Travelling Hopefully free porn video

Synopsis Whoever said that it's better to travel hopefully than to arrive had never travelled by air, as Peter Blake was to find out to his cost. But just who did the large suitcase belong to, and exactly what was the connection with the woman who awoke in the strange house, considerably the worse for wear? This is a longer length story, so set aside some time, sit back and enjoy. TRAVELLING HOPEFULLY By Charlotte Dickles 1 INTRODUCING PETER They say that troubles come in threes. They're lying! Either that or the counter which was supposed to record my threesome had got permanently stuck. OK, as problems go, the first wasn't really a very big one. My business colleague, Frank, and myself, Peter Blake, were on the thirteen hour flight from Singapore to London Heathrow, returning to England for a month's break after a long period of working abroad. The flight itself had been perfect, the very best that British Airways could give, except for the announcement half an hour before our scheduled landing time, at nine pm on Friday evening. 'Ladies and Gentleman. This is your Captain, again. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, due to a security alert at London Heathrow, the airport has been closed. We have been diverted to Norton International Airport, where we'll get coaches to meet you and take you on to Heathrow. British Airways apologise for the delay and the inconvenience caused.' Hardly an unusual event, and it didn't disturb me too much. To be honest, I'd never heard of Norton International Airport, but then I'd been out of the country almost continuously for eight years, and if Heathrow was closed, they'd be looking for spare capacity over most of central and southern England. Nor was time particularly critical that evening; I was on my way to my son, Nick's wedding in Cheltenham, at four pm the next day. Tonight, Frank and I had rooms booked at one of the Heathrow Airport hotels. He'd got a car-hire arranged for the morning and would take me to the wedding, before going on to the Cotswolds. There, he would meet up with his recently estranged wife on the neutral ground of a rented holiday cottage, and see if he could talk her into going back to live with him. The change of airports would mean we'd arrive at our hotel a bit later, but that wasn't really a problem, since we'd both had plenty of sleep on the flight. In fact, I went back to sleep until we were on the point of touchdown. You notice that there are two ways in which people disembark from planes: There's the type who immediately get up as soon as the seat-belt warning sign goes off, and then stand waiting, with their heads bent at an awkward angle under the luggage bins, or caught in the crush in the middle of putting on a coat, and stuck with one arm in the sleeve, and the other trapped behind their backs. This wait can be for five minutes or fifteen, depending upon how long it takes them to get the steps in position outside, or move the disembarkation equipment against the doors and open them. I am definitely of the other type. Realising that it would take ages for the baggage to get to the baggage-halls, and that no one was going anywhere until the coaches arrived to transport us back to London Heathrow, I sat back in my seat and allowed myself to properly awaken whilst the crush subsided, and I could get off the plane in a civilised way. It was fortunate that Frank had been sitting in the aisle seat, since he was unquestionably one of the former. In fact, he already had his coat on and his hand baggage under the seat before we landed, so he was able to make a fantastic dash towards the door before everyone else stood up. But he was still caught for the whole of the fifteen minutes it took to get the door open. Then he disappeared from view. I shook my head and sighed. I'd catch up with him in the baggage-hall. *** When I got to the baggage-hall, the bags were already in full flow around the carousel. I searched the hall, looking for Frank, hoping he'd had the nous to get two baggage trolleys for the extra-large suitcases we both had with us, and I was a bit surprised to see that he'd already left the baggage-hall. I sighed again. Presumably, he'd gone out to secure a place on one of the transfer coaches which, the announcement said, had now arrived at the airport. Problem Number Two; my suitcase didn?t arrive on the carousel. Again, hardly a unique event if you frequently travel by air, but this time it could be bloody inconvenient. My suit for the wedding was inside. If the suitcase didn't catch me up within the next few hours, I'd have to find a place where I could hire a replacement, which was going to disrupt the whole of the next day. I found an official who made me fill in lots of forms in triplicate, requesting my contact details for the next two weeks. It took ages, but at least I knew that Frank would be holding the coach outside ? preventing it from driving off without me. *** Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! You can probably guess Problem Number Three. It was totally deserted outside the terminal building. In spite of its title, Norton International was obviously one of those small, provincial airports which normally close at nine every evening. Tonight, they'd obviously held it open especially for our flight. It would have been difficult to hide a shopping trolley on the deserted tarmac around the terminal; certainly, there were no fifty-seater coaches! I went back inside the terminal, and after walking around the empty building for ages, finally found a manager, who firstly told me all the British Airways staff had left on the coaches and he couldn't do anything, and then, reluctantly, got on the phone to their Customer Service. They were superb. Whilst I was on the phone, they booked me a room at the Norton Airport Hotel, and proposed that a car would pick me up tomorrow morning and take me to Heathrow. I did some quick mental calculations, and made an alternative offer: a three day self-drive car would be cheaper for them, and more convenient for me. They instantly agreed, booked it, and promised it would be at the hotel for eight am, next day. *** I'd seen the neon signs illuminating the Norton Airport Hotel when I'd gone outside before, so I knew it was only about a quarter-mile away. I would have taken a taxi and charged it to BA, but there was no sign of one outside, so I set out to walk across the car-park towards the three- storey building. It didn't help that, after living in Singapore for so long, I wasn't acclimatised to cold and clammy British weather, or that it started to slightly drizzle when I was half-way across the car-park. But what really didn't help was the ten-foot high security fence at the edge of the car-park, which prevented me walking the last fifty yards to the hotel! To my right, I could see some construction work in progress to extend the car-park. I traipsed over there, climbed the temporary barriers and trudged over the uneven surface, stumbling in the pitch darkness after the glare of the flood-lighting. It only took a couple of minutes, and a couple of bruised shins, to reach the point where the security fence ended, and then I was only separated from the hotel by a four-foot high wall. Without any baggage, it was a simple matter to put both hands flat on the top of the wall, leap up and twist at the same time, so that I was sitting on the top of the wall, then swivel first one leg, then the other, over the wall and leap down. *** In the instant after I should have hit the ground and didn't, I realised that Problem Number Four had arrived. Had the drainage ditch not been full of mud, I might have broken an ankle or something more serious. As it was, I landed face down in the mud which was several feet deep. I floundered, gulping air and mud at the same time and choking, and struggling to free my feet from a tree-root, which was trying to hold me down. Eventually, I crawled up the sloping side of the ditch, and sat for a moment to get my breath, covered in horrible slime. I sat there for quite a bit longer than I needed, staring through the plate-glass of the entrance foyer of the hotel ? at the deep pile carpets and smart pot plants, realising I was going to have to walk in there dripping slimy mud, or stay outside all night! The Assistant Manager was outstanding. Don't worry about the mud. The important thing was that I was safe. BA had made the booking, so I could go straight up to my room and grab a shower. There would be a dressing- gown in the room, so I could put all my clothes in a laundry bag, and he'd get Housekeeping to immediately wash them and get them dried, ready for 7 am tomorrow morning. Oh, and did I want to register a credit card to pay for any extras, such as telephone calls? I reached for the bum bag I kept at my waist, which contained my wallet and travel documents. It was at that moment I lost count of the number of problems I'd experienced so far, as I remembered something caught around my legs when I was in the ditch, which I'd kicked free. No problem, the Assistant Manager said; he would personally go out there with a flash-lamp and search for the missing bag. He would telephone me in my room as soon as he returned. His call came just after I'd finished my shower, and had taken my mobile-phone to bits and was washing the mud from each bit in the wash- basin. He'd found the spot where I'd fallen in, but there was absolutely no sign of the missing bag. First thing tomorrow morning, he would get Maintenance to try dredging for it. He couldn't have done any more. I thanked him, and after drying and assembling my mobile-phone and finding it still didn't work, went to bed. 2 INTRODUCING CHARLOTTE When she woke up in the middle of the night, Charlotte was sitting fully dressed in an armchair. She wasn't certain exactly where she was, how she'd got there or even who she was, but she was absolutely certain of one thing: she had to find a toilet desperately. Fortunately, a table-lamp had been left on, and she was able to stagger (since her legs appeared to be incapable of taking her in a straight line) to the bottom of the stairs, and then she pulled herself, arm over arm, up the banister rail until she reached the landing. There were only two doors leading off the landing, and since the door to the bedroom was standing open, it was pretty clear she had to dive through the other pretty smartish, if she was not to urinate over the carpet. Even when she was in the small bathroom, it was a pretty close call, since her panties were underneath her suspenders rather than on top, and in her befuddled state she couldn't pull them down without getting them tied up in suspenders and stockings. In the end, she simply put a hand on the gusset and pulled them as far down her legs as she could, as she thankfully sank down onto the seat and let her waters flow. After emptying her bladder, Charlotte staggered through into the bedroom, pulled back the quilt and dropped onto the mattress. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her body before falling again into a deep sleep, bordering upon unconsciousness. *** It was ten am next morning before Charlotte vaguely started to wonder what the hell she was doing there? She had got up several times overnight, in response to the calls of nature; sometimes to empty her bladder; and sometimes to cure her raging thirst by drinking gallons of water from the tooth mug in the bathroom. But this time, after her long piss, she remained conscious long enough to register that, at some time during the night, she had shed all of her clothes ? she could see the remnants spread over the floors of the upper rooms ? and that she was now totally naked in a small house, empty of any other occupants. She was still very much the worse from something, and she couldn't even walk in a straight line over to the bathroom window. She released the blind over the window and looked out, at a countryside of wooded hillsides and empty meadows. She smiled, suddenly aware that, unusually for a bathroom, it was not fitted with obscured glass, and she could have opened the blind onto a busy city street, revealing every part of her upper anatomy to the crowds, below. Fortunately, there was no one in sight to take notice of the naked woman at the window. She lurched through to the bedroom and, this time more cautiously, repeated the operation, revealing an almost identical view, apart from the lane which passed in front of the cottage, with a car parked directly outside the door. She hadn't got a clue what she was doing there, where exactly she was, or even which day it was. She appeared to have the place to herself. Perhaps she was a guest of a new lover? But a trawl through the empty wardrobes and bare drawers proved she was wrong ? instead, she appeared to be in some kind of rented holiday accommodation. More importantly, it placed her right in front of the mirror over the dressing-table, and she was brought face to face ? with herself! It wasn't as if she didn't recognise herself (which she did) or remember her own name. It was simply that she didn't know herself. She might just as well have been looking at a photograph of a well-known model in a magazine ? recognising her features, but totally oblivious to her real life. Even her own reaction to her ignorance was strange. Most people in similar circumstances would have started to panic ? perhaps tried to telephone for a doctor or an ambulance. She simply shrugged as though she couldn't be bothered, then staggered downstairs, and lifted the blinds down there. It was her stomach which drew her to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and found a pot of yoghurt to cure the stabs of hunger in her stomach. But she had barely finished the pot, before she had to race to the toilet, and vomit it all up. Afterwards, she went back to bed and slept. 3 WORSE FOR PETER With the difference in time zones, I woke up at some stupidly early hour on Saturday morning, and lay in bed, contemplating my position. Firstly, there was the strange fact that my friend, Frank, had abandoned me at the airport. Frank and I had worked in Singapore for many years, doing virtually the same jobs as Overseas Buyers, but for competing British electrical retail companies. Whatever electrical product you may have recently bought in the UK ? kettles, radios, CD players ? if it was made in Singapore, Frank or I may well have arranged its purchase. We were actually quite similar in many ways, but since we were direct competitors, we'd never been particularly friendly. Perhaps if we happened to bump into each other, we'd have a drink together, but that would be all. But just over a month ago, my wife, Susan, had left me, to live with my boss ? the head of our Singapore office. For me, a bad situation was made much worse because it appeared that, for well over a year, virtually everyone in the company, apart from me, had known the two had been having a steamy affair. As a result, I became very disillusioned with my former colleagues, especially my so-called friends. A few days after Susan's departure, Frank's wife, Charlotte, left him and returned to England. To be honest, I don't think anyone was surprised by that. Even from across a ballroom, the flighty glances she gave to every male in sight were as obvious an invitation as I had ever seen. Had I not been one of those people who believe in being faithful to one's partner (unlike my shitty wife), I'd probably have been crowding around her myself. So, to most of us, the surprise was that their marriage lasted so long; and if that sounds just a little like having the same attitude as I'd found so obnoxious in my closest friends, perhaps you'll understand why I went out of my way to make contact with him and talk through his problems. As you might expect, we'd since become the closest of pals, and we met up several times a week to eat, get drunk, and moan about the bitchiness of women. But while I never wanted to see Susan again, he desperately wanted Charlotte to come back to him. After I'd told Frank I was returning to England for Nick's wedding, it had seemed quite natural that he should book the same flight, to try to obtain a reconciliation. So, with our recent close friendship, and our shared itinerary for the onward journey, you can imagine why I was so surprised that Frank hadn't held the coach for me. But as I lay in bed reflecting, I thought that maybe I was being unreasonable. There would probably be a dozen coaches waiting outside to take all the passengers from a Jumbo. It was dark; people would be dashing from coach to coach to find seats or places for their luggage, or their friends and relatives. Frank may have saved me a seat to start with, but how could he be certain I hadn't got on another coach? It would have been chaos, and Frank would not have stood a chance. Presumably, he'd tried to call me on my mobile, but I hadn't switched it on before I fell in the ditch, and it hadn't been working since. So, I concluded, Frank should receive a full pardon. Unfortunately, the question of Frank's loyalty was only a minor part of my problems. Apart from the hotel dressing-gown, I had absolutely nothing to wear, and no money or credit cards with which to buy anything. In theory, my clothes should be laundered and arrive by seven am, my breakfast at seven-thirty, the hire car at eight, and there would be sufficient time for me to drive to the home of Nick's future in-laws (where he was staying until the wedding), borrow some cash, hire a suit, and get to the church on time. But there were a hell of a lot of things which could go wrong ? and knowing my recent luck, they probably would. They did! Seven am came and went, and no clothes appeared. I tried ringing Housekeeping. The phone rang unanswered, until it diverted to an answering machine. I left an urgent message. Ten minutes later, they hadn't responded, so I rang again, and when the same thing happened, rang Reception. There was a different Assistant Manager on duty, who was far too busy to speak to me personally, but, the woman told me, Reception couldn't do anything anyway, since Housekeeping were a law unto themselves. I continued to ring Housekeeping at ten minute intervals, and at seven- thirty, telephoned Reception again. Line busy! So it went on. My breakfast was late, and when I rang the restaurant, was told it was on its way ? but in the kind of voice which indicates they'd never seen my original order. Eight o'clock, my breakfast finally arrived, and after explaining my plight to the waitress, she assured me she would go down to Housekeeping and get them to call. They didn't, and even worse, by eight-fifteen, the promised car hadn't arrived, either. I tried to make a call to BA, but my telephone was not authorised to make outside calls. 'Please contact Reception to set up an account.' Reception was permanently engaged! I rang the Restaurant to enquire whether the waitress had discovered anything about my clothes, and was told it was not their job to sort out Housekeeping; if I had a complaint, I should see the Manager. And then, just before nine, the airport baggage-office telephoned to tell me they had found my suitcase, and would send it straight around. It was fortunate that call came just before the next, since it was Housekeeping, to tell me they'd been unable to do anything with my clothes in the hotel, so they'd sent them to their laundry service, and would be back at the hotel on Wednesday! I didn't even explode, simply gave them the forwarding address, expecting never to see my clothes again. To complete the series of calls, the local car-hire firm telephoned. 'Sorry we haven't delivered a car to you yet, Mr Blake. The truth is we weren't expecting that flight from Singapore last night and it's totally cleared out our stock. Our driver is collecting a car at the moment, and he'll be passing your hotel quite soon. Obviously, we'd normally bring it back here for full servicing, but we understand you want it quite urgently. If you're happy to accept the car as it is?' 'Send him straight here,' I ordered. 'I can empty the ashtrays myself.' At last, I thought, things were starting to look hopeful. Little did I know! *** My suitcase arrived at ten. I hadn't got the key for it, of course, but I used a knife from my breakfast tray to slip the inadequate locks and threw the lid open, already to leap into tee-shirt and jeans. The silk dress lying on top was pure white, with a plunging cleavage, and made of such light material, it must surely be translucent. The problem was that I hadn't packed a white, silk dress in my suitcase. Even if the dress had belonged to Susan, her treachery had made me so wild, I'd have shredded it, rather than keeping it in perfect condition until I could return it to her. There was, however, a very obvious solution which sprang to mind. A week ago, I'd showed Frank the case I'd bought to carry all the junk I was going to bring back to England. It was huge, and more resembled a ship's trunk than a suitcase. Frank wanted to get into Charlotte's good books by taking her all the clothes she'd left behind in Singapore, so realising that he needed one just as big, he went to the same store and bought an identical trunk. In the baggage-hall, Frank must have seen mine as it came along the carousel and grabbed it, thinking it was his. Meanwhile, his own suitcase had gone astray, and now it had been found and returned to me. No doubt, he'd been frantically trying to call me all morning, desperately hoping that I had his suitcase. If I hadn't been so anxious to regain my wedding suit, I'd have let the bugger sweat as a punishment for abandoning me in the airport. But in the meantime, I didn't have any conscience about borrowing a few of his clothes from his suitcase. Just to be certain it really was his suitcase, I pulled out the thick document envelope stuffed down the side of the suitcase, and tipped the contents over my bed. There were all kinds of credit cards and documents belonging to Charlotte ? more importantly, there was ?500 in notes! Naturally, I wouldn't steal Frank's money, since I would eventually return it to him in full, but the money would certainly help me out of my current cash crisis. Since it didn't look as though I'd recover my suit before the wedding, at least I now had the cash to hire a suit, as well as buy myself a lunch. The phone rang again ? it was the car delivery driver. 'Just leave the keys at Reception,' I told him. 'That will be fine.' 'Sorry,' he said, 'I can't do that. I need to fill in your licence details.' Shit! My licence was at the bottom of a muddy creek. I tried explaining nicely, why I couldn't give them to him, and then tried to bully him, but he was immoveable. 'You wouldn't be covered by insurance unless I have your licence details. I'm sorry sir; I simply can't let you have the car.' A flash of inspiration. 'Hang on,' I told him, then riffled through Charlotte's documents lying on my bed: birth certificate, marriage licence, credit cards, passport AND? A driving licence! 'My friend will drive,' I told him. 'If you come up to my room, you can see her licence.' OK, I know that was rather naughty. Driving without insurance is a highly irresponsible crime, but I reasoned that I was not going to have an accident, and that even if I did, I could surely bluff my company into making a claim from their company-wide motor insurance. With Charlotte's licence details duly entered on the driver's forms, he handed over the keys, and departed, while I started to flick through the contents of the suitcase, looking for Frank's jeans and shirts. Then I went through it again, more carefully. Finally, I removed every item from the suitcase and painstakingly laid everything out on the bed, looking for the items I had missed. The problem was, I hadn't missed any items. Every article of clothing in the suitcase not only patently belonged to Charlotte, but it also appeared that she didn't own a single pair of jeans or trousers! 4 BETTER FOR CHARLOTTE 'I was wondering if you were alright?' The words jerked her out of her half-sleep, and she sat bolt upright, looking at the man who was in her bedroom, who appeared transfixed by something on her chest. After a few seconds, she stared down to see what had attracted his attention, and realised she was naked from the waist up, her huge boobs jutting out with quite commendable firmness. It took her another few seconds before she realised that modesty dictated that perhaps she ought to cover herself, and she belatedly pulled the quilt up to her neck. Victor Walters, the owner of the holiday cottage, was in totally uncharted territory. It was obvious that the girl had not been well when she'd arrived last night ? brought in by a couple who'd told him they had found her unconscious at the wheel of a car, about half a mile down the lane away, and totally blocking it. He had spent the morning vacillating between calling the police, the ambulance, going in to see her, and doing nothing. All morning, he had continued to let indecision take the lead, and perhaps if she hadn't started moving about, followed by her vomiting, he might have continued to procrastinate for ever. But it was obvious she needed some help, and since she was his client, he could hardly go to the police. For once, he had to take action himself. When she had so quickly sat up, revealing those fantastic tits and clearly totally unaware that she was doing so, he had been at a complete loss about what to do. Was it polite, under such circumstances, to point out to a lady that her tits were on show, or would that merely cause her embarrassment? More importantly, if he simply kept quiet, would she carry on exposing them for the whole of their conversation, and could he think of sufficient topics to keep the conversation going, for ever? His eyes ultimately let him down, as he knew they would. If only he was able to discretely look at a woman's tits, as other men appeared able to do so, without his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets. After pulling the quilt around her torso, Charlotte thought she ought to respond to her questioner. 'I'm not really certain. I feel very? strange.' She gave him a little, hesitant smile, and asked, 'Who are you?' Victor could have made all kinds of witty retorts, or diversionary responses, which might have led to a more interesting scenario, but that was totally beyond him. Instead, he said, 'I'm Victor Walters, the landlord.' Aware that his first response was less than adequate, he sought to clarify. 'I could see you weren't very well, when they brought you here last night. I've been looking out for you, and then I saw you ? I mean heard you er? throwing up, so I thought I'd better come round.' As Charlotte stared back at him, he could feel his cheeks starting to glow redder and redder. God, how he hated the way he blushed whenever he lied. Any moment now, Charlotte was going to see through him and force him to come out with the truth. When he did so, she'd tell him he was a revolting little man and he should piss off back to the hole he crawled out of. And Charlotte may have been feeling like shit warmed up two minutes ago, but for some reason, she was now feeling incredibly randy. Already, the blood was shooting through her body, making her tingle all over. She didn't know what the hell had been wrong with her, but she was pretty certain what was likely to cure it. She gave him her cutest smile. 'Oh, Vic. Thank you so much for caring about me enough to check that I'm alright. In truth, I've been feeling absolutely dreadful, as though I wasn't here at all, but somewhere else. I don't know what's wrong with me, or when I shall get better.' 'Do you want me to ring for a doctor, or?' 'No!' Charlotte couldn't, for the life of her, understand why she had so hastily rejected Victor's kind offer. But she did know it was a subject that, for the time being, she did not want to go down. In the meantime, she had to find out much more about what she was doing there, and also attend to the pressing needs of her body. 'Sorry Vic, I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I'm not at my best. I can't even remember when I went down with my sickness. Can you help?' 'Well, not really. A couple found you along the lane, last night. You'd stopped your car in the middle of the road, and weren't fit to drive. They thought you were drunk or? something. Presumably, you must have told them you were trying to get here, so they brought you along.' 'That was good of them.' She unexpectedly felt quite overwhelmed by events; she didn't know what she was doing here, or even who she really was. She felt her eyes pricking, and then a tear rolled down her cheek. 'I'm sorry.' She brushed the tear away. 'You must find it a real pain, me being here, and you having to come in and check me out, but I feel awfully vulnerable, at the moment.' Without warning, the single tear turned into a dozen, and Charlotte flung her arms around his neck and started crying into the side of his head. Victor couldn't help noticing that this had meant she'd released the quilt, which had slipped down, again exposing those fabulous tits. 'There, there,' he comforted, using the same words his mother had, years ago. 'It's alright. I'm here and I'll look after you.' Christ, Victor thought, I'm out of my depth here. He lifted a hand, desperately wanting to squeeze that magnificent tit, but discretion made him move it around her side, and hesitantly pat her shoulder blade. He'd expected her to immediately scream louder, and call him a pervert for touching her, as the woman in the lift in Debenhams had once done. In fact, his touch had the opposite effect; Charlotte's sobs became more controlled, and she moved her body closer to him, so her tit was nuzzling against his chest. Through his thin tee-shirt, he could feel her hard, protruding nipple rubbing against his chest. His abrupt erection could not have come at a worse time ? it was so very uncomfortable, and needed urgent adjustment, but both his arms were wrapped around her, and even if he released his right arm, he'd have to perform the adjustment right under her eyes. He tried a little wriggle, which seemed to make his situation worse. God, he had to do something! He gave a bigger wriggle. 'Oh dear! What have I done to you?' She was staring with tear-filled eyes, down at the bulge in his trousers. Here we go, he thought. She's about to utter a scream to wake the dead. 'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I've put you in a terrible position. Your wife or girl-friend would kill me if she knew how stupid I'd been.' 'But I don't have a wife or a girl-friend!' 'You don't? Heavens, someone has missed a good catch.' A slight pause. 'In that case, I wonder if you'd do something for me?' He nodded, 'Of course, anything?' 'I'm feeling so strange, and it's so nice of you to give me a bit of a cuddle, but... well, do you think you could? this is a terrible imposition, but would you mind? well... it must be a maternal urge, or something, but it just feels so very nice, and? relaxing, and? comforting, if you'd... suck on my nipples.' She saw his eyes widen in surprise, and sought his reassurance. 'You wouldn't mind, would you? Please.' If he'd thought he was out of his depth before, he was drowning now. Beautiful women with fantastic tits didn't permit blokes like him to even glance at their tits, never mind? He gulped, and thought he might choke on his Adam's apple. 'No, no that's fine. I'll er...' He lowered his mouth towards her breast, and at the last moment hesitated, as he wondered if he'd dreamt her words, and that she would start screaming as soon as his lips... She clutched him behind the head and forced his mouth against her, and breathed a deep sigh of contentment as he took his first tentative suck. 'Mmmm. That's wonderful. Oh, yes! Do you want to try the other one now, and perhaps you could suck just a little bit harder.' She fed her left breast towards his mouth, and gasped as he sucked it hard inside his mouth. 'Oh, my God, that's nice. Here, let me...' The latter in response to another uncomfortable wriggle. She undid the belt on his trousers and unzipped him. 'Oh hell! What an enormous cock.' In fact, Charlotte was exaggerating slightly, here, but it was well worth it because it grew even stiffer in her hand. 'Would you mind if I...' Well aware that she was probably about to deflower a male virgin who must be almost thirty, she'd been about to suggest that she should sit astride his lap. That way, she could initiate the action, control the pace and even make certain his cock went in the right hole (not that she was averse to a little anal action, but she felt that, the first time round, he should do it the conventional way). But before she could do so, his fingers had traced a path down her tummy and through her pubic hair, and very lightly, he'd touched her in a very special place, and the fireworks started exploding inside her head. 'J-e-e-e-e-e-z!' He moved his fingers slightly, and the fireworks multiplied in intensity a thousand times, until her head was inside the fireworks, and it was her head exploding with orgasmic pleasure. Every tiny movement of his fingers sent her into deeper and deeper ecstasy, until she was losing consciousness with each orgasm. Finally, after a lifetime in seventh heaven, he was bringing her down off the clouds, and she was returning to reality. Her body was covered in sweat, her breath coming in short gasps, and she knew she had been well and truly finger-fucked! 'Oh thank you, Vic. Thank you so much! That was absolutely wonderful. Where did you learn to do that?' Well that was a rather embarrassing question, but fortunately, he correctly assessed it was meant rhetorically. In fact, as a twenty-eight year old male virgin, he'd had a sudden panic attack when she'd grabbed his cock and was about to tell him to shove it inside her. Suppose he did it all wrong, shot his load before he'd got it in, or even put it into the wrong hole? It was certainly a failing of his video camera, hidden inside the smoke- detector above the bed, that it was usually almost impossible to see the point at which the male guest penetrated the woman. Oh, he frequently saw a male bum, as it thrust down upon the woman, or the woman's torso, if she was on top, but it needed hand-held cameras within inches of the penetration, to get the kind of shots which would have given Victor the confidence he needed. Fortunately, the same problem did not arise with female masturbation. The more common type of visitor to his holiday cottage would be the unaccompanied woman. With a woman lying on her back on the bed or in the Jacuzzi, the smoke-detector cameras, with their fantastic zoom facility, would be pointing directly at the woman's vagina, as she used her hand, or a vibrator, to bring herself off. Victor had seen dozens of different variations on the same theme, and hundreds of different vaginas. He knew exactly where women should be touched to produce results, and he had to say, he was more than a little pleased with his achievements with Charlotte. He lay back on the bed for a brief instant, well aware that he urgently needed to go to the toilet and have an enormous wank. But Charlotte would not let debts go unpaid. Before he could even think about moving, she was swinging a leg over his, and sitting on his thighs, her breasts hovering an inch above his glistening cock. She was no lightweight. Even if he wanted to get out of this situation, he wouldn?t be able to do so, but at that moment, sexual need was easily overriding fear. She read his thoughts. 'Lie back, and think of England.' And then she wriggled forward until her cunt was directly above his prick. Slowly, the two became one. *** After three hours of almost non-stop fucking, Charlotte felt decidedly better. OK, she was still extremely confused about who she was and what she was doing in the cottage, but her body was no longer feeling so dreadful. She still staggered a bit when she walked, but that was probably because she was walking with her legs wide apart, to ease the soreness inside her. At least she'd had the sense to take the birth-pill from the pack she'd found in her handbag. They came to a natural halt from their romping, both of them in that wonderful post-coital bliss. 'So Vic, you're telling me that I booked the cottage for four weeks?' 'Well, not you personally, of course. The booking came via email, after you saw an advert in "The Lady".' He always kept a copy of the weekly magazine in the cottage, handy if guests complained he'd wrongly advertised it, and he got out of bed to fetch it. He flicked through the pages until he came to his ad, which he then passed across to Charlotte. "Spoil yourself with a luxurious cottage break, set in the secluded heart of the beautiful Cotswolds, with an abundance of art galleries, antique shops, hairdressers/ beauty salons, and delightful restaurants, eminently suitable for the single female diner, or a couple wanting to share discrete moments together. Single bedroom with Queen-sized bed, en-suite with Jacuzzi, comfortable lounge and well equipped kitchen. Lady(ies) or couples only. Contact Virginia Walters, Tel..." 'Isn't Virginia Walters your wife?' 'It's my mother, actually, and er... she's dead, but I er... always think her name sounded better and more ladylike, than mine.' 'Well, yes. Victor doesn't sound at all ladylike. Do you only advertise in "The Lady"? Have you thought of any other magazines?' 'It brings in a much nicer type of client.' In fact, it frequently brought in women on their own, desiring a little solitude from the world ? and they often spent a lot of time in simply finding themselves. Unfortunately, it sometimes also attracted couples who wanted a discrete place to fuck. Whilst it made for entertaining television, the problem was, it often left him feeling unhappy that he was missing out on such activity. He far preferred unaccompanied women, who might spend their time alone in discovering, and pleasuring, their own bodies. Charlotte nodded sagely at his response. 'That must be what attracted me,' she said, wondering why on earth she had really chosen to come here. 5 PETER DISCOVERS THAT EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING There was not one item which was remotely suitable for me to wear without looking totally stupid. Almost all the tops and dresses were brightly coloured with revealing cleavages, and there wasn't a single pair of shorts or trousers. It appeared that Frank had packed in his hand-baggage all the clothes he'd needed for the duration of his four week stay in the UK! It was seeing Charlotte's wig which started to make me think. Although I'd never met Charlotte close up, I knew about the nasty scars to both sides of her face ? I think as a result of being caught in a fire during her childhood. She had always done her best to hide the impact, partly by focusing men's eyes on much more interesting parts of her ? which is why she always displayed her revealing cleavages ? but also with her thick, dark-brown, shoulder-length hair which half fell across her eyes, hid most of her cheeks, and then curled at the front under her chin, so that little could really be seen of the majority of her face. It didn't surprise me very much to learn this was a wig. I pulled it out of the wig-box and twirled it in my hands, ideas spinning through my mind, and then, as quickly, being dismissed. It would never work. I had more than a day' stubble on my chin, and even if I was to remove every hair on my body with the wax in her beauty kit, I'd still be a long way short of filling the front of the low cut blouses and dresses. I needed something else to help me there, and I vaguely wondered whether Charlotte had any padded bras, which I could stuff with cotton wool. I spent a few minutes looking through her bras, all of which were definitely non-padded, before I turned my attention to the large cardboard tube, with the picture of the beautiful woman on the side. 'Singapore Girl,' the banner said, with underneath, 'You can have the sexiest body in town.' I pulled the end cap off the tube, and removed the flesh-coloured garment from inside. It turned out to be two garments actually. The first was a leotard, with long sleeves, and a high collar, fitting right up the neck and under the chin. I couldn't identify what the leotard was made from, but it was a very thin, stretchy material and smooth to the touch, almost like skin. In fact, combined with the flesh-colour, it felt and looked exactly like real skin. I'd thought the garment was wrapped around something soft and bulky when I'd first pulled it out of the tube, but as I spread it out before me, I realised that the bulkiness was due to the heavy padding on the breasts, forming huge tits the size of honeydew melons. 'So all along,' I thought, 'the superb tits that Charlotte had been displaying to the world were totally false, and we were all taken in. 'And if Charlotte could do it,' I speculated, 'why not me?' But it was the second garment which really fascinated me. It was in the same flesh-coloured material, and was like a pair of footless tights, except that there was thick padding all around the buttocks, hips and outer thighs. It was strange; I'd always thought women were trying to minimise the size of their hips and bums ? not make them much bigger, but that's certainly what this garment would do. The instructions enclosed with the bodysuit were written in several languages, including poor English, and it took me a few seconds to find the start of the English. "Male to Female Bodysuit." I did a re-take, and then read on to check my assumption: sure enough, the bodysuit was designed to make a male look like a shapely woman. So what was it doing in Charlotte's suitcase? Except of course, the bodysuit was in Frank's suitcase ? not Charlotte's. *** It didn't take long to work out the solution. I knew that Frank had felt terribly shamed by Charlotte's departure, and desperately wanted her back. Clearly, he'd misled me when he told me she'd agreed to see him. Instead, he'd intended to spend the time recreating Charlotte for himself. And why not? I was going to have to tread extremely carefully when it came to returning the suitcase to Frank, revealing that I knew his secret. Not that I had any problem with his pastimes; especially as it now appeared I was going to get acquainted with them myself. Needs must! According to the blurb, the bodysuit provided the ultimate dream for any male wishing to temporarily become a beautiful female. It provided a: "realistic, sensitive vagina, allowing full male penetration" and breasts that were: "so responsive, the user could reach orgasm with oral sex". Yeah! And pigs might fly! The secret, we were told, was the touch-sensitive artificial skin connected to a micro-chip, which would digitally amplify the minute signals, and transmit them to the appropriate parts of the wearer's own skin. It all sounded good, but on the other hand, as a buyer of electrical goods from the Far East, I had seen lots of fantastic promises and learnt to be always sceptical until I'd witnessed the results for myself. The important question was, could I don this bodysuit, get dressed and look realistic enough to step outside my room? To some extent, the answer was irrelevant ? I had to go out, and I must look better than I would do simply wearing Charlotte's clothes on my unmodified body. The question was a no-brainer. *** The most intricate part of putting on the bodysuit was getting my genitals inside the false cunt, which was an exceptionally uncomfortable operation. I had to pull the leggings over my feet and up the legs as far as my groin, then fumble around inside, feeding my balls and prick into a "filament bag", shaped to fit and made of a stretchy-material almost like a sheer stocking. When I'd finally got my goolies packed inside the bag, it clung tightly to my skin, and the constriction especially around the hilt of my shaft served to give me a massive erection. "An erection should be encouraged," the poorly written instructions said, "but do not masturbate or permit ejaculation, as this may damage the filament bag. When fully erect, use the spray compound to completely cover the genitals. The compound made my prick swell even more, and I could now see the bag was made of a fine diamond mesh, through which everything bulged, a bit like a woman's thigh bulging in tiny diamond patterns through fishnet- tights which were too tight. I read the next step of the instructions: "Take one of the pills to progress to the next stage of your conversion. The pill will not only eliminate any chance of an erection for the rest of the day, but also slowly release helium into your throat so that your voice will rise in pitch, and sound like a perfect female voice." I wasn't too keen on taking strange pills, but I had to not only get rid of the massive erection, which showed absolutely no sign of subsiding on its own, but also ensure it did not return at an inopportune moment. Hopefully, I wouldn't need my voice converting, since I hoped not to speak to anyone except Nick, but it might come in handy for the odd word, here and there. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I decided to take a pill. The pills were in a bubble pack which looked just like a pack of birth- pills, and the instructions said that I would have to take one every day that I remained in the bodysuit. I swallowed one with a glass of water, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Then, my hard-on disappeared with the speed of a bursting balloon, and for a few more seconds, my balls seemed to be competing with my prick as to which could nestle up closest to my torso, by occupying the smallest space possible. My balls won, as with quite considerable discomfort, first the right ball and then the left disappeared inside my body, leaving the empty sacs shrivelled up and wrinkled. My prick had reduced to about two centimetres in length and one in width. I desperately read the instructions to check whether that was supposed to happen; it was. "When the balls have disappeared inside the body, push the ball sacs after them, where the adhesive component of the spray compound will ensure they are kept safely tucked out of the way." They were right; the compound was sticky and as soon as I'd pushed the sacs up inside my body, they stayed there. Finally, I had to pull the leggings up to my waist, and locate my minute cock into the tube in the false vagina through which I would piss. Again, the adhesive kept it nicely in place. The leggings had a zip fastener at the rear, from anus to waist. It was a bit difficult to do up, but when I'd done so, it pulled in my tummy wonderfully, and with my newly enhanced wide hips and round bum, gave me the lower half of a perfect hourglass figure. The leotard went over my head and down my body, and then the gusset had to be drawn firmly between my legs and fastened at the rear. There was even a pubic wig to give added realism. I read on: "You now have a fully functional female body. You will be able to feel every touch to your vagina, by means of the minute filaments glued to your genitals, which apply small electrical discharges to the skin." I know! I know! One should always fully read the instructions before commencing any operation. I certainly didn't like the sound of having electrical filaments glued to my testicles, but it was too late to go back, and in any case, what else could I have done? I guessed that as long as I didn't start playing around with my new pussy, I wouldn't get my balls blown off by a faulty circuit. However, when it was all in place, I actually felt very comfortable. With my huge hips and bum, I looked like a woman, and if I showed a nice cleavage, no one was going to look at my face too keenly. It had taken me some time, but having done everything according to the instructions, at least I could be certain I wouldn't be risking the chance of an embarrassing erection pushing through my dress at a crucial moment ? provided, of course, the pill worked as it was supposed to, which in itself was a huge assumption. Only the final pieces of disguise were left: a painful waxing process to remove my facial hair; the stick-on scars, which went onto the sides of my cheeks; and then I spent a few minutes sticking on false nails, which gave me reasonably attractive hands for when I handed back the hotel key. Finally, the wig slipped onto my head, and I secured it in place with adhesive from a tube. As I critically stared at myself in the mirror, I was more than impressed with the reality of my transformation. If I didn't know better, I would be well and truly taken in by the naked girl before me, marred only by the scars on the side of her face. But I didn't have time to stand and stare at the beautiful girl. I had to get dressed and on my way. I discarded the white silk dress in favour of a cream, shirt-waister dress, with a large, bright floral pattern. It was a suitable length since it would fall below the knee, but it could be unbuttoned at both top and bottom to the wearer's taste. I guessed Charlotte would have chosen it for just the same qualities which I particularly wanted; to draw attention away from the face and onto the body, whilst preserving a little decency, which the white silk dress certainly would not. Having selected my dress, I chose a white platform bra, and matching white panties, suspender-belt and stockings, and shoes with two-inch heels. I slipped them all on, but just in time remembered from my earlier days with Susan, that knickers go over the suspender belt and stockings, and not underneath, otherwise they all have to be undone, simply in order to have a piss. Then I put on the dress and buttoned it fully at the bottom, but left as many top buttons undone as I could without my bra showing. I had a cleavage which would draw the lustful attention of every male, and the jealous attention of every female. Anyone glancing at my face might see the scars, but I was convinced that absolutely no one would consider for one moment that I was a man. I kept out the lovely white handbag which I thought would match my outfit quite nicely, slipped my mobile-phone and the money inside and put all Charlotte's other things ? sorry, I meant MY things (the instructions had given strict directions about thinking myself into the role) ? back into the suitcase, and shut it up. Strictly speaking, I should have sorted out my driving licence from the other papers, and put that in my handbag, but it had taken me so long to get ready, I thought I ought to get on the road as soon as I could. As I was about to leave the room, I had one of those nasty little nagging doubts that I'd overlooked something very important, so I took another look around the room and en-suite. There, on the washbasin, was the pack of voice-changing pills. Although I definitely wasn't going to need them again, it looked so similar to a pack of birth-pills I thought someone might take the wrong thing by mistake! I slipped the pack into my handbag, took a deep breath, opened the door and went out into the hotel corridor. *** I released that breath as I took the first few steps along the corridor ("Lead with the hips forward," the instructions had said, "and pull your shoulders back and down"). I was on my way. Fortunately, I had no bill to pay, so I'd be able to simply hand in my room-key, find my hire-car, drive to Cheltenham, and borrow some of Nick's clothes to go out and find a hire-suit ? all without speaking to anyone except Nick. 'That's a huge suitcase. Can I help you with it?' The guy had been approaching from the direction of the lifts, and for some reason, instead of merely moving to one side of the corridor to allow me to wheel the case past, he stood in the centre of it, so I had to come to a halt before him. I wondered if he was drunk and perhaps trying to start a fight. I was about to draw myself up to my full height and tell him to get out of my way, before realisation came with a rush. 'I'm fine, thank you,' I whispered in my softest voice. Surprisingly, it sounded OK. The helium pills must have worked. Unfortunately, the guy wouldn't take no for an answer. 'It's no problem.' He reached past me to take the suitcase from my hand, accidentally brushing against my body as he did so. I guess I could have punched him in the stomach, or kneed him in the balls, or just told him to go and get fucked, but that's not what we women do. 'There's no need, really, but... Oh, thank you!' I even managed to give him a smile. After all, he could pull the bloody thing around the car park until I'd found the rental car left for me, and since I only knew the registration number and make ? a BMW ? it might take ages. He called the lift, allowed me to go in first, but then, as the doors started to close, had to rush to get himself and the suitcase inside, which meant he had to squash up against me again. With a sudden rush of excitement, it occurred to me that, far from being terrified of meeting anyone on my journey, I was so thrilled by the thought that I could feel my nipples tingling. I'd hardly had chance to reason that my nipples were inanimate bits of plastic, and there was no way they could tingle, when we arrived at the ground floor and the doors opened. It had been deserted in the lobby when I arrived yesterday evening, and I'd been assuming it would be much the same now. Was I wrong? There must have been at least five coach parties who were either just arriving or just leaving, including a group of fifteen year old schoolboys who took one look at me and then started making comments like: 'Look at the tits on that!' or 'You don't get many of those to the pound!' The more mature males in the foyer didn't make any remarks, but I could feel their eyes drilling through my clothes, as I walked over to the Reception counter (remember, hips forward ? shoulders back), and posted my key through the slot in the surface. I rejoined my volunteer porter, and we went outside searching for my car. I almost walked past it, as I was looking for a conventional saloon. It was a Z4 Roadster; the kind of sports car that looks as though it's designed for Le Mans; the kind of sports car that neither Frank nor I would normally have hired, but Charlotte certainly would. It suited me, with my cream-coloured dress, casually unbuttoned and exposing my superb breasts to the world. My volunteer porter almost wet himself with excitement, and I got him to lift the suitcase into the boot ? which I think practically gave him a hernia ? whilst I got into the driver's seat. I started the engine, gunned the accelerator, put it into gear and gave him a nice wave as I took off with a squeal of tyres. *** The next problem came almost immediately: no petrol in the tank! If the car had been properly serviced, the tank would have been full, but as it was, the warning light was flashing. If I hadn't had my confidence boosted by the willing services of my volunteer porter, the thought of going to a petrol station would have given me a big problem. As it was, I decided I could undo a few buttons on the lower part of my dress to provide plenty of distraction as I got out of the low-slung roadster. The art of concealment, I was learning, was to make oneself more conspicuous. There must have been at least three guys who clocked me getting out of the car. As I drove onto the forecourt, they were all simply standing next to their cars, minding their own business as they filled their tanks. Suddenly, as one, they all spun to follow the progress of my car as I drove it to the furthest set of pumps. Two of them had to change the way they were standing ? turning round so their backs were towards the cars they were filling, to keep me naturally in their view. All three must have seen the glimpse of suspender belt after I opened the car door, swivelled in my seat, and stretched one leg to the ground. All three must have stared down my cleavage, as I bent forwards to stand up. But I was absolutely certain that none of them looked at any other aspect of me. Me, I was just an unsuspecting woman, totally unaware of the attention I was getting as I bent over to put the petrol nozzle into my filler cap, and stayed in that position whilst the tank filled. It was only as it was almost full and I glanced sideways towards the shop, that I saw myself reflected in the plate-glass window. I hadn?t really noticed, when I put on the dress, that there was a long slit up the rear of the dress. However, from the view I could see, of stocking-tops and lacy white suspenders, I was pretty certain that all the men on the forecourt had discovered that fact well before me. I stood up and returned the nozzle to the pump, giving a friendly, but innocent smile at one of the blokes goggling at me. He guiltily smiled back, then turned back to return his own nozzle to the petrol pump. As I moved towards the garage shop I noticed that, coincidentally, all the men appeared to have finished filling their tanks at exactly the same time, as they all came rushing over to the shop doorway, and then courteously stood back to permit me to enter first. And they say that gallantry is dead! With my soft voice, paying for the petrol with Charlotte's cash was no problem, and I returned to my car, and moved it away from the pumps into a parking spot, so I could study the map from the car-rental pack. Fantastic! Norton was in rural Oxfordshire, far closer to Cheltenham than I could have hoped, and probably only about an hour's drive, taking me right through the Cotswolds ? one of the most beautiful areas of countryside in England. The sun came out from under its cloud and shone down on me. In a fit of bravado, I flicked the switch to take down the top, and then set off with a squeal of tyres, my hair blowing in the breeze. *** The journey was as easy ? and pretty ? as I had hoped, and it was only eleven-thirty when the road-sign indicated I was a mere twelve miles from Cheltenham. Until then, I'd been enjoying the drive; even the town centres, crowded with Saturday shoppers had been easy to negotiate, since so many drivers seemed happy to give way to the pretty girl in the open-top roadster. But the closeness of my destination suddenly concentrated the mind, and I realised it would be absolute madness to drive to Nick's in-laws' house. Susan and her lover would be there by now, and only a few hours later, there'd be at least three wedding speeches being made. It was a dead cert that at least two of them would feature the groom's father arriving at the bride's house in drag. The pub had a large sign outside: 'FOOD SERVED ALL DAY.' I abruptly turned in and parked. Apart from anything else, my body clock, still set to Singapore time, was telling me that I was hours late for lunch. I would eat, whilst I considered the best option. At that hour, there were few customers and plenty of empty tables, so I chose one in a secluded corner, hoping as most woman would on their own, not to attract the attention of every male in the place. I should have known better. When I returned to my table after placing my order at the bar, there were a couple of blokes sitting at the next table. Surprisingly though (perhaps even disappointingly), they didn't even look at me as I walked past carrying my large glass of Chardonnay ? a luxury, I know, but I reckoned I'd deserved it for what I'd done so far, and anyway, I wasn't intending to drive much further. By the time my food arrived, I'd decided exactly what I was going to do. My experiences this morning had given me sufficient confidence for me to drive into Cheltenham town centre, park, and then walk into Marks and Spencer and purchase a man's tracksuit and track shoes. I'd have to find a unisex toilet somewhere ? perhaps a disabled one ? and remove my bodysuit and put on the tracksuit. Then it would be a simple matter to leave as a male, and find a shop to hire myself a suit and everything to go with it. That resolved, I got on with my meal. The food was excellent, and the mystery of why the two blokes never looked at me was explained by surreptitiously listening to their conversation: they were gays. The larger of the two was called Gerald, and he was rather dishy looking, but it was the smaller man, Lesley, who spoke in the affected voice, with every other word being 'Darling' or 'Sweetie'. I gave a mental sigh of relief; I'd thought I'd lost my power of attraction to heterosexual men! Then I grinned for thinking myself into my part so thoroughly. Gerald caught my eye as I grinned, and smiled back at me; he really was rather dishy, I thought, and if I was woman... 'Don't even imagine it, girl,' I told myself, but added self- congratulations for so completely thinking myself into my role. But that tiny interaction between myself and Gerald did give me pause for thought about how I'd so naturally fallen into character. Certainly, if I was not to be publicly exposed, I had been compelled to think myself into the part. But how far did that take me towards sitting in a pub and making eyes at an obviously gay male, something that would have been absolutely unthinkable yesterday? Yet as a pretty woman, I felt such action was reasonably safe. Lesley appeared so intent upon flickering his eyelashes at Gerald, he didn't notice any potential competition from me. 'Would I,' I pondered, 'risk making eyes at a heterosexual, unaccompanied male?' 'Not at this moment ? I had a wedding to attend,' was my instantaneous response. The answer shocked me all the more so because it was an instinctive reaction ? rather than a reasoned one. But as I thought about it some more, my answer did not even appear that unreasonable. After all, yesterday I had been a male who enjoyed heterosexual intercourse ? the erect penis plunging inside a pussy, and moving about in an extremely pleasant manner, to the benefit of both parties, until semen squirted deep inside the vagina. Now I was a female, I could contribute a different piece of my anatomy to the action, but there was absolutely no reason at all why my love of heterosexual intercourse should be changed. I slightly surprised myself at such a rationale, but I did recall how sexually excited I'd been all morning. Not that sexual excitement in itself was a particularly unusual event for me; in fact, I guess like most men, I was continually sexually excited throughout my normal day. A pretty girl with a short skirt would get into the lift with me, and I'd be imagining lifting the skirt and sticking my erect penis into her pussy; the buxom personal manager at work would pop into my office to discuss some staffing issue, and whilst she was talking about National Insurance and pension contributions, I'd be thinking of shoving my prick between her tits and jerking off. On a typical day, I'd probably think about having sex with some random woman on ten or fifteen separate occasions. It's what we men did. Except that even now I was a woman, I was still thinking about having sex with random men on numerous occasions. And women didn't normally do that. Did they? I glanced over towards the bar, which by now was reasonably full. Several men had obviously been gazing at me, and they hurriedly averted their eyes, but I knew what they'd all been thinking. A shot of adrenaline flushed through my body as I realised that, right at that moment, I could walk up to any one of the unaccompanied blokes and ask if they wanted to fuck me, and almost every one of them would take up my offer. I couldn't help wondering what it would feel like. The pain as a large prick was shoved into a small opening; the power of the man working like a steam-hammer towards his own orgasm; the exquisite stroke of his cock against the wal