Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

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

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

Chapter 1 - Conception

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fantastic," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn't!

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

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

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

"Hi sexy."

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

"No wonder after what you did to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agreed? When did I agree to it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I certainly didn't dissent from that idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can feel my breast," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bloody hell!" I said.

"Jipes!" Marianne said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, what then?"

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

"Er, right," I said.

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

"Oh!"

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

She left me to get dressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

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

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

Chapter 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!

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

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

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

Chapter 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.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

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

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

Chapter 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?

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

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

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

Chapter 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."

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.

"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.