Dogging Revenge

by Paula Mortenson

 

There was much publicity a year or so ago regarding "Dogging" here in Britain. I have no intention of telling you at this stage what it's all about but I think you will work it out.

I had been a closet TV all my life, never daring to do anything more than venture out at the dead of night and just a few times driving "en Femme" or to or from the specialist shops that offer services to us, here in England.

There was a major change though once I got to my 50^th birthday. My wife of 27 years decided that she simply could not bear to live with someone who indulged in such a disgusting pastime and decamped with an old school flame with whom she had renewed acquaintance with at one of those school reunion events. Since our children were scattered abroad, her new beau was comfortably off and I had just sold my share of the family business the financial parting consisted simply of a lump sum payment funded by the sale of our family home. More than I expected but less than I fear, an agreement ultimately brought about by my former wife's dread of the publicity that might have occurred if we had gone to court.

It was very strange being able to please one's self entirely but as I learned to deal with the household chores in my new flat (my wife had considered it an insult to her role and abilities if I had even suggested ironing or dealing with the laundry) I knew that I was going to spend more and more time as "Paula", my alter ego. I now had no male underwear nor sleepwear but I was prevented from going as far as I wanted as I lived in a town where I was well known and after all I played golf on Thursdays and Fridays and it certainly wasn't with the ladies' section. Peer group pressure was preventing me from spending more time as Paula and this was becoming frustrating. I began to contemplate another move, perhaps a little further away. The English seaside resorts seemed to be favourite but I needed to get so many other things sorted out first.

 

I then decided that I needed a little help with my female persona. I picked a beauty salon in the next town and booked in for a simple manicure. Nothing feminine, just the boring male version, no more than thirty minutes, with my nails being cut with scissors and the young manicurist spending more time on my cuticles than on my nails. That all began to change on my third visit when Sandra was double booked and her mother stood in for some of her appointments. Maggie was my age, but looked fifteen years younger and I knew she sensed that my motives did not involve a simple manicure. My next appointment was booked at a lunchtime on what I later discovered was their half day, a Wednesday.

I began to understand why women share secrets with their hairstylist or beautician. You just sit there with nothing else to occupy your mind and the conversation, in the privacy of the treatment room, twists and turns in every direction. Maggie used an emery board, not scissors, explaining that it made nails stronger and gave a better shape. As she finished by massaging a lotion into my hands she looked up into my eyes and at that moment I just knew that she knew. It seemed so natural, after her daughter had popped her head around the door to explain she was leaving and that we were on our own, that Maggie should make a comment about my shaggy eyebrows and in a twinkling I was stretched out on a couch being "plucked"

Maggie chatted on and I winced here and there as a difficult hair was teased out. It was like background music, I heard just the odd word or phrase, following what she was saying without hearing everything. Her comments about my needing to ensure I removed all my eye makeup just seemed to ease themselves into my consciousness. No shock, I said "Sorry, pardon." And she repeated it and in a trice I was agreeing to a facial to properly clean my face and neck. This involved a move to a new treatment room and it seemed so natural that I should remove my shirt and shoes and socks. I had forgotten that I had so carefully painted my toe nails the night before but the only comment by Maggie was that she liked the shade and that I needed more practice to ensure a perfect finish. The facial and cleansing were wonderful and Maggie chatted on to me as though I was a female customer. She passed on more than a few hints about the care of my hands, face and body generally, sold me care products, booked an appointment for the following week and gently pushed me out on the street two hours later.

I felt wonderful, my skin glowed with health and my inner self felt that I was on the way to achieving to goal of every TV, passing. That Maggie was attractive, there was no doubt. She stood some three or four inches shorter than my 5ft 6inches but her figure was the perfect hourglass, which was very apparent despite the simple mandarin necked coat overall, in starched pristine white that she had worn. A beautician's services are very personal, involving touching and feeling and it was inevitable that her body made contact with mine. Yet she had no inhibitions, I might just have been another woman. It was an incredible feeling and boost to my confidence.

My Wednesday visits continued in the same vein over the following weeks and months, Maggie exercising her skills on my hands, face, legs and body generally. She even gently suggested that I skipped my monthly visit to the barber to allow her to "tidy up" my hair. Each visit ended with a tip for me to take away. My diet changed, I treated my skin, my feet and cleansed morning and evening. I even exercised to firm up my tummy and thigh muscles. It was a TV's dream come true, a woman helping me to femininity. She never mentioned sex, never encouraged me to dress as a woman, she just treated me like a female customer who had let herself go and needed to be coaxed back into good feminine habits. Under her tutelage I had reduced my weight to a very trim 145 lbs, my skin glowed and I felt so good about myself.

My appointment was ending in the usual way, with a manicure, when I could feel her eyes burning into me, demanding attention. I looked up from my hands to meet her so beautifully accentuated face. Her question about my dressing was the first time that the subject had been broached. I had always seen myself (or at least in recent years) as a mature woman, dressing accordingly, stylishly but not outlandishly. The sort of thing I imagined I could "pass" in. Her voice hypnotically murmured on about how a woman should explore all styles and that I was luckier than most, only having to answer to myself and having an almost blank canvas to work with and that it was such a shame I had missed my teenage years with the chance to experiment.

Suddenly, she changed direction again and asked, so gently, so unobtrusively, what I did about sex. Had I ever experienced sex as a woman? Despite my fantasies I was still unsure about that. I admitted, in a roundabout way that I wanted to be wooed and taken out but that even now I was uncertain whether I could give off the necessary feminine aura at my fantasy, a dinner dance. You know the sort where you wear a pretty cocktail dress, drink champagne and dance into the night with a handsome romantic companion. That required a confidence, a certainty about my feminine inner self that I did not yet possess. She nodded and accepted all that I said, only commenting that that was all that any woman wanted. To be wooed.

Her suggestion that I should acquire an anal douche from a particular website and start to use it and study what I liked or disliked about the other products offered there was the lesson I was to take away from that appointment. This was a reaction to my reluctance to wear a thong. You have to ensure that you are so clean back there.

The web site didn't shock me but I was surprised to find that it offered fetish clothes in leather, rubber, PVC and just about everything else you could imagine. But it was the styles that were so fascinating. They were fantasy styles, so overtly sexy that I soon became quite uncomfortable as I sat before my computer, at home. What was she suggesting? There had never been the slightest hint that she was interested in this stuff, nor me.

The weather suddenly turned hot, in the unexpected way that it does in England and it was forecast to stay that way for a whole week ahead. On the morning of my Wednesday appointment my douche arrived and no sooner had I opened it than the telephone rang. Maggie enquired whether I would like to visit her at home, such a shame to be in the salon on a day like this. After she had given me precise instructions to find her house she suggested I use my new douche but I needed to bring nothing with me except my silicon breasts (which she already knew about), the adhesive to stick them on, a handbag filled with anything a "girl" might need and the sandals I had mentioned that I had bought the week before. I wondered about taking a wig but by now the occasional trims of my hair by Maggie had resulted in a style that would take very little to convert to a femininity. I knew that Maggie expected very high standards so having used the douche, which did leave me feeling clean inside, I proceeded to cleanse and pamper the outside. I had already removed all my bodily hair so there was only need for a quick check over for strays.

But what was I to wear to go? I decided on white slip on's (men's but who would look?), no socks, cream trousers and a dark blue skimpy shirt. I had a women's tote style handbag, designed to carry everything, into which I thrust all that I had been told plus a make up bag and all the bits and pieces that remained from the last time I used it. I was particularly proud of my new designer unisex "react to light" glasses that were more feminine than male.

It was with some trepidation that I drew into the drive of Maggie's house. Some house it was, too. It was the privacy that impressed, very important in England. High hedges surrounded the front paved garden and it was apparent that the hedge surrounded the entire plot. Privacy was assured. I had hardly stepped from my car when a bikini clad Maggie appeared at the door. Her usual self assurance was lacking as she ushered me inside to assess how I looked. As we walked through the beautifully furnished and decorated house, it was apparent there was a large conservatory built on the back, containing a swimming pool. Not very large, just enough for a quick dip and encircled by a lounging area dotted with recliners, just asking to be used. There was the usual small talk, before Maggie indicated a changing room and told me to use it. I was puzzled until I spotted what I now know is a tankini lying on the side. For those of you who don't know it is bikini bottoms with a tank top, this one with build in bra. This one was in a gorgeous flame red. Maggie called through to tell me to put the bikini bottoms on (sexy tie sides) and then to bring the top and my breasts, with the glue and she would help get everything in place.

It is in situations such as this that you realise how vulnerable flimsy female clothing can make you feel. I was nervous, to say the least as I ventured from the changing room clutching the top half against my front with one hand and trying to balance the uncooperative and seemingly alive breasts in the other, with the glue canister in the other. She openly smiled as I appeared and took everything from my arms and indicated that I should stand up tall so she could look me over. My confidence at that moment was at an all time low. Here was a real woman judging my attempt at femininity and I felt sure was finding me wanting.

"Why don't you lie down on that recliner. Here let me set it right down."

Without further ado she sprayed the breasts with the glue and fitted them in place.

"One or two more things to be done. Now I'll try not to hurt you but I am aware how sensitive they can be. You may prefer to keep your eyes closed."

I peeked as I heard a snap of what sounded like elastic to see Maggie slipping on clear latex gloves and reaching to pull open the tie sides of my bikini bottom.

"That's helpful, you are good, exactly as I suggested."

She had suggested that I remove all the hair on my man bits, completely denuding them but leaving the bushy bit on the pubic bone.

"Now this is an anaesthetic spray." I heard the soft whoosh of spray and my man bits which were beginning to show interest ceased to exist as far as my senses were concerned. I felt her manipulate everything, pulling, pushing and folding but there was no pain and I felt further sprays, this time from the canister containing my breast adhesive.

"It'll just take a minute or two to set. Perhaps if we put your bikini back in place. Just lend me your hand here. Hold this tight, that's it. Now your finger on this bow. That looks better. So much flatter. That will last about two or three days before the glue breaks down and then it'll need doing again."

She helped me with my top, ran a brush with some spray though my hair, rubbed a little cream on my face, arms and legs before suggesting I apply a little lipstick. The mirror across the far end of the pool showed a white bodied woman, wearing a fabulous tankini who with a bit of sun and a few further pounds lost would look a very respectable 45ish.

We lay in the sunny part of the conservatory for a time, before moving out into the garden to sunbathe. I dare not say a word. This was a fantasy, a dream, surely, from which I would awake too soon. The whole situation puzzled me. Why was Maggie helping me like this. As if sensing my unasked questions Maggie indicated we should move out of the sun.

" You shouldn't have too much at the first go. It looks as though parts of your body have never seen daylight." Which was true. As she handed me a wrap, designed to go with the costume she indicated I should sit before a table set up with her manicurists equipment. She worked on my hands in silence, exactly as she had done so many times before but now she shaped my nails and then painted them, to match my toenails.

"Why?" That was all I said.

"Sandra mentioned you. She thought that you wanted more than just a manicure. She thought you would interest me. Give me a project, something to do."

I looked her in the eyes and said nothing but she sensed my unspoken question.

"You see you are getting more tuned in, more sensitive all the time. I had been hurt, badly hurt. After Sandra's dad died I went off the rails a bit, got involved in all sorts of things that really I am ashamed of now. Then I met up with this man, he had all the same interests as me and we seemed the perfect match. But all the time he was scheming to get his hands on my cash, you may gather Sandra's dad left me better than well off."

She drifted off into her own thoughts as she worked on my hands, tears streaming down her face. I reached across and laid my free hand across hers and began, for the first time in my life to talk about the secret me. About what I thought I had wanted, how my former wife had found me out and admitted that what she did was right for her. The conversation crossed back and fort between us until as my hands were prettily finished we knew so much about each other.

"I had a brother who was like you, he couldn't stand the pressure from our parents and one day he just snapped." She didn't need to say anymore, I knew and felt her pain and sadness.

"But it was that bastard who nearly did for me. We were into all sorts of kinky things, that's how I knew about that web site. The one you got the douche from and with all that kinky clothing."

I only had to say "And?" and it all came tumbling out, all her hurt, all her shame.

Unknown to her, he was into Dogging. It was a development of the peeping toms at a lovers lane. Only now the lovers knew that the peeping toms were there and not only performed for them but also invited them to join in. Why Dogging? It was men who took their dog for a walk late at night, using it as an excuse to peer into parked cars. At her initiation into the Dogging fraternity she was an innocent pawn, set up to be used by every passing peeping tom. This was no casual event, this had been planned and invitations had been even sent out on the underground network of Doggers.

Though Maggie had not been able to prove it she thought she had been sold and her boyfriend had made a small pile from the evening's events. Hands had reached into their parked car through windows left wide open to touch a feel her. Before long trousers were at ankles around the car and engorged cocks were thrust through the window. Her boyfriend never said a word, never objected just continued to intimately caress her as he had been doing before the electric windows had descended, leaving her so exposed.

It had all ended with her breaking free, covered in spunk, her clothes torn to shreds. Fortunately, in her blind panic she had chosen the shortest route to a nearby main road and a passing police car had picked her up. Unfortunately, by the time reinforcements arrived the Doggers had scattered to the four winds. Her shame would not allow her to reveal the name of her boyfriend and in any event he turned up at the police station very quickly claiming that he, and his girl friend had been attacked. Whatever the suspicions of the police they could not shake his story and he got off.

The conversations jumped again when I asked "Why me? Your brother and your fear of men, I suppose that makes me safe. But I still am a man and I find you very attractive."

She smiled. "I had noticed and yes, in a way you are safe but you are sweet. No, I must be honest, I want a man but I don't. A man who is a woman, who doesn't have those man smells that wake me from my nightmares. I still have them and Sandra hasn't left me on my own for nearly eighteen months now. Today is the first time I've been on my own with a man since that night."

We talked about our fears, about nothing except everything that is important before realising it was dark outside..

"Will you stay? I'm afraid that glue and what I've done to you means you can't have your way with me but perhaps that's a good thing."

We slept in the same bed that night and every night from then, two girl friends who liked to cuddle and a bit more. I never slept at my flat again and I never wore men's clothes again.

But before my story finishes there was justice done, for her old boyfriend. Maggie and I planned it in every detail.

That website came in useful to kit me out for one of the fetish parties Tony frequented, searching for his next victim. This time the police were told in advance and that the "victim" was going to be a man, dressed as a woman. They didn't believe it was possible until they met me before I went fishing at the "Perverts Ball" for my target. The outfit cost a small fortune but it cost time as well as I was not prepared to do it until I was perfect, that I was so comfortable with my feminine aura that I was a woman and that short of a medical examination no one who even guess what I had once been. As part of my practice I lived everyday as Paula, I was Paula, a fifty something woman who had a body and face of a woman ten years younger. The electrolysis, pills and other treatments cost my masculinity, which I didn't want anyway, but brought Maggie and I ever closer together. Even Sandra got on well with her mother's new lesbian lover.

The outfit to catch Tony? A male fantasy. Rubber. A black rubber bra, encasing my own now natural breasts, a matching old fashioned girdle, complete with suspenders, covering a rubber thong, drawn tightly between my buttock cheeks were my foundation underwear. The sheer lace topped seamed stockings completed the set.

The lingerie was concealed beneath a high necked, sleeveless, full length black sheeny rubber dress that fitted where it touched right down to my ankles. A hobble dress that reduced every step to less than 6 inches. It was only the zip that ran from neck to the ground that enabled me to get into it. All this was finished off with black rubber opera gloves that had been carefully cut to reveal my two inch nail extensions, providing contrasting bright red flashes against the shiny black of the upper arm length gloves and lastly there were the boots. Patent black leather with 4 inch heels. It took me weeks just to master them.

It took over an hour to get dressed each time and not much less to undress. The rubber thong compressed and gripped at my smooth and already practically invisible male parts thanks to Maggie's manipulations. The bra was the easiest to put on, as with Maggie's encouragement, I had taken hormones by tablet and by injection resulting in pert B cup breasts that were just becoming sensitive. The rubber gripped and with my own perspiration sucked at my nipples driving me crazy if I wore the bra for more than an hour. The most difficult to put on was the girdle. Just a simple old fashioned girdle but in black rubber, with long suspenders dangling. Most difficult was to get it over my hips, helped with copious amounts of talcum but I still needed to wiggle and twist my hips while heaving it upwards, seemingly for ever. Fortunately, the dress zipped right from the neck line to the hem at the floor but even so it needed to be eased into just the right position before Maggie could enclose my body by raising the zip from floor to neck. Even when closed it had to be pulled into position and Maggie more than once teased me to orgasm by claiming that the bra was not quite right and needed teasing and tweaking into position.

The effect was incredible, even the first time I wore the outfit wearing no make up and unable to move. It was a second skin, gripping at my body the dress and the foundation wear revealing every contour and every ripple as I moved. It was hot, too but incredibly erotic to wear. Maggie always laughed that I was experiencing my teenage girl years, trying outlandish clothes and looking and feeling hot. Made up and with the nail extensions the effect was stunning.

Now I was ready but there was just one final touch that Maggie was doubtful about. I needed a way of intriguing Tony so that he was certain to want to meet me, again. It actually meant that I could choose him. The night of the Ball I dressed with Maggie's help and met with the police in our hotel room before I set out. Maggie could not come with me in case Tony suspected anything. Despite the pleas of the police I refused to have a microphone, the outfit was so tight, so revealing there was simply no where to hide it. My hair was now shoulder length and we decided that a raven haired beauty, all in black was the ultimate fetishists fantasy. My clutch bag contained a few pounds for the taxi home, my ticket for the Ball, lipstick and mascara and the fly to catch Tony..

I was petrified as the taxi dropped my at the venue. Despite endless practice, moving from a sitting position to standing was practically impossible without help and it needed the taxi driver, bribed before I entered his cab, to help me to my feet. My outfit was neither the tightest nor the most outlandish that night but I was unusual because I was alone. Owing to my thong being under my girdle (to keep a smooth line) I knew that I could not drink much (it being practically impossible unaided to go to the loo) and therefore I had to make the connection with Tony as quickly as possible. I hoped that I had timed my entrance to perfection. There were three sectors to the Ball and I made my way, or rather wiggled, with more than a few admiring glances and pats on my bottom, to where he was likely to be.

I spotted him, drooling all over what was obviously a frightened young tranny, skimpily attired in a nurse's outfit that left little to the imagination and covered very little. I scooped up the introductory glass of champagne from an aging, overweight maid who was badly in need of a shave. The aging maid needed a better perfume. I smiled and turned deliberately into Tony, spilling my champagne over his leather tunic. There was no harm done but a conversation was struck up and he hardly seemed to notice the young tranny who scuttled back to his friends.

We introduced ourselves, me as Cleopatra, would believe and he as Wesley. For the first time I realised I was being chatted up and he was very good at it. If I hadn't been on a mission I might have actually enjoyed it. No, to be honest, I did enjoy it. He was flattering and amusing as he gradually positioned himself so he could touch and caress me. He asked me to dance and I equally wittily (I thought) indicated that I could only dance the slow numbers. And we did and I discovered what every woman has known for years. You can always tell whether a man's interested when you dance slow and close. It sticks out, and it did. He nuzzled my ear as we danced and caressed my bum. If my underwear hadn't been so tight and Maggie hadn't used quite so much glue he might have had a shock but he just thought I was a lonely spinster looking for a bit of excitement in her life and he planned to provide more than she had bargained for.

Now was the time to turn up the heat. We had just finished a slow number and I artfully turned my head towards him so that he had the chance to kiss me, full on the lips. He was a world champion at that, I could feel the glue straining and I went all hot and clammy and for a moment I thought I was going to pass out. What an experience, with men like that I could certainly get to enjoy this experience.

I flicked open my clutch bag to find my handkerchief and allowed him to see inside. Two things made his eyes light up. The first was a tiny business card that said "Cleopatra" with my (or rather a specially acquired) mobile number and the other was the electronic control for the butt plug deep inside me. That I implied it was a feminine vibrator mattered not, the effect when he playfully flicked it on was much the same. I could have stripped off at that moment and let everyone have me in whatever manner they fancied there and then. The succeeding hour was both a nightmare and a fantasy come true. He played me like a musical instrument, strumming me slowly so ecstatically to a crescendo and then so gently down again.

The invitation to accompany him to a special event soon came and then, regretfully I had to leave, if only to relieve the agonies and ecstasies throbbing through my arse. I scurried away promising to meet him at a remote spot he said he would call me with the following evening. The big problem for the police was finding where the doggers were meeting and now they had first hand information.

He did ring and everything after that was an anticlimax, he just gave me the detailed directions how the get there, under my own steam. I did drive there, but with two burly policemen lying across the back seat and a whole bevy of others within calling distance. It was fortunate for that young tranny from the night before that we were earlier than we were supposed to be as we discovered him stretched across a car bonnet being used by a string of men, including Tony. It was apparent that I was to be the main attraction and that young tranny was just the warm up act. Over the following weeks a whole series of respectable men resigned their high positions and skulked into anonymity hoping that the day of the trial would never arrive but it did and Maggie and I had front row seats. Justice was done.

Maggie and I? We just live quietly now only occasionally getting out of our wardrobes the rubber outfits, just for old times' sake. I asked Maggie one day why she had invited me to her house that first time. Her answer was that I seemed so sad, the way she felt but she wanted love and affection but she was fed up with men and I seemed to be a solution. Later she loved me the way I was and she found she preferred a feminine companion, especially as her daughter seemed to approve.

That butt plug? I don't need that anymore. Now Maggie and I have matching vibrators as I decided that I loved her so much I wanted to be exactly like her, in every way.

 

Paula Mortenson 2005

  

  

  

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