Soubrette Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Chapter One: Paradise Lost

Miss Meanswell had finally found me gainful employment-the bitch. Still, three years on benefits in a seaside town, where there was always plenty of casual labour vacancies, was quite an achievement. Of course my criminal record helped immensely.
The only thing I was remotely qualified to do was forever barred to me and, employers found it hard to get past a conviction for stealing at work.

Turning right when I left the Jobcentre, I headed down the high street to the address Miss Meanswell had given me. Pausing briefly to admire the wonderful art deco facade of the old Empire cinema, even if Starbucks had ruined the ground floor, I puzzled over the address. I was told it was a cleaning job, but at that number was a fancy dress shop called, Soubrette.

I pushed open the door, and the jingling caused a well dressed woman behind the shop's counter to look up with a start. She appeared amazingly well groomed, in an ivory silk blouse, black satin pencil skirt, very sheer stockings and patent shoes. Neither her hair nor make up fell short of that high standard. I was hopelessly intimidated.

'I've come from the Jobcentre, about the cleaning job,' I said weakly, as she gave me a disdainful look.

'Janice, they've sent us another navvy from the Jobcentre,' she said in a loud, bored voice, presumably to someone in a room behind.

'Send her through,' said the unseen woman, and I was bustled through it before I could wonder what sort of navvy was known as 'her'. I found myself in a dimly lit room, packed with rack upon rack of clothes. ‘It’s, Mr. Parsons isn’t it? I’m afraid you’ve been sent on a wild goose chase.’

'I really need this job,' I said turning to face the source of the voice. A rather harassed looking woman was sat at her desk just inside the door, face lit by a computer monitor's glow.

'Sit down, Mr. Parsons,' she said indicating a chair, 'and let me explain why you don't want this job.' She allowed me to sit down before continuing. 'My brother and I started our company ten years ago, providing French maid kissagrams. My brother was the more successful maid so we recruited another man to take my place. Pretty soon we had half a dozen girls who were guys, tarting around the town. Now we don't have that many kissagram jobs these days, but our girls continue to work at parties as waitresses, and bar staff, dressed as French maids. So unless you like wearing women’s clothes in public and making a spectacle of yourself, this isn’t the job for you.'

I gulped. An hour before I would never dreamt of saying what I was about to, but that was before I’d been hauled over the coals by Miss Meanswell. I was faced not only with losing benefit, but possibly criminal prosecution too. I really did need this job, and secrets didn’t count for anything.

'I love wearing women's clothes,' I blurted, 'in fact I'm wearing them right now.' My heart was hammering as I made my admission, it had been such a long time since I had told anyone my secret. Janice was staring at me incredulously.

'You must really need this job, 'she said smiling, 'but are you prepared to prove what you're saying?'

Very slowly I began to unbutton my shirt revealing the lace on my bodice, continuing down to my trousers as Janice made no indication that I should stop. As my hands reached my belt I looked at her questioningly, and when she nodded I unbuckled it, opened the button so that I could fold the top of my jeans down to expose my knickers' waistband.

'It's a shame to stop there,' Janice smirked, 'can't I see the rest of them?' Grudgingly I slid my jeans down to mid thigh, my face absolutely burning with the shame of showing my pretty pink undies to a stranger.

'Are those directoire knickers? I didn't think anyone made them anymore,' Janice said.

'You can buy them, but not in my size,' I said, 'I had to make these.' Janice asked what size I was, 'I am a dress size ten, but I'm only an eight across the hips,’ I added modestly.

'Bitch,' a voice drifted in from shop.

'Are you gay, are you comfortable around gay people and other trannies?'

'I'm not gay,' I answered, 'but a lot of my friends were in university and so I'm OK really. I don't know any other trannies, 'there was a snort of laughter from the shop, 'but I can't see I'd have a problem.'

'You will certainly meet a lot of gay people at the events we work, and you'll definitely be spending time with the other girls, so it's pretty essential that you get on. Most of the girls however have day jobs, while as our first full time go to or not, your work would mostly be in the shop to start with.'

'Do you have any fetishes?'Janice asked me, which seemed like a silly question considering, but I guessed she meant rubber and stuff.

'I like wearing vintage clothes, from the twenties and thirties, 'I answered, 'They're so glamorous and a little risqué.' My interest went a little deeper than that, but I wasn't going to get into details just yet.

'Bingo!' That voice from the other room was getting louder.

'When was the last time you went out dressed? 'Janice asked, and I started to feel more at ease, even though my jeans were still around my thighs.

'Out of the house? Not since university I'm afraid, but I'm willing to give it a go if I get the job.' I was actually starting to believe it, then she completely threw me by asking about my criminal record. 'It was just a misunderstanding,' I stammered, 'I was working in the local museum as a junior curator, my first job after leaving university, and I took one of the exhibits home to study for a few days. Unfortunately it was missed, and I wound up in court. I didn't go to prison or anything...' half dressed as I was I felt I was about to burst into flames.

'That's pretty much what Miss Meanswell told me,' Janice said softly, 'I'm still tempted to offer you a job. It would be very handy to have someone who can sew - our girls and customers are always tearing the costumes - but you certainly have the figure for a maid's uniform. Can you start on Monday?'
I nodded excitedly, struggling with a simple thank you, for a job I hadn't known I wanted. Maybe it wasn't just Miss Meanswell's threats, perhaps I was feeling guilty about my three idle years, or even that there was just something about wearing a maid's uniform.

'Just be here for eight thirty with your favourite wig and make-up. One thing you will need is black panties, nothing too fancy or too brief - in our uniforms your bottom is in the public domain, and there's always someone pinching it, or tying to pull your knickers down. Now pull up your trousers, and run along home.' Janice grinned, as she led me back into the shop past the disdainful assistant. 'By the way,' my new boss caught in my shoulder, 'have you met my brother, Isabel?'

Soubrette Chapter 2 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

After a brief detour (pun intended), to Marks and Spencer, I headed home still a little astonished at what I had got myself into.

Once through the front door, I threw a new pack of knickers onto the settee, and made for the kitchen to prepare a quick evening meal. By my standards it had been a hectic day, and I needed to get out of myself.

One salad later, I added a bra to my pink ensemble, wriggled into my stays, and slipped on a pair of nylons. The last were an anachronism I know, but my silk stockings were almost too precious to wear. Then the hard decisions began.

Bearing in mind what Janice had said about Monday morning, I picked out my best black bob, and sat at my dressing table to paint my face.

Warpaint on, I struck a pose before the mirror and told myself that I could pass for a Vargas girl, or at least as well as any 21st century 28 year old man can. Then it was time to raid the closet, where I picked out a day dress and shoes, which if not vintage, certainly looked the part.

With a slight swish, I retired to go too and much to my living room, where I cursed myself for not remembering to warm up the wireless when I got home. Batting the new pack of knickers aside, I arranged myself on the settee and stared out over the bay. I was after all, about to join the workforce, and would have to learn how to relax properly.

Needless to say, I was just at the point of slipping from torpor to nirvana when there was a knock at my door. I suspected one of my superannuated neighbours needed something, and was surprised therefore to find someone far younger on the threshold.

I recognised Kirsty from the Jobcentre, but had only seen her in office drab before. Now she was dressed in a short sheepskin jacket over a pink and black chintz tunic, with black leggings and Uggs. More noticeably, she wore her hair loose instead of tied back, and had on a little more make up.

'Good evening Kirsty,' I said, adding, 'good evening Mr. Blum, are you off dancing again?' for the benefit of a neighbour who had appeared at his door across the corridor.

'Not this evening, Verity dear, unless you'd like to come with me,' he answered, as my young visitor turned to look at him and then back at me.

Surprise seemed to have overwhelmed her, and she switched between the two of us several times, before directing a 'wow' at me.

'Would you like to come in?' I asked her, trying not to smile too much at her reaction.

She followed me in without a word, simply turning her head as if to take in everything. It's not an uncommon reaction for first time visitors to my flat.

'It's nice to see you, if a little unexpected,' I said,'you don't usually make house calls. What brings you here?' I regretted leaving the pack of panties on the settee, as I asked her take a seat. If Kirsty noticed them at all she didn't show it.

'Your new boss called this afternoon to say you'd taken the job,'she said, eyes still wandering around the room,'and Isobel said, you'd gone to buy new panties.' Kirsty finally looked down at the M & S bag beside her and smiled. 'I thought you're might need some help...' Her voice trailed away slightly, and looking me up and down, she added,'but it seems you're doing pretty well on your own.'

'It's not my first time in a frock,' I said, easing myself down so the bag of briefs and lay between us, 'what do you think?'

'You look amazing, Verity. That is your name isn't it?' Kirsty asked, 'If I didn't know you as Nick I'd have never guessed you are a man.' She leaned a little closer to examine my makeup, shook her head, and murmured, 'amazing.'

Now I'm as susceptible to flattery as most, but remembering my duties as a hostess, I asked my visitor if she'd care for tea. In truth, I was glad of the opportunity of escaping to the kitchen. Kirsty was the first female under sixty to grace my flat since... well since I'd moved in, and she was really quite pretty.

Having collected myself somewhat, I carried a tray back into the living room, were Kirsty was examining a few of my treasures.

'I can't believe this room,' she said, straightening up, much to my regret, 'everything is old, but it looks so new.'

'That's what a fine arts degree and two years post-grad training in restoration can do,' I said, setting the tea things down on my coffee table, 'getting bakelite to shine is nothing really.'

'I'm a little disappointed, 'Kirsty said, looking at her teacup, 'I'd expected Clarice Cliff.'

'Even the fakes are expensive these days, 'I replied, 'this is Charlotte Read, far more stylish don't you know. Have you tried the cake?'

'Oh god,' Kirsty said through a hail of crumbs, 'this is so good. Don't tell me you bake as well.'

'I can't take the credit ,' I smiled, 'Mrs.Rose next door is the building's baker.' Kirsty looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

'Does she know about Verity too?' She asked, remembering this time place a hand to intercept any crumbs.

'Oh yes, everyone does.' How could I explain it to her?

'And they're OK about it?' Kirsty sounded incredulous.' if my Gran lived next door to a transvestite-that's what you are, right-she would have a heart attack.'

'That is what I am,' I reached forward and refreshed my cup, 'I just think my neighbours accept a it as a very English eccentricity. Even Mr. Blum, and he's German.'

'That is so amazing, 'Kirsty said, 'I just want to hug you, and ask you a million questions. Does that make me sound like a silly girl?'

'I'm still not sure why you are here,' I said slowly, 'it's Friday night, and I would have thought someone of your age would be out of the town tonight.' As you may have gathered, I wasn't that used to talking to young women.

Thankfully, this wasn't the wrong thing to say, or at least Kirsty didn't jump up and run for the door. Instead she sat back, and gave me another of those thoughtful looks.

'With you getting a job, I thought I might not see in the office again,' she started quietly, 'to be honest, I've had a bit of a crush on you for ages.' It was my turn to look incredulous.

'No one has crushes on me.' Light as my dress was, I suddenly felt flushed under my girdle. A little lost for words too.

'You are such a romantic figure,' she said through her blushes, 'an artist who made one mistake and has to keep paying for it again and again, yet still doesn't compromise.' Time to step away from the Mills and Boon novels, I thought that she seemed so sincere, and suddenly so young, I was at a loss for words.

'I suppose now that you have seen me like this, the crush is over. And I'm not really an artist.' It was turning into a very out-of-the-blue sort of a day.

'I think you're a brilliant artist,' Kirsty replied instantly, 'you've built a fantastic installation, and made yourself its living, breathing heart.' She was herself a little breathless by the time she finished speaking. I imagined I could add 'Guardian reader' to Kirsty's list of vices.

Although I didn't believe her, my ego was in danger of going up a cup size. My flat was no installation, it was just a manifestation of a peculiar type of OCD, although tastefully put together.

We sat silently for a few minutes, staring up to sea, and stealing occasional glances at each other. Kirsty eventually broke in with, 'Do you like girls?' I had been asked that already that day, and knew my answer- I nodded. 'Good,' she said, and took my hand in hers.

We sat there for hours, talking softly, taking tea, and listening to gramophone records, until the sun had dwindled to a red stain on the horizon. She did in fact have been a million questions, which I did my best to answer (even showing my underwear to a woman for the second time that day), but I didn't get a hug until Kirsty was ready to leave.

'Does that work?' she asked, pointing at my shiny black bakelite telephone. We swapped numbers (and no, I didn't have a mobile), made a few false starts but eventually reached my front door.

'Sorry I have to say,' Kirsty caught my upper arm, 'your new panties are very boring- I mean, full briefs, really?'

'I've been told,' I started apologetically, 'in my new job my bum will be permanently on display. The last things I will need are interesting knickers to draw even more attention.' She laughed, and wrapped both arms around me.

'You are so sweet, Verity.' Kirsty kissed me, full on the lips, and kissed me again, 'for Nick.' With that she was through the door, before I knew what was happening. I should have walked her to the lift, but I was too busy using my back to stop the building spinning.

Soubrette Chapter 3 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Chapter Three: the Patricia Bateman experience

It was just another Monday morning I told myself, and no different from any other. Which was true, as long as I forgot that it was my first working day for three years, and I would be in women’s clothes throughout? It wasn’t as if I hadn’t a job before, and I was certainly no stranger to cross-dressing, but I’d never combined them. It would be an interesting day.

I rolled out of bed a few minutes before my alarm sounded. I hadn’t had a sleepless night, just a restless one, and as I swung my bare legs out from under the blankets I felt a little groggy; that, I had a simple cure for. Tiptoeing across the parquet floor to my wash stand, I emptied the jug of water I had filled the night before, into the basin and splashed several handfuls onto my face. Now it really felt like 5 A.M.

Wrapping my robe around me, I shuffled to the kitchen, where I prepared a light breakfast. While my favourite tea steeped, I toasted two rounds of bread on the gas ring, filled a tumbler with orange juice, and arranged everything on a tray to my satisfaction. This I carried into the living room, and set it on the coffee table. It was a suitably continental breakfast for a French maid.

Feeling somewhat louche, I allowed my robe to fall open as I sat, revealing my chemise, though not immodestly. If I kept this job I thought I should look out for some French crockery to use in the mornings, and then immediately stopped myself. Given my tendency to live out roles too deeply, in a week or two I’d be swigging absinthe and puffing Gitanes. I consoled myself with the thought, soon it will be warmer weather, when I could breakfast on the balcony, and that should be continental enough.

I let myself linger over the pot of tea for a few minutes, regretting that its slow warming valves meant I couldn’t have on the wireless. I looked speculatively at the rack of seventy eights, but changing discs every few minutes would be too distracting.

The first traffic sounds rose from the streets below as I busied myself in the kitchen, drying the dishes and replacing them in cupboards. That duty done, I sashayed back to the bedroom, let my robe fall and stepped out of my chemise. Dressed only in my brassiere and knickers, I padded to the bathroom.

One thing transgender stories always omit, the one thing most transvestites share, is the very first step of our transformation. I filled the wash basin with hot water, splashed some on my face, and began working up a rich lather. The jewel in my art deco bathroom‘s crown sat between the taps- my beautiful Ever Ready Streamline razor. Like many a beauty, she is treacherous, so I carefully steered her around my face until my skin was soft and smooth. Returning to my bedroom almost reeking of French lavender, I didn’t feel particularly manly-of course, being in knickers and bra didn’t help.

The first new pair of black panties that waited where I had left them the night before. As did black nylons and a bra I’d also picked out. I’d agonised over the latter for some time. I didn’t have many black bras, and as I imagined my uniform would be quite low cut, I dug out an old Wonderbra that I’d had for years. It wasn’t Verity‘s usual style, being more than half a century too modern, but I guessed cleavage was of the utmost. After arranging breastforms in its cups I reached for my high waisted girdle.

That was truly vintage, although I couldn’t swear it was pre war. It hooked at the side, but beating all fingers and thumbs, I turned it around so that I could better see the hooks. I was a very sorry excuse for a woman at times. At few more minutes found my stockings attached, and my seams straight.

More dressed than undressed, I sat at my vanity table and began making up. Verity had a particular way with her cosmetics, and I didn’t want to stray too far from it. I made my lips a little fuller, arched my brows more daringly, and tried to look at little more bashful.

Decisions about what to wear followed from my undies, and too had been made the night before. A dark blue, cotton day dress wouldn’t allow my black underwear to show through, and shoes with a low heel would be just the thing for the walk two work. I’d been wearing the black bob all weekend, so I stuck with it, which only left jewellery. Not wanting to appear ostentatious, I restricted myself two a single pendant, one ring, clip-on earrings and a small, silver watch.

Dandling my shoes in the fingers of one hand, I returned to the living room. With a flick of my wrist I checked my watch against the mantel clock, both of which read six thirty. It was maybe a twenty minute walk to the high street, which meant I had plenty of time to pick up everyone’s newspaper, as I did every morning. Nothing in the world could be more mundane except that this would be Verity’s first time. This would be an adventure.

Although the weather was dry, I slipped on my grey three quarter raincoat, as much for protection from curious eyes as any remaining night chill. I took my doorkey from its hook, slipped it into a pocket, and let myself out.

As I’d expected the corridor was empty, and I walked unhurriedly, though very aware of my heels’ clicking with each step. Our lift was as ancient as many of the residents, and complained almost as much. Therefore I chose the stairs, not wanting to wake up anyone.

Freshly shaven the night before, my legs smarted as I stepped out onto the street into the chill morning air. However, even that dwindled as I walked to the newsagents.

Roger and Maureen opened their shop while it was still dark, and light still spilled weakly from its windows when I approached. Both were busily working as I pushed on the door, its tinkling bell making me start, even though I expected it.

Maureen’s head popped up from beneath the counter with a cheery, ’Good morning,’ narrowly avoiding her husband, who was restocking the cigarette display.

‘Morning,’ I said, softly, ’I’ve come to collect Packney House’s papers. Are they ready?’ Friends say my voice changes when I’m dressed (some even see if say it changes with my hair colour), but I can never hear it. I hoped this morning they were right, and I could avoid explanations.

‘Oh, but Nick usually picks them up.’ Maureen narrowed her eyes at me, and then smiled.’ It's Verity isn’t it? We thought we’d never meet you. Look, Rog it's Verity.’ Her husband turned his hands full of Benson & Hedges.

‘The famous, Verity Parsons,’ he said,’ to what do we owe the honour?’

‘You will see me every morning now,’ I said, blushing slightly,’ I’m starting a new job, so I’ll be picking up the papers before work every day.’

‘Good for you, love!’ Maureen said,’ Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get them ready for you.’

I found being a papergirl no more onerous than being a paperboy; except, carrying newspapers under my arm was more difficult with breastforms competing for some of the same space. Thank heavens, I thought, Nick will collect the Sundays.

Whistling jauntily in the stairwell, I stopped off at each floor to push papers through letter boxes. The building was waking up. Radio’s played, and politicians preached on news programmes. On the second floor the Brownlows bickered lustily; who would have thought they had anything left to argue about after fifty years of marriage.

On our floor, I was delivering the Rose’s Daily Mail (shudder), when I heared a door open behind me. I turned to see an unshaven Mr.Blum running a hand through his shock of white hair.

‘You’re up early, Verity dear,’ he said, using his free hand to scratch at the bristles on his chin.

‘I start work today, don’t you remember,’ I said, handing him his Guardian.

‘You didn’t mention that Verity would be working, when you told us.’ He tucked the Guardian under one arm, and said ruefully, ‘I’m going to miss my morning chats with Nick, you know.’

‘I am too,’ I said, ‘but we will still have the weekends, and I’ll try to make time in the mornings from now on.’

Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 7:45. Though it took only 20 minutes for Nick to walk to Soubrette, in heels, trying to walk femininely, it would take me at little longer. ‘I’m sorry, Mr.Blum, but I’ll have to shoot, I’ll see you this evening.’

Soubrette Chapter 4 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

By the time I neared the high street the roads had grown quite busy, and the pavements bustled with other pedestrians on their way to work. Yet I didn’t feel part of the crowd.

It didn’t help that I was intensely aware of my underclothes. With every step I took I felt my stockings tug at my girdle, and my nyloned feet felt lost within my shoes.

Ostensibly I was dressed as a woman, but I do not think one woman in a thousand would have dressed quite like I had. For a moment I imagined every woman around me, walking along girdled; an army of calves clad in fully fashioned hosiery.

There was also a sense of anticlimax. On one hand, I was more than glad that I appeared to be passing as female, but part of me wished that those around me would recognise what a good job I was doing of not looking like a man.

More than anything my thoughts kept returning to Kirsty. In my experience girls didn’t turn up at your door to confess their attraction; especially those whose smile felt like an underwire for my soul. That she should find me cross-dressed, living in a museum, and insist that it made no difference, seemed doubly improbable.

My preoccupation almost carried me past Soubrette without noticing. Only a glimpse of the Jobcentre in the distance brought me to a halt.

The shutters were rolled up to waist height and the lights turned on. I ducked under them, but found the door locked. Someone was moving around inside so I tapped lightly on the glass.

Janice appeared, held up her watch and mouthed, ‘we’re closed’. I knocked again and did my best to mime ‘it’s me’ until she warily unlocked the shop.

‘Can I help you, Miss?’ Janice asked.

‘It’s me, Janice,’ I said, ‘you interviewed me on Friday. You said to come at eight thirty, remember?’

‘Mr. Parsons?’ Janice asked.

‘Verity,’ I said, extending my hand.

‘You’re early,’ Janice said, ‘that’s a good sign.’ I glanced at my watch; it was only eight fifteen, so much for walking femininely.

‘I doubt we’ll see Isabel much before ten,’ Janice said, leading me through the shop and into the back room, ‘I’ll show you where to hang your coat, the ladies‘, and where we make the tea; milk and no sugar please.’

‘I found the pattern in a 1938 copy of “Woman’s Weekly”,’ I said, twirling gently to lift the skirt a little.

‘It’s lovely,’ Janice said, ‘now pop it off, and I’ll find you a uniform. What bust are you?’

’34B,’ I replied, and she disappeared off into the racks of costumes.

‘a small should fit you,’ she said, returning five minutes later with a uniform in one hand, and what looked like a cloud of lace looped around her arm.

‘You’ve got no hips,’ Janice said, and as I was shivering in my undies, I was in no mood to argue. ‘Three petticoats should fix that. Slip into these first, while I unwrap the dress.’

I kicked off my shoes and tentatively began sliding the layered net hoops over my head and down my body. I felt like a mermaid emerging from a wave of lace.

‘These take a little getting used to,’ said Janice, fussing with the petticoats, ‘now lift up your arms.’ The dress was a near perfect fit, but the skirt resting on that mass of net, failed to reach even my stocking tops. I suddenly felt quite exposed, and a tiny bit thrilled.’

‘What shoe size are you, sweetie?’

‘I take a five,’ I replied.

‘Hold on, I’ll find you a spare pair of Felicity’s.’ Janice said, patted my bottom and disappeared into the racks again.

She returned holding a pair with impossibly high heels. My disbelief must have shown on my face as Janice said, ‘they’re only five inch heels. Don’t you think you can take five inches?’

‘I think I can walk in them, but don’t ask me to run,’ I said, ignoring the double entendre.

‘Maids don’t run, honey, except from a spanking,’ Janice laughed, ‘we’d better put on your cap and apron before you get into them though.’

Janice ushered me back to the shop, and stood me in front of at full length mirror.

”Hmm,” she said, standing behind me. “I’m not sure about the hair; it’s very “Cabaret”, but a bit too tomboyish. Tomorrow wear something longer and a little lighter.’

While she stepped outside to open the shutters, I stared at my mirror image. The dress wasn’t bad, a black satin mini with short sleeves. White lace edged the hem, sleeves and the neckline; plunging as I had imagined.

Of course, I looked absurd though kind of sexy in a cheesy pin up way, but mostly felt silly. Turning round at few times, I looked at myself from various angles. The petticoats kept my knickers covered, but only if I stood very straight; the slightest bend forward revealed why panties to the world. Still, it’s only a bit of fun, I thought, after all who’d see me in Soubrette. As it turned out quite a lot of people)

‘Monday’s our busiest day, so don’t expect Isabel in any time soon.’ Janice was flipping the sign from “closed” to “open”, when she jerked open the door. ‘Hello, what are you doing in so early?’

‘who‘s that?’ Isabel asked, stepping into the shop. Janice introduced me as “the new girl, Verity”. ‘What a shame,’ sniffed Isabel, ‘I was so looking forward to working with Nicholas Parsons.’ It was an old joke, and one I’d long tired of. The man hadn’t been on television for decades, and yet everyone still remembered his name.

‘Be nice,’ said Janice to her brother, before disappearing into the back room.

‘First things first,’ Isabel said, advancing towards me. She pushed her hands up inside my petticoats and lifted them several inches higher on my body. Glancing at the mirror, I could see that they no longer protected my panties, which were in plain sight.

Isabel was on her knees at my feet, taking something from her handbag, and tying it around my ankles.

‘A maid’s first lesson,’ Isobel said, as she stood, ‘is to take very small steps. Go ahead dear, try walking.’ Very cautiously I moved one foot in front of the other, and felt it arrested after only three or four inches. Worse still, the petticoats prevented my seeing my feet.

Isabel then threw her car keys on the floor in front of me, and told me pick them up. I started to bend at the knees when she stopped me, saying, ‘no!’

‘Let me show you how to bend like a maid,’ she said, while slipping both hands under my petticoats, and grasping my body through my panties. ‘You bend at the hips, sweetie,’ Isobel said, ‘so that everybody gets the chance to look at your pretty, pantied arse. Go ahead and try it.’

Very slowly I followed her instructions, feeling when petticoats ride up, and cooler air on my bottom. Cooler that is, where Isabel’s hands were not pressed against my panties.

‘I can’t teach you how to curtsy properly when your ankles are tied, so we’ll try a little dip. Keep your knees together, take hold of the hem of your skirt, and bend your knees a few inches.’ Isobel said, both hands still buried in my petticoats and clutching me tightly.

‘Good girl, Verity,’ she cooed, as I successfully completed my first dip, ‘now do it again.’

‘Your final maid skill, sweet Verity,’ Isabel purred, ‘is to speak with a French accent.’ That didn’t sound at all unreasonable except as Isabel spoke, her right hand snaked into the V of my crotch. Instinctively I tensed, pressing my thighs tightly together.

‘Naughty girl,’ Isabel said, smacking my bottom with her left hand, as the right continued to try parting my legs. ‘Do my hands make you feel uncomfortable, little one?’

‘I’m sorry, but they do, Isabel,’ I said, trying to speak levelly, despite the revulsion I felt at being clutched by a man in so intimate an area.

‘Ask me nicely in a French accent, and I’ll let you go.’

‘Pleez stop touching my panteez, Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I simpered, trying my best to bat my eyelids as I spoke.

‘Very good, Verity we’ll make it maid of you yet,’ Isabel smiled, condescendingly, ‘now kiss me, and say thank you.’

‘Merci Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I said, bobbing forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.

‘No you stupid girl,’ Isabel cried, ‘on my lips.’

‘Oh for god’s sake Isabel,’ Janice snapped angrily from the doorway, ‘leave the poor girl alone.’

‘She has to learn,’ Isobel said, ‘what’ll she be like when she has to snog a birthday boy?’

‘It won’t happen,’ Janice said, in a resigned tone, ‘you insist on doing all the kissagram, you tart.’

‘Why don’t you make the tea, Verity,’ she said.

Customers streamed steadily through the door all morning, and Isabel had me greet everyone in my faux French. Most dropped off costumes they’d hired for the weekend. Isabel showed me how to inspect the garments for damage, describing with relish the type of stains to expect.

Whenever Janice wasn’t watching, she continued to touch me under my skirt, stroking my bottom, and attempting to place her hand between my legs.

When the shop was quieter she had me try walking with my hobbled feet, and bending to display my derriere. Shortly before lunch, while I was practicing the latter, the door opened and she hissed at me, ‘stay where you are.’

‘Isabel darling,’ a very camp male voice exclaimed, ‘I’ve opened a seam on my uniform, and you know I’m no hand with a needle. Oh my, who is that?’ I had a good view of nothing except the carpet, but I knew that he was standing directly behind me.

‘Nice view isn’t it?’ Isobel said, ‘that’s our latest recruit, Verity. ’

‘It looks like a black tulip amid a bed of lilies,’ he said.

He gave my bottom a tap saying, ‘why don’t you stand up dear, and say hello.’

‘Verity, meet Patience - a sister maid.’ Isobel rolled her eyes, ‘Verity, swears she’s straight, but I think it’s virginity'

‘Bon jour Mademoiselle,’ I managed, before Patience wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me close.

‘You are gorgeous, Verity,’ he enthused, and then, kissing my cheek added quietly, ‘don’t let Isabel get to you, she’s a bitch.’

I ate my packed lunch with Janice in the back room, and we chatted while Isabel watched the shop. Janice was a bit of an enigma, she didn’t reveal anything about herself, but she did share some choice comments about Isabel. They were obviously close but there seemed little love lost between them.

‘I’m sorry about Isabel,’ Janice said confidentially, ‘she tries it on with all the girls. It’s a game to her. The other maids simply play along until she gets bored.

When I returned to the counter a few minutes later, Isabel almost immediately moved beside me, slipping a hand under my petticoats. Feeling ashamed, and hating Isabel for what I was about to do, I smiled at her.

‘Merci Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I said still smiling, but screaming inside.

‘Are you going to be a good girl?’ Isabel asked, as her other hand found the v of my crotch once more. I could not answer, simply letting my thighs part at her touch. ‘Good girl,’ Isabel said softly, as her fingers explored me.

‘Oui Mademoiselle,’ I murmured, trying to ignore what was happening.

‘Do you have a kiss for me?’ Isabel whispered in my ear. I nodded, resigned to feeling her lips on mine.

‘I don’t kiss tramps like you,’ she spat, and released me, moving to the other end of the counter.

Only a few customers came into the shop during the afternoon. Even without Isabel’s prompting I met everyone with a curtsy, and a French greeting. At times it almost felt like I was having fun, and without a predatory Isabel hounding my every step, it was.

‘Grab your coat and bag,’ Janice said, a few minutes before five, ‘I’ll give you a lift home, but be quick, or Isabel won’t stop moaning about being left to lock up.’

Soubrette Chapter 5 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Janice brought the car to a rest outside Packney House. ‘I had an ulterior motive for driving you home,’ she said, switching the engine off, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said, unfastening my seat belt. Life had been so much easier the week before when I hadn’t had to worry about other‘s motives.

‘We’re often asked for a French maid to clean house.’ Janice began unbuckling her seat belt, while she spoke, ‘and our girls aren’t that good at housework, even if they were available during the day.’

‘Times are as you know getting harder, and I’m looking for alternative income.’ Janice took my hand.

‘That’s very interesting,’ I said, somewhat baffled, ‘but what does that have to do with driving me home?’

‘As a fulltime employee you will be available during the day,’ Janice said, ‘and from what I’ve seen you certainly have the temperament, as well as the looks for the work. All I really need to know is how well you keep your own house.’

Miss Meanswell wasn’t lying then, was my first thought, there was a cleaning job at Soubrette. She might have mentioned the company dress code though.

I gave my answer careful consideration, ‘you will probably find my flat a little weird.’

‘I’ll have to teach you how to get out of cars in a short skirt,’ Janice said, as we boarded the lift. Imagining the sight I must have presented to passers-by, I could do nothing but blush.

‘I’m surprised you can afford to live here,’ Janice ventured, to cover my silence. ‘My friend’s gran lives here, and she says the flats are huge.’

‘I was bequeathed mine by an aunt,’ I replied.

‘That’s an amazing legacy.’

‘My cousins didn’t think so,’ I answered quietly, trying not to relive the bitter arguments.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t sell,’ Janice said, ‘it must be worth a fortune.’

‘I think that’s why Great Aunt Fen chose me. She knew her children would sell it.’ Although my aunt had passed four years before, I still grieved for her. ‘By the time I moved in, the place was stripped of everything my cousins thought of value.’

We met Mr. Blum in the corridor, and he was effusive in his welcome. ‘My word, Verity,’ he laughed, ‘every night you bring home a different beautiful girl.’ When I introduced Janice as my employer, he made a very courteous apology, and asked me to visit later.

Janice gasped when I showed her into my living room. ‘It’s just like a film set,’ she said, looking around her, ‘”Downton Abbey” can’t beat this.’

‘I think Aunt Fen would have liked it,’ I said, quietly, ‘of some these things were hers.’

‘Is it all like this?’ Janice asked, still trying to take everything in.

‘The kitchen was refitted during the eighties, and I’m still working on the bathroom, but I think you’ll like my sewing room.’ I didn’t often get the opportunity to be tour guide in my own museum, and I loved showing off my world.

Janice touched a hand to the dress tacked on my dummy, and asked if I was making it for myself.

‘It’s a sun dress, to wear on the balcony,’ I explained, ‘I make most of my own clothes.’

‘I wish I’d had an aunt like her. Was this hers too?’ Janice pointed to the old Singer sitting on its treadle stand by the window.

‘Aunt Fen was a couture seamstress, and she used it,’ I said, adding, ‘she taught me everything.’

‘Would you sit at it, for a photograph?’ Janice asked, pulling her mobile from a pocket. ‘For our website.’

Before I sat Janice fussed around with my uniform, telling me not to worry when I expressed concern about the state of my makeup.

‘Well, I don’t think I have to worry about your housekeeping skills,’ she smiled. I was just about to ask her more about the cleaning work, when the phone rang in the living room. Janice shooed me away with the gesture, and I rushed to answer it.

‘Verity, have you eaten yet?’ Kristy’s voice sang from the big Bakelite receiver.

‘How do you know I’m Verity tonight?’ I asked, wondering if she could already detect a change in my voice when dressed.

‘Verity is an art deco girl, in an art deco world’ Kirsty said, ‘and she answers the phone by saying the number.’

‘And are you an art deco millionaire?’ She laughed, and I was glad she got the reference. ‘I’m showing one of my bosses around my flat at present, I haven’t had a bite to eat yet.’

‘I have to drop mum off at evening classes, but I can bring a takeaway round in half an hour if you like. ’

‘That sounds great,’ I said, ‘now I have to make sure my boss isn’t in my knicker-drawer.’

Janice was still standing beside the window in my sewing room, talking on her mobile. While I was on the threshold, I heard her say, ‘a very suitable girl.’ Not wanting to eavesdrop any further, I stepped back into the corridor while she was talking. However, as I moved into the room again, her phone rang, and I overheard a brief conversation.

‘Digby you got the picture... my new maid... isn’t she just... we’ll talk about her later.’

Janice had me pose for more photographs in the living room, artfully staged to include period features. I was intrigued by the website (I hadn’t bothered to check if there was one), and how I would appear on it. Simple vanity perhaps, but the conditions of my employment at Soubrette seemed to change hourly.

‘I think that’s enough to be going on with,’ Janice said, sliding her mobile into a pocket. ‘You’ve been marvellous Verity, and you handled Isabel very well, even though it must have cost you dearly.’

I was tempted to point out Isabel handled me, but thought better of it. ‘Thank you Janice, I’ve had a lot of fun today.’ Apart from the incessant fondling it was true.

‘Verity you’re a star,’ Janice hugged me, adding a kiss on the cheek and, ‘bring in your sewing kit tomorrow.’

In the minutes remaining before Kirsty arrived, I contemplated changing my clothes. It would have been easy to throw on another dress, and take off the borrowed shoes which were really starting to hurt. However, I was perversely proud of my working clothes, and wanted her to see me in them.

The knock at the door prompted a sudden panic. What if it were one of my neighbours or even worse, what if Kirsty laughed. I knew I looked preposterous, would it be so bad if she thought that too?

Putting my courage to the sticking place, I unlatched the door, and in my best faux French asked the slightly bemused Kirsty, ‘Bon soir Mademoiselle, ’ow may I ‘elp you?’

‘I’m here to visit the lady of the house,’ Kirsty said, without missing a beat, ‘is she in perchance?’

‘Mais oui Mademoiselle, pleez kerm zees way.’ I curtsied, and led her inside with mincing steps.

‘O. K. I get the accent,’ Kirsty laughed, ‘but why are you taking such small steps?’

After explaining my day’s training, I demonstrated how a maid should bend over, my piece the resistance.

‘Dear Deirdre, I met a wonderful, gentle, quiet man, but have found out she’s a raving lunatic. Kirsty wrote on an imaginary notepad. ‘Should I tell him that I love him, or feed her pizza until she’s a dress size bigger than me?’

‘Nobody can eat that much pizza,’ I quipped.

By the time the lid went back on the pizza box, I’d learned about her weekend with a friend from university, and a day in Miss Meanswell‘s crusade against the long-term unemployed. In my turn I told her about my first day at Soubrette, sketching over some of the things that happened with Isabel. There were things I wanted to talk about, but Kirsty demanded a guided tour like I’d given Janice.

Unlike Janice, Kirsty seemed far more interested in my bedroom than my sewing room. I might have been flattered had not her first question been, ‘can I see you clothes?’

Nick’s clothes were pressed into a spare 6 inches at the end of the closet. A few shirts, pair of jeans, some sweaters, and I the terrible suit I wore for interviews. Verity’s, by contrast, filled almost all of the remaining space.

‘Did you make all of these?’ Kirsty picked out an evening gown I made solely to try sewing against bias. ‘This is stunning.’

‘I made most of them,’ I confessed, ‘but a few I found in charity shops and car boot sales.’

‘You have got to take me shopping or make me a dress,’ Kirsty cried, holding my evening gown against her. ‘Have you been to the Rialto since its restoration?’

I had walked past the refurbished old cinema many times; it was a fine art deco building but had never been inside. ‘I keep meaning to,’ I said, ‘but the films don’t appeal to me.’

‘They’ve started a “Roaring Twenties Night” on Thursdays, we could go dressed in Twenties clothes,’ Kirsty said, ‘and I never thought I’d say this to a fella, we’re both the same size. It would be fantastic.’

‘Two girls at the cinema on a date?’ I almost laughed, ‘I haven’t been on many dates recently though, and never as Verity...’

Kirsty put an arm around me and said, ‘come on it’ll be fun, we can be art deco lesbians.’

‘That’s so Berlin,’ I laughed, ‘O. K.’

‘Why do you have a single bed?’ Kirsty asked, sitting on the coverlet

‘It was my bed when I stayed with Aunt Fen,’ I explained, ‘my cousins removed the double bed from this room before I moved back.’

‘It seems so lonely,’ Kirsty said, patting the bed beside her, ‘why don’t you tell me what upset you today. You obviously missed something out.’

I sat next to her, almost touching but not quite. Haltingly I related my experiences with Isabel, even her attempts to feel between my legs.

‘Isabel may have a point’, Kirsty wrapped an arm around my shoulder, ‘you’ll need to learn how to deal with people reacting to the slutty way you’re dressed.’

I must not have looked convinced because she carried on, ‘in some ways you acted like you were defending your masculinity, while Isabel was probably reacting to your innately feminine personality.’

‘My what?’ I protested.

‘It’s what attracted me to Nick in the first place, Kirsty said softly, ‘and I don’t mean that you are effeminate. Just quiet, gentle and caring.’

She pulled me closer, her cheek almost against mine. ’ women aren’t so hung up about displaying affection. Isabel was being true to her nature, and you weren’t.’

‘But what about touching me between my legs?’

‘Seeing how neatly you’re tucked in “down there”, Isabel was probably checking that you’re not actually a girl.’ Kirsty smiled broadly, ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question all evening.’

‘Oh sorry, I’m not used to short dresses,’ I said, tugging at the hem of my uniform.’

‘Hey stop it, how many times does a girl get to look up her boyfriend’s skirt?’ Kirsty asked, feigning outrage.

‘Boyfriend?’

‘The situation‘s vacant you know,’ she kissed me quite fiercely on the lips.

‘Just one question,’ she said, ‘why do you have an easel in your bedroom?’

I could have pointed out that the light was better, but I went with, ‘because I can’t afford a video camera.’

Kirsty pushed me back on the bed, and the next words she said were, ‘good girl.’

Soubrette Chapter 6 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

As a working girl I realised I would no longer be able to follow the same leisurely morning routine that I had when unemployed. The time I spent on my own ablutions could not be reduced without having an impact on my appearance. Therefore, to make time up I prepared my morning tea in a two cup, hotel-ware pot. Although appropriate to my period, its functional silver-plated design lacked the charm of my Charlotte Rhead service, and I was disinclined to linger over breakfast.

Dressing was also less involved. I would go to work in the same uniform I had worn home the evening before. A second pair of new panties from the pack of seven I had bought, was the only change in my underwear.

Remembering Janice’s critique of my hair, I substituted a shoulder-length brunette wig. I have to admit it gave me a more obviously feminine appearance, if at odds with my desire to follow antique fashion.

Of course, nothing goes entirely to plan; my borrowed shoes’ 5 inch heels cost me a few valuable minutes. Luckily Maureen at the newsagents, one of the back for me by having the papers ready by the time I arrived. Also noticing my difficulties the day before, she had them in a paperboy’s bag, which I could carry more easily.

All of which meant, I found 15 minutes to take coffee with Mr. Blum. I had visited him the evening before, but not having had the chance to catch up on the day’s events, and still somewhat dazed by Kirsty‘s behaviour, our conversation was rather one sided.

Kirsty dominated my thoughts on the way to work. Not only was I now her appointed boyfriend, but to prove my true gender, she had removed my panties with what can only be called rapacity.

Her interpretation of Isabel’s actions, however, was more troubling still. The more I thought about them, the more I believed I owed my employer a heartfelt apology. I only hoped that I had not irreparably damaged my relationship with Isabel.

At work I found Janice alone, and so set about tying my ankles with the long shoelace Isabel had used, and lifting my petticoats to reveal the approved amount of panties. Then as my employer directed I’m ran the vacuum cleaner over the shop’s carpets.

Isabel arrived shortly before nine, by which time I had moved on to dusting. She looked particularly glamorous, in a claret top, calf length black pencil skirt, and towering heels.

I set my duster aside to look admiringly at her, whatever my feelings about the events of the previous day, there was no denying she looked stunning. ‘Bon jour Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I said, my mouth instantly dry.

Isabel turned as if suddenly seeing me, she slowly looked me up and down, saying, ‘tres bien, ma petite Verity.’

‘Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I blurted out, ‘I am sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. It was unforgivable.’ I hoped she would not mind that I had forgotten my French accent.

Isabel closed the short distance between us, and softly touched my cheek with the backs of her fingers. ‘The fault was all mine, honey,’ she said, stroking my face, ‘I took you too far and too fast. If you would like to try again I will take into account your inexperience.’

‘Merci Mademoiselle,’ I cried, leaning close to kiss her on the lips.

Isabel opened her handbag and produced a pair of fishnet stockings. ‘These are traditional for French maids dear; let me put them on you.’

At Isabel’s request I brought the spare chair from Janice’s desk into the shop, and sat upon it. She then removed my shoes, unfastened or six of my suspenders, and rolled down my fully-fashioned stockings. All of which was done in a deliberate, sensual manner.

‘Am I making you uncomfortable, little one?’ Isabel asked, and when I shook my head she reversed the process, rolling a fishnet stocking up each of my legs.

When she had finished fastening my suspenders, she traced the seams with her finger, and led me to the shop’s full-length mirror so that I could admire her handiwork.

While standing at the mirror I realised that Isabel had a hand beneath my petticoats, and was gently stroking my bottom. I smiled to show her my appreciation. Unlike the previous day, her movements were very slow, and not threatening.

Isabel remarked how much more relaxed I was, and I told her about my conversation with Kirsty. ‘Perhaps we could try holding a kiss for a little longer,’ Isabel suggested, ‘a minute maybe, and if you’re counting the seconds in your head is well take your mind off what you’re doing.’

She turned me so that we were facing each other. While she continued to stroke my bottom, Isabel moved her other hand to the small of my back, and placed one of mine on her behind. ‘See if you can trace my panty line, Kirsty will be so proud of you,’ she said, bringing her lips to mine.

I cannot honestly claim to have overcome my inhibitions about kissing a man, even one so immaculately presenting as a woman. Instead I concentrated on the most important points in my universe.

Isabel’s lips although closed moved against mine, and the hand on my bottom kept up its slow movement. I searched in vain it seemed for Isabel’s pantie-line, until I met its waistband; she was wearing a thong, and I traced its string until I realised where it was leading. In my head I kept up the constantly changing seconds count, and my only anchor was her hand in the small of my back.

I felt a pinch on my bottom, and heard Isabel ask if I had lost count. ‘I was Mississippi counting,’ I said.

‘Kirsty’s got an eyes closed kisser.’ Isabel laughed, ‘so what did you think?’

‘You have very soft lips,’ I said, blushing myself to silence.

‘If you two have finished I’d like my seamstress back.’ Janice was laying costumes on the counter, each of which she informed me was in need of repair.

Soubrette Chapter 7 Nick was happy playing the system, unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Chapter Seven

Isabel promised to make tea as I retrieved my sewing kit, and she was as good as her word setting the cup down where I could reach it while I sewed.

Most of the repairs were relatively minor tears, or simply stitching come undone. A few more significant jobs I would have to take home, and one or two were beyond my capabilities to fix. The latter I set aside as they would provide a useful source of fabric for patches. Some of the garments had obviously been repaired before, but the quality of work was so shoddy I unpicked the stitching and did them over.

Isabel and I chatted as I worked except when there were customers, to whom she told outrageous lies to explain my tied ankles. All of which made me blush furiously, but I made no complaints, as she accompanied all of them with a theatrical wink.

Shortly before eleven o’clock Janice told us there was a lady coming to the shop, who could be very important for the future of Soubrette. She specifically instructed Isabel not to tell her that I was a sissy expelled from borstal for corrupting guards, or a novice nun excommunicated by Pope when my sexual depravity was discovered. This was a pity as I’d enjoyed the customers’ reaction to the latter, especially when Isabel told them I had subsequently been thrown out of the seminary as insufficiently depraved. I had even added my own suggestive leer to the last retelling of this tale.

Mrs. Armstrong arrived promptly at twelve, carrying the Town Hall clock’s chimes with her through the door. She was a woman of middling years, striking where she had once been beautiful, and immaculately dressed in a tailored navy blue suit that needed no designer's label to prove its quality.

Janice, who had been waiting on the shop's door bell, sprang around the counter and stood in a welcoming posture. Meanwhile Isabel helped me set aside the pirate costume I was working on. She looked deadly serious, and I couldn't resist wiggling my finger through the torn gusset. She stifled a giggle, and her arm snaked around my waist. 'Behave yourself,' Isabel hissed, squeezing me as I stood.

'Of course, the uniform will not do,' Mrs Armstrong said, casting and appraising eye from shoes to wig. 'How long will it take you to source a replacement?'

Janice looked flummoxed, so I quickly volunteered, 'I could probably make one in a couple of days if I had fabric.'

'Your stitching looks very good,' Mrs Armstrong said, lifting one of my completed repairs from the counter. 'I preferred the shorter hair shown on the website,' she said, turning my face by the chin. 'Very pretty,' she added absently, 'of course you'll need more practical shoes than those.' Mrs Armstrong wasn't wrong, only Isabel's arm around my waist kept me standing upright.

'Calm down, I can feel your heart racing,' Isabel whispered in my ear.

'Sorry,' I quietly replied, unconsciously pressing closer to her.

'You are scrumptious when you're nervous,' Isabel answered, tickling me gently until I giggled.

'Sank yoo, Madamoiselle Isabel,' I said in my shaky French accent, and kissed her on the cheek.

'The grown-ups aren't paying us any attention.' Isobel had both arms around my waist, pulling me closer. Over her shoulder I could see Janice and Mrs Armstrong had moved to the doorway. With a sense of relief, I left my forehead fall on Isabel's shoulder. 'Kiss me properly,' Isabel whispered in my ear.

Still giggling softly, I raised my head far enough to find her lips. 'Good girl,' Isabel whispered, 'I'll tell you when to stop.' Inevitably her hands had moved from my waist to my bottom. Isabel was at least consistent.

My eyes sprang open when the doorbell rang again - damn, I was an eyes closed kisser. Mrs Armstrong had left, and Janice was bearing down on Isabel and I. 'Break it up, you two,' she said briskly, 'we've got shopping to do.'

'Now?' I said weakly, only half aware that I was still in Isabel's arms.

'Yes now, Missy!'

'But it's lunchtime,' I protested, 'and I'm dressed as a stripper.'

'You will be okay,' Isobel said, unwinding her arms from my body.

'Where are we going?' I asked, already heading for the door after Janice. And forgetting about my tied ankles.

'Easy, Tiger!' Fortunately, Isabel was only inches away, catching me easily. 'Hug?' Isabel asked, and I gratefully wrapped my arms around her. 'I knew we'd be friends,' were her only words as she drew me close.

'First of all, let's get you a pair of sensible shoes.' Janice was a leading me along a pavement filled with lunch time shoppers. Seemingly completely oblivious to these stares we were getting.

'There's Budget Shoe over there,' I almost shouted, eager to leave the busy street.

'I'm not sending you to Mrs Armstrong in cheap shoes,' Janice barked, yanking me along towards a more expensive shop for farther down the street.

'It's all right she only dresses like this for work,' Janice told the bemused assistant as we entered, 'do you have a black court shoe with a 1 inch heel, in a 5?'

'We certainly do, if you'll just take a seat.'

Easing myself onto the chair he'd indicated, I had a good look at the other customers. It seemed only right, as they were all taking a good look at me.

'Size 5 wasn't it?' The assistant had reappeared under an armful of boxes. I nodded my assent as he settled at my feet, and began removing my right shoe.

This level of service was completely new to me, and I didn't know if I should look at him or not. As a compromise I sneaked looks at him while pretending to gaze into the distance. There's only so much information you can gather about someone you're fairly sure is staring at your panties. And my feet tickled, as he fitted one pair of shoes, and then another. He was the young, and according to his name badge answered to 'Mark'.

'How does that feel?'

'All right I suppose,' I said, tentatively putting my weight onto my right foot. It was certainly comfortable, a square toed style in high-quality black leather.

'I'm surprised the narrow fitting is comfortable, men usually…' Mark left his sentence unfinished, but continued to look at my legs.

'We'll take them,' Janice said, tearing his attention from my calves.

'I can't believe that we spent so much on wonder her shoes,' I said as Janice dragged me out onto the pavement.

'Mrs Armstrong will pick up the bill,' Janice said over her shoulder. 'Will Fabric Land have what we need?'

'It should have, but…'. I knew that the shop would have everything, it was where I bought all my sewing supplies. Nick was well known there, and I really didn't want the staff to see me in my working clothes. However, Janice ignored my reticence, dragging me across the road and through the door.

'There's some lightweight black gabardine over here,' I said, pulling Janice to the back of the shop. 'It's very hard wearing, just the thing for a maid's uniform.'

Janice looked uncomprehendingly at me saying, 'it's all Greek to me, but we need enough for two uniforms… Oh and aprons too.'

'There should be white calico in the next aisle,' I said, drawing the bolt of fabric from the rack. My aunt first introduced me to the shop, one summer when I stayed there for the holidays. The atmosphere was so familiar, I could feel myself relaxing by the second. Then someone laid a hand on my shoulder.

'It's Verity Parsons isn't it?' Turning, I found myself almost face to face with Mrs George, the owner.

'How did you know?' I stammered.

'Your aunt always spoke of her pretty niece, but we never thought we'd get to see her.' Mrs George smiled warmly, and beckoned over the assistant at the till. 'You'll never guess who is here,' she called out.

'But Nick has been coming here every week, and you've never said anything.' My cheeks were blazing.

'Your aunt, lovely woman that she was, told us you'd be embarrassed, and never to mention it to you.' By now Mrs George was hugging me, and clapping my back.

'Julie's going to be sick,' laughed the newly arrived assistant. Seeing my look of bewilderment she added, 'she's had a crush on Nick for ages, and didn't believe that you were gay.'

'I'm not,' I said, but my denial was lost in the hubbub.

'We need enough of this to make two maid's uniforms,' Janice shouted, and pointed at the roll of fabric.

'Proper ones, for cleaning in,' I said, struggling to escape Mrs George's bear hug.

'I hope you didn't make this one, it's very shoddy,' she joked.

'And slutty,' added the assistant, 'I can see your knickers.'

'Everyone can,' I admitted, 'but the new uniform will be kneelength, without any frills.' I looked and Janice for confirmation, which he gave with a nod.

And the checkout Janice paid for everything, leaving me to pack away everything, with Mrs George's able assistance.

'Your aunt was very proud of you,' she said, 'she would always bring in things her niece had sewn to show us. She was a lovely woman.'

Choking back, tears I followed Janice back to Soubrette. I still missed Aunt Fenn, and couldn't help wondering what she'd think about my current job. It was a long way from art restoration, but at least I was sewing.

'What has she done to you?' Isabel threw her arms around me, giving Janice a poisonous look.

'Nothing,' I sniffed, 'it's just…'. I mumbled the rest of my sentence into Isabel's shoulder, while she gently stroked my back.

'Don't cry, kitten,' she said soothingly, 'why don't you sit down, and tell me all about it.'

'Sank yoo, Madamoiselle Isabel,' I murmured, turning to kiss her on the lips, my eyes already closed.

To my horror, my lips met an open mouth. Don't panic, I told myself, she'll probably close her lips as we kiss. I kept repeating this in my head right up until the tip of Isabel's tongue met my lips.

Anything but acquiescence that this point would seem like a rebuttal, I thought. And we'd been getting along so well. Damning my own eyes, I felt Isabel's tongue glide into my mouth.

Isabel instantly drew me closer, my body pressed against hers, while I decided what to do. Keeping my tongue out of the way seemed like a good plan. Or at least it would have, if Isabel's hadn't been so freely exploring my mouth.

The kiss seemed to go on interminably, until Isabel broke it off. 'Well that was unexpected,' she said, coyly, her arms still around my waist.

'It wasn't planned,' I blurted out.

'Of course it wasn't.' Isobel pressed her for forehead against mine, and murmured, 'the best kisses never are.'

My answer was just a series of an unintelligible noises as I pulled myself three from Isabel's embrace. The majority of my blood supply, I was sure resided in my face, as I grappled with what had happened. I didn't really enjoy it, did I?

Sorry for the long wait, and apologies for the shocking formatting :)

Isabel's offer of the lift home was neither surprising nor strictly speaking an offer. All afternoon she had been shooting me sidelong glances, and missed no opportunity to brush against me. She waited until the end of the day, when I was changing out of my uniform.

Deciding the world had seen enough of me in fishnets for one day, I was refastening nylons to my suspenders, when she simply stood in front of me, and announced, 'I'm running you home tonight.'

Of course I tried to demur, but she was adamant, and so at five thirty, I trooped after her with a sense of dread. I imagined Isabel pouncing upon me, as soon as we left the shop. I couldn't blame her, after our "passionate" exchange.

Isabel's car was almost an embodiment of her sense of style; a metallic green BMW, its paintwork shining, and looking like it had just driven off the forecourt, despite being five years old. She watched with obvious anxiety as I laid my bags on the back seat, and stood with pursed lips as I attempted to sit in the front. I managed to evade criticism by not flashing my knickers with the first time that day.

My attempts at small talk met only stony silence, until we joined the main road, when Isabel's hand slipped from the gearstick to my knee.

'What?' An exasperated Isabel said. Without taking her eyes from the traffic ahead, she added, 'Isn't this what you expected to happen?'

It was exactly what I expected, and I mumbled some words to that effect, before placing my hand over hers. 'You are a strange girl, Verity,' she said. Which may have been true, but I was relieved that Isabel's hand wasn't sliding up my thigh.

'Well this is it.' I was beginning to feel like a tour guide every time I invited anyone into my flat. However, the look of amazement on a visitor's face never grew old.

'It's like following Alice through the looking glass,' Isobel said, looking around in wonder.

'We'd best put the shopping in my sewing room; it's down here,' I said, leading the way along the corridor, pausing only to shut an opened door. 'That's my bedroom, nothing to see there,' I mumbled.

Isabel gasped from the doorway, and pointed at my mannequin. 'I want a sundress just like that, she said, running her hands over the fabric, ‘please make me one.'

'I made that from an off-cut,' I said, grabbing a measuring tape, 'so I won't be able to match the pattern, but I noticed some lovely…' My words trailed off when I remembered I was to make the maid uniforms first.

'Measure me anyway,' Isabel said, stretching her arms out to her sides. She remained perfectly still as I wrapped the tape around her bust, and waist, but when I moved to Isabel's hips, she told me, 'if you tell anyone else that number, I will have to kill you.'

'It makes a change for me to be touching your bum,' I joked. Isabel laughed, but her face grew suddenly serious.

'Why are you so afraid of me?' She asked, laying a hand on my shoulder.

'I'm not afraid,' I lied.

'When you're around me, you shake like a leaf,' Isabel said, tipping up my chin with one finger.

'You were pretty horrible to me yesterday.'

'I was just annoyed with you,' she said, folding her arms lightly around me. 'You are so effortlessly angelic, I spent all day fighting the urge to cuddle you.'

'You don't cuddle people's panties,' I sniffed.

'It's something you have to learn to ignore,' Isabel smiled, 'and you even seemed to enjoy it today.'

'I suppose I just overreacted,' I said, laying my head against Isabel's chest.

'I'd better get on,' she said, giving my waist a squeeze, 'I can't keep you from your sewing. Janice would kill me.'

'You don't have to go right away,' I said, trying to make up for the baby I could now see I'd been,'I have to cook dinner, I can easily make enough for two.'

'You seen how wide my hips are,' Isabel said, leading me back to my front door, 'I daren't eat anything else today.'

'It doesn't have to be…' I caught myself, before I started to sound really desperate. 'Should we kiss goodbye?' Isabel smiled, and nodded, while I braced myself for the kiss I'd expected earlier.

She put an arm around my shoulder, drawing me a little closer, and planted a quick peck on my cheek. It was all so anticlimactic, and yet bells seemed to be ringing.

'You should probably answer the telephone,' Isabel said, and was out through the door before I could even turn around.

I was rather unused receiving phone calls, but it took me a few moments to realise it was Kirsty speaking.

'Everyone was talking in work today, about a stripper running down the High Street this lunchtime.'

'I wasn't running,' I said defensively.

'If it's any consolation, everyone said you have fantastic legs,' she said, before collapsing into giggles. 'But why were you on the High Street?'

'It's a long story,' I said, 'and I think I've messed up things with Isabel.'

'I'm coming over,' Kirsty said decisively, 'should I bring anything?'

'I'm just about to start dinner,' and over Kirsty's protestations, I added, 'please let me cook for you.'

'You cook too?' She shouted, 'you're having my babies!'

I was draining the pasta when Kirsty arrived, and had to explain I wasn't hugging because I been chopping chillis.

'Is there no end to your talents?' Kirsty asked, while rolling her eyes, 'I bet you're rubbish in bed, to compensate… I'm joking, where's the food'

'So you ended up French kissing Isabel,' Kirsty laughed out loud, sending a piece of orecchiette across the kitchen.

'My tongue was strictly neutral.' I managed to get out my defence almost straightfaced.

'It doesn't sound like she had any complaints.' When Kirsty put it like that, I have to see the funny side, but her face turned serious quite quickly. 'You've brought work home with you? You are on minimum wage, Perhaps I should have a word. '

'It's something I like doing,' I said, although Kirsty was shaking her head. 'That reminds me, I need to measure your hips,' which made Kirsty sputter.

'I was only joking about having my babies,' she said through a barrage of broccoli, 'well, half joking anyway.'

Ignoring the last part of her sentence, I tried to explain myself. 'I thought it would be fun on Thursday, if we both wore my dresses, it's just that they are cut to my figure,' I said, 'and I have boyishly slim hips.'

'That's because you are a slim boy,' Kirsty laughed, 'I'm game if you are.'

We moved to my bedroom, and "flung open the closet doors" as Kirsty put it. The choice was simple enough, it had to be a black dress, which would look devastating with her blonde hair. Or it would have been simple, if I didn't have a love of making little black dresses. It was, therefore, about half an hour before Kirsty shucked off her trousers, for me to run my take around her hips.

'This has to be the most elaborate plot by a man to get a girl down to her panties, ever,' she laughed, but while I'm here…'

'I have to make a start on the maid uniforms,' I said, apologetically.

'Perhaps Isabel really is the girl for you,' Kirsty said, pulling on her trousers.

Chapter Nine

Breakfasting on my balcony, looking over the still silent streets and empty sands, I knew that today would be too warm for an overcoat.

Fortunately my uniform, along with the hated fishnet stockings, was hanging in the shop's storeroom, which meant that I had nothing to hide beneath an overcoat.

I was almost giddy as I closed the front door, after double checking that I'd remembered to stuff the push-up bra into my bag, along with lunch.

When I arrived, Soubrette was half shuttered, and someone was moving around, with the shop's lights still turned off.

'Someone's full of the choice of spring!'To my surprise, I found the early bird was Isabel, who was fiddling around with nothing in particular, and seemed eager to chat. 'That's a posh frock for a Wednesday,' she said, picking at the fabric.

'This old thing?' I twirled to lift the dress's skirts. 'Too early for sleeveless?'

'Just how many wolf whistles did you get?' Isabel asked.

'Only two… Until I got to the new building site,' I joked, kissing her lightly on the cheek, as I turned away. 'Where's Janice?'

'She's picking something up at Digby's.'

Digby's I knew was the name of a pokey little Internet cafe at the north end of the promenade, and its proprietor. From Isabel's gossip I also knew that Digby was romantically involved with Janice.

'That's not a very vintage bra,' said Isabel, who had followed me into the storeroom.

'The trouble with vintage bras,' I said, stepping out of my dress, 'is that they are rubbish. A neighbour bought me this for Christmas.'

'Your girdle seems authentic, though you really don't need it,' Isabel said, 'let me help you change stockings.'

After much wriggling to get the seams straight, Isabel disappeared back into the shop. She returned a few minutes later, with a red and black lace garter, which she rolled languorously over the fishnet stocking on my left thigh.

Once I was installed in my petticoats and abbreviated dress, Isabel opened the shutters wide. To let the world know, in her words, we were open for business. Dressed as a slutty maid, I already felt so.

Wednesday mornings are not particularly hectic in fancy dress shops. I stood behind the counter chatting with Isabel, as she idly stroked me through my panties. While I, for my part, tried not to let on how much I enjoyed it.

Janice bustled in at nine thirty carrying two boxes, one of which she dropped on the counter in front of me. Noting my quizzical look she said simply, 'new shoes.'

'That's right,' Isabel said, 'Felicity will need her shoes back tonight.'

'I can't wear these,' I protested, after I'd opened box.

'Of course you can, you said exactly the same thing about this shoes you're wearing,' Janice said, 'just pop them on.'

Isabel was already moving a chair for me to sit. And with growing apprehension, I sat with the shoebox on my lap. There was a one inch platform under the toes, and the stiletto heel was a soaring seven inches high.

'I bought them from that new shop,' Janice said, 'across the road from Ann Summers.'

'I bought my new boots there,' Isabel said.

'The thigh length ones?'

'I'm going to break my bloody neck in these,' I shouted, but neither seemed able to hear me.

'Of course you won't,' Isabel said, squatting by my feet, 'I'm even untying your ankles.'

'Why does Felicity need her shoes back?' I asked, tottering along the counter.

'See, you've already got the hang of it,' Isabel almost managed to sound convinced. 'We're doing an event tonight. You'll get to meet all your sister maids when they come in to get changed.'

'It's a shame you'll be sewing tonight,' Janice said. 'How is it going, by the way?'

Janice spent the rest of the morning folding sheets of A4 paper, which I guessed had been in the other box. Isabel and I were left to man the shop, which was as I've said, fairly quiet apart from a steady stream of young men looking for gangster costumes.

'Now try walking to the inflatable bananas and back,' Isabel suggested, propelling me forward with a tap on my bottom. 'Wonderful, but don't hold your arms out like a tightrope walker.'

I'd had the shoes for an hour, and could walk five or 6 feet without falling over - on a level surface. The ridiculous heels did a better job of hobbling me, than tying my ankles together. Was this why Janice had bought them?

At eleven thirty, when even Isabel had tired of ordering the about, Janice reappeared. Clutching a sheaf of the folded papers, she had me stand still.

'We made quite an impression on the public yesterday,' Janice told me, 'and I think if you handed out these flyers it could bring in a lot of new business.'

'Where?' I asked, aghast at the prospect of returning to the High Street, especially in my new shoes.

'Just on the pavement outside the shop,' Janice stuffed the flyers into my hand.

'But these shoes,' I pleaded.

'If you find yourself falling,' Janice reassured me, 'just hold on to the lamppost.'

'How long will I have to stay out there?'

'Only until the lunchtime traffic peters out,' Janice said, 'about one thirty.'

'Can I have a hug please,' I asked Isabel, who was trying not to laugh behind her hand.

Hugged, and kissed very tenderly on the forehead, I was thrust through the door, with the promise of plenty more leaflets, if I ran out.

Almost immediately I became aware of a sea breeze, playing on the bare skin above my stocking tops. Momentarily distracted, I stumbled over a crack in the pavement, and only just righted myself, by hanging on to the lamp post. Looking back at the door, I glimpsed Janice and Isabel snickering.

Luckily there were no other witnesses nearby, or far away for that matter. Just what lunchtime traffic Janice had imagined, I did not know, but braced myself for the encounters that would surely follow.

My first passersby were inevitably, two policeman. Nervously I pressed leaflets upon them, and even attempted a little curtsy. They walked off laughing, and shaking their heads.

Ten minutes later a group of workmen approached, I guessed from the nearby building site. All seemed preoccupied with their own jokes to notice me, but my heels could not be ignored for long.

'Oy, love,' jeered the youngest, his yellow vest flapping, 'you don't want to stand outside that shop, people will think you're a bloke.'

In Nick's gruffest voice, which was just a gruff enough, I shouted back, 'what do you think is at the top of the stockings you're ogling?'

It wasn't the wisest choice I've made, but honest ribaldry seemed a safe policy. The young workman showed a quick flash of anger, but had a harder job dealing with his workmates' ribbing.

As the time grew closer to noon, the pavement became busier, and the pedestrians faster moving. Some stopped to take a leaflet, and others asked questions, with flattering incredulity. There were even those, who returned with friends.

I stepped inside several times for more leaflets, a sandwich nibble, and brief sits down; my toes had quickly become numb in those benighted shoes.

When my stint outside was over, I rejoined Isabel behind the counter, barefoot and feeling liberated. Isabel promptly insisted that my ankles be tied again, to ensure there would be no giant leaps for maid kind.

'Do you ever wish,' I asked Isabel, as she tied the knots, 'that we were sort of normal?'

'If normal doesn't have space for us,' she smiled, looking up from the laces, 'then there isn't much chance for normality.' Any hopes I had of this friendly answer, might indicate a softening of Isabel's treatment of me, were dashed when she had me then over the counter, and administered six sharp slaps on my bottom.

'Sank yoo, madamoiselle Isabel,' I said, straightening up, 'I weel not forget mon accent Francais again.' Spanking hadn't been mentioned before, but as Isabel explained, it would help me remember. Still gingerly prodding my inflamed behind, I returned to my post, and tried not to eavesdrop as Isabel took a call on her mobile.

'Why yes it was her,' Isabel said, turning her back, 'did you see her?' It was obvious that I was the subject of the conversation, but to whom was Isabel speaking?

'A little bit of bleating beforehand about her new shoes,' she laughed, 'yet I think she was enjoying it, by the end.'

'Are you talking about me?' I asked, and Isabel turned to give me a withering stare.

'Yes you're right, she is often unworldly, and at times a bit dense.'

'I am not,' I protested.

'Yes that's her, and I'm afraid she'll be getting another spanking if she isn't quiet.' Unconsciously my hands moved to my bottom, which was burning almost as much as my ears. 'Only six, but her bum will still you red this evening.'

'Who are you talking to?'

'Yes she is very pretty,' Isabel smiled at me, 'and very affectionate once you get past the reserve.' I was at a loss for words, and came very close to stamping my foot. 'No she didn't,' Isabel gave me a quizzical look, 'well I'll be sure where she gets the message.'

'Who were you talking to about me?'

'Who gets a young woman down to her panties,' Isabel said gravely, 'and begs off to work?'

'You were talking to Kirsty?' I asked, puzzled why she should call Isabel, and a little uneasy about what was said. I'd been talked about like a little child.

'Yes I was talking to your girlfriend,' Isabel grinned, and she gave me a message for you, in three parts, one, she's taking her mum for a meal this evening; two, who in this day and age doesn't have a mobile phone; and…'

Isabel stepped forward, catching me in a tight embrace, that would have knocked the breath from me, had her lips not formed a perfect seal over mine.

'From Kirsty,' she said, releasing her grip on me.

'I suppose I am a bit unworldly, at times,' I said, steadying myself on the counter's edge.

'Oh, and another six, for eavesdropping.'

Janice bustled back into the shop a little after five. 'I've been to every charity shop in town,' she said, 'and not one has any fedoras.' We'd had another five customers since lunchtime, who wanted gangster costume, so Janice had taken it upon herself to find more.

'The average age in this town is eighty-five,' Isabel said, 'everyone's probably waiting for them to come back into fashion.'

'Judging by this week, they already have.' Janice shook her head wearily, 'no sign of any of the girls yet?'

'It's still early,' Isabel said, 'but how, I'd best get home to change.'

'All my girls are good girls,' Janice said, as another maid disappeared into the back room, 'there's Joy, Grace, Prudence, Felicity (whose shoes you've been wearing), and who are we waiting for?'

'Patience, who else?' The newly emerging maid said.

'I've been wearing your shoes, I hope you don't mind,' I told Felicity, who was leaning against the other side of the counter.

'Those old things? I haven't worn anything that low for ages,' I'd been tricked into wearing the new shoes, with their towering heels. Maybe I was unworldly.

'You caused quite a stir outside the shop today,' Felicity continued, 'everyone in town seems to be talking about the Soubrette girl.'

'It was just standing there,' I said modestly, 'anyone could have done it.'

'Not me,' said Felicity, leaning confidentially over the counter, 'when I walked in and saw you, I thought "nobody else is getting a tip tonight". '

'So what's your deal?' Grace asked, joining Felicity, 'girls, guys, farm animals?'

'urm I'm bicurious, I suppose,' I mumbled. A week ago I'd have known what to answer, but now everything was a bit of jumble. 'I can't help wondering how it would be with someone else like me. A tgirl I mean, not a drag queen.'

'ooh get her,' said Grace and Felicity, holding imaginary handbags to their chests. Before I had the chance to wedge my other foot in my mouth, Isabel's entrance saved my blushes.

We all more pretty much the same maid's uniform, and the shop resembled a Degas ballet study with maids, but care had been lavished upon Isabel's'.

The conservative clothes she wore during the day, only hinted at the figure beneath. The combination of a deep bust, wasp waist and long legs, were all emphasised by her uniform. I may still have been ambivalent about broadening my horizons, but seeing Isabel this way, made me positively bi-nosy.

Janice closed the shop at five thirty, allowing me a few minutes to change into my street clothes, while she loaded maids into a minibus. By the time I got the pavement, everyone had been jammed in, and was ready to go. I had been looking forward to spending the night alone with my sewing, but now I wished that I was going on with them.

Chapter 10

I've never enjoyed modelling, especially my own creations. My runway was Soubrette's shop floor, between the customers' changing room, and the rack of fun inflatables. For an audience I had Janice snapping away with her mobile phone, and Isabel pulling faces in order to make me laugh.

'I don't think Mrs Armstrong will be interested in that view,' I said, when directed to bend over the shop's counter.

'It's a fine view,' Isabel quipped, 'or would be if you weren't wearing such a boring uniform.'

That morning, for the first time since joining Soubrette, I had felt dressed for an ordinary job. Certainly, the kneelength black dress, with its white cuffs and apron, was formal but not outlandishly. In seamed black nylons, and low heeled shoes I felt businesslike, and smart. My only regret was leaving the stiff black fabric unlined, which I would rectify in more the second uniform.

'Well that's all of them sent,' Janice said, setting her phone aside, 'we'll have to wait on Mrs Armstrong approval.'

'Is it time for Verity to put on her shop uniform?' Isabel asked, adding with a sneer, 'and those lovely new shoes.'

'Are you going to help,' I asked Isabel, 'or just watch?' On the final word I attempted a saucy wink, although I had little experience of winking, saucy or otherwise.

Last night's glamorous French maid, had been much on my mind. As I worked on my uniform, I couldn't help but remember the swell of her breasts, and the impossibly long legs. I thought I was tightly "tucked", but Isabel gave no indication of her true gender. All smoke and mirrors I knew, tricks of the trade I employed myself. But Isabel's deceit was flawless, and my attention drifted back constantly to what the beneath. Specifically, my need to see it.

'That's your ankles done,' Isabel said, slowly standing, her hands running up my legs. 'Not too tight?'

Actually I could see no reason for the binding, the heels restricted my steps to inches. But it was difficult to contradict Isabel, when I could feel her hand sliding across my bottom, to between my legs.

'Sank yoo, Madamoiselle Isabel,' I replied, smiling warmly at the other assistant, and pushing my bottom back against her hand. Isabel's eyes widened slightly at my willing compliance. I could tell that she wanted to say something, but Janice interrupted. Sagging somewhat, I took the telephone from her.

'I'm impressed by your work, Parsons.' Although we had met only briefly, Mrs Armstrong's voice was unmistakable. Her compliment, delivered in an imperious tone, seemed sincere, albeit less than friendly.

'Thank you, ma'am,' I said slowly, in what I hoped was a respectful manner. Mrs Armstrong talked with the confidence of an earlier age. I could only reply like the timorous hireling, I knew I was expected to be.

'Several of the photographs,' she said slowly, 'Show flashes of white lace, at the collar and hem. These were not included in my request.'

'I'm sorry ma'am, that was my slip,' I stammered, 'the uniform's fabric is quite rough against the skin. I'll add a lining to the next one.'

'Wouldn't a lining make the uniform too heavy to work in?' She had a point, and I mumbled my assent.

'I have no problem with you wearing a slip,' she continued, 'it adds a touch of femininity, don't you think?' Again, I could only mumble agreement, and gratefully handed back the phone. Was it my imagination, all was Mrs Armstrong treating me like a simpleton? Was that the role I would be expected to play?

I was still puzzling over this, when Isabel's arm snaked around my waist, and began drawing me closer.

'I don't like the idea of you working alone all day,' she fussed.

'Don't worry, I'm a big girl now,' I said, dragging her hand away from my waist back to my bottom.

'What's got into you?' Isabel fixed me with a thin lipped glare.

'Nothing,' I said defiantly, 'but I'm hoping you will.' Once more I tried my saucy wink, again to little effect.

'You don't play the trollop very well,' Isabel said, and slapped me hard on the back of my legs.

'I know you want to bonk me,' I said, blinking away the tears. To my amazement, Isabel laughed good-naturedly.

'Nobody has bonked anyone since the 1980s,' she said, tightening her grip on my waist. 'I bet nobody has touched you below the belly button since then either.'

'I had dates when I was in college,' I protested, 'and when I saw you last night in your uniform, I knew that I…'

'You've been living like a nun for years,' Isabel said, through a smile, 'performing good works, and going to bed early. So when you see me at my slutty is, it was like a bomb going off in your panties.'

'So you don't want to…' I mumbled, completely deflated.

'Who wouldn't?' Isabel squeezed my own bottom, 'but I wouldn't step on Kirsty's toes.'

I had never felt more stupid, than I did at that moment. Would Isabel tell Kirsty what I'd said and done? However, before i'd had any chance for self recrimination, Janice bustled back into the shop, and said, 'it's time to be a streetwalker again.'

Chapter 10b

Life on the streets was hard, and Janice had to practically push me through the door, where a cold sea breeze waited to ruffle my petticoats. Goosebumps even rose where my thighs were bare. Unlike the day before, there were already people milling about awaiting my appearance.

'Are you really a man?' Everyone asked that question, and some were quite insistent.

'I really am,' I said, handing out leaflets, while trying to ignore prodding hands and pinches.

A woman asked if we had the uniforms in stock, as her husband had been quite animated about the scantily clad maid on the High Street.

'We don't usually sell them, but you might ask inside,' I replied, keeping to myself the opinion that a leggy boy in preposterous heels, had drawn his interest, rather than the uniform. A few days before, the notion would have scandalised me, yet now I could laugh it off. What was happening to me?

Lost in thought I barely noticed Kirsty breeze past. 'Back in a mo,' she called, as the shop's door was closing behind her.

'Yes they are fishnets,' I answered one gawper absently, as I peered through the door's glass.

'Ow!' I cried out as someone snapped my garter. Janice was right I thought, my underwear was in the public domain. Was that what Isabel was now telling my girlfriend about, or my clumsy pass. Whatever was said, it was the source of great hilarity. .

'Yes it's true I'm a man,' I answered in resigned tones, while I still peered into the shop. Kirsty and Isabel were hugging as they continued to laugh..

'Right you,' Kirsty said, while bursting through the doorway. In a heartbeat I was caught in my girlfriend's embrace, and passionately kissing.

'Was that a flash?' Kirsty asked as I came up for air, adding, 'why am I asking you, when you always close your eyes.

Still sputtering I hung loosely in Kirsty's arms enjoying the sensation of being held. Had there been a flash? As far as I knew, there had been several million.

There wasn't time to answer anyway, Kirsty turned like a whirlwind and was off down the street. The words "getting my hair done" hung in the air in her wake, but I was already fending off impertinent questions about what I did with my willie. Were people so unimaginative? Most men had to have tried it at some point, with further instructions necessary?

When foot traffic dwindled, Janice allowed me back into the shop. With a huge sigh of relief I closed the door behind me, and nerved myself to confront Isabel.

Whatever was said in the shop, Isabel didn't seem at all perturbed. As always, the impeccably presented older assistant was glacially calm. It was almost as though I were not there, until she beckoned me to her side, and silently began straightening my petticoats. Which of course, entailed lifting them clear of my knickers.

'What did you talk to Kirsty about?' I asked as she fussed around under my skirt.

'Oh it was nothing,' Isabel said while her palm lingered on my bottom. 'We just decided to share you.' And as if underlining her words, she patted me there.

'Share me?' I gasped, incredulously.

'Don't be such a drama queen,' Isabel groaned. 'It'll take the two of us to look after you.

'Look after me?' My voice jumped a couple of octaves with each question. Why were they discussing me as though I were a burdensome child.

'You're lovely…' Isabel wrapped an arm around my shoulders. 'But you're so naive, so willing to please, and so bloody enthusiastic about it.'

'You say that like it were a bad thing,' I said fiercely.

'We just want to stop you being taken advantage of,' Isabel said, 'to stand up for yourself once in a while.'

'So you're my girlfriend now too?'

'Of course not, I babysit you in work, and Kirsty gets to do all the girlfriendy things with you.'

'So you don't want to have sex with the me?' I wasn't sure why that annoyed me, but it rankled. Vanity perhaps, but it seemed important.

'Of course I do, lovely.' Isabel lifted my chin, and very gently pressed her soft lips to mine. My eyes closed, as I settled into Isabel's arms, breathing very slowly. But there were no flashes.

'You've very realistic breastforms,' I murmured, nestling against her.

'They are breasts, silly.' Isabel slipped my hand into her blouse, guiding my fingers to her bra.

'I'll introduce you to my surgeon,' she said, letting my hand rest there. 'Breasts would really suit you, though I think a larger cup size would be better.'

'Oh I don't know…' I wavered, my hand still cupping her breast.

'That's not a "no",' Isabel laughed, and cuddled me closer. 'Perhaps Janice will pay for them.'

I didn't think it was a serious offer, and hadn't even thought about surgery before then. Still, they would make life easier, my clothes would fit better, I wouldn't need to wear a bra to bed… Though I started to list the drawbacks almost immediately too. Perhaps breasts just weren't from me.

I was still mulling it over , when a customer walked into the shop, and approached the counter.

'Don't mind us,' Isabel said, and squeezed me. 'How may I help you?'

She was also in search of a maid's uniform, and explained I'd made her husband quite frisky (her word not mine)

'Ann Summers sells them,' I said, 'though we do have fishnet stockings, that might float his boat.'

'Aren't you a clever poppet?' Isabel drew me closer. Kissing me deeply, and letting her hand roam quite visibly and in my skirt. .

'I love it when you're embarrassed,' Isabel said when the customer had left with an harrumph. 'You're blush is almost incandescent,' she laughed, 'you are the best little pet my sister has ever given me.'

'I don't suppose you could run up a few cheap uniforms, could you?' Janice asked, emerging from her office.

'Leave the poor girl alone,' Isabel said sharply, 'it's bad enough you're sending her to that woman's house tomorrow; even if she is made of money.'

'I'll be okay,' I said, but Isabel wasn't to be reassured.

'There you go again,' she answered crossly, but wrapped a protective arm around me.

We had half a dozen housewives after that, all seeking to and a little spice to their marriages.

'I made my own uniform,' I told the last one, 'but it's meant to be a lot harder wearing when I do jobs outside the shop.'

'I'm sure you ges a lot of hard usage,' she replied, and I nodded my agreement.

'She's not talking about housework, sweetie' Isabel hissed in a stage whisper.

'Oh.' Even my toes were blushing.

'You do housework as a French maid?'

'It's a premium service,' Janice said, reappearing to press a leaflet into her hands.

'You make it sound like prostitution,' Isabel grumbled.

'The prices make it sound like that too,' the customer replied, before bidding us a good afternoon.

I picked up the discarded leaflet, and looked at what was printed upon it. Although I'd been handing them out for two days, I'd never bothered to read one.

'£25 per hour!'

'For a minimum booking of four hours,' Janice said, 'that's why everything has to go well with Mrs Armstrong tomorrow.'

'If she asks you for extras, then for God's sake run,' Isabel said, hugging me.It was a lot of money, and I was more worried that my cleaning would be up to scratch. Saying so made Isabel laugh and squeeze me at the same time.

'Every time I come in here you're having a ball.' We hadn't noticed Kirsty coming into the shop as the last customer departed.

'Your hair,' was all I managed to say. Since lunchtime Kirsty's beautiful blonde locks had been shorn into quite a severe bob.

'You like it?' Kirsty asked, 'it's just like your wig, but blonde obviously.'

'It's lovely,' I said, 'and it'll be just the thing for our night out.'

'It's gone four,' Janice said, looking her watch. 'Why don't you call it a day, Verity?'

'She's not going home to make those bloody dresses,' Isabel snapped.

'But Verity will need to change back into her new uniform before going home,' Janice said evenly, not rising to her Isabel's challenge. 'Just wait there, Kirsty and I'll get you the address to drop her off in the morning.'

'I'm not sure I will need dropping off,' I bristled, 'I'm not a child.'

'Ssssh it means I'll be staying the night,' Kirsty whispered in my ear.

'And you wonder why we are looking after you,' Isabel added.

author's note - sorry it's a bit clunky, but I wanted to post something fun :) Going through a pretty bad flare at present, but I've managed to stay out of hospital so far(not least because I didn't want to explain my undies and jammies).

Soubrette
Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

'Why aren't you enormous?' Turning my back on the young blonde woman in my bedroom helped. I could almost forget that apart from French knickers, and a pair of lace top hold ups, she was
entirely naked.

'You know you weren't going to finish those chips,' Kirsty protested. 'And why can't I wear a bra?'

Without offering an answer I asked Kirsty to lift her arms, and dropped the bias cut dress over her shoulders.

'I made this just to see if I could,' I said, arranging the black silk around her shapely figure. Patting the fabric against Kirsty's flat stomach, I tried to explain, 'I don't have the body for a dress like this.'

'But why can't I wear a bra?' Kirsty continued to ask, until I turned her profile to the chevalier mirror.

'Because it's backless, darling,' I said, running my hand along Kirsty's bare skin, from her nape, to the small of her back. 'And you really don't need a bra anyway, your boobs are perfect.'

'Aw,' she wrapped her arms around my waist, and kissed me. 'But this frock shows everything, I look practically naked.'

'I know,' I sniggered, not at all sympathetically, as I'd been on the High Street all week, dressed like a stripper.

'I brought something for us to wear,' Kirsty's said brightly, pulling a small bottle from her bag. 'This is art deco isn't it?'

'Chanel number five most definitely is,' I answered. 'Did you buy it just for tonight?'

'Nah I found it in mum's bedroom,' Kirsty said from between air quotes, 'but we'd better not go overboard.'

'We are going to smell so posh,' I said, 'now help me on with my dress.'

'But it's such a boring frock,' Kirsty said, buttoning it at the back for me.

'It's what flappers wore,' I explained, smoothing the fabric down to just past my knees. 'Just the thing for a girl with no curves.'

'That may be, my flat chested, friend,' Kirsty drawled, twirling in front of the mirror, 'but my dress is getting you fucked tonight.'

'That's not very ladylike,' I chided primly.

'I'm not planning on being a lady,' a smirking Kirsty said, and gave my bottom a resounding slap.

*****

'I can't get my head around a living room without a television." Kirsty settled herself gingerly on my settee, carefully arranging her dress's rustling skirts.

With a couple of hours to kill before the taxi arrived I was at a loss to entertain my guest.

'It'll take a while for the wireless to warm up,' I said, 'but we could listen to records.'

'I wasn't complaining; your life is just so different.' Kirsty's eyes followed me as I crossed the room to the gramophone, and placed several platters on the changer.

Aunt Fenn said you could always tell a lot about a person from the answer. 'How do you like your martinis? I asked.

'I don't think I've ever had one,' Kirsty replied, looking around to the sideboard, where I was already pulling out ingredients.

'That's a well-stocked cocktail cabinet for someone on benefits,' Kirsty said, arrives roving over the bottles within.

'It's mostly gifts from neighbors, or their families at least,' I said defensively.

'Hold on, we got you an interview at a cocktail bar last month,' she said through pursed lips.

'The manager asked me to make an appletini,' I moaned, as though that were defence enough.

'I like those' Kirsty beamed at me.

'And I still don't know what's in one,' I said, and quickly darted off to the kitchen for ice, trailing apologies.

When I returned, Kirsty had moved to the gramophone player. 'It's like being in the past,' she said wonderingly, 'I half expect to hear air-raid sirens.'

'I make mine a little wetter than modern martinis,' I said, advancing with our drinks, 'three parts gin to one part vermouth.'

'I haven't the foggiest what you're talking about,' Kirsty said, with a shake of her head, and took a sip of her cocktail. 'Blimey that's strong.'

'On a clear day you can see France from here,' I said, motioning my glass toward the window, 'if you favour the Churchillian rule…'

Kirsty's method of telling me I was talking too much was very direct, and equally pleasant.

'Do you dance?' Kirsty asked as she broke our kiss. Being habitually dumbstruck in her presence, I nodded, as her arms encircled me.

'You're leading,' I said down for, as she began guiding me around the furniture.

'In university we thought ballroom dancing would be a good way to meet men,' she said with a shrug, 'but the classes were almost exclusively female, and I always seemed to end up leading. Problem?'

'I've never learnt to lead,' I said, 'but you've probably already guessed that.'

'You're very good,' she said, as we rounded the coffee table. 'Where did you learn to dance?' Kirsty asked, her cheek brushing my own.

'You know, the neighbors showed me a few things,' one I said in our cloud of Chanel, while we danced on.

'I'm in heaven,' Kirsty whispered dreamily, 'I'm dancing with Verity, and being serenaded by Nick.'

'Sorry…' I started, but was apparently talking too much again.

*****

A knock at my front door brought us both back to the surface.

'Can we ignore it?' Kirsty asked softly, before my eyes had opened.

'I'm surprised that it's taken them this long,' I said with a shake of my head, and dragged us both to the door. Kirsty didn't seem inclined to let go of my waist, and was still clutching me tightly as I opened the door.

'Drinking alone, Verity, tut tut. ' Mr. Blum and Mrs. Rose crowded the doorway, the latter with cake tin in hand.

'We didn't know you had company, dear,' said Mrs. Rose, pushing past us. 'I thought you might like some of this Dundee cake.'

'We were just getting ready for a night out,' I said, closing the door behind my visitors.

'Mmm cake,' drooled Kirsty, who was still clinging to me, although her attention was wandering to the fruitcake.

'But mainly dancing,' I added, 'may I get you something? It's a gin and it for you Mrs. Rose?'

'Are you and Nick courting?' The elderly woman asked Kirsty, who'd frozen like a rabbit in headlights. 'Or is Verity your special friend? We are very open minded around here, dear.'

'I um like them both,' stammered Kirsty.

'Good for you, they needed to meet someone.' The older woman clapped my girlfriend on the shoulder, and continued, not as confidentially as she supposed, 'you appear to have forgotten to put on your bra.' Kirsty flushed, and mumbled something in reply.

'It's the fashion, Vera,' I said forcing myself between the two, while I handed Mrs. Rose her drink.

'Al Bowly is a little before even my time,' Mr. Blum said from the gramophone, and chuckled. 'Shall I put it back on?' Taking my assent as a given, he dropped the needle onto the shellac, and with remarkable agility stepped over to my other neighbour asking, 'shall we?' Mr. Blum might have been in his eighties, but he was still a smooth operator.

'You're quiet,' I said softly, as Kirsty wound her arm around the too.

'They're acting like you're just an ordinary person,' she whispered in my ear.

'They're my friends,' I said softly. ' I really am the girl next door in this building.'

'It'll take some getting used to,' Kirsty said softly.

'I'm sure putting your hand on my bottom will have really helped,' I said, nibbling her ear.

*****

'They were kissing,' Kirsty hissed as we stepped onto the pavement.

'Mr. Blum and Vera have been carrying on for years,' I said, quickly catching the waiting cabbie’s eye.

'Doesn't her husband know?'

'Of course,' I admitted 'just as Vera knows I place bets for the old fella when he's got a red hot tip.'

'Has everyone got a secret in that building?'

'Almost certainly,' I said sliding into the taxi's back seat.

'Budge up!' Kirsty climbed in beside me, and told the cabbie our destination. After an exchange of glances, she took my hand in hers, and kissed me on my cheek.

'Worried?' Kirsty asked.

'A little,' I answered. I'd been out in the evening in college, and stood half naked on the High Street this week, so this wasn't a leap into the dark for me. Still, part of me expected villagers with pitchforks.

'It's like the Saint Valentine's day massacre down there tonight,' the cabbie said from over his shoulder.

'My nipples are poking through,' Kirsty hissed, and placed an arm protectively across her chest.

Cruising down the Promenade, to the cab rank opposite the cinema, the pavement was awash with fedoras, the occasional violin case, and attendant molls wearing far too little. 'Relax,' I told Kirsty, 'you're practically wearing a bourka.'

We skipped across the road hand in hand, dodging the slow-moving traffic idling past the crowd.

'See, nothing to worry about,' I said breezily, squeezing her hand. Then the whistling started.

'We should have booked an earlier cab,' Kirsty said in a flat voice, straightened her back, and almost began to strut along the line of cinemagoers. Damn, my girlfriend was wearing the hell out of that dress.

'Hey where have you been? We saved you a spot.' Where exactly we were being hailed from was hard to tell, but Kirsty dragged me to the sole group in the line that didn't look like they called the windy city home.

'Do we know you?' Kirsty asked a boy in cricket whites.

'Not really,' he confessed, 'but we had to know where you got that dress.'

'My boyfriend made it for me,' Kirsty said quietly.

'How about you?' I was asked by a tweedy young woman on his left.

'I'm her boyfriend,' I said, looking left and right to see if anyone else in the line over heard.

We'd fallen in with a group of theatre students who'd availed themselves of the costume department, and spent their evening criticising everyone else for their unimaginative showing. The sole exception was a thin boy in plus-fours who was at pains to point out he is that deed architecture, but gave a hand with the scenery.

Naturally everyone curious about Kirsty's and my own occupations. Kirsty simply said that she was a civil servant, and refused to be drawn further. In a similar spirit I confessed to being a domestic servant, which everyone refused to believe when I sewed so brilliantly.

'Not any old servant mind,' Kirsty said excitedly, 'Verity's the soubrette girl.'

'The French maid on the High Street?' Terry, the architecture student asked, his mind truly boggled.

'It's just a job,' I tried to say as everyone rushed to ask me questions. 'It's just standing there,' I said with a shrug.

'So brave,' said the tweedy girl, 'can we see your legs?'

Fortunately, the line started moving forward, before I was asked to lift my hem. Instead I concentrated on frowning at Kirsty. Why did she have to spill the beans like that?

'Sorry, darling,' she said, as the line briefly bunched and brought us closer together. 'I'm just so proud of you,' Kirsty gushed, kissed my cheek and went on, 'you're my greatest professional achievement.'

Was that a backhanded compliment, I wondered as we entered the cinema's foyer.

There were gasps all round at the decor, a restoration I'd have been proud to call my own. Speaking as someone spends much of my time in the nineteen thirties, it really was a remarkable job.

Everything shone, from the gilt motifs on the marble columns, to the rich dark woods used everywhere. I may just have peed a little.

'It's wonderful,' I told Kirsty as we queued for our tickets.

'Last time I was here,' she said smiling, 'it smelled of wet tramp.'

Undaunted I allowed the crowd to carry me into the auditorium, and let Kirsty pull me down into a seat amid our new thespian friends.

'You know the girl who lives in my flat,' I said to Kirsty in awed tones, 'this is where she comes to dream.'

'Where do you live,' Terry who'd attached himself to us asked.

'Packney House,' I answered absently as I drank in my surroundings, and was hushed by Kirsty.

'Ladies and gentlemen we have a small problem with our projector and there will be a short delay.' Disappointingly the announcement was not made in a clipped nineteen thirties accent, but I was sure there'd be a suggestion box somewhere.

'In the meantime the house orchestra hopes you will enjoy a selection of popular dance melodies.'

'It doesn't sound like any dance music I’ve heard,' grumbled someone in the row behind us.

'It's the song you sang to me earlier,' Kirsty's said.

'It's Gershwin,' I answered, softly singing the first line again, 'the very thought of you…'

'Did women dance together then? Kirsty asked excitedly.

'Well they were rather short of chaps in the Twenties, because…' I started, but found myself being simultaneously kissed and pulled to my feet.

'There's what looks like a dancefloor by the first row of seats,' Kirsty said as we threaded our way along the aisle.

'No one else is dancing,' I said, between apologies.

'Art deco lesbians remember,' Kirsty said through a grin, and paused long enough to kiss me again.

Without further complaint I allowed myself to be tugged along the remaining seats, and onto the long stairway leading to the front of the cinema. Just how long I appreciated when the first tune ended, and the orchestra struck up something more strident.

'Do you know how to Tango?' Kirsty asked, as momentum carried us out onto the floor. When I nodded, she continued, 'who taught you that? Mr. Blum?'

'Fred and Ginger,' I laughed, and pressed my body to hers.

Gingerly, I disentangled myself from Kirsty, who’d wrapped her body around mine, as we slept. As I began slipping from that warm embrace, the pre-dawn chill of my bedroom, I instantly regretted the necessity of getting up. No one had ever shared my bed in Packney House, ending a dry spell that had started in my second year of university. Still, Janice had said Mrs. Armstrong’s good opinion was vital to the business’s future. I just hoped that Isabel’s fears weren’t realised.

‘Don’t make me go to school today,’ Kirsty murmured, while I picked my way through the discarded underwear that littered my bedroom floor. At least she’d allowed me to hang up our dresses before throwing me on the bed.

‘Shh,’ I whispered, and rearranged the bedding around Kirsty’s sleeping form. My naked little angel seemed a world away from the profane hellion who’d demanded satisfaction a few scant hours ago. ‘I’ll wake you in a little while, Miss,’ I said, and bending low placed a kiss on Kirsty’s lips.

Straightening, I took my robe from its hook behind the door, and wrapped it around my shoulders. My bedroom was always cold at this hour, more so when I was nearly naked.

The race to get undressed, had strewn my stockings and girdle around the room. My knickers I knew were on my city, where Kirsty had removed them. Which left me in my bra alone, its cups flatly vacant. I didn’t remember my bed mate removing my breast forms, but a memory of Kirsty’s activities in the small hours, surely pointed to their fate. Is there such a thing as a jaw sprain, I asked myself.

What little of my make-up remained, I splashed off in the bathroom before shaving, and a brief wash down. I never usually went to bed in make-up, but my guest didn’t seem to think it at all important, and I was in no position to object.

Putting off breakfast until I’d woken my house guest, I swallowed down a scalding cup of Camp coffee, bitter enough to make me bare my teeth. My aunt had had a bottle in the pantry, older than use by dates, which I’d replaced for the sake of my tooth enamel. It wasn’t among my favourite things, but it certainly shook off any sleep.

Kirsty was soundly asleep as I returned to the bedroom, even though first light had begun to leak around my bedroom curtains.

As quietly as I could, I hunted around the bed for my breast forms, and slipped them into a modern crossover bra. Next I stepped into an elasticated open girdle, and sat at my dressing table to pull on a pair of black nylons.

Praying that my knicker drawer wouldn’t squeak as I opened it, I picked out a small white gaff. Ordinarily, tucking my “business” between my legs, when wearing briefs was secure enough. But with the slightly looser, home-made directoire knickers I next selected, and just supposing Mrs. Armstrong really wanted me to clean, I could exert myself with little danger of falling out. If her intentions were more sinister, as Isabel believed, an extra layer of gusset security would be reassuring.

Standing in the pale morning light, I checked to see if Kirsty was awake, but she seemed oblivious to everything. Suitably reassured, I pulled a white full slip over my head, followed by the scratchy black maid’s uniform.

Believing my new employer wouldn’t be impressed by an immodest impression, I applied more restrained cosmetics, than I’d worn in the shop. In Soubrette I could be relatively tartier, but in a stranger’s home I reasoned looking like a good girl, would be safer. I wanted to lock professional, but the correct sort of professional.

After a quick spritz of lily of the valley, to mask any lingering trace of Chanel, I set my black bob in place. Quite smart, I thought, admiring myself in the Chevalier mirror.

Leaving the white lace edged apron for now, I left my flat for the first time that morning.

Collecting my neighbours’ morning newspapers had come so mundane, I practically skipped down the stairs. Barely giving any thought to my clothes, I made small talk with the newsagents as though Verity had done this in Nick’s place for years, not a mere week.

Everyone seemed to be awake this morning, and awaiting my arrival as I stopped at every floor. There wasn’t anything too surprising about this, Lord knows my neighbours were early risers. But every door opened before I could push a newspaper through the letterbox, and each was received by a smiling pensioner. That was unnerving.

Mr. Blum stood similarly in his doorway, and invited me in for a coffee klatch, as he called our morning meetings. Flipping up the silver fob watch pinned to my breast, I saw that I had time for a gossip, and allowed myself to be guided into his kitchen.

‘That’s a pretty watch,’ he said, pouring a cup of proper coffee, ‘is it new?’

I’ve waited a few moments to answer, relishing a beverage instantly superior to the chicory concoction I’d earlier imbibed.

‘I’ve had it for months,’ I said, flicking the watch idly. ‘It was tarnished nearly black when I found it in a car boot. I don’t think the vendor would have let me have it for 50p had he seen the hallmark - 1910!’

‘A bargain!’ Mr. Blum always appreciated a good deal. ‘And it still works?’

‘First-time I wound it,’ I said, nodding vigourously. But I could see he had something on his mind.

‘Your new girl,’ he said, swilling the dregs of his coffee around the cup, ‘she’s quite enthusiastic, from what I heard last night.’ Had he heard us? Across the corridor?

‘Sorry, we fell out of bed,’ I sputtered, blushing fit to burst.

‘Come now, Verity,’ Mr. Blum said, levelling a jovial punch to my upper arm, ‘I know an appreciative young woman when I hear one.’

‘You heard?’ Kirsty had seemed a little louder than my previous partners, but I’d put that down to fading memory. ‘You think anyone else heard us?’

‘Indubitably,’ Mr. Blum said, his accent sounding uncommonly thick.

‘I’d best get back,’ I said hurriedly, ‘I left Kirsty sleeping.’

‘Good for you.’ My chuckling neighbour punched my arm again as I stood up.

Had Kirsty really been that loud? She’d been fairly vocal throughout, but there had been times when my ears were covered. I didn’t relish swapping a girl next door reputation for that of a lothario.

*

‘Wake up, miss,’ I said, gently shaking Kirsty’s shoulder.Her sleeping smile was almost beatific, and it seemed a shame to wake the young woman. However, I liked to think that I had contributed to her contented smile, which remained as her eyes blinked awake.

‘Come back to bed,’ Kirsty said huskily, and drew back the covers by way of an invitation. Tempting as that offer was, I pointed out that we both needed to go to work. ‘When did you grow a work ethic?’ Kirsty groaned.

‘I’ve drawn you a bath, Miss,’ I said, ‘and I don’t want to let Janice down.’
‘Well, if you must,’ Kirsty groaned, throwing back the sheets, ‘but let’s see how good a maid you are.’

‘Aren’t we like Hansel and Gretel walking hand in hand to the wicked witch’s house?’ Kirsty asked, adding, ‘except instead of a chocolate house, there’s an old lady’s sex dungeon.’
‘She probably just wants me to Hoover and stuff ,’ I answered, swinging our hands between us. The thought had passed my mind, and what I’d do if Mrs Armstrong propositioned me. Isabel was always touching me, and that didn’t bother me anymore.

‘See that’s why you need looking after, Verity,’ Kirsty said, and stopped dead half way along the driveway, ‘God alone knows what she has planned for you. Posh people are notoriously kinky, no wonder you’re so quiet this morning.’

‘Actually, I’ve been asking myself why you laughed at me last night before went to bed.’ It may seem a small thing, for someone who stood daily on the High Street, dressed as a stripper. But it hurt when Kirsty laughed at me.

‘When you asked if we should have a drink before going to bed,’ I said, even then, wondering if I were being stupid.

‘And you said “Cocoa or Ovaltine”,’ Kirsty said, turning me to face her, and already stifling a laugh.

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Silly,’ she said, wrapping her arms around me, ‘sometimes I think you’re joking with me, but you’re so caught up in your own little world, what you’ve said is perfectly logical.’

‘You don’t think I’m stupid then?’ Though to be honest, Kirsty’s embrace had driven most of my concerns away.

‘It’s one of the things I love about you,’ Kirsty said, softly in my ear, and I simply melted in her arms. ‘Never mind that,’ she said, patting my bottom, ‘there’s a face at the window, we’d best get on.

*

Kirsty rang the doorbell with a single confident push, and the bell chimed faintly inside. The house was certainly well sound proofed, and my mind could not help but stray to what Mrs Armstrong didn’t want the world to hear. Fortunately, the door opened before that line of thought could evolve into panic.

‘Good morning, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said from the doorway, still wrapped in her dressing gown.

Kirsty stepped forward, her hand extended, and offered similar sentiments. ‘My name is…’

‘Well don’t you look smart in your new uniform,’ my new client said warmly, and motioned me in, with a sweeping arm.

‘I’ll be back at lunch time to pick her up.’ Kirsty obviously was not used to being treated in such an offhand manner, and I rather enjoyed her reaction.

‘Your sister?’ Mrs Armstrong asked, as the door closed.

‘My girlfriend, ma’am,’ I answered, while reflecting on our night’s activities, and belatedly praying that my smirk went undetected.

‘Ah yes, you’re not homosexual,’ Mrs Armstrong said distantly. ‘Is she really so protective of you?’

‘She thinks you intend to imprison me in a dungeon, ma’am,’ I stammered.

‘A sex dungeon?’ Mrs Armstrong arched an eyebrow, smiling patiently at my obvious discomfort.

‘Something like that, ma’am,’ I admitted in a strained voice, which made my new employer laugh heartily. Mrs Armstrong really was quite attractive when she smiled, when her eyes lit up like that. Dangerous thoughts for someone suffering imminent torture.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Parsons, but we’ll start by getting me dressed,’ Mrs Armstrong laughed, and with a pat on my bottom, directed me to the stairs. Going up, I hasten to add.

‘You’ve a lovely home, ma’am,’ I said eager to put a little small talk between us and sex dungeons.

‘Of course it’s too large for me now,’ she said, pushing me upwards, ‘but there’s plenty of housework for a diligent maid.’

‘Is it just you, ma’am?’ Perhaps she really did want someone to clean up, with no smutty stuff. I’d have the last laugh on Isabel.

‘Just me,’ she said, shucking off the dressing gown, as we entered what was obviously her bedroom.

‘Do you want me to make up the bed, ma’am?’ I asked, my eyes studiously averted the middle aged woman wearing only a bra and panties.

‘God no, I want you to help me get dressed,’ she said, opening a closet door. ‘I think there’s a pair of black leggings on the other side of the bed.’

‘I’ve got them, ma’am,’ I said, standing uneasily behind her, ‘but may I suggest an adjustment to your bra first, ma’am?’

‘You’re an expert?’ Mrs Armstrong asked good naturedly.

‘I did this for loads of girls in college; you’re bulging a little at the sides,’ I said, slipping my fingers under her bra’s band, and deftly refastening hooks and eyes.

‘And they just let you?’ Mrs Armstrong asked in disbelief.

‘In my experience, ma’am,’ I said from over her shoulder, ‘dressmakers are as trusted as hairdressers, in these matters.’

‘And you’re not homosexual?’

‘Nope, ma’am,’ I said, shortening each bra-strap by a quarter of an inch, ‘but you’ll find this a much better fit.’

‘You do know you’re cupping my breasts, Parsons?’ Thankfully, her amusement matched my mortification, and I let my hands fall away as quickly as I couldn’t manage.

‘And how did they make you feel?’ Mrs Armstrong asked, turning to face me.

‘Jealous, ma’am,’ I answered quietly. Isabel had only put the idea in my head the day before, but it had quickly become almost a conviction. Mrs Armstrong shook her head, gave me a sad smile, and plopped herself down on the bed’s edge. For a moment I stared dumbly at her, before picking up the leggings again.

‘You seem quite comfortable kneeling for your mistress,’ Mrs Armstrong said almost fondly, as I began smoothing the leggings up her calves.

‘Isabel says I’m a natural submissive, ma’am,’ I said, concentrating solely on the job in hand, ‘but I just like helping people.’ Mrs Armstrong gave me a quizzical look, and stood allowing me to complete my task.

I blushed quite deeply as I smoothed the waistband over her hips, and bottom. Which seemed to amuse the woman I was serving. ‘Definitely not homosexual,’ she said, barely under her breath.

*

When dressed in a striped blue and white tunic, for a day at home, my mistress (as she called herself) instructed me to clean the bath room, make up the bed, and gather any clothes lying around, while she put on her face. After which I was to find her in the kitchen, for my next assignment.

*

I was still picking up items of my mistress’s clothing, when I heard an insistent tinkling summon me downstairs.

‘Ah, Parsons,’ my employer said Lang quickly, ‘you’ll find laundry goes in the small room next to this. After starting that I’ll require a pot of tea in the conservatory.’

Struggling to keep an armload of gathered clothing in hand, I scuttled into the next room. And was confronted by a washing machine with an array of controls, far in excess of my own at home. If only there was a mangle, I moaned before beginning to separate whites from fast coloureds. In theory, it was just another wash day, but I was really worried about Mrs Armstrong’s clothes. Or should I say, my mistress’s. Why did that sound so kinky?

*

‘I’ve started the first load, ma’am,’ I said softly, laying a tray of tea things on a table alongside my employer. ‘Should I pour for you, ma’am?’

‘If you’d be so kind,’ Mrs Armstrong said, brushing the back of my hand.

‘Is that your favourite book, ma’am,’ I asked, pouring a small amount of milk into the cup.

‘One of them,’ she said, opening the battered paperback out, so that I could read its covers. ‘Though I must say, I feel like Miss Havisham, summoning you this morning.’

‘You’re far from being covered in cobwebs, ma’am,’ I demurred, but added, ‘am I then Pip?’

‘Pippa perhaps,’ she said, lifting the teacup to her lips. Had I been too familiar I wondered, and simply stood there, waiting to be dismissed.

‘Which song are you trying not to sing this morning?’ She asked, looking up into my eyes.

‘None, ma’am,’ I answered, shifting my weight uneasily from foot to foot.

‘Nonsense, girl!’ Mrs Armstrong tugged at my sleeve, and continued staring into my eyes.

‘The Lambeth Walk, ma’am.’ I grinned sheepishly.

‘Your girlfriend’s influence no doubt,’ she said, grinning in turn.

‘It had been my first time in about ten years, ma’am,’ I stammered.

‘Good for you,’ my new mistress congratulated me, and patted my bottom gently, ‘now off you pop, and clean the mess I’ve made in the kitchen.’

*

My employer seemed to have a singular talent for mess making, more so in the kitchen, than elsewhere I earlier cleaned. Then again, that was now my occupation, as a dutiful servant.
No matter how I told myself that, it still felt off. That sort of thing, I’d down one have to talk over with Kirsty. Like my problems with Isabel, she always knew what the answers were. In the meantime, I busied myself, ever vigilant for my mistress’s summons.

‘You’re very good at this,’ Mrs Armstrong said, as I carried yet another pot of tea into the conservatory.

‘It’s nothing really, ma’am,’ I said, moving the discarded paperback aside, before laying down the tray.

‘It’s a rare skill these days,’ my mistress said, ‘to serve another without question, to sublimate your own desires to fulfil someone else’s. I couldn’t do that.’

‘It’s no big thing, ma’am,’ I said, preparing for dismissal. Instead Mrs Armstrong patted the seat beside her, and entreated me to sit beside her.

‘Have a look at this,’ she said, moving a thick leather bound volume, from her lap to mine.

Somewhat puzzled, I turned the cover, and realised it was a photograph album, and the first image, was that of a French maid.

‘My husband,’ Mrs Armstrong confined, and urged me to turn the page, to another photo of the same maid. I failed miserably to keep my suspicions from my face, and began to sputter, as dawned on me what she wanted.

‘Calm down, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said, touching my shoulder. ‘Henry was a powerful man, yet there was an alter ego named “Fifi”, who lived to serve my wishes. Abjectly.’

‘I can try, ma’am,’ I said, as I tried to absorb what she’d said about her husband.

‘There was nothing sexual between Fifi and I,’ she explained, ‘throughout our marriage, she lived to pamper me.’

‘I think that I can do that,’ I said, letting a feeling of relief wash over me.

‘I was probably a bit spoiled, and I miss her terribly,’ Mrs Armstrong said sadly, ‘Henry wasn’t that old when he died, and the retirement we’d planned had only just begun.’

‘So you don’t want…’ I let my voice trail away, and as I laid my hand over hers.

‘You won’t have to shag this old boiler,’ Mrs Armstrong cackled, ‘but I’m quite demanding. So you’ll not have a free ride.’

‘I like Fifi’s uniforms,’ I said, turning the pages.

‘We had them made in London, and they cost a bloody fortune.’ Mrs Armstrong gripped my wrist, and confided, ‘but yours are better made than any of them.’

‘Do you still have them?’ I asked, already planning what I could do with that surfeit of black silk.

‘I buried Fifi in one, but burned the others,’ she said, very quietly. ‘I never thought I’d find another male maid, sorry.’

‘Not a worry, ma’am,’ I said, patting the older woman’s knee , ‘but I’d have loved to wear all that lace.’ Mrs Armstrong seemed to have something to add, but there was a persistent ringing at the front door.

‘Should I get that, ma’am?’ I asked, half rising. At my mistress’s nod, I stepped lively to answer, flipping my watch to check the time.

‘I thought you’d be manacled by now,’ Kirsty said, as I swung the door open.

‘Who should I say is calling, Miss?’ I asked primly, as Kirsty stepped over the threshold and caught me in a tight embrace.

*

Kirsty’s second encounter with Mrs Armstrong, was to an extent warmer than the first. But she bridled somewhat at the older woman’s description of herself, as my mistress.

‘Calm down, child,’ my employer said, with a certain hauteur I knew would set Kirsty’s teeth on edge, though I did not know if that was Mrs Armstrong’s intention. ‘There is no sexual connotation,’ she continued, ‘Parsons is my servant, and I her de facto mistress. Will you take some tea?’

When I scuttled back from the kitchen with an extra teacup , both were sitting icily in the conservatory.

‘Your cup , Miss,’ I said, as I laid my burden on the small cane table, letting my fingers trail lightly over her hand. ‘Should I pour, Miss,’ I asked.

‘You’ve had a wasted journey I’m afraid,’ my mistress said, ‘Parsons’ performance has been impeccable, and I’ve engaged her services for rest of the day.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less,’ Kirsty said, between sips, ‘she is always a very good girl.’ Once again, women were discussing me like a small child, and while I should have objected, my cheeks were flushed with the praise.

‘I’ve also arranged for her services each Wednesday,’ Mrs Armstrong added.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I said, bobbing where I stood behind Kirsty. It may seem a little strange, but I really did feel grateful. Was it just a uniform making me feel that way?

*
A few minutes later, Kirsty excused herself, and I was directed to show the visitor to the door, where she drew me close.

‘All you really okay with acting this way?’ Kirsty asked, under her breath.

‘Yes, Miss,’ I said brightly, ‘at least there isn’t a sex dungeon.’

‘Have you seen all the property?’

‘Not all of it,’ I whispered, ‘I’ll tell you more when mistress brings me home.’

‘Oh you,’ my girlfriend laughed, and crushed my lips under hers.

*

Lunch was an unexpected treat, a simple salad eaten with Mrs Armstrong. ‘Call me Olivia,’ she said, and told me I’d know when I was to be Parsons again.

‘You know the definition of “soubrette” isn’t just a ladies maid,’ balancing a salad leaf on fork, ‘she can be a confidante, a companion.”

‘I barely knew the word at all last week, ma… Olivia,’ I said, feeling dreadfully gauche.

‘Tell me about those college girls who sought your bra expertise.’ Olivia asked confidentially.

‘It took a couple of terms for girls to find out that I could sew,’ I said, between mouthfuls, ‘it was a good way to meet girls, for a while.’

‘You sound like quite the rake,’ Olivia laughed.

‘I had my moments, I said, managing to grin and blush at the same time.

‘And they did mind you swanning around as Verity?’

‘Oh I was Nick and Nicky in uni,’ I laughed, ‘and they only found out about Nicky towards the end of the first year.’ ‘

‘What happened then?’ Olivia asked, suddenly seeming very intent.

‘Nothing really, everyone just seemed to accept I wore dresses.’ It was all a bit of an anti-climax, as I remembered. For years, cross-dressing had been my most shameful secret, and now it was out in the open, nobody gave a damn.

Olivia laid the fork on her empty plate, asking only, ‘you had no problems?’

‘Not until I fell in love with my flatmate,’ I said ruefully, adding quickly, ‘who was an actual girl.’

‘Unrequited of course?’ Olivia was stacking our empty plates, which felt strange to me.

‘Please let me do that, ma’am,’ I said, lifting the crockery from table, and carrying it towards the sink. It was a maid’s place to lift and carry, and I wasn’t about to allow it to be usurped.

‘We have a dishwasher you know,’ my employer told my retreating back.

‘It’s only a couple of Plates, ma’am’ I said, quickly running the taps. It was a misplaced pride in my abilities, that I rushed before my mistress could countermand my efforts. On the other hand, it may have sprung from my reluctance to admit I didn’t know how to operate it.

‘Maids,’ Mrs Armstrong said, with redesigned grin, but she was not about to finish our conversation. ‘I gather you didn’t ride into the sunset.’

I rather wished I hadn’t said anything about Vicky, it was a difficult time for me, and I tried not to think about it.

‘We became best friends, ma’am,’ I said, splashing about in the soapy water, ‘or at least, part of me did.’

‘Wasn’t that part Verity?’ Snatching a glance over my shoulder, I could see the older woman stare intently at my ankles.

‘Not back then, ma’am,’ I said, lifting a plate out of the water, ‘Nicky was the non-vintage version of me in those days.’

‘Just a normal girl then?’ Olivia cocked her head to one side, and gave me a speculative smile.

‘We were like sisters, ma’am.’ It took all of my resolve to concentrate on retrieving flatware, and not to simply clam up. ‘For most of my final year in uni, I lived as a young woman. Where Vicky went, I went too.’

‘I bet the young you was a heartbreaker,’ Olivia laughed.

‘The blokes had a competition running, ma’am,’ I said while emptying the washing up bowl. ‘Everybody thought I would eventually go the whole way, but I didn’t.’

‘We’d have called you a prick teaser in my day.’ Olivia sat back, and was obviously enjoying my discomfort.

‘They got a good night kiss on the cheek, and sometimes a cuddle.’ I knew I sounded defensive, but I was more worried about the blush spreading out from my cheeks.

‘There wasn’t anyone who romanced you farther?’ The old woman’s face almost shone with curiosity, setting forward on the edge of the seat, encouraging me to share what I’d never told anyone before.

‘My dissertation supervisor, a postgrad student, took me out a a few times,’ I said haltingly, ‘he treated me like a normal girl, and we French kissed a few times.’

‘And?’ It was a simple question, that I felt compelled to answer.

‘One night in the cinema, he put his hand up my dress…’ Suddenly my mouth was incredibly dry, but I couldn’t keep myself from continuing. ‘His fingers,’ I said, scuttling forward to whisper in my mistress’s ear.

‘He said, if I hadn’t liked it I wouldn’t have…’ The last part of that sentence too, could only be delivered into Mrs Armstrong’s ear.

‘From my recollections of male anatomy,’ she said, while my face sagged on her shoulder, ‘most men react that way, if those buttons are pushed.’

‘He did that a few times, ma’am,’ I sniffed, ‘but I never did the things to him he wanted.’

‘Buck up, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said in a brisk manner, yet not entirely and sympathetically. Perhaps it was my imagination, but her hand seemed to linger a few moments in the small of my back.

‘Sorry, ma’am, of course,’ I said, still sniffing lightly, ‘should I fold the laundry now, and iron it, ma’am?’

*

‘Good Lord, Parsons, are you ironing my knickers?’ Mrs Armstrong’s tone was accusative, but my mistress (as I now thought of her), looked rather amused by my efforts.

‘It’s to make them lie flat in the draw, ma’am,’ I said, trying not to notice the pair of briefs on the ironing board, was far briefer than the others I’d ironed. For special occasions, I fought.

‘Only a male maid,’ she chuckled.

Ironing underwear isn’t that odd, I thought, but then again how many men were dressed as maids in our town right now? On reflection, our town wasn’t a fair sample; there could be dozens. I thought it safer to ask where I should place them, took my directions and trooped upstairs.

When I returned to ground level, Mrs Armstrong’s little handbell called me into the living room.

‘Sit with me, and chat a little more,’ she said, and patted the cushion beside her.

‘Of course, Mistress,’ I said, noting the pleasure that title seemed to bring her, and settle myself down, taking care to leave a respectable distance between us.

‘You don’t sound local, Verity, what brought you to town?’

‘My great aunt lived here, Olivia,’ I started, unsure if using her given name was being too familiar.

‘We are not maid and mistress now, please continue.’

‘My family started coming here on holidays when I was very young,’ I said, and wondering what she would think of people who didn’t go abroad.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Five, my parents, two older, and me.’ Should I have included the latter, wasn’t it redundant?

‘Sounds quite a crush, in a small flat,’ Olivia said, smiling perhaps at my discomfort.

‘Aunt Fenn had a place in Packney House, there was plenty of room,’ I said, remembering fondly those summer holidays, ‘mum and dad in the spare room with the twins, and I had the living room couch.’

‘It sounds like you were Cinders back then too,’ Olivia chuckled.

‘Everyone else went to the beach, but I stayed with my aunt, and she taught me how to sew. They didn’t miss me much really.’ Aunt Fenn was still missed though, I never felt completely at home with the rest of my family.

‘Even when we graduated to foreign trips, I preferred to spend holidays on the coast.’

Mrs Armstrong was quiet for a a few minutes, as though my words were important, and not mere maid babbling. ‘Is that when Verity appeared?’

‘Oh no, that didn’t happen until I was in my teens,’ I said slowly, why did she want to know? ‘Aunt Fenn knew I liked to dress up, my whole family knew that. But she was the only person to encourage me.’

‘You made your own clothes?’ Olivia asked, ‘did you ever wear them out?’

‘No, it was our secret,’ I said, smiling at the memory. ‘But the neighbours soon cottoned on, and I ended up giving little fashion shows.’

‘You must have looked darling,’ Olivia said, brushing my cheek with the back of her fingers, ‘and then?’

‘When I went to university, the coast was closer than my parents. So I came here at least once a month, and the whole summer.’

‘It sounds idyllic,’ Olivia said, ‘but how did you end up living here?’

‘About two years into my postgrad work,’ I had to stop for a second, ‘aunt Fenn passed away, and she left her entire estate to me.’

‘Were there any other family members who might have expected to receive something?

‘She has two children, and they tied me up in court for months. It was all Jarndyce versus Jarndyce, and eat up almost all my savings.’

‘You weren’t tempted to sell?’

‘My family thought I should,’ I said, trying to contain my bile ‘but they’d not been near for years. I figured I’d been left the property, because aunt Fenn didn’t want it sold.’

‘You know, for a submissive, you’ve stood up to a lot of people.’ I’m not very good at judging others, but I seemed to a note of respect in Olivia’s voice. Of course, I may have read that totally wrong.

‘I’m probably rubbish at being submissive too.’ In all probability I had talked my way out of a career as a maid. And just when I had started enjoying myself.

‘

Mr Blum arrived from Germany in 1939?’ Olivia, my mistress, wanted to know everything about me, to the smallest detail.

‘He was part of the last kindertransport, from Berlin,’ I said gravely.

‘And he has no family?’

‘He married an English woman,’ I replied, a little unsure about discussing my friends, ‘but no one from his German family survived the war.’ Despite myself, my voice caught on the last few words.

Olivia stretched an arm around my shoulder, and took my teacup from my lap. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘Please, ma’am, there must be so much work for me to do,’ I objected limply. But my mistress, why did I think of her in that way, pulled me gently to my feet.

‘You’ve finished the ironing,’ she said, leading me back to the utility room, ‘or should I crumple extra knickers for you?’

There wasn’t much I could say to that, and I followed her to a door adjacent.

‘What do you think?’ Olivia asked, revealing a small room, its walls painted a soft duck-egg blue. Apart from two coat hooks on the far wall, the room was empty.

‘It was to be the Fifi’s room,’ she said, softly, ‘and I thought it perfect for you, as you are perfect for what I’d planned.’

‘But…’

‘What I’d planned before you told me about your home, and how much it means to you,’ Olivia continued, ‘yet I would still like you to work the odd evening, and perhaps stay over when you’re too work the following day.’

‘I’d have to think about it,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘I have responsibilities at home.’ Was this a sex dungeon waiting to be furnished?

‘Of course, Verity,’ Olivia said, ‘but you’d be working directly for me, and I pay you for your time.’

Honestly, pay didn’t mean that much to me, but who would collect my neighbours’ newspapers, and a hundred other errands I did for them. Olivia was very nice, but did she really need my help? I was still pondering about what I’d answer, when we heard the telephone ring in the kitchen.

‘I’ll get that,’ Olivia said, dashing off, and leaving me alone in the corridor. Standing before the open door, my imagination began to run wild, populating the room with all manner of torture contraptions. Or at least those, my limited experience could conjure, and I only eavesdropped inadvertently.

‘Do I have your lucky knickers?’ Olivia asked the phone, ‘if you left them here, Parsons has probably ironed them.’ Anticipating the question to follow, I stepped into the vacant kitchen doorway.

‘Is that the crimson G string, ma’am?’

‘Yes I know it’s a thong,’ my mistress told the telephone, ‘that’s just Parsons, she lives in the 1930s, she’s art deco Amish.’

‘I put them with…’

‘Yes i’ve found a maid,’ she told the telephone, and after a brief pause added, ‘you never once ironed my knickers.’

‘Shall I get them?’ I asked, and when I received a nod, disappeared upstairs, hearing only a snippet of the continuing conversation.

‘She’s very sweet, but not a replacement for you, darling.’

*

‘Now you know my secret, Mrs Armstrong said, a devilish smile playing over her lips, ‘can I trust your discretion?’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ I answered, my head slightly bowed, and my eyes on the carpet. ‘What should I do next, ma’am?’

‘It’s almost five,’ Olivia said, looking briefly at her wristwatch, ‘it’s time to get you home to your other mistress.’

‘Kirsty isn’t my…’ I began, but Olivia’s smiled and waved me quiet.

‘She spent most of last night sitting on your face,’ mistress Olivia said, smiling. Why did I have to tell her that, Kirsty wouldn’t like that. No man can serve two masters, could a maid fare better with multiple mistresses?

*

‘Isn’t that Kirsty sitting on your building’s steps?’ Olivia said, as she brought her car to a rest on my street.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, wondering what my girlfriend was doing there, sitting on me suitcase, with a newspaper open on her lap. Without really noticing what I did, I unclipped my seatbelt, and stepped on to the pavement.

‘Oh Verity,’ Kirsty wailed, and thrust a copy of our local evening paper at me.

‘It’s not so bad,’ I said, looking at the picture on the front page, ‘it’s mostly me kissing someone with blonde hair… I’m even named in the caption.’

‘Turn to page seven,’ Kirsty sounded despondent, i’d never seen her so distressed. And then I saw a photograph of us dancing at the Rialto. It was probably just the angle, but the most noticeable thing in the picture, was Kirsty’s hand gripping my bottom.

‘It’s a nice photo,’ Olivia said, from over my shoulder. I’d never even noticed that she had followed me out of the car.

‘Still, it’s only me that’s mentioned by name,’ I said softly, wrapping an arm around the girl.

‘But I told mum I was going with my new friend Verity,’ Kirsty sniffed, and we had a huge fight about me being a lesbian.’

Briefly I locked eyes with Mrs Armstrong, before lifting Kirsty to her feet. ‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’

‘Because they all heard us having sex last night,’ Kirsty said, through a mist of tears.

‘Perhaps it’s best we all go inside,’ Olivia said, briskly. ‘Parsons, carry her case for her.’ Meekly I retrieved the bank, while my mistress consoled my err… Mistress.

*

‘Were you really that loud?’ Olivia asked, as I fumbled for my door key.

‘We were rather, ma’am,’ I said, opening my flat’s front door.

‘Oh God,’ groaned Kirsty.

‘That was one of your favourites,’ I said, struggling not to laugh.

‘That’s enough of that,’ Olivia said, while delivering a sharp slap to my bottom. I had to blink away several tears, before leading them to my settee.

‘Would you like to take tea, ma’am,’ I asked, more respectfully than I had before. Maybe Isabel was right, it was the only way I could learn lessons.

‘You don’t have to call me “ma’am” here,’ Olivia chided, setting Kirsty down before looking around. ‘This place is amazing,’

‘Thanks ma…’

‘Tea now, Parsons, chop chop.’ How was I supposed to not treat Olivia as my mistress, if she continued to treat me as her servant? Getting the tea was probably a good first step.

*

‘Ovaltine or cocoa. Both women were laughing as I returned with a tea tray.

‘It’s not that funny,’ I said, as I laid down the tea things.

‘Aren’t you joining us, Verity?’ Kirsty asked, her eyes leading mine to the two teacups I had set on the coffee table.

‘Sorry,’ I sputtered, turning on my heel, and rushing to the kitchen for a third. Once again, laughter reigned in my living room.

‘Sit here, darling,’ Kirsty said, patting the cushion between her and Olivia. It was starting to feel like I was being shared again, but I was happy to be close to my girlfriend.

‘It’s simple really,’ Olivia said, between sips, ‘you drop Verity off Tuesday evening, and pick her up after dinner the following evening.’

‘And she is just to be a maid?’ Kirsty asked, dubiously.

‘To serve dinner in the evening, and to be my maid in the morning,’ Olivia said, reaching to pat the back of my hand.

‘Verity gave me a wonderful bath this morning,’ Kirsty said, dreamily, before coming back to the point, ‘I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with her doing that for anyone else.’ I had a few choice memories of that bath myself, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be doing that for Mrs Armstrong. Shouldn’t I be getting a say?

‘Verity will see me naked, but I bathe myself,’ Olivia said, ‘isn’t having your own maid to hamper you just wonderful?’ Kirsty agreed, and gently ruffled my wig with a free hand.

‘I’d like to ask something, if I’m allowed,’ I asked, a little tremulously, and waited for both women to nod. ‘It’s just that Fifi had such lovely uniforms, and I wondered if I could add lace to mine.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Olivia said, ‘if your other mistress doesn’t mind.’

‘That’s me,’ Kirsty beamed, and kissed me deeply. ‘I don’t mind what you do to your uniform, darling, as long you are in it.’

‘Now how about that tour?’ Olivia asked.

*

‘I can’t believe you two had sex in a bed that narrow!’

‘I fell off the bed a few times,’ Kirsty said, blushing.

‘Off me,’ I said, failing to fend off a nudge that became a tickle.

‘Well Verity needs a bed for her new room,’ Olivia said, ignoring our horseplay, ‘why don’t we swap this for one of my doubles?’

I hummed and ahhed a little, it had my bed since my teens, but I could see how excited the offer made Kirsty. So I reluctantly agreed.

Olivia didn’t stay much longer, begging off another engagement, which I offered to help her get ready for.

‘You would,’ Kirsty said, playfully biting my ear.

‘Maids,’ Olivia said, rolling her eyes, before addressing me directly, ‘tell Kirsty about Nicky tonight.’

*

‘We were talking about you in the office today,’ Kirsty said, while I prepared dinner.

‘Is my sluttiness still the hot topic?’ I asked absently, concentrating on the salad I prepared.

‘Helen from adult services was in, and asked how Nick was doing.’

‘Did you tell her I’d been sold to a sex dungeon?’

‘Of course not,’ Kirsty said, pinching a piece of cucumber from my salad bowl. ‘I wouldn’t sully the reputation of Packney House’s saintly unpaid social worker.’

‘Really,’ I said, taking the pan of pasta off the stove.

‘They worship him, but Verity is like an urban legend.’ That least piqued my attention, and I looked inquisitively at my pilfering girlfriend.

‘Everyone here sings her praises, but she’s not on the electoral roll. In fact there is no record of anyone of that name, and half the Department believe she is a ghost, and are scouring parish records to find out who she was.’ Kirsty finished soberly.

‘That will change now been i’ve been in the paper,’ I said, carrying the plates into the living room.

‘Who’s Nicky?’ Kirsty asked, after wolfing down our sparse meal, and I retold the story I had given Olivia.

Still chasing the last forkful around my plate, I wasn’t prepared for Kirsty’s reaction.

‘You were raped!’ Kirsty cried, into my ear, while crushing me with hugs.

‘It’s not like I was forced,’ I said, softly, ‘and I let him do it to me a few times.’

‘And I told you to ignore Isabel groping you,’ Kirsty said, renewing her attempts at squeezing me.

‘I quite like that now, and it’s more like stroking her pet.’

‘I’m so giving you a bath tonight,’ said Kirsty, untying my apron.

‘But why are you taking off your clothes now?’ I asked, when she had removed everything down to my gaff.

‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to splash her working clothes.’

author's note: sorry if it's a bit clunky but I rushed to finish