B is for Bethany

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, my first nervous 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 and so on. 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. 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 myself 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 one-size 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 me 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 fragrant 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 secondly, 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 cross-dressing-up 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 might not have considered it. But this skirt was truly black, matt leather, almost matching Carol's bag, and short-ish. When worn 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 about 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 stiff, 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. I just had to get the skirt on now.

Hopefully, firstly it would go on, over my calves and thighs. Secondly, 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. And there might be hell to pay. 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 one 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 tight leather mini-skirt, finishing about nine inches above the knee, the patterned stockings, the sexy-looking high heeled stilettos, 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 I went into the kitchen and got a gin-and-tonic ready, not for then but for my return. I re-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 and very high heels combination though, it was that which really 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 say '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 any 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.