A Week At The C.C.: Ellie--Saturday, Pt. 1 free porn video

Saturday, Pt. 1 - Ellie "I've a feeling we're not in Swindon anymore." There's a lot to be said for a skirt spread wide atop lashings of frothy short petticoats. Feels smashingly delish, obvs. But also, for example, when you plop on the lap of some dirty old man, the arrangement lifts, then settles, to cover him to the knee, and maybe you can tuck your little legs under too. While, underneath, there's nothing between you but his trousers and your (in my case, frilly-bummed) knickers. Then you can get to work, with some privacy assured. I'm the undisputed expert in this field. Honestly, nearly every girl at The Sissy has asked me for lessons. You need to shift around a little to get comfy, rock to peck him on the cheek or whisper in his ear. Squirm if he's being randy or forward with you. Bounce a bit if he says something amusing or naughty. When you're sitting still, position yourself on the hardness and twitch your arse muscles for a secret underskirt massage. Those are the basics. Advanced instruction pricing available on enquiry. Anyone trained in my patented techniques will find they can result in the man suddenly spunking himself. Often without wanting to--which is why I counsel careful application of these potent skills. In the event, contrite apology is the only option (though it's perfectly normal to be silently pleased with yourself!). This early Saturday evening, as is often the case, I'm working my charms, and arse, in the lap of Mr. Rogers (which he does, but never in me). Yah, I understand the name means something different to me than it does to the other girls here (in a strange land, where Mr. A. Randy Wanker can introduce himself and his wife Fanny without anyone thinking it's a joke). I've been repeatedly told it's the name of an olden-days childrens' programme presenter. I imagine the kindly old man image is why he chose the name. Or maybe it's real. Every member at The Sissy uses only one name. I suppose it's often a real Christian or surname--though the number of "Smiths" beggars belief, and can get confusing. We've got a Black Smith, Silver Smith, and Gold Smith (the latter because he's a banker, I think). There's Young Smith and Smith Senior, but the lasses often (sotto vocce) resort to less polite designators. If a four-eyed, lard- arsed bender joined, fuck knows what we'd call him--since Specs Smith, Fat Smith, and Lady Smith are all taken. There's a theme running through invented names like Max, Steele, Masters, and Everhard. It turns out Mr. Dick is a real Dick (just the name, I mean). Pukka geezer, but boasting nowt in the tackle department. Of course, Hardy (Johnson) is a real one--it says so in his film credits. Easiest to call them all "Sir" -- unless told otherwise. Though, in my case particularly, there are unavoidable requests for "Daddy." I'll minimally comply with that, but if he's the type expecting that as a basic service, it's "on your bike, mate!" Mr. Rogers delights in Ellie being her twittery, bouncy, chatty, breathless, excitable best--once I'm comfortably perched on his twig. I can talk any old bollocks, so long as it's all with bubbly enthusiasm. I'm chatty, and like to take the piss. So it's easy being Ellie. All I have to do is heap on the squeals and giggles--like elevating a skirt with crinolines. Today I'm on about "The Wizard of Oz" - specifically a tale of casting the film with peeps at the Sissy. I'm more careful in the telling, but truthfully Mr. Rogers is my Cowardly Lion. Not courage he lacks, but "if he only had the nerve" he'd do what he so, so, so obviously wants to--bend me over the nearest furniture of an appropriate height, flip aside the voluminous frills, pull my ruffled pants down to my frilly ankle socks, and bang me over the rainbow! This is perhaps prudent, as Mr. Rogers is maybe sixty, and could flatline fulfilling his dream. As he repeatedly tells me, in very great detail, I remind him of his grand-daughter. Perhaps that's something to do with it. He's dead ashamed if I make him spunk, but he'll sometimes bugger one of my colleagues, once I've primed him. On the other hand, I'm not certain the grand-daughter exists. His stories about her aren't very consistent. Lately he's been talking about buying her a car, once she passes the licensing examinations. But last year she apparently still believed in "Santa." Not entirely by accident, Rogers does spunk his trousers this time. He releases a disappointed sort of groan as his fingers dig into my arm. I make like I am shocked and apologetic. But this was only an accident for one of us. Bollocks emptying is a guarantee that Rogers leaves before cleaning his plate, and I'm hoping for a few spare minutes to finalize some holiday details. My "Oz" story wasn't an accident. It's Aprilween, after all! As far in the year as you can get from Halloween, so time to get some extra value out of your fancy dress! It's a holiday I invented last week, but I've arm-twisted the rest of the girls into playing along, for a laugh. Tonight I'm Dorothy Gale! Charlotte is (quelle surprise!) impersonating an angel. Wings, Halo, and flowing white gown that covers her neck-to-ankle, but is completely see- through; and nothing underneath but a diaphanous g-string with another little set of wings at the back. More wings attached to the ankle of her white sequined toeless booties. This surplus of wings getting a bit of Greek mythology mixed in. Mallory's Devil is a more slapdash effort of glittery horns on a headband with red velvet micro-minidress. Mind you, she did have me tailor it with a small hole in the back. At a glance, it looks like the devil's tail is sewn on the skirt, but it's attached to an arse plug. More respectable that way, as it keeps the hem from riding up. Colleen is the flapper, with a spangled dress so short that you can see her garters with a whiskey flask in each. With plumed headband, bobbed wig, and bee-stung lips, it looks smashing! Natch. Cos I made it. Ever-retro Suzy has come as a Playboy Bunny. It's bang on! Apparently a genuine 60's article that actor Hughes gave her. It wouldn't surprise me if the black stiletto pumps and fishnets were fifty-years-old, as well. It's both a costume and real--which is pretty much Suzy, come to think of it. Carmen is a nun. Not even "sexy nun." It's been tailored very body-con and the skirt above the knee, but otherwise looks to be real nun's togs. This is her habit. Shonda's a sexy pirate. Bought off a hook at the chemists, I don't doubt. A bit rum, but saucy the way her massive bazoom and buttocks threaten to burst the seams of the cheap, flimsy material. Given the risk these costumes will get ruined, I suppose you can't fault her for party like it's $19.99! Vivi's is either a piss-take of me, or she's come as Baby Spice. Likely the former, as I can't be certain she knows who Emma is. Anyway, the wig is perfect. And I've always found the blond and Asian look stunning. Athena has let the side down a bit. I mean, yes, she's dressed as something vaguely old-West saloon girl, but that's a standard look for her. That leaves two "lady" drop-ins un-costumed--though Mandy looks like a pricey escort prowling the Sherry, and the one whose name I can't recall closer to bed-sit whore popping out for more tea-bags and party hats. Speaking of which, I did turn-up some left-over tat, to get the men involved with the festivities. There's a few punters wearing Styrofoam boaters, or plastic St. Pat's bowlers. Some New Years' favors, like those confetti shooters. With Aprilween having no established traditions, it's catch as catch can. I've recently become a proper little seamstress, so I'm quite proud of my personal creation. The ruby slippers are as realistic as you can buy, excepting the extra couple of inches in the heel. Lace trimmed white ankle socks; because I couldn't be arsed to find plain blue. The skirt of my blue gingham dress is, as noted, quite a lot higher than hers--nearly horizontal at the waist! But mine might be more accurate, as I can't see being carried by a tornado for any length of time and keeping your skirt around your knees. The plain bodice is a very accurate copy, allowing for adjustments to contain my bustier frame. The blouse is spot-on, in the pattern, at least. You may recall hers is a short puff- sleeved number, with a hideous round collar high on her neck. It looks a whole lot less dowdy made of white gauze. My make-up is probably just like they did her's on the set. Which is to say, buckets of it, trying to not look like much. Sometimes I'll do a little dolly-faced look--tiny bee-stung pink lips, and unblended blusher--but the only super-obvious make-up I always wear is masses of mascara, or false lashes, cos mine are so fair as nearly invisible. Where I put my foot-down is wearing Dorothy hair. My unvarying babygirl hairstyle is my signature! Fairest blonde, centre-parted, wispy straight fringe, big-ribboned, bouncy bunches--either down low and pulled in front of my shoulders, or high sprouting from each side of my head. I wouldn't want to damage my brand. I've even had cami-tops printed with my trans- Atlantic slogan "Blonde, Bunched & Banged." Catchy, don't you think?! The worst thing about the costume is having to force a giggle when yet another bloke makes the same tired jokes. "Surrender Dorothy," or "Why don't you click your heels three times?" As. If. I'm a touch superstitious, and don't want to wake-up in the ancestral manse in bloody Swindon! Mummy and Papa would be so disappointed with Trevor's outfit. ===================================================== As you may have gathered, love, I'm English. Staying in New York on an H1-B visa due to my "specialty occupation" that no Yank can perform to quite the standards wot I do! Give over! Illegal immigration, innit!? I keep a low profile by avoiding sombreros, lawn-work, and raping white girls (clarification: *not* engaging in the latter). Long story, short-ish: Secretly (from Mum and Dad, anyway) transitioning on the NHS not long after starting my second year at uni. None of the expected bureaucratic aggro and hoop-jumping--reckon I'm pushed to the front of the queue because "my condition" makes me like half-ish girl anyway. Secret is kept from my parents who (Mum, especially) are massive arseholes--always telling me to "be a man," though they are quite aware of my difficulties in this regard. And, being prenatal issues, I reckon they should accept some responsibility. I've scraped-together enough to spend much of the summer touring America, on the cheap--all coach rides, sketchy motels, and fast-food. Feels like I've got to go somewhere. It's getting difficult to hide the hormone effects. I need to be away from the prying eyes of a long summer in Swindon. I land in the "Land of the Free, Home of the Brave." Inspired by freedom, bravery and inexpensive prices, I start spree shopping the discount chains before even seeing a tourist site (besides a glimpse of the Hollywood sign, as the plane was landing). Fill my one wheelie case with girlie gear (keeping just what I'd flown in for the return) make-up bits and bobs, and two wigs. They were high-quality; convincing, but hell to wear in July/August America! My biggest regret was not being able to grow my hair out for the trip. But my parents would cry bloody murder anytime I let it get more than three inches. With (from their POV) good reason! Framing my babyish face with my first really good wig was staggeringly effective in flipping the image in the mirror from odd little lad to girl, even before enhancing that with a dab of colour. I'd braced myself to deal with "issues" during the trip, but wasn't prepared for challenges arising from assumption I was an unescorted young girl. Shouldn't have been a surprise, since I'd still be mistaken for 14 as a boy. But I reckoned a lot of that was down to being 158 cm. Between sensible low heels, keeping teen fashions to a minimum, and my height being not too short for a woman, I felt I Iooked much more mature as a girl. My eyes where opened on my third day, visiting the Tar Pits, when I twigged that some 14/15 year-old boys on a school-trip might be egging each other on to chat me up! Barely a day went by after that without some kindly old lady being concerned about my welfare. As well they might, because there's no shortage of aspiring nonces being exceedingly friendly; especially at bus terminals, which are dodgy at the best of times. In a pinch, I've had to show Her Royal Majesty's passport, identifying me as a twenty year-old male. But best to avoid that, if possible. The most impossible situation being showing identification to check-into a room. Americans are ID mad, so this might be standard procedure everywhere. I don't have a clue about that. I only know that any laxness rarely extends to girls who may be too young to have ID! After about a week I was gagging for bevvy so (very shakily at first) started trying my charms on the kind of derelicts you find lingering near off- licenses. The worst that ever came of it was a refusal or crude proposition. So I became emboldened to slip blokes a tenner for the extra service of checking me in while I hid outside. This worked a few times in Texas and New Orleans. One scarpered with the lolly in (appropriately) Mobile, Alabama. Then I had to threaten to rouse the constabulary on a man trying to force my window at midnight. My mistake. I'd tried for inside hallways/upper floor arrangements generally, and shouldn't have been so lax about a "motor-court" in this instance. This rather put me off the scheme for a while. Keep in mind, there's also the risk of some desk-clerk sussing there's a conspiracy of winos engaged in underaged sex trafficking. Imagine yourself deep asleep, in your fab new nightie, when there's a battering-ram-raid of flak-jacketed and combat-helmeted platoons of small-town coppers piling into your room, while calling for air support (spotlights whizzing about like a film premiere!). Apparently it was their best chance of a dress-rehearsal for their big "How to Catch a Predator" performance the following week. It turned out better than you'd expect: nobody arrested or deported, and just the one bystander shot. IMHO, there's more thick-headed cunts in Britain. Dodgy pissheads are fewer in the U.S. Perhaps because there's enough uniforms, badges and guns floating about that some of them get diverted in to police force? Anyway, that was certainly the highlight of Philadelphia. In fairness, it put me off-schedule enough that I lost the chance at a beef and cheese sandwich or seeing the cracked bell. These six weeks deserve their own story, but I suppose this'll be it, cos there can't be a boffo market for so specialized a guidebook. The concluding highlight of my trip was meeting-up with my internet mate, Charli--a gorgeous, slightly older, sophisticated, transgender, NYC college girl, who'd inspired and encouraged me for the past couple of years. If anyone nudged me to transition, and nurtured my super-sized penis interests, it was Charli. Turns out, she wasn't exactly as advertised. She's the same beautiful girl in her pictures. Including the boy bits, I may assume. Though hard to imagine on a girl who it seems impossible isn't a model. She's taller than I expected, which only adds to the runway model impression. She's not the worldly sophisticate I'd built her up to be, sitting in front of a computer screen in Reading or Swindon. She's a lot smarter in the British sense than the American one. When I mentioned The Battle of Britain she asked how many knights died in it. Which, I suppose some did, but she was clearly meaning the in suits-of-armour type. When I told her about my bus and rail travel from L.A. to N.Y.C., she observed that she always flew there, and that "everyone did". When I explained that I wanted to see things along the way she wasn't entirely satisfied with that--still sticking with the argument that flying was more convenient. I'm not sure if she doesn't get touring in general, or fails to see the appeal of America's middle bits in particular. She's most certainly not "attending Barnard," like she claimed! I'm chuffed, however, to have a pretty guide, who is so complimentary about my appearance and daring (the later, in part, because I enjoyed winding her up with tall tales about my trip). She's got a busy and fitful schedule, so I'm never invited back to hers. But she helpfully (because I'm near skint by the end of my trip) sets me up with a free bed in her girlfriend Mandy's flash gaff, that has amazing 44th floor views. The most luxurious lodgings on my trip, by miles! And, Mandy doesn't stint on hospitality. She's probably not much younger than my Mum, but *nothing whatever* like her. She's always put together just-so--sexy in a rather severe way. Mandy is also trans, and also encouraging. Though I spend more time with her, I'm more comfortable when Charli joins us. Mandy's probing intimate attention is both very flattering and a bit unsettling. She's constantly asking me questions about myself of all sorts, including very personal ones. She asks me about my dating experience--with both girls and boys--which I hugely embellish to not look like a bumpkin. Thankfully she doesn't press me on sex details, except asking if I've taken it up the jacksie. Which I admit, and rattle-on about my enthusiasm for it; so as to avoid further questioning that might reveal these were solo experiences involving certain vegetables and fruits. In the strictest sense I was still a virgin. The third evening she comes home with a "debutante dress" for me. It fits perfectly, clearly costs more than I could ever afford, and is more dressy than I could ever need. It's a proper ballgown: skirts to the floor, full but sheer sleeves, a deeply plunging back, heavily beaded, and coloured between silver and pewter. Once I've modeled it for her, she tells me she has set-up a double date for us at a world-famous restaurant. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but make excuses that I've got nothing decent to wear, except this dress, which is probably overkill, and I can't decently accessorize it. But Mandy has any accessory I'd need, except shoes (hers being much too big for me). She convinced me that my best pair might do, since they'll barely be seen. Our "dates", Clark and Lou, prove fairly handsome. Both early thirties; so splitting the difference between too old for me and too young for Mandy. One is (so I'm told) a helicopter pilot who gives tours around the island, the other head-concierge at a top hotel. So the man- dominated convo revolves around local touring tips exceeding what I have money or time for. Mandy interjects with many comments either returning the focus to me, or encouraging male compliments directed at me. I've got a great stock of recent funny stories. Except I'm uncertain these men know I'm not a girl, and sharing my touring anecdotes is difficult without tripping-up on that. The unreciprocated conversational spotlight on me is nothing compared to feeling soooo self-conscious of being far more overdressed than anyone in the room. The crowd conveys the air that a $1000 meal is just a special Thursday, not a big life event. Mandy looks smart, but falls short of eveningwear. The men aren't wearing ties. It's a fairly early mid-week dinner. The vibe is that a $1000 meal is just a special Thursday, not a big life event. The wine flows very freely. I'm slurping it down because it relieves my skittishness, and (I realize) that the "adults" present allow me my first public alcohol consumption in America! Also, I've never been out to dinner with a man before, and don't really know what the social expectations for afterwards might be. Though not clear on Mandy's motives, I do sense she is testing me somehow. Waking alone under the freshly laundered sheets in Mandy's spare bedroom did make me feel silly about worrying. In hazy retrospect, though, I'm thinking that perhaps helicopter Louis bottled, when presented with a blind date that seemed so inexperienced, in every way. The next day Mandy accompanies me to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. She's telling me more about herself now, particularly regarding her immigrant family. That's when I realize that, for all our chats, she hasn't said much about herself. It's also when I can't completely ignore the hints about Charlotte's occupation. Charli joins us for drinks in Tribeca; followed by the suggestion we go out clubbing with Molly. That requires a pitstop back at Mandy's for me and her to change. I start rolling while waiting for the lift in her building. Charli has launched minutes before me, I think, and clasps my hand as we wait. As soon as the door shuts behind us, she has me pressed to the wall and writhing against me, before lifting my chin and spearing her tongue between my lips. Marvelous! I've snogged some girls before, but never one nearly so gorgeous as Charli. And never being the girl--which is the feeling overwhelming me now--since she's very much the one in control, and is more than a half-foot taller than me, before taking into my practical walking shoes and her platformed clubbing heels. Not to mention, I don't think I'm imagining something nudging me in the breastbone. For a moment when I open my eyes, I see Mandy watching, with interest but impassively. When we reach floor 44, Charli steers me down the hall, and through the front door, with hands on my waist while she dances and grinds behind me. Naturally I give Mandy a big hug, as seems only reasonable. But she reminds me of the need to change. I try to focus and hurry--not an easy combination, in my condition. I'm keen to see if Charli will dance with me the way she has hinted at. And, if so, get good serving of that before the drugs wear-off! I've got nothing to wow NYC clubbers, but my very limited choices at least make dressing easier. I've got a white sequin-covered top that's very draped in front and low in the back. I've got a plain banded, black spandex miniskirt. There's a little tub of body glitter that I set aside for later consideration. I've a number of cheap plastic bracelets in a variety of cheery rainbow hues. I consider various combinations of these, before deciding to stack them all. I've got no handbag except drably practical, so will have to rely upon one of the girls to carry my basics. As always, shoes are the letdown. It has to be the same as I wore with the ballgown. White rubber-soled wedged sandals by Anne Klein, that are showing some wear. They're comfortable, at least. Make-up is just troweling waterproof mascara on. Of course it all looks fabulous to me at that moment. I look fabulous, even without a wig--which is usually the most depressing sight I can imagine! The wigs both look so fab I have trouble deciding. After running my fingers through both repeatedly, I go for the longer one, simply for the divine feeling of it brushing against my neck and shoulders. When I leave my room, ready to go, all the lights in the apartment are off. Stranger still is the curtains closed on the two-storey view of the city skyline. Have I lost the sense of time? I call out for Mandy, momentarily thinking they've snuck-off without me. Even with this worry in mind, I'm bouncing on my toes, and I'm running my hands up and down my body, more than thinking what I should do next. Once I try to calm down and see if they left a note, I hear some faint music. It didn't occur to me that there might be people where the music was, so much as I was drawn to the beat. Once I've navigated the spiral staircase to the balcony, the tune proves inadequate to my BPM requirements, but seems somewhat familiar. When I get no response calling for Mandy again, I practically run to her bedroom, and trip through the open doorway. Reaching for the sturdy door handle, my head hits the door, but I only fall to my knees. As soon as I've assessed I'm not seriously injured, my first response is to check my wig is still in place. There isn't a light on in the room. But there is a whole wall of glass with curtains open, so the glow of the city provides solid backlighting. My wildly dilated pupils take a second to clearly focus. Mandy is raised to be best framed in light. She is wearing only a black bra, and harness with a large black dildo attached. There's a leg resting on her shoulder furthest from me. Its pair is off the side of the bed, just reaching the floor thanks to Charlotte's platformed, chunky-heeled dancing shoe. I shift my focus to Charlotte's face. Along the way noticing she is fully dressed, aside from the skirt bunched up and panties aside, to permit the dildo's entry. And I catch sight of what I've only felt before. It's long and slim, like the rest of her. No longer stiff, as it lolls in response to the slow deliberate rhythm of her penetration. There's a fine gold hoop piercing the base of her glans, with a single tiny sapphire mounted on it. In this moment it seems to me the most precious jewel in the world! She's angled to face me, and has one forefinger clamped between her teeth. Her wide eyes with enormous pupils are mesmerizing. I find myself crawling towards Charlotte. Teeth-grinding, heart-racing, mind thinking I might be getting in a little over my head, but no urge greater than to simply touch her. I wrap an arm around Charli's smooth calf, while hesitantly moving my other hand above her knee. Charli claps her hand over mine, gripping quite hard as she directs me stroking her thigh. I hear faint whimpers above the music. Charlotte's impending orgasm, I think, before realizing the sounds are coming from me. Mandy withdraws the dildo to its fullest length, while casting a quizzical gaze towards me. "Shush now Ellie," she murmurs. "Relax. We'll find one more your size." I wake late, to Mandy shouting that she won't be back until after after six, I should lock the door behind me, and also to get some fluids. Charlotte gives me a peck on the cheek, and tweeks both my nipples, but makes no mention of last night. She's rushed to get to work by 11:00. "Even without this," she tells me (as she drops her head and sighs, suggesting she means the Ecstasy hangover) "an hour isn't enough to get changed and refreshed, on top of the trip!" "You should come see where I work!" Charli trills from the loo. "One of the grandest mansions in the city, but not well known," she offers in explanation, "so a nice break from the busier landmarks." I readily agree, once I decide she can't possibly mean right now. I've got a pillow over my face to block out the light and noise, yet mostly because my wig has gone missing, and I'm mortified by Charli seeing me like this. I wonder how Mandy is feeling so well, before questioning whether I actually saw her take anything last night. I've a few hours restful peace to recall and consider last night. The first question for any virgin is if you've lost your virginity. I suppose I could enter a "still virgin" plea, but I'd not envy the barrister defending that. I tongued a girl's bottomhole; after Charli had demonstrated the technique on me, so it seemed natural to return the favor. I sucked Mandy off. Indeed, licked them together--but as Charlotte was never hard, and Mandy never finished, I may have some wriggle room. Mandy did, gently, penetrate me twice. After I'd been sent to undress and instructed to use a "douche". Since one of those was with her own flesh-and-blood shaft, and she came, I'd imagine that counts against me. I blush at the memory of begging for something wider for the second-round, but Mandy said I hadn't enough sanitary preparation for that. Squirting four times is damning evidence. That this was never due to direct stimulation of my own unit ought to be a mitigating factor. Except, come to think of it, when "Teardrop" was playing while I demonstrated my masturbatory technique (I think it may have been Massive Attack songs all night, though I only know a few hits). They both made sure to get a close-up view of my equipment, but didn't touch much of what isn't all that much to touch. By mid-afternoon I was up for a museum visit and a stroll in Central Park, until Mandy got home. I chose to Guggenheim, since I'd had a bit of Fricking already. Even though it was my only Saturday night in the Big Apple, I don't object to an early dinner and quiet night in. Over Thai take-away Mandy brought-up a lot of sexually related questions, though she mentioned the previous night only incidentally. She'd plainly been told of my (academic) fascination with huge trouser snakes, from Charlotte. She seemed to be quizzing me on whether I was really "a size queen", or I'd invented that to gain cred with Charli. She asked if my having such a small "clitoris" might fuel such interests. After hemming- and-hawing over that vexed question, I was happy to switch to more mundane topics. But even then she'd correct my language with a sigh of disappointment. She was insistent about "clit/clitty" (which is fair play given the resemblance, I suppose. But her reinforcement of "tiny" or "little" before it seems a bit rich, as more than 3 centimeters long and a centimeter diameter would be stonking!) She corrected "clitoral hood" for "foreskin," and "underarm" for "armpit." I got no direction on arsehole synonyms, other than my self-guided intuition that "arsehole" itself wasn't an option. But this went beyond anatomy. I'd noticed Mandy doing this before, but for that whole evening and the following day, I would hardly get two sentences out without a correction. When talking about my issues growing-up, I entered a verbal minefield bigger than just avoiding saying Trevor or boy. I mentioned the old man always telling me to go to the barber, she reminded me to say "Daddy" and not mention "going to barbers." I told her that the bullying got worse after primary school. She asked me how many girlfriends I had then. I shrug, and say "None. I was eleven!" before realizing the trick question. When I tell her about a particularly unhappy experience after my first communion, Mandy asks what I was wearing. Can't fool me twice. White dress, maybe black shoes, innit? "Darling," Mandy exclaimed, "if the day was as remarkable as you say, that's not how a girl would recall it. Say a white frock and patent Mary-Janes. Mention if it was lacy, or long-sleeved. Knee socks or ankle? Did you have ribbons in your hair?" I tell her all the names I was called for being so short, and how angry it made me. First-off, she suggests maybe "made me cry" or "was devastated" would be a better substitute for angry; before explaining that Ellie wouldn't have had this experience, because young girls likely wouldn't taunt short-arses, nor does it seem credible that I'd be the smallest girl in my year. Being 5'2", and looking young enough that I might still be growing, my height wouldn't strike anyone as out of ordinary. It's a story that would completely confuse anyone listening to Ellie, even if I avoided any slips on the gender reversal. When I accidently say "the other lads at uni" I expect the errant "other" will get her eyebrows snagged in the ceiling fan! In the shocked pause, I adopt a comedy American accent to say "guys at mah cawledge," but Mandy suggests "boys at my school" as the safest substitute. Over after-dinner coffees, Mandy warms to this theme of emphasizing in- group identity. She brings up my story about getting men to check me in at a motel. Plainly, them being men was the greatest risk of the enterprise, but I glide over the word "men" in telling the story. Better to inflect "*men*" as being the shocking and alien threat to Ellie. Mandy mentions the "my neighbours wife" issue. It's not something a woman would usually say, as the woman she was referring to would simply be her neighbour. "Girls love flowers" doesn't have the same as "*We* girls love flowers!" or, better yet, "We girls *adore* flowers!" "Do you have a tampon?" isn't as conspiratorial as "May *I borrow* a tampon?" "Borrow" is well-suspect in this sentence, as I doubt anyone would expect it back! But having no need for the product, other than creating the impression that I do, I imagine I could at least pay it forward. A lot of her interruptions were about using more various and dramatic words (horrid rather than bad, lovely over nice, taupe better than tan). Not like I need advice on speaking the Queen's English from a colonial. But the reminders were useful, and she had many good (correction: astonishing) insights. Funny thing is, Mandy wouldn't strike anyone the ideal instructor for these lessons. While she's very complimentary, attentive, and peppers her speech with pet names and endearments, she's quite the opposite of girly and effusive. Still, I accept that (with me having only six weeks of immersion training, plus about a year of presenting as female whenever convenient) her experience from before I was born might allow her not following rules so much. Maybe I can be as mannish as Mandy once I've completely learned how not to be? Mandy tells me Charli has asked if tomorrow afternoon was good to visit her work, then offhandedly mentions her boss was wanted to meet me. After brief flurry of "Whys?" and evasions including "as a favor to her," a "consultation" and that I'd "be paid for my time" she let it lie while we finished eating. While rinsing the plates, and not wanting this question hanging over our movie night, I said, "Sure." "Sure, what?" Mandy replied. I nearly spat out, "This, whatever, interview thing. I'll do it!" She smiled, gave my hand an approving squeeze, and cooed, "More like an audition, sweetheart." As if the more glamourous word would make me more comfortable. Obvs it just made me think there'd be more to it than questions. I reasoned that if this was really an interview for an escort service, may as well end my trip with a bang! It had been an adventure from the start, and bottling in the home stretch felt wrong. Maybe I'll tell Mum and Dad that I'm transitioning during their big August Bank Holiday barbeque for the employees, and present this as a "well, could have been worse" tale! No reason not to have a butcher's. At the end of the day: I won't pass the audition, I can make sure I don't, I'd never accept if I did, and (to top it all off) I don't have a work visa! Safe as houses, unless I'm coshed, and shipped as a sex-slave to Cambodia. But that would be an extraordinary reversal of prevailing trade patterns! Nothing much happened the rest of the night, though it was a very heightened nothing. Mandy said she had business to catch-up on (property management of some sort) so movie in an hour. As she walked upstairs she asked if I'd ever tried a "bottomplug", which I admitted I hadn't. "You'll absolutely loooove it, Ellie," she yelled while disappearing from view. A minute later I hear her voice over the intercom. "If you've nothing better to do, poppet, check your medicine cabinet. Just promise not to touch yourself," Mandy instructs, "or you'll spoil the experience." Everything is where I'm told. Bottles of cleanser, lube, and the plug in a bubble pack. It's not very big, purple, with a bar at one end, and bent so that it looks like it has to be inserted pointing towards the front. I make quick work of this, then return to watch some news. But the constant awareness of the plug keeps me terribly randy. I wasn't sure how Mandy would treat me the night after our night before. I suppose I'd have been agreeable to repaying her favours if she'd made an advance. But without sweet Charlotte enticing me to bed, I wasn't absolutely gagging for a one-on-one with a woman in her forties, fit as she may be. But my bum being filled was causing me to reevaluate the appeal of any port in a storm. Possibly, I'd better take some initiative to get myself rogered? So I ran to get some lippy, a spritz of perfume, and my clean babydoll nightgown. Its main appeal was super-shorty so the knickers showed, but not brashly sexy like my other. When I returned, the film was ready to go, and Mandy was filling glasses from a cocktail shaker. Thankfully, I didn't look a right berk, as Mandy had changed into a long satin gown, with a slit up the front of one leg, nearly to the hip. I gushed over the wide old-lace edging on hers, while complaining that this wasn't my best. But she said in suited me perfectly, while gesturing to her chest. It's true that the girlish coverage of the bodice did work better with my A-cups than a plunging neckline or big bow between nowt much. Mandy was amenable to snuggling while we watched the film ("My Week With Marilyn") but kept her attentions on the screen. She never asked, nor ever seemed to doubt that I'd chosen to use the plug. None of my nuzzling, shifting, or rubbing up against her got any response beyond an indulgent smile, or an instruction to settle-down and watch. I did catch her glancing at my knickers from time-to-time. There was a tiny bump at the front; enough to tell if I was stiff, which I remained from the moment I saw the little purple toy until I fell asleep. When Mandy was ready for bed, she suggested I sleep with her. Then she doused my hopes by explaining that this was best to insure I didn't diddle myself. In the morning Mandy was out early, and I got in some basics of the tourist checklist, near the tip of Manhattan, that I'd missed: Wall Street, Gracie Mansion, and the Brooklyn Bridge. I was strictly instructed to be back no later than noon. Over coffee and a shared croissant, Mandy was praising my "youthful, innocent appearance," and how success is a matter of "playing to your strengths," which she was sure I could do, at my "audition," where my "charming accent" would surely win the day. When I get back, just a quarter hour late, there's this enormous pile of clothes on my bed, that Charli and Mandy are picking through to make some order of the chaos. Immediately I see that everything is girlish/prissy/loli--with a pink palette predominant. "Pick something" says Mandy, "but bras or padding aren't an option." So we start negotiating, with Charli being the voice of compromise. Mandy offers a wig. It's all sausage curls with bows attached, like Shirley Temple got scalped! I demure, only to find the second choice is the same, except flaming red! After they fail to hunt up a third option, I demand my own or I'm not going! Mine are admittedly getting rather ratty from the constant wear, heat, and humidity--but this is the hill I'm prepared to die on! Before this is agreed, I'm already digging through shoes. There are some acceptable choices, but Mandy insists on no heels, so I don't look taller. I've only got the trainers I flew in, and some beachy sandals, so no choice but from the pile. I reject "saddle shoes"--a style I've never seen before, but look like men's shoes. Every other choice looks to be ballet flats. Try on a few. None that fit well, or we can't find the pair. The perfectly fitting pair are quilted white patent with pink piping, and the Hello Kitty logo at the toe. I'm surprised these come in adult sizes, but they are adorable! Mandy turns up the matching clutch purse. Hello Kitty merch is highly represented in the sample. I'm aware that Charlotte's unusual style is intended as a "in this together"playmates gesture. Her hair is center-parted into braids with too large bows at the ends. Sleeveless blouse with a peter pan collar and ribbon like a string tie. Kilt above mid-thigh, with an oversized safety pin. Knee socks. Sky high pink heels that, with a blocky toe and low buttoned strap, are a gesture towards schoolgirl. Everything pink, save the white blouse and socks, and a lucite heart ring. In a further gesture of solidarity, she leans forward in front of me, quickly lifting the back of her skirt and sliding panties down. Mandy had suggested that keeping my bottom entertained was vital to the audition costume. When in Rome, I suppose. Mandy suggests a Mimosa break for them, while I run off to comply. There's a fresh plug in the cabinet. Pink this time, and just a smidge bigger than the last. Charli is making the experience fun and arousing, and now even more so! She's extravagantly flirtatious towards me, though hands-off. If she starts getting feely Mandy cuts it short. Hot and bothered as I am, I don't spare much thought to if this is genuine. If they are playing good-cop/bad cop on me I'm not objecting! Following Charli's lead (and doing most of the digging while those to enjoy drinks) I work through kilts that range from obviously real to really scandalous. Mandy rejects anything drably coloured or knee length. Others don't match the shoes, or don't fit (mostly too big, in this case). That leaves two that are similar, apart from the colours. These are practically belts! Guaranteed knicker-flashing if you move at all. Charli's all for it, but for once Mandy takes my side. While Charli's look is inappropriate for Sunday afternoon, it would pass muster as a "sexy school disco" costume. Mine, however, shouldn't be completely sexualized. I push aside most of the, Victorian doll on rainbow steroids, Japanese Lolita gear. Mandy is keen to sell me on one of the wide selection of lace gloves. The only part of this ruffled overkill that really catches my eye are the pants. I pick a pair with mini-bows around every opening, and one massive one front-and-center--all pink satin on pink lace. And I find a matching camisole to protect my awfully sensitive nipples. There are things that are plainly young girls' formalwear--like old- fashioned communion dresses, as one example. I'd expect none would fit me, which they don't, but many come surprisingly close. One dress I like, the back zip breaks on the last inch. There's thought given to just leaving me in it, then Mandy muses about "velvet in August" before cutting me out of the thing, to save time. The winner proves to be sort of A-line--pink silk with white polka dots, big plastic buttons around the neck (serving as a sort of jewelry replacement) and a tulle underskirt stitched in for some flare. Everyone has some criticism of it. Charli hates the high round-neck for not being sexy. Mandy likes girlishishness of that, but bemoans that it lacks frills and flounces. She's disappointed the tulle doesn't show below the hem. On close examination it's clear the hem has been altered to make it barely more than mini length. I'm slightly concerned with the length (especially considering the naughty knickers beneath) but delighted by the airy bounce of the tulle. I'm happy it's not completely 8-year-old styled, given the vibe of the accessories. Mandy is eyeing the clock, but also the Lolita dresses again. To avoid her "more lace" veto, I bow to the gloves idea. I choose the simplest ones in all white net. Still these have pinpoint dots embroidered, pearl buttoned closure on the inside of the wrist, and a half-inch lace ruff. Mandy rummages for matching ankle socks, but fortunately the Hello Kitty gods intervene! I find a plastic bracelet with all beads being that cat's face. There's enough stretch to fit it around my ankle. I refuse to take it off, and that kills the socks plan. Tights are out of the question in this heat. I could use a mani-pedi, but luckily the shoes are closed-toe and my chipped fingernails are in pearly white, which won't be noticed if I keep the gloves on. I now realize I should, though I'd been planning to put them in the cute clutch as soon as I left the building. Make-up is debated. It's agreed that Charli will do me, as she's much more skilled and quick than I'll be. Mandy is pushing for an exaggerated porcelain doll effect. But since Charli's in charge and we are running short on time, understated wins the day. I realize that not much beats the intimacy of a sexy girlfriend painting your face. Mandy runs off to see if she can spruce up my wig. Once she returns to pin that on me, she appreciates Charli's choice and artistry. It does make me look younger, without looking any effort was involved, other than some shimmer and thickened eye lashes. Mandy, though, has to have the last word. So Charli adds bright rosy lipstick that doesn't extend to the edges, for that delicate dolly pucker. The wig is my long bobbed one. Which Mandy has trimmed and evened. The length at the front had been significantly longer, but I suppose Mandy found that too mature looking. I'm not fussed about the style being ruined, as both wigs will be binned before I fly home, and I'm relieved to see she hasn't clipped bows all over it. Ready for final inspection. Mandy advises me not to hold the clutch (gripping the end, pointing to the ground) so casually, and to place it on my lap with hands folded on it when seated. She rapid fires a string of instructions while circling me: speak softly; smile when you answer; if there isn't an easy answer, don't worry, play dumb, until he makes the question easy enough; don't ask a lot of questions, just enough to seem interested. Mandy lifts the front of my dress. She gushes that the knickers are perfect for me, but the single florid bow disguises what she really wants to inspect. With only a "by your leave"pause and glance, she lowers the waistband with a single hooked fingernail. It is, predictably, straining to fullest one-and-a-half inch. She's satisfied, but I ought to explain. I suppose when a half teaspoon of blood is all required, this isn't a strain on the system. My toy soldier comes to attention instantly, and stays that way so long as I have any naughty thought in mind. Since it's too small to notice, not much of a problem except with like tight girl's jeans (far too painful to wear ever) or leggings without a long top (which might show through). Chafing can be an issue. Being nervous about the appointment, I really hadn't thought about getting there. With Mandy not joining us we're looking a bit "tart on take your sister to work day." Being Mandy is near the top of the building, the lift is empty when we get on. We get nearly halfway before a couple with a son, of maybe twelve, start to enter. Kid's eyes popping, but Dad grabs him by the collar and mumbles something about needing the up elevator. Next it's a fellow 20-something woman who (while no match for us) isn't at all conservatively dressed herself. She doesn't bat an eye. Later I propose to Charlotte that the girl looked an escort, but Charli's sussed her bling, so makes her for a rich girl priding her New York sang-froid. Last ten floors are shared with a bloke about to go jogging, who tries to be cool, but fails. I feel a bit less exposed, as his shifty glances are directed at all three of us! Desk attendants and the doorman are smilingly stone-faced. Probably used to Mandy's more interesting visitors. I do catch him saying "girls" though. Always been "Afternoon Ladies" when I'm with Mandy, no matter how young or scruffy I looked. There's an unfortunate cluster of paparazzi and curious tourists on the sidewalk. But they aren't here for us, though Charli throws a quick celebrity wave as we rush past. A car is waiting at the kerb. Some private hire, not a regular taxi. It's a standard large SUV, but with customized seating inside. Charli greet the driver by name, and he knows where we are going. But even with his experience and (presumably) discretion, he can't help using his rearview more than seems necessary. He's got nice eyes. There's the thing about having a secret toy up your arse that it keeps you constantly randy, obviously. But you can't completely separate that feeling from what's going on around you. Feeling like you'd really fancy a shag with some bloke makes you think you might fancy a particular bloke, who you'd never be interested in, if your interest wasn't stirred without him. Understood? Some Sissies will argue that a plugs only purpose is to prepare you to take a cock more easily. I'd say the lowering your standards without the effort is (like a drink or two) more valuable. Because every man you have to shag won't be a winner. Charlotte puts a calming hand on my quivering knee. All the twittering about outfit choices was a handy distraction. But the nerves have kicked-in now that I feel past the point of no return. While I'm not exactly fearful of where we are going, the mystery and unpredictability of the trip puts me on-edge and I'm, uncharacteristically, silent. Charlotte offers to split a tablet with me. I don't even ask what it is. I'll have whatever the doctor orders. We pull up just past the modest awning announcing only "The C.C.". The next building is a nearly identical hundred-odd year-old mansion. The pavements aren't busy on a Sunday afternoon on this block. Most of the neighboring buildings are dreary low-rise commercial buildings; and the largest of them looks to have been vacated for redevelopment. Charli still pauses. She's is more careful about attracting attention here than she is in front of Mandy's building. But all's clear, and were quickly inside a fairly smart, modern lounge/waiting room sort of space. Charli says the "C.C. Residences" are where she lives, while putting her card in a slot that gets us into the hallways extending to the rear of the building. It's not what I expected. The building's fa?ade is original, but what's behind it can't be much older than I am. Charlotte opens the door to a room. But it's not hers. It's a large modern hotel suite. Which is a touch more upscale than anything I've ever seen (a Hilton maybe) and, I'd imagine, very large by New York City (or European) standards. She mentions that she has two rooms like this, and that they don't usually look this way, as "the Sissies" are allowed to personalize them. Soon, we backtrack to a door connecting the two buildings. Charlotte has no key to open this, but the lock clicks. This was supposed to be short, wasn't it? I'm trying! But me being here, now, can't be understood, without explainining how gobsmacked I was there and then. *It was plush!* Not to say much of it's to my taste. The main (evening) dining area isn't remarkable without its splendid mood lighting, and the "Discotheque" could use modernizing. But it was all so overwhelmingly dripping in cash. And it all felt so massive when echoing to the sound of Charlotte's merry voice. I didn't see anyone else in the place. Charlotte leads a rather hurried tour. While she bustles me along, she frequently gestures towards certain items of d?cor, to pronounce them "real" or "fake" and explains the details that reveal the difference. While she's gormless generally, it's more like she's an intelligence autistically-focused on identifying the value of art and luxury goods. I was stunned by the Ladies W.C. Not just the most spacious and luxurious lavatory I have ever seen, it's the only one I know to have a staircase in it! It's accessible from both the second and third storeys, and both rooms have a nearly identical set-up of sinks, counters, mirrors and stalls. Except Charli shows me that all the stalls on the third floor contain a sort of bidet. Then there was the third-floor space accessed by swinging saloon doors. Charli, who's been naming the rooms and pointing-out certain features, is silent here. She puts a finger to her lips while raising her eyebrows very high, like a caricature of can you keep a secret. All the massive TVs with the sound off are the only thing lighting the room, and they're all showing transgendered girls getting fucked by men! Before leaving me, Charlotte nuzzles my ear while whispering last words of encouragement, and applying light pressure to my plug. She says she'll pop by tomorrow to see me off, then tells me to sit on a bench beside the front door, before lightly rapping on another one. It's one of those old-fashioned office doors with smoked-glass for the top half, and "Executive Manager" painted on that. I wait what seems a terribly long time. I feel very vulnerable alone in the grandly soaring foyer; silent but for the ticking of a grandfather clock. I've fuck-all to do but stare at the dainty net gloves set atop the childish clutch on my lap. I'm starting to feel a pillowy sedative effect from whatever Charli gave me. It's not enough to overcome my fidgeting, but adds woozy waves on top of that. What works better to control the twitchiness is maintaining a rhythm. I soon find myself working my hips to each second-stroke of the clock, bumping the plug inside me on a spot that feels just barely beyond reach. Just as I'm beginning to relax, and recalling some of the images I saw on the screens earlier, the manager appears! I'm sure he noticed before my skirts stopped bouncing. At any rate my face must have been flushed. He extends a hand, as I suppress an instinct to shake it. I realize it's an offer to help me up. As I rest my gloved hand on his it really is a help, as I'm feeling weak-kneed for all kinds of reasons. Then he raises my hand to kiss the back of it! Something I've never seen in real life! That this Gould bloke conducts nothing like a normal interview makes it easier than expected in some ways. He starts by telling me how pretty I am, and how much he likes my choice of outfit. He tells me about buying tons of Hello Kitty clothing, because one of his daughters used to be a big fan. There's not much for me to say except "thank you." He asks if I have a C.V., but doesn't care that the limited one I do have is on a hard drive 3,000 miles away. He just let's me tick off work in the family business, part-time at Sainsbury's while I'm studying, and my exam results and other educational awards. At my mention of university, he jovially says he needs "to check my I.D." When I hesitantly (because of the name and picture in it) hand him my passport and mention I have no work permits, I expect that should be enough to terminate the interview. But he only raises an eyebrow, and says "Twenty." References aren't required, beyond me knowing Charlotte and Mandy--who he chats about in a way that gives me more questions than answers about Mandy. I'm not required to say much, which suits me. Though my voice is fairly high naturally, I hadn't trained it up then; nevermind learned the ultra-girly inflections and squeals that are my stock-in-trade now. All I could do was speak softly, and hope for an assist from an accent that charms most Yanks. He briefly runs-down the basic job requirements: food-service, a little light housekeeping, and "whatever additional responsibilities a girl chooses to take on." He downplays challenges, saying that "many girls with few previous skills have proved exceptionally talented." The skills he mentions as most important are "being dutiful, courteous and flexible in serving Members." I quickly pick-up on the frequent innuendoes (making particular use of the word "member"), but it's not at all nudge- nudge. Gould says them so casually that someone might be fooled into thinking he was innocent. At every opportunity he references the wealth and generosity of the Club Members. He casually notes that the Members are older "but most are not as old as me, and a few are under-25." Mr. Gould being fifty-odd. He goes over benefits, like free healthcare (emphasizing frequent check- ups) and free housing (that's also compulsory for a probationary period). He's at pains to make the hotel sound homey and welcoming. Most of the girls not far from my age; I could have the room next to Charlotte; there's a gym, sunbathing veranda, and kitchenettes available. When the dreaded "audition" came, it was literally a snap! Or a few. A couple of close-ups, a couple full-length with me standing against a wall, followed by him asking me to pick some poses of my own. I'm not so worried anymore, and it's nice to shake-off the jitteriness after being forced to sit primly and listen for 15-20 minutes. I do the obligatory looking back over my shoulder pose. One spreading my skirts wide, one where my chin is cradled on lacy-gloved fingers, then one straddling the arm of the loveseat, so my dress bunches up. I'm getting carried away, until I notice that the cameraman's fine linen trousers offer no resistance to a growing erection. He's making no attempt to hide nor to acknowledge it, as I slip back onto a cushion and he resumes the interview. He's perched on the corner of his desk, so his penis is pointing at me from only two metres away. He asks me if I dress this way regularly. Which I feel can safely be answered in the negative. Who does dress this way regularly? He says my outfit would be perfect to wear to work, and would I be willing to do so. ("Sure, I guess") He asks if I have more clothes like these. "I've got some flats similar to these, no other gloves," I start, before he cuts me off. "I meant, um, more, more like ... little girl clothes," he stutters. Since this is the first time he's been at a loss for words, I feel like winding him up. So I rattle off a list of the items piled on the bed back at Mandy's. I notice a slight twitch in his trousers when I mention undergarments. So I describe, in vivid detail the cami and knickers I have on. I don't mention I'm wearing the unmentionables, you understand--I'm still only 75% certain I'm safe from sexual assault. They're simply the first things that come to mind. This does give me the satisfaction of seeing his flagging pole rise. Though he's not nearly so engorged as I am! I'm indescribably excited, because I've never felt exactly like this before. Something about being in control and in danger, at the same time! He asks me if I like wearing "pants," but I'm so distracted he has to repeat the question. Once I've gathered my wits, I manage a "no" while trying to sound aghast, as this is an answer Mandy explicitly coached me for. He asks if this is my real hair colour and how long my hair is. I say the colour is about right and indicate length by putting my hands at mid- ear level. He asks if I'll show him. I shake my head. I'd debated what I might do if he'd requested I take *the dress* off, but the wig definitely crosses a line. In any case it seems like we've drifted quite beyond the bounds of reasonable interview topics. Gould asks me if I have any questions. I do have so very many. But the sex ones seem off-limits. The things like hours and pay that I should inquire about don't matter under the circumstances. There's just one thing I haven't got off my mind since seeing the scale of the bordello. "Sir," I venture "is every girl who works here like me? I mean... you know?" "Well, yes, Ellie." he chuckles. "Sissies don't have vaginas. Perfectly alright if they want that, as many of them do. But they resign at that time." He pauses, as if thinking of exceptions to the rule. "The Club does have a liberal castration policy, though." That seeming to cover everything, Mr. Gould thanks me for my time. Maybe it was my refusal to remove the wig, maybe he needed to get me out so he could pound Percy? I don't know. Though shocked by the abruptness, I wasn't surprised. He asked me few questions and I answered less. I wasn't really trying to get the job, and felt like my greatest success was making his bishop stiff. Mr. Gould offers some palaver about "keeping me in mind" and a ribboned Tiffany & Co. box in a tiny tote bag. Presumably this is the "payment" I was expecting. Some leaded crystal knick-knack I guess, since it's very heavy for its size. In spite of the abrupt brush-off, Mr. Gould leads me out with the same old-fashioned gallantry as before. He helps me up from seat, compliments me on my loveliness again, directs me to the door with a hand at the small of my back, and opens the door for me. All while still with a tent in his kecks, mind. I glance at the grandfather clock as we cross the palatial entry hall. I idly think that I'll be arriving at the airport in 24 hours. Gould pulls a phone from his pocket to call the car for me, as he deposits me in the lobby of the Residences. I'm still quite insanely, painfully aroused. Not just in front. The spot deep in my back passage is on fire too! I feel the only solution is to work the toy in me so I might relieve some pressure by squirting in my knickers. But I see a couple of girls struggling to open the door with shopping bags in their hands, so that plan has to wait. They're both very friendly and introduce themselves as Dior and Colleen. I presume they are working girls, because they appear to live here. Each is quite stunning in her own way, even though dressed no more revealingly than a 35 degree day calls for. Quickest picture I could paint for you is thirty-year-old Grace Jones hauling groceries with teenaged Taylor Swift. They must think I'm on the game too, given how I'm dressed, and where I am. We chat about the weather (hot), England (not so hot), what they are making for dinner (vegetable stir-fry). Disappointing, to be honest, for my first and only prostitute confab. But I can't think of a polite way to ask them how the job's going. Taylor tells me I'm too pretty not to be hired, so she expects to see me next week. I just say "wish me luck!" I here Grace say "If they're gonna bring 'em in as young as that, honey, I am so..." as the door closes behind them. I try to rationalize my awesomely randy condition. It's not Gould's penis that was turning me on. Because, well, he's old and his endowment clearly doesn't measure up to my fantasy of unwrapping a huge package. I think it was the thrill of my first time inspiring an erection. I mean, I wanked a boy for most of Year Ten, as basically a means of buying his protection. But this was entirely different. It was a man, I didn't have to touch him, I wasn't aware of doing anything at all! It has to come from feeling sexy. Something I'd never really felt before. And more than that, effortlessly sexy! Dressing to look available has to have a lot to do with it. But could I simply walk down the street in a tarty outfit, and make men hard? Lots of them? Had I already done so on the trip over here? That must be it... because as soon as I had the idea I drenched my pretty knickers! Quick as I was capable of standing up, I thought I'd test this idea by standing by the kerb to wait for my driver, and see who might walk by. I hadn't been there a tic, when Gould rushes out the door, short of breath. He grasps me firmly by the arm, looks both ways, then fairly drags me back inside. "You wait right here!" he shouts at me, before running back down the steps to retrieve my dropped Hello Kitty clutch. I'm sobbing from the shock of it all, while he collects his breath and composure. "First off, Missy," he intones, "don't *you ever* again dare standing on the sidewalk on this block looking like you are soliciting! As long as we have *that* clear, I'd be obliged if you come back to my office. We have business to discuss."