by Charlotte Dickles
Afterwards, Jonathan realised it was all the hotel receptionist's fault.
"I'm Jon Jacobs. I have a room booked."
The receptionist's face lit up. "Ah! Yes, Mr Jacobs, we've been expecting you. Welcome to The Grand Hotel, Seacombe. We have an Executive Room ready for you on the first floor. Room 112. The paperwork has already been completed, so I'll give you your key card and you can go straight up. We'll have your baggage brought up to your room within a few minutes."
Jon's face clouded as he reached for the proffered key card. "An Executive room? I only booked a Standard. Is there an extra charge?"
If it were possible, the receptionist's smile broadened even further. "That's all right, Mr Jacobs. The bill is all taken care of by the conference organisers."
"Oh right!" Jon said, thinking that things were looking up. He'd already given pretty well the same talk on Ethical Investment for Africa at conferences four times this year, and this was the first he'd been offered anything more than his train fares. An Executive Room as well. Perhaps it would have a mini-bar... "Did you say all my expenses were being paid?"
"Everything. There's a very nice bottle of champagne on ice in your room, which I can fully recommend."
"Thank you very much," a delighted Jon said. "Room 112, did you say?"
"On the first floor. You can take the lift, or the stairs, Mr Jacobs." The receptionist pointed behind him towards the grand staircase.
Jon glanced behind, and then gave a second glance as he noticed the shapely hips of a woman gracefully swinging from side to side, as she climbed the staircase. "I'll take the stairs," Jon said.
Jon caught up with the woman in the hotel corridor, where she was hopelessly thrusting her key card in and out of the lock on the door of a bedroom. He realised with delight, her bedroom was directly opposite his own.
"Are you having problems?" Jon asked. "Can I help?"
She glanced up and her worried expression turned into a wonderful smile as she looked at him. "If you could." She waved her card towards him. "I've been having problems with this lock ever since I arrived."
"Let me have a try."
The technique, he knew, was to slowly slide the card in, and then to pull it out again, just as slowly. But try as he might, the red light came on each time. If he wasn't careful, he was going to look a right pillock in front of the most beautiful woman in the world. The solution came to him from nowhere.
"Why don't we go into my room," he suggested, "and you can use the phone to call reception." He had quite surprised himself with that suggestion.
His next suggestion would leave him totally gob-smacked. They had entered his own room without problems, and she'd spoken to reception on the phone, when he said, "They've left me a complimentary bottle of champagne and I hate drinking on my own. Will you join me whilst you're waiting for them to come to fix your lock?"
Her wonderful grin returned, lighting up her face. "Complimentary champagne. Now there's an offer I can't refuse. But I'd better warn you, I do get awfully squiffy on champagne." She held out her hand, and added, "My name's Trixie."
It was about an hour later when the receptionist smiled a greeting at a surly-looking man as he approached her desk.
"Joe Jacobs. You have a room reserved for me." A statement, rather than a question.
"Mr Jacobs? Surely..." The receptionist was puzzled. Her fingers flicked over the computer keyboard. "But someone has already registered in your name. Oh!"
"Oh what?" demanded the guest.
"I'm afraid we have two Mr Jacobs staying this evening. Did you say you were Mr Joseph Jacobs?"
"Of course. Don't you recognise me?"
The receptionist looked even more flustered as she glanced up at him, vaguely recognising his face from TV. "Of course, sir. I'm most sorry for the confusion, but it appears there's been a mix up. I need to speak with the manager. Perhaps you would like a glass of champagne whilst you wait?"
"What do you mean?" the manager asked the porter, as they both stared around room 112. A chambermaid was straightening the rather ruffled bedspread, and the champagne bottle was empty, but apart from that, there were no signs of occupation. "The first Mr Jacobs arrived over an hour ago. Why is his luggage still in the porter's lodge?"
"There was no response when I knocked on the door," the porter replied, "so I used my pass card. He was lying on the bed with a naked woman on top of him, and they were going at it like rabbits. I quietly shut the door and left them to it."
Hearing the conversation, the chambermaid asked, "Do you want me to change the bedspread?"
They all three stared at the bedspread, which after being straightened, appeared unblemished.
"No," said the manager. "He wants his room immediately so he can have it as it is. I suppose this other Mr Jacobs will turn up some time. Make certain he's headed off before he tries to come up here."
Jon couldn't stop a wide grin spreading across his face as he woke up next morning. He could count on his fingers, the number of women with whom he'd ever had relationships; with only one of those had he scored on a first date. But never before had he pulled the most gorgeous woman in the world within fifteen minutes of first speaking to her.
"If I have one more glass, I shall be anybody's," Trixie had said, experimentally bouncing up and down on the bed. She wasn't anybody's - she was his.
They'd had a good, swift fuck, and then she'd suggested they have another glass of champagne before having a good, slow fuck. The big problem with champagne, he realised, was remembering the wonderful events resulting from it.
He glanced at the clock by the side of the bed, and that was when the grin disappeared from his face.
"Jeez!" It was gone nine o'clock. He'd planned to set the alarm for seven, have a leisurely breakfast, followed by a final read-through of his conference speech, including his recent amendments. His taxi was booked for nine-thirty, giving him ample time to get to the conference hall and check that the computer and overheads were properly working, before his ten-thirty speech.
He reached out an arm to sweep aside the duvet, and that's when his heart momentarily stopped. His arm was black!
He lifted his other arm before his face and stared at two black arms. Here was he, British born, Anglo-Saxon heritage, and definitely Caucasian, staring at two black arms which were undoubtedly coming from his shoulders and under his control. Not just black arms, he realised but his hands had grown long, finger nails.
It must be a joke, he thought. Trixie had painted his skin and stuck false nails onto his fingers. He moved his arms to his sides to help him sit up, and he felt something move on his chest as he struggled upright. It felt like... He glanced down. It couldn't be...
He had two huge, black tits!
He thought it must be a dream, but when he raised his two black hands to cap his two, huge, black tits, he could feel his hands grasping them, squeezing them, and when his thumbs brushed his nipples, he gasped at the sensation.
Mmm, he could get used to having tits. But he suddenly realised what else normally went with tits. He threw the quilt off his lower body, and parted his tits so he could peer between them at...
A pussy! His cock had disappeared and been replaced by a pussy!
He felt his head spinning. He needed to lie back for a few minutes.
Later - he wasn't certain how much later - but he was properly awake and smiling as he thought about his nightmare. Of course, it had been a nightmare. There was no need to raise his arms to check they were not black, for that would be impossible, wouldn't it?
He raised two arms in front of his face - they were black! He got out of bed and looked in the wall mirror. Facing him was a shapely black woman!
At least she had his face. The relief surged through him as he realised that recognising his own face was a first step to a return to normality. Clearly, Trixie had set him up to play this trick. Even as he mentally spoke the words, he realised the significance of her name! Trixie. Who plays lots of tricks? Trixie the Trickster!
Of course no bird as good-looking as her would bounce into bed with him without an ulterior motive; the room, as well, all paid for! He must have been stupid to fall for it - but then didn't they say that the punters always wanted to believe what they were being told.
But how had she done it and why?
Blacking his skin would be easy enough, and sticking on false nails, but where had these breasts come from. He searched for a join where a false breast might be adhered to his chest, but in spite of the most detailed search, there was none. Not only that, but he could feel his fingers on his breasts. And when he slid a finger along the slit between his legs, he was gasping with pleasure.
What then? Micro-surgery. Small incisions beneath the breasts, then silicone pumped inside? Surely that would be hurting like hell now, not feeling rather good? He twisted his neck to the left and pulled his left breast as far to the right as he could, and that was when he found the solution - a tiny seam running from beneath his breast around the side of his body. He traced the line with his fingers right around his back, to where it appeared on his right side. There were similar lines around his shoulders, almost indiscernible in the mirror. That meant some kind of vest-like garment stuck down on his own skin, probably made of a touch-sensitive material which somehow transferred feeling to his own skin beneath.
After inspecting his lower half, he identified a kind of long-legged panty-girdle, giving him the appearance - and the feel - of a woman. He heaved a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't really been converted to a woman. But the question still remained - Why?
Now he had a chance to look around, he realised he was no longer in the spacious Executive Room, but the bedspread was the same design, so presumably he'd been moved to another room in the Grand Hotel where they'd carried out his conversion.
He slipped on the hotel dressing gown hanging on the inside of the door, before slightly opening it and peering out. He was directly facing room 112. So he was in the room Trixie had been trying to enter when he'd first seen her. Presumably, she'd slipped him a Mickey, and then they - it would certainly need more than Trixie to move him - had brought him in here and transformed him.
The door of 112 opposite abruptly opened and a man came out - a man about the same age as Jon, with the same kind of haircut - a man Jon vaguely recognised.
He looked at Jon and sniffed. "You'll have to do a lot better than that to tempt me into bed with you."
Glancing down, Jon realised his dressing gown was gaping open from top to bottom, revealing all! The embarrassment rushed through him as the man slammed shut his hotel door and walked off towards the staircase.
"Joe Jacobs." He recognised the man now, and he'd whispered the words almost to himself. He was startled when someone responded.
"That's right. An obnoxious git, isn't he?"
Jon hurriedly pulled his dressing gown around him before turning towards the voice.
"Is he still..." He'd spoken without considering that he'd sound like a man, but actually his voice was completely different - high-pitched, like a woman's. How had they done that to him? "... running the British Fascists?" he lamely concluded his sentence.
"He's supposedly given it up."
The man was smiling at Jon in a way that made him uncomfortable. He pulled his dressing gown more tightly to his body, which had the effect, he belatedly realised, of emphasising the size of his huge breasts.
"He'd have us believe he's turned over a new leaf," the man continued, still staring at Jon's curves, rather than at his face, "running a group developing Genetically Modified maize that can be used in semi-desert areas. AmazinMaize, it's called. They claim it could feed most of Africa from the sub-Sahara region. He's giving a talk to the conference today. Fascist pig or not, it certainly sounds interesting, and I'm not going to miss it. See you there, maybe?"
"Er, yes, maybe." Jon smiled, as he withdrew to his room and shut the door.
So that explained everything, he thought. Trixie - or whatever her name was - and her friends had decided to pay a trick on Joe Jacobs, transforming the black-hating, woman-despising fascist into a big-breasted, black woman. But it had all gone wrong when the hotel receptionist had mistaken Jon for him, and so had given him the all-expenses-paid Executive room. That meant he'd been taken as the fall guy. Ha-ha-bloody-ha.
Clearly, everything had been super-glued onto his body, so Joe Jacobs would be stuck in it for at least a day. There was nothing for it, he realised, but to accept his lot and get on with it. As a male, he should be furious, but maybe he could take it as a learning exercise. What would it really be like to be a black woman; what would it be like to be a woman with huge jugs? He surprised himself by grinning. As long as he didn't take it too seriously - and now he had an explanation, there was no reason why he should - it was going to be fun finding out.
The good news was that they had left him some clothes; the bad news was that they were all clearly designed to humiliate him. A short, black pencil skirt, with a white, low-cut top; kinky white boots with four-inch heels, and, the piece-de-resistance was the white corset.
He quickly realised that the skirt could not be fastened around his waist without the corset, the strings pulled so tight he could hardly breathe. The bra cups supported his breasts and pushed them outwards creating a deep valley between. But the bra barely covered his nipples, and the white blouse exposed vast areas of breast. The skirt was just about long enough to cover his stocking tops, but the least movement would expose inches of bare thigh and white suspenders.
Of course, there were no panties! Sitting down anywhere, he realised, was going to be a real challenge to avoid everyone getting an eyeful of his pubic bush!
At least they had left him a conference pass in the name of Josephine Jacobs, containing a well-doctored photograph of Joe Jacobs, with his skin suitably coloured, and a wig added. It would pass. They had even left him a handbag containing twenty pounds, probably sufficient to get him through the day.
He slipped the lanyard of his pass card around his neck, stuck the handbag beneath his arm and left the room. He needed to move quickly now, if he wasn't to miss the scheduled time for his talk, although he still wasn't certain what he was going to do about it.
Fortunately, there was a taxi just dropping someone off at the hotel, so Jon got in it and instructed the driver to take him to the University, where the conference was being held.
But just as they were about to drive off, Joe Jacobs came out of the hotel, and commanded, "Stop!"
The driver pulled to an abrupt halt. Without looking inside, Jacobs opened the rear door and was about to get inside when he saw Jon.
Jon was amused at his reaction. Clearly, he was angry that someone should already dare to occupy the taxi he needed, especially a black woman. No doubt in his world, he'd have dragged her out of the taxi and left her lying in the gutter, but he knew that would never work. Which meant he had to ask a black woman for a favour!
"I'm in an awful hurry. Would you mind if I took this taxi, and you wait for another?"
"That's no problem, sweetheart," Jon said in his best black-mama voice, trying hard not to laugh. "I'm going to the conference as well, so we can share a taxi there - provided you pay for it, of course."
He moved over to the other side of the taxi, watching the hatred in Joe Jacobs's face as he realised that he was not only going to have to share a taxi with a black woman, but she was ripping him off as well.
"Thank you." He slid into the taxi in the position which Jon had just vacated, shut the door and the taxi started off.
"Aren't you the fellow who's giving that talk this morning on that AmazinMaize stuff? Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you? Doesn't your talk start at ten?"
The other said nothing.
"I'd have thought for someone as important as you, they'd have sent a car."
"They were meant to." Clearly, he was very bitter about the events that morning, which overcame his hatred of talking to his inferiors. "I rang them twice to ask where it was, and they told me it was on its way; the third time, they said the car must have picked up the wrong speaker - there's another speaker called Jacobs staying at the hotel. It caused a lot of confusion at the hotel, yesterday."
"Oh dear," Jon said, pondering the significance. Since he hadn't taken Joe Jacobs's car, it meant someone else presumably connected with Trixie was pretending to be him. It sounded like there'd be fun and games when Jacobs got to the conference and found someone pretending to be him giving his talk.
It was about ten-fifteen when they arrived at the University, and he followed Jacobs into the conference hall. The Security man carefully scrutinised their passes, which scared Jon because of the photo but he seemed to accept it.
They both checked the schedule of room allocations displayed on a board. Jacobs, Jon noted with jealousy was in Lecture Theatre 1, whereas he was in 10 - presumably the most insignificant.
The best plan, Jon thought, would be to go into his room at the last minute, so the conference organisers had no chance to check the credentials of Josephine Jacobs, which meant he had some time to kill. He followed Jacobs into Theatre 1.
Jacobs had come to a stop just inside the door, staring almost open-mouthed at the podium, where his duplicate was giving the talk. Not wishing to be associated with Jacobs, Jon quickly moved past and found an empty seat towards the rear.
"That man is an imposter!" Jacobs bellowed.
Jon was highly impressed with what happened next. As one, the audience turned to face the objector, but even as they did so, two Security Officers, built like brick-shithouses, pounced upon the real Joe Jacobs, bodily lifted him up and ran him backwards, using his body to batter their way through the heavy swing doors and remove him from sight. It was even more satisfying in that both the Officers were black.
"Mr Jacobs doesn't like interruptions," a voice to Jon's right murmured, and he turned to find he was sitting next to the guest he'd spoken to in the hotel corridor.
"They dealt with it very quickly," Jon observed.
"After last night's fiasco they had to be ready for a repetition," his friend said. When Jon clearly looked puzzled, he added, "Did you miss the fun at the opening ceremony? The Deputy Prime Minister was giving his speech when some female student appeared at the back and claimed he was an imposter. Caused lots of confusion. Mind, the students are getting better at it. Did you notice how the guy they just threw out looked quite similar to Joe Jacobs?"
Last night had been a decoy, Jon realised, so that when the same thing happened at Joe Jacobs' talk, the objector would be promptly dealt with.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the pseudo Jacobs was saying. "I must apologise for the interruption. Perhaps before I continue with my speech, we'll have a break for questions." He looked around the audience as a few hands rose, and he pointed at one of them.
"Tracey Dixon from the Sun."
The woman stood up and Jon realised she was none other than Trixie, the gorgeous woman who had tricked him last night. Presumably, that meant that whatever happened next she was doing in cahoots with the pseudo Jacobs.
Trixie turned towards the audience and added with a smile, "That's the Seacombe University News rather that other, rather downmarket, national newspaper." She turned back towards the pseudo Jacobs. "Mr Jacobs, a professor at this university has suggested that long term use of AmazinMaize could produce permanent sterility. Is that why you're involved in promoting it - to sterilise most of the African population?"
A buzz of interest went around the room, particularly amongst the press and cameramen who were right at the front.
Jon had to give credit to the stand-in Jacobs; he had clearly rehearsed many times over the anxious, but quickly-concealed look which portrayed total guilt. "I can assure your readers," he replied, "that AmazinMaize has been carefully tested by our scientists and it will only improve the health of its consumers."
"Are you stating," Trixie responded, "there have been absolutely no effects upon the fertility of the laboratory animals used in the experiments?"
A nervous Jacobs held out his hands in an open gesture. "I'm afraid I do not know details of every laboratory experiment carried out on this amazing maize."
"So you're claiming you have never been briefed on the sterility factor. Could I remind you of a meeting you attended in November last year..."
"I'm sorry," pseudo Jacobs pseudo-blustered. "I'm not prepared to take any more cross examination. I'm leaving this meeting now."
He darted towards the fire exit to the side of the stage, as the room erupted in questions.
"The Guardian: Why don't you answer the questions, Mr Jacobs?"
"BBC News: Why are you leaving, Mr Jacobs?"
"The Independent: Can we see the results of the test, Mr Jacobs?"
But they were all ignored as the pseudo Jacobs went through the fire exit, pursued by a number of journalists who happened to be close by. The room erupted in chaos, as the rest of the press pressed towards the exit. It was time, Jon realised, to go to his own meeting.
But as he reached the rear exit door, he came face to face with Trixie, clearly also getting away from the scene before she could be questioned too closely.
"So Trixie, we meet again. Or should I call you Tracey Dixon?"
She looked at him and gasped. "You!"
He smiled at her. "Absolutely. And I suggest we depart this room immediately whilst we still can." He took her arm and led her through the exit.
"We couldn't understand how the real Jacobs got out of the gear," she garbled. "That's why Gary took the questions straightaway."
"Never mind that, for the moment," Jon said. "It's time for atonement. I need you to do something for me." He had led her down the corridor, following the signs pointing towards Lecture Theatre 10. "I want you to go in there and explain that Jon Jacobs has been taken ill, but an alternative speaker has been arranged, Miss Josephine Jacobs, who will be there shortly."
"You're Jon Jacobs?" Trixie gasped. "Oh shit!"
"That's exactly what you will be in if you don't do as I say," Jon said. He pulled open the door of Theatre 10. "Now, get in there and do it." He gave her a push and closed the door after her, leaving it slightly ajar. He could hear the buzz inside the room die down as Trixie took the stage and did as he had said.
He was gratified to hear a number of grumbles about the change, but before anyone could think about leaving, he opened the door and marched into the Lecture Theatre.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Hopefully you have been told that Mr Jon Jacobs has been taken ill. I am Josephine Jacobs - no relation to Jon - and I am very familiar with his work and have been asked to give his talk.
"No doubt, many of you are surprised by my dress. I can only say that you are probably not as surprised as I am by the way this day has turned out. If some of the men find it distracting, I ask that they enjoy the view, but do not allow their minds to be defocused from the incredibly important subject I am talking about today."
Jon paused for a moment to allow the audience to settle and then started: "Most African leaders today face immense difficulties - from AIDS and starvation, through to endemic corruption in their own governments. Many devote their lives to trying to solve those problems, but I suggest that every leader needs to have a wider vision - that of attracting Ethical Foreign Investment - for that can provide the solution to many of the problems.
"But how to attract it? I am going to give you a five point action plan to help you achieve the funding your countries need."
Jon looked around his audience. In spite of him wearing a mini-skirt barely covering his bum, and his tits pushing out of his blouse, he had his audience spellbound - or perhaps, he thought, it was because of those assets.
"I don't know what to say," Trixie said.
"How about 'Sorry'?" Jon asked.
She had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry," she said.
"I should think so." He grinned at her. "By the way, that was a nice fuck last night. Thanks." He could afford to be magnanimous. His talk had gone well.
In fact, after Joe Jacob's speech had obviously ended in chaos, dozens of his audience obviously came in to hear Jon's talk, and stayed, spell bound, as he highlighted ways in which countries could get hundreds of millions of dollars in aid from organisations and companies desperate to improve their ethical credibility. Afterwards, the questions had seemed to go on forever, and even after that, there were many who wanted a quiet word with 'Josephine', many of which involved discussing things over a meal, including one from Gerald Mbuto, a Prime Minister of a major West African country who Jon had been trying to involve for years. Knowing what the meal would undoubtedly lead to, he had prudently refused those opportunities.
"Glad you enjoyed it," Trixie quipped. "But I'm afraid that's the last screw you're going to have for a while - that is, unless you fancy bonking a few men. You're stuck with your appendages for the next two weeks."
"I'm stuck in this for two weeks! But what am I going to do?"
Trixie grimaced. "I'm not certain. When we thought you were Joe Jacobs, it didn't really matter. But now..."
"Josephine." It was Gerald Mbuto, that pesky West African Prime Minister again. "Did you say you were stuck here for two weeks?"
"Yes, I'm afraid she is," Trixie jumped in. "She was just saying, she had nowhere to stay."
"Then stay at my villa," he said. "You can show me your five point action plan, and I can show you mine."
"Of course," Trixie said, turning to Jon, "Persuading Mr Mbuto of the value of what you say will surely save hundreds of thousands of lives. Surely, that would be worth it?"
Jon paused for thought. Hell! That would be worth any amount of personal discomfort.
"OK," he said. "You're on."
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