Sunday, March 18, 2012

So Help Me!

Got the word from Alexvyaz that I'd goofed with Rosie's Bits today - as I'd already used them.  Can't figure that out at all - but here's another two.

Sorry Rosie!


The suit I was wearing was styled to look like men’s and I would have gotten away without anybody noticing had it not been for one very unlikely coincidence. Sandra, my coworker, was wearing the exact same suit!
The moment when I saw her come into the office, dressed in the chestnut brown pants and jacket, I recognized them immediately and knew I was in trouble. I hid behind my newspaper as much as I could, using the temporary cover to buy time in which to think of a permanent solution.
Our boss, Mrs. Davies came in and I had to put the paper down.
“Good morning,” she said, walking towards the door of her office between our desks. Fortunately, her attentions were turned to a stack of papers she held in her right hand. Sandra, however, had the time to glance at me. I prayed she wouldn’t notice the similarity of our outfits, but even before Mrs. Davies reached the door, Sandra was already standing beside my chair.
“Hey boss,” she said out, “Check this out – we’re color coordinated.”
Blushing furiously, I knew there was nothing I could do that wouldn’t attract further attention to us. Furthermore, I assumed I was safe – when people don’t expect a certain thing, it can be right under their noses and they won’t see it. Who would expect a man to wear a ladies’ suit?
Mrs. Davies turned around.
“Nice,” she said, pleasantly enough, then added, “Roger, could I see you in my office please?”
“Right away, boss,” I replied.
“Who’d have thought they’d make the same suit for men,” Sandra remarked as she sat down behind her own desk again.
“Yeah well, that’s fashion these days,” I said, carefully taking the longer way around my desk to Mrs. Davies’ door, not to expose my left profile to Sandra. The jacket didn’t entirely cover the side zipper of the pants.
“Well?” Mrs. Davies said as I closed the door behind me.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“What Sandra said,” she explained, “The odds they’d make a men’s version of her suit.”
I shrugged, wishing she’d drop the subject and offer me to sit down. Instead, she got up herself, walked around her desk, stood next to me.
“They don’t, do they?” She said.
I swallowed.
“I guess not,” I replied, barely audibly.
“These are women’s clothes you’re wearing, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I whispered my confession.
“Where did you get them?” she asked.
“They’re my wife’s,” I said.
“Oh really,” she said, sounding intrigued, “Does your wife know you wear her clothes to the office?”
“Yes,” I replied, not wanting to go into full detail about Rachel’s involvement in my attire.
“This is not the first time you’re wearing her clothes, is it?” Mrs. Davies pressed further.
“No, ma’am,” I said, bracing myself for the worst.
“Those black pants you wore last week,” she said, “They were hers too, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” I nodded, relieved that her knowledge didn’t go deeper than that.
She circled around me, examining my clothes.
“Could you open your jacket for me, Roger?” she said, standing in front of me again.
“Please, Mrs. Davies,” I stammered, “Please don’t…”
“Don’t what?” she said, “Just open you jacket, please. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Albeit colored in a soft, pastel shade of blue, my cuffs and collar appeared as if they could belong to a normal men’s shirt. But as I, fighting tears, opened my jacket, I revealed that they were actually attached to an otherwise very feminine, diaphanous blouse. Her peering gaze felt as it was setting me on fire as I was aware that the gauzy material of my blouse did nothing to hide the lacy lingerie I was wearing underneath.
“Very nice,” she commented, “I suppose the blouse is also your wife’s.”
“It’s mine,” I said, weakly.
“Again, very nice,” she said, “Though if I were you, I’d wear more modest, conservative undies with it. Yours kind of capture the attention. A simple, plain camisole would be better.”
I couldn’t bear it any longer and burst into tears.
“Please don’t fire me, Mrs. Davies,” I bleated.
“Fire you? Whatever for?” she said, hugging me reassuringly and taking off my jacket as she did so, “Don’t worry, you’re job is safe.”
A wave of relief swept over me – I’d keep on working! Though I was worried over Mrs. Davies having seen my feminine attire, I had calmed down enough to stop crying.
“I really don’t mind what you wear,” Mrs. Davies said, “As long as you make yourself presentable.”
She opened her handbag, took out a paper tissue and started dabbing my tears, then suddenly stopped.
“Why don’t you sit down?” she said.
I sat on her chair and she resumed cleaning my face. When she was done with the tissue, she took out a small jar of cream and rubbed some on the skin under my eyes.
“This will take the redness away in no time,” she said, “You poor thing.”
Having put away the jar, she took some more items out of her handbag.
“Keep still now,” she said and started touching my face with a powder applicator.
“Mrs. Davies, what are you doing?” I weakly protested.
She didn’t answer until she had not only powdered my face but reddened my cheekbones with her blush.
“Just to soften your features a little…” she said, concentrating on lining my eyes with a black pencil and adding some eyeshadow.
“I’ll need your full cooperation here,” she said as she took out her mascara wand.
Obediently, I opened and closed my eyes as she thickened my eyelashes.
“There,” she said, then paused.
“One more thing, though”, she said, “Could you lift the leg of your pants for me?”
I did as she asked, pulling the material of my pants way above the top of my socks, revealing the pale tan nylon stockings I was wearing.
“Just as I thought,” she said, “You don’t really need to wear that extra pair of socks, do you?”
Without a word, I took off my shoes and removed my socks. I didn’t even try to hide my toes, painted a bright shade of red. Actually, my shoes – a women’s imitation of the male oxford style – felt better with only a thin layer of nylon on my feet.
She opened the door of her office.
“Sandra?” she said.
“Can I see you too for a minute?”
“Sure, Mrs. Davies,” Sandra replied.
“You know, I rather like the idea of you wearing matching outfits,” Mrs. Davies said to Sandra, “As a matter of fact, I’d like you to try it again.”
“Really? When? I hope not right away tomorrow,” Sandra replied, “I really don’t feel like wearing the same suit two days in a row.”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Davies said, “I was thinking that you’d try that this casual Friday.”
“Oh, I don’t know, boss,” Sandra complained, “I was hoping I’d wear a dress I just bought.”
“I don’t see how this would be a problem,” Mrs. Davies said.
Just as Sandra was to voice her protests, she reached the office and saw me.
“Come to think of it,” she said, “Neither can I.”
“Splendid,” Mrs. Davies said, then turned to me, “In the mean time, Roger? Does your wife have any skirts too?”


Although I didn’t expect her to stay long, I was nonetheless shocked when I felt her muscles flexing, setting to rise from the bed not more than a minute after I had ejaculated into her. My penis hadn’t even gone yet limp, it felt as if it was still pulsing just moments before. I desperately clung on to her, trying to keep her in bed beside me.
“Let go, honey,” she softly said.
“Just one more minute, Eunice,” I begged her.
“Don’t get all difficult with me, now,” she said, not relenting under my tugging at her firm torso, “I have to go, I’ll be missed.”
“Please,” I whimpered, not caring about the weak image I presented.
“No,” she said sternly, then pushed me firmly on my back and got up.
Although we had just made love, the demonstration of her strength, of its undisputed superiority over my own made my heart flutter with a perverse combination of not only fear but also lust. It must have had a similar effect on her as well as her eyes suddenly shone with the oh-so-familiar gleam I’d learnt to both fear and thrive on.
She got off the bed, stretched out her lean, muscular body, brushed out her long red hair with her arms, then instead of getting dressed, just stood with her arms akimbo, as if she was waiting for something.
“You know what?” she said to me, “Why don’t you help me get dressed?”
My mouth went dry as I absorbed her words, an order shaped into a question for no reason other than perhaps her own amusement. The young woman whom my wife had appointed to me as my personal maid was now expecting me to dress her. Yet we both knew it was an order I would obey without an objection.
“Though you should maybe get dressed yourself first,” she added as I started to get out of the bed.
I had been hoping to being at least spared the humiliation of donning my new attire in Eunice’s presence. The though of putting on the clothes I’d been ordered to in the privacy of my wife’s bedroom seemed comforting somehow, though I was aware that I couldn’t remain inside forever and sooner or later I’d have to venture out for everyone, including Eunice, to see. However, as reluctant I was to wear what I was to wear in front of Eunice, I was also shy about being naked in front of her, and thus I was glad I was allowed to dress myself before dressing her.
Hurriedly I got out of the bed and scurried to the wardrobes by the wall. Having stored the clothes myself, I didn’t have to spend too much time searching for them. I quickly opened the lingerie drawer, took out the set and, aware of Eunice’s gaze upon my naked, hairless body, stepped into a pair of white satin panties, lavishly ornamented with lace, and pulled them up until I felt their elastic bands encircling my buttocks and my groin. Once my private parts were covered, I put on the rest – a matching bra, garter belt and a full slip – at a less frantic pace, though careful never to turn around, never to let my eyes meet Eunice’s. Once I put my pearly white stockings on, I closed the lingerie drawers and opened the wardrobe to take out and put on the rest of my outfit.
When I finally turned to face Eunice, fighting tears of shame, I was wearing a bright red satin jacket with embroidered white flowers directly over my lingerie. It had a scooped neckline and the three quarter sleeves. It was tailored, making it conform perfectly to my narrow waist. My skirt was also red, though a shade or two darker than the jacket. It was quite full, knee length. Made of a light weight material, it flounced around my knees as I swayed on the four inch heels of my gold colored pumps, making my way to the chair where I had neatly folder Eunice’s uniform and lingerie.
Her lingerie was black and although it was elegant, it seemed to be purely functional. There was no lace, no frilly ornaments that mine was bursting of, only panels of microfibre fabric and elastic bands. Apart from the shape which was clearly suited to the function of the garments, the only feature that revealed the intended garment of the wearer was a wide zig-zag stitched pattern along the elastic edges.
I picked up the whole set and set out to bring it to the bed, where Eunice was standing.
“One item at a time,” she stopped me, “And start with the garter belt.”
Not yet trusting my voice not to break to crying, I fulfilled her order wordlessly. Waves after waves of shame swept over me as I walked towards Eunice. Her dominance over me was being expressed with painful intensity of message – I was to act as her personal maid while dressed in my wife’s clothes. Yet a good part of the lump in my throat was also a strange excitement I felt.
As I stood closely in front of her, before bending down to her waist, I noticed that even on my high heels I barely appeared any taller than her. I wrapped the garter belt across her slim waist and as I touched her soft skin, my excitement grew.
Next I brought her the black nylon stockings, rolled them up on my thumbs and slid them up her long legs. Then the panties, the bra, the short black slip. With each additional item of lingerie I put on her, she seemed farther away from the image she had presented earlier. Only when she stepped into the stiff white petticoat I held out for her did she begin to resemble a servant, a maid. Then I brought her uniform, a black flouncy satin dress with a square neckline and cup sleeves, both hemmed with white lace. She held out her arms and I slowly pulled it over her, enjoying every moment of it. Partly because I enjoyed contact with her perfect body, partly because I enjoyed donning this symbol of servitude on my dominator. Perhaps it was the added height of the heels that made me so confident – when I zipped her dress at the back, I couldn’t help but slowly slide my arms around her hips until they caressed her belly. I felt her stiffen under my fingers, her breath shortened. Then she relaxed, as if melting into a state of submission to me. Not for long, however.
“Get my shoes,” she said, quietly and calmly, though with a tone that immediately reestablished my submissive role.
I put each patent black pump on her feet, adding three inches to her height. Straightening up, I found that even though diminished by an inch – my heels were higher – our height difference was still enough to tilt my head back as I faced her. Even though not ten minutes has passed since my last orgasm, I found myself almost trembling with lust once again. She couldn’t contain herself either. With one hand she held me by the small of my back, with the other she shamelessly reached between my legs, hiking up my skirt until she grabbed my satin clad groin. I gasped girlishly but she silenced be by planting a firm kiss on my lips, forcing her tongue inside my mouth. My response was automatic, I couldn’t have reacted any other way that obediently suckling at her probing tongue and wrapping my arms about her neck, surrendering to her embrace until I my penis was rock hard under her grip.
As she let go of me, I plopped my backside down on the bed, her wrists in my hands, a begging gaze fixed on her eyes. She looked down on me wantonly for a second, letting me pull her closer by her hands. Then suddenly, I sensed her firm up, swallow hard.
“Damnit, Melissa, there’s no time for that,” she said, pulling her hands away from me and walked to my wife’s vanity table.
I leaned back on my elbows, taking a moment to recompose myself.
“Melissa?” I said out loud after I had – to some extent – regained my senses.
“Yeah,” Eunice replied, matter-of-factly, “Can’t go on calling you David if you’re dressed like that.”
Saying that, she proceeded to apply makeup to my face. Not having a mirror nearby while she worked, I couldn’t exactly tell what she was up to, but I knew when my eyelashes were being painted with mascara, when my eyes were outlined with a black pencil, when my cheeks were reddened, when my lips were painted pink, so seeing myself in the full length mirror wasn’t such a big surprise for me. Yet still I admired how skillfully she had made me appear a woman, though quite frankly, she didn’t have that hard a task doing so.
“Wow,” I said, turning back to Eunice, “You’re really good with that.”
“Thanks,” she said, “Come down to maids’ quarters in an hour or so, I’ll have the girls to do something with your hair.”
Her words shook me to the unpleasant reality of having to face the world dressed as I was. Somehow, though, that didn’t seem as horrible as it did at the beginning.
“Be sure to make the bed just as it was before,” she said, “Along with lending you her clothes, mistress was kind enough to let us use her bedroom. Let’s not make her regret it.”
”You mean she knows?” I asked, taken aback with surprise.
“Knows?” Eunice laughed, then calmed down when saw my stricken expression.
“Look, no offence, honey,” she said, “But I wouldn’t risk my job for you. Not with mistress.”
Her words hurt me, though I could see her point. My wife paid good wages to her employees, much better than they’d get anywhere else.
“Then why all the secrecy?” I asked.
“I don’t want the girls to find out I’m sleeping with you,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“What about… the clothes,” I continued, plucking at my skirt.
“Oh, you’ll see,” she said and left the room.
As hurt as I was by being set straight, I was also relieved. No longer did I have to keep my affair hidden from my wife, nor did I have to keep on the charade of putting what little remained of my masculinity for show for her.
I got off the bed, then carefully made my wife’s bed just like it was before Eunice and I consumed our passion in it.
I took another look in the mirror. My hair certainly could do with some work, but that would be taken care of immediately thereafter. As for the rest – I was fully aware of the effect my newfound feminine charms had on Eunice. I wondered if they would work the same way on my wife.
I’ve just been dealt a new hand, I though as I walked out the bedroom door, and I’ll be make damn sure not to squander it like I’ve done with my last one.


alexvyaz said...

I noticed that my version of Rosie's bits consists of 28 parts. So 29 part is new for me. ;)
How many bits has your version?

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