Dressmaking

See "In the Beginning" for the first part.

Now, a bit of background may be appropriate here. Before we ever met Trish and Claire, George and I had occasionally been in the situation where one of us had a girlfriend in the back of our car and the other was in the front with another. (Our car was a big old Hillman Minx, with a bench front seat and a steering-column gear stick, so this was really quite practical). Because of this, we weren’t all that bothered at seeing each other partly or completely undressed, nor indeed being within short range of each other while snogging, or even occasionally (if we got lucky) bonking.

It turned out that Claire and Trish had a similar lack of concern about such things, as they’d been playing the field together for some time, and had even swapped fellers once or twice. So, on cold evenings in their house that winter, while all four of us might start by sitting round that old two-bar electric fire in their front room with a bottle of cheap Spanish wine, we’d often get into a snogging session without bothering to go off to our separate rooms. After all, it was likely to be bloody cold elsewhere in that house!

Indeed, we sometimes ended up lying more or less side-by-side, shagging on the shag pile as you might say. If that meant that bodies occasionally touched each other ... well, nobody was really bothered. In fact, watching someone else having it off beside you while you’re similarly engaged can be quite a turn-on.

So one evening, with both birds lying back stark naked, side by side in post-coital bliss - with their eyes shut - George and I happened to catch each other’s eyes, and somehow realised that we had the same thought in mind. Believe it or not, by dint of a lot of gymnastics involving a fair bit of massaging and stuff, we honestly managed to switch women without them noticing! You may not believe that can be done (I wouldn’t if someone was telling me, I must admit), but it really is true. I checked up on it a couple of years after the event, and Trish confirmed that she and Claire had talked about it later, and that at first neither of them realised that we’d pulled a switch on them.

However, back to the moment. Trish opened her eyes quite soon. I was watching her myself, out of the corner of my eye, as I got going onto (and into) Claire. I was well turned on, of course, to say the least; but I was also more than a little unsure of what the reaction would be when the girls finally cottoned on.

Well, I was looking at Trish when she opened her eyes. She twitched a bit, then raised her eyebrows as she suddenly clicked that it wasn’t me that was up her. But she just chuckled throatily, turned her head my way, raised her eyebrows in mock amazement and shot me a wicked grin, and then gave George a wink and a really sweet smile. Then she wrapped her legs around his bum, and pulled him into her so hard that I practically heard the thump!

Meanwhile, Claire was blissfully unaware that George and I had swapped places - she always did like to screw with her eyes shut. Since this was in the first few weeks of our relationship and we were all still fairly new to each other, I suppose we didn’t really know our partners well enough for her to register the difference by anything specific that I did. George and I are about the same size, physique and hairiness, so she really didn’t have much to give her a clue unless she opened her eyes.

In fact, it wasn’t till she had actually climaxed that she did so. And I have to say she wasn’t all that articulate:

"Mmmm, that was nice, Geor... Oh! ... er, ... oh! Dave! Er, well, er, thank-you - er, ... well, it was still nice!"

She did look a bit put out at first, but then she saw that all of us were chuckling at her not having noticed, and she joined in with the laughter. I wasn’t quite sure how she’d really taken the swap, since she had seemed a bit bothered, but my fears were put to rest over the next day or two. From that day on, she loosened up quite a bit with me, and started to be just as willing to kiss or caress me in passing as Trish always had been with George. I can tell you, it’s quite an interesting experience to be standing in a doorway and have two women come up behind you and each grope one of your bum cheeks. Or to be snogging with your girlfriend, and suddenly be goosed by another woman (or vice versa, for that matter ...)

From then on, we swapped partners occasionally when the mood took us, although it was still (and always has continued to be) the exception rather than the rule.

- o -

A week or two later, on a bright late winter morning, George and Claire came into our room to discuss what we were all going to do that evening, while Trish and I were so enthusiastically "at it" that we didn’t even notice them coming in. And when we did, we certainly weren’t going to stop what we were enjoying doing just because we had an audience. After all, we were well enough used to doing it in company, so to speak!

After that, it became quite common for one couple to pop into the other pair’s bedroom in the morning, and stand around or sit on the end of the bed for a chat. If the residents thereof were still having a good grope, or even occasionally bonking, it simply didn’t really seem to matter much. In fact, once it was clear that none of us were very bothered about it, we started to make a bit of a deliberate thing of this voyeurism, actively trying to catch each other "at it".

And it became almost a point of honour, if the other couple sneaked in, for the ones still in bed to pretend not to notice, and to ... well, quite frankly to put on a bit of a show, trying to see just how obscene we could get. Once or twice this even ended up with both couples at it in the one bed, as the "visitors" got seriously turned on by the activities of the "hosts"!

Still, after those first few weeks the accommodation did begin to feel a bit cramped, despite these "extra incentives" as you might call them. And George and I realised that we were still paying rent on the village house that we weren’t using. So after some discussion, it was decided that Trish would move out with me to our house in the village, while George moved in with Claire in town.

We still went to all the same parties and still saw a lot of each other (in more ways than one); indeed, no party was complete if both George and I hadn’t had at least one good slow, smoochy, groping dance with the other’s partner. To this day, I suspect that some of our mutual friends thought we were some sort of a group marriage, we were so free and easy with each other. And in a way, I suppose we were; but we were starting to become two separate households, nonetheless.

- o -

One day the next year, as springtime came round, all four of us were over at George and Claire’s house again. So as to make room for more of George’s things, Trish was turning out some of her old stuff that she’d left in a couple of cupboards when she’d moved out with me.

"Right, this old sack’s for the Oxfam shop!" she exclaimed, holding up the very warm (but very conservative) full-length dress that she’d worn to the flicks the night we first all got it together. The cut of the dress was very staid, and the material was nigh on as heavy as good-quality curtains; but it had a quite attractive Paisley sort of pattern, and a nice texture.

"Hang on!" George said, his Yorkshire thriftiness coming to the fore, "You could make something of that instead of just chucking it!" He’s always had a bit of an artist’s eye for design (despite his background), so we listened as he explained his idea.

What George suggested was that Trish should first unstitch and remove the sleeves of the dress, then cut away about four to six inches of it down each side, all the way from armpit to ankle. This would turn it into a sort of full-length tabard.

Then she was to sew eyelets in up each side of the gaps to just below armpit level, and thread a long lace through them; the heavy weight of the fabric should make sure that it hung straight and didn’t reveal more of her than she wanted it to.

Trish was a bit doubtful, but it wouldn’t cost much and it sounded as though the result might be interesting; so George and I went out and bought the eyelets and laces and Trish spent an hour or two on her sewing machine. The result, when she tried it on, was almost unrecognisable as the rather fuddy-duddy garment it had been previously. There were now three or four inches of Trish visible all the way down on each side, and suddenly it was one very sexy number.

Trish cut the lace short on one side, around mid-thigh, so as to leave herself enough freedom to walk (and to flash a bit more leg - I haven’t mentioned it before, but her legs were and are two of her best features). But now it was done, we had to work out what she could do for underwear with it.

This might surprise you, given what I’ve already told you about Trish’s tendency to exhibitionism, but she was still totally convinced that she was overweight; and she was reluctant to dress too daringly in public because of this. From an earlier private chat with Claire, I’d gathered that she (Trish, that is) had indeed been positively chubby until quite recently, and simply hadn’t realised how much her figure had improved.

Well, you’ll remember that I mentioned thinking she was a bit on the plump side when I’d first spotted her that morning in the garden. But she’d already been losing weight then, and now her figure was really nice, although certainly she’d never be described as Twiggy-like. And, by the way, her figure is still pretty much the same as it was then, I’m glad to say! Her bust was perhaps a bit on the small side, but apparently it always had been, even when she was genuinely overweight; and myself, I always did prefer small firm titties to big soft ones.

Still, even though Trish had been dieting (and more importantly exercising) quite successfully, she hadn’t yet regained her confidence in her own looks. Because of this insecurity, she tended to wear substantial "old-fashioned" undies (and rather conservative dresses, usually) when she went out in public. And this was despite the fact that the fashion of the day was for "invisible" undies and the natural look; very few girls would be seen dead wearing something which actually allowed you to see the lines of their underwear under their clothes.

Now Claire, on the other hand, firmly categorised herself as "liberated", and went bra-less more or less all the time. Her tits, while a fair bit bigger than Trish’s, weren’t so large as to make this uncomfortable unless she was playing badminton or something; and in that case she’d wear a sport bra. And she thoroughly enjoyed the attention it brought her at other times - as per the original occasion when she’d carefully allowed me to see her knockers in the garden. (That had been quite deliberate, I knew by now). Basically, she picked up on the "liberated woman" thing very early, and emphatically interpreted it as meaning that women should not be restricted by male-designed clothing or the attitudes of a male-dominated society. She’d never quite had the nerve to wear a "topless" dress in public when that fashion had had its brief heyday a few years later, but she probably came close to it.

Well, enough of the digressions. Back to "that dress". The trouble for Trish’s modesty was that it was very clear that she simply could not wear panties at all under it; they’d be very clearly visible at the sides, and would spoil the whole effect. And as for a bra ... she tried cutting the sides out of an old bra and sewing some sheer nylon from a good-quality pair of stockings into the gaps, so as to make it transparent at the sides, but this was a complete failure. The nylon stretched out of shape immediately, and went all worn-looking, becoming highly visible and equally inappropriate for the eye-catching nature of the dress.

But Trish had far too much spirit to abandon the project now. I think she was also beginning to realise, if only from the number of times that we all told her so, that she really could get away with dressing quite a bit more daringly than she’d felt happy with in her plumper days. So, when she wore the remodelled dress to a party the next week, there was nothing whatever under it. Except Trish, of course. Talk about a turn-on! I could hardly keep my eyes - or my hands - off her!

Now, although anyone looking closely at her dress could see that any underwear she might have on would have to be held on with Bostik, the material was still plenty heavy enough that you couldn’t actually see anything you shouldn’t. And because it was such heavy material, a bloke couldn’t even feel anything either. Well, not without groping her really blatantly while dancing, which would hardly be considered good manners.

All of which meant that you couldn’t be absolutely sure that there wasn’t a bit of underwear somewhere under there, however cunningly it might be fastened. Which all added to the fascination, of course ...

One guy at this party, a computer engineer from my office, followed Trish around with his tongue hanging out for a couple of hours or more that evening before he finally got up enough (Dutch) courage to come out and ask her. "Have you actually got anything at all on under that, Trish?"

I don’t know quite what he expected as a reply (if anything - he was pissed out of his mind); but his jaw certainly dropped when Trish cheerfully replied, "That’s for me to know, and you to find out! - Come on, have a dance with me and see if you can tell."

She promptly pulled him into a dance (he could just about stay on his feet with all the drink he’d had) and after they’d been bopping for a few seconds she looked at me over his shoulder and gave me that wicked wink of hers. Then, keeping her eyes locked on mine, she took his hands and placed them on her hips, right on the laced-up bits.

Well, drunk or not, it didn’t take more than a couple of seconds for him to try it on. He made as if to slip his hands through the gaps in the laces, no doubt expecting her to slap his hands away - but to his surprise (and mine), Trish didn’t even try to stop him.

On the contrary, she brought her own hands down and eased the laces slightly apart, so that his hands slipped straight through. The lucky sod now had two nice handfuls of her entirely bare bum! He almost collapsed on the spot!

When she twirled away from him as the music changed a moment later, and swayed back to me, he was still shaking his head, crossing and uncrossing his eyes, looking for another beer and trying to decide whether he’d just had a brainstorm. A moment later, he collapsed into an armchair and was soon snoring heavily.

Trish looked at me a bit nervously. "You didn’t mind me doing that, did you, Dave? I mean, don’t worry, I didn’t fancy him, especially in that condition - but I just couldn’t resist it! He’s so pissed he’ll never be able to remember if that really happened, or if he just fantasised it."

Suddenly she looked just a bit worried. "Well, I hope he won’t, anyway!"

She wasn’t all that sober herself, I realised. I think she must have been a bit nervier about the dress than I’d realised, and hit the booze a bit to give herself some courage - and then perhaps she’d lost a bit too much inhibition!

I was about to tell her off in no uncertain fashion for letting a stranger grope her; but when I thought a moment, I realised to my surprise that I wasn’t actually upset at all; in fact I was rather turned on by the whole thing. Perhaps it was because she obviously didn’t really expect me to be seriously cross, or perhaps it was because I was already well used to her being groped by George on the dance floor while I felt Claire up; but when I thought about it, I really didn’t mind. Not in the slightest. Anyway, I told myself, she’d pulled away again before he could get more than a couple of handfuls of bum, so it didn’t matter much - did it?

We went out on the floor and carried on dancing, and it took Trish no more than about five seconds to have my hands where the drunken engineer’s had been - but this time she stayed still while I moved them around to other more interesting places as well! The lights were pretty dim, so I was fairly sure nobody would see exactly what we were up to.

Trish could hardly protest if I got fruity, after letting a virtual stranger grope her right in front of me. So by the end of that dance, she’d had her bum and boobs squeezed, her nipples twiddled and her pussy stroked to the point where my fingers were wet, all while we were dancing around on the open floor. Just as well that dress was heavy material - if it’d been any lighter, I think the damp patch would have been visible!

I suppose that, in a way, that was the beginning of her slide into the seriously rampant exhibitionism that she’s into nowadays. Since I’d obviously been turned on rather than pissed off, she must have felt it would be OK to go a bit further in future.

And the positive reactions that everyone had to that dress (one other girl even asked where she’d bought it) built on the start we’d made, helping her to get over her genuinely unjustified belief that she was "fat and plain". Over the next few weeks, although in day-to-day life and office dress she remained the soul of formal respectability, at parties and other informal events she started to emulate Claire’s styles - or even go farther than her sometimes.

As I said, she had quite small, firm titties, and I’d been pestering her for some time to accept that she really didn’t need a bra for support. After all, this was the age of the "liberated woman", and it was now being seen as downright odd for a woman to be visibly wearing a bra at any time unless she (or her bust, I suppose) was over 50. The "pencil test" was the thing: if a girl could tuck a pencil under a boob and raise her arms above shoulder height without it falling out, then she might be considered still to need to wear a bra - otherwise, no way!

And I have to say that ever since those days, I’ve found the sight of all the straps and buckles of women’s underwear rather unattractive and off-putting - give me the natural look any time.

So Trish began to make a habit of not wearing a bra to parties and suchlike if her top wasn’t too transparent, and of wearing very tiny, semi-transparent or lacy ones when she was dressed lightly enough that she didn’t really quite dare to go without one altogether.

- o -

One evening, I took her out to a restaurant for a nice meal - actually it was for my birthday. She was wearing an almost transparent blouse and a tiny, sexy white lace bra that already allowed a touch of the darkness of her nipples to show through. As we finished the main course, I leaned over and asked her, as a special birthday treat for me, to take it off, so I could enjoy looking at her assets across the table.

Rather to my surprise, after a moment’s consideration she said, "Oh, alright then, just for you, since it’s your birthday". She nipped off to the Ladies, and came back with her bra crumpled in her hand like a hankie. She slipped it to me under the table so I could pocket it, and I enjoyed the rest of the evening sitting opposite a woman whose tits were, quite honestly, pretty clearly visible under her almost see-through blouse. The situation must have started to get to her, too - her nipples went up like organ-stops, especially when our waiter couldn’t quite conceal how much he was enjoying the view! And from then on, she only wore a bra to the office, or if her tits were a bit tender around her period. At other times, she was completely "liberated".

- o -

She also wore that side-laced dress several more times to parties, and before long all our closer friends (the male ones, anyway) had had a dance with her wearing it, and she’d given almost all of them the chance to confirm that she didn’t wear anything under it. Through all this, funnily enough, it really didn’t bother me a bit that my bird was getting ogled - and willingly groped - by other men; in fact, I felt it was a sort of compliment on my good taste in women.