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Disclaimer: The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. Any resemblence between characters and places and real people and places is entirely unintended and coincidental.This story is copyright (c) 2012 Penny Lane. All rights reserved.

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Author's note. This tale is mostly a one-hander, erm, if you'll pardon the expression. It's just Charlie on his own until part three, for reasons which will soon become apparent.

Charlie Maxwell groaned, his hands going to the small of his back. He had been on his knees far too long, and his back had become stiff. Lifting the cardboard box onto the chair beside him, he clambered back to his feet, wincing as his knees protested.

I've been on my knees all day, it's no wonder they feel stiff. Still, that's the last box of papers, thank God.

He reached for the roll of parcel tape and secured the box shut, adding it to a pile just inside the door.

I need a drink. Let's get these boxes out to the wagon and take a break.

He looked out the window, seeing the angle of the sun on the apple trees outside.

Later than I thought. Just as well the days are getting longer.

He picked up a pile of boxes and carried them out through the front door of the cottage towards his Range Rover. Using the remote to unlock it, he opened the tailgate and added the pile of boxes to those already inside.

Hmm. This lot is going to fill the back. I reckon I've just enough room to get them all in.

Turning, he shaded his eyes and looked at the landscape. To his front, a slope filled with ancient apple trees beyond a small garden filled with country flowers. In the hazy distance, a range of rolling hills, heavily wooded. There was sound, agricultural machinery, but it could only just be perceived above the hum of busy insects.

To his side, Orchard Cottage, where his Aunt Alice had lived until recently. It wasn't a large property, but it had two floors and the rooms weren't poky by any means. Built sometime around the Napoleonic Wars, it was originally Georgian with later Victorian upgrading. As built, he had been told, it had had a thatched roof, but three fires in the space of six years had convinced the owners to replace them with tiles. Behind him, a typical country cottage front garden, and a winding drive that led to a very small road. There was an immense oak tree in the middle of the front garden, probably planted when the house had been built.

It's a nice enough place, real chocolate-box affair. So quiet and out-of-the-way it's ridiculous. I wonder how much I'll get for it? Half a mill? Easy! Maybe seven, seven-fifty. I wonder what that pirate of an estate agent is going to say.

He headed back inside, fretting over the likely valuation.

Knowing my luck, there'll be wet rot, dry rot, death watch beetle and almost everything else he'll be able to think of. About the only thing that I'm safe from is flooding. Mind you, with that damn great tree out front there could be subsidence...

He entered the kitchen, walking to the worktop and filling the electric kettle. While it boiled, he got out a bottle from the box of supplies he had brought down with him and prepared a cup of instant coffee.

Not like the real stuff, but then I must be fifty miles from the nearest Starbucks. Still, it's hot and wet and just what I need right now.

He took his drink to the big kitchen table and sat, contemplating his progress so far. He had spent the morning and most of the afternoon packing up all the papers he could find. Some had been in a bureau in the living room, most had been in a smaller room at the front of the house which he assumed his aunt had used as a study. Rather than grovel on the floor trying to make sense of what he had found, his plan was to take them back to his Docklands loft apartment where he would have more room. There, he had a scanner that could be used to digitise the important stuff and a shredder that could be used for whatever he decided not to keep. Here, there were no mod cons at all.

Like I said before, I've done the easy part. Let's go and look at what else there is. I've time for a quick run-through before I think about dinner.

He left the kitchen and started climbing the stairs.

I know what else there is, really. I just don't want to do it, that's all.

He reached the top and turned into the main bedroom, one that occupied one whole end of the upper floor. There were windows either side, one facing north and the big oak tree, the other south overlooking the paved area (he couldn't really call it a patio, not the way he understood the term) and the orchard. Either side of the door was a double wardrobe. Facing the door was a double bed, with a bedside table either side. Under the north window was a double bank of chest-of-drawers. Under the south window, where it could catch the light, was a dressing table, the top covered with the usual feminine tools and materials. Beside the dressing table, in a free-standing frame, was a full-length tilting mirror.

Yuck. I don't like going through other people's things. Seems... disrespectful, somehow. Especially not women's things. Especially not used women's things, of a woman I never knew existed till a month ago.

He sighed.

It has to be done. Perhaps I ought to have talked Brenda or Pattie from Accounts into coming with me to sort this stuff out. And, bizarre though the thought is, all this is actually mine now, isn't it, not someone else's. I'm the sole heir of Alice Wrayburn, lately deceased, the inheritor of a cottage and five acres of land and everything that's contained within. So, let's get to it.

He started with the bedside cabinets, discovering jewellery and trinkets, old medication, bus tickets, theatre programs, other memorabilia of a life well spent. In the one on the northern side, there was an electric razor that looked as though it had not been used for many years. He stopped then, considering the significance of the double bed and two bedside cabinets for the first time.

There's been no hint of a man up till now, has there? Never mentioned in the will, and there's not much sign downstairs. Hmm, I'll check the bookcase when I go down, see if there's any clues there. Of course, I've packed up all the paperwork, I'll probably find a marriage certificate eventually... maybe even a death certificate.

He moved on to the chests of drawers, discovering as he had expected the wardrobe of an older lady of means, as much as he could recognise. Jumpers, cardigans, t-shirts, gloves, scarves, woolly hats. Lots of lacy, shiny and frilly underwear he skipped rapidly over. There were items in boxes, too, knickers, tights, bras, other underwear he didn't know the names of.

Of course. Living way out here in the sticks, you couldn't just nip over to the supermarket when your tights got ripped could you? You have to plan ahead, get in supplies just in case.

He moved on to the wardrobes. In the first, a small length of rail held a man's suit, several men's shirts, some pairs of gents' trousers and what would once have been called a 'sports' jacket. The rest of the rail was filled with blouses, women's trousers on hangers and what his women friends called 'tops'. In the bottom was a jumble of shoes, both men's and women's. The shelf above the rail was lined with handbags, plus one or two faded cardboard boxes.

So, there was a man, but it looks like he's long gone. There's a line of dust on the shoulders of that suit jacket.

He mentally shrugged.

Don't know what I was concerned with, really. I guess all this should go to a charity shop, I certainly don't see anything here of interest.

He closed the doors and moved on to the next wardrobe. This was exclusively filled with women's clothes, and it appeared to be the more often used one of the pair. There were winter coats, a lightweight rain mac, short jackets, several skirt suits, skirts and a number of dresses of several types and styles. To a man like Charlie, they were all just 'dresses', period. At the bottom, more shoes and boots, this time neatly arrayed in pairs. He realised that the shoes looked fairly modern and up-to-date and blinked.

Perhaps I've got Aunt Alice all wrong. I've been assuming she was elderly, but these don't look like the footwear of an old lady.

He frowned, considering the discrepancy.

I'd better check the documents I got from the solicitor a bit more closely.

He looked more closely at the clothing, seeing the bright colours for the first time.

Change of plan. Some of these look as though they could be new and possibly expensive. Okay, perhaps Aunt Alice wasn't so old after all, if she had clothes like this. Before I just dump them all on a charity shop I ought to bring one of the girls down and get an expert opinion, that is a female opinion. This is all outside my experience.

The top shelf held a number of shoe boxes and two hat boxes. It occurred to him that the shoe boxes might not contain shoes but maybe papers or photographs or something else unexpected. He pulled them all out and put them on the bed, lifting the lid on each as he did so. Two held faded photographs, one held papers, the rest shoes obviously bought for an 'occasion' like a wedding or some such. He lifted out the papers and went through them, discovering his first surprise.

Alan Wrayburn? I thought Alice was an only child... Not a lot of documents here, he must have died quite young.

Duh. Perhaps he was her husband. Her parents weren't Wrayburns, were they? Still, all this is history now.

He returned the papers to the shoebox and and put it to one side, intending to take it downstairs and add it to the other documents. He replaced all the other shoe-boxes on the shelf. A flash of colour caught his eye, and he realised that there was a cardboard box lying flat on top of the hat-boxes, at the back. He pulled it out, long and rectangular.

Miracle

BodyForm

Pantee Corselette

Shapes your body into the

woman you always wanted to be

On the front of the packet, which was mostly pink, was a picture of garment which looked like a kind of all-in-one swimsuit. A token woman shape had been roughly sketched around the picture as though wearing it. At the bottom right-hand corner, in a white rectangle, was the word 'Natural'. The style of the box made him think it dated back to the Fifties.

What had his mother called this kind of thing? Oh, yes, a 'foundation garment'. She hadn't worn such things, that was for a yet older generation, but it had come up in conversation, in the days when both his parents had still been alive. Mostly made of elastic in his grandparents' era, the women of that time had used them to contain their bodies and squeeze them into fantastic shapes. Fantastic to modern eyes, that is.

He looked at the picture. To think that a woman would voluntarily want to put that on and restrict her body so! He paused then, remembering cycling and running gear made of Lycra he himself had worn in the past. This wasn't so different, really, was it? Maybe the elastic was a little stronger, but one couldn't condemn a whole generation just because of that. That was the best that the technology of the time had to offer. And, really, this was little different to a swimsuit after all, just one worn under clothing.

He opened the top of the box and the garment was still there. He pulled it out, expecting the rubber to have long perished, but to his surprise it looked and smelled as good as new. In fact, it showed no signs of wear or stain, even though the box had obviously been opened and closed quite a number of times in the past. He looked at it with curiosity. It was a sort of biscuit colour, and quite odd to the touch. It didn't appear to be fabric that he could tell, but thin and soft and non-shiny, which meant it wasn't latex or rubber. His fingers found one of the cups and discovered a padding of foam inside.

Hm! Perhaps she wasn't quite as well endowed as she wanted to be. Well, that's true of many women.

He carefully pushed the garment back in the box but left it, on impulse, on the bed.

He turned his attentions to the dressing table and went through the drawers. A mixture of cosmetic consumables and equipment, they didn't detain him long. A hair dryer in one of the lower drawers looked so old he guessed that it would fail almost any modern safety inspection. He frowned.

Another complication. I'd better check everything electric I find. It's possible some of the gadgets in the cottage are old enough they could be dangerous. Modern regulations mean they have to be disposed of responsibly, I can't just chuck them in the bin.

The top surface held brushes, combs, hair-grips, clips and barrettes, two compacts, a jewellery box. He opened the box to find neat rows of ear-rings on the top layer, dress finger rings lower down and brooches, necklaces and bangles in the bottom.

Hmm. I'll have to get all these valued. I know nothing about jewellery, but I'd feel sick if I gave or threw away something that turned out to be valuable or antique.

He abandoned the main bedroom, crossing the tiny landing to the second, smaller bedroom. He had already dumped his overnight bag here, preferring to sleep on the guest bed rather than disturb whatever ghosts might still inhabit the main bedroom. A bedside table, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, plus a replica steamer trunk and a large cardboard suitcase of a type used in the Fifties.

The chest of drawers was completely empty, as was the bedside table. The wardrobe contained three long opaque plastic bags containing what he assumed were full-length dresses. Otherwise, there was the usual collection of random coat-hangers one might find in any small hotel. The steamer trunk was filled with linen. Sheets, pillow-cases, tablecloths, even curtains, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue. The old suitcase held towels, most in their original wrapping but still capable of use.

About what I expected. I think I've seen most of what's here, now. Let's go down and sort out some food.

Descending the stairs he made for the scullery behind the kitchen. Here, on the cooler north side of the cottage, was kept the fridge, freezer and washing machine. Aunt Alice may have lived in an old house, but she had all the mod cons. Why, there was even a phone line!

Just as well, seeing as there's no mobile signal out here in the back of beyond. I need to keep in touch.

A wry grimace. I wonder, how many of them at the office even know how to dial a land-line these days?

Opening the fridge, he selected one of the ready meals he had bought on his way here and took it back into the kitchen. Ignoring the impressive and no doubt valuable range - which was, of course, cold - he stabbed a fork into the package and put it into the microwave, twisting the dial with a deftness borne of experience. While that was cooking he returned to the scullery and inspected the rack of wine bottles he had noticed in a corner. Most of the eleven bottles were coated with dust and when he brushed them off most were from places he had never heard of. Selecting a white wine at random, he returned to the kitchen and uncorked it, finding a clean glass in a cupboard. When everything was ready he took his meal to the kitchen table to eat.

It's a shame. This is a pretty enough place, I guess. It's just miles away from anywhere. And anyone. There's no work to be had nearby, unless I want to take up basket weaving or something like that. Certainly nothing that would keep me in the style to which I've become accustomed. Could I keep it as a second home? Come down here week-ends, say, or even rent it out to friends and colleagues? Dunno. Don't think so. I'm already into serious tax avoidance as it is, this would just be another complication I can do without. And that solicitor, Barker, told me the local council have a policy of discouraging second homes as it drives the locals out.

He scraped the last of his dinner from the plate, stood and put his eating equipment in the sink.

Huh. No dish-washer, naturally. I'll have to make sure I tidy the place up before I go, in case that pirate wants to show anyone around. Mustn't leave it looking like a tip!

He left the kitchen, wine-glass in hand, intending to go into the living room and find something to read. It was late May, perhaps he could go and sit on the paved area out back for an hour or two before tidying up and getting ready for bed. There was no TV, although he had noticed aerials in the village a mile away.

Something made him stop in the small hallway and turn towards the stairs.

Why not?

There had been an idea in the back of his mind all afternoon, one he had tried to avoid thinking about, an idea that presented itself to him again as he stood, uncertain, at the bottom of the stairs.

This is the perfect opportunity. No-one will ever know, will they? No-one can even see the cottage, let alone see what you are doing inside it! It's something you have always wondered about, and this is the one chance you have to find out the truth.

He took a step forward.

No-one is going to come here this evening, are they? No-one at work even knows where you are. The chances of a local turning up unexpectedly are somewhat remote, so you have the cottage to yourself and you can do what you damn well want in complete safety.

He climbed the stairs and entered the main bedroom, where he stood thinking.

Think of it as an experiment. You can do what you want, try what you want, in complete privacy. After it's all over, you can bundle the whole lot off to a charity shop and it will just be a memory of an interesting evening you spent in a country cottage.

The thing that had triggered this sudden impulse was the discovery that the foundation garment had padded cups. If it hadn't, the idea would probably never have surfaced at all. Now, his eyes strayed to the worn box on the bedspread.

Supposing it's not my size? I have no idea what Aunt Alice even looked like, let alone what size she was.

He picked up the box and turned it over. On the back was a fairly typical table of sizes and measurements, with the size of the boxed item picked out in bold. Unfortunately, none of them made any sense to him at all.

Oh, well. As they always say, there's only one way to find out.

Decision made, he moved quickly. His shoes came off to be followed by his socks. Off came the shirt, trousers and boxers, to be tossed on the bed. He stood there naked, a curious feeling of - what? anticipation? threat? whatever - beginning to build in his abdomen. He lifted the box, quickly pulling out the garment before he could change his mind.

He walked over to the south window and held the garment up to the light. In direct sunlight, it was possible to see that it was a fabric, incredibly finely woven. There were fine seams as well, defining the panels that made up the garment. He turned it inside out, looking for stains or wear or anything that might put him off what he was about to do next.

Nothing. This looks brand new, although I know it can't possibly be.

Almost unwillingly, he inspected the gusset closely. It looked factory-new, unsoiled, even though he knew that feminine biology meant that most women occasionally experienced some kind of leakage or discharge even when they weren't menstruating. Turning the garment right way out, he moved away from the window, bent down and put one foot into the garment, followed by the other.

As he was pulling it up he paused.

Ah. If I put this on, how am I going to pee? There's no way - naturally - to open the bottom, is there? That means that I am going to have to take it off - and anything else I put on over it - before I can get to the toilet. Best go first, prevent any accidents.

He stepped out of the garment, leaving it on the bed while he visited the small upstairs bathroom. Returning, he picked it up again and stepped into it. As he worked it up his body he got another surprise.

Huh! There's more padding than I thought. Looks like I get hips to go with the tits.

As he settled the lower part about his abdomen he looked down, expecting to see a bulge and finding something, but certainly not all that he imagined he would.

Even better. Looks like the padding conceals my crown jewels as well. And it doesn't even feel uncomfortable at all.

His eyes narrowed as he considered the significance of this.

This can't be right, surely? This is obviously intended for a woman, isn't it? So why...

But when he ran his hands down his thighs, he could feel no padding at all. What he could feel through the thin material was his own body. And though there was a bulge in the front, the result looked more feminine than masculine.

Clever, that's what it is.

He slipped his arms through the shoulder straps and pulled up the torso, settling the straps on his shoulders. He immediately noticed the presence of breasts by the slight extra weight they applied to the front of his chest.

Woo! This is different!

He stood in front of the mirror and inspected the result.

That's... uncanny. My hips aren't that size, surely, and my waist was never that small! Of course, I never did get to have a weight-lifter's physique but even so... that's remarkable!

He turned to the side to see what difference the breast padding made.

Hmm. Not great bulging titties, to be sure, but I've known lots of women who weren't big breasted. Actually, looking at the profile, they seem about in proportion, don't they?

This barmy idea might actually work!

He turned round to the front, concentrating on his face and head.

It still looks like me up top, though. Even so, sitting on top of a reasonable imitation of a woman's body, it looks... somehow not quite so masculine. The hair is what does it, I think.

He went to the dressing table and grabbed a comb, returning to the mirror to stand and tease his hair into something that might be found on a woman's head. A grimace of dissatisfaction.

Too oily, been two days since I last washed it. It's just lucky I have enough hair to even think of doing this!

Wandering out of the bedroom into the bathroom, he wet the comb and tried again using the mirror over the wash-basin. That produced a better result, and as the warm air dried the new shape into position he nodded in satisfaction.

That doesn't look too bad at all. Good enough for what I wanted to do this evening, if nothing else.

He returned to the bedroom and contemplated his next move.

Shall I bother with underwear? I don't think so. I really don't want to go pawing through those drawers. Besides, I have a foundation garment on that will do for bra and knickers all in one, and it's warm enough I shouldn't need another layer. Let's go look at those dresses.

The clothes in the wardrobe covered all seasons, and he pulled almost every item out to try and find something that he might choose to wear. Some of them left him cold, and some of them made no impression at all. There were, however, three summer dresses, all light cotton and covered with floral designs.

Let's try them all.

It was a struggle to pull the rear zip up the first time, until he understood how to manoeuvre his arms behind his back. The dress was light and floaty and the skirt swirled around his bare legs.

Ooh, that's nice. I could get to enjoy this.

The first dress had short, loose sleeves that floated around as he moved his arms. Something didn't quite work, though.

The foundation thing, it pulls my skin. What's going on?

He wriggled out of the dress and walked over to the window. Digging a finger under one shoulder strap, he ran it down the inside of the breast part to the middle. Just inside the lip of the cloth was a narrow transparent bead of some kind of soft plastic, presumably designed to keep the garment in place once put on. Charlie frowned. It had begun to itch under his arms and around his legs as well, and when he lifted a leg the pull around his thigh was quite uncomfortable.

Damn. Just when I thought I'd found something to entertain myself with this evening. Ah, well.

He began pulling the corselette off, finding the beading reluctant to let go of his skin.

That's a shame. Perhaps the beading has started to perish, even if the rest of it is perfectly okay.

He dropped the garment around his ankles, feeling glum.

Can't use that, then. Shame, it was damn near perfect! Can't say I'm really looking forward to the alternative, which is using a bra from the underwear drawer and stuffing it. It won't give the same look or feel at all.

He picked up the box off the bed to put the garment away and it rattled. Puzzled, he upended it and a toothpaste-style tube fell out onto the bed. Charlie picked it up.

Miracle

BodyForm

Seal Lubricant

Use sparingly. Release with water.

About a third of the tube had been used, he guessed.

Ah! Why didn't I think of that!

He removed the cap and carefully squeezed a blob about the size of a pea onto a fingertip. It looked like translucent jelly. Standing naked by the window, with the garment in his hand, he delicately ran the jelly round the beading which went round both leg-holes and both arm-holes as well as the neckline. The stuff seemed to go a long way, he only needed a tiny bit more than his original blob.

Now, how do I get this up my body without smearing the jelly everywhere?

He touched the bead and it seemed dry, so he stepped into the garment and pulled it up again, this time standing in front of the mirror to ensure that it was positioned properly. Now, when he moved his arms and legs, the garment seemed to move with his skin and he felt no discomfort at all.

Brilliant! Right, now for the second dress.

He pulled on the next one which had a slightly higher neckline and no sleeves at all as well as a less fuller skirt.

Mmm. That's good, as well. Would this one be a bit more formal? No idea, but I like it anyway. Now for the third one.

This was a proper sun-dress that stopped under his armpits, with just two wide straps going over his shoulders. He fumbled to set the zip and then did up the sash which went round the waist. This one was quite full and had a flounce at the bottom of the skirt which just reached his knees. He was quite unprepared for the sensation of joyful happiness which burst through his being.

Oh, wow! This is amazing!

He stood in front of the mirror and inspected himself. The foundation garment was nowhere to be seen, just a 'woman' in a pretty dress. With his hair combed just so, he would be mistaken for the real thing from most distances, he decided. Only close up would the masculine shape of his face be apparent, and even that had somehow been softened by what he wore.

Unless I open my mouth, of course. That'll give the game away in seconds.

He pranced and turned in front of the mirror, enjoying what he saw and felt. He felt alive, free, in a way he never had before. There was a stupid smile on his face that he found hard to remove.

That does it, I reckon. I'm going to have to think about all this much more, now. I didn't know I could do this, and now I do, I realise I'm going to have to think very carefully about my future. If just putting on a dress can make me feel like this, what more is possible?

First things first. If I can look like a woman from a distance, I might as well stay like this for the evening, enjoy myself, get used to being dressed like this. Dare I go and sit out in the paved area?

Of course I do! No-one can see me anyway!

Decision made, he turned for the door.

Oops. Better tidy up around here first. And I'll need some footwear. Appropriate footwear.

Dresses were placed on hangers and returned to the wardrobe. A pair of white three-strap sandals seemed to fit, although his big toes were hanging off the front. His own male clothes he took and hung in the wardrobe in the guest room before he returned downstairs with the now-empty wine glass.

Snagging the wine bottle from the kitchen table he went through the back door into the garden. The late-afternoon heat hit him immediately, along with the sounds of the countryside and the fresh spring smells. Together with the incredible sensations he was getting from having so much skin bare yet feeling the soft cotton caressing it, he was almost high as he walked to the lounger.

This is... incredible! And women get to feel like this all the time? Almost makes up for all the crap they get from men, doesn't it?

He settled on the lounger and filled the glass.

No. Nothing could make up for the crap they get from men. I reckon most men don't realise how cushy their lives are by comparison. When I think how the women at the office get treated, talked about, leered at, fantasised over... and that's without all the actual, physical, abusive stuff that can go on.

Still. Not my problem today. Today, I just enjoy myself. This is wonderful!

He sipped the wine, leaning back and closing his eyes, just listening to the rustle of the trees, the whine of passing insects, the screams of the swallows nesting in the eaves of the cottage. He felt the warmth of the sun and the wind gently passing over his body in a way that was quite different to anything he had experienced before. Slowly, he drifted off.

He came to abruptly. The wine glass was empty and so was the bottle, though he did not remember topping his glass up. The sun was much lower in the sky, just a diameter above the hills to the south-west, and the air was noticeably cooling. He groaned, because he had a headache.

Oh, no! I've done the beginner's thing and fallen asleep in the sun! I've probably got a little sunstroke, if it wasn't the wine.

He sat up on the lounger, trying to rub wakefulness into his eyes. A sudden thought made him groan.

Oh, no! I've fallen asleep in the damn dress, haven't I? I'm going to have tan lines that everybody is going to recognise! I'll be the laughing stock of the entire company if I'm not careful!

He staggered to his feet, heading for the house.

Ow, that hurts. Wonder what I have to do before I fall into bed? Do I have to lock and bolt all the doors? Do they do that sort of thing round these parts?

He reached the kitchen and added the bottle and glass to the rest of the things in the sink, which he viewed with bleary eyes.

To hell with that. I'll do it in the morning. Right now, I just want to get to bed.

He pulled himself laboriously up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. Fumbling, he somehow managed to find the zip and undo the dress, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.

What about..? Nah, leave it on. I can't be bothered to take it off and anyway, it's comfortable, I can barely feel that it's there. I'll find out how a woman sleeps with these things on her chest.

He almost fell on the bed, pulling his legs up and swivelling until he was more or less in the right position. As the last rays of the setting sun left his window, he relaxed and was almost instantly asleep.