In a slumber I slowly woke. I could feel the rise and the fall of the soft breathing of a form beside me and I quickly remembered 30.
My face was pressed against her shoulder, warm but a little hard. I could vaguely smell the scent of her. I remained still savouring the delicate aromas. I think she used a lavender soap, but behind it I could smell her armpit.
I stood outside the library, holding the silver serving tray, the heels making my feet ache. The maid’s uniform exposed my legs to all who came and went in the lobby, though the passing foot traffic really didn’t seem to notice.
I wondered how such a sight would go down among those friends of mine who I’d not seen now in months. What would people think had happened to me. Had I just faded away as so many people in America seem to have done so over these recent years. Did I simply cease to exist one day?
I hurried over to the stables, my mind racing. What could Jennifer possibly have to do with these people?
When I’d seen my sister’s name on Mrs. Gravely’s blotter I had been shocked and confused, but there’d been that voice in my head, that told me that perhaps I was mistaken. After all, how could this situation, half a continent from San Francisco have anything to do with my sister?
I’ve never been afraid of hard physical labor. I like to work out in the gym, and of course I have always done yoga. Working up a bit of sweat and feeling it run between my breasts as I work on an elliptical is not something I am unfamiliar with.
Working in the stables was no hardship. 30 and I made a good team, and she had a little radio we could listen to as we worked. The morning flew by. And by the time we broke for lunch I felt quite a glow from the exertion.
I looked about the hall, and from this elevated position I could see that everyone in the room was watching the surreal form of Mr. Butterworth complete with goat headpiece, held firmly by eager hands beneath me. Beside the massage table among the masked faces of the audience was his wife. Nothing seemed to conceal her glee at seeing her husband subjugated in this way.
I am sending this as I hurry off to my optician for some replacement glasses. Just this morning I noticed Sebastian, my personal trainer, has some new frames and how good they looked on him.
“Sebastian,” I said while working on some core exercises, “I must say those new glasses do look good on you.”
“Oh thank you, Fiona,” he replied standing over me.
“Yes,” I said breathlessly, “I do like it when a man splashes out on a nice pair.”
But that’s not the main reason I’m writing. For those of you following Andrea’s adventures in Clothes Maketh The Man, you’ll be thrilled to know that Part 54 is now out. Andrea finds herself slipping deeper into trouble all the time. And now she’s mucking out a stable with a pair of trannies and a pitchfork. Enjoy part 54 of Clothes Maketh The Man HERE.
I sat in the ships dark store room space with my head in my hands. The dull throb of the engine filled the air and became the background music of the dark drama playing out before me. Here I was, shunned by Devina, on a cargo vessel moving through the dark night, on a black river headed who knows where.
I felt the heat of the head of Dwayne’s dick pressing against the slippery wetness of my buttocks. Devina had covered me in so much lube, it would be impossible to squirm away. With her sitting on my neck, while I could have put up a fight, I found myself shocked into total submission.
“Wait,” I gasped, and once more I felt the stinging slap of Devina’s hard palm on my back. God she was strong!
For a moment I caught sight of myself reflected in the plate glass windows of my balcony. There I was, kneeling, Devina astride my shoulders, and Dwayne. My god, he was a big man.
I could see the black skirt hitched up, the nylons, and my pathetic body, knees wide apart, wiggling and trying to resist. Dwayne sniggered and I suddenly felt his strong hands on my hips.
I could hear voices in my living room. There was a little light laughter and I could tell that Devina and her guest were making themselves comfortable.
I found myself flushed and felt my heart racing. I ran the tap and put my wrists under it, the cool water calming me. As I looked in the mirror I could barely recognise the face that looked back. Devina had done a masterful job on my makeup.
The suspender belt around my waist felt firm, the nylons wonderful and the material of the short skirt felt good against my legs. I wore some black panties, full, and enclosing my carefully hidden cock.
Again, the laughter, and then Devina calling, “Andrea, come along. Don’t be shy dear…”
I felt my heart pounding. The collar was tight on my neck, but I didn’t want to loosen it. In a strange way it felt reassuring.
Faced with the threat of blackmail and exposure, reluctant crossdresser Andy is forced to confront his conflicting desires. On the one hand, playing along with Devina’s filthy plan would be dangerous and could make things worse, but on the other his curiosity and secret wish to take things further was growing with every passing moment.
“I suppose I could…” I found myself saying.
“Of course you can. Now, let’s get you ready, shall we?” said Devina.
I don’t know what came over me. I suddenly not only wanted to see what might happen, I actually found myself craving the thought of being there, for some random man. He would doubtless take me, probably violently and use me like some kind of, well, tramp. And the thought excited me.
I tried to stop myself, “Devina, how could you do such unspeakable things to me,” I stammered. “And now this?”
I stood staring at the computer screen. I felt my heart pounding and I was short of breath. How could it be?
How had Devina got me dressed – so passable – and photographed me blowing a guy? Why was it I had no memory of it, and most of all, why did I look like I was enjoying it so thoroughly?
The ‘how’ of the situation was perplexing, but other questions flooded my mind. What else had I done? Why did I have no memory of the events?
I took my mind back to that thoroughly perplexing trip to San Francisco. When I thought about the way my body had ached as I flew home, things started to add up. My jaw, almost as though it had been forced open. My legs, not to mention the whole shaving thing.
The next couple of weeks past without incident. I will admit that when I did have a quiet jerk, I found myself slipping into panties and enjoying the sensation. Really, what harm could there be in such a discrete and private game.
I also found myself from time to time gazing longingly at a woman on the bus, or in the queue at the store and thinking, ‘I could wear that differently… Why doesn’t she…” But each time I would catch myself and I’d pull myself back to the here and now.
My decision to go out and buy some panties was the result of wanting to experiment, nothing more. I’d found myself in what can best be described as a compromising position recently, when through a series of unfortunate events I had been photographed wearing some panties mistakenly put out by my sister. It’s kind of a long story, so to best understand it you should probably go here: https://fionadobson.com/clothes-maketh-the-man-part-1/
In the spirit of experimentation, I decided that I would try the experience voluntarily, and see if the process still came wrapped in feelings of embarrassment and shame. As I wandered into a large clothing store, I wondered, perhaps this process would purge me of the strange feelings I’d recently been experiencing.
I found the women’s underwear section quickly, looked along racks and rails of panties and quickly scanned the colors and sizes. I decided to keep it simple. Black. Size, I took a wild guess and thought XL. I quickly found a pair, little bit of lace trim, and picked them out to take to the checkout.
As I turned to walk towards the checkout I stopped. A little voice was telling me, wait! This isn’t the way to do it. This is how men buy clothes, slow down.
When I finally woke up I was in bed. At the time I had no memory of how I got there, but for the episode of being given some clothes in the living room and being overwhelmed with fatigue. Some men’s clothes, bought by Devina. Things came to me later, but we’ll get to that in time.
I remember thinking I’d had a drink and then got very tired. Maybe I’d just dozed off. It had been an exhausting few days. As I shifted beneath the sheets, though, I felt very strange.
I must say, I noticed that my legs were actually week. It was as though I had run a marathon. I could not imagine why, my final memory being sliding into a doze in the living room. I guessed Jenn had dragged me up the stairs and between the two of them they’d managed to manhandle me into the bed. It was most unusual. I put it down to the tiredness and the journey and the stress of the interview.
Then I remembered the business of the picture which Devina had posted. On the other hand, she had bought me some clothes, hadn’t she? My mind was very foggy. And my mouth tasted very strange.
As the taxi took me back to my sister Jenn’s house I occupied myself by thinking of ways I might extract suitable punishment from the degenerate and dangerous Devina. Not only had she seen me in panties, the result of a perfectly innocent situation, but she had photographed me and posted the picture on social media, which a prospective employer had then viewed.
This was beyond awful. This was catastrophic. Anyone might see such a picture, and copy it. It was likely beyond my control, even if the blasted women did take it down.
I remembered Steve’s message about needing me to help him run an account. After a quick call back it transpired he did indeed want me to set up an agency with him, that we’d be equal partners and why not make a go of it? I told him I liked the sound of the idea, but wanted to sleep on it.
It seemed a fairly good plan under the circumstances. I was, after all, in the rather unfortunate position of having absolutely nothing to loose, except for a reputation of moderate success – although if word of my (accidental) cross dressing got out, that too might evaporate swiftly.
‘Dammit,’ I thought. ‘I’m being outed and I wasn’t even ‘in’.’
I woke up the next morning in a state of mild panic, having slept right through my alarm. I was due for the interview at 11 am, and it was already 9.45. As I pulled on the beige pants I had borrowed from my sisters husband I couldn’t help thinking I was not dressing to character.
Beige socks, beige pants, and a plain white shirt. Maybe the staff at the advertising company I was going to would think I was such a power dresser that I’d chosen to play it down. I was clutching at straws, and I knew it.
As I grabbed my jacket I rushed down the stairs. My sister Jenn, and Devina were at the kitchen table eating toast chattering and laughing. They fell silent as I entered. I wanted to tell Devina that it was a mean trick she’d pulled last night taking a picture of me in those panties, but this was not the moment. I was more concerned about getting to the interview.
I looked outside to see if the taxi I had called had arrived. The street was empty, all the morning commuters having left this quiet suburban cul de sac.
“Dress for success,” said Devina. I noticed Jenn smirk. “Always a good strategy,” she said.
Jenn chimed in, “You’ll do fine! Don’t worry about it. You know you ‘re good at interviews.”
“I just don’t feel myself in these clothes!”
“I should hope you are not ‘feeling yourself’!” quipped Devina.