The Salon Assistant - Part 7 free porn video

When I got inside the house I immediately rushed upstairs so that I could lock myself in my room and divest myself of the blouse, culottes and camisole set that had been my travel clothes for the journey home. I made it upstairs into my room and waited a few minutes for the inevitable knock at the door from my mum. The knock never came however and, after cautiously popping my head out of the door and shouting for her, it became clear that my mum wasn't home. 'Where was she?' I thought to myself. 'Had she gone out again with the guy from her work? Did she even come home last night? What was going on?' My life had been so predictable up until a few weeks before but one simple haircut seemed to have opened up a portal to a new dimension. The boy who wouldn't say boo to a goose now wouldn't so no to a right good goosing. My beige, vanilla lifestyle had been sprinkled with hundreds and thousands and was being transformed into a rainbow coloured treat by Becky. And now my mum seemed to be joining in the revolution by entertaining the thought that looking after me might not be all that she needed in her life. It's almost as if the transformation of my unruly mane into a stylish, if somewhat feminine, crop had lifted the hair out of her eyes also and she was now on the lookout for a new life. A new life that involved a new man. God, the irony of both of us discovering a sex life at the same time. Although, I was pretty sure that my mum's sexual exploits would pale into insignificance if placed beside the madness of the last two days. However it would've been a toss-up to decide which one of went out for dinner last night wearing the most mascara. As I stared at my reflection in the mirror I decided I didn't want to draw any further parallels between my weekend and my mother's. Standing in my bedroom wearing women's clothes and underwear and contemplating if my mum's tongue had been as active as mine over the course of the weekend was not a position I had ever imagined myself in. I was therefore ill-equipped to deal with this scenario so, in an attempt to steer my thoughts away from it. I decided to set about doing the task that I had originally rushed upstairs to carry out. I removed the large silver bangle that Becky had slipped on my wrist and placed it on my computer desk. When I did this I noticed two bottles that definitely hadn't been there when I left yesterday morning. I picked up the clear bottle with the pink plastic lid first of all and, when I read the label, I was frozen to the spot. The contents of this bottle were, apparently, a 'Make-up removing micelle solution'. Without touching it I then moved my attention to the plastic bottle with the blue liquid in it and the label on the front of that advertised the contents as 'Nail polish remover'. It was at this point that Becky's words shot into the front of my mind. "Don't worry about your mum. She knows." Had the make-up and nail polish remover been left there on purpose by my mother as a tacit acknowledgement and acceptance of the direction my life seemed to be taking? Or was it just an accident that these were sitting here? Maybe my mother bought them for herself and in an absent-minded moment left them here as she was tidying up my room? Whatever the explanation was, one thing was for certain: they were just what I needed if I wanted to get changed out of the clothes and neutralise the feminine appearance of my face and nails. I unbuttoned the soft, silk ivory blouse, slid my arms out of it and then folded it neatly and placed it on my bed. I then sat down on the bed and removed the floral patterned trainers that had adorned my feet for much of the day and placed them next to the blouse on top of my bed. I then quickly undid the full and flouncy bow from the belt that had been stopping the culottes from sliding down past my narrow waist and, just for a moment, stood in the middle of my bedroom wearing an ivory and pink camisole set. As I stood there I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and what I saw caused a swarm of butterflies to crash into my stomach lining through nervous excitement. My hairless legs looked so toned and feminine and the mere thought of sliding the soft knickers down those legs and onto the floor prompted my penis to twitch slightly. However the anticipation was no match for the reality and I savoured every single moment, every single tingle, caused by the soft silk gliding down my runner's legs and onto the floor. The removal of the camisole top didn't quite give me the same amount of pleasure but the butterflies in my stomach did briefly flap their wings as it gently caressed my nipples when I pulled it up and over my head. Now naked, I accidentally brushed my semi-aroused penis with my hand and the sight of the shiny, raspberry red nails resting on the shaft brought it back to what seemed to be its natural position this weekend; fully erect. For the next few minutes I gave it the attention it was so clearly yearning for as I secured another first for the weekend and used my manicured mitts to bring myself to a much needed climax. As I lay on my bed, reflexively running my hand up and down my hairless torso in the afterglow, I bolted upright with a start as I suddenly remembered that I had a face full of foundation that needed to be removed. This prompted me to get up from the bed and, after a brief moment of contemplation, I decided to take the make-up and nail polish removers into the bathroom and use them before stepping into the shower to remove any visible or olfactory traces of femininity from my body. When I stepped out of the shower I reached for a towel and started to dab myself dry, just like Becky had instructed me to do earlier in the day. When I noticed that I was doing this it startled me slightly. Becky seemed to be controlling my actions, even when she wasn't present. This thought was pushed out of my head though when I heard the noise of footsteps walking downstairs. 'Shit,' I thought, 'Had my mum come home while I was in the shower?' I quickly finished drying myself and, with a towel wrapped around my waist, bolted from the bathroom to my bedroom. As I bolted the door behind me I nervously glanced round the room to see if I could detect any trace that my mother had been there. Becky's clothes were still neatly folded and sitting on the corner of the bed. Something just didn't seem right though. I had an uneasy feeling that something about the room was different but I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. After scanning the room again, and still not being able to identify anything that I could say for certain was out of place, I managed to shake off the paranoid feelings and hastily put on some clothes on and went downstairs to the kitchen. When I got there my mum seemed to be in a very good mood: she was dancing and singing along to a Calvin Harris song that was playing on the radio. In fact, she was so into it that I was standing in the doorway for almost a minute before she noticed my presence. "Alright, love. I didn't notice you there. Watching your old mum make a fool of herself were you?" "What? No. I just...." But before I had a chance to finish she interrupted me with, "How was Edinburgh? Did you have a good time?" "Eh, aye. It was ok." "Did you go out for dinner last night?" she asked. "What? Aye, how did you...." "Becky said she was taking you out for a meal at one of the hotel's fancy restaurants. Hope you scrubbed up nice for her?" Slightly taken aback by this line of questioning I could only respond with, "I...I...I think so." "Becky's lovely, isn't she?" my mum went on to say. "I'm so glad she's taken an interest in you." "Interest?" I asked. "Look, she's a bit older than would be ideal but she's already having a really good influence on you." On hearing this I immediately thought to myself, 'is this what Becky meant when she told me that my mother knew?' My mother added "I don't know how she did it but she's managed to get you to finally take an interest in your appearance. You look so clean and well-groomed now. You'll soon be spending more time in the bathroom than me." I blushed as she said this and immediately thought about the bottles of make-up and nail polish remover that I found in my bedroom on my return home. I was eager to change the subject before my mother noted the crimson colour of my cheeks so I quickly asked, "How was your date?" My mother smiled and corrected me. "You mean dates? We had such a good time last night that I met Alan for lunch today again. He's really lovely. You'd get on really well with him." I silently doubted the accuracy of that comment from my mother. However it was clear from the beaming smile on her face that she really enjoyed her "dates" with Alan and that I would be hearing a lot more about him. In a bid to keep the conversation away from my weekend activities I asked her a question that I already knew the answer to. "Are you going to be seeing...Alan again then?" My mum smiled once more and replied, "Definitely. We're going to the cinema on Tuesday night." A bit shocked by the prospect of my mother having three dates in the space of four days all I could respond with was a casual, "Oh. Good." Perhaps as eager to steer the conversation away from her love life as I was to avoid any further discussion about my weekend with Becky, my mother moved onto what she must have felt would be more familiar ground. "Bring your shirt and trousers down and I'll put them in the wash." I stammered slightly in response to this simple request: "My what? My shirt and trousers?" My mother looked at me slightly quizzically, not sure how her simple request had got me confused. "The shirt and trousers I packed for your weekend away. I'm guessing you wore them to go out to dinner last night?" Of course if I had remained calm and rational I would simply have gone upstairs and got the clothes that I hadn't worn out of the bag and brought them down to be washed. However, in what was either a very eco- conscious move to avoid wasting warm water on clothes that were already clean, or in a slightly flustered moment (I know which one my money is on) I blurted out, "Oh, they're not dirty. I didn't wear them last night." Of course as soon as I said this I realised my mistake. "You didn't wear them?" enquired my mother. "What did you wear then? You didn't go out for a nice meal in the old t-shirt and jeans you wore to work did you?" "What? No, of course not. Becky gave me some clothes to wear." As soon as this sentence escaped from my mouth my face felt as if it was becoming so red it was in danger of setting off the smoke detector in the hall outside the kitchen. I had just opened myself up to be asked a host of questions that I would have no answers for. However I was stunned when my mother said, "Oh, that's right. When she was doing my hair Becky said she'd picked up an outfit for you to wear. I think she wanted to make sure that you complied with the restaurant's dress code. Blue trousers and a blue blou...blue silk shirt I think she said? Sounded very stylish anyway." This stunning revelation, that Becky had been having discussions with my mother about what she was going to force me to wear, threw another few logs onto the embarrassment fireplace and my face glowed even more brightly now. "Eh, yes. It was alright I suppose," I said, stumbling to get a foothold that I could use to allow me to climb down from the pinnacle of embarrassment that I had inadvertently scaled. Thankfully my mother brought the exchange to a close by saying, "Right, enough of this gossiping about our dates. Get out and let me get on with making dinner. Mince and potatoes ok for you?" I nodded my head without making eye contact and she responded with, "Ok, now shoo. Let me get on with it." I quickly retreated back to my room and promptly set about hiding Becky's clothes and underwear inside my sports bag, safely away from accidental discovery I hoped. I then spent the next hour or two reclining on my bed and replaying the brief conversation with my mother over and over again inside my head in a bid to see if I could discern any further verbal, or non-verbal clues, which would help me to work out exactly what she knew. Like all attempts at over-analysing simple conversations and exchanges it left me with a number of contradictory conclusions and, before I knew it, my mother was shouting to tell me that dinner was ready. My stomach welcomed this interruption but my nerves jangled at the thought of having to field more questions about my incredibly dirty weekend with Becky. I needn't have worried though as I carefully managed to steer the chat towards my mother's date, sorry dates, with Alan. It was clear from the smile on her face and how animated she got when talking about Alan that this new relationship had the potential to blossom into something a bit more substantial than any other intimate relationship she had throughout my childhood. I was simultaneously pleased that my mother was so happy but also, somewhat confusingly, a bit envious of Alan. I would've loved to be able to make my mother as happy as Alan seemed to have made her. Anyway, my mother gushed so much about Alan over the meal that, by the time we got round to doing the dishes (I washed and she dried) I had started to tune out until I heard my mother say, "What are we going to do about your clothes?" "What?" My mother repeated her question, "What are we going to do about your clothes?" "What do you mean?", I asked. "Your clothes? What are we going to do about them?" It must have become clear to my mum that this third repetition of her question hadn't advanced my understanding any so she elaborated further: "Becky is a very stylish woman and your wardrobe is a bit studenty." "Eh, that might be because I am a student," I retorted. "Not yet you're not, smarty. Don't you want to update your clothes a bit to fit in with your new hairstyle? I could take you shopping and help you to pick out a few suitable outfits. After all, I'm sure Becky doesn't want to pay for all of your outfits." "What," I exclaimed. "I'm too old to be going shopping with my mother. If I need any new clothes I'm perfectly capable of picking them out for myself." "Okay," responded my mother. "I just thought you might not be familiar with the type of styles you want to buy and might need some help. I'm sorry I spoke now." The rest of the dishes were washed in silence, apart from the faint sounds of music playing on the radio in the living room. As soon as the task was finished I retreated once again to the safety of my room and the tumultuous thoughts that were tumbling through my head. That night was an incredibly restless one as my thoughts oscillated between the incredible feelings and sensations I had experienced over the weekend with Becky, the paralysing fear about what my mother did, or didn't, know about what had gone on, and a number of incredibly erotic daydreams about Daisy Taylor and her hypnotically round breasts and beautiful penis. Mind you, this last category of thoughts was probably a by-product of a number of web searches that I carried out before retiring for the evening. The following day I completed an exhausting triathlon of wrestling with my thoughts as I ran five miles and swam in a sea of confusion about what I was going to do about the offer Becky had made me. I certainly wanted to be her boyfriend, there was no doubt about that. But did I want to go for ballroom dancing lessons with her in order to seal this deal? Did I want her arms pulling me in tight against her body as her breath warmed my neck and her heady scent filled the air. A quick glance in the direction of my crotch concluded that the answer to this was yes. However I was sure that it wouldn't just be as simple as taking some dance lessons with Becky. My experience with her had taught me to expect the unexpected and that, somehow, the ballroom dancing was going to be another step on the feminine odyssey that Becky, and now my mother, seemed so intent, and so insistent, on me taking. I knew that I needed to give Becky an answer today to give her a chance to cancel the lesson and get her deposit back but I was no nearer to making a decision when my phone started to ring. I glanced down at the name that had just popped up on my screen and it was Becky. 'Shit,' I thought and briefly contemplated rejecting her call until my manners and upbringing got the better of me and I answered the phone. "Hello." "Hi Stephie, sweetie. It's Becky. How's things? Recovered from Edinburgh yet?" This question made me squirm slightly and I said, "Yes, I'm fine." "Just fine? I don't know about you but I had a great time." Becky then paused for a few seconds as I think she expected me to reciprocate and tell her how much I had enjoyed the weekend. When I failed to say anything she asked, "So, have you given any more thought about tomorrow night and us?" "Not really," I lied. "Oh, that's a shame. I was looking forward to it. Do you want me to cancel everything?" I knew that by cancel everything she wasn't just talking about the dancing lesson. She was talking about cancelling everything from Tuesday and beyond and any further plans she had for us. This wasn't just calling off a date, this cancellation was about calling off the first intimate relationship I had ever had with a woman. It was about cancelling any opportunity I had to have sex with Becky. Faced with those kind of implications, and my own reticence and inability to say no I meekly responded with, "No, don't cancel it." "You mean you want to go? Oh that's brilliant, sweetie. I'm so happy. Come into the salon about six o'clock and we can get ready together," said a clearly delighted Becky. I'm not quite sure how I had managed it but, somehow, I had agreed to start ballroom dancing lessons with Becky without explicitly saying that's what I wanted to do. Deep down though I also knew that what I had tacitly agreed to was even more profound than that. Becky was steering me down her road of choice at a frightening pace and, even though I was sitting in the passenger seat, I somehow had my feet positioned on both the brake and accelerator pedals. However I seemed to be applying far more pressure to the accelerator pedal than the brake at this point and taking us quickly to Becky's preferred destination. This thought, and a strange fascination and obsession with replaying over and over again my brief encounter with Becky's former partner, Geri, were the root causes of another restless night. I had only met Geri for the shortest time but this didn't prevent the casting agent side of my subconscious from giving her a leading role in my dreams that night. Geri had clearly got under my skin a bit and every time I thought about her it caused my body to tense-up and to simultaneously stir feelings of desire and unease in equal proportions. These feelings were not too dissimilar to the ones that thoughts of Becky managed to engender inside of me. The words we exchanged may have been brief but it seemed that they were more than enough for me to start to develop the beginnings of a crush on Geri. Another cougar seemed to be clamping her jaws around me and I was dousing myself in blood so that she knew exactly where to find me. The next day seemed to pass incredibly slowly. My mum was, of course, out at work so I was home alone with just my own thoughts for company. The excitement and doubts about seeing Becky again, and the nervousness about taking ballroom dancing lessons for the first time, were all vying for supremacy at the front of my mind. In a bid to quell some of the tumult in my brain, and to eat up some of the long hours I decided that I was going to attempt to style my hair the way Becky seemed to like it. In addition to being an activity that could soak up some of the long hours, there was also the added benefit that, if I got it right, there would be no need for Becky to style it for me. I could potentially avoid the inevitable humiliation of being wrapped and locked into one of Becky's new styling capes as soon as I walked into the salon. In preparation for this activity I washed and conditioned my hair twice using my mother's shampoo and conditioner. When I opened her shampoo for the first time the floral scent from the bottle caused me to hesitate briefly. However I convinced myself that the smell of flowers wasn't an exclusively female preserve so decided to lather up and get on with it. Of course washing my hair was the easy part. After that I needed to dry and style it and, to achieve Becky's preferred look, I needed to borrow my mum's hairdryer and styling brushes. I knew she kept those in her room but, for some reason, I had always been reluctant to go in there. As I contemplated the prospect of having to go in there the memory from a few years previous, where she had asked me to take her newly cleaned underwear upstairs and put them away in her lingerie drawer, reached up and punched me from deep inside the recesses of my mind. This memory did not reappear on its own though. It was accompanied by a repetition of the shame and throbbing erection that I experienced as I spent an unhealthy amount of time unfolding and refolding every item she had in her underwear drawer that day. This memory had briefly frozen me to the spot as I reached out to open my mum's bedroom door. Overcoming this though I pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the inviting aromas that swept past me and perfumed the hallway. The smell was an intoxicating concoction of my mother's scent, her make-up and freshness. When I entered the room I had originally intended to get her hairdryer and brushes and take them into my bedroom. But something came over me when I was in there and I found myself taking a seat at her dressing table and sitting down in front of the large mirror that sat on top of it. After briefly checking my reflection in the mirror I found myself staring at the array of perfumes, potions and make-up brushes that were scattered across the top of this table. For a brief second I also caught myself wondering what it would be like to have one of those make-up brushes dragged across my face. I quickly shook of this train of thought and, after a brief inspection of my mum's range of hairbrushes, I selected the one which looked as if it was closest in style and shape to the brush which Becky and Roxy had used when they styled my hair. I briefly swept this brush through my damp hair and concluded, I'm not quite sure how, that this was definitely the brush to use. I switched on the hairdryer and started to brush my hair under the hot air in a bid to try and restore to it a style which at least partially resembled the feminine coif that I had walked out of her salon, and the Edinburgh hotel room, with following her ministrations. As soon as I started I realised that, despite my hair being short at the sides and back there was still plenty of length left on top that needed to be carefully tended. This wasn't going to be as easy as Becky and Roxy had made it look. I curled the hair round the brush, dried it and moved onto the next section of hair until it was fully dry, full of body and fully absent of any sort of style. My mum's hairdryer was clearly a dangerous weapon and in the hands of the wrong person (i.e. me) had the potential to leave behind a trail of destruction and tears. I panicked slightly at this point as I knew immediately that this wasn't going to be acceptable to Becky. I aggressively ran my fingers through the hair in an attempt to turn back the clock to a time 30 minutes BH (before hairdryer) and to try and salvage the situation. This seemed to undo the worst excesses of my failure and, through a combination of the brush and my hands pulling the hair this way and that, I managed to get it to the point where, when I looked in the mirror, I no longer resembled the love child of Stan Laurel and Albert Einstein. This clearly still wasn't good enough but it did give me some encouragement that there was some possibility that I could undo the initial damage. After a further ten minutes of manipulating my hair with the brush and my fingers I finally managed to get it to the position where it looked as if it had been designed to look this way instead of having just burst into life. I resigned myself to the fact that this was as good as I was going to get it to look when it suddenly struck me that I was going to have to get on a bus looking like this, in the middle of rush-hour. It was at that point that I decided I was going to revert to my favourite hair accessory for the journey to the salon: the baseball cap. Throughout the bus journey to the salon I had this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that my failed attempt to style my hair were going to come back to haunt me. When I arrived at the salon, just like every other time I had been here, I hesitated at the door as a reminder that it wasn't too late and that I could turn back. And, just like every other time, I ignored this feeling and opened the door. However unlike every other time I was almost knocked over by a smiling Roxy as she brushed past me. "Nice to see a young gentleman around here. Thank you," Roxy said, acknowledging the fact that I was holding the door open for her. "Can't stop though, I'm in a hurry. See you later." Then, before I could relinquish my new duties as salon doorman Duncan also breezed past me. "Somebody obviously can't stay away," Duncan said. Then, just as I was about to provide a witty response, (not sure what it was as my brain hadn't shared it with my mouth at that point) he immediately followed it up with, "No time for chit-chat, I'm in a hurry. See you later." Feeling slightly dazed by the hurried exits of Roxy and Duncan I walked into the salon only to be greeted by the sight of Amanda putting on her coat in preparation for her exit. "Becky's up on the mezzanine if you're looking for her," Amanda said as she picked up her handbag. "Sorry, in a bit of a hurry. Can you lock the door behind me?" Before I could respond she made her way to the door with a breathless, "Thanks. See you later." As soon as Amanda had closed the door I turned the sign that hung on it to display the word 'Closed' to passers-by and dropped the latch just as Amanda had instructed me to. I then turned round to face up to the mezzanine level and briefly contemplated making as quick an exit as Roxy, Duncan and Amanda. However cowardice, or lust, or some other primitive driving force, propelled me up the short flight of stairs to look for Becky. When I reached the top of the stairs my penis saw her before my eyes did. She was at the back of the salon area, folding some towels next to the sink. She was very casually dressed today, in a pair of black skinny jeans, black loafers and a black t-shirt. She still looked absolutely stunning. As I stood there, with my eyes drinking her in like cheap cider, Becky turned round and saw me. "See what I have to do when my favourite assistant's not here," she said, gesturing towards the towels she had just folded. "You'll need to work more days here so that I don't have to do all these menial tasks." I hesitated, not sure if I was meant to respond to this. However the brief silence was broken when Becky admonished me with, "Well, don't just stand there. Come over and say hello to me properly." As I walked towards Becky I started to contemplate what she meant by saying hello properly. Should I hug her? Kiss her on the cheek? Firm handshake? Thankfully, the decision wasn't left up to me so I managed to avoid the social awkwardness of making the wrong choice as Becky placed her arm round my waist and pressed her lips against mine for long enough to make it clear, as if I didn't know already, that our relationship was more than just that of a salon owner and her favourite assistant. After Becky pulled away from me she said, "I'm so glad you've decided to be my boyfriend, sweetie. We're going to have so much fun together." After saying that Becky stepped back slightly, looked me up and down and said, "What are you doing with that cap on? What have I told you about this, " she said as she whipped the cap off my head. "I mean, look at the state of your hair. What a mess. Did you do this on purpose so you could try out one of your new styling capes?" My face flushed immediately at the mere thought of this. "What? No.....I....I tried to style it." As soon as I said this I regretted it. "What? You tried to style your own hair? Oh, that's so sweet," said a clearly thrilled Becky. "You're a distance away from being able to do that, sweetie, but I'm so happy that you wanted to look your best for me," she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. "Shame we don't have enough time to make you look as pretty as you would want. Sit down in the chair though and I'll see what I can do in a couple of minutes." Becky then led me by the arm to one of the styling chairs and both my brain and my penis knew what was coming next. In what seemed like no time at all I sat down in the chair and the styling cape with the pretty pink ballgown on the front had been wrapped around my neck and was gluing me to the chair. Becky leaned forward and whispered in my ear "I love this cape. You look so cute in it." She then started to vigorously run her hands through my hair to try and remove the effects of my failed styling attempt and the cap I had been wearing. This activity must have released some of the scent that had been locked into my hair when Iwashed it with my mum's shampoo and Becky immediately picked up on this. "Mmmm, your hair smells so fresh and girly sweetie. I'm so glad you're embracing your feminine side like this." I blushed at this observation from Becky but when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, with my head sitting on top of a pink ballgown, it was not an observation I was in a position to rebut. I therefore sat quietly, staring at the floor as Becky worked some styling gel into my hair and used her fingers and brush to turn hat hair into hot hair. After standing back and looking at her handiwork Becky declared herself happy with it by nodding and saying "Not bad, even if I say so myself. Right, all done. Let's get you out of this dress," she said with a mischievous smile as she undid the cape at the neck, whisked it away from me and went to hang it up on the rack at the back of the salon. While Becky was doing this I raised my eyes up off the floor, looked at my reflection in the mirror and, once again, was amazed at how Becky had transformed my hair in just a matter of minutes. As I tilted my head left and then right to assess it from all angles I hadn't noticed Becky returning to the styling chair. "Glad to see you like it," she said. "But we don't have time for you to admire yourself in the mirror. We need to get ready for our first lesson tonight. Your outfit is in the office, sweetie. Go and get ready." "Outfit," I enquired. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" "We're going ballroom dancing, sweetie. We're not having a session in the gym," she said as she gave a contemptuous tug at my grey sweatshirt." "Now scoot, go and get dressed." I lifted myself out of the chair and trudged to the office as I contemplated what I was going to find in there. As I closed the office door behind me I scanned the room to see what Becky had left out for me. I struggled to see anything at first but then my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as I noticed a pile of black and gold clothes on the chair next to Becky's desk. Sitting underneath the chair was also a pair of shiny black shoes. When I walked over to the chair my eyes were immediately drawn to the shoes so I picked them up to inspect them. They were a pair of black, patent, slip-on penny loafers with pointed toes and a two centimetre high block heel. As I held up the shoes and inspected the side elevation I shook my head in disbelief. It was perhaps a sign of how far Becky had taken me on this journey that my first thought was 'How am I going to dance in those?' instead of 'Shit! They're women's shoes.' Placing the shoes back on the floor I then started to inspect the pile of black and gold that was sitting on the chair. At the top of the pile was a set of the flimsy black socks that Becky had me wear when were in Edinburgh. Underneath those sat a soft and silky gold camisole set and underneath that was a black and gold blouse and a pair of black trousers. This was clearly going to be another outing in girl's clothes for me This outing was going to be in my home city though. This caused me to freeze and hesitate for a few moments before the auto-pilot that Becky had somehow installed, or uncovered in me, took over and I started to undress in the office. I quickly removed my own clothes and folded them into a neat pile on the floor. Standing there naked I decided to remedy this as quickly as I could by slipping on the pair of gold cami knickers. Even though it had only been a few days since I had last worn something similar, I had clearly forgotten about the electrifying effect the feel of soft satin sliding up my naked legs had on me. My penis immediately started to throb and beg for release. This feeling deepened even further as I slid the camisole top, with its basic lace detailing around the bust area, over my head. The sensation of the satin sliding over my nipples increased my desire to touch myself through the soft fabric. Thankfully, I managed to satisfy this craving by closing my eyes and gently playing with my nipples through the fabric. The desire to masturbate at this point was so strong but I simply couldn't give in to that urge in Becky's office. I manfully (if you can say that about a boy standing in the middle of his place of work wearing girl's underwear) broke the satin-induced trance and decided that the best way to avoid the temptation to pleasure myself was to put further layers of girls' clothing on. I pulled on the black trousers and was immediately struck by how much the legs tapered down to leave a very narrow hem at my ankles. This look was new to me and served as a clear indicator that I was wearing women's trousers. Although when I slipped the blouse over my head, if both halves of my body were involved in a game of femininity top trumps, the top half won hands down. The blouse was made of a black, slightly diaphanous material with black and gold embossed polka dots covering the main body of the blouse. The loose, billowy sleeves had two button up black cuffs that were trimmed with gold lace detailing that gently caressed the back of each hand. The same gold lace sat on top of the military style collar of the blouse and delicately kissed my neck each time I moved my head. The collar of the blouse also had two bits of black fabric hanging down each side but I wasn't quite sure about what to do with so I just left them hanging there. I then sat down to pull on the delicate socks that Becky had left out and, as soon as I started to roll them up my leg, I realised that these were different from the ones that I had worn in Edinburgh. These were much longer and it was only when I tried to put them on that it became clear that they were going to extend way past my calf and that the only way I was going to get them on was to remove the trousers. I very carefully slipped out of the trousers and then started to roll the socks up my naked legs, past my knees until they eventually stopped three quarters the way up my thigh as the elasticated lace detailing at the top held them firmly in place. This was not a pair of socks I was going to be wearing: these were clearly stockings. I pondered this fact as I rolled the second stocking up my other leg and snapped the elasticated lace top against my thigh. As I stood up I inadvertently rubbed one stockinged leg against the other and my penis throbbed in pleasure at this happy accident. When I put the trousers back on they felt very different this time as the fabric rubbed against my stocking-clad legs. These were not sensations designed to quell the storm that was rising in my satin cami-knickers so I quickly sat down to try and avoid any further movement. After sitting almost motionless for a few minutes I decided that it was safe to move again so decided to slip on the shoes that Becky had selected to go with the hyper feminine blouse and trousers. When I put on the first shoe I immediately noticed how the heel, although not much different in size from the heel on most men's shoes, seemed to angle my foot forward slightly so that the toes were almost pointing to the floor. This was accentuated even further when I put on the second shoe and, for some inexplicable reason, clicked my heels together before deciding to stand up and see what they were like to walk in. I was definitely surprised at how comfortable the shoes were to wear, although the slight heel and the imperceptible forward tilt of my feet ensured they felt very different to any other shoes I had ever worn. Although this may also have had something to do with the fact that I had never worn shoes and stockings before. After a few circuits of the office I decided that I had mastered walking in the new shoes and there was no point in putting it off any longer. So I left the safety of the office and found Becky sitting in one of the styling chairs flicking through a magazine. Her head turned to look at me as soon as she heard the sound of the heels on the wooden floor of the salon. Her face broke out into a huge grin as she saw me. "God I've got great taste." "In clothes?" I enquired. "In clothes and in the pretty boy that looks so good in them for me. Come over here to let me get a closer look," Becky said. I walked over to her as she remained seated in the styling chair. When I reached her side she reached out and caressed my right buttock. Her hand then slipped down slightly until she could feel, through the trousers, the outline of the top of the stockings. She ran her finger round this outline. "How are you finding the stockings?" she asked. "I don't know. A bit weird." "I see at least one part of you likes them anyway," she said as she playfully flicked my swollen groin with her finger before standing up and pulling me towards her. "You'll get used to them. A pretty boy in pretty stockings is my Kryptonite," she said as she closed her lips around mine and started to explore the inside of my mouth with her tongue before she put her hands on my chest and pushed me away slightly. 'But, as sexy as you are my precious little pretty boy you really must learn how to finish dressing yourself," she chastised as she took the two bits of cloth that were hanging down from either side of the blouse collar and tied them into a very feminine bow. "There. Do you know what type of bow this is?" I shook my head, unable to speak as a result of Becky's exquisite kiss. "This is called a pussy bow," she advised. "Do you know why they call it a pussy bow?" Again, I shook my head, unable to look her in the eye. "It's because the woman that tied it for you is going to get rewarded in that very special place later." I blushed a bright crimson red. "Now be a sweetie and go and sit down. And make sure you don't have any accidents while I'm getting ready," she said before heading off to her office and closing the door behind her. Becky's disappearance into the office meant that I was left on my own in a salon filled with mirrors. I was torn between the strongest of urges to look at the reflection of the 'pretty boy' that had got Becky so excited and the fear of what it might reveal about me. To avoid the immediate desire to resolve this dilemma I decided to get a bit more practice walking in the shoes. I promenaded up and down the length of the salon floor and, as my confidence grew, I even found myself spinning round when I reached the end of the salon floor to start walking in the opposite direction. It was on one of those spins that I inadvertently caught my reflection in the mirror and the effect of this was like hitting pause on a TV recorder. I was frozen to the spot as it quickly hit me that this was the most feminine outfit yet that Becky had me wear. The bow that she had tied at the neck was just the exclamation mark in the statement that this blouse was making. It really was a delicate and exquisite piece of clothing that, ever so gently, declared its femininity. From a distance it would be very easy to mistake me for a girl. Get a bit closer though and the gender lines started to blur a bit. As I was pondering this and staring at my reflection Becky had silently emerged from the office. "Well, looks like you are finding yourself as sexy as I do in that blouse." I was taken aback to be caught like this so I blushed and stammered my way through some sort of justification or denial for being transfixed by my own reflection. Becky didn't buy it though. "Yes, of course you were. I think you might like looking at pretty boys as much as I do. Now, come over here and drop your trousers," Becky instructed. "What?" "Come over here and drop your trousers, please," she said, this time making it sound more like a request than an order. As I walked towards her I noticed that she had changed into a pair of black, leather-look leggings, a black shirt and a pair of black penny loafers that looked identical to mine. She had also refreshed her plum coloured lipstick and her look, in my head, was putting a very strong emphasis on the final letter in the MILF acronym. As I stood in front of her the first wave of scent from her perfume sent ripples of Goosebumps through my body and caused my penis to swell. "Undo your trousers sweetie." Unable to move, and reluctant to reveal how excited I was in that moment, Becky decided to take matters into her own hands. She reached round to the side of the trousers and undid the zip. She then slowly pushed the trousers down until she revealed the tops of the stockings I was wearing and the tell-tale bump under my gold cami-knickers. She carefully placed her fingers on the elasticated waist of the knickers and pulled them down until my penis was eventually standing exposed and naked in front of her. "I've had a brainwave," she announced. "I think we can all see how excited you are at wearing your pretty clothes. And if we're going to be holding each other tight for an hour in the dancing lesson I think the odds of you having one, or more, little accidents are quite high. Don't you think, sweetie?" This was simply a statement of fact that I couldn't deny so I meekly nodded in agreement with her. "And the last thing we want is you making a mess of these lovely soft knickers. So I think you should wear this," she announced as she started to roll a condom along the length of my shaft. She then took a piece of pink ribbon she had been holding in her other hand and tied it round the base. "That'll keep it on in the unlikely event that you go soft at any point in the evening." She then crouched down slightly and as gently as she could she pressed her lips against the top of the shaft and left a plum lipstick mark on it. On seeing this my penis twitched slightly. From her crouching position Becky then started to adjust the tops of the stockings I was wearing. "Oh my God, these look so amazing on you sweetie. If we didn't have an appointment to go to I'd fuck you right here," she exclaimed. Hearing this pushed me over the edge and I came into the condom, in full view of Becky. "Oh well, looks like my idea worked," she said as she pulled up the knickers and zipped up my trousers. "Now I just need to get the rest of you smelling as gorgeous as your hair and then we'd better be on our way. It's a ten minute walk to the dance studio." "What? We're walking to the studio? Like this? It's still light outside. People will see me," I complained. "Of course people will see you. I want them to see you, sweetie. It would be terribly selfish of me to keep you all to myself when you look this pretty." "But...but..." I said, searching for some elusive words to persuade Becky that sharing my "prettiness" with the world at this stage wasn't necessarily a good idea. However whatever argument I was about to come up with became lost in the mist of perfume that Becky sprayed on, and around, me. Becky inhaled deeply and said "I do love it when you smell just like me." And that was that. Before I knew it the door of the salon was being locked behind us and Becky was linking her arm in mine and striding out purposefully into the busiest part of the city-centre. We passed countless numbers of people and the feeling I had every time that I felt passers-by pay more than a glancing interest in my appearance will never leave me. We eventually arrived outside a fairly old, fairly run down building and Becky veered in through the old wooden and glass revolving doors, dragging me behind her. There was a small wooden reception desk to the left of the door and seated behind it was what appeared to be the building security guard. He was a frail, elderly looking man in his late sixties and I guessed from his appearance that this building didn't require much guarding. "Can I help you ladies?" the guard said as we approached his desk. "Me and the boyfriend," Becky said, gesturing with her head to make it clear she was talking about me "have got a lesson booked at the dance studio." This clearly knocked the security guard off his game slightly, although given his physical appearance that game was probably only dominoes. He seemed to be staring at me in disbelief as my face turned a crimson red and he said, without removing his eyes from me, "It's on the third floor. The stairs are through the back there." This little exchange seemed to provide Becky with some pleasure as she clearly had a spring in her step as we made our way up three flights of stairs, through a fire door and into a long corridor. The sign that confronted us as we entered the hallway clearly instructed us that the dance studio was to the left and the yoga studio was to the right. Becky opened the door and pulled me by the hand in behind her. When I entered I was stunned to see that two sides of the studio were lined in full-height mirrors. Although this quickly became a secondary concern when I also noticed that there were three other couples in the room. Becky leaned in and whispered "Oh my god, look at all those mirrors. Hope you're not going to be staring at your reflection for the entire lesson." I didn't even have any time to process that comment when I heard "Becky! Becky! What took you so long?" At that point I looked over at the other three couples and, if Becky hadn't had a firm grip on my hand, I would've ran straight out of that room. Standing in the corner, limbering up, were Roxy and Duncan with, what I assumed, was her girlfriend and his boyfriend. On seeing them Becky gripped my hand even more tightly and we walked over to greet them. Becky dragged me behind her in the same way that a matador drags his cape into a bullfight. As Becky greeted Roxy and Duncan with the campest of air kisses I started to hope that, somehow, they hadn't recognised me. That hope disappeared when Duncan came over, hugged me and said "You look fabulous, Stephie. Just say the word and I'll ditch this one here and me and you will run off to Gretna and get married." Duncan's partner was clearly used to hearing this flirtatious banter as he just rolled his eyes. "Alistair, this is Stephie. He's the one I told you about. You know, the one that was pretty enough to turn me into a top. Don't worry though, I'll give you to the morning to clear out your stuff before he moves in." "Don't pay any attention to him, honey," said Alistair as he extended his hand for a handshake. "He's all talk." Then, just as I finished shaking his hand Roxy came over and hugged me. "Let me look at you," she said, "You look amazing. No wonder you like to wear girls' clothes when you look this good in them." I blushed at this comment as Roxy then went on to introduce me to her partner. "Stephie, this is Jess. Jess, this is Stephie." Just like Alistair Jess held out her hand for me to shake and said "Roxy wasn't kidding. You're so pretty." Then just at that there were two sharp bangs on the floor and we all turned round in the direction the noise came from. Standing there was woman in her late thirties to early forties, wearing a long black pleated skirt and a black vest like top under a long grey unbuttoned woollen blouse. Her blonde hair had been tied back into a long ponytail and her rather stern looking face wasn't softened any by the bright red lipstick that coated her thin lips. "Finished your chatter have you?" she asked as she stared directly at me. "I am Amanda Brownlee, your ballroom dancing tutor for this evening, and perhaps many others. Now this may just be a bit of fun to you all but for me ballroom dancing is my passion and my livelihood. Do as I say and you and your partner will soon be gliding across the floor like Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone. It'll be up to you to choose which one of those you'd prefer to be," she said as her intense gaze rested on me. "Now I'm going to put on some music so that I can see what I'm working with. You and your partner do whatever comes naturally to you." As the music started Becky pulled me in tightly against her and the chemistry of her scent mixing with mine caused an explosion in my nostrils and a fire to start raging in my groin. Becky then started to push forward and I found myself moving hesitantly backwards across the floor as she held me tightly by the waist and moved us round in time to the music. I felt powerless locked in Becky's arms as her movements dictated mine. She was in charge of both direction and pace and to keep this dance going I had to cede full control to her. For the very first time I accepted that was a feeling I wanted to experience more of. As we were dancing the intimidating Ms Brownlee started to make her way round the group to share her observations and advice with each couple. As Becky whirled me round the dancefloor I overheard Ms Brownlee share the odd platitude with the other couples as she sought to strike a difficult balance between helping them to get better and encouraging them to come back. She eventually stopped myself and Becky in mid-turn with a tap on Becky's shoulder and seemed to be very enthusiastic about what she had witnessed. "My, my. Aren't you a special couple. It takes a very special boy to let the lady lead like that. But I can tell you are a very special boy, aren't you?" she said as she cupped my cheek in her hand. "And so pretty. too," she added. "Where did you find this delightful creature?" she asked Becky. "Oh, he just sort of fell into my lap," replied Becky. Ms Brownlee stared at me intensely and without looking at Becky said "Well he can fall head first into my lap any time he likes." I could feel the flames of embarrassment burning in my cheeks so I broke off eye contact with Ms Brownlee and she started to address Becky. "You're both doing ok for a couple that are new to ballroom dancing. There's definitely a lot of chemistry between you. But if you don't mind I'll just give you a couple of pointers that might help." "No, feel free. That's what we're here for," replied Becky. After receiving Becky's permission Ms Brownlee wasted no time and held out her left hand and waited for me to take it. As soon as I did she spun me round until she could pull me in close by wrapping with her arm her around my waist. Ms Brownlee now held me in the same position that Becky had me in moments earlier. Somehow, though, this felt much more restrictive. This, of course, heightened my state of arousal. She then started to move me around the floor, at first silently, and then after a while each move, each spin, seemed to be punctuated with a question.. "Mmmm, you smell lovely.....sorry, what's your name dear?" "It's Stephi....it's Stephen," I managed to say. "Well, Stephen. That's a lovely perfume you're wearing. What's it called?" I blushed intensely at the fact that it was so obvious I was wearing perfume, and also in the knowledge that I didn't actually know what brand it was. "Eh, I'm not....I don't....I don't know. It's Becky's perfume." "Well Becky has marvellous taste. Is that her blouse you're wearing as well?" I nodded silently in response. "It's so soft and feminine: just like you. Well apart from that hard thing that seems to be poking me in the side here." She then let her hand slip from my waist to cupping one of my buttocks and pulled me in tightly against her. "If that's what you're like now imagine how hard it's going to be when we've got you in a pretty gown." I was rendered speechless as I started to feel the first spurt of ejaculate being caught in the end of the condom Becky had placed on me earlier. As this was happening Ms Brownlee whispered in my ear, "We're going to have so much fun together, Stephen. I can't wait to pass on all of my experience to you." We suddenly came to a halt and Ms Brownlee extended my hand towards Becky as an instruction for her to take over and start to lead me around the dancefloor again. "There, did you see what I did with the natural turns and the hesitations?" she asked Becky. "I want you to try that with him." For the rest of the evening I alternated between Becky's firm grip and Ms Brownlee's strong, controlling embrace as she demonstrated a wide variety of moves until, before I knew it, the lesson was over. With the exception of the middle-aged couple that nobody knew, we all headed out to a nearby restaurant to replenish our energy reserves. Becky even asked Ms Brownlee if she wanted to come but unfortunately she had another class to teach so declined the offer,,,,for now. As we all sat down to eat there was much excited talk about the lesson and it seemed as if we had all thoroughly enjoyed it. Despite this though, nobody seemed that keen on going back for more lessons. Apart from Becky and me, of course. She even went as far as to say that she thought we'd be entering competitions within a few months. I was less convinced that would happen but when I expressed this Becky silenced me with a simple "Now, now sweetie. You know that you always end up doing what I want. It's why we get on so well." This simple statement was a verbal expression of what everyone had witnessed for themselves during the dance lesson: where Becky led I would follow. This was emphasised even further when the waiter arrived and Becky ordered my drinks and food without making any reference to me at all. As the wine flowed and the food silenced everyone's hunger pangs the conversation turned to the weekend and Roxy took me by surprise somewhat when she said "So, Stephie, are you coming out with us on Saturday to celebrate Becky's birthday?" I looked at Becky and asked, "It's you birthday on Saturday?" "Yep. Forty-three." "And you don't look a day over thirty-five," Roxy said. "If that's what your eyes are telling you then you'd better be suing your optician," Duncan joked. "Thanks very much," Becky responded, pretending to be offended by Duncan's comment. "You'll need to come out with us on Saturday," Duncan said. "If this is what you look like for a dance lesson can't wait to see you glammed up for a big night out," said Duncan. "Eh, I'm not....I'm not sure," I said, looking at Becky for some guidance on what she wanted me to do. After a brief hesitation Becky responded. "I agree, you should come out with us. Camp David over there isn't the only one who can't wait to see you dressed up for a night on the town." This little verbal jab back from Becky elicited a nod of appreciation from Duncan before he said, "That's it settled then. Here's to Saturday," he said as he did the most Glaswegian thing possible by raising his glass to get everyone to drink to the fact that we had agreed to go out drinking again. As the evening started to draw to a close and the bill was being divided up I got up to go to the toilet and, as I caught my reflection in one of the large mirrors that adorned the walls of the restaurant, I suddenly remembered that I was wearing a blouse. This shook me slightly, and I became a bit more self-conscious as I headed to the gents. However the tremors caused by this were nothing when compared to the seismic shock that stopped me in my tracks as I remembered that earlier in the evening Becky had rolled a condom onto my penis, sealed it with a kiss and a pink ribbon, and the events of this evening had filled that condom with semen. Thankfully I recovered my composure quickly enough to turn around and head back to the table, as everyone was saying their goodbyes. After Roxy and Duncan and their partners had left Becky looked at me without saying anything. After a few uncomfortable moments I broke the silence. "What?" "Were you not heading to the little boys' room?" Becky said. "I decided I didn't need to go that badly." "Good, that means I'll get the privilege of untying that pretty bow on your condom seeing for myself how much you've enjoyed this evening. Now get your coat, you've pulled." What? Pulled? But I don't have a coat." "Figure of speech, silly. But you're right to pick me up on one inaccuracy: technically I'm the one that's pulled because you're coming home with me," Becky said with a huge grin on her face.