The women's self-help group was dedicated to making men suffer for their marital sins, and what more fitting humiliation could there be, than to force them to be the kind of woman they most desired. When the narrator wakes up as a Dolly Parton look-alike, he expects the worst, but actually gains more than anyone could possibly have imagined.
This story was originally published on Fictionmania in 2003 under my other nom de plume of Marianne Nettes. It is posted here virtually without modification. It's basically a light hearted story with lots of sex of all types. Please don't read it if that is not to your taste. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy!
by Marianne Nettes
'Hell Hath No Fury'
The words had been staring me in the face for some time. I knew they should have meant something to me - perhaps they were part of a saying or quotation, but for the life of me, I couldn't think what.
I read the words again, scrawled in large letters in bright red lipstick across the mirror above the dressing table, but still they meant nothing. It was strange - my mind felt as though it was switched off - but not in the way it normally was when I awoke with a massive hangover. No, it was more similar to the time after I'd had my tonsils removed, and my body had regained consciousness, whilst my mind was still dormant. I'd been aware of my surroundings, without being able to think too deeply about them.
At that moment, I couldn't even remember where I was or how I'd got there. From the furniture and the decoration, I was clearly in one of those standardized hotel rooms, which look exactly like each other, no matter what part of the country you happen to be in. I turned my head to the bedside cabinet on my left, hoping for sight of a hotel logo on an information card, which might jog my memory.
'Hell hath no fury like...' The words were there again, on a folded white card on the bedside table, this time with a valuable one-word addition, and a few dots, which bade the reader to look inside.
The missing words were on the tip of my tongue. I knew that I should know them. Hell hath no fury like... But in my befuddled state, I couldn't bring them to mind.
A hand reached out to take the card. I vaguely wondered whether it might be my own hand, but it was as though it belonged to someone else - as if it was disembodied from me. Inside the card were the words I'd been racking my brain for.
'A WOMAN SCORNED', it read, in glitzy red print, to match the colour of the lipstick on the mirror. Of course, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Underneath the heading, in smaller type: 'A WOMAN SCORNED is the name of a women's self-help group like one you have never experienced before. You won't find us in any phone book or directory of business services, for we can be approached only by personal recommendation.
'We exist to provide fitting revenge to men who are unfaithful to their partners. You have been selected by your partner...' the word 'Sheila,' had been written in, '...who has nominated you to receive our full treatment. A letter from your partner is enclosed.'
The disembodied hand brought an envelope in front of my eyes. That hand was joined by a second one, which tore open the flap, and took out the handwritten letter, inside.
It read, 'You bastard! At last, you get what you deserve. This is for...' and there followed a list of about twenty girls' names, together with dates stretching back over the last eight years.
'I hope you detest this weekend, and remember it for the rest of your life. Incidentally, don't even contemplate complaining to the police about this or mentioning it to the divorce lawyer, else I may recall details of that nasty car accident you had in Seacombe last December, after you'd had far too much to drink at that Christmas Party.
'May you rot in hell.'
I lay back on the bed, in a shocked daze. Things were falling into place with an all too startling clarity. The disembodied hands were shaking so badly now, they could hardly pick up the original card, and hold it still enough for me to continue reading from where I had left off.
'You have been temporarily turned into a woman by members of A Woman Scorned, using gender transformation products, secured in place by powerful adhesives. In a few days, the adhesives will lose their strength and you will be able to revert to your former self with only a little discomfort. However, we strongly advise against trying to force an accelerated reversal, since you are likely to remove large areas of skin, as well as less important human tissue, such as your genitals.
'After discussing your preferences in women with your partner, we have designed a body for you, which should be in accordance with your perfect shape. It will be interesting to observe whether you find that shape as perfect for your own body as you seem to find it for others. The body shape chosen by your partner is...' and the words 'Dolly Parton' had been written in.
'For the next forty-eight hours, you will experience life as a woman has to experience it, as you undergo a series of demeaning tasks and tests. Do not expect to enjoy this experience, for you will be A WOMAN SCORNED.'
As my senses returned to normal, I was left staring at those two disembodied hands holding the card. The hands were quite large, and had crimson fingernails that were so long, they projected at least half an inch beyond the end of the fingers. But it wasn't the length or colour of the nails that was the problem, it was the fact that the hands weren't disembodied at all - they were my hands! I could open them and close them, and clasp the card or release it, so it dropped onto the quilt bulging over my chest.
I had, of course, been conscious of the bulge for some time, but like everything else, had not thought deeply about it. Now, I grasped the quilt and threw it off me and tried to sit up as hurriedly as I could. The problem was the heavy weights sitting on my chest, holding me down. I had to turn my body to the left, and I could feel the weights slide sideways - but not very far, as though they were a permanent attachment. I levered myself up onto my left elbow, and looked down.
I guess Dolly Parton doesn't get a shock like that every morning when she levers herself from the horizontal into a sitting position on the bed. Just imagine two flesh coloured water-filled footballs attached to your chest, and you get the idea. In fact, although I'd never had the opportunity to see at close quarters the pair that Dolly carries around every day, I reckoned these two beauties must be even bigger than hers.
As I pulled myself into a seated position, they hung down over my stomach, almost touching my thighs. Somewhere under there, I knew, was my groin, or at least, the position where my groin used to be. I dreaded to think what had happened to it.
I put one hand onto either breast, and spread them apart, so I could peer between them. There was nothing, other than pubic hair, to be seen. I released my right breast and felt down below. As I had feared, where yesterday I'd had my manhood, there was only a slit!
I swivelled my feet onto the floor, noticing that my toenails were painted crimson, to match my fingernails. I stood upright, staggering forward a little, as the extra weight at the front unbalanced me, and walked over to the full length mirror on the wall.
I guess if I really had looked like Dolly Parton, it wouldn't have been so bad, but then, I guess if it was that easy, there'd be millions of women imitating her. I had a Dolly blonde wig; my eyes carefully made up with the same dark eye shadow as she wore; the same kind of heavy, ornate earrings hung from my ears; and my lips were the same crimson red as my nails. They'd even changed the shape of my cheeks slightly, and I raised my hand to my cheek, to try to work out what had happened, almost poking out my eye with a fingernail, in the process.
But the overall impression was that of a very poor imitation of Dolly by someone who, apart from a simply massive pair of tits, simply didn't have the looks to carry it off. Down below, it wasn't just my cock they'd changed. Swivelling around, I could see I had an arse the size of a hippopotamus, and hips to match. Overall, I had the appearance of a cheap tart.
The clothing hanging in the open fronted wardrobe looked as though it had been chosen to give the same impression. There was a flared black skirt, not more than twelve inches long, and a white tee shirt, with a deeply scooped neckline. Next to those was a white corset, with four long suspenders hanging down, and on the shelf next to the wardrobe, a pack of black, fishnet stockings, and a tiny pair of black panties, made of the sheerest material.
On the floor, was a pair of black sling-back shoes, with heels at least four inches high. Everything chosen to make me look conspicuous, as I undertook my demeaning tasks, which presumably would involve being seen as much as possible.
I considered. Of course, I didn't have to go through with everything they had dreamed up. Obviously, I'd have to dress in these clothes for the time being, since they were the only ones available. There was no phone in the room, but I could go to Reception, get them to call a taxi and then get it to take me home.
But my keys and wallet were missing, and without them, I'd have to smash a window to get in, to find the cash to pay the taxi fare. I had normally considered that having nosy neighbours was an advantage, since the house was usually empty all day long. But they would certainly call the police when they saw a prostitute trying to break into my house. The thought of speaking to the neighbours beforehand and trying to explain what had happened was more than I could bear.
On the other hand, I reasoned, perhaps I could stay right here in this hotel room, and order meals on room service. As a solution, it appeared too easy. I turned back to the Woman Scorned card, and continued reading.
'You could choose not to take part in the tasks we have devised for you. It is your choice, but we should warn you that this hotel room has to be vacated this morning and you will be without food and shelter, since all your money, credit cards and keys have been put into safe keeping. Only if you satisfactorily complete your tasks will you receive food and accommodation at appropriate times.'
Finally, at the bottom of the card, someone had scrawled: 'Suggest you get dressed and have breakfast, which is served in the restaurant until 10 am. No room service! For your first task, you may like to select a less revealing dress from Tweeds Fashions in the old town. One of our representatives will find you in the changing rooms at around 11.30 am.'
Thank God! They weren't so heartless after all. I was not going to have to wear this all weekend. A bit of humiliation, just to show me what it was like, and then they were going to let me wear something more respectable. I didn't know Tweeds Fashions, but it sounded very Town & Country. But first, I had to get dressed, and suffer my embarrassment over breakfast. Looking at the radio clock, I saw I only had an hour before breakfast ended.
Several times in the past I had hopefully suggested that, if my wife was concerned about her figure, she should try a corset, but she had always treated the suggestion as a joke. I'd always thought that a great pity, for I found corsets extremely erotic - now I was to be tested to see whether I still found them so attractive from the inside.
I knew enough about them to know I had to fully loosen the cords, unfasten the busk at the front, wrap the garment around my waist and then refasten the busk. That task, at least, was relatively straightforward, although even before I started pulling on the cords, it was all a rather tight fit.
The corset had a built-in bra, although the cups barely covered my nipples, and appeared to function solely as curved platforms upon which my breasts could rest as they were pushed outwards to their fullest extent - a bit like large jellies perched on top of tiny dessert bowls.
I drew in the cords until I felt I had gained rather a nice shape. It wasn't even particularly uncomfortable - in fact, I found it rather erotic simply being pulled into such a wonderful shape. I stood in front of the mirror, swivelling left and right to admire myself. Then I took the tee shirt of the hanger, and slipped it over my head and pulled it down.
Jesus Christ! I looked good. OK, not the kind of woman I'd have wanted to take home to have tea and cakes with my mother, but certainly the kind I'd have wanted to take home when no-one else was around.
I turned to the little, black skirt. I reckoned that once I had that on, I was going to look so incredibly sexy that I'd probably have an orgasm just looking at myself.
The skirt didn't fit! I couldn't get it to slide over my hips and bum. I made certain the zip was fully open, and the waist fastening was undone, but there was no way I was going to be able to pull it up.
Then I had my brainwave. I could pull it over my head.
Well, my head wasn't a problem, of course. I even managed to wriggle it over my fairly broad shoulders, but when it came to my tits, I had one hell of a job. I finally managed it by twisting so that I could feed the skirt past first the left breast, and then the right. But the skirt still wouldn't fasten around my waist! It was at least four inches too small!
The answer of course, was obvious. The Scorned Women hadn't wanted the corset to give me a 'nice' shape - they wanted me to have the kind of hourglass figure that most men drool over. I was going to have to do some serious tightening of the cords, if I was going to fit into that tiny little skirt.
I tried drawing the cords tighter in the same way as I had done previously, with my arms behind my back, but I couldn't get any real leverage to give the cords the kind of pull they needed. I cast my eye around the room for something to assist.
Eventually, I found the solution in the bathroom. There were a couple of handrails on the wall by the bath - the kind which disabled people use, and which will bear the full weight of a person. I stood in the bath, pulled the cords as tight as I could, and then tied them to the handrail, and lowered myself so I was hanging from the cords.
It took a bit of wriggling, and I twice had to repeat the process, but eventually, I had a waist narrow enough for the skirt to fasten.
Success! Combined with absolute agony!
But when I climbed out the bath and stood in front of the mirror, again, I realized the agony was worth it. I had a figure to die for - the tee shirt stretched over my tits like barrage balloons, a tiny waist, and the short, black skirt splaying out over my huge arse. All I needed now to complete the picture were the stockings and shoes. Oh, and of course, the panties!
The busk of the corset almost gouged a hole through my stomach as I tried to bend over to pick up the pack of stockings. That was a lesson I wasn't going to forget in a hurry, to keep my torso dead straight at all times. No wonder women had been so keen to forgo their corsets and their wonderful figures, to avoid having their stomachs ripped open each time they bent over.
This time, I bent my knees in order to lower my body downwards until I could grasp the pack, and then stood up again to consider my next move. The problem was, my feet, as usual, were at the end of my legs, and I had to get the stockings over them. I realized that I should have put on the stockings and the panties before the corset, but there was no way I was taking off the corset and going through the whole process all over again.
After a while, I worked out the solution. I sat on the edge of the bed, and brought my ankle up until I could grasp it in my hand. Then I fell backwards so I was lying on the top of the bed, with my ankle still in my hand. Now I could slide the stocking over my toes and up my leg.
It was only at this point I realized how utterly hairless were my legs, and for that matter, the whole of my body. The Scorned Women had certainly done a fantastic conversion job on me, and must have spent most of last night on it.
Only now could I vaguely remember deciding that, since it was a Friday evening, I would pop into the West Beach Hotel, on Seacombe's sea front, for a couple of drinks on the way home from work. I had hoped that perhaps I might get lucky and pick up a beautiful woman on holiday on her own, looking for a little romance. It was an image I'd had many times before, which was the main reason I tended to frequent the West Beach Hotel, rather than the more conventional hotels and pubs in the town centre.
Unfortunately, until last night, it had never worked out that way. Only occasionally did you find women in the bar on their own, and as soon as you'd got chatting to them, some hunky bloke inevitably turned up and whisked them off, often with quite an aggressive look towards me.
Then, last night I had literally bumped into the woman of my dreams as I left the Gents toilets. She'd been looking behind her as I came out, and she walked straight into me. She had on a low cut dress, and although her boobs weren't one quarter of the size of my current ones, I had found them exceptionally attractive. We got chatting, I bought her a drink, and then another, and finally she'd suggested we go up to her room. We had kissed, she had told me to get undressed and get into bed whilst she went to the bathroom, and...
And nothing. Presumably, at some stage, she'd dropped a date-rape drug into my drink, and then the Scorned Women had done their dirty deeds upon my body whilst I lay unconscious.
To be fair to them, although their intention was clearly vindictive, I really could not complain about the woman I'd been turned into. I smiled. No doubt they had thought to have this kind of body was the worst fate that any woman could suffer. Typical women! They never did understand what made a woman look attractive.
'Mind you,' I thought, 'neither did I.'
After I'd put on my other stocking and fastened on my shoes, using the same principle as before, I stood in front of the mirror once again, and I had to confess I looked absolutely breath-taking. OK my face wasn't pretty, but with a body like mine, who was going to be looking at my face anyway?
The only parts of my clothing with which I was really not happy were the four-inch stiletto heeled shoes, in which I could barely totter across the floor. I needed to spend ages practicing walking in them, but I looked again at the clock, and realized I had barely ten minutes before breakfast ended. I had to go.
It was one of those hotels where you have to walk miles to get anywhere. I'd realized I needed some practice in walking - well, I certainly got it on that trek to the restaurant. Fortunately, there was a handrail along most of the corridors. I certainly needed it, for by the time I got to the restaurant, I was barely able to stand up. My ankles were aching as though they were about to drop off. I'd passed one or two guests on the way, and they had all given me rather strange looks - no wonder really - I looked like a prostitute with artificial legs.
But when I got to the restaurant, I let go of the handrail, stood up straight, and made an entrance they would never forget. Body straight (well the corset ensured that, anyway), one foot in front of the other combined with a nice sway of the arse, which the skirt amplified into a wonderful swing. I could see everyone's head turn to watch me, and I felt like a million dollars, until my foot turned, and I went sprawling arse over tit, to end up on my hands and knees at the feet of the head waiter.
The bra cups failed to control my tits, and they flopped forward out of the front of the tee shirt, and my skirt was up around my waist. It was only then I remembered I had forgotten to put on my panties!
The waiting staff was quite nice about it all, really. OK, they threw me out of the restaurant, but in a very polite way.
'Madam needs assistance to visit the Ladies Powder Room,' the headwaiter directed, and I had no shortage of beefy waiters who were more than willing to slip their arms around my waist, accidentally squeezing breasts and bum as they did so.
Once inside the Ladies, I made a few lightning adjustments to my clothing, all the time wondering if I had the nerve to walk back into the restaurant. In the event, I was not given the choice. When I left the Ladies, the door to the restaurant was shut, with a large 'Closed' sign on it, with the headwaiter standing implacably inside, his back to the glass door. I knew there was no way I was getting past him. So I commenced the epic journey back to my room, where I'd noticed tea-making facilities, together with a complimentary biscuit.
There were only two ways to leave the West Beach Hotel - one to the west, to the next town, ten miles along the coast; the other to the east, and towards Seacombe town centre, located around the river mouth.
The problem was that it was the best part of a mile to the town centre, along Seacombe's promenade, which lined the West Beach. Without even the money for the bus fare, I'd have to walk the whole distance in my heels.
That wasn't all. Until then, I'd thought Seacombe was in serious decline as a seaside resort. How wrong can you be? There were more holidaymakers on that beach than you got in Baywatch when Pamela Anderson was due to appear.
Families with kids, elderly couples, students from the university, as well as the other kind of day trippers, who were simply wetting their toes in the sea before beginning the serious business of drinking dry the local pubs.
The crowds weren't just confined to the beach. They milled around the little huts on the promenade, selling all the usual beach paraphernalia - ice creams, suntan lotion, children's fishing nets, and swimming aids. And every adult, and many of the more mature children, stared at me - the men with looks of open admiration and lechery, as though it was Pamela Anderson, herself, walking by, whilst the women looked on in open disgust.
I'd only gone a few hundred yards before my ankles started to burn in agony, and I had to drop onto an empty bench. Within five seconds, I was sharing the bench with three blokes, who were looking for a bit of fun on their day out. They were keen to point out that on principle they wouldn't pay cash for sex, but they could be very generous to a girl with the right attributes (and I had them) who would be happy to contribute to their enjoyment.
Of course, the male part of me would probably have punched them on the nose, were it not for the fact that there were three of them, all of whom looked far more capable in that respect than I was. So I let my female side dominate, smiling sweetly at them as I shook my head. It was only at that moment I realized, with a sinking feeling, my biggest problem would occur as soon as I started to speak, for surely, I would be sussed out within a few seconds.
Yet those three blokes seemed determined to engage me in conversation. 'Do you live here, luv?' 'Are you married?' 'Got a boyfriend?' 'How do you fancy a stroll into the dunes?' 'Do you want a lift into town?'
That last question went straight to the core, because over the last few minutes, I had been rubbing my flaming ankles, and wondering exactly how I was going to complete the journey into town. I decided to take my courage into my hands, knowing that if these guys realized they were really chatting up a bloke, they would beat me into mincemeat.
'Have you got a car?' I said the words as softly as possible, with a little smile in my eyes, hoping he would notice the smile, more than the maleness of my voice. It seemed to work.
'Yeah. We could give you a lift.'
They were all leering at this. 'What, all three of you?' When they started to nod, I added, 'You must think I was born yesterday, getting into a car with the three of you.'
I looked the one I presumed was the car owner in the eye. 'I'd come with you, though, if you were to offer.' Too late, I realized the ambiguity of the words I'd used.
His face lit up. 'Right on! Great!' He turned to the other two. 'I'll see you guys a bit later - say in the pub at about twelve. I reckon me and the Princess will be done by then.' Thirty seconds later, he'd loaded me into an old Ford Capri parked by the side of the road, and we had shot off into the traffic.
'Gary's my name. How about you?'
Shit! What was my name? I could hardly tell him the truth.
'Donny Partem.' The name slipped out before I'd even thought about it, and I sought to justify it. 'That's my professional name, anyway. I do a Dolly Parton look-alike act, round the clubs and bars. Do you think I'm like her?'
'Fucking hell.' He leered at my tits. 'I'll say.'
'You're going the wrong way. The town centre is in the opposite direction.'
'I've just got to find somewhere to turn the car round.'
'You've just passed the West Beach Hotel. You could have turned round there.'
'Yeah, but they get really snotty-nosed about people having sex in the car park.'
I gulped. I knew it was a bad idea getting in the car with him, aching ankles or no aching ankles.
'We can turn round up here,' he said, turning the car off the main road and taking a side road into the dunes at the rear of the beach.
'Oh God,' I thought 'I've asked for this.'
I looked around. We were now completely surrounded by the sand dunes, with not a person in sight. I could be in serious trouble.
'Gary, I'm not going to have sex with you.'
He looked at the expression on my face, then stopped the car with a lurch. 'Sorry, that's what I thought you were suggesting. Still, I'll never force a woman to have sex with me, so if you want to get out here, it's OK by me.'
'But you've taken me away from the town centre. It's miles back there, and I can't walk through the sand in these heels.'
'Well, I didn't make you wear those shoes, did I?' He hesitated a second, then said, 'Look, if you don't fancy full sex, how about a tit fuck?'
It was my turn to hesitate. After all, it wasn't as though they were my tits, were they?
'And you'll take me into town, afterwards?'
'Course I will,' he said.
The problem was, I saw the bastard cross his fingers as he spoke.
'Come on, then.' I jerked my head, indicating we should get out of the car.
His leer turned into a huge grin. 'Great.' He switched off the engine and got out, walked around the car, and held the door open whilst I got out.
The road was about three feet higher than the sand at this point, but a few gorse bushes had grown by the side. I thought that these, together with the car, would probably conceal us from anyone strolling amongst the sand dunes. Hopefully, we'd be able to hear if a car was coming, and take cover before it came into sight.
'This place is as good as any,' I said, not really certain how I was going to play this, and trying as hard as I could to remember the few times when I had been a recipient of this kind of good fortune. It was all going to be made so much more difficult, I realized, by the restrictions so uncompromisingly imposed by the corset.
Taking care not to bend forward, I knelt down before him, released his trouser belt, and unzipped him. His trousers fell to the ground, and his prick was bulging beneath his underpants. I grasped them and gently eased them down over the bulge, and his prick suddenly sprang out towards my face.
'I'm not doing a blow job,' I said. 'Sit down.'
'Any scrubber can give me blowjob,' he said, dropping down onto his bum, leaning back on his elbows and pushing his legs forward. 'But I've never seen a woman with tits like yours before. This is going to be unique.'
I pulled up the front of my tee shirt, and shrugged first one tit out of the bra, and then the other. Then I edged forward on my knees until my tits were hanging over his balls, and sat firmly astride his thighs. With my weight on top of him, he wasn't going to move until I was ready. I didn't want him deciding he wanted to extend the range of our activities, and suddenly reversing positions.
So we commenced. I didn't have to lean forward very far for my huge tits to be hanging either side of his prick, and I simply pushed them together with my hands until his prick was totally hidden. Then I rolled my tits down the side of his prick, until the purple head came poking through. I pushed them back up again, and then violently jerked them down.
'Fucking hell! That's good,' he moaned.
'Lie down on your back,' I commanded, 'close your eyes, and think of England. You'll last longer that way.'
He obediently complied, resting his head on his hands, for comfort. I allowed the purple knob of his prick to protrude once more, and then got into a smooth rhythm - up and down, up and down, up and down. Every now and again, I gave a violent jerk downwards, and he would grunt in response.
We continued for another five minutes or so, before I could sense him about to spurt. Well, one thing I was determined was not going to happen was that he squirted over me. I had him pointing in exactly the right direction when his knob protruded the next time. I gave another violent jerk, he gave an enormous grunt, and his cum shot into the air.
I guess a schoolchild could make some kind of scientific deductions about gravity, by observing the parabola of that splodge of semen, as it soared almost three feet in the air and then, with quite a large element of luck, landed exactly where I'd planned - right in his gob!
But he'd already shot his next load by then, and this time it was sheer chance that, as he wrenched himself upright in a choking spasm, he was hit straight between the eyes by his own semen.
Well, that suited me even better, because he was half blind now, as well as choking. Whilst he frantically rubbed his eyes, I grabbed hold of his trousers, and yanked at the one side, causing him to roll off the edge of the road towards the sand beneath. His head and torso slid down the steep slope to the sand, but I kept hold of the trousers, with his feet trapped inside the legs, so he was left hanging upside down.
Just to make certain he wasn't going to easily free himself, I pushed the trousers over a few branches of a gorse bush, and wedged them as deeply in the centre as I could.
I'd carefully noted what he'd done with his car keys as he got out the car, so after I'd managed to stand upright again - no mean task in that corset - it was simple to retrieve them, get in the car and prepare to drive off.
'Thanks for offering me the lift into town,' I said. 'It's a pity your feet appear to be enveloped inside a gorse bush...
'You fucking bitch! Get me out of here or I'll... Shit!' The last remark came as he tried to extricate himself from the gorse and rather badly scratched his bare leg.
'Be careful,' I warned, 'Gorse can be very sharp.' I gave him a nice smile, and added, 'I'll leave your car in the harbour car park. Thanks for lending it to me.'
I shut the window and drove off.
Tweeds' Fashions was nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be full of respectable middle-aged ladies buying their tweed suits. Instead, it was full of teeny boppers, buying club wear - short, sexy dresses, brightly coloured catsuits, bustiers and hot pants.
'Select a less revealing dress in Tweeds,' a Woman Scorned had written. Looking around, I could see very little which matched that description.
I wondered whether, when they said 'dress', they would let get me get away with trousers. Unfortunately, time was fast approaching 11.30, when I was supposed to meet them in the changing rooms. I had a nasty feeling that if I wasn't on time, they would simply walk away and leave me abandoned. I hurriedly grabbed a few outfits in the largest sizes, which looked as though they might be slightly more respectable than my current garb, and headed for the changing rooms.
Inside, I'd expected to find separate changing cubicles - the same as you get in men's clothes shops. Not so, it was one long room, with a bench down either side and hooks at intervals along the walls. Not that you could see much of the benches, for there must have been twenty girls in that room, all in various stages of undress, including several who were stark naked, apart from the tiniest pairs of knickers I'd ever seen.
'You going through luv, or waiting for a bus?' The voice came from an impatient woman, behind me. 'Look, there's some space right at the end.'
She pointed past me, to the far corner, almost hidden by the seething half-naked bodies.
'Thanks. I hadn't noticed.'
I took a deep breath and moved forward, hoping the bodies would move aside to let me through. They didn't.
'Oh, for God's sake!' The woman pushed past me in exasperation, and started worming her way into the crowd. She had almost disappeared into it, when she turned round, grasped my wrist and added, 'Come on. You'll never get through this lot if you're polite.' She pulled me into the crowd.
When I was a schoolboy, I'd had this dream of being pushed by the other boys into the girls' changing-rooms, and not being let out. It might have been a premonition of that moment, except that I wasn't certain whether it was a dream or a nightmare!
On the one hand, wriggling my way amongst dozens of half-naked girls was fantastic - on the other hand, there was a part of me that was screaming to get more deeply involved, but it was trapped immobile by whatever contraptions it had been glued into. I was in the middle of twenty naked women and I couldn't get an erection! And of course, I was doing something highly illegal and I might be found out, to my everlasting disgrace.
'There you are luv, there's a couple of spaces here.' My companion had pulled me all the way through the heaven/hell zone, and we had some clear space around us. 'Will you undo my zip?' She turned her back on me so I could oblige.
As I pulled the zip down her back and her dress gaped opened, I realised she was bra-less. She pulled the dress off her shoulders and it fell to her waist, as she turned round to step out of it.
'What's the matter? Not seen a waspie like this before?'
She was proudly displaying the bright red foundation garment around her waist. I gulped, trying to concentrate on that, rather than those wonderful boobies.
'No... well, yes. I was admiring it. I wear a corset, but it's nothing like as attractive as that.'
'Gives you the nice figure, though, doesn't it? I wish I had a figure like yours.' She nodded at one of the outfits I had selected, a midnight blue catsuit. 'That's nice; I might try one of those myself, later on. Can I see you in it?'
'Yes, of course, although I'm not certain it'll fit.' I took a deep breath and pulled my tee shirt over my head, followed by my skirt, and stepped out of my shoes. I pushed my feet into the legs and, surprisingly, managed to pull it over my hips and feed my arms into it. It had a long back zip, and my companion obligingly did it up.
'You look good in it,' she said. 'There's a mirror over there.' She pointed into the crowd. 'I'm just going off to show this to my friend. Back in a minute.' She had pulled on a red dress that was almost as short as the skirt I had been wearing, and she disappeared towards the door.
Now I was starting to get used to all these naked women, I didn't find them so distracting as I forced my way over to the mirror. I stared critically at my image. Jesus Christ, I looked good! I would actually enjoy walking around in this outfit, especially watching the look on blokes' faces as they saw me. Hopefully, the Women Scorned wouldn't veto it, simply because it wasn't a dress.
I went back to the hook where I'd hung my clothes, thinking that I might as well try on the other garments before making my final decision. Unfortunately, when it came to undoing the zip of my catsuit, I couldn't reach it. Damn! Hopefully, my companion would return soon, as I really didn't want to risk starting up a conversation with someone else in there.
I examined my other outfits fairly carefully, and as I looked as the white dress, I recognised one of the labels hanging from the zip. It had three words written on it: 'A Woman Scorned.'
I glanced around. One of these half naked girls must have tied it on there whilst I'd been looking in the mirror, but I couldn't see anyone taking the slightest notice in me. I turned over the label, and read the handwritten message:
'The police have just been given a description of a man masquerading as a woman in the changing rooms at Tweeds. You have only a few minutes to get out.'
My first reaction was to bolt for the door, pushing aside everyone who got in the way, and run out of the shop, but a quick glance at the Amazon guarding the entrance to the changing rooms indicated there was no way anyone was going to get past her wearing the, as yet unpaid, shop goods.
'Do you think you could unzip me, please?' My voice was as sweet and soft as it had ever been, and the girl next to me didn't even break her conversation with her companion as she did as I bade. The catsuit was off in ten seconds flat, and I was fully dressed and leaving the changing-rooms within a couple of minutes, carefully handing over the outfits to the Amazon as I did so.
I could hear a siren as I went through the shop door, and I hurriedly turned in the opposite direction. I was ten yards down the street before the police car turned the corner and I quickly darted inside the nearest doorway, which happened to be that of a wine bar called Jed's.
'You're late.' The man, who I presumed was Jed, had been clearing one of the tables, and he scowled at me as I stepped inside. 'You were supposed to be here by 11.45. It's now almost twelve.'
'Sorry. Er... I think you must have the wrong...'
My mouth almost dropped open, but I managed to nod.
'You think I don't recognise my own uniform?'
'Uniform?' I glanced around. There was a waitress serving another table wearing the same white tee shirt, black skirt with fishnet stockings, and ridiculous heels. But she also had on a frilly white apron, tied in a large bow at the rear, a white hair ribbon, also tied in a large bow, and a black bow tie around her, otherwise bare, neck.
'You'll find the rest of your things through there.' Jed indicated a door behind the bar. 'Get them on straightaway, and you can finish clearing this table.'
'I don't want no buts. If you're not going to work then piss off, but make certain you leave the uniform behind, otherwise I'll have the law on you.'
'But I haven't got any other clothes...'
'Not my problem, is it? As far as I'm concerned you can walk stark naked down the street, or get properly attired and start serving.'
I sighed. This was obviously the next part of my humiliation.
Fortunately, both the bow tie and the hair ribbon were of the pre-tied, elasticised variety, and I managed, on the third attempt, to put a half decent bow at the rear of the apron. As I went back into the bar area, I felt pretty good, and I reckoned that as demeaning jobs go, this was not going to be too bad. Little did I know.
The problem was that with that uniform, every male that came into the place regarded the waitresses as easy meat, and dressed in that way, it was mainly males that came in. It was called a wine bar, but it was really a pub for lager louts, with waitress service, which meant they could drink huge amounts without realizing they were so pissed they couldn't even stagger to the bar.
And the more pissed they became, so their suggestions became cruder, and were generally accompanied by a grope. A hand wandering between my thighs and up my skirt, to feel the skin between stocking top and panties, or grabbing a tit and rolling the nipple between finger and thumb.
The first time it happened, I poured the guy's lager straight into his lap, but I got a tremendous rocketing from Jed, and was told that, not only would I be out the door without my uniform if I did that again, but that I'd have to pay for his trousers to be dry cleaned out of my share of the tips.
The other waitress was quite philosophical about it, pointing out that, the more she let the guys touch her up, the higher the tips became. She had a point, and for the rest of the day, I became as co-operative as she was. The only problem was, at the end of the day, I didn't get any tips.
It was well after midnight. I'd been on my feet in the wine bar for the best part of twelve hours, with barely a rest. My ankles burnt, my feet throbbed with pain, my legs ached, even my shoulders felt as though they wanted to drop off, tired of carrying the weight of those enormous breasts.
'No way luv. You've been skiving all day long. You poured that beer over the guy and we've had to pay for his trousers to be cleaned. We've had to spend so much of our own time in just showing you what to do. There's no way you get a share of the tips.'
So Jed shared the pot out with the other waitress, and she left with a smirk over her face.
'Where do I sleep?' It was a question that had started to bother me over the last few minutes. A Woman Scorned had told me I'd get accommodation if I did what I was told. I'd been totally obedient, so Jed ought to know what the arrangements were. But he'd made no reference to a room, and he was now turning out all the lights in the building, and there seemed a clear desire to get rid of me.
'Sleep? I don't know where you're sleeping. It's not my problem. I'm not a bed and breakfast, you know.'
'But...' I looked outside. There were still dozens of drunken yobos roaming the streets. 'I've got nowhere to go. Can't I stay here?'
'You're kidding!' He stared at me, then his gaze softened. 'Got nowhere to go? I guess you could stay here, but what's it worth?'
'Worth! You've taken all the tips I earned. I haven't got any money.'
He smiled. 'I wasn't thinking of money.'
I was about to tell him to get lost, but there was a sudden bout of raucous shouting outside, and I knew if I was out there on my own, I was going to encounter far worse than Jed.
'I suppose I could give you a tit fuck,' I tentatively offered. After all, I'd managed earlier on that day, even though it seemed a lifetime before.
'On yer bike. It's the full thing, or you're out the door. And don't forget I need the uniform off you before you leave.'
I glanced down. There was an enormous bulge appearing in the front of his trousers. Whilst I didn't know what kind of device the Women Scorned lot had used to convert me, it was a sure fire cert I wouldn't be able to find a home for that monster.
'Sorry. It's that time of the month. I could give you a blow job.'
He shook his head. 'Like I say, it's the real thing or nothing' He gave another smile. 'Course, if it's just your period that's putting you off, I'm quite happy with any port in a storm, if you know what I mean?'
He could sense my hesitation. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it flat on his palm. 'I've got the protection, so what's the harm?'
I looked at the condom in its foil pack. He was right. It wasn't as though he was actually going to do anything other than use me as a receptacle in which to masturbate. I nodded. 'OK, you're on.'
'Right, get the uniform off. We don't want to mess it up, do we?'
He helped me out of my clothes but told me to keep on my corset, stockings and shoes. 'A corset really keeps me hard on for hours.'
Well that seemed a bloody good reason for removing it, but I could see I wasn't going to get away with that argument.
'Look, I'd better tell you,' I confessed. 'I've never actually done it this way before.' That was certainly no lie. 'Will you be... gentle with me?'
He smiled at me. He really had a rather nice smile, I thought.
'If you've never had it this way before, then you don't know what you've missed. You'll be screaming for more within five minutes, and mighty glad your corset will keep me hard for so long.'
He was right in one respect, I thought, I would certainly be screaming but it would probably be within ten seconds of starting, and I certainly wouldn't be asking for more.
He slipped his hands around my waist, and pushed me over one of the round tables in the bar, forcing me to lie flat. Of course, once I was in that position, there was no way I could escape, since the corset prevented me from twisting about. His hands slid down to my hips, and he pulled my body slightly back towards him. I felt a shiver of... was it fear, apprehension or excitement? I wasn't certain which.
Then I felt something nuzzling at my back passage, something very large and very hard, and very intent upon finding its way inside. It squirmed to the right, then twisted to the left, to right and left again, then lifted a little, dropped and...
God! My ring was being stretched over something the size of a pickaxe handle - something so large, it was surely going to tear me apart - something...
He was inside me, and I could feel it tunnelling its way up towards my navel. I never dreamt a prick could go that far inside, but then it was sliding out again, until the knob started to stretch my ring.
'Jesus Christ!' It felt bigger, as he slowly withdrew it, than when it had forced its way inside. The pain was... delicious! Yes, I had to admit it; after only one insertion, I was hooked. I wanted him to shove it in again, but he was pausing, as though deliberating whether to continue.
'Please. Give it to me.'
'I thought you weren't too keen on this. Shall I stop now?'
He must have heard the panic in my voice, for he teased me, 'Well, I'm not so certain. I wouldn't want...'
'Please. Fuck me. Hard!'
'What? Really hard?'
'Yes! Please. Fuck me really hard!'
It was like an express train entering a tunnel. An explosion of pain from rectum to navel.
'How was that?'
'Good. It was very good.'
'But I bet you prefer it a bit slower, don't you?'
He was withdrawing, slowly - oh so slowly. As his knob approached my ring, he went even more slowly. The pain was so exquisite I screamed in delight, and he kept it in just the right spot for a second, before his prick was sliding out of my hole.
This time, he didn't make be beg for it - in an instant, he was slowly sliding it back in again, just far enough for my ring to be stretched to the full, and then start to close over his knob, before it was sliding out again. In, out, in, out. He wasn't bothering about pleasuring himself - only in bringing me to the most fantastic climax of my life.
I screamed and screamed with pleasure. Nothing had ever been that good before, and it went on for minute after wonderful minute. Finally, he realized I was over my peak, and he changed his rhythm to long, powerful thrusts, pulling hard against my hips to impale me fully on his magnificent tool, and then withdrawing almost all the way, before thrusting into me again.
We continued like that for ages, before I could feel his balls, which were slapping into my bottom at every thrust, start to tighten in preparation for shooting his load. Once again, he changed his rhythm to the short, slow movements, which sent me into a screaming orgasm again.
God knows how he managed to keep that monster satisfying me for so long, but when he finally shot his load into me, and I slowly got myself into an upright position, I noticed that the clock over the bar stood at 2.15 am.
'You can kip down over there,' he said before he left, pointing to a fairly comfortable looking settee in the corner of the bar. 'I've been told to give you this, for tomorrow morning.'
He dropped a bulky envelope into my hands.
'Have a good time tomorrow, and if you er... want a repeat performance anytime, just pop round and see me.'
It sounded a bloody tempting offer.
The white bikini barely covered the crucial parts of my body, as I walked down the main shopping street towards the beach. I got plenty of appreciative shouts, even though I'd draped the tiny towel, which had also been in the envelope, over my shoulders, trying to hide as much as possible of my wobbling breasts. The problem was, the towel was miniscule, and my breasts weren't.
I had thought of using it as a wraparound skirt, to hide the bikini bottom, which was in reality, little more than a thong. Unfortunately, the towel wasn't long enough to go all the way round my waist, and I couldn't even get it to stay in any worthwhile position about my lower half. Instead, I draped it around my neck, so it at least covered my nipples thrusting through the thin material of the bikini top.
I'd kept the high heels from yesterday, but I wasn't certain whether they were an advantage or not. OK, it would have been dangerous walking on the pavement without shoes, since last night's yobos had left plenty of broken beer bottles lying around. But the shoes made my bottom move from side to side as I walked, which sent sympathetic wobbles out to the rest of my body, considerably enhancing my entertainment value to the crowds. I noticed at least three blokes following me along the road - crossing the road when I did, and speeding up and slowing down to match my own progress. No doubt, I was providing them with their sexual thrill for the week. If only they knew!
When I reached the beach, at least I felt far less conspicuous, and I could remove my shoes and carry them to the spot where I needed to settle down. I chose a part of the beach that was already fairly crowded with families, giving little space to lurk for my three followers.
All the fathers openly goggled at me, whilst the mothers gave me dirty looks, and then even dirtier looks at their spouse. At least I was relatively safe here, and I guessed there'd be no shortage of people to look after my towel when I went swimming in the sea.
The instructions in the envelope had been brief, but specific. I was to put on the bikini that was enclosed, and arrive on the beach in time to swim out to the bathing raft for 10.30. I would be met there, and my next instructions given.
I hadn't swum in British waters since I was a kid, and I had forgotten how incredibly cold they could be, even on a warm summer's day. For the first time, I appreciated the conversion job the Scorned Women had done on my testicles. With those safely tucked out of reach of the icy waters, and the breasts insulating my front, I wasn't as bad as I might have been. The cold had the additional advantage of discouraging a couple of blokes who'd followed me into the water. Presumably, their ardour was not only cooled, they were also suffering the brass-monkey problem.
I'd always been a strong swimmer, and it only took me a few minutes of fast crawl to reach the bathing raft. There was one nasty moment in the swim when I twisted my head to breathe, and found I'd inadvertently swum into a kid's Mickey Mouse tee shirt that was floating about. I thought I'd been attacked by a giant jellyfish, but having realized my mistake; I swept the shirt to one side and continued.
I pulled myself onto the bathing raft, and flopped down on my bum, propping up my upper body with my elbow, in a manner not dissimilar, I thought, to a mermaid displaying herself on a rock. The effect on the men on the beach was every bit as impressive, for several walked to the water's edge and simply stood there, their mouths agog.
It was strange, I thought, but all my life I'd tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, dressing conservatively, saying nothing controversial, and conforming in every respect with the middle-class neighbourhood in which I lived. However, in the last twenty-four hours I had become someone completely different. And I was enjoying it!
I should have been cringing in shame at having men want to stick their pricks inside me. Yet not only had I experienced that very event last night, which had resulted in me having a series of orgasms like none I'd ever experienced before, I was incredibly excited by the prospect of it reoccurring.
'Were you waiting for me?'
The voice had come from the water on the seaward side of the raft. I turned and looked. It was one of the weedy looking blokes who'd followed me along the seafront.
'Should I be?'
He smiled. 'You look suspicious,' he said. 'Very beautiful, but very suspicious. Like a woman scorned.'
I smiled back. 'You have something for me?'
'Maybe. But you have to earn it first.'
I shrugged. 'I thought maybe I would. What do you want?' Why was I feeling excited, I wondered, rather than shocked.
'A blow job?' He sounded extremely nervous, as though he had never asked for that before.
I looked him over, and thought that he probably never had. 'Out here? We'll get arrested.'
He had it all worked out. 'If I stay this side of the raft, we can't be seen from the shore. I could float on my back, whilst you just lean over the edge of the raft and er... do it.' He was half pleading, almost certain I was going to tell him to get lost.
I knew that if I acted shocked and outraged, he would cave in. I'd be able to bully the next clue out of him, simply by threatening to report his obscene suggestion to the police.
On the other hand, I felt rather sorry for him. I had been in a not dissimilar position often enough to recognize his nervousness. I looked around. There were no other bathers out this far, and he was right, he couldn't be seen from the shore. It would simply look as though I was lying on my tummy, staring at the sea whilst I sunned my back.
'OK,' I said.
'You'll do it?' He couldn't believe his ears.
I rolled over onto my tummy and edged forward so my head and shoulders were over the edge of the raft, and I could reach him with my mouth. He was trying to pull down his swimming trunks and obviously having difficulty, because his head dunked under water a couple of times, and I had to grab hold of him to stop him choking.
Finally, he was floating on his back, his prick standing proud towards me. I had to admit that, even though his balls had shrivelled to the size of walnuts, his prick was showing no such inhibition. I lowered my mouth towards him, and started by kissing the end.
He gasped, and a flush of excitement surged through me, at the power I had to bring him to a shattering climax. I stretched out my tongue, and slowly licked him, commencing with his glans, and then working all the way down his shaft. I briefly gave the shrivelled walnuts a lick, but they seemed to be taking no interest in the affair, so I moved back to his cock and worked my tongue back up the shaft, until I was giving his glans long strokes.
'Oh God! That's gorgeous.'
Well, I felt pretty good about it as well. I didn't think I would reach a climax, but I did feel a little sweetness inside. I slowly eased my lips over his knob. It was, of course, the first time I had been in that position, and had never before realized how wide one had to open the mouth in order to get a decent sized cock inside.
I pushed my head right down the shaft as far as I could, until I felt his cock at the back of my throat. I almost gagged then, but had the will power to stop myself, and withdrew to the point where I could use my tongue on his knob for a few seconds. Then I was working my mouth down his shaft again.
When I knew he was on the point of orgasm, I delicately pulled my mouth off him, knowing I would never be able to keep my teeth apart with a gob load of cum shooting to the back of my throat. But I used my tongue on his glans to finish him off, and then he was shooting his load into the air.
'O-h-h-h Y-e-s-s-s! That's fucking great!' he shouted at the top of his voice.
I looked around, anxious whether anyone had swum close by, and stared straight into the faces of around fifty people on a pleasure cruiser, which had just set off from the landing stage on the beach.
'Oh that was so fucking g...' His eyes had followed my gaze, and I noticed that in the space of a second, his prick reduced to something the size of my little toe. He took a deep breath, then ducked underwater, so that I was left on my own to outstare the fathers, mothers, boys and girls who looked back at me.
'Mummy. Was that a sea serpent that dragged the man underwater?'
The boy's mother was saved having to explain, by the tannoy, which boomed into life. 'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board the Seacombe Belle, the only glass bottomed boat in the area, where we promise you a full view of sea life.'
The speaker had obviously only just noticed me, for he went on, 'On our right is one of the beautiful mermaids who inhabit this particular part of the sea, and... bloody hell.'
The last bit was in response to my raising myself into a sitting position, to more fully mimic a mermaid. However, I did think his response was over the top. OK, I was extremely well built, but a skipper should have more self-control when he's on a public address system.
I glanced down, with a sudden suspicion that perhaps my bikini top had failed to contain its ample payload. It was still properly in place, but whereas this morning, it had been a virginal white in colour, now it was as transparent as a clear plastic bag. To all but a careful observer, I appeared stark naked!
'I've got to tell you two things,' my cowardly cock-sucked companion said, after a lot of quite unnecessary puffing and blowing, following a mere thirty seconds submersion. 'The first is that your swimming costume becomes transparent when it gets wet. The second is that you have to go to Star-A-Gram in Back Lane, by midday, to continue with your next clue.'
He gave an evil leer as he stared up and down my body. 'Thanks for er... it, and if you need anything else, just let me know.' He started to swim in the direction of the shore.
'There is one thing I need from you,' I said, standing up.
He stopped swimming and turned to look at me, as he frantically trod water. Not, I thought, a very confident swimmer.
'I need to borrow your swimming trunks, I said.
His reply was lost to me, as I made a passable dive into the water.
I've never been bad at diving in and swimming underwater, and it took no effort at all to reach the point where I could see him paddling overhead, his trunks still not properly back into position after our earlier activity. He was frantically treading water, turning to left and right to see where I was going to surface. The sea was only about eight feet deep there, and it was a simple matter to push myself up to the point where I could grab the rear waistband of his trunks, and then expel air from my body so that I sank back to the sea bottom.
He had a choice: try to swim the pair of us back to the surface, whilst choking on the water he inhaled as I'd pulled him under, or to wriggle out of the garment by which he was being held down, and make his naked way back to the surface.
For a few seconds he tried the former, but the more he struggled, the more breath he needed, which he hadn't got. Meanwhile, I conserved my own breath by staying motionless, holding the pair of us weighted down on the bottom by hooking my foot under the chain securing the bathing raft. In the end, he realized the choice between life itself, and a pair of swimming trunks was a no brainer decision. Twenty seconds later, I bobbed back to the surface having pulled his trunks over my bikini bottom.
'Stop!' he croaked, between the chokes. 'You can't leave me like this! I'm naked. I won't be able to get out of the water.'
He desperately swam towards me, but I could easily keep well out of his reach. I gave him a nice smile, and said, 'I don't remember you being too concerned when it was the other way round. Anyway, look on it as a charge for services rendered.'
I struck out towards the shore.
Fortunately, I remembered the Mickey Mouse tee shirt floating in the water, so by the time I arrived back at the shore, I was, if anything, more respectably dressed than when I went in. I headed for Back Lane.
Back Lane was one of the seedier roads in Seacombe old town, and Star-A-Gram was undoubtedly the seediest looking premises in the road. The shop window was full of pictures of almost naked look-alikes - not just women, but men, as well. In fact, it was the pictures of the men that I found more shocking. Clint Eastwood, for example, had such an enormous tool, barely concealed by a thong, that I...
I looked up at the speaker, a middle-aged man, with a beer belly as big as my arse. He'd poked his head around the door to berate me.
'Fred Baine's the name and I own this business. You should have been here ten minutes ago. The act starts in fifteen minutes, and you've got to get dressed and get over to a hotel in the new town.'
I followed him inside, and he gesticulated to a sequinned dress on a hangar. 'Get straight into that, and I'll order you up a taxi.'
I looked around. 'Where do I change?'
His lip curled with disdain. 'Why? With tits like those, you can hardly be modest. You haven't time for any niceties. Now, get dressed.'
I peeled off the wet tee shirt and bikini. There was no underwear with the dress, apart from a pair of self-supporting stockings (fishnet again, I noted).However, the dress had a built in bra top, which looked about the right size, and I could probably manage without panties, unless the dress turned transparent like the bikini.
'Where am I going and what do I have to do?'
'Haven't they told you anything? It's the Police Booze 'n Buffet over at the Seacombe Heights Hotel. You're singing four Dolly Parton numbers. Is that a problem?'
'Singing! I can't sing.'
'You're going to be miming to the fucking karaoke machine, of course.' He pointed to a ghetto blaster on the counter. 'You don't think anybody wants to hear you sing, do you? And remember to joggle your tits around while you sing, so everybody thinks they're going to pop out. OK?'
Fortunately, he hadn't said anything about being a Strip-A-Gram, and I certainly wasn't going to ask, so I nodded.
'Afterwards,' he continued, 'there's a private function at 3 pm, at the Hilton, out on the Bramley Road. You'll need to get back here before then to change your dress, but you can do the same four Dolly Parton's, with plenty more tit joggle. Any problems?'
I shook my head. After what had happened to me over the last two days, a bit of karaoke with tit jiggle would be an easy ride.
In the taxi, I managed to work out how to operate the karaoke machine. It was a bit like a ghetto blaster, with a small screen that displayed the words, so I could get the lip synch right, whilst it played Dolly's songs. I sorted out which songs I was going to do, and by then we were outside the hotel and I was stepping inside.
The first song went like a dream. OK, I was a bit nervous, and I messed up the start so no one was under any illusions that I was simply miming, but they ogled my tits as I jiggled them about, and were quite appreciative.
I could see during the next song, Country Road, they were getting a little bored. The noise level increased, as they started talking to their neighbours, but they still kept an eye on me, with the prospect of a wayward tit display. Now I'd settled down a bit, I started to recognize one or two policemen from around the town. There was the bastard who'd pulled me up for speeding, and then been incredibly upset that I had passed the breathalyser test. At the rear was the chief constable, totally pissed, and one of the few people still captivated by my performance.
As I commenced my third song, Jolene, I decided to put some extra gip into my gyrations. I was quite pleased with the effect it had, as I saw that several members of the audience suddenly sat up, and then start nudging their neighbours to take note. By the end of Jolene, I had everyone's attention riveted on me. I felt bloody good. Perhaps I had missed my true vocation. It was just a pity I couldn't sing!
In the fourth song, they were cheering me on, and clapping in time with my singing, and the applause at the end was tremendous.
'More! More!' they shouted.
Well, I could hardly deny them could I? I bent down to reset the karaoke machine, and it was then I realized. The stitching had come apart on my dress. The seams across the bust were totally undone, and my nipples were poking through, and the seams in the skirt had almost all come apart, and the whole thing was in tatters. Most importantly, the seam running right down the centre of the skirt had opened up from navel to hem, and I knew then exactly what the audience had been cheering about. Not only had they seen my stocking tops, they'd had full frontal view of my pubic bush, as well.
The audience saw my shock as I realized what I'd been displaying, and went wild. They whistled and cheered, and almost brought the roof down. Of course, I should have been totally embarrassed. Instead, I felt elated. I had the power to achieve this affect. These blokes were turned on by me. They all wanted to fuck me!
I switched on the machine and repeated a couple of numbers. I would have done more, but they were starting to get restless at that time. When the chief constable came on the stage, his prick pushing out of his flies, I knew it was time to leave. My next performance called.
I gave Fred Baine a right earful, but he was unrepentant.
'Yes, of course we fix the dresses so they fall apart. And if I'd warned you about what was going to happen, you wouldn't have been surprised by it. As it was, I bet you looked totally natural, and the crowd loved it. You'll now know exactly how to behave when it happens during your next performance.'
I sighed. He was right, and I could hardly say I hadn't enjoyed the performance, could I?
The party at the Hilton was a different sort of affair altogether. I spoke with the hotel manager as he led me to the function room, and quizzed him about the state of the guests, thinking that if they were any worse than the last lot, I was likely to be the on the wrong end of a gangbang. He reassured me, saying they were a very respectable looking group, who'd been there less than an hour, so they were still pretty sober.
That made me extremely apprehensive about going on stage with a dress that I now knew was going to fall apart. It was one thing when it happened in front of a load of drunken policemen, quite another in front of the town's upright citizens. However, the golden rule was that the show must go on. Presumably, someone had booked me, knowing exactly what they were going to get, and they would get it.
The manager had been given specific instructions, which he repeated to me. I was to enter onto a darkened stage, walk to the centre, and as soon as I started the music, they'd put a spotlight on me. It all worked like a dream. I entered through the wings of the stage, quietly moved to the centre, then switched on the ghetto blaster. The spotlight came on and I started my performance.
But I was only part way through the third line when someone stepped up onto the stage, switched off my music, and a woman's voice said, 'Who the hell are you?'
The lights were switched on and we stared at each other. She was in her mid-thirties, tall and quite busty, although, of course, her figure wasn't a patch on mine. The fifty or so people in the audience looked at the two of us in puzzlement.
After a few seconds, she shook her head and said, 'I'm sorry, there's been a most frightful mix up.' She looked around at audience, all gaping at the two of us, and added, 'Can we go outside somewhere, and I'll explain.'
'My name's Sheila Barton,' she revealed, a few minutes later. 'I'm really sorry about the mistake. I simply can't imagine how it happened. You were supposed to be my husband, you see.'
I nodded, and took a long drink from my beer, the first pint I'd had for days. 'I assumed that,' I said.
Sheila had taken me out of the function room and we'd headed for the hotel bar, where we could talk in private.
'I'd invited all his friends and business colleagues to a surprise party for him. I'd told them he was going to come on the stage in disguise and give us a performance. After he'd finished, we'd put the lights up, and only then would he see who was in his audience. By that time, all his friends would have realized it was my husband in drag, and his reputation would be in tatters, along with his dress. Instead of which...' She looked at me, questioningly.
'Did you describe your husband to the Women Scorned, and tell them that he'd gone into the men's toilet in the West Beach Hotel?'
'Yes. Is that where the mix-up occurred?'
I nodded again. 'I was already in the toilet when your husband came in. I remember him, since he looked a bit similar to me - same height and build, same colour hair, similar suit. But he went into a cubicle, whilst I finished washing my hands and left. That's when I was picked up by your friends, and from that moment, I had no hope of opting out.'
'I'm most dreadfully sorry about the mistake. It's so embarrassing. When you realized it was all a cock-up, why didn't you do something to stop it?'
I smiled at the aptness of her description. 'Such as what? I was given no choice, but to go along with everything you lot told me to do. But I did think the mistake would be discovered as soon as your husband turned up at home. Where do you think he's got to?'
'John must have spent the weekend with his girlfriend, as he'd been planning. I dropped him off on Friday evening at the hotel for his so called weekend conference. But I knew he was really going to meet her there, and that she wasn't due to arrive until late Friday evening. I thought that, in the meantime, he wouldn't be able to resist a quickie with someone he met in the bar. The problem is, we trapped you instead.'
'John Barton? Is that your husband's name? I feel as though I recognize it,' I lied. 'Where do you live?'
'Not round here. We live in Dorton. John is a Sales Rep for Dorton Engineering. He has a few customers in Seacombe, so he's here quite a lot. It takes less than half an hour in the car.'
'Longish way to come for a Christmas Party.'
'What?' Sheila was suddenly cautious.
'You said in your note to John something about coming here for a Christmas Party.'
'Oh yes. John got an invite to a Christmas Party at one of his customers in Seacombe. I think it was mainly because she fancied him and hadn't realized he was married.'
'As I said, quite a long way to come for a party.'
'And you had a nasty accident on the way home?'
She tried to brush it off. 'Well, a bit of one. Now, how can I compensate you for the horrible experience I've put you through this weekend? I'd really do er... anything to make it up.' She smiled at me.
I looked carefully at her. She was rather sexy, and I thought John Barton must be stupid to go chasing other women when he had her. Still, there was no accounting for taste. I wondered, was she really offering her body? It was, I thought, time for revenge, or perhaps I should have said, justice.
I returned her smile. 'Well, Sheila, that is really very nice of you. There is something I would like you to do for me.'
Her face lit up. 'Anything. Anything at all.'
'That's great Sheila. You see, what I'd like you to do is to tell me about the hit and run accident that John had on 12th December last year, when his car mounted the pavement outside my house and killed my wife, as she took our dog for a late night walk.'
John Barton got a jail sentence for manslaughter, and Sheila, a hefty fine for helping to conceal it.
Sheila had been right to question why I went along with their scheme, when I should simply have waited for a chambermaid to appear on Saturday morning, and then called the police and explained everything.
But I knew that, if I had done that, the Women Scorned would have simply melted away, and I would never discover the identity of Sheila and her anonymous husband, who, I was certain, were the people responsible for killing my wife. So, I had fallen in with their scheme of revenge, until the moment when it had brought me face to face with Sheila.
Fortunately, both sides in the court case realized there'd be no advantage in revealing exactly how I'd happened to discover John Barton's identity, so details of that weekend were never made public.
Which means that when I go onto the beach as Donny Partem, as I do most weekends, no one is aware of my real identity. And whilst the men all continue to lust after me, I am still, as far as their wives are concerned, A Woman Scorned.
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