1 PARTY

I'd never intended to go to my Aunt Sue's 60th birthday party. After all, my father - my aunt's brother - had died some twenty years ago, when I was a spotty faced teenager. We'd had no communication with my father's side of the family ever since, other than the obligatory exchange of Christmas and Birthday cards. But my mother wanted to re-establish contact, and she asked me to accompany her.

'Chris,' she said, 'you know you'd enjoy it if you went. And, there are hotel rooms booked and paid for in that posh, new hotel where the party's being held, for people like you, who don't live locally.'

So, we went. I travelled up by train on the morning of the party, and spent the afternoon with my mother, and then we shared a taxi to the hotel that evening. Surprisingly enough, I really did enjoy it - or most of it, anyway. The fact that a huge barrel of real ale was freely flowing helped to push aside the twenty year rift between the two families, and within a few minutes, my cousin Pete and I were chatting about the quality of the beer (excellent), the chances of the local rugby team winning the league cup (zero) and, of course, the attractiveness of the women present (rather poor to start with, but they did improve with the quantity of beer consumed). Since both Pete and myself were divorcees, we had much in common, and spent most of the evening talking about the advantages (few) and problems (many) with women. After a few hours' debate, we'd really got it into perspective.

'I mean,' Pete said. 'Don't get me wrong. Sex is good, right? In fact, it's absolutely fucking great. But women... who needs 'em, apart from sex? I reckon that pretty soon, someone will invent a really good sex robot, where you can't tell the difference from a real woman, and then we'll be able to get rid of women altogether. Apart from having babies, of course, and they'll be making those in laboratories, anyway.'

'Absholutely right, Pete,' I said.

I paused a little then, because I hadn't realised I'd consumed so much alcohol that I was already at the slurring stage. After all, there was a time when I'd have consumed six pints simply as a warm up for serious drinking later... but I was losing track of what I'd been about to say. I carried on quickly, vaguely along the lines I'd been about to spout.

'Absolutely right,' I made certain there was no slurring that time. 'You know, I reckon this beer is twice as good as sex. I mean, if there was an absolutely gorgeous woman came into the room right now, I'd just ignore her, you know that.'

'This beer,' Pete looked through his glass, 'is three times as good as sex. If a gorgeous woman came into the room right now, I'd pick up our glasses and go over to the bar and fill them, because all the randy gits waiting there to get served would go chasing after the woman.'

Just then, a really sexy woman came into the room. I don't simply mean a sexy woman; I mean an absolutely drop-dead, gorgeous, sex-goddess. She had long, straw-blond hair which flowed over her shoulders, big, round, gold earrings pushing through the hair, and a really cute face with a small upturned nose and pouting, kissable lips. She had on a little black dress with a halter neck plunging down past her navel, which also had a matching gold ring through it. There was a long slit up the side of the dress, and as she walked past, I could see her left stocking from stiletto heeled shoe, right the way up to the band at the top, where a white, lacy suspender briefly appeared. From the rear, her dress was backless all the way down to her buttocks, where it formed a cleavage equally as exciting as the one at the front.

Great to look at, but... I sighed. Such women were untouchable. Pete was absolutely right. Within ten seconds, every dickhead in the room would be salivating over her. It had been a good idea of Pete's, and I turned to remind him of it.

'Right, you're going to get the beer, Pete...'

But Pete had gone - not to the bar, but following in the wake of sex-goddess, along with most of the male population in the room.

I sighed again, shaking my head slowly. 'No principles, these guys, no principles. They swear an allegiance to beer, then the first sight of a randy bird, and they're off.'

'Sorry, what did you say, dear?' It was my mother, calling across the table, from where she had been talking incessantly with my Aunt Sue.

'Who was that, who just walked past?' I asked.

'That's Sir John,' my Aunt Sue replied. 'My old boss.'

'What!' I took another look at the departing back, almost hidden by the gaggle of blokes surrounding her. Either cross dressing had reached state of the art or... To the side of the sex-goddess was an elderly man in a wheelchair, being pushed by one of the hotel staff.

'No,' I responded to my aunt. 'I was talking about the woman at his side.'

My aunt looked across at the couple. 'Oh that's just one of his floosies,' she said. 'I'd heard he'd got some poor little girl chasing after him...

'...well, after his money, really, she added. 'Not that she'll do any good. He's too hard-nosed for that, then he'll toss her aside. Randy old git.'

But she said it without malice - indeed, almost with affection.

I sighed again. If you were rich, you simply had beautiful women falling at your feet, whereas I...

'I worked for him for thirty years, in all,' my aunt was continuing. 'He said I was absolutely invaluable. That's why he's paying for this birthday bash, as part of my retirement present.'

So, it was Sir John who was paying, not only for the excellent beer, but also for my room tonight. Perhaps he'd send his floozy over to keep me company for the night.

'And pigs might fly,' I muttered, as I went over to the bar to top up the glasses.

***

Some time later, the Karaoke started with a guy trying to do an Elvis impression which was almost painful to listen to. After that, it improved - mainly girls in twos and threes, but occasionally one on her own - and they all sounded reasonable. Then Miss Sex-Goddess walked over to the low staging, whispered her choice to the DJ, and turned to the audience, microphone in her hand.

'Allo everybody.'

I've experienced it before - that surprise that the voice is completely at odds with the looks, but never has it been so shocking. Here was this beautiful sex-goddess - with a voice like an East End tart. Deepest Cockney, and, as my mother was probably thinking right now, as common as muck.

'Oiy must say it's reelly noice ta see ya all 'ere. Oiy'm delighted to be 'ere meself. Course, this 'ole party fing is really all down to good 'ole Sir John 'ere, so Oiy think a roun' of applause for 'im, don' you?'

There was a moment's silence, whilst people translated her words into English, followed by enthusiastic clapping for St John, who politely inclined his head with a smile all round.

'Now, as it's Sue's birfday party, Oiy fink we should all sing 'Appy Birfday, for 'er, don' you?'

She nodded to the DJ who started the music, and we all sang "Happy Birthday", followed by a round of applause for Sue, who smiled at everyone.

'Now, it's the moment ya've all bin watin' for - me singin'. As sum of ya might know, Sir John is arrangin' for me ta record this very song. It was a fantastic 'it once - Oiy'm sure it will be agen, when me record is released.'

She gave another nod to the DJ who commenced the backing for "It's Been a Hard Day's Night".

No-one should ever do that to Beatles' music - it's like pissing in good beer, or slashing a Van Gogh - a complete travesty. I've heard about a banshee wailing, but never experienced it before. She sang (if that is the right word) it all the way through, except that she got some of the words wrong, and then got out of step with the backing. At the end, she received a totally undeserving round of applause, that could only have been due to her left breast popping out of the side of her halter neckline, when she strained for the "Tight, Yeah!" bit.

Finally, the applause died, and there was an embarrassed silence, as no-one knew what to say to her. After all, "Nice tit!" is hardly the kind of encouragement one shouts at your aunt's sixtieth birthday party. But the DJ eventually recovered and asked for more volunteers for the Karaoke.

'The girls have done us proud, so far,' he said. 'How about some of the fellers, this time?'

Another embarrassed silence, then before I realised it, I was walking across the floor towards him. Shit! This was the beer walking, not me! I only hoped the beer could also sing - but then, I could hardly do worse than the last performance - and wasn't I really doing this, because I knew I could do a damn sight better? I whispered my choice to the DJ, took the microphone and then turned to the audience and spoke.

'Ladies and gentlemen. After such a remarkable rendering of a Beatles' song by the beautiful young lady, I would like to sing another Beatles song for you: "Till there was you". But instead of trying to imitate Paul McCartney, who made this into such a tremendous hit, back in 1963, I would like to sing it as recorded by another performer of that era. In my opinion, and I think that of most people who heard this alternative, this version was an even better recording than Paul McCartney's original. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Till there was you", as recorded by Princess Kristiana.'

The backing started, and I sang it, as she had sung it all those years ago. For those of you who don't remember Princess Kristiana, that fantastic pop star of the 1960s, let me recap. She always claimed her title was genuine; maintaining that, had history worked out differently, she would have been in line of succession to a Latvian Prince. She had an incredibly beautiful, extremely high, haunting voice, that should have been an instant hit. But she never really made it. Maybe it was a weak manager or agent, or simply she had the wrong songs at the wrong time. For example, "Till there was you" was one of her best recordings, but she released it within a week of Paul McCartney's recording. As that shot to instant success - hers was doomed to failure.

Not surprisingly, Princess Kristiana's soprano rendition is rarely attempted by male performers. But it's all a matter of technique, training and practice, and whilst I hadn't attempted it for years, I was still bloody good - as good as the old days, I reckoned. Perhaps the six pints of beer really helped. Whatever - as I sang those first lines, a shocked silence hit the room:

"There were bells on a hill
But I never heard them ringing
No, I never heard them at all
Till there was you"

I glanced around the room. Mouths were open everywhere at my performance. I took heart, and continued, giving it all I'd got, right through to the last "Till there was you".

The backing died to be replaced by... Ongoing silence. After a few seconds, a few people started enthusiastically clapping, with several others politely joining in. I looked around the room. My mother and Aunt Sue were two of the enthusiastic applauders, and the guy in the wheelchair was the only other. I nodded and waited the few seconds until the applause had died down before returning to my seat.

'Oh you were wonderful,' my aunt said.

'Your father would have loved that,' said my mother.

'Thanks,' I replied. 'I haven't song that for ages, so I'm pretty rusty.'

I picked up my beer glass and finished off the contents, and held the empty glass out to Pete.

'How about a top up then, Pete.'

'Christ,' he said. 'I think you've had enough alcohol for this evening, don't you? I've never been so embarrassed in all my life. And I was seen talking to you earlier! How am I going to face my mates after that?'

And he walked away from me without a backward glance. I looked around the room, and noticed people hurriedly averting their shocked or jeering faces away from me. I even strolled across to another group of relatives who I'd been introduced to earlier in the evening, but as I approached, they turned their backs on me and formed an impenetrable circle.

I walked back to my mother's table, where she was in the process of getting ready to leave. I took her arm and helped her out of the room and across the lobby, and waited for a taxi to arrive for her.

'Bye, love' she said as she got into the taxi. 'And don't be too surprised at the reaction you got back there. People in this town are a narrow-minded bunch of old farts.'

I'd never heard my mother swear before, and that was almost as shocking as the reaction to my singing. I strolled back towards the party, but decided I didn't really want to go back in. So, I went up to my bedroom and had another couple of drinks from the mini bar, courtesy of Sir John, before getting into bed.

2 BREAKFAST

'Do you mind if I sit here?'

I looked up from my newspaper, caught by surprise because I hadn't expected anyone else to come into the breakfast room at 7 am, that Sunday morning, after a party which had lasted well into the early hours.

This morning she was wearing a white blouse and a tight, black, short skirt, this time with a slit which ended well short of the top her stockings. But what made her look absolutely stunning, was the black, peaked cap, out of which her long blond hair cascaded around her pretty, smiling face.

I smiled back, pleased, but slightly puzzled, because there was something different about her that I couldn't quite fathom.

'Of course not,' I said. 'Please join me.'

Within five seconds, the waiter was by her side taking her order - it had taken him the best part of ten minutes to come to the table to take mine, of course - and it was whilst she was reeling off her list of cereal, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomato and fried bread, that I realised.

'Your voice is different,' I said when the waiter had departed.

'Wiy mista. Ya fort Oiy was a Cockney, did ya?'

'Yes,' I honestly replied.

'Well, that would never do for Sir John's chauffeur,' she said in her little, debutante English voice.

'Chauffeur! But last night I thought you were his...'

'You thought I was his tart?'

'Well, yes,' I said.

'Good,' she said. 'That's exactly what you were meant to think.'

'But... Why?'

'Because that's my job. Last night, Sir John wanted a tart, so I was a tart. This morning, he needs a chauffeur to take him home in his big BMW, and no doubt, when he gets home, he'll want a parlour-maid to serve him tea and scones in his drawing room. I am exactly what Sir John wants me to be.'

'What a changeable job! How did you get into it?'

She threw back her head and laughed. 'Oh, that would be telling. Let's just say that I saved his life.'

'I might have guessed it,' I responded. 'You're one of the beauties from Baywatch.'

'No,' she said, 'nothing like that.' Then she added: 'Actually, I was his nurse. He was quite poorly about six months ago - well, actually, he was slowly dying. I managed to bring him back to life.'

'Fantastic! How did you do that?'

Another throaty laugh. 'You're really a nosy bugger, aren't you?'

'Sorry. It'll be in medical confidence, won't it? Just forget I asked.'

'Well, I'm not a nurse anymore, so I guess it doesn't hurt to tell. You see, I was brought in to nurse him whilst he died - that's what everybody was expecting, especially the doctor. After I'd been with him for a couple of days, I noticed him peeking down the front of my dress, where I'd accidentally left a button undone. "Poor old sod," I thought. "Well, why not, if it gives him a bit of pleasure." So the next day, I went in with two buttons undone, and started giving him a blanket bath. He only has an erection, doesn't he? I mean, what's the proper medical treatment under those conditions?'

'What did you do,' I asked.

'Gave him a blow job,' she answered.

Somewhere behind me, a waiter dropped a tray of cereal bowls, but she carried on without appearing to notice: 'Brought him to life like nothing else could have done. I kept the treatment up - twice daily, before meals - and three weeks later, he's cured and doesn't need a nurse, at all. "Stay on," he says. "What as?" I ask him. "You're my everything," he says. So I did, and I am.'

'You don't regret giving up nursing?' It was almost a tongue in cheek comment, just to see her reaction.

'I realised almost as soon as I started the training course that I wasn't cut out for it, but I was damned if I'd give it up, especially as that's exactly what my mother had told me I'd do. So I passed my exams, and nursed for a few months before I came to Sir John. I'm afraid you need a calling for it, which I simply don't have.'

'Even worse than being a tart?' I asked.

'But this is FUN.' She laughed at my expression. 'Seeing all those pathetic jerks, last night, all trying to chat up Sir John's little Cockney bird, telling her what a fantastic voice she has, and how they knew someone in the record industry that would give her a contract. We both enjoy that kind of amusement. We laughed ourselves silly, over that, last night.'

I'm all for having fun in life, but there seemed something rather cruel about her idea of humour. On the other hand, the crowd last night had hardly been kind to me.

She must have noticed a frown cross my face, because she said: 'Sir John tremendously enjoyed your performance. He said you sang just like Princess Kristiana. He closed his eyes and said he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.'

I was really pleased at that - the first unbiased comment I'd received.

She paused for a moment, as though hesitating about saying something, then added: 'Look, pardon my ignorance, but exactly who was Princess Kristiana? From what Sir John said last night, she must have been dead before you were even born. Did you get interested in her because you had similar names?'

So she'd found out my name, had she, and she'd realised the similarity between Chris and Kristiana. I wondered who she had asked about me, and what response she had received. But her comment reminded me that I still didn't know her name.

'I'm sorry; you have the advantage over me. I'm Christopher Walker, as I take it you already know.'

'Bridget Montague,' she said, and held out a hand for me to shake, her fingernails protruding like talons. As I shook it, I had a momentary vision of her digging those nails into my naked buttocks and pulling me onto her like a frenzied, wild animal. I shook my head, and answered her earlier question, before I let my imagination carry me away.

'No, it was the other way round, actually.'

She looked puzzled, so I explained.

'My father was her number one fan - he ran her fan club. When she died, just a few months before I was born, it was inevitable I'd be called Christopher - and no prizes for guessing my name if I'd been born a girl.

'I think he probably idolised her more after her death than before. He kept the fan club going as her memorial. It was inevitable that he taught me all her songs, and with my mother being a music teacher, I learned to sing them exactly as Princess Kristiana used to. That was, of course, until my voice broke.'

'What happened then?'

I felt the nostalgic smile fade from my face. 'My father died. He was killed in a car accident when I was fourteen.'

'Oh how dreadful! But you still continued with Princess Kristiana's singing, after your voice had broken?'

'I'd been going through a rebellious period with my father, which I've regretted ever since. When he died, that seemed the best way of trying to make up for it. At his funeral, I sang the same song as I did last night. I spent the whole week between his death and the funeral just practising it, with my mother helping. It seemed fitting somehow. Afterwards, we just carried on, with me relearning to sing all of Princess Kristiana's songs, and somehow, it got us through those dreadful months after his death.'

'I can see how that must have helped the two of you to cope with his death, Chris. I think you should be proud of last night's performance. I'm certain your father would have been.'

'That's what my mother said,' I told her.

Another slight hesitation from Bridget before: 'Chris, now I realise Sir John has such an interest in Princess Kristiana, I'd rather like to find out a little more about her. Do you have anything left over from your father's fan club that I could read? Newspaper cuttings, or anything like that?'

'I can do better than that,' I told her. 'My father wrote her biography. He spent years trying to get it published. After he died, my mum and I published it ourselves, and got it printed. We sold it to all the members still in the fan club. Made a nice little sum out of that, which at the time, helped to make ends meet. I think there are still a few boxes of them left in my mother's house. It's not far away. If you wanted, you could drive me over there now, and I could get one out for you.'

She smiled at me, and I suddenly felt like standing up and singing "Till there was you," all over again.

'That'd be great, Chris. But will you mother be up at 7:30 on a Sunday morning? It was a bit of a surprise seeing you at this time, after last night's party.'

'I'm always an early riser,' I said. Had I meant to make such a risqué statement? I hurriedly continued: 'But I've got a house key. We can go in without disturbing her.'

'OK, that'll be great,' she said, with another huge smile, and we both stood up and headed for the car park.

3 PHONE CALL

'Chris, it's Bridget.'

It was over two weeks later, and I'd pretty well given up waiting for her to telephone.

'Great to hear from you. How are you?'

'OK. How are you? Did your mother suspect anything after I left?'

For the hundredth time, I re-lived those thirty minutes on that Sunday morning, in my mother's lounge.

I'd called out as we entered, to let her know we weren't burglars, then shown Bridget into the lounge whilst I went upstairs to tell her what I was looking for. Two minutes later, I came back into the lounge with the biography clutched in my hand.

My mother has one of those ridiculously low settees, which you just sink into and can't get out of. Bridget was sitting on it, her knees considerably higher than her bum, and with her short skirt ridden up so that I could not only see her suspenders, I could also catch a glimpse of her white knickers at the top of slim, brown thighs.

Rather than spend the next few minutes with my eyes popping out as I stared at her knickers, I sat down next to her, and started to leaf through the pages of the biography, and I explained a little of Kristiana's life. As we examined the many photographs of Princess Kristiana, we casually rubbed shoulders which sent a tingling all down my right side, and aroused more than a flicker of interest from my groin.

I couldn't help comparing Kristiana with Bridget. Bridget had a very different type of beauty to Kristiana: Kristiana was big-boned and voluptuous, whereas Bridget was skinny. Kristiana wore wonderful, filmy-white, long dresses, whereas Bridget wore hardly anything at all. Given a free choice, Kristiana would have won every time. However, Kristiana was dead, and Bridget was sitting right beside me. The question was, how did I take it further.

In fact, I had no need to deliberate, for after we'd spent ten minutes or so looking through the book, Bridget took it off me and said: 'Thanks for bringing me over here and showing me the book. How much is it?'

'Consider it a gift.'

'No! No! I insist on paying for it.' She looked on the rear and found the price. 'Seven pounds fifty. That's a bargain. I'll just get my money from the ca... Oh shit!' Bridget looked embarrassed, and then she added: 'After insisting I'm going to pay for the book, I've realised I left the hotel without collecting my purse from the room.'

'Look, it's really no problem,' I said. 'You don't have to...'

'No,' she said. 'I've said I'm going to pay for it, and if I haven't got cash, then I'll pay in kind.'

'You mean...' I didn't really know what she did mean, but she soon made it clear, slipping her hand onto my thigh, and then sliding it up towards the bulge which was rapidly growing inside my trousers.

'I mean,' she said, as she tugged at my zip, 'that Sir John thinks I'm very good value for the huge salary he pays me, so I reckon you'll think this worth much more than seven pounds fifty.'

It bloody well was!

She knelt in front of me, unzipped my fly, and then helped ease out my cock, which stood excitedly to attention in front of her. She bent her head to the side, and used her tongue to give me long, slow strokes, in a way which drove me wild.

Before I could get too excited, she quickly bobbed her head over the top, so all I could see was her peaked cap with the blond hair cascading out, rising and falling above my groin, which felt like the centre of heaven. Then, just before I was about to climax, she lifted her head and sat back on her haunches, squeezing my prick with a grip like a navvy holding a pickaxe, allowing not one throb of an orgasm to commence.

Seconds later, she was repeating the whole operation, over again - and again and again. Finally, after ecstasy had been and gone so many times that I'd lost count, I was spurting great gobs of spunk into her mouth, and she was taking it like it was finest nectar she had ever tasted.

'Are you alright, dear?' My mother called from the top of the stairs, as she started to descend.

I realised I'd been grunting like a pig - my mother must have thought I'd been having a heart attack. Bridget was already standing up, pulling down her skirt, and then demurely sitting down in an upright chair, over by the window.

'I'm fine, Mum,' I called, as I looked down at my prick, which was still standing up like a lamppost. There was no way I was going to be able to zip that back in my trousers in its present state. I took the only cover available - the biography - and pulled it across my lap, an instant before my mother came into the room.

'This is Bridget, Mum,' I said, before she could look too closely at my sweat covered face.

'Watcha, Mrs Walker,' Bridget said, in her Cockney accent. 'Chris was just showin' me the Princess Kristiana biografee. It's reely interesting, innit?' She turned to me, and added: 'Chris. Oiy gotta be goin' now. Is there any chance Oiy could 'ave a glass a warta before Oiy go?'

She left her mouth open after she had finished speaking, and I could see the cum covering her tongue and hanging down from her teeth. I prayed my mother was looking elsewhere.

'I'll get some,' I said, keeping the book by my side as I got off the settee and dashed to the kitchen. Once there, I was able to shove my prick back into my trousers and zip it up, before returning with a glass.

'Fanks, Chris. You're a mate.' Bridget drank it down in great gulps, and handed back the glass. 'Gotta go now. Oiy'll give ya a call, sometime. Bye, Mrs Walker.' And she was gone.

'Well!' my mother said. 'She's certainly got a mouth on her, hasn't she, Chris?'

To which I had no reply.

***

I realised I hadn't replied to Bridget's question, and said: 'I'm not certain. Sometimes I think my mother knows far more than mothers are supposed to.'

'Well, parents get like that. Anyone would think sex was invented before we were born. Anyway, I was ringing to ask if you'd come and do a repeat performance for Sir John. He really loved your Princess Kristiana impression.'

Remembering the general reception I got last time I had song it, I was embarrassed. 'He doesn't really want to listen to me. I can probably find some cassette tape copies of the original disks, if he wants.'

'I've told you Chris, it's you he wants to hear. How about this Sunday evening. Sir John's going to be away until then, so you could come over after you finish work on Friday. I want to give you a little present, that I know you would love to have more than anything else in the world. We'd then have the whole weekend to play with it.'

It was a no-brainer decision.

***

'What's that?'

I pointed down to the shape lying on the bed, looking for all the world like a deflated sex doll.

Bridget frowned. She was wearing her parlour maid's outfit today, and she had greeted me at the front door of Sir John's enormous mansion, in her eloquent English with no trace of recognition that the last time we had met, her mouth had been full of my semen. After giving me a welcome cup of tea, she had told me she wanted to give me my present immediately.

Well that suited me, and she had led me to a guest suite, where this shape was lying on the bed.

'That's your present. The one I think you've wanted for years.'

'But what is it? A sex doll, or... What?'

'It's not a sex doll. It's a suit - a bodysuit. To be more accurate, it's a Princess Kristiana bodysuit.'

Why did I feel a surge of adrenaline shoot around my body, as though she had suddenly suggested a round of sex. What the hell was a bodysuit, anyway?

'I don't understand. What's it for?'

Why was my heart beating so loudly, I could barely hear her soft reply?

'I think you probably know the answer to that, Chris. What do you think it is?'

'I don't...' My voice had come out all squeaky, and I stopped speaking in order to regain my breath, before continuing. 'I presume that you wear it, and it makes you look like someone else - in this case, Princess Kristiana.

'But anyway,' I continued, 'you don't need this. I think you're perfect the way you are.' That was hardly a lie, more a slight exaggeration.

'Thanks, Chris.' A pause, then the words I knew were going to follow: 'But it's not for me. It's for you, Chris.'

'For me?' I gave a silly laugh. 'Why would I want to wear this?'

'I think you told me the reason why at breakfast, two weeks ago. The real question is, are you going to try it on?'

'Me? Try it on! Don't be silly. It... it wouldn't fit.' I was grasping at straws, now.

'I had it made especially for you, Chris, from the photographs taken at the party. It'll be a perfect fit.'

I said nothing. On the one hand, I knew I should tell her I wasn't at all interested in her kinky bodysuit, and that we should get down to some good, straight shagging. On the other hand, I knew that, if I opened my mouth, instead of those words, I'd say the words my mind was silently screaming at me. So I said nothing.

Seeing my dilemma, Bridget said: 'OK, let's see if I can convince you.'

She walked over to the wardrobe, slid aside the door, pulled out a white gown and placed it on the bed next to the bodysuit. It was made of layers of lace so delicate, they almost floated; it had little butterfly shaped bows around the waist; and a neckline scooped out so low that only a full breasted woman could have worn it, without looking ridiculous. I gasped at the sheer beauty of it, for it was one of the most beautiful gowns I have ever seen in my life - except that I had seen it before - in the photographs in my father's biography of Princess Kristiana.

'It's one of Kristiana's original gowns,' Bridget said. 'It would be only right that it should be worn by Kristiana, don't you agree?'

'Oh yes!' I slipped my hand under the hem of the gown and felt the filmy material slide over my fingers. 'Kristiana, herself, must wear this wonderful gown.'

'But Kristiana is dead, Chris.'

'But if I was to put on the suit, it would be obscene, me trying on this dress, like...' I unsuccessfully struggled for words.

'You don't know what it would be like until you try it, Chris. It really wouldn't do any harm, would it? If you do look obscene, then we give it up and have a good shag instead. How does that sound?'

My mind silently screamed at me: 'Yes, but please, please, let it fit - that would be a hundred times better than sex with you.'

To her, I said: 'I suppose I could try it. As you say, it wouldn't do any harm, even if I look totally stupid.'

***

Bridget made me strip naked and take a shower in the en-suite. When I came out, she was waiting with a bottle of cream, which she started to rub all over me.

'It's a mixture of anti-perspirant and lubricant, so that you slip into the suit more easily. The instructions also spout some crap about it making the skin more sensitive, to overcome the loss of feeling through the material, but I'd treat that with a pinch of salt.'

The suit actually came in two halves: leggings, with built in feet; and a sleeved leotard top, with built in head and hands, which fastened between the legs over the top of the leggings. It was made of a smooth nylon type of material, wafer thin for the most part, but extremely thick in places like the breasts and hips.

Bridget helped me into the leggings, locating each toe in the right hole. When my feet were properly located, we pulled them up, and they came all the way up to my rib cage. My legs were no longer hairy and knobbly kneed, but were smooth and hairless.

I closed my eyes and ran my fingers down them, past my knees to my calves - if I hadn't known they were my own, I'd have sworn they were Bridget's, they felt so good. And despite Bridget's scepticism, the cream really seemed to make my legs more sensitive, for I could feel my legs being stroked, as though I was rubbing my hands directly over my own skin, rather than the nylon material.

The leggings were fastened at the back, and hanging down the front, from a point just above my genitals, was what appeared to be a long tail. Unfortunately, I'd already guessed which bit was going in there and I didn't fancy it! For one thing, with Bridget's manhandling over the last few minutes, I had this enormous erection, and plainly it had no intention of entering a tube clearly far too small for the purpose.

''That's alright,' Bridget said. 'I have a way of dealing with this problem.'

Well, I knew that already, and I'd been hoping she was going to offer. Bridget stepped in front of me, reached out towards my straining monster and gave it a tremendous slap.

'A-a-a-gh!' I shrieked. 'What did you do that for?'

'We had a problem, and now I've solved it,' she said. 'Look.'

She pointed downwards, at two testicles frantically trying to make themselves small enough to climb up inside my body, and a penis smaller than my thumb.

'It worked, didn't it? And it didn't really hurt that much. Men are such babies. Anyway, slip your bits into this tail.'

She was right. It was more the shock than the pain which had caused the reaction. I fed my poor maltreated prick into a holster, and my balls into little pockets behind it. Bridget then passed the tail between my legs and pulled it up hard from behind with a tug which made me gasp.

'Right, all we have to do now is lace up the back.' She fumbled with the laces and then started to heave in.

It was less of a constriction than I thought it would be. Bridget explained: 'As you can clearly see from some of the photographs in your father's biography, Kristiana was no lightweight, so this bodysuit is simply replicating the size of her own body.'

'But surely,' I said, 'that gown you showed me earlier had a much slimmer waist. I'm never going to fit into it.' I should have been relieved that it wasn't going to work, but instead I was worried - a point Bridget immediately picked upon.

'Don't worry about that,' she said. 'Kristiana was heavily corseted for that dress, and we'll do the same for you.'

Another surge of adrenaline through my body. This was ridiculous - I should be shocked at such a suggestion - not excited. Anyway, the mask built into the leotard top would never fit properly. Bridget noticed me looking it over.

'Shall we give that a try, now?'

I nodded, and sat down on the bed, whilst she picked up the bodysuit top and rucked up the main body part of it, so that she was ready to slip the stretchy material over my head.

'Take a deep breath,' she said. 'It may take me a few seconds to get the mouth and nose located over the appropriate bits. After we've got your breathing sorted, we can line up your eyes, properly. OK?'

I took a huge breath and nodded again. It took a lot of pulling and stretching and twisting before the mask was located to her satisfaction. After that, I stood up, and we pulled the top down, over my hairy chest and stomach, and Bridget pulled the gusset, which was covered in pussy hair, between my legs, and fastened it to the equivalent bit on the rear. She gave the whole thing a bit more pulling and twisting before she was finally satisfied, then she stood back and admired the effect.

'Are you ready to see Princess Kristiana - the first time she's been able to look herself in a mirror for more than thirty years?'

I was so excited, I was almost wetting myself.

'Close your eyes,' she said, and took me by the hand and led me over to a free-standing mirror, and shuffled me about in front of it until she was satisfied with the view I would see when I opened my eyes.

'OK,' she said.

Princess Kristiana was truly beautiful. She was big boned and heavily breasted, with wide hips. She had long black hair which fell straight down from either side of her square fringe, to end in a straight edge, cut with geometric precision one millimetre above her shoulders. Her jaw was also square and her full lipped mouth was breaking into a wonderful grin, and her eyes were shining with excitement.

'Oh,' Kristiana said. 'That's wonderful!'

Bridget nodded, as excited as I was. 'I simply never believed it would turn out as successful as this. It was just like magic, as you turned from Chris into Princess Kristiana.'

I turned and twisted in front of the mirror, and Princess Kristiana moved in front of my eyes.

'Your Highness,' Bridget said, giving a little curtsey. 'I made an offer, a little while ago, which I think you should now consider. Does her Royal Highness, the Princess, desire to turn herself into a mere commoner, a male called Chris Walker?'

She gave another little curtsey, and added: 'It can be so arranged, if your Royal Highness desires it, my lady.'

'Turn into a commoner!' Princess Kristiana said. 'A male! Are you mad? Why would I want to turn into a male, and a commoner at that?'

'Have you noticed,' Bridget asked, 'that you're talking with Kristiana's voice.'

I hadn't, and I said: 'I didn't realise I was actually speaking in her voice. I learnt to do it as I developed her singing - you know, to make the act more complete, but it just seems to come naturally, now, without me thinking about it.'

I looked in the mirror, again. 'Are we going to try on the dress, now? What were you saying about me having to wear a corset?'

'Patience, your Highness, patience, and no, we are definitely not going to try on her dress, yet.' She plucked it off the bed, and carried it to the wardrobe.

Seeing the look on my face, she said: 'Before you can wear the dress, we need to visit a corsetiere, and get you properly fitted. I've guessed at your size, and have got you some clothes to wear for now. As for the job of fitting Princess Kristiana into that dress, it needs an expert. And before we can visit her, we have to develop your stance, and get you standing, moving and behaving like a woman.'

I gave myself a critical look in the mirror. She was right - I may have a wonderful body, but I was slouched, standing like any man would.

'We have a busy weekend ahead of us,' Bridget said. 'I want to spend a couple of hours, this evening, in getting basic stance and body movements, and I then go onto even more fundamental things - eating, drinking, and using the toilet. Tomorrow morning we'll carry on developing walking and body stance.

'By midday, I think you'll be ready to be tested on the outside world, so we'll go to a wine bar in the Town Centre for lunch, and then onto the corsetiere. We can buy you some more clothes, as well, if you want. We'll spend Sunday getting you ready for your performance in the evening for Sir John. How does that sound?'

My mind was reeling, partly because I was only now comprehending the enormity of the change that being a women entailed. Looking just like one was only the very first step. But her penultimate sentence triggered another thought.

'Does Sir John know it will be me singing on Sunday?'

She gave me a cheeky grin. 'He will, but there'll be a small audience, as well. Obviously, they won't know.'

'Are you doing this just to give him a party piece?'

Bridget shook her head. 'No. I'm doing it because when I met you, I saw someone else inside, trying to escape the physical body in which they were trapped. That's why I'm doing it.'

I shook my head in puzzlement, at the same time thinking how nicely my hair splayed out, as I did so.

'I don't understand, Bridget. One hour ago, I have said you were talking rubbish. But I've experienced so many weird emotions in the last few minutes, that I don't know who I am. Perhaps when I was conceived, my father was really conceiving Princess Kristiana. Who knows? Anyway, let's make a start. What's first?'

'Shoes.' Bridget bent down into the wardrobe, and picked up a pair of stilettos with three inch heels.

I looked at the heels dubiously. 'Shouldn't I start with smaller heels, and then work up to this size.

Another shake of her head. 'Shoes form the foundation of your stance, so from now on, you wear heels at least this size, every moment when you're not in bed. We haven't got time to work up to it, so slip these on, and off we go.'

4 WEEKEND

The rest of that weekend was a whirlwind of events - a mixture of pain and hard work, which should have been just miserable grind - but instead was absolute ecstasy. Never before had I felt so at one with myself, and so excited by every little task I accomplished.

To start with, Bridget made me practice stark naked, apart from the shoes - and, of course, the bodysuit.

'You need to see how your body is moving,' Bridget said. 'Clothes will only hide what you're doing wrong.'

Later on, she consented to me wearing a bra, to stop my breasts swinging me off balance as I practised turning to right and left, but even before we started the hard work, she made me think myself into my role.

'Actors look realistic because they believe they are the characters they're portraying. I want you to be Kristiana, from this moment on. I want you to remember your upbringing, and what you are, because it will show through, in every stance you take and every movement you make.'

She had studied Kristiana's biography in minute detail, and recalled it for me now. 'Your parents were killed in World War 2, shortly after you were born in Latvia. You were then raised in a convent until the war ended, when you were evacuated to another convent in England. It was a very hard life in the convent. Remember, when you were thirteen, you were upset because all the other girls had developed breasts and you hadn't. So what did you do?'

I could vaguely remember the story from my father's biography. I closed my eyes, willing myself to remember the story - not as written in the book, but as though it had happened to me. 'I prayed to God for my breasts to grow bigger than Elsie Fowler's.'

'That's right,' Bridget said, 'and next day, you woke up and thought a miracle had occurred and that God had heard your prayers. Your breasts were just a tiny bit larger, and they grew the next night also, and the night after that. Soon they had grown bigger than Elsie Fowler's, and still they grew. They grew so large, you thought they were going to burst. Do you remember confessing to the Sister about your prayer to God? What did she say?'

What had Sister said to me? Then I remembered: 'Sister said that large breasts were a symbol of a woman's depravity. It had been wicked to ask God for such a sign, and God had made them grow to such a size as a punishment - to show the world how wicked I was.'

I looked at myself in the mirror, and tried to withdraw my breasts into my chest. 'I used to stand in front of the mirror, just like this, hoping that God would forgive me, and make them smaller again, but He never did.'

Bridget had pulled a white sheet over the top of her head, and it draped past her shoulders, just like a nun's habit. 'You're a very wicked girl,' she said. 'How do you think you are going to hide those evil breasts when you go into the world outside this convent? You must take orders, and stay in this convent forever.'

'No, Sister,' I cried. 'I'm so sorry I prayed for my breasts to grow, but I didn't know it was sinful to have such large ones. I don't want to take orders. I'll pray to God for my breasts to get smaller.'

'You'll do no such thing,' she said. 'God has given you those breasts as a reminder of your depravity. You will see them, and recall God's words, every time you look in a mirror. Go now, in disgrace.'

I looked in the mirror again. I wasn't really a depraved girl, was I? I hunched my shoulders, the more to pull in my breasts.

'Young lady! Stand up straight and stop hunching.' Her words were like a whiplash. Shoulders back, chest in, stomach in, chin up.'

I tried to contort my body to meet all of her conflicting demands.

'Stomach IN, I said! And STAND UP STRAIGHT!'

So it went on. After Bridget had got me standing more or less correctly, I spent hours on Friday night and Saturday morning walking on a treadmill in the gymnasium. There was a mirrored wall, and Bridget had rigged up a TV camera behind me, with a huge monitor in front, so that I could see both my front and rear views, as I walked.

By mid morning, I was mentally allowed to leave the confines of the convent, and take on my first job, as a typist in London. Bridget now took on the role of Mavis Sidebottom, a girl of my own age and fresh down from Yorkshire, with whom I shared a room. Mavis gave me lots of useful advice, but of a rather different nature.

'Push your bum right out, so I could use your buttocks as a book rest. As you walk, keep your back straight but swing your hips from side to side... No, further than that. Pull your Tummy in... Shoulders back and push those breasts out as far as they will go...'

After being embarrassed by my breasts earlier, I shyly became rather proud of them, especially as Mavis tried every trick offered by Playtex to try to make hers look as large as mine.

By eleven am on Saturday, my feet and legs were hurting as though on fire. Bridget said she was reasonably satisfied with my walk, and agreed to my getting dressed. She produced a selection of clothes in different sizes, to allow me to get the best fit.

To go to the wine bar, and for our shopping afterwards, we settled on a dark green sweater, with a green, tartan pleated skirt - nothing too sensational, which might pull me into a situation I wasn't yet ready for. She helped me into the clothes, and applied a little make up to my face. Then, we were off.

***
The wine bar was great - there were a group of about eight guys in one corner. From the sports bags next to them, I guessed they were rugby players, getting drunk before the game. They clocked us as we walked in, and then made catcalls and whistled at us. Bridget gave me a happy, excited smile, which I returned. I felt confident with myself, and good at being ogled by the blokes.

'Bridget, hi. How are you?'

I looked around, taken by surprise at the man's voice at my shoulder, which I recognised from somewhere, although I couldn't place it.

'Hiya, Pete.' Her cockney accent was back in place. 'D'ya enjoy Sue's birfday party the ovva week?'

Fortunately, Bridget gave her reply before I'd swivelled all the way round, and so I was partly prepared for the horrible sight of my cousin's face leering only inches above my shoulder.

'Yeah, great party. Who's your friend?' He indicated me.

'This is Princess Kristiana. Ya remember, Chris imitated a song by 'er mum at the party.'

'Don't I just! It was so...'

'...fantastic, wan't it,' Bridget interrupted. 'God, it was so terrific, Oiy almost wet me knickers.'

'Blimey,' Pete said, 'I suppose it was er... quite good.'

'And sexy,' Bridget added. 'Oiy 'ad the 'ots for 'im all night long. Oiy simply 'ad ta ring up Kristiana next mornin' and tell 'er all about 'im. We all met up at 'is mum's house, an' Oiy gave him a blow job - sort of as a thank you.'

This time there was no crash of crockery, as there had been when she uttered those words in the breakfast room.

'You gave him a...' Pete's tongue was hanging out.

She turned to me. 'It reelly turned ya on, din't it?' I nodded my head enthusiastically, and she turned back to Pete. 'She 'ad a fantastic orgasm, right on the spot.'

I nodded again. 'Out of this world.'

'It was reelly funny,' Bridget continued, ''cause Chris's mum 'eard all the noise, and came downstairs. Oiy 'ad a gobfull of cum, and Kristiana 'ad to crawl behind the settee, with 'er 'and up 'er twat still bringing herself off.'

Pete's eyes were goggling so hard I thought they would pop out.

'Anyway, noice to meet ya again,' she turned back to me, dismissing him. 'They do fantastic salads 'ere - just right for slimmers like you.'

'But I'm not a...' my words faltered as I met her gaze.

'Remember that dress ya gotta get inta for ya performance,' she said.

'Oh, are you doing a performance?' Pete turned to me, desperately trying to stay in the conversation.

'She sure is,' Bridget replied before I could get a word in, and then turned back to me. 'Ey, why don' we invite Pete and 'is mates tomorra night?'

Gulp!

'I don't think that's a very good idea. I mean...' I searched around for some excuse, '...Sir John may not like it.'

'Cause 'e will. The more the merrier. Bring all ya mates, Pete.' She wrote down the address on a serviette and handed it to him. 'Now, piss off, so me and Kristiana can 'ave a good ol' chinwag, there's a luv.'

Pete went back to his mates, his mouth still wide open. I heard him say to them, 'God, you'll never guess what she just said...'

'What a joke,' Bridget's voice was back into cultured mode. 'Last week they thought you were queer - this week they'll all be lusting to get inside your knickers.'

'Bridget, I can't sing in front of them. No way.'

'Well you did last week, so I don't see why you can't do it tomorrow.'

'But I was pissed last week.'

'That's no problem, then.'

'Bridget, I just can't do it - I won't do it, and that's flat.' My mind was made up, and there was no way she was going to shift me.'

'Fair enough,' she said. 'Call Pete back and I'll explain why he can't come tomorrow night.'

'You wouldn't...' My voice died as I looked at her. I knew she would.

'Two large glasses of dry white wine, and two of your slimmer's salads, please,' she said to the waitress who'd appeared at her elbow.

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

'She needs to get into this dress tomorrow evening,' Bridget said to Marlene, the corsetiere.

Marlene measured my waistline and then measured the dress and slowly shook her head.

'I'm afraid she needs to lose far too much.' She looked at me, 'You haven't worn a corset before, have you love?' I shook my head, and she shook hers again. 'No, it's just too much.'

'Isn't there anything you can do. We're really desperate.'

Marlene looked at the seam in the dress. 'I know a dressmaker who could let the waist out as much as it will go. But even then, it would be the most dreadful squeeze to get you into it.'

'That's no problem,' Bridget said. 'Kristiana will do it.'

I just wished she'd consulted me before answering.

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

It was fortunate that Bridget was still driving Sir John's huge BMW, for I was corseted so tightly I had to be virtually loaded sideways into the rear seat. It was also fortunate that no-one told me I would have to wear the thing for the next thirty-six hours, with Bridget pulling it tighter still, at least every hour, as we continued to practice my stance and movement. On Sunday morning, I actually started rehearsing my singing. I thought the corset would have totally messed it up, but it didn't. If anything, it made my voice even sweeter, so by the time the dressmaker brought back the Princess Kristiana gown, just before lunch, I felt more than ready for the part.

She had let the dress out to its fullest extent. Although it was slightly too small, both dressmaker and Bridget were convinced that a continual tightening of the corset throughout the rest of the day would do the trick. I would be wearing it for my performance that evening!

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

I was.

My last tightening of the corset was sheer hell, but I'd have endured it ten times over to get into that dress. With it on, I was no longer just an imitation of Princess Kristiana - I was Princess Kristiana.

The dress was wonderful. Frothy lace on the shoulders, dropping down to a cleavage to outshine the Grand Canyon, and the gown flowing over my hips to within a inch of the ground. Each time I moved, it had a life of its own, swirling around and floating out, and the swing of my hips, which I'd perfected over the last two days, served to exploit it to the full.

When I swept onto the minstrels' gallery above the dining hall, that evening, it was as though the clock had been put back to 1963, and I was making that same performance in which I had once appeared on Top of the Pops. The fans, in the form of Pete and his mates shouted praise at me, and I could see the lust in their eyes, for at that moment, not even Bridget was more desirable than me.

At the head table sat Sir John, with Bridget, in her sexy little parlour-maid outfit, attending to his every need. It was extra stimulating that, when I looked closely at him, looking at me, I could see the desire in his eyes also.

And I knew I had every one of them in the palm of my hand.

5 OFFER

Actually, as soon as I finished singing, I knew that the palm of my hand wasn't going to be big enough. For one thing, my dress was likely to get ripped to shreds by that bunch of louts as soon as I went down the spiral staircase to the floor of the hall,. Even if it wasn't torn, it was certainly going to get semen splattered all over it.

And I knew there'd be lots of semen flying about. For one thing, I'd seen the bulges in their trousers whilst I'd been singing, and realised this was due in no short measure to the fact that every time I moved, the dress swirled outwards, and I wasn't wearing any knickers. ('Better not wear knickers, or else the knicker-line will show through the dress,' Bridget had said. 'The dress almost reaches your ankles, no-one will see anything.') Of course, I hadn't counted on my elevated position almost above their heads, giving them a worm's eye view; when I looked at Bridget, smiling at their excitement, I reckoned that was exactly what she had counted upon!

I suppose I should have been upset to be another cruel victim of her humour - instead, I felt incredibly aroused. Those guys - the very same ones who had scorned Chris at the party three weeks ago - were lusting after me. So instead of keeping my legs tightly together, I spread them well apart, and turned and twisted my body, so my dress soared outwards, and they could see right up.

Oh, foolish woman! Most girls discover the results of sexual provocation at a very early age. I had managed to arouse a whole rugby team, who even as they applauded me, started to push their way to the bottom of the spiral staircase - my only exit.

But Bridget had it all under control. She darted to the base of the staircase ahead of the first of the mob, and went up a few steps so she could make herself heard.

'OK guys. It's bin reely good listnin' to the Princess, 'ere. Now, Oiy know many of ya 'll want to get 'er ortagraf, but for those wot don', we've arranged some naked gals to look after your every need in the bar down the corrida.'

Thirty seconds later, the dining room was empty, apart from me and Sir John. And from the sheaf of papers on the table before Sir John, I knew he was going to offer me the record contract that Bridget had told everyone was hers.

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

I tottered down the tiny spiral staircase and walked over to Sir John and gave him another bow, showing him all of my cleavage. He smiled, and picked up the contract, and waved it slowly in front of me. My eyes followed it, like a Wimbledon spectator watching the men's finals.

'It's all in here, Princess. Sign on the dotted line, and you become a millionaire.'

'A millionaire?'

'Within six months, you'll reach the first million. By the end of the year, you should have trebled that.'

'Sounds good. What's the catch?'

'Why should there be a catch?'

I didn't answer his question, but Bridget's comments two weeks ago had convinced me I should trust Sir John a good deal less far than I could throw him.

'Are we talking pounds sterling?'

He grunted, almost jeering at my naivety. 'No way, Princess.' I was starting to hate the way he called me Princess.

'I'm quoting the number of recordings you'll sell,' he continued. 'CDs, cassettes, videos. You'll get five pence royalty for every one.'

I did the sum in my head. It was a lot of money, compared to my current earnings, but insignificant compared to the profit Sir John was going to make out of me.

I shook my head. 'Fifty pence.'

'Take a run, loser.'

I started to turn away from him before he continued. 'But even if you're not interested in stardom, consider the alternative.'

I already had. 'It's quite simple. I continue my nine till five job, and make about one fifth of the money I would with you, but without any of the hassle. I'll stick to that.'

'You work for IJK Ltd, don't you?'

'So what?'

'My company owns it, and we don't want perverts working there.'

'Pervert! I'm no...'

'It's all on videotape.' He waved towards the camera I'd seen Bridget set up before the performance. 'You're a transvestite and have just performed in public, to an unsuspecting audience. You made a number of sexually provocative actions to the men present, and no doubt, would have had sex with some, or all of them, if I hadn't been here to prevent it.'

But he wasn't talking to a naíve teenager, desperate for her first recording contract. 'That's ridiculous! Even if I was that way inclined, those guys would have discovered the limitations of the bodysuit pretty quickly, and then they'd have beat the shit out of me.'

Sir John smiled again - I'd seen crocodiles with more sincerity. 'When you have the money to pay for the best, there are no limitations. That bodysuit allows you to have full heterosexual sex. You could have totally fooled every one of those blokes - they wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between you and the real thing.'

I gasped. 'Full sex! That's incredible. Why...' And then it all became clear.

'That's what you want, isn't it? You want to have sex with Princess Kristiana. Can't Bridget play the part for you? She told me she was exactly what you want her to be.'

'You've heard her singing. Besides, I want to fuck Kristiana whilst she's singing. No one else.'

'What was it? A teenage fantasy?' He inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'And now you can afford to live the fantasy. That's what the whole charade is about. That isn't a real contract, is it?'

He shrugged with a smile. 'Not worth the paper it's printed on. But the offer of a contract usually works. So, you'd better name your price.'

'Not this time. I'll go and take off the dress...'

'No!' I'd wrong footed him, astonished that I could refuse his offer. He recovered himself, and said more calmly, 'I want to have sex with you, Kristiana. I'll pay you.'

I shook my head. 'Sorry, I'm no prostitute. Get someone else.'

'A thousand pounds.'

Hell, that was a lot of money, but there was no way I was interested. I was going to say 'No' but, at the last minute, changed it to, 'Ten.'

Shit! Why had I said that? There was no way I was going to let him fuck me, even for ten thousand pounds.

'Five.'

On the other hand, he'd simply be shoving his cock into an artificial vagina in the bodysuit whilst I sang. He wouldn't really be fucking me.

He could see my hesitation. 'You can come and wear the dress again, and I'll pay the same again, every time I fuck you.'

Jesus! The chance to wear this beautiful dress again. I'd have shagged him for that alone, but I had the presence of mind to say, 'Cash.'

'Bridget.' He hardly raised his voice, but Bridget was there in an instant. She must have been listening to every word we said. 'Go to the safe, get out five thousand and give it to the Princess.'

Five minutes later, the largest pile of banknotes I had ever seen was between my arms, as I bent over a table with my hands firmly holding the far side. I started my favourite song again:

"There were bells on a HILL
But I never heard them RINGING
No, I never heard them at all
Till there was YOU"

The reason for the unevenness of my intonation was that, as I sang, Sir John, his hands grasping my tits for leverage, rammed his cock as far up my arse as it would go. For a man who was supposed to be bound to a wheelchair, he seemed to have no problem rising to the occasion!