A Good Somali Brother in Toronto
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A Trip To Toronto free porn video
A trip to Toronto
By Debbie Cybill
It all began when I told my wife, Chantal, that I had to go to Toronto
for a meeting at the university. This was a regular meeting that I
anticipated with pleasure, for I should meet with old friends and
colleagues from other universities.
"You can't fly until you are fully recovered," she said, "Why
don't you go by train?"
I was recuperating from a spell in the hospital and this trip would
mark a major step in my recovery, my first trip away from home.
"Right, train it is then," I agreed.
By air, Toronto is about 75 minutes, but if you add the time in
the airports at each end it is almost 3 hours. By train it is three hours
with no messing about in the terminal, and much more comfortable. It
seemed like a good idea to me. I certainly was not intending driving
the five hours at this time of year.
"What shall I wear?"
For the meeting itself, I should need a business suit, but
sitting in that, in a train, would result in wrinkles, so I was asking for
suggestions for my traveling garb, sweats, perhaps, or slacks and
tweed jacket?
"Why don't you wear your teal green suit?"
I looked at my wife open-mouthed. My teal green suit consists
of a sleeveless tweed dress with a matching jacket over it. I often
dress at home and sometimes even go shopping with my wife en
femme. I have even, on a few times, been to the theater with her,
usually in a matching dress. She loves such occasions when we look
like sisters. But to go to Toronto alone en femme, without her, that
was too much. And it was a business meeting.
"You can do it, Debbie." She called my by my femme name.
I shook my head and looked at my toes.
"I dare you!"
That did it. She knew I would never refuse a dare. Could I really get
away with it? I could at least try. My VISA card just has my initials
on it - Dr. DB Cybill - so there should be no trouble there. But what
to pack? I pulled my garment bag out of the closet and set a few
clothes on the bed. My masculine three-piece suit that I should wear
for the meeting, a little black dress for evenings, underwear - all
femme, of course - masculine dress shoes, a pair of black patent
pumps with four inch heels, a dress shirt and tie. That should do.
The next morning, Thursday, I showered and shaved carefully, not
just my face, but my whole body. No one would see my body, but a
shaved body makes me feel so much more feminine. I pulled on my
mint green satin panties, tucking myself away with care. It was a
cold morning so I pulled up a pair of robust, shiny, black tights. My
bra matched my panties and supported my heavy breast forms. This
was going to be a day for layering against the weather so I added a
camisole, and then a full slip, dainty with lace.
I sat at Chantal's vanity and started on my face. My beard is slight and
blonde, so it took little Clinique foundation to cover it up. A touch of
pale tan Clinique powder to set the foundation and I was ready to
start painting this blank canvas. A little darker tan blush to heighten
my cheekbones. I outlined my eyes in dark brown eye liner, with an
even darker shade of brown mascara. I painted my upper lids with
earth tones; I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw, good makeup
for an office worker in the daytime. Chantal looked over my shoulder
and nodded her approval.
"What color lipstick are you intending using, darling?"
"I thought Elizabeth Arden bronze. What do you think?"
"No. It's too metallic for daytime. I suggest you stick with
Clinique. Their bronze is more suitable for day."
I outlined my lips with a pencil and then filled in with Clinique
bronze.
"That looks good, Debbie. What jewelry are you intending wearing?"
"I thought perhaps a single strand of pearls and pearl earrings."
"Not both pearls and earrings in daytime, dear. That is for
evening, stick to just the necklace. And what rings will you wear?"
Chantal was keeping me on a short rein, I thought, and teaching
me to be more feminine at the same time. If she thought I did not
know how to dress and behave as a woman why was she sending me
on the train like this?
"I shall wear my wedding band, of course, and perhaps that diamond
cluster to gave me last year."
"Which hand will you wear that on, Debbie?"
"My right hand, I think."
"It's really a cocktail ring, sweetheart, but it will do for daytime if you
wear it on your left hand alongside your wedding ring."
The implication that it would look like an engagement ring was not
lost on me. While this discussion was in progress, I varnished my
nails, three coats of bronze Clinique to match my lipstick and one of
gloss. I put on my short wig, a little more golden blonde than my own
fair hair. Chantal brushed it out for me, back combing it into an
upswept style. I slipped into my boots, knee-high black calf with
narrow 3 inch heels.
"I hope it doesn't snow while I'm in Toronto. These would be
ruined," I hoped out loud.
"I think you had better wear a scarf in this weather, Debbie. Here's
one of mine."
She handed me a green silk scarf with a pattern of horse harness on it.
I recognized it as one I had bought her at Hermes in Paris last year. I
knotted it around my throat, hiding the pearls and reached for my
coat.
"You can't wear that one, Debbie. It does not look feminine enough."
It was my goose-down parka, olive drab in color and just the
thing for this weather I thought. Unisex enough to wear both en
femme and en drab. But not feminine enough for Chantal, it seemed.
She reached into her own closet and brought out a chartreuse, quilted,
goose-down coat, knee length and zippered down the front. Much
more feminine looking with its nylon texture. It would be a wee bit
short on me. Chantal is a tall woman at 5' 10", but still 2 inches
shorter than me. She spritzed me with perfume, Nina Ricci's Airs du
Temps.
"What are my colleagues going to think when they see me in this coat
tomorrow?"
Chantal drove me to the station in her red Miata.
"Bye, darling," she waved.
I wished she were coming with me, but I knew she needed to go to
her office. She was going to be late as it was. It was unlikely that
anyone at the Museum of Civilization would worry about their
curator of Indian artifacts turning up a couple of hours late.
Now I was on my own. I could not back out. I threw my briefcase into
the basket of my walker and draped the garment bag over it. This
walker was a damn nuisance. I hoped I would soon recover enough to
walk without it again, but on this occasion it proved useful. I did not
need to carry my baggage. It proved useful yet again when I joined
the lineup for the train. An attendant pulled me out, escorted me
through the barrier, and helped me onto the train.
It was a comfortable trip, much more comfortable than a crowded
sardine plane, even business class, and I was able to reread all the
documents for the morrow's meeting. I looked around. Not another
skirt in sight. In Canada skirts disappear at this time of year only to
reappear in the spring. Only office workers wear skirts in winter, and
there were none of them on the train, at least none in office wear.
In Toronto, an attendant helped me down and led me to the taxi rank,
where again I jumped the queue. That walker did draw attention. At
the Meridien Hotel on Bloor street, the fashionable quarter of
Toronto, I checked in as Dr. DB Cybill, and the clerk welcomed me
cordially, evidently taking me for a woman. I had worried that my
voice would give me away, but my sulky contralto femme voice
worked well. The next worry was that some of my colleagues might
have chosen the same hotel.
The room was standard drab with two king sized beds, two upright
chairs, two easy chairs and a small table. At least there was a jack for
a computer. I threw off my coat and scarf and hung up my jacket and
my garment bag before plugging in my laptop to email Chantal that I
had arrived safely. I kicked off my boots and put on my fluffy mules
instead, and then surfed the web for a few minutes. I found a few new
stories on Crystal's Storysite, and one of those would provide bedtime
reading.
It was time for dinner. I hung up my dress and opened my garment
bag. I kept on the same underwear but slid off the tights. For evening
I was going to wear sheer stockings and a garter belt. I wondered if
my bulge would be controlled just by my panties. Not to worry. If a
bulge showed, and anyone commented, I would just brazen it out.
I ran a hand down my slip and looked in the mirror. No bulge. I
pulled my LBD out and held it up against myself. In the mirror, my
slip was clearly too long. I took it off. The LBD was gauzy, much of it
constructed of organdy with satin accents. This underwear would not
do; it would show through the dress. I stripped it off, put my wig on
its stand, and took a quick shower, after removing my makeup. I
should need heavier evening makeup. I dusted myself with talc and
pulled on my black bikini, small enough to hold me in well, a mere
wisp of lace but with hidden strength.
I slipped my arms into a black matching bra. After all my years of
practice, I could manage to fasten it behind with no trouble, none of
this fastening it in front and twisting it around. My breast forms, then
my black camisole. I fastened a black lace garter belt around my
waist, tucked the garters inside my panties, and sat at the vanity to
make up my face. The same foundation, but a little more blush, the
eyes darker and with some green in the palette of colors that I used on
my upper lid. I tried the metallic bronze Elizabeth Arden lipstick,
liked what I saw, and reached for my longer blonde wig, the one I
only wore in the evening, never in the day. You see how well Chantal
has trained me! I put the drop pearl earrings through my ear lobes and
replaced my pearl necklace. I looked in the mirror and saw that I
showed some cleavage. I rubbed a little brown blush there to
emphasize it.
My stockings, sheer black nylons with a seam, I rolled up my shaven
legs and clipped them onto my garters. Slipping my feet into my
black patent pumps, I stood up and thought I looked good in the
mirror. Now was the moment. I help open my black dress, stepped in,
settled it around my shoulders, and admired myself in the looking
glass. This was a new dress that Chantal had bought me after I came
home from the hospital, not form-fitting, but loose. Since my illness I
could no longer wear my corset so I was rather thick in the waist. My
old fitted dresses would no longer fit me and I needed looser dresses
like this one, that came down to about 3 inches above my knee.
Rather short for a woman my age, I thought, but evidently Chantal
thought differently and I trusted her taste.
I looked at my nails, too short for evening I thought. It had not really
mattered on the trip when I wore green leather gloves, but for dinner I
would prefer something more feminine. I cleaned off the varnish and
took a new packet of stick-on nails, not too long, since a woman of
my age would not wear really long nails. I stuck them on with two-
sided tape. That would last the evening, I hoped. I used Elizabeth
Arden's bronze varnish to match my more metallic lipstick. A touch
of perfume between my breasts, behind my knees, inside my elbows,
and behind my ears, and I was ready. Not Air du Temps this time but
something a little more musky and fit for evening, Christian Dior's
Obsession.
I telephoned the main dining room, up on the roof top, and booked
a table for one and picked up my evening clutch. I make an
impressive woman with my height increased by my heels and I
towered over the maitre d'. The restaurant was half empty when I
walked in but the maitre d' seated me at a table near the door to the
kitchen, as so many of them are given to single women. I was having
none of that, and made a fuss, resulting in a fresh table in more
pleasant spot, though one that was rather visible to the other diners. I
didn't like that, since I was not trying to catch attention, but I did not
want to make a fuss again.
The meal was better than I expected, good hotel food, but not up
to the standard of a good independent restaurant. Lobster bisque to
start with, too salty and not redolent of chunks of lobster; a salmon
steak to follow, with sorrel sauce. The sauce was good, but the fish
was overcooked. I should know better than to order fish in anything
but a seafood house. I drank a bottle of undistinguished chardonnay,
an Ontario wine from Hillebrand Estates. I looked around, wondering
if any of my colleagues were eating here. I saw no one and breathed a
sigh of relief. I decided to have a cognac in the bar, and moved there.
I soon noticed a man looking at me. I was sitting in a booth and I just
smiled back when he smiled at me. Then, to my horror, he started
walking towards me and I realized that it was my colleague, William
Loomis, from Windsor university, who was the youngest member of
our committee, at least 20 years younger than me. Had he recognized
me?
"I noticed you sitting all by yourself at dinner. And now here you are
alone again. I'm Willie. Can I buy you a drink?"
So he called himself Willie, did he, when he was on the prowl. I
picked up my snifter which had very little left in it.
"Your glass is empty. Cognac is it?"
There was no help for it. It was so long since any man had hit on me
that I had forgotten how to cope. At least he did not seem to
recognize me. Before I could decline, he had called the waiter over.
"I would love another cognac," I said.
That was a mistake, I realized at once. Now he would sit down and
talk to me at close range.
"I'm Debbie." I held out my hand expecting him to shake it.
"Enchanted, Debbie."
He took my hand a kissed it. With my nails, my hand looked quite
feminine, but the back shows my age better than any other part of my
body. Now the husky contralto voice that I had cultivated for so long
turned out to be a trap. It sounded sultry and sexy. In my own ears I
sounded as though I was coming on to Willie. The waiter appeared
with our drinks, cognac for me, bourbon for Willie. I felt his hand on
my thigh and tried to brush it away. We chatted for a while as I tried
to defend my thighs from his advances.
"Shall we dance?"
The trio that was providing the music seemed to have a repertoire of
slow oldies, so dancing would be cheek to cheek. Still, I enjoy
dancing and move well in heels, even dancing backwards. Besides I
could not see how to refuse him. He took my hand, and we moved out
onto the tiny dance floor, where we were the only dancers. His right
hand crept down towards my butt, and he clutched me more tightly. I
could feel his hardon rising as he pressed it against my belly. It felt
good to be able to turn on a man this way. It made me feel more
confident in my femininity.
The song ended, and Willie escorted me back to the table. He stood
with his hand on the back of my chair, and I thought he was about to
pull it out for me. Instead, he grabbed me and kissed me, trying to
force his tongue between my lips. I smacked his cheek.
"Why don't you go and find someone your own age, Willie."
I spread my left hand to show my rings, the diamond cluster next
to my wedding ring.
"I'm not that kind of woman. Goodnight."
I stalked out. Fortunately, Willie did not follow me. I certainly did not
want him to find out the number of my room. Back there, I stripped
off, hanging up my clothes and wig in the closet, creamed off my
makeup, and pulled on a nightdress. I watched the late night
television for a few minutes to settle my mind, and then fell asleep.
The next morning, I rose early, shaved and examined my face in
the mirror to ensure that every trace of makeup was gone. I peeled off
the fake nails and cleaned my own nails with solvent to remove the
slight traces that remained there. I showered and washed my short
hair, and then I dressed in my peach panties, bra, and camisole, and
pulled on a pair of black pantyhose before putting on my shirt and
tying my tie. With a three piece suit, I looked the epitome of a
businessman.
At breakfast, I ran into Dr. William Loomis. I had butterflies for a
moment thinking about last night.
"Hello, are you staying here, Liam? I didn't see you last night."
The hell I didn't. I may not have seen Liam, but I had certainly seen
Willie.
"Yes, DB. Did you dine out last night? I dined upstairs. Let's share a
taxi to the university."
"Better make sure it has a good trunk. I have to walk with this
thing for the time being."
I indicated my walker. Thank God I had not taken it in to dinner last
night or he would have been sure to have recognized me.
"I'd heard you had been sick. Are you recovered now?"
"Very nearly, but I need this thing to make sure I don't fall over."
We ate our breakfasts, chatting as we did, then returned to our
rooms to collect our briefcases. I discovered with some relief that he
was not on my floor. I slipped on my chartreuse coat, or rather
Chantal's coat.
"Did you borrow that from your wife, DB?"
"Is it that noticeable? When I pulled my goose down parka out of the
basement closet, it was full of moth holes," I extemporized. "My wife
insisted I used hers, swearing that it would not look too feminine."
It was a good meeting and it was great to meet so many old
friends and colleagues. Most of us dined together that night at Le
Bistro du Cite, where the food and company were both delightful.
Dear Willie was absent from our gathering however. I guess he was
busy prowling after women.
I next saw him while checking out from the hotel. I was en femme
again, in my teal green suit and daytime makeup. He recognized me
from the night before and tried to take up where he had left off.
Fortunately I had left my coat, Chantal's coat, with my walker in my
room, intending to put it on just before leaving. That would have been
a real give-away.
"Shall we share a taxi to the airport?"
"I came by train, Willie."
Altogether close run! The trip back in the train was uneventful, a
delightful ride along the north shore of Lake Ontario, just rimmed
with ice now, and looking quite beautiful through the trees. One other
skirt, this time a student in gothic makeup and clad entirely in black
velvet. I was grateful when Chantal met me at the station and I had to
tell her all about it. She had met Liam Loomis and was delighted
about my adventure with him
"I always thought he was a Lothario, but never thought he would
try to hit on you, Debbie, or even on me; I'm too old for him."
"Willie?" Indeed!
Miracle
- 06.08.2020
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