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A series of stories with TG themes, dedicated to women, and to men who like to be women (which includes me!)

 

B is for Bethany - The End of an Era

by Bethany Jacques

 

No, this isn't the story of how I started as a TV. It's the tale of the end. Of how I hung up my high heels - metaphorically, actually I binned them. Really. And the other stuff. The final purge. And for once, unlike all my fantasy stories - this one is true. If I miss out a few names and locations, if I just stick to the real facts I can tell the tale as it happened. My actual last days as a transvestite. Well, having just reached the start of my second half-century, and after the events of the past few years, it all had to finish. Once and for all.

How did it start? Well, briefly, like most other TVs I suppose. Dressing in Mum's stuff as a teenager. Occasionally in my wife's clothes after Carol and I got married. And then, low-key for over twenty years, totally in the closet, I actually went out of the house 'dressed' four times in all those years, always after dark, always very carefully.

Once to an ATM in Halesowen at 1.30 am, once to stroll down the Hagley Road for about 100 yards as about 1.00am, and in fact to get my one and only wolf-whistle from a coach-load of football fans stopped at the lights as I went past. That time in too short a mini-skirt. And twice just for a drive and a walk in deserted streets after midnight, once in Dudley, once in Lye. Always when Carol was away at her mother's and I was alone for the night. Four times in twenty years, not much of a tranny, was I?

Until about three years ago, that is. When, for reasons I won't reveal, I 'came out' to my wife, in circumstances liable to render her less critical of my activities. Let's just leave it at that. She 'accepted' my dressing with some limitations, she had to really, though again I won't say why. And for a period of about four months we had some 'TV-fun' together. At which point the 'fun' was just beginning to get a bit heavy. We both had our doubts about where we were heading.

And at that time we had a major change in our lives together. Again, let's just say a family-related change at home which meant the TV stuff had to end. No longer could I put on a wig and make-up and a dress and walk round the house in high heels. Suddenly, it had to end. We purged. Didn't want the few items of female clothing we'd bought for me being discovered. Everything went in the bin.

Except it didn't. A few months ago, when we had a night in on our own for the first time in several weeks, Carol revealed to me that she'd kept a few items and had hidden them in the loft. She hadn't told me at all, for well over two years, but she had kept hidden three of my 'dressing-up' items, the three most expensive. The wig, of course, the same reddish-coloured shoulder-length wig which has featured in so many of my fictional tales. Like many T-writers I've borrowed from reality in almost every one of my fantasies, where clothes, outings, locations are concerned. Names too, though only in a limited sense, that one.

She'd also kept my basque, the second-most-expensive item I'd bought, from the same shop in Handsworth as the wig. The one I've usually called 'Transform' in my stories though readers in the UK will know that's not quite the name of the shop. The basque is a classic tranny item, black, silky, boned to give the right shape to a male wearer, and with pull-straps at the back to squeeeeze the flesh appropriately.

And shoes. My favourite tranny shoes, yet again from 'Transform'. £49.99, reduced from £69,99 because of a small blemish on one heel, a mark I'd very successfully covered up with black shoe polish. Easy really. The classic tranny style shoes, black patent high heels , 6 inches high indeed, with ankle straps and small gold buckles. 'Stephanie' style indeed, named I think after the owner of the shop chain.

So Carol had kept these three items, the only ones I'd bought from that specialist shop, the most expensive items I'd ever purchased. All the other stuff, cheap bras and panties and stockings and tights and make-up and false nails and so on, we had slung. Like I said, the big final purge.

It was when I was getting a suitcase down from the loft for her a few weeks ago that she suggested I may care to bring them down and finally throw them away. Expensive or not, they were not going to be used again, were they? Indeed not. I did get the bag down and hid it somewhere different, in one of my clothes drawers behind my own undies. Underwear, that is, not lingerie.

The reason I was getting the case was for Carol to begin packing for her visit to her mother the following weekend. Yes, I know, I've used that excuse before in my tales, wife going away for two or three days, usually to mother's, and me taking the chance to dress up. And the reason I used the device? Obviously, because it had happened. All four of the outings I'd had were when Carol was away though not always at her mother's. And I have to admit, given the co-incidence of her visit away and my having in my possession my last tranny items, the thought came into my mind, again.

OK, like I said, just into my sixth decade, I knew any sort of serious tranny-ism was behind me. Indeed I'd had my 'golden period', with Carol's involvement and co-operation, a few years earlier. Only three months of it but - well - that's another story. If I do ever tell that one I'll have to change some names. But this one, it really did happen this way, it was Carols visit which thrust the thought, the rather naughty thought, into my mind. Naughty because, after three years of not dressing, of living a different but extremely happy life as a family, I knew this would have to be secret. Back in the closet. I was wary of actually doing it but I convinced myself it would be OK. Just for one night, one evening rather, and then those last three items would be heading bin-wards.

I wasn't due to be going with Carol this time, I was working the Friday and she'd managed to take it off. She was to travel down to the south-east on the Friday morning, visit relatives in the area Saturday and then Sunday morning, then head back on the Sunday afternoon. Initially I'd just said 'yes' to that suggestion, thinking I'd fill my time by gardening, maybe going into Brum, just taking my time and relaxing really. But as soon as THE idea popped into my head I had things to do. I wasn't going to buy much stuff at all, basically I planned to wear Carol's clothes, those which fitted me anyway.

I knew she still had, at the back of the wardrobe somewhere, a suit I'd worn before. She'd bought it cheap once when she'd briefly gone up to a 12. As a 12/14 'woman' I'd been able to squeeze into it, I knew I could do again for one more time. A stretchy sweater, probably either the white or blue ribbed, if she wasn't taking them both with her that was. And earrings, something else I'm always keen on, I remembered they hadn't all been 'purged'. She had at least two pairs of clips in her top drawer, one or the other would do fine.

In fact all I needed was panties and false finger-nails. That was all. I could do the rest from her stuff with the minimum of fuss. So the day before she was due to go away I called in at 'Superdrug' on my way home in the evening, hoping as I always had when I'd had to make that sort of purchase before, that I'd get a dopy assistant who just scanned but didn't look. Except I had to but some leg-wear of course, I'd decided not to wear Carol's. So I got one pair of black tights and one pair of black stockings. I'd decide which to wear later.

Oh, and a thong. I'd always worn black panties, sort-of lacy, but in the Pound Shop in town I found thongs, more popular now than a few years ago, for £1. Bargain. So I got two. Both black. Both a 12. Slightly different designs. And, I thought as I drove home, that was that. All catered for. And for a total investment of about £10, half of which was for the nails. OK, if I was just dressing, maybe going for a short late-night drive, the coloured longer nails were not necessary. But I knew I'd feel better, more 'female', wearing them.

On that Friday morning I headed off to work in Carol's old Fiesta, she was taking my bigger, more decent, car for her own journey. Also because she may well end up ferrying elderly relatives around, it was a much more comfortable car. The Fiesta is old, R-reg, but more than adequate as a second car. And for my purposes that weekend it would do me fine.

At work, the old jitters returned. I remembered them, both from the few times I'd done this secretly in the past and also from the few times I'd done so with Carol's help. But all that had been over three years ago. I hoped I could do as good a job this time, in transforming my body into that of a woman. I'd always liked to think I'd passed for about 35, OK, a bit older now, I'd be targeting about forty. That would do me. Sure, I'd have liked to look 25 but this really was real life, not fantasy.

Strange, even thinking about it now almost a month after the event, I can remember almost every detail. It was memorable though, it's probably still so clear in my mind because I was thinking so much about it, I knew this really was going to be the last time, the end of Bethany Jacques.

I started the change-over just after seven after getting home a little early and having a snack. I was nervous, always was when 'dressing' and this was no different. I was expecting Carol to ring to tell me she'd got there OK, and she did just before nine. Thank goodness video-phones aren't here quite yet. As I answered I was wearing the thong and the basque, I'd done all my facial make-up using Carol's own tubes and blocks, I knew I could get away with that. Yes, she'd got there OK, Mum-in-law sent her love, all that sort of thing. After she'd rung off I finished my dressing, electing to wear the tights for simplicity instead of the stockings and putting on the skirt and sweater and wig before finishing off with shoes, a few jewellery items and the stick-on false nails. With one of Carol's bags over my shoulder I was ready.

I'd got a few items in my bag - just in case - though I was desperately hoping nothing of that kind would be needed. And I'd planned my outing and the route for my walk. Quick drive into town, it was late enough, after closing time for most of the pubs, and park by the council offices. Yes, I know, that's the car park featured in another of my fantasies, it does exist. Though the Ladies' loos, the scene of my 'first fuck' in that story, doesn't exist. And it's not by a river, it's by a park. My route was clear in my mind, a 400 yard square. Through the car park, along a side street, down the High Street (!) and then along a narrow lane back to the car. As in all my stories though, I sat there in the car first. Took a few deep breaths. And opened the car door.

Along the length of the car park I just enjoyed revisiting the TV experience. It was dark, obviously, though there were two biggish lamp standards along the length of the car park. And only one other car there, a Peugeot. I'd parked about 20 yards from it, far enough just in case there was someone sat in it, waiting for his wife maybe, but it was empty. That first stage of the renewing of life as a TV, it was lovely. Just lovely. All the classis TV sensations, the senses and feelings we all love so much, all came flooding back as I walked that first 100 yards. The walking itself, truly a sensual experience in tights and high heels. I'd had a problem with the shoes, I hadn't dared wear my own TV heels, my pride and joy, my black shiny 6" stilettos. So I'd had to squeeze my feet into an older pair of Carol's. They had strappy heels, a little difficult to walk in but I knew I could manage well enough. Only about 21/2" heels though, pity.

But it was my intention, on that occasion, at that time of night and in those conditions, to 'pass'. Everything I'd done in preparation had been with that in mind. Quite heavy on the make-up, not too far with the clothing and the shoes and so on. The wig, I think, was a big help, covering much, framing my face attractively, I hoped. The hands would have been a bit of a give-away, not too much I could do there but the nails and the three rings gave a quick impression, in the dark at least I hoped, of femininity. And overall, at least viewed from a distance, I know the figure looked good. I'd done up the basque as tight as ever and padded my bra a bit. For a TV my age in my situation I was thrilled with the result.

So as I strolled along the length of the car park- well - I felt great! Well you do, don't you. Those gorgeous sensations, you know the ones, the delectable very slight swish between the legs as my nylon-clad legs slid against each other as I walked. The slight breeze on the usually-covered legs, of course. The feeling of completeness, of something being just right as my weighted-down 'boobs' - actually water-filled balloons tied tight - jostled and bounced just a little with the jarring of each step. Not much clickety-click sound, very little by way of an echo in that car park but then you can't have everything, can you? And the total combined bliss of swinging hair and earrings, stroking the sides of my face as I walked. Heaven!

There was absolutely nobody around to share my delight, nobody to show off to but I just didn't care. I hadn't done this for well over two years and this was going to be the last time. I was determined to enjoy myself, to get the most out of every aspect of the experience. I'd not had anything to drink before I'd come out, not wanting in any way to impair my senses, but I had a G and T ready on the table for my return. But, as I got to the end of the car park I still had three-quarters of my trip to go.

Just by the end of that car park there is a small patch of greenery. An area of shrubs beside a small group of steps up the street and a medium-sized park bench, probably for people even older than me who've just struggled up the steps. I sat down. I crossed my legs. Of course I did. I needed some respite then, not because I'd had trouble on those steps, I just needed to carry out each and every stage of what until then had been a fantasy. Ok so I'd only spent a few days planning but I knew just what I wanted, needed, to do.

I opened my bag, carefully, and took out my pack of cigarettes. Another feature of my fantasies, though I gave up a few years ago - when our family situation changed. But for this outing I was going to go backwards in that sense. In a tobacconist's in Brum I'd bought the one pack of very long cigarettes, VS240s, the sort of long ones you see fetish TVs with. I slid one out carefully and lit it, sitting there for a few minutes enjoying the experience, being able to see my long-nailed fingers holding the cigarette in the glow of the street light. Then I got up, straightened my skirt, and headed off down the street.

Now I really was in public although there weren't any people around. I hoped to see somebody, or rather to be seen, OK, so I don't make the most glam woman in the world but I thought I looked pretty good. Yes, I'm vain. The male me isn't massively handsome, I admit that, I really think I made a more attractive woman than a man. When I was just over half-way down the street, a couple of cars turned into it and drove, straight towards me and past. I wondered if that thrill was going to have to do. But then, and don't ask me why, a Severn-Trent Water van drove past me from behind and pulled up just by the junction in front of me, about thirty yards ahead. And two men got out.

I truly did hesitate a little. Of course, they hadn't just stopped because they'd seen me. Of course not. They just couldn't have stopped because they had seen, in the van lights, a rear view of the gorgeous figure and legs of an attractive woman walking along in front of the van. No. They hadn't. As they jumped down from the van, quite nimbly, one of then bent down and hooked some sort of tool into a drain cover on the pavement and pulled it up. I really hadn't a choice. I had to walk past them. The man on the floor looked up and noticed me. He stood and held out a hand.

"Come on love" was all he said. I reached out and held the cuff of his overall as I stepped carefully round the edge of the raised cover. Now, I said I could remember every single detail of that outing, well, I can't. I THINK I just muttered a quiet 'Thank you' as I let go of his arm and turned to carry on. But I really am not so sure. If I did it was a very quiet mutter, that would be all. I just carried on. Later I wondered just what they'd seen. Or indeed if the other man had seen anything at all. But the one who helped me past the hole, I'm sure he didn't see a middle-aged TV. He saw a woman. Otherwise, I'm sure he'd have said something, called out maybe, certainly he'd have reacted in some way, made it known that I'd been 'read'. But he didn't. He didn't shout out 'fucking pansy' or 'dirty tranny' or anything like that. I didn't even get a wolf-whistle, not that I'd really expected it.

As I reached the second corner, leading onto the actual High Street, I knew that my final 'experience' was half-way through. I'd resolved before I started not to do anything silly like drive on from there to Edgbaston or even into Brum. This, somewhat limited, outing was to be my last. I could manage this and still stay 'in the closet', at least as far as this weekend was concerned. In Birmingham - who knows? Risky. OK, I can do 'risky', but not TOO risky. I turned and began to walk down the street. My brief encounter with the 'Water Men' had satisfied one question any TV is always asking him/herself. Will I pass? Well, like I said earlier, in that situation and in those conditions, yes. I walked a little more confidently, something of a spring in my step.

And now, on the main street, in the full glare of the streetlights I realised I was so much more exposed. Within twenty yards, as I passed the betting shop, the newsagents, the gift shop, the hairdressers, as I walked on enjoying even more the thrill of the experience, maybe seven or eight cars passed me, in both directions, mostly doing about thirty, one or two going faster than they should. And as I passed a charity shop I glimpsed to my left. There is a street lamp right outside, the shop itself is dark at night, and I could see very clearly indeed my full reflection. Here I was being exactly who I wanted to be, a smartly dressed lower-middle-age business woman or similar, my jacket open so I could just catch sight of the bulge of my breasts and - I was delighted to see - my large-ish clip earrings glinted in the reflected light from the street lamp.

I realised my minute or two in the spotlight, so to speak, was beginning to come to an end. In fact, thinking about it, that stretch along the High Street isn't 100 yards, the circuit I was following is not really exactly a square. That section is about 60 yards maybe and I was coming to the end of it. Several yards further on from the charity shop I turned right again, this time into a very narrow side-street leading back to the car park. I was rather disappointed, I'd not actually 'interacted' with anybody in the whole sixty yards except maybe via the cars driving past. And then, just as I turned, a car hooted. Just briefly. And given that there was absolutely nobody else around and absolutely no other reason to sound a horn I was pretty sure why. He'd probably not got a good look at the figure turning the corner, maybe he'd just seen a flash of skirt or leg. But he hooted. I'm sure it was at me.

So I turned the corner and walked, steadily and still excited, along the darker narrower lane back towards the car park. And met, in the sixty or seventy yards of that lane, nobody. Actually, that's probably not a bad thing. A woman shouldn't be walking along that particular lane alone at night, given the poor lighting along there.

I emerged at the end into the car park and turned the final corner of my outing to go back to my car. I had about thirty yards to walk this time. The Peugeot was still there, just beyond my own car. And then I realised I wasn't alone. I saw a man, a lone man, walking towards me from the other end of the parking area. He'd obviously just come down the steps, the ones I'd climbed several minutes later. I thought I could see, even from that distance, he was holding something at waist level in his hand. Car keys. He was the Peugeot man. And I was going to have to walk past his car to get to mine. I didn't speed up or slow down, I just kept going. Now, near the end of my walk, I became very nervous, it had all gone so well so far. But he paused, just briefly, I don't think he'd seen me by then.

I walked past his car and the remaining few yards to mine. I had to stand there, fiddling a little in my handbag for my car keys, as he passed the tail of my car - OK, Carol's - and blipped his hand-set to open his. I of course, with the older car, had to use the key. I was still nervous, feeling rather exposed, the first attempt to fit the key didn't work. But the second did. I opened the door, in a way glad the interior light on Carol's car was bust, and slid in, bum first, legs second, then shut the door. The Peugeot had rapidly backed out and driven off past me. I started the engine.

I drove home. Carefully. Excitedly. OK, I know, loads of TVs go out brazenly, get dressed up in gorgeous dresses, some of them totally convincing as sex-pots, others proud of their male-ness as they parade around not really looking female but feeling good about themselves. But me? I liked it low-key. Just me doing my own thing, just sort-of passing - as a woman.

I got back in the early hours of the morning, taking care not to slam my car door, and got back in the house safely. I had another cigarette. I had my gin-and-tonic. I posed in front of the large mirror in the bedroom. One activity was denied me - Carol had taken the digital camera to do some family pics. Never mind. Bethany's last outing was fun.

My alarm woke me at nine the next day. I showered, dressed, and started to tidy up, Carol's make-up, her suit and sweater, shoes, the make-up and so on. I didn't finish the job, I knew I had lots of time. Carol wasn't due back until late the next day. And I knew she wouldn't just walk in and surprise me because she rang me at about ten from a shopping centre somewhere down in the south-east to say she'd found some sweaters in a sale and did I want her to get me one. I said yes.

Anyway, I had some errands to do, I decided to go into town and get a few things, just groceries and stuff, nothing really special. I reflected on maybe revisiting the High Street, the scene of the crime as it were. And I saw my shoes at the end of the bed, the killer high heels I hadn't dared wear the night before. I reflected again on how I'd felt, what I'd looked like. As I said, not glam but female. And then I did something I'd promised I'd never do. Of which more later.

In town I did the supermarket first and put things in the boot, then went for a stroll. Along the High Street. I looked round the corner at the junction I'd walked round the previous night, just wondering if the Water men were still there, wondering if I should maybe just walk past. But of course, about eleven hours later, there was no sign. And in fact no sign of why they'd been there, no visible water leaks in the road or anything.

In 'Savers' I picked up a pack of cheap one-time razors, I had nearly run out, and glimpsed idly at the hosiery section. The female hosiery rack, of course. I'd bought tights there, ostensibly for Carol, a few times before, and stockings too. I knew I had the pair I'd bought earlier in the week, unopened, I hadn't decided whether to give them to Carol or to bin them when I got rid of the wig and basque and shoes and so on. I wasn't even tempted by what they had on offer, loads of multi-packs of ordinary tights and so on but nothing special. So it had to be Brum. I knew driving into the city on a Saturday lunchtime would be hell, but what the hell, this was going to be, it really WAS going to be, the last time.

That extra diversion took me over an hour and a half. But it was worth is, I got exactly what I wanted. But I knew I had other things to do, Carol would expect to find evidence of several things being done around the house. She'd left we with some sort of list, sorting out my books in the study, mowing the lawn (of course), tidying up the various paints and tins I'd left in a mess in the garage, that sort of thing. So I set to and got most of them done or nearly done by about half past seven.

I sorted the things I was going to need for the evening and then, as I'd done just over twenty-four hours earlier, I showered, again with Carol's post shower gel. I'd decided, after that night there was definitely not going to be another chance, probably ever again. And, without going to extremes, I felt the need to go out on an even higher high than I had done on the previous evening. I'd very briefly toyed with dressing up and going into Brum, but discarded that thought almost immediately. I was just going to repeat, do an action replay, of the previous evening.

But one factor about my efforts the previous night had impressed me a lot. I could remember just what I looked like as I looked in the mirror before setting off, and in the big shop window I'd walked past. I looked female. Not mind-blowingly glamorously female, but just 'convincing'. Provided I didn't have to speak to anyone except maybe for a quiet mutter, and if I didn't get close enough to anyone for them to inspect me too carefully, I was confident I could pass again as a woman on my 400-yard-ish walk. Just with one difference.

I took my time doing my make-up again, going just a little further with the mascara and the eye-liner this time. The same lingerie, that would have to do though really I couldn't have improved on it without a lot of time and effort and expense. But this time I'd decided to wear stockings. Firstly because I've always enjoyed the feel of wearing stockings, I've always got the typical TV-thrill of the straps between by basque and the stocking tops pulling as I walked. OK, nobody else would know but I would. That's what had taken to the time, I'd driven almost all the way into Birmingham to a ladies' lingerie shop I'd visited a few times before, though not for some time. I was embarrassed, of course, looking through their range but I didn't care. And I'd found what I'd been looking for, something I'd bought there once before, basically patterned fishnets. Not just ordinary ones, these were 10 denier stockings in a silver diamond fishnet pattern. They looked great!

I wore the same top, Carol's tight-ish white ribbed sweater. OK something more glam might have been welcome but I just didn't have it available. And the same earrings, and rings, and I had my long false fingernails available and so on. Same wig of course. But different shoes. I could still have worn Carol's shoes, the mid-heel ones, and they would have sufficed. But this time I wanted a slightly different look, OK so a somewhat dressier look. The one item (or rather two) which I knew could be described as 'over-the-top' were my prize TV possession, my classic black patent 6"-heeled stilettos. I'd never ever worn them outdoors, just twice inside the house with Carol during our brief tranny period some years ago. I'd done some thinking that morning, while putting stuff away supposedly then for the last time. I had a strategy, a workable strategy, for wearing them.

The whole thing depended on one other item. OK, it might still have worked without, but that one item would make all the difference to what I intended. And that's where I broke an unspoken promise to my wife. Though we'd never discussed it since my TV days were over (supposedly) it had just been assumed that I would never need to even look at the clothes of the other person who had come to live with us. I've not given full details of this, and don't intend to, but I have said that our life changed in a major way a few years ago and that's why the TV stuff just had to stop. Not a problem really, our priorities had changed and we were more than happy to devote much of our lives and our thoughts to making the life of that person happier and to gaining fulfilment in that way. I don't think I have said that Carol and I never had children ourselves. The reason is medical and I'm not going to explain further.

I had of course, at a very low level, glimpsed inside the wardrobe in our second bedroom a few times in the preceding years. But I'd never, ever tried anything on. Never. It wouldn't have been right. But that afternoon I knew I was going to break the promise I had in fact made with myself. Wearing the basque and stockings, I padded into the second bedroom and took the hanger holding the one item I'd seen in there that morning. As I've said, you might recognise quite a few of the events and techniques in this account from my own fantasy tales in the past. I was holding one of them then. Not the perfectly-disguised stick-on breasts, not the equally well-hidden adhesive gaff with built in pubic hair and artificial cunt. And not the two-inch long scarlet fingernails which by themselves made my hands look oh-so-feminine.

It was the black leather mini-skirt. Well, nearly a mini. If it really had been incredibly short, the typical TV tight micro-skirt I wouldn't have considered it. But this skirt was truly black, matt leather (almost matching Carol's bag) and short-ish. When work by its owner it was about six or seven inches above the knee. Which to a TV like me is short but not mini. Well, I'm about 3 inches taller than her so I reckoned it would end up about nine inches above my own knees. Which I count as a mini. Unfortunately, and this was my only problem, it was a size 10.

Anybody out there know about women's sizes? I mean WHY is it a 10? My trousers are 30L. Waist 30 inches, and longer than most. Simple. And my collar is a 15. Which means I'm abou5 15 inches round the neck. But a 10? 10 what? Inches? Feet? Centimetres? Metres? No idea. Anyway, the skirt was a 10. And I knew I was a 12/14. So it might, just might fit if I prepared OK. The basque had come first, using a method I'd tried once before with some success, tying it tight at the back and then looping the tapes round the door handle and PULLING. I'd done that many minutes earlier to give me time to ease into it. I had thought of re-pulling after it eased just a little but decided against it. The stays on that basque were very still, I could just about walk and bend, any more and I certainly couldn't have. So I tied off the tapes and cut them off. This rendered the basque useless for future use, but I knew this wouldn't matter. Just had to get the skirt on now.

Hopefully, first it would go on, over my calves and thighs. Second, that it would go up to the waist and fasten. And thirdly - the worrying one - when I finally did take it off I just hoped it wouldn't be permanently stretched or marked or damaged. For the obvious reason, it wasn't mine. And if that did happen and Carol found out she would certainly by suspicious at least. But I was going to risk it.

Of course I would continue with a different skirt if I needed to, obviously the one I'd worn the previous night would suffice. But this I wanted to wear. And I got it on. With maybe five minutes of easing and pushing, not too much tugging because I really didn't want to damage it. I had to wear the sweater over the top but I didn't mind that, the sweater wasn't too long anyway, it came down to about two inches below my waistline.

I had deliberately, fairly obviously, not stuck on my false fingernails prior to trying the skirt, the forces involved would certainly have slid or prised them off. I put my wig on first, the same reddish-brown shoulder length as the night before. It had to be, it was the only wig I had. After adding again the same jewellery as before, rings, earrings, 'gold' chain, I sat down at the dresser, slightly gingerly, and stuck the nails on. Then I stood and slipped on Carol's jacket, picked up my bag over my shoulder and turned to look in the full-length mirror.

I'd love to say I thought 'Wow, Bethany, you're gorgeous!'. But I didn't. I tried not to think anything like that, I really tried to be analytical, to imagine what I would think myself if I saw that person walking down the street towards me. In the dark, of course, at least in dim or maybe normal street lighting. And, being analytical, I really was able to say to myself 'Yes'. I shuffled my skirt a bit, just adjusted my wig very slightly taking care with the stuck-on nails. I took the cigarettes out of my handbag and posed with the pack, lighter in hand. I was indeed looking at a woman. I'd worried about going too far with my make-up, looking too slutty.

OK, OK, in a way I'd have loved to but that wasn't my aim. Yes, I agree, 'a bit tarty' was what I was after and I'd got it. And it was the visible lower half of my body that really gave me that 'look'. The short tight leather skirt, finishing about nine inches above the knee, the patterned stockings, the sexy-looking high heeled shoes, they all combined to give me what I was really after. Basically, with the make-up done a bit more heavily than the previous night, more mascara and eye-liner and deeper-red lips I'd managed to look like a woman probably five years older than my previous effort. But a woman who didn't want to be five years older. One who used clothes and make-up to try, not entirely successfully, to hide the signs of ageing. What my mother always called 'mutton dressed as lamb'.

And I'd got it. As closely as I'd ever done before, in fact better. I didn't look as attractive as I had the night before, not that I'd really have used the word 'attractive' then to be honest. But I really did look a more convincing woman. I was excited. Of course I was excited. I did my usual 'just stand there and breathe steadily for half a minute'. Then went into the kitchen and poured a gin-and-tonic, not for then but for my return. I checked the contents of my handbag - lipstick, bit of cash, car keys, door keys, cigarettes etc etc. Not the plethora of things Carol carried but enough. I tried to think what I'd forgotten, going through the whole outing quickly in my mind. OK, ready.

I took exactly the same route as the previous night, avoiding the one main road where I might have traffic problems. I'd driven in high heels just a few times before. Carol always says she finds it difficult, though her highest are about 4 inches high. But I've always loved it, really, driving in heels and indeed walking in high heels, the higher the better. May be something to do with having longer feet I suppose but I really couldn't understand women's objections to wearing high stilettos.

I pulled into 'my' car park almost exactly half an hour later than I had done before. Again, switch off, sit, breathe, think. Ready. For definitely the last time. I opened the door and got out, slinging my bag over my shoulder and locking the car door. I put the keys into my handbag and looked round.

There were two other cars in the car park this time. The one closest to me was an estate, I couldn't make out the type from where I was. The other was a super-mini of some type, maybe a Golf, a bit further away. I would have to walk past both on my way. I pondered very briefly on the idea of doing my trip the other way round, down the side-road first and so on but I decided not. I began the walk along the car park. If driving in such high heels had been a rather pleasurable experience then walking in them was wonderful. It was the whole short skirt - stockings - very high heels combination though, it was that which excited me. I could feel the restraints on my thighs as I stepped out, as my skirt tightened when I tried to take large-ish steps. And a slight tug from the straps attaching the tops of my stockings to my basque. There was nobody to see me, I jutted out my breasts and, head high, strolled along the length of the car park. 6 inch high heels? No problem.

At the end of the totally uneventful walk, apart that is from just plain enjoying all the sensations of walking there in such a fashion, I carefully walked up the small flight of steps. It wasn't the heels causing me any sort of problem, it was the tight skirt. But the thrill was still there, the sheer delight of feeling my hem tighten over my nylon-covered thighs as I sat on the bench again and crossed my legs. I opened my handbag and got my cigarettes out, and sat there for a few minutes smoking and enjoying the warmish evening air, or rather the night air. There was nobody around. Nobody saw me. But I was enjoying myself, nevertheless, I was having fun.

Time for phase two, of the four, the walk along the first, rather well-lit side street. I didn't anticipate any interruptions from Severn-Trent Water this time. I'd just started off on the path down to the corner when I noticed something happening on the other side of the road about 30 yards ahead. A door had opened off the street and someone was coming out. OK at that stage I could have turned round but it would have looked a bit suspicious if whoever it was had seen me, and, I thought, what's the point. I'd come here to walk and to be seen in a sense and someone was going to see me. If he didn't start walking the other way, that is. Yes, it was a he. A male person, late 20s or early 30s as far as I could make out, and indeed he did turn my way and start walking.

Which was really just what I wanted, I didn't breathe in and thrust my chest out, I just kept on walking. Safe in the knowledge, I hoped, that if he was looking he was indeed seeing a woman a bit older than him but somewhat sexily dressed, if I can use that word. Real mutton dressed as lamb like I said. And that was fine except that he didn't just keep walking, he turned and crossed the road to my side. I was thrilled. I had no doubt at all that he had seen me and that he had crossed the road to get a closer look. Within seconds he was close, then we passed each other. I thought he might sat 'Good evening' or something but he didn't though we did make very brief eye contact as we passed. I smiled just a little, being ready with a quiet reply if needed but he walked straight past me. I wanted to turn round to see if he was looking at my bum but he wasn't, and just at that moment a car drove up the road from the junction in front of me, the driver must have got a good look at me in his headlights. I remember shivering just a little, though not with the cold, and the corner was coming up fast in front of me as I walked on.

OK it may have been only about sixty yards long but this was the bit I was going to try to enjoy, despite ant tummy butterflies. As turned and looked quickly ahead to see who if anyone was there, and took my first few steps along the well-lit High Street, I noticed for the first time really the sound. I could hear now, much louder than the previous night, the clicking of my high heels on the pavement as the sound echoed from the hard surfaces of the buildings there. Another classic TV sound, I'd noticed it a little the night before. But this time I was probably hitting the concrete harder in the higher heels, and more often with my enforced slightly shorter steps. Two cars went past, both coming down the street from behind me. And then one drove past and stopped. And a man got out.

Having had a quiet time since my first encounter about a minute and a half later, when I might just have got a brief smile of recognition, suddenly several things were happening almost at once. Just as I saw the man get out of the car and began to worry, this didn't seem a good situation, two boys and one girl - not young men and women, only about fifteen or sixteen - appeared out of an alley between two buildings in front of me. And a woman, probably about twenty-five years old, got out of the same car after the man. For a moment I'd had what I suppose is something of a standard TV fear, that this was a guy who'd either spotted me as a TV or had seen me as just a little more than what I wanted to be, as a woman making herself available.

I'd just reached the stretch of the High Street by the dark charity shop, where the previous night I'd been so elated to see myself as a smartly-dressed woman. As I looked once more to my right I saw a refection again. The short tight skirt and long legs and very high heels did give a very different impression this time. I could indeed be seen like that. As a prostitute. When I'd spotted the solo man emerging from the car I'd thought the worst. But when his companion joined him and they walked off in the other direction towards the bridge together I breathed a sigh of relief. And when the two young boys and the girl walked straight past me, and I heard their loud-ish chatter from behind me I was elated that they'd not spotted me. She was probably about fifteen like I said though quite heavily made-up, clearly trying to look older. 'Lamb dressed as mutton' in a way. I couldn't make out exactly what they said, all I heard was 'something something legs!' I allowed myself a smile, of satisfaction as well as relief.

Once more my time in the spotlight was coming to a close. Just for a few yards I allowed myself to enjoy the experience. I really wanted to turn round and go back, to look at my reflection in the darkened shop window again, even to pose a bit there, but I didn't. It would have been a bit silly to do that, not that me doing this entire walking-about thing wasn't silly. But at the corner, just before turning to go down the less-well-lit narrow street, I did pause. I was going to get myself another cigarette, I'd just lifted my bag and opened it to reach in when I heard dull footsteps. Another man had come out of the same alley that the boys and the girl had come out from, this time behind me. And, almost automatically I turned to look in that direction.

"Hello love" he said. We were standing just at the end of the narrow street back to the car park, just about two yards apart. He'd stopped to talk to me. Here I was, still in the well-lit High Street though only just, and not just being passed or briefly looked at by another person but actually being addressed by someone else. The phrase 'I nearly shit myself' comes to mind now thinking about it, but at the time I just didn't have time to think.

"Hello" was all I said, quietly. I'd known all along I just might have to speak to someone, going out and showing myself like that. But I'd reasoned that if I didn't say much, just 'Hi' or 'Hello' or 'Thank you' or something like that and if I kept my voice quiet, a mutter rather than a whisper, I might get away with it. The man in front of me clearly didn't 'read' my voice, he turned a little and looked me straight in the eyes. And as he did so I got a clear view of his face in the light from the street lamp about five yards behind me.

And this is where, dear reader, I just might stretch your credulity a bit. You'll have noticed I've been careful not to identify people or places too precisely. What I've written so far has been the truth, but not the whole truth. I've missed bits. There can be nothing incredible in it because it happened. Like I said at the beginning it's an account, not a story this time. But it was when I saw this man clearly that co-incidence, the basic requirement for many TV fantasies, mine included, raised its head. I knew him.

Or at least I recognised him. We'd met about a year ago in a pub, me and Carol and Mike and his wife. And yes, his name is Michael, known as Mike. That fact I am not omitting. Because he has a common name and a common surname as well, I think it's OK to actually name him. It is very unlikely that he is reading this. Not that I know him at all well but I really don't think he has any TV or transgender interests at all and I don't think he's a man who accesses this sort of site. And if I'm wrong, - Hi Mike, and thanks!

Even if he does read it I think I'm safe. Though the facts in this account are true there is one major 'lie' in this and in many of my own fantasy stories. My wife's name isn't Carol or anything like it. Some years ago when I started writing TV fantasies I needed a wife-name and picked that one totally out of the air and I've stuck to it. So even if you are reading this account, Mike, I'm confident you won't recognise 'Bethany' as someone you know, however vaguely. And I hope you don't mind me giving your real name, it's just because you do play such a significant part in this account of the end of my life as 'Bethany'.

Mike looked at me and smiled a little. And to be honest at that moment I just didn't know what to do. I just looked at him for maybe five seconds. I was trying to recall what I could about him. I was sure 'Mike' was right, we'd only spoken the once in that pub, mainly we'd both been listening while Carol and his wife discussed another couple, apparently they'd both known them when they used to work together and they'd just split up and so on and so on.

"Are you OK?" asked the guy in front of me, Mike. "Yes sure" I replied, quickly, then I realised something I'd not spotted. OK so he wasn't drunk, not falling-down pissed by a long way but he wasn't totally sober either. I tried to think what was down the little alley where he'd come out from, where I'd seen the other three kids a minute or two earlier. Maybe a pub though they would probably have closed an hour or so earlier. Maybe a restaurant, but had he been there alone? Or was his wife about to follow him?

"You on your own?" he asked me. This conversation and some silences from me had been going on for maybe two minutes as we both stood there, I had to make a move.

"Yes" was all I said, and turned to begin my walk down the last narrow road to the end of the car park.

"I'll come with you" said Mike. As I walked he was there, running just a bit to catch up with me. I didn't panic, I was only about eighty yards or so from my car. I looked across towards him, he grinned quite widely, and in a rather silly way, he really wasn't fully sober. I smiled back just a little.

"I'm Mike" he said.

I just had to reply. "I'm Bethany", trying to keep my voice quiet and gentle, the way I've always described doing so in my stories, except that in them it always worked, totally, 100%. If Mike had been really aware I think he might have 'got' the tone of my voice but he gave no indication at all of doing so. And as well as that, behind us, I could hear a vehicle. Just for a moment I was puzzled, I didn't think this particular road led anywhere. At the end the path to the car park was bollarded over, to keep out cars and vans. But then I realised there were a couple of small turn-offs from the road, onto parking areas and garages belonging to the flats above the shops on the main street behind us. I had to move across right to the side, the vehicle was a 'white van', quite big, it only just fitted across the narrow street.

Mike was right behind me. And as I leaned against a high wall on my right, he leaned against me. I felt his arm reach round my waist, basically in some sort of way holding me in against the wall and away from the van. The van went past actually without a great deal of difficulty though I could just about see that part of its offside wheels was over the edge of the path. But then it swung left into one of the even smaller streets off that one, the lights disappeared from view and a few seconds later I heard the engine stop.

And Mike still had his arm protectively round me. I took his hand and moved it away. If that van hadn't come along and if Mike hadn't acted with some sort of semi-drunken bravado in putting his arm across my body, I'd not have had any reason at all to be there holding his hand. Which I was. I was about forty yards away from 'safety', from my car in the car park ahead, I could have just let go and walked on and been sat in my car in the space of maybe half a minute. But I didn't. I was actually enjoying being there, 'with' a man, holding his hand in semi-darkness, there wasn't a street lamp within thirty yards maybe so I knew he couldn't see me all that clearly.

As my last act as Bethany, before driving home to my final gin-and-tonic, I pulled him gently along with me, another five yards or so to a place where the path narrowed just a little and into the doorway of a building on our right, plenty of space for the two of us to stand. I daren't spend another two minutes in conversation and I didn't want to have to explain in any way just why I hadn't let go of his hand. I pulled him just a little closer, I'd just worked out exactly what to say, and I knew again I had to mutter it quietly, not speak it out loud. With my own face less than twelve inches from him I made the longest statement of my entire escapade. Eight words in all, no, I didn't count them then but I have since.

"I've never kissed a man with a beard."

OK so I haven't mentioned it before. In writing this now, about four weeks after the event I've been concentrating on getting it right, on not over-stating what happened, not falsifying everything. It's a bit difficult. I do realise this reads like a TV fantasy story, but that is really the only way I can write it. And in describing our meeting on the High Street it just didn't occur to me to describe Mike carefully. But the beard is significant. It gave me a feeble excuse for taking to him. And, I admit, it increases the possibility of someone reading this and identifying him. But I think it's OK. Mike with a beard from the West Midlands. There must be lots of them.

Before he could answer I acted. I shuffled a little closer until our bodies were actually in contact and in one move I moved a hand round his neck and pulled him closer to me and put my lips onto his. It hadn't occurred to me at all, but the beard also lessened the chances of him feeling any affects of the non-total smoothness of my own face. I pressed my lips ho him far a short time, then pulled away a little. I didn't speak. Didn't mutter or whisper anything. But one of his hands had, automatically I suppose, snaked round my waist and was at that moment resting on the top of my bum. The first kiss was a good idea in the circumstances, there wasn't a violent reaction, no outburst at the sexual harassment or anything, no sound at all. I kissed him again and put my own other hand round his neck. And after a second or two I moved my lips against has and eased my tongue into his mouth. I'd gone from nothing to French kissing within thirty seconds. And now he did react!

I hadn't really judged Mike, from my brief encounter with him and his wife, as the sort of man when might go for this, for a snog with a strange woman in the dark late at night. But I know men, obviously. I like to think that, in the right situation and specially with a little alcohol onside him, nearly any man would respond positively if you see what I mean. I think I would, the male me anyway. In that situation that is. And Mike did respond. As I continued the kiss I felt his hands roaming. I knew I had to be careful, obviously. Maybe in a fantasy I'd have been wearing seamlessly hidden breast-forms which felt just right and a flesh-coloured latex gaff with a pussy-hole and I'd have been desperate for him to fondle my tits and slide his fingers round my 'vagina'. But he really couldn't get anywhere near them. As I felt one hand slide down my bum and onto my stockings I knew I had to react.

And again, here, I need to apologise. Some of the following may not be entirely accurate. I was obviously nervous as hell when Mike's groping started, desperate not to get found out. As his hands moved and our kisses broke and continued, I didn't say much. I had to stick to monosyllables. And Mike didn't say much more either but I'm not totally sure about the sequences of his mutterings and moanings. So, sorry if some of this isn't entirely right, but it is close.

As his hand met my stockings he moaned while we were kissing. I broke off briefly and just hissed 'Yes' in his ear, and lifted my leg up to stroke his own leg, so that he could fondle the exposed thigh and not get too far towards my panties. He muttered something like 'Oh yes' and continued, the French kissing was becoming rather passionate by then. He was alternating in his attentions between fondling my 'boobs', yes, my water-filled balloons strapped tight to my chest by the bra-cups of my bra, and feeling my thighs. And, needless to say, I was loving it! In all honesty I'd really hoped to 'pass' in a two minute conversation in the street. Hopefully with a man, I'd really hoped to be smiled at and admired as a woman though I'd not been at all sure how to go about accomplishing that. But I'd never dreamed I'd end up kissing a man and being groped by him. The night was ending up going so, so far beyond what I'd had any right to expect. I was groping Mike, sliding my hands up and down inside his jacket, kissing as passionately as I really dare, he was likewise fondling me, enjoying himself grabbing my boobs and caressing my thighs. And then his hand did slide up my thigh, almost as far as my panties.

I broke the kiss once more, torn between going on and finishing it there and then. Mike was looking me straight in the eyes again, I was totally elated, he was seeing a woman! And a desirable one at that, I could feel his arousal pressed against my thigh.

He looked at me with a version of that rather silly smile again. "Do you wanna fuck?"

Of course I did. I was desperate, my own penis was squeezed tight between my legs by my thong. I really couldn't reply, I just pressed my lips again to his for a while. Then I realised just what might be possible.

"Not here" I whispered in his ear. "Come on."

I grabbed his hand and led him towards the car park. Basically, yes, I'd have loved him to fuck me. Loved him to shove his cock into my arse and shot a load of hot sticky cum deep into me. But I knew that wasn't going to happen. I know I've used the idea in another of my stories, basically seducing a husband by persuading him I wanted anal sex so that he wouldn't investigate round the front and discover I had a cock instead of a cunt. But that was in a fantasy. This was in real life, IRL as they say, and as a secret TV with Mike I had to be realistic. During the last kiss I'd been thinking, if I could get him into my car ....

We walked towards the car park and round the corner. At that end of the car park there were just two cars now, mine and the estate I'd seen earlier. I was holding tight onto Mike's hand, trying to think what he was thinking, imagining being in his situation, trying to come up with a scenario which would let me go just that little bit further. I'd stretched things several times already, by going out that night and not finishing after my previous walk, by actually kissing him when I saw an opening, when I'd used the 'beard' excuse, and now here I was walking hand-in-hand with Mike and anticipating a sexual encounter. As we strolled towards the cars I saw Mike put his hand, his other hand, into his pocket. The other car in front of us beeped. It was his.

I just walked past mine, still holding on tight. I've never had sex in a Fiesta, I'd spent a minute or so anticipating some sort of cramped and congested groping as well as wondering exactly how to get out of things if they went wrong. Or if they finished. But in an estate car, if the back seat went down - yes it did! Mike released my hand and opened one of the rear doors, leaning in and reaching over obviously to release the restraining clips which held that rear seat in place, and pushing it down. It went backwards, which surprised me, I don't recall seeing one which did that. But I could see clearly past him a wide-ish expanse of flat cushioned surface. Not a bed, but a substitute. I grabbed his arse cheek and pushed. He tumbled in, I bent down my head and followed, basically launching my entire body on top of his and starting off the necking and petting once more. He had to wriggle to get more comfortable, I did the same and lay down partly beside him, partly on top of him, and slid my right leg right up his body. He grabbed it and moved his hand right down my thigh and my calf to my shoes, then back up again.

Needless to say, I was in paradise. This was a TV dream except it wasn't, it was happening. We wriggled and groped a bit more, I managed to get a hand under his shirt and pushed it up to be able to see, not very well in that light, his bare torso.

"Ohhh baby!". Yes, that's right, those are the very words he used, he just moaned and grappled as we became more passionate. I've always liked kissing as a TV as you will know if you have read any of my stories, but I've not had very much experience of it IRL at all. Very little in fact but that night I really made up for lost time. Yet again I was thinking, determined to keep up my charade, mowing and wriggling to try to keep Mike from discovering my secret which amazingly was still 'tucked' tight between my legs in my thong. When his hand eventually made its way up my thigh and grasped my arse cheek I knew I had to get this done, I had to 'finish him off' somehow. I sat up a little, facing him, smiling, and undid the waistband of his trousers. I slid them, and his pants, down in one go. I wanted him naked but I realised that wasn't going to be possible.

The kissing was over, the groping too to an extent. I grabbed his balls and slid my hand up and down his large erect prick. He'd stopped fondling though one of his hands was still sliding a bit up and down my thigh. My own cock was safe, my knees and thighs were together as I knelt there, it was trapped but it was beginning to become just a little uncomfortable. I fondled his cock and his balls. I was wanking him. Mike was just moaning, he was in heaven too, I know, being aroused and played with by a leggy, tarty, somewhat attractive - woman. I leaned over to kiss him briefly, then transferred my lips all the way down to his swollen cock. This really did have to be it. Anal sex was out of the question though I expect he was still anticipating a fuck. But I just couldn't let it happen. I teased and fondled his cock with my lips, then slid my mouth down onto it.

His moaning increased. I was going to do this!

"Oh Christ!" was the full extent of his comment as he climaxed in my mouth, as his sperm did erupt and shoot out into my throat. I swallowed a little, I couldn't help it. As he spasmed my mouth began to fill up, I was still massaging his balls, still encouraging his gorgeous ejaculation, and becoming more and more uncomfortable by the second between my own legs. And he subsided. I'd done it. With a combination of masturbation and sucking and tongue-teasing I'd got Mike to cum in my mouth, to spurt cum down my throat. And I was in severe danger of revealing myself. My tight skirt was shoved up to an extent, I could just see my thong between my legs when I looked down, and I could feel my own cock becoming aroused.

I wriggled sideways and pushed open the door. I slid my right leg out first, then my left, then stood up in the car park with my skirt almost round my waist and my mouth full of Mike's sperm. I leaned down and spat it out near the rear wheel, OK so I'd tasted it but I really didn't want to swallow it all. OK, now was the time to go. I stood up straight, pushing my boobs out a bit and smoothing my skirt down from its elevated position. Then I noticed. I wasn't alone. There were two people in front of me, two young people. I realised just who they were, the youngish girl I'd seen before on the High Street and one of the two young boys who'd been with her. They were standing, holding hands, about fifteen yards from me just beyond the back end of my own car.

I didn't think they'd been there long, in fact I know they hadn't. If they had I'm sure their reaction would have been different. They were just standing still, holding hands. Staring. In my pessimistic moments in the past month or so, in thinking about this, I've wondered if they did realise what they were seeing. Unlike Mike they were most probably sober. But they hadn't been close, they hadn't had any opportunity to discover that I wasn't what I seemed to be. As far as they were concerned I was a woman getting out of a car and re-arranging her clothing. And they weren't that young, they probably thought I'd just had sex in the car.

There was a movement behind me, as I felt the car door being pushed, and as I saw Mike's leg begin to emerge. I could see he'd got partly dressed in the few seconds since I'd got out. But not entirely, like me he probably needed to be able to stand up and sort his pants and shirt out. I turned and leaned it.

"Wait. Someone's here!" I had an excuse to whisper again, his leg quickly withdrew into the car. He hadn't seen anyone, I don't think, he was probably sobering up a bit and didn't want to be found there 'in flagrante delicto' with another woman. Not his wife, I mean. I grabbed Mike round the neck and pulled his head towards me and kissed him. I dated my tongue into his mouth for what I knew had to be the last time. I grabbed my bag which I'd seen just beginning to slide down off the bench seat, stood up, closed the car door behind me, and turned.

With my bag slung over my shoulder I walked the ten or more yards back to my car, getting the tight-short-skirt-and-high-heels thrill once more. As I passed the young couple still standing there, I just gave them a brief smile. I got my car key out from my bag, opened my door, and got in. Within twenty seconds I'd started my car, checked my side mirror to see them still standing there, reversed straight out and then swung round to drive along the car park and away. After about forty yards I'd put my lights on. OK I know it was naughty of me not to do that before reversing but I really didn't want anyone to have a good chance of seeing my number plate, it would have been a bit difficult to read it properly in the lighting in the car park.

I turned right outside the car park, then right again down the High Street and I was away, very carefully keeping to the speed limit until I reached the end of town. I most definitely did NOT want either to get caught on one of the new speed cameras on that road or to be stopped by a police car. Just out of town I pulled off the road into a truck lay-by, shielded from the road by bushes. I hoped there would be nobody else stopped there at that time of the morning and I was right. I got out of the car just for a few minutes to enjoy my final little walk as Bethany and to have a cigarette. And to try to calm down. From THAT. From my last 'escapade' as a woman, from doing oral sex on a man I vaguely knew in a car park. The evening had, obviously, gone way further than I'd expected.

Back home I had two more cigarettes and the G-and-T I'd prepared earlier. I resisted the temptation to have another. In the hall mirror I stood and looked at Bethany. Lipstick slightly messed up, but only slightly, I was a little surprised at that. But basically as far as I was concerned, a gorgeous woman. But then of course I'm biased. Upstairs I undressed quickly and threw all my female clothing in a neat pile at the side of the bed. I removed most of my make up, put on my male night attire and went to bed.

The alarm I'd remembered to set woke at nine again. I sorted all the clothes before dressing. The skirt I hung up after carefully inspecting it. The sweater I was going to wash. My basque, shoes, wig, the false nails, tights, stockings, all went into a big bag. I tidied Carol's make up on her dresser and then tossed one of her bedside books onto it, knocking them - some sort of reason for their not being exactly as she'd left them. I very carefully went through my make-up removal routine again. And checked my pillow, of course, but it was OK. I showered, using my own gel to remove and/or cover any remains of Carol's perfume. I opened the bedroom windows a little to help with that, then dressed. I removed all traces of my G-and-T and cigarettes from downstairs, adding the not-empty pack to my big bag of stuff. After coffee and toast I drove to the local tip, open Sundays from 10 'til 2, with the old lawnmower from the garage.

'Lawnmower,' you're thinking? Yes. An excuse to go to the tip. I threw the old mower into the big skip on top of the big bag containing all my female stuff. I knew that within 24 hours it would be all crunched up and heading for a landfill, they always did that Monday mornings. And I drove home and them completed all my clearing up.

That evening as Carol was recovering from her long drive I told Carol I'd taken the mower to the tip. "And I threw that other stuff in as well, you know, the shoes and basque and wig." She heard me and smiled a little, but didn't comment, she really was tired.

So Bethany is no more. Her accessories are on a land-fill somewhere. No visible trace in the house, I hope. And again, Mike, if you do read this, thanks. And I hope you're not too shocked to find the sort of woman who sucked you off in that car park. But I know you enjoyed it. Needless to say so did I. Like I said, no visible trace remains, just a mental epitaph in my own mind which I'd like to share with you.

'Bethany Jacques. R.I.P. She went out - in style.'

  

  

  

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