She looked at the images again on the Fabulous Lady website; they were just so beautiful that they made her heart pound. There was the bullet bra, the waist cincher, the corset, the suspender belt, and the knickers – there were so many of each to choose from, and then there were the stockings, such fine denier and such an array of colours, she didn’t know where to start.

She took a deep breath and decided to start at the top and work down, compiling one outfit in one colour, and then a second and so on. Each outfit would be different. First, the bra. ‘It didn’t need to be padded,’ she thought. She was already big enough; thank you very much, her D cup did not need any assistance. The first one that she liked was half sheer lace at the top and satin at the bottom of the cup.

White, she decided, her first outfit would be white; she picked her bra and entered her size. A pop-up came on her screen asking for measurements. She tutted, put her computer down, and went to her sewing basket and retrieved her tape measure; one side was in inches, the other in centimetres. As she went back to pick up her computer, she realised she would need to take her bra off to measure properly.

She tutted, removed her blouse, a cream sheer blouse that she had bought from a vintage clothing company, and then her uplift bra. ‘Every girl needs a little help,’ she had decided. She sat down and picked up the computer again; the dark screen saver had cut in, and her laptop was acting like a mirror, and as she looked at it, her breasts stared back at her in reflection. “Gosh,” she gasped.

She looked at the first measurement it wanted: band size. Well, that was easy. ‘Ensure that you are standing straight when you take the measurements,’ as the instructions said. She tutted again and stood up and measured under her boobs; she did it twice to make sure and smiled when both measurements were almost the same. So her band size was thirty-four. She entered the figures.

Bust size next. She measured, again twice, and came up with thirty-eight, actually a tad under. She entered the figure. The next information it wanted was nipple placement, with three options: upwards, forwards, or downwards; hers were definitely forwards. ‘How strange,’ she thought; she had never been asked that before. She entered the details and sat down.

Bra selected; she decided that she would go for knickers next, again in white. There were so many to choose from. She liked a pair that had an almost sheer front panel and lace side panels. She worked her mind through all the various options, discounting the Gee immediately, and then the bikini and boylegs were the next to go. She decided on a high rise, a medium rise across the tummy, high coverage on her bum, and a narrow width on her hips.

The next question confused her because she did not understand why they would want a thigh gap. The options were small, medium, or large; large was classed as greater than four centimetres. She had no real idea, so she said medium.

After the knickers, it was a case of selecting a cincher, or waspie, and then also a suspender belt, and then stockings; she decided to go with the lowest denier they had. She looked at the Basques and was rather taken by one that did up at the front, once she had tied off the ties on the back. She selected her outfits and then selected one each in red, white, and black. Gosh, quite the investment.

She received an email from the Fabulous Lady lingerie company; their designer would like to offer her a visit and discuss her choices. Several samples would accompany the designer and may well be offered free of charge if the fitting is correct and if the fittings applied to the lingerie chosen for the order. The order would arrive seven to ten days after the designer fitting. There was no charge for this service, as her address was within their catchment area.

Wow, she had never heard of such a thing. She wrote back asking for the name of the designer and what the proposed date was. The name, Leslie Lewington, was indicated, and the proposed date was the coming Thursday. Gosh, that was soon. She emailed back accepting the proposal.

Oh gosh, oh gosh, wow, this was a surprise. She needed to ensure that her crotch was tidy, her hair trimmed and, of course, conditioned after washing. She would need to sort out her finest underwear to wear when the fitter arrived, and of course, she presumed the fitting would take place in her bedroom, where there were full-length mirrors, and so it needed to be spotless.

She had the rest of today and all of tomorrow. She decided that today she would sort out the lingerie stroke underwear to wear for the fitting. But first she would need a shower before she tried on any underwear that she might wear on Thursday, and before the shower she needed to trim, and before all that, she had to remove her clothes.

In her bedroom she first went through her lingerie drawer; all she needed for Thursday was a bra and knickers and something to hold up stockings, and of course a pair of matching stockings and heels. You needed to wear heels when you had stockings on. She went with a blue set from Agent Provocateur, a long-standing favourite brand of hers; she had a good selection.

Underwear selected, she stripped and looked at her crotch in the mirror; gosh, her hair was so untidy. She went into the bathroom and got a towel to stand on and back in the bedroom; she placed it on the floor in front of the mirror. From her ‘personals’ cupboard she got her trimmer and razor and a pair of sharp hairdresser scissors.

She stood looking this way and that, scissors in hand, and snipped any errant hairs, and then, deciding there were no more, she selected her desired hair length on the clippers and switched the razor to on, carefully and slowly running through her hair until everything was the right length. She then removed the clipper attachment, and using just the razor, she trimmed the edges of her hair until it was a neat line. Looking in the mirror, she had a perfect triangle. She smiled; this was not for a man’s admiration, not yet. No, this was for the designer, the man, she hoped, would come later.

Satisfied that she had done all that she could for her hair and her garden, as she called it privately, she knew that any irritation would be gone by Thursday; it was time to shower. Still naked, she padded across the landing to the bathroom and switched on the shower, giving it a minute to get warm and stabilise. Older houses with older plumbing could be erratic in their water flow management.

Satisfied that she would neither be scalded nor frozen, she stepped under the water stream. She squirted shampoo onto her hand and then rubbed it into her garden, swiftly moving her fingers to ensure a good lather. She left it to percolate while she showered the rest of her body, her finger stimulating streams of pleasure when it brushed against her clitoris, her willpower forcing her to resist, and then her bladder called for attention.

She tutted and set her feet further apart; she wasn’t getting out just for a wee. She relaxed, and then, as her flow started, she squeezed, her yellow flow mixing with suds and quickly dissipating down the drain. She sighed a sigh of satisfaction when she had finished and used her hands to scoop water over her fanny to rinse it.

“Douche, my God, I need to douche,” she said to herself. “I can’t have any fanny aroma on Thursday. She turned down the flow on the shower and unscrewed the showerhead. She squeezed gel onto the end of the hose and then crouched with her knees bent, pushing the hose between her petals and into her fanny, gently rotating it to allow the gel to lubricate.

The water from the hose felt funny in her fanny, and she knew that the pressure was low enough not to cause her any harm, and after thirty seconds, she withdrew the hose. With the showerhead reattached to the hose and the pressure returned to normal, she turned the hose on herself to wash away any residual suds from around her opening.

The spray caught her clitoris, and she nearly collapsed; the moment of pleasure was intense, as was the orgasm that exploded through her, her knees almost giving way as the rivers of pleasure stampeded through her body. She stood leaning on the wall, her breath gulping. She chided herself; this was not the way it was meant to be, certainly not.

Her composure restored, she turned the shower off and began patting herself dry with the towel. Satisfied that her body was back under control and that she was dry, she returned to her bedroom and started to put on the lingerie that she had chosen for Thursday, first the suspender belt, and then the knickers over the straps, and then the bra.

She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Yes, she looked good, she decided, perhaps a tiny bit too much bulge just above her mons, but apart from that, yes, good. She took the lingerie off and put it on the dresser to wear on Thursday; until then it would be a standard supermarket cheap bra and knickers. She couldn’t risk getting the good stuff soiled.

Thursday seemed to take an age to arrive. She was pacing the house, she cleaned her bedroom twice, the vacuum seemed on all the time, and she even changed the linen on the bed, just in case it had an odour that she couldn’t detect. She showered at six a.m. And again at eight in case she had perspired. She used nearly a whole roll-on antiperspirant.

Finally, at nine, she was ready. Her suspenders and belt first, and then her bra, then her knickers, tucking the suspenders down and hanging out of the bottom of her knickers. Then she sat and rolled on her stockings, the best she had from What Katy Did, wonderful 15-denier stockings in blue with a seam up the back of the legs, which she took an age getting straight.

Over the top, she put on her white Yves St Laurent dress, mid-length, flared, and low-cut. ‘I should be going on a date,’ she thought, ‘not simply getting selected for lingerie.’

Her front door bell chimed. She took a huge gulp of air, exhaled, and opened it. A man stood there with what looked like a suitcase. A man?

“Miss Shirley Eaton?” He asked.

“Er, yes, that is me,” she replied, confused.

“Good, I am Leslie Lewington from Fabulous Lady. I am here with your sample and trial items.”

She was shocked; she had just assumed it would be a woman. I mean, do men actually size women for underwear?

“Oh, okay. Right.”

“I am sorry, madam; the office did tell you I was coming, no?”

“Yes, sorry, look, I assumed a woman. I’m sorry, I was just unprepared for a man.”

“Okay, I am sorry about that; that is a shame, as I have your samples here.”

Shirley took a deep breath. “Yes, of course, you must come in, please.”

She stood back from the door, and Leslie Lewington stepped through carrying his suitcase.

“Let’s go through to the kitchen, and I can make a cup of tea, and then you can show me the products.”

“Yes, of course, thank you. That is the most hospitable of you. Thank you again.”