My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.

To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year, starting with my very first Big Busts' story, explaining how the store started up. It was originally published under the authorship of Marianne Nettes, but rather than causing confusion, I have now switched to the name I have used since 2004.

It's worth saying that the vast majority of my stories are meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with mystery, sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.

BIG BUSTS
by Charlotte Dickles

CHAPTER 1 - BIG, BLACK AND BEAUTIFUL
=================================

Tony Phillips woke up feeling as if a brand new world had just started. He struggled to sit upright in the bed, a childish grin breaking out on his face as he stared over towards the dressing table. The woman smiling back at him in the mirror was fantastic — big, black and beautiful, and naked from the waist up, her lower half obscured by a white drape across her midriff.

There were a number of brightly coloured dresses hanging in the open wardrobe, but the simple white dress with the deep cleavage, which she had worn last night, was still lying on the floor where it had got strewn in the heat of the moment. God knows where his own clothes had ended up — at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less, for life ahead was far too exciting to be bothered about a trivial detail like trousers. With a bit of luck, he wasn’t going to need them for ages.

He blew her a kiss, and the woman in the mirror returned it with an even bigger smile, her breasts giving a pleasant jiggle, as she moved.

She said, ‘I’ve finished in the bathroom, if you want to use it.’

‘I think I’d rather lie here and wait for you to come back to bed.’

‘Uh-uh. Sorry baby. Business calls — I have to go across the water and see the landlord about extending the lease; then on to my equipment supplier. It’s almost nine am. Aren’t you going in to your bank?’

‘Nine! Hell, I must have slept like a log after you finished with me, whatever time that was.’

They both smiled at shared memories.

‘We could both play hooky,’ Tony suggested. He didn’t think he’d ever played hooky in his life, before, and here he was, suggesting that the two of them spend the day screwing. Disgraceful!

‘Not for me. I’ve got too many things to do. You can stay here if you want, but you’ll have to play with yourself. Sorry.’

Tony shrugged, philosophically. There’d be other times. ‘Shucks. I guess I’ll have to take a shower and go into work, then.’

‘OK.’ She pulled some white knickers from a drawer and slipped them on. From the same drawer she took a white bra and, leaning forward, lowered those fabulous breasts into it, then fastened the clasp behind her back.

She looked at him and gave a complicit smile as she said, ‘Thanks for a great night, and thanks for organising the loan, as well.’

‘We bank managers are here to serve our customers.’

But never before in that way. Not with him, anyway.

Since she was rapidly becoming respectably dressed — if the bright red dress she was slipping into could ever be classed as respectable — Tony decided he had better have a shower, and make his first efforts towards getting into work. He was actually singing in the bath (which he hadn’t done since he was seventeen) when she popped her head round the door and announced she was going.

‘How are you going to get there?’ he asked. They had travelled in his car, last night.

‘I’ll hitch,’ she said, and added with a grin, ‘Hitch up my skirt. I’ll soon get a lift that way.’

Tony had a sudden pang of jealousy, that she should flaunt herself like that, but she had gone before he could offer her a lift. It wasn’t too far to walk, anyway, and at that time of day, it would probably take him as long to drive through the rush hour traffic.

As it happened, Tony wasn’t more than thirty minutes late, and he concocted some trivial excuse to satisfy his secretary, Val, and the band of female cashiers who mothered him like broody hens. Confessing to spending the previous night in bed with a female customer would probably have pleasantly surprised most of them. But if he’d told anyone that he’d spent it with that young, black sex-bomb who, yesterday afternoon, had walked into his branch of Barkwest Bank asking for a business loan, they would have been shocked to the core, and never again been able to look him in the eye.

It was probably because of his middle-age and very respectability, that Val suggested that he, rather than his junior manager Nick Brown, should interview Ms Carmine Ross. Val had given Tony the excuse that Nick was running late with his previous appointment, but most likely she had taken one look at Carmine and decided she’d have Nick’s trousers off him before they even got the office door closed.

Carmine was twenty-three years old, big boned and tall — in her heels she loomed over Tony. She had a firm, confident grip as they shook hands, and Tony tried hard to look her in the eye, rather than down at the incredible cleavage revealed by that plunging V-neck dress. The dress was white, and made of material so light it had floated out as she walked towards him. On her feet, she had white, high-heeled sandals, with thin straps which wound above her ankles. She would have looked completely at home in one of the discos on Seacombe’s Sunset Strip — but in the bank, the appearance of Lucifer himself could not have more shocked Tony’s staff.

She looked at him, looking at her, and said with a directness, which both surprised and delighted him: ‘I guess I’ve kind of blown it with the dress, haven’t I? I thought I’m going to come in here and knock ‘em out, and er...’ she gave him a little girl look, ‘I guess I have.’

He smiled. ‘If you mean, “Have you totally traumatized all the female staff in my bank”, then the answer is “Probably”. If on the other hand you mean: “Have you brightened up an otherwise dull afternoon, for one middle-aged bloke who is absolutely enthralled by the sight of a really pretty girl?” then the answer is definitely “You bet!”.’

Tony had never seen so many shiny white teeth as was displayed by her grin. She wrinkled her nose in a quite appealing way: ‘Jeez. Thanks for making me feel OK. I felt like shit when I saw how your secretary looked at me, as though I was a tart on the game.’

‘I apologise on behalf of the bank. She shouldn’t have looked at you like that. Now, what can I do for you?’

She wanted a business loan to start up a sculptor business in the old town. She’d been renting a shop for a few weeks, making busts for visiting tourists. She’d taken enough business to make her believe she could earn a living out of it, but she needed to take out a lease on the shop, and buy some better equipment. Could the bank lend her the money?

To be honest, Tony wasn’t over enthusiastic. The old town in Seacombe, originally based around the fishing port, had gone through one bad patch after another, after decades of over fishing had totally depleted the sea of life, and the package holiday industry depleted the town of tourists. Many British seaside towns were in the same position as Seacombe — they survived on day trippers, most of whom were more interested in the amount of alcohol they could consume, rather than a visit to a sculptor.

‘Doesn’t it take you a long time to make a bust of someone? Don’t you have to charge a lot of money?’

Another toothy grin, but this time with a knowing look in her eyes, as though she had expected him to ask that question, and had the answer ready.

‘Simply ages.’ A pause, for effect, then she added, ‘...if you do it the conventional way. But I use modern technology. A few digital photographs, which I feed into my computer, and I then produce a three dimensional digital image of the person. I’ve got a peripheral on the computer, which cuts out the two halves of a cast for the bust. Pour in the moulding material, and bingo! Less than half an hour’s work, and less than one-day elapsed time, and you have a perfect replica. I’ve been charging  £25 each, and they’ve been selling like hot cakes.’

She produced a folder and clumsily withdrew a spreadsheet, which she passed across to him.

‘I need to buy some better equipment, and materials, and take out a lease on the studio, but I’ve done a discounted cash flow which shows I’m well in profit, even if I only get one third of the trade I’ve been doing these last three weeks.’

She blushed suddenly, as though embarrassed at airing words which she had not used before. Tony smiled back at her; keen to show she had not been talking rubbish. Unless, of course, it was all rubbish. Suppose she didn’t have a shop with equipment to make busts — she was simply trying to con money out of the bank. It had done before, sometimes by people as appealing as Carmine — in fact, usually by people as appealing as Carmine.

The spreadsheet looked as good as she had indicated. If she was telling the truth, he’d be happy to advance a loan. After all, she was hardly asking for a large amount, but... was she telling the truth, or was it a con?

There were two ways of searching out that kind of problem — one was to look at the books, but with a business that had only been going for a few weeks, they were meaningless. A much better way was to visit the business at work, and make certain that everything stacked up with what she claimed.

‘That sounds fascinating. If your figures are as good as this spreadsheet shows, I think we’ll be able to arrange a loan, but the bank will need to visit your business and satisfy itself. When could we arrange that for?’

‘The sooner, the better. You can come now, if you like.’

Tony hesitated. Normally, he’d have sent Nick out on this kind of visit, but why should he have all the fun? He had no further appointments that afternoon. And a snap visit like this ensured there was no chance to prepare in advance.

He made up his mind. ‘Why not? I’ll just go and tell my secretary where I’m going, and then we can drive out there.’

When Tony told Val where he was off to, she replied, ‘Can you hang on for a few minutes? I’ve sent Jean out for some extra strength condoms. She’ll be back soon.’

It was a measure of the trust that she had in him that made the joke possible. Had she the slightest suspicion of how things would turn out, she would never have dared to make such a comment. Tony declined her offer with a grin, and led Carmine out to the staff car park, using the steeply climbing passageway at the side of the bank.

She gave a squeal of delight when she saw his company Jaguar. ‘Sh-i-t! Is this really your car? It’s fantastic. Do I get to ride up front, or does the little black girl have to get in the boot?’

‘Nothing as luxurious as the boot, I’m afraid. You have to run behind.’ Tony was shocked by his own words. They’d been meant as a joke, but taken the wrong way, they could have been deeply offensive, and if she made a complaint... He shuddered at the thought.

Fortunately she was laughing, and telling him how terrified she had been at the thought of going into the bank and asking a load of stuffy, old, farts to part with such a huge amount of money. He breathed a sigh of relief and concentrated upon navigating the car through the start of the afternoon rush hour traffic, towards the bridge to the old town.

Seacombe is in two parts, separated by the river. Barkwest Bank was in the new town, which although built on the steep sides of the river valley, had several straight and reasonably level main roads, which ran along the contours. Unfortunately, this meant that all the roads and alleyways at right angles to them sloped steeply, and even in his smart new Jaguar, Tony always had a terror that his brakes would fail as he approached the river, and he would plunge into the cold water, and be immediately swept out to sea.

As usual, Tony drove without incident across the lift bridge, which joined the new and old towns. On the other side of the river, the old town was fairly flat, but with a maze of twisty little roads and passages housing tiny, fishermen’s cottages, which had mostly been converted into bed and breakfast houses. But the package holiday trade had taken its effect, and local holiday businesses had slumped, leaving many houses boarded up and derelict.

He was pleased that Carmine directed him to the area of the old town closest to the beach, where a number of tourist and antique shops, and small art galleries, still survived. To get to her shop, they had to leave the car in a public car park, and walk the last few yards along what had once been a narrow road, and was now a pedestrian passage.

The shop had a narrow frontage with living accommodation above, but it looked attractive, and there was a steady stream of people browsing the shops on either side of the passage. Tony noticed that even the name above the shop window, Big Busts, created a little stir of interest, especially amongst the men.

Tony was impressed with Carmine’s business. She showed him around, gaining confidence now she was on her own ground and in her specific field of expertise. As they’d entered the shop, she’d turned the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN, and within a few minutes a family of three walked in and placed an order. The ten-year-old child sat on a swivel chair in front of the camera whilst Carmine took the photographs, turning the chair through forty-five degrees after each photograph. Afterwards, the parents happily paid the deposit; Carmine gave them a receipt and told them when it would be ready for collection.

Whilst that was going on Tony looked through the books, and quickly made up his mind. She had good business sense and a sellable product.

‘You’ve got your loan,’ he told her when the three had left. ‘You’re in business.’

‘Oh fantastic,’ she cried. ‘You superhero.’ And she clasped him round the shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek.

The launching of an Apollo rocket may be more spectacular, but for Tony, nothing could have sent such a sudden surge of adrenaline through his body, as those two incredible tits pushing into his chest. She seemed totally unaware of his reaction — fortunately, he was half turned away from her, so she didn’t feel his penis abruptly turn into an iron rod.

‘I’m going to buy you a drink to say thank you,’ she said.

‘You’re a customer of the bank, now,’ Tony said, ‘so the bank can foot the bill. And let’s make it a meal instead.’

********************

Carmine was the most fantastic fuck of his life. She was so much younger than him, yet how was it that she had so much more experience? She rode him like a champion jockey on a steeplechase, letting him have his head for a time, but then calling him in check — urging him on to buck harder, then calming him down again — trotting, cantering, and mad galloping, but never letting him onto the winning straight until she’d enjoyed her ride to the full.

And God, did she enjoy riding! She had one superb climax after another. Surely, Tony thought, no man had ever before given her such a tremendous fucking. And unusually for him, he was standing proud again, just a few minutes after each of his orgasms, ready for his next unbelievable ride of a lifetime.

He lost count of how many times they fucked that night. He could remember, sometime after midnight, they sat naked in her shop drinking a bottle of red wine, on view to any passers by who might look into her shop window. Fortunately, the passage outside was lit, and they were in the dark, but they both found the risk so erotic that he fucked her on the shop counter, as they finished off the bottle of wine.

Afterwards, Carmine pulled aside the swivel chair she had used to photograph the child, and put a low wooden turnstile in its place. She ordered him to stand on it, then, after using her lips to bring his cock to another massive erection, swivelled the turnstile around as she took photographs of him from every angle. Had he not been drunk with both her beauty, and the alcohol he’d consumed over the evening, his natural caution would have prevented him getting into a position so open to compromise, but right at that moment, he didn’t care a damn. So, the local bank manager is photographed with an erection to be proud of — so what?

They went upstairs and continued their night of lust. At about four am, as Tony finally dropped off to sleep, he knew he had met the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

********************

‘But why, Carmine? Why can’t we meet up again?’ Tony knew that he was whining, but over the phone, her rejection had sounded petulant.

‘Because I don’t want to.’

‘We had a fantastic time on Monday night. You enjoyed it too.’

‘Course I did. Look,’ she seemed to struggle to find the right words, ‘You gave me the loan, we had a nice meal, you fancied me like mad, and I thought you deserved a little thank you present. We had a great time, but that doesn’t mean I want to repeat it every night for the rest of my life.’

‘No one’s talking about the rest of our lives, only about continuing something which worked so well the first time.’

‘I saw the look on your face yesterday morning as I was leaving. That look said “long term commitment, move in together, and perhaps in time, wedding bells and the patter of little feet”.’

‘No way!’ he denied, but he knew that she knew he was lying, so he changed tack. ‘Is that so bad?’

‘Not if the two people are right for each other, but we’re not.’

‘But we are...’

‘You’re white, I’m black. You’re rich, I’m poor. You’re middle-class, I’m working class. You’re respected in high society, I’m not. You go to concerts at the Art Society, I go to black raves...’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t it? Perhaps that’s because you think it will all be one way. You take me into your nice, four bedroom house, in a respectable part of Seacombe, and buy me wonderful clothes and diamond tiaras. You take me to your white, middle-class, cocktail parties and show me off to your friends. And all the women think how lucky I am to be taken in by you, and all the men think how lucky you are to pull such a sexy girl. Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Well, I...’ That was exactly what Tony was thinking, but it didn’t seem diplomatic to admit it.

‘Well how about if it was the other way round. If you came and lived with my parents, in their damp, cramped little tenement, with the smell of curry coming up from the Indian restaurant in the basement. Or went to events with my black friends, who all look at you and call you a white honky. How about that?’

‘That’s OK. I wouldn’t mind.’ Would he?

But Carmine was in full flow, and nothing was going to stop her. ‘You don’t realise what it’s like to be poor, or black, or even a woman. When you’re all three, you see the discrimination — you see people openly despising you. It would be different if the boot was on the other foot.’

‘Carmine!’ Tony shouted down the phone and managed to silence her for a second. ‘I’m not asking you to marry me. I only want to take you out and get to know you better. And if you’d prefer to do it in places where you feel at home, then that’s fine with me. I don’t mind if the boot is on the other foot.’

‘You don’t?’ She sounded surprised, and was quiet for a minute, then added, ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

‘No!’

‘OK. Come round to the shop about eight, and I’ll cook a meal for you.’

CHAPTER 2 - DINNER AT EIGHT
==========================

She looked superb when Tony got round there, in a bright yellow dress, with matching yellow, high-heeled pumps. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and whilst she was putting the finishing touches to a curry, she got him to open the bottle of wine he’d brought with him.

They chatted about her business, and the progress she was making with developing it, with the money from the loan. As her bank manager, Tony should have been more than delighted at her business prowess, but his thoughts kept drifting to other things.

She never warned Tony about the curry. One moment, he was tasting the subtle flavours as the first mouthful went sinking down his throat, the next a napalm bomb detonated somewhere inside him. He downed his glass of wine, then hurriedly refilled it and drank that as well.

‘It’s not too hot for you, is it?’ She was smiling sweetly at him. She seemed to think his discomfort extremely amusing. ‘Only, it’s just the way me and my mates like it, and you said you wanted to be treated as one of them.’ She paused, waiting for him to complain.

Fortunately, for a few seconds, his voice was beyond speech, but after another glass of wine, he had to see the funny side. He grinned back at her, and said in a hoarse whisper, which was all he could manage, ‘Touché.’

It was the right reaction, her face lit up again, showing every one of her teeth, but if he hoped that she’d remove the bowl of curry in front of him and replace it with another dish which she’d been hiding until now, he was disappointed. He hesitated, and then took another mouthful, better prepared this time.

Actually, the more Tony ate, the better that curry got, even though his face went the colour of beetroot and the sweat literally dripped off him. Carmine opened another bottle of wine to feed his thirst, and he drank most of the contents of the two bottles before they’d finished.

‘I made you a little present,’ she said.

She reached behind the curtain and withdrew a bronze statue about twelve inches high. It was of a naked man with an enormous erection that shot up to a point level with the man’s nipples.

‘Er, that’s for me?’ he queried, looking embarrassed.

‘You don’t recognise it, do you?’

Tony looked more closely at it, trying to avoid staring at the penis, a horrible thought looming in his head.

‘It’s me!’ he gasped. ‘But... but I don’t look like that.’ He pointed at the massive erection.

‘That’s the advantage of a computer,’ she said. ‘I can stretch reality. You know — morph it. Huge cock, slim waist, big tits — you name it, I can do it.’

‘Wow!’ The implications for her business hit him. ‘You mean you can make statues of people, which improve on their good features and minimise their bad ones?’

She nodded.

‘Can I become your partner?’

‘We’ve talked about that already, and the answer’s “No Way!”.’

That had been another type of partnership, Tony thought, but it didn’t seem worth pointing it out. He picked the statue up, and remarked how light it was.

‘It’s not really bronze at all,’ she said. ‘Simply a plastic that looks similar. It’s much easier to mould than having to work with molten metal. I made this statue with my existing kit. Come downstairs and see what I can do, now I have the extra gear.’

She led the way to her workshop at the rear of the shop. She flicked on the light, and Tony jumped in fright. There was a naked man in there, with a huge erection. In fact, not just any man, it was...

‘It’s me, again!’ He stared at it with horrible fascination. It was a life-sized copy of the bronze she had just shown him, except it was in a material the colour of his own skin.

‘The full size computer driven cutting machine was delivered this morning. You’ll be pleased to know that yours was the very first mould I cut on it.’

‘It’s fantastic.’ It was too. He held his hand next to the hand of the statue. Only the fact that the one had hair differentiated the two.

‘I had to use a wig for the hair on your head,’ she said. ‘But other than that, it’s all exactly how it came out of the mould.’

‘Carmine, your business is going to turn into a goldmine,’ he said.

‘Hope so.’

She seemed to suddenly lose interest in her business, and changed the subject.

‘Did you mean what you said, this morning, about being happy if the boot was on the other foot, and wanting to live in my world?’

He nodded. ‘Of course. I love being with you. I want to be as close to you as I can.’

‘That’s good, because I have a test for you to prove it.’

Tony had a sudden foreboding. ‘What type of test?’

She walked over to one of the large drawers set underneath the workbench, and pulled one open. ‘I can use all kinds of materials in the mould,’ she said. ‘This one is made of black latex.’

She withdrew something black from the drawer. It wasn’t a statue, at all — more like a diver’s wetsuit, flopping over her arms.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s not a statue.’

‘It’s actually a reproduction of me,’ she said. ‘But by positioning another statue in the centre of the mould, before I pour in the latex, I effectively get a bodysuit, made to fit over the original statue.’

Tony was feeling incredibly dense. Carmine was obviously leading up to something, but he couldn’t work out what. ‘But why would you want to put a latex bodysuit over a statue,’ he asked. ‘Why not simply mould your body in the same way you moulded mine?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I only used the statue to produce the bodysuit. It’s made to fit on you, of course.’

******************

Tony should have been appalled. If he’d understood what she’d said, the bodysuit would fit on him, and make him look exactly like Carmine. A big, black woman with breasts the size of melons. How could he, a heterosexual male even contemplate donning the suit? How come he was staring fascinated by it, wondering just exactly what it would feel like to turn into a beautiful black woman?

Their telephone conversation earlier that day had echoed through his mind all afternoon. Tony had been poor in his younger days, but he certainly didn’t know what it was like to be black or female, and he had difficulty imagining it. It was easy enough to say he could ignore discrimination when he came across it, but could he?

Then there was the sexual element. Tony thought Carmine had the most beautiful body he had ever seen. He’d been dreaming of being close to her for the last two days — being able to touch her cheek, squeeze a breast, or stroke her thigh. In that suit, he’d be able to do that whenever he felt like it. Would it make a difference that he would be doing it to himself? He wanted to find out.

Carmine had been watching him whilst the thoughts whizzed through his mind. ‘Well?’ she said.

‘It would be interesting to try it on — see how well it fits.’

She smiled. ‘You’ve passed the first test. I thought you’d say “No”, out of hand.’

‘So did I,’ he said.

**************************

The suit was in two parts. She handed him a pair of leggings, with built in feet and toes. The latex was incredibly thin from the toes up to above the knee, but then it started to thicken on the outside of the thigh, right up to the buttocks and hips, where it was almost two inches thick.

‘I told a little lie when I said it would make you look exactly like me,’ she said. ‘The problem is your shoulders are much broader than mine, so I’ve had to make a corresponding increase in the width of the hips to balance it out. It will also compensate for the size of your rather large waist, so overall you should look more or less in the same proportion as me.’

It was a valid point and Tony didn’t argue — not until he’d pulled the leggings up to his waist, anyway, and the latex squeezed his stomach down to an impossibly small size.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she said in response to his gasps. ‘It’s one of the features of being a woman you will just have to get used to. Women have to suffer to make their figures look good. So stop complaining.’

She’d left a small slit in the groin of the leggings for his cock to poke through, and after he’d pushed it through, the tight constriction gave him an instant erection.

‘That doesn’t look very ladylike,’ he said. ‘What am I going to do with that?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a special way of dealing with large cocks.’

He smiled. He’d hoped she was going to say that. He was beginning to enjoy this more and more.

The other part of the bodysuit was like a leotard top, with built in arms and hands, and a head mask. It was very difficult getting the thing over his head, particularly as he couldn’t breathe or see, but between the two of them, they managed to get it in position, and pull it down over the top of the leggings. There was a fastening between the legs, and they both looked down at his purple cock, still throbbing after forcing its way through the small slit at the groin.

‘I said I had a way of dealing with that,’ she said, and she brought her hand smartly down and gave it a terrible slap. Tony howled with pain, but her action had worked. His cock had shrivelled to the size of his little toe, and was clearly trying to climb back inside his body, before it received another slap.

Carmine bent down and fiddled around with it in a most uncomfortable way for a few seconds. Then it was over, and she was fastening the two halves of the leotard between his legs. She stood up, and critically stared at him.

‘That’s better, now let’s adjust it on your face a little.’

She had to stretch and pull it quite a bit, so it fitted around his eyelids, and his mouth, but eventually, she was satisfied.

‘One final thing left to do,’ she said, and she reached down and pulled a black wig from the drawer, and flipped it over his head.

She stood back and admired her work. ‘Hmm, not bad,’ she said. There’s a mirror next door. Why don’t you go and admire yourself?’

The first problem Tony discovered about being black is that in dull light, you can’t see yourself properly in a mirror. He flicked the light switch and then gulped with joy. The woman who stood in front of him wasn’t quite the same as Carmine — certainly broader in hip and waist, but she had those same tremendous breasts and her face was almost identical.

He swivelled in front of the mirror, turning first one way, and then the other. He looked pretty good. He stepped back. His breasts gave a delicious quiver as he moved, so he stepped forward again — another quiver. He shrugged his shoulders — a jelly-like wobble. He swung his shoulders violently left and right, and his tits went swinging vigorously to the left then the right, then the left and right again, before they settled into their natural place — on the front of his body.

‘Fucking hell!’ said a voice outside. Tony turned towards the shop window. There were at least a dozen men staring in at him.

************

‘I want you to step out of the shop into the passageway.’

A surge of panic hit him. What the hell was he thinking of? He could imagine the newspaper headlines, ‘Bank manager exposed in public.’

‘No way! You saw those men gawping at me just now.’

‘But that was because they saw a pretty woman standing stark naked in the shop with the light on. You have clothes on now.’

After he’d leapt back into the workshop, she had laughed at his panic, and taken him upstairs to get dressed. She’d offered him the choice of her wardrobe, but for him there was no hesitation. He wanted to wear the dress, which she’d been wearing on Monday, when she walked into the bank, and stunned him and everyone else. It was a good choice, for the full skirt hid the extra inches on his hips. When he looked in the bedroom mirror, he could have been the twin of the woman who had come into his bank on Monday.

He was grinning at himself as he turned in front of the mirror, this time with only Carmine as the audience, but that was when Carmine had uttered the words, which had thrown him into panic. But if he didn’t go outside, how else would he experience what it was really like to be a black woman? He would only have to step outside, walk a few paces up and down and quickly dart back into the shop if there was a danger of being discovered.

‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘So I can do the talking, if necessary.’

She led him by the hand back down the stairs, through the shop and out into the passage. Fortunately, Tony’s crowd of admirers appeared to have dispersed, and there were only one or two people walking along the lane. The women hardly appeared to notice him, whereas the men gave him the kind of glance that men normally give to gorgeous women, which sent the adrenaline surging through Tony’s blood.

‘Keep your footsteps small,’ she whispered. ‘One foot in front of the other. Chin up, shoulders back, bum out, tummy in...’

And so they proceeded down the lane, turning left at the end, walking a short distance along the road, than making another left down another pedestrian passage, and finally completing a full circle to return to her shop. As they turned the final corner, Tony noticed a policeman standing in a shop doorway directly in front of them. There was nothing for it but to carry on as though they hadn’t a care in the world, and as they walked past, Carmine smiled at the policeman and gave him a wink. She appeared quite laid back, but Tony’s heart was banging in his ears. It got even louder when they got to Big Busts.

‘Oh dear,’ Carmine said. ‘I think I’ve left my keys inside.’

‘What!’ Tony’s hoarse whisper was almost a shout. They were locked out! He’d be discovered and ridiculed. The newspaper headlines were already being written... He glanced over his shoulder. The policeman had been watching their progress up the passageway, and now he left his doorway, and started to walk towards them.

Carmine’s teeth suddenly glowed in the darkness. ‘Only joking,’ she said, and she fiddled with the door, and suddenly it was open and she disappeared inside. Tony tottered after her, quivering with fright — or was it excitement?

‘Are you the owner of this business?’ The policeman’s voice cut through Tony’s short-lived jubilation.

‘Yes.’ Carmine was totally composed — and why shouldn’t she be. She stepped between Tony and the policeman, and added, ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

‘I didn’t see you use a key to open the door.’ The policeman was suspicious, but thank God, it wasn’t about Tony’s sex or style of dress.

‘I left the keys inside the shop. I used this instead.’ Tony almost had a heart attack when she gaily waved her credit card at the policeman — and not even any old credit card, but one of his own bank’s credit cards.

‘So how do I know you’re not breaking into the place?’ Even the policeman couldn’t believe that a thief would be so stupid.

Carmine turned towards Tony. ‘Could you get the lease, please, and show it to the nice policeman. It’s in the bottom drawer behind the counter.’

Aware of four eyes scrutinising his walk, Tony tottered behind the counter, bent down and found the document. But neither the policeman nor Carmine had moved, and he had to totter back to the position where he could pass it to her. She took it from him, and passed it onto the policeman.

‘This should satisfy you.’

He took the thick bundle of pages of small print and perused it.

‘How do I know that you are the person whose name is on this lease?’ He read the name off it, ‘Ms Carmine Ross.’

‘Why,’ she said with a huge grin on her face, ‘here’s my credit card.’

**********

When he had gone, Tony breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘My God. That was close. What rotten luck to have forgotten to take your keys.’

‘It wasn’t bad luck. I don’t have a set of keys.’

‘No keys! Why not? How have you been getting into the shop?’

‘I’ve used my credit card, each time. It’s not a very secure shop.’

‘But why haven’t you got the keys from the landlord?’

‘We still haven’t finally agreed the terms of the lease. He’s asking far too much money for this dump. I’m slowly bargaining him down.’

‘But when you rented the shop, he must have given you the keys. And you just showed that policeman a copy of the lease.’

‘Ah well...’ Carmine paused for a second, before adding, ‘I didn’t actually formally rent the shop. It’s been empty for months, and the door wasn’t very secure, so I’ve just been... using the space. You know, sort of squatting.’

Tony was horrified. ‘But squatting only applies to living accommodation — not business premises. What about that lease?’

‘I got it from the stationers around the corner. Filled in the blanks and got one of my mates to sign it. It certainly looks official enough to fool the fuzz, as you can see. It also allowed me to get the electricity connected.’

‘Oh my God!’ Tony put his elbows on the counter and dropped his head into his hands. ‘I can’t believe what you’ve just done to me. You’ve not only involved the bank in a fraudulent deal, dressed me up as a woman and paraded me in front of the town, you’ve knowingly presented false documents to the police with me as a witness.’ Carmine was silent. ‘Well, what do you say?’

‘I say...’ and she bent her head down so it was level with his, ‘that you make one hell of a sexy woman.’ And her tongue slipped between his lips, and started to play games with his own tongue.

****************

Tony woke up feeling as if a brand new world had just started. He struggled to sit upright in the bed, a childish grin breaking out on his face as he stared over towards the dressing table. The woman smiling back at him in the mirror was fantastic — big, black and beautiful, and naked from the waist up, her lower half obscured by a white drape across her midriff.

He could see a number of brightly coloured dresses hanging in the open wardrobe, but the simple white dress with the deep cleavage she had worn last night was still lying on the floor where it had got strewn in the heat of the moment. God knows where his own clothes had ended up — at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less, for life ahead was far too exciting to be bothered about a trivial detail like trousers. With a bit of luck, he wasn’t going to need them for ages.

He blew her a kiss, and the woman in the mirror returned it with an even bigger smile, her breasts giving a pleasant jiggle, as she moved. He gave another shake of his shoulders so he could watch the effect upon her breasts in the mirror.

The previous evening after their first lovers’ tiff was abruptly brought to an end, Carmine and he had almost run upstairs to the bedroom, and pulled off each other’s clothes. Then they’d made love like lesbians — kissing, stroking, and squeezing, before getting into a 69 position — giving each other long strokes of the tongue on their most sensitive of spots. They both came countless times, but Tony’s orgasms were very different from those he’d experienced on Monday, or for that matter, ever before. Gone was the violent thrusting and jerking which culminated in squirting semen as far as he could inside his partner — this was a sweetness that filled him from head to toe and made him softly gasp with pleasure, and which went on for minute after wonderful minute.

Then he would be returning the favour to her, bringing her to blissful climax. And so they continued through into the small hours of the morning, when they’d fallen to sleep in each other’s arms. There was no sign of her now, although he could hear movements down below as she prepared the shop for its normal ten am opening.

Jesus Christ! He was late for work. Again! Tony shot out of bed and frantically tried to undo the bodysuit fastening between his legs. He couldn’t even find the catch!

‘Carmine! Carmine!’ He shouted down to her, and when she didn’t respond, went dashing downstairs.

‘Carmine, have you seen the time?’ He stood at the bottom of the stairs, and mindful of his public display yesterday evening, kept well out of view of the shop window.

‘That’s alright,’ she said. ‘It’s still a few minutes before we open, and I can manage on my own for a while, until trade builds up. Take your time.’

‘What are you on about? I’m talking about the bank, not the shop. How do I get the bodysuit off? I can’t find the catch.’

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘We agreed. You’re in my world now — not a bank manager’s world. You’re working for me in the shop for the rest of this week.’

‘But I can’t. What about my bank?’

‘It’s OK. I telephoned them and told them you had flu, and wouldn’t be in for the rest of this week. After all, it was you who suggested we play hooky on Tuesday morning.’

‘But who did you say you were?’

‘Why I gave them my name, of course. I had to remind your secretary who I was — that I’d been in the bank on Monday afternoon — but then she remembered me quite distinctly.’ She looked at his face, and added, ‘Why? Is there a problem with telling them you’ve been sleeping with a black woman?’

CHAPTER 3 - GIRLS NIGHT OUT
==========================

Tony had never realised how much pleasure working in a shop could be. In his previous life, he imagined it must be quite boring, standing around waiting for customers to come in, then having to be nice to them, even if they were extremely rude.

But in Big Busts, it was all so interesting, and there was simply so much to do. Carmine had a long list of outstanding orders, and they had to work non-stop to meet her promised delivery times. Customers had been continually popping in — some just to make enquiries, but a number placed orders and had their photographs taken, whilst others collected their orders.

Tony — or Toni, as Carmine had now named him — had been incredibly nervous at first, about dealing with customers, or more accurately, about speaking to them.

‘They’ll realise I’m a man as soon as I open my mouth,’ Toni said.

‘Course they won’t,’ she replied. ‘OK, most women have higher pitched voices than you, but there are many who have quite deep voices. And remember that the way that you talk is far more important than the pitch. Women put much more animation into their speech. Anyway, looking like you do, there’s no way anyone could possibly question your sex.’

It was true that, with the dress Carmine had selected as the shop’s uniform, it was impossible to believe that people might think Toni was a man. A white, cotton smock dress with puffy sleeves, and a deep square neckline which allowed a breathtaking view of their ‘Big Busts’, pushed up by the best that Gossard could provide. A lace up leather bodice pulled in their waists, but their hips and buttocks swelled out gracefully beneath. A matching smock cap and little, spike-heeled booties completed the outfit.

‘Remember, men are generally not interested in purchasing head and shoulder busts of their loved ones. But show them another type of bust, and they’ll agree to a purchase without question, especially if it means they have an excuse to come back the next day to collect it.’

She was right. Toni had no end of interest in her tits, and she had to admit, it felt good, being gawked at by every bloke who came in. It wasn’t even as though it was difficult to be pleasant to people. They were mostly on holiday, so they tended to be in a good mood — the blokes all had their eyeballs popping out, and the women were generally agreeable anyway. For the first time ever, Toni regretted he had spent his life developing a career in banking, when he could have been doing something so much more interesting.

That Thursday, they worked all through the day with hardly a break, until they shut up shop late in the evening. Toni was far more tired than Carmine, who had got used to the routine over the last few weeks, and they barely had the strength for one quickie, when they finally fell into bed.

Friday was even more frantic. Two families had come in shortly after they had opened, and explained they were on a day trip and their coach left that evening. Could they take delivery of their busts before they left, they asked. Within fifteen minutes of accepting their orders, it appeared that every other occupant of the coach came in with the same request. Carmine had to do some frenzied calculations, working out how she could break the jobs into batches, and how long each batch would take. But finally, she accepted every one of the orders, and the two of them were working flat out until the last order was collected only a few minutes before their coach departed at eleven pm.

Even then, they had to get on with the back orders, which were being picked up on Saturday morning. They finally got to bed about one am, too tired to even give each other more than a little cuddle before they fell asleep.

Saturday morning, they had to get up at six am to remove the casts from the moulds, and clean them up ready for collection. By nine-thirty, they had them all completed and ready for business to open at ten, and they even had time to snatch a proper breakfast. It was over breakfast they had their first real argument.

‘I’m sorry it’s been so frantic, Toni,’ Carmine said. ‘We haven’t had any time for each other.’

Toni grinned back at her. ‘It’s been fantastic,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember when I’ve ever enjoyed myself so much. You women complain about discrimination, but I’ve never had so many offers in my life, as I’ve had in the last two days as a woman.’

‘What about being black?’ she asked. ‘How did you feel when that man yesterday was so horrible?’

She was referring to an incident when a customer’s delivery hadn’t been ready for him when promised. Even worse, they had trouble finding what had happened to his order, and the man commenced a tirade along the lines of, ‘You fucking wogs come to this country and...’ Fortunately, Carmine located the bust and was able to pacify him enough to collect the money outstanding.

Toni wrinkled his nose. ‘I felt like smacking him in the teeth,’ he said, ‘but I guess that’s the hidden male in me, making its presence felt.’

‘I guess it is,’ she said. ‘I always want to cut off their balls.’

Toni winced.

‘Never mind,’ Carmine continued. ‘We’ll shut up shop at five, this afternoon. Then we’ll get dressed up and I’m going to take you out on the town. You can meet some of my friends, and later on, we’ll tour all the best black clubs.’

A shadow passed over Toni’s face. ‘Oh, sorry baby. I’m OK for the early evening, but then I have to get back to the bank for a special job.’

Carmine was furious. ‘Had enough of being a black woman, have you? Want to go back to being a nice, comfortable, middle-class, boring, old, bank manager FART!’ She shouted the last word at him, and he visibly cringed. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘can’t Nick Brown handle the bingo money?’

‘Bingo money! What do you know about the bingo money?’ Toni had suddenly disappeared, and it was a very male Tony who was now shouting at her.

Carmine looked at him in disbelief. ‘Everybody knows about the bingo money. They advertise it all over town. One million pound prize jackpot, which can be won any Saturday night. They have the money on display in an armoured glass box at the front of the bingo hall. It’s hardly a fucking state secret.’

‘I mean,’ Tony said, ‘how do you know...’ He stopped himself and decided to rephrase his question. ‘That is, what makes you think that my bank handles the cash?’

‘Toni, you’re being stupid,’ Carmine said. ‘Two months ago, I won a hundred quid at bingo. Rather than taking the money in cash, which I knew I’d blow in one evening, I decided to take a cheque. The address of your branch was on the cheque. So, I sort of assumed that you’re the bankers for the bingo hall, or is that a wild assumption? Which also kinda leads one to think that on Saturday night, when they’ve finished with the money at the bingo hall, they put it in an armoured car and take it to your bank. OK?

‘And incidentally,’ she continued, ‘I hadn’t got a proper bank account when I won the money, so I decided to open one at your branch. Which is why on Monday, it was to your bank I came, to ask you for a business loan.’

With her explanation, Tony had calmed down. ‘Sorry, I was being stupid. There we were in the bank, keeping it all top secret, when anyone with a brain could work out where they take the million pounds to be stored.

‘But it is my responsibility to ensure it’s properly dealt with,’ he continued. ‘Besides, I telephoned the bank yesterday to tell them I was still intending to come in and do it.’ He could still vividly remember the icy reception he’d received from Val, fuming over his liaison with Carmine.

‘I overheard you ring them,’ Carmine said. ‘That’s why I telephoned your bank again, this morning, and told them your flu had taken a turn for the worse, and you wouldn’t be coming in after all.’

She continued hurriedly, before Tony could recover from his surprise and explode. ‘You promised me that, this week, you’d let the boot be on the other foot. If our relationship means anything to you, you can’t just walk away tonight, just because it doesn’t fit in with your bank’s schedule. Please come and meet my mates, and after tonight, your trial is over and you’ll have passed. Tomorrow, Toni, we can decide how our relationship is going to work, for the rest of our lives.’

It was such an impassioned plea that the anger inside Tony instantly subsided.

‘OK,’ Toni said, and she smiled at Carmine. ‘Let’s put on our glad rags tonight, and go out on the town.’

******************

They wore matching purple gowns — backless to the waist, with halter necklines that exposed, more than hid, their breasts. Layers of light, filmy lace flared out from their waists, but not so many layers that you couldn’t just make out the tiny pair of purple knickers and suspender belt, highlighted against their black skin. Matching high-heeled sandals and tiny handbags completed their outfits, and they looked for all the world like not-quite-identical twins, out for a night of fun on the town.

They first of all called at the pub not far from the shop, where they had a couple of stiff drinks each — to calm Toni’s nerves, Carmine said. Then they got a taxi to the new town, and got it to drop them off at the end of Sunset Strip. Sunset Strip wasn’t its real name of course. It actually had the rather snappy title of Alderman Cleckheaton Boulevard, so it wasn’t surprising that the road which housed almost every nightclub and disco in Seacombe had been dubbed with a much more appropriate name.

Carmine took them down an alley off the main drag, and into a club where the air was thick with the smell of cannabis, and a jazz band was making the kind of music worth dying for. Carmine introduced Toni to a group of her friends who were sitting in the semi dark, rattling through their names so rapidly, she could only remember that the tall guy who moved to make room for her was called Mitchell. A joint was passed around, and Toni hungrily inhaled — it had been decades since he’d last taken one, at university. Then Mitchell was pushing drinks into their hands, and sitting down so close to Toni that his leg pressed against hers. It was, Toni realised with an incredible thrill surging through her, going to be a long evening.

At some point they moved on to a disco, where they danced energetically as a group, although it always appeared to be Mitchell who was closest to her when the slow dances commenced. And it was whilst he was clutching her during the slow dances that Toni realised Mitchell had a friend, who kept popping up between them. It was the sort of friend who initially made his presence felt by pushing between her knees, and then, by some miraculous process which Toni didn’t quite follow, suddenly leapt up to become a massager of navels.

The problem with having false tits is that you can’t feel when someone’s stroking them, and Toni suddenly realised that Mitchell had probably been squeezing her nipples all evening, without any dissuasion from her. She pushed his hand away now, firmly but with a smile, and went to join Carmine, where she was sitting with the bloke who’d been dancing with her. Toni made a face at Carmine, and they both went to the toilet, as girls do.

After Toni had finished in the cubicle, she joined Carmine who was standing looking into the mirror above the washbasins, and touching up her makeup.

‘How you going?’ she asked.

‘I’m a bit worried that Mitchell is getting a bit too frisky.’

‘He’s a nice guy. What’s the problem?’

Toni glanced over her shoulder at the other girls in the toilet, and lowered her voice. ‘You know what the problem is. I’m attracted to you, not to Mitchell.’

The girl at the next washbasin gave a quick, sideways look at the pair of them, then concentrated back on her makeup.

‘But I’m not available at the moment. Mitchell is.’ Carmine popped her lipstick back into her handbag, and withdrew a joint from it. She slid it between her lips and lit it, then blew smoke into Toni’s face. ‘He is an exceptionally well built guy,’ she said, ‘if you know what I mean.’

Toni opened her mouth to speak, but Carmine pushed the joint between her lips, before she could say a word. As Toni dragged on it, Carmine moved her lips to Toni’s ear and whispered, ‘He has the biggest cock in the world.’

There was a sudden look of interest from the girl next to them, but Toni choked on the joint, pulled it from her mouth and said, ‘I’m not concerned.’

Carmine pushed the joint back into Toni’s mouth, and she obediently closed her lips and inhaled.

‘The largest pair of balls you could imagine.’

Toni shook her head, as though to clear the vision from her eyes, and took another drag on the joint.

‘His prick is so thick you can’t wrap your hand around it.’

Toni gulped.

‘You can hardly open your mouth wide enough to get it inside.’

‘Look!’ Toni had withdrawn the joint and was trying to think of all the reasons why she didn’t want sex with Mitchell, but she could actually only think of one thing to say. ‘You know I’m not interested in men — only you.’

‘How do you know, if you’ve never tried it?’ Carmine pushed the joint back into Toni’s mouth, who took another drag before removing it and saying.

‘I just don’t fancy him.’

Carmine pushed the joint back between Toni’s lips, and said, ‘Well, that’s not a problem. We women have to do things all the time that we don’t particularly fancy. But that’s not a valid reason not to do them. If you’re really telling the truth about being happy to experience life as a black woman, then you’ll be happy to take Mitchell outside. You’ll simply be dying to release the belt on his trousers, and watch his great black cock force its way out the top. You’ll love to play with it in your hands, and softly cup his bollocks, and squeeze them. You’ll crave the moment when you sink to your knees and run your tongue from balls to head, and back again. And you’ll be ecstatic when you get that monster inside your mouth, and you give him the blow job of his life.’

Toni should have been horrified, but in a sense, Carmine was right. There was no reason why she, Toni, should be frightened of getting better acquainted with Mitchell. After all, hadn’t she enjoyed his company all evening? In fact, she’d hardly spoken to Carmine since she’d met Mitchell. Somewhere, right at the back of her mind was another person telling her not to do it, but that person was a bit of a bore, wasn’t he? She really didn’t know why Carmine had taken any interest at all in that dreary, old, bank manager.

‘This will be the end of your trial, Toni. When you’ve passed this test, you’ve graduated, with honours. We can go back home then, and plan our future together.’

He who hesitates is lost, thought Toni. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘and find lover boy.’

‘Shit!’ said the girl at the next washbasin.

***************

Within five minutes, Mitchell and Toni were outside the disco, and walking down a dark, narrow passageway at the side of the building.

‘I think you’ll be pretty impressed with the monster I’ve got waiting for you,’ Mitchell burbled. ‘Most women are absolutely gob-smacked.’

They’d reached the end of the passageway, where a row of dustbins lined the base of a high wall, and obstructed the entrance to a wooden door.

‘This is a good place to come,’ Mitchell said, and swivelled Toni around so she was in his arms. He pulled her against him, and within seconds, his hands were inside her dress, his tongue was inside her mouth, and something very much bigger was pushing against her stomach. She wriggled against him, and pushed her tits into his chest.

‘Fucking hell, baby,’ he groaned. ‘Never mind the foreplay, or I’ll be coming in my trousers.’

He grasped her head in both hands and forced her down onto her knees in front of him. In one impossibly speedy action, he’d undone the belt on his trousers and pulled them down to his knees.

‘Take a look at that, baby,’ he said, but before she had chance, he was pulling her head forward, onto him.

As Toni took him inside her mouth, she couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that Carmine had been somewhat overselling Mitchell’s attributes. OK, he was a big boy, somewhat larger than bank manager Tony, but it was hardly anything to write home about. As she sank her mouth down his shaft, Toni almost giggled at the thought of writing home to her mother about the events of that evening.

Mitchell was gasping loudly now, and Toni had got him almost as far inside her mouth as it would go, when he gave a sudden jerk inside her. Not having previous experience of this kind of action, but having read all about it in a myriad of books which gave the impression of being well researched on the subject, Toni had expected to drink down the dollops of cum as they were squirted out. In fact, she choked on the very first, tiny squirt as it hit the back of her throat, and she involuntary jerked her head back and closed her mouth.

Fortunately for Mitchell, her actions were in that order, and his second squirt struck her in the left eye, virtually blinding her. Turning her head away, the third stroke caught her in the right ear, and then it was all over.

‘Thanks, baby,’ Mitchell said. ‘I really needed that. Here’s a little thank you present.’ He flicked something towards her, which she couldn’t see. ‘Are you coming back into the disco, now?’ He was pulling up and fastening his trousers, oblivious to the cum streaming down Toni’s face, although in fairness to him, it was difficult to see anything in the darkness of the passage.

The beam of torchlight rectified that, and Toni, still with semen in her eye, was now totally blinded by the light shining directly into her face.

‘Police! Hold it right there,’ the voice snapped.

With his back to the light, Mitchell didn’t have Toni’s disadvantage, and in an instant, he was clambering onto the top of the dustbins. His arms just reached the top of the high wall and in a second he had climbed over the top, and disappeared out of Toni’s life forever.

The torch beam swung back to Toni and picked up her large boobs pulled from the halter top, the semen dribbling down her face, and a twenty pound note, which appeared to have got stuck to a glob of semen on her right shoulder.

‘You’re nicked,’ the voice said.

**************************

This time last week, Toni thought as they waited for a police car to pick them up and take them back to the police station, bank manager Tony Phillips had a quiet evening watching a romantic drama on TV, and had then gone to bed and read himself to sleep with a novel by his favourite author — Agatha Christie. He had a decent job at the bank with good career prospects. He had a comfortable house and a Jaguar. His sex life was a little lacking, but then a guy couldn’t have everything, could he?

If he’d been asked to imagine his worst nightmare, Toni thought, it could not have been as bad as it was going to get when the truth was revealed and his humiliation started. It wasn’t just his friends and family he was worried about, but when the bank found out, he’d undoubtedly lose his job and his company car. Even the low-cost mortgage on his house came from his bank, and he’d have to sell up and move out. He’d be ridiculed everywhere he went, and his mother would be so ashamed of him.

Should he admit everything straightaway, he wondered, or try to bluff it through. If he tried to bluff and was eventually discovered, surely it would be even worse for him — on the other hand, could it get any worse? Although Toni had no way of knowing, in fact the answer to that question was, yes, not only could it get very much worse, it was going to do so before the night was over.

Toni immediately recognised the arresting officer as PC Swan, the one who had interrogated them on Wednesday evening. Obviously he was one of those stupid honkies who thought that all blacks looked the same, and he didn’t appear to have connected the woman in front of him now, who said her name was Toni Curtains — he’d almost said it was Toni Curtis, but had managed to change it at the last minute — with the one he’d seen in a shop in the old town, three evenings before. This was fortunate, because it meant that Toni was able to lie about her address, saying she had no fixed abode. After all, she reasoned, she didn’t want to give the police any clue which might lead back to the shop, and hence the bank.

When the police car arrived, driven by a rather pretty woman constable, Swan had pushed Toni into the back seat, and then got into the passenger seat.

‘What’s she done?’ the driver asked, giving Toni a sympathetic look.

‘Prostitution,’ PC Swan replied. ‘Caught her on the job with cash in hand.’ He grinned at Toni. ‘Well, it wasn’t quite in hand, was it love?’

‘Do you want a tissue?’ the driver queried. She’d noticed the mess on Toni’s face, and she passed her a box from the glove compartment.

‘Thanks.’

‘That’s OK. My name’s PC Sally Wright, by the way.’

‘I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you,’ Toni replied.

The remarks appeared to annoy Sally, which was a pity since Toni hadn’t meant it offensively. But the car set off with such a sudden lurch that Toni was thrown back in the seat, and the semen she’d just wiped off her face with the tissue, was smeared right across her lips.

‘Didn’t you get enough in the first time?’ PC Swan smirked at her, and she felt like smacking him in the face.

She was cleaning the last of the gunk off her face when the call came through on the police radio — a fight in The Market Tavern pub, at the end of The Strip. Assistance required.

‘Oh shit!’ Swan said. ‘Let me out here. I don’t want to get involved in a punch up.’

Sally smiled sweetly at him, and gesticulated at Toni. ‘You can’t leave your arrest behind, and there isn’t time to drop you both off.’ She’d pushed her foot to the floor and switched the siren on. ‘Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be seen to be neglecting your duty in front of the public.’

‘Fuck you,’ Swan muttered.

Three minutes later, they were pulling up outside the Market Tavern. There were people tumbling out of the door, noses bleeding and hands clutching various parts of their anatomy. Inside, the fight was obviously well underway, and both Swan and Sally went inside, leaving Toni in the car.

Time to escape, Toni thought. The problem was that the rear doors of the police car were locked, and Toni found it bloody difficult to climb over the back of the front seats to get to the front door. When she’d done so, she found the bastards had double locked the whole car. The only way to get out would be to smash the windows. Toni had a think about that. Being done for prostitution was one thing, but smashing up a police car was likely to result in having not only the book thrown at her, but the desk and chairs as well.

On the other hand, if she wasn’t here when they came back, it didn’t really matter, did it? She wriggled her legs up onto the passenger’s seat, and lay back on the driver’s seat. Now all she had to do was to bring her knees up to her face, and smash her stilettos against the passenger window.

‘Hello, having a little lie down?’ Sally had pulled the driver’s door open, and she smiled down sweetly at Toni. Sally had used her left hand to open the door, so that she could employ her right to keep a big guy secured in an arm lock.

She opened the rear door of the car and fed him inside. He gave a horrific scream as, prior to releasing his arm, she gave it a final, vicious twist. Now Toni could see him, he looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger might have done, after his face had been fed through a food processor.

‘You bitch, you’ve broken my fucking arm,’ he moaned, tears almost in his eyes. ‘You might have pulled it off.’

‘You ought to be grateful it’s only your arm,’ she said. ‘I normally grab blokes by the balls.’

She gave Toni a friendly grin. ‘I realise you’ve always wanted to drive a police car, but could I ask you to sit in the back seat again.’

Toni looked back at Schwarzenegger. ‘With him?’

‘Fraid so. I think it’ll probably be safer putting you in there, rather than PC Swan.’ She pointed behind her to the pub, where Swan was just emerging with a swollen eye and a hunched figure, obviously having been kicked in the goolies. ‘I’m afraid our friend got a bit aggressive with him.’

Toni reluctantly levered herself out of the driver’s seat and Sally opened the rear door so she could get in. As she sat down, Schwarzenegger grinned at her, and said, ‘What ho, baby. If she’d told me she was providing entertainment on the journey, she wouldn’t have needed to use force to get me inside.’ He dropped his giant hand onto her thigh, and gave it an almighty squeeze.

‘Oh shit,’ Tony thought. ‘Please let this nightmare be over soon.’

It was not to be. Barely had the car started when another message came through on the police radio — panic alarm at Barkwest Bank — all units respond.

CHAPTER 4 - THE BIG BUST
=======================

The nightmare was definitely in full swing now. Here was a bank manager in transvestite dress and under arrest for prostitution, locked in the back of a speeding police car with an Arnold Schwarzenegger mutant, who had one hand squeezing her tits, the other under her dress trying to get inside her knickers. They were en route to a robbery at the manager’s own bank, where for the last hour he should have been managing the security of one million pounds in cash.

When the car was still some distance away, they all saw, illuminated in the floodlights outside the bank, the man come dashing out carrying a large, heavy black suitcase. But of the four of them, it was only Toni who realised how very similar that man looked to himself, in his normal business suit. The man was in view for only seconds, before he disappeared up the passageway leading to the staff car park.

‘Turn left here,’ Toni shrieked at Sally. ‘You’ll be able to cut him off at the top of the passageway.’

‘Rubbish,’ Swan yelled. ‘He’ll double back if we do that and we’ll lose him. Stop next to the passage and I’ll chase after him, then you drive on and go round to the car park.’

By that time, they had already passed the turning on the left, and further argument was wasted. Sally skidded to a halt outside the bank, and almost before it had stopped, Swan was out of the car and running up the passageway. Sally dropped the car into first gear and accelerated up the road. Toni could have told her that it really would have been quicker to do a U turn and go back to the turning he had suggested, but knew it was useless.

It took them well over five minutes to get round there, and they were still several hundred yards away when Tony’s Jaguar came screeching out of the car park and accelerated off into the distance at more than a hundred miles an hour. Sally’s Fiesta simply wouldn’t stand a chance of catching it.

Swan should have been waiting for them, but he’d only just appeared on the pavement by the time they drew level with the car park. Blood was pouring down his face as Sally skidded to a halt beside him.

‘Did you get a crack at him?’ she asked.

‘No, I ran into a fucking skip,’ he said, climbing into the car beside her.

‘You’re missing a trick,’ she said, as they accelerated off. ‘You should have claimed credit for trying to arrest him.’

‘Get on the radio,’ Toni screamed at them, frustrated at their chatter, ‘and get them to raise the lift bridge to the old town. If he gets in there, you’ll never find him.’

They both looked at each other, and Swan said, ‘That’s the first decent suggestion you’ve made all evening.’

He barked his orders into the radio. Two minutes later, as they came over the brow of the hill and into view of the bridge, they could see it already starting to lift, with the Jaguar speeding towards it. As the bridge got higher and higher, so the Jaguar appeared to travel faster and faster.

At the last minute, the driver obviously realised he wasn’t going to make it, and stamped on the brake. Consequently, the car was only moving quite slowly when it smashed though the entrance barriers, careered up the highly sloping lift bridge, and unhurriedly toppled over the top. Despite that, it fell with a tremendous splash into the river flowing beneath, and immediately disappeared beneath the surface.

*****************

It was after midnight before Toni got back to the shop. After getting the bridge re-opened, Sally had driven across so they could search the old harbour-front for any signs of the driver or his booty, whilst other police officers who’d arrived on the scene, had stayed to search on that side of the river.

As soon as they pulled to a halt on the old quayside, Swan had gone running off to the water’s edge, and with him out of the way, Sally had taken a more tolerant line with her prisoners, and released both Toni and Schwarzenegger from their captivity.

‘Too much paperwork already,’ she said. ‘You’ll only create more. Now piss off.’

Schwarzenegger had been enjoying himself with Toni until now, and was rightly upset that he was in danger of losing her. Deciding that brute force was likely to be far more successful than smooth talk, he ran round to her side of the car, arms held wide apart, effectively trapping her between car and harbour-wall.

It had been a long night. Toni had diced with despair for the last two hours. She’d had semen squirted down her throat and into her eye, and her bank had lost a million pounds entrusted into her care. And now Arnold Schwarzenegger was trying to fuck her.

As her foot travelled upwards, she put every ounce of frustration and annoyance into it, imagining that if she kicked hard enough, she would make his balls pop out of his eyes. They almost did — certainly his eyeballs almost popped out, but he gave barely more than a tiny whimper, as he collapsed on the ground, and proceeded to writhe about in agony.

‘Well done, Toni,’ Sally said. ‘I feel just that way myself.’ And she gave Schwarzenegger an enormous kick in the small of the back.

*****************

As Toni got back to the shop, she felt just a tiny glimmer of hope that she might come out of everything unscathed. As soon as she was safely inside and out of view, she frantically pulled off the bodysuit and became Tony once more.

As he searched around desperately for his own clothes, he tried to work out exactly what had happened that evening. Firstly, he knew that Carmine had taken him for a sucker. She’d enticed him right from the start. He’d let her take the three-dimensional photographs of his naked body, which had allowed her to make a bodysuit for someone else, so that person would look exactly like himself.

Secondly, according to Carmine, she had telephoned the bank and let them know he wouldn’t be coming in to do the special job that evening. But of course, she’d lied about that, so the bank was still expecting Tony to arrive. The impostor had simply walked right in and stolen the million pounds, whilst Carmine kept Tony occupied on Sunset Strip.

Probably — and this hurt — she was also in cahoots with Mitchell, and the pair had engineered events so that, whilst Toni was giving him a blowjob, Carmine had shopped the pair of them to the police. Mitchell had been ready when they appeared so he had escaped, after throwing the money at her, thus setting her up for a prostitution charge.

Although the heat appeared to be off shop assistant Toni, Tony the bank manager knew he would be coming under increasing pressure. The bank staff would believe it had been him who’d stolen the money, and the police would pretty quickly be going around to Tony’s home to try to find him. If Tony wasn’t there, they would know without doubt he’d been the person in the car that had gone into the river. There’d be an immediate all points bulletin out for him, in case he had managed to escape.

He left the shop as Tony Phillips and ran the two hundred yards to the nearest taxi rank. He offered a ten pound tip if the driver could get him home in less than ten minutes.

Perhaps if the taxi driver had done it in less than ten minutes, things would have worked out differently. As it was, he had just paid off the driver when the police car rolled up behind him.

‘Good evening sir,’ said PC Sally Wright. ‘Just been out robbing a bank?’

CHAPTER 5 - DARKEST AT DAWN
===========================

The harbourmaster knew exactly where the body would be discovered at first light. The rescue helicopter found it within a few minutes of looking, and brought it back to the waiting ambulance and the small group of police, on the quayside at Seacombe. Even PC Swan could see the body looked exactly like, Tony Phillips, the man who Sally Wright had arrested some hours earlier, and who CID had been grilling ever since. Of course, it would not be until the autopsy that anyone realised that the body was disguised with a bodysuit, and actually looked nothing like Tony.

Reluctantly, the police decided they had no grounds to keep Tony Phillips any longer, and he was released about seven thirty on that cold and dreary Sunday morning. They kindly offered to give him a lift home, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being in police presence for a moment longer, and he decided to walk home, instead.

In fact, the walk helped to clear his brain of the fug, which had built up, after the hours of repeating the same simple story he’d originally spun them. He’d been off work, ill, he’d said, and his girlfriend had looked after him at her flat above a shop in the old town. On Saturday evening, she’d decided to go out with a girlfriend, leaving him in bed. He had meant to telephone the bank and tell them he was sick, but he’d been feeling so very bad that he’d dropped off to sleep without doing so.

He had awoken sometime after midnight, and realised his girlfriend hadn’t returned. Suspecting her of being unfaithful, he had become annoyed, and decided to go home. Only when he went to collect his Jaguar from the car park, did he discover it had been stolen, and instead he had taken a taxi home. Like the best of lies, it had been simple to remember and repeat. After repeating it to the police so many times, he almost believed it himself.

After walking for a few minutes, he felt so much better that he even decided to make a slight detour in order to pass his bank, and see what was happening there. Perhaps he would be able to talk with whoever was still on duty and discover more about the raid, of which up until now, the police had told him absolutely nothing. In fact, when he got to the bank, there was no one around. The bank door was locked, and it all appeared remarkably normal. No one could have guessed the bank was presumably missing one million pounds from its vaults.

From the bank, the quickest way home on foot was to walk up the alleyway at the side and pass the staff car park — the same alleyway that the robber had taken the previous evening. But the big problem with walking anywhere in the new town was that almost every minor road sloped steeply, and this alleyway at the side of the bank was no exception. Tony started to sweat slightly, as he often did as he climbed to the car park at the top of the hill.

The robber must have had a tough time, he thought, lugging that suitcase full of money with him. The idea brought him to an abrupt halt. After all, one million pounds in notes was extremely heavy. Surely, he thought, no one carrying the suitcase could have run up that slope, so why hadn’t PC Swan managed to catch up with him? Tony looked back down the alley to the lower end beside the bank — because Swan had bumped into the builder’s skip — that was why. But even with that interruption, surely Swan could still have overtaken a man trying to drag such an enormous weight up the steep hill?

Tony walked back down the hill towards the skip. Swan’s blood was still on the outside — congealed red dribbles down the dirty yellow paintwork. Inside, the blood had splattered all over the large, black suitcase which had been stuffed in there, as the robber had suddenly come to terms with the difficulty of dragging that heavyweight up the hill, with the police hard on his heels.

Tony was torn. On the one hand, he realised he shouldn’t disturb evidence until the police and Scene of Crime Officers had played about with it for a few hours. On the other hand, the suitcase presumably contained the million pounds, and since he didn’t have his mobile with him, he would have to leave it in order to find a payphone and call the police.

He decided it was better to be safe, than sorry. He pulled the suitcase from the skip and continued his journey. Several times on that journey home, he wished he had left the case where it was. It was bloody heavy, after all, and there were so many sodding hills to climb. He would have taken it to the police station himself, had they not treated him so dreadfully. No, let the buggers wait! In fact, when he got home he would have breakfast before telephoning the police. That would teach them to arrest him for robbing his own bank!

The blue and white police tape was draped across the entrance to his garden. Even from there, he could see a big split down the side of his front door, where the police had smashed their way inside. He lifted the tape and walked over to the door, and pushed it slightly. The door lurched to one side, with only one hinge still holding it in position.

Inside, the place had the appearance of being hit by a tornado. The contents of every cupboard and drawer had been turned out onto the floor, and then shovelled into one big heap in his lounge. The carpets in every room had been lifted, and then tossed aside. Pictures had their backs ripped off, stuffing from the cushions pulled out, even holes knocked through some of the partition walls.

In the kitchen, they’d tipped the flour, sugar and salt out of their containers into the sink, and when Tony turned on the tap to try to wash it all away, he found they’d taken the plumbing apart, and the water from the plughole poured over his feet.

****************

‘Well, Phillips. What have you got to say for yourself?’

Tony turned, to see Dick Thompson, his Area Manager, standing in the doorway. He pointed hopelessly around him. ‘The police have fucked up my house.’

‘Well, what do you expect? The bank has lost a lot of money, and it appeared as though you had stolen it.’

Tony pointed at the discarded flour bag. ‘They were looking for a million quid. They wouldn’t find it in a bag of flour.’

‘Obviously looking for clues. Now I suggest you start tidying it up. Not of course, that there’s any hurry. After all, you will have plenty of time, now that you’re not working.’

‘Not working? What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ Dick Thompson said, ‘that you’re suspended from duty. The police have given me your version of events. It appears that, at best, you have been incredibly careless. Forgetting to telephone in when you were too sick to attend an important security function is total dereliction of duty. Now, can I have your pass card?’

CHAPTER 6 - BORN AGAIN
====================

It was late afternoon before he awoke. After Thompson had left, the events of the last twelve hours had swept over him, and he almost fell unconscious on the spot. He’d gone upstairs to his bedroom, found some bedclothes from the heap on the floor, and had immediately fallen into a deep sleep on his partly shredded mattress.

He went downstairs to the kitchen and managed to find enough food to stave off the hunger pains. He switched on the local radio, and as the clock struck five, the news headlines came on. There was no mention of any bank robbery, but Tony wasn’t surprised. It was fairly common for news of such robberies to be concealed, to avoid embarrassment to the bank and loss of confidence in the banking system. The main item was the story of a late night police chase after a stolen Jaguar, with it ending by plunging into the river after trying to leap across the opening lift bridge.

A man’s body had been recovered from the sea that morning, the news bulletin continued, and it was thought to be that of actor Jonathan Beggs, who’d last worked at Seacombe’s Summer Pavilion Theatre, several months previously.

Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Although he hadn’t dared to admit it, he’d been terrified that it had been Carmine who had used the bodysuit to disguise herself as Tony. Not only would Tony have felt that was an even worse betrayal of him, it would also have taken the police straight round to Big Busts. As it was, the police would be concentrating their investigation upon Jonathan Beggs, allowing time for Tony to ensure he had left no evidence at the shop.

He once more reviewed the story he’d given to the police. The problem, he’d already realised, was that the police would go around to Big Busts to get Carmine to confirm his story. She obviously wouldn’t be there, and when they eventually got fed up of knocking on her door, they would probably decide to search the place, instead.

Then, they would discover the bodysuit he had left there the previous night and, forensics being what they were, they’d be able to prove he had been wearing it. To avoid his unintentional involvement becoming public, he realised it was inevitable that he was going to have to go back to Carmine’s shop, recover the bodysuit and destroy it. But better safe than sorry, he thought. Best to wait until darkness fell.

************************

Tony was wearing a dark blue sweater above black jeans. He quietly toured the area three times before he’d satisfied himself there was no police watch on Big Busts. No policemen lurking in doorways; no silent men sitting in parked cars; not even any vans with dark glass windows.

As he walked up to Big Busts, he had his credit card ready and it took barely a second to slip the latch, walk through the door and close it after him. There was enough light coming in from the passageway for him to walk across the shop without switching on the light, but as soon as he reached the central hallway, he realised he would have to do so, or run the risk of falling over and hurting himself in the dark. He first made certain the door from the shop to the hallway was tightly closed — he didn’t want anyone who might look through the shop window to realise there was someone at home.

With the light on, Tony looked around. From where he stood at the base of the stairs, he could see the bodysuit lying on the floor in the workroom. He breathed a sigh of relief that he’d got into the shop before the police, for that would surely be the first item they’d have noticed.

He went into the workroom, picked up the two halves of the bodysuit, and draped them over his arm. As he did so, the face stared up at him, with that wonderful sexy smile. A little shiver ran through him. Whilst he was here, he thought, why didn’t he put on the bodysuit for one last time?

It was, of course, an absolutely stupid idea. He had already decided he would pack it, along with any other incriminating evidence, into the black, plastic sack he had brought with him, and drop it into the big dustbin, which stood behind a nearby pub.

On the other hand, he thought, now the police had Jonathan Beggs’ body, and no doubt, all kinds of clues to follow up, they weren’t going to be too concerned about not being able to immediately get hold of Carmine. Therefore, it was hardly as though it mattered too much if he spent a bit longer here than he’d anticipated. After all, he did so enjoy turning into the voluptuous Toni.

Thirty seconds later, he had frantically yanked off his clothes and discarded them on the floor. The problem began when he tried to pull on the lower half of the bodysuit, for it appeared that, in the space of twenty-four hours, he had become wider in the hips. The leggings just would not go over them.

In the last three days, he’d got used to taking the bodysuit off to shower, and putting it back on again. With practice, it had got very much easier than that first time he’d donned it. But on past occasions, he’d always used plenty of talcum powder on his body. Although at the moment he didn’t feel at all sweaty, he thought that perhaps he needed to put some on now, in order to lubricate the suit as he pulled it on. He picked up both his clothes and the bodysuit and carried them upstairs to the bedroom.

The bodysuit was lying on the bed, where he had left it when he had hurriedly changed last night! And yet, he was holding the bodysuit in his arms. Tony looked from the bodysuit on the bed to the one in his arms and back again — there were now two bodysuits!

Tony felt as though his brain had ceased up — there was no rational explanation for one bodysuit to turn into two, like an amoeba dividing. Even if there were, how could one of them have walked downstairs to the workroom, and waited there to be found?

Except, of course, the bodysuit he had found in the workshop was not the twin of the one on the bed, because he hadn’t been able to pull it over his hips. Ergo, it had been made to fit someone else. He laid the two bodysuits flat on the floor, side by side, so he could directly compare them.

They certainly looked almost identical. The wig was the same; the lips were the same; the nose was the same shape; the height was the same. In fact, if it hadn’t been that they were obviously slightly different sizes, the two could have been identical twins.

As identical as Carmine and Toni had been!

The thought hit him like an express train striking a donkey — it was as though every bit of him had been splattered into tiny pieces. He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to fathom out how the world had suddenly turned upside down. But the answer was simple — Carmine looked like Carmine because she had been wearing a bodysuit!

The real Carmine could look completely different, he realised. There was no reason why her skin should be black — it could be any colour. Her height was presumably unchanged, but her shape could be dramatically altered, and instead of those superb tits, she could be quite skinny. He felt inside the leotard top — sure enough, the breasts were heavily padded — why with that amount of padding, her breasts must be smaller than Tony’s own, but...

He had a sudden thought, and he snatched up the leggings again and closely examined them. The slit at the groin was identical to that in his own bodysuit but the padding on the hips was even thicker, which was totally illogical. A woman always had wide hips, not narrow ones and she would have had terrible trouble peeing through that slit. Unless, Tony thought, it had not been a woman wearing this bodysuit at all, but a man! A man such as the actor, Jonathan Beggs!

Tony had a sudden urge to slide down to the floor and cry, but men aren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, so he did the next best thing.

He quickly pulled on his own bodysuit, and then Toni sat on the floor and cried her heart out.

********************

Only now, was the total scale of the deception clear. Jonathan Beggs had set up the whole thing. He’d disguised himself as Carmine, and come into the bank asking for a bank loan, with the sole objective of trapping Tony. It had been inevitable that they should fuck, and that Tony would fall into the trap, hook, line and sinker.

After Beggs had set up the blowjob with Mitchell and fixed it for Toni to be arrested for prostitution, he had assumed that Toni would be safely out of the way. He would have jumped into a taxi and come back to the shop, where he’d taken off his Carmine bodysuit, and donned his bank manager Tony bodysuit. He’d dressed and then got into Tony’s Jaguar and driven back to the bank and conned his way inside.

He’d have got away with it as well, but for the fight in The Market Tavern, which had meant that Toni was still in the police car when the bank alarm went off. Only Toni had the presence of mind to get them to lift the bridge, perhaps because she had silently suspected that the eventual destination of the robber would be Big Busts.

If Beggs had managed to get over the bridge and reached Big Busts, he would have removed his Tony bodysuit, and left the building disguised as Carmine, getting clean away with the million pounds. As it was, the money was still sitting in Tony’s hallway, where he had dumped it when he had returned home and found his home devastated.

**********************

The thought hit him like a brick. Since arriving home and finding the chaos left by the police, all thought of the loot had completely deserted him. He’d simply plonked the suitcase down in the hallway, and staggered around looking at the mess. Then Dick Thompson had walked in and compounded his confusion by virtually giving him the sack. It was ironic that Thompson must have stepped right past the suitcase containing the million pounds as he arrived and left. More importantly, it was still standing there now, ready for any passing thief to walk in and remove it.

Tony had tried that afternoon to get someone to come out and make the house secure, but as usual when you want them, all the 24 hour emergency repair services appeared to be having their day off, so he’d simply found a piece of plywood which he’d screwed across the front door entrance to give some semblance of security. But any burglar could just as easily unscrew the plywood, which Tony had so painstakingly put in. Toni had to get back there straightaway.

Without further thought, Toni slipped on the little white dress she had first worn and ran down the stairs. She was halfway across the shop towards the door, when she became aware that someone was standing outside the door with his hand raised, about to knock on it. It was PC Swan, and he was staring right at her.

**************

‘Well, fancy seeing you here,’ he said, a malevolent smile spreading across his face. ‘It’s funny, but last night I knew I’d seen you somewhere before, but I couldn’t place it until I started to walk along this passageway. Well, well, well.’

Toni smiled back at him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Escaping from police custody is a very serious offence, you know. You can go to prison for that.’

All the horrors of last night’s arrest suddenly returned. ‘I didn’t escape,’ she gasped. ‘PC Wright released me.’

‘It’s not what she told me. She said that the pair of you had run off, whilst she was searching the wharf. So I think I’m going to have to arrest you again. Unless of course, you can help me with my enquiries?’

A glimmer of hope. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for Carmine Ross. Is she here?’

Of course, Toni realised, the police were still trying to confirm the statement that Tony had made last night. All she had to do was to stand in for Carmine and give Tony an alibi.

‘I’m afraid she hasn’t returned from her evening out, last night. She often does that — finds some bloke and shacks up with him. Last night, she left one bloke here whilst we went out to pick up some more. Can I help you?’

‘Do you know Tony Phillips?’ he said. ‘Did you see anything of him last night after you returned?’

Toni almost gasped with relief. No problem in giving the right answer. ‘Yes. I got in just after midnight, and he was still here — just about to leave.’

Swan was looking suspicious. ‘He didn’t say anything to the police about meeting you.’

‘No, he wouldn’t.’ Toni was ready for him. ‘There’d been a bit of a row before we left, and I didn’t want to see Tony again. So when I got in and heard him at the top of the stairs, I nipped into the workroom, and stayed there until he’d come down and left. He didn’t see me at all, but I certainly watched him leave.’

‘Hmm. I suppose that stacks up. If you came straight here after you escaped custody, there certainly wouldn’t have been time for him to get himself out of the river and into here ahead of you. I’ll need you to come down to the police station tomorrow and make a formal statement.’

There was no way Toni wanted to go into the police station ever again. ‘Couldn’t I write the statement now? I’m going to be terribly busy tomorrow with Carmine being away. I’ve got a computer in the workroom. I could write the statement up on that.’

Swan gave her a leer. ‘Sounds good to me. Save me some typing.’

************

It took less than five minutes for Toni to switch on the computer, type up a simple statement, print it out then sign it. ‘There, is that satisfactory?’

Swan read it carefully, then said, ‘I guess that matter is resolved, but there are still the other issues. Escaping from custody and prostitution — they are very serious matters.’

‘But you said that if I helped you with your enquiries it would be OK.’

‘Oh, you wogs always make up this kind of crap, don’t you?’ Swan suddenly had her by the wrist and was twisting it painfully, making her spin around. ‘I’m arresting you for prostitution and escaping lawful custody.’

She heard a click behind her back, then her other wrist was being grasped and forced backwards, until she heard another click, and her wrists were handcuffed together.

‘You do not have to say anything, but if you...’

‘Why are you giving me all this crap? PC Wright released me. Ask her.’

‘She’s off duty now until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll ask her then. In the meantime, you can enjoy the pleasures of the nick for twenty-four hours.’

Toni was panicking. ‘Oh look, please. Don’t do it. I’ll do anything...’

Swan swung her violent around. ‘Anything?’

Too late, Toni realised what she had said, but she knew she had no choice. If she was kept in prison for a whole day, detection would be inevitable.

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Anything for you, officer.’

Swan grabbed the front of her dress with both hands and brutally tore it down to her waist. ‘Well, now we’re talking,’ he said. He pointed his thumb downwards. ‘Let’s start with a blowjob. Fact is, it really turned me on yesterday when I saw you with spunk all over your face. Thought I might like to try it myself.’

He undid the belt of his trousers, and released them so they fell around his boots. He slipped down his pants to reveal his dick. It was so small that Toni almost laughed out loud, but she had more sense. With her wrists still handcuffed behind her, she sank to her knees and started to take him inside her mouth.

‘Come on, black bitch.’ Swan grabbed her head and forced it completely over his cock. If his prick had been any decent size, she’d have choked on it, but fortunately, it wasn’t.

‘Harder, come on you fucking, black slag, harder.’

As she was giving him head, Toni realised she only had Swan’s word that after this was over, he would not continue with his arrest. However, as it turned out, it was an academic point. Just as Swan was reaching his climax, the workroom door suddenly burst open, and somebody shouted, ‘Police raid! Nobody move!’

***********************

It probably wouldn’t have been so bad for Swan if he hadn’t been standing directly behind the door. As it was, the door handle banged him hard in the small of the back, violently knocking him forward. Unfortunately, with his feet firmly trapped by his trousers, he fell on top of Toni, and the pair of them fell on the floor, with Swan’s dick still in Toni’s mouth.

Toni really had no alternative. With the violence of his thrusts, she had almost been choking anyway, and with Swan’s weight on top of her and his belly pressing against her face, she couldn’t breathe. It was all simply too much - she did the only thing possible — she clenched her teeth, and bit as hard as she could.

The scream hurt everyone’s ears, except Swan, who clearly had other things on his mind, and he jerked upwards, away from the pain, striking his head with a loud thud against the corner of the workbench. The screaming abruptly ceased.

‘Phew. I bet that hurt.’ PC Sally Wright did not seem at all sympathetic to the plight of the unconscious Swan. Instead, she pulled Swan’s body to one side and carefully looked Toni over.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked, helping Toni regain an upright position.

‘I think so,’ Toni said, looking around, expecting to see the room full of police. ‘Where’s the rest of the raid?’

Sally smiled. ‘Only kidding,’ she said. ‘I came round to get a statement from Carmine Ross, but the shop door was open, so I decided to come in. I could see through the crack in the door that Swan was up to his usual tricks, so I thought I’d do a bit of coitus-interruptus.’

She turned to inspect him. ‘That’s a very nasty mess you’ve made of his dick,’ she said. ‘I think he’ll have to go to hospital and have it sewn together again.’

She gave Swan a kick between the shoulder blades. ‘Oi, Swan! Wake up.’ She gave him another kick, and he grunted.

‘Wassup? Warrisit?’

‘You are in deep shit,’ Sally said. ‘The Sergeant has been and gone. He was most pissed off with you for sexually attacking a witness. He’s going to try to cover it up, although you don’t deserve it. But he said one more bit of trouble from you and you’re out the force. Got it?’ She gave him another kick for effect

‘Oh, fucking hell, my prick hurts. Jesus Christ! That black bitch has almost bitten it off.’

‘Then get down the hospital straightaway, and let that be a warning to you. And the Sarge says stay away from this woman, or else. Do you hear?’

Muttering some extremely nasty comments, Swan staggered to his feet, gingerly pulled up his trousers, and carefully walked out of the shop.

‘Oh, I see you made out a statement.’ Sally had caught sight of the sheet of paper still lying on the desk. She picked it up and read it. ‘Well, that seems to clear up all the business I came round for.’ She tucked the statement into her inside pocket.

‘Do you think you could remove the handcuffs, please?’ Toni asked.

Sally smiled. ‘I will, but not yet. After all, the night is still young, and you haven’t shown me where the bedroom is.’

******************

Several times that night, Toni wondered just exactly what would happen if Sally found out the truth. No doubt, she could make out a very long list of charges, which would ensure that Tony Phillips was locked in prison for the next twenty years, leaving all lesbians safe to roam the streets in peace.

But more likely, Toni thought, Sally would combine her skills at ju-jitsu with her contempt for the male anatomy, to cause him such incredible pain that Swan’s mishap would appear like a tiny scratch.

Having said that, she was very good in bed — even better than Carmine had been, and they both had countless climaxes, each of which lasted for ages. Sally was so much more versatile and knowledgeable about lesbian sex than Carmine — which was hardly surprising, since Carmine had really been a male, middle-aged actor.

The sun was rising as Sally left, and as Toni finally dropped off to sleep, she knew she had met the woman with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

***************
Toni Phillips woke up feeling as if a brand new world had just started. She struggled to sit upright in the bed, a childish grin breaking out on her face as she stared over towards the dressing table. The woman smiling back at her in the mirror was fantastic — big, black and beautiful, and naked from the waist up, her lower half obscured by a white drape across her midriff.

There were a number of brightly coloured dresses hanging in the open wardrobe, but the simple white dress with the deep cleavage, which she had worn last night, was still lying on the floor where it had got strewn in the heat of the moment. God knows where Tony’s own clothes had ended up — at that moment, she couldn’t have cared less, for life ahead was far too exciting to be bothered about a trivial detail like trousers. With a bit of luck, she wasn’t going to need them for ages.

She blew a kiss, and the woman in the mirror returned it with an even bigger smile, her breasts giving a pleasant jiggle, as she moved.

But she knew she couldn’t stay in bed staring at her image for long. She had to go over to Tony Phillip’s house to pick up a rather valuable suitcase, and then get back to Big Busts before opening time. There really was no peace for the wicked, she thought, and undoubtedly, she was truly wicked. She really should have told the bank she had recovered their money.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Sally had told her that, tonight, she would bring over a spare uniform and let her try it on. Then they would walk around the block together, and pounce upon any bloke who stepped out of line. There was always at least one, Sally had told her, with an enigmatic smile which more than rivalled that of Mona Lisa. And Toni had smiled back at her, her own secrets concealed even more closely than those of Mona Lisa.

When Mike's wife, Sue, wins a weekend break for one in Scotland, it suited both of them that Mike should go instead. The problem was that the organisers wouldn't let her change the name on the ticket. Fortunately, Sue had a ready solution: Mike could simply pretend to be her.

Things may have been less eventful if Sue hadn't purchased such a large pair of false breasts for him. As it was, the new Mrs Susan Martin found she had a number of admirers, to whom she had great difficulty in saying, 'No.'

This story contains adult themes, and is entirely fictional.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.

To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. The stories are not being published in chronological order, but are intended to give a mix of different types.

Like most of my stories, this is meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site). Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.

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The Long Weekend
by Marianne Nettes

CHAPTER 1

'Hi Mike, it's me.'

I was surprised. Sue had a pretty frantic job as a Personal Assistant to the MD of a marketing company, and she rarely had time to call me at home during the day.

'Hi, darling. How are things?'

'I just won a short break in Scotland, for this weekend. Do you fancy going?'

'Are you sure it's not one of these tricks? You know, you get there and then find you've got free accommodation, but have to pay for food at inflated prices.'

'Nope. It's genuine, alright — first class rail travel to Glasgow, road transfer to the hotel, three nights' accommodation, from Friday to Sunday, all meals included, and wine with the evening meal. It's at a place called Hunters Lodge, near Loch Lomond. Have you heard of it?'

'I'll look it up. How did you win it?'

'Do you remember that survey I completed at work, a few weeks ago? I moaned about it to you, because it took up so much of my time. They told me the best responses would be entered in a draw for a free holiday, but I didn't take too much notice. I got a letter in the post today.'

'And it's for two people?'

'Uh-uh. It's only meant to be for me, but this weekend I'm going on that conference in Birmingham, so I couldn't go anyway. And you know a long weekend in Scotland would be absolute purgatory for me. But you'd love it, wouldn't you? You could go out walking every day.'

It was true that Sue and I had wildly different tastes. Sue loved the bright lights and hectic pace of city living, which is why we lived in south London, whereas I couldn't wait to get out into the country, and breathe fresh air.

It was also true that I hated it when she went away on all too frequent weekend conferences. It was bad enough that she worked long hours during the week, leaving me at home as a househusband — one of the casualties of the financial crash. But at the weekend, especially Sundays, I really disliked being alone. So a couple of days walking in Scotland, whilst she was away at her conference, sounded a pretty good deal all round.

'Will you be able to change the name to mine?'

'Course I can.'

*********************

So, even though it was only Tuesday, I got out my walking trousers and anorak, and stuck them in the washing machine, and located my walking boots, and gave them a good polish. I found an OS map of the area, and found Hunters Lodge — on the edge of a tiny loch, a few miles from one of the remote parts of Loch Lomond. I traced out all the footpaths, and by the time Sue had come home that evening, I'd plotted my two days of walks, with options and escape routes, in case of bad weather.

I showed them to her, and she politely smiled, as she handed over the information pack.

'Were they alright about changing the name?'

'Oh God! They're complete bureaucrats. Said the prize was non-transferable, and I had to be the recipient.'

'What! You mean I can't go!' I was all too aware I sounded like a little child denied a treat, but to be honest, that's exactly how I felt.

'Of course you can. All you have to do is say that you are me.'

'That's ridiculous!' I pointed at the name on the literature. 'How can I say my name is Mrs Susan Martin?'

Sue shrugged, and smiled that impish grin that had first attracted me to her. 'Well, it's only checking into a hotel under someone else's name. It's hardly as though they're going to give you a medical examination, is it?'

'Don't be stupid, Sue. I'm not going to wear a skirt and high heels, thank you very much.'

She laughed at the thought. 'It's you that's being stupid. It's a walking holiday, not a Vicars and Tarts' Party. If I was going walking in Scotland, do you think I'd be wearing skirt and high heels? I'd probably arrive wearing jeans and sweater, exactly the same as I'd have thought you would have worn.'

'Sue, you may wear the same type of clothes, but there's no way people will believe that I'm a woman.'

'Mike, if you really want to stay at home this weekend, instead of walking over cold, wet, Scottish countryside, then that's fine with me. But I thought you desperately wanted to go on this holiday. All it would take are a few simple changes to your appearance for you to make a very passable woman.'

I paused and considered. 'It's not really that easy, Sue. I mean, I'm totally the wrong shape.'

Another impish smile from her. 'You've just expressed a view shared by ninety per cent of women. I think you're well on the way to having the right mind set, and as any actor will tell you, that's the biggest hurdle.'

She saw I wasn't convinced, so she continued, 'You say you're the wrong shape, but what is the right shape. How does your shape need to change so you look like a woman?'

'Breasts.'

'Oh that's a typical response from a man. Look, there are lots of women with miniscule or non-existent breasts, right?'

I nodded agreement.

'So if someone doesn't have any noticeable breasts, do you automatically assume they are men?'

'Well… no.'

'Exactly. So if a woman's shape isn't typified by the breast, what is it typified by?'

I thought hard. 'Well, I dunno, really. They just look like women.'

'Arse!'

For a second I thought she was calling me one, but she amplified her statement, 'Women have big arses, and big hips. Right?'

'I suppose so. But they're always trying to reduce them in size, so doesn't the ideal woman have a small arse?'

'We're not trying to make you into the ideal woman. You're not competing for Miss World. We want you to look like an ordinary woman, who won't be noticed by a suspicious receptionist. In other words, you need a big arse.'

I wasn't convinced, so she took me upstairs, told me to take off my jeans, and then made me squeeze into a long legged panty girdle. But just before I pulled it over my bottom, she folded a couple of towels and stuffed them down the sides and rear. It was so packed that I could only just pull my jeans back over my hips, and had to wriggle them from side to side to get them up. I thought the zip would burst when I pulled it up, but when I looked in the mirror I was gob-smacked. There were the curvaceous hips and thighs of a woman!

'Hmm. Not bad. But I think you need some better padding. These towels are not smooth enough. They've rucked up at the back. But you have to admit, they make the difference.'

'Maybe to my body, but it doesn't alter my face.'

She stared critically at it. 'The beard will have to go, of course, but it will grow again easily enough, and I bet underneath it, your face is as soft as a baby's bottom. Your hair is long enough to be styled into something quite passable. You know, Mike, I think we're almost there. The question is, do you want to give it a try, and go on this holiday, or simply sit at home and vegetate whilst I'm away at the conference?'

I considered. Scotland was awfully tempting, and really, what was the worst that could happen? People might suspect that the rather boring looking woman in the hotel was rather too mannish and was really a bloke. As Sue said, they were hardly in a position to prove it, were they? They couldn't force me to have a medical examination.

'OK,' I said. 'I'll give it a go.'

CHAPTER 2

The next evening, Sue came home loaded with packages.

'I found a shop which sells just what you need,' she said, pulling what looked like a pair of flesh-coloured knickers out of a plastic bag, and holding them up in the air. 'Very realistic.'

She turned them round so I could see them from the front. There was a patch of dark pubic hair at the crutch. They weren't knickers — more like a false arse and thighs, with a hairy cunt.

She giggled at my expression. 'It's a Hiplet. I'm told it looks — and works — just like the real thing, even if someone catches you having a pee in the middle of a field. In these, you have to squat down like a woman.'

God! I hadn't even thought about trying to keeping up the pretence of being a woman whilst on a walk, and having to take a piss, en-route, but Sue obviously had. From our previous experiences, I remembered she had been less than happy with that particular aspect of country walking.

'It also keeps your manhood under control. No nasty erections every time you see a piece of crumpet. Perhaps you should wear it all the time.' Another giggle. 'No seriously, I'm pretty certain once you're have them on, it will be pretty difficult for anyone to tell the difference, even if you are caught with your trousers down.'

This seemed to be taking the pretence a bit too far, but I had to admit, when I tried them on, they provided a much smoother and rounder line to my figure than the towels had done, the previous evening. When I stood with my back to a mirror, and twisted my neck to view myself, I realised I had one enormous arse, with hips probably about nine inches wider than normal. Unable to see my head reflected in the mirror, I would have been certain I was looking at the rear of a woman's torso. With my hair modified a little, I reckoned I would make a very passable woman.

'OK, take them off. Let's get your hairy body defoliated.'

'There's no need to do that. I was just going to shave my beard.'

'If anyone does see you with your trousers down, they'll wonder why you have more hairs than an orang-utan on your lower legs, but which stop at the knee, where your false arse starts. Come on, I've bought a large pack of wax. Get naked, and we'll make a start.'

*****************

I will never understand why women put up with that kind of pain instead of using a razor. Can you imagine your skin being flayed from your body? Well that's what being waxed is like — every hair slowly and painfully ripped from your skin. Mind you, at the end of it, my skin was as smooth as that proverbial baby's bottom, even my beardless chin. I hoped it wouldn't be too long after the weekend before my beard would re-grow. There are limits as to how far I was prepared to go for this farce.

After Sue had spent ages washing and then styling my hair, I had to admit I was impressed. OK, I was no great beauty, but I certainly looked like the kind of woman you pass in the street, every day, without noticing — quite big, but without being obese.

Sue had bought several pairs of jeans and tee shirts of different sizes, from Marks & Spencer's, so she could take back those that didn't fit. I told her I didn't need anything special — I would simply squeeze into my old things, but she always would buy clothes on any excuse, and this was more than good enough.

Unfortunately, she hadn't estimated my new size very well, and nothing seemed to properly fit. With my enlarged hips, there was no way I could squeeze into my existing jeans, so we were both a little dissatisfied at the end of it. She put all the clothes back into their original packaging, and we agreed she would have another shopping expedition tomorrow.

******************

Surprisingly, I was really looking forward to Sue's arrival home on Thursday evening, with my new clothes, so I was quite perturbed when she rang to say she'd be late home.

'Sorry, love, but the MD is getting in a panic about the launch next week, especially with me being away at the conference this weekend. He's called a complete review, starting at seven pm, so it's likely to go on until at least nine. I'll give you a call when I finish. Incidentally, I've bought you some super clothes.'

Why did my heart give a little leap of pleasure at the thought? Sue was always complaining I was never interested in clothes, and yet for the next three hours I was aching for her call. When it came, it was to say the meeting was still continuing — they had only paused for a few minutes to take a comfort break.

'It looks like it's going to be at least midnight before I get home. I know you have an early start in the morning, so why don't you get to bed now, and we'll both get up early in the morning and you can try on the new clothes, then?'

I grumbled a bit, but it seemed the best compromise, so I went to bed.

CHAPTER 3

'I decided to get you some false breasts after all.'

'But I thought you told me I didn't need them — that lots of women have miniscule breasts.'

'I know, but I think it was because you were so bottom heavy that the clothes I brought home on Wednesday didn't look so good. I took some advice from the shop where I bought your false arse, and they suggested you should try some. They had so many kinds and sizes, I had trouble deciding which to buy, but I got these in the end.' She withdrew a single quivering breast from a bag, cupped in both hands.

'God, it's enormous!'

'I thought you'd be pleased. You always said you liked large breasts. Don't you remember, you kept suggesting I should get an enhancement?'

'That doesn't mean to say… Oh, never mind. I can't wear that.'

'But I've bought a load of clothes which should fit you. And I really can't see the logic that says you like large breasts on me but small ones for you. Anyway, it can't do any harm to just try them.'

I was fascinated the way the breast wobbled with every movement of her hand, like a plateful of jelly, and the way the large nipples poked upwards. I wondered what it would be like to have two of those stuck on my chest.

'I suppose I could give them a try.'

'Attaboy. These are the top of the range models, so you shouldn't have any problems with them. There's a separate adhesive, which I have to spread on first, and let dry.'

She spread it on, and we left it dry, whilst I pulled on my false arse and fumbled about with my cock until it was in the right position inside.

Over the top of my Hiplet, I pulled on the sexy little knickers that Sue had bought ('They'll see the knicker line through your trousers,' she had said, 'so you'll have to wear proper knickers.'), and tried on the selection of jeans until I found a pair that fitted really well. I put on some ankle-sox and found a pair of the plain, black, low-heeled shoes, which were not at all painful to wear. I looked in the mirror. I had to admit, from the waist down, I looked bloody authentic.

'OK, let's get on with these.' Sue took the left breast in her hand and carefully positioned it over my nipple, pressed it against my chest and smoothed it down.

'There you are. Just hold that in place whilst the adhesive sets, and I'll fix the other one.'

I grasped the soft quivering breast. Jesus, if only I'd met a girl with breasts like these!

'OK, hold this one in place with your other hand. I think I've probably guessed the right bra size, but I've bought a couple of other sizes, just in case.'

In fact, she'd guessed right at a 42 DD, which sounded pretty big, but it was only when I pulled a tee shirt over my head, and I glanced down, that their true enormity became apparent.

'God! I can't go about with these. They're huge.'

'But Mike, you're tall and broad shouldered, which is why we had to give you the wide hips. Everything about your body looks in the right proportion, now.'

'Sorry, Sue, no way. I'm going to take them off.'

'Suit yourself, but you'd better hurry up. The taxi will be here at any minute.'

A horn tooting outside indicated the accuracy of her forecast. I hurriedly tugged at the join of breast and skin.

'Ouch! That's stuck fast.'

'Look, don't bother to take them off now; otherwise you're going to miss your train. Get your train into the city and then go into the toilets at Kings Cross Station and remove them there.' She brushed my hair a little, and pushed and pulled it about a little. 'There, you look perfect. Slip on your anorak, and off you go.'

I was about to argue with her, but her logic was indisputable. If I missed the train into London, I would subsequently miss the Glasgow train, and with it my chance of the holiday. Out of the corner of my eye, I could also see myself in the mirror, and there was no doubt about my proportions being exactly right. I really looked quite a dish. An angry beeping came from the taxi, so I put on my anorak and dashed down the stairs.

'I bought a few extra items for you to wear in the hotel,' Sue said, as she passed me the suitcase, and added with her grin, 'just in case you're feeling adventurous. I packed them in your suitcase last night.'

Vowing to not even look at them when I got to the hotel, I grabbed the suitcase and went out the door.

CHAPTER 4

When I arrived at Kings Cross, I almost went marching straight into the men's toilets! It was only the man coming through the door in the opposite direction, who stared at my tits as he finished buttoning his flies, that stopped me.

'The Ladies are over there, luv.' He pointed, and added under his breath, 'and I bet you don't get many of those to the pound.'

Since leaving home, it was the third time I'd heard that same comment, along with at least a dozen others on a similar theme. To be honest, observations about the size of my breasts didn't upset me too much. The main problem was that the nipples were protruding like organ-stops — a fact which a number of men had remarked upon.

That really embarrassed me, since I had always associated such a state with a readiness for sex. So too, did many of my admirers, some of whom plainly expressed their desire to assist in giving me what I so obviously needed.

I abruptly turned and headed in the direction he indicated, but then paused as I approached. Until now, I had done nothing illegal, but if I entered those toilets, I would be stepping over a line which could result in my accommodation for the next few days being significantly different from that which I had planned — in jail! Far better to wait until I'd boarded the train and then go into the unisex toilet on board.

As a strategy, that was fine. The problem was that the train was late coming in, and only arrived a couple of minutes before it was due to depart. Consequently, I had to hang about on the concourse, getting all manner of comments and offers. Then I had to dash, with hundreds of others, onto the train before it left without me.

Fortunately, I had a reserved, first-class seat. Unfortunately, within ten seconds of locating it, there were at least half a dozen blokes all offering to help me put my suitcase up on the luggage rack. I almost automatically refused their offers, but just in time, I realised they'd all be ogling my boobs as I stretched up to do it myself. So I let the tallest guy help, who then promptly took it as an excuse to sit down opposite me and start chatting me up.

He was in his mid-twenties, and he was so good looking that, when I was a bloke, I'd have taken an instant dislike to him. As it was, I felt rather elated that he'd chosen me to talk to. The other guys who'd offered to help, all took seats a short distance away, where they could keep a discrete eye on me (and presumably, my boobs).

Of course, I then realised my strategy was totally blown, since I could hardly disappear off to the toilet, and return five minutes later without my tits. Damn! I'd have to wait until a few minutes before the train came into Glasgow, and then go to the toilet and dispense with my tits. Hopefully, by the time I came out, my travelling companions would have disappeared. In the meantime, I had almost six hours of blokes staring at my tits and trying to engage me in conversation.

Over the last two days, realising I would need to have a passable female voice, I had spent many hours practising with a tape recorder. I had developed a reasonable tone, but I'd mainly concentrated upon phrases like, 'I'm Susan Martin. Can I check in?' I certainly wasn't equipped to discuss my favourite type of theatre or restaurant, which is what the tall guy wanted to talk about. I struggled for a while, but then it seemed to get a bit easier with practice. In fact, by the time they called the first serving of lunch, I was quite happy for the two of us to go to the restaurant together.

By this time, I'd realised the advantage, for a woman with breasts like mine, of having a male companion. Blokes still looked at me, of course, but in a much more subtle way, and no longer as though I was easy pickings, just because I had huge tits, with protruding nipples. They would still give me the eye, if they thought my companion couldn't see, but I felt much more secure.

'Damn it!' I thought. 'I've only been a woman for four hours, and already I'm using blokes to provide me with security.'

The real bad news came as the meal was drawing to an end, when Jason, for that was his name, revealed he had won a long weekend break at Hunters Lodge. My heart sank. I would now be forced to keep company with my breasts for the whole of my holiday! Damn! Damn! Damn!

But I didn't let my annoyance show, as I gaily told Jason that I, too, had won the break and was on my way to Hunters Lodge.

'I wondered whether there'd be any other prize winners on the train,' he said. 'I know there were several winners.'

'Oh great,' I said. 'That means there'll be plenty of people to walk with.'

'Walk?'

'Well, why else would anyone go to a hotel in the wilds of Scotland, in the middle of March?'

'Didn't you read the leaflet?' I shook my head. 'It's only one of the best places to stay in the UK — and they get very stroppy if you call it a hotel. You're going to Hunters Lodge as a house guest. There's a cordon-bleu chef, a butler and personal maid service.' He added with a grin, 'That's the bit I'm looking forward to — at least it was, until I met you.'

'Gerroff.'

'No seriously, there's an indoor pool, sauna, gym and massage parlour. You name it — they've got it. They don't serve meals in a restaurant; they hold dinner parties that last into the early hours of the morning, and breakfasts they serve until midday. In the afternoon, perhaps a little shooting or riding — the kind with horses I mean, and then it's time to get dressed for dinner again.'

His final words brought home a suspicion that had gradually being forming in my mind. This was no walkers' hotel, where people slouched about in jeans and sweaters. We'd all be wearing dinner jackets and… evening dresses!

The words went crashing through my mind. Disaster loomed. It would have been bad enough if I'd gone to Hunters Lodge as a male, with all the wrong clothes, and meeting snotty-nosed people whose idea of a long walk was the ten yards from their front door to their Jaguar. But to do all that disguised as a female would lead to total exposure. I'd be…

'Are you alright? You're looking a bit pasty.' Jason was looking at me with real concern in his eyes.

'Well, I… I didn't realise it was that kind of holiday. I was going for the walking, not for a luxury weekend break. I haven't got the right clothes, or anything.'

'That's alright. You'll look good in any clothes. Just wear what you've got.'

And have the total attention of the restaurant focussed upon me, masquerading as a woman!

'I don't really think so, thanks very much. I think I'd better…'

My words were cut short as the announcement came over the speaker system: 'Ladies and gentlemen. We are now approaching Glasgow station. Would passengers please ensure they have all their belongings with them before leaving the train. Thank you.'

'Come on Susan. We need to get our bags. Don't worry about Hunters Lodge. You'll be fine.'

CHAPTER 5

'I told you it would be fine, didn't I?'

We were seated in the back of an ancient Rolls Royce, winding its way through the Glasgow traffic. I had fully intended, after alighting at Glasgow, to immediately catch a train back to London, but Jason had grabbed my bag and led the way off the platform, where we had been met by a uniformed chauffeur.

My suitcase had smartly changed hands, and before I knew it, I was being shepherded into the Rolls. Now, we were together on the back seat, his thigh pressing against mine.

On top of everything else, I'd realised in the dining car that this was going to be a problem. Wearing my false arse, I had virtually no feelings along the outside of my thigh and my buttocks, because of the thickness of material.

So when Jason had reached under the table and slid his hand up the outside of my thigh, I hadn't even noticed. It was only when he slid it around to the inside of my legs that I realised exactly what he was up to.

I'd given his hand a sharp slap, and he'd laughed as he'd withdrawn it, but I didn't know how long he'd been caressing the outside of my thigh, without any objection on my part. Presumably, if later on in the holiday his hand started brushing my nipples, I'd have an even worse problem. I could see, I was going to have to keep my senses about me, with this guy around.

I twisted around in the seat to give a bit of space between us, and he smiled at me and settled comfortably into his corner. Within a few minutes, his eyes started to droop, his breathing became heavier, and he fell into a deep sleep. The smooth, quiet ride in the Rolls was soporific. I'd been travelling for well over seven hours by then, and I, too, felt sleep start to sweep over me. I snuggled into my corner, and deliberately put out of my mind all worries about what lay ahead.

*****************

It was the change in ride that awoke me. Not even the ultra-smooth suspension of the Rolls could hide the enormous potholes in the unmade road, which stretched up the hill ahead of us.

Feeling a weight upon my chest, I looked down. Jason's head rested on my right breast. His eyes were closed and his hair was tousled. For an instant, I wondered what it would be like to have an infant in that position, about to take nourishment from my breast. But it was only an instant before I regained commonsense. I swivelled my shoulder to throw his head off my breast, and it dropped with a satisfying clunk onto my knee.

'O-h-h-h! Fuck! That hurt.'

'Good.' He would get no sympathy from me. 'And don't try that again, buster. Especially when I'm asleep.'

'Well, you didn't object when I put it there. You said it was nice.'

There was no winning that kind of argument, so I didn't try, and there was a mutual silence between us, until the car reached the brow of the hill and the chauffeur said, 'That's Hunters Lodge next to the loch.'

From its name, I'd expected a tiny building, little more than a cabin, where hunters could rest overnight. So the mansion towering up by the side of the loch took me completely by surprise. It was huge. Why the hell hadn't I turned around at Glasgow station, and gone home?

We drove through an arched gate into a courtyard, and a butler in a formal black suit, and a maid in a black dress and frilly white apron waited by the entrance to the house. The chauffeur pulled the car to a halt beside them, leapt smartly out, and opened the door for us to alight.

'Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, madam.' The butler eyed with distaste my jeans and bulging, tee shirt covered tits, pushing through the open front of my anorak. 'My name is Jones, and this is Nicole, your room maid during your stay.'

She flashed us a nice smile. 'Welcome to Hunters Lodge. Mr Jones will show you to your room, sir, whilst I show the lady to hers.' She took my suitcase from the chauffeur, whilst Jones took Jason's, and led the way inside.

'It's this way, madam.'

Fortunately, she led me up a separate staircase to the one that Jones and Jason were taking. I felt I needed some space from Jason. I said as much to Nicole, and added, 'Please call me Susan.'

She smiled. 'Thanks Susan. Some of the guys can come on a bit heavy when they're staying here. You know, they think the normal rules don't apply.' At the top of the stairs was a small lobby with two bedrooms leading off it. Nicole pointed to one. 'This is your bedroom. I think you'll find it's very pretty.'

She opened the door and went in, and I followed her into a huge room, with a wooden floor with shag pile rugs scattered liberally about. In the centre was a four-poster bed, with lots of white lace cascading down from the canopy.

'Oh, it's beautiful Nicole.'

She smiled back at me. 'I'm glad you like it. Would you like me to unpack for you?'

I shrugged. 'I'm afraid I have a problem with my clothes. I didn't read the instructions properly and I haven't brought anything suitable. I really don't know what I'm going to do.'

Nicole lifted my suitcase onto a stand and opened it. 'Oh, I think this will be perfect,' she said. She held up a long black dress with a scoop neckline, and a long slit up the side. Fortunately, she was gazing at the dress rather than at me, so she didn't see my jaw gape open. 'It's beautiful,' she continued, 'it'll be perfect. Do you have anything else?'

How the hell did I know? On the other hand, I certainly knew someone who would — Sue! She'd known this was a posh do, and that I'd never have come if I had realised, so she'd kept it secret from me. I felt betrayed!

Nicole was now holding up a bright blue dress, covered with shimmering sequins. 'Oh yes. There's no need for you to worry about your clothes, at all. They're ideal. What about day wear?'

She looked into my suitcase and nodded approvingly, and opened a wardrobe and started to put the dresses onto hangers. Then she was opening drawers and putting in garments I hadn't seen before — indeed, I wasn't even certain I knew what they were!

'Oh, I think someone's slipped this in here, for you.' She handed me an envelope with 'Susan' written on the front, which she'd withdrawn from the side pocket of the suitcase. 'Dinner's at eight, and I really think your black dress would be superb for that. If you need any help, ring the bell. Otherwise, I'll see you at dinner.' And she was gone.

*********************

My darling

I saw right from the start how much you really wanted to come on this short break, but knowing how easily embarrassed you get, I was certain you'd refuse if I told you all the detail. Please forgive me, but this seemed a heaven sent opportunity for you to enjoy a fun weekend, whilst I have a hard grind at the conference.

I hope the clothes fit. I had fun choosing them. As long as you keep a cool head, I'm certain no one will find out about Mike. Have fun.

Love

XX

My anger subsided as I read Sue's note, which she'd been careful enough to phrase so that even if someone else read it, my secret would not be revealed.

I'd realised in the past that Sue sometimes felt guilty that, even when she was able to take time off from her busy job, she never wanted to walk in the countryside with me, and we always ended up doing what she wanted to do, which was usually shopping. But she'd gone to a lot of trouble to get me onto this holiday, when she could so easily have simply told me I wasn't allowed to go. I vowed I would make this holiday a success, and enjoy it to the full.

CHAPTER 6

Surprisingly, I really enjoyed that evening. I had chosen the black dress, as recommended by Nicole, and spent some considerable time getting prepared. I had intended to remove my false breasts before showering, but they appeared firmly attached to my chest, and not even a long shower loosened their grip. They were a slightly different colour to my own skin, and I dusted a little blusher across the join, which made them look as one with the rest of my own body.

Sue had included a teenager's make up kit, which was great because it included instruction on how to do it. I practised for ages, several times wiping the whole lot off and starting again, but in the end, I actually looked quite passable.

There was also a suspender belt and lacy-topped stockings which looked as though they were just the right length to be seductively glimpsed though the long side slit in the dress.

There were also several pairs of shoes, and when I saw the black sling-backs with three-inch heels, I almost wet myself with excitement. They were beautiful. I knew I'd have trouble with the heels, but I put them on straightaway, and spent ages practising walking in them, turning, swivelling, striding and ambling.

When I put it all together, by slipping on the dress, I looked fabulous! Quite large, but with a femme fatale appearance. I spent several minutes admiring myself, before I heard the gong sound downstairs.

***************

'Wow, you look good enough to eat.'

Jason had seen me coming hesitantly down the stairs — hesitant mainly because I thought I might go arse over tit in those shoes, rather than because I was frightened of meeting everyone. (Well, OK, I was a bit nervous, but more about meeting people for the first time, rather than them detecting I was not really Susan Martin.)

Jason had quickly disengaged himself from the rest of the group (all men!) and come over to greet me at the foot of the stairs.

I gave him a quick smile, and said, 'Well, I suggest you have the canapés, instead of me. They look delicious.' I smiled at Nicole, who brought a large tray of them over to me. Jones the butler offered me a sherry, which I gratefully took and almost downed, in one. Nothing like sherry for getting rid of nerves.

'You'd better come over and meet the rest of the group,' and he drew me over to the three men, and started to introduce me. There was Scott, who was in his mid-thirties. He had a rather craggy appearance, which I guessed many women would find attractive. Next to him was Paul — about the same age — with a much softer, almost effeminate face. When he spoke, his voice was so sweet and sexy, it set my pulse racing.

'Hang on!' I thought, 'I'm really a bloke.' My pulse really should not be pounding at meeting a man who, I guessed from his appearance, was really gay.

Harold was standing on the edge of the group, looking as though he wanted to join in, but nervous of doing so. He was fairly elderly, probably in his late seventies, and looked somewhat frail. I felt sorry for him.

There's always something interesting about seeing a group of people meet for the first time, none of them certain about where they will fit into the scene, but each wanting to steer events in their own direction.

Paul was frantically trying to chat up Scott, who, by his body language, clearly was not interested. In turn, Scott was trying to engage Jason in a discussion on football. Jason was torn between continuing to talk about an obviously popular topic, and chatting up the big-boobed woman he'd met earlier. Having been in similar situations myself on past occasions, I guessed he'd be thinking that: a) The opportunity of sticking his dick into a woman came before all else; and b) It would never do to lose the important ground he'd already made.

Well, I wasn't keen on Jason being too successful with his courting, so I turned to Harold with a smile. He was probably rather shy, I thought, and I tried to put him at ease.

'Did you win this holiday, Harold?'

He looked pleased that I had asked the question, and was about to reply when Jason took the opportunity to break in on the conversation, 'Presumably you didn't win it from a survey at work, granddad. You look as though you haven't worked for about fifty years.'

Scott thought this was highly funny and guffawed loudly, presumably believing this would keep him in the dialogue with Jason. 'Did everyone else win the holiday?' he asked.

There was a general murmur of assent, although I noticed Harold didn't answer.

'Are there any more guests expected, Jones?' Scott put the question which we'd all been wondering, as Jones distributed more sherry amongst us. Five didn't seem a very large number to attend a house party in a mansion of this size — I'd expected dozens of people.

'Everyone is here, sir. The original booking was for nine guests. I regret several of those have subsequently decided not to attend.'

No wonder, I thought, when partners weren't allowed, and the tickets were non-transferrable.

'What about you, Harold? You didn't say whether you won the holiday.' I had been annoyed at Jason's interjection, and wanted to make certain Harold didn't feel left out.

'Oh, I heard that Hunters Lodge was the prize in the survey, so I made certain I was asked to complete it, and I guess I got lucky. I've wanted to come here for ages. It's beautiful countryside, and there are some excellent walks in this area.'

'Ugh! Walks. You can keep those, thank you very much,' Scott said. 'I shall be sticking by the gym and the bar.'

'Well, I enjoy walking,' I said, and added, more out of sympathy for Harold than because I really wanted to walk with him, 'Why don't we walk together, Harold?'

He looked pleased, and inclined his head in acceptance.

'Count me out,' said Paul, 'I'm with Scott on this.'

A pang of regret went through me, that I wouldn't have chance to talk to him, all day. He looked a really interesting person, and rather dishy. For an instant, I thought of telling Harold I'd changed my mind, and would stay at home, but he'd looked so pleased, and after all, I had come here for the walking.

'The walking sounds great to me,' Jason said. 'I'll come with you two.'

'You didn't sound very interested in walking when we talked on the train,' I challenged him, as though I didn't know exactly why he wanted to tag along.

'I thought it sounded rather nice, actually,' he said, but what he really meant was that where the big breasts went, he would follow.

I sighed. I was going to have to be very careful here. If the walk got too much for Harold, and he turned back, it would be just Jason and I left alone, and if he had his way, he'd be inside my knickers within five minutes.

There was no need to worry. Within the next five minutes, first Scott, then inevitably Paul, changed their minds about the next day.

'Seems a pity not to be part of the group,' Scott said. 'I'll come on the walk after all.'

'Well, I can hardly stay here on my own,' Paul added. 'I'll come too.'

**************

Dinner was fantastic. I lost count of the number of courses, but it must have been at least seven, each served with its own wine — and that didn't come from the discount store, either. The wine loosened the conversation, and with the exception of Harold, who kept fairly quiet, we all had a fairly lively evening.

Towards the end of the evening, we all moved into the library to take cognac. I took the opportunity to dive to the toilet, remembering at the last moment to go into the ladies, rather than the gents. Apart from Nicole, it appeared I was the only woman here, so I was unlikely to get compromised.

I'd already used the toilet several times, so I was getting used to sitting down and letting it all go. It really seemed quite a luxury, compared to having to aim it in the right direction, making certain it didn't splash my shoes, or spray out sideways onto my trousers, or issue a few drips after I'd zipped myself up.

'I could really get used to this,' I was muttering to myself as I left the ladies.

'What was that?' Jason was waiting outside.

'I said I could get used to this place,' I said.

'I'm not so certain,' he said. 'Look, I have a bit of a problem, and I want to enlist your help.'

'What is it?'

'You've seen how Scott is all over me?' My face must have indicated I didn't know what he was talking about, so he elaborated. 'He's gay. Surely you realised that?'

'Scott? Er, no. It didn't cross my mind.'

'Just like a woman. You are so naíve. Well, anyway, he's coming on so strong, you have to help me out.'

'Jason. I seem to remember that earlier, you were coming strongly onto me.'

'But that's different.'

'Well, women have to sort this problem out by ourselves, all the time. I suggest you sort it out for yourself.' God, I'd only been a woman for less than a day, and already I was thinking like one.

'But have you seen the size of him?'

I considered. 'He's about your height, isn't he?'

'Not his height, you prune. His… well, you know, his equipment.'

My interest was alerted. 'You mean his prick?'

'Yes. It's enormous.'

There was really no reason why I should have been excited by that statement. I was a heterosexual bloke, who happened to be dressed as a woman. So why did that shiver of apprehension go all through my body.

'Are you certain he's gay?'

Jason smiled. 'I'm certain. You must have realised that Paul is as queer as they come, as well, and he's trying to pull Scott. Good job Paul's not after me. He's even bigger. Built like a horse.'

I felt the adrenaline souring through my body, and I'm certain my neck flushed. Fortunately, Jason was too concerned with his own plight to notice.

'So you will do it, won't you?'

'Do what, Jason?'

He looked surprised. 'Why, be my girlfriend, of course. Once Scott realises that I'm with you, he'll lay off.'

'Jason, that is an absolutely pathetic attempt to get close to me. Can't you do better than that?'

'No, I'm serious. Look. You don't even need to sleep with me. I'll simply come up to your room and wait until everyone else has gone to bed before…'

'Jason. There is absolutely no way you get past my bedroom door, especially with such a feeble excuse as that.' I realised as soon as I said it that the rider totally weakened my statement. He'd take it that he only had to find a better excuse. Still, there was no harm in a girl keeping a guy on edge. 'As I said just now, women are always having to sort out these kind of problems for themselves. Now, if you've quite finished propositioning me, I'd like to go to the library.'

I swept off, with Jason meekly following in my wake.

***************

'I expect you think men are pathetic.' Hurray! It was Paul who'd spoken to me.

We'd met Harold leaving the library, as we were about to enter. He was off to bed, he said, and we agreed to meet at eight, the next morning. I ignored Jason's cry of horror, at leaving at such a horrendous hour. As far as I was concerned, if he wasn't there, it was no great hardship to go without him.

As soon as we entered the library, Scott swept straight past me and buttonholed Jason, to discuss their favourite footballer. I'd had a chance to glance downwards as he walked past, and had been duly impressed.

Now, as Paul addressed me, I had a peek down at the front of his trousers, and was totally gob-smacked. When men talk about a penis the size of a horse, they're inevitably exaggerating. Only Jason had not been!

I could see it bulging through Paul's trousers, hanging down the left leg, almost as far as his knee, where it swelled into a large knob. I knew the flush was back in my neck, and probably every other part of my body. If my nipples had not been false, they'd have probably tore holes through my dress.

As it was, I said, 'I don't think all men are pathetic, Paul. Only some of them.' I glanced over my shoulder at Jason, as I did so, before I returned my gaze to look deeply into his eyes. 'I don't find you pathetic, Paul.' And please, please, please, I mentally added, don't turn out to be gay.

The gorgeous hunk didn't even acknowledge the compliment. 'I'm not surprised you told Jason to get lost.'

'Sorry. How do you know what I told Jason?'

Paul smiled at me, and the whole world brightened. 'Well, you both came back here.'

I was still puzzled. 'But how did you know what Jason asked me?'

His smile turned into a grin, and I realised he was simply returning the stupid grin on my face. 'Men are so predictable, aren't they? It was obvious Jason was going off to ask to spend the night with you, so that Scott would lay off him.' His glance turned back to the pair of them, and saddened, and my heart saddened, too. 'I quite understand that you didn't. It's probably what any woman would have done.

'Only,' and he turned back towards me, and looked me in the eye, and my heart turned to slush, 'if you had done, I'd have been able to talk to Scott, properly. We met on the train coming up, you see, and we seemed to get on so well. I thought… Well, never mind.'

My hopes were dashed to pieces. It looked like Jason had been right — Paul was gay, but I needed to be absolutely sure. 'What about your partner, Paul?' I pointed to indentation around the third finger on his left hand, where a ring had been until recently. 'Wouldn't your partner mind?'

'It looks like my partner's being unfaithful. I'm not certain our relationship has any future. I thought this weekend might be the start of something new.'

'That's a shame about your relationship, Paul. What was your partner's name?'

He looked as though he wasn't going to tell me, but then said, 'Melissa.'

Yes! Yes! Yes! He'd had a relationship with a woman. There was hope for me. But then, I remembered with a terrible sinking feeling in my heart, that I wasn't a woman at all, I was really a heterosexual man. What the hell was I doing, trying as a woman to chat up a man? I almost cried with despair.

'You suddenly look sad.'

I put on a brave smile. 'Not really, but I have decided I am going to give you a hand. You can thank me properly, tomorrow.'

I stood up, and walked towards the door, before turning round and calling out, 'Jason, are you coming to bed, now?'

CHAPTER 7

I was at the top of the stairs before Jason caught up with me. 'Quick. Let's go. Scott was leaving immediately after I left, and I think he's following me up the stairs.'

I blanked him outside my bedroom door. 'Sorry Jason. Exactly where were you thinking of going?'

'In your room, of course. You said…'

'I did as you asked me to. I got you out of Scott's clutches. However, just because I gave you the excuse for leaving the library, it doesn't follow that you have to come into my bedroom. So, if you'll excuse me.'

'No, look. Scott's coming.'

Certainly there was the sound of someone coming up the stairs.

'Well, you'd better run along, then, before he comes.'

He gesticulated hopelessly around the lobby. 'But there's nowhere to go.'

The footsteps on the stairs were getting louder. I relented.

'OK, but if you come in, you do so on my terms. Agreed?'

'Yes. Yes. Anything.'

'Right, take off your belt and hand it to me. Then turn round and put your arms behind your back.'

'Oh, no! No way. Sorry.'

'It's your choice, Jason.'

The footsteps were only a few treads away, now.

'OK. OK. Here you are.'

In seconds, the belt was in my hand, and his arms were behind his back. I wrapped the belt twice around his elbows, and then pulled it tight and secured it. I already had my key ready, and it took only another second to turn it in the lock, pull Jason in after me, and shut the door again.

'Oh, thanks, Susan. You've saved my life.'

'Well, you can sit on the chair over there…' I pointed, '…for a few minutes until you can safely leave.'

'But he might be waiting for me.'

'Jason, you're being just too pathetic. Sit down and shut up.'

'I need to go to the toilet. Can you release my arms, please.'

I considered. It was almost certainly a trap, but on the other hand…

'Come on,' I grabbed hold of him and marched him into the en-suite. I undid the fastening on his trousers and unzipped him, then pulled down his trousers and underpants.

'Are you going to hold it for me.'

'Don't be disgusting.'

'But I'll wet myself or do it all over the floor unless…'

'Sit down like we women do. That way you won't miss.' I stormed out and slammed the door shut, trying to shut out of my mind the sight of that rather nice chunky prick, and the hairy balls.

******************

I have always been heterosexual — never felt the slightest desire to grab hold of a bloke and have sex with him. So why was it so different now that I was dressed as a woman?

I thought about it quietly for a minute. Perhaps I was simply playing the part well. I'd tried to completely immerse myself into the character of Sue. But then, surely Sue wouldn't be letting strange men into her room in the middle of the night and helping them to take down their trousers.

Would she?

Of course not.

Would she?

'I've finished.'

Of course, it was really an academic question about whether Sue would or wouldn't. The point was that I was playing the part of a character with huge tits and protruding nipples — that was not Sue — simply someone with her name. There was really no question about what I should do now. I went into the en-suite. Jason was standing up, and so was his prick.

He grinned at me. 'Could you pull my trousers up?'

'You're very trusting.' I crouched down in front of him so I could grab hold of his trousers in both hands, a move that put his prick only an inch away from my face. I stared back at it — it looked as though it was getting very excited, with the veins on the shaft standing out and the head turning purple. 'I might bite it off.'

'I wouldn't mind if you gobbled it off.'

'Is that so?' In one smooth movement, I stood up, pulling his trousers with me, right up and over that bulging prick, until they were around his waist.

'Ugh! Shit! You might have caught it in the zip!'

I smiled benignly, 'As I said, you were very trusting.'

I fastened the trousers at the top, and slipped a hand into his waistband, and pulled him out of the en-suite into the bedroom, and drew him over to the foot of the bed. There was a ribbon tie securing back the lace curtain. I undid it and pulled it free. Then I unfastened his trousers again, and they dropped to the ground, exposing that wonderful monster.

'Oh Jason,' I said, 'I told you I wasn't going to have sex with you.' I pushed my body forward until my boobs were pushing into his chest, and his prick was pushing against my navel, and I wriggled a little from side to side. 'You do understand that, don't you?'

'Yes,' he said. 'Anything, please, anything. Just let me spend the night with you.'

I undid the buttons on his shirt and pushed it over his shoulders and down his arms, until it wrapped around the belt securing them. I lowered myself down his body, wriggling slowly as I did so, until I could lick and suck his right nipple.

'Is that all you want, Jason? To spend the night with me?' I transferred my mouth to his left nipple.

'Oh, yes please.'

I slid further down his body until I was kneeling before him. I lightly ran my hands down his magnificent cock, and gently squeezed his balls.

'I bet you'd like something else, though, wouldn't you Jason?' I took the ribbon and wound it twice tightly around his cock and balls, then tied it underneath. Then I passed the ribbon around the bedpost and tied his cock and balls tightly to it.

'What are you doing?' Alarm in his voice, now.

I stood up. 'I'm simply making certain you don't get up to anything else while you're in the room.'

'But I can't move.'

He was right there. His arms were tightly tied behind his back at the elbows; his trousers were dropped around his feet, and since he had his shoes on, he wasn't going to be able to take them off; and his cock and balls were tightly tied to the bedpost at the foot of my bed. He couldn't move an inch without tearing them from his groin.

'What more could any maiden want, than a beautiful male ornament at the foot of her bed?' I gave him a wonderful smile. 'Now, I really must get undressed and ready for bed.' I want you to close your eyes, whilst I do so.'

Poor Jason. He really didn't know whether I was kidding or serious. To be honest, neither did I! This was a situation like no situation I had been in before, and the power I felt at the moment had gone to my head. I felt an elation as though I'd just injected half a kilo of heroin into my bloodstream — absolutely fantastic, but at any moment, I would explode — but in exactly what way, I wasn't certain.

I noticed that Jason had squinted up his eyes, pretending they were closed, so very, very slowly, I wriggled out of my little, sexy knickers. Keeping my back towards him, I bent down so he had a superb view under my dress, and slipped them over my shoes. Then I turned round and pulled my knickers over his head.

'I told you to close your eyes. That will teach you obedience.'

I could see he was breathing in the smell of me, and revelling in it. With the knickers over his head, he could now open his eyes properly, and since the material was translucent, he had a far better view of me than before. But I pretended not to notice.

I lifted one foot onto a footstool, and undid the buckle on my shoe, then slowly slid my hands up my leg, lifting the skirt of my dress as I went, until I reached the top of my stocking. I released the suspender, then just as slowly, slid the stocking down my leg. I removed the shoe and stocking, and then stood up and half turned, so that Jason would have just as good a view, as I repeated the same operation on the other leg.

Then I reached up behind my back and pulled down the zip, and shrugged first one shoulder forward, then the other, so the dress slowly slid down to my breasts and snagged on my nipples. It took several shrugs for it to slip over first the left nipple, and then the right, but once those beautiful obstacles had been cleared, it was a rapid fall to the floor. That left only my bra and suspender belt, and I reached behind me and released the suspender belt, and then lifted my hands to unhook my bra.

For one nasty moment, I thought I couldn't get it undone, and I had visions of that Peter Sellers' scene where he had the girl in his room, but couldn't get his clothes off. But then it was free, and rather than just letting it off, I turned my back on Jason to remove it. Poor boy!

I remembered that when Nicole had unpacked my suitcase, she'd slipped a nightdress under the pillowcase — another item that Sue had sneakily packed in place of my boring, old pyjamas. Still, when I held it up for inspection, it was so pretty it took my breath away. A virgin white material, so thin it was almost transparent, with a plunging neckline and slits from the waist downwards. Keeping my back towards Jason, I slipped it over my head and adjusted it.

'What do you think of this, Jason?' I turned to show him, and I heard him gasp with pleasure, at seeing my breasts and nipples staring back at him through the material. I pulled the knickers from his head, so he could see me more clearly.

'You're beautiful,' he whispered.

'Thank you,' I said. 'I bet you're pleased to be spending the night with me, aren't you?'

'Oh, yes. Yes I am.'

'Good.'

I pulled back the sheet on the bed, sat on the edge of it, then demurely lifted my legs up, keeping the hem of the nightdress around my shins, and lay down. Then I pulled the sheet back over me, and said, 'I'm feeling very tired, now Jason. You don't mind if I turn out the light, do you?' and I fumbled for the pull cord over the bed.

CHAPTER 8

'You can't leave me like this.'

'Leave you like what, Jason?'

'Like this.' He nodded violently downwards. 'I've got to have you.'

'But Jason, we already agreed.'

'Oh, please.'

He looked at me so beseechingly, that my heart missed a little beat.

'W-e-l-l-l. I don't know.' My foot found its way from underneath the sheet, and I used my big toe to trace a line down the underside of his prick. My God, he was hard. The ribbon tightly tied round his balls had played an important part in making him harder, of course, and as he got harder and larger, so it dug in more tightly around him, to make him harder and larger still.

'Perhaps I should turn around in the bed, so I can admire my beautiful male ornament more closely.'

'Please. Oh, please.'

I swivelled around in the bed, and ended up lying on my tummy, so he had a first class view down the cleavage of my nightdress. 'Is that better, Jason?' and I poked out my tongue and touched the tip of his prick.

'U-g-h-h-h.'

I could sense that he was so close to coming, I was likely to have a bucketful of cum in my face if I did that again. I got out of bed and knelt down in front of him.

'Oh Jason. You're very big, aren't you?' and I used my tongue to lick one of his balls.

'Ha-a-a-a.'

From the difference in his tone, I thought it was probably a bit safer doing that than touching his dick. I licked the other one, with similar results, and then I sucked his complete ball into my mouth.

Yuk! Hairs! I spat them out, wriggling my tongue to locate the elusive ones.

'Why don't men wax their balls?' I complained. After all, we woman always took good care to defoliate.

'Sorry.'

'Well, I'm not doing that again.'

'You're not!' His voice started to rise in a panic, fearing I might be packing up totally.

'Oh, don't worry.' I smiled at him. 'When you have a body like mine, there are other ways to satisfy a man.'

I slipped the strap of my nightdress off the left shoulder, and then did the same with the right one, and pulled the nightdress down over my boobs. 'Now, how do you fancy a good time with these beauties?'

He didn't have to speak, his face said it all. I grasped a breast in each hand and moved forward to saddle his cock. It was shining so brightly, I could almost see myself reflected in it, and it was so hard, and throbbing. I moved my breasts together to enfold it, and then moved one up and the other down, and back again.

His balls were pressing against my chest immediately under my tits, and I could feel the pressure starting to build. I moved both my tits together — up, and down — up, and down — up, and…

Jesus Christ! A jet hot spurt of liquid caught me under the chin and splayed out along my jaw line. I vigorously shoved my tits up and down again, hard.

I'd thought his first ejaculation was hot and forceful, now I realised it was his pre-come. The second load was so hot it almost burnt me, and it came with such force it bounced off my chin and splashed out towards my shoulder. Not quite reaching them, I could feel it hanging down in great gobs from my chin.

I glanced down to see, just as his next ejaculation was shooting upwards. It caught me on the nose and part went up my nostrils, the rest went into my eyes. The smell of his cum filled my head and my eyes were stinging, my eyelids stuck open by the cum on them. All I could see was that enormous, shining, purple knob, preparing to shoot another load in my direction, and I think it was that feeling of helplessness that pushed me over the edge. I felt a sweetness sweep through me that was so wonderful.

I knew another ejaculation would be coming at any second, and I wanted to capture every wonderful part of it. I opened my mouth and bent my head, just in time to catch the next load, and it slammed into the back of my throat, and slid down inside me. And the syrupiness inside me just swamped out every other feeling. This, I realised, was an orgasm like nothing I'd ever had before, and I wanted it to last forever.

***************

Needless to say it didn't, but bloody hell, compared to the normal duration of my orgasms, it was like War and Peace had been turned into a sex manual. I don't know how many more spurts Jason performed. It didn't really matter. I was in my own version of paradise that seemed to last for half the night, but was probably only a few minutes.

When I finally looked up at him through my cum sodden eyes, I could see he was well into his post-coital depression. He was looking down at me, my face covered in his own cum, and huge gobs were hanging from my chin and my nipples down to the floor. He was obviously thinking what a dirty little slut I looked, and probably wondering how he could even have bothered to get an erection up for me. Such is the lot of women!

I stood up and released his arms from the belt, and left him to sort out everything else, whilst I went into the en-suite. When I came out after taking a long shower, the bastard hadn't even left a note. I knew that was the last connection I'd had with him, in all senses of the word. Good riddance to bad rubbish!

CHAPTER 9

It was only as I started to get dressed next morning that I realised how completely Sue had replaced the contents of my suitcase, when she'd come home late on Thursday night. She must have tipped out everything I'd spent the last few days carefully packing, and completely replaced them with the things she'd bought.

Fortunately, I'd separately packed my rucksack with my walking boots, first aid kit and survival bag, but everything else was gone. Most importantly, my waterproof, breathable, walking trousers weren't there! Instead, there was a short, flared, grey skirt, which the labels promised were 'ideal for walking.'

Sue had obviously chosen it against her most important criteria — that it colour coordinated with my anorak — and she'd also included sexy tee shirts, a sweater, little white woollen socks and a dinky little hat. I reckoned that they would give me no protection, whatsoever, when the rain came sweeping horizontally across the cold, Scottish mountainside. I was in for a miserable walking weekend.

***********

Harold had already eaten when I got down to breakfast, and there was no sign of anyone else, apart from Nicole who served me. I asked her if she knew whether the others were on their way.

She looked rather apologetic, as she said, 'Jason came back to the library, last night at about midnight, and told me not to bother to wake him this morning, as he'd decided not to go on the walk. Scott and Paul promptly decided they weren't going, either, so I'm afraid it's just yourself and Harold.'

'That's fine,' I said. 'I'd really prefer not to walk with Jason, anyway.' A thought struck me. 'But I thought Scott followed us up to bed. How come he was still in the library at midnight?'

Nicole looked puzzled and shook her head.

'Well, certainly someone was coming up the stairs behind Jason, last night. Doesn't Scott have the room opposite mine?'

Enlightenment dawned on Nicole's face. 'Oh, no, that room's empty. No, that was me coming up the stairs behind Jason to ask if you wanted a hot drink, but I saw you dragging Jason into your room, and thought that things would be hot enough.'

So Jason — the bastard — had lied about Scott following him, specifically to trick his way into my room. It was a good job I'd got rid of him. My thoughts turned to Paul, and I said, 'It's a shame that Paul's not coming walking. I really like him.'

'Did things not work out with Jason last night?'

'He was upset that I wouldn't let him put his minute dick inside me, and jiggle it about for a few seconds. And he didn't seem to enjoy being tied up, very much.'

'Wow! Are you into bondage? Fantastic! Has he really got a minute dick? I rather fancied him myself.'

'You'd have more fun playing with your little finger, but you're welcome to him if you want. Personally,' I gave her a knowing look, 'I'd have thought Scott was better equipped, in all respects. Have you noticed him? He's massive.' And, I thought, if you took Scott out of circulation it would leave Paul at somewhat of a loose end.

'I thought he just liked men, but do you think he might be bi-sexual? Mmm. If he is, I suppose he has got somewhat of a major advantage over Jason. Perhaps I'll get a chance to speak to him today, if you think he'd be worth it.'

'I think he would, Nicole.' I nodded sagely. 'I think he would.'

'Well, in that case… I'm bound to see him around this morning, I'll see if I can have a word.'

****************

Harold eyed my outfit, apprehensively.

'It looks very attractive, my dear, but I think you'll find it quite impractical out on the mountainside.'

'I know. Unfortunately, my walking trousers got left behind. It's all I've got, apart from jeans, and they'd be even worse.'

He nodded agreement. Better to have wet, bare legs, than wet, jean-encased legs.

'Well, it's your decision. If you'd rather stay behind, I'm quite happy to walk on my own. But I'd also be very happy if you came.'

'It's a shame about my trousers but it can't be helped. I really want to walk, and I think I'd very much enjoy walking with you.' At least, he wouldn't be looking at my tits all day. On second thoughts, he was a man, so late seventies or not, he probably would. But at least he wouldn't be trying to get my knickers off. Little did I realise.

**************

We had a really great morning. Unusually for Scotland, the sun stayed out all morning, and the air was fresh and clean. As we reached the first crest of the hill, we could see for miles in every direction, and we both felt on top of the world.

The skirt was far more practical than I expected, since it was so short it didn't get splashed with mud within a few minutes of leaving the hotel, as my trousers would have done.

We met several other hikers, generally in groups of two and three, and I was pleased that all the men eyed me appreciatively. It was strange, I reflected, that my initial apprehension when Sue had first muted the idea had been so negative, whereas becoming a woman, which for all intents and purposes I was, had actually increased my enjoyment of the walk.

We stopped about midday to eat the packed lunches Nicole had prepared for us, and we sat on the side of a hill with the sun shining in our faces, and enjoyed it as if it was a childhood picnic.

We sat about twenty feet above the footpath, and several hikers passed us by, generally giving us a friendly wave. But there wasn't a single male that didn't have a quick glance up my skirt as he did so. And I let them all see, because I was in heaven! It was simply so nice, for once, to be the object of desire, rather than always being the subject.

Harold and I shared my folded survival bag as a seat, and his thigh nestled comfortably against mine. I could see his eyes were closed, and his breathing became more regular. In the heat of the sun, I, too, felt my eyes closing.

*****************

The heavy spots of rain took us completely by surprise. The storm cloud had crept up from behind, and the sun was still shining as the squall hit us. Even as we rummaged inside our rucksacks for our anoraks, the spots turned into a torrential rain, which would drench us in seconds.

'Get inside the survival sack,' Harold shouted.

It was a great idea and I quickly unfolded it and laid it flat, scrambled inside, feet first, and pulled the bag right over my head. In case you don't know, survival bags are large bags made of thick plastic, usually bright orange for visibility, which any sensible walker carries with them. Lost in mist, perhaps drenched through, or with a twisted ankle — a survival bag will keep you alive when the elements are conspiring to kill you.

You can just about get two people inside, for it means a warm, healthy person can keep an injured person warm with their own body heat, but it's a tight squeeze, deliberately so. So I was rather startled when Harold scrambled in beside me. OK, he was only small and elderly, but I had breasts like melons, and a huge arse and hips. He wriggled around to get down the bag, past my tits and bum, until finally we were wedged together like a pair of mummified Siamese twins.

'You didn't mind me getting in here, did you?'

The rain cascading over the outside of the bag was keeping my bum cold, but between our bodies, the heat was building like a furnace.

'Well, it's a bit late, asking now, isn't it?'

'Sorry. I suddenly realised I was getting absolutely drenched. I thought there'd be plenty of room inside. I didn't realise how… big, you were.'

'I find it strange to hear you say that, when you've been ogling at how “big” I am, all morning.'

'Sorry.'

I smiled at him. 'That's alright. I always take a stare as a compliment.' I did as well. Shameless hussy! 'Are you comfortable there?'

God, he should be. His face was cushioned by my breasts on either side. Heavens knows where my nipples were poking. Probably into his ears.

He smiled back. 'Yes thanks. A bit hot, maybe, but very comfortable.'

Down below, I could feel something harden between us. There was no point in trying to ignore it — it would only lead to embarrassment all round.

'Harold, you're getting an erection.'

'Oh, er… Am I?' As though he didn't realise it himself.

'Yes, Harold. A great horny erection.'

'Sorry. I er… haven't had one of those in years. Not really since my wife died.'

Poor bugger.

'How long ago was that?'

'Five years ago, when I was seventy-one.'

Christ! His first erection in five years!

'Well…' I gave a little wriggle against him, and felt it go harder still. 'Seems a shame to waste it. I mean…' another wriggle, 'with that monster stuck between us, I don't think we'll be able to get out of this bag without assistance. We'd better do something about it.'

'What do you suggest?'

I forced my arm down between our bodies. He was such a tiny guy, until… 'Christ, your prick is thicker than your leg.' Well, I may have been exaggerating slightly, but I thought, at that age, the guy might need some encouragement. He didn't!

I unzipped him and undid the waistband of his trousers, then pushed them and his underpants down, until the monster leapt into my hand.

'Bloody hell, Harold! What a gorgeous prick you've got.'

My skirt was around my waist, anyway, so all I had to do was to pull the gusset of my knickers to one side, and he was nuzzling his way inside.

The instructions for the Hiplet had been quite boastful of their ability to simulate a vagina during intercourse. Personally, when I'd read that, I'd considered that anyone who tried it on an unsuspecting male was dicing with death, since if the deceit was discovered, it would be fair to say the victim would be more than a little upset.

But with Harold and myself tightly squeezed inside that survival bag, I have to say the thought didn't even cross my mind. I was a person with a vagina; Harold had something he wanted to put inside it, and once he got going, he was an incredibly rampant pig. I lay on my back, since I'd probably have crushed the life out of him if we'd done it the other way round, and he was between my legs and on top. And he fucked the life out of me. Well almost, anyway.

The people who'd designed that Hiplet hadn't just concentrated upon getting the external shape right. They'd managed to locate the knob of my prick in just the same position that the clitoris would go. So with a skilled lover, which Harold was, my prick was continually being caressed by his own, as he shafted in and out.

Oh, absolute heaven! I was totally helpless. I couldn't have stopped him if I'd tried, but there was no way I wanted it to stop. I wanted him to go on forever, and ever. Finally, he was squirting deep inside me, and he was shouting, and I, too, was screaming with orgasmic pleasure.

We spent wonderful minutes just moving slowly against each other, making certain that every drop of semen had entered my body, to make babies…

Make babies! The thought brought me up sharp.

'It's alright. I've been sterilised, and I don't think I have any nasty illnesses,' He was considerate to the end, thinking about my concerns. A real gentleman.

'Well, I don't have any nasty illnesses either, despite the impression that my appearance may give.'

'I know that.' He stretched up to kiss me on the chin, the only part of my face he could reach. 'I pride myself I can tell what kind of a person they are.'

I hoped he could not.

CHAPTER 10

We arrived back at the hotel tired, happy and completely fucked.

'Thank you, Harold. You've given me a marvellous time.'

'Thank you, Susan. I really enjoyed it. Do you fancy the same thing tomorrow?'

I looked into his face, smiled and nodded. 'Yes please. I'd like that.'

'Good. Then shall we say the same time, tomorrow morning? I shall see you at dinner, this evening, but I'll get an early night afterwards. Leave you young people to have fun on their own, without oldies like me interfering. See you later.'

The smile remained on my face as he walked away. He knew I was probably going to have frolics later, and had wisely decided to keep out of the way. My thoughts turned to Paul, and I wondered whether Nicole had managed to charm Scott, and take him out of the competition for Paul's charms. I decided to seek her out.

****************

'You were right. He is bi.'

'Told you.'

'The only thing is… well, I wanted to know what you thought. You see, although he says he's happy enough with women, he's still an…' she looked around to make certain we weren't being overheard, then continued in a whisper, '…arse man.'

'What?'

'Well he likes to shove it in the back passage rather than the front. What do you think?'

Well it was her decision where she allowed men to stick their tools. Personally, with the size of Scott's tool, I wouldn't have let it within ten feet of my arse, but with my vested interest, I really didn't want to discourage her. 'I've heard that lots of women find it much more erotic than doing it the conventional way. I think it would be a good experience to give it a go.'

'Great.' Nicole's face lit up with delight. 'I'll fix it up for this evening.'

'Sounds good to me, Nicole. Well done.'

********************

When I got back to my room, I went to bed and zonked out until it dinnertime, leaving barely enough time to shower and dress. Dinner was another immensely enjoyable meal, everyone contributing to the lively conversation, and it ended far too soon, especially as I thought I was starting to get on so well with Paul.

After the others broke up from the table, he and I stayed talking for a few minutes, before wandering down to the library for coffee. Nicole was in there serving, but everyone else had disappeared.

'Hi, I'd just about given up you on you two,' she said. 'It's my early night, tonight, so I was anxious to get away.'

She handed us our coffees, and whilst Paul was helping himself to sugar, she silently mouthed to me, 'Scott's upstairs in the bedroom,' and she grinned and gave a thumbs up gesture to me, which I returned before Paul turned around.

'Well you'd better get off, then Nicole,' I said, 'and have a good evening.'

'You too,' she said with a wink. And she disappeared.

Might as well go for the direct approach, I thought, and I looked Paul in the eye and asked, 'Do you think I will have a good evening?'

He met my eye, unblushing, but with a tiny smile crinkling the edges. 'I'm certain you will,' he said.

'It would obviously be better if I spent it with someone I was attracted to.'

'I think you'll be well satisfied,' he said.

Yes!!!

I smirked at him, and he said he was feeling a bit tired, and would go straight up to bed. As for me, I couldn't keep the smile off my face.

*****************

The room was in complete darkness as I opened the door, but in the light from the doorway, I could just see a shape under the sheets, with an enormous tent pole pushing them up in the middle. For what I was about to receive, I knew I would be truly grateful.

I didn't want to ruin the moment by putting on the light, but knew that as soon as the door closed, it would be totally black inside, which would also rather spoil the effect. So, I stayed where I was, knowing Paul could see me in silhouette, and I reached behind and unzipped my dress, and let it slide to the ground.

I turned sideways on as I released my bra, knowing there'd be no flop as I let those two beauties have their own way. Then I bent over and slid my knickers to the ground. Only then did I allow the door to close behind me, plunging the room into darkness, and went over to the bed in stockings, shoes and suspender belt, my heels making a superb click - click - click noise on the wooden floor.

When I thought I must be about level with the bed, I reached out my left hand, until it touched the sheet and the tent pole beneath. I felt it through the sheet. It was like the pole of no tent I had ever erected before. So thick my hand couldn't encircle it, and a good twelve inches from base to head. Even through the sheet, I could feel the veins standing proud, and the knob just had me wetting myself at the thought of it thrusting inside my pussy.

I pulled the sheet to one side, and lifted my one leg right over the top of Paul's legs, and straddled him so that I had my knees on either side of his. It was these initial manipulations, in the complete dark, which I always found most difficult. My nose came into contact with his prick, and I gasped with shock, because it was far higher than I thought.

I opened my mouth to its fullest extent, and tried to get the head of his cock inside, but it was far too large. In fact, I think I must have caught it with my teeth, for Paul suddenly said, 'Shit!' in a rather hoarse voice, and shot up and grabbed my head between his hands, and kissed me violently.

In the past, it's always been me doing the kissing. OK, perhaps my partner might respond, but I have never before been given the kind of kiss that says 'I am going to fuck you rigid, and you're not going to be able to do anything about it, except lay back and enjoy it.'

My knees went weak, and I crumpled in Paul's arms. His prick was pushing me under the chin, and all I could do was to bring my hands round and feel for his wonderful testicles, and carefully hold them, so soft but throbbing with the pressure of his semen, which he would force inside me later. His tongue explored the inside of my mouth, his face pressed into mine so hard I could barely breathe.

Somehow, we had swivelled around, so that I was lying on my back and he was squatting between my legs. He picked up my right leg and, starting at the point just above my stocking top, kissed it, and then slowly moved his lips down to my shoe. He undid the buckle and pulled it off, and threw it into the corner of the room.

Then his fingers travelled back up my legs to the suspender fastening, and he undid it and slowly pulled the stocking down my leg and pulled it off my foot. He repeated the whole operation with my left leg, spending extra time kissing my inner thigh.

He moved his whole body up mine, until he was kneeling on my shoulders, and his testicles were resting against my lips. Mindful of my experience with Jason's hairy balls, I carefully kissed Paul's and felt their smooth skin. They were hairless! He'd shaved them. Wonderful. He wriggled so that one of them was resting over my mouth, and I was able to suck it right inside, and massage it with my tongue. I could feel it throbbing with excitement.

Whilst that had been going on, Paul had been fiddling about with my arms. I wasn't quite certain why, until with one swift movement, he leaned his body backwards, and my arms were yanked upwards and sideward, towards the bedposts at the head of the bed. The bastard had tied my stockings over my wrists and then looped them round the bedposts and drawn them tight.

'I hear you enjoy bondage, so I thought I'd give it a go.'

Well, I could hardly complain. Not only was my mouth full, but it was so erotic that I almost climaxed on the spot. However, I didn't want him to think he could get away with anything, so I pulled up my left leg, to give him a good kick. He caught it in the crook of his arm, and pulled hard on the stockings to lever himself back to the kneeling position. Not only did this stretch my arms apart to the limit, it meant that my leg was forced up right over my shoulder. Then he was winding the other end of my stocking around my ankle, so that my left wrist and ankle were virtually tied together above my head.

It was starting to get extremely uncomfortable, but his testicle was still filling my mouth, so I couldn't even object. Already, he was trying to grasp my right leg to give it the same treatment, but I thought things were going too far, so I gave his testicle a quick bite, just to show him he couldn't get away with anything.

'Bitch!'

I must have bitten it rather harder than I planned, for he violently jerked his testicle out of my mouth.

'I'll teach you never to do that again.'

The bastard started to stuff a pillow inside my mouth, and that's when I began to get a bit worried. Not only wouldn't I be able to protest about his actions, I could choke on the pillow. I tried biting his fingers, but he used the bulk of the pillow to protect them, stuffing more and more into my mouth, until it was full.

After that, it took him only a few seconds to grab hold of my right leg, and painfully force it over my head, and truss it against to my right wrist. It was so fucking uncomfortable. I was bent double, with my knees somewhere over my shoulders, and my arse poking in the air. I'd never been into S & M, and I was extremely pissed with Paul. I'd asked Jason's permission before I'd tied his arms behind his back, and I had not thought of Paul as a man of violence. I would have wriggled, but every time I moved, it was more painful.

'Sorry about the gag, but I always hate the screams of agony when I start to arse fuck a woman. I find they tend to complain far more than men.'

With those words came the realisation — it wasn't Paul in my bed, it was Scott! Nicole had misunderstood my hints this morning, thinking it was I who wanted to sleep with Scott, rather than me suggesting that she should! All I could think was, 'Oh my God! What had I done?' Well, I found out soon enough.

*****************

To be honest, Scott was an absolute gentleman when it came to getting his monster into my arse. I thought it would be just brute force — not so. He shoved lots of Vaseline inside me, to start with, using his fingers to get it as far in as he could. Then he told me he was putting on the condom, and finally, I could feel the giant nuzzling against my hole.

It wasn't one great lunge, more a slow wriggling from side to side, and I could feel myself being stretched wider and wider, and then wider still. Then I could feel him sliding deep inside me; one enormous tool filling my arse like it had never been filled before.

He held it there for a few seconds, just so that I could marvel at how completely I was being stuffed, before it was sliding out again, then in, and out, and in again. Once Scott was certain I wasn't going to scream, the pillow was pulled from my mouth, and I could start moaning with every plunge. As I did so, Scott started moving faster and faster, and making his lunges deeper and deeper each time, until it felt like I was being fucked by a pneumatic drill.

I climaxed at least three times before I felt his balls tighten as they banged against my arse, and with his next thrust, I was being filled with gallons of hot semen. Jesus, it felt good, and my climax was the best yet.

But of course, only seconds later, he was withdrawing, complete with the condom full of all that nice semen, and I was left with a feeling of emptiness. He searched around for some nail scissors to cut my bindings, and then he'd gone.

CHAPTER 11

I had to keep my legs well apart as I staggered down to breakfast next morning. Otherwise, somewhere deep inside me, one well-fucked part of my body came into contact with another well-fucked part of my body, and they both complained.

'How was it?' Nicole and I were on our own again, at the breakfast table, and she was gagging to know.

I could hardly blame her for the misunderstanding. I guessed it was as much my fault as hers, so I told her all the gory details.

'My God! How fantastic. I guess you and he will be a thing, now?' She turned it into a question, by raising her voice at the end.

I shook my head. 'One enormous arse-fucking is enough for one holiday,' I said. 'I'm sticking to lesser men, now. Of course,' I added, 'if you wanted to get to know him better…'

It was the only prompt needed. 'Don't you mind. I mean, it was your idea in the first place, and they do say first come, first served…' She trailed off, hopefully.

'Well, I certainly came first, and frequently, so I was well served. He's all yours if you want him.'

'Thanks. I think I'll just go and see if he's around, yet.'

She disappeared so quickly; I had to serve myself to the rest of my breakfast.

***************

'I thought we might have a shorter walk today.' Harold gave me a smile. 'After all, no point in trying to push it too hard.'

I took note of his words. I thought I might be reminding him of them later.

'Where do you suggest?'

I thought we could walk up the stream for a bit. There's a rescue hut not too far along. Perhaps we could stop there for a break?'

*****************

I never dreamt a seventy-six year old could have so much stamina. We spent the whole day inside the hut, and I think we probably used every move from the copy of Kama Sutra he'd brought with him.

'There's a very well equipped library, here,' he said, as we went inside the shed, whipping out the leather bound volume. 'I just happened to find this.'

Within thirty seconds we were in position number twenty-eight — or was it seventy-two? I know I lost count of the moves as soon as my first orgasm hit, and I lost count of my orgasms after my fifth, which was about thirty minutes after commencing.

So, all in all, a pretty good day, and we returned to the hotel that evening with huge smiles on our faces.

Just before we got there, Harold said, 'I wanted to warn you that I haven't been altogether honest with you all.'

'What, you mean you're really a twenty-five year old in disguise? That would explain everything.'

If it were possible, his smile got even wider, and I returned it.

'Not quite, but I was... Well, I was a bit of a ram when I was younger. I could never resist a pretty woman. But I did make it a personal rule never to mix business with pleasure, as I quickly discovered it inevitably ended by messing up both. I thought at my age that phase had ended, especially with the experience over the last five years, but it obviously hasn't.'

I shook my head, not understanding what he was getting at. 'So why are you telling me all this?'

'I shall be making an announcement this evening.'

An announcement! Jesus Christ! He was going to announce our engagement!

'Not that.' He'd guessed my thoughts and was laughing at them. 'Something else, but I wanted to explain in advance the reason why I didn't choose you, so remember, I don't mix business with pleasure.'

'Harold. You're talking double Dutch. Explain what you're saying.'

But, even though I pressed him all the way back to the hotel, he refused to be drawn.

************************

Harold's announcement came as the meal drew to a conclusion. He brought conversation to a halt in the conventional way, by tapping a spoon against his glass.

'Lady and gentlemen. This is our final evening together, and I have something important to tell you.'

Jason and Scott looked rather angry at having their conversation interrupted, but held their peace for the time being.

'Firstly,' Harold continued, 'we have all been on first name terms here, and no one, particularly me, has been circulating their surnames. I must now tell you that my name is Harold G Sutton.'

I'd never heard of him. Neither, I think, had Paul, but both Jason and Scott looked astonished — Jason to the point where his jaw dropped. Not wanting to hurt Harold's feelings, I tried to look politely surprised, but Paul came straight out with it.

'I'm sorry. The others obviously recognise your name, but I'm afraid I don't.' He gave a little nervous smile, to show he wasn't trying to be offensive.

Jason and Scott looked even more astonished, not only that someone should not know Harold G Sutton, but also confess to the outrage. Harold sat back in his seat and burst into laughter.

'Well, it's good to be taken down a peg. Especially by you, Paul. For your benefit, I am a rather successful dealer on the stock exchange.'

From the expression on the faces of the other two, I gathered that was similar to the Pope confessing to being religious.

'Although I officially retired many years ago, my considerable wealth does mean I continue to be highly active in many businesses, including Chairman of several highly successful companies. As such, I employ a Personal Assistant to help me with the day-to-day duties. My current PA is due to retire in two weeks' time, so I recently placed this advertisement in the press.'

He held up a newspaper cutting for inspection. I heard a gasp around the table, but to me, sitting next to Harold, it appeared to be the normal kind of ad you see: “Retired businessman needs Personal Assistant to manage his multi-million pound investment portfolio. Live-in post, on unaccompanied basis, mainly on employer's country estate, but also in Knightsbridge penthouse. Must be…”

Harold lowered the cutting before I could finish reading, so I glanced around the table to see where the gasps had come from — Jason and Scott, again, and from their appearance, they had obviously applied for the job. Oh dear, neither had been particularly friendly to Harold, in fact Jason had been downright rude on that first evening.

'I'm sure it has now become obvious that all of you applied for the post, and that after sifting the hundreds of applicants, I made a shortlist, which included the four of you.'

He looked around at us, all looking rather astonished, but none, I was certain, looking quite as surprised as me, for I was completely gob-smacked! Susan had applied for a job without telling me! An unaccompanied, live-in job, which would have taken her semi-permanently away from home! The bitch! How could she do that? I dragged my attention back to Harold, who was continuing.

'…excellent on paper, so never having much confidence that interviews produce good results, I decided to make the decision in a rather unique way. All the short listed applicants were invited here, in the same way as yourselves — by being asked to complete a questionnaire and then “winning” a prize. More than half did not turn up, so they failed at the first hurdle.'

He turned his smile onto Jason and Scott, and I could guess what was coming. 'I'm afraid that when Jason made my age the butt of his joke on the first evening, and Scott found it rather funny, that also ruled out those two.'

He turned to me. 'I have already explained to Susan why I shall not be employing her, and it has nothing to do with her suitability for the job.' Everyone knew what he meant, and I felt my face burn with embarrassment.

Then he was turning to Paul. 'Over the course of the weekend, I have had a number of interesting conversations with Paul. He is very well qualified, and I think we will get on well together. I have therefore made my decision. I am pleased to invite Paul to become my Personal Assistant.'

All eyes turned to Paul, who was looking almost as surprised as I felt. 'I er… I just didn't realise. It's all a complete shock. I don't know what to say.' He looked as though he was about to cry. 'I think I'd better…' He stood up and abruptly left the room, and we heard him running up the stairs.'

'I think it's time we adjourned for coffee, don't you?' Harold had a broad smile on his face, as he stood up.

CHAPTER 12

'I need to talk to you,' Paul said. 'A kind of heart to heart.'

With the thoughts of Susan's betrayal running through my heart, I hadn't felt like a casual chatter over coffee, so I'd gone straight up to my room. I'd only been there a few minutes, before the knock on the door, and Paul had stuck his head around.

'Of course. Come in.' I smiled at him. 'I guess congratulations are in order.'

'The point is, it wasn't a fair competition.'

'The best person won, Paul. That's the most important point.'

He looked down at a photograph he was holding in his hand, then back up at my eyes. 'But you're not listening to me. You see, I know it wasn't fair competition.'

He stared earnestly into my eyes, and I had a flutter of unease. He was holding the photograph so that I couldn't see the picture, and I desperately wanted to know what was on it. Some evidence about me, perhaps? Did he realise that Susan had actually not been here on this crucial weekend, whilst Harold was supposedly making the final decision between Paul and her?

'Why do you say that?' I asked him.

'It's a bit difficult to put into words. Embarrassing.'

Embarrassing? Oh shit. He had me sussed. Well, he could hardly complain about it, could he? It wasn't as though Susan had been awarded the job instead of him. But it sounded like he was feeling guilty about getting selected, so I guessed I would have to talk it through with him.

'Paul, just start at the beginning. I'm listening. OK?'

He nodded. 'It was all a bit sneaky of Harold to get us up here, like this. Pretending it was a competition we'd won. In a sense, he's responsible for the end result, wasn't he?'

I slowly nodded. 'Yes, Harold was responsible for the result, but it all turned out alright in the end. You got the job, even though you didn't know you were being interviewed.'

'That's why I have to tell Harold about it.'

He was still being evasive, and I wasn't going to admit to my deceit unless he challenged me directly.

'What is it, Paul?'

He stared me in the face. 'The ticket for the holiday was non-transferable, but maybe the ticket holder didn't want to go. Maybe the ticket holder passed it on to someone else.'

So he not only knew I was a fraud, he'd worked out why, as well.

'I suppose that could be possible, Paul.'

'But if they passed the ticket onto a spouse, the gender would be wrong, wouldn't it?'

'Yes of course. So the idea wouldn't work, would it?' But I knew that he knew. I was only trying to evade the issue. I added, 'You're suggesting that the spouse would have to change gender, aren't you?'

He nodded. 'That's precisely it. The spouse would have to dress up as a member of the opposite sex. It wouldn't be easy, of course, but it could be done. There are those specialist shops you can go to. They have a superb range of equipment to meet every need. Expensive, but the result is very realistic.'

'Yes.' I stared back at him. 'They can be very realistic.'

'The question is, how do I tell Harold?'

'I understand you're in a difficult position, but are you certain you need to tell Harold?'

'Of course he needs to know.'

'He'll be awfully upset, Paul. I think it might be kinder not to tell him.'

He looked directly into my eyes, 'I thought you'd have realised by now. I'm not Paul. He's my husband, and I came in his place. My name's Melanie.'

Gulp!

'What?'

'You heard correctly. Do you want me to spell it out?'

I nodded.

'OK, I'll start right at the beginning. My name's Melanie, and I'm married to Paul. On Tuesday, he told me he'd won a weekend break, but since he didn't fancy going and I did, he said I could go in his place. However, they wouldn't let him transfer the name on the ticket — you can understand why, now, but we couldn't then. So Paul suggested that I go disguised as him, which obviously meant me pretending to be a man. Do you follow so far?'

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As I listened, the voice, which I had always thought so sweet and sexy, turned into a sweet and sexy female voice.

'I've always been totally flat chested, so that wasn't a problem, but when I tried on Paul's clothes, my hips and bottom were far too big. Even after I'd bought clothes that fitted properly, I still looked like a woman wearing men's clothing. Paul suggested I get something to put down the front of my trousers to balance it out, which sounded a good idea, in principle. On Thursday, he came back with the monster you can now see lurking down the front of my trousers.'

There was a glint in her eye, as she said, 'I know you won't understand this. On the one hand, I was incredibly embarrassed about it — but on the other, I was fascinated to experience what it was like to have that thing permanently hanging down my leg. It made me feel so… well built, so masculine, so… powerful, and... well, it touched me in sensitive places. It continually aroused and excited me.'

I looked Paul — that is Melanie — in the eye, and said, 'I understand. It must have been a strange and exhilarating feeling.'

She nodded. 'You're taking this very well. I thought you might be furious with me, for deceiving you and the others, like that.'

I looked back at her, and gave a deep sigh. 'No. For a very good reason.'

She looked puzzled. 'What's that?'

'Exactly the same thing happened to me.'

She looked even more puzzled. 'But you came as a woman. That's not what happened to me.'

'My name is really Mike. I'm pretending to be my wife, Susan.'

Her eyes widened; her mouth gaped. 'That is absolutely disgusting!'

'Well it's…'

'Disgraceful. How could you possibly do such a deceitful thing?'

'But you did the same.'

'That's different. What I did was nothing like as bad. Especially with your… behaviour. What about being faithful to your wife?'

'OK,' I said. 'I acknowledge that, masquerading as a woman, I got on close physical terms with some of the men here. You may feel I was being unfaithful to my wife, but I saw it simply as totally playing the part of the woman into which Sue turned me. I didn't have sex with another woman. I accept that you took a higher stand on that, and didn't have physical relationships with anyone, but…'

My voice tailed off, as her look of disgust turned to one of guilt.

'Melanie? You didn't have sex with anyone, did you?'

'Well, I'd been fancying Scott ever since we travelled up on the train together. After your epic with him last night, Nicole suggested a threesome with him this afternoon, and it worked out really well.'

I gaped. 'You mean that you, and Nicole, and Scott had sex together?

She gave a little grin. 'Yes. And it was absolutely great. I've never been the man before. Scott had Nicole in the… the reverse way, and at the same time, I used my er… monster on Scott in the same way. Then Scott and I reversed, and I had Nicole in the... conventional way.'

'Bloody hell. And I thought I was playing the field. You accuse me of being unfaithful, but what about your loyalty to Paul?'

'It's not as bad as that. There were two things I hadn't realised when I arrived. One was that Paul had applied for this job, which would mean him moving away from me. The bastard! How could he do that?'

'That was exactly the same for me. I never knew Sue was thinking of getting a new job and leaving me. But you said there were two things?'

'Paul wanted to get me out of the way for the weekend, because he's having an affair with some bimbo from work. My sister has been trying to convince me about it for weeks, but I wouldn't believe her. So she went round to our house and waited outside with a camera. Yesterday morning, she emailed me this photograph. I think it's pretty conclusive.'

She showed me the photograph she'd been clutching in her hand. It was taken with a telephoto lens through a bedroom window — one of those windows with reflective, darkened glass, which people believe makes everything inside invisible. Judging by the clarity of the photograph, this was obviously a mistaken belief. I could not only see both participants quite clearly, I also recognised them. The photo showed my wife, Susan, giving a blowjob to the smarmy accountant from her office!

EPILOGUE

The three of us have a great time together, now — Harold, Paul and me, Mrs Susan Martin.

I convinced Melanie she should continue in her new role, and she — that is, he — went off to accept Harold's offer of employment. Afterwards, Harold came to my room to very politely ask me if I would consider becoming his mistress. I didn't have to think twice about it.

It was obvious that Paul and Sue had plotted the scheme together. How they must have wet themselves with laughter at the thought of getting their respective spouses to go on the same holiday, each dressed as a member of the opposite sex, whilst they stayed at home and shagged themselves silly.

Still, Melanie and I had the last laughs. We sent Paul and Sue copies of the photograph, with a short note stating we weren't intending to come home, but without a return address. And Harold's new PA sent a job rejection letter not only to Susan, but to Paul, as well (although the new PA obviously didn't use his own name on the letters). They, poor fools, never realised just why they had been rejected.

I continue to love being a woman. Mind you, I still take care not to use a public convenience. Paul, on the other hand, seems to take pleasure going into the Men's' toilet, standing next to some poser, and letting his prick out, to hang down to his knees.

Harold is a wonderful lover, and as long as I keep his balls drained (which is no mean task), he's very understanding about Paul and myself. Paul keeps suggesting a threesome, but that's men for you. I certainly hope he doesn't suggest it to Harold, because he'd probably agree to it, and I think that being fucked by those two at the same time would be more than any woman could cope with.

Still, if one day you see me with a smile on my face stretching from ear to ear, you'll know what happened!

AUTHOR's NOTE: I hope you enjoyed this story. If so, please click on the "Good Story" button - it only takes a second. Although this story isn't open for public comments, I'd be happy to receive your Private Messages - click on "Send author a message" below. Why not read some of my other stories at Charlotte Dickles Stories

Love Charlotte

Synopsis: Three girl students decide their friend, Stevie, has a dangerous passion for Lecherous Len, the manager at the bakery where they all work. Surely, they're only doing her a favour by exposing his weird behaviour, even if they do have to trick him into it.

Author's Note: My very first Big Bust story was published in 2002, and products from the Big Bust shop have continued to feature in many of my stories ever since. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.

To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year.

This story was first published six years ago, and the bodysuits sold in Seacombe were rather different then. For Big Busts aficionados, there was a simple catch with a special tool which locked everything in place, and none of that red and green gel to get confused about.

It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be out and out fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.

'Why do men never look you in face?' Sharon demanded, as she struggled into the back seat of Stevie's tiny car.

'Are you talking about all men in general, or Lecherous Len in particular?' queried Lindsay, squeezing in next to her.

'Well, both, I suppose. I mean, even quite nice guys never look directly at my face, it's always down at my chest, but they usually try to be discrete about it. With Len, he drools over my tits in the most revolting way.'

'Blimey,' thought Stevie from the driver's seat, 'I wish Leonard would drool over my tits.' But she kept her thoughts to herself. Instead, she slid the front passenger seat back into position, so that Nicola, the biggest member of their group, could get in.

'Why does he always have to prance around in a suit and tie,' Nicola moaned. 'I mean, it's totally unsuitable for working in that heat. If he dressed in more casual gear, he wouldn't look such a dickhead.'

'Maybe he feels he has to wear a suit,' Stevie said. 'Perhaps when he was a little boy, his mother told him that managers always wear suits, and that's become fixed into his mind. He told me last week how fortunate women are, to be able to dress how they please, rather than how convention dictates.'

'Did his mummy also tell him only to look at women with big tits,' Lindsay said, 'Have you noticed that every woman who works for Len wears at least a 'C' cup bra.'

'Wow! I hadn't spotted that,' Sharon said, 'but you're right. It just shows what a dirty bastard he is.'

'Apart from Stevie,' chipped in Nicola, turning to her. 'Aren't you an 'A' cup?'

'AA, actually,' she responded, rather sheepishly.

'Well,' Nicola said (rather ingenuously, Stevie thought), 'you must have had some special way with Len to get through the interview.'

Stevie smiled. 'Not really. It's just that when we went for the interview, I realised straightaway what it seems to have taken the rest of you all this time to notice. I mean, I thought the breasts on the University mascot were so huge as to be unrealistic, until I saw that every woman in the bakery had ones at least as large. So, seeing that I was at a bit of a disadvantage in that department, and that I hadn't really got anything to lose, I er...'

'Yes,' they all three prompted.

'Well, there were some trays of bread stacked outside Leonard's office, and I stuffed a couple of large rolls into the front of my bra before I went in. It looked as though I had a pair as big as Lindsay's.'

'Fantastic!' 'Well done, Stevie.'

Another grin from Stevie. 'Bloody uncomfortable though. Still, I got the job, but Leonard looked pretty fed up with me when he saw I didn't really have big tits.

'Anyway,' she said, recalling the earlier theme of their conversation, 'aren't you lot rather forgetting what breasts are for?'

Four o'clock in the morning is not the best time for deep philosophical thought, and there was a moment of silence as Stevie put the car into gear and they set off back towards Seacombe University. Since term commenced, they had been supplementing their student loans by working an 11 pm - 4 am nightshift at the Seacombe Bakery, packaging bread ready for delivery to local supermarkets. Although the hours sounded anti-social, they actually worked out quite well. The bakery was only a few minutes' drive from the university campus, so an 11 pm start not only gave them the whole evening to socialise, there was also time for a quick shag if you were so inclined (which three of them were) before setting off for work. At the end of the shift, they could get a few hours sleep before either dragging themselves to the first lecture at 10 am, or as three of them commonly did, missing that, and commencing their day with lunch.

'It's bloody obvious isn't it?' Nicola finally responded to Stevie's statement. 'Breasts are pumped full of milk so that kids can suckle on them. Have enough kids swinging on your tits, and eventually they stretch down to the ground like cows' udders.' She glanced sideways at Stevie. 'Well, probably not yours, Stevie. I don't suppose your breasts will ever reach the ground, but I don't give much chance for the rest of us.'

'There are thousands of species of mammals that suckle their young without breasts,' Stevie continued her theme. 'Cats and dogs are two obvious examples. No, the reason women have breasts is to wave a sexual flag which says, "mature woman ready to bear children." Men are programmed to be captivated by tits. They don't have any choice in the matter, so it's no good complaining when men react like that. Anyway, I think Leonard is rather sweet.'

'Sweet!' All three of them shouted, in shocked amazement.

'It's alright for you, Stevie,' Lindsay said. 'He doesn't dribble saliva as he stares at your tits, but it's not very pleasant for the rest of us.'

'But, at the student disco last night, you all wore low cut dresses designed to expose everything you've got, and you seemed quite happy that every one of the guys were salivating over you like crazy. Anyway, look how Leonard gave Sharon the week off work, as soon as he discovered her mother had died.'

'That's true,' Sharon said, 'and he even fiddled my timesheets so I didn't lose any pay.'

'It was all the more praiseworthy,' Lindsay said, 'because Sharon's mother died five years ago.'

'What!' Stevie exclaimed, dangerously twisting her head round as she drove, to stare at Sharon. 'You lied to Leonard about your mother's death, in order to get time off work.'

Sharon shifted uncomfortably. 'I didn't actually lie,' she said. 'I simply said she'd died on Saturday. Well, she had - only it was a Saturday five years ago. It wasn't my fault he got the wrong end of the stick.'

'Of course it was your fault. You deceived Leonard, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

'I think,' Nicola said, 'that Stevie has got the hots for Lecherous Len.'

Stevie coloured slightly and said, 'Don't be stupid. He must be at least ten years older than me.'

'He's got plenty of money though, hasn't he. Unmarried, with a good job, and he lives in that big house on the edge of town with his mother. There must be worst prospects, if a girl's thinking of getting hitched.'

'Well, I'm not,' Stevie said. 'Anyway, you can see he hardly notices me. It's you lot with your mammoth boobs that he fawns over.'

'Well, you have been a bit slow, there,' Nicola said. 'We've been at the bakery for a complete term and there's only one more week to go. If you really did fancy him, you should have made your move long before now. You should at least have been wearing a Wonderbra.'

Stevie didn't like to tell the girls she'd worn one on every shift, without success.

'Hey listen girls!' Lindsay said, 'I've had an idea. Since next Saturday is our last shift this term (and I, for one, am not certain whether I'm going to carry on working there next term), why don't we invite Leonard to a little drinks party before the shift.'

'You want to invite Lecherous Len for drinks!' Sharon couldn't credit it.

'Sure. Why not. It'll give Stevie a chance to get to know him better.'

'Look, I've told you. I'm not sexually interested in Leonard. I simply think you girls are pretty shitty to him.' Stevie wondered whether she'd protested too much, and added, 'Mind you, I suppose inviting him to drinks would be a way of making up to him for the way you've all behaved.'

'That's agreed then,' Lindsay said. 'I'll ask him tomorrow. Stevie, don't forget to drop us off at our house before you go on to yours.'

Stevie, her mind on other things, had almost driven past the student house shared by the three girls. She pulled the car to an abrupt halt at the kerbside. 'Sorry. I don't know what I was thinking of.'

'Well, we all know what you were thinking of,' Lindsay said, as the three girls piled out onto the pavement. 'See you tomorrow, same time, same place.'

The three girls watched Stevie start the car off with such a sudden lurch that the engine almost stalled, and then go roaring off towards her own group of student houses. Only when the car had turned the first corner and was out of sight, did the other two turn on Lindsay.

'What the hell are you thinking of?'

'Have you taken leave of your senses?'

Lindsay held up her hands to quell their protests. 'Girls! Girls! I only have Stevie's best interests at heart.'

'You think that pairing her up with that obnoxious creep is in her best interests? No way!'

'I agree.'

Lindsay's reply took them by surprise, and she continued before they could respond. 'But we can all see that Stevie lets her conscience rule her mind, and she's naíve enough to think everyone else is as trustworthy. We have to show Stevie what Lecherous Len is really like, and that's why I suggested we get him here next Saturday night.'

''Why you sneaky little bitch.' Nicola's voice was full of admiration, and even Sharon had to give a reluctant nod of approval.

'As soon as Len arrives, we start spiking his drinks. When we think he's sozzled, we get Stevie out of the room on some pretext. When she comes back in the room, she finds Len stark bollock naked, doing something dirty to one of us.'

'When you say one of us,' Nicola's voice was cautious, 'who exactly do you have in mind?'

There was a tiny silence, which dragged into many seconds, as each girl waited for one of the others to volunteer.

'We could get Betty to do it,' Sharon suggested, a malevolent grin on her face.

'Betty?' The other two couldn't immediately place any student called Betty.

'Yes. Betty Bristols.'

'Oh!' They both spoke in unison, enlightenment slowly dawning.

'That's an incredibly shitty idea,' Nicola said. 'Brilliant! We could get Len to jerk himself off, between her gi-normous tits.'

'Up her arse would be better,' Lindsay said, a huge smile on her face. 'I know she takes it that way.'

'Those are two excellent suggestions.' Sharon was at her most diplomatic. 'But I was thinking of something which Len would never live down, and Stevie would think the most terrible abomination she'd ever seen, and never speak to him again.

Lindsay and Nicola leaned forward, and Sharon started to explain her plan.

***

'Now I know what paradise is like,' Leonard thought, as Nicola bent down to offer him more peanuts. She had on a little black dress with a heart shaped top, which just (and only just) covered her nipples, and left on full view her vast areas of bulging bosom trying to escape the dress.

And Nicola was not the only one. Sharon had on a white halter-neck, through which her nipples protruded like thimbles, and Lindsay, a long red dress, which would have been totally respectable, were it not made from a material that was almost translucent.

Even Stevie, with her bean-pole figure, was wearing a black skirt with a long side slit exposing her stocking top, and a white blouse unbuttoned almost to the waist. Of the four, only Stevie could have got away without wearing a bra, and as she turned her head to chatter with Nicola, Leonard had another attempt to look sideways through the gap, to get a better view of the tiny rosebud nipple he had glimpsed earlier.

'Would you like another beer, Leonard?'

Stevie must surely have caught the direction of his gaze as she turned in his direction, but from her smiling face, she wasn't at all upset about it.

'Well, yes. I think I would like another one. This one has gone down extremely well.' In fact, he couldn't remember when he'd last had a beer with such fantastic taste, and a kick which caused the blood to surge through his veins with a rush.

He'd have to watch his driving tonight, he thought, since he'd already had two. He'd hardly arrived, clutching his statutory bottle of Vin de Blanc, before they'd pushed a glass of this nectar into his hand, and Lindsay had offered to take his jacket.

'Oh, I'll leave it on,' he'd said, always feeling slightly undressed without it, but Lindsay wasn't having it.

'Don't be silly,' she'd said. 'It's very warm in here.' And she had slid her hand up his chest and undone the jacket button, and then was helping him take it off.

'And the tie, I think.' She'd pressed right against up him as she relieved him of that, giving him an instant erection. Such were the delights in which he was surrounded, his erection had stayed with him all evening. As Stevie got up to fetch his drink, he used the opportunity to make it more comfortable.

After a muttered conversation with Nicola, Stevie left the room, and it was Nicola who brought over the drink. She had to bend right down to place the glass on the low table next to him, and as she did so, her left breast fell forwards and toppled right out of the front of her dress.

'Oops! Good job Stevie isn't here,' she said, carefully locating the drink on the table before bothering to attend to the wayward breast.

Leonard was wondering if he was going to orgasm. Never before had he seen such a tremendous breast at such close quarters. It was huge, enormous, in fact...

'Stevie would be most shocked at such wanton behaviour,' Nicola continued. She glanced around, making certain that Stevie had not returned to the room, and added, 'Of course, she's a really nice person, but she's not into adult fun, like us three girls are, if you know what I mean.' She accompanied this statement with an enormous wink.

Leonard tried hard to look cool, as though enormous bosoms almost dropping onto your knee, and talk of 'adult fun' was quite normal. He forced a grin, to show he'd understood Nicola's message. 'Oh, I...' He had to stop his sentence right there, because it came out almost falsetto. He cleared his throat and restarted an octave lower. 'I know exactly what you mean.'

'That's great.' Nicola popped her boob back inside her dress, and gave another look around before sitting down next to Leonard. 'She's going back to her room to change into her work clothes now.'

'Work clothes?' Leonard glanced at his watch and was amazed to see it was already 10:45. They would all have to get moving if they weren't going to be late for the start of the shift.

'The plan is that once she's changed, she'll drive her car over here to pick up us girls, and take us to the bakery. Of course,' Nicola moved her lips to within inches of Leonard's ear, 'if you were to offer to take the three of us in your car, it would give us more time together. For a little of that adult fun we were talking about.'

Jesus Christ! He was being offered sex with three beautiful, buxom girls. He took a huge gulp of his beer, to stop himself from self igniting, and then almost choked on it. Hell, it tasted even stronger than before.

Nicola kept smiling, concerned that she may have overdone the vodka in his drink. He'd seemed perfectly happy with the stiff measures she'd been feeding him all evening, but perhaps half beer, half vodka was really too strong. 'So what do you think?'

He realised he hadn't answered her question, and hurriedly uttered his response, worried in case the offer should be withdrawn. 'Of course, I'll be glad to give you girls a lift to the bakery.

'After all,' he lied, 'it's not as though there'll be too much work to do, tonight. There's no need for us to set out for some time.'

'Great.' Nicola stood up, saying, 'I'll go and catch up Stevie, and tell her there's no need for her to give us a lift. She can drive straight to the bakery.' She went dashing out of the room.

'So you're staying for some fun, Len?'

It was Sharon who'd spoken, and as Leonard nodded, both she and Lindsay moved over towards him, until they were towering on either side, continuing their conversation about the latest exploits of some pop star, which he had difficulty concentrating upon. He didn't know whether he should stand up and join in, but realised that his erection would become very obvious, so he stayed seated, his face just level with those two wonderful pairs of tits.

'Right, I've sorted Stevie out.' Nicola came back into the room, and added, 'Now it's time to sort you out, Leonard.'

She strode across to Leonard, and launched herself on top of him. With her top heavy weight, it was no contest. He sank back on the settee under her weight, and as he did so, the other two girls each grabbed a foot and pulled it high in the air. Then they pulled off his shoes and socks, and after Nicola had released the waistband and zip of his trousers, they came off as well. Five seconds later, his shirt and pants joined the pile of clothes on the floor. Stage One of the mission accomplished.

***

'Len! When I suggested adult games, you surely didn't think I meant YOU having SEX, with US!' Nicola made it sound the most perverted thing she'd ever heard.

'But... but... why did you undress me?'

'Because Betty Bristols has been waiting to meet you,' Sharon said. 'We think you'd like to meet her. Can you guess why?

Leonard was hopelessly confused. His mind was reeling as though he'd drunk gallons of alcohol, rather than the three beers he'd actually consumed. The girls had invited him to the party, they'd dressed to please him, they'd suggested adult fun, they'd stripped him bare, and Nicola, still fully clothed, was sitting astride his chest. Now they were saying they didn't want to have sex with him, and suggesting they bring in another girl who wanted to meet him. He was afraid to put his thoughts into words, so he simply shook his head.

'We really thought you'd guess that Len. We think you'd like to meet her because she has an enormous bust - 42 F, can you believe that? Shall I bring her in?'

A girl with 42 F tits! He tried, with some difficulty, to envisage them. They must be so much larger than Nicola's, and hers were the best tits he'd ever seen in real life. He nodded his head, and the girls looked so pleased, he thought he must have agreed to take the booby prize. His pun took him by surprise, and as Lindsay and Sharon went out to fetch their friend, leaving Nicola squatting astride his chest, he started to giggle uncontrollably.

'Here she is, Len.'

They were holding Betty between them. She certainly had huge tits, but there was one major drawback. 'She's a sex doll!' he gasped.

'Well that's not exactly right, Len,' Lindsay said. She and Sharon grabbed his feet and pulled them right into the air again, whilst Nicola continued to sit on him. He was totally helpless, and he couldn't even see what the other two were up to. 'She's the University mascot, and it's actually a bodysuit so someone can wear it at events. We're going to pop it onto you, to give you the kind of body you've been dreaming about.'

'No! You can't do this to me!' The problem was that he could feel them feeding his feet into the latex legs, and with Nicola on top of him, he could hardly breathe, let alone do anything to stop them. Panic started to take over. 'Unless you stop this immediately, you're fired!' he tried.

'It's our last night,' Sharon said. 'We weren't intending to come back to your crappy job next term, so you can't fire us. We quit.'

'I shall get the police to charge you with assault.' He was desperate now. Nicola had turned around on his chest so she was facing his legs, and she leant her efforts to pulling the bodysuit over his hips. Leonard was not really an arse man, but he had to admit that Nicola's arse, bulging through her dress, was the best he had ever seen. He had a momentary vision of her moving back and sitting on his face, and suffocating him to death. What a way to go!

But Lindsay was responding to his warning. 'I really think that threats are inadvisable. For instance, we could throw you naked out of the door, and then tell the porters you tried to rape us. How does that sound?'

Jesus! It sounded all too easy. The police would surely believe the three girls rather than a middle-aged, single male, running naked around the university grounds. He'd be arrested, he'd lose his job, his mother would be so ashamed of him. He tried a different tack; after all, they were in private, and wasn't he really rather excited by the idea of having such a superb body?

He cautiously gave his assent. 'OK, so if I go along with your games, what am I supposed to do?'

Nicola got off his chest and he saw that the lower half of his body had been fed into a skin coloured pair of leggings, that the girls were now pulling tight around his waist. Hell, it was a squeeze, but his waist was actually becoming quite shapely. But when they finished on that and stood back for a second to admire their work, he had to gasp with astonishment. He had broad hips, and although he couldn't properly see his arse, it must be every bit as large as Nicola's. He experimentally lifted a leg to see a hairless leg, and an incredibly sexy knee. The girls pulled him to his feet.

'Just feed your arms into here.' Whilst he was still admiring the new shape of his lower half, the girls pushed his hands into the arms of the top half of the bodysuit, which was a bit like a leotard with a hood and a built-in facemask.

There was a nasty moment when the hood went over his head, and he couldn't see or breathe, but to be fair, they quickly got the mask into position, and were then pulling the whole thing down over his stomach.

He was able to lift his head and stared down his body. He had breasts like boulders! Between them, he could see that Nicola was on her knees, and the three of them were stretching the leotard down between his legs, and securing it to the tail which they'd pulled down between his buttocks. His monstrous erection, which had been with him all evening, was nowhere to be seen. The three girls stood back and stared critically at him, and then simultaneously burst into applause.

'Fantastic!' 'Superb! 'Incredible!' They pulled him across the room to a mirror mounted on the wall, and he gawked at his reflection. They were right. He, or should he say "she", did look incredible. The kind of girl he would instantly have employed if she'd come to him for a job in the bakery.

'Come along, Betty. It's time to get dressed.'

Lindsay was holding out a black corset, which sent a shiver of excitement down his spine and, before he even thought that he really should be objecting to the garment, he was raising his arms so they could wrap it around him. There was a surge of exhilaration running through him like one he'd never experienced before. It was as though he was having an orgasm - not the mind-blowing-but-over-in-five-seconds type, which was his norm, but one where the excitement continued for minute after wonderful minute.

When the girls tugged the corset laces so tight, he thought his body might be cut in half at the waist, it wasn't pain he experienced, but a roaring of blood through his head that was sheer ecstasy. They pulled black, fishnet stockings over his legs and fastened them to the suspenders, fed his feet into stilettos with five inch heels he knew he'd never be able to walk in, and adjusted his tits so they nicely nestled on the bra top of the corset.

'Hang on, girls,' Sharon said. 'I think Betty is looking too good. No one is actually going to realise it's really Lecherous Len inside.'

He was puzzled. That was surely the object, so that he could pretend to be one of the girls, and they would go to a bar or a disco and some fantastic guy would walk up and...

'I see what you mean,' Nicola agreed. 'We're going to ruin everything if Betty looks too good.'

'Girls, I think you're missing one important point,' Lindsay said. She turned to Len and said, 'Tell us your new name, young lady.'

'Betty Bristols,' he replied.

'A-a-a-h-h!' The three girls screamed together. 'That is so good.' 'This fantastic looking woman...' 'with a voice like a hairy-arsed plumber!' 'A-a-a-h-h!'

Len looked at them, slowly coming to the realisation that things, once again, were not going as he'd expected. 'But there must be something I can do about the voice,' he said.

'There's a little pack of capsules in the kit,' Lindsay explained, 'which slowly releases helium into the voice box, so your voice goes up in pitch and gets softer.'

'Well that sounds the answer,' he replied. 'If you can get me one of those, I'll...'

All three girls were firmly shaking their heads. 'No way, Len. That would spoil our entire game.'

'Game?' His virtual orgasm came to an abrupt halt and he suddenly felt completely sober, as he realised he wasn't a joint participant in their adult game, he was the victim of it.

'We only have to slip on your negligee,' Lindsay said, a malicious smile on her face, 'and then we're going to take you down to the student union and parade you around. We told Stevie to meet us there, so when we've finished your humiliation, she can put you into her car and take you onto the bakery.' She held up a black lace negligee. One minute ago, he'd have been shivering with anticipation of wearing it; now he was sick with fright.

'But she can't take me to the bakery. Everyone will see me and...'

'Everyone will know just what kind of a dirty pervert you are,' Sharon said.

'I expect you'll lose your job,' Nicola said, with considerable satisfaction.

'I refuse to go anywhere,' he said. 'I'm staying here until you take this thing off me.'

'Oh dear! A dirty lecher in our rooms, dressed up as a woman. We'd better call the porters, and they can...'

Exactly what the porters would have done was never expressed, because at that instant, all the lights went out.

***

The three girls uttered expletives, of various types, but for Leonard, he thought the blackout might just provide him with some opportunity for escape. He tentatively moved away from the girls and fell straight over the settee he had been sitting on earlier. The scuffle wasn't really noticed, since the girls were bumping into things as well, and making just as much noise.

'It must be a blown fuse,' Nicola said. 'The fuse box is in that cupboard under the stairs... Fuck!' The latter had been preceded by a sound of a shin colliding with the low table.

'I'll get it,' Sharon said, and they heard her footsteps move towards the door into the hallway. There was a loud thump, followed by, 'Shit! Who shut the fucking door?' But then she'd opened the door and they could hear her in the hallway outside, 'Damn! The cupboard door's locked,' she said.

'It can't be locked,' Lindsay said. 'There's no lock on that door.'

'Well, you come and open it, then,' Sharon responded.

There was the sound of a large crack, as a knee came into contact with a dining chair, followed by, 'Shit! Shit! Shit!'

'I'll go,' Nicola said, and they heard her carefully shuffling out to the hallway. 'She's right,' she said. 'It is locked.'

'Oh for hell's sake,' Lindsay said. 'I tell you there is no lock on that door.'

Len heard her go shuffling past him, and through the door into the hallway. Now was the time to make his move, but he had two major problems: firstly, he couldn't see any better than the girls; secondly, he didn't know in which direction he should be moving to make his escape.

As he stared into the blackness, he became aware that the sound of the girls in the hallway had become muted, as though they had shut the door on him to prevent his escape.

'Damn!' he muttered, trying to remember the position of the windows. He started to shuffle forward, his hands outstretched to prevent painful collisions, when a torch beam caught him straight in the eyes.

'Well, you've got yourself in a right pickle, haven't you?' Stevie's whispered voice came from the darkness behind the torch.

***

'Stevie! What are you doing here?' he whispered back.

'I came to rescue you, you stupid idiot.' The torch beam flashed across the room to a corner alcove, where he could see a doorway to the outside world. 'Come on, there's the fire door. Let's get out through there.'

Now he could see the way, he simply shot across the room, even in his five inch heels. In an instant he'd pushed the panic bar on the door, and was tottering through. He held the door open for Stevie, but all he could see was her torch still bobbing around inside, pointing this way and that.

'Come on,' he whispered. They'll be back any second.'

His words were prophetic, for there was a sudden crash at the doorway from the hall, followed by Lindsay's, 'Shit! The bastard's managed to lock this door as well.'

'Come on.' Stevie had darted past him, and he tottered after her as fast as he could. She ran, and he hobbled for fifty yards, and then she was standing against his car. They were saved. He only had to open the doors and they could...

'I've left the keys in the house!' he wailed.

'Do you mean these?' Stevie had searched the pockets of the jacket she was carrying, and had produced the all important keys. 'I'll drive,' she said, and before he could argue, she was behind the wheel and starting the engine. He scrambled into the passenger seat.

There was a crash of gears, and then the car was surging forward, out of the car park and towards the university exit.

***

'It was lucky that fuse blew when it did.'

They'd driven to the edge of town, and had parked in the darkest corner of an almost empty public car park. Leonard was counting his lucky stars.

Stevie snorted. 'Lucky! That was no blown fuse. Someone threw the main circuit breaker for the student house, and who do you think that was? And put wedges under the doors, so the girls thought they were locked? And thought to collect your clothes together, so we had the keys to your car?'

Leonard's mouth almost fell open as she spoke. 'You did all that? But... how did you know I needed rescuing?'

She grinned this time. 'I was suspicious right from the start that the girls were going to set something up, and I was surprised that nothing had happened sooner. I knew it must be some kind of a hoax when Nicola sent me off to get changed, and then came dashing out after me, to tell me to meet you all at the student union, as you wanted to have a look around. So, I followed her back inside and listened at the door whilst they helped you into your new self...'

'They didn't help me into it! They forced me into it! You surely don't believe I wanted to get dressed up like this?'

He was still wearing the bodysuit, corset, stockings and shoes, and nothing else. Stevie smiled, 'That's not how it sounded to me, but that's OK. I don't mind. Anyway, you make a very good woman.'

'Do you think so?' Leonard had been thinking much the same thing, and the elation he'd felt earlier had started to return. 'Anyway, I suppose I'd better get out of it now and back into my work suit. If we get a move on, we shouldn't be too late for work.'

'I think you'll find it's not as easy as that.'

'What do you mean?' He fumbled though the bundle of clothes Stevie had brought with her from the student house. 'You managed to pick up everything I was wearing, and a few of the girls clothes as well, from the look of it.'

'Whilst they were getting you dressed, I sneaked into Nicola's room where they'd been keeping Betty Bristols, until she was needed. I rummaged through the box and had a quick read of the instructions that came with her; it seems you need a special tool to release the catch between your legs. Without that, you're stuck inside her.'

'But I can't stay like this!' Could he? Why did that feeling of euphoria surge through him? 'You must have some scissors. We'll cut it off.'

Stevie shook her head. 'There was a special warning about trying to do that. It seems the suit is made of some kind of carbon fibre, which is very tough. If you use a blade sharp enough to cut through that, you're likely to slash straight through your flesh as well. You'll have to stay like that for the time being.'

This was madness! His senses said he should be in a blue funk, as his world was about to collapse around him. In reality, he thought he really was having an orgasm, this time.

Stevie sought to reassure him. 'Don't worry. As soon as I read that, I took the liberty of borrowing Nicola's interview suit from her wardrobe.' She turned and pulled a white blouse from the bundle. 'With the size of your boobs,' she said, 'this is going to be a tight fit, but I think that if you're careful, you can fasten it up without tearing off the buttons.'

She continued to rummage through the bundle and produced a black skirt, adding, 'Then you can slip this on. You should be able to pull it up over your bottom without getting out of the car.'

After a moment's hesitation, Leonard hurriedly complied. 'This is fine whilst we're in the car, Stevie,' he said, 'but I need to get to work. It'll be chaos there, otherwise.'

Stevie thought of the other workers at the bakery, chosen for their breast size, rather than mental agility, and she nodded - she had to agree with Leonard's summary. 'I've been thinking about that,' she said, 'and I have a plan. Try on Nicola's jacket, and see if it fits.'

It did, after a fashion, and although it could never be buttoned up, Stevie seemed relatively satisfied.

'OK,' she said, producing her mobile phone from her handbag. 'Telephone the bakery, and tell them you're sick, but that head office are sending down a substitute called...' she paused for thought, '...Liz... Bath.'

'Liz Bath? Who's she?' Leonard didn't know anyone from head office called Liz Bath, and anyway, how was he going to get her to attend the bakery in his place?

'Well, you can hardly call yourself Betty Bristols, can you?'

***

His heart didn't miss just one beat, it must have missed several. Common sense told him he could never pass himself off as a woman in front of his employees for five minutes, never mind the whole of the shift. On the other hand, he wanted to try - was almost confident of success only...

'My voice. I'll never be able to disguise my voice.' His sentence virtually ending in a wail of despair.

Stevie smiled and took a white box of capsules out of her handbag. 'The tool may have been missing from the kit, but this wasn't.'

He took the box from her, and hurriedly read the instructions contained inside. 'The instructions say it will take about ten minutes for the capsule to come into effect.'

He popped a capsule from the blister pack, and slipped it into his mouth, gulping it down his throat, before reaching for the mobile. 'Let me make that phone call now, before my voice changes.'

He made the call. Fifteen minutes later, Liz Bath was entering the bakery, and announcing herself as the relief manager, to take over the shift in Leonard's absence.

***

'Could I have your attention for a few minutes, ladies.' Liz had a voice that was soft and low, and she immediately broke through the high-pitched chatter of the unsupervised bakery packers, who were not even making a pretence of work.

'I'm Liz Bath. I understand that Leonard has already spoken to someone here to tell you that he's sick and won't be on this shift, and that I'm filling in his place.'

Liz looked around, and there were a few reluctant nods of assent. 'I know we're a few girls short, this evening, which means we're all going to have to work a bit harder and longer to get the job done.'

Quite a few looked disgruntled at this, but Liz pretended not to notice as she continued. 'However, I've talked this through with Leonard, and he tells me what an excellent team of people he has working for him.'

That surprised them. 'He's convinced that you ladies will cope, and just to make certain we get the job done, I shall be taking off my jacket, as well, putting on an overall, and joining you. Now, I want you to call me Liz, and before we start, I'd like to go around the group so I get to know all of your names.' She turned to Stevie, and added, 'So you are...?'

'Stevie.'

'Stevie.' Liz repeated it so she would remember her name, before turning to the next member of the group.

'Jane.'

'Jane.' And Liz went round the rest of the group, who were quite impressed that she so readily picked up and retained their names. After everyone had told her their names, she went round the whole group, pointing to each person and repeating their name, sometimes with a little hesitation, but always accurately.

Her credibility went through the roof when, ten minutes after disappearing into Leonard's office, she reappeared without her jacket and, good to her word, donned an overall and sat on the line and stuffed the bread rolls into plastic bags.

Especially since she packed at least as fast as Sue, generally regarded as the fastest amongst them. Liz made a little game of trying to race Sue, who packed even faster, and as a result, they all speeded up until their hands were moving so fast they were a blur. Conversation dried up, as they each tried to keep up with Liz and Sue, with the result that, even though short-handed, they completed the job about the same time as usual.

'Well done, everybody,' Liz called out. 'Leonard was absolutely right about you. You are fantastic workers.'

Everyone was surprised by the compliment. Indeed, several went home and told their nearest and dearest that they'd actually enjoyed the shift, a first for most of them!

Apparently, Stevie had not brought her car into work that day, so Liz very publicly offered to drop her off at the university. At the end of the shift, the two set off together in her car, which, by a strange coincidence, happened to be just the same make and colour as Leonard's.

***

'Liz, I think you managed that really well, considering it was your first shift at the Seacombe Bakery,' Stevie said. She stared at Liz for a second, before the pair of them burst into laughter.

'You fraudster!' she continued. 'I don't know how you had the nerve! "Let me see if I can remember everybody's name. Now, you're Stevie aren't you?"'

'Desperation,' Liz said. 'I was living on my nerves for the whole time, knowing it would take only one slip for someone to notice. And that would result in the destruction of my whole life.'

'Well, you really appeared to be enjoying your desperation,' Stevie said. 'Leonard never got anything like as much enjoyment out of a shift as you did.'

'It was like driving in a car race, knowing you could be killed at any minute, but loving any minute of it.'

'Have you thought,' Stevie asked, 'what you're going to do now?'

The question took Liz by surprise. 'Well... no. Er... The thing is, I'm dead tired, I really need some sleep. But I can hardly go back to my, that is Leonard's, house and go to bed, because my - his - mother takes him in a cup of tea at ten. She'd scream blue murder if she found a strange woman in his bed, and no Leonard.'

'Well, we can't go back to my student room,' Stevie said, giving Liz (or was it really Leonard) a piercing stab of pleasure that she'd considered the option. 'Given that the girls must still have the tool to your bodysuit, they'll know you're still wearing it and are bound to suspect that you might be hiding somewhere around the campus. They'll be banging on my door first thing in the morning.'

'I suppose I'll have to check into a hotel,' Liz said. 'There's that motel on the bypass that caters for passing motorists, so they're open all night. I guess I could go there. Do you...' she paused as she wondered whether she dare ask, and then rejected the idea. 'That is, shall I drop you off at the university?'

'I think we'd better stick together, don't you? A woman looking like you, trying to check into a hotel at that time of night on her own is bound to arouse their suspicions that you're a prostitute. If it's a couple of women, no one will think twice. The worst they'll assume is that we're a couple of lesbians, and I think I can face up to that.'

'That makes good sense,' Liz said, her heart performing little loop-the-loops inside. She set the car in motion, and they drove in a relaxed silence for ten minutes, leaving the lights of Seacombe behind them. They had just passed the university when Stevie had a thought.

'The thing is,' she said, 'I have hardly any cash with me. How about you?'

Liz shook her head. 'No. But I've got my cards. Money's no problem.'

'And the cards are in the name of...' Stevie prompted.

'Oh shit!' Liz thought for a second, and then added. 'We'll have to find a cash machine.'

'The students' union building is locked up at night, so you can't use the ones in the university,' Stevie said.

'That means we have to go back to the centre of town,' Liz said, despair creeping into her voice.'

By this time, their hotel was only about a mile away. Going back to the centre of Seacombe for cash would involve a thirty minute return journey.

'I don't know whether you've noticed that light flashing on the dash, but it seems to indicate you're almost out of petrol.'

Liz glanced down. 'Jesus! We're right on empty. Why didn't you tell me before?'

Stevie smiled. 'You've been a woman for less than five hours, and already you've picked up our bad habits. I thought you were driving the car. You're supposed to look at the dashboard occasionally, and check the warning lights.'

'Well, what are we going to do? We don't have money to check into the motel There's a filling station next to the motel, but we don't have the cash to buy petrol. We don't have enough petrol to drive back to Seacombe to get cash, and then drive back to the filling station. We're going to get stranded in the middle of nowhere. With me looking like this!'

Another, rather enigmatic, smile from Stevie. 'Relax,' she said, reaching into the back seat of the car. She pulled Leonard's jacket from the bundle, and slipped first one arm, and then her other into it. 'There you are. It's not a bad fit. I think if I put on the rest of your gear, I can pass myself off as Mr Leonard Russell, don't you? So hand over your credit cards, and I'll spend a few minutes practising your signature.'

***

When she awoke, Stevie knew she wasn't in her own bed. She also immediately realised she was not alone. The problem was, she couldn't remember who she'd gone to bed with.

She slowly turned her head so she could see the long blonde hair of her companion. Had she suddenly turned lesbian? It took her several seconds to realise. Suddenly, everything came flooding back, and Stevie gave a little smile, and rather shyly sat up in bed.

'Hi.' It may have been Liz who smiled back at her, but it was definitely Leonard's voice, which spoke. Almost automatically, Stevie reached for her handbag and passed Liz the blister pack of tablets that would bring her voice back to Liz's normal voice.

'Thanks.'

'Good morning.' Stevie looked at her companion and smiled, properly this time.

After swallowing the tablet, Liz's right hand had returned to its former role of encircling her mammoth breast, whilst rolling her large nipple between finger and thumb. Her other arm stretched under the bedclothes, and it was not difficult to follow its line down to the top of her legs, where a regular movement of the bedclothes betrayed their activity.

Liz's gaze followed Stevie's. She would have blushed if she'd been able. 'I was fiddling about with the catch to see whether I could release it without the tool,' she stuttered.

'Do you want me to have a try?'

Stevie could not believe she'd really made the offer, but Liz nodded furiously. 'Oh yes, please.'

Stevie crawled down the bed, and Liz spread her legs wide apart. Stevie had never been this close to someone else's vagina before, and was fascinated at such a close up view.

'I see you're a natural blonde,' she said, and they both started to giggle. With Liz's legs spread wide apart, her outer lips were open, the folds of her inner lips wrinkled like a deflated balloon. She'd never examined her own genitals in a mirror, and had no idea there could be quite so many whorls, and twists and curls. She was fascinated.

'I'm going to see if I can reach the catch,' she said, but instead her index finger traced a line along one side of the canyon. It was so soft and silky, the swirls instantly giving way to her finger, as she moved it along the rim.

She moved her arm, so that her palm was resting above the canyon, and softly allowed her middle finger to penetrate slightly deeper than her index finger had done.

'U-g-g-h-h-h!' It was more an intake of breath than a word from Liz.

'Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'No! No! That didn't hurt at all. It was... er... well, I think that was probably the best spot... for finding the catch, that is. I think you should try again.'

Stevie did, with much the same result, but this time instead of rather hurriedly withdrawing her finger, she changed her hand so that she was making tiny circular movements around that same spot.

Liz started loudly gasping for air, uttering little noises like, 'Jesus!' and 'My God!' and 'Go on, the catch must be THERE!'

After a minute of unsuccessfully trying to locate the catch, Stevie swivelled her body around so that her legs were level with Liz's head, whilst keeping her active hand in the same position.

'I think it might be better if you could look at me, and perhaps offer some guidance,' she said. She then lifted her one leg and moved it over Liz's head, and squatted down so her own groin was virtually resting on Liz's chin. Liz was afforded the same incredible view of Stevie's genitals, as Stevie had been of her.

'Yes. I think that makes it much easier to understand,' Liz said. 'I can't reach it with my hands...' then Liz had her brainwave, '...but perhaps I could just touch it with my tongue.' She experimentally pushed her tongue into the silky swirls, and this time it was Stevie who was gasping, and begging for more.

Liz let her tongue explore further, until Stevie started to scream with pleasure, and then she was vigorously applying her finger to Liz until the pair of them were screaming at the tops of their voices.

After minutes of ecstatic pleasure, the screams turned to groans, and finally to murmurs.

As Stevie rolled off Liz, someone shouted from the next room, 'Can you do an encore?'

They looked at each other, and grinned, then Stevie turned her body around so they could hold each other in their arms. And they fell asleep together.

Author's Note: This story continues in the final chapter. Click here for the FINAL CHAPTER.

I knew it was absolute lunacy to a have an affair with Godo's wife. Simple common-sense should have kept me well away. But when has common-sense been able to overrule the needs of the penis?

Author's Note: To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. Set in the fictional English seaside town of Seacombe, Big Busts products are considered state of the art by men who want to look like women, even when naked.
It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.

I knew it was absolute lunacy to a have an affair with Godo's wife. Simple common-sense should have kept me well away. But when has common-sense been able to overrule the needs of the penis?

I met Carol when she and Godo walked into the restaurant of The Crown Hotel, where I worked as waiter. I'd never met him personally before, but his reputation went before him. His real name was James Godolphy, but everyone just called him Godo (although never to his face). He was just over six feet tall — a good six inches taller than me — and built like the proverbial brick shithouse, with a face which looked as though it had once been really ugly, before being hit with a sledge-hammer. Legend said that he'd been given the facial adjustment when he played rugby, and that after extracting revenge on his opponent, he'd got thrown out of the club for being too aggressive!

But no one said he was too aggressive in his current role — no one would dare. He'd turned to crime after leaving school and never regretted it, something which had terrified both police and criminal alike. Definitely a man to give the very best of service you could, and just as definitely, not a man whose wife you should have an affair with.

The thought never crossed my mind when they walked into the restaurant on that Sunday evening. I was my usual attentive self; a professional waiter, well used to putting guests at their ease, and these were extra-special guests.

'Good evening, sir — madam. Can I take your coats for you? And can I get you a drink to start with?' (There's none of this: 'I'm your waiter for the evening and my name is Philip,' crap in our restaurant — every waiter attends meticulously to every guest, and we're all called 'Waiter' — or should be.)

Godo was first to peel his raincoat off, and he thrust it into my arms. It was pouring down outside, and his coat was absolutely sodden; it was like having a wet nappy slapped in your arms. 'Pint of bitter, sunshine. And make certain it's from your best barrel.'

He marched off towards the table where the manager was holding back a chair for Mrs Godolphy, and he promptly sat down on it. I turned back to Mrs Godolphy who had just removed her own raincoat to properly reveal herself for the first time.

'What a lovely dress.' At that time, it was nothing more than a small compliment to put her at her ease, although undoubtedly it was a dress which made the very most of her figure. To put it more bluntly, it superbly displayed her tits which were the size of boulders.

Now before I give a wrong impression, I'd better add that her tits were by far the most attractive part of her. OK, her face was round, and was quite pretty when she smiled, which she did after I paid her the compliment. But the rest of her body was even rounder: thighs the size of tree trunks; a chubby waist; and biceps which would ensure no one challenged her to an arm-wrestling match.

And there was no doubt that the dress did an excellent job of hiding all her less attractive features, whilst displaying those wobbling jellies to full advantage. As she followed me to the table, I watched her in the mirror behind the serving area. I held the chair out for her as she sat down, and had a splendid view down the grandest of canyons. It was enough to make any man feel good to be alive.

'Watch your step, sunshine, or you might find you've stepped into something very nasty. Now, run along and get my beer.'

His words brought me crashing to earth. One did not play any kind of footsy with Godo's wife, unless you wanted to spend the next three months in hospital — if you were lucky!

'Certainly sir. Can I get you a drink, madam?'

***

The meal all went perfectly. The manager had warned the kitchen exactly who they were cooking for, and as one might have expected, it all came up swiftly, properly cooked and piping hot. I served it with panache, learnt during my many years as a waiter. It was only at the very end that things went wrong.

I was bringing them their coffees, with mints and a couple of complimentary brandies when another diner, with his back to me, stood up just as I was about to walk past. It was really no great shakes — that kind of thing happens countless times, and you learn to have quick responses. I did a kind of twirl through the air with the tray — which probably looked pretty spectacular but it was actually completely under control — and the diner suddenly realised the danger and stepped to one side.

By the time I'd finished my acrobatics, I was standing almost at their table and Carol had an admiring grin from ear to ear. I smiled back, realising I must have looked something like a circus clown.

Then Godo noticed Carol's smile and in an instant, his head turned and he was looking at the stupid grin on my face. He stood up quickly and before I knew it, with one hand he had deftly removed the tray from my hands and left it on the table, whilst the other he had behind my shoulder blades and was propelling me towards the lobby.

'No need to keep the coffee warm,' he called to Carol. 'This won't take long.'

We were in the Gents before I could even take a breath, and then I was being turned towards him, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a knee travelling upwards, towards my goolies.

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

'Say hello to the wash-basin, sunshine.'

I was crouched on the floor, gasping with pain when he grabbed me by the hair and forced my head back from my doubled-up position. The wash-basin was a foot in front of my nose, and I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent him ramming my face into it.

'Stop that at once!'

In the mirror, I could see Carol standing behind him, just inside the half-open door.

'Listen.' He turned to her with a look on his face which he probably thought resembled a conciliatory smile. 'Me and sunshine, here, have got some business to attend to. I'm not having you two crooning like love-sick teenagers. OK? Now, piss off.'

Instead of doing as he bade, she pulled a mobile out of her handbag, short-dialled a number, and then held it to her ear.

'Audrey? Hi, it's Carol, here. Listen, I need to speak to Tommy urgently. Is he around?'

I could see the look on Godo's face was indicating he hadn't got a clue who Tommy was, but caution made him hesitate, my precious head still clutched between his enormous hands.

'Tommy, it's Carol. I'm afraid Jimmy's up to his old games. He's just hit a waiter at The Crown where you're having your meeting of the Round Table tomorrow, and he's just about to rearrange his face on the wash-basin.'

She listened for a second, and then passed the phone towards Godo, saying, 'The Chief Constable would like a word.'

By the way, did I mention that Godo was a Detective Inspector at the local nick?

As Godo realised that Tommy was none other than his Chief Constable, my head was released and Godo took the mobile as gingerly as an unexploded bomb.

'It's nothing sir. The waiter just appears to have had an accident. I was simply help… Yes sir… Yes sir…'

Carol grabbed hold of my shoulder as he spoke and helped me stand. She gave a swing of her head to indicate we should leave the immediate vicinity. I was more than happy to oblige.

The knee in the goolies hadn't been as bad as it might have been. I could almost walk upright back to her table, although I wasn't in a position to hold back the chair for her to sit down. Instead, I grasped the table for support.

'I'm, terribly sorry about my husband. I do hope he hasn't done any lasting damage.'

I gave her a forced smile. 'I don't think so, madam. A bit painful, but I think I'll live.'

She gave me a sympathetic smile. 'Please call me Carol. What's your name?'

'Phil, madam, er… Carol.'

'Well, Phil. We need to ensure you're not permanently damaged. You'd better get them tested.' She said it with such a broad smile that I had a sudden panic that Godo might see her.

'Well I don't think…'

'There's only one way that I know to test them,' she said, still smiling. 'Shall we say nine am tomorrow, at my place.'

There was a tremendous thump across my shoulders. I turned my head, fearing the worst. It was Godo, but he was forcing a smile onto his face.

'The Chief Constable would like a word with you,' he said, pushing the mobile towards me.

***

They left shortly after, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she had made no further attempt to set up an assignation. I mean, no man wants to turn down a woman's request to shag her, but since I really wanted to keep my balls attached to my body, the Chief Constable's apology had been a well-timed interruption.

Except that, as I was clearing the table, I found Carol's glove stuffed down the side of the seat; her address was written inside. So there was the fateful decision. Logic; common-sense; self-preservation — call it what you will — all said keep well away, but my prick ignored all three, and where my prick went, the rest of my body inevitably had to follow.

***

She and I were the classic large woman/small man couple. OK, we were both about the same height at five-feet, six inches, but she was at least twice as powerful as me and three times my weight. It worked extraordinarily well. She decided the action and set the pace, and I simply did as instructed. Any time she felt I was getting too far ahead of myself, a simple twist of the hips would shrug me off, and then a hand would clamp around my head and force my lips to the place where my prick had been, just a second before.

Some men, who feel that man always has to be on top, might have felt emancipated in such a situation, but I've never had preconceptions about man or woman's rightful roles in life. I can only say that the sex was great.

Almost as nice, was the knowledge that not only was I fucking Carol, I was also fucking Godo — the guy who, but for Carol, would have slammed my face into the washbasin for the simple act of smiling at his wife. And the thrill and the danger — the knowledge that at any moment, Godo might suddenly come strolling into his own home, just as Carol was rolling about in orgasmic pleasure on the end of my prick — it made our affair irresistible.

***

On the Wednesday of the first week, Godo came strolling into his own home, just as Carol was rolling about in orgasmic pleasure on the end of my prick! Fortunately, the sound of the front door slamming would have stopped an elephant shagging and we stared at each other, aghast.

The sound of his feet thumping up the stairs broke our spell. I dashed through to the en-suite whilst Carol had slipped on her dressing gown by the time he came through the bedroom door. Fortunately, I'd always made the point of keeping my clothes tidily in the en-suite, just in case of such a situation, so there was nothing to give the game away in the bedroom, other than the potent smell of our lovemaking.

'Hi! It's me,' he said with a smile. 'I just came home for a quickie.'

From my position behind the part-opened door, I could see a narrow slice of the room through the crack by the hinge. I applied my eye more closely to it.

'Just fancied a quick fuck,' he said, unbuttoning his trousers, and letting a monster dangle out.

To be honest, I hadn't seen another bloke's prick since I was at school. I'd always accepted that, at three inches in length when erect, my prick wasn't the biggest in existence — indeed, some women had been downright rude about it. But I never imagined monsters like that could fit into a pair of trousers.

It was almost as thick as mine was long, and hung right down to his knees. At least, initially it hung down to his knees; but within a few seconds, it was pointing up in the air, and the knob had turned a deep shade of purple.

Carol appeared totally unmoved by it. She simply sat down on the edge of the bed, undid the belt of her dressing-gown and pulled it apart, letting it drop from her shoulders and then flopped backwards, her thighs and buttocks mainly supported by her spread-eagled feet on the floor.

He pushed his monster between her legs and she used both hands to stretch the lips of her cunt wide apart, and helped him feed it in.

'Fucking great,' was Godo's sweet murmurings of tender love, as he brutally grabbed her by the tits and forced inch after throbbing inch into her, until she'd taken the whole, right up to the hilt.

Then with a vicious lunge, he pulled it out, until I could see the purple head just lurking between Carol's pussy lips — but only for an instant, for it was being shoved back in as quickly as it had come out.

In — Out — In — Out. And then he was shouting, 'Fucking hell!' and 'Yes! Yes!' There were two more ferocious thrusts before he pulled the monster right out of Carol, stood up and pulled up his trousers.

It was only at that moment that I realised my own actions whilst that had been going on. I had my prick in my hand, all highly aroused three-inches of it, and was giving it long, slow strokes. I sped up slightly, as I could feel my balls tightening and tingling. And then, just as I started to ejaculate, the bastard walked towards the en-suite.

***

I shall never forget that moment of exquisite pleasure combined with absolute danger, as he stepped in, opened the front of his trousers again, lowered his monster towards the toilet, and let his waters flow. I watched him in the mirror as I stood behind the door, holding my clothes under one arm, whilst with my free hand, I silently ejaculated into what was obviously his dressing-gown, hanging on the back of the door. I knew that as soon as he stepped over to the wash-basin to wash his hands, he would see me, and if, somewhere a little voice was muttering something about being hanged for a sheep instead of a lamb, another little voice was pointing out that the important difference was between being hanged by the neck or by the balls.

But then, without bothering to wash his hands, he used the towel (the towel I had frequently used up to that point, and never since) to wipe both his hands and the end of his prick, and left the en-suite.

'I'll be late home tonight,' he said. 'Nice fuck. Bye.'

***

You'd have thought that I'd have got the message then — or at least, my prick would, since I'd known my folly all along. Not one bit. OK, I was a bit put off after Carol came into the en-suite with her hand firmly clamped between her legs, sat down on the toilet with legs wide astride, and then allowed the bucketful of Godo's semen to ooze down into the bowl.

'I used to think this was really erotic,' she said, working her hand inside her pussy and scooping out another great splodge of semen and dropping it into the bowl. 'Now, it's just a mess. Still, I am a lot better organised now.'

She reached behind her and withdrew a douche, which she started to feed inside her cunt. 'I've tried to convince James to get a bidet installed, but he won't have it. He says I can always lick his arse clean if it needs it.'

'He's er… quite a big guy, isn't he?' I'd been wondering how to phrase it, without seeming envious, when in fact, I was livid with jealousy.

She sensed my feelings, and gave a quick smile. 'Phil, don't worry about that. One mammoth prick is more than enough for me. If you think having something that size rammed inside you is pleasant, you should ask him to stick it up your arse.'

Bloody hell, the thought was horrifying.

'No,' she continued. 'Your prick is the ideal size for reaching the parts his prick can't reach.' She sensed my lack of understanding, and clarified. 'My clit of course. Your prick is just the right size for the end of your knob to reach my clit and give it a wonderful massage. It's the best sex I've ever had. Are you OK for tomorrow?'

***

It was in the second week that my lunatic infatuation started to wear a bit thin. We'd met every morning, and fucked from nine until eleven-thirty, when I had to leave to begin my lunch shift. But as my time of departure approached on the following Monday, and I was extricating myself from her clutches, she asked, 'Don't you ever get an evening off from your job?'

I shook my head. 'No. That's one of the problems of working in the catering trade.'

'But you must get some time off. What would happen if you needed to attend a funeral?'

I shrugged. 'I guess something like that would be OK, but it would be the lunch shift I missed — not an evening.'

I knew I should have left it there, and never have asked the question. But I did.

'Why?'

'It's just that I've got an important dinner-party on Saturday. I was wondering whether you could serve it up for us.'

I almost shit myself, and then tried to play it cool, hiding the panic which was bubbling underneath.

'Look, Carol. Aside from the problem that I never can get time off during an evening, especially Saturday evening, there's no way I could serve a dinner-party hosted by you and James.'

She was innocence, itself. 'Why not? It's very important. I'm trying to get James made up to DCI so I'm inviting Audrey and Tommy, as well as three other senior police officers with their wives. It's going to have a Victorian theme, so I want a butler in a proper uniform, who really knows how to serve properly.'

I didn't like to say that if she wanted to get promotion for her husband, she really should not have telephoned the Chief Constable to tell him he was beating seven kinds of shit out of a member of the public.

'Carol. I don't know how good a detective James is, but even if he's absolutely abysmal, he's probably going to recognise straightaway that there's a special relationship between us two — after all, he suspected as much, even when there wasn't. And even if he doesn't suspect, there will be four other police officers who undoubtedly will. The story will be all around the station on Monday morning.'

'When I saw how good a waiter you were at The Crown, I knew I had to have you for my dinner-party.'

So there it was — she didn't want me for my body, she was simply using me to get her own ends. Still, a guy has to make some sacrifices, and I guess I could live with being used as a sex object, just as long as I could head her off from this ridiculous idea.

'Look, Carol. You're a fantastic woman, but you must see that if I was to agree to wait at your dinner-party, it would not only be the end of our relationship, it would also be the end of me, and almost certainly the end of James's career when he kills the waiter in front of the Chief Constable. Let's not do anything to damage our relationship because I want it to last and last. Don't you?'

'I suppose you're right.'

'Look, I know a number of staff agencies who'll be delighted to supply a butler for your event. I'll give you their contact details.'

'I've already been to the agencies. The problem is there's a huge society wedding the same night, and no one has any spare people available.'

'Well, why don't you try going back to them again, or perhaps trying to get a student, or a casual worker.'

'But I want the service to be perfect — like you do it.'

Nonetheless, she agreed to have another think about it. I left with trepidation in my heart. I could sense the end of our fantastic sex was approaching.

Fortunately, the next day she told me she'd found a catering agency who claimed they had someone with experience. I was saved.

The next few days were almost as good as the first. We shagged ourselves silly every morning, and I spent the rest of the day thinking about what we'd been doing that morning, and what we would be doing the next morning.

***

The telephone call came about four am on Friday morning.

'Hello?' Only bad news arrives at that time. I was right.

'Phil, it's Carol. Listen, did you tell me sometime that you once had a conviction?'

It was true. My crime had dated back to the days when credit card slips were made out by hand, and they were passed to the customer for signing, with a space in which they could write a gratuity. I'd made the mistake of falsely entering a  £10 tip on a  £100 bill, after the customer had signed and returned it, with the gratuity space left blank. No one checks their card statement against the flimsy slips, I had reasoned; unfortunately, I was wrong.

'Why the hell do you need to know that at this time of night?'

'It's important. Look, James and I have been to a police function, this evening. We got back to our house only about an hour ago. It had been burgled.'

'Look!' I was livid. 'Just because I did a stupid thing with a credit card slip, several years ago, it doesn't mean I'm your automatic choice of burglar.'

'Sorry, I didn't mean to say that. It's just that James got forensics down here, and they took fingerprints. They found a load of fresh fingerprints, mainly in the bedroom, which were neither his nor mine.'

She let the fact sink in, before continuing. 'If you were convicted, it means your prints will be on record.'

Shit!

'I don't know how long it will take them to match the prints up, but James went off to the police station with them a few minutes ago. I think they'll probably do a dawn raid.'

Bloody hell! I couldn't confess to the truth. Godo would crucify me. It would be better to confess to the crime, except I didn't know anything about it. Why was my brain not working? I ought to be planning what I should do, but I couldn't get it into gear. Which presumably was why the police do dawn raids.

'You need to pull on a few clothes and get out of your house, now.'

She was right.

'Right,' I said.

'Leave by the back door and go into that area of park behind your house.'

But what did I do then?

'But what do I do then?' I asked.

'I'll come over in my car and pick you up. Be waiting just inside the trees, on the corner of Victoria Rd and London Rd. But I can't afford to be seen, so if you're not there, I won't wait for you. Grab a few clothes, and get out of the house, now.'

She rang off, and for a second I was left listening to dial tone. But only for a second, since, a long way off, I heard a police siren commence its wailing.

***

The pick-up went smoothly. By that time, I'd pulled trousers and a coat over my pyjamas, and I had an odd pair of shoes on my feet. If I was seen by the police, they'd probably arrest me simply for my lack of dress sense. But I got into her car without incident, and Carol made kneel on the floor so I couldn't be seen from outside.

'Are you going to take me to the railway station, or what?'

'Do you have anywhere to go by train?'

'Not really.'

'Then it seems silly taking you to the railway station. I'll take you back to my house.'

'Your house! But James will be there!'

'James's never there in the mornings; you should know that by now. OK, he left for work a lot earlier than usual, but he's going onto an overnight conference this afternoon, so won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. We can go home and then decide the best action to take.'

***

Once inside her house, with a cup of tea in my hand, I started to feel a lot calmer, even though I could now see my position was hopeless. Once Godo realised who the fingerprints belonged to, he would probably guess exactly what we'd been up to. He'd have my details circulated to every force in the country, the ports closed, a watch kept upon my house and restaurant, and my bank account would be frozen. When I was eventually caught, he would personally rip the balls from my body. Or perhaps I'd be a "death-in-custody" — the kind you hear about all the time.

I needed to run away, but where could I run to?

'You can stay here, if you like.'

'Stay here? But James will be home tomorrow. He'll kill me!'

'Only if he recognises you.'

'Yes, but… You mean… disguise me, in some way… but…'

'The catering agency rang yesterday afternoon. The person they'd promised to send has cancelled.'

'Look Carol, I know you're concerned about your dinner-party…'

'Don't be stupid. The point is that the only way I could get someone for our dinner-party was to provide them with accommodation. They were scheduled to arrive today, and depart on Sunday.'

'Right.' At last, I could see some sense. 'So, I could put on a false moustache and pretend to be your butler until Sunday.'

'They were also going to help with cleaning the house in preparation for the party. I could suggest to James that we keep you on permanently. I could tell him you were an illegal immigrant or something, so we'd hardly have to pay you any wages.'

'Wouldn't James have a problem with that, him being a policeman?'

'Good God, no. Laws are made for other people to follow, not policemen. And which police officer is going to start investigating James?'

'The Chief Constable?'

'Heavens no! Audrey and Tommy already have an illegal working for them. How do you think the economy would survive if we all had to rely on legal workers?'

I had no answer.

'Anyway, I'm afraid if we're going to convince James, it will need much more than a false moustache. You see, I've already given him a description of the person from the agency, so I'm going to have to make you look similar. It's a bit of a radical change, I'm afraid, but on the other hand, the more radical the change, the less likely James is to recognise you.'

'Sounds logical. But what kind of a change are you talking about? After all, I can't act to save my life.' I had a think about that last sentence, and then added, 'Well, I suppose to save my life, I'm going to have a bloody good try.'

She smiled at my pathetic joke. 'That's great. I'm hoping that by putting you into the disguise, you'll simply fall into the role. After all, acting is just about being natural in someone else's shoes. I'm going to turn you into a black woman.'

'What!'

'Well, you're not racist, are you?'

'Well, no, but…'

'I'll dye your skin as black as I can. That will help to make your features more difficult to distinguish, and nowadays you can buy very dark suntan dyes.'

'But you told me you wanted a butler. They never had women butlers in Victorian times.'

'Oh, I had to abandon the butler idea, when you wouldn't go along with it. I thought I'd go to a Victorian maid, instead. And Victorians certainly occasionally did have black maids, as some of the slave-traders brought them back as chattels. It may have been unusual, but it certainly wasn't unknown. Anyway, apart from anything else, I didn't have a lot of choice when it came to finding someone with experience — it was taking a black waitress or nothing.'

'But now you have me, I could be the butler you wanted in the first place.'

'And of course, James would never recognise you, would he? Even if he did, it wouldn't matter as he would see the funny side of it, wouldn't he? I'm sure, he would never think of ripping off your testicles, just because you've been fucking me something rotten.'

She had a point. 'But I couldn't look like a black woman. Could I?'

***

I decided to leave everything up to Carol. I was already totally beholden to her, and I simply had to trust her, as I had no one else. Anyway, women are so much better at disguising themselves, since they do it every time they apply make-up. If she couldn't disguise me, I was lost anyway.

She went out to the shops, leaving me on my own, and terrified in case Godo came back unexpectedly. She only seemed to be gone for a short time, considering the armfuls of parcels she carried in from the car.

'I think I've got everything we need, so let's make a start, straightaway. Now, before we can put the dye on you, we need to defoliate you all over. Jump into the bath, and I'll spread this cream all over your body. It may tingle a little.'

It was fine at first. She slipped on rubber-gloves, and starting with my legs worked it all the way up, giving my balls and the shaft of my cock a rather nice massage, but leaving the head of my cock untouched. She carried on right up my torso to my face, and had just finished covering my face when my legs started to tingle.

'Oooh! My legs are hurting like mad. Can we take it off, now.'

'Don't be such a baby. It can't possibly be hurting you yet. Now, just keep still for a while, and I'll…'

'Bloody hell! My balls are burning now. It's murder. I'm sorry, I have to wipe it off.'

I reached out to grab a towel. But Carol grabbed my arm and gave it a vicious twist, spinning me round. I heard something click in her hand, then she was pulling my arm upwards, to where a water-pipe came through the ceiling. She passed something behind the water-pipe then pulled even harder.

Jeez! I was almost being pulled off the ground by the chain around my wrist. I grabbed upwards to try to stop her dislocating my arm. There was another click, and I found I was handcuffed to the water-pipe, my body almost hanging from the ceiling.

'Did I ever tell you I used to be a police-officer? I always enjoyed that bit. Still do, actually.'

'Carol. My skin is burning. All over. Please let me down.'

'I have to be cruel to be kind. Just think how much it would hurt if James found out about us. It's a bit of pain now, or a lot of pain later. Anyway, I'm not going to let you ruin my marriage. You'll simply have to put up with it.'

And I did!

After the agony of the hair-removal cream, the rest didn't seem too bad. After a few minutes, she showered me off, washing all my body-hair away with it and leaving a wonderfully smooth skin. Then, she applied the dye to my body; putting on layer after layer, so that my skin went progressively darker, until it was a very dark-brown. Another shower to remove the residue of the dye, and then she let me inspect myself in the mirror.

'I may look black,' I said, 'but I'm never going to look like a woman. I'm just the wrong shape.'

I should have known better. She pulled a garment out of one of her bags.

'Right, feed your legs into this.'

It was like a black panty-girdle, made of a smooth latex-like material, except that, as she pulled it up my legs, I realised that far from slimming me down, it was going to make me substantially bigger. The buttocks and thighs had padding at least two inches thick.

'I thought women were always trying to lose weight in those parts, not put it on,' I ventured.

'And why do you think that is,' Carol replied. 'You want to look a typical woman, and typical women have large arses and thighs. And if men gave birth and had a baby's head pop out from between their legs, I wonder how wide they would want their thighs to be.'

There was no arguing with that logic, so I kept quiet, especially as she'd arrived at a particularly sensitive part of my anatomy. She'd raised the girdle up my legs until it was prevented from further travel by my prick, thrusting out further than I had ever seen it before.

She carefully took it in her hands and then slid one hand down until it was cupping my testicles. 'The shop told me exactly what to do at this point,' she said, and then she slapped my prick as hard as she could.

'Jeezz!'

'That's fine,' she said, watching my three inches wither down to a measly half-inch. 'That's exactly what the assistant said would happen.'

She gently squeezed the testicle sacs until my balls popped up somewhere inside my groin. Then she rolled the sacs around my limp prick and pushed the whole lot into the same place.

'I simply have to feed the head of your prick through this slot in your new vagina,' she said, 'and then I can pull the garment all the way up into position,' she said.

Thirty seconds later, I was staring down at the place where, until recently, I'd had a cock and testicles, and now there appeared the protruding lips of my vagina. I was itching to slip my hand down there to investigate, but I was still strung up to the pipe. Now that my skin was no longer burning, the ache in my arms was becoming increasingly unbearable.

'Carol. Can't you release my hands now? I can hardly bear the pain.'

She smiled, sympathetically. 'Sorry Phil. Just one thing left to do which will be much easier whilst you're trussed up like that.'

She pulled another black garment out of a bag, and my heart was suddenly pounding in my mouth.

'Er… what… what have you got there, Carol?'

She held it up so I could see, but I already knew the answer.

'It's a corset,' she said. 'I told you it's a Victorian function tomorrow night, so all the women will be wearing corsets — the Chief Constable as well, I shouldn't be surprised. Presumably you haven't worn one before, so we need to do a bit of urgent training.'

'But I'm really not that fat. Couldn't I manage without?' I wasn't certain why I was arguing about wearing a garment I found so incredibly erotic. I think probably for the sake of form.

Carol firmly shook her head, and said, 'Hardly. Even I appear to have quite a reasonable figure when I'm wearing a corset. If they weren't such murder to wear, I'd probably wear one all the time. If you don't wear one tomorrow night, everyone will notice.'

'Well, you won't need to fasten it too tight, will you?'

'Look, I've got to get you into the serving costume I got for the agency girl. That means I'm going to have to reduce your waist by six or eight inches.'

Shit, that sounded frightening — but also incredibly exciting.

'So, the corset goes on now, as tight as I can get it. Then, every half-hour, I tighten it some more.'

I gulped, realising that protest was absolutely useless.

She slipped a chemise up my body, and then wrapped the corset around me and fastened it with the metal busks at the front. Then she went behind my back, and I felt her start to draw in the strings. It was incredibly erotic, to start with. In the mirror, I could see my body starting to take on a new shape. I already had the superbly round buttocks and hips, and the corset started to produce the kind of waist that every woman wants, but most would never achieve.

Tighter and tighter the corset got, and smaller and smaller my waist, until it was getting to the point where I was having difficulty in breathing.

'That's tight enough, Carol. I can't breathe now.'

'Christ! I don't think we're even half-way there. Hang on, let me get a tape measure.' I felt her tie a quick knot in the strings, allowing them to slip slightly, and me to draw a slight breath of air.

'No, you're nowhere near. Your waist has only gone down by about three inches. I need to get at least another inch to start with; then I'll be able to slip on your temporary dress.' She grabbed the strings and started to vigorously pull them tighter.

'No, but Carol, I can't breathe…'

'If you couldn't breathe, you wouldn't be able to talk, so I'll know it's too tight when you pass out.'

I thought she was joking at first, but as the corset got tighter and tighter, I realised she wasn't. I had brainwave, and I let my legs collapse and my head roll to one side. The whole weight of my body was hanging from my arms. It was absolute murder, but surely Carol would stop now.

'That's really helpful,' she said, drawing in another few inches of string. 'But don't let your head loll about like that, or else I won't know when you've passed out and you'll probably end up with a crushed rib-cage.'

I hurriedly pulled my head upright. I would have taken the weight off my arms, by pushing down with my feet, but there was a buzzing in my head, and I no longer knew what I should do to relieve the pain.

***

'There, there. Feeling better?'

I was lying doubled up over the bathroom stool, my head resting on the floor.

'Ehhh-hhh.'

You might as well lie there for a minute, as I can slip on your Bustlet quite easily in that position.'

I opened my mouth wide and managed to suck in a tiny gasp of air — there was just nowhere inside me for it to go. I released that little puff, then sucked in another, and another — all tiny little gasps.

'What's a Bustlet?' I asked, her words at last sinking in.

She produced another black garment from her bag. 'One of these,' she said. 'It's a flesh-coloured singlet which goes over your shoulders and stops below your nipples. There are bags inside which you can inflate with water — you can get breasts any size you like.'

I was intrigued. 'But they won't be very realistic, will they?'

'Well, you've never thought my tits were false, have you? I've been wearing them for years. They're not cheap, but they are incredibly life-like. I first got them when James picked up a nice bribe from a drug dealer. He gave me some of his kitty and told me to get a breast job.'

She pushed her breasts towards me, so as to display them for inspection. 'I found a Bustlet was a lot cheaper, looked just as good, and gave me a bit of cash left over for myself.'

I stared up at her. Her tits were the redeeming feature that had turned a fat, middle-aged woman into a Sex-Goddess.

'But they can't be false,' I protested. 'There's no join with your neck.'

'It comes right up to my chin, look.' She lifted her chin and pointed to an almost invisible line along the underside of her jaw. 'It also hides my double chins and wrinkly neck, so I think it's a bloody good investment. Fortunately, my supplier had a black one in stock, so we'll be able to give you a really nice pair of tits. With those poking out the front of your dress, there's no way James will even look at your face.'

She had a point.

***

After she'd pulled the Bustlet over my head and as far down my chest as it would go, she led me over to the washbasin and took a piece of plastic tubing out of the package, which she fitted onto the tap. Then she turned on the tap and flushed the tube through with water, before fitting the other end onto my left nipple.

'The nipple's porous,' she explained. 'I can force water through it to inflate the breast, and there's a one-way valve to prevent it coming out when I remove the pipe.'

She turned on the tap, and my left breast went from a size AA to a size B in about twenty seconds. 'It's like magic, isn't it. Now, let's get the other breast inflated to the right size.'

After blowing it up, she took off the pipe and then stood back and stared at me for a few seconds. 'Looks like I've over-inflated the right breast. I'll put a little more in the left one.'

My left breast went from a size B to a C; then Carol decided she'd over-inflated the left breast, so she topped up my right one. I was beginning to have visions that I'd end up with tits the size of basket-balls, but she stopped before they'd even reached football size. When she came to measure me, she reckoned they were a whopping 40DD!

'Well, that's fortunate,' she says. 'That happens to be the exact size of bra I bought when I was out shopping.'

So, the bitch had intended me to reach this size all along!

***

I thought the indignity must be virtually over by then; little did I know! She pulled stockings carefully up each leg, and secured them with a lacy garter. Then she made me step into little booties, with high heels (she said they were three inches, but to me it felt like I was tottering on the top of a skyscraper).

After that, she brought out a strange bundle of concentric hoops, all attached to each other by tape. She dropped it on the ground in front of me, and had me step into the centre of them. Then she lifted the smallest hoop up around my legs and as she did so, the other hoops followed, one-by one. This, I realised was a Victorian bustle. She secured it around my waist.

A petticoat went over my head and she spread it down over the bustle, followed by a black skirt. I had to admit, with my narrow waist, and large breasts, the bustle gave me a wonderful shape.

'Why did I need the padded girdle, if I'm going to be wearing a bustle?' I demanded.

'Well, it needs to be realistic when you take it off,' Carol said. 'Or say you tripped over whilst you were carrying a tray, and we all saw your prick hanging down. People might suspect there was something wrong.'

'But aren't I going to wear pantaloons or something?' I protested.

'Don't be silly. Servants could rarely afford such luxuries in those days. You have to look authentic.'

I said nothing more. Personally, I was going to make bloody certain that I didn't trip over and expose everything under my skirt, and anyway, I couldn't see why I wasn't allowed to wear even a pair of normal panties.

Carol had a modern-day top made of black stretchy material for me, which she said I could wear in the meantime, until my corset was tight enough to allow the Victorian bodice to be worn. As I stood in front of her mirror, and swirled around slowly, I looked bloody sexy — and very much the kind of maid that, in other circumstances, I'd have taken a great deal of pleasure in working with.

***

'Good evening, master. Can I take your coat for you? And can I get you a drink to start the evening with?'

Godo hardly knew what had hit him when he walked into his house on Saturday evening, for in front of him was this gorgeous Victorian maid, with huge tits and an unbelievably tiny waist. He ogled me, and then ogled me some more.

Carol had continually tightened my corset until I'd been able to slip on the slim bodice, which buttoned up at the back. Over the top, I was wearing a lacy, white apron, with ribbon ties which crossed over at the back and then tied in a beautiful bow. In my black Afro wig, I had a matching white bow, with the tails hanging halfway down my back.

'Bloody hell. If I'd known there were women like you in Africa, I'd never have been against immigration in the first place.'

I smiled at him. 'Thank you, master. Now, can I take your coat?'

It had been a frenetic couple of days. Carol had made me practice everything about being a female — my walk, my voice, my behaviour, even how to handle my bustle, and now I felt pretty confident I could handle virtually everything that might come along.

I took his coat to the cloakroom, and followed him into the lounge.

'Well, I'm really impressed,' he said, his eyes running up and down my body. 'When Carol said she'd get a Victorian maid, I never realised it would be anything like you.'

I gave a little curtsy — Carol had shown me how. 'Thank you, master.'

'There was just one thing I want to check.' He was staring down at my boots, which were poking out from under my skirts. I wondered whether I hadn't spent long enough polishing them to a mirror-like surface. He bent down onto one knee, but instead of touching my boot, he grasped the lowest hoop of my bustle and lifted it — higher and higher, peering under my skirt.

Damn Carol, I thought. That was why she'd made me wear this garment with the false vagina.

'Well, I never,' he said, presumably as he realised I wasn't wearing bloomers. Then, with a swift movement, he stood up, pulling the hoop upwards with him, so that the rear of it caught me behind the ankles. Before I could react, he was thrusting the front of the hoop into my chest and pushing me backwards.

Unable to step back, I fell back, landing on the floor just behind me with a painful thump. He continued to force the hoop of my bustle up and over my head and shoulders, so the top part of me was encased in the hoop and skirts, whilst the bottom of me was totally exposed, my naked legs waving in the air — that's to say, my totally naked legs waving in the air, apart from the padded girdle which looked just like a woman's thighs and vagina.

Author's note: The story continues in the FINAL CHAPTER

The beach picnic was almost surreal. Even as it was happening, I knew it was one of those events that would be lodged in my mind for decades to come.

Author's Note: To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. I have decided to also include this one, although it does not actually incorporate Big Busts products. Still, it was written in a similar vein.

It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.

The beach picnic was almost surreal. Even as it was happening, I knew it was one of those events that would be lodged in my mind for decades to come.

There were four of us there on the otherwise empty beach: Helen Noble, aged in her mid-forties and pleasantly attractive with a large frame. She was wearing a white, one-piece swimming costume from which her ample breasts and buttocks agreeably bulged. If you live in the UK, you'll almost certainly have heard of her absent husband, John Noble, a junior Cabinet Minister, who's been picked as a potential prime minister. Maybe. He's a devious, evil bastard with a disarming smile, so he undoubtedly has all the necessary qualifications.

Then there was John and Helen's nineteen-year old daughter, Annabella - not shortened to Anna, I'd been firmly told more than once, and definitely not shortened to Bella. We'd picked her up from university - Cambridge, of course - the previous day, for the start of the summer break. Fortunately she had none of her father's attributes, except for the disarming smile, which in her case was almost certainly genuine. She threw it at people without restraint - a smile to warm the heart of everyone it touched. For her age, she was quite small, and had a slim teenager's body with pert breasts. In her skimpy, bright red bikini, she was definitely a sight for sore eyes.

The third member of the group was the Nobles' housekeeper, Brigit Walker. I reckoned she must be in her mid-twenties, and in her yellow bikini she revealed a body almost as slim at the waist as Annabella's, but with a gorgeously succulent pair of tits and a nicely rounded arse. Until today, I hadn't seen much of Brigit (in all senses of the expression). Sometimes, I'd had to knock on the door when I collected John or, more often, Helen; occasionally Brigit had answered, wearing her black, uniform dress with white pinafore apron - the kind of vision from which erotic fantasies (especially mine) are created. She was obviously treated as one of the family - on the journey down in the car, she and Annabella had chatted like sisters, and Helen joined in with no apparent distinction between employer and employee.

Then there was me, Steve Owen, recently employed chauffeur: thirty-eight years old, divorced, five-feet, nine in height, with a prematurely balding hairline. I was the only one of the four not to be wearing swimming gear. I'd driven them down to their beach villa in Seacombe, that morning - a four hour drive from their Hampstead home - and since I'd been expecting to return to London that afternoon, I'd been wearing my normal uniform: grey suit and peaked cap, white shirt with grey tie, and black leather shoes.

I'd better explain here that I'm not a Government driver. Obviously, John gets his own chauffeur for official business but he was narked that, since he was only a junior minister, the official chauffeur wasn't available to him for social occasions. Then came the 7/7 London bombings, and Helen got worried about travelling by public transport. So they decided to hire a private chauffeur who, during the day would ferry Helen around on her shopping expeditions, museum visits, and lunch dates with her friends, and in the evening would be available to overcome difficulties created by Britain's stringent drink-driving laws.

I'd only been in the job for a week. So far, I'd found it comfortable, provided I could put up with John's whip-lashing tongue, which apparently the previous series of chauffeurs could not. Fortunately, the majority of driving was for Helen, the work was not arduous, and I got live-in accommodation above the garage where the cars were kept - worth an absolute fortune in London.

So, to get back to that picnic on the beach, the four of us had arrived that Sunday at their villa at around midday, and they'd decided they were going to have an immediate picnic on the beach.

'Steve, you can help us carry the stuff down there, and then you can stay and have lunch with us.'

It sounded a fair deal to me, so as the others all dashed into bedrooms and changed into swimming gear, I took off my jacket, cap and tie, and started carrying the stuff down to the place where Helen indicated, at the edge of the sand dunes. After a couple of journeys, they had got changed, and they helped me carry down the final load.

That's when the first surreal event occurred. I've already mentioned the skimpy bikinis that Annabella and Brigit wore. No doubt in London, they'd have given me hell if they'd caught me staring at their tits; consequently, I was admiring their forms with discretion. But no sooner had they dropped their towels on the huge beach-rug I'd spread out on the sand, than they were slipping off their bikini tops without a shred of embarrassment.

I gulped.

'Some wine, Steve?' Helen offered, as she passed the bottle and glasses around. 'You look as though you could do with something to stop you imploding. Don't mind these two. They have no shame.'

'I don't think Steve does mind, Mummy,' Annabella said. 'He appears to be quite appreciative.'

There was no answer to that, so I responded directly to Helen's question. 'Sorry, I'd better not have any wine. I'm driving back, later.'

'No you're not,' Helen said. 'I've decided.'

'Er, sorry?'

'I'm still annoyed about those people in the car following us down here,' she said. 'I've decided I'm going to keep you here for the next few days so you can drive us around.'

The previous Tuesday, the second day of my job, I noted a white Peugeot had been behind us for some distance. It's one of the things they teach you on the defensive driving courses; essential training nowadays for any professional chauffeur. I'd made a couple of turns until I was satisfied we were definitely being followed, and then I discretely brought it to Helen's attention, as a prelude to dialling 999 and asking for police assistance to catch the potential terrorists, or whatever.

'Bugger!' she'd replied. 'He's doing it again.'

'Sorry, madam?' I'd asked.

'I keep telling you,' she said, 'call me Helen. They aren't terrorists in that car; they're simply private detectives hired by my husband to record my infidelity.'

'Oh,' I said, unprepared for such honesty; and then: 'Do you want me to lose them?'

Her eyes twinkled. 'Not today,' she said.

I'd seen the same car several times, over the rest of the week; each time I'd pointed it out to Helen, who had been unperturbed. This morning, as I'd driven up to the Noble's beach villa, I noticed a white Peugeot parked at another villa, about a hundred yards away. I mentally checked the registration number - it matched - and when we'd got into the cottage, I quietly told Helen about it, not wanting the others to hear.

But it seemed Helen had no such inhibitions now, and she relayed the news about the private detectives with relish to the others.

'But isn't Daddy still having that affair with his secretary?' Annabella asked.

'Of course he is,' Helen said. 'And he's tried it on with Brigit enough times. Threatened her with the sack as well, when she wouldn't drop her knickers for him.'

'I don't really understand,' Brigit said. 'Does he want a divorce?'

Helen shook her head. 'He simply wants to intimidate me - to show that he expects me to behave according to the rules, whilst he can simply ignore them. That's just the way he is. Well, I'll show him two can play games. I'll tell him tonight that I want you, Steve, to stay with us for another day and ferry us around as necessary. And if he finds that inconvenient, that's bloody tough luck.

'Now then, Steve,' she continued, her moment of anger behind her, 'pass some of this food around, and for God's sake fill up your wine glass. I'm not having you behaving as a party pooper.'

***

So, we ate, drank and were merry. After lunch, the women stretched out in the sun and, feeling comfortably bloated and ready to do the same, I removed my shirt, to some 'Woo!'s from the girls, and then started to take off my shoes and socks.

'Oh my God!' Brigit exclaimed, as I removed one of my socks. 'He's got a huge, erect... big toe,' to which we all burst into laughter.

As I removed the other sock, the girls der-rahd to the tune of 'The Stripper', and then, with the revelation of my other big toe, Annabella pretended to swoon in horror, whilst Brigit shouted, 'He's got another erection there. That's three in total!'

'Girls! Calm down,' Helen shouted, but she was laughing as much as the rest of us. And Brigit was perfectly correct about the number of erections (if you included my big toes). I had found the whole picnic with fun and games, in the midst of the three, half-naked, beautiful women, incredibly erotic.

Things did calm down a little, until Helen pointed out that, with my white skin, I was going to burn in the fierce heat of the sun. Whereupon, Brigit got onto her knees, held up a tube of suntan lotion and told me to sit up whilst she spread it on me. I'm sure she deliberately let her boobs drag across my back as she worked the lotion onto my shoulders and leant around the front of me to reach my chest. After months of sexual isolation following my divorce, I had entered paradise.

***

Later on, probably around three o'clock, Helen picked up the beach-ball which had been lying next to her and threw it so it landed with a smack on Annabella's tummy.

'A-a-h-h-h! You rat!'

'That's enough lazing about,' Helen said. 'It's time for a swim. Come on, Brigit, and you too, Steve.'

'I haven't got any swimming trunks,' I said. 'I suppose I could go in wearing just my underpants.'

'Presumably, they're your only pair,' Helen said. 'You don't want to get those sopping wet. And I'm not really happy if you come in naked and start waving that thing...' she gesticulated at the bulge still showing in my trousers, '...at us. We might think it's a killer whale.'

My respect for Helen, at that moment, went through the roof. We'd all been fooling around plenty, with lots of innuendo, and her daughter and housekeeper were half-naked, but Helen was drawing the line in the sand which I must not cross. Fine to joke with everyone, and frolic around, but pulling out my throbbing, bare prick, in company, was definitely off- limits. I nodded. I could understand that.

'Easily solved,' Brigit said. She stood up, and with as little embarrassment as she'd shown when removing her top, she slid her bikini briefs down her legs and threw them across, with both considerable force and accuracy, into my face.

By the time I'd pulled them from my eyes, she was racing, completely naked, down to the sea, with Annabella close behind.

'I promise not to look around as I go down to the sea,' Helen said, a big smile on her face. 'But I want you there in two minutes.'

I suppose I could have protested to Helen's receding back, but it seemed such a trivial issue - slipping on the bikini briefs that only seconds before, had been nestling around a pussy I would very much like to get closer to - much, much closer to. I undid my trousers and pulled them, and my underpants, off in one movement, pretending to ignore the wolf- whistles which came from the girls playing in the surf.

The bikini briefs were very tight as I slid them up my legs but, with a bit of force, they went to the top and adequately covered my throbbing prick. One minute after Helen, I was racing into the water.

***

As kids, we used to play a game called 'Piggy in the Middle'. Two people would toss a ball between them, and the 'piggy in the middle' would try to catch it in mid-flight. If successful, the person who missed the catch would become the new piggy.

With four people, we played a variation of that game based upon two teams - one the throwers and catchers - the other, the piggies. The main object of the game seemed to be for the piggy to manhandle the catcher out to the way of the ball, just as it was about to descend, so that the other piggy could catch it in their place. And when I say 'manhandle', of course for most of the time, I meant 'woman-handle'.

As the rules were explained to me, it was suggested that one should handle one's partner with relative dignity, grabbing them around the waist, and throwing them to one side. But as soon as I realised that both Helen and Annabella had a habit of grabbing me and 'accidentally' squeezing my bum, or brushing against my erection, I developed the technique of grabbing them just under their breasts (well, almost under, anyway), and in Annabella's case tweaking her nipple as I lifted her aside. As for Brigit, she would slip her hand into my bikini bottom as she grabbed me. Since she didn't have a bikini bottom into which to slip my hand, I couldn't reciprocate in the same way, so I usually gave her pussy a stroke as I threw her aside.

Remarkably, no one called 'Foul' for the whole of the game, a mark of the close bond, which had developed between us. It was Annabella who first decided she'd had enough, saying that she'd got too cold and that she'd leave the sea to get warm. The game reverted to the conventional three- person variety, but that didn't reduce the amount of man/woman-handling, which we all enjoyed. Finally, we wrapped our arms around each other's shoulders as we walked back though the surf to the beach, and up to the point where our gear was.

***

We sat wrapped in our towels, smiling at each other for a few minutes; perhaps each of us was wondering just exactly where this was leading. For my part, I'd willingly have had sex on the beach with all or any of them, but knew that pushing it at that moment was the worst possible thing I could do. So, I was happy to grin back at them, while we all contemplated the immediate future.

'Where are my trousers?' I asked, looking around. I thought I'd left them lying in a heap, on top of my shoes and shirt, but now I couldn't even see those.

'Annabella?' Helen said.

'Sorry Mummy?' Annabella said, in a tone of mock innocence. 'Was there something you wanted?'

'Steve has lost his clothes,' Helen said. 'Do you know anything about that?'

'Of course not, Mummy,' she continued. 'But there was this note I found on the rug when I came out of the sea, about buried treasure. I don't know whether that's got anything to do with it.' She pointed at a scrap of paper covered in handwriting.'

Helen picked it up. 'That's strange,' she said. 'Whoever wrote this has handwriting remarkably similar to my daughter's. What a coincidence.'

She read aloud from the paper. 'To find the buried treasure, take ten paces from the beach rug towards the house, turn right and take eight paces, then turn left and...

'Hmm,' she continued. 'Instructions to find buried treasure. I think you'd better see if they lead to anything, Steve.' She held out the scrap of paper towards me.

I grinned. OK, so I was the butt of another joke called 'Find Your Clothes'. Well, if the girls didn't want me to get dressed yet, I wasn't complaining. I stood up and obediently pointed towards the beach villa and started my ten paces forward.

'Your paces are too long,' Annabella said. 'That is, I'm certain the pirates who left this message would have used shorter paces.'

So I went back to the rug and paced out ten Annabella-sized paces, then turned to the right and started eight paces...

'You've turned in the wrong direction,' Annabella called.

I looked down at my instructions. 'It says 'Turn right.' '

'Are you sure? Well, it should have said 'Turn Left.' '

I moved back to the point where I'd turned, and faced the opposite direction. Eight paces from there took me to the top of a small sand dune.

'I don't think you can be doing it right,' Annabella said. 'You should be to the right of that dune.'

'Annabella,' Helen said, 'the joke's starting to wear a bit thin. It's one thing burying his clothes, but you might have got the instructions right. Why don't you go and do the pacing for Steve?'

So Annabella got up, and started pacing out the instructions. The problem was that as soon as we got amongst the dunes, we lost all sense of direction. Were we facing the sea or the house? Was that a ninety-degree turn, or a seventy-degree turn? Was that a straight line, or did it bend? If it did bend, was it meant to bend? Then, there were so many instructions - twenty in all, and an error in writing down just one of them would break the chain of clues. Annabella had wanted to make it challenging; in fact, she made it impossible.

After half an hour of us all making attempts to find the buried treasure, digging dozens of holes in every likely spot, we had to give up. My clothes were well and truly lost.

'You'll have to go with Steve into town, tomorrow,' Helen said, 'and buy him replacements.'

'Excuse me,' I said, 'but I don't actually have any clothes to wear. Can't we go into town now?'

'It's Sunday,' Helen said. 'All the shops close at four. You'll just have to make do for tonight. I would make Annabella lend you her best jeans, except she's so sickeningly thin that you'd never get into them; so is Brigit, for that matter. So, I guess I'd better lend you some of my things.'

'Thanks, Mummy. And, er, sorry Steve,' Annabella said.

'Thanks Helen, and as for you,' I said, turning to Annabella, 'I think you need your bottom spanking.' I raised my arm and made as if to slap her, and she went shrieking into the dunes, with me racing after her.

Needless to say, I couldn't catch her! We spent a few minutes racing around, before we returned breathless to the rug. Helen had already gone up to the house, taking some of the picnic gear with her, and the three of us spent a few minutes packing everything up. Between us, we managed to carry it all in one load.

The beach villa is one of those wonderful art deco buildings dating from the 1930s, which would never have got planning permission today. It bordered the road, with the main accommodation being at that level, whilst beneath, the floor at beach level was mainly devoted to a large storage area, used for keeping a speedboat and a couple of jet skis, along with quad bikes which could be used to tow them down to the water. At the one corner of the building, was a shower, and it was to this that Brigit raced as soon as she'd unceremoniously dropped her load on the ground.

'Race you to the shower,' she shouted, when she was almost there. 'Last one in's a wimp.'

Annabella raced after her and squeezed inside, to the accompaniment of girlish screams.

Brigit's head popped out. 'That makes you the wimp,' she said, and added with obvious innuendo, 'Are you coming or not?'

'I didn't know I was invited,' I said, a huge grin breaking over my face, 'but yes, I think I might be coming.'

'I'll rephrase that,' Brigit said. 'You're welcome to share our shower, provided you keep on those bikini briefs.'

There it was again: the line showing what was off-limits and what was not. I could live with that.

'Sounds great to me,' I said, racing to the cubicle.

It was certainly a tight squeeze, made all the tighter because as I entered, Annabella was bending over removing her bikini briefs, presenting her own bottom to me, with just a trace of the slit between her legs on show.

'Just what I wanted,' I said, and gave it a sharp slap with my hand.

'A-a-g-g-h!' She jerked upright, her head lifting one of Brigit's tits and pushing it to one side as she did so. 'You rat! Take that!' She slapped a wet and soapy sponge in my face.

'O-o-h-h!' The soap in my eyes stung like crazy.

'Stop moaning,' Brigit said, 'and use that sponge on my back.'

'Oh dear, I've dropped it,' I said. 'Never mind, I'll put some soap on my hands and use that instead.'

'Well, if you're going to use your hands,' Brigit said, turning around, 'you'd better start with my front.'

It was the best foreplay I'd ever experienced in my life. Normally, I'd be in hurry to move onto the next stage, but this time, I knew there'd be no next stage. I was in a shower with two naked, beautiful, young women, who were perfectly happy to indulge in a mutual soaping and washing session. It really was slapstick at its very best.

Unfortunately, all good things eventually come to an end.

'You lot are not STILL in the shower, are you?' Helen's voice came through the curtain.

'Well, Helen, one of us is very dirty,' Brigit called. 'We keep rubbing him but he doesn't get any cleaner.'

'Time to get dressed,' Helen replied. 'Perhaps this will encourage you to speed up.'

The shower turned icy cold.

'A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h!' we shouted simultaneously, ejecting from the shower in a bundle of arms, legs and boobs. Helen was waiting outside, and she threw a large, fluffy, white towel at each of us.

'Come on, I've sorted out something which I think Steve can wear. And you all need to get dressed.'

She, I now noticed, was already wearing a pretty, sleeveless, pink dress, showing off the tan she'd developed that afternoon.

***

Five minutes later, we all crept upstairs, our towels wrapped around us.

'Steve, I've laid out a couple of things on my bed,' Helen said. 'Go with him, Brigit, and decide the best thing for him to wear.'

Brigit slipped into her own bedroom first, and put on a short dressing gown. Then she led the way into the master bedroom, and I followed. There were a couple of dresses on the bed, but I couldn't see the clothes she'd laid out for me.

'Oh, that's a nice dress, don't you think, Steve?'

I glanced at it; a fairly long, red dress, which buttoned right up to a high neckline, with tiny pictures of beach balls, lilos and surfboards scattered randomly across it.

'Yes. Is that for you?' I asked. 'What did she do with my clothes?'

'Steve, these are your clothes.'

I looked at them again, staring suspiciously, and then I twigged. 'OK, very funny, ha-ha. Don't tell me, Helen never wears trousers or jeans, so I'm going to have to wear a dress, right?'

'Well, you must have noticed that during the week you've been ferrying me around,' Helen's voice came from behind me. 'I never do wear trousers - they simply don't suit my shape. I'd far rather hide these monster hips beneath a flowing skirt than expose them in jeans.'

I turned to face her, expecting a smile to break out on her face, as she was unable to keep up the pretence any longer. But the smile was already there. 'I'm sorry, Steve, I know that a man wearing a dress represents a great attack on his virility, his penis will immediately fall off, and everyone will laugh at him, but you're amongst friends, here. OK, we might laugh at you, but we've been doing that all afternoon, and you can't deny you've enjoyed it.'

'But there must be something else I could wear,' I said.

'Oh, come on, Steve,' Brigit said. 'We've been having fun together all afternoon. Let's have some fun now, dressing you up. I'm sure we'll all enjoy doing it. And I reckon we'll make a pretty passable woman out of you.'

I shook my head, but couldn't help smiling, partly because I'd glimpsed a flash of Brigit's nipple as she'd turned, but also because I could see the fun and games of the afternoon were going to continue all evening. Well, I was game if they were.

'Now, you're wrong about making me into a passable woman,' I said. 'But OK, I'll go ahead with your games. I'm not entirely convinced there are no trousers I could wear in the entire house, but what the hell, I'm amongst friends.' I splayed my hands out. 'So, you do your damnedest on me. Treat me as your little dolly, to dress up. Only don't be disappointed with the results.'

'OK,' Brigit said. 'That's a challenge. You say we'll be disappointed. Well, I say you'll be astounded by the results. Is that a contest?'

'You bet,' I said, thinking how nice it was that we trusted each other to tell the truth at the end. And it was going to be fun, I thought, just like the rest of the day had been.

***

'I thought the good thing about this dress,' Helen said, pointing to the one Brigit was still holding, 'is that it's got a high neckline, so we don't have to worry about Steve's hairy chest, and it's long enough that when he wears it with boots, it won't show any of his leg, either.'

'But that means we won't have to wax him,' Annabella said, coming into the bedroom. 'I was really looking forward to that bit.'

'Well, never mind, Annabella,' Brigit said. 'I think we'll have our work cut out to get him presentable in a reasonable time for dinner, anyway.'

'We could eat before you've finished with me,' I protested.

'Absolutely not,' Helen said. 'The one thing I insist on here is that we dress up properly for dinner. We may be slobs all day, but we become civilised for dinner. Incidentally,' she turned to Annabella, 'did you ring Morrellis?'

'Yes. No problem.'

'Who are Morrellis?' I asked, suddenly suspicious.

'They only sell the best, takeaway pizzas in the whole of Seacombe,' Brigit answered.

'Oh,' I said, silently thinking, 'and I bet they want me to drive them there in these clothes.' A flutter of excitement went soaring through my body. 'And why not?' I thought.

'So, Brigit,' Helen continued, 'do you want to get him into some underwear? You can use any of my stuff you need.'

I knew it was useless to protest that underwear was unnecessary. In any case, wasn't I rather intrigued to discover what it would be like wearing the kind of garments I usually took such delight in removing? I wasn't going to confess it to the girls (or anyone else, for that matter), but in fact, I found the whole idea incredibly erotic.

'First thing,' Brigit said, 'is we get rid of all traces of your stubble. It's a shame that you haven't got a proper beard, because then we would be able to wax it off you. It might have been painful, but it would have given a super finish. As it is, we'll have to rely on shaving. Come into the en-suite, and we'll get you lathered up.'

She led me in, carefully positioned the stool in front of the washbasin, and then plonked me down on it and made me lie back so my head was resting on the edge of the washbasin, cushioned by a towel. Personally, I thought she had only made me sit like that so that it made my cock (and yes, my throbbing erection still showed no sign of abating) stand even more proud under the material of the bikini bottom.

She found some shaving soap from somewhere, and massaged it into my twelve-hour stubble.

'Are you alright if I leave you like that for a few seconds for it to soften the beard,' she said. 'Then I'll sort out some underwear.'

She went out, and had a little discussion in a low voice with Annabella. When she returned, she had a cutthroat razor in her hand. As she started to shave me, she said, 'Fortunately, John always uses a cutthroat, and keeps one here. Good job he doesn't keep any of his clothes here.' ('I wonder,' I thought.) 'We thought stockings and suspender belt, rather than tights. Are you OK, with that?'

'I suppose it's no use protesting that you're not going to see them, so there's no point.' As I said the words, I wondered whether I'd phrased them in such a way they encouraged a 'No' answer.

Brigit gave the prompted answer. 'No. To look good as a woman, you have to feel a woman all the way through. That's why we wear sexy underwear, regardless of whether we're expecting to get laid that day.'

I had to admit that she was doing a half-decent job of shaving me. I'm always terrified of cutthroats, so I would never use one, but I could tell, as she ran her fingers across my throat, it was a perfect shave. And my throat was still intact!

'We're also going to use a towel to pad out your hips and bum,' she continued.

'I thought most women were always trying to shed inches there, not add to them,' I said.

'Of course, you're right,' Brigit said, 'but that only goes to show that most women are very broad there. For you to look like a woman, we have to get your basic body shape right, so we have to make your hips stick out wider than your shoulders.'

'I didn't realise you'd be doing all this,' I said. 'I thought a bit of makeup, some rolled up socks in my bra, and that would be it.'

'I've told you, you are going to be astounded by the results. We won't achieve that with a bit of make up and some rolled up socks. There, I think I've finished your shave. How does it feel to you?'

It felt pretty good to me. As Brigit was washing off the final traces of soap, and then patting my face dry, Annabella came back and said, 'I got everything.'

'Great,' Brigit said. Without further ado, I felt her fingers trace a line down my stomach to the top of my bikini briefs; she slipped her fingers under the elastic and lifted. With my head supported on the washbasin, I couldn't tilt it to see what she was up to, but I reckoned any second, she'd bend down and give me a blow job, or at the very least, a hand job.

There was a Schhh noise, as though someone was delivering coals, and then the pain hit me right where it hurts most.

'Y-a-a-a-h-h-h-h!' I sat up with a jerk. The bikini briefs were bulging far more than they had been all afternoon, but I knew it was not with erect penis. Brigit was still holding the empty ice bucket, after she'd dumped its contents around my genitals.

'Fucking hell!' I screamed, standing up and pulling down my bikini briefs, the ice cascading onto the floor. The rampant monster, that had been there just a minute ago, had totally disappeared.

'That's great,' Brigit said. 'Just the effect I wanted. Now take the towel, quickly dry between your legs, then slip on this pantie-girdle.'

She made me push my prick backwards between my legs as she pulled it into its final position, and as she gave one last pull upwards, I felt my testicles move in a way that it felt they really shouldn't, but then the discomfort was gone.

'You could have achieved that in a more humane way,' I grumbled.

'Well, if you know a better way to get rid of a massive hard-on, we can try that next time. The important thing is that it's done the trick for now. So now, let's put on your suspender belt and stockings.'

They'd selected black lacy stockings for me, and they showed me how to put them on for myself, and clip them to the suspender belt. It was a good job my prick was firmly under control, for I felt incredibly sexy, and I knew, it would have been surging up between us, otherwise. I think Brigit knew that as well, for she was looking extremely pleased with herself.

'I think make-up next,' Brigit said. 'That's going to take some time, so Annabella can be getting on with your manicure whilst I'm doing that. Let's spread some towels on the bed so you can lie down whilst I get on with it. You can even have a sleep, if you want to.'

***

It's funny, but if you'd told me at the start of the day that by six pm, I'd be lying on the bed with a beautiful woman standing over me, clad only in a dressing gown only loosely done up, through which I could glimpse wonderful sights, and that I'd then fall asleep, I'd have said you were mad. But that's what happened.

Part of the problem was that she made me close my eyes for much of the time, so she didn't get any make-up in them. And the fact that my prick was no longer standing to rigid attention seemed a sign to my body that it could get a brief respite. I didn't know what Annabella was doing to my fingers, but the work of both girls felt very therapeutic. After all, they were making me beautiful.

***

'Time to wake up, now, Steve.' Brigit's voice woke me from my slumber. 'We have just a few more things to do, and then you'll be ready to look at yourself, and agree that we have won the challenge.'

'Yeah, and there's a flying pig just gone by,' I said. I glanced down. My body was unchanged from earlier, with just my erotic suspender belt and stockings and the pantie girdle. I moved my arms in order to help myself sit up, and that's when I saw the flash of red. I moved my hand in front of my face.

'Holy shit!'

'They're wonderful, aren't they? Hasn't Annabella done a superb job.'

I was looking at my inch-long, blood-red nails. Totally impractical, but hell, did I feel sexy. The two girls were poised, awaiting my answer. I could have given a begrudging acceptance that they were 'all right', but I felt Brigit was bang-on. In transforming my chipped and uncared for nails into these fabulous fangs, Annabella had done a truly wonderful job.

'I think they're fantastic, Annabella,' I said. 'They're incredible.' I daren't ask if they would come off easily. Those kinds of thoughts were best left until tomorrow.

I'd obviously said the right words, because both their faces lit up.

'OK,' Brigit said. 'We have a few things left to do now. The first, let's get your hips and bum padded out. Can you slip on those panties.'

She pointed to a pair lying on the bed; they looked enormous. I stepped into them, and pulled them up. The waist elastic was so slack, they barely stayed up. Then, Brigit took a couple of hand towels, folded them each a few times, and proceeded to stuff them into my panties, so they formed a thick padding around my hips and bum.

She stood back and inspected me. 'Much better,' Annabella said, although to me I simply looked like someone with towels stuffed into their panties.

'Breasts, next,' Brigit said. 'Now, am I right in thinking that, like many men, you admire big breasts?' I nodded. 'Thought so,' she continued, 'the way you keep ogling mine. Breasts the size of melons is what men usually say is the ideal, but I'm afraid we couldn't stretch that far. So come on through into the en-suite.'

She turned and led the way. 'Some people will pay a fortune for a pair of silicone breasts to stuff in their bra, but we have spared no expense in finding an ad hoc substitute.'

She pointed into the washbasin and I stared at a pair of balloons, obviously left over from a birthday party some years ago, for they were inscribed, 'Happy Birthday, Annabella.' Only now the balloons had been inflated with water, and they formed huge globes.

'Like I said,' Annabella said, 'we wanted to make them melon sized, but as soon as we started to approach anything like, we realised they would never work. So, these are probably only half-melon sized.'

'God, they're enormous,' I said.

It's only when you see something half-melon-sized that you realise how ridiculous the original comparison was. I guessed that Brigit's breasts could realistically be compared to large grapefruit; Helens slightly larger perhaps, but not as firm. These balloons must easily be twice as large as theirs. Which led me on to a question.

'Do you have a bra these are going to fit into? Surely, neither of you have anything to hold these monsters up.'

'We know men prefer bra-less breasts,' Annabella said, 'so we thought we'd give you the opportunity to experience them.'

'How will they stay in place?'

Brigit held up a roll of elastic. 'Simple,' she said. 'We hang them around your neck with this.'

'Won't that put an awful strain on my neck?'

'Yes.' Both Annabella and Brigit spoke together, with smiles on their faces.

'You bastards.'

'Oh! Really, Stevie! We cannot have you speaking like a man,' Helen said, returning to the room. 'From now on, you'll talk like a proper young lady, and I want you two,' she fixed Annabella and Brigit with a glare, 'to set a fine example for Stevie.'

I took it that Stevie was to be my name for the evening. OK, well I'd gone along with everything else. I guessed this was no great shakes.

Brigit tied a noose in the elastic and slipped the neck of the one balloon through it, and pulled it tight. Then she stretched the elastic around my neck and let the balloon hang from it, estimating the position of the noose for the other balloon. She had to adjust it a couple of times to get it right, but then I had two enormous balloons hanging around my neck; they looked in the wrong place.

Brigit and Annabella deliberated about the problem, and eventually solved it by passing the elastic right around my back and pulling the two balloons apart, sufficient to position them in front of my nipples.

Without any clothes, they looked like exactly what they were, but I suspected that as soon as I pulled on the dress, they would resemble an enormous pair of knockers. Would I have the courage to drive to the takeaway with these? Hell, would I have the courage to walk from the front door to the car, no more than five yards? My heart gave another flutter of excitement. I guessed with the girls behind me, I'd have no choice.

'Stand still whilst I put your wig on,' Annabella commanded. I did, and she flipped it over my head, and spent a few minutes pulling it here, and pulling it there, then giving it a brush, until she was satisfied.

'Time to put on the dress, Stevie.' It was Brigit who spoke, but I could sense an exhilaration running through all three of them, now. This was when they would see the final result. Brigit held up the dress, unbuttoned all the way down the front for me to slip into. I fed my arms down the sleeves and Brigit pulled it on and buttoned me up, and then stepped back to admire me.

'She needs a slip,' Helen said. She turned round and rummaged in a drawer. 'Here you are.' She held out a frilly, white slip; it was so pretty it gave my heart another flutter. Helen handed the slip to Brigit, who bent down in front of me and made me step into it. She pulled it up under my dress, and then stepped back again.

'Boots,' Annabella said. 'Which ones do you suggest, Mummy?'

'The black, Italian pair.'

Annabella rummaged in the closet and brought them out. Another shiver of excitement ran through me as I noticed the narrow, high-heels.

'I won't be able to drive in those,' I said.

'I always manage it,' Helen said, 'so I don't see why you shouldn't.'

Almost simultaneously, Annabella said, 'Oh, Stevie. Are you suggesting you'll do the driving to Morrellis? That's great.'

Damn! I'd fallen into a trap of my own making. I stared around at them, all smiling at me. I smiled back and said, 'Just deny that you hadn't got that in your minds, all along.'

No one spoke, apart from Brigit who said, 'We really can't imagine what you're accusing us of. But be a sweetie and slip your left foot into this boot.'

'Aw! That's impossible,' I said, as my foot went in and Brigit zipped it up. 'I can't even stand in this, never mind walk or drive.'

'It'll be much easier when you have the pair on,' Brigit said, opening up the other boot. 'Now, your other foot in here.'

Annabella and Helen steadied me as I tottered on the one foot, whilst locating the other. Then Brigit was zipping that boot up too. She stood up, stared critically at me, flicked a lock of my hair, and then said, 'OK, time to see yourself, Stevie.'

Helen and Annabella turned me to face the full-length mirror that Brigit now turned away from the wall.

'Bloody hell!'

'Stevie, you know what I've said about your language,' Helen said.

'She does look fucking good, though, doesn't she?' Brigit said.

'Absolutely amazing,' Annabella said.

They were right. OK, I was never going to rival Miss Universe, but I was an entirely credible woman, with fantastic breasts, which pleasantly joggled under my dress as I moved. Yes, my arse was too big, but then that's what every woman thought about herself.

'Well?' Brigit asked. 'Disappointed or astounded?'

I couldn't stop the grin spreading from ear to ear. 'Astounded,' I said. 'You win.'

***

I'd already conceded the position about driving to Morrellis, so I didn't even bother to argue about it. But I did have to take deep breaths as I paused before stepping out of the front door. All three women were really supportive.

'Come on, Stevie, you can do it.'

'You ARE a woman, Stevie. It's really no great shakes to step outside.'

'You're with friends, Stevie. We'll look after you.'

I nodded. Brigit pulled open the front door and stepped through, with me immediately on her tail, and Annabella and Helen following behind. The car was only a few paces away and I had a quick glance around; there was no one in sight who could be suspicious of the woman with such enormous boobs amongst the party of four. As I got into the car, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had done it, so far.

'So what was the great big deal?' Annabella asked. 'You're one of us. If you get any weird looks from men, it's because women are always getting weird looks from men. If women look at you strangely, it's because they think you should be wearing a bra.'

She was right. There was nothing to worry about - except being able to drive the car properly in these boots with such ridiculous heels!

'Put the car seat a bit further back,' Helen advised. 'Remember, you drive with the soles of your shoes, not your heels.'

It was certainly different, but I practised with the pedals for a few minutes before starting the engine and setting off, and I was actually fine, once I got going. Brigit directed me towards the town centre.

Even as I was driving there, I was thinking, 'Why have they ALL come to collect a takeaway?' I immediately answered my own question: 'They're going to insist that I go into the shop to pick up the order.'

Incredibly, rather than finding that terrifying, I thought it was tremendously exhilarating. I knew my voice wasn't good enough to deal with the assistant, but I guessed they appreciated that too. Presumably, they would all come into the shop with me, to provide moral support and do the talking. I would just be there to be viewed as one of a group of four women. The really great thing was that I had real confidence they would support me, rather than trying to make me look a fool.

Brigit guided me to a car park adjacent to Morrellis. I glanced across at the Italian restaurant, and that's when the sheer audacity of their plan hit me.

'My God!' I said. 'It's not a takeaway, it's a restaurant.'

'But Stevie, they do make the best takeaway pizzas in Seacombe,' Brigit insisted.

'Maybe,' I retorted. 'But tell me that you haven't booked a table for the four of us.'

There was a moment's silence, before Helen said, 'We were going to try to get you in there without worrying you. We know you'll be fine, and we'll all be there to support you. But if you really don't want to go in, then we'll get a takeaway and take it back to the house. No hard feelings.'

My heart was banging against my ribs; my breath was coming in short pants; the adrenaline was coursing around my body; I felt like a sexy woman; if I turned around now, then not only would my relationship with these three women be gone for ever, but my chance to be a woman would be ended.

I let my breath steady for a few seconds, getting a little more oxygen into my lungs. 'OK,' I said. 'Let's go in.'

Smiles broke out onto all three of their anxious faces. 'That's my girl.' 'Fantastic.' 'You can do it.'

I got out the car first, and a couple of blokes passing nearby did a double take of my boobs and then let out a wolf-whistle. I turned my back on them, but I think they saw the grin of sheer delight before I did so.

'Take my arm, Stevie. Then you won't fall over as you get used to your heels,' Helen said.

And so we proceeded into Morrelli's restaurant. The manager took one glance at us four gals and immediately decided we should have the table in the window; no doubt thinking it would attract plenty more clientele.

'Can we order some wine, Mummy?'

Damn! As always, I had to be careful about drinking. I'd already broken my no-drink-driving rule once today. It was a pain, but it was my career at stake.

'Helen,' Brigit said, 'why don't we get a taxi back, and then Stevie can drink as well?'

'No need, Helen,' I said, using the voice Annabella and Brigit had tried to coach in to me on the way in. 'I don't mind going without.'

'Brigit's right,' Helen said. 'Having got you here by deception, getting a taxi home is the least we can do. Waiter, a couple of bottles of Chianti, please.'

***

'So which of you devised this dastardly plot?' I asked, some time later. The wine had been freely flowing, the food good, service brilliant, and the conversation great. I had lost all trace of self-consciousness; we were just a bunch of girls together.

'Plot?' Brigit said. 'What makes you think it was a plot?'

'It all fitted together too well. You, Brigit, showed no surprise when Helen left dresses on the bed for me. The way you'd been teasing me up till then, you should have been merciless over that. But you knew that if you were, you'd never get me to wear them.

'And you, Helen,' I continued. 'When you initially offered to sort out some clothes for me, surely, you'd have explained the problem.

'And Annabella,' I said. 'Wasn't that just unfortunate that you managed to lose all my clothes in the sand?

'So, I ask again, who was the architect of this scheme?' I smiled at them all. None of them would meet my eyes, so I knew I was right.

'OK, I can't tell a lie,' Brigit said. 'It was Annabella.'

'You pig!' Annabella said. 'Anyway, you started off the whole idea by throwing your bikini briefs in his face and getting him to wear them.'

Brigit looked slightly abashed, at that. 'OK, I admit, the bikini briefs were the catalyst. I only did it as a show of bravado - a flash of my naked body in front of you to entice you into the sea, because I knew we'd have a load of fun down there.'

'As we were running down to the sea,' Annabella continued, 'I said, 'He won't put them on,' and Brigit said, 'I bet he does.' Then you did, and I suppose I might have said, 'Wouldn't it be a great laugh if we could get him to wear a complete female outfit.' And that's when Mummy caught up with us.'

Helen's smile was stretching from ear to ear. 'I said that getting you to wear female clothes would be easy. The real challenge would be to get you out in public. So, yes, your right, Stevie, we all connived at getting you here.

'But in return for us being honest with you,' she continued, 'you be honest with us.' She looked me directly in the eye, and I knew the question that was coming. 'Are you enjoying this evening, or hating it? So, did we do wrong in turning you into such a good looking woman.'

I thought a little about her questions. 'Tonight has been an incredible experience; wearing different clothes, I've become a different person entirely - moved into a whole new world - and everything looks different and feels different.'

I gave each of them an enormous smile. 'Then there's the exhilaration of people not realising the truth. Those blokes that came in a few minutes ago, and they all clocked every one of us, and I knew exactly what they were thinking.'

'You must have dirty mind,' Brigit said. 'Perhaps there's a bit of male left inside you, somewhere. Only it's not very obvious from the outside.'

***

I guess we'd all had quite a lot to drink, me especially, so I didn't feel at all nervous about the taxi ride home. Helen sat in the front with the driver, whilst us three girls squashed into the rear - me on the left, Annabella on the right with Brigit comfortably nestling in between us. The girls talked a bit, but I couldn't, since - drunk or not - I had enough sense to realise the driver would suss me the second I opened my mouth.

When we arrived, I got out first, and then held open the car door and helped Brigit and then Annabella out of the car - it was good to see my professional training hadn't left me after my first evening as a woman. My professional training had also meant I'd been able to accept the note that Brigit pressed into my palm as she got out, without either Helen or Annabella noticing. After the taxi had disappeared and the women had gone into the house, I opened my hand.

It wasn't a ten-pound note lying there, or even a miserable fiver; instead it was something much more valuable. A used paper serviette from the restaurant! When I unfolded it, the words leapt out at me, causing my heart to do a gambol. 'WAIT 10 MINS AFTER ALL HAS GONE QUIET. END ROOM ON THE LEFT.'

'Yes!' I said to myself, and punched the air in exuberance.

***

It seemed to take forever for Annabella and Brigit to get me undressed and the make-up off my face. I made a bit of small talk with the two of them, but made no reference - not even obliquely - to the contents of the note. Brigit had not wanted the other two to know, so I wasn't going to upset her by giving away her secret passion for the chauffeur.

After the make-up, Brigit had to make cocoa for everyone, which I took to my room. I got undressed and lay in bed, sipping my cocoa, listening to Helen and Annabella chattering away in the lounge for almost half an hour. Even after that, I heard toilets flushing and taps running for seemingly ages. Finally, all fell silent.

I slipped on the flimsy dressing gown that Helen had lent me, then turned out my light, opened my bedroom door and padded into the pitch-black corridor. Living in London, you never experience anything like real darkness - the sky is always illuminated by thousands of advertising signs, car headlights and streetlights.

On the beach at Seacombe, the only light is from the moon and stars, and there was little of that finding its way into the corridor. I felt completely disorientated as I fumbled my way around, desperately trying to remember the layout from this afternoon - but then, my mind had been on other things. Finally, I bumped into the wall which I thought must be at the end of the corridor, then shuffled to the left until I could feel the door and door handle. I turned it, opened the door and stepped inside.

'Hi, it's me,' I whispered.

'Stevie,' the whisper came back. 'This is very wicked of you.'

The whisper was sufficient for me to get my bearings, and I shuffled forward until I bumped into the side of the bed. I reached forward and felt for the quilt, which I folded back, then slipped off my dressing gown and got into bed.

'I really don't think you should be doing this, Stevie,' she whispered.

'It's OK,' I whispered back. 'It's not Stevie, it's Steve. We don't have to be lesbians - we can do it the normal way.'

My lips found her lips, and I flicked my tongue into her mouth as she opened it to say something else. Then her tongue was flicking back, and working its way into my mouth. We tongue jousted for a few seconds, ending in giggling laughter.

'Be quiet,' she said. 'The others will hear...'

Her words were submerged as I kissed her again, and my hand slid across to where I thought her breast should be. Bang on target, a lacy nightdress covering a large, soft, squeezy breast, with a nipple which went rock-hard as soon as I touched it.

'A-a-h-h!' she gasped, and then, 'Steve, do you mind if I come on top?'

'You can come as often as you like, wherever you like,' I said, turning over onto my back.

'Silly boy,' she said, sitting up.

I thought it strange that Brigit should call me that, since I was easily more than ten years her senior, but I wasn't complaining; I was quite happy to lie back and think of England - except that football was the last thing on my mind at that moment. Then I felt her towering over me, and a well-rounded thigh crossed over my hips, and her weight settled onto my legs. And when I say HER weight, I don't mean Brigit's weight. OK, she has nice, large tits and a rounded bum, but everything else was so slim that surely she couldn't be so heavy.

'Oh Steve,' she whispered, lowering her body towards mine. When she was halfway down, her breasts touched my chest, and that's when I KNEW who was on top of me. Annabella had pert breasts, Brigit had succulent, firm breasts, but only Helen had large breasts which, for reasons that were now obvious, she did not allow to play about unsupported.

Then Helen was feeding her breast into my mouth, and I was sucking at it like a baby.

'Oh God! That's good, Steve. Now the other one.' And she pulled the one breast away and was feeding - indeed pouring would be a better word - the other breast into my mouth, and I was sucking on it.

'Oh, Steve. I thought you'd be chasing one of the others into bed. I can't think why you chose me.'

She removed her breast from my mouth long enough for me to say, 'Helen, you're the most beautiful of all. The others are only kids.' (I may not be the best chatter-up of women, but even I knew it would have been extremely bad form to say that I was only there by mistake.)

'You stupid man,' she said, bending right down and kissing me again. 'Look, when I said on top, would you mind if I... well, took control?'

'Course not,' I said. 'Enjoy yourself.'

'Thanks Steve.' By this time she'd worked herself up my body so she was now kneeling on my shoulders. I could sense her reaching up, and the nightdress, which she'd been wearing, was lifted over her head, and then she was wriggling forward some more, so her shins were resting on my shoulders, she had my wrists pinned down and her torso was hovering directly over my head.

And then she did the splits.

'Lick me, Steve! Lick me!' I heard, just before her thighs settled around my ears and my face was forced into her pussy.

So I did! I licked for all I was worth. Helen was very considerate, because every few minutes, she'd let me come up for air, except when an orgasm took her, in which case, I'd have to hold my breath for longer, until she'd done. I reckoned after that practice, I'd be able to take up pearl diving for a living.

Finally, she was wriggling herself down my body again. As I struggled to adjust my position, I realised she'd taken the opportunity whilst I'd been submerged in pussy to use the ribbon from her nightdress to tie my hands to the bedposts. I was spread-eagled like a laboratory specimen!

'Do you mind if I put the light on?' Helen asked. 'This is so much better if we can see each other.'

Without waiting for an answer, she leant over and switched on a bedside lamp, and for the first time I could see what a tremendous woman she was. OK, the breasts did sag a little, but with their size, you'd expect them too. Wide hips, with a big bum behind, which she settled down on my hips, my prick trapped somewhere behind. Her legs straddled me, her hairy pussy on full view, which even as I watched, she slipped her fingers down to stretch the lips apart.

'Best bit coming up,' she said. She lifted up her body and moved it backwards. I could see my poor innocent prick rising to meet the challenge, and then it was engulfed inside her.

And it felt fucking great!

I think she screwed me for the best part of two hours. Not that my prick is normally capable of keeping itself bottled up for two hours - normally it's spurting semen after just a few minutes. But the reason why Helen wanted the light on soon became obvious.

As soon as she saw the glint appear in my eyes, in response to the message my prick was telling me, she was moving backwards to tilt my poor prick to a most extreme angle. It was a wonder she didn't break it in half, but she certainly broke my intending orgasm, and after a few minutes grace, we were off again on the ride of a lifetime. Helen had orgasms of volcanic proportions, which went on and on; yet still she kept me from having mine.

Finally, when I could sense that she was growing weary, she let me come, and turned it into a bucking bronco event that had me spurting gallons of semen deep inside her. My hands still tied to the bedposts, she lowered her torso onto mine, and kissed me, then snuggled down onto my shoulder.

'John hates doing it this way,' she murmured. 'He always has to be on top. Don't you think he's missing fantastic sex?'

'Fantastic,' I said, and I meant it.

***

Sometime later, I felt a wet mouth latch onto my prick and started sucking, and kissing, and caressing. Ten seconds later, it was hard as rock again, and we spent another hour or so in paradise.

So it continued until the morning. Sunlight was streaming through the window, and Helen was shaking me awake.

'Come on,' she said. 'You can't stay in bed much longer. Brigit will be bringing me a cup of tea soon.'

In need of at least six hours more sleep, I drowsily got out of bed, found my dressing gown and pulled it on.

'Oh, and Steve?'

I looked at her. 'Mmm?'

'Thanks for last night. I enjoyed myself, and I think you did too.'

'You bet,' I said. 'That was absolutely fantastic.'

'I was wondering,' she said, 'whether you wanted to continue the relationship.'

Gulp!

'Well, actually I mean the sex,' she added. 'I'm not looking for love. I just want to have lots of orgasms, and I can't remember the last time John gave me a tiny thrill, never mind the kind of blood-tingling, earth- shattering, heart-throbbing, made-in-heaven ecstasies of last night.'

Perhaps if I was ruled by my brain rather than my dick, I'd have turned her down, but I don't think I'm much different from most other blokes in that respect. Still, my response showed I still had some kind of thinking capability.

'I'd love to, Helen,' I said. 'Only don't you think that John might suspect if I stay down here for much longer. You said he was continually jealous.'

Helen smiled. 'I think we can get around that problem,' she said. 'Didn't you once tell me that you had a sister who was also a chauffeur?'

I nodded. 'Yes, but what's that got to do with anything.'

'It means,' Helen said, 'that you can use her identity when I decide to replace my current male chauffeur with a female chauffeur. Like I said last night, John would never suspect a woman.'

'You mean,' I said, 'you want me to continue dressing as a woman.'

'Don't try to tell me,' she said, 'that you weren't turned on by it. I certainly was.'

She put her hand on my cock and gave it a few strokes. 'So, are we on? Or are you going back to being a full-time man?'

'Is the Pope Catholic?' I asked.

SYNOPSIS: Apart from sun, sand and Seacombe, there was one other essential ingredient for a good holiday for aging Abigail. Unfortunately, as she lay on the beach at that British holiday resort on the first day of her holiday, it looked as though that particular component might be in very short supply. Until, that is, the bloke just in front of her goes for a swim in the sea and has his clothes stolen. But how on earth can Abigail ensure that he doesn't go dashing off home as soon as his immediate problems are resolved?

***
Author's Note: To celebrate Big Busts' tenth year, I have decided to republish all my Big Busts' stories which are not already on Big Closet, which I'll do at intervals throughout the year. It's worth saying that this, like most other of my stories, is meant to be fun (and I don't think there's enough of it on this site) often combined with sex and mayhem. Whether you're a new reader of my stories, or you have read them before, I hope you sit back and enjoy, without becoming too serious about it all.

***

'From thirty feet away she looked like a lot of class. From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away'.

Abigail knew what she looked like in the mirror, and as she put her paperback down with a slap, she thought again about whether she should have cosmetic surgery on her face.

OK, it was fine for Mr Raymond-bloody-Chandler to put wise-cracking words into the mind of that biggest dick of them all, Philip Marlowe, but did he ever consider the feelings of the blond, herself? It wasn't her fault that she was no longer as young and beautiful as she had once been.

'It happens to us all, sometime,' she spoke the words aloud, getting a strange look from the people sitting closest to her.

Philip Marlowe's words had a particular significance to Abigail, for today was the first time she was airing her new breasts, pushing out of the top of her Baywatch swimsuit like grapefruit on a greengrocer's shelf. Her swimsuit itself was a miracle of modern design, keeping her tummy as flat today as it had been forty-five years ago, when she had first sat on Seacombe beach with her parents. Even her scraggy neck was superbly concealed from sight.

And it appeared to be working. Every male walking along the beach on that Sunday afternoon had sussed her from fifty yards, and had subtly altered course so as to pass directly in front of the sun-lounger - many with their wives and family dragging along behind. But as soon as the blokes came close enough to see her face, they realised she was far older than they had presumed. There would be another subtle change of course, and they'd go veering off in order to avoid getting too close to the woman who was obviously trying to put back the clock. So predictable was their path, they were almost wearing a path in the sand, as they weaved between the little groups of families and sunbathers scattered across the beach. Damn them all! Every man in the world!

The guy with the bald head, she realised, had the opposite problem to her. From a distance, he'd looked at least as old as she was - not that she was averse to someone her own age, provided he was fit. Unlike the others, he didn't veer away when he saw her close up, giving further evidence towards her assumption of his age. But when he plonked his towel on the ground only five yards in front of her, she could see she'd been completely mistaken - he could only be in his early thirties.

She would really have to get some new contact lenses, she thought. She'd taken these at short notice because they made her eyes such a nice shade of blue, but it was really serious if she couldn't sort out the young virile blokes from the oldies. And since she was wearing dark wrap-around shades, no one could see the colour of her eyes, anyway.

To her absolute delight, the chap stripped off in front of her. She'd learnt a long time ago that leching at blokes got all the worst reactions from the very ones she wanted to impress; far better to appear to be reading her book, which she now realised she was holding upside down. With her wrap-around shades, no one could see she was actually watching every movement of his body, and just imagining it under different circumstances.

When he'd stripped down to his trunks, he strode off towards the sea, without a glance at her, leaving his clothes in an untidy heap on top of his towel. Never mind, in a few minutes time, he'd be walking out of the sea, his tiny trunks clinging to his body in a kind of sex-reversal of the moment when James Bond watched Honeychild Rider walk up the beach.

She closed her eyes, visualising the scene as he would walk up to her, take her by the hand and pull her into the bushes just across the promenade, the very bushes in which, all those years ago, she had lost her virginity to a boy who bore a startling resemblance to Keith Moon from The Who. Strange that she could remember who he looked like, but for the life of her, she couldn't recall the boy's name.

The shadow blotting out the sun made her open her eyes with a start. The sky was rapidly filling with black clouds heralding the start of a thunderstorm; the afternoon was suddenly cold and, horror of horrors, the bloke's towel and clothes had disappeared. Damn! She'd fallen asleep, and missed her golden opportunity - perhaps the only opportunity she would get all week.

Already, the beach was almost cleared, as everyone packed up and headed back to their cars, caravans, or bed and breakfast houses. The sky went even darker, and Abigail felt a large spot of rain on her shoulder. She stood up and hurriedly started to pull on her clothes over the top of her swimming costume, starting with her white blouse with the large poppies, which she'd originally bought to emphasise the swell of her breasts. However, with her new breasts, such emphasis was totally unnecessary; indeed the blouse only just continued to fit.

The short, straight, red skirt exactly matched the colour of the poppies, and showed off her trim bottom to perfection, although her daughter said it made her look like an old tart. Cheeky little madam!

'I suppose it's a bit of a cliché, but I didn't recognise you with your clothes on.'

She turned to identify the speaker, and her heart leapt into her mouth. It was her balding James Bond, now looking rather sorry for himself, and still wearing just his swimming trunks. Abigail couldn't resist flicking her eyes quickly down his body, forgetting that in the darkening light, she'd pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head.

He obviously mistook her glance, and hastened to reassure her that he wasn't going to pull his cock out in front of her. If only he'd known how much she'd have welcomed it.

'It was you I sat down in front of, a few minutes ago, wasn't it?'

So, she'd only been asleep for a few minutes, and hadn't missed him dressing.

'It certainly was. But where are your clothes?'

'That's what I was hoping you'd tell me. It looks like someone else has picked them up by accident. I thought I must have made a mistake, when I came back here and found they'd gone, so I've wondered along the beach in both directions. I just can't see them.'

Her heart melted. The poor boy was sounding so distressed, and he looked cold and miserable.

'Here,' she said, rummaging through her large beach-bag, and pulling something out. 'Take my beach-robe and slip it on.'

It was plain red, to match her swimsuit, so it looked a bit feminine for him, especially when he buttoned up the elasticated waist, and it flared nicely over his hips down to mid-thigh. Clearly at that moment, he considered his looks less important than his well-being.

'I hate to suggest this,' she said, 'but there are notices along the promenade that warn about thieves operating on the beach, and taking things left unattended.'

'But you'd have seen someone taking everything,' he protested.

'Sorry, I er... well I closed my eyes for a few minutes and when I opened them, everything had gone. I thought you must have come back and got dressed.'

'But what am I going to do. Without my car keys, I won't be able to get into it, and I haven't even got a phone...'

'Was there much money there?'

He shook his head. 'No, I left my wallet with most of my money in the car. I suppose I'd better find my way back there, except I'm not really certain where it was. I couldn't find any space in the beach car-park, so I went to the centre of the town, and found a car-park somewhere near the Town Hall.'

'I know it,' she said. 'I'll walk there with you, and then we can use my mobile to call the RAC or whoever, to get you into your car. It's not far from there to my hotel, so we can go onto it and have something to drink, while we're waiting. I always feel better with something warm inside me.'

He totally missed the innuendo. 'That's really nice of you to go to so much trouble. My name's Lawrie, by the way. Lawrie Baker.'

'Abigail Simpson.' She held out her hand and he took it and gave a little squeeze. His hand felt cold to the touch. Well, she knew a fantastic cure for that - but even now, she mustn't rush it.

She led the way across the sand as far as the promenade, where she stopped so quickly that he bumped into her, which had precisely been her intention.

'It's going to be painful for you walking through the streets with no shoes on. Hang on.' She slipped off the plain beach mules she'd been wearing, with heels barely one inch high and passed them across to him. Slip into these.'

He looked at them, eying the heels with trepidation. 'But what are you going to wear? And I'm really not certain that I could walk in those.'

She rummaged through her bag again, and produced her white sandals with the three inch stiletto-heels, and the matching poppies on the buckles. 'You could wear these instead, if you'd prefer.'

For the first time, he gave her a smile, and her heart gave a little lurch. 'I guess the beach shoes are the better deal.'

They both slipped on their respective shoes, and with the heavy drops of rain threatening to turn into a torrential downpour, they set off at a brisk walk. Fortunately, when Lawrie stumbled on his modest heels, Abigail was able to grab his arm and steady him, and they continued walking with her arm linked through his, which again had been her exact intention.

***

'It's gone! My car's gone!'

Lawrie stared around the now rapidly clearing car-park, in horror. 'I parked it just here, and it's been stolen.'

'Oh dear,' Abigail said aloud, whilst thinking, 'Thank you, God! Thank you!'

All the way to the car-park she'd been wondering how she was going to ensure that when Lawrie got his car unlocked, he didn't take the opportunity of putting as much mileage between him and Seacombe in as short a time as he could. Now, the initiative was firmly in her court.

'Right,' she said. 'I guess your thieves toured the car-parks, pressing your remote at random, until it unlocked a car. I presume that you left your credit cards in the car...' Lawrie nodded in confirmation, 'so you need to get onto the credit card companies, straightaway. You can use my phone.' She produced her mobile - a small, white one with pretty poppies over it. Abigail was always a well co-ordinated woman, and today was poppy day.

'I should call the police.'

'Afterwards. Get the credit cards stopped first.' She took his arm again, and started to lead him across the road. 'In the meantime, let's get back to my hotel.' He was barely aware of where he was going, as he contacted directory enquiries and then started speaking to the credit card companies.

***

They were in her room before he'd completed his calls, and as she removed the mobile from his hand, she replaced it with a large brandy which she'd poured from her mini-bar.

'Oh, er, thanks.' He looked at the glass in his hand, and then around the luxurious bedroom, with its four-poster bed, as though wondering how he'd got to that position.

'Drink up. You've had a nasty shock, and you're also cold and wet.'

The skies had opened in earnest when they were still fifty yards from the hotel. Abigail had found an umbrella in her bag, but it had been big enough to only partly cover the pair of them, even though she'd hugged him tightly to her. Lawrie had got soaked, which is exactly what Abigail had intended.

Lawrie obediently emptied his glass, choking slightly at the strength of the drink. Abigail immediately refilled his glass and beckoned him to drink up again.

'I think you'd better get into the shower straightaway, otherwise you're going to catch your death of cold.' She pulled him to his feet and led him across to the entrance to the en-suite bathroom. 'Take a nice long shower, or have a bath if you prefer. Meanwhile, I'll sort out some clothes you can wear.'

'Oh right, er... thanks... for everything.'

She smiled at him sympathetically until he'd shut the door of the en-suite, whereupon she punched the air in exuberance, and uttered another set of thanks to the God watching over her. Then, she opened her wardrobe, and considered what clothes he would like.

***

She was now reasonably certain of making a conquest tonight - or rather, of letting Lawrie make a conquest. From the way he had periodically stared at her new breasts, she was convinced he wasn't gay. There was a faint mark where a wedding ring had been worn at one time, but it didn't look fresh. So she would only need to wine and dine him, and suggest he spend the night on the settee in her room. Odds on, that the settee would be the last place he would spend the night.

The problem was, she didn't want it to be a simple one-night stand. Sure, she was desperately hungry for sex, having abstained for longer than was healthy for a woman of her needs. But she also wanted a relationship - one of those where you go to places together; have fun; make silly jokes that your partner finds incredibly funny; and generally behave like little children.

And she was dreadfully frightened that in the morning, having shagged her silly all night, he'd be asking to borrow the cost of the train fare back home, and that would be the last she would ever see of him.

She pulled her Levis out of the wardrobe and laid them on the bed. They were incredibly taut on her so they'd probably be a fairly loose fit on his beautifully tight arse, but that was the best he was likely to get from her wardrobe. It also wouldn't matter if it was a few weeks before he returned them - unlaundered, of course - because blokes were like that. So, how was she going to prevent a one-night stand?

She rifled through a few more of her clothes, wondering whether there was anything more suitable than the Levis. She certainly had several other pairs of trousers, but then most women did, nowadays; not like her mother's generation. What would he have done then? The solution to her problem hit her with all the strength of a cocaine snort. Of course!

Then she was frantically pulling out all the trousers in her wardrobe, and making a neat pile of them on top of the Levis. She went across to the chest of drawers, and found her Bermudas and some cut-offs, and she placed those on top. Finally, from the bottom of the wardrobe, she grabbed a couple of pairs of track-shoes.

Her suitcase was in the cupboard in the lobby, and as she heard him turn-off the shower in the en-suite, she quickly opened the cupboard, wheeled the suitcase across to the bed, flopped it onto its back and flipped open the lid. Then she stuffed the pile of clothes and shoes inside the suitcase, shut and locked the lid, and just as quickly wheeled it back to the security of the cupboard.

Lastly, she pulled open her drawer of underwear, and rummaged right to the bottom for a couple of items which she slipped into her handbag.

'Hi. Thanks for letting me use your shower...' He stopped, staring open mouthed at the open drawer of the frilliest - and sexiest - underwear he had ever seen.

Meanwhile, Abigail noticed that on show above the towel wrapped around his waist, he had an incredibly hairy chest and, beneath the towel, incredibly hairy legs. She couldn't help wondering whether he had incredibly hairy bollocks to match.

'I think I can probably manage without the underwear,' he joked, trying to cover his embarrassment.

'Sorry,' Abigail smiled at him, 'I was just getting something out. I've been looking for things you could wear, and I think there are several items that would be suitable.'

She led the way over to the wardrobe and pulled the doors wide open. 'It really depends what length and style you'd feel comfortable in.'

Lawrie looked puzzled at that, so she sought to explain as she pulled out a dress. 'This is my - every woman should have one - sleeveless, little, black dress, which has a high neckline and comes down to mid calf,' she said. 'The only problem is it will expose your beefy shoulders and it has these long slits up the side, so you may not be too happy with that. On the other hand, there's this bright red dress which has quite a low neckline, so...'

'Ha-ha-bloody-ha,' Lawrie said. 'Do you think I could just borrow your jeans, please?'

'Jeans?'

'Oh, come on. You're pulling my leg.' He stared at her blank face. 'You have to be. You must have a pair of jeans.'

She shook her head. 'Well, no. I mean, with a body my shape, I simply don't look good in jeans, so I stick to skirts and dresses. I always think they suit me better.'

'Oh God!' He turned and stared inside her wardrobe, as though not believing the word of a lady. He almost went as far as flicking through the contents, but at the last minute realised that would be incredibly rude, and might well result in his eviction into the corridor, sans towel. 'What am I going to do?'

'Well, I've told you. I'm sure we'll find something suitable for you to wear amongst this lot. After all, we're not that different in size.'

'But I can't wear a dress.'

'Why not?'

'I'd look totally stupid.'

'Well of course you would, if you simply slipped it on at the moment, but I was kind of assuming that we'd make you up so that no one could tell you were really a bloke. After all, I'm hardly keen to be seen taking a man wearing a dress to dinner in this hotel restaurant. I have my own reputation to protect.'

'You're taking me to dinner in the hotel restaurant, wearing a dress?' Lawrie could hardly believe he was hearing right. She couldn't be serious. Could she?

Abigail realised she had to be careful how she answered this. First of all, she had to play down the dressing up aspect, otherwise he simply wouldn't do it and she'd be forced to come clean about hiding her jeans. But almost as important, she didn't want him to know she was reasonably wealthy, and could afford the best this superb hotel could offer, and more. OK, she wanted sex, but she certainly didn't want it on the basis he was only doing it for her money. So, a little subterfuge was called for.

'I'm on the package deal which includes all meals. In fact, I'd better tell you I was due to come here with a friend, and it's all paid for in advance, so you'll be entitled to have his meal, without an extra payment. Since you haven't got any money on you, or any way of paying, that might be quite useful.'

Lawrie looked around the room properly for the first time, taking in the four-poster bed, with the white drapes around it, and the comfortable furniture spaciously arranged around the huge room.

'So what happened to your friend?'

The trouble with telling a lie, is that you have to tell more lies, in order to protect the original one.

'He decided he was going to stay with his wife. I'd given him an ultimatum; we either come away together on this holiday, or our relationship is ended. He booked and paid for the hotel as a sign of good faith, and then chickened out. So, I came on my own.'

'Might he not suddenly turn up?'

For God's sake, why this interrogation?

'The bastard went off on a cruise with his wife. So, as I said, if you want it you can have a free meal in the best hotel in town. Of course, if you don't want to hang around here...' She didn't use the words, 'You can piss off,' but it was fairly obvious.

'Oh no! I didn't say that! It's just that... Well, I could never pull it off, wearing a dress. Surely you must have some trousers, or... Shorts! You must have some beach shorts. I could wear those.'

Abigail shook her head. 'Sorry, no. I told you, with my size of bottom, those kind of garments don't suit me.'

She sensed she still hadn't convinced him so she tried another tack. 'Look, as I said before, I'll only go to the restaurant with you provided you're bloody convincing. Why don't we try a few things on, and I'll put some make-up on you, and a wig, and we can see how realistic you look? How does that sound?'

Lawrie shrugged his shoulders, as though to say, 'We'll try it, but it ain't gonna work.'

Abigail breathed a sigh of relief. Stage One of mission accomplished. Now she had to make it work. Fortunately, she had a couple of cans of hair-removal mousse, so she could get going with that. It was a crying shame, though; she really liked his hairy bits.

She got him to put his trunks back on and get into the bath. Then she sprayed him all over with the mousse. The instructions said it should only be used on the legs, but it was really no use pussy-footing about.

Twenty minutes later, she had a totally bald man in front of her; she had even made him pull his trunks down as far as decency would allow, so he would have a nice triangular bush of pubic hair. She'd be interested to see how good that looked later, but she had to crack on with getting him dressed, if she wasn't going to lose him.

She made him put on some tights, and then stuffed the hips and bum with folded towels, giving him an arse and hips much bigger, even, than hers.

'It's important that the widest part of your body is not your shoulders,' she explained, 'because that would scream out "Man" to everybody. So, we give you a nice big arse and wide hips, and that immediately suggests "Woman".

After she'd smoothed down the towels inside the tights, she made him slip on a panty-girdle to keep it all in place; it would never do if his arse slid down to his knees! After that, she stood back and eyed him up and down, and then pulled him in front of a mirror and let him see for himself.

'What do you think so far?'

'I'm trying to be positive, but it'll never work. No hair and no tits.'

'A wig should fix the hair, and I tend to think you're right about the tits, as well. Strictly speaking, you shouldn't need any, as lots of women have miniscule breasts, but I do think that having a nice pair sticking out the front of your dress should seal any speculation about your sex.

'Now, that would have been a problem, except that earlier today I was in the bar and I got talking to another woman guest who I think may be able to help. Now, I wonder if I can remember which room she's in - 216... or was it 261?'

She went over to the phone, picked it up and dialled.

'Hello, Is that Jose? This is Abigail here... Yes that's right, we met at lunchtime... Look, you know you said you were wearing a Bustlet, and I could borrow your spare if I wanted to give it a try... Well, it's for a friend actually. She wants to wear one of my dresses, and she really needs something to fill out the top... Is that alright... OK, I'll be straight down to collect it... Great! Thanks very much. See you in a couple of minutes.'

She picked up her handbag and said to Lawrie, I won't be long. I'll take the key with me and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so you should be alright.'

She went out, leaving Lawrie wondering what would have happened if a chamber-maid had brought in fresh towels whilst there were in the middle of removing his hair.

***

Abigail waited for the lift, got in it, went down to the ground floor, walked around the Reception area a few times, before taking the lift back to her floor, and walking along to her room.

'I've got it,' she said as she walked in, producing the garment she had earlier stuffed into her handbag. (Well, there really was no point in revealing that her breasts were as false as his were going to be, was there?)

'What is it?'

'It's called a Bustlet. It's a bit like a singlet made of flesh-coloured skin-like material. You fill it with water to give you a set of breasts any size you like. It's got a very high neckline that goes all the way up to fit under the jaw-line, so that it hides a wrinkly neck and double-chin or, in your case, your Adam's apple. Apparently, it's really best if it's glued on, as it stops perspiration forming underneath, which can be pretty uncomfortable.' And please, don't let him ask any questions about it, she thought.

She reached into her handbag, and withdrew the aerosol of glue. She smiled. 'It's all pretty straightforward. Shall I spray it over your body?'

Lawrie shrugged. She'd done enough things to him already. It might as well be done properly. Five minutes later, Abigail was smoothing the Bustlet in place; and five minutes after that, she had connected the plastic piping to the tap in the wash-basin and inflated the two breasts to a nice D bust. Nothing too extreme, but plenty there to draw the eye away from any more male features; as well as conveniently making Lawrie the same cup-size as Abigail.

They spent some time choosing the dress Lawrie was to wear, and eventually settled upon a grey, full skirted dress, with a startlingly low-cut square bust-line. Abigail had thought of corseting Lawrie, but since that would mean Lawrie would have a much narrower waist than her own, decided not to. A nice, frilly, platform bra completed the underwear, and then Abigail slipped the dress over Lawrie's head, and sat him in front of the mirror whilst she made him up.

She spent some time explaining what she was doing as she went along, so that by the end of the week, she hoped that Lawrie would pick it up and be able to apply it himself (although she didn't explain that bit). As one might expect, Abigail was an expert upon make-up, and to get the right shades, she had to pop out a few times to Boots The Chemist, which was conveniently located just across the road from the hotel. It was only at that moment that Lawrie realised that if she could buy make-up for him, she could have bought him some jeans, instead. Still, when all this failed dismally, no doubt, that's what she would be doing.

As she brought the job to completion, Lawrie had to admit that his face would more than pass muster. Then Abigail produced the Pamela Anderson wig she'd also bought, carefully located it on his head, and then glued it into place. She stepped away, so that Lawrie could see his whole image in the mirror.

Except it was definitely the image of a woman - not a man dressed as a woman. OK, the woman was never going to win a beauty contest, but there was no doubt about the sex of the person facing him in the mirror.

'Wow!' he said, and that immediately spoiled it. 'Shit! It's obvious as soon as I open my mouth.'

'Don't worry. You're not going to have to say a lot, but when you do, talk more softly, almost as though you were whispering. Now, whilst I get dressed, I want you to practice walking a little, and talking a lot. Remember, when a woman walks, her hip is the most prominent part of her, so push each hip forward as you walk, and pull your shoulders back and together, and slump them downwards. If you glance down your body, your hips should stick out more than your tits.'

Lawrie walked up and down the room a little.

'Slump your shoulders back and down. You're not strutting on the catwalk. Hips forward - further than that - further! Now, I'm going to have a shower, and I want you to talk to me through the bathroom door. Let me hear you place an order for your food. So, what's for starters?'

***

It was almost eight o'clock before they got to the restaurant, but by that time Abigail felt that Laura (as she was now calling her) was really giving quite a credible performance - both in the way she moved and the way she spoke. Certainly, there was no trace of suspicion in the waiter's face as he showed them to a discrete table, in the corner of the huge dining-room.

The meal was everything Abigail could have wished for. Laura even got flirtatious leers from a couple of guys, just after they had sat down.

'You get used that as a woman,' Abigail said, following Laura's eyes, 'especially when you stick your tits forward, like you're doing at the moment.'

Laura had sub-consciously resumed her man-type stance, with her chest pushed out and shoulders back. She hurriedly brought her shoulders forward and let her tits slump between them. The men laughed at her sudden change, but Laura didn't panic at all.

In fact, once Laura had overcome her initial nerves, and realised that she was accepted as a woman, she relaxed into the part and the two women had a great time together. They told each other about their past. They had both been married - twice in Abigail's case - and they had both come to Seacombe on holiday as children. Abigail even told Laura of losing her virginity to the Keith Moon look-alike, which they both had a chuckle about.

'It's because we used to have great family holidays here when I was a child, that I decided to apply for the job here,' Laura said.

'Job?' Abigail said, but really thinking, 'Oh shit!' She had imagined he was on holiday in Seacombe, like her. Not applying for a job! In fact, she needn't have gone through this whole charade if she'd known he was going to be around for a few days, anyway.

'The trial's tomorrow morning, and they'll make the decision straightaway.'

A trial? Oh shit! Rather than putting her thoughts into words, she instead asked, 'What type of job is it?' Assuming Lawrie didn't need a medical, he would probably get away with bandaging up his breasts.

'It's a lifeguard's job. You know, like Baywatch.'

Oh shit! She was clutching at straws, now. 'So presumably there'll be a lot of interviews and theory tests, and things like that, tomorrow?'

'Oh no. I've got all the right qualifications, you see. There may be an interview at the end, but for the main part of the day, I'll be competing against other applicants in speed trials, endurance, life-saving and first aid techniques. All that kind of thing.'

Oh shit!

'Right,' she said. 'I bet you'll be absolutely great at it. Shall we go upstairs now and fuck like rabbits?' Let's just hope this is a one-night stand, she thought, otherwise he'll kill me if he ever sees me again.

'Well, I'm not certain about that,' Laura said. 'It's supposed to give you an edge if you don't have sex, the night before.'

'Oh, right,' Abigail said, thinking, 'What a fucking nerve! I've wined him and dined him, and now he's closing his legs like a fifteen-year old virgin. Well, if he thought he was getting away with that, especially now she knew their relationship was doomed to failure...'

'That's not a problem,' she abruptly said, 'I'm an expert in these matters. If you really don't want to have an orgasm tonight, then I know some moves that will prevent you.'

She let that sink in before continuing, 'On the other hand, if you think you're coming back to my room wearing that sexy outfit without giving me the benefit of your body, then you'd better find somewhere else to sleep for the night. It's your choice.' She smiled, just to show how fair-minded she was being.

***

'I can't get these tits off,' Lawrie yelled from the bathroom.

Abigail woke with a start. She had meant to get up early, pack her suitcase and vacate the room, leaving Lawrie with a change of clothes he could use - a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, pairs of trainers and socks, and, of course, a bra, since it really wasn't fair to expect him to walk around with his bra-less tits flopping around. Then she would have got the hotel manager to allocate her another room, where she'd have hidden until Lawrie disappeared.

As it was, she had been so well and truly fucked last night, that she had slept like a new-born baby. And now, she'd overslept and Lawrie had sussed the problem.

'Can't you?' she replied. 'I'd better ring my friend.'

'What the hell did you say?' Lawrie's head came shooting around the edge of the door; he really looked extremely upset.

'I said I'd better ring my friend and get her to tell me how to get them off.' She wondered whether it sounded as false to Lawrie as it did to her ears?

Lawrie looked even more pissed at that remark than he had before. 'Your imaginary friend, you mean.'

'Sorry?' Yes, he'd sussed her.

'I saw you putting the things in your handbag as I came out of the shower yesterday. When you produced it, a few minutes later, having been to see your imaginary friend, I realised it was your own spare Bustlet we were using, only you didn't want me to know. Fair enough, and I didn't let on that I knew your secret. Now, can we get that out of the way, and you simply tell me how to get these tits off my chest?'

Abigail took a deep breath. 'Well, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you weren't on holiday for the week. That's why I suggested we use the glue. I'm afraid that they're permanently bonded to the skin. They won't come off for a few days, until your skin grows a new layer underneath and sheds the outer layers.'

'Abigail, this is no longer a joke. Now, you must have some instructions. Let me look at them.'

***

Five minutes later, Lawrie had gone beyond being cross, as he gave up reading the instructions, and stared down at his firmly embedded tits. 'All my life I wanted to be a lifeguard,' he said. 'My parents pushed me into becoming an accountant. It was an incredibly boring job, but I stuck it out until I finally had my breakdown, after my marriage split up.'

He looked up at her, like a wounded puppy. 'Now, I have the chance to fulfil my life's ambition, and I'm going to the trials with a pair of tits stuck to my chest.'

'There is another option.'

He stared at her for a full minute. 'Go on.'

'The supplier of Bustlets is a shop called Big Busts, located here, in Seacombe. They open at nine. We could go round there.'

'You think they'll be able to get them off me?'

'No. Apparently, they're made of some incredibly tough carbon-fibre material. You're more likely to cut the flesh off your chest than cut off a glued-on Bustlet.'

'What then?'

'Well.' She had to put this so carefully. 'I know they do products for men, as well as women.'

'Well thanks. But I don't think that having a two-foot long prick is going to make up for the fact that I have a pair of tits on my chest.'

'No, I didn't mean that. It's that they... well they make something called a Hipster that conceal men's... genitals, and pads out their hips like we did last night with the towels. Apparently, they can make a man look just like a woman - well, in fact, not just look - the Hipster gives him a sort of... false vagina.'

She waited for the explosion, which didn't come.

'You mean, I get one of these Hipsters, then borrow your swimsuit and go into the trials as a woman?'

'Yes.'

He looked hesitant for a moment, muttering, 'If they're as realistic looking as the Bustlets, it might just...' but then he shook his head. 'What do I do if I get offered the job?'

'You wait until you've got the offer in writing, and then you write back and tell them the whole truth. After all, it's hardly unreasonable, is it? Just... unusual.'

Still he didn't explode. In fact, he started nodding his head. 'I don't know. If you'd have suggested this to me yesterday afternoon, I'd have thought you were mad, but after last night in the restaurant... I don't know. What about make-up? I won't be able to wear that in the water.'

'I can get some water-resistant stuff that will do.'

'Jesus! I don't know.' Then, 'Oh well, it's not as though I have anything to lose, have I?'

***

From her balcony, Abigail could see them assembling on the beach. There were five tremendously hunky, extremely fit-looking young men; there were three incredibly slim but athletic-looking young women; none of them could be a day over twenty-five.

Then Laura wobbled up to them. Through her binoculars (bought for bird-watching - definitely not for looking at the blokes on the beach) she could see the others turn to stare at her. The blokes all stared at her wobbling tits; the girls all stared at her huge bum. Fortunately, Laura was wearing Abigail's slimming swimsuit underneath the beach-robe, so her stomach hardly bulged at all. Abigail nodded, approvingly; that swimsuit had been an excellent buy

Laura had some kind of argument with the man holding the clipboard, presumably because, for some reason, he had her name down as Lawrie, and thought she would be a man rather than a woman. Eventually it was resolved, although the man appeared to grumble a bit.

Then they spent ages milling around, waiting to be told what to do. Finally, the head-lifeguard - another sexy hunk - got them all assembled into a row, parallel to the sea-shore, and about thirty yards away from it. It was obvious they were all being lined up ready to start some kind of a race. The man with the clipboard walked down towards the water's edge, turned around and faced the group, and then nodded at the head-lifeguard. Although she couldn't hear the words, the lifeguard was obviously shouting words to the effect of: 'On your marks!' - 'Get Set!' - 'Go!'

The five beefy blokes went hurtling down towards the sea in one group, and the three slim girls were only a few feet behind as they all raced into the surf. Unfortunately, Laura stumbled as she started running, and had problems getting her bits into any kind of rhythm as she ran, so she was only half-way down the beach when the others were diving through the first waves.

Abigail watched as she entered the water and pulled the first few strokes, and then turned around and went back inside to the comfort of her hotel room. Watching Laura get slaughtered was really not her idea of a pleasant morning's experience.

***

'How did you get on?'

Even before Laura had left for the tests, Abigail had diplomatically decided the best place they should meet afterwards would be the hotel bar. If things went as badly as she expected, at least Laura wouldn't be able to murder her in the privacy of her bedroom.

She'd had time for a couple of G & Ts, just to calm her nerves, and was now feeling much better about dealing with Laura's outburst, when she returned from the beach. So as Laura walked up to the table, Abigail's greeting appeared interested, but very casual.

Laura sank down onto a chair. 'Could you get me a beer?' She looked over at the bar. 'That looks a nice real ale they have here. A pint, please.'

Well, at least Laura hadn't tried to kill her - yet. She went over to the bar and replenished her own glass, and bought Laura a large glass of dry, white wine.

'Beautiful young ladies don't drink pints of real ale,' she explained, as she placed it before her. 'Now, tell me how you got on.'

Laura looked slightly rebellious about the drink, but then meekly picked it up and downed the glass in one gulp. 'OK,' she said, passing the empty glass back to her. 'I'll have a refill.'

'Not before you tell me how you got on.' Abigail really didn't want to be on the receiving end of drunken violence.

Laura shook her head. 'Every one of the men beat me at every test,' she said.

Abigail put on her best surprised look. 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Laura, and it's partly my fault. If only I hadn't aroused you so much last night that you had to shag me rigid.'

But Laura was shaking her head. 'No, that wouldn't have made a difference,' she said. 'Those blokes just totally outclassed me. Even the women were bloody good. I was in last place in every test except two. In the first-aid test, I couldn't even put on a simple arm-sling without my boobs getting in the way. The thing is...' She again pushed over her empty glass towards Abigail. 'I really need a refill before I tell you the rest.'

***

'The start of the first test was absolutely disastrous,' Laura continued, after taking a small sip of her second glass of wine. 'It was a sprint to the sea, and then a one hundred yard race around a buoy and back to the shore. But my balance was all wrong, so I couldn't get running properly, and I was yards behind the others by the time I got into the water.

'But once I was in the water, it seemed as though my new shape made me more streamlined - a bit more like the shape of a fish - and I regained all my lost ground. I beat the other three women in the first race. It was the same in the life-saving test, pulling a body through the water - which needs plenty of stamina. I beat all the women in that test, as well.' She shrugged. 'It was just the other five tests where I flopped.'

'Never mind, Laura,' Abigail said. 'At least you gave it a try. I'm sure you'll find another job fairly soon.'

'But they offered me a job.'

'What?'

Laura was obviously feeling awkward about it. 'Well, the thing is, they decided to employ one male and one female, and... well, they offered me the female post.'

'But you said the other girls thrashed you in five out of the seven tests. Why did they offer you the job?'

'Well, they said,' - she emphasised the word "said" - 'it was because I came first in those tests which were assessing the real attributes of a life-saver - the ability to swim fast, and pull a body through water.'

'But...' Abigail left the sentence unfinished.

Laura looked incredibly sheepish. 'Well, as I was running down to the water's edge in the first test, I obviously hadn't a clue about how to control my tits - I just thought they'd sit inside the swimming costume, but er... Well they bounced out, right in front of the guy with a clipboard - the Council's Leisure Services Manager. By the time I'd swum back to the shore, I'd got them inside my swimming costume again, but... well, afterwards, he couldn't take his eyes off my tits, and he kept winking at me. I think it may have been my tits bouncing out that influenced the decision.'

'Laura,' Abigail ventured, 'can you not see a basic problem with the situation you've got yourself in.' (Now was not the time to discuss her share of the blame.) 'The rationale for you taking the test this morning was that if you got offered the job, you'd accept it and then, in a few days, write to them and explain about the situation.'

Laura nodded, forecasting what Abigail was about to say.

'The problem is,' Abigail continued, 'you have been offered a job which is specifically for a woman, so when you explain that you're really a...' she lowered her voice as she said the next word, 'man, they're going to withdraw the offer of the job.'

Laura nodded. 'I know. It's totally dishonest of me. Men naturally have more stamina than women, so I won those two tests on false pretences...'

'...not to say the false pretences when that manager saw your artificial tits flying about.'

'As you say, not to mention those false pretences. But... Well, it's my life's ambition to be a lifeguard. After this morning's test, I realise this is the only opportunity I'm ever going to get. I can't turn it down, even though it means cheating and...'

'Being a woman for the rest of the summer?' Abigail completed the sentence for him.

He nodded. 'Perhaps not the whole summer, but just a couple of weeks would be great. I know I'm bound to get found out sooner or later, but I'm going to give it my best.'

Abigail stared at her for a few seconds, and then pursed her lips and said, 'Attaboy, or should I say Attagirl? But there's one thing you're going to need.'

'What's that?'

'Lots of training in the finer points of being a woman.'

Laura looked at Abigail questioningly. 'Will you do that for me?'

Abigail nodded. 'For the kind of fucking you gave me last night on a regular basis, I'll do anything,' she said.

'Great,' Laura said, but really he was thinking, 'Oh shit!'

***

When he had first walked along the beach yesterday afternoon, looking for somewhere to drop his towel and undress, he had, of course, noticed the beautiful woman with the huge tits, and casually changed his course across the beach so he would pass directly before her. But as he got closer, he noticed that, right in front of her, was quite a large area of empty sand on the otherwise crowded beach.

It had seemed a shame to waste the opportunity of having a reasonable amount of space around him, whilst providing not only a superb view of the sex-bomb, but also the chance to chat her up. For example, he could ask her to look after his things whilst he swam and then nicely thank her when he returned, and that would be an excellent way to get talking to her and...

He was careful not to look directly at her as he approached the spot - it would never do to make out he was only sitting there because she had such superb tits. So he kept his eyes on the space and walked over and laid out his towel on the sand. He then made a big show of stripping off, still apparently not even noticing she was there. Then, as he was removing his last garment - his tee-shirt - he took a quick peek at her, just to see if she had noticed and was looking interested. He only had the merest flash of a scene as he pulled the tee-shirt over his head, but the sight was indelibly burned onto his retinas.

Christ! She must have been about sixty! Almost twice as old as he was. OK, the tits were fabulous, but she'd evidently only just had them enhanced, and clearly, she should have had her face done, instead. What's more, she was obviously staring at him through her dark sunglasses; the book in her hands was upside down!

He casually dropped his tee-shirt on top of his pile of clothes, and was halfway down to the water's edge before he remembered he'd been going to ask her to look after them. Well, he could hardly go back now, as she'd think he was making an excuse to chat her up.

***

'I suppose it's a bit of a cliché, but I didn't recognise you with your clothes on.'

Without her boobs sticking out of her swimsuit, she wasn't so easily recognisable, although the mini-skirt emphasised her still shapely legs. He'd walked past twice, trying to relocate the spot where he'd left his bright-orange towel, and it was only when she had turned around that he was certain he was in the right location.

She was marvellous. In just a second, she'd turned from an old sex-vamp into a motherly figure, who did exactly the kind of things his own mother had done when he'd been in Seacombe all those years ago, and had lost his football. The next thirty minutes seemed to pass in a daze, and he didn't come out of it until he'd emerged from the shower, and Abigail was explaining that she didn't have any jeans or trousers and that he'd have to wear a dress. She'd opened her wardrobe and showed him all of her sexy dresses, and he was taken straight back to the moment when he was a little boy, and his mother would let him dress up in his elder sister's ballet-dress.

Just like his mother in those distant days, Abigail had a wonderful wardrobe - much prettier than the clothes his wife had ever worn - the inevitable trousers or jeans, with an occasional knee-length straight skirt to give herself a power-woman image.

But Abigail's wardrobe was full of frothy dresses, brightly coloured skirts, and blouses with wonderfully pretty patterns and plunging necklines. He wanted to slip his fingers amongst them, and feel their sexiness, but she was looking at him a bit strangely, and it crossed his mind she might throw him out naked into the corridor if he wasn't careful. He had to play this extremely cautiously, otherwise she might suspect what an incredible turn-on this was for him. When his mother had realised that, there'd been no more access to his sister's ballet-dress.

So, he'd had to pretend he thought she was joking, and that it was an absolutely ridiculous suggestion - but without protesting so much that she abandoned the idea.

It had worked. She had dressed him with the same innocence that his mother had, before she'd discovered how it aroused him. Even better, she'd allowed him to wear a spare pair of her false breasts, although she'd pretended they belonged to someone else. And then she'd taken him for dinner - the most erotic meal he'd ever had in his life, especially when those guys had started leering at them.

Finally, the realisation that she only wanted him for his body was like a punch in the stomach, just as severe as if his mother had suggested the same thing. He'd tried to put her off; indeed, he'd imagined he'd never get an erection once his wonderful clothes were removed and it was just him and her in bed. But he'd reckoned without Abigail's years of experience, and a mouth that could turn a piece of damp string into a massive erection - not just once, but over and over and over again. He now knew how a woman felt in that same position - every moral fibre in his body wanting to stop, but his treacherous body simply aching for more.

As Abigail finally fell into a deep slumber, he knew how he would make his escape next morning. He would silently get up as soon as it was daylight; pull off his breasts, which had erotically stuck to his chest throughout their lovemaking; have a shower, and then leave for the beach, 'borrowing' Abigail's beach-robe and a hotel towel to provide him a minimum of protection. Once the lifeguard management turned up, he'd fall on their mercy and they'd be bound to come to his assistance.

But when he'd got into the shower, he'd been unable to remove his wonderful - no, his dratted breasts. He'd pulled them - it was like pulling at his own flesh; he'd tried to get his fingernails into the join - he'd scratched his own skin; he'd soaked himself in a bath of warm water until all his skin went wrinkly - apart from his wonderful breasts. Finally, he had to admit defeat; and then Abigail had come up with a plan more breathtaking than anything he could ever have dreamed.

The only problem was, Abigail clearly expected ongoing sex-sessions like the one they'd had last night. He guessed he would have succumbed, were it not for the fact that he'd allowed the woman from Big Busts to glue on his Hipster. There was going to be no sex with his willy, until the glue had released - at least ten days, the woman in the shop had told him.

So he had a problem. He needed Abigail, but she was going to be mightily pissed when she found out his penis was out of bounds.

***

'There's one problem,' Laura was saying.

Abigail dragged her mind back from the wonderful dreams she'd been having, of hours and hours of non-stop screwing with her fantastic new stud, fluttered her eyelashes at Laura and said, 'I can't think of any.'

'Well, you know you said that the glue wouldn't come off for days.'

Abigail smiled, sympathetically. 'Look Laura. I really don't mind screwing a man with fantastic tits. After all, last night was pretty good, wasn't it?' In fact, even though she'd known the breasts were totally false, she'd them found incredibly erotic.

'Yes, but it's not just my tits that are glued on.'

For a second, she didn't know what Laura was referring to. After all, his prick certainly hadn't been glued on. In fact, he had the most delicious prick she had known (in the biblical sense) for years. How he had managed to hide it beneath that Hipster was truly a miracle...

'Oh my God!'

'Sorry.' Laura was so sheepish. 'They said in the shop that if I didn't glue on the Hipster, it would come off in the water.'

They had actually told Laura it MIGHT come off in the water, but if it was glued on then he certainly wouldn't be able to use his prick for sex for ten days. With thoughts of Abigail waiting for him outside the shop, it had been the latter which had made up his mind.

Abigail was so disappointed, but she could hardly complain, could she? After all, the whole thing had been her idea, right from the start. 'Oh... That's a shame. I was really looking forward to... Well, you know...' 'On the other hand,' she thought, 'how on earth was she going to share a room with a virtual woman for the rest of the week? One way or another, Laura would have to go.'

Laura shook her head. 'I am really so sorry, Abigail. I was looking forward to it, as well. Last night was simply so good, but...' Laura trailed off, slowly shaking her head in disappointment.

'Hello ladies.'

The greeting startled them both, and they hurriedly turned their heads, wondering if they had been overheard. It was the Council Leisure Services Manager, and he had with him the hunky head-lifeguard. Now they were close up, Abigail could see the lifeguard was much older than he'd appeared through her binoculars. Why he must be well into his fifties, old enough to be her... lover?

'Laura, aren't you going to introduce us?' Abigail asked, smiling sweetly at them.

The introductions were made - Reg Bateman was the Leisure Services Manager and the head-lifeguard was called Phil Walker. Drinks were purchased and then the two men pulled up chairs and sat at their table.

'Laura, I'm afraid I've got some bad news,' Reg Bateman said.

'Oh?'

'Well, this morning, I thought I'd be able to swing it so that I could offer two jobs - one for you and one for the most qualified male. Unfortunately,' he pulled a grimace, 'I've just been talking to my Department Head, and he's not having it. I'm afraid I can't offer you the job.'

'Oh, but you...'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It was quite wrong of me to offer it to you, and Phil here advised me I could be getting into trouble, but the fact is.. well, the fact is...'

'What he's trying to say,' Phil broke in, 'is that he totally fell for you this morning, and was trying anything to keep you in Seacombe.'

'Well, that's no problem,' Abigail broke in. 'Laura has got to stay in Seacombe for...' she turned questioningly towards Laura, 'ten days, wasn't it Laura?'

Laura was looking incredibly bemused by this time, but she nodded, realising that she could hardly go back home with huge breasts and an enormous arse.

'And Laura has a problem because she has nowhere to stay,' Abigail continued, ignoring Laura's eyes widening with surprise. 'She crashed out in my hotel room last night, but she can hardly stay there the whole week. You don't know anyone with a spare room, do you Reg?' She turned to him with a public smile, and a very private wink, which only he noticed.

'Well, actually,' he said, 'I've got a... well, that is, it's not very big...'

'I don't think Laura would be too worried about size,' Abigail said, thinking how appropriate a statement that was, 'but if you have a room, or even just a settee, I'm sure she wouldn't mind, would you, Laura?'

'Well, I er...' Actually she minded a hell of a lot. Abigail had got her into this mess, and now she wasn't even going to let her share her room. It was obvious why. Everyone could see she was mentally undressing Phil as they sat there. And he wasn't even making a fuss about it, simply smirking back at Abigail as though he'd be quite happy to jump into bed with her right-away.

When she turned back to Reg, wondering whether he was feeling as disgusted about that as she was, he had a Cheshire cat smile across his face - and it was directed at HER!

'I need to go to the Ladies.' Laura stood up, and grabbed hold of Abigail, saying, 'And so do you.'

'I'll be back in a minute,' Abigail said, then mouthing at Phil. 'I won't be long.'

***

'What the hell do you think you're doing,' Laura cried.

'What's the problem?'

'WHAT'S THE PROBLEM? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT...'

'Ssshh. Calm down. The men will hear.'

'Well I don't care if the men do hear.'

'Well, I'd think about that statement a bit more carefully, Laura. Because I can tell you, all men are bastards, and if one man finds out you're not what you appear, then every other man will know about it within five minutes. And you might like to think about how you'd handle...'

Her thoughts were interrupted by a toilet cistern flushing, and they stared at each other in horror, trying to recap their words over the last few seconds, wondering if either of them had given the game away.

'That's it, you tell her, love.' The woman who emerged from the cubicle must have been about eighty, but she cackled with laughter and added, 'All men are bastards but that's why we love 'em so much. Eh?' She gave Laura a dig in the ribs, before giving her hands a quick wash and marching out.

They both turned to inspect the open doors of the other cubicles before continuing their conversation.

'Look, I offered you clothes and a bed for a night because you had everything stolen. That doesn't mean to say I have to accommodate you for the next week.'

'But you didn't tell me these breasts would be stuck on me for ten days.'

'And you didn't tell me you were getting your dick glued down. You can hardly expect me to have a whole week's holiday of total sexual abstinence. And now you're out of it, Phil looks quite capable in that department.

'Look,' Abigail continued, trying to be more reasonable, 'I've fixed you up with somewhere to stay. Reg looks quite a decent guy. I'm sure you'll have a great time together.'

'But he'll expect to have sex.'

'So what's your problem. You haven't got any money, so you can't pay him in any other way.'

'But he's a bloke.'

'Well you're not sexist, are you?'

'Well, in these kind of matters, yes I am.'

Abigail tried her reasonable approach again. 'Look, you have your Bustlets, so you can give him plenty of tit fucks without even physically touching him. The same with your Hiplets, he can screw you for all he's worth but you can let the Hiplets take the strain. It's not as though he's got a big prick...'

'How do you know that?'

Abigail shrugged. 'He had an erection the moment he came into the bar and looked down the front of your beach-robe. His prick is about this size.' She held her thumb and forefinger about three inches apart.

'What! Diameter?' Laura shrieked.

'No, you idiot. Length. He's got a tiny prick, and I'd say it would be excellent training for someone in your circumstances.'

'But he's a man...'

'And you're a woman. Don't ever forget that, otherwise you'll be found out, and you'll become the laughing stock of Seacombe. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if the national press didn't get hold of the story and you'd be on the front page of all the newspapers. So, my advice is to forget what sex you used to be, and remember you're now a woman. Spend the next ten days with Reg and give him exactly what he wants. I suspect he hasn't the experience to find you out, whereas if you became a lesbian and shacked up with a woman, she'd realise within a few minutes.'

'Couldn't you lend me the train fare home?'

It must have been female intuition that put the words into Abigail's mouth. Or perhaps she simply remembered how much fun the pair of them had at dinner the previous evening, and how Laura had so naturally fallen into her role.

'Trains are so expensive nowadays, and I don't have that much spare cash. But I will lend you some of my dresses. We could go up and chose them after these guys have bought us lunch. What do you say?'

For Laura, the excitement that surged through her when she thought of Abigail's wardrobe turned it into a no-brainer decision. And Abigail was right; she didn't have to have real sex with Ray - tit fucks would probably keep him perfectly happy, and if she felt like it later in the week, who knows, she might even test out the Hipster. It was hardly as if she was likely to get pregnant.

Although public comments are turned off, I'm always pleased to receive your Private Messages (click on the "Send author a message" link).

The discovery of what appears to be a sex doll whilst Bill and Lucy help their friend Gemma to move into her new house provides a weekend of fun and games for all three of them

 

Author's Note: Warning contains humour and sex and is not to be taken too seriously. Don't read it if such things upset you. All people, places and events are fictitious.

A Decade of Big Busts Stories - No 8 - Just a Dusty, Old Suitcase
by Charlotte Dickles

"There's a sex-doll in that case you found in the loft!" Gemma yelled from the bedroom.

"What! No way!" my sister Lucy shouted back from the kitchen. "Let me see."

I, too, was irresistibly drawn from the lounge, where I'd been removing books from a large box and stacking them on the bookshelves. I followed Lucy up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Gemma had been unpacking a large, dusty, old suitcase.

I had found it earlier that morning in the loft, left behind by the previous occupants of the house into which Gemma was moving. She had pulled several items of women's clothing out of the suitcase and spread them over the bed, including a couple of dresses which I recognised as late 1970s Laura Ashley - the age when I had first become aware of the opposite sex! There were also a number of frilly white items, the kind of stuff which had always sent a thrill down my spine.

But still lying in the base of the suitcase was the object Gemma was referring to: it looked a bit like an empty diver's wetsuit, and about as sexy. Very dark-brown-skinned, almost ebony, with protruding dark-brown lips, but with holes where the eyes should be, it lay limply in the bottom of the case, as though it had been there for a long, long time.

Which it probably had, I guessed. Elderly Mrs Lawrence's had lived in this house for at least the last nine years - the period Lucy had been her next-door neighbour - and she had been a widow when Lucy moved in. Presumably, this suitcase had been left in the loft since the time when her husband was alive and active; probably for almost thirty years, judging from the dresses.

Now that Gemma, Lucy's friend from work, was moving in, Lucy and I had been roped in to give a hand. Well, that's to say that Lucy had volunteered my services, more because she hoped that Gemma and I might become good friends than because it was a particularly large job.
M
Several times on that Saturday morning, I had cursed Lucy. I know she meant well, and it certainly wasn't the first time that she had found potential female friends for me, her only brother, since my marriage had split up two years ago. But Gemma was totally out of my league.

Lucy had invited me for supper on Tuesday, without telling me that Gemma was also invited, following her appointment to inspect the house to rent next door. I guessed Gemma must be about thirty, compared with the big 4 - 0 that I'd just reached, and our age was probably the closest thing we had in common! She had a slim figure with tits so small she had no need to wear a bra - a fact quite apparent from the blouse unbuttoned virtually to the waist. She looked incredibly sexy in her flared miniskirt - and dirty with it!

I reckoned she was the kind of girl that most of the blokes in her office would queue up to screw the arse off; and once she had finished with one, she would go on to the next in the queue, and spit all the bits out afterwards! And Lucy thought she and I would make a nice twosome! It had been inevitable that at the end of the meal, Lucy offered our help with the move, and even more inevitable that Lucy's fat slob of a husband, George, had something more important to do.

So the three of us had toiled all morning, emptying the rear of the small van Gemma had hired for the occasion, carrying the large boxes along the road from the nearest place she could park and into the house, and then helping to unpack them. An ideal way to spend a Saturday! You can imagine how pleased I was to take the opportunity of a break from that toil, even if it was only to gloat over a thirty-year-old sex-doll.

But I was even more pleased when after a few seconds in which Lucy and Gemma prodded and pulled the doll without even letting me get a look in, Gemma said, "Hey, look at the time. It's midday. Time to christen the flat. I, er, 'borrowed' a bottle of champagne from work and it's cooling in the fridge. Bill, can you help me open the bottle, and Lucy, why don't you bring the doll down to the kitchen, so we can inspect it at our leisure?"

I was more than happy to oblige. Lucy and Gemma worked at a publicity agents, where they consumed bottles of champagne like other companies use bottled water, so it was not unusual for bottles to 'go astray' and end up at Lucy's house. Gemma, it appeared, had a similar habit. We spent a few minutes in the kitchen opening the champagne, pouring it into the glasses - incidentally spilling some of it in the process - and then drinking Gemma's health in her new home.

"It's not a sex-doll at all," Lucy said. She'd been closely examining it whilst Gemma and I had been seeing to the more important issue of serving alcohol. "See," she held up the doll's face for inspection, "there are holes where the eyes should be and the mouth is open. There's no way you could inflate this, or fill it with water."

It surprised me that my little sister knew what one did with a sex-doll, but before I could tease her about it, she continued. "And there's a zip to open it right up, underneath the bust line." Without a trace of embarrassment, she lifted a heavy breast with huge chocolate brown aureole, and protruding charcoal-black nipple, and showed the zipper opening, stretching from side to side of the torso.

"Wow, that's weird," Gemma said. "What is it?"

"I think it's a kind of body-suit which Mrs Lawrence wore to disguise herself as a West-Indian woman," Lucy said. "I know she used to work for Social Services. It may have been a way in which she could more easily gain the confidence of some of her coloured clients."

I'd heard of some outlandish things, but that sounded ridiculous. Gemma obviously felt the same, since she looked at me, I returned her stare with a wry smile, and then we both turned to grin at Lucy.

"Well why not?" she said. "That's obviously what it's for. You think of a better idea."

"Are you sure?" Gemma asked. "It still looks like a sex-doll to me."

Lucy eyes sparkled, annoyed that her idea had been challenged. "I'll soon show you," she said. "I'll go and put it on." She dashed out of the room, the bodysuit flung over her arm.

"I'd give it a good wash before you do," Gemma called after her. "You don't know where it's been."

Which of course, left me alone with Gemma. Would she immediately rip off my clothes and rape me? I should be so lucky. I topped up our empty glasses, and tried to think up something original and witty to say.

"She's a great girl, isn't she?" Gemma said.

"Lucy? I suppose so. She's five years younger than me, but I guess we're probably closer than many brothers and sisters with that age difference. We shared a flat in London for many years until I got married, and then she came back to Seacombe and met and married George. When my marriage split up, I came to live with them for a few weeks. She helped me through a bad time."

"How does she put up with George?" Gemma continued. "He's a revolting pig."

I was saved having to answer her question - all the more difficult because of her perfect assessment of George - by Lucy choosing that moment to reappear, still wearing her original clothes.

"OK," she said. "You were partly right. I should have realised when I was down here that the amount of padding in the hips and bum was extreme. It would have given me a figure like a Sumo wrestler. In fact, I couldn't even get the suit on past my thighs. Then I discovered this tail, thing."

She held up the bodysuit so that its hairy, imitation pussy hung down between the legs, just like a short tail.

I was confused. "Sorry, Lucy. I still don't understand what it is. What has that tail got to do with it?"

She smiled at me. "It's quite simple," she said. "It's got a tube inside it, and then the whole thing pulls back and fastens between the legs, so it looks just like a woman's pussy."

"Right," I said, still not understanding.

She could sense my lack of comprehension. "OK, so work out what goes inside the tube before you pull it through?" she asked.

I shook my head, still mystified.

"A willy!" Gemma exclaimed. "A bloke's willy goes into the tube. The suit doesn't turn a white woman into a black woman. It turns a man into a black woman."

Lucy beamed. "Absolutely right. It's incredible, isn't it?" She pushed the suit over towards me. "Here you are then, Bill."

I looked down at it. "Why are you giving it to me?"

Lucy beamed back. "Because it's for changing a man into a woman, not a woman into a woman. That means that we need a man to try it on."

I pushed it back at her. "I'm not going to put it on."

"Oh come on," Gemma joined in. "It's only a bit of fun. Lucy was quite prepared to give it a go. Don't be a bad sport."

"Yeah, but..."

"There's only the three of us here," Lucy added. "No one else is going to know."

I paused. They were both laughing at my embarrassment. Lucy was right, of course. She hadn't hesitated about trying to get into it. Why should I?

"Promise you won't tell," I asked them, just like when Lucy and I were kids. They both nodded.

I stared at Lucy. "You won't mention it to George?"

"Oh come on. No way. It's just between the three of us. It's only for a joke. Here." She pushed the suit back at me. "Go to the bathroom and slip it on."

I shrugged, and took the suit. It was strange but it felt totally different from the way I'd imagined. I had guessed it was made of rubber, but it felt just like real skin ought to. As I carried it upstairs, a few experimental tugs revealed it was made from very stretchy material. From its age, I guessed it was some kind of thin Terylene.

I went into the bathroom and stripped naked, hanging my clothes over the edge of the bath. There was only one place to sit, so I put down the toilet seat and sat on it, then I held up the bodysuit in front of me. It still looked a bit like a diver's wet-suit, except that it had a built-in head with long, black hair, and gloves and feet complete with red-painted nails on fingers and toes. Lucy was right that a zip stretched across the body in a wavy line from one armpit to the other, following the curve of the side and underside of the breasts where they joined the body. Even when naked, the sag of the breasts would conceal the join from all but the closest inspection and any slight mark would be seen as the indentation left by a bra.

I flopped the part of the body above the zip backwards, so that the head, shoulders and breasts hung down the back, and slid first one leg, and then the other, into the legs of the bodysuit. I could understand now what Lucy had been talking about, for whilst most of the suit was made of extremely thin material, the outside of the thighs, from mid-thigh right up to the hips and around the bum had thick padding. After I'd got my feet located, I stood up and pulled the suit up to my waist. Peering behind me, I saw I had one hell of a shapely arse!

Even more obvious was that I had an enormous erection! The material felt extremely erotic against my skin, and in its current state, my prick was quite patently never going to bend backwards between my legs. However, the tail was hanging next to it, and I could feed my prick into the tube on the underside of the tail without problem - indeed, it felt just like inserting my prick into a smooth, juicy cunt. Had I known the task would be as pleasant as this, I certainly wouldn't have raised any objection with the girls.

"How are you going, in there?" Gemma's voice came from outside the bathroom door.

"I've partly got it on, but I think I'm going to have trouble going any further."

"Are you decent?"

Before I could say 'No', the door jerked open and all I could do was turn away in order to hide my erection pushing the tail up in the air so it pointed towards the ceiling.

"No problem," Gemma said, reaching between my legs from behind! Fucking hell! I knew she crushed blokes' nuts for a hobby, but I thought she might give me a bit of respect.

Her hand closed over the end of the tail that was left hanging down from the extremity of my prick, and then she was yanking it backwards between my legs.

"Oh, fuck! Shit! Stop it!" Incredible pain as my prick disappeared between my legs, followed by some very weird moments as I think my balls disappeared inside my body. All I could do was cling to the washbasin to stop myself writhing in agony on the floor.

"There," Gemma said, "that's fixed it." She gave the tail another tug, which was uncomfortable, rather than painful, and then she'd fastened it somewhere and I was released from her grip. "That wasn't too bad, was it? What do you think, Lucy?"

"Fantastic! That's incredible. Turn around Bill so we can see the new you."

I glanced down to check I was respectable, but really knowing that my prick would have totally disappeared; perhaps Gemma had wrenched it off and thrown it down the toilet!

"Wow!" "That is so realistic!" "Great!"

The girls were peering around either side of me to stare down at the spot where, just a minute ago, I'd had my enormous erection. Now, there was simply a bush of black hair at the point where my black legs joined my black torso.

"Right, let's pull it up to your shoulders," Gemma said, and between the two of them, they eased the suit up to the point where the back of it was touching my neck, with of course, the hood, arms and breasts hanging halfway down my back.

"I think we're going to have to experiment a bit," Lucy said. "We need to sort out whether the hood goes over your head first, or we slip your arms into the sleeves."

It took a bit of manoeuvring, and in the end, we found it was a combination of the two to get my head inside the hood with all the holes lining up with my own orifices. My ears came through small holes in the side of the hood, my hands were fully located inside the gloves at the end of the sleeves, and then the breasts were slung forward over my shoulders so they were hanging in their natural place. Lucy fiddled about underneath my breasts, and it was all a bit of a stretch, until she managed to pull the zipper closed and I carefully stood upright.

"There. What do you think?"

I looked in the mirror on the door of the bathroom cabinet. A black woman's face with long, black hair falling over pink ears, peered back at me.

"My ears are still pink," I protested.

"There were some little bottles in the suitcase," Gemma said. "I guess there'd be some kind of stain for your ears. They'd never be able to make the hood fit the complex shape of an ear so they'd have to do it that way. But what about the rest of your body." She said it with all the expectation of the mother proudly displaying a teenage daughter.

I glanced down. Gulp! A superb pair of tits were pushing from the front of my chest.

Now, I have always been a tit man. In fact, to be honest, I'm a big tit man. But although I have often chased after girls with big tits, I have to admit it has inevitably been fruitless, and never before had I been this close to such a magnificent pair.

"Well I think it's quite good that you're overweight," Lucy said, totally misreading the way I was gawking at my breasts. "It sort of balances out your overall size, and anyway, if you had a slim, beautiful body, people would probably look at you more critically, and notice your stance was not quite ladylike."

Something that Lucy has never appreciated when she's been setting me up for a girl friend is that I am a tit man. Gemma's flat chest was probably one of the reasons why I didn't find her particularly attractive.

"Mmm, you're probably right... Hang on," I interrupted myself. "No one is going to notice my stance, because no one is going to see me."

"Course not," Gemma said. "But in the meantime, let's get you dressed." Already, she was slipping one of those frilly, white garments from the suitcase around my waist and fastening the fixings down the front with a speed which quite astounded me.

"Hang on, who said I was going to get dressed." I was fumbling with the fastenings of the garment, trying to get them undone, but I couldn't seem to release even one. I felt something tightening around my rib cage. Too late, I realised she was drawing on the cords of a corset. "Look, I only said I'd try on the bodysuit for a bit of fun. I'm not putting on those clothes... U-u-g-g-h!" The latter as every bit of breath was squeezed out of me.

"It's alright," Gemma was saying. "I'm not going to draw it too tight."

"It's already too tight," I tried to say, but I had no breath in my lungs to object.

Two more gigantic squeezes, and Gemma was tying off the cords.

"I'll just put a couple of granny knots in this lot," she said. "We don't want the knots coming undone accidentally."

"Gemma, you are dreadful," Lucy came to my defence. What a wonderful sister! "Do you want me to help her slip into her stockings?"

"Help who slip into her stockings," I gasped.

"Why this big, black naked woman who we've discovered in Gemma's house," Lucy replied. "We'd better get her dressed before Bill returns."

The traitor! She was bending down in front of me and feeding my toes into a lacy, white stocking, and then drawing it up my leg. She clipped it to the suspenders attached to the corset. Seconds later, she had the other one in place.

"Slip your arms through here," Gemma commanded, holding a white bra in front of me. Without being able to properly breathe, I was too weak to do other than comply, and I did the same as Lucy fed my feet into white sandals and fastened them. Finally, Gemma made me step into one of the Laura Ashley dresses.

"There," Lucy declared. "You're complete, Billie."

"Billie?" I cried. "You've never called me Billie in my life."

"I never called my brother Billie," she agreed, "but Bill sounds so masculine, and I think that only very feminine women can get away with it. So, in your new role I'm going to call you Billie." She stared at my dismal face, and added, "Oh come on. This is only a bit of fun amongst the three of us. Cheer up."

"You didn't tell me you were going to force me into women's clothing," I complained.

"Oh Billie, you are making a fuss," Gemma said. "You agreed to put on the bodysuit. So why is it so much worse if you get dressed? Look, as a 21st century male you're probably not familiar with this fact, but did you know that champagne was developed specifically for people in your position?" From somewhere, she had produced the almost empty bottle of champagne and my glass, which she held in front of my nose.

I wrinkled my nose, focussing on the glass. Certainly, another glass of champagne would make me feel a lot better at this moment. "Developed for people in my position? What's that?"

"Well, in the early nineteenth century, when champagne was finally turning into the product as we know it today, it was discovered that the drink particularly suited tightly-corseted ladies. Apparently, the fact that it continues to bubble as it descends inside the closely contained rib-cage increases the absorption into the bloodstream, and the extra supply of blood to the brain intensifies the effect of the alcohol. In other words, when a woman is tightly-corseted, she will get totally squiffy on fairly small amounts of champagne, without any unpleasant after effects. Didn't you know that?"

Every now and again, you come across one of these fascinating facts of English, or in this case, French history. I found the story quite riveting. "Really? That's remarkable."

Gemma was smiling at me as she topped up my glass from the bottle. "I think you had better test this out for yourself."

Now I have to say that I am not a particularly keen champagne drinker. To be honest, I prefer a good beer anytime - or even a mediocre beer! But as I sank that glass of champagne with the corset compressing every inch of my torso, I realised she was completely right. I could feel the bubbles still bursting as they sank down my throat, and then come bubbling back up, making me give a large burp. And I did feel really great.

I giggled in embarrassment. "Sorry. Do you know, I think you must be right about that?" I pushed my empty glass towards her. "Perhaps I'd better test it some more."

Philosophically, Gemma upturned the bottle over my glass to show it was empty.

"Well, that's where we have a slight problem," Lucy broke in. "You see, I too 'borrowed' a bottle of champagne from work as a house-warming present for Gemma. But it's in the fridge in our house. I've also baked a quiche, and I've got some salad ready for lunch, but it means we'll have to go round there for it."

I wasn't quite certain why that posed a problem. I'd eaten at Lucy's house plenty of times in the past without difficulty.

"George is out at the pub with his football mates, and they'll watch a match on the pub TV all afternoon, so there's no chance that George will come back." Lucy paused, looking at me with concern.

That's when it hit me. She expected me to go round to her house for lunch dressed as I was! "I'd better change back into my own clothes, hadn't I?"

"Come on, Billie," Gemma said. "This is just for fun. Lucy has said that George won't be back for hours. Let's have a girls' lunch together. Besides, you properly want to test out whether wearing a corset really does make champagne go to your head, don't you? You won't be able to do that if you revert to your other self."

Another thought hit me. "I'll have to go into the street to get from this house to Lucy's."

Gemma gave me a quizzical look. "So what's the problem? Come on, take another glance in the mirror. We'll blacken up your ears, and in the few seconds it's going to take to go out this front door and walk to Lucy's, no one is going to detect you're a man. There probably won't even be anyone outside in the road to see you."

She was right of course. The road outside wasn't a busy thoroughfare. I could easily nip from the one door to the other without being seen. And wouldn't it be fun! The adrenaline surged through my body as I realised that was exactly what it would be. Hell! That was an exciting thought. "OK," I said.

***

Gemma went back to the old suitcase on the bed and rummaged through the contents in the bottom until she found the bottle of dye, which she handed to Lucy. "Here, you'll probably do this better than I will."

Lucy soaked the dye onto some cotton wool and then deftly dabbed it firstly around my left ear, and then my right.

Five minutes later, I was ready. We went downstairs and Lucy cautiously opened the front door and looked out. She turned back to look at me. "All clear," she said.

She stepped out and I followed, almost stumbling as my one-inch pointed heel twisted on the cobbled road. Gemma grabbed hold of me before I landed on my arse. A few seconds later, we'd reached the safety of Lucy's front door, and we were inside. Phew! That had been exciting. Little did I know what more was in store!

Lunch was really superb. Lucy got the second bottle of champagne out of the fridge, and we downed the first glass whilst we helped her lay the table. Over lunch, we talked about Gemma's new house and the work she wanted to do on it, the pros and cons of the area, and eventually our mutual excitement at finding the bodysuit, and me putting it on.

After a few minutes, Lucy summarised that last bit of our discussion with a startling statement. "You know, Billie, over lunch you've been the same kind of fun person, as my brother, Bill, used to be, fifteen years ago."

The honesty of that simple statement shook me. "What do you mean?"

Lucy looked thoughtful, reminiscing about an earlier life. "Oh when Bill and I we were in our twenties," she might have been speaking of someone else, "we shared a flat in London and he was just so much fun that he made life really exciting and enjoyable. Then he met a girl and got married, and I think that, quite early on, the marriage went wrong. Unfortunately, instead of splitting up straight away, they hung on together for years. Even after he'd got divorced, he was still so serious, and..."

"When I met Bill at your house for dinner," Gemma broke in, "he was a real, miserable, old bugger. And he was pretty grumpy this morning too. It's a good job Billie came to replace him." She gave me a quick smile, to take the sting out of her words.

Both Lucy and Gemma looked carefully at me, awaiting my reaction, and for an instant I was lost for words, it was all so true. But then I couldn't help a smile coming to my face and I said, "Well, it's a good job that miserable, old, bugger has gone away, and left me here instead."

Lucy and Gemma grinned back at me, and then we were laughing and pouring more champagne into our glasses and toasting Gemma's new house and Billie's new life. As I sank that toast, the truth suddenly hit me. It was Bill who was constrained by the miserable existence he'd had for the last ten years - not me. I was Billie, a big, fun loving, bloody attractive (at least by my standards, if not Lucy's), West Indian woman. I was so excited by the idea, I almost missed Lucy's next words.

"...so as it's Bill's birthday next week, I thought, Gemma, that you could give him the contents of that old suitcase you found today. I'm certain he'd find it really useful. Would that be alright?"

Gemma smiled. "Of course. I was wondering how to get rid of it, so if Bill would like it, I'd be more than happy to give it to him."

"The only problem is," Lucy continued, "that I simply can't bear to see Billie looking like this." She stared at me and then paused for a moment, deliberately teasing us, before continuing, "That dress is so passé, it beggars belief. Billie, let's go out this afternoon and I'll buy you a new dress for your birthday."

Gulp! "You mean, we go out like this? With me dressed... like this?"

Lucy nodded. "Mmm. Gemma will come with us, as well, won't you, and give us the benefit of your advice?"

"Of course. I'd love to."

"But... I mean, it's one thing to wear these things in the house, with just a quick dash between the two front doors... But I'd have to go into the shops..." (Billie would love that!) "...and try on clothes..." (and she'd love that, too) "... and talk to the assistants, and things."

"Talking isn't going to be a problem," Gemma said. "When I was rummaging through the junk at the bottom of the suitcase, I found these capsules." She produced a tattered, old box from the pocket of her jeans, and held it up for our inspection.

"What are they?" Lucy and I asked almost simultaneously.

"They're called Voice Changer capsules." Gemma read from the label on the box. "It says it will increase the pitch of your voice so any man will speak just like a woman. Hmm, it sounds a pretty wild claim. I wonder if they had the Trades Descriptions Act in those days." She read from the directions on the side of the box, "'Place a capsule on the top of the tongue and wait for a minute until it melts. Swallow the contents straight down the throat. Within minutes, you will have the sweet voice of a woman.'" She looked up at me. "Sounds exactly what you need."

I almost hesitated, but then I realised that hesitating was exactly what Bill would have done. He'd have procrastinated until he died of old age. I smiled at the pair of them, both looking rather anxiously at me, as though worried I might not go along with it.

"Well, pass one over," I said. "I can't swallow it from here."

Gemma extracted a capsule from the box and passed it to me. I slipped it in my mouth and held it on my tongue at the back of my mouth for a few seconds. Then it melted, and I swallowed. It was a bit like taking a gulp of a strong brandy - the fire that starts in the back of the throat and slowly sinks to your stomach. Except that this was more like a furnace of red-hot coals, which slowly, so, so slowly descended partway down my throat and then stopped, and there it got hotter and hotter and hotter. I gasped air in and out through my mouth, forcing it down my throat, trying to prevent it going into meltdown. Finally, the burning gradually subsided to a dull warmth.

"W-o-w!" I gasped. My voice sounded hoarse rather than sweet, as though my voice-box had been burnt away. "I t-h-i-n-k t-h-e p-i-l-l-s may have deteriorated over the..." I paused. My voice had changed as I uttered the sentence. OK, no way could it be described as sweet, but it was certainly higher in pitch, and had far less base to it.

"That's remarkable," Gemma said. "It sounds less... powerful, I guess. Talk some more."

I did so. "I was thinking that was incredibly stupid of me - to take tablets which must be twenty years old, have passed their use by date years ago, and even then, were probably obtained from some rather dubious source."

"Billie. You sound incredible!" Lucy said. "Nothing like your normal voice. The capsule really worked. But I was a bit surprised when you took it. Bill would never have done that."

It was really strange, I thought, that we were all - even me - talking about Bill as though he was somewhere else. And why not? He certainly wasn't here. I put my thought into words.

"Well, Bill's not here, Lucy. I am. Now, do you really think I can dare to go to the shops with you?"

They both looked at me, hardly believing my words. "Absolutely no problem," Lucy said.

"You just need one addition to make you complete," Gemma said. "A nice, large, pair of gold-hoop earrings, and I just happen to have brought a pair with me from my house."

She held her hand open in front of me; the two hoops were so large they almost covered the palm of her hand. "I didn't know whether you would want to try them. What do you think; do you want to give them a go?"

"But they're..." Lucy broke off as Gemma shot her a look.

"What Lucy was going to say," I said, settling back in my chair, "was that those earrings are for pierced ears, and I haven't got pierced ears."

Gemma stared back at me. "It may be a bit crude, and it may hurt a little, but we can pierce them now if you want to."

Bill would have refused outright, so I said, "I'm game."

Bloody hell! Gemma should have a Nobel Prize for understatement. Hurt a little! It was like having fingernails ripped out - not that I've ever had that done, but I now know what it would feel like. But having had my ears pierced, the earrings inserted, and my ears re-dyed around the casualty area, I had to admit, as I looked in the hall mirror, that they really completed the picture.

The large hoop earrings wonderfully framed my black, round face; by Lucy's standards my dress may have been passé, but it had a low scoop neck through which my breast pushed up nicely; my corset gave me a slim waist and combined with the padding on my hips resulted in a superb hourglass figure; and as I murmured, "You look great," at myself, my voice was definitely that of a woman, not a man.

"Oh! Hello. I didn't know Lucy was having friends round." George's voice came from the kitchen, where he must have just entered through the back door. "Especially," he added, "such beautiful women friends."

Bill would have frozen on the spot. As Billie, I took a deep breath and then swivelled round and stared back at him. "I'm Billie, Gemma's friend." And then the devil in me made me add, "Well you fancy yourself, don't you?"

I realised it was the different way he was standing that had caused me to say it. He'd pulled in his stomach, expanded his chest and thrown back his shoulders in the way that males do when they are trying to impress a bird. HE WAS TRYING TO IMPRESS ME! The adrenaline surged through me as I realised. OK, he still had a large beer-belly, and even in his long-lost youth, he had never been handsome, but HE BLOODY FANCIED ME! I could get used to that.

"I see you've met Billie," Lucy said, giving George a bit of a dirty look, "and Gemma is here as well. I thought you weren't coming back until dinner-time."

"It's only Arsenal on the box down the pub this afternoon, and it's going to be a wipe-over for them. Couldn't bare to watch it." He eyed me up again. "Do you like football, then, Billie?"

I shook my head. "Naw. All those blokes dressed in white, playing with their wickets. It's not my thing."

George looked as though I'd slipped a turd into his hand. "Blokes playing with their wickets? That's not... Oh, it was a joke, eh? Ha-ha, very funny."

"We're going shopping," Lucy said, and we three girls marched out together.

***

"Why don't we stop and have a drink at the Harbour Wine Bar?"

We'd had a whale of an afternoon. We had shopped and shopped and shopped, and now we were ready to drop - me in particular, since I simply wasn't used to walking on inch-high, pointed heels. ("Only an inch," Gemma and Lucy had repeatedly remarked) My ankles were on fire, every bit as fierce as the one that had changed my voice earlier that day.

But, my God, it was worth it. My arms were full of parcels, and Lucy was carrying the beautiful dress she'd bought for my birthday, whilst Gemma carried the rest of my other purchases.

Earlier, as we'd headed for the main shopping area, Lucy had said, "Billie, you really need to get a whole range of clothes if you're going to spend any decent time as yourself." Rather than as Bill, she could have added, but by that time, we had all got used to the absent Bill.

I was already totally into my new self. I felt so good that the idea of taking off my bodysuit at the end of the day and returning to the world of the miserable Bill seemed extremely depressing, and Lucy's suggestion had been a God-send. So, Lucy had lent me money to make all kinds of other exciting purchase. We had bought tops, skirts, shoes, bras, panties, stockings, and another corset, which Gemma reckoned would give me a far slimmer waistline than my current one. God knows how much money I'd spent that afternoon, but for the first time in my life, I didn't care!

As we traipsed back across the bridge towards the old part of Seacombe where the girls lived, it was Gemma who had made the suggestion about the wine bar, and we all turned and looked at the Harbour Wine Bar. It had been converted a few years ago from an old fish store on the harbour side. The whole of the front wall had been replaced by single pane of glass, and now it provided a ready venue for tourists who, regardless of weather, could watch over the activities in the harbour whilst devouring vast quantities of whatever took their fancy.

With dusk just arriving, the lights were twinkling inside, and we could see empty tables next to the window, on the upper floor.

"OK, let's go in," Lucy said, "but we are not sitting in the window with Billie still wearing that dress."

I'd tried on and bought dozens of clothes that afternoon, but much to Lucy and Gemma's disgust, I was still wearing my original Laura Ashley. I know it had sounded silly, but I had wanted to delay properly putting on my new clothes until we returned to Gemma's house, and I could give them a fashion-show.

"Why not make an early birthday present?" Gemma suggested to Lucy. "You go and bags a table, and I'll go with Billie to the Ladies and help her into her new dress, and I could also put on the mini I've just bought. It would be good to sit up there and show it off."

Inside the wine bar after dark, it wasn't particularly obvious that taking a seat at the front was like sitting in a well-lit shop window. In particular, the view from the quayside of women sitting at the upper-floor tables was outstanding, and most of the men around the harbour made a point of continual bird-watching. Fortunately, my new dress had a very full skirt, so I wasn't too concerned about them staring up at my legs, but it was just so typical of Gemma that she would want to put on her new, mini skirt.

However, it was an arrangement that satisfied us all. Gemma took me into the Ladies, which was fortunately empty. She helped me remove my old dress, and then she slipped Lucy's present out of its carrier and held it up, and I gasped again at its beauty. Just a simple, white dress with a full skirt, made of a material so light it would float out with every swirl of my waist. It had a plunging neckline - indeed Gemma had been most insistent that everything I bought should properly display my breasts. ("Just to emphasise that they're real," she had said. "With your height, you need to confirm your femininity.")

She slipped the dress over my head and zipped up the rear. I did a few practice swirls before Gemma was shooing me out, to go and keep Lucy company, whilst she slipped into her skirt.

"You look fantastic," Lucy said. "I simply can't believe that only twelve hours ago you were someone completely different."

"I am someone completely different," I agreed. "I can't believe it either. You two have been so good to me today." I slipped into the bench seat on the opposite side of the table to Lucy, and slid to the end nearest the window, thinking that it was all right by me if blokes outside wanted to admire me in my new dress.

I filled my glass from the bottle of wine that Lucy had already got in, before raising an issue I'd been giving some serious thought all afternoon. "Lucy, when you talked at lunchtime about how I stayed for too long in my failing marriage, it made me wonder whether you felt you might be having the same problem."

Lucy paused, hesitating before giving a grimace and speaking in a very quiet voice, "I never could hide anything from you. Yes, I'm very unhappy with George, and we seem to have nothing in common nowadays. I'd suspect he might be having an affair, except he's become such a fat slob in recent years, that I don't think anyone would have him. I don't know whether it's worth continuing." She shrugged philosophically. "On the other hand, he continues to bring in the money - he's on a really good income now - so I think I've decided simply to keep on faking the orgasms."

"Well, that's what we all have to do with blokes, isn't it?" Gemma's quip broke the rather sombre feeling that had settled between Lucy and me.

Lucy looked up with a smile. "That's right. We always have to do that." She slid out from behind the bench seat to allow Gemma to slide in next to the window, facing me.

"I don't know how you have the nerve to say that." I, too, was anxious to lighten the mood. "Considering that when you were sharing a flat with Bill, he had to put in earplugs every time you brought home a boyfriend, to avoid being deafened by your cataclysmic climaxes."

"No! Really?" Gemma was impressed.

Lucy smiled. "Actually, that started when I was at university." She turned to me. "You remember I was a bit plain and flabby then?" I shook my head - we'd had this argument before. "Well, I quickly discovered that if my screams of orgasm reverberated all the way down the men's' corridors, I would never be short of a boyfriend. In fact, I almost had guys fighting to take me out."

"Wow! And you were faking it? That's cool!" Gemma was even more impressed.

"Faking it! You weren't faking it in the flat. You enjoyed every minute, of every boyfriend you brought in." But I recalled that Bill had found it bloody frustrating!

"Uh-uh." Lucy shook her head. "Don't you remember, it was the 'in' thing in those days - every woman had to have fantastic orgasms? It was compulsory. Still is now, to a lesser degree. But you can't just decide you're going to have one, and then do it. So, I simply made it all up. The boys always loved it. Made them feel really great."

"You mean you never had an orgasm?" I was incredulous.

"Schh!" Lucy said.

We all looked around, as we realised our voices had been rising in volume, but the place was almost empty. We continued our conversation in lower voices.

"I've had one, now and again," Lucy continued, "and they're quite nice. But I really don't see why there's so much fuss about them. Certainly no reason why they should be compulsory. How about you, Gemma? Do you have lots of incredible orgasms?"

"Well I certainly have some," she said, "but never when it's just the conventional 'prick in a hole and jiggle it about' kind of sex. I always have to fake it then..." (Wow! That shook me to the core!) "...but it's always well worth faking it, because otherwise some blokes can take all day about it, and let's face it, sex can be so bloody uncomfortable."

I was gob-smacked that I had totally misjudged Gemma.

Lucy nodded her head. "That's just how it is with George. He'd go on for hours and hours if I didn't fake it."

"You should remember that the tongue is mightier than the penis," Gemma said. "For me to have an orgasm, my lover has to get to work with a tongue." She stuck her tongue out of her mouth and flicked it in a quite suggestive manner. "But when that happens," she continued, "I really crash out. You should get George to give it a go."

"Fat chance of that," Lucy replied. "He's never liked putting his tongue in the place where I wee from."

"Miserable bugger." We all agreed to that.

It struck me then how completely the girls had adapted to my new self. Here we were, three girls together in a wine bar, having the kind of conversation about female orgasms which could never have occurred if there'd been a man amongst us.

I was so engrossed by that thought that I almost missed Lucy's next statement.

"...so I suppose I'd better get back and cook George's dinner."

I owed Lucy more than that. "Why don't we eat here?" I suggested. "It's on me as a 'thanks for everything'. And you could call George and invite him along."

Lucy and Gemma agreed that was a brilliant idea, so we asked the waiter to bring us some menus, and Lucy gave George a call on her mobile and told him to come down.

"Have you noticed, you two are getting lots of admiring glances from the guys on the quayside?" Lucy asked, when she'd finished her call.

"I think it's mainly Billie they're admiring," Gemma said.

"Don't be silly." I was embarrassed for a second, until I realised that Billie would never be embarrassed by an admiring glance. "Do you think so?"

They both laughed at me. "I think it may be to do with the fact that the lights in here are shining straight through the thin material of your dress, and they can see your underwear," Gemma said. "I guess, in particular, they are trying to work out whether the reason why they can't see your panties is because you're wearing black ones, or because you're not wearing any at all."

"Oh my God!" Lucy said. "Do you want to move, Billie?"

This morning, when the girls had dressed me, I had been positively resisting their efforts to put more clothes on. During the afternoon, although I'd bought several pairs of very sexy panties, neither of the girls had suggested I put them on during our many visits to the changing rooms. My guess was that Gemma frequently went about in the same condition, and that Lucy felt it would appear far too prudish for her to have made the suggestion. But would a lack of panties embarrass Billie? Would it hell!

"I'm fine here," I said.

"This is just like Dr Jeckle and Miss Hyde, all over again," from Lucy.

"That's my girl," from Gemma, and then she added with a smile, "I'm not wearing any panties either." (Told you, I thought.)

"Oh my God!" again from Lucy, then she added, "But Billie, how do you really feel about being admired by men?"

I glanced down at the quayside, where a couple of young guys were unashamedly staring up. They caught my glance and one of them raised his fist - not in the aggressive way he might do it towards a man, but in a manner simulating an erect penis with a large head. HE WANTED TO FUCK ME! It was such an exhilarating thought, I almost wet myself with excitement. Instead, I gave jerk of my head as though to say, 'Go toss yourself off, buster,' and turned back to the girls.

"You're loving it, aren't you, Billie?" Gemma could see right through me.

I couldn't deny it. "As a male, Bill lusted after the desirable women he saw every day, virtually all of whom were totally beyond his reach. Now, I'm Billie, the opposite sex want to have sex WITH ME."

"But how do you feel about having sex with men?" Lucy asked. "Bill was totally heterosexual."

"That's precisely it, Lucy. I'm hetero, just like Bill, except that he's a man and I'm a woman. It seems natural to be admired by men, if you see what I mean.

"Look," I continued, "I'm not saying I am going to go outside and have sex with the first bloke I meet, but I am saying I feel differently today, to the way I felt yesterday or the day before. I think I need to explore my new self, and determine exactly what my limits are."

"But what about the physical limits?" Gemma asked. "Surely a bloke would notice it wasn't the real thing if you got too intimate."

"Oh, I don't think a man would find anything suspicious," Lucy said. "I had a real good look at the suit this morning, and anatomically it's pretty good, and what's more, it feels just like human skin. OK, your vagina is very small, but provided the bloke isn't enormous, I reckon he'd just think you've got a nice, tight cunt."

"Well, that would be suspicious on its own," Gemma said. "Billie looks as though a tight cunt is the last thing she'd have."

"Thank you," I said, and I meant it.

"Uh-uh!" Lucy said, looking onto the quayside again, "George is out there, and he's giving you a real eyeful, Billie. Perhaps you should explore your limits with him. I wouldn't mind, but in the meantime, let's stop him behaving like the lecherous old sod he's become."

She knocked on the window and gesticulated to him, and he looked guilty about being caught watching. But there was no guilt about him when he came upstairs.

"Hi Gemma. Hi Billie. You two girls look great." Did he give rather more emphasis to me, than to Gemma?

"Lucy looks great as well, don't you think George," Gemma replied, rather cattishly.

George glanced quickly at her and said, "Yeah, course she does. It's just that she knows what I think about her, but I've only met you once before, and this afternoon was the first time I've come across Billie." Was that an innuendo there? He casually turned his back on Lucy in order to stare enquiringly at me. "Hope it's not going to be the last."

Well, two could play at innuendo. "Oh, I'm certain you'll see much more of me, George," I said.

I gave a quick glance at Lucy to make certain my mild flirting with her husband didn't upset her. But behind George's back, Lucy was pulling a face of pretend revulsion at Gemma, who, aware that she was in George's line of sight, was trying not to laugh at Lucy's expression.

"Well, that's really great," George said, leaning towards me and quite deliberately looking down the front of my dress. No wonder Lucy was unhappy, if he was so openly leching at other women.

But she appeared positively radiant as she said, "Oh George, do stop peering down Billie's cleavage. Sit down next to her and look at the menu. We are ready to order."

***

To give George his credit, he listened carefully to every word I said that evening (which was more than many of Bill's dates had done) and made much more intelligent conversation than I'd have expected from him. I chattered endlessly about all kind of stupid things, from the décor in the bar, the new country-life museum which had just opened nearby, and the way the blokes outside kept looking at me. George promptly leant over and shook his fist at three guys staring upwards at my legs as they walked past, and I think he might have gone out and started a fight if they hadn't promptly disappeared. It was really nice, I thought, having someone to stand up for you like that.

It was surprising, but after the superb conversation I'd had with the girls all afternoon, they seemed to go very quiet. They generally listened to the two of us, and occasionally made hushed jokes to each other about George and me, and then going into fits of giggles over them. I was a bit uncertain whether Lucy was unhappy with George and me having fun together, but she certainly gave no impression she was.

It was while I was on the main course that I felt hot fingers on my right knee, which then proceeded to pull up my skirt and slip beneath it and trace a path along the inside of my thigh, towards the top of my stockings. I rapidly put my hand under the table, grabbed George's hand and forced it back in his direction. I gave him a hard stare which he innocently returned with a puzzled looking smile. Dirty bastard!

I glanced at Gemma and Lucy who had quite obviously picked up what had happened, and appeared to find it highly amusing. Gemma deliberately sat back in her seat and slipped her hand under the table, and an instant later, Lucy gave a little jump, a shocked glance at Gemma's face, and then they both collapsed in laughter. I sighed. I was obviously on my own in this skirmish.

For the rest of the meal, it was a non-stop onslaught on my legs, made all the more frantic on my part because I wasn't wearing panties. So with George's hands continually wondering up my legs, my pussy was totally unprotected. And do you know what? I found it incredibly, bloody horny! Just suppose, I thought, I let him succeed and reach my hairy vagina. What a surprise he'd get.

I looked across the table at the other two and they were still endlessly parodying George and myself, taking turns to touch each other under the table and pretending to be shocked. George seemed completely oblivious to what they were doing. I think he was so intent on accosting my vagina that he'd tuned out every other part of the meal, including his wife and her friend.

Again the thought went through my head; just suppose I let him succeed. What a shock he'd get. Well, I was Billie, not Bill. Why not? After all, Lucy seemed totally laid-back about it, if the term 'laid-back' could be applied to the childish way in which those two were behaving.

Having finished my dessert, I put down my fork, wiped my mouth with my serviette and sat well back in my seat. "That was a fantastic meal," I uttered. "I really enjoyed it." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George's hand disappear beneath the table again, but I appeared not to notice.

A second later, it was resting on my knee, and then starting the same journey towards the top of my stocking. Twice, he had already got that far before I'd stopped him. This time, I continued to dab my mouth with my serviette, whilst his hand moved up onto my bare skin (OK, my bodysuit skin), which almost made me shiver with excitement. Bodysuit or not, I was extremely sensitive there. I could feel the slight shake of his fingertip as they moved even further upwards, and when I didn't resist, they suddenly jumped the last inch and landed right in my bush!

I think he almost came in his pants; his Adam's apple jolted up and down several times, and he locked rigid for a while, but when I felt his fingers start to explore the jungle, I had a moment's apprehension. Suppose he realised it was false.

But that was definitely a Bill-type thought. Firstly, he wasn't going to realise, and secondly what could he say if he did? I've got my hand up your false pussy!

I gave him a long sideways glance, and he looked back at me, as his hand groped inside my labia. At least, that's what I assumed he was doing. There was actually a total lack of feeling around that area. Considering it was probably made of several layers of Terylene, it was really no wonder. At least, from the excitement in his eyes, he had no idea that Billie was other than the genuine article.

"I think I'd better go to the toilet." George released my pussy and was almost out of his seat before he had finished speaking. All three of us watched his back disappearing towards the toilets.

"Billie, you are absolutely shameless!"

Lucy was incredulous. "You don't mean you actually let him touch you there?"

I nodded, and smirked. "Well, you two didn't help me. Why didn't you stop him, Lucy?"

She considered. "Well, you obviously didn't mind too much, otherwise you'd have put a stop to it yourself, the way we girls have to. So I thought that if he was happy to do things with you, then why should I complain?"

"But how could I put a stop to it? He was continually trying it on."

"Forks are quite good in this kind of situation," Gemma spoke quite factually, "as long as you don't attack your own leg. Otherwise, you could spill your soup in his lap."

"But I didn't have soup!"

"Well, it's all worked out alright. Are you going to have sex with him? He's obviously gone to the bog to buy some condoms."

"Sex?"

"Well you could give him a tit fuck to start with," Gemma said.

"And then decide how you feel about the real thing," Lucy added.

"Lucy! You can't really be suggesting I have sex with your husband!"

"It seems the ideal arrangement. I mean, you're not going to want him to get divorced from me and marry you, are you? He can have a little fling with someone I trust and everything works out nicely.

"And perhaps I shouldn't say this," she added, glancing around to make certain George hadn't returned, "but he's got a very small cock. I don't think there'd be any physical problem getting it in."

"But I'm not certain I want sex with him."

"Oh." Lucy sounded quite disappointed.

"Billy only said she wasn't certain," Gemma said. "She didn't say she definitely didn't want to."

I did a retake on my own words. Gemma was right; that was exactly what I had said. Was I really contemplating sex with the fat slob George? For a few seconds, someone called Bill started voicing his protests, but I shut him out. This was for Billie to decide. After all, George may not be the most attractive person in the world, but on the other hand, he was available, and his wife - my sister - was not only willing, she sounded positively enthusiastic about it.

"I really am not certain," I said. "What happens if I get part of the way and then change my mind? He might cut up a bit rough."

"Billie, that's a question that every woman has to resolve in her own way," Gemma said, "and to an extent, you've already gone past the point of no return by letting him play with your doo-dah. You can hardly turn round now and say you're not up for it. That would be a right prick-tease. Now, I suggest that you and George go back to their house for coffee, whilst Lucy and I pop into my house..."

"We could say you needed help to put up the curtains," Lucy offered.

"Yes, we could say that," Gemma continued. "So when you get in Lucy's house, you ask to use the bathroom, and you can guarantee that when you come out, George will be waiting to push you into the bedroom. You go with him and do what you will, and when you've finished, you come round and get us. So, it's all agreed, then?"

Was it? I didn't remember agreeing.

"Sorry I've been gone so long. I hadn't any change in my pockets and I needed some for... er... well..." George stuttered to a halt by the table.

I smiled up at him. "Oh George, you've paid the bill after I'd offered to do it," I said. "You are really so masterful. Thank you very much. I really am grateful to you for such a wonderful evening." And I gave him a long look, and let my tongue flick between my lips.

***

In the bathroom, I had a wee, and then lifted my skirts and had a good stare at my pussy. Lucy was absolutely correct. It did look perfectly normal from the outside - not that any two pussies ever look the same. I slipped a finger inside and explored a little.

It really was quite a small pussy compared to every pussy that Bill had ever known, but Lucy had intimate knowledge of George, and she'd said that shouldn't be a problem. It also appeared that the angle of my vagina was much shallower than most. But then, to be honest, the angle of entry was not one of the key features that a man noticed at these kinds of times. There would only be one matter of concern to George - would he be spurting semen into my cunt?

I stood up and flushed the toilet, rinsed my hands at the washbasin and dried them. Then I unlocked the door and went out.

"You are so fucking sexy!" It was like being attacked by an octopus. His arms were round me, crushing me to him; his lips were against mine and his tongue was down my throat; he lifted a leg and wrapped it around my thighs, pressing my belly against something very hard.

Hell! Lucy had said he had a small prick, but it more than made up for its limited size by being incredibly rigid and pointing directly outwards, rather than up at the ceiling as Bill's did. As he thrust it into my belly, it was like being pierced by a sword.

"Help me take off my dress." I somehow managed to gasp the most important words of all. If he damaged that, I would kill him.

He only got the zip halfway down before it jammed, and then he was almost tearing the dress off my shoulders and over my breasts. There was no way it would go over my hips like that, and my arms were trapped by the sleeves of my dress which I was terrified of tearing, but he didn't care a shit. He picked me up as I was, carried me into their front bedroom, which they used as a storeroom, and dropped me onto a camping mattress lying on the floor.

I had just managed to get my arms free from my dress before he'd removed his trousers, shirt and pants, and then he dropped his entire bodyweight on top of me.

Every ounce of breath left my body. Hell, there was no way I could utter a single word in this state, let alone tell him I'd changed my mind, or even offer a tit fuck in place of the real thing. He grabbed my bra and forced it up and over the front of my breasts, and then he roughly grabbed them and squeezed so hard I was glad I was less sensitive in that area than most women.

"Jesus! I am going to fuck you hard!"

He forced his knee between my legs and twisted, so my legs were forced apart, and he - and his iron rod - were slipping in between them, and forcing my legs even further apart. Bloody hell, I could see why the girls said it was so uncomfortable.

"Fucking hell! What a fucking tight cunt!"

I wasn't even aware he'd entered my Terylene vagina, although I'd assumed by his shift of body position that was what he was doing. He gave another enormous thrust, which apart from banging my head painfully against the wall, shaking my whole body and giving a nice wobble to my tits, produced no sensation inside at all.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, you black, fucking bitch!"

Another massive slam inside my body, which even more painfully smacked my head against the wall, making me feel a little dizzy.

"You fucking, dirty, little whore."

Gemma's words echoed in my head, "Sex can be so bloody uncomfortable," and then Lucy had said, "That's just how it is with George. He'd go on for hours and hours if I didn't fake it."

"Oh God, George," I said. "You're so hard inside me."

***

"Fantastic orgasm!" Lucy's eyes were brightly shining as I entered the house, and she had a grin from ear to ear.

I hadn't realised the walls of these houses were so thin, but then I guessed that George and I had been making so much noise, that the whole neighbourhood would have heard.

"Absolutely brilliant!" Gemma said. "A first time, as well. I've never known anyone climax like that." She looked directly at me. "Yours was pretty good as well."

"Mine?" What did she mean? Had she been talking about George? His orgasm was the normal kind of ten-second event that blokes always have. "Who were you talking about?"

"Why me, of course," Lucy said. "I've just had my first, non-faked, cataclysmic climax."

"You? But..."

"I told you the tongue was mightier than the penis," Gemma said.

"Bugger me! You mean that you and Lucy..."

"When she first came to work in our office," Lucy interrupted, "I thought she was simply the most beautiful person I'd ever seen in my life. Then I heard she was looking for a place to rent..."

"When Lucy told me about her next-door-neighbour's house, and invited me for dinner after I'd inspected it, I just knew she was hitting on me," Gemma said. "But then Bill was also invited to dinner and it looked like it was a nice foursome..."

"I realised that if it was just the three of us," Lucy took up the tale, "George would see how we were behaving and suspect straightaway, so I invited Bill along as well. George always moans about how I'm always trying to pair him off with some girl."

"Trouble was," Gemma said, "Bill, and I think even George, recognised I was a lesbian straightaway, and showed no interest at all in me, so we couldn't have continued that pretence for long. Finding that bodysuit in the loft was a heaven sent opportunity, and when George obviously took a shine to you..."

"We couldn't keep our hands off each other once you'd distracted him in the wine bar," Lucy continued. "You probably didn't realise, Billie, but when I went to the toilet, I slipped off my panties. I thought if you two can do it, so can I."

I hadn't even noticed she'd been to the toilet, so engrossed had I been in defending myself from George.

"Well, I certainly realised," Gemma said. "I almost wet myself with excitement."

"And it was really so good of you to keep him occupied all evening," Lucy continued, "and lose your female virginity to him, of all the men you could have chosen." She came over to me and gave me a hug. "Bill was a great brother, but you are an absolutely brilliant sister. Thank you."

"How do you feel about men, now you've lost your virginity?" Gemma asked. "It sounded as though he was almost raping you."

I smiled back at them. "A girl enjoys a bit of rough, now and again. I'm not certain I'd want to make a habit of it with George, though."

"That's a shame," Lucy said. "At breakfast tomorrow, I was going to suggest that George gives you a call and offers to take you to that country-life museum you were chattering about tonight."

She gave me a real nice smile. "Please, Billie. Gemma and I want to spend a little time together. You were a fantastic sister tonight, and if you were to do that for me, you'd be an absolutely fabulous, superb, incredible sister tomorrow, and I'd buy you lots more beautiful clothes. Please."

How could I refuse?

***

Well, my decision was a lot easier than I had made out to them. You see, I didn't want to admit that when I started to thrust back against George, something deep inside me started to feel 'Wow'. It took me straight back to Bill's teenage years when he had a motorbike, and used to drive it like the fun-loving maniac he was in those days. He would regularly do the ton on some of the straight, country roads behind the town. That combination of incredible power, speed, and fear was an enormous turn-on and Bill had never found anything to rival it, except sex itself.

Being shagged by George was an uncomfortable and painful bore, until I realised that I had the throttle; I could lay back and think of England or I could turn up the speed. Well, what do you think I did?

I bent my knees so I could get my feet flat on the floor on either side of the mattress, and as he came to the end of his next downward thrust, I thrust upwards with all my strength and in spite of his enormous weight, I pushed him upwards. Yes!

"Oh! You fucking bitch! You're really loving it, aren't you?"

Another slam down inside me, and another thrust from me to push him back up.

"Come on then, big boy," I snarled. "Fuck me harder."

As he started to drop again, I slipped my hands around his back, and dug my fingernails deeply into his buttocks to mercilessly pull him inside me.

"A-h-h-h!" he yelled, as he slammed inside me all the more brutally. "You fucking clawed me!"

"Play with a tiger, big boy, and that's what happens." I thrust him back upwards so hard I thought his cock was going to pop out at the top of the projectory. Fortunately, it didn't and he came slamming down on top of me again, accelerated by my fingernails boring deep scratches across his buttocks.

"Bitch!"

"Just fuck me harder, big boy!"

And so it went on, until his frenzy came to a climax.

"Y-e-e-e-e-s!" And he was starting his final run down for landing.

I lifted my feet from the floor and as he landed, I wrapped my legs right around him, driving my pointed heels into his buttocks and using them like spurs, in combination with my nails, to ensure that every drop of his semen went squirting inside my pussy, as his thrusts diminished in force, until he was lying quietly, firmly clamped in my arms and legs.

He looked at me and grinned. "That wasn't half bad, was it, gal?"

I thought back to the very first time when Bill had topped 100 mph on his bike.

"No," I said, and grinned back at him. "That wasn't half bad."

***

Next morning, I got the invitation from George to go to the country-life museum. I accepted, although in fact, we never managed to reach it. As soon as we'd left the built-up area, George stopped the car to show me a local beauty spot. Three rounds of sex followed.

By then, it was time for lunch, and we found a nice pub with good food. George had a couple of pints of beer, whilst I drank champagne. (Incidentally, I'm still not convinced by that old wives tale that Gemma threw me.) Afterwards, we reckoned it was too risky for George to drink and drive, so we booked into the motel next door, to sleep it off. Then George quite correctly decided that vigorous exercise was a much better way of getting alcohol out of the blood stream. (Four rounds of sex.)

By that time, it was getting dark and we thought we ought to return home. George stopped the car where we had paused that morning, just to check we hadn't left anything behind. He had me in three different positions on the bonnet of the car, before our final climax of the day.

Oh, and Gemma has invited Lucy, George and myself around for supper tomorrow night.

SYNOPSIS

The women's self-help group was dedicated to making men suffer for their marital sins, and what more fitting humiliation could there be, than to force them to be the kind of woman they most desired. When the narrator wakes up as a Dolly Parton look-alike, he expects the worst, but actually gains more than anyone could possibly have imagined.

This story was originally published on Fictionmania in 2003 under my other nom de plume of Marianne Nettes. It is posted here virtually without modification. It's basically a light hearted story with lots of sex of all types. Please don't read it if that is not to your taste. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy!

'Hell Hath No Fury'

The words had been staring me in the face for some time. I knew they should have meant something to me - perhaps they were part of a saying or quotation, but for the life of me, I couldn't think what.

I read the words again, scrawled in large letters in bright red lipstick across the mirror above the dressing table, but still they meant nothing. It was strange - my mind felt as though it was switched off - but not in the way it normally was when I awoke with a massive hangover. No, it was more similar to the time after I'd had my tonsils removed, and my body had regained consciousness, whilst my mind was still dormant. I'd been aware of my surroundings, without being able to think too deeply about them.

At that moment, I couldn't even remember where I was or how I'd got there. From the furniture and the decoration, I was clearly in one of those standardized hotel rooms, which look exactly like each other, no matter what part of the country you happen to be in. I turned my head to the bedside cabinet on my left, hoping for sight of a hotel logo on an information card, which might jog my memory.

'Hell hath no fury like...' The words were there again, on a folded white card on the bedside table, this time with a valuable one-word addition, and a few dots, which bade the reader to look inside.

The missing words were on the tip of my tongue. I knew that I should know them. Hell hath no fury like... But in my befuddled state, I couldn't bring them to mind.

A hand reached out to take the card. I vaguely wondered whether it might be my own hand, but it was as though it belonged to someone else - as if it was disembodied from me. Inside the card were the words I'd been racking my brain for.

'A WOMAN SCORNED', it read, in glitzy red print, to match the colour of the lipstick on the mirror. Of course, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Underneath the heading, in smaller type: 'A WOMAN SCORNED is the name of a women's self-help group like one you have never experienced before. You won't find us in any phone book or directory of business services, for we can be approached only by personal recommendation.

'We exist to provide fitting revenge to men who are unfaithful to their partners. You have been selected by your partner...' the word 'Sheila,' had been written in, '...who has nominated you to receive our full treatment. A letter from your partner is enclosed.'

The disembodied hand brought an envelope in front of my eyes. That hand was joined by a second one, which tore open the flap, and took out the handwritten letter, inside.

It read, 'You bastard! At last, you get what you deserve. This is for...' and there followed a list of about twenty girls' names, together with dates stretching back over the last eight years.

'I hope you detest this weekend, and remember it for the rest of your life. Incidentally, don't even contemplate complaining to the police about this or mentioning it to the divorce lawyer, else I may recall details of that nasty car accident you had in Seacombe last December, after you'd had far too much to drink at that Christmas Party.

'May you rot in hell.'

'Sheila'

I lay back on the bed, in a shocked daze. Things were falling into place with an all too startling clarity. The disembodied hands were shaking so badly now, they could hardly pick up the original card, and hold it still enough for me to continue reading from where I had left off.

'You have been temporarily turned into a woman by members of A Woman Scorned, using gender transformation products, secured in place by powerful adhesives. In a few days, the adhesives will lose their strength and you will be able to revert to your former self with only a little discomfort. However, we strongly advise against trying to force an accelerated reversal, since you are likely to remove large areas of skin, as well as less important human tissue, such as your genitals.

'After discussing your preferences in women with your partner, we have designed a body for you, which should be in accordance with your perfect shape. It will be interesting to observe whether you find that shape as perfect for your own body as you seem to find it for others. The body shape chosen by your partner is...' and the words 'Dolly Parton' had been written in.

'For the next forty-eight hours, you will experience life as a woman has to experience it, as you undergo a series of demeaning tasks and tests. Do not expect to enjoy this experience, for you will be A WOMAN SCORNED.'

As my senses returned to normal, I was left staring at those two disembodied hands holding the card. The hands were quite large, and had crimson fingernails that were so long, they projected at least half an inch beyond the end of the fingers. But it wasn't the length or colour of the nails that was the problem, it was the fact that the hands weren't disembodied at all - they were my hands! I could open them and close them, and clasp the card or release it, so it dropped onto the quilt bulging over my chest.

I had, of course, been conscious of the bulge for some time, but like everything else, had not thought deeply about it. Now, I grasped the quilt and threw it off me and tried to sit up as hurriedly as I could. The problem was the heavy weights sitting on my chest, holding me down. I had to turn my body to the left, and I could feel the weights slide sideways - but not very far, as though they were a permanent attachment. I levered myself up onto my left elbow, and looked down.

I guess Dolly Parton doesn't get a shock like that every morning when she levers herself from the horizontal into a sitting position on the bed. Just imagine two flesh coloured water-filled footballs attached to your chest, and you get the idea. In fact, although I'd never had the opportunity to see at close quarters the pair that Dolly carries around every day, I reckoned these two beauties must be even bigger than hers.
As I pulled myself into a seated position, they hung down over my stomach, almost touching my thighs. Somewhere under there, I knew, was my groin, or at least, the position where my groin used to be. I dreaded to think what had happened to it.

I put one hand onto either breast, and spread them apart, so I could peer between them. There was nothing, other than pubic hair, to be seen. I released my right breast and felt down below. As I had feared, where yesterday I'd had my manhood, there was only a slit!

I swivelled my feet onto the floor, noticing that my toenails were painted crimson, to match my fingernails. I stood upright, staggering forward a little, as the extra weight at the front unbalanced me, and walked over to the full length mirror on the wall.

I guess if I really had looked like Dolly Parton, it wouldn't have been so bad, but then, I guess if it was that easy, there'd be millions of women imitating her. I had a Dolly blonde wig; my eyes carefully made up with the same dark eye shadow as she wore; the same kind of heavy, ornate earrings hung from my ears; and my lips were the same crimson red as my nails. They'd even changed the shape of my cheeks slightly, and I raised my hand to my cheek, to try to work out what had happened, almost poking out my eye with a fingernail, in the process.

But the overall impression was that of a very poor imitation of Dolly by someone who, apart from a simply massive pair of tits, simply didn't have the looks to carry it off. Down below, it wasn't just my cock they'd changed. Swivelling around, I could see I had an arse the size of a hippopotamus, and hips to match. Overall, I had the appearance of a cheap tart.

The clothing hanging in the open fronted wardrobe looked as though it had been chosen to give the same impression. There was a flared black skirt, not more than twelve inches long, and a white tee shirt, with a deeply scooped neckline. Next to those was a white corset, with four long suspenders hanging down, and on the shelf next to the wardrobe, a pack of black, fishnet stockings, and a tiny pair of black panties, made of the sheerest material.

On the floor, was a pair of black sling-back shoes, with heels at least four inches high. Everything chosen to make me look conspicuous, as I undertook my demeaning tasks, which presumably would involve being seen as much as possible.

I considered. Of course, I didn't have to go through with everything they had dreamed up. Obviously, I'd have to dress in these clothes for the time being, since they were the only ones available. There was no phone in the room, but I could go to Reception, get them to call a taxi and then get it to take me home.

But my keys and wallet were missing, and without them, I'd have to smash a window to get in, to find the cash to pay the taxi fare. I had normally considered that having nosy neighbours was an advantage, since the house was usually empty all day long. But they would certainly call the police when they saw a prostitute trying to break into my house. The thought of speaking to the neighbours beforehand and trying to explain what had happened was more than I could bear.

On the other hand, I reasoned, perhaps I could stay right here in this hotel room, and order meals on room service. As a solution, it appeared too easy. I turned back to the Woman Scorned card, and continued reading.

'You could choose not to take part in the tasks we have devised for you. It is your choice, but we should warn you that this hotel room has to be vacated this morning and you will be without food and shelter, since all your money, credit cards and keys have been put into safe keeping. Only if you satisfactorily complete your tasks will you receive food and accommodation at appropriate times.'

Finally, at the bottom of the card, someone had scrawled: 'Suggest you get dressed and have breakfast, which is served in the restaurant until 10 am. No room service! For your first task, you may like to select a less revealing dress from Tweeds Fashions in the old town. One of our representatives will find you in the changing rooms at around 11.30 am.'

Thank God! They weren't so heartless after all. I was not going to have to wear this all weekend. A bit of humiliation, just to show me what it was like, and then they were going to let me wear something more respectable. I didn't know Tweeds Fashions, but it sounded very Town & Country. But first, I had to get dressed, and suffer my embarrassment over breakfast. Looking at the radio clock, I saw I only had an hour before breakfast ended.

***

Several times in the past I had hopefully suggested that, if my wife was concerned about her figure, she should try a corset, but she had always treated the suggestion as a joke. I'd always thought that a great pity, for I found corsets extremely erotic - now I was to be tested to see whether I still found them so attractive from the inside.

I knew enough about them to know I had to fully loosen the cords, unfasten the busk at the front, wrap the garment around my waist and then refasten the busk. That task, at least, was relatively straightforward, although even before I started pulling on the cords, it was all a rather tight fit.

The corset had a built-in bra, although the cups barely covered my nipples, and appeared to function solely as curved platforms upon which my breasts could rest as they were pushed outwards to their fullest extent - a bit like large jellies perched on top of tiny dessert bowls.
I drew in the cords until I felt I had gained rather a nice shape. It wasn't even particularly uncomfortable - in fact, I found it rather erotic simply being pulled into such a wonderful shape. I stood in front of the mirror, swivelling left and right to admire myself. Then I took the tee shirt of the hanger, and slipped it over my head and pulled it down.

Jesus Christ! I looked good. OK, not the kind of woman I'd have wanted to take home to have tea and cakes with my mother, but certainly the kind I'd have wanted to take home when no-one else was around.

I turned to the little, black skirt. I reckoned that once I had that on, I was going to look so incredibly sexy that I'd probably have an orgasm just looking at myself.

The skirt didn't fit! I couldn't get it to slide over my hips and bum. I made certain the zip was fully open, and the waist fastening was undone, but there was no way I was going to be able to pull it up.

Then I had my brainwave. I could pull it over my head.

Well, my head wasn't a problem, of course. I even managed to wriggle it over my fairly broad shoulders, but when it came to my tits, I had one hell of a job. I finally managed it by twisting so that I could feed the skirt past first the left breast, and then the right. But the skirt still wouldn't fasten around my waist! It was at least four inches too small!

***

The answer of course, was obvious. The Scorned Women hadn't wanted the corset to give me a 'nice' shape - they wanted me to have the kind of hourglass figure that most men drool over. I was going to have to do some serious tightening of the cords, if I was going to fit into that tiny little skirt.

I tried drawing the cords tighter in the same way as I had done previously, with my arms behind my back, but I couldn't get any real leverage to give the cords the kind of pull they needed. I cast my eye around the room for something to assist.

Eventually, I found the solution in the bathroom. There were a couple of handrails on the wall by the bath - the kind which disabled people use, and which will bear the full weight of a person. I stood in the bath, pulled the cords as tight as I could, and then tied them to the handrail, and lowered myself so I was hanging from the cords.

It took a bit of wriggling, and I twice had to repeat the process, but eventually, I had a waist narrow enough for the skirt to fasten.
Success! Combined with absolute agony!

But when I climbed out the bath and stood in front of the mirror, again, I realized the agony was worth it. I had a figure to die for - the tee shirt stretched over my tits like barrage balloons, a tiny waist, and the short, black skirt splaying out over my huge arse. All I needed now to complete the picture were the stockings and shoes. Oh, and of course, the panties!

'Shi-i-i-i-t!'

The busk of the corset almost gouged a hole through my stomach as I tried to bend over to pick up the pack of stockings. That was a lesson I wasn't going to forget in a hurry, to keep my torso dead straight at all times. No wonder women had been so keen to forgo their corsets and their wonderful figures, to avoid having their stomachs ripped open each time they bent over.

This time, I bent my knees in order to lower my body downwards until I could grasp the pack, and then stood up again to consider my next move. The problem was, my feet, as usual, were at the end of my legs, and I had to get the stockings over them. I realized that I should have put on the stockings and the panties before the corset, but there was no way I was taking off the corset and going through the whole process all over again.

After a while, I worked out the solution. I sat on the edge of the bed, and brought my ankle up until I could grasp it in my hand. Then I fell backwards so I was lying on the top of the bed, with my ankle still in my hand. Now I could slide the stocking over my toes and up my leg.
It was only at this point I realized how utterly hairless were my legs, and for that matter, the whole of my body. The Scorned Women had certainly done a fantastic conversion job on me, and must have spent most of last night on it.

Only now could I vaguely remember deciding that, since it was a Friday evening, I would pop into the West Beach Hotel, on Seacombe's sea front, for a couple of drinks on the way home from work. I had hoped that perhaps I might get lucky and pick up a beautiful woman on holiday on her own, looking for a little romance. It was an image I'd had many times before, which was the main reason I tended to frequent the West Beach Hotel, rather than the more conventional hotels and pubs in the town centre.

Unfortunately, until last night, it had never worked out that way. Only occasionally did you find women in the bar on their own, and as soon as you'd got chatting to them, some hunky bloke inevitably turned up and whisked them off, often with quite an aggressive look towards me.
Then, last night I had literally bumped into the woman of my dreams as I left the Gents toilets. She'd been looking behind her as I came out, and she walked straight into me. She had on a low cut dress, and although her boobs weren't one quarter of the size of my current ones, I had found them exceptionally attractive. We got chatting, I bought her a drink, and then another, and finally she'd suggested we go up to her room. We had kissed, she had told me to get undressed and get into bed whilst she went to the bathroom, and...

And nothing. Presumably, at some stage, she'd dropped a date-rape drug into my drink, and then the Scorned Women had done their dirty deeds upon my body whilst I lay unconscious.

To be fair to them, although their intention was clearly vindictive, I really could not complain about the woman I'd been turned into. I smiled. No doubt they had thought to have this kind of body was the worst fate that any woman could suffer. Typical women! They never did understand what made a woman look attractive.

'Mind you,' I thought, 'neither did I.'

After I'd put on my other stocking and fastened on my shoes, using the same principle as before, I stood in front of the mirror once again, and I had to confess I looked absolutely breath-taking. OK my face wasn't pretty, but with a body like mine, who was going to be looking at my face anyway?

The only parts of my clothing with which I was really not happy were the four-inch stiletto heeled shoes, in which I could barely totter across the floor. I needed to spend ages practicing walking in them, but I looked again at the clock, and realized I had barely ten minutes before breakfast ended. I had to go.

***

It was one of those hotels where you have to walk miles to get anywhere. I'd realized I needed some practice in walking - well, I certainly got it on that trek to the restaurant. Fortunately, there was a handrail along most of the corridors. I certainly needed it, for by the time I got to the restaurant, I was barely able to stand up. My ankles were aching as though they were about to drop off. I'd passed one or two guests on the way, and they had all given me rather strange looks - no wonder really - I looked like a prostitute with artificial legs.

But when I got to the restaurant, I let go of the handrail, stood up straight, and made an entrance they would never forget. Body straight (well the corset ensured that, anyway), one foot in front of the other combined with a nice sway of the arse, which the skirt amplified into a wonderful swing. I could see everyone's head turn to watch me, and I felt like a million dollars, until my foot turned, and I went sprawling arse over tit, to end up on my hands and knees at the feet of the head waiter.

The bra cups failed to control my tits, and they flopped forward out of the front of the tee shirt, and my skirt was up around my waist. It was only then I remembered I had forgotten to put on my panties!

***

The waiting staff was quite nice about it all, really. OK, they threw me out of the restaurant, but in a very polite way.

'Madam needs assistance to visit the Ladies Powder Room,' the headwaiter directed, and I had no shortage of beefy waiters who were more than willing to slip their arms around my waist, accidentally squeezing breasts and bum as they did so.

Once inside the Ladies, I made a few lightning adjustments to my clothing, all the time wondering if I had the nerve to walk back into the restaurant. In the event, I was not given the choice. When I left the Ladies, the door to the restaurant was shut, with a large 'Closed' sign on it, with the headwaiter standing implacably inside, his back to the glass door. I knew there was no way I was getting past him. So I commenced the epic journey back to my room, where I'd noticed tea-making facilities, together with a complimentary biscuit.

***

There were only two ways to leave the West Beach Hotel - one to the west, to the next town, ten miles along the coast; the other to the east, and towards Seacombe town centre, located around the river mouth.

The problem was that it was the best part of a mile to the town centre, along Seacombe's promenade, which lined the West Beach. Without even the money for the bus fare, I'd have to walk the whole distance in my heels.

That wasn't all. Until then, I'd thought Seacombe was in serious decline as a seaside resort. How wrong can you be? There were more holidaymakers on that beach than you got in Baywatch when Pamela Anderson was due to appear.

Families with kids, elderly couples, students from the university, as well as the other kind of day trippers, who were simply wetting their toes in the sea before beginning the serious business of drinking dry the local pubs.

The crowds weren't just confined to the beach. They milled around the little huts on the promenade, selling all the usual beach paraphernalia - ice creams, suntan lotion, children's fishing nets, and swimming aids. And every adult, and many of the more mature children, stared at me - the men with looks of open admiration and lechery, as though it was Pamela Anderson, herself, walking by, whilst the women looked on in open disgust.

I'd only gone a few hundred yards before my ankles started to burn in agony, and I had to drop onto an empty bench. Within five seconds, I was sharing the bench with three blokes, who were looking for a bit of fun on their day out. They were keen to point out that on principle they wouldn't pay cash for sex, but they could be very generous to a girl with the right attributes (and I had them) who would be happy to contribute to their enjoyment.

Of course, the male part of me would probably have punched them on the nose, were it not for the fact that there were three of them, all of whom looked far more capable in that respect than I was. So I let my female side dominate, smiling sweetly at them as I shook my head. It was only at that moment I realized, with a sinking feeling, my biggest problem would occur as soon as I started to speak, for surely, I would be sussed out within a few seconds.

Yet those three blokes seemed determined to engage me in conversation. 'Do you live here, luv?' 'Are you married?' 'Got a boyfriend?' 'How do you fancy a stroll into the dunes?' 'Do you want a lift into town?'

That last question went straight to the core, because over the last few minutes, I had been rubbing my flaming ankles, and wondering exactly how I was going to complete the journey into town. I decided to take my courage into my hands, knowing that if these guys realized they were really chatting up a bloke, they would beat me into mincemeat.

'Have you got a car?' I said the words as softly as possible, with a little smile in my eyes, hoping he would notice the smile, more than the maleness of my voice. It seemed to work.

'Yeah. We could give you a lift.'

They were all leering at this. 'What, all three of you?' When they started to nod, I added, 'You must think I was born yesterday, getting into a car with the three of you.'

I looked the one I presumed was the car owner in the eye. 'I'd come with you, though, if you were to offer.' Too late, I realized the ambiguity of the words I'd used.

His face lit up. 'Right on! Great!' He turned to the other two. 'I'll see you guys a bit later - say in the pub at about twelve. I reckon me and the Princess will be done by then.' Thirty seconds later, he'd loaded me into an old Ford Capri parked by the side of the road, and we had shot off into the traffic.

'Gary's my name. How about you?'

Shit! What was my name? I could hardly tell him the truth.

'Donny Partem.' The name slipped out before I'd even thought about it, and I sought to justify it. 'That's my professional name, anyway. I do a Dolly Parton look-alike act, round the clubs and bars. Do you think I'm like her?'

'Fucking hell.' He leered at my tits. 'I'll say.'

'You're going the wrong way. The town centre is in the opposite direction.'

'I've just got to find somewhere to turn the car round.'

'You've just passed the West Beach Hotel. You could have turned round there.'

'Yeah, but they get really snotty-nosed about people having sex in the car park.'

I gulped. I knew it was a bad idea getting in the car with him, aching ankles or no aching ankles.

'We can turn round up here,' he said, turning the car off the main road and taking a side road into the dunes at the rear of the beach.

'Oh God,' I thought 'I've asked for this.'

I looked around. We were now completely surrounded by the sand dunes, with not a person in sight. I could be in serious trouble.

'Gary, I'm not going to have sex with you.'

He looked at the expression on my face, then stopped the car with a lurch. 'Sorry, that's what I thought you were suggesting. Still, I'll never force a woman to have sex with me, so if you want to get out here, it's OK by me.'

'But you've taken me away from the town centre. It's miles back there, and I can't walk through the sand in these heels.'

'Well, I didn't make you wear those shoes, did I?' He hesitated a second, then said, 'Look, if you don't fancy full sex, how about a tit fuck?'

It was my turn to hesitate. After all, it wasn't as though they were my tits, were they?

'And you'll take me into town, afterwards?'

'Course I will,' he said.

The problem was, I saw the bastard cross his fingers as he spoke.

***

'Come on, then.' I jerked my head, indicating we should get out of the car.

His leer turned into a huge grin. 'Great.' He switched off the engine and got out, walked around the car, and held the door open whilst I got out.
The road was about three feet higher than the sand at this point, but a few gorse bushes had grown by the side. I thought that these, together with the car, would probably conceal us from anyone strolling amongst the sand dunes. Hopefully, we'd be able to hear if a car was coming, and take cover before it came into sight.

'This place is as good as any,' I said, not really certain how I was going to play this, and trying as hard as I could to remember the few times when I had been a recipient of this kind of good fortune. It was all going to be made so much more difficult, I realized, by the restrictions so uncompromisingly imposed by the corset.

Taking care not to bend forward, I knelt down before him, released his trouser belt, and unzipped him. His trousers fell to the ground, and his prick was bulging beneath his underpants. I grasped them and gently eased them down over the bulge, and his prick suddenly sprang out towards my face.

'I'm not doing a blow job,' I said. 'Sit down.'

'Any scrubber can give me blowjob,' he said, dropping down onto his bum, leaning back on his elbows and pushing his legs forward. 'But I've never seen a woman with tits like yours before. This is going to be unique.'

I pulled up the front of my tee shirt, and shrugged first one tit out of the bra, and then the other. Then I edged forward on my knees until my tits were hanging over his balls, and sat firmly astride his thighs. With my weight on top of him, he wasn't going to move until I was ready. I didn't want him deciding he wanted to extend the range of our activities, and suddenly reversing positions.

So we commenced. I didn't have to lean forward very far for my huge tits to be hanging either side of his prick, and I simply pushed them together with my hands until his prick was totally hidden. Then I rolled my tits down the side of his prick, until the purple head came poking through. I pushed them back up again, and then violently jerked them down.

'Fucking hell! That's good,' he moaned.

'Lie down on your back,' I commanded, 'close your eyes, and think of England. You'll last longer that way.'

He obediently complied, resting his head on his hands, for comfort. I allowed the purple knob of his prick to protrude once more, and then got into a smooth rhythm - up and down, up and down, up and down. Every now and again, I gave a violent jerk downwards, and he would grunt in response.

We continued for another five minutes or so, before I could sense him about to spurt. Well, one thing I was determined was not going to happen was that he squirted over me. I had him pointing in exactly the right direction when his knob protruded the next time. I gave another violent jerk, he gave an enormous grunt, and his cum shot into the air.

I guess a schoolchild could make some kind of scientific deductions about gravity, by observing the parabola of that splodge of semen, as it soared almost three feet in the air and then, with quite a large element of luck, landed exactly where I'd planned - right in his gob!

But he'd already shot his next load by then, and this time it was sheer chance that, as he wrenched himself upright in a choking spasm, he was hit straight between the eyes by his own semen.

Well, that suited me even better, because he was half blind now, as well as choking. Whilst he frantically rubbed his eyes, I grabbed hold of his trousers, and yanked at the one side, causing him to roll off the edge of the road towards the sand beneath. His head and torso slid down the steep slope to the sand, but I kept hold of the trousers, with his feet trapped inside the legs, so he was left hanging upside down.

Just to make certain he wasn't going to easily free himself, I pushed the trousers over a few branches of a gorse bush, and wedged them as deeply in the centre as I could.

I'd carefully noted what he'd done with his car keys as he got out the car, so after I'd managed to stand upright again - no mean task in that corset - it was simple to retrieve them, get in the car and prepare to drive off.

'Thanks for offering me the lift into town,' I said. 'It's a pity your feet appear to be enveloped inside a gorse bush...

'You fucking bitch! Get me out of here or I'll... Shit!' The last remark came as he tried to extricate himself from the gorse and rather badly scratched his bare leg.

'Be careful,' I warned, 'Gorse can be very sharp.' I gave him a nice smile, and added, 'I'll leave your car in the harbour car park. Thanks for lending it to me.'

I shut the window and drove off.

***

Tweeds' Fashions was nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be full of respectable middle-aged ladies buying their tweed suits. Instead, it was full of teeny boppers, buying club wear - short, sexy dresses, brightly coloured catsuits, bustiers and hot pants.

'Select a less revealing dress in Tweeds,' a Woman Scorned had written. Looking around, I could see very little which matched that description.

I wondered whether, when they said 'dress', they would let get me get away with trousers. Unfortunately, time was fast approaching 11.30, when I was supposed to meet them in the changing rooms. I had a nasty feeling that if I wasn't on time, they would simply walk away and leave me abandoned. I hurriedly grabbed a few outfits in the largest sizes, which looked as though they might be slightly more respectable than my current garb, and headed for the changing rooms.

Inside, I'd expected to find separate changing cubicles - the same as you get in men's clothes shops. Not so, it was one long room, with a bench down either side and hooks at intervals along the walls. Not that you could see much of the benches, for there must have been twenty girls in that room, all in various stages of undress, including several who were stark naked, apart from the tiniest pairs of knickers I'd ever seen.
'You going through luv, or waiting for a bus?' The voice came from an impatient woman, behind me. 'Look, there's some space right at the end.'
She pointed past me, to the far corner, almost hidden by the seething half-naked bodies.

'Thanks. I hadn't noticed.'

I took a deep breath and moved forward, hoping the bodies would move aside to let me through. They didn't.

'Oh, for God's sake!' The woman pushed past me in exasperation, and started worming her way into the crowd. She had almost disappeared into it, when she turned round, grasped my wrist and added, 'Come on. You'll never get through this lot if you're polite.' She pulled me into the crowd.

When I was a schoolboy, I'd had this dream of being pushed by the other boys into the girls' changing-rooms, and not being let out. It might have been a premonition of that moment, except that I wasn't certain whether it was a dream or a nightmare!

On the one hand, wriggling my way amongst dozens of half-naked girls was fantastic - on the other hand, there was a part of me that was screaming to get more deeply involved, but it was trapped immobile by whatever contraptions it had been glued into. I was in the middle of twenty naked women and I couldn't get an erection! And of course, I was doing something highly illegal and I might be found out, to my everlasting disgrace.

'There you are luv, there's a couple of spaces here.' My companion had pulled me all the way through the heaven/hell zone, and we had some clear space around us. 'Will you undo my zip?' She turned her back on me so I could oblige.

As I pulled the zip down her back and her dress gaped opened, I realised she was bra-less. She pulled the dress off her shoulders and it fell to her waist, as she turned round to step out of it.

'What's the matter? Not seen a waspie like this before?'

She was proudly displaying the bright red foundation garment around her waist. I gulped, trying to concentrate on that, rather than those wonderful boobies.

'No... well, yes. I was admiring it. I wear a corset, but it's nothing like as attractive as that.'

'Gives you the nice figure, though, doesn't it? I wish I had a figure like yours.' She nodded at one of the outfits I had selected, a midnight blue catsuit. 'That's nice; I might try one of those myself, later on. Can I see you in it?'

'Yes, of course, although I'm not certain it'll fit.' I took a deep breath and pulled my tee shirt over my head, followed by my skirt, and stepped out of my shoes. I pushed my feet into the legs and, surprisingly, managed to pull it over my hips and feed my arms into it. It had a long back zip, and my companion obligingly did it up.

'You look good in it,' she said. 'There's a mirror over there.' She pointed into the crowd. 'I'm just going off to show this to my friend. Back in a minute.' She had pulled on a red dress that was almost as short as the skirt I had been wearing, and she disappeared towards the door.
Now I was starting to get used to all these naked women, I didn't find them so distracting as I forced my way over to the mirror. I stared critically at my image. Jesus Christ, I looked good! I would actually enjoy walking around in this outfit, especially watching the look on blokes' faces as they saw me. Hopefully, the Women Scorned wouldn't veto it, simply because it wasn't a dress.

I went back to the hook where I'd hung my clothes, thinking that I might as well try on the other garments before making my final decision. Unfortunately, when it came to undoing the zip of my catsuit, I couldn't reach it. Damn! Hopefully, my companion would return soon, as I really didn't want to risk starting up a conversation with someone else in there.

I examined my other outfits fairly carefully, and as I looked as the white dress, I recognised one of the labels hanging from the zip. It had three words written on it: 'A Woman Scorned.'

I glanced around. One of these half naked girls must have tied it on there whilst I'd been looking in the mirror, but I couldn't see anyone taking the slightest notice in me. I turned over the label, and read the handwritten message:

'The police have just been given a description of a man masquerading as a woman in the changing rooms at Tweeds. You have only a few minutes to get out.'

My first reaction was to bolt for the door, pushing aside everyone who got in the way, and run out of the shop, but a quick glance at the Amazon guarding the entrance to the changing rooms indicated there was no way anyone was going to get past her wearing the, as yet unpaid, shop goods.

'Do you think you could unzip me, please?' My voice was as sweet and soft as it had ever been, and the girl next to me didn't even break her conversation with her companion as she did as I bade. The catsuit was off in ten seconds flat, and I was fully dressed and leaving the changing-rooms within a couple of minutes, carefully handing over the outfits to the Amazon as I did so.

I could hear a siren as I went through the shop door, and I hurriedly turned in the opposite direction. I was ten yards down the street before the police car turned the corner and I quickly darted inside the nearest doorway, which happened to be that of a wine bar called Jed's.

***

'You're late.' The man, who I presumed was Jed, had been clearing one of the tables, and he scowled at me as I stepped inside. 'You were supposed to be here by 11.45. It's now almost twelve.'

'Sorry. Er... I think you must have the wrong...'

'Woman scorned?'

My mouth almost dropped open, but I managed to nod.

'You think I don't recognise my own uniform?'

'Uniform?' I glanced around. There was a waitress serving another table wearing the same white tee shirt, black skirt with fishnet stockings, and ridiculous heels. But she also had on a frilly white apron, tied in a large bow at the rear, a white hair ribbon, also tied in a large bow, and a black bow tie around her, otherwise bare, neck.

'You'll find the rest of your things through there.' Jed indicated a door behind the bar. 'Get them on straightaway, and you can finish clearing this table.'

'But...'

'I don't want no buts. If you're not going to work then piss off, but make certain you leave the uniform behind, otherwise I'll have the law on you.'

'But I haven't got any other clothes...'

'Not my problem, is it? As far as I'm concerned you can walk stark naked down the street, or get properly attired and start serving.'

I sighed. This was obviously the next part of my humiliation.

***

Fortunately, both the bow tie and the hair ribbon were of the pre-tied, elasticised variety, and I managed, on the third attempt, to put a half decent bow at the rear of the apron. As I went back into the bar area, I felt pretty good, and I reckoned that as demeaning jobs go, this was not going to be too bad. Little did I know.

The problem was that with that uniform, every male that came into the place regarded the waitresses as easy meat, and dressed in that way, it was mainly males that came in. It was called a wine bar, but it was really a pub for lager louts, with waitress service, which meant they could drink huge amounts without realizing they were so pissed they couldn't even stagger to the bar.

And the more pissed they became, so their suggestions became cruder, and were generally accompanied by a grope. A hand wandering between my thighs and up my skirt, to feel the skin between stocking top and panties, or grabbing a tit and rolling the nipple between finger and thumb.

The first time it happened, I poured the guy's lager straight into his lap, but I got a tremendous rocketing from Jed, and was told that, not only would I be out the door without my uniform if I did that again, but that I'd have to pay for his trousers to be dry cleaned out of my share of the tips.

The other waitress was quite philosophical about it, pointing out that, the more she let the guys touch her up, the higher the tips became. She had a point, and for the rest of the day, I became as co-operative as she was. The only problem was, at the end of the day, I didn't get any tips.
It was well after midnight. I'd been on my feet in the wine bar for the best part of twelve hours, with barely a rest. My ankles burnt, my feet throbbed with pain, my legs ached, even my shoulders felt as though they wanted to drop off, tired of carrying the weight of those enormous breasts.

'No way luv. You've been skiving all day long. You poured that beer over the guy and we've had to pay for his trousers to be cleaned. We've had to spend so much of our own time in just showing you what to do. There's no way you get a share of the tips.'

So Jed shared the pot out with the other waitress, and she left with a smirk over her face.

'Where do I sleep?' It was a question that had started to bother me over the last few minutes. A Woman Scorned had told me I'd get accommodation if I did what I was told. I'd been totally obedient, so Jed ought to know what the arrangements were. But he'd made no reference to a room, and he was now turning out all the lights in the building, and there seemed a clear desire to get rid of me.

'Sleep? I don't know where you're sleeping. It's not my problem. I'm not a bed and breakfast, you know.'

'But...' I looked outside. There were still dozens of drunken yobos roaming the streets. 'I've got nowhere to go. Can't I stay here?'

'You're kidding!' He stared at me, then his gaze softened. 'Got nowhere to go? I guess you could stay here, but what's it worth?'

'Worth! You've taken all the tips I earned. I haven't got any money.'

He smiled. 'I wasn't thinking of money.'

I was about to tell him to get lost, but there was a sudden bout of raucous shouting outside, and I knew if I was out there on my own, I was going to encounter far worse than Jed.

'I suppose I could give you a tit fuck,' I tentatively offered. After all, I'd managed earlier on that day, even though it seemed a lifetime before.

'On yer bike. It's the full thing, or you're out the door. And don't forget I need the uniform off you before you leave.'

I glanced down. There was an enormous bulge appearing in the front of his trousers. Whilst I didn't know what kind of device the Women Scorned lot had used to convert me, it was a sure fire cert I wouldn't be able to find a home for that monster.

'Sorry. It's that time of the month. I could give you a blow job.'

He shook his head. 'Like I say, it's the real thing or nothing' He gave another smile. 'Course, if it's just your period that's putting you off, I'm quite happy with any port in a storm, if you know what I mean?'

I did.

He could sense my hesitation. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it flat on his palm. 'I've got the protection, so what's the harm?'
I looked at the condom in its foil pack. He was right. It wasn't as though he was actually going to do anything other than use me as a receptacle in which to masturbate. I nodded. 'OK, you're on.'

'Right, get the uniform off. We don't want to mess it up, do we?'

He helped me out of my clothes but told me to keep on my corset, stockings and shoes. 'A corset really keeps me hard on for hours.'

Well that seemed a bloody good reason for removing it, but I could see I wasn't going to get away with that argument.

'Look, I'd better tell you,' I confessed. 'I've never actually done it this way before.' That was certainly no lie. 'Will you be... gentle with me?'

He smiled at me. He really had a rather nice smile, I thought.

'If you've never had it this way before, then you don't know what you've missed. You'll be screaming for more within five minutes, and mighty glad your corset will keep me hard for so long.'

He was right in one respect, I thought, I would certainly be screaming but it would probably be within ten seconds of starting, and I certainly wouldn't be asking for more.

He slipped his hands around my waist, and pushed me over one of the round tables in the bar, forcing me to lie flat. Of course, once I was in that position, there was no way I could escape, since the corset prevented me from twisting about. His hands slid down to my hips, and he pulled my body slightly back towards him. I felt a shiver of... was it fear, apprehension or excitement? I wasn't certain which.

Then I felt something nuzzling at my back passage, something very large and very hard, and very intent upon finding its way inside. It squirmed to the right, then twisted to the left, to right and left again, then lifted a little, dropped and...

God! My ring was being stretched over something the size of a pickaxe handle - something so large, it was surely going to tear me apart - something...

'U-g-h!'

He was inside me, and I could feel it tunnelling its way up towards my navel. I never dreamt a prick could go that far inside, but then it was sliding out again, until the knob started to stretch my ring.

'Jesus Christ!' It felt bigger, as he slowly withdrew it, than when it had forced its way inside. The pain was... delicious! Yes, I had to admit it; after only one insertion, I was hooked. I wanted him to shove it in again, but he was pausing, as though deliberating whether to continue.

'Please. Give it to me.'

'I thought you weren't too keen on this. Shall I stop now?'

'No!'

He must have heard the panic in my voice, for he teased me, 'Well, I'm not so certain. I wouldn't want...'

'Please. Fuck me. Hard!'

'What? Really hard?'

'Yes! Please. Fuck me really hard!'

It was like an express train entering a tunnel. An explosion of pain from rectum to navel.

'How was that?'

'Good. It was very good.'

'But I bet you prefer it a bit slower, don't you?'

He was withdrawing, slowly - oh so slowly. As his knob approached my ring, he went even more slowly. The pain was so exquisite I screamed in delight, and he kept it in just the right spot for a second, before his prick was sliding out of my hole.

This time, he didn't make be beg for it - in an instant, he was slowly sliding it back in again, just far enough for my ring to be stretched to the full, and then start to close over his knob, before it was sliding out again. In, out, in, out. He wasn't bothering about pleasuring himself - only in bringing me to the most fantastic climax of my life.

I screamed and screamed with pleasure. Nothing had ever been that good before, and it went on for minute after wonderful minute. Finally, he realized I was over my peak, and he changed his rhythm to long, powerful thrusts, pulling hard against my hips to impale me fully on his magnificent tool, and then withdrawing almost all the way, before thrusting into me again.

We continued like that for ages, before I could feel his balls, which were slapping into my bottom at every thrust, start to tighten in preparation for shooting his load. Once again, he changed his rhythm to the short, slow movements, which sent me into a screaming orgasm again.

God knows how he managed to keep that monster satisfying me for so long, but when he finally shot his load into me, and I slowly got myself into an upright position, I noticed that the clock over the bar stood at 2.15 am.

'You can kip down over there,' he said before he left, pointing to a fairly comfortable looking settee in the corner of the bar. 'I've been told to give you this, for tomorrow morning.'

He dropped a bulky envelope into my hands.

'Have a good time tomorrow, and if you er... want a repeat performance anytime, just pop round and see me.'

It sounded a bloody tempting offer.

***

The white bikini barely covered the crucial parts of my body, as I walked down the main shopping street towards the beach. I got plenty of appreciative shouts, even though I'd draped the tiny towel, which had also been in the envelope, over my shoulders, trying to hide as much as possible of my wobbling breasts. The problem was, the towel was miniscule, and my breasts weren't.

I had thought of using it as a wraparound skirt, to hide the bikini bottom, which was in reality, little more than a thong. Unfortunately, the towel wasn't long enough to go all the way round my waist, and I couldn't even get it to stay in any worthwhile position about my lower half. Instead, I draped it around my neck, so it at least covered my nipples thrusting through the thin material of the bikini top.

I'd kept the high heels from yesterday, but I wasn't certain whether they were an advantage or not. OK, it would have been dangerous walking on the pavement without shoes, since last night's yobos had left plenty of broken beer bottles lying around. But the shoes made my bottom move from side to side as I walked, which sent sympathetic wobbles out to the rest of my body, considerably enhancing my entertainment value to the crowds. I noticed at least three blokes following me along the road - crossing the road when I did, and speeding up and slowing down to match my own progress. No doubt, I was providing them with their sexual thrill for the week. If only they knew!

When I reached the beach, at least I felt far less conspicuous, and I could remove my shoes and carry them to the spot where I needed to settle down. I chose a part of the beach that was already fairly crowded with families, giving little space to lurk for my three followers.

All the fathers openly goggled at me, whilst the mothers gave me dirty looks, and then even dirtier looks at their spouse. At least I was relatively safe here, and I guessed there'd be no shortage of people to look after my towel when I went swimming in the sea.

The instructions in the envelope had been brief, but specific. I was to put on the bikini that was enclosed, and arrive on the beach in time to swim out to the bathing raft for 10.30. I would be met there, and my next instructions given.

I hadn't swum in British waters since I was a kid, and I had forgotten how incredibly cold they could be, even on a warm summer's day. For the first time, I appreciated the conversion job the Scorned Women had done on my testicles. With those safely tucked out of reach of the icy waters, and the breasts insulating my front, I wasn't as bad as I might have been. The cold had the additional advantage of discouraging a couple of blokes who'd followed me into the water. Presumably, their ardour was not only cooled, they were also suffering the brass-monkey problem.

I'd always been a strong swimmer, and it only took me a few minutes of fast crawl to reach the bathing raft. There was one nasty moment in the swim when I twisted my head to breathe, and found I'd inadvertently swum into a kid's Mickey Mouse tee shirt that was floating about. I thought I'd been attacked by a giant jellyfish, but having realized my mistake; I swept the shirt to one side and continued.

I pulled myself onto the bathing raft, and flopped down on my bum, propping up my upper body with my elbow, in a manner not dissimilar, I thought, to a mermaid displaying herself on a rock. The effect on the men on the beach was every bit as impressive, for several walked to the water's edge and simply stood there, their mouths agog.

It was strange, I thought, but all my life I'd tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, dressing conservatively, saying nothing controversial, and conforming in every respect with the middle-class neighbourhood in which I lived. However, in the last twenty-four hours I had become someone completely different. And I was enjoying it!

I should have been cringing in shame at having men want to stick their pricks inside me. Yet not only had I experienced that very event last night, which had resulted in me having a series of orgasms like none I'd ever experienced before, I was incredibly excited by the prospect of it reoccurring.

'Were you waiting for me?'

The voice had come from the water on the seaward side of the raft. I turned and looked. It was one of the weedy looking blokes who'd followed me along the seafront.

'Should I be?'

He smiled. 'You look suspicious,' he said. 'Very beautiful, but very suspicious. Like a woman scorned.'

I smiled back. 'You have something for me?'

'Maybe. But you have to earn it first.'

I shrugged. 'I thought maybe I would. What do you want?' Why was I feeling excited, I wondered, rather than shocked.

'A blow job?' He sounded extremely nervous, as though he had never asked for that before.

I looked him over, and thought that he probably never had. 'Out here? We'll get arrested.'

He had it all worked out. 'If I stay this side of the raft, we can't be seen from the shore. I could float on my back, whilst you just lean over the edge of the raft and er... do it.' He was half pleading, almost certain I was going to tell him to get lost.

I knew that if I acted shocked and outraged, he would cave in. I'd be able to bully the next clue out of him, simply by threatening to report his obscene suggestion to the police.

On the other hand, I felt rather sorry for him. I had been in a not dissimilar position often enough to recognize his nervousness. I looked around. There were no other bathers out this far, and he was right, he couldn't be seen from the shore. It would simply look as though I was lying on my tummy, staring at the sea whilst I sunned my back.

'OK,' I said.

'You'll do it?' He couldn't believe his ears.

I rolled over onto my tummy and edged forward so my head and shoulders were over the edge of the raft, and I could reach him with my mouth. He was trying to pull down his swimming trunks and obviously having difficulty, because his head dunked under water a couple of times, and I had to grab hold of him to stop him choking.

Finally, he was floating on his back, his prick standing proud towards me. I had to admit that, even though his balls had shrivelled to the size of walnuts, his prick was showing no such inhibition. I lowered my mouth towards him, and started by kissing the end.

He gasped, and a flush of excitement surged through me, at the power I had to bring him to a shattering climax. I stretched out my tongue, and slowly licked him, commencing with his glans, and then working all the way down his shaft. I briefly gave the shrivelled walnuts a lick, but they seemed to be taking no interest in the affair, so I moved back to his cock and worked my tongue back up the shaft, until I was giving his glans long strokes.

'Oh God! That's gorgeous.'

Well, I felt pretty good about it as well. I didn't think I would reach a climax, but I did feel a little sweetness inside. I slowly eased my lips over his knob. It was, of course, the first time I had been in that position, and had never before realized how wide one had to open the mouth in order to get a decent sized cock inside.

I pushed my head right down the shaft as far as I could, until I felt his cock at the back of my throat. I almost gagged then, but had the will power to stop myself, and withdrew to the point where I could use my tongue on his knob for a few seconds. Then I was working my mouth down his shaft again.

When I knew he was on the point of orgasm, I delicately pulled my mouth off him, knowing I would never be able to keep my teeth apart with a gob load of cum shooting to the back of my throat. But I used my tongue on his glans to finish him off, and then he was shooting his load into the air.

'O-h-h-h Y-e-s-s-s! That's fucking great!' he shouted at the top of his voice.

I looked around, anxious whether anyone had swum close by, and stared straight into the faces of around fifty people on a pleasure cruiser, which had just set off from the landing stage on the beach.

'Oh that was so fucking g...' His eyes had followed my gaze, and I noticed that in the space of a second, his prick reduced to something the size of my little toe. He took a deep breath, then ducked underwater, so that I was left on my own to outstare the fathers, mothers, boys and girls who looked back at me.

'Mummy. Was that a sea serpent that dragged the man underwater?'

The boy's mother was saved having to explain, by the tannoy, which boomed into life. 'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board the Seacombe Belle, the only glass bottomed boat in the area, where we promise you a full view of sea life.'

The speaker had obviously only just noticed me, for he went on, 'On our right is one of the beautiful mermaids who inhabit this particular part of the sea, and... bloody hell.'

The last bit was in response to my raising myself into a sitting position, to more fully mimic a mermaid. However, I did think his response was over the top. OK, I was extremely well built, but a skipper should have more self-control when he's on a public address system.

I glanced down, with a sudden suspicion that perhaps my bikini top had failed to contain its ample payload. It was still properly in place, but whereas this morning, it had been a virginal white in colour, now it was as transparent as a clear plastic bag. To all but a careful observer, I appeared stark naked!

***

'I've got to tell you two things,' my cowardly cock-sucked companion said, after a lot of quite unnecessary puffing and blowing, following a mere thirty seconds submersion. 'The first is that your swimming costume becomes transparent when it gets wet. The second is that you have to go to Star-A-Gram in Back Lane, by midday, to continue with your next clue.'

He gave an evil leer as he stared up and down my body. 'Thanks for er... it, and if you need anything else, just let me know.' He started to swim in the direction of the shore.

'There is one thing I need from you,' I said, standing up.

He stopped swimming and turned to look at me, as he frantically trod water. Not, I thought, a very confident swimmer.

'I need to borrow your swimming trunks, I said.

His reply was lost to me, as I made a passable dive into the water.

I've never been bad at diving in and swimming underwater, and it took no effort at all to reach the point where I could see him paddling overhead, his trunks still not properly back into position after our earlier activity. He was frantically treading water, turning to left and right to see where I was going to surface. The sea was only about eight feet deep there, and it was a simple matter to push myself up to the point where I could grab the rear waistband of his trunks, and then expel air from my body so that I sank back to the sea bottom.

He had a choice: try to swim the pair of us back to the surface, whilst choking on the water he inhaled as I'd pulled him under, or to wriggle out of the garment by which he was being held down, and make his naked way back to the surface.

For a few seconds he tried the former, but the more he struggled, the more breath he needed, which he hadn't got. Meanwhile, I conserved my own breath by staying motionless, holding the pair of us weighted down on the bottom by hooking my foot under the chain securing the bathing raft. In the end, he realized the choice between life itself, and a pair of swimming trunks was a no brainer decision. Twenty seconds later, I bobbed back to the surface having pulled his trunks over my bikini bottom.

'Stop!' he croaked, between the chokes. 'You can't leave me like this! I'm naked. I won't be able to get out of the water.'

He desperately swam towards me, but I could easily keep well out of his reach. I gave him a nice smile, and said, 'I don't remember you being too concerned when it was the other way round. Anyway, look on it as a charge for services rendered.'

I struck out towards the shore.

Fortunately, I remembered the Mickey Mouse tee shirt floating in the water, so by the time I arrived back at the shore, I was, if anything, more respectably dressed than when I went in. I headed for Back Lane.

***

Back Lane was one of the seedier roads in Seacombe old town, and Star-A-Gram was undoubtedly the seediest looking premises in the road. The shop window was full of pictures of almost naked look-alikes - not just women, but men, as well. In fact, it was the pictures of the men that I found more shocking. Clint Eastwood, for example, had such an enormous tool, barely concealed by a thong, that I...

'You're late!'

I looked up at the speaker, a middle-aged man, with a beer belly as big as my arse. He'd poked his head around the door to berate me.
'Fred Baine's the name and I own this business. You should have been here ten minutes ago. The act starts in fifteen minutes, and you've got to get dressed and get over to a hotel in the new town.'

I followed him inside, and he gesticulated to a sequinned dress on a hangar. 'Get straight into that, and I'll order you up a taxi.'

I looked around. 'Where do I change?'

His lip curled with disdain. 'Why? With tits like those, you can hardly be modest. You haven't time for any niceties. Now, get dressed.'

I peeled off the wet tee shirt and bikini. There was no underwear with the dress, apart from a pair of self-supporting stockings (fishnet again, I noted).However, the dress had a built in bra top, which looked about the right size, and I could probably manage without panties, unless the dress turned transparent like the bikini.

'Where am I going and what do I have to do?'

'Haven't they told you anything? It's the Police Booze 'n Buffet over at the Seacombe Heights Hotel. You're singing four Dolly Parton numbers. Is that a problem?'

'Singing! I can't sing.'

'You're going to be miming to the fucking karaoke machine, of course.' He pointed to a ghetto blaster on the counter. 'You don't think anybody wants to hear you sing, do you? And remember to joggle your tits around while you sing, so everybody thinks they're going to pop out. OK?'

Fortunately, he hadn't said anything about being a Strip-A-Gram, and I certainly wasn't going to ask, so I nodded.

'Afterwards,' he continued, 'there's a private function at 3 pm, at the Hilton, out on the Bramley Road. You'll need to get back here before then to change your dress, but you can do the same four Dolly Parton's, with plenty more tit joggle. Any problems?'

I shook my head. After what had happened to me over the last two days, a bit of karaoke with tit jiggle would be an easy ride.

***

In the taxi, I managed to work out how to operate the karaoke machine. It was a bit like a ghetto blaster, with a small screen that displayed the words, so I could get the lip synch right, whilst it played Dolly's songs. I sorted out which songs I was going to do, and by then we were outside the hotel and I was stepping inside.

The first song went like a dream. OK, I was a bit nervous, and I messed up the start so no one was under any illusions that I was simply miming, but they ogled my tits as I jiggled them about, and were quite appreciative.

I could see during the next song, Country Road, they were getting a little bored. The noise level increased, as they started talking to their neighbours, but they still kept an eye on me, with the prospect of a wayward tit display. Now I'd settled down a bit, I started to recognize one or two policemen from around the town. There was the bastard who'd pulled me up for speeding, and then been incredibly upset that I had passed the breathalyser test. At the rear was the chief constable, totally pissed, and one of the few people still captivated by my performance.
As I commenced my third song, Jolene, I decided to put some extra gip into my gyrations. I was quite pleased with the effect it had, as I saw that several members of the audience suddenly sat up, and then start nudging their neighbours to take note. By the end of Jolene, I had everyone's attention riveted on me. I felt bloody good. Perhaps I had missed my true vocation. It was just a pity I couldn't sing!

In the fourth song, they were cheering me on, and clapping in time with my singing, and the applause at the end was tremendous.

'More! More!' they shouted.

Well, I could hardly deny them could I? I bent down to reset the karaoke machine, and it was then I realized. The stitching had come apart on my dress. The seams across the bust were totally undone, and my nipples were poking through, and the seams in the skirt had almost all come apart, and the whole thing was in tatters. Most importantly, the seam running right down the centre of the skirt had opened up from navel to hem, and I knew then exactly what the audience had been cheering about. Not only had they seen my stocking tops, they'd had full frontal view of my pubic bush, as well.

The audience saw my shock as I realized what I'd been displaying, and went wild. They whistled and cheered, and almost brought the roof down. Of course, I should have been totally embarrassed. Instead, I felt elated. I had the power to achieve this affect. These blokes were turned on by me. They all wanted to fuck me!

I switched on the machine and repeated a couple of numbers. I would have done more, but they were starting to get restless at that time. When the chief constable came on the stage, his prick pushing out of his flies, I knew it was time to leave. My next performance called.

***

I gave Fred Baine a right earful, but he was unrepentant.

'Yes, of course we fix the dresses so they fall apart. And if I'd warned you about what was going to happen, you wouldn't have been surprised by it. As it was, I bet you looked totally natural, and the crowd loved it. You'll now know exactly how to behave when it happens during your next performance.'

I sighed. He was right, and I could hardly say I hadn't enjoyed the performance, could I?

The party at the Hilton was a different sort of affair altogether. I spoke with the hotel manager as he led me to the function room, and quizzed him about the state of the guests, thinking that if they were any worse than the last lot, I was likely to be the on the wrong end of a gangbang. He reassured me, saying they were a very respectable looking group, who'd been there less than an hour, so they were still pretty sober.

That made me extremely apprehensive about going on stage with a dress that I now knew was going to fall apart. It was one thing when it happened in front of a load of drunken policemen, quite another in front of the town's upright citizens. However, the golden rule was that the show must go on. Presumably, someone had booked me, knowing exactly what they were going to get, and they would get it.

The manager had been given specific instructions, which he repeated to me. I was to enter onto a darkened stage, walk to the centre, and as soon as I started the music, they'd put a spotlight on me. It all worked like a dream. I entered through the wings of the stage, quietly moved to the centre, then switched on the ghetto blaster. The spotlight came on and I started my performance.

But I was only part way through the third line when someone stepped up onto the stage, switched off my music, and a woman's voice said, 'Who the hell are you?'

The lights were switched on and we stared at each other. She was in her mid-thirties, tall and quite busty, although, of course, her figure wasn't a patch on mine. The fifty or so people in the audience looked at the two of us in puzzlement.

After a few seconds, she shook her head and said, 'I'm sorry, there's been a most frightful mix up.' She looked around at audience, all gaping at the two of us, and added, 'Can we go outside somewhere, and I'll explain.'

***

'My name's Sheila Barton,' she revealed, a few minutes later. 'I'm really sorry about the mistake. I simply can't imagine how it happened. You were supposed to be my husband, you see.'

I nodded, and took a long drink from my beer, the first pint I'd had for days. 'I assumed that,' I said.

Sheila had taken me out of the function room and we'd headed for the hotel bar, where we could talk in private.

'I'd invited all his friends and business colleagues to a surprise party for him. I'd told them he was going to come on the stage in disguise and give us a performance. After he'd finished, we'd put the lights up, and only then would he see who was in his audience. By that time, all his friends would have realized it was my husband in drag, and his reputation would be in tatters, along with his dress. Instead of which...' She looked at me, questioningly.

'Did you describe your husband to the Women Scorned, and tell them that he'd gone into the men's toilet in the West Beach Hotel?'

'Yes. Is that where the mix-up occurred?'

I nodded again. 'I was already in the toilet when your husband came in. I remember him, since he looked a bit similar to me - same height and build, same colour hair, similar suit. But he went into a cubicle, whilst I finished washing my hands and left. That's when I was picked up by your friends, and from that moment, I had no hope of opting out.'

'I'm most dreadfully sorry about the mistake. It's so embarrassing. When you realized it was all a cock-up, why didn't you do something to stop it?'

I smiled at the aptness of her description. 'Such as what? I was given no choice, but to go along with everything you lot told me to do. But I did think the mistake would be discovered as soon as your husband turned up at home. Where do you think he's got to?'

'John must have spent the weekend with his girlfriend, as he'd been planning. I dropped him off on Friday evening at the hotel for his so called weekend conference. But I knew he was really going to meet her there, and that she wasn't due to arrive until late Friday evening. I thought that, in the meantime, he wouldn't be able to resist a quickie with someone he met in the bar. The problem is, we trapped you instead.'

'John Barton? Is that your husband's name? I feel as though I recognize it,' I lied. 'Where do you live?'

'Not round here. We live in Dorton. John is a Sales Rep for Dorton Engineering. He has a few customers in Seacombe, so he's here quite a lot. It takes less than half an hour in the car.'

'Longish way to come for a Christmas Party.'

'What?' Sheila was suddenly cautious.

'You said in your note to John something about coming here for a Christmas Party.'

'Oh yes. John got an invite to a Christmas Party at one of his customers in Seacombe. I think it was mainly because she fancied him and hadn't realized he was married.'

'As I said, quite a long way to come for a party.'

'Yes.'

'And you had a nasty accident on the way home?'

She tried to brush it off. 'Well, a bit of one. Now, how can I compensate you for the horrible experience I've put you through this weekend? I'd really do er... anything to make it up.' She smiled at me.

I looked carefully at her. She was rather sexy, and I thought John Barton must be stupid to go chasing other women when he had her. Still, there was no accounting for taste. I wondered, was she really offering her body? It was, I thought, time for revenge, or perhaps I should have said, justice.

I returned her smile. 'Well, Sheila, that is really very nice of you. There is something I would like you to do for me.'

Her face lit up. 'Anything. Anything at all.'

'That's great Sheila. You see, what I'd like you to do is to tell me about the hit and run accident that John had on 12th December last year, when his car mounted the pavement outside my house and killed my wife, as she took our dog for a late night walk.'

***

John Barton got a jail sentence for manslaughter, and Sheila, a hefty fine for helping to conceal it.

Sheila had been right to question why I went along with their scheme, when I should simply have waited for a chambermaid to appear on Saturday morning, and then called the police and explained everything.

But I knew that, if I had done that, the Women Scorned would have simply melted away, and I would never discover the identity of Sheila and her anonymous husband, who, I was certain, were the people responsible for killing my wife. So, I had fallen in with their scheme of revenge, until the moment when it had brought me face to face with Sheila.

Fortunately, both sides in the court case realized there'd be no advantage in revealing exactly how I'd happened to discover John Barton's identity, so details of that weekend were never made public.

Which means that when I go onto the beach as Donny Partem, as I do most weekends, no one is aware of my real identity. And whilst the men all continue to lust after me, I am still, as far as their wives are concerned, A Woman Scorned.

Synopsis: A short story about two people who meet aboard a cross-channel ferry. Even ships that pass in the night can be affected by the other's stern waves.

Author’s Note: This story is a little darker than my usual stories.

"You look as though you're about to jump overboard."

The voice took me completely by surprise - it wasn't so much that the words were spoken in such a hoarse, croaking voice that the speaker had probably had their voice box removed - it was simply that I hadn't expected anyone to be here at this time of night.

Whilst I'd been in the ferry terminal that evening, waiting to embark, I had scanned the ship looking for the most suitable part of the deck to suit my purpose. I had made a bee-line for it as soon as I'd got aboard, gaining valuable time as a foot passenger over those driving their cars onto the roll-on/roll-off ferry, so I had been able to commandeer the bench seat on the boat deck, immediately outside the rearmost door.

But then, there had been an endless procession of passengers, initially just milling around, but as the evening wore on, bringing drinks outside to stand against the rail in the balmy air, watching the sea go by, as the engines drove us relentlessly from France to England. At about 10.30, I'd got fed up of waiting for a lull, and gone inside to select a reclining seat where I could sleep for a few hours.

I had set my watch alarm to 4 am, but I had been awake just before that, so I had avoided disturbing the other sleeping passengers. I pulled my rather heavy rucksack onto my shoulders and made my way through the now deserted companionways, back to the door on the deck next to my selected spot.

And I hadn't checked the bench seat behind the door, which I'd occupied earlier!

I turned to face my accoster, but my planned words of complacent denial froze on my lips as her eyes stared into mine, and looked directly into my soul. We remained staring at each other for a few seconds before I shrugged, and looked away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, the words rasping painfully, as though it hurt her to even speak.

It was the first decent offer I'd had all day, and I realised I very much did want to talk about it.

I moved towards her, and it was only then that I started to notice the face surrounding those eyes. It was mutilated beyond belief. Terrible pockmarks covered her skin, her upper lip and her left eye were pulled towards her left cheek, and most of her hair had disappeared.

"It's alright, I'm not contagious," she said. "You can sit next to me without catching anything."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to stare."

"I can cope with the staring," she said. "It's when little children run away screaming that they've seen a monster that it hurts."

I nodded. As someone who had wanted to have children ever since we had been married, but was now never likely to, I could sympathise with that.

"But you were going to tell me about your problems," she rasped. "Sit down, and start talking."

***

So I told her about how Fiona and I had been married for eight years, but that Fiona had always put her career before motherhood.

"I always accepted it was her choice," I said, "but I also felt that our marriage wasn't complete without children."

Being a dual-income, no kids couple, we had been comfortably off, and had even bought a villa in Brittany, where we'd gone as often as we could.

"I should have twigged something strange when Fiona said last week, that she didn't want to fly there," I said. "We only lived a short distance from Gatwick Airport, and our villa was just a taxi ride away from St Marriott Airport. It seemed madness when she said she wanted to travel by sea. It meant I had to drive her car all the way down to Seacombe, and then catch the night ferry over to St Marriott, at an absolutely extortionate price.

"I didn't even work it out when she was sick in our cabin as she woke up next morning," I added. "I simply thought she was sea-sick.

"But when she was sick again in our villa, this morning, it didn't take a mastermind to work out the cause. Obviously, I was over the moon - just on the point of dashing out and buying a bottle of champagne until Fiona said the baby was not mine, but Jacque's - the guy living next to our villa.

"She wanted a divorce, so she could marry the father of her child. And I realised my life was over."

"Is that it?" The woman had been silent whilst I spilled out my tale of woe. Now, with three hoarse words, she had demolished my twisted rationale.

"Well, I..."

"Millions of people have been through what has just happened to you. They may not feel full of glee, but they don't make up their minds to jump over the side of a ship with a rucksack full of rocks on their backs." Her eyes turned to my rucksack. "I assume it is full of rocks?"

I nodded, miserably. "I went onto the beach this afternoon and chose a few."

She eyed it sceptically. "To me, it really doesn't look heavy enough to pull you straight under water. That might lead to a lot of splashing on the surface, and a long, drawn-out death. Anyway, rather than thinking about suicide, you should think yourself lucky that you've got rid of a faithless partner without any hassle. You can go on to live another life - perhaps have children by someone else. But don't pin your whole success in life onto having children; there are plenty of other things to enjoy. I, for one, envy you that luxury."

The silence following her words lengthened as I considered their significance, and started thinking outside the box I'd walled myself into that morning. I sat back a little and stared at her more deeply than I had thought polite, just now. It was easy to see why children ran away screaming - her face really was like some creation from a horror movie.

"So perhaps you should tell me what you're doing here." I pointed down at her wrist. "And why you have a piece of string tied around your wrist."

It was her turn to pause for a little while, before nodding, and saying, "The string was to make certain that I couldn't let go of my suitcase." Then she took her small suitcase and laid it on its back, prior to opening. She unzipped it and threw back the lid, and I could see two large rocks inside.

"I think the term is 'Snap!' " she said.

***

I was about to tell her not to be so stupid, that her face really wasn't as bad as all that, and that I could see by her eyes what a lovely person she was inside. But, perhaps I had learned from the way that she had treated me - it was better to listen before passing judgment.

"I think it's probably your turn to tell me all about it," I said.

She nodded. "Fair's fair. I really asked for this, didn't I? Perhaps I should simply have let you leap overboard." But her lips twisted in a way I thought was probably a smile, to take the heat out of her statement.

"Like I said," she said, "you were fortunate that your marriage split up so easily. My husband tried to kill me."

"What?" I wondered whether she was mad. Those kinds of things didn't happen to people in real life.

"He's in prison now. For attempted murder, grievous bodily harm, and a few other miscellaneous offences. He put poison into a curry he left out for me. The stupid fool! He paid ten thousand pounds to a man in a pub who told him he could get hold of an undetectable poison that would cause what appeared to be a simple heart attack.

"It turned out to be a blend of five different types of rat poison! Fortunately, I was able to call an ambulance before I passed out, and they had the good sense to bring the bowl of curry back with them to the hospital, thinking it a simple case of food poisoning. Of course, when it was analysed, the police were called in. As soon as they interviewed Peter, he simply collapsed and confessed everything.

"But that was three years ago. Since then, my life has been hell. Practically every organ in my body is damaged. I've been in hospital almost as much as he's been in prison, and he'll be out of jail on parole in four years time. It was me who received the death sentence. The doctors have now given me a maximum of six months to live. And a very uncomfortable six months, too, judging from what they don't say."

There wasn't much I could say to any of that, except a rather limp, "God! How dreadful for you."

"It was made much worse because he contested the divorce from his prison cell at every opportunity he could. I think he was hoping that I would die before it was finalised. In the end, I had to accept a miniscule lump sum payment, in return for very high monthly maintenance payments; otherwise, it would have to be dragged out in court. If I die soon, he'll have paid me hardly anything. So, I discharged myself from hospital. And here I am."

"Because," I said, as the thought clicked into place in my mind, "if instead of dying in hospital, you were to mysteriously disappear, it might take years to realise you were missing, and even longer to have you declared officially dead. And all that time, he'd be paying alimony."

"Precisely. Officially, I'm trying alternative remedies, but I've never placed any faith in those. They say you can't take it with you, but I'm having a pretty good try."

"It may be poetic justice," I said, "but it doesn't make your position any better. Now you're out of hospital, the kids run away from you screaming. That must be terrible."

She gave me another lop-sided, twisted smile. "Actually, that hasn't been too bad recently. I've been wearing a mask." She pointed down into her suitcase, where I could see a dark-brown wig. She reached out and picked it up. Attached to the wig was something flesh-coloured, but which appeared far bigger than simply a face mask. She manipulated it in her hands, thrusting her right hand inside the mask and covering the lower part of it with her left arm. A face appeared with gaping eye sockets and mouth, with a fringe of dark-brown hair.

"The really neat thing about this mask," she said, "is that it's got false boobs built in." She moved her left arm so the lower part of the item was revealed.

I whistled in appreciation. Attached beneath the chin was a neck, and a skimpy, flesh-coloured, vest-like top with a wonderfully large, rounded pair of breasts protruding from it!

"You can fill them with water to inflate them to any size you choose," she said. "I decided I'd got nothing really to lose, so I bought a 38D bra, and inflated my breasts to fill the bra. What do you think?"

"Fantastic. I bet you get lots of admiring looks."

"It's certainly done my ego a lot of good," she admitted, "and I've even pulled one or two blokes with it, for a last fling on my part."

Those words were said with a finality that hung uncomfortably between us. Had I been a Christian, I guess I'd have tried to convince her not to end her life. But I hate to see an injured animal suffer unnecessarily; far less a human who was going to suffer unbelievable pain and indignity. So I kept quiet with my thoughts.

"I think the mask would fit you," she said, trying to lighten the sombre mood.

And why not, I wondered. If she was going to end her life before the ship reached England, far better to go out with a little joviality.

I grinned at her, eyeing the mask. "I don't think so," I said, "but I'm game if you want to give it a try."

She grinned back. "Great! Hang on. I've got some gel in my suitcase that will help it slide over your head. It also stops the perspiration, and I can tell you, without it, it gets pretty damp inside, pretty fast."

She rummaged in her suitcase, and brought out a large, round, plastic tub, and a pack of tissues. She opened the tub and used a tissue to scoop out a dollop of a red gel.

"It looks very messy."

She shook her head. "It's not really. It spreads very thinly so it's hardly noticeable before you put on the mask."

What the hell, this was simply a bit of a lark before this woman ended her own life. Who was I to complain about a bit of goo over my face and hair? I slipped off my anorak and put it on the seat beside me, then unbuttoned my shirt almost down to my waist, so I could pull it clear of my neck and shoulders.

I gave her a rather sheepish smile - after all, I was going to look incredibly foolish when she got this mask on me - if it went on at all. "OK, do you damnedest!"

Surprisingly, it was extremely stretchy material, and the gel meant it slid with ease over my skin. It was a bit claustrophobic for the period when I couldn't see, or even breathe, but she quickly got that sorted. Then she was sliding my shirt right off my shoulders, and applying more gel to them, my chest and back, before getting me to slip my arms through the armholes, and sliding the vest part of the garment down my chest.

"There. What do you think?"

I looked down, and gasped.

"Bloody hell! They look real, but... what's my face like? It can't look anything like as realistic."

"Actually, it looks pretty good. You'd better go to the Ladies Toilet and look in the mirrors in there."

I made to get up, but she stopped me, laughing.

"Before you go in there, I think you ought to get properly dressed. You might shock anyone who's around, if they see you walking about with your boobs exposed like that."

"Hell you're right." I pulled my shirt into place, and went to button it.

"I don't think so." She placed a hand on mine, to stop me buttoning. "You need a proper bra first, otherwise with breasts that size, they'll wobble about so much under your shirt that you'll draw as much attention to yourself as if you were naked."

She selected a white bra from her suitcase, and after slipping my arms out of my shirt, I obligingly held them out so she could feed the bra over them, and then fasten it at the back.

"Not so fast," she said, as I again went to feed my arms into my shirt. "I have a nice pastel-blue sun top that will go nicely with those jeans you're wearing, and show off your figure at the same time."

Five minutes later, I was wearing the sun top, as well a pair of pale-blue trainers over a pair of matching socks, and we had exchanged my dark green anorak for her matching blue one. I clutched her blue handbag under my arm.

"So, go and have a good look at yourself," she said. "You'll find a hair brush in my bag, so you can give your hair a brush in the mirror. And if you're really feeling bold, have a little wander around the deck until someone sees you. Then you'll realise how realistic you appear."

I timidly went to the toilet, although I had secretly decided there was no way I was going to wander the decks inviting inspection from anyone who might be around.

***

"I got a wolf whistle from some teenagers," I said, as I came back out onto deck. "It felt so..." My voice died out as I realised she wasn't there.

Neither was my anorak or rucksack. Only her suitcase remained, now closed and tidily set in the corner between the seat and the bulkhead. Pushed under the handgrip was a folded sheet of notepaper.

"My dearest friend," the letter began.

"I feel closer to you than I have felt to anyone else in a long, long time, yet it wasn't until I found your passport in your anorak pocket that I even knew your first name.

"As I spoke to you, I realised the weakness of my plan for taking my own life whilst deceiving Peter into thinking I was still alive. That's often the case, isn't it? You work something out perfectly in your mind, but it's only when you tell someone else that you realise the problems.

"You see, although it may take months or even years for Peter to realise I'm missing, as soon as anyone investigates, they'll realise this boat journey was the last thing I was ever known to have done. There'll be a record of me getting on it, but nothing from then on. In fact, I'm not certain whether they keep records of people's passports as they enter the country. If so, they'd be able to tell I had never left the ship. So that would never do. Peter would deduce the truth, and no doubt make a plausible case in court, in order to reclaim from my estate all the money he had paid.

"So, I need you to continue wearing the mask for a little longer - or a lot longer, if you choose. I want you to use my passport, which you'll find in my handbag, to enter the country. As you will see, I had the photograph on it changed to show my false face, rather than my hideous, real one, as I simply couldn't bear the thought of having to strip off my mask when I went through passport control.

"Once you're in the country, I'd like you to make a few purchases with my credit card, and go back to the house I've rented in Seacombe and stay there for a while. I'm sure you will appreciate having somewhere to stay whilst you decide what to do about your own marriage.

"In fact, if you choose, feel free to use my identity for as long as you like, and spend as much of Peter's money as you want. My only condition is that, if the truth ever is discovered, and I see no reason why it should be, you will maximise the financial damage to him.

"Well, I can't force you to take on this role, except that you may find it difficult to enter the county without your own passport, especially as I didn't tell you the whole truth about the gel we used under the mask. I'm afraid it's a strong adhesive, which bonds itself to the skin in order to seal off the perspiration. This means that it is impossible to remove the mask, until in about a fortnight's time, when the skin sheds its outer layer.

"However, if you wish to continue longer than that, there's plenty of gel left in the tub, and you can get more from the supplier, whose details you will find at my house. Incidentally, they also manufacture devices to disguise men's twiddly-bits, and make them appear, for all the world, just like a woman.

"Good luck and best wishes, whichever decision you make about your future."

She had signed it simply with an X.

***

The passport controller must have thought it was his lucky day, as I wheeled my little suitcase up towards his desk. The suitcase felt so light without the rocks inside, which presumably were inside my rucksack at the bottom of the English Channel, complementing the weight of the ones I had selected from the beach.

He opened my passport and stared at my photograph, then at my face for a second, before his gaze drifted down to the gap at the front of my unzipped anorak. I could visibly see him gulp, as I turned my head, giving him a slightly improved view.

Guiltily, his eyes flicked back to meet mine, and he knew that I knew he'd been clocking me.

"Have a nice day, miss," he said.

I smiled at him, rather than speaking. I thought I had a lot of work to do on voice development before I risked doing that. Even imitating someone with their voice box removed would be difficult.

Still, I had plenty of time.

Synopsis: The woman awakening in the empty rental cottage hadn't a clue how she'd got there or even who she was. However, as she tries to discover her identity and how she got there, she quickly realises how much she really enjoys sex,.

The story is set in England and is a longer length story, so sit back and enjoy. Caution: Contains explicit sex and some sexual abuse, as well as humour.

Author's Note: Strictly speaking, this story shouldn't be published under the Decade of Big Busts banner, as the products used are not sold by Big Busts in Seacombe, but are manufactured in the Far East. However, they are similar and the story was written at a similar time to the other stories. I have extensively revised it from the story originally published on Fictionmania in January, 2005. To some extent, the original was an experiment, with alternate chapters switching between the first and third person, on different days - it didn't seem to work very well! In this edition, I have changed it all to third person and separated out the days.

1 AWAKENING UNDER A DARK CLOUD

When she woke up in the middle of the night, she was sitting fully dressed in an armchair. She wasn't certain exactly where she was, how she'd got there or even who she was, but she was absolutely certain of one thing: she had to find a toilet desperately.

Fortunately, a table-lamp had been left on, and she was able to stagger to the bottom of the stairs, and then she pulled herself, arm over arm, up the banister rail until she reached the landing. There were only two doors leading off the landing, and since the door to the bedroom was standing open, it was pretty clear she had to dive through the other pretty smartish, if she was not to urinate over the carpet.

Even when she was in the small bathroom, it was a pretty close call, since her panties were underneath her suspenders rather than on top, and in her befuddled state she couldn't pull them down without getting them tied up in suspenders and stockings. In the end, she simply put a hand on the gusset and pulled them as far down her legs as she could, as she thankfully sank down onto the seat and let her waters flow.

After emptying her bladder, she staggered through into the bedroom, pulled back the quilt and dropped onto the mattress. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her body before falling again into a deep sleep, bordering upon unconsciousness.

***

It was sometime next morning before she vaguely started to wonder what the hell she was doing there? She had got up several times overnight, in response to the calls of nature; sometimes to empty her bladder; and sometimes to cure her raging thirst by drinking gallons of water from the tooth mug in the bathroom.

But this time, she remained conscious long enough to register that, at some time during the night, she had shed all of her clothes — she could see the remnants spread over the floors of the upper rooms — and that she was now totally naked in a small house, empty of any other occupants. She was still very much the worse from something, and she couldn't even walk in a straight line over to the bathroom window. She released the blind over the window and looked out, at a countryside of wooded hillsides and empty meadows.

She smiled, suddenly aware that, unusually for a bathroom, it was not fitted with obscured glass, and she could have opened the blind onto a busy city street, revealing every part of her upper anatomy to the crowds, below. Fortunately, there was no one in sight to take notice of the naked woman at the window.

She lurched through to the bedroom and, this time more cautiously, repeated the operation, revealing an almost identical view, apart from the lane which passed in front of the cottage, with a sports car parked directly outside the door.

She hadn't got a clue what she was doing there, where exactly she was, or even which day it was. She appeared to have the place to herself. Perhaps she was a guest of a new lover? But a trawl through the empty wardrobes and bare drawers proved she was wrong — instead, she appeared to be in some kind of rented holiday accommodation. More importantly, it placed her right in front of the mirror over the dressing-table, and she was brought face to face — with herself!

It wasn't as if she didn't recognise her own face (which she did). But she might just as well have been looking at a photograph of a well-known model in a magazine — recognising her features, but totally oblivious to her real life.

Even her own reaction to her ignorance was strange. Most people in similar circumstances would have started to panic — perhaps tried to telephone for a doctor or an ambulance. She simply shrugged as though she couldn't be bothered, then staggered downstairs, and lifted the blinds down there.

It was her stomach which drew her to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and found a pot of yoghurt to cure the stabs of hunger in her stomach. But she had barely finished the pot, before she had to race to the toilet, and vomit it all up. Afterwards, she went back to bed and slept.

2 EVERY DARK CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING

'I was wondering if you were alright?'

The words jerked her out of her half-sleep, and she sat bolt upright, looking at the man who was in her bedroom, who appeared transfixed by something on her chest. After a few seconds, she stared down to see what had attracted his attention, and realised she was naked from the waist up, her huge boobs jutting out with quite commendable firmness. It took her another few seconds before she realised that modesty dictated that perhaps she ought to cover herself, and she belatedly pulled the quilt up to her neck.

Victor Walters, the owner of the holiday cottage, was in totally uncharted territory. It was obvious that the girl had not been well when she'd arrived last night — brought in by a couple who'd told him they had found her unconscious at the wheel of a car blocking the lane about half a mile away. He had spent the morning vacillating between calling the police, the ambulance, going in to see her, and doing nothing.

All morning, he had continued to let indecision take the lead, and perhaps if she hadn't started moving about, followed by her vomiting, he might have continued to procrastinate forever. But it was obvious she needed some help, and since she was his client, he could hardly go to the police. For once, he had to take action himself.

When she had so quickly sat up, revealing those fantastic tits and clearly totally unaware that she was doing so, he had been at a complete loss about what to do. Was it polite, under such circumstances, to point out to a lady that her tits were on show, or would that merely cause her embarrassment? More importantly, if he simply kept quiet, would she carry on exposing them for the whole of their conversation, and could he think of sufficient topics to keep the conversation going, forever?

His eyes ultimately let him down, as he knew they would. If only he was able to discretely look at a woman's tits, as other men appeared able to do so, without his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets.

After pulling the quilt around her torso, she thought she ought to respond to her questioner. 'I'm not really certain. I feel very… strange.' She gave him a little, hesitant smile, and asked, 'Who are you?'

Victor could have made all kinds of witty retorts, or diversionary responses, which might have led to a more interesting scenario, but that was totally beyond him. Instead, he said, 'I'm Victor Walters, the landlord.'

Aware that his first response was less than adequate, he sought to clarify. 'I could see you weren't very well, Mrs Peters, when they brought you here last night. I've been looking out for you, and then I saw you — I mean heard you er… throwing up, so I thought I'd better come round.'

'Mrs Peters?' Was she a Mrs? Her eyes flicked down to the third finger on her left hand, where the indentation showed a ring had been recently worn.

'Is it alright if I call you Joan?'

As she stared back at him, he could feel his cheeks starting to glow redder and redder. God, how he hated the way he blushed whenever he tried to chat to any woman.

But she was trying to make sense of her name. Joan Peters? It sounded both right and wrong at the same time. Still Victor seemed to know her better than she did. What on earth had she been on?

But as she stared at him, she became aware that, although her body was still feeling like shit, it was starting to think about sex, as it often did on first waking. Actually, she realised, her body thought about sex most times of the day and night. Normally, she knew, it would not be available, but Victor was looking definitely interested. Already, the blood was coursing through her body, making her tingle all over. She didn't know what the hell had been wrong with her, but she was pretty certain what was likely to cure it.

She gave him her cutest smile. 'Oh, Vic, of course it is. Thank you so much for caring about me enough to check that I'm alright. In truth, I've been feeling absolutely dreadful. I can barely remember who I am, and it's as though I wasn't here at all, but somewhere else. I don't know what's wrong with me, or when I shall get better.'

'Do you want me to ring for a doctor, or…'

'No!'

Joan couldn't, for the life of her, understand why she had so hastily rejected Victor's kind offer. But she did know it was a subject that, for the time being, she did not want to go down. In the meantime, she had to find out much more about what she was doing there, and also attend to the pressing needs of her body.

'Sorry Vic, I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I'm not at my best. I can't even remember when I went down with his sickness. Can you help?'

'Well, not really. A couple found you along the lane, last night. You'd stopped your car in the middle of the road, and weren't fit to drive. They thought you were drunk or… something. Presumably, you must have told them you were trying to get here, so they brought you along.'

'That was good of them.' She unexpectedly felt quite overwhelmed by events; she didn't know what she was doing here, or even who she really was. She felt her eyes pricking, and then a tear rolled down her cheek.

'I'm sorry.' She brushed the tear away. 'You must find it a real pain, me being here, and you having to come in and check me out, but I feel awfully vulnerable, at the moment.'

Without warning, the single tear turned into a dozen, and Joan flung her arms around his neck and started crying into the side of his head. Victor couldn't help noticing that this had meant she'd released the quilt, which had slipped down, again exposing those fabulous tits.

'There, there,' he comforted, using the same words his mother had, years ago. 'It's alright. I'm here and I'll look after you.'

'Christ,' Victor thought, 'I'm out of my depth here.' He lifted a hand, desperately wanting to squeeze that magnificent tit, but discretion made him move it around her side, and hesitantly pat her shoulder blade.

He'd expected her to immediately scream louder, and call him a pervert for touching her, as the woman in the lift in Debenhams had once done. In fact, his touch had the opposite effect; Joan's sobs became more controlled, and she moved her body closer to him, so her tit was nuzzling against his chest. Through his thin tee-shirt, he could feel her hard, protruding nipple rubbing against his chest.

His abrupt erection could not have come at a worse time — it was so very uncomfortable, and needed urgent adjustment, but both his arms were wrapped around her, and even if he released his right arm, he'd have to perform the adjustment right under her eyes.

He tried a little wriggle, which seemed to make his situation worse. God, he had to do something! He gave a bigger wriggle.

'Oh dear! What have I done to you?' She was staring with tear-filled eyes, down at the bulge in his trousers.

'Here we go,' he thought. 'She's about to utter a scream to wake the dead.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I've put you in a terrible position. Your wife or girl-friend would kill me if she knew how stupid I'd been.'

'But I don't have a wife or a girl-friend!'

'You don't? Heavens, someone has missed a good catch.' A slight pause. 'In that case, I wonder if you'd do something for me?'

He nodded, 'Of course, anything…'

'I'm feeling so strange, and it's so nice of you to do all this for me, but... well, do you think you could… well... it must be a maternal urge, or something, but it would just feel so very nice, and… relaxing, and… comforting, if you'd... get into bed with me and give me a cuddle.'

She saw his eyes widen in surprise, and sought his reassurance. 'You wouldn't mind, would you? Please.'

If he'd thought he was out of his depth before, he was drowning now. Beautiful women with fantastic tits didn't permit blokes like him to enter their bedrooms, never mind… he gulped, and thought he might choke on his Adam's apple.

'No, no that's fine. I'll er…'

He didn't know whether her invitation had included him stripping naked, but in the end he simply removed his shoes and socks. He slipped into bed beside her cool body, and was cautiously slipping his arm around her when she grabbed hold of him and pulled his head down onto her chest.

"Uugh!" He knew what his instincts were telling him to do, but should he... he lowered his mouth towards her breast, and at the last moment hesitated, as he wondered whether she would start screaming as soon as his lips…

She clutched him behind the head and forced his mouth against her, and breathed a deep sigh of contentment as he took his first tentative suck. 'Mmm. That's wonderful. Oh, yes! Do you want to suck on my other one now, and perhaps you could suck just a little bit harder.'

She fed her left breast towards his mouth, and gasped as he sucked it hard inside his mouth. 'Oh, my God, that's nice. Here, let me…' The latter in response to another uncomfortable wriggle. She undid the belt on his trousers and unzipped him.

'Oh hell! What an enormous cock.' In fact, Joan was exaggerating slightly, here, but it was well worth it because it grew even stiffer in her hand. 'Would you mind if I…'

Well aware that she was probably about to deflower a male virgin who must be almost thirty, she'd been about to suggest that she should sit astride his lap. That way, she could initiate the action, control the pace and even make certain his cock went in the right hole (not that she was averse to a little anal action, but she felt that, the first time round, he should do it the conventional way).

But before she could do so, his fingers had traced a path down her tummy and through her pubic hair, and very lightly, he'd touched her in a very special place, and the fireworks started exploding inside her head.

'J-e-e-e-e-e-z!'

He moved his fingers slightly, and the fireworks multiplied in intensity a thousand times, until her head was inside the fireworks, and it was her head exploding with orgasmic pleasure. Every tiny movement of his fingers sent her into deeper and deeper ecstasy, until she was losing consciousness with each orgasm.

Finally, after a lifetime in seventh heaven, he was bringing her down off the clouds, and she was returning to reality. Her body was covered in sweat, her breath coming in short gasps, and she knew she had been well and truly finger-fucked!

'Oh thank you, Vic. Thank you so much! That was absolutely wonderful. Where did you learn to do that?'

Well that was a rather embarrassing question, but fortunately, he correctly assessed it was meant rhetorically. In fact, as a twenty-eight year old male virgin, he'd had a sudden panic attack when she'd grabbed his cock and was about to tell him to shove it inside her. Suppose he did it all wrong, shot his load before he'd got it in, or even put it into the wrong hole?

But he'd learnt his skills from a video camera, hidden inside the smoke-detector above the bed. It gave him an excellent view of the many women who lay on the bed and masturbated.

The most common type of visitor to his holiday cottage would be the unaccompanied woman. With a woman lying on her back on the bed or in the Jacuzzi, the smoke-detector cameras, with their fantastic zoom facility, would be pointing directly at the woman's vagina, as she used her hand, or a vibrator, to bring herself off. Victor had seen dozens of different variations on the same theme, and hundreds of different vaginas. He knew exactly where women should be touched to produce results, and he had to say, he was more than a little pleased with his achievements with Joan. He lay back on the bed for a brief instant, well aware that he urgently needed to go to the toilet and have an enormous wank.

But Joan would not let debts go unpaid. Before he could even think about moving, she was swinging a leg over his, and sitting on his thighs, her breasts hovering an inch above his glistening cock. She was no lightweight. Even if he wanted to get out of this situation, he wouldn’t be able to do so, but at that moment, sexual need was easily overriding fear.

She read his thoughts. 'Lie back, and think of England.' And then she wriggled forward until her cunt was directly above his prick. Slowly, the two became one.

***

After three hours of almost non-stop fucking, Joan felt decidedly better. OK, she was still extremely confused about who she was and what she was doing in the cottage, but her body was no longer feeling so dreadful. She still staggered a bit when she walked, but that was probably because she was walking with her legs wide apart, to ease the soreness inside her. At least she'd had the sense to take the birth-pill from the pack she'd found in her handbag.

They came to a natural halt from their romping, both of them in that wonderful post-coital bliss.

'So Vic, you're telling me that I booked the cottage for four weeks?'

'Well, not you personally, of course. The booking came via email, after you saw an advert in "The Lady".'

He always kept a copy of the weekly magazine in the cottage, handy if guests complained he'd wrongly advertised it, and he got out of bed to fetch it. He flicked through the pages until he came to his ad, which he then passed across to Joan.

"Spoil yourself with a luxurious cottage break, set in the secluded heart of the beautiful Cotswolds, in easy drive of an abundance of art galleries, antique shops, hairdressers/beauty salons, and delightful restaurants eminently suitable for the single female diner, or a couple wanting to share discrete moments together. Single bedroom with Queen-sized bed, en-suite with Jacuzzi, comfortable lounge and well equipped kitchen. Lady(ies) or couples only. Contact Virginia Walters, Tel…"

'Isn't Virginia Walters your wife?'

'It's my mother, actually, and er… she's dead, but I er… always think her name sounded better and more ladylike, than mine.'

'Well, yes. Victor doesn't sound at all ladylike. Do you only advertise in "The Lady"? Have you thought of any other magazines?'

'It brings in a much nicer type of client.'

In fact, it frequently brought in women on their own, desiring a little solitude from the world — and they often spent a lot of time in simply finding themselves. Unfortunately, it sometimes also attracted couples who wanted a discrete place to fuck. Whilst it made for entertaining television, the problem was, it often left him feeling unhappy that he was missing out on such activity. He far preferred unaccompanied women, who might spend their time alone in discovering, and pleasuring, their own bodies.

Joan nodded sagely at his response. 'That must be what attracted me,' she said, wondering why on earth she had really chosen to come here.

3 EVERY SILVER LINING HAS A DARK CLOUD INSIDE

'Look,' she said, 'I know this must sound a stupid question, but what day of the week is it?'

'It's Sunday, of course,' Victor replied. 'You booked the cottage for four weeks commencing yesterday, and that couple brought you round at about eleven, last night. When they found you unconscious in the driving seat of your car, I think they pushed you across into the passenger seat, and one of them drove it here, whilst the other one followed in their own car. They explained what had happened, and I let them into the cottage, and helped to carry you in.'

He could still remember the excitement he'd felt as he'd accidentally brushed her breast three or four (or was it five?) times.

'Did I have any other clothes with me?'

'We didn't check the boot. Do you want me to go and look now?'

'No, it's OK. I'll go and do it.' Whatever she had been on last night, she really didn't want Vic finding it. She slipped into her shirt-waister dress and buttoned it up, noting that her hard nipples pushing through the thin material was having an appropriate effect upon Vic's rather flaccid dick. As she was about to go outside, a sudden thought occurred to her.

'I must have given you an address when I made the booking. Where do I live?'

'Your husband, Frank, made the booking, and he lives in Singapore.'

'Frank Peters? Singapore?' A pause for thought, then, 'Why, of course I was living in Singapore until…'

She stopped, suddenly unsure of her facts, 'I'm not certain.'

Another pause. 'I'll go and check whether there's a suitcase, and see whether that throws any light upon what I'm doing here.'

In the boot of the sports car, was her huge suitcase. She gasped in relief; at last, she'd found her clothes. She dragged the trunk back into the cottage, where Vic was speaking on the phone. As she came in, he put down the receiver, then picked it up and dialled another number.

'I rang the car-hire company that's displayed on your rear window,' I said. 'They're based at Norton Airport. It seems that BA paid for the car-hire, after one of their flights from Singapore was diverted there from Heathrow on Friday night. I'm ringing BA now to check whether you were on that flight.'

'That's great, Vic.'

She looked at him with affection. He was trying so hard to help her out, when lots of other blokes, having had a good fuck, would be leaving. She bent over him and gave him a kiss. She couldn't help noticing how his eyes peered down the front of her dress, so she sat down on his lap and slowly undid one button on the dress after the other, wriggling a little from side to side so that he had an ever increasing view of her boobs.

Unfortunately, the other end answered then and he turned his attention back to the telephone. 'Hello, my name's Victor Walters, and I wonder if you can help me. It's about the flight from Singapore that was diverted from Heathrow, on Friday evening.'

She pulled the dress from her shoulders so that it fell down and snagged on her nipples. Once again, she had his attention. She gave another wriggle and let the dress slip off her nipples, and in one smooth move, pulled his head down so that he was sucking on her left nipple.

'Oh,' she gasped. 'That is just so wonderful. You can't imagine how good it feels.'

She heard someone talking at the far end, and then Vic struggled to remove the nipple from his mouth, made all the more difficult because Joan tried to make it as difficult as possible. They were giggling like mad, by the time he was able to speak.

'I wanted to know whether a certain passenger was on boa…' His voice was cut off as she slipped her right nipple between his lips. He gave a little suck on it, but then twisted so that he could listen to what was being said on the phone. She slowly slid backwards down his knees, undid his zip, and applied her mouth to his rock-hard cock which came shooting out to meet her.

'Well, she's with me now… Eh-h-h-h' (as she sank her mouth down on his cock until it was thrusting past her tonsils) '…but she's not able to talk at the moment. Her name is Peters, Joan Peters.'

'Yes! Oh yes!'

Joan wasn't certain whether that was in response to the words he'd heard, or the fact that she was sliding her mouth up and down his cock in a fast rhythm. Worried that she might be letting events go too fast, she gave his cock one last lick, and then brought her body back up, so she was hovering only an inch above his prick.

'Do you want me?' she mouthed at him.

He pressed the handset against his ear and said, 'Yes, that would be excellent.'

She lowered herself an inch, so his prick was nuzzling against her pussy, but then moved it slightly so that he couldn't thrust inside her, as he tried to do. She laughed, then teased him more by moving herself in every direction except the correct one, until finally he let go the phone for a second, pushed her sideways and then thrust violent upward.

'Yes, that's it,' he gasped. Another press of the phone against his ear

She raised herself off him, further and further until his prick popped out.

'Oh no!'

She laughed, and then guided herself onto him again, so he was just nuzzling inside her pussy lips. She kissed him, and asked, 'Do you want me?'

'Yes, of course.'

She dropped vertically down his shaft in one long, hard thrust.

'Oh God!'

She quickly lifted herself up until he was almost popping out, then thrust down again — and again — and again.

'You're going to come,' she laughed at him, as he shook his head, desperately trying to avoid it.

'Oh no!'

Faster and faster she screwed him, until she was moving so quickly she was almost a blur.

'You're really going to come,' she whispered.

'Yes. Oh God, it's… I'm coming!'

'So am I,' she screamed. 'I'm coming too!'

'We're both coming.'

'We're coming! We're coming!'

'Yes.'

'Oh no!'

***

'What was the phone call about?'

It was several minutes after her exquisite orgasm that Joan remembered there had been a phone call.

Victor had never had to pass on a message of real sensitivity before, and his social skills were, as always, totally useless. 'British Airways say that your husband's dead.'

'What?'

'Your husband died whilst he was at Norton Airport on Friday. Er… I'm sorry… and all that.'

'You mean… Frank? Frank's dead?'

'Er, yes.'

'And you were fucking me, whilst taking the death message?'

'Er, well, you were fucking me, actually. But er, sorry.'

'You bastard.' She hit him under the jaw, and he went down like a sack of coal.

***

The drive to Oxford in Victor's old Morris Minor took absolutely ages. After Joan had brought him round by throwing cold water over his face, Victor had timidly explained that the coroner wanted her to go there and identify Frank's body, before the post-mortem tomorrow. Since she realised that she was still drunk or drugged up to the eyebrows, she made Victor take her in his car. It smelt of petrol, it chugged slowly along holding up every other car on the road, and the heater didn't work.

Joan had changed into the most suitable garment she had, a black cocktail dress with a matching jacket, which looked almost respectable when the jacket was buttoned up. But on that wet afternoon, with the windscreen wipers grunching across the greasy windscreen, it was not warm enough and she felt decidedly miserable in that car. She was almost happy when they arrived at the mortuary.

The Coroner's Officer was absolutely professional — kind and sympathetic, but making absolutely certain the correct procedure was followed. Did she have identification? Fortunately, she'd spent a few minutes recovering the documents from the envelope in her suitcase, so she was able to hand over her passport. Did she have her marriage certificate with her? She found it and showed that. Could they now go and view the body?

She didn't know how she'd feel when she saw her dead husband. Would she even recognise him in her present state?
She did, of course, but she had very little feeling at all about his death. Perhaps it was because she was still drunk or drugged; the Coroner's Officer obviously thought she was a very cool fish, but answered her questions about Frank's death as accurately as he could.

It appeared Frank had landed at Norton International Airport on Friday evening. After picking up the suitcase from the carousel, he'd gone into the men's toilets, probably because he felt ill, where he'd locked himself and his suitcase into the disabled cubicle.

The toilet had been cleaned at the airport's normal 9 pm closing time, but the airport had remained open to receive the flight from Singapore, and the next scheduled clean was not until midday on Saturday, which was when Frank's body was discovered. No, they didn't know the cause of death, but there were no suspicious circumstances. They would notify her as soon as possible.

Could she take Frank's suitcase away with her? Unfortunately, not; it appeared that Frank had mistakenly collected someone else's suitcase from the carousel, and they were trying to contact that passenger. She could take Frank's personal effects and hand-baggage with her.

The drive back was far more cheerful than the drive there. Joan had now forgiven Victor for his lapse of social skills, and realising that she probably had not been that close to Frank, didn't feel so guilty about her own unfaithfulness.

In fact, now she was officially a widow, she should perhaps become a merry widow. The thought made her nipples start to tingle again, and she considered asking Vic to give her breasts some serious suckling when they got back. She slipped her hand onto his thigh, and moved it upwards until it was just touching his left testicle, where she played with it with her little finger. Fortunately, they managed to get back to the cottage without accident.

***

It was as Joan was about to have a shower, following their particularly messy coupling, that she noticed the smoke-detector above the Jacuzzi. It was unusual to have a smoke-detector in a bathroom, since they would normally be triggered by the moisture in the air, so she was more than a little curious. She stared up at it, registering the maker's name, and then her look of curiosity turned to anger.

She stormed into the bedroom, where Victor was still lying on the bed, totally knackered, and she stared at the ceiling above him.

'What is it?' he stammered, already blushing as Joan stared at the smoke-detector. 'Is there anything wrong?' He cleared his voice, hoping to get rid of the squeak into which his voice had abruptly turned.

'Where did you get these smoke-detectors from?'

'I can't remember. I think some guy came to the door offering to install them at a knock-down price.'

'Don't give me that crap,' Joan said, 'because I've seen this type of detector, with built-in camera and control system at the manufacturers in Singapore. They're one of the most sophisticated models on the market — a high-precision eyeball lens, which the software converts into a conventional view, but able to zoom onto any point in the room with fantastic magnification, and of course, totally silently, since there are no moving parts.'

'I don't know what...'

'Where's the control system?' she demanded.

He thought of trying to bluff it out, but knew he was beaten. 'Next door, in my house.'

'Right,' she said, slipping on a dress from her suitcase (without any underwear, Victor noticed), 'Let's go and have a look.'

***

Victor's set up was very impressive. As Joan had said, the video spy system was very sophisticated, and it covered all six of the holiday cottages in the complex which he owned. He'd copied all the best bits of action by his clients onto videotape, so he had fantastic archives on which to draw.

'So what are you doing with this?' Joan demanded. 'Blackmail?'

'No!' Victor shrieked. 'I'd never do that.'

'Selling it on the web, then?'

'No! It's just for my own personal… education.' He was rather pleased with that last word — he'd only just thought of it, but considering the way he had Joan writhing the second he'd first touched her, he felt it was perfectly justifiable. Certainly, she didn't challenge it.

'Presumably, the picture is initially stored on disc?' He nodded. 'With a movement detector, so you only record activity?'

He nodded again. He couldn't help wondering how it was that Joan knew so much about the equipment. She'd told him her husband was a buyer for an electrical company, but she must have taken a fantastic interest in his work.

'Does that mean you can view everything on me, from the moment I first arrived?' Another nod. 'Show me.'

He did so, setting up the picture in fast reverse mode, and flicking from camera to camera at the appropriate times, so her complete series of actions (and his, for much of the time) was played backward until the moment when the camera over the front door showed her arriving in the passenger seat of her car, with another car following right behind. She had viewed it silently until then, but now she spoke.

'You said this morning that a couple had found me and brought me here. But those are two men bringing me in.'

'They're a gay couple. Their names are…'

'…Gerald and Lesley,' Joan finished the sentence for him.

4 ANOTHER DAY - ANOTHER DARK CLOUD

They say that troubles come in threes. They're lying! Either that, or the counter which was supposed to record Peter Jones's threesome had got permanently stuck.

OK, as problems go, the first wasn't really a very big one. He and his business colleague, Frank Peters, were on the thirteen hour flight from Singapore to London Heathrow, returning to England for a month's break after a long period of working abroad. The flight itself had been perfect, the very best that British Airways could give, except for the announcement half an hour before their scheduled landing time, at nine pm on Friday evening.

'Ladies and Gentleman. This is your Captain, again. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, due to a security alert at London Heathrow, the airport has been closed. We have been diverted to Norton International Airport, where we'll get coaches to meet you and take you on to Heathrow. British Airways apologises for the delay and the inconvenience caused.'

Hardly an unusual event, and it didn't disturb Peter too much. To be honest, he had never heard of Norton International Airport, but then he'd been out of the country almost continuously for eight years, and if Heathrow was closed, they'd be looking for spare capacity over most of central and southern England.

Nor was time particularly critical that evening; he was on his way to his son, Nick's wedding in Cheltenham, at four pm the next day. Tonight, Frank and he had rooms booked at one of the Heathrow Airport hotels. Frank had a car-hire arranged for the morning and he would take Peter to the wedding, before going on to the Cotswolds. There, Frank would meet up with his recently estranged wife on the neutral ground of a rented holiday cottage, and see if he could talk her into going back to live with him.

The change of airports would mean they would arrive at their hotel a bit later, but that wasn't really a problem, since they'd both had plenty of sleep on the flight. In fact, Peter went back to sleep until they were on the point of touchdown.

There are two ways in which people disembark from planes. There's the type who immediately get up as soon as the seat-belt warning sign goes off, and then stand waiting, with their heads bent at an awkward angle under the luggage bins, or caught in the crush in the middle of putting on a coat, and stuck with one arm in the sleeve, and the other trapped behind their backs. This wait can be for five minutes or fifteen, depending upon how long it takes them to get the steps in position outside, or move the disembarkation equipment against the doors and open them.

Peter was definitely of the other type. Realising that it would take ages for the baggage to get to the baggage-halls, and that no one was going anywhere until the coaches arrived to transport them back to London Heathrow, he sat back in his seat and allowed himself to properly awaken whilst the crush subsided, and he could get off the plane in a civilised way.

It was fortunate that Frank had been sitting in the aisle seat, since he was unquestionably one of the former. In fact, he already had his coat on and his hand baggage under the seat before they landed, so he was able to make a fantastic dash towards the door before everyone else stood up. But he was still caught for the whole of the fifteen minutes it took to get the door open. Then he disappeared from view. Peter shook his head and sighed. He'd catch up with him in the baggage-hall.

***

When he got to the baggage-hall, the bags were already in full flow around the carousel. He searched the hall, looking for Frank, hoping he'd had the nous to get two baggage trolleys for the extra-large suitcases they both had with them, and he was a bit surprised to see that Frank had already left the baggage-hall. He sighed again. Presumably, he'd gone out to secure a place on one of the transfer coaches which, the announcement said, had now arrived at the airport.

Problem Number Two; his suitcase didn’t arrive on the carousel. Again, hardly a unique event if you frequently travel by air, but this time it could be bloody inconvenient. His suit for the wedding was inside. If the suitcase didn't catch him up within the next few hours, he'd have to find a place where he could hire a replacement, which was going to disrupt the whole of the next day. He found an official who made him fill in lots of forms in triplicate, requesting his contact details for the next two weeks. It took ages, but at least he knew that Frank would be holding the coach outside — preventing it from driving off without him.

***

Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! He should have guessed Problem Number Three. It was totally deserted outside the terminal building. In spite of its title, Norton International was obviously one of those small, provincial airports which normally close at nine every evening. Tonight, they'd obviously held it open especially for their flight. It would have been difficult to hide a shopping trolley on the deserted tarmac around the terminal; certainly, there were no fifty-seater coaches!

He went back inside the terminal, and after walking around the empty building for ages, finally found a manager, who firstly told him all the British Airways staff had left on the coaches and he couldn't do anything, and then, reluctantly, got on the phone to their Customer Service.

They were superb. Whilst he was on the phone, they booked him a room at the Norton Airport Hotel, and proposed that a car would pick him up tomorrow morning and take him to Heathrow.

He did some quick mental calculations, and made an alternative offer: a three day self-drive car would be cheaper for them, and more convenient for him. They instantly agreed, booked it, and promised it would be at the hotel for eight am, next day.

***

He'd seen the neon signs illuminating the Norton Airport Hotel when he'd gone outside before, so he knew it was only about a quarter-mile away. He would have taken a taxi and charged it to BA, but there was no sign of one outside, so he set out to walk across the car-park towards the three-storey building.

It didn't help that, after living in Singapore for so long, he wasn't acclimatised to cold and clammy British weather, or that it started to slightly drizzle when he was half-way across the car-park. But what really didn't help was the ten-foot high security fence at the edge of the car-park, which prevented him walking the last fifty yards to the hotel!

To his right, he could see some construction work in progress to extend the car-park. He traipsed over there, climbed the temporary barriers and trudged over the uneven surface, stumbling in the pitch darkness after the glare of the flood-lighting. It only took a couple of minutes, and a couple of bruised shins, to reach the point where the security fence ended, and then he was only separated from the hotel by a four-foot high wall. Without any baggage, it was a simple matter to put both hands flat on the top of the wall, leap up and twist at the same time, so that he was sitting on the top of the wall, then swivel first one leg, then the other, over the wall and leap down.

***

In the instant after he should have hit the ground and did not, he realised that Problem Number Four had arrived. Had the drainage ditch not been full of mud, he might have broken an ankle or something more serious. As it was, he landed face down in the mud which was several feet deep. He floundered, gulping air and mud at the same time and choking, and struggling to free his feet from a tree-root, which was trying to hold him down.

Eventually, he crawled up the sloping side of the ditch, and sat for a moment to get his breath, covered in horrible slime. He sat there for quite a bit longer than he needed, staring through the plate-glass of the entrance foyer of the hotel — at the deep pile carpets and smart pot plants, realising he was going to have to walk in there dripping slimy mud, or stay outside all night!

The Assistant Manager was outstanding. Don't worry about the mud. The important thing was that he was safe. BA had made the booking, so he could go straight up to his room and grab a shower. There would be a dressing-gown in the room, so he could put all his clothes in a laundry bag, and he'd get Housekeeping to immediately wash them and get them dried, ready for 7 am tomorrow morning. Oh, and did he want to register a credit card to pay for any extras, such as telephone calls?

He reached for the bum bag he kept at his waist, which contained his wallet and travel documents. It was at that moment he lost count of the number of problems he'd experienced so far, as he remembered something caught around his legs when he was in the ditch, which he'd kicked free.

No problem, the Assistant Manager said; he would personally go out there with a flash-lamp and search for the missing bag. He would telephone him in his room as soon as he returned.

His call came just after he'd finished his shower, and had taken his mobile-phone to bits and was washing the mud from each bit in the wash-basin. The Manager found the spot where he'd fallen in, but there was absolutely no sign of the missing bag. First thing tomorrow morning, he would get Maintenance to try dredging for it.

He couldn't have done any more. Peter thanked him, and after drying and assembling his mobile-phone and finding it still didn't work, went to bed.

5 THE DARK CLOUD GETS BLACKER

With the difference in time zones, he woke up at some stupidly early hour on Saturday morning, and lay in bed, contemplating his position. Firstly, there was the strange fact that his friend, Frank, had abandoned him at the airport.

Frank and he had worked in Singapore for many years, doing virtually the same jobs as Overseas Buyers, but for competing British electrical retail companies. Whatever electrical product you may have recently bought in the UK — kettles, radios, CD players — if it was made in Singapore, one of them probably arranged its purchase. They were actually quite similar in many ways, but since they were direct competitors, they had never been particularly friendly. Perhaps if they happened to bump into each other, they would have a drink together, but that would be all.

But just over a month ago, Peter's wife, Susan, had left him, to live with his boss — the head of their Singapore office. For him, a bad situation was made much worse because it appeared that, for well over a year, virtually everyone in the company, apart from him, had known the two had been having a steamy affair. As a result, he became very disillusioned with his former colleagues, especially his so-called friends.

A few days after Susan's departure, Frank's wife, Joan, left him and returned to England. To be honest, Peter didn't think anyone was surprised by that. Even from across a crowded restaurant, the flighty glances she gave to every male in sight were as obvious an invitation as he had ever seen. Had he not been one of those people who believed in being faithful to one's partner (unlike his shitty wife), he'd probably have been crowding around her himself. So, to most people, the surprise was that their marriage lasted so long; and if that sounded just a little like having the same attitude as Peter had found so obnoxious in his closest friends, perhaps that explains why he went out of his way to make contact with Frank and talk through his problems.

They had since become the closest of pals, and met up several times a week to eat, get drunk, and moan about the bitchiness of women. But while Peter never wanted to see Susan again, Frank desperately wanted Joan to return. After he'd told Frank he was going to England for Nick's wedding, it had seemed quite natural that Frank should book the same flight, to try to obtain a reconciliation with Joan. So, with their recent close friendship, and shared itinerary for the onward journey, it was easy to see why Peter was so surprised that Frank hadn't held the coach for him.

But as he lay in bed reflecting, he thought that maybe he was being unreasonable. There would probably be a dozen coaches waiting outside to take all the passengers from a Jumbo. It was dark; people would be dashing from coach to coach to find seats or places for their luggage, or their friends and relatives. Frank may have saved him a seat to start with, but how could he be certain he hadn't got on another coach? It would have been chaos, and Frank would not have stood a chance.

Presumably, he'd tried to call him on his mobile, but he hadn't switched it on before he fell in the ditch, and it hadn't been working since. So, he concluded, Frank should receive a full pardon.

Unfortunately, the question of Frank's loyalty was only a minor part of his problems. Apart from the hotel dressing-gown, he had absolutely nothing to wear, and no money or credit cards with which to buy anything. In theory, his clothes should be laundered and arrive by seven am, his breakfast at seven-thirty, the hire car at eight, and there would be sufficient time for him to drive to the home of Nick's future in-laws (where he was staying until the wedding), borrow some cash, hire a suit, and get to the church on time. But there were a hell of a lot of things which could go wrong — and knowing his recent luck, they probably would.

They did!

Seven am came and went, and no clothes appeared. He tried ringing Housekeeping. The phone rang unanswered, until it diverted to an answering machine. He left an urgent message.

Ten minutes later, they hadn't responded, so he rang again, and when the same thing happened, rang Reception. There was a different Assistant Manager on duty, who was far too busy to speak to him personally, but, the woman told him that Reception couldn't do anything anyway, since Housekeeping were a law unto themselves.

He continued to ring Housekeeping at ten minute intervals, and at seven-thirty, telephoned Reception again. Line busy!

So it went on. His breakfast was late, and when he rang the restaurant, was told it was on its way — but in the kind of voice which indicates they'd never seen his original order.

Eight o'clock, his breakfast finally arrived, and after explaining his plight to the waitress, she assured him she would go down to Housekeeping and get them to call. They didn't, and even worse, by eight-fifteen, the promised car hadn't arrived, either.

He tried to make a call to BA, but his telephone was not authorised to make outside calls. 'Please contact Reception to set up an account.' Reception was permanently engaged!

He rang the Restaurant to enquire whether the waitress had discovered anything about his clothes, and was told it was not their job to sort out Housekeeping; if he had a complaint, he should see the Manager.

And then, just before nine, the airport baggage-office telephoned to tell him they had found his suitcase sitting in the Customs' area, and would send it straight around. It was fortunate that call came just before the next, since it was Housekeeping, to tell him they'd been unable to do anything with his clothes in the hotel, so they'd sent them to their laundry service, and would be back at the hotel on Wednesday! He didn't even explode, simply gave them the forwarding address, expecting never to see his clothes again.

To complete the series of calls, the local car-hire firm telephoned. 'Sorry we haven't delivered a car to you yet, Mr Jones. The truth is we weren't expecting that flight from Singapore last night, and it's totally cleared out our stock. Our driver is collecting a car at the moment, and he'll be passing your hotel quite soon. Obviously, we'd normally bring it back here for full servicing, but we understand you want it quite urgently. If you're happy to accept the car as it is…'

'Send him straight here,' he ordered. 'I can empty the ashtrays myself.'

At last, he thought, things were starting to look hopeful. Little did he know!

***

His suitcase arrived at ten. He hadn't got the key for it, of course, but he used a knife from his breakfast tray to slip the inadequate locks and threw the lid open, already to leap into tee-shirt and jeans. The silk dress lying on top was pure white, with a plunging cleavage, and made of such light material, it must surely be translucent.

The problem was that he hadn't packed a white, silk dress in his suitcase. Even if Susan hadn't taken all her clothes with her, her treachery had made him so wild he'd have shredded them, rather than keeping them until he could return them to her.

There was, however, a very obvious solution which sprang to mind. A week ago, he'd showed Frank the case he'd bought to carry all the junk he was going to bring back to England. It was huge, and more resembled a ship's trunk than a suitcase. Frank wanted to get into Joan's good books by taking her all the clothes she'd left behind in Singapore, so realising that he needed one just as big, he went to the same store and bought an identical trunk.

In the baggage-hall, Frank must have seen Peter's case as it came along the carousel and grabbed it, thinking it was his. Meanwhile, Frank's own suitcase had gone astray, and now it had been found and returned here. No doubt, Frank had been frantically trying to call him all morning, desperately hoping that he had his suitcase.

If he hadn't been so anxious to regain his wedding suit, he'd have let the bugger sweat as a punishment for abandoning him in the airport. But in the meantime, he didn't have any conscience about borrowing a few of his clothes from his suitcase.

Just to be certain it really was Frank's suitcase, he pulled out the thick document envelope stuffed in the inside pocket of the suitcase, and tipped the contents over his bed. There were all kinds of credit cards and documents belonging to Joan — more importantly, there was  £1000 in notes!

Naturally, he wouldn't steal Frank's money, since he would eventually return it to him in full, but the money would certainly help him out of his current cash crisis. Since it didn't look as though he'd recover his suit before the wedding, at least he now had the cash to hire a suit, as well as buy himself a lunch.

The phone rang again — it was the car delivery driver. 'Just leave the keys at Reception,' he told him. 'That will be fine.'

'Sorry,' the man said, 'I can't do that. I need to fill in your licence details.'

Shit! His licence was at the bottom of a muddy creek. He tried explaining nicely, why he couldn't give them to him, and then tried to bully him, but he was immoveable.

'You wouldn't be covered by insurance unless we have your licence details. I'm sorry sir; I simply can't let you have the car.'

A flash of inspiration. 'Hang on,' Peter told him, then riffled through Joan's documents lying on his bed: birth certificate, marriage licence, credit cards, passport AND…

A driving licence!

'My friend will drive,' Peter told him. 'If you come up to our room, you can see her licence.'

OK, he knew that was rather naughty. Driving without insurance is a highly irresponsible crime, but he reasoned that he was not going to have an accident, and that even if he did, he could surely bluff his company into making a claim from their company-wide motor insurance.

With Joan's licence details duly entered on the driver's forms, he handed over the keys, and departed, while Peter started to flick through the contents of the suitcase, looking for Frank's jeans and shirts.

Then he went through it again, more carefully. Finally, he removed every item from the suitcase and painstakingly laid everything out on the bed, looking for the items he had missed. The problem was, he hadn't missed any items. Every article of clothing in the suitcase not only patently belonged to Joan, but it also appeared that she didn't own a single pair of jeans or trousers!

6 EVEN BLACK CLOUDS HAVE A SILVER LINING

There was not one item which was remotely suitable for him to wear without looking totally stupid. Almost all the tops and dresses were brightly coloured with revealing cleavages, and there wasn't a single pair of shorts or trousers. It appeared that Frank had packed all the clothes he'd needed for the duration of his four week stay in the UK in his hand-baggage!

It was seeing Joan's wig which started to make him think. Although he'd never met Joan close up, he knew about the nasty scars to both sides of her face — he thought as a result of being caught in a fire during her childhood.

She had always done her best to hide the impact, partly by focusing men's eyes on much more interesting parts of her — which is why she always displayed her revealing cleavages — but also with her thick, light-brown, shoulder-length hair. It half covered her eyes, hid most of her cheeks, and then curled at the front under her chin, so that little could really be seen of the majority of her face. It didn't surprise Peter very much to learn this was a wig. He pulled it out of the wig-box and twirled it in his hands, ideas spinning through his mind, and then, as quickly, being dismissed.

It would never work. He had more than a day' stubble on his chin, and even if he was to remove every hair on his body with the wax in her beauty kit, he'd still be a long way short of filling the front of the low cut blouses and dresses. He needed something else to help him there, and he vaguely wondered whether Joan had any padded bras, which he could stuff with cotton wool.

He spent a few minutes looking through her bras, all of which were definitely non-padded, before he turned his attention to the large cardboard tube, with the picture of the beautiful woman on the side. 'Singapore Girl,' the banner said, with underneath, 'You can have the sexiest body in town.' He pulled the end cap off the tube, and removed the flesh-coloured garment from inside.

It turned out to be two garments actually. The first was a leotard, with long sleeves, and a high collar, fitting right up the neck and under the chin. He couldn't identify what the leotard was made from, but it was a very thin, stretchy material and smooth to the touch, almost like skin. In fact, with it being flesh-coloured, it felt and looked exactly like real skin.

He'd thought the garment was wrapped around something soft and bulky when he'd first pulled it out of the tube, but as he spread it out before him, he realised that the bulkiness was due to the huge gel inserts in the breasts which, as he hung the garment before him, formed tits the size of honeydew melons.

'So all along,' he thought, 'the superb tits that Joan had been displaying to the world were totally false, and we were all taken in.

'And if Joan could do it,' he speculated, 'why not him?'

But it was the second garment which really fascinated him. It was in the same flesh-coloured material, and was like a pair of footless tights, except that there was thick padding all around the buttocks, hips and outer thighs.

It was strange; he'd always thought women were trying to minimise the size of their hips and bums — not make them much bigger, but that's certainly what this garment would do.

The instructions enclosed with the bodysuit were written in several languages, including poor English, and it took him a few seconds to find the start of the English.

"Male to Female Bodysuit." He did a re-take, and then read on to check his assumption: sure enough, the bodysuit was designed to make a male look like a shapely woman. So what was it doing in Joan's suitcase? Except of course, the bodysuit was in Frank's suitcase — not Joan's.

***

It didn't take long to work out the solution. He knew that Frank had felt terribly shamed by Joan's departure, and desperately wanted her back. Clearly, he'd misled him when he told him she'd agreed to see him. Instead, he'd intended to spend the time recreating Joan for himself. And why not?

He was going to have to tread extremely carefully when it came to returning the suitcase to Frank, revealing that he knew his secret. Not that he had any problem with his pastimes; especially as it now appeared, he was going to get acquainted with them himself. Needs must!

According to the blurb, the bodysuit provided the ultimate dream for any male wishing to temporarily become a beautiful female. It provided a: "realistic, sensitive vagina, allowing full male penetration" and breasts that were: "so responsive, the user could reach orgasm with oral sex". Yeah! And pigs might fly!

The secret, he was told, was the touch-sensitive artificial skin connected to a micro-chip, which would digitally amplify the minute signals, and transmit them to the appropriate parts of the wearer's own skin. It all sounded good, but on the other hand, as a buyer of electrical goods from the Far East, Peter had seen lots of fantastic promises and learnt to be always sceptical until he'd witnessed the results for himself.

The important question was, could he don this bodysuit, get dressed and look realistic enough to step outside his room? To some extent, the answer was irrelevant — he had to go out, and he must look better than he would do simply wearing Joan's clothes on his unmodified body. The question was a no-brainer.

***

The most intricate part of putting on the bodysuit was getting his genitals inside the false cunt, which was an exceptionally uncomfortable operation. He had to pull the leggings over his feet and up the legs as far as his groin, then fumble around inside, feeding his balls and prick into a "filament bag", shaped to fit and made of a stretchy-material almost like a sheer stocking. When he'd finally got his goolies packed inside the bag, it clung tightly to his skin, and the constriction especially around the hilt of his shaft served to give him a massive erection. "An erection should be encouraged," the poorly written instructions said, "but do not masturbate or permit ejaculation, as this may damage the filament bag. When fully erect, use the spray compound to completely cover the genitals.

The compound made his prick swell even more, and he could now see the bag was made of a fine diamond mesh, through which everything bulged, a bit like a woman's thigh bulging in tiny diamond patterns through fishnet-tights which were too tight.

He read the next step of the instructions: "Take one of the pills to progress to the next stage of your conversion. The pill will not only eliminate any chance of an erection for the rest of the day, but also slowly release helium into your throat so that your voice will rise in pitch, and sound like a perfect female voice."

He wasn't too keen on taking strange pills, but he had to not only get rid of the massive erection, which showed absolutely no sign of subsiding on its own, but also ensure it did not return at an inopportune moment. Hopefully, he wouldn't need his voice converting, since he hoped not to speak to anyone except Nick, but it might come in handy for the odd word, here and there. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He decided to take a pill.

The pills were in a bubble pack which looked just like a pack of birth-pills, and the instructions said that he would have to take one every day that he remained in the bodysuit.

He swallowed one with a glass of water, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Then, his hard-on disappeared with the speed of a bursting balloon, and for a few more seconds, his balls seemed to be competing with his prick as to which could nestle up closest to his torso, by occupying the smallest space possible. His balls won, as with quite considerable discomfort, first the right ball and then the left disappeared inside his body, leaving the empty sacs shrivelled up and wrinkled. His prick had reduced to about two centimetres in length and one in width.

He desperately read the instructions to check whether that was supposed to happen; it was. "When the balls have disappeared inside the body, push the ball sacs after them, where the adhesive component of the spray compound will ensure they are kept safely tucked out of the way." They were right; the compound was sticky and as soon as he'd pushed the sacs up inside his body, they stayed there. Finally, he had to pull the leggings up to his waist, and locate his minute cock into the tube in the false vagina through which he would piss. Again, the adhesive kept it nicely in place.

The leggings had a zip fastener at the rear, from anus to waist. It was a bit difficult to do up, but when he'd done so, it pulled in his tummy wonderfully, and with his newly enhanced wide hips and round bum, gave him the lower half of a perfect hourglass figure. The leotard went over his head and down his body, and then the gusset had to be drawn firmly between his legs and fastened at the rear. There was even a pubic wig to give added realism.

He read on: "You now have a fully functional female body. You will be able to feel every touch to your vagina, by means of the minute filaments glued to your genitals, which apply small electrical discharges to the skin."

Damn! He knew he should always fully read the instructions before commencing any operation. He certainly didn't like the sound of having electrical filaments glued to his testicles, but it was too late to go back, and in any case, what else could he have done? He guessed that as long as he didn't start playing around with his new pussy, he wouldn't get his balls blown off by a faulty circuit.

However, when it was all in place, he actually felt very comfortable. With his huge hips and bum, he looked like a woman, and if he showed a nice cleavage, no one was going to look at his face too keenly. It had taken him some time, but having done everything according to the instructions, at least he could be certain he wouldn't be risking the chance of an embarrassing erection pushing through his dress at a crucial moment — provided, of course, the pill worked as it was supposed to, which in itself was a huge assumption.

Only the final pieces of disguise were left: a painful waxing process to remove his facial hair; and then he spent a few minutes sticking on false nails, which gave him reasonably attractive hands for when he handed back the hotel key. Finally, the wig slipped onto his head, and he secured it in place with adhesive from a tube.

As he critically stared at himself in the mirror, he was more than impressed with the reality of his transformation. If he didn't know better, he would be well and truly taken in by the naked girl before him, marred only by the scars on the side of her face.

But he didn't have time to stand and stare at the beautiful girl. He had to get dressed and on his way. He discarded the white silk dress in favour of a cream, shirt-waister dress, with a large, bright floral pattern. It was a suitable length since it would fall below the knee, but it could be unbuttoned at both top and bottom to the wearer's taste. He guessed Joan would have chosen it for just the same qualities which he particularly wanted; to draw attention away from the face and onto the body, whilst preserving a little decency, which the white silk dress certainly would not.

Having selected his dress, he chose a white platform bra, and matching white panties, suspender-belt and stockings, and shoes with two-inch heels. He slipped them all on, but just in time remembered from his earlier days with Susan, that knickers go over the suspender belt and stockings, and not underneath, otherwise they all have to be undone, simply in order to have a piss.

Then he put on the dress and buttoned it fully at the bottom, but left as many top buttons undone as he could without his bra showing. He had a cleavage which would draw the lustful attention of every male, and the jealous attention of every female. Anyone glancing at his face might see the scars, but he was convinced that absolutely no one would consider for one moment that he was a man.

He kept out the lovely white handbag which he thought would match his outfit quite nicely, slipped his mobile-phone and the money inside and put all Joan's other things — he meant HIS things (the instructions had given strict directions about thinking himself into the role) — back into the suitcase, and shut it up. Strictly speaking, he should have sorted out his driving licence from the other papers, and put that in his handbag, but it had taken him so long to get ready, he thought he ought to get on the road as soon as he could.

As he was about to leave the room, he had one of those nasty little nagging doubts that he'd overlooked something very important, so he took another look around the room and en-suite. There, on the washbasin, was the pack of voice-changing pills. Although he definitely wasn't going to need them again, it looked so similar to a pack of birth-pills he thought someone might take the wrong thing by mistake! He slipped the pack into his handbag, took a deep breath, opened the door and went out into the hotel corridor.

***

He released that breath as he took the first few steps along the corridor ("Lead with the hips forward," the instructions had said, "and pull your shoulders back and down"). He was on his way. Fortunately, he had no bill to pay, so he'd be able to simply hand in his room-key, find his hire-car, drive to Cheltenham, and borrow some of Nick's clothes to go out and find a hire-suit — all without speaking to anyone except Nick.

'That's a huge suitcase. Can I help you with it?'

The guy had been approaching from the direction of the lifts, and for some reason, instead of merely moving to one side of the corridor to allow him to wheel the case past, he stood in the centre of it, so Peter had to come to a halt before him. He wondered if he was drunk and perhaps trying to start a fight. He was about to draw himself up to his full height and tell him to get out of his way, before realisation came with a rush.

'I'm fine, thank you,' he whispered in his softest voice. Surprisingly, it sounded OK. The helium pills must have worked.

Unfortunately, the guy wouldn't take no for an answer. 'It's no problem.'

He reached past him to take the suitcase from his hand, accidentally brushing against his body as he did so. Peter considered punching him in the stomach, or kneeing him in the balls, or just telling him to go and get fucked, but that's not what women did.

'There's no need, really, but… Oh, thank you!'

He even managed to give the man a smile. After all, he could pull the bloody thing around the car park until he'd found the rental car left for him, and since he only knew the registration number and make — a BMW — it might take ages.

He called the lift, allowed Peter to go in first, but then, as the doors started to close, had to rush to get himself and the suitcase inside, which meant he had to squash up against him again. With a sudden rush of excitement, it occurred to Peter that, far from being terrified of meeting anyone on his journey, he was so thrilled by the thought that he could feel his nipples tingling.

He'd hardly had chance to reason that his nipples were inanimate bits of plastic, and there was no way they could tingle, when they arrived at the ground floor and the doors opened.

It had been deserted in the lobby when he arrived yesterday evening, and he'd been assuming it would be much the same now. Was he wrong? There must have been at least five coach parties who were either just arriving or just leaving, including a group of fifteen-year-old schoolboys who took one look at him and then started making comments like: 'Look at the tits on that!' or 'You don't get many of those to the pound!'

The more mature males in the foyer didn't make any remarks, but he could feel their eyes drilling through his clothes, as he walked over to the Reception counter (remember, hips forward — shoulders back), and posted his key through the slot in the surface. He rejoined his volunteer porter, and they went outside searching for his car.

He almost walked past it, as he was looking for a conventional saloon. It was a Z4 Roadster; the kind of sports car that looks as though it's designed for Le Mans; the kind of sports car that neither Frank nor he would normally have hired, but Joan certainly would. It suited him, with his cream-coloured dress, casually unbuttoned and exposing his superb breasts to the world.

His volunteer porter almost wet himself with excitement, and he got him to lift the suitcase into the boot — which Peter thought practically gave the man a hernia — whilst he got into the driver's seat. He started the engine, gunned the accelerator, put it into gear and gave the man a nice wave as he took off with a squeal of tyres.

***

The next problem came almost immediately: no petrol in the tank! If the car had been properly serviced, the tank would have been full, but as it was, the warning light was flashing. If he hadn't had his confidence boosted by the willing services of his volunteer porter, the thought of going to a petrol station would have given him a big problem. As it was, he decided he could undo a few buttons on the lower part of his dress to provide plenty of distraction as he got out of the low-slung roadster. The art of concealment, he was learning, was to make oneself more conspicuous. Even more important, he knew, was to think himself into the role. He started mentally saying: 'I am Joan Peters. I am Joan Peters.' It was only then that he realised how his name and Joan's were almost a reversal of each other; somehow, that made it much more easy to identify with her. 'I am Joan Peters. I am Joan Peters,' he repeated.

There must have been at least three guys who clocked him getting out of the car. As he drove onto the forecourt, they were all simply standing next to their cars, minding their own business as they filled their tanks. Suddenly, as one, they all spun to follow the progress of his car as he drove it to the furthest set of pumps. Two of them had to change the way they were standing  ¬— turning round so their backs were towards the cars they were filling, to keep him naturally in their view.

All three must have seen the glimpse of suspender belt after he opened the car door, swivelled in his seat, and stretched one leg to the ground. All three must have stared down his cleavage, as he bent forwards to stand up. But he was absolutely certain that none of them looked at any other aspect of him.

Him, he was just an unsuspecting woman, totally unaware of the attention he was getting as he bent over to put the petrol nozzle into his filler cap, and stayed in that position whilst the tank filled. It was only as it was almost full and he glanced sideways towards the shop, that he saw himself reflected in the plate-glass window.

He hadn’t really noticed, when he put on the dress, that there was a long slit up the rear of the dress. However, from the view he could see, of stocking-tops and lacy white suspenders, he was pretty certain that all the men on the forecourt had discovered that fact well before him.

He stood up and returned the nozzle to the pump, giving a friendly, but innocent smile at one of the blokes goggling at him. He guiltily smiled back, then turned back to return his own nozzle to the petrol pump. As he moved towards the garage shop, he noticed that, coincidentally, all the men appeared to have finished filling their tanks at exactly the same time, as they all came rushing over to the shop doorway, and then courteously stood back to permit him to enter first. And they say that gallantry is dead!

With his soft voice, paying for the petrol with Joan's cash was no problem, and he returned to his car, and moved it away from the pumps into a parking spot, so he could study the map from the car-rental pack.

Fantastic! Norton was in rural Oxfordshire, far closer to Cheltenham than he could have hoped, and probably only about an hour's drive, taking him right through the Cotswolds — one of the most beautiful areas of countryside in England.

The sun came out from under its cloud and shone down on him. In a fit of bravado, he flicked the switch to take down the top, and then set off with a squeal of tyres, his hair blowing in the breeze.

***

The journey was as easy — and pretty — as he had hoped, and it was only eleven-thirty when the road-sign indicated he was a mere twelve miles from Cheltenham. Until then, he'd been enjoying the drive; even the town centres, crowded with Saturday shoppers had been easy to negotiate, since so many drivers seemed happy to give way to the pretty girl in the open-top roadster.

But the closeness of his destination suddenly concentrated the mind, and he realised it would be absolute madness to drive to Nick's in-laws' house. Susan and her lover would be there by now, and only a few hours later, there'd be at least three wedding speeches being made. It was a dead cert that at least two of them would feature the groom's father arriving at the bride's house in drag.

The pub had a large sign outside: 'FOOD SERVED ALL DAY.' He abruptly turned in and parked. Apart from anything else, his body clock, still set to Singapore time, was telling him that he was hours late for lunch. He would eat, whilst he considered the best option.

At that hour, there were few customers and plenty of empty tables, so he chose one in a secluded corner, hoping as most woman would on their own, not to attract the attention of every male in the place. He should have known better.

When he returned to his table after placing his order at the bar, there were a couple of blokes sitting at the next table. Surprisingly though (perhaps even disappointingly), they didn't even look at him as he walked past carrying his large glass of Chardonnay — a luxury, he knew, but he reckoned he'd deserved it for what he'd done so far, and anyway, he wasn't intending to drive much further.

By the time his food arrived, he'd decided exactly what he had to do. His experiences this morning had given him sufficient confidence for him to drive into Cheltenham town centre, park, and then walk into Marks and Spencer and purchase a man's tracksuit and track shoes. He'd have to find a unisex toilet somewhere  ¬— perhaps a disabled one — and remove his bodysuit and put on the tracksuit. Then it would be a simple matter to leave as a male, and find a shop to hire himself a wedding suit and everything to go with it.

That resolved, he got on with his meal. The food was excellent, and the mystery of why the two blokes never looked at him was explained by surreptitiously listening to their conversation: they were gays. The larger of the two was called Gerald, and he was rather dishy looking, but it was the smaller man, Lesley, who spoke in the affected voice, with every other word being 'Darling' or 'Sweetie'. He gave a mental sigh of relief; he'd thought he'd lost his power of attraction to heterosexual men! Then he grinned for thinking himself into his part so thoroughly. Gerald caught his eye as he grinned, and smiled back at him; he really was rather dishy, he thought, and if he was woman…

'Don't even imagine it, girl,' he told himself, but added self-congratulations for so completely thinking himself into his role.

But that tiny interaction between himself and Gerald did give him pause for thought about how he'd so naturally fallen into character. Certainly, if he was not to be publicly exposed, he had been compelled to think himself into the part. But how far did that take him towards sitting in a pub and making eyes at an obviously gay male, something that would have been absolutely unthinkable yesterday?

Yet as a pretty woman, he felt such action was reasonably safe. Lesley appeared so intent upon flickering his eyelashes at Gerald, he didn't notice any potential competition from him.

'Would he,' Peter pondered, 'risk making eyes at a heterosexual, unaccompanied male?'

'Not at this moment — he had a wedding to attend,' was his instantaneous response. The answer shocked him all the more so because it was an instinctive reaction — rather than a reasoned one. But as he thought about it some more, his answer did not even appear that unreasonable. After all, yesterday he had been a male who enjoyed heterosexual intercourse — the erect penis plunging inside a pussy, and moving about in an extremely pleasant manner, to the benefit of both parties, until semen squirted deep inside the vagina. Now he was a female, he could contribute a different piece of his anatomy to the action, but there was absolutely no reason at all why his love of heterosexual intercourse should be changed.

He slightly surprised himself at such a rationale, but he did recall how sexually excited he'd been all morning. Not that sexual excitement in itself was a particularly unusual event for him; in fact, he guessed, like most men, he was continually sexually excited throughout his normal day. A pretty girl with a short skirt would get into the lift with him, and he'd be imagining lifting the skirt and sticking his erect penis into her pussy; the buxom personal manager at work would pop into his office to discuss some staffing issue, and whilst she was talking about National Insurance and pension contributions, he'd be thinking of shoving his prick between her tits and jerking off.

On a typical day, he'd probably think about having sex with some random woman on ten or fifteen separate occasions. It's what men did. Except that even now he was a woman, he was still thinking about having sex with random men on numerous occasions. And women didn't normally do that. Did they?

He glanced over towards the bar, which by now was reasonably full. Several men had obviously been gazing at him, and they hurriedly averted their eyes, but he knew what they'd all been thinking. A shot of adrenaline flushed through his body as he realised that, right at that moment, he could walk up to any one of the unaccompanied blokes and ask if they wanted to fuck him, and almost every one of them would take up his offer.

He couldn't help wondering what it would feel like. The pain as a large prick was shoved into a small opening; the power of the man working like a steam-hammer towards his own orgasm; the exquisite stroke of his cock against the walls of your vagina; and finally, the hot spunk squirting deep inside.

And what about afterwards? One of the sad things about being a man in his mid-forties was that his staying power had definitely dwindled. No longer could he follow one fantastic ejaculation with another, only a few minutes later. But since a girl doesn't ejaculate, would his libido remain undiminished, no matter how many orgasms he had? Wow, if his artificial vagina worked half as good as the instruction manual had indicated, he could be a convert to the life of a woman forever!

He smiled then, as he realised he had been completely taken in by the guff written in the instruction manual. There was no way he could have any kind of feeling in his artificial bits. As for having an orgasm simply because some bloke stuck his tool into the piece of plastic between his legs, and jerked off into it, he was living in dreamland.

He had to laugh to himself as he thought about the number of men who'd been staring at him all morning, lusting after the sexy woman on her own, little realising they were looking at a complete sham. A bloke at the bar caught his smile and returned it, so he hurriedly turned back to his food — he had a wedding to attend.

7 CLOUDBURST

It was just after he had finished his meal and was savouring the remaining half-glass of wine, when the phone in his handbag rang: that same phone which had been into the muddy ditch and back, and never worked since — until now. He pulled it out and glanced at the display — NICK. Brilliant! But first, he needed to make certain he could take the call in privacy.

He answered the call but didn't start speaking until he'd gone into the lobby by the toilets.

'Nick. High! How is everything?' Perhaps someday he would tell him his tale, but certainly not today.

'Oh Dad! Am he glad I've managed to get hold of you, at last. I tried ringing you in Singapore, yesterday morning, but you must have taken off by that time. Then I've been calling last night and this morning. Where are you? And why does your voice sound so funny?'

He ignored the question about the voice. 'I'm just outside Cheltenham. My baggage went missing at the airport, so I need to go into town and rent a suit, but I don't see any problem in getting to the church on time. So don't worry about me.'

'No, Dad! The wedding's off!' He paused for a second before continuing: 'It wasn't going to work out, especially when her parents started putting the boot into me.'

If troubles come in threes, how far over the limit had his counter gone? He sighed. 'Oh, Nick! I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong with the parents? They seemed really nice people when I met them.'

'You'd think people of that age would know better.'

When you bring up a child, you get to know the meaning of every nuance. Nick was definitely guilty of something. 'Better than what?'

'At their age! Going to bed in the afternoon in order to have sex. It's disgusting!'

Since they were probably within a couple of years of Peter's own age, he didn't think it was that outrageous, but there was something else behind this. 'Well, I guess that's their business. Why was it a problem?'

Nick gave a verbal shrug. 'They went to their bedroom, and they found me and Laura in their bed, banging away like rabbits.'

He smiled at the thought. 'Well, their reaction seems a bit over the top. After all it's not as though…' he paused. 'Hang on! You were getting married to Lucy. Who's Laura?'

'She was Lucy's bridesmaid. She's always been quite a stunner, but when she tried on her bridesmaid's dress, she looked absolutely fantastic. I just had to have her on the spot. So, I did…'

'And she was willing.' Hardly mitigation, but…

'Well, she's always been willing, Dad. She made it quite clear she'd still have been willing as soon as we got back from honeymoon, but now we've bypassed…'

His next words were lost by the call announcement. 'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'

Damn! Hardly surprising. Nick had telephoned him by dialling his Singapore mobile number, and he was paying for the outward part of the call. He, on the other hand, was paying for the call to be shipped all the way back to the UK.

'Sorry, Nick, I lost that.'

'I said that we’re staying in the Heathrow hotel where you were supposed to be, last night, so I'd hoped to see you as soon as you landed. We came here when Lucy's parents threw us out...'

'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'

'…so we've managed to get on an earlier flight to Singapore. Hope that's alright to continue with the honeymoon as planned?'

He'd paid for Nick and Lucy's air tickets to Singapore, along with a couple of nights in a smart hotel. After that, they were going to stay in his flat for three weeks.

'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'

'But I thought you'd split up with Lucy.'

'No Dad. I'm going to Singapore with Laura. You don't mind do you Dad? I mean, taking Laura instead of Lucy.'

Actually, he damn well did mind. He'd only come over for his wedding, and here he was, not even bothering to stay and see him, before he pissed off on honeymoon with some bird he'd been shagging whilst leading Lucy on, and paid for by him under totally false pretences.

But whether he minded or not was irrelevant, because right at that moment, the announcement came: 'Your calling credit has expired. Please arrange a top-up.' Followed by silence.

***

He stared at his useless mobile, and as he did, he could feel a large tear gathering in his eye. His problems had really started when Susan left him, one month ago, but the last twenty-four hours had been absolute murder; the fates had gathered forces against him; everything had gone wrong; and now, he couldn't even go back home to Singapore, because it was being used as a love nest for Nick's latest conquest!

The single tear ran down his face, dropped off the end of his nose, and was then promptly followed by another one; and another. Damn! It must be the effect of the pill he'd taken, which had done something stupid to his hormones.

'Are you alright?'

He glanced up. It was Gerald, the dishy gay, on his way back from the toilets.

'I'm fine, thanks.' But his voice quivered as he said it, and the sentence ended in a huge sob, after which the waterworks opened up.

'You don't look fine. Here, have his handkerchief. Now, you'd better tell me what it's all about.'

Feeling incredibly foolish, Peter took his handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes, and blew his nose. It must have been almost a minute before he could speak.

'My son, Nick. He was going to get married today, and now it's all off, and he's left on his honeymoon, which I paid for, with some tart he's just picked up, and I can't even go home, because he's going to be there for the next three weeks and…'

'Hold on! Hold on! I think we'd better go back to the table, and you can tell Lesley and me all about it whilst you finish your wine.' Gerald put his arm around Peter, and it felt so comforting to be led back into the lounge, having someone who was really concerned for him.

***

And so Peter told them all about it. OK, his glass of wine tasted as sour as if Nick had personally pissed in it, which effectively, he had, but Lesley bought him another glass from the bar, and he told them both his story. He left hardly anything out, except about how the wrong suitcase had been delivered from the airport; and since they didn't happen to ask whether he'd had a sex change in the last twenty-four hours, he didn't tell them about that either.

It wasn't until he came to the end of the story that he had to start improvising.

'Isn't your husband here, with you?'

'Oh well, there was so much chaos, Frank and I got split up at Norton Airport. In any case, Frank isn't Nick's father and they've never really got on…' (Probably because they had never met!) '…so Frank has gone on to the cottage we're renting for the next month, not far from here, in the Cotswolds. I was due to go on there after the wedding.'

'In the meantime, you feel absolutely dreadful… go on, drink it up, it will be good for you.' The latter as Lesley fetched another round of drinks from the bar.

'No, I shouldn't really. I have to drive. Frank will be expecting me…'

'…later this evening. Plenty of time to recover before then, and you need it. You've had a nasty shock to the system. If the worst comes to the worse, you can always get a taxi or, if you're really pushed, we can drive you there.'

'Oh but I couldn't…'

'Of course you could.' Gerald looked at Lesley, seeking permission for what he was about to suggest, and Lesley gave a little nod. 'Look, we're staying in the motel here, and we have a huge family room. When you've finished your drink, why don't we go back there and have a coffee, and you can have a little rest on the settee? A shower as well if you want one.'

Of course, Peter realised, the really nice thing about a woman having a gay male as a friend is that she doesn't have to worry that friendship and sex will get confused.

Although he hadn't had much wine, he felt incredibly woozy as we walked towards their room. In fact, after he'd stumbled a bit, Gerald put his arm around him to support him. It felt incredibly nice, and he had all kinds of mixed emotions about him being gay, and whether he could convert him to heterosexual, and how that wouldn't be fair on Lesley.

But when we got through the door of their room, he took the initiative right out of his hands, by swivelling around and taking Gerald in both his arms, and pulling him forward until they were almost touching. Peter stared into Gerald's incredibly sexy eyes, and opened his mouth so that he could properly kiss him.

The kiss went on for ages, and he could feel Gerald's erection grow hard against him. Peter gave a little wriggle, and pulled Gerald hard into his pelvis.

God! He wanted him desperately, although deep inside, he could feel a little warning bell ringing, saying 'Careful girl. You're getting somewhere you really ought not to be.' He shut it out of his mind, as any girl has to at certain times.

He didn't even notice Gerald undo another button on his dress, and then slip a hand under his bra and lift it over his breast. But he certainly noticed when Gerald's finger brushed across his nipple.

'Jeez!' he gasped.

'You do have sensitive nipples,' Gerald whispered, and then he was bending down and flicking Peter's left nipple with his tongue.

'O-h-h-h-h!' It was so good, he thought he might pass out with pleasure. He grabbed Gerald's head and forced him hard onto his nipple, making him take it inside his mouth and suck.

'Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!!!'

He thought it couldn't get any better, but he'd forgotten all about Lesley. Suddenly, Lesley was sucking on his right nipple, and Peter started screaming as his orgasm commenced.

***

Never before had an orgasm lasted, and lasted, and lasted, for precious minute after minute. When they finally let him down onto the real world again, he was just so grateful to them, that he knew exactly how he needed to please them.

'I think this is what you want,' Peter said, putting his feet wide apart and keeping his legs straight as he bent at the waist so that he could go down on Gerald's magnificent cock, right in front of him. But before he gave it the first lick, he turned his head and added, 'Lesley,' and wriggled his arse so there was no doubt what he was offering. 'Just use plenty of Vaseline; otherwise I might bite off Gerald's balls as you shove it in.'

He'd had a quick squint at Lesley's prick before finalising the offer, just to make certain it wasn't a monster. It was actually quite a narrow prick, but fairly long, and with a delicious curve to it he'd never seen before, which gave it quite a wicked look. Well, after the orgasm they'd given him, he was game for anything.

He could feel Lesley nuzzling against his back passage as he licked Gerald's balls, and he had to give Lesley credit for experience, because it slipped in scrumptiously smoothly. Then Lesley started moving it in a slow rhythm that was divine. Peter carefully stood upright, and even leaned backwards slightly, so that his pussy was on display to Gerald. Gerald's cock was so absolutely enormous that he was really pleased he hadn't given him the first offer on his back passage.

'It's your turn,' he said to him, 'I want you to make a Joan sandwich.'

Gerald stepped forward, the head of his cock at least one foot in front of the rest of him. He pushed it down, so that the monster sat between Peter's legs, and simply moved it slowly across the lips of his pussy — forward and back, forward and back.

'God, I want you inside me,' Peter said, and he reached down and touched the beast with his fingers. He could feel it throbbing though his fingertips, and he shivered as he forced it up between his pussy lips, so that the movements caused by Lesley's thrusting from behind, pushed him bit by bit onto the end of Gerald's cock. He couldn't believe how tight his cunt was, and he thought even Gerald was a bit taken aback at such a tight fit. Peter screamed a little as the head finally went right though his pussy lips, but when it was inside, it was fantastic.

Gerald and Lesley started working together to create the perfect sandwich; sometimes thrusting together, so their cocks were practically colliding somewhere in the middle of him; at other times, one would be going in as the other was coming out. Now he knew the origin of the saying about not knowing whether one was coming or going! But he thought he came several more times than he went.

Of the two men, Gerald came first, and after he'd reached his climax, he pulled out of him, and Peter bent down to lick up the cum on the end of his prick. The different position caused Lesley to lose control, and within seconds, he too was splattering semen up Peter's arse.

After cleaning Lesley, it was time for an all change, and Peter offered his arse to Gerald for the ultimate sacrifice. Unfortunately, it was about that time, that he realised he'd really had too much to drink. His head started buzzing, and he collapsed forward onto the edge of the bed.

It didn't put Gerald at all off his stroke; he simply came down on top of him and he must have used lots of Vaseline because his cock slid into his arse a lot more easily than it had gone in his pussy. Even so, the pain was exquisite, and he went into another orgasm on the strength of it. Peter got a bit confused then, and he thought he was on the point of passing out. He muttered something about not forgetting Lesley's needs, and didn't remember anything more.

***

It was later, much later, when Peter realised he was drowning. He choked and spluttered, and he heard someone say, 'Pull her out the water for fuck's sake, otherwise we'll kill her.'

Someone grabbed him under the armpit and heaved upwards, and as he choked some more, Gerald's voice was saying, 'There, there. You're OK. Your face just slipped underwater. You're alright now.'

Peter opened his eyes and saw he was lying in a bath full of warm, soapy water. Lesley was leaning over, holding his right hand, and with a nail-brush, was furiously scrubbing under his nails.

'Fucking hell, Gerry,' he said, in a voice, strangely different from the one he'd been using earlier. 'It's me doing all the hard work. All you have to do is stop her face from going under, alright?'

It took him a second to work out the difference, but then he realised Lesley's voice had lost its gay affectation. He was talking as any other bloke might.

'You're not gay?' he asked, puzzled.

Lesley looked at him and smiled. 'It always works,' he said. 'Women feel safe with gays.'

It took a few more seconds for shocked realisation to dawn. 'You bastards fed me a date-rape drug. Shit! I'll fucking…'

'Don't be bloody stupid, Les,' Gerald's voice came from besides his left ear, and then he murmured softly into mine. 'You were fantastic, babe, the best woman I've ever had. And I've never known a woman enjoy sex as much as you do. You wanted it so much; you've left us totally shagged out.

'We're getting you cleaned up now,' he continued, 'and then we'll take you on to the cottage where your husband's waiting for you. We'll simply tell him we found you trying to drive your car, and you'd obviously had too much to drink. Just stick to that story, and no one will be any the wiser — you had your fun, and we had ours. OK?'

Peter nodded, too tired to argue, and felt his eyes growing heavy.

8 DAYLIGHT

It's strange, but from the time Peter/Joan had first awoken early on Sunday morning, until that moment when his memory came flooding back, everything had seemed as if it had been happening to someone else — as indeed it had.

But on that Sunday evening, as soon as he saw Gerald and Lesley on the video recording, the whole series of events over the previous forty-eight hours came slamming back to him. His immediate feelings were a total mixture: abused by Gerald and Lesley; relief that the predicament had ended; guilt at the things he'd been doing with men; excitement at the way he had behaved as a woman; and totally and completely fucked, as only an enormous, and very satisfying overdose of sexual intercourse can provide.

After a few seconds deliberation, there really was no reason to feel guilty about what he'd done with either Gerald and Lesley, who had date-raped him, or Vic, who had been spying on him with secret cameras. That thought alone made him feel a little better.

Well, actually, with the abundance of sex over the last twenty-four hours, he was feeling bloody good. He did, however, resolve that there was no way he was ever again going to have sex with men; at the first opportunity, he would leave Vic to his own devices, buy some male clothes and convert back to a heterosexual male. In the meantime, he would need to keep well clear of Vic.

He'd noticed on the video taken when Gerald and Lesley brought him home, that for just an instant, the number plate of their car was visible, so he was leaning over the desk, writing down the registration number, when it happened.

He hadn't taken note of what clothes he'd put on to come to Victor's house, and he didn't even feel Vic lifting his skirt. But hell, what he suddenly did feel was a finger slipping inside him and going straight onto his spot. Suddenly he was gasping, and opening his legs wider, and within ten seconds, he was hitting the first orgasm since making his well-intended resolution.

He lost count how many more orgasms he had that evening, some from Vic's fingers massaging his pussy, some from Vic's mouth sucking on his tits, and some when Vic's prick moved against his clitoris, or spurted semen deep inside him. By the morning, he regarded himself as a totally fallen woman.

***

It was a couple of days before he got around to going through Frank's hand-baggage. The letter was in a side-pocket, handwritten on plain white paper.

"Dear Frank

It probably won't come as any surprise to you when I tell you I have finally decided to leave you and go and live with Paul. As you know, we've been lovers for almost three months, and he makes me feel such a very special person — I simply can't describe the excitement I feel when I'm with him.

Please don't feel bad about my departure. We've always been totally honest with each other, and there's no doubt we both benefited from our relationship. For two years, you had an attractive wife to take to company functions, as well as a huge salary increase, simply because I had sex with your boss. In return, I got a steady stream of extremely good-looking men, who would do almost anything to get inside my knickers — and very often did! And we always knew our arrangement wouldn't last forever.

But I felt I was changing into something I didn't really want to be. Sure for a while it was nice to be the beautiful wife of the Head Buyer, seeing everyone's heads swivelling as I walked past with my breasts almost popping out — the men because they desperately wanted to fuck me; the women because they suspected their husbands desperately wanted to fuck me.

The problem was, I started to behave like that woman. Hell! I even started wondering what it would be like to have babies suckling my breasts! But you changed also. It got to the stage where you preferred hetero sex with Joan, rather than gay sex with me! As for all the other men I had, I can tell you that having sex with a man who thinks you've got the loveliest tits in the world, isn't half as good as making love with a man who thinks you have the most heavenly cock.

Paul has found a job in Hong Kong, and I'm going there to live with him. So, I'm leaving behind the bodysuit and all the passports and certificates you managed to obtain for me, as well as our wedding certificate. Perhaps you will find another man to take over Joan's role, but I really feel it's time you came out of the closet. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck in your life.

I think it's best if we don't try to communicate with each other from now on, so this will be the last you will ever hear from me.

I'll just say: Thanks for all the good times.

Lots of love

John"

***

Frank had surprised most people when he'd come back from holiday married to such a curvaceous wife — now the explanation was clear — it was simply an arrangement he'd made with a gay male who'd taken on the role of a wife by wearing that most realistic bodysuit. Joan had never existed and her passport and other documents were false.

But that explanation suddenly gave Peter a jolt of alarm. When the Coroner's Officer had asked for identification, he'd handed over Joan's passport without realising it wasn't even his own. Thank God, the coroner couldn't have looked too closely at the photograph; otherwise he would now be under arrest. He picked up the passport, opened it to the back page, and then sat down with a lurch.

They say that in Singapore you can get anything you want for money. The photograph was evidence of the truth of that remark, for there, staring back at him was not the image of Joan as she was known in Singapore; instead was Peter's own photograph!

***

After that, he had to think afresh about everything. The passport looked genuine enough, but clearly, the photograph had been doctored in the last few weeks. It would be easy enough for Frank to get a photograph of Peter Jones from a trade journal, but it had been so expertly altered, one would never have known that the thick, dark-brown hair was anything but genuine.

Until then, Peter had supposed that Frank had come to England, because he wanted to temporarily turn himself into Joan. Now it was clear that he wanted his new friend, Peter Jones, to undertake that role.

Peter recalled their conversations over the last few weeks and realised how he had unknowingly cast himself for the part. His bitterness with his existing friends and colleagues, and the desire to get away from them; and how his hatred of Susan had turned into a general loathing of females in general, and the tremendous power they had to enslave mere males with a quick glimpse of thigh or cleavage. Hell, they had even talked about the excitement men got from seeing women's underwear, and the exhilaration they must get from wearing it!

Frank's first step in persuading him to take on his new role would be to convince him that he could play the part. He'd deliberately bought an identical suitcase to Peter's so that at the airport he could engineer a mix-up. Presumably, he had believed he would talk him into wearing the clothes, or perhaps even contrive a situation similar to the one he'd actually found himself in. That was why he'd dashed off the plane so quickly and why, when he was found dead, he was in possession of Peter's suitcase, rather than his own. Probably it was the stress of the moment which had brought on his death.

It was partly as a tribute to Frank that Peter decided to continue as Joan for a while, especially with Frank's "real" wife conveniently out of the way. But perhaps more important was that Joan was having such fun with Vic, there seemed no reason why 'she' shouldn't continue in her role for the rest of the time Peter was scheduled to stay in England.

There were several things which convinced him to make it a more permanent arrangement.

Firstly, his dissatisfaction with his life in Singapore without Susan, and the disenchantment he felt about his previous friends did not diminish with time. And as the end of the four week holiday approached, he felt less and less inclined to leave Vic, and his non-stop fucking. Victor may have led a life of abstinence until Peter met him, but he was certainly making up for it since.

And while John/Joan may have felt something lacking about sex as a woman compared to his gay relationship, Peter felt it was far better than any sex he'd had for years. Not only were his orgasms more intense and pleasurable, they went on for ages, and only a few minutes after finishing one orgasm, he'd be starting on his next.

He also knew that, if his relationship with Vic did come to an end at some stage in the future, there'd be no shortage of volunteers to take over. The same could definitely not be said about Peter Jones.

The final (and some might cynically say, most persuasive) argument which convinced him to stay was Frank's life insurance and pension. His company provided one million pound air-travel insurance, and since he'd had the good sense to die before passing through HM Customs, he was still classed as an air traveller.

Frank had no other living relatives and hadn't made a will, so the money would go to the government unless Peter nobly offered to take the payout. And since he was Frank's widow, he could hardly refuse to take Frank's company pension which, following a death-in-service, was generous in the extreme.

All in all, a highly satisfactory arrangement.

***

That left, of course, one piece of unfinished business: Gerald and Lesley. He had to acknowledge that, without them, he would never have taken that ultimate step in being a complete woman. Not only had they pulled him through the barrier, they had launched him into a sex life which was infinitely better than it had ever been before.

So for his own part, Peter reluctantly had to be grateful to them. However, whilst his own story might be a very happy one, he suspected they had carried out similar attacks on many other women, who they had left feeling abused and, since they didn't use any protection, possibly pregnant.

However, it was easy enough to find a private-detective who could access the police computer, feed in a car registration number, and then follow the individual around until he and his friend committed a similar crime. As a responsible citizen, the private-detective then only had to dial 999 and call the police, for the law to take its rightful course.

Peter made certain that they saw him in the public gallery on the day they were each sentenced to five years in prison. He gave them a nice little wave and a smile, but they looked too upset to reciprocate.