The Best Stand At The Wedding Fair free porn video

THE BEST STAND AT THE WEDDING FAIR by Angela Dee North PROLOGUE "Listen, Bridie, I said I was sorry! What more can I do?" I was in the doghouse with my wife yet again. I'd completely forgotten to collect a parcel from the Post Office depot. Now it was too late. The depot had closed an hour ago, and Bridie had wanted the parcel today. "For god's sake, Terry!" she fumed. "You know perfectly well how much I needed that mannequin for the show tomorrow! It was going to be the centrepiece of my whole display!" "Well," I said, "couldn't you just swap with another one? Or something?" It sounded like a reasonable solution to me, but Bridie was in no mood to listen. "Swap with what? I don't have another mannequin, you dummy!" And that was the precise moment she had the idea. "Hmm... 'What more can I do?', you said. OK, Terry, I'll tell you what you can do. You can replace my mannequin!" "Bridie, where am I going to get a mannequin at this hour on a Friday? It's nine o'clock, for fuck's sake! Hey, which reminds me," I said, switching on the television. "There's a film I want to watch--" "Oh no you don't!" Bridie switched off the TV again. "You misunderstand me, Terence Greane. When I say you're going to replace my mannequin, I mean exactly that." "Eh?" I said, still not getting it. Bridie smiled thinly. I knew that smile. It was the one she reserved for when she was feeling fiendish. It often spelled trouble for someone. Usually, that someone was me. "Let me rephrase it for you, darling," she said, slowly. "You, Terry, are going to take the place of my missing mannequin. Now do you see?" And then the penny dropped, and my heart with it. Chapter 1: FRIDAY NIGHT I should explain that my wife ran her own business, Bridie's Bridal Boutique, from a tiny shop unit just off High Street. With only enough room in the shop for one mannequin, Bridie had to put all the rest of her display stock on hangers stacked in a row on rails. When the mannequin was accidentally damaged the previous week, Bridie had ordered a new one for the Happiest Day Spring Wedding Fair in the Sunderland City Exhibition Centre. It was due to arrive just the day before the event, which was today. Bridie had asked me to collect it from the depot, but I, unfortunately, had forgotten all about it. "You know how much money this fair brings in!" Bridie growled. "Or at least you would if you bothered to take an interest. It sets me up for the rest of the year!" "But Bridie," I said. "Are you seriously asking me to wear a wedding dress for an exhibition? That's just ridiculous! Why not ask one of your friends to do it?" "Partly because I'd feel obliged to pay them," she retorted. "But mainly because I'm already shelling out ?2,000 to take part in the show. And besides, I'm not asking, I'm telling! It was you who messed up by not collecting the mannequin, so it's going to be you who wears the dress!" "What about," I suggested, "if you wear the dress and I do the selling?" "You? You don't know the first thing about the business. No, Terry, my mind's made up. Now, get your clothes off. We don't have much time." My heart sank even further. I loved Bridie dearly, and would do anything for her. When she got into these moods it was always safer to play along. But this was something altogether different. "All right," I said, unbuttoning my shirt. "I'll wear the dress, if that's what you want. But why do we have to start now? The fair's not until tomorrow." Bridie breathed an irritated sigh. "Yes, Terry. The fair's tomorrow. It starts at 10 o'clock in the morning. But all the exhibitor stands have to be set up before the fair opens to the public. And because there are so many exhibitors at this very popular event, we can't all go piling in at once. So the organisers give us fixed time slots to go in for the build-up. And my slot is 7am! And you need to be ready by then!" I was a bit nonplussed. The full implications of what Bridie wanted me to do still hadn't dawned on me. "But, Bridie," I said. "It's just a case of popping on a dress. That won't take three hours." I could see Bridie fighting to control her rising frustration. "Terence," she began. "It is not, as you put it, just a case of popping on a dress. What'd be the point of that? You'd simply look like a bloke in a frock. Oh no, sunshine! By the time I'm finished with you, you're going to look the part. Now, take off your trousers and lie down on the floor." And on that note, Bridie swept out of the living room and ran upstairs. I could have refused, of course. But Bridie was right. It had been my fault. The least I could do was try to make amends. I took off my trousers and lay on the floor. Presently Bridie returned, carrying a towel and a small box. She seemed a little calmer. "First," she said, kneeling beside me, "I'm going to wax your arms and legs." "My legs?" I replied, puzzled. "Why my legs? I'll be in a long dress, won't I? No one will see my legs." Bridie rubbed some cream on my thigh. "It'll help you to feel more womanly," she said, as if that explained everything. "Now, hold still. This won't hurt... much." It did hurt, of course, but soon my arms and legs were silky smooth and completely hairless. "Luckily," Bridie said, "you don't have a hairy chest. But when you shave your face you'll need to get rid of the fluff on the back of your neck. Now, stand up." As soon as I was on my feet, Bridie began to wrap a corset around my middle. "Hey!" I cried. "What's this for?" "Really, Terry!" Bridie admonished. "A corset, as I'm sure you well know, is a garment designed to give you a smaller waist. You are a slim guy, but your unconstrained waist measures 30 inches. The dress you'll be wearing has a 26 inch waist. Hence the corset. Now, hold still!" Good grief! She really did intend to go to town with this. I wondered what else I was in for. Bridie fastened the corset and tightened its laces. I felt my waist suddenly shrink, and I had a little difficulty breathing for a moment. "Bridie," I gasped. "It's only quarter to ten. Surely I don't need to put this on so soon, do I?" "Terence," she replied, tying off the corset and holding a tape measure round my middle, "at the moment your waist measures 28 inches, and you're already struggling with it. The remaining two inches are going to be harder to achieve. So by starting now you'll have more time to get used to it, and I'll have more time to stop bloody panicking!" After an hour or so, I remarked that the corset felt more comfortable. This was Bridie's cue to tighten it further. Another measurement was taken. "Just under 27 inches," she said. "You're doing well. OK, I think we should have a nap now. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, and I've still got my work cut out getting you ready for 7am." Somehow we managed to catch some sleep, and were woken by Bridie's phone alarm at 1am. Bridie rallied quickly. "We have six hours," she said. "God, we'll never make it in time!" "Yes, we will," I said, taking her hand in mine. "Just keep calm, and do whatever you have to do. I love you." Bridie smiled, and gave me a brief but tender kiss. Then it was back to the business of tightening my corset even more. At last she tied off the laces with a triumphant "Yes!', and collapsed on the sofa. "Have you done it?" I asked, barely able to breathe. "Is it down to 26 inches?" Bridie looked at me, a sheepish expression on her face. "Er... yeah... about that. Umm, actually, Terry, I have a tiny confession to make." "Go on." "OK... You know I said the dress is a 26 inch waist? Well... I lied. It's a 24 inch waist. And now... so are you. That's why it took so long." I suddenly felt very light-headed. 24 inches? That was a whole six inches! How the hell had she managed that? Come to think of it, how the hell had I managed that? The last time my waist measured 24 inches was fifteen years ago, when I was just starting secondary school. "Come on," Bridie said, getting to her feet again. "It's 2am. We've still got lots to do. Sit down." Sitting down was a hell of a lot harder than normal, now that I was wearing the corset. Bridie produced her makeup box. "I haven't shaved yet," I pointed out. "I know," replied Bridie. "I'll do your face later, just before we leave for the CEC. What I'm going to do now is your nails." Bridie glued a full set of acrylic nails over the top of my own, and then painted them a bright, shimmery red. "Don't touch them," she warned me. "I'll give them a second coat later on." I looked at my long, elegant fingernails, and wondered how on earth I was going to shave. "The rest of it should be fairly plain sailing," said Bridie, leading me upstairs to our bedroom. "Well," she added, "apart from the makeup, that is." Bridie told me to perch on the edge of the bed, and then produced a roll of extra-strength duct tape. "What's that for?" I asked, dubiously. "I'm going to stick it across your chest," she explained. "It'll hold your pecs together, and make it look like you've got a cleavage. A bit of padding will complete the illusion." She was right. With my pecs pushed together and held in place with the duct tape, a reasonably respectable cleavage was formed. As I was admiring this, Bridie held out another white garment. "What's this?" I asked. "It's a corselette. You'll need it to smooth out your bodyshape under the dress. Put it on." The corselette's elasticated panels followed the contours created by the corset underneath perfectly. The addition of a couple of pairs of flesh-coloured tights, balled up in each of the corselette's bra cups, gave me a reasonably convincing bust. "OK," Bridie said. "Now for down below. Take your underpants off." She opened a drawer and produced a pair of scissors. "Bloody hell, Bridie!" I yelped in surprise. "Surely you're not going to?" "Calm down and don't be stupid," Bridie replied, picking up a pale blue packet. "I just need the scissors to open this!" From the packet Bridie drew three white garments. "These," she told me, "are body shapers. Perfect for hiding those embarrassing lumps. You need to put them all on. Here, I'll help you." The garments were basically heavily elasticated knickers. And they were eye-wateringly tight. As I wriggled into the second pair, a thought occurred to me. "Hang on, Bridie," I said. "I'll be wearing a long dress. My embarrassing lump, as you call it, will be well hidden. Won't it?" "It's a wedding dress, Terry. Not a burlesque costume. But wearing these pants will make you feel more secure. Now, stop your whinging and put the last pair on." I began to suspect that Bridie's motives for putting me through all this was less to do with making me feel "secure" and "womanly", and more to do with some sort of mischievous malice. But I said nothing. Resistance, as they say, was futile. And the three pairs of pants definitely smoothed out my embarrassing lump. I wondered what I was going to do when I wanted to go to the toilet. On this point Bridie seemed to read my mind. "You're not to eat or drink anything from now on," she told me. "The longer you can go without needing the loo, the better." I groaned. A whole day without anything to eat or drink? I'd faint from hunger. Unless I fainted from being squeezed into this corset, of course. Bridie held up a pair of tan tights. "Do I have to wear those?" I asked. "No, Terry," Bridie snapped back. "Of course you don't have to wear them! You can take the whole lot off, right now, if you wish. I'm not stopping you. And then, tomorrow, when I'm at the wedding fair with no centrepiece to attract buyers, I'll have plenty of time on my hands to think. I'll be able to think about how much longer I've got before the business goes under because of lack of sales. The business I started from nothing after leaving university with a degree in fashion design. The business I've worked so hard to build up. The business I've had sleepless nights for. The business I've loved and devoted myself to for the past five years. The business which supports us because you're out of work. And all because you won't put on a bloody pair of tights!" Bridie slumped down onto the bed, and began to sob. She'd always been good at crying, especially when she desperately wanted to get her own way. Like now. "Hey, love," I said, softly. "Don't cry. Please, don't cry. I'm sorry. Look, we've still got work to do here. You've got just over two hours to transform your doting husband into a blushing bride. So, come on, help me into these tights." Bridie pulled herself together quickly. Rather too quickly, I thought. She resumed her task with renewed vigour. On went the tights. "OK," she said. "I think you should get a shave now. Wear your big dressing gown, in case you spill something." I obeyed, totally resigned to what was expected of me. Taking the utmost care with my razor, I gave my face the closest shave it had ever had. The result was pleasingly smooth. I remembered to shave the back of my neck, as my wife had instructed. "You've done a great job." said Bridie, running her fingers across my chin. "Now come through to the bedroom, and I'll do your eyebrows. You can't be a woman with those great big bushy things!" I sighed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Bridie worked quickly, using scissors and a fine comb to snip away at my eyebrows. "Now to shape them," she said, and produced another little box. "What's in that?" I asked. "Well," Bridie replied. "You remember earlier, when I waxed your arms and legs?" "Er... yes," I replied, already knowing where this was leading. "This is like that," she went on, "but for your eyebrows. Now, hold still. It won't hurt." "That's what you said the last time," I reminded her, adding quickly, "not that I'm complaining, you understand!" "Good!" Bridie applied the waxing strips, and then pulled. It did hurt. A lot. Soon my eyebrows were mere shadows of their former selves. I scrutinised my reflection in the mirror. "My face looks a little different with those eyebrows," I remarked. Bridie opened a large box. "Your face is going to start looking a hell of a lot different now, Terry," she said. "It's makeup time!" I took a deep gulp. This was the moment of truth. All that I had gone through so far - the leg and arm waxing, the constricting corset, the lump-flattening knickers, the tights, the eyebrow wax - it all seemed to have been leading up to this. There was no turning back now. I sat and let Bridie do her stuff, glancing occasionally at the clock as she worked. There was no mirror in front of me, so I had no way of knowing how successful - or otherwise - Bridie was being in turning me into a woman. Or, at any rate, making me look like one. I was, of course, aware of the various cosmetics she was putting onto my face. After she'd applied the moisturiser, concealer and foundation, Bridie stepped back to check her handiwork. She smiled. That smile I took to be a good sign. Next came the artistry, with eye shadow, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, blusher and lipstick. She glued a pair of false eyelashes over my own, and coated them with a thick layer of mascara. Every so often during the process, Bridie stood back to check the effect, smiling each time. "You know, Terry," she said, "I think this actually might just work." She gave my fingernails a second coat of colour, and added another layer of mascara to my lashes. Then she took yet another box from the top of her wardrobe. "Now for your crowning glory," she said, taking a long auburn wig from the box. "I don't remember seeing that before," I said, fluttering my eyelashes. "Oh," said Bridie, "I bought it a few weeks ago. I thought I might wear it when I felt like a change of image. It's come in handy now, hasn't it." "Very," I replied. Bridie stretched a tight elasticated cap over the top of my head, then clipped and pinned the wig into place on it. It felt very strange to suddenly have lots of long hair cascading around my shoulders. Bridie deftly made some adjustments to the wig, and then added a few finishing touches to my makeup. "All done," she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "How... how do I look?" I asked, nervously. "There's the mirror," Bridie replied. "See for yourself." I stood and turned to face my reflection. I could barely recognise myself. My bushy eyebrows were gone, for a start, and in their place were a pair of elegantly shaped, pencil-thin brows. My face had been given a light tan, thanks to the foundation cream. My lips were painted a very sultry crimson, my cheeks contoured with pale pink blusher and highlighter, and my eyes... Bridie had really done a number on them, with gorgeously smoky eye shadow, liner, and the fullest, thickest lashes I had ever seen. "Oh, my god!" I whispered. "Bridie, it's fantastic!" Bridie gave a little laugh. "Don't you dare start crying!" she said, only half-jokingly. "You'll spoil your makeup, and we don't have time to start all over again." She was quite right, of course. The bedside clock said it was now 6.20am. We had to be at the CEC in forty minutes. Fortunately it was only a ten minute drive. "OK," I said. "What next?" "Next is the shoes," replied Bridie. "I think I should have made you put them on sooner, come to think of it. You've never, as far as I know, worn high heels before. They might take some getting used to for you. Sit down and I'll put them on your feet." The shoes were white, with pointed toes and a four inch stiletto heel. They, too, were a perfect fit. "Bridie," I said. "How is it that you just happen to have these shoes? I'm pretty sure you and I don't take the same size. In fact, I know we don't, so how...?" "God, Terry!" Bridie said, standing up. "You're so suspicious! I store several pairs of wedding shoes at home, of different sizes. I keep them in case of an emergency, or if a customer wants to try a pair outside of shop hours. That's all! Honestly! It's just a good thing you don't have big feet. Now, see if you can stand up without falling over." Bridie took my hands and helped me to a standing position. I felt very unsteady, as though I were about to pitch forward at any moment. My knees were bent forward to compensate for the unaccustomed demands placed on my legs by the high heels. "You need to extend your ankles," Bridie advised. "Lean back with your legs, while keeping the balls of your feet on the floor." I did so, and presently found I was able to stand upright, legs straight. "Good. Now try walking." I took a few careful steps around the bedroom. "Don't worry," said Bridie. "You'll get the hang of it soon." "I hope so," I replied. "I'm going to be standing up all day in these shoes." "Yeah," Bridie responded, enigmatically. I never liked it when she said "yeah" that way. It generally meant there was something she wasn't telling me. I decided not to tempt fate by asking. If there was something else, Bridie would tell me when she was good and ready, and not a moment before. And whatever it was, it could surely be no worse than what she'd already put me through. "OK," she said. "Now for the dress. Ready?" I laughed. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I have to say, this is not the way I expected my Saturday to pan out!" From her wardrobe, Bridie took a large vinyl bag, and laid it carefully on the bed. She unzipped it, and drew out a stunning white wedding dress. I gasped in disbelief. "Do you like it, Terry?" "Bridie, it's... it's..." "It's a bodycon dress," Bridie explained. "It's practically skintight. And the front panel of the skirt is semi-transparent from the crotch downwards. The bodice laces up at the back, and is lightly boned." "Oh, joy," I murmured, humourlessly. "This is why I had to wax your legs and squeeze you into the corset and those tight knickers." She actually sounded apologetic. "And you seriously want me to wear this?" I asked. "Yes. Please," Bridie replied, adding, "You'll look amazing, Terry." "But isn't there another dress I could have worn, instead of this one? I thought you had a shop full of them." Bridie shook her head. "There are all sorts of rules we have to follow," she explained. "When we apply to exhibit at the show, we have to itemise everything we'll be taking in, for insurance purposes. It's too late to change any of the details now." "I see," I said. "And what if we just used a different dress anyway?" Bridie shook her head again. "No, that wouldn't work," she said. "You see, the organisers come round and do an inventory at the start of the day. If they find anything different to what I listed on the application, they'd say I was an insurance risk. I'd have to withdraw from the show immediately, with no refund." I looked at the dress, then at Bridie. She was standing there with a hopes-fast-fading sort of expression in her eyes. The wedding fair really did mean a huge amount to her business. Could I ever forgive myself if she had to pack it all in on the strength of one failed exhibition, knowing it had been my fault? The time was now twenty-five minutes to seven. I took a deep breath, or, at least, as deep a breath as I could in my corset. "OK, Bridie," I said. "Let's do this." Bridie grinned at me. "Thank you so much, Terry. You're wonderful!" Bridie gathered up the dress from the bed, and dropped it down over my head and shoulders. After a few minutes of wriggling and pulling, the dress was in place. Bridie tied the drawstrings at the back, effectively sealing me into the garment. I looked myself up and down in the full-length mirror. Bridie had worked a minor miracle. "I'm absolutely gobsmacked, Bridie," I said. "If I weren't married to you, I think I'd marry myself! Do you think I look like a real woman?" Bridie thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "To be perfectly honest," she replied, "I would have to say no, you don't. You do look very convincing, though, and I'm pretty impressed by what I've done to you, even if I do say so myself. But that's not the point." "It isn't?" I said, confused. "No. The point, as I've already explained, is that now I've a chance of keeping my business afloat by having a good show this weekend. And you have a chance to make up for your blunder." "You make it sound like a punishment," I said, gloomily. "Yes, I do, don't I?" she replied, with a saccharine smile. So I was still in the doghouse. I hung my head, feeling vaguely disappointed. I had hoped Bridie would say I could have fooled anyone with my disguise. Once again, she seemed to read my mind. "Terry, you didn't really believe you would actually pass for a real woman, did you? That sort of thing only happens in crossdresser fiction on the internet. But, OK, if it helps, then yes, I think you do make a pretty good looking girl. Now, just one or two more final touches..." Bridie produced a white wedding veil from yet another bag, and clipped it into place on my wig. "Keep this veil down over your face all the time," she instructed. "It'll help to deflect a few of the more suspicious glances." Then she fastened a silver heart-shaped pendant around my neck. It was the one I had given her for her birthday last year. The chain draped down my chest, and the pendant nestled snugly in my duct tape enhanced cleavage. Next she clasped a pair of bracelets around my wrists. Finally Bridie swapped my wedding ring for an expensive looking diamond engagement ring. As with the shoes, it fitted perfectly. "I keep a few dress rings around of various sizes, just in case," Bridie explained before I could query it. "OK, we're good. It's now just after 6.45am. Time to go." Up until now I hadn't given any consideration to the idea that I would actually be leaving the house dressed like this. When Bridie opened the front door, I hesitated in the hallway. "Come on, Terry!" she hissed. "We haven't got all day!" I summoned up my courage, and stepped outside into the street. I imagined that the eyes of every one of our neighbours were trained on me, and I felt foolish. "Oh, don't worry," Bridie said, doing her mind-reading act once again. "It's Saturday. No one'll be up and about yet." Just then, right on cue, a curtain twitched in the upstairs window of the house opposite. "Well, OK," Bridie conceded. "Almost no one." Bridie helped me into her car, a white Vauxhall Astra Estate which she had bought in her second year of trading. The back of the vehicle was already loaded up with boxes and bags of bridal merchandise, as well as a smart business suit and shoes for Bridie. "I've spent a fortune on this show," said Bridie, as she drove us into the city centre to the CEC. "New leaflets, a revamp for the website, new photographs, printing, laminated posters. And sales haven't been so great over the past year, so... I really, really need this show to generate some new business." We turned off the main road and down the ramp which led into the CEC's underground car park, and then made our way to the main exhibition hall to register our arrival and locate our stand. The time was exactly 7am. All I would have to do was stand around wearing a dress for a few hours. That couldn't be difficult, surely. Could it? Chapter 2: SATURDAY MORNING "OK," said Bridie after we had found our stand, number 13. "You stay here while I go and fetch the stuff from the car. It'll probably take me a couple of trips." "I'll come and help," I offered. But Bridie would have none of that. "Certainly not, Terry! You are not humping boxes around. What if you got the dress dirty, or ripped it on something? It would be a disaster. No, stay here. I can manage by myself." And she was gone. I sat myself down on one of the two chairs Bridie had booked. Presently, some more exhibitors arrived and started to set up shop in adjacent stands. They looked at me curiously for a few moments, then got on with their tasks. Bridie returned a short time later, pulling a large trolley on which was laden most of the boxes and bags from the car. "Terence! What the hell are you doing?" she said, in a quiet rage. "Er... nothing," I replied. "You're sitting down, you idiot! Get up, now! If you've got any dirty marks on that dress, I'll swing for you, so help me!" I stood up, and Bridie inspected the dress from all angles. "OK," she said. "You're clean. But watch what you're doing, for god's sake!" Bridie unloaded the trolley, and returned to the car for the second batch. The people on the nearby stands were still looking at me, and I realised they must have heard my voice and so knew that I was a man. I smiled at them, and gave a pathetic wave. "You look great," one of them said, as she velcro'd a poster to her display stand wall. I guessed she was about twenty years old. She was wearing tatty jeans and a sweat top, and her jet black hair was scraped back in a pony tail. "Thanks," I replied, grateful for the support. "I forgot to collect our mannequin from the depot," I said, feeling that some sort of explanation was necessary. The girl nodded. "Right," she replied. "Only I'm not sure how the organiser'll feel about it. He's a bit of a stickler for the rules. Good luck, anyway." Bridie returned once more, and unloaded our remaining merchandise. "Chatting up the competition, are we?" she said. "She wished me good luck," I replied. "That's nice," said Bridie. She took the trolley away, presumably to the trolley park, and came back a few minutes later. "Right," she said. "Now to set up the stand. You just keep out of the way, OK? Stand over there and look beautiful." I stepped to one side and gave Bridie room to work. Unpacking the boxes and bags, she arranged piles of advertising leaflets on the table, and stuck her newly printed posters on the walls with velcro dots. She had also brought a laptop, on which she was intending to run a loop video of her wedding dress range. As she was setting this up on the table, she was tapped on the shoulder by a tall man with wavy blond hair, sticky-out ears and gold-rimmed spectacles. He was holding a clipboard. "You're Bridie's Bridal Boutique, yes?" he asked. Bridie turned to face the man. "Oh, yes," she said. "That's me." "Right," replied the man, ticking off something on his clipboard. "I'm doing the pre-show inventory. I take it you must be Bridie Greane." He turned to look at me, quizzically "And this is...?" "This is my... mannequin," Bridie offered. I detected a sudden tension in her voice. "Mannequin?" said the man, smiling. "She doesn't look like a mannequin to me, dear." "Well, no," Bridie replied. "She's my husband, Terry." The man blinked and checked his clipboard again. "Your husband?" The man's eyes widened. He lifted my veil to take a closer look at my face. "Terry?" he said. "Terry Greane? It is you, isn't it? Well, well, well! This is a pleasant surprise!" I was taken aback. This man seemed to know me, but I couldn't place him at all. And yet there was something vaguely familiar about him. I just couldn't put my finger on it. "You don't remember me, do you, Terry?" he said. There was suddenly a different tone in his voice. A darker tone. "No," I said. "I'm sorry, I don't." "Duncan," he replied, with a rather arch smile. "Duncan Frobisher. Well, well, well! Look at you, all dolled up and dressed to kill. You do look ravishing, with your skinny waist and your high heeled shoes. You really don't have any idea who I am, do you? We were at junior school together. Such fun times. I recall them with much fondness." And then I remembered who Duncan Frobisher was. Before I could respond, Frobisher had turned back to Bridie. "Mrs Greane," he said, consulting his clipboard. "Your application states that your stand will be operated by just one member of staff from your company. Namely, yourself. I'm afraid the presence of your husband clearly violates the terms of your contract." "But Terry isn't a member of my staff!" Bridie protested. "He's just here to model the dress, nothing more." Frobisher was not to be outmaneouvred on this point, however. "That, too," he said," is against the rules, Mrs Greane, which clearly state that the use of live models is strictly prohibited." "Terry isn't a live model!" Bridie countered, desperately. "He's a mannequin!" Frobisher was flummoxed by this. "I'll have to consider this, Mrs Greane. I'll return shortly with my decision." Frobisher turned on his heel and strode off. Bridie was downcast. "We're buggered," she said, slumping onto the chair. "What was that about you and him being at school together? You never told me that you were friends." "We weren't," I replied. "Friends, that is. The fact is, Bridie, I bullied him. I used to poke fun at him incessantly, because of his sticky-out ears. I made his life hell for four years. And I didn't tell you simply because I had no idea he was involved in these shows. I'd forgotten all about him until now. What does he do, anyway?" "He's the senior marketing manager of Happiest Day, a wedding magazine. He's not just involved in these shows, Terry. He runs them. And he's a stickler for the rules. We're buggered," Bridie repeated. "Sssh," I hissed. "He's coming back." Bridie stood up and prepared herself for the bad news. Frobisher, brandishing his clipboard, looked very satisfied with himself. "Mrs Greane," he said. "This is a highly unusual situation. If I am to accept that your husband is here in the capacity of mannequin, then I must ensure that the relevant rules are observed at all times. Now, your mannequin is currently free-standing. The rules state that all mannequins must be supported by an appropriate means, in order to prevent them falling over and causing injury to a member of the public?" "But?" "Let me finish, Mrs Greane, if you please." Frobisher was warming to his task. "Unless your mannequin is anchored by an appropriate support structure, taking into account its size, height and weight, I'm afraid I will have no alternative but to disqualify you from the show." "But Terry is a human being! He's perfectly capable of standing up for himself!" "Now, Mrs Greane. I'm afraid that will not do. You have told me that he is a mannequin, so I will regard him as such. Of course," Frobisher continued, "you can always remove him from your display." "No!" Bridie wailed. "That dress is the centrepiece of my stand. It'll look bare without that dress. What if I borrowed a mannequin from another exhibitor?" Frobisher shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs Green," he said. "The rules clearly state that all exhibition materials, equipment and promotional material must be the property of the exhibitor. Borrowing from another stand would leave you in breach of your contract. It is now ten minutes to eight. I will return at 8.30 to see what you propose to do." Frobisher left, chuckling. Bridie sat down again. She was on the verge of tears. I stood beside her. "Bridie," I said. "What does he mean by an "appropriate support structure"?" She looked up at me, a tear rolling down one cheek. "It's just what it sounds like," she said, sadly. "The mannequin has to be secured on a pole attached to a stable base." "OK," I said. "How is the pole fixed to the mannequin?" "It's screwed in," she said, "to a depth of no less than three inches, for stability. We're buggered... buggered... unless?" Bridie stood up quickly. "I've had an idea," she said. There was a newly determined look in her eyes. "Wait here. I won't be long." Bridie returned ten minutes later. She was carrying a two-foot long metal pole, a metal disc about three feet across, and a brown paper bag. "Oh, god, Terry," she said, putting the metal objects on the floor. "I'm so sorry for what I'm about to ask you to do." I looked at the metal pole suspiciously. It appeared to be telescopic, and made of steel. At one end was a ball-and-socket joint, on which was mounted a small square bracket. Bridie clicked the pole firmly into place on the centre of the metal disc, which was clearly quite heavy. "And just what are you about to ask me to do, Bridie?" I asked. "I'm going to make an appropriate support structure for you," she replied, picking up the brown paper bag. "Do you trust me?" I was pretty sure I knew where this was leading. "What's in the bag, Bridie?" I asked. Bridie opened the bag and produced a large red dildo, an inch in diameter. I gulped. "There's a sex toy shop here," explained Bridie. "I expect it's meant to appeal to the hen party demographic. Terry, you know I wouldn't ask you to do this if I wasn't desperate. It only needs to go in three inches. You will do it, won't you? Please?" I nodded. I had no choice, really. And besides, it would all be over in a few hours. Bridie set to work once more, fixing the dildo onto the pole's bracket by wrapping it around and around with duct tape. On her instruction I removed my tights and the three pairs of elasticated pants. Bridie snipped a hole in the crotches of the pants, and deftly sewed seams around the holes to prevent them fraying. She contented herself with simply creating a jagged hole in the crotch of the tights. "Let's hope they don't ladder too much," she said, helping me back into the knickers and tights. Bridie checked her watch. "It's 8.30. Frobisher will be back any minute. I just hope this contraption satisfies his precious rules." "Frobisher is back now, Mrs Greane," said Frobisher, bang on cue. "So, have you reached a decision?" Bridie took a breath. "Mr Frobisher," she began. "As I tried to explain earlier, the dress being worn by my mannequin is the centrepiece of my stand. Without it, I might as well pack up and go home. That, in all likelihood, would mean the end of my company." "That would be unfortunate, Mrs Greane," said Frobisher. "However, as I have also already explained, your mannequin does not conform to health and safety rules, since it is not fitted with an appropriate support structure." "Ah, but it is," replied Bridie. "Or at least, it will be in a few minutes. I've made one for it. See?" Bridie indicated the metal disc and pole, on top of which was stuck the red dildo. Quite a few more exhibitors had arrived by this time, and they had all stopped what they were doing to listen to Bridie's negotiations with Frobisher. Frobisher looked at the makeshift support, and raised an eyebrow. "How does it work?" he asked. "The pole is telescopic," she explained. "My mannequin stands on the metal plate, and the pole is extended upwards so that the, er, internal supporting section is inserted into the, um, the aperture between the mannequin's legs. The pole is then locked using this knob at the base." "Hmm," Frobisher said, thoughtfully. "It's ingenious. And how far into the mannequin does the, ah, internal supporting section go?" "It goes in to the required depth, Mr Frobisher," Bridie replied. "Three inches." I heard a giggle from one of the nearby exhibitors. The whole situation had become surreal. Frobisher prodded at the red dildo. "It's quite stiff, isn't it?" he said. A glimmer of a smirk appeared on his lips. "Tell me, Mrs Greane, does it screw into the mannequin?" Bridie's face fell. "Well, no," she replied, adding, "how could it, realistically?" "Indeed," Frobisher agreed. "So, since it does not screw in, it's a passive connection. Let's call it a passive internal stability substructure. Well, Mrs Greane, I must say I do admire your resourcefulness and determination. Not to mention the commitment of your mannequin?" "Thank you, Mr Frobisher!" began Bridie. But Frobisher had not finished. "However," he continued, holding up one hand for emphasis, "I have some concerns about the stability of your makeshift structure, due to the lack of a screw thread fixing mechanism. So I am willing to permit you to use your mannequin, subject to one condition." "And what condition is that, Mr Frobisher?" Bridie asked. Frobisher looked directly at me, flashed a vengeful smile, and said, "A three inch insertion is, in my view, insufficient to give the required level of stability. I want the passive internal stability substructure - let's shorten that to PISS, shall we? - I want the PISS to be inserted to a depth of no less than six inches." Frobisher drew a thick line on the dildo with a black marker pen to indicate the required depth of penetration. I could feel my eyes beginning to water. There were several 'ooh's' from the nearby stands. Bridie gasped. "Mr Frobisher, please..." "Do we have a deal, Mrs Greane?" Frobisher asked stridently, sensing victory. Bridie glanced at me. I weakly nodded consent. Bridie mouthed me an 'I love you', and then turned back to Frobisher. "Yes, Mr Frobisher," she said quietly. "We have a deal." "Splendid!" replied Frobisher, triumph evident in his voice. "In that case, please proceed. I will remain to ensure the fitting meets the agreed standard." "But... it's only 8.45," said Bridie. "The show doesn't start for another hour and a quarter." "That is correct, Mrs Greane. But I have already planned to carry out a final inspection of all the stands between 9am and 10am, to ensure they are complete and ready for the public. And I will be starting with yours. Carry on, please." Bridie turned to me. "Ready?" she asked, placing the pole on its display spot in the stand. I nodded, and stepped onto the metal disc. Bridie knelt beside me, lifted my skirt and gave it to me to hold. Frobisher watched every move, smiling thinly. Bridie produced a tube of lubricating jelly, and smeared a generous layer all over the dildo. Then she rubbed some more jelly into my anus. After wiping her hands with a towel, she extended the pole upwards, guiding the dildo into position. "Bend over a fraction," she told me. "You'll be able to stand up straight once it's in. We just need to find a comfortable angle, and I don't want to hurt you." I leaned forward slightly, and then felt the first touch of the dildo. "Here goes," Bridie said, carefully extending the pole further. The dildo slid into my anus with a squelch. It was actually quite pleasant at first, though I didn't say so out loud, of course. Then it went in a bit further, and felt not quite so pleasant. "Bloody hell," I said. "Bridie!" "It's only in halfway so far," Bridie informed me. "Are you all right?" "Yeah," I replied, pursing my lips against the sensation in my bottom. "Keep going." The dildo slid further in. My eyes felt as though they were bulging. The other exhibitors were now trying very hard not to look at the intimate goings-on at Stand 13. "Nearly there," said Bridie. "Just another inch... there!" She wiped the excess lubricant from my backside, and then turned the locking knobs at the base of the pole to secure it. "OK, Terry," she said. "Straighten up, carefully!" Tell me if you feel any sort of pain." I gingerly raised myself to an upright position. The dildo strained against the change of position. I felt a little discomfort, but nothing more. "I think it's OK," I told her. Bridie nodded, relieved. She locked the ball-and-socket joint, and then turned to speak to Frobisher. "There," she said. "Satisfied? "Not yet," he said. "I need to carry out a quality check." He bent down to peer at my backside, and tutted loudly. "It's not in far enough, Mrs Greane," he announced. "The line I drew is still visible. Another half an inch, if you please." Bridie glowered at Frobisher, and then slackened the lower locking knob. I winced as she extended the pole by the additional half an inch. This drew an approving nod from Frobisher. Then, after tightening the knob once again, Bridie took the wedding dress skirt from my hands and arranged it around my feet, obscuring the metal disc from view. Frobisher rose to his feet. "Thank you, Mrs Green. A very equable solution. And perfectly timed, too. It is now 9am precisely. Your display stand seems to be in order in every respect. Have a good show." Frobisher gave Bridie a curt bow, then turned and walked off to continue his final inspection tour. Bridie turned to me. "Dear god, Terry," she said. "I am so, so sorry for getting you into this. But Frobisher's got me over a barrel." I gave a short, humourless laugh. "He's got you over a barrel? Hey, I'm the one standing here with a dildo shoved up my arse and unable to move. And will be for the rest of today." "Yeah," replied Bridie. I looked around the vast hall. By now all the other stands were occupied, and decorated with a variety of wedding-related paraphernalia. The CEC consisted of three floor levels, two of which were filled with exhibition stands. The stands were made of blue cloth covered panels, slotted together to form rows of three-sided cubicles. Each stand was optionally furnished with a long trestle table and up to three chairs. Bridie's stand was on the ground floor, near to a smal cafe and the toilets. The next level resembled a balcony, from which one could look down onto the ground floor level. I could also see a cafeteria on the top level, next to which was a bar and seating area. A large digital clock on the far wall luminously confirmed that it was just 09.02:27. A song began to play over the speaker system. It was 'Living Doll', by Cliff Richard. Given my present situation, I suspected Duncan Frobisher of having a hand in choosing the track. Bridie picked up the protective bag which contained her business suit and shoes. "I'm going to get changed, Terry. Won't be long." "Don't worry," I answered. "I'm not going anywhere." Bridie raised a sympathetic smile at this, and then disappeared into the ladies toilet. My arse was beginning to protest against its predicament with an ever increasing urgency. I experimented with wriggling my hips to ease the discomfort, but it was useless. The metal plate I was standing on was bearing my full weight, which in turn meant that the steel pole projecting from it was held rigidly vertical. The rubber dildo had been firmly taped in place on the pole's bracket. It was in no danger of prising loose, and, though it was firm but flexible, there was very little sideways movement in it. Shuffling my feet was also pointless. I could raise the toe of one shoe at a time off the surface of the metal disc, but that was it. My only option was to stand as still as possible, and try to think of something to otherwise occupy my mind. I glanced up at the clock. It was now 09.18:44. Bridie had been gone for sixteen minutes. Being able to count the minutes go by was already bad enough, but having to also watch the seconds was an added cruelty. I made up my mind not to look at the clock again if I could help it. Just then, Duncan Frobisher walked onto the stand. He flashed me a broad grin. "Hello, Terry," he said. "Bridie not about?" "She's gone to get changed," I replied. "She'll be back soon." "That's all right," Frobisher said. "Plenty of time. I noticed earlier that you don't appear to be wearing earrings, so I brought you these. Consider them my own little contribution to your noble effort." Frobisher held up a pair of large dangly silver earrings. "Now," he said, "I know you don't have pierced ears, so these are clip-on. Allow me." He lifted my veil and clamped the earrings on, giving each one a hard squeeze as he did so. "They have extra-strong springs," he explained, "so you can be sure they won't fall off. I fully expect them to stay on for the entire show." There was an unmistakeable menace in his voice, and I knew I was being subtly warned of dire consequences if I removed the earrings. Frobisher replaced the veil over my face. "See you later," he said, and strolled away. Bridie returned after a few more minutes. She had changed out of the t-shirt, jeans and trainers she'd arrived in, and was now dressed in a smart cerise jacket and skirt and high heels. She'd also put on some makeup and brushed her hair. And, irritatingly, she was carrying a cup of coffee and a half eaten blueberry muffin. "I brought you some bottled water," she said, sitting down to drink her coffee. "You'll need to keep hydrated. But you can only have a few sips at a time, otherwise you'll need to go for a pee, and you know what that would mean." "We'd be disqualified?" I suggested. "I imagine it'll be against the rules for a mannequin to need a visit to the toilet." Bridie looked concerned. "You don't, do you?" she asked. "Need a pee, I mean." I shook my head, causing the earrings to swing back and forth. "Hey," Bridie said, "where did those earrings come from?" "Frobisher," I replied. "He told me it was his little contribution. And he made it very plain that I'm not to take them off, or else!" Bridie placed her coffee cup down on the table and examined the earrings more closely. "The swine!" she exclaimed. "God, Terry, by the end of the day they'll be nipping your poor ears like mad." "At least they might take my mind off the discomfort of being impaled by your 'appropriate support structure'." I stood in silence as Bridie drank her coffee and polished off the muffin. Just then the music being played over the speakers stopped, and the voice of Duncan Frobisher echoed around the hall. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Duncan Frobisher speaking. The show will be opening in precisely thirty minutes time. Please ensure you are at your display stand when the doors open to the public at 10 o'clock. Thank you." The music restarted. "Thirty minutes," said Bridie. "Not long now." "That's easy for you to say," I replied. Bridie picked up her makeup bag and walked over to where I stood. "I'm just going to freshen your makeup," she said, lifting my veil and resting it on the top of my head. "Hold still." She touched up my eye shadow and blusher, applied another coat of lipstick to my mouth, and brushed an extra layer of mascara on to my eyelashes. "When the public come in, keep your arms down by your sides. Don't hold your hands in front of you, otherwise you'll be obscuring detail on the dress. If you have to move your arms, wait until no one's around to see." Great. Not only could I not move my legs, now I had to keep my arms still as well. But all I said to Bridie was, "OK. I'll do my best." Bridie smiled. "You know, Terry," she said, "I was being unkind last night, when I told you that you didn't look like a real woman. You look sensational!" Bridie lowered the veil again, and returned to the table. She switched on her laptop, and clicked the mouse a few times to start the slideshow presentation. An endless loop of images of women in wedding dresses filled the screen. Frobisher made another announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, the time is one minute to ten. The show is about to commence. Good luck, everyone!" "This is it," I said. "I wonder what people will say when they see me?" "They'll see exactly what they expect to see, Terry," she replied. "A mannequin in a wedding dress. If you play your part right, no one will ever guess that you're actually a living, breathing man. Oh, and I should warn you, sometimes people will want to lift the skirt of the dress to see the detail. Be prepared for that." "OK," I said. "Any other advice?" "Keep your legs together," she said. "Relax your shoulders and keep them pushed back. And keep your mouth closed. And don't move a muscle." I sighed. It was going to be one hell of a long day. Chapter 3: SATURDAY "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Happiest Day Spring Wedding Fair. My name is Duncan Frobisher, senior marketing manager for Happiest Day magazine. I can give you my personal assurance that our exhibitors have worked very hard on their presentations and display stands. I sincerely hope you enjoy each and every single, solitary second of the show. Thank you!" Perhaps I was being paranoid, but Frobisher's announcement seemed to be aimed straight at me. His slow and deliberate emphasis of the phrase 'each and every single, solitary second' was surely calculated to remind me of what lay ahead. I was in no doubt that Frobisher was taking a great delight in making me suffer. Bridie must have come to the same conclusion. "God, Terry!" she said. "That man must really hate you! His announcement sounded as if he was trying to draw your attention to the time." "I told you, Bridie," I said. "I bullied him mercilessly at junior school. I made his life hell for four years. Now he's out to take his revenge. And I suppose I can't blame him, really." Bridie stood up and paced the floor. "Look, revenge is one thing, but what he's done to you here is a bit extreme, isn't it?" I nodded, sending the silver earrings into a frenzied, earlobe-jangling jiggle. "We did kind of hand the opportunity to him on a plate, though, didn't we?" I said. "But this," said Bridie, waving a hand in the general direction of my crotch, "this is ludicrous! Yes, OK, granted it was my idea to dress you up as a bride for forgetting to collect the new mannequin?" "For which I apologised," I reminded her. "Without which," she continued, "this stand would have looked dull and drab and unappealing. Customers would have stayed away in droves." "You could have hung a few dresses on the walls," I countered. "Or brought in one of your clothes rails." "Not the same," returned Bridie. "People like to see a wedding dress being worn, to see how it hangs, how it catches the light." "I did suggest you ask one of your friends to wear it," I said. "Sophie, perhaps? She would look incredible in this dress, what with her legs and figure." "And I did tell you," Bridie shot back, "that I would have felt obliged to pay her for doing it. And that would have made her an employee, which, as you well know, is against Frobisher's rules." "You're not paying me," I said. "Terence, I hope you're not suggesting I could have used Sophie as my mannequin?" said Bridie in a shocked tone. "Because you surely must know where Frobisher would have stuck his appropriate support structure!" "Bridie, he wouldn't have done a thing to her. Or to anyone else, for that matter. This is personal, between him and me. I mean let's face it, there's no real need to have a metal pole shoved up my jacksie. I am, as you pointed out, quite capable of standing on my own two feet." "But the rules say?" "Be logical, Bridie! Look at me! I'm not actually being supported by the thing! I can move neither forward, backwards, sidewards, or any - wards in between. I can stand on tiptoe..." (I demonstrated this by raising my heels a fraction, causing the dildo to slide down and out by the same fraction.) "...but I can only do that for a few seconds. (I carefully lowered myself back onto the dildo again.) The only direction which remains is straight down?" "Don't say that!" wailed Bridie. "I can't bear the thought of it!" "Believe me," I said, "I'm trying very hard to not think of it myself." Bridie went silent for a few moments, then said, "So, what did you do?" "Eh?" "To Frobisher. At school. How did you bully him?" "Oh, all the usual stuff. Pushing him in the playground, hiding his spectacles, drawing obscene pictures in his jotter, that sort of thing. It was the name-calling that really got to him, though. I called him names on account of his sticky-out ears. You must have noticed them, Bridie. Let's see, there was Dumbo, Jug Ears, Noddy, Wingnut, Elephant Boy?" "I get the idea," Bridie interjected quickly. "I suppose that explains the earrings he's making you wear." "Exactly. They're just one more way to hurt me. I know I could take them off anytime I want. But if I do, he'll find a 'rule' he could use to disqualify you from the show. And that's his ultimate weapon against me. He knows I'll go through all of this because of what it means to you." Bridie's eyes moistened. "Oh, Terry! You're prepared to endure this nightmare, just for me?" "Of course. I love you, Bridie. I'd do anything for you. As I firmly believe I'm in the process of proving today." "I don't know what to say," Bridie said. "Except I'm sorry. Please forgive me?" "There's nothing to forgive," I said magnanimously. "It'll be all over in a few hours, anyway." "Yeah... Oh, look! Punters! And I think they're heading this way!" Bridie dabbed at her face with a paper hankie, and switched on her professional smile. I remained still, arms by my sides, facing straight forward. I experimented with moving my feet. I found that if I slowly raised the ball of one foot a fraction, I could use the stiletto heel as a pivot to swivel my foot, thereby gaining some slight relief. A flicker of motion on the upper level caught my eye. There, leaning nonchalantly on the balcony rail, was Duncan Frobisher. He was looking straight at me, grinning like a Cheshire Cat, evidently enjoying his revenge. On the stand, Bridie had swung into full flow with her sales pitch. "And if you order within the next two weeks, you also get a mother-of- the-bride hat or facinator, absolutely free!" The customer, a rather large girl in her early twenties, picked up couple of leaflets from the table. Then she turned towards me. Here we go, I thought to myself. "Oooh," she simpered. "Is that a bodycon? Oh, it's gorgeous! Oh, I love it! If only I had the figure for it, eh? Looks great on your dummy, though. I'd give anything to have a figure like hers!" Bridie gave a little chuckle for the benefit of her customer, and a secret thumbs-up sign to me. As soon as the girl wasn't looking, I glanced back up to the balcony. There was no sign of Frobisher. He'd probably gone to dream up another torment for me. I caught sight of the digital clock. It said the time was now 10.42:06. The wedding fair was less than three-quarters of an hour old. Apart from the large girl who would do anything to have a figure like mine, our corner of the ground floor was deserted. The neighbouring exhibitors were trying to keep busy by fiddling with posters, arranging leaflets, and generally prowling around their stand space. Presently the large girl drifted away. Bridie sidestepped her way to me, keeping one eye on the aisles for the first sign of the next potential customer. "See," she whispered. "I told you! She didn't suspect a thing! To her, you're just a dummy!" "And to you?" I asked. "What am I to you?" "You're the dummy who forgot to pick up my mannequin," she tartly replied, then quickly adding, "but I love you for having the balls to go through all this." "Oh, it's nothing," I said, airily. "I adore spending my Saturdays squeezed into a corset, perched on high heeled shoes, dressed as a bride and rendered immobile by a steel pole rammed in where the sun don't shine." I glanced at the clock again. "Still," I continued, "only another six hours, seven minutes and thirty-two seconds to go." "Yeah," said Bridie, returning to her seat. The seconds dragged by. Duncan Frobisher's specially selected playlist of suitable songs continued to ring around the hall. There was 'Beautiful' (Christina Aguilera); 'Who's That Girl' (Madonna); 'I'm Every Woman' (Chaka Khan); 'Pretty Woman' (Roy Orbison); 'She's So Fine' (Jackie Wilson); 'Always a Woman' (Billy Joel); 'She' (Elvis Costello); and 'Man! I Feel Like a Woman' (Shania Twain). To be fair, all the songs were apt choices for an event whose target audience was almost exclusively female. It was entirely likely that the playlist had been assembled weeks ago, or even simply held over from a previous wedding fair. That notion, however, was largely dispelled from my mind at 11.24:39, when Duncan Frobisher reappeared on the upper balcony. I watched him casually amble onto the exact same spot he had earlier occupied. With arms folded, he was happily swaying in time to Doris Day warbling 'I Enjoy Being A Girl'. He stared directly at me, and as the song drew to a close, he raised one hand to his lips and blew me a kiss. Then, shoulders heaving with evident laughter, he sauntered out of my sight. By this time the CEC had filled with more people. The large girl had returned to our stand, this time accompanied by an equally large older woman who I guessed was her mother. "See, mum!" she called out, proving my guess was correct. "That's the bodycon I was telling you about! Innit lush?" Her mother looked me up and down. "Ooh, fucking hell, yes!" she enthused. "Oh! It's fucking lovely, Angie! Absolutely fucking lovely!" Angie's foul-mouthed mum took a couple of steps closer, coming within touching distance of me. There had so far been maybe a dozen or so visitors to the stand, but all of them had been sales-pitched by Bridie at the table, content to admire my dress from a distance. At this moment, however, Bridie was already deep in conversation with another potential customer. The laptop was showing pages from Bridie's online catalogue, and I could hear prices and dates being discussed. Bridie, aware of the commotion being caused by Angie and her mum, glanced at me anxiously. Angie's mum leaned forward, and reached out a hand towards my stomach. I held my breath, willing myself not to blink. Though I was glad of the veil over my face, I realised I wasn't sure just how effective it was in obscuring my features. Suddenly a hideous possibility occurred to me. What if Angie's mum was actually an agent of Duncan Frobisher? I had pushed Frobisher dozens of times in the school playground. Was he, by proxy, now about to push back? If the answer was yes, then I was in deep shit. The dildo up my arse wasn't rigid, but neither was it particularly flexible. A fall would almost certainly result in its being forced further up my rectum and through my intestine, causing untold damage. Then I remembered what Bridie had said earlier. People like to touch the dress, she'd told me, in order to examine the detail. Besides, the time was now only 11.48:17. By exposing me now, Frobisher would be robbing himself of another five hours, twenty-one minutes and forty three seconds of further chances for revenge. Surely it would be in his interests to keep me here, silently suffering, for as long as possible? It would be Frobisher's head on the block with Happiest Day magazine if I was rushed to hospital impaled on a steel pole. Then again, what if Frobisher had now had his fill of revenge? What if he'd sent Angie's mum to finish the job once and for all? All these thought tumbled through my mind in an instant. My heart pounded in my chest as I weighed up the pro's and con's. I came to the conclusion that Angie's mum had to be just an ordinary punter, with no connection to Duncan Frobisher. Hoping and praying I was right, I forced myself to keep still. "Angie," said Angie's mum. "Look at the fucking beading on this fucking bodice. It's fucking lovely!" Angie's mum ran her fingers across the front of the bodice, feeling the texture of the intricate beadwork. I wanted to heave a sigh of relief, and, a few minutes later when Angie and her horrible mother had gone, I did. I cast a quick glance at Bridie, who was still in earnest conversation with the same customer. An order form had appeared on the laptop, which meant we had a sale. One of the other exhibitors crossed the aisle and onto our stand. I recognised her as the pony-tail haired girl who'd spoken to me shortly after we arrived. She was now wearing immaculate makeup, and her black hair fell about her shoulders in gentle curls. She wore a name badge on which the name 'Lyndsey' was stencilled. Lyndsey stood directly in front of me, and gave me a warm, friendly smile. "I'm going to adjust your dress, Terry," she whispered. "Don't panic." Lyndsey bobbed down out of my eyeline. I felt the skirt of my dress being rearranged, and then Lynsdsey bobbed back up again. "That woman caught the hem with her foot," she informed me, "but it's OK now. Are you all right? I was worried about you." "Thank you, Lyndsey," I whispered back. "I'm fine." Lyndsey smiled at me again, and returned to her stand. In truth I was feeling far from fine. I had now been stuck in this position for over two and a half hours all told. My bottom was telling my brain to order my hands to remove the dildo. My brain was doing its best to argue the toss with my bottom, whilst simultaneously dealing with the complaints it was receiving from my ears, toes, scalp, and waist. My hands just stayed out of the argument entirely. My earlobes were throbbing from being pinched by the pair of bulldog clips that were the earrings. My toes, squashed together in the pointed shoes and bearing a lot of my weight due to the four inch heels, were starting to ache. The tight elastic in my wig was digging into my scalp all around my head, causing it, too, to gently throb. The corset, which I had now been wearing for more than fourteen hours, was slicing into my waist as well as restricting my breathing. The corselette and the two pairs of bodyshaping pants were ganging up against the tops of my thighs and cutting into my crotch. In short, I was in complete and utter agony, and there was absolutely nothing I could about any of it. I decided to try blocking out the pain by concentrating on the music being played over the hall's loudspeakers. At that moment it was 'Barbie Girl' by Aqua. A song about a female doll. Dear god, Frobisher must be scouring the bottom of the Spotify barrel. The song was interrupted midway by another of Frobisher's announcements. "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned silkily, "I'm sure you'll have been thoroughly impressed with the quality and inventiveness on view at our exhibitors stands today. So I'd just like to remind you that you can vote for the most attractive stand by entering our free prize draw competition. The winning exhibitor will receive a small cash prize, courtesy of Happiest Day magazine. And one lucky customer will receive a deluxe spa pamper day worth ?1000, and a year's subscription to Happiest Day magazine. Full details can be found in the event programme. Thank you." 'Barbie Girl' picked up where it left off. There seemed to now be far fewer punters around. Bridie, with no customers to pitch for, sidled over to me. "How are you doing?" she whispered. "I'm fine," I lied. "What was that about a cash prize for the most attractive stand?" Bridie shrugged. "Search me," she said. "First I've heard of it." Just then Lyndsey bounced over to join us. "It's gone a bit quiet, hasn't it?" she observed. "Lunchtime," responded Bridie. "Everyone'll be piling into the restaurant on the top level for lunch. Hey, Lyndsey, do you know anything about this competition for best stand? I didn't see anything about it in the programme they sent me." "Oh, yeah," said Lyndsey. "They did an insert. I've got one. Hang on a mo." Lyndsey nipped over to her company's stand, and returned seconds later. She handed Bridie an A5 sheet of paper, which Bridie read out loud. "The Happiest Day Best Stand at the Wedding Fair competition. Which one of our exhibitors stands has most grabbed your attention today? Simply enter the stand number in the box below, and you could win a deluxe spa pamper day worth ?1,000 in our free prize draw! Plus a year's subscription to Happiest Day magazine!" "What about the cash prize for the exhibitor?" I asked. "It doesn't say," answered Lyndsey. "But I've heard on the grapevine that it's ?2,000! Oh, we've got a customer! I'd better go!" Lyndsey dashed off to attend to her new punter. "?2,000," I pondered. "We could have a bloody good holiday with that." "No," Bridie replied. "I'd be able to pay off the car. There might be enough for a weekend in Blackpool. But don't get your hopes up, Terry. We haven't a snowball in hell's chance of winning. No, my vote would go to The Delphine Hotel. Their stand's a mock up of the hotel's bridal suite, complete with a miniature four poster bed. Listen, I'm starving. I'm going to nip to the cafe for a sandwich and a coffee. Will you be OK on your own?" "Oh, I'll be fine," I replied, pivoting my right foot and trying to ignore the empty feeling in my stomach. With impeccable timing, the strains of Weird Al Jankovic's 'Eat It' blared through the speakers. I had to give credit to Frobisher. He was skillfully pushing every single one of my buttons. Hard. The afternoon marched slowly on. Handfuls of punters wandered along the aisles. Some picked up leaflets and stuffed them into carrier bags, while others were content to browse the items on display whilst avoiding any eye contact with the exhibitors. It didn't seem very busy at all, and I wondered why Bridie had been so confident about making a lot of money here. As far as I could tell she had secured only one sale. That had been when my attention was taken up by Angie's appalling mother. At 14.57:29 a man appeared, armed with an expensive-looking camera. He took three shots of every stand; one from the front, one from the left, and one from the centre. After taking each set of three views he would write down something in a little notebook. A badge on his lapel identified him as "Happiest Day: Official Photographer". More time passed. Frobisher's playlist had turned out to be a blessing in disguise for me. I had heard every song at least five or six time now. They were being played on a continuous loop, so I entertained myself by trying to remember which song was coming up next. Every now and then, Frobisher threw an extra track in as a one-off, possibly in an attempt to keep me from becoming complacent. The lunchtime rendition of 'Eat It' had been a case in point. Now, with the time inching towards 4pm (15.49:12 to be precise), it was the theme tune from 'Shaft'. It took me a few moments to get it, but, once I had made the connection, I couldn't take my mind off my arse. My arse, meanwhile, had long since given up the argument with my brain, but was still complaining bitterly to any other part of my body that would listen. Every other part of my body had its own problems, however. The top of my head was numb from the wig. My earlobes were numb from the earrings. My shoulders were numb from being pushed back. My pecs were numb from being taped together. My waist was numb from the corset. My crotch and the tops of my thighs were numb from the body shaper knickers. My toes were numb from the shoes. I was grateful I could still feel my legs, since they were all that were keeping me out of A&E. As a mark of thanks, I pivoted my left foot a whole two inches. A hush gradually descended on the CEC. Not a soul had passed by in the last twenty-eight minutes and nineteen seconds. Bridie was sitting at the table reading her complimentary copy of Happiest Day magazine for the third time. Across the aisle, Lyndsey was rearranging leaflets she had last rearranged less than ten minutes earlier. Exhibitors in the other nearby stands were all similarly occupied, and all looked bored witless. I knew how they felt. At least they could move. At 15.58:42 my nemesis strolled up, hands in pockets. The speakers had gone silent once the theme from 'Shaft' had ended. "Hello, ladies," said Frobisher. "How's it going?" "Not too good," Bridie replied. "I've made just one sale, ?350. Nowhere near enough to even pay for the stand." Murmurs of agreement rose up from the other nearby exhibitors. It had obviously been a bad day for everyone. "Still," said Lyndsey, brightly. "It'll pick up." I stared at her. "Pick up? Lyndsey, how's it going to pick up, for god's sake? The place is deserted, and there's only an hour to go!" "Yeah," she replied, "but there's always?" Lyndsey stopped midsentence and looked at Bridie uncomfortably. "Always what, Lyndsey?" I asked, confused. "Lyndsey, there's always what?" "Oh, shit," Bridie said under her breath. Frobisher turned to me and began to chuckle. "What, you mean you don't know? Oh, but this is priceless!" He turned back to Bridie. "Bridie, you didn't tell him?" I felt my temper rise. "For fuck's sake! Tell me what?" "Shit," repeated Bridie, quietly. "Shit, shit, shit!" Frobisher looked at me and grinned, then turned to Bridie once more. "Well, are you going to tell him, or shall I?" Bridie closed her eyes. "Terry, today's always quiet, for some unknown reason. But the fair is... oh shit! The fair is a three day event! Today, tomorrow and Bank Holiday Monday. I'm so sorry." Five minutes and fourteen seconds earlier, I'd had only another sixty minutes of my ordeal left to endure. But now I'd learned that I would have to go through it all again. Twice. Chapter 4: SUNDAY MORNING "Terry? Terry! It's Bridie! Wake up! It's 7am!" I opened my eyes, and smiled up at the face of my wife. Then I remembered... After I had learned that the Happiest Day Spring Wedding Fair stretched over three days, and not just one, Frobisher had pointed out that there was still almost one hour left until close of business. "I expect all your stands to remain in a state of customer-readiness at all times within opening hours. That," he added, looking at me, "includes Teresa over there." Then he had walked off. At 4.30, Frobisher announced on the speaker system that the show would be closing in thirty minutes. "Terry," said Bridie, clearly shaken. "To hell with Frobisher's rules and threats of disqualification! I'm going to get you off this thing right now." "No, Bridie," I told her. "I won't give him that satisfaction. If I give up now, he's won." Bridie nodded, and sat down to wait. At 16.55:00 Frobisher announced that the show would be closing in five minutes, and would all customers kindly make their way to the exit. Moments later he reappeared at our stand, presumably to ensure I remained in a "customer-ready state" until the bitter end. As soon as the digital clock flicked over to 17.00:00, Bridie set to work releasing me from the appropriate support structure. First, of course, she had to remove the bodycon dress, just in case it got soiled by whatever came out of my arse along with the dildo. When that moment came, a huge feeling of relief swept through my body. I collapsed to the floor and sobbed. Once I had calmed down, Bridie took me to the toilet to remove my makeup. I agreed to keep the corset on overnight, to save time in the morning. Bridie then returned to the stand while I sat on the toilet. This was a pointless exercise, as it turned out. I'd had nothing to eat or drink all day, since we'd completely forgotten about the bottled water. I was empty. When I got back to the stand Frobisher was still there, pontificating to Bridie. "Mrs Greane, the rules clearly state that all presentation and display material must remain on these premises for the duration of the show. Naturally, that includes your mannequin, Teresa." Bridie exploded with frustration. "But that's ridiculous! Terry is a human being! He?" "Legally he is classified as an item of presentation and display material, Mrs Greane. Teresa stays here. Or do you want me to terminate your exhibitor's contract immediately?" "NO! That is... I don't know what to..." I stepped forward. "Frobisher, Bridie can't afford to pull out. She is depending on the income from this show to see the business through the coming months. If she pulls out, then the business goes under. It's as simple as that. "My role in this came about as the result of a mistake which I made. A mistake which I was, and still am, prepared to make amends for. Granted, we could have probably found a more rational solution, but Bridie's idea of dressing me up as a bride was a bit of high jinks which I was happy to play along with, for one very simple reason. I love my wife. And, because I love my wife, I would do anything for her, including modelling a wedding dress in full makeup and high heels. "What neither Bridie nor I banked on was you, Frobisher, with your pathetic childhood grudge and your half-baked, make-it-up-as-you-go- along rules. Well, I'm here to tell you that you won't beat me. I'll be Bridie's mannequin for the rest of the show, and I'll abide by your stupid rules, too. I'll deal with whatever you care to throw at me. But remember this, Frobisher; ultimately you will lose, because I will NOT give up!" A round of applause erupted from the dozen or so exhibitors who had stayed behind to witness the showdown. Lyndsey was smiling broadly and clapping faster than anyone. Frobisher regarded the onlookers coolly, then returned his gaze to me. "Bravo! Nice speech. And I can see you mean every word, too. But you're wrong about the rules. I don't make them up as I go along, but I did write them. It's all down to interpretation, you see. Before I joined Happiest Day, I was a practicing solicitor, specialising in entertainment industry law. So, Teresa, don't presume to argue law with me, please. Very well, just so long as we understand one another. You continue in your role, and I will continue in mine." Frobisher turned to Bridie. "Mrs Greane, you have a most remarkable asset here. The next two days promise to be a genuine pleasure. For one of us, at any rate. Just make sure, from now on, that Teresa knows exactly what she's letting herself in for. See you in the morning." With a theatrical bow, Frobisher left. Bridie took hold of my hands, which still sported the scarlet painted acrylic nails. "That was incredible, Terry," she said. "I hope you don't come to regret those words, but thank you for saying them." "Bridie," I said, "why didn't you tell me it was a three day show?" Bridie chewed her lower lip. "I did tell you, Terry. I told you weeks and weeks ago, when I sent off the application." "Then I obviously forgot," I said. "But in that case, why didn't you remind me when it mattered? I know for a fact that I've said things today which would have made you realise I thought it was a one day event. Yet you never picked me up on it. Why not?" "I... I don't know." Bridie was clearly upset. "You'd already put up with so much. I couldn't tell you a thing like that when you were standing there unable to move. So I was waiting for the right moment, but it never came. I thought it'd be best to hang on until after five o'clock, once you were off that... that thing I made for you. But then Frobisher turned up to ask how we'd done, and Lyndsey blurted out about things picking up, and... oh, god! Terry, let's just pack up and go home. It's not worth all this." "No, Bridie," I said. "I told Frobisher I'd be your mannequin for the rest of the show, and I meant it." "It's not that, Terry," Bridie said, slowly. "There's another thing I've just realised. If you didn't know about the show being three days, then you probably don't know about the times." "The times?" I said, confused. "The closing times for the show." "Well," I said, "It's five o'clock, surely?" Bridie nodded, but not in a good way. "Most wedding fairs run from 10 or 11 in the morning until 3 or 4 in the afternoon," she began. "This year, Happiest Day said they'd be extending the times in order to create better public access and maximise sales. Five o'clock was today's closing time, and tomorrow's show runs from 10am until 6pm." "I see," I said, taken aback. "And Bank Holiday Monday?" There was a long pause before Bridie gave the answer. "10am until 8pm," she said quietly, a tear tricking down her cheek. "Oh shit, Terry, I'm so sorry." Now my head was in a whirl. 10am to 8pm? Ten whole hours. Eleven, including the one that Frobisher insisted on before the show opened. Dear god. "OK," I said, finally. "So be it." "Terry? You still want to do it?" I nodded. "Your company is important to you, Bridie. If we leave now, the company goes under. That is true, isn't it?" "Yes! Oh, yes, it is true!" Bridie confirmed, vigorously. "I need a healthy profit from this show. Just being here has cost me ?2,000 alone. So far I've taken in ?350. And I've already got massive debts as it is." "Well then," I said. "We have no choice. Plus, like I said, I won't be beaten by that smarmy bastard, no matter what." Bridie smiled. "You are an amazing man, Terry," she said, sniffling. "I don't deserve you." We hugged one another. Suddenly the main lights went out, to be replaced by the soft glow of low level security lamps. "I'd better go," said Bridie. "Exhibitors have to be off the premises by 6pm today, and it's nearly that now." "OK," I said. "I'll be back at seven in the morning to get you ready. Try and sleep. Oh, and here..." Bridie handed me a plastic lunchbox. "Here's a little bit to eat. You need something in your stomach. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. I'll see you tomorrow." Bridie left. The 'little bit to eat' turned out to be a chopped lettuce leaf, a cherry tomato, a slice of processed cheese and two slices of cucumber. I knew I could ill afford to need the toilet while the show was running, so this meagre ration would have to do me. Once I'd eaten the meal, which didn't take long, I wandered around the exhibition hall until I found the Delphine Hotel's mocked-up bridal suite. Feeling a little like Goldilocks, I lay on the bed and soon fell fast asleep. Bridie found me the next morning by following the sound of my snoring. "Terry? Terry! It's Bridie! Wake up! It's 7am!" I opened my eyes and smiled up at Bridie. This was going to be a long day, and we had a lot to do now. Once I had given myself another close shave, Bridie repeated the process of turning me into a female mannequin. We had a head start on yesterday, because my arms and legs were already waxed and I was still laced into the corset. Astonishingly, I had grown quite used to wearing it. On went all the makeup and false eyelashes, body shaping garments, a new pair of crotchless tights, corselette, wig cap, pendant, ring, bracelets, and of, course, the earrings. The shoes, dress, veil and wig were all that remained to be put on. But there was one thing missing... "Terry," said Bridie, "where the hell is the appropriate support structure?" I looked all around the stand. "It was here last night," I said. "You brought it back after you washed the shit off the dildo. So where is it now?" A voice rang out in the gloomy half-light. "Good morning, Mrs Greane! Good morning, Teresa! I trust you both slept well?" We turned to see Frobisher coming toward us. He was pushing a trolley, on which was a large cardboard box. "We slept, Frobisher," I said. "Though fuck knows how. Look, we seem to have a small problem." "Oh? Do tell." "My appropriate support structure is missing. It was here last night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?" Frobisher grinned. "Ah! Yes, well..." he blustered, "it's funny you should ask me that, Teresa. The thing is, I was watching the CCTV yesterday afternoon." He paused, and indicated an unobtrusive security camera on a nearby pillar. "I became just a tad concerned that the appropriate support structure - let's shorten that to ASS, shall we? - that the ASS may not be quite as robust as we had originally believed." "How do you mean?" asked Bridie, a trace of fear catching her voice. "Well, I detected a certain, umm, instability in your mannequin, Mrs Greane. So, with health and safety rules being a subject dear to my heart, I took it upon myself to do you a favour by addressing the issue on your behalf." Frobisher pointed to the box on the trolley. "What is it?" Bridie asked. "An improved ASS, Mrs Greane! Based upon your initial design, but with added safety features. I have upgraded the rubber internal support section to a metal one." "Metal!" exclaimed Bridie, horrified. "A polished steel model, in fact. A six inch insertion section, with a double-spherical base, welded in place on the ball-and-socketed bracket. Once locked, there should be much less lateral play." "Oh, my god!" gasped Bridie. "You said 'features', plural," I pointed out. "What else have you done?" Frobisher opened the box. "I have attached the mannequin's shoes to the metal base unit, using industrial strength superglue and some strategically placed bolts. It'll almost completely eliminate the lower limb movement I observed on the CCTV." "I don't understand," I said. "My shoes are still here." I pointed to where they lay, under the table. "Oh, but I couldn't use those, now could I, Mrs Greane?" said Frobisher. "You might have decided to sue me for criminal damage! No, I procured an alternative set of footwear. They will fit Teresa's feet, of course. I checked the size, though I regret I couldn't find an exact match for the style." Frobisher lifted my new improved ASS out of the cardboard box, and set it down on the floor with a loud thunk. Bridie and I stared at it, and our jaws dropped. Pointing upwards from the top of the collapsed telescopic pole was a six inch long phallus of gleaming steel. My bottom twitched just looking at it. At two inches in diameter, it was twice the width of the old one. The "double spherical base" Frobisher had mentioned was, of course, a pair of steel testicles. Below, on the metal base, was a brand new pair of white patent leather shoes. They stood no more than an two inches apart, perfectly lined up with one another. They had rounded toes, ankle straps and half-inch thick soles, but it was the heels which grabbed our attention. "I'm afraid they only had these six inch stilettos available," Frobisher said, his voice thick with mock apology. "Terry won't be able to wear those!" cried Bridie. Frobisher tutted. "I think you do your husband a disservice, Mrs Greane! He has proved himself capable of a great deal in the last twenty-four hours. I'm confident he'll rise to this latest challenge. "You fucking sadistic sod!" yelled Bridie. "Oh, and we're back to the name-calling!" Frobisher replied. You and your husband are well-matched, it seems." He glanced up at the digital clock. "It's now 8.40am," he said. "You have 20 minutes to get your mannequin into a state of customer-readiness. I shall return at 9am sharp to carry out my safety inspection. Oh, the minimum required insertion depth is clearly marked on the passive internal stability substructure, just above the double spherical base. Very clearly marked. Cheerio!" And then he was gone. I looked at Bridie. Bridie looked at me. We both took a deep breath, and began. I slid my feet into the shoes and fastened the ankle straps. Then Bridie helped me up to a standing position. The extra two inches of heel made a lot of difference to my sense of balance. My ankles were extended almost to straightness, and my hips were thrust slightly further forward than before. The most disconcerting aspect of it was the total lack of ability to move my feet. All I could do was stand. "OK," I said after a few minutes. "I'm ready." Bridie greased the silver dildo with a copious amount of lubricating gel. She also smeared some around my anus through the holes in the garments I was wearing. Then she extended the telescopic pole upwards, manoeuvring the two inch wide phallus into my rectum. "Jesus Christ!" I cried out as the dildo penetrated inch by inch up my arse. "How... much... further?" I gasped. "Just another couple of inches or so," replied Bridie. "OK," I said through gritted teeth. "Make sure? Mmmm!? it goes in? Oooh!? all the way past the? Aaah!? the mark." By now the neighbouring standholders had arrived, and we had drawn a large and sympathetic crowd, voicing words of encouragement. "There!" said Bridie at last. "It's in, right down to the balls. Well done." "Oh, Bridie!" I groaned. "I know from yesterday that I'll get used to this in an hour or so's time, but right now... Ohhh!" Bridie was now ready with the dress. "You need to get this on quick, Terry," she said, urgently. "It's almost nine." Standing on a chair, Bridie dropped the dress over my head and shoulders. Lyndsey came over to help me keep my balance during the tricky process of threading my arms through the armholes. Then she pulled the dress down over my bust and hips, arranging the semi- transparent skirt around my legs, Bridie clipped the auburn wig in place on the wig cap stretched over my head, and added the veil using some more clips. "To be honest," Lyndsey said, standing back, "I think the higher heels have helped. The dress was just slightly too long for the four inch heels you had on yesterday." Bridie glared at Lyndsey, but made no comment. Which meant that Lyndsey was probably right. "Thank you for your help, Lyndsey," I said. "And for your support and friendship." "We're all behind you, Terry," Lyndsey replied. "You're the talk of the whole place. We think you're brilliant." Lyndsey raised her hands and started to clap. In no time at all, the hall was filled with the sound of applause. Not just from the dozen or so exhibitors from the adjacent stands to ours, but from the entire exhibition centre. The upper levels were thronged with exhibitors and centre staff, all peering down at me and clapping madly. There were even several wolf whistles, which I couldn't help but laugh at. I held up a hand in gratitude. "How touching!" called out Frobisher, appearing from around the corner of the aisle. "Everyone! May I have your attention? Please ensure that your stands are customer-ready. I am beginning my safety inspection tour now." Frobisher stepped forward onto our stand and lifted the hem of my dress at the back, then bent down to peer up the skirt. "Good," he said, dropping the skirt and walking away. "Well," said Bridie, rearranging the skirt again. "That went better than I expected." "Yes," I agreed. "As you said, he's got us over a barrel." Bridie got out her laptop and set it up on the table. "We'll see a big improvement in the number of punters today," she told me. "It's always the same. Saturday's quiet, Sunday's busy, Bank Holiday Monday's very busy." "Bridie...?" "Yes?" "There isn't a Tuesday, is there? That I don't know about?" Bridie laughed. "No, Terry. There isn't a Tuesday." "Thank fuck for that," I replied. With the laptop set up and displaying the wedding dress slideshow, Bridie went off to get herself changed in the toilet. She reappeared fifteen minutes later, wearing another of her smart business suits, with the same high heels as the previous day. "You OK?" she asked me. "It's too early in the day for that question, Bridie," I answered. "Ask me again at two o'clock." I squirmed my hips around the huge metal dildo. It was just reaching the almost-comfortable stage. "There's one thing about having this thing stuck inside me," I said. "It does actually work, inasmuch as it stops me falling forwards, backwards or sidewards." "Or any other -wards in between!" chipped in Bridie. "Yeah," I agreed. "All I have to concentrate on is keeping my legs straight. I'm not sure how enthusiastic my toes are going to be at six o'clock, though." We settled down to wait for the start of the show; "Settled down" being a relative term, of course. I realised, with a rush of guilt, that I have never really taken much of an interest in Bridie's small business. Or any interest, for that matter. I had only once ever called in at her shop. I began to wonder what was on the other stands here. The only one I had taken much notice of was the Delphine Hotel's bridal suite mock-up, and that was only because I'd slept in it. I knew nothing about any of the others. I had previously dismissed it all as 'weddingy stuff', but now I saw that it was more than that. These people cared about their businesses. And about each other. I felt that I had made some friends here, and I decided that I now wanted to be a part of it. For Bridie. Shortly after Frobisher had made his 9.30 announcement that the show would be opening in half an hour, the man himself appeared yet again at our stand. This time he was accompanied by a tall woman aged about fifty, wearing a royal blue peplum dress and black high heels. Her blonde hair was cut in a bob, and her face was beautifully made up. "Magda," said Frobisher, addressing his companion, "this is Mrs Greane, of Bridie's Bridal Boutique." "How do you do, Mrs Greane?" Magda said, pleasantly. "I've heard such a lot about you from Duncan." "Oh?" replied Bridie. "Nothing bad, I hope?" "Mrs Greane," said Frobisher, "May I present Magda Davison, senior fashion editor at Happiest Day." "Pleased to meet you, Mrs Davison," said Bridie, almost curtseying. "I'm divorced, dear," the woman replied. "Davison is my maiden name. My married name was Frobisher. I'm Duncan's mother." Oh, I thought to myself, holy fucking shit, he's brought in reinforcements. Frobisher guided his mother over to me. "And this, mother, is Terence Greane, Bridie's husband." Magda Frobisher took a step closer, and looked up at my face through the veil. "So," she said venomously. "You are the little shitbag who made my boy's life a misery for four years. Duncan would never tell me the name of the bully who tormented his childhood. He was afraid of what you might do to him if he did, you see. Day after day he ran home to me from school, sobbing his little heart out. "Mummy!" he would cry, "mummy, the boy pushed me again. The boy called me horrid names again." But Duncan would never say who you were. And his despair drove me to despair, too, because in those days I could do nothing to help. The teachers at his school did nothing to help. They denied bullying went on at all. But, of course, it did. Day after day, week after week, month after month, for four long years. You even bullied him in the school holidays, because he spent those in perpetual fear of the day he had to go back to school again. And now here we all are. Duncan is a qualified solicitor and a senior manager at one of the country's most respected magazine houses. He is an important somebody. Whereas you, Terence Greane, tricked by your own wife into wearing a dress and made up to look like a woman, your feet stuck to a metal plate and a steel pole jammed up your bottom, are a pathetic, insignificant nobody. I've waited fifteen years for this meeting. And now... it's ten o'clock. Enjoy the show." Magda Davison turned on her heel and swept off. Frobisher shrugged his shoulders at me, his face screwed up in a look that said, "Mothers, eh?", and set off in a leisurely pursuit. As soon as he was out of sight, Bridie leapt across to me. "Bloody hell, Terry! She was scary. Are you OK?" "Yeah. A little shaken, but I'll be OK. Funny..." "What is?" "I wonder why he never told her I apologised to him?" Just then the voice of Frobisher came across the speaker system, announcing the show was now open. "You apologised?" said Bridie. "When?" "On the last day of Year 6," I explained. "We'd just been given this talk about moving on to secondary school, and how it would bring big changes. It was actually quite inspirational. Something about it made me feel ashamed of the way I'd treated Duncan for the last four years, so on the last day, just before home time, I went up to him and told him I was very sorry." "What did he say to that?" "He just stared at me in disbelief. I think he thought it was another of my tricks. And then his face sort of clouded over, and he said, "I hate you, Terence Greane. I hate you, and I'll get back at you one day. You wait and see." And then he ran off." "Well," said Bridie. "At least you tried. So what happened when you both started secondary school?" "We didn't. That is, we went to different ones. I never saw him again, until now." "I see." "It's strange how things turn out, isn't it?" I said, ruminatively. "I admit that I've never had any interest in your boutique business. I never had any desire to get involved. But now look at me! I couldn't be any more involved if I tried. And all because I bullied one boy at school." "Bridie!" hissed Lyndsey. "Punter alert!" "Thanks, Lynds!" Bridie replied. "Already?" I asked. "That was quick. It's only five past ten." "I told you Sunday was busy, Terry," Bridie reminded me." Look, we may not have much chance to speak to each other today, so good luck." "You too," I said. I watched Bridie return to the table, immediately engaging in salespitch small talk with a passing punter. The large digital clock on the far wall said it was now 10.06:37. I tried not to think of the eight long hours which lay ahead. Chapter 5: SUNDAY Frobisher had clearly been busy on Spotify again. His announcement to open the show was followed by Elton John's 'I'm Still Standing'. I filed this information away for later, and watched as the incoming procession of punters increased in size and volume. At 10.03:49 Elton John gave way to The Jacksons 5's 'Can You Feel It?' A couple of minutes into the song, Frobisher hove into view. He sauntered along the aisle, nodding briefly to exhibitors as he passed. Then he stopped at our stand, hands in pockets. He cocked his head to one side, as though listening for something. The Jackson 5 sang on. The very instant that the song's title repeat refrain began, a sudden tingling sensation shot violently up my backside, causing me to gasp in surprise. Then, as soon as the song continued into the next verse, it stopped. The bastard had fitted the dildo with a vibrator! But how the hell had he turned it on? The answer came as the song drew to its conclusion. Frobisher was now standing no more than two feet directly in front of me, peering through the veil into my eyes. The song reached its title repeat refrain once again, and once again the vibrator kicked into action. I fought desperately to give nothing away, but couldn't prevent my eyes from twitching involuntarily. As the final words of the song played out, Frobisher took one hand out of his pocket, and smiled. He was holding a universal TV remote control. He pressed a button, and the dildo again danced within my rectum. "Yes," said Frobisher in answer to the song's question. "Yes, I rather think you can feel it!" And once again he was gone. Oh shit, I thought. No wonder he'd changed the ASS. He'd turned it into a Trojan Horse, giving him the capability to attack me from inside whenever he liked. I had to grudgingly give him credit, though. Hooking the thing up to a remote control was a stroke of genius. At 10.30:18, the sound of a repeated chord on an electric organ alerted me to the next attack. The song now being played was the instantly recognisable Beach Boys classic, 'Good Vibrations'. The very instant the lyrics began, so did the vibrator. Not just for a few seconds, but for the entire three minutes. Bridie was oblivious to the whole thing. She was currently deep in negotiations with a customer, and, judging by the presence of the order form on the laptop, had clinched another sale. She was blissfully unaware of my present predicament. The song ended, and so did the vibrator. My relief was instant, but, rooted to the spot as I was, I couldn't show it for fear of exposure. This was part and parcel of the torture, of course. The vibrator hadn't exactly hurt me as such. I imagined it would be fun to use one during sex. But dealing with the discomfort whilst pretending to be a lifeless dummy in a wedding dress was another matter entirely. I wondered how long before Frobisher made me deal with it again. At 10.33:35 Frobisher made another announcement about the competition for The Best Stand at the Wedding Fair. I hadn't grasped the double meaning of the word 'stand' the day before, but now it hit me in the face like a wet kipper. The general theme of Frobisher's new playlist became more evident during the next twenty-five minutes, as the ears of the heaving masses in the hall were treated to 'I Saw Her Standing There' (the Beatles) and 'Stand' (REM). The significance of these choices might have gone over the heads of the heaving masses, but I was only too well aware of it. At 10.56:52 Frobisher sauntered back onto our stand yet again. Bridie saw him arrive, but, as she was dealing with another potential buyer, did not engage in conversation with him. As before, Frobisher stood directly in front of me. After politely agreeing with a passing punter that "Yes, it is a very lovely dress, isn't it?" he reached into his trouser pocket, and looked me in the eye. "Let's see what's on the other channel, shall we?" he said. Then, with a sudden twirl, he scampered off again. What the crap was all that about? I wondered. I had braced myself for another onslaught from the vibrator, but none had come. Perhaps the remote's battery had died. At 11.00:22 my question was answered. Frobisher's last visit had simply been to tell me that he had another card up his sleeve, and had then dashed off to play it. In order to do that, he needed to be back wherever the sound system was controlled from. It was only a few weeks earlier that I had watched the film 'The Full Monty' on the telly. The scene in the dole office, when the characters practice their dance moves as they wait in the queue, had cracked me up. It was that same song which now played over the speakers in the exhibition hall. As the voice of Donna Summer filled the room with the song 'Hot Stuff', so too did my rectum begin to feel distinctly warmer. Oh fuck! The dildo had also been equipped with a fucking heating element! I gritted my teeth against the rising temperature in my arse, and hoped I was not about to be badly burned. But that, of course, wouldn't be what Frobisher wanted. His whole aim was surely to keep me here and watch as I suffered long hours of torment. For that reason I was convinced he wasn't going to cause me any serious harm, just serious discomfort. I just had to keep going, no matter what, in the face of his revenge. The morning became the afternoon. The aisles were constantly filled with a swarm of people, mostly female, laughing and chattering happily about dresses, churches, flowers, table decorations, favours, bridesmaids, bouquets, and hymns. I didn't overhear much mention of grooms, oddly enough. Bridie seemed to be doing well, with a steady stream of people sitting down to discuss the online catalogue. There was even a queue at one point. I was aware of a number of admiring comments on the dress I was wearing. I almost burst out laughing at a remark made by one of the relatively rare men at the show, who asked his girlfriend/fianc?e, "Why don't you look like that dummy? She's bliddy gorgeous, her! Look at that waist! And those long legs!" He was given very short shrift for his insulting faux pas. At 13.08:53, during a brief lunchtime lull, Bridie was able to slip over and see how I was doing. In order to talk with me unnoticed, she stood on a chair and fiddled with my veil and wig, in the pretence of adjusting it. By this time, the pattern of Frobisher's revenge had properly established itself. His new playlist included all the titles from the previous day, plus new ones with their own common theme. These included: 'Careful Where You Stand' (Coldplay); 'Here I Stand' (Usher); 'Standing On The Corner' (The Four Lads); 'Don't Stand So Close To Me' (Police); 'I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down' (Elvis Costello); and 'Stand And Deliver' (Adam And The Ants). I could only assume that Frobisher's preference for the correct use of English accounted for the omission of titles such as 'Can't Stand Losing You', 'I Can't Stand The Rain', 'Hard To Make A Stand' or even 'One Night Stand'. But it was the device lodged in my rectum that really made the presence of his revenge felt. Firstly, there was the fact that the two inch girth of the Passive Internal Stability Substructure made it feel like a train was using my arse as a tunnel. Secondly and thirdly were the secret additions of the vibrator and the heating element. Every hour, on the half-hour, the PISS trembled and buzzed inside me for the full three minutes and seventeen seconds of 'Good Vibrations'. And every hour, on the hour, it simmered and stewed my rectum while 'Hot Stuff' played. All four minutes and ten seconds of it. So, when Bridie came to see how I was, I had endured a total of six assaults by Frobisher's little device, with the next one due in twenty one minutes time. In a low whisper I told Bridie about the two additions to the dildo. "WHAT?!" she hissed. "But that's inhuman!" "Bridie," I said, quickly. "It's OK. I can take it. I hope I can take it, anyway. Look, Frobisher isn't out to hurt me. He wants me here, suffering, for as long as possible. I'm certain of that. It's my safeguard. All I need to do is keep standing up." Bridie looked unhappy. "OK," she said at length. "I've made a few sales today, but nowhere near enough, unfortunately. I might just cover the cost of the stand, depending on how many more sales I get this afternoon. But I'll definitely need to stay for tomorrow. Are you sure you can put up with another day?" "I told you, Bridie. I intend to finish the show as your mannequin come hell or high water, and I will not be beaten by Duncan fucking Frobisher." Just then a customer called out a question to Bridie, who descended from the chair to try and turn the question into a sale. The customer, a woman aged about 40, sat down to be guided through a myriad of options. But, after about fifteen minutes, she stood up again and walked away. I hadn't seen the order form on the laptop, so it was a no sale. I flicked my eyes to the digital clock, which said it was now 13.26:54. There were just three minutes to go before the Beach Boys sang for everyone and the dildo danced for me. Frobisher had done me a favour, really. By creating the triple torture device that was the PISS, he had also neatly divided my day into thirty-minute chunks. Yesterday had been one long tedious test of my endurance, made all the more tedious because of the sparseness of customers. In comparison, the introduction of these half-hourly interludes had given me something else to occupy my mind, making the time pass quickly. It had also helped me to ignore the growing numbness in the various parts of my body. The Beach Boys burst into song, and the PISS buzzed into action. I clenched my buttocks against the sensation. Was it my imagination, or did the vibrator's frenzy feel more intense this time around? Two carrier-bag laden women were standing near me, admiring the dress. "Oh! Not 'Good Vibrations' again!" said one. "I know," replied the other. "This one and 'Hot Stuff' have both been on at least three times. Someone must like them!" "Well," the first woman said, "if they play 'Hot Stuff' again, I'll scream. I can't stand that song! Come on, Paula, let's go for a coffee." And off they went. They will play 'Hot Stuff' again, I thought, ruefully. In exactly twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds. 'Good Vibrations' reached its conclusion, and was followed by 'Standing in the Shadows of Love', by The Four Tops. So why was it, I thought with alarm, that the dildo was still buzzing away inside me? Surely Frobisher wasn't going to leave the vibrator switched on? Three minutes and seventeen seconds was bad enough, but I doubted whether I would be able to bear it for another four and-a-half hours nonstop. I carefully cast my gaze down towards Bridie. She was already deep in sales talk with another customer, a slim girl of no more than twenty years old. She had long blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, and the longest legs I had ever seen on a girl. Dear god, I thought, please don't let me have an erection. The blonde girl was chatting enthusiastically with Bridie, though I couldn't hear any of what was being said over the din of people. The girl swivelled on her chair and pointed at me, laughing. Bridie laughed, too. Had I been found out? The dildo relentlessly thrummed inside my rectum, like a thousand pneumatic drills. And then I saw it. Nestling unobtrusively behind Bridie's laptop was the TV remote. How the hell did it get there? Frobisher had obviously placed it so that I could see it but Bridie could not. As long as it lay there undetected, the vibrator in my arse would continue to, well, vibrate. I could easily call out for help, but that would have meant breaking my cover as a mannequin. Frobisher would decree that I was a human model, which was against the rules. He would then disqualify Bridie from the show for breach of agreement, and that would signal the end of Bridie's Bridal Boutique. The long minutes went by. Eleven... twelve... thirteen... Frobisher's voice came over the speaker system, with a reminder about the prize draw competition for the best stand at the show. Fourteen minutes. Fifteen. Sixteen. And then, a miracle occurred. The blonde girl, evidently unable to decide between a white dress and an ivory dress, pulled the laptop towards her for a closer look. In so doing, she revealed the presence of the TV remote to Bridie. Come on, Bridie, I silently screamed at her. Figure it out! Bridie saw the remote, and a puzzled expression appeared on her face. She reached out for the device and picked it up. Then she looked at me, and back at the remote again. With the sudden realisation written all over her face of what might be happening, Bridie stood up slowly and told her customer she'd be back in just a moment. "Take your time," she advised the blonde girl. "You need to be sure you make the right choice for your big day!" Bridie surreptitiously pointed the remote at me, and pressed the "off" button. Mercifully, the vibrator stopped. Bridie casually hovered near me, as if stretching her legs. "Are you OK?" she whispered. "I am now," I whispered back. "The ruddy vibrator's been going for more than quarter of an hour. Take the batteries out, for fuck's sake, and hide the remote." After removing the batteries, Bridie locked the remote in the small cupboard supplied with the stand for exhibitors" personal belongings. Then she returned to her customer, who by this time had decided to buy the ivory off-the-shoulder dress. Bridie tapped out the order form, as Elton John began singing 'I'm Still Standing' yet again. My shoulders had tensed up with the effort of battling the most recent hardship. I slowly let them relax and drop. The time was now 13.59:39. With the TV remote now safely in our possession, Frobisher would be unable to activate the PISS any more. On the flip side, however, I would now have to find another focus to help me pass the next four hours. As the digital clock flashed 14.00:00, Frobisher's playlist loaded up 'Hot Stuff'. I wondered if the woman I'd overheard earlier had carried out her promise to scream. As this thought crossed my mind, I became aware that the warming sensation in my bottom had returned... If I could have smacked the palm of my hand against my forehead, then I would have done. The remote in our cupboard wasn't the real one after all! Frobisher was still in control of my half-hourly doses of torment. The afternoon wore on. At 5pm, an hour before closing time, the crowds began to thin out. Announcements were made for members of various coach parties to please make their way to the car park, and have a safe journey home. Bridie had been busy constantly, and had managed to secure another three or four sales. She'd had no opportunity to speak with me, so was totally unaware that Frobisher's PISS was still alive and kicking as per schedule. There had been no more prolonged attacks, thank god. I guessed that the one at lunchtime had been Frobisher's way of telling me that he had me in the palm of his hand. At 17.30:19 the PISS vibrator struck again. With the show due to close at 6pm, I reckoned this would be the last one of the day. I had been vibrated eight times and warmed seven, and, just like the woman at lunchtime, I never wanted to hear 'Good Vibrations' or 'Hot Stuff' again. But, of course, Bank Holiday Monday was still to come. At 17.45:14 Frobisher made his 'show will be closing in fifteen minutes' announcement. By now there were very few customers still around; a handful of stragglers trudged the aisles, either fearful of missing something or simply completing their collection of leaflets. And I, like Elton John, was still standing. As Bridie sat at her laptop, I saw Frobisher approaching. With him was a powerfully-built man aged about 50 or so, with greying hair and a monobrow. "Good afternoon, ladies!" said Frobisher. "How's it gone today, Mrs Greane?" Bridie glared at Frobisher. "Much better," she replied. "I'm just in profit now, so if tomorrow's as good as today has been, I'll be happy." There were similar comments from the neighbouring exhibitors. "Splendid!" said Frobisher. "There's still ten minutes remaining until close of show, so please remain customer-ready in order to maximise those sales." And my punishment, I thought. Frobisher turned to address the powerfully-built man. "Robert, this is Teresa," he said, indicating me. I remained still and impassive, wondering what was coming next. "Oh, yes!" Robert said, his voice surprisingly high pitched for such a big man. "Oh, yes! You were right, Duncan! She is lovely! Very lifelike indeed. I don't think I've ever seen one as good as this!" There was a clear note of sarcasm in Robert's voice. He clearly knew everything. Frobisher patted Robert's back. "Robert, why don't you take a closer look? You can check your handiwork." Robert stood right in front of me, looking me up and down, then walked around behind me. Frobisher turned to Bridie. "My good friend Robert here constructed your mannequin's passive internal stability substructure, Mrs Greane," he said. There was an unmistakeable touch of pride in his voice. "Did he, now?" Bridie replied, coldly, watching Robert gently lifting the hem of the skirt up to my hips, revealing my legs. "He also installed a couple of extra modifications, of which you may be aware." "Yes. I'm not sure how those modifications are necessary in a lifeless mannequin, but I'm sure you'll be able to come up with a good reason. Too bad you lost your remote control, isn't it?" Frobisher reached into his pocket, and pulled out an identical TV remote. "You mean this? The one in your cupboard is a dummy. Just like Teresa there. This one," he said, gesturing with the one he now held, "has been working perfectly all afternoon." Robert, still holding the skirt up around my hips with one hand, ran his free hand all the way up my right leg. He lingered at the top of my thigh, and I shuddered under the touch. "Nice legs," he said. "Very soft and shapely. Very lifelike." Then he stood, allowing the skirt to fall. Without any warning, Robert suddenly seized my hips between his huge hands, and shook me back and forth as though rattling a dice. As I was pinned in place by the PISS he had built, my back and forth movement was restricted to no more than an inch or two either way. My bottom felt like it was being thumped by a sledgehammer from the inside. My face contorted with the pain, and I let out a gasp. Bridie leapt up to my defence. "Stop! You're hurting him!" she yelled, prising Robert's hands from my sides. "Hurt?" said Frobisher, laughing. "You can't hurt a mannequin, Mrs Greane! Or are you telling me that Teresa is actually a human model?" Bridie was incensed, but sensible. "No," she replied. "Teresa is a mannequin. A human model would be against the rules, wouldn't it?" "Quite correct," Frobisher replied. "The time is now twenty minutes to six. I'll leave you to your end of day preparations, and see you again tomorrow. Toodles!" Frobisher left, taking Robert with him. Two minutes later, at 6pm, he made the announcement that the show had closed. Bridie released me from my prison as quickly and as carefully as she could. "At least this metal PISS will be easier to wash than the rubber one," she said. "I'd be surprised if there's much to wash off it," I replied. "I'm empty." As soon as I was free, I collapsed to the floor. I hoped my body would eventually forgive me for this weekend. Now there was just one more day for me to endure. Chapter 6: MONDAY "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Happiest Day Spring Wedding Fair. My name is Duncan Frobisher, senior marketing manager for Happiest Day. We may be having some typically British Bank Holiday weather, but our exhibitors are simply buzzing to make sure you receive a warm welcome for every second of your visit! Thank you!" It was raining. Fortunately, it didn't seem to have put people off from coming to the wedding fair, so Bridie and the other exhibitors were still hopeful of a good final day's trading. My day, of course, had begun at 7am, when I was woken from my bridal suite slumber by Bridie. After a toilet visit to rid my bowel and bladder of the slight remains of last night's salad, my face was once more shaved and covered with makeup, my embarrassing lump flattened by three pairs of knickers, and my legs encased in another new pair of crotchless tights. I pulled on the corselette for the third time, padding out its bra cups with the rolled-up pairs of tights. As nine o'clock approached I climbed into the six inch stilettos and hauled myself into an upright position. Then Bridie apologetically guided the PISS into my arse, and locked the telescopic steel rod and the ball- and-socket joint. Then she and Lyndsey dropped the bodycon wedding dress over my head and shoulders. As Lyndsey adjusted the hem, Bridie secured the wig cap and the auburn wig on to my head, and clipped the veil in place. "Only one more day to go," said Bridie, adding the jewellery to her mannequin. "Yeah," I replied, mentally preparing myself for the eleven hour marathon ahead of me. "How do I look?" The last time I had put that question to Bridie, she had gone on to be rather dismissive about my chances of being taken for a woman. Now she stood back, looked at me and said, quite simply, "Stunning!" Frobisher arrived to carry out his so-called health and safety inspection. In reality this consisted of nothing more than a cursory check to see that I was fully dressed and properly impaled on the ASS. Thus satisfied, he left. That had been three and a quarter hours ago. The time was now 12.16:56. Bridie was right about the Bank Holiday Monday being the busiest day of the three. The aisles seemed to be straining to contain the never ending caterpillar of people, and the constant hubbub of feminine chatter was almost deafening. Bridie had been busy all morning. Her first customer of the day had been a girl aged about 30. She, like many others, had admired 'the dress on the mannequin over there', and had wondered if it was OK to try it on. Bridie said she was sorry but, unfortunately, that would not be possible. "But I'd be delighted to arrange a consultation for you at my shop," she added. The girl happily took up this offer, and booked an appointment for the following afternoon. Frobisher had been busy all morning, too. After his 'welcome to the show' announcement, he had begun his Monday playlist with 'Three Times a Lady' by Lionel Richie. The PISS had been brought to vibrating life for the first time at 10.15, with the warming element doing its thing at 10.45. Every half hour, just as had happened the previous day, Frobisher's TV remote control beamed fresh affliction into my helpless bottom. Bridie knew that I would be taking the hits. She had guessed that the timings had changed when she heard 'Good Vibrations' and 'Hot Stuff' being played on the quarter-hours. I knew she'd guessed because, when the Beach Boys track came on at 10.15 she had glanced up at me with an expression of surprise on her face. I worked out that, by the time the show finished at 8pm, the dildo would have been activated twenty times. Unless Frobisher's schedule changed in some way, of course. At 13.10:05 Frobisher announced that the draw for The Best Stand at the Show would be taking place at 5pm, and urged everyone to please drop their voting slips in the box at the Information Desk as soon as possible. During a rare quiet moment for her, Lyndsey popped over to check on me, using the pretence of making some changes to the way my veil fell around my face. "Bridie's clearly too busy to come to you herself," she whispered. "How are you managing?" "I'm OK, Lyndsey, thanks. But it's almost 3.15pm. Time for the bloody Beach Boys again." "Yes," she hissed. "I'd noticed the times had moved. You poor man. I wish it was 8 o'clock and you were out of this horrible situation. I hope you make it." "I thank you, Lyndsey," I said. "On behalf of my head, my chest, my waist, my legs, my toes and, most of all, my backside." Lyndsey gave me a smile, and returned to her stand. At 16.45:08 the heating element roared into life. I was convinced that it was getting hotter each time, and I wondered if Frobisher was now trying to break me into revealing my true nature. But I knew that Bridie was relying on me, and I was not about to let her down now that we were only slightly more than three hours from the finish. The Donna Summer track ended, and the digital clock ticked its way towards 17.00:00. As the hour arrived, the voice of Duncan Frobisher sounded out across the hall through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen! We're about to make the draw for the competition to find The Best Stand at the Show. And to make the draw we're honoured to welcome His Worship the Mayor, Councillor Stephen Stebbings! But before Mayor Stebbings makes the draw, I can now reveal that the stand which has gathered the most votes this weekend is stand number thirteen, Bridie's Bridal Boutique! Congratulations to you! And now, Mayor Stebbings..." I could see that Bridie was absolutely amazed at this news. She herself had said we stood no chance of winning, having seen the quality of some of the other stands in the show. It had to be another of Frobisher's tricks. But why would he want to give Bridie the ?2,000 prize money? It didn't make any sense. Frobisher was finishing off his announcement: "...and will be presented with their prize at 6 o'clock by the mayor at stand 13. Thank you." Bridie shot a quick look at me, raising her eyebrows as if to say "What the hell?" I could not reply, of course. There were still far too many people milling around for that, though the coach trip parties had begun to disappear My toes, bearing my full weight as I stood in the seven inch heeled shoes, had long since gone numb. I had also lost the feeling in the top of my head again due to the wig, and my earlobes had given up throbbing in protest against the earrings. But, I told myself, there was only another two hours and fifty-six minutes to go. The end was in sight. A man with a camera strolled up at 17.57:19. I recognised him as the same photographer who had taken three shots of every stand on Saturday. Now he stood, waiting. I guessed he was there to take pictures of the presentation of the ?2,000 prize to Bridie for The Best Stand at the Show. Sure enough, when Frobisher strode along a minute later with His Worship the Mayor at his side, the photographer sprang into action, clicking away at all angles. "Ladies and gentlemen," began Frobisher. "Mayor Stebbings will now present a cheque for ?2,000 to Mrs Bridie Greane, of Bridie's Bridal Boutique, voted as The Best Stand at the Show." There was a generous round of applause from the assembled crowd of visitors and exhibitors. The mayor stepped forward and presented the cheque to Bridie with a short speech of congratulations. This was followed by the taking of photographs, with Bridie standing flanked by Stebbings and Frobisher, holding the cheque. "Tell you what," said Frobisher. "I think the mannequin should be in the picture as well. Bridie, if you stand next to her, Stephen on the end, and I'll stand this side of the mannequin. How does that look, Bill?" "Yeah, that's great," replied the photographer, snapping a series of pictures. I wasn't sure which was the greatest surprise to me; the fact that Frobisher and the mayor seemed to be on first name terms, or that it looked like I was to appear in a future edition of a national magazine dressed as a bride. Frobisher placed his left hand lightly on my bottom, and gave it a gentle squeeze. And then the bastard chose that moment to set the vibrator off. I flinched at the unexpected assault, clenching my buttocks. The vibration was definitely stronger now than it had ever been. Bridie sensed my distress, and laid one hand on mine. I desperately wanted to close my hand around hers, but I couldn't for fear that someone might spot the movement. I was still amazed I'd gotten away with the whole weekend as it was. After a minute or so, Bill the photographer declared himself satisfied with what he'd got. "That's great," he repeated. "Thanks." "Now, Stephen," said Frobisher, "if you'd like to return to the hospitality suite with Bill, I'll join you in a few minutes. There's just some paperwork to tie up with Mrs Greane here." Paperwork? Once the mayor and Bill had departed, Frobisher led Bridie back to the table and they sat down. Frobisher took an envelope from his jacket pocket, and waved it at Bridie. The din of the crowd had risen up again, making it impossible for me to hear what they were saying, but I didn't like what I was seeing. Frobisher had produced a dozen or so sheets of paper from the envelope, and had laid them on the table in two neatly squared piles. Frobisher then separated out two sheets, one from each pile, and seemed to be asking Bridie to sign them. Bridie was nodding, a dubious look on her face. But then she smiled, took a pen from Frobisher, and signed the two pages. Frobisher gave one of the signed sets of documents to Bridie, and pocketed the other. Shit! The bugger had just persuaded Bridie to sign a contract, but for what? Shit, shit, shit! I'd have to wait a little longer to find out. By then, of course, it would be too late. I watched Frobisher leave the stand, looking extremely pleased with himself. Bridie was immediately collared by another customer, and instinctively launched into sales pitch mode. The customer, a woman in her mid-fifties, seemed to have many questions, and it was fully three quarters of an hour before she rose from the table again, smiling broadly. Bridie had clinched yet another sale. The digital clock said it was now 18.52:14. With a start, I realised that my 6.45pm heat-up had not taken place. Perhaps Frobisher had forgotten. At least I'd been spared having to listen to 'Hot Stuff' again. The 7.15pm play of 'Good Vibrations' didn't happen either. I had watched the time crawl towards the moment in anticipation, only for it to pass without incident. At 7.30pm Frobisher made his 'show will close in thirty minutes' announcement. By now the aisles were practically devoid of people, but Bridie was still dealing with customers. As soon as the last one had left, Bridie came to my side. "My god!" she said. "It's been so busy! I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to come and speak, but honestly, this must be the best show I've done. In money terms, that is!" she added, hastily. "We've done really well. I've taken in twice as much as I did at last year's show, and getting the ?2,000 prize means it's nearly all pure profit!" "Bridie," I said, "what did Frobisher want? What did he say to you?" "Oh!" she replied. "Terry, that's the best bit! Frobisher admitted that everything he's done to you was in revenge of your bullying him at school. He said he thought you wouldn't be able to hold out until the end of the show, and that you've proved him wrong. Frobisher said he was impressed by the lengths you've gone to in supporting me, and has decided that bygones should be bygones." "Has he, now?" I said. "So why didn't he say that to me? "He said he'll talk to you later, during the after-show party." "After-show party?" "Yes," explained Bridie, "there's always a party on the last night of these shows. It's upstairs in the main bar, after the show closes." "But what happens to all the stuff on the stand?" I asked. "The breakdown happens tomorrow," Bridie explained. "We have time slots to come in and remove our stock, before the stands are dismantled. It's just like the buildup, but in reverse." "I see. Bridie, what was the document you signed?" "Oh!" Bridie exclaimed. "Part of the prize for The Best Stand at the Show was a stand at the next Wedding Fair, at no cost! It's too good an opportunity to miss! It'll be in Kingston-Upon-Hull at the end of this month, over the late Spring Bank Holiday weekend. My hotel fees are paid as part of the prize, too!" "It sounds too good to be true," I said, with growing suspicion. "You said your hotel fees. Don't I get to come, too?" "Of course not," she replied. "You're not an employee. Besides, I'll have a new mannequin by then, so you're off the hook!" The digital clock said 19.45:00. Frobisher's voice sounded on the speakers, advising that the show would be closing in fifteen minutes. I was longing to be out of the wedding dress and rid of the infernal thing up my arse. I hoped that what Bridie said Frobisher had told her was true. But I wanted to hear it from the man himself first. "Not long to go now, Terry," Lyndsey called over. "Then you'll be free. What will you do with yourself tomorrow?" "Oh, Lyndsey," I replied. "I honestly don't know. Probably spend the whole day soaking my feet. And sitting on a pile of very soft cushions!" "While wearing a wedding dress?" she joked. "No," I replied. "I think I'll slip on a comfy negligee, instead!" This drew laughter from the nearby exhibitors, "Seriously, though, Lyndsey," I said, "I never ever want to wear a dress and heels again." "Well, if you ever change your mind," she replied, "just give me a call. I reckon you'd look a knockout in a minidress and thighboots! We could have a girly night out!" There was more good-natured laughter, and shouts of 'Good luck, Terry,' and 'All the best'. Once again I felt that I had made friends with these people, and I made up my mind to ask Bridie if there was any way I could become more involved in her business in the future. Though definitely not as her mannequin. 8pm arrived at long last. "Ladies and gentlemen," announced the voice of Duncan Frobisher, "the show is now closed. I'd like to thank you all for making this show such a thoroughly memorable experience. Now, as there are still members of the public in the building, would all exhibitors refrain from dismantling any part of their stands until further notice. Thank you." Groans of protest went up from all around the hall. "What the hell?" cried Bridie. "This is ridiculous! What's Frobisher playing at now?" I had half expected a twist in the tale at this point. It was just a question of finding out what that twist would be. It had to be something to do with the document that Frobisher made Bridie sign. My predicament looked set to continue for a little while yet. And then, making another perfectly timed entrance, Frobisher appeared. His attempts to engage the other exhibitors in conversation were not very successful. As Lyndsey had said, everyone at the show knew what had transpired between the two of us, and Frobisher had come to be regarded with deep mistrust, if not downright loathing. To look at him, though, it all seemed like so much water off a duck's back. Ambling casually onto our stand, he was greeted by a very vexed Bridie. "What's this about?" she demanded. "There should be no public in the building now. Who is it?" "His Worship the Mayor, Councillor Stebbings," Frobisher replied. "And his good wife, the Lady Mayoress, of course. And my friend, Robert, whom some of you met yesterday. They will all be staying for the aftershow party, at my invitation." There was an uproar, not least from Bridie. "Terry has been standing here since nine o'clock this morning, Mr Frobisher," she shrieked. "Eleven hours. You can't seriously expect him to stay like this any longer!" Frobisher held up his hand for silence. "Mrs Greane, surely we're not going to go over the same old ground again, are we? The rules clearly state that all exhibition stands must remain in a state of customer readiness whilst members of the public are in the exhibition hall. And that, as I have pointed out previously, includes Teresa." "But the show closed ten minutes ago!" Lyndsey cried. "True," Frobisher responded, "but the rule does not differentiate on that score. Now, who's coming to the after-show party?" No one moved. "But the after-show party goes on until midnight," said Lyndsey, dully. "Quite," replied Frobisher. "And we're fifteen minutes into drinking time now." "Go on, everybody," I called out. "Go to the party. Please. I'll be OK. You've all worked hard, you deserve it. Have one for me, will you?" "Well, ladies and gentlemen," said Frobisher, indicating the way to the stairs. "The dummy has spoken. Shall we go?" With understandable and touching reluctance, the exhibitors shuffled off to the stairs and headed for the bar area on the upper level. Bridie remained, rebelliously. "I'm not going to any fucking party, Frobisher," she said. "I'll stay here, with my husband." Frobisher sighed. "Oh dear!" he said. "I'm afraid that is an option which you are not at liberty to take, Mrs Greane. As the winner of The Best Stand at the Show, your presence at the after-show party is mandatory. Didn't you read the contract you signed earlier? Noncompliance would be very costly for you. Very costly indeed. I'm sure you catch my drift." Bridie looked devastated. She had been well and truly duped. "I'm so sorry, Terry. I'm such a fool." "It's OK, Bridie," I assured her. "I'll be OK. Enjoy the party." "Fat chance of that," she replied. "I'll come down as soon as the party ends. I promise." And she left. Frobisher turned to me and smiled, then followed Bridie to the party. I was alone. The main hall lights went out, and in their place the security lamps cast shadows with their pale yellowish glow. Oh, god! I thought. My legs and feet already ached with the effort of standing still for so long. Would I have the strength to keep going until midnight? I hoped so. I had to think of something to occupy my mind for the next four hours. With very few options open to me, I decided to sing. The choice of song was obvious. I don't know how many times I sang 'I'm Still Standing'. Four hours equals two hundred and forty minutes, and, assuming each rendition lasted three minutes, that would make a total of eighty renditions, give or take. High above me, on the upper level, the sounds of the party drifted down from the bar. Every now and then, the unmistakeable figure of Frobisher appeared on the balcony, peering down at me through the gloom and smiling. At these times I sang louder, even waving my arms above my head. Frobisher didn't care about my pretending to be a mannequin any longer. This was now a battle of wills. At 23.47:21 Frobisher walked along the aisle towards me. I carried on defiantly singing. "Yes!" he called out to me through the gloom. "All right! I hear you. You're still standing. Admirable. I must admit, you have boundless stamina. I envy you. Then again, you always were good at sports in school, I seem to remember. Did that carry on in secondary school? I imagine it did." I stopped singing. "I played on the school football team," I told him. "In goal. We were so good, I spent most of each match just standing in my goalmouth." "Good practice for your current vocation, then." "I'm retiring after tonight." "I think not." "What do you mean?" Frobisher smiled. "Bridie's Bridal Boutique won the prize for The Best Stand at the Show. A ?2,000 cash prize." "Yes, I know." "Yes. What you don't know," he continued, "is that the prize carried certain conditions. A contract, if you like." I nodded. "The document you conned Bridie into signing." Frobisher put on an expression of mock-horror. "Conned? Careful, Teresa, I could sue you for slander, you know." "You could," I replied. "But you've had far more pleasure out of shafting me with your little toy, haven't you?" "You mean this?" he said, producing the remote. "It was fun, I agree. In a crude sort of way, that is. The vibrator is a variable strength model. I spared you the maximum setting." "Very kind. You said the prize carries conditions." Frobisher sat down, laying the remote on the table. Happiest Day magazine hosts ten of these wedding fairs every year." "Bridie won a free stand at the next show, in Hull," I said. "Ah, that's not strictly correct," Frobisher said. "Let me clarify; It's true that Bridie Greane has won a free stand at the next show. And the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that..." "I don't..." "She is contracted, Teresa. Under the terms of that contract, Bridie is obligated to exhibit at all of Happiest Day's wedding fairs, for the next four years." "Four years...?" A penny was dropping somewhere in the distance. "And as part of her contractual obligation," continued Frobisher, "she is committed to using the same mannequin as she has used at this show." "You... you mean me." "By Jove, I think you've got it, Teresa! Yes, I mean you. You, who made my life an absolute hell for four years. Now the tables are turned, and the law is on my side. Oh, you'll love the London show! It runs over five days, from 10am until 6pm every day. The after-show party goes on until one in the morning." My head swam. This was outrageous! "Bridie wouldn't do that to her own husband!" I yelled. "It's in the contract," Frobisher said simply. "She could change the name of her company. That would get round it." "No, the contract binds Bridie as an individual." "Then we'll go public," I said. "We'll tell the police that you're using the shows to carry out sexual assaults on me out of perverted revenge." "Try it and I sue her for every penny she's got." "Bridie won't go along with any of this!" I cried. "She'd rather wind up the company than do this to me again." "Wrong again. If she completely ceases trading at any time in the next four years, I sue her arse off. It's in the contract. Honestly, Teresa, it's watertight. Trust me, I'm a solicitor." "You're a fucking bastard!" "And we're back to the name-calling. Old habits die hard, eh? Ah, it's just gone midnight. Your wife will be along any moment, and since the mayor and his wife left ten minutes ago with Robert, there's no general public in the building any more. I'll leave you to sort yourselves out." Frobisher stood, leaving the remote on the table. As he sauntered off, he called back to me, over his shoulder. "See you in Hull, Teresa!" EPILOGUE At 14.15:00, the announcement came over the speaker. "The train now standing on platform four is the 14.20 to London King's Cross, calling at Durham, Darlington, York, Doncaster and Peterborough, due to arrive at London King's Cross at 17.26." Bridie, carrying a suitcase, walked briskly along the platform towards the open door of carriage E, and I followed close behind. "Bridie, please! There's no need for this! Can't we talk about it?" "We've talked about it, Terry. There's nothing more to be said. I've made up my mind. It's better this way." "Better?" I said. "Better for who? Not for me, it isn't. I don't understand any of this. Please, Bridie, come home." "Look," she said, "last week I forced you into wearing a wedding dress and high heels. I laced you into a corset, put makeup on your face and tights on your legs. For Christ's sake, Terry, you looked more like a woman than I do! And I did that to you." "But," I said, "You had a good reason for doing it?" "Yes. Without that show the business would have gone down, I'm certain of that. I was grateful that you wanted to help me?" "I still do, Bridie?" "And at first I had this daft idea of getting the local newspapers along to take your photo." "Ah!" I said. "I thought there was something you weren't telling me at the time." "It would have been brilliant publicity," Bridie continued, "and we could have had a laugh. But then Frobisher appeared, with his stupid sadistic so-called rules, and turned everything on its head. I couldn't call the papers with you in that situation." "It all worked out in the end, though, didn't it?" "You got through the show. You said you would, and somehow, god knows how, you did. But fucking hell, Terry, you went through sheer agony! I just can't bring myself to put you through all that again." "But I will do it again, Bridie," I said. "I did it once, I can do it again." "But I can't! I know you took all the pain, standing there hour after hour, impaled on that spike. But I went through my own hell, too. Every time I looked at you, I knew it was because I'd put you there. I was to blame." "No, it was Frobisher, he? " "What if you'd become too exhausted to keep standing up, Terry? What if your knees had given way and you'd gone down onto that thing? When I got home each night, I cried myself to sleep thinking about it." "It didn't happen!" "Not this time, no! But what about the next time? Or the time after that? Or any of the other thirty-eight shows to come? No, Terry. It stops, here and now." "Leaving me isn't the answer," I said. "Bridget, please!" "Leaving you is the only answer, Terry! It's the only way to keep you safe from Frobisher and his warped revenge. It's the only way I can beat his contract." Bridie stepped onto the train. "I won't put you through all that, ten times a year for the next four years!" "But Bridie, I love you." "And I love you, Terry," Bridie said, stepping onto the train. "And it's because I love you that I have to leave you. It has to be this way. Goodbye." "Bridget... please..." The train door slid shut. I saw Bridie take her seat, tears streaming down her face. The train pulled smoothly away. It picked up speed, and rumbled off into the distance and out of sight, leaving me standing alone on the platform. I was still standing there for a long, long time afterwards. THE END