Most Friday nights, the girls got together after work for a coffee and a chat. It was at one of these informal meetings that Jamie asked the room in general about breast forms. Up until now she had been stuffing her bra cups with so-called 'chicken fillets', but decided it was time for something a bit more convincing, especially as several of the customers had tried to fondle her and she had turned their hands away, knowing that her breast area just didn't feel right.

When she asked for advice about buying breast forms, one of the girls, Margie, spoke up.

“I've got a pair of falsies sitting in a drawer at home. I don't need 'em ever since I got me Bristols done. Want me to bring 'em in and you can try 'em for size?”

“Sure Margie, that would be great” said Jamie. Obviously Margie had had breast enhancement surgery, although Jamie had no idea what the reference to 'Bristols' meant.

The following day, Margie brought in the 'Eve' breast forms, still in their original box, complete with adhesive and skin wipes. In the dressing room, looking at Jamie's bare chest she said: “I think these would be great for you, they almost exactly match your skin colour and they will be just the right size. I see you've got no chest hair, which is most important, since you do have to take them off from time to time.”

She told Jamie to attach her bra and then flip the cups down inside out. Then she showed her how to mark where each form would go, cleanse the skin with wipes to make sure it was free of any oil or soap residue, then spraying the back of each breast form with adhesive spray, before placing them in position and flipping up the bra cups to hold them in position.

“After about twenty minutes, they'll be firmly fixed in position. Then you can use a little makeup to disguise the joins of the form with your skin and you're set to go. No man is going to realise that they're not real. Try 'em for a few days and if you like 'em then we can do a deal.”

“Thank you so much Margie,” said Jamie. “There's just one thing I wanted to ask you; you said something about 'Bristols' the other night. I knew you were talking about your breasts but I didn't see the connection.”

Margie burst out laughing: “Sorry love, it's Cockney rhyming slang, “Bristol City' after the football team, and 'city' rhymes with 'tittie'. You must have heard some of 'em like 'I've got to scarper, from Scapa flow, meaning 'go'. Gettit?”

Jamie felt herself flushing with embarrassment: “I gettit,” she replied.

After twenty minutes, she gingerly slipped her bra straps off her shoulders and released the cups from her new breasts, afraid they would fall on the floor but they stayed in position and looked amazingly life-like. She was thrilled. One thing she did notice was the extra weight on her chest but she was sure she'd get used to it, and of course, that's what real women felt all the time

Margie came back to check them. “How do they feel?” she said. “Give them a squeeze”

“Wow, that's amazing,” said Jamie. “But do real breasts feel like that?”

“Haven't you ever squeezed a woman's tits?” said Margie and when Jamie confessed she hadn't, Margie pulled up her top to expose her breasts. “Here, have a feel. Give them a good squeeze, they won't bite,” she said.

Jamie blushed, but did as she was told and agreed that the feeling was quite similar to the breast forms.

“Of course, mine aren't original either, but they feel like my girlfriend's and hers are home grown,” laughed Margie. Jamie felt herself blushing again. So Margie had a real girlfriend even though she lived as a woman, or at least one with a penis – amazing! She seemed to learn something new every day.

The next day she was sitting on a customer's lap and he wanted to feel her breasts. This time she let him and let out a squeal of pleasure even though she couldn't actually feel what he was doing. It was certainly enough to convince him that they were real, and resulted in a twenty pound note being pushed into her cleavage.

She saw Margie the following day and they came to an agreement that Jamie would buy the breast forms for half the price that Margie had paid for them.

As the weeks passed, Jamie took increasing numbers of men to the bedrooms to fellate them. Some asked her to take off her bra and let them masturbate between her breasts. Almost all the men were married and were getting what their wives refused to give them, or only did so reluctantly, so they were grateful for Jamie's increasingly expert technique and the fact that she was prepared to swallow their semen. Some gave Jamie some extra money as a tip, but she always turned it into the barman Rudi. There was a reason for this; each room had a camera and microphone for security, just in case a client turned violent, and there were also several alarm buttons dotted around the room. Donny took good care of his girls.

One day a client was less than pleasant. Jamie had a bad feeling about him from the start, but knew that without definite evidence, she still had to take him upstairs. The man, who said to call him Gary was rough, putting his hands on Jamie's shoulders and forcing her to her knees before she had a chance to do it herself. As Jamie leaned forward to unzip Gary and release his obviously erect penis, he pushed Jamei's hands aside, unzipped himself and pulled down his own underpants saying: “Get sucking, bitch. That's what I'm paying you for.”

Jamie obliged although she'd never wanted to do it less. She hoped to get Gary to orgasm as quickly as possible so that session would be over, but Gary was alert to this.

“Slow down, bitch, I want my money's worth,” he growled.

Jamie obeyed , and soon Gary was moaning as Jamie ran her tongue up and down his shaft and over the head, licking the pre-cum that was oozing from Gary's slit.

“Fuck! Yeah that's good, bitch. Keep doing that,” he muttered as Jamie fondled his sack and squeezed his testicles. Finally, he couldn't hold back any longer and shot his load into Jamie's mouth, who obligingly swallowed it and licked the last traces from the rapidly deflating penis.

He looked down at Jamie with contempt: “What sort of man sucks other men's cocks for a living? A fucking nancy-boy, that's what you are.”

“Yes sir,” said Jamie, humbly. “I only do it to earn money for my poor widowed mother.”

She was tempted to say 'What sort of man gets a nancy boy to suck his cock?' but knew that wouldn't go over very well.

“I bet she doesn't know what you do to earn your money,” Gary said with a sneer.

“Oh no sir, it would kill her if she found out,” replied Jamie humbly.

“You're a fucking queer, that's what you are. I'm getting out of here, I need a drink,” Gary said, pulling his trousers up and flinging open the bedroom door, walked down the stairs to the bar. Jamie looked after him with a faint smile on his lips. When Gary had roughly pulled down his underpants, the material had brushed against Jamie's mouth leaving a small smear of lipstick behind. Normally Jamie would have alerted him, but not this time.

'When his wife washes his y-fronts, she's bound to see it,' thought Jamie. 'There's either going to be hell to pay right then and there, or she'll make a mental note of it to add to every other reason why she wants to divorce him. What's that saying? “Revenge is a dish best served cold”.'

With that, Jamie walked back down the stairs, purposely ignoring Gary.

Jamie thought that was that, but a few days later, Donny called the staff together: “I've had a complaint from one of the customers who was entertained in bedroom seven. He says he was insulted and short-changed. Whoever it was, please see me in my office and we'll sort this out.”

Jamie's heart sank. Obviously there had been a blow-up when Gary's wife saw the lipstick and he was looking for revenge. As the rehearsals started, he walked to Donny's office and knocked on the door. Donny looked surprised when he was it was Jamie. There was a pile of video tapes on his desk and it was obvious that he was going to check through what happened if no-one came forward.

“I was with a bloke who called himself Gary,” said Jamie. “He was rough and rude; I serviced him as usual and then he called me queer and a 'nancy-boy'. I think he was trying to get me to answer back, but I wouldn't; I called him 'sir' and that seemed to make him more angry. I just couldn't win. Then he left the bedroom.”

Jamie had already decided he wouldn't mention the lipstick unless Donny knew about it but it seemed he didn't.

Donny leaned back in his chair. “OK, some blokes are like that. He obviously wants you sacked, but I'm not going to do that; instead I'm going to bar him from the club. You're a good worker Jamie, and it's about time we got you on the stage.”

“Thank you very much, Donny,” said Jamie. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and didn't want Donny to see that.

Jamie really thought that was the end of the matter, but she was wrong. A few nights later, she left the club on her own to walk home. This was unusual, and she'd promised her mother she wouldn't do it, but Frankie had left earlier with an admirer. As she walked down the street she passed the entrance to a dark alleyway, and suddenly she felt an arm around her neck and felt the prick of a knifepoint on her throat. Jamie froze.

“Alright you fucking bitch, don't scream and you won't get hurt. Just walk nice and slowly back to the alley,” the man hissed. Jamie had no doubt it was Gary. “Make a fool of me by smearing your lipstick on my y-fronts, you bitch. Thought you were being smart did you? Well my wife's got a black eye for asking me about it and I don't see why you should get off scot-free.”

“I didn't do it, well not deliberately,” Jamie gasped in desperation. She had no doubt that the man's 'promise' not to hurt her meant nothing. Most likely she was going to have her face slashed. Her heart sank as they walked back and into the alley.

Then suddenly a hand came from nowhere and grasped Gary's arm that held the knife. It was pulled away from Jamie's throat and he squealed and dropped the blade which clattered on the roadway.

“Let go, you're breaking me bleedin' arm!” Gary gasped. His demand was ignored.

“Take your arm from around the lady's neck, nice and gently,” said a deep voice and Jamie's heart leapt. It was Mick, one of the club bouncers. Gary did as he was told and Jamie leapt forward out of his reach.

The trouble with some men like Gary is that they're not very bright. With both arms now free he turned around and swung wildly at Mick's head. Mick easily avoided the swinging arm and drove his large fist into Gary's stomach, making him double over and gasp for air. Mick strode forward and grabbed a handful of Gary's hair, pulling him upright. Then he leaned in until his face was inches from Gary's.

“Listen up you, and listen good,” he growled. “Don't ever come here or attack our staff again or you'll be taking your meals through a straw. Do you understand?”

Still trying to get his breath back, Gary finally gasped: “Understood.”

“Good, now fuck off and don't let me see you again,” said Mick.

Gary turned and was going to stoop to retrieve his knife until a snarl from Mick made him change his mind. Mick stepped forward, put a foot on the blade and twisted the handle, snapping the knife in two, then he threw the pieces after the retreating Gary yelling: “And take your rubbish with you.”

Gary quickened his walk to a run and soon disappeared into the darkness. Jamie ran to Mick and put her arms around him saying “Thank you so much, Mick. He was going to cut me up, I'm sure of it.”

“That's alright Jamie, it's part of my job to look after the staff. You really shouldn't be walking the streets on your own at this time of the morning. Promise me that if you're on your own again you'll take a cab, o.k?”

They walked back to the club and Jamie took a cab home.

Two days later, when Mick came into work, there was a gift-wrapped box waiting for him. When he undid the wrapping he found a large bottle of his favourite brand single malt scotch, together with a note saying:

'To Mick, my saviour. Thank you so much for being there for me.
Love, Jamie'

Jamie had thought long and hard about whether she should write 'Love'. She discussed her problem with Frankie, who said: “Of course you should. Mick looks on you as a girl and girls can write 'love' on a note without it meaning more than expressing gratitude.” So, that's what Jamie wrote, and from then on Mick always nodded when he saw her.

There's one more chapter to this incident. Did I say that some people aren't very bright? A week after Mick rescued Jamie, Gary came back again, but this time with two of his cronies, and all three were carrying baseball bats. It seems they had transferred their anger from Jamie to Mick. They hid in the alleyway where Gary had intended to take Jamie, and they waited for Mick to finish work for the night.

Fortunately for Mick, this night he left the club with the other bouncer, Alf. As they passed the entrance to the alleyway, the three thugs leapt out with baseball bats swinging. It hadn't occurred to them that they were amateurs tackling professionals, as both bouncers were retired boxers. Alf tripped up one of the men and he fell flat on his face on the hard pavement. That was enough for him; he stood up sobbing, his nose broken and streaming blood, and immediately ran off. That evened up the numbers but it was really no contest.

Three minutes later. Mick and Alf emerged from the alleyway and casually strolled down the street. Slumped against the wall of the alley were two very sad and sorry figures; Gary's friend was nursing a broken arm and Gary's jaw was broken in two places and he was missing several teeth. As Mick had warned him, he was feeding through a straw for quite a few weeks. This time it seems the message did get through and he and his friends never came near the club again. It's not known how Gary explained his injuries to his wife; nor the policemen who found them after a tipoff from Mick who was good friends with the local constabulary; you don't break a jaw like that by walking into a door. They couldn't explain the baseball bats either, and were lucky to get off without being charged.

Yo be continued

Next time: Not just flatmates any more