|by Charlotte Arabella Graham|
|© Copyright 2012 - Charlotte Arabella Graham - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: Solo-M; F/m; latex; cd; fem; corset; stockings; makeup; insert; plug; nipple; boots; public; shop; tease; true; cons; X||
|The Consultants Charlotte Arabella Graham Solo-M; F/m; latex; cd; fem; corset; stockings; makeup; insert; plug; nipple; boots; public; shop; tease; true; cons; X|
This tale, and its sequel, could not be told while the main characters were still in professional (sic.) practice. Even now some ambiguity is necessary, however …
The roar of the passing London traffic beyond the thin Perspex of the telephone box faded to a distant buzz and for several long seconds Charles felt as though he were suspended in some kind of limbo, his visual focus narrowing rapidly until only the small rectangle of pasteboard filled it.
There was a phone number, a mobile, judging from the prefix code and nothing else, but there did not need to be. That simple, one line sentence said everything …
Charles Alan Graham is or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, ‘was,’ a rather successful free-lance computer consultant. Why I use the past tense will become clear later on, but first of all a little background.
Pushing fifty, he looked a good ten years younger. His hair grew thickly and, though never succumbing to the vogue for ponytails, nevertheless he liked to keep it on the long side, “to look more academic,” he would say. This contributed to his youthful appearance, as did the care he took not to put on weight, or to develop the ‘brewers’ goitre’ sported by so many of his contemporaries.
Charles had been in computers almost from the beginning of their serious use in business and industry and, with a few judicious changes of direction to track what was trendy, CAD, computer graphics, virtual reality, year 2000 problems, had stayed well up with the pack. He liked to joke that his degree in mathematics gave him no, ‘key to the door,’ of any particular career, but was more like a set of lock picks with which to break-in anywhere.
“Anywhere” included most of the major cities of the world, but, in particular, London, that sprawling catholic mish-mash of cultural collision, where a walk of thirty seconds moved the unsuspecting novice from one world into another quite different and where, if the gallery of cards sported by every telephone kiosk in the nation’s capital were to be believed, a single phone call could do even more.
Familiarity had brought Charles to the level of contempt where these ephemeral clarions were concerned and he had long since ceased to regard them as anything more significance than rather tawdry and generally dog-eared wallpaper in the cramped kiosks.
So what was it about this particular card? Latex Specialist …
Rubber and cross-dressing - especially the latter - had long been a fascination of Charles’s and he had started out even at University with improvisations in plastic and the like, but with increasing income had gravitated inexorably to latex with its unique combination of shine and clinging stretchiness.
By now, back home in the North of England he had accumulated quite a collection of things, mostly dresses, stockings and appropriate accessories, wearing them in the house and occasionally making hesitant expeditions outside, but, to date these had been solitary sorties and the thought of sharing them with another, a female, remained a tempting, if seemingly never to be fulfilled one.
Idly, Charles keyed the mobile number into his electronic organiser then, his current call having been answered at last, promptly forgot all about it. Forgot, that was, until a month or so later, when back in London on another trip trying to fix-up a new contract. A prospective client had, at the last minute, cancelled the meeting for the next day, leaving Charles with the unexpected luxury of a free twenty-four hours in the middle of his week.
He sat in his hôtel room, wondering why hôtel décor was always to boring.
“Cheap boring, expensive boring, but boring all the same,” he said to himself and began thumbing idly through the diary entries of his organiser, trying to decide if there was anyone whom he could see instead at short notice. Then he spotted that number.
“I wonder if they mean what I think they mean?” he mused, smiling to himself as his fertile mind conjured up several rapid-fire images. He placed the organiser alongside the telephone on the bedside table and walked over to the window, peering down at the miniaturised traffic far below.
“Phone and find out, you idiot,” he said aloud, to the empty room. “It can’t do any harm, can it?” He turned back from the window and began walking back towards the telephone again. “Besides,” he added, picking up the receiver, “it might be fun ... interesting, anyway.”
He hadn’t had occasion to wear any of his own latex things recently so this might be an unexpected opportunity, but, having started to dial, he chickened out and dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.
“For goodness sake get on with some work, C,” he told himself fiercely out loud. However, it was no good, having once had the idea; it kept nagging away at the back of his mind. An hour or so later the nag became too much to resist and once again he reached for the ‘phone and punched the number with renewed determination.
For what seemed like an age there was no reply and he was on the verge of losing his nerve for a second time when a very pleasant female voice came on the line.
“Hello, this is Amber,” it announced. “How can I help you?”
Normally not lost for words, Charles suddenly found himself very embarrassed and tongue-tied. He stuttered out that he had seen the notice at the station and wondered what it meant. Did she wear latex or did her clients wear it and what sort of fantasies, and so on?
Amber let him finish without interruption and then quickly answered his queries in a concise and well-organised fashion. Yes, she did wear latex and yes, her clients did, if that was what they wanted. She was not offering sex, though some domination, or discipline, was available if desired. As to the nature of fantasies, that was up to the individuals themselves. They could decide what it was they most desired and Amber was there to help make it happen for them.
“So, what is your fantasy, then?” she asked finally. “And don’t think you can shock or upset me,” she continued, cheerfully. “I reckon I’m bomb proof when it comes to these things.”
Feeling a bit more relaxed now, Charles explained about his wardrobe that was all right as far as it went. Then, making a bit of a stab, he said that what he would really like was to be well made up and dressed in rubber as convincingly female as possible and then to be sent out shopping for a list of the kinds of things that men usually find embarrassing. He explained that he had been out in his things several times when it was dark, but only once had the courage to do so in the day time and that had nearly ended in disaster.
“What I need is some extra disciplining and professional guidance,” Charles volunteered, finally, deciding that was really showing that he was prepared to put himself totally in Amber’s supposedly competent hands.
“That shouldn’t be difficult,” said the voice at the other end of the line, “but tell me more about yourself?”
Charles rambled on. Then the conversation grew more business-like and Amber started asking specific questions about him - how big was he, what size shoes did he take, had he ever worn high heels, were his ears pierced, and so on?
“Do you have any of your things with you?” she asked, at length.
“No,” Charles replied, “this really is an unplanned adventure.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter too much, if you would like to go ahead, Charles, I think that I have all that is necessary. You’ll just have to trust to my choice of clothes, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
“How about tomorrow, then?” Charles asked. “Can you, er ... accommodate me at that sort of notice?”
“Tomorrow’ll be fine,” Amber assured him and mentioned the fee so off-handedly that it took a couple of seconds for the figure to sink in. When it did, Charles gulped and only just prevented himself from gasping out loud down the line, for it was an enormous sum. Probably guessing his reaction from the delay in replying, Amber waited a few more seconds before continuing.
“Yes, I know - it sounds expensive,” she agreed, “but then quality inevitably is and you get what you pay for in this world. Besides, you are asking for a lot of my time, not to mention my gear.”
Charles swallowed, took a deep breath and then took the plunge.
“Okay, then,” he said, trying to sound more casual and convinced than he actually was. “Let’s do it!”
* * * * *
Charles was up early and down in the foyer well before eight, Amber’s final list of instructions firmly imprinted upon his nervous mind.
“The foyer at eight prompt,” she had stipulated, in a tone that suggested that any lateness would be paid for in more ways than one or, even worse to contemplate; she would not bother waiting around for him. “It will take me quite a long time to prepare you and there are other things I just have to get done tomorrow as well.
“I advise against a heavy meal this evening and suggest you also skip breakfast and morning drinks. Shave and shower before I arrive, as I don’t have time to waste, but don’t use any after shave or men’s cologne - it just won’t smell right. Okay?”
Charles had assured her that he had taken in and understood everything and then they had broken the connection. For several very long minutes he simply sat there, gazing at the bland wall, his heart pounding in his chest, his head reeling.
“Oh dear,” he whispered at last. “Whatever have you done?”
Only something you’ve always yearned to do, an inner voice replied.
Charles had been wondering how he would recognise her. He need not have worried. Promptly on the hour a taxi drew up and out stepped a woman in her mid-thirties. Dressed from head to toe in a close fitting black leather catsuit, very tall and made even taller by thigh length, high heeled boots, head topped with a tumble of blonde hair; it just had to be her. She paid off the driver and lifted out a large suitcase. Charles went up to her and introduced himself.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here. Sometimes people have second thoughts, get scared and just fail to turn up or disappear.” She nodded down at the large suitcase that she had placed on the marble floor between them.
“Would you mind carrying the stuff in?” she said, but it was not really a request. “There’s rather a lot of it and it’s quite heavy.” Charles picked up the case and they went back in with Amber chatting and making pleasant conversation, but, at every step, Charles felt as if everybody was watching them. Did the hôtel staff recognise her? Did they guess what they were up to?
In the privacy of the lift she immediately turned to business.
“Now then,” she said, “this is strictly a business deal to help you act out your TV fantasy. You do exactly as I tell you or it is all off. No sex. No hanky-panky of any kind. I warn you that if there is I’m a judo black belt and a bit more besides. Understand?” Charles nodded.
“May I have the fee now please?” she continued and Charles obediently handed over the envelope into which he had earlier counted the money. The lift stopped at his floor and they stepped out …
Once inside his room Charles was told to strip off.
“Don’t be embarrassed, I’ve seen it all before,” Amber said as she started to unpack the case. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she continued, seeing Charles’ lack of movement. “You need to strip off - get naked, you know?” Meekly, Charles began removing his jacket.
“Been to the loo? Okay, good, but better go again, just in case,” Amber continued, most of her attention on the contents of her case, which she was beginning to lay out on the bed. “It’ll be a bit tricky for you to go later on. No,” she added, turning to grin at him, “that’s not strictly true. Actually, it’ll be damned nearly impossible”.
“Now,” she went on, as soon as Charles had returned, “the first thing we need to do is depilate you - get rid of the body hair, that is. After that, we can see about getting your shape right.” She had already slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and now she spread a thick cream onto her fingers and began massaging it into the stubble of Charles’ beard.
“This will sting a bit, but it does a better job than shaving,” she told him, as she worked. “Now, while the cream does its work, I’ll do something about your waist.”
Amber took off the gloves and slipped a busk-fronted, back-laced waspie round him and pulled on the cords.
“Hold on to the door jamb, high up, Charles, while I get it tight,” she said. “Try and sort of stretch yourself as I do it. When you let go you’ll kind of relax down into the corset. It’s more comfortable that way than just being squeezed in.”
After several minutes of pulling and with much gasping, on his part, his waist was worked down to about sixty centimetres, some fifteen, or so, less than normal and at least five centimetres narrower than had achieved before doing it himself.
“I can’t breathe,” he gasped, against the constraint of the corset.
“Good girls don’t need to breathe,” was her unsympathetic and rather Delphic reply as she surveyed her work. “When you are tight-laced, really tight-laced I mean, you have to learn to breathe with your chest rather than your diaphragm. And that makes your boobs go in and out in a nice sort of way.”
“Nice for whom?” asked Charles under what little of his breath he had left.
Amber gave one final tug, rewarded by another gasp from Charles who finally let go the door the jamb.
“If that’s supposed to be comfortable, what’s uncomfortable?” asked Charles, trying to console his compressed middle.
Amber continued to be deaf to his grumbling.
“That will do for the moment,” she said, pausing for breath herself. “When your body has got used to it a bit I’ll take a bit more out, but we also have to stop that showing,” and flicked his very erect penis. “Hold on to the door frame again.”
She slipped a sheath on his penis and fastened a penis corset tightly round it and his testicles. Then she went round behind him.
“I’m going to give you a nice fat, butt-bung too,” she said. “Open your legs, please.”
Charles did so. She rubbed some lubricating gel in to his anus then bang! Something big was rammed into his bottom. Charles gave a yelp. Though well lubricated it was much fatter and in particular; it turned out, longer than any Charles had used on himself.
“Quiet,” she said. “We don’t want the neighbours wondering what we are up to do we?” she added with a giggle, unable to quite keep up the rôle of the strict Mistress. “Anyway,” she went on, “it will perhaps give you some idea of how we feel each month. I have a friend who would have given you an enema as well and made you wear pads all day. As it is, the bung itself will work about nicely inside you as you walk, so you have some idea of what your arse is doing. Now hold on again while I emasculate you.”
Amber grabbed hold of the strap on the end of the penis corset and, passing it under his crotch and through a loop on the end of the, butt-bung, pulled hard. Charles thought that she was going to rip his penis off. He let out another stifled yell.
“Too tight?” she asked.
“Yes,” he groaned.
“Well, may be,” was the reply, “but I want it tighter so it’s totally invisible” and she pulled again, finally fastening the strap to the back of the waspie that she also took the opportunity to tweak a little tighter in the process. “And just for fun,” she added, “I’ll put a little pad-lock on the end of the strap so that you won’t be able to undo it.”
The device with its tight strap pressed the bung hard and deep into his anus as well as flattening his man-hood out of existence. Amber stepped back, put her hands on her hips and looked at him.
“Right, Charles I think we can now safely start calling you Charlotte rather than Charles.
“Go and wash the stuff off your face and you can get dressed.”
Charles returned from the bathroom and was handed a rubber corselet with inflatable boobs.
“Silicone breasts might give a better shape, but I thought that this time you ought to decide for yourself just how big a girl you want to be,” she said. “You can blow up the boobs, but I think that it is better to fill them with water. It gives them a more natural weight and bounce.”
Charles turned the garment over in his hand then experimentally held it up in front of him.
“As I said,” Amber went on, “I’ll leave it to you to decide how big you want to be, but make them good and firm enough. And you’ll need at least a 40D or E to fill out the dress I’ve brought for you.”
“I’ll try them with water,” Charles said, and went back into the bathroom.
“In that case, make sure you get all the air out, otherwise you’ll make sloshing sounds as you move,” she called after him.
Charles ran water into the boobs through thin tubes on the inside until he had two tight, over hemi-spherical, grapefruit-size, mounds. He plugged the tubes with small bungs, twisting an elastic band round each for extra safely then returned to the bedroom, gingerly carrying the wobbling mass like a tray on two outstretched hands.
“That looks about right,” said Amber, giving one of the hydraulic boobs a tentative squeeze. ”Now, before you put it on I’m going to give you some tit rings.”
She held out her hand to show him six small rubber rings looking for all the world like tyres off a model car.
“Where did you get those?” he asked, pointing.
“Toy shop,” she confirmed.
She stretched a ring out and slipped it over one of his nipples that she pulled out and held as she let go the ring. The effect was to extrude the nipple out in to a small ball. Two further rings were added behind the first, finally leaving the nipple stretch out some two centimetres, or so. This process was repeated on the other side.
“After a time these,” she said, giving one a tweak, “will ache like anything, but as nipple teasers they will give you some breast awareness, otherwise with those big knockers,” pointing back at the corselet that Charles had placed on the bed, “you could bump into an elephant and not feel it. This way, if you brush against anything or someone touches you will know about it.”
She picked up the corselet and handed it to Charles. “Okay, pull it on then.”
Charles took it off her and stated to wriggle into the thing.
“The bumps go at the front,” she teased. “My, my, they really are big and heavy, that’s right, get them nice and high up. Now slip these foam pads inside as well for good measure.” The disk-shaped pads had central holes though which his nipples passed so that their already sensitive tips rubbed against the inside rubber layer of the corselet. Charles finally finished the task.
“Here are your stockings. The moulding makes them look as though they have seams so make sure that you get them good and straight. They have an awful tendency to walk round so during the day you will have to keep constantly checking that they are all right.”
Charles drew on the latex stockings, fastening them to the corselet’s four suspenders, two at the front and one each side, the back being cut away to leave his, buttocks exposed. Amber surveyed the effect.
“Not too bad, it will be all right when you have your dress on. Now, slip on these gloves, they will help disguise your hands, then I will make you up.”
The long latex gloves came up to his armpits, but had the fingers cut off at the first knuckle allowing Amber to stick on long artificial fingernails that she later painted bright red.
At length it was the turn of his face to be made up.
“Watch carefully.” Charles was instructed, “You’ve got to be able to do your own running repairs during the day.”
She applied several layers of foundation, powder and blushers, giving a running commentary of what she was doing as Charles watched and wondered how he could ever remember all the stages of the process.
“Have you got contact-lenses or do you always wear these spectacles?” Amber asked as she removed them from his nose.
“No, I always wear specs,” Charles replied. “Is it a problem?”
“Well, yes and no,” she answered. Amber looked hard at them for a moment then twirled the spectacles in the air in front of him. “There’s no way you can wear these glasses today, the frames are all wrong. Can you manage without them?”
“I think so,” said Charles, “close to is no problem. I won’t be driving the car or anything. Just as long as I don’t have to look for bus numbers I should be okay,” he added with a laugh.
“Good,” she said, tossing the offending object on the bed. “That’s the bad bit out of the way, then. The good bit is that I can pluck your eye brows and it won’t show when you wear your specs again.”
Charles didn’t like the sound of having his eyebrows plucked, he had tried it himself and knew it hurt and said so.
“Don’t be silly,” she retorted as she set about thinning them down to two quizzical arches, “you look like an Old English Sheep-dog.” She worked in silent concentration for some minutes. It hurt just as much as he remembered it doing and Charles was at the point of protesting again when Amber stopped.
“Not done yet,” she said.
She continued, now too completely wrapped up in what she was doing to give any commentary, adding long false eyelashes and eye make-up. The final result had to very convincingly, in a manner that was striking, even bordering on the edge what was acceptable for daywear; the whole thing being topped off with a shoulder length light brunette wig.
Finally, she pushed her chair back and held a mirror for him to see what she had achieved.
“There, isn’t that much better?” she asked.
Charles had to agree. He hardly recognised the face that stared back at him. It had the same the incredibly arched brows that made Amber’s own face look so quizzically exquisite. For a long minute he was lost for words.
Amber became anxious at his silence and took held of the edge of the mirror to look in it herself.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked anxiously.
“Like it? It’s incredible,” he gasped after the initial shock had subsided. He looked across at Amber, then back in the mirror.
“Apart from the hair I could be,” he hesitated again and looked back at Amber, unsure whether to say what he had in mind.
“Your elder sister!”
Amber smiled and clapped her hands in joy.
“Exactly,” she said with obvious pride, “that’s just what I wanted it to be like.
“Are you pleased?”
“Flattered, amazed, everything,” was the best Charles could do by way of reply.
“She’s brilliant,” he thought to himself, “I’ve got to carry this thing off properly now, there really can be no excuse.” Then out loud, “In my briefcase you’ll find one of those little digital cameras, I think we should have a picture.” Amber obliged; taking the first of what soon became a series as the day proceeded.
The photo-call over, Amber returned to her case and extracted a dress. The one she had brought was made of extra thick black latex in a ‘Mistress’ style. It had long sleeves with puffs at the shoulders, a very high polo neck and deep, deep bust cups.
Amber handed him the dress. “Put it on and we’ll see how it suits you,” she said encouragingly.
Charles stepped into the dress, pushed his arm down the sleeves and allowed her to zip it up at the back. He caught sound of a little click as the slider reached to end of its travel and tried to look round to see what it was.
Laughing, Amber twirled a small key in her fingers.
“The two-way zipper has special lockable sliders with small keys,” she gleefully explained. “Once fastened they can’t be moved again without first being unlocked.
“And I’ve got the key-ees!” she sang.
Charles made a futile grab for them, but the dress, reaching down to just above the knee where the hem measured a bear sixty centimetres, altogether prevented him taking any, but the smallest of strides while the tight sleeves restricted his arm movement as well.
It was indeed a very, very tight fit making the hydraulic boobs strain impressively inside the bust cups. The collar was really tight too.
“Helps to hide your Adam’s Apple,” was all the sympathy Charles got when he referred to it.
Finally they came to the feet.
“You said that you were used to wearing high heels, so I thought that you would find these fun.”
Out of the case she produced a pair of shiny black patent leather stiletto heeled ankle boots.
The boots had by far the tallest heels Charles had ever seen. Needle-thin made of gold coloured metal they glinted in the light as she held them, turning them this way and that, for Charles to see. The heels were well over sixteen centimetres and, even though the soles had a slight platform, they held the foot nearly vertical. The boots laced up the front, but their main feature, firmly attached to the back of each, were wide ankle-strap, round each of which ran three bands of metal matching the heels. The straps were fashioned in the manner of five centimetre wide rigid bangles or bracelets, hinged at the front and fastened at the back by a small, integral, locking mechanism that linked the bands of metal into solid rings.
Amber pushed the boots onto his feet, laced then up tightly and locked the ankle-straps.
“I’ll keep these as well,” she said, dropping the peculiarly shaped boot key and the ones for the dress and the waspie into her handbag.
“Now up you get and practice walking, you’ve got quite a lot of it to do.”
With the combination of tight hem and ultra-fine skyscraper heels his first step almost ended in disaster as Charles stumbled and nearly fell.
“Charlotte, I thought you said you were used to high heels,” she laughed.
“Well, yes, ten centimetres, twelve may be, but not this high, they’re impossible, I can’t move” Charles said.
“Well, you’ve not got much choice now, have you,” was the retort.
“Actually,” she went on, “it’s the extra inch that makes all the difference. When the heel is low enough for you to be able to bend your ankles a bit you can walk normally, heel-and-toe. At some height, though, you can’t do that anymore and have to change your gait so that, essentially, you walk on tiptoe all the time. For me, with my smaller feet, it happens at about twelve centimetres. For you I guessed it would be fifteen.”
“You guessed right.” Charles replied to this exposition of the theory of walking in high heels, “Now how do I do it?”
“Practice!” He was told.
Charles walked up and down the room a few times; Amber staying discretely at his elbow in case of accidents. She been right about putting toes down first and soon he seemed to be staggering less, though the balls of his feet were already complaining about taking all the pressure.
“Now start to swing your hips more,” Charles was instructed, “you’ll find it helps walking and anyway it’s consistent with the way you look.”
Charles wasn’t at all sure he liked the implication of that last remark, but did as suggested and she was right, it helped a lot, but gave rise to some new problems. All the extra movement caused the thing in his bottom to squirm around with each step while the heavy water-filled boobs bounced and rubbed against his already sensitive bound nipples. Charles took another two or three laps round the room.
The stimulation grew in intensity and Charles must have given out a little gasp.
“Enjoying that?” Amber asked, the innocent tone of her voice hiding the fact that she had a pretty good idea of the kind of sensations he was beginning to feel, having experienced something not entirely dissimilar herself where she had worn much the same gear.
“In more ways than one,” Charles replied, cryptically.
“Now, come over here and I’ll give you a polish.” She said with a grin. Charles hobbled across the room, weakly asking as he went if it was not possible to have the zipper a bit higher to make walking easier.
“Certainly not,” was the instant reply. “In the first case, having the very tight hem will be a constant reminder to you to take small, lady-like steps and not go striding off. And anyway, the lock only works properly at the bottom of the zip and having you locked in to your things so you can’t get out without my say so, is part of the fun. Mine, even if not yours.”
In fact, Amber was very pleased with the result of her efforts. Charles had tuned out to be an almost ideal subject. The make-up, in which she took immense professional pride anyway, looked great, while the way he filled out that dress was a real traffic stopper. Perhaps she should have brought something a little less over-the-top, but she was pretty new to this game and, in realty, had only a limited range of things available. Even the boots she had had to borrow. Her previous experience had been of clients chickening out and that served to discourage her from having too much in stock. Thus the dress she had brought she had herself worn, with falsies for effect, at a party. It had been a skin-fit on her, then, so it was not surprising how much tighter it was on its new occupant. She studied her handiwork again while Charles, conscious of her gaze, tried to strike what he thought were feminine poses.
“I’m really going to enjoy taking you out,” she thought.
Amber wiped him down with a damp towel to remove spare talc, and then she sprayed the dress, gloves and stockings with polish, vigorously rubbing him all over until everything was brought to glistening liquorice black.
When she had finished she handed him some jewellery saying.
“Here’s a bracelet and necklace, they will look good against the shiny black. You’ll have to make do with clip-on earrings. These are the biggest I have, they’ll pinch like anything after a time, but it can’t be helped. It’s part of what you are paying for really.”
Charles put the pieces on and she adjusted them for better effect.
“As a final touch,” she said, “a nice tight belt. Hold your tummy in.”
“How?” He asked. ”In this corset, there’s nowhere left for it to go ‘in’ to,” as she slipped a deeply V-shaped ‘Wonder Woman’ belt round his waist and snapped it firmly shut at the back.
“I’ve put the spare make up, a hair brush and things in this shoulder bag, you’ll need your credit cards and money.” She handed the bag to Charles to put his own things in it.
“Now for the real start of your fantasy,” she said, opening the door with a flourish.
“Out you go.”
She gave him a gentle slap on the bottom and Charles, tripping, staggered, hobbled out into the corridor. Amber closing the bedroom door behind them.
“After all that work you can buy me a drink and we can discuss where you are going to go shopping,” she said. “Which way is the bar?”
The bar! Charles had been in there lots of times before; they were bound to recognise him.
“Have you got time for a drink?” he asked hoarsely. “I thought you were in a hurry.”
“I am,” she replied, “but not so as to miss having a drink with you and planning your day. You aren’t getting scared are you? It’s your fantasy you know. Anyway, you can’t quit now, I’ve got all the keys, including the one to your room, so you may as well get used straight away to being a latex lady until I decide otherwise.”
All this time they were walking towards the lifts. By taking little strides and keeping his knees together Charles seemed to be doing better and confidence began to return. Just before the lifts they passed a room that was being made up. The chambermaid looked out of the door as they went by and, or so it seemed to him, gave him a very peculiar look. His ‘Guide’, as Charles now thought of her, noticed the glance.
“Your dress really is a bit on the tight side, dear, isn’t it,” she said loudly so that the maid could hear. “Quite sexy though,” she giggled.
The lift seemed to take an age to come. Charles, oblivious to just how round and shiny his bottom now looked in the tight rubber, kept his back firmly turned toward the room and its maid. He was sure that she was alternately staring at him and calling all her colleagues to come and share the spectacle. Eventually the lift came and they went down to the ground floor.
The doors opened. The Guide stepped out first and strode off in the direction of the bar. Charles followed behind as best he could, painfully conscious of the scraping of stilettos on the shiny marble floor of the hôtel foyer. Walking was harder again than it had been on the carpeted corridors as now there was no pile to absorb the heels and make them seem that little bit lower.
Charles had hoped that she might have found somewhere secluded to sit, but, of course, that was not to be. When he reached the bar she was already perched on a high stool and in conversation with the barman.
“Over here, Charlotte,” she called, patting the top of a stool at the side of her. Charles climbed on to the stool without, due to the tightness of his skirt, much elegance.
“Now for some drinks,” she said, “getting you ready was thirsty work. I’ll have a tomato juice with Worcester Sauce,” she called to the barman.
“My flexible friend, in the rubber dress,” she added, laying stress on ‘the rubber dress’, “will have a large, double gin and tonic, without much tonic.” Turning to Charles she added, “You’d better have a straw too, so as not to ruin your lipstick.”
As soon as the drinks were served she turned to him and started to give a lecture on behaviour. The way Charles had scrambled onto the stool was terrible; he should do it like this. Amber got off her stool and demonstrated, holding her knees together as though she was wearing a tight skirt. “Now, you try.”
Charles did and was a bit better the second time.
The short tight dress he was wearing needed straightening regularly Charles was told. “As you sit, smooth the skirt under you; then pull it down at the front. Pull the hem down now,” she ordered, “it’s nearly up to your waist, it makes you look like a tart, and don’t forget to do it, again, whenever you stand up or sit down”.
“You must remember check your stockings every few minutes, especially when walking, to make sure the seams are straight. I haven’t notice you check them since we left your room. Make-up also needs to be checked frequently, do it now while you are sitting. Use your handbag mirror like this,” and so on.
Charles was told that he now had a striking figure and was dressed in a way that was calculated to attract attention whoever was the wearer
“Don’t slouch,” she said, poking him in the stomach, “and keep your boobs up.”
To carry the rôle off convincingly he had to, ‘flaunt it,’ he was told. He must create the impression that he knew he was there to be looked at, intentionally so, and not try to avoid peoples’ second glances. The whole image demanded, for example, that he chose a seat where he could be seen to advantage, like the barstool, and not hide in a corner. If Charles didn’t people would sense an incompatibility between his behaviour and appearance, and so on.
To make her point she indicated the barman. Having, to begin with been more than a little curious, by implication because of Charles’s less than positive initial behaviour, he had now forgotten about them and was going about his business serving other customers.
They finished their drinks.
“Well, it’s time to be going. Pay for the drinks, Charlotte dear then be a darling and get us a taxi will you? I just want to pop in the Ladies.” Then, in a whisper, “Fitting you up has quite turned me on.”
With much trepidation Charles called over the barman to settle the bill, trying to fix him in the eye, as he had been instructed. Charles slid off the stool, straightened his skirt and made his way rather uncertainly, too much gin on an empty stomach having temporarily destroyed such skill as he might have acquired with tight skirt and high-heels, to the foyer, conscious again of its echoing marble floor.
Though Amber really had found turning Charles in to Charlotte strangely exciting, to the point where she had to go to the ladies to relieve herself, leaving Charles on his own to fend for himself for a little while was all part of her training strategy. He would either gain confidence or break down completely, she theorised. What she would do, if that happened somewhere in Town, she was not sure. She had never been quite this far with a client before. Anxiously, she checked that her mobile’s battery was charged. “Just in case I have to call one of my friends in a hurry,” she told herself.
Anyway, she had done everything she could to make him look the part. The make-up was excellent, even by her own exacting standards. Perhaps the dress was over the top, but it was he who had asked for rubber and it was the only one she had that was remotely suitable. It was up to him now.
Amber cleaned herself up, left the ladies and, walking on tiptoe so as not to attract Charlotte’s attention.
“Gosh, was she already starting to think of him as Charlotte, not as Charles,” she thought as she hid behind a column to observe.
Charles reached the entrance and looked round, hoping that his Guide would be there and that she might do the ordering of the taxi, but she was nowhere to be seen. For a few minutes he wondered what he should do the, clutching courage in both hands, he went up to doorman and asked him to get him a taxi.
“Where do you want to go to, miss,” the man asked without batting an eye.
“Am I really being accepted as female?” Charles wondered.
“We, my friend and I,” he looked anxiously around again for Amber who was still nowhere to be seen, “would like to go to Harvey-Nichols, please,” Charles replied. He followed the doorman outside and waited in the sun for the taxi, the gin having certainly given him some Dutch courage.
Charles was just wondering if he ought to try to strike up some polite conversation when a taxi hauled up. The doorman opened the door for him to get in. That was the moment when he discovered that sixty centimetre hems and London taxi don’t go very well together.
While the doorman looked discretely aside Charles scrambled in. Charles fumbled in his handbag for a tip. All he could find in his anxiety was a twenty-pound note. Give him that, Charles thought, maybe it will act as hush money if need be. The doorman closed the cab door, touching his cap as he did so.
Charles began to panic. “Where had She got to?”
The driver turned round, “Harvey-Nichols, is it ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes,” Charles said. “But we need to wait for my friend who’s had to pay a visit,” he added anxiously.
Standing in the sun, the inside of the taxi became warmer and warmer and that, combined with his general anxiety, soon had him perspiring inside his layers of rubber. There were little rivulets running down the middle of his back and between his breasts while the inside of his glove sounded quite squelchy when he open and close his hands.
Charles was just about to get out of the taxi to try to cool off when Amber stepped out of the hôtel.
“Where the hell have you been?” Charles gasped, forgetting for a moment to use ladylike vocabulary and tone in his relief at seeing her again.
“Oh, nowhere, I just bumped into a client,” was the nonchalant reply.
As the taxi made its slow progress westward Charles cooled off a little. Amber was telling him what he was to do.
“I’ll come with you as far as Sloane Street,” she said, “so we can look at a few things. Then I will have to leave you to your own devices for a while. I’ll see you again at about four o’clock in John Lewis’s coffee shop to find out how you’ve got on.”
As the taxi made its slow progress through the traffic, Amber continued her lecture on how to behave. Charles tried to take it all in, but the combination of the emotional overload of the last hour, or so, and a fainting feeling due to the build-up of heat inside his layers of rubber, made concentration difficult. Eventually, they arrived at the end of Sloane Street.
Amber tapped on the glass.
“Anywhere here,” she called to the driver.
The taxi pulled up at the side door of Harvey Nichols, smaller than the better-known Harrods, but more exclusive, and she leapt out.
“I’m in an awful hurry now,” she called, “I didn’t think the traffic would be so bad, but it’s all your fault for taking so long to get dressed. Pay the cabby, Charlotte dear and join me at the undies counter.”
Charles didn’t, at the time, realise that this was all part of the training.
“Of all the cheek,” was all he could think. “Who was it that kept the cab waiting for ten minutes back at the hôtel?” Clumsily he fumbled in his handbag for money, still unaccustomed to the long nails he now wore, found sufficient change, paid, and got out.
The street was crowded and he felt that a thousand eyes were staring at him. His newly acquired confidence seemed to evaporate in the hot sun. He rushed, as fast as tight skirt and heels would allow, for the shop door, desperate to find Amber to tell her he wanted to end things there and then.
In his haste he stumbled slightly on the doormat and collided with a shopper leaving the store. It was the gentlest of contacts and against his big hydraulic boobs she probably felt nothing. For him, the sensation was far from nothing. He hadn’t realised just how sensitive his stretched and sweating nipples had become. The sideways blow tweaked and pushed them so that he let out an involuntary squeal in surprise. The other person involved in this minor accident looked round and apologised, presumably thinking she had hurt him when really it was his clumsiness that was at fault.
Eventually he found the lingerie counter, but no Amber. He tried to interest myself in some of the bras and panties on display, all the time looking round for her. His behaviour must have seemed rather suspicious. Perhaps thinking he was a shop-lifter, the counter assistant appeared and asked rather coldly.
“Does madam require any assistance?”
“I’m just waiting for my friend,” he replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “We agreed to meet here.”
Eventually he spotted her walking towards him and went to meet her.
“Sorry I was a long time. I remembered I needed to get a prezzy,” she waved a small gift-wrapped parcel. “I thought that you wouldn’t mind a few minutes looking round.”
“Did you find anything you liked,” she bantered on. Then looking at him more closely, “I say, you do look a bit flustered, are you all right?”
Charles told her that he probably was now, but that ten minutes ago he had panicked and had been all for giving up there and then.
“You can’t do that.” she replied, adding with an encouraging smile, “You look marvellous and you are doing brilliantly. Let’s go and repair the damage to your face and then we can shop, I still need a new bra.”
She took his hand and led him to an unused changing room she had spotted on her circuit of the shop. They made a striking pair, Amber, tall in her leather catsuit and thigh length high-heeled boots and Charlotte, even taller, in black latex. They turned quite a few heads and got some jealous glances, as they walked across the store despite its clientele being no stranger to high fashion. No amount of skilled make up could disguise the fact that the one in, “Was it really rubber?” was the older of the pair, but were they sisters separated by several years or, even, mother and daughter, perhaps?
They arrived at the room that, indeed, proved to be empty. Amber found a sign saying ‘Temporally closed for cleaning’ and, hanging it on the door, pulled Charles inside. There were there chairs and a long bench with a mirror running for its full length. She redid his makeup and adjusted his wig.
“There, does that feel better?” she asked as she sprayed cooling cologne behind his ears.
“A million times!” he replied, taking what was going to be a deep breath but that was stopped half way by his corset. “I think I am ready to face the World once more.”
“Good girl,” said Amber. “One more thing since no one is watching. Turn round with your back to me.”
He felt her fumbling at the hem of his dress, then the zip slid up. The blast of cold air that hit his bottom came as a surprise and he yelped.
“It’s all right, I’m not going to rape you in public, at least not while you’ve got that thing in your bottom.” Amber said, “I’m just putting some powder between your legs to stop them sticking so much. That should make walking a bit easier. Hold your legs apart.”
A few moments later the zip was pulled down again and his legs once more found themselves in the grip of tight rubber.
“I wish you could leave the zip up a bit,” he pleaded again, though knowing what the answer would be. “It seems so much cooler.”
“Nope!” was the reply as he heard the hem padlock snick together again. “I’ve told you before, it’s a technical impossibility and in any case would be contrary to my code of professional conduct. Right, off we go.” Amber gave him a gentle slap on the bottom, deftly catching the spot that pushed his butt-bung deeper against his prostate, sending a little shudder through his body, to help propel him out of the cloakroom.
They re-entered the store together, making their way back to the lingerie counter. This time it was obvious that Amber was buying and the assistant’s response was all courtesy. Amber selected a particularly frilly piece, holding it to herself and, turning this way and that, looked at the effect in a mirror. Then she held it up against Charles. It was preposterously small for his too big boobs.
“Too small for you, Charlotte, I’m afraid,” she said loudly. “I don’t expect it comes in a 40E. Shall I ask?”
As she touched him, he had given a suppressed, “Ouch!”
“Do they hurt when I touch them?” she whispered.
“Yes, all the time,” he relied.
“Good, they’re supposed to,” was all the comfort he got.
Amber made her purchase and they walked round the shop together for another quarter-hour, still turning heads as they went. Amber felt that Charles was now completely settled as Charlotte. They looked at the fashions together drifting apart and coming together again as particular items caught their individual attentions.
She couldn’t help noticing Charles’s choice of what interested him. The tighter, shinier and sexier the better it seemed; may be the choice of the rubber dress had been exactly right. Eventually she judged that it was safe to leave him to it. They were several racks of clothes apart. Charles was browsing with obvious interest through some long slinky leather skirts.
“I really have to go,” she called across to him. “Why don’t you stay here and look at the rest of the fashions then come over to Oxford Street for four,” she suggested, and it was agreed.
“Oh, and could you be a sweetie and get a couple of things for me on the way?” she added, handing him a slip of paper before she waved good-bye and disappeared into the crowd.
As soon as she was out of sight panic started to well up again. He gave himself a little shake.
“Snap out of it Charles, Charlotte,” he rapidly corrected himself, “calm down, you look fine, Amber says so. Now let’s prove you can carry it off.” He selected one the skirts and took it over to the counter.
“They are lovely leather. Would you like to try it on?” asked the assistant, indication a cubical on the left.
Charles got to the coffee shop early. Bravely going up to the bar, he settled himself on a high stool, involuntarily wriggled in a vain attempt to find a position that prevented the hard top pressing against his, butt-bung, placed the bags containing his new skirt and Amber’s toiletries by his feet and ordering a coffee. He sipped at it slowly, trying to make it last being increasingly conscious that he could really do with having a pee. The minutes ticked by, he kept looking round, but there was no sign of Amber. He got to the bottom of his coffee and spent a few minutes fiddling with the empty cup. He took out his make-up and did a few perfunctory facial repairs, but still no sign of her. The bar attendant came along and asked if he had finished, implying that, if he had then he should vacate the stool in favour of another paying customer.
Charles ordered another coffee and went through the process a second time, as the need to go to the loo became unbearable.
At last she appeared. He hadn’t noticed her actual arrival, that had been much earlier and that she had been observing him for most of the time he had been sitting at the bar. A voice called across the restaurant.
“Yoo-hoo, Charlotte, over here”, beckoning him to join her.
Amber was sitting at a table in the middle of the room with two other very attractive women of a similar age to her own or, perhaps, little older.
“Heck, who are they?” Charles thought. Anyhow there was no option, but to go and join them and, presumably, they knew all about him. As it turned out they had been specially invited for his benefit.
He slid off the stool, remembering just in time what shoes he had on and tottered across to her. Largely oblivious now to the stares and glances of other diners, especially as he bent down to gathered up his things, and went over to the table. When he got there, he was greeted like a long lost friend.
“Hello Charlotte, how lovely to see you. Meet two of my oldest friends. This is Gwyneth and this Leslie. You spell it with an ‘ie’ not a ‘ey’ don’t you Lesso?”
“Yes,” agreed Leslie, “Both my father and grandfather were called Leslie so when my dad went to register my birth he just spelt my name like his.”
“At least that’s the official story,” Gwyneth said, under her breath.
They shook hands. Leslie especially, had a particularly firm grip.
“Shaking hands seems an odd sort of thing to be doing,” Charles thought, “shouldn’t we kiss or something.” he sat down again.
“We call ourselves the ‘GALs,’ Gwyneth, Amber and Leslie, get it?” went on Amber. Charles nodded. “We often meet here for a gossip. They are the real specialists, though, you know, I’m just an amateur, I’m always getting lots of tips.” After the introductions the GALs all started chatting.
Despite earlier thinking her older, Charles had decided that Amber must be in her late twenties. Leslie was more difficult to place. Older than Amber, certainly, perhaps quite a lot older, being, rather like Tina Turner someone whom the ravages of time had touched, but lightly.
If fact the more he looked at her, the more enigmatic he felt her to be. Leslie was tall, a good 180 centimetres in her stocking feet, and auburn. She wore a tight fitting two piece suit in black leather with white topstitching, shiny black opaque tights and fifteen-centimetre, black patent stilettos with wide, metal-bound ankle-straps. “Her shoes are almost the same as mine,” Charles thought, with what amounted to a touch of jealousy that they were wearing the same thing, though on her they looked even higher because of her rather smaller feet.
The suit was recognisably by Claude Montana. Assuming it was the genuine article there would not have been much change out of £3000 for it. The suit’s mini-skirt fastened down each side seam with a zip. Though very short, she had unzipped both of these for a few centimetres in order to relieve the tightness round the hem while sitting. She had also partly unzipped the front of the jacket to reveal that she was wearing nothing underneath, but a lacy bra that supported her well-rounded breasts.
Gwyneth, Charles judged to be thirtyish. She was the quietest of the three, with a mass of black hair that tumbled down in carefully contrived abandon almost to waist level. She wore a polo neck silk sweater and a pair of designer stretch jodhpurs that, together, did everything for her breasts and, buttocks. Glancing down he could see shoes with that distinctive expensive Bond Street about them. Apparently her family were into training racehorses. She came up to Town every week, or so, to meet the other two and exchange information. Otherwise, she preferred to conduct her business (training, but not necessarily of horses, that was) in the country at Saxon Court, the name of the part of the family estate where she lived, making use of the excellent facilities that a range of old barns and stables provided.
Leslie was the obvious leader of the group and, suppressing Amber’s natural exuberance, seemed to lead most of the conversation. Much of it was just ‘gossip’, some of it couched in rather coded terms, about people Charles did not know, but who were clearly very intimately known to at least Leslie and Gwyneth.
Charles sat at the corner of the table feeling increasingly out of it and uncomfortable aware of the busting need for a pee. Eventually, concerned that she should try to draw him into their conversation, Leslie, turning to Charles.
“Please forgive us for talking shop,” she apologised. “I must say I do like your dress, Charlotte.”
“But don’t you think it’s a bit too sexy,” Amber, butted in before he could think of a suitable reply.
“Don’t be rotten, Amber! No, it’s nice,” retorted Gwyneth. “Get up dear and give us a twirl.”
In some kind of daze Charles got up and did a sort of inelegant pirouette, as much as hem and heels allowed then, suddenly becoming conscious that his audience extended well beyond their table, sat down quickly.
“Yes, I really do like it,” confirmed Gwyneth. “It looks really super on you. It really shows off your figure well, you should wear it more often.”
For a quarter of an hour, all four engaged in small talk and sipped away at some kind of herb tea. Charles didn’t care much for tea at any time, being very much a typical member of the coffee drinking computer fraternity, and certainly not as he felt then. Finally, one of the friends stood up, “Well, I really must be going, the client I fitted up before popping over to see you should be getting really panicky by now.”
“Me too,” said the other, “I have some appointments later. It’s been really nice meeting you Charlotte.”
As she left Leslie handed Charles a visiting card.
“Keep in touch you never know when we can be of help.” And they were gone.
“Gosh, I thought they would never go,” Charles said, having sat down again, then whispered, “I’m desperate for a pee.”
“I told you not to drink too much!” was Amber’s, not very sympathetic, reply.
“I know,” he said apologetically, “but I had to do something waiting at the bar, you’re a good three-quarters of an hour later than you said, and then I had to sit here sipping tea with you friends, I’m bursting.”
“Sorry. I got tied up. Or rather someone else did,” she added with a giggle. “That herb tea does tend to activate the kidneys too. Anyway, if it was that bad why didn’t you say something sooner, they wouldn’t have minded. Actually, they would probably have enjoyed helping! Oh, very well then, let go to the loo together, it’s a good job I’ve my case of things with me.”
As they walked over to the toilets together Charles thought to himself that he was rather glad not to have found out just what her friends ‘help’ might have comprised.
They got to the Ladies and Charles hesitated at the door.
“Go on,” Amber said giving him a push, “you don’t want to go to the Gents, do you?” In deference to other users, she had a quick peep in the Ladies first before beckoning him in. “Come on, there’s no one else here,” she said.
Charles entered with trepidation. It had been all very well earlier on using the empty changing room just for a few running repairs, but now he would have to be undressed so he could pee. Even chaperoned by Amber he felt the effects of strong social taboos at work. In fact, he realised, it is a perpetual problem for the transvestite who cannot, with safety, use either the ladies or the gents, but must seek out those few small cafés and the like, that have a single toilet for anyone to use.
It was the first time Charles had been in a Ladies. He was not sure what he really expected. No urinals, of course, just a row of cubicles on one side and a long vanity unit with basins and mirrors on the other. The whole decor was in peachy pinks and much less squalid than that to which he was accustomed to on the other side of the divide.
Amber chose the disabled toilet, so that there was plenty of room for both of them in the same cubical. There she unlocked his dress and undies.
“Get on with it then,” she said, adding “in order to pee, ladies have to sit on the loo.”
Charles, not without embarrassment, finished what he had to do and stood up.
“Really I ought to have just left you to wet your knickers and made you put up with the discomfort. As it is there will have to be a punishment for making me have to rescue you like this,” Amber said as she started to do him up again. “I think I will use this,” she said, rummaging in her case.
“This morning I thought it might be a bit too big, but now…” She produced a, butt-bug significantly longer and fatter than the one that had been working about inside Charles all day. “Put your legs apart and bend over and hold those rails.” she said, pointing to the handgrips at the side of the toilet. She pulled the original bug out and popped it into one of the bags conveniently provided by the management of soiled sanitary towels; then thrust the new one inside his protesting, buttocks.
“There, now you’ll really know you’ve got that one up your bum,” she said with a laugh. “And I’ll strap you up at least one notch tighter.” In a moment Charles was gasping as the penis corset strap was again fasten and pad-locked to the rear of the main corset.
“I think you get more like a girl all the time,” she said, laughing again and giving him a poke where his manhood use to be. “By the way, how are the nipples?” she asked innocently.
“They ache and burn like Hell,” Charles said.
“I know that. I’ve told you before that they are supposed to,” she retorted in her business voice again, “but, just for good measure and since I’ve had to partially undress you, I’m going to put another ring on.” She pealed down Charles’s bra and slipped a fourth ring on behind the three already teasing and squeezing him.
“Nice tits,” she said in mock appreciation, giving them a flip.
“Ouch, stop it, they really hurt,” he said with a partly suppressed squeal.
“Yes,” she said, letting the rubber of the bra back with a snap that made them smart even more. “How many times do I have to tell you, that’s the idea! Now, do hurry up, it’s getting late and we still have things to discuss.”
Charles pulled the dress on again and tried to adjust his wig.
“You’re beginning to look a bit of a mess,” he was told. “Here, I’d better help you fix your face again.”
They returned to the restaurant and found a seat again. Amber sat and looked at Charles as he wriggled to try to achieve the impossible and get comfortable again with an even bigger plug in his bottom. The makeover still looked great. Moreover, she couldn’t help recalling the curious enjoyment she had experience back at Harvey-Nichols. It was a feeling of being, well, sort of protective to the other person. Not unlike, she thought, how some men say they feel when they are escorting a provocatively dressed girl who is a bit scared of how she looks and what the public will think of her. It had given her quite a kick ‘protecting’ Charlotte and wanted to do it again.
“I wonder how far I can push her,” she mused. Charles reached out and touched her arm.
“Are you alright,” he asked, “you looked quite odd for a moment.”
“I’m just fine,” she replied, snapping back out of her reverie. “I was just wondering, how would you like to take me out to dinner tonight, as two girl-friends together? No extra fee if you pay!”
“Well, yes, if you like,” Charles hesitated, somewhat surprised as he had thought that the whole outing would soon be coming to an end and said something to that effect.
“Well,” said Amber, “to be honest this morning I would have thought that too. But working with you, Charlotte has been so different from anything I have done before. I have really and truly enjoyed being with you and looking after you.”
Charles gave a slight, “Humpf.”
“Oh, I know I’ve pushed you hard and played the odd trick on you, but it was all to help you get into your new rôle as quickly as possible. So what do you say,” she pleaded.
Charles looked at her and smiled, “Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, let me choose somewhere nice,” was the non-committal reply, “but you’ll need a new dress and I don’t have one that is really suitable.”
“Won’t what I’ve got on do?” Charles asked.
“Not really,” she said, “it’s more of a day-time outfit and you will want to be really glamorous, won’t you?”
“Where do you want to go?” He asked again.
“I have an idea, if we can get in. I’ll keep that as a little surprise, though,” she replied. Then, going on, “What I suggest is this. Last week I was over at a place where they had a super Ectomorph long corset dress. I think it was about your size. Why don’t you pop over and see if they still have it and if so buy it? You’ll need some matching long gloves and shoes and stockings too.” She was by now back to her old self and, for the benefit of the neighbouring table, all this had been at rather more than loud enough. Then, in whisper, she added.
“You’ll need a pair of stick-on boobs as well, the thing you are wearing won’t work with the dress I have in mind.”
“How will I know it will fit, I won’t be able to try it on.” Charles asked. If that had been intended as an excuse for not getting the dress it didn’t work.
“Oh, it’s all right,” he was told, “the dress you have on came from there. If you tell any of girls that I sent you, they’ll find a spare key. They’ll let you out of your things for a fitting. And lock you up again,” she added with a suppressed giggle.
It seemed to Charles that the decision had been made without him really having taken part in the process. He was being swept along; much like he himself had done with girls in the past. Decide what they will do, tell them and then expect them to be decorative and dress the part. He was being treated like a bimbo; the rôle reversal was intriguing.
Charles picked up the bill for the four of them and got up, to a hissed, “Elegance!” and “Seams” and “Pull your skirt down!” He settled the bill so engrossed in wondering what the total overhead of the whole exercise would finally turn out to be that he carried out the transaction with none of the heart fluttering that had accompanied him previously.
As they made our way out of the store he got some of the first real words of encouragement.
“You’re beginning to do very well, now just relax into the part and see how much more you can enjoy it.”
Outside it was still sunny and warm. Even though Charles was hot and sticky inside all the layers, he felt strangely unbothered.
“How are you going to get to get there, take a taxi?” Amber asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Oh, go on, blow it,” he said, “I’ll go on the bus.”
“Good girl,” she said, again giving him a gentle, stimulating pat on the bottom. “Go and get the dress, it really is smashing. I’ll see you at you hôtel at 7:30 to help you change for this evening.
“Oh, here’s your room key, I’ll keep the rest till later, bye,” and, with a wave and a blown kiss, she disappeared in to the crowd milling along the pavement.
The bus trundled Westwards. When boarding, Charles had deliberately chosen to ride on the top deck so that he could see a part of London that was unfamiliar. He was getting bolder. “Give the natives a thrill,” he thought to himself, as he twisted on his hips so as to be able to raise his knees high enough to negotiate the treads of the steep stairway, clutching handbag and parcels as the bus lurched into motion. Increased self-confidence manifest itself in another way. Because he was behaving normally, no one took any special notice. And the longer this went on the more settled he felt.
Eventually the bus drew to the side to stop by the bridge over the Grand Union canal opposite the low rise 1990’s multi-occupancy warehouse buildings, all brick and the then trendy corrugated red metal, where the shop was located. At one time it would have been quite fashionable. Now it tired air about it, the soft landscaping that must have looked good on the letting agent’s ‘artist’s impressions’ of the development neglected and weed grown. He scrambled down the bus’s stairs, something that proved to be a good deal more difficult on the still-moving vehicle that getting on had been. Charles crossed the road by the bridge, descended the brick steps leading down to the level the canal side, and walked along looking for the unit occupied by the shop. There were no shop windows as such, just a succession of blank doors, many heavily locked and fortified. Though it was still broad day light the environment made him feel uneasy. Even as Charles it would have been so, but now he was Charlotte. He eventually came to a door with a small nameplate announcing that he had reached his destination. He tried the door. It too was locked. By the side of the name was a bell push, obviously intended to be pressed in order to gain admittance. He rang the bell. A buzz and a clunk came from the door and he pushed it open the heavy aroma of latex wafting out as he did so. No sooner had he stepped inside than a young sales assistant came from behind the counter.
“Are you Charles, er,” she checked herself, “Charlotte Graham? She asked.
“Yes,” he replied somewhat in surprise.
“Oh, good,” she went on, obviously relieved, “Amber rang to tell us to expect you. She gave me a list of things that you needed and asked me to parcel them up so that you could get back quickly so as to have plenty of time to get changed.
“This is yours.” She went back behind the counter and fished out a large box. “How are do you want to pay?”
“Well, if that doesn’t beat everything,” Charles thought. “First she drags me round Knightsbridge looking for things for herself; then she keeps me waiting ages for her to turn up at the café. Finally she sends me off to choose something for myself only to find she’s done it already.” Rather crossly he asked, “What’s in the box, let me look.”
The shop assistant put her hands on top of the box.
“Amber said that, on pain of death or something worse, I wasn’t to let you look. It is to be a surprise and she wants to be there when you open it. But I’m sure that there’s everything there that you’ll need.”
“But if it’s the dress she was talking about how do I know it will fit?”
“Oh, it will, Amber gave me your exact sizes and I measured it myself, it’s just perfect.” All this time she kept her arms wrapped round the box as though her life depended on me not opening it.
“Please don’t ask me to unpack it,” she pleaded.
“Oh, all right then, how much is it?”
He gasped when she told him. “I’m not buying the shop,” he grumbled as he handed over a credit card, thinking, “This venture is turning in to a financial disaster.”
Though the goods were now his, the assistant still seemed strangely reluctant to relinquish the parcel.
“Promise not to open it till Amber arrives at the hôtel,” she again pleaded. Charles was getting a bit fed up of this.
“What’s the problem with Amber?” he demanded.
“She’s my big sister,” was the reply. “She’ll skin me alive, or worse, if anything goes wrong.” Charles nodded.
“That wouldn’t surprise me in the least, though I’ve known her for less than a day. Okay, I understand, sort of. You can keep your skin, first and second, for another day. I promise to be good and not open it.”
The expression on her face was a picture of relief. Charles felt sure that there must be some deeper reason for the girl’s concern. Obviously she wasn’t going to tell, but, perhaps, Amber might be more forthcoming.
The box was too big to carry with any ease. First he tried using the handle that had been fashioned out of the string that bound it in addition to all the brown parcel tape; Amber’s sister really had wrapped it up securely. That was no good; it bumped against his legs threatening to knock him over with every stride. Charles tried clutching it to his front, but his big boobs got impossibly in the way, bumping on the top of the box at each pace and re-exciting his nipples that had been more or less quiescent for the last hour. If the box wasn’t enough of a problem, the long strap of his handbag refused to stay on his shoulder as he dangled the Harvey Nichols bags from a finger.
He struggled up the steps, wondering how long it might be before a bus came. To his joy an empty taxi came cruising by at that moment. By the time he realised it was there and had manoeuvred his parcels so he could beckon, it was 100 metres past him. Charles waved franticly. The taxi stopped and reversed back at speed.
“Taxi, miss?” the driver asked, obviously pleased at the chance to have a closer look at the person that had just flagged him down.
Charles gave directions and settled into the corner of the seat at the back of the taxi, the box at his side taking up most of the rest.
“It’s curious,” he mused as they headed East by one of those intricate routes known only to London taxi drivers, “how very much easier it is to get a taxi as Charlotte than it was as Charles.”
The taxi arrived back at the hôtel at about 7 o’clock. Charles paid the driver, conscious, but no longer embarrassed by his interest in his dress and an irresistible desire to touch his black rubber-gloved hand, as gave him the money and a nice tip.
The doorman saluted and held the door open for him as he went in. Having spent so much already on this project, to his obvious delight, he was given a big tip too. Normally, Charles was not a big tipper. On this occasion, though, he reckoned that it was somewhere between an investment and a further insurance premium to add to the twenty-pounds that he had given the doorman that morning. He must have thought it was his birthday. He beamed and saluted again while deftly secreting the note in a pocket with such grace that Charles couldn’t help thinking that, if he were ever out of work, he could certainly get a job as a conjuror.
story continued in part two
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