Trust Ch. 07

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[Is this the ultimate plimsoll fetish sex fantasy?]

Chapter 7 — Saturday night spice

It was Friday evening. As I’d had to work late, Emma had come up to town after taking her adult beginners’ ballet class to meet me at my office. She looked gorgeous as always. After several weeks of warmer weather it was becoming cooler so she was wearing a black leather jacket over a tight-fitting blue and white striped sweater, a black high-waist pleated short skirt, black tights and white Keds plimsolls. Her hair was still in a bun on the back of her head from her class but she had allowed a couple of wisps to curl against the nape of her neck in a most attractive fashion and which invited me to kiss her there at regular intervals. I was still dressed in my suit and smart black shoes but my frustration at not wearing plimsolls was more than cancelled out by the sublime pleasure of walking hand in hand with someone as beautiful as Emma looking so cute and excitingly fresh and girlish in her white plimsolls with her short skirt and black tights.

We strolled happily along the busy street, chatting about our days and stopping to look in shop windows, on our way to our favourite Chinese restaurant in Soho, when I suddenly pointed across the street and said to her, “Look at those girls over there.”

The girls in question were a group of teenagers presumably on their way to a party or a club judging by their loud and raucous high spirits as they jaunted their exuberant way along the pavement. What made them of special interest to us was that they were all wearing black leotards, a black silk or black velvet bow tie, black tights or full length leggings and black lace-up plimsolls. Each girl wore a head band, a scrunchy tying her hair in a pony tail, a little tutu skirt in floaty frothy tulle, towelling sweat bands on her wrists, ankle socks, leg warmers bunched around her ankles and brightly coloured laces on her black plimsolls. All the accessories were in a matching bright day-glo colour different for each girl: green, yellow, pink, orange, light blue and lilac. I watched in fascination as they advanced in a phalanx of long gawky antelope adolescent legs while singing ‘Here come the girls’ in their uninhibited high pitched celebration of young and burgeoning femininity.

With genuine admiration for them I said to Emma,

“Aren’t they fantastic? I’d love to have the freedom to walk down the street in a tutu and tights and plimsolls like that. I’ve always envied you girls for the fun you can have with pretty and sexy clothes and shoes and hair and makeup. I get so fed up with having to wear a shirt and trousers and a jacket nearly all the time.”

“We’ve got to have some compensation for being the ones who have to cope with periods and mad hormones, ovulation pains, sore and itchy boobs in badly fitting bras and having babies,” she laughed, “but if you want to dress up girly and walk down a crowded street why don’t you?”

“The dressing up bit isn’t a problem,” I replied. “You’ve given me so much help with looking more like a girl I almost fancy myself now whenever I see myself dressed up as a plimsoll girl or a ballerina. What holds me back is the not knowing enough about behaving as a woman so I don’t just look like a guy dressed up in women’s clothes.”

“OK then,” she said. “Tomorrow after my pointe class I’ll be your coach and initiate you into all kinds if feminine mysteries and in the evening we’ll get dressed up to knock the boys dead and go out and paint the town red. Oh that was a good rhyme wasn’t it?” she giggled.

“I’d like to dress up like those girls,” I enthused.

“You’ll need lots of confidence to carry it off,” she pointed out.

“If you can teach me to act as a woman as well as you’re teaching me ballet I won’t have any worries in that department,” I smiled just as we were walking into the restaurant. A waiter led us to a table for two in a discreet corner where we sat down. I squeezed her hand and her smile matched mine as I kissed her and her crossed over foot in her white plimsoll began to stroke my leg.

The next morning while she was at her dance school taking her class I called in at the local dance wear shop to buy some of the accessories we needed for our girl’s night out. I had been there a number of times with Emma so the girls who worked there all knew me well. They were all very pretty and very friendly and I loved seeing them in their shop uniform of white tee shirt printed with the shop’s logo, red short skirt, black tights or leggings and black ballet slippers, plimsolls or leather jazz shoes. Chloe, an elfin blonde with a fringe and a long pony tail who was my favourite amongst them, was behind the counter as I walked in and gave me her usual dazzling bright doe eyed smile and cheery greeting.

“Do you sell those little gauzy wrap around tutu skirts in very bright colours?” I asked her without a trace of self-consciousness.

“Yes,” she smiled. “What colour does Emma want?”

“Can Betturkey I see what colours you’ve got?” I decided not to let on that one of them was for me. She emerged from behind the counter and I was delighted to see that with her black leggings and bare feet she was wearing a brand new pair of black canvas Keds that looked lovely on her small, narrow feet. Before then she had always worn black canvas ballet slippers which looked nice on her but didn’t have the same appeal as her very sexy looking new Keds. “I like your new runners,” I smiled to her.

“Sorry, runners?” she smiled a little uncertainly with her head slightly inclined.

“Sorry Chloe, I meant your plimsolls. Runners are what they’re called where I came from,” I explained.

“Oh, thank you,” she beamed and treated me to a lovely little display of feminine grace and beauty as she placed her slender hands on her trim hips, extended a pipe slender leg with her long flowing line beautifully moulded in her leggings and flowing down to her exquisitely pointed foot, which she turned from side to side so I could admire her plimsoll even more. “I love how they look so pretty and so stylish at the same time. Emma always looks lovely in her white ones.”

“She certainly does,” I agreed and felt a little tremor of excitement at the fleeting thought of her naked in them.

Chloe showed me the tutu skirts, which were the sort that have the circle of tulle fixed to a see through gusset that stretches over the leotard. I chose a shocking pink one for Emma and a fluorescent bright green one for myself. I also bought matching coloured headbands, sweatbands, scrunchies, lovely soft cotton rich ankle socks that would look gorgeous on Emma’s feet with her plimsolls and feel gorgeous against my feet inside my plimsolls, leg warmers and even shoe laces. Chloe, still assuming that all my purchases were for Emma, gave me an even more radiant smile as I left and my only other port of call before heading for home was an old fashioned gentleman’s outfitters for a pair of black silk bow ties.

I got home with enough time before Emma returned from her ballet class to strip off down to my white Supergas and ankle socks and make us a sandwich lunch. She came in with her usual energetic chatty bustle as I was setting things on the kitchen table and after giving me a kiss she disappeared for a few minutes before returning naked in a fresh pair of clean white Keds and ankle socks. We carried on chatting over lunch and then she inspected my purchases approvingly. She giggled when I told her that Chloe thought they were all for her.

“Wait until I show her the photos of us,” she laughed.

“I’ll never be able to show my face in there again,” I laughed with her.

After lunch it was time to begin my course of feminisation.

“When a woman goes for a night out the key to her success is preparation,” she began, “and when it comes to preparation the key word is ‘pampering’. The first thing we’re going to do is get you smelling like a girl and the best way to start on that is a good long soak in the bath.”

The bath was original to the house and was so large that filling it with hot water to a comfortable depth amounted to an ecological crime of major proportions as well as a huge hit on the gas bill. But even though we nearly always used the shower she loved her antique bath and wouldn’t dream of replacing it. It came up trumps now as we luxuriated together in a small lake of deliciously warm water softened with sweet smelling bath oil that sat on top of the water in a mountain of foam that rustled gently around our shoulders whenever we moved. We lay back at opposite ends, feet to feet as our bodies absorbed the warmth and the sweet fruity aroma.

“Ah, this is so nice,” she breathed in deep pleasure, then she giggled as she added, “Lets see how much you’re enjoying it” and I felt the wiggling advance of her toes up the length of my deeply submerged erection that had so far escaped detection, until her foot covered my whole length. Pressing against me with a firm push she laughed, “Our flexible friend will have to take a holiday today; you’re one of the girls now.”

“Well you’d better let it pack its bags then,” I smiled as I lifted her foot by her ankle and tickled the soft curl of her sole to make her yelp with pleasure.

“Tickling feet is off limits too,” she laughed. “Now the first thing we need to do is work on your voice. You’ll need to use your falsetto but the trick for sounding feminine rather than effeminate is to find a comfortable pitch that resonates inside you so that it says ‘I’m a sexy woman’ and not ‘I’m a sissy in a dress.’ Try it now. Your vocal chords will be nice and relaxed now we’ve been in the bath for a while.”

I experimented with various pitches of falsetto while I told her about my morning’s shopping until I felt a deep warm timbre in my chest.

“That’s lovely,” she enthused. “You sound Betturkey Giriş just like Susan Hampshire in those reruns of ‘The Forsyth Saga’. Now keep it light and just a little bit breathy. Lovely! Now keep in that voice all the time from now on. OK, now you got a beautiful woman’s voice you have to make sure you use it. What’s the biggest difference between men and women?”

“Besides the — sorry — besides the obvious ones?” I smiled apologetically as I forgot myself for a second and slipped out and then back into my feminine voice.”

“Yes dear,” she smiled sweetly in a ‘Stop messing about and get on with it’ kind of way.

“That’s easy,” I laughed. “Women talk and men wished they didn’t.”

“You are a clever little sausage today,” she smiled and dabbed a handful of soap bubbles on my nose. “Women are made for talking and our brains are hard wired for it. We talk for pleasure; men have a much more purpose-driven approach to talking, meaning they only talk when they need to. Women like to sit and goss while men prefer to take themselves off and do the Times crossword or build scale model steam engines in their garden sheds or play with their willies.”

“That’s a bit of a generalisation but I get what you’re saying”, I laughed.

“So the key to talking like a woman is, well, to keep talking,” she giggled. “And you really can talk about anything and everything, especially about feelings. Feelings are very good things when you’re a woman. The other important thing, and you may need to practice this a bit, is to talk and listen and look all at the same time. All the time a woman is talking she’s looking and listening out for verbal and non-verbal clues for how the other person is reacting and for cues for more conversation. Now we’re coming on to body language, remember the rule about most communication being non-verbal. Here’s a little test for you: how am I feeling right now?

“You sound really happy and relaxed,” I said. Then I looked at her a little more closely. “But you’re sitting up very straight and your hands are gripping the sides of the bath, like you’re nervous but trying to hide it.”

“You’re really good,” she beamed and relaxed herself again. “Living with me must be having a good effect on you.”

“I’ll happily give you the credit for that,” I laughed as I followed her out of the bath.

I continued practicing girl talk with her while we dried ourselves and got down together to the task of depilation. While I carefully shaved my face and my whole body and then carefully attended to my eyebrows which I keep at a fairly androgynous level, I enjoyed the spectacle of her attending to her gorgeous long legs and her very sexy underarms with her Ladyshave before smoothing lotion over her legs so that they shone with a smooth sheen.

We chattered away over the merits and demerits of shaving methods and then moved on to the rich conversational mine that is perfume as we continued to pamper our bodies with sweet smelling deodorant, body spray, hair spray (In my case on the wig I was going to wear) and some very expensive perfume. We took care to use different brands of each to distinguish our personal aromas.

When we had finished she decided that it was time for me to practice moving like a woman. “But before you can move like a woman, you’ll need breasts and you’ll need to lose your man bulge,” she declared.

“Breasts are no problem but what about my bits?” I puzzled.

“I’ve already thought about that,” she smiled mysteriously as she disappeared to the bedroom for a moment and returned with something in her hands. She held out the object towards me by the tips of her fingers, with her hands delicately bent at the wrists, and smiled cheekily as she bobbed a little curtsey and presented them to me. She was holding the most formidably hideous pair of flesh coloured elasticated underpants I had ever seen.

“What the fuck are those?” I exclaimed, completely lapsing back into masculinese. “They look like the Underpants of Doom!”

“They’re shaping pants,” she explained. “I bought them for you ages ago as a surprise to give you at the right moment. The more dedicated female impersonators wear them to give them a more feminine shape so they can wear shorts skirts or no skirt. If we’re going out tonight dressed in leotards and tights and tiny frilly tutu skirts you’ll have to wear these pants so you don’t give yourself away straight away.”

The Underpants of Doom were literally a pain to get on and it took me a couple of grimacing, eye watering moments while they flattened, squeezed and pushed my bulgy bits against my groin until I had finished. But the pain was worth the gain because when I put on a little black satin g-string and my black leggings over them I found that instead of my bulge I now had a very nice feminine curve between my legs. I was only sorry that I couldn’t enjoy the smooth satiny feel of my g-string directly against my skin.

Next Betturkey Güncel Giriş I put on my prosthetic breasts, which had the weight and feel and hang of real breasts inside my black satin bra and which also clung against my chest with a slightly tacky adhesiveness to keep them in place. I had opted for a modest A cup because of my lack of hips to balance anything larger. They were joined together to look and feel more realistic and even gave me a fair approximation of a cleavage. With my breasts and my sexy underwear on I was starting to feel much more feminine, even more so when Emma suggested I put on a pair of Bryony’s sleek and stylish black velvet high heels to practice walking the womanly walk.

“Men stride; women glide,” she explained. “Posture is very important too. What you’re learning in ballet applies here too: straight back, shoulders back, tummy in and chest nicely projected. Women tend to walk inclining slightly forward whereas men are a little backward – not meaning to be unkind,” she giggled. “Take shorter steps than you would normally, try placing one foot slightly in front of the other as you walk so your legs move in a sort of swinging curve and give your hips just a hint of a wiggle. Just think of catwalk girls but slightly less exaggerated.”

I tried my catwalk glide a few times and she gave me an encouraging “Well done” before continuing. “All your movements must be smaller, more precise and more controlled within a smaller compass; but without being mincing or camp. When you stand, put your weight slightly onto one hip so you can bend the other leg slightly which looks nice and sexy. Never stand with your hands down by your sides; rest them on your hips or cross your arms under your breasts. When you’re sitting keep your legs together with your feet together or slightly apart at the most. Knees together with your feet wider apart is OK and cross legged is very good because you can look confident and sophisticated and you can do sexy movements with your crossed over foot. When you sit down don’t just park your bum on the seat but lower yourself slowly and carefully.”

My crash course in femininity continued as we finished preparing ourselves. I put on my wig of long straight black hair, with a straight fringe across my forehead which emphasised my eyes, and tied my hair in a pony tail with several loops of my fluorescent green towelling scrunchy. I had chosen my wig to match with my leotard, which had long sleeves to disguise the masculinity of my arms and a high roll neck to conceal my false breasts and which Emma said would emphasise my eyes even more. These I made up carefully with liner, mascara and shadow to look very striking and be an instant point of attraction. “A woman takes care to emphasise her best features,” she instructed. With careful application of foundation, blusher and dark red lipstick the finished result was so much like Bryony I fancied myself almost to be her twin sister rather than her twin brother.

I continued practicing my feminine conversational and social skills while Emma gave my nails a thorough manicure: filing them and tidying up the cuticles, fixing on a set of long and attractively pointed false nails and finally applying to them a coat of very shiny dark red varnish. I finished off my hands and wrists with some pretty rings and bracelets from Bryony’s jewellery collection and adorned my ears with a pair of clip on drop earrings I had bought for myself when I had first begun to dress as a plimsoll girl and which had great sentimental value to me.

I had a tight, excited feeling in my chest as we finished putting on our costumes. Emma had already been wearing her very sexy black satin and lace plunging bra and matching panties while she had been making up and brushing her gorgeous mane of long flowing blonde hair until it shone. Now I marvelled as she slid over her lovely legs her sheer and shiny black leggings and then eased herself into an incredibly sexy and figure moulding shiny black high thigh leotard with tiny shoulder straps, a front that beautifully displayed her very womanly décolletage and a back just low enough to give a slight glimpse of the girth of her bra.

Together we put on our head bands, ankle socks, leg warmers and our black plimsolls; hers were brand new classic canvas Keds and mine were Ben Simons. Then we added the detailing: our black silk bow ties, towelling sweatbands on our wrists, head bands and Emma’s earrings, rings and bracelets (she preferred to put on her jewellry at the end of her preparations). Finally we negotiated our legs into our little gauzy tutu skirts and pulled them up to nestle securely around our waists. We stood in front of a full length mirror and two beautiful women dressed as long legged sexy ballerinas looked back at us. I had never felt as sexy as I did just then. We took some photos of each other and some with us together, hugging and giggling together in our shared conspiracy for an evening of feminine fun.

It was just before seven in the evening when we finished our preparations that we had begun just before one in the afternoon. The last thing that Emma did before we left for the wine bar we had decided to descend upon was to present me with that essential bit of female kit, my very own handbag.

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