Synopsis: The woman awakening in the empty rental cottage hadn't a clue how she'd got there or even who she was. However, as she tries to discover her identity and how she got there, she quickly realises how much she really enjoys sex,.
The story is set in England and is a longer length story, so sit back and enjoy. Caution: Contains explicit sex and some sexual abuse, as well as humour.
Author's Note: Strictly speaking, this story shouldn't be published under the Decade of Big Busts banner, as the products used are not sold by Big Busts in Seacombe, but are manufactured in the Far East. However, they are similar and the story was written at a similar time to the other stories. I have extensively revised it from the story originally published on Fictionmania in January, 2005. To some extent, the original was an experiment, with alternate chapters switching between the first and third person, on different days - it didn't seem to work very well! In this edition, I have changed it all to third person and separated out the days.
1 AWAKENING UNDER A DARK CLOUD
By Charlotte Dickles
1 AWAKENING UNDER A DARK CLOUD
When she woke up in the middle of the night, she was sitting fully dressed in an armchair. She wasn't certain exactly where she was, how she'd got there or even who she was, but she was absolutely certain of one thing: she had to find a toilet desperately.
Fortunately, a table-lamp had been left on, and she was able to stagger to the bottom of the stairs, and then she pulled herself, arm over arm, up the banister rail until she reached the landing. There were only two doors leading off the landing, and since the door to the bedroom was standing open, it was pretty clear she had to dive through the other pretty smartish, if she was not to urinate over the carpet.
Even when she was in the small bathroom, it was a pretty close call, since her panties were underneath her suspenders rather than on top, and in her befuddled state she couldn't pull them down without getting them tied up in suspenders and stockings. In the end, she simply put a hand on the gusset and pulled them as far down her legs as she could, as she thankfully sank down onto the seat and let her waters flow.
After emptying her bladder, she staggered through into the bedroom, pulled back the quilt and dropped onto the mattress. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her body before falling again into a deep sleep, bordering upon unconsciousness.
It was sometime next morning before she vaguely started to wonder what the hell she was doing there? She had got up several times overnight, in response to the calls of nature; sometimes to empty her bladder; and sometimes to cure her raging thirst by drinking gallons of water from the tooth mug in the bathroom.
But this time, she remained conscious long enough to register that, at some time during the night, she had shed all of her clothes – she could see the remnants spread over the floors of the upper rooms – and that she was now totally naked in a small house, empty of any other occupants. She was still very much the worse from something, and she couldn't even walk in a straight line over to the bathroom window. She released the blind over the window and looked out, at a countryside of wooded hillsides and empty meadows.
She smiled, suddenly aware that, unusually for a bathroom, it was not fitted with obscured glass, and she could have opened the blind onto a busy city street, revealing every part of her upper anatomy to the crowds, below. Fortunately, there was no one in sight to take notice of the naked woman at the window.
She lurched through to the bedroom and, this time more cautiously, repeated the operation, revealing an almost identical view, apart from the lane which passed in front of the cottage, with a sports car parked directly outside the door.
She hadn't got a clue what she was doing there, where exactly she was, or even which day it was. She appeared to have the place to herself. Perhaps she was a guest of a new lover? But a trawl through the empty wardrobes and bare drawers proved she was wrong – instead, she appeared to be in some kind of rented holiday accommodation. More importantly, it placed her right in front of the mirror over the dressing-table, and she was brought face to face – with herself!
It wasn't as if she didn't recognise her own face (which she did). But she might just as well have been looking at a photograph of a well-known model in a magazine – recognising her features, but totally oblivious to her real life.
Even her own reaction to her ignorance was strange. Most people in similar circumstances would have started to panic – perhaps tried to telephone for a doctor or an ambulance. She simply shrugged as though she couldn't be bothered, then staggered downstairs, and lifted the blinds down there.
It was her stomach which drew her to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and found a pot of yoghurt to cure the stabs of hunger in her stomach. But she had barely finished the pot, before she had to race to the toilet, and vomit it all up. Afterwards, she went back to bed and slept.
2 EVERY DARK CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING
'I was wondering if you were alright?'
The words jerked her out of her half-sleep, and she sat bolt upright, looking at the man who was in her bedroom, who appeared transfixed by something on her chest. After a few seconds, she stared down to see what had attracted his attention, and realised she was naked from the waist up, her huge boobs jutting out with quite commendable firmness. It took her another few seconds before she realised that modesty dictated that perhaps she ought to cover herself, and she belatedly pulled the quilt up to her neck.
Victor Walters, the owner of the holiday cottage, was in totally uncharted territory. It was obvious that the girl had not been well when she'd arrived last night – brought in by a couple who'd told him they had found her unconscious at the wheel of a car blocking the lane about half a mile away. He had spent the morning vacillating between calling the police, the ambulance, going in to see her, and doing nothing.
All morning, he had continued to let indecision take the lead, and perhaps if she hadn't started moving about, followed by her vomiting, he might have continued to procrastinate forever. But it was obvious she needed some help, and since she was his client, he could hardly go to the police. For once, he had to take action himself.
When she had so quickly sat up, revealing those fantastic tits and clearly totally unaware that she was doing so, he had been at a complete loss about what to do. Was it polite, under such circumstances, to point out to a lady that her tits were on show, or would that merely cause her embarrassment? More importantly, if he simply kept quiet, would she carry on exposing them for the whole of their conversation, and could he think of sufficient topics to keep the conversation going, forever?
His eyes ultimately let him down, as he knew they would. If only he was able to discretely look at a woman's tits, as other men appeared able to do so, without his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets.
After pulling the quilt around her torso, she thought she ought to respond to her questioner. 'I'm not really certain. I feel very… strange.' She gave him a little, hesitant smile, and asked, 'Who are you?'
Victor could have made all kinds of witty retorts, or diversionary responses, which might have led to a more interesting scenario, but that was totally beyond him. Instead, he said, 'I'm Victor Walters, the landlord.'
Aware that his first response was less than adequate, he sought to clarify. 'I could see you weren't very well, Mrs Peters, when they brought you here last night. I've been looking out for you, and then I saw you – I mean heard you er… throwing up, so I thought I'd better come round.'
'Mrs Peters?' Was she a Mrs? Her eyes flicked down to the third finger on her left hand, where the indentation showed a ring had been recently worn.
'Is it alright if I call you Joan?'
As she stared back at him, he could feel his cheeks starting to glow redder and redder. God, how he hated the way he blushed whenever he tried to chat to any woman.
But she was trying to make sense of her name. Joan Peters? It sounded both right and wrong at the same time. Still Victor seemed to know her better than she did. What on earth had she been on?
But as she stared at him, she became aware that, although her body was still feeling like shit, it was starting to think about sex, as it often did on first waking. Actually, she realised, her body thought about sex most times of the day and night. Normally, she knew, it would not be available, but Victor was looking definitely interested. Already, the blood was coursing through her body, making her tingle all over. She didn't know what the hell had been wrong with her, but she was pretty certain what was likely to cure it.
She gave him her cutest smile. 'Oh, Vic, of course it is. Thank you so much for caring about me enough to check that I'm alright. In truth, I've been feeling absolutely dreadful. I can barely remember who I am, and it's as though I wasn't here at all, but somewhere else. I don't know what's wrong with me, or when I shall get better.'
'Do you want me to ring for a doctor, or…'
Joan couldn't, for the life of her, understand why she had so hastily rejected Victor's kind offer. But she did know it was a subject that, for the time being, she did not want to go down. In the meantime, she had to find out much more about what she was doing there, and also attend to the pressing needs of her body.
'Sorry Vic, I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I'm not at my best. I can't even remember when I went down with his sickness. Can you help?'
'Well, not really. A couple found you along the lane, last night. You'd stopped your car in the middle of the road, and weren't fit to drive. They thought you were drunk or… something. Presumably, you must have told them you were trying to get here, so they brought you along.'
'That was good of them.' She unexpectedly felt quite overwhelmed by events; she didn't know what she was doing here, or even who she really was. She felt her eyes pricking, and then a tear rolled down her cheek.
'I'm sorry.' She brushed the tear away. 'You must find it a real pain, me being here, and you having to come in and check me out, but I feel awfully vulnerable, at the moment.'
Without warning, the single tear turned into a dozen, and Joan flung her arms around his neck and started crying into the side of his head. Victor couldn't help noticing that this had meant she'd released the quilt, which had slipped down, again exposing those fabulous tits.
'There, there,' he comforted, using the same words his mother had, years ago. 'It's alright. I'm here and I'll look after you.'
'Christ,' Victor thought, 'I'm out of my depth here.' He lifted a hand, desperately wanting to squeeze that magnificent tit, but discretion made him move it around her side, and hesitantly pat her shoulder blade.
He'd expected her to immediately scream louder, and call him a pervert for touching her, as the woman in the lift in Debenhams had once done. In fact, his touch had the opposite effect; Joan's sobs became more controlled, and she moved her body closer to him, so her tit was nuzzling against his chest. Through his thin tee-shirt, he could feel her hard, protruding nipple rubbing against his chest.
His abrupt erection could not have come at a worse time – it was so very uncomfortable, and needed urgent adjustment, but both his arms were wrapped around her, and even if he released his right arm, he'd have to perform the adjustment right under her eyes.
He tried a little wriggle, which seemed to make his situation worse. God, he had to do something! He gave a bigger wriggle.
'Oh dear! What have I done to you?' She was staring with tear-filled eyes, down at the bulge in his trousers.
'Here we go,' he thought. 'She's about to utter a scream to wake the dead.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I've put you in a terrible position. Your wife or girl-friend would kill me if she knew how stupid I'd been.'
'But I don't have a wife or a girl-friend!'
'You don't? Heavens, someone has missed a good catch.' A slight pause. 'In that case, I wonder if you'd do something for me?'
He nodded, 'Of course, anything…'
'I'm feeling so strange, and it's so nice of you to do all this for me, but... well, do you think you could… well... it must be a maternal urge, or something, but it would just feel so very nice, and… relaxing, and… comforting, if you'd... get into bed with me and give me a cuddle.'
She saw his eyes widen in surprise, and sought his reassurance. 'You wouldn't mind, would you? Please.'
If he'd thought he was out of his depth before, he was drowning now. Beautiful women with fantastic tits didn't permit blokes like him to enter their bedrooms, never mind… he gulped, and thought he might choke on his Adam's apple.
'No, no that's fine. I'll er…'
He didn't know whether her invitation had included him stripping naked, but in the end he simply removed his shoes and socks. He slipped into bed beside her cool body, and was cautiously slipping his arm around her when she grabbed hold of him and pulled his head down onto her chest.
"Uugh!" He knew what his instincts were telling him to do, but should he... he lowered his mouth towards her breast, and at the last moment hesitated, as he wondered whether she would start screaming as soon as his lips…
She clutched him behind the head and forced his mouth against her, and breathed a deep sigh of contentment as he took his first tentative suck. 'Mmm. That's wonderful. Oh, yes! Do you want to suck on my other one now, and perhaps you could suck just a little bit harder.'
She fed her left breast towards his mouth, and gasped as he sucked it hard inside his mouth. 'Oh, my God, that's nice. Here, let me…' The latter in response to another uncomfortable wriggle. She undid the belt on his trousers and unzipped him.
'Oh hell! What an enormous cock.' In fact, Joan was exaggerating slightly, here, but it was well worth it because it grew even stiffer in her hand. 'Would you mind if I…'
Well aware that she was probably about to deflower a male virgin who must be almost thirty, she'd been about to suggest that she should sit astride his lap. That way, she could initiate the action, control the pace and even make certain his cock went in the right hole (not that she was averse to a little anal action, but she felt that, the first time round, he should do it the conventional way).
But before she could do so, his fingers had traced a path down her tummy and through her pubic hair, and very lightly, he'd touched her in a very special place, and the fireworks started exploding inside her head.
He moved his fingers slightly, and the fireworks multiplied in intensity a thousand times, until her head was inside the fireworks, and it was her head exploding with orgasmic pleasure. Every tiny movement of his fingers sent her into deeper and deeper ecstasy, until she was losing consciousness with each orgasm.
Finally, after a lifetime in seventh heaven, he was bringing her down off the clouds, and she was returning to reality. Her body was covered in sweat, her breath coming in short gasps, and she knew she had been well and truly finger-fucked!
'Oh thank you, Vic. Thank you so much! That was absolutely wonderful. Where did you learn to do that?'
Well that was a rather embarrassing question, but fortunately, he correctly assessed it was meant rhetorically. In fact, as a twenty-eight year old male virgin, he'd had a sudden panic attack when she'd grabbed his cock and was about to tell him to shove it inside her. Suppose he did it all wrong, shot his load before he'd got it in, or even put it into the wrong hole?
But he'd learnt his skills from a video camera, hidden inside the smoke-detector above the bed. It gave him an excellent view of the many women who lay on the bed and masturbated.
The most common type of visitor to his holiday cottage would be the unaccompanied woman. With a woman lying on her back on the bed or in the Jacuzzi, the smoke-detector cameras, with their fantastic zoom facility, would be pointing directly at the woman's vagina, as she used her hand, or a vibrator, to bring herself off. Victor had seen dozens of different variations on the same theme, and hundreds of different vaginas. He knew exactly where women should be touched to produce results, and he had to say, he was more than a little pleased with his achievements with Joan. He lay back on the bed for a brief instant, well aware that he urgently needed to go to the toilet and have an enormous wank.
But Joan would not let debts go unpaid. Before he could even think about moving, she was swinging a leg over his, and sitting on his thighs, her breasts hovering an inch above his glistening cock. She was no lightweight. Even if he wanted to get out of this situation, he wouldn’t be able to do so, but at that moment, sexual need was easily overriding fear.
She read his thoughts. 'Lie back, and think of England.' And then she wriggled forward until her cunt was directly above his prick. Slowly, the two became one.
After three hours of almost non-stop fucking, Joan felt decidedly better. OK, she was still extremely confused about who she was and what she was doing in the cottage, but her body was no longer feeling so dreadful. She still staggered a bit when she walked, but that was probably because she was walking with her legs wide apart, to ease the soreness inside her. At least she'd had the sense to take the birth-pill from the pack she'd found in her handbag.
They came to a natural halt from their romping, both of them in that wonderful post-coital bliss.
'So Vic, you're telling me that I booked the cottage for four weeks?'
'Well, not you personally, of course. The booking came via email, after you saw an advert in "The Lady".'
He always kept a copy of the weekly magazine in the cottage, handy if guests complained he'd wrongly advertised it, and he got out of bed to fetch it. He flicked through the pages until he came to his ad, which he then passed across to Joan.
"Spoil yourself with a luxurious cottage break, set in the secluded heart of the beautiful Cotswolds, in easy drive of an abundance of art galleries, antique shops, hairdressers/beauty salons, and delightful restaurants eminently suitable for the single female diner, or a couple wanting to share discrete moments together. Single bedroom with Queen-sized bed, en-suite with Jacuzzi, comfortable lounge and well equipped kitchen. Lady(ies) or couples only. Contact Virginia Walters, Tel…"
'Isn't Virginia Walters your wife?'
'It's my mother, actually, and er… she's dead, but I er… always think her name sounded better and more ladylike, than mine.'
'Well, yes. Victor doesn't sound at all ladylike. Do you only advertise in "The Lady"? Have you thought of any other magazines?'
'It brings in a much nicer type of client.'
In fact, it frequently brought in women on their own, desiring a little solitude from the world – and they often spent a lot of time in simply finding themselves. Unfortunately, it sometimes also attracted couples who wanted a discrete place to fuck. Whilst it made for entertaining television, the problem was, it often left him feeling unhappy that he was missing out on such activity. He far preferred unaccompanied women, who might spend their time alone in discovering, and pleasuring, their own bodies.
Joan nodded sagely at his response. 'That must be what attracted me,' she said, wondering why on earth she had really chosen to come here.
3 EVERY SILVER LINING HAS A DARK CLOUD INSIDE
'Look,' she said, 'I know this must sound a stupid question, but what day of the week is it?'
'It's Sunday, of course,' Victor replied. 'You booked the cottage for four weeks commencing yesterday, and that couple brought you round at about eleven, last night. When they found you unconscious in the driving seat of your car, I think they pushed you across into the passenger seat, and one of them drove it here, whilst the other one followed in their own car. They explained what had happened, and I let them into the cottage, and helped to carry you in.'
He could still remember the excitement he'd felt as he'd accidentally brushed her breast three or four (or was it five?) times.
'Did I have any other clothes with me?'
'We didn't check the boot. Do you want me to go and look now?'
'No, it's OK. I'll go and do it.' Whatever she had been on last night, she really didn't want Vic finding it. She slipped into her shirt-waister dress and buttoned it up, noting that her hard nipples pushing through the thin material was having an appropriate effect upon Vic's rather flaccid dick. As she was about to go outside, a sudden thought occurred to her.
'I must have given you an address when I made the booking. Where do I live?'
'Your husband, Frank, made the booking, and he lives in Singapore.'
'Frank Peters? Singapore?' A pause for thought, then, 'Why, of course I was living in Singapore until…'
She stopped, suddenly unsure of her facts, 'I'm not certain.'
Another pause. 'I'll go and check whether there's a suitcase, and see whether that throws any light upon what I'm doing here.'
In the boot of the sports car, was her huge suitcase. She gasped in relief; at last, she'd found her clothes. She dragged the trunk back into the cottage, where Vic was speaking on the phone. As she came in, he put down the receiver, then picked it up and dialled another number.
'I rang the car-hire company that's displayed on your rear window,' I said. 'They're based at Norton Airport. It seems that BA paid for the car-hire, after one of their flights from Singapore was diverted there from Heathrow on Friday night. I'm ringing BA now to check whether you were on that flight.'
'That's great, Vic.'
She looked at him with affection. He was trying so hard to help her out, when lots of other blokes, having had a good fuck, would be leaving. She bent over him and gave him a kiss. She couldn't help noticing how his eyes peered down the front of her dress, so she sat down on his lap and slowly undid one button on the dress after the other, wriggling a little from side to side so that he had an ever increasing view of her boobs.
Unfortunately, the other end answered then and he turned his attention back to the telephone. 'Hello, my name's Victor Walters, and I wonder if you can help me. It's about the flight from Singapore that was diverted from Heathrow, on Friday evening.'
She pulled the dress from her shoulders so that it fell down and snagged on her nipples. Once again, she had his attention. She gave another wriggle and let the dress slip off her nipples, and in one smooth move, pulled his head down so that he was sucking on her left nipple.
'Oh,' she gasped. 'That is just so wonderful. You can't imagine how good it feels.'
She heard someone talking at the far end, and then Vic struggled to remove the nipple from his mouth, made all the more difficult because Joan tried to make it as difficult as possible. They were giggling like mad, by the time he was able to speak.
'I wanted to know whether a certain passenger was on boa…' His voice was cut off as she slipped her right nipple between his lips. He gave a little suck on it, but then twisted so that he could listen to what was being said on the phone. She slowly slid backwards down his knees, undid his zip, and applied her mouth to his rock-hard cock which came shooting out to meet her.
'Well, she's with me now… Eh-h-h-h' (as she sank her mouth down on his cock until it was thrusting past her tonsils) '…but she's not able to talk at the moment. Her name is Peters, Joan Peters.'
'Yes! Oh yes!'
Joan wasn't certain whether that was in response to the words he'd heard, or the fact that she was sliding her mouth up and down his cock in a fast rhythm. Worried that she might be letting events go too fast, she gave his cock one last lick, and then brought her body back up, so she was hovering only an inch above his prick.
'Do you want me?' she mouthed at him.
He pressed the handset against his ear and said, 'Yes, that would be excellent.'
She lowered herself an inch, so his prick was nuzzling against her pussy, but then moved it slightly so that he couldn't thrust inside her, as he tried to do. She laughed, then teased him more by moving herself in every direction except the correct one, until finally he let go the phone for a second, pushed her sideways and then thrust violent upward.
'Yes, that's it,' he gasped. Another press of the phone against his ear
She raised herself off him, further and further until his prick popped out.
She laughed, and then guided herself onto him again, so he was just nuzzling inside her pussy lips. She kissed him, and asked, 'Do you want me?'
'Yes, of course.'
She dropped vertically down his shaft in one long, hard thrust.
She quickly lifted herself up until he was almost popping out, then thrust down again – and again – and again.
'You're going to come,' she laughed at him, as he shook his head, desperately trying to avoid it.
Faster and faster she screwed him, until she was moving so quickly she was almost a blur.
'You're really going to come,' she whispered.
'Yes. Oh God, it's… I'm coming!'
'So am I,' she screamed. 'I'm coming too!'
'We're both coming.'
'We're coming! We're coming!'
'What was the phone call about?'
It was several minutes after her exquisite orgasm that Joan remembered there had been a phone call.
Victor had never had to pass on a message of real sensitivity before, and his social skills were, as always, totally useless. 'British Airways say that your husband's dead.'
'Your husband died whilst he was at Norton Airport on Friday. Er… I'm sorry… and all that.'
'You mean… Frank? Frank's dead?'
'And you were fucking me, whilst taking the death message?'
'Er, well, you were fucking me, actually. But er, sorry.'
'You bastard.' She hit him under the jaw, and he went down like a sack of coal.
The drive to Oxford in Victor's old Morris Minor took absolutely ages. After Joan had brought him round by throwing cold water over his face, Victor had timidly explained that the coroner wanted her to go there and identify Frank's body, before the post-mortem tomorrow. Since she realised that she was still drunk or drugged up to the eyebrows, she made Victor take her in his car. It smelt of petrol, it chugged slowly along holding up every other car on the road, and the heater didn't work.
Joan had changed into the most suitable garment she had, a black cocktail dress with a matching jacket, which looked almost respectable when the jacket was buttoned up. But on that wet afternoon, with the windscreen wipers grunching across the greasy windscreen, it was not warm enough and she felt decidedly miserable in that car. She was almost happy when they arrived at the mortuary.
The Coroner's Officer was absolutely professional – kind and sympathetic, but making absolutely certain the correct procedure was followed. Did she have identification? Fortunately, she'd spent a few minutes recovering the documents from the envelope in her suitcase, so she was able to hand over her passport. Did she have her marriage certificate with her? She found it and showed that. Could they now go and view the body?
She didn't know how she'd feel when she saw her dead husband. Would she even recognise him in her present state?
She did, of course, but she had very little feeling at all about his death. Perhaps it was because she was still drunk or drugged; the Coroner's Officer obviously thought she was a very cool fish, but answered her questions about Frank's death as accurately as he could.
It appeared Frank had landed at Norton International Airport on Friday evening. After picking up the suitcase from the carousel, he'd gone into the men's toilets, probably because he felt ill, where he'd locked himself and his suitcase into the disabled cubicle.
The toilet had been cleaned at the airport's normal 9 pm closing time, but the airport had remained open to receive the flight from Singapore, and the next scheduled clean was not until midday on Saturday, which was when Frank's body was discovered. No, they didn't know the cause of death, but there were no suspicious circumstances. They would notify her as soon as possible.
Could she take Frank's suitcase away with her? Unfortunately, not; it appeared that Frank had mistakenly collected someone else's suitcase from the carousel, and they were trying to contact that passenger. She could take Frank's personal effects and hand-baggage with her.
The drive back was far more cheerful than the drive there. Joan had now forgiven Victor for his lapse of social skills, and realising that she probably had not been that close to Frank, didn't feel so guilty about her own unfaithfulness.
In fact, now she was officially a widow, she should perhaps become a merry widow. The thought made her nipples start to tingle again, and she considered asking Vic to give her breasts some serious suckling when they got back. She slipped her hand onto his thigh, and moved it upwards until it was just touching his left testicle, where she played with it with her little finger. Fortunately, they managed to get back to the cottage without accident.
It was as Joan was about to have a shower, following their particularly messy coupling, that she noticed the smoke-detector above the Jacuzzi. It was unusual to have a smoke-detector in a bathroom, since they would normally be triggered by the moisture in the air, so she was more than a little curious. She stared up at it, registering the maker's name, and then her look of curiosity turned to anger.
She stormed into the bedroom, where Victor was still lying on the bed, totally knackered, and she stared at the ceiling above him.
'What is it?' he stammered, already blushing as Joan stared at the smoke-detector. 'Is there anything wrong?' He cleared his voice, hoping to get rid of the squeak into which his voice had abruptly turned.
'Where did you get these smoke-detectors from?'
'I can't remember. I think some guy came to the door offering to install them at a knock-down price.'
'Don't give me that crap,' Joan said, 'because I've seen this type of detector, with built-in camera and control system at the manufacturers in Singapore. They're one of the most sophisticated models on the market – a high-precision eyeball lens, which the software converts into a conventional view, but able to zoom onto any point in the room with fantastic magnification, and of course, totally silently, since there are no moving parts.'
'I don't know what...'
'Where's the control system?' she demanded.
He thought of trying to bluff it out, but knew he was beaten. 'Next door, in my house.'
'Right,' she said, slipping on a dress from her suitcase (without any underwear, Victor noticed), 'Let's go and have a look.'
Victor's set up was very impressive. As Joan had said, the video spy system was very sophisticated, and it covered all six of the holiday cottages in the complex which he owned. He'd copied all the best bits of action by his clients onto videotape, so he had fantastic archives on which to draw.
'So what are you doing with this?' Joan demanded. 'Blackmail?'
'No!' Victor shrieked. 'I'd never do that.'
'Selling it on the web, then?'
'No! It's just for my own personal… education.' He was rather pleased with that last word – he'd only just thought of it, but considering the way he had Joan writhing the second he'd first touched her, he felt it was perfectly justifiable. Certainly, she didn't challenge it.
'Presumably, the picture is initially stored on disc?' He nodded. 'With a movement detector, so you only record activity?'
He nodded again. He couldn't help wondering how it was that Joan knew so much about the equipment. She'd told him her husband was a buyer for an electrical company, but she must have taken a fantastic interest in his work.
'Does that mean you can view everything on me, from the moment I first arrived?' Another nod. 'Show me.'
He did so, setting up the picture in fast reverse mode, and flicking from camera to camera at the appropriate times, so her complete series of actions (and his, for much of the time) was played backward until the moment when the camera over the front door showed her arriving in the passenger seat of her car, with another car following right behind. She had viewed it silently until then, but now she spoke.
'You said this morning that a couple had found me and brought me here. But those are two men bringing me in.'
'They're a gay couple. Their names are…'
'…Gerald and Lesley,' Joan finished the sentence for him.
4 ANOTHER DAY - ANOTHER DARK CLOUD
They say that troubles come in threes. They're lying! Either that, or the counter which was supposed to record Peter Jones's threesome had got permanently stuck.
OK, as problems go, the first wasn't really a very big one. He and his business colleague, Frank Peters, were on the thirteen hour flight from Singapore to London Heathrow, returning to England for a month's break after a long period of working abroad. The flight itself had been perfect, the very best that British Airways could give, except for the announcement half an hour before their scheduled landing time, at nine pm on Friday evening.
'Ladies and Gentleman. This is your Captain, again. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, due to a security alert at London Heathrow, the airport has been closed. We have been diverted to Norton International Airport, where we'll get coaches to meet you and take you on to Heathrow. British Airways apologises for the delay and the inconvenience caused.'
Hardly an unusual event, and it didn't disturb Peter too much. To be honest, he had never heard of Norton International Airport, but then he'd been out of the country almost continuously for eight years, and if Heathrow was closed, they'd be looking for spare capacity over most of central and southern England.
Nor was time particularly critical that evening; he was on his way to his son, Nick's wedding in Cheltenham, at four pm the next day. Tonight, Frank and he had rooms booked at one of the Heathrow Airport hotels. Frank had a car-hire arranged for the morning and he would take Peter to the wedding, before going on to the Cotswolds. There, Frank would meet up with his recently estranged wife on the neutral ground of a rented holiday cottage, and see if he could talk her into going back to live with him.
The change of airports would mean they would arrive at their hotel a bit later, but that wasn't really a problem, since they'd both had plenty of sleep on the flight. In fact, Peter went back to sleep until they were on the point of touchdown.
There are two ways in which people disembark from planes. There's the type who immediately get up as soon as the seat-belt warning sign goes off, and then stand waiting, with their heads bent at an awkward angle under the luggage bins, or caught in the crush in the middle of putting on a coat, and stuck with one arm in the sleeve, and the other trapped behind their backs. This wait can be for five minutes or fifteen, depending upon how long it takes them to get the steps in position outside, or move the disembarkation equipment against the doors and open them.
Peter was definitely of the other type. Realising that it would take ages for the baggage to get to the baggage-halls, and that no one was going anywhere until the coaches arrived to transport them back to London Heathrow, he sat back in his seat and allowed himself to properly awaken whilst the crush subsided, and he could get off the plane in a civilised way.
It was fortunate that Frank had been sitting in the aisle seat, since he was unquestionably one of the former. In fact, he already had his coat on and his hand baggage under the seat before they landed, so he was able to make a fantastic dash towards the door before everyone else stood up. But he was still caught for the whole of the fifteen minutes it took to get the door open. Then he disappeared from view. Peter shook his head and sighed. He'd catch up with him in the baggage-hall.
When he got to the baggage-hall, the bags were already in full flow around the carousel. He searched the hall, looking for Frank, hoping he'd had the nous to get two baggage trolleys for the extra-large suitcases they both had with them, and he was a bit surprised to see that Frank had already left the baggage-hall. He sighed again. Presumably, he'd gone out to secure a place on one of the transfer coaches which, the announcement said, had now arrived at the airport.
Problem Number Two; his suitcase didn’t arrive on the carousel. Again, hardly a unique event if you frequently travel by air, but this time it could be bloody inconvenient. His suit for the wedding was inside. If the suitcase didn't catch him up within the next few hours, he'd have to find a place where he could hire a replacement, which was going to disrupt the whole of the next day. He found an official who made him fill in lots of forms in triplicate, requesting his contact details for the next two weeks. It took ages, but at least he knew that Frank would be holding the coach outside – preventing it from driving off without him.
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! He should have guessed Problem Number Three. It was totally deserted outside the terminal building. In spite of its title, Norton International was obviously one of those small, provincial airports which normally close at nine every evening. Tonight, they'd obviously held it open especially for their flight. It would have been difficult to hide a shopping trolley on the deserted tarmac around the terminal; certainly, there were no fifty-seater coaches!
He went back inside the terminal, and after walking around the empty building for ages, finally found a manager, who firstly told him all the British Airways staff had left on the coaches and he couldn't do anything, and then, reluctantly, got on the phone to their Customer Service.
They were superb. Whilst he was on the phone, they booked him a room at the Norton Airport Hotel, and proposed that a car would pick him up tomorrow morning and take him to Heathrow.
He did some quick mental calculations, and made an alternative offer: a three day self-drive car would be cheaper for them, and more convenient for him. They instantly agreed, booked it, and promised it would be at the hotel for eight am, next day.
He'd seen the neon signs illuminating the Norton Airport Hotel when he'd gone outside before, so he knew it was only about a quarter-mile away. He would have taken a taxi and charged it to BA, but there was no sign of one outside, so he set out to walk across the car-park towards the three-storey building.
It didn't help that, after living in Singapore for so long, he wasn't acclimatised to cold and clammy British weather, or that it started to slightly drizzle when he was half-way across the car-park. But what really didn't help was the ten-foot high security fence at the edge of the car-park, which prevented him walking the last fifty yards to the hotel!
To his right, he could see some construction work in progress to extend the car-park. He traipsed over there, climbed the temporary barriers and trudged over the uneven surface, stumbling in the pitch darkness after the glare of the flood-lighting. It only took a couple of minutes, and a couple of bruised shins, to reach the point where the security fence ended, and then he was only separated from the hotel by a four-foot high wall. Without any baggage, it was a simple matter to put both hands flat on the top of the wall, leap up and twist at the same time, so that he was sitting on the top of the wall, then swivel first one leg, then the other, over the wall and leap down.
In the instant after he should have hit the ground and did not, he realised that Problem Number Four had arrived. Had the drainage ditch not been full of mud, he might have broken an ankle or something more serious. As it was, he landed face down in the mud which was several feet deep. He floundered, gulping air and mud at the same time and choking, and struggling to free his feet from a tree-root, which was trying to hold him down.
Eventually, he crawled up the sloping side of the ditch, and sat for a moment to get his breath, covered in horrible slime. He sat there for quite a bit longer than he needed, staring through the plate-glass of the entrance foyer of the hotel – at the deep pile carpets and smart pot plants, realising he was going to have to walk in there dripping slimy mud, or stay outside all night!
The Assistant Manager was outstanding. Don't worry about the mud. The important thing was that he was safe. BA had made the booking, so he could go straight up to his room and grab a shower. There would be a dressing-gown in the room, so he could put all his clothes in a laundry bag, and he'd get Housekeeping to immediately wash them and get them dried, ready for 7 am tomorrow morning. Oh, and did he want to register a credit card to pay for any extras, such as telephone calls?
He reached for the bum bag he kept at his waist, which contained his wallet and travel documents. It was at that moment he lost count of the number of problems he'd experienced so far, as he remembered something caught around his legs when he was in the ditch, which he'd kicked free.
No problem, the Assistant Manager said; he would personally go out there with a flash-lamp and search for the missing bag. He would telephone him in his room as soon as he returned.
His call came just after he'd finished his shower, and had taken his mobile-phone to bits and was washing the mud from each bit in the wash-basin. The Manager found the spot where he'd fallen in, but there was absolutely no sign of the missing bag. First thing tomorrow morning, he would get Maintenance to try dredging for it.
He couldn't have done any more. Peter thanked him, and after drying and assembling his mobile-phone and finding it still didn't work, went to bed.
5 THE DARK CLOUD GETS BLACKER
With the difference in time zones, he woke up at some stupidly early hour on Saturday morning, and lay in bed, contemplating his position. Firstly, there was the strange fact that his friend, Frank, had abandoned him at the airport.
Frank and he had worked in Singapore for many years, doing virtually the same jobs as Overseas Buyers, but for competing British electrical retail companies. Whatever electrical product you may have recently bought in the UK – kettles, radios, CD players – if it was made in Singapore, one of them probably arranged its purchase. They were actually quite similar in many ways, but since they were direct competitors, they had never been particularly friendly. Perhaps if they happened to bump into each other, they would have a drink together, but that would be all.
But just over a month ago, Peter's wife, Susan, had left him, to live with his boss – the head of their Singapore office. For him, a bad situation was made much worse because it appeared that, for well over a year, virtually everyone in the company, apart from him, had known the two had been having a steamy affair. As a result, he became very disillusioned with his former colleagues, especially his so-called friends.
A few days after Susan's departure, Frank's wife, Joan, left him and returned to England. To be honest, Peter didn't think anyone was surprised by that. Even from across a crowded restaurant, the flighty glances she gave to every male in sight were as obvious an invitation as he had ever seen. Had he not been one of those people who believed in being faithful to one's partner (unlike his shitty wife), he'd probably have been crowding around her himself. So, to most people, the surprise was that their marriage lasted so long; and if that sounded just a little like having the same attitude as Peter had found so obnoxious in his closest friends, perhaps that explains why he went out of his way to make contact with Frank and talk through his problems.
They had since become the closest of pals, and met up several times a week to eat, get drunk, and moan about the bitchiness of women. But while Peter never wanted to see Susan again, Frank desperately wanted Joan to return. After he'd told Frank he was going to England for Nick's wedding, it had seemed quite natural that Frank should book the same flight, to try to obtain a reconciliation with Joan. So, with their recent close friendship, and shared itinerary for the onward journey, it was easy to see why Peter was so surprised that Frank hadn't held the coach for him.
But as he lay in bed reflecting, he thought that maybe he was being unreasonable. There would probably be a dozen coaches waiting outside to take all the passengers from a Jumbo. It was dark; people would be dashing from coach to coach to find seats or places for their luggage, or their friends and relatives. Frank may have saved him a seat to start with, but how could he be certain he hadn't got on another coach? It would have been chaos, and Frank would not have stood a chance.
Presumably, he'd tried to call him on his mobile, but he hadn't switched it on before he fell in the ditch, and it hadn't been working since. So, he concluded, Frank should receive a full pardon.
Unfortunately, the question of Frank's loyalty was only a minor part of his problems. Apart from the hotel dressing-gown, he had absolutely nothing to wear, and no money or credit cards with which to buy anything. In theory, his clothes should be laundered and arrive by seven am, his breakfast at seven-thirty, the hire car at eight, and there would be sufficient time for him to drive to the home of Nick's future in-laws (where he was staying until the wedding), borrow some cash, hire a suit, and get to the church on time. But there were a hell of a lot of things which could go wrong – and knowing his recent luck, they probably would.
Seven am came and went, and no clothes appeared. He tried ringing Housekeeping. The phone rang unanswered, until it diverted to an answering machine. He left an urgent message.
Ten minutes later, they hadn't responded, so he rang again, and when the same thing happened, rang Reception. There was a different Assistant Manager on duty, who was far too busy to speak to him personally, but, the woman told him that Reception couldn't do anything anyway, since Housekeeping were a law unto themselves.
He continued to ring Housekeeping at ten minute intervals, and at seven-thirty, telephoned Reception again. Line busy!
So it went on. His breakfast was late, and when he rang the restaurant, was told it was on its way – but in the kind of voice which indicates they'd never seen his original order.
Eight o'clock, his breakfast finally arrived, and after explaining his plight to the waitress, she assured him she would go down to Housekeeping and get them to call. They didn't, and even worse, by eight-fifteen, the promised car hadn't arrived, either.
He tried to make a call to BA, but his telephone was not authorised to make outside calls. 'Please contact Reception to set up an account.' Reception was permanently engaged!
He rang the Restaurant to enquire whether the waitress had discovered anything about his clothes, and was told it was not their job to sort out Housekeeping; if he had a complaint, he should see the Manager.
And then, just before nine, the airport baggage-office telephoned to tell him they had found his suitcase sitting in the Customs' area, and would send it straight around. It was fortunate that call came just before the next, since it was Housekeeping, to tell him they'd been unable to do anything with his clothes in the hotel, so they'd sent them to their laundry service, and would be back at the hotel on Wednesday! He didn't even explode, simply gave them the forwarding address, expecting never to see his clothes again.
To complete the series of calls, the local car-hire firm telephoned. 'Sorry we haven't delivered a car to you yet, Mr Jones. The truth is we weren't expecting that flight from Singapore last night, and it's totally cleared out our stock. Our driver is collecting a car at the moment, and he'll be passing your hotel quite soon. Obviously, we'd normally bring it back here for full servicing, but we understand you want it quite urgently. If you're happy to accept the car as it is…'
'Send him straight here,' he ordered. 'I can empty the ashtrays myself.'
At last, he thought, things were starting to look hopeful. Little did he know!
His suitcase arrived at ten. He hadn't got the key for it, of course, but he used a knife from his breakfast tray to slip the inadequate locks and threw the lid open, already to leap into tee-shirt and jeans. The silk dress lying on top was pure white, with a plunging cleavage, and made of such light material, it must surely be translucent.
The problem was that he hadn't packed a white, silk dress in his suitcase. Even if Susan hadn't taken all her clothes with her, her treachery had made him so wild he'd have shredded them, rather than keeping them until he could return them to her.
There was, however, a very obvious solution which sprang to mind. A week ago, he'd showed Frank the case he'd bought to carry all the junk he was going to bring back to England. It was huge, and more resembled a ship's trunk than a suitcase. Frank wanted to get into Joan's good books by taking her all the clothes she'd left behind in Singapore, so realising that he needed one just as big, he went to the same store and bought an identical trunk.
In the baggage-hall, Frank must have seen Peter's case as it came along the carousel and grabbed it, thinking it was his. Meanwhile, Frank's own suitcase had gone astray, and now it had been found and returned here. No doubt, Frank had been frantically trying to call him all morning, desperately hoping that he had his suitcase.
If he hadn't been so anxious to regain his wedding suit, he'd have let the bugger sweat as a punishment for abandoning him in the airport. But in the meantime, he didn't have any conscience about borrowing a few of his clothes from his suitcase.
Just to be certain it really was Frank's suitcase, he pulled out the thick document envelope stuffed in the inside pocket of the suitcase, and tipped the contents over his bed. There were all kinds of credit cards and documents belonging to Joan – more importantly, there was £1000 in notes!
Naturally, he wouldn't steal Frank's money, since he would eventually return it to him in full, but the money would certainly help him out of his current cash crisis. Since it didn't look as though he'd recover his suit before the wedding, at least he now had the cash to hire a suit, as well as buy himself a lunch.
The phone rang again – it was the car delivery driver. 'Just leave the keys at Reception,' he told him. 'That will be fine.'
'Sorry,' the man said, 'I can't do that. I need to fill in your licence details.'
Shit! His licence was at the bottom of a muddy creek. He tried explaining nicely, why he couldn't give them to him, and then tried to bully him, but he was immoveable.
'You wouldn't be covered by insurance unless we have your licence details. I'm sorry sir; I simply can't let you have the car.'
A flash of inspiration. 'Hang on,' Peter told him, then riffled through Joan's documents lying on his bed: birth certificate, marriage licence, credit cards, passport AND…
A driving licence!
'My friend will drive,' Peter told him. 'If you come up to our room, you can see her licence.'
OK, he knew that was rather naughty. Driving without insurance is a highly irresponsible crime, but he reasoned that he was not going to have an accident, and that even if he did, he could surely bluff his company into making a claim from their company-wide motor insurance.
With Joan's licence details duly entered on the driver's forms, he handed over the keys, and departed, while Peter started to flick through the contents of the suitcase, looking for Frank's jeans and shirts.
Then he went through it again, more carefully. Finally, he removed every item from the suitcase and painstakingly laid everything out on the bed, looking for the items he had missed. The problem was, he hadn't missed any items. Every article of clothing in the suitcase not only patently belonged to Joan, but it also appeared that she didn't own a single pair of jeans or trousers!
6 EVEN BLACK CLOUDS HAVE A SILVER LINING
There was not one item which was remotely suitable for him to wear without looking totally stupid. Almost all the tops and dresses were brightly coloured with revealing cleavages, and there wasn't a single pair of shorts or trousers. It appeared that Frank had packed all the clothes he'd needed for the duration of his four week stay in the UK in his hand-baggage!
It was seeing Joan's wig which started to make him think. Although he'd never met Joan close up, he knew about the nasty scars to both sides of her face – he thought as a result of being caught in a fire during her childhood.
She had always done her best to hide the impact, partly by focusing men's eyes on much more interesting parts of her – which is why she always displayed her revealing cleavages – but also with her thick, light-brown, shoulder-length hair. It half covered her eyes, hid most of her cheeks, and then curled at the front under her chin, so that little could really be seen of the majority of her face. It didn't surprise Peter very much to learn this was a wig. He pulled it out of the wig-box and twirled it in his hands, ideas spinning through his mind, and then, as quickly, being dismissed.
It would never work. He had more than a day' stubble on his chin, and even if he was to remove every hair on his body with the wax in her beauty kit, he'd still be a long way short of filling the front of the low cut blouses and dresses. He needed something else to help him there, and he vaguely wondered whether Joan had any padded bras, which he could stuff with cotton wool.
He spent a few minutes looking through her bras, all of which were definitely non-padded, before he turned his attention to the large cardboard tube, with the picture of the beautiful woman on the side. 'Singapore Girl,' the banner said, with underneath, 'You can have the sexiest body in town.' He pulled the end cap off the tube, and removed the flesh-coloured garment from inside.
It turned out to be two garments actually. The first was a leotard, with long sleeves, and a high collar, fitting right up the neck and under the chin. He couldn't identify what the leotard was made from, but it was a very thin, stretchy material and smooth to the touch, almost like skin. In fact, with it being flesh-coloured, it felt and looked exactly like real skin.
He'd thought the garment was wrapped around something soft and bulky when he'd first pulled it out of the tube, but as he spread it out before him, he realised that the bulkiness was due to the huge gel inserts in the breasts which, as he hung the garment before him, formed tits the size of honeydew melons.
'So all along,' he thought, 'the superb tits that Joan had been displaying to the world were totally false, and we were all taken in.
'And if Joan could do it,' he speculated, 'why not him?'
But it was the second garment which really fascinated him. It was in the same flesh-coloured material, and was like a pair of footless tights, except that there was thick padding all around the buttocks, hips and outer thighs.
It was strange; he'd always thought women were trying to minimise the size of their hips and bums – not make them much bigger, but that's certainly what this garment would do.
The instructions enclosed with the bodysuit were written in several languages, including poor English, and it took him a few seconds to find the start of the English.
"Male to Female Bodysuit." He did a re-take, and then read on to check his assumption: sure enough, the bodysuit was designed to make a male look like a shapely woman. So what was it doing in Joan's suitcase? Except of course, the bodysuit was in Frank's suitcase – not Joan's.
It didn't take long to work out the solution. He knew that Frank had felt terribly shamed by Joan's departure, and desperately wanted her back. Clearly, he'd misled him when he told him she'd agreed to see him. Instead, he'd intended to spend the time recreating Joan for himself. And why not?
He was going to have to tread extremely carefully when it came to returning the suitcase to Frank, revealing that he knew his secret. Not that he had any problem with his pastimes; especially as it now appeared, he was going to get acquainted with them himself. Needs must!
According to the blurb, the bodysuit provided the ultimate dream for any male wishing to temporarily become a beautiful female. It provided a: "realistic, sensitive vagina, allowing full male penetration" and breasts that were: "so responsive, the user could reach orgasm with oral sex". Yeah! And pigs might fly!
The secret, he was told, was the touch-sensitive artificial skin connected to a micro-chip, which would digitally amplify the minute signals, and transmit them to the appropriate parts of the wearer's own skin. It all sounded good, but on the other hand, as a buyer of electrical goods from the Far East, Peter had seen lots of fantastic promises and learnt to be always sceptical until he'd witnessed the results for himself.
The important question was, could he don this bodysuit, get dressed and look realistic enough to step outside his room? To some extent, the answer was irrelevant – he had to go out, and he must look better than he would do simply wearing Joan's clothes on his unmodified body. The question was a no-brainer.
The most intricate part of putting on the bodysuit was getting his genitals inside the false cunt, which was an exceptionally uncomfortable operation. He had to pull the leggings over his feet and up the legs as far as his groin, then fumble around inside, feeding his balls and prick into a "filament bag", shaped to fit and made of a stretchy-material almost like a sheer stocking. When he'd finally got his goolies packed inside the bag, it clung tightly to his skin, and the constriction especially around the hilt of his shaft served to give him a massive erection. "An erection should be encouraged," the poorly written instructions said, "but do not masturbate or permit ejaculation, as this may damage the filament bag. When fully erect, use the spray compound to completely cover the genitals.
The compound made his prick swell even more, and he could now see the bag was made of a fine diamond mesh, through which everything bulged, a bit like a woman's thigh bulging in tiny diamond patterns through fishnet-tights which were too tight.
He read the next step of the instructions: "Take one of the pills to progress to the next stage of your conversion. The pill will not only eliminate any chance of an erection for the rest of the day, but also slowly release helium into your throat so that your voice will rise in pitch, and sound like a perfect female voice."
He wasn't too keen on taking strange pills, but he had to not only get rid of the massive erection, which showed absolutely no sign of subsiding on its own, but also ensure it did not return at an inopportune moment. Hopefully, he wouldn't need his voice converting, since he hoped not to speak to anyone except Nick, but it might come in handy for the odd word, here and there. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He decided to take a pill.
The pills were in a bubble pack which looked just like a pack of birth-pills, and the instructions said that he would have to take one every day that he remained in the bodysuit.
He swallowed one with a glass of water, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Then, his hard-on disappeared with the speed of a bursting balloon, and for a few more seconds, his balls seemed to be competing with his prick as to which could nestle up closest to his torso, by occupying the smallest space possible. His balls won, as with quite considerable discomfort, first the right ball and then the left disappeared inside his body, leaving the empty sacs shrivelled up and wrinkled. His prick had reduced to about two centimetres in length and one in width.
He desperately read the instructions to check whether that was supposed to happen; it was. "When the balls have disappeared inside the body, push the ball sacs after them, where the adhesive component of the spray compound will ensure they are kept safely tucked out of the way." They were right; the compound was sticky and as soon as he'd pushed the sacs up inside his body, they stayed there. Finally, he had to pull the leggings up to his waist, and locate his minute cock into the tube in the false vagina through which he would piss. Again, the adhesive kept it nicely in place.
The leggings had a zip fastener at the rear, from anus to waist. It was a bit difficult to do up, but when he'd done so, it pulled in his tummy wonderfully, and with his newly enhanced wide hips and round bum, gave him the lower half of a perfect hourglass figure. The leotard went over his head and down his body, and then the gusset had to be drawn firmly between his legs and fastened at the rear. There was even a pubic wig to give added realism.
He read on: "You now have a fully functional female body. You will be able to feel every touch to your vagina, by means of the minute filaments glued to your genitals, which apply small electrical discharges to the skin."
Damn! He knew he should always fully read the instructions before commencing any operation. He certainly didn't like the sound of having electrical filaments glued to his testicles, but it was too late to go back, and in any case, what else could he have done? He guessed that as long as he didn't start playing around with his new pussy, he wouldn't get his balls blown off by a faulty circuit.
However, when it was all in place, he actually felt very comfortable. With his huge hips and bum, he looked like a woman, and if he showed a nice cleavage, no one was going to look at his face too keenly. It had taken him some time, but having done everything according to the instructions, at least he could be certain he wouldn't be risking the chance of an embarrassing erection pushing through his dress at a crucial moment – provided, of course, the pill worked as it was supposed to, which in itself was a huge assumption.
Only the final pieces of disguise were left: a painful waxing process to remove his facial hair; and then he spent a few minutes sticking on false nails, which gave him reasonably attractive hands for when he handed back the hotel key. Finally, the wig slipped onto his head, and he secured it in place with adhesive from a tube.
As he critically stared at himself in the mirror, he was more than impressed with the reality of his transformation. If he didn't know better, he would be well and truly taken in by the naked girl before him, marred only by the scars on the side of her face.
But he didn't have time to stand and stare at the beautiful girl. He had to get dressed and on his way. He discarded the white silk dress in favour of a cream, shirt-waister dress, with a large, bright floral pattern. It was a suitable length since it would fall below the knee, but it could be unbuttoned at both top and bottom to the wearer's taste. He guessed Joan would have chosen it for just the same qualities which he particularly wanted; to draw attention away from the face and onto the body, whilst preserving a little decency, which the white silk dress certainly would not.
Having selected his dress, he chose a white platform bra, and matching white panties, suspender-belt and stockings, and shoes with two-inch heels. He slipped them all on, but just in time remembered from his earlier days with Susan, that knickers go over the suspender belt and stockings, and not underneath, otherwise they all have to be undone, simply in order to have a piss.
Then he put on the dress and buttoned it fully at the bottom, but left as many top buttons undone as he could without his bra showing. He had a cleavage which would draw the lustful attention of every male, and the jealous attention of every female. Anyone glancing at his face might see the scars, but he was convinced that absolutely no one would consider for one moment that he was a man.
He kept out the lovely white handbag which he thought would match his outfit quite nicely, slipped his mobile-phone and the money inside and put all Joan's other things – he meant HIS things (the instructions had given strict directions about thinking himself into the role) – back into the suitcase, and shut it up. Strictly speaking, he should have sorted out his driving licence from the other papers, and put that in his handbag, but it had taken him so long to get ready, he thought he ought to get on the road as soon as he could.
As he was about to leave the room, he had one of those nasty little nagging doubts that he'd overlooked something very important, so he took another look around the room and en-suite. There, on the washbasin, was the pack of voice-changing pills. Although he definitely wasn't going to need them again, it looked so similar to a pack of birth-pills he thought someone might take the wrong thing by mistake! He slipped the pack into his handbag, took a deep breath, opened the door and went out into the hotel corridor.
He released that breath as he took the first few steps along the corridor ("Lead with the hips forward," the instructions had said, "and pull your shoulders back and down"). He was on his way. Fortunately, he had no bill to pay, so he'd be able to simply hand in his room-key, find his hire-car, drive to Cheltenham, and borrow some of Nick's clothes to go out and find a hire-suit – all without speaking to anyone except Nick.
'That's a huge suitcase. Can I help you with it?'
The guy had been approaching from the direction of the lifts, and for some reason, instead of merely moving to one side of the corridor to allow him to wheel the case past, he stood in the centre of it, so Peter had to come to a halt before him. He wondered if he was drunk and perhaps trying to start a fight. He was about to draw himself up to his full height and tell him to get out of his way, before realisation came with a rush.
'I'm fine, thank you,' he whispered in his softest voice. Surprisingly, it sounded OK. The helium pills must have worked.
Unfortunately, the guy wouldn't take no for an answer. 'It's no problem.'
He reached past him to take the suitcase from his hand, accidentally brushing against his body as he did so. Peter considered punching him in the stomach, or kneeing him in the balls, or just telling him to go and get fucked, but that's not what women did.
'There's no need, really, but… Oh, thank you!'
He even managed to give the man a smile. After all, he could pull the bloody thing around the car park until he'd found the rental car left for him, and since he only knew the registration number and make – a BMW – it might take ages.
He called the lift, allowed Peter to go in first, but then, as the doors started to close, had to rush to get himself and the suitcase inside, which meant he had to squash up against him again. With a sudden rush of excitement, it occurred to Peter that, far from being terrified of meeting anyone on his journey, he was so thrilled by the thought that he could feel his nipples tingling.
He'd hardly had chance to reason that his nipples were inanimate bits of plastic, and there was no way they could tingle, when they arrived at the ground floor and the doors opened.
It had been deserted in the lobby when he arrived yesterday evening, and he'd been assuming it would be much the same now. Was he wrong? There must have been at least five coach parties who were either just arriving or just leaving, including a group of fifteen-year-old schoolboys who took one look at him and then started making comments like: 'Look at the tits on that!' or 'You don't get many of those to the pound!'
The more mature males in the foyer didn't make any remarks, but he could feel their eyes drilling through his clothes, as he walked over to the Reception counter (remember, hips forward – shoulders back), and posted his key through the slot in the surface. He rejoined his volunteer porter, and they went outside searching for his car.
He almost walked past it, as he was looking for a conventional saloon. It was a Z4 Roadster; the kind of sports car that looks as though it's designed for Le Mans; the kind of sports car that neither Frank nor he would normally have hired, but Joan certainly would. It suited him, with his cream-coloured dress, casually unbuttoned and exposing his superb breasts to the world.
His volunteer porter almost wet himself with excitement, and he got him to lift the suitcase into the boot – which Peter thought practically gave the man a hernia – whilst he got into the driver's seat. He started the engine, gunned the accelerator, put it into gear and gave the man a nice wave as he took off with a squeal of tyres.
The next problem came almost immediately: no petrol in the tank! If the car had been properly serviced, the tank would have been full, but as it was, the warning light was flashing. If he hadn't had his confidence boosted by the willing services of his volunteer porter, the thought of going to a petrol station would have given him a big problem. As it was, he decided he could undo a few buttons on the lower part of his dress to provide plenty of distraction as he got out of the low-slung roadster. The art of concealment, he was learning, was to make oneself more conspicuous. Even more important, he knew, was to think himself into the role. He started mentally saying: 'I am Joan Peters. I am Joan Peters.' It was only then that he realised how his name and Joan's were almost a reversal of each other; somehow, that made it much more easy to identify with her. 'I am Joan Peters. I am Joan Peters,' he repeated.
There must have been at least three guys who clocked him getting out of the car. As he drove onto the forecourt, they were all simply standing next to their cars, minding their own business as they filled their tanks. Suddenly, as one, they all spun to follow the progress of his car as he drove it to the furthest set of pumps. Two of them had to change the way they were standing ¬– turning round so their backs were towards the cars they were filling, to keep him naturally in their view.
All three must have seen the glimpse of suspender belt after he opened the car door, swivelled in his seat, and stretched one leg to the ground. All three must have stared down his cleavage, as he bent forwards to stand up. But he was absolutely certain that none of them looked at any other aspect of him.
Him, he was just an unsuspecting woman, totally unaware of the attention he was getting as he bent over to put the petrol nozzle into his filler cap, and stayed in that position whilst the tank filled. It was only as it was almost full and he glanced sideways towards the shop, that he saw himself reflected in the plate-glass window.
He hadn’t really noticed, when he put on the dress, that there was a long slit up the rear of the dress. However, from the view he could see, of stocking-tops and lacy white suspenders, he was pretty certain that all the men on the forecourt had discovered that fact well before him.
He stood up and returned the nozzle to the pump, giving a friendly, but innocent smile at one of the blokes goggling at him. He guiltily smiled back, then turned back to return his own nozzle to the petrol pump. As he moved towards the garage shop, he noticed that, coincidentally, all the men appeared to have finished filling their tanks at exactly the same time, as they all came rushing over to the shop doorway, and then courteously stood back to permit him to enter first. And they say that gallantry is dead!
With his soft voice, paying for the petrol with Joan's cash was no problem, and he returned to his car, and moved it away from the pumps into a parking spot, so he could study the map from the car-rental pack.
Fantastic! Norton was in rural Oxfordshire, far closer to Cheltenham than he could have hoped, and probably only about an hour's drive, taking him right through the Cotswolds – one of the most beautiful areas of countryside in England.
The sun came out from under its cloud and shone down on him. In a fit of bravado, he flicked the switch to take down the top, and then set off with a squeal of tyres, his hair blowing in the breeze.
The journey was as easy – and pretty – as he had hoped, and it was only eleven-thirty when the road-sign indicated he was a mere twelve miles from Cheltenham. Until then, he'd been enjoying the drive; even the town centres, crowded with Saturday shoppers had been easy to negotiate, since so many drivers seemed happy to give way to the pretty girl in the open-top roadster.
But the closeness of his destination suddenly concentrated the mind, and he realised it would be absolute madness to drive to Nick's in-laws' house. Susan and her lover would be there by now, and only a few hours later, there'd be at least three wedding speeches being made. It was a dead cert that at least two of them would feature the groom's father arriving at the bride's house in drag.
The pub had a large sign outside: 'FOOD SERVED ALL DAY.' He abruptly turned in and parked. Apart from anything else, his body clock, still set to Singapore time, was telling him that he was hours late for lunch. He would eat, whilst he considered the best option.
At that hour, there were few customers and plenty of empty tables, so he chose one in a secluded corner, hoping as most woman would on their own, not to attract the attention of every male in the place. He should have known better.
When he returned to his table after placing his order at the bar, there were a couple of blokes sitting at the next table. Surprisingly though (perhaps even disappointingly), they didn't even look at him as he walked past carrying his large glass of Chardonnay – a luxury, he knew, but he reckoned he'd deserved it for what he'd done so far, and anyway, he wasn't intending to drive much further.
By the time his food arrived, he'd decided exactly what he had to do. His experiences this morning had given him sufficient confidence for him to drive into Cheltenham town centre, park, and then walk into Marks and Spencer and purchase a man's tracksuit and track shoes. He'd have to find a unisex toilet somewhere ¬– perhaps a disabled one – and remove his bodysuit and put on the tracksuit. Then it would be a simple matter to leave as a male, and find a shop to hire himself a wedding suit and everything to go with it.
That resolved, he got on with his meal. The food was excellent, and the mystery of why the two blokes never looked at him was explained by surreptitiously listening to their conversation: they were gays. The larger of the two was called Gerald, and he was rather dishy looking, but it was the smaller man, Lesley, who spoke in the affected voice, with every other word being 'Darling' or 'Sweetie'. He gave a mental sigh of relief; he'd thought he'd lost his power of attraction to heterosexual men! Then he grinned for thinking himself into his part so thoroughly. Gerald caught his eye as he grinned, and smiled back at him; he really was rather dishy, he thought, and if he was woman…
'Don't even imagine it, girl,' he told himself, but added self-congratulations for so completely thinking himself into his role.
But that tiny interaction between himself and Gerald did give him pause for thought about how he'd so naturally fallen into character. Certainly, if he was not to be publicly exposed, he had been compelled to think himself into the part. But how far did that take him towards sitting in a pub and making eyes at an obviously gay male, something that would have been absolutely unthinkable yesterday?
Yet as a pretty woman, he felt such action was reasonably safe. Lesley appeared so intent upon flickering his eyelashes at Gerald, he didn't notice any potential competition from him.
'Would he,' Peter pondered, 'risk making eyes at a heterosexual, unaccompanied male?'
'Not at this moment – he had a wedding to attend,' was his instantaneous response. The answer shocked him all the more so because it was an instinctive reaction – rather than a reasoned one. But as he thought about it some more, his answer did not even appear that unreasonable. After all, yesterday he had been a male who enjoyed heterosexual intercourse – the erect penis plunging inside a pussy, and moving about in an extremely pleasant manner, to the benefit of both parties, until semen squirted deep inside the vagina. Now he was a female, he could contribute a different piece of his anatomy to the action, but there was absolutely no reason at all why his love of heterosexual intercourse should be changed.
He slightly surprised himself at such a rationale, but he did recall how sexually excited he'd been all morning. Not that sexual excitement in itself was a particularly unusual event for him; in fact, he guessed, like most men, he was continually sexually excited throughout his normal day. A pretty girl with a short skirt would get into the lift with him, and he'd be imagining lifting the skirt and sticking his erect penis into her pussy; the buxom personal manager at work would pop into his office to discuss some staffing issue, and whilst she was talking about National Insurance and pension contributions, he'd be thinking of shoving his prick between her tits and jerking off.
On a typical day, he'd probably think about having sex with some random woman on ten or fifteen separate occasions. It's what men did. Except that even now he was a woman, he was still thinking about having sex with random men on numerous occasions. And women didn't normally do that. Did they?
He glanced over towards the bar, which by now was reasonably full. Several men had obviously been gazing at him, and they hurriedly averted their eyes, but he knew what they'd all been thinking. A shot of adrenaline flushed through his body as he realised that, right at that moment, he could walk up to any one of the unaccompanied blokes and ask if they wanted to fuck him, and almost every one of them would take up his offer.
He couldn't help wondering what it would feel like. The pain as a large prick was shoved into a small opening; the power of the man working like a steam-hammer towards his own orgasm; the exquisite stroke of his cock against the walls of your vagina; and finally, the hot spunk squirting deep inside.
And what about afterwards? One of the sad things about being a man in his mid-forties was that his staying power had definitely dwindled. No longer could he follow one fantastic ejaculation with another, only a few minutes later. But since a girl doesn't ejaculate, would his libido remain undiminished, no matter how many orgasms he had? Wow, if his artificial vagina worked half as good as the instruction manual had indicated, he could be a convert to the life of a woman forever!
He smiled then, as he realised he had been completely taken in by the guff written in the instruction manual. There was no way he could have any kind of feeling in his artificial bits. As for having an orgasm simply because some bloke stuck his tool into the piece of plastic between his legs, and jerked off into it, he was living in dreamland.
He had to laugh to himself as he thought about the number of men who'd been staring at him all morning, lusting after the sexy woman on her own, little realising they were looking at a complete sham. A bloke at the bar caught his smile and returned it, so he hurriedly turned back to his food – he had a wedding to attend.
It was just after he had finished his meal and was savouring the remaining half-glass of wine, when the phone in his handbag rang: that same phone which had been into the muddy ditch and back, and never worked since – until now. He pulled it out and glanced at the display – NICK. Brilliant! But first, he needed to make certain he could take the call in privacy.
He answered the call but didn't start speaking until he'd gone into the lobby by the toilets.
'Nick. High! How is everything?' Perhaps someday he would tell him his tale, but certainly not today.
'Oh Dad! Am he glad I've managed to get hold of you, at last. I tried ringing you in Singapore, yesterday morning, but you must have taken off by that time. Then I've been calling last night and this morning. Where are you? And why does your voice sound so funny?'
He ignored the question about the voice. 'I'm just outside Cheltenham. My baggage went missing at the airport, so I need to go into town and rent a suit, but I don't see any problem in getting to the church on time. So don't worry about me.'
'No, Dad! The wedding's off!' He paused for a second before continuing: 'It wasn't going to work out, especially when her parents started putting the boot into me.'
If troubles come in threes, how far over the limit had his counter gone? He sighed. 'Oh, Nick! I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong with the parents? They seemed really nice people when I met them.'
'You'd think people of that age would know better.'
When you bring up a child, you get to know the meaning of every nuance. Nick was definitely guilty of something. 'Better than what?'
'At their age! Going to bed in the afternoon in order to have sex. It's disgusting!'
Since they were probably within a couple of years of Peter's own age, he didn't think it was that outrageous, but there was something else behind this. 'Well, I guess that's their business. Why was it a problem?'
Nick gave a verbal shrug. 'They went to their bedroom, and they found me and Laura in their bed, banging away like rabbits.'
He smiled at the thought. 'Well, their reaction seems a bit over the top. After all it's not as though…' he paused. 'Hang on! You were getting married to Lucy. Who's Laura?'
'She was Lucy's bridesmaid. She's always been quite a stunner, but when she tried on her bridesmaid's dress, she looked absolutely fantastic. I just had to have her on the spot. So, I did…'
'And she was willing.' Hardly mitigation, but…
'Well, she's always been willing, Dad. She made it quite clear she'd still have been willing as soon as we got back from honeymoon, but now we've bypassed…'
His next words were lost by the call announcement. 'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'
Damn! Hardly surprising. Nick had telephoned him by dialling his Singapore mobile number, and he was paying for the outward part of the call. He, on the other hand, was paying for the call to be shipped all the way back to the UK.
'Sorry, Nick, I lost that.'
'I said that we’re staying in the Heathrow hotel where you were supposed to be, last night, so I'd hoped to see you as soon as you landed. We came here when Lucy's parents threw us out...'
'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'
'…so we've managed to get on an earlier flight to Singapore. Hope that's alright to continue with the honeymoon as planned?'
He'd paid for Nick and Lucy's air tickets to Singapore, along with a couple of nights in a smart hotel. After that, they were going to stay in his flat for three weeks.
'Your calling credit is running low. Please arrange a top-up.'
'But I thought you'd split up with Lucy.'
'No Dad. I'm going to Singapore with Laura. You don't mind do you Dad? I mean, taking Laura instead of Lucy.'
Actually, he damn well did mind. He'd only come over for his wedding, and here he was, not even bothering to stay and see him, before he pissed off on honeymoon with some bird he'd been shagging whilst leading Lucy on, and paid for by him under totally false pretences.
But whether he minded or not was irrelevant, because right at that moment, the announcement came: 'Your calling credit has expired. Please arrange a top-up.' Followed by silence.
He stared at his useless mobile, and as he did, he could feel a large tear gathering in his eye. His problems had really started when Susan left him, one month ago, but the last twenty-four hours had been absolute murder; the fates had gathered forces against him; everything had gone wrong; and now, he couldn't even go back home to Singapore, because it was being used as a love nest for Nick's latest conquest!
The single tear ran down his face, dropped off the end of his nose, and was then promptly followed by another one; and another. Damn! It must be the effect of the pill he'd taken, which had done something stupid to his hormones.
'Are you alright?'
He glanced up. It was Gerald, the dishy gay, on his way back from the toilets.
'I'm fine, thanks.' But his voice quivered as he said it, and the sentence ended in a huge sob, after which the waterworks opened up.
'You don't look fine. Here, have his handkerchief. Now, you'd better tell me what it's all about.'
Feeling incredibly foolish, Peter took his handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes, and blew his nose. It must have been almost a minute before he could speak.
'My son, Nick. He was going to get married today, and now it's all off, and he's left on his honeymoon, which I paid for, with some tart he's just picked up, and I can't even go home, because he's going to be there for the next three weeks and…'
'Hold on! Hold on! I think we'd better go back to the table, and you can tell Lesley and me all about it whilst you finish your wine.' Gerald put his arm around Peter, and it felt so comforting to be led back into the lounge, having someone who was really concerned for him.
And so Peter told them all about it. OK, his glass of wine tasted as sour as if Nick had personally pissed in it, which effectively, he had, but Lesley bought him another glass from the bar, and he told them both his story. He left hardly anything out, except about how the wrong suitcase had been delivered from the airport; and since they didn't happen to ask whether he'd had a sex change in the last twenty-four hours, he didn't tell them about that either.
It wasn't until he came to the end of the story that he had to start improvising.
'Isn't your husband here, with you?'
'Oh well, there was so much chaos, Frank and I got split up at Norton Airport. In any case, Frank isn't Nick's father and they've never really got on…' (Probably because they had never met!) '…so Frank has gone on to the cottage we're renting for the next month, not far from here, in the Cotswolds. I was due to go on there after the wedding.'
'In the meantime, you feel absolutely dreadful… go on, drink it up, it will be good for you.' The latter as Lesley fetched another round of drinks from the bar.
'No, I shouldn't really. I have to drive. Frank will be expecting me…'
'…later this evening. Plenty of time to recover before then, and you need it. You've had a nasty shock to the system. If the worst comes to the worse, you can always get a taxi or, if you're really pushed, we can drive you there.'
'Oh but I couldn't…'
'Of course you could.' Gerald looked at Lesley, seeking permission for what he was about to suggest, and Lesley gave a little nod. 'Look, we're staying in the motel here, and we have a huge family room. When you've finished your drink, why don't we go back there and have a coffee, and you can have a little rest on the settee? A shower as well if you want one.'
Of course, Peter realised, the really nice thing about a woman having a gay male as a friend is that she doesn't have to worry that friendship and sex will get confused.
Although he hadn't had much wine, he felt incredibly woozy as we walked towards their room. In fact, after he'd stumbled a bit, Gerald put his arm around him to support him. It felt incredibly nice, and he had all kinds of mixed emotions about him being gay, and whether he could convert him to heterosexual, and how that wouldn't be fair on Lesley.
But when we got through the door of their room, he took the initiative right out of his hands, by swivelling around and taking Gerald in both his arms, and pulling him forward until they were almost touching. Peter stared into Gerald's incredibly sexy eyes, and opened his mouth so that he could properly kiss him.
The kiss went on for ages, and he could feel Gerald's erection grow hard against him. Peter gave a little wriggle, and pulled Gerald hard into his pelvis.
God! He wanted him desperately, although deep inside, he could feel a little warning bell ringing, saying 'Careful girl. You're getting somewhere you really ought not to be.' He shut it out of his mind, as any girl has to at certain times.
He didn't even notice Gerald undo another button on his dress, and then slip a hand under his bra and lift it over his breast. But he certainly noticed when Gerald's finger brushed across his nipple.
'Jeez!' he gasped.
'You do have sensitive nipples,' Gerald whispered, and then he was bending down and flicking Peter's left nipple with his tongue.
'O-h-h-h-h!' It was so good, he thought he might pass out with pleasure. He grabbed Gerald's head and forced him hard onto his nipple, making him take it inside his mouth and suck.
'Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!!!'
He thought it couldn't get any better, but he'd forgotten all about Lesley. Suddenly, Lesley was sucking on his right nipple, and Peter started screaming as his orgasm commenced.
Never before had an orgasm lasted, and lasted, and lasted, for precious minute after minute. When they finally let him down onto the real world again, he was just so grateful to them, that he knew exactly how he needed to please them.
'I think this is what you want,' Peter said, putting his feet wide apart and keeping his legs straight as he bent at the waist so that he could go down on Gerald's magnificent cock, right in front of him. But before he gave it the first lick, he turned his head and added, 'Lesley,' and wriggled his arse so there was no doubt what he was offering. 'Just use plenty of Vaseline; otherwise I might bite off Gerald's balls as you shove it in.'
He'd had a quick squint at Lesley's prick before finalising the offer, just to make certain it wasn't a monster. It was actually quite a narrow prick, but fairly long, and with a delicious curve to it he'd never seen before, which gave it quite a wicked look. Well, after the orgasm they'd given him, he was game for anything.
He could feel Lesley nuzzling against his back passage as he licked Gerald's balls, and he had to give Lesley credit for experience, because it slipped in scrumptiously smoothly. Then Lesley started moving it in a slow rhythm that was divine. Peter carefully stood upright, and even leaned backwards slightly, so that his pussy was on display to Gerald. Gerald's cock was so absolutely enormous that he was really pleased he hadn't given him the first offer on his back passage.
'It's your turn,' he said to him, 'I want you to make a Joan sandwich.'
Gerald stepped forward, the head of his cock at least one foot in front of the rest of him. He pushed it down, so that the monster sat between Peter's legs, and simply moved it slowly across the lips of his pussy – forward and back, forward and back.
'God, I want you inside me,' Peter said, and he reached down and touched the beast with his fingers. He could feel it throbbing though his fingertips, and he shivered as he forced it up between his pussy lips, so that the movements caused by Lesley's thrusting from behind, pushed him bit by bit onto the end of Gerald's cock. He couldn't believe how tight his cunt was, and he thought even Gerald was a bit taken aback at such a tight fit. Peter screamed a little as the head finally went right though his pussy lips, but when it was inside, it was fantastic.
Gerald and Lesley started working together to create the perfect sandwich; sometimes thrusting together, so their cocks were practically colliding somewhere in the middle of him; at other times, one would be going in as the other was coming out. Now he knew the origin of the saying about not knowing whether one was coming or going! But he thought he came several more times than he went.
Of the two men, Gerald came first, and after he'd reached his climax, he pulled out of him, and Peter bent down to lick up the cum on the end of his prick. The different position caused Lesley to lose control, and within seconds, he too was splattering semen up Peter's arse.
After cleaning Lesley, it was time for an all change, and Peter offered his arse to Gerald for the ultimate sacrifice. Unfortunately, it was about that time, that he realised he'd really had too much to drink. His head started buzzing, and he collapsed forward onto the edge of the bed.
It didn't put Gerald at all off his stroke; he simply came down on top of him and he must have used lots of Vaseline because his cock slid into his arse a lot more easily than it had gone in his pussy. Even so, the pain was exquisite, and he went into another orgasm on the strength of it. Peter got a bit confused then, and he thought he was on the point of passing out. He muttered something about not forgetting Lesley's needs, and didn't remember anything more.
It was later, much later, when Peter realised he was drowning. He choked and spluttered, and he heard someone say, 'Pull her out the water for fuck's sake, otherwise we'll kill her.'
Someone grabbed him under the armpit and heaved upwards, and as he choked some more, Gerald's voice was saying, 'There, there. You're OK. Your face just slipped underwater. You're alright now.'
Peter opened his eyes and saw he was lying in a bath full of warm, soapy water. Lesley was leaning over, holding his right hand, and with a nail-brush, was furiously scrubbing under his nails.
'Fucking hell, Gerry,' he said, in a voice, strangely different from the one he'd been using earlier. 'It's me doing all the hard work. All you have to do is stop her face from going under, alright?'
It took him a second to work out the difference, but then he realised Lesley's voice had lost its gay affectation. He was talking as any other bloke might.
'You're not gay?' he asked, puzzled.
Lesley looked at him and smiled. 'It always works,' he said. 'Women feel safe with gays.'
It took a few more seconds for shocked realisation to dawn. 'You bastards fed me a date-rape drug. Shit! I'll fucking…'
'Don't be bloody stupid, Les,' Gerald's voice came from besides his left ear, and then he murmured softly into mine. 'You were fantastic, babe, the best woman I've ever had. And I've never known a woman enjoy sex as much as you do. You wanted it so much; you've left us totally shagged out.
'We're getting you cleaned up now,' he continued, 'and then we'll take you on to the cottage where your husband's waiting for you. We'll simply tell him we found you trying to drive your car, and you'd obviously had too much to drink. Just stick to that story, and no one will be any the wiser – you had your fun, and we had ours. OK?'
Peter nodded, too tired to argue, and felt his eyes growing heavy.
It's strange, but from the time Peter/Joan had first awoken early on Sunday morning, until that moment when his memory came flooding back, everything had seemed as if it had been happening to someone else – as indeed it had.
But on that Sunday evening, as soon as he saw Gerald and Lesley on the video recording, the whole series of events over the previous forty-eight hours came slamming back to him. His immediate feelings were a total mixture: abused by Gerald and Lesley; relief that the predicament had ended; guilt at the things he'd been doing with men; excitement at the way he had behaved as a woman; and totally and completely fucked, as only an enormous, and very satisfying overdose of sexual intercourse can provide.
After a few seconds deliberation, there really was no reason to feel guilty about what he'd done with either Gerald and Lesley, who had date-raped him, or Vic, who had been spying on him with secret cameras. That thought alone made him feel a little better.
Well, actually, with the abundance of sex over the last twenty-four hours, he was feeling bloody good. He did, however, resolve that there was no way he was ever again going to have sex with men; at the first opportunity, he would leave Vic to his own devices, buy some male clothes and convert back to a heterosexual male. In the meantime, he would need to keep well clear of Vic.
He'd noticed on the video taken when Gerald and Lesley brought him home, that for just an instant, the number plate of their car was visible, so he was leaning over the desk, writing down the registration number, when it happened.
He hadn't taken note of what clothes he'd put on to come to Victor's house, and he didn't even feel Vic lifting his skirt. But hell, what he suddenly did feel was a finger slipping inside him and going straight onto his spot. Suddenly he was gasping, and opening his legs wider, and within ten seconds, he was hitting the first orgasm since making his well-intended resolution.
He lost count how many more orgasms he had that evening, some from Vic's fingers massaging his pussy, some from Vic's mouth sucking on his tits, and some when Vic's prick moved against his clitoris, or spurted semen deep inside him. By the morning, he regarded himself as a totally fallen woman.
It was a couple of days before he got around to going through Frank's hand-baggage. The letter was in a side-pocket, handwritten on plain white paper.
It probably won't come as any surprise to you when I tell you I have finally decided to leave you and go and live with Paul. As you know, we've been lovers for almost three months, and he makes me feel such a very special person – I simply can't describe the excitement I feel when I'm with him.
Please don't feel bad about my departure. We've always been totally honest with each other, and there's no doubt we both benefited from our relationship. For two years, you had an attractive wife to take to company functions, as well as a huge salary increase, simply because I had sex with your boss. In return, I got a steady stream of extremely good-looking men, who would do almost anything to get inside my knickers – and very often did! And we always knew our arrangement wouldn't last forever.
But I felt I was changing into something I didn't really want to be. Sure for a while it was nice to be the beautiful wife of the Head Buyer, seeing everyone's heads swivelling as I walked past with my breasts almost popping out – the men because they desperately wanted to fuck me; the women because they suspected their husbands desperately wanted to fuck me.
The problem was, I started to behave like that woman. Hell! I even started wondering what it would be like to have babies suckling my breasts! But you changed also. It got to the stage where you preferred hetero sex with Joan, rather than gay sex with me! As for all the other men I had, I can tell you that having sex with a man who thinks you've got the loveliest tits in the world, isn't half as good as making love with a man who thinks you have the most heavenly cock.
Paul has found a job in Hong Kong, and I'm going there to live with him. So, I'm leaving behind the bodysuit and all the passports and certificates you managed to obtain for me, as well as our wedding certificate. Perhaps you will find another man to take over Joan's role, but I really feel it's time you came out of the closet. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck in your life.
I think it's best if we don't try to communicate with each other from now on, so this will be the last you will ever hear from me.
I'll just say: Thanks for all the good times.
Lots of love
Frank had surprised most people when he'd come back from holiday married to such a curvaceous wife – now the explanation was clear – it was simply an arrangement he'd made with a gay male who'd taken on the role of a wife by wearing that most realistic bodysuit. Joan had never existed and her passport and other documents were false.
But that explanation suddenly gave Peter a jolt of alarm. When the Coroner's Officer had asked for identification, he'd handed over Joan's passport without realising it wasn't even his own. Thank God, the coroner couldn't have looked too closely at the photograph; otherwise he would now be under arrest. He picked up the passport, opened it to the back page, and then sat down with a lurch.
They say that in Singapore you can get anything you want for money. The photograph was evidence of the truth of that remark, for there, staring back at him was not the image of Joan as she was known in Singapore; instead was Peter's own photograph!
After that, he had to think afresh about everything. The passport looked genuine enough, but clearly, the photograph had been doctored in the last few weeks. It would be easy enough for Frank to get a photograph of Peter Jones from a trade journal, but it had been so expertly altered, one would never have known that the thick, dark-brown hair was anything but genuine.
Until then, Peter had supposed that Frank had come to England, because he wanted to temporarily turn himself into Joan. Now it was clear that he wanted his new friend, Peter Jones, to undertake that role.
Peter recalled their conversations over the last few weeks and realised how he had unknowingly cast himself for the part. His bitterness with his existing friends and colleagues, and the desire to get away from them; and how his hatred of Susan had turned into a general loathing of females in general, and the tremendous power they had to enslave mere males with a quick glimpse of thigh or cleavage. Hell, they had even talked about the excitement men got from seeing women's underwear, and the exhilaration they must get from wearing it!
Frank's first step in persuading him to take on his new role would be to convince him that he could play the part. He'd deliberately bought an identical suitcase to Peter's so that at the airport he could engineer a mix-up. Presumably, he had believed he would talk him into wearing the clothes, or perhaps even contrive a situation similar to the one he'd actually found himself in. That was why he'd dashed off the plane so quickly and why, when he was found dead, he was in possession of Peter's suitcase, rather than his own. Probably it was the stress of the moment which had brought on his death.
It was partly as a tribute to Frank that Peter decided to continue as Joan for a while, especially with Frank's "real" wife conveniently out of the way. But perhaps more important was that Joan was having such fun with Vic, there seemed no reason why 'she' shouldn't continue in her role for the rest of the time Peter was scheduled to stay in England.
There were several things which convinced him to make it a more permanent arrangement.
Firstly, his dissatisfaction with his life in Singapore without Susan, and the disenchantment he felt about his previous friends did not diminish with time. And as the end of the four week holiday approached, he felt less and less inclined to leave Vic, and his non-stop fucking. Victor may have led a life of abstinence until Peter met him, but he was certainly making up for it since.
And while John/Joan may have felt something lacking about sex as a woman compared to his gay relationship, Peter felt it was far better than any sex he'd had for years. Not only were his orgasms more intense and pleasurable, they went on for ages, and only a few minutes after finishing one orgasm, he'd be starting on his next.
He also knew that, if his relationship with Vic did come to an end at some stage in the future, there'd be no shortage of volunteers to take over. The same could definitely not be said about Peter Jones.
The final (and some might cynically say, most persuasive) argument which convinced him to stay was Frank's life insurance and pension. His company provided one million pound air-travel insurance, and since he'd had the good sense to die before passing through HM Customs, he was still classed as an air traveller.
Frank had no other living relatives and hadn't made a will, so the money would go to the government unless Peter nobly offered to take the payout. And since he was Frank's widow, he could hardly refuse to take Frank's company pension which, following a death-in-service, was generous in the extreme.
All in all, a highly satisfactory arrangement.
That left, of course, one piece of unfinished business: Gerald and Lesley. He had to acknowledge that, without them, he would never have taken that ultimate step in being a complete woman. Not only had they pulled him through the barrier, they had launched him into a sex life which was infinitely better than it had ever been before.
So for his own part, Peter reluctantly had to be grateful to them. However, whilst his own story might be a very happy one, he suspected they had carried out similar attacks on many other women, who they had left feeling abused and, since they didn't use any protection, possibly pregnant.
However, it was easy enough to find a private-detective who could access the police computer, feed in a car registration number, and then follow the individual around until he and his friend committed a similar crime. As a responsible citizen, the private-detective then only had to dial 999 and call the police, for the law to take its rightful course.
Peter made certain that they saw him in the public gallery on the day they were each sentenced to five years in prison. He gave them a nice little wave and a smile, but they looked too upset to reciprocate.