you like to come this way, sir?"
Michael led the way into the lounge where the drinks had been prepared - a number of cordials and soft drinks, as well as several alcoholic ones.
"No need for formalities, Michelle," Haresh said, trying to put the girl at ease. "I must say it's a bonus having such a pretty girl as you to assist with the proceedings."
"Thank you," Michael said, blushing slightly as Haresh swept an appraising eye over his body. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Is there any vodka?"
Michael confirmed that there was.
"Then give me a decent shot in a glass of cola, and there's no need to tell Mr Hussein or the old bat about it. All right?"
Michael obligingly half-filled a glass with cola and then added a tot of vodka - the kind of measure his mother would have of gin.
"More than that," Haresh said, taking the vodka bottle from her and almost filling the glass. "And why don't you have one yourself, as well?" He reached for another glass.
"I don't drink," Michael protested. He did actually but Grandmamma had given him strict instructions about that, and it was more than he dared to disobey her.
"You have to start sometime," Haresh said, passing him a glass containing at least as much vodka. "Now, drink it down."
Michael was saved having to do so as the door opened and Mr Hussein came in. "Sorry about this," he said to Haresh. "My mother is insisting that strict protocol is followed. I think it will be some time before Safia is ready."
"That's no problem," Haresh said with a smile.
"Father," Safia's voice came from upstairs. "Could you speak with Grandmamma, please?"
Mr Hussein made an apologetic face, and turned and left the room.
"That's all for the good," Haresh said. "It gives us a bit of quiet time together."
"I'm sorry?" Michael said.
"Why don't you and I have a bit of fun before they come back?" he said.
"Fun?" Michael couldn't believe his ears. "But you're here to see Safia. She's my friend and your intended..."
"Come on. A beautiful girl like you must have offers all the time." He reached forward and squeezed her left breast. "Look, you are fucking gorgeous. How about a quick blow job?"
"No!" Michael said, knocking Haresh's hand away. "I shall tell Mr Hussein."
"You think he'll believe a little English tart like you against a respectable man like me? Come on. Don't be a little cock-teaser."
"How dare you?" Mr Hussein had silently re-entered the room, and now stood behind them with a black look on his face. "You abuse my hospitality. You insult me in my own home. Get out."
"But sir, she was leading me on."
"I heard who was leading who on. Now, get out and don't come back."
"Or perhaps," Haresh said, a sly look coming onto his face, "you have already deflowered her and want to keep her for your own. We both know English girls are easy meat."
Mr Hussein's reaction was so sharp that neither Michael nor Haresh saw it coming. One second, Haresh was grinning at Mr Hussein, the next Mr Hussein's fist was smacking him in the face and he was lying prone on the floor, a dazed look on his face with a bright red patch developing around his eye.
"You insult both my good friend and my deceased wife. If you do it again, I shall slit your throat. Now get out."
He pulled Haresh to his feet, dragged him from the room and Michael heard the front door open and it went quiet, presumably as Mr Hussein took him to the gate and threw him out.
A few seconds later, Grandmamma entered the lounge and said, "At last, Safia is ready to meet her prospective fiancé."
"I'm afraid Mr Hussein has just thrown Haresh out," Michael said.
"Excellent," Grandmamma said with a smile. "But I didn't mean that one."
"What are you talking about?" Mr Hussein, said returning to the room, clearly having heard part of the conversation.
"Oh, nothing," Grandmamma said, with another sly smile. She would never tell her son that she had left her mobile phone in the lounge on call to Safia's, and that they had been able to hear every word said by Haresh and Michael. It had simply been a matter of ensuring that Mr Hussein entered the room at the right time.
***
"I think," Grandmamma said some time later after they had all got over the immediate events, "that we must take care that Haresh has no grounds for his fictitious accusation about you, my son." She said the words as though she hadn't made exactly the same accusation directly to him just a few days ago.
Mr Hussein nodded. He had been silently pondering exactly the same issue. "What do you suggest?"
"Why. I shall stay on here, of course, until Michelle's mother returns and she can go home. I think that's best for all, don't you?" She swept her eye over all three and was delighted to note the dismay on all their faces.
She smiled at them. It would do them no harm to keep them on their toes. However, she would probably have all kinds of lapses as far as the two girls were concerned. After all, what mischief could two girls get up to?
Strings of Sighs
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This story contains subjects which some readers dislike, such as humour, crossdressing, and the occasional swear word. If you find such subjects offensive, please don't read it or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.
The Strings of Sighs
by
Charlotte Dickles
"It looks like Clara isn't coming this evening," said Louise, the first violin in The Strings of Sighs, the school's string quartet. "It was pretty selfish of her not to let us know."
"Well, that's Clara all over," said Jenny, the second violin. "She's far too high and mighty to care about inconveniencing us. I guess we can give up this evening's practice — yet again."
They were trying to have a rehearsal, and this was now the third time that Clara had let them down, although previously she had at least told them beforehand. None of them said the words, but they all felt that, with critics tipping her as the next Jacqueline du Pre, she couldn't be bothered with her school group.
"I think it would be good to carry on, regardless," Emily, the rather plump viola player, said. "Show that she's not essential to the group."
"A bit difficult without a cellist," Louise said.
"Jenny, why don't we ask your brother if he'll stand in for us?" Emily said. "He's a pretty good cellist."
"You're only suggesting him," Louise accused, "because you fancy him."
"I do not," Emily denied, blushing furiously.
"You fancy my brother?" Jenny said, showing her disgust by pretending to thrust a finger down her throat. "But even I have to admit he is a half-decent cellist, and we only live five minutes away. Shall I give him a ring?"
Ten minutes later, Gary entered the school's rehearsal room, clutching his cello case. "So, The Strings of Sighs needs a bit of SPS, does it?" he teased his sister.
SIGHS was the abbreviation for the Seacombe Independent Girls' High School and SPS, the local boys' public school.
"This is Louise and this is Emily," Jenny introduced the members of the group to him. "And this," she turned to the other girls, "is Gary, my little brother."
Gary might have reacted rather more strongly about being called 'little' had he not just noticed HER — the sexiest girl he had ever seen.
"I'm not that little," he said, squirming at the way Jenny had humiliated him in front of HER.
"I think you're cute," Emily said.
"Thanks," Gary said, rather embarrassed.
"Shall we get going?" Louise pointedly asked everyone, noting that in spite of their ribaldry, brother and sister seemed very close. She'd have to be very nice to Gary, she thought, if she was not to upset Jenny and she really, really did not want to upset Jenny, the sexiest girl in the school.
In fact, they all got along together, famously. They were all good players, and Jenny noted that her brother seemed to be playing better than he had ever played before. Perhaps he's trying to impress Emily, she thought with a little smile. At the end of their session, when silence once more reigned, they all looked around with the particular satisfaction of having all done their very best, and then some.
"That was brilliant, everyone," Louise said. "Well done, particularly you, Gary, as you haven't played with us before."
"Thanks, Louise," Gary said. "I really enjoyed playing with you." Oh, if only I could, he thought.
"You'll give him a big head," Jenny complained.
If only she would, Gary thought.
"I thought you were fantastic," Emily said. "Perhaps he should join our group." She'd willingly join up with him, anytime, she thought, bringing another blush to her cheeks.
"It's a real shame he can't," Louise said, noting the approval of her comment in Jenny's eyes. "Clara seems to be becoming more and more unreliable. I hope she's going to be with us tomorrow evening."
"We're booked to play for a banquet tomorrow," Emily explained to Gary. She turned to Louise, "Don't you think Gary could play instead? He's as good as Clara."
"Don't let Clara hear you say that," Jenny said, adding, "But I think I should tell you that when Clara didn't turn up this evening, I'm afraid I decided to give up this group. I'm fed up with her treating us like her accompaniment."
"You can't do that," Louise gasped, the thought of losing Jenny terrifying her. "We need you here. The group will fold without you."
"Obviously, I'll play tomorrow night," Jenny continued, "presuming it's going ahead, and any other engagements already arranged, but..."
She was interrupted by the ringing of Emily's phone. She pulled it from her handbag.
"Oh, Clara," Emily said. "Glad you found the time to phone." The other two girls were amazed that the normally timid Emily was so abrupt.
She listened. "Look," she said, "we don't care if you had an audition with the London Philharmonic, you should have telephoned beforehand. We were waiting around like lemons until we found a substitute." More listening. "Well the substitute was good," she said, "because we didn't have any of the tantrums and bad behaviour we normally get from you — when you bother to turn up, that is."
The sounds emanating from the mobile got louder and louder, and Emily had to hold the phone away from her ear. Eventually, she calmly said down the phone, "Why don't you go and get fucked?" and she then terminated the call.
There was a silence that lasted for several seconds, before Louise said, "Well, you certainly told her."
"Emily, you're normally so meek," Jenny said. "That's why Clara always telephones you with her excuses, rather than either of us."
"Maybe I bottle it up, too much," she said, "but I thought it time to let her know how she messes us around."
"But without Clara," Louise said, "it leaves us without a quartet."
"I told you — we should get Gary to play with us."
Suddenly, Emily's behaviour was totally transparent to the two girls.
"But we're playing at a sales conference banquet," Louise said. "They have booked an all-girl quartet because they want to ogle a group of sexy, girl musicians. To be frank, they're not really interested in the quality of our music."
"Perhaps we should put Gary in a dress," Jenny teased, rather annoyed with the way Emily had manipulated things.
Seeing the embarrassment on Gary's face, Emily retorted angrily, "That's a really stupid suggestion, Jenny."
"Actually, I think he'd look rather good in a dress," Louise said, wanting to support Jenny against Emily. She, too, believed that Emily had manipulated events for her own selfish ends — and heterosexual ends at that!
Gary looked at her with shocked horror. It was one thing for his sister to suggest something so stupid, quite another for this beautiful girl to do so.
Seeing his look, Louise sought to justify her remark. "Most blokes look absurd wearing women's clothes," she said, looking at his small frame and pleasant face, "but I think you'd look quite pretty."
"Gee, er, thanks," Gary said, wondering whether to be pleased or disappointed at her comment. He decided on the former. He gave her a big smile. "I guess being called pretty is quite a compliment, but..."
He paused, feeling very confused. "You don't really think I'd look good in a dress, do you?"
"Yes I do." Louise wasn't going to back down now. "But then I really find those alpha male types quite nauseating. A man who was in touch with his inner self and was brave enough to wear a dress would be quite different."
Gary still looked uncertain, as well he might.
"Look," Emily said. "We know The Strings of Sighs produced better music this evening than we've ever done, because we were playing as a quartet, rather than as accompaniment to Clara. We all gelled together brilliantly. We can't lose that."
"It's also true that I've never heard Gary play so well," Jenny said.
"So Jenny," Louise said, "does that mean that if we get Gary to play with us, then you wouldn't leave the group?"
Jenny looked at Gary and smiled. "Well, I don't see how it's possible, except that he hasn't ruled out putting on a dress in order to join us tomorrow. But yes, I'd continue if Gary could start playing with us on a regular basis instead of Clara."
"Now hang on, Jenny," he said, "I may..."
"It would be fun," Emily said, staring him directly in the face and hoping he'd get the message.
"Yes, it would," Louise said, realising Emily was probably going to frighten him off if she didn't water it down. "Great fun," she added, looking him in the eye so that his gaze would not return to Emily.
Gary's heart almost leapt through the ceiling when Louise gave him that special look. "I'll do it," he said. At that moment, he'd have agreed to do anything, just for a bit more time with the most beautiful girl in the world.
"Why don't you all come round to my house at about ten," Emily suggested. "My parents are always out shopping most of Saturday."
"It won't take all day," he protested. "I'm just putting on a dress for the evening performance."
"A girl never just puts on a dress," Emily replied with a knowing look. "She has to prepare herself to look her best. In your case, we have rather more of a challenge."
"But Louise said I'm quite pretty." Gary turned to Louise for support. "You did say that."
Louise smiled, lifting his heart. "Yes, I said it," she said, "but Emily is right it will take time to make you look your best. And I'll need to visit Clara in the morning and recover her The Strings of Sighs dress."
Gary's heart suddenly leapt into his mouth as he realised the dress he was going to wear. "Oh. You mean I'll be wearing one of those dresses."
Several of the teaching staff had been shocked at the dress Miss Harper, the Headmistress, had agreed to purchase for the girls to perform in.
"This isn't a recorder group," she had told them. "We want the quartet to get bookings at weddings and other functions. The girls need to look like professional performers."
It wasn't that the long, black, silky evening gowns had long slits or low necklines, or were even translucent, but they were made of such a fine material that they flowed over every outline of the girls' bodies. It was noticeable that the outline of Emily's bra could be clearly seen, whilst no such mark could be seen on any of the other girls, although their small pointed nipples could. And there was absolutely no trace of any panties or other underwear on any of them. It drove the boys at SPS crazy with excitement, and most of the male audience as well.
All the girls grinned back at him. "Oh, yes," they replied in unison, mimicking the TV commercial.
"Oh God!"
"There's no going back now," Jenny told him. "You're committed."
"You can do it," Emily said.
"Yes, you can," Louise confirmed, and his objections dissolved.
"OK," he said. "Ten o'clock tomorrow at Emily's house."
Oh Gaby," Jenny said. "You'll be great."
"Gaby? Oh no, you're not calling me Gaby."
"We're going to have to give you a name to announce at the performance," Jenny said, "and we can hardly continue to call you Gary. Gaby not only sounds similar, so you'll probably react to it as you would your own name, but it's also the name of our cousin in London. So if anyone does ask any questions, we can simply reply as though you were her."
"It's because it's our stuck-up Sloane Ranger cousin's name that I won't have it," he said.
"How about Gabriella, then?" Emily suggested. "Presumably that's her full name, so it has the advantage you can use her identity without you mentally identifying with her. Plus, it's a really pretty name, which will go nicely with such an attractive girl."
Gary couldn't help but return Emily's smile. She seemed a very nice girl who was making his conversion a lot easier than he had dreaded. "OK," he said. "Gabriella Green it is, and no one is to call me Gaby. Right?"
"Of course not, Gaby," Jenny teased
***
"Do you think I'm crazy," he asked Jenny as they walked back home.
"It couldn't have anything to do," Jenny asked, "with you being rather taken with someone in the quartet, could it?"
"Of course not," he said.
"Hmm."
They walked in silence for another minute, before Jenny said, "I think we ought to tell Mum and Dad."
"Oh no," Gary said. "It would be too embarrassing. Dad will call me a poofta, and you know how he goes on about them."
"Yes," Jenny said, she knew how their father disliked homosexuality. "But I still think we have to tell them what you're doing, otherwise they will think the worst."
So when they got into their house, they went straight into the lounge where their parents were watching TV. Fortunately, it was in a commercial break, so Jenny launched straight in.
"Mum, Dad. Gary played with us brilliantly this evening. We played better music today than we've ever done with Clara as cellist."
"That's nice dear."
"I think the nephew is going to be the killer," their father said, talking about the murder mystery on TV.
"So we've asked Gary to play with us tomorrow evening at the Grand Hotel."
"That's lovely dear. But it can't be the nephew because he was dining with the Vice-Chancellor of the university."
"They were both lying," their father said. He grinned at Gary. "Just as long as you don't have to wear a dress, eh, kid?"
Jenny and Gary looked at each other.
"But I do," he said.
"Yeah, right," said his father.
"That'll be nice, dear. I think it's the son. He looks real shifty."
Gary looked at Jenny and they both left the room.
"We tried," Jenny said. "It's just so difficult talking to them about important things."
"Well, it's not that important," Gary said.
"No," she said, "I suppose not."
***
"Hi Gary, hi Jen," Emily said, looking more bright and cheerful than Jenny had ever seen her. Perhaps, Jenny thought, she was one of those annoying morning people, or perhaps, she mentally added, it was simply the prospect of doing rather intimate things with her brother.
"I called my sister, Jessica, at University last night," Emily said, "because I remember when she was in the Sixth Form, she had to convert some boys to get them into our hockey team." (See Jolly Hockey Sticks by Charlotte Dickles.) "You'll never guess what she still had in her wardrobe."
Gary and Jenny both indicated they couldn't guess.
"Come and see," Emily delightedly said.
She took them upstairs to a bedroom. "Apparently, my mum borrowed four of them from her work," she said, "but this one came back late and it never got returned."
She opened the wardrobe door with a flourish. Hanging inside was what appeared to be a girl's torso. Both Gary and Jenny recoiled.
"It's all right," she said. "It's not real; it just looks very real. It's called a Torsolet. My mum used to work at the shop in town where they sold them."
"You're suggesting I wear that?" Gary said, eying the garment which was like a skin-coloured leotard, with prominent nipples and clearly a vagina between the legs.
"It will give you a girl's body," Emily said. "When Louise brings Clara's dress, we can inflate the breasts with water to make them just the right size to fit it."
"You won't have to inflate them very much," Jenny said. "She's got smaller breasts than I have."
Gary shrugged and took a deep breath. "I guess I'd better try it on."
"Not yet," Emily said. "We need to dehair you first. Are you wearing your swimming briefs like I suggested?"
Gary slowly nodded.
***
An hour later, Gabriella looked down her body and gasped. The way Gary's legs had been transformed into sexy, shapely ones, simply with the removal of their hair was remarkable enough. But the Torsolet had worked wonders from the thighs right up to her neck. She now had beautifully small breasts pushing out of her hairless chest, and between them, she could see the slight bush of pubic hair, totally devoid of the normal things sticking out there. She rather wanted to slide a finger down there, but could not with Jenny and Emily staring critically at her.
"What do you think?" Emily asked.
"Fantastic," Gabriella replied. She turned the other way and glanced in the mirror, marvelling at how the wide padded hips and bum gave her the unmistakeable outline of a curvy girl, regardless of the size of her tiny boobs.
"Is it comfortable," Emily asked. "I've only used the short term anti-perspirant gel that comes with it, so we'll have to take everything off, wash out the Torsolet and renew it just before we set off to the performance."
"Why not use the longer term stuff?" Gabriella asked.
Emily grinned. "You wouldn't thank me for that," she said. "The long term gel is semi-permanent. You'd be stuck in it for two weeks."
"What a pity you didn't use it," Jenny quipped.
Gabriella pulled a face. "Stuff you," she said.
"Gabriella," Jenny admonished. "Nice young ladies do not speak like that."
"Whilst we're waiting for Louise to turn up with Clara's dress, you can put on some of my jeans," Emily said, opening her wardrobe again. "I think we're probably about the same size hips. I've also got a wig I used in the school play. I think it will suit you.
"Thanks, Emily," Gabriella said. She was a good friend, she thought. On the other hand, she couldn't wait for Louise to turn up.
***
"Clara won't hand over her dress," Louise said as soon as she entered Emily's bedroom where Emily was finishing Gabriella's makeup.
"You look fantastic, Gabriella," she added, as she noticed her in the mirror.
Gabriella's heart leapt with joy. "Thanks," she said.
"You look so like a girl," Louise added, giving the best compliment she knew.
"Thanks, Louise," Gabriella said, feeling confused.
"But Clara's got to return the dress," Jenny said, picking up Louise's remark. "The school bought it for our group."
"She says that Miss Harper agreed she could use it for all performances she gave. So she's not handing it over. I need hardly tell you she was mighty upset that we had thrown her out of the group."
"She's just being selfish," Emily said. "Why don't we contact Miss Harper?"
"Because Miss Harper will support her," Louise said. "She's performing at a regional competition in Bath at lunchtime on Sunday. She'll be staying there tonight so she says she can't let us even borrow the dress overnight."
"So what do we do now?" Jenny asked.
"I do have a spare," Emily said. "When Miss Harper bought these, my mum insisted on purchasing an extra one so that we could have one in cleaning whilst I wore the other. I'm afraid it will be a rather larger size than Clara's."
"Oh good," Jenny said. "That means we'll have to give Gabriella nice big tits."
"Jen," Gabriella complained.
"And I thought boys liked big boobs," Jenny replied, winking at Emily.
"Maybe," Gabriella admitted, then realised she would be upsetting Louise. "I mean No."
"I think Gabriella is even beginning to think like a girl," Louise said approvingly. "It's so Neanderthal to like big boobs."
Gabriella, as confused as ever, said nothing.
"Emily took a long black gown out of her wardrobe, and asked Gabriella to stand up, so she could hold it against her."
"I'm a bit taller than you," she said, "so you'll have to wear taller heels." She grinned at Gabriella's look of distaste. "It's all right," she said, "I only wear two inch heels with this dress. I think you'll be fine with three inch heels. Hang on..."
She turned to rummage through the bottom of her wardrobe, and stood up holding black shoes with high heels. "Try these on," she said.
"I can't wear those," Gabriella said.
"They may be too small for your feet," Emily said, "but if you can squeeze into them for a few seconds, we'll be able to judge the height. You may as well take off the jeans and tee shirt, then we can try the dress on properly."
No one else seemed at all phased by her request, so Gabriella pulled off her shoes and socks, and then her jeans and tee shirt, and stood there as a naked girl, apart from the panties Emily had loaned her
"How did you get Gabriella looking like that?" Louise asked.
Emily explained about the Torsolet, showing her the almost invisible join where Torsolet met Gabriella's own skin.
Louise shook her head. "Amazing," she said.
But Emily was now rummaging through a drawer and she triumphantly produced a black bra. "There," she declared. "I knew I had a spare one of these."
Gabriella looked horrified. "You want me to wear your bra! But... I can't."
"Of course you'll need to wear my bra," Emily said with a smile. "But it's OK. I don't mind."
Gabriella knew it was inconsistent. All morning, he had, step by step, been turned from a sixteen-year-old boy into a credible looking girl - the hairs on his legs removed; gel spread over his body and then the Torsolet pulled over his head and down his body, with only the area beneath his swimming trunks left for him to do by himself.
It was Gary who had gone into the bathroom, but undoubtedly Gabriella who had come out. After that, she had been sprayed with perfume, and Emily and Jenny had spent ages experimenting with makeup to minimise his boyish looks, and emphasise the feminine.
Only now, with Emily's bra dangling before her, did the enormity of what she was doing strike her in the face. Bras were for removing from girls (in his dreams, anyway), but definitely not for putting on oneself.
"So typical of a boy," Louise scorned. "Reckons there's nothing to being a girl but won't even put on a bra."
Gabriella felt very hurt by Louise's remark. It was one thing for Jenny to tease him, quite another for the girl he so wanted to impress.
"Gabriella's done marvels, already," Emily said. "I don't think many boys would have done this, and I suspect you wouldn't have done the reverse and pretended to be a boy."
"That's different," Louise said, and then apologised. "Sorry, I hate it when people say that to me." She smiled at Gabriella and Gabriella's heart lifted. "You have done wonders so far, Gabriella, but you need to go the extra mile and wear the bra."
Gabriella nodded. "OK, Emily," she said. "Do your worst."
Twenty minutes later, Gabriella stood before them, tottering on her high heels, with her black dress not quite touching the floor.
Emily had inflated her breasts so they completely filled her bra by connecting a pipe from the water tap to the nipples on the Torsolet. Gabriella couldn't believe the view as she peered down the Grand Canyon between her breasts. All the same, there was one overiding issue she could not ignore.
"The shoes really are killing me," she said.
"I thought they might be too small for your feet," Emily said. "Never mind, we can go to the shops this afternoon and get you a pair which fit properly."
"Er, when you say we," Gabriella said, desperately hoping the answer was not what she thought it would be, "you didn't mean me, did you?"
"Of course you must come and try on the shoes," Emily said, "otherwise we wouldn't know we have the right size."
"But I might meet some of my friends," Gabriella said. "They'll recognise me."
"No way," Emily said. "Look, I'll lend you a low-cut sun top which will show off your boobs, and a short skirt. I bet none of your mates know what fantastic legs you have."
Gabriella had to admit the accuracy of that statement. "But they might try to talk to me."
"In which case, you're Gabriella Green," Jenny said, "from London visiting your cousin. I'll come as well, then I can make any introductions."
Gabriella shrugged. "S'pose so," she said.
***
When Emily had suggested the low-cut sun top and short skirt, Gabriella had seen it as necessary to prove that she really was female. But as she stepped on the bus with Jenny and Emily, she realised the disadvantages.
"Phwoar, cop a look at those knockers," she heard one of the group of boys sitting near the front of the bus mutter to his mates.
"Never mind the knockers," another said. "Look at those pins."
"The arse, man, get a gander of that arse."
"Get used to it," Emily said in a low voice as Jenny paid for their fares. "We girls have to, all the time."
"Anyway," she added as they took their seats towards the rear of the bus, "they liked your boobs, your legs and your bottom."
"Well I like yours," Gabriella said, "but I don't shout it out."
"Do you?"
Gabriella was surprised how pleased Emily seemed by her remark. But then, she thought, it was quite exhilerating to have someone lust after her. If only a certain girl would do it.
"Just remember," Jenny said, "whatever embarrassment you might feel at boys looking at you with lust, is as nothing to what it could have been."
They all grinned at each other about that.
When they arrived in the town centre, Gabriella was dismayed to find there was a strong breeze coming in from the sea, as often happened early afternoon. It had a tendency to terrifyingly lift Gabriella's skirts. She had to keep her hands closely at her sides, and several times had to grab the front or rear of her skirt as the wind lifted it.
Several people had grinned at her antics, and two boys yelled, "We saw your knickers."
After a bit of giggling at Gabriella's plight, Emily took pity on her.
"You can see why most women don't wear skirts, nowadays," she said. "But the best thing to do is to keep your hands by your sides and just accept that now and again, a few people will see your panties. At least you're wearing some."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
She gave such a happy smile; Gabriella couldn't help but smile back.
"Oh, Gabriella," Emily said. "I told you it would be fun, and this is all part of it. So what if some stupid schoolboy gets turned on by seeing your panties. The last laugh is on him, as he doesn't know who he's really getting turned on by."
Gabriella had to admit, the idea of stupid boys getting turned on by looking at a boy in panties was rather amusing. As well as, Gabriella realised, rather erotic.
It was only when they stepped inside the ladies shoe shop that Gabriella started to feel nervous again. After all, this was strictly a female domain, and as they walked in, a woman was examining her legs as she stood in front of a mirror wearing a pair of high heels. Her legs looked incredibly shapely, and as Gabriella ogled the sight, Jenny said, "That's what your legs will look like in your new shoes."
"You're kidding."
"Don't tease her, Jen," Emily said. "Don't forget she'll be wearing a long dress tonight. Which is a shame as no one will see what fantastic legs she has."
"Of course, no one will see her legs tonight," Jenny agreed. "But don't forget she's never before worn heels. She has to get some experience with them, otherwise she's bound to trip in them tonight. So she needs to wear them on the way home."
"Jenny! No!" Gabriella turned to Emily. "She is teasing, isn't she?"
But for once, Emily wasn't able to reassure her. "I'd forgotten about that," she said. "Of course, Jenny is right. You'll have to be very brave and wear them home."
"Wearing this skirt!" Gabriella shouted.
A few of the customers in the shop turned around to locate the source of the commotion, and an assistant came over to see if she could help.
"My cousin wants to try on those shoes," Jenny pointed, "and those, but she doesn't know her size. Could you measure her, please?"
"Of course, madam. If you'd like to take a seat."
Gabriella knew she had no choice and sat down, whilst the assistant measured her feet. When she had gone off to fetch the shoes in her size, Gabriella said, "Why didn't you say this before we left Emily's house? I could have worn jeans, like you two."
"But Gabriella," Jenny said, "my brother is always saying how sexy girls look in short skirts, and how it should be made a criminal offence for them to wear trousers."
"You don't say that, do you Gabriella?" Emily asked, rather shocked at Jenny's revelation.
"Well..." It had been Gary who started to reply, but Gabriella who took over the question. "Of course, anyone should be free to dress how they wish, but I do think that dresses and skirts make us women look far more attractive than trousers."
"So you have no problem," Jenny said, "in going home in short skirt and high heels?"
Gabriella gulped, and then took her courage in her hands. "None, except that I have no experience with high heels, and I think I'm going to need the support of both my cousin and my friend with this."
Emily and Jenny looked at each other. "It's a deal," they said.
In fact, the shop didn't have any shoes in Gabriella's size, so they had to leave that shop and go into another, where they only had brown or blue shoes of the right heel height in Gabriella's size. Then they went to another, and another, until they finally found what they were searching for.
"I can't even stand up in these," Gabriella said after she had put on both shoes.
"Are you not used to high heels?" the assistant asked. "It might be better to try a lower heel to start with."
"She needs the height for a dress she has to wear tonight," Jenny explained.
"OK," the assistant smiled. "In that case, just push your weight down through your heel, as if you were standing flat on the ground."
As Gabriella cautiously rose to her feet, she added, "Don't be afraid of your heels - they're your friends. Now," she took Gabriella's hand, "just try a little walk over to the mirror. That's it, keep your weight back and go carefully until you're used to them. There, you're a natural. And look in the mirror at the extra shape it's given to your legs."
Gabriella almost gasped as she stared at her own legs.
"We'll take those," Jenny said. They had pooled their money that morning, and she now paid for them.
"She'll keep them on now," Emily said. "She has to get used to them for this evening."
"Are you doing anything special?" the shop girl asked.
"We play in a string quartet," Emily said. When the girl obviously didn't know what that was, she added. "A group."
"Oh! Great. Good luck with your performance."
The girls left the shop feeling pleased with themselves, and Gabriella started to feel less uneasy about wearing a skirt which showed off her superb legs. Everytime she felt a man's eyes upon her, she felt a little thrill shoot through her. If only they knew.
But she'd only walked a short distance before her ankles started to ache.
"Keep going," Emily said. "I know it's murder when you first start, but you'll soon get used to it." She took Gabriella's hand and pulled it under her own arm, causing the back of Gabriella's wrist to touch against Emily's breast.
"If you were a boy," Emily said, grinning again, "I'd have to slap your face for touching me there."
"I've always known," Gabriella said, "that being a girl had definite advantages. They... that is, we, have much more fun."
"I think Jenny probably agrees with that," Emily said. "Don't you Jenny?"
"What? Er, yes, I suppose so."
Gabriella couldn't understand why Jenny had started to blush, but her thoughts were brought back sharply as Jenny and Emily turned in order to enter another shop. Gabriella glanced at the name. It was Victoria's Secrets!
"You're not going in there!" she gasped.
"Of course," Jenny said. "We said we'd have to get you a few more things for tonight."
"What sort of things?"
Emily grasped Gabriella by the arm and whispered in her ear. "It won't be a secret if we yell it across the road. Come inside and then we can show you."
"Yes, but... In there?"
Emily smiled. "It's alright. You're a pretty girl who needs the right underwear for tonight."
She took Gabriella's hand and dragged her inside.
"Here we are," Jenny said, "this is a nice suspender belt." She held it up so Gabriella could see.
"A suspender belt?" Gabriella wished the floor would open up and swallow him (he was feeling very male, all of a sudden). Jenny had spoken in her normal voice, and yet no one had turned a hair.
"It's all right, Gabriella," Emily said. "It's a perfectly normal thing for a pretty girl like you to buy."
Her remark calmed Gabriella, and she felt able to look at the garment Jenny was holding out.
"It's thick enough so it will be seen beneath the dress," Jenny said, "but not that thick that it looks obvious."
"But I don't want it to show through the dress," Gabriella said. That wasn't an unreasonable feeling for a girl, surely?
"Louise and I were talking about this," Jenny said, "and we all know how our dresses tend to outline every little bump beneath. We thought by drawing attention to your suspender belt and stocking tops, no one would notice any less obvious joins." She didn't have to mention the Torsolet but they all knew.
But Gabriella picked up on something else. "Stocking tops! You're not..."
"Of course, you must, Gabriella," Emily said. "All girls wear them sometimes."
"But don't you wear tights?"
"Of course, but Jenny's right about drawing attention away from other things. Now if you're happy with the suspender belt, let's get you some stockings and a thong."
"A thong!"
"You want them to see your stockings and suspenders, but visible pantie line is a no-no."
"Oh God!"
***
"I just can't play in these heels," Gabriella said, later that evening. "The dress I can manage, but the heels totally alter my stance. I'll have to take them off for the performance, except it will be different again, playing in bare feet."
"Look, lets practice some more," Emily said. "I'm sure you'll get used to them in a few minutes."
It was ten minutes before they were due to start performing, and they were in the ante-chamber just behind the stage at the one end of the Grand Hotel's banqueting suite. In fifteen minutes, two hundred and fifty salesmen would enter the hall and expect to have a pretty female quartet playing to them as they wined and dined.
It didn't help that Louise had only just arrived (parent trouble, she had said), and was now frantically pulling off her jeans and top, oblivious to Gabriella's presence, until she stood naked apart from her tights. Whilst Jenny and Emily had also changed in the same room, they had both turned their backs on him as they went through the most intimate part of the process, but Louise had no such inhibitions. Gabriella desperately tried not to gasp as she turned, her pert breasts giving slight joggles as she tried to unzip the garment bag containing her dress.
"She's totally shameless," Jenny said, realising Gabriella's position.
"Oh," Louise grinned, suddenly realising. "I'd forgotten you were really a..."
"Sshh," Emily said. "We don't know who might hear us outside this room."
It was fortunate that she took the attention away from Gabriella, because Louise's comment had lanced right through him — She had forgotten he was really a boy! Did she have no feelings at all for him? Clearly not, he was forced to admit. He felt tears pricking his eyes, and was breathless, as though someone had hit him hard in the stomach.
"I think you lot had better get out on stage," Louise said, oblivious to the hurt she had caused, "and I'll catch you up. Kisses for everyone."
She bent over so she could air kiss Gabriella, her tits dangling right in front of his nose, before turning towards Emily and doing the same. That was perhaps the ultimate affront; even having being reminded that he was really a boy, she considered his sex insignificant enough to flaunt herself in front of him.
"I guess you didn't know about them," Emily said.
"What?" He turned his face towards her, fighting the tears.
"You didn't know about Jenny and Louise," she said. "I guess it's quite a surprise."
What was she talking about? Gabriella turned towards Jenny and Louise to find them locked in an embrace, Louise's hands squeezing Jenny's bum, and their mouths working together in a passionate kiss.
"Uh?" was all he could say.
"I find it quite embarrassing," Emily said. "It must be worse, being your sister, regardless of whether or not you're OK with the sexuality of it."
"Er... Yes."
"Let's get out on stage," Emily said. She raised her voice. "Come on you two. We haven't got time for that. Break it off. We need to be playing in three minutes." She picked up her viola and motioned for Gabriella to follow her.
"How long have they been..." Gabriella asked.
"It's gradually got more and more intense throughout the term," Emily said. "But it's important you put all that behind you now. We're on stage. Those two will be out in a few minutes and then we have to play as though nothing has happened."
"Emily." The voice snapped at them from nowhere. "Where on earth have you been? You should be playing by now."
"Sorry, Miss Harper," Emily said.
All the boys at SPS knew Miss Harper, the headmistress of SIGHS, by sight and reputation, and all were terrified of her.
"And who is this young lady?"
"It's Gabriella Green. She's Jenny's cousin, and she's filling in for Clara."
"Filling in for Clara! You mean Clara's not here tonight? Why not?"
"She wasn't a reliable performer," Louise's voice came from behind them. "She's let us down several times at rehearsals, and we decided we couldn't continue running the quartet unless she was replaced."
"WHAT! How dare you do such a thing without consulting me? You think all the people here tonight want to hear you three and some unknown cellist perform? They have come here to hear our great cellist, Clara Drake."
"We understood it was a sales conference," Jenny said, clearly mystified.
"Yes," Miss Harper said. "It is a sales conference. These people are on a conference organised by the String Instrument Retailers' Association, and they have specifically held their conference in Seacombe in order to hear Clara play."
"I'm afraid Clara has gone to Bath, tonight, Miss Harper," Louise said. "She's performing there tomorrow at lunchtime."
"I can assure you, young lady, that she and I are driving to Bath tomorrow morning."
"Then she lied to us, Miss Harper," Emily said. "She told Louise she was not in Seacombe tonight, and we got Gabriella to fill in for her. I'm afraid that's the way Clara has been behaving towards The Strings of Sighs for several months. Maybe we were wrong to sack her from the group without consulting with you, but it won't damage her reputation as a brilliant musician. However, perhaps it will teach her that she cannot mess other musicians about as she has been doing with us."
There was a few seconds silence after Emily's outburst, as they all waited for Miss Harper to explode. Instead, she nodded a few times and said, "Very well, but this young lady," she turned to Gabriella, "is not a pupil of SIGHS. She should not be part of this group."
"But she is a pupil, Miss Harper," Emily said. "When she agreed last night to help us out, I immediately enrolled her on one of Miss Walker's Beauty and Makeup courses. I dropped the form into the office before I left the school."
"I see. I recall your sister and Fiona Jolly did something similar a few years back. I only hope you're not repeating what they..."
She broke off suddenly and stared at Gabriella, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief.
"Oh my God!"
Never before had any girl heard Miss Harper utter an expletive, and they waited in terror for her outrage.
"Miss Harper," a man called from the floor of the banqueting room. "We really need the Strings to start playing now."
"But..." Miss Harper started to say.
"Miss Harper," Emily said. "There are some things better left unspoken."
"Miss Harper. Please," the man said.
"Very well," she said. "We will talk about this on Monday morning. My office immediately after assembly. Is that clear?"
"Yes miss."
"And I shall be talking to your headmaster, Gabriella, as well.
"Yes miss."
"Then you had better start playing, and I only hope that your 'cousin', Jenny, is a reasonable player."
As she walked off, Louise said, "What are we going to do? These guys are from the String Instrument Retailers' Association. They're going to be looking for perfection."
"We've got nothing to lose," Emily said. "We're all dead on Monday morning. We might as well make the last performance of The Strings of Sighs our best ever. We did it last night. So let's make tonight even better. Jenny and Louise, you two can stop behaving like star-struck lovers, and Gabriella, you can stop moaning about your heels. So let's get on with it."
They all turned to their instruments and started to tune.
***
"That one went pretty good," Gabriella quietly murmured, as they bowed to superb applause from the audience, at the end of their first piece. That, in itself, was remarkable. When playing to diners, it was unusual to get more than a sprinkling of applause after each piece.
"Pretty good," Emily said. "It was brilliant. Are the shoes all right, now?"
"Shoes?" Gabriella said. "What shoes?"
"In that case, let's knock 'em dead with the next one."
They did.
***
"That old bloke at the top table has been ogling you all evening," Emily said, as they packed up their instruments, after taking their final bow, following their third encore.
"I know him," Gabriella said, still smiling at everyone, including the old man. "It's old Mr Crofts, from the musical instrument shop in town. I'm hoping he hasn't recognised me."
"If he hasn't, then he's a paedophile," Emily said. "If he has, that makes him a gay paedophile."
"He's not like that," Gabriella protested. "He's nice. He's always helped Jenny and me with anything to do with our instruments. Apparently, he used to be a merchant banker; he made his fortune in the City. Then, when he retired a hundred years ago, he bought the shop in town. He keeps it running to help local musicians. It can't make any profit."
The subject of their conversation now stood up, and rapped a spoon against a wine glass to call for silence.
"Before I commence my talk," he said when silence had fallen, "could I ask The Strings of Sighs to remain on the stage for a while?"
After the applause they'd received, he was hopefully not going to tell them they were rubbish, but each of them wondered whether he had realised that Gabriella was actually Gary, and was about to expose them.
"For some time," he said, "Miss Harper has been trying to persuade me to leave money in my will to enable a music academy to be built at SIGHS. But although Clara Drake is an excellent musician, I did want to see evidence of more girls from SIGHS becoming excellent musicians.
"So I think it was highly courageous of Miss Harper to remove Clara from The Strings of Sighs in order for her to concentrate upon work as a solo performer."
"What?" Emily said.
"To replace her with a new cellist on the basis of a single audition, was even more so," he continued.
"But we all know Miss Harper is never afraid to take courageous decisions, and it has paid dividends, this time. To watch these four talented girls play is sheer delight. The music of this quartet is so much more than the individual sum of their parts. Rarely have I seen such young artists work together so well.
"Of course, on a personal note, I cannot help but draw comparisons between the cellist, Gabriella Green, and my own daughter, Gemina, who died so tragically all those years ago.
"Now Miss Harper tells me that Gabriella is as yet only a temporary member of the school and of the quartet, so I would like to make a proposal to her. Secure Gabriella as a permanent member of SIGHS, and of course, The Strings of Sighs , and instead of waiting until I am dead for the music academy to proceed, then it shall go ahead now. The Strings of Sighs and Clara Drake will be the founder members of the new academy.
"In case that offer alone is not sufficient to attract Gabriella to the school, I would like to add a personal offer of my own."
"Don't let him become your sugar daddy," Emily whispered. It was all Gabriella could do not to burst into laughter.
"Stay here with The Strings of Sighs , Gabriella, and I will loan you my daughter's Stradivarius cello. Surely, that is an offer that no cellist could refuse?"
Emily, Louise and Jenny all gasped and suddenly all eyes were on Gabriella. For some reason which Gary could never have understood, she burst into tears.
***
"Oh, Miss Harper, I'm so sorry," were the first words Gabriella could say, when she stopped crying in the ante room.
Damn! Miss Harper thought, he's not going to do it. Obviously, as a responsible headmistress, she must absolutely respect the child's right to determine his own future. However, that did not prevent her telling him what he had to do.
"I don't think you should reject the idea too quickly," she said. "After all, it is a fantastic opportunity for you, personally."
"But it would never work," Gabriella said. "All the boys at SPS would know I'd transferred, then the press would be bound to get hold of the story. I'd be made a laughing stock."
"Who else knows about this?" Miss Harper looked around the group.
"No one, Miss Harper," Emily said. They all nodded confirmation.
"Your parents, brothers, sisters, best friends?"
They shook their heads.
Jenny said, "We did try to tell our parents, but they weren't really listening."
"Then suppose," Miss Harper turned back to Gabriella, "you told your school friends you'd been awarded a place at Chets, and had to move away."
Gaby nodded. The Chetham School of Music was world renowned and any musician would covet such a place.
"At the same time," Miss Harper said, "your cousin, Gabriella, comes here to live with your family and goes to SIGHS. That would work, wouldn't it?"
"Well, I suppose it could do, but... Suppose it leaked out?"
"In the longer term, we could say you had gender dysphoria, and I don't think it would matter too much. But we must make absolutely sure nothing leaks out now. The future of all four of you relies on that." Not to say, she thought, the future of my music academy.
"But you're asking Gary to permanently give up life as a boy," Emily said, anxious for Gary.
Miss Harper could have wrung the stupid girl's neck! Couldn't she look after her own self-interest rather than being some fucking do-gooder?
"I know it would be a big step," Miss Harper said. "But if..."
"But if I had friends like you to support me," Gabriella said, looking at Emily, "I'd have better friends than I've ever had at SPS."
Emily couldn't stop an enormous smirk appearing on her face.
"So you'd be all right with that," Miss Harper said. Thank fuck for that. "Obviously, I have to put your welfare first," she lied without a qualm.
"For a chance to play a Stradivarius," Gabriella said, "I'd do anything."
"Very well," Miss Harper said. "I'd better come and talk with your parents."
Gabriella and Jenny pulled faces, an action noted by Miss Harper.
***
"Mum. Dad. Miss Harper, my headmistress is here. She'd like to talk with you."
"Oh, Jenny. What have you done?" their mother said. "I'm sure she didn't mean it," she said to Miss Harper as she walked into the room.
"I'll turn the tele down," their father said.
In Miss Harper's experience, there were three types of parents: most would turn the TV off when she unexpectedly arrived on their doorstep, some would turn the sound down, and hardly any kept watching it. She nodded; it would be simple, now she understood the parents.
"I'm not here to talk about Jenny," Miss Harper said, "but about Gary."
"Oh," Mrs Green said, turning to her son. "What have you been up to? He's only a boy," she said to Miss Harper. "I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."
"Mr and Mrs Green," Miss Harper said. "Did you see the film Tootsie on the television last week?"
Talking about TV programmes was a natural ice-breaker to any conversation, so Mrs Green came straight back. "Oh, yes. We've seen it before, but it's still a great film."
"Not very believable though," Mr Green added.
"The point is," Miss Harper said, "that Gary has been given a similar opportunity to Dustin Hoffman. He could become a star member of our new music academy, but only by appearing as a girl."
"Gary could never do that," Mrs Green said.
"He never would do it," Mr Green added.
"He has," Miss Harper said. "He successfully convinced a large, expert audience at the Grand Hotel this evening that he was a member of Jenny's all-girl string quartet."
"Blimey," Mr Green said.
"Goodness," Mrs Green said.
"Obviously," Miss Harper added, "as two of our star performers, I think I could guarantee scholarships, which would pay all the school fees for both Jenny and Gary. In the longer term, I think both of them will look forward to a very bright and rewarding future."
"Where do we sign?" Mr Green asked.
***
"Sorry I didn't tell you before about Louise and me," Jenny said.
Gary shrugged. "I was kind of gob-smacked," he said, underplaying his shock one thousand fold. "It was just so unexpected."
"I meant to tell you last night, but then you were obviously pretty stressed about having to dress as a girl, I thought it would be rather mean to burden you with my problems."
"Whereas, I found out just before I was about to play the most important performance of my life," he said. "Thanks."
He hesitated a little and said, "I guess my performance at my school next Friday evening will probably be my last as a boy. Emily has been so helpful and friendly, and so much fun, I was thinking of asking if she'd like to come to watch me. Maybe go out for a pizza afterwards. Do you think she might come?"
Jenny appeared to carefully consider the question, before she nodded and said, "D'you know? I think she probably would."
Costumes and Cars
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Brittany really does not want to give up her Easter Saturday in order to move her school's costume collection. On the other hand, her brother Tom says he'd do anything to see Sir John Thunder's collection of cars.
Author's Note: This is a standalone story, one of several set at the Seacombe Independent Girls' High School, or SIGHS. If you enjoy this story, you might like to try more SIGHS stories: Jolly Hockey Sticks; Your Starter For... and Strings of Sighs.
Warning: This story, like most of my other stories, is a light-hearted cross-dressing romp, and is not to be taken seriously.
by Charlotte Dickles
"Can you believe it?" Brittany moaned to her younger brother Tom, as she arrived home from school. "I've got to give up my Easter Saturday in order to go and help old Thunderbirds with the school's costume collection."
"Tough," Tom said, concentrating on his maths homework. Brittany was always moaning about something or other. "Anyway, who is Thunderbirds? You've never mentioned her before."
"She used to teach Textiles, and she took early retirement a few years ago. She was the person who built up the costume collection and when she left, no other member of staff wanted to take it over. She said she'd keep it at her house - then girls could come over as they wished to see it."
"You don't sound as though you wish to see it," Tom remarked. "So why do you have to go?"
"No one wants to see it," Brittany said. "It's a stuffy old collection of Victorian and Edwardian dresses. They're not even part of the curriculum. I think it's one of the reasons why Miss Harper, the Head, got rid of her - she was always living in the past."
"That still doesn't explain," Tom said, "why you have to go there on Saturday."
"I was late with my Textiles homework again, and Nosey Parker said that instead of giving me a detention, I had to go and help Miss Thunder move the collection to a room upstairs, over the Easter weekend. Apparently, Sir John - her brother - wants to expand his stupid car collection."
There was a moment's silence as Tom made the connection and then, "You mean Sir John Thunder?"
"Have you heard of him?" Brittany clearly hadn't.
"He was a motor racing champion years ago, in the days when racing cars really looked like racing cars. He was a national hero and everyone loved him. He won almost every racing title in existence. I'd heard he lived locally, with his collection of cars, but I never knew where. Do you think I could come with you when you go?"
Brittany shrugged. "Don't see why not as long as you help move some of the stuff. I'll ask Nosey if it's all right."
"That's brilliant, sis," Tom said. "I'd do anything to see his collection. You get me in there and I owe you one."
***
"Nosey says she's not even going to ask," Brittany said the following afternoon. "Apparently, Miss Thunder hates boys. Reading between the lines, she had a big row with Miss Harper about boys using SIGHS' facilities."
Tom's school, Seacombe Public School, or SPS for short, cooperated closely with SIGHS, the Independent Girls' High, particularly when sixth formers needed facilities that their own school didn't have.
"You're joking," Tom complained, distraught. "What's wrong with the woman? I so wanted to see Sir John's collection."
"And I so wanted to spend as little time moving costumes as I had to," Brittany said.
There was a brief silence, and then Brittany added, "I suppose..."
"No," Tom said. "It would never work."
"Thunderbirds doesn't know what I look like."
"That doesn't matter," Tom said. "What does matter is that I don't look like a girl."
"I think if I washed and styled your hair, your face could look quite passable."
"Thanks," Tom said. "It's bad enough when the other boys say I look like a baby, without you saying I look like a girl. Anyway, my body is the wrong shape."
"We could easily do something about that, simply by stuffing a bra with socks."
"No way."
"So when you said," Brittany said, trying to find a way out of her problem, "that you'd do anything to see Sir John's collection, you weren't serious?"
Tom paused, "Well, I..." He thought some more. He really did want to meet Sir John and see his collection. "I suppose you were just going to wear jeans and a tee shirt, weren't you?"
Brittany smiled. "And a bra. But to be honest, if you were going in my place, I'd seriously suggest going in school uniform. That gives you an identity like nothing else would. That's what it's for."
He hesitated some more. "I don't know, sis. I'd feel incredibly stupid if I was sussed."
"Well, you'd better not be," she said." Don't forget, it would be me who would get the ear-ache from Nosey. I'd probably get sent to Miss Harper."
"Yet you seem keen for me to do it."
"I've got far better things to do than go there on Saturday. And also..." It was her turn to hesitate. "Well, I think it would rather exciting to try. I mean there's old Thunderbirds who hates boys who's going to be bossing one around on Saturday without even knowing it. I think this could be rather fun. Don't you think so?"
What she didn't say was that most of the fun would come from dressing up her younger brother like a little doll. Of course, he could have worn some of her leggings and a tee shirt, but where was the fun in that? She'd take a few pictures and be able to blackmail him for evermore over this little adventure.
So she was rather surprised when Tom grinned and said, "I guess you're right. It would be quite exciting."
But what she didn't know was that, deep down, there was another kind of excitement surging through Tom, which had started at the thought of wearing a bra. When Brittany suggested he wear her white blouse and black pleated skirt, he knew he wanted to wear those just as much as seeing Sir John's collection of cars. But all his senses told him he had to be careful about people knowing.
"There's only one thing," he added. "Not a word to anyone else, OK? Especially Mum and Dad."
"I was thinking of ringing Emily Davis," Brittany said. "She's in the new Music Academy, now, but rumour has it that she got a boy to pretend to be a girl for some musical performance, and that was in front of two hundred people. I thought I'd ask her for any tips."
"OK, but don't mention my name to her, all right?"
"Of course."
***
"She's bringing something over straightaway," Brittany said, after she put down the phone. "It's called a Torsolet and it makes a boy look like a girl - gives him breasts and even a pussy. Sounds great, doesn't it. And she reckons it will just fit you."
"I thought you weren't going to mention my name!"
"She needed to know who you were so she could decide if it would fit. She reckons it will do fine."
Half an hour later, Brittany and Tom were looking in amazement at the skin-coloured garment Emily had spread out on Brittany's bed. It was a high-necked, flesh-coloured sleeveless leotard, but with small, rosebud nipples, padded hips and bum, and - something Tom couldn't turn his eyes away from - a bush of pubic hair, with a slit all too visible beneath.
"It's only a garment," Brittany said, noticing Tom's fixation. "Not the real thing."
"My boyfriend, Gary, was just the same when he saw it for the first time," Emily admitted. (See Strings of Sighs by Charlotte Dickles.)
"He went to Chets, didn't he," Tom said. "No one has heard from him lately. How is he?"
"Oh, he's fine," Emily said, rapidly deciding to change the subject. "The breasts are inflated with water by fastening this pipe to the tap and connecting it to the nipples like this." She demonstrated. "You need to spread gel over your body before putting it on, to stop all the sweat. There are two pots of gel. The green gel is for short term use, but it's no good for more than a few hours; the red gel is for longer use, but..."
"I heard you have a crush on Gary's cousin, Gabriella, now that she's come to the Academy," Brittany mischievously said.
"We play in the quartet together," Emily said, a deep blush coming to her face, "so we have to be on good terms. Anyway, I have to get back to rehearsal with the group. We're playing at the Albert Hall in a week's time."
"That's fantastic," Tom said, rather annoyed at Brittany's teasing.
She was gone in just a few seconds, leaving the pair of them looking rather apprehensively at the Torsolet.
"I guess you'd better try it on," Brittany said, picking it up and holding it against him.
"I need to spread this gel over myself first," Tom said, picking up the pot of green gel and moving towards the bathroom.
"What's the other pot for?"
"If you hadn't been teasing Emily," Tom said, "you'd know. The green is for when you're using it for just a few hours, which is fine for tonight. But since I'll be wearing it all day Saturday, I'll need to use the red gel for that."
***
"Do you want to come in, sis?" Tom shouted from the bathroom, ten minutes later. "And you'd better bring that pipe with you to inflate my..." It felt so strange talking about his breasts that another surge of excitement shot through his body. It was a good job his penis was strapped firmly down between his legs, in the pouch behind his new pussy, otherwise he knew he'd have an enormous erection.
"Wow, you have hips," Brittany said when she saw him. "OK, put this bra on and then we can inflate your breasts.
"Don't be such a wimp," she added as she saw Tom shaking slightly.
"Sorry," Tom said, pleased she hadn't realised the real reason he was shaking - with sexual excitement, not fear.
She fastened the bra behind his back and then fitted the piece of piping between his left nipple and the hot water tap, as Emily had showed them.
She turned on the tap and watched Tom's breast grow. If only her own breasts grew as quickly, she enviously thought. She'd loaned Tom her newest bra - a B-cup - she had to use cotton wool to fill it when she wore it, but there was no need for cotton wool with Tom. She inflated his breast until it nicely filled the bra cup, and then did the same for his right breast.
"Hell, they're huge," Tom said peering down at them, trying to sound shocked, rather than delighted.
"Get used to them," Brittany said. "You only have to wear them for a day. I have them all the time. Now, about your hair...."
But her comment was interrupted by a call from downstairs. "Hi kids, I'm home. Are you upstairs?" The words were immediately followed by the sound of their mother climbing the stairs.
***
"You go and tak to Mum," Tom hissed. "I'll lock the bathroom door and get out of this."
"There's no time," Brittany said, adding as their mother appeared at the top of the stairs, "Hi Mum. Come and see what Tom's put on. He wants to take my place on Saturday."
"You shit, Brittany..."
"Now Tom, I've told you before about swearing and I won't have it... Oh." She stopped dead in her tracks as she saw the body of a teenage girl with the head of her son. "What on earth..."
"It's called a Torsolet, Mum," Brittany said. "Tom got me to ring up Emily Davis to find out how she disguised a boy to look like a girl, and she brought this round."
Mrs Walker had been a mother for long enough to cope with all kinds of weird things which kids got up to, and she barely hesitated before speaking. "Well I think you look amazing, Tom - or should I call you Thomasine?"
"Mum." Tom squirmed. "It was Brittany's idea. She wanted to get out of shifting some costume collection on Saturday and I wanted to meet Sir John Thunder and see his collection of cars. She made me do this."
"I did not..."
"Kids. Kids. It really doesn't matter whose idea it was. Now tell me everything, especially everything about dishy Sir John Thunder."
"Dishy!" Brittany said. "Do you know him?"
Their mother smiled. "Every woman of my age knows Sir John Thunder, but in most cases not as well as we would have liked. Mind you, he always tried his best to put that right. He'd have a dozen pretty girls continually hanging around him."
"But Mum," Tom protested, "he must be a hundred years older than you."
Their mother thought briefly. "About thirty, actually, so when I was fifteen, he'd have been in his mid forties."
"Mum," Brittany said. "That is so revolting. How could you fancy a forty-five-year-old? And he must have been a pervert, like Jimmy Saville."
"There's nothing perverted about a man fancying young women, or a young woman fancying an older man, and I've never heard anyone complain about him. From the stories that went around, no one had reason to."
"Mum!" They both said it that time.
"Anyway," their mother said. "What's all this got to do with Tom's cross dressing?"
Brittany told the tale, minimising her involvement and making out it was all Tom's idea. Tom tried to protest, but she simply talked over the top of him.
"Well I think it's you missing a trick, Britt," their mother said when she had heard it all. "If I thought I could get away with it, I'd be putting on your school uniform to get to meet Sir John."
"Yuk," from Brittany.
"Anyway," she said, "we need to get Tom's conversion sorted. I must say, that Torsolet is fantastic. You say you can inflate the breasts as much as you want? Mmm, I wonder. You have such wide hips, Tom, so why don't we try one of my C-cup bras and see how you look in that?"
"Mum," Brittany protested, "my blouse wouldn't fit him if he wore a C-cup. In any case, I thought you'd be livid with Tom at his stupid plan."
"It seems a great idea to me," Mrs Walker said. "If Tom has the initiative and - yes - the courage to carry this through, then I'm right behind him. And we could always buy Tom a bigger blouse. You're going to need one soon, anyway."
"But I don't want to wear one of my brother's cast offs," she complained.
"Then you shouldn't have got involved in this in the first place," Mrs Walker said. "Now take that bra off him and I'll go and get one of mine."
"But Mum." At last, Tom got in his protestations. "These breasts are already huge. I can't..."
"If you're going to meet Sir John Thunder," his mother advised, "I can assure you there are no such things as breasts that are too large. A C-cup is the absolute minimum. I used to stuff a D-cup with cotton wool when I went to the race circuits and tried to get noticed in the pit enclosure." She stared at Tom carefully and said, "Let's try on the C-cup for now. We have the rest of the week to get you a bigger bra." She disappeared towards her bedroom leaving both her children staring open-mouthed at her departing back.
"But Mum," Tom kept up his protestations, "I only want to look at his car collection. I don't want to have sex with him."
"Well," said Mrs Walker as she returned waving her bra at him. "You may not want to have sex with him, but wouldn't you like a ride in one of his cars? A boy may get little more than a look at the outside; a girl with the right attributes can usually get far more."
"Mum," Brittany moaned. "That's disgusting."
"Nothing wrong in flashing your tits to get what you want," Mrs Walker said, "even if it is at a seventy-year-old. And I think Tom is hardly in danger of losing his virginity to Sir John." She unhooked Tom's bra and removed it, replacing it with the one she had just brought in. "Now, show me how that pipe fits on here."
Within five minutes, Tom's tits had grown even bigger, although his mother still seemed dissatisfied. "I suppose it will do for the time being," she said. "Let's go into Britt's room and put on some school uniform."
She marched straight into Brittany's room, opened her wardrobe and pulled out a blouse and a skirt.
"Mum," Brittany said, "that's my best blouse and skirt. I was going to give him some of my old stuff."
"If he's going to meet Sir John," Mrs Walker said, holding out the blouse so that Tom could put his arms into it, "he needs to look smart. In any case, we may buy him some new uniform before Saturday." She buttoned up the blouse which — Brittany was right — was rather tight, and then got him to step into the skirt.
"Hmm, not bad. You'll need some decent tights, but we'll have to wax your legs before then, and I don't know what we'll do about shoes. I don't suppose Britt's will fit, will they?"
She reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of Mary Janes. But she only had to place them besides Tom's foot to discard them as being too small. "We can go shopping tomorrow after school for them and anything else you'll need." She stared at him some more. "We'll need to get your ears pierced."
"Mum. Everyone will laugh at school."
"Lots of boys have piercings," Brittany said, trying to add to his discomfort.
"That's settled, then," Mrs Walker said. "What were you going to do about his hair?" she asked Brittany?
"I thought I could wash and style it," Brittany said.
"I think it will need more than a style," Mrs Walker said. "I think a cut's needed. Not too much, just enough to give it a girlish look."
"Mum, I have to face my friends afterwards," Tom said. "I can't have it cut."
"Don't forget most of your friends are going away for Easter," she said. "You have the whole of the school holidays to grow it out, and if the worst comes to the worst, we can get it re-cut afterwards. I'd better ask Sharon to come round on Friday evening, and she can cut it here. She can also do your piercings. After all, we hardly want any of this publicising."
"No Mum," Tom wholeheartedly agreed.
"So if it leaks out," his mother said, "we know it will be Britt to blame."
"Me!" Britt protested. "Why me?"
"If Tom lets it out the bag, he has nothing to gain by hiding it. If I do, then I certainly wouldn't blame you, so that only leaves you. And let me tell you, if this leaks out then you're grounded until you turn eighteen. Do you understand me?"
"But I've only just turned seventeen," Britt complained.
"So it had better not leak out, had it?"
"No, Mum."
"Right, then all we have to do now is to wax your legs, and I'll lend you a pair of my tights and some shoes to wear for the rest of the evening."
"The rest of the evening! But Mum..."
"There's more to being a girl than simply looking like one; you have to behave like one as well, so you must practice all the time you're at home. And do try to speak more softly, and make your voice more lively. I want you to think of your favourite girl at school, and then try to speak and behave like she does."
Tom opened his mouth to protest, but then saw the look on his mother's face and closed it again. Why on earth had he told Britt he'd go ahead with this stupid scheme? Then he glanced down at his bulging breasts and knew the answer.
***
"Hello, Miss Thunder?" Tom said into the gate intercom. "I'm Brittany Walker. Mrs Parker asked me to come over and help shift the costume collection."
"Good morning, Brittany. Come on in." There was a buzzing as the lock on the pedestrian gate was released and he pushed it open. His mother had stopped the car outside the front gate of the large house standing in its own grounds, and once she saw he had gained access, she gave him a wave and drove off. He took a deep breath; he was on his own now — or did he mean, she was on her own?
The front door of the house opened as Tom approached and Miss Thunder appeared at the door. Tom had imagined her as a very large lady, who only had to cross her arms for the thunder clouds to gather. Instead, she was quite small, with crinkle lines on her face which suggested a smile was never far away. Indeed, she broke into a smile, now.
"Come in," she said. "I gather from Mrs Parker that there was an acute shortage of volunteers. I'm glad she managed to persuade you to come."
"Well, I have to say I wasn't very keen at first," Tom said, adding with complete honesty, "but when I found out about the collection, I realised how fortunate I was to have the chance of seeing it."
That delighted Miss Thunder, as he had intended. "I really don't understand why girls so rarely come to see it," she said. "It's a marvellous collection. Come through and look at it. It's currently stored in the Coach House, but my brother wants the space in order to expand his car collection."
Tom had expected to have to make some polite noises, but when he went into the large outbuilding, the array of garments made him gasp with delight. "Oh Miss Thunder," he cried, "they're gorgeous. I thought Victorian dresses were all black or grey, but there are so many different colours, here."
She smiled at him. "It's true that after the death of Prince Albert, Queen Victoria went into mourning for many years, and the upper classes of Victorian society followed her lead. And it tends to be those clothes which are generally in display in museums. But we mustn't forget how the Industrial Revolution was creating a rising number of middle class, as well as a new group of very wealthy industrialists who were not allowed to be part of the upper classes. They could afford — and choose — to dress how they wished."
She had been a good teacher, Tom realised, feeling himself carried along by her enthusiasm.
"Now I have to admit," she continued, "that most of the dresses here are not originals. Such a collection would be well beyond the coffers of SIGHS, and those that are were mainly donated by ex-girls and parents who have acquired them on the death of elderly relatives, with no room in modern houses to keep such wonderful clothes. Those are the originals at the end of the room." She pointed to the far end, where the lighting was subdued, as were the half-dozen dresses on display.
"But what about the other dresses, Miss Thunder? You must have dozens of them here."
"There are thirty-eight in total. Most have been made by the girls during Textile classes, following original designs. Miss Primrose - the previous Head - was very enthusiastic about the project."
Tom could understand that the current headmistress, the dynamic Miss Harper, would much prefer her girls to become fashion designers, rather than creating outdated dresses for a collection few would ever see. All the same...
"You've created a fabulous collection, Miss Thunder." Tom wandered down the central aisle, admiring the pretty fabrics, but also noticing some of the clumsy stitching of the girls.
"They're not all perfect," she said. "But it does mean that girls can wear them without fear of damaging them." She hesitated slightly. "I notice the school uniform you're wearing is immaculate. I was rather expecting you to be wearing jeans. Did you bring anything to change into whilst we do the hard work?"
Oh, no! He and his mother had been far too busy creating the image of a perfect schoolgirl to ponder the job itself. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't think about that."
"Well it's not a problem," Miss Thunder said. "You can put on a maid's dress to do the work. She walked a little further down the aisle and pulled a dress from the rack. This one will be perfect for you."
"You want me to put on a maid's dress?" Tom felt both a sinking feeling in his stomach, and exhilaration in his heart.
He stared at the dress Miss Thunder held before him. It was a long black dress with a high neckline and wide skirts beneath a narrow bodice. A feeling of both disappointment and relief swept through him, as he shook his head. "I don't think it will be big enough for me," he said. "That bodice is far too tight."
"Don't be silly," she said. "You have to wear it with a corset."
Thank heavens his penis was strapped safely away somewhere inside the Torsolet. Otherwise, he would surely have ejaculated on the spot! As it was, he gasped and staggered a little.
"I can see you are shocked at such an idea," Miss Thunder said, "as many modern women are. But it was normal wear in Victorian times, and they are really not the garments of torture that modern women depict them to be."
"But will I be able to work in a corset?"
She smiled at him. "People did. As I say, they really are not garments of torture. Why not try one on? We'll tighten it a little and then see how the maid's dress fits you. After that, you can see for yourself how restricting they are, and then give your school friends a factual account."
Tom very much doubted he'd be doing that. In fact, he decided that no one else was going to find out about this embarrassing interlude. He smiled back at her. "You've convinced me, Miss Thunder. Let me try one on and find out for myself."
"There's a changing area in the corner," she pointed at an area with a large wall mirror and coat hooks on the wall, but no curtain, and Tom realised he was going to have to change in front of her. Hopefully, she wasn't going to notice the places where the Torsolet met his skin, although his mum had used cosmetics to disguise the join as much as possible.
"You'd better take everything off," she continued, "then we can dress you in just the same way women dressed back then."
"Presumably," Tom said, "I should leave on my bra and panties."
"Don't be silly," she said. "Bras weren't invented until much later, and most working class women would not wear drawers or pantaloons. Go on, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Slip everything off."
Tom gulped a little, and then started to slowly remove his clothes and hang them on the hooks.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Miss Thunder said, "it's as though you've never taken off your clothes before. She stepped up to Tom and was immediately undoing buttons and zips, unfastening bras and carefully peeling tights down his legs. Within seconds, Tom was standing before her totally naked, and shivering slightly, partly through cold and partly excitement.
"I say old girl," an elderly, but rather sprightly man had come into the room, "when am I going to be able to use this room for my... Oh! I say. What a pretty girl."
Miss Thunder placed herself between Tom and the man. "How dare you enter this room without knocking," she said.
"Sorry, old girl," he said, stepping slightly to the side so he could have another look at the naked girl. "You should have warned me you had visitors."
"Will you leave here THIS MINUTE." Miss Thunder was suddenly every bit the thundercloud Tom had expected from the start. "I also think that Brittany deserves an apology."
"Yes of course," he replied. He smiled apologetically at Brittany and said, "Sorry Brittany." Then his grin widened, as he added, "Nice tits."
A shiver of pleasure ran through Tom at such a candid compliment, and for the first time he understood why it was that his mother, and thousands of other girls had hung around the pits with their bras stuffed with cotton wool, hoping to get noticed by Sir John Thunder.
"PLEASE LEAVE NOW!"
Miss Thunder followed her brother out of the room and Tom could hear her continuing to berate him.
"If she reports you to Miss Harper, you could be arrested as a voyeur."
"I told you it was a complete accident. How could I have known she was there?"
"How indeed? I sometimes suspect you listen in to my phone calls."
"Of course not. I'm not that kind of chap."
"There will be no repetition of that funny business, do you understand?"
"Of course, old girl. I can assure you nothing was further from my mind."
"Make certain it stays that way."
"Yes, old girl."
It appeared that Miss Thunder felt she had made her point, for she said, "I need to get back to the poor girl and get her dressed."
With the cheek of the devil he was, Sir John added, "Just say if you need any help."
So it was that Tom had a wide grin on his face when Miss Thunder entered the room. "I am so sorry about that," she said. "I hope you don't feel that you have been violated in any way."
"Miss Thunder, it's perfectly all right."
"And there's no need to mention it to anyone else?"
"Miss Thunder. That's exactly the kind of thing my mother warned me to expect from Sir John. I won't mention a word to my school." Of that, Tom was certain.
She gave him a warm smile "It's very good of you to be so understanding. Now, let's get you dressed." She bent over and started to rummage through drawers and pulled out a white linen slip and an object wrapped in its own cord. Tom knew exactly what that was.
"Put on this chemise, first," she said, holding the garment above his head. Tom obediently lifted his arms and she slipped it over his head and pulled it down his body. It was a tight squeeze to pull the narrowest part of the garment over Tom's breasts, and without any of the kind of inhibition a male teacher would have had with a boy, Miss Thunder slipped her hand down from the top and eased his breasts through the garment. Thank heavens, he thought that he and Brittany had been able to convince their mother that a D-cup would have been too large. And also thank heavens, he added, that he had on the Torsolet and not a bra stuffed with cotton wool.
"Now the corset," she said, unrolling the cord from around it. She opened it out, and then worked it to and fro, so that the the cord was evenly spaced between the two halves of the garment. Then she reached it around his torso and started to clip up the front busk. It was a tight squeeze to fasten it around the narrowest part of his waist, and Miss Thunder had to adjust the cord some more in order to fully fasten it.
"I can see how that's improved my figure," Tom said, staring at his new waistline in the mirror, "although it does feel quite tight."
"Heavens, child," she said. "I haven't even started to tighten the cords, yet. You do have an unusually low waist, which means it will cover less of your bust than normal. I hope that doesn't excite Sir John too much."
"Oh. Will we see Sir John again?"
"I expect he will want to bore you with his car collection. He does with most females who step through the door."
She seemed to have forgotten all about the "funny business", Tom realised.
"Actually," he admitted, "I was looking forward to seeing Sir John's collection."
"He'll be pleased. Now, let's start tightening this corset."
She went behind him and pulled on the cords, and Tom watched in amazement as his waist got smaller and smaller — and smaller still.
"There," she finally said as she tied off the cords. "That's not too tight, is it?"
"N-o," he cautiously said, "although..." he moved a little, experimentally, "...it does make it difficult to bend from side to side or bend over."
"A girl should never bend over," she said. "The corset teaches you to maintain your body in an upright, ladylike position. Bend your knees if you wish to pick up something from the floor."
"Yes, Miss Thunder."
"I should have told you to put your stockings on, before your corset, as you'll have difficulty now in pulling them up. Never mind, let me find some." Another rummage through a drawer and she pulled out a pair of woollen stockings, as well as something white and frilly. "Put a foot up on a chair," she commanded.
Tom obediently put one of his feet onto a chair and Miss Thunder bunched the stocking and carefully pulled it up his leg. Then she slipped a white garter up his leg and secured the top of the stocking. For Tom, it was another of those moments when he thought he was going to have an orgasm, especially as he felt the woman's hands slide up his leg. She's even older than my mum, he told himself, keep control.
"Come along, don't dally. Next foot."
He hurriedly switched feet and Miss Thunder put on his other stocking.
"Now, let's see if your dress will fit." She quickly undid the buttons on the maid's dress, whilst Tom stood staring into the mirror at the big busted girl with the hour-glass figure, in her corset and white stockings. "Strictly speaking, you should wear a crinoline with this dress," she said, as she dropped the dress over his head and pulled it down, "but we can do that next time."
"Right," he said, transfixed by his appearance as she fastened the buttons behind his back. Then her words came to his consciousness. "Next time? Will there be a next time?"
"Of course," she said, giving him a really nice smile. "You're obviously so captivated by your new shape, I think we'll be trying on some more dresses by the end of the day, don't you."
"Oh," he said.
"Final thing," she said, "a maid must always wear an apron to protect her dress, and a cap to protect her hair." She picked up the frilly garment she had pulled from the drawer. "Here, put on this pinafore and I'll help you tie it behind your back. I think you can probably put on the smock cap by yourself, can't you?"
That was one thing he managed to do by himself.
***
Once Tom had got used to the restriction of movement imposed by the corset, he found working in it quite comfortable. But more importantly, he felt completely at ease in his new clothes, as he helped Miss Thunder move her collection upstairs to their new location. It was a huge house, dating from the late 1800s, Miss Thunder told him, built as the home of one of the wealthy industrialists that the upper classes had so despised. But the house had included a Long Gallery, where pictures could be displayed, and Miss Thunder had converted this so she could properly display her costume collection.
Tom did the hard work — that of collecting the costumes from the coach house and carrying them up the stairs - whilst Miss Thunder arranged them on the many mannequins she had especially purchased. It was a delight to see the new display area taking place before his eyes, and with Miss Thunder's words in his ears, he couldn't help but wonder which of the fabulous dresses he'd be allowed to try on.
"I say," a voice came from behind him as he carried one of them up the stairs. "You look as pretty in that housemaid's dress as you did when you were stark naked."
Tom turned and smiled. "Thank you, Sir John, but I'd better tell you my mother warned me about you."
He looked concerned. "Do I know her?" He was clearly wondering whether he'd known her in the biblical sense.
"No, but not because she didn't try to get to meet you, but I understand there was stiff competition. I gather you always had a dozen pretty girls around you."
He smiled back. "And now there's only one. I think it's lunchtime, don't you Penny?" He'd raised his voice so that Miss Thunder would hear him as she worked on the floor above.
She appeared now and said that she thought it was indeed lunchtime.
"In the olden days," she said, "the staff would have eaten separately in their own kitchen. But now we only have one kitchen where we all eat together. I have some cold meats prepared. Perhaps you'll help me get them out."
***
"Do the girls still call her Thunderbirds?" Sir John asked Tom over lunch.
"Er... Well..."
"You've embarrassed the poor girl," Miss Thunder said. "Teachers aren't supposed to know their nicknames." She smiled at Tom. "My first name is Penelope and when John was first knighted, they used to call me Lady Penelope, but that was too much of a mouthful."
"Oh," Tom said. "I didn't realise you knew."
"A good teacher has to have eyes in the back of her head and hear everything that's said," Miss Thunder said.
"Now, John," she added, turning to her brother, "Brittany would like to see your car collection. I'm sure you would love to show her round after lunch."
"Oh, absolutely old girl." He beamed at Tom and winked. "I'll show you everything I've got."
"Brittany wears her costume so well," Miss Thunder said, "that I wonder whether she would like to join us on the Vintage Car Run on Easter Monday?"
"I have a 1902 De Dion Bouton," Sir John said, seeing the puzzlement on Tom's face. "There's a Vintage Car Run around Seacombe on Easter Monday, and Penny is suggesting you dress up in a costume and come with us."
"Oh, I'd love to," Tom responded without thinking through any of the consequences. He'd be on public display to the hundreds of people who lined the streets. The idea both excited and terrified him.
Seeing his mixed reaction, Sir John said, "I think you said your mother used to follow my antics when she was younger. Why don't you ask her if she'd like to join us?"
"She probably wouldn't want to come," Miss Thunder said. "And I don't expect Mr Walker would be very happy about it."
"Mum got divorced a few years ago," Tom said, "and we don't see much of Dad now. I'm sure she'd love to meet you. She was so excited when I told her about coming here today."
"That's all settled, then," said Sir John, wondering just how much Brittany's mother would love to meet him. "Now let me show you around my little collection."
***
"How would you like a spin around my race circuit," Sir John asked Tom, sometime later, after he had shown him every car in his collection, from the 1902 De Dion Bouton through to his latest acquisition, an open-topped Lotus Elise.
"You have your own race track?" Tom could not believe it.
Sir John modestly shrugged. "It certainly doesn't meet international standards, but there's extensive land attached to this house. Most of it is rented out to local farmers, but I upgraded some of the tracks to form a continuous circuit, which the farmers keep clear. It's pretty slow for a race circuit, but I can touch well over the ton on the fastest bits."
"And you'd take me round it? What in?" Tom couldn't stop his eyes drifting to the Lotus.
"Why not?"
Within minutes, Tom was sitting next to Sir John in the tight cockpit. Sir John gunned the engine, and they set off with a kick like a mule in the seat of the pants.
"We'll just take it easy for the first lap," he said. "Just make certain the track's clear. Always a bit embarrassing if you meet a tractor on a hairpin bend."
Sir John may have felt he was taking it easy, but to Tom, it was incredibly fast — their tyres screeched like crazy on every corner, and the wind blew through his hair. Fortunately, he'd removed both apron and smock cap, but he was still in his maid's dress, in which he felt rather incongruous. Victorian maids really did not ride in expensive modern sports cars.
"I've named each of the corners after similar ones on other race tracks," he said. "This one is Devil's Elbow — Mallory Park." They screamed through a fast downhill left-hander. "This is Woodcote, Silverstone." A fast right-hander. "This is Thunderballs. That's unique to this circuit."
"Why's it called Thunderballs?" Tom asked.
"Maybe I'll show you later," he said.
***
"Hello, Nosey? It's Helen Harper. I've been away for a few days so I've only just read your email - about old Thunderbirds asking you to provide a girl to help her move the costume collection."
"Oh yes," Mrs Parker said. "Of course, no one wanted to give up their Saturday."
"They didn't?" Miss Harper felt the relief sweep through her body.
"No. Not one of them."
"Thank heavens for that."
"So I had to force Brittany Walker to stand in."
"You what?"
"Well, I just said. I threatened Brittany Walker with a detention if she didn't volunteer to move the damned collection."
"Oh my God! You know what you've done, don't you?"
"No."
"But you must do. The whole school knows about what happened to the four girls who helped Thunderbirds move her costume collection to her own house."
"I was Miss Thunder's replacement as Head of Textiles, remember. Whatever happened was before my time, although of course I know of Sir John's reputation with young women. Was there..."
"Under-aged sex? Yes, I'm afraid there was a complaint to the Governors and the police were brought in. Fortunately, I managed to persuade all the girls to lie to the police about what happened and they dropped the case with insufficient evidence."
"You should have warned me."
That much was abundantly clear now to Miss Harper. The problem was that the more people you warned, the greater the risk of it being picked up by the press and emblazoned over the front pages of the gutter press.
"I'll ring up Mrs Walker," Miss Harper said. "See whether Brittany has returned home."
"And if she hasn't?"
"I'll go round there."
***
"Hello, Mrs Walker? It's Miss Harper, Brittany's Head. Mrs Parker tells me that Brittany has kindly agreed to help Miss Thunder with the costume collection today. Has she returned yet?"
Mrs Walker heard the loud music coming from Brittany's room, where she and two of her friends were preparing to go to the disco, that evening.
"No, she's still there," she lied. "I dropped her off at about nine-thirty this morning. Is there a problem?"
"No," Miss Harper also lied. "I wanted to thank her for filling in like that."
She put down the phone and then grabbed her keys and raced out of the house towards her car.
***
Just a few minutes after they had set out, Sir John was saying, "OK, that's the first lap completed and it's all clear. So, we'll open her up now."
And he did.
Tom should have felt terrified at the speeds they were travelling, without any crash barriers to keep them on the road if anything happened. Indeed, at times they flew through the air as they went over the brows of hills that would never appear on a modern race track. Instead, he felt exhilarated to the point where his body was shaking with excitement, but he also felt extremely safe in Sir John's competent hands.
***
Miss Harper left braking so late, she almost crashed into the gate of the Thunder's house, but her Mazda MX2 didn't let her down; she stopped just inches from the gate. She hurriedly got out of her car, raced to the intercom and pressed it.
"Yes?"
"Penny. It's me, Helen Harper. I need to see Brittany right away."
"Well she's currently with my brother..."
"Open the bloody gate."
As the gates started to open, Miss Harper jumped back into her car and drove up to the house and straight round to the Coach House at the rear, where she knew the costume collection was kept. As she got out of her car, she heard a car hurtle past at high speed on Sir John's race track, but her mind was on other things.
***
They completed several more laps before Sir John said, "Let's take a break here."
Thunderballs was the next corner, and instead of accelerating as they went round, he braked, and the car skidded sideways off the road onto a little hard-standing area, stopping just before the oak trees which bordered the road. He turned off the engine and suddenly everything was silent
"What do you think?"
"Fantastic, Sir John."
"Call me John," he said. "Look, the reason I brought you here is that I want to talk with you a little. Do you mind?"
Tom smiled at Sir John. "Mind? Why should I mind a little talk?" He knew he was being provocative. He knew that any sensible girl in such a position should ask to be taken back to the safety of Miss Thunder. But Sir John was such an old rogue. Could he really be turned on by a boy masquerading as a girl?
"Sometimes," Sir John said, "people do things which upset us. For example, when I walked in on you and Penny, this morning."
"I've already said that wasn't a problem."
"I know but... Well, in the past, some of the girls have complained about things, and what I wanted to ask is that if you have a problem with anything, you tell me. Would you do that for me?"
"Of course I will. But..." Tom paused, uncertain how to put the words, "sometimes a girl might tell a man to stop and the man takes no notice."
He smiled at her. "Well it's never happened in my case. I have never forced anyone to do things they didn't want to, and..." It was his turn to pause. "You want me to kiss you, don't you?"
What the hell was he getting into? Tom wondered. He knew he should say no, but Sir John was such a nice old rogue. Besides, what harm could one kiss do? "Yes," he said.
***
Miss Harper ran inside the coach house to see the room almost empty of clothes, but what immediately caught her eye was the white school blouse and black pleated school skirt, hanging on a hook in the changing area.
"Oh, there you are," Miss Thunder said, entering the room. "You can see we have almost cleared..."
"You undressed her, didn't you?"
"The school uniform she wore was completely impractical for the job so I loaned her a more suitable dress."
"You know what I mean. You physically took off her clothes."
"Well, she did need a little assistance to remove her clothes, yes."
"What then?"
"Nothing at all," Miss Thunder replied.
"I don't believe you. You had a naked girl in front of you and you didn't try to touch her..."
"My brother came in. I think he'd been listening at the door and decided to come in when she was naked."
"Thank God," Miss Harper said. "So he stopped anything happening?"
Miss Thunder shrugged. "Nothing was going to happen anyway. People get too excited nowadays about a little cuddling, and tickling a girl in her more sensitive spots."
"Where is she now?"
"My brother's driving her around the circuit."
Miss Harper smiled at her recollection of being driven around the circuit by Sir John. She'd had a crush on him since her schooldays, when she had stuffed a D-cup bra with cotton wool and paraded around the racing circuits, trying to attract his attention. Who would have thought that all those years later, he'd have laid her on the bonnet of his car and given her the fucking of her lifetime? "Now do you see why this bend is called Thunderballs," he'd asked her.
Her heart missed a beat. "I haven't heard his car drive past for several minutes."
Miss Thunder smiled at her. "She'll be perfectly safe with my brother. You know all those stories about him being a philanderer were all made up. Cars are his passion. Really, he's never been that interested in women."
It often amazed Miss Harper that people could so easily delude themselves about those they were close to, but now was not the time to debate the issue. "I need to find Brittany."
She raced back to her car, jumped inside and started the engine. She took a moment to fasten her seatbelt. She was going to have to drive faster than she'd ever driven before.
***
"I think you should stop, now," Tom said.
"You don't really want to stop, Brittany. Your body is telling you that you want to carry on. You won't regret it."
"It doesn't matter what my body is telling me," Tom said. He used his forearm to push Sir John away, just as his mother had coached him. "It's time to stop."
"Damn," Sir John said. "Never mind, there'll be another time."
Tom couldn't help smiling at his optimism.
"I expect Penny will want you and your mother to come over tomorrow," he said, "to choose your costumes for Monday. Perhaps your mother would like a spin around the circuit."
Tom had to gasp at his audacity. Sir John and his mother? Impossible! Still, there was no harm in letting him have his flights of fancy. "I'm sure she would love that," he said with a smile, "only don't go getting any ideas. My Mum's not like that."
It often amazed Sir John that people could so easily delude themselves about those they were close to, but now was not the time to debate the issue. "Of course not," he said.
"I say," he added, "I can hear another car on the circuit, and they're going at full chat. Who on earth is driving at that speed?"
Sir John got more and more aerated about the speed of the vehicle approaching them, until it was only seconds away.
"They're crazy," he said. "They'll never get around this bend at that speed."
***
It says much for the strength and safety features of modern cars that Miss Harper would walk away from an accident that, a few years earlier, would have killed her outright. Indeed, she would remember for years to come, the horror — not of the accident itself — but of the slow motion recall of those last few seconds before her car smashed into the huge oak tree.
In spite of Sir John's reservations, the Mazda might well have safely taken the corner - albeit on its limits of adhesion - had she not seen the parked Lotus and stamped on the brake. Even the ABS couldn't stop the car from going into an uncontrollable spin towards the trees and the Lotus.
She knew she was going to die and for a moment, she thought she was going to hit the other car, killing the girl she was trying to protect. By some fluke, the Mazda just missed the corner of the Lotus and then she was looking directly into the cockpit of the Lotus as her car slid past.
There was the shocked face of Sir John which turned into recognition of the woman he had laid on this very spot. And there was the equally shocked face of the girl — still with her clothes on, thank heavens. But although the girl had Brittany's eyes, IT WAS NOT BRITTANY.
"Strange," she thought, in a moment of clarity, "Brittany doesn't have a sister, only a brother." But then she suddenly thought of Emily Davis and the antics she had recently got up to; and her sister Jessica before that.
She thought it was her dying breath, and all she could say was, "Oh no! Not again!"
The Dolls' House
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Author's Note: Like most of my stories, this is a light-hearted cross-dressing romp. Although Seacombe Independent Girls' High School plays only a small part, I have included this as one of my SIGHS stories. If you enjoy the story, please click on the Good Story button at the end. I'd also be delighted to receive your comments by clicking on the Send Author a Message button. Enjoy.
by Charlotte Dickles
It was supposed to be a four hour drive from London to Seacombe, but setting out after Nick Williams' mum finished work on that busy Monday between Christmas and New Year was the very worst time to travel. It was almost eleven pm by the time he and his mother, Sarah, arrived at their destination.
"I still don't see why we couldn't have set out early tomorrow morning," Nick grumbled for the umpteenth time, as they stumbled up the dark garden path. They were staying at the home of Laura Davis, an old friend of Sarah's, who was letting them use her home whilst she and her family were away. "We'd have missed the worst of the traffic and Mrs Bottom is putting us up at her place tomorrow night."
"It's Lady Bottomly of Seacombe," his mother admonished. "I've told you over and over again to address her properly. She was always a stickler for protocol when I was her housekeeper and she was in her sixties then. She's probably far worse now. That's why I didn't want to stay an extra night with her. She'll probably count the number of times we go to the toilet. But remember, she's giving this dinner party especially for your fifteenth birthday, so she deserves a bit of respect."
"Yes, Mum," Nick agreed.
A security light came on at that moment and illuminated the path up to the front door. Whilst his mother unlocked it and went inside, switching on lights, Nick turned back to the car to bring in their suitcases.
Except that there was only one suitcase in the boot — his mother's. He checked the inside of the car — the suitcase he had packed the previous evening was not there.
"Mu-um!" he whined as he went inside the house. "You forgot to bring my suitcase. What am I going to do? All I have is what I'm standing up in."
"I shall forget my own head, next," his mum said. "I remember picking it up from your bedroom, but I must have put it down somewhere else. I'm sorry about that, love. Never mind, I expect we'll find some pyjamas for you to wear tonight."
"But mum," Nick moaned, "you told me that your friend, Mrs Davis, is separated from her husband and only has two daughters. I can't wear a girl's pyjamas."
"Well," his mother brightly said, "perhaps we'll find you a pretty nightdress."
"Mu-um!"
***
Emily was the younger of Laura's two daughters and a few years older than Nick, so they worked out which was her room, and his mother flipped through her drawers. "Here we are," she said, laying out a few nightclothes on the bed. "What about a pair of Little Princess pyjamas?"
Nick snorted, and he continued to do so for all the other items his mother laid out. Eventually, he decided on a plain pair with a little heart motif.
"They'll do you very nicely," his mother said, adding, "And I think you'll find your boy bits don't fall off just because you wear a girl's pyjamas overnight. All right?"
"Yes, mum." Strangely, he felt rather excited about wearing such pretty clothes, although he'd had to protest, otherwise his mother would have thought him weird.
"You'll need to take a shower before you put them on," she said.
"But Mum," he protested, "I always take a shower in the morning, not the evening."
"Well you're wearing someone else's clothes, so you can take a shower now."
He nodded. "OK, Mum."
So he took a long, hot shower. They had much nicer smelling soap than the kind his mother normally bought, and he came out smelling rather girly. His mother had given him some nylon panties to go with the pyjamas, and as he slid them up his legs, his cock went rigid!
It was highly embarrassing, and he had to pull them up tightly to contain the bulge, but after he'd slipped on the pyjamas, he looked quite respectable, even — dare he say it — sweet! He blushed at the thoughts whizzing through his mind.
"Your drinking chocolate is ready," his mum called up the stairs, and he shyly went downstairs to the kitchen.
"Darling," his mum said, with a slightly amazed look, "You look lovely."
"I'm a boy, Mum," he said. "I'm not meant to look lovely."
"For the time being," she said, giving him a hug, "you're a girl, and a very pretty girl you make. Now drink up your chocolate."
It was strange, but after forgetting his suitcase like that, he'd normally have been grumbling at her all evening until she snapped at him to stop moaning, but somehow it all seemed an adventure, and they chatted amicably about the letter which had arrived a couple of weeks ago, which had brought them down here.
***
When Nick arrived home from school, the handwritten envelope had been on the doormat, along with two envelopes marked "Final Demand". Final demands came all too frequently nowadays, and Nick hoped that, as soon as he was fifteen, he'd be able to get a job and help out his mum with some of the bills. His mum was always saying how everything was getting more money except her salary.
But those thoughts flitted only briefly through his mind that day since, at the bottom of the pile of post was the horse magazine subscription his uncle had given him for Christmas. He had a couple of hours before his mother came home. He'd have to begin his homework by the time she arrived, but in the meantime...
***
"Do you remember me telling you about Lady Bottomly?" His mother had ignored the envelopes containing the two Final Demands and immediately opened the handwritten envelope.
"You were living with her as housekeeper when you had me, weren't you?" he replied, looking up from his French homework which he'd hurriedly started as she came through the front door. "In some huge, old house near Seacombe."
She nodded. "When Lady Bottomly interviewed me for the job, I was six months' pregnant and single so I wasn't normally top of anyone's list of applicants. Fortunately, she was totally discriminatory when it came to putting women before men. Finding her made so much difference for me. She absolutely doted on you. You were almost four when we moved up to London."
"Strange you haven't heard from her all these years."
"Oh, we have exchanged a few letters in the past, but this time she's remembered your fifteenth birthday — although since it's on New Year's Day I can't see how she could have forgotten the other fourteen. Anyway, she wondered if we'd like to go down and stay New Year's Eve with her. Apparently, Seacombe always has a parade on New Year's Day, so she says she'll hold a dinner party for you the night before and then we can all go see the parade on your birthday."
"That's nice of her. Shall we go?"
His mother hesitated. "It will cost us quite a lot of money: there's the petrol, and we'll have to get you some smart clothes. I think we'd better not."
Nick was rather disappointed, but he understood — or thought he did. "Of course, Mum. It's no great shakes."
"The thing is..." his mother said, and then stopped.
"The thing is?" Nick queried.
"Well, Lady Bottomly's husband died a few months ago. Sir James Bottomly. Do you remember? He was in the news."
Nick shook his head. "Not really... Oh. Was he that banker?"
"That was him. He was worth millions, if not billions."
"And you think he might have left her a millionaire?"
"They were separated well before she employed me, but he was Catholic, so they never divorced. I'm sure he'll have left her something."
"So perhaps she's thinking of a nice birthday present for the boy she knew as a baby?"
His mum shrugged. "I think it's quite likely."
"So perhaps we ought to go?"
"It's not as easy as that," his mother crossly snapped at him. "There are... things which make it difficult."
"OK, Mum. Whatever." But Nick was rather upset at the way she had turned on him. It was hardly his fault if she had problems with her old employer. All the same, it would have been nice to look forward to an expensive present."
***
"I think perhaps we'd better go," his mother had said over breakfast, next morning. "I'm sure she will be thinking of a nice present for you, if not more."
"More?"
"She might offer to help with university, for example."
"Really?" Nick had assumed there was no way his mother could afford such luxuries as allowing him a university education rather than earning a wage.
"The problem is there are complications."
"Such as..." he prompted.
She shook her head. "I can't tell you now, but if we went you'd have to be very brave about any... awkwardness," she finished, rather lamely.
He grinned at her. "When have you ever known me frightened of anything?" he asked her.
She cheered up. "You're right," she said. "We can do it."
Although what exactly they could do, Nick couldn't imagine.
***
"It's a good job," his mother said, as they drank their hot chocolate together, "that we decided your present suit was good enough for tomorrow night, so we haven't spent a lot of money on clothes which I forgot to bring with us."
"But we will have to go out tomorrow and buy something smart," he said. "As well as shirts and underwear and things."
"I'd forgotten about underwear," she said. She hesitated a little and then added, "If you find Emily's panties comfortable, would it be such a bind if you continued to wear them whilst we're here. After all, no one's going to see them."
Nick's heart gave a little jump of joy, but he managed to avoid grinning as he said, "OK, Mum. I know money's tight. It's no problem wearing Emily's knickers — as long as we don't tell anyone about this. I'd never live down the embarrassment."
She smiled at him. "Thanks, love. I think it's time we were both in bed now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mum." He didn't normally kiss her — it's not the kind of thing which fourteen year-old boys normally did, but it seemed all right to kiss her that night.
***
"Mum," he shouted next morning. "What's happened to the clothes I was wearing yesterday?"
She came to the bottom of the stairs and smiled up at him. "Oh, I put them all in the wash, love. After all, you'll need them for the journey home."
"Yes, but Mum," he couldn't work out why she couldn't see the problem, "I need to wear them today in order to go into town and buy something to wear for this evening."
"I had a good look through Emily's clothes last night whilst you were in the shower. She's quite curvy for her age but I think we'll find some suitable clothes you could wear whilst we shop.
"Not dresses and skirts," she hastily added, seeing his face, "but sweaters and leggings. I'm sure we'll find something which you'll look good in."
"But everybody will laugh at me," he gasped. Wouldn't they?
"Only if they knew you were a boy wearing girl's clothes. But last night I realised you make a very passable girl. You'll be fine."
Seeing his uncertainty, she started up the stairs, saying, "Come on. Let's find something you can wear. It'll be fun."
He opened his mouth to deny it, and then closed it. "Mum, I'm not certain about this," he finally said.
"That's OK," she said. "I am."
His mother made him wash his hair before they started, then she blow dried it, giving it a nice wave which looked quite feminine. Then they turned to Emily's wardrobe. She had all kinds of lovely clothes — lots of matching outfits in bright colours which Nick consented to try on, one after the other. But when he looked in the mirror, he could still see a boy's shape beneath.
"The problem is your shoulders," his mother agreed with him. "They're wider than your hips which is unusual for a girl." She was silent for a minute, and then said, "I did see something in Emily's sister's wardrobe which I think might help, but it was a bit of a strange thing. It was a... a sort of a body."
"You mean those all-in-one vests that you wear to pull your tummy in?"
"Well, not really, although... I'll go and get it then you can see for yourself."
She was back in a few seconds and Nick gaped at what she held out. It looked for all the world like a woman's skin-coloured torso, from neck down to...
"Oh God!" He felt himself blushing at what he could see between the legs.
"Sorry," his mum said. "I should have warned you, but since you're an honorary girl at the moment, I guess it's permitted for you to look properly. Go on, don't be embarrassed."
But he was embarrassed in front of his mother, until she said, "The important thing is that the hips and bum are padded out. I think that will make the difference."
At last, he could look at the torso without being transfixed by the... thing. "Yes," he agreed, "you're probably right.
"She has nice breasts, as well, don't you think?"
Nice breasts! They were huge, the stuff of his wildest dreams. "Er... Yes, I suppose so," he mumbled.
His mum smirked at him. "That's good, because you'll be wearing them soon."
"Wearing them! Mum, I can't wear that."
"Why not?"
"Mum, it's a..."
"Piece of plastic skin which looks like a woman's body. Nothing to be frightened of in that."
"No, mum," he lied. The thing actually terrified him.
"Come on then." She fumbled between the legs where the... thing was situated, then something clicked and the... thing seemed to separate from the bum. Clearly, it was all meant to be pulled over the head and then clipped in place between the legs to hold it all in place.
"Mum," he made his final protest. "Isn't this all a bit over the top? I mean, my clothes should be washed and dried this morning. We can go out this afternoon and buy me something to wear for tonight."
"Assuming we can find something suitable in Seacombe," she said. "We may find nothing and have to go on somewhere else, miles away. We can't risk being late for this evening. That would be the height of bad manners. Besides..."
She stopped and smiled at him. "Admit it. This is FUN! You're enjoying it. Come on. Let's put this over your head and down your body, then you can go to the bathroom and secure it in place."
He grinned back at her. "You're crazy, but... OK." He stripped off Emily's top which he'd been wearing and held out his arms so that his mother could feed the body over his head.
***
"Well, what do you think," his mother asked twenty minutes later.
He stared in the mirror at his reflection; he was wearing Emily's bright red leggings with a matching red and white striped sweater. He marvelled at the way his large breasts jutted forward, and bounced slightly as he twisted in front of the mirror, but what really made the difference were his protruding hips and bum which really gave him the shape of a girl.
"Mindboggling," he replied. "I can't believe I'm looking at myself — but I am."
"Now let's try it with one of Emily's dresses," his mother suggested.
"Mum! No!" he protested. He'd seen the fantastic range of dresses in her wardrobe — apparently, Emily played in a string quartet and had been performing to audiences all over Britain. The dresses excited him; some slinky, others with swirling skirts. But he could never admit his excitement to his mother.
"You'd look great in them," his mum said.
"But Mum," he said. "We have to go out and buy something for me to wear tonight. Remember."
She nodded and became suddenly solemn and said, "I guess it's time I levelled with you."
"What?" he said.
***
She had made them cups of tea and sat him down in the lounge on the settee. "You remember I told you I was six months pregnant when Lady Bottomly interviewed me for the job of housekeeper?
"I'd had dozens of other interviews," she continued, "and they all took one look at me and made up their mind. They weren't allowed to say it was because I was pregnant, of course, but it's easy enough to make up any old excuse."
Nick nodded. "And then you applied for a job with Lady Bottomly."
"In the interview, she immediately started asking me about my pregnancy. When I told her your father had abandoned me as soon as he learnt I was pregnant, she was on my side. Within a few minutes, it was clear she hated all men, especially her husband, and I must admit, I played up to her a little. I was desperate for a job. Then she suddenly asked me if I'd had a scan. 'Is it a boy or a girl?' she asked."
His mother turned to look Nick in the eye. "When I'd had my scan," she said, "I'd told them I didn't want to know your sex. But I knew that, with her hatred of the male sex, it was really important to Lady Bottomly that I was having a baby girl. I had a fifty-fifty chance of being right so I rather stupidly said you were a girl." She shrugged.
"It got me the job, and Lady Bottomly had a room converted into a nursery — it was pink, of course, with pretty fairies floating around — and she bought lots of little girl's clothes. She'd have been so upset if I gave birth to a boy, especially as I had deceived her. I thought she'd ask me to leave."
"How did she take it when I was born?"
"I let her think you were a girl."
Nick shook his head, trying to work out the implications. "But we were there for almost four years. You couldn't keep my sex a secret for all that time."
"Yes I could."
Nick spoke slowly, as though trying to grasp what she was saying. "You mean I wore girl's dresses until I was four?"
His mum nodded.
"Oh God! How embarrassing!"
"I knew we would have to leave before you started school. Meeting Steve was just fortunate - or at least, I thought so at the time."
His mother had married Steve - the man Nick knew as Dad - and had an acrimonious divorce just a few years previously.
Nick glanced down at his breasts jutting out beneath his red and white sweater, and his red leggings curving around his wide bum and said, "You've never told her, have you. All these years, she's believed I'm a girl. And tonight, she's expecting to see a girl arrive in a pretty dress."
"I know I have deceived you, Nick, but I was certain that if I simply put it to you outright, you wouldn't contemplate it. You'd feel you had to reject it out of hand, regardless of your inner feelings."
Nick opened his mouth to deny it and then realised she had seen him exactly how he was. He smiled at her and nodded. "You're right," he said. "You'd never have got me to this stage. I still can't believe that this is me." He waved down at his attire. Then another thought struck him.
"Does Mrs Davis know what you're up to this weekend?"
She nodded, and said, "It's a long story, but when I first met Laura, I told her that you were a little boy, not a girl. We've periodically chatted on the phone ever since, so when her daughters started getting involved in similar things she would ring me up and tell me all about it. It's not the first time that body you're wearing — it's called a Torsolet by the way — has been used to make boys look like girls.
"When Lady Bottomly's letter arrived, I telephoned her and she suggested this. She's actually staying nearby with a friend, to leave the two of us alone here, so I can get you this far. If it's alright with you, I'll give her a ring now, and she'll come round and help with the rest."
"The rest? You mean get me to wear a dress?"
"Not just a dress. She's a beautician. She'll do your hair better than I have, wax your legs, do your nails, show you how to apply makeup. Being female is not just about wearing a dress."
Somewhere inside him, his old self protested that no boy should even contemplate such a thing, but he couldn't stop his heart fluttering with excitement about what his mother was suggesting. He smiled and said, "You'd better give her a call.
"And," he added, "I hope you're right about there being a decent present at the end of it. If Lady Bottomly gives me a nice sweater, I'll..." He left the end of the sentence open, for effect.
"You'll look very pretty in it," his mum said, and he couldn't stop his heart bounce with excitement.
***
Nick had expected Mrs Davis to ridicule him for wearing girls' clothes, but she didn't blink an eyelid - it was as though she'd seen it hundreds of times before - which actually she had as at one time she'd worked for the company who made and sold the Torsolet.
But all Nick knew was that she cast an expert eye over him and was then pushing him back to the bathroom to have his hair properly done.
"Just a little colour, which we'll be able to wash out tomorrow, and a cut will make all the difference," she said. "As for those dreadful nails, I'll give you very short acrylic extensions. Have you chosen a dress yet? Emily has some lovely ones you can choose from."
"Actually," Nick said, "I'm starting to feel awfully sweaty beneath this Torsolet. I don't think I can wear it for much longer."
Mrs Davis smiled at him. "There's a special gel we put on your body to stop the sweat," she said. "Take it off for now, and we'll sort that out later. But don't worry, your mother is going to take a really pretty daughter to dine with Lady Bottomly tonight, and no one will know anything different."
***
"Oh, Nichola, how delightful to see you, after all these years," Lady Bottomly said, standing up to greet her guests as Emma, the housekeeper, showed them into the drawing room. "What a pretty girl you've become."
"Thank you, Lady Bottomly," Nichola said with a shy smile. She had been coached for hours on the best way to speak, and the right facial expressions to adopt for a girl.
"Sarah," Lady Bottomly' gaze switched to Nichola's mother, standing behind her. "You're looking delightful."
"Thank you, Lady Bottomly," she replied. "You haven't changed a bit since we last saw you."
"Would you like a sherry, Sarah?" Lady Bottomly asked. "Emma has a selection of soft drinks for you Nichola, if you let her know what you would like."
She pointed to the timid-looking, middle-aged woman wearing a black dress and white apron, who had opened the front door to them and shown them into the drawing room. Emma picked up a tray with two glasses of sherry, and she gave them a nervous smile as she stepped forward and held the tray out for Lady Bottomly and Sarah to take a glass. Nichola had a sudden impulse to ask for a gin and tonic, but remembered the large present possibly on offer, and instead said, "Could I have a lemonade and lime, please?"
So the small talk commenced with all the easy familiarity one might expect between the wife of a baronet, her former housekeeper, and a boy dressed as a girl. They talked about the weather, the following day's parade, the subjects at school which Nichola most enjoyed (it was good, Lady Bottomly said, that a girl liked science and maths), and the conversation seemed almost on the point of drying up, when the housekeeper came in and whispered that dinner was ready to be served.
"Before we sit down for dinner," Lady Bottomly said, "I would like to give Nichola her present this evening, rather than waiting for her birthday, tomorrow.
"I should warn you," she added, "that it is rather large, so I hope you won't think it out of place, Sarah."
"Oh, you shouldn't have got her anything big, Lady Bottomly," Sarah said. "I'm sure Nichola will be delighted, whatever it is."
"It wasn't a question of buying anything, Sarah," Lady Bottomly replied, "but Sir James has willed this house and all its contents to me, so it seems sensible to pass things on where they'll be most useful."
As she led the way out of the room and across the hallway, Sarah gave Nichola a triumphant glance which said, "I told you so."
Lady Bottomly led the way into a small room set towards the rear of the house, and turned to smile at Nichola. "Nichola, I know how much pleasure this gave you when you lived here, so I'm sure it will give equal pleasure to your own children, when they are born." She stood aside and indicated the object standing against the wall.
It was a huge dolls' house.
At the look of horror on the face of her mother, who luckily was standing behind Lady Bottomly, Nichola's instantaneous thought was to burst into laughter. Fortunately, she managed to restrict it to a lovely grin, as she gushed, "Oh, Lady Bottomly. I'd totally forgotten it, but now I can remember playing with this dolls' house, all those years ago. Thank you so much. I'll really treasure it."
She leant forward, gave Lady Bottomly a kiss on the cheek, and then added. "The only thing is..." she turned to her mother and said, "Mum, do you think there's room for it in our house?"
Her mother shook her head, but before she could speak, Lady Bottomly darted in. "It's all right. It all dismantles and packs away into a trunk. Emma will pack it up for you and it will be ready to go when you leave tomorrow.
"In any case," she added, with finality, "at some stage I will have to sell off this house, so I might as well start getting rid of the things I no longer need. You must take it."
So it was decreed, leaving Sarah wondering how they were even going to get the monstrosity into the car, never mind find somewhere to store it in their tiny, modern house. Nichola, meanwhile, was remembering the pleasure she had gained as a toddler when she had been allowed to play with the magnificent house. At the same time, she was wondering what Nick was going to tell his friends about this whole escapade when he returned to school on Monday. Fortunately, he hadn't hyped up the visit too much, only telling his best friend basic details, without emphasising that he had hoped to gain a university education out of his host. Nichola gave another look at her mother, who was looking extremely morose. She gave her a grin to try to cheer her up.
They moved to the dining room and Emma served them to soup, a rather thick and stodgy liquid, without much taste, followed by a roast beef, remarkable only for the amount of gristle it contained.
Sarah hardly spoke over dinner, thinking about all the arrangements she'd had to make and the way she'd had to deceive Nick, just to get him down here, all for a bloody dolls' house. Lady Bottomly seemed to pick up on her unhappiness and was affronted by it, so strangely, it was Nichola who led the conversation over the meal. She chattered about the excitement she used to feel when she played with the dolls' house, and about her own feelings, returning to the house after all these years. It was amazing, she told them, how just an hour ago she couldn't remember a thing about this house, but now the memories were flooding back.
It was after they had finished their main course, and both Sarah and Lady Bottomly were getting quite fed up with the endless chatter coming out of Nichola, that Emma came in to clear away their plates and told Lady Bottomly that a Miss Harper had telephoned and left a message for Lady Bottomly to ring her back urgently.
"Well if it was urgent," Lady Bottomly said, "why didn't you come in and interrupt me?"
"But you have always instructed you weren't to be disturbed by telephone calls during a meal, Lady Bottomly," the poor woman protested.
"Except in emergency," Lady Bottomly overruled, standing up, and adding, as she left the room. "This is clearly an emergency."
"Yes, Lady Bottomly," Emma said to the closing door.
As soon as Emma had taken the dirty plates from the room, Sarah said, "What a total disaster. We've come all this way, only to get that horror dumped on us. I suppose we can take it to the rubbish tip on the way home."
"Mum," Nichola protested, "it's my birthday present. I used to really love playing with it when I was young. Couldn't we keep it for a short time?"
Sarah suddenly grinned at him. "The really great thing to come out of this is that I've found a lovely daughter who I never knew I had."
"Don't be silly, Mum," Nichola said, but she couldn't understand why her mother's words gave her such a thrill of pleasure.
"Ah, Nichola," Lady Bottomly said, as she returned to the room. "I don't suppose you ride, do you? In my day, every child learnt, but I suppose you city girls don't get the chance."
"Yes, I ride," Nichola said. "It's one of the activities we can do at school and I really love it."
"Excellent, child," Lady Bottomly approved. "I'm certain you have never ridden side-saddle, but you'll pick that up in no time."
"Side-saddle?" Sarah queried. "Why does she need to ride side-saddle?"
"Miss Harper is the headmistress of SIGHS, the local girls' high school. One of her girls, Gemma Watkins, was going to ride in the parade tomorrow to represent the original Lady Bottomly of Seacombe, and Miss Harper tells me she has now taken ill and can't do it. Unfortunately, all the other girls from SIGHS who are competent riders are already taking part in other parts of the parade, so I'm hoping that Nichola will be able to fill in. It is, after all, a great privilege to represent the first Lady Bottomly." She turned to Nichola. "Will you do it?"
Would she do it? Try stopping her. Ever since Nick had his first ride, he had been obsessed. But with the series of lessons arranged by his school coming to an end and money being so short, there was simply no hope he could do any more until he had a proper job. Now, Lady Bottomly was asking him if he'd like to try riding side-saddle. "Oh, yes, Lady Bottomly. I'd love to try side-saddle."
"Excellent," Lady Bottomly said. "I'll go and tell Miss Harper to arrange a lesson for you tomorrow morning."
***
"I can't do it," Nichola said to her mother, who was waiting for her in the car outside the riding school, the following lunchtime. "It's just impossible."
"But you've always been great with horses," Sarah said. "You've really taken to riding so well. Is side-saddle so very difficult?"
"Riding side-saddle was great," Nichola said. "It looks so precarious but once I was mounted, it's quite stable. I rode Sampson, who is quite used to it and very well-behaved. Miss Bennett, who's the riding instructor at SIGHS, says I'm a natural." She grinned with pleasure at the compliment. "It's quite disconcerting, though, riding with breasts. They keep bouncing up and down, just as the rest of my body is going in the opposite direction."
Her mother grinned at her. "It's one of the things a shapely girl like you has to live with. But why do you say you can't ride in the parade?"
"All the girls from SIGHS taking part in various parts of the parade were there, doing a final practice, apart from Gemma Watkins, whose part I'm taking because she's supposedly sick."
"Supposedly sick?"
"Everyone was saying she wasn't sick at all, but that she was refusing to do it because Lady Bottomly and Miss Harper were insisting she dress up in Victorian clothes."
"But she was taking the part of the original Lady Bottomly. Of course she had to wear Victorian clothes because that's when the baronetcy was created. What's wrong with that?"
Nichola pulled a face. "They're insisting she wears a corset — a symbol of male oppression over females." She shook her head. "I can't do it, Mum."
She was plainly repeating words she had been told several times over the course of the morning, and Sarah had to repress a smile. "Firstly, don't forget that you are a boy, so you wearing a corset can hardly be said to be male oppression over females; quite the reverse, in fact. Secondly, even if it was an instrument of oppression, don't you think it's right that we show what women had to go through? It's no good trying to hide such things and pretend they never happened.
"Thirdly," her face really did break out into a smile, now, "I'd be willing to bet you that if the fashion industry decreed that corsets were back in fashion, all those revolting teenagers would be going out tomorrow and buying them. Am I right, or am I right?"
Nichola gave a grin and nodded. "I suppose so. But I still don’t want to wear a corset."
"When we first talked about this trip," Sarah said, "we agreed you'd have to be courageous. Perhaps this is the moment when you have to show you can be as courageous as a Victorian lady, when she rode side-saddle.
"Anyway," she added, "it will be fun."
Fun! She'd used the word several times that weekend, and now it had popped out again. Nick had never known his mother gain such enjoyment out of life — for that matter, he couldn't remember ever having such fun himself. The other girls had terrified Nichola about the corset; now her mother's words had shown her a different aspect. Yes, perhaps it would be fun, or perhaps even exhilarating.
***
Lady Bottomly was waiting for them when they returned to the house, and she insisted that Nichola should get partly dressed for the parade before lunch.
"It's no good having a huge meal and then expecting to squeeze into your corset," she told them. "We'll get you into your underwear, and then you can decide for yourself how much you can eat. Victorian ladies never had to worry about overeating whilst they were wearing a corset."
She took them upstairs and into a room next to her bedroom which was her dressing room. Nichola had been expecting a wonderful array of Victorian gowns; instead, it was equipped with modern bedroom furniture, not dissimilar to the self-assembled furniture in their own home.
"Here we are," Lady Bottomly said, reaching into a wardrobe and pulling out a plastic bag. She emptied it onto the bed, and amongst a collection of frothy white garments was that symbol of female oppression, a garment of white linen, cords and whalebone. Her mother gave a sympathetic grin to the shudder which ran through Nichola, but which was actually due to Nichola's excitement. She gave a nervous smile back at her mother.
"I'll leave you to it, now," Lady Bottomly said, much to the relief of Nichola and Sarah, who were wondering how well a naked Nichola would stand up to critical inspection. "The dress for Nichola to wear is in that wardrobe." She pointed. "You'll need to ensure her waist is tight laced sufficiently to fit."
Sarah opened the wardrobe and inspected the blue dress hanging there. "We'll, it's rather different to the one you wore last night," she said. She pulled it out of the wardrobe and held it up against her. I don't think you'll have any problem with the length of this," she said.
"But mum," Nicola said. "Look at that waist. I'll never fit into that."
Lady Bottomly had left them a tape measure, and Sarah used it to measure the waistline of the dress and then wrapped it around Nichola. "Just over four inches," she said. "I think that's probably just doable on first use. Let's give it a go. Strip off."
"Mum, I'm really not sure about this," Nichola said.
"We, we either get it to fit or give up," Sarah said. "So at least let's try. Now, off with your clothes, young lady."
Nichola stripped down to her panties and bra, smiling as she realised how unthinkable that would have been just a couple of days before.
"You'll need to remove your bra, as well," Sarah said. "They weren't invented until the last century. For that matter, I don't suppose panties were, but if you do come arse over tit off the horse, you'll need to be wearing something to protect your modesty."
"Yes Mum," Nichola said, as she obediently unclipped her bra and let it slide down her arms, "but if everyone's staring at my panties, I don't think I'll have much modesty left."
"The original Lady Bottomly probably didn't wear any drawers, and she managed to retain her dignity, so I wouldn't worry too much. Now, let's put this chemise on you."
She held the white garment above Nichola's head and slid it down her body. Then she picked up the corset. "We have to loosen off the laces as much as possible before putting it on," she explained, "so we can tighten it up afterwards."
She worked the two halves of the corset up and down, whilst pulling them apart. Then she wrapped the garment around Nichola's waist and fastened it together at the front. She tugged it a little, here and there, and then turned Nichola to face the mirror.
"I think you should watch the magic happen as we tighten it up," she said. "Then you'll appreciate why women today still wear corsets."
She started to draw in the strings and Nichola felt it tighten around her stomach. It wasn't painful, as Nichola had expected it to be, although as it started to draw her figure into a classic hourglass shape, it was slightly uncomfortable.
"You're not screaming with pain, yet, young lady," Sarah remarked, as she paused to feed through the slack in the laces.
"What?" Nichola said, having been mesmerised as she stared in the mirror. "Er, no. I was just amazed at my shape."
"A bit more pulling and I think we'll be pretty well there," Sarah said.
"Really?" Nichola said. "Why that was easy-peasy. I don't know what those girls were complaining about."
"Wait until you've worn it for a few hours," Sarah said. "Then you can brag about it."
"Yes Mum."
***
Lady Bottomly had been right about Nichola's lack of appetite over lunch, but even without the corset, Nichola suspected she wouldn't have eaten much, so anxious was she to get on with the next stage. Ostensibly, she was keen to get back to the riding, but privately, she was at least as keen to finish dressing and see what she looked like in her Victorian garb.
When her mother took her back upstairs to the bedroom and tried on the dress, she wasn't at all worried that her corset needed to be further tightened. She was going to fit into that dress or bust the corset. Seeing the determination on her face, Sarah decided to draw the line, or actually to cease drawing it, pretty soon.
In fact, they managed to button up the dress with just a little more tightening of the corset, with Sarah being satisfied it wasn't going to damage Nichola's insides. If Nichola started to make a habit of it, she thought, she would have to take care she didn't get carried away — especially in an ambulance.
Of course, Nichola should have put on her woollen stockings and boots before putting on her corset, so Sarah had to do it for her. As Sarah forced her feet into the boots, Nichola protested.
"Mum! I can't possibly walk in these boots. They're far too tight."
Sarah smiled and said, "I'm sure the girls you spoke to this morning who protested so much about the corset, often wear boots and shoes as tight as this. I'm afraid we don't have any choice."
"They lent me some wellies at the riding school this morning," Nichola said. "I'm sure they would lend them this afternoon."
"A Victorian lady would not be seen dead in a pair of wellies," Sarah said. "Do you want to give up?"
"No way."
Sarah smiled again. "A Victorian lady would never say, 'No way'."
"We are not amused," Nichola said. "Fortunately, it's not a speaking part." She tentatively stood up and tottered about in her boots, coming to rest in front of the mirror again. A surge of excitement ran through her that was totally beyond description, but almost like... She blushed and turned away.
"I think it is time," she said, "that we took our carriage to the stables."
***
Seacombe Parade was designed, like so many other events in Seacombe throughout the year, to attract more visitors into the town, who would eat, drink, go to the sales and buy some of the abysmal paraphernalia which filled the gift shops. Fortunately, it was a delightful day, the weather had been mild and the sun came out, giving a spring-like feeling to the air. The anoraks and raincoats disappeared, and tee-shirts came out. It was the kind of day the Town Council wished it could conjure up every day, for when the sun shines, people not only spend money, they return over and over.
The parade started at two pm, and having to get corseted and dressed had taken rather more time than Sarah and Nichola had expected, so there was barely time to get to the large car park where the parade was being assembled, locate the horse box from the riding school and get saddled up and mounted. It was made more difficult because the girls from SIGHS had sent her to Coventry for reneging on her decision not to wear a corset, and it was left to Miss Bennett to help her into the saddle.
Then she was being called to take her place in the parade, following a brewer's dray from the local brewery, and the Town Crier who would do his, "Oh yea! Oh yea! Oh yea! Make way for Lady Bottomly of Seacombe," thing.
So she really had no time on her mount before setting out to realise the problems introduced by her different style of dress. The tightly fitting corset was no problem; indeed, she had by then got quite used to it and had been rather enjoying the admiring glances her hourglass figure was bringing from young and old men alike. (Was that weird, or what? After all, 'she' was actually a perfectly normal boy, who happened to be wearing a dress, so why should he appreciate glances from males?)
No, it was the absence of her bra which caused her problems. She had noticed that morning the difficulty that Gossard had in preventing her large boobs from travelling in the opposite direction to both her horse and her body. But the corset she was now wearing simply flared out at the bust, squeezing in the lower part of her breasts, thereby pushing the upper parts upwards and outwards, and doing absolutely nothing to stop them lurching further upwards with every step taken by Sampson. And of course, what goes up, must inevitably come down. Whilst the camisole she wore beneath the corset initially made a measly attempt to restrain her flying breasts, the material quickly rode up so that after a few minutes, her breasts seemed totally unfettered.
For a while, Nichola was incredibly embarrassed, noticing the stares as they went into the first road, with a scattering of people lining the roads. But then she thought, so what? Let them all stare at her.
So she was quite enjoying herself when she noticed Mrs Davis with a girl who was presumably her daughter, Emily, whose clothes Nichola had been wearing all weekend. She gave them a wave and a grin. Laura waved back, but Emily gave her a rather strange grin.
"What's she up to?" Nichola wondered, "and why's she holding that little remote control in her hand?" It was the kind you commonly get with ghetto-blasters and Nichola was still wondering about it when Emily deliberately pointed it at her and pressed a button.
Zing! The nipples on her Torsolet suddenly went erect. She could see them pushing out the material of her dress. But not only were they erect, she could feel them. How zany was that? She could feel her false nipples as though they were her own. But not just feel them. They were painfully sensitive, almost as if they were giving her electric shocks — which actually they were. Every step that Sampson took rubbed her false nipples up and down against the material of her camisole, which in turn resulted in a strong tickling sensation in her own nipples. It was both hurting her and driving her wild with excitement. She wanted to clasp a hand to her breast, to alleviate the torture and to massage it, but in front of the crowds could not.
Then she became aware of another source of sensitivity — in her groin. With every pace taken by Sampson, her bottom shifted slightly in the saddle and Nichola could only describe the feeling generated as though someone was massaging her groin - not sufficiently to bring her to climax, but enough to make her incredibly excited.
She wanted to adjust her position in the saddle to increase the feeling, but in the side-saddle she stood no chance. She couldn't even squeeze her thighs tightly together for after all, was not the side-saddle designed to prevent a woman gaining more pleasure from having a stallion between her legs than her husband?
She passed a group of boys who all shouted out at her; things like, "Cor, what fantastic knockers!" or, "We can see your nipples," or even, "I could fuck that."
Nichola couldn't help her gaze flicking downwards to the boy who said that and being seriously shocked at the massive bulge in his trousers. She had done that! The idea made her laugh with joy and, as she passed by, heard one of the boys say to the other, "You're in with her, mate." She made a note not to encourage any more boys, otherwise she'd have a queue of them waiting at the end of the parade — waiting for a boy dressed as a girl! She laughed again, but this time made certain she was not staring at any males as she did so.
In fact, that incident served to ensure she avoided staring directly at any more males, for she realised old blokes were just as bad as young boys. She really was becoming like a Victorian lady, she thought.
***
Surprisingly, that was exactly what Lady Bottomly was thinking at that precise moment, as she stood by the side of the road and watched Nichola approaching. Nichola really was playing the part well; she even looked quite like the first Lady Bottomly of Seacombe, for she, too, had been a busty lady, chosen by the first baronet for the considerable size of her assets — and it wasn't the size of her dowry that had been large. Considering Nichola had only a few hours practice riding side-saddle, she appeared totally natural in the saddle, as she did in her costume.
Gemma Watkins so-called sickness had been heaven sent; Lady Bottomly been expecting it, of course, for she had observed the insolent way the girl had made such a fuss about wearing a corset, but it certainly could not have come at a better time.
For Lady Bottomly had been wondering how to test Nichola just a little further. There was no doubt she had behaved impeccably about being given the doll's house as a birthday present. She'd expected Nichola to snort and swear offensively, as would any other modern boy. Instead, she had behaved as the delightful young lady she was trying to be.
It had always amazed Lady Bottomly that Sarah should have left her in charge of the baby without realising that a change of nappy would be necessary; and no matter what pretty dresses you may clothe a baby in, they all come off, at all too frequent intervals, to expose the baby's real sex.
Why the stupid girl hadn't told the truth straightaway was a mystery. But having discovered the secret, Lady Bottomly thought it important that Sarah should volunteer the information, rather than have it forced out of her. The longer it went on, the more difficult it became to expose the truth, so it had been a great relief to Lady Bottomly when Sarah had eventually got married, and taken her boy off so he could start leading a normal life.
Now the boy was fifteen, Lady Bottomly had thought that perhaps the truth would out — hence the invitation to spend the New Year at her house. Certainly, no fifteen-year-old boy she'd ever known — and thankfully, there had been few — would have dressed up as a girl. At first, when the pretty-looking girl had entered the room Lady Bottomly thought she must be an imposter — perhaps a sister — but when Nichola started talking about her early memories at the house, it was obvious she really was the genuine article. So Lady Bottomly had to reluctantly take off her hat to the boy, or perhaps — and the very idea shook her to the core — was she really a girl? Had his early cross-dressing conditioned him into having a sex change? Lady Bottomly sighed. Perhaps her failure to tackle the problem when it first arose had started this whole chain of events.
She might have philosophised for some considerable time, but just then, events took their own course. She had noticed the noisy group of teenage boys, passing around a whisky bottle and not even bothering to wipe the neck before guzzling it down. The problem arose because one of them was trying to light a cigarette and glug from the bottle at the same time. The whisky came into contact with the naked flame, ignited and, as the flames burnt his hand, he threw the bottle away from him into the road, to smash directly between Sampson's feet, creating a small fireball.
Nichola had been studiously avoiding looking at that group of boys and had been smiling at some ladies on the other side of the road, so the first she knew was when Sampson reacted by leaping like a scalded cat towards the women, and then bolting forward, trying to put as much distance as possible away from his burning ankles.
Nichola's reaction was instinctive, squeezing her legs together around the top and lower pommels of the saddle to keep herself firmly seated. Then, as they galloped past the Town Crier and the brewer's dray and up the side of the rest of the parade, she concentrated on getting Sampson under control.
"Well done, Nichola," Lady Bottomly called out as Nichola and Sampson shot past her. It was all the more amusing because, as they galloped past the other riders from SIGHS, two of their horses panicked and reared, unseating their riders, and then galloping after Sampson. That brought a guffaw of delight from Lady Bottomly. It was just a pity that the nauseous Gemma Watkins was not one of the girls picking themselves up from the road, but even that little tyke wouldn't have the effrontery to cry off sick and then take part in the parade.
Nichola slowly calmed Sampson down until he was trotting and, by the time they arrived at the car park, she could lead the other two horses over to the horse-box where Miss Bennett was waiting.
"What happened?" she cried.
Nichola wasn't really certain but she filled her in as best she could. Her first impression was that a terrorist bomb had been thrown, but Lady Bottomly arrived a few seconds later and was able to fill them in.
"Well done, Nichola," Lady Bottomly repeated. "Well done." She paused a little, uncertain how to phrase the delicate words. "I must say that you have really impressed me, both yesterday and today. I know things can't have been easy for you, but I'm delighted the way you have responded to the challenges you face. You're an excellent example to your sex." Another pause.
"You told me last night that you attend a comprehensive school in London. The thought fills me with dread. I think I probably didn't play fair with you and your mother, all those years ago, so I'd like to make it up to you. I will pay for you to transfer to the local girls' independent school. SIGHS has an excellent reputation, and I'm certain you will gain admission to a good university. I'll be happy to support you."
"Oh Lady Bottomly," Nichola exclaimed. "I don't know what to say." It was her turn to hesitate. "I mean, it's very good of you to offer, but there are... reasons why I can't go to a girls' school."
"In any case, Lady Bottomly," Sarah had appeared from nowhere and had clearly picked up the last few sentences, "we couldn't move back to Seacombe because our home and my job are in London.
"Besides which," she added, "Nichola is absolutely right that there are reasons why SIGHS would not accept her, so, as she says, it is a very generous offer but we must refuse."
"Dear Sarah," Lady Bottomly spoke with a knowing smile, "you always did leap in before finding out the facts. Emily, my housekeeper, gave her notice this morning. That makes five housekeepers who have resigned over the course of the last year. I know I'm a difficult person to deal with, but you always managed admirably. I also appreciate that in order to get you back I'm going to have to match your present salary, and throw in free accommodation for you and Nichola.
"As for Nichola's suitability for SIGHS, I know for a fact that they already have a lot of experience dealing with people with gender dysphoria. I'm sure they would be willing to accept Nichola, provided she meets their academic standards, and Nichola certainly impresses me as a bright girl."
"Gender dysphoria?" Both Sarah and Nichola spoke the words at the same time, and they then looked nervously at each other.
"I know that Nichola was born a boy, but you brought her up as a girl," Lady Bottomly said. "I suspect that was due in part to my own attitude, and I want to make up for that. In any case, with my husband dead, I now have not one single relative alive. Perhaps I see Nichola as the daughter I never had. I obviously don't expect you to answer on the spot, but go home, have a think about it, and let me know."
"You knew?" Sarah was agog. "You knew all along? Then why didn't you say something? All those years of hell I had to go through, dressing Nick as a girl, all for no reason."
"It was your secret, Sarah. It was down to you to come clean. I dropped several hints, implying Nichola looked more like a boy than a girl, but you never took the opportunity to come clean.
"In any case," she added, "look at Nichola now. Can you honestly say that she hasn't turned into a wonderful daughter of whom you should be proud?"
"No," Sarah replied. "Of course not, but..."
"Then give her the opportunity of going to a good school, and following it with a good university education. And, Nichola, I'm happy to throw in extra riding lessons. You're a natural in the saddle and I think you'll go far, if you're given the opportunity."
Sarah looked at Nichola and Nichola looked back. "What do you think?"
Nichola shook her head. "I don't know what to think. It's all a bit much."
"Of course, it is," Lady Bottomly said. "Go home and think about it over the next week or two. I'll have to employ a temp as a housekeeper, but let me know soon, won't you?"
"Yes," they both replied.
"In that case, you'd better go back to my house and get changed," Lady Bottomly said.
***
"What do you think?" Sarah repeated to Nick the following evening.
They had gone to Lady Bottomly' house to remove the Victorian costume, and then gone on to Laura Davis's home, where Nichola had returned to being Nick. Then they had started the long journey home. Nick had fallen asleep almost immediately, and had gone straight to bed as soon as they arrived. Now, they had both had the day to think about it.
"It was really fun being a girl for a time," Nick admitted. "I felt differently about everything, particularly myself. I'd... Well, I'd like to try it again sometime."
He hesitated, and Sarah prompted, "But..."
"But I don't want to become a girl for the rest of my life. I mean, I like looking at girls, I think they're attractive, and I think life would become even more confusing than it is now if I had to become a lesbian, just in order to meet girls."
"And have sex with them."
Nick flushed. "Yes."
"I think Lady Bottomly was right, though, about your current school. I'm going to find a good private school for you."
"Mu-um. We can't even pay the gas bill. We can't afford a private school, and I don't think Lady Bottomly is going to pay the school fees for a boy."
"Oh! Didn't I tell you?" Sarah said, knowing she had not.
"Tell me what?"
"That dolls' house she gave you. I remembered Lady Bottomly telling me it had originally been a gift to the first Lady Bottomly from Queen Victoria. Apparently, it's one which Victoria used to play with as a child. So, I took it round to Sotheby's. They got very excited about it."
Nick stared at her, his mouth opening slightly, waiting for her to finish.
"They think it will fetch about seventy thousand pounds in an auction. That should pay for a little schooling, as well as the gas bill.
"And also," she added, as Nick's mouth continued to open and close like a goldfish, "one of those Torsolets, and some clothes to go with it, so that I can meet up with my daughter as often as I wish."
The Mystery of the Water in the Dock
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When Abigail's Aunt Harriet told her she could bring along a friend with her to stay for Easter, she didn't stipulate until later it had to be a girl. But what was going on in the little village, cut-off from the rest of the world? This is a story set partly at Seacombe Independent Girls' High School, commonly known as SIGHS and involves young people involved in such things as humour, adventure, crossdressing and growing-up.
Author's Note: This story is complete and will be published in four parts at approximately daily intervals.
by
Charlotte Dickles
The Beefeater
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When Veronica Bottomly catches sight of the page girl at a relative's wedding, she dreams of taking her to bed, something she hasn't done for years. But a little problem thwarts her plan and it looks like it's going to be a miserable Christmas for both of them.
Author's Note: Just a very quick standalone story for Christmas. For those not familiar with the term, Beefeaters are ceremonial guardians of the Tower of London. If you want to read more stories which include the protagonist, Veronica Bottomly, see The Doll's House and Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt.
The Beefeater
by Charlotte Dickles
Veronica Bottomly hadn't lusted after another woman for years – decades even, if she was being honest with herself, which she usually was. To experience such an instantaneous heart-throbbing reaction, she'd have to go back to when she was a teenager. Yet, as she stood in the church at the wedding of one of her late husband's extended family – in Essex, for heaven's sake – and watched the bridal parade with four page girls dressed like Beefeaters (Yuk!), her thoughts turned from nausea into love at first sight.
It was of course, totally preposterous that such a pretty girl would even think about a relationship with her and, almost certainly illegal, as she must surely be only fourteen or fifteen. She allowed herself a brief smile as she remembered back to the 1960s and the girls she'd taken then, when no one worried too much about such legalities.
But the smile rapidly wiped from her face as she recalled that today, many people were going to prison for their laxities. "But no women, so far," she muttered to herself. In any case, what was she even thinking of? She was old enough to be the child's grandmother.
So it was purely coincidental that, shortly after they'd arrived at the reception hall, she happened to want to use the toilet at just the same time as the page girl and happened to be just behind her in the long queue.
"That's a delightful costume you're wearing," she said, as an innocent remark a stranger might make to another under such circumstances.
"Huh!" the girl snorted. "It is hideous. I can't believe Mum and Aunty Tracy made me wear it." That enabled Veronica to work out that she was the young woman's great-aunt.
"But," the girl continued, "Mum said my sisters were all wearing them so I had to as well. So embarrassing."
"You must be one of Suzy Bottomly's children," Veronica said with a smile. "I'm Veronica Bottomly." (She really did not want to emphasise either their age difference or their formal relationship, even though it was very obvious.)
"Steve Bottomly," the girl said, introducing herself and politely shaking her hand. Stephanie was such a delightful name, Veronica thought. Why did kids abbreviate it to such a boring one; even Stevie would be infinitely better. "You must be the Lady," Steve suddenly added, her face expressing almost reverence.
Veronica gave a wide smirk. "I am Lady Bottomly," she admitted, "but I'm still a warm-hearted person underneath."
"Wow," Steve said. "Do you have butlers and maids and hundreds of servants?"
"I'm afraid not," Veronica said. "I don't employ anyone now." She smirked down at Steve's costume. "Not even a page."
"That's a pity," Steve smiled back. "Getting a job for the Christmas holidays would have been one benefit to come out of this fiasco."
"Oh." Veronica's voice was casual in the extreme but her heart was pounding as she added, "Are you looking for a job?" She was on the take.
***
Steve paid off the taxi outside Aunt Ronnie's house (don't ever call her that to her face, his mother had said) and stared up at the Victorian splendour. At least, it probably would have been splendid in Victorian times; now it looked rather neglected and run down. And it was several miles outside Seacombe; the taxi driver said there was one bus a day into and out of the town centre, so it meant he was stranded here unless his aunt was going to drive him into town. At least, she was paying him a living wage, and had offered to reimburse him his rail and taxi fares, which was the important thing.
He gave one knock on the door before it was flung open.
"Steve!" his aunt said, a look of delight on her face which rapidly turned to horror. The arms, which were spread wide as a prelude to giving him a hug, dropped awkwardly to her side.
"Hello, Aunt," he said, and added, "Is everything all right? Have I got the day wrong or something?"
"No, it's the right day. It's just that you look very different without your costume."
"Well, of course I look different without that poncey outfit. Everybody taunted me, saying I looked like a girl."
The silence stretched between them and he suddenly stared her in the face. "That's it, isn't it? You thought I was a girl. That's why you offered me the job."
Veronica thought of lying but her maxim was never lie if you might be caught out or it was obvious. "Yes," she admitted. "I thought you were a girl and I was rather looking forward to a girl living here with me. I thought it would brighten up my life." Not to mention her bed, she thought but did not say.
"But I offered you a job," she continued, "and I won't go back on a promise. I'm afraid I'm not very good with teenage boys, but please promise me you won't fart or belch or swear, or all those other horrid things which boys do." What a damn disappointment, especially after buying that new bed.
"Of course not, Aunty," he said, mentally crossing his fingers. The belching and the swearing weren't a problem; as for the other things, his mother had taught him that what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over.
"Mmm." She didn't look particularly convinced by his promise, perhaps detecting his mental finger-crossing. "Well, you'd better come in and I'll show you to your room."
"Thanks Aunty."
She hated being called Aunty, especially by a little sod who'd badly deceived her. Now she was stuck with him for Christmas. He was going to have to pay for it. "And from now on, I'd prefer it if you call me Lady Bottomly. I am after all your employer."
"Yes… Lady Bottomly." What the f… heck had he got himself into? She was taking him for a ride. If he only knew the ride she had been planning!
***
The room would have been perfect – for a teenage girl who was very different from those devils who masqueraded as his sisters. They'd have had no hesitation in denouncing it as a tart's boudoir – or more likely, an effing tart's boudoir. Its main theme was pink with lots of hearts on the wall paper – clearly the room had just been decorated for the girl she'd been expecting. There was a large bed in the middle of the room with a new pink quilt and matching heart-shaped pillows. The dressing table was obviously of older vintage but it had a shiny new mirror and a recently re-covered stool.
"There's plenty of spare space in the wardrobes," Veronica said. "Why not get yourself unpacked and then come down to the kitchen for a cup of tea or coffee... or something."
***
As he lumbered over to the fridge to get a Cola, Veronica wondered how she could ever have confused him with a girl. He was, of course, smaller than the average boy and had quite a pretty face, but he had the same clumsiness that seemed to accompany every one of the male sex. As she compared his behaviour now to that at the wedding in his Beefeater costume, it just seemed like a totally different person. Perhaps he was.
"Tell me," she said with a rather forced smile, "how you came to be wearing that Beefeater costume, which was clearly designed for girls or very young boys."
He flushed slightly at the memory. "I have three sisters and they're always ganging up on me. When Aunty Tracy came over to discuss our costumes for her wedding, they all decided that was the best, and I'd just have to lump it."
"Did they exclude you from the discussions?" Veronica asked. "That would be inconsiderate in the extreme."
"Well, not quite, but they took no notice of my protests."
"Well what made them decide on the Beefeater costume in the first place? I'm sure that Tracy wouldn't want you looking stupid at her wedding, although you actually looked stunning."
"We were just browsing the internet for costumes and this one picture came up with four Beefeaters in a group, two girls and two guys, only they were quite a bit older. We all thought they looked really good, but when we went to order them on the company's website, the costumes were all in girls' sizes, apart from those for young kids. But my sisters said that wouldn't be a problem and they could measure me up and get a proper-sized costume for me. At the time, having seen that picture with the guys in it, I wasn't worried."
"How strange the hire company should show a picture with two men in it when they don't size them for men," Veronica observed.
Steve shrugged. "Guess so," he said.
"Show me the picture," she said.
"What?" He seemed startled.
"I have a computer in my study. I'm just interested how these young men looked in their costumes. After all, it was that which got you into that situation."
"Er, right."
She led the way into her study and Steve sat at her desk and quickly typed in a long web address. Surprising, Veronica thought, that he simply didn't type into a search engine; she thought everyone did that nowadays. A wedding photograph came up with two male and two female pages dressed as Beefeaters following behind the bride. As Steve had said, the males looked quite manly, with stubble on their faces and, although she wasn't personally interested in such details, quite respectable pecs.
"That's not the hire company's website," Veronica observed, "although it does have a link to them at the bottom of the page. Strange that."
"S'pose so."
"And my guess is," she leaned forward to stare more critically at the picture, "that's been photo-edited. Those aren't pecs on the guys, they're female breasts and someone has given them men's faces."
"Do you think so? How strange."
"Come on, Steve. You must know about photo-editing. Surely it would be fairly easy to do that to the picture."
"S'pose." He was bushing a deep crimson, right round to the back of his neck.
She put her hand over his. "You looked so pretty in that outfit, Steve. As though it was meant for you."
"Thanks."
"Is that what you thought? When you came across that picture on the internet, you wanted to be one of the four girls. So you doctored it, probably with your face to start with, but later with the men's faces so you could show the girls. And I guess you 'just happened' to bring it up when you were with the girls searching for costumes."
Steve nodded. She knew he was on the verge of crying.
She pulled him around to hug him and said, "It's all right for girls to cry and I think you looked absolutely beautiful."
He burst into tears.
"What's more," she added, gently patting his back. "There's a place in town where they sell shaping garments for girls like you. They can make you very curvy indeed, but I think you only need to add a little extra shape. Just sufficient so that you'll properly fit into the clothes from my teenage years which I have stored in the attic. Perhaps we'll go shopping and buy you a few more. I'm going to give you the best Christmas you've ever had."
For once, taking wasn't on the menu, and strangely, it felt quite nice.
The Big 4 - 0
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Synopsis: Adam's wife, Jane, is approaching the big birthday, and simply doesn't want to go there. What is needed, Adam suggests, is an away from it all holiday to put back the fun in life. But he doesn't quite realise exactly what type of fun they are going to embroiled in.
by Charlotte Dickles
"I'm forty next year."
I grimaced, sympathetically. "I know what it's like, Jane. I was forty last year."
"But, Adam, it's different for a man. You don't have to worry about wrinkles, and varicose veins, and your tits stretching down to your knees. I shall be bloody middle-aged!"
"Those things don't happen until you're old, and you have a long way to go yet."
She shook her head, hopelessly. "It's not just our age. We used to have so much fun together when we were young. Now all we do are boring things: get up, take the kids to school, go to work, pick the kids up from school and come home to a night in front of the telly."
"Look," I said, trying to think constructively. "The kids are off to Guide camp in a week's time. Why don't we go somewhere abroad for the week? Just the two of us and have some of that fun you talked about."
"Fun! What sort of fun?" She saw my face and snorted. "Sex! I might have guessed. That's your complete idea of fun. Great!"
"We used to go through the sex manuals from cover to cover when we were young. It was plenty of fun then."
"Grow up."
That was rich, considering it was she who so very much did not want to do so.
"In any case," she continued, "something may go wrong at camp, or one of them may get ill. We have to be on call in emergencies. We couldn't go abroad."
"Then let's just go away somewhere local. A nice hotel. Explore the countryside. Maybe do a bit of walking. Go to the beach."
She shrugged. "I suppose it would be better than staying here. Why don't you book somewhere?"
"Oh no." I wasn't getting caught like that. "If I book anywhere, it will be wrong. You decide."
"I can't think of anywhere."
Give me fucking strength! "What about that place we stayed overnight on Seacombe Moor when we were on our way to Cornwall. We said we'd love to go back, sometime. It was called the..." What on earth was it called?
"Seacombe Manor House," Jane said, always the one with a brilliant memory. She sniffed a bit and said, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to go there for a few days."
***
So it was agreed, and a week later, after dropping the kids off at Guide camp, we continued on to Seacombe Moor, where I'd booked us into one of the bungalows they had on the site, set amongst the trees next to a little stream.
"It is pretty," Jane reluctantly admitted. She turned and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for booking it, and sorry I was so miserable."
"The kiss makes up for everything," I said, and turned and kissed her on the lips.
"That's great," she said, breaking off the kiss, "because you can register and unpack the car whilst I go and check out those sundresses I can see in the hotel shop."
Jane was back into clothes buying mood. A lot of husbands would be moaning, but I was delighted that her earlier melancholy had lifted. I went to the desk and registered and then went and looked over our bungalow in the woods. It really was delightful, about a five minute walk up the valley beside the little stream which cascaded over waterfall after waterfall.
Of course, after dragging Jane's suitcase all the way up there, I realised its disadvantage, and on my next trip from the car, I carried the boxes of beers and wine we'd brought with us. It was heavy work, so I felt fully justified in opening one of the beers when I got to our bungalow for the third time. I sat down at the small table on the terrace watching the stream tumble by, in between reading the Seacombe Gazette, a freebie newspaper I'd picked up from reception, mainly comprising adverts and advertorials from local businesses.
"What do you think of this?"
Jane had spoken from behind me, and I turned and gasped. She had on a pretty, navy blue sundress with white polka dots all over, with a scooped neckline and a hem just covering the cheeks of her arse.
"You look absolutely fantastic," I said, and meant it. I almost added that she didn't look almost forty, but discretely decided to keep quiet. "Do you want a glass of wine? It's not properly chilled yet."
She plonked herself down in the chair next to mine. "It's so hot; I'll have a beer please."
So I went to the fridge, took out and opened another couple of beers, and returned to the terrace.
Jane would normally have demanded a glass, but she raised the bottle to her lips, put her head back and thirstily drank.
"Your panties don't match," I said, pointing out what was fairly obvious as she sat there with her legs sprawled out.
She hurriedly pulled her legs together and said, "I know, but I bought it to match my blue bikini." In a show of bravado, she reached underneath the dress, pulled her beige panties down and over her ankles, and threw them into my face. I guessed I'd asked for that. Before she could ask for them back, I tossed them through the open door into the bungalow. Let her go chasing after them.
But instead, she picked up her bottle, stood up and casually walked over to the stream. Then she turned and smiled at me and said, "Coming for a walk?"
Two weeks ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of walking about without panties, regardless of the length of her skirt. To do so in a skirt which barely covered her bum, would have been shockingly unthinkable. But this was Jane demonstrating that she was still young, regardless of what the calendar said.
I grinned at her, picked up my beer and stood up, and said, "You bet."
The valley had a magical quality, even without being with a girl whose buttocks were regularly exposed as she made a play of skipping along in front of me like a little fairy. A few times, she would suddenly stop skipping and walk normally as she noticed people approaching from the opposite direction. From the way they stopped talking to each other, and refused to even smile at us, it was clear they'd had an even better view from the front than I'd had from behind.
But Jane was all the more excited by these encounters, and laughed like a little girl when they'd gone.
After we'd walked for about fifteen minutes, we came to a branch in the footpath, with the main route following the stream and a finger-post stating "Travellers' Rest," pointing along the path to the right.
"Which way?" Jane asked.
"Sounds like a pub," I said. "Let's get another drink." We had long finished our beers and left them in a litter bin along the route and the walk had certainly given me a thirst.
"I can't go in dressed like this." But her voice told a different message; it said, "I want to go in but am scared to."
I grinned. "It will be alright as long as you don't skip."
She grinned back. "Let's go and look at it."
As we walked along the path, I could sense her hesitation growing. When we got there, although it looked a sleepy little pub with virtually no customers, Jane said, "Perhaps this is rather silly. Let's go back."
"No one's going to know," I said, and then following up her girlish behaviour of a few minutes ago, I added, "I dare you."
It did the trick. "OK," she said, "but the rule is you have to do a dare of mine."
"What is it?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow, depending upon how this visit goes."
She nervously followed me into the pub, but relaxed when she saw there were only a couple of old guys sitting in the corner. I ordered some drinks and we stood at the bar chatting. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the two old guys sitting up and staring at the pretty girl standing with me. I think I might have smirked a little.
"They'd be staring a lot harder," Jane said, noticing my look, "if they knew what was not beneath the skirt."
So she'd clocked them as well, and wasn't disturbed by their stares. Good.
The kitchen staff started bringing in trays of food and putting it on a hot food counter. It smelt and looked great. What a shame, I thought, that we'd booked on a hotel rate which included the evening meal. On the other hand, the prices here weren't expensive.
"I know we've got our evening meal booked at the hotel," I said, "but that Shepherd's Pie looks delicious. Why don't we eat here instead?"
"Because," Jane quietly said, "as you know only too well, it would mean sitting down and giving the whole pub a view."
"We could sit in that corner," I nodded in the opposite direction to the two guys. "It's quite secluded over there." As she hesitated some more, I added, "Double-dare you."
Once more, it did the trick. We ordered two Shepherd's Pies and I picked up our drinks and led the way to the corner table, except that since I got there first, I sat down facing the wall with my back to the room.
"Damn you! I wanted that seat."
"It goes with the double-dare," I said. "Come on, pull your skirt down as you sit down and no one will notice."
Maybe you think I was being hard or even cruel to Jane, but I knew that facing up to the realisation that she was a bloody sexy woman was imperative to her future happiness as she went through the next year.
The waitress brought our food over and we ordered some more drinks. The food tasted as good as it looked, Jane started to relax, and we planned out our itinerary for the next week.
I guess neither of us really noticed the pub beginning to fill with customers, but then it was perfectly natural that the good beer, tasty food and reasonable prices would bring them in. But what really brought it to my attention is that the buzz of lots of people chatting - which I hadn't noticed until then - seemed to mute. My ears pricked up, and although I couldn't distinguish any words, it was clear that the subject of the quiet conversation had become Jane's panties - or lack of them.
What to do?
"I'm just ignoring them," Jane softly said.
"What?"
"It's taken you long enough to realise," she added. Having finished her meal, she placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on them in a way that had the effect of deepening the cleavage on display.
There was a collective gasp from behind me.
"You don't mind?" I tentatively said.
"It's making me so horny," she said, "I want you to finish your meal, and then let's go and make love in the woods."
"Bloody hell!" I couldn't remember the last time Jane had suggested anything like that. I jumped to my feet and left money on the table which would include a large tip for the waitress, but nothing like the size of one I had suddenly developed.
We left the pub and then Jane ran off, in front of me, back along the path through the woods. I desperately ran after her. I didn't want to be shagged out before I caught her so I hoped she wasn't going to run too far and too fast.
She didn't. I managed to catch her thirty yards into the woods, and I bent her over a large, fallen tree trunk. I let my trousers drop to the ground, whilst she lifted one leg and rested it along the tree trunk, all the better so I could fuck her deep inside.
It was a frenzied fucking - she hit an orgasm as soon as I shoved my monster inside her, and no wonder, I'd never seen it so bloody engorged. There was absolutely no finesse as I shagged her in a way I'd never shagged her before and she revelled in it.
Of course, you can't keep that up for long, and it was only a minute later that I had an incredible orgasm that went on for second after precious second, as I squirted gallons of semen inside her and she howled with pleasure like a well-fucked cat.
Afterwards, she asked, "Not bad for a forty-year-old?"
"Thanks," I said, turning her question around by adding, "and you were pretty good as well."
We both laughed, and she added, "Now I have to think up a dare for you to match that."
***
The next morning, I lay idly in bed, enjoying that well-fucked feeling. We'd returned the previous evening and gone straight to bed and had some pretty good sex, although in fairness, nothing like those few minutes in the woods.
Jane had obviously got up earlier and left me sleeping. From the silence in the bungalow, she'd probably gone out to get some breakfast for us, and I felt too lazy to get up before she returned. The promise of her "dare" hung over me, and I rather hoped she would dare me to do a bungee jump. It would be quite suitable because, although I really wanted to do it, the very idea absolutely terrified me. There was a poster advertising it in Reception, and I rather hoped Jane might have seen it and gone out to buy me a jump.
"You're not still in bed?"
I hadn't heard her enter the bungalow and she took me by surprise. "What time is it?"
"Gone nine-thirty. I've been in town to buy something for your dare."
I grinned at her. "Have you decided what it is, yet?"
She nodded. "Obviously, it had to be something you'd find absolutely terrifying."
I nodded.
"So that you'd have to be very, very brave."
I nodded.
"On the other hand, it must be quite safe. I don't want you injured on some silly prank."
I nodded again.
"And following last night's dare, I thought it should be something rather erotic."
"Erotic?" What was she talking about - naked bungee jumping?
"So my dare is that you wear my clothes all day - and you have to go out in public, like I did."
"WEAR YOUR CLOTHES! You're kidding!"
"What's the problem?"
"Well it's... I mean, it's... It's not something that needs courage."
"Doesn't it. Are you telling me that the idea doesn't terrify you, like walking into that pub without panties terrified me?"
"Well, terrify isn't really the right word for it."
"Well you find the right word for it, and then you can overcome it, because that's my dare to you."
I gulped a few times and thought about how I could get out of it. "Look, Jane, I know I took you into that pub, but people didn't despise you when they saw you without panties, as they would me, if they saw me dressed in women's clothes."
"That's why you must look absolutely convincing as a woman."
"Obviously, if I did look convincing, I'd have no problem with the dare."
"That's good, because I've just bought you these in town."
She pulled something out of one of the carrier bags she'd brought in, and let it drop onto the bed. I gulped at it - a huge pair of tits.
"Christ! Did you cut those off someone, and isn't she complaining?"
"You agree they're very realistic?"
I tentatively reached out for them. "You mean, they're not real?" I felt the weight as I picked them up and realised the breasts were built into a skin-coloured crop top.
"I got a few other things, as well. A wig..." She pulled it out of another bag, "...and this thing which is called a Hiplet." It was like the top of a pair of legs, with a pussy and buttocks. "Finally," she pulled out a small cardboard box, "some voice-changer tablets. They increase the pitch of your voice so you'll sound like a woman."
I looked at her and said, "I suppose you won't take no for an answer?"
***
OK, so I may have put a brave face on it, but secretly I was in turmoil. I mean why should I get excited because I had just acquired a huge pair of tits and a pussy? In fact, after Jane had waxed my legs, they were almost as sexy as hers and you should have seen what she did with making up my face. With the wig completing the image, I stood in front of the mirror and I would never have realised that I wasn't looking at an extremely shapely, naked woman.
"Oh Adam! You look fantastic," Jane said.
"I have to admit you've transformed me beyond belief," I shrilled. My voice was unrecognisable - not a particular good female voice, but no way could it belong to a male.
"I hadn't quite expected the Bustlet and Hiplet to make you quite so shapely," Jane said, "and I think none of my clothes are going to fit you."
"I guess that means I have to stay indoors, then," I said, outwardly breathing a sigh of relief. But inside, Jane's dare was having exactly the right affect; I was both terrified about going out in public, and, I have to admit, exhilarated and sexually excited by the very idea.
"You don't get out of it that easily," she said with a smile. "I saw just the dress for you in the hotel shop, yesterday. The straps tied at the rear, which means we can expose plenty of boob. That should ensure there's no doubt about your gender. I'll pop over now and buy it."
She was back in a few minutes with a light blue sundress, a matching bikini and a pair of flip-flops. "I think you're doing a big enough dare as it is without going without panties," she said, "but you won't need the top. Far better for them to glimpse a nipple bulging through your dress."
"Thanks," I said, trying not to let my excitement show through.
I stepped into the dress and Jane fiddled about at the rear to obtain maximum exposure of my boobs whilst still retaining some decency. Then I was allowed to pop on the bikini bottoms and flip-flops and we were ready to go out.
"I don't mind walking up the valley," I said, "but I think it would be a mistake to go back to the same pub as last night. They'll remember you and when they see me, they'll probably put two and two together."
"That would be silly," Jane agreed. "In any case, we need to go into town and buy you a dress for dinner, this evening."
***
"This is crazy," I said for the umpteenth time as Jane led the way to the car.
"That was the dare," Jane said. "You'd dress as a woman all day and appear in public. We need to eat somewhere for lunch and dinner, and it's probably better not to use our own hotel, so we'll go to a nice restaurant in town - which means we get you a pretty dress." She smiled. "I really don't see the problem."
The problem was, I couldn't fault her logic, even though I knew I was courting disaster. One thing to wonder through the woodland and occasionally meet people you'll probably never see again; but to go into town to buy a dress for dinner in a smart restaurant - it was crazy - as well as incredibly stimulating.
Jane did the driving - "Just in case we're stopped by the police" - and I sat beside her, my boobs quivering wonderfully with every slight lurch of the car, and doing my best to stop smirking. When we got towards the town centre and pedestrians stared into the car, it was even more exciting.
"OK, you can get out here. I'll go and park the car and meet you by the pier."
She had stopped at the top end of the High Street, full of holiday makers milling around the shops.
"Here! But why can't I come with you?"
"You need to gain confidence on your own. Go on, jump out quickly. There's a traffic warden bearing down on us. Unless you fancy chatting him up."
The sight of the warden walking our way prompted me to hurriedly leap out of the car and slam the door shut. Then something extraordinary happened; my breasts suddenly came to life, as though they had suddenly been joined onto my body, and I could feel my nipples go rock hard.
"What the..."
My hands instinctively reached up to cup them and I could actually feel my hands squeezing my breasts. I gasped: I didn't believe in magic, but this was positively weird. Then I glanced at Jane in the car. She was grinning at me and waving one of those small remote controls they have for radios. I didn't understand what had happened but clearly she was at the root of it.
"Damn you..."
"I'm sorry, you can't stop the car here, miss," the traffic warden said, although he was staring transfixed at my breasts clasped in my hands. I hurriedly dropped my hands to my sides, as Jane drove the car off with a lurch. "Is everything all right?" he asked.
"Yes, fine," I said. "It's just that my... friend has played a silly trick on me."
"I wish I had friends like that," he said with a grin. "But I'm always willing to play a few tricks."
"Thanks, but no thanks," I said and hurried off as fast as my legs would take me.
The problem was that as I walked, my breasts bounced up and down, the nipples sliding against the inside of my dress as they did so. It was incredibly erotic.
"Wow! Look at those huge bouncing tits," I heard a teenage kid say to his mate, bringing a flush to my cheeks.
I had to slow down, I realised. After all, it wasn't as though any of the other holidaymakers were in any kind of hurry. So I slowed my pace to a crawl and moved down the road amongst all the people. Many of them gave furtive looks at my boobs, but then I'd done that to women plenty of times so I could hardly blame them for that. In fact, actually, I started to admire the glances.
***
I'd been waiting on the start of the pier for ten minutes, and had continued to receive plenty of lecherous glances from passers-by. A girl could get used to this, I'd been thinking.
Then I heard Jane say, "Smile."
I couldn't help it, in spite of the trick she'd played on me - in fact, probably because of it, I turned and smiled at her. The artificial click of a camera shutter went as I did so. Jane stood there with her phone, catching the evidence. "Why you..."
"Would you like Jack to take a photograph of the two of you?" an elderly woman standing behind Jane asked in a broad Lancashire accent, interrupting my intended curse.
I'd have told the woman to piss off, but Jane turned and said, "Oh, that would be really nice of you. Thank you." She handed her phone across to the woman's husband who took a few shots of us. I tried to smile, rather than grimace.
"We've just come to get our tickets for tomorrow's performance," the woman continued, nodding towards the pier theatre behind us. "We've been coming to Seacombe for fifty years, and we always go to the theatre on the Monday evening. Oil-ante. It's supposed to be very good."
"What?" Jane asked.
"Iolanthe," I said, nodding towards the placard on the front of the pier theatre. "Gilbert and Sullivan."
"That's what she said, wannit?" Jack rather grumpily replied, handing back Jane's phone.
"Oh, of course," Jane said. "I'd rather like to see that myself."
"Better get your tickets quickly," the woman said. "One year we couldn't get any tickets for love nor money."
"That was 1965," Jack said. "And the Beatles were live on stage."
***
"Shall we go?" Jane asked.
"Never mind that," I said. "What did you do to my bloody tits when I got out of the car?"
She grinned again, defusing my anger. "I actually forgot all about the remote they gave me with the Bustlet and Hiplet, until we came to leave the bungalow. Then you were in such a tizzy, I didn't like to tell you they were supposed to be touch sensitive, and you could alter the sensitivity with the remote. I just thought I'd give it a try when you got out the car. I didn't expect it to have quite that effect."
"It wasn't just that they became sensitive," I said. "The nipples poked out as well."
"Well they did tell me that but I didn't believe it. They're not poking out now."
"They seemed to go back in after a few minutes, but it was bloody embarrassing," I grumbled.
"Never mind," she dismissed. "So how about Iolanthe?"
"I suppose we could."
"Then why don't we go and buy some tickets."
So we went into the booking office and asked a woman bearing a badge "Tracy" for two tickets for the following evening. As Tracy typed into her terminal, the interval bell went off.
"What's caused that?" she wondered, looking around.
"You've won the prize." A man's voice came from behind us.
We turned to see a middle-aged man in a suit. "I'm Tim Jenkins, the manager. I'm delighted to say that you've won our daily prize. You get free tickets for tomorrow's performance in our most luxurious box, a meal for two with wine at the Grand Hotel, and free loan of costumes for the performance."
"It's a trick," I said, well used to internet scams promising the earth.
"Absolutely not," Tim Jenkins said. "Tracy, can you print out two tickets for the Queen's Box, and then we'll go to my office and I'll get your voucher for your meal at the Grand. After that, we'll go to Wardrobe and they can sort you out suitable costumes. We have some wonderful Victorian ball gowns which I'm certain will suit you ladies down to the ground, and be just right for Iolanthe."
"Er..." I started, wondering how to phrase it.
"That sounds absolutely fantastic," Jane said. "I've always wanted an excuse to wear one, and nothing is going to get in my way now." She gave me a ferocious look. "But will it be just us wearing costume, or are the whole audience going to dress up?"
"Hopefully the latter, dear lady..."
"Call me Jane," she said, "Jane Turner, and this is my sister-in-law, Abigail Turner." (I almost choked - Abigail? Where did that come from?)
"Excellent," he continued. "Now if you'll come to my office, I'll get your meal voucher."
We meekly followed him into his office, with me trying to make faces at Jane and she steadfastly ignoring me.
"Perhaps you could fill in the details and sign the receipt for the tickets and vouchers," he requested, bringing a form out of his top drawer. "You can give your local hotel as your address. We're obviously using this competition to publicise the show for the rest of the week, so you give permission for us to do that."
We both had to sign, although me a little reluctantly. Fortunately, I only ever used the initial of my first name in my signature, so I didn't have to give a false signature.
"I see you're staying at the Seacombe Manor Hotel," he said. "How do you like it?"
"It's really good," Jane said.
"Mmm," I agreed.
"Great," he said. "I'll take you ladies through to Sue in Wardrobe now, and she can get you fitted with some gorgeous ball gowns."
"Great!" Jane said, with a gloating smile at me.
He took us through the auditorium and then up steps to the stage and into the back stage area, where a middle-aged woman was feverishly sewing a gown.
"Sue," he said, "this is Abigail and Jane Turner. They've won a couple of box tickets in our daily competition, so we need to get them fitted out with gowns. Right, I'll leave them in your capable hands."
"Oh," she said, staring at us both, and at Tim's departing back. Then, she looked at me again and added, "Oh! Right. I'd forgotten the, er... competition was starting today. Well I think I have just the thing for you."
"What about me?" Jane asked.
"Oh, sorry," Sue said. "I'm sure I'll have plenty of dresses that will fit you, er, Jane. It's just that your friend is quite tall and we accidentally got the wrong sized dress for Sarah - she's playing the part of Phyllis in Iolanthe. I got a bit mixed up with the metric measurements. Anyway, we've had to dress Sarah in one of our standard dresses, which means we have this lovely one being wasted, until now.
"It's strange," she continued. "I saw you waiting at the end of the pier when I came in just now and I pointed you out to Tim and said that you'd be the ideal size for our surplus Phyllis dress, so it was, really lucky that you won this competition."
"Lucky?" I queried.
"Obviously very lucky," Jane interrupted, giving me the eye, "since they happen to have a dress which will fit you. Now perhaps we can look at the costumes."
I'd better get you some corsets, first," Sue said. "I think we're going to have to tight lace you both."
"Tight Lace!" we both chorused. "You're joking!"
***
She wasn't. Mind, they were gorgeous costumes and deserved to be worn properly. Jane obviously looked much more attractive than I did, wearing a simpler green dress with a blue insert, but there was no doubt my dress had far more style, and must have taken forever to make. It was a red overdress with a ruched edge worn over a blue underskirt. Clearly, neither of us were going to get into our costumes without some significant corseting. It was strange, but I really, really wanted to try to do justice to that lovely dress. I gritted my teeth.
Sue spent ages with us and I think we both felt a bit guilty at wasting her time, but eventually she was satisfied, and told us to go back on the stage so she could show us off to Tim, who apparently was sitting in the auditorium.
"Wow!" he shouted. "Girls, you look superb. Hold it there so I can see you properly."
It was strange but I thought I'd feel embarrassed about been seen that way, but instead I felt on top of the world. He was only one middle-aged bloke, but it counted that he thought we both looked great. He took some photos on his mobile phone, and then made us come down into the auditorium and pose there.
"That's fantastic. We'll use these to show punters what they might win if they only book tickets for the performance. Now if you want to go back and change into your normal clothes, you can change into them again before you go for your meal tomorrow."
"Er, well..." I started to say.
"That's great," Jane said. "We're really looking forward to it. Aren't we Abigail?"
"Well..."
"She is really," Jane said to Tim. "She's just awfully shy."
"With a figure like hers," Tim said, "she should be used to being the centre of attraction."
***
"Look, I realise your dare was only supposed to last for today and that we're now committed to tomorrow evening," Jane said when we were back into our sundresses and had left the theatre. "What I suggest is that we have lunch here in Seacombe, have a little look around, but forget about booking a restaurant for dinner. Then we'll go back to our bungalow, you can change back into being a man, and then we have dinner at the hotel as normal. How does that sound?"
I grudgingly admitted it was all right. In fact, I was so excited about wearing that dress again that wild horses wouldn't have stopped me coming the next evening, and weird as it may sound, I was positively looking forward to having lunch in some nice wine bar and being ogled by all the blokes.
***
Lunch was every bit as enjoyable as I'd hoped. We both got ogled by several blokes in the wine bar we discovered near the harbour - fortunately, they were all with families or girl friends so it was all just a giggle, and no risk of anyone trying to chat us up. We ended up spending ages there, staying for a leisurely coffee afterwards.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
I shrugged and reluctantly nodded. "It's really weird. Obviously, part of it is the sheer terror that I might get found out, but the other..."
"It turns you on being admired by men?"
"No, of course not... Well actually, I suppose it does, really. I don't understand why."
"I enjoy being a woman as well, and that's all part of it. You should be flattered."
"It's just crazy," I said.
Jane reached forward and touched my arm. "I'm so glad you've done this. Perhaps we can do it again."
"We are," I pointed out. "Tomorrow evening."
"I mean apart from tomorrow."
My instinct said I should vehemently reject the idea, whilst my inner self revelled in the idea. I kept quiet, and Jenny gave a little smile to herself.
Afterwards, we meandered back along the High St towards the car park where Jane had left the car.
"Hello. It's Jane isn't it? And you must be Abigail?"
The words came from behind us and, with my heart dropping into my shoes, we both turned. A man was smiling at both of us, and although I felt I vaguely recognised him, I couldn't place him.
"Sorry," he added. "You haven't actually met me before. I'm Ed Johnson, manager of the Seacombe Manor. I met your husband, Jane, when he checked in yesterday. And Abigail, you're so similar to your brother, I couldn't possibly mistake you."
"But how do you know our first names?" Jane asked. She was as baffled as I was.
"Why, from the Seacombe Gazette, of course." When he realised we still didn't know what he was talking about, he pulled a copy of the freebie newspaper from the bundle he was holding under his arm, and held it up so we could see the front page.
It was sisters-in-law Abigail and Jane Turner's lucky day when they went to buy tickets for the Seacombe Players' Iolanthe, for they not only won free seats in the best box in the theatre and a pre-theatre meal in the Grand Hotel, but they also get to wear some of the theatre's finest dresses to attend Monday evening's performance. Abigail and Jane invite all the other members of the audience to dress for the occasion and make it truly a night to remember.
Abigail and Jane are staying at the Seacombe Manor Hotel, and say they are absolutely delighted with its wonderful accommodation, delicious food, excellent staff and beautiful grounds.
Iolanthe runs from Monday to Saturday at the Pier Theatre...
"But how did it come out so quickly?" Jane asked. "Tim only took the photograph this morning."
Ed smiled. "It's all put together by volunteers to promote local business, and the council prints it at cost. Tim edits it and he's always moaning we don't put in enough copy to him. Oh, and thanks for the plug for the hotel."
"But we didn't quite say that..." I started.
Ed fluttered a hand in a don't bother gesture. "It's all right, he always pads out your words a bit. Wouldn't be a newspaper if he didn't. But anyway, to repay you for that, you'll get a free bottle of good champagne with your meal tonight."
"Yes but..."
"Thank you," Jane said with a delightful smile. "I really love champagne."
***
"Of course," Jane said, as soon as Ed was out of earshot, "you know what this means?"
"What?" I asked, trying not to expose the exhilaration running through me, because I knew exactly what it meant.
"It will have to be Abigail who goes into dinner tonight, so we'll need to get you a nice dress, and with you being in the newspaper, you'll be noticed. Of course, nobody noticed Adam very much when he arrived on Saturday, but if he was to return, people would be carefully comparing him with Abigail. Someone would twig that Adam and Abigail were one and the same, and once the cat was out of the bag..."
"You mean you think I should remain as Abigail all week?"
"Yes," she said, and added with a smile, "That's what you wanted me to say, wasn't it?"
"Of course not," I lied.
"Liar," she said, with another grin. "I think we'd better go and buy several more dresses."
She took my arm as we turned and went back towards the shops.
"You know," she said, "I think I'm going to enjoy being forty, as I now have such a lovely friend to go around with. She'll need help buying lots of clothes, as well as plenty of advice about girly things. Life is going to be fun, isn't it?"
With a big grin on my face, I had to admit that it was.
The Mystery of the Missing Frocks
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Everything a great crime mystery should have: romance, a detective and a road chase - except that this is no "Love Story", "Sherlock Holmes" or "Bullit" and there certainly isn't a great crime. Follow our intrepid narrator as he falls in love with a girl in London, becomes a woman in Seacombe, then on to modeling in a West End fashion house and, in a "Not The Thirty-Nine Steps" finale, to the Scottish Highlands to uncover… by Charlotte Dickles |
Author's Note:
"I'm hungry," Stevie said, surfacing from beneath the bedclothes, her infectious grin stretching from ear to ear.
"Hungry?" I said. "You're insatiable!"
If possible, her grin got even wider and she gave a mock smack on my arm. "Not for sex, you idiot - for food! And in any case, it's you who's insatiable."
Not to put too fine a point on it, we'd been at it like rabbits since around eleven that morning, and it was now four-thirty. I had never known a woman who could excite me so much I was able to go from one wonderful orgasm to another over so many hours - and she said I was insatiable!
"Actually, I feel quite hungry, too," I said. On the drive down to Seacombe, we'd stopped for a coffee and a Danish pastry, but that's all we'd eaten since a quick breakfast at six am. "Do you want to go out somewhere?"
"In Seacombe," Stevie said, "there's only one decent place to eat - The Grand." Then, she added, "And it's on me."
As I started to argue she said, "And I don't want any of this crappy, female discrimination thing, OK? I have much more money than you, so I pick up the bill when we go to my expensive places, and you can pick up the bill when we go to cheap places. That's fair."
I wasn't happy, but her tone had a certain edge which indicated she would argue if I quibbled, and argument was the last thing I wanted. "Thanks," I said. "That's nice of you."
I'd only known her for just over 24 hours, having gone into the bistro-diner in my London hotel after a lousy business meeting on that Friday morning, at which I'd got kicked from pillar to post. It was love at first sight!
Well, I'd better just qualify that. Probably like many guys, I fall in love at first sight with several girls a week. I get on a train, and there she is - the woman with whom I'd like to spend the rest of my life. Except that she's with her boyfriend who looks like Brad Pitt, or I can't get a seat even close to her, or think of anything witty to say, or... The list goes on. Let's face it; I'm not the world's best puller of beautiful random girls on trains, in restaurants or anywhere else for that matter.
So when I saw her in the restaurant, I didn't realise that occasion would be any different from any other love at first sight. Doesn't stop you hoping, though, does it?
I'd been intending to have a quick lunch, before getting a taxi to the station to catch a train back to my Manchester home. She was sitting at a table with a couple with whom she was obviously talking business, and she looked so ravishingly beautiful, she took my breath away. I made my way to an adjacent table and sat so her female companion had her back to me, and I could look at my beauty from the side, with none of them being aware I was watching. So fascinated was I, the waiter had to ask me twice for my order, and I haven't a clue what I eventually ate or drank.
Her black hair was cut in a chin-length bob, and it really did bob around as she talked animatedly to her companions; her grin was so wide that her face shone with excitement. She looked devoid of make-up, although I later discovered that was due less to reality and more to her skills with make-up, and she was wearing a 1950s' style, knee-length dress, which was pink with a tight bodice. Beneath it, I could just see the hem of the kind of frilly petticoat which would make the dress swirl out wonderfully when she stood or moved.
From their conversation, upon which I unashamedly eavesdropped, it didn't take much to work out that she was a fashion designer doing business with the couple who owned a dress shop, and clearly they were in the buying mood. They went through her portfolio and placed an order, which she promised to have delivered early the next week.
After they had left, she turned to me - her wide grin taking any pain from her words - and said, "My mother told me that if I left my mouth open as long as you have, I'd stick like it."
"Sorry," I stammered, "I didn't mean to stare."
"If you hadn't meant to stare," she said, "you'd have chosen another seat. But I have half a bottle of wine left." She held it up for inspection. "It's far too good to let it go to waste. Would you like to help me finish it?"
We finished that bottle and another before we left. By then, we'd chatted endlessly and what's more, she even seemed to enjoy talking with me. As I'd guessed, she was a fashion designer and she was in business with her sister - who looked after the business side - whilst she designed and helped make sales, such as the large order she'd just taken.
Finally, she was saying, "I'm sorry, Rick, I have to go back to my fashion house now and get this order rolling. And afterwards, I have ticket for a fashion show, and I'm afraid it was difficult enough getting my ticket - there's no chance I could get you in."
"What about tomorrow?" I asked. Hell, if she really was interested in me, I'd stay in this hotel for ever.
She hesitated for a second and I thought, "Ah, ah. Here comes the brush off."
"Tomorrow morning, I'm driving down to Seacombe for a week's break," she said. "It's going to be part holiday, part chance to get on with my first draft of next season's fashions."
Oh," I said, disappointment surging through me.
"You'll probably think this a stupid idea," she said, "and you must have all sorts of plans, but you could come with me if you wanted. I mean, obviously you wouldn't have to stay all week, and we might find we hate each other, but..."
"I'd love to," I said.
Within a second, arrangements were made, and she'd disappeared back to her business, or The House, as she called it.
It was pouring with rain all the way from London, but it might have been a bright, sunny day for all that it dampened our enthusiasm. She had a fantastic car - a BMW Roadster - but with the top up we were as snug as bugs in the proverbial rugs and a four-hour drive had never seemed so short. We had to dash from the car to the beach villa where we were staying, but we still got soaked, and there we were in the hallway, and I brushed the rain off Stevie's shoulder. Then I was pulling her to me, and we were kissing, and stroking and pulling off clothes.
And five and a half hours later, Stevie suggested going out to eat at The Grand Hotel, and rang them to make a reservation.
"They're fully booked tonight," she said, putting the phone down. "We need to be there by five or they can't take us. I'll have a quick shower first, whilst you're booking a taxi for five minutes to five - the number's by the phone. I'll only be a few minutes in the shower then you can have yours. We'll simply throw on the clothes we were wearing earlier. We should just do it."
"It'll be quicker if we shower together," I suggested.
She pulled a face. "No it won't," she said.
By some miracle, the rain had stopped and the sun was shining as we stepped into the taxi.
"The forecast says it's going to be a scorcher tomorrow," the taxi driver said. "And the rest of the week is going to be hot, as well."
"Hey, great," Stevie said. "We can pop into the shops after we've eaten and get something for a barbecue on the beach."
"Fantastic," I said, realising that I hadn't any bathing trunks and wondering how Stevie would appreciate it if I went naked to the barbecue.
Within a few minutes we were driving through Seacombe town centre, and Stevie casually said (as though it didn't really mean much to her, when patently it did), "When we turn the next corner, there's a shop called Tweeds on the left. They usually have a display of my designs in their first window."
Sure enough, the window had a big sign Stevie's, and it was full of flowing 1950s' dresses of different designs and colours, all of them very bright and attractively coloured, similar to the dress Stevie had been wearing the day before. I thought they looked fabulous and I told her so - her grin appeared to stretch wider than her face!
The meal was as perfect as Stevie had promised it would be - that is, until she got the call on her mobile.
She pulled it out of her handbag and looked at it, and suddenly her face changed, and I saw a side of her that had been invisible until now - a kind of haunted, miserable look.
"It's my sister," she said. "I wonder what she wants."
"Hi Sue," she said into her mobile, then, "I'm in Seacombe, staying at the Watts' villa..." "I told you ages ago I was coming down here for a week's break..." She grimaced at me. "Well, I thought I had given you the date..." She gave me a little smile. "Yes, I am, actually... Yes very special..." A much bigger smile that time. (They were talking about me, I surmised.)
Sudden concern came into her voice. "Surely, you don't need to do that!" "But we're having a barbecue tomorrow..." "Oh! If you must!" She flipped her phone shut with a crack.
"It's not fair!" she said.
"Stevie," I said. "What's the problem?"
"Sue says there's some issue at The House and she needs to come down and talk to me. She's coming for lunch tomorrow."
I thought of saying that we could stop having sex whilst she was there, but decided she wouldn't appreciate the joke. Instead, I said, "That's not a problem. I run the barbecue whilst you two girls talk. I can keep out of the way as much as you want - as long as we can make up for the missing time afterwards."
She looked at me. "Thanks, Rick, but you don't understand. You see, Sue has always stolen my men from me. She's a nymphomaniac, and she'll shag anything in trousers." (I definitely did not suggest that the nymphomania obviously ran in the family!)
She paused a little, and then added, "Look, you probably picked it up from our conversation that, although I'd been planning a trip to Seacombe for some time, I didn't decide to come down today until I met you, yesterday. But, you see, Sue and I share a flat above our fashion house and I didn't want to take you back there. I wanted to get you right away from London - and her - so we could get to know each other properly first."
"We do know each other properly," I said. "We did that this afternoon. Don't worry that I'll be spirited away by her - I won't let her take me alive."
"Men don't have any choice in the matter," she said. "It's her pheromones, or something. She simply locks her gaze on them and they're hers."
"Look," I said. "I can make myself scarce for a while - have lunch somewhere and wait until you call me on my mobile."
She shook her head. "She won't go away until she's seen you. Then you're dead meat."
I smiled at her. What a silly girl she was. Didn't she realise that every word she uttered would make her sister sound more attractive to most men? It was a good job I was in love with her - wasn't I? Don't even think about the sister, I thought, but I said, "Maybe I should disguise myself - perhaps put a giant carbuncle on my face so I look revolting."
"I've told you," she said, "that wouldn't matter. She'd probably put a blanket over your head. As long as you were wearing trousers, she'd have sex with you."
Hell, that did sound erotic! But I was in love with Stevie. Definitely. No question.
She suddenly perked up. "I've had an idea," she said.
"What's that?"
She gave me a little grin and my spirits lifted. "You didn't hear Sue's side of the conversation, but she said something like, 'Are you with someone?' to which I said, 'Yes, I am,' and then she said, 'Someone special?' and I said, 'Yes, very special.' Which means Sue really hasn't a clue what you're like, so there's an opportunity for us there."
"What's that?"
"You'd have to be very brave," she said.
"I draw the line at murder," I replied.
"Oh no," she said, her smile getting wider, "murder would be easy compared with this. It's perfectly legal, but you'll need much more courage." She gave me a beseeching look. "Are you up for it, Rick? Will you do anything I ask to protect our relationship?"
"You bet," I said, then thought I'd better add a rider. "Anything legal. But what is it?"
"I gave myself the answer," she said. "I said Sue will shag anything in trousers, so you won't be wearing trousers when she arrives."
I paused, uncertain. "I'm not certain that will work," I said. "After all, when she sees me stark naked, she may feel even more randy than normal."
"Only if you've got dangly bits," she said. "But suppose she sees a bikini-clad woman?"
I paused again, even more uncertain. "When I said I'd do anything legal," I said rather cautiously, "it didn't include being castrated."
"Ha!" she said, rather crossly. "Just like a man; chickening out already!" Then her face broke out into another of her smiles. "No, it doesn't mean being castrated, but I'd better start explaining, otherwise you'll probably die of fright."
She pulled a face, in the way I'd noticed she did when pausing for thought. "Most of our dresses are modelled upon 1950s' wear, and they can make even quite large women look good. Consequently, for any design, we put in a lot of trial and error to get the dimensions just right across the whole size range - and not just on a dressmaker's dummy - we want the dress to flow nicely as a woman walks or swivels or sits."
I nodded comprehension, wondering where this was leading. Nowhere, that I could see.
"We're not a big enough company to employ a range of models of all shapes and sizes - in fact Alison, who runs the office, is an ex-model and she does all our in-house modelling trials. Obviously Alison is only one size - a size 10 actually - and yet we need to increase her size in steps through the whole size range. Hence, the Torsolet."
"The what?" I asked.
"It's called a Torsolet," she continued. "It covers the torso from the jaw line to the knee - a bit like a diver's shorty wetsuit. But it's very realistic - it looks just like skin - and, even more importantly, it has pouches built into it which you can inflate with water, so we can increase Alison out to the right bust, waist and hips for any particular size. We want to go a size up - we feed more water into the pouches; a size down - we let some water out. Fortunately, Torsolets are made by a company located in Seacombe, which is quite handy for us now."
"But what's this got to do with me getting naked in front of Sue?"
"We can nip down the road now and buy a Torsolet for you. It will give you a nice female figure. We'll need to get a wig, of course, and a swimming costume, and I'll apply some make-up.
"Don't you see?" she added, as she sensed my incomprehension, "you'll look just like a woman, and I'll pretend I'm having a lesbian relationship with you."
I opened my mouth and then closed it. "I'm not certain that will work," I tentatively said.
"You think you won't look like a woman," she put the words into my mouth.
I nodded.
"Trust me, Rick, I can do it. If it turns out I'm wrong then we'll have to try something else, but I'm convinced we can convert you. As long as you agree, but that's really down to how serious you are about our relationship."
I considered. Certainly Stevie believed she could do it, and I was inclined to trust in her judgement in what made a person look feminine. But did I really want to go to such extreme lengths to protect myself from a nymphomaniac? As I considered the question, I had a startling thought - I wouldn't really mind dressing as a convincing woman - it would be getting found out and exposed that I'd hate.
"Have you ever had a lesbian relationship with anyone?" I asked.
"I had terrible crushes on some of the girls at school," she admitted, "and Sue will remember those, so we should get away with it. Well Rick, are you up for it?"
What could I say? I had the choice of what looked like a long-term relationship with Stevie - who herself must rate pretty highly in nympho stakes - or a quick but thorough fucking with her sister. "I'm in your hands," I said.
"Great," she said, the grin stretching wider than ever. "Let's finish our meal and get down there. Before we go, we need to resolve one question, and that's how long you're going to need to be converted.'
"Just a few hours, surely?" I suggested.
Stevie shook her head. "That would be alright if she goes straight home after lunch, but you know I suggested she might hang around if she suspects I really do have a male in the closet. If she was to stay all night, we'd have a real problem, especially in the morning since there's only one bathroom."
"Does it really matter at this stage?" I asked.
Stevie nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid it does. The problem is that the Torsolet is impervious to water, so unless you do something about it, you quickly get drenched in sweat. The company supplies two types of gel to go next to the skin: there's a green gel that Alison uses when she only needs to wear it for a morning's work - four hours is probably the tops before she starts sweating again and she has to take it off. Then there's a red gel which she'll use if we need her for a couple of days of continual use. The problem with the red gel is it contains glue which it's difficult to remove, so if we use that - and I think we should - the Torsolet won't come off, even if Sue is physically trying to rip it off you."
She gave me one of her wonderful smiles. "I know I'm being a bit paranoid about Sue and her seducing you, but it's happened so many times before. I simply couldn't bear it if she took you. So using the Torsolet with the red gel is a bit like locking you in a safe."
"Or a chastity belt," I added. I wasn't certain I was so keen on that idea.
"Oh, you and I could still have sex," she said, "as long as we know how to get around the problem, which I do. I can tell you, Alison doesn't go celibate whilst she's wearing it, and neither shall we. Please Rick, say you'll do it."
I couldn't refuse her, could I?
In fact, being converted to a woman was incredibly simple. After our meal, we walked through the town centre to a shop called 'Big Busts'. From the outside, it appeared to be catering for tourists, selling made-to-order head and shoulders busts of themselves. But after we entered and Stevie said she wanted a consultation, we were shepherded upstairs, to more luxurious surroundings.
"They make real bust enhancers here," Stevie explained, "so the name of the shop has a double meaning. Hi, Toni," she added to the woman who came to meet us, giving her one of her grins. "My friend Rick has agreed to help me out by pretending to be a woman. I thought one of your Torsolets would be just the thing."
Damn! I thought she was simply going to buy the Torsolet, rather than explaining everything to this stranger. She must feel I was some kind of kinky weirdo. I felt my face reddening.
"That's no problem at all, Stevie." The woman gave me a friendly glance, eying me up and down, and then smiling and saying, "Nice to meet you, Rick. Don't worry, we have plenty of male customers wanting to look like women, and our Torsolet is perfect for them. Obviously, you'll need a good shave before we get you converted, but before that, come into my consultation room and we'll measure you up and do some skin colour matching."
Stevie was right that the garment looked exactly like a shorty diver's wetsuit, except that the surface looked just like skin, and for the most part, it was only the thickness of skin.
Toni spent some time matching the colour of the suit to my own skin colour. Then she sent me off to a bathroom for my shave - "Shave all over," she advised, and I did so. When I returned, she started to tell me about the anti-perspirant gel.
"If your transformation was only for a short period," she said, "we'd use the green gel, but since Stevie tells me you may have to wear it for some days..."
"We've already talked about it," Stevie said, "and Rick's happy to use the red gel."
"But the consequences are..." Toni started to say.
"Rick understands he won't be able to revert to being a man for while," Stevie interrupted. "But we need to buy him some clothes tonight, and if we don't get out of here quickly, the shops will be closed. Please, Toni," she pleaded, "can we get a move on?"
I had entered Big Busts a reasonably slim man, and I waddled out of it with large breasts bouncing around inside my shirt, and my jeans barely fitting over my huge arse. Both Toni and Stevie had insisted that my wide shoulders demanded wide hips and bum, and that I needed the big tits to balance it all out. Consequently, I'd had several pints of water pumped into my various parts to give me this voluptuous female figure.
I even had a vagina! ("We go for total realism," Toni had said, "so you two can continue to enjoy yourselves like a pair of lesbians.") It was only then that I realised I wasn't actually going to be able to see - and use - my prick again until I'd removed the Torsolet, but it was too late to do anything about it.
Toni had also supplied me with a black wig, in a style not dissimilar to Stevie's, so I could pass muster as a woman. Finally, she had sold me some voice-changer pills, which worked in a similar way to helium, increasing the tension on my voice chords, and giving me a voice as sweet as a canary's.
"Right Rachel," Stevie said (she had decided upon that name as it could be shortened to Rach, which was not dissimilar to Rick). "We'll nip around to Tweeds now and get you fixed up with a range of my fashions. I have some nice beach wear in my range, as well as something more suitable..."
"Hang on, Stevie," I interrupted her. "Sue is only coming for lunch on the beach. I don't need anything else."
"But what happens if she stays overnight?" she asked. "We'll probably go out to a restaurant so you'll need something for that."
I gulped. When Stevie had talked about pretending to be a woman, I'd thought it would all be in the privacy of the beach villa or its secluded surroundings. "You mean we'll go to a restaurant with me dressed as a..."
"No need to go into details here." That time, she interrupted me, pulling a face to warn me not to say stupid things on the pavement. "But if we go out to a restaurant, then of course we'll need to dress up."
I looked around. I'd been so involved with myself, all my body parts wobbling in a most unusual way, that I hadn't even noticed the late night shoppers surrounding us, crowding the pavements. I suddenly realised my female shape was bulging out of my male shirt and jeans, and apart from one or two leering looks from blokes walking by, no one was taking any notice of me. I was passing!
"Besides," she added, "I'm a fashion designer. You don't seriously believe I could go shopping for my best friend without ensuring she has a complete range of my outfits.
"We'll also need to get you some lingerie," she continued. "Bras to stop you bouncing around like that; panties and petticoats; nightdresses. You'll also need some make-up and I'll show you how to put it on. Oh, Rachel, we are going to have some fun, aren't we?"
As usual, her happy enthusiasm was infectious. I nodded. "I may feel incredibly stupid," I said, "but hell, we're going to have some great fun."
Sue arrived at the beach villa at just gone midday on Sunday. By that time, I felt quite at home as a woman! Obviously, having a pair of tits continuously attached to my chest made a big difference, but it was the Sensotouch which really made them feel like they were part of me.
"What's Sensotouch," I had asked Stevie when we were preparing for bed the night before. After our shopping trip, I'd come home laden with dozens of parcels, all contained in a brand new, red suitcase which Stevie had insisted I buy. ("You can hardly put all these lovely clothes in the tatty old suitcase you brought with you," she had said, "and Sue is bound to nose around our bedroom.") Then we had spent hours with Stevie showing me how to put on make-up to best effect. ("Obviously, I can't come to the bathroom with you every time," she had said. "You need to be able to do it for yourself.")
Only after all of that, did we revert to being lovers. She had just admitted that my newly-applied make-up looked ravishing, and I took the opportunity to kiss her full on the lips, smudging my lipstick something rotten, but who cared?
We had barely got into a wonderful snog before she was pushing me away and saying she needed to turn on the Sensotouch. Hence my question.
Another impish grin. "I'll let you feel for yourself," she said, producing one of those little remote controls you get with CD players. "You're currently set at zero, because Toni advised letting you get used to wearing tits before letting you feel them. Now let me set it to five."
She pointed the remote at me and pressed a button.
Zing! My breasts came alive! I could feel them quivering. "What the hell?" I muttered, lifting my hands to cup my breasts and giving them a squeeze. They felt divine.
"My God! That's clever," I added. "How do they do it?"
"The skin is like a touch-sensitive computer screen," she said, "and the signals are applied to tiny electrodes in contact with your skin, so you can feel them. Alison says it's just like the breasts are part of your body. Now try this." She pointed the remote again and pressed the red Record button.
Zang! My nipples popped out, and when my thumbs automatically caressed them, they were so sensitive it was painful.
"Not like that," Stevie said. "Like this." She bent her head down so she could take my left nipple in her mouth and sucked.
"Agh!" It was heaven.
She put her mouth to my right nipple.
"Oooh!" I thought I was going to orgasm.
"If you think this is good," she said, "just wait until I get my tongue on your clit. Toni says that most of her male clients believe it's far better than any sex they have as males."
It was!
We licked and stroked each other to mutual orgasms for the next three hours, and it was only when I woke up next morning without an erection between my legs that I remembered we hadn't actually had male to female sex.
"Are you trying to tell me you didn't enjoy last night?" Stevie responded when I pointed this out. "Was it true what Toni claimed - that sex as a female wearing a Torsolet was better than sex as a male?"
I had to think about that. "Sex itself is always fantastic," I said. "I think the big difference is in staying power. After that long round of bonking yesterday afternoon, my poor willy would have had a hard time keeping on for as long as we did last night."
To be honest, I'd been staggered I'd managed to keep it up all afternoon. Over dinner, with that pleasant 'I've been fucked' feeling still lingering, I had been speculating whether I'd stand up to her demands that evening.
"As it was," I said, "the sex last night was fantastic."
She smiled and nodded agreement. "What about the sex this morning?" she asked. "Do you think that will be fantastic?"
I looked at her, looking at me with that great smile on her face. "I think it will be better," I said.
We only managed to get dressed and ready a few minutes before Sue was due to arrive. Of course, my preparation had taken ages longer than normal, and Stevie insisted I did my own make-up rather than relying upon her.
I had a bikini bottom to put on, but Stevie suggested I wear a sarong over the top with a matching tie-front blouse.
"Toni warned me about the dangers of suntan," she said, "and I'm not talking about skin cancer. The Torsolet has been colour matched to your existing skin. It's fatal if you develop any tan, because obviously the Torsolet does not, and it will become perfectly obvious it's fake.
"Of course," she added, "it has nothing to do with the fact that there's a matching sarong and blouse in my range, and we don't do bikinis on their own."
"I never thought I'd be saying this," I told her after I'd taken her suggestion, "but I feel so good wearing these things. You are an incredible fashion designer."
"I know," she smirked with pleasure. "It's good isn't it?"
Just then the doorbell announced the arrival of her sister, Sue. Stevie went to answer it, whilst I hurried to the kitchen to sort out some drinks to offer her. Fortunately, Stevie had put some bottles of white wine in the fridge, and I put one on a tray along with a bottle of red, some glasses and a bottle opener, and carried it all back into the lounge.
"Rachel, this is my sister, Sue," Stevie said.
She was very different from what I expected. No mini skirt or low-cut top barely containing a figure to die for; no blonde, film star hair. Simply a rather rounded woman in jeans and tee shirt, with a mop of mousey-coloured hair which, in combination with her glasses, made her look quite frumpish. Still, perhaps she deliberately dressed down so her attack would be all the more surprising.
"Hi Sue." I smiled and she smiled back, although without any predatory look, which I guess meant I was safe from being raped at the moment. "Would you like a glass of wine? Or we've some cold beer in the fridge?"
"Thanks, Rachel," she said, eying me with some surprise. "A glass of white wine would be superb."
I opened the bottle and poured out three glasses, and then said I was going outside to get the barbecue going. I walked out onto the terrace and down the steps to the beach below, where the brick-built barbecue stood. Even before I got to the bottom of the steps, I could hear their voices raised, arguing and then shouting at each other, but with the sea breeze, and the sound of the waves on the beach, it was impossible to distinguish what was being said, and who was saying it. I wasn't certain I wanted to know, anyway.
I stacked a few firelighters in the base of the barbecue, some charcoal bricks on top, and was just about to put a match to it when I heard the front door slam, and seconds later, the squeal of tyres as a car took off as though it was on the starting grid of a racetrack.
I retraced my route up the steps, and across the terrace, already to give some TLC to Stevie, who I guessed would be in tears by now. But as I stepped inside the lounge, it was Sue who sat there, not Stevie.
She looked at me and said, "I guess I blew it."
"Where's Stevie gone?"
"Back to London," she said.
"But she's gone without me."
I couldn't believe it. An hour before, we'd been having the most wonderful, loving, sexual relationship that two beings could ever have. And now she'd left. "We must go after her."
"She has a BMW Roadster; I have a Ford Mondeo Estate. We'd never catch her up. Even if we could, it would be suicidal to try to overtake her and force her to stop."
Sue's words made sense, but I guess I was in shock. I'd gone from heaven to hell in the space of a few seconds. I sniffed. Surely, I wasn't going to blub, even though I very much felt like it. I sniffed again.
"Do you want a tissue?" Sue offered a pack from her handbag.
"Thanks." I blew my nose and said, "What made her leave?"
"There's a problem with the order she took on Friday. The first delivery was supposed to be tomorrow, and when we went to make it up yesterday, we found a large amount of stock had gone missing. I wanted Stevie to ring up the customer and explain we'd be late, but with her obsession, she wants us to get in our seamstresses and make up the order overnight. She's gone rushing back to London to supervise them, and as she was leaving she bawled at me to ring them all up and get them in."
"Is that practical?"
Sue nodded. "We probably can do it for this first delivery, but we'll spend a fortune on overtime. Normally, we have everything made up in China, and I've already contacted them with a rush order but it will be the end of the week before that arrives."
I shrugged. I could see both sides of the argument - busting a gut to keep a promise made to a customer, compared with saving a lot of money by delaying the shipment. The sort of business discussion that should have been reasoned out between them, rather than having an almighty row about it and dashing off without even thinking of me.
"You said Stevie had an obsession?"
Sue looked embarrassed. "Did I? I shouldn't have used that word to you. She does tend to get fixated upon whatever she's doing." She gave a tiny smile, nothing like one of Stevie's. "That's what makes her such a brilliant designer - she applies herself totally to producing fantastic designs, and she's a natural leader of fashion - not someone who simply copies the lead names."
"I'm not certain what I should do, now," I said.
Sue looked even more embarrassed. She took a deep breath and said, "I don't mean to be heavy, but I have to go back to London after I've made some telephone calls, and I don't think I can leave you here. The villa belongs to a friend of our parents, you see, and they're happy about us staying here, but..."
"They wouldn't be happy about seeing a perfect stranger living here," I finished for her. "I can understand that. Perhaps you could give me a lift to the station and I can get a train home to Manchester from there." It would mean going back home as a woman, I realised, as the Torsolet would be stuck on me for at least another day. But I'd be able to change into my male clothes on the train, except...
"My suitcase is in the boot of Stevie's car," I said. "She's driven off with it." Of course, I had the red suitcase with the clothes Stevie had bought for me, but I could hardly arrive at my house wearing those clothes.
"If you could do without it for a day," Sue said, "I could get it put onto one of the courier vans going up your way tomorrow. It would be with you by the afternoon."
"Thanks," I said, and then something else struck me. Stevie had tossed the clothes I'd been wearing on Saturday into the boot of her car, so that Sue wouldn't see them lying around.
"I haven't got any money or my keys. They're all in the boot of Stevie's car."
"I could lend you enough money to get you home," Sue said. "Don't you leave a set of keys with a friendly neighbour, or put them under a rock or something?"
I certainly did. I could just imagine going round to my neighbour, Mrs Bull, dressed as a woman and asking for my keys. Within twelve hours, the whole of Manchester would know about it. I shook my head. "No, I'm kind of stuck."
"Well, you'd better come back to London with me," Sue said. "You can stay the night in our flat, and by then, Stevie will probably have sorted herself out of this crisis, and you and she can decide what you want to do."
I smiled. "Thanks Sue," I said, still wondering about the difference between Sue as she appeared to me, and the way that Stevie had described her.
I slept for most of the journey, and when I awoke, we were just approaching the end of the motorway.
"She must have worn you out last night," Sue said, with a smile. "I didn't realise that lesbian sessions were so hectic."
"I guess it depends," I said. "But you're certainly right that Stevie wore me out. I feel much better after that sleep. Sorry if I got a bit sniffy before."
"We all get sniffy over our loves occasionally," she said. "Actually, it's quite fortunate how things have worked out, as a couple of our people I asked to come in this evening can't make it, so if you could lend a hand with things, it would be very much appreciated."
I was pleased at the idea of having something useful to do, rather than standing around like a prune, not certain how Stevie and I were going to get on. "Sure," I said. "I'd be happy to do so."
"Great." A nice smile, but still nothing like Stevie's.
"You said you some stock had gone missing," I said. "Was it stolen or just mislaid?"
Sue grimaced. "It's not the first stock to go missing recently," she said, "and it's difficult to see how it could have got mislaid. Everything is checked into our storeroom and out again by our storekeeper, Nancy. She was beside herself when we discovered this latest discrepancy, and I'm convinced she's not stealing stuff. But then that goes for the rest of our staff. They're mainly female, and have been with us for some time. They can all buy our clothes at cost - which is vastly reduced over normal prices - so I can't imagine any of them stealing the stuff for their own use."
"I got the impression," I said, "that what was discovered missing yesterday was far more than would be simply for personal use."
"Precisely," Sue said. "Twenty-one dresses were missing yesterday - that's about thirty in total."
"Have you called in the police?"
She shook her head. "No, both Stevie and I hate the idea, but I think we're going to have to do it. Anyway, let's get this current panic out the way first."
It was about five when we arrived in the area behind Oxford St and parked outside a building with a big sign above the window: Stevie's Fashion House. Four staff were already there, in addition to Stevie herself, who was marking up material for cutting out.
She looked up as we entered and gave a little, apologetic smile. "Hi Rachel, Sue." She raised her voice to address everyone. "This is my friend Rachel, and I'm hoping that with Janet and Tracey not able to come in, she will give us a hand."
I nodded acceptance, and several of the girls gave me a nice smile of greeting, and a girl called Jenny took me into the staff area and lent me a spare staff uniform - a very 1950s' looking shirtwaister dress, with a belt, in a pastel pink shade, and Stevie's embroidered upon the breast.
I had enough sense to know that, whereas men faced with a change of clothes would retire somewhere private, women have no inhibition about stripping off in front of each other. With my body wobbling around as it did, I had no worries about being sussed for a man. So I got changed in the staffroom in front of Jenny, who constantly chatted. She allocated me a locker into which to put my sarong and crop top, which a few hours before, I'd been wearing on the beach. The shirtwaister was a bit tight on me, but I reckoned it would be fine.
I was put onto the task of using machine shears - lethal things if you weren't careful - to cut out the material Stevie had marked up, whilst the women set to the sewing machines to stitch the pieces together. Sue put on the labels and the wrapping ready for dispatch.
We worked for hours on end, having a brief break at about ten for a coffee, and then setting to again. But what amazed me is that, whereas in a male circle, they'd have spent all their time moaning about having to come in on a Sunday, this lot happily chattered - with not one complaint - about all kinds of things, from holidays to TV - not forgetting blokes of course. Thank heavens, I thought to myself, that I'd swallowed another voice-changer pill just before coming in from the car, so I was able to participate in with them.
One of the main topics was the question of what had happened to the stock, and that was the only time the conversation turned sour.
"No one has broken in, and the security system is always set," Joanne said. "It must be an inside job."
"It can't be!" Jenny and Anna said, almost together. "No one would do a thing like that."
"What about Alan?" Joanne asked. "He's always lurking around looking strange."
Alan, I had already discovered, drove the small delivery van used for local collections and deliveries - they used haulage contractors for the rest.
"That's only because he likes looking at us women," Anna said. "Just like most blokes. In any case, he doesn't have access to the stockroom unless Nancy's there."
"Well perhaps Nancy..." Joanne commenced.
"No!" Jenny said, quite vehemently. "Nancy's my friend and I won't hear a word said about her."
"It's no good throwing out accusations at everyone who's not here," Sue said. "Stevie and I do need to get to the bottom of this, but it won't help if all the good guys start fighting each other. Now, has anyone got anything ready for me to pack, or can I have a rest for a bit?"
We finished at about two in the morning, feeling totally shattered. Sue offered everyone a choice of drinks, but they had all said they had to drive home and they'd prefer to get straight off. So the three of us sat together, large glasses of white wine in our hands, with a sense of comradeship that had been totally lacking at lunchtime.
"We can't go on losing stock like this," Stevie said. "It will destroy our name for delivering on time."
"Apart from ruining us financially," Sue added.
"So who can it be?" I asked. "Is Joanne right, that it must be an inside job?"
They looked at each other, and then looked away. Finally, Sue said, "It's the only explanation. It must be one of our employees."
"Cleaners?" I suggested. "Maintenance men? Telephone engineers?"
"We employ our own cleaner, Jackie," Stevie said. "And we haven't had any of those other sorts of people around, and even if we did, there's no way we'd let them into the stockroom on their own."
"Customers? Temporary staff? Husbands and boy-friends of staff." I ticked them off on my fingers.
"There's a keypad on the door to rear of the House," Sue said, "so customers can't get through, and they'd be immediately challenged if they did. We've had no temporary staff for ages. Husbands and boy-friends? It's possible, but they'd need knowledge of the keypad number to the stockroom, and it's not the kind of thing you'd tell your boy-friend unless you were conspiring with them to steal the goods."
"Make a list of all your staff," I suggested, "then go through them one by one and look at the usual things - means, opportunity, motive - for example, have you had a row with any of them or do they feel cheated by you?"
"You sound very experienced in this, Rachel," Sue observed. "Are you a police officer?"
I shook my head. "No, but I work in the headquarters of a bank, and we've had a few employees stealing things - everything from toilet rolls to office furniture. They have a special department for the banking frauds, but this kind of petty pilfering usually gets dumped onto me."
"Well I think," Sue said, "it would be really useful if you could stay here for a while. Alison is on holiday in Scotland for the whole of this week and we don't usually bother about getting cover for her - but it's always a problem and we could say you were going to fill in for her. Then you could keep an eye on things. It would be good having someone from the outside, who doesn't have all the prejudices that we have."
I shook my head, holding back my smile as I thought about how surprised they'd all be when my Torsolet came off the following evening and they realised I was a man. "I could stay until tomorrow afternoon, but I have to get home that night."
Sue gave Stevie a look, and said, "You haven't told him how long it stays on, have you?"
Stevie said nothing, and I asked, "Told who?" I suddenly felt very vulnerable.
"Well, have you?" Sue repeated of Stevie.
"Told who?" I repeated, desperately trying to stop myself from blushing. Clearly, she couldn't be talking about me, could she? Please!
Sue turned to me. "Told you, of course, Rachel, or whatever your name is. When Stevie got you to put on the Torsolet, what did she tell you - it would only be stuck on you for a couple of days?"
"No, I didn't," Stevie said.
"Yes, she did," I said.
Stevie turned to me. "Well I didn't actually. I simply said that when Alison needed to wear one for a couple of days, she'd use the red gel. I may not have actually spelt out the exact length of time you'd have to wear it for."
"Which is?" I asked.
Stevie mumbled an answer which I didn't catch.
"I don't think Rachel heard that, Stevie," Sue said. "Are you going to tell him or shall I?"
"Two weeks," Stevie said in a quiet voice.
"Two weeks!" I repeated. "I'm stuck in this for two weeks!"
She nodded.
"But why?" I asked. "You made up that entire thing about Sue being a nymphomaniac, didn't you?"
"Me being a nymphomaniac?" Sue shouted at Stevie. "You, of all people, told him I was a nymphomaniac!"
Stevie shrugged. "Sorry."
"I think Rachel deserves an explanation," Sue said, "and I think we both need an apology."
"Sorry," Stevie said. "To both of you."
"But why?" I asked.
"It's too complicated."
"It's not really," Sue said. "Stevie, get the bottle of wine from the fridge and replenish our glasses whilst I explain to Rachel why you deceived him."
Stevie stood up to do as requested, as Sue started to speak. "Stevie has an obsessive personality problem. It means she is a perfectionist in everything she does - so her fashion designs are absolute first rate and she feels compelled to give the customer exactly what they've ordered - but it also means that her sexual relationships also have to be perfect. In effect, that means having non-stop sex with her lover."
"Another drink, Rachel?" Stevie asked, returning from the kitchen area and mouthing another, "Sorry," at me.
"Please." I held out my glass.
"Sue?" Stevie asked. "Sorry."
"Thank you."
"Of course," Sue continued, "men can never keep up to her sexual demands, so before it gets to that stage, by some strange quirk which even her shrink can't explain, she has to convert them to being women so their relationship can continue as a perfect lesbian sexual relationship."
"I see," I said, but I didn't really.
"Have I explained it correctly, Stevie?" Sue asked.
"I suppose so," she said. "I can't even explain it as well as you." She turned to me, and added, "It's simply something I feel I have to do."
"It's happened before?" I asked.
"Once," Stevie said.
"Twice," Sue said.
"How did the men react?"
Sue grinned. "It was quite funny, actually. They both absolutely hated it. Of course, Stevie only asks the blokes to convert when they're half pissed and shagged out, so they're not really thinking straight. They threatened all kinds of legal action, but they each bottled out when it came to going to court."
"You don't seem very sympathetic to them," I observed.
"I thought both of them were simply there for the sex, and they didn't really care much for Stevie as a person." She turned back to her, adding, "I take it you didn't tell them your sister was a nymphomaniac?"
"I told them I was staying at a girls' boarding school, where I was redesigning the uniform, and I would smuggle them inside," she said. "I may have also mentioned that half the sixth form were sex-starved nymphomaniacs."
"Oh Stevie!" Sue said, and started to snigger.
It was infectious. Within seconds I was laughing so hard my tits were bouncing about and I burst a button on my shirtwaister, which made Sue laugh even harder.
"Well I didn't think it was that funny," Stevie said, rather upset at our reaction.
Of course, you can guess the result of all that: I agreed to stay on, at least for this week whilst Alison was away, partly to help and partly to see if I could detect who was nicking the stock. It gave me a safe haven where I could continue being a woman - as far as I know, none of the other women had sussed I was not a real woman.
As regards where it left my relationship with Stevie, I hadn't a clue. In the short term, it was clearly sex as usual, for Stevie took me up to their flat, pressed the red button on the remote to turn up the Sensotouch to maximum and pounced on me. Thank God I'd had a few hours sleep in the car, for I got hardly any more for what was left of that night!
Next morning, Sue woke me up and I realised that Stevie had already gone.
"I brought you a cup of tea," she said, "but don't get the idea you'll get this kind of service every day."
I smiled. "Thanks."
"No," she said. "Thank you for not going ballistic over what Stevie did to you. She doesn't intend to do wrong, you know, it's simply that she can't stop herself from trying to maintain the perfect relationship."
I know," I said. "After the revelations last night, I hadn't intended to sleep with her - I thought it might be taking advantage. Instead it was she who took advantage of me."
"Well, you don't look like you suffered by it," Sue said, "and from Stevie's behaviour this morning, she certainly hasn't. Obviously, in the longer term, you're going to need to work out what you want to do."
I nodded. She was certainly right there, and I hadn't a clue of where I wanted to go.
"I'll go and get you a uniform to get dressed in," she said. "But as you'll be taking over Alison's job, you'll be wearing the office uniform - not the one we use in the cutting room. I'll also make certain it fits you properly."
"Thanks," I said.
My new uniform was laid out on the bed when I returned from having my shower. It was a pink, calf-length pencil skirt and a pink blouse with, of course, Stevie's embroidered on the breast, and burgundy coloured shoes, fortunately with flat heels.
"Sorry I couldn't find any tights that would fit you," Sue said, coming back into the bedroom a few seconds later, "but I think these fully-fashioned stockings will do very nicely. And I have a matching pink long-line girdle with suspenders to go with them, as well as these panties and bra."
I grimaced. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" I accused her.
She smirked almost as wide as one of Stevie's grins. "You bet," she said. "I haven't had this much enjoyment for ages. The two guys Stevie trapped before were simply too serious for words. They hid away in our spare bedroom all the time and wouldn't come out. It was extremely inconvenient! But I think that you, Rachel, are a real fun person."
I couldn't help grinning along with her. "It's fun as long as I'm not outed," I said. "Then you'd better watch out."
"How could you be outed," she asked, "when you have such a feminine shape and wear such sexy clothes? Except if you forget," she added, "as you have today, to take your voice-changer pill."
Oops! It was a good job she reminded me.
"It's just gone eight, now," she said. "I do like staff to be in the House by nine. You do want to set a good impression, after all." With that, she disappeared and I was left trying to get dressed.
Of course, I started by pulling on my panties, before I remembered a previous girlfriend had always put her panties over the top of her stockings and suspenders - "Essential when you go to the toilet," she had remarked. So I took them off again and pulled on the girdle. It was an extra-firm one, with a long zip, which I found incredibly difficult to do up. I had to breathe in and stand up straight, and pull up the zip, all at the same time, but eventually it was done. I sat on the bed and bunched up each stocking over my hands, as I had seen my girlfriend do, and then slowly fed them over my feet and up my legs.
Except that I realised I hadn't shaved my legs that morning and I had stubble, so I had to dive back to the bathroom and find a razor. Then back to the bedroom and put on my stockings again, and then fasten them to the suspenders hanging from the girdle.
It took me ages to do up the bra, as I simply couldn't get the hook and eye fixing at the rear to fit together. Eventually, I worked out the best way to do it was to put on the bra around my waist back-to- front and hook it together; then to twist it around my body and pull it up, slipping my arms through the straps as it came. Fine.
On with the panties and my blouse, then I had to feed my legs into the skirt and pull it up my body and zip it up. But it was so tight around my bum, every stage was difficult. I originally called it a pencil skirt but now I wasn't certain that was the correct name - you see, I'd expect a pencil skirt to be straight, like a pencil. But this wasn't, it narrowed below my hips so it was a tight squeeze all the way down my legs. By the time I'd got it zipped up, it wasn't only my VPL you could see, but every one of my suspenders!
It only remained to put on my shoes and I would be ready. But the skirt was so tight, I couldn't bend over to put them on! I struggled for ages, then came to the conclusion I had to remove the skirt again, put on the shoes and do them up, and then put the skirt back on.
Finally, the one area I was getting more adept at doing - putting on my make-up. I tried to dash downstairs to the ground-floor office where I was due to work, but I found my skirt so tight, I could only take very small steps, placing one foot in front of the other, and swinging my bottom as I did so.
"Rachel, as it's your first day working here, I really thought you'd be trying to make an impression," Sue said, in a severe voice I hadn't heard before. A girl was in there that I didn't recognise, as well as Jenny, who I'd seen the day before.
"Sorry, Sue," I said. Presumably, she was putting on this act in front of the girls. "I'll make certain it doesn't happen again."
"Just make certain it doesn't," she said. She turned to the two girls. "Nancy, this is Rachel who's going to fill in for Alison for the week."
"Hi, Rachel."
"Hi, Nancy. Hi Jenny."
We all smiled at each other, but I was wondering whether Nancy would prove to be the person pilfering the stock. After all, she was in control of the stockroom. Surely she should have realised stuff was going missing, even if she wasn't directly responsible for it. Sue interrupted my reverie.
"Rachel. There's the big delivery going out this morning and we need to enclose a delivery note and an invoice with it. You'll find templates on the computer - here's the customer's name and a list of the items, so get typing."
It took me ages to type up the respective forms, and print out copies ready to be put with the delivery. I then had to run along to the stockroom where Nancy was waiting for them, and she attached them to the hanging rail, which was just about to be loaded onto the van, retaining one copy of the delivery note which she placed in a filing tray near the door. I watched as Nancy pulled the hanging rail out of the stockroom and walked it across to the loading bay towards the van, leaving the stockroom door wide open.
But when I got back to the office, I couldn't discuss it with Sue as the post had just arrived and she wanted me to open and sort it into piles. A couple of orders had arrived, so I then had to enter them onto a ledger on the computer, and then go to a separate sequence of files - one for each stock item in each size - to determine whether we could fulfil the order straightaway, or we would have to order from the manufacturers in China.
"It's all a bit archaic, Sue," I said when I had a minute to spare.
"It's a good job Alison isn't here to hear you say that," she said. "We've had to wean her into the computer age. Every little step was a major victory."
"But every job takes ten times as long as it should do," I said. "And from what I saw just now, Nancy has her own stock-control records which bear no relation to the records on this computer."
"They do get out of step," she admitted.
"But it's no wonder stock is going missing when you're working from different records. There should be one set of records to which everyone who needs it has access. And I've spent ages typing in orders this morning, and tomorrow I'll probably have to type out delivery notes and invoices for them. A decent system would mean you only do things once."
"But we haven't got spare money to throw away on expensive computer systems."
I realised from her tone that I'd rather overstepped my position. "Sorry Sue," I apologised, "I know it's tough in small business. I'll keep my mouth shut."
"No." She nodded, thinking over what I had said. "You're right. No one here is particularly au fait with computers, and there's probably a lot more we should be doing. Perhaps you could have a think about that in addition to catching our thief."
"And in addition to doing Alison's job, as well?" I asked.
"Oh yes," she said, "and don't forget you have to keep my sister happy. A woman's work is never finished, you know."
It was fortunate she didn't hear what I muttered.
It was about thirty minutes later that the telephone calls started. Shops from all over the country ringing in with orders. With each one, I had to go through the same laborious process as with the orders in the post, except that I had to do it whilst the person was waiting, which took ages. Sometimes, two calls would come in together, so both Sue and I would be taking orders at the same time, and only occasionally did I get time between calls.
"Is it always as hectic as this?" I asked.
"No," she said with a smile. "Normally it's a lot busier," which I took to be a joke.
I didn't see much of Stevie all morning, although she popped in the office from time to time. But then, just after twelve, she came in looking just as stunning as when I had first met her. I thought she might have come in to ask me out to lunch, but instead she said she had to go out to lunch with a potential client.
"Is that the tall, dishy guy from Debenhams?" Sue asked, giving me a wink.
"He may be tall," Stevie said with one of her fabulous grins. "He may be dishy. But he's not getting to inspect my range of underwear until he's placed a whopping great order!"
Sue and I both laughed, but under the surface, I was mortified. Didn't I mean anything to her? Saturday, she'd been so anxious to keep our relationship perfect, she had sealed me inside a female persona. Today, she was joking about sealing a deal with a good bonking by some anonymous customer.
"You have to remember she can concentrate upon only one thing at time," Sue said, when Stevie had left the office, "and she concentrates on that to the exclusion of everything else. First it was you; then it was fulfilling the customer order; now it's making the sale."
"Right," I said, feeling rather sniffy again.
"Enjoy Stevie for what she is," she said, "rather than what you want her to be. She can be tremendous fun, and from what I hear, very good in bed, but if you want a partner who continually thinks of you to the exclusion of all others, you need to find someone else."
I nodded. "Thanks Sue," I said. "You're right. I've only known Stevie for three days and I have no right to expect her to be something she patently is not."
"It may not make up for it, but how do you fancy lunch with me? I usually go to the sandwich bar down the road."
So we walked out of the building and along the road. By now, I no longer lived in trepidation of being outed, but I still found that walking in that tight skirt was incredibly difficult. I had to make certain I placed one foot just a few inches in front of the other, and swivelled my bum at the same time. I remarked to Sue how difficult it was in this tight skirt.
"I thought it would be," she said. "But when I first saw you in the beach villa, I obviously wondered about whether Sue was up to her old tricks, and I only had to watch you walk across the room to realise she was. So whilst you were having your shower, this morning, I took a couple of inches off the width of your skirt near the hem. That means you either have to learn to walk like a woman or fall flat on your face. So far, you haven't done that." She smiled to take the edge of her words.
"Thanks, Sue," I said. "I hadn't realised you'd sussed me so quickly."
"I had the benefit of previous experience," she said. "Now you're getting your movement sorted, I don't think anyone else will."
"I bloody hope not," I muttered under my breath.
We reached the sandwich bar, and got served and settled at a tiny table, closely surrounded by other diners.
Sue took a little look around before speaking. "Obviously we have to be circumspect about what we say here, but as regards that little problem we were talking about last night, I've made up a list of all the girls who could have been involved."
She passed it over and I had a glance at down it.
"There are two names obviously missing from the top of the list," I observed.
"You mean Stevie and me?" Sue asked, trying to keep the outrage out of her voice. "You think that we would..." She broke off, realising the proximity of the other diners. "It's Stevie you're thinking of, isn't it? Well I can tell you, she simply wouldn't do that."
"Sue, don't be cross with me," I said. "You asked me to get involved so I could look at things objectively, and clearly Stevie is a risk in some areas, as you must surely agree. I can't rule her out, even if you can."
She nodded. "Fair enough; include our two names."
I wrote them in at the top, and then had another glance. "What about this Alison person? She's not there."
"Oh, Alison has been with us from the start. We've never had a problem with theft before the last few weeks. In any case, Alison is strictly a front of house person. She wouldn't be seen dead in the rear where the stockroom is."
That morning, I had realised the difference between the customer-facing areas and the rest of the work area, at the rear of the ground floor, where the stockroom was, as well as upstairs where we'd been working last night. Just like in the theatre, they referred to the zones in the same way. Woe betide any employee who created the slightest bit of untidiness in the front of house. That also accounted for the difference in uniform between the practical work wear used in the rear of house, to the far more elegant uniform used by Sue and I, and Stevie (until she'd got dressed up to go out with her dishy buyer from Debenhams).
"But I had to take the invoice and delivery note into the stockroom this morning," I said. "Surely, Alison has to do the same."
Sue looked rather embarrassed. "Well actually, she doesn't. She always insists the girls come to the office rather than the reverse. It's something that many of them resent, as though she is somehow better than they are. I certainly didn't want you to get into that same position, so I sent you along. As a result, I think you're getting closer to the girls than Alison ever did."
"Which means," I said, "that Alison is not a team player. She goes on the list."
Sue shrugged philosophically. "You're probably right. With her having so much time off, it's difficult for her to fit in with everyone else."
"Is that because she has a problem with her health?" I asked.
"Oh no," Sue said. "She has a tiny cottage in Scotland - it's a converted pig pen - can you imagine it? Anyway, she likes to go up there quite often so we have an arrangement whereby we pay her a part-time salary, and she works normal hours for three weeks out of four, and the fourth week she takes a week in Scotland."
"I can see why none of the other girls particularly like her," I said. "That's the kind of thing which can lead to a lot or resentment."
We were coming to the end of our sandwiches, and clearly did not have time to go through all the names, but there was one other person I wanted to discuss.
"Sue, have you formally spoken with Nancy about the missing dresses?"
"Well, we had the panic on Saturday morning," she said. "Nancy was with me when we went to make up the order, and we both sort of freaked - running all around the stockroom looking for the stuff, and then all round the building. But that was anything but formal."
"Then you should formally speak with her," I replied. "After all, she is responsible for stock control, and to put it bluntly, she hasn't controlled it. Even if she's not the one stealing the stuff, she's certainly not done her job properly to let it get nicked in the first place. You need to tell her that."
Sue nodded again. "I know you're right," she said, "but I've been chickening out of it all morning. I'll definitely do it this afternoon."
"Shall I make an appointment with her for you?" I volunteered. I could sense that Sue would 'forget' to get round to it, otherwise.
She nodded again. "I suppose so. But why don't you come into the meeting and take notes? Alison has done that in the past when we've had these kinds of meetings."
"Sure," I said, regretting my bullying Sue into it. This was one meeting at which I did not want to be a fly on the wall.
"Thanks for coming in, Nancy," Sue greeted her. "I wanted to talk with you about the missing stock, and I've asked Rachel to take notes of the meeting."
"I've been on tenterhooks all morning, expecting it," Nancy said. "You want to give me a good slapping for losing the stock, and I totally deserve it."
With those initial words, the suspicion I had of Nancy disappeared. Maybe she was a fantastic actor, but I didn't think so. I also gave myself a mental pat on the back for forcing Sue into doing something that Nancy had been worrying about. Smart arse!
"Obviously I have to say that it is your responsibility to manage the stock, and this was a failure," Sue said, "but this wasn't just about a slapping. It's also about us working out how the stock disappeared. It arrived on Tuesday, didn't it?"
Nancy nodded. "That's right. I watched the driver unload it from the lorry; I counted the items and signed the driver's receipt." She'd obviously been mentally reliving those moments. "Then I closed the roller door to the loading bay, and wheeled the whole lot into the stockroom. Once it was in there, I moved the individual items to their proper location in the stockroom, checking the contents against the original order as I did so. So I'm convinced that at midday on Tuesday, all the stock was there."
Rather belatedly, I remembered I was supposed to be taking notes, so I hurriedly started scribbling.
"Did you notice any discrepancy before Saturday morning?" Sue asked.
"No." Nancy shook her head. "But then it would be unusual to do so. There are several movements a day in and out of the stockroom, and you know with hanging rails, everything gets slid about to make room for other things. Whoever took the clothes would simply have moved stuff along the rail to hide the gap which they'd left."
"And there's been no sign of forced entry into the stockroom?" Sue asked.
"No. I'd have come to you if there had been."
"So it's down to an inside job?"
Nancy grimaced. "I'm sorry, but yes, I believe it was one of us who took the things."
"And in those three and a half days, it could have been anyone?"
"Yes."
"So where do we go from here?" Sue asked.
"Sue," I said, "apologies for butting in, but could I ask how many staff know the keypad number to the stockroom? Obviously, everyone knows the keypad to get to rear of house, although 1234 is hardly the most challenging of pass numbers, but how many know the 5678 to get into the stockroom?"
"How did you know it was 5678?" Sue demanded, looking rather surprised.
I watched you type it in yesterday afternoon when I helped you put the stock away," I said. "Can I take it that it was an open secret?"
Sue looked at Nancy and they both nodded assent.
"Then one horse may already have bolted," I said, "but let's change the passkey before any more do."
"That's a good idea," Nancy said. "What shall we make it, 8765?"
"Why don't I select the number," I suggested. "Something that no one will think of. I'll tell you two, but no one else."
"Stevie will have to know," Sue said.
"And Jenny," Nancy added. "She always looks after things if I'm not around."
"The next time something goes missing," I said, "everyone who knows the number will come under suspicion. Do you want to include Jenny on the list of suspects?" I deliberately left the issue of Stevie to a later moment. "If Jenny needs to get into the stockroom, why not ask her to come to the office and either Sue or I can let her in?"
"It's like we don't trust them," Nancy said.
"But that's the whole point," Sue said. "One of us has stolen the gear. Limiting the passkey to just a few people at least means we're limiting the suspects if it happens again."
"I think you need to write a letter to all staff," I added. "Everyone seems to know about the theft, so that won't be news. Explain the passkey is changing and that it's for their own protection that they don't know the new number, or make any attempt to find out. We should also change the passkey to the rear of house at the same time. You can put that number into your letter, but explain it shouldn't be told to anyone else - not even nearest or dearest."
"Maggie Banks will be annoyed at that," Nancy said.
"Maggie!" Sue said. "She left ages ago. Has she been around here recently?"
"She sometimes pops in at lunchtime," Nancy admitted. "She came in today, actually. Brings her new baby with her. He's a real darling; got eyes just like his dad..."
"Why hasn't anyone mentioned she's been coming in?" Sue was clearly furious.
"Well, we all know that you and she fell out when she left to have her baby," Nancy said. "She's always fun and... Look, you don't think Maggie would be responsible for the thefts, do you? She's not like that."
I could sense Sue was about to explode, so I jumped in first. "She must obviously be a suspect, like everyone else. Presumably, she sometimes needs to take the baby to the toilet to be changed?" I didn't need to add that the toilet was just next to the stockroom entrance.
Nancy nodded.
"And she was here, today?" Sue asked, tight-lipped.
Nancy nodded again. "Sorry, I should have told you."
"Yes," Sue said. "You should have done. I'm really angry, Nancy, that we've all been suspecting our colleagues, when someone who left here with a chip on her shoulder is given the run of the place, and no one sees fit to tell me."
There was a silence, which I eventually broke. "Can you check to see whether anything else is missing?" I asked Nancy.
"Yes," she said, and stood up and abruptly left.
"So what's the story behind that?" I asked Sue, once Nancy had gone.
Sue took a deep breath. "Maggie Banks was a slacker, always looking for an opportunity to have a break. She smoked, and we've never allowed smoking in here, even before the law changed, so I used to be generous in letting smokers go outside for a smoke. She abused that so much. I was on the point of getting rid of her when she announced she was pregnant."
"So what was the row about?" I asked.
"She hadn't been here long enough to be given maternity benefits, but she expected them all the same. I told her, we comply with the law, but we're not a charity. She got stroppy and asked me how she and her husband were going to manage financially. Did I want her to abort her unborn child?" Sue shrugged.
"As you told her, Sue," I said, "you're not a charity. It was the right decision, but sometimes it can be tough making the right decisions."
"Maybe if I'd have wanted her back, I'd have made some sort of offer," Sue admitted. "But I told you, I was thinking of getting rid of her anyway."
We were interrupted from further philosophising by Nancy returning. "I think there's another dress gone missing!" she said.
"Hi, Maggie," Sue said, giving her a beaming smile. "How are you?"
To judge from the answer on Maggie's face, she looked gobsmacked. "Er, fine," she said, pulling the housecoat she was wearing closer to her body.
"They've only just told me at work that you'd had the baby," Sue said, "It must have been very premature." Privately, Sue had expressed the belief that Maggie had given her a false date for the predicted childbirth, so that her claim for maternity benefits wouldn't appear so blatantly false. "This is Rachel, by the way. She's filling in for Alison whilst she's on holiday."
"Hi, Maggie," I said. "We'd love to see the baby."
"Oh, right," she said. "It's not really convenient at the moment..." Then, since Sue had already stepped past her whilst she'd been talking to me, she added, "You'd better come in. Did you come over here especially to see me?"
"We were coming over, anyway," Sue said, as we moved up her hallway. "There's some mess up with the order over at Jane's in London Road. I have to go and grovel a bit, and I thought I'd introduce Rachel into the art. But it seemed a good idea to come over here and see you and baby first. How is everything?"
"Er, yes. We're both fine," Maggie said. "Come on through." She took us through into the main living room, which looked the usual kind of tip you see in the homes of new parents anywhere. "Here's Dale," she proudly said, pointing to a bundle of fluff in a cradle."Do you want a coffee?"
"What a beautiful baby," Sue exclaimed. "Why, his eyes are just like his dad's. Yes please, white without," she added in response to the question about coffee,
"I didn't realise you'd ever met Darren," Maggie said. Maggie was clearly suspicious of our sudden arrival.
"Maggie, do you think I could use your toilet?" I interrupted that conversation before it could go any further. "I'm having a few problems at the moment."
"Er, yes, of course," she said. "The bathroom's upstairs at the front of the house."
"Thanks," I said, adding, "White with one sugar," as I left the room and headed to the stairs.
Needless to say, the whole thing was a sham into which I'd been reluctantly talked. "Much better to do it without police involvement," Sue had said, "and that must be the other alternative. But we can't send the mother of a young child to prison. At the same time, we have to catch the thief."
"Yes but Sue..."
"It'll be easy," she had said. "All you have to do is to ask to use the toilet, and then whilst you're upstairs, you have a good look around."
"But I'm not even certain what I'm looking for," I'd said. "Why don't you..."
"Oh, come on," Sue had said. "Firstly, I can't do it as she'd be dead suspicious about letting me upstairs, especially if she has stolen goods in the wardrobe. Secondly, you know what our stock looks like now. Let's go to the stockroom and Nancy will be able to show an exact replica of the dress which has gone missing."
So here I was, scurrying up the stairs, intending to do an illegal search of someone's house. That's when the enormity of what I was about to do hit me. I worked for a bank, for God's sake. If I was caught, whatever career I might have would be down the drain! Not only that, I'd practicality forgotten about my sex. Of course, I knew really that I was a male, but I'd got used to being a female for the last 48 hours - as being treated as one of the girls - as peeing like a girl, even as making love as a girl would. In actuality, I was a cross-dressed male, climbing the stairs of the mother of a small baby, about to search though her clothes claiming they might have been stolen. Why the hell hadn't we called the police? Because there was absolutely no evidence against Maggie, whatsoever - that's why.
I decided I would simply go to the toilet, and tell Sue that I had thoroughly searched the house and there was nothing incriminating there. The problem was, when I tried to open the door of what I thought should be the bathroom, it was wedged shut. Had I made a mistake? I thought Maggie had said it was at the front of the house but given the stress I was under, I may have misheard. I decided to try one of the other doors.
I walked into what was obviously the main bedroom. Shit! I'd vowed not to come in here. Still, I thought, now I'm here, I might as well have a look around. The shameless slut! She hadn't yet made the bed. But, I thought, perhaps with the kid awake all night, she'd taken the opportunity to have a little sleep, and our call had disturbed her - hence the housecoat she was wearing. I opened the wardrobe and scanned the row of clothes for...
It was there! A dress just as Nancy had shown me, except maybe the sleeves were slightly different. I reached out to touch it, and it fell off the hangar onto the floor. Shit! Shit!
I scrabbled around on the floor of the wardrobe to pick it up, and then grabbed the hangar to put it back on. Of course, a dress never seems to have a problem falling off the hangar, but to try and feed it back onto the hangar is impossible. I couldn't get the hangar into the neck of the dress, so I was having to feed it up the inside... When I heard the toilet flushing! Shit! Shit! Shit!
It was supposed to be me in the bathroom - no one else! I heard the bathroom door open, and then I could hear someone walking along the landing towards the bedroom I was in. I did the only thing I could think of - I stepped inside the wardrobe and pulled the door closed, just as the bedroom door opened!
I tried to pull the wardrobe door fully closed, but it was inevitable there was still a gap, and just as inevitable that I should peer through it to try to suss out what was what. It could have been Dale's father, Darren, lying naked on the bed, but if so, the colour of his eyes was the only feature he could have shared with the baby, for this guy was as black as coal, and he had a dongle on him that one could have used as a pick-axe handle.
And it wasn't simply a limp dongle - this was a stiff, glistening dongle that said, "I've been having it away with Maggie until some busybodies came knocking at the door, and I'm going to continue the job as soon as she's got rid of them." It was pointing at the ceiling. Hell! It almost reached the ceiling!
You should have seen his bollocks - they were the size of tennis balls!
Then, I saw a hand wrap around his cock - well, actually, he could barely reach around his cock - and start to give slow strokes, up and down, up and down. Clearly, he'd got tired of waiting for Maggie and could do with a little light relief. I wondered whether he would have a problem getting his cum off the ceiling, or indeed whether he might shoot a hole straight through the ceiling.
And at some stage, Maggie was going to have to come looking for me, not find me in the bathroom and then start searching the rest of the house. Sooner or later, she was going to find me. Then, he would realise I'd seen him wanking off...
The results were unthinkable.
Desperation somehow puts the mind into super drive mode. I opened the wardrobe door and stepped out.
"Hi," I said conversationally. "It was just as I thought, which means that I win the bet."
"Ugh!" he said, and then, "Where did you come from?" and then, "What bet?"
"I'm Darren's ex," I said, "and I knew that he wouldn't be able give Maggie everything she needs - randy cow - and she'd certainly need a bit on the side. I was absolutely right, and Sue was wrong. We had a fiver on it, and I won.
"It's alright," I said, as he stared at me trying to understand what I was talking about. "We won't tell Darren that you're shagging his missus. We won't even tell Maggie that you've given the game away to us, either. Bye."
I was downstairs in the time it must have taken him to shake his cock from side to side. I stuck my head around the living room door.
"Sue," I said. "I'm really not feeling well. Do you mind if we go straight back to the House?"
"It wasn't even the right dress," I told her as we drove back towards the West End. "Sure it was one of your designs, but it had been worn many times and the model number was completely different to the one you showed me."
"Never mind," Sue said. "It was a good try."
I kept my mouth tight-lipped.
"Tell me," Sue said. "What did you think when you saw that guy with his huge cock?"
"Nausea," I said. "It was absolutely disgusting."
"Oh, I know," Sue said. "I sometimes feel the same. Was it really huge?"
"Yes. Horrible."
"What?" Sue asked. "About this big?" She held her one index finger about six inches above the other.
"God, no!" I said. "I must have been at least twice as long as that, and probably about this wide." I held my index finger and thumb as far apart as they would go."
"God, that's a horrible thought," Sue said. "Particularly if the veins are standing out on it. Were they?"
"They were disgusting," I said. "Big purple veins, you could virtually see them throbbing. And the head, that was the same - purple, throbbing, and glistening with... Well, you know."
"And you said he had big bollocks? Like a bull, you mean?"
I shook my head. "I've never actually stared at a bull's bollocks. Let's just say they were bigger than tennis balls - only with wrinkles like a pickled brain - and with hair growing over it."
"It's incredible, isn't it?" Sue shook her head again. "We women should run a mile when we see something like that, but what do we do? We think, 'Hell, could I really get that inside me? What wouldn't I do for a chance to try?' "
"Precisely," I said, and then, when I'd played through her words properly, I added, "That is, women like me do run a mile; we don't think about getting it inside us."
"No, of course you don't."
I looked at her. "No, Sue, really. That bloody cock absolutely filled me with terror."
"Why?"
"Why?" I repeated. "Cause it was so bloody huge and obnoxious."
"Yes but why should a large cock terrify you, unless you were actually contemplating it going inside you?"
"Well I don't know," I said.
"Of course," Sue said, "you'd never get a cock that size into the pussy you have in your Torsolet."
"Thank God for that."
"So he'd probably slip it up your arse. I hear an arse can take almost as large a cock as the average vagina."
"Jesus, Sue!" I said. "Can we change the subject?"
"Of course," she said. "It's just that I thought you were obviously interested in his cock, as you'd taken such a good look at it."
"But I..." I started to say, but I knew I was on a loser, so I shut up.
"Stevie rang in," Jenny said, when we got back to the fashion house. "She says she's got the Debenhams' order. That's brilliant, isn't it?"
"Oh, fantastic," Sue said. "Is she bringing the order in this afternoon?"
"No, she says it's for next seasons designs, so it's not urgent," Jenny said. "Anyway, she has to give the buyer his commission. Having seen that hunk, I'd have given him his commission without him spending a penny."
"Which is why you're not our Head of Sales," Sue quipped, and they both laughed.
"If you're feeling bad about Stevie," Sue said when Jenny had left the office, "I'll buy you dinner tonight. I guess you deserve it, after that Austin Powers stuff, this afternoon." She smiled as she added, "Or after our discussion in the car, do I really mean Felicity Shagwell?"
The bitch! But I had to smile.
We were both wearing Stevie's designs that evening. They were of the same material, but whereas Sue had a sleeveless dress with a quite high neckline, I was wearing a one with puffy sleeves and a low-cut neck. We both had long skirts over frilly lace petticoats, that made them swirl out deliciously as we moved.
"I never stop selling," Sue said, as a woman at an adjacent table complimented us on our dresses, and Sue gave her a card.
"That's because your dresses are so good," I said. "I feel absolutely fantastic wearing this."
I did too. It would have been unbelievable last week. In fact, I surmised, everything that happened from Friday lunchtime onwards was pretty unbelievable, but going out to a restaurant not only dressed as a woman, but feeling good dressed as a woman was out of this world. To be honest, I had rarely felt good when dressed as a man. And as the meal progressed, I felt it was one of the best meals I'd ever had.
Hang on, I can hear you saying; what about Friday lunch and Saturday evening. I can only say that those meals were different; on Friday I was desperately trying to pull the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and on Saturday, having pulled her, I wanted her to stay pulled. For me, those meals weren't about enjoyment, per se, but about establishing and maintaining a sexual relationship. The adrenaline had been coursing through my veins for the whole meal, and there was none of the gentle, non-sexual enjoyment that Sue and I took in each other's company on that Monday evening.
Two heterosexual women together seem to have far more fun than two heterosexual men. To be honest, I've never taken great enjoyment in being with other blokes. I had no interest in sport and - until now - little success at sex, so that was the only two potential topics of conversation gone. But Sue and I talked about so many things. I told her about my job in my bank's IT department, trying to deliver projects where the customer - the bank's marketing group - kept changing its mind about what it wanted, personnel recruited mediocre staff - but then you get what you pays for - and the finance department were always chopping our budget. And as project manager, everybody blamed me when it went pear-shaped, as it inevitably did! How nice, I said to Sue, to work in a small company where you had a good product and you were all on the same side.
But it wasn't as easy as that, she told me. How she envied the big businesses ability to spend money where and when it was needed, rather than either waiting forever for the time when you could afford it, or to borrow money at crippling interest rates - and in the recent climate, even that avenue had been closed.
We talked about our personal lives - and here it seemed that rather than Sue stealing Stevie's boyfriends, the reverse had been true, with Stevie being an attractive and willing bed-mate for most of the few boyfriends that Sue had had.
We had gone out to dine quite early, but it was turned eleven before we returned. That's when the shit hit the fan.
"Where have you two been?" Stevie yelled at us.
"You rang in and said you weren't going to be back," I said with a smile, "So Sue and I went out for a meal."
"I didn't say I wasn't going to be back," she shouted. "Simply that I had spend some time with my new buyer."
"And which hotel did you go to do that?" Sue angrily retorted.
"That's none of your business," Stevie returned. "Anyway, he had to go home to his wife just after six, so I came back here and find you two out together. That's just typical of you, Sue. Always stealing my boyfriends."
"She hasn't stolen me," I said. "We went out for a meal together."
"What all this time?" Stevie looked incredulous. "And which hotel did you two go to? Perhaps we were at the same one. Perhaps you checked into the same room that I had just vacated. How does that thrill you? I'm going to bed to leave you two at it."
She stormed off and it suddenly became very quiet.
"Well," Sue said. "Do you like lamb?"
What the hell was she talking about? "Lamb?" I asked.
"Well, we've just been hung for stealing a lamb," Sue said, licking her lips, "so we might as well enjoy it."
She kissed me right on the mouth. I could taste her lipstick, and then her tongue was forcing its way into my mouth.
The kiss went on for ages - a kiss that was very, very nice. When we finally broke away from each other, Sue picked up the remote for the TV set, upon which Stevie had been watching some rubbish, and said, "Pushing the red button on this not only turns off the TV set..." She pushed it.
Zing! My nipples shot out.
"...it also turns on the Torsolet."
Next morning, Stevie profusely apologised, several times over.
"Sorry." "It was stupid of me to get so wound up." "I don't own you, just as you don't own me." Etc, etc.
"It's alright, Stevie," I responded several times. "I know you were on a high after getting the Debenhams order. I can understand why you wanted to seal it afterwards. But I did feel it meant we weren't exclusively tied to each other. As for Sue, we really had been out simply for an enjoyable meal."
"But that didn't stop you two from bonking each other for half the night, did it?" Stevie responded. She held up a hand to stop my protests. "It's alright. I agree, you and I do not own each other, and that my anger probably forced you together. But that's no reason why we can't continue as friends. Deal?"
"Deal," I agreed.
And that was the last of the matter.
Anna came into the office at about eleven. I had spoken with her on Sunday when we'd arrived from Seacombe and she'd been on one of the sewing machines upstairs, but I hadn't seen her since. It turned out that she looked after the on-site shop, in which members of the public could come in and purchase goods.
"Sue," she said looking rather anxious. "There's a fashion editor from the Daily Recorder in the shop, who wants to talk to someone about our range."
"Right!" Sue said, standing up. "I'll go and see her. Rachel, can you get hold of Stevie - she's upstairs, I think - and tell her to come down straightaway."
She went with Anna back to the shop, whilst I dialled the workroom upstairs. Stevie was there, and when I told her who was on the premises, she said she'd be, "Right down."
She was too. Less than thirty seconds later, I saw her running down the stairs and disappear into the shop. Clearly, the possibility of an article in the Daily Recorder was pretty important.
But the phone started ringing just then, so I picked it up and started to take details of another order.
"Rachel," Sue said, rather startling me as I put down the phone; I hadn't heard her come into the office. "We need to put on an impromptu fashion show, so we'll need your help."
"Okay," I said. "What do you want me to do? Collect dresses from the stockroom?"
"Don't be stupid," Sue said. "We want you to model for us."
"Model!" I was aghast. "I can't model. You could get one of the other girls to do it."
"But we need to show how our range fits both smaller-sized women and larger," Sue said. "We'll get Anna, who's a size 12, as the one model. Normally, it would have been Alison in a Torsolet blown up to size 18, to do the other. You're doing Alison's job; you are a size 18; and besides, there's no one else."
Of course she was right, or else they would never have asked me. "I'll do my best," I said.
"Thanks," Sue said. "This way."
She grabbed my hand and dragged me through the door to the rear of house. Anna was already there standing on the loading bay outside the stockroom almost naked, whilst Joanna tightened a corset around her waist. Anna had lovely tits, I noticed, not too large, but very firm and nicely shaped. There was absolutely no sign of any droop and they...
"You'll need to get undressed before we can start dressing you," Sue's voice cut sharply through my reverie. I think she'd realised my mind was somewhere else. She raised her voice to talk to Nancy through the open stockroom door. "Nancy, they'll both be wearing identical clothes, Anna in size 12, Rachel in size 18. Anna goes first each run. We're starting with the Fiona range, so Rachel will need a corset."
She gave me a look as I opened my mouth to protest, and I promptly closed it again. I'd been about to protest that a corset was taking my femininity too far, and that in any case, they were trying to show that their clothes fitted larger women. It was rather cheating if I wore a corset. I could hardly use the former argument in front of the other staff, and in any case, I had agreed to be a model so that meant I had to simply shut up, wear what I was given, and do my best to look good in it. As for my other argument, this was the fashion industry; their whole world was about making people look far better than the appearance nature on its own had given them.
I stripped off right down to my panties, and Sue made me slip on a pair of white stockings to start.
"You won't be able to bend over to put them once the corset is on," she said.
Then, Nancy brought out a corset for me and slipped it around my waist from behind, whilst Joanna knelt in front of me to fasten the busks at the front. That done, Joanna moved to the rear to start pulling on my corset strings, whilst Sue adjusted my boobs in the bra cups, and gave the corset little tugs here and there as it got tighter - and tighter - and tighter. But what did I care about how tight it was? I could see myself in the mirror. I had started off as a woman with a huge bum, tits most women would consider were huge, separated by a bulging stomach which was no longer constrained by the girdle I had been wearing. As I watched in the mirror, I transformed into a woman with a wonderful hour-glass figure - the kind which any woman would be jealous of, and any man would lust after.
"I think that will do nicely," Sue said, looking critically at my figure.
"Nicely!" I thought, as I twisted around to fasten my suspenders. "I look bloody gorgeous."
Nancy brought a long, white petticoat, with layers and layers of frilly lace, nothing like the kind I had worn beneath my dress last night. This was the kind of petticoat that any woman would die for. I had to step into it whilst Joanna held it, and as I pushed one leg at a time through the frills I thought I might orgasm with excitement.
"I don't need a dress," I thought to myself as I stared in the mirror at a tall woman wearing a wonderful petticoat soaring out from the waist and over my hips, and almost down to the ground
But then Nancy brought out the dress I was to wear. Oh my God, it was so lovely. A beautiful pink with little white flowers on a tight fitting bodice. The skirt flowed out and down almost, but not quite as far, as the bottom of the petticoat, so you could just see it beneath the dress. They fastened it behind my back, and that stretched out the scoop neck across my breasts, exposing them to perfection.
"Don't forget your shoes," Joanna said, holding out a pair of red sandals with short heels. (Thank God.) Joanna dropped to the floor to feed my feet into them and fasten them.
"Let's have a look at the two of you together," Sue said. It was the first time I had noticed Anna since she'd been standing virtually naked before me. Can you imagine that? I'd stopped looking at a beautiful, half-naked girl in preference to looking at myself! As I stared at Anna, I realised we both looked incredibly good, even though her face was so much more attractive than mine, and her body size was that of a female's. OK, given the choice, most men would go for Anna first, but I thought that few would refuse me as a second choice.
"Why does it matter what most men would think?" The thought flashed through my mind, bringing a blush to my cheeks.
"Right," Sue said. "Stevie's ready for us, so Anna, off you go. Rachel, watch how she walks and moves and try your best to mimic her. It's your first time and Stevie has explained that to the reporter, so no one's expecting perfection - just do your best."
The adrenaline was coursing through me as I watched Anna step through the curtained doorway and walk along the catwalk the other side. Sue made certain the curtain didn't close completely, so I could keep watching Anna's movements as she walked down to the end, did a complete swivel around, and then stand presumably facing Stevie and the reporter who were out of my line of vision.
"OK, Rachel," Sue said. "Go. Do your best, and we're all pulling for you."
I pulled myself upright, took a deep breath, gave a nod to Sue and she pulled aside the curtain and I went walking through.
Nowhere is the change from rear to front of house as abrupt as stepping through that curtain. Stevie's Fashion House was a small company without the extensive facilities of larger fashion houses. The models changing room was the loading bay - God knows what happened if a lorry was loading at the same time as a fashion show was needed - probably the driver got a free strip show!
But as I stepped onto the catwalk, I was suddenly in the luxurious client area, with carpet on the floor, comfortable upholstered seating, subdued lighting, oak tables on which were a selection of drinks, and matching oak panelling around the room with large photographs of models wearing the range. Naturally, none of that extended to the catwalk itself, which was illuminated by floodlights so I could barely see Stevie and the reporter.
That made it easier, actually. I didn't have to worry about them. I'd seen Anna walk the boards, I could do the same.
And I did, even getting the swivel at the end without falling over, and ending up standing slightly behind and to the side of Anna as we faced the two figures I could barely see.
"You can see that even though Rachel is much bigger-boned and heavier than Anna," Stevie was saying, "she looks equally good in our Fiona range."
"She certainly does," the other voice responded. "How have you cut the material to achieve that same effect?" I was rather surprised it was a male voice.
"We give it a rather different bias," Stevie said, moving towards us. "Come and have a look."
She plucked at Anna's skirt with her right hand, and mine with her left. "Look," she said as he came forward, lifting both our skirts to expose our petticoats, "We've cut the smaller size quite tightly along the hip, whereas with this size 18, we've brought it right back."
"I see," he said, grasping my skirt in his hand and lifting it upwards, accidentally raising my petticoat as well. (Yes! Of course it was an accident, just like I accidentally sat next to Stevie's table on Friday.) "Yes, that's quite effective," he added, releasing my skirt and unintentionally brushing my leg.
If he'd done that to me when I'd been a bloke, I'd have punched him, but as a woman - indeed, as a fashion model - I simply smiled.
"OK," he said. "Let's see some more designs."
I let Anna start walking first. She gave another full turn before starting to walk, and when she'd moved a few yards back towards the curtain, Sue gave me wave through the doorway to do the same. I followed.
Once through the curtain, it was a frantic panic to pull off our current dresses and petticoats, and replace them with shorter versions - the Bridget range. Down the catwalk we both again went following just the same pattern as before, but this time I wasn't fondled by the reporter. After that, we modelled the Melanie (a more Edwardian looking dress) and then the Diane (similar in design to the Bridget but only the most gorgeous ball gown you have ever seen).
The reporter was incredibly impressed with the latter, and looked minutely at the stitching around my heart-shaped bodice which just - and only just - covered my nipples, and gave me a cleavage to die for.
Finally, we were heading back to the curtain and the loading bay changing rooms for the last time.
"Well done, girls," Sue said, beaming at us both. "Particularly you, Rachel, as it's your first time. I think you really impressed that reporter."
"I simply followed Anna's lead," I said. "I couldn't see a thing of the room when I was out there - all I could see was Anna."
"You get used to it, with experience," Anna said. "Anyway, it's probably a good job you couldn't see him. He was virtually salivating every time you walked in. I reckon he'll give us a great write up, just on the basis of having a good ogle you."
"Thanks a bunch," I said. "The last thing I want is some hairy-arsed reporter fancying me."
But secretly, I was bubbling with excitement. I may not be woman all the way through, but I was still overjoyed at the thought of a bloke fancying me. And if that makes sense to you, it certainly doesn't to me!
It made even less sense thirty seconds later. The phone rang and Sue answered. There was a brief conversation, with lots of 'Great's and 'Fantastic's in it, from which Anna and I reckoned the ad hoc fashion show had been judged OK by the reporter, and Sue ended the call saying, "OK, I'll tell her."
She put the phone down and turned to us two. "Stevie says that went down really well with the reporter. She's taking him out to lunch now, and the reporter suggested that you two join them."
"I'm sorry, Sue," Anna said. "I've arranged to meet a friend for lunch. I'd have loved to come otherwise."
"Are you OK to go, Rachel?" Sue said, turning to me.
"Of course she is," Anna said. "A girl can't miss an opportunity like this."
"But…" I said.
"That's settled then," Sue said. "I think it would be best if you wore the Bridget to lunch, so let's whip that Diane off you straightaway and get you changed."
It was with great reluctance that I handed over my Diane dress. That was a dress to die for. On the other hand, it really was not the dress in which to go out to lunch in a London restaurant.
But I felt pretty good in the Bridget dress, as Daniel Fotherby, the fashion reporter from the Daily Recorder, ogled me in the hotel restaurant - the very same hotel where I'd first seen Stevie. I'd realised straightaway why Anna had been rather scornful of the reporter. He was a short, little man with a bow tie, which in Britain is a well known to be a sign of unbearable pomposity - the bow tie, that is, not the lack of height.
Still, I was predisposed towards him; I certainly wouldn't have been a fashion model without him, and in any case, he was going to give us some free publicity. The way he kept staring down my cleavage was a tremendous turn on for me. I was fully prepared to play the part of the helpful dolly bird over lunch - laugh at his jokes and not mind too much when he gave my legs a squeeze under the table. After all, that's what dolly birds did, and by now, I didn't feel at all self-conscious that somewhere underneath, I was not quite what I appeared on the surface.
The good wine flowed, the meal was superb, and the service was excellent. As usual, Stevie played to perfection the part of a vivacious, attractive fashion-designer, which took me straight back to that day when I'd first met her. She could be so persuasive, it was almost impossible for Daniel not to agree to write her up for next week's fashion column, which he had almost - but not quite - done by the time the meal came to an end.
"But I'm still intrigued by the way you maintain that your dresses are cut differently to most others," he said. "I'll certainly want to say a little about that in my article."
"Let's go back to the fashion house now," Stevie said, "and I'll take you into the cutting-room and show you the difference in the unassembled pieces."
Daniel looked at his watch. "Sorry Stevie," he said. "I'm getting a bit pushed for time. It will take too long to take a taxi back there, and get onto my next appointment. Perhaps we could arrange it for sometime next week."
And miss next week's fashion column slot, I thought. Typical reporter; drinks your wine, eats your food and then pisses off! But Stevie was well up to that kind of manoeuvre.
"No problem," she said. "I'll go and book a room in this hotel. We can go there, Rachel can slip off her dress and I'll show you how we cut our cloth."
Excuse me? Did I hear that correctly? But as a dolly bird and a fashion model at that, I knew when to keep silent. I smiled, as though I was totally unphased by such an event.
"Sounds good," Daniel said, giving me a questioning stare. Was I going to object to undressing in front of him, giving him a much better view of my superb boobs by which he was clearly obsessed?
I gave him an even wider smile. Oh the poor, unsuspecting fool. But I did have one question to ask. "Stevie, am I going to have to travel back to the House in only my underclothes?"
She laughed at my naivety. "No, you won't have to do that. You can stay here afterwards whilst I'll take what's left of your dress back to the House and get it stitched back together. It shouldn't take too long. Then I'll ask one of the girls to bring it over to you. Say a couple of hours at the most."
My God! She was setting me up. Left in a hotel room with no clothes; she goes back to the House whilst Daniel would amazingly find he has plenty of time, after all. What on earth could he and I do to occupy the afternoon?
"So Daniel," Stevie said, "if you're promising me the article will appear in next week's fashion column, I'll clearly be happy to sort out your questions about the cut of our dresses upstairs. Obviously, I don't want to go to that expense if you've still not decided about running it next week."
So Stevie was not going to let him take the bait (ie me) unless he was firmly on the hook. Either he guaranteed an appearance in his column, or he didn't get to see me undressed and a chance at whatever might follow.
But his tongue was almost hanging out; there was no way he could refuse. "Deal," he said. "You're in next week's column."
"I'll go and arrange it," Stevie said, and shot off.
"How do you like working in the fashion business?" he asked me.
"I'm really enjoying it," I said. "I used to work in a bank, but there's such a lot going on here, and people are so much more fun. I've only been here a few days, and I really feel as though I belong."
"I'll have to make certain I get plenty of photographs of you so I can print the best of them. There can be a big future ahead for a model who appears in one of my articles."
Uh-uh! Could I see where this was leading? Can a dog bark?
On the other hand, I was incredibly excited by being propositioned by the guy. He thought I was sexually attractive. He wanted to shag me. If only he knew! I couldn't deny that the scene at Maggie's house, followed by the conversation in the car with Sue had aroused my curiosity about the whole aspect of having sex as a woman - with a man! And the woman in Big Busts had assured me the Torsolet would function perfectly satisfactory for male to female sex. So, why not?
"That would be fantastic," I said to Daniel. "I'm really keen to develop my career."
When Daniel and I walked into the hotel room, Stevie was already there and she'd been watching the midday news on TV. She switched it off as soon as we entered, and as she'd pressed the button on the remote, I could feel my nipples zing into life, and feel the quivering of my breasts.
Was that deliberate? I wondered, and again it was the same answer: Can a dog bark?
Daniel saw my nipples harden, and he obviously imagined it was the thought of him in this luxury room with the king-sized bed that had done it. Already aroused, it clearly got him to the point of a desperate need for sex. I knew that as soon as Stevie left the room, I could be a willing participant in the romp, or I'd have a fight on my hands. I smiled; I hated fighting.
"OK, Rachel," Stevie said. "Slip off your dress and I'll unpick the seams. It's fortunate I always carry around a little sewing kit precisely for such events."
She was already rummaging through her large handbag, so I accordingly stepped towards Daniel, turned my back to him and asked. "Do you think you could unzip me, please Daniel."
I thought he might ejaculate on the spot! His fingers were shaking as he fumbled at the top to get it started, and he got the material caught in the zip a couple of times. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Stevie smiling at his efforts, but making no move to assist.
Finally, my zip was undone, and I turned around and thanked him with a smile, before pulling the front of my dress down, exposing my boobs almost toppling out of my corset. Another almost orgasm.
Then, of course, I had to bend over in front of him as I stepped out of the dress, before handing it over to Stevie. I looked up at him and caught him staring down my cleavage. I gave him a little smile, and then turned around to pass it to Stevie, my petticoat swirling out as I did so.
There was no doubting Stevie's dress-making skills; within ten seconds, my dress was in several pieces. She laid out a few pieces on the bed, and then said, "OK, Daniel. You can see how this piece is quite sharply curved around here," she pointed, "and much flatter here, so it gives shape to the hips whilst disguising the size of the bum. A conventional dress would be shaped much more like this," she turned over the hem to demonstrate, "so that…"
"Yes, I think I get the message," Daniel said. "I'll put that in the article. Now I know you were in a hurry to get back to your business, so I won't delay you. Is that a mini-bar I see over there? I could just do with a drink. You don't mind if I help myself, do you? What about you Rachel?"
I admitted that I could do with another drink, and by the time Daniel had got two mini-bottles of wine and glasses from the mini-bar, Stevie had magically gathered together all the pieces of my dress and left the room.
"Didn't you say you were in a hurry to get back to an appointment, Daniel?" I mischievously asked.
He paused. "Did I? Oh yes, of course. Well I think I've probably missed it by now, so I might as well keep you company. After all, you'd be in a bit of a mess if there was, say, a fire alarm and we had to evacuate the building."
"You mean you'd lend me your trousers and jacket" I asked, "and let me escape, whilst you stayed behind in the burning building?"
"Er, well, perhaps that's taking it to an extreme," he said. "But I could, er…"
"Lend me your bow-tie?" I asked, walking over to him, reaching up to his neck and pulling one end of his tie and watching it unravel. I could hardly believe I did that! Whilst we'd been downstairs, I'd certainly been toying with the idea of having sex with Daniel, but that's all it was - simply idle thoughts. But after the business with the remote control and my nipples going rock hard and - let's face it - getting so sensitive, I realised that I too wanted a good romp
"I think I could lend you that," he said.
"Can you tie it around my neck," I asked, holding it out for him?"
He put his one arm behind my neck, so he could feed the tie around, and then tied it in a bow, our lips only inches apart. Later, when I looked in the mirror, I had to admit he was expert at tying bow-ties, but I never got a chance to look just then, for his lips were upon mine, his tongue forcing my kips apart and starting to joust with mine.
No doubt many of you are thinking, "Hang on, you're a heterosexual bloke. How can you suddenly turn homosexual?"
I can only say that ever since Saturday evening, I had been thinking myself into the role of being a woman. I'd tried to shun the pseudo-macho way of standing and walking - you know, throwing the chest out and the shoulders back - and instead of pushing out my large tits out for all to admire, I tended to hunch my shoulders and try to minimise them - except when pulling someone like Daniel.
My social skills had changed beyond recognition. I'd always tried for the strong, silent type of role - a behaviour pattern which had got me exactly nowhere. Now, I was being nice to people, taking an interest in what they did, complimenting them upon the way they dressed, and generally trying my best to be sociable.
But I guess it was the episode at Maggie's, and the conversation with Sue afterwards, which had really got me thinking as a woman. The memory of that guy's huge prick had become a fascination, rather than a horror. OK, I knew that with the physical limitations of the vagina in my Torsolet I was never going to get anywhere near taking that monster inside me (and the idea of it going up my arse really did scare me), but my curiosity was certainly aroused about what it would be like to have a reasonable-sized penis inside me. As a woman, it was no longer going into a territory that my upbringing had told me was taboo.
And finally, there was the sex I'd enjoyed as a woman with Stevie and Sue. The Sensotouch thingy was incredible, and orgasms that lasted for a minimum of ten minutes had become my norm - many went on for thirty minutes or more. The woman in Big Busts had been right; I was enjoying sex more as a woman than I had done as a man. Consequently, I wanted more sex, and I wanted to experiment. So here was Daniel with his bow-tie around my neck and his tongue down my throat. What did I do? Slip my hand onto the front of his trousers, that's what, and feel his prick straining to get out.
Well, who was I to deny a rampant prick?
Unzipping his trousers and releasing his prick was like pressing the button on a Jack-in-the-box. He lunged against me, making me fall backwards onto the bed, with him between my legs lost somewhere in the folds of my frilly petticoat.
But not for long! It was fortunate the petticoat was loose and could easily be lifted over my hips, otherwise the sod would have torn it off me, and I've been furious with him. (Well, maybe a bit of me would have been incredibly turned on by the frenzy I was arousing in him.)
Then he was sliding his prick inside me. Ecstasy! Then he was out - then in - then out - then in - then out - then in.
If it had been a race I wouldn't have minded. But hell, we had two hours and I could already feel him starting to reach his climax! Bugger this, I thought, I want a long, slow fuck - not a quick one.
I put my hands on his hip and waited until he was at the top of his throw; then I gave him an enormous shove with one hand. If he hadn't been such a small guy, I'd never have done it, but as it was, I pushed him over and he rolled off me, closely followed by me, so now I was on top of him, and the real action could start.
I wriggled up his body, his cock flopping out of me as I did so. He gave a cry of desperation, to which I took no notice - plenty of time for that later. I continued to wriggle up until my boobs, which at some time in the frenzy had come free from my bra cups, were level with his face.
"First things first," I said to him. "Suck on these beauties."
With the Sensotouch turned on high, I could get an orgasm just by having my nipple sucked, and I had a very nice one from my left tit in just ninety seconds, and an even better one with my right tit a few minutes after that. Daniel, meanwhile, whenever his mouth wasn't filled with tit (which wasn't often) groaned with frustration at not being able to shag me.
Daniel certainly wasn't as good at oral sex as either Stevie or Sue had been. On the other hand, Daniel did have something else up his sleeve - or do I mean sheath - and so, after he had given me those two very nice mini-orgasms, I decided to move onto the next stage.
That Saturday afternoon with Stevie had given me tremendous insight into how a woman could prolong a male's pleasure before he ejaculated. It wasn't difficult to imitate the simplest of her moves. After moving backwards until I could feel his prick nuzzling against my pussy, I squatted down on it and let it completely fill my vagina. Mmm! That was nice!
I leant right back, supporting my weight through my arms on his lower legs and then lifted both my feet until they were resting on his shoulders. It meant he was totally pinned down by my weight, and with him being so small, it was far easier to prevent him moving than Stevie had found it with me. It also meant his prick was pointing almost towards his knees. Slowly, I made tiny movements which rubbed his shaft against my clitoris. I knew from Saturday that he was experiencing exquisite pleasure - but not enough to send him to orgasm - whilst I went into one huge, crashing orgasm that lasted for ever and ever.
I've already mentioned that I'd had fantastic orgasms as a woman with Stevie and Sue, but this was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I gasped and moaned with pleasure, driving him even more desperate to shoot his load. I could feel him wriggling beneath me, but with my weight advantage, I simply kept him there, as the volcano erupted in my groin and surged all through my body. Every slight joggle of my body caused another eruption of pleasure, and all I had to do keep it going.
But after aeons in that wonderful state, I could feel the tension building inside him - he simply had to come to orgasm or he would implode - and I felt the former would be more pleasant for both of us. I took my feet off his torso and moved my bodyweight forward to resume the standard squat position. Then I let him have his head.
It was like riding a bucking bronco - not that I've ever done that but you get the idea. He was lifting me so high, my head was almost banging against the ceiling, and we almost parted company at the top of every stroke. Within seconds he went into such a massive orgasm, his ejaculation filled me inside like a fire hose.
"Thank you very much, Rachel," he said, about five minutes later as he came out of the bathroom. "I'd better be going, now."
"I don't think so," I said. "You've only been here less than an hour. You have to keep me company for another hour."
"Well, yes," he said, "but…"
His words faltered out as I went onto my knees in front of him and took his limp cock in my mouth
Sue was waiting for us when Jenny and I arrived back at The House, my dress once again intact.
"Can I have a word, Rachel?"
One look at her and Jenny disappeared. What the hell had I done wrong? I wondered. Surely she wasn't pissed at me at sleeping with the reporter. She had been brimming over after the fashion show; now she was very serious. We went into the office and Sue shut the door.
"Rachel, what bank did you say you worked for?"
The question took me by surprise. "Barclands. Why?"
Sue grimaced. "It's just been on the news. Barclands are closing down their Manchester headquarters, with a loss of 1,500 jobs. That's where you work, isn't it?"
I took a deep swallow, and I could feel tears swelling in my eyes. "Yes," I said. "Did they say when… When they were closing it down?"
"I'm sorry Rachel," Sue said. "They said with immediate effect. Do you want to ring someone about it? The Personnel Department for instance."
I nodded, and Sue helped me find the number from the internet. She left me alone to talk to them, but it didn't make any difference to the result. I no longer had a job. I had to make arrangements within the next two weeks to clear the personal effects from my desk, and they would write to me about redundancy payments and salary. That was it. Eight years of blood, sweat and tears, and I was finished.
"We'll pay you for the time you're working here," Sue said when she returned to the room. "We were intending to sponge the time off you, but it's different now you're out of work."
"Thanks Sue," I said, and my heart warmed at her kindness.
"I'd offer you the afternoon off," she said, "but I don't think it would be good for you. Far better to be busy than to mope around."
I couldn't disagree, but my work that afternoon was only half-hearted until I remembered my session with Daniel, and then my heart gave a little flutter of excitement. Wow! Had I really done that? Life had throw some strange things at me that day, what would it offer tomorrow?
"Rachel. Do you have the pass number for the stockroom?" It was Anna coming into the office on Wednesday afternoon who interrupted my reverie, as I imagined myself in my new career as an international fashion model, having sex with every passing man. Both Sue and Stevie were out of The House.
"Yes," I said. "Why do you need it?"
"There's a customer in the shop who wants to try a size 18 Bridget, and we haven't got one in the shop, and Nancy's gone out with Sue. I've got the order form." She waved the pad in front of me, and I took it off her and made certain it was properly made out. The order pad used by the shop was one of the few systems they had in place in this business which actually worked efficiently.
"OK," I said, tearing off the top order sheet and putting it into the tray on my desk marked 'Orders'.
I handed the rest of the pad back to her, and stood up and took her to the stockroom door. Taking care she couldn't see the number that I punched in, I unlocked the door.
"Thanks, Rachel," Anna said. "You can leave me now, if you want."
I managed not to gasp with surprise. Only Monday, Sue had sent out a letter to all staff explaining that no one, apart from Nancy, Stevie, Sue and I were allowed in the stockroom on our own, and it would be a serious disciplinary offence if anyone else was caught there. This had apparently gone right over Anna's head. "Sorry, I have to stay," I said.
She grinned in exchange. "I know," she said. "Anything for a few minutes' rest from the job." She walked over to one of the hanging rails and started looking for the size she needed. "I was impressed the way you adapted to modelling, yesterday," she added. "You must be a natural. I hated it when I first started."
She picked out a garment, checked the size again, and pulled it off the rail. "That's it," she said. "Mustn't keep the customer waiting."
She was walking out through the stockroom door when I said, "You haven't dropped the copy of the delivery note in Nancy's tray."
"What?" she asked.
I explained that the copy of the delivery note had to be put in the tray.
She flicked through her pad. "Do you mean this?" she asked, waving the correct form at me.
I nodded, and she pulled it off and said, "Where's it supposed to go?"
I pointed. "In there."
She obediently put it in the tray.
"Haven't you done that before?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No one's ever told me to," she said. Then she returned to the shop.
When Sue, Stevie and Nancy returned to The House about five pm, my desk was in disarray, with papers everywhere.
"What's going on?" Sue asked in quite a cross voice. She hated untidiness.
"I've cracked it," I said. "Or at least, I've cracked part of it."
"We'll deduct the cost of breakages from your pay," Sue quipped. "What have you cracked?"
"The missing dresses," I said. "Some of them anyway."
Suddenly, I had everyone's attention. I told them what had happened whilst they were away, with Anna failing to put the despatch note into Nancy's tray. "So because Nancy didn't know that it had been legitimately taken," I concluded, "she would assume it had been stolen. I went into the shop and collected all their past copies of orders. All the extra despatch notes were still there and they line up with all the odd dresses which everyone thought had gone missing. In fact, the dresses weren't missing at all; they'd either been sold to a customer, or they are in the shop."
"Brilliant!" from Sue.
"Fantastic!" from Stevie.
"I'll murder Anna," from Nancy. "I can remember telling her when she first started how important it was to put the despatch note into my tray."
"Don't be cross with her," I said. "Give her a prize instead, because by solving that imagined problem, the real problem has been exposed: the twenty dresses which went missing last week. I asked Anna and she said Alison had asked her to despatch a large rush order to Scotland last Friday, when Nancy was at the dentist. Anna would have made the same mistake as she's always done, and presumably sent the extra despatch note along with the invoice to the company in Scotland. The problem is, I can't find any order from Scotland on Friday."
Stevie was shaking her head. "We don't have any stockists in Scotland. It was just too remote for us to do sales support."
"There was one company which Alison brought in," Sue said. "It was near her holiday cottage, and she talked them into placing an initial order. That was the only order they placed though."
She stood up, opened one of the filing drawers, pulled out a thin folder and opened it. "Here they are: Macs of Inverbrow. Just the one order, eighteen months ago. Not surprising really. According to Alison they mainly sell rainwear, but she got them to give our dresses a try."
"Macs of Inverbrow?" Nancy asked. "There's been more than one order. I can remember the name - it's quite unusual and I'm certain I've seen it lots of times."
We all stared at each other as we realised the implications.
"I'll go and get my files of used despatch notes," Nancy said, standing up and leaving the room.
"You realise," I said, "that Macs spelt backwards is Scam."
"But not Alison," Stevie said. "She helped me right from the start, even before Sue came in and got everything on a business footing."
"But she's always resented me being here," Sue said. "Especially when I tried to get her to implement better management systems."
"Perhaps she didn't want better stock control," I suggested.
Nancy came in carrying so many box files her face was hidden behind them. "These are the despatch notes for the last twelve months," she said. "They're all in roughly date order. The problem is, knowing where to start."
"When did Alison last go on holiday?" I asked.
"Four weeks ago," Sue said.
"So the last time she was away," I said, reaching for the office diary, "started on… Monday 4th. So why don't you look for a dispatch note dated Friday 1st."
Nancy rummaged through one of the box files. "Here it is," she said within a few seconds. "Despatch goods to Macs of Inverbrow - eighteen dresses from our Abigail, Bridget and Fiona ranges."
"But there was no order for that," Sue said, hopelessly staring at her almost blank page.
"It must have got typed out," I said turning to the computer, "and probably on this machine. Let's see if it's in the Recycle bin."
"What's that mean?" Sue asked.
"When you delete something on a computer," I explained, "it isn't really deleted, at all. It's simply shifted to a folder called the Recycle bin. Most people don't appreciate it, but it's easy enough to go into that and recover anything you want... Here! Look at this." I pointed to the file amongst the list of deleted files.
Seconds later, I had on the screen the computer version of despatch note that Nancy was holding. In her naivety, Alison had simply deleted and thought it had gone for good. A few more seconds and I located the invoice for the order and recovered that also.
Nancy, Sue and I spent the next twenty minutes going through each of Alison's monthly absences and finding despatches to Macs of Inverbrow for the Friday before, for which no orders had ever been received - and of course, no payment made for goods received. There must have been hundreds of dresses.
"So what do we do now?" It was Nancy who put into words what we had all been thinking about.
There was an awkward silence, and I decided I ought to say it. "You have to report it to the police."
"We can't report Alison to the police," Stevie said. "We're friends."
"Your friend is stealing stock from you," Nancy said. "And this is clearly not simply the odd dress here and there for her own use. She's selling this stuff on. Hell, she's running her own business financed by you two."
"Not only that," I said, "but she had a lot of your stock delivered on Monday. The police need to catch her red-handed, still in possession of your goods. Otherwise, it's all circumstantial."
"Rachel's right," Sue said. "We can't close our eyes to this, no matter how good friends you are. We must call the police."
"I suppose so," Stevie admitted.
Sue reached for the telephone directory.
"Bloody hell!" Sue cried, as she threw down the telephone handset.
"What happened?" Stevie asked.
We'd all been listening in to Sue's side of the call, but found it difficult to work out what had been said at the far end.
"They have a special fraud department in the Met," Sue said, "so they put me through there. But it turns out that with the banks all tottering financially, there are new multi-million pound frauds being exposed every day. Ours counts as pretty small beer. They said someone might get round to us in the next few weeks. As for catching Alison, red-handed - no chance. Not unless she does the same thing again, next month - and she's bound to find out we've all been running around looking for the stuff she nicked last week."
"In a way, I'm glad," Stevie said. "I really didn't want the police involved. Much better to sort it ourselves."
"Then if the police won't do anything," Sue said, "why don't we catch her red-handed. We could make a citizen's arrest. The police would have to take action then."
"But she's in Scotland, Sue," I said.
"So? We have wheels. Alison drives there; so could we."
Stevie nodded. "I guess so. It might be better actually if one of us does catch her red-handed; better than her simply coming back here for the police to arrest her."
I could see the psychological sense in that.
"In fact," Stevie continued, taking a deep breath, "she's my friend. I think it would be better if I went. I could drive through the night and be there in time to do a dawn raid."
"I wasn't quite envisaging smashing down her door," Sue leapt in, concerned that Stevie was taking a rather extreme position. "More a case of walking in when she opens for business and catching her with our stock. I'd better come with you."
You'll be needed in the House, Sue," Stevie said. "We can't leave it unmanned."
"I could look after the office," I volunteered. "I guess I've picked up most of the..." My voice tailed off as Stevie shook her head.
"Don't be stupid," she said. "You need to come to Scotland with me."
"Me?" I said, rather hopelessly. "Why?"
"Alison knows everyone else," Stevie said. "If we're going to catch her out, we'll need someone she doesn't know to act as a plant. You know... Try to buy something off her."
"Oh God!" I silently thought, "Not again!" but I actually said, "I suppose so."
"Hi," I said. "You're open at last. I've been past here lots of times hoping you would be."
Alison looked at me rather non-plussed. Clearly she hadn't expected me to walk in off the street whilst she was still unloading her car.
"We're actually a wholesaler," she explained. "We don't normally sell direct to the public. What exactly were you looking for?"
I smiled at her. I'd been told she had once been a professional model, but I hadn't been prepared for just how very attractive she would look. She was tall, of course, as most models are, and she was wearing one of Stevie's Abigail range - the only dress that really did not suit larger women, such as me. It had such a short skirt it barely covered her bum, and the white, lacy petticoats made it flare out wonderfully, so you were always in suspense about what you might see beneath as she twirled around. Not only that, she had long, long legs that went on forever, with sexy, incredibly-high-heels and highly-patterned white tights. She looked fantastic!
"I'd been told you stock Stevie's fashions, here," I said. I glanced around the room as I spoke. There were four garment rails against the walls, and only one of them contained any clothes. I could spot a few of Stevie's range on it, and I walked over to inspect them. "I can't seem to find anywhere else in Scotland that stocks them."
"There aren't many stores," Alison admitted. "I'm sorry, that stock isn't for sale."
"Not for sale?" I queried. I was immediately suspicious. Had she already sussed me as the plant? But when I looked along the line of clothes none of them had price labels - or any other labels for that matter. In fact, some of them looked quite used.
"I have limited room in my own cottage," Alison said with a smile. "Those clothes are my own personal wardrobe."
I was embarrassed. "Oh, I'm so sorry." I indicated the other empty rails. "Does that mean you don't have anything in stock?"
"I could probably order you something in special if you knew what you wanted."
"It was the ball gown they do," I said. "My partner has just remembered we've been invited to a ball in two weeks time. Apparently, he's known about it for months. Still, he has promised to buy me a gown, and I've always fancied the one made by Stevie."
"A ball," Alison said. "Is it somewhere local?"
Gulp. What did I say? "No," I said. "It's at his old college. In Cambridge." They did have balls there, didn't they?
"Really?" she said. "I went there. What college was he at?"
Lies may start off pretty small, but they just grow and grow. Did I know the name of any Cambridge colleges? But hadn't my previous girlfriend gone to Cambridge? "Newnham," I said.
She laughed. "I don't think so," she said. "It's all female."
Oh shit! Deeper and deeper. But the words of my salvation came to me from nowhere. "I always thought there was something funny about our sex life," I said
She laughed in response, the question forgotten. "I'm Alison," she said.
"Rachel," I replied. "I take it you're not going to be able to help me with my ball gown." I made as if to start walking away."
"I actually have a ball gown in the car," Alison said. (Well, I already knew that as I'd looked inside as I'd walked past it.) "What size are you?"
"Size sixteen," I said. (OK, so I was really a size eighteen, but I knew from the despatch note what size had been delivered on Monday.)
"Oh right," Alison said, suddenly looking really interested, eying me up and down. "The one in the car had been a special order. You've no idea how difficult it was to get a special order made up by my suppliers."
Especially, I thought, if it had to be done illicitly.
"I drove all the way over to Stirling this morning, she continued, "but when I got there, the customer had cancelled."
"That's really mean," I said. "They might have told you."
Alison shook her head. "They said they'd left a message on my answering machine," she said, "and it has been playing up a bit recently. Anyway, my loss is your possible gain."
Can I see it?" I asked.
"Of course. I'll get it from the car."
It was a huge box she dragged in, about five feet high, three feet long and just narrow enough to bring it through the door. It was funny, here was I, ace investigator, on the trail of employee fraud, and I felt far more excited about seeing that beautiful ball dress again, than anything else. The fact it was in such a large box made it all far more exciting - like unwrapping a Christmas present as a child.
The side of the box opened like a wardrobe doors, and the mixture of white and pink made my heart leap into my mouth, it looked so wonderful - and I was going to wear it.
Alison lifted it out of the box and hung it on one of the garment rails so I could properly see it.
"It's absolutely gorgeous," I said. "Can I try it on?"
Even if Stevie and I hadn't already agreed that I needed to try on a dress and then pay for it, at which time she would come in and make the 'cop', I'd have desperately wanted to try it on. Sure, I'd worn one at the fashion show on Tuesday, but I'd been in a virtual daze then after trying on so many different, wonderful clothes. Now I was fully in control of my senses and I wanted to wear that dress more than anything I'd ever wanted in my life.
"Of course," Alison said. "I'd better warn you that it is a size 16 XL - that's extra long, as the original client was extremely tall."
"Surely not as tall as me," I said. Fortunately, I wasn't that tall as a man, but as a woman I was taller than almost any other.
"Probably about the same as you," Alison said. "I'm sorry I don't have a changing room - as I said, I don't normally cater for the public - but there's no reason why you can't change in here. Let me shut this door properly." She gave the door out to the road a good slam.
Damn! I'd deliberately left the door slightly ajar - the idea was that Stevie would come marching in and find us, but I'd have to find an excuse to open the door to let her in at the right moment. I was starting to feel quite mean about it all. I'd got to quite like Alison in just the few minutes I'd been in the shop. I could see why Stevie was unhappy about the whole business.
On the other hand, it did mean I got to try on this fabulous dress.
I stepped out of my shoes and then slipped off my skirt and top and put them on a spare hanger on the rail. My current clothes weren't from Stevie's range, as we'd decided that might alert Alison that I was connected with the House, so Stevie had bought me some new clothes yesterday afternoon.
When I turned around, Alison had pulled out the petticoat from beneath the dress and now held it open at the top for me to step into. Oh God! So many frills! You should have seen them. I fed one stocking-clad leg into the opening and down until I could stand on it, and then did the same with the other. Alison pulled the petticoat up to my waist.
"Oh dear," she said, looking down at the petticoat trailing on the floor. "I fear this is going to be too long for you. I think your legs must be proportionally shorter than your top half."
"Oh no!" Of course, women do have proportionally longer legs than men, with higher waists. I could see the possibilities of wearing the dress receding. "Can't you pull it further up my body?"
Alison shook her head, thoughtfully. "I could with the petticoat, but the dress still won't fit you properly. You could try some much higher heels."
Ever since Saturday when Stevie had bought me flat-heeled shoes on the basis that I was already over tall for a woman, the highest-heels I'd worn were some spiky one-inch shoes. Now, Alison bent over and started unfastening her own shoes and said, "Here. Try mine. We're probably not that different in shoe size."
She held up her shoe which sent my heart into overdrive. The heels must have been at least five-inches high - far higher than I'd seen on any woman before.
"Alison," I gasped, "I couldn't possibly wear those. I can't even manage anything half as high."
"That's only because you've never tried," she said. "Come on; it's the difference between trying on this fantastic dress and not. Are you game?"
It was a no brainer question. I'd have sold my own grandmother to wear that dress, and if Alison said I could wear her shoes, I was willing to give it a go. I nodded. "You'll have to help me. You know, tell me how to walk in them."
"No problem. First of all, sit down here and we'll slip them on you." She motioned to the seat in the corner.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I simply could not believe how beautiful I looked, and how good I felt. Alison had shown me how to get my weight right back on my heels, and after a bit of practice at walking around wearing just my petticoat and bra, I felt fine. Alison said the length of the petticoat with my new heels was just right.
Alison then lifted the dress of the hangar and lowered it over my head.
Ecstasy! The petticoat protruded just half an inch beneath the hem of the dress, and it just brushed the ground as I moved, with brief glimpses of my toes and my fantastic heels appearing now and again as I took a pace towards the mirror or back.
The bodice was strapped at the back with lacing, so as Alison tightened it - it was like being squeezed into a corset all over again - except that I'd lied to Alison about my size, and she was extracting revenge in a big way. But she simply made me look better and better in that dress. Now I could hardly breathe but did I care?
"How do you think it suits you? Alison asked.
"I feel like a princess!" I said, a big smirk on my face.
"Does that mean that you'll take it," she asked.
"You bet. I'll pay by cash."
"I'll give you a discount, seeing as I'd have been stuck with it, otherwise."
She named a price that was almost as much as my monthly salary, but I was prepared for that. I had the money in my handbag; I counted it out and she checked it and gave me a receipt.
"You look as though you don't want to take it off," Alison said.
"I don't," I replied. "But the problem is that all that squeezing of my intestines has meant I need to go to the toilet. I can hardly go to the public toilets like this." Stevie and I had made many visits to the public toilets in the car park opposite, whilst we'd been staking out this place. It was the kind of toilet one preferred not to go into under any circumstances - never mind wearing a fantastic ball gown.
"That's not a problem," Alison said. "I have a toilet on the premises. It's through that door." She pointed.
"Thanks." I made my way over, opened it and squeezed my dress inside.
Just as I was about to close the door, Alison said, "Having a dress like yours makes you realise why it was only in the 20th century that women started wearing panties. Do you want me to pull yours down for you?"
"What?" I said.
"With all the layers of petticoat and the hoops in your dress, I think you'll have terrible trouble removing your panties. Do you want me to pull them down for you?"
I didn't know where to put myself. I had virtually got used to the way that most women happily undress in front of each other in a way that most men would never do. But the idea of this sexy woman pulling down my panties was incredibly erotic - only I couldn't allow sex to creep into this event. On the other hand, I needed to go to the toilet - like really, really needed.
"Yes, please," I sheepishly said.
She got down on her hands and knees, lifted the hem of my skirt and started fumbling up my thighs. Oh my God! Thank heavens my cock was strapped down somewhere beneath the Torsolet. If I hadn't been so desperate to have a pee, I'd probably have orgasmed on the spot. As it was, she hooked her fingers into the top of my panties and pulled them down, and I was able to step out of them.
Then Alison stood up and helped me to lift the rear of my skirts so I could manoeuvre myself backwards over the toilet, before lowering myself cautiously down. As Alison withdrew and closed the door, I was finally able to relieve the pressure on my bladder!
Actually, after leaving the toilet, I was able to set the trap by opening the door onto the street without a problem.
"It looked as though it might rain, when I came in," I said. "That would be a good excuse not to leave just yet and stay dressed like this for a while longer. Can you check?"
Obediently (I felt really guilty), Alison opened the door onto the road.
"Hello Alison," Stevie said, and stepped inside. She took one look at me and said: "So I was right. You are stealing my stock and selling it here."
"Well I wouldn't call it stealing…" Alison started, but she was immediately interrupted by Stevie.
"Not call it stealing? Would you prefer to call it fraud? You made out false despatch notes to get this dress and hundreds others delivered to this address." With every sentence, she aggressively stepped forward and Alison was forced to step back. "Alison Brack, I'm making a citizen's arrest. You don't have to say anything but it may…"
"You can't arrest me like this! Fuck off!"
Alison accompanied the words with an enormous shove with both hands which caused Stevie to stagger backwards. Unfortunately, she stumbled into the box which had contained my dress, which in turn was knocked backwards.
It was doubly unfortunate that just as Stevie was swinging her left leg backwards to regain her balance, her foot struck the lower edge of the box, now a few inches off the ground, which really tripped her. She fell straight backwards inside the box, which was already falling over, and the two hit the ground with a thud. As a finale, the hinged lids flopped shut.
Alison and I stared at the cardboard box from which, within a second commenced a series of expletives which would have made a sailor blush. I was about to move to help Stevie, but Alison unexpectedly made a dash for the door and was through it. I took the view that if Stevie could swear, she could probably get herself out of the box. I picked up my skirts and followed Alison in hot pursuit.
Fortunately, Stevie had double-parked her car alongside Alison's estate, so she couldn't drive off. Unfortunately, this seemed to be blocking all the traffic in Inverbrow, and a traffic warden was already bearing down on it. I looked to the left. Alison was by now twenty yards down the road. In these heels and with this dress, I couldn't possibly run, but I could follow in her wake, and try to see where she was heading. I pulled my skirts up higher, and managed to totter along without falling over.
Alison had turned into a side alley between the buildings, and running in her bare feet, she was almost at the end of the alley as I turned into it. I would have given up within seconds but for the fact that, as the tarmac path left the buildings, it turned into compressed hard-core.
As soon as Alison stepped onto it she said, "Ouch!" And then, "Shit!" then "Ouch!" again. With every step she swore, and instead of running, she had to pick her way carefully along the stony path. I lifted my skirts even higher and continued tottering along. I may have had five-inch heels, but on that surface, I could totter faster than her careful stepping.
So we continued for several minutes. I'd had to slacken my initial speed as, with the dress being as tight as a corset, I couldn't breathe deeply enough to keep up the pace. The pathway joined up with the Inverbrow cycle path - Inverbrow's method of attracting tourism to the town. The cycle path went all around the loch upon which the town stood - a distance of about ten miles - and according to the brochure Stevie and I had read whilst we were staking out Alison, there were several interesting stop off points on route. It certainly had attracted tourists, with dozens of people milling around, and three cycle hire shops and several cafes and bars flourishing in the town with their trade.
Unfortunately, Alison and I attracted lots of comment as we strode along the cycle way - even though she was trying to place her bare feet on the ground with such great care, the petticoat beneath her mini-dress made it bounce up exposing her arse with every stride. Ten yards behind, I tottered in my ball gown, my boobs wobbling out of the low-cut top and the skirts lifted clear of the ground to expose my ridiculous heels which might, at any moment, twist over to send me sprawling over. So we both got jeers and wolf-whistles, although I seemed to get the most raucous comments.
As we approached an ice-cream booth, I thought Alison had decided to give up and call it a day, as she veered over towards it.
"Thank God!" I thought. "I don't think I could continue this chase much longer."
But instead of purchasing an ice-cream, as I thought she was going to, instead she grabbed one of the cycles propped against the wall of the booth, threw a leg over the saddle and set off, cycling for all she was worth.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!"
"Oi! That's my bike!" A couple who had been eating ice-creams a little further on ran into the track after Alison and started to give chase.
There was only one way I could continue pursuit. I grabbed the other cycle propped against the wall, lifted my skirts right over the saddle, and then, like Alison, threw my leg over and got going. It was the man's bicycle so the crossbar meant my dress was bunched up around my waist, but it would only have got mixed up in the chain, otherwise.
Fortunately, the couple were so intent upon trying to outrun Alison that they didn't look round at me following a dozen yards behind. Only when their breath started to fail them and they staggered to a halt, did they become aware of me. They turned, just as I furiously rang my bell.
Ding-ding-ding.
It must have been a terrifying spectacle! A flying ball-gown bearing down on them! They each dived to the ditches on either side of the pathway and I sped between them.
The man shouted a short comment at my back that somehow contrived to be blasphemous, obscene and racist against English. I decided not to lower myself by replying. Actually, I decided that getting air into my lungs was more important, as by now I was having real difficulties.
But in fact, it looked as though Alison was having greater difficulties, having spent herself in trying to escape the pursuing couple. As the path sloped slightly upwards, so her speed dropped slower and slower. The Gods must have been on my side, for just at that moment, a following breeze picked up, and it caught in my skirts and started to push me along a little faster, like a yacht before the wind.
For the first time, I really was gaining on Alison. The gain encouraged me a little and I peddled even harder. Realising I was gaining on her, Alison turned to look at me, and then she also set to peddling faster. As we approached the top of the slight incline, I knew that victory could only be seconds away. A group of guys walking in the opposite direction clapped and cheered as first a woman with long, long legs and no shoes in a mini dress came by, closely pursued by a woman in a ball gown, with her huge boobs almost shaking clear out of the top, and her high-heels scraping on the ground with every turn of the peddles.
So near, but yet so far!
The descent the other side was much steeper than the climb we had just made. Alison, being slightly in front, started to pick up speed earlier, but that on its own wouldn't have been a problem. The problem was that once we were over the brow, the following breeze died to nothing, and as my speed of descent started increasing, so the underside of my dress started filling with air like a parachute, billowing right out on either side. Just like a parachute, it kept my speed at a gentle run, rather than whizzing along as Alison was doing.
I took my right hand from the handlebars and tried to flatten the dress downwards, but it was incredibly difficult. You never realise how much power there is in the wind until it catches something large and you try to manoeuvre it. I had to use all my force in my arm to push the dress slowly downwards, until the air had virtually deflated from the one side.
Disaster! With the dress still fully inflated on my left side, and nothing to counterbalance it on the right, I almost toppled sideways. I had to release my dress and give an enormous swerve of the handlebars to keep my balance, and I'd just managed that when the wind refilled the right side of my dress and pushed me over in the opposite direction.
I was almost a goner, that time. By the skin of my teeth, I managed to stay on my bike, although a woman cyclist had to ride into a ditch to avoid my swerving antics. You'd never guess the four-letter part of her anatomy she used to describe me. I decided to live with my dress being a parachute, and accept that I could make up some of the gap which had lengthened between us on the next uphill section.
Except that Alison had so much momentum at the bottom of the slope, she shot up the next incline, without having to peddle at all! Meanwhile I was still slowly descending. There were a number of cyclists coming from the opposite direction making heavy weather of climbing the hill down which I was making my descent, and I started to notice a different reaction in them to the previous people I'd met - a kind of jaw-dropping, eye-opening surprise, rather than the raucous joviality which most others had exhibited. I didn't care - I knew I must present a weird sight, and I'd got used to being the focus of attention by now.
It was when I was halfway down the slope, where a family of four were resting on a bench that I heard the little girl say in a shocked voice as I freewheeled past, "Mummy. That lady has got no knickers on."
As you go through life, you get to know when to give up and call it a hopeless task. I couldn't breathe properly; the sweat was pouring from me; I must be hundreds of yards behind Alison and losing ground all the time, so I'd already decided that when I got to the top of the hill, I'd pack it in.
It was a good place to stop. There was an excellent view across the loch, and with the sun behind me, it illuminated everything so clearly. A long set of steps led from where I stood down to the water's edge, and as I regained my breath, I counted them in time with my breathing. One, two, breathe - three, four, breathe - right up to: thirty-seven, thirty-eight… Damn! I felt cheated there weren't thirty-nine steps, because then I'd be at villain's mansion.
Still, it was a magnificent view from here. In fact, as I looked around, I realised I could see almost the entire cycle path around the loch - except that Alison was nowhere to be seen on it!
Had she fallen off? Perhaps she was in a ditch - or even worse - fallen into the loch? I scanned every inch of the path. Still no sign. Perhaps she'd gone down the thirty-eight steps to take to a boat. But there were no boats within a mile of where I stood, and I thought a German submarine on an inland loch was most unlikely.
A slight noise behind me made me turn around. There, slightly above and beyond the cycle path was a tiny cottage; and when I say tiny, it was more reminiscent of the holiday chalets in which my family used to stay when I was a child. It had obviously been some kind of cattle shed at one time, with what would have been a large opening across the front now filled in with a huge picture-window which would look out onto the tremendous view. There was a bald-headed but youngish-looking guy wearing jeans and tee shirt painting the wall an even more brilliant shade of white than it already was.
I shouted to him, "Excuse me."
He ignored me. Perhaps he was deaf, and with his back to me, he wouldn't know I was speaking.
I went through the gate into his garden and stepped a little closer to him. "Excuse me."
"Donna bother ta ask if ya can come in to ma gardn, will ya?" His Scottish accent may have been soft, but the words were hard.
"I'm sorry. I did try to attract your attention."
"Well, maybe I didna wanna be attracted."
I sighed. This was going to be difficult. "I'm looking for a friend who went by on a bicycle."
"Therra hundreds, lass. Do ya think I've nothing berra ta do than look at bikes?"
Perhaps he was hiding her in his cottage!
I stepped a little closer, so I could peer through the picture window. It was exceptionally tiny inside - just one bed-sitting room, with a kitchen area at the rear. I could even see through the open door into the shower room and toilet. Unless she was in the wardrobe - and people do get into such strange places to hide - she wasn't there.
"Ha ya finished spying on ma hoos?"
"Sorry." I turned towards him. He still had his back to me and was painting around the name of the cottage, which had previously been obstructed by his body. The Sty. Now why did that name seem familiar?
Got it!
"Are you keeping your back to me so I can't see the tits of your Torsolet pushing out of your tee shirt, Alison?" I asked. "This red gel really does make it impossible to get it off, doesn't it?"
The paintbrush froze in his hand and he stood motionless.
"Or maybe," I added, as another brainwave hit me, "your name isn't really Alison at all. It's Alistair."
He turned around so I could verify that he did indeed have a nice pair of tits bulging out the front of his tee shirt. "It's Alasdair, actually," he said, in the same voice that Alison had used in her shop. "You're right about the red gel, although I always prefer the green. But it still takes a long time to take a Torsolet off."
"Oh my God!" I said, staring at his face.
For the face I'd seen on Alison in the shop had looked beautiful. There was no doubt that make-up had played an incredibly important part in that appearance - no doubt at all, since the sweat had made the mascara run all down his face, and there were deep rivulets down his cheeks as though a water course had rushed through, completely washing away lines, whilst leaving the rest of his face caked with gunge, like the debris from a tsunami.
It was only when I'd stared at his face for a few seconds that I realised that Alasdair had uttered exactly the same words, "Oh my God!" at almost the same time. That puzzled me. Surely, if he'd known what he looked like, he'd never have come outside after removing his dress. He'd have spent some time wiping it all off. So why had he said it?
Then it hit me at exactly the same time as it did him. "OH MY GOD!" we both yelled, each realising that our faces looked just the same as each other.
"It was love at first sight," Alasdair was saying, after we'd both cleaned ourselves up and were sitting down in his picture window, looking at that tremendous view. "I was a male model doing a lot of work for the fashion house where Stevie used to work. When I met Stevie, it was like seeing the most beautiful woman in existence. It was tremendous for a few days."
Longer than it had been for me, I mused. "What happened then?" I asked.
"I showed her my sketchings," he said, and laughed at my expression. "No, we'd been shagging like mink well before then, so it wasn't a way of getting her into bed. But I got on my hobby-horse and told her that I felt most of the fashion industry was going in the wrong direction - designing clothes that look good on size zero models, but not on normal people. I'd made some sketches of the kind of clothes they should really be designing."
He bent over and lifted a large sketch pad from the floor. "This is what I showed her."
The pad fell naturally open at the right page - clearly it had been opened a thousand times before at that page.
I gasped. There were sketches of five dresses which could clearly be identified as most of Stevie's current range.
"Are you saying that Stevie stole your designs?" I asked. I had to tread carefully here.
"No, it was nothing like that," Alasdair said. "We were in love. We wanted to do it together - to design a new range of clothes - to start our own fashion house. Oh, Stevie did all the real design work, getting bolts of cloth and trying different ways of cutting and sewing the bits together until she reached our first designs. And it was about that time that I realised she was more obsessed with those designs than she was with me. That's when she suggested I wear a Torsolet. We were clearly doing everything on a shoestring, so we couldn't afford real models - apart from me. The Torsolet meant I could do all the modelling work, right across the size range we were aiming for.
"It also meant," he continued, "our love-life continued on a different plane, as you obviously know."
"When did you realise I was really a man?" I queried.
He smiled. "As soon as you entered the shop," he said. "It takes one to know one. But then I have a lot of male customers who cross-dress - a few even who have Torsolets. That's why the Diane ball gown was so long - it was for a tall male. But I obviously don't have a problem with cross-dressing, and I thought it indiscreet to tell you I had sussed you."
"So what happened about your dreams?" I wanted to hear the end of the story.
"We needed capital to start a fashion house. Stevie asked her parents for it, and they agreed, provided Sue would manage the company. Well, that's what I'd been doing, so I got pushed aside. Somehow, I was no longer part of the company, just an employee." He shrugged.
"I started to feel bitter about the way I'd been treated," he continued. "After all, it was my initial sketches which started everything, and I'd been left out. That's when I started Macs as a front for a company to take a share of the profits - profits which I should have been getting anyway. I knew it was illegal, but I felt morally justified."
I could understand his view.
"Why did you run away from the shop when Stevie challenged you?" I asked. "You must have known we'd catch up with you sometime."
"Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "I was a man dressed as a woman. Can you imagine the way I'd get treated in jail? I wanted to get changed back to a man. I'd have thought Stevie would have understood that."
I certainly could. The thought of being in jail dressed as a woman made me shiver.
"So where do we go from here," he asked.
"Oh Alasdair." Stevie's voice came from behind us. "You are bloody stupid. Why didn't you tell me how you felt?" She'd been listening in to our conversation for some time, I realised. "You know how easily I can get obsessed, but my friends have to put me on the right path."
"Does that mean you're not going to arrest me?" he asked.
"Don't be stupid," she said.
I went outside to admire the view, whilst they did some serious talking. Stevie was going to ring Sue and get her involved in the decision making. It was strange, I thought, but I hadn't considered my own future in the time since I'd heard my career had just been terminated. In a week's time, I'd be out of the Torsolet and back in the male world. Shame really; I'd enjoyed myself tremendously ever since Stevie had tricked me inside it.
"Rachel," Alison shouted. "Can you come back inside?" I noticed she was wearing her female clothes again, and she'd replaced her make-up so she looked once again like the fabulous woman I'd met only a couple of hours before.
I went in and sat down whilst Alison went off to make a pot of tea.
"I've agreed with Sue," Stevie said, "that we're going to formally ask Alison to set up a Scottish office for the fashion house. She will do legally what she's been doing illicitly for the last eighteen months. Which means there'll be a vacancy in our London premises. Sue and I were wondering whether you would want to fill it? There'll have to be a lot of changes, of course; we need a proper stock management system, but more importantly, with us making it into the press next Thursday, we'll need a proper internet ordering site setting up as a matter of urgency. Are you game?"
I smiled. "Is the Pope Catholic?" I asked.
They both smiled back, and I detected a closeness between them that, instead of making me feel jealous, made me feel warm inside.
I gave them both a smile. "Did you drive your car here, Stevie?" I asked. Presumably there was a road to this cottage, and clearly, Stevie had not ridden a bicycle here.
"I knew Alison's address," she said, "so I guessed that was where she would return to. Thanks to both of you for helping me out of the box, by the way."
"I don't want to be a party pooper," I said, ignoring her moan. "Shall I drive the car back to Inverbrow, book into a hotel and wait for you to call?"
"It's you being stupid now, Rachel," Stevie said. "I'm normally monogamous…" She held up a hand at our dual protests.
"…Just one lover at a time," she added. "However, on this occasion, I'm willing to try a little bigamy."
She lifted her hand to reveal a remote control which she must have pulled from her handbag. Her thumb moved to the red button.
"Oh shit!" we both said, as four nipples popped out, and four breasts turned into super-sensitive erogenous zones.
The Mystery of the Water in the Dock - Part 1 of 4
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When Abigail's Aunt Harriet told her she could bring along a friend with her to stay for Easter, she didn't stipulate until later it had to be a girl. But what was going on in the little village, cut-off from the rest of the world? This is a story set partly at Seacombe Independent Girls' High School, commonly known as SIGHS and involves young people involved in such things as humour, adventure, crossdressing and growing-up.
Author's Note: This story is complete and will be published in four parts at approximately daily intervals.
Part One
by
Charlotte Dickles
It was the usual boring post-Easter thing. "For your homework," Miss Jenkins said, "write a story about what you did over the Easter holidays."
If only Miss Jenkins knew the truth of it! What I did over Easter was anything but boring. In fact, I want to write down what really happened. Afterwards, I'll put a few words together for Miss Jenkins and hand that in on Thursday. OK, so here goes.
Everything that happened over the Easter holidays began with that bitchy comment by Stephanie Turner. Until then, I'd thought of her as a friend; not a particularly close friend but certainly someone I'd occasionally go back home with to help her with her homework
"I suppose, Abigail," she said to me with a smirk, "you'll be spending Easter with your boyfriend?"
It was a couple of weeks before the end of school term, and I'd just returned to the Common Room to find everyone in a discussion about where they were going for their Easter holidays – Bermuda, The Seychelles, Thailand – the names dripped from their lips as though quoting from an article in Vogue. At a private school you have to put up with that kind of bull, and so I'd simply kept quiet, content to listen in envy.
I was one of the six boarders at SIGHS – the Seacombe Independent Girls High School. Both my parents currently worked in Iraq – not the kind of place where you brought out your children to live with you – or even for holidays, and they had job contracts for many months ahead and couldn't come home for Easter. So I was fully expecting to be on my own for the holidays – apart, that is, from Mr and Mrs Carter who ran the SIGHS boarding house as virtual foster parents.
I returned her smile. "You mean Harry Fielding? No, he's off somewhere exotic." We'd only been out together once so I was rather pleased that Stephanie was referring to that dishy hunk as my 'boyfriend'.
"Harry?" She stared as me though I was an alley cat admiring a king. "Of course not. The Fielding family are sharing a villa in Bermuda with us. No, I meant Benjamin Walters. He's your boyfriend, isn't he?"
The bitch! The absolute bitch! "Benjamin Walters is not my boyfriend," I retorted. I could feel a flush coming to my cheeks. "He's only fourteen, for heaven's sake."
"And a little runt with it," Stephanie agreed. "But I thought flat-chested girls like you had to take any boy they could get. Anyway, you've been seen together lots of times."
I ignored the comment about the size of my AA-cup boobs. Against her pair of 34Ds, it was an argument I could never win. "I only see him in the holidays, and that's because he's usually the only boy at SPS who doesn't go home." Benjamin boarded at the boys' public school and was in the school year below mine. I knew he fancied me, but I made certain that relationship never went beyond friendship. Stephanie was right in one respect; he was a little runt.
My best friend, Anna Vaughan, broke into the conversation then – I think to take the heat off me. "Well I have to spend Easter with my aunts, uncles and cousins, and I dislike almost every one of them. I quite envy you, Abigail, being on your own."
I gave her a smile of thanks, the school bell rang and, for once, I gratefully went off to one of Mr Duncan's boring Chemistry lessons.
***
"You could get bigger boobs if you wanted, you know," Anna said to me later that day, "and I'm not talking about plastic surgery."
"Bigger boobs without plastic surgery? You mean these hormone creams that you see? Do they work?"
"No. Not creams," Anna said. "There's a shop in town called Big Busts. They make these skin-like garments that look like big breasts. Apparently, they're very realistic."
"Really? I bet they're expensive."
Anna nodded. "Hundreds if not thousands of pounds. One of the girls in the music academy has one she doesn't use. I could ask her if we could borrow it."
"But," I pointed out, "it's no good having big boobs for a couple of weeks if my breasts are going to return to minuscule afterwards."
"Why not borrow it over the Easter holidays," she suggested. "If it's as good as they say, you could persuade your parents to buy you one as a special Easter present."
"Hmm." I couldn't really imagine getting much sympathy from my mum on that subject, who always admired my tall, willowy shape, and I'd be far too embarrassed to talk to my dad about it. Still, there was no harm in borrowing it for a while, was there?
***
Emily Davis was quite friendly when we went to see her after school the next day. She explained that her mother had originally been working for the company who made them, and had borrowed several for her sister's friends. One had been returned late, and it had never found its way back to the company. Apparently, it had been used several times before by other friends. She took us upstairs to her bedroom and went to get the item from her sister's room, where it was kept.
"Oh," I said, as she held up for inspection a skin-coloured, leotard-like garment with a high neck. "I thought it would be like a padded bra rather than a leotard. Why is it that shape?"
"This is called a Torsolet," Emily said. "It's designed to bolster out the hips and bum as well as the breasts. If you want a figure-eight shaped body then this is definitely for you, but that's a bit outdated now. It's really designed for males to wear, so that their hips are as wide as their shoulders."
"Males to wear!" Both Anna and I said the same words.
Emily smiled. "Oh, yes. Put this on a boy and he immediately has a girl's body."
"How weird," I said.
Emily's smile grew even wider. "Not really," she said, by which we guessed she'd done it to some boy before.
"Try it on," she said to me. "It's all right," she added as she saw my hesitation, "it has been washed since the last person used it."
To be honest, I wasn't really keen on it, but I'd put Anna and Emily to a lot of trouble, so I didn't want to back out now. Emily explained how I needed to spread a gel over my body before donning the Torsolet, to avoid perspiration collecting. "Use the green gel," she explained, "if you only want to wear it for a couple of hours. The red gel is semi-permanent. Use that and you'll be stuck in the thing for ten to fourteen days, so it's only for when you've decided to continuously wear it."
So I stripped naked before them and Emily helped to spread the green gel all over, from the top of my neck down to my groin, although I made certain I did the bit between my legs. With Emily's help, I pulled the Torsolet over my head and then down my body. As soon as I had my head through the neck of it, I glanced down and was horrified at the enormous boobs protruding from my chest. Is this what Stephanie Turner continually looked down upon? How embarrassing!
"We'll sort out the plumbing later on," Emily said. "Let's fasten the gusset between your legs."
She went to pass the gusset under my groin but I stopped her. I felt quite sensitive about people putting their hands there. I pulled it through and she helped to fasten it at the rear.
"Wow! What a body," Anna said.
"Yes," I agreed, staring at the mirror with a revulsion I was trying hard not to show. "It certainly makes a huge difference."
"You'll be able to pull all the boys, now," Anna said.
"I guess I will," I said. "But do I really want to pull boys who are only interested in my boobs?"
"All boys are interested in boobs," Emily said. "They may see other things in you as well, but as a starter, boobs work wonders. But with boobs that size, you need to know you'll attract lots of attention just walking down the street. Do you want to go home in it now?"
"No!" I gasped, trying not to offend Emily by saying I never wanted to wear it again.
***
So that might have been it, had not my Aunt Harriet telephoned that evening to invite me to stay for Easter. She lived in Combehaven, just a few miles outside Seacombe in a lovely rambling house on the banks of the River Combe. Occasionally, I'd gone to stay there with my parents as a child. Now I was boarding locally, we met up more often on weekends. She'd take me into Seacombe for a cream tea, or perhaps a trip to the cinema.
OK, it was nice getting out of school for a while, but Aunt Harriet was decidedly weird. She was an illustrator for a children's book publisher, and always brought a sketch pad with her, wherever she went. A walk to the cinema and she'd suddenly push me in front of a sweet shop and start sketching. It was even worse when I went to her house. She had these little girl dresses I had to put on whilst I sat for her in various poses around the house and garden. At least, when her illustrations appeared in the books, she'd made my face unrecognisable. Can you imagine what Stephanie Turner would have said if she knew about that?
So Easter with Aunt Harriet meant I'd spend the whole of the holidays being sketched whilst I looked and felt totally stupid. On the other hand, wasn't that better than being on my own around school, with only Benjamin Walters for company.
Sensing my hesitation she added, "Bring a friend if you want." I immediately thought of Anna who'd been complaining about Easter with her family. Wouldn't it be fun to spend Easter with her in my aunt's rambling house? There was an additional advantage with Anna that, with her younger-looking features, it would be her who Aunt would pounce upon to dress up and be drawn.
"Thanks Aunt," I said. "That sounds a great idea. I'm sure my friend Anna would love to come."
"That's settled then," she said, and I was left with a little excited glow in my tummy.
***
"Of course I can't get out of Easter with my family," Anna said next morning after I'd relayed the invitation. "My parents would kill me."
It was the same with all my other friends I asked that day.
"You'll just have to ask Benjamin," Anna said after I'd told her my woes. "I promise I won't tell Stephanie."
I had been thinking of Ben, but Anna's suggestion seemed to give the idea a ring of approval. I telephoned him on his mobile that evening. He was downhearted when I told him I was going to be away from school at my aunt's for Easter, but when I asked him to join me he was so overjoyed. For some stupid reason, I had this warm glow in my tummy at the very thought of spending the hols with him. Don't get me wrong, no way do I have any kind of romantic feelings for Ben, and I'm certainly not the kind of girl who opens her legs for any boy who fancies her. (Well, actually I haven't opened my legs for anyone, but that's by the bye.) Still, I did bask in a sort of afterglow; it was just a shame I couldn't announce it to all and sundry.
***
That kind of yummy feeling continued until the Saturday evening before term ended. My aunt rang to confirm the pickup arrangements for lunchtime on Tuesday, after the staff had put on their end of term play – usually a very jolly occasion. I told her I'd be bringing Ben, rather than Anna.
"A boy. You can't ring a boy."
"But Aunt," I protested. "You've got plenty of bedrooms in your house. He's not my boyfriend. We're not sleeping together."
"It would have been simpler if you were. The problem is that the house is full of Eastern European students at the moment. The old schoolhouse in the village has been turned into a school for English as a Foreign Language, and all the villagers are accommodating them. I've set aside a bedroom for you and Anna, but the other rooms are all multi-occupied by a dozen young women studying EFL. I'm sorry, but you simply can't bring a boy along."
I was heartbroken – no, that sounds stupid, as though I really did have feelings for the little runt. But I was certainly dismayed at the idea of Easter with only my eccentric aunt for company, apart from a bunch of women students who couldn't talk English. As for the idea of telephoning Ben and telling him he couldn't come, I simply didn't have the courage. I decided I'd leave it until the following morning.
Then, as I was going to bed and hanging my clothes up in my wardrobe, I saw the Torsolet, still untouched since I brought it back from Emily Davis.
Wham! The idea hit me between the eyes. It would never work, of course. He'd never agree to it, for a start. Would he?
Even if he did, my clothes would never fit him wearing the Torsolet. I remembered the debacle at Emily's house, when she and Anna had tried to insist that rather than taking off the Torsolet, I wore it back to school. My bra would have looked simply ridiculous trying to cup those enormous breasts. Omitting the bra, I buttoned up my blouse squashing up the breasts so the buttons kept popping open. The nipples poked through like thimbles.
"Put your jacket on," Anna suggested.
But the jacket wouldn't do up so it gaped open, leaving me looking like a St Trinians tart.
"The Torsolet does adjust," Emily said. "Only it's a bit fiddly and I need to get on with my schoolwork. Why not take it off for now and carry it back in its bag? You can adjust it in your dorm, tonight."
"Good idea," I said, thankful to escape further embarrassment, and vowing never to touch it again until after Easter, when I could return it with thanks.
So if I really was going to dress Ben up as a girl, I'd need to borrow some clothes from a busty friend – someone I could trust to keep quiet about everything. Anna was far too short, and she was only a B-cup, anyway. And as I ran through my list of friends, I realised the only one who qualified with the right bra size was Stephanie Turner. But not only would she rib me mercilessly about going away with Ben, she'd embarrass him by telling everyone that he was a tranny. That aside, she'd had special permission from the headmistress to start her holidays early, so she'd flown out to Bermuda that very morning. Fat lot of help she was going to be.
I went to bed with no workable solution to the problem.
***
Next morning it was one of those wet and miserable days. I made a mental note to pack all my warm clothes and raingear for the trip to my aunt's. Whilst she normally kept the house warm, it would be good to take walks along the wooded river valley on days like this. Except that I remembered loaning Stephanie my anorak a couple of weeks ago, prior to that bitchy remark about Ben and she hadn't yet returned it.
Have you noticed that some ideas, like the one last night, come with a 'Wham!' – others come with a very subdued 'Dong.' This was definitely one of the latter. As I've already mentioned, I've occasionally gone home with Stephanie to help her with her homework. I knew under which stone the key to the front door was kept; I'd also watched her type the numbers 3578 into the alarm system – notable for being such an easily guessed combination – look at any keypad if you don't know why. So there was nothing to stop me popping round there this morning, recovering my anorak and perhaps borrowing a few of her nice sweaters and some waterproof leggings. In fact…
I had another 'Dong' then.
***
"Hi Ben. How are you?"
"I'm fine. I'm really looking forward to spending Easter hols with you."
"Ah." I paused a little, to give him time to realise there was bad news coming.
"Ah what?" he asked.
"There's a problem," I said. "My aunt was expecting me to bring a girl. Normally, there are plenty of spare rooms in her house, but at the moment she's let them all to foreign students. It means there's only one room left."
"You mean," he said, sounding as though he'd just won the lottery, "we have to share a room?"
"No way!" I said. "Even if I was crazy enough to want to share a room with you, my aunt would never allow it."
"I don't understand," he said. "Where am I going to sleep?"
"That's just it," I said, "I'm afraid there's nowhere for a boy to sleep."
"You mean I can't come." He sounded as though he was about to cry, and I was quite touched that he so wanted to come on holiday with me.
"Well," I said. "The only thing is… Well, if we disguised you as a girl you could then share my room."
"Disguised me as a girl? I'd look stupid."
"I don't think so. As long as it was done properly."
"But I'm the wrong shape. My face is wrong. My hair… Everything."
"OK," I said. "I accept it might be a challenge, but are you all right with the principle?
"That's to say," I said before he could say no, "that if we succeed in fooling my aunt, you get to sleep in a room with me."
"Sleep in room with you?" His lottery number really had come up.
"In separate beds, Ben. I'm not going to bed with you."
"Oh sure. Yes. Of course. I mean, I wouldn't try anything like that. Of course not." Yeah, like the idea had never crossed his mind.
"That's the deal, Ben. If you say you'll give it a try, you have to be a girl for the whole of the holiday. No switching to a boy when you feel a bit randy."
"No. Of course I wouldn't do that."
Yeah, I thought, and I'd refuse a million pounds if it was offered.
***
Playing hooky on the last day of school was simple – not only were all the staff dressing for their parts in the play, but no one could possibly suspect that any girl would want to play hooky on that fun-filled morning. So Anna and I went to our form class to get our names ticked off the register, and then, when everyone else wandered off to the hall to get the best seats for the play, Anna and I dived into the toilets. We waited there until the performance had started, and then walked as bold as brass out of the main gate, our rucksacks on our backs. I went straight to Stephanie's house but Anna said she had to pop to the shops first and would be along shortly. The key was under the stone where it had always been, and the same combination turned off the alarm. Ten minutes later, Ben was ringing the doorbell.
"Come in Ben," I greeted him. "It's really great that we're going to be two girls together for a couple of weeks."
"If it works," he said. "I still think I'm going to look like a boy in girl's clothes."
"Firstly," I said, "come upstairs and see what I've brought for you."
You should have seen his face when I showed him the Torsolet. His eyes almost popped out of his head, and then he got all embarrassed about looking at the more private areas, if you know what I mean.
"You're going to have to get used to looking at girl bits," I told him. "Now, did you wear your swimming trunks beneath your uniform?" He nodded, so I told him to get stripped off.
***
Anna arrived a few minutes later, which I was quite pleased about. For after Ben had taken off his shoes and socks, and then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, he stopped undressing and just stood there like a wally.
"Is there a problem?" I asked him. "I mean, you haven't forgotten to put on your swimming trunks, have you?"
"No. It's... well..."
"Then for heaven's sake get stripped off. We've got a lot to do and not much time to do it. I'm not going to see anything I haven't seen at the swimming pool."
So he unfastened his trousers, pulled them down and that was when I realised the problem he had. He had a massive boner in his swimming trunks! That's to say, I'd not had a lot to compare it with, but it looked massive to me, and the very thought of where that wanted to go dominated my attention. I wasn't certain whether it was through revulsion or attraction. Fortunately, the doorbell rang then and I went down to let in Anna.
"It's so embarrassing," I said after telling her the problem.
"That's easily sorted," she said. "Where is he?"
She marched up to Stephanie's bedroom with me trailing uncertainty behind. I knew she'd had far more boyfriends than me – was she going to toss him off or give him a blowjob?
Instead, as she marched up to him, she said, "You can stop waving that around." She had her school satchel over her shoulder and she suddenly pulled one of those metal nail files out of it and went to stab him right at the base of his bulge, where I guessed his rocks must be.
"Shit!" he said, just managing to deflect her blow. "You're fucking crazy." His boner, I noticed had completely disappeared. Like magic.
"Girls do not use language like you've just used," I told him. "If you want to spend the next two weeks at my aunt's, you'll have to behave properly. Do you understand, or is it all off?"
"Sorry," he said, "but I thought Anna was going to take it all off. She took me by surprise."
"Well, you took me by surprise," I said. "Thrusting that out, and don't think you're going to be doing that again for the next two weeks.
"Of course not." He thought he was lying to us, but we knew differently.
***
The next few hours were a flurry of activity. Fortunately, he hadn't yet started sprouting a beard, but we sprayed hair remover over his legs and arms. Amazingly he had really attractive legs without the hair. Then we applied the red gel all over his upper body down as far as his swimming trunks. I didn't bother to mention that he'd be stuck in the thing for two weeks – after all, hadn't he agreed he'd be a girl for that time with no more erections?
Anyway, we pulled the Torsolet over his head and down his body, and then shoved him into the bathroom with instructions to spread the gel over his private bits, then feed them into a pocket on the underside of the gusset which then fastened between the legs. I'd had a good look at the Torsolet when I washed it out after getting it back to school. To be honest, I couldn't work out where he was going to pack all the equipment I'd seen evidence of earlier. But I could work out how the wee came out. The really weird thing was it had a quim buried in the squishy padding in the gusset. Somehow, I didn't think Ben would be using that, any more than I intended using mine.
When he emerged from the bathroom, both Anna and I were shocked at the change. Gone was the little runt; instead was a body not that dissimilar to Stephanie's! His head still looked quite boyish, but I reckoned a bit of makeup and a restyle of his hair, and no one would doubt they were looking at a girl. Actually, the restyling took us quite a long time as we messed up our first attempt and had to start again. It was well worth doing so, as by then, Ben had given up asking what we were doing, and we could use Stephanie's blonde hair dye on him. And I always thought she was a natural blonde!
Anna did most of the work on his hair, whilst I helped with the difficult bits. In the meantime, I sorted through Stephanie's clothes so we could 'borrow' some to take with us. I found an old rucksack of Stephanie's with a huge picture of Barbie Doll on the outside, which I thought would be more suitable than the empty rucksack he'd brought with him.
Three hours later, two girls in school uniform left Stephanie's house, Anna having departed earlier, in order to meet her parents and get carted off to relatives for Easter. I'd deliberately told Aunt Harriet to arrive at the school for one-thirty, giving ample time for the rest of the school to disperse before we got back there. I didn't want any of my friends or teachers to start wondering who the new girl was.
***
Fortunately, we only had to wait ten minutes outside the school before Aunt Harriet arrived in a beaten up Land Rover station wagon, the sort with lots of seats in the back.
"Hi girls," she greeted us, as I opened the passenger door. "Pleased to meet you Stevie." I'd already explained that I was bringing Stevie Turner instead of Anna.
"Hello, Mrs Barker," Ben said. He normally spoke quite softly, and Anna and I had agreed it was best not to try to change it, by talking falsetto or whatever. "Thank you so much for inviting me to stay with Abigail."
"Dump your rucksacks in the back," Aunt directed, "and then you can both sit up here next to me."
We pushed our rucksacks inside the rear passenger door and it was just then I heard a car pulling out of the vehicular exit from SIGHS. I glanced around and nervously smiled directly into the face of Miss Harper, the Head. She normally terrified me, but she gave me a lovely smile in return, and then glanced at the other girl in SIGHS uniform standing beside me. I had to say that Stephanie's uniform fitted Ben superbly and no one could have guessed there was really a boy underneath. But Miss Harper knew every one of her 423 girls, and her face turned like thunder as she looked at Ben. It was as though she not only knew there was a non-SIGHS person in her school's uniform, but that it was actually a boy.
Then, she glanced down to the watch on her wrist and I could see her calculating the time. Everyone knew she was flying out today to get the last of the winter snow at a Swiss skiing resort. She clearly had not left herself much time to get to the airport. Her face set into a 'Just wait until next term' look, and she drove past us.
"She looked in a foul mood," Aunt said, as we squeezed in beside her. "You'd think she'd be pleased it was the end of term."
Quick as a flash, Ben, bless him, said, "I'm afraid I'm not in her good books at the moment. Still, I'm trying hard to be a good girl from now on."
"How boring," Aunt replied with a smile. "I hope you won't be too angelic."
"I don't think that's very likely," I said. "There's not much of the good girl inside Stevie."
"So what would you be doing, Stevie," Aunt conversationally said, "if Abby hadn't invited you on holiday with us?"
I almost froze solid and it wasn't just because she'd called me Abby rather than Abigail, in front of one of my friends. I realised how I should have thought through some sort of cover story, but I'd been totally preoccupied with the physical aspects of the conversion without thinking of more complex issues.
"My mum remarried recently," Ben said, "and I don't really get on with my stepfather. They're going to Jamaica for a couple of weeks. Spending time with Abigail in rainy Britain seems idyllic in comparison."
It all came out so easily; Ben had told the exact truth and it sounded great. And he'd called me Abigail.
"Well just remember," Aunt quipped, "that two negatives don't always make a positive." Huh! My aunt's sense of humour could be quite trying.
"I not only love this time of year," Ben said, "when it's wet and miserable outside and I'm warm and dry inside a house, but Abigail has been fantastic for me in the past year. A really warm shoulder to cry on."
OK, I know what you're thinking here: physical intimacy. But he really was crying so I simply gave him a hug and he blubbered on my shoulder. Made a real mess on my school jacket, actually; took me ages to get it off. Whatever. I decided it was time to change subject.
"So Aunt," I asked. "What's this with these foreign students?"
She gave a little grimace. "To be honest, things haven't been too busy with my illustration work. So when Mrs Starkey decided to open up the old schoolroom as an English as a Foreign Language college, taking in lodgers was a way of boosting my income. I've got a dozen students – all girls, thank heavens – so they help out around the house, do the cooking and cleaning – it's all part of the deal. They're actually no trouble at all."
"Who's Mrs Starkey?" I asked, feeling I should know but not able to place her. I'd visited Aunt's house infrequently as a little girl, and once or twice when I'd first started boarding at SIGHS, twenty months ago, but had only met a few neighbours.
"She used to be the village schoolmistress, before the council closed it down, aeons ago, so she switched to teaching EFL at local colleges. She still lives in the village, though.
"I'd better warn you," she continued, as she changed down and swung the Land Rover onto an unmade road, "that it gets pretty rough along this track. The floods last year brought down the bridge, and the council say it's not a public road so they won't repair it, and there's no way the few villagers can afford it. We have to take this track to get around it."
"Is that why we're in a Land Rover?" I asked as we lurched down a pothole.
"My car was useless on this track," Aunt said, "so I sold it. Couldn't afford to get my own 4x4, so a number of us clubbed together to buy this heap. We share the running costs."
"So do you not have any illustration work on at the moment?" I asked, both concerned for my aunt's well-being, but also rather pleased we wouldn't have to be modelling for her.
"Actually, I picked up a new commission a couple of weeks ago," she said. "It's different from normal – a graphic novel for teenagers with reading difficulties." She gave me a rather apologetic sideways glance. "It's about two teenage Victorian girls."
"Aunt!" I gasped, amazed at her audacity. "Let me guess. Immediately after getting the commission, you rang me up and invited me to stay over Easter and bring along a friend."
She nodded. "That's about it."
"Hang on," I said, "did you say it was about Victorian girls. But what about our clothes?"
"No problem," Aunt said. "I've been to a theatrical costumer and got some lovely Victorian dresses. You'll both look lovely in them."
"Aunt!" I protested, but knew it was too late. We had no alternative; we'd been well and truly shafted.
***
"Aunt!" I protested again, but with even greater justification. "It's a double bed." We'd arrived at the house and she'd taken us straight up to our bedroom.
"I told you about that when you wanted to bring along that boy," she said. "I said it would be no problem if you were sleeping together."
I heard Ben gasp besides me. That wasn't exactly what I'd told him. "Well I'm not sleeping with anyone," I said.
"You are now," she said. She turned to Ben and asked, as bold as brass, "You're not a lesbian, are you Stevie?"
She took us both by surprise. "Er..." Ben started to say. "Well, er, n..."
"Yes she is, Aunt," I broke in. "That's the problem. Stevie's a lesbian."
"I always could tell when you were lying," Aunt said without rancour. "Now unpack your bags and come downstairs and meet the girls."
"No way are you going to sleep with me," I said, once she'd left the room. "You'll have to sleep..."
"Don't worry," Ben said with a grin, "we'll put some pillows down the centre of the bed, then my honour will be safe."
I couldn't help returning his smile. Of course both our honours were safe; Ben was wearing the Torsolet and was stuck in it for at least the next ten days. "OK," I said. "But there'll be no wandering palms all over my body."
His grin widened into a smile. "Abigail, just relax. I'm a girl, remember? I promise I'll do my best to behave like one all the time I'm here."
"You're really enjoying being a girl, aren't you?"
His grin became rather sheepish. "I don't normally have much confidence," he confessed. "I remember when we first met, it was you who came up to me and asked if I was the new boy at SPS. I'd never have dared to come up to you, even though I'd seen you coming out of SIGHS."
"And now?" I asked.
"It's funny," he said, "I thought I'd be terrified wearing girl's clothes but instead..."
"Instead?"
"Well... I feel great. You obviously know what it's like to be attractive and having boys – and men – staring at you." Did I? "When we were standing outside SIGHS and those boys from SPS walked past, I should have been terrified they were going to recognise me. Instead I was on a high that they were looking at us as two sexy girls."
Me? Sexy? One half of me was all a flutter whilst the other half declared that he was a little runt for whom I had no feelings – not romantically, anyway.
He waved towards the window. "That's a fantastic view."
I was glad he'd changed the subject. He was right of course. The house, stood right on the bank of the River Coombe, as it meandered between wooded hills.
"You can't see the best view of all," I replied. "There's a boathouse built into the house. Aunt's got a boat in there and we can go out on the river and look back at this lovely rambling old house. It seems so romantic seen like that." I paused. Why had I said romantic? "I mean in a mysterious way," I added.
"It sounds fantastic," he said. "Thank you so much for thinking of me and inviting me here."
"Well you won't think so much of me when Aunt forces us into Victorian clothes, and we have to stand about posing."
He smiled again. "Now I'm a girl, I guess I can confess that I love costume dramas on TV. I'm really looking forward to dressing up in those long elegant dresses. But talking of dressing up, could you help me get changed into some jeans? I think it's going to take me some time to get used to wearing a skirt which lets the wind blow up to my bum."
"Ah," I said. "I meant to talk to you about that. You know I told you we'd borrow Stephanie's clothes, and that she had dozens of pairs of jeans?"
He nodded, a look of caution on his face.
"Well when I sorted through them, I found they'd all be far too small for your huge hips and bum. I'm sorry, but the only things I could find which would fit around the hips were her skirts and dresses."
As his mouth gaped open, I added, "There's no problem with your tops, of course. You and Stephanie are about the same size, so you do have some lovely outfits."
I still wasn't clear in my own mind why I'd deliberately ignored the many stretch leggings Stephanie had which would have fitted Ben perfectly; maybe it was me thinking back to the fun I used to have dressing up my dolls. My Barbies and Sindys were never allowed to wear trousers.
I was expecting an outburst but instead he said, "It's a good job you thought about that. It would have totally given the game away if I'd arrived with several pairs of jeans which didn't fit. I guess I'll have to get used to wearing skirts sooner than I expected. So can you help me choose something to wear?"
We went downstairs a few minutes later and Ben looked fantastic in a tight denim skirt and a white sweater with matching blue flowers, which superbly followed Ben's curves. Even Stephanie's shoes were the right size, and I'd chosen Stephanie's lovely light-blue trainers to go with the clothes. I'd smuggled a couple of pairs of heels into my rucksack along with some stockings which I'd introduce him to in a few days' time – I didn't want to freak him out straightaway.
The Mystery of the Water in the Dock - Part 2 of 4
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When Abigail's Aunt Harriet told her she could bring along a friend with her to stay for Easter, she didn't stipulate until later it had to be a girl. But what was going on in the little village, cut-off from the rest of the world? This is a story set partly at Seacombe Independent Girls' High School, commonly known as SIGHS and involves young people involved in such things as humour, adventure, crossdressing and growing-up.
Part Two: Boys! Even when they're pretending to be girls, they can still make mysteries over the most stupid things. Or could there possibly be any basis to Ben's - oops, I mean Stevie's - suggestions?
Author's Note: This story is complete and will be published in four parts at approximately daily intervals.
Part Two
by
Charlotte Dickles
"Girls. Come and meet my lodgers." Aunt Harriet said. She waved a hand around the seven or eight girls standing in her kitchen. I'd expected mature women, but these girls were not much older than ourselves. "This is my niece, Abby, and her friend, Stevie. Now why don't you all introduce yourselves in your perfect English?"
"Hello Abba and Stiphy," the nearest one to us said. "I am pleased to meet you." She held out her hand for me to shake and I rather stupidly took it. "My name is Anastasia."
"Hello, Anastasia," I said, as she pumped my hand. "I'm pleased to meet you too. But I would prefer it if you called me Abigail."
"Sorry?" She looked puzzled. "There is a strong wind coming?"
"I'm Stevie," Ben said before I could think of a reply. As Anastasia went to shake his hand he held up his own with his flat palm held upright. "No," he said. "We never shake hands when we meet like this." He pronounced each word carefully, adding, "Perhaps in business, but never when we meet informally."
Anastasia grinned at Ben, and I noticed she had whiter teeth than my own, damn her. "Thank you, Stiphy," she said. "You two girls can show us how normal English girls behave. Yes?"
"I think I need a few lessons, mys..." Ben started to say so I quickly interrupted. "We'll be delighted to, although we hardly regard ourselves as role models."
"No," she grinned back. "Mrs Starkey is the role model. You two are real girls."
Fortunately, the next girl was already introducing herself before either of us could think how to reply to that misassumption.
"I am Katya," she said, and gave a little wave instead of a handshake.
And so it went around the circle of smiling girls, who were all far more attractive than me. Ben seemed in his element, chatting with them and gently pointing out mistakes with their English. I guessed that, had he been dressed normally in those circumstances, he'd have been standing embarrassed in the corner. Hmm, I thought. I'd better watch out he doesn't get too chatty with any of them.
"Aunt," I said at the first opportunity. "We thought we'd go a walk around the village if that's all right with you."
"We're walking back to the schoolroom now," Anastasia said. "Why not walk with us and help us more with our English?"
So we all set out walking along the track from the house up the steep hill to what classified as the main road in the village, with the schoolroom standing a little distance along to the right. We bade them goodbye, there and turned in the opposite direction.
"They seem a really friendly bunch," Ben said.
"They are," I said, "but more importantly, you're behaving completely naturally with them. Well done."
He smirked a little. "They're very easy to talk to, and I also thought they're less likely to notice any slips I might make."
"You must love it," I said, "being surrounded by girls. Maybe you'd like to go back to being a boy,"
His face took on a look of horror. "Oh no," he said. "I'd be terribly awkward and embarrassed. I feel so much more natural as a girl.
"That sounds really weird, doesn't it?" he added, "when I'm actually the complete reverse of natural."
"No," I said. I stopped and turned to face him. "You were right first time. Natural is what you feel: not what society dictates."
He smiled shyly and then threw his arms around me and gave me a hug, pushing his big boobs into my chest. They felt sort of squiffy.
"Thanks, Abigail," he said. "You're a real friend.
"And if I did that when I was a boy," he continued, "you'd have slapped my face."
I opened my mouth to protest and then shut it again. Of course I'd have slapped the little runt's face if he'd tried anything on with me. A girl has to make it clear that no way does she want a romantic relationship with a little runt like that. "Maybe," I acknowledged. "Let's move on to the main part of the village, although there's not much of it. It's more a hamlet than a village."
We'd already walked past a few derelict houses and I explained to Ben a little of the village's background. "The place is based around a little boatyard on the river. It's been here for centuries and they used to build boats there.
"In the Second World War it became a place where they made those mini-submarines. They turned the dock into a dry dock, where they could float the submarines in on the high tide, then, as the tide went out, the submarine settled onto blocks on the bottom. Then they closed the lock gates at the entrance to the dock so that when the tide rose again, it didn't flood the dock."
"How incredibly exciting," Ben said. "Can we go and see it?"
I was rather touched at how interested he was in what was now a fairly desolate place. "We'll visit that last," I told him, "then we can walk back along the river path to Aunt's house. First, let's visit the village shop."
Mr Ahmed had run the village shop in Combehaven ever since I could remember. His face perpetually smiled, and when I was tiny, he'd slip me little sweets. Of course, that guaranteed that when I grew up, I'd always come back to his shop. But today, even though the sign on the door stated 'Open', the place was all in darkness.
"Hello?" I shouted, pushing open the door which gave its characteristic 'bing-bong'.
It was like stepping into a ghost shop. It used to be crowded with packs of toilet paper and bottles of wine, special offers on dog food and nappies, and throughout the holiday season, it was full of shoppers from the nearby caravan park. But in the dim light I could barely see a thing, apart from empty shelves.
A door opened from the interior, a shaft of light lancing across the empty shop. The shadow was temporarily blocked as someone stepped into the room, someone quite big who moved quietly. I suddenly felt seriously scared.
"Oh, hello Abigail," said Mrs Clark, as she flicked the light switch and I could see her properly. "Your aunt said you were coming to stay for Easter with a friend. You must be Anna," she said to Ben.
"Anna couldn't come," I said, rather annoyed not just because I'd been scared by the darkened room but also that she'd let slip that Ben wasn't my first choice. "This is... Stevie." In my anger, I'd almost called him by his real name! I'd have to watch that.
Mrs Clark was probably as old as my aunt – somewhere in her fifties – but she looked positively ancient in comparison and was one of those people who are always moaning. She gave Stevie a grimace rather than a smile.
"Mrs Clark, what's happened to the shop? Where's Ahmed?" I asked.
"After the bridge came down last year and cut us off, the whole area has gone out of business. The caravan park closed down, as did the boatyard. Mr Ahmed hung on as long as he could but eventually went into receivership and had to go and live with one of his sons in Seacombe. We formed a little cooperative in the village and when the receivers couldn't sell or rent out the shop, they let us take it on at a peppercorn rent. We man it on a voluntary basis, although I seem to get the brunt of the work. We keep the lights turned off to save electricity unless there's a customer in the shop. So, are you buying anything or just wasting time?"
"Could I buy a newspaper, please, Mrs Clark?" Ben said.
"Newspapers have to be specially ordered and paid for in advance," she said, seemingly rather pleased that she couldn't fulfil his order. "Which one did you want?"
"I wanted the Daily Mail," Ben said, "but if you don't have any it doesn't matter."
"The Daily Mail?" She gave him a strange, questioning look. "No. We don't sell the Daily Mail."
"OK," Ben said. "Well it doesn't matter." He looked at me and said, "Shall we continue our tour, Abigail? I'm looking forward to seeing that little boatyard."
"The boatyard's closed!" Mrs Clark snapped. "Don't you two go hanging about there. It's dangerous and if you do have an accident we'll get the blame."
"Can't we just look…" Ben started to say.
"No you can't!" Mrs Clark shouted. "Keep away from it. We don't need girls like you around here."
We left the shop feeling rather subdued. Mrs Clark was starring daggers at Ben, and I'm sure she was muttering under her breath, "All boobs and no knickers."
"I'm frightfully sorry about that, Stevie," I said, aware of Mr Robinson staring at us from across the road. "Hello Mr Robinson. This is my friend Stevie. We're staying with Aunt Harriet for Easter." Mr Robinson was a pensioner who'd seemed to have been elderly ever since I was a little girl, so heaven knows how old he was. Unlike Mrs Clark, he was always smiling.
"Pleased to meet you, Stevie." Mr Robinson's face had lit up as I greeted him. "Hello Abigail. It's nice to see someone I know in the village. I mean, the foreign girls are all very nice, but their English isn't very good and it's difficult chatting them up."
I couldn't help smiling at the idea of him chatting up all those young women.
"There you are," he claimed. "One sentence and I have a smile from you. I reckon we'll be on a date quite soon. Perhaps Stevie will make it a threesome."
"Er..." Ben looked a little gobsmacked at his offer
"She may have the figure," I teased, "but she's not into the wild parties like we are."
"You know, Abigail, I could be locked up for what I'm thinking."
"As long as you only think it," I said, "they can't lock you up."
"Who said it was only in my thoughts?" He grinned at us. "If only. Have a nice afternoon, you two."
"Thank you, Mr Robinson," we both chanted as he went on his way towards his cottage.
"That was non-stop sexual innuendo," Ben said. "You shouldn't encourage him."
"But he's lovely," I said. "We made his day and there's nothing wrong in that."
"Dirty old man," I heard Ben mutter.
***
We meandered through the village meeting just a few more residents - Mrs Thomas, Mr Davis and Mrs Marshall. Finally, we were walking down the last few yards towards the boatyard, with its tall, black metal gates firmly shut. 'Boatyard Closed. No entry. Danger!' the large sign declared. Beneath it was a notice stating the name and address of the company receivers, to whom any unpaid claims should be sent.
"Sorry, Ben," I said. "It looks like we're not going to be able to see the yard after all."
"Hmm," he muttered, walking over to the gates, peering through the gap between them and giving them a shake. "By the way," he added, "it's probably better if you stop calling me Ben. A couple of times you almost used it in front of other people. Stevie is fine with me.
"There," he said, as the left gate moved forward a few inches. "This is not locked, just stiff because it's dragging on the ground. If you give me a hand, we can push it open sufficient to squeeze through."
I screwed up my nose. "I'm not certain this is a good idea, Ben... I mean Stevie. We could get into trouble."
"The company's gone bankrupt," he said. "That means no one owns it. In any case, we only want a look; it's not as though we're trying to steal anything."
"No, but..."
"Look." He waved up the road and I followed his wave. The road was deserted for the hundred yards or so we could see. "Come on," he continued. "Don't be such a wimp. This is fun."
So we both lifted and pushed the one gate so it opened sufficient to squeeze through. Stevie (got it right, that time), went first and I followed, after giving another careful look up the road.
I'd been there a few times as a child but never recently. Like I said, it always seemed rather boring to me. It wasn't boring that afternoon – it was incredibly scary. Not only was I frightened we'd be arrested for breaking and entering, but it was all so desolate, I could feel the ghosts of those submariners who went on missions from this yard and never came back.
There was a roof over the top of the dock – and if you look on a satellite map you can see it's still painted in camouflage colours – but no sides, presumably to let in light. It meant we were exposed to the chilly breeze which came in from the river. Within seconds, I was shivering.
The dock was partly full of water, and there was a small fishing boat moored at the far side of it.
"That's strange," Stevie said.
"What is?"
"The dock's partly full of water but the tide's out."
"But I told you about the lock gate at the entrance to the dock," I said, pointing to the left where we could see the river. With the tide out, it mainly comprised mud flats. "The gate's being used to keep the water in, not out."
"But that means there must be two gates," Stevie said He walked towards that end. "One to keep water in and another to keep water out."
"Is there a point to this conversation," I asked. "So what if they can keep the water in and use it like a normal dock. It stops that boat going up and down with the tide."
"Suppose so," Stevie said, "but I was hoping to see the dock empty.
"In any case," he added, "who owns that boat?"
"Presumably," I said, "it belongs to the boatyard. Does it matter?"
"The receivers would have sold it off if it did," he said. "Yet that boat is clearly in working order, and whoever owns it has closed the dock gate to keep the water in. That means, there could be someone around..."
"What are you two girls doing here?" A man's voice rang out from behind us and we both jumped like startled rabbits, turning round to face him.
"Jethro," I said, recognising him as the spotty-faced teenage son of Mrs Clark whom I'd known when I came here as a child. Now he was a nasty-looking man, with an evil leer on his face as he stared at Stevie's breasts.
He quickly glanced at me before his gaze returned to Stevie's chest. We'd started to walk towards him and I suddenly became aware out of the corner of my eye how Stevie's boobs were bouncing up and down. Strange. I'd never noticed them before but Jethro had immediately locked onto them.
"You're that annoying little brat, Abigail Peters," he said. "You'd better introduce your friend."
"I'm Stevie," he said. "We were just looking round."
Good for Stevie. I was almost wetting my pants with terror whilst he was totally shameless.
"You've probably been nicking stuff," he said, "but there's no need to involve the police. I'd better frisk you both down." He grinned and pointed at Stevie. "I'll start with you."
"Fuck off," Stevie said. "Abigail telephone the police, and he can go to prison for assaulting a minor. Then all the other prisoners will gang up on him and cut off his balls."
"OK," Jethro said, holding up his hand. "Only joking. But you can both fuck off out of here." He pointed to the gate. "And don't come back. This is private property and it's dangerous in here."
We squeezed back through the gap between the gates, my heart racing fit to burst. As soon as Jethro had pushed the gate shut behind us, I turned to Ben – it was definitely Ben now – and hugged him tightly.
"You were fantastic" I said. "I was simply petrified. Why weren't you frightened?"
He grinned back at me. "I haven't as much to lose as you do," he said. "In any case, I see now why girls always go round in pairs. They don't even go to the toilet on their own. He couldn't attack me and at the same time prevent you telephoning the police."
"Ah," I said. "I need to tell you about that. You see, I left my mobile phone charging in our bedroom."
His mouth opened wide and – OK, call it stress in the heat of the moment – I planted my lips over his and snogged him.
"Fucking lessies," we heard from behind the gates. Jethro must have been peering between the gap.
***
Rather than walking back through the village, we followed the reasonably level path along the river bank towards the house.
"It was just because I was scared," I said. "I don't want you to read anything into it."
"It was nice though," Stevie said.
"It wasn't totally disgusting," I agreed, trying not to reveal the surge of excitement which had swept through me. Trying to change the subject, I said, "Wasn't he horrible."
Stevie shrugged. "Lots of boys at school make similar suggestions to girls."
"But he isn't a schoolboy," I said. "He's an adult talking to schoolgirls,"
"I don't feel very school-girlish with these things bouncing around on my chest. You know that you've given me serious sex symbols."
"They're just lumps of fat," I said. "Do men really think they're sex symbols?" Emily had said something similar but I hadn't figured it.
"I've always been terrified of girls with huge breasts," Stevie admitted. "Now I have them, I feel different. I can understand what girls have to put up with on a daily basis. You know, Abigail, you don't realise how lucky you are having a wonderful figure like yours."
Another flutter in my heart. "Wonderful? But I'm skinny. You said just now that big breasts are a sex symbol. That's why so many girls have enhancements."
"Don't have an enhancement, Abigail. You're perfect the way you are."
Perfect! This conversation was getting out of hand. Remember, I had to sleep in the same bed as the little runt tonight, and there was no way I was getting into any kind of relationship with him. For the next two weeks, Ben was Stephanie, a girl with two big breasts that bounced and jiggled as he walked along the path. Whatever may have been buried between his legs, would remain buried.
"At least you've seen the boatyard, now," I said. "Hopefully that's sated your curiosity."
"Of course not," she said. "There's a mystery we have to solve."
"Mystery? What mystery?"
"The Mystery of the Water in the Dock, of course." He really did pronounce it as though it was a Famous Five adventure.
"Why is it a mystery? There are lots of small docks like that one. Ships come in and unload their cargo then leave on the next tide."
"Precisely." Stevie spoke as though I'd made a good point. "But that wasn't a ship; it was a fishing boat. You see them in little harbours all around the coasts of Britain. They'll come up to the quayside to unload their catch, but then go and moor elsewhere. When the tide goes out, they simply settle on the bottom. They come and go with the tides. There's no point in going through the rigmarole of entering a dock and closing the gate to keep the water in."
"I think you're making a mystery out of nothing. I suppose it is strange that everyone says the boatyard is closed, yet Jethro is clearly using it, but these fishermen are a law unto themselves. He's probably there without the knowledge of the official receivers."
"Where did he come from just now?" Stevie asked.
"He must have been working in the boatyard somewhere."
"But where? When I went through the gate, I looked all round, just in case there was someone inside. There wasn't."
He had a point. I'd done exactly the same; and we'd both looked up the road beforehand to make certain there was no one approaching. "He must have been on the boat."
"Which was moored on the opposite side of the dock," he said. "He'd have had to walk all around the dock to get up behind us."
"There was a kind of pontoon thing, floating on the water," I said, with a flash of memory.
"Which had no one on it," Stevie said. He was right, otherwise we'd both have seen him.
"Does it matter?" I asked. "The point is, he must have been there somewhere; perhaps he was standing in a corner having a crafty fag."
"It's another part of the mystery," Stevie said, mysteriously.
Boys, I thought. They never grow up. Talking of which, "I'm going to talk to Aunt about Jethro," I said. "I think he's dangerous."
***
"What were you doing in the boatyard?" Aunt asked. "It's dangerous in there. There's a sign on the gate." Instead of being shocked at Jethro's behaviour, she was angry at Stevie and me for going into the boatyard.
"It was my fault, Mrs Peters," Stevie said. "Abigail didn't want to step foot inside, but I made her because I was really interested."
"It doesn't matter who initiated the idea. You both went past the danger sign. You could have been involved in a nasty accident. Promise me you won't do that again."
"We promise, Aunt," I said, giving Stevie a look and he nodded and said he promised as well. "But Aunt," I added, "I thought Jethro was going to rape us. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with it."
"He made a lewd suggestion," Aunt said. "That is not rape. Perhaps some of your friends would be only too pleased to be frisked down by a very fit young man like Jethro."
Fit! Aunt surely had to be joking. "But we're under the age of consent…" I started to say, when Aunt interrupted.
"But you have to remember that you are now both sexually mature young women. I know it's pointless to tell you to continue to dress like children, but you have to be aware that it's perfectly normal for every adult heterosexual male to want to have sex with you. So be careful, and do keep together. Combehaven may appear like the epitome of English civilisation, but sex is still rampant. OK?"
"Yes Aunt." "Yes, Mrs Peters."
"And for heaven's sake, she added, "Stevie, please call me Harriet."
"Yes, er, Harriet."
***
Dinner was a very jolly affair. It was cooked by the students, and Aunt Harriet had a rule that only English was to be spoken in the house. Now that I'd accepted that Stevie was a friend who happened to be a girl, it didn't seem to matter that he was better than me at conversing with them. I was sitting next to Katya and once I'd got used to her accent, we had a great conversation. She told me she was from Croatia, and had moved to England because of the better job prospects here. I guessed there were a lot of Little Englanders who hated the idea of 'foreigners' moving to England but it didn't bother me. Being part of the EU meant that I could just as easily go and live in Germany or France, and it also meant I met interesting people like Katya and Anastasia.
We stayed up talking until quite late, but then one of the women started yawning, and suddenly, we all were. We all went up to bed at about the same time, and it was then I remembered that Stevie and I were sharing a bed.
"I'll go to the bathroom and clean my teeth if you wish to get ready for bed," Stevie said.
"Don't be too quick," I told him. "I'll murder you if I'm half undressed when you come back."
He smirked at me and said he wouldn't.
***
"Wha..." I jerked awake, aware someone had entered my bedroom. Stevie was standing there looking as though I'd scared him half to death.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said. "Sorry."
"That's all right," I said. "I have to go and clean my teeth, anyway. It'll give you chance to get into your pyjamas." I paused as he seemed reluctant to move. "Are you all right?" I asked him.
My question seemed to jolt him back into life. "I'm fine," he said. "Just fine.
"Except that..." He paused. "Well, I can't unfasten the gusset thing."
Uh-uh. I'd have to put this carefully. "I told you you'd have to be a girl for the whole of the two weeks. You won't be able to take it off."
"But I must," he said. "There are… pressing reasons... male reasons."
Well, he wasn't catching me like that. Even if I could have taken it off, I wasn't going to have him waving his enormous thing in my face. "I'm sorry," I said. "You're stuck in that Torsolet for the next two weeks and I can't do anything about it."
His reaction took me totally by surprise. He burst into tears. I took him into my arms again and hugged him, and made, "There. There," noises. Of course, his ginormous breasts were squashing against me, and they really felt quite squashy. I was tempted to lift a hand and give them a squeeze, just to find out what they felt like, but I knew exactly where that would get us. In order to reduce the pressure between our breasts, I arched my back a little, and that's when I had this little electric tingle down below, if you know what I mean. Trying not to gasp, I realised our stomachs were touching each other, and that includes that little mound right at the base of our tummies. Looking into Stevie's face, I could see he felt the same tingle, so I rapidly pushed him away.
"I think it's time I cleaned my teeth," I said. "You need to get into your pyjamas."
"Did you pack me some?" he asked.
Cripes! I suddenly remembered finding the drawer in which Stephanie kept her nightwear. In a fit of devilment, I'd packed several pairs of harem pants and tops. "Yes," I told him. "You'll find them at the bottom of your rucksack."
I grabbed my toilet bag and dashed to the bathroom before he had chance to locate them. There was no lock on the bathroom door, and I'd opened it and stepped inside before I realised it was already occupied.
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't realise..."
I stopped because there wasn't just one girl in there, there were several and at least three of them were totally naked! No wonder Stevie had been in shock when he returned. And no wonder he had taken so long. And particularly no wonder he wanted to get out of the Torsolet and wave his thing at me.
Looking around the bathroom, it was clear that Aunt had had it extensively modified to cater for her dozen female lodgers. There was a communal shower area and communal washbasins, as well as three WC cubicles. No wonder Aunt had objected to my bringing a boy with me!
***
"You were a long time in the bathroom," I said to Stevie a few minutes later as I returned to our bedroom. "I wonder why?"
"Hi, Abigail." He looked both relieved and guilty at the same time. I mean, how weird does that sound?
Fortunately, he seemed quite oblivious of the harem plunge top he was wearing which gave him a fantastic cleavage, and through which I could just discern nipples through the semi-transparent material. Steady, I thought. You are not becoming a lesbian; that would make life in a female dormitory just too complicated. Come on, Abigail; get a grip. "Did it really take you all that time to clean your teeth?" I asked.
"I got chatting to the girls again. They seemed quite oblivious of their nakedness, and I didn't like to show how shocked I was."
"Shocked?" I asked, "or excited."
He grinned at me. "Both, I guess."
I couldn't help but grin back. "Well I guess I got you into this so I've only myself to blame. Just wait until tomorrow. Aunt wants us to dress up in her Victorian clothes and be sketched."
"Great," he said, with a huge smile on his face.
It really was disconcerting, I thought, just how much he was enjoying this. But I had to admit, it was far more fun than if I'd invited Anna.
***
"Aunt! You can't expect us to wear a corset!" I said.
"Of course that's what Harriet expects," Stevie said. "All Victorian women wore corsets so obviously we have to."
I grimaced at Ben. He should be on my side; instead he was merely egging Aunt on.
"They're lovely clothes," Harriet," he continued. "Which ones do you want us to wear first?"
"I've taken a flyer with some of the sizes," she said. "Let's get you both corseted up, and then we'll see which clothes fit you best. I want to sketch you in some normal day wear, as well as dresses suitable for a ball or a party. I thought you could wear those on Easter Day, then I can get several sketches of you both in ballgowns.
"And it's no good you pulling that face, Abby," she said. "Stevie's enjoying it, so I don't see why you shouldn't."
"Let's see how much she enjoys it after we've got our corsets on," I said.
Actually, since Aunt already knew my size, my corset wasn't too bad a fit. Sure it was slightly uncomfortable as it was tightened, but it really did push up my tiny breasts into a quite presentable shape. For once, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to wear a low-cut dress.
Aunt had bought the other clothes for Anna, whom she'd met on one occasion, and had a vague idea of her shape. Correspondingly, Stevie's corset had to be tightened rather more than mine, which I thought was poetic justice. He could hardly whinge when I helped Aunt pull in the cords, and it must have hurt like crazy, but give Stevie his due, he put up with it. It left him with a staggeringly beautiful shape, his waist looked so tiny beneath those huge breasts, quivering out of the top of the corset like party-sized jellies. Jethro would have been driven crazy with lust.
We tried on our day dresses, and I have to say, I looked quite half-decent in mine. Stevie looked a little like Barbara Windsor in one of those Carry On movies, except that his breasts were about twice the size of hers!
"Wonderful," Aunt enthused. "I may have to tone down the size of your breasts, Stevie, when I draw you. The book is for teenagers after all."
"In that case," I quipped, "maybe you should make them even larger."
"I want parents to buy the book to encourage their children," Aunt said. "Not ban them from reading it."
***
Being an artist's model may sound glamourous, but in reality, it's as boring as one of Mr Duncan's Chemistry lessons – except that it goes on for far longer. At least Stevie and I were allowed to talk, as long as we didn't open our mouths too wide or look at each other. It was a bit like one of those old spy movies where they mutter code phrases at each other, whilst pretending they're not having a conversation. The really good thing was that Aunt was sitting some distance away and we could quietly converse without her overhearing.
"Any further forward with The Mystery of the Water in the Dock?" I teased Stevie.
"I've been thinking about it," he said, taking my question perfectly seriously. "You're right of course, that there may be a perfectly innocent explanation for it..."
"There you are," I said.
"...but I'm inclined to think not," he continued as though I hadn't spoken. "Did you notice your aunt didn't try to explain why Jethro was at the dock?"
"She probably doesn't know."
"It's a country village," he said. "Everybody knows everybody else's business. She didn't even say, 'That's strange,' or something like that. No she has a good idea what Jethro is up to."
"What do you think it is?"
He shrugged, and I heard Aunt Harriet hiss with exasperation, as she did with every movement either of us made. "My guess is that it's smuggling," he said. "He brings his boat into that dock to unload something, so smuggling's the obvious answer."
"Alcohol? Drugs?"
"It could be either," he said. "But bearing in mind that it's got to be transported in that Land Rover to Seacombe or beyond, it can't be anything too bulky. My guess is on drugs."
"He could just be supplying the local villagers with cheap booze," I suggested.
"There aren't enough people living here to make it worth his while to do it. It's not even as though there's a pub in the village. But Combehaven has this superb advantage over almost anywhere else in England. It's almost inaccessible, yet it's only a few miles downriver to the sea and then to France. When it was easy to get here, there wasn't much worth coming for. Now you need a 4x4, I bet the police or Customs and Excise never come near. At the same time, the village is dying – you saw all those deserted houses. It must be impossible to sell or rent a house if you want to move away."
You mean," I said, "that the villagers know about the drug smuggling but turn a blind eye to it."
"Precisely. But at the moment we have nothing concrete we could take to the police. We need to get some firm evidence."
"But if my aunt's involved, you can't report her to the police."
"I'm not saying she's involved; just that she's turning a blind eye to it. They can't arrest the whole village. What's really great is they've built up this EFL teaching course. Several people are boarding the students; the shop will do well out of them. If it becomes a regular business, perhaps they won't need to turn a blind eye to smuggling."
"You mean we just let situation work itself out?" I rather hopefully said. I couldn't imagine what my parents would say to me if I got my aunt arrested for drug smuggling. And in spite of the sketching, I rather liked her.
"Of course not," Stevie scoffed. "Besides, I have the bit between the teeth now. I'm going to solve The Mystery of the Water in the Dock."
"Right," I rather hopelessly said."
***
"I think it's time to break for lunch," Aunt said just before midday. "I've got a meeting later on this afternoon, but I would like get in another hour's sketching after lunch, so keep your dresses on, but take care you don't spill anything on them."
By now, I'd resigned myself to wearing Victorian dress for much of the holiday. To be honest, Stevie's enthusiasm was catching, particularly as I really felt quite elegant in the day dress which teenagers would have worn in the nineteenth century. It was a fairly cool April day, and the long-sleeved bodices we were both wearing had been plenty warm enough, even though we'd been sitting still. The corset was quite restricting, but then I've never been any kind of tomboy, so I didn't really mind that. But of one thing I was certain; absolutely no one at school was ever going to hear about this – and I'd mercilessly blackmail Ben to make certain he never told anyone.
So the students at lunch gently teased us about our dress, but I felt several of them were quite envious. Once more, we had a great conversation although I felt Stevie looked a bit embarrassed with some of the girls he'd seen naked the night before. But then, I could hardly blame him; and it was me who'd got him into everything.
It was as we were finishing lunch, and the students were clearing away and stacking the dishwasher that the phone call came in. My aunt went off to take it.
"That was one of our neighbours, Nancy Pennington," she said when she returned, "who lives a mile up-river. She has a Victorian steam launch and she's offered to let me use it in my sketches. It seems that this morning, Larry, her husband, has fired it up and it's now steaming merrily away and is all ready for me to collect. The only problem is that I have a meeting of our village cooperative at three, this afternoon, so I hardly have time to mess around with a steam launch. I'm hoping that you two will be able to help me."
I was starting to pull a dubious face – a steam launch sounded not only quite techy but also an extremely dirty job – but Stevie leapt into the challenge. "Of course, Harriet. We'd love to do it, wouldn't we, Abigail?"
"Well, I…"
"That's great," Aunt said before I could raise my objections. "I'll run you over there in the boat, and you can then come back in your own time."
"But don't we need to change out of our dresses?" I said. "We don't want to mess them up."
"Nancy says it's not at all messy. We haven't got much time so come as you are."
So, less than ten minutes later, we were in Aunt's motorboat and moving out of her boathouse into the River Combe, and heading upstream. We looked an incongruous group – two elegant looking Victorian teenagers and a middle-aged woman in jeans and anorak.
When I'd first arrived at SIGHS and Aunt had told me she had a boat, I'd dreamt of a fabulous speedboat. Instead it was a crummy little thing with a puny outboard motor, which travelled at about two miles an hour – in the reverse direction if the tide was against us! Fortunately, that afternoon, it was running in our favour so it only took us an eternity to arrive at the Pennington's and we had plenty of time for conversation with my aunt.
"How often does your committee meet?" I asked her, and Stevie gave me a tiny nod, as though I'd said something he approved of, rather than me just having a chat, which is what I was actually doing.
"It's normally every week," Aunt said. "We meet in the schoolhouse so Mrs Starkey lets the students go early."
"Every week!" Stevie said. "I wouldn't have thought there was that much to talk about."
Aunt appeared flustered by his question. "Well it's mainly about coordinating the departure and arrival of the girls. Everyone's boarding at least a couple of students; I have the most with twelve, so we all need to know. Then simply shipping them in and out of the place is a bit of a nightmare, and it's not just the bumpy track. Seacombe isn't well served by long distance coach transport and rail is too expensive. So Mrs Starkey drives the Land Rover up to London and drops half a dozen students at Heathrow Airport, whilst Jethro hires a the large minibus and drives to Birmingham, then on to Leeds and Manchester."
"So Jethro is part of your cooperative," Stevie said.
"Everybody in the village is," Aunt said. "Being so much younger than most of us makes Jethro extremely useful."
So there it was. No wonder Aunt had stood up for Jethro; he was essential to the co-op, and hence the village's future. "Presumably, Aunt," I said, deciding to change the subject, "they pick up the next set of students as they go."
"Well, no," she replied. "We're not yet running courses end to end, so there's a break of a few days before the next lot arrive. Maybe later on, but at the moment we're trying not to run before we can walk."
"So Jethro must be gone for a couple of days," Stevie said. I could see what he was thinking; with Jethro out of the way, we'd be able to explore the boatyard at leisure.
"No." Aunt shook her head. "No, he does the whole trip in one day. He sets out very early in the morning and gets back late at night, so you may sometimes hear the Land Rover being driven at weird times of the night, but it's nothing to worry about." She pointed to a mansion house on a hill above the river, some distance away. "That's the Pennington's place up there."
It was a fabulous place – one of those classical Palladian style mansions with columns. On the riverside, below, was a superb matching boathouse, clearly our destination.
Aunt Harriet told us a little about the famous author who'd once lived there, and how there was now a little museum in her name. (Read Unconsummated Love if you want to learn more about her and the events which recently went on there.)
Eventually, we arrived at the boathouse and Aunt steered the boat straight inside. It was full of smoke and we all started to cough a little.
"Hmm," Aunt muttered. "I never thought about smoke on your clothes. Never mind. You can see why I was so pleased Nancy offered to loan us the steam launch."
"It's super, Harriet," Stevie said, admiring the lovely old boat. "All that polished brass. It really looks quite appropriate for two elegant Victorian ladies."
"You'd better go off and see if you can find Nancy or Larry," Aunt said. "I have to head straight back to Combehaven or I'll miss the start of my meeting. Keep out of the smoke as much as you can."
We barely had time to get out of the boat onto the boardwalk before she was pushing off and heading back downriver.
"Let's walk up to the house," Stevie said. "Presumably we'll meet up with Mr and Mrs Pennington there."
In fact, Mr Pennington (call me Larry) had seen us arrive and was already walking down the path from the house.
"Welcome, welcome," he called to us in a broad American accent. "You two beautiful ladies must be Abby and Stevie. Now which is which?"
So we introduced ourselves. Once again, a male's eyes were drawn like magnets straight to Stevie's breasts pushing out the top of her dress. How stupid men were! Except that Ben had said I had the perfect figure!
Larry wanted to show us around the museum, and no doubt would like to have extended it to an overnight stay with Stevie sharing his bed! We said we had to get back fairly promptly so he walked with us back down to the boathouse and showed Stevie the controls of the steam launch.
Stevie seemed to make quite a meal of it all. After Larry had explained everything at least three times over for Stevie's benefit, I felt that even I could manage it, but Stevie went on about whether we needed to oil it or grease it or whatever.
Of course, Larry was only too happy to peer down Stevie's cleavage whilst muttering about the engine.
After about twenty minutes of wasted time, we were finally leaving the boathouse.
"Did you have to go through everything ten times over?" I pointedly asked.
"Sorry about that," he said, "but I wanted to give Harriet plenty of time to head back to Combehaven. Otherwise, with the speed that boat was going, we'd have caught up with her straightaway."
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
"Of course." He looked at me as though I'd asked a stupid question, and then went on, "It was so clever of you to get her to tell us that Jethro is on the committee, and so will be at the meeting this afternoon."
"You mean... You mean you want to go to the boatyard this afternoon?" After what happened last time, I couldn't believe he'd even suggest such a stupid thing.
"Of course. We can take the steam launch right up to it, moor there and wander all around without even having to open those gates - Jethro has probably locked them, anyhow."
"But what if he catches us again?"
"Well, he's not going to, is he? He'll be at the meeting which starts at three. He won't be back before four. Even if he is, we'll hear him opening the gate and do a bunk."
"But we promised Aunt we wouldn't go there again."
"No. We promised we wouldn't go past the Danger sign. Well, we're not going to."
"But... But..."
"But nothing. Don't be such a wimp, Abigail. You can stay in the boat if you're really frightened."
The Mystery of the Water in the Dock - Part 3 of 4
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When Abigail's Aunt Harriet told her she could bring along a friend with her to stay for Easter, she didn't stipulate until later it had to be a girl. But what was going on in the little village, cut-off from the rest of the world? This is a story set partly at Seacombe Independent Girls' High School, commonly known as SIGHS and involves young people involved in such things as humour, adventure, crossdressing and growing-up.
Part Three: In which I become a Mata Hari!
Author's Note: This story is complete and will be published in four parts at approximately daily intervals.
Part Three
by
Charlotte Dickles
In the end, I decided it would be better to go with him than be left behind on the steam launch, not knowing what troubles he was getting himself into. He was right that we could steam right up to the dock wall and tie up the launch to a ladder. The first problem was trying to climb the ladder wearing a long dress over a crinoline! In the end, we decided we'd remove our dresses and crinolines and explore wearing just our corsets, woollen stockings and shoes.
Of course, it left a wide expanse of thigh revealed, as well as our shoulders and the top of our breasts. Stevie, with his Torsolet covering his upper half was fine, but I had goose bumps all over my breasts and arms. If Jethro was still around the dock, he'd probably explode with erotic passion at the sight of us.
So Stevie climbed up the ladder to the dock, cautiously sticking his head over and looking carefully around. Then he motioned me to follow and climbed over the top.
By the time I was standing on the dockside, he was already several yards away, staring at the lock gates which sealed off the dock from the river.
"I was right," he said. "There are two lock gates."
I nodded, and if I looked as though I couldn't care less, that's because I couldn't. "Are you certain there's no one around," I asked.
He gesticulated around the dock. There were a couple of large single-story buildings, with locked padlocks clearly visible on the outside, but those aside there was nowhere where anyone could possibly be, except...
"What about on the fishing boat?" I asked. "There could be someone on board that."
Stevie sniffed, then went walking along the dock until he reached the fishing boat. There was a ladder leading down from the dockside to the deck of the boat, and he climbed down it. He looked incredibly erotic in just his corset and stockings, and I wondered just what would happen if Jethro suddenly appeared.
But he did not. Stevie poked his head inside the wheelhouse and then looked down a hatch.
"You'd better come down and see this," he called.
"You want me to come down there!" He might as well have been inviting me into hell.
"Come on. You are a wimp."
Personally, I thought being a wimp was quite sensible – the kind of person who survives when others are leaping into danger. All the same, my curiosity was piqued and I carefully climbed down the ladder to the deck. It was only there that the smell hit me. There was no doubt this was a fishing boat; no doubt at all.
"First of all," Stevie sad, "look down this hatch."
He pointed to the one in the foredeck and I stepped over and looked down. It's only now I was on the boat that I realised how small it was. Two paces and I was standing looking down into a small storage space, and from the smell there was no doubt what this was used for.
"What about it?" I asked.
"Imagine you were smuggling cases of whisky," Stevie said. "How many do you think you could pack down there?"
It wasn't so much the overall size that was the problem as the low height and the funny shape. Right below the hatch, you could probably put one box on top of another; then perhaps one or two on either side.
"Five? Six?" I guessed. "It's a lot smaller than I imagined. And the weird shape means you can't stack them."
"Precisely," Stevie agreed. "Now come and look in the wheelhouse and see how many cases you'd get in there."
It was tiny. OK, there was space for the helmsman and perhaps one other to sit on a narrow shelf, squashed together for warmth, but no way could you store much else.
"If there was only one person in here," I suggested, "you could stack boxes to the ceiling."
"But not if you want to conceal them," Stevie said. "If the coastguard shone a spotlight on you, it'd be obvious you had boxes stuffed in here.
"OK," he continued, "there are probably several more lockers where you can store the odd box or two, but if it's alcohol he's smuggling, then it's no great deal. Right?"
"Whereas," I said, "if it's heroin, you could get tens of thousands of pounds worth of plastic bags down that hatch."
"Precisely. So we're agreed he's a drug smuggler."
"Hang on," I said. "We don't have any evidence he's any kind of smuggler at all. And this boat is so small; could it really cross the English Channel, and what's more, could it do so without raising suspicion?" I suddenly realised I was shivering like crazy. No wonder, my shoulders and upper torso were totally exposed, and it was a cold April day.
Stevie saw my plight and suggested I should go back to the launch and put on my lovely warm dress. "I'm just going round to look at that pontoon where Jethro must have been working when we arrived yesterday."
"I don't know why you're wasting your time," I called over my shoulder as I ran as fast as I could back to the steam launch. The wonderful thing about a steam launch is that it has a boiler, which gives off lots of heat. We'd left our clothes quite close to it, taking care they weren't going to catch fire; now they were lovely and warm. It had taken me ages to put them on this morning, but it's amazing how quickly you can do things when you're freezing to death. So I was properly dressed and even getting warm again, by the time Stevie returned.
"Did you see anything?" I asked him as I held up his dress for him to slip into.
"It was just a pontoon – a sort of floating box so they can work around a ship's waterline. There was nothing there at all, apart from an old tyre floating in the water. I just don't understand where Jethro was when we arrived yesterday, so he could come up behind us like that."
"Look," I said, having had a chance to get my thoughts around his suggestion. "Maybe you're making mountains out of molehills. All we know is that Jethro keeps his boat here, and that he sneaked up on us yesterday afternoon when we broke in. So what if he's repairing his boat without the permission of the receivers? It really doesn't make him a drug smuggler."
"Then why didn't Harriet explain what he's doing here when we spoke to her about Jethro? And did you notice how she changed the subject just now after we got onto how Jethro is touring the country on the pretext of saving the girls the cost of their train fares. That's a pretty puny excuse anyway. He's obviously distributing the drugs; Mrs Starkey as well, no doubt."
"Mrs Starkey!" I was aghast. "You're saying she's in on it?"
"Abigail." He spoke kindly, knowing how I would feel about it. "The whole village has to be in on it. That's clearly what they plot at their cooperative meetings."
"You mean my aunt, Mr Robinson and Mrs Clark?"
"You told me that Mrs Clark is Jethro's mother. Did you know that Mr Robinson is Mrs Starkey's father?"
"Mrs Starkey's father!" I was gobsmacked. "How did you know that?"
"It's no secret. One of the girls told me at dinner last night."
He was dressed by this time and I thankfully cast off from the dock whilst he powered the launch away and into the main river channel. It gave me a little time to collect my thoughts.
"You haven't met Mrs Starkey, have you?"
He shook his head.
"We'll go and meet her tomorrow. When you see her, you'll realise she couldn't possibly be a drug smuggler."
He didn't look convinced, but by mutual consent we left the conversation there.
***
In fact, Aunt had invited Mrs Starkey over for dinner that evening, so I didn't have to contrive a reason for visiting her. To be honest, I'd always felt rather scared of Mrs Starkey. She was one of those old types of schoolmistress, who could be incredibly strict, but sometimes would have a twinkle in their eye and could be rather fun. She was older than Aunt – I guessed in her mid-sixties but I could be wrong. Looking around the table, it seemed that most of her students felt much the same way as me, and their normally jovial conversation consisted of rather stilted words between themselves.
On the other hand, Stevie seemed to have no inhibitions at chatting to her across the table about all kinds of (what I knew to be) leading subjects, such as the problems of students taking drugs. There were no guilty starts or special glances between Mrs Starkey and my aunt, and she dealt with the questions in a very thorough way; clearly, she knew exactly what to look for and was on top of any drug problems she might come across. I could see that Stevie was thwarted in his ambition to label her as a drug smuggler. I even gave him a smirk, which he returned with a shrug.
I decided to draw a halt to Stevie's sleuthly questioning and said, "Mrs Starkey, what made you start the Language School here in Combehaven?"
"Oh." For the first time she seemed thwarted by a question and looked to my aunt for support.
"I guess it was my idea," Aunt said. "After both the caravan park and the boatyard closed down, we held a village meeting – the first of what would turn into our co-op. We cast our minds around the assets we had and how we could use them to keep the village solvent. The old schoolroom has been hardly used since it ceased to be a school decades ago. Gemma," she turned and smiled at Mrs Starkey, "is another of our tremendous assets. Put the two together, and you have an English as a Foreign Language school. The whole village has been involved in getting the students in and out, and housing and feeding them."
"How many courses have you run so far?" I asked, vaguely wondering why Mrs Starkey hadn't answered my question.
"This is only the second," Mrs Starkey replied for herself, this time. "The first was just to establish it would work, and we only had five students."
"It must be so much more difficult teaching so many, this time," I said.
"Oh, no," she said, at last seeming at home with one of my questions, and she proceeded to give me a lecture on how to teach EFL which lasted for the rest of the meal – like, as though I was interested! I only asked the question to be sociable.
***
"That was brilliant questioning," Stevie said as soon as we had said goodnight to the other girls and closed the door to our bedroom.
"It was?"
"Of course. It made me realise I was totally up a gum tree with this business about the dock and the boat. Whilst you and Mrs Starkey were prattling on about EFL, I asked some of the girls around me how long they'd been in the country. A couple told me the truth, and said they'd come over just for this course. The rest were obviously lying when they told me they'd been here for a few weeks or months."
"Why do you say they were obviously lying?"
"Well..." He paused and looked at me as though I'd asked a really stupid question. "I agree with you; that boat is too small to cross the Channel without raising suspicion. So if the drugs aren't being smuggled in on Jethro's boat, then the girl students must be bringing them into the country, hidden in their luggage."
"In other words," I said, "those girls giving answers which line up with your crackpot theory are telling the truth, and those which don't are liars?"
"Precisely." He looked pleased I'd given such a concise summary.
"Or perhaps," I suggested, "your crackpot theory is rubbish and the girls really are telling the truth."
"Well," he looked puzzled, "how else do you suggest they're smuggling in the drugs?"
"Stevie, there is no drug smuggling." I was getting exasperated. "The reason you came up with the idea was to satisfy your curiosity about the boatyard. Now you concede the boatyard isn't being used for smuggling, just accept that smuggling isn't going on here at all."
"Hmm." He looked thoughtful for a second, then his face suddenly brightened. "I guess it's my time to use the bathroom?"
What else could I say. I'd got him into this. "OK, but don't take too long."
***
He wasn't, damn him! When he came in, I'd been staring in the mirror at my breasts, wondering what it would be like to have breasts Stevie's size, and having dishy rich guys like Larry Pennington leching over them.
"Shucks!" I cried, hurriedly pulling my pyjama top over my head and down my body. "You might have knocked."
"Abigail," he said, "we're all girls together in this house. I didn't knock when I went in the bathroom; it would seem suspicious if I knocked when I entered my bedroom."
"Well you could have taken a little longer."
"Abigail, you told me not to take long. Besides..."
"Besides what?" I asked.
He grinned. "Besides, there were no naked girls in the bathroom, and there was a very pretty one in here."
I sniffed, grabbed my toilet bag and went to the bathroom.
***
I had a dream that I'd gone to pick up the steam launch and Larry Pennington couldn't take his eyes off my huge breasts, which wobbled like jellies with every movement I made. Larry stepped up behind me, put his arms around me and squeezed my jellies; then somehow, I was squeezing my own jellies. Then my jellies turned into Stevie's breasts. Then I woke up!
"I was hoping you wouldn't wake up," Stevie said with a grin as wide as a Cheshire Cat.
I realised I was cupping his breast in my hand – well not just cupping it, but kneading it – and it felt very nice!
"It feels very nice," he said.
I quickly pulled my hand away. "It's plastic," I said. "How can it feel nice?"
He smiled and I couldn't help smiling back at him.
"Anna said you took no notice when Emily was telling you about the Torsolet. She said you wouldn't remember anything about the Sensotouch."
"Sensotouch? What's that?"
He grinned some more. "She was right."
"Stevie. What on earth are you talking about? Emily never said anything about Sensotouch. I don't even know what it means."
"The skin of the Torsolet is touch sensitive, like a smartphone screen and the underside of the Torsolet next to the wearer's skin has tiny electrodes. It means I can effectively feel any kind of touch on my skin. And your squeezing felt very nice."
"I don't remember Emily saying..." I paused. I'd been horrified at the whole nature of the Torsolet, and Emily had been wittering on about something, whilst I was trying to work out how I could remove the horrible thing without hurting Emily and Anna's feelings.
"So when you move and your breasts wobble," I said, "does that mean you feel them wobbling?"
He shrugged. "I can't feel the movement itself, but if they move inside my bra, I can feel that. It turns walking into a whole new experience. I think jogging would probably drive me crazy."
I tried not to think what my squeezing his breasts had done for him.
"I'm taking a shower," I said, locating my toilet bag. "No doubt Aunt is going to dress us up again today and we'll have to sit around like lemons."
"Good-oh," he said.
***
The previous day, after we'd returned from collecting the launch and our additional exploration, we had changed out of our Victorian wear and I'd hung everything out on a washing line in the hope that the fresh wind would blow away most of their smell. It had worked. The clothes smelt as fresh as a daisy when we put them on.
Aunt wanted to maximise the opportunity the steam launch presented, and we spent much of the day being sketched getting into it, climbing out of it and standing around looking like wallies. But Aunt said the sketching was going really well, and with her and Stevie both enjoying it, it seemed churlish not to join in their fun.
It was whilst we were moored in the river, with Aunt sketching us from the bank that Aunt's phone rang.
"Don't move," she yelled to us, and then proceeded to spend ages chatting to someone.
When we eventually finished that particular pose, and got back to shore, Aunt said, "That was Gemma Starkey. Tomorrow is Friday, the day before the girls return home and she's invited you to a dinner party at her house."
"Dinner party!" I exclaimed. "I thought those kinds of things went out of fashion in the 1970s."
"I suspect that so did Gemma Starkey," Aunt replied. "But she likes to give the girls a wider experience than simply classroom lessons and her dinner parties are one of the ways she does that. She's held several over the two weeks the girls have been here. The neighbours take turns to go.
"She was very impressed with the interest you were showing in EFL last night," she continued. "She's hoping to interest you in it as a career."
"Oh. No way!" I said. "I was simply making polite conversation." I had a sudden thought. "What sort of dress is it?" I asked. "It's not formal, is it?"
Aunt smiled. "With Gemma Starkey, how could it be anything else? Have you both got things to wear? I probably have something which would fit you, Abby, but you, Stevie, are far too busty for anything of mine to fit."
Seeing Stevie's face forming a big question mark, I hurriedly replied for us both, "Oh, yes. We've both got things we brought for looking smart. Stevie has a lovely dress, and beautiful matching shoes."
I shouldn't have added that about the shoes, as, knowing she'd be scared by their height, I hadn't yet shown her the pair of stilettos I'd brought in my bag. Their height both fascinated and scared the hell out of me.
"That's good." Fortunately, Aunt hadn't noticed Stevie's face. "Now. I'd like you out in the boat again, with you, Stevie, pointing at a body in the water."
"A body in the water, Aunt! What is this graphic story about?"
"It's about two girls, much like you two, except that they lived in Victorian times. They go to stay with their aunt for Easter, and find all kinds of suspicious things happening, including the dead body in the water."
"How does it end, Harriet?" Stevie asked.
"It turns out there are smugglers in the village," Aunt said, "and most people are turning a blind eye to unusual events."
"Just like here," Stevie blurted out.
Aunt gave him a quizzical look. "There aren't suspicious things going on here, are there Stevie?"
"Well, er..."
"Stevie thinks the boatyard is mysterious," I said. "With Jethro's boat moored there, when most fishing boats are simply beached, ready to put out to sea."
"Jethro turns his hands to most things," Aunt said. "He doesn't fish that much now, so he got the contract to dismantle the metal roof over the dock for scrap. He brought in some cutting equipment on his boat and he'll use his boat to transport the scrap out, when he's ready. But if you really want to learn about the boatyard, speak to Mr Robinson. He'll be at dinner tomorrow and he used to work there. In fact, he's been working there since World War II."
"Really?" Stevie was in his element. "I shall really look forward to that."
Boys! Wanting to talk about docks in WWII!
***
"I suppose I've been stupid, haven't I?"
We were in our bedroom, 'freshening up' before lunch and for once, Stevie had spoken common sense. "There's a perfectly rational explanation for the boat being there, and I've built all my suspicions around it being mysterious. Let's face it, if the village really had been in a smuggling ring, Harriet would hardly have told us the storyline from her book. You must think I'm a right plonker."
"Don't worry," I told him. "I've always thought you a right plonker, and you've made this holiday a whole lot more fun than if I'd been on my own. Thanks for coming with me." On a sudden impulse, I put my arms around him and hugged his breasts against me. They did feel very squishy.
"Thanks for inviting me. This is the best holiday I've ever had."
"Don't be stupid," I said, pushing him away to avoid showing the emotion which had swelled up inside me. "And no way do I have any romantic feelings about you."
Damn! I'd said that word again. Romantic.
***
I should have been delighted that Stevie was no longer pursuing his stupid ideas, but somehow it had made everything more fun. I suspected that with the girls leaving on Saturday morning, life might become rather sedentary.
But in the meantime, we had the excitement of preparing for the dinner party. That evening, we got our dresses out of the wardrobe and looked them over.
"It's a bit revealing," Stevie said, staring at Stephanie's lovely dress.
"This was the most respectable of the dresses Stephanie didn't take with her on holiday," I said. "If I'd brought one of the others, Mrs Starkey would have you labelled as a tart. Slip it on and see how it looks."
Stevie took off the top he'd been wearing since we'd changed out of our Victorian robes. "Do I need to change my bra?" he innocently asked.
"It's a halter neck," I said. "You can't wear a bra with this dress, otherwise it would spoil the effect."
If our positions had been reversed, I'd have been shocked at the very idea of wearing a dress which exposed my boobs like this dress would. But Stevie simply unclipped his bra and let those magnificent breasts wobble unfettered.
Oops! Did I really say magnificent? I mean, I've seen Stephanie Turner plenty of times in the changing rooms without thinking of her breasts as anything other than gross, embarrassing or simply obscene. Now I was calling them magnificent. No way.
Anyway, Stevie stepped into the dress and I helped him pull the halter over his head.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Oh my God! Who could have dreamt that concealed somewhere inside this sexy girl was really Benjamin Walters? "You look very attractive," I told him. "Fortunately, you have some matching tights and shoes which I brought with me."
He gasped when he saw them. "But they're high heels."
High? They were like stilts! "A girl has to get used to wearing heels," I told him. "Sit down and try them on and see how you get on."
I showed him how to put on the tights, and then he slipped his feet into the shoes and I fastened them up for him.
"I can't even stand up, like this. Never mind actually walking a single pace."
"Push your weight down through your heels," I said. I held his hand as he rose to his feet and stood there tottering slightly.
"This is crazy," he said. "I'll fall flat on my face."
"Think of the heel simply as an extension of your leg. Keep your weight back on them. Now, just get your balance." Here I was giving instruction as though I was an expert, when a two-inch heel was the max I'd ever worn.
After a second, he managed to stand without holding my hand, and then he took a tentative step; and then another.
"Try walking along the landing," I suggested after he'd taken a few more hesitant paces around the bedroom.
So I held the door open for him and he went out into the landing slowly walked the length of it.
"Oh, Stevie! What a lovely dress," Aunt said, coming out of her bedroom at that moment.
"Stevie's not used to heels," I said. "But I really think they make the outfit."
"They are rather high to start in," Aunt agreed, "but Abby's right. They are essential for that dress. Do you have any shorter heels you can practice in?"
"Yes, she does," I jumped in before Stevie could answer.
"Then you must wear those this evening and all tomorrow," Aunt said. "You'll be fine for tomorrow evening.
"You really need earrings with that dress," she continued. "Do you have any?"
"She has a lovely matching pair," I said, "but they're for pierced ears and she hadn't had her ears pierced, yet."
"Then we'll go into town tomorrow," Aunt said. "Of course a girl must have pierced ears."
"But... But..." Stevie stuttered.
"No buts. You're having them pierced and that's that. I think we'd better have your hair properly styled, as well, whilst we're about it."
I could see the thoughts running through Stevie's head. Then he said, "Thank you, Harriet. I think you're probably right."
"I'll make an appointment," she said.
***
We spent Friday morning as usual being artists' models, but then, after lunch Aunt drove us into town in the Land Rover.
Aunt took us to one of the smarter hairdressing and beauty salons and offered to pay for both Stevie and my hairstyling.
"Let's face it," she justified it, "I'd be spending a fortune on modelling fees if I had to pay someone to do what you two are doing. It's the least I can do."
I was perfectly happy with my bob, but Stevie's hair was obviously a bit of a botch – the best Anna could achieve with Ben's hair – so Aunt spent ages discussing the options with the stylist. Eventually, they agreed on a short spiky style which Aunt was satisfied she'd be able to cover over with a wig for the Victorian sketching. I was fearful we'd have to start all the sketching from the beginning but Aunt said she could do a sort of cut and paste on the work she'd already done.
Thankfully, we didn't meet any of our friends from either school. Although by now I was pretty confident no one would realise Stevie was really Ben, conversation would have become exceedingly difficult trying to introduce Stevie as Stephanie Turner in front of my aunt, when everybody already knew a different Stephanie Turner, who already had a top and skirt just like the one Stevie was wearing. You can see the problem.
Anyway, we got back to Combehaven without problem, and when Stevie put on her dress, and with her matching heels and earrings, she looked incredible. I felt quite dowdy beside her in my own dress, and I vowed I would get another at the first opportunity. Perhaps I should try a halter – after all, with my figure, it wouldn't be as though I would have to be anything like as daring as Stevie.
***
"Mr Robinson," I said with delight. "You're looking very dapper." He was too, in a dinner jacket – such an unusual sight except in old films.
"And you two ladies are looking very beautiful," he said. And although his eye briefly took in Stevie with her boobs barely concealed by the halter neck, it was me, in my rather drab dress who he seemed to twinkle his eyes at.
"Thank you, Mr Robinson," I said.
I motioned Stevie to thank him for the compliment. Instead, he started straight off with, "Mr Robinson. I understand you're a bit of an expert on the boatyard here; that you used to work there in the war?"
"I did," he admitted, "although even now I'm not supposed to talk about it. It's still classified information."
"Still classified?" Stevie was obviously puzzled. "But there's a lot of information about the X-boats on the Internet. Even all the codebreaking at Bletchley Park is public information now, so why should the boatyard still be classified?"
"If I told you that, it wouldn't be a secret any more, but I suppose every man is susceptible to Mata Hari. With two beautiful women working on me, who knows what state secrets I might reveal?"
He grinned at me as I grinned back. It's funny, but if Jethro had said the same thing, I'd have been freaked out; Mr Robinson saying it was kind of flirty.
Just then, Mrs Starkey called us to the table and we all sat down. There were four girls on the course, and they were interspersed between us four English natives. I sat diagonally opposite Mrs Starkey whilst at the other end of the table, Mr Robinson was placed amongst all the prettiest girls, including Stevie.
It was an enjoyable meal. For most of it, we conversed with the students which I quite enjoyed, and I could see the skill of Mrs Starkey as she drew them into conversation which made them think about things other than nouns and verbs and stuff. As they became engrossed, so their speech became more natural, although still often difficult to follow. All the time, Mrs Starkey kept making comments to me about how enjoyable it was teaching someone English. Hmm. I wasn't convinced but thought it better to smile politely rather than to argue.
Finally, Mrs Starkey was thanking everyone for coming and reminding the students they had an early start the next morning. They all left quite quickly, rather glad, I thought, to get away, and Stevie rather amazingly offered to help clear away the dishes. As he passed me, he whispered, "I've got nowhere in grilling Mr Robinson. You have a try."
I pulled a face at him but obligingly went over to Mr Robinson. "I saw you were engaged in deep conversation with all the beautiful girls surrounding you," I said with a wide grin. "That must have been a great hardship for you."
"What was so bad," he replied, "was being at the other end of the table from the loveliest of them all."
I blushed. "You're crazy," I said. "They were all gorgeous, especially Stevie."
His smile broadened. "She's a real Mata Hari. She terrifies me. Kept interrogating me about the boatyard."
"I'm surprised it's still secret," I said. "I think you're either saying it to wind us up, or it must be something to do with espionage."
"Espionage? Why do you say that?"
I paused a little, trying to put into words the ideas which had been forming in my mind over the course of the evening. "If it was just about torpedoing shipping with small submarines," I said, "there'd be nothing very secret. As Stevie said, it's all on the Internet. But if it was using submarines to spy on shipping entering or leaving an enemy port, well that might still be going on in Russia or China, say."
Mr Robinson tilted his head, acknowledging my point without actually saying so. "But," he said, "during hostilities, all ports were protected by nets hanging from booms, specifically to prevent submarines creeping in. You couldn't get in from the sea."
I realised he was giving me a clue. But what? I suddenly had another 'Wham!' moment. "If the submarine was sufficiently small," I said, "you could parachute it from a plane during a bombing raid. The way they used to drop mines." I knew that after reading the blurb on the WWII mine displayed on Seacombe sea front.
Seeing the encouragement in his eyes, I continued. "It would be tethered to the bottom, just like a mine, and have a periscope and a snorkel."
"If that were true," he said, "it would only be big enough for one man. He'd be stuck there for months completely on his own, eating a very basic diet. It would be incredibly arduous. You'd have to make certain an individual could stand up to that kind of isolation."
"So that's what the dock was used for," I gasped. "Assessing spies who were going to be dropped in tiny submarines into enemy ports?"
"What a ridiculous idea," he said, his smile giving a lie to his words. "I suppose you'll tell Stevie your thoughts, but please don't spread such silly rumours any further."
"Of course not," I said. "And thank you for filling my head with such stupid ideas." As an afterthought, I added, "Was it successful? Did you get lots of information back about ship movements?"
He shook his head. "I don't really know but I suspect not. What I do know is that the programme was dropped about six months after operations began. After that, we started producing mini submarines for carrying a platoon of commandoes onto an enemy shoreline, which was part of the run up to the D-day invasion, but I'd get into real trouble if I told you about that."
"What are you two plotting?" Mrs Starkey interrupted. "He's not inviting you to a midnight assignation, is he?" she asked of me. But she wasn't smiling, and I realised she took her father's outrageous flirting a little too seriously.
"Not yet," I replied, "but I was expecting it at any minute."
"Huh!" She sniffed, clearly not appreciating my sense of humour. "I suppose he'll offer to walk you home, but you're probably safer walking on your own.
Needless to say, he did walk us home and was a perfect gentleman, although he did suggest we each took one of his arms and we walked quite closely together in companionable chatter. I deliberately avoided the secrets he had just told me, as I knew Stevie would start grilling him.
When we reached the intersection where Aunt's house met the village road, we split up and I gave him a kiss on his cheek. After a second's hesitation, so did Stevie.
"Well?" he asked as soon as we were out of earshot. "Did you find out anything?"
I smiled at him, although in the dark I guessed he wouldn't see. "Oh yes," I said. "You may have the boobs, but you don't have the subtlety to be a Mata Hari."
"Maybe not," he acquiesced. He stopped, took my arm and pulled me round to face him and then planted a clumsy kiss on my mouth.
OK, logic says I should have pushed him away. After all, it wasn't as though I fancied him. But those breasts did feel awfully nice, especially since I now knew he could feel me pushing against them, and it was the sheer clumsiness of the kiss which got me. This was no Casanova about to expertly make love to me; this was definitely a first kiss, and who was I to ruin the moment for him. So I pulled him closer to me and snogged him like Harry Fielding had snogged me on that first date.
***
Of course, I had to make it quite clear to him in the few minutes' walk down to the house that it was a one off.
"Just don't go getting any ideas," I said. "No way do I fancy you. Got it?"
"It was very nice though," he said. I could sense he was grinning from ear to ear. I only hoped that he hadn't sensed the same in my words.
"Lots of things are nice," I said. "But you don't necessarily want to repeat them."
"Like what?" he asked.
"Like slapping your face," I said. "So just don't take liberties like that again. All right?"
"You certainly are," he said, adding, "A bit of all right, I mean."
Shucks to him; in the darkness, I was grinning even wider than before.
"Don't you want to know what I found out from Mr Robinson?" I asked. So I went on to tell him the few words which I'd exchanged with him, but behind which were a myriad of untold tales of man's ingenuity and bravery.
"It means there'd be no engine inside it," he said. "It really would be like a bigger version of that mine on Seacombe sea front. That's a pity."
"A pity? Why?"
"I was wondering whether they might be using mini-submarines to do their smuggling."
"But I thought you'd agreed there was nothing in that but your imagination," I gasped, amazed he should still be thinking of it.
"I agreed that using the fishing boat wouldn't work, but I got thinking that if you had a submarine you could come right up river without Customs seeing you."
"You mean you'd cross from France in a mini-submarine? That's ridiculous!"
"I looked it up. X-class subs had a range of five hundred miles. They could easily do there and back."
"But it would suffer just the same problem as the fishing boat; hardly any space for storage."
"Drugs don't need much space."
The argument seemed to be going over the same ground, so I chose to say nothing, and just to show him, I slapped his hand when he reached out to take mine. "No way," I repeated.
***
Saturday was the day when Mrs Starkey and Jethro were ferrying the students to various parts of the country. That meant an early breakfast for everyone. As soon as I walked across the landing to the bathroom, it was bedlam, as the girls were running around doing their last minute packing. There were some bags piled up on the landing, whilst others were still being stuffed with last minute items, and, in spite of the English-only ruling, a few girls were jabbering in their own language.
I was still in the shower when Anastasia entered the bathroom. "I am looking for Steffi," she said. "She is not in your bedroom."
"She went downstairs," I said. I was about to add we'd had a bit of a tiff, as Stevie wanted to search the girls' bags for drugs, and I wouldn't allow it.
"It no matter," she said. "She borrow my rabbit and I want to tell her she can keep it as present. She say it make her very happy. You and Steffi good friends to us."
"It's been great fun meeting you all," I said, feeling quite touched by her statement. I vaguely wondered what she meant by a rabbit, but by that time, I'd got used to them replacing one of their Croatian words for an English one when they didn't know it. I've done the same when speaking French.
Breakfast was frantic, with all the girls running around, stuffing pieces of food in their mouths and trying to do other things as well. Then it was hugs all round, by which time Stevie had reappeared, and from the way they kissed Stevie, I wondered whether some of them might be lesbian.
The minibus had been left up by the main road, and Jethro was ferrying the girls up there in the Land Rover, so it was a succession of squeezing into it, waving frantically to the three of us, and then they had gone.
As the Land Rover disappeared for the last time, it suddenly seemed very quiet.
"We've a hard day ahead of us, girls," my aunt said, breaking the silence. "All the rooms have to be cleaned and the bedding changed and laundered. Let's go back and have a leisurely end to our breakfast, and then make a start."
***
The next few days were very different to the first four, and were much more along the lines of the holiday break I'd expected. Cleaning out the girls' rooms might have been a chore without Stevie. But he made the process such fun that we simply whistled around, getting the sheets in the washing machine, and then hung out to dry, the rooms cleaned, the bathroom made spick and span again, that it was done in a few hours.
Aunt had asked that we return the steam launch to the Penningtons, a task we were happy to undertake as it gave us another excuse for being on the river. We towed Aunt's little boat, to be used for the return journey, behind the steam launch. Neither of the Penningtons were around, but there was a young woman there, apparently a relative of a long dead author who used to live in the house, and she showed us around the museum which the Penningtons had created about her.
It was an interesting way to spend the afternoon, given we were no longer chasing smugglers and, without the Land Rover. Of course, Stevie wanted to visit the boatyard on the way back, and I went along with it as I couldn't be bothered to argue. Since we were dressed in our normal clothes, there was no problem climbing the ladder from the boat up to the dock, although of course, Stevie exposed her panties as she climbed up in her tartan miniskirt. It was just as boring as last time and I simply sat on a large bollard in the sun whilst Stevie scurried around from place to place
"By the way," I said to him as he came past me. "Anastasia said she'd lent you her rabbit, whatever she meant by that…" That's when he jumped about three feet in the air.
"I'm not sure what she meant, either," he said, although he obviously knew.
"Whatever it is," I said, making a mental note to look up rabbit in the Croatian-English translator on the web, "she says you can keep it as a present."
"Right," he said, and then abruptly changed the subject. "You were right about searching their rucksacks. It was simply impossible in that chaos, with everybody dashing around like crazy."
"I said you weren't to do it because those girls were our friends," I protested, "not because it was difficult to do."
"Whatever," he dismissed. "I was going to try to search Katya's bag as I thought she was probably the most likely of them all to have the goods. In fact she did the whole thing for me. She was suddenly tearing all the things out of her rucksack looking for her purse, when she'd really left it on the hall table. Of course, if they'd known I was really a boy, I'd have been in dead trouble, because it was incredibly erotic having all these frillies thrown up in the air. But there were certainly no drugs in her baggage."
"Since you've seen Katya naked several times, I don't see how her frilly underwear could be more erotic," I said.
He shrugged. "Neither do I, but it was."
"And you're now satisfied they aren't a bunch of smugglers so what exactly are we doing here?"
"They may not be smugglers, but there's still the Mystery of the Water in the Dock to be solved."
I shook my head. Steve was a hopeless case.
However, I thought, it was still great having him around.
***
So, the next few days, we spent most of our time as artists' models. On Easter Sunday, we put on the fabulous Victorian dresses Aunt had got us for the occasion (did I say fabulous?). Well, actually, by this time I'd got thoroughly used to our Victorian gear (although I suppose Victorian ladies didn't say gear!). Whatever, it now felt quite natural to wear those clothes and we both felt fantastic in those superb dresses.
Of course, Aunt had really got the dresses so she could sketch us and we spent most of Easter Sunday and the Monday sitting around pretending to read Victorian magazines, whilst tucked inside them we had our smartphones and were browsing the web, or whatever. I had suggested we could go into Seacombe on Monday and watch the festivities which were put on for the Bank Holiday, but Aunt scoffed that, saying Seacombe would be horribly packed with all kinds of drunken louts, and we were much better staying there. To be honest, I was quite happy simply sitting in the sun and looking pretty.
I was a bit surprised on Monday evening when Aunt said she was going to have an early night, as she felt quite tired. She reminded us the students would be arriving the next day so we shouldn't be surprised if we heard the Land Rover driving by in the middle of the night to go and get them. We both shrugged. Whatever.
We watched TV for a while and then went to bed.
***
"Abigail." Steve's whisper took me by surprise.
"What is it? And why are we whispering."
"I can hear your aunt moving about."
"What about it. Perhaps she's going to the toilet."
"No. I heard her alarm go off a few minutes ago. I think she's getting up."
I sat up in bed and went to switch on the bedside light, but Stevie reached across to stop me. His breast gave me a soft push in the chest.
"She'll see our light shining around the door frame."
"What about it?" I still couldn't understand why we were whispering.
"I'll pull the curtains," he said, "then we can get dressed in the light from the moon. We need to see what she's up to."
This was totally stupid, I thought, but then another part of me remembered those books I'd read when I was young about the adventures that girls got up to at boarding school. They had tempted me to become a boarder, only to find those experiences were totally false. Until now!
It may have been stupid, but as soon as Stevie had drawn back the curtains, I obediently got out of bed and started to get dressed. It was only when I noticed Stevie giving me the eye that I realised I had pulled off my pyjamas without even bothering to turn away from him. I smirked, and pulled a tee shirt over my head.
The Mystery of the Water in the Dock - Part 4 - The End
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When Abigail's Aunt Harriet told her she could bring along a friend with her to stay for Easter, she didn't stipulate until later it had to be a girl. But what was going on in the little village, cut-off from the rest of the world? This is a story set partly at Seacombe Independent Girls' High School, commonly known as SIGHS and involves young people involved in such things as humour, adventure, crossdressing and growing-up.
Part Four: The mystery solved
Author's Note: This story is complete and will be published in four parts at approximately daily intervals.
Part Four
by
Charlotte Dickles
We both heard Aunt open her bedroom door and quietly step across the landing and down the stairs. We heard the front door open and then quietly shut. A second later, we heard the sound of the Land Rover approaching from some distance away. Presumably, it was Jethro starting out to collect the new students, but it abruptly stopped.
"He's waiting at the top of the lane to pick up Harriet," Stevie said. "Come on," he said. "We're going."
"But we can't catch up the Land Rover," I said. "You can bet that Jethro will start up again soon. He's simply picking Aunt up."
"We're not going up the lane," Stevie said. "We're going to the boatyard. You can bet whatever's happening is going to happen there. And don't forget, it's a Spring tide, tonight."
Whatever that had to do with the price of eggs.
We quickly finished dressing and then raced down the stairs and out of the back door. With the full moon, we could easily find our way to the path along the river and started walking towards the boatyard.
"Schh, a minute." Stevie commanded. We both stood still and heard the Land Rover moving, this time it seemed to stop in the village.
"He's picking someone else up," Stevie said. "Come on. Let's beat them back to the dock."
I raced besides him, stumbling a little as I took an uneven step, and Stevie grabbed my hand to steady me. It seemed sensible to keep hold of it as we continued to run. It felt much nicer to run together.
When we arrived at the boatyard, we could see the entrance gates were wide open. Clearly, Jethro had left them like that whilst he went to pick up the other people from the village. We raced inside and then hesitated. Where to go? There was no cover. We heard the Land Rover approaching along the road and instinctively stepped to the one side to avoid being caught in the glare of the headlights as they shone down the road and straight through the open gates and over the water in the dock.
Too late, we both realised our mistake. We had moved the wrong way. When Jethro drove through the gates, he would turn to the right, so he could drive around the top of the dock and stop alongside his boat. We'd be illuminated like startled rabbits.
"Oh!" I gasped.
"What?" Stevie said. I'd never heard him sound so uncertain.
"Onto the pontoon," I said, "and lie flat. The headlights will shine over the top of us."
We both scuttled down the ladder onto the pontoon and lay flat, as the Land Rover drove through the gates, turned and then – Oh Shikes! – it stopped, its headlights shining right above our bodies. We heard Jethro getting out of the Land Rover! We were about to be outed.
We waited, our breaths held tight, for Jethro's bellow. We heard the screech and rattle as the gates were closed and locked. Then we heard other doors opening on the Land Rover.
"They'll see us when they look around," Stevie whispered. "I don't know how we're going to get out of this."
"Look at the tyre," I whispered. I'd been staring at it floating in the water for the last few seconds. Except that it wasn't – floating, that is.
"What about it?" Stevie said, distracted by other thoughts.
"It's not really a tyre," I said.
"Abigail, I couldn't care less if it was a hula hoop. I'm more concerned…"
I scrabbled to my knees and then tentatively lowered my left foot towards the tyre, lying beside the pontoon. I pushed it through the hole in the middle. It should have got wet but it didn't and I continued pushing down until I reached something on which to rest it.
"Have you gone crazy?" Stevie said. "We're about to be exposed and you're paddling in the water."
"No I'm not," I said, and I put my whole weight onto my left foot, whilst grimly holding onto the edge of the pontoon with my hands. Then, I pushed my right foot down through the hole in the middle of the tyre, feeling for and finding the next step down the ladder which I thought I'd seen whilst lying prone on the pontoon.
"It's a ladder down into a submarine," I added, and started to climb down it, step after step after step. It felt really weird, lowering myself below sea level, but I gained confidence the further down I went. A second after my head went below the tyre, Stevie's foot appeared on the step above my head, and we climbed down together.
It seemed like dropping into the bowels of the earth, but it was probably only a couple of metres before the vertical tube I was in opened out and I was standing towards the end of a horizontal tube, about two metres diameter. It was so dimly lit I could barely see the other end just a few metres away. Two shelf-like planks stretched down either side.
"They could get hundreds of crates of brandy down here," Stevie said, having joined me. "So it is alcohol they're smuggling, after all."
I smiled at him, seeing it all, now. "Did you hear the story about the security guard who suspected a worker was smuggling stolen goods out of the factory in the wheelbarrow he was using to carry his tools?"
"No. But what's that got to do with anything?"
"Every day the guard searched the wheelbarrow but only ever found the man's tools."
Stevie looked even more puzzled. "So what?"
I was grinning from ear to ear, now. "The man was stealing wheelbarrows." Seeing he still didn't understand, I added, "You suspected the girls of smuggling drugs, but it was the girls themselves who are being smuggled. They're not from Croatia but some other, non-EU Eastern European country. They come into Britain inside this submarine."
Stevie's mouth was forming a large O, when we heard Jethro shouting something, above our heads, then a foot clunked on the top of the ladder.
***
As one, we raced to the far end of the tube, where we could see doors on what were presumably large lockers. Stevie opened one of the doors and helped me step inside the locker over the waist-high sill. He followed and we pulled the door too, just as a large sea boot came into view at the top part of the ladder. We sat on the floor and, in the darkness, sensed we were worriedly looking into each other's faces.
I pulled out my mobile phone, which this time I'd remembered to bring, and tried to get a signal.
"They don't work underwater," Stevie said.
What to do? To remain hiding and hope we would not be discovered on what would presumably be a long journey to pick up the new bunch of girls. Or to open the lockers and confess to Jethro that we had seen everything, and were in a position to blow it all to the police. On top of that, there was the issue of our vulnerable sexual position. Presumably Jethro was on his own. Would he rape us and throw our weighted-down bodies into the sea, so they would never be found? As far as Aunt knew, we were still tucked up safely in our beds. If we were missing tomorrow morning, no one would suspect our secret mission down to the dock, and into a hidden submarine.
We stayed hidden.
Within a few minutes, a whirring noise started, which Stevie reckoned was the sound of pumps emptying the ballast tanks, so the sub would be slightly buoyant, rather than resting on the bottom of the dock, as it was currently doing.
"You see," Stevie whispered. "There was a Mystery of the Water in the Dock." I could sense the grin on his face. "It was to hide the submarine."
I had to give it to him he was right about that but I chose not to remind him that curiosity killed the cat.
After a few minutes, we felt the sub lifting off the bottom, and the pumping stopped for a while. Then we felt a little jerk forwards.
"We're being towed by the fishing boat," Stevie said. "Presumably, when we've left the dock, he'll pump water back into the ballast tanks so that we're completely submerged. Then we'll be towed out to sea and across to France."
"But that will take hours and hours," I said. "The Plymouth ferry takes seven hours, and that must go a lot faster than the little fishing boat towing us behind it.
"Besides," I added, "we haven't got our passports."
"And the girls are due to arrive tomorrow morning," Stevie reasoned, "so you're right. We can't be going all the way to France. We must be meeting a boat out at sea. I hope it doesn't take too long," he added. "I want to go to the toilet."
I really, really wish he hadn't said that, because suddenly I wanted to go as well.
The time ticked by: it felt like hours but I suspected it was about a minute.
"What are we going to do?" I asked. "Do you think there's a toilet on board?"
"Shouldn't think so," he said. "This sub hardly gives the impression of being a luxury yacht. I suppose we could wee into the bilges."
"Don't be disgusting," I told him. "You'll just have to tightly close your legs together."
More time ticked by, and I so desperately wanted to go.
"They must have something for the girls," he said, rethinking his previous statement. "One of them is almost bound to want to go, and as you say, they wouldn't want that sloshing around in the bilges of a submarine."
"But we can hardly ask Jethro if we can use the toilet," I said. "He'll probably rape us."
"At least he'll have to let us use the toilet beforehand," Stevie said. "Otherwise he'll be in for an unpleasant surprise."
"So will we, when he gets out his enormous thing."
"Look," he said. "If both of us put up a fight, we could overpower him."
"Are you kidding?" I said. "Did you see his muscles?
"And those sea boots," I added. "He'd only have to kick me with one of those and I'd be out of it. He's probably got a knife, as well. All seamen carry knives so they can slice the main brace."
"It's splicing the main brace," Stevie corrected, "and they don't do that anymore, especially on submarines."
"Well I'd rather not get into a fight with him," I said, "especially as I really need a wee."
"OK," he said. "You make yourself really small in the corner of the locker. I'll get out as silently as I can and try the next door. Perhaps that's a toilet. If I'm discovered, Jethro can have his wicked way with me. After all, he'll only be shoving his thing into a plastic hole between my legs. It won't be the real thing. You just keep perfectly still and you'll be safe."
I suddenly felt so emotional about him that I wanted to cry. I did something else; I felt for his face, pulled him towards me and kissed him. "Don't let him catch you," I said. "Come back."
"I'll make certain of it, now," he said. Then he was standing up and quietly pushing open the locker door, whilst I squeezed tightly into my corner.
With the locker door open, I could see Stevie outlined against the dim light in the rest of the submarine as he stepped out. He quietly pushed the door too and was gone.
I waited ages. Then I waited some more. At least, I didn't hear Jethro shouting. Finally, the locker door pulled open and Stevie was stepping back inside.
I reached for him and gave him another kiss, and then pushed him away as he responded. I had something rather more urgent to attend to.
***
I quietly stepped over the high sill and stood for a second, feet astride, just to get my balance after being confined in the locker. At the far end, a computer screen showed a trace on it, which I guessed was some kind of echo sounder, showing where the bottom was. It was only then I noticed the two figures seated in front of the screen. In that light, it was impossible to make out any detail, but the one figure seemed very burly, much bigger than Jethro was. I shivered. Any hope that two girls would be able to defeat Jethro on his own faded to nothing.
I mentally shrugged. I needed a wee and that currently took precedence over all else.
***
After doing my business, I opened the toilet door and a large figure stood in front of me.
"Uuhh!" I whimpered. Thank heavens I'd already done my business, otherwise I'd surely be wetting my pants.
"Ah, Abigail," Mr Robinson said. "Don't tell me. You couldn't keep away from me and wanted to brighten up a long sea voyage."
"Uh?"
"Abigail?" Said a very familiar voice from the other end of the submarine. "How on earth did you get there?"
I heard, rather than saw, my aunt stand up and start moving towards us when Mr Robinson snapped out an order. "Don't desert your post, Harriet. It would be most unfortunate if we crashed into the bottom and we all drowned."
Reluctantly, Aunt turned back to monitoring her screen, but it didn't stop her talking. "What the hell are you doing here, and where's Stevie?"
"I'm here, Mrs Barker," Stevie called, pushing open the locker.
"So what the hell are you two doing here?"
"I think I can probably answer that," Mr Robinson said. "They had an insatiable curiosity, and when they heard you leaving the house, decided to investigate. Rather than trying to follow the Land Rover, they had the presence of mind to come straight to the boatyard using the riverside path." He turned to me. "Am I right Abigail?"
I nodded. "Yes Mr Robinson."
He smiled and said, "It's Captain Robinson at the moment, Abigail, but I won't make you walk the plank for that misdemeanour."
"But how did you know they'd stowed away?" Aunt asked.
"I'd have known there were extra bodies on board when I pumped out ballast to make the boat float," Captain Robinson said. "But actually I saw them lying on the pontoon when we entered the dockyard."
"Then why didn't you make a fuss?" Aunt said. "I'd have got them out of here pronto."
"To do what?" the captain said. "Travel with Jethro on the boat? Or stay behind to call the police?
"Besides," he added, "we were already running late and we have twenty girls out at sea depending on us. What would have happened to them?"
Aunt gave a big, derogatory sniff.
"So you worked it all out in the end?" Captain Robinson said to me. "I knew you would."
"When you said you'd get into greater trouble by talking about the submarines for platoons of commandoes," I said, "it wasn't the authorities who'd give you trouble; you meant it was from the rest of the village."
He smiled. "I wanted to tell you everything, but everyone else thought Stevie was a security risk because of her choice of newspapers."
"My choice of newspapers?" Stevie said. "What are you talking about?"
"When Mrs Clark reported that you'd asked for The Daily Mail in the shop," Aunt said, "we realised the risk in telling you we were helping Ukrainian girls to enter the country illegally. You wouldn't understand they were ordinary girls who'd gone through hell. You'd just treat them as nasty immigrants."
"But I only wanted it to read Fred Basset," Stevie said. "One of the other b… Well, one of the others in the dorm has it delivered, and I always enjoy the cartoons.
"You didn't think I was stupid enough to believe all that stuff they print, did you?" he continued. "I mean, it's all rubbish."
I'm sure if we'd been able to see her properly, Aunt would have been blushing.
***
"How on earth did you get into this business?" I asked, once we'd all moved up to the front of the submarine and Stevie and I were sitting on the plank benches next to them. "I wouldn't know where to start."
"Gemma taught EFL in Ukraine for several years," Captain Robinson replied. "She came home when the civil war started. Lots of families managed to get out of the country, and wanted to get to Britain. But they were terrified at the risks that posed to young girls, who are often enslaved by the smugglers and turned into prostitutes. Some of them approached Gemma and we came up with this scheme. Sure we make money from it, but we look on it more as a social service to needy people. Harriet, watch your height again. We're almost breaking surface."
"Where did the submarine come from?" I asked him. "Surely it wasn't left over from the war?"
"We made it," he said. "It wasn't as difficult as you might expect. A few years ago, they laid a massive sewer along the valley, and one of the pipes, together with inspection chamber, was left over. We tried to get the water company to remove it, but they never did.
"I'd often thought I could build a submarine with it," he continued, "simply by sealing both ends of the pipe. It was a bit more complex than that, of course, but that was essentially it. Really, it was just the sort of thing we were doing during the war."
"Is it safe?" I asked.
"As houses," he said, adding, "Or at least as safe as sewer pipes."
I didn't feel much reassured.
***
Annoyingly, the rest of the journey was such a whirlwind, I can't remember much of it, save to say that Stevie and I took turns at keeping the submarine level, which Captain Robinson said we made a much a better job of than my aunt.
Jethro was steering the fishing boat. He towed us right out to sea where we met a French fishing boat carrying the girls and Mrs Starkey, who'd flown from Heathrow to Paris to meet them and escort them here.
Anyway, the girls' rucksacks were thrown down first and Stevie and I had to stack them in the lockers. That was when Aunt came into her own. She had to go to the top of the conning tower, as Captain Robinson called it, and coax the girls, who must have been terrified, to climb down into the submarine. Apparently, the French fishermen had a sort of gangplank the girls had to walk along, which all must have been very scary.
Then the girls started climbing down, one by one. Finally, Aunt came down, followed by Mrs Starkey. With us two stowaways, it made it incredibly crowded, and Captain Robinson said it was a wonder we didn't sink to the bottom of the sea, but most of us thought that was not much of a joke.
Jethro then towed us back to Seacombe and upriver to the dock at Combehaven. The girls climbed out and then Stevie and I had to help unload the rucksacks.
Dawn was breaking by the time the girls had all been ferried in the Land Rover to their billets, as Captain Robinson called them, and we finally got home. We went to bed and slept.
***
"You know I said that Anastasia told me you borrowed her rabbit," I said to Stevie as we awoke a few hours later.
"What about it?" He sounded so incredibly guilty that I couldn't help smiling.
"I realised last night what kind of a rabbit it was," I said.
"Oh."
When the silence lengthened, I added, "I guess it's quite different being a girl? Sexually, I mean."
He suddenly grinned. "It can't be that different," he said.
"But being a girl," he added, "is not just about sex; it's about a whole different attitude to everything. I like it, but..."
"You'll be glad when it's over?"
"No. Not glad at all. This is the best holiday I've ever had in my life, but a large part of that is because you're here."
I couldn't help smirking at him, even though I knew I shouldn't. "Me too," I said. "I can't remember having a better holiday."
"Temporarily being a girl is great, as well," he said. "Like nothing I've done before. And it… Well, this may sound crazy but without the sex element, it's more relaxed with you. Nicer. Much nicer. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect," I said. It means we can do this without it going any further." And I grabbed hold of him and kissed him like I'd never done before.
***
"So Abigail and Stephanie," Aunt said to us after an incredibly hectic breakfast with the new girls barely understanding a word we said. "You need to decide your position. Are you going to accept that we were all trying to help these poor girls, who through no fault of their own have been facing appalling conditions, to make a better life and contribute towards the British economy?
"Or," she continued, "are you going to have your poor aunt and the rest of the villagers here thrown into prison, whilst these young girls are deported back to a country in the throes of civil war?"
I looked at Stevie who was looking a little tight lipped, and then back at Aunt. "Well, Aunt," I said. "You may have presented the facts in a rather biased fashion, but I'm in. If Stevie wants to come clean, then I'll have to go to prison as well."
We both looked at Stevie.
"It's all right for you, Abigail," he said. "But Harriet, I can't understand," he paused, staring Aunt in the eye, "how you could possibly have believed I was a Daily Mail reader. Just what type of person do you think I am?" Then he grinned and I found I was grinning also, from ear to ear.
The Wardrobe
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When Mark Walker accidentally discovers a door at the rear of his wardrobe, he finds an Edwardian scene frozen in time. But the four female mannequins are not just a display; Mark discovers they have an ulterior purpose - and a history.
Author's note: This story is different from my more conventional Big Busts stories, but I hope you will enjoy this Halloween special.
by Charlotte Dickles
It was just like The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, only without the lion and the witch. It was a Saturday morning and I'd been trying to install a shelving unit inside the wardrobe in my basement flat. I'd found the unit dumped in a skip the previous day and salvaged it, dragging it back to Baxter House, where I'd had a flat in the basement for almost a year. The flat had once been part of the kitchens in the era when there'd have been a dozen servants to carry food between the basement kitchens and the ground floor dining room. In those days, this would have been one of the posher parts of London. Now it was one of the sleazier, meaning that I could just about afford the rent.
The problem was the shelving unit was just a bit too big and wouldn't quite fit into the wardrobe. I climbed inside to try and use brute force to pull the unit in. As I strained, I heard a slight click and then as I leaned against the back of the wardrobe, I fell backwards into a dark void.
I managed to turn slightly as I fell, so my left buttock and shoulder took the force of the fall and I kind of half rolled, as I'd learnt to do decades before, when learning judo, coming to rest in a kneeling position, my hand clutching someone's shoe. It was pitch black, as the opening in the back of the wardrobe had swung back into place, and I couldn't see whose shoe it was. However, I could clearly feel a foot inside the shoe and at any moment, I expected to hear a yell to wake the dead. I had obviously fallen through the connecting wall into the adjoining flat, with their bedroom still in darkness, and here I was with my hand on their foot.
Silence.
"I'm sorry," I said in a low voice. "I appear to have fallen through the back of my wardrobe into your flat. I'll leave immediately."
Silence.
"Er, I've got my phone in my pocket. I'm going to get it out and put the torch on. Is that all right?"
Silence.
I tentatively pulled out my mobile phone, switched on the torch facility and stared up into the face of an Edwardian lady. A very still Edwardian lady. How did I know she was Edwardian? OK. I was guessing slightly here but the dress kind of looked of that age. She had a lovely smile on her face, but she wasn't looking down at me, instead she was looking across the room at something beyond my line of vision. I shifted my phone slightly to illuminate what she was staring at, only to find another Edwardian woman staring back at her, her face split with a wide grin. She was much younger than the first and at a guess was the other woman's daughter. By now I'd realised these two figures were mannequins or similar and they definitely weren't going to start screaming.
I climbed to my feet and shone the light around some more. It was a similar sized room to my bedsitter, about fifteen feet by twelve and there were two other figures standing there, servants in black dresses with white, full-length aprons, both with looks of absolute joy on their faces. Clearly, the scene laid out before me was to celebrate some superb news they had just received.
I turned my torch around the room to the door I had clearly just fallen through, apparently the only door in the room. That meant that this room had always been part of my flat, rather than belonging to an adjoining flat. The locking mechanism was obvious from this side of the door and I opened it to stare through the back of my wardrobe into my flat beyond. A piece of wood ran horizontally across what I had always believed was the wooden back of the wardrobe – for strengthening purposes I had always thought. A hard push upwards at the one end would withdraw the bolt on the other side and the door would open.
Why?
That was the question. Why would anyone want to hide this delightful scene which had been set up inside the room? And what should I do now?
Get some light inside, take some photographs, do some digging into the history of the place. I didn't have any particularly close friends to share this riveting find with, and if I told the landlord, who lived upstairs, he'd presumably want to increase my rent in view of my enlarged premises, as well as removing my sitting tenants.
For they were mine, I realised. Finders, Keepers may not have much validity in law, but morally, I had no problem in accepting that until I found a more legitimate owner, these beautiful women were mine.
I found a lead light, plugged it in and took it through to examine the room in more detail. There were a couple of gas lights set on the walls but a quick check showed the gas supply was cut off, most likely, many decades ago. In the one corner was a free standing mirror.
The four women were gathered around a rectangular table, about eight feet by four, covered with a white broderie anglaise tablecloth. It was still very white, I realised, rather than covered with layers of dust, as you'd expect from laying untouched and undusted for around a hundred years. Which probably meant there was no natural ventilation in here. I nervously looked at the door but the power cord for the light ensured I couldn't be trapped. I returned to my flat and found out the fan I kept for the stifling days of summer. I plugged it in and wedged it in the doorway so it blew refreshing air into the room. Now I could return once more to my four women standing around the table.
The level of realism was remarkable, the kind you would see in Madame Tussauds. What was most remarkable were the looks of absolute joy on all their faces as though... My mind flashed back many years to when I was just twenty. I'd had a relationship with a widow – a woman much older than me who'd been sadly missing her daily rations following the death of her husband. I don't think she missed her husband at all.
I can still remember that huge grin as she had her first orgasm in over six months; a grin that seemed so similar to the grins on these four women. Was that what the artist had been conveying? Had he had sex with all four of these women and captured their exhilaration in these models? No wonder that this room had been sealed up ever since. Conveying male sexual pleasure would have been frowned upon in Edwardian times; to suggest that females could equally enjoy such pleasures would be considered a terrible aberration.
As I stared at the four women, a little thought started to nag at my mind. An artist who openly conveyed such female lust would surely make his models true to life in all respects. I lifted a hand to touch the exposed part of the daughter's ample cleavage. Rather than being hard and unyielding as I'd expected a wax model to be, this was soft and squeezy. That softness really surprised me. These mannequins were not made of wax. Perhaps some kind of rubber moulding process had been used; a life mould perhaps, although how the artist preserved the smile during such a lengthy process was puzzling.
Whatever, the question of how true to life the artist had made these mannequins could only be resolved in one way. I suppose what happens from henceforth may sound a bit kinky, perverted even, some might say. But people who work in dress shops are doing it all the time; dressing and undressing mannequins and handling them as nothing more than bits of plastic. On the other hand, I reasoned, these mannequins were so lifelike, they seemed much more than that. I decided to dignify them by giving them names; in alphabetical order of age. The smartly dressed mother would be Abigail; the well-rounded housemaid was Betty; the daughter, Charlotte; and the young housemaid would be Doris.
I decided to start with Doris, since she had the shorter skirt unencumbered by bustles. I lifted the skirt, along with the petticoat beneath. They didn't wear knickers in those days. Nor did they trim their pubic hair!
The bush of dark hair almost (but not quite) hid the slit beneath it. I'm no expert on the range of sizes and shapes of women's genitalia, but it all looked incredibly realistic. Closer inspection was called for but first thing, I decided, I needed to remove all of Doris's clothes.
***
The apron was tied at the rear in a delightful shaped bow. It felt disturbingly erotic to pull on the laces to untie it and let it dangle free, and then to remove it over her head. The dress buttoned at the rear, and I nervously undid each button as though I expected her to protest.
This is crazy, I thought. It is simply a sculpture produced by a highly skilled artist. Nothing more. With such thoughts, I pushed the dress forward over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
Beneath, she was wearing a corset, another clue to the realism the artist wanted to achieve. Far easier for him to create a slimmer model. Or perhaps this was evidence he really had used a life moulding of a real woman. I unlaced the cords and pulled apart the two sides of the corset. Then I could walk around to stand in front of Doris and unclip the busk fastening and let it join the dress on the floor. Beneath she wore a rather grubby white shift, her breasts and stomach pushed through it, intimately revealing her shape.
The shift was too narrow to slide over her wide hips. Instead, it would have to go over her shoulders and that meant moving her arms upwards. Until now, I hadn't tried moving any of her limbs, but I found they would rotate around the shoulders in the way you would expect of a tailor's dummy. To be honest, I found that rather disappointing, especially as it seemed the movement was quite limited, and the skin seemed to bunch up when I tried to lift the arm further. Everything else had been so incredibly realistic; the movement of the arms was artificial in comparison. That's when the idea started to form that the incredibly created outer rubber moulding was fitted over a real tailor's dummy, which kind of made sense.
A brief experiment with Betty showed that she, too, moved in a similar way.
Returning to Doris, I raised both arms as far as they would go and managed to pull the shift over her head, so she stood before me completely naked. She was hardly what you might call a pin-up girl. A large tummy, fat thighs and bum, with small breasts, and it was difficult to understand why the artist had chosen her, or at least, not refined her form as he produced the mannequin. Perhaps it was simply that he'd had sex with her and then used her as his model, as maybe he had for the other three mannequins. Certainly, naked Doris looked even more lifelike than she had when dressed, apart from the limited movement of her arms, due to the tailor's dummy beneath.
So how did the outer skin go over the dummy? There were no visible openings anywhere in the skin, apart from the obvious ones. I experimentally placed my hand inside Doris's mouth to see if it could be stretched wide, but there was no mouth cavity, no teeth, just the wooden face of the dummy. Clearly, Doris needed more detailed examination and I looked around for inspiration upon the best way to do that.
The table, of course. I removed the broderie anglaise tablecloth to expose a rather plain table beneath. Then I lifted Doris up to lay her flat on the table. I guessed this table had frequently been used for the same purpose, the smart tablecloth disguising the real purpose.
As I've already said, she looked just like any other ordinary and rather plain teenager, except that there was no opening inside her mouth nor, as I quickly discovered, was there any opening at her anus or vagina. In each case, there was the plain wood of the tailor's dummy beneath. What then?
Doris still had her arms held as far upright as I could place them; they made an angle of about forty-five degrees to the table and beneath her armpit I could see a little lump which could easily be mistaken for a small deformity. Examining it more closely, revealed a bit of the skin that could be folded out from the surface to reveal a small, square metal socket just beneath. The kind of socket into which you might insert something like a square Allen key in order to turn it. Push the little flap of skin back into place and the hole virtually disappeared, especially as it was in the arm pit.
I looked around for the square metal key which would fit into the socket. It didn't take long to find. It was in a drawer under the table, and it looked like the hand operated egg whisk my grandmother used to have in her kitchen; a kind of metal frame about a foot long with a handle at the one end. At the other, instead of a beating mechanism, was a little gear arrangement which turned the square key.
By this time, I was experiencing a real exhilaration at the discoveries I was making. The key on the egg whisk thing fitted into the socket beneath Doris's armpit and I started to turn the handle. The skin immediately beneath the little flap split. I stopped turning and examined it more carefully. There was an almost invisible line running from the flap down the side of the rib cage as far as the lower curve of the breasts, and I realized this was where the skin would split apart.
I continued to turn the handle on the egg whisk and gradually the line lengthened until it stretched right down to the breast. As I continued to turn, so the lower part of the breast detached from the skin beneath. I carried on turning until the split ran to the mid-point between the breasts.
It seemed the mechanism was an early design of zip. Two helical springs beneath the skin, one on the underside of the breast, the other on the skin immediately beneath. Turning the key in the socket turned one of the springs whose distant end interconnected with the other, and as the spring continued to turn, so the two springs were wound together along their entire length. It would make a powerful joint, but the thickness of the 'zip' meant it could only be used where the skin was thick enough to conceal it; in this case, concealed in the underside of the breast.
I turned my attention to the other arm pit, where an identical flap concealed an identical socket.
Within minutes, Doris's breasts were detached along their sides and lower edge from her body, and I could hinge the breasts up and over her face. With a bit of very careful stretching, I could actually pull the breasts right over her head and as I continued to pull, the wooden head of the tailor's dummy emerged from skin and I could push the breasts behind her back, at the same time, easing it off her shoulders. Now I could push the tailor's dummy arms right around so I could peel the arms of the rubber skin away from the dummy and then pull it down the body of the dummy so that eventually I had separated the two.
Why would I, you might be thinking. Slowly the idea had been forming inside my mind. If a tailor's dummy could come out of the rubber skin, then another body could go inside it. Perhaps, I thought, this was the original intention of the artist.
I smiled nervously at the rest of my companions as I stripped naked and then sat on the table, and thrust my right foot through the opening in Doris's chest and down towards the right leg. I followed it with my left leg, gradually pulling the rubber skin up my legs until I could feed my feet down Doris's legs, my feet into her feet. Then I stood up and pulled her thighs up my thighs until they reached the obvious obstruction. It's worth saying that the rubbery skin was quite soft and stretchy, and gently squeezed my legs into a terrific shape. As I stared down my body, I saw a fantastic pair of female legs topped by my enormous erection.
What to do? For some reason, I really did not want to masturbate, and clearly I could not pull the skin any further up my own body with that sticking out. I decided to spend a few minutes neatly folding Doris's clothes which I had left strewn over the floor.
It worked and after a few minutes, I was able to push my problem downwards into the groin of the skin. That's where I had my next surprise, as if I hadn't had sufficient already that morning. There was a receptacle for my penis to slide into.
That turned everything upside down. No longer was I doing something totally weird; I was doing exactly as the artist intended. He, too, had done exactly as I was doing.
I pushed my penis inside the opening, noting that it lined up with the urethra opening on the outside. Doris's vagina was sandwiched at a rather artificial angle between my penis and my groin.
With those intricacies out of the way, I could continue pulling the rubber skin up my body to the chest. All this time, of course, the breasts and head had been hanging behind my back. Now was the time when I had to insert my arms through the shoulders. This was the trickiest operation so far, as I was terrified of tearing it. I had to twist first one shoulder backwards in order to slide my arm inside the skin, then the other. Finally, I had to ease the rubber skin up both arms together as I lifted them, wriggling and jiggling them about to try to ease the process.
It was done. The next operation was to pull the head of the rubber skin over my own, made especially difficult since it was hanging about the nape of my neck. I decided to try to let gravity aid the operation, by clambering into the table and squatting on my hands and knees, my bum pushed right up into the air so that the head would hopefully fall down on top of my own.
"Harder, harder," I moaned, feeling the orgasm about to consume me.
What was that? I jerked upright at the sudden pain I'd felt between my legs, only to realise there was no pain. I was on my own in this room, untouched by human hands for a century.
I shrugged. I needed to keep my imagination firmly under control. I returned to my previous position, without any repetition of the image, rested my forehead on the table and put my arms behind my head to ease the breasts and head of the skin over my own head.
That was relatively simple, and I pulled the head mask onto my own head. But getting the eyes, nose and mouth lined up with those on the skin was far more difficult. I had to climb off the table and walk over to the mirror to complete the task.
Then I could step back and admire myself in the mirror. Apart from the wide slash beneath my breasts where the primitive zip was undone, I looked, for all the world, like a normal young woman.
I returned to the table and the egg whisk contraption. Now its design became obvious, for its length meant that by crooking my elbow, I could grasp the device with one hand whilst turning it with the other. As I turned the handle, I closed the gap between my breast and my torso, pleasantly stretching my skin over my frame as I did so. It's worth saying that Doris, indeed all four women, were probably quite tall for their generation – say around five feet, six or eight – so whilst it was a stretch for my five feet, nine, it wasn't impossible. Anyway, I repeated the operation with my other breast, and I was done. I returned to the mirror to observe the result.
"Cor blimey, girl. You look fantastic." The words, in best Cockney, slipped from my mouth with ease, causing my grin to get even wider.
I briefly considered donning my housemaid' dress and apron, but discarded the idea. If I was going to step out in public, as I knew I eventually would, I must wear clothes appropriate to this century rather than the last.
I stepped through the back of my wardrobe into the world of normality, which I had left seemingly eons before.
***
Living on my own, until now with no experience of cross dressing, I had no female clothes I could wear. However, since many women wore essentially unisex clothes I saw no reason why that should be a problem.
I put on some jockey underpants; no bra of course, but then perhaps that was why I had subconsciously chosen Doris, the woman with the smallest breasts. I say woman, but as I stared into the mirror in my bedroom, in the full light of day, I looked no older than a girl of... what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Who knows? Perhaps if this had been a weekday, I'd have child protection officers interrogating me as I wandered the shops, demanding to know why I wasn't in school. For wondering the shops was exactly what I intended to do.
I couldn't help smiling at myself. I'd only been female for a few minutes and I was already planning my first shopping trip. So I slipped on tee shirt, jeans which only just fitted over my bulging hips, socks and trainers and I looked no different from thousands of other girls you see around.
I had nothing I could use as a handbag, which seemed a problem until I realised I'd need to wear a jacket and I could use those pockets. I had a lightweight fleece which would nicely compliment my attire.
Just before leaving, I disconnected the lead light and closed the door behind the wardrobe. I wasn't expecting any visitors but there was no point in taking chances. It would be just my luck to have a burglary on the very day when I'd discovered a one hundred year old secret.
Not forgetting my keys, I let myself out of the flat.
***
"I didn't realise Mark Walker was into young girls." The voice of Len Rogers, my landlord, took me by surprise as I climbed up the steps in the basement well, which led up to the pavement. He was standing outside the main entrance to the flats, at street level and peering down at me as I climbed up.
"Wot?" I said. My girly cockney voice seemed to come quite naturally. "He's my uncle," I added.
"Yeah. Right," he replied. "And I'm Ghenkis-fucking-Khan. Walker told me shortly after he moved in that he doesn't have any brothers or sisters."
"Strickly speakin'," I said, "he's my cousin once removed. But I've always called him Uncle Mark."
He snorted as I approached street level and added, "How much do you charge for a blow job?"
A King's shilling, Mister.
"Fuck off," I said to him and rapidly walked away.
I couldn't help smiling at the way I was entering into the spirit of being this cockney teenager, although I needed to keep careful check on what she actually said.
I turned out of the side street in which I lived and walked along the main road towards the shopping area. But it only took a guy to pass in the opposite direction for me to understand why Rogers had jumped to the conclusion he had. The guy's eyes locked onto my braless tits, jiggling along and his face lit up. After he'd passed, I zipped up my fleece.
The next guy to pass me looked at my face, this time, and then his face broke into a smile. "Hi," he said as we passed. "Have a nice day."
I still had that stupid smile on my face, I realised. I'd have to positively grimace, I reckoned, to remove it. Still, it made a change from the normal miserable look I had on my face. Things hadn't been too good recently. I'd lost my job then, when money started to get very tight and I couldn't pay my way, my partner of eight years had told me to move out of the house we'd been sharing. With my meagre savings, I'd been able to get the crummy bedsit in a crummy London suburb and pay the rent as I sought work but I was coming to the conclusion I would have to lower my sights and get some menial job, rather than the banking clerk I had been.
Which of course meant that ideas of going on a spending spree this morning were nothing more than idle dreams. I couldn't really afford to buy a bra, never mind a set of clothes to go with it.
I was passing the first shops in the High Street and I stopped to stare at myself in the darkened window of a wine bar. I still had the stupid grin on my face, my hair had a pudding bowl cut - probably quite literally, I guessed, my small boobs were indistinguishable beneath my fleece but my hips and bum bulged out. No one would imagine who was really inside the outer skin.
A sign inside the window, a wine bar, caught my eye. Waiting Staff required.
Well, why not, I thought. I went in.
***
As I left the wine bar that evening, I still had a massive grin on my face; only this wasn't only due to my natural look, I had a pocket full of money. Not just the living wage for the last eight hours, but it seemed that a great smile with braless breasts really brought in the tips. Matt Taylor, the boss had been delighted at how I'd charmed the customers and I'd agreed to go in all next week.
And I still had time to get down to the late night opening shops and buy a few things for me and my friends.
What was amazing, I thought, was the energy I'd had all day, and still had. At my kind of age, I was tending to lethargy, especially after being so long out of work. Today I'd been running around like the teenager I was pretending to be. And it felt great.
But what was really making my heart flutter was the flyer I'd picked up in the wine bar. Tomorrow was Edwardian day in Hyde Park.
***
I decided to go as Charlotte rather than Abigail. Not only had I really enjoyed and been invigorated by being a young woman the previous day but, for some reason, I loved Charlotte as a name.
As soon as I got home, I carefully removed her clothing and then went through the same process as before to remove the rubber skin from the tailor's dummy.
Then I used the egg whisk thing to unzip my own breasts. (I must mind that Freudian slip. They were, of course, Doris's breasts.) Then I could remove myself from Doris's skin. I took a shower, taking Doris in as well, so we could shower together - no, I wasn't doing anything kinky, I simply wanted to properly wash her. Afterwards, I managed to hang her upside down from the shower rose, with the head also held up so she could dry out. I realised I was going to have to be meticulous over personal hygiene.
Then I was sliding into Charlotte's body, zipping myself up and then standing back and examining myself in the mirror.
What a cracker! A beautiful face, a waist clearly trained by corsets since early teens; long, slender legs rising to shapely hips; full, firm breasts which I found, by a process of trial and error of the various-sized bras I had bought, to be 38C.
Having established the size, I turned my back on the garments I had bought with today's income. For tomorrow, I was going out in my full Edwardian garb. I spent some time trying on her clothes. In spite of her years of corset training and slender waist, I still found it difficult pulling the corset strings tight enough for me to fit into that elegant dress. But when I had done, I looked a cracker.
Finally, I was removing all my clothes, slipping into a beautiful nightdress I had bought specifically for Charlotte, and getting into bed.
***
"Hello love," Len Rogers said as I climbed the stairs from the basement. "You certainly look an improvement on the little scrubber he had here yesterday."
Dare a cat look at a queen? I paused for several seconds and then turned to stare at him. "Are you addressing me?" It was the first time I had spoken and was an incredible disappointment. It was not the first time I had seen beautiful women, only to be completely turned off by their voice. Now, I was listening to myself. I'd expected my voice to be Sloane Ranger, but it was also hard-edged, as though I could as easily give an order to castrate an unsatisfactory lover as to throw my dressmaker onto the streets for a missed stitch.
"Yeah. Is that a problem?" Len's voice came back with a show of bravado, but I could hear the tremor in it.
What a disgusting little man. "You have a loan from Barklands Bank, don't you?"
"How do you know?"
"I make it my business to know everything." (Obviously, I, Mark Walker, knew since I knew Len was in debt and I often saw the letters arriving from Barklands Bank, but I haven't a clue where the next words came from.) "I shall be lunching with Sir John McFadyn tomorrow." Who? I thought.
"Who?" Len said.
What an unbelievably stupid man. I sniffed. "He's the Chairman of Barklands Bank and I know he's concerned about the image given by the press of some of his customers. I suggest you start looking for the source of another loan." How did I know all that? It was true, for I confirmed it on Wikipedia when I returned home, but I'd never have been able to quote it, normally.
"Oh, come on," Len whined. "I only said you looked quite good."
I didn't bother to reply. I simply turned my back on him and walked away.
***
"That's an absolutely stunning costume you're wearing."
I had carefully avoided meeting the glances of anyone on the trains I had used to travel to Hyde Park, and had pointedly ignored any comments which might have been addressed my way. Ladies of my status do not converse with the lower classes. Normally, we wouldn't converse with anyone of upper class without an introduction, but the voice sounded refined so I ventured a critical glance. He appeared cultured so I said, "Thank you."
"It's original, isn't it?"
Does he really imagine I would venture out in an imitation Edwardian costume? "Of course." I spoke as though it would be the height of bad taste to dress in anything other than an original costume at what many saw as simply a fancy dress event.
"Madam. I implore you to remove it immediately."
Patently, one cannot always judge people correctly. "I beg your pardon!"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he blustered. "But that garment must be treasured and cared for; not worn to parade through the park."
"But it was created for precisely that reason," I said.
He smiled and said, "I cannot deny your logic, madam. But that was over a century ago. I implore you to treat your costume as an antique treasure."
"Treasure?" That was twice he had mentioned that word.
"Of course. Let me introduce myself. I am John Harper, a buyer for Sotheby's. Return with me to their offices and I will offer you a change of clothes so I may more carefully inspect your dress. Do you have any undergarments of the period?"
"Naturally," I snapped. Did he really expect me to parade through the park without even a pair of drawers beneath this beautiful dress? On the other hand, it did sound as though a serious amount of money was involved. Occasionally, very, very occasionally, it is necessary to forgo one's dignity in order to booster the family fortune. We hailed a hackney carriage.
***
The value Harper put on the whole outfit was a staggering amount of money. He almost wet himself when he heard I had another outfit like it at home. I told him the clothes belonged to Mark Walker, who had found them in an old storage cupboard. He didn't seem particularly worried they might be stolen. Such clothes as mine were almost unique; any thefts would be well known.
I returned home wearing the loaned track suit, my own clothes having being locked into Sotheby's secure storage. Fortunately, Len was not lurking around when I arrived on the doorstep. I went down to my flat and removed every stitch of clothing from Abigail's body. Then, I ordered another taxi to take me and the clothes back to Sotheby's. Both costumes would go to auction in two weeks' time. In one day, I had made the equivalent of almost a year's salary.
***
The following day, Monday, I dressed as Doris again, in preparation for my waiting job at the wine bar. I went to the shops in the morning and bought some clothes more suitable for work, although in view of the money I'd made in tips on Saturday, I left off a bra again. It worked a treat, and for the rest of the week, I continued to bring in the money. I suppose in view of my expected windfall from the sale of the dresses, I could have stayed at home but I not only needed to maintain a little ready cash, I also tremendously enjoyed the work.
I mean, it was only a menial job – waiting on people earning positively indecent salaries, and who were sometimes quite rude, especially when the food wasn't that good, which was quite often. But I managed to meet their complaints with sympathy and charm. Matt Taylor was highly appreciative, so much so that he tried it on with me. I managed to push him off, telling him I had someone I was quite close to (if only he knew the truth), and he accepted that and left me alone after that.
Unlike the chef, Ronny Jones, who apart from being lousy at his job, kept groping me. I told him, with no lack of clarity, to fuck off so many times, he just regarded it as a joke. It got to what one might call a climax (although neither of us did) as we were clearing up after Friday lunch.
"Come on, you little raver," he said, caressing my bum as I bent down to load the dishwasher. "You've been flashing your tits at me all week. Let's cement our relationship."
"Fuck off, Ronny," I said, quickly moving away from his grasping hand.
"Fucking is just what I intend to do," he said, continuing to move onto me.
The problem was, I was backed into a corner and as he came onto me, I did what he least expected and stepped forward. He certainly wasn't expecting me to drive my knee into his balls. He gave a tremendous yell and collapsed on top of me, squirming in agony.
Matt came in to see what was happening. It didn't take much imagination as I was trapped against the wall, with Ronny doubled up in agony. "That's all I need from you, Jones. People have been complaining about your cooking for ages and now this. Get out of here and don't come back."
Within minutes, he'd departed and Mark was staring around the kitchen with a scowl on his face. I knew he'd been trying to recruit another chef for ages, without success and he was wondering how he was going to cope.
"I think I'm going to stop the food orders for the time being," he said. "I'm sorry, but that means…"
"I know someone who might be able to help," I said. "I'll need to talk her into it, though. I'll send her round this afternoon, if that's all right."
"Why didn't you mention her before?" he asked.
"I wasn't certain she'd want to do it," I said.
***
I went home and stared at Betty, wondering, just wondering if it might work out. In Doris, the maid's rubber skin, I had been a brilliant waitress; in Charlotte's, I had been a real upper-class bitch. If I became Betty, the cook, could I become a chef?
No way, I thought, but I stared at Betty and the confidence swept through me. Of course I can.
In honesty, I had thought about it several times during the week, and I'd sneaked a look at the Ronny's recipe book; well. OK, I'd taken a copy of it and I reckoned that any reasonable cook should be able to cope. That was the problem, of course. As Mark, I was useless at cooking. Would my hidden skills come through, once I donned Betty's rubber skin?
I knew I had to give it a go.
***
Like Doris, Betty didn't wear many clothes: a shift, a corset, her black dress and apron, with a crinoline beneath. They were easily removed to reveal a Rubenesque figure beneath: corpulent hips and plump buttocks, with breasts of a size I thought didn't exist before enhancements.
It was strange. When I'd first examined Doris and Charlotte, I'd simply been looking at rubber suits. Doris's scrawny teenage body had not been particularly attractive when she was alive, and I certainly didn't feel anything for her effigy. Charlotte had a superb figure, but it was still only a rubber suit I was examining, and later wearing.
But when I stared at Betty, lewd thoughts immediately went through my mind. I'd have willingly have had sex with her and, she seemed to be saying with her orgasmic smile, she'd be happy to receive me.
I shook my head. I didn't have time for such thoughts. I had to get inside her skin in the way that nature never intended. But, I'd had lots of practice. I lifted her onto the table, got the egg-whisk thing and opened her up. I had rather imagined that with her being so much more rounded, the tailor's dummy beneath would be so much larger, but it was just the same size as the others and the difference was in the thickness of the rubber skin.
That made the rubber skin quite heavy, I realised as I sat on the table and lifted it up. I would be gaining several pounds weight and, as I moved around in it, probably sweating like a pig.
That stopped me for a minute. We all sweat all the time, so how come when I'd been wearing the rubber suits of Doris and Charlotte, I hadn't had a buildup of sweat inside the suit? Had the artist invented some kind of Gortex, decades before the material we know had been invented?
I gave another shrug. I still didn't have time for those thoughts. I started to slide my legs inside her torso.
***
"Doris tells me you're in need of a chef," I said to Matt Taylor. "I'm Liz." Betty is so passé. For that matter, so was Doris, but I hadn't been able to quickly think up a modern day equivalent when I had first presented myself to Matt Taylor.
"Hi Liz." Matt's eyes lit up as he saw me, and as he ran them down my body.
Strangely, a little thrill went through me, for I knew he was not simply assessing me as a potential cook, but I was still a man beneath everything, for heavens' sake.
"Doris tells me you can fill in for my last chef. What experience do you have?"
"Plenty," I said. I could see him working out the implications and it gave me pleasure to tease him. How weird is that? "I worked as cook for eight years in the household of a very rich man, but I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you his name."
"Do you have references?"
It was a routine question and he looked startled when I shook my head. "Sorry," I said. "A sudden fatality meant I no longer had a job. Look, Doris tells me you don't have anyone else for tonight. Let me work and if I'm rubbish, you can throw me out at any time. If not, you can pay me the going rate at the end of the evening. How does that sound?"
So it was agreed, and I went into the kitchen and had a quick look around. "It's filthy dirty in here," I said to him, as he followed me in. "I'm going to need help to clean it. Can you get someone in?"
"Do you have a number for Doris?" he asked. "She never gave me her mobile number."
"Sorry, Matt," I said. "There's someone that Doris and I have to take care of. I'm afraid, if you have me, you don't get Doris. You'll need to find someone else." I knew there several other girls who he could, and often did, call on at short notice.
"I'll get someone," he said.
***
I know I've always been rubbish at cooking, but most of it was just confidence. With Doris having 'borrowed' Ronny's recipes, it was simply a matter of running through them and then putting them into practice. Except that I made certain the basic food ingredients were good – I had to throw away much of the meat and get rapid replacements delivered – and that I exactly followed all the recipes. All the food turned out brilliantly and far from sacking me, part way through the evening, Matt made me a job offer.
It wasn’t the only offer he made that evening but I turned that one down. All the same, whereas all previous offers to have sex were either unwelcome or plain disgusting, I found it rather nice that Matt obviously thought me attractive
***
Betty and I rapidly got used to each other. For one thing, I guess we were about the same age – early forties, but it was something more than that. We were both skilled at our own jobs, and if she'd been born in my age, she'd probably have been a software specialist instead of a cook. But I found I picked up her skills very quickly, seemingly instinctively knowing what to do when something started going wrong with a recipe. I guess I must always have had those skills, since clearly, a rubber suit can't teach you much, but I guess it must all be about how my behaviour changed when wearing the skin.
Once or twice, I did think I might try on the Abigail skin, but without the clothes, which were shortly due to be auctioned at Sotheby's, she had lost her grand dame appearance and simply looked like a sixty year old woman who'd not had the privilege of twentieth century beauty treatments. Besides, I thought it was probably a case of like mother, like daughter. Charlotte had surely developed her appalling character from her mother's example, and I really didn't want to inhabit the skin of a person who so much despised ordinary people.
I often wondered how strange it was that I so readily took on the characters of the rubber skin I was wearing. I'd been quite good at acting at school but had been turned off by the appalling career prospects, never mind the tremendous egos of everyone else who wanted to act. So, I'd given it up when I left school and hadn't continued it since.
Betty and I bonded together well as a team. Matt and I started to develop a relationship – not actual sex, you understand, although I did let him do a little fondling – yes, including that special place, with which he seemed perfectly satisfied from the outside, and that's as far as I let him go.
***
It was one of those regular columns in the local paper – one hundred years ago that day – which caught my eye. When I say "my eye," I really mean Betty's eye, of course, as I rarely switched back to being simply Mark, not even inside my flat.
"It is with great sadness we announce the loss of yet another brave soldier on the Somme. Major William Baxter of Baxter House was killed when his company headquarters received a direct hit from an enemy shell. Major Baxter's death represents the end of his branch of the family, his son, Henry, having being killed at Ypres in 1914. His wife, Abigail, and daughter, Charlotte, were murdered by one of their servants in 1906, along with Cook, Betty Miller, and Junior Housemaid, Doris Smith. Major Baxter's brother, Mr Harrold Baxter died shortly after that tragedy."
A chill ran down my spine. What were the chances of correctly forecasting the names of four women living at this house in 1906? Almost zero. On the other hand, a multiple murder like that might well have come to my attention previously and been retained somewhere in my brain, only to reappear as though an apparently virgin thought, when I came across a replica of the four people concerned.
I went onto the web and typed in their four names, trying to find a site which I might have come across at some time, but without success, which seemed strange. On the other hand, many local newspapers had not digitised all their ancient back numbers. It was time, I thought, to go down to the newspaper officers.
I put on my best "Betty" smile as I made the request at the local newspaper's reception desk. It was met with little interest, and after a few minutes' wait, I was led to a dingy basement room, shown the basic organisation, and left to my own devices.
Obviously, it wasn't the death of Major Baxter I was interested in, but the murder of his wife, daughter and two servants. I decided to start at the end of 1906 on the basis that the story would probably have run for many months during the year and I'd pick it up more quickly. It was in a November issue: "Unexpected death of Mr Harold Baxter - same day as murderer of sister-in-law and niece goes to gallows."
The story was quite convoluted and I had to search many other back numbers before I had the overall picture, but to summarise, a servant, John Warren, had been found guilty of the murder of the four women whose models appeared in my basement. The four women had disappeared at intervals over the course of the year, the two servants being the first to disappear, without much notice being taken, apart from the inconvenience of having to recruit another cook. But when Charlotte, the daughter of the household disappeared, there was uproar. At that time, it was thought she must have eloped, which was bad enough, but as several weeks went by and she didn't reappear, people started to suspect the worst. Then Mrs Abigail Baxter disappeared and a full scale investigation was launched.
Warren was a footman, one of the servants a 'typical' house would have in those days, aged twenty-eight and regarded by the other staff as a lecher. In Victorian times, it was considered essential that servants remained chaste; male servants were kept apart from females, with little free time to unleash their 'unnatural' feelings. Warren was obviously climbing up the wall with sexual frustration and he'd almost let his tongue hang out when he first saw Doris, who subsequently disappeared; then he started chatting up Betty, who also disappeared. When the police looked for suspects, he was the obvious choice. There seemed little real evidence against him, but it wasn't needed in those days and he was found guilty of the murder of all four and hanged.
Now, here's the weird bit. On the day that Warren was hanged, the brother-in-law, Harold, died from opiate poisoning. I found out the report of the inquest, and it was the pathologist's statement which had me reeling. Apparently, Harold had been known for some time to take opium in his tea. The police had found a considerable supply in his room of an unusual concoction, previously unknown to the pathologist. A little experimentation with animals showed the dosage was critical; a relatively small overdose being fatal. What was remarkable was that the experiments showed all the animals went into what the pathologist called an ecstatic trance before death. Harold Baxter's own face had been similarly notable for the huge smile on his face at death. The connection was obvious; he too had been in an ecstatic trance caused by the opiate. The coroner declared a verdict of misadventure.
My mind churned over with that statement. Clearly, all four women had died from an overdose of that same opiate whilst in their ecstatic trance. Maybe the four women had all been users, but much more likely was that Harold had discovered the original date rape drug. He had introduced it to their tea without their knowledge, knowing it would drive them into a sexual frenzy, and then taken advantage of their condition. And whilst the death of the first, Doris, might have been accidental, he'd have known exactly the risks he was taking with the lives of the other three. Ergo, he had raped and murdered all four women. His death on the day that Warren was hanged for murdering them was more likely to have been suicide rather than simply coincidence. If one was going to commit murder, I thought, dying in the middle of an orgasm was the way to go.
What was macabre was that at some time, Harold had sealed off in the basement. He had clearly taken a death cast of their bodies, and then poured liquid rubber into the moulds to create the models and kept them in the room. Whatever had happened to their bodies, which had never been found? Had he buried them beneath the floor in there? Quite possibly. With that rather depressing thought, I photographed all the relevant cuttings and went home.
***
The first thing I did when I got home was to check out the room. There was absolutely no indication that bodies had been buried there. The floor was made of quarry tiles, which were completely flat and professionally laid. If Harold had buried the bodies there, surely he'd hardly have employed someone to tile over the hole. Even if he had, the tiler would probably have come forward during the murder investigation. And bodies decay with time and the ground above subsides. At the very least, I'd expect cracks to appear in the tiles over the graves.
There was a garden at the rear of the house but that had been searched during the initial investigation. Maybe he'd dissolved the bodies in acid baths, as the acid bath murderer had done much later. Whatever, I was convinced that the sanctuary I had established with my four different personalities was unblemished.
***
It was in the early hours of the morning when I returned home from the restaurant, as usual. Unusually, I was still wide awake. I decided to have a glass of wine and go over the newspaper cuttings I had photographed, starting with trying to find out more about Harold.
I found out his obituary. He was born in 1864, so he'd have been forty-two when he died. A deeply respected gentleman, Eton and Oxford educated, who for several years had been a curator in the British Museum's Egyptology Department. For most of his life, he'd lived on the family's country estate in Berkshire, being an enthusiastic member of the hunting and shooting set. Unfortunately, a number of bad investments by his father had meant not only his father's suicide, but also the selling off of the estate and him moving to London to live with his brother.
Lack of money also meant he'd had to take up - shock, horror- that four letter word, work. Fortunately, his skills in taxidermy made him eminently suited to become the Museum's leading expert on Egyptian embalming and mummification.
I read the sentence again; and again. He knew how to skin and stuff creatures so they still looked alive; he knew how the Egyptians preserved dead bodies.
For the last month, I had not been wearing rubber replicas of the dead women's bodies; I had been wearing their bodies.
"Doesn't it feel great?" The voice said inside me.
"Yes," I told myself, "it feels great."
"In that case," the voice continued, "there'll be no more dallying with Doris, or my mistresses. We are as one now."
"Yes," I said.
"And for heavens' sake," Betty said, "let's go and shag Matt Taylor. I'm ready for another of those ecstatic trance, things. They really are to die for, you know."
Gulp!
The Will Chaser
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When a solicitor's clerk arrives one evening with news of a legacy for an unknown relative, possibly his half-sister, Sam tries hard to help her inherit. If it had been a smaller amount, he probably wouldn't have agreed to stand in for her, but as it was…
Author's Note: I know that many of my readers prefer stories without "scenes of a sexual nature" whilst others enjoy the naughtier bits. As an experiment, I'm providing optional extra bits of this story. The story below is complete in itself, without any "Scenes Of A Sexual Nature" although you'll find adult language used throughout the story. If you prefer the fuller version, click on the SOASN links at the relevant parts of the story and enjoy; click on your browser's Back button to return to the main story and continue reading.
And not just one innovation but two, I always try to ensure my stories are understandable not just to my regular readers, but to any new reader as well. Consequently, I tend to repeat in each story details about Big Busts' products. I've now included a Big Busts' pamphlet. If you're a regular reader, you won't need to read it – at least, not more than once – but new readers can read it to find out all about Big Busts products.
Unusually for me, I've left public comments open so you can give your opinion on the changes,
by Charlotte Dickles
Chapter One
"Hello. Mr Samuel Smith?" The woman who had knocked his door that Thursday evening was smartly dressed in a business suit, which probably meant she was selling something. But she looked rather older than the typical saleswoman, probably around his mother's age, which would put her in the early sixties.
"Yes?" He cautiously admitted his name, leaving his question hanging.
"I'm Rita Nicholls and I'm working on behalf of a firm of solicitors. You've probably seen the will-chasing programmes on TV. I'm urgently trying to locate a Miss Samantha Smith."
"Oh I see." That changed everything. "I'm sorry. There's no Samantha Smith living here and I can't think of any of my relatives named that, off hand. Do you want to come inside? Would you like a coffee?"
Rita smiled at him. "I'd love one, please. I've been on the road for hours. I'm running out of time and you're my last hope."
He led the way inside to his lounge and, as he put on the kettle and spooned instant coffee into two cups, he tried to review all the members of his extended family.
"I've a cousin called Sandie Smith, which is presumably short for Sandra," he said as he handed the cup to her, "but no Samantha."
She tried not to turn up her nose as she smelt the cheapest brand of instant coffee, and said, "No. It's definitely Samantha I'm looking for.
"I see you play the piano," she added, nodding towards the keyboard, her abrupt change of subject taking him by surprise.
"Yes," he said, "my mother and father both played. Dad was a concert pianist and he taught me when I was a child. He died when I was still a teenager but I've kept it up ever since."
"But it's not your career?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't pay well. My father was a brilliant pianist but never earned that much."
"Samantha Smith plays professionally, as well."
He paused. "You mean she might be from my father's side of the family?"
"I meant rather closer than that."
"But there's only me. I don't have any sisters."
"You mean any sisters that you know of. Maybe you have a half-sister."
"You're crazy," he said. "What right do you have to come here making those kinds of insinuations?"
"Sorry," she said, "but I didn't just call on you by chance. There are far too many Smiths for that to work."
"Well, what then?"
"I'd tried all the conventional routes to find her. She was the daughter of a single mother and was orphaned when she was twelve. She then lived in a series of foster homes. When she was fifteen, she ran away and lived partly by performing in bars and clubs."
"Partly?"
Rita grimaced. "She turned to the oldest profession to subsidise her income. Then about three years ago she disappeared off the radar."
"So she might be dead." He didn't know whether he was pleased or saddened.
"Or living with some guy who loves her music." She shrugged. "We just don't know."
"So what makes you think I might be her half-brother?"
"The father's name on the birth certificate is Jack Smith, same as your father's, but there are thousands of Jack Smiths so, on its own, it doesn't really mean anything. As I said, I tried all the conventional routes and got nowhere. Then I contacted this geek who makes a speciality of internet searches on social media sites. He has a way of getting through their security systems."
"But even so, you could still only search for someone called Smith."
"I had a three-year-old picture of Samantha, so I got him to search the social media sites with some facial recognition software, looking for family similarities to Samantha. It produced your picture, rating it as high confidence, although I don't think a human would have made the connection. You look quite different, you see. But with the same father's name..."
"Can I see the photo?"
"Yes, it's on my laptop. Can I plug it in? Can I access your Wi-Fi as well? I need to check my emails."
It took a few minutes for her to get things set up. Sam went to make some more coffee although strangely, Rita said she didn't want any more.
***
"Before I show you the picture," she said, "I need to explain the way the recognition software works. It analyses the face, measuring things like the length and width of your nose, mouth and eyes, the overall shape, and so on, and works out the ratio of one to the other. Then it goes through the database of pictures, making the same calculations for each one and looking for the same proportions."
He shrugged. "Yeah, but so what?"
She brought up a photo on the screen. "This is Samantha Smith," adding as he stared at it, "Skin colour is only one of many other factors it's examining."
He gasped as he stared at a picture of a voluptuous black woman wearing a Jessica Rabbit dress.
"That's impossible," he cried. "Mum and Dad were terrible racists. They hated black people."
"Both of them? Or just your mother?"
He thought. "Mum always was the more dominant. Dad would never argue with her, but he never disagreed, even when I grew up and realised how bigoted they both were and started arguing with them."
"Perhaps there was a reason why she disliked black people so much."
"She was just racist," he said. "She read the Daily Mail. Those two things reinforce each other."
"Maybe."
He glanced at the picture again. "How can she possibly be my half-sister?"
"I must say, I had the same reaction when my geek first showed me your photo, but he was ready for that. He'd taken the picture of your face you had on your social media page, darkened the skin and then pasted it into the photo of Samantha. Look at this."
She showed him another, almost identical photo to the first. Sam stared at the two photos, one with his blackened face pasted into it, the other untouched photo of Samantha.
"We're almost identical," he admitted. "But I can't believe Dad would have had an affair with someone, especially a black woman. I have difficulty believing my parents even had sex, but I'm the proof of that."
"Being a pianist, did he travel away from home, much?"
"A lot of the time," he admitted. "Sometimes for weeks on end."
Rita shrugged, philosophically. "Things really stack up, although it wouldn't be enough to prove it in a court of law. For my money, you're Samantha's half-brother."
Slowly, Sam nodded, and spent a few silent minutes thinking about the implications. "But it doesn't get you any closer to finding her," he said, breaking the silence. "Didn't you say time was critical?"
Rita nodded. "It is," she said. "I have until tomorrow evening to produce her and I'm clearly not going to be able to. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Can you keep a confidence, because everything I'm about to say must be kept secret, otherwise the whole will is forfeit."
"OK, I'll respect that."
"I'm being employed by Grosvenor & Steele, a firm of solicitors, to assist in the execution of the will of Marguerite Lang, a rather rich woman who recently died of cancer. She didn't make a normal will, bequeathing so much to one person and so much to another. Instead, she decided there'd be a competition amongst the potential beneficiaries and the winner would get the lot. That competition is this weekend."
"Phew," Sam said. "That's weird, and likely to be very competitive. Presumably, Samantha is a potential beneficiary? And what sort of competition is it?"
"It's going to be a murder mystery game. Have you ever taken part in one? I'm told they can be a lot of fun, although I think this is going to be anything but."
"I did one a few years back," he said. "We all had to dress up as characters in the mystery, and we were given facts about ourselves we could reveal to the others when asked. We had to try to work out who had killed the victim."
"Well, I'm told this is going to be similar although I'm not certain how the winner of Marguerite Lang's estate is going to be chosen. Anyway, Samantha is invited to take part, playing the character of a pianist like herself. Just for going along, she'll receive ten thousand pounds."
"Ten thousand just for attending. Wow! How much is the estate worth?"
"Millions," she said, "and I'm not going to tell you how many."
"And if we don't find Samantha before tomorrow evening, she loses out?"
"Precisely. Which is where my 'Unless' comes in."
"Unless what?" He paused looking at her staring back at him, when he suddenly realised. "Oh, no. No way! Absolutely no way! I don't have her skin colour and I don't have her curves. It will never work."
"OK," she said. "I understand your reservations, but if we could overcome those things, would you have a problem in principle?"
"You mean, if I suddenly turned black and grew breasts, would I have a problem in going as her?"
"Yes."
"Er, well… I guess I'd be so shocked by the other things, I wouldn't worry about a little thing such as attending a murder mystery."
"That's great," she said. "One question. Can you play As Time Goes By? And the Funeral March? That's essential."
"Oh, I get it," Sam said. "Play it again, Sam. Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart. Yes, I can play that and Chopin's Piano Concerto No 2."
"In that case," Rita said, "pack your toothbrush and some pyjamas and we'll get on the road."
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Where are you suggesting we're going? Besides, I have to go to work tomorrow."
"Call in sick. There's a town called Seacombe on the south coast, where they do a tremendous job of converting a man to look like a woman. We'll drive there now and I'll book you into a hotel room. Tomorrow, they'll transform you into your black half sister. Then tomorrow evening, you have a murder mystery event to go to."
Chapter Two
It was Friday evening, almost twenty-four hours later, when Sam stared into his hotel room mirror, and Samantha stared back at him. She was wearing a similar red, Jessica Rabbit dress to the one she'd been wearing in the photo, which was rather more practical than the cartoon version. So it wasn't backless which would have made it physically impossible to support her huge wobbling breasts. Instead, it had a corset top with a lace-up back which squeezed her waist to a size Sam would not have thought possible. But the corset allowed the platform bra cups to properly support her large breasts, so they wobbled like jellies on a plate, her nipples barely concealed. The dress was slit down from the hip on one side, meaning that as she sat at the piano, her audience would see everything from her suspender supported stocking tops down to her spiky heels. The heels, too, leaned to the practical, so they were only one inch high rather than the four inches which Jessica Rabbit would wear.
Sam half turned so he could properly see Samantha's protruding bottom, and he marvelled at the transformation he'd experienced that morning.
It had been a long drive the preceding evening, and they'd checked into the Grand Hotel in Seacombe in the early hours of the morning. His alarm went off at seven, for a seven-forty-five breakfast, so that they could be at Big Busts, the company which was going to transform him, by nine.
A rapid consultation, with Rita showing them the photograph of Samantha, and then Sam was told to strip off. They'd pushed him into a spray booth with some goggles and a miniscule thong, and spent ages spraying him until he was a near ebony shade all over.
Then, he'd had gel smeared over his body and he was told to don a Bustlet and Hiplet (for details of these products, see the pamphlet). Both were in the same ebony colour as his skin.
The rest of the day had been spent in giving him an Afro hair style, make-up, lessons in moving and talking (where he had the help of a pill which tasted like nitric acid but gave him a sweet voice). Finally, he was fitted into the dress, pushed into a taxi and told to return to the Grand Hotel. A car would be calling for him In just three hours' time to take him to the venue where he would be the pianist, and he hadn't practiced at the piano for ages. Fortunately, he'd brought his keyboard so he'd spent the time practicing. Now Samantha was ready to be collected.
***
The knock on her door came promptly at seven, and when Sam opened it, Rita stood there: only a Rita transformed by a black dress with a white frilly apron, and a matching frilly white cap and gloves.
"It seems that the maid, isn't going to arrive so I have to stand in for her. We're both keeping our same names but from now on, you must call me Rita, and I call you Miss, or Miss Samantha.
"That was a bit of a surprise for you," Sam said, "but not quite as big a surprise as I received last night. And all through today, for that matter."
Rita smiled. "It certainly was, Miss," she said.
"Does that mean you're going to receive ten thousand pounds, as well?"
Rita shook her head. "Fraid not. I'm told it's all part of the job. Incidentally, I have some extra items for you to carry in your handbag." She reached in her own bag and extracted an item. "Here are some handcuffs for you; presumably you'll be arresting the murderer.
"And here," she added, pulling out something else, "is your gun. It's only a cap gun," she said, seeing the look of surprise on Samantha's face, "so you won't run the risk of really killing someone. Look." She broke open the small pink pistol and showed the caps inside. "OK?"
Samantha nodded. "I guess so, but my small handbag is quite full, with that in it. I need to squeeze my phone in, as well."
"Phones aren't allowed," Rita said. "It's too easy to cheat if you have access to the internet and the real world. If you're discovered with one you're immediately excluded from the inheritance and you don't get the ten thousand pounds.
"There's one final thing," she added, pulling out another item from her bag, "you need to insert this radio earpiece into your ear. You'll get instructions over it on what to do and what to say, and you must follow them precisely, otherwise you forfeit the right to be included in the will and the ten thousand pounds you'll receive anyway. Do you understand?"
Sam nodded.
She smiled again. "We should be calling this game schizophrenia: you have to do what the voices in the head tell you to."
Samantha smiled back. "Have you any more idea what this game is all about?"
"None at all, except that I know they've employed out-of-work actors to fill some of the roles, so you may even recognise one or two. But whatever happens, don't refer to it. You must stay in character as long as the game continues. Do you understand?"
After Samantha had nodded a second time, Rita said, "Then let's go. There's a car waiting for us downstairs."
***
Seacombe had once been a busy fishing port at the mouth of the River Combe and the car took them to the quayside, where there were a gaggle of men and women, some black, some white, in dinner jackets and evening dress, clearly waiting for a boat to collect them. They were all wearing earpieces, Sam noticed. Rita got out of the car first, and no one seemed to take much notice of her. Then Rita helped Samantha out, the slit in her dress exposing her leg from ankle to stocking top as she did so, and suddenly she was the centre of attention.
"Hi there." "Good to see you." "Well, hello." The latter remark was from a well-dressed, elderly black gentleman who, in spite of his years, ran an appreciative eye over Samantha, which seemed to contain just as much lust as the younger men. "I'm Walter Goodman," he added.
"Tony Fortescue," the younger, rather plump man said, "and this is my wife, Tracey." He indicated a tall thin black woman in a white dress with a cleavage plunging almost to the waist (which actually exposed very little) who was scowling at Samantha.
"Ben Gibson," the other black man said, "and this is my girlfriend, Ashley." Ashley was short and plump. Her cleavage exposed an abundance of pale flesh.
"Pleased to meet ya," Ashley said, looking anything but.
"Hi, everybody," Samantha said. "I'm Samantha Smith, and I'm going to play for you this evening."
"You can play with me anytime," Walter said.
"Walter, behave." The words snapped out from across the quay, where a tall, elderly woman was standing very erect. She seemed rather familiar to Samantha.
"Sorry, darling," Walter said, and then added, "This is Samantha Smith. Samantha, this is my partner, Marguerite Lang."
Of course, Samantha thought, with Marguerite being dead, someone was playing her part. She had been that actress in that long running TV soap… What was she called? Diana Partridge. That was it. She hadn't seen her for years. "Good evening, Miss Lang," she said, and the words were echoed by Rita.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Everyone turned to see an elderly man dressed in a rather shabby dinner jacket. "I am Jenson, Miss Lang's butler. I have just been notified that our steam yacht – the Princess Beatrice – will be with us in just a few minutes."
"They're not paid to be late, Jenson." Miss Lang's voice snapped out. "Make certain they're made aware of that."
"Yes, Miss Lang."
There was a rather uncomfortable silence after that, which only relaxed as an elderly steam yacht approached the quayside. It was, Samantha realised, a vintage yacht and no doubt the hire fee reflected that. The Captain stood impressively on the bridge whilst two deckhands, dressed in the traditional gear of white bell-bottom trousers and striped jerseys prepared to moor the yacht. It docked immediately next to where they stood, and the deckhands raised a gangplank to bridge the difference in height. Miss Lang stepped on board, followed by each of the guests. Jenson stood immediately next to the gangplank, ticking off people's names as they passed. As employees, Samantha and Rita waited until the others were on-board before approaching the gangplank.
"Samantha Smith," Samantha said.
"Ah yes, Miss Smith. The piano is in the rear saloon, below decks. Perhaps you would start playing immediately."
"Thank you." She stepped on the gangplank.
"Rita Brown," Rita said, as she went to follow Samantha.
"Know your place, Rita," Jenson said, thrusting an arm in front of her to bar her way. "I shall step aboard now and you will follow me."
Rita's look of anger should have killed him outright, but
he waited with his arm outstretched until Rita had stepped backwards so he could move onto the gangplank.
This, Samantha thought, sounds like it's going to be a bundle of fun."
***
In fact, once she'd gone down to the saloon, sat at the piano and started playing, things started to get better. After the Princess Beatrice cast off from the wharf, the passengers gawping around on deck were attracted to the music and came down to watch her playing. Rita started serving drinks, closely supervised by Jenson, but they seemed to be settling along together. And when Samantha was finally served a drink, she really relaxed into the role. She was even getting used to the wobble of her breasts with every press on the piano keyboard.
Conversation started to bumble around the room. Samantha knew she should be paying attention if she was going to work out who the murderer was going to be, but she'd never been one of those musicians who could play without total concentration, so she simply concentrated on the music as the Princess Beatrice chugged along, with a rather pleasant chunk-chuff, chunk-chuff sound. From the lack of motion on board, she guessed the boat was heading up-river, rather than out to sea, although she had little idea of the local geography or where they would end up.
***
It was probably an hour later when Samantha became aware that the chunk-chuff sound had ceased, and conversation in the saloon seemed to die off as people realised they must be stopped. Then the smartly dressed Captain was stepping down into the saloon and announcing to Miss Lang that they had reached our stopping point.
He was what most people would describe as a typical seafaring captain: tall, with a bald head, mostly concealed by a peaked cap, and a white beard.
"I am Captain Trevithick," he announced. "Dinner is being served on deck under the awning. Miss Lang, may I escort you there?"
He crooked his arm so that she could take it and they walked together to the stairs. The other guests followed behind and Samantha noted that Jenson and Rita were not to be seen; presumably they were already on deck, ready to serve the meal.
After Samantha rounded off the piece she was playing, she made to close the piano lid, but for the first time, the headphone in her ear clicked in. "Continue playing whilst we eat," a synthesised voice spoke in her ear. "You will be sent down food when the guests have been served and you may take a short break whilst you eat."
So she continued playing, and eventually Rita brought down two plates of very tasty food, and the two women tucked into it with gusto. Mindful that they must stay in role, otherwise Samantha would lose the ten thousand pounds as well as a chance to win the legacy, they chatted as two women might, thrown together in such circumstances. Rita made up a whole spiel about how she'd worked for Miss Lang for many years, and advised her many times to get rid of Walter Goodman, as he was anything but a good man.
"I'm not racist," Rita said with a slight grin, as she recalled the previous evening's conversation with Samantha, "but you can tell he's a shifty character just by looking at him. I'm sure he's been having sex with the previous pianist."
"I thought he looked rather dishy," Samantha said, giggling to herself at the very idea.
"You mark my words," Rita said. "All he's interested in is getting into someone's knickers. Just make certain he's not getting into yours."
That rather took the smirk off Samantha's face. The thought was horrifying. "No way," she said.
Just then, her headphone came to life and the voice said, "Play it again, Sam."
It didn't take much to work out what was required and Samantha started playing As Time Goes By. But she'd only played for a few seconds before there was some kind of commotion upstairs.
"Agh!"
"Are you all right, Captain?"
"Get him some water."
"Give him some air."
Rita abruptly stood up. "What's happening up there?" She raced across to the stairs. Sam was about to follow her when the voice in her ear said, "Carry on playing to the end of this piece."
It was, she realised, all part of the murder mystery game. The order to continue playing confirmed that.
She continued as the panicky conversations got louder and louder until, "I think he's dead." It suddenly went very quiet, especially as Sam had come to the end of her piece. Without any further command to play, she felt it was entirely within character to go up on deck to satisfy her curiosity.
Trevithick was lying flat on his back with everyone crowded around him so Sam could barely see.
"Call an ambulance," Tracey said.
"It's too late. Call the police," Walter said.
"Does anyone have a mobile phone?" Marguerite Lang's voice cut through the air.
There was a helpless patting of pockets and searching through handbags and a general shaking of heads.
"I tried to smuggle mine in here stuffed in my knickers," Ashley said. "But they found it and told me I'd be thrown out if I tried it again."
"If we can't ring the police from here," Marguerite Lang said, "then we must return to Seacombe immediately."
"I am sorry." Only then did Sam realise that the two deckhands had joined the group and one of them spoke in broken English. "The Captain bring us into creek. He know it well. Very difficult. We cannot take boat backwards."
For the first time, Sam glanced around. The Princess Beatrice was in a narrow creek, surrounded on all sides by overhanging trees. Behind and in front, the creek twisted away out of sight.
"It can't be that difficult, Jakob," Tony Fortescue argued. "We can all reverse cars without difficulty. Well, apart from Tracey, that is. She always manages to scrape the paintwork."
"A yacht is not the same as a car," Walter said. "The rudder only works when the propeller is thrusting forward. When you're reversing you have no steerage."
"Tide go out," Jakob said. "Here, yacht lies flat on bottom. Get stuck on mud over there, maybe yacht turn on side."
"Jakob. You must go to the police for help," Marguerite Lang directed him. "Use the dinghy." She indicated the dinghy on the davits at the stern of the yatch .
"To police?" The man sounded horrified, and glanced at his mate. It made Sam think they might be illegal immigrants. A conversation followed between the two men in some foreign language, then they appeared to reach a decision.
"OK. We go," Jakob said. He and his mate lowered the dinghy into the water. Whilst his mate held the painter ready for them to scramble in, Jakob opened a skylight above the engine room.
"Peter, Josef," he shouted down, followed by some unintelligible words. Within seconds, two more men, wearing boiler suits, hurried up from below. They ran to the stern of the yacht and started climbing into the dinghy.
"There's no need for you all to go," Marguerite Lang said. "We need to keep up a head of steam."
"No. We all go," Jakob said. "Is, necessary, er… Health and Safety." By now, he'd joined his crew mates and they cast off from the side of the yacht.
"I order you," Marguerite Lang bellowed, "to return to this boat."
"Very good, madam. When we come back." The engine on the dinghy started and, on the ebbing tide, they rapidly disappeared around the bend of the creek.
"Somehow," Ben said, "I don't think they'll be going to the police for help."
"Nor will we ever see them again," Tracey said. No one else spoke.
Chapter Three
"Which means we're stranded here with a dead body aboard," Ashley said, the hysteria bubbling into her voice.
Sam couldn't help admiring her acting abilities, if that is what they were. Was she a professional actor, or a relative of the real Marguerite Lang, hoping to gain the inheritance? If the latter, did she appreciate that Trevithick was not really dead?
Was he?
Sam had assumed it was all part of the game when she'd been told to continue playing as the drama unfolded upstairs on deck, but at the same time, she couldn't help remembering those stories where the victims were trapped in an isolated position and picked off, one by one. Perhaps she should return to the dining table and check that Trevithick wasn't really dead.
She moved back under the awning to the point where Trevithick's body lay, now respectfully covered with a tablecloth. She thought that if she quickly pulled the tablecloth off his head, she might catch him blinking. Except that, when she did so, there was no Captain there, only some cushions to pad out the tablecloth.
"Oh my God," Tracey cried, staring at the cushions. "Where's he gone?"
Which, of course, was a bit of a stupid question. He'd obviously scrambled out from beneath the tablecloth whist they'd been watching the crew sail away in the dinghy.
"Suggest that we search the ship," the voice instructed through the earpiece.
"We should search the ship," Sam said, expecting everyone to rubbish her, but in fact they all agreed that was a great idea. Presumably, they'd been instructed to agree over their earpieces. So, they split into three groups, Marguerite, Walter and Rita would return to search the rear saloon and the doors leading from it; Ben, Tracey and Jenson would thoroughly search the deck, wheelhouse and engine room; whilst Tony, Ashley and Sam would go down the steps in the foredeck to the crew's quarters. Sam had opted to go with the latter, simply because she wanted to see the other part of the yacht.
Mind, she decided she'd made the wrong decision as soon as she saw the steps down to the crew's quarters. There had been proper stairs leading to the saloon; here there was an almost vertical stepladder. Of course, smart arse Tony had to show off by almost skipping down, frontwards. Ashley took one look at it and said she would not descend; she would supervise from above, so that left Sam who somehow had to descend. There was no alternative.
"Turn around and look away," she ordered Tony, who did as she said.
Then she grasped the hem of her skirt on the opposite side to the slit and pulled it up to tuck it behind one of her suspenders. Then she turned around and carefully lowered one foot to the first step on the ladder and proceeded to climb down. When she reached the bottom, she released the hem of her dress and let it fall into place, then carefully smoothed it down.
"You can turn around now," she said, as she turned towards Tony, only to find he'd been staring at her all the time, a lecherous grin on his face
"How dare you?" she said, actually feeling rather excited that she'd made Tony feel horny, something that was quite obvious from the bulge in the front of his trousers.
"Because you are absolutely beautiful," he said, reaching towards her.
"Leave her alone, Tony," Ashley commanded from above. "Otherwise Tracey will have your guts for garters."
Reluctantly, Tony turned away and stared around the accommodation, as did Samantha. The headroom in the forward part of the yacht was much lower than at the rear, and it felt quite claustrophobic. Sam guessed it would be much worse if the yacht was at sea, with everything heaving up and down in a storm. Leading off from the saloon were cabins labelled, 'Captain' and 'Engineer', and there were several cot beds arranged around a table for the rest of the crew. At the front of the saloon was a cramped toilet and an even more cramped shower. Tony and Samantha meticulously checked out each room, and any cupboard large enough to contain Trevithick's body, including the forecastle where the sails would once have been stored, but which was now empty. Clearly, the body had disappeared, unless one of the other search teams had found it.
As they returned to the bottom of the ladder, Ashley called down, "Sorry guys. I've got to take a leak." And her face disappeared from the top of the ladder.
"That leaves the two of us alone," Tony said. "You've been wobbling those tits under my nose all evening. Let me get my hands on them."
"No way," Samantha said, adding, "Get off," as he lurched towards her and grabbed a tit in each hand. "I'm going to…"
But whatever she was threatening to do would never be heard because at that moment, the synthesised voice spoke in her ear. "You silly tart. Did you think you were employed for your musical talents? Do as he says."
Samantha's mouth gaped open. Hell! What had she got herself in to? She was half inclined to scream anyway, but the thought of the ten thousand pounds made her hesitate. In any case, these were only plastic tits and a plastic vagina. What difference did it make to her?
It certainly made it clear why the real Samantha Smith had been sought, a pianist and a prostitute, who'd be happy to do anything for the ten thousand she was being paid. But did that mean she wasn't a potential beneficiary. Sam tried to remember Rita's words on that topic and thought they'd probably been quite vague. On the other hand, the real Samantha Smith couldn't be the only piano-playing prostitute. The fact that she had been so thoroughly sought out surely meant she must be a potential beneficiary.
"It's all right," Tony said as the thoughts raced through her head. "You can shut your mouth. I don't want a blow job, just a tit fuck."
>
At least he waited for her on deck as she climbed after him, having repeated the procedure of tucking her skirt into her suspender. And so they'd walked together back to the meeting in the saloon.
Chapter Four
"So if the body is not on board," Marguerite was summing up as Tony and Samantha re-joined the group in the rear saloon, "what has happened to it?"
"Suggest someone here has thrown it overboard," the voice in her ear said.
"Someone here must have thrown it overboard," Samantha obediently said.
"Why would they do that?" Ashley asked.
"If someone had poisoned him," Walter said, "they would not want an autopsy done on the body."
"You're crazy," Ben said. "You're suggesting that one of us poisoned him. How could we do that?"
"We were all there when the dinner was served," Walter said. "It was pre-cooked and stored in large casserole dishes. Clearly, Jenson and Rita had the most opportunity to slip something into Trevithick's food, but anyone of us could have done it. We were all milling around the deck as the food was being served."
"I'll have you know I've been serving Miss Lang for twenty years," Jenson interrupted. "I have always been totally trusted. Isn't that right, Miss Lang?"
"Yes, Jenson," Marguerite said. "I trust you absolutely."
Except, Samantha realised, the real Miss Lang was dead and buried, and this was simply an actor pretending to be her.
"Since we're not going to get anywhere by accusing each other, I suggest we relax and continue our evening together." She turned to Samantha. "Let's have some music, Sam."
So Samantha walked over to the piano, sat down and started to play.
***
Accepting that Trevithick had been murdered, his body thrown overboard and the rest of the crew had abandoned them could have thrown a bit of a damper on the rest of events that evening, but knowing none of it was actually true tended to lighten the atmosphere. So, Sam played and after a while, Ben and Ashley got up to dance. After a few minutes, the other two couples joined them and things went quite well. In honesty, Sam had never played in that way to an audience and she felt it tremendously rewarding. She could understand why her father had continued his career in spite of the appalling wages. In fact, she realised, her present job was as nothing compared with the satisfaction she was getting from this, as a piano playing whore.
She played on.
***
"Why have you got those marks on your breasts?" Tracey was standing next to the piano, which meant she was looking down on Samantha. "As though someone's been squeezing them."
Tracey must have been prompted to say those words, Sam realised, since her breasts were really made of plastic; there could be no marks made from Tony's groping. "They were there all along," Samantha ad-libbed as she played. "You simply didn't notice them before."
"Play it again, Sam," the voice in her ear said, and Sam seamlessly switched tunes.
"Don't take me for an idiot," Tracey said. "Ashley came back a long time before you two." She turned to Tony. "You were fucking her, weren't you?"
"Of course not. We were searching the crew's quarters and Ashley wanted to come back to use the toilet."
"No," Ashley said. "You'd finished searching the crew's quarters and were about to come on deck, which is why I thought I could leave the two of you alone for a minute. I was amazed you hadn't returned when I came out of the toilet."
"You bastard," Tracey said. She opened her handbag, pulled out a gun, identical to the one nestling in Sam's bag, and shot Tony with a tremendous "Bang!"
Tony juddered, clutching his heart, and then collapsed on the floor.
Even though she knew it was all make believe – and a terrible plotline at that – Sam was shocked. Shocked by the suddenness of the event, shocked by the bang, but above all, shocked by the black look on Tony's face as he collapsed to the floor.
"Tracey, that was really a very silly thing to do," Marguerite said. "You must promise never to do it again. Put your gun down on the piano and leave it there. Jenson and Ben. Get rid of the evidence. Throw his body overboard; and you'd better weigh it down with something."
"Shouldn't we give him a Christian burial?" Jenson asked.
"Tony! A Christian!" Tracey said. "You must be joking."
"All the same…" Jenson said.
"You're right," Marguerite said. "Let's all go on deck and consign his body to the deep. Sam. Play the Funeral March."
As Sam played Chopin's Piano Sonata No 2, she ruminated on that look on Tony's face. That black look – almost as though he really had been killed. Ever since meeting the other contestants, she'd been trying to work out who were potential beneficiaries and who were actors, employed to fill in a part. She'd have bet anything that Tony was a beneficiary, and yet he'd been able to produce such a look of despair. Or did it mean, she wondered, that Tony was now out of the running as beneficiary of the estate? Of course. That was it. That he'd been 'killed' meant he could no longer win the inheritance. And he'd been 'killed' because he'd had 'fun' with Sam, although fun was not what Sam would have called it – more of an experience.
There was, of course, a strong likelihood that she'd be asked to perform similar actions with the other men. She could refuse to comply and risk losing not just the ten thousand pounds, but also the inheritance. Or, she could do her damndest to ensure they did fall for her charms, ensuring they too would be thrown out of the race, and she'd be left with a stronger chance for herself.
Except that having seen what happened to Tony, the men were hardly likely to make the same mistake, themselves, would they?
***
Her thoughts were brought abruptly to an end when the order came through the headset to Play it Again, Sam. She'd only played the first few bars when she heard shouting, up on deck. By now, she knew better than to try to find out what was happening, so she simply kept playing. It presumably meant that someone else was out of the competition.
She continued to play as she heard someone returning to the saloon.
"Nice tits," Walter said, reaching around her body and giving her left breast a good squeeze.
"Hi," she said, with a nice smile, wondering what was coming next.
Chapter Five
It was Rita who shot Walter, Ben and Jenson, coming down into the saloon just as they were pulling up their trousers.
"She's my friend," she yelled as she picked up the gun from where it still lay on the piano and fired it three times. Bang! Bang! Bang! Once again, Sam was terrified by the noise, and by the violence.
"And then there were four," Marguerite said, as she stepped into the saloon with Ashley.
"Four?" Sam queried, trying to get her head around the rapid decrease in numbers.
"When Tony's body was thrown overboard, tied to several weights," Rita explained, "Tracey was unfortunate enough to get caught in the line attaching the weights to his body. She was dragged under the water as well."
"But it wasn't an accident, was it, Rita?" Marguerite said. "I saw you hook the line onto her dress just as they were about to throw Tony's body into the water. I suspect you're behind all of these killings, in one way or another."
"That's rubbish," Rita said, turning the gun to aim at Marguerite, and then as Ashley moved towards her, at her as well. "Now, stand back all of you."
Just as Sam realised she was behind Rita's line of vision, the voice came into her head, "Take out the gun from your handbag and shoot Rita," it said.
Nervously – Hell! Why should she be nervous – she picked up her handbag from the floor, pulled out her cap gun and aimed it at Rita's back. With Rita 'dead' and Marguerite being a payed actor, it surely meant the running was now between herself and Ashley. All she had to do was pull the trigger, and then what? Shoot Ashley as well?
But all her life she had hated guns and the casual way in which they could end a person's life. She tried to pull the trigger but her finger wouldn't obey her command. For several seconds, Sam hesitated in a way that none of the others had. Then she aimed at the mirror, slightly to the side of Rita and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
Even the corpses on the ground gave a tremendous jump, since the noise was so much louder than all the previous shots. It was all the more terrifying because the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, bits of glass flying everywhere.
"Fuck me!" Marguerite said, staring at the mirror, and then at the gun in Sam's hand. "That was a real bullet."
"Holy shit!" Ashley said. "I'm out of here." She raced over to the steps and was up them before anyone else could move, but then the corpses were leaping to their feet and following Marguerite to the stairway. Within seconds, Sam and Rita were the only ones left in the saloon.
"Rita?" Sam asked. "Are you all right?"
Rita turned to her and said, "I'm not certain. I guess so. I certainly wasn't expecting that."
"But Rita," Sam said. "How did that happen? You gave me the cap gun and we both checked it only fired caps."
"Someone must have switched it."
Sam was about to protest, but then realised there'd been many times when she had been distracted by other things going on. It would have been easy to switch handbags whilst her attention was distracted. "But who would do that?" she eventually asked. "The solicitor who you're working for? Or one of the relatives, hoping to really eliminate one of the others from the competition?"
"I can't see old Mr Grosvenor trying to murder anyone," Rita said. "So I suppose it's most likely to be a relative. But I'm not in the running for the prize so why kill me?"
"They probably wouldn't know who I was going to be aiming at," Sam said. "Perhaps they were just hoping it would kill someone other than themselves. But then, they couldn't have known for sure that my gun wasn't going to be aimed at themselves."
"They wouldn't need to," Rita replied. "If there was any danger of them getting shot they could have simply dodged out of the way or shouted out that it was a real gun. So it could have been anyone on this boat, including the Captain and crew."
"Well I know it wasn't me," Sam said, "and it couldn't have been you since you let me fire the shot. So that cuts it down to a dozen or so. Incidentally, where has everyone gone? Are they just on deck or have they managed to disappear like the rest? I think we're safer all together with them than on our own here. Anyone could creep back downstairs and kill us."
But when they got up onto the deck, the yacht appeared deserted.
"What do we do?" Rita asked.
"We have to find them," Sam said, pacing from one end of the yacht to the other. "If they got off the boat someway then we follow them. What happened to the 'bodies' of Tony and Tracey, which were supposed to have gone overboard? Did you see them go?"
Rita shook her head. "It was just pretend. We just laid the 'bodies' on the foredeck," she said.
"Well, they must have got off the yacht some way," Sam said. "We're not that far from the sides of this creek. Perhaps there are some overhanging branches." She stared around into the trees and then gulped.
"What?" Rita asked, peering at where Sam had been looking.
"There's a noose hanging from the trees over there." Sam pointed to the stern where the noose hung down from an overhanging branch. "See it?" She walked to the stern where it hung just out of reach.
"Maybe they grabbed it and used it to swing ashore," Rita suggested, but they could both see it just wouldn't work. "Or perhaps everyone is hiding in the crew's quarters," she added. They walked back to the wheelhouse and the entrance to the crew's quarters.
"We can see most of it just by looking down the hatch," Sam said, "although I suppose there's the Captain's and Engineer's cabins, and the sail locker in the forecastle. Do you think we should check?"
"You go down as you've done it before. I'll keep check on things up here. Come running if I shout for help, and I'll do the same for you. Remember, this is no longer make-believe."
So, Sam repeated the operation with her skirt and climbed down into the crew's quarters. She meticulously checked the two cabins and the forecastle but there was no sign of any of the others, so she climbed back onto deck.
"There's no one there…" She stopped, aware that Rita was nowhere to be seen, and there was a squeaking noise coming from the stern. She ran along the deck to see Rita hanging from the noose, her hands secured behind her back by handcuffs and her legs frantically kicking out.
Chapter Six
"Rita!" she shouted, and then, "Help! Help!" at the top of her voice. She couldn't quite reach Rita's hanging body by herself, but grabbed a boathook and managed to pull her in and grasped her around her trunk and lifted her, to take the pressure off her throat. "Help! Help!" she shouted again. In this position, she was preventing Rita from being choked but she wouldn't be able to maintain it for long. "Help! Help!"
"Hang on!" someone shouted behind her. She couldn't stop a sick smile at the unsuitability of the term as she heard several pairs of feet running towards her.
"OK, we've got her," Trevithick shouted, hoisting Rita further into the air. "Jakob, cut the rope."
Jakob leapt onto the deck rail, grabbed the rope in his one hand and sliced it through with a knife held in the other. Rita was unceremoniously dumped onto the deck and Trevithick dropped down beside her, feeling for a heartbeat and listening to breathing.
"She's alive," he said. "We need to get her to hospital straight away. Peter, do we have steam?"
The engineer turned towards the engine room hatch. "There should be sufficient to get us going. Josef, get stoking."
"Standby to cast off," Trevithick said, striding toward the bridge, and the deckhands started running to bow and stern.
***
Five minutes later, they had negotiated their way out of the creek and were making their way downstream towards Seacombe. Rita was still unconscious and breathing with a horrible rasping sound. The Engineer, Peter, had fetched a pair of bolt cutters and removed the handcuffs from Rita's wrists, putting the parts into a plastic bag.
"The police will need this as evidence," he said to Sam. "I'd better go and put this somewhere safe."
He disappeared, leaving Sam alone, tending to Rita.
"Rita. Who did that to you?" Sam rhetorically asked her unconscious body.
"That's what I want to know," Trevithick said, coming up behind her. "There were only the two of you on board. We'd taken the others off a few minutes before."
"How did everybody get off the yacht?" Sam asked. "How did you get off?"
"That spot is the normal mooring for Princess Beatrice," he said. "I live in a house just next to it, although you can't see it through the trees. There's a flat-bottomed boat I use for carrying supplies to and from the yacht, pulled along on a line connected between the landing stage and a buoy tied to the bottom of the gangplank. It's easy to move several people quite silently, and we had instructions about when this would happen during the course of the evening.
"But it wasn't part of the plan," he continued, "when everyone, apart from you two, came off just now talking about a real gun being fired. I came out with my crew to find out what was going on, and found Rita hanging by the neck. So what happened?"
Sam told him how the cap gun had fired a real bullet, how she had gone below to check the crew's quarters and come back on deck to find Rita hanging. "It means there must be someone still on board," she ended.
"There is no one else on board," Trevithick said. "Everyone we know about came off, as soon as the shot had been fired. My crew have just done a thorough search of the yacht; there's only one person who could have put the noose around Rita's neck and that's you, Samantha. Do you know, I've always wanted to give this order, but I never realised it would be with such a beautiful young woman. Peter. Jakob. Lash her to the mast."
The two men appeared from nowhere. They each grabbed her by an arm and frog marched her backward to thrust her against the mast, where her hands were tied around the mast behind her.
"But I was shouting for help and trying to save her when you appeared," Sam protested.
"Or perhaps you only started doing that when you heard us arriving," Trevithick countered. "You'll have plenty of opportunity to tell your tales to the police."
"Captain. You're needed at the wheel," came a shout from forward.
"Don't go away," Trevithick said to Sam with a grin, as he turned to march forward to the wheel.
"This woman's shagged every other man on board," Peter said to Jakob, eying Sam's luscious curves. "What say we help ourselves whilst she's got nothing better to do?"
"You'll do no such thing," Rita's voice croaked. "Get away from her and leave us alone."
The two men slunk away, their tails between their legs.
"Rita," Sam said. "You're all right. Thank heavens. But who did this to you?"
"I did," Rita said, adding, "I want to die."
Seeing Sam's look of astonishment, she added, "I've been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Hell on earth is my only future. I don't want to be put through that."
"But you can't have hanged yourself," Sam said. "You were handcuffed behind your back. You can't put a noose around your neck if you're handcuffed."
Rita smiled. "I practiced that over and over, just in case the thing with the gun didn't work. First of all, I fastened the handcuffs around one wrist. Then I got a boathook and pulled the noose towards me. I had to climb onto the deck rail so it was the right height so I could slip the noose around my neck and then balance on it, whilst I snapped the handcuff onto my other wrist behind my back. Incidentally, they're the same handcuffs I gave you earlier this evening. I'm still wearing my gloves so I'm afraid the only fingerprints on the handcuffs will be yours. As I say, it all needed a lot of forethought and practice."
"But why did you go to all that bother? Why not just hang yourself in the normal way?"
"I wanted everyone to think you'd murdered me."
Sam gasped. "But why should you want people to think I murdered you? And the police want to see motive, not just opportunity." Her mind was reeling. No wonder Trevithick thought she was a murderer. She'd been set up.
Rita smiled. "The police will find their motive when they discover you inherit under my will. It's quite a lot, actually."
"But I don't know you, Rita. Why would you leave your estate to me?"
"You don't know me, but I know of you. Your mother worked for me and we became best friends, but she betrayed me. She ruined my life."
"If my mother ruined your life," Sam asked, "why would you mention me in your will?"
"So you'll be charged with my murder," Rita said. Seeing Sam was having difficulty in following, Rita elaborated. "My surname is not actually Nicholls, it's Steele. I'm Rita Steele, or Marguerite Steele, as I was christened. The actress Diana Partridge was playing the part of me in the game.
"The whole thing was a set up," Rita continued, "to implicate you in my death, and to shame you in front of the nation. Apart from the crew and myself, the rest were actors employed to take a role.
"And the really clever part," she went on, "is that when the police investigate further, they'll find that this whole thing was organised by Sam Smith."
Sam was gob-smacked. "But I never..."
"The paperwork all shows that you did," Rita said. "It took me ages to create it all."
"But what did my mother do to generate all this hatred?"
"There really was a Walter Goodman," Rita continued. "I was engaged to be married to him but your mother told me she was having an affair with him in order to destroy our relationship."
"My mother was having an affair with a black man?" The very idea of Sam's mother having an affair was crazy; that it should be with the black Walter Goodman was just beyond belief.
"Ridiculous wasn't it?" Rita said. "But I believed it at the time and it ended our engagement. How appropriate he – or at least, an actor playing his part – should have sex with you. Your mother will really hate that bit."
"So this whole charade is to destroy my mother – by destroying me – for something she did decades before."
"It's when you come to the end of your life that you realise what it might have been. Splitting up from Walter broke my heart. Oh, I've had a successful career, but I've never married, never had children or can look forward to grandchildren. All because of your mother. How fitting to destroy what she prevented me from having – her child."
"But where does Samantha Smith come into this?"
Rita laughed. "There is no real Samantha Smith. I made her up."
"But you showed me her photograph."
Rita laughed some more, rather hysterically, Sam thought. She was starting to feel worried, her arms lashed around the mast behind her meant she was totally helpless. "I showed you two doctored photographs of yourself, telling you one was the real Samantha Smith, the other was doctored. No wonder you were so similar to the other photograph; they were both of you."
"And you wanted me to be a black pianist especially because of my mother's colour prejudice?"
"Of course. All the actors are porn actors and they wore tiny cameras on their lapels. They were told to make certain they got plenty of shots of you during the action. When the police search your house, they'll find a hard drive I left hidden there yesterday, connected to the internet, which is recording everything. When your mother sees the videos in court, she'll feel totally disgraced by you. Your incarceration and public humiliation will put the lid on my revenge."
"Except that you're not dead," Sam said. "There won't be a police search or a court case."
"I'm not dead, yet," Rita corrected, walking quickly over to her. "Don't yell out," she hissed, suddenly holding Jakob's knife to Sam's throat. "I really don't want to kill you."
She stepped behind Sam, yanked her one arm backwards, and pushed the other shoulder sideways so Sam fell to one knee. Then the knife was at her throat again.
"Then what?" Sam asked.
"I think this is called a belaying pin," she said, lifting one of the heavy metal pins used for securing ropes to the mast. She slipped it into her apron pocket. "That will prevent me from floating after you've slashed my wrists and thrown me overboard."
"But I'm tied to the mast," Sam said. "I can't attack you."
Another manic grin. "I hadn't forgotten. Enjoy your days in court. Goodbye."
She sliced through the ropes securing Sam's hands, and as Sam struggled to stand up and stop her, she quickly walked to the side of the yacht, holding the knife against her wrist.
"No blood on my teak decks," Trevithick said, appearing from behind the deckhouse, grabbing her wrist and twisting the knife from her. Unfortunately, he concentrated more on the knife than on her, and she slipped from his grip and flipped herself over the deck rail to drop with a horrible splash into the water.
"Man overboard!" Trevithick shouted.
Chapter Seven
The search for her body went on for hours, and it involved a rescue helicopter, and inshore lifeboat, as well as numerous police officers combing the shoreline. The eventual perceived wisdom of the rescuers was that the belaying pin was heavy enough to keep her submerged, but not heavy enough to pin her to the bottom, so she would drift up and down river with the tidal flow. Finally, it was decided to postpone the search until first light, and the Princess Beatrice headed downstream towards Seacombe, and a police reception.
"There's something you should know," Trevithick said to Sam as they stood on the bridge, continuing to peer into the dark waters with the aid of a spotlight. "This whole thing was set up for your benefit. We were only playing a part when we were in your company. When we were on deck, for example, and you were below, there was no pretence, except that we made conversation so it sounded realistic if you heard it below."
Sam nodded. "I guess that all stacks up."
"That's what made me so suspicious about Rita's involvement. We'd been told that you were paying for it all but clearly, you had no idea what was going on. So when I saw that she was feigning unconsciousness when she was lying on the deck, I contrived a reason for you to be left on your own with her. Peter and I listened to every word the two of you said."
"Every word?" Sam was trying to remember how much of his past life situation Rita had talked about.
"It's the sort of thing which will do no one any good if it comes out," Trevithick said. "I've been speaking with Edward Grosvenor on the phone."
"Edward Grosvenor?" The name sounded familiar but Sam couldn't quite place it.
"He's the senior partner in Grosvenor and Steele," Trevithick said. "They're the most expensive solicitors in Seacombe. Rita was a partner."
"So Rita was a solicitor," Sam said, the surprise obvious in his voice.
"Yes." He nodded. "And a very well-respected one, too. Until recently, when Edward has become rather worried about her. Her behaviour had become very erratic. When I told him what had happened, he wasn't at all surprised."
"So how much does he know?" Sam asked.
"Very little," Trevithick said. "He knows she tried to hang herself and that she threw herself overboard, but when I started to tell him about what I overheard when Rita was talking to you, he shut me up. Said it would be better if you'd been playing the piano all evening and didn't witness anything. So that's the line you should take with the police when they start asking questions. We'll field all the questions and you saw and heard nothing. OK?"
"Oh, yes." Even without a murder charge, there was incredible embarrassment looming if the events of the evening became public knowledge.
"Right, I suggest you go down to the stateroom off the salon and get some shuteye, before the police come. Hopefully, they won't see the need to wake you, but if they do, you say nothing. Right?"
Sam nodded, suddenly aware she was incredibly tired.
***
"Thank you for coming into the office," Edward Grosvenor said, smiling at Sam.
Fortunately, Trevithick had sent one of the crew to recover her stuff from the Grand Hotel, so she was wearing the jeans, tee shirt and jacket she had travelled to Seacombe in, thirty-six hours earlier, rather than the Jessica Rabbit dress. "Would you like tea or coffee?"
Sam asked for tea and he picked up his phone and asked someone to make it. It was hot in the office and Sam slipped off her jacket and was stretching it over the back of the chair as Grosvenor turned back to her.
"Tea will be with us in just a few…"
Sam looked up to see what had stopped him in mid flow, only to see him staring at Sam's chest. A glance down at two huge, wobbling, black breasts, nipples clearly visible, beneath her tee shirt reminded her of the differences between men and women.
"I'm sorry," she blustered. "I don't know what I was thinking of. I'll put my jacket back on."
"I think it would probably be better," Grosvenor admitted. "I, of course, appreciate your medical condition but my staff are not aware of that."
"My medical condition?" Sam was puzzled.
"Ah, perhaps that was not suitable wording. I meant, of course, that I appreciate that you are transgender."
"But I'm not," Sam protested. "At least, I wasn't until Rita visited me the evening before last, and I don't think that agreeing to dress up as someone else for an evening's murder mystery actually qualifies me as transgender."
"No," Grosvenor gasped, having far too much experience to let his mouth drop open. "No, of course not, but… That's not what Ms Steele told me."
"What did she tell you and why were you discussing me?"
"Ms Steele was remaking her will and she wanted you to be the main legatee. She told me you were…" He stopped speaking as a knock sounded on the door and his assistant brought in the tea and coffee, and served them both. Only when she had withdrawn did he continue.
"She told me you were the son of her best friend from many years ago and you were transgendered. You'd tried to keep it secret, which was causing you great distress. She wanted her inheritance to help you overcome your inhibitions, so I agreed to administer a trust into which her money would be paid on her death. You would be the sole beneficiary, provided you lived the life of a woman."
"Bugger me!" Sam said.
"I don't think that would be essential under the will," Grosvenor said, with a wry smile, "but you would need to dress and regularly perform in the personae of the black jazz pianist whom, she told me, you really wish to be."
"But that's not…"
"Stop!" Grosvenor said, holding up his hand to emphasise his single word. "I think it better if I summarise the situation. First of all, it appears that my client, Ms Marguerite Steele is deceased. I don't yet know that as a fact, but I know Captain Trevithick well and have no reason to doubt his words.
"Secondly, her will was properly drawn up and witnessed. It pays the bulk of her estate into a trust fund, of which you are the main beneficiary, in order to allow you to live the life of a black female pianist. Naturally, there is a standby, so that if for any reason, you could not or did not wish to do so, then the money would go elsewhere, in this case to a number of charities."
Grosvenor stared Sam in the eye. "So if and when my client is confirmed dead, I will be asking you whether you wish to be the recipient of Ms Steele's trust fund. If the answer is yes, then I will arrange a substantial regular income for you and I will need to make occasional checks that you are doing as Ms Steele stipulated. If your answer is no, then your involvement ends there and I will transfer the money to the charities. Do I make myself clear?"
Sam nodded. "Yes, I think you've made it very clear, indeed."
Just then, a knock on the door interrupted their discussion and a tearful clerk entered to say that a body, believed to be that of Ms Steele, had been found.
Chapter Eight
It was two weeks later. Marguerite Steele had been cremated that day, and in memory of her, the Princess Beatrice sailed upstream from Seacombe and a wreath was thrown overboard at the point where she had jumped in. Captain Trevithick and his crew, none of whom, it turned out, were illegal immigrants, were looking very smart as they lined by the rail whilst Edward Grosvenor said a few words about his colleague. None of the porn actors involved could be traced, but as the wreath was despatched overboard, the notes of As Time Goes By were played on the piano in the saloon.
Samantha Smith again wore her Jessica Rabbit dress, and she smiled as she stared down at her black hands caressing the piano keys. She had gone yesterday to Big Busts, and they had topped up her spray tan, and replaced the adhesive securing her Bustlet and Hiplet.
She had already started performing as pianist in a nightclub two nights a week. It didn't pay well but she got tips, and she thought she would get more if she bought several dresses in a similar vein to her Jessica Rabbit dress, which seemed very popular.
Not that she had to worry about money. She'd resigned from her old job and was now living in Rita's old house.
The most difficult thing had been telling her mother that, under the terms of Rita's will, she had to adopt the character of a black female pianist. She had telephoned her first.
"Hi Mum. It's me."
"Hello love. Haven't heard from you for a while."
"Mum. Do you remember someone called Rita Steele?"
"Rita. She was my best friend a long time ago."
"She made contact with me last week."
"Oh. What's she been saying about me?"
"Mum, I'm sorry to tell you that Rita died on Friday."
"Rita... Oh God! We had some fantastic times together. What did she die of?"
"Mum. I think I'd better come to see you to talk about it."
"That would be great, love. When can you come?"
"Tomorrow? But I need to explain something first. You see Rita tricked me into playing a part in a stupid murder mystery game. I had to wear a disguise."
"What disguise?"
"You'd better prepare yourself, Mum. She made me take the part of a black woman. And, well, the problem is that I'm stuck in this gear for a couple of weeks."
Sam waited for the hysterical outbreak. Instead he heard her laugh. "You're dressed as a black woman?"
"Yes."
"This I have to see. What time will you be here?"
***
"I'm not surprised that Rita would set you up like that," her mum had said after she'd told her a carefully edited version of events. "I really pulled a terrible trick on her."
"Do you want to talk about it, Mum?" She was dying to get her mother's side of events.
Her mum hesitated. "I'm not certain, but I suppose it's only right that you should know. I've kept the secret for too long."
For some reason, Sam's heart missed a beat. "Secret?"
She smiled. "Do you know, if you were still Sam, I think I'd have gone to my grave with it still a secret, but now you're Samantha, and black at that, you remind me so much of your father."
Sam shook her head. "What? How can I remind you of Dad when I'm ebony black."
She took a deep breath and dropped her bombshell. "Dad wasn't your biological father. Oh he thought he was, but I'm afraid I was two-timing him. There was this guy called Walter Goodman and he'd asked Rita to marry him. He was an attractive rogue and occasionaly he and I had a little fun together.
"I realised quite early on," she continued, "that I was pregnant. Unfortunately, when I told Walter, he disappeared like a shot, leaving me to explain things to Rita. And since Walter wasn't going to marry me, I took your father to bed and a month later told him I was pregnant. We were married one month after that."
"But I might have been born black."
"That was a risk I had to take, but it didn't happen so we three had a happy family life."
"But Mum, you hate black people. How could you have sex with one?"
"I know it was unfair but it was Walter's actions which turned me. And I think your dad always had his suspicions about Walter, which explained his feelings, as well. I know, it's a whole race condemned on the actions of one man, but I've got my come-uppance, now. I'm going to have to love a black person again."
"Then it's all for the better, Mum."
She suddenly smiled. "What I think is all for the better is that you've finally come out about your gender dysphoria."
There was as silence which stretched on and on.
"What do you mean, Mum? I have to become a female in order to satisfy the terms of Rita's will."
"I knew you were secretly dressing in my clothes when you were about eleven. I really didn't know what to do. Rita and I still occasionally chatted after our mammoth bust up, and I told her all about you. I thought it might blow over, but of course, it never has, and look at you now."
She reached over and held Sam's hand. "Samantha, I'm so glad you've become the woman you want to be. Love you."
Will Chase SOASN 1
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He'd lifted her boobs out of her bra cups and was squeezing them mercilessly. Even though the Sensotouch was turned low, it was hurting quite a lot. "Sit on that bunk, and make it good."
He was pulling her breasts hard downwards and she was forced to sit down on the bunk. She grimaced, uncertain how to proceed. She guessed undoing his belt and pulling down his trousers would be a start. From the way his underpants were ballooning out, it looked as though Tony had rather a whopper in there. After pulling down his underpants, she realised that was a massive understatement. It was enormous, the blue veins protruding around the shaft, topped by a glistening purple head. Thank heavens, she thought, that he wasn't thinking of putting it inside her. She knew her Hiplet had a built in vagina but it could never accommodate a monster of that size.
It was really strange seeing a penis from the business end; a penis made erect due to the sexiness of Sam's body, and after a second she realised it was rather arousing that she could do that to a man. Strange! She'd never looked at a man sexually before, but since she was playing the part of a woman, perhaps she was entering into the spirit. This was not being gay, it was simply paying the part of a heterosexual woman.
It took rather more adjustment of her body position than a professional of her talents normally would, but Tony didn't seem to mind too much, in fact, he even started smirking at her incompetence. Eventually, she could clasp both her breasts and squeeze them around his giant cock, and rub them up and down his length. As she watched the penis disappearing and reappearing between her breasts, she found it even more arousing.
"Come on," Tony gasped. "We haven't got all day. Faster. Faster."
So she put her back – and everything else – into it, jerking up and down Tony's cock until the sweat was pouring off her. Except, of course, she couldn't sweat beneath her Bustlet or Hiplet; it was all coming out around her tummy and on her arms and legs. And the faster she got, the harder his cock seemed to get, and the blue veins stood out in a more obnoxious way. And the more obnoxious it looked, the more arousing she found it.
That arousal entirely disappeared as he started squirting semen under her chin. Yuk! How abhorrent. There were bucket loads of it. She thought she was going to drown in the stuff, but fortunately, he was already turning away.
"Come on," he repeated walking over to the ladder without a glance behind him as he zipped up his flies. "Get a move on."
Fortunately, she found a pack of wet wipes in her bag and she managed to clean most of it away as Tony disappeared up the ladder.
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Will Chase SOASN 2
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"You know," Walter said, "you are one hell of a beauty."
"Thank you." She seamlessly switched to playing another melody.
"You've been flaunting your body at me ever since you saw me."
She grinned at him. "Is that so?"
"Yep."
If she was going to ensure Walter was thrown out of the competition, she would have to encourage him. "So what are you going to do about it?"
His arms encircled her waist and he lifted her up off the stool and swept it to one side. Admittedly, she assisted him in that operation as otherwise he might not only have dropped her, but caused her to mis-key. Her standing stance meant she had to bend over to reach the piano keyboard, an opportunity too good for Walter to miss. He reached around to the slit in her dress, and suddenly flipped the hem up and over her bum. She felt the cool air wafting around her panties, but not for long, as his fingers were probing the gusset and then moving it aside.
"That's one hell of a tight little pussy," he said, exploring with his fingers.
"Maybe it's because it's my first time with a man," Sam said, quite truthfully.
"Yeah, and pigs might fly."
She could hear him undoing his zip and fumbling with his underpants, then he was resting something against her slit, something that felt rather large and very hard.
"I think you're too big for me… Oh shit! You are too big. Stop. Stop this minute. You are really hurting me."
"You've stopped playing," Walter observed as he proceeded to slide what felt like a pick axe handle inside her vagina.
And it wasn't even a real vagina, Sam thought, just a pretend one with this damned Sensotouch. Somehow, she got her hands onto the keyboard again and stared playing. Damn! Why was she playing Oomp-Pa music; a rhythm which Walter immediately took up as he slid in and out of her vagina. Actually, she thought as he settled into a nice pace, it wasn't too bad. In fact, she realised, it was bloody enjoyable being rogered by a man who seemed to be considerate about her feelings, a man who wanted her to enjoy the moment.
"Do you mind if I join in?"
It wasn't so much a question as a statement of intent, for no sooner had she half-turned to see Ben standing directly next to her, his large cock just inches from her face, than he grabbed her head and pulled it violently forward, whilst at the same time, thrusting his cock into her mouth.
"Enjoy it, slut." The words in her ear were unnecessary as Sam was just starting the most fantastic orgasm she could ever remember.
***
Walter had just come down from his orgasm when Sam heard yet another voice, "Step aside old boy, and let someone have a go at unexplored territory."
It was Jenson, Sam realised, trying to prevent herself from throwing up as Ben's cock thrust against the back of her mouth. She was trying to work out exactly which part of her body could count as unexplored, when she felt him grasping her hips and something nuzzling against her back passage. Something which felt very large indeed.
"Nnn!" she tried to protest, but the voice in her ear said, "Don't you know, its rude to talk with your mouth full?"
Sam sighed. In for a penny, in for ten thousand pounds, and maybe in for a few million. She tried to relax and think of England.
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The Witches of Eastcombe
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Synopsis: The three sisters had revelled in sex since their teens. The problem was their men had gone, and all the decent unattached blokes looked at younger women. It seemed to be Rupert's lucky day when a Cher lookalike invited him to a remake of a classic video. Except sometimes things don't work out exactly as everyone expects.
by Charlotte Dickles
"Do you remember that orgy we had at Peter Berry's," Emma conversationally said over lunch to her two sisters, Sally and Jill.
Sally grinned. "I seem to recall it was only intended to be a party. It was you accepting that bet to strip naked and have sex with Peter on the dining table that made it interesting. Dirty little slut."
"Yes, but Sally," Jill joined in with her characteristic smirk. "It was you who said you could make a sandwich between those two guys from Chelsea. I thought that was dirty."
"There's a pot calling the kettle black," Sally told Emma, her grin getting even wider. "Jill not only had her sandwich, she also had guys squirting mayonnaise into every orifice she had. It must have really cleaned the wax out of her ears."
"The ears weren't the problem," Jill admitted. "But Peter didn't have a shower in his flat and it was all so sticky it took ages to wash it out of my hair. I think there must have been ten different flavours in there."
They mutually smirked at each other over a shared reminiscence.
"It would be good to do it again," Emma said.
"Grow up," Jill said. "We were in our teens, then."
"Growing up and getting older doesn't stop you enjoying sex," Sally said.
"How would you know?" Jill said. "It's been far too long since we all lost our blokes." She and Sally were widows ("Shagged to death," the village said) and Emma's husband had left her to join a life of celibacy at a monastery.
"There's still the cucumber," Emma said with another smirk.
For some reason, Jill stopped eating the sandwich Emma had prepared for them - tuna and cucumber.
"Emma," she said. "You wouldn't... would you?"
Emma's smirk grew wider. "Re-use and recycle. It's all the rage now."
"Oh that's disgusting," Jill said, putting down her sandwich.
"At least I skinned it before I put it in the sandwich," Emma said, with a twinkle in her eye.
"Yuk!" Jill said. She became aware that Sally was continuing to eat. "Didn't you hear what she's just said, Sally? The cucumber has been up her pussy."
"I think Emma's right," Sally said. "Re-use and recycle, and it's far better to re-use a thing twice rather than once. You should remember, it's always me that gets in the shopping every week."
Jill's mouth dropped open. "You mean it's been up your pussy too! That is gross."
"It doesn't feel gross to us, does it Emma?" Sally said with a smirk. "We think it's rather divine."
"Yuk!" from Jill.
"Sally," Emma said. "When you said you got in the shopping every week, you didn't mean that... well, you and the cucumber? Every week?"
"Regular as clockwork," Sally said.
"But," Emma said, "it's only this week that I used it and then skinned it before I put it in the sandwich."
"That's OK," Sally said. "I always rinse it under the tap."
"Ugh! Puke!"
"Excuse me while I throw up," Jill said.
"Still, as I said," Emma said, "it would be nice if we didn't have to rely solely on the cucumbers. I really feel like a good fucking."
"Don't we all," Jill said. "But you know what the man position in Eastcombe is like. This is too small a village for cosmopolitan women like us. All the nice guys are in stable relationships, and we've always made it a rule not to break up a relationship."
"There are those randy young students in Mrs Cox's bedsits."
"They're all on vacation now," Sally said. "In any case, young guys don't even look at us anymore. If we actually got to the state of being naked in front of them, they'd run away. It's the sagging tits that really put them off."
"I thought it was your walnut-like skin," Jill said.
"Bitch," Sally said, without rancour.
"I had an idea," Emma said.
Jill and Sally turned to stare at her. "We're listening," Sally said.
"You're right that young men wouldn't look at us as we are now," Emma said, "but just suppose we could turn into drop-dead gorgeous, sexy bombshells?"
They both groaned.
"Yeah. Right," from Sally.
"I've just seen a flying pig," from Jill.
"No really," Emma said. "Hear me out. Do you remember when the twins were here last week and I took them on the train into Seacombe and got those head and shoulder busts made? They were really pleased with them."
"Is there a point to this?" Sally asked.
"The point is," Emma continued, "I saw Sue - 'Dolly Parton' - Brooks on the train, and she got off ahead of us. We'd been in the bust shop for about fifteen minutes - it takes ages to get the 3D images made - and then Dolly appeared from a back room. I'll swear her tits had grown even bigger."
"You're right," Jill said. "Her tits have grown larger recently. I wonder what she's on."
"The question you should be asking," Emma said, "is what's on her? Those tits are completely false."
"Well of course she's had the surgery," Sally said, "but that doesn't..."
"She hasn't had surgery," Emma interrupted. "I didn't think anything of it at the time, but afterwards I realised it was too much of a coincidence that the bust shop is called Big Busts, and Dolly came out sprouting an even larger pair of tits than ever. I went back there today and asked them what they could do about my bust. The answer was staggering."
"Go on," Jill said.
"They showed me this thing called a Bustlet. It's like a skin coloured vest, complete with lovely firm tits built into it. You can choose whatever size you want - they even have a model you can inflate with water, and adjust the size up and down depending upon how big you want to be."
The other two looked sceptical. "You're telling us," Sally said, "that Dolly Brooks is wearing one of these Bustlets, and that's why she has such perfect tits?"
"Exactly."
Jill shook her head. "No way. Remember I saw her at the garden fete when she bent over to pick up the hoopla, and her left tit fell out. There's no way that was false. At least five blokes jerked off on the spot, so obviously they didn't think so."
"False," Emma said.
"Even if that were true," Sally said, "I'm not certain it would help us pull any blokes. You've already remarked that it's our wrinkled skin that's the real problem. You don't get to look like a twenty-two-year-old virgin again simply by having a breast job. We'd need new faces, and every other bit of body."
"They make all over body suits," Emma said. "They use the same technology they use in the head and shoulder bust to ensure the face mask fits perfectly, with just a little padding in the right places so you look completely different. Depending upon the basic shape of your face, they can even make you look like a famous film star or model."
"This sounds like total rubbish," Jill said.
"They can even give you a tight cunt," Emma continued.
"Now I know you're talking rubbish," Sally said.
"I've seen the suits for myself," Emma said. "They work. They're not cheap, but I reckon they're a snip compared to the amount Michael Jackson spent on plastic surgery. And nothing can go wrong. They guarantee the result."
"It sounds too good to be true," Sally said. "Could they really make me look as good as I used to?"
"Far better," Emma said. "We'll have to go in there and have some 3D holographic photos taken, and they will then design the suit. As I say, it's not cheap." She named the price which made them all gasp slightly.
"But if it really worked..." Jill said, "I'd pay ten times that price."
"A hundred times," Sally said.
"Shall we give it a go?" Jill said.
"Let's," Sally said.
"It would be helpful when we went in if we had some idea of whom we wanted to look like," Emma said. "Victoria Beckham, Jordan - even someone like Marilyn Monroe. Anything is possible, depending upon the basic shape of our faces."
"There is another question we haven't answered," Jill said. "Which bloke are we going to try these on? There's hardly a surfeit of blokes in the village at the moment."
Sally said: "You know Rupert who works at Mr Patel's minimarket and lives with his mother near the church hall?"
"Rupert!" both Emma and Jill repeated in unison.
"I met him in the video shop last Wednesday."
***
"Hello, Rupert."
Rupert had left his mother at home watching Coronation Street, knowing that nothing would shift her from her TV seat for the next thirty minutes. The same went for every one of his mother's friends - in fact, anyone who might report back to his mother that he'd been hiring porn movies from the video shop. OK, so he was twenty-nine years old, but he still got incredibly embarrassed at the very thought of his mother finding out.
But it appeared his entire strategy had failed. From the voice, he couldn't quite place exactly which of his mother's friends she was, but he knew he was doomed. In the vain hope of concealing the porn, he pulled a video at random from the shelf and put it on top of the three others in his hand, as he turned to face the voice.
"Hello." His voice lifted slightly as he recognised her. "Mrs White," he added. Phew, he might get away with this. His mother hated her, and called her and her sisters the Witches of Eastcombe.
"I've told you before," she said. "Call me Sally."
She had a way of looking directly into his face that, had she been a younger woman, he'd have found highly erotic - almost a sexual challenge. As it was, he could never work out exactly how old Sally and her sisters were. His senses indicated they must be even older than his mother, although it was difficult to tell with her well-fitting clothes and expertly applied make-up. But the way she spoke to him, it was as though she was his own age - almost flirting with him.
"I was just picking up some videos for mother," Rupert said, self consciously holding up his bundle of videos, noting with absolute surprise the sheer coincidence that the video he'd randomly picked and put on top of his pile was The Witches of Eastwick.
"Gosh," Sally said. "I'm surprised at your mother's taste in videos."
She nodded downwards, and he could see a picture of a naked woman on the spine of one of the others. He could feel himself starting to blush.
"That rather looks like Jill on that spine," Sally said. "Do you mind?"
Without waiting for an answer, she reached forward and plucked the four videos from his hand and leafed through them, immediately discarding the Witches of Eastwick.
"It is, as well," Sally said, delight in her voice. "Look, there are the three of us."
She held up the front cover of the video for his inspection and he stared at the three beautiful, young, naked women giving him a cheerful wave. They looked vaguely familiar, and as her words sank in, he stared first at her face, then back at the girl on the left of the video cover, then back at Sally again.
"It's... It's you," he gasped.
"Too right," Sally said, "but that video was made a few years ago." She was already regretting her actions - indeed she'd only done it to overcome Rupert's embarrassment and the blush she could see commencing around his neck. But now he only had to look at the copyright date to work out how old they really were. Still, she couldn't undo her actions, so she might as well go through with it.
"We're in this one as well," she brightly said, showing him three girls hidden by black leather masks and bondage gear, causing Rupert's mouth to sag even lower.
"I'm glad your mother likes these," she added. "I thought she might be a bit of a prude. Still I'll ask her how she enjoyed them the next time I see her."
"No!" Rupert was quite clear about that. It was time to come clean. "Actually, these videos are for me."
"Right," Sally said. "I'm glad you have healthy thoughts."
She had thumbed through to the Witches of Eastwick again. "I bet this is for your mother," she said. "She always calls us the Witches of Eastcombe, you know." She gave him another of those frank stares, and once again he started to blush at her accurate knowledge. "It's alright, I'll keep quiet about the others, but just wait until I ask her if she enjoyed this film."
"No!" he blurted out. His mother didn't even know he was in the video shop. "That's for me as well. I really love the Witches of Eastwick."
"Oh right," Sally said, wondering whether she might look just a little like Cher, and then dismissing the idea.
***
"So Rupert not only has red blood running through his veins," Jill said, "he also fancies the Witches of Eastwick."
"I'd always imagined he must be gay," Emma said. "I mean, I've never seen him with a girl, and only occasionally with a bloke - and they were always his old school friends."
"I think he just doesn't socialise very well," Sally said. "As such, he is ripe for plucking."
"But only by three beautiful woman who look just like the Witches of Eastwick," Emma said.
***
"Oh Rupert, I'm glad I bumped into you," Sally said. (In fact, she had been into the minimarket twice already that day, hoping to "accidentally" bump into him.)
"Oh, er, hallo, er, Sally." After seeing her on the video he could hardly look her in the face - but then looking anywhere else on her body was just as bad, as he could immediately visualise the incredible uses to which she had put each and every part of it. When he looked at her face, he could remember that huge cock sliding in and out of her mouth. It was a wonder she could open her mouth that wide, and how she managed to take so much in was...
"I was hoping you could help me, Rupert."
"Help?" His voice rose almost to a shriek, and his simple response sounded as though he was calling out for help.
"It was one of those coincidences," Sally was saying. "On Wednesday, I met you borrowing that Witches of Eastwick video, and then yesterday one of our friends rang up who's doing a remake of the Witches' video, and she wanted to come over and get some help from us. I immediately thought of you, because you said how much you enjoyed it."
"Well, I'm not really an expert on it," he said. Hell, he thought, I haven't even watched the bloody video yet.
"No but I'm sure you know far more than any of us about it. I presume Saturday afternoon will be alright with you, since you get the weekend off from here, and your mother will be at the WI fete, won't she?"
"Er, yes." How did Sally know all that?
"That's great then. I'll pick you up about two?"
"What? When I said yes, I meant..."
"I can pick you up either from your home, but if you're helping your mother at the fete, I could come across to the church hall, if that's more convenient? It will be good to have a nice chat with her."
"No!"
"Well don't worry," Sally said. "I'll come and find you wherever you are. See you at two o'clock on Saturday. Bye."
And she had gone.
***
"Hello. You must be Rupert?"
He had realised that running away had not been an option, since if he wasn't at home, then Sally would go around to the church hall and talk to his mother. Who knows what she might reveal. It was now just before two pm on Saturday and he had promised his mother (with his fingers crossed) that he would be down to help her at her WI stall later on. When the doorbell had rung, the fluttering butterflies in his stomach did somersaults; he wasn't certain whether it was because he was pleased or not. Certainly he was terrified.
But it wasn't Sally standing on his doorstep, but Cher, wearing a sexy, silk dress that was so thin, he could see the outline of her nipples pushing out the material!
"Cher?" he queried with a gasp.
Cher gave him a wonderful smile, and said in a Birmingham accent, "Well I'm not really Cher but they got me in as a Cher lookalike for the video. You certainly do wonders for my self-confidence. Do you think I pass?" Even to her, the Birmingham accent sounded overdone, but it appeared to fool Rupert.
"Oh yes," he said. "You look so similar to her."
"Great," she smiled at him, and started walking away from the house and towards a car by the gate. She gesticulated with her head for him to follow.
He hurriedly slammed the front door and did so. As he got inside the car, he added, "Your voice is a bit different though."
"That's no problem," Cher said, starting the engine and driving off. "They always dub in the sounds afterwards."
"I didn't realise that," Rupert said. "It must make it all quite difficult."
"Not really," Cher said. "There usually aren't too many spoken words, just kind of grunts and gasps - you know the kind of thing."
"Oh," Rupert said, suddenly gaining an idea of the type of video that the remake of the Witches of Eastwick was going to be.
"Incidentally, you'd better call me Alex," Cher said.
"What?"
"Alex. That was Cher's character in the film. Obviously, if they're going to dub in the speech later, your mouth needs to be saying Alex - not Cher."
"You mean they're filming today?" He hesitated a second, as the full implications sank in. "And I'm going to be in the film?"
It had been only a couple of minutes drive, and already the car was stopping in the driveway of the three witches' house.
"Just rehearsals today," Cher said as she switched off the engine. Then she abruptly put her hand across and pulled his head towards her, and leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips. Her other hand dropped to his inner thigh, and then traced a path up to his suddenly rock-hard cock.
"Is that a problem?" she asked.
He was unable to speak. He simply shook his head.
"That's fine then," Cher said. "Let's go round and get on with the rehearsal."
***
Emma, Jill and Sally had been absolutely delighted with their bodysuits. They'd had to go to Big Busts and spend hours getting the 3D photos taken, followed by a long discussion about how their particular body and facial shapes could be modified to most closely replicate the three witches of Eastwick. When they had gone back a few days later for their fitting, they had all been deliberately keeping their expectations low.
The suits were in two parts: a pair of leggings complete with feet and toes - even toenails - and a leotard top, with built in face mask and wig, arms, hands and fingernails. They had been given careful instructions about how to put them on, ensuring in particular that the eyes carefully matched up with the eyeholes in the suit. There was a gel they had to use to ensure they didn't sweat too much inside the suit, and there were two types - a green gel for everyday use when they were wearing the bodysuits for a few hours at a time; and a red gel for prolonged use of about two weeks.
So that first time, under the expert tutelage, they had got suited up and then looked in the mirror - and gasped with amazement.
In fact, Sally had come out perfectly as Cher, whilst Emma and Jill as Susan Sarandon and Michelle Pfeiffer were not such perfect matches, but who cared? They all looked pretty drop-dead gorgeous, and there couldn't be any red-bloodied male who would refuse a piece of action with those beauties - especially all three at once!
Rupert certainly did not. Under their expert guidance, he performed superbly - at least for his first three orgasms. After that, he had a slight problem in getting his erection to return, but Big Busts had thoughtfully provided a lifelike penis and balls into which his tackle fitted, and after that he had no problem at all in giving the girls what they wanted, which he continued to do for many happy hours for all concerned.
***
It was about two pm on Sunday afternoon when their doorbell rang. Susan Sarandon went to answer it, slipping on her little silk dress before she did so, which had the effect of making her look even sexier than when she was naked.
"Good afternoon, madam..." The police constable stood there transfixed by the sight which met his eyes of a very beautiful woman, clearly wearing absolutely nothing beneath the thin dress.
"Good afternoon officer. And a very nice afternoon it is for it, too."
Gulp. "Yes madam." Another gulp before he got himself under control. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but we've had a report of a missing person - a Mr Rupert Gilbert. Someone said they had seen him getting into a car belonging to one of the ladies who lives here."
"That's right, officer. Rupert is here but he's a bit tied up at the moment. Do you want to come in and speak to him?"
He smiled. Well, he couldn't help smiling actually. This woman looked a lot like that actress who was in that Desperately Seeking Susan film. "If that's convenient. My name's PC Richard Bull."
Her eyes flicked briefly downwards before she grinned and said, "I thought it would be something like that. Come on in."
He thought he might be in with a chance with this Susan Sarandon lookalike, but he was totally unprepared to find Cher kneeling naked on the dining table, clearly in the throes of an orgasm. There was another naked woman who looked a bit like Michelle Pfeifer who was also writhing on top of... There was a bloke underneath, his hands and feet tied so he was spread-eagled on top of the dining table. Lucky guy!
"Rupert," Susan Sarandon said, "this police officer wants to talk to you."
Michelle looked a bit grumpy, and moved herself off the man's head so he could look at the police officer.
PC Bull noisily cleared his throat. "Sorry to disturb you sir. Are you Rupert Gilbert?"
"That's right, officer. Is there a problem?"
"Your mother reported you missing sir."
"Tell her to go and get fucked," Rupert said. "That's what I did, and it's wonderful."
"I'll let her know you're safe and well," PC Bull said.
"I'll show you out," Susan said, and then added, as she led the way to the door, "What time do you get off duty?"
"Eight pm," he said.
"Then why don't you come back then to check that Mr Gilbert is still alright?" Her wink was barely perceptible, but then, it didn't have to be.
"Right," he said. "I'll do that. In the meantime, I had better report him safe; otherwise his mother will call out the Armed Response Unit."
***
As Susan, aka Emma, returned to the lounge, the three others were just in the throes of a tremendous climax, and she patiently waited until they all came down from the ceiling.
"I don't know about you three," she said, "but I am well and truly fucked. I could do with a bit of rest and relaxation now. Anyone for a tuna and cucumber sandwich?"
By mutual consent, they all agreed on a halt, although only Rupert wanted a sandwich, which he hungrily ate.
"Is there any chance of me taking a shower?" he asked afterwards.
"Of course," Cher replied, and gave him directions to the bathroom.
When he had gone, Susan filled in the other two on PC Bull's intended return. "It's Bull by name and absolutely massive bull by nature," she said with a grin. "I have never seen such a magnificent bulge hanging down a trouser leg."
"Yum-yum," Michelle said, "I'm really looking forward to a night with his cock inside me."
"Me to," Cher said.
"Don't forget, I'm first," Susan said, then she looked up and said, "Hello Rupert. Could you not find the bathroom?"
The other two turned to smile at Rupert, who stood in the doorway.
"I was looking for a clean towel," he said.
"No problem," Susan said. "I'll come and find you one."
After Susan had gone upstairs with Rupert, Cher asked Michelle, "How are you getting on with the bodysuit?"
"It's fantastic, isn't it," Michelle replied. "I can't believe I look a completely new woman."
"It's certainly that," Cher agreed, "but I'm finding it a bit uncomfortable. I've taken it off a couple of times over the last twenty-four hours, and replaced the green gel stuff, but that only seems to provide a temporary relief before I'm wringing wet with sweat again."
"Perhaps you should try the red gel," Michelle said.
"But it means I'd be stuck in it for two weeks."
Michelle shrugged. "Is it a problem if you look like an incredibly beautiful young woman for two weeks?"
Cher smiled. "Put like that, I guess not. I'll give it a go."
Susan returned then and joined in the conversation.
"Poor Rupert, did you see his face when he caught us talking just now about PC Bull. I'm sure he thought we were talking about him."
"Well I think we've given him a very good grounding in his sexual education," Michelle said.
"But I do think he's had enough for the time being," Cher said. "We'd better run him home when he's finished his shower. Then I think I'll get some shut eye in preparation for this evening."
"Is PC Bull really as big as all that?" Michelle asked.
"I'll say," Susan said, and she went on to graphically describe PC Bull, much to the delight of the other two.
It was some fifteen minutes later that Cher said she was going up to take her shower.
"Don't forget the bolt isn't working properly on the bathroom door," Susan said, "so make certain you shout before going in. If Rupert is still in there, he'll think you've come to rape him again, and probably leap out of the window."
In fact, the bathroom was empty by the time Cher got up there - the wet towel on the floor being testament to a man having used the bathroom - why couldn't men ever be tidy?
She wedged the bathroom stool under the door handle before removing the bodysuit - she certainly didn't want Rupert coming back into the bathroom and finding the real Sally half in and half out of Cher.
It was such a relief to get it off, although staring at her real body in the mirror nauseated her. She'd only been wearing this thing for a day and already she had got thoroughly used to being a young, sexy woman again.
And it felt marvellous. Even if this red gel didn't do the trick, it would be worth suffering the sweat bath, just to keep that wonderful body. She ran the shower, and first thoroughly rinsed the inside of her bodysuit, before towelling it dry and then slipping it on a hangar and putting it into the airing cupboard to dry. Then she got into the shower and started to rinse off the sweat accumulated in the last twenty-four hours.
***
Susan and Michelle were still contentedly chatting in the kitchen when Cher returned.
"Oops," Susan said, "We've been idly talking here. You know what it's like when you're totally shagged out. I guess one of us ought to have taken Rupert back to his house. I think he must be in the lounge - he's too frightened to appear here."
Cher shrugged in exasperation, grabbed the car keys from the hook where they were kept and went through to the lounge. A minute later, the two women heard the car driving off.
"She seemed a bit annoyed that we're such lazy pigs," Michelle giggled.
"She's tired after being on the job all night," Susan said. "I guess we all are. Come on, why don't you have a shower next. Personally, I could do with some sleep before the bull fight this evening."
***
A torrent of emotions were running through Rupert's head. On the one hand, in just one day he'd gone from twenty-nine-year-old virgin into porn-film sex-stud. My God, what he'd been missing all his life. Even when he'd had trouble getting it up again, and the girls had given him that false prick, it hadn't dampened the pleasure. There's been some type of system built into it so he could still feel their pussies as he shafted them. Over and over again.
But the girls really were insatiable. Hell, sex was great; a lot of sex was fantastic; but he'd had so much sex he'd become totally overwhelmed by it.
Of course, he also felt very guilty about the message he'd given the policeman to give to his mother. Telling your mother to go and get fucked was really not right. Not that his mother would even know what being fucked would mean, of course; parents simply didn't understand these things. Hell, if she only knew what he'd been doing over the last twenty-four hours, she'd go out of her mind.
But the real problem was when he'd come back into the kitchen and they'd been discussing their evening session together. He'd kind of assumed they were finishing then, and the very idea of continuing overnight filled him with horror. He had to get some sleep, for God's sake.
He had only just finished towelling himself dry when he heard Cher calling at the bathroom door for him. Shit! Couldn't they leave him alone for just a few minutes? Thank heavens he'd bolted the bathroom...
Even as the words flashed through his mind, he saw the door handle turning and the ineffective bolt doing nothing to stop the door opening. Fortunately, he was standing behind the door, so he wasn't immediately obvious to Cher. In just one second, he had pulled open the door of the walk-in airing cupboard, stepped inside, and quietly pulled the door to after him.
Of course, he hadn't been able to shut it fully, as it would have made a noise and he'd have been discovered, so there was a slight crack through which he could see...
Hell! Cher was slipping off her dress!
Like the others, she'd had a button-through, silk dress which had quickly come off as soon as they had arrived at the house, but now and again, when she wanted to appear respectable or go to the toilet, she had slipped it on. (Which was more than he had done. God knew what had become of his clothes.)
But what was absolutely unbelievable was that he had seen Cher naked for hour-after-shagging-hour. She'd rubbed her tits against his face and every other part of his body. He'd seen every part of her body in minute detail, and been inside every orifice. And yet, she slipped off her dress now and he had his eye glued to the crack in the door to watch.
There was no doubt she had a perfect body. Why, even now, he could feel his prick stirring. Perhaps he might slip out and give her one straightaway.
But no, she was moving her hand down to her groin and the thought of watching her masturbate was highly arousing. His prick was instantly rock solid. He would wait until she was in the throes of orgasm before going out to give her one.
Something strange happened then. It was as though her pussy had come loose and was hanging in front of her. The same seemed to have happened at the rear, with a little tail hanging down from her bum. What the hell was it?
Cher grasped the tails at front and rear and pulled them both upwards. They moved, and with it the skin of her tummy and her bum, both lifted upwards as she pulled, as though she was pulling off her skin.
Up and up she pulled revealing more skin beneath - but crinkled, horrible skin. Then saggy breasts plopped from beneath the outer skin as it was pulled even further upwards. With a final heave, the whole lot was pulled off to reveal...
Shit! It was all he could do not to cry out. Sally stood there before him; and not the well-dressed, immaculately groomed Sally he had seen many times, but a naked Sally with sweaty, blotchy skin and sagging boobs, but still with a perfect lower half. Perfect, that was, until she bent over and started pulling her buttocks down in the same way she had pulled her torso up, and exposed a crinkled bottom and legs with varicose veins. Ugh! It was obscene, and he'd been...
It was unthinkable! He'd been shagging this old woman thinking she was young and beautiful. The other two women he'd thought so beautiful must be Jill and Emma, similarly attired.
He didn't know whether to cry out or to keep quiet, but his natural discretion chose the latter. After all, if she discovered him here, she might try to have sex with him again!
She washed out her outer skin in the shower, then towelled it dry, put it on a hangar and then stepped towards the airing cupboard. Hell! He was going to be discovered!
He shrank back to the rear of the airing cupboard, and fortunately Sally barely looked inside as she lifted the hangar up to a hanging rail near the ceiling, then returned to her shower.
It gave him chance to examine it more closely, and on inspection, it wasn't as scary as it had seemed as Sally had taken it off. A two-piece, skin-like suit with large, lifelike breasts built in. Rupert shook his head in amazement. Had he been taken for a sucker. What was important now was to get out of this place without being fucked any more by these old women.
Sally finished her shower and dried herself, then he heard her opening the bathroom door and leaving. A minute later, he heard a hair dryer being used in an adjacent room.
Rupert swiftly left the relative safety of the airing cupboard and, in the same way that Sally had done, used the stool to wedge under the door handle. The problem was what did he do then? He was naked. His clothes were thrown about downstairs somewhere; whilst the three witches of Eastcombe were preparing their next assault on him. He had to escape but...
It was seeing Sally's dress which gave him the idea. Not just about putting on the dress, but about putting on the skin suit, and leaving the bathroom disguised as Cher. He grabbed the suit from the airing cupboard and was about to slip it on when a plastic tub of something caught his eye. "Red anti-perspirant gel for use with Big Busts bodysuits," it said. He didn't bother to read the instructions, simply used the disposable plastic glove that Sally had brought in with the tub to slap the gel all over his body. Then he pulled on the leggings, and he had to gasp at the difference they made to his legs. Why, his legs had become sexy; his prick was getting hard again.
He was about to reach down and take matters in hand when he heard someone trying the bathroom door, but fortunately the wedged stool kept it securely shut. Damn! Never mind touching himself up, he had to put on the top half, get dressed and get out of there.
Three minutes later, he had the suit on, and had adjusted the eye holes so they lined up with his own eyes, and everything else seemed to fit into place. He pulled on Sally's dress and the sandals she'd worn, then pulled aside the stool and stepped out of the bathroom. Through the open bedroom door opposite, he could see a naked Sally lying in the bed - and a disgusting sight it was, too. As he watched, her mouth gaped open and a loud snore came out of it.
***
Two minutes later he was in the car and driving home. He couldn't believe he had so coolly stepped into the kitchen with the other two witches to recover the car keys he'd seen Cher hang up when they'd come in yesterday. They hadn't even really looked at him dressed as Cher.
But now, all he had to do was to get inside his own house and up to his bedroom without his mother seeing him, then quickly get this skin off and into some proper clothes. He'd have to apologise to his mother for being out all night, of course, and clearly he couldn't tell her he'd been shagging three old women - perhaps he'd just tell her he was round at a school friend's and she could believe him or not.
He cautiously let himself in through the front door - by far the safest option as his mother was nearly always seated in the kitchen. But as he crept upstairs, he could hear his mother crying her heart out in her bedroom. It really turned him over to realise how upset she was. He'd quickly get changed and immediately go in and comfort her.
The problem was, when he got into his bedroom, he couldn't unfasten the clip between his legs. He'd watched Sally do it without problem, and he'd fastened it himself after putting on the suit. It was quite a simple plastic clip, but no matter how hard he squeezed, the clip would not come disengaged. Perhaps that gel had got clagged into the fastening and was preventing it coming undone.
He spent ten fruitless minutes trying to undo it, and then came to the conclusion he was stuck. Meanwhile, his mother seemed to be getting worse, hopelessly crying out "Oh God! Oh God!"
There was nothing for it, he realised, but to go into his mother's bedroom, explain the situation and comfort her. Who knew, perhaps the unique nature of his problem might make her laugh herself out of her despair?
He quietly opened the door to her bedroom and stepped inside. She had the curtains closed, so it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light
His mother was lying on the bed, clasping something like a pale, white cushion to her tummy - presumably for comfort - but as he watched, he saw the cushion lift up, and beneath it was what appeared to be rolling pin. For a second, he thought she must be using the rolling pin to masturbate with - he'd seen plenty other implements used in the last twenty-four hours - but suddenly with a sickening realisation, he knew it was not a rolling pin he was looking at, but a huge penis - a penis that made his own look the size of his little finger.
It was an obscene monster, with purple veins standing proud from the shaft, and he could see the knob glistening as it was almost withdrawn from his mother's vagina. Then it was thrusting back inside her, and she was calling out, "Oh God!" and her fingernails were digging deep into PC Bull's arse and pulling him into her. Rupert turned and silently left the room.
***
Back at the house, the women had realised what had happened, and were shouting at each other, but mainly at Sally for being stupid enough to leave the suit lying around in the bathroom, even for just a few minutes. They had all now changed back into their old selves.
When Cher stepped back through the kitchen door, they all stopped arguing and stared in amazement at her.
"Rupert?" Emma said.
She nodded. "That's me. I can't get this suit off. Can you help me?"
"Rupert," Sally said, "I noticed you'd used the pot of red gel that was in the bathroom. Did you put it all over your body before putting on the bodysuit?"
"Yes. It said it was anti-perspirant. Was that right?"
"Not if you want to get out of that suit quickly," Sally said. "It bonds the suit to your body for the next two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Cher gasped. "But I can't stay in this for two weeks."
No one said a word.
"Did you hear me? I need to get this off now."
"We understand your need, Rupert," Emma said, "but it simply won't come off. It's stuck on you for two weeks. We're all terribly sorry. Do you want us to explain to your mother?"
"No!" Cher paused a little and then added, "My mother was doing something... obscene. I can't go back there."
The three looked at each other, and then Sally spoke, "It will help if you tell us what she was doing, Rupert. It's not good to bottle it up."
Cher looked at the three of them in turn, and they all looked so concerned for her that her entire feelings for them changed. OK, so they had tricked her into sex, but she could hardly complain that she hadn't enjoyed it.
"I went back and found my mother was in the bedroom having sex with someone."
"Look," Emma said, "I know that can be shocking, but there's nothing wrong in that. It's perfectly healthy for mature men and women to have sex."
"Do you think so? But it was my mother."
"We realise that," Sally said, but she couldn't help wondering, "Er, who was she having sex with?" After all, anyone who would have sex with Rupert's mother would certainly be up for having sex with the three of them.
"That policeman who was here earlier. He must have gone straight round to tell her I'd been found and then..."
"PC Bull?" It was Jill who said the words, but all three of them were looking shocked.
He nodded.
"That's obscene," Emma said. "A man in his position taking advantage of a poor, innocent woman who thought she'd lost her only child."
"And who's so much younger than her," Sally said. "It's absolutely disgraceful."
"But I thought you said it was natural," Cher said, very confused.
"Some things are natural and some things are not."
"Do you see his penis?" Jill asked.
Cher nodded. Suddenly, she realised she had all their attention.
"Was it... quite big?" Emma asked, as though the question wasn't important when clearly it was.
Cher was about to tell the truth when she suddenly realised she didn't have to. "Big? Not really. I mean, if you've enjoyed Rupert over the last day, then you wouldn't get much pleasure out of PC Bull."
"Really?" Sally sounded delighted for all of them. "We wondered whether he might be the kind of guy who stuffs handkerchiefs down his pants."
"That's probably it," Cher said as nonchalantly as she could manage.
"Right," Jill said. "We'll certainly tell him to get stuffed when he comes round here later."
"He's coming round here later?" Cher asked.
"We just thought he might come back," Sally said, "from the way he was ogling at us in our... er, other lives."
"But what am I going to do?"
"You'll have to stay here," Emma said. "I think that Big Busts, the shop which sold us the bodysuits, sell some pills to make a man's voice sound higher, just like a woman's. We'll get some tomorrow."
"But what about my job?"
"You'll have to ring up Mr Patel at the minimarket and explain you've been taken ill, but you have a cousin who could come round and take over your work," Jill suggested. "That would be alright, wouldn't it?"
Cher nodded. "I guess so. But what about me staying here with you? I mean, what happens to our relationship?" Cher didn't know whether she wanted to have sex with the three women or not, and how would she do it? Would she have to become a lesbian?"
"Oh that's no problem," Emma said. "I can ring up Big Busts tomorrow. I can get them to supply three male bodysuits for us. You can be the woman, and we'll be the men. We can make some nice Cher sandwiches. Is that alright?"
Of course he was going to refuse, but then he thought a bit more. After all, if he was stuck in this suit for two weeks it wouldn't do any harm to explore a little, would it? He wasn't certain whether he was up to making sandwiches for them, since those that Emma had made earlier had been delicious. Certainly, her cucumber had been incredibly tasty, just like the cucumber his mother occasionally put into her sandwiches.
"Why not?" he said.
The Witches - Enjoyed
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I'm delighted you enjoyed the story.
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Author Notes: My most recent story, The Pudding Club, took three years to complete the first draft. In comparison, this took three days, so you'll appreciate why the plot is nothing like as complex. In fact, there was absolutely no pre-planning with this story - events simply unfolded as I wrote the story. I certainly didn't expect PC Bull to be having it away with Rupert's mother! That was a complete surprise. Nor did I realise until the end that his mother used a cucumber for her own pleasure.
You may be wondering how old the three witches are; the answer is simple - they are slightly older than your mother!
If you find some of the events in this story more shocking than normal then relax, this is simply your ageist prejudices showing!
Two Grumpy Old Men
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When the two grumpy old men at Barkland Bank's London HQ investigate the bank account of Chantelle Pankhurst, about to go dormant, neither realise the metamorphosis through which they will be led over the next week.
Two Grumpy Old Men
THURSDAY LUNCHTIME
Mike Walters and Stephen Morley were known throughout Barkland Bank's City of London HQ as the two grumpy old men.
Not that they were particularly old, unless you compared them with the others working there who were mostly under thirty. Nor were they particularly grumpy; indeed they both had quite liberal views on everything from immigration through gay rights to world politics. But with Steve having had an acrimonious divorce, and Mike's wife having died after a long term illness, both were settling into bachelorhood and neither were particularly interested in forming relationships with women. However, their continual grump was over the decline in standards operated by the Bank in which they worked. Once it had championed the help it gave its customers; now it simply pushed them into a debt they didn't want and couldn't afford, in order to increase its profits to a level of total obscenity.
To most, including senior management, Mike and Steve were considered Old School. Consequently, they had been moved from frontline jobs into those quiet backwaters which had to be done by someone. As the two grumpy old men, they usually sat together at lunchtime.
"Steve," Mike said as he sat down at Steve's table in the staff restaurant. "Your train home passes through Streatham, doesn't it? Do you think you might visit a customer on the way?"
Although Steve managed the Bank's IT strategy, he'd often dealt with customers on special IT projects, so it wasn't unusual to have an occasional request like that. "No problem. Who is it? London United Carriers?"
Mike shook his head. "No. I'm not allowed to deal with the important clients now. It's a Miss Chantelle Pankhurst. Her account's about to become dormant and she's not answering her mail."
"She must be stonking rich to merit a visit," Steve observed. "One of the landed gentry?"
"Far from it," Mike appeared disconcerted, clearly undecided about how much to reveal, and then grinned and said, "In fact, she's only ever had a small savings account with us. Apart from one transaction, all activity on the account ceased about four years ago."
"And the one transaction?" Steve could sense Mike was keeping the best until last.
Another hesitation, then, "An automatic transfer from National Savings of one million pounds. Her Premium Bond came up."
Steve pursed his lips in a pseudo whistle. "And the money has just sat there ever since. Hasn't anyone from the bank contacted her?"
"When I was Branch Manager, I'd have camped on her doorstep until I got hold of her. Nowadays, the computer manages it all. Without a telephone number, it defaulted to mail, which has never been answered."
"So she's either dead or moved away," Steve said.
"Or she bins her boring-looking mail," Mike added.
"How old is she? Perhaps I should think about remarrying."
"Thirty-eight. A bit young for you."
"Rubbish. You're only a year younger than me," Steve retorted. "I'm surprised you're not going to see her yourself."
Mike hesitated a little more. "Truth is," he said, "Justin, my boss has informally told me to let all these cases go through."
"You mean let them go dormant," Steve said, "so the bank gets to keep everyone's money. That's pretty shitty."
"Which is why I'm setting up my best friend to meet a rich, beautiful woman."
"How do you know she's beautiful?" Steve asked.
"With a name like Chantelle?" Mike said. "She must be."
THURSDAY TEATIME
"Come in," said the short, rather ugly man who answered the door in response to Steve's ring on the doorbell. "You're the first so far," he added, as he led the way to a ground floor flat. "So if you like it, it's yours. Obviously you'll need references, but I guess that won't cause you too many problems." He nodded at Steve's Barbour coat over his Saville Row suit.
"Sorry," Steve said, looking around at the pleasant flat into which the man had led him. "I haven't come about a flat."
"You haven't?"
"I've come about Miss Chantelle Pankhurst. Does she still..."
"Chanti?" the man said, his face suddenly turning white. "You've come about Chanti?"
"Does she still live here?"
His face now became confused. "Does she... Then you're not from the... You mean you haven't heard?" With his last sentence, he had become defiant.
"I'm afraid not. Is she ill or..."
"She was murdered." The way he was staring daggers, Steve thought he might be about to be accused.
"Murdered. How terrible! Did they catch who did it?"
"A neighbour heard the screaming and called the police. Caught him literally red-handed – he was covered in her blood. He's doing life now."
"How horrible." Steve certainly hadn't been prepared for that. Aghast, he looked around the newly redecorated apartment. "Did it happen here?"
"Hell, no." The man at last started to look at ease. "This wasn't Chanti's flat anyway, that was upstairs, but she was murdered at the killer's house in Dulwich. It's still upsetting, though."
"Of course it is," Steve agreed. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Stephen Morley from Barkland Bank. Miss Pankhurst has an account with us. Do you know who her next of kin are? We'll need to contact them."
"Oh!" He looked decidedly embarrassed. "You're from a bank. I thought you were a punt…"
It was then that Steve realised what Miss Pankhurst's career choice had been. "Look, I'm sorry. This is all rather a shock to me. I realise this is rather embarrassing but I only want to find a next of kin so we can transfer the money from her account."
"The police never found out about next of kin," he said. "I'm Jake Stewart, by the way." He held out his hand for Steve to shake. "All this talk about Chanti has put the willies up me. I've put a few beers in the fridge to put the potential tenants in a good mood. Do you fancy one?"
FRIDAY LUNCHTIME
"So she was on the game?" Mike said, as they discussed it the following lunchtime.
"Jake was keen to stress it was just a casual occupation," Steve said. "She had a full-time job as a chambermaid but, when the money got tight, she side-lined in a bit of Chanti Panky, as he called it. And Jake said that Chantelle was hardly ever able to pay his rent."
"You mean that Jake was having sex with her instead of collecting rent?"
"Which is why, it seems, he never told the police that she lived there."
"What?" Mike said. "A woman is murdered and he never tells the police that she lives in one of his flats? That's disgraceful."
"The way he looks at it," Steve said, "Chantelle was dead; they had the murderer and nothing he could do would improve that. Apparently, he did search her room for details of her next of kin but there was nothing there."
"I still think that's pretty shitty."
"I dunno," Steve said. "If you were seeing a prostitute who was murdered, would you admit it? Or simply keep quiet?"
Mike had the grace to blush before saying, "I'd never get into that position." Steve decided he would reserve judgement on the accuracy of that statement.
"It was when I started to press Jake on what information he'd found about Chantelle," Steve said, "that he told me he had all the contents of her flat boxed up in the cellar. I think he rather regretted getting into that position. I'm sure he was in love with her, whatever her part-time profession. He couldn't bring himself to throw everything away, even more so since the police might someday find out about him and accuse him of theft. So, he said that as the Bank was Chantelle's only legal representative, that I had better take the boxes with me, then I could satisfy myself there was no next-of-kin to be found. I didn't want to but he was quite insistent."
"So you took them!" Mike could hardly believe his ears. "What are we going to do with them?"
"The beer was very good," Steve admitted, "and maybe I'd had a bottle too many. I certainly regretted it all as soon as I saw the three large boxes he dragged out of his cellar. Had to take a taxi home. Anyway, I assumed you didn't want them brought in here so they're stacked up on my lounge floor at the moment. It's Saturday tomorrow so I thought maybe you could come over and we could go through them and sift out the rubbish."
"Christ! What a mess. You should never have taken them. What do we do if there's something valuable in there?"
"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," Steve said. "Anyway are you game to come over tomorrow and help me see what's in there?"
Mike nodded. "I suppose I'd better."
SATURDAY MORNING
To Steve, going through Chantelle's belonging felt both wrong and very, very erotic. The first item they pulled out was a beautiful purple wraparound dress with wide-V neck which looked as though it would leave most of the bust exposed.
"That's sexy," Steve said, holding it up.
"It turns me over a bit," Mike said, "knowing she was wearing these clothes in the days before some bastard murdered her."
"What's this?" Steve asked as he unfolded what appeared to be a very long pair of tights.
"It's crutchless body stocking," Mike said.
Steve wondered how come Mike had recognised it for what it was whilst he was still unfolding it. Maybe Mike's wife had been much more adventurous than his own.
"Here's a picture of her," he said, pouncing on a card now laying on top of the heap. "I didn't realise she was black." He held up the card, showing a photo of a voluptuous West Indian woman wearing the dress they had just examined, printed with the words, "Fanci some Chanti Panki?" followed by a mobile telephone number. Clearly it was designed as a flyer to be left in public places.
"Hell, she was gorgeous," Mike said.
"A big girl," Steve agreed, "although her face would never win a beauty competition. But it's that dress which makes her look so fantastic."
"I'm turned on just thinking about what she could do with those lips," Mike said.
They continued sorting through the boxes, and ending up with a large pile of erotic clothing combined with items of everyday wear, and a heap of papers which looked as though Jake had pushed every envelope the Bank had ever sent Chantelle into the boxes. Most importantly, amongst the papers was both a passport and a driving licence, although the address on the driving licence was Jake's flat, and there were no details shown on the passport for next of kin.
"Maybe she doesn't have one," Steve suggested. "She could be an orphan with no known relatives."
"Surely, every orphan has foster or adopted parents now." Mike said.
Steve was unsure, so he shrugged his shoulders. "People die or fall out with each other," he said. "Perhaps she ran away from her parents. Whatever, it means we're no closer to finding a next of kin who can inherit the lottery win."
"Shit!" Mike said. "I was forgetting. When did she die?"
"It was in May 2011. I've got the exact date somewhere." Steve flicked through his notes on his mobile phone.
"Bollocks," Mike said. "Never mind the exact date. The important thing is that the Premium Bond didn't come up until July of that year, so Chantelle was dead when the bond was drawn."
"Does that mean what I think it does?" Steve asked. "The bond terminates with the death of the holder, so the win is null and void?"
Mike nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid it does. I'll have to inform National Savings and arrange the recovery of their money. Which also means I am in deep shit with Justin, who told me to let sleeping dogs lie. Not only does the money not go to our client or her heirs, but neither does the bank get to keep it in a dormant account."
"Well, you were doing your best for the customer..." Steve started to say.
"No Steve. I've crossed the line once too often. Justin's going to fire me when this gets out. Shit! Shit! Shit!"
"Pub's open," Steve said. "Let's go and drown our sorrows."
SATURDAY LUNCHTIME
"Of course," Steve said, after taking the first sips of his glorious ale. "No one else at the Bank knows what we know. Maybe it would be better if I forgot to tell you I'd been to her flat, or even better, if you never asked me to go in the first place. No one is going to know. I'm certain that Jake Stewart will never reveal his involvement, especially now I've relieved him of her clothes."
"You mean," Mike said as he worked it out, "I let the account go dormant. It means I save my job at the expense of the bank holding onto money which, by rights, they shouldn't have."
They both went silent at that point, and concentrated on their excellent pints of ale, which rapidly disappeared. Mike took his turn to go to the bar and replenish them.
"Since there's no next-of-kin," Steve said, giving Mike a roguish grin as he returned to their table, "you and I, Mike, are more worthy to get the dosh than the bank is. Cheers." Steve held up his glass for Mike to chink his against it.
Mike grinned back. "Sounds right to me, but what were you thinking of?"
"It's only joke, you understand," Steve said, "but we could write in to the Bank pretending to be Chantelle and say she's changed her address to my house. After all, I've got all her stuff there. We could send in her passport as ID if it was needed."
Mike shook his head. "That's no good. Since the account is almost dormant, Chanti will need to take her ID to a branch for them to certify they've seen both the ID and her together. Otherwise, you'd get people like you and me walking off with money they didn't own."
"Mmm." Steve considered, as he sipped more beer. "Then we need to find a Chantelle lookalike and send her in."
"And how exactly do you do that? We can hardly advertise for someone who's prepared to do something crooked. What's more important, how can we trust someone sufficiently to bring them into our fiendish plan?"
They drank more beer, and it was Steve's turn to go to the bar.
"I know," he said when he returned, "we have two good photographs of her face. We could use software to create a 3D image, and then use a 3D printer to produce a face mask which looks exactly like her. One of us could wear it when we went to the bank." He snorted at his own humour
"You'd need to produce some kind of bodysuit as well," Mike said, pretending to take him seriously. "You'd look a bit stupid with her face and your body. How tall are you?"
"Five, nine. Why? Do you know Chantelle's height?"
"It was in her passport. She was five feet, eight."
"Close enough," Steve agreed, secretly rather pleased that Mike's six foot height ruled him out from their ridiculous plans.
"Don't you have a 3D printer?"
Steve nodded. "Yes, but it's only a toy. You'd need a serious printer to do this kind of work. Let's have a look on the web." He pulled out his smartphone and started to tap into it.
SUNDAY MORNING
"Jesus Christ, Mike," Steve said next morning as soon as Mike answered the call. "What were we thinking of yesterday. I think we had far too much to drink. It was a stupid idea."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in a RestEasy Hotel in Seacombe. I got the train down here yesterday afternoon, and I rang up and made an appointment to visit that company in one hour's time."
"You mean Big Busts?"
"Mike, even saying the name embarrasses me. I'm a heterosexual male. How can I go into a place like that?"
"From what you showed me of their website, much of their business is with heterosexual males, so I wouldn't worry on that score."
"But this whole idea is crazy," Steve said. "How can we even consider..."
"Sure it was a crazy idea," Mike interrupted. "We were totally stupid in even talking about as an hypothetical idea. But there was something else about yesterday morning."
"What do you mean?" Steve was suddenly scared.
"I looked at Chantelle's picture and thought she was the most erotic creature I'd ever seen. I immediately fell in love."
"She was certainly very sexy," Steve agreed.
"But you found her clothes even sexier," Mike said. "I could see you were really turned on by them."
"They were very sexy clothes," Steve said.
"I wanted to have sex with her," Mike said. "You wanted to get inside her clothes."
There was a short silence as Steve thought about lying to his friend and decided against.
"So you think I'm a pervert?" he eventually asked.
"Hell! Of course you're not a pervert. People get sexual enjoyment in all kind of ways. It only becomes a perversion when it hurts someone else. Lots of men enjoy dressing as women and there's absolutely no harm in it. It was why I encouraged you to go ahead with this plan."
"It was?" Steve felt a relief sweep through him. "Then that... hypothetical case we discussed..."
"Was just hypothetical," Mike said.
"But we agreed we'd split the cost of... this thing. If it's just for me..."
"But it's not, is it?" Mike said. "Remember, as part of our arrangement, I get to take out the most erotic creature in the world for a meal."
"That's only if this company do what they say," Steve said. "I'm not certain it will work."
"There's only one way to find out, and talking of which, shouldn't you be getting ready to go and see them?"
Steve looked at the clock. "You're right, but Mike, one last thing. That date, it is only a meal. Right?"
Mike laughed. "It always is on a first date, but the man lives in hope and the woman decides."
SUNDAY EVENING
"Hi Mike," Steve said into the phone. "It's not too late is it? You haven't gone to bed? Only I've just got back home and I didn't want to phone you from the train and let the whole world know what I'm going to tell you."
"From your voice, it sounds as though you were successful," Mike said.
"The company were incredible," Steve said. "They're making up a Chantelle mask for me to order, but they showed me similar items off the shelf. The mask is mostly quite thin material which stretches the face a bit, and then pads it out in other places."
"Hopefully, it has holes for the mouth and nose," Mike said.
"The lips are incredible." Steve effused. "It gave me West Indian lips simply by pulling out my own lips and the material is so thin there - almost like a condom - so you still get full sensation if you run your tongue over your lips. And talking of sensation, they have this feature called Sensotouch on their flesh-coloured bodysuit - that's er, black flesh, of course. I've brought that away with me, by the way. It's in two parts: there are leggings which give me a huge bum and curvy hips, and a thing they call a Torsolet which is like a leotard, but with these huge, Chantelle-sized breasts.
"Not only that," he continued, "there's padding in the gusset which not only covers the Crown Jewels but also provides space for a vagina. This Torsolet gives me a bloody fantastic c..."
"You were saying about Sensotouch," Mike reminded him.
"Oh yes. The skin is covered in a touch-sensitive material and the feel is relayed to tiny electrodes resting against my own body. So if I squeeze my breast…" there was a slight pause, "…I can actually feel my breast being squeezed. It's rather nice actually, as long as it's not squeezed too hard."
"So you're wearing it now?" Mike asked.
"Er… Well, I thought I'd try it on again, just to make certain it fitted properly, you understand?"
"Of course," Mike said, trying not to reveal in his voice the huge grin on his face.
"Look, about that date you were talking about," Steve said. "Why don't we take a few days off as leave, starting Wednesday? The mask should have arrived by then. You could drive over and take me out for lunch."
"Sounds good," Mike said. "I'll book it first thing tomorrow morning."
"Me too."
MONDAY LUNCHTIME
"Justin won't let me take leave this week," Mike said. "Says I need to give at least a week's notice, although I've told him I'll get all priority work out the way by tomorrow. He replied, 'In that case, you can't have enough work to do. Maybe we should think about redundancy.' The little sod's just been vindictive because he's made that way."
"I had no problems booking my leave," Steve said, "and I think I'll still take it, even though you can't make it. It'll give me a chance to try out my new gear." He hesitated a little, and then, in a fit of rashness added, "In fact, why not come over to my house straight from work on Wednesday evening. If you think I look credible, you can take me out on that date, and then stay the night.
"That's Steve inviting you to stay the night, that is," he quickly added, "not Chantelle."
TUESDAY EVENING
Steve could hardly contain himself as he walked home from the station. He'd bought several packs of hair remover at lunchtime and on his return home, as he'd hoped, there was a large, discretely wrapped parcel from Big Busts which had been left with a neighbour.
His hands shook slightly as he unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a heavy, one gallon container of black skin dye, a similar tub of dye remover, large tubs of red and green gel, which were used to reduce perspiration beneath the suit, and the Chantelle face mask. He dashed upstairs to the bathroom, throwing his overcoat over the banisters and discarding his jacket, shirt and tie on the floor on the way.
He would use the hair remover on the rest of his body later, but first he carefully shaved his face and neck and then smeared the green gel from the tub all over his face and head. He washed the gel off his hands and then stood in front of the mirror holding the mask before him.
"Goodbye to Steve," he murmured, feeling rather foolish in case it didn't work out as he'd hoped. Then he pulled the mask over his head and down over his chin.
It felt a bit panicky at first, until he'd got his mouth and nose aligned with the holes in the mask. A few seconds later, he could also see, and he could look in the mirror at himself. Or at herself, he realised as he stared into the distorted face of a black woman.
It was now time to start carefully adjusting the fit of the mask on the face. The eyes had to be worked on first, sliding the skin of the mask so it precisely followed the lower line of his eye; then as he released it, it stretched back pulling his eyes open slightly wider. There were false eyelids made of material thinner than a condom, with long eyelashes. It took him ages to get those properly aligned but finally they were done.
He'd been to his optician and bought a pair of brown contact lenses to replace his normal pair, and he now made the switch and looked into a pair of beautiful, wide, brown eyes.
The cheeks were next, and he had to work the mask so that it pulled his own cheeks into rounded mounds. The nose needed little adjustment. It was already flattened by the elastic material, and the padding either side made it wide and flat. The material around the lips had to be fed right inside the mouth. As it stretched back into shape, it pulled his lips into a wide smile, and pouted them out making them look so good that he almost kissed himself in the mirror.
Now, as he stared at his face, he was looking into the face of the woman from the photograph. He was Chantelle.
Except when he glanced down at the rest of his body!
He grinned. He had more work to do.
***
He used the hair remover over the whole of his body, as advised, and was amazed how sexy it became, particularly his legs. Why did men keep hair on their bodies, he wondered. After that, a shower and then it was time to dye his feet and hands. He sat in the bath and used cotton wool to swab the black skin dye over the bits which would not be covered by the bodysuit – his ankles, feet, wrists and hands, applying less to the palms of his hand and the undersides of his feet. He kept the bodysuit next to him so as to match the exact shade, but they'd emphasised he could always add more dye a little later; the reverse was more difficult.
After the dye had dried, it was time to smear the green gel over his legs and buttocks, then put on the leggings and pull them right up. They added several inches thickness to his buttocks and hips, and swept in a superb curve from his waist down to his thighs with wonderfully rounded knees, and shapely calves. Only the wide slot left for his genitals and anus gave away the game, and he'd never seen his penis more erect.
Then, he had to pull the Torsolet over his head and down his body. He spread the green gel over the upper part of his body and then fed his head through the opening and pulled it down until it was level with his groin.
Rather than providing its normal gratification, he ran ice-cold water into a tooth mug and then dunked his testicles into it; his penis, poor thing, shrank to almost nothing. He fed everything into a little pocket on the underside of the Torsolet's gusset and then pulled the gusset between his legs and fastened it in place.
The final task was to locate the wig in place. Then he looked in the mirror.
This time, it was a complete Chantelle who smiled back at him. A sexy black woman with Jessica Rabbit curved hips and bum, and gorgeously large tits which quivered and jiggled with every tiny movement he made.
"Hello beautiful," he started to say, but now it was his voice which let him down. He found the bottle of voice-changer liquid, and drank a little as instructed. It felt like it was burning out his throat, but when the pain was over, all the deep notes in his voice had disappeared, leaving it shrill and much quieter. He'd have to practice to get it right, but now when he spoke into the mirror, no one could dispute it was a female speaking.
***
He realised he hadn't eaten since a rapidly swallowed sandwich at lunchtime, and now felt ravenously hungry. It was time to microwave one of the convenience meals he kept in the fridge.
But of course, he hadn't done his normal Sunday shop, and since then he'd been feeding on the few leftovers in his kitchen. He'd been meaning to buy something at lunchtime for this evening, but had forgotten. The cupboard was completely bare.
The panic hit him in the stomach; he would have to go out to the mini-supermarket, fifteen minutes' walk away. He'd have to change back to Steve, but it had taken him two hours from arriving home to transform himself to Chantelle. He couldn't simply slip out of his Chantelle body in order to go to the shops. Apart from anything else, his hands were black, his face white and he spoke like a girl. But the idea of putting on some of Chantelle's clothes and going out in her body was terrifying.
It wasn't even going out as some insignificant-looking woman whom no one would notice as she walked down the road. This was going out as a sex bombshell. It was turned nine o'clock; by this time, there'd be gangs of blokes wandering from pub to pub who at the very least would jeer at her wobbling tits, and at the worst...
He could get the car out and drive to a local filling station with a store, but the police were very hot on drink driving around his area and he'd had a couple of glasses of wine over the evening. Suppose he was stopped. Even if he passed the breathalyser, they would do a check on the insured driver, discover it was not Chantelle Pankhurst, and he'd be arrested!
"Come on, Chanti," he said in his new voice. "You're thirty eight years old. You've spent your lifetime with this body, facing these situations on a daily basis. You survived on the streets until you stupidly went to some weirdo's house, and you'll continue to survive, provided you don't do stupid things.
The words calmed him. He wasn't a man dressed as a woman. He was Chantelle. This was just a normal evening of her life. She grinned at herself in the mirror.
***
Steve had always dressed according to convention, in order to blend in with others. He wore a smart suit for work; he'd put on jeans and tee shirt around the house or to go out to the pub; he'd wear a casual jacket when going to the theatre.
But Chantelle obviously dressed to attract. Clearly, there were her street girl clothes, which simply screamed out Sex! But even her normal clothes were designed to show off her assets to their very best. There were no clothes that even attempted to make her look insignificant.
Her bras were simply a shelf on which to rest her breasts, reducing the considerable strain on her shoulders whilst at the same time pushing them out even further and doing nothing to stop them jiggling and quivering with every movement. Her jeans were tight and precisely followed the curve of her hip around to her waist. Even her coat was nipped in at the waist to accentuate her hourglass figure. Thankfully, since she was tall for a woman, she'd several pairs of shoes with heels that were a mere(!) two inches. Steve could even squeeze his feet into them, but they made him totter about helplessly.
Steve looked in the hall mirror; he couldn't go out like this. The frightened girl staring back suddenly smiled. Yes she could.
***
It was about a mile to the mini market, a walk Steve would normally do and barely notice it, but as Chantelle he noticed everything. He noticed the look the solitary man gave him as they passed each other in the street; he heard the wolf whistle from some teenagers standing on a corner; he saw the way two women turned their noses up and their heads away as Chantelle wobbled past; and he heard one guy say to his mates, "Fucking hell! I could shag the arse off that."
By the time he reached the mini market his calves were aching like crazy at his unnatural walking stance and all he wanted to do was to sit down, take off his shoes and massage his legs and ankles. But now he could be clearly seen in the lighted shop, he attracted even more attention than in the darkness. The giggling teenagers, the leering men and the scornful women were all in there, and there were only five people in the shop, six if you counted the Jamaican owner. Normally, he'd barely say a word to the white, middle-aged, middle-class Steve other than to tell him the cost of his goods. This time, he gave a wide smile and a greeting, asked how she was, told her he hadn't seen her around before and asked whether she lived close by. Steve realised that he'd have to say a lot more than his normal "Thanks" at the end of the transaction. But clearly, the man had not a clue that the tall busty black woman he was trying to chat up was actually a white middle-aged man. Steve caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the man, a rather scared looking black woman, who suddenly relaxed and grinned at him.
"Hi," she said. "I'm staying with my new man."
The man grinned at her and told her that as soon as she was fed up with him she should come back to his shop. Chantelle had had her first conversation and not been outed.
The walk home was much more painful on her legs, she got jeered and wolf whistled rather more than on the outward journey, including having to walk directly past a large group of blokes, but the terror was gone. Attractive women had to endure this kind of banter all day long in this kind of area, they got used to it.
When Steve got back inside his house and stared into the hall mirror, he couldn't stop Chantelle from giving him a huge smile.
WEDNESDAY EVENING
"This is a great restaurant, Mike," Chantelle said. "I haven't been here before."
One of the things about London that served to make it almost habitable were the large commons – huge areas of parkland – which had remained untouched as London had grown around them. Mike and Chantelle were in a superb restaurant which faced directly onto the common which, whilst only a few miles from Steve's home, he rarely visited.
"I've come here occasionally with business clients," Mike said. "I thought I'd treat the beautiful woman I'm taking out in the way she deserves to be treated. I still can't believe that somewhere underneath all that lovely black skin is…"
"Schh!" Chantelle said. "Don't give away the secrets of my femininity." She smiled. "It's rather nice being treated so nicely. I guess I could get used to it." Hell! Steve thought, that's an understatement. I feel better now than I've ever felt in my life. I want this to go on forever.
"You look very natural," Mike said, this time lowering his voice so the other diners wouldn't hear. "As though you'd always been Chantelle. Have you ever been on the stage? You'd make a superb actor."
"I don't feel as though I am acting," Chantelle whispered back. "I've simply kept telling myself all day that I am who I am, rather than the person I used to be. I'm obviously quite inexperienced in lots of areas, but I'm learning.
"Like telling my dates to stop staring at my cleavage and look into my eyes," she smirked at him.
"Sorry." Mike had the grace to blush. "I'm letting my imagination roam."
"You'll be telling me you want to have sex with me, next," Chantelle said.
"Oh God!" Mike said. "There's nothing I want more."
"Really?" It was Steve who'd said that, rather than Chantelle. "You really think of me as a sexy black woman?"
Mike shook his head. "Don't ask me to explain it, but yes, I do."
Chantelle couldn't help but smirk some more.
"You're not upset with my suggestion," Mike observed.
"I'm not shocked," Chantelle said, "but that doesn't mean you're going to get your own way."
"Of course not."
All the same, she thought (or was it Steve thought?), perhaps I wouldn't mind experimenting with my sexuality. As long as it was Mike who did the persuasion and she… Well, she lay back and thought of England! Alternatively, she could turn up the Sensotouch to maximum and enjoy being shagged.
Just then, the waiter brought their starters to the table and they began to enjoy a great meal together.
***
They were in the process of leaving, the waiter was fetching Chantelle's coat whilst inside her surged an excitement which Steve hadn't felt since he lost his virginity. Soon he would lose it again.
"Hello, it's Mike isn't it?"
They both turned to see a buxom young woman with long blonde hair staring at Mike. Mike vaguely recognised her, but couldn't quite…
"It's Kimberley," she said. "Justin's wife. We live a few miles away from here but you're way off your beaten path."
"Oh, hi, Kimberley. It's been a few years since we met."
"Justin used to work for you in those days," she said, giving him a condescending smile, "and now you work for him." Not waiting for a reply, she waved to a group of similar women who had just entered the restaurant. "We're on a girls' night out."
Mike waved a hand towards Steve. "This is my friend, Chan..."
"Of course I remember Chantelle from the time before when I saw you here," Kimberley interrupted. "After all, she's hardly the kind of woman one could forget in a hurry. Presumably she's quite expensive. Justin must be paying you too much." She gave a quick smile to show she was joking, really – a smile that fooled no one. Perhaps realising she had overstepped the mark, she said a curt, "Bye," and followed her friends across the restaurant to their table.
"Sorry about that," Mike said. "It seems Kimberley is just as much a bitch as her husband."
"What did she mean, she remembers me from the last time you met?" Steve (definitely not Chantelle) asked.
"Oh, she must be confusing you with someone else," Mike said.
"But she knew Chantelle's name," Steve persisted.
"I introduced you as Chantelle. That's how she knew her name."
"So was she confusing me with your wife? I didn't know she was West Indian."
"It must have been a customer," Mike said.
"Oh, no, Mike, Not even Kimberley would be that offensive to a customer."
"Well, I don't know, then. Let's go." Mike marched out through the door and Steve had to follow him.
It was five minutes before their taxi arrived, and they could talk without being overheard.
"You knew Chantelle before she was murdered, didn't you?" Steve said.
Mike realised it was no use denying it so he nodded. "Yes I did. I'm sorry I misled you."
"Misled me! Look at me Mike! You did more than mislead me."
"Sorry. It started out as something small, but it just grew and grew. I don't know how to explain." His voice tailed off, and suddenly Steve was feeling sorry for him.
"Let's go back to my house and you can tell me everything," he said as the taxi rolled up.
***
"I guess you must have been seeing Chantelle whilst your wife was in hospital," Steve said.
Mike nodded. "I was quite depressed over Jane's illness, and sexually, I was virtually climbing up the wall. Then I saw Chantelle's flyer stuck on a bus shelter. She was the sexiest woman I had ever seen. I just had to meet her.
"It wasn't just sex," he added. "I'd take her out for a meal and we'd chat and joke, and have fun." He shrugged.
"That's when Kimberley saw you," Steve said.
"Yes. I took you to the same restaurant I used to take Chantelle. I hadn't realised Justin lived so close, otherwise wild horses wouldn't have dragged me there."
"And then Chantelle was murdered?"
"It was the same week that Jane died. I was devastated. I almost had a nervous breakdown. By the time I'd climbed out of it, the fuss over Chantelle had died down and I did what Jake Stewart did and kept quiet."
"Until now."
Mike shrugged. "Chantelle's name leapt out at me from a list of accounts about to go dormant. I thought I'd try to find her next of kin – perhaps pay my respects – but was frightened that if I personally followed up the lead I'd give myself away. So I asked you to do it for me."
"But what about the million pounds?" Steve asked. "Hadn't that already rung the bells at the Bank?"
A shake of the head. "There is no million pounds. When you started cross-examining me about the visit, I realised I hadn't properly thought through the cover story. So I made it all up on the spur of the moment."
"There's no million pounds! Then what am I doing dressed like this?"
"I'd say you were fulfilling both your wishes and mine."
The silence lengthened between them before Mike spoke again.
"When I saw how aroused you became as you handled her clothes, ideas formed in my mind. I was preparing to suggest things, but you took the lead all the way. All I really had to do that afternoon was carry on drinking and encourage you."
"Bloody hell, Mike. I just don't know where we stand now."
"I think," Mike said, "it would be better if I went home, now, and we talk by telephone sometime tomorrow."
"Yes," Steve agreed. "I think that would be a good idea."
***
Chantelle went straight up to bed as soon as Mike left in a taxi. Lying on the bed was the sexy nightdress she had laid out in preparation for their return.
Steve hadn't cried since he was a child, but Chantelle felt her eyes swelling, and suddenly she was uncontrollably sobbing into the pillow.
THURSDAY MORNING
She felt better next morning, especially after walking to the mini market to purchase some breakfast. She still received the admiring (and indeed, plain lecherous) looks from every male she met along the way, but they just gave her more confidence, as did the verbal jousting with the guy behind the counter. But she only just had enough cash to pay for the cereal and milk she purchased, and she vowed that later that day she would go to the bank with her passport and at the same time tell them she had changed her address. Then she'd be able to get a plastic card which would ease the money situation.
She spent some time sorting through all the unopened mail which Jake had shoved into the boxes. It seemed the money currently in her bank account was £24.68 - a rather nice sum, Chantelle thought. Certainly not enough to raise any suspicions with any banking clerk.
The postman dropped his own post through the letterbox just then. Amongst all the junk mail was a letter from National Savings, a letter Steve recognised from previous occasions when he'd won twenty-five pounds on the Premium Bonds. This win was for rather more than twenty-five pounds although rather less than a million. Still, it was certainly better than a kick up the arse. Steve didn't believe in clairvoyance but surely this was a sign.
Chantelle put on a pretty, but reasonably respectable dress and went out to the local branch of Barkland Bank.
EPILOGUE – FOUR MONTHS LATER
Mike was in his swimming trunks jogging across Seacombe Beach on his way to the sea when he heard someone call a greeting.
"Hello Mike," Justin said. He was sitting on a blanket on the beach with Kimberley and their two children. "Long time, no see. I heard you got married after you retired. Looks like life suits you."
"Justin," Mike said, pausing to look at him but resisting the urge to kick sand into the little shit's face. "What a surprise seeing you here. I thought you normally went to the Caribbean for your summer holidays."
"So did I when I married him," Kimberley said. "Only the bonuses haven't come through yet and we're having trouble paying the bills. And Justin's worried a lot of managers are going to be laid off after that report on the Bank's unethical loans."
"That's tough," Mike said, trying not to grin. "Justin, you haven't met my wife, Chantelle." He waved towards the voluptuous black woman wearing a tiny white bikini who was approaching them. "Chanti, this is my old boss, Justin. You've heard me talk about him in the past."
"I certainly have," Chantelle said, smirking at the way Justin's tongue was hanging out at the sight of her. "I think you even said good things about him once." She laughed at the expression on Justin's face, before turning back to Mike. "Sounds like you and Steve took early retirement just in time."
"Steve Morley?" Justin asked. "Do you see much of him now?"
"Naw," Chantelle said. "We hardly see him at all, do we darling? But I think he has just as much fun as we do." She smiled at Justin.
"With my pension," Mike said, "and Chanti's little Premium Bond win, we fortunately don't have to worry about money anymore so we can fully enjoy our life of leisure. But then it sounds as though you'll also be having a life of leisure soon. Enjoy it."
Chantelle briefly considered saying something to Kimberley as nasty as her remark in the restaurant, but she was above that. Instead, she flicked her head towards the sea, which she knew would produce a delightful wobble in her breasts and make Justin oggle some more. "Shall we go and have our swim, darling. Then we can come back to our beach villa and have a little more Chanti Panky."
Unconsummated Love
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Matt Hodgson predicted that the Annual General Meeting of the Hillary Hodgson Museum and Literary Appreciation Society, formed to preserve the memory of his great-aunt, was going to be the most boring day of his life; instead, it proved the opposite. So many new experiences in one day, it was difficult to say which was the most precious.
Author's Note: There's no explicit sex in here - not quite - but lots of fun. I have turned off comments but if you enjoy the story, please click on the Good Story button, and you can always PM me. Best wishes and Enjoy
by Charlotte Dickles
Matt Hodgson predicted that the Annual General Meeting of the Hillary Hodgson Museum and Literary Appreciation Society, formed to preserve the memory of his great-aunt, was going to be the most boring day of his life; instead, it proved the opposite. So many new experiences in one day, it was difficult to say which was the most precious.
The preceding year, his cousin had been made trustee of the Society following her eighteenth birthday, so it was a matter of prestige to Matt's father, Jeffrey, that Matt also became a trustee following his eighteenth birthday.
In case you're wondering, perhaps remembering the name Hillary Hodgson but not quite able to place her, she was a romantic novelist of the 1950s. Her first novel published in 1950, Unconsummated Love! closely mirrored her own teenage years; indeed, her photograph was even used on the front cover. Throughout the early 1950s, Hillary Hodgson's novels were selling almost as fast as Agatha Christie's in that all important lead up to Christmas.
In a bid to outdo Christie in life, if not in sales, Hillary bought a splendid manor house on the banks of the River Combe, near Seacombe, and promptly renamed it 'Golden Gates', to give clear superiority over Christie's 'Greenway', on the banks of the River Dart, and it was to Golden Gates that Matt and his father, Jeffrey, travelled that morning; by train from London as far as Dorton, where they alighted and walked the short distance to the riverside quay.
Back in the 1950s, this quay would have had ferries waiting to take the hundreds of holidaymakers on to various destinations along the river. That day, the only other traveller was Matt's Great Aunt Edith, also attending the AGM. She travelled first class on the train, so there had been little danger of seeing her beforehand, mutually beneficial to all, since the two sides of the family had hardly spoken a word for decades.
Today they gave brief nods to each other, leaving Matt feeling distinctly embarrassed, as he often did. It really wasn't his fault he wasn't allowed to speak to her. For that matter, it wasn't even his father's, since the rift had occurred in 1957, although his father had kept the rift going throughout his adulthood.
Hillary had gone off on one of her research trips, leaving her husband behind as she normally did, and had a brief but passionate affair with an artist on the French Riviera. After a few weeks, she had returned to her husband but, in the view of many of her fans and family, her innocence was sullied and her ratings started to fall. Hillary responded by changing her style of writing, with less romance and more love. In those years before the Lady Chatterley's obscenity trial, there was nothing to shock the censor, since such people could never comprehend the existence of a female orgasm. Instead, Hillary used terms such as sweetness and tenderness, and the fireworks which fill her heroine's mind after being gently stroked.
The post 1957 books had always been banned in Matt's house, but after his father proposed him as a trustee, Matt had secretly bought electronic copies and read them on his smartphone in the lounge whilst the family watched TV — at least until he realised he was getting massive boners at the subtle descriptions of female orgasm. After that, he retired to his bedroom to read them, under the pretext of doing his college project, delighting his parents who were amazed at his new-found enthusiasm.
Great-Aunt Edith climbed aboard the solitary launch waiting at the quay and took her seat on one side of the boat. Matt and his father followed and took seats on the other side, carefully offset, so they didn't have to look directly at each other. Matt rested his brand new briefcase on his knee, anxious not to let it get wet in the bottom of the boat. He had brought the briefcase especially for this meeting, feeling that it would give him just a little bit more confidence about it than he had been feeling.
There were no other passengers, and the launch cast off and headed down river towards Golden Gates. The house was situated almost at the top of a wooded hill in the junction of a tributary with the main river. One of the reasons they travelled by rail and boat was the difficulty of getting to Golden Gates by road. That would have meant driving further on to Seacombe, to cross the bridge there, and then returning on the other side of the River Combe along a narrow meandering lane. The lane had to skirt around the tidal section of the tributary in order to cross it, before finally terminating at Golden Gates. It was far quicker to take a fast rail journey followed by the ten minute boat trip.
They moored next to the boathouse (which had been designed to be larger than Agatha Christie's boathouse) and were met on the quayside by Larry and Nancy Pennington, the American owners of Golden Gates and devotees of Hillary Hodgson. They were both in their forties, and dressed in costume typical of the 1950s. He was a small man in a pinstripe suit, with his thin black hair plastered down with Brylcreem, whilst she was much larger and had a voluptuous figure squeezed into a Marilyn Monroe halter-neck white dress.
Matt knew they had bought Golden Gates a few years ago and spent a fortune on renovating it to its former glory, turning some of the outbuildings into a museum, opened once a week to the public. It was they who had formed the Society, with Larry as Chairman and Nancy as Secretary.
"Welcome, welcome," Larry enthused to all three, carefully oblivious to any rift between them. "And so glad you can make it, Matthew," he said, turning towards Matt. "We're really keen to embrace yet another member of the great lady's family onto our little committee. May I say that you bear a remarkable resemblance to the great lady?"
Matt winced. Larry was not the first to remark upon that. Not that Hillary Hodgson had been a particularly feminine-looking woman; indeed, from the pictures Matt had seen, he thought she was a rather ugly — even manly-looking — woman, but it hardly did much for a guy's ego to be compared with any kind of female.
"But of course, I was forgetting," Larry continued. "You really are Hilary Hodgson, aren't you?"
Matt felt like screaming. Just because the year before he was born, his uncle had named his daughter, Hillary, in memory of the author, his father had to name him Hilary (one 'l') just to keep up. Fortunately, his mother insisted it be his middle name, a fact he had successfully kept hidden at school, and he hoped it had all been forgotten. Now this American was parading it around as though it was something to be proud of.
"Larry, I think Matt would rather be called by his first name," Nancy said, and he gave her a grateful look, and then did a double take as he realised the size of her breasts squeezed into that dress. He could even see her nipples poking out the material — and no wonder, he thought, since the backless dress revealed no unsightly bra strap. He felt an erection stirring.
"Nothing to be ashamed of in having the same name as his aunt," Larry said. "Anyway," he continued, noting Matt's blushing face and thinking an argument was about to begin, "we have a little buffet lunch laid out in the dining room, so let us go and eat before we get down to business."
It was a fair climb up the hill to the house, especially for Edith, and they all walked quite slowly so she didn't get left behind. There was a large green lawn in front of the house, and Larry led the way across it and through French windows into a spacious room.
A superb buffet lunch was laid out on the dining table, accompanied by a delightful selection of wines — one of the main attractions which brought his father down to the AGM. On previous occasions, when he knew contentious items were on the agenda, he had deliberately restricted his intake of the excellent vintages. Today, he knew he had the support of Larry and Nancy over Matt's nomination, so even if Edith objected, it would be passed, and he rather let himself go. Of course, that was the other reason why they had travelled by train that day, rather than driving.
"Matt," his great-aunt summoned him, as soon as his plate was full of food and he had a glass of white wine in his hand. "Since you are proposed as trustee, tell me a little about yourself. Jeffrey has been economical with any news of you."
So rather than getting to talk to Nancy Pennington, as he had hoped, with the opportunity of peering down her cleavage, he spent lunch telling his great-aunt about his life, leading up to the art history course he was currently taking at college.
"So you leave college in June," Edith summarised. "Do you have any job arranged?"
"Not yet," he replied. "I have applied for several, but many firms aren't taking anyone on at the moment."
"Perhaps if you had taken a different course..." she started to say, but her words were interrupted by Larry politely tapping a wine glass with a spoon and announcing it was time to commence the AGM.
"Please recharge your glasses and bring them in with you," he added.
Jeffrey needed no further invitation and went over to the table holding the wines, whilst the others moved towards the door indicated by Larry, which led into the library. There was a smart mahogany table laid out with eight places, with paper, pens and crystal glasses for water. Larry sat down at the head of the table, and Nancy took the seat on his left whilst Edith the one on his right. Matt politely gave deference to the others, and then took the seat next to Edith, which coincidentally happened to be diagonally opposite Nancy. He self-consciously placed his briefcase on the table and withdrew the new notebook he had bought especially for trust business. Feeling all eyes were watching him, he then placed the briefcase on the floor next to his seat. Finally, Jeffrey arrived and took the seat opposite Matt, having filled his glass to the brim with a rather nice Chateau Latour, which he had just discovered. He didn't seem bothered that all eyes had now switched to him, but Matt was mightily relieved.
"Let's move on to the agenda, then," Larry commenced. "Item one, apologies." He turned to Nancy.
"We have apologies from Harry Hodgson and his daughter Hillary," Nancy said. "That makes the meeting just quorate, so we can go ahead with the rest of the agenda."
"Item two," Larry continued. "The appointment of Matthew Hilary Hodgson as a new trustee. Proposed by me and seconded by Nancy. I don't believe any further discussion is required so let us put it to the vote. All in favour?"
Amazingly, even Great-Aunt Edith raised her hand, so the vote was unanimous. Larry immediately stood up and walked around to shake hands with the new trustee, which took Matt by surprise and in his confusion he forgot to stand up. Then Nancy was standing over him and bending down to congratulate him and kiss him on both cheeks.
He saw her nipple! It was a beautiful shade of pink and stood proud from the wonderful curve of her breast. But before he could even take stock, she was gone and he was automatically responding to the congratulations from the other two members. "Thank you, Aunt Edith. Thanks, Dad."
"Item three. Museum Report," Larry said. "Attendance figures have been low again this year, with just fifty-five visitors. However, I think that will substantially increase..."
"Just over one visitor a week," Jeffrey interrupted in a rather loud voice, surprised it had taken him so long to work it out. "It hardly seems worthwhile keeping it open."
"I think that will change when people hear of our new acquisition," Larry responded.
"I don't recall authorising any new acquisitions," Edith said, leaping in.
"The item has actually come into my personal possession," Larry responded, "and I intend to loan it to the museum, with certain restrictions. It's The Drawing."
Matt couldn't work out why both his father and Great-Aunt Edith suddenly gasped. It wasn't as though he had said which drawing he had acquired, only 'The Drawing'.
"It was destroyed," Jeffrey said. "Uncle Charles told everyone he had destroyed it." Charles was Hillary Hodgson's husband, who had outlived his wife by several decades, but had finally succumbed to cancer a few months ago.
"Charles was a lover of art," Larry said. "He couldn't bring himself to destroy it."
"Can someone tell me what this is all about?" Matt said, amazing himself at his own courage in speaking out.
There was a moment's silence before his father said, "Hillary Hodgson had a brief affair with an artist in 1957. He drew a picture of her." He hesitated, before adding, "A compromising picture."
"After the affair ended, Hillary wanted it destroyed," Edith added.
"You mean Great-Uncle Charles kept this compromising picture of his wife drawn by her lover," Matt said, trying to grasp the implications. "That sounds weird. Most people would put it on the bonfire."
"Her lover," Larry said, with a gleam in his eyes, "was Pablo Picasso."
"Holy shit!" Matt said, and then suddenly realised his words.
Before he could apologise, Edith spoke up. "Precisely," she said.
"I was willed the picture by Charles," Larry spoke, "but only on certain conditions which I had to agree, otherwise the drawing would be shredded."
When no one spoke, he continued: "The main condition is that I do not put it on public display or allow anyone to copy or photograph it. It should be for private viewing by lovers of art, only."
"No," Matt's father said. "We can't allow it. It would totally damage Hillary Hodgson's reputation."
"She wanted it destroyed," Edith added. "You should have refused to take it."
"But if you're not allowed to put it on public display," Matt said, trying to grasp the implications, "what's the point of loaning it to the museum?"
"I have discussed the terms of the legacy with Charles's executors," Larry said. "They are of the opinion that in order to ensure the viewings are strictly limited to art lovers only, it must be done through the auspices of a reputable organisation, such as the Hillary Hodgson Museum and Literary Appreciation Society."
"No," Matt's father repeated.
"Of course, once people hear about a new Picasso find," Nancy said, "it's bound to awaken interest in Hillary Hodgson as an author. It won't just be museum visits which will increase. Book sales will go through the roof. You and Edith had better arrange for reprints straightaway."
"That's true," Edith reflected.
"I said NO!" Matt's father shouted. "It will bring shame on the whole family and I won't allow it."
"Let's take a vote on it," Nancy said. "It looks like there are three of us in favour and..."
"I said I won't allow it," Matt's father interrupted, suddenly standing up. "Matt and I are leaving now so the meeting will be inquorate. You'll have to abandon it.
"Matt," he barked at him. "Come on, we're going."
"But Dad..."
"I said we are GOING."
Matt obediently followed his father from the room, leaving uproar behind them.
"You can't do that."
"That's undemocratic!"
"Please, Jeffrey."
Within seconds of them leaving the house and starting to walk down towards the river, they were flanked on either side by Larry and Nancy, with Edith bringing up the rear, all of them trying to persuade them to stay.
"Wouldn't you at least like to see what all the fuss is all about?" Larry asked.
"I certainly do not want to see such filth," Jeffrey said.
But Matt paused, staring at Nancy and said, "You have it here? The Picasso? At Golden Gates?"
"We sure do," she grinned at him. "And we've arranged for a private viewing by the trustees at three o'clock today."
"We don't want to see it," Jeffrey said.
"But Dad, it's a Picasso."
"It's filth."
"You mean you've already seen it?"
"Uncle Charles described it to me, and it sounds nauseating."
"But it's a work of art. Shouldn't we sometimes see nausea, and every other emotion in..."
"You and your bloody art. Just shut up about it. Where's the bloody boat?"
They had just walked around the corner of the boathouse and come into view of the landing jetty, but of the launch which had brought them, there was no sign.
"It's bringing in the security guards necessary for us to enter the safe where the drawing is stored," Larry explained. "They should arrive in a few minutes. Jeffrey, why not view the drawing and judge for yourself whether it..."
"I've told you, I regard it as filth," Jeffrey shouted. "I won't have Matt corrupted by it and I won't return to the meeting to have a vote on whether it should form part of the museum collection. We need to catch the five past two train from Dorton. How long will the launch be?"
"About twenty feet, I thought, Dad," Matt quipped, "the same as this morning."
"What..." He turned to stare at Matt, saw his face and then laughed, his anger broken. He turned back to Larry. "Sorry, I have been exceptionally rude. Please forgive me. Is the launch likely to return soon?"
They all relaxed and Larry said, "About ten minutes. That should give you reasonable time to get to Dorton for the 14.05."
"Dad, do you mind if I look in the boathouse while we're waiting?"
Jeffrey stared at the boathouse, and would have liked to look in it himself. It reminded him of the stories in books he had read as a child. On the other hand, if he went with Matt, he wouldn't put it past Larry to send the launch away when it arrived, thereby trapping him here until they'd had the vote. "You go, son. We'll give you a shout when the launch arrives."
He didn't notice the look which went between Larry and Nancy, but Edith did.
"I'll come with you and show you around," Nancy said.
Matt's face broke into a grin. "Great," he said.
He followed Nancy back up the slope and around the corner of the boathouse to reach the large double doors, with a smaller pedestrian door to the far side.
"This boathouse reminds me of books I read as a child," Matt said.
"Me too," Nancy grinned as she pulled open the door and allowed him to enter.
She followed him in, slammed the door shut and, in a completely different tone said, "Now then, young man. I want a word with you."
"What?"
"You were staring directly at my breasts all the way through that meeting. I could sense you mentally undressing me. How do you think that makes a woman feel?"
Matt blushed, deeply ashamed he had been so obvious. "I'm sor..." he started to say.
"Sorry? Sorry? Why don't you come out with the truth? Why don't you say you'd like to squeeze my breasts — to put your head between them and suck on my nipples — or for me to give you a tit fuck?
"Or perhaps..." she raised her hand to fumble behind her neck which had the effect, Matt noticed, of making her nipples poke out even more.
"Why don't you say," Nancy continued, "that you'd like to do all three?" The halter strap of her dress parted behind her neck and her dress came tumbling down to reveal large, perfectly shaped breasts.
***
"Where the hell is Matt?" Jeffrey snapped, his previous bad temper having returned. He had shouted for him to return as soon as the launch had appeared in sight. Now it was just about to dock to disembark the three security guards, and still no sight of him. "Matt," he shouted again at the top of his voice and then muttered, "What on earth is he up to?"
Edith, who had a suspicion of exactly what Matt was up to at that moment, said, "Shall I go and see if I can find him? You get on board and I'll send him down."
"Thanks, Edith." Jeffrey felt quite moved by Edith's offer to help. At least this prevented Larry sending the boat off without him.
By the time he had got aboard, Edith had returned. "I saw Nancy," she said, quite honestly, "and apparently Matt has lost something."
"It must be his new briefcase," Jeffrey moaned. "Presumably he's gone back to the house for it."
"I only saw his rear," Edith answered, "and he was going far too fast for me to have either the stamina or the inclination to keep up."
"Jeffrey," Larry said, "unless the launch leaves now, you'll probably miss the train. Why not stay for the meeting?"
Seeing the look of rejection on Jeffrey's lips, Edith forestalled him. "Jeff, I'll look after Matt and make certain that no harm befalls him." She did not add that her idea of harm and Jeff's might be very different.
"Would you?" Why had he been so antagonistic to Edith for all these years? She was actually a really nice person. "Thanks for hosting the meeting Larry, but I'm sure you appreciate that I need to leave now to ensure the AGM is no longer quorate."
"No hard feelings, Jeff."
But then, Edith surmised, he hadn't seen what she had inside the boathouse. Nancy had certainly been feeling something exceptionally hard.
The boatman slipped the mooring line and the launch moved out towards the centre of the river and Dorton.
"Of course," Larry said to Edith. "What Jeff said about the meeting being inquorate without him wasn't quite the situation. With Matt now being a trustee, it means we have our quorum to restart the meeting."
"Goodness," Edith said, her tone of voice making clear the lie of what she was about to say. "I never realised that. So that means we could agree to go ahead with your plans for exhibiting the drawing to art lovers."
"We could if the majority agree."
"OK, Larry," she continued, "but let's try to make certain the decision is unanimous, shall we?"
He nodded. "Absolutely. In fact, I think we ought to involve Matt far more in museum affairs."
"How do you propose to do that?"
"Wait and see." Larry grinned at her. "In the meantime, since you said that Matt had gone up to the house, why don't we go up there and prevent him wasting his time by coming back.
***
"That was absolutely gorgeous," Matt was saying to Nancy at about the same time. "It was just so unbelievably good. I can't tell you..."
"Sshh." Nancy put a finger to his lips and whispered, "Someone's walking past the door."
"It's probably my father looking for me," Matt whispered back, a slight edge of panic entering his voice.
"No. I heard the launch leave a few minutes ago. Your father will have left. It's probably Larry walking back to the house with Edith."
"So we can stay here a while longer?" Matt hopefully suggested.
"No we can't," she replied, "we'll be missed." She used her arm to push him off her, and stood up and stepped out of the boat in which they had made love, a classic steam launch which Hillary Hodgson had bought as another one-over on Agatha Christie.
Matt watched her as she picked up her dress from the boardwalk, stepped into it and fastened it behind her neck. Suddenly, she was respectable again. She slipped on her shoes and no one would ever realise the throes of passion she had been in just a minute ago.
"You'd better get dressed and we'll get back to the house." She bent over to pick up his trousers and shoes, then moved along the boardwalk, picking up other items of his clothing discarded at various points along the way. "Here you are," she called from the end of the boardwalk, and she tossed the bundle of clothes towards him. The bundle described a perfect parabola through the air and landed in the water, a couple of feet short of the steam launch.
"Shit!" Matt yelled, scrambling to try to retrieve them before they disappeared beneath the water. It was a pity that his shoes had been on the top of the pile, for their weight submerged the lot before he could get to them, leaving just one sock floating on the surface.
"Oh, heck, I'm sorry," Nancy said.
"What am I going to do?" Matt was panic stricken. "Larry will realise what we've been doing and he'll kill me."
"Here," Nancy said. She walked over to a set of yellow waterproofs, hanging from hooks on the wall. She selected one of them and brought the garment to him, this time, passing it directly into his hands. "Put this on and we'll tell them you fell in the water."
"But what about my clothes?" Matt asked. "They're submerged."
"With a bit of luck, they'll sink directly to the bottom, and we'll be able to retrieve them at low tide, this evening."
"And if we can't find them?"
"Then we'll have to spend absolutely ages here, and you won't have any clothes on."
Matt paused whilst he considered the statement. "OK," he said, a big grin replacing his worried frown. "But what am I going to wear in the meantime? I can't wear an oilskin all afternoon."
"Come back to the house. We've bought some gowns for the museum, for visitors to wear when they inspect The Drawing. You can have one of those. Come on. Put the coat on and let's go."
***
"...so poor Matt saw me trip and leapt forward to catch me, and fell straight in himself." Nancy grinned as she told the tale she and he had rehearsed on the walk up to the house.
"It's fortunate he didn't wet his hair," Edith wryly remarked.
"Well, the important thing is that you're safe," Larry said. "I was just showing Edith our new layout in the museum. We have some time before the time lock on the safe releases, at three o'clock, and we can then go in and inspect the drawing."
"We are going to see the Picasso?" Until a few minutes ago, he'd have thought that the best thing in the world. Now he knew it could only ever be second best.
"We sure are," Larry confirmed. "In the meantime, let me show you around the museum."
Matt completely forgot he appeared a total prat, walking around in a white dressing gown, and became completely immersed in the displays which Larry had set up. Until then, his knowledge of Hillary Hodgson had been forced down his throat by his father. But with the enthusiasm of Larry and Nancy, her life suddenly took on new interest. He asked lots of questions as they went round which Larry happily answered and they were both taken by surprise when Nancy said they now had only ten minutes to prepare for entry into the safe.
Larry led the way through a door and into a connecting building. It was an area with a high pitched-roof. In the centre, stood a solid-looking metal structure, about twelve feet square and eight feet high.
"The building was initially built as a barn," Larry explained, "but in Hillary's day, it was used mainly for storage of junk. We completely cleared it in order to house the safe."
"If it was only built as a barn," Matt asked, "is the building really strong enough to house The Drawing? You hear of thieves with thermic lances cutting their way into safes."
"We took the view that the building is only keeping off the rain," Larry said. "Our total security is based upon the safe itself, rather than preventing access to the outside of it. In this big safe, which we'll go inside in a minute, there's actually another safe holding The Drawing.
"The guards and I have our personal access codes," he continued, "but in order to enter the outer safe, we also need a one-time code brought by the guards each day. Which means that even if we are held up at gunpoint, we can't open the safe. And if thieves do get into the outer safe and try to touch the drawing, the inner safe immediately locks shut. If they try to cut into it, the drawing will be destroyed, so there's no point in them trying to do so. The whole system is monitored from the security company's secure centre and they can shut everything off and call the police if necessary.
"Now, we will all be scanned as we enter the outer safe. Almost nothing apart from ourselves is allowed in. Obviously, no mobile phones or cameras, but even items as small as the wire in your bra, Edith, will trigger the alarm, so I recommend that you change into a gown like Matt's wearing." He selected a suitable gown from the pile on a shelf.
Edith sniffed, but took the gown Larry proffered, went to one of the changing cubicles and pulled the curtain across.
Larry went over to a control system on the side of the safe where the security guards stood and conferred with them. "OK, it's now three o'clock so we can start to enter the safe. I'll enter my security code, as will one of the guards, and he will then open the envelope and enter the one-time code. After that, we'll be able to enter the safe through a vestibule, one by one. One of the guards will go in first, then I'll enter followed by you, Matt, and Edith when she's ready. Nancy will bring up the rear. Once inside, the inner safe will then open to allow us to inspect, but not touch, The Drawing."
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and started entering a series of numbers into a keypad shielded from their view.
"Shouldn't you memorise the pass code?" Matt asked. "Someone could steal the paper from you."
"You're absolutely right," Larry said. "Unfortunately, instead of giving me a four figure PIN, which I could remember, the security company forced me to have a twelve digit number. So much more secure, they say but I can never remember it so I have to write it down. However, the paper is edible, so the first whiff of trouble and I'll swallow it."
Matt shrugged at such tramline thinking from so-called security specialists.
The guard entered his personal and the one-time codes and a thick steel door slid open to reveal a tiny vestibule. The guard stepped inside, the door closed after him and about one minute later the door opened again to reveal the guard had disappeared.
"If the guard had any prohibited items on him, he would still be here," Larry explained, "or if he had something like a gun, he'd be stuck in there until the police arrive."
"Should you be telling us all this?" Matt queried. "Shouldn't you keep the security arrangements to yourselves?"
Larry smiled. "A good question. In fact, we took the decision to publicise all this to protect ourselves from attempts to force us to open the safe. We simply can't do it on our own. Now, I'll go inside and you can all follow one by one."
He stepped inside, the door closed and then reopened a minute later, and Nancy indicated Matt should follow. Excitedly, he did so.
It was quite claustrophobic inside the vestibule, but within a few seconds, the inner door was opening and he stepped forward into a small lobby area. In the opposite wall was an aperture about eighteen inches square with several cinema-type seats in front, at the right height so that the aperture was at eye level. Matt sat down in the centre seat, and a minute later, Edith joined him, as did Nancy, a minute after that.
"OK, now let's open the inner safe," Larry said to the guard.
The lights dimmed and inside the aperture, a shutter slid up to reveal a framed drawing. There was a collective gasp from Edith and him, at the excitement of the moment.
Matt had never been particularly good at interpreting Picassos, usually having to have the meaning explained to him, but there was no mistaking the perfectly shaped breasts to the left and right. Directly between them, was a large circle looking like a misplaced belly-button, until it suddenly transformed before his eyes into something he had seen very recently. It was the view as seen from above of a vagina being penetrated by an erect penis! Only unlike the penetration he had just personally observed, this was clearly a very large penis entering a very tight vagina. Matt felt his own penis go suddenly hard.
"I've never seen Hillary look so happy," Edith said.
Matt's eyes were drawn upwards to the wide crescent shape above the breasts to realise it was the woman's mouth, set in a huge grin of total pleasure. Two squirls at the top of the drawing became large unfocused eyes staring in different directions. Here was a woman in absolute ecstatic gratification.
He glanced at Nancy, as he recalled her own position earlier and she smiled and nodded back at him. Yes, she had been deliberately posing earlier, trying to mimic the drawing. Matt grinned. She had been incredible, but the sight before him now was even more incredible. Just by looking at these few charcoal lines, he was transported to a bedroom chamber in the south of France, penetrating a woman whom he had only just met, and giving her a pleasure she had never before known.
***
"We've been in here for forty minutes." Larry's voice broke the silence in which they had all been absorbed. "I think it's time we moved out."
Even so, both Edith and Matt could not take their eyes off the drawing until the guard pressed a button and it disappeared from their view.
"Let's go, then folks," Larry said, and Nancy led the way to the exit door and went through.
When they had assembled outside, Larry said, "I think most people need a little time after seeing that to get their thoughts together. Why don't we meet at six for sherry in the library? Then, we'll reconvene our meeting and follow that with dinner. I'm assuming that both of you are staying the night?"
"But Larry," Matt objected, "Dad said the meeting couldn't continue; that it would be inquorate."
"The quorum for the meeting," Larry explained, "is two Ordinary trustees and the Chair or Secretary. That was fixed so that Nancy and I couldn't railroad through something the family members didn't want. Your father and Edith made the meeting quorate this afternoon, but now that we have you as an additional trustee, then you and Edith will make the meeting quorate."
"But Dad doesn't want the display to go ahead. He'll think I betrayed him if I vote for it."
"You're an adult, now, Matt," Nancy said, giving him a look which said much more than words. "You have to decide for yourself. Do you believe that drawing should never be seen again? Do you believe it should be shredded?"
"No," he gasped, horrified at the idea. "People must be allowed to see it. It would be a crime not to."
"That's what we all think, Matt," Edith said.
"So we go ahead with the meeting at six o'clock?" Larry asked.
Matt nodded.
"That will give you time to sort out your clothes so you're dressed for dinner," Larry said.
"But they're wet," Nancy said.
"We've got two hours," Larry snapped. "We have a washing machine and tumble drier. I don't see the problem." He turned to Edith. "Now Edith, I'd like a few words with you in private."
Taking the hint, Nancy and Matt withdrew from the room.
"What do you think he's stitching up with Edith?" Matt asked.
"Larry always feels incredibly randy after seeing the drawing," Nancy explained. "I expect he wants to fuck her."
"But Edith is ancient," Matt protested. "She must be thirty years older than he is. He can't fancy..." He stopped as he noticed the expression on Nancy's face, and he realised his almost gaff. After all, Nancy was pushing it and she must be about forty, so that would make twenty-two years difference. Had he known Nancy's real age, he would have been even more aware of the sensitivity of the remark.
"I suspect she has a very tight pussy," Nancy said, "which is more than can be said about me. A tight pussy is what Larry needs after viewing The Drawing."
"Then you two have a relaxed relationship?" Matt asked.
"Far from it," she said. "Larry expects me to be absolute faithful, whilst he screws anyone he fancies. This afternoon in the boathouse seemed too good an opportunity to miss. He'd ban you from the house forever if he found out what we had done, and you would never again cast eyes on that drawing — or me."
That sounded a terrible fate, Matt thought. He couldn't decide which was worse. On the other hand...
"But since he's currently screwing Edith," he said, "can we go somewhere quickly and fuck?"
Nancy shook her head. "Sorry, you heard him say about dressing for dinner. We have to go and recover your clothes and get them washed and dried. Maybe after that..."
It was enough for Matt, and he practically dragged her back down the hill towards the boathouse. But when he entered, it was as though the three boats which had been moored there earlier had all disappeared. He gasped, then walked forward only to realise that the falling tide had lowered them out of sight; they were now about ten feet below him.
The boardwalk had been designed to float so that it went up and down with the boats, and Matt dashed down a ramp so he was level with the bow of the steam launch, and the spot where his clothes had fallen. There was a boathook resting on hooks which Matt picked up and commenced fishing in the murky water.
Within seconds, he'd located a shoe. It took another couple of minutes to locate the other shoe, but that was all there was.
"They must be in here somewhere," he muttered, hopelessly stirring the boat hook around in the mud at the bottom. "My clothes can't just have dematerialised."
"Not dematerialised, no," Nancy said, "but I guess if the clothes weren't held down by your shoes, then they could have drifted out into the river with the ebbing tide. By now, they're probably halfway to Seacombe."
"You mean they've completely gone? I don't have anything to wear this evening? Or to go home in? What am I going to do? Larry will kill me - and he'll banish me from ever seeing you or The Drawing again."
Nancy unexpectedly smiled at him. "Don't worry. As you Brits say, I have a cunning plan. It's a way out of this mess and Larry will not only fall for it hook, line and sinker, he will love it. Come on; let's go back to my bedroom."
"That's more like it," Matt said. "I might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb. Just lead on to your cunning stunt."
***
"My plan is that you put on fancy dress," she said as they walked up towards the house.
"Fancy Dress?" Matt was intrigued. "What kind of Fancy Dress? I can't imagine Larry being satisfied with me going in a Batman costume, and in any case, do you have one handy?"
"Yes, I do," Nancy said, "but I'm not telling you what it is until we get upstairs."
***
"You're joking! You really are joking. Right?" Matt stared at the white dress with charcoal flowers dotted over it. There was a black band at the waist and clearly, a frilly petticoat beneath which made it flare out delightfully. At least, it would look delightful when a woman was wearing it. He would look simply ridiculous in it.
"This is a direct copy of the dress in which she appeared on the cover of Unconsummated Love," Nancy explained. "I sometimes wear it but it never looks the same on me as it did on Hillary. Larry would love to see you in it. You know he remarked how similar you were to Hillary."
"But my hair is completely different," he said, grasping a straw.
"No problem," she said. She bent down to rummage in a cupboard and pulled out a wig, a direct copy of Hillary's original hairstyle.
"Nor do I have breasts," he said defiantly.
"Strictly speaking, you could do it simply by padding out one of my bras, but I have something much better than that. I wore it before I had my breasts enhanced." She bent down and pulled something else out of the cupboard, and flopped it on her bed. It was a pair of breasts, looking so realistic they might just have been cut off someone's torso.
"Bloody hell! That's scary."
"They're made locally. They are very realistic, aren't they? I can assure you, Larry couldn't tell they were false, even when he was fondling them. And although on the original bookcover Bridget had the dress buttoned right up, to give her a virginal look, I think we should leave several buttons undone to expose your wonderful cleavage."
"Expose my cleavage. I'd feel... sort of stupid."
"You were prepared to put on a Batman outfit. How stupid would you have felt in that?"
"That's different."
"Not really. We'll all know you are in fancy dress — it's not as though you're trying to fool anyone — and you're amongst friends here.
"And in any case," she continued, "do you have a better plan?"
That's where she had him stumped. He couldn't think of any other way out.
***
"Edith and Larry," Nancy said as she stepped into the Library, "I'd like you to meet Hilary Hodgson."
Matt stepped into the room to gasps of delighted amazement from both Larry and Edith. He'd expected their scorn — at least from Edith — but instead their joy at seeing his transformation lifted his heart.
"Hilary. You look fantastic," Larry said, sweeping up to Hilary and kissing her (for that is how he thought of her) on her cheek. Matt was rather taken by surprise at that, but instead of feeling angry, as he would as a boy, he felt very moved by it. How strange.
"You certainly scrub up well," Edith said. "In fact you look a lot more attractive than many women I know." Including your mother, she silently added. She too went over and kissed him (for that is how she thought of him) on the cheek.
"I feel very stupid," Matt said.
"You shouldn't," Larry said. "You look wonderful."
"It was very courageous of you to do it," Edith said, with just a trace of irony. She had a good idea of why he had done it.
"I forced him into it," Nancy sheepishly admitted (at least, she tried to sound as sheepish as possible), as she handed a glass of sherry to Matt. "We went down to the boathouse to recover his drying clothes and I threw them all into the water. Before he could catch them with a boathook, they'd been swept straight out into the river by the ebbing tide."
"Obviously a receding tsunami," Edith said, but not too loudly.
"I guess I'll need to borrow some clothes for tomorrow," Matt said, "as well as some pyjamas, if that's all right."
He cast a glance at Larry, but it was Nancy who answered. "I have some beautiful nightgowns you can use tonight and plenty of pretty dresses you can wear tomorrow."
"I think he was thinking of male clothes," Edith said.
"Well, I don't think any of my clothes are going to fit him," Larry said. He was right there; he was such a small man, nothing was likely to fit Matt.
"Don't worry, Hilary," Nancy said. "We'll go shopping in Seacombe tomorrow. We'll be able to buy something for you to travel back home in. It would probably be too big a shock for your father if you turned up home wearing that."
They all smiled at that. They enjoyed a few minutes chatter before Larry was saying, "It's time we resumed our meeting. It shouldn't take long but I'd like to get the formality out of the way, and then we can enjoy dinner."
So they all sat down at the table where they had been seated earlier — to Matt it seemed a hundred years before.
***
"To continue my museum report," Larry said, "I think everyone now appreciates how I expect attendance figures to rocket, so that Hillary Hodgson once more takes her rightful place in history. Obviously, we cannot put The Drawing on public display, but what I do intend to do is to allow visitors a private display, for which there will be a substantial charge." He looked around the others.
"That is not simply profiteering out of the drawing; there are substantial costs from the security company each time they send staff to open the safe."
Edith and Matt nodded, neither of them having thought about that aspect of the business.
"There is another issue arising from this," Larry continued. "You can see the amount of supervision necessary to allow visitors into the safe, and I had certainly not considered that properly. I therefore feel it is necessary to employ an Assistant Curator to undertake much of the workload involved with visitor security. Were it not for events that have happened this evening, I might have spent some considerable time in obtaining the services of a suitable person. However, I believe in taking an opportunity when it presents itself, and I am therefore proposing to ask Hilary to take on that role, when she finishes college in a few weeks time."
There was a gasp from Matt, and even Edith was surprised.
"Clearly, there will be a substantial novelty value in employing Hilary, both because of the family connection but also because of her similarity to her great aunt."
"You mean," Matt said, trying to gain understanding, "you want me to appear permanently in drag?"
"Drag is very definitely the wrong term to use," Larry responded. "I don't consider you are in drag now. To me you are an attractive woman wearing a pretty dress. Don't you agree Edith?"
Edith considered. "I would never have called my sister attractive," Edith said, "but I do think that Matt not only bears an uncanny resemblance to my sister, but also looks at home in her clothes. Presumably you see him wearing a number of similar outfits to those my sister wore?"
Larry nodded. "Obviously, they would be considered her 'uniform', so the museum would pay the cost. And Nancy and I would be happy to offer a home to Hilary in our own house here, so the relatively low wage we would be able to pay would be almost entirely profit."
He turned to Matt. "Well, Hilary, what do you say?"
"Err..." Matt gasped, the events overwhelming him.
"Before Matt gives an answer," Edith said, "I would like a private word with you, Larry. That will also give Matt an opportunity to think about the offer you have just made. Shall we go outside?"
She stood up and walked over to the door, waiting for Larry to join her. Rather taken by surprise, he did so, and followed her out of the door.
***
Edith led the way over the lawn until they were beyond earshot from the house. It was a pleasant spring evening, and the birds were in the trees were in full song.
"Well, Edith?"
"You're not having sex with Matt tonight."
"What... I can assure you. Nothing like that was further from my mind."
"Bollocks," Edith said.
"I'm not gay, for God's sake," Larry said. "You know that as well as anyone."
"You said just now that Hilary — as you've referred to Matt since he came into the room — was an attractive woman wearing a pretty dress. Therefore, having sex with 'her' would not be homosexuality."
"But why would I? I have regular sex with my wife, and I very much enjoyed our time together this afternoon."
"You're a man," Edith said. "Men want sex with anything that moves, especially a pretty young thing like Hilary. Besides, I finally understood The Drawing."
"Oh?" Larry was not certain how he should respond.
"I thought it was her vagina in the centre of the picture which Picasso was penetrating. It wasn't, was it? It was her anus. That's why it was such a tight fit. That's what you wanted to do with me, this afternoon, but I wouldn't let you, and that's what you want to do with Matt."
"Hilary is an adult. It's down to her to decide for herself. If she wants to show her appreciation of my generous offer of a job, then sexual acts between males are not criminal offences."
"I told Jeff I would look after Matt," Edith said, "and that's what I intend to do. Of course, it's down to him to make decisions about his sexuality, but I'm not having you railroading him into it. He's had too much happen to him today; he's overwhelmed..."
She broke off, and then said, "That was the plan, wasn't it? Everything which happened to Matt today was designed by you and Nancy to get him into your bed tonight. Go on, admit it."
Larry shrugged and then held up his hands in surrender. "When Jeff suggested him as a trustee, it's true I searched for details of him on the web and found his photograph. I immediately saw the similarity and thought it would be interesting to get him to dress as Hillary, and — yes, you're right — that drawing does something to me. I really want to have sex with Hillary Hodgson in the same way as Picasso did. In a way, Jeff is perfectly right about the drawing; it is filth and it has corrupted me. I can't get the image out of my mind."
"I bet Nancy told him you'd be furious if you found out they'd had sex, after she'd thrown his clothes in the water. That's hypocrisy, coming from you two. I don't suppose even the sheep around here are safe."
Another shrug from Larry. "We 'accidentally' forgot to send out the invites to the other branch of the family. You were necessary to make the meeting quorate, and I guessed correctly that, with sufficient alcohol inside him, Jeff would storm out and try to ground the meeting."
There was silence between them for a moment, and Edith was about to speak when she heard a noise on the track leading down to the boathouse. "There's someone down there," she said. "Could it be burglars after The Drawing?"
"More likely," Larry said, "it's the catering company bringing in our meal for this evening. They also provided the excellent buffet for lunch."
The track was in shadow from the sun, so although they both saw a figure moving towards them, they couldn't identify him until he spoke. "Hi, Larry. Hi Edith. I've returned."
"Jeff?" Larry was as surprised as Edith. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd have reached London by now. Did you miss the train? But then you could have caught a later one."
Jeffrey grinned. "I caught the train by the skin of my teeth. It left the station, travelled half a mile down the track and then stopped. It was stuck there for three and a half hours. It seems there was a derailment on the main line to London so the line was closed. The toilets on my train all got blocked up and the buffet ran out of food and drink.
"Eventually, they reversed it back along the track to Dorton and we waited for coaches to take us on. When the coaches arrived, there weren't sufficient to take us all, and a group of us were left behind. Then, from the platform, I noticed your catering people loading their cases of food onto the launch. I streaked down to the quayside and begged a lift.
"Er," he continued, showing nervousness for the first time, "sorry about earlier. Is it all right if I join you for dinner. We could reconvene the meeting afterwards."
"Sure," Larry said. "That would be excellent, although we realised after you left that with Matt now being a trustee, we are still quorate. However, we haven't yet taken a decision upon our plans for the future."
They all started walking towards the house as Jeffrey asked, "How's Matt being getting on? Not disgraced himself?"
"I think he's probably performed very well," Edith said. "But before we go in..."
"Yes?" Jeffrey asked.
"Well, we need to just warn you," Larry.
"Warn me about what?"
"Well, Matt, er..." Edith started again.
"Matt? What's happened to him?" Jeffrey stared at them both, and then marched quickly into the house.
"Shit!" Larry said.
"Oh dear," Edith said. It looked like any hope of conciliation between her family and Jeff's was dead.
Jeffrey couldn't see Matt when he stepped into the Library. There was Nancy sitting at the long table and some other woman who they'd obviously got to dress up as Hillary Hodgson. "Hi Nancy," he said. "Good evening, madam. Is Matt around?"
They both jumped like startled rabbits, and turned to face him. The other woman was really a remarkable likeness to Hillary Hodgson, why it might almost be... "Matt!" he gasped.
"Hello Dad."
"You look absolutely fantastic," he said.
"I do?" Hilary could see the mouths of all the others gaping open with disbelief.
"I can only remember the real Hillary from my childhood, but you look identical to her."
"I didn't really want to do it, Dad, and I got sort of pushed into it, but now I'm glad I did. Does that sound weird? But I thought you'd be cross with me."
Jeffrey grinned. "Do you know? I sometimes wanted to suggest you dress up as your great-aunt. It's only acting a part, after all, not having your willy chopped off. But it's not the sort of thing you suggest to a teenage boy and I thought you'd be mad at me for proposing it."
"Well, that's all great," Larry jumped in. "It sounds like we can proceed with the rest of the meeting. Let's all sit down."
They all moved back to the seats at the mahogany table they had occupied that morning.
Larry cleared his throat and restarted the meeting. "I do have to tell you, Jeffrey, that Edith and Hilary — that is, Matt — saw the drawing this afternoon, which may influence their decision about displaying it."
Jeffrey nodded. "Actually, I also have to come clean. I wasn't quite honest with you when I told you I hadn't seen it. In fact, Uncle Charles showed it to me shortly after Aunt Hillary died."
That shut everybody up, even Larry.
"I was only sixteen, and I'd come down here to help him move out a lot of Aunt Hillary's stuff, prior to him selling Golden Gates."
They all waited for him to continue. When he did not, Larry asked, "What did you think of it?"
There was silence for a moment, and then Jeffrey said, "I was excited by it. I..." He broke off.
The silence lingered for a while, then Jeffrey continued, "Uncle Charles was excited also. He... He seduced me."
"Oh my God!"
"Dad! How horrible."
"I always knew he was an evil shit!"
"It wasn't rape," Jeffrey explained. "I told you that I was also excited, especially when Uncle Charles explained that was not Hillary's vagina that the artist was penetrating."
"It wasn't her vagina," Matt said, "then what..."
"It's her anus," Larry said. "Picasso was taking Hillary Hodgson up her anus."
"And that's what Uncle Charles did to you?" Matt said. "Dad, that is really evil. How could he do that?"
"I've felt dirty ever since," Jeffrey said. "That's why I could never vote for it to be displayed."
"Jeff," Edith said. "I know that was a horrible experience but this is a significant piece of unknown art by one of the most notable artists who has ever lived. We must display it."
"I do agree with Edith," Larry said. "How do you vote, Hilary?"
Matt hesitated and then said, "I know you're offering me a job and everything, but now I know how Dad feels about it. I'm voting against it." Not that it made any difference, he realised. With Edith supporting Larry and Nancy, it would still be carried.
"I understand both your positions," Larry said, "but that makes three votes in favour and two against, so the proposition is..."
"You haven't asked me for my vote, yet," Nancy said, "and I'm voting against it."
"You're voting against it?" Larry couldn't believe his ears.
"I thought Picasso was a big man having good sex with Hillary," she said. "I didn't realise he was arse fucking her. Why did he have to do that?"
"But the look on her face," Edith said. "She was enjoying it."
"That wasn't a look of joy," Nancy said. "It was a look of absolute agony. No wonder she broke off the relationship with him."
"She broke off with him?" Matt asked.
"That seems to be a generally agreed fact," Larry said. "But are we really saying we're going to hide away a previously unknown Picasso? It's crazy."
"Yes," said Nancy.
"Yes," said Jeffrey.
"Yes," said Matt.
"But I do suggest," Nancy said, "that we continue with the plan to appoint Matt, dressed as Hilary, as the Assistant Curator. It's the kind of thing we can use for publicity; get it into the press and on TV. It makes good sense, so all those in favour of employing Matt as Assistant Curator?"
All but Larry raised their hands, and eventually he did too.
"Well, I guess that's all settled," he said. "Matt will start work for the museum as soon as he's finished college, and we will not allow any private viewings of The Drawing. I hereby close this meeting."
"Thanks, son," Jeffrey said, "or should I call you daughter?" He stood up and walked over to her, and gave her a hug. "I think we need to explain this to your mother quite carefully... and not a word about the other business. OK?"
"Of course, Dad."
"I don't think everything is quite settled," Nancy said. "Larry, have you got the piece of paper with the pass code for the safe?"
"You mean this?" He pulled the paper from his pocket and held it out.
"Yes," Nancy said, deftly removing it from his fingers. "There's to be no more access to the safe, so we'll just dispose of it."
"No!" Larry shouted, but before he could stop her, she had popped it into her mouth, masticated it a few times and then swallowed it.
"I'll get them to issue another pass code," Larry said defiantly.
"No you won't," Nancy said. "If you remember, you couldn't be bothered to do all the paperwork to get the safe set up, so I have to authorise a new pass code. And I'm not going to do it."
"But... but... but..."
"Larry," Edith said, "I think you've been outmanoeuvred. I didn't quite understand the significance of The Drawing before, so how about if you explain it all to me now, putting it to me as directly as you can?" She should have put it more subtly than that, she realised, although Jeff didn't seemed to have picked up the nuance, thank heavens.
Larry looked at her — a not unattractive but, undeniably, old biddy. That afternoon, he had been prepared to do his duty by Edith, keeping her out of the way whilst the rest of his plan was taking place. But he really didn't want to have another round of sex with her, even if she was offering to replicate the Picasso fucking for him. Or was it a case of any port in a storm?
He glanced at Nancy, who stared daggers back at him, and then she turned to fondly look at Hilary, who was still hugging her father. No doubt who'd be sleeping in Nancy's bed tonight.
He was already in love with Hilary, he realised, which is why he'd agreed to employ her, even after the shambles of the vote. She had such a fantastic figure — her breasts were as large as Nancy's before she'd had them enlarged — how on earth had Nancy achieved that? And Hilary's waist really put Nancy's rather big tummy to shame. What a shame everything had turned out as it did, even though he could appreciate the poetic irony of it all. From the way that Hilary had just reacted to news of Charles's act with her father, her relationship with Larry was clearly going to be a case of...
"Unconsummated Love," he said. Then he turned to Edith and added, "Great idea, Edith. Let's go."
Up the Maypole
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CHAPTER ONE - FOUR WEEKS BEFORE
"Linda, don't let Dan drive off," Kate shouted. "We need a man."
My sister, Linda, grimaced at me as she reached onto the back seat to grab her kit bag. "Kate always needs a man," she said.
"Oh really?" I replied. I knew Kate by sight, having met her a few times when I'd picked up Linda from work. I eyed her rather shapely rear, clad in leggings and leotard, as she retreated back inside the school building.
"Don't even think about it," Linda said, "She'd chew you up in five minutes and spit out the bits."
"Sounds fascinating," I quipped, as I got out of the car whilst, in direct contradiction to Linda's instruction, fantasised about Kate not exactly chewing me, but doing something else rather nice with her mouth.
"Just remember, all the girls in my dance class are married," Linda said, "so don't go getting any ideas."
Sometimes I felt Linda sounded more like a wife than a sister. Even my ex long-term girlfriend, from whom I'd separated just over a month ago, didn't sound as wifely as Linda. But beggars can't be choosers. I'd been staying with Linda after I separated, and I'd have been homeless without her. Giving her lifts, as I was doing that evening, was one of the small ways in which I tried to show my thanks.
I followed her into the school building, almost the first time I'd stepped foot inside a school since I left. All the same old smells hit me, taking me back instantly fifteen years. I shuddered. I hadn't particularly liked my school days. Fortunately, it was only a short walk down that smelly corridor to the gym, which was nothing like the gym at my old school.
"Thanks for offering to help, Dan." Kate turned towards me, her face lighting up with a smile which I couldn't help but return. She added, with distinct innuendo, "We have a problem with our pole."
She pointed to the top of the maypole, which stood incongruously in the centre of the gym. "It's all knotted up. We need a brave man to go up the steps and untangle it."
The steps standing next to the pole looked as though they should be condemned and when I grabbed hold of them they wobbled alarmingly. "Where did you get these from?"
"We found them in the store at the back of the gym." The pretty woman standing next to them gave me a smile, her very well-rounded figure pushing nicely out of her leotard. "I'm Gemma, by the way," she added.
"Hi Gemma," I said, returning her smile, and trying not to oggle her plunging cleavage. "I'm Dan. But you don't seriously expect me to go up these steps do you? I might break my neck."
"I'll get changed," Linda said, walking over to a door at the side of the gym, "whilst you sort out this little problem."
"Men are so much better at these things," Kate said to me. "Besides, with the competition coming up in a few weeks time, none of us can afford to get injured."
Another disarming smile from both Kate and Gemma which it was impossible to refuse. In any case, what red-bloodied man could turn his back on those two beautiful pairs of boobs, quivering quite delightfully before me?
Actually, once I got the ladder properly opened, with the rope stays stretched tight, it was quite firm, and after all, the maypole was only about twelve feet high. Nonetheless, it took ages to untie the ribbons from the mess the kids had left them in. Every time I looked down, the girls standing beneath me in a semi-circle seemed to grow in numbers. With all of them wearing matching leotards which so delightfully exposed their boobs, I knew what it must feel like to be God looking down on the Garden of Eden.
But unfortunately, I couldn't delay finishing the job for ever, and eventually I climbed down the steps, dismantled them and started to put them away, whilst Kate, who was the leader of the dance group, started bellowing commands to the others.
"OK, girls. You know we've been rather dropped into this May Dance competition at the last minute by the council, who forgot to tell anyone about it. It's going to be on Bank Holiday Monday on the Esplanade Green. That means in order to use the school's maypole to practice, we have to come here rather than our usual venue. It also means we only have four weeks to get our whole routine sorted, and rehearsed to perfection. I've planned three dance routines using eight dancers, which I thought would give us one reserve. Unfortunately, Melissa told me yesterday she was going off on holiday so we won't see her for the next three weeks. That means we can't afford to lose anyone else."
"Kate," Linda interrupted. "There are only seven of us here, today, including you. Tina's not here; was she supposed to be?"
"Shit!" Kate said. "I got so engrossed with the knotted maypole, I forgot to do a roll call. Has anyone seen Tina? She certainly said she was coming tonight."
There was silence with a few shakes of the head, but further thought was suspended as a mobile phone started ringing amongst the kit bags dumped at the side.
"That's my phone," Kate said, walking over to her bag. "It must be Tina. I hope she's only ringing to say she's late."
But a short conversation later, it was clear that Tina was not going to appear.
"Tina's babysitter has not turned up," Kate told everyone, "and she hasn't been able to find a replacement. Which means it's going to be bloody difficult to get going even with simple…"
"Kate," Linda said. "Dan can stand in for Tina with this first bit, whilst we get the routines blocked out."
All seven pairs of eyes turned to me as my jaw dropped open.
"Er, no…" I started to say, but I was pounced upon by seven gorgeous women.
"Don't be silly."
"We really need you."
"There's absolutely nothing to it."
"You'll be helping us out of a terrible problem."
"We'll be very grateful." This remark from Gemma, who leaned forward to make her words appear more earnest; or perhaps just to give me a tremendous view down her cleavage.
"Well," I said, "if it's just walking around getting the moves right."
"Of course," Kate said, although I noticed she crossed her fingers as she spoke. "It will at least allow us to make a start this week without Tina. She's normally so reliable."
So I allowed myself to be coaxed into walking through the three dance routines which Kate had planned. Then, of course, it was a simple progression to doing them rather more quickly; then more quickly still, until I realised we were actually dancing.
And it was fun!
Not that I'm keen on dancing, you understand. But I was surrounded by seven pretty women wearing close-fitting leotards that left little to the imagination. With every move, they wobbled and quivered and wobbled some more. And with the complex routines, with which we were all unfamiliar, it took ages for us to get to learn them, especially me, so I was always bumping into one of the others, which everyone took as a tremendous joke - except for Linda and by pure chance, I never bumped into her.
Now I hadn't done any maypole dancing since primary school, so I was rather vague about the whole thing. Perhaps I'd better explain it in case you're not familiar with the maypole. It comes from one of those early pagan customs and, if pub-talk is right, the maypole represents a phallic symbol, and maidens and men danced around it as a fertility rite - mind you, they don't teach that at primary school, which, nowadays, is about the only time that most people come into contact with them.
Attached to the top of the pole, which is normally 12 - 15 feet high, are long, coloured ribbons - the very same ribbons which the kids had left hopelessly tied into knots - and each dancer clasps one of the ribbons and dances around the pole. Generally, every other dancer travels in opposite directions, weaving in and out of each other as they pass, and the ribbons form a kind of braid as they wrap around the pole; then the dancers change direction and the theory is they all get unravelled. But Kate had planned all kinds of variations on this, producing weird and wonderful braids, as well as making the dancing look both complex and impressive.
By the end of the evening, I was totally shattered, but very happily shattered, as though I'd been having an orgy with them for the previous two hours.
"Thanks, Dan," Kate said, whilst I was waiting for Linda to get changed. "We couldn't have managed without you."
"Actually," I sheepishly admitted, "I quite enjoyed it."
"Most blokes do," she replied. "They simply don't like their mates to find out. Don’t worry, your secret's safe with us."
She turned to the others who were now emerging from the changing-room. "Isn't it, girls."
"Of course," Gemma said. "We may need to use you again, and you're not going to do that if we make you feel stupid in front of your mates."
"Use me again?" I remarked to Linda, as we left the building a few minutes later. "But Kate said that Tina was normally very reliable."
"She is," Linda replied, "but I think Kate is pushing her luck in using a dance routine for eight of us, without a reserve. There's nearly always someone who's absent. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself today, as we'll probably need you again next week."
I didn't say anything to Linda, but I rather looked forward to playing around - I mean dancing - with all those beautiful girls next week.
***
Hell! Did I suffer for those lecherous thoughts!
Next morning, every muscle in my body screamed at me, and the skin on my chest and legs was red raw, as though I'd been flayed alive.
"It's where your jeans and tee-shirt were rubbing against your legs and chest," Linda said, passing over some cream. "Spread this over the rashes and they should get better in a few days."
"A few days!" I yelled. "I'm in agony…" I would have continued in that strain for some time, except that Linda was totally unsympathetic about my plight, and she left the room without comment to prepare for work.
CHAPTER TWO - THREE WEEKS BEFORE
"Hi Dan," Kate said. "Are we glad to see you! Tracey's not able to make it this week, so we'll need our favourite male reserve to fill in for her."
"Well, I was in so much pain last week…" I started.
"Oh you poor thing," Gemma said. "You threw yourself so thoroughly into the dances; we wondered whether you might suffer but we were very impressed with you. You should have telephone me and I'd have come over and massaged your muscles. But in any case, now you're toned up, you'll be alright, this week."
"It wasn't just my muscles," I bravely responded, wondering whether Gemma was serious about the massage. "My legs and chest were chaffed as well. I'm sorry but…"
"That's why we wear leotards and leggings," Kate said. "If you'd told me, I'd have brought you a spare pair."
Christ, I thought to myself. What a good job I hadn't told her.
"That's alright," Linda said. "I packed my old leotard and a spare pair of leggings just in case you needed Dan again."
"What?" I gasped. "Look, I'll do the dancing, but…"
"Then it makes sense that you dress properly for it," Gemma said. She turned to the others. "Isn't that right girls?"
"Yes," they all chorused.
"Oh, come on," Linda said, pushing me towards the male changing-rooms. "It's only a leotard and leggings. They won't make your willy fall off."
She was lying. Not about my willy not falling off - fortunately that was alright. I meant she was lying about it only being a leotard and leggings, as I discovered seconds later.
"I bet you still wear those boxer shorts like you did when you were a kid, don't you?" she asked.
I was a bit embarrassed at her question, and gave a mumbled response. "Well what if I do?"
"You can't possibly wear a leotard over boxer shorts. They'll look ridiculous."
"Well, I suppose I could go without," I said.
"Don't you even think about wearing my leotard without underwear," Linda said. "Here, I popped a pair of panties into my bag just in case. Wear these."
I eyed the scanty panties Linda held before me. OK, as women's panties went, these were not particularly outrageous - simply a plain, white pantie with a lace trim, but blokes don't do that kind of thing, do they.
"I'll feel stupid wearing those," I said.
"No one will know you're wearing them, will they? Unlike the situation if you insist on wearing those boxers, in which case you really will look stupid. Is that what you want?"
"Well, no, but…"
"Then put these on and stop making such a fuss."
She left me in the changing room to make up my own mind.
Of course, when I pulled the leggings and leotard over my boxer shorts, they did look ridiculous, so I took everything off, put on the panties, trying to ignore the enormous erection they gave me, and then pulled on the leggings. By the time the leotard went over the top, my cock was sticking up like the Eiffel Tower, and if I'd walked out of the changing rooms like that, I'd have been arrested for indecency.
I sighed. I'd have to go into the toilet and use my old trick - no, not that one! I mean the one where I doused my balls in very cold water. Whilst they were recovering from the shock, I shoved my tackle between my legs and quickly pulled up the panties and leggings. On with the leotard yet again and I looked almost respectable.
In fact, when I looked in the mirror, I was far better than I expected. Fortunately, Linda's old leotard was a completely different style - and colour - to her current one, and it had a high neckline and long sleeves, so my hairy chest and arms were hidden. Both leggings and leotard were of stretchy material so they clung to my body and, even though I say it myself, I have quite a slim body, so I thought I looked half-alright.
"That suits you really well," Gemma said as I rejoined the girls in the gym.
"I guess it will do fine," I said, trying not to preen too visibly.
"Thank God you're not wearing those horrible boxer shorts like lots of blokes do," Kate added, whereupon Linda smirked at me behind her back.
"Heaven forbid," I muttered.
"Right!" Kate went into her bellowing mood. "Gather around the maypole and let's see how much you've remembered from last week."
***
I didn't bother to get changed at the end - I simply pulled on my jeans and tee shirt over the top of my leotard and leggings. Once again, it had been an energetic session, and the sweat was pouring off me, but I hadn't felt anything like as clumsy as the previous week. The girls had helped me with several of the dance steps that I'd ad-libbed before, and I felt I was really starting to make a contribution.
They again made a fuss of me for helping them out of the absence.
CHAPTER THREE - TWO WEEKS BEFORE
"I was thinking," Linda said on the morning of the following week's dance class.
"Oh, yes?" I was immediately suspicious.
"Well, only that with you wearing my old leotard, you were a different colour to everyone else, so I think it must have made it a bit difficult for Kate to see the group as a whole, without you continually standing out."
I'd noticed that as well, but there was nothing I could do about it. "So what do you suggest?"
"I have a spare leotard in the new style and colour. You can wear that if you wish."
"OK, fine." I was struck by a sudden thought. "Why didn't you bring it to last week's dance class, instead of the one you did bring?"
"Well, obviously, it would expose all your hairy chest and arms, of course. It would look dreadful on you."
I was puzzled. "So why suggest it for this week?"
"Now you've got used to the idea of wearing a leotard, it means you have time to do something about your hairy body."
"What? You mean…"
"Shave all the hair off your body, obviously."
"You're kidding?"
"No. Of course not. What's the problem?"
"Well, I… It's poofy."
"Cyclists do it. Are they poofy?"
"Well no. But that's done for a reason."
"You have a reason. So what's the problem?"
"I don't have to shave my legs, surely?"
"Of course. Those leggings are translucent. We could see your hairy legs, and even if you decide to stick with my old leotard, I think you should shave your legs. Oh Dan, don't be so stuffy. You enjoyed it last week and all the girls will support you."
I shrugged. "OK."
***
"Hi Linda. Hi Dan," Kate said as we entered the gym, that evening.
"Hi," we both chorused.
"For the first time, we have a full attendance this week," she said.
"You mean you don't need me. That's good; I can take it easy." I desperately tried to hide my disappointment behind a show of bravado. It had taken me ages to shave all over and, to be honest, I'd found it incredibly erotic. I had very sexy legs and all my life, I'd never appreciated them. Now, I wanted to show them off in front of the girls.
"Actually," Kate said, "it would be really good if you could fill in for me. I could then concentrate upon watching everyone and ironing out the kinks in our performance. You know, look on you all as the judges and audience will. You wouldn't mind filling in for me, Dan, would you?"
I smiled at her. "Actually, I'm enjoying these sessions tremendously. No I wouldn't mind at all."
"Great!" Kate smiled back at me. She transferred to her bossy mood. "OK, everybody. Now before we get going with the class, Gemma wants to talk to you about our costumes for the event." She turned and nodded to Gemma who stepped forward.
"OK," she said. "Clearly we want to make a good impression for the competition and, as we all know, choice of costume is critical. I need to get this sorted today so we can get them for next week. It seems we have two alternatives. Firstly, we can go for the typical maypole, country-wench type costume." She held up a few pictures of maidens cavorting around maypoles.
"Otherwise," Gemma continued, "we could wear a more formal dance costume, such as going as fairies wearing romantic tutus. Any preferences?" She held up some more pictures.
I could have told Gemma not to bother. It's near impossible to try to get just two women to agree upon a choice of clothes - it would take a miracle of the first order to get all eight to agree. They went on and on about it - the advantages of this - the disadvantages of that. At least I knew when to keep out of an argument.
"Listen everybody," Kate bellowed. "We've just taken ten minutes out of our dance class without coming to an agreement. We can't afford any more time. We seem to be about equally split either way, so I'm going to take an executive decision…" (At last! I thought) "…and ask Dan to decide."
I gulped. "Me? What do I know about choosing clothes?"
"Absolutely nothing at all," Kate said. "But you probably know what you like. So, which is it to be?"
Another gulp as I stared at the two pictures Gemma conveniently held up for me again. "I think," I said, "that you are an extremely professional group, so you should dress like one. Definitely the dresses which professional ballet dancers would wear."
I looked around the group and in fact they all appeared mollified. One or two were even sagely nodding their heads, although Linda, who'd been in favour of the country-wench-look gave a snort. Of course, my reason was total bollocks. It was really quite simple: the country wench dress had a small, square neckline which kept most of the breasts covered; the ballet dresses shown in Gemma's picture had a very low neckline, and a back-laced torso which pulled their upper bodies into a fantastic conical shape. Put Gemma or Kate into one of those dresses and it would be a bit like an ice-cream cone with two large dollops of ice-cream on top. I'd be having perpetual orgasms all the time they danced!
***
At the end of the session, everybody agreed I'd made a great sacrifice in shaving my chest and arms, simply so that my wear coordinated with everyone else's. They also agreed that my dancing had come on by leaps and bounds (OK, that was my puny joke!) over the last three weeks, and that I'd been a thoroughly good sport about it all.
As for me, I simply enjoyed myself.
Actually, that wasn't quite true; the bit about the enjoyment being simple, I mean. In fact I was in ecstasy for much of the dance session, but not only because I was dancing amongst seven beautiful women who continued to wobble in a most agreeable way. No, what was strange was that as I flitted round and round the maypole - and I really was flitting, now, as light on my feet as most of the other girls - I felt incredibly erotic just because of what I was wearing and the way my silky chest was exposed almost down to my nipples, and the way the leggings moved over my bare legs. As a bloke, I should have been incredibly uncomfortable about what I was doing but instead, I felt completely at home with it all - as though it was meant to be. Explain that if you will.
CHAPTER FOUR - THE WEEK BEFORE
The final practice before the competition on the Bank Holiday Monday seemed to take forever to come round. It was made all the worse because I suspected that Kate might consider it wise to again dance as part of the group for this final session, rather than managing from the side.
But when we approached the door to the gym, Kate was sitting on a bench and the others were standing around her. She let out a sigh of relief.
"Thank heavens you're both here," she said. "That means we can go ahead."
"What do you mean?" Linda asked, glancing around. "All eight of us girls are here; we don't actually need Dan to fill in today."
It wasn't even as though we were late. We'd been asked to get there half hour earlier than usual, and we could hear the badminton group, who regularly booked the school gym for the period before us, were still in full swing.
Kate shook her head. "No. I haven't explained. I left the office a little late and was dashing here, and I twisted my ankle as I stepped off the kerb. I need to rest it, and I'm just terrified it won't be better in time for Monday."
"Oh God!" Linda said. "Take it completely easy. You have to get it better. It would be too awful if we had to give up now."
"There is an alternative," Gemma said.
Everyone turned to look at her, but I knew what she was going to suggest. I kept my eyes down.
"Dan could stand in for Kate," Gemma said.
"That wouldn't be fair on him," Linda said. "He can't appear in a leotard in public. He'd never live it down. Besides, the dances are all planned around eight women. It would be totally unbalanced if we had one man amongst us."
"I wasn't suggesting that," Gemma said. "I was suggesting that the public see eight women dancing in the dresses I've spent the last week getting ready."
"But we're talking about the situation if Kate can't dance," Linda said, not comprehending that which Gemma was so obviously suggesting. "There's no problem if she can dance."
Gemma shook her head. "No. I meant that if Kate can't dance, we should ask Dan to stand in for Kate, and wear the dress just as the rest of us will. He's not that different in size to Kate. We could fix something up."
"But I'd look like a man wearing a dress," I said.
"Not necessarily." Tina was looking critically at me. Linda had told me she was a hairdresser. "I could do something with your hair to give it a really different appearance. I have a girl at the salon who does make-up. She could do wonders with your face."
"But have none of you realised I'm a different shape to Kate." I gesticulated towards her. "Like, she has tits."
The statement seemed to shock the group, and suddenly Kate was going into her commanding mode. "Look," she bellowed, "we've spent enough time discussing a what-if. We'll cross our bridges only when we come to them and concentrate on this evening's practice for now. I'm sure that Dan will be happy to fill in for me today." She turned to me. "Is that right, Dan?"
I nodded. "Sure. No problem."
She smiled. "I really appreciate that," she said. "I realise that wearing the low-fronted leotard last week was one thing, but wearing a tutu today would be something else, entirely."
Gulp! "Tutu?" I said.
"Sure," she said. "Gemma told us last session she'd get costumes along today, and it was you who chose the romantic tutu."
"But I thought that would just be for the performance itself."
"I'm sure Dan doesn't really need to wear a tutu," Linda said.
Kate looked doubtful. "When Dan wore the same leotard as the others last week, it really did make a tremendous difference to how the whole group looked and felt. Besides, we have to practice lifting our skirts as we pass each other. It will be totally different if one person is wearing a leotard."
She looked at me. "Look Dan, if you really hate the idea, then stick with the leotard, but it would make a big difference if you agreed to wear the tutu."
"Please Dan," Gemma said. "We really need you to be brave. For all of us."
I nodded. "I'll do it," I said. "But only today. Not on the Esplanade Green in front of crowds of people."
"Sure," Kate said, but I noticed she had her fingers crossed again. I pretended not to notice, but for no apparent reason, there was an exhilaration surging through me at the very thought of Gemma's suggestion.
***
"I don't think Kate's dress is going to be big enough for me," I said, through the door to Gemma, who was standing outside the men's changing-room.
"Rubbish," Gemma said. "Kate's chest measurement is certainly bigger than yours. Do you mind if I come in?"
She barged through the door without waiting for an answer. Fortunately, I had the skirt around my waist and she couldn't see the incredible erection I sported beneath my panties. Even if I hadn't had one before she came in, I certainly would have on seeing her. I'd been absolutely right about the cut of the dress exposing her boobs to perfection - and she had perfectly beautiful boobs, so large they…
"It's a lace-up back," she said, "and it's made to pull the body into the right shape. We all had to lace up each other's dresses, as we'd never be able to do it on our own. Here, let me."
She pulled the tutu up my chest and I slipped my arms through the lacy sleeves, whilst she fumbled about behind my back. Her touch alone was enough to make my erection harder.
"Right, let's start lacing you up," she said.
She obviously started at the top as I felt the dress tighten around my chest.
"Obviously, there's plenty of room at the top for Kate's boobs," Gemma said. "It's as we lace further down that it might feel a little tight." She gave a powerful pull on the laces which made me gasp.
"I see what you mean," I said.
"Don't be silly," she said. "I've hardly started yet."
Another huge pull on the laces and another gasp from me, as this time my tummy was pulled in.
"Of course," she said, "this is nothing like as bad as a Victorian corset. After all, you do have to be able to dance."
"Dance! I can barely breathe," I said.
"Rubbish!" she scoffed. Another pull on the laces, and my lower torso disappeared from sight.
"There," she said. "Have a look in the mirror."
I did so and gave a gasp louder than any I'd been uttering before. "My God! I have a figure."
"Not bad, is it?" Gemma said with a smile.
I shook my head. "No, my overall figure is not bad, but I could never pass for a woman in public. You know that, don't you?"
"Dan?" Gemma twisted me round by my shoulder. "Trust me." And she quickly planted a kiss on my lips that made the blood surge through my body. "I won't do anything to make you look stupid, but I'm certain we could convince everyone that you're a woman."
"But how?" I said.
"Like I said," Gemma said, "simply trust me. OK?"
I dumbly nodded. "OK."
***
Wearing the tutus, we all looked so much more elegant, and the dances really flowed more smoothly than they had ever done previously. There was a lot of lifting of our skirts to left and right as we passed each other, and I could tell, it was all going superbly. By the end, we were all beaming at each other.
"You've all danced marvellously," Kate said. "I'm so proud of you all, especially Dan. You really don't need me, at all."
"Of course we need you," Tina said. "You're our leader. We'd never be at this standard without your tuition."
"Let's all keep our fingers crossed that your ankle gets swiftly better," I said.
"But Dan, if I really can't do it, will you stand in for me?"
All the girls were staring at me.
I hesitated.
"Look," Tina said. "You don't have to make up your mind at this moment. Obviously, if we can't disguise you as a convincing woman, we're not going to take you out in public. But why don't you let us give it a try, and see how convincing we can make you. If at the end of it, we have to give the whole competition up, then so be it. But at least we'll have tried. So Dan, how about it?"
"Go on, Dan," Gemma said. "We'd be ever so grateful." She was shrugging her shoulders, so I could see her fantastic cleavage again.
I shrugged. "I suppose I can hardly object to giving it a try."
"Great!" they all cheered, and Gemma gave me another kiss.
***
We chose Sunday as the day of my conversion. Tina's hairdressing shop was closed on that day, which meant she could apply her skills on me without her other customers looking on. She washed my hair and cut it, and then put on some gloves and started to rub a chemical into my hair.
"Tina," I asked. I was suddenly smitten with doubt. "Will this all wash out after the dance?"
"Don't be silly" she said. "Perms last for ages; that's why they're called perms. But don't worry; lots of men have them nowadays."
Did they? None of the men I knew did so. On the other hand, I knew that if I was going to pass as a woman, I was going to have to go along with Tina's plans, and hell, there was a desperation inside me that wanted to put on that dress the following day and dance in front of hundreds of people, all of whom thought I was a woman.
When Tina had finished my hair, I stared at myself in the mirror and could hardly believe the transformation. The perm totally altered my appearance so it was difficult to accept it was on a man's head. God knew how I was going to cope when I returned to being a man after the dance, but I didn't care.
Gemma and Kate had come into the salon shortly before my hair was finished, and they echoed my amazement at my new look.
"Dan, you're hair is fantastic!" Gemma said. "No one could ever believe it belongs to a man."
Kate was still limping, and she added. "That's great, because my ankle still feels as bad today as it did the other night. I think it's extremely unlikely I shall be able to dance tomorrow, so all our team hopes are down to you, Dan, on looking a convincing woman."
The seriousness of what I was going to attempt really hit me then. The crowd would be throwing rotten fruit as soon as they realised I was a man dressed up as a woman.
"They'll never realise once we get Kate's Bustlet on you," Gemma said, seeing the look of sudden doubt on my face.
I was puzzled. "What's a Bustlet?"
"It's breast enhancement without the surgery," Kate said. "I'm wearing my Bustlet now. You might think you're staring at my boobs without me noticing, but it's not only obvious that you're staring, but these aren't really boobs you're staring at."
"Not really boobs?" I was puzzled, and I openly stared at her breasts now I'd been rumbled. "Of course they're boobs."
"I've brought my spare Bustlet with me today," Kate said, lifting something heavy out of a plastic carrier bag.
I gasped. It looked horribly like she had cut off someone's tits and was lifting them out of the bag - only there was no blood.
"They're artificial?" I said.
"At last," Kate said. "They look bloody realistic, though, don't they?" She thrust her own breasts towards me - except she had just told me they weren't her real breasts.
"You bet," I said.
"And just in case you're wondering," Gemma said, "these are my own breasts." She wobbled them at me.
"With a little help from a surgeon," Kate muttered under her breath.
"Bitch!" Gemma said, without rancour, and turned to me. "Are you ready to gain a nice pair of breasts?"
Gulp! I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, as I'd surely give the game away if I did so. This was the stuff that dreams were made of.
"You'll need to keep the Bustlet on from now until after the competition," Kate said, "so we need to spread this gel over you." She waved a large plastic tub at me. "It's to stop your body perspiring buckets of sweat, beneath the Bustlet. It's also an adhesive, so it keeps everything properly in place."
"You mean," I replied, eying those tits and the tub of gel, "that I have to go home tonight with that huge pair of tits?" Try not to appear too keen, I kept telling myself. You must be reluctant.
"Of course," Kate replied. "That was the whole idea, wasn't it? We convert you today, and if we're all satisfied you look like a woman, we go ahead with the competition. We can hardly decide that if you convert back to a man. Everyone is coming round to Linda's house tonight to make the decision."
I shrugged. "OK, do your damndest."
I removed my shirt and Kate put on a plastic glove and spread the gel from the tub over my torso; from my neck around the jaw line down to a couple of inches beneath my nipples. The Bustlet then went over my head like a crop top and fitted snugly over my chest.
"Bloody hell!" I stared at myself in the mirror. It was impossible to believe that a man could have tits like the pair I sported.
"Slip your arms through this bra," Gemma instructed, "and we also have a blouse for you, but you can wear your own jeans. Tina's beautician is arriving in a few minutes, and she's been told that you're a woman who has a lot of trouble with people thinking you look like a man."
"We'll see how good she is at overcoming that problem," Tina said with a wicked smile.
"Swallow this voice-changer capsule before she arrives," Gemma said, handing me a large capsule. "It tightens the vocal chords in the same way as helium, so you'll have a very high voice."
I took the pill, which almost burnt my throat away, but afterwards I had a really sweet voice.
"Bloody hell," I squeaked.
CHAPTER FIVE - MAY DAY
We came second!
I thought I'd get that in early, just to show there's going to be no great build up over the competition. To me, it was the enjoyment we got from competing in the event which was important, whereas to some people, winning is everything - like Gemma's husband, for example.
I had never been certain how seriously to take Gemma's flirting with me; was it just in fun or was she really indicating she wanted an affair? Linda had warned me off on that first evening so you obviously realise that if Gemma had thrown her body at me, I would have politely disentangled myself and walked away. And pigs may fly!
I desperately wanted to shag the arse off Gemma, but didn't want to do anything to risk the wonderful experiences I was having dressed as a woman as part of the dance team. You see, I've never been that good at pulling women, usually too unsure of myself to make a move until it was too late, and some other bastard had got in before me.
So it was with Gemma, and the first time I got to know a little about her husband was just after lunch on the Bank Holiday Monday - a couple of hours before the competition was due to start at three pm. We'd agreed that, since Gemma lived closest to the Esplanade Green, we'd go round to her house to get changed, and then find somewhere on the Green where we could do our warm-up exercises.
Her house was a tiny, fisherman's cottage, although the fisherman had long since departed. It had one smallish bedroom and one minute bedroom. The girls took the largest bedroom to change, and I was relegated to the tiny one, used as a box room. On top of all the other rubbish stored there were boxes of trophies and awards inscribed "Gavin Green - First prize" or "Gavin Green - Best in Class" or "Gavin Green - Outstanding Achievement": badminton, cricket, football, golf, marathon running, swimming - almost every sport you could think of and a whole lot more. Gavin was obviously one of those sickening people who thought winning was the most important thing in life - no wonder he'd won such a beautiful wife.
"Aren't you undressed yet?" Kate had hobbled into the room without knocking - her ankle appeared to be getting worse, not better. "I've come to help you. Come on, you're going to take longer than everyone else to get prepared so it's no good standing on ceremony. Get stripped. I'll look away if it will make you feel better."
She turned to where my dress was hanging in its garment bag, and started to unzip it, whilst I hurriedly removed shoes and socks, tee shirt and jeans.
"You're not wearing those panties, are you?" Kate said, staring fixedly at the offending panties in a mirror, which I'd only just noticed.
I gulped. I'd been wearing a pair of Linda's plain white panties at every dance evening since that first time I'd put on her leotard, and I'd rather hoped the other girls hadn't realised. One of the reasons I was shy about stripping in front of Kate was I'd put on the panties before I'd left home.
"Well, my boxer shorts aren't really…"
"Don't be stupid," Kate said. "It's simply that you obviously don't know about the matching pink, frilly panties that go with the dress. Hang on a mo; I'll pop downstairs and see what Gemma's done with yours."
She was gone in a second, and I was left standing naked, except for the white panties through which a large bulge was making itself obvious. It was the talk of matching pink, frilly panties which had done it.
"Here you are," Kate burst into the room without knocking again, then: "My God! It's a good job you're going to be wearing these frilly ones; it might hide that enormous bulge. I guess this time, I'd really better not look."
She handed over the panties and I tried not to shudder as I took them in my hand. Although they were tight fitting, they had several layers of horizontal pink frills, in a similar design to the dress.
I slipped off my white panties and my prick lunged upwards, reaching almost to my navel, its purple end throbbing with expectation.
"I've got a safety pin, if that will help," Kate said, reaching the large, opened safety pin around her back towards my groin, the sharp point lunging towards my genitals.
"Aagh!" I yelled, my prick shrivelling to the size of a gherkin.
"Don't be silly," Kate said. "I simply meant you could pin up your panties over your bulge."
I didn't believe her, but since it had done the trick I didn't argue. I hurriedly pulled the pink panties over my shrivelled genitals, pushed them down between my legs, and pulled up the panties tightly over them. By the time they started to get interested in life again, I'd have the dress on to cover any embarrassment.
In fact, the rest of my conversion went quite smoothly. The dress went on, rather more tightly than before but hell, did I care? Then, Tina arrived to flick my hair about, and after that, Gemma and a few other girls appeared to help with the make-up.
"OK, everybody," Kate yelled. "Are we ready to move out?" Everyone nodded, some of us quite nervously. "Then let's go."
We did.
***
Walking across the Esplanade Green, I felt like I was in heaven. Everyone was looking at us, men, women and children alike, and no one realised who I really was. After all, when your tits are bouncing around as you walk, no one imagines you can be a man.
It was even worse - or do I mean better - when we started exercising. The people formed a circle around us, and we could all hear the guys making ribald comments as we bounced up and down.
Gemma grinned at me and said, in a brief lull between exercises, "You get used to it after a few years as a woman.
"In fact," she added, "some of us get to enjoy it."
I could see why. I found the effect electrifying!
After ten minutes of hard work, after which I could feel my muscles pleasantly glowing with heat, we could hear the speakers calling us over to the arena area, where the maypole dance competitions were being held.
Gulp! What had I let myself in for?
***
I have to say that when I told you we came second, I did somewhat mislead you. You see, there were only two entrants in the adult class! The other group were students from the University, and there was no doubt they were better than us. Fortunately, we danced first, and we gave it our best, and everyone cheered us tremendously. I felt on Cloud Nine, not so much about the dancing, not just about the fact that no one realised I was not a well-endowed woman, but that I could see lots of blokes were lusting after me. Is that weird or what?
Then the other group danced and we all knew they were out-dancing us. Their dance combinations were more complex, their rhythm was faster and they seemed to flow more smoothly. Oh yes, and they were all young, nubile, and with smiles that seemed to warm the heart of every male in the audience and, needless to say, the judges.
But the audience enjoyed free entertainment on an otherwise miserable Bank Holiday Monday afternoon. Many went on to buy drinks in the local pubs and cafes, or purchase goods in the shops, and I think all went away satisfied they'd had a good day in spite of the weather. The Town Council vowed to repeat the event at the next Bank Holiday, but give all dance teams more notice, so we'd have more time to practice.
***
Back at Gemma's house, all the girls quickly got changed - anxious to get to the pub for a self-congratulatory drink, but I dragged my heels. I didn't want to go back to being a man!
I accepted Gemma's offer of a cup of tea, and the pair of us stood happily chatting in her kitchen, whilst the others got into their normal gear.
"See you down the pub," Kate shouted, as she hobbled out of the door - the last one to depart, leaving the house quiet.
"I suppose I'd better get changed too," I said, rather awkwardly.
"Do you want to borrow some more bras and other gear?" Gemma asked.
"What?"
"You only had the one change of clothes we gave you yesterday," Gemma said. "You can't wear those for the next two weeks."
I was bewildered. "Why should I need to wear them for the next two weeks?"
"Oh! Didn't Kate explain it to you before she spread the gel on your body? About the adhesive?" Her voice was so full of innocence it was suspicious.
I shook my head. "She certainly said something about an adhesive, but I'm not certain what."
"The adhesive bonds the Bustlet to your skin," she said, "which means it stays in place until the outer layer of skin is shed. That usually takes about two weeks."
"You mean I'm stuck with these breasts for the next two weeks?"
She grimaced, all signs of innocence abandoned. "I know we should have properly explained it to you, but we thought you'd never agree to take part if you knew. You're right; I'm afraid you are stuck with those breasts for the next two weeks, and I'll completely understand if you never want to see me again."
I'd been about to come out with half-angry bluster - that was what any male would have done, surely, even though inwardly I was leaping for joy - but her final words stopped me in my tracks.
"See you again? You mean…"
"Since my husband left me, I've been incredibly lonely. The dance class is about all I've got." She gave a quick smile. "I thought that you and I might meet up, perhaps?"
"Your husband's left you?" But all those medals I saw in the box room…"
"They'd have been on full display in every part of the house if the bastard hadn't left me for some skinny tart," Gemma said. "First thing I did when he left was to throw them into those boxes and dump them in the box room. So what do you say?"
"I say that I'd love to get to know you better."
She gave me a very big smile, then. "I was thinking," she said.
"Yes?"
"Well, I was thinking that it might be quite awkward for you continuing to stay at Linda's house with that huge pair of tits on you. If you wanted, you could stay here and I could help to dress you, and we girls could have fun together."
"You mean, just as girls."
"Not all the time, stupid," she said, and she kissed me in a way that had my erection pushing out my frilly pink panties in a way they'd never been pushed out before.
Well-Stuffed Melons
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 1 of 8
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SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER ONE - LOUISE GETS WELL STUFFED
Afterwards, we were to have a big row about exactly who had first suggested Well-Stuffed Melons for the next production of the Bramcombe Amateur Theatrical Society, or BRATS, as we called ourselves. I got the blame, but my recollection of events was perfectly clear.
We had just finished our post mortem on A Merchant of Venice, which had completed its run of three performances the evening before. We'd had fantastic reviews in the local press, superb acting from everyone, and each night, we had played to an almost empty house!
"I think," said Louise, who had not only taken the part of Portia, but had also directed, "that for our next production, which is only sixteen weeks away, we should choose something a little lighter."
All six of us gave a collective sigh of relief over that, only too aware that we had given in to Louise's persuasive arguments over The Merchant against our better judgements.
Louise reached into her huge leather handbag and pulled out some heavy scripts. "I therefore suggest we have a read of A Comedy of Errors. That should go down nicely."
For the first time ever, Louise had a revolt on her hands.
"Oh no!" "No way! and, "You must be joking!"
Louise look pained. In her late twenties, with a figure like a centrefold model, she had trained to be a professional actor, and there was no doubt that she was a brilliant actor. Had the Royal Shakespeare Company immediately snapped her up after she'd completed training at RADA, she would probably have become an international star by now. But the indignity of having to audition for minor parts in mediocre plays going on tour in the industrial Midlands, followed by the absolute shock when she received their rejections, was too much. She had given up acting to become an estate agent (and a very good one too, by all accounts).
"Well what are you suggesting?" She sounded exasperated at our reaction. "A Midsummer Night's Dream?"
Helen, a company accountant in her mid thirties (slim, with nice, conical-pointed tits), said, "I don't think people in Bramcombe appreciate Shakespeare. Why don't we do an Alan Ayckbourn?"
"Oh really!" from Louise, but everyone else said things like:
"That's a great idea," "Superb" and "Fantastic!"
So Louise was forced to sit back while we all came in with suggestions.
The trouble was, without Louise's leadership, no one could agree, and our little brainstorm was starting to fizzle out, when Jane, a quiet but pleasant woman (with miniscule breasts) in her late forties, said, "What was the name of that play when those three couples have a weekend in a small hotel with the rather shapely chamber-maid."
She turned to me with a smile (and did I detect a slight wink?). "Charles, you probably know it."
Indeed I did. Although I was only a kid when it first appeared, it had continued to delight audiences ever since. The three couples, Reginald and Rebecca, Steve and Sue, and Phil and Phyllis, stayed at a small hotel and Reggie, who was the lead male actor, fell totally in love with Melanie, the waitress cum chambermaid, who wore a low-necked uniform that nicely displayed her large, rounded tits. Steve and Phil egged him on and even his wife took an extremely broadminded view since, it quickly transpired, she was having a threesome relationship with Steve and Phil! Meanwhile, Sue and Phyllis were also perfectly happy, as it allowed them to get on with their secret lesbian bonding.
The main set on stage was of the three hotel bedrooms, with imaginary walls between them delineated by wardrobes. Three doors were spaced along the backdrop and three double-beds faced the audience. At the very front of the stage, low balustrading indicated balconies with imaginary French-windows leading onto them from the bedrooms. With such a simple set, the opportunities were endless for leaping in and out of bed, jumping from one balcony to another (sometimes with disastrous results!), running between rooms, and hiding under beds and in wardrobes - in other words, the very best of British farce.
The play took its name from the words Melanie used in the dining room (the only other set used) as, in response to a question from Sue, she leant over to point on the menu to the house specials. Her action giving Reggie, sitting opposite, a superb view of the other specials of the house.
"Well-Stuffed Melons," I said.
"That must be it," Jane said.
"Oh really!" Louise was furious. "How low can we possible get? There is no way we're going to put on that rubbish."
Another first for the group - timid Jane hit back. "I think we've always agreed that our choice of production is a democratic decision, and I'm proposing Well-Stuffed Melons. Shall we put it to the vote?"
A vote would suit me just fine. Alan and Geoff, the other two males present, would obviously vote in favour, and with Jane and me, that would make at least four votes for, regardless of the votes of Louise, pointed-tit Helen, and Geoff's wife, Carol.
"Obviously it's a democratic decision, but I really think we should aim higher than that. And please don't assume that, if we do decide to go ahead, I shall consent to direct it, and absolutely no way will I play the part of Melanie."
Even though Louise, with her gorgeous knockers, had the perfect shape to play Melanie, her threat didn't worry me in the slightest. I think I understood the reason why she'd made it, but I also knew her well enough to know that, ultimately, she wouldn't be able to resist the challenge.
You see, when Melons was first written and performed in the early seventies, it was a period when both male and female actors would use any excuse to parade naked on the stage. In this case, no excuse was necessary - the three couples spent most of their time getting undressed and leaping into bed, and only Melanie kept on her clothes until the last scene.
However, as acceptable levels of decency changed (for the worse in my opinion), so successive productions covered more and more bare flesh. First, the male members were hidden behind jock straps; then the women started wearing knickers; finally, the women wore nightdresses of increasingly non-transparent material.
Bill Baker, the playwright became more and more frustrated at what he saw as the watering down of his work, and eventually he put his foot down: the piece de resistance with Melanie in the final scene must be acted as initially written, with Melanie naked apart from high-heeled shoes, stockings and suspender belt. If it was not, he declared, he would sue for breach of copyright, and even serve an injunction to stop further public performances by that company.
Consequently, the final scene is, to this day, regarded as a pure example of 1970's classic farce. Melanie enters Reggie's bedroom and confesses that her hourglass figure is due to a corset, which she had been progressively tightening throughout the play. Now, it was as tight as she could pull it, and she needed the assistance of a strong man (Reggie) to heave it tighter still. Within seconds, her dress is off and she's facing the audience with Reggie sitting on the bed behind her, tightening the corset for all his worth.
But the corset is specially adapted for the performance. With a tearing sound, the front busk suddenly rips apart, and the corset wraps itself around Reggie's head as he collapses backward onto the bed on top of Melanie's dress. Melanie is left wearing shoes, stockings, suspender-belt, and absolutely nothing else. Just then, the bedroom door opens and Reggie's wife is seen kissing Phil in the corridor outside, about to enter the room. With her dress trapped under Reggie, Melanie runs onto the imaginary balcony to escape, pulling down an imaginary curtain as she does so, and tying it around herself before leaping across to the next balcony.
And from then until the end of the play, she performs dressed only in the imaginary curtain. It's actually an incredible feat of acting, since the actor knows that the audience see her naked, but she has to perform as though dressed. Fully aware that every pubic hair and every wobble of her boobs is on full view, she will be smoothing out wrinkles in the imaginary dress, pulling it down at the hem as she sits down or, on a few occasions, having to suddenly grab it as it becomes untied. The public absolutely love it, both for the challenge to the actor, as well as the sheer, unadulterated voyeurism of the moment. Louise, I knew, would not be able to resist.
Helen broke my thoughts and, not unexpectedly, took Louise's side. "I quite agree," she said. "It's so politically incorrect, we'd be pilloried by the press..."
"...and the public would come to see us by the thousands," I finished Helen's sentence for her. "Melons has been playing to packed audiences ever since it launched forty years ago. After The Merchant, we need a highly successful run, and this is a dead cert. I vote we go with it."
"I agree with Charles and Jane," Alan said. "Let's get a successful performance behind us, before we try anything more intellectual. And if Louise doesn't want to direct, I'd be happy to take it on instead."
Alan's comments brought the count up to three in favour. It only needed Geoff to speak up and the vote would be won. Alan and I both looked at him, expectantly.
He hesitated before he spoke. "I agree with Louise," he said. "I think we can do better than this."
The dirty, rotten traitor! How could he desert a noble cause like ours? Why...
"Well I don't."
I think we'd all forgotten about Carol, Geoff's wife, sitting in the corner, and we all turned to gaze at her.
"Melons is a sure-fire winner. We'd be stupid not to go with it.
"And let's not forget," she continued, "that we've always agreed we'll share the leading parts, and Louise has played lead in the last two performances. It's my turn for the lead in the next one."
Her words left us speechless, Geoff most of all. I remembered then how Carol had moaned the last time Louise got the lead female part. Geoff had obviously already seen where Carol was going, and tried to head her off. Now he sat there fuming, and turning a peculiar shade of purple. But as I looked Carol up and down, I recognized it was a perfectly reasonable solution. Carol was in her mid-forties, and looking pretty good, in a chubby kind of way. Although her waist was certainly not as slim as Louise's, her breasts must be considerably larger. Well, no one ever said that chambermaids weren't allowed to be cuddly.
She returned my gaze with a defiant smile, and I smiled back and said, "Carol's right. It is her turn to play lead, and if she's happy, I think she has the right qualifications for the part."
There was a sound of a volcano bursting from Geoff's side of the table, but I didn't care. Carol deserved the praise. Not only had we won the vote, but had nicely put Louise's nose out of joint as well. A highly successful result.
CHAPTER TWO - WE'RE ALL STUFFED!
Eight weeks later, it appeared a hollow victory. Alan had none of the qualities needed to make a competent Director, and we were getting nowhere. We'd spent weeks deciding which role we would each take - not because it was contentious, but simply because Alan never got us together. We'd already spent half our time available before the production, and we'd only had a single reading - although I hadn't complained too much so far, since I'd pulled the male lead role of Reggie. Now, Alan opened the meeting, that Saturday evening, saying he had some bad news. Could it get worse? Yes, it damn well could.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you that Carol contacted me this afternoon. She's decided, I think after considerable pressure from Geoff, that she's not right for the part of Melanie. She realises this has put us in a hopeless position, and so both she and Geoff have decided to resign from BRATS."
Bloody hell!
There was a cacophony of similar comments, followed by an outbreak of sheer panic, which Alan tried to calm by telling us he had decided to abandon the whole production.
"I'm afraid you can't do that." It was Jane speaking. "After the criticism I got last time about lack of publicity, I've already put the dates in the quarterly Arts Council Information Bulletin. They're printing fifty thousand copies as we speak. We can't cancel."
"It doesn't matter," Alan persisted. "If people try to book, they'll be turned away."
"It's really not that simple," Helen broke in to the argument. "I was going to tell you at the end of our meeting, but, as Treasurer, I applied for a Bramcombe Arts Society grant. You know they don't normally give money to amateur theatrical companies, but I heard they had some lottery money spare and I convinced them of the artistic merit in Melons, and they bought it.
"I received their cheque for five thousand pounds last week," she continued, "and I used it to pay off the debts remaining after The Merchant, and as a non-returnable booking fee for the theatre for Melons. There's less than two hundred pounds left. If we cancel Melons, we'll have to find the money to repay it."
I turned to Louise like a dog begging for a biscuit. "Louise, wouldn't you reconsider playing the part of Melanie? You can see what a mess we're in. Please."
That evening she'd come straight from her office and was wearing a pastel-blue, straight skirt with matching blouse and jacket. She looked absolutely ravishing - but as hard as nails!
"Absolutely not. What about Jane? She voted for it." She turned towards her. "Why don't you take the part of Melanie?"
"That's ridiculous! I haven't got the figure."
"So what," Helen said, clearly trying to head off suggestions she might take the part. "After all, Carol was hardly a beauty."
That was a bit unfair on Carol, but I didn't think it worth arguing over.
"Anyway the play was Charles's suggestion," Jane said, stupidly adding, "let him play the part."
"My suggestion!" I was outraged. "You suggested it."
And we then spent several minutes arguing about who said what, in which Jane took the position that she'd originally been thinking of Fawlty Towers, and it was me who was responsible for everything!
"Can I make a proposal?" Louise had kept out of that argument, and she interjected at just the right point to bring us all to silence.
"It seems we're all getting worked up about who's going to play the part of Melanie, when there's a much more important problem to resolve."
That shook us! A more important problem than a missing lead character! We all stared at her.
She waited a moment before answering our unspoken question. "Carol and Geoff, of course. They are both excellent actors, and put so much into our group, and don't forget, Geoff also takes the role of Stage Manager. Now they've resigned from BRATS. Without them, we'll fall apart. I think the Director has to convince them not to resign."
It made a lot of sense to me, except that Alan was shaking his head.
"It's no good," he said. "I spent ages talking to Carol; Geoff won't even speak to me. I can't do anything to stop it."
"Then we need to appoint a Director who can." I surprised myself by saying the words, but I'd been looking at Louise, and knew she was going suggest it. Better that I said it first.
Everyone turned to stare at me, thinking that I was putting myself forward as Director, but I know my own limitations and I kept my eyes lowered during the embarrassing silence. Finally, Alan said, "Well, if you or anyone else thinks they can get Carol and Geoff back, then I'll willingly step down."
I looked up at Louise. "How about it, Louise?" Everyone's eyes turned from me, to her.
She paused just the right amount of time, as though she hadn't been thinking that all along. "If there's a general consensus then, yes, I'll do it." She paused, whilst we all nodded our heads or muttered, "Aye," and then continued. "There is one proviso. Obviously, we'll need to allow Carol to change role, but we have to get Geoff on board, as well. We may need to make some other changes. Is that agreed?"
"Are you thinking of offering him Reggie?" I'd been delighted to pull the lead male role, and now I could see it disappearing.
Louise grimaced apologetically. "Let's just say that if you're willing to be flexible about your role, it will give me much more scope to negotiate, and get this show on the road. But if you're not, my hands are tied. It's your shout, Charles."
I could hardly refuse. I gave in with good grace.
"But we still haven't resolved who's playing the part of Melanie," Jane said.
"Look," Louise said, "I shall probably offer to let Carol play Sue in place of me, and Charles has said he'll be flexible about his part. Let's get Carol and Geoff's agreement to rejoin the group, first. After that, everything else will probably work out."
Yippee, we all thought. Louise is going to play Melanie. And we broke up the meeting with a lighter heart.
CHAPTER THREE - I ALMOST STUFF LOUISE
"Geoff says you always keep a bottle of excellent wine in your fridge. I hope he's right."
It was ten pm, that same Saturday evening, when the doorbell rang. I'd just been thinking about having an early night to bed. It was Louise at the door of my flat, still wearing the pastel-blue suit we'd seen her in earlier.
"Come in," I said, and led the way into my lounge. Louise flopped onto my settee, put her feet up on a beanbag and sank back. She stared up at the ceiling, and gave a big sigh. It was the first time she'd been inside my flat, and she looked more at home than I felt, standing in my own lounge!
Deciding she was overdressed, she removed her jacket without getting up from her seat, which involved a considerable amount of wriggling and twisting of her torso. Without the concealment of her jacket, her breasts thrust through her pale blue blouse like large grapefruit, with her modestly cut neckline exposing just a hint of the Grand Canyon beyond. The wriggling had also caused her knee-length skirt to ride up, and I could see a part of a white suspender securing the top of her navy-blue stockings.
I hurriedly (well, not too hurriedly) averted my eyes, went to the kitchen, and took a bottle of Pouilly-Fume out of the fridge. Whilst I was uncorking it, I called out to her, "Knowing Geoff, he probably said the wine was expensive, rather than excellent. His taste is somewhat different to mine."
Louise was smiling as I went in with the bottle and two crystal wine glasses. "He called it extravagant, actually, and fed me gallons of his home-made barley wine. It was absholutely revolting, but I could hardly tell him so, as I was trying to convince him to come back to BRATS."
Was she slurring her words slightly? It occurred to me that Geoff's wines were renowned for their potency, and if Louise had been knocking them back like barley water for a couple of hours, she must be well and truly pissed.
I handed her the glass of wine and she took a huge gulp from it - far larger than I'd normally have thought was her style - but since she threw her head back and her breasts jutted forwards as she did so, and the movement of her body caused her skirt to ride up even higher, openly displaying her stocking-top, I didn't object.
She gave me a wry smile. "I did it!" She nodded with self-satisfaction. "I've been at their house ever since the end of our meeting thish evening, but I finally got them to agree to rejoin BRATS."
"That's absolutely great, Louise," I said. "How did you manage it?" Of course, what I really meant was: Did you have to offer Geoff my part?
Pissed or not, she saw straight through my hidden question and smiled. "Geoff was incredibly stubborn, at first - really jealous of Carol being sheen naked. That was obviously why he voted against the play as soon as I shaid I wouldn't take Melanie's part."
Definitely pissed as a newt but, pissed or not, she'd brought home the goods. I asked the big question, "So how did you convince him?" I refilled her glass, and took a big draft from mine, to encourage her to do the same.
An even bigger smile, this time. "I had to wait ages until Carol went to the toilet before I told Geoff that if he insisted on being so stuffy about Carol, I'd have to redress the balance, by telling her that last Christmas I'd given him a tit fuck."
I gulped down the rest of my glass. "You gave Geoff a tit fuck?" I was both shocked and jealous. The lucky bastard!
"Well, he wore a condom, so I didn't get a pearl necklace, if that's what you're thinking."
What I was actually thinking was of my own cock thrusting between those massive tits, which so nicely bulged through her silky blue blouse. Perhaps I ought to refill our glasses again. I did so and forced my mind back to the subject.
"So that presumably shut up Geoff. What about Carol?"
"Geoff had really destroyed her confidence. Told her how he could see her waist bulging out behind her breasts - the inference being that her breasts sagged down to her waist."
"That's pretty shitty."
She nodded. "There was no way she could continue in Melanie's role, so I offered her mine."
I tried not to show my excitement, but took a huge gulp of wine, just to show how cool I was. "Does that mean that you'll play..."
"Of coursh not. You know I can't play that part."
Did I? With this much booze inside her, now was the time to try to convince her. I guessed flattery was most likely to succeed. "But why not, Louise? You would play it superbly..."
"You mean you really don't know?" She looked mystified, as drunks often do when the world is unable to keep up with their clarity of vision. "But your ex-wife was at the shame college as me. Shurely she musht have told you?"
I shook my head. "Either she didn't know, or she treated it in confidence."
I think I'd probably guessed Louise's problem. With tits that size, she must have had an enlargement, which can sometimes leave nasty scars. From her remarks, she'd obviously had the operation whilst at college.
I sought to put the issue sensitively. "Louise, is it that you have some kind of blemish or... scar you don't want anyone to see?"
Her reaction flabbergasted me. She burst into laughter! She had a sip of her drink to try to calm herself down, and then choked on it, spluttering everywhere.
Finally, she said, "You really don't know, do you? Well, I guess you'd better have a look."
Without further ado, she sat up and put down her glass on a side-table. Then, without a trace of embarrassment, she unfastened the buttons on her blouse and pulled it wide open, revealing that wonderful pair of huge tits bulging out of her bra cups. She slid the blouse off her shoulders, and let it drop behind her. I hurriedly finished my glass and replenished it.
Pulling her arms out of the sleeves, she then reached behind her and unclipped her bra. There was so little sag as she let the bra drop onto her lap, I think the only reason she wore it was to flatten her nipples, which now came pushing out of hiding.
I tried not to gulp. Here were the most perfect pair of breasts I had ever seen in my life, and they were being exposed before me, not as part of a frenzied sexual coupling, but in drunken innocence, as a greengrocer might display his fruits. To my surprise, there were no signs of scars, or even a blemish.
Louise was smiling at my confusion. "I expect you'd like to get your hands on them, wouldn't you, and give them a nice squeeze?"
I nodded, too surprised at the offer to speak. Louise, some fifteen years younger than me, had never indicated any interest in me, sexually. Now here she was, pissed as a newt and making very pleasant suggestions.
She folded her arms in front of her breasts, as though to defend them from my onslaught, and then hooked her fingers into a garment which I hadn't even noticed she was wearing - some kind of skin coloured vest - and started to pull it up, and over her head. But as she brought it around her neck, her breasts had disappeared!
I gulped, and stared, and hurriedly finished off and then replenished my glass of wine. Underneath the vest, she had flatter tits than me! She'd pulled the garment completely over her head, now, and she bundled it and tossed it over to me.
"Here you are then, have a nice squeeze."
I caught it, realising as it flew through the air that it was far heavier than a thin vest should be. I spread it in my hands and found myself holding one tremendous breast in each hand!
"Holy shit! They're false!"
"Well done Charles. What fantashtic reasoning power you have."
I looked at her again - an attractive, slim woman, with breasts which barely disturbed the line of her flat chest.
She laughed at my expression. "You look so shocked, and yet I thought you knew about my falsies all along."
I drained my glass and filled it again, and then found we'd finished the bottle. I spent a few minutes getting another from the fridge. As I filled our glasses again and sat down, I played for a little more time, trying to sort out my confusion.
"Sorry Louise, it's all a bloody great surprise to me. I simply never dreamt your breasts were anything but real. Well, OK, I may have thought you'd had an enlargement but..." My voice drained away as I again felt those lovely tits in my hands. They were felt so soft and real, damn it!
"It was as we came to the end of our training at RADA," she started to explain. "All the other girls on the course appeared to be getting jobs and I didn't. I'd always had an inferiority complex about my miniscule boobs; I reasoned that was why I wasn't getting the jobs, so I decided to do something about them. Enlargements would have taken months to arrange and recover from, and I heard about Bustlets from someone on my course.
"Unfortunately, it didn't open up the opportunities I was so certain it would. OK, I got plenty of offers for the casting couch, but I was emphatic I needed payment in advance of the goods, so it never worked for me.
"I took a temporary job at an estate agents, just to get some cash. Within three days, I was allowed to escort a client to view a house; I made my first sale next morning. The commission from that alone was probably worth more than I'd have made in my first year on the stage. I'm now a partner in the most profitable agents in town. Of course, as an estate agent, I still have to act a part; it's simply so much more profitable. And I fulfil my dramatic acting needs by being a member of BRATS.
"The problem is that most of my fellow students at drama school knew all about my Bustlets. If I'd have taken the lead role in Melons, someone would have shouted, "Foul - she's not showing her real tits!" BRATS would have had an injunction slapped on it, but even worse for me, the newspapers would have been certain to get hold of the story. My career in the estate agents would have been finished. I couldn't risk either of those two events."
I nodded, understanding now why Louise had been so against putting on the production, knowing that she'd be under tremendous pressure to play the part of Melanie. However, to be honest, I was still having difficulties coming to terms with Louise's tits in my hands. I gave them another experimental squeeze. They were very erotic.
It struck me that normally a major part of that erotic feeling was due to the sensitivity of a woman to being stroked and kissed there. I remembered how sensitive my wife's tits had been - she'd almost come to orgasm simply from my sucking on them. Louise presumably missed all those kinds of pleasures. Without thinking, I asked, "Do you remove your breasts before you make love?"
As soon as I said it, I realised it had been an incredibly clumsy and offensive question - perhaps an indication that I, too, had been drinking too much wine.
But Louise suddenly appeared preoccupied with another issue, and she said, "Bloody hell! Sorry, but I have to go to the toilet."
I pointed her in the direction, and she quickly disappeared. I wondered whether, she would still remember the question when she returned. I hoped not.
She was in the toilet for ages. I thought she might be throwing up Geoff's very worst of barley-wine, mixed with my extravagant addition of Pouilly-Fume, but when she finally returned, she looked fine. She continued my question without hesitation.
"You asked if I take off my Bustlets before I make love? No way. Can you imagine what most blokes" reactions would be? They've pooled a bird with huge jugs and then, just as they're getting her to bed, she pulls her tits off. Worse than taking out your false teeth and sticking them in a glass beside the bed.
"Anyway," she continued, "my original Bustlets may have lacked any sensitivity, but every six months, or so, I buy a new set - on my commission, I can afford them. They've improved in leaps and bounds since the original design. I reckon the latest Bustlets are more sensitive than my real tits."
"Sorry, Louise." I was gob-smacked. "Are you saying you have sensitivity in your false breasts?"
She smiled. "Oh Jesus, yes. It's based upon a kind of touch-sensitive material - like they use in screens you get on computers, and the device amplifies it and gives a tiny jolt of electricity into the relevant area of your own body. Because it's all digital, you can turn the sensitivity up or down, depending how you feel. At the maximum setting, my tits are so sensitive, I reckon I can almost have an orgasm simply by a bloke breathing on them."
I jokingly breathed on the breasts in my hands, and she giggled. "Don't be stupid. You need to be wearing them to feel the effects. Try them, if you don't believe me."
She must think I was born yesterday to accept that. I made a wry face at her, bundled them up, and made to pass them back, but she said, "Sod you, Charles. I'm not having my word doubted. Now, take off your shirt and put them on. Then you can see how sensitive they are."
It was a purely scientific exercise, you understand? Louise was claiming something which, to me, sounded unbelievable - I had to test it out - my being slightly pissed had nothing to do with it. I undid the buttons on my shirt and pulled it off, then fed my head into the garment, which she called her Bustlet.
It was much more difficult to get into than I'd expected. The neck was long, and designed to cover everything, up to right beneath the chin, where it merged into the jaw-line without being noticeable - especially under my beard! It was stretchy material which clung to my face as I tried to force through it, and made me feel quite claustrophobic.
Finally, my head and face popped out of the top, and by this time, Louise had come over and carefully smoothed down the join along my jaw-line. Then she showed me how to slip my arms through the armholes, without damaging the garment. Finally, she was pulling the whole thing down my chest, where it stopped, a few inches below my nipples.
I looked down. Gulp! I reached for the wine glass and emptied it before looking down again. Shit! I refilled my glass, emptied it and then looked down again.
"So do you look good, or do you look fucking good?" she asked.
I couldn't have expressed it better myself. Pushing out of the front of my chest were the two most perfect tits I had ever seen in my lifetime. They looked even better from my viewpoint than they had done attached to Louise.
"And just try to tell me they're not sensitive."
Louise simply touched the underside of my breast with her hand, and I was gasping. She moved her hand closer to my nipple, and I was almost screaming with pain... or was it pleasure?
"The sensitivity setting is quite high, so if I was to squeeze your nipple now, you would almost pass out with pleasure," she said. "However, I think you'll find this much more pleasant."
She bent her head down, and her tiny red tongue darted out and just flicked my nipple. The blood coursed through my head, and I think I had a mini-orgasm.
"Bloody hell, this is erotic," she said. "I'm going to have to fuck you."
That was all right by me. She was pulling down my trousers and pants, and my prick came rearing out to greet her. She momentarily slipped her mouth over it and took me right inside, but the sensation was nothing, compared to that which I'd felt, just seconds ago, in my nipple.
She moved her mouth back there, and I started to lift her skirt, ready to slip my iron rod inside her.
"Condom," she said, breathing lightly on my left nipple.
"Sorry," I said, partly coming to my senses. "I was getting carried away. I've got some in the bedroom."
I took her by the hand and dragged her into the bedroom, and pulled open the top drawer in the bedside cupboard and rummaged through it. I couldn't find them!
I temporarily let go of Louise in order to pull the drawer totally out of the cupboard and turn it upside down on the floor. The amount of junk I kept in that drawer was unbelievable - all kinds of garbage, but no condoms! It had been months since I'd last used them. I spread the junk out across the floor, then went rushing into the bathroom, in the vain hope I'd put them in the bathroom cabinet, instead. Nothing!
I went into the lounge, and searched in the cupboard where I keep some of my other junk. Nothing! I stood up, almost crying with frustration.
"Don't worry," Louise said, kissing my left nipple again, driving me insane with lust. "It's only just after 11 pm. There will be a couple of clubs open in the town centre for hours, yet. We can walk there in ten minutes, and either get a pack from a vending machine in the toilets, or we could walk on to my place, where I've got enough of the things to keep us fucking all night long."
Sweet relief. At least, that's what I should be getting shortly.
"There's only one condition," she said, transferring her mouth to my right nipple, and simply blowing my mind.
"Anything," I said.
"You lend me a track-suit to wear when we walk into town." Her lips went back to the left nipple, and she gave me a very slow hand-job on my prick.
"No problem. But what's wrong with the suit you're wearing - or not wearing? It makes you look incredibly good."
She smiled then put her mouth over my nipple again and sucked part of my breast into her mouth. It felt divine. She muttered something, but with her mouth full, I couldn't understand what she said.
"What? I didn't hear."
She took her mouth off my breast, and said, "Because I want you to wear my suit when we walk into town."
I pushed her away. "Sorry?"
She grabbed my dick and pumped it a few times. "Oh Charles, you heard perfectly well. I want you to wear my suit and blouse - and all my other clothes - when we walk across town. It's so incredibly erotic, seeing you like this. I think I shall burst when I see you properly dressed up."
I couldn't disagree about it being erotic. I had never felt so turned on. I wanted to fuck her like crazy, and what we might do in private could well be the kind of fun and games to die for. But I knew that as soon as I appeared in public, I'd be laughed into shame.
"Louise. It may feel great in here - playing games - just the two of us. But as soon as I step outside like this, we'd attract every lout in the area. They'd ridicule us. Make the journey hell."
"Only if they knew you were a man."
"Well, of course they're going to know I'm a man. They only have to look at my hair to know I'm a man." Actually, it was more the absence of hair which really classified me as such - only thirty-nine years old, and already with a shamefully large bald patch.
"Well, that's no problem, then." She rummaged through her bag, and then produced something with a flourish. "Carol gave me back the Melanie wig she'd borrowed to help her get into character. You can use that."
That was being silly, in treating my objection so literally. There was something more important. "Louise. Have you noticed my prick sticking out like the Eiffel Tower? I think others might, as well."
"Carol also bought an extra-firm pantie-girdle, to help get her into shape for Melanie's corset. She told me that she now hated the thing every time she saw it in her drawer, so would I take it away." Another rummage through her bag, and then she came out with the garment, still in its original wrapping. "It's only size ten, I'm afraid, but that should certainly prevent your bulging stomach from distending the line of my skirt, as well as keeping your rampant prick under control."
I had one final line of defence. "I have a beard."
She smiled. "I wondered when you'd get around to that. It's all right. I have some wax in my bag. It will take it all off - no problem."
"Wax! That'll hurt like crazy."
She bent down and breathed over my left nipple, and then gave it a slow tonguing. "Maybe, but that's only what we women always have to put up with, in order to look so good for you men."
"Oh shit!" I thought for a minute, then reluctantly added, "I guess you could call this the ultimate part to play."
"That's my girl," Louise said, her words muffled as she sucked my right tit inside her mouth.
CHAPTER FOUR - LOUISE STUFFS ME
Stepping into the road dressed as a woman for the first time was like being on Cloud Nine. Sure, the skin on my face was still tingling, where Louise had painfully ripped off my facial hair; my stomach appeared to be held in a vice clamped so tight I could barely breathe; and after the initial excruciating pain in my testicles when she had pulled the tiny pantie-girdle hard up into my groin, my balls and dick appeared to have completely retired from the scene. I was also freezing in the cold night air; Louise's jacket had been too tight across my shoulders, and fearful I might split the seam, she'd instructed me to carry it across my arm.
But on the plus side, I had a tummy which was flatter than Louise's; without the jacket, my tits stuck out like headlamps on a 1920's Bentley; and with every step, my two-inch heels made an erotic clacking sound on the road, followed by a shudder which ran throughout my body. The shudder caused my breasts to give a delicious wobble, and my nipples to move inside my bra, giving me sweet feelings which kept me on the edge of orgasm. Walking was like sexual intercourse - without the intercourse.
There was, of course, plenty of opportunity for intercourse at that time on a Saturday night. There were loads of drunken gangs of blokes roaming the streets, ready to shag any woman who looked even remotely interested.
"Never look at them," Louise told me as we walked, "and keep your hand on the mace spray in your handbag." But she also gave me lots of useful advice about how to walk, and how much to swing the hips and clack the heels, without getting gang-banged. And also, some tips on speaking. "You never know when you might need it," she said. Little did I know, the scheming bitch!
The first club we came to, Gino's, seemed to be full of blokes leering at the few females, who were mainly in twos and threes. I'd have gone on somewhere else, but Louise walked in without hesitation. I had to dash after her if I wasn't to be left on my own on the street.
"I'd better go into the toilet on my own," she said in the lobby, just inside the door. "If you come in with me, strictly you'd be breaking the law, although no one would notice." She glanced at the blokes, already eyeing us up. "You'd better go to the bar and buy us some drinks, and for God's sake, don't let anyone buy them for you." And she disappeared behind the door which said "Ladies".
The problem was, she was absolutely right. If I followed her into the ladies toilet, I'd be committing an offence; the way I was dressed, I certainly couldn't go into the men's toilet; and if I continued to stand around looking like a tart on the game, then I'd pretty quickly have a gaggle of guys more than willing to make me an offer.
I swivelled around, appearing not to notice all the guys staring at me and strode over to the bar, desperately trying to remember everything Louise had told me. Never mind that, after ten minutes walking through the streets, my ankles and calves felt as though they were on fire, and that all I wanted to do was to sink down on a chair, lift one foot onto my knee and remove the shoe, and quickly repeat that with the other one. No, I had to appear totally in control.
"Getcha-a-drink-luv?"
It was a guy on his own, sitting at a stool at the bar, looking totally pissed out of his head, and sounding even worse.
Desperately hoping he would go away, I smiled sweetly at him, and said, speaking precisely in the way Louise had instructed, "No thanks. I'm with a friend who's..." With a zing, my nipples suddenly popped erect, thrusting through my blouse like flag poles with flags shouting, "She's gasping for sex".
The guy did a double take. I guess that, never before had his offers of drinks had such a response. His face broke into a grin from ear to ear, and he stuttered some words like, "He can't be much of a bloke if he lets a beautiful doll like you buy the drinks."
I was furiously trying to remember what Louise had said about the Bustlet - something about it being digitally controlled, and how the sensitivity could be turned up or down, and at the maximum setting, the tits were so sensitive, she could have an orgasm simply by a bloke breathing on them. The way this guy was leaning forward, I was about to have my first female orgasm! The problem was, I couldn't remember if she'd told me how to control my tits, or even if they simply had a mind of their own.
Inspiration came. "It's a girl I'm waiting for," I said. "I'm a lesbian, and I thought you were a woman dressed up as a man. That's why I got, er, so excited. I'm sorry if I misled you."
"Me?" The drunk looked down at himself, as though hoping I might be addressing someone else. "You thought I was a woman dressed as a man? Holy shit! I think I must have had too much to drink." In spite of his comment, he turned and downed the remains of his pint of lager, and asked the barman for a refill.
"Well done." Louise was standing at my elbow. "You managed him superbly." She eyed the bar counter. "Have you not got the drinks in yet?"
"No, I was..."
"That's OK," she magnanimously said, looking across the room for a suitable table. "Mine's an orange-juice and lemonade." And she left me at the bar whilst she walked over and sat at a table!
***
"Bloody hell," I said, as I carried over our two drinks to the table. "These breasts have a mind of their own. I only spoke a few words to a bloke, and my nipples suddenly turned as hard as pebbles."
"Don't be a prat," she said. "I told you that the sensitivity can be turned up or down. There's a little remote control to do it."
"Well, why did my nipples suddenly go..."
I broke off as Louise pulled out of her pocket a small remote control device, similar to those you'd have to control a ghetto-blaster or small hi-fi unit. She deliberately moved her thumb over the red button and held it there for a second, before slowly pressing it; my nipples, which over the last few minutes had returned to their normal size, suddenly shot our again to their previous excited state. I clasped a hand over each breast and could feel their granite-like hardness pushing against my palms, until I became aware that every bloke in the place was staring at me. I sat back in my chair and removed my hands. Let the stupid gits get a hard-on, just by looking at me. What did I care?
"But why did my nipples go erect when I spoke to that chap at the bar?" I asked, still confused at the way my newfound bits of body were behaving.
"Don't be stupid," she said. "I simply watched you walk over to the bar and waited until some bloke spoke to you before pressing the button."
"You did that to me!" I was flabbergasted. "But why?"
"Simply to test you out. I thought you'd take it all in your stride, and you did. So well done."
"You thought I'd handle it. But what would have happened if I'd been exposed as a..." I stopped just in time, before I was overheard.
She smiled. "I'd have nipped off home pretty smartish. What would you expect?"
***
Ten minutes later, I'd calmed down sufficiently to enjoy the joke on me. As Louise had said, I'd managed the situation perfectly, but I'd never have the courage on my own to have dared, had she not deliberately thrown me into it.
"By the way," I said, "there was no need for us to have come out, after all. You had a pack of condoms in your handbag, all along." I pulled out the box I'd discovered in Louise's handbag at the bar, as I'd been searching for money to pay for the drinks, and held it in front of her eyes.
"Oh, how stupid of me," she said.
"I see we have similar tastes," I continued. "These are exactly the same brand as the ones I was looking for in my bedroom."
Then I noticed something about the pack. "Hang on." I turned the pack over, a sudden sickening feeling in my heart. I pushed the pack towards her and said, "This IS the pack of condoms from my bedside cabinet. There's the stain where I spilt some tea over them. You stole these from the drawer whilst you were supposed to be in the toilet."
"That's right."
Her admission took my breath away. "That's right? What do you mean, that's right?"
"I agree that I used my trip to the toilet as an excuse to search your bedroom for your supply of condoms, and then hid them in my handbag. Strictly speaking, it wasn't stealing, as I was fully intending to give them back to you, but I think that's rather playing with words. So, your accusation is fully justified."
"But... but... Why?"
Another playful smile. "I could see how excited you were by my Bustlets, and had got to the point where you were curious about how they would feel. I guessed you'd be prepared to try them on in the safety of your flat, but I reckoned that in order to really get the ultimate enjoyment from them, you'd need to be seen in public. So, I carried out a simple trick. I admit it was wrong, but don't try to tell me you're not delighted that I did it."
Her words brought me to my senses, and I had to agree; the elation I'd been feeling since leaving the flat had been like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I was on a high, which I never wanted to end. I also had to agree that, of my own volition, I would never have had the courage to do it. I slowly nodded as the thoughts sank in, and then I was grinning at her, and then laughing.
"Shhh," she said. "That's a most unladylike laugh."
And then the real truth hit me so hard between the eyes that my laughter was cut off in mid-stream. I stared at her, and she stared back at me, uncompromisingly.
"You already had a blackmail hold over Geoff. So why did you get me to agree to give up my role as Reggie? You didn't need to offer him my part."
She returned a straight bat. "It was useful to have some flexibility."
"At BRATS this evening, when we were in the middle of the argument about who'd suggested Melons, I looked across at you to see whose side you were on. But you were looking as though you'd been struck by a thunderbolt."
She gave no response, simply waited to hear my next words.
"The reason was that Jane's comment had left you totally speechless."
Still, she didn't respond, so I continued. "Jane said that I'd suggested the play and facetiously added that I could take the part of Melanie. Now I started arguing about who'd originally suggested the play, but you'd recognised the more important phrase - that I should take the part of Melanie!"
I'd delivered the last sentence with all the ritual that might accompany the accusation of murder in a dénouement, but Louise's reaction was completely flat. "Absolutely right."
"You admit it?"
"Of course." She paused a moment before explaining. "When Melons was first suggested, I believed there was only one person present who had the acting ability to play the part of Melanie - me - and I simply couldn't do it for the reason we've already discussed. Therefore, I poured scorn on the whole idea, as I didn't want to have to justify my reasons. But tonight, Jane unwittingly opened my eyes to the fact that someone else had the skills to take the part. You, Charles, could play the part of Melanie. It's undoubtedly the biggest challenge you will ever have taken. I'm now the Director, so I can offer you the part. Do you want it?"
"It's not as simple as that, is it?" I ignored her question. "For one thing, have you noticed that whilst the top of me may resemble a well-shaped woman, there's something that sticks out at the bottom that is definitely not woman-shaped? Because if you haven't noticed it, I'm certain the audience will when Melanie prances about naked on the stage. For another reason, there'd be exactly the same problem with me playing the part wearing Bustlets, as if you'd played it."
"Look." Louise was suddenly in her domineering mood. "I admit that I've been deceiving you in order to get you this far, but now you have to make the decision for yourself. I'm convinced you have the capabilities to play this exceptionally challenging role; everyone in this club is convinced you're a sexy woman; you deal with tricky situations as naturally as any other woman would; and you are unbelievably excited by the whole idea.
"If you really want to play it," she continued, "we can get round all the problems. For example, I know that the shop which supplies me with the Bustlets, also produces certain discrete products for men which give them the total appearance of a woman. As for the other issue, the situation is very different to my playing the part. Lots of people know my secret - only I know yours. We keep the whole charade top secret. We could tell everyone, in BRATS and elsewhere, that your sister is filling in the part of Melanie." She let the thought sink in before continuing. "But first of all, you need to decide whether or not you want to play the most challenging role you've ever been offered. So, what's the answer?"
I didn't have to think - indeed, it was probably better if I didn't. "I'll do it."
"I've got you two so-called girls sussed." The voice of my drunken friend from the bar came from over my right shoulder, and Louise's eyes stared up in alarm at him, as he continued. "Your friend is really a bloke dressed up as a woman - Transylvanians, they call them. Now I'm going to give him a punch - that'll teach him a lesson, coming in here dressed like this."
I abruptly slid sideways off my chair to the left, trying to get out of punching range, before I turned and crouched behind the table. He stood, his clenched fist waving in the air towards Louise. I don't think he really would have hit her, but suddenly, a bouncer appeared behind him, and in a flash, the assailant was in a half-Nelson arm-lock, and being dragged towards the door.
When he was almost at the door, he shouted out, "I should have noticed straightaway she wasn't a woman - she hadn't got any tits. Not like you, love," he looked directly at me, "I could tell you was a nice girl."
***
"I'm not going to have sex with you."
How did I know Louise was going to say that?
After receiving apologies from the management about the disturbance, and vouchers for free drinks the next time we visited, we walked briskly back towards my flat. Neither of us spoke as we walked. It might have been the proximity to violence that kept us quiet, but in my case anyway, it was more that I was getting to terms with the commitment I had just made. I was taking a hell of a risk to my personal integrity, and even to the success of my own business, which could fail if people discovered the truth.
"Because you want to keep our relationship professional," I replied, acknowledging that I too had reluctantly been coming to the same conclusion.
"Do you mind?"
I considered. I should have been more frustrated, but the sexual excitement I'd felt that evening was like nothing I'd experienced before and, if I was not mistaken, I'd be getting considerable quantities of the same thing for several weeks to come.
"I think you're right, but what are you going to do right now? Do you want to sleep on my settee?"
"I'll come in for a few minutes so we can sort out our plans for tomorrow, but then I'll drive home. My car's only round the corner."
"Do you think that's wise? You must have had a lot to drink tonight. You don't want to get stopped by the police."
"I know you kept topping up my wine glass every time you emptied yours," she said, "but I reckon I've only had about one glass of wine, in total."
"But we finished two complete bottles," I said. "And what about the stuff that Geoff gave you at his house?"
"You drank almost the whole of those two bottles - I only had just the one glass. As for Geoff's wine, I told you, it was revolting. As he kept feeding it to me, so I emptied it into the tub of that Swiss-Cheese plant he has in his lounge. I'd guess it will be dead by tomorrow."
"It appears to be quite a hardy plant," I said. "I always empty my drinks into that same plant tub." But something was definitely not quite right. "Hang on! You were pissed as a newt when you came round here this evening."
"Was I? I really don't think so."
Shit! Shit! Shit! Never trust an actor, a woman, or an estate agent. And never, never, never trust someone who's all three.
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 2 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 2 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER FIVE - I GET PROPERLY STUFFED
Next day, Louise took me to the shop in Seacombe, appropriately named Big Busts, which had supplied her Bustlet and she bought me my own Bustlet. It gave me breasts even larger than hers - incredible DDs. I was over the moon with them for a while, until my shoulders and back began to ache and only then did I appreciate what big busted women really had to go through - apart from all the offers of great sex, that is.
Louise also got me something called a Hiplet, which was a bit like a long-legged, flesh coloured control brief, with two exceptions: firstly, rather than slimming my hips, bum and outer thighs, the brief added several inches to them - essential, Louise told me, in order to get a woman's bottom-heavy shape and avoid looking top heavy. More importantly, the gusset fastened between the legs, and there was a pocket on the inside for my genitals to fit into. Louise then reached through my legs from behind and yanked the whole thing backwards.
"Ow!"
"Don't be such a baby," Louise said with a big grin on her face.
"If I was a baby," I said, "it wouldn't have hurt."
"Since you're able to joke about it," she said, "it's clearly not hurting too much."
When I thought about it, I realised she was right. There'd been a moment's discomfort and then it had been fine. I looked down and gasped. To all intents and purposes, it looked as if I had a hairy pussy.
"Most of Big Busts Hiplets have shaven pussies," Louise explained, "but I rather think Bramcombe is not quite ready to see that on the stage, don't you?"
I was dying to have a play with my new pussy, so when Louise suggested I wasn't quite ready to go on girlie shopping expedition, and that I should go and wait in the car and she'd go and get me some clothes I didn't disagree.
***
When we got back to my flat, Louise showed me what she had bought, including a whole selection of bras for me to try on to get the best fit. With a woman of my size, it appeared the most important aspect of a bra was not to show off the breasts to their best advantage, but to minimise their impact. My breasts were pulled around to the sides of my body, rather than being pushed out of the front. In compensation, they certainly relieved the pressure off the weight on my shoulders.
"For the next few days, I want to simply get you used to being a woman," she said, "so I've bought a few clothes just to get you going. They should make you look pretty inconspicuous - in fact just like an ordinary woman, who we can introduce to the others in the group tonight as your sister, and who can carry on your business during the day."
"You mean you want me to stay in character all the time? Is that really necessary?"
She smiled, tolerantly. "Of course, Charlotte."
(I smirked at the name she'd decided upon for my sister.)
"It's going to take you ages to get into character. You can't simply pop your clothes on and off, and expect to be convincing. We have to tell the others that your brother, Charles, has had to go away, but you're standing in for him. And you have to be a woman for the next eight weeks. Surely, you realised that when you accepted the role, last night?"
I didn't even bother to protest that last night I'd been drunk. For in reality, I knew two things: Firstly, that she was absolutely right. I couldn't expect to walk into the role of a convincing woman without working incredibly hard to get into the part. Secondly, I was aching to do exactly as she suggested - to live the life of a woman for two months.
The only problem was, I hadn't been able to masturbate in the car, and afterwards, when Louise left me in the privacy of my own flat, I couldn't do it there, either. With the sensitivity turned right up, it was simply too uncomfortable, and when I turned it lower, I could frig myself all day without reaching a climax. Clearly, it was something I was going to have to practice hard at.
***
"Hello Jane - Helen - Alan. Can you gather around." As our new Director, Louise had taken immediate control as soon as she and I had walked into the rehearsal room that evening - unlike Alan, who had always waited until everyone was present and had time to have a little chat about all the unexciting things they'd been doing since they last met.
"First of all, I'd like you to meet Charlotte, who is Charles's twin sister." Jane, Helen and Alan gave me friendly smiles, although in Alan's case it was more of an unbelieving leer as he stared at my protruding breasts.
"Alan, if your tongue hangs out any further it will touch the ground. Now say hello nicely."
"Please call me Charlie," I added with a smile.
They all came over, shook hands and we exchanged a few trivial words.
"Right, I'd just like to fill you in about what's happened since we met yesterday. The really great news is that I've managed to persuade Carol and Geoff to return to our midst."
"Well done, Louise," from Jane and Helen, and "How the hell did you manage that?" from Alan, whilst I looked as though it didn't mean very much to me.
"I think you'd almost convinced them, Alan, but they just needed a bit more persuasion," Louise said.
Not for the first time, I really appreciated Louise's style. She could so easily have taken all the credit. Instead, she was willing to share it for the sake of group harmony.
"They're going to turn up in a few minutes time," she continued. "I told them I'd sort out the casting issues before they arrived."
There was a sudden stiffening by Jane and Alan, no doubt preparing themselves for another bitter row.
"Don't worry, I think we've got a satisfactory solution, mainly due to Charles thinking about his sister," she inclined her head towards me, "who has accepted the unique opportunity of playing the role of Melanie."
There was a gasp from the others.
"Actually," I said with a quick smile, "Charles threatened to break both my legs if I didn't, but the result is the same. I agreed to do it."
"Great!" "Fantastic!" (I suspected Alan's "Fantastic!" was driven more by the size of my tits than anything else - the dirty bleeder!)
"The downside of that," Louise continued, "is that Charles has agreed to go to London to look after his sister's business for the next eight weeks, whilst she's helping us here."
A smirk spread over Alan's face, as I guess he realised there'd be no one keeping a brotherly eye on Charlotte, but Jane, the little bitch, said with an evil smile at me, "Well, that's no great loss then, is it? We wouldn't be in this pickle today if he hadn't messed up."
"That's not fair, Jane," Louise cut in before I could blow my top, "especially in front of Charles's sister. However, I'm really pleased that you feel it's no great loss, because it actually leaves us a man short. As we discussed on Saturday, Geoff is taking on Reggie's role, so Alan, now that you're not directing, I want to give you the more demanding part of Steve. Helen, you'll continue with Rebecca and Jane, with your skills, I'm sure you could take the role of Phil."
There was a moment's shocked silence, and then Jane said, "You want me to play a male part?" Another long period of silence, and then, "Wow!"
"Is that OK with you?"
"OK?" Jane was almost at a loss for words. "Why it's one hell of a fantastic challenge!" She pulled herself up square, thrust out her chest, lifted her shoulders, and pushed them backwards, letting her arms dangle as though they were heavy with muscle. "Now if you girls have finished discussing your hairstyles," her voice came out harsh, loud and aggressive, "can we fucking get on with things?"
There was a spontaneous round of applause, joined in by Geoff and Carol who had come through the door as Jane was speaking. Then we all went round shaking the hands of Geoff and Carol, and welcoming them back to the group, or in my case, introducing myself. When I came face to face with Geoff, he took one look at me, and his eyes opened wide, but not as wide as his mouth.
Shit! I thought, he's sussed me. "I'm Charlie," I said. "Charles's sister."
"Hello Charlie," he said, his eyeballs staring mesmerised at my chest. "Charles has certainly been keeping you a secret. I can't think why." When he stopped speaking, his tongue was left hanging out so far, I thought he might try to lick my nipples. Dirty little bastard! All he was interested in was my tits.
"I'm a bit concerned about appearing fucking naked," Jane spoke to Louise in her loud, male voice, which carried above everyone else's, and we all turned towards her. "I may have fucking small tits, but they're hardly packed with fucking muscle, and I think most of the audience might notice my fucking prick's missing."
"I've been thinking about that," Louise replied, "and I think I may have come up with a solution. There's a shop I've heard of in Seacombe. They manufacture realistic looking body-parts exactly for this kind of role. I think we should give them a try."
I almost let my mouth gape open. Hell, Louise was playing unbelievably close to the wind. She and I were wearing Bustlets, which no one else knew about; now Jane was going to get a Tarzan chest and dick from the same suppliers.
"Do you think that's wise," I asked. "Isn't there some restriction about how the final scene is played?" I left it vague - I didn't want to appear too knowledgeable.
Louise smiled. "I've been checking the wording of the restrictions on the final scene. It actually states that the pricks and balls of the three male characters, and the breasts and cunts - Bill Baker never minced his words - of the four female characters must not be concealed. Phil's prick and balls may not physically be part of Jane's anatomy, but they'll certainly be on full display. And I do think what we're doing here is fully in agreement with Bill Baker's intentions. Don't you agree Charlie?"
It was a debatable point, and I wasn't a lawyer.
"Well I don't." Helen was cross, standing up straight and pushing out her pointed tits to their full extent. "I think we're taking a terrible risk. We'll get an injunction placed on us, and then we'll be in real trouble."
"Well why don't I check with Bill Baker's agents?" Louise was not to be shifted. "Sound them out and see what they think."
There was a general murmuring of assent, although personally I thought it was better to keep the agents totally ignorant. Later, I found out that Louise felt exactly the same way and hadn't the slightest intention of alerting them to our performance!
***
So our rehearsals got underway. With so much time wasted to date, we agreed we had to work at it like mad, spending several hours every day privately learning our lines, and then meeting four times a week initially. Later, we would meet every day.
"Charlie," Carol said as we were preparing to depart at the end of our first session. "I feel I need a little more work on my part, and you probably feel the same. Why don't you come round tomorrow afternoon and we'll work at it together. And I'll cook a meal for the three of us, for when Geoff gets home."
"Well," I said, turning a face to desperately seek support from Louise, "Louise was suggesting that I go round to her place for personal tuition." The last thing I needed at this stage in my new life was to be in a one-to-one situation with a woman.
"That's OK, Charlie," Louise said with a smile (the bitch!). "I can't make it tomorrow, anyway. You two get some work in by yourselves. I'm sure it will be beneficial for you both."
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 3 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 3 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER SIX - CAROL LIKES STUFFING
"Hello Charlie."
"Hi Carol." I handed over a bottle of wine I'd extracted from my cellar. "I brought this to go with the meal."
"Oh, you shouldn't have. Come in."
When we were in the lounge, Carol turned to me and hesitated slightly, opened her mouth as though to speak and then closed it again. Finally, she said, "The thing is... well... this is a bit embarrassing."
"Oh-oh," I thought, "she's seen through me."
Carol finally plucked up her courage to speak. "The thing is, Charlie, you can't fool me. I mean, it doesn't give me a problem at all. In fact, I think it's great - just what we need for this performance."
I shrugged, indicating it was a fair cop. "What was it gave me away? The way I moved... or spoke... or what?"
Carol thought for a moment and then shook her head. "No, it wasn't any of those things. It was the way you looked daggers at Geoff and Alan... No, actually, it wasn't even how you looked at those two. I mean, the way they were leering at you, yours was quite a normal reaction. No, it was the way you looked at us four women - seeing us as..." she smiled, "...sex objects. I could sense you clocking me, wondering what I was like, naked." Another smile. "I rather liked that."
"Well, thanks for telling me, Carol. Louise knows, of course, but the others don't have to know, do they?"
She shook her head. "Of course not, although some of them will almost certainly work it out for themselves. I wouldn't have mentioned it, but I thought about how useful it would be for me."
"Useful? For you?"
Carol looked embarrassed. "Well, yes. You know, because of my part. I thought you might give me some advice - some of your... experience."
I was totally lost. "How, exactly?"
"Well, you've read through the script, haven't you?"
I nodded.
"Well... my part... I'm a lesbian."
I was still lost. What on earth was she talking about? Perhaps a bit of sarcasm might spur her into being more specific. "You want me to give you some advice about being a lesbian?"
"Yes. Of course." Another nervous smile. "I mean, I haven't really taken a lot of interest in exactly what it is you do to each other, so I thought... And well, with deeply personal things, it's easier talking to someone I've only just met than a close friend. I thought you could show me a few moves and I'd then know what to do on the stage. Obviously, Louise and I won't be having full-blown lesbian sex on the stage, but if I knew what I was pretending to do, it would be..."
And on she nervously twittered for another five minutes whilst I gathered together my thoughts. She believed I was a lesbian - in other words, a FEMALE! Hell! That was a compliment to my acting abilities.
She wanted ME to give HER advice about what lesbians do to each other! Hell! That was a challenge.
On the other hand, I knew the things a man could do to a woman to satisfy her, and only a few of those involved the use of a cock.
But wouldn't that be taking terrible advantage of my secret role? I thought for a moment. In this disguise, I hadn't even been able to masturbate for two days and it was starting to feel like it. Bloody hell, taking advantage of Carol was just what I needed at the moment!
I took a deep breath. "You said you liked it," I interrupted her wittering, "when you thought I was wondering what you were like naked."
That shut her up. She nodded, shyly, embarrassed.
"Well Carol, you were absolutely right. I was visualising you naked. Have you been doing the same? About me, that is."
She blushed, and looked downwards.
"Because, Carol, there's a very simple way for us to find out what we are each like when we're naked."
"Look, I'm not a lesbian," she explained. "It's just professional interest. I want to play my part as well as I can."
"Then you must experience it, Carol." I stood before her, staring into her eyes. "Undo the buttons on my blouse, Carol, and then you'll be able to see for yourself what my body's like."
She nervously lifted her hands to the highest button on my blouse that was fastened, and they were shaking as she undid it, exposing the deep valley of my cleavage. God, I felt incredibly horny, and I hadn't even done anything with my remote control.
"Now the next button, Carol."
Her hands weren't shaking this time, but moved with rather more haste; I didn't have to tell her to undo the others; she moved down my blouse, her hands becoming more and more frantic as she pulled my blouse open and pushed it off my shoulders. I kept my arms straight, so that it slid straight down to the floor.
Carol paused then, staring mesmerised at my tits contained within my large bra. It gave me time to reach for my handbag from the side-table where I'd left it as I came in. I surreptitiously slipped out the remote control and placed it on the table next to my bag.
"You can undo my bra, now, Carol."
She stepped closer so that her tits pushed against mine (mmmm, that felt good), and reached underneath my arms and around behind my back, and released my bra. Then she stepped back, pulling the bra with it, and I let it fall down my arms and onto the floor.
Still she stared at my breasts, firmer than any woman of my size could expect to have. Without moving the rest of my body and breaking the spell it had on her, I reached sideways and touched the remote on the table, feeling my way across the buttons to the spot where I knew the red button would be.
Zing! Out those nipples popped, turning from slight, pink undulations into beautiful, protruding, purple rosebuds. Even I felt incredibly stimulated, and I knew they were false. I didn't have to tell Carol what to do. She lifted her hands to cup both breasts, letting the thumbs play with my nipples.
I'd currently got the sensitivity of the Bustlets at their lowest setting, as I'd found it quite distracting walking around all day, feeling my breasts jiggling about inside my blouse. Now I desperately needed to feel Carol's hands on them. My fingers flipped over the buttons on the remote, trying to work out which was the right button. In the end, I had to guess. As I stabbed at the button, the remote slid sideways and fell behind the table.
But it had done the trick. I could feel Carol's breath on my breasts, although since that hadn't caused me to orgasm, as Louise had indicated it might, I assumed I wasn't on maximum sensitivity. Still, as Carol rolled my nipples between finger and thumb, I gasped - in pain or pleasure, I wasn't quite sure.
"Sorry, I'm behaving just like Geoff does. Is this better?" She moved her mouth down to my left nipple and her tongue flicked out and gave me a long, slow stroke.
"O-o-o-h-h-h!" There was no question that was absolutely unadulterated pleasure.
She sucked my nipple inside her mouth continuing to work it with her tongue.
"Oh Jesus!" I was getting so horny, but there wasn't a trace of an erection. Definitely very weird!
"My turn." I took her head between my hands and lifted it away from my breasts, until I could kiss her full on the lips, and then slip my tongue inside her, and play with her tongue. And whilst we played like that, my hands slipped down her blouse undoing the buttons as they went, and then pushing the blouse off her shoulders in just the same way she had done to me. Her bra was hitting the floor seconds later, and then we broke off the kiss.
"Oh God, Charlie! I've only had five minutes as a lesbian and already it's a thousand times better than any man has ever given me."
"That's what it's all about, Carol; sex which is far better than any you'll ever get with a man."
I pushed her slightly away from me so that I could look at her properly. Geoff had been far less than complimentary about Carol's sagging breasts. OK, they weren't as perfect as my own, but then hers were real and mine weren't. They certainly looked pretty good to me. And it was my turn to go to work on her.
I sank my mouth to her breasts, and gave her the slow licks that had been driving me wild seconds before. She started to gasp under my administration, and already I was releasing the waistband and zip on her skirt and letting it drop to the floor. She had on stockings and suspender belt, but no panties. I pushed her backwards onto her settee, spread her legs and put my mouth to their join - recently shaved, I noted with approval. Tiny licks to each of side of her opening, making her gasp with excitement, slowly, very, very slowly working towards her most precious of points.
It probably took me five or ten minutes to reach it, but then I only had to give her clitoris one stroke of my tongue before she started to orgasm, with an intensity I had rarely achieved with a woman before. I guessed that in the past, I had been too intent on quickly proceeding to the next stage in our coupling, to spend those extra minutes that were really needed to so completely pleasure her. The downside was that, with my new genitals in place, I suspected I wouldn't be reaching the same level of enjoyment that I normally enjoyed as a man. In which case, I reasoned there was really no reason to bring her orgasm to a conclusion.
Her orgasm went on for ages, and it really was a pleasure serving her. Finally, I let her come down from her peak, and after a few minutes more, she was able to prop herself up from her reclining position, and look at me with the widest grin on her face I could possibly have imagined.
"Thank you! Thank you! Oh, thank you Charlie. That was wonderful!"
She reached forward to kiss me, her tongue slipping inside my mouth this time, tasting her own juices.
"But you silly woman," she muttered between the kisses. "You've introduced me to all the pleasures of lesbian sex, without letting me learn how to pleasure you. Now, I think it's your turn." She slid off the settee pushing me backwards onto the carpet, and she ended up astride me.
She lowered her face to me, her tongue protruding, and we kissed some more, playfully, before she raised herself and swivelled her body right round, so she was kneeling on my shoulders, her pussy above my face, and lowering herself towards my lower half, whilst conveniently placing her pussy within licking distance of my tongue.
"Just say if I'm not going about it right, won't you?"
How she expected me to speak when her pussy was wrapped around my mouth was a mystery, but then it didn't really matter. After all, with my genitals pasted away somewhere, without a trace of an erection, there was no chance of me being pleasured. Still I had to go through the motions.
"Ah!" I gasped.
"I've haven't touched you yet."
Ooops! I thought I'd better wait a bit until I was certain she was applying her tongue.
"A-a-h-h!" Hell! I could feel her tongue on me now. A kind of hesitant stroke, along the left side of my... well, I really wasn't quite certain.
"O-o-h-h!" Now her tongue was stroking the right side of that same part.
"A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!" Jesus! I didn't know which part of me her tongue was touching now, but it was incredibly sensitive.
"Oh, I think I might have reached the nice bit," she said, and she pressed her tongue against it again, and kind of wriggled it about.
Woosh! In an instant, I was bucking upwards in an orgasm that was so intense that I thought I might explode. She clung on, and her tongue worked against me some more. In desperation, I drove my tongue against her clitoris and suddenly the two of us were into an orgasm that was like no joint orgasm I'd ever had before. Orgasms last for twenty seconds. Ours went on and on and on - minute after wonderful minute of wonderful orgasmic fucking, and not a prick in sight!
At the end of it, we were bathed in sweat, looking at each other as only two mutually satisfied lovers can. Almost without speaking, we picked each other up and went upstairs to the bathroom, stripped off the rest of our clothes and stepped into the shower. And started our next round of wonderful lesbian sex!
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 4 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 4 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER SEVEN - GEOFF STUFFS ME
"You know, you can't fool me, Charlie."
Carol and I had spent a fantastic afternoon together, and she'd even made time to throw some ingredients into a pan to create a great meal for the three of us, when Geoff came home at six-thirty. Geoff had not been particularly happy about opening my wine rather than drinking his home made piss, but Carol had put it on ice so it was difficult for him to refuse. And we'd drunk the bottle over the course of a really nice meal, with Carol sitting on my right side, her hand frequently sneaking under the table and up my skirt, stroking my inner thighs, whilst Geoff sat opposite, and stared at my breasts.
The problem was, I hadn't been able to find my remote control after I'd knocked it off the hall-table; my nipples were still protruding like rosebuds, and they were still incredibly sensitive. I wasn't quite certain what sensitivity setting they were on, but I guessed it must be a seven or eight. Which meant that every time I moved, they felt great, and the way that Geoff was aroused by them, made me feel even better - almost randy, I thought to myself.
"Hang on girl," I said to myself, "you do not want to have sex with a bloke." But every joggle of my breasts sent feelings through me that contradicted that. I wanted more sex!
After Geoff had offered to run me home, and had gone to get his car-keys, I'd had a surreptitious look for the remote behind the hall-table but couldn't see it, and then Carol had come through to give me a parting kiss.
"I'm sorry about Geoff staring at you like that," she said. "It's a real pain whenever he meets a woman with largish breasts for the first time. He was just the same with Louise. When she came to us for Christmas, I suggested she gave him a breast-job to get it all out the way. Worked fine. After that, he hardly gave her a second glance."
"You mean," I said, rather incredulously, "you didn't mind Geoff and Louise..."
She smiled. "Men get these fixations," she said. "The longer it goes on, the more pressure builds up. The best thing is to simply release the safety valve, and the problem's solved. You could try it with Geoff if you think he's a real pain. I shan't mind."
Geoff then came into the hallway, having found his keys and we left, without my remote. I decided I'd ring up Carol the following day, and ask if she could look for it. And so, we were in the car when Geoff had turned round to me and told me I couldn't fool him. After the way he'd stared at me over dinner, I was not quite so ready to believe I'd been discovered as I had been with Carol. So, my answer was more cautious.
"Why's that Geoff?"
"This act you have, trying to make out you're a lesbian, so that I won't be attracted to you. I can see straight through it. The way you kept wriggling and gasping at the dinner table, I could see that you were incredibly excited by the way I was looking at you."
If only he'd known what his wife's hand had been doing to cause my wriggling and gasping.
"Even now, I can see how aroused you are by the way your nipples are poking through your clothes."
There was no denying that. In this warm weather, I hadn't even got a coat that I could pull around me to hide my thumb-sized nipples.
"Anyway, there's no lesbian alive that can resist proper sex with a man, when she's offered the chance." He smirked at me. "And I'm offering you a chance."
I was in a quandary. Two days ago, I'd been a heterosexual bloke - not homophobic, but I always made quite certain that my sexuality was never in question. This afternoon, I'd had lesbian sex with Carol, and even after all that, I was still feeling incredibly randy. I guessed that since my recent orgasms had not discharged any semen, I was still sexed-up like a bitch on heat; the way my nipples and breasts were continually arousing me was making my position so much worse. But having sex with Geoff? There are limits, and not even many women would want to go that far.
The thought hit me like a sledgehammer. Having sex with Geoff is exactly what I'd be doing on the stage, now he was playing the part of Reggie, and I the part of Melanie! Holy Shit! Of course, I reasoned, that was exactly why Carol had decided to have lesbian sex with Charlotte, so that she knew how to play the part on the stage. Well, I was nothing if not professional. If I had to gird my loins and go through the motions of sex with Geoff on stage, then I had to go through the real thing in advance.
"You can come in for a coffee when we get to Charles's place," I said, "and don't assume that means anything more than coffee." Of course not!
***
We never got anywhere near the coffee pot. His hands were all over my breasts as soon as we got through the door, and it just felt so good that my blouse and bra were off within thirty seconds, and he was licking and sucking my nipples. Bliss!
I reached for his trousers and could feel his prick pushing against my hands as I pulled the zip down, unfastened the belt and then pulled down trousers and underpants so that his prick came rearing up to meet me. I knelt down in front of it so I could look at it carefully. This was the first prick I'd been in close contact with (apart from mine) since the school showers. To be honest, it wasn't as frightening as I'd imagined: actually quite a bit smaller than my own, I thought, with not a little pride.
I cupped one of his balls in my hand and - yes, I could hardly believe I was doing it - stuck out my tongue and ran it along his shaft, from testicle to hood, and then licked all around the rim. From the noises Geoff started to make, I thought he might be about to instantly ejaculate, which would have defeated my objective, so I pulled him down to the carpet, and he pushed me backwards and quickly moved between my legs.
Three wonderful licks on each nipple, and I was anyone's! I didn't even make the pretence of stopping him as he moved up my body and positioned himself for the thrust into me, although I did wonder whether he would notice anything unusual about my vagina.
His dick was so pleasantly small, I barely felt him slip inside me and then he was ramming it home, thrusting with a mad passion that I found quite erotic, especially as it caused my breasts to wobble like jellies, sending further shivers around my body. Then his prick touched my spot!
"A-a-a-w-w-w!" I bucked like a mad bronco, and Geoff had to cling on to avoid getting thrown. But then he was thrusting again against my spot, and again, and I could feel my climax starting to build, and build, and... and his prick slipped out. Damn!
I hurriedly reached down to help him shove it back in as quickly as he could, but he was already on his knees, pulling up his trousers and standing up. "That was bloody good, Melanie. You are one, hot sex-bomb, and I told you I'd give you a fantastic orgasm. I'd better get back to Carol now, or she might suspect I've been gone too long. See you."
The door slammed before I could even beg him to use his tongue to bring me off, and I was left hopelessly trying to find that same spot that Carol and Geoff had located with such effect to give such fantastic joy in the one case, and endless frustration in the other. But my spot was as elusive then as it had been the previous evening.
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 5 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 5 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER EIGHT - HELEN LOVES STUFFING
"You really don't fool me at all, Charlie," Helen said.
This time it was Helen who had invited me to her place, following our next rehearsal. Again, Louise had failed to rescue me from the situation, but by now, I was at least feeling a bit more confident about myself. And I was also feeling incredibly randy.
The previous evening after Geoff had left, I'd again totally failed to find my magic spot and bring myself to sweet orgasm. And when I'd telephoned Carol the next morning, asking her to look for the remote control to my "stereo", she'd spent several minutes on her hands and knees looking behind the hall table and underneath a dresser, but had failed to find it. "You must have left it somewhere else," she suggested.
I knew I'd have to go over there myself and search properly, but she was setting off to work shortly, and in the meantime, my breasts and nipples gave me a wonderful fluttering feeling every time I moved, almost, but not quite leading to orgasm.
Did I say a WONDERFUL fluttering feeling? All day long I had to run Charles's photocopy shop, moving here and there, reaching up to shelves and down below the counter, twisting and turning, and with every jog of my breasts, my body screamed, "Sex".
It wasn't even as though business was slack and I could keep reasonably still. Business started off normal enough, but then started to pick up about mid-morning, and became incredibly busy in the afternoon. The blokes I'd normally see once in a blue moon and have a quick chat with, all seemed to come in that day and want to talk for ages, whilst staring at my breasts, with the nipples protruding through my blouse.
And that made me feel even more randy! Now I'd always made it a rule not to mix business with pleasure. Sure, in my past life, there'd been plenty of good-looking girls coming in from adjacent offices with print jobs, but I'd figured that when relationships go wrong, as they always did with me, then it was that piece of business down the drain. If that happened with many clients, I'd soon be bankrupt. Was the position different, I caught myself wondering, now that I was a woman rather than a man? I didn't know the answer, but caution made me keep my legs closed for the time-being.
So I was feeling pretty frustrated when the time came for our evening rehearsals, and rather hoping that they would be promptly followed by something to relieve the day's frustrations. Consequently, when Helen of the conical tits had suggested I come back to her place for a coffee after rehearsal, I'd really have preferred it had been Alan who had made the suggestion. It was, after all, he who had first gasped at my boobs, and who was probably more than willing to assist in my search for a bloody great orgasm. However, I also knew that girl talk inevitably leads to showing each other clothes and trying them on, and a peep at Helen's pointed tits was something I'd wanted to do for ages.
Just as when Geoff had said virtually the same thing, I was rather circumspect about my reply. "How do you mean, Helen, I don't fool you?"
She smiled, a little secretive smile, and I had a dreadful moment of self-doubt. "You know, I don't think you even fool yourself."
I tried my best to look puzzled, then I returned her smile, and said, "You'll have to give me more of a clue, Helen. I haven't a clue what you're talking about."
"OK then." There was a real smirk on her face, now. "Your breasts are obviously false, right?"
Oh-oh! Somehow, I managed to keep the smile on my face and in my eyes, and nodded. "Sure. Lots of women have false breasts like mine."
"But why do they have false breasts, Charlie, and why is it different for you?"
Still I kept my smile, my mind frantically seeking an answer. "Well, I don't know how I'm different from the others, because I guess we all have our breasts enlarged to attract men."
"Exactly." A smile from Helen as though I'd given away my best kept secret. "So why is it different for you?"
"Tell me."
"Because you are not really interested in men. Oh, you may claim you are, but that's simply your upbringing - playing Mummy and Daddy with dolls as a little girl, and being told that someday you'll meet your Mr Right. It's all rubbish. You don't really want a man, do you?"
I tried not to release a huge sigh of relief. Instead, I said, "Well, I'm just a normal kind of girl."
"Of course you're a normal girl. I didn't say that. But it was obvious as soon as I first met you that you're attracted to women more than you're attracted to men."
"Well, I don't really know why you think that..."
"You'd like to see my breasts, wouldn't you?"
I gulped. "Well, you are a very attractive woman, Helen, and obviously I'm interested in..." I struggled for an instant and then it came to me, "...what type of bra you wear to give you such attractive breasts."
"You think I have attractive breasts?"
"Of course."
"Even though they are so much smaller than yours?"
"Yes."
"Well that just proves it, doesn't it?"
"Proves what?"
"That you desire women more than men. You see, even though you had your breast so obscenely enlarged - and I hope you don't mind if I call them obscene, but that's what they are - you are really attracted to my much smaller breasts. Agreed?"
"Helen, I'm getting hopelessly confused about this, but yes, I can say I think your breasts look very attractive."
"You'd better pull off my top, then, hadn't you, if you want to properly look at them."
Just as Carol had done with me the day before, I removed Helen's top and stared at her breasts, almost totally concealed behind her conical bra. It reminded me of that one worn by Jane Fonda in Barbarella.
"You'd better take off my bra now, so you can see them properly."
I didn't have to be told twice. I mimicked Carol's actions of the day before, the bra dropping to the floor.
"I thought you wanted to look at my bra, Charlie."
"Er... oh, yes, it's just that..."
"You find my breasts more attractive to look at."
"Yes." To be honest, I was more than a little disappointed that with the removal of her bra, Helen's tits had reverted to the normal, rounded shape of most breasts. I had really thought that with them being permanently held in the conical bra, they would be trained to retain that shape. Almost without thinking, I stretched my hand forward to test their level of softness. I had barely run my finger over an inch of her breast before her nipple went erect. Nothing like mine, of course, but there was no doubt that Helen was incredibly switched on.
"Well, you know what turns a girl on, don't you? Oh..."
Her words died off as I bent my head forward and ran a tongue over her left nipple.
"Oh, that's so nice, Charlie. So much nicer than any man could do it. Oh..."
I switched my mouth to her right nipple.
"Oh Jesus," she murmured, "I thought I'd have to coerce you to get you to this point. I didn't realise you've obviously been with a woman before. Silly me, but it was the way you'd had your breasts done that fooled me."
I pulled my top over my head and let Helen stare for a few seconds at my breasts restrained by my minimiser bra.
"Gosh. I've never seen breasts that size before. Presumably they're not very sensitive, are they... Oh my God!"
The latter as I'd undone the clasp on my bra and let it fall to the ground. My breasts, unfettered by the bra swung from almost underneath my armpits to softly collide with each other at the centre, sending a delightful shudder all over. My nipples, poking out towards her, demanded her attention - and got it!
I pulled her head down towards them, and the very first slick of her tongue sent the feelings of sweetness through me that I hadn't experienced since I'd left Carol.
"Oh my God!" It was me exclaiming to heaven, now, as I pulled Helen's head away from my one nipple and fed it the other. Just one suck sent me into my first orgasm - not a huge orgasm, simply a foretaste of what was to come.
"I just never realised," Helen said, when I'd sufficiently recovered to pay attention to her, "that having your breast enlarged would improve their sensitivity. They weren't that sensitive before, were they?"
I shook my head. "No, before I had these breasts, they had just normal sensitivity. It's only now that they've become so incredibly sensitive. But I think it's time, Helen, that I gave you more attention." I reached for the waistband of her jeans.
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 6 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 6 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER NINE - ALAN STUFFS ME
"You don't fool me, Charlie."
It was quite remarkable that I'd known Alan through BRATS for years, yet it was only the previous evening at rehearsals that I'd noticed that he had a tremendous bulge in his trousers. Not just any old bulge at the join of the "Y", the kind most blokes have. No this was like a piece of drainpipe, hanging almost down to his knee. When I'd first noticed it, I'd gasped in amazement, which I'd had to quickly turn into a cough, as people turned to see what had startled me.
This evening, I'd barely been able to keep my eyes off it. Alan noticed my attention, of course, and had asked me back to his place for coffee. Well, what he'd actually said was, "You for coffee?" in the way that sounds like, "You fuck off, eh?"
I smiled at him and said, "Oh, yes please," making it quite clear I understood his innuendo. Now, here he was telling me I didn't fool him. Where had I heard that before?
So, I gave him a non-committal, "How do you mean, Alan?"
"Well, you know, the reason why Charles suddenly disappeared and Charlie magically appeared."
Christ! Had he really worked out that we were one and the same. It sounded like it. "I still don't understand, Alan."
"Well, why was Charles prepared to give up the lead male role, in order to let Charlie have the lead female role?"
"You'd better tell me." I realised my voice had a sharp edge to it. Perhaps I'd over-reacted.
He realised he was on sensitive ground and cleared his throat nervously, almost started to speak and then stopped himself, obviously trying to find the right words. Eventually, he said in a kindly voice, "I believe it was because Charles cares greatly for you, Charlotte, and he realised you weren't meeting the men you so obviously need to. So he did this swap, giving you the opportunity to get to know blokes like myself."
Blimey, he'd fallen for it hook, line and sinker, and not only that, he'd also given Charles some personal kudos, which I could hardly complain about. I realised I'd underestimated Alan all these years; I'd never particularly taken to him in the past, but now I could see what an excellent guy he was. In fact, I thought, I might shower him with one of my favours, especially as that pipe down his leg appeared to be getting thicker and harder!
I gave him a warm smile now, challenging. "So what makes you think I want to meet lots of men?"
His nervousness had disappeared now, as he realised he'd said the right thing. "Well, perhaps, not lots of men. Perhaps you only need to meet the right man, under the right circumstances. And I'm that man, and these are the right circumstances."
"Ph-e-e-w-w! You're a smoothy talker."
"Yep. I also kiss well."
How did he manage to suddenly get so close that he was holding me around the waist, and pulling me towards him, and how come I couldn't stop my lips from meeting his, and his tongue from pushing between my teeth, and playing with my tongue, and his chest pushing against my tits. I gave a little wriggle and felt something deliciously hard strengthen alongside my inner thigh.
But then he was wriggling some more, almost doubling up in discomfort. I realised straightaway what his problem must be. I knew from personal experience that a suddenly erect penis can be uncomfortable for someone of Charles stature, but at least a bit of wriggling will sooner or later allow it to charge upwards. There was no way that the pipe down Alan's trouser leg was going to be able to do that of its own accord. It needed a little help, and fortunately, I was on hand to assist.
I dropped to my knees, briefly feeling his hardness through his trouser leg, before releasing his belt and zip fly, and pulling his trousers and underpants down over that enormous monster that suddenly sprung upwards towards my face.
It's strange that only a week before, the idea of handling another male's equipment would have appeared absolutely obscene. But now, with my new female genitalia, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. It was the most wonderful introduction to the male organ that any woman could have. (I conveniently ignored Geoff's intervention, the day before yesterday.)
It wasn't disgustingly thick, like you see some of them on the internet (not that I looked at those kind of pictures, of course), but was thin enough for my finger and thumb to touch as they wrapped around it. But what it lacked in diameter, it more than made up for in length. It was long enough for me to hold it in two hands, one above the other without touching, and still leave plenty of space around his rim so that I could stare at it from all directions. The head was a wonderful purple colour, and I could see it throbbing, and feel its heat radiating against my cheeks, even before I let my face come in contact with it.
But I really couldn't delay that event too long. I smiled up at Alan, and he smiled back, knowing the inevitability of what was about to happen. As I continued to stare I let my tongue slowly protrude through my lips, and then I was moving my head forward so the very tip of my tongue could play on the underside of his glans.
He gasped, and then gasped some more as I let my tongue drag down the length of his shaft, until I could flick at his balls. Then I was sliding it up again, and as I reached the very tip, I moved my head forward some more, so I could put my lips over the top of his cock and slide them down around the head.
It was quite obvious right from the start that even the most experienced cock-sucker - and, other than being on the receiving end, I certainly had no expertise in that direction - was going to have real problems in getting major quantities of that beast inside their mouth. However, as a first attempt I was quite proud of my achievement. I managed to get the whole of the knob inside, before I almost gagged. Fortunately, I managed to pull my mouth away before I instinctively clenched my teeth together with such a snap I would certainly have bitten off that wonderful cock if it had still been there.
Alan was bending down towards me, and our tongues were playing together as he pulled up my top, and then tried to do the same with bra. But what worked on the more flimsy type of bra that he was obviously used to, was totally ineffective on the heavy-duty model that I had to use to support my mammoth mammaries. I reached up behind me and released the catch, and slid my arms out of the straps.
We broke off our kiss so that Alan could go down on my tits. Absolute bliss! Thirty seconds later, I was having the first of the mini-orgasms that came when my nipples were given such considerate attention. But already, I could feel Alan was not one for spending hours on foreplay. He'd produced a condom from somewhere. I was going to tell him that it wasn't needed, but then thought better of it. After all, a normal woman would hardly tell him that, would she?
In seconds he'd slid it over his prick and then he pushed me backwards onto the carpet, and I could feel his erection pressing, firstly against my navel, then my stomach, and then I could feel it against the inside of my thighs. I lost touch with it as he lifted and spread my knees, but not for long! I could feel it nuzzling against my opening, and then he was sliding it inside. Bliss!
"Oh!"
"What's the matter?"
"I wasn't prepared for your pussy to be so short. I can barely get anything inside you."
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that..."
He silenced me with a kiss. "It doesn't matter, Charlie. There are other ways just as good."
He grasped me by the ankles and spread my legs wide, at the same time moving forward until it was really quite uncomfortable. His prick had slipped out of my pussy, and I could feel it nuzzling between my legs.
"Er... what do you think you're doing...E-e-e-r-r-r-r!" I wasn't certain whether it was a word or a gasp for air that escaped my lips as that monster slid up my arse. No, monster was the wrong word. A monster would have been painful and unpleasant. But his prick was so narrow that after the initial discomfort as he went inside, the feeling was more... exquisite! Absolutely, fantastically exquisite!
I gasped again, unable to say anything. Alan was being incredibly kind and considerate. He didn't try to push the whole length inside me, which would probably have been enough to force it out of my mouth. No, he simply gave me a few inches to start with, smooth action, which felt divine inside me.
"Jesus!" the thought had suddenly hit me that he was inside ME; not just an artificial vagina - he had his prick right up my arse and it was the most wonderful feeling I'd had since... since...
Well, since Helen had used her tongue on my spot last night, to be honest. OK, sex is always great, and I wasn't trying to knock Alan at all, after the unselfish way he was prepared to use any port in a storm. But although being arse fucked by Alan was exquisite, it really was not a patch upon the fantastic feelings I got from my artificial vagina. The wonders of modern science!
But what sex with Alan lacked in sensation, was more than made up for by Alan's enthusiasm. He kept telling me how wonderful I was, and how he'd fallen in love with me the first time he'd seen me, and I was the prettiest thing in the whole world.
Pretty soon, his soft words went right to my head, and I had the first of several super orgasms over the course of the next few hours, for no sooner had I finished one, than Alan was turning me over, and attacking my arse from another direction, and then another, and another.
I would rue that the next day, for not only were my breasts and nipples still screaming sex with every joggle they received (I still hadn't been able to get around to Carol's house to search for my remote control!), my internal organs screamed "Murder!" with every movement around the photocopy shop. Needless to say, business had been building up day by day, with every dickhead in the area coming in to ogle my boobs and chat me up, so I was in a right state by the time I got to rehearsals that evening.
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 7 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 7 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER TEN - JANE HAS EXTRA STUFFING
"Come in, Charlie." Jane led the way into her house, a rather boring looking semi-detached house. "It's fucking good of you to come back with me like this, and help me with my part. I suppose you've guessed what I fucking need you for."
I nodded. Well, it didn't take too much imagination, bearing in mind that Jane was going to have to play the part of a male, Phil, who would have sex with Rebecca. Jane presumably wanted to practice on a willing female who, judging from the size of her breasts, presumably had some considerable experience at being on the receiving end. At least, her first words had not been that, "I hadn't fooled her".
"Of course, you didn't fucking fool me for a second, you know?"
This was getting boring. "In what way, Jane?"
I was already thinking up a score of evasive answers - hell, I'd had enough experience so far - before she smiled and said, "Oh, come on, Charles. I don't have to fucking spell it out, do I?"
Even then, I kept my cool. "Sorry, Jane. You're getting my name confused."
She looked at me as though I'd just tried to slip her a Euro instead of a one-pound coin. "Do you think I'm absolutely fucking stupid, or what?"
"What?"
"Charles, it was absolutely fucking obvious it was you under that wig, right from that first Sunday evening. I don't deny the tits and cunt are fucking fantastic. I felt the same when they gave me my hairy chest and prick. But I couldn't believe that anyone who knew you could be fucking taken in by it."
I'd thought from the start that discovery was inevitable, but when it came, I could hardly believe it. "But... how did you know?"
"How did I fucking know? Well, for a start, you were introduced as Charles's twin fucking sister. Clearly, you couldn't be identical twins since everybody knows that identical twins are identical in every fucking respect, including sex; non-identical twins are as dissimilar as any brother and sister. So it didn't matter that you were twin sisters, there was only one fucking chance in hell that you would be so similar to each other.
"Perhaps more important, you still continued to fucking letch after us women, whilst almost turning up your nose at the male opportunities. And if you were a fucking lesbian, why would you have had your breasts enlarged to such fucking preposterous proportions?
"No, I'm sorry, Charles. I could see through you, right from the start. That's why I made that facetious comment about you. I thought you'd see it as a joke, and we'd all have a fucking laugh about it. But then Louise took my comment absolutely seriously and deadpanned her answer. I thought I'd better fucking shut up and see what the others said. What fucking amazed me was that almost everyone else was totally fucking taken in. I couldn't believe it. It just shows how easy it is for confidence tricksters to get away with fucking ridiculous things, doesn't it?"
"Well I thought I was pretty realistic, actually," I modestly responded, ignoring all those frantic feelings about being recognised that I'd lived in terror of for several days. "Hang on."
Something she had said struck me as strange. "What do you mean, ALMOST everyone else was taken in? They all were, apart from Louise, and she helped me..." My words stuttered to an end, since Jane was slowly shaking her head from side to side. My mind did a quick review of the experiences I'd had with each of them since then. "Well, who then?"
She smiled at me. "Why, Alan, of course. He and I looked at each other on that first night and he kind of mouthed at me, "Wow!" or something like that. But I think all the others..."
"Alan?" I interrupted her. "Alan doesn't suspect a thing. Why last night..." My words died on my lips, a terrible suspicion looming.
"Oh dear," Jane said. "Did Alan not tell you he knew who you really were?"
I shook my head. "Why?"
"Well..." she struggled to put it diplomatically, "... you obviously know that Alan's a fucking poofter, don't you?"
"Alan? Poof... Gay! That's absolutely ridiculous. Of course, he's not gay. Why he said he'd fallen in love with me... Oh shit!"
"Alan's always had a fucking thing about you, Charles. That's why he kept on coming to BRATS. We all thought you knew he was a fucking arse-bandit, and that you were simply being grown-up about it - that there was no need to warn you. We never realised you were so incredibly fucking naíve." She hesitated some more, before adding, "I take it Alan wasn't quite honest with you about his sexuality last night."
I shook my head, and said very crossly, "No!"
For a few seconds I was indignant, then the hypocrisy of my indignation struck me and I couldn't help a grin from spreading over my face. "Alan arse-fucked me for about four hours solid, and I thought that he thought he was doing it to a woman." A little snigger escaped my lips. "It's actually really funny, you know. I didn't mind when I thought I was tricking Alan into having sex with a man pretending to be a woman. But now I realise, he was using my deceit to get his own ends away."
Jane also had a huge smile on her face as she said, "You might say you were fucked by your own petard."
Her comment was enough to send us both into a fit of laughter, which lasted for several minutes. When we'd finally brought it back under control, Jane asked, "Did you fucking enjoy it?"
I nodded. "It was fine," I said. "But what I'd really like to find is a man with a hairy chest and a nice cock, who knows precisely what a girl wants, and wants to give it to her."
Jane drew herself up. "If I'm reading you right," she said, "you need me to fuck your arse off."
"Let's just say," I responded. "I need you to fuck another part of my anatomy."
***
Sex with Jane was great. There was no deceit on either side, and it appeared that her penis had been made to be just the right size to fill me to perfection - those Big Busts people think of everything. Obviously, I was able to give her lots of tips about the best way for a man to make love to a woman - but then I found I was totally revising all it, once I was on the receiving end of my advice.
The really nice thing about Jane's cock was that it didn't go all floppy after she'd ejaculated. She'd fill my pussy with about a gallon of semen (well, it was Greek yoghurt actually, and perhaps quite a bit short of a gallon), she'd pull it out so I could lick it clean, and then she'd be shoving it back inside to repeat the whole operation over again - and again - and again.
I never got home that night. In fact, next morning I barely got back to the flat in time to have a quick shower, find some clothes to put on for the shop, and open it a mere ten minutes late. I decided to close the shop for lunch, since Jane came over and we had another great bonking session then.
We had another good session before rehearsals, and it wasn't long before we were being considered an item, although how the members of the cast who weren't in on our secret rationalised that, we weren't certain!
Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 8 of 8
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Well-Stuffed Melons - Part 8 of 8
by Charlotte Dickles
SYNOPSIS
Just who was it who'd suggested the title for the next performance of the amateur dramatic group? Because when the lead actress drops out, it leaves a vacancy for a big-busted woman to prance naked on the stage, which nobody wants to fill. Fortunately, being a lead actress is not all work and no play.
The complete story has been serialised into eight parts which will be published at approximately daily intervals.
Author's Note: This story is a light-hearted, cross-dressing romp and contains various adult elements including adultery, heterosexual and homosexual acts, and humour. If reading about such themes is illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it, or don't come moaning to me about it afterwards! It was first published on Fictionmania several years ago, and has now been modified. The first part, which sets the scene, is far longer than the other seven.
CHAPTER ELEVEN - STUFF AND NONSENSE!
"Of course," Melanie (that's me) declares in a simpering voice, "I would love to come back to your house, Rebecca, and work for you as housekeeper. I'm just so delighted that you didn't think anything was going on between Reggie and me, and that you can trust us together."
(OK, I never said it was a great play, only an extremely popular one.)
Rebecca smiled back at me, enigmatically (or that's what the script said, anyway - Helen's smile was more sardonic). She thrust her pointed tits towards me (she was back in clothes, again, whereas I was still wearing my "curtain"). "I'm certain you're extremely good with Reggie, in all senses of the word. But this will allow me to get on with my other interests." Rebecca smiled at Steve and Phil, then switched her gaze back to me, looked me up and down and said, "And you really must give me the name of your dressmaker."
Lights and Curtain.
"M-o-r-e!" "Y-e-e-e-s-s-s!" "M-o-r-e!"
Rapturous applause from the audience, whilst we hurriedly prepare to come on to the stage one-by-one, to receive our credits. As leading character, I naturally appear last, and the audience went absolutely wild when they saw I was still wearing my imaginary curtain.
I strode up to the front and took a deep bow, then moved back to hold hands with Reggie on my right and Phil on my left. We swept forward as a group to take a bow, and then my imaginary curtain fell off, and I tried to make a grab for it, but the other two wouldn't release my hands and I had to carry on naked as we walked backwards to the rear of the stage. I had my elbows bent in to try to hide my breasts, and my legs crossed to hide my pussy.
The audience went ballistic, rising to their feet as one, shouting and stamping and clapping. We swept forward again, and this time I managed to get my hands released, pick up my curtain from where I'd dropped it, wrap it around my torso and quickly secure it under my arm. But as we swept back again, hand in hand, I realised my right breast was protruding though the join. And so the frolics continued for at least another ten minutes, until finally the cheering started to die down, and the curtains closed for the final time.
We all turned and hugged and kissed each other, and I couldn't help noticing that Geoff gave my tit a nice squeeze as we did so. I didn't mind, and I don't think Jane did either, for she gave me a great big wink.
***
Most of the others had departed, and Jane had just gone to the toilet, leaving me with Geoff, who was shutting everything down, and locking up. I had slipped on my kimono, and loosely fastened a knot in the belt at the waist. Since Geoff and every other member of the cast had seen every inch of my body for several weeks on end, I didn't feel at all self-conscious that the garment was open to the waist, and barely concealed my nipples. I had my coat over my arm ready for when we left, since I didn't think the other residents of Bramcombe would be so understanding.
"What's that?" I asked him, nodding towards the black box he held in his hand.
"This?" He held the remote up in the air and pointed towards one of the banks of floodlights still illuminating the stage. "It's the remote we use to control the auto-effects."
He pressed a button on the remote, and simultaneously the floodlights were extinguished, my nipples collapsed, and my breasts felt totally lifeless, as though they'd been given an enormous dose of anaesthetic.
"In the old days," he continued, "we used to have a man in a booth at the rear controlling the lights, but now we have all the systems linked up to computer-controlled sensors, and we simply have to cue events by using the remote.
"It's funny," he went on, "but I thought I'd lost this remote and I'd have to order another one from the suppliers. Then it turned up at home that day when you came round. It must have been behind that hall table since the day we finished The Merchant."
He pointed the remote at another bank of floodlights, as he added, "Why do you ask?"
As he pressed the button, my nipples went "Zing!" and stood out like cherries, then he pressed another button and my breasts came back to life with a vengeance, just as he was turning back to face me.
"Bugger me!" Geoff was staring transfixed at my protruding rosebuds. He gave whistle of admiration, and I felt his breath on my breasts. Deep inside me, something stirred; something that was totally unexpected.
"U-g-g-h!" I gasped. "I think I'm going to have an orgasm."
"Fucking Hell!" he said and then, as my breath started to come in great big gulps, he gave a great big "Phew!"
Again, I felt his breath running over the front of my boobs and tickling my nipples, and that deep feeling inside me was taking over my whole body.
"Oh my God," I gasped, then "Oh yes! Yes! Oh God! YES! Y-E-E-E-S-S-S!"
"Why you fucking dirty bleeder," Jane said to Geoff. "Can't I trust you for a second?"
She threw a punch at him, and caught him right under the chin. As he fell backwards, his arms flew out and the remote sailed up in the air, and out over the auditorium. Still only partway through my orgasm, I didn't notice Geoff landing flat on his back, totally unconscious, as the limited concentration I had was fixed on the remote which I thought might just land on the second row of seats.
It missed, hit the concrete walkway and smashed into a dozen parts.
"Wow, that's fucked it," Jane said, and I could feel her breath tickling against my breasts, and something stirring again, deep inside. She glanced down at me and whistled, just as Geoff had done a minute before. "You're looking fucking horny."
"Oh Jesus!" I said. "It's starting again."
I grabbed her shoulders for support, and started to moan, "Oh God! Oh God! Oh..." And then I could feel Jane's wet tongue on my breast, tracing a delicate path towards my nipple, and I was in absolute paradise.
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
by Charlotte Dickles
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 01 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 1
"Hi Sam. Have you got a minute?" Sam Dixon had finished his coffee in the Student Common Room, and been just about to leave for his next lecture. He turned to see Charley Hawkins, the sexiest girl at Seacombe University, actually smiling at him.
His heart gave a little lurch at the thought of her asking if he had a minute. When he'd first seen her, he'd have given her as long as she wanted, but after the incident during Freshers' week, he was rather more cautious.
"What is it?"
"Do you remember me saying you looked like one of my relatives?"
***
Did he? As part of the Freshers' introduction for new students, the Students' Union had organised a tour of Seacombe. Obviously, that had included visiting the best student watering holes – ie pubs. They had been a group of ten or so students sitting at a table, sipping their first drinks together and sussing each other out. At least, most of the girls were looking at most of the boys, and most of the boys were looking at just one girl, with her bulging breasts and long blonde hair; Charley Hawkins.
"Where are you from?" one of the boys asked her.
"Size," she appeared to answer.
"Huge," he answered, which drew a chuckle from a few of them.
"Not size," she snapped, "SIGHS."
When everyone looked rather nonplussed, unable to see the difference between the two words, she added rather crossly, "Seacombe Independent Girls High School – it's the only decent girls' school around here. I thought everyone would know it."
The girl sitting next to Sam, who had been getting frustrated at the attention being given to the tart with big tits, said, "Well, it's hardly Cheltenham Ladies College, is it?"
That brought an bigger round of laughter, especially from most of the girls, who'd been thinking exactly the same thing.
Charley looked at her and quipped, "Oh no, it's much better than that," which drew a round of laughter from the boys.
Not wishing to lose her temporary advantage, Charley had nodded at Sam and said, "You remind me of one of my relatives."
"Oh?" he'd responded.
"My great-aunt," she'd replied, which drew a big laugh from everyone, except Sam, who politely grinned. "She not only looked like you," she added, "she was called Sam as well."
"We'll have to call you Charley's Aunt," one of the guys quipped, and Sam's university nickname – usually abbreviated to Aunty – was decided.
***
"I remember," he said to Charley. "You said I was like your great-aunt. I've been called Aunty ever since."
"Sorry," Charley said. "It seemed something funny to say at the time. I didn't realise that would happen." As though she actually cared, she thought.
As though she actually cared, he thought. "What did you want me for?" he asked. He was under no illusions she was going to demand his body for a night of passionate sex.
"I want your body," she said. Seeing his mouth drop open, she added, "No. Not that way. I mean I want you to do me a favour."
He shrugged. "I'm a bit busy at the moment." He wasn't actually but he owned her no favours. "What was it you wanted?"
"It's the start of the Easter holidays a week on Friday. You should have time for what I want you to do." Inferring, Sam thought, that he had nothing to do in the holidays. So what did he care if she was right?
"I want you to play the part of my great-aunt," she continued.
He shook his head. "I don't think that's for me." He made to stand up and move away.
"I'll make it worth your while," she said. Seeing the look on his face, she snapped, "I told you, not that way. I mean I'll pay you. How does a hundred pounds, sound?"
It sounded ridiculous, actually. It was clearly some kind of trick to make him look stupid, and he wasn't having any of it. He shook his head, and said with a smile, "Sorry, I wouldn't do it for five hundred."
"That's a pity," she said, opening her handbag, "because five hundred pounds is the limit of what I was prepared to offer. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?" She tossed a bundle of fifty pound banknotes onto the coffee table. It had a white paper label around it which declared £500.
***
"Tell me again what you want me to do."
They were in his room in the student hostel block nearby. After Sam had stared at the bundle of banknotes for a few seconds, Charley had scooped it up and put it back in her handbag and suggested they adjourn there.
"My great-aunt is no longer with us, so on Saturday my great-grandfather is having a few drinks at his house in Seacombe in memory of her name. I suggested to him that it would be rather nice to have someone taking her part, and he agreed."
"So you want me to dress up as your great-aunt and go to this memorial do, to represent her? Sounds a bit weird."
"My great-grandfather thought it was a good idea, so we're all going along with his wishes. It's his money, by the way, paying for it."
"How long will it take?"
"You'll need to prepare for it so I suggest we start Friday evening. My grandfather normally lives in London, so his house here will be empty. We can stay there. The drinks start at seven-thirty on Saturday and there'll be a meal as well. You'll be expected to be there until the end of the evening, which will mean staying another night."
"If I was to do it, it would have to be a secret between us. I don't want it broadcasting over the campus that I dressed up as your aunt."
"Don't worry," she said, "I'm not going to tell anyone."
"So you'll pay me five hundred pounds for just over a day's work?"
"That's the deal."
Hell! Even if the story did leak out, it would be worth it for five hundred pounds. "And you'll pay it all now?" He'd trust her as far as he could throw her.
"Half now; half after you've done it."
"It's a deal," he said.
***
FRIDAY
"How long has she been dead?" Sam asked after Charley had picked him up from the university in her Ford Fiesta, the following Friday afternoon. "Your great-aunt, I mean."
"We don't know that she's actually dead," Charley said. "She simply disappeared and she was never seen again."
"That's horrible when something like that happens," Sam said. "Did she leave children behind?"
"Oh, no, she wasn't married. It was her parents – my great-grandparents – who suffered. My great-grandmother committed suicide a few months later and my great-grandfather never really got over it."
"How long ago did it happen?"
"Tomorrow is the forty-eighth anniversary."
There was a moment's silence as Sam did the sums. "But that takes it back to the 1960s. She could only have been a girl or a young woman at most."
"She was seventeen," Charley said.
"Seventeen! Seventeen! But that changes everything. I thought I was taking on the part of an elderly woman, not some 1960s dolly bird. Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Precisely because I thought you'd have this type of reaction."
"You mean you tricked me into it?"
"I never indicated she was any age; if you don't properly consider the possibilities, that's your problem."
"I've changed my mind. I won't do it."
"Don't be silly, Sam. Not only are you in no position to return the £250 deposit I gave you, but also, when you accepted the money it created a contract between us. If you were to drop out at this stage, you'd be in breach of contract, and you could be sued for far more than the money I've given you so far."
"But I can't pretend to be a dolly bird."
"She wasn't that pretty. As I said, her face is almost identical to yours."
"What about her body?"
"There are ways around that, which I have in the boot of the car. I'll show you as soon as we get to the house"
With that, Sam had to be satisfied, but he fumed all the way there.
"I thought the house was in Seacombe," he belatedly said, after he realised they weren't heading towards Seacombe.
"It's rather a big house, set in one of the villages, nearby."
***
A mansion, he'd have called it. But then, if someone was prepared to pay a student five hundred pounds for pretending to be a long-missing daughter, then he should have realised he was no pauper.
"Did you say he lives somewhere else most of the time?"
"After his wife committed suicide, my great-grandfather closed down the house. He and his son, Edward, went to live in London, keeping this house as a shrine to his missing daughter. My mother's just waiting for him to pop his clogs so she can sell off this mausoleum for housing development."
"That's not very nice," Sam protested.
Charley ignored him as she stopped the car in front of the impressive main entrance and got out.
"Help me carry these things into the house," she said, going round to the boot. She picked up a few light plastic bags, leaving him to carry in some large, heavy boxes.
"What have you got in here?" he asked. "A sliced-up body?"
"That's quite a good description," she said, as she unlocked the door and entered the house. It was dark inside, and Sam almost bumped into her as she suddenly stopped, searching for a light switch. After switching the hall lights on, she said, "That's Aunty Samantha. It's a lovely painting, don't you think?"
She stepped aside and Sam saw a life-sized painting of a young woman, throwing back her head and laughing, revelling in the pure exhibitionism of the moment. She was wearing a tight-fitting, long blue dress with a low-cut top which exposed her beautiful breasts. Even more alluring was the curve of the dress around her hips and thighs, with the dress flaring out from the knees, giving her the appearance of a mermaid – a very happy mermaid.
"It was painted after she disappeared," Charley continued, "from a photograph taken by a friend when she first tried on the dress.
"Apparently," Charley continued, "she went out with the friend to buy a dress for her debutante presentation. Her friend convinced her to try this one on and she felt so good in it, she bought it. Her mother was furious. It was hardly the normal kind of dress debs wore for such occasions. But it was the 1960s, and the fashion industry was tearing up all the rules."
"Did they still have debutantes in the 1960s?" Sam asked. "I thought they ended before then."
"The queen ended it as a royal occasion in the late 1950s, but the well-heeled families kept the tradition going for several years, using lesser members of the peerage. In this case, it was Lady Bottomly of Seacombe who dignified the occasion. Incidentally, the girl who went with Samantha to buy the dress later married Lady Bottomly's son, so she is the current Lady Bottomly. She's agreed to officiate for your debut tomorrow night."
There was a short silence as the words sank in. "My debut? Tomorrow night? What do you mean?"
"I told you. This is what it is all about. It's forty-eight years, almost to the day, since Samantha disappeared in the afternoon before her debutante presentation. In her memory, her great-grandfather is holding the presentation she never had."
"But you never told me that," Sam protested. "And you're expecting me to wear that dress and look like THAT!"
"Nothing to worry about," Charley said. "I'm pretty certain we'll get it to fit."
"You're crazy," Sam said. "I look nothing like that. I shall just look stupid. I can't do it."
"Don't worry," Charley said. "We SIGHS girls are well used to converting boys into very passable girls, although this is slightly different from normal."
"Normal! There's nothing normal about this. And what do you mean, I'm different to normal? How many boys have you converted into girls?"
"Not me personally, but I've talked to several girls who have. And it's Samantha's dress which makes it unusual, because it fits so tightly around the hips and thighs – it means we have to pad out your thighs rather than just your hips and bum."
"I don't understand what you're talking about. Never mind her hips, what about her breasts? I don't know whether you've noticed, but I don't have breasts."
"No," Charley said, "but I've brought a pair in this box."
She took one of the heavy boxes from Sam and placed it onto the hall table, so she could open it. "What do you think of these?" she asked.
Sam's heart leapt into his mouth at the sight of a pair of large breasts in the box, which looked as though they had just been surgically removed from some poor woman.
"It's all right," Charley said. "The breasts may look real, but they're not. They're built into a garment that's a kind of a flesh-coloured crop-top, called a Bustlet. In the other box is a Hiplet which pads out the hips and thighs.
"And," she continued with a smirk, "it gives you a vagina, as well." She grinned even harder as he furiously blushed.
"First thing," she said, "is to remove all the hair from your body, then we can give you your girly curves. Tomorrow morning, I have a hairdresser coming to the house, and she'll give you hair extensions and style your hair. In the afternoon, a beautician will do your nails and show you how to make up your face. Now, can you see why I offered you five hundred pounds?"
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 02 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 2
SATURDAY
By three pm the next day, Sam – or Samantha as Charley was insisting he now be called – was staring transfixed into the mirror. He was gorgeous! Or at least, the girl he'd turned into was gorgeous. If he carefully stared at his face, he could vaguely recognise his own somewhere, but a blink of the eye and his face transformed back into Samantha's. But he could hardly keep his eyes on his face when just below were the most fantastic pair of knockers he had ever seen – and they were on his chest! Why would any boy fancy a bitch like Charley Hawkins, just because she had a nice pair of tits, when he could have a pair of his own which were even better? Because these products were a well-kept secret, that was why.
The curve of his hips and thighs beneath his narrow waist was so feminine, even more so than the huge jugs. Of course, one of the other things Charley hadn't mentioned was the Playtex girdle which he had to wear in order to fit into the dress.
"Of course you're going to have to reduce the size of that beer-belly," she had scorned, although to be fair, if he had a beer-belly, he would never have fitted into the dress, girdle or no girdle. The girdle was unbelievably small, and it had taken ages for Charley to pull up the zip, compressing his stomach into little more than the thickness of a broomstick – or that's how it felt. But now Sam was looking in the mirror, any amount of discomfort would have been worth it
Even his voice had gone up in pitch, after Charley had insisted he swallow a pill which seemed to burn out his throat, but which left him with a voice like a canary – OK, not quite a canary, but certainly nothing like his own.
"Hello darling," said the frail and elderly voice. "How are you getting on with things? Oh!"
Sam turned sharply round to face the elderly man who had entered the room. "Hello," he said, "I'm…"
"Samantha!" the man exclaimed. "Oh, Samantha, I've waited so long for this moment." He moved forward and threw his arms around Sam, repeating, over and over, "Oh, Samantha! Oh, Samantha!"
"Don't be stupid, GG," Charley came bustling back into the room. "You know this isn't really Samantha at all. It's a boy we're employing to take her part for tonight." Sam presumed that GG was a childhood name for great-grandfather - an acronym that made sense.
"I know, I know. I simply never believed she – he, whatever – could look so like my Samantha."
Whilst GG had been talking to Charley, he had not taken his eyes off Sam. "You're so incredibly like her. It's as though..."
His eyes widened, and Sam saw hope suddenly appear in them.
"Your grandmothers," GG said. "Do you have pictures of your grandmothers?"
"Don't be silly, GG," Charley said. "I told you Sam couldn't possibly be descended from Samantha. He comes from Yorkshire." Clearly, the possibility that a relation of hers should come from Yorkshire was unthinkable.
"I'm pretty certain that both of my grandmothers were born and bred in Yorkshire," Sam said sympathetically, adding, "I'm afraid my maternal grandmother died last year, but I could probably find her memorial picture on Facebook, as well as a photo of my paternal grandmother."
"Oh, yes, please," GG said.
"Do we have to do this now?" Charley interrupted. "I want Samantha to practice her elocution a little more. You can see she has a long way to go."
"I think she sounds great as she is," GG said. "She is taking Samantha's part, not trying to replace her."
Sam realised that in his conversation with GG, he'd forgotten all about the carefully contrived elocution of the rain in Spain which Charley had made him repeat over and over. Instead, he'd reverted to his native Yorkshire dialect, with a girlish voice.
"But she can do it if she tries." Charley said to GG. "It will..."
Sam interrupted her. "It will only take a few minutes to show the pictures to GG, er Mr… erm?" He wasn't certain what he should call GG.
GG smiled and said, "You'd better start calling me Daddy. I know it will sound a bit strange at first, but let's get the strangeness out of the way before this evening's presentation. I'd really love you to show me your Facebook pages straightaway."
So Sam got his smartphone and quickly brought up pictures of his two grandmothers. GG's disappointment at seeing they were clearly not his daughter was heart-breaking to Sam, if not to Charley.
"Of course it wasn't going to be her," she scoffed. "Samantha would hardly have gone to Yorkshire."
"But Daddy had to check," Sam protested, earning a smile of appreciation from GG, partly for calling him Daddy, but also for taking his side against Charley.
"So now can we get back to improving Samantha's dreadful accent?" Charley asked.
"That's more of a fatherly duty," GG said. "Come on, Samantha, let's walk in the garden, like we used to do all those years ago, and we can practice your accent whilst we talk."
"Yes, Daddy," Sam said.
"Not in that dress," Charley said. "Take it off and you can put my spare tracksuit back on."
***
It had felt incredibly strange uttering that very first, "Daddy." After all, he'd always called his own father, "Dad," and he'd never heard anyone use the term, Daddy, other than in books and on TV. To use it on an unknown elderly man felt - well, yes, it felt perverted, like the man was his sugar daddy. But then GG had given him that complicit smile, and any feeling that he was still Sam dissolved away. For the next few hours, he was going to be GG's daughter, reunited with her father after some kind of time warp in which he had aged and she had not.
"I'm afraid the garden has run wild since you were last here, Samantha," GG said.
"It's been so long ago, my memory is rather hazy," he responded. They smiled at each other, and he added, "Why don't you show me around - where I used to play hide and seek or rounders."
"Oh, God, Samantha," he said. "I've waited forty-eight years for this moment."
Sam took his arm and said, "Then let's not waste a moment."
***
Sam had always been far closer to his mother than his father. It was her second marriage and she already had a two-year-old child. Surprisingly, his dad seemed to get on better with his stepson, Sam's half-brother, Peter, than he did with Sam. He seemed to spend all his time in their younger years teaching him how to kick a football and play cricket, and as they grew older, how to carve wood or repair cars. Much to his father's disgust, Sam had never taken an interest in any of those things, preferring tennis to football, and wanting to drive cars rather than mending them. When his father died of a heart attack, Sam bitterly regretted not having spent more time with him.
So it seemed really nice, walking along and chatting to his new, make-believe father, who told him about the real Samantha, and asked him about the real Sam. By unspoken agreement, they both avoided any talk about things which identified his gender, but that really was not too difficult, as it seemed Samantha was a bit of a tomboy, and had enjoyed many of the things which Sam also enjoyed. Time simply flew by, and it was all too soon when Charley interrupted their conversation.
"Are you going to chatter away all day? The guests will be arriving in less than an hour, and Samantha has to get dressed again."
Sam gave GG a smile, and said, "I suppose she's right. I'd better go."
"I know you're staying the night," GG said, "but would you like to stay on for the rest of Sunday. I… Well, there's something I'd like to show you, and…"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, GG, Samantha has to get changed."
Sam smiled at GG again, and said, "I'd love to stay tomorrow, although I have to leave in the afternoon to get the train to Sheffield, where my family live."
"I shan't be able to give you a lift to the station," Charley said. "I'm meeting my boy friend tomorrow. I've wasted enough time with this memorial, as it is."
"A lift is no problem," GG said. "Now you'd better get dressed and I'm looking forward to seeing you later."
***
The house, which had been deserted when they had arrived the previous evening, was now frenetic with activity. In the main hall, caterers had installed several tables with white tablecloths and sparkling silver cutlery, and there were dozens of waiting staff scurrying about.
There were also several members of the family strolling around as though they owned the place. Charley greeted them and told them that the stand-in (Sam) had been lazing about and now she (Charley) had to get her dressed. The relatives looked at Sam simply as the hired help, and took as little notice of him as they did of the serving staff, busy with their preparations.
So Sam and Charley went back upstairs to the bedroom they had been using as a changing room all day.
***
"Ladies and gentlemen," the toastmaster proclaimed, "Miss Samantha Harper, presented by her father, Sir George Harper."
"Sir? I didn't know you were a sir," Sam said to GG, as they stated to process towards the top table. "You kept that quiet."
He grinned back at her and said, "You don't know your own father very well, do you?"
But they had reached the top table and GG bowed to Lady Bottomly, and said in a loud voice, "My Lady, may I present my daughter, Miss Samantha Harper, who, being of sound and loyal principles, I commend to you."
Lady Bottomly was an old biddy who looked positively ancient. Difficult to credit that she had been contemporary friends with the young girl whom Sam was portraying.
Sam had practised the curtsey, several times with Charley, who had explained that a conventional curtsey, with that tight-fitting dress, would be impossible. Instead, she simply put her right foot behind the left, held the side of her skirt and bent her knees slightly, before standing back up.
Lady Bottomly smirked at her curtsey in a not-unfriendly manner, and said, "I welcome you to our society of gentlemen and gentlewomen. May you enjoy a long and fruitful life."
As Sam and her father stepped backwards in the grovelling manner so much enjoyed by the aristocracy, the toastmaster was introducing the next 'girl' to be presented, Christine Walters. Sam and GG moved to face each other on opposite sides of the aisle to allow Christine and her 'father' to pass between them and be presented to Lady Bottomly.
Charley had explained that the debutante presentation was to be as close as possible to the one originally planned, where possible using the same people who would have taken part. In this case, Christine Walters, the 'girl' to be presented, was in her late sixties, and since her actual father was dead, she was being presented by her grandson, Matthew Thompson. The irony of the event caused a ripple of amusement to pass amongst the twenty or so people who were observing the presentation.
A total of six 'girls' were being presented and it split half and half amongst originals and younger people standing in for them. When they had all been presented, the music started, and GG and Samantha led the way to the dance floor to briefly dance together.
Thankfully, the short demonstration dance by the six 'girls' and their presenters did not lead onto a general dance session – presumably because of the senior years of many of those involved. Instead, the toastmaster had bid them to take their places at the table for dinner, and GG had been placed next to Lady Bottomly with Sam on his other side. It meant GG had to talk to Lady Bottomly which left Sam open to conversation from Christine Walters' grandson next to him, who dearly wanted to get to know 'her' better. Fortunately, the male Sam was in no danger of recognition, since the boy was not at Seacombe University but at Oxford, a fact he conveyed in considerably less than the twenty-eight minutes normally allowed by Oxbridge students for such declarations of superiority.
For the first time in his life, Sam realised what it was like to be a girl with some jerk staring down your cleavage – it felt great! In fact, he couldn't stop a smile reaching his lips every time he noticed; unfortunately, this only caused the boy to try all the harder to get to know Samantha better.
Eventually, GG turned to Sam and said, "Lady Bottomly is telling me I must go and attend to my guests, but I think that really, she wants to talk to you. You and she were great friends, all those years ago." GG stood up and started moving along the table, talking to other guests as he went. Fortunately, the first guest he spoke to was the boy next to him, so Sam was able to slide up one seat towards Lady Bottomly and greet her with, "Good evening, Lady Bottomly."
"I never expected you to look quite so like the real Samantha," Lady Bottomly said. "How did they find you?"
"It was just coincidence," Sam said. "Charley, who I suppose is my make-believe great niece, saw me and recognised the similarity to the painting. She told Sir George who decided to hold this memorial debutante presentation."
"Are you certain there's no family connection," Lady Bottomly asked. Sam realised there was more than a slight interest behind her question.
"I've shown Sir George photographs of my real grandmothers, and he could see neither of them were the real Samantha," Sam said. He paused and then added, "You were good friends, weren't you? It was you who took the photograph which was turned into the painting."
She smiled. "In those days, of course, you had to finish the roll of film and then get it developed. With the trauma of Samantha's disappearance, I forgot I'd taken that photo. She'd been missing for several weeks before I had it developed. It so captured her as a person, but then..." She paused, searching for words. "...well, so do you."
She reached out and took Sam's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I can see why Sir George wanted to see photographs of your grandmothers. It's so tempting to believe that Samantha lives on in you as a grandchild."
"Then you don't believe she, herself, is still alive?"
She shook her head. "I know she'd have made contact, sooner or later. But then, I never believed she'd been abducted. Maybe she went off with some boy."
"Why don't you believe she was abducted?"
"The timing was too tight. The police thought the same, actually. It happened on Easter Saturday, the afternoon of her debutante presentation. It was going to be held at this house, as it was today. Samantha's mother, Mary, popped out to the shops at about two-thirty leaving Samantha alone in the house. I arrived here about two-forty-five, and Samantha had gone. Could anyone have taken her against her will in fifteen minutes? Knowing Samantha, she'd have put up a good fight. There'd have been some signs of a struggle. But she'd simply disappeared, leaving the dress you're wearing on the bed."
"Had she packed a suitcase?"
Lady Bottomly shook her head. "She had a lot of clothes – a result of all those shopping trips with me – so it was difficult to tell, but she certainly hadn't taken any of her favourite outfits and there didn't seem to be a suitcase missing from the house."
"Presumably she had a boyfriend?"
Lady Bottomly smiled. "It was more that we had boys who were friends. There were a group of seven of us – three girls, Samantha, Christine Walters and me, and four boys: Barry Jones, Steve Baines, Tony Thompson and Samantha's elder brother, Edward. Often we'd go out as a group, but sometimes as dates, although more often that was just Christine and me. Samantha would occasionally come on a date with us, with Barry or Steve as a partner. But none of us stuck to one boy; we’d chop and change.
"And share experiences afterwards," she smiled as she reminisced. "You have to remember we were young girls in a changing era. We had miniskirts up to our buttocks, the pill had just been invented, AIDS hadn't, and VD was something that only the working classes got (in our dreams, anyway)."
Sam smiled back at her. "You said Samantha didn't come out on dates with you as often as Christine. Perhaps she had someone special who wasn't part of your group?"
"No," Lady Bottomly dismissed, "she wouldn't do that. Incidentally, I understand you're staying the night here with Sir George?"
The change of subject took Sam by surprise. "Well, the rest of the family are here as well."
"I think you'll find the rest of the family are all staying at the Grand Hotel, except Charley who has her own accommodation in Seacombe. The plumbing here hasn't been changed since 1966, when Sir George closed it down, so they prefer more modern facilities."
"Oh." Sam was surprised. "Well, it will just be Sir George and me, then."
"Yes."
The innuendo shook Sam. "Look, he's treating me like the daughter he lost all those years ago. I'm sure he has no plans to attempt anything else."
"Firstly, you are not actually his daughter, and secondly…"
"Secondly?" Sam prompted.
"Well, secondly…" She hesitated, and then it seemed to Sam she changed her mind about what she had been going to say. "Well secondly, it seems that often the closer that men get to death, the more they want to ensure the survival of their genes. Look, I'm just suggesting you keep your door locked tonight, all right?"
"Yes," Sam said. "Thanks for the advice as a friend." He hesitated a second and then added, "You were very close friends, weren't you?"
She nodded. "Yes, we were very good friends, and I would dearly like to find out what happened to her, even now. I despise her father, but I came here tonight because I wanted to remember Samantha as she was. You have helped enormously with that, so I thank you. I think it's time I retired now." She stood up and said, "Goodnight," before leaving the table.
Her departure served as a signal for others in the room to do the same, most of them saying their goodbyes and giving their thanks to GG. Sam stayed seated where he was, content to finish his glass of wine and mull over the conversation with Lady Bottomly.
So he was taken by surprise when Charley bent down in front of him to frantically whisper, "I won't say a word about who you are, if you don't tell Mummy who planted the idea of the presentation into GG's mind." Then she was standing up and turning round and saying in a loud voice, "Mummy, this is Sam, who is playing the part of Samantha."
Sam looked up to see a woman bearing down on them. She looked dressed fit for a royal presentation, in a white brocade suit with hat which made her look divine – if only she had been smiling. Instead, she looked incredibly annoyed. He automatically struggled to his feet, and then wondered whether it was something a woman should do when another comes up to speak. He was to discover very quickly that it didn't really matter whether he stood or sat.
"I don't care who you are, or how you managed to look so similar to my aunt. I don't even care how you managed to get to see Sir George and con him into organising this presentation. But what I do care is that when this event ends, you promptly remove yourself from this house and from our lives."
"Er," Sam started to say, "well…"
"Ah, Geraldine," GG said, suddenly appearing beside her, "I see you've met Sam. Isn't it wonderful how much she resembles Samantha? But I'm afraid she is no relation of ours – I've already checked. That presumably is what you wanted to find out, wasn't it?"
"Well, that was partly it," Charley's mother confessed. "But I feel uncomfortable with her looking so similar to the real Samantha. I was asking Sam to remove herself as soon as she has finished her role here."
GG smiled at Sam. "Since you never knew the real Samantha, I don't see how you can feel uncomfortable with her. In any case, I've asked her to stay on for another day. It's quite nice having her around the place. You don't mind, do you?"
Charley's mother sniffed at him and said, "It's not my decision, but you know I think it's about time you went to live in a home."
GG smiled, "And you know, Geraldine, they'll have to carry me there, feet first."
Another sniff from Geraldine and she turned on her heel and walked away, with Charley following behind.
"It's strange," GG quietly said, "how all that side of our family: your brother, Edward; Geraldine, my granddaughter; and Charley, my great-granddaughter, all take after my wife, Mary. Even when you and Edward were children, I always loved spending time with you and had to force myself to spend time with Edward." He shrugged. "I'd better get back to saying farewell to my guests."
***
Finally, the guests had all left and the caterers were clearing the last of the tables, and then folding them up and stacking them in a corner of the room.
GG, having finished his hosting duties returned to Sam and said, "Come upstairs with me. There's something I want to show you. Something I haven't shown to anyone in a long time."
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 03 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 3
"Come upstairs with me," GG said. "There's something I want to show you. Something I haven't shown to anyone in a long time."
He laughed at the expression on Sam's face. "Not that, you stupid idiot. I can't think of you as anything other than my daughter, so you'd be quite safe with me, even if I wasn't long past it. Take my arm and help me upstairs."
At the top of the grand staircase, they turned to the left and walked just a few yards along the open landing before they came to a door. There was a sign on the door: "No admission under any circumstances without prior approval from Sir George Harper."
GG took a key from his pocket and held it poised for a moment. "This is your bedroom," he said. "I came in here last week with Charley to remove the dress you're wearing tonight. Apart from that, I've hardly been in here in forty-eight years."
"Are you sure you want to go in there now?" Sam asked.
"I couldn't do it without you, Samantha. Come on. Take the key of your room and let's go inside."
Sam took the key he proffered, inserted it in the lock and turned it. He turned the door handle and pushed it open. It was pitch black inside.
"You'll find the light switch on the left," GG said, pushing Sam into the room ahead of him.
Sam found the switch and flicked the lights on, and then turned to view the room.
An interior designer would probably have gasped in horror at the eclectic mix of colours, but apart from the sheer size, it would probably hold no surprises for parents of most teenagers. There were Beatles, Stones and Kinks pictures on the walls, with a four-poster bed with faded pink drapes, in the centre – Sam guessed that at some time it had probably been modelled on Barbie Doll's bedroom. The dressing table was covered with all kinds of bottles of makeup, and near the window was a table bearing a record player, a record still in place on the turntable.
"The dress you're wearing was left sprawled over the bed just there." GG pointed towards the foot of the bed. "My housekeeper comes in here occasionally to get rid of the cobwebs and the dust, but she's under strict instructions to replace anything she moves.
"Not so much Miss Haversham," he continued almost apologetically to Sam. "More that I wanted Samantha to feel perfectly at home as soon as she returned. Only she never did – until now."
"And I do feel at home," Sam said. "That's what you're saying, isn't it? You want me to spend the night here? You want me to be your Samantha for the next day."
"You obviously have your own arrangements for the Easter holidays, and I mustn't intrude on that but yes, if you would be my Samantha for the next twenty-four hours, that would be wonderful."
Sam smiled. "OK, Daddy," he said.
***
GG left him, saying he was going to watch TV for a while, and suggesting he come downstairs when he was ready for bed and they could have a hot chocolate drink together.
But first, Sam had to undress, clean the makeup off his face and find some pyjamas to wear.
He reached behind and found the zip to his dress, and then carefully pulled it down. Pulling it down was far easier than the battle they'd had to do it up. Sam had been convinced they were going to ruin the dress, but Charley was determined he was going to fit into it, whatever. Once the zip was released, the dress fell away from the upper part of his body, releasing his bra-less breasts to bob and jiggle about in a most erotic way.
He'd had little time to examine them in the last twenty-four hours. He thought Charley had found them as disconcerting as he had, for as soon as she had pulled the Bustlet over his head and down his body, and wiped away the remnants of the red gel used to reduce perspiration, than she was making him put on a bra and the shapeless track suit top he'd worn for most of the intervening period.
The same went when he'd got into the Hiplet, which he'd done in the privacy of the bathroom, although Charley had come in at the end and yanked the gusset of the garment firmly between his legs, causing his testicles to be crushed with eye-watering pain. But as soon as she'd wiped away the excess gel, she'd made him put on some panties and the tracksuit bottoms, and he'd worn the tracksuit almost continuously – which included sleeping overnight in it – until it was time to try on the dress, shortly before GG had arrived.
Charley had drilled him mercilessly in all kinds of aspects of being a woman for the best part of twenty-four hours. It had started with him wearing high-heels – at least, they felt high, although Charley pointed out they were barely an inch. However, the heels were pointed so he was tottering about on them as though they had been four-inches high.
She had made him walk, with just the right amount of sway in his hips so that he looked female without appearing a tart. He'd learnt to sit down and stand up gracefully and then they had gone onto dance lessons. Sam had never done any ballroom dancing in his life, so he had to be shown how to perform some basic steps for his presentation dance with GG.
When he had got to the point where every muscle in his feet and legs were on fire and he sat down and flatly refused to get up again, Charley had switched to voice coaching.
Sam had fallen asleep some time after his one hundredth rain in Spain, and had not awoken until Charley was shaking him awake, to tell him the hairdresser would be arriving shortly.
So now he was at last on his own, he had time to watch with fascination the way his breasts bobbled about on his chest. Not just watch – there was some clever system involving touch-sensitive material on the skin of the Bustlet, combined with tiny electrodes against his own skin, which meant he could feel his breasts moving around. It was highly sensual, and had his own genitals not been strapped firmly beneath the Hiplet, he'd have been playing with himself.
As it was, he had the problem of easing the tight-fitting dress down over his wide hips, and every time he twisted left or right, to try to see the best way of achieving that, his tits came bouncing around to obstruct his view. Eventually, he had to ease the dress more by feel than by actually looking at it, and hoping it didn't split as he pulled it over the widest part of his hips.
At last, the dress was off and he could now pull down the Playtex girdle which had been squeezing in his stomach for several hours. But even after he'd undone the zip, it was still as tight as the dress. However, he didn't worry so much about tearing it, so he could use brute force to pull it over his hips.
He did consider briefly pulling off the Bustlet and Hiplet, to allow his skin to breathe, but then remembered he was going down later to have hot chocolate with GG, so decided he'd do it when he finally came to bed.
Being an old house, which hadn't been updated since the 1960s, there was no en-suite bathroom, so Sam had to put on the pink dressing gown hanging on the back of the door before going across the corridor to one of the house bathrooms to remove his makeup.
Ten minutes later, he was back in the bedroom and he realised he had to make a choice of nightwear. His natural instinct was to find the plainest pair of pyjamas he could and wear those, but a brief inspection of the chests of drawers revealed that Samantha did not do plain. Besides, he reasoned, he was doing his best for GG to do as Samantha would do.
With that in mind, he made a decision. He walked over to the bed, pulled back the pillow to reveal a baby doll nightdress set in a shade of pink which matched the dressing gown. Clearly, this was what Samantha had worn the night before she had disappeared. This was how GG would have seen her, either that evening or the next morning. He gulped a little and then slipped on the top, which was of a semi-sheer material, and the tiny matching panties. However, with the dressing gown on top, he felt almost respectable, and he left the room to go downstairs.
***
"Hello darling," GG said, looking up from the TV and smiling at Sam, as he entered the room. "You're wearing the dressing gown Samantha wore the very last time I saw her. That's so nice of you. Thank you."
"Is that all right?" Sam asked. "I wasn't certain." He hesitated a little and said, "If ever I do anything wrong – misunderstand what you want – then don't be upset. I can understand what you must be going through, even now."
"Samantha. It's so lovely seeing you in that dressing gown and knowing that tomorrow, I'll see you again, wearing some of your lovely clothes. Don't worry about me. People have been telling me I need closure, when all I really wanted was to have a bit more time with my daughter."
Sam smiled and nodded towards the TV. "What are you watching on TV?"
"It's the old James Bond movie. Do you fancy that hot chocolate now?"
"That sounds a great idea," Sam said. "Would you like me to make it?"
GG grinned. "That's what Samantha always did. From about the age of ten, she always made hot chocolate for the pair of us."
"Then you stay watching James Bond and I'll go and make it."
***
"Here's your chocolate," he said.
GG looked around. "Thanks darling." He took the mug from her and then noticed the other mug she was holding. "Be careful with that mug. The handle is cracked and…"
Whether it was Sam's sudden jerk as he noticed the cracked handle, or whether it was going to happen anyway, the mug suddenly separated from the handle and hot chocolate cascaded down Sam's dressing gown.
"Ouch!" he said, quickly pulling off the dressing gown before the hot liquid scalded his legs. He bundled the dressing gown up into a ball to avoid it dripping everywhere and took it back into the kitchen. At home, he'd have immediately popped it into the automatic washing machine, but here there was only an old twin tub. He put the dressing gown into a bowl in the sink and ran hot water over it, rinsing it out until the water was clear.
"Sorry about that," he said to GG, as he returned to the lounge with a freshly made mug of chocolate – this time in a more robust mug. "I think I've managed to get it all out. I'm sure it will come up as good as new when it's properly washed."
"Don't worry," GG said. "It was nothing special, and Samantha was always having accidents like that. And she also had no inhibitions when it came to prancing about the house half naked." He nodded towards Sam's pyjamas, and he suddenly realised he was only wearing the baby dolls.
"Oh, my God. I'm so sorry."
GG laughed. "I realise all your feminine bits are make-believe anyway, but everything looks remarkably realistic."
Sam looked down, and started to giggle. "It does, doesn't it?" His giggle turned into laughter and soon GG was laughing too.
When they eventually stopped, GG said, "I haven't laughed like that in forty-eight years. Thanks, Samantha, for everything. Now since none of what I can see is real, do you want to come and sit down here, next to me, like my other Samantha used to."
So Sam sat down next to GG, who put his arm around Sam and said again, "Thank you, for making an old man happy."
Sam didn't feel like a boy normally would at being in that situation. Somehow, it felt all right, and he snuggled down next to GG. "I'm so glad," he said. He felt very comfortable like that.
***
"Samantha. Samantha, darling. Wake up, it's time to go to bed."
Sam jerked awake. How long had he been asleep? "I'm sorry, I must have dropped off," he muttered.
"For the last hour, you've been snoring just like Samantha used to," GG said with a smile. "Now, let's put you to bed." He stood up and held out his hand for Sam to take. When Sam stood up, he pulled him towards the staircase, and then up the stairs and into Samantha's bedroom, where he swept back the bed sheets. "Into bed, young lady," he said. "And sleep well, darling."
"Goodnight, Daddy," Sam said. Then he fell straight to sleep.
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 04 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 4
EASTER SUNDAY
"Any thoughts on what you want to do, today?" GG asked.
They were in the kitchen having a leisurely breakfast. Sam had put on a bright yellow minidress, with matching high-heeled shoes, and had been feeling very conspicuous. Samantha, it seemed, had enjoyed looking conspicuous as she had a lot of bright yellow clothes.
"Not really," Sam answered. "I thought I'd leave it up to you."
"It's a nice day," GG said. "After all that rain we've had recently, it would be good to get out somewhere for a walk." He thought for a moment and said, "We could leave the car at the Smugglers Rest pub and then walk along the river bank – the river's tidal at that point and a delightful walk. Then, we return to the pub for lunch. How does that sound?"
"It sounds great," Sam said, "but I didn't know you had a car here. Do you still drive?"
"I'm still licensed to drive," GG said, "but I tend to avoid it. I got a lift here yesterday. I was suggesting we take your car, especially since you've put on one of your dresses which exactly co-ordinate with it."
For an instant, Sam was about to reply that he didn't have a car, but then he realised GG was talking about Samantha's car."
"I have a car?" he gasped.
"That's all right, isn't it?" GG asked. "You have passed your test?"
"Yes but…" Sam struggled for words, "I'm not insured, or anything. And is Samantha's… that is my car still drivable?"
"We can sort out the insurance with a phone call after breakfast," GG said. "And yes, the car is still drivable. I've always made certain that all of your things are regularly serviced, ready for when you return home."
"Right," Sam said, not wanting to ask what type of car Samantha owned.
***
It was a bright yellow Lotus Elan; the one with the headlamps which folded down flush with the wing when not in use. The kind of car which was beyond Sam's wildest dreams, but which a daughter of GG obviously took in her stride. GG was right that her minidress exactly matched the car. She felt so right in it; it was a shame that, still wearing her high-heels, she stalled the engine as they first set off.
"You're always doing that," GG said. "Just release the clutch more carefully.
She got it right the next time, and managed to drive to the pub, following GG's instructions, without a single accident.
***
"Lady Bottomly was telling me a little about the day I disappeared," Sam said. He had got used now to talking about Samantha as though he really was her.
They had parked the car at the Smugglers Rest and then walked along the wooded valley next to the tidal creek. After a just a few minutes' walk, Sam's ankles and legs ached like crazy, but GG had insisted they walk for what seemed like miles, but was probably more like a half mile before they turned around and retraced their steps to the pub. They'd had a delicious lunch sitting in the pub garden, overlooking the river.
GG snorted in response to Sam's statement, and said, "No doubt she told you she arrived at the house at two-forty-five."
"Yes, that's what she said," Sam said. "Was it not right?"
"Veronica Makepeace – that was Lady Bottomly's maiden name – and Christine Walters had been planning to meet up with you at our house at about three," GG said. "Immediately after lunch, you went upstairs to try on your dress. The problem was, you couldn't squeeze into it, no matter how hard you tried. Mary, your mother, came up and tried to help. Eventually, you started to get hysterical about it and Mary decided to drive into town and buy you a firm control girdle – which, incidentally was the garment you wore yesterday. Before she left home, she telephoned Veronica to give her a piece of her mind, since it was she who'd talked you into buying that dress. Mary told Veronica to come straight over and talk you out of your panic. That was at two-thirty. Veronica claims she arrived at two-forty-five, by which time, you had disappeared."
"Right," Sam said. "That's what Lady Bottomly told me."
"The problem," GG continued, "was that Christine Walters arrived at just after three. There was no sign of Veronica."
"Presumably Veronica was challenged about that?"
GG sniffed. "She said that she rang the doorbell and when you didn't answer, she assumed that, with the Lotus not being parked in front of the house where you invariably left it, you had driven across to see Christine. So Veronica did the same. When she got there, she found no car parked outside so she drove back to our house to find Christine waiting outside, and still no you."
"Where was the Lotus found?" Sam asked. "Didn't that provide a clue where she had gone?"
"The Lotus was in the garage," GG said. "Mary had made you put it there that morning, to allow more space for the guests to park when they arrived for the presentation. Mary got back from Seacombe at about half-three to find the two girls waiting on the doorstep, and that's when panic set in."
"Where were you all this time? I'd have thought you'd have been very involved in arranging my debutante presentation."
"I had a business meeting in London, first thing," GG said. "In those days, my company was called EPCC, the English Punch Card Company. I'd started out making computer card punchers and readers, but by that time, we were producing computers. We had a meeting that morning with a major client and I wanted Edward, who was in his final year at the London School of Economics, to meet everyone with a view to him joining the company as a junior partner. We had the meeting and then he and I got the twelve-thirty train from London which arrived at Seacombe at four-thirty.
"Mary was waiting at the ticket barrier to tell me you were missing. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to ask the ticket collector whether he'd seen you. He'd been on the barrier all afternoon and knew you by sight. He was positive you hadn't got on any train. We went straight to the bus station, and that was much more difficult to ascertain, although we subsequently spoke to the drivers of the three long-distance buses which had left that afternoon, and they were pretty sure you had not been on any of them. So, we had a missing daughter; her best friends didn't know where she was; her car was in the garage; and no sign she'd gone anywhere by public transport. We went to the police and..."
His words were interrupted by Sam's phone ringing. It was Charley.
"Hi Sam," she said, "are you catching the train to Yorkshire today?"
"Hi Charley. I thought I'd get the three-thirty train and change at Birmingham. It arrives in Sheffield about ten-thirty. Incidentally, last night you forgot to give me the rest of my pay."
"Don't worry about that. I wanted to tell you that I left that tracksuit you were wearing on Friday and Saturday for you to go home in."
"But why should I need that. I brought my rucksack with me to the house, so I can change into some clothes from that."
"Dumbo. They're hardly going to fit you with those boobs and hips."
"But I'll take those off and leave them in the house."
"Oh. Didn't I tell you?"
His heart gave a sudden lurch. "Tell me what?"
"The gel we used to prevent perspiration is semi-permanent. You have to wait until a layer of your skin is shed in ten to fifteen days before you can remove the Hiplet and Bustlet. I'm sure I told you."
"What! But I was planning to meet up with my mates in Sheffield. I can't go out with them like this."
"Never mind, I expect you'll have plenty of other offers. Remember, that vagina really works. I'll give you the rest of the money when I see you next term. Bye."
And she was gone.
"What am I going to do?" Sam muttered, at the same time wondering about the feeling of elation sweeping through him.
"She tricked you?" GG had picked up most of the conversation. "And now you can't go home to see your parents and your friends?"
Sam shook his head. "My mother and brother have gone on a two week holiday to Malta, anyway. I had the offer of going with them, but I needed to get on with some course work."
"But your father is still at home?"
Sam shook his head. "Dad died three years ago of heart disease."
"I'm sorry about that," GG said. "My son, Edward, died earlier this year. It feels so wrong to outlive your children. That's why, when Charley told me about a student at her university who looked just like Samantha, I agreed to go ahead with this memorial; to once again have a daughter for a few precious hours."
But then his voice lifted. "On the other hand, it looks as though my daughter is going to have to stay with me for another two weeks. Oh dear."
"You don't mind?"
"Do you?" GG retorted with a smile.
Sam didn't have to think; he didn't even have to reply, as the huge grin which had spread across his face did that for him. "I'd love to," he said.
"Something I would like you to do, though," GG said, "is to go over your own disappearance with a toothcomb. I still desperately hope the real Samantha is alive, even though my brain tells me she would have made contact sooner or later. But I'd like you to meet with as many people as you can who were around at the time. See whether you can find out where she is or at least, what happened to her. Will you do that for me?"
Sam nodded. "I'd love to. So, why don't you continue telling me what happened on the day?"
***
"I told you we went to the police station," GG continued, "and they weren't interested. No grounds for suspicion. You would probably turn up in a few days or a few weeks. I rang the chief constable, who I personally knew, and he put a rocket under them. They came, they investigated and came up with the same answer: no suspicious circumstances."
Sam said, "Lady Bottomly didn't believe I had been abducted either."
"Then why did you disappear like that?"
Sam paused; he needed to put this carefully, "I looked around my bedroom this morning. There were no birth pills there."
GG nodded. "Mary was Catholic; she wouldn't hear of you having them. We had several rows over it but Mary was immovable. It was always a bit of a fight between us: Mary insisted you should not have sex until you were married, whilst I wanted you to take proper precautions."
"But on that day I couldn't get into the dress which had fitted perfectly a few weeks before," Sam said. "I flew into a tantrum about it. Was that unusual for me?"
GG nodded. "Yes, it was unusual for you to get upset like that. You could laugh at almost anything; you never got hysterical."
"But I did that morning."
"It crossed my mind," GG said, "that Veronica had taken you some place where you could live out your pregnancy and then give birth. Veronica vehemently denied it and we also knew Veronica was back at the house by three, which allowed only fifteen minutes for her to take you somewhere and return. She hadn't dropped you at the railway station or the bus station, so it must have been somewhere local. Why didn't you reappear in six months' time?"
"Who would the father have been?"
"You did seem quite keen on Steve Baines, and you also went out with Barry Jones. It's worth saying that at the time, I talked with Steve and Barry, as did the police, and their denials seemed genuine enough. I know they'd both tried it on with you but had failed. Steve Baines was there last night, by the way, and he seemed fascinated by you. It would be worth looking him up and speaking with him."
"After what you've just told me, I'd also like to speak to Lady Bottomly again, as well as Christine Walters. And what about that other boy you mentioned – Barry Jones?"
"Barry died a few years ago of a heart attack," GG said. "And there are quite a few others like that. I know it's possible the person involved is dead, and we'll never find the answer."
"Well, we won't know unless we try," Sam said. "Shall we drive back to the house, now, and I can get on with seeing some of these people?"
***
"Hi Samantha."
The voice had come from behind him as he got out of the Lotus, after stopping by the front door of the house. He turned to see the boy he had been sitting next to at dinner the previous evening. The boy's eyes roved freely between Sam's breasts and his thighs. Too late, he wondered whether he had pulled down his skirt after getting out of the car, and realised he probably had not. He pointedly did so now, and the boy had the grace to look embarrassed.
"Hi…" he sought for his name "...Matthew," he said. "What brings you here?"
"Is that your car?" For a few seconds, Matthew's eyes wandered away from his breasts and legs and over to the Lotus, although they quickly reverted.
"Well…" For the first time, Sam had the chance to look at him properly. In Sam's native Sheffield, Matthew's good looks would immediately have labelled him as a raging queer; but in Sam's present position, he had to admit the term handsome was rather more appropriate.
"It's as good as hers," GG broke in, "all the time she is here being my daughter."
"Right," Matthew said, with an even bigger look of adulation in his eyes. "I was wondering if you wanted to go out somewhere with me. It's a nice afternoon."
"Thanks, but…"
"She'd love you to take her to see your grandmother," GG butted in again. "She was just saying how much she would like to speak with her."
"My grandmother?" Matthew was astonished. "What do you want to see her for?"
"Samantha," GG said, "why don't you explain to Matthew on the way? After all, it's not as though your little project has to be kept secret, is it?"
"Sorry, GG," Sam said. "I don't understand. Who is Matthew's grandmother?"
"Don't you remember? Mrs Christine Thompson, of course," GG said. "Born Christine Walters."
"Oh?" Sam said. "Then Christine married Tony Thompson, one of the gang of people I used to go out with?"
"A brilliant deduction, Holmes," GG said with a chuckle.
"OK," Sam said, turning to Matthew. "Shall we go?" He gave a careless wave towards the passenger seat, recently vacated by GG, whilst trying not to let the terror which was running through him show. It was one thing to do a little dance in front of an audience, quite another to get into a sports car with a young man who clearly had lecherous ambitions, whilst wearing a skirt so short it would continually reveal his panties, and with boobs which persisted on bouncing with every lurch of the Lotus's sports car suspension. But then he took a grip. He was not Sam Dixon, a boy dressed as a girl; he was Samantha Harper, a girl with a rich daddy who was not awed by some guy from Oxford who, he noted, drooled just as much as the students from his own university.
He opened the driver's door and remembered to use one hand to pull down his skirt as he got in. But of course, the Lotus was not designed as a limousine; it was impossible to get in modestly, for which Matthew appeared to be delighted.
"You'd better tell me which way to go," Sam said, and then wondered whether his words were capable of misinterpretation. Hell, it was difficult being a girl.
Matthew directed him to turn right out of the gateway.
"That's away from Seacombe, isn't it?" Sam asked.
"That's right. She lives in Kingsford; it's only about five minutes' drive away. Why?"
They started driving along the pretty B-class road, which twisted and turned before them.
"Is this the best road to get there?"
"It's the only road," Matthew said. "Now, are you going to explain why you want to see Grandma and why you're asking these strange questions?"
"Sir George has asked me to speak to people who were around at the time his daughter disappeared; see if I can get any better idea of what happened to her."
"Some hopes after all this time."
"I don't know," Sam said. "Maybe people will feel able to say things now they couldn't say then."
"Turn left at the next junction," Matthew instructed, "and then my grandma's house is just along there on the right-hand side."
***
"Samantha and I were best friends all through school," Christine said with a smile. "It's easy to think that in the Swinging Sixties, every teenager was perpetually on drugs and having orgies, but it wasn't like that."
Christine Thompson, nee Walters, had seemed delighted that Sam had called, and had bid her to come in and have a cup of tea. But when she had learnt that Sam wanted to talk about what had happened on the day Samantha had disappeared, she had told Matthew to go and feed the hens for a while.
"But why, Grandma? I'm interested in our family history."
"Because Samantha and I need to have girl talk," she had replied, adding with a grin, "and that means no boys."
So, Matthew had gone off to feed the hens, and Mrs Thompson – call me Christine – had started her girl talk.
"The two of us were really innocent, especially Samantha. She was quite a late developer and to be honest, not particularly pretty, so she didn't have the boys making rude comments from the age of thirteen, like I did. But she certainly made up for that later on. Her body started developing when she was sixteen, and wow, did it develop. Suddenly every boy was fancying her, but she still seemed to keep her innocence. Right up until the day she disappeared, she seemed like a gawky thirteen-year-old girl in the body of a seductress.
"We were both seventeen, then, and still at the Girls' Grammar School -- which became SIGHS later on – the Girls' Independent School. Being a girls-only school meant we could mostly ignore the boys, except that I was getting to the age where I didn't want to. Then Miss Makepeace – Veronica – joined the school as a student teacher. It was a bit of a funny arrangement since she was twenty and hadn't done any proper training. Apparently she'd dropped out – or been thrown out – of the college she was at, but she was an old girl of the school, so they found her a job. She told Samantha she was giving a dinner party, and invited her to balance up the sexes. Samantha asked if she could bring me along, as well, and Veronica said she could. Suddenly, Samantha and I were part of Veronica's group; it felt very grown up.
"There were three boys, all older than us, Steve Baines, Barry Jones and Tony, who I later married. Right from the start, I thought that Tony was incredibly handsome, but he only had eyes for Veronica. He was most dis-chuffed – and of course, I was delighted – when Samantha's elder brother, Edward, also joined our group since he, too, gloated over Veronica – it was all quite sickening. It was always Tony and Edward competing for Veronica, and neither were interested in me.
"Steve and Barry often asked Samantha and me on dates, and we'd usually go out as a foursome. I sometimes went with one or other on my own, but I don't think Samantha ever did. Actually, I always felt they were both rather frustrated with Samantha because her body was very sexy and she always seemed very friendly, but she never let it go further than that."
Seeing the twinkle in Sam's eyes, she added, "OK, I was rather more understanding of boys' needs, although I remained a virgin for ages, until the night of the orgy with Steve, Barry and Tony."
"You had an orgy?" Sam couldn't keep the surprise – almost shock – out of his voice. Here was this elderly lady confessing not just to having sex, but having an orgy!
She laughed at Sam's expression. "Don't you dare tell Matt. He'd never be able to look me in the eye again. The important point was that Samantha wasn't there when we had our orgy. Afterwards – well Tony had hardly noticed me before and suddenly he couldn't get enough of me. So Tony and I became an item, and I didn't see as much of Samantha after that, but I presumed she was still a virgin right up to the time she disappeared. Then, of course, all kinds of theories were going around."
"So what was your favourite theory?" Sam asked.
"Her mother thought she'd been abducted," Christine said, "but I think that was more because she was a Catholic and reluctant to consider the more likely option that she was pregnant. What I thought…" She paused for a second – for effect rather than anything else, Sam felt. "What I thought was that Veronica had whizzed her off to a back-street abortionist - abortion was illegal in those days. Veronica was missing, you know, for about fifteen minutes just after Samantha's mother had gone off to the shops. Veronica gave some cock and bull story about going round to my house, but we'd have met her on the way, if that was the case, as my dad was driving me over there."
"If she had an abortion," Sam asked, "why didn't she come home afterwards?"
"She died, of course," Christine said. "The abortionists had to get rid of her body, so they probably got one of the local fishermen to drop a weighted sack out at sea."
It seemed a bit far-fetched to Sam, so he decided to try a new tack. "If she was pregnant, who do you think the father was?"
For the first time, Christine looked almost shifty. "Oh, that would be telling."
"Do you think it was Steve or Barry?"
Christine's face relaxed a little and she said, "They both denied it, and I kind of believed them. For one thing, if one of them had succeeded with Samantha three months earlier, they'd have been different towards her. No, I'm quite certain they hadn't had sex with her."
"Then who else could it have been?" Sam asked.
"All I'm saying," Christine said, the shifty look returning to her face, "is that she and her father always seemed very close."
"Sir George?" Sam couldn't believe his ears. "But he loved his daughter. He'd never do that."
"Fifty years ago, it was unthinkable, but now we know it happens all the time. There was always something creepy about the way he doted on her. Men didn't do that in those days."
"It doesn't make him a paedophile, though," Sam said.
"Has he tried it on with you, yet?"
"No."
"It's only because he's old and past it. You mark my words. It was his baby."
***
"Well, who'd have thought it," Matthew said after they had set off from the house, "my grandma having an orgy with three blokes, including that randy old sod, Steve Baines."
"You were listening in," Sam accused.
"Course I was," he amicably agreed. "Girl talk, my foot. Anyway, I wanted to find out what Grandma knew about Samantha's disappearance." He chuckled. "Local fishermen dropping a weighted sack into the sea – I think she's losing her marbles."
"It sounded like she'd always believed that," Sam said. "Given there was no record of Samantha travelling away from the area, it's at least worth considering."
"There are buses and trains," Matthew pointed out.
"Sir George checked those straightaway," Sam said, and went on to tell him about the events on that afternoon, half a century before.
"It's a shame," Matthew said when she had finished, "that Sir George has an alibi with his son, otherwise we'd be able to point the finger clearly at him."
"I don't believe Sir George would do that," Sam said.
"You have to keep an open mind," Matthew said. "I was listening in on your conversation with Lady Bottomly last night," Matthew added. "She was dropping hints about Sir George being a pervert. I bet she thought he'd put his daughter up the duff."
"She thought Samantha had gone off with a boyfriend," Sam said.
"Presumably, Sir George hasn't tried anything on with you, yet?"
"No he has not," Sam crossly said. "He wouldn't do that. You've got it all wrong."
"You don't understand men," Matthew said. "Any man will try it on with any fanciable woman, regardless of who it is."
Sam sniffed, but his scorn was rather undone as a lorry driver whistled down at him from his cab as they waited at a roundabout. Sam couldn't help grinning. If only he and Matthew knew what was beneath.
"See what I mean?" Matthew said. "By the way, I assume you were intending to come into Seacombe with me?"
"What?" Sam suddenly realised he'd been driving without noticing where he was going.
Matthew laughed at her surprise. "We can have a walk around and I'll show you the sights of Seacombe."
Sam was about to refuse, but then he thought, why not? "OK," he said. "I guess you deserve that for taking me over to see your grandma."
"Great," Matthew said, grinning without embarrassment down at her thighs, where her matching yellow panties were on full display.
***
As soon as they had parked, Sam rang GG and made certain he was all right if he didn't return straightaway. "I could buy some food whilst I'm here for dinner and bring it back," she said.
"Don't worry about that," GG said. "I've had the freezer stocked with convenience meals. I'm perfectly capable of microwaving something. Stay out and have fun with a boy, like you always used to."
As Sam terminated the call, he realised from the grin on Matthew's face, that he'd overheard GG's words.
Sam had only rarely been into Seacombe since arriving at the university the previous autumn; it had never impressed him as a place to go, other than to buy stuff not available on the university campus. But that day, it seemed so much more fun, seeing it with Matt. Nothing funny about that, he told himself. It's only like having a good mate who you go around with; except that this mate kept giving him sidelong looks, and occasionally taking his hand and tugging him over to see things. "This is Seacombe's oldest building", or, "This the coaching inn where the stage coach used to arrive and depart." And maybe he'd slip an arm around Sam's shoulder; sure it was a bit funny, but in a way it was nice and, since he was acting the part of a girl, it was perfectly all right to behave as any girl would.
"Why don't we stop and have tea, somewhere," Matt suggested. "Then since you don't have to get back, we could have something to eat later on. How does that sound?"
"I haven't got any money on me," Sam realised with a jolt.
Matt laughed. "Then it's on me, as long as you don't want to go anywhere posh. The Grand Hotel is definitely out."
Sam smiled. It was nice having a friend like Matt. "Thanks," he said. "I'd like that."
***
"It's Samantha, isn't it? Or do you have another name?"
Sam turned to face the voice which had come from behind him. He vaguely recognised one of the older women from the previous evening as another of the 'girls' who'd been presented to Lady Bottomly.
"Samantha is fine," he said. "I know you were at the presentation last night but I'm afraid I don't remember your name."
"It's Doreen," she said. "Doreen McCallum." She gesticulated to the family besides her. "This is my son, Bruce, who presented me last night, Rebecca his wife, and my lovely grandchildren."
She rattled off their names so fast that neither Sam nor Matt could take them in, but they smiled and made appropriate greetings.
"You're clearly related to the original Samantha," Doreen continued. "What branch of the family are you from?"
Sam shook his head. "I'm not," he said. "But Sir George's great-granddaughter, Charley, recognised the similarity between me and Samantha's painting. Hence my involvement last night."
"From your dress today, you're clearly continuing in the part of my friend of fifty years ago."
"I was intending to go home this afternoon, but the holiday plans fell through, and Sir George was more than happy for me to continue in my role. He wants me to find out what happened to his daughter."
Doreen snorted. "That's just like him. It's common knowledge what happened to her and he still won't accept it."
"When you say common knowledge..." Sam ventured.
"Why, she was arrested as a spy, of course."
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 05 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
by Charlotte Dickles
CHAPTER 5
"When you say common knowledge..." Sam ventured.
"Why, she was arrested as a spy, of course, Doreen McCallum said."
She smiled at the look of astonishment on both their faces and said, "Bruce and Rebecca are going home later this afternoon, so you'll forgive me if I spend that precious time with them. We could meet up tomorrow, if you wish? How does lunch sound?"
***
The rest of the afternoon with Matt was great – for a time. They went in the waxworks and the heritage museum, and walked along the pier. It was there they met GG's granddaughter, Geraldine Hawkins. If Sam had seen her coming, he'd have avoided her, but she caught him by surprise, even more so when she smiled a greeting.
"Ah, Samantha. How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you, Mrs Hawkins. This is Matthew Thompson. He was at the presentation last night."
"Call me Geraldine, please. Yes, I know Matt. I wanted to apologise for my show of bad temper last night. The fact is…" She hesitated. "Look, do you think we could go somewhere and talk? Have you had afternoon tea yet?"
"We were going to go in the café here on the pier," Matthew said.
"Oh, that's no good," Geraldine said. "The Grand is only a few minutes' walk. Let's go there. Then we can have a proper tea."
Matthew exchanged a submissive glance with Sam, and they obediently followed her.
***
Afternoon tea at the Grand Hotel comprised sandwiches, cakes, scones and tea. If Sam had devoured half of what was placed before him, he'd never have got into Samantha's clothes again.
After a few minutes' small talk, Geraldine got around to the main issue. "Samantha, I know you're only trying to help GG, but you did say you were returning home today. Clearly, you're not going to do so now."
Sam took a deep breath. GG had said there was nothing secret about his assignment, but he was still cautious about what he said. "There was a problem with my return home, and GG has asked me to stay on for a while."
"How much?"
"Sorry?" Sam stuttered, although he thought he knew exactly what Geraldine was asking.
"How much money do you want to leave Seacombe and to stay out of our lives for ever?"
"It's not a question of money."
"One thousand pounds."
"It really isn't."
"Five thousand."
"I'm sorry."
"Ten thousand, and that's my final offer."
Ten thousand pounds was exceptionally appealing. Matthew obviously felt the same, for he said, "That's a very generous offer, Geraldine. I'm sure Samantha could do a lot of things with that kind of cash."
Strangely, Matthew's words had the opposite effect to their intention. Yes, there were plenty of things he could do with ten thousand pounds, but over the last twenty four hours, he felt he'd been doing something that cash couldn't buy. He'd enjoyed playing the part of Samantha more than he could remember enjoying anything before. Of course, he recognised part of this was because he revelled in taking the part of an attractive girl. But more than that, he had really delighted in being with GG and making him smile in a way he'd never made his own dad smile.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But I don't want your money."
"You're crazy, "Matthew said.
"You're a little gold-digging slut," Geraldine said. "Do you think you're going to marry him? Well I can tell you, Sir George has promised me he won't alter his will whatever happens. Even if he were to get married, there'd be a pre-nuptial agreement to keep the original will as it is."
"I have absolutely no intention of marrying him," Sam protested, adding with a grin, "after all, he's old enough to be my great-grandfather."
"Why don't you sleep on it," Matthew said, and with that they uneasily parted.
***
If anything, Matt was even more fun after that rather unpleasant interlude than before. There was a small amusement park at the one end of the promenade and they went on the dodgems, Matt tried his strength with a hammer, they both went on the gun range and Matt won a teddy-bear which he gave to Sam.
Afterwards, they went into a pub and had a great meal together. Sam refused alcohol, on the basis he was driving, but Matt had a lager – something which lowered him slightly in Sam's opinion since he was a real ale fan.
Finally, Sam was dropping Matt off at his grandmother's house, where he was staying, with a promise they meet up again before Matt went home to his parents.
Of course, Sam should not have been surprised when Matt gently cupped Sam's chin in his hands and lowered his lips to Sam's, but he was. He was even more surprised that rather than it being something horrible, it was wonderful and set his heart beating like crazy.
"Good night, Samantha," Matt said.
"Good night, Matt," Sam said. He had enough presence of mind not to stall the car as he set off.
***
"Hi, darling," GG called as Sam entered the lounge where he was seated in front of the TV. "How was your afternoon with Matthew?"
"It was quite nice, actually," Sam admitted. "We had fun together."
"I knew you would," GG said. "Much better than spending all afternoon with an old codger like me. Did he kiss you?"
The question took Sam by surprise, and he found himself blushing. "That's none of your business," he said.
"That means he did," GG retorted. "You were always like that about your boyfriends. Is he a good kisser?"
"That's none of your business," Sam repeated and, wanting to change the subject said, "I spoke to Lady Bottomly last night, Christine Walters today, and I also briefly spoke with Doreen McCallum. It seems to me they all appear quite genuine but they all have different ideas. I thought there'd be some commonality of response, but every one is wildly different."
"That's the problem with any investigation," GG said. "Even when the police interview witnesses immediately after a crime or an accident, they all have different things to say; fifty years on, it's bound to be even worse. Remember that our memories can be highly selective about what they remember. Everyone has their pet theories and with time, people remember the facts which support that, and forget the ones which don't. It's no easy task I have set you. Don't worry if you can't come up with a solution."
"I'll do my very best, GG," Sam said, adding, "We bumped into Geraldine on the pier."
"Geraldine!" GG was astonished. "On the pier? I bet it's the first time she's been there. She must have seen you going on and followed you. How much did she offer?"
Sam couldn't help his mouth gaping open, and GG laughed. "Geraldine is so predictable. She's terrified I'm going to marry someone and deny her my inheritance. So how much did she offer?"
"Ten thousand pounds."
"Ten thousand?" He gave Sam a careful look. "Does this mean you've come to say goodbye?"
"I told her I didn't want her money and she called me a gold-digging slut."
GG chortled. "She always did have a way with words. What she doesn't appreciate is that the last laugh will be on me."
"You mean you're not leaving her your estate?"
"Oh no. She knows the basis of my will which I made shortly after Mary died, and is quite simple: my estate is divided equally between my two children; if either is deceased at the time I die, it is shared equally between their children, and so on. Only if a legator dies without issue does the money revert to a brother or sister. So Geraldine is assuming that Samantha will be declared dead shortly after my own death, and that Samantha's share will revert to Edward's side of the family."
"So, with her father being dead," Sam summarised, "she gets the lot. Which I guess is a lot of dosh."
GG nodded. "My Mayfair penthouse, which Geraldine would love to live in, plus a reasonable amount of dosh, as you say. But this house and its grounds have been declared suitable for housing development, so it's worth an absolute fortune."
"But you said you were having the last laugh."
GG grinned. "If you can laugh from the grave - I doubt it - but what Geraldine doesn't know is that the will also stipulates that if the whereabouts of Samantha are not known at the time of my death, this house and the half of the estate due to Samantha will be put into trust for ten years, in the hope that she will be found."
"So she has to wait ten years to get hold of the fortune. That would be frustrating."
"Even more frustrating would be for you to find Samantha, or at least an heir," GG said. "Then she'd only get half of my estate. So you had better work on it."
"Yes, Daddy."
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 06 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
CHAPTER 6
MONDAY
"I went to Seacombe Secondary Modern, rather than the snotty Girls' Grammar School," Doreen said, "so I didn't know Samantha until we met on a CND coach going to the Aldermaston march. That was in 1963, the last of the Aldermaston marches, and we became instant friends. Amazingly, so did our mothers who were like chalk and cheese, and they were always going round to each other's houses for tea, whilst we were at school."
"So you were all in the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament?" Sam asked.
They had met up in a fish and chip café in Seacombe for lunch, and he was already regretting wearing another minidress, and having to endure the leering looks he was getting from most of the male clientele.
"Not Sir George, obviously," Doreen said.
"Why obviously?"
"Didn't you know about his company?"
Sam cast his mind back to the previous lunch time. "Er, EPCC – The English Punch Card Company?"
"They became Epic Computers by then, and they had a contract with the Ministry of Defence to supply computers for the Polaris submarines."
"So he was supplying equipment for Britain's nuclear deterrent," Sam said, "whilst his wife and daughter were in CND. That must have been embarrassing."
"He kept quiet about his company's involvement to his family, and probably vice-versa, until one evening Samantha quite innocently looked for a pen in his briefcase and found an MOD contract there. The shit hit the fan."
"When was this in relation to her disappearance?" Sam asked.
"A couple of weeks before," Doreen said. "Samantha was livid, whilst he took the line that she had been quite happy enjoying the money he got from contract, including that lovely little Lotus that you arrived in just now." They both glanced outside to where it was parked at the kerb opposite.
"Obviously, Samantha told all her CND friends, and that must have got back through the Special Branch spy they had in every CND group." Her eyes took on rather a glazed look as she added, "You can't believe it now, but the establishment was terrified by a load of harmless pacifists in duffel coats.
"Anyway," Doreen continued, "they obviously regarded Samantha as a security risk, and were terrified she was going to make some kind of announcement at the debutante presentation. They got Sir George and Edward out of the way on the day, and as soon as Mrs Harper went into town, they knocked on the door and arrested her. Samantha would have gone quietly, thinking that a few words from Daddy and she'd be released. Of course she didn't realise that was the end of her life."
"Was there a trial?"
"Who knows? If there was, it was all held in camera. It was obviously imperative that Sir George knew nothing about it, as everyone was aware how he doted on Samantha. If he realised what had happened to her, he'd have torn up the Polaris contract and to hell with the consequences. Which meant that the first Polaris submarine would be delayed and Britain would be under a continued threat from the Russians – in their eyes.
"Of course, we all told him what had happened and he thought we were just mischief-making at an incredibly sensitive time."
"So what do you think happened to Samantha?"
"She was either secretly imprisoned for life, or she was executed."
"But you don't have any evidence of this," Sam said.
"That's what Sir George said, of course, but don't forget that meeting set up on the Saturday morning was with the MOD civil servants. Can you possibly imagine civil servants meeting on a weekend? With it being the same day as Samantha's presentation, Sir George must have tried like crazy to delay the meeting but they wouldn't let him."
"Or perhaps," Sam suggested, "there was some important problem with the Epic computer which had to be resolved?"
"That's just what Sir George said," Doreen replied. "He just refused to see the truth."
***
That evening, Sam told GG about Doreen's ideas, and asked for his reaction.
He shrugged. "Fifty years ago, I thought it was all poppycock. We British simply didn't behave like Doreen was suggesting. I thought she was out of her mind."
"And now?" Sam asked.
GG shook his head. "I don't know. There have been too many guilty secrets discovered over the years. Now, we all know that is exactly how the establishment would behave. Did they behave that way to my daughter? I hope to God they did not. Being raped and murdered by a sex maniac would be preferable to that. But, whatever it is, I really hope you get to the bottom of it. It's time for closure."
He hesitated for a second and then said, "I have a confession to make. It was my idea to prevent you going back to your family for Easter. I asked Charley if there was any way she could delay you and she came up with this idea of a special gel. I know it was underhand, but I'll make certain you're recompensed."
Sam smiled and walked over to him. "You know, I thought yesterday that you didn't seem at all surprised about me being stuck like this for a couple of weeks. Any innocent person would have been asking questions and demanding to speak to Charley and telling her to sort it out.
"Am I mad at you?" Sam continued. He leant over and gave GG a kiss on the cheek. "Being here is a hundred times better than being at home in an empty house, with nothing to do except boring course work. So thank you, Daddy, for making this happen for me." He gave GG a kiss on his other cheek.
"What I would like to know, though," Sam continued, "is why you had a debutante presentation for Samantha in the first place. The queen had ceased the ceremony a decade previously; the sixties were all about what was fashionable then, rather than looking back to the fifties; and you don't appear to me someone who is wedded to outdated traditions. So why did you hold it?"
"A good question," GG replied. "I think Veronica Makepeace originally suggested it to Samantha. She'd had one a couple of years previously, before she went to college and it had been great. So Samantha took up the idea and I went along with it, simply as a good excuse for a party."
"On Saturday," Sam said, "three of the 'girls' being presented were clearly contemporaries of Samantha; I've met Christine Walters and Doreen McCallum but I can't even think what the third one looks like. Who was she?"
GG snorted. "So often people grow up in the image that goes with their names. The third debutante was Mildred Brown. Mary knew her mother, Maureen, through the church, and she insisted that Mildred be invited. I think Samantha had probably met her a few times at Catechism classes – that's the Catholic equivalent of Sunday School ¬¬- although she didn't go to them for long."
"This was at the Catholic Church in Seacombe?" Sam asked.
"That's right," GG said. "St Joseph's. Maureen Brown used to be the cleaner there, so Mary was perpetually meeting her, and often her daughter was there as well, which is why Mary invited her to the debutante presentation. Maureen retired years ago and Mildred took over her job. If you wanted to speak with Mildred, going to the church would be the easiest way to find her, since she's there every morning."
Sam nodded and said, "Perhaps I'll go over there tomorrow morning."
"It might be better if you're going to church," GG said, nodding down at her dress, "to wear clothes which are a little less revealing. I know Samantha didn't really do modest clothes, but you could probably find something with a higher neckline, and perhaps a hat?"
"OK," Sam smiled. The things girls had to continually think about.
"Incidentally," GG said, "I've ordered a credit card for you. It's a company card so I can get it in your new name without having to produce ID. It should make buying things a lot easier. It will probably arrive sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, here's a couple of hundred pounds to be going on with. You're on expenses now, so let me know when it's about to run out. OK?"
"Well…" Sam was embarrassed at taking money, but GG was rich and Sam was working for him, "Thank you. That's really helpful.
"There is someone else I would like to see," he continued. "Steve Baines. Do you know how I can contact him?"
"He's an estate agent," GG said. "So it's anybody's guess where you'll find him. Even if he's supposedly at work, there's little guarantee you'll find him in the office. Best thing is to give him a ring at Peacock and Baines, the estate agents, and arrange an appointment. Before you meet him…" He tailed off, leaving his statement unfinished.
"Before I meet him?"
"There's something you should know about him, Barry Jones and you," GG said. "Something I haven't told anyone before."
Sam's interest was piqued. Something GG had never told to anyone? "What is it?"
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 07 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
CHAPTER 7
"There's something you should know about Steve Baines, Barry Jones and you," GG said. "Something I haven't told anyone before."
Sam's interest was piqued. Something GG had never told to anyone? "What is it?"
"It was about three months before you disappeared. I'd got back late from London to find the house deserted, which wasn't unusual. You and Edward were regularly out with your friends, and Mary would often be over at Jenny McCallum's house - that's Doreen's mother. It had been a long day, and I decided to have a nice, relaxing, hot bath. I think I probably nodded off for a few minutes.
"I was awoken by the sound of your voice, and it was clear you were either drunk or on something else. And you were in our bedroom, rather than your own, and just as clearly, you were getting into our bed, accompanied by Jones and Baines. Had you not been high, I don't know how I'd have reacted. As it was, you clearly weren't fit to make your own decisions and I guessed that those two had got you like that in order to have sex with you. I put on a dressing gown, and threw Jones and Baines out of the house. Not quite physically, but almost. When I got back to my bedroom, you'd left and I could hear you crying in your own bedroom. I knocked on the door and you told me to go away, which I did. The point is…" GG broke off.
"Well, the point is that from what I overheard Baines and Jones saying before I interrupted, it was quite clear that was going to be a first for them."
TUESDAY
"Samantha, I just couldn't believe it when I cast eyes on you," Steve Baines said. "You are so like your grandmother. She was incredibly sexy, as well."
Sam decided to ignore that remark. "I told you on the phone that Sir George has asked me to talk to people who knew the real Samantha to try to find out what happened to her."
Steve shook his head. "He never gives up, does he?"
"If it was your daughter, would you?"
He nodded. "Fair point. But most parents seem to learn to live with it after a few years. He never did. Perhaps it's guilt."
"Guilt? About what?"
He shrugged. "Bringing up a daughter like that, if for nothing else."
"How do you mean?"
"Look, it's easy, looking back, to think that the 1960s were great times, and I suppose they were – if you managed to adapt to them. But we'd all been brought up in the straitlaced 1950s, taught about what was right and what was wrong. Then we get to our late teens, and someone tore up the entire rule book." He smiled. "I remember Barry and I were convinced we were the last male virgins on earth. You'd see fourteen-year-old pop stars who'd had more sex than we had. We both fell head over heels in love with Veronica Makepeace, and she seemed quite interested in us. The problem was, it was always the three of us together and that's a crowd. Later on, Tony Thompson became another of those infatuated by her."
He grinned at Sam. "Seeing Veronica now, you can't believe how fantastic she used to look. I'm afraid she hasn't worn well." He didn't actually add, "Unlike me," but from the way he visibly preened, Sam could see he thought it.
"So there we were, three guys and one girl, and certainly we guys were getting mighty frustrated.
"Then Veronica introduced Samantha and Christine and the dynamics changed. Barry and I could see we were never going to get anywhere with Veronica, so we switched our attentions. Tony obviously thought he was in, but then Samantha's brother, Edward, appeared, and he was equally hooked on Veronica. Meanwhile, things seemed to be going great with Samantha and Christine. Christine was prettier, and more world-wisely, whilst Samantha had the bigger... well, you know, which certainly turned me on.
"Problem was, after months of dating them, we were all still virgins, and Barry and I were going up the wall. I mean, why get your daughter to dress like a sex siren if you're also telling her to keep her legs firmly closed?"
It was a question to which Steve patently hoped that Sam would answer. Instead, he smiled, he hoped enigmatically, and said, "You were saying."
"Well, one evening, all of us except Christine were round at Tony's house, and Tony produces these purple hearts. Us four guys all pop some, and then amazingly, even Samantha does the same. We're all feeling incredibly relaxed but really up for it. Of course, that leaves Veronica standing out from the crowd. We're all trying to persuade her to take some, but she says, 'Edward, my parents are away. Why don't you and I go back to my place?' It was obvious what she wanted. Next day, they only announced their engagement, lucky bugger."
He shrugged philosophically and added, "Barry and I weren't at all surprised but Tony was upset as he so wanted it to have been him. But then, he was more upset by what happened that same evening, for with Veronica and Edward gone, it left Samantha alone with us three guys, all feeling ready to explode. But Samantha really disliked Tony so she says to us two, 'Steve, Barry. My parents are away, as well. Why don’t the three of us go back to my place?'
"So we leave poor old Tony, who'd supplied the purple hearts, on his own and looking mightily pissed and go back to Samantha's house. We really thought our luck had changed. We got Samantha undressed and were getting her into bed, when in marched her father who is monumentally livid. Says he's going to call the police for attempted rape and drugging a minor.
"He put the fear of God into us and we were out of there pronto, and once more feeling mighty frustrated. So we decide to go back to Tony's and his purple hearts, and on the way, we picked up Christine from her house. And that was the start of a real night to remember, and a relationship that went on for years."
***
"Hello. You must be Mildred Brown?"
The thin, plainly dressed woman jumped, clearly startled by Sam's presence and turned around to face him. He smiled at her, but it was returned with a downturn of the thin mouth and a hostile look. Cleary, Mildred Brown disapproved. Sam did a retake; he was wearing a dress which, although a mini, was one of the more respectable of Samantha's wardrobe, with a high neckline and matching hat. A dress in which, GG had confirmed, Samantha would attend church. He removed his hat, feeling that perhaps he looked a little too formal for the rather scruffy woman before him.
"What do you want?"
"I'm Sam Dixon. I stood in for Samantha at the…"
"I know who you are. What do you want?"
"Sir George has asked me to go through the last days of Samantha's life before she disappeared, with a view to finding out what happened to her. You knew her. I wondered if you could help?"
"We hated each other. She was a brazen slut, and always laughing at me; scorning and ridiculing me."
"Oh." It was the first time anyone had talked of Samantha being anything other than a pleasant and fun person to be with. "What kinds of things did she say to you?"
"Well, for instance," Mildred said, "a week before the debutante presentation, we had to do a rehearsal, just to make certain everything went smoothly on the day – as though it mattered. I didn't want to have anything to do with the stupid idea, but my mum made me; said we'd been personally invited by Mrs Harper so it would be rude to refuse. Besides, Mrs Harper gave my mum a hundred pounds to buy me a dress to wear – a hundred pounds on a dress! Can you imagine that? Anyway, we borrowed my cousin's wedding dress and paid a friend a few pounds to alter it to my size. We would had to have given back the money if we didn't go through with it." She stopped, clearly still pleased that she and her mother had made such a profit out of Mrs Harper.
"You were saying about the rehearsal," Sam prompted.
"Well, it was all happening at their house near Kingsford, and it would have taken ages to get there by bus, so Samantha said that she'll come over and pick me up – which of course, was just an excuse to show off her stupid sports car."
Sam thought it was actually a friendly gesture, but he let it pass as Mildred was now in full flow.
"Of course, she had to have the top down, and of course, she was wearing her usual tarty clothes, revealing her bosom and her legs. It was hardly a surprise when we stopped at a set of traffic lights in the town centre and two workmen looked down at her and one of them said to the other, 'We must have come to Arizona by mistake. I've always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.' He was staring at her breasts, of course. The other man said, 'It's no mistake. I'd love to go into that valley.' Samantha just laughed and shouted, 'In your dreams,' as she drove off from the traffic lights, squealing her tyres, of course."
Having endured plenty of comments about the size of his breasts over the last few days, Sam admired Samantha's bravado just as much as Mildred despised it.
"Then," Mildred continued, "as though the men hadn't already made the point obvious, she said to me, 'I think they've grown larger recently. What do you think?' "
"What I thought," Mildred went on, "was that if she wore a proper blouse and bra, she could have made her breasts far less obvious than exposing them like peaches on a greengrocer's shelf, and that her comment to me was clearly designed to show how much bigger her breasts were than my own."
Fifty years on, it was impossible to say with any certainty what Mildred would have looked like as teenager, but Sam guessed her breasts had been almost as small then as they were now. Easy to see how a girl would become envious – no, jealous – of such a well-endowed contemporary who attracted men like wasps around a jam jar. A salutatory lesson for Sam, with his newly acquired large breasts.
"I have to say," Sam said, "that I have found wearing Samantha's clothes incredibly strange."
"But you're doing it," Mildred said. "I could never wear clothes like that when I was your age, even if I had the figure."
"I thought you looked very attractive at the debutante presentation on Saturday," Sam said. "Was that dress you wore the same one you were intending to wear all those years ago?"
"Oh, no," she replied. "Sir George wanted to get as many people as possible along to the memorial presentation, so he arranged that everyone could hire a costume and he would pick up the bill. I got the most expensive one I could find. After all, he's loaded so we have to screw him for as much as we can."
Mildred's tight-fisted attitude was common of so many people and Sam always found it depressing. "Getting back to the original debutante presentation," he said, deciding to change the subject, "was the rehearsal the last time you saw Samantha?"
"I couldn't get away from it quickly enough," Mildred said. "All those snooty girls from the girls' grammar school - and their parents. I certainly didn't want to meet up with Samantha or anyone else before I was forced to. I was delighted when she disappeared in time for Mrs Harper to cancel the ceremony."
Her words left a silence between them which dragged on for several seconds.
"Well, obviously," Mildred said, clearly wishing she had not used those words, "I'm not glad she disappeared, but it was convenient she did it when she did."
"What do you think happened to her?"
"There's only one outcome for girls like that."
"You think she was pregnant?"
"It was only later I realised the significance of her remark about her breasts growing," Mildred said with a smirk, "but it's obvious, isn't it?"
"Who do you think the father was?"
"There were obviously so many contenders," Mildred said, "it would be impossible to tell."
"Presumably," Sam said, "she came here to see the priest…" he'd been about to add for confession, but Mildred broke in.
"How dare you? I can assure you that Father Wigley was an honourable man. He would never…"
"Is there a problem," said a male voice from behind them.
Sam turned to see a priest staring at him in a rather formidable way.
"I was asking," Sam said, "about a girl who attended services at this church with her mother, almost fifty years ago, and who subsequently disappeared."
"I hope you're not suggesting there was a connection between the two," the priest said.
"Well, I wasn't." Sam emphasised the 'wasn't'. "But I am a little surprised at how I came here with a simple question, only to find people are assuming I am making some kind of an accusation."
"Then I apologise," the priest said. "I am Father Roberts. Please come to my office and we can discuss your enquiry."
He led the way into a rather large but shabbily furnished office, to one side of the main church. "Now, perhaps you had better start again with your query."
So Sam told him about Samantha's disappearance, and that many people, Mildred included, believed that Samantha had been pregnant. "If she was pregnant," Sam said, "and she came to the church for help, what advice would she have been given?"
"I really cannot say what Father Wigley would have advised fifty years ago. Nowadays, we have a helpline I would have contacted and handed the issue over to them."
"Are there not church records you could look up to see if she did come here for help?" Sam asked.
"I can assure you, young lady, that all such records are held in strictest confidence. They are not available to any passing person to satisfy their curiosity."
"I am acting on behalf of the girl's father," Sam said.
"I cannot help you," Father Roberts said. "Good day."
***
"You probably don't remember me," the elderly lady said with a smile, as Sam left the church. "I was simply one of the hangers-on last Saturday, come to see my daughter have her debutante presentation at last. I'm Maureen Brown, Mildred's mother."
As they shook hands, Sam could see the resemblance between mother and daughter but, in spite of her extra years, Maureen's face had a liveliness to it which had been lacking in Mildred.
"I do remember you, actually," Sam said, "but I found the whole event overwhelming. I'd been thrown into it at the last minute with no time to get accustomed to the idea, let alone remember everyone's name. Did you enjoy the evening?"
"Lovely meal, and all that free wine," Maureen said. "Mind, at my age, I can't take much. I just wish that the original presentation had gone ahead as planned. Perhaps some young man there might have taken a shine to Mildred and her life would have been completely different. And I'll always wonder what happened to that young girl."
"Do you have any idea?"
"You're so much like her, you know. You're obviously related."
"I don't think that's possible," Sam said. "Sir George has looked at photographs of my two grandmothers and he's convinced that neither is his Samantha."
"Photographs prove nothing," Maureen said. "A lot of things can happen in fifty years that you wouldn't even have been aware of. Divorce, death, adoption. You mark my words, you're her granddaughter."
She hesitated a little before continuing. "Mildred rang me to say you were 'snooping around', as she put it. Asking questions about Father Wigley. Now I've spoken to you, I can understand why. You may look like Samantha, but you've got Father Wigley's voice; if you're not his granddaughter, I'll eat my hat."
"My voice?" For a moment, Sam wondered whether he'd forgotten to take his voice tablet, and his voice had reverted to his normal male tones, but no, as he mentally relayed his words, he realised that his Samantha voice was now natural to him.
"Oh, obviously, he had a lot deeper voice than you, but anyone who knew him would immediately recognise it. That's what startled Mildred just now, when you first spoke."
"You think that Father Wigley made Samantha pregnant?"
Maureen shrugged. "A man, even a priest, has his needs. Let's say that there have been a number of allegations made about Father Wigley that the Church is earnestly denying. I seem to remember Samantha gave up Catechism classes quite suddenly."
"Did Mildred not have an explanation?"
"She said Samantha just found them too boring, which is quite likely. On the other hand…" She let the innuendo hang in the air.
"Whilst you're here," she went on, "come and see your great-grandmother's grave. She's buried just around the corner."
"But I thought Mary Harper committed suicide," Sam said, having by now given up trying to insist he was not her descendant. "Surely, she was not allowed a Christian burial?"
"The Coroner is usually quite understanding about such matters," Maureen said. She led the way to a simple grave and stood by it, whilst Sam joined her and stared down at the gravestone. Could this possibly be the grave of his great-grandmother?
"Mary Harper," the inscription read. "Born 15 February, 1928. Died 3rd October, 1966. RIP."
***
Sam's mother rang him that evening from Malta. "Hello, love? How are you?"
"I'm fine, Mum."
"Your voice sounds very strange."
"I've had a bit of a cold. I think it's gone to my larynx."
"I told you that you should have come with us to Malta. It's lovely sunshine here. We're sitting on a terrace overlooking the sea, and we'll be eating soon."
"So will I, Mum. I'm going to microwave something."
"Oh you poor thing. But aren't you at home? I rang there first, and the answering machine came on."
"I've stayed in Seacombe for a few days extra. It's a bit difficult to explain, but…"
"I thought you said you had to vacate your college room in the holidays so they could use it for conferences… Oh, I bet you're staying with a pretty girl, aren't you?"
Sam grinned. "Well, I have become rather inseparable from one, actually. She's called Samantha."
"What's she like?"
"Don't be nosy. But Mum, there's something I wanted to ask you. Was Dad adopted?"
"Your dad? Adopted? No, of course not."
"Are you certain? I mean, sometimes people keep that sort of thing quiet. Do you think I could ask Nan?"
"Don't you dare. You know how easily she gets upset by just little things. If there was any truth in what you're saying, it would probably kill her off. Anyway, why have you suddenly got interested in this?"
"This girl I was talking about, Mum, well her face is almost identical to mine. Everybody's saying we must be related and it's quite embarrassing really."
"Mmm." For once, his mother sounded quite thoughtful. "I can see what you mean. I know that your grandpapa and Nan were married for a long time before they had Tom. Can't you find out through the Registrar of Births and Deaths?"
"Maybe," Sam said. "But with Dad no longer being alive, it's bound to make it more complicated, and it will probably take for ever."
"OK, well, I don't know what to suggest, but whatever you do, you mustn't ask your Nan. Promise me."
"I promise I won't ask her about Dad," Sam said.
As Sam ended the call, GG asked him, "Everything all right?"
Sam shrugged. "You probably heard most of it. I asked Mum about the possibility of Dad being adopted, and she didn't know anything and forbid me from talking to Nan."
"So you think adoption might be a possibility?" The hope in GG's voice made Sam feel quite emotional.
"I was speaking the absolute truth when I said that everyone I meet seems to feel that I must be Samantha's granddaughter; except that is, for Doreen McCall, who thinks Samantha is either in prison or has been executed."
Sam hesitated and then said, "Look, I think I need to go up to Sheffield for a few days and do some digging. The problem is… well, it's going to be difficult if I stay in my own home. Neighbours are either going to think a strange woman has broken into the house, or they're going to realise that it's really me, and I don't know which is worse."
"Then stay in a hotel," GG said. "Take the Lotus, then you'll have no problems getting about whilst you're up there. Incidentally, your new credit card came today, so there'll be no problem with paying the bills."
"Is that all right?" Sam asked, rather embarrassed at the cost involved.
"It's got a ten thousand pound credit limit on it," GG said, "so it should be. The only thing is I'd be happier if you took someone with you, and I'm a bit elderly to make that kind of journey. Why not ask Matthew if he'd like to accompany you?"
"Matt! But he'll get the wrong impression."
"Then tell him what the right impression is. Book single rooms and tell him that's the deal."
Sam was suddenly aware he had a stupid grin over his face, and hurriedly changed it to a grimace. But he could see GG was smiling at him, and knew he hadn't been fooled.
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 08 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
CHAPTER 8
"Thanks for asking me to come with you," Matt said.
"I thought it would be more fun if you did," Sam said. "I've never driven this far before, and certainly never driven this car in a lot of traffic. Did you manage to borrow a road atlas? Somehow I think the 1960s' version in this car wouldn't be very useful, as the M1 appears to end at Rugby."
"Better than that," Matt said, "I've borrowed a satnav. I thought it would be a bit of a waste to use this car on the motorways, so I've set the satnav to use mainly B-roads. It should be a great drive."
"All B-roads? Are you certain that's a good idea?"
"Course it is. It'll make it into a really pleasant drive."
***
As they drove through the Cotswolds, Sam had to concede that Matt had been right. Beautiful undulating hills and pretty, unspoilt villages. They stopped for a coffee break in Bourton-on-the-water, and sat admiring the stream running through the centre of the village.
"Isn't it gorgeous?" Matt asked.
"It's impossible to imagine the contrast," Sam said, "between this paradise and the crowded, dirty, noisy city we'll be in this evening."
"It's not turned twelve, yet," Matt said. "We could cancel the hotel booking in Sheffield and stay a few days here. GG doesn't have to know. We could simply tell him you were unsuccessful.
"It would be fun, here," he continued, "just the two of us and there's no compulsion about anything. We could tour the area, go to a few museums, go to a few nice pubs. What do you say?"
Sam looked around the pretty village, and then back at the incredibly handsome Matt. It was an extremely tempting idea.
"But I want to find the answer," Sam said. "Come on, drink up your coffee and let's hit the road."
***
"Matt," Sam said, some time later, "we've been driving for almost four hours and we're still thirty miles from Birmingham, and we've been thirty miles from Birmingham for the last hour."
"Well of course we're not going through Birmingham," Matt agreed. "We need to skirt it."
"Are we going to stop somewhere soon and have some lunch?"
"Well, I don't think there's going to be anywhere suitable for another hour or so."
"Matt, I can't drive for another hour without food and drink. Set the satnav to find the nearest restaurant."
"Em," Matt said. "I'm not really certain how to."
Sam stopped the car at the side of the road and said. "Hand it over, I'll set it."
"No," Matt said, "you're a girl. You won't know how to work one of these."
"Since I'm a girl," Sam said, "I'll know how to slap your face, so stop being sexist and give me the satnav."
Five minutes later, they were on route to the nearest motorway, via a restaurant. They would be in Sheffield in less than two hours travelling time, although Sam planned to extend that by having a nice leisurely lunch in the restaurant.
***
"It's a really nice hotel," Matt said, over dinner that evening, "but why are we not staying in your house."
"I've told you before," Sam said. "Sir George insisted I come with you because he was under the mistaken impression you'd be of assistance, and I wasn't going to set the neighbours' tongues wagging by staying at my house with you when my parents are away."
"It's not 1966 now," Matt said. "People simply accept that everyone is having sex."
"Then they'd be under a misconception," Sam said. "Now, I want to make an early start tomorrow morning, so we can start back to Seacombe as soon as we can – and we're not exploring the byways this time."
"Fair point," Matt admitted. "Only…" he hesitated for a second. "Only it was nice driving through those lovely roads in a beautiful sports car, the sun shining down on us, with a stunning, sexy girl besides me."
"You're stupid," Sam said, and for some reason he moved his face closer so that Matt could kiss him.
As they broke apart, the waitress, who had clearly been waiting for her moment, said, "Do you mind if I clear your plates?"
"Oh, of course not," Matt apologised, going a deep shade of red, which Sam thought was rather nice.
Sam had to admit that he was feeling incredibly confused about the way his feelings for Matt were developing. Perhaps he was playing the part of Samantha a bit too well. On the other hand, it was exceptionally nice being a girl with a boyfriend like Matt. "So how many convents did you manage to locate on the internet?" he asked Matt to change the subject, whilst trying not to grin at him too much.
"No many," Matt admitted. "There are four within a reasonable drive of here. Then, there's one in Doncaster and one in Chesterfield. I know they are a bit of a trek but I'm sure Father Wigley would know of them."
"You may not know it," the waitress broke in, "but there's the Convent of the Virgin Mary just a short walk away from here."
"Really?" Sam was astonished. He'd lived in Sheffield all his life and thought he knew most of the city quite well. The hotel where they were staying was quite new, an attempt to redevelop the rather sordid industrial district, totally dilapidated after the demise of the steel industry. His idea of a convent did not extend to it being anywhere near here.
"They always kept this one quiet," the waitress explained. "I was one of the last girls to have a baby there, back in the early 1990s. We girls called it the Convent of Immaculate Conception."
"You believed you had an immaculate conception?" Sam asked, trying to get a grip on what she was saying.
"It must have been immaculate," the waitress said. "The only man I'd been with was a priest, and they always remain chaste."
"Oh," Matt said. "You mean…"
"She had an immaculate conception," Sam said, smiling sweetly at the waitress. That lined up with Mildred's mother's suspicions that it was Father Wigley who had made Samantha pregnant.
"We could walk round there when we’ve finished dinner if you like," Matt suggested. "Just to have a look. I don't expect they welcome visitors at this time of evening."
The waitress gave them directions and after dinner they strolled round there, arm in very comfortable arm. The dismal building, set between disused, boarded-up factories, didn't look as though it had ever welcomed anyone, no matter what time of day. A pair of dirty black steel doors were set in a dirty brick wall, with no windows at ground level, but a few narrow windows with bars at the upper levels. It looked like a prison. A small dirty sign said that visitors should ring and wait, with no promise that anyone would ever open the door.
Sam looked at Matt, and Matt looked back at her. "A nice Christian welcome, I would say," Sam said, his face breaking into a grin. "But please, please let this not be the place where Samantha ended her days."
"Amen," Matt agreed.
"Let's go back to the hotel now and get an early night," Sam suggested.
"Now there's a great idea," Matt said
"I meant so we could get off to an early start," Sam said. It really was difficult being a girl when everything one said was taken the wrong way."
"Early to bed, early to rise," Matt said, a lecherous look appearing on his face.
Sam refused to comment.
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 09 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
CHAPTER 9 - REVELATIONS
THURSDAY
Sam was just about to go down to breakfast when his phone rang.
"Hi, it's Matt."
"Hi Matt, I'm just on my way down to breakfast. Are you running late?"
"That's the problem, I'm running all the time. I think I probably have Norovirus, or something like it. I certainly can't go out today."
"Matt! I'm so sorry. How bad are you? Do you want me to come and give you some TLC?"
"It's probably better if I see as few people as possible."
"You're right," Sam agreed. "I'm afraid you're going to have a boring few days whilst I explore the convents of Yorkshire."
"I think it's quite possible you'll come down with the same virus," Matt said, "I think you should stay here in the hotel, rather than spreading it around."
"I haven't any sign of it yet," Sam said. "Of course, it's possibly your kiss last night gave me rather more than expected, but I can't stay in communicado just because it might happen. I'll go over to the Convent of Immaculate Conception, this morning. I can then start on the others after lunch."
"I really don't think that's wise," Matt said. "You could come down with it at any minute."
***
The problem was that when someone suggests something like that, you keep thinking it might come true. So although Sam went to the toilet after breakfast, as soon as he'd left the hotel he started worrying he might suddenly need to go again. He made an abrupt about turn, almost bumping into a group of school boys, clearly playing truant, who jeered at his modest – but still short – skirt, as well as two evil-looking guys who'd obviously been staring at his wobbling buttocks, and retraced his steps to the hotel.
But after sitting on the toilet seat for a few minutes, he knew that he was not yet experiencing the symptoms of Norovirus. As he walked back across the hotel foyer, he toyed with the idea of having another coffee before he left. And that's when he saw Matt.
The very same Matt who, an hour earlier was in the throes of Norovirus, was now breakfasting on fried bacon, mushrooms and egg, and had several slices of toast piled up on the table, awaiting his attention.
He was deeply immersed in a phone call, so Sam had no problem approaching the table without him noticing.
"I really think we shouldn't go that far," he was saying when he caught sight of Sam. His mouth dropped open, and Sam was able to pluck the phone out of his hand without resistance.
"...you failed to distract her in the Cotswolds," Geraldine was saying, "you failed to direct her to the little 'car accident' I'd arranged. You even failed with this stupid Norovirus stunt. Just remember that if Charley is fool enough to marry you, it will be your fortune too, so you can stop whingeing. It's all done through a private detective so it's not traceable back to us. Just a little beating up, just enough to teach the evil little..."
Sam disconnected the call. "So, you're planning to marry Charley," he said to Matt. Strangely, it was that which hurt more than anything, even though Sam had hardly been honest about his own situation.
Matt shrugged. "I've asked her several times. I think eventually she'll accept."
"Does she know what you're up to?"
"Hell! No. Charley mustn't find out."
"Mustn't find out that you connived with her mother to set thugs on me? They were following me just now, weren't they?"
"That had nothing to do with me."
Sam was stll clutching Matt's phone. He flicked through the call records. "You called Geraldine just after nine, which was about the time I left the hotel. Did you watch me leave through your bedroom window?"
Matt shrugged. "So I told Geraldine. I didn't know what she was going to do about it."
"You've spoken to her several times," Sam continued as he perused the call records, "including a call from her on Sunday before you came to pick me up, and in the afternoon just before we went on the pier. No wonder she 'accidentally' bumped into us."
"I suppose it's too late to say sorry?"
"Sorry! Those two guys were going to beat the hell out of me, perhaps slash my face, and you want to say sorry. Just pack your bags and get out of here. I never want to see you again."
"Can I have my phone back?"
"What, so you can make more arrangements with Geraldine to have me beaten up? No chance. I'll give it to Charley when I see her next."
"But how do I get home?" he whined.
"You can walk, or you can stay in Sheffield for life. It's your choice."
***
"I was worried Geraldine might do something stupid," GG said after Sam had telephoned him and told him what he had discovered. "That was the reason I suggested you take Matthew with you, little realising he was the viper in the bosom.
"The stupid, greedy girl," he continued. "How could she set a bunch of thugs onto another woman? I shall ring her now and tell her that if anything happens to you, then she is out of the will, and so is Charley if she marries Matthew."
"What should I do, GG?" Sam asked.
"Stay in the hotel and see the manager and tell him some thugs have been employed to beat you up. Ask him to keep his staff alert to anyone roaming the hotel. I think you'll be safe outside within a few hours, but you can't be too careful. Come home tomorrow, first thing."
"Yes, GG."
***
"Good morning," Sam said to the nun who had promptly opened one of the metal gates in response to his ring. Rather than wasting the rest of the day, Sam had decided to get a taxi to the Convent of Immaculate Conception.
"And a fine good day to you, too," came the reply in such a broad Irish accent, Sam half expected her to finish with a "Begorra."
"Will you be coming in to join us?" the nun continued, pulling the gate wide to reveal a sunlit courtyard. "I'm Sister Mary. I'm afraid our Mother Superior is taking her prayers at the moment. But you're welcome to enter and look around our humble convent."
"Er, right. Thank you," Sam said, stepping through the gate.
Sister Mary slammed the gate shut, cutting off all sounds of the noisy city outside.
"This is delightful," Sam said, looking around the courtyard, full of potted plants and shrubs, many already in flower.
"That it is," Sister Mary said. "That it is."
"I'm trying to find out details…" Sam commenced.
"You'll need to talk to the Mother Superior," Sister Mary said. "I'm sure she'll do her best to help you. In the meantime, would you like some refreshments?"
"Will the Mother Superior be long?" Sam asked.
"It's difficult to know. It might be an hour, or it could be much longer."
"Much longer?" Sam said, "But I don't…"
"That's all right, madam. You're not intruding. In fact, we're always pleased to see visitors. I'll go and get some refreshments for you." Further comments were rendered redundant, as she disappeared through a door to one side of the entrance he had just come through.
Sam wondered around the courtyard, examining the three-storey cloistered buildings which ran around the courtyard on three sides, with the fourth side occupied by a chapel. I take it back, he thought, about not wanting Samantha to have been here. It's lovely.
Sister Mary returned carrying a tray with some glasses and a pitcher of what looked like home-made lemonade. She placed it down on a table and bade him to sit down and enjoy the lemonade.
"Who could have thought," Sam said, sipping the delicious drink, "that such a beautiful place could be here, amongst all this industrialisation?"
"It was here before the industrialisation," Sister Mary said. "The stones were laid down in..." and she commenced on a long history of the convent.
"I'm certain that," Sam said, jumping in when she temporarily paused for breath, "if Samantha Harper did come here, she'd have found it a wonderful place."
He had said the words wondering whether he would see any reaction to Samantha's name. He was not disappointed.
"Samantha Harper!" Sister Mary gasped. "You're looking for news of Samantha Harper?"
"Her father is still trying to find out what happened to her," Sam said, "and I suspect she may have been my grandmother. You obviously knew her."
"I arrived here on Maundy Thursday, 1966, just two days before she did. As she stepped through that metal door from the street, the setting sun lit up her hair and gave her a halo. It was a sign.
"We struck up a natural bond, being new girls together, but everybody loved her. It broke all our hearts when she died."
"Then she is long dead?" Sam asked.
"I think the Mother Superior won't be long now," Sister Mary said.
***
Two hours later, Sam was on the road back to Seacombe. Most of that time had been spent waiting for Mother Superior to arrive, but it had been well worth it.
Of course, it still hadn't explained the question of how Samantha had arrived there in the first place – and who the father was. It was easy to assume it was Father Wigley, but Sam had his own ideas about that. Firstly, he needed to speak with Lady Bottomly again.
Whatever Happened to Charley's Aunt - Chapter 10 of 10
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It turned into a hunt for Charley's Aunt, who had disappeared almost fifty years ago.
Author's Note: This is a light-hearted, cross-dressing mystery story, written in my normal style, which I hope you enjoy. It does contain references to adult themes, and some of its characters have little sympathy with the Catholic Church. Please don't read if you feel this will upset you.
CHAPTER 10 – DENOUEMENT
FRIDAY
"Samantha, how nice to see you. I was hoping you would visit me before you returned home."
Sam returned her smile, feeling perhaps that Lady Bottomly did not smile very frequently. "We didn't get chance to speak for very long on Saturday. Sir George has asked me to stay on for a few more days."
She gave him a careful look. "Has he tried anything on with you, yet?"
"I've told you; he's not like that. But he has asked me to go over Samantha's disappearance - see if I can find out what happened to her."
"I didn't know the answer to her disappearance then; I certainly can't help you now. But please come in and we'll take tea."
Ten minutes later, a housekeeper had brought tea into the sitting room and Sam moved the conversation away from the small talk and onto the reason he was there.
"At the time, it appeared almost everyone except her mother believed she was pregnant," he said. "But you were her best friend. Samantha actually told you she was pregnant, didn't she?"
Lady Bottomly sighed and then nodded. "Yes, she did, but she made me promise not to tell anyone."
"Christine Walters believed," Sam continued, "that Samantha died at the hands of back-street abortionists, who later disposed of her body. She must have suggested that to you at the time, Lady Bottomly."
"She was talking rubbish," Lady Bottomly said.
"You know that for a fact," Sam said, making his stab in the dark, "because that was where you went on that fateful afternoon, wasn't it? You found Samantha missing and guessed she might be having an abortion. You went round to the local back-street abortionist so as to be with your best friend during that horrible experience."
Lady Bottomly reluctantly nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'd been pressing Samantha to have an abortion, but her stupid Catholic religion thought it a sin. I found out who the local abortionist was and offered Samantha the money for it, but still she wouldn't have it. That Saturday, I thought she'd at last seen sense, but when I went round to the abortionist, she wasn't there. So I know no more than anyone else about where Samantha went, or how she disappeared."
"But you could have told Sir George she was pregnant, and put him out of his misery," Sam said.
"I promised I wouldn't tell."
"There was another reason why you wouldn't tell, wasn't there?" Sam said. "Of course, with most people accepting she was pregnant, the question then turned into, 'Who's the father?'"
Lady Bottomly shrugged agreement.
"People did their sums," he continued, "and came up with the time when the three boys and Samantha got high on drugs. Given that she'd been behaving like a good Catholic girl prior to that, it would seem logical that she had unprotected sex that evening whilst she was high. You thought that, didn't you, Lady Bottomly?"
"I thought it highly likely."
"But you didn't believe that either Steve or Barry were the father?"
Lady Bottomly shook her head. "Their behaviour towards Samantha would have been completely different after that event. It wasn't either of them who was the father."
"I suspect everyone else did the same calculation," Sam said. "They also came to the conclusion that neither Steve nor Barry was the father. So in their minds, that left only one person who had the opportunity that evening to impregnate Samantha. Her father."
Lady Bottomly shrugged and added, "So you got there at last."
"But before accepting that as a solution," Sam said, "we need to step back a little, to the real reason why you invited Samantha into your group."
"What do you mean?" Lady Bottomly quickly asked.
"It was the start of the Spring term at the Girls' Grammar School when you arrived back in Seacombe. Everyone thought you were incredibly pretty and all the guys lusted over you. Clearly, with your beauty, you enjoyed playing the field and didn't want to be tied down to one boy. When Samantha first met you, you had three boyfriends, all vying for your attention, and you enjoyed that. So why did you invite Samantha and Christine, girls who were much younger than you and your crowd, to your dinner party and consequently into your life?"
"I wanted to even up the sexes for my dinner party," Lady Bottomly said.
"But you subsequently brought Edward into the group so that once again it was unbalanced with two boys competing against each other for you. Then, one evening you chose Edward. You told him in front of everyone that your parents were away, and asked him to take you home. The next day, you were engaged to be married."
"For a time," Lady Bottomly said. "After a while, I broke it off with him in order to marry James Bottomly."
"Well known for being a boring old bachelor with a title."
"Maybe he was, but I don't see what that's got to do with anything."
"I mean," Sam said, "that you surrounded yourself with men for a reason very different from that which people were meant to think; to shield you from the public scrutiny of what your true feelings were. You invited Samantha to your dinner party because you had fallen in love with her."
Lady Bottomly gave a gasp, and then opened her mouth to deny it, but the words never came out. Instead she closed it again and paused, considering. "If you say anything outside of this room then I'll sue you for defamation," she said. "But so what? It's never been a crime for women to fall in love with other women – even to have sex with them."
"So when you were sent down from university…"
Lady Bottomly gave him a grin, the first for ages. "I was caught performing 'unnatural acts'," she said. "It would be laughed about now, but in those days it shocked everyone from the Vice-Chancellor downwards."
"Yet the Head of the Girls' Grammar School was perfectly happy to accept you as a member of staff at the school?"
Another grin. "I knew Miss Lavender, the Headmistress, used to lust over me whilst I was still at school. She never tried anything on with me, or any of the other girls, as far as I was aware. But when I came back from university, I, er… Well, you could say I seduced her. The job was her way of keeping me close. And you're absolutely right, I surrounded myself with men so no one would have a clue what my real inclinations were.
"But then I saw Samantha at school and she was the prettiest, most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I just had to get to know her better, hence the invite to the dinner party. She was so incredibly naïve, and her mother had imbued in her not to have sex with any man before marriage. The idea of having sex with a woman had clearly never occurred to either her or her mother, but my powers of seduction were well rehearsed by that time. Oh boy, did we have great sex. Even now, I can remember those precious few months together." She smiled, not at Sam, but into the distance, reliving the long-distant past. "And it all remained under cover because we were continually going out with the boys, seemingly just playing hard-to-get.
"But as I asked just now," she continued, "so what? It makes no difference to anything."
"It makes a difference to one very important thing," Sam said.
"I don't think so."
"It makes a difference to what happened on that evening when the others were taking purple hearts and you suggested that Edward came back to your house. The next day, you were engaged, and everyone thought that Edward had stayed the night with you. But that wasn't the case, was it? You simply used Edward to get you out of a drugs session, and when he took you home, you shut the door in his face."
"I thought the boys were being stupid taking the purple hearts, but when Samantha popped some as well, I knew exactly what she was going to do. She'd been saying for ages she didn't want to remain in the closet, whereas I thought coming out would be a disaster for both of us. Popping the purple hearts was her way of saying, 'Let's show the boys what we are really like'.
"The silly idiot. Did she not realise that two lesbians performing in front of four very randy boys was courting disaster? Grabbing hold of Edward and asking him to take me home was the best I could think of to avoid a catastrophe. On the way out, I whispered to Samantha to do the same. I thought she'd realise I wasn't going to do anything with Edward. When I heard the next day that Steve and Barry had collected Christine and gone back to see Tony for some more purple hearts, and what turned into an orgy, I breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like I'd not only avoided our exposure as lesbians, but also protected Samantha's virginity. Of course, I realised some weeks later what a mistake I'd made, although Samantha always insisted the pregnancy was not my fault – it had been her decision to pop the purple hearts, and everything had happened as a result of that. But what's Edward got to do with this?"
"It meant that an incredibly frustrated Edward could hardly go back to Tony Thompson's house since he'd be the laughing stock. So he went home. I suspect the timing was just right that when he entered the house, he could hear his father shouting at Steve and Barry. Not wishing to get involved, he stepped into the lounge as he heard them coming down the stairs. When Sir George went outside to show them off the property, he went upstairs to find Samantha. Then he had sex with her."
"Edward had sex with his sister?" Lady Bottomly said. "But that's an incredible idea."
"No more incredible than Sir George doing the same," Sam said.
"But he didn't like his sister very much," Lady Bottomly said.
"After that night, he'd want to distance himself from her," Sam said. "But when he got back to the house that evening, high on the purple hearts and sexually frustrated by your actions, he found Samantha drugged out of her mind and ready for sex. He probably didn't think twice about it. I guess that he took her back to her bedroom whilst Sir George was still downstairs, and then had sex with her. We shall never know whether Samantha willingly cooperated, or was raped. We only know she was deeply ashamed afterwards and couldn't tell anyone about it, although she obviously dropped some hints which were taken the wrong way by everyone, except her father."
"When Edward rang me next morning," Lady Bottomly said, "he obviously wanted people to believe he'd been there all night. That fitted in nicely with my pretence so I went along with it, just as I went along with our 'engagement'. But this is all only a theory, just as likely as Sir George being the father. You can't prove anything."
"That's where you're wrong," Sam said. "When Mary Harper died, Sir George closed down the house almost overnight. That house is like the Marie Celeste. This morning I found hairbrushes for all four of the family. I also brought back with me one of my father's hairbrushes, after stopping by at my house, yesterday. I'm pretty certain the DNA on them is going to prove that I am the granddaughter of Samantha and Edward, not Samantha and Sir George."
Slowly, Lady Bottomly nodded agreement.
***
"Before we start," Sam said, "I have to give you some bad news, GG. I'm afraid that your daughter, the real Samantha Harper, died whilst giving birth at the Convent of the Virgin Mary in Sheffield, on the third of October, 1966."
GG sat very still for a minute, whilst a tear ran down his cheek. Then he took out a tissue and blew his nose. He looked at Sam and asked, "And the baby?"
"Was my father," Sam said.
GG gasped with delight, and then positively leapt to his feet and bounded across to Sam and hugged him.
"Let's sit down again," Sam said, and when they had done so, he recommenced. "I told you that first evening that everyone I spoke to seemed to have different opinions about what happened to Samantha. That was the same for virtually every conversation I had for the rest of this week. But if you swept away the detail of what they said and looked at what was generally agreed, I came up with two commonly held views.
"The first," Sam continued, "was that most people thought that Samantha disappeared because she was pregnant. The second was that I was so similar to Samantha that we must be related, and that I was most likely her granddaughter. That still doesn’t tell us who the father was, or how Samantha got to Sheffield. But Maureen Brown unknowingly gave me a clue when I went to St Joseph's, which it took me some time to work out. She told me that I talked the same way as Father Wigley used to, and she assumed that meant I was Father Wigley's grandchild.
"Of course, speech is not an inherited behaviour, but depends upon the environment in which a person grows up. I grew up in Sheffield, so could that mean that Father Wigley was also from Sheffield? If so, was it possible he still had links with the area, and that when a pregnant girl needed to get away somewhere, he would send her to a convent in Sheffield?
"The fact that I was not only from Sheffield and bore a remarkable resemblance to Samantha, but also that my father was born at exactly the right time – October 1966 – was too strong a coincidence to ignore. It was pure luck that I managed to find the Convent of the Virgin Mary since it wasn't listed anywhere. Apparently, it was the convent where the Catholic Church sent all the most sensitive of pregnant girls, such as those impregnated by so-called celibate priests."
"But how did she get to Sheffield? We checked the trains and long distance buses. Did someone drive her there?"
"I suspected the answer when you first told me about Samantha's disappearance," Sam said, "and something one of the Sisters told me confirmed it. She said that when Samantha came through the door from the street, the setting sun made a halo around her head. Given that the train journey alone is seven hours from Seacombe to Sheffield, there's no way that Samantha could have left home at two-thirty and got to the convent before sunset at this time of the year. The reason you couldn't find what happened to Samantha on that Easter Saturday afternoon was because she didn't disappear in the afternoon, she left in the morning."
"What are you talking about?" GG said. "Mary was with her all morning."
"I believe that the incident with the dress not fitting occurred first thing on Saturday morning," Sam said. "Mary realised Samantha was pregnant and took her to Father Wigley at St Joseph's. He suggested the Convent of the Virgin Mary at Sheffield. Mary helped Samantha pack a small bag and took her to the station that morning. It was easy to telephone Veronica Makepeace in the early afternoon and pretend the event had only just happened. Waiting for you and Edward at the station was a blinder; it ensured you would ask the ticket collector if he had seen Samantha, when she knew the ticket collectors changed duty at midday."
"But why would she do that?"
"I'll come to that in a minute," Sam said, "but I can tell you the convent was a delightful place, and everyone there loved Samantha. They would be happy for you to visit them and see her grave.
"But why didn't they tell me when she died?"
"I'm afraid," Sam said, "that after Samantha died, the convent telephoned this house and told your wife."
"Mary knew? That's impossible." GG could not believe what Sam was telling him, but then his whole body shuddered and he said, "Samantha died on the third of October? Oh God! The third of October!"
"Was the day when your wife committed suicide," Sam said.
"She knew," GG said. "She knew that Samantha had died having a baby but she never told me. How could she do that? Why couldn't she at least put it in her suicide note? And why commit suicide, anyway? We had lost a daughter but gained a grandson."
"I'm afraid," Sam said, "that Mary believed you were the father of Samantha's child. She thought that you should never see the child."
"That's obscene," GG angrily said. "How could I ever do that to Samantha? Why would Mary even suspect such a thing?"
"Samantha never told anyone who the father was," Sam said. "But probably from her attitude, Mary suspected it was a close family member. I'm afraid many people independently came to the same conclusion."
"Of course it wasn't a close family member. There was only me and…"
"And Edward." Sam finished the sentence for him. "That evening when Samantha was drugged and you threw out Steve Baines and Barry Jones, everyone believed Edward spent the night with Veronica Makepeace. But Lady Bottomly told me this morning that was not the case. He would have returned home just as you were throwing them out. I think he avoided the confrontation and went upstairs to see Samantha. He helped her back to her room and then had sex with her."
"Damn him! If only Samantha had told me," GG said, clenching his fists and shaking his head from side to side, "I'd have…"
"I think that was the very reason why she didn't tell you," Sam said. "Because she loved you and she didn't want you to get into trouble for what you might do. She thought it better to go away, have the baby and then return. Unfortunately, she died giving birth to my father.
"Life was cruel enough to you and Mary," Sam hesitantly continued. "The only way I can ameliorate it is to say that I am here now, and I will try to be an excellent great-grandson to you."
"More than a great-grandson," GG said. "I want you to continue to be a 'great' daughter. Will you do that?"
Sam smiled and gave him a hug. "Of course, Daddy." He rested his head against GG's shoulder. After a few seconds, he felt GG shaking. He looked at him, expecting him to be crying. Instead, he was laughing. "What is it?" Sam asked.
"Oh, I've just had a thought about my will," GG said.
"It wasn't because of your will that I..." Sam started to say.
"Don't be stupid," GG said. "I think you said that your half-brother was from your mother's side rather than your father. That means that, through your father, you will inherit all of Samantha's half-share of my estate.
"Not only that," he continued before Sam could speak, "since Edward had two children rather than one, his estate will be shared equally between Geraldine and yourself. So you'll get three-quarters of my estate and Geraldine, who was looking forward to getting her hands on it all, will only get one quarter. Oh dear."
He started to laugh again, and Sam couldn't help but join in.