Chapter 1

This story features two items which enable a man to pass as woman, the Bustlet and the Hiplet. These and their attributes are wholly the invention of someone who writes as Charlotte Dickles aka Marianne Nettes. Her stories can be found at Fiction Mania. They are very amusing and generally set in and around Seacombe, a fictional south coast town, in fact an amalgam of almost all of them. One of her stories is titled ‘An Unsuitable Job for a Man’ and pays tribute to P. D. James’s ‘Unsuitable Job for a Woman’ which was made into a TV series staring Helen Baxendale (for US benefit I think she married Ross in Friends). This is the story of an unsuitable job for anyone.

I know exactly when it all started, I can pin it down to the day, the hour, the minute and even precise second. I even know what I was doing at that moment in time, it’s etched on my brain.

I’d been married to my lovely wife Sarah for about seven years at that time, I’m Martie by the way, and very happily married I have to say, and no, I didn’t have a seven year itch, although now when I think about it I do wonder about Sarah. Perhaps she did. We were what they call dinkies, Double Income and No Kids, and had a pretty good life style. Sarah worked as an accountant for a large firm of lawyers in a nearby city, which may sound odd but they have to deal with large sums of money belonging to their clients, and they have to account for all of it all the time, so it is important. And well paid. I am a graphic designer and illustrator working from home. Much of my work is mundane regular stuff, adverts, leaflets and so on, that pays the bills, but there is also some fun stuff setting up and maintaining websites. The illustration is generally the icing on the cake.

Now, as anyone who works from home will know there are always temptations to do something other than work, and since the computer is on, because that is what you are using to work, one of those temptations is to take a look around the internet, particularly those sites that provide a little, shall we say, titillation. That said, on this particular day I had already looked to see if my favourite ‘you tubers’ had published anything new. The chap up the road from me had put up a new video about his decrepit cars, the latest, an elderly Dacia had the steering wheel, and to be fair the rest of what few controls it had, on the wrong side, but whilst he enthused over it, it left me completely cold. I checked MSNBC but nothing very interesting was happening there, and so I watched one by a chap who lives in Maine – that’s in America – and gets old vehicles and mowers and whatever to run. Near the end of the video he said he’d done enough for today and was going out for a cheeseburger and a strawberry shake. Well what ever lights your candle, but at the very end he showed the aforementioned comestibles on the seat of his pickup, I think he calls it a truck, and there alongside the burger was a cardboard dish containing peanuts. In their shells, just like they come out of the ground. I haven’t seen anything like this in, oh, must be ... no, longer ago than I wish to mention. Do Americans eat these things I wondered, I mean unless they are roasted and salted they are not particularly palatable to my way of thinking. But there we are, I’m someone who has only just worked out what biscuits are in the US - thank you Kacey Musgraves – although I haven’t yet worked out if gravy is actually the same thing on both sides of the Atlantic ocean, but I know little about the American diet. Now, in UK these biscuits are called scones, incorrectly called scons by some, imitating the heathen ethnic minority from north of Hadrian’s wall, and are consumed with butter, strawberry jam and cream in that order, piled up and very messy. The topping is fine, but what lies beneath, the bit that comes out of the oven, the scone or possibly biscuit, is not really fit for human consumption. Even my ducks won’t eat them and you would seriously not want to know where they stick their beaks. But there y’go.

I finished musing on the vagaries of diet and checked my facebook page. There was a new post in ‘pinup mag’ and I went in to have a look, at which point I had to answer the telephone, the call that came in just a few seconds before that fateful second that I remember so well.

“Hello Darling,” Sarah cheerfully greeted me, “Essie’s having a costume party for her birthday, what do you want to go as?”

My eyes were on the picture in front of me, which held me in thrall, a tall woman in a black basque, stockings and boots, a collar and gloves past her elbows. And a whip. I somewhat absently replied, “Miss Whiplash.” and that was the precise second.

“Brilliant,” came from the other end of the phone line, “fantastic, I’ll set it up, byee.”

The phone went dead as I tried to protest that I hadn’t meant that I would go as Miss Whiplash, but was rather mesmerised by that image of a tall woman in black corset and boots with a whip in her hand. Why mesmerised? I’ve no idea, the idea of pain didn’t appeal to me at all, but there was just something about that image ... I’d better, I thought, get some work done.

For one reason or another we didn’t get around to discussing the costume for about a week. Partly I’d forgotten it, and when it did enter my mind we either weren’t together or there were other people around, you know, the sort of busy lives that those of us who don’t have children lead. Essie’s party was now three day’s away, so when several of parcels arrived to be signed for, addressed to Sarah, although I had no idea what they might contain I suppose it must have struck me that they might have something to do with the costume, but she was often ordering stuff on line so I didn’t concern myself. I did note that the consignee was in Seacombe, somewhere on the south coast I thought from memory.

Sarah seemed quite excited when I showed her the parcels. She picked them up and disappeared into our bedroom. Just after supper she could contain herself no longer.

“Come on upstairs, I’ve got something to show you,” she said, catching hold of my hand and practically dragging me.

I followed her up to our bedroom where she had unpacked the parcels.

“Right strip off, we’ve got to remove all your body hair.”

“What? Why? What are you doing?”

“It’s your costume for the party. You’re going to try it on.”

“What is it?

“Miss Whiplash of course, just as you said you wanted.”

“I didn’t mean that, it was just the first thing that came into my mind.”

“Too late, I’ve spent a lot of money on this, now, strip.”

I reluctantly got my kit off, and Sarah immediately started smearing some sort of cream all over me. I noted with some apprehension that she was wearing latex gloves.

“Now, get in the shower,” she directed me when she had finished.

Five minutes later, apart from my head I had no hair anywhere on my body.

“Shave.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

I don’t have a very heavy beard, and to be honest I can get away with shaving every couple of days, but I did as I was told, ending up very smooth all over.

“Now,” she said lifting up a large tub of red goo. “This is the stuff you have to rub on to make sure you don’t get a rash from sweat or anything.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“Of course it is, now, hold still.”

She had on another pair of latex gloves and proceeded to rub the red goo all over my lower body including, yes, well, of course I got excited, so I assumed that she would have to deal with this ‘problem’. And I anticipated that I would enjoy that. But no, she just ignored it. Hmm.

The next thing was something which looked distinctly like a pair of tights, but in some sort of latexy material. I had to lift one foot and then the other and she slid the, umm, garment I suppose, up my legs and settled the top around my waist. This left my wedding vegetables hanging out in the breeze.

“It’s all got to go in here,” she said, indicating some sort of pouch, “better chop the end off.”

From nowhere she had produced a knife and you’d better believe that a standing prick can go from hero to zero in less time than it takes to tell when it perceives a threat like that!

“What the fuck,” I exclaimed as she tucked the deflated object into the pouch and pulled it back between my legs and secured the end.

“You didn’t really think I’d do that did you?” she asked, a malicious grin on her face. “Now,” she went on, “let’s do the top half.”

She repeated the process from the bottom half settling the sleeveless garment so that the bottom of it met with the top of the bottom part. The colour was such a good match to my own skin that the joins between it and me were undetectable.

“Come and look in the mirror.”

I stood in front of the cheval mirror. To be honest, I couldn’t really see much difference. I’m not particularly tall, five foot nine, and slim with it, but the garments, Sarah said they were called a ‘Bustlet’ and a ‘Hiplet’ really didn’t seem to do anything at all. They were very comfortable; I had imagined that I would get hot, but no, it was just as though I was naked, which was exactly how I looked.

“Right, into the bathroom.”

I was by now resigned to whatever was going to happen. Up to a point. That point came a few minutes later after she had fiddled around with something in my armpit, removed the shower head and connected something to the hose. She turned the shower on and I suddenly felt warmth and weight on my chest. I looked down.

“I’ve got tits!”

“Yes,” she replied, tuning off the shower. “We don’t want them too big though do we?”

“Fuck! I don’t want them at all!”

“You’ve got to have them for the part. ‘Miss’, remember?”

“What are you doing now?” I asked as she turned the shower back on.

She had made another connection and I could now feel the warmth and weight on my ass and hips.

“There,” she said. “Come and look in the mirror again. No hold on a moment.” She reached behind my head and removed the band that I use to keep my hair back, and fluffed it up. I have a very good head of dark hair that is long and naturally wavy; I wear it in a pony tail, and yes I’ve been told that under every pony tail there’s an arsehole. It isn’t funny.

She manoeuvred me in front of the mirror again. What I could now see was still me facially, but a very female me, and to be quite honest I rather fancied the woman in the mirror, but the equipment was so tightly tied down that there was no way I could do anything about it.

“Fuck me!”

“I don’t have the equipment dear, but I understand that it is fully functioning. If you fancy.”

“What?”

“The vagina is, just that, fully functional, should you fancy that sort of encounter.”

I just looked at her.

She reached out and I realised that she had just touched one of my newly acquired breasts, but I felt nothing. I could see that she was fiddling with something that resembled a TV remote, and a moment later she reached out and tweaked my nipple. I thought I was going to leap out of my now second skin.

“Ouch, what was that, it felt like part of me.”

“The Bustlet and Hiplet are equiped with ‘Senso Touch’, it sort of connects the outer skin to yours, a bit like a touch screen.”

“I’ve never come across a touch screen like that,” I said, gently massaging my breast which felt really good, and I was definitely getting turned on.

“Come on, sit down, we’re going to do the make-up.”

I sat down in front of the dressing table. I made no objection because I was now becoming really intrigued to see what the end result might be like.

It only took her about thirty minutes to apply various things to my face, pluck my eyebrows – ouch, I wasn’t sure about that – and apply eye liners and mascara and finally blood red lippy. My hair she lifted up on my head and secured it with a beaded net.

This time when I looked in the mirror it wasn’t me, and I was even more turned on. Whilst Sarah was opening the other parcel I idly picked up the tub of red goo and read the label, a bad habit of mine that goes with my profession.

“SARAH!” I shouted.

She smiled sweetly. “What is it dear?”

“According to this label you’ve glued this lot to my skin for two fucking weeks, what do you think you’re doing? I can’t be like this for two weeks.”

“Ooh, did I make a mistake?”

“No you bloody well didn’t, I know you and you didn’t make a mistake, I did, letting you get any where near me.”

“Well, the party is on Saturday and it seems hardly worthwhile putting it on and taking it off again and then putting it on again, so I thought it would be okay. And you work at home, so no one will see you.”

“What about shopping? Remember? I do all the shopping.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“What am I going to wear?”

“Most of my clothes should fit you.”

“I don’t want to wear your clothes. And what about shoes? Yours definitely won’t fit.”

Sarah went to her wardrobe and brought out a shoe box.

“These will fit you, I bought them the other day. I knew you’d need them.”

“You’ve been planning all of this. You deliberately got me stuck like this and you’ve even bought shoes. You devious bitch.” I was beginning to rant, I really wasn’t amused. Even less when she took the shoes out of the box. Red, with four inch heels. How the fuck was I supposed to wear those. I was speechless.

“Well, they shut you up. Now, the rest of the outfit.”

She took out a black lacy basque.

“I’m not putting that on.”

“Yes you are.”

Sarah stood in front of me and kissed me, at the same time dropping her had down across my stomach and arriving at my crotch where she proceeded to...

“Jesus!” I jumped, “What are you doing?”

“Sensitive isn’t it? Now be a good girl and you can have some more later. She slid the basque around me, in fact it was more of a corset and when she hooked it together my waist shrank dramatically, as did my ability to breathe. It also pushed my new breasts up. Sarah was now in her stride and the next thing was fishnet stockings clipped to the suspenders that were attached to the basque. Then there was a high collar clipped around my neck that meant I had to keep my head up, and then elbow length lacy gloves, all in black. How much this lot cost paled into insignificance when the final item of clothing was revealed.

She went to her wardrobe again and took out a pair of black boots. But what black boots, shiny to the point where you could see your reflection in them, four inch spiked heels and pointed toes, and long, so long that they came above the knee with the back cut away to allow the knee to bend. I had to sit on the bed to pull them on.

“Say ah.”

“Why ah?” Which was enough to open my mouth for her to give a spritz of some sort of spray to my throat. I coughed as I stood up and Sarah handed me a black whip.

The transformation was complete.

I looked in the mirror.

I was Miss Whiplash.

“Fuck me! That’s amazing.”

Hold on, where did that voice come from? My voice was higher and definitely sounded female.

“The spray alters your voice for a few hours, it comes with the kit. My but you do look good sweetie, this outfit could have been made for you ... well, actually it was. But it was your idea in the first place.”

“We’ve been through that already, and I didn’t mean it, and I certainly didn’t mean I wanted to look this good. Or sound quite so feminine either.”

Sarah grinned at me.

“Well, I was expecting to look like a drag queen, that would have been a laugh, but this...”

“Oh I think you’ll have far more fun with this. You’re about to find out exactly how the other half live.”

“I don’t want to know how the other half live.”

She pouted. “Of course you do. Just think, if you’ve got the same thing in your knickers as the ones you want to get into then you’ll be better equipped for the job won’t you?”

“Pardon? Are you saying my technique is inadequate?” I was still looking in the mirror and I have to say that pouting does look good on a female face.

“Of course not, darling. Now let’s get this stuff off you and go to bed. It’ll all look different in the morning.”

“Really.”

However I allowed her to help me out of the various items and sit me down in the bathroom where she handed me cotton wool and some sort of cream and told me to remove the make up. I obviously had to sit to have a pee but apart from that nothing seemed too different. But when I got back into the bedroom Sarah handed me a long white silky night dress.

“You’ve gotta be joking, I’m not putting that on!”

“You’re being silly again, come on, just for me,” she wheedled.

Oh, what the fuck.

It went over my head and sort of hissed its way down my body until the hem hit the floor. My word but that silky material did feel good. Mmmm.

The only thing I can tell you before the morning is that I slept incredibly well. Oh, and ‘lesbian’ sex has a lot to recommend it.

I always get up before Sarah so that I can get a cup of coffee and breakfast ready for her before she departs for her wage slavery, so as usual I switched off the alarm and swung my feet out of bed and headed for the bathroom. And fell flat on my face.

“You need to put some slippers on,” came a voice from under the blankets. “You’ll find some in my wardrobe that’ll fit. Oh and a peignoir to match the nightie.”

I found the slippers, mules with heels, you need heels so that you don’t tread on the hem of the nightdress apparently. And the peignoir, oh well, in for a penny.

The heels weren’t too difficult to cope with and Sarah arrived in the kitchen showered and fully dressed for the day as I was drinking my first cup of coffee and starting to think about my situation, a train of thought that was immediately interrupted.

“You can shower in the Hip and Bustlet. If you are going out then just a little make up, you’ll find everything you need in the box with the stuff from last night, don’t pile it on like we did last night and don’t dress up, you’ll look like a transvestite. Okay?” she asked without waiting for an answer, “I must fly.”

And with that she gave me a scorching kiss and left.

I got myself another cup of coffee and continued with my contemplation of my situation. I really didn’t know what Sarah was up to, I mean, the outfit was one thing, sticking it to me for a whole fortnight was quite another, how the hell was I going to cope with that? Work was obviously no problem unless someone demanded to see me, but that was pretty rare, but I supposed I could introduce my self as my assistant. Everything else was definitely a problem.

I have never had any interest what so ever in anything to do with cross dressing, transvestitism, or being female in any way, I certainly had no interest in men from a sexual point of view. We do have a gay couple in our circle of friends, and very nice guys they are too, but whether I had ever met, or even seen someone who was transgendered, or just dressed in women’s clothing I had no idea. I had seen Thai tgirls on the internet, but that was it. People might think I had given in to Sarah rather easily last night, but honestly I didn’t think so, she had very cleverly planned it in stages where I agreed to a little bit at a time.

I finished my coffee and decided that I should to go for my morning run as usual. Dammit I wasn’t going to sit at home and mope, so I went up to change. The first problem I encountered was that my shorts wouldn’t fit, they simply wouldn’t get passed the top of my thighs. I sat on the end of the bed and felt like crying.

What? Pull yourself together man. Sarah has a running outfit including a sports bra, go and try that on. I got the stuff out of one of her drawers and included a pair of her knickers, well, mine weren’t going to fit. The knickers were pink and fitted perfectly, as did the shorts. The sports bra was interesting but I eventually ended up on the inside of it. A bit tight, but I supposed that was how it should be.

I hunted through the dressing table drawers and found a scrunchie that I knew Sarah had and pulled my hair into my usual pony tail. I put my own trainers on and then I stood in front of the mirror again to assess my appearance.

Not too bad, I thought. A big pair of sunglasses and no one will ever know. Oh, and another spritz of voice changer.