When the vicar arrived at the mortuary, I was in tears, having just identified the body of my mother. I'd hardly spoken to her since I was fifteen years old when she'd remarried and I'd gone off to live with my uncle and aunt. Suddenly, I regretted everything: not loving her as much as I had loved my dad, who'd died the year before we split away from each other; not accepting that she missed her husband as much as I missed my father; and above all, for not making it up to her after her new husband, who I had hated, had died, many years ago.
I had dripped tears over the form I'd had to sign, identifying the corpse in the mortuary as my mother, Margaret Susan Russell, and the mortuary assistant was just making excuses to push me out when the vicar arrived. I barely registered her, other than noting a clerical collar, until she said, "Oh, you poor thing," and gave me a hug.

She was quite large and very soft; it was very comforting letting her pull me to her, and I swear I never had an untoward thought in my mind until I felt two nipples abruptly harden and thrust themselves into my chest. That certainly stopped my blubbering, and I think I may have even gasped, suddenly aware that if we continued in our embrace, she would quickly become aware of something else abruptly hardening!

"I'm so sorry," she said, pushing me away from her. "They don't normally do that. How incredibly embarrassing."

For me, it wasn't so much embarrassing as downright painful since, down below, something was trying to fight its way through my underpants. But she was fumbling with the front of her clerical shirt, making her protruding nipples less obvious by rumpling up the material. Within a few seconds, we'd both sorted ourselves out and I was able to inspect her rather more acutely than I had done to date.

I guessed she was quite a bit older than me; probably in her early forties to my twenty-eight but, in spite of our age difference, still quite attractive, in a pleasantly plump kind of way.

"Sorry about that," she repeated. "I guess I don't often have the chance to grope a fit young man."

I smiled back. "It certainly shook me out of my depression," I said. "I'd recommend you try that with all your downhearted parishioners. I'm Mike Russell, by the way. Margaret was my mother."

"Hello, Mike." She reached out a hand to shake mine. "I'm Heather Barnes, the Vicar of Diddley, and yes, I've heard all the jokes before." (For those outside Britain, she was referring to a long-running TV series of a slightly-different name.) "I'm so sorry for your loss," she continued. "I understand you've travelled up from London this morning."

I nodded. "I'd just got into my office in when the police telephoned and told me the news, and asked me to come up to identify Mum's body. They say they don't know exactly what she died of but they don't suspect anything sinister. They're doing a post-mortem, probably on Monday." It was Friday today, so I was planning to sort out the immediate issues concerning my mother's death and then probably go back home on Sunday, so I could go into work as normal on Monday.

"Did you drive up, or…"

"I came by train," I replied. "My car was at home, so I'd have had to go back there to get it, and it seemed the quickest way was to go to Euston and jump straight on the train to Manchester. On reflection, it's left me without transport so that's going to be quite a problem, especially as I don't have my driving licence on me so I can't rent a car. I suppose you couldn't give me a lift back to Diddley, could you? That would be ever so helpful."

"Of course I can," she replied. "The Vicarage is only a couple of miles from your mother's house so it's no problem. Have you had any lunch, yet?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't feeling hungry on the train but I am, now. What about you?"

"There's a pub on our way home which does decent food."

So we left the mortuary, part of the Manchester Royal Infirmary, and Heather led the way to the car park. She had an old Ford Mondeo, which had clearly seen better days, with all the debris inside typical of a well-used family car. When we got to the pub, I bought her a glass of wine and a beer for myself, and we both decided upon the beef and ale pie, before taking a seat.

"Your mother was a regular member of my congregation so I met her most weeks," she said, "although I can't say I knew her well."

"The tragedy is," I said, "that neither did I." And I started telling her my tale of woe, particularly about my relationship with my mother. Heather was a good listener, and I probably spoke for about twenty minutes, almost uninterrupted. We were both well through our beef and ale pie, before I dried up.

"So now you feel incredibly guilty," she said.

I nodded. "That's about it."

"Of course," she said, "I could say it was as much her responsibility to contact you – more so, in fact – than it was for you to contact her."

"Maybe, but I was pretty nasty to her when we parted. How did you get on with her?" I asked.

A shrug. "She was a fairly regular member of my congregation, I think more because it was a way of meeting people than because she was a Christian. But if I'm honest, I could probably say that about half of my congregation. The Lord works in mysterious ways and if I'm helping people to behave in Christian ways, even though they don't believe in Christianity, then I'm doing a worthwhile job. That's where…"

"That's where?" I asked.

"Can I be honest with you? Perhaps it will help you to understand your mother a little more." I nodded and she continued. "I felt your mother rather abused her attendance at the Church; that she was more an advocate of sin than of Christianity."

"I don't understand."

"It's not speaking ill of the dead to say she had Obsessive Compulsive Sexual Disorder.

"What?"

She grimaced. "Your mother was a nymphomaniac. I didn't have a particular problem with that, per se."

When it was clear she wasn't going to continue speaking, I tried to put her thoughts into words, "But she attracted men like bees to the honey pot."

"Yes."

"And not just unattached men?"

She inclined her head, neither wanting to speak ill, nor wanting to deny it.

"You said you didn't have a problem with her Obsessive Compulsive thing?"

"I understood it. We all have problems with sexual lust outside of marriage."

I wouldn't have said the words if I'd thought about them for one minute. But I simply opened my mouth and the words came out. "Like the lust you experienced when you saw me, just now?"

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. "Yes."

She thought for a second before adding, "As soon as I saw you, I thought you were one of the most beautiful young men I had ever seen in my life. My body was telling me, 'I want to have his babies,' but I'm happily married, have two lovely kids, and am a vicar in the Church of England. I could never get into the position of betraying my faith in all of those things."

She looked up directly into my eyes, pleading. "You understand, don't you? I fancy you like crazy, but I cannot let it go in the way your mother always did."

"Yes," I said. "I respect your position." At the same time, I was wondering how I was going to coax my way into her knickers.

She asked me about my job, then, and we spent the rest of lunchtime in social chitchat about our own lives.

***

"I don't have a key to the house," I said, suddenly panic stricken. "I won't be able to get in."

Heather gave me a sidewise smile as she drove her car towards Diddley. "That's all right. People often give a spare key to their vicar in case of emergencies. Your mother gave me hers for safekeeping, and it's in the key safe at home."

Her smile turned into a grin as she added, "The archdeacon also gave me a key to look after. Told me it was to be used for medical emergencies only; on no account was I to give the key back to him even if he begged me for it. You'll never guess what it was for."

I appeared to consider although I actually had quite a strong suspicion; after all, aren't most clerical types weird?

"Incidentally, he died a couple of years ago, so there's no harm in me telling you." She paused a second waiting for my guess, but I shook my head. "It was the key to his chastity belt!"

"No way!" I said. "People haven't worn those since the Crusades. In any case, I thought they were only for women." Sometimes, it seems wiser to appear naïve.

"There's considerable doubt," Heather said, "whether they were even known of before the nineteenth century, and even then, it was only as an item in fiction. But there's no doubt that many people use chastity devices nowadays, the vast majority are men.

"The night he died," she continued, "a paramedic rang me in the middle of the night to ask me to take the key to hospital. By the time I got there, they'd already cut the thing off him so it wasn't needed. I stayed with him until he died, and then comforted his sister, his only living relative.

"As I was leaving the hospital, the nurse gave me his chastity device, saying she thought it would only distress the sister if she gave it to her, and in any case, I was the key holder."

She laughed. "It had been secured by a padlock, so they hadn't damaged it when they cut off the padlock. I tried to get my husband, Dan, to try it on. I thought it might brighten up our sex lives, but he wasn't having any of it."

I laughed with her, but wondered whether she'd told me the story simply as a way of saying her sex life was boring.

***

Heather was gone rather longer than I'd expected just to collect my mother's key from her key safe. I began to worry she couldn't find it and I might not be able to get into my mother's house. But eventually she returned carrying a plastic carrier bag, a rather sheepish look on her face.

She passed the bag to me after getting into the driving seat, saying, "This is a little present for you. You may find it quite useful." She started the engine and drove onto the road.

The bag was surprisingly heavy. "What is it?" I asked, peeping inside, and then, "Oh."

I was looking at a chunky, black metal cross. "That's nice of you to offer it," I said, "but I'm afraid I'm not really into these kinds of things." I'd rejected Christianity during my teens and had no wish to be recruited again.

"You haven't worked out what it is, yet."

I gave her a questioning look and she added, "You may think it's simply a rather ugly religious cross, but actually it has a far more practical use. Examine it."

I pulled it out of the bag and stared at it. About six inches by four, with the horizontal crossing the upright about a quarter of the way down, the typical shape of a Christian cross. What was unusual was that, rather than being flat, it was of box cross-section about one and a quarter inches square. Steel bars created the basic box shape; between them was a portcullis-like, black steel lattice, so you could see through it from one side to the other. In spite of its religious connotations, it seemed… evil.

There was a thin leather belt, attached to hoops at either end of the horizontal, presumably so it could be hung around the neck. Two more hoops at the end of the vertical presumably provided an alternative fixing. But then I realised those hoops were at the bottom of the cross, not the top. Surely, no Christian would wear a cross upside down?

There was still something remaining in the plastic bag, and I reached in and withdrew a brass padlock.

"That's obviously not original," Heather said. "I borrowed it from our garage door and I'm keeping the keys."

That's when I worked out that the padlock would fit through the hoops on the vertical to secure them in place. Without it the hoops could be separated. With a little 'chunk', the whole thing split into two halves: the front and upper half in my right hand; the rest in my left. I stared at the two halves, trying to make out their purpose.

"I thought you could try it for a while," Heather said, a mischievous grin on her face.

A looked down at it again, a sudden suspicion in my mind. "Holy sh... ugar! It's the archdeacon's chastity device!"

The genitals would be laid onto the lower part of the cross, the balls resting on the horizontals. Then, the two halves would be fitted together, leaving a hole on the underside which would fit around the shaft between balls and body. With the two halves padlocked together, everything would be stuck in there until the padlock was removed. With the whole of its weight hanging from the genitals, and the tight fit, it must have been incredibly uncomfortable. Presumably, that was why the belt could be fastened behind the waist to support it.

Finally, her words sank in. "You want me to wear this! You are kidding! Why should I?"

She was negotiating a road junction and she paused before speaking. "Firstly, you know I have the hots for you something rotten. But if I did have sex with you it would destroy everything I believe in. Ultimately, it would destroy me. So I'm asking you to wear it as a personal favour to me.

"Secondly, we've talked about your mother's specific sexual needs, and I think that if you could experience her feelings of continual sexual frustration, it would help you come to terms with the differences which split your relationship."

"Wow!" I shook my head. This conversation was suddenly quite heavy. "How long would you expect me to wear it for?"

"For my personal benefit, just for this afternoon, or when I come round again." I noted she'd said "when" she came round again, not "if".

"And for me to cope with my mother's death, how long do you think I should wear it?"

"Why not try it until Sunday?"

"Sunday!" It sounded eons away.

"You can come to my morning service; I'll have the key with me in case you decide you want to end your chastity. Obviously, in emergency you could ask me at any time."

"You don't seriously imagine I could go beyond Sunday."

She looked very carefully at me. "I think you can be very strong, Michael."

I was silent, my thoughts whirling around my head. Shock! Horror at the idea of enforced chastity, of course. But then it was hardly as though I was bonking a different girl every night; or even the same one every night. But there was also a sexual eroticism combined with a personal challenge. And how might things develop with Heather, if she wasn't inhibited by the fear of having sex with me?

"I'll do it," I said, as we entered the drive of a large detached house.

"I hoped you would," she said with a smile, "for my sake as well as yours.

"You go inside and put it on," she continued, handing me the front door key. "I have to pay a visit to a parishioner. I'll be back in half an hour. OK?"

I nodded, suddenly frightened about what I was about to do.

Seeing my hesitation, Heather said, "It's your choice, Mike. I don't want to force you. But if you're not wearing it when I get back, it would be better if I went straight home. I think I'd regret it otherwise."

I nodded again. "Thanks, Heather, but I'll do my best to keep my promise."

***

So, as soon as I was inside the front door, I went into the adjacent cloakroom, pulled my trousers and underpants down to my knees, closed the toilet lid, sat down and stared at the device in my hand. Did I really want to place my balls under the control of a middle-aged Bible pusher? Was I really excited by the idea of enforced chastity? Did I really want to develop my relationship with a married vicar who emphatically did not want sex?

I shrugged. Yes, Yes and Yes. I pulled the device apart again and examined it in more detail. The first part was easy; taking the lower part of the cross with the front plate removed, it was simply a matter of laying my cock along the trough and resting my balls on the horizontal arms either side. The tricky part was then fixing the other half to it.

Firstly, holding it all horizontal, as I was, the top of the cross would have to be buried in my belly. Therefore, I had to tip everything downwards. I stood up and this time had far more trouble laying my genitals in the trough. Eventually I found the technique was to start off horizontally and then tip it downwards as I offered up the top.

Now, I had to proceed much more carefully as there were things poking down from the top bit into the trough below. For example, there was a separator between my cock and balls, with slots for my ball sacs to pass through. You can imagine, get the slot in the wrong place and you chop your balls off! It also meant that once it was on, there'd be no wriggling out of it without leaving my balls behind.

Then there was the problem that when it was all fixed together, my shaft entered through a hole in the base and then turned abruptly southwards through ninety degrees. I could see that once it was in, that's the way it would be forced to go, but it certainly wasn't volunteering to do it in advance.

Then, of course, I had an erection and I had to fill the washbasin with cold water and dangle my bits in it for a few minutes until they shrivelled.

I was drying off my tackle when I heard Heather's car arrive back. I only had seconds to get the thing on or she would go away. I slapped my cock and balls into position, located the other half on it and clicked into position without chopping anything off. Then it was a simple matter to push the padlock through the two rings and click it shut.

The doorbell rang.

***

I'll be there in a minute," I called. "I am wearing it."

I reached down towards my trousers, letting go of the cross. Big problem. The weight of the cross and the heavy padlock must have been easily as heavy as a bag of sugar – say a kilogram, or two pounds. That was now hanging from my genitals and it hurt – not as bad as I expected but sufficient for me to yell and hurriedly grab the cross and fasten the leather strap behind my back.

"Are you all right?" Heather's voice came through the door.

"I think so. It hasn't pulled off my testicles yet."

Even then I had a problem; I couldn't pull up my underpants and trousers! My trousers simply wouldn't fit around the sheer bulk of the cross, with the padlock hanging on the bottom. "I don't know what to do," I called to Heather. "My trousers won't do up."

"Well, if you're wearing the cross you'd better open the door and let me see the problem."

Before opening the door, I glanced down to check my appearance. You couldn't actually see that much, apart from a large metal cross sprouting from the point usually reserved for genitals, so I moved towards the front door, flipped open the rim lock and made to step back. Unfortunately, my trousers around the knees made me stumble backwards, and I ended up sitting on the toilet seat, my legs wide open.

"Oh my Lord," Heather said, staring down at the cross. Then her nipples abruptly poked through her shirt like thimbles, and it was that which really started things going.

I felt my cock trying to get hard, like really hard, and feeling the box restricting me, which made my cock try even harder. The flesh was starting to bulge out of every open square of the lattice, like a quilt.

Heather dropped to her knees before me and said, "In the name of the father…" Then she stuck out her tongue and ran it up the front of the cock. "The son…" licking the left arm of the cross (and my right testicle), "and the Holy Ghost," licking the right arm of the cross.

That was when the hidden teeth gnashed into my cock. "Aagh!" Where the hell had they come from? The excruciating pain was doubling me over. The teeth were biting along the length of each side of my cock, and along the bottom, especially into the frenulum. "It's like teeth biting into my cock. Heather, please get this thing off me. Where's the key?"

She shook her head. "I left it at home. After all, this was to protect me against myself. If I had the key, I'd have unlocked it and been shagging you by now."

If only… But at least the pain had reduced the strength of my erection, my cock had reduced and the teeth were starting to withdraw.

"The archdeacon would talk about Hell's Teeth," she said. "He used to pull funny faces too, especially when I wore something with a revealing cleavage. That explains it."

"He must have been a braver man than me," I said, at last able to produce a slight grin. "If I was trapped in this device, I'd have worn a blindfold when you were around."

She grinned at me. "Thanks. I guess this means I have to leave your cock totally alone; perhaps all for the good. But do you think you're up to sucking on these two beauties?" She pulled her shirt up her body to reveal huge tits straining to be released from their bra.

You're not going to shag her, I told myself. You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. For the time being, my cock was accepting the idea; I guess having endured the pain it had rather more wisdom than I normally gave it credit for. Perhaps I should tentatively explore Heather's lovely boobs, and see how things went. I lifted my hands and gave them both a squeeze, letting my thumbs wander across her erect nipples.

"Oh that's Heaven," she moaned.

You're not going to shag her, I told myself, as I helped to push her clerical shirt right over her head and then unclipped her bra, letting those lovely melons swing free. You're not going to shag her, I added, as I bent my head to suck on her left nipple.

"Oh, that's beautiful."

You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. I shifted my lips to her right nipple.

"Ooh, ooh, ooh."

You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. "Let's move to the lounge," I said. "I feel uncomfortable doing this next to the front door."

She helped me to my feet and, whilst holding onto her, I pulled off my shoes and managed to get out of my trousers and underpants. "You're not going to shag her," I muttered as we both stared down at my prick encased in its cross.

"What?"

"We're not going to have sex," I said to her.

"I know. Isn't it wonderful? Thank you so much, Mike for bearing the cross for me."

"If I'd known about the Hell's Teeth," I said, "I'd have made a different decision."

"Good job I didn't tell you about them, then, wasn't it."

"Bloody hell! You knew about them all along."

"Dan worked it out, which was why he wouldn't put it on. But that's rather beside the point now. Let's go to the lounge and have some more fun."

She took me by the hand and led me along the hallway and into a pleasant lounge. My mother, I noted, seemed to have had plenty of money in spite of being a widow for many years. I took Heather in my arms and let my lips wonder down to her nipples, again. You're not going to shag her. No, I thought, I wasn't, and fortunately my cock seemed to have realized it. It was still larger than usual, but felt pleasantly constrained by the cross, rather than painfully imprisoned.

Since I wasn't going to shag her, I thought, I could actually spend quite a lot of time on making her feel pretty good. One or two girlfriends (actually, that meant all the girlfriends I'd had some kind of relationship with) had complained I was pretty lousy at foreplay; too intent on squirting semen deep inside. Perhaps this might be an opportunity to get some experience in that field. I undid the belt of her trousers, and then unfastened them and let them fall down.

"Oh, you naughty man," Heather said.

I pulled down her panties and tights and pushed her back onto the settee, freeing her legs from all her clothes. Seeing her bulging pussy staring back at me started a little hardness to develop down below. You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. I'll start with her toes and feet, I thought. That should keep things in check.

***

It must have taken me an hour, slowly working my way up her legs, before I first applied my tongue to her labia.

"Oh!" she screamed. "Yes."

But I reverted to licking the inside of her thigh, leaving her begging for me to attack her vagina. My cock had behaved well, all this time, obviously confused by the turn of events, and I was more than happy at both the experience I had gained and the cries of happiness and satisfaction from Heather. Another flick of my tongue along her labia and she started to orgasm. Might as well go for it, I thought, and I rested the flat of my tongue against her clitoris.

"Yes!" she screamed at the top of her voice, almost deafening me. "That is fucking incredible." Her hips bucked upwards whilst her two hands clamped down on the back of my head, forcing my face hard into her vagina, and particularly, my tongue against her clitoris. Rather than trying to fight her use of my head like that, I simply reached up with both hands so I could roll those big nipples between thumb and forefinger.

"Yes, fuck me!" she yelled again – and again – and again. I lost track of time as my head went up and down with her bucking, smelling her sweetness, tasting her juices and continually repeating to myself, "You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her." I have to say, my cock was getting quite interested again, but I managed to keep control by analysing with professional interest, my success at giving oral sex.

Fucking incredible, I thought. Never before, have you ever managed to bring any woman to such a climax, cock or no cock. This truly had been a lesson I would heed in the future. Except that the real lesson was never to put your genitals into a chastity device.

Heather finally worked herself into exhaustion and she slumped down into a semi-conscious state. After a few minutes, I managed to wriggle my head out of her clasp and move up to lie beside her.

"How was that for you?" I asked with a grin.

"Fantastic," she said, with a smile from ear to ear. "That was ten times better than sex; no, a hundred times... A thousand times... No a million times better than sex."

"Right," I said. OK, I could understand how important it was, both as a wife and mother, and as a vicar to remain faithful to her beliefs, but I have to say to exclude that incredible orgasm from the category of being a sexual act seemed to be stretching the boundaries more than a little.

"Sorry," she said, "I should have asked. How was it for you?"

"Excellent," I said. "I managed not to come."

"You poor dear," she said, "but thank you, thank you and thank you again for playing with me." She made it sound as innocent as the school playground.

"Incidentally," I said, "I worked out how the Hells' Teeth worked." It had helped me concentrate upon not getting too hard again.

"That's nice," she said.

"They're not Hells' Teeth; they're LLLs' Teeth," I said.

"OK." She obviously hadn't distinguished the difference.

"As in lots of L-shaped levers," I said. "They run all along the length of the cross on the inside, and pivot around their corner point. One end has the tooth, the other is attached to the lattice."

"How interesting."

"Whilst the penis is just filling the cage," I continued, "the tooth is barely in contact with the skin so you don't feel it. But as the penis hardens, it pushes against the sides and the fairly thin lattice is pushed outwards."

"Fantastic," she said.

"Imagine the penis manages to push out the lattice by two millimetres. But the tooth doesn't move outwards, it moves inwards by the same amount so it's actually penetrating the penis by four millimetres."

"Nasty." At least she'd grasped the point.

"I think the friction in the pivot means that it doesn't act gradually; it does nothing at first and then suddenly jabs in. Enough pain to discourage the penis from getting erect again."

"Hmm, I see."

"Only..."

"Only?"

"Only I'm not certain that is the real effect. You said the archdeacon used to get bitten whenever you flashed your boobs at him. I think the LLLs' Teeth make it erotically exciting."

"So you're enjoying wearing the cross?" Heather asked.

"No!" I said, then, "Well, maybe a little. What was amazing is how it meant I could concentrate on pleasuring you, rather than fulfilling my own sexual needs. I've never given that much pleasure to a woman before." It was questionable whether I'd previously given any pleasure at all! "But what terrifies me is the idea of sleeping in it. In fact, I don't think I will sleep knowing I'll be bitten as soon as I get the morning woody."

"Woody?"

"Erection. Hard on. Boner."

"Well, I expect you'll soon get used to it and simply not have a morning erection."

I don't think it works like that. I think I'd better remove it. Could you go home and bring back the key, please?"

"I think that's rather disappointing," she said. "I mean, I'm obviously very grateful you wore it so that we couldn't have sex, but I'm sure you could put up with a little pain in order to experience the frustration as you mother experienced it. Well, not quite as your mother experience it, obviously. But you know what I mean."

"But it's not a little pain," I said. "It's excruciating pain. Absolute agony. Look, I'm quite happy to wear it when you return for a little more… play. But not to endure that agony every morning when I wake up."

She seemed happier when I said I was prepared to wear it when she next visited, and said, "OK, but I can hardly bring the key back here, otherwise I'm likely to unlock you and do all the things we've avoided doing so far."

Which hadn't left out much, I thought.

"In any case, I have to pick up the kids from school at half past three. There wouldn't be time to fit it all in."

"Heather, I can't sleep in this device. I need to remove it. How do you suggest you get the key to me?"

"I need to hand over the key in a public place. I know. Presumably you need to get in some milk and food. Why don't I drop you off at the supermarket, go home and get the key, then I can pick up the kids from school and then meet you outside the supermarket. I'm afraid you'll have to walk home but that shouldn't take long. How does that sound?"

"I guess that'll be fine." She certainly wasn't making it easy to get out of this thing. "No. That's no good, I can't pull on my trousers, remember? I have nothing to wear."

Heather frowned and then her face broke into a smile. "That's no problem. We should be able to find something of your mother's to wear."

"Why should her trousers fit any better than my own trous... You don't mean a dress?"

"Of course. The archdeacon always wore a cassock, so it's no different from that."

"It's totally different. The archdeacon was a man of the church and wore a clerical garment. I am not and you want me to wear a woman's dress."

"I have said before, you are very pretty. You're about the same size as your mother, except for the boobs and we can simulate those, and I do know your mother had cancer at one time and lost her hair. She wore a wig; we could find that."

"No way," I said.

"It's your choice," she said. "I'm going to be too busy with the kids to return here this afternoon, I'm busy all weekend, so I suppose I could drop the key through the letterbox on Monday. How does that sound? It would give you a little more time to decide whether you could..."

"No way," I said. "I have to get out of this today."

"Then it's the dress or nothing," she said, "and I'm certainly not going out with you wearing nothing."

"But I'll look and feel ridiculous," I said.

"Trust me, you won't look ridiculous," Heather said. "As for feeling ridiculous, I think it will enable you to become as one with your mother for a little while. Once you've tried it, maybe you'll want to stay on a little."

"All right, I guess there's nothing wrong with giving it a try."

"Then let's go upstairs and see what your mother has which will be suitable."

***

Heather was still totally naked, and as she walked up the stairs ahead of me, her ample buttocks wobbling such a most agreeable way that I felt things starting to stir down below. Damn it, I thought, it's not even as though she's a beauty, just a rather plump middle-aged woman who I’d have thought no more about if she hadn't got the hots for me.

"Any idea which room is your mother's," she asked, turning towards me at the top of the stairs as she faced half a dozen closed doors. Her turn gave me a superb profile view of her left tit which was incredible – very large, well-shaped without a trace of sag and with that large nipple. I could feel myself getting harder and harder.

"I've never been here, I'm afraid. At a guess, I'd say it was that one." I pointed towards the front of the house, over the room in which we'd just been not having sex. Concentrate, Mike, concentrate.

My guess proved to be right and Heather spent a few minutes opening wardrobes, drawers and cupboards before she pulled a dress from the wardrobe, held it against me and said, "You'll look great in this."

My stomach did a complete gambol at what she was suggesting and I said, "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"No problem with me," she said. "You can stay like this until Monday when I'd be able to..."

"OK, you've made the point. Let's get on with it."

"Firstly, after that bit of exertion this afternoon, we both need showers, but I want to put some cream over your skin before you have yours."

"What cream. What's it for?"

"It's to clean your skin. It will make you look more ladylike.

I shrugged. "I guess I'm in your hands. Do your worst."

So we went in the en-suite bathroom and she covered my skin in a cream from a tube. "I'll take my shower whilst we're waiting for the cream to take effect, then you can take yours and wash the cream off."

I gave another shrug. Leaving cream on for just a few minutes was hardly going to transform me.

Actually, once she was in the shower, I could feel my skin starting to tingle and by the time Heather had finished in the shower, it was positively painful. I almost pushed her aside as she wobbled out of the shower cubicle. "Sorry Heather," I said. "But this cream is stinging my skin."

"Just a sign it's doing its job," she said.

So I quickly rinsed the stuff off my body and then started to soap and properly clean myself. My skin seemed much smoother than before, and it was only when water started to collect in the shower tray because the plug hole was blocked that I realised why. "This cream has taken all the hair off my body," I yelled.

"Of course it has," she replied. "You can't wear one of your mother's dresses covered with hair. She would never allow it."

"But you could have just removed it from my legs," I moaned coming out the shower to show her my body. Actually, my legs looked incredibly sexy. I could feel myself getting a boner just looking at them. I hurriedly paid attention to what Heather was saying. She was back in her clothes, now, and she looked so angelic, it was difficult to think of her in the throes of orgasm, her face contorted in ecstasy whilst she screamed out obscenities.

"For this dress," she said, "you also need to de-hair the lower arms and hands. But many of your mother's clothes are quite low-cut so you'll need to be able to show your chest before you wear those."

"But I'm only wearing this one dress before I get the cross off my genitals. Anyway, you might have asked me first."

"You told me to go ahead and do your worst.

"But don't worry," she added. "Nothing else will be irreversible. Now, we need to hide the top of the cross where it rather bulges against your stomach. Dry yourself off."

The back of the cross sloped at the top so as not to dig a huge hole in my tummy, but I could understand her point.

She pulled something out of one of the open drawers as I towelled myself dry. "This'll do," she said."

"But it's a corset," I yelled.

"They call them waist cinchers now," she said, wrapping the garment around my waist and fastening it behind my back. "The great thing is that it's got suspenders to hold up stockings. Your mother always wore stockings rather than tights, which is fortunate with you wearing your cross."

I could feel my cock starting to harden. I'm not going to have sex. I'm not going to have sex. No, but you are going to wear stockings. My cock went rock hard. For a second, I could feel it fighting against its restrictions, then the teeth bit.

It was still incredibly painful but I was prepared this time. I gasped a little and concentrated hard on seeing stockings as a rather inconvenient item of apparel, rather than erotic wear. After a few seconds of agony, the teeth withdrew

Heather had turned back to the drawers and was selecting a white bra – just an item of clothing, just an item of clothing.

"It's huge," I said, eying the cups.

"I think your mother had several enhancements over the years," Heather said. She checked the label. "This is a 38DD."

"My God." I remembered my mother as being relatively flat chested. "But how are we going to fill the cups? It will take more than a few socks."

"I think probably," she said, opening the bedside cabinet drawer and pulling out a box, "yes, we'll inflate a couple of condoms with water. That will give them a nice bounce and look much more realistic than rolled-up socks."

"Right," I said. For once, I wasn't thinking of me having bouncing tits, only of my mother having a large box of condoms in her bedside drawer and I could see another fresh box in the drawer.

Heather held out the bra straps for me, and I slipped my arms through and turned so she could clip it up.

"I'm not certain how much water we'll have to use to fill the condoms," she said, tearing open one of the foils. "Perhaps we should do it empirically." She dragged me into the en-suite and moved the stool so that it was next to the shower. She reached in and unclipped the shower hose, and then unscrewed the rose on the end, and fitted the hose into the neck of the condom. She turned it on a little to get rid of the air inside the condom and then turned it off again. "Right," she said. "Let me slip this inside one of your bra cups and then I'll inflate it with water until it seems about right."

Ten minutes later, I had two huge wobbling breasts and a soaking wet bra. "Sorry about that," she had said, but we'll find you another bra as soon as we've tied them off."

Fortunately, Heather had had the presence of mind to wrap a towel around me so my waist cincher was still dry. "You seem awfully proficient at doing this," I said. "As though you'd done it before."

She grinned a little. "When I was a teenager, I used to do it all the time, although I never made a pair anything like as big as these." She nodded towards my image in the bathroom mirror, although I couldn't see them in the mirror from where I was sitting. Glancing down, they looked enormous.

"Did my mother really have breasts this size?" I asked.

Heather nodded. "You can imagine how it pulled the blokes in, particularly when it became known she'd have sex with anyone. They'd practically queue up at her door."

How strange, I thought, that her sex life had been so very opposite to my own near celibacy.

"Anyway, I think your new breasts look about right so let's get a dry bra for you and then you can slip on the dress."

Just an item of clothing that we women wear every day, I told myself. Just an item of clothing that we women wear every day.

After the dress, it was stockings (a really difficult moment in the fight against erections), shoes, and then the wig. I gasped as I stated in the dressing table mirror and Heather applied just a little makeup.

"I think you'll be able to wander around the supermarket without anyone realising, don't you," she said.

I nodded, quite overcome with emotion. I may not have had the sex life of my mother, but I suspected I looked very similar to how she normally looked.

"OK," she said. "Let's get going, then." She found a handbag for me, cleared out the junk my mother kept in it, but which included a set of keys that she put back in. Then she got me to find my wallet and put that in.

"There's a cash machine outside the supermarket," she said. "It might be better if you get out sufficient cash for your shop and anything else you might need, rather than trying to use the card of a male when clearly you're female."

It made good sense, but it made me suddenly realise what I was about to do. "Maybe I should miss the supermarket," I suggested. "Get the key from you and walk straight back here and get changed."

"And then walk back to the supermarket to buy your milk? Not only would that be crazy, it's also wimping out of facing up to your mother's life." She smirked at me. "You can do it, Michelle."

"Michelle?"

"In order to think yourself into being a woman, you need a woman's name. With Michelle I could call you Mickey."

I shrugged, outwardly resigned but inwardly, my mind was in turmoil. What would it be like to experience the world as a woman – indeed, as a woman with big wobbling breasts like my mother's? Why was I so excited by the prospect?

We left the house and had barely taken five paces towards Heather's car when I found I was staring into a woman's face, peering over the neighbouring fence. And not just any old woman's face; this was an incredibly pretty face; wide eyes, a pert nose, soft, rounded cheeks, and luscious lips which would normally be smiling (or preferably kissing) but now formed a rather sad shape, all framed by chestnut brown hair in a fringe at the top and chin-length bangs at the side which curved around her face.

"Hello Vicar," she said. "Is this one of Maggie's relatives?" She looked directly at me in a way which sent my heart pounding. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"This is Michelle Russell," Heather said. "Maggie's..." She paused, uncertain what relative I should be.

I kept my voice soft and low; it sounded passable as a woman as I said, "Niece." My mother had three brothers, all of whom had countless numbers of children, whereas I was an only child. It would be easy to invent an extra cousin.

"I'm so sorry, Michelle," she said. "I'm Vivien Kennedy, Maggie's neighbour."

"Thank you, Vivien," I said. "I came up from London this morning when I heard the news." And why, why, why wasn't I dressed as a man, so I could get friendly with her, accept her sympathetic shoulder to cry on, and worm my way into her affections and her bed? Faint hope there; even if I'd been wearing my normal male clothes, I'd never have got a look in with this gorgeous woman.

"My husband will be devastated," she said. Damn! She had a husband. "He was far closer to her than I was." She said that in rather a bitter way.

"He was?" I said, my mind reeling that any husband could even look at my middle-aged mother in preference to his own beautiful wife.

"Let's just say, his eyes strayed a little," she said, her eyes flicking downwards towards my chest. "I was never certain about the rest of him."

"But you're so pretty," I replied. "I can't see how any... husband could look elsewhere." I'd changed my wording to avoid hurting Heather, who, for some reason, was so infatuated with me.

"We'd better get moving if I'm to collect the kids from school," Heather said, and I followed her to the car and got in, giving a final smile at Vivien as she watched us depart.

"Rumour has it," Heather said, "that Tom, Vivien's husband, has had affairs with half the pretty girls in the village."

"Poor girl," I said, wondering how I might console her, woman to woman, of course.

Within a few minutes, we turned into a supermarket car park.

"Here we are," Heather said. "I just have time to get back to the house and collect the garage key before I pick up the kids at three-thirty. I'll be back here at about three-forty five, and I'll wait outside. Otherwise I have to get the kids out the car. Don't be too long."

"OK."

"Oh, and, er, thanks for everything this afternoon."

My mind was in complete turmoil as I thought about everything that had happened, from hearing of and identifying my dead mother, giving a woman an incredible orgasm, through to meeting the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I got out of the car and Heather drove off as I walked towards the supermarket entrance. It wasn't until I got a delightful smile from the guy collecting the trolleys, whose eyes widened as they flicked down to my chest, that it suddenly hit me that I was about to walk into a supermarket dressed as a woman with huge tits!

"Are you all right, madam? Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

He gave me a sudden glance and I realised I had spoken in my normal voice. He was reading me. I felt my cheeks beginning to burn. Damn him! I wanted to run away but my pride wouldn't let me. Then my eyes settled on a cash machine, and I went over and withdrew £100, which should cover my groceries and incidentals, until I got back to normal.

I could still feel the guy's eyes on me as I entered the supermarket and started shopping. Of course, I should have checked out what my mother had in stock, apart from the two large boxes of condoms. Eventually, I decided to buy sufficient convenience meals to last me until Sunday, a box of cereal and some milk and sugar.

The good thing was that I don't think anyone else read me as I wandered around the shelves; indeed, I even got a lecherous smile from an old guy out shopping with his wife, and frank stares from a few schoolboys who were presumably playing truant from school. I went to the self-checkout to avoid having to talk to an assistant, and was stepping outside just as the supermarket clock was showing three-forty five.

"Hi Michelle," Heather called from her car window, and I walked over to her car. "This is Paul and Cassie," she said, waving at the two kids strapped in the back.

"Hi," I said in a kind of whisper, and gave a little wave.

"Hello Michelle," they politely called back.

"Here's the key," Heather said, handing it to me.

"Thanks," I said.

As Heather drove off, I could hear Cassie asking in a loud voice, "Mummy. Why did you give Michelle our garage key?" I was thankful I didn't have to supply an answer.

When Heather had suggested I walk back home from the supermarket, I hadn't really factored in that it was the best part of two miles; although even that wouldn't have phased me normally. But what I really hadn't factored in was that I'd be walking in my mother's heels. OK, they weren't particularly high, a couple of inches, I reckoned. But that was two inches higher than I was used to. My ankles were already feeling worn, having traipsed around the unfamiliar supermarket a few times, but that was as nothing compared to a two mile hike.

After ten minutes, my ankles were burning; after twenty, they were on fire and I knew I couldn't go on; except that I had no choice.

"Hello," said a voice which immediately lifted my heart. I looked up and stared into Vivien's beautiful smiling face. "This is my husband, Jack." She indicated a bloke sitting in the passenger seat of the car she was driving.

"Hello Michelle, can we give you a lift?" he said, staring down at my breasts - but what did I care. He was offering a lift.

"Oh. Yes please." I'd have accepted a lift with the devil at that moment; a lift with the most beautiful angel on earth was like entering heaven.

"I was just picking Jack up from school," Vivien said, as I quickly opened the rear door and got in.

"Isn't he a bit old for that?" I quipped, as Vivien started the car forwards.

"Ha ha," he said. "I teach Physics, there. Very important, you know, Physics."

"Yes," I said. "I quite agree."

"Really?" Jack turned round and looked into my face for the first time. "You look very like your aunt," he said, adding in a voice which attempted to sound casual, "She was quite good looking too."

"You obviously knew her quite well," I said.

"Well... Not that well." He was deliberately not looking at his wife. "We were neighbours."

"Quite good neighbours," Vivien said. "Jack was always popping round and doing things for her. Your aunt was very appreciative of Jack's efforts."

"Vivien always makes it seem quite sordid," Jack said, "but I was only being a good neighbour to a woman living on her own."

"Like you are to old Mr Williams, who lives on our other side," Vivien said. "He's been asking you to help turn his mattress for weeks."

Within a couple of minutes, we had arrived at the house.

"Why not have dinner with us?" Jack asked. "I'm sure Viv could rustle something up."

"Yes, of course," Vivien said. "I was just about to suggest it. Perhaps you could help Michelle carry her stuff into her aunt's house."

"No problem," he said, getting out of his car door and stepping round to open mine. As I glanced up at him, I realised he was looking directly into my eyes as though I was the most beautiful person on Earth. He was certainly a bit of a charmer. I couldn't help smiling back. If only he knew.

"Pass up your shopping bags," he said, "and I'll take them into the house for you. Do you have the front door key?"

I rummaged in my handbag and sorted out the front door key, which I handed over. Then I handed my shopping up to him and he carried it towards the house.

"What about the other key?" Vivien asked, turning around in her car seat to look directly at me. "The one the Vicar gave you?"

"What about it?" I asked, wondering how she knew about it, at the same time withdrawing it from my bag and holding it up for inspection.

"I'll take that," she said, deftly removing it from my hand and putting it in her own handbag.

"Sorry," I said. "That's an important key. I need it back."

"Yes," she said, "and I know what it fits."

I gasped. She knew it was a chastity belt, but… "I don't know how much you overheard," I said, "but there's no way I'm going to do anything untoward with your husband. There's no need for you to keep that key."

"I know that," she said. "I saw a very attractive man go into your aunt's house this afternoon and you come out. And in between, I heard the Vicar having a screaming orgasm. She really should have closed the front door behind her. I could hear everything, especially after I stepped inside the door and listened in the hall to the pair of you. It turned me on something rotten. All we have to do now is to work out how to get Jack out the way for long enough for you to do the same for me.

"And you needn't think you're going to get this key back anytime soon. I'm a married woman, you know. You really can't think I'm going to have sex with you."

"Are you going to come?" Jack called to me from the front door, his voice laden with innuendo.

"Not for a long time," Vivien murmured at me with a wicked grin. "I think you're going to be here for many weeks before you're going to come. But as for me and the vicar, I think we've found the key to paradise."