The Lesson Plan -- Part Two: Supply Teacher (Episode Six) free porn video

The Lesson Plan -- Part Two: Supply Teacher Saturday: History Chapter 31 "Coming, I'm coming!" I say out loud to no-one, gathering up my purse and leaving the house to join Shayna, waiting in her car and leaning on her horn. She gives me a happy wave from the driver's seat which I return with a bright smile, locking the front door and half skipping towards her in a girlish bounce. "Good morning!" she says, her face bright and perfectly made-up, despite the early hour. She's dressed simply but stylishly, in tight- fitting skinny blue jeans and a black square-necked top, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. "Hey you," I reply, sliding into the passenger seat and leaning over to kiss her -- on the cheek, I decide at the last minute. I sit back, fastening the seat belt. "Thank you so much for giving me a ride," I say, fussing with the seatbelt. "I have no idea where we're going!" "Oh no worries," Shayna replies, starting the car and pulling away. "Like I said in my text, I'm going anyway, and I've got all the gear..." The back seat of the car is home to a couple of makeup bags and a flight case. Shayna had sent me a text message while I was getting ready, asking if she could give me a ride. It had been all business, although it had finished with one single "x" -- which I'd stared at for longer than was probably healthy. What did that mean? Was I worried over nothing? Of course, I was being silly -- how could she know what had happened last night? Would she even care? I shrugged it off and replied, ending my message with an "x" of my own. "How was your friday?" I ask, relaxing into my seat and crossing my legs, finding that the tight white skinny jeans I'd chosen for today made that more difficult than usual. "Oh God, Ellen, it was crazy," she starts, and talks almost non-stop while we drive out towards the countryside. She tells me about her clients, their gossip, with such animated enthusiasm all I can do is listen, beaming at her, and giggling. It's great. So great to take my mind off what happened last night: I had another man's cock in my mouth. I hadn't been able to sleep. I had methodically taken off my makeup, tidied up my laundry, brushed my teeth a dozen times and put on a clean satin nightgown, all in a quiet daze. Only when I sat down to repair my broken nail did I pick up my mobile, and send a text message to my aunt. "How's you? How's Michelle and the kids? I need to talk xx" "Hey, earth to Ellen, you okay?" Shayna asks, not unkindly, as she winds the car along twisty lanes. "What you thinking about?" "I'm fine," I reply, blinking away the memories of last night. "Sorry, I was miles away." I confess. "Tell me about this morning, what do I do?" "Well," Shayna says. "There's the bride and two bridesmaids. The bride -- Lucy -- has been in for a trial, but she saw Vicki not me. So, you could do hers and I'll do the bridesmaids, or you can do them and I'll do the bride. I think there's a hairdresser too. She doesn't want anything too out there. It should be a breeze for a man of your talents." "Who are you calling a man?" I ask, dropping my voice to Kevin's range. It sounds oddly forced, like a woman doing an impression. Shayna giggles anyway, reaching down to squeeze my thigh. "I love when you do that," she says, turning to face me for a moment, with mischief in her eyes. "One day," she continues, focusing back on the road. "One day, will you let me watch you change? Into you? I'd love to see that." "You would?" I ask, still using my own voice, sounding strange to my ears. "Really?" "God yes," she says, encouragingly, turning the car into a long gravel drive as we approach a mansion. "I've seen it in reverse haven't I?" "Sort of," I agree, pulling down the visor and checking my face in the mirror. In contrast to last night's gold vamp palette and my usual no- makeup makeup for school, I have gone for a younger look with winged eyeliner. "The other way is more time consuming," I say with a smile, checking my white sparkling teeth for any stray lipstick. Shayna parks the car, unclipping her seatbelt. "You look beautiful," she says, and I can't tell if she's teasing me or not. "This is going to be fun." Shayna takes the two makeup bags and I take the flight case, and we walk into the mansion, which is bustling with florists, caterers, and hotel staff. I look through the impressive hallway to the grounds out back, and see what looks like hundreds of identical white chairs laid out on the impeccable green lawn. A helpful concierge gets the attention of a smartly-dressed porter, who takes my flight case and leads us along a carpeted hallway, down a wide spiral staircase, and along another corridor: plush with walnut doors and tall mirrors. He stops at a door and sets down the case. "Here you are ladies," he says, looking from Shayna to me with a toothy grin. "I'd better not go any further," he adds, leaving us and walking back the way we came. I look at Shayna and shrug before knocking on the heavy door. "Come in! Come in!" The suite inside is flooded with morning light. A breakfast trolley is positioned next to a laden baroque coffee table, covered in plates, mugs and croissant crumbs. A bottle of Champagne lies on its side. On the striped sofa next to the table a slender blonde young woman sits in a white fluffy dressing robe. Across from her, on a matching striped armchair, another girl lies across the chair, angling her legs over the arms, her robe ridden up to her thick thighs; her wild long red hair spilling everywhere. Hanging by the window, two green slinky dresses hang inside plastic sheets. "Hi!" I say in a sing-song voice, catching the attention of everyone in the room. "Good morning!" "Hi," Shayna joins me, walking into the room and setting the makeup bags on a nearby vanity. "I'm Shayna, this is Ellen. We're from Fancy Nancy's," she explains. "Looks like you've had a good breakfast!" "Morning," the two girls chorus, enthusiastically. The blonde stands up and walks towards another door, which I see joins into another bedroom. "Lucy!" she says with a surprisingly husky voice. "The makeup ladies are here!" "Oh! Hello!" Lucy says, poking her head into the suite from her own room. Her long blonde hair is in large rollers, which wobble precariously as she moves. She too is in a big white fluffy robe, with plaid pink pyjama pants visible from the knee downward. "Which one of you is Nancy?" she asks. "Neither of us," I say, setting down the flight case. "I'm Ellen, this is Shayna. Did you meet Vicki before?" I ask. "Oh yes, Vicki. She's lovely. Why isn't she here? Is everything okay?" I see the beginnings of panic creeping into Lucy's voice. "Everything's fine. She's filled us in on everything that she did at your trial," Shayna interrupts. "Shall we get started?" Shayna is in her element, and it's all I can do to keep up and pretend I know what I'm doing. I set up a makeup station in the bride's suite which she talks to the bridesmaids, opening the window a little to let in some more light while I unpack some brushes and things. I feel like an interloper; a stranger in a sacred feminine place. It's only when I look up into the mirror and see Ellen's reflection -- those loose brown curls framing a her soft face -- that I relax. And then, in the corner of the reflection, I see the wedding dress hanging on the wardrobe door at the other end of the room. Strange that just a simple dress could have such gravity to it. But I feel compelled to turn around and go towards it. It's white, long, lace, vintage, and even draping on the hanger, I know it is is beautiful. I wonder if it would fit me. "It was my grandmother's," Lucy says, appearing beside me. "I've had it altered," she adds. "It's beautiful," I say, turning away from the dress to the bride. "I'm sure you'll do her proud." If you ever find yourself doing makeup for two bridesmaids and an anxious bride, plus nails, the trick is mainly to stay out of the way, do your job, and let them chat and giggle and relax. Shayna and I work separately but next to each other, occasionally sharing a knowing look or a smile as the girls work themselves up to insane levels of excitement. Shayna starts on Lucy, prepping her face while the hairstylist deals with the two bridesmaids: Emma and LeeAnn I discover. I busy myself shaping and polishing the bride's nails, and applying a coat of glossy polish. As they are finished, I start to work on them, with simple fresh looks: primer, foundation, blush, powder, and a shock of green eyeshadow to go with their dresses. Their hair has been styled in curls, piled on top of their head, and held in place with more pins than I would have thought possible. "Don't we look gorgeous?" LeeAnn -- the redhead -- giggles as she watches me put the finishing touches to Emma. "We should get you to do this every day," she says. "Oh I'd love that!" Emma joins in. "Can you both just come to my place every morning and do my makeup?" "Sure," I say with a smile, painting Emma's lips. "What time do you get up?" "Depends who she's been sleeping with," LeeAnn teases. A photographer arrives just as the bride's hair is done, and instantly the mood of the room changes. The relaxed, playful atmosphere becomes charged again, and genuine smiles are replaced by posed ones. I understand though why Shayna started with Lucy's makeup -- in her photos she looks flawless and fresh. Shayna finishes up the bride's makeup, and I finish the nails of the bridesmaids as the photographer leaves. It's quite relaxing really, and with an hour to go, it all feels like a lovely way to spend a Saturday morning. The girls are nervous, but funny and occasionally filthy in their conversations, and I'm reminded of nights at Ellen's house before she left. The warm, friendly, loving company of women fills me up, and makes me happy to be one, if only for this week. I giggle as the girls pose for a selfie, and pull Shayna and me in in a group hug. "Thank you," Lucy gushes as we part, watching LeeAnn posting the picture to Instagram. "Shit I have to get dressed." Lucy unties and shrugs off her robe, suddenly nude in her hotel bedroom, and I desperately try not to stare. I don't stare as she slips on her white lacy panties, I ignore her completely while she clips on a matching garter belt, and pay no attention at all as she carefully rolls her white stockings up each smooth leg. The bridesmaids leave the room, to attend to their own outfits. LeeAnn occasionally flashing a pair of Spanx as she wanders carefree and topless between the doors. "Can someone help me with my corset?" Lucy pleads, holding up the white corset that matches her underwear. "In a minute!" "Give me a second!" are the replies from the other room. "I can," I hear myself offer. Shayna shoots me a smile. The corset is stiff and surprisingly thick in my hands: serious shaping foundation wear -- not just a costume -- with thick laces and metal bones. I pull out the laces and unhook the busk, handing it to Lucy, who wraps it around herself with a grateful smile. "Thank you," she says. "My hands are shaking." I look down -- definitely not looking at her small, soft, bare breasts and pink nipples -- to her hands, with nails freshly polished and gleaming, shaking like a leaf. "It's okay," I say kindly, taking the corset from her and fastening each stud up the front, ignoring the feeling behind these tight jeans. I pull the last stud into the eye at the curve of the heart-shaped neckline and realise a problem. Trying to keep as calm as possible, I slip my hand down the front of her corset, and lift each breast in turn to rest on the underwire inside, trying to act as matter of fact as possible and not make eye contact. I move round behind her and start to tighten the laces, top down and bottom up, and then in at the middle. "How tight do you need to go?" I ask, marvelling at her already narrow waist getting thinner with each tug. "It has to meet at the back, that's what my dressmaker said," she gasps back at me. "Almost there, you're doing great," I say, pulling again and evening up the laces for the last time before tying them off with a bow. "Give me a twirl?" I ask and watch as the bride-to-be spins on the spot in her lingerie -- an engineered hourglass. "Beautiful," I say, meeting her perfectly made-up eyes. "Aw Lucy!" "Oh my God wow!" I hear Leanne and Emma behind us, and I turn to see them both, lips trembling. I move out of the way, and let the girls hug, all of them in various states of undress: corsets, spanx, control tights, moulded-cup bras. Women have so many ways of changing their shape, of altering their bodies to be more curvy, more slender, more feminine. Is what I'm doing any different? "Don't let your makeup run!" Shayna says, zipping up the last of our supplies and watching the girls with a careful eye. She winks at me, conspiratorially. Lucy's mother is a woman of about fifty, with freshly dyed dark brown hair, slightly pear-shaped, and wearing a twinset outfit about ten years too old for her and a ridiculous hat. She is also lovely and friendly, and a puffier version of her daughter. She shakes Shayna and my hand vigorously, calls everyone "girls" and starts crying the moment she sees her daughter step into her wedding dress. I take this as our cue to leave, but Shayna seems to be in no hurry. No one else seems to mind us being there, at this amazing moment. We watch as her mother zips up her grandmother's dress, over her tiny constricted frame, and we all -- myself included -- let out a happy sigh. "Oh Lucy," she says, and I can only agree. She looks beautiful. The bridesmaids appear in their dresses -- slinky and lovely -- and unbox flowers, and the photographer appears again, to take more candid posed photographs. A hotel porter arrives with Lucy's dad, and the whole entourage leave the suite in a cloud of emotion, happiness and perfume, leaving Shayna and me alone in the room. The door closes and Shayna kisses me, her hands grabbing me and lips pressing against mine with so much hunger. I am so surprised it takes me a moment to react. I take her by the waist and push my tongue inside her mouth, leaning my weight into her and feeling the hotness of her body through our jeans. "That was hot," she gasps when our lips part. "Holy shit." I waste no time in finding the zip on her jeans, tugging it down and peeling back her pants as we waddle over to the bed in the bridal suite, tugging them down to her thighs and stroking her though her black panties. She kisses me again, hands forcing themselves under my top, pushing it up my stomach, over my boobs and breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it off and over my head. We fall back onto the bed and I wriggle down her jeans even more, tugging and pulling them off and kneeling between her thighs while her hands squeeze and knead my boobs through my pink soft-cup bra. She arches her back as I work her panties down, and I feel her take a deep breath as I bend down, kissing the soft inside of her thighs. She parts her legs and I kiss up, up, towards her waiting smooth pussy, my lips brushing against her labia as softly, tenderly and teasingly as I can. I tease some more, leaving little kisses around her sex, her thighs, her stomach. I feel myself getting hard as I return to her pussy, nuzzling it, my tongue pushing inside her labia and tasting her, feeling her squirming above me. "Oh," she gasps. "Ellen!" I start teasing her thighs with my hand, and licking her, careful to avoid her clit right now. I'm remembering her lessons from the other night. I keep doing what I'm doing for a while, listening to her gasps and moans, feeling myself swell further inside my female disguise. Before long I feel her hand on my head, pushing, wanting more, and my tongue makes contact with her clit, causing her to yell out. I bring my fingers up to her labia, stroking her as I tongue her, mindful of my long nails. I'm a good pupil. I want to be a good lesbian. "Oh Ellen," she says again, and my cock gives another twitch. I move my free hand down to between my thighs and start to squeeze, hoping that will help. I keep licking and stroking, feeling her body moving and directing. "Wow, don't mind me." A voice from behind us causes Shayna to shriek, and me to suddenly jerk up right, turning and instinctively covering my boobs with my hand. The porter picks up the champagne flute next to the bed and calmly sets it on the trolley with all the other dishes before wheeling it out, a huge grin on his face. We collapse on the bed in fits of giggles. "Told you that would be fun," Shayna says, undoing her ponytail as I join her in the car. I reach over and kiss her full on the lips, taking her face in my hands. "We could get a room and carry on where we left off?" I suggest, my shaped eyebrows raising hopefully. "I have to get back," Shayna replies, her brow furrowing. "I'm working this afternoon." She starts the car and reverses over the gravel. "I'm free tonight though," she adds, turning the wheel and leaving the mansion behind us. Tonight. Wayne. "That was fun," I say, avoiding the subject. "It felt so ... warm," I finish lamely. "They were lovely weren't they? And that dress, wow! I'd love a dress like that to get married in." "It was beautiful," I agree, wondering again if I could have pulled it off. Maybe with Lucy's corset and a little off my hips. "You'd have looked hot in it," Shayna says, reading my thoughts and filling the silence. "Did you want to try it on?" "I did," I say, confessing. Saying out loud what I'm coming to understand. I love being Ellen. I love her clothes, her shape, her life. I love the way other people are around her. "I did," I repeat. "Thanks, you'd have looked better," I add, with a sly smile. "Oh shush," Shayna says, color filling her cheeks. "I told you didn't I?" "What?" "Being a woman, with women. It's the best." I laugh, but only because she's right. "You did tell me," I agree. I stare out the window for a while, watching the road go by, and am grateful to Shayna for letting me. She knows I'm processing a lot, changing a lot. I'm leaning lessons every day. "I'm saw him again last night," I say eventually. Needing to confess. "The guy from work." "Oh," she says. "Second base guy." "Second base guy," I agree. "And how was that?" she asks. "Did he get a homerun?" "It was weird." "Weird like you're a twenty year old straight guy pretending to be a forty year old woman weird? Or...." Shayna grins. I think for a moment. "No, that weird, pretty much." I don't want to tell her. Not yet. "You're so funny," Shayna says, giggling, and pulling into my street. "I'll call you later, okay?" I don't even really register the unexpected car in the drive as Shayna pulls away: I'm too busy thinking of naked brides, of Shayna's pussy, of being a man in sacred female spaces, of Wayne's cock. It's only when I see the car door open as I walk up to my front door do I realise. It's only when I see him that I remember. My dad has come to visit. "Hello Ellen. Where's Kevin?" Chapter 32 "Da... William," I say, momentarily stunned, my voice catching. "William," I say again, more confidently, changing my stance, shifting my weight -- shoulders back, hands on hips. "Is Kevin not home?" I ask, walking past him with swinging hips, playing my aunt for all I'm worth. "There was no answer. Still in his bed probably," he says, ignoring my slip, but managing to get in a dig at me in the first thirty seconds. Thanks dad. "Do you want to come in?" I ask, opening my door, and hoping against all hope that he'll refuse, get back in his car and drive off. "Thanks," he says simply, following me into Ellen's house. My heart sinks. "This is nice," he says, gruffly, conversationally. "Wait there, I'll see if Kevin's in," I pantomime, leaving my purse and keys on the table and going upstairs for a fruitless search. It seems unbelievable that he doesn't recognise me, that he can't see through the mask, the clothes, to his son. I walk from Ellen's bedroom to the guest room, where I haven't slept in a week. An hour, maybe an hour and a half would do it -- I could get all this off and give him what he wants: a man to man talk. That's the last thing I want to do. "No sign," I say, descending the stairs. "I don't know where he might be, sorry William." My dad has taken his jacket off, and laid it over the arm of a chair, and is pacing in the living room. I haven't seen him in maybe a year, and haven't spoken to him since our last argument. He looks smaller somehow, and older than I remember. Greyer around the temples of his low maintenance haircut. His checked shirt fits him loosely, his jeans crisp and ironed. "Can I get you a drink hon?" I ask, walking into the room. I watch my dad look me over from head to toe. "How you been Ellen?" He asks, avoiding my gaze. "You look good." "Thanks," I reply, shifting my weight to one hip under his scrutiny. "You too. I'm teaching again, did I say that on the phone?" "That's good," he says. This conversation is like pulling teeth. There's an undercurrent that's strange to me. I always thought my dad hated Ellen, but it's not that. It's not that at all. "Do you like it?" he asks. "I do," I say, starting a smile. "Why don't you take a seat hon, I'll get you some iced tea? We can catch up." It's a gamble, and a huge part of me wants him to leave. Or to wait somewhere else so I can change. But on the other hand, something's up here, and he thinks I'm Ellen. Maybe I can get to the bottom of it? He thinks about it for a moment, pursing his lips. "Sure, okay," he says finally. "I don't want to be an imposition. I can wait in the car," he offers. "Don't be silly," I say, touching him lightly on the arm, in a typical friendly Ellen gesture. Mainly because if he's sitting in the car, staking out the house, it would be weird for Kevin to appear and Ellen to have vanished in a cloud of Dolce & Gabbana. He softens, giving me a faint smile and sitting down while I walk through to the kitchen. Thankfully there's still some iced tea in the fridge, and I fill two glasses with ice, and just about make the tea stretch to fill both. The fridge is looking a bit sparse, I realise: tomorrow is definitely a go shopping, do laundry, tidy the house day. I should also call Miranda -- god, has it been just a week since we went out for drinks? And I should call Vicki -- I owe her dinner. The life of a single adult woman: housekeeping and emotional labour. I've never been so busy. "Here you go hon," I say, handing my dad his glass of iced tea, and sitting down on the couch opposite, crossing my legs and wriggling a little to get comfortable in my tight jeans. I look up, and catch my dad brazenly staring at my chest, and the exposed flesh of my cleavage on display from my deep v-necked top. Holy shit. "So, how have you been?" I ask, cordially. Maybe I was dreaming things. "Good," he says, taking a sip of tea. "Working mainly. I'm not seeing anyone," he adds. I blink, surprised by the conversation topic. But, of course, this isn't a father-son chat. We're adults, and I'm his sister in law. "That's a shame," I offer, giving a little smile. I mean it -- my dad has never really gotten back in there, and I wonder why that is. It's been almost ten years since mom died. Dad never dated, he just went back to work, cut off my mom's family, and got on with it -- raising a twelve year old kid on his own, who couldn't wait to run off to college. "You should have someone," I add. "I'd forgotten how much you like to give advice," my dad says, smirking. "Are you seeing anyone?" "Yeah," I say, vaguely, not sure whether to admit to Wayne or Shayna. Am I seeing them? Is Ellen, or Kevin? "Early days though," I add. "How's Kevin?" he asks, changing topic. "What's he doing?" "He's good," I say, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward. "He's really finding himself." "What are you filling his head with?" "Nothing. I've just given him a place to stay. He's working at the school, actually. I think he might have a girl he's seeing." My dad sits back, sighing. "Is he acting?" he asks. Every day, I think. "No more than the rest of us," I say, taking a sip of tea. "He should have come home," he says, weary. "I don't know why he came running to you." "He's twenty-three. Just out of college, trying to figure it all out. When I was his age I went to France to see a friend of mine and met a guy who I thought was the love of my life," I say, remembering Ellen telling me the story over tea. My dad's face darkens. "And then you let him marry your sister," he says, reaching forward and almost slamming the glass on the coffee table. "I shouldn't have come here; I should go." He stands up, grabbing his coat. "Wait," I say, standing too. I'm confused, what just happened? "Wait a second!" "Tell Kevin I came. Tell him to call me," my dad opens the door, pausing for a second. "Why'd you have to.... Goodbye Ellen." The door slams, leaving me standing alone in the living room. Moments later, I hear his car splutter into life, and drive away. My dad and aunt Ellen? What? I sit down heavily on the couch. My dad was the guy she met in France? Why would she tell me that? Did she tell him that? Did mom know? Jesus this is crazy. I'm filling in the blanks in someone else's life, and making everything worse. How am I expected to keep all the little white lies and stories and legends in the balance that make up her relationships with everyone? There's no way she... Of course she didn't. There's no way she expected her nephew, after eight weeks, to be a perfect copy of her. Which means she didn't care. I've been thinking she was going to come back from Seattle, to slip back into her wardrobe and her life and take back over, but maybe she didn't. That was my aunt all over: the wanderer, never one to hang around, even in her own life. I rummage through my bag and find my phone. Still no messages, no response from Ellen. I dial her number, and listen to it ring, ring ring. I sigh, dialing my dad's number, and clear my throat. Chapter 33 You've spent the morning on the internet, entering search phrases you'd never have considered even a few days ago. You want to understand something, to see more of it. You've searched for words like wig and makeup; fake and disguise; prosthetics and masks. Each search takes you somewhere closer. A video of someone applying makeup, a review of mastectomy products, some behind-the-scene DVD footage from films earlier forgotten, but now loaded with so much significance. You need to know more, because the image of her, of them, of it, is all you can think about. It was strange, and wrong, and the sexiest thing you've ever seen. You need to see more. You wonder, will she be home right now? When does she change? What can you do? You think, maybe with the right padding, you could look like that. You could have that. You need to see her, up close, again. Get in to her house again, and maybe see more of what you shouldn't. You've already asked any future pizza deliveries to come straight to you. What else can you do? Maybe she could teach you? You've searched for her, of course. Ellen Bennet. No Facebook. No Instagram loaded with selfies and carefully posed intimate photographs, more's the pity. But something interesting -- co-owner of a beauty shop across town: Fancy Nancy's. More than a coincidence. You come up with an idea, she could help with your homework, and so you go round to her house and nervously ring the bell, and knock on the door. Gatsby in hand. But she's not home. You curse, considering abandoning the whole enterprise, having to wait until monday to see what she'll be wearing. To imagine that body underneath. And the body underneath that. You walk around the house, into the backyard, to a glorious sight. Her laundry, hung out to dry like bunting. You see the brown sweater dress, so innocent without her inside; a neat row of panties, hung with two pegs each; stockings and pantyhose, gossamer thin and floating in the breeze; two brassiers, feminine and intimate, foreign and exciting. It takes no time for you to unclip the things you want and bundle them up, still slightly damp. You hold her clothes up to your face and breathe in. They still smell of her. They smell of her perfume. You unwrap the bundle when you get home, excited with your spoils. The panties are so thin, so flimsy, lacy and small. Your fingers touch the waistband and trail down the front, where her pussy would be. You pick up the bra you stole, turning it over and over, marvelling at the size of it and imagining her tits filling it, large and perky like your photograph. The pantyhose you bunch up, slipping your hand inside and touching them, the silky smooth softness of her nylons. You think of her legs, those curvy round thighs inside them. You're hard now, and you undo your jeans, partly to free your cock, to make it easier to stroke yourself, but also because you want to see what it's like. You want to be closer to her. You want to wear her underwear. You don't dare catch sight of yourself in your mirror. You know you'll look ridiculous. Her panties are too wide on your hips, and stretched out at the front with your stiff cock. Her bra band is tight around your chest, but the cups are laughably empty. The stockings feel soft and comforting on your legs, but the hairs underneath spoil the illusion. You wrestle yourself into the dress, but lack her shape to make it the way you remember. You stroke yourself through it, fondling your own backside and cumming messily inside Miss Bennett's stolen panties. You spend the evening on the internet, entering search phrases you'd never have considered even this morning. Chapter 34 I walk into the coffee shop and see my dad for the second time today. He looks up and recognizes me instantly, giving me a nod of the head and gesturing for me to sit across from him. I give him a nod back, and go to the counter, ready to give my order. "Latte please," I order to the indifferent barista. "What's your name?" he asks, barely looking at me. I'm invisible. "Kevin," I reply, handing over my card, and finding my own hand unfamiliar to me. The nails look shiny even without the polish and acrylics, freshly cleaned and slick with acetone. He barely notices, and I shuffle along the counter, to collect my order. A girl around my age, wearing a short blue denim skirt, thick black leggings and a fake leather jacket stands waiting, glued to her iPhone. She looks up at me and takes a step away, redoubling her focus on her Snapchat. I like her ankle boots, and wonder where she got them. Ellen would have asked. "Hi," I say, sitting down across from my dad, carefully setting down my coffee. Out of habit I reach behind to smooth down a skirt that isn't there. "Hi dad," I repeat, giving him a little Kevin smile and not showing any teeth. "Hi son," he says, looking me in the eye. He sees me. "You look skinny. Are you eating enough?" "I'm eating fine," I say, taking a slurp of foam and licking it off my top lip. My face feels funny: lighter maybe. I blink and the lack of weight on my lashes makes me blink twice more just for the novelty value. "So," he says, playing it civil, "how's things? What are you doing?" "Things are good," I say. "I've got a job that I actually think I like, and I'm building a life. Sort of a life, I guess." I think of Shayna and Vicki, Miranda and Wayne. "I've got good friends. Maybe a girlfriend. Yeah," I say, my grin widening. "Yeah. Things are good." "What's the job?" he asks, playing with his own half-finished coffee. Has he been waiting here for the whole two hours since I called? "I'm working at the high school. And doing a bit of tutoring. I think," and as I say I know it's true, "I think I'm going get my teaching cert. English, you know?" My dad looks at me, trying to read me. "That's great son," he says, nodding his head. "That's really great." I skip over the part where I'll be disguised as his sister in law. We talk for a while about nothing in particular. His health, the next door neighbour's cat digging at his rose bushes, the mundane details of a life lived quietly. Small talk, when there's so much large talk unsaid. "I wish," my dad says suddenly, looking down into his cup. "I wish you'd have come home. You know I love you?" "I couldn't dad. I needed this. Honestly, I've changed so much." "Kevin, your aunt," he takes a deep breath. "Your aunt is trouble." "Dad, what... what happened?" I ask. Large talk now, and I don't want to squander the chance. "She's been great, honestly. I've never understood why we stopped seeing her." "When your mom died. How much do you remember?" he asks. "Just that she was sick. It was cancer, right? And then I remember the day she died. The headteacher came and got me, and she was crying. I didn't know why she was upset, and then she told me. And she.. Wow, she drove me to the hospital too. I'd forgotten that. Anyway," I say, taking a slow drink of my coffee. "Yeah, and then... I sort of remember the funeral. Why?" "Ellen was away travelling. She was always away, always moving. I think she was in California, but she knew she was sick. I called her, the day your mom died and... nothing. Didn't come to the funeral. She called I think six months later, and I hung up on her. Her own sister Kevin!" "Okay dad," I say, calming him down a little as his voice rises. I look around the coffee shop, but no one is paying us any attention. "People deal with grief in different ways though. You know? Is that all?" I ask, probing a little further. I meet my dad's eyes, watching him wrestling with something. "I met Ellen first, did you know that?" he says, finally. "Of her and your mother. They were on a youth hostelling holiday together, just in their... second year of college, I think it was. First or second, I can't remember. Anyway, I was in Paris on an exchange. Six months I was there. And the first week I meet Ellen, smoking in a Parisian cafe, reading a guide book. I was relieved to meet someone I didn't have to struggle through my French with! We explored the city together, me, Ellen and your mum. A holiday romance." I haven't heard this story before. Not this version. The version I know didn't include my aunt. "Ellen told me she thought she'd met the love of her life in Paris," I say. "When she was my age." "She did, huh?" My dad stares into his empty coffee cup, looking backwards in time. "I didn't know she felt like that. Not until later. Anyway. Water under the bridge, I suppose. I thought she... she said that?" "She did," I say. "You thought she what?" "I thought she ran away. She's a good one for running away." "Well, she's here just now." We sit in silence together for a moment, listening to the world go by; the clicking of teaspoons, the dull thrum of chatter. I turn and look towards the door and see a woman enter, looking around for whoever she's supposed to meet. She's in her thirties I'd guess, with short blonde hair, and wearing a cute white skirt, ankle length with large green and pink flowers. I wonder where she got it? "You know, Kevin," my dad says, breaking my concentration. "I thought maybe, maybe you were just bumming around. Wallowing. I don't know. But you seem... you seem really okay. I'm sorry New York didn't work out for you, but, I'm glad you're trying to make something of your life. You don't have to give up acting, but you know it's not a reliable way to make money." "I know. I think. I think I can keep acting, and teaching," I say. "Do both maybe." I'm so used to having my phone in my purse that when it rings in my pocket I give a little start at the buzzing on my thigh. I fish my phone out and look at the screen. Wayne. Calling Ellen. "I have to take this, do you mind?" I ask my dad, pulling away from the table and excusing myself outside. I swallow a couple of times, force my voice up behind my eyes and answer the phone. "Hi there," I say in Ellen's voice, moving around the corner to a quiet spot. "You caught me in the middle of something." "Hi," he replies. "Anything fun?" "Just getting coffee with an old flame," I reply, twirling my hair in my mind. "What can I do for you?" "I'm just glad you picked up the phone. Should I be jealous?" "Why wouldn't I pick up?" I ask. "I want to see you. Tonight." "Tomorrow," I counter. I don't want to see him so soon. "Lunch?" "Tonight. And I'll throw in breakfast." I laugh lightly, forgetting my body in a moment and holding my hand up to my face with mannered elegance. I look around, but either everyone is ignoring me, or no one heard. Ellen's body is just so much more interesting than mine: every curve is a gesture, every elegant line is a statement. Her physicality demands performance. Kevin is a line, where she is a figure. "Tomorrow," I repeat. "I can't tonight." "Okay, tomorrow. I'll pick you up at one. I'm glad you answered," he says. "I'm glad you called," I reply, unable to hold back a beaming Ellen smile and hanging up. Was I? I'm not so sure. Easier to say what I think he wants than what I want. "Your girlfriend?" my dad asks me as I come back inside and sit down. "Uh, no," I say, switching voices. "Someone from work," I add. "Why?" "I may be old, but I know that look." "Dad!" I roll my eyes and drink my coffee. "Well, whatever you say son," my dad says with a knowing smirk. We walk out to his car together, back to small talk: The length of the drive; the weather; the decorating to come on the downstairs bathroom. The air between us feels a little less tense. It's a start. "You should come and visit," he says as we reach his car. "Bring her along." "Who?" I ask. "The girl on the phone," he replies. "I'd like to meet her." "That might be tricky," I say with a chuckle. "But, I appreciate it dad. Thanks." "Son," he says, opening the door of his car. "I know you don't want to hear this, but Ellen is trouble. No hear me out!" He adds, as I give an audible groan. "Maybe not trouble, but ... she hurt me, and she hurt your mother. You were too young to ... Just be careful she doesn't get you into something, okay?" "Okay dad," I say, forcing a smile. "I promise." Chapter 35 It's Saturday night and I know how to party. The house has been tidied, cleaned, vacuumed and dusted. Clothes have been washed, and put away -- although one of my aunt's dresses seems to have gone missing in the process. Groceries have been bought and the fridge filled. I've even changed the bedding, and cleaned the bathroom. I am, in short, a domestic goddess. It's after nine by the time I sit down on the couch, a well-deserved beer in my hand: my first for what feels like weeks. No more cocktails or wine for this guy, I think as I take a long swig. The image of a guy's night in is slightly ruined by the green tea face mask, the white flannel pajama bottoms with pink hearts on them, and my ever-painted toenails wiggling back at me on the coffee table. Cleaning and laundry have been a good way to distract myself from the thoughts buzzing around my head, but they rush in now that I have sat down -- almost too many things at once. When I start to focus on one thing, it's replaced by another. My dad, Wayne, Shayna, Ellen... It's becoming difficult to separate my own feelings from how I think Ellen should feel. Whose life was I living now? Out of nowhere I suddenly wonder how Lucy is, if she's enjoying her big day. I empathize with her a great deal -- the sense of performance, of her dress having more significance than normal, all the shapewear and unusual makeup. Getting married and disguising myself as a woman have a lot in common, I think. I wonder what her fiance, now husband, is like? I never found out his name. In my mind he's tall, handsome, broad, with a dazzling smile, dressed well in a fitted suit. I can't help but smile thinking of her lifting her veil to see him, exchanging rings, cutting the cake together, their first dance, and tiny stolen moments during a day of being on show, just looking at each other and smiling. Sharing it together. Ellen would look spectacular in that wedding dress. She would be radiant gliding down the aisle, her hourglass proportions exaggerated with that beautiful corset. I can almost feel my heart fluttering thinking about that moment, standing across from my husband to be, trying not to cry as we exchange vows, and rings, and kiss. I could play a bride, I think. I take another drink and turn my attention to my mobile phone, which has sat neglected on the couch all night. No calls from Ellen, I notice, but a text message from Wayne and a missed call from Shayna. I select the message first: "Should I be jealous of old flames? Well I am. Thinking of you x" The text message brings a frown to my face, causing microscopic cracks in my face mask. I'm still not sure how I feel about Wayne, about all that's happening with him. I can't deny that parts of last night were amazing. Even admitting that to myself is scary, but it's true. I'm about to give Shayna a call when my phone rings -- the loud tone echoing in the empty house. It's Ellen. "Hey honey," she says, her voice heavy and slightly slurring. Tired and a glass of wine in. "Hi!" I reply, surprising myself by slipping naturally into Ellen's register. "It's so great to hear from you!" I feel my cheekbones lifting, my posture straightening, my lips curving into Ellen's ever- present smile. "Oh god. Do I sound like that? Are you alone? Can you talk?" she asks. It's quiet where she is, and I can tell she's not on the move. At home? On the couch too? "I'm home alone," I reply in Kevin's voice, vocally slouching. "It's all good. I've done laundry, cleaned and tidied. I'm a party girl. What about you?" "Wow, who are you and what have you done with Kevin? Wait... don't answer that," she adds, her voice lowering conspiratorially on the phone. "I just got in from hospital like... an hour ago. I'm beat." "How's Michelle?" I ask. "She's okay. Beat. She's beat. We're taking it in turns to go to the hospital. " "I'm sorry." "You're a good kid Kev. You're doing ... Jesus, you're doing so much you don't even know. Anyway, we don't think that... well, it's not looking too good for her mom, even though she's out of the coma." "Take as long as you need." "Thanks Kev. Anyway, how's things with you. How's things with me! What have I been up to since I spoke to you last?" It feels good to unburden myself, and I talk almost non stop for ten minutes, telling Ellen about Shayna, about school, Melanie and Andrew and the wedding. I talk about how I'm settling in to being her, wearing her clothes. Living her life. "How's things with Wayne?" she sks. "That's... complicated," I admit with a laugh. "We went on a date." "Oh Kev." "He was nice. The perfect gentleman." "I'll bet. Kev I don't want to come back to find I'm married to someone I dated twenty years ago! Just promise me." She's laughing. "It's been more like two dates..." I say. "Kevin..." "Oh God Aunt Ellen I'm sorry but ... " I take a deep breath. "I gave him a blow job." "Kevin!" I have to move the phone away from my ear to avoid perforating my eardrum. "You did not!" "I did. Well you did. I did. I didn't know what else to do!" "I don't understand. What possible choices did you have where sucking a man's dick was the best course of... I haven't done that in years! Years! Not that that's any ... Kevin. Jesus. Did you want to?" "No! It just... things escalated." "I'll say." "I panicked! I didn't think my vagina would fool him and I worried ..." "Your what?!" "Vicki gave me a fake vagina. It's really lifelike but..." "I don't want to know any more. I'm calling her after this. Kevin. Listen to me. You don't have to do this. Any of this. I didn't expect you to take over my whole life! Just to go to school. Just to teach and not to... oh Jesus Kevin. You have to break up with him. Promise me you'll break up with him." "I promise," I say.