The Fancy Dress Party

The Fancy Dress Party

If the bloody corset wasn't so damned tight, and if my feet weren't already aching from the ridiculously towering heels, and if the mass of tape criss-crossing my chest wasn't so damned itchy, and if the damned 'foundation garment' that was keeping my willy folded backwards between my legs wasn't so tightly uncomfortable, I might have laughed.

In a funny gaspy sort of voice, mostly because I couldn't take deep breaths, I did however manage to call out: “Shin, O. B. Shin – not chin.”

Someone had told Oscar Bradley to just kick the opponent in the shins. He tried and yelled out: “I can't. It's too high up!”

O. B. was not the brightest star in the firmament. In fact, any passing zombie would have been tempted to offer their own brain power after observing him for a few moments.

And that was on a normal day.

Here, tonight, amidst a large group of seventeen- and eighteen-year olds, the spectacle of him trying to kick another guest on the chin was sadly hilarious. We all tried to keep our mockery of O. B. to an absolute minimum, but tonight he was exceptional. He was trying to kick his tormentor as I mentioned, but with one leg tied up so that the knee rested on a wooden leg, he found it difficult to balance when his mistaken target was on a level with his own shoulders.

He crashed onto his back, his eye patch flew off, his large hoop earrings jangled loudly and his wooden sword broke. Not the most dignified of pirates any of us had ever seen.

His purse of 'ill-gotten gains' split open and his 'fortune' rolled across the wooden floorboards.

His opponent looked at them in amazement. “Captain Jack, I have been trying to tell you that it's not 'pieces of seven' for a long while. The correct form is 'pieces of eight' and they are so called because one large coin in olden days was cut in half, then halved again, and then each of those four pieces once more halved. So pieces of eight can't possibly be circular, they can't roll.”

“Listen, Paul ...”

His opponent sighed loudly. “Peter, not Paul. Peter Parker, at least that's my name when I'm in this costume.”

Peter Parker turned to me and ordered: “Wench, get your Master a foaming tankard then come to dance with me.”

I curtsied as I had been told to do, and twitched my way on those wretched heels to the bar set up along the wall. But there was no bartender there.

Now I had to do all this because Mum had decided I had been unfair and bullying to my older sister earlier in the year. At another fancy dress party. We had tossed a coin at the beginning of the year, and I was allowed to go first, meaning that sister had to do whatever I decided she should do at that first party.

In retrospect, which was happening rather a lot today, I may have gone a little overboard. But it wasn't REALLY my fault she got arrested by the Police and taken down to the station. She could have got away, but she just froze.

As a result, Mum, Sis and even Dad had combined today to force me into this costume, after having the day in the beauty salon having nails, incredibly LONG nails, face and hair done. My ears were pierced and large but surprisingly light hoops were inserted. All the workers and other customers of the salon applauded as I was finally led away from the torture chair.

I was then taken home. The 'rents had made it quite clear what would happen if I did not do go along with Sis' plan. I did have one moment I could have escaped but thought another better chance might come along later.


A well-known local drag queen, popular at 'her' night club had been hired to wax and shave me from my eyebrows down, eyebrows which the girls at the Salon had delighted in shaping and even dyeing. 'She' then made me shove my poor balls up inside myself and taped my willy back where they had been. The incredibly tight foundation was then dragged up into place and I suddenly had an apparently female nether region.

At this point, the others were allowed back in, and they all took turns tying the laces of the corset as tightly as they could. Mum and Sis with glee, but little strength, Dad the other way round. He was already shocked with my 'look' after the salon. I think he began to feel sorry for me, but then he remembered my misdemeanour of earlier in the year, and gave another savage tug.

Surgical tape, at least that's what I assumed it was - it may even have been Duct tape for all I knew - was then cut into strips and layered scientifically across my chest, shocking all of us when my chest appeared with a distinct amount of cleavage. A bra was put on me and various bits of foamy stuff were pressed into various nooks and crannies. Once the skimpy, but very frilly top had been fitted into place, and GLUED there, I looked every inch, and there were indeed quite a few inches, a very buxom wench. With very noticeable cleavage, framed enticingly with frills.

With the corset, I couldn't bend, so my Mum carefully rolled up a thigh-high stocking on each leg while Sis attached the tops to the six straps dangling from the suspender or garter belt or whatever it was called tied, hooked, fastened somehow around my now tiny waist.

Then came the petticoats and finally the swirly skirt was lowered carefully over my head, trying to muss neither my hair nor my make-up.

Then came the problem. The frilly blouse type top didn't quite meet the waist of the skirt. But the corsetry beneath was incongruously visible.

Mum clicked her fingers and dashed off.

When she came back, Dad blushed slightly and Sis threw her an astonished glance.

The lace-up bustier was otherwise fitted to my waist without comment. And it hid the problem.

And so it was that I was introduced to the assembled company at the party as the pirate wench 'Ouida' and my task for the evening was to fetch people their drinks on demand.

And to dance with whomsoever wanted me to. Whenever they wanted me to. Drinks fetching had priority though.

Which reminded me not to hesitate with all these reminiscences, but I had to take a mug of 'ale' over to Captain Jack, in other words O.B.

I scanned frantically for the bartender and gasped a little scream when he suddenly appeared at my side.

Except it wasn't a he, it was a she. It was Sis dearest.

I recognised her face, but this was the first time I had seen her costume.

“Nice Kunoichi, Sis!”

“Don't forget to curtsey, Ouida wench. Or maybe I'll get that Captain Jack to put you over his knee and spank you! Pull up those petticoats and show your stocking tops.”

I started to laugh, but her eyes told me she was deadly serious. Even as she poured the drink.

I curtsied as best I could.

“That's better, wench! Ah! Here comes your Captain to fetch his drink, and your Spiderman is waiting for his dance.”

I remembered to curtsy once more as I took my leave of the bar. But Sis added one final comment: “I want you to be girlishly surprised every time one of us pops up next to you. Don't forget! A little girly scream.”

“One of you?”


“I believe the preferred term in Japan is Shinobi.”

“I already told you wench,” grumbled Captain Jack. “I can't it's too high up.”

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