make-up

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Transgender-themed stories which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!

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As I belted out the final chorus of ‘Summertime’, I felt the heel on my right shoe buckle. Of course, being a professional, I carried on to the end. Never let the punters down, the show must go on and all that. At the end I curtsied, I smiled, I blew kisses, it was actually a pretty good audience. I’d enjoyed the show too, the three Madonna numbers had gone well and the dancers in the ‘Material Girl’ spot – OK, just three of them, local guys from the Dramatic Society brought in to dress things up a bit – had done well. I was sure one of them had been a bit too keen – I got the distinct impression one of the six hands had gone up the slit in my skirt just a little further than was necessary for the proper artistic effect.



The Shirley Temple songs? Well, I’m never too sure how good I look in a blue gingham dress and short socks. Glam I can do, very well. But sweet and twee, I’m not so sure. I never really enjoyed it but I know some of the punters got a kick out of it. Anyway just after I came off I managed to hobble to my dressing room and change my shoes for the expected onslaught of fans.



Dressing room? Well, an ante-room off the entrance lobby of the hall, just past the ladies’ loos. Actually compared with some I’d known it wasn’t bad at all. And the hall had been better than I’d seen of late. The Celebration Hall, Cannock, I can recommend it to any self-respecting drag queen. Nice crowd of people. You can tell an audience for my sort of act by the number of women there and Cannock had provided quite a few. I poured a quick vodka in the dressing room, just a small one with quite a bit of tonic to add to the effect.



Anyway I sat down and turned towards the door, checking my dress, quick look at the make-up in the mirror and touch up my lipstick, a little more blusher. And ready. I waited. I’d asked the stage manager to give me five minutes to sort myself. True to his word there was a quiet tap-tap-tap on the door almost exactly on cue.



“Come in,” I called, quietly.



The door opened. The stage manager, a rather exalted title for the guy who sorted the chairs and tables in the hall and handled the curtains, thrust his head round the corner.



“Ready mate? There’s about four or five out here. Ready?”



For a moment I couldn’t remember his name, then it came to me. James. And he’d been emphatic about that, James and not Jim. And he had done a good job, I’ll give him that. The little stage in the hall had been really well set up, nice lighting, the sound had been of a quality I’d not seen or indeed heard for a while. He’d called me mate, I don’t think the Celebration Hall had played host – or should that be hostess – to many female impersonators. He’d been really flustered when Martin had gone into the dressing room and Marie – Marie Queen, that is, in the long red gown I almost always wore for my opening set – had come out.



I’d played on it a bit, of course. I mean, in that outfit I knew I looked hot. Any drag queen has her own favourite colour, well I have two. I look good in the right sort of blue but I can look stunning in red, the brighter the better.



So I’d strolled out of the dressing room and walked towards James, smiling and wiggling my arse, thrusting my long legs through the split in my dress as I moved. He’d just stood there open-mouthed. And as I got closer, as he got the whole picture, dress and legs and boobs, carefully made up face and big hair, he’d visibly whitened. For once – and I don’t usually do it, I usually stay in role when I’m dressed – I dropped into Martin’s voice.



“Ready, James?”



That had really confused him, I don’t think he’s too bright really. But, like I said, he’d done his job well. Decent services on stage, a nearly full house, I’d really launched into ‘Summertime’ at the end of my set. And after what I myself judged as a good performance I was ready for the fans. Four or five? Well, better than one or two except that I got the nutter first. There’s always one.



“Marie, great show. I saw you in Cinderella in Bradford a few years ago. I’ve been a big fan ever since”.



The slightly wild look in his eyes told me. Nutter. It wasn’t the act he’d come to see, and certainly it wasn’t ‘Martin’. It was ‘Marie Queen’ the woman. The over-the-top woman sitting there in front of him wearing too much mascara and with enormous gold-effect pendant earrings. But this man wasn’t seeing the impersonator he knew was in front of him, he really was seeing a woman. OK, a nutter, but still a fan. He might still buy a CD from the young local lads I’d got selling in the foyer so he needed to be nurtured.



“Hello, so nice to see you. And thanks, I really enjoyed that role and I’m so glad you appreciated it.”



And, to keep him sweet, I smiled. I held out my jewelled decorated right hand. He didn’t shake it, he held it and he kissed it! Actually very gently but it still surprised me. I shuffled a little in my seat, crossing my legs so he’d have a good view of my thighs as we sat there. He enjoyed that!



Although most of the time, for all sorts of practical reasons, I wear a long dress or a gown for most of my sets, I do realise I have good-looking legs. And for my final three songs, a bit of a medley rather than an actual impersonation of a particular artiste, I’ve always thought that a tight blue mini-dress sent the audience away with good memories of Marie Queen.



I chatted with that first guy for a couple of minutes more until I decided he’d had enough. I asked him if he wanted a signed photo and he said ‘yes’. I thought I knew which one he’d pick but I was wrong, he went for the one in the blue mini-dress, the one I was wearing at the time. I wrote ‘For Harry, with love, Marie Q’ and a couple of X marks. He liked that, he also liked the hand on his bum and the brief kiss I planted on his cheek as he was turning towards the door. ‘Keep the punters happy,’ the golden rule, he might feel good enough to buy something at the merchandising table on the way out.



The next two fans were just fans, or at least local guys who had come along to the Hall when they’d seen there was a show on. One of them did actually comment on how ‘good’ in the sense of ‘realistic’ I looked on the posters advertising the show. I asked which one, I knew there were two different ones, and he told me it was the one showing me in that same blue dress.



After that I got a couple, husband and wife, which isn’t all that rare really if you think about it. While some men might go along to a show like that for the vicarious thrill in seeing a man dressed up as a woman, lots of guys either couldn’t or wouldn’t want to go on their own or even with mates. The couple introduced themselves, or rather he did, as ‘Keith and this is my wife Sarah’. I sat them down and took a brief sip from my vodka, and smiled, about to go into my spiel about ‘nice to see you and I hope you enjoyed the show’ and so on. But Keith cut me short.



“We saw you, Marie, several years ago in a summer season at Blackpool. With Jim Kennery. The comic.”



I didn’t need them to tell me that, I’d known Jim well before he tragically died a couple of years after that show. He was really more than just a comic, he’d have made a good character actor if he’d had the breaks.



“It was after that show, Marie, it was our first holiday together and I’d taken Sarah and we really did laugh so much, you and Jim were so funny together. Like when you did that sketch with you in the French maid’s outfit and him as the master of the house and he kept getting in the way of your duster…”



Keith trailed off in laughter, Sarah was giggling too. And I was smiling, almost laughing too. I’d actually kissed Jim once after a show. He’d asked me about being a guy in girl’s clothes and did I ever go out like that. And when I’d told him I sometimes did, not often, he’d wanted to know what I’d do if ever I got chatted up. I told him it had happened a couple of times and ended up kissing him to show I could do so convincingly as a woman. OK so I only ever did that once, that season anyway, but it made me smile thinking about it.



“…and after we’d stopped laughing Keith’s arms were round me, and we hugged, and he proposed. And we’re still together after all these years.”



It wasn’t many years ago really, and after they’d shown me their photos from Keith’s wallet and told me how old their eldest son was, I realised he might well have been conceived on that holiday. He seemed the right age. They did say they’d enjoyed the show and I showed Sarah the ‘diamonds’ I used for the Material Girl song. We both agreed they looked even better than the ones on the original video though I’ve no doubt most of hers on that shoot were fake, just like mine.



I ended up signing two photos for them, both of me in the red dress I’d opened with, and shook their hands gently as they left. Maybe that Blackpool season had been the pinnacle of my career, certainly it had been the best paid. I’d been on the same money as Jim and he was quite a big star at that time.



As they left I reflected on the years in-between, they’d been good for quite a long time. Summer seasons, pantomimes, it was only recently they’d begun to dry up. What with all the new acts around, and the Internet and the up-and-coming ‘girls’ on the scene, there was beginning to be not so much work for drag queens like me. Not in the big time at least, I knew I could keep on working the clubs and halls for a few years yet.



I’d never really had the ambition to go for the big time, not like acts such as Ru or Danni. I’d once had an enquiry from the Palladium, that was as good as it got although that came to nothing. But the income was steady specially with the merchandising I’d built up, the two CDs I’d recorded on a minor label. And the calendars I still did every year, when I did get a panto they sold well. I’d even seen one on a garage wall in Middlesbrough, in June it was, open at October’s picture which thrilled me. Because that October photo was one of the best I’d ever had done, me in a white boob-tube and mini-skirt and showing cleavage for all I was worth. Untouched too, the picture that is, the boobs were all mine – or at least my breast-forms.



I looked down. I smiled a little. That blue dress was almost as good as that boob-tube outfit had been, I could still create a very attractive figure even then. I caught my reflection again and, oddly, another memory flashed into my mind. Of me in a different blue dress somewhere down in the south-west. I’d decided to go home after the gig en-femme and had even dropped into a pub for a quick drink. I remembered the guy who had chatted me up and his delight when he thought he’d pulled. I’d been a bit down at the time and the attention and the excitement of snogging him had cheered me up no end. Pity I had to leave him in the lurch before he found out he’d been kissing a man in a dress. He’d been nice but almost certainly straight as a die.



There was a knock on the door again. The last one, I thought, James had said ‘four or five’ and this was the fifth. I was beginning to get a little tired. I’d been up since six and had driven up from Colchester before the show. But, fans are what made me and I had a duty to do my bit. I forced a smile and opened the door.



The last fan was – a little different. He had a suit on for a start. I invited him in and went to sit facing him, not so much trying to keep awake but really just a little jaded. I shrugged it off.



“Hello there, good of you to come,” I said maybe just a little too cheerily.



“It’s good of you to see me – er, Martin,” he replied.



Sometimes that happened. He wasn’t sure. At least, unlike the first fan that night, he knew damn well he was in the presence of a female impersonator but he wanted me to feel comfortable too. Not knowing how far to go, since I wasn’t on stage at the time being ‘Marie Queen’.



“You can call me Marie, if you like,” I said in a rather off-hand way. “After all, I look more like a Marie than a Martin, at least I hope I do or I’m out of a job!”



I rarely joked with fans about the subterfuge involved in my act, it surprised me a little that I did just then.



“Oh you certainly do. As Marie, I mean, you look just gorgeous!”



“Why thank you, that’s so kind,” I said, smiling widely.



He seemed to have something of a grip on how to play this, so many men really can’t deal with cross-dressed men whether they be transvestites or drag queens or even genuine transsexuals. But this guy seemed on the ball. He’d just called me ‘gorgeous’ but ‘as Marie’. In other words I was doing the job well, doing a good-quality impersonation.



“No, I mean it. To be honest I wasn’t too fond of the Shirley Temple bit of your act but the segments before and after, really you looked stunning. And I love you in that dress, you look so convincing.”



Now that floored me. Not that I can’t look convincing or at least I hoped I still could, but the make-up a drag queen has to use isn’t intended to convince. It’s supposed to look good, and attractive, and to over-emphasise female characteristics such as breasts and eyelashes and lips and hair and so on. Some DQs go way over the top, the one time I’d worked with Danni in a revue she’d had a wig about 12 inches tall on top of her head and way, way too much make up.



But I really liked what I was hearing. As we chatted he revealed that he’d actually seen my show a few times in the previous couple of months, whenever it came to a venue in his area, and that he was a big fan. It turned out he’d had one of my CDs for a while and just bought the other before the show, though in fact he didn’t have my calendar or any of my T-shirts.



Actually he was maybe a little old for T-shirts anyway. He struck me as more the professional type, the suit seemed quite expensive. And he let slip that when I was due at a club just outside Tamworth the next day, he’d got tickets already. I glanced at the flier pinned on the wall just above his head. Caunston Hall? Yes, I’d done that about three years earlier, I thought. Tamworth, yes.



As he left, after a chat which had gone quite a few minutes longer than usual, I didn’t kiss him. It just didn’t seem the thing to do. But I did squeeze his hand more than shake it. Then I realised I hadn’t offered him an autographed photo. He asked me to autograph the CD he’d bought instead though.



“Can you sign the back please, Marie? That really is a beautiful photo”.



I looked at the back to remind myself. Actually he was right, I remembered the photo session. Me in something resembling ‘secretary’ mode in a white blouse and black skirt with a rather different hair style, same blonde colour though, the colour I think suits me best. I remembered what the photographer had said when he’d shown me the results on the screen.



“That one, Martin. I think that one on the back. It is very different from the glamorous red-dress picture we’re picking for the front. Really very female, Martin, more of a good quality tranny picture than a drag queen.”



Some drag queens refuse to accept the label ‘transvestite’ but not me. I knew in all honesty I’d be somewhere in-between. If I wasn’t doing it for a living I know I’d have been cross-dressing, hiding it from a wife maybe if I’d gone down the ‘job-at-the-bank-and-wife-and-two-kids’ route. And he was right. I’ve always liked the photos of me where I do look female more than the showy DQ pictures. Hell, I’d even gone out as a woman, rather than in drag, several times, just to enjoy the experience. I’d always been careful though – apart from that one time in Exeter.



So I signed the CD and then the guy said something interesting.



“You should do a video, Marie.”



“A video?” I replied, parrot-fashion sounding rather stupid.



“Yes. I’m sure some of your fans would like that.”



I didn’t tell him why I hadn’t. I relied on live performance and the memories of those who came to see me. And if you’ve got the video of a performance, why go to see it again? I needed repeat visits and I’d always had the impression, misguided maybe but I’d stuck with it, that making a video would shrink my live audiences. OK, old-fashioned maybe but there you are.



“Well, if you do, I know a company who might help you out. I – er – used to work with them. Do you want me to give you their number?”



“Yes, thank you.”



I didn’t want to offend him. He took a card out from his wallet and wrote a phone number on the back of one of them. As he handed it over, he smiled a little.



“Ask for Jim Garner, tell him Paul Stisson recommended him to you.”



“Paul – ….”



“Stisson. S-T-I-S-S-O-N. I know, it’s an odd name but I’m stuck with it. Anyway, I should go, I’ve kept you long enough.”



And then, for the first time in a long time, something happened I wasn’t expecting. HE kissed ME! Just briefly, the standard sort of goodbye kiss on the cheek. Well, nearly, his lips stayed in contact with my cheek just a little too long. And when he moved away, just as he turned towards the door, I could see that he was actually blushing. His face wasn’t beetroot-coloured but it was quite red.



He was embarrassed, but I could tell he’d really wanted to do that. If he hadn’t straight away opened the door and rather dashed out I might have blushed too. I stared after his retreating figure as he walked quickly down the corridor and turned left towards the outside door. James was probably there, to let him out, everyone else was gone. He appeared from round the same corner.



“OK mate, that was the last one. How long? About ten minutes? Fifteen?”



“Sure,” I said, this time still in my ‘Marie’ voice. “Hang on a moment.”



And I surprised him, I knew it would be OK since there were probably only him and me left in the building. I took two steps towards him, suddenly feeling very feminine, and went into the Ladies’ loo. I saw his face. He definitely was surprised.



After that I did get out in just over twenty minutes, with most of my make-up cleaned off. I’d finish in the shower back at the lodging house. And with ‘Marie’ packed up in my red case. I checked the CD-sales desk. The young lads who had been selling had gone but James had assured me they could be trusted. Nine CDs sold. The remainder were there, bundled, cash in the tin and ten pounds short, they’d taken the fiver each I’d promised. I slid the remaining ‘merchandise’ into the smaller case and strolled out into the hall car park. James locked up behind me.



“It went well tonight, I thought,” he remarked.



“Yes it did,” I said.



Usually I’m quite chatty after a gig, despite being weary. But not this time. The nutter had disturbed me a little, that first fan, and that kiss had too from the last one. I drove to my lodgings and watched just a few minutes of late-night TV with the landlady and her husband, then announced I was off up to my room.



“My friend Vera rang just before you came in, Martin. She was there tonight, she said it was a really good show.”



“Well, thank her for me will you?” I said.



And went up to my room. The next day I slept in until after ten. I appreciated the luxury of being able to do that since the next gig wasn’t too far away.



“Good morning, Mr King.”



I remembered Mrs Watkins from staying with her about six months earlier when I’d had a run – two nights in a row would you believe, and both nearly sold out – in Wolverhampton. And she was always cheerful, nothing seemed to get her down. I really tucked into the full-English breakfast, one of the benefits of never having to watch my figure. Nervous energy, somebody had once said, that I could burn anything off because I used nervous energy being on the go all the time. After that I drove through a couple of country roads up to the M42 to avoid the dreaded M6 and arrived in Tamworth in the early afternoon.

The gig was outside the town in a place called Caunston, in a converted pub which had been turned into some sort of supper club. So I was adapting the act for a cabaret rather than just the stage show. I liked that. Being able to interact with the audience, play up the gender confusion aspect of my act. After getting in touch with the guy with the keys and arranging to get in to do a sound check and start changing at about six, I realised I had a few hours to spare so I drove into town.



I parked and looked round. It was just like any other town centre really, they’d started becoming so similar about a decade ago. The same stores, same designs, same street signs. Not many local trades-people any more. Even the town hall looked like all the other late seventies town halls, so did the library next door.



The library. Something clicked in my head. Stisson. Stisson?



I’d heard the name before. An unusual name, why was it sticking in my mind? I went into the library and got myself access to one of the computers round the perimeter of the bookshelves. Once, in a library in King’s Lynn I think, I’d actually found a copy of one of my CDs on the shelves! So I’d got some royalties from whichever local authority that was, but what really got me was that it had been catalogued under ‘female, vocal, solo’. I never actually looked for it again anywhere, I think that was maybe a one-off.



I Googled ‘Stisson Paul’ and it came up with several thousand responses. The first page didn’t look very hopeful so I re-did it with ‘video’ and got a few hundred. And the outline for the second on the list told me what I wanted to know. Or reminded me, rather, I’d seen the stuff in the press about a year earlier. I clicked on the link and got an article from the Telegraph, and a couple of photos. One was of the guy himself, Paul Stisson, and the other was of his wife. Or ex-wife really. Then I remembered what all the fuss had been about.



He’d had to sell his company, some hostile take-over whatever that meant. He’d been forced off the board and then right out by some Americans who’d bought the whole lot. PSI Communications, maybe the ‘PS’ was for Paul Stisson. But it had hit the headlines because he’d been paid a big ex-gratia sum out of court and the actual signing was done a few days after his divorce got finalised. His ex-wife had sued for a share of the sum and he’d maintained, or at least his lawyers had, that she wasn’t entitled to it. They’d said she’d been treated fairly, that she’d got her fair share of his capital at the time of the divorce.



It ended up being settled out of court as well when the lawyers had negotiated a settlement of a quarter of the big payment he’d received for the company. The brunt of the article had been that she’d been very fortunate, especially since it was she who had done the dirty on him by having a torrid affair with some other guy about half his age.



I rapidly read the last bit of the article, then followed another Link and discovered that he’d sold Caunston Hall quite quickly after the divorce but he still lived locally. He’d kept on a big house on the edge of what had been his estate and walled it off as a smaller, self-contained residence. So, he’d sold off Caunston Hall? That explained the expensive suit and the very proper, polite manner. That and the money he’d been forced to accept for the PSI company, that is. He was really an old fashioned country gentleman now in slightly estranged circumstances. Comparatively speaking, that is.



The polite quiet coughing behind me reminded me that I was hogging one of the machines. I closed down the bit I’d been surfing and smiled weakly at the anaemically thin, baby librarian who had been behind me, and left. It had started raining just a little so I hied me to a burger bar and had a bit of a meal. Mrs Watkins’s breakfast will nearly get you through the whole day but not quite. And sitting there eating meant that I didn’t have to just walk round a strange town in the rain. Anyway, I got to the Hall just before six after one small detour.



Though the town centre did seem to be entirely McDonalds and Boots and Poundland and Top Shop and all chains, my attention was grabbed as I passed one shop quite close to where I’d parked. I suppose in the past it might have been called a draper’s, ladies clothes and fabrics and so on. Well, it had gone a little way down the road of trying to emulate Dotty P’s or something similar but its window display was still of the old style. And there, next to a mannequin in a long evening gown which I knew damn well wouldn’t suit me, and another in gorgeously sexy gold lurex mini-dress which I’d have loved to try on, was a ‘business-suit’. It wasn’t the suit that caught my attention though, the model was poised with jacket over shoulder and was wearing a lovely blouse.



It reminded me straight away of the picture I’d signed for Paul Stisson the previous evening. Quite large yet delicate gold buttons down the front, long-sleeved, a tailored look. I knew I’d mislaid the original from the photo, I’d probably left it in a dressing room somewhere. But the photo had been a good one. The whole outfit had indeed given me a very feminine appearance. I went into the shop and found it in my size, and bought it.



The assistant had looked hesitant. She was probably thinking I was buying it for a wife or maybe a girlfriend and maybe wondering if that meant she’d have to deal with a return in a few days time. She looked shocked when I told her I didn’t want to try it on there and then, I knew the size would be OK. I glanced up to her left. She followed my gaze towards the flier pinned on the wall just near the door, the one advertising ‘Marie Queen’ at the Caunston Hall that night. Then she looked at me.



“Is that you?”



I think she’d actually seen some sort of resemblance between the glamorously-dressed diva on the flier and the man standing in front of her. That, added to the fact that I’d revealed the blouse was for me.



“Yes,” was all I said, handing over my credit card.



She just swiped it and waited while it processed, then looked at the card while I did my PIN.



“Mr M King,” she read.



“Martin King, as in Marie Queen,” I replied.



“Oh, right.”



And the way she said it convinced me that firstly she hadn’t intended going to the show tonight and I’d not impressed her anywhere near enough to get her to change her mind. And secondly that she’d never before heard of either Martin King or Marie Queen.



At five to six I was at the venue, meeting yet another so-called Stage Manager and again recruiting a group of locals, three girls this time, to deal with the CDs and T-shirts. Those T-shirts had nearly all gone, thankfully. I didn’t like the way the designer had put it together. At the time I’d been down with the flu and hadn’t had the chance to veto the final version. The idea was good, me in full songstress mode against the background of an ocean liner. The intended pun on my stage name didn’t really work if you looked very closely at the background image and saw that it wasn’t even the Queen Mary, it was the Aurora.



The Stage Manager was OK even though he didn’t have an actual stage to prepare. But I got things sorted, my small table at the rear of my performance area, with some of my make-up on it and a decanter of what looked like scotch and was really just coloured water. Both there for effect, the latter so I could walk round the floor with a glass in my hand singing ‘One for the road’ in something close-ish to a Billie Holliday style. And the makeup because occasionally I liked to add a little humour to the proceedings by touching up my lipstick on-stage and over-doing the actions involved.



Though I say it myself that show went even better than the one in Cannock, and I’d thought the previous night had gone well. There was a bigger crowd. It may even have been a sell-out, and I chose well in picking people, all guys except one, for the audience interactions which are almost de rigueur in the cabaret setting. The best one was the last, the one I did in the blue dress while doing a Dolly Parton song. The guy I’d picked on was really up for it, as I sidled up to him and crooned in his ear while stroking his almost-bald head, he was grinning and looking round. He really did deserve the embarrassing peck on the cheek at the end of the song.



I’d noticed Paul Stisson earlier. He seemed to know quite a few of the people there, and was sat with a group of four others though I imagined he hadn’t actually come to the show with them. They were two married couples, almost certainly, and just for a moment I’d thought of choosing him to sing one of my songs to. But I didn’t, somehow it seemed not to be the right thing to do.



After the show, after my ‘Summertime’ encore-closer, I curtsied and took my applause and, as is the fashion these days, lifted my arms to applaud my audience as I walked through them towards the long bar which ran down one side of the hall. As I did so, there at my side was Paul Stisson himself.



“Hello again,” I said, smiling.



No kiss, though, I was still a little worried about the exact manner in which we’d parted company the previous night.



“Hello Marie. Great show, really great. Even better than last night. Can I buy you a drink?”



He seemed more in control. Maybe because he was on familiar turf, being in Caunston and all that. As I said his manner in Cannock had rather disturbed me.



“Thank you,” I replied, keeping up the smile. “Vodka and tonic, please. Mr Stisson, isn’t it, I remember the odd-ish name.”



“Please. Paul.”



The instruction to call him by his first name was only natural really. I did my usual trick for the benefit of any lewd punters there, lifted my bum onto the stool by the bar and crossed my legs to show a fair amount of thigh and maybe my stocking tops. Yes, some men are weirdoes but they still might buy CDs and T-shirts and indeed they had paid to come and see me.



“Marie, I know you’ll have fans to see and so on. I just needed to mention, after what I said last night. About the video.”



“Yes, I remember. John Garner, you said, I’ve still got his number.”



I remembered the surname from an old western series on TV.



“Jim Garner. But I rang the video company this morning, just to check in with him. I didn’t know, he’s left the firm so they might not be the ones to use, if you thought of going ahead, that is.”



I sipped my vodka and peered over the edge of my glass at Paul. He was persistent, I’ll give him that. Whether he was just a big fan or whether this might end up in some sort of stalker situation I didn’t know. I’d only ever come across that situation once before, not with me but with my friend Jeannine. She’s a regular girl, a proper one I mean, a ‘GG’ as they say. We’d done a bit of an act together doing ‘Sisters’ as my last song and her first. She’d had a stalker, a guy who kept appearing at her gigs and sending flowers and rather crude letters. Eventually she’d actually got the police involved and he’d been dealt with but she’d gone through quite a bit of heartache on the way. It’s different, though for a GG.



But Paul didn’t seem like the stalker type. I slid off my stool carefully when I saw the SM coming over towards me. Clearly there was something of a queue backstage waiting to get things signed and have a word. It was just as I was going that one of the couples who had been with Paul trapped me briefly.



“We enjoyed the show, Marie” said the wife, I assume, staring at my cleavage! “That Dolly Parton song was just great, you really did do the voice so well.”



“And the tits!” muttered her husband, with a wide lascivious grin across his face.



In other circumstances I might have challenged him there and then, the tone of his comment deserved some sort of put down. But I wanted to get backstage so I just turned briefly to Paul.



I thanked him for the drink, but didn’t do any sort of kiss or hand-squeezing. It’s a fine line I have to tread taking on the role of a woman sometimes. The kiss or squeeze or even fondle is OK in public as part of the act, and of course it’s all right to do that sort of thing in private. I have to be careful though, in semi-public if you see what I mean. Paul had bought a drink for a drag performer and that was acceptable because it was in public and it was a bit of a thank-you for the performance.



Yet it wouldn’t have done to be in any way intimate there and then at the bar. I’d walked that tightrope for years and I knew just how far it would be appropriate to go in almost any situation. Even with at guy in Exeter I’d been in control. I’d gone for a few drinks in the bar and a bit of flirting and then some necking and heavy-duty fondling of his cock up against the wall behind the pub but I’d not gone too far. Though I’d been feeling pretty low before the groping it had done me a power of good and I’d known exactly how far to push him.



I walked the usual sexy walk, in my high heels, behind the SM and back towards my dressing room. I have to say it was really a bit large and to some extent opulent really, not quite what I was used to in village halls and small theatres and Centenary Centres and so on. I skipped in front of the SM and closed the door behind me, having said I’d be ready in just a couple of minutes. And as soon as I had shut the door and turned round, well, the surprise I’d not been expecting greeted me. There just beside the mirror, and they’d not been there earlier, they must have arrived during the performance, was a large bunch of roses. Red roses.



In my whole career that had never happened before, it really did take my breath away for a moment. There was a card. I think I knew where they’d come from – and I was right. I slid it out, noticing in fact that the colour of the roses almost exactly matched my long fingernails. I read it out, aloud for some reason but quietly.



‘For Marie, good luck. Paul XXX.’



It really did throw me. I poured a small glass of water and sat down – I’d had my post-gig vodka already and I was going to be driving back to my small hotel later. Paul Stisson had sent me roses. Wow!



I got interrupted just then by the usual triple-tap on the door. Why do all stage managers tap three times?



“Hello?” I called, basically relieved not to have to think about the roses.



The SM came in and asked if I was ready. I asked how many were outside and got the same answer as the previous night – ‘four or five’. So I set to it, the usual brief conversations, people saying nice things about my act and my singing and my dresses and so on. One woman asked how I managed in such high heels. I didn’t actually say I’d been wearing then on and off since I was seven, I just replied that I’d got used to them by now. And no nutters. Not a one. That was a relief.



After the interviews the three girls came in with my merchandising stuff. Eleven CDs and four T-shirts, amazingly. So I gave them a fiver each again since they’d done a job for me in packing everything together in my bag. I turned and picked up the bouquet. They really were lovely roses and I took a moment to savour their fragrance. I turned to move towards the door in order to lock it before starting to get changed. There was a double-tap at the door just as I put my hand on the key. I opened it.



“Hello again, I just wanted one more word. I won’t keep you, I know you have to change and so on.”



It was Paul Stisson. I wanted to hug him, to kiss him even. I just stood there with the big bouquet in my arms and felt a tear begin to roll down my cheek.



“Paul, thank you so much. Nobody has ever given me such a beautiful bouquet ever before, they are just lovely.”



I was gushing, and I really was wondering if I was going to cry. But I couldn’t kiss him. We weren’t in private, the SM and one of the three girls were just down the corridor. I daren’t cross the line even though I was so grateful to Paul for appreciating my femininity.



And I was puzzled. OK so I had that blue dress on and high heels and very long nails and my gold jewellery and so on. The body was definitely female, I know I always do an extremely good job on decorating and wrapping up my figure. But the face and the make-up were those of a typically over-the-top DQ. OK so I felt female at that moment though I knew very well I didn’t really look it.



I just reached out, almost certainly out of the sight of the two on-lookers, and squeezed his hand and tried not to cry. Very luckily he didn’t stay long, he never even came right into the dressing room. If he had I’d probably have flung my arms round his neck for the first time in a long time. With a man I mean.



But he realised something of my plight, he maybe saw a tear in the corner of my eye. Maybe.



“It’s just that, if Jim Garner can’t help out with the video maybe I could. I’m not involved with that company any more but it might be nice to do something like that myself. If you’d like, that is. I’ve not done it hands-on for years, always had people to do it for me. Or maybe you don’t like the idea.”



He really was being kind. I didn’t want to say no.



“All right Marie. Maybe I’m being pushy. But on your flier about the tour the date for tomorrow is crossed off. With a thick black pen.”



I’d had to do them all myself. I’d been due in Barrow the next night but they’d had a small fire in the venue the previous weekend and had to cancel all their gigs for a couple of weeks. I didn’t need to tell Mr Stisson that, though.



“Yes, there was a cancellation. So I get a night off.”



“I see. Well, where are you staying?”



“At the Armada Hotel,” I replied, too quickly and without thinking.



Was this the stalker-thing coming up again?



“Well, if you don’t mind – er – Martin – how about we meet up tomorrow? Late in the morning maybe, or the afternoon, have a chat about the video. It would be fun to shoot again, that’s how I started out.”



Again, he was persistent. But maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, so I agreed. We settled on two-o-clock in the pub opposite the Armada. After he left the SM peered towards me inquiringly. I knew he wanted me out sharp-ish.



“OK. Fifteen minutes.”



So it took me twenty again but I was relieved to get out of there in the end. The show was good and so were the sales, I’d definitely come back there again if I got invited. But I wondered about Paul Stisson. I could see his point about making a video really, and I supposed that after his divorce and losing his company the thought of getting back into something like video production might have been quite appealing to him. Maybe the dollar signs were rolling in front of his eyes, use this drag queen as a tester and then move onto proper videos like he had when he’d first set up PSI. It had, I remembered from my library research, started out like that, small videos of minor pop stars, before expanding into all sorts of multimedia after a few years.



I smiled a little to myself at the ‘er- Martin’ when he’d said my name. I just wondered if he’d recognise me in the pub the next day. He probably would, that sales assistant in the shop where I’d bought the blouse had seen the similarity, I was sure.



I didn’t think I’d sleep that night but I did, a tribute to the beds in the Armada hotel really. The breakfast wasn’t up to Mrs Watkins’s standard but it was more than acceptable. I went back up to my room and packed my two bags, the red and the blue, ready to move out. Two cases, one male and one female if you see what I mean. It would have been catastrophic, after all, to turn up at a gig with the case with all my male clothes in having left the other behind. Who’d want a drag queen with not a thing to wear? Hence the red and the blue.



I walked across to reception to settle my bill, then back to my room to get the cases. I recalled the ‘er – Martin’ comment again and smiled. I looked in the mirror, at Martin. Handsome enough really though not a great one with the ladies. I’d had my share though, never married but still managed to ‘put myself about a bit’ even in my youth. And then there had been Brenda only two months earlier, the landlady’s mother would you believe. Forty-five going on twenty-five and dynamite in bed.

I picked up the red case. I paused. Thinking. And I changed my plan.



And I changed my life.



The boy at reception, well the young man, had commented when I’d paid that the room wouldn’t be seen to yet. Apparently his sister who did all that sort of thing was in Birmingham for the day and wouldn’t be back until nearly four. So I still had several hours of use of the room if I wanted it. I’d made some sort of non-committal comment at the time. But like I said, I’d been thinking. I went back to my room.



I left it at a quarter to two carrying the two cases, regretting that I had to leave my bouquet behind. I’d kept the card though, it was in my handbag. I managed to get out to the car park without going past reception itself and shoved the two cases in the boot. I left the car there and walked along to the street and towards the pub Paul had mentioned.



I’d not checked the name before but when I saw the ‘Green Forester’ sign I knew I was in the right place. I pushed the door open and walked in, turning left towards the lounge bar. I could see Paul straight away sitting over by the window, with a small glass of something in front of him. Probably a scotch. He was reading the ‘Financial Times’. I strolled towards him and stopped, waiting. He was engrossed.



“Good afternoon Paul” I said.



Quietly and gently. He looked up. Just for a second I saw – what? Horror? Shock? Surprise? Then he relaxed. He controlled himself. I really had caught him totally off guard as I’d intended of course. I knew very well that if I’d rung him that morning and offered him a choice he’d have said ‘Martin’. But I didn’t have his number though I’m sure I’d have been able to contact him somehow. But I hadn’t. And I wasn’t Martin. I was Marie.



I read a story once where a T-girl did exactly what I’d just done to a man she rather fancied. When he saw her he just came out with ‘Fuck me!’ and she said ‘All right then’ and they did just that. The next couple of paragraphs were rather steamy and full of references to all sorts of body parts, male and female, some of which were actually involved in the scenario and some of which were just imagined and referred to even though they couldn’t possibly have been there.



Paul’s reaction, after that initial horror, was more measured.



“Hello Marie,” he said, cool as a cucumber as he stood up.



Old-fashioned and gentlemanly, I agree, but I liked it. I sat down next to him on the corner seat and crossed my legs. I know, it’s corny but I loved to do it and to see his reaction. Again, maybe ten seconds after seeing me, he was in total control. He looked round towards the bar and lifted an eyebrow towards the young man at the bar who came straight over. He finished his scotch.



“Another one please, Donald, and a vodka and tonic, is it, Marie?”



“Thank you,” I said, smiling at Donald and appreciating the fact that while listening to Paul he’d been looking at me.



We both stayed silent while the barman got our drinks. I sipped mine and Paul looked.



“Marie, you look great. Really great.”



That was what I wanted to hear. I mean I wouldn’t have minded if he’d said ‘gorgeous’ or ‘stunning’ or ‘beautiful’ but I knew what he meant. ‘Great’ meant that I looked female. Convincing. And that’s what I wanted. I’d been confident of course, having several times passed as a woman in different circumstances. Yet this was different somehow. This was with Paul, and I still hadn’t properly decided what he was about. I sipped my vodka again and slid my other hand over Paul’s on the small table in front of us.



“I didn’t want to ask you or even tell you. Somehow I got the idea you’d quite like me to look – like this.”



“Like it? Marie, I love it!”



He looked round. There were only four or five other people in the pub at that time but we had no doubts who was the centre of attention. The tight leather skirt and black stockings and 4″ stilettos made sure of that and I was determined to flaunt my attractive legs as much as I could. I put my glass down and slid my other hand across my exposed thigh.



“I rather thought you might.” I couldn’t help grinning, aware that Paul was still staring somewhat. “It’s your fault, you know, you reminded me what it’s like to really look like a woman last night. That picture on the back of the CD cover. It reminded me of the good feeling when I’m being seen as a woman rather than as a female impersonator. So when I saw this blouse in that older draper’s shop on the high street I just had to have it. And since you’d admired me wearing it on the picture I thought you might like to see the full effect – in real life as it were.”



And after that rather long speech I sat up, not entirely unintentionally causing my bosoms to push forward a bit, really to try to emphasise my figure. In the wide belt I thought I looked really slim and what with that and the short leather skirt, well, I was enjoying myself. I sipped again at my vodka. And then I surprised myself.



I put my glass down and took Paul’s hand in mine, just stroking it a little.



“Paul, I’m still trying to work you out.”



“Really, Marie?”



He took a large sip of his scotch though he didn’t make me release his hand.



“Do you like that?” I asked, looking down at our hands and then up at him through my long thickened lashes.



OK so I was teasing him, flirting even just a little. But actually being properly en femme for the first time in a while was a very enjoyable experience.



“Actually, Marie, I know it’s a bit weird but yes. I do. It’s nice.”



We chatted on about the video idea, and then about my tour and what I hoped to do next season maybe and possible panto and all that. I thought was maybe about twenty minutes, yet when I looked at my watch I realised it had been well over an hour.



“Paul, really, this has been so much fun. I’m sure you understand that now, for a woman like me just to be able to spend some time like this. I’ve enjoyed myself so much but I mustn’t keep you to myself any longer.”



He’d just realised the time too and was clearly set for a move too.



“So, Marie, what’s next? Didn’t you say you’ve checked out already?”



“Yes I have. I’m due in Cambridge for the final date of the tour tomorrow night.”



“So, hang on, if you’ve checked out of your hotel where were you going to change?”



“I thought I might drive over to Milton Keynes en femme. My sister has often said I can stay with them overnight any time on my travels.”



“And if you turn up looking like you do?”



“She’ll be surprised. She’s seen the show of course a couple of times. But she’s never seen me actually en-femme as opposed to in drag. It’s going to be interesting to see her reaction. And her husband’s!”



“I bet! But you’re right Marie, we should get going. I know for a fact there’s a group comes in here late afternoon for a bit of a get-together and it may not be a good idea for them to find us here.”



“You mean you don’t want to be seen with me?” I teased.



I took Paul’s hand and swung round to face him as we went out towards the pub car park.



“No, it’s not that, it’s just – oh hell.”



“Paul, don’t worry. I’m only pulling your leg a bit. I do understand. You’re an important person in this community and you have to be careful who you associate with. Anyway my car’s in the hotel car park over the road. Maybe we should say goodbye now, it really has been a different sort of day. Have you enjoyed yourself? Better than sitting in a pub with Martin discussing videos? We’ve not really settled that idea.”



Paul was still holding my hand, rather tightly it seemed to me.



“Marie. Look, we haven’t talked about it, have we? Maybe we should.”



“Well, we can’t here in the car park, can we?”



He was STILL holding my hand. He looked me in the eyes.



“Marie. I don’t want you to leave.”



It was in the circumstances a bold statement. One which said quite a lot about him. He’d been sitting in the pub with a man dressed as a woman for almost two hours, and didn’t want him to leave. Her. The trouble was that I didn’t want to leave either but I couldn’t really come up with a good excuse not to. I was desperately trying to think of one as we approached what I assumed to be Paul’s car, parked on its own near the road, when another man got out of the car and came over towards us. Not as tall as Paul, really rather a rural-looking man, you know the type, ruddy complexion, the look of someone who’d spent a lot of his time in the open air. A farmer for example, or a farm hand.



Paul smiled at him and then turned to me.



“Marie, this is George. He’s my general factotum really, handyman back at the Grange, decorator, and recently my driver.”



I smiled at the newcomer and held out a hand to gently shake his. My own hand, slightly large for a woman really though small for a man, was engulfed by his. He held mine rather delicately as if he didn’t want to crush it. He seemed a rather muscular man, probably he could have done.



“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said.



“Hello George.”



He’d called me ‘Miss’! Well, of course he would, wouldn’t he.



“George is rather worried, Marie. He’s been driving me round for six months. I’m afraid I had a bit of an argument with a speed camera and got myself banned.”



“Bit of an argument, Paul? You were doing 140 on the motorway!”



“OK, OK. But the ban ran out two days ago, Marie, and George has rather enjoyed driving me around. It gets him away from Mildred.”



George and Mildred! I tried not to laugh or even smile. I turned away from George, and from Paul just for a few moments to regain my self-control. I don’t think either of them noticed, their attention had been attracted by a bright red Lotus slowly making its way along the road. The driver was clearly looking for signposts or something. Typical men, cars first and women second!



I turned back, Paul was looking at me and beginning to speak again.



“Look, how about coming out to the Grange. Mildred can do us a bit of a snack and then you can decide on the best plan of action. It’s just one stop up the M42, and you’d go that way towards Milton Keynes anyway.”



Paul had come up with a plan, and one which enabled me to stay en-femme for a little longer. I was getting such a thrill out of being a tranny rather than a DQ for a while, I had to agree with him. As we turned towards the car park Paul leaned in towards me.



“Er – don’t tell George – you know what – yet. Let’s just see…”



I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, as a large bus rolled past us rather noisily. We ended up giving George the keys to my car and instructions about where it was and so on and he went off to drive it along to the Grange, whatever that was. Just for a moment, while we were sorting the keys, I had to think about what he’d find in there. The answer was that there was nothing overtly male visible, just a few maps and other things which were not gender-specific. Most of my male stuff was shut in the boot inside my blue case.



I clambered into Paul’s vehicle, a big and rather splendid 4 x 4, and enjoyed being driven in some luxury up to the junction near the Services and then up the motorway. As he pulled off at the next junction I noticed we’d caught up with my old Astra which George was driving. We continued about 300 yards along that road and then Paul turned left through a gateway.



“Behold, the Grange,” he said.



I looked at the rather large house in front of us as he swung round to the front door, just behind my own car.



“Well, what do you think? It’s not very grand but it’s home now.”



It looked grand to me. It wasn’t as big as the large sort-of-stately-home I could see maybe a quarter of a mile further down the road but it was still a substantial residence. As we went in I met Mildred, George’s wife. It turned out that I was right, George had started out as a farmer locally but decided to sell up and move into town for some sort of health reasons. And then he and Mildred had ended up working at Caunston House when Paul and Kathleen and his mother had been living there.



Basically the demands of the two women had required five staff in all though when Paul had ‘down-sized’ and moved into the Grange, he’d just kept the two staff on. Kathleen was of course gone, and his mother had decided she wanted more of the London life she’d had in her youth and had bought an small apartment in Chelsea. Which left Paul, with Mildred and George.



Mildred really was almost as exactly as I’d imagined, rather rotund and jolly, she insisted on providing tea almost as soon as we’d arrived. She was friendliness personified, fussing over Paul who she just occasionally called ‘Mister Paul’ though clearly he was really on ordinary first-name terms with his staff. And she did, every time, call me ‘Miss Marie’ just like George did. I liked that! Having been properly en-femme rather than in drag for several hours by then I was really enjoying the role more and more.



It was so lovely in the house, the ‘Grange’, oak panelling, period furniture and all, the log fire blazing, really no woman could have asked for more. Paul and I sat in the main lounge roasting ourselves and having our tea while Mildred prepared a ‘proper meal’ for us. Paul had said he didn’t want me to go and to be honest, there and then, I still didn’t want to. It was so warm and cosy, the house was so inviting.



Mildred gave me a bit of a guided tour of the main house, proudly showing me the decorating she and George had done in two of the bedrooms and going on about how they were going to do up their ‘apartment’. It turned out the house ended up with seven bedrooms altogether after the re-design before Paul had moved in. Two were in Mildred and George’s end, really they had a ‘semi’ rather than an apartment, shut off from the main house.



“It’s a lot easier to keep up than the big House, Miss Marie. That had about thirty bedrooms, we never really were too sure exactly how many. And it was such a rabbit-warren, very difficult to keep up what with Mrs Kathleen and Paul’s mother to cater for as well. George and I have it much easier now, and he’s really been enjoying driving Mr Paul round while he’s been banned. He’s hoping still to be able to do some of that, gets him out from under my feet too.”



Mildred could talk for England and she did. I got the whole Stisson family history going back about three generations as we toured round and ended up back in the main kitchen. I mainly listened, it was a new experience for me and I’d been hesitant about it when she’d suggested the tour while the men-folk looked at something to do with George’s car. Being with a woman, I mean. As a woman. I’d had some doubts about it. With men I was OK. I was confident about not being read but I really hadn’t had much experience of being ‘Marie’ in female company.



Almost none unless you count that landlady’s mother who had got a kick out of being with me dressed up and then getting into my knickers. And that was different, I’d adopted the tranny-female role rather than the drag queen, that’s what had turned her on. And when we’d started to get intimate, undressing each other and manipulating each other’s breasts and lipstick-kissing and so on, I’d seen it as some sort of lesbian experience. But really even from before the moment she’d got my cock out I’d been a man in women’s clothing.



Yet with Mildred, I was Marie. Friend or acquaintance of her boss. As we progressed I became much more comfortable with the role in female company until at the end, when we sat down together for a small sherry while the cooking was finished. We were chatting woman-to-woman across the kitchen table. It hadn’t been my intention, honest, but we did eventually get onto the subject of Paul’s love life. Mildred had just briefly mentioned having to get that first spare bedroom sorted several months earlier for a woman visitor so I’d asked her about it.



“She really was awful. Dorothy-something her name was. She was a gold-digger, George and I both saw it from the start. I think Mr Paul did too but he was a bit low at the time. It was about three months after the divorce got made final. She was very good-looking though, some sort of writer from London, I think maybe she was a friend of Mrs Kathleen. She only spent one night here though, Mr Paul got it right. He saw through her pretty quickly. George drove her to get the train very early the next morning. And the other one, well!”



“Go on, well what?”



Mildred was giggling, and took nearly a minute to calm down. Then she just said it.



“Mrs Agatha Hortington-Smythe.”



And she burst into laughter again.



“No!”



“Yes. True as I’m sitting here.”



I had to try hard not to collapse in giggles.



“Bloody awful name and really a bloody awful family if you’ll excuse my French, Miss. Came one lunchtime clearly thinking she was going to have her way with Mr Paul and spend the night and all that. But when he took her out to dinner that evening her mother turned up. It seems she’d heard about her daughter’s new beau, as it were, and she wanted to see the lie of the land. Mr Paul was steaming when they got back here.”



“What? With her mother?!”



“Oh no. It was bad enough though. Mr Paul was horrified, said he could see the cow turning into her mother before his eyes. Said he could see why her husband had kicked the bucket, probably to get away from the cow. He kept calling her a cow, and he was right. Anyway we put her in the blue room, your room that is, Miss, and Mr Paul probably locked his door that night. Not at all what she’d imagined. Very frosty at breakfast they were, anyway she rang her mother straight after and off they went when she got here. The mother, that is.”



“So he’s not been very lucky with women then, Mildred?”



“Not recently Miss. I mean, we all were happy at the start when Mrs Kathleen first came and they got married. She was nice to us and good for him and all that. But it was that young man from Birmingham, I think he was. He knew he was onto a good thing with her and when it all came out, well, nasty business.”



Mildred clearly held her employer in some regard, she had been upset by the events before and during the divorce process.



“It cost Mr Paul a fair bit in the end what with lawyers and the like. But he argued her down when it came to settlement, since it was her fault having the affair and so on. I don’t think Mr Paul so much as looked at another woman while they was married. Anyway, Miss, I’ve probably said too much. I’d better get on with the cooking. Should be ready in ten or fifteen minutes.”



I strolled out of the kitchen door having worked out that I could get through the garden back to the main lounge area. Just looking round I felt more at ease than I had done in years. With no gig tonight, and no rush tomorrow, I could still get to Claire’s house for the night to give me a shorter drive the next day anyway. The sun was setting over the woods I could see in the distance. OK so there weren’t birds singing but there was a brook babbling. It was really idyllic.



I had to be careful negotiating the steps up to the house in my heels but did OK without stumbling. Paul was standing with George looking out of the French windows from the lounge onto the patio. It was still warm and I noticed a small table on the patio with two place settings on it. They saw me and George said something to Paul before turning to go back in the house. Paul came across to greet me, extending a hand which I gladly took, and held on to.



“Paul, this is gorgeous here. Mildred said you kept some of the land when you sold the big house.”



“Yes, only about thirty acres though. There’s about five with the main house. I insisted they use it for social housing. You know the sort of thing, mainly flats so that youngsters from the area have somewhere to live. The developers weren’t happy about that until they realised they had four acres for over-blown big houses to build and overprice.”

“That’s really good of you. Maybe you could have got more without, you know, the conditions and so on.”



“Well I’m not so sure. We got some grants from Brussels to help out. Basically, except for Kathleen, everybody wins.”



I remembered what I’d read in the library earlier the previous day. Had that been so recent? Less than thirty-six hours really, it seemed like months. Mildred came through with the fruits of her labours and Paul and I sat on the patio enjoying her great cooking with a glass of white wine. We’d just finished the dessert, and Paul was going to pour another glass of wine for me, when something clicked. I stood up.



“Hang on a minute, Paul” I said, suddenly just a little perturbed.



It had been something Mildred had said, I hadn’t realised the significance until that moment. I turned and headed back through the house towards the kitchen. I’m afraid I interrupted Mildred and George just as he was wrapping his arms round her, and she was giggling again, not very seriously trying to counter her husband’s advances.



“Oh my. Sorry Miss Marie” she gabbled on seeing me walk into the kitchen.



I was probably looking a little angry at the time.



“That’s OK. But Mildred, when we were talking, you said something about the blue room, and then you said ‘your room’. Is that right?”



“Yes it is. Mr Paul said ….”



“Said what?”



And I was certainly becoming angry, Paul hadn’t asked me about anything like that.



“Miss Marie,” George interrupted, to defend his wife. “Paul asked me to take your cases up to the blue room. That’s all.”



I spun expertly on one stiletto and hurried back through the house.



“Paul! Did you or did you not tell George and Mildred that I was staying the night?!”



“Oh shit!”



“You might well swear. Really Paul, you didn’t ask me at all. I said I was going to drive over to Claire’s, and surprise her. You remember?”



Paul looked quite contrite. Clearly I’d embarrassed him.



“I didn’t actually say that. All I said, Marie, was that you might be staying the night. This was before you mentioned Claire. I asked George to make sure the blue room is sorted, you know, sheets on the bed, so that I could ask you if it came to that. It means you have a choice. You can drive over to your sister’s or, if you like, you can stay here. You’ll be quite safe, I promise, I’m not an ogre.”



So he hadn’t actually assumed anything. He’d just made contingency plans and it had been me who jumped to conclusions. I might have stayed angry with him even, played up with mock anger to replace the genuine ire which was receding, but at that moment, just behind Paul outside the French windows, I saw a pair of pheasants. Just strolling across towards the lawn, the cock dressed in his glory, the dull brown hen. I just breathed in sharply.



Paul turned and followed my gaze.



“They look happy.”



“They do.”



And I nearly melted. Paul put an arm round my shoulder and hugged me gently and right there and then I nearly succumbed. I wanted to. It had been a long time since I’d been with a man, and this gorgeous, kind man who was stroking my upper arm seemed to be so desirable I really did begin to wonder if this was some sort of ‘turning point’. Whatever our relationship was going to be, at that moment it was so different to anything I’d felt with any other man.



I turned my face up and towards his.



“Paul. If I did think about it, I might stay. Look, this is turning into something – serious. At least I think it is, I’ve never really felt like this before. I mean, I do, but I don’t know about you?”



He just looked at me. For more than a few seconds our eyes met. His are brown, I’d not realised, almost the same colour as my father’s.



“This is new territory for me too, Marie. I’d never have thought …. , I mean, I’m not so sure about what this means but …. oh hell, I’m not saying this right.”



“Yes you are. You’re doing fine. And I’ve just realised. When you kissed me the other night, in – where was it – oh yes, in Cannock, I didn’t understand why that kiss was different. And then yesterday after the show, I felt I needed to kiss you again, just to make contact, just to in some way show you how I was feeling. Not that I really understood it then, and I don’t now.”



I was blabbering too, neither of us seemed able to put whatever was going on into words.



“Paul. I’ve just realised. I haven’t kissed you today.”



He was still gazing into my eyes.



“Look, this is different. I’m not a drag queen right now, this isn’t just me being with a fan. This is me really being a transvestite, and standing here with a gorgeous guy. So. What do you think?”



“I’ve never actually kissed a transvestite before.”



“No time like the present.”



I moved right round to face him, shivering a little as his arm slipped round my waist, as my lips moved closer to his ….



And then his mobile phone rang. Not that I’m into fate and all that stuff, but just at that moment it occurred to me that this might be an omen. Maybe we’d both made a mistake, maybe I was presuming too much. And just maybe Paul would have recoiled if we’d gone ahead and he’d properly realised he was kissing a guy.



“Blast!” was his one-word response to the bring – bring from the phone in his pocket.



I pulled back, he took it out and looked at the screen.



“Marie, I should get this.”



“That’s OK” I said, somehow massively disappointed and immensely relieved at the same time.



I had a breathing space, I had to think. I’d been on auto-pilot for several minutes and really had to resume control in some way. In my job, whether dragged up or just cross-dressed, a woman has to stay in control. All sorts of things could disturb her equilibrium, a snagged earring, a broken heel – or a man. I stood back to give him some privacy but I could hear some of what he was saying.



“Hello ….. Yes David …. yes ….. no, I won’t be there …… surely not, it was sorted ages ago, wasn’t it ….. no, I definitely can’t, I’ve told you ….. no, it’s awkward right now, I’ve got someone with me ….. what….. all right then, ten minutes ….. what …. well tell him to keep his mouth shut in future. Yes, ten minutes. OK.”



He looked annoyed. Well, upset anyway, something had clearly gone wrong somewhere.



“Marie, I’m sorry, I need to go out for about twenty minutes. There’s a dinner at the golf club tonight and I’m sponsoring two of the prizes and there’s a problem with the engraving. You remember Donald, the young man in the Forester this morning? Well that was his dad. He’s worked out why I’m not going. Donald saw us this morning obviously and said something to him about me and my – er – girlfriend. Look, George will do you a coffee. And when I get back, well, you can decide then whether to push on to MK tonight. OK?”



“Paul, you have things to do. Go on, don’t let me get in the way. Go, go, I’ll get myself a coffee.”



He grabbed his coat, turned to go, and then turned towards me again. He kissed me quite hard on the cheek.



“That’ll have to do for now, back inside half an hour. Tell George, I’ll drive myself.”



And he was gone. The romantic mood of five minutes earlier had evaporated. I really was thinking that the interruption might have been fortuitous, surely I’d have found it very difficult to just go if ….



I walked through the house to tell George where Paul had gone and to explain – as far as I knew – about the golf club and so on.



“George, is Paul missing out on the dinner because I’m here. Is that why?”



“No miss, that’s not why. He just couldn’t go tonight. It’s just about a year since Mrs Kathleen went, the dinner was the last time they went out together. Everyone knew what was going on except him it was so very awkward. He just couldn’t face it.”



That did it. That decided me.



“George. Tell Mildred too, I’ll be staying tonight. Did you say you’d taken my cases up to the blue room? Can you show me?”



It was Mildred in fact who showed me up to one of the rooms we’d looked into during the tour earlier. My two cases, the red and the blue, were standing at the foot of the bed.



“Thanks, I’ll just get a few things unpacked.”



“Right Miss, do you want me to help?”



I declined the offer, I knew I’d need one or two things from the blue case. But it was the red one really, I hung the dresses on the hanger in the large wooden wardrobe and looked at them. Yes, that one, I hadn’t been sure I’d brought it. I’d got a new black dress in Harrods a couple of weeks earlier, not for a specific number or artiste but just because it was so gorgeous. And I’d bought it in a 10!



I spread my other clothes in the top drawer of the dresser and then assembled my make-up and jewellery and so on laid out on the actual top of the small dressing table in there. And I was delighted to see there was decent light and a decent mirror. I heard Paul’s car returning, he’d been a lot less than half an hour. I rushed down the stairs as he came in the front door.



“All sorted?” I asked.



“Yes, daft engraver. He’d done the right names but on the wrong trophies. We just swapped the labels, that’s all. Really someone else should have done that. Now, where were we?”



He’d reached out to grab my waist.



“Wait, Paul. Tell me about this dinner. Why aren’t you going? You said you’re sponsoring two of the prizes. Shouldn’t you be presenting them, isn’t that what usually happens?”



“Well, maybe. But I’m not going. If you think I’m going through that again, you’re mistaken.”



Then he realised he was speaking rather unkindly, and to me.



“I’m sorry Marie. Long story, but I’m not going.”



“I’d like to stay the night, Paul. Mildred has shown me the blue room, and I’ve unpacked.”



“That’s wonderful. Now I’m definitely not going out.”



“And I’d like you to take me to the dinner. I know I can pass OK, remember, it’s my job, and I’m good at it.”



He really was flummoxed, I’d surprised him yet again.



“Marie, I know you would pass, absolutely no trouble there, but the dinner, well, it starts in three-quarters of an hour. I’m not sure at all about this, and could you be ready in time anyway? It’s a good fifteen minutes drive.”



That floored me but I wasn’t going to be defeated.



“When are the presentations? At the beginning or the end?”



“They’re after the dinner, at about half-past ten. They do a long fancy dinner there. But we’d both need over half an hour to get ready, surely.”



“Half an hour? Paul, you have no idea. If I’m going to do this I need a major reconstruction. This is a big engineering job. Probably nearer an hour and a half, if you’re lucky. I’ve got a black dress with me I think would suit fine.”



“The Shirley Bassey one? Like I saw on the previous show. Long and slinky, you looked great in that.”



“No, I don’t do her any more, Paul. This one is a bit glitzier. It’ll be fine at a golf club dinner, believe me, it’s just the sort of thing for your girlfriend to wear. Look, George told me about last year’s dinner. Well that was then and this is now. How about it?”



He smiled, very widely.



“Marie, you are wonderful.”



“Right, I’d better go and make myself beautiful,” I replied.



I did. Make myself beautiful, that is. While I’d been looking through the clothes as I unpacked them I’d been thinking what to wear and how to wear it, how to give exactly the right impression, the right effect. OK so I’d always done the glam aspect of a woman’s appearance during my act, and I knew I could dress down to an extent and go for realism as I had earlier in the day. But all day I’d been feeling so feminine. I realised that with the dress I’d decided on, and the right make-up done ever-so-incredibly-carefully, I could do proper female glamour. I’d realised how.



OK so much of it was external, the clothes and the make-up. But that day, and in particular late that afternoon when I’d got very near to kissing Paul, something had clicked inside me. I’d experienced something new about my feelings inside, about me being me, being Marie. I knew, I KNEW, that at the golf club that evening I could actually in some way or other actually BE Marie. Marie the woman, that is, in a way a compromise or rather a combination of the extrovert drag queen I’d been all my career and the convincing woman I’d been that day. I knew I could bring the two together.



Back in the blue room – my room – I locked the door behind me and totally stripped. I mean the lot, make-up, artificial and stick-on bits, wig, the lot. It was time to start from fresh. I showered. I depilated even though really I didn’t need to. I slipped on my very best-est black silk thong and nestled my cock into place, tightly tucked between my legs. And then I started on reconstructing myself.



The boobs were easy. I’ve always gone for a DD-cup myself even from my early days in drag. I reckon it’s the right compromise. I’ve always wondered just how I looked if I went a little more extreme. Not stupid like JJ or something like that but with breasts bigger but not obscenely so. Maybe FF, I still think I could get away with something like that. But DD is pretty full and I’ve always known I have the frame to carry them.



I have to admit that as I sat at the dresser after sticking them on and smoothing the cover-up gently over the edges to blend their colour in with my own skin, I did wonder just how I was cope with thrusting breasts in that dress. I don’t know why I got it in a size 10 knowing full well I’d have problems levering my flesh into it, a 12 or even a 14 would have been a much more practical proposition. I knew the foundation wear would have to do a lot, in squeezing, lifting and thrusting, and I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to back off and go back to the glittery tomato-red Dolly Parton dress. It was a very attractive dress and I knew I looked good in it but in that situation I wasn’t going to be singing country-and-western. I was going to be as near as dammit a woman.



The corsetry had to come next. The make-up and nails and so on would depend on my success. I knew exactly how I was going to dress the rest of my body, sheer seamed black stockings, my 6″ black patent stilettos with the two ankle straps and big silver-coloured buckles, the silver-style jewellery and so on, but the basque was key. I held it up and loosened the back-straps. I shimmied my body into it and got the bra-cups as near as I could in place and then pulled on the straps.



Like I said, a big engineering job. I’ve read learned articles about how under-wired bras are designed to give women uplift, and about the stresses and strains a woman’s body has to endure in carrying large breasts around. And there was a big feature in ‘DQ’ which is a sort-of trade magazine for girls in my profession about how to choose the right foundation wear. I’ve always gone for correctness in lingerie, hell, I know one drag queen who insisted on wearing his boxers under his dress but I wasn’t into that. Claimed it helped keep some vestige of masculinity for her, or rather him. Me? No way. Silk knickers every time and expensive corset or basque, I’m always into doing whatever is necessary to get the proper female shape.



I pulled tight and then adjusted the bra-cup position. Then I pulled tight again, getting to the ‘discomfort’ stage. Which is where I usually stopped if I was doing this for my act. But I knew at that stage I wouldn’t get that dress on. Too much bulk in the wrong places. I readjusted and got the cups and the under-wiring in their proper position, noticing with some considerable satisfaction that my cleavage was already looking impressive. Then I got my tightening bar.



‘What’s that?’ I hear you ask?



Well, it’s my own design. It coils the straps from almost any type of cincher or basque and basically allows leverage. When you pull and twist you can lock it in place, then pull and twist again. It’s a bit difficult doing that with your arms round your back, and almost impossible to manipulate if you’ve made the mistake of sticking your long nails on first. But it works. I’d often used it if I was after a more-than-impressive cleavage, like the Dolly dress, and had gone as far as doing the pull-and-twist process twice.



I needed more. I did it four times. Pull, twist, pull, twist and then repeat twice more. I was breathless, I managed to slip the bar out and unclip the straps, aching rather with the pressure on my midriff and abdomen. I knew if I went for one more go I’d pass out, I’d be restricting the blood-flow somewhere or other. I stood for a minute, just breathing and wriggling to let the basque settle into place and to allow some parts of my body to creep a little and relieve some of the pressure. After another minute the aching was receding. So it still felt ever-so-tight, I’d gone further than before but I knew it was going to be necessary.



When I looked in the mirror I realised I’d reached my limit. If I’d measured there and then I reckon I’d have ended up with something like 40-22-36. Top-heavy, yes, but that was really the whole point. I’d gone for minimal bum-padding, realising some of my own flesh would end up squeezed down there and the full pads would be too much. But I was so pleased with the cavernous cleavage I was revealing and confident I would actually be able to get the dress on. Tits-to-die-for, tits fuller and lifted more than I’d ever managed before. Yes!



I didn’t do the dress yet, deciding the general movement around as I stretched and sat and went about the rest of my preparation would be simpler if I wasn’t wearing it and that the general easing of bits of my body inside the basque would be able to continue as I moved. But, I realised, though I’d taken quite some time getting the hourglass figure right the other aspects of my look, wig and jewellery and make-up and so on, would have to be exactly right too. So, methodically if not exactly calmly, I set to in sliding my stockings on, teasing out my wig, and doing my face.



There at least I was on more familiar ground even though the vast majority of the times I’d made up before I’d been into big false eyelashes, over-budget lips and eyebrows which, though feminine in shape, could be seen at least from the middle of the hall. But I’d often practiced the more realistic feminine look specially for photo-shoots and so on where you really don’t need to overdo things for the camera.



So I was able to quite quickly produce the almond-shaped, very slightly angled eyes with the right coverage and location of eye-liner and eye-shadow. And not do my eyebrows too thickly. And of course not overdo the blusher, a common tranny mistake I’ve always thought, so that it complemented rather than took anything away from my carefully crafted lipstick, lip-liner, and lip-gloss. With a selection of silver-based rings and my neck furniture and earrings in place, I was ready for the final two steps. I slid my heels on and stood up, relieved that though my basque was ultra-tight it did its job, controlling my body and giving me the shape I wanted without restricting my movement too much.



And then the wig. Really I’d have liked to go for a different colour, not too different from the blonde I’d had before but a little more dramatic. However, with Mildred and George in mind, and of course the young man who’d seen me with Paul earlier in the day, I really had to stay with the same one, same length and same colour. I had just teased it a little, much easier to do with a good quality wig of course rather than a nylon one. Effectively too, I thought, looking in the mirror to get the final effect. Same wig but worn differently, just a slightly more exotic style with several wisps hanging down the one side of my neck. Really, in a sense, a good imitation of a modern-ish hairstyle, better than I’d hoped.



And then the dress. I took it from the hanger, un-zipped it, turned it round and stepped into it. Carefully. I’d bought it on a whim, an expensive whim. I’d been in a sex shop in Fulham looking for a slinky silver dress, having decided to work on a Shania Twain set for my next tour maybe. I’d not found that but I had ended up buying some long false nails in there because they were in a ‘sale’. Yes, I’d thought it weird too, having something like that actually in a sale. But the dress had caught my eye just as I’d been leaving, I’d just had to turn right round and go back to the very butch woman who’d served me and ask about it.

‘Yes,’ she’d said, ‘we do have it in a 10 but not in a 12,’ and ‘no, sir, not in blue or red, that dress is only in black,’ and ‘oh I’m sure it would suit you, sir, you’d look totally gorgeous in it,’ and ‘well, sir, with the right sort of peignoir I’m sure you could get into the 10′ – and loads more guff like that. Basically she wanted a sale. I’d declined the offer to try it on there and then and also avoided any sort of lingerie and so on. I knew if my FD basque wouldn’t work with it, nothing would.



It slid up and into place. I was glad to see when I’d got the waist adjusted that it was very short but not too short. I know many trannies like to wander the streets with their stocking tops and panties on show, I’d done it myself once in Fulham, and damn nearly got myself raped. But I didn’t do that sort of thing as a matter of course. And certainly at the Golf Club it might not be appreciated. On the other hand ….



However. The fitting progressed, not totally as well as I’d hoped but far better than I’d feared. I managed to get the bodice round my bust and start to pull the zip up at the back without straining my back or my arm or anything. There was a slight hitch when I realised the stitching just inside the bust of the dress had snagged on the wiring in my basque – maybe a little bit of needlework needed there later – but once I’d realised that it wasn’t too difficult to edge it over the basque cups and into place, and then pull the back zip right up. I wriggled and shrugged a bit, really to make absolutely sure my boobs were not going to be able to pop out. I picked up my little black evening bag and looked in the long mirror.



I was pleased. Hell, I was thrilled. But I wasn’t really surprised. And the reason for that was simple, I’d just known it was going to work. It hadn’t been a case of dressing and trying something new and hoping everything was going to work out OK. After my experiences of the afternoon and the evening I’d been totally confident in my ability to carry it off.



Really it had been the chat with Mildred rather than anything Paul or George had said or done. For the very first time in my career, indeed in my life, I’d been a woman with a woman. Chatting, giggling, smiling, just being. I’d never got such satisfaction out of any of my previous attempts at femininity, whether as a drag queen or as a transvestite – or as a woman. I was glowing inside.



For once, and it was something I’d never really thought about before, my mindset was right. Me. Marie. Woman. It worked! I spent another couple of minutes putting the essentials into my tiny evening bag, lipstick of course, and mascara and my small black-and-silver comb. There really wasn’t room in there for anything else, not even my small pack of ultra-long cigarettes or my lighter.



I often carried them for effect really, and for my Dietrich part of my act. OK so she was around a long time ago but people still remember her, and her songs. And quite a few fans had told me I did her so well. I’d even had problems with a producer once, when I’d done ‘Falling in Love Again’ for my second album. He’d made me re-record the vocal because he said I did it too well. I’d got the timing, the timbre, the accent, the lot, it had sounded too good. We ended up not putting it on the album anyway. Maybe it would get pulled out and released after I was dead, and get released and go to No. 1!



‘Ready?’ I thought.



Nearly. I did slide a credit card into my evening purse. Simply because I always did, I just had to have something there to get me out of a major hole if somehow somewhere, something went drastically wrong. The card was from a Bank I’d joined specially, for one simple reason. There, embossed on the bottom right, were the word ‘M KING’. No Mr or Mrs or even Ms, and no full first name. Gender-neutral, it was. Of course I’d have preferred ‘M QUEEN’ but I couldn’t have that. One final glance in the mirror, a wriggle in the boob area to make absolutely sure, and I was ready. I opened the door.



I walked boldly and confidently along the corridor to the big staircase. Then a little more carefully in my stilettos, down the stairs to make my grand appearance. I could hear voices, Paul and George. They were in a room off the hall, I thought they must be in what Mildred had called the library when she’d given me the tour. Unfortunately neither could see me descending the stairs which wrecked that aspect of my entrance. Still, a girl can’t have everything.



I stepped across the hall and into the library. The guys were both there, Paul with his back to me, George facing him and discussing something-or-other. I walked through the doorway and stopped. Oddly enough I don’t think either had taken particular note of my clicking footsteps outside the door, it was when they stopped that George first looked over his boss’s shoulder.



“…. the next time we have to … oh hell!”



Well, something of a reaction. He’d stopped talking and was staring. I knew why. If I couldn’t, after all my efforts, silence a couple of guys like George and Paul then I wasn’t the drag queen, or rather the transvestite, I thought I was. Paul turned round. They both just stood there. I knew I had to be careful, Paul was expecting to see an attractive but convincing transvestite, but it had been important George didn’t see me as that. He had to see me as a woman.



“I’m sorry I’ve been so long, Paul.”



“Marie!”



Paul didn’t say anything else. He turned and looked at George. I think he was maybe concerned about George’s presence, maybe in just the way I’d been worried too. If I was to accompany Paul that evening to the ‘do’ at the golf club I really did have to convince. I’d done so earlier but that time I’d gone for ‘attractive’. Now I’d gone for glamour. The short tight shoulder-less dress, low-cut and bedecked with sparkly bits round the bodice, and the striking make-up, all were designed to impress. As were the teased blonde hair and the legs of course, and the heels.



When Paul looked back, it was my shoes he was staring at. I knew why. Six-inch heels, universally known in the tranny world as ‘FM stilettos’, could in some sense be regarded as a dead give-away. If I was to carry them off, to get away with the long legs wearing sheer black stockings, the rest had to be absolutely right. All of it. Every strand of my wig, every stroke of my mascara – well, the lot. It was verdict time.



“Marie. You look stunning. Am I right, George?”



“You bloody are. Sorry, Paul.”



I walked up to my escort. It was my turn to give him the once-over. Even in my heels he was maybe an inch and a half above me. Tall. And handsome. Yes. And dark, apart from a few strands of grey in his hair.



“Marie.”



Paul was looking at me, intently but rather seriously just for a moment I wondered if I’d made some sort of major blunder, wrong colour lipstick with those nails or something. But no, it was something else.



“Will you take off your earrings, please, and that necklet. Could you help, George, please?”



And he walked off. I was puzzled, very puzzled.



“Don’t worry Miss, I reckon I know what this is about. Here, let me help you with the clasp on your necklet. My Mildred has one with a clasp like this, she always has trouble with it.”



George, from behind me, undid the clasp and removed the silver necklet. And I unhooked my earrings and put them in his outstretched hand.



“I’ll look after those until later, Miss” he said, turning to put them down near to the phone behind him.



“What’s going on, George?” I asked.



But before he could answer Paul returned carrying a wide thin black box. I knew what was in it or course, that style of case carries jewellery of some kind, obviously. He opened it as if he was offering me two pistols to choose from for a duel. But it wasn’t pistols, it was – a necklace. And a pair of earrings. It was my turn to be surprised.



There, on the black velvet surface, was the most beautiful item of jewellery I’d ever seen in my life. A diamond necklace. Paul obviously couldn’t have known but silver filigree has always seemed to me the very essence of fine, quality jewellery. Much more so than gold even, or platinum. I just LOVE the intricate patterns of the very fine silver.



And you can’t fake it. Imitation sprayed-steel costume jewellery, even silver plate, it just doesn’t look right. And the necklace I was looking it was so beautiful, a silver chain with filigree curlicues hanging from it, and the whole mesh studded with diamonds. I had no doubt at all, these were not paste or even CZ. They were real. The matching earrings were equally gorgeous, long strands of silver bedecked with, again, real diamonds.



“Paul! That is so beautiful!” I just looked at him. “If you’re asking me if I’d like to wear them tonight, Paul, if you need to ask you don’t know me well enough!”



And then I realised, I was going to have to take more care. Not the voice, that had been perfect, I’m a good enough professional never to drop my timbre into anything at all male when I’m en femme. But the words and the intonation had been almost tranny-like, and with George there that just would not do. Paul took the necklace and laid it across my chest, this time it was he who did the tiny clasp behind my neck. I took the earrings and skipped out into the hall to look into the mirror there to slide the small silver hooks into my ears. I looked at the effect, the glitter of the diamonds and the silver complemented the slight shimmering of the silver-coloured strands woven into the bodice of my dress.



Paul was standing beside me.



“Marie, you are beautiful. Just the one final touch. This might cause some comments tonight but, what the hell!”



And he slid a silver ring, not exactly matching but the same style, onto the third finger of my left hand.



“It doesn’t look like an engagement ring which is probably just as well. But, tongues will wag.”



It was my turn to be speechless. Nearly.



“Paul, really, I feel like a million dollars!”



And despite George being there I just had to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Just that, short and sweet but I really was so grateful.



“Well, in dollars they’re probably only about half a million.”



And he said it so calmly. Half a million! I didn’t even think about the exchange rate, I just knew it was an awful lot of pounds.



“I got them for Kathleen last year but – bad timing. It was just before the presentations last year, then the details of the affair came out and I thought why should she have them, no way. So I just put them in the safe. She’d have looked good in them, Marie, but you look stunning!”



“Permission to speak, Sir?”



It was George. He was looking at the two of us. As he did I just stretched my hands up to slightly adjust Paul’s black bow tie. Very wifely, or girl-friendly at least. But George was saying something important, clearly, hence the ‘Sir’.



“I don’t want to speak out of turn, Paul. But. I know Mildred was chatting to Miss Marie earlier and she said something about that Dorothy who came here a few months ago.”



I really didn’t know what George was going to say and I was a little upset he’d referred to what Mildred and I had been talking about. I could tell Paul wasn’t totally happy either.



“Sir. I just got to say this. With Miss Dorothy and that Mrs Agatha who came as well a bit ago, well, if there’s any sort of three way contest going with them two and with Miss Marie, Sir …”



He paused for a moment.



“… they haven’t a cat in hell’s chance, Sir, those two. No chance at all.”



Paul smiled. And I went over and kissed George briefly too.



“Marie, we’d better go” said Paul as he took his car keys from the pocket of his dinner jacket.



But George walked over to him and almost grabbed them from his grasp.



“I’m driving Paul, you’d never keep your eyes on the road. Not with those legs beside you.”



Which was really as rude as George got.



So he drove us to the Golf Club. Paul had told me he didn’t want to stay long, just to mingle a bit and do his presentations. That was fine by me, I was still on a high after Paul’s reaction and George’s comments but there was something else I had to get sorted out.



“I’m a bit worried, Paul” I said quietly as we sat together in the back of the car.



George had the radio on, again not loudly, I knew I was safe and he wouldn’t hear me.



“If there are people there who were at the show, or saw the adverts maybe. With ‘Marie Queen’ on them. You know what I mean. If you introduce me as Miss Queen, the penny might drop.”



“I get your point, Marie, but believe me, nobody is going to make the link. Absolutely nobody would believe you’re a TV, or a drag queen. Not looking like you do.”



“But to be sure, look. My credit card says ‘M KING’. How about introducing me as Mary King. Would that do?”



Paul looked at me, it was difficult to make out his expression in the back of the car but I heard his voice OK.



“Darling, tonight, whatever you want. Mary King it is.”



George pulled up right outside the main entrance of the club. Just for a moment, having been so confident a couple of minutes earlier when we’d been discussing names, Paul seemed hesitant. Not me. I was ready for this. I squeezed his hand.



“Come on, Paul. It’s Showtime!”



We walked in together, my right arm entwined with Paul’s left. We’d timed it well. People were just beginning to troop out of what I assumed to be the dining room and towards the bar. I’d asked Paul in the car why the awards weren’t done during the dinner in what I assumed would be the usual fashion. It turned out that a few years earlier there had been trouble with some over-drunk guests actually cat-calling and throwing food even at one of the speakers so they’d split the awards off the next year and done them in the bar.



And they’d just carried on, they’d felt the new arrangement was working so they’d stuck with it. As we walked towards the bar one of the crowd noticed us and moved towards us, with his wife.



“Hello Paul, good to see you. I’m glad you decided to do this. Very brave of you…”



He tailed off, looking towards me.



“Carl, let me introduce you. Mary, dear, this is Dr Carl James, Club President, and Janet. Carl, Janet, this is my friend Mary.”



No explanation offered, none needed. A basic introduction, that’s all that was necessary in that situation. I smiled and offered my hand, a little limply on purpose. I’m slightly fortunate to have rather small hands, not really a benefit for playing the piano but fine for impersonating a woman. We chatted for a few minutes, and I knew I was putting forward the right image, basically that of Paul’s girlfriend, companion, whatever. Let them think whatever they wanted as long as it involved Paul and his woman-friend. Then we followed the end of the crowd through into the bar.



Grand entrances I can do. I’d done it often enough in full drag and I knew I would impress as the woman I was being. This was easy. Compared to facing a hostile crowd in Scunthorpe after they’ve had to watch a duo of crap jugglers, while wearing that tomato-red Dolly P. dress and a big bouffant platinum blonde wig, and thrusting out your arms to ‘embrace’ the crowd and launching into ‘Stand by your man’, compared to that it was easy. OK this was as a woman rather than in drag but I knew it would work. I’d got the mindset right.



Most drag artistes never try, maybe they should. Go for female rather than drag, I mean. Not every time but just sometimes. Some trannies do, I know that. The female-and-glamorous combination, maybe trannies have the motivation. As Paul and I strolled into the bar accompanying Carl and his wife, I’m delighted to say that some sort of hush descended on the assembled diners. They were looking – at Paul, sure, after his difficulties the previous year quite a few of them had probably heard that he wasn’t going to be there.



But they were looking at me too. I’d seen glamorous TVs before, on the Internet mainly, girls like Julie and Katye and Brina, often out for the night with a handsome bisexual man and having a whale of a time showing off their femininity in gorgeous gowns and with carefully crafted make-up.



That evening, at that moment, I knew I’d joined the club. The crafting and the glamour, and the confidence, had all worked to come together at that moment. Everyone was looking, we were the centre of attention, and I was loving it. I looked across at Paul’s expression. He’d realised the impact we were having too and was, like me, excited. Quite probably he was aroused too at that moment, it was a distinctly erotic event. I felt a slight stirring in my own tucked member but I over-ruled it and smiled at him.



I leant across and, very quietly and sexily, whispered in his ear.



“Take it easy honey. You know this is going to work. Come on, you need to mingle.”



Quite what they thought I had whispered, I don’t know, but a slight buzz of conversation filled the room. I eased Paul forward and a waiter appeared in front of us carrying a tray of glasses of champagne. Paul handed one to me and I sipped it gently. And we mingled. We mingled for about ten minutes, sipping our champagne, greeting people, chatting about the weather and golf, mainly with the men, and my dress, with the women. Not that the guys didn’t notice the dress of course, what with the long sheer black legs, the bare shoulders and prominent breasts, and the jewellery, they couldn’t help notice.



It was wonderful. Smiles all over, for all sorts of reasons, but I’m delighted to say that the main cause of the men’s delight was indeed just being in the presence of such a provocatively dressed woman. I knew I’d be good in the role and I was so right. If they’d been filming I’d have deserved an Oscar, probably for ‘Best Actress in a Leading Roll’. or maybe for ‘Make-Up’. I’d certainly have deserved that.



As the awards began Paul and I moved over towards the guy giving the speeches. And at the right time Paul handed over the little plaques for ‘Best young boy golfer’ and ‘Best young girl golfer’. The ‘Best young boy’ was Donald, the lad from the bar in the Forester earlier in the day. And splendid he looked too in his new and slightly too large dinner suit. And not too embarrassed when as he came away with his plaque I took his hand gently. I whispered ‘Well done, Donald’ as I kissed him on the cheek. That couldn’t have done his reputation with his mates any harm.



After a few more minutes I noticed Paul looking a little concerned, maybe tired, maybe even a little worried. Things were really going well, I knew it but Paul wasn’t getting the same feedback as me. I’d spent many years gauging the mood of a crowd, working an audience, judging how well an act was going. I knew we were making an impression, exactly the right sort of impression but I had to be aware of Paul’s sensibilities. Time to go. I took him by the hand.



“Darling, I really think we should be making a move now. I know it’s not too late but, well, we’ve got things to do.”



Loudly but not too loudly, easily loud enough for Paul to hear. I led him, not very reluctantly towards the exit door, all the while looking round for George. He was there, just inside the door, talking to another driver maybe. Anyway as soon as he saw us heading his way he got up and leant forward to push the doors open.



“George, time to go I think.”



“Sure miss.”



He disappeared out of the door at a rate of knots while Paul and I sought out the Club President again to say our goodbyes. The evening’s outing was extended by a few minutes when two or three of the other guests realised Paul was leaving, and that he was taking ‘Mary’ with him. We had to shake hands and clasp hands and do little kisses with about six or seven others before we could make our getaway. But we did, I positively skipped out of the front doors when we realised George had brought the car around.

**********

A series of stories with transgender themes which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!

**********



12 Back at work



The taxi driver was perhaps a little surprised to see such a woman leaving such a house in the middle of a Sunday morning. Especially in a tiny P.V.C. mini-skirt and high-heeled boots. At least I had slipped on a leather jacket to cover my tits. I managed to sneak in at home unobserved and spent the rest of the day catching up on my sleep and thinking. I had so much enjoyed being a woman, I just hoped my last ‘trick’ had the desired effect on Richard.



“Good morning, Sarah” I said as I strolled into work the next day.



“Morning” said Sarah, then turned to look at me. “Shit, Richard, what …?”



I was wearing the same outfit, but had discarded the jacket as I walked in.



“Richard – er Raelene, I mean. Have you been dressed – I mean dressed up – you know what I mean – all weekend? I thought it was just going to be for Friday night. Your date, with your bank manager that is, how did it go? And where did you get that outfit? You certainly didn’t have it with you when you left on Friday.”



“No, I came in Saturday to change…” and I gave her a brief resume of the events of the weekend.



“So you spent all Saturday night fucking? And he actually proposed? Boss, I think you are getting into this a bit too deep. Though I do have to admit, you do make an even better woman that I ever imagined. I really am getting a little turned on!”



I hadn’t noticed until then, but Sarah wasn’t looking at my face, she was staring at my breasts. I knew this had to finish very soon but I couldn’t resist that one last tease. I sidled up to her and reached out, lifting her chin with a red-taloned finger and moving my mouth close to her face. I touched my lips to hers very gently, darting my tongue out to tease hers gently.



“Christ, Boss, stop it,” she laughed. “We have work to do today”



“OK, sorry, I know, I’ll change now. But I really have enjoyed myself this weekend. I could get used to being a woman you know. It has its plus side.”



“It does when you look like that, Boss. When you go for it you could have practically any man you wanted you know. But there are downsides too. Mind you, you miss out on some of them. No periods, no pregnancy, I can see why you would enjoy it maybe.”



We had to giggle again, in a rather girly way, but I headed into the back before Michael and Carol arrived. Sarah said I must.



“I know you’ve screwed Michael, but if he sees you looking like that he’s liable to want to get into your knickers!”



So I changed. To be honest I felt a bit ordinary after that, I could see why transvestites referred to male clothes as ‘drab’. But I had to ‘be’ Richard again. Richard Wood that is, owner of the company, when Mr. Jenkins my solicitor came in to confirm that all the monies had been sorted the previous Friday. Indeed he did come in, just before lunchtime while I was trying to convince an 18 stone builder – I think he was, certainly seemed that way – that he could never ‘pass’ as a 20 year old slut in seamed stockings and high heels and that his best bet was to go for something more modest. He eventually agreed with me and ended up looking quite attractive. Quite what the bed in the boudoir would look like afterwards I was not sure, his partner-in-sex was at least as big and maybe bigger.



But I managed to keep Mr. Jenkins away from all this, to have a brief chat in private about the finances. He still didn’t really know exactly what TWS was about, I suspect his brother-in-law had not revealed all to him. OK, he knew it was in the ‘adult leisure’ category but I suspect that rather like Richard he just thought it was an upmarket knocking shop.



“Well, thank you Mr. Jenkins, I am very grateful for your help here. We should be able to adjust our cash flow sufficiently to pay off the loan in good time.”



“That’s OK Mr Wood. Anyway don’t be too grateful, you haven’t seen the size of my bill yet. And I still don’t know how you persuaded Richard Walters to move so quickly, he is usually so long-winded and meticulous in demanding references and so on. For some reason he seems to have just waived this one through.”



“Well Mr Jenkins, we have our contacts.”



That would have to be enough explanation.



“You’re not telling me something, Mr Wood. I will ask him, I’m having dinner with him and his wife sometime soon. Though I have my suspicions, I thought I saw his car drive away earlier last week, maybe a certain young lady was involved?”



I don’t think I blushed.



“But that’s not like him at all, I always thought he and Mary were so well suited. But maybe I’m wrong.”



The conversation was beginning to get just a little embarrassing. I was glad that at that moment he stood up to leave.



“And I will get my bill to you as soon as possible, you may need to check one or two things on it with Richard Walters. Anyway, I’m so glad it seems to have worked out. OK, Mr Wood. Bye.”



We shook hands and I led him out into the foyer, just as Chantelle was coming out of the red door on her way out. Chantelle? Another of our regulars she is. One of the most mild-mannered and un-remarkable looking guys you have ever seen in your life. Very nearly six foot, skinny, medium build, medium brown hair, medium everything.



But Chantelle? Wow. I often thought I looked good as Raelene but her, well. His/her reference number was 999, a coincidence maybe but any guy who interested her was liable to need an ambulance once she was finished. For sheer aggression in the being-fucked department she took some beating. I’d actually seen her once coming onto a guy in the bar, he had started out full of bravado but when she stood in front of him and pulled the zip on her basque down, and her gorgeous ‘tits’ had fallen out, he was lost. He didn’t know where to look.



And her bold statement – ‘Now honey, you’re going to cum all over these within three minutes or I’m not the disgusting slut I think I am!’ – had reduced him to jelly. Three minutes!? They must have spent an hour in the bedroom, he looked totally knackered when he came out. Chantelle, on the other hand, walked a little oddly, not surprising really considering what had been going up her.



As Mr Jenkins passed Chantelle some sort of conversation took place, I’m not sure who started it. Anyway in the end Chantelle smiled widely at him, reached up to stroke his chin with one of her deep blue talons, and turned to march out of the door, bum wriggling in her leather micro-skirt, doing very well in such high-heeled boots.



Mr Jenkins, who was about to follow ‘her’, turned to me.



“Er – Richard. She’s rather an attractive girl, isn’t she? Do you think – if I wanted to – you know, I mean. She might be the sort of girl I could, maybe – you know…?”



Very hesitant. And though he didn’t know why, he really didn’t, he had every reason to be. Though he didn’t know it, he had just asked me if I could arrange it so that he could maybe have sex with a man!



I hesitated too, not entirely sure how to respond. He was my solicitor after all. But then, why not? I’d just spent the weekend in bed with my bank manager. This guy’s brother-in-law was apparently one of our clients. And we did have policemen. And magistrates. And farmers and councillors and at least one prospective parliamentary candidate, ex- that is, on our books. And of course Charles the professor of philosophy. Chantelle rather.



“Mr Jenkins, I am sure we can fit you in. And since you’ll be sending me your bill I might as well tell you that we are in fact not cheap either. But most of our clients are well satisfied with the service we provide. Ask at reception on your way out, say you’d like to visit Chantelle. I’m sure you could be fitted in. Tell them I said the blue door, they’ll know what you mean.”



I looked at him talking to Carol on the desk as I turned to go back through to the ‘control room’. For some reason ‘Raelene’ came through just a little. He was quite a bit older than me but really rather well built, strong but not too muscular. I bet his cock was large when he was aroused. And then, it surprised me even more when I realised it. He could go through the red door. He really could do it.



He’d look good in black. Stiletto boots perhaps, and fishnets. Maybe a p.v.c. basque and black hair, jet black, sort-of Goth look, severe makeup. I wondered how he would react if he knew I was, however fancifully, thinking of him that way. And just how he would react if Sarah tried to lead him in that direction. Maybe one day …



After that I was looking forward to a quiet time for a while. If I only knew! It was indeed quiet, for a few days, nothing more exciting than a wife wanting her husband done up as near her mother-in-law as we could manage for some sort of lesbian sex session. Oh, and one of our ‘girls’, one of our regulars, featuring in the local press, in a more favourable situation than the previous one of course. ‘She’ had been out for ‘her’ very first walk in the evening dressed when she got picked on by a journalist for a poll. She reckoned it was the tight leather jeans which did it, that and the high heels.



The picture in the paper did her proud, in colour it was. She looked very attractive, she was quoted as saying she was ‘in favour of a battered wives hostel in the local area’. Apparently she nearly wet herself when the reporter asked her to go for a drink. She chickened out, well it was her first time out so tarted up.



“He was a bit fat really. But if his cameraman had asked me I might have been tempted!” , she said with a laugh.



It was the Friday evening when Carol came into the control room as I was doing, very carefully, the back-up tape from the digital photo file.



“It’s that Mr. Walters, boss. Wants to speak to Raelene. I said I thought she had left but I’d just check. He seems to think she works here full time!”



“Put it through here, Carol. I’d better speak to him.”



I picked up the phone when it flashed, my femme voice coming in very easily indeed.



“Hello? Richard?”



“Raelene, I’m so glad I caught you.”



“Richard, darling, it’s so nice to hear you. I’ve been wanting you to call all week but I didn’t dare ring you at home or at the bank. So good of you to call, my love.”



“Raelene, I think we need to talk. My wife has just rung. She is going to be in Birmingham until late tonight, can we meet?”



I had to think. I still had no car, Mr Jenkins really was tight with Aunt Daphne’s money or at least what was left of it. I was sure there would be enough for some sort of second hand hatchback or something.



“I’d love to” I said.



Damn, I thought, why had I answered without thinking? And so enthusiastically too.



“Shall I come straight over and pick you up?”



“No, I’m still working, better not.”



I had to think quickly. Michael had gone and I knew Sarah had a heavy date with her girlfriend. Could Carol ‘do’ me? Of course she could, and she had said she could use some overtime.



“About an hour?”



“OK Raelene, I’ll be there.”



13 The wife!



An hour? Could Carol really help me enough, I know she had wanted more responsibility. And in an hour? If I couldn’t do it, I could ring him back, presumably he was still at the bank?



“Carol, here, quick. Make sure that disc is finished and locked up, then come into the red prep room, we have a job to do.”



Well, she leapt at the opportunity. She knew something of my, or rather ‘our’ situation, me and Richard that is. She surprised me. She started to boss me about as soon as she realised what was going on, telling me to ‘strip – now!’. I think she had seen Sarah in action! Within twenty minutes I was smooth-bodied, basque-encased, stocking-clad and wearing panties, seated at the small make-up table while Carol looked at the older photos of ‘Raelene’ and considered.



“OK, I’m not so expert at this, I know but these should give me a very good idea. So, what do you want? Slut? Or just tart?” she joked.



I thought for a moment.



“Actually Carol, neither. Maybe it might not be such a good idea to be so forward on this occasion. I mean, last weekend was all about sex. Me seducing Richard. But this is more of an ordinary social meeting I think. Not so sure. What do you think?”



“Maybe you are right. So, how about being a receptionist, like me? The secretary look, like that guy on Tuesday. With his boss, being his secretary. His stuff is back from the cleaners, it’s your size. The suit will look good on you, dark grey and very nicely tailored. And with a nice low-cut blouse and high heels you should look good.”



I had to agree with her, and that look appealed to me. She was more muted with my makeup though the final layer of lipstick really added a touch of mystery to my appearance. My eye-shadow and mascara were heavy but not too heavy. I finished with largish clip earrings and put on the choker Richard had bought me. Over all – I looked great, At least I thought so and so did Carol.



“You’ll wow him, don’t worry. Hope it goes well. Look boss, I’d better go, my mother will have the dinner ready. I did ring her but she won’t want me to be too late. Are you OK from here?”



I kissed her lightly goodnight. On the cheek, girl-to-girl. In a way I never would have done in my ordinary clothes. I jumped just a little as the door buzzer sounded. Richard! Had to be.



“OK – Raelene, I’ll hang on a minute, make sure you are OK” said Carol and headed off to press the door release.



It was indeed Richard. My Richard, at least that was what he had to think. I skipped across to him. Yes, skipped. In my heels it was not so easy but I hoped I would give the right impression, of a ‘girl’ glad to see her boyfriend. I kissed him, though a lot more convincingly than I had ‘pecked’ Carol on the cheek a minute earlier.



“Richard. Darling, it’s so GOOD to see you” I cooed, sliding an arm into his. “I just have to help Carol lock up, then we can be off. I hope you are feeling fit my love, I have to admit seeing you has made me feel rather … you know!”



I giggled at him, wanting to impress but not to gush. Carol and I slipped rapidly back into the control room leaving my lover in Reception. I had checked, there was absolutely nothing on display he could take exception to or that could correct his own misconceptions about TWS.



One day he would find out, I was sure. But not yet. He was safe there for half a minute. In the control room Carol passed me the file case with the back-ups of the PC files. I always took a copy home at weekends, we both checked that everything which should be was locked away or switched off.



“Christ, boss. You’ve really got him haven’t you. He’s all over you, I mean, totally smitten. And you did great, as if you’d been a ‘working girl’ all your life instead of a few weeks, on and off. I tell you, if Nigel and I ever want a loan for a house I’m going to get you to arrange it. You’d get a massive discount on a mortgage I’ll bet.”



I’d never thought of that I had to admit. I had been looking round for a new place, somewhere a bit more secluded than my current flat. I thought I’d found one, I was going to get Mr. Jenkins onto it, to help me with the finances. I was still hoping that could go ahead even after the money problems we’d had. Anyway, for now I had to concentrate, another evening with my Richard to look forward to. So, I wondered, thinking of his call. Why did we have ‘to talk’? Had he told Mary? About us? Surely not. Suddenly everything looked likely to come crashing down. Suppose he had? And this was about divorce? And a wedding??!! Help!



I grabbed the file briefcase, then Carol and I went back into reception where Richard was sat, reading a woman’s magazine. The make-up page! He put it down and stood as we entered, and I took his arm. As Carol locked the door behind us I set the alarm and she gave me the keys. Richard and I walked across the small empty car park towards his car. Yet again I appreciated the thrill in sliding onto leather seats in a short skirt.



“So darling, where are you taking me tonight? To a hotel maybe, can we have a drink first? I’ve been working all day and I am bushed.”



“You mean – you’ve been – you know – with men, all day?”



The tone said it all. Disappointment. Disapproval. My ‘husband-to-be’ was not happy at the thought that other guys had been where his cock had been and was maybe going to go again. And today, so recently, it smacked of being in some way unfaithful. I turned to him as he drove, he really did look disappointed. Maybe that could be a way out if things got tricky.



“Oh no, Richard my love. Not that. I’ve been on reception most of the day, and helped some of the girls with their make-up. I like doing that, it’s fun helping them to look as good as they can for the clients.”



All of which was, of course, true. I looked across at him again, he looked relieved. Obviously a more acceptable way of earning a living than getting screwed all day. But he couldn’t complain about that, not really, after all that was how we met. When I reminded him of this he did squirm a little again but carried on driving. I realised when he turned off the ring road we were not going to a pub or a hotel, we were headed for his house. Suddenly it seemed serious again, my thoughts turned briefly to divorces and weddings again.



But surely if it had been something that important, life changing indeed, he would have mentioned it straight away. I didn’t have time to ask, he turned into his drive and pressed the button to open the double garage door. It swung open and he drove in. Plenty of room to get out, the parallel bay was empty. Of course it was, his wife was out for a while yet. But he had better be quick if he wanted fucking, and certainly if he wanted it more than once.



As we went in the front door Richard looked round nervously, maybe towards the neighbours’ houses to see if any curtains were twitching, maybe up the road in search of his wife’s car! But there was only a taxi turning into the road some way away. I grabbed my case and we went in. As I reached up to hug him round the neck, he seemed to resist my advances a little. But I knew I had him where I wanted him, I pulled him close.



“Now Richard my love, what is it you wanted to see me about? Was it this?”



And I leaned to kiss him on the lips.



Only to be disturbed before the kiss could start. Behind him, through the frosted glass panel in the front door, I saw lights and heard a slight bump, then the unmistakable sound of the garage door beginning to grind its way up. It was his wife! He realised it too.



“Christ Raelene, it’s Mary. Shit, she must have finished much earlier than I thought she would. When she sees you here she’s bound to realise. She’ll know. About us.”



So he hadn’t told her. I stepped back from him, thinking frantically. I could glimpse the lights of the car moving, into the garage, behind him. She would be here in a few seconds. Wait. That taxi. Could I get out of the house without being seen? Maybe get to it in time? At least get far enough away not to be caught. I grabbed the file case and my handbag, just touched my finger to Richard’s lips and tried to smile.



“OK I’m off. Don’t worry.”



I opened the front door and stepped out, closing it behind me. But it was too late. I could hear heels coming round the side of the house. Amazingly I kept cool. I reached out a red-taloned finger.



I rang the doorbell.



The footsteps became suddenly louder as Mary Walters came round to the front of the house. I pressed the bell again.



“Hello. Can I help you?”



Mary stood looking at me. The photos had not done her justice. She was an attractive woman and, if they had been taken on her wedding day, she had ‘worn well’. I stood for a moment, trying to look just a little confused.

“Er – yes. Maybe. I hope I’ve got the right house. Richard Walters? Sorry, my taxi’s just gone. I should have checked that this was the right house first. But I think I got the address right.”



“Yes, you did. I’m Mary Walters. Richard is my husband.”



Mary paused, unsure what to say next. But she didn’t get the chance, Richard opened the door. He had to really, he must have heard voices. And there we were, his ‘mistress’ and his wife, standing on the doorstep. I knew I had to say something first. I reached out my hand towards him.



“Mr Walters, I’m so glad to see you again. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the bank earlier. It is so good of you to agree to see me like this. My boss would be most upset if he knew I hadn’t got the paperwork sorted this afternoon. I am so grateful, you have got me out of real trouble.”



Both Richard and Mary were still for a moment, taking this in. I just hoped I had fooled her, and that he had realised what I was trying to do. Save his marriage, that’s what I was trying to do. It was Mary who responded first.



“Well, please, do come in. I do wish my husband didn’t need to see clients at home but, well, I suppose it goes with the job. Please, do sit down. Can I get you a coffee? And Richard, darling, you haven’t introduced us.”



He snapped out of it. In fact he did very well indeed, he seemed very calm under the circumstances.



“I’m so sorry. Mary, this is Miss du Bois, from TWS. A client of ours. Miss du Bois, my wife, Mary.”



I stretched out my hand to her and smiled.



“Pleased to meet you, please call me Raelene. Again I do apologise for taking up your husband’s time.”



She had said ‘my husband’ twice and ‘darling’ once within a minute, consciously or unconsciously she was making a statement. He was hers. Actually I didn’t think she felt threatened, I had convinced her of the innocence of my presence.



“Coffee then?” she asked.



“Thank you very much” I replied.



Better do this, maintain the impression and get it over with and out of there, our ‘talk’ was going to have to wait.



“Richard, do you want to take Raelene into the study? I’ll bring the coffee in a couple of minutes.”



I was sure he would love to. Take me in there. Shut the door. And have sex, But that wasn’t going to be an option, not with wifey bringing coffee to us. As she headed off towards the kitchen, I took the opportunity to move in towards Richard, put my hands up round his neck, and kissed him very lightly. I spoke calmly and quietly.



“Richard, I need to get out of here. Quick, let me open my case, we can pretend to be dealing with some papers. I’ll have the coffee and then ring for a taxi. OK?”



He had to agree and we did just that. When Mary came back I was just closing the case.



“Thank you Mr. Walters, you have saved my life. As I said, my boss would have been livid if he got in on Monday and that had not been sorted. I am so sorry, the afternoon just seemed to fly by, I just clean forgot.”



“Well, if you have finished, do come through into the living room, Raelene. I’ll bring the coffee.”



I was just a little embarrassed when I sat down on the sofa, luckily this time Richard didn’t sit next to me. I remembered the last time! He was nervous too, I decided to get this finished with as soon as possible. Mary first offered to drive me home herself, then suggested Richard could drive me. I was tempted but said no. Eventually after some rather inconsequential and uncomfortable chit-chat I did get a taxi.



On the way back into town I had to decide what to do with myself. After all, I was a woman now, at least in appearance, how did I want to spend the weekend? I decided – as Raelene. I got the taxi driver to drop me at my flat, and was very careful as I went in, I didn’t want to be seen by any neighbours. I did it.



And I did enjoy the weekend. On Saturday morning I got out early-ish, after both my neighbours had headed off – one went to girlfriend’s every weekend on the Saturday, the other worked after leaving her flat at about 8 am. I walked to the edge of town, then got a taxi again to the big department store. I wasn’t too flush with cash but I did manage to get myself a short denim skirt, a mascara, two pairs of earrings, several pairs of stockings and – for the ‘man’ in me, a new shaving brush. I lunched in their café and then spent the afternoon looking for a new handbag to match the dress I was planning to wear that evening. I had a few clothes at my flat by then and was surprised to find how easily the female role came to me.



But in the evening I decided enough was enough and changed. At least I managed to remove my breast-forms and my ‘pussy-cover’ with the solvent I had in the flat. I had all the makeup removed by 7 o’clock and decided to go for a pint at the local pub. Somehow I needed to exert my masculinity.



And I was lucky there. The barmaid commiserated with me, she hadn’t seen me for a while, she hadn’t heard that Monica and I had split up. Amazingly that triggered something in her, she actually admitted that she had rather fancied me for a while. I really was tempted, but decided my sex life was complicated enough!



And on Monday morning everything was back to normal. Sarah was a little surprised when ‘Mr. Wood’ turned up. Carol had told her about the events of the early part of Friday afternoon, they had both assumed that I would stay en femme all weekend. For once I didn’t share with them exactly what I had been up to, though I did surprise them both though when I asked where they thought would be a good place to have my ears pierced!



Which I did, on Monday evening on my way home. I had to – both the earring sets I had bought were for pierced ears, I just loved them and absolutely had to be able to wear them. The two little sleepers I had fitted ached for a couple of days but by Thursday evening I was able to wear my new purchases round the flat. I did feel a fool wearing them in my male ‘drab’ but with none of the other accoutrements of femininity but no-one saw me that evening.



And then on Friday – surprise! Sarah asked me if I was seeing Richard again, I said that I didn’t think so. And she came right out and asked if I wanted her to help me dress for the weekend. I thought for at least two seconds – and then said yes. So, just after seven, I was leaving TWS, similarly dressed to the previous week, wondering how I was going to spend the weekend again as a woman, and determined to have some fun!



14 The wife 2!!!



As I was locking up I heard a car behind me. I turned. I looked – I didn’t believe it. Of all the people I had not expected to see – it was Mary. Mary Walters. What the hell did she want?



“Oh, hello Raelene. I wasn’t sure how to find you, I was going to go in and see if they would give me your address. I’ve been sitting there for ten minutes trying to summon up the courage. I know it’s some sort of Gentleman’s club, that’s what Richard said anyway. I was a bit nervous of going in. I really wanted to talk to you. Do you mind – can we get a coffee somewhere?”



This was very sudden. And very unusual. I didn’t know what to make of it but I said yes. Mary drove up past the town hall, we ended up in a small café actually quite near to where I lived at the time. I was nervous at first but realised. Nobody would ‘read’ me, even if someone I knew came in.



“Miss do Bois, Raelene. This may seem strange but I don’t really know who I can trust. You know my husband through business, anyone else I could talk to knows us socially and – might be the one.”



“The one?” I asked quizzically.



Mary swallowed hard, looking unsure of herself. I soon realised why.



“Yes. You see, I know I can trust you, I think Richard – my husband – is having an affair!”



Wow! What a turn up. Firstly, that she had found out, and secondly that for some reason she had decided to confide in me. I had obviously done well the previous week, I was a better actress than I thought. Yes, actress.



“Er – Mary, you mustn’t jump to conclusions. There may be a simple explanation.”



“Maybe but I doubt it. I was looking through Richard’s suit this afternoon. I found a credit card bill for dinner in a restaurant we’ve never been in. I tried to ask him about it but he didn’t give me a clear answer, he was very nervous about it. And there have been other things too, just little things, I’m sure it’s another woman.”



Well it wasn’t, but she wasn’t to know that. Come to that he didn’t know either. I hesitated for a while and muttered something inconsequential while I tried to gather my thoughts. Yet again I wanted out of there. Quickly. But I knew I had to help her in some way. Was this what Richard had wanted to ask me? I never had that ‘talk’ with him. I knew that somehow I must do just that sometime during the weekend.



But first, Mary. I had done what I wanted with Richard, OK he was a nice guy, he deserved a quiet life without the combinations of juggling wife and ‘mistress’. Certainly none of the complications of divorce and an engagement which couldn’t possibly lead to marriage. I had to get him out of this. I looked at Mary.



“Right Mary. You have a choice. Get rid of him. Or confront him and hope he will come back. Or get him back.”



“What do you mean?”



“Well, you could go straight to a lawyer and go for divorce. Get rid and start again.”



“Oh no, Raelene. I don’t want that. We’ve had some great times together, things have been so good in the past.”



What was I? A marriage guidance counsellor? No, but I was about to give advice.



“OK, you can confront him, find out who she is. But that could backfire, he may decide to get rid of you. To choose her instead. A bit risky.”



Whether it was good advice or not I wasn’t sure. But that second option would cause all sorts of problems for me. An image of the ‘third way’ was beginning to form in my mind. I rather liked it, and it might work. A bit naughty maybe but what the hell. I decided to go for it.



“Or you can go for it. Win him back. Make him want you more than he wants her.”



“That sounds a good idea but how do I do it?” she asked, looking puzzled.



“Use the armoury you’ve got, Mary. You are an attractive woman. But you have let yourself go a bit, haven’t you? Problems at work maybe, and having to keep the home going? Put them in the background for a while. Concentrate on you. Did you say Richard was away all evening?”



“Yes, he’s running some course for trainee managers this weekend. He’s not back until about eleven. And then he’s out all day tomorrow. And on Sunday morning too.”



“Right. Let’s go for it. How about you drive me back to your place? We can call at that all-night chemist’s on Peters Avenue on the way. There are a couple of things I think you need. Trust me Mary, by Sunday night Richard will be eating out of your hand.”



Trust me! Hah!



Armed with supplies of fresh make-up – I didn’t dare tell Mary that I knew exactly what she had on her dressing table – we arrived back at the house. I suggested we open a bottle of wine, that we needed to relax, to be more mellow if we were to have the right sort of approach. We demolished over half the bottle in only a few minutes before Mary got herself cleaned up and removed all her make-up, then sat at the dressing table.



“You need a new look, Mary, and I’m the one to give it to you. I can have a go at your make-up tonight, then maybe we can find you a new outfit over the weekend. I’ve got a dress I think you would look great in.”



“A dress of yours? Raelene, no way. I couldn’t get into anything of yours!”



I didn’t tell her most of my success was down to my corsetry, I just mumbled that she would be rather surprised at what we could achieve. I didn’t need to go too far with the cosmetic changes that evening, but I think I did convince her that I could make a difference. When we met again the next day I asked her how Richard had reacted.



“Well Raelene, I think he did notice. But he was very tired, he was working all through from nine until about ten in the evening with hardly a break, the poor dear. But I did like the way you did my eyes, it made quite a difference. I have just had my hair done, you are right, I should go to the hairdressers more often. What do you think? And the manicure too?”



I complimented her on the improvement. She probably thought there was a big difference. But I had a long way to go yet. She drove us through town to a rather seedy area, she looked a little concerned.



“Don’t worry Mary” I reassured her. “I just want us to go visit the one shop.”



When she saw the frontage she was probably not at all reassured. ‘Whip’s End’ is not your ordinary kind of clothes shop. And not the most conventional shop owners, Gavin and Estelle were both quite regular customers at TWS. They enjoyed the opportunity to role-play with other clients, in fact they were probably the most extreme sexual perverts I had ever met. But charming people. If you met Gavin in the course of his job, he is a piano tuner, you’d think what a nice charming guy he was. But when he was kitted out for his fetish fun, well, you’d certainly think differently. He favoured red rubber, in almost everything. Bra and panties, dress, stockings, I’d even seen him once with a thick fluorescent scarlet condom on his cock, sat at the bar while a ‘girlfriend’ tried to shove it all the way down her throat.



When Gavin and Estelle had a session booked we made sure only people who had booked with them were on site. Anyone not too sure what they wanted, seeing Estelle in red rubber too, crotch-less red tights stretched over her ample behind, it could turn them off. I told Mary it would be OK and we walked in. I’d rung Gavin earlier to make sure he was sensibly dressed, not too extreme for Mary. He’d taken me at my word – he was wearing a suit. I’d never have guessed he had one but obviously he must, piano tuning is a fairly ‘straight’ job, he probably had some important clients.



“Hi there – Raelene” he started out, with a slight pause in the greeting.



He’d seen me ‘both ways’ and had to think how to react.



“Hello Gavin” I replied. “This is Mary, she wants something just a little extreme, to really turn her husband on.”



“Er Raelene, I’m not so sure. Just how extreme are you thinking?” Mary was worried.



“Trust me” I said again.



She tried on several corsets, basques, waist cinchers and so on. We settled on a black p.v.c. basque, low cut in a style I like, and too small for her. I remembered the cream basque of hers which I had worn, the one which fitted her on her wedding day. She had put on weight. But this did have the desired effect, squeezing in and up, she had a sensational cleavage. We also chose some ultra-high heel shoes and some fishnet stockings. This was going to be real fun.



And the next day, Sunday morning, I asked what Richard had noticed.



“Well he was tired again but he did sleep well. Only working this morning, he’s due back about three. I didn’t wear the stockings, just the basque last night. He did rather get into the cuddle on the sofa. I had a low-ish cut top on, he definitely did notice. But nothing came of it.”



“Mary, I promise you, it will this afternoon. Now. Ready? For the last stage of the transformation?”



She grinned. She was enjoying this too. I had three hours to finish the job in. Plenty of time. By two o’clock I had virtually finished, I invited her to have a look at the ‘new Mary’ in the long mirror.



“Christ Raelene. What have you done? That’s never me!”



Indeed it was her. But with changes. Improvements, I like to think. The very high heels and fishnet stockings, typical tranny wear, emphasised the fact that she still had very good legs. The short black p.v.c. dress was definitely fetish-wear, as worn on numerous occasions by ambitious transvestites at TWS. It finished about a foot above her knees, just below the stocking tops, they were going to show when she moved. It was tight over the basque, that had indeed taken some getting on, much tighter than the day before. Which meant she was looking even more voluptuous than the day before, huge bulging breasts nearly coming out of the low-cut bodice, nipples standing proud.



I had re-done her nails in scarlet, lips too, in fact the whole make-up style was very transvestite. But Mary was definitely all woman. Her hair was swept to one side of her face revealing one of her long gold earrings, again typically tranny.



I had done it. Mary was a tart, an extreme tart. But at least, unlike most of the make-overs I had done, this was for her husband’s benefit. And mine of course, I had loved doing it. She moved towards me, wiggling her hips provocatively.



“Do you think this is going too far, Raelene. Maybe Richard won’t like it?”



“Mary, he will love it. I don’t care how tired he is when he comes in, I guarantee you will have his pants off in two minutes. Then it’s up to you. Are you ready for it?”



“I’m not so sure” was her reply.



But she had to be ready for it, I knew what Richard could do when aroused, I wanted her to experience that thrill. I spoke quietly.



“Mary. Please. I want you to be aroused when he comes in, for him to smell the sex in you. Please. Just for a minute, close your eyes.”



She did. I reached out to her thrusting boobs and, very gently, slid a finger down inside her dress to tease a nipple out, to leave it suggestively half-exposed above the black p.v.c. cup. Mary moaned. I was feeling rather uncomfortable myself. But I had to continue, I did the same to her right breast. She moaned again. I couldn’t resist it. Her eyes were still closed. I moved my head closer to hers and, very gently, caressed her lips with mine. This time she quivered, but didn’t pull back. I kissed her again, teasing the nipple out from its shiny black hiding place with my red-tipped talons.



“Oh Raelene, oh my god, that is gorgeous.”



And this time it was Mary who kissed me. And not quite so gently and tenderly either, she was a little more aggressive, I felt a hand slide round my waist and downwards. This was not in my plan but I couldn’t help it. I was kissing my lover’s wife! Suddenly she grabbed me round the neck and pulled my lips close to hers, I felt her mouth open wide and her tongue snake into mine.



We necked and fondled for several seconds, then she pulled back, still fondling my bum with her hand.



“Raelene, I promise you, I’ve never done anything like that before. But it feels so good. It feels very strange, I want Richard – and I want you too.”



Well as far as I was concerned she could have us both. The mental image of a threesome on the bed flashed through my mind. But that was probably not a good idea in terms of doing something about their marriage. But I definitely wanted more of this. I slid my hand down the left side of her cleavage and heaved the breast out, the nipple was hard, I had to lick it, to suck it, to feel it grow in my mouth. As I got more excited Mary began to whimper.



“Oh Raelene, my darling, that is so good. Oooooooooh! Christ I want you, I don’t know what is happening to me but … Oooooooooh!!”



As I slid a finger up her thigh and into her p.v.c. panties. As I fingered her cunt, feeling her wet flesh ripple and her juices begin to ooze out she began to wriggle in ecstasy. I was having fun too, in a way I had never imagined. I wanted to strip her of all the gorgeous sexy clothes she was wearing, lie her naked on the bed – and screw her! I was desperate to. But no. It couldn’t be. Or could it. Mary was getting more excited, her hands were sliding over my bum, along my stocking tops, over the bare flesh. I had to stop her. But I didn’t want to. Her husband had fucked me, now I wanted to have sex with her! My own red lips opened, we French-kissed passionately, I had her breasts both out now…



The telephone rang. We parted.



“Leave it” she said, moving a hand round to the front of my panties.

***



A series of TG-themed stories which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!



***




My best girly-friend Yolanda gushed as she looked across the bar.



“Hey, isn’t that James? He looks really hot tonight, wow. It’s a pity he’s married.”



“Bitch!” I said jokingly and grinned at her.



Him. Her. Whatever.



I strained my neck to where ‘she’ was pointing and tried to recognize the person she was referring to. It was rather dark inside the club and all the bodies cramped together made it awfully hard for me to see if it really was my brother-in-law. Three hours of clubbing and three g-and-ts made it even worse and I wondered for a moment what the hell he could be doing here.



“It is him, it is James, yeah I guess it is. But why is he here?”



It came as a big surprise. Being happily married to my sister, why should he be in a club like this where all naughty men and women and – well, you know – hang out on Friday night? I definitely had to know.



But that wasn’t really my main concern. I’ve had this long sort-of crush on James, with his gorgeous brown locks, those muscled shoulders, and that bum. Girl, I swear my sister married that bum. He’s three years older than me, and my sister is a year older than him. My sister is hot – her boobs were almost as big as mine at 36C size – luckily mine are 38D. She has a great body, thanks to her efforts at the gym of course. She was fit and a little masculine amazingly when you think about it. So I guess I have the edge on that somehow. I was more into the voluptuous angle, with a slim waist, a round bum, and shapely legs that lead all the way up to – well, you know, again.



“Why don’t you go over and say hi?” Yolanda said.



“I don’t know. Maybe my sister doesn’t know he’s here or something. I don’t want to interrupt – maybe he’s looking for a little fun tonight?” I replied.



I thought for a moment. Daft idea. Yolanda looked at me and grinned, raising her eyebrows. I could tell what she was thinking. Was I drunk enough to try it?



Then I noticed, and Yolanda noticed. Our mutual so-called-friend, Zelda, was looking towards my brother-in-law. I decided there and then, if he was going to go with a tranny that evening it wasn’t going to be that bitch, it was going to be me! Yolanda had realised my hesitation.



“You’re being stupid, Xenia. This is your chance to make a move on him!” she hissed.



She could see I was hot for James. And with the way the guy looked, anyone would want to be shagged by someone like him. OK then, straight or not, it was worth a try. I took a deep breath and took another shot of my gin.



“Do I look OK? Slutty enough?”



Yolanda just grinned.



“Well, Xenia my dear, let’s see. Shoes – too high, skirt – way too short, tits – positively massive, nails and lips – way too red, almost feral. Yes, you’ll do, definite totally slutty man-hunter. So get hunting!”



I raised myself from the stool and walked past Zelda and towards where James was standing at the bar with a few friends.



“Hi there James!” I said, almost shouting through the loud disco music.



James was caught off guard, looking around to see where the voice came from. From the way he looked towards me, it seems my sister didn’t really know where he was at the moment. His eyes finally rested on me, and I gulped in some air. I saw his eyes travel all the way from my sky-high stilettos up to my short leather skirt and to my halter top that revealed my cleavage.



“Er – Xenia, what you doing here?” he asked.



I was very gratified. OK so he was a bit tipsy but he’d remembered enough to know that when ‘Xenia’ went out on the town it was Xenia and not Geoff. I think he’d also worked out that introducing me as ‘Geoff’ would cause complications with his friends.



“I should be asking you that question.”



The gin was having an effect, I was up for a bit of teasing. He laughed nervously, while three of his friends were eyeing me curiously. He introduced me to Peter and Mark and Freddie, and then pulled me away to avoid any more of their questions. Besides, one of the guys was already studying my big realistic-looking boobs.



“Xenia, don’t tell Sandra, okay? I told her I was going to play some snooker with the guys but I didn’t know they were coming here.”



His lips were so close to my ear that it made the hairs on my neck stand up. I could smell his breath, I guess he had been drinking quite a bit too.



“Oh sure – for a favour.”



I smiled flirtatiously. Yolanda was right. This was MY big chance. James stared at me quizzically as I downed the rest of my gin in one.



“What’s that?”



My eyes went to the dance floor. I could see my brother-in-law’s three friends watching us. Watching James chatting up a hot-looking tart. I realised I needed to persuade him.



“Come on James. Dance with me. Show your mates you can still pull.”



I knew I was drunk but I was rational enough not to actually say ‘Hey James! I want you!’



He smiled at the idea, still looking nervous. He was probably worried for a moment that I would tell my sister. Well even if he didn’t dance with me, I wouldn’t tell him on him. I adored the guy but he was straight as a die and married to my sister. He grinned at me, appreciating the humour in the situation.



“OK babe!”



And I took his hand to lead him onto the small dance floor where everyone was trying to create a space for themselves. It was rather cramped, we had to squeeze our bodies in. I felt somehow awkward, but from the word go I was loving it, feeling his hard chest pushed against my boobs. I could feel myself getting hot, I grinned at him and reached up to slide my arms around his neck and place my cheek next to his. James didn’t seem to mind though. I don’t know if it was because he was also a bit tipsy already or that he really was thinking of me as his little sister-in-law after all. Or that I could always blackmail him into doing whatever I want, within reason, by suggesting I tell Sandra about his little outing to ‘The Pink Panther’.



“Well James, how is it? Dancing with your sister-in-law?”



My heart was throbbing!



“Sister-in-law! Ha!”



“James, can I remind you? I assume you don’t want me to tell Sandra you came with your mates to a gay club – just to look and sneer, I suppose.”



“Oh Shit. OK Xenia, you win. We’ll just dance a while. OK?”



So we did, we just danced that way for awhile. Until I had the courage to chance my arm a little, to begin to sensuously rub my soft body against his. He was over six foot tall, about six or seven inches taller than me. But with the help of my high heels his hips were near my own. The music started slow again so I lay my head on his chest while smelling his masculine odour through his shirt. I shivered as I realised his hands were slowly creeping down from my waist to my bum. Drunk or not, he was getting frisky and I loved it! I felt his palms squeezing my arse-cheeks so I pushed my crotch closer to his until I felt what I needed to feel, the proof of my feminine wiles, the evidence that I could be a sexy woman. His hard-on!



“Xenia – I – I’m sorry.”



He’d suddenly realised the situation he was in. He raised his hands and slightly pushed me away. But I stared back into his eyes and placed my hands on his belt, pulling his hard cock back to where my own member was beginning to react.



“It’s okay, James,” I purred, grinding my soft hips against his. “Enjoy the moment, enjoy your wife’s sister, and don’t pretend I don’t turn you on!”



And there, in the middle of the little dance floor in the bar, I leaned over and nibbled gently on my brother-in-law’s ear, allowing him to experience my sensuality, indeed my sexuality, for the first time. He was shocked at what I did first but I was clearly pressing so many of his buttons. As he began to gyrate his body closer to mine I deftly slipped a hand between us and touched the outline of his cock through his jeans. He bit his lower lip, he was clearly trying to work out what was happening here. His ‘sister-in-law’ was actually coming on to him! He stared down at my luscious lips and my grey eyes and must have seen the lust in them. This was now or never. I touched his lips with mine, once, twice, then longer as my tongue invaded his mouth.



“God James, that is SO good,” I breathed as we separated.



“Oh no, we shouldn’t …”



He managed to groan while my red-taloned hands opened his zip and gently reached for his cock. It was slightly wet with pre-cum. I rolled my fingers up and down the head. Shit, it felt so good that I wanted to kneel down there and then and put it in my mouth.



“Oh James – I want you so bad,” I murmured as he slipped a hand inside my top and cupped my breast, squeezing my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra.



“Xenia – I’m married to your sister, and you’re …..”



He kept on protesting. He backed off from saying ‘you’re her brother,’ but he kept fondling my tits.



“She doesn’t have to know baby, don’t hold back!”



I leaned over and licked his neck up to his earlobe again. This clearly had the desired effect, James reached his hand underneath my skirt and started stroking me through my silky black thong. I felt so horny! I thought I was going to cum there and then on the dance floor.



“Oooooh, baby,” I breathed softly.



I gasped when I felt him trying to slip a finger inside my thong. And when he slightly did…I just quaked! Surely he wasn’t that pissed? He hadn’t forgotten what he’d find there? And he was nearly there.



“Oh my God, James, yes, YES, right there. Oooooh…..!”



Suddenly – the slow music I’d been seducing him to changed into a fast tune and we were brought back to reality. The moment was gone! Shit!



“Xenia – I’ve got to – I’m sorry.”



He pulled his hand out and turned and was gone before I could say anything. I stood there alone for several seconds, wondering at what might have been. When I went back to the bar, he was nowhere to be found.



Yolanda was sitting, she’d been watching the action.



“Jesus, Xenia, you’re good. So fucking good. I was getting horny myself just watching you!”



“Fuck it!” I swore. “I fucking nearly had him then, God, Yolanda, Sandra is SO lucky, she gets his gorgeous cock damn near every night. I just want it up me once! It’s not fair!”



“Tell me about it! The only hint I’ve had of a pull all night is that guy over there, in the blue shirt.”



I looked in the direction she was indicating and just had to laugh. He was smiling at us, especially at Yolanda, he actually looked quite nice but he was about 5′ 2.



“Him and a ladder!” I joked, and Yolanda and I just hugged and laughed.



She’s lovely, Yolanda is. Gorgeous hair, brilliant at her make-up and so on, very into p.v.c. micro-skirts and long, long, long sexy legs. Basically an extremely fuck-able body, she’d be really convincing if she hadn’t been 6′ 4 in her stocking feet.



I remembered her at the T-party the previous Christmas – an oddly innocent sounding name for the event of extended debauchery which had started on New Year’s Eve and gone on until about the fourth, I think. Yolanda in six-inch stilettos, a sight to behold, nearly 7′ high and surrounded by extremely rampant guys desperate to slide their cocks into that lighthouse of a slut.



I downed most of my g-and-t in one, then turned to my friend.



“I really thought I was finally going to get James tonight but I guess it just wasn’t meant to happen. It’s time to give up and go home, I think.”



When we went out in the chilly night, I fumbled inside my handbag for my phone to call a taxi . I was standing there ready to put the phone to my ear when I realised I was next to James’s car. He hadn’t gone! I heard a brief shuffling sound as someone came up behind me.



“Well, Xenia? Do you want me?”



Two hands were creeping round my waist, one of them immediately and expertly beginning to caress a boob.



“Yes, oh yes.” I murmured, feeling his crotch pressing on my arse as my own libido rapidly went through the roof again.



“Then get in.”



He leant over towards his car, and opened the door. He pushed me into the back seat. I managed to glance out at Yolanda, still on the path, she’d witnessed my ‘abduction’. She broke into a huge grin and winked at me. She’d probably have done more if the small guy from inside bar hadn’t, at that moment, appeared from nowhere and thrust a hand up her skirt. I never did see what happened to him. Or her.



I’ve always, in my calculations of travel times, reckoned that James and Sandra lived about ten minutes from the town centre. I reckon that journey, that night, took four. As soon as James pulled into his drive I was out of the car and running as fast as I could on those heels towards his front door. There was no light on, clearly Sandra wasn’t in, though I didn’t remember her saying anything about going out or away. Well, as the well-known saying nearly says, when the sister’s away …



Once inside I dashed towards the bathroom. James was right behind me.



“Hell, Xenia, I got to pee.”



“Go pee in the garden, honey, then get me a very big drink. Stay hard honey, I’m horny as hell!”



I kissed him quick and hard on the mouth, then turned and shoved the bathroom door. Once inside I locked the door. I whipped my skirt up and thong down and pissed myself. Standing over the pan as it flushed, I grabbed the tube from my bag, shoved it into my arse, and squeezed.



‘No time for finesse, girl,’ I thought. ‘Just do it.’



Within a minute I’d stared into the mirror, re-done my lips and my gloss, added just a little extra mascara and swept Sandra’s brush quickly through my hair. I stared at myself, amazed and delighted to be looking at the woman I’d turned myself into. And James? What was all that about? He wasn’t totally tight, the fast drive had proved that, he’d driven fast but safe. Well, safe-ish. So how come my straight brother-in-law had developed the hots for his so-called sister-in-law? I smiled at my reflection. Obvious really, I was SO HOT! Shit, I could do this, my so-called straight brother-in-law was about to be bent!



I opened the door and slithered sexily across the lounge, James was pouring the drinks. He saw me, saw the way I looked and the way I was looking at him, and took down half of his scotch in one go. I did likewise with almost all my gin.



‘Stay cool, Xenia,’ I heard myself think. ‘And he’s all yours!’



I didn’t give my brother-in-law the chance to think twice, I just pushed him down onto the couch. I threw myself on top of him and pushed my lips onto his and my tongue into his mouth. He kissed me back while I was busily unzipping his pants and pulling out his hard cock. I wanted to taste him, I NEEDED to taste him, to suck out all his cum. His big hard roaming hands slipped my halter top off and hastily pulled off my bra to reveal my enhanced breasts.



“Jeez, baby, great tits! Sandra said you’ve got big tits. Wow, big nipples too, can I suck them?”



Maybe it was the drink, maybe not, whatever it was James was good at it. He lowered his head towards one fake nipple and sucked greedily on it. Hurray for high-strength adhesives! I threw my head back while I felt his other hand going down to unclasp my skirt and to pull down my thong. I was so hot that his fingers didn’t find it hard to slide between my legs and over my thong. I felt like a teenager being groped in the bike sheds, but this was way better than anything I had in school!



“James, my baby, my honey, I need to suck you off” I moaned



I eased myself down and took his swollen cock in my mouth. I began by slightly licking the head and tracing my fingers on his balls, then I slid him all the way into my mouth until I could feel him hitting the back of my throat.



“Oh yes, yes Xenia, that’s it baby, suck my cock, you slut!”



His dirty talk was turning me on so I let him keep on fucking my mouth, and concentrated my efforts on stretching my rich red lips to tease his balls. His fingers were busy too, he’d managed to reach round and slide his fingers into my arse while I sucked that gorgeous prick.



“Baby, shit, I’m there, I’m going to cum, oh my God, drink my cum, Xenia. Swallow it all – OOOHHH!!!”



I concentrated on the obvious pleasure I was giving him. I couldn’t believe it. For years I’d wanted this to happen, always believing it would never happen, that it would stay an unfulfilled fantasy. And now my brother-in-law’s cock was finally in mouth! It felt bad – wrong – immoral – and fucking hot at the same time!



My mouth speeded up until I felt James’s balls tighten and his body spasm. Yes! A load of hot cum was pulsing out of James’s cock and straight down to my throat. I just kept sucking it in, but his load way bigger than I’d imagined. I sat up and licked my lips hungrily.



“You are one hot babe,” James groaned.



“Yes, honey and it’s my turn now.” I grinned.



Yolanda’s words kept coming back – now or never – it’s now or never. James’s bleary eyes managed to smile back to me while I lowered my hand to his semi-hard cock, massaging it and bringing it back to life. It didn’t take long, his lips reached for mine and within second’s he’d stuck his tongue into my mouth as we French kissed. He started feeling me again with my fingers and I felt myself throbbing and throbbing. I was ready for an orgasm.



We parted our lips briefly, and James – looking very sober indeed – stared into my eyes.



“And you’re one hell of a cock-sucker, babe, way better than your sister. So, my dirty little slut, what would you like next? Or have you had enough?”



No way had I had enough, I was desperate for more, I might never get the chance again.



“Would you suck me, James? My love?”



What a question to ask. My own straight, or at least previously-straight , brother-in-law whose cock I’d just sucked off, asking him to actually suck a cock himself. He just grinned.



“Well, exchange is no robbery” he said.



On reflection it wasn’t really an appropriate comment though at the time it seemed near enough. I shivered as his hand reached down inside my tight thong and my squashed erect cock popped out.



“OK baby, I’ve never done this before but – here goes!”



Within seconds I wasn’t just hard, I was very hard, as he fondled my balls I was leaking pre-cum immediately. And within a minute I was screaming.



“Oh yes baby, YES! Make me cum James, I wanted this for so long, suck my clit baby, oh my baby!!!”



I groaned out loud as I felt a wave of my cum shoot straight down his throat as my own orgasm spread through me. He licked me off, adjusted his own pants, and sat up.



“Well, how did I do?”



“Fucking marvellous!” was all I could say.



I moved to adjust my own attire, sliding my limp penis between my legs and shifting my thong across to cover any non-feminine items.



“Don’t cover yourself yet, Xenia” he said softly.



“Why?”



“I love staring at your big boobs and your gorgeous legs.”



He smiled sweetly, in a way that encouraged me, really saying that everything was all right and what we did wasn’t wrong or immoral or anything. Just very naughty.



“I couldn’t help it James, I …”



I didn’t really want to apologize but wondered if I should. I had after all seduced him, to be honest. But he hushed me.



“It’s OK baby, come here.” He pulled me into his arms again. “No one has to know okay?”



I looked up at him and felt his cock getting hard again with my ‘cunt’ still near to his thighs. Was there going to be more?



Then, I jumped. I saw light, from headlamps, sweep across the closed curtains behind him. A car pulling in, Sandra was back. I looked at him, at my lover, he’d realised too that his wife had returned. Before he had time to panic I placed a red, long-taloned finger on his lips.



“Right. Zip up and clean up. Bathroom. I’m for the kitchen.”

***



Transgender-themed stories which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!



***




My name is Zoë. Sometimes. At least that’s how I like to think of myself. A sexy name for a sexy lady. Again, that’s how I like to think of myself. For the last 18 years or so I have lived a sort of a double life. Most of the time I’m Alan, a guy who works in the medical profession – let’s just say that shall we so the GMC don’t find out – and some of the time I’m Zoë. I hadn’t been able to dress much at all while Harriet was alive but in the ten years since her death I’d done so more and more. Initially it was, I suppose, as some sort of therapy really.



Withdrawing into Zoë and allowing my feminine side to come to the fore did indeed relax me and help me to overcome the problems of losing my wife so young and of being in a responsible, stressful occupation. Nobody knew, of course, not even my parents or my late wife. Actually, not no-one.



Jeff and Marie knew, my closest friends and also my next-door neighbours. Since Harriet had passed away they’d become even more friendly, helping me a lot through the early years even though they’d only recently moved in when she died. I’d ‘come out’ to them simply because they’d shared so many of their problems with me and it only seemed right.



We’d managed to help each other and just before my birthday Marie had confessed they wanted to give me a special birthday present.



“Alan, please, let us. You’ve been a brilliant friend and – well – you know – we owe you a lot.”



Marie was hesitant about speaking about it and I know why. Again, the GMC. If they knew about it we’d all have been in trouble. Basically I’d abused my position of trust at the hospital to help Marie and Jeff. After they’d been trying for a baby for about six years without success, and gone through all the IVF they could afford, I’d sneaked a look at Jeff’s and Marie’s records. And, totally unofficially because I’d known damn well that the NHS wouldn’t fund it and they couldn’t afford the private route, I’d decided I was maybe in a position to help them out. So I’d ‘borrowed’ a couple of items over one weekend after discovering a paper in a medical journal about a revolutionary and slightly odd procedure which had surprisingly good success.



I’d assembled a couple of specialist items of medical equipment, and a sample of a drug not available in this country, and a sample of Jeff’s sperm. And in a couple of hours with Marie lying on her back with her legs in the air one weekend – with Jeff in attendance of course, he’d even operated the microwave oven – I’d tried the so-called unconventional procedure. I’d have been struck off if anyone had found out. It had been a long shot but Marie and Jeff were really desperate.



They had been so good to me it would have been churlish of me not to make the attempt. I owed them a lot, and this had seemed a way of trying to pay them back. OK, so I shouldn’t have done it. Ethically it was wrong. Actually, no. Medically and legally it was wrong. But medical ethics sometimes go slightly out of the window when you’re dealing with family and close friends. There wasn’t much risk involved really, and the chances of success were slim but I knew I just had to try.



And it had worked! We found out several weeks later when both Marie and Jeff turned up at my door several weeks later. Jeff was holding the ‘wand’ from a pregnancy testing kit, and wearing a grin as wide as I’ve ever seen on a patient.



“Alan! Look!” was all he said.



Marie was pregnant. Jeff and I got smashed that night, and Marie had a sherry and several tomato juices to celebrate.



Their GP had been totally amazed, though delighted. The very-unofficial procedure I’d tried had left no trace and their doctor’s only comment had been to say that Jeff had been incredibly lucky, impregnating her ‘by the usual method’. As the weeks passed and my birthday approached, Marie warned me that they were keen to do something special for me. I’d been hesitant, telling them to save their money for ‘Little’ which is what they were calling him or her. Marie was three months gone by then and they were being very careful. Absolutely everything seemed totally normal though, and we were all hopeful the pregnancy would proceed to term to plan.



“Don’t worry, Alan. We’ve spent a bit on your treat but not a lot. Do you trust us?” Marie had asked the night before the actual birthday day.



“Of course I do,” was my reply.



“OK. So, you’ve got tomorrow afternoon and evening off work? No surprise call-outs?”



“No. Everything’s covered. Bar a national medical emergency, I shouldn’t be beeped. I should finish at two, and be home about half past.”



“Right. I’ll be round at about three. OK?”



“What about Jeff?” I asked.



“You’ll see him later,” she replied.



She was teasing me, but I didn’t know why.



I arrived home from work after slight traffic problems just after a quarter to three. Marie was there already, she’d let herself in. We’re emergency key-holders for each other of course. She was sitting in the lounge, sipping what she liked to call ‘a Bloody Mary without the vodka’. She smiled at me strangely, indeed rather wickedly. There were several bags on the dining table behind her.



“What’s going on?”



“We decided, Alan. Zoë should share today. I’m going to give you the make-over to end all make-overs!”



“Christ, Marie, you might have warned me.”



“We decided not to so you couldn’t chicken out. So, Alan, strip. Bathroom. And don’t worry, you’ve seen me naked, in fact we’ve been way more intimate than just me being naked on that one occasion. I need you to strip so I can do this properly.”



“Hell, Marie. What about Jeff?”



“He knows, and he also knows this is in a good cause. So, jump to it. No excuses. You know you want to do this. You said last week you haven’t been able to cross-dress for months. Well, tonight’s the night. So. Strip.”



Marie was right, I had been suffering some sort of ‘withdrawal symptoms’. They were the only people who knew of my secret, and I realised it would give them pleasure to do something like that for me. Basically, a very unconventional birthday present in return for a most unusual medical intervention. It sounds odd put like that but it made just a small amount of sense.



I smiled at Marie, and grinned. I trusted them, I realised again I could get banned from practicing for what I was about to say to someone who was basically a patient.



“Hell Marie. OK. But I warn you, I’m hard already!”



“Slut!” she said and grinned widely herself. “Come on then. I said strip!!”



I walked through into my bedroom and peeled off my shirt, pausing then but only briefly to wonder if this was a good idea. But. Marie had called me ‘slut’. That settled it, I so wanted to do it. She’d helped me dress in the past a couple of times though only in a small way. A woman’s contribution was bound to end up with a better result. OK, so I was convinced. I did as she’d asked, I stripped, then padded along to the bathroom. I heard the shower running as I approached the door, Marie was in there already.



I could hear that she’d put on some music on the stereo in the lounge, a rather lush strings sound was pervading the house.



“Just to get you in the mood. But – just in case you were wondering, there’ll be no lesbian action here tonight! I’ve got to be careful. ‘Little’, you know.”



She was teasing me but I didn’t mind, it all added to the air of mystery surrounding whatever Marie had planned.



“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” I joked.



At which point Marie started on what she referred to as her own ‘unusual procedure’. She had me jump in the shower and cover myself with a depilatory cream.



“‘To make your body as smooth as a baby’s bottom,” she said.



As if that wasn’t enough I then lay for a quarter of an hour in a very hot tub of water, ‘to clean out your pores, so you can absorb the oils,’ she told me. After which, thoroughly smoothed and cleaned I lay on a thick towel on the bed while Marie massaged a richly fragrant oil into my whole body – except that I myself did ‘those bits’. Somehow my erection didn’t seem to bother me, I was trying to think in ‘Zoë’ mode and as a woman Zoë couldn’t have an erect penis. Could she?



When I sat up Marie started to paint my toenails, taking great care applying a bright red varnish. I’d only ever done my toenails a couple of times before, and having them done by a woman was indeed rather a thrill. She did a good job. Then while the varnish drying Marie stuck onto my hands the longest pair of false fingernails I’d ever worn, well over an inch and a half long, and then with equal care she painted then in the same bright red. I’ve always thought that wearing nail polish was one of those essential extras that just help create the feminine feel, and going that far on that occasion really was a thrill for me.



When we moved over to the dresser, Marie began to apply a foundation cream to my face and round onto my neck a little. I was still only wearing a towel round my waist, thankfully my erection had begun to calm down even though my continued ‘beautification’, as Marie called it as she proceeded, was still producing quite some excitement.



She surprised me by taking out, from a small bag she’d brought into the bedroom with her, a set of false eyelashes which she then proceeded to glue into place. OK so I’d painted my toenails but false eyelashes I’d never tried. Then after she’d finished with mascara and eyeshade and eyeliner, and applied a very effective eyebrow pencil, I began to realise that my own previous attempts had been quite amateurish. I’d looked – OK – but Marie was way better at this than I’d imagined. She applied a little blusher to my cheeks, than asked me what I was thinking.



“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said.



“Well, Alan, when I was a girl I used to enjoy putting my Mum’s make-up on my dolls. And when I’ve finished, well, if it continues to go this well, you really are going to be a doll!”



I imagined myself dressed and made up, sitting in the lounge with Jeff and Marie all tarted up. It felt good. Hell, I wondered if they wanted me to go next door with them even? I could do that, in the dark, nobody would see surely. That would be yet another thrill.



“OK Alan. Time for Zoë to properly come out of the closet! Lie down on the bed, it’s time for your tits!”



I giggled but ten minutes later, when I sat up and inspected the result, I was amazed. Marie had seen my breast-forms before though usually I’d just slid them into a bra. I’d never actually gone as far as sticking them on. I had the special adhesive, I’d just not had the opportunity to use it. But Marie had sprayed and positioned and stuck my rather over-size ‘boobs’ onto my chest and then spent some time applying a little make-up round the edges to blend their colour and texture with my own skin. I was delighted with the result, and realised the ‘make-over to end all make-overs’, as Marie had put it, was going way further than I’d imagined.



Indeed, things were beginning to get really serious by then, I realised I was moving into another stage in my make-over. I gulped when she reached into yet another bag and removed a tiny black G-string! . The back was no wider than a piece of string and the front was so incredibly sheer. I slid my towel off – after turning my back on her of course – and slid it up my legs, pulling it high over my hips and ‘tucking’ as effectively as I could. The feeling of the string excited me and I walked around the bed and back, the movement making me want to sway my hips.



“That feels incredible, Marie.”



It did. I’d worn some exotic lingerie before, what tranny hasn’t, but this was so different.



“They look good too!” she said, grinning widely at me.



She held out a matching black bra and helped me to slide my arms through the straps and position the bra cups round my breast-forms.



“Most men seem to like big tits, Zoë. This is a 38-EE bra – and it only just holds them!”



I stared incredulously into the mirror at the deep dark cleavage Marie had created.



“Wow!” was all I could say.



“Wow indeed!” she replied, holding a hand out to lead me back to the stool by the dresser as she took out the new pair of 10 denier hold-up stockings with lace tops.



I rolled the first one on and took extreme care not to ladder it, then the second. I looked down, my red toes were clearly visible through the reinforced toes on the stockings. Then Marie, as if she hadn’t surprised me enough, amazed me. She produced from a long cover the most gorgeous glitzy black dress I’d ever seen.



“Streuth, Marie, I can’t….”



“Yes you can Zoë. You look good already. When I’ve finished with you, and in this dress, you are going to look drop-dead gorgeous. I promise. Now, come on, let’s see just how this does look.”



I stood as Marie slid the dress over my head and pulled it into place, zipping it up the back and then adjusting the low-cut bodice over my ‘tits’. I’d rarely worn a dress before, and never one like that. The dress was tight, the sleeves were long and sheer, the hem was – a considerable distance above my knees! I gasped at my reflection. OK so I wasn’t finished yet but the dress looked lovely, clinging and followed my newly-enhanced curves. The neck was pretty low and exposed quite an amount of flesh and flesh-looking upper boobs.



When Marie put a silver chain with a pretty locket over my head, I delighted in seeing it nestling between my breasts. Then she produced a handful of dress rings and slid two onto my right hand and three onto my left. The large pair of silver-look earrings she clipped into place gave my face a distinctly more feminine appearance. I’d nearly done, or at least Marie had. She led me back to the dresser for my lipstick, a bright red of course to match my nail polish.



“Right girl, nearly done. Now you need to smell as beautiful as you look. This is mine, it’s Jeff’s favourite.”



She sprayed a fine mist of perfume onto my neck, under my arms, between my ‘boobs’, just a small spray each time. The odour was light, exotic, and definitely feminine.



“Now, Zoë. This gave us some problems but I think we’ve cracked it. Now, don’t complain, these did cost some money but believe me, they’re worth it.”



She was holding what was obviously a shoebox. She opened it. If the sexy black dress had surprised me, the shoes positively delighted me. Black, shiny, ever-so high heels, really spiked stilettos, a tranny’s dream.



“I thought you’d like something open-toed, Zoë, to show off your painted toenails. I hope you don’t think six inch spikes heels are too slutty for this outfit. Jeff hadn’t any idea really, so I chose a pair with three straps across the foot and an open back. The heels look really sexy, I think, enough to really show of the shape of your legs and give them a really elegant appearance. What do you think?”



I looked. I stood and I walked round, I loved them! I was literally speechless.



“OK then Zoë, enough posing and admiring yourself. We’ve only the wig to sort out. And I won’t have it any other way, it’s got to be the big hair. I know you’ve said before it didn’t look convincing but with exotic make-up like that and with that dress, it’s just got to be the big high curly wig, not the short bob. Come on, sit.”



I did. Marie insisted I turn away from the mirror while she combed and brushed it into place. She stood back, and gaped.



“There, done. Grab that black handbag, you need to put a few things in it, lipstick and mascara and so on. It’s time to leave.”



I stared at her.



“Leave? Why? I mean, I thought, you said Jeff was busy. I thought he’d be coming round of course, to see how you’ve done.”



“No, he’s staying in tonight.”



“Sorry, I don’t get it.”



“He’s entertaining a gorgeous visitor. If it was anyone else looking like you do, Zoë, I’d be insanely jealous. But it is you. Now. Can I be honest?”



She was looking me up and down as I continued to walk round a little picking up things to put into my handbag and getting a great buzz from seeing the ‘woman’ I’d become in the mirror. I wasn’t at all sure what Marie was going to say.



“OK then. Go on.”



“Right. In daylight, Zoë, or in a pub or wherever, you might not quite pass as a woman. I have to be honest.”



I was thrilled with her words.



‘Might not quite pass…’



That was good enough for me. I’d appreciated her comments and help on previous occasions but this time she really had excelled herself. I knew I couldn’t do ’100% woman’, but whatever percentage she’d achieved, it was much bigger than I or we had ever done before.



“Marie, I know that.”



“But you do look stunning. And Jeff is going to love the ‘look’, believe me.”



“What about you?” I asked.



Marie reached down to her own capacious handbag and pulled out a ball of wool and two knitting needles.



“I’m going to sit downstairs and watch a soppy film on DVD on your big TV screen, and get on with this. It’s a cardigan, my Mum gave me the pattern. And you’re going to have a wonderful time. So. Come on. It’s time to go. It’s dark outside now, none of the neighbours will see. Good job too, if they see you looking like that turning up next door they’ll think Jeff is having an affair!”



At my front door, just before I was about to leave, I thanked Marie for her efforts. I probably went overboard and was too effusive in expressing my gratitude, she began to cry just a little. Not surprising really, her hormones were starting to go all over the place with her pregnancy.



Then, suddenly, I was outside the door. Marie smiled and closed it. I was on my own, outside, well-and-truly tarted up, with the twenty or so yards to cover along my drive, round the corner, and up to next door’s front door. I breathed in deeply.



‘Go for it, girl’ I thought.



I turned and breathed in deeply again. That twenty yards or so was wonderful, striding out as far as my tight short dress would allow, just feeling the delight of putting one stiletto-heeled foot in front of the other, enjoying all the traditional tranny thrills of being ‘out’. My breasts were bouncing, my hair and earrings were swinging in the very slight breeze. It was a warmish night though, I revelled in the sensation of exposing my substantial bosom to the elements, showing off my feminine assets. I walked down to my gate and then up the next-door path.



I arrived at the door of number 19 and pressed the doorbell. I waited. The outside light came on! Suddenly I was afraid, I could see the headlines. ‘Respected doctor found dressed as a tart’ or something like that. I reached to press the doorbell button again, but before my red-nailed finger reached it, the door opened.



Jeff stood there, resplendent in the dress suit he’d worn for the New Year’s party the previous year, looking very handsome I suppose, bow tie, white shirt, the lot. I smiled and quickly stepped in.



“Good evening, Jeff. You do look good tonight. It seems I’m not the only one dressed up!”



Jeff didn’t say anything, he was staring. I could tell, he wasn’t acting, he wasn’t just doing it for my benefit.



“Gee, Zoë. You look gorgeous!”



He meant it. Marie had done a brilliant job, we both knew, and I was thrilled. He leant over to kiss me lightly on the cheek and took my hand. We walked down the hall towards the lounge, and he told me yet again that I looked fantastic.



“Thanks, Jeff. I mean that” I said, as we stood facing each other in the lounge.



He was still staring. I’d recovered somewhat from the euphoria of my slight stroll from next door, and smiled at him.



“Well, aren’t you going to get a girl a drink?” I asked.



“Hell, yes.”



Jeff was flustered. I think he’d been expecting something dramatic but I’m sure he hadn’t anticipated quite the transformation he was seeing before him. He crossed the room, returning with a gin-and-tonic and a large scotch for himself. I took my drink, sipped it a little, and stood there. Jeff looked me up and down, from my big blonde hair, down past my exotically made-up face and my bulging breasts, past my hips and to my stocking-clad legs and my stiletto-heeled feet.

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