The Pitch

Annabelle slammed the hotel door, dropped her suitcase, briefcase and handbag on the bed, and collapsed down beside them. She was shattered. The journey from London to Chicago had been exhausting; she had caught the red eye last night which had had to put down at JFK for four hours with engine trouble, and then, when she got to O'Hare Airport, her credit card had been refused in both the shop and at Hertz Rent A Car. She had been so embarrassed, and ended up using all her traveller's cheques and dollars just to get a car.

Now here she was in a hotel in downtown Indianapolis absolutely knackered, with two hours to go before she had to give 'The Pitch'.

The pitch in question was to be to a large American ice cream producer, and it's purpose was to secure her firm the UK distribution rights for their products. To be allowed to make this pitch on her own was a big step up for Annabelle, a step that she had worked towards for the last five years. In a mainly male dominated firm, she had worked damn hard, and had made sacrifices so as to be taken as an equal and had finally made it to a position which had influence.

But back to the matters in hand; with influence came responsibility, and her current responsibility was to make sure the pitch was successful, and as such she had better get dressed.

Annabelle had made the trip dressed in a baggy jogging suit and her old trainers so that she would be comfortable. In the suitcase was her smartest work attire. Over the years she had made sure that she was not treated as a sex object by adopting a reserved attitude and wearing smart, but conservative clothes, mostly consisting of high necked blouses, dark suits and low- heeled shoes. The suits always had at least knee length straight skirts and a loose fitting jacket. To finish the effect, she always wore a pair of steel framed glasses, even though she did not really need them at all times.

She reached for the Samsonite suitcase and opened it to find, not her clothes, but a case full of latex, leather and PVC 'fetish' clothing. She picked up the top item, which was a leather jump cat suit with fingers and thumb, before dropping it back into the case with a look of distaste.

"Damn!", she screamed. "Now what am I going to do?"

She quickly looked over the case, looking for a luggage sticker, or some item that would give it's owner's identity, and found absolutely nothing. Then she rang the Chicago O'Hare airport and asked if her luggage had been handed back. The airport official said that nothing had been reported, but took her telephone number and would get back to her if they had any information.

"Damn!", she screamed again. "Now don't panic, Annabelle, you have got two hours. Let's get out and buy some new clothes."

She reached for the handbag and rushed to the door, where she remembered that her credit card would not work and she had no cash left."

"Damn, Damn, Damn!" she screamed again. "Why does this have to happen to me?"

"That's it," she thought, "I will just have to cancel it!" Then she thought again, "I can't, we have already postponed it once because the presentation graphics were late. Today is my last chance - the ice cream people are going to make a decision straight after my pitch. I have got to do it today."

Annabelle rang the desk and explained the situation, and then asked if there were any female staff who might lend her a suit. The man who answered said that he was sure that the one of the desk managers would bring something from home. Annabelle's hopes rose, but he carried on she was due on in two hours. Annabelle thanked him and rang off.

"That's it, I am sunk," she thought. "Unless..." and her eyes turned towards the suitcase, "I can use something in there."

She opened the suitcase and pulled out the leather cat suit and held it up. "Not suitable at all," she thought. "It is covered in buckles and rings."

The next item was an orange latex jump-suit with holes in what she thought were the strangest places. "Not a chance."

The following items were a black shiny PVC jacket and skirt. "Well, leather is in, why not PVC?"

She held up the jacket to her body and studied herself in the mirror. It had very large gigot balloon shoulders and then sleeves that went tight from the elbow, a high collar and a cut-out above the breasts and a peplum around the waist. "Possible," she thought, but it does look a bit tight for my non-to-waif-like figure.

She picked up the skirt, and held it up again - it was a calf-length and a pencil style. "No, correct that," she thought, "it is a calf-length hobble skirt."

Annabelle, seeing some light at the end of the tunnel, examined the items more closely. The skirt looked much too small at the hips, and the waist was minuscule. Looking at the jacket and holding it buttoned, she could see that its waist was very small as well. "If I leave the jacket open (this PVC stuff must stretch a bit) and breath in to make the skirt fit, I am sure I can get this lot on.

Annabelle returned to the case to look for some shoes. She considered going in her trainers, but they were so old and scruffy, she had decided she would look like a bag lady.

In the suitcase, she found two items of footwear: one, a pair of strappy sandals with six-inch heels, the other a pair of lace-up ankle boots with excessively pointed toes and six inch heels also. She decided on the boots, as the sandals just looked too 'slutty'. She sat down with a little trepidation, as the highest heels she possessed were court shoes with two and half inch heels, and she had only wore a few times with an evening dress.

PART TWO

She pulled the boots on and felt her toes cramming into the points, and the rest of her feet taking up a very unnatural angle; by a lot of force, which cramped her toes even more, she managed to get her heel down. She repeated the operation with other boot and then laced them up tightly, reasoning that she needed all the support she could get. With her feet feeling very strange and not her own, she tried to stand, and immediately found herself pitched forward, as her body took up its natural stance and the shoes took up there's. Annabelle leaned back and bent her legs deeply to regain her balance, which turned out to be more difficult than she imagined, as her ankles started wobbling uncontrollably from side to side. Quickly, she sat down and said to herself in amazement, "How do women ever walk in these instruments of torture? Well, they do. I see them every day and night in London, striding along without a care in the world, so it is possible, but I am not sure how."

She took a deep breath and slowly stood up, again holding her ankle muscles tight, and then trying to straighten her knees. Gradually, she stood up straight, and was quite pleased, as the shoes made her look and feel much taller. The downside was the tremendous strain on her calf muscles, and her toes being increased by her weight.

"OK, I'll manage," she thought. "That's the footwear sorted - now for the skirt." She took the boots off and remembered she would need some tights, so she dug through the case, but all she could find were some dark silk-like seamed stockings, but no 'G' string. Resourceful as ever, she put them on and used some cellophane tape as garters. Next came the skirt: She held it down in a ring, passed both feet and confidently started to pull upwards. The progress was steady until mid-thigh when after which the top of the skirt would not budge.

"Why did she have to be so thin?" thinking bad thoughts about the skirt's owner. "I am not that big, but the owner of this skirt must be a waif." Annabelle reached down, and gripping the waist band as tight as she could, started to tug. The skirt started to move slowly millimetre by millimetre but, as it approached her hips, however hard she pulled, she could not get it to move any further. The PVC was now stretched as tight as a drum across her hips and thighs.

Annabelle kept on tugging but got no result, except a red face. Then she remembered her schooldays in the 80's, where it was fashionable to wear jeans (non-stretch) two sizes too small and, the only way she and her friends could get them up, was to lay flat on the floor. Annabelle lay down and, thinking herself small, raised her hips off the ground, and began to pull with all her might. Slowly, the skirt began to move; they did until, eventually they slipped over her hips and, while it was still tight and still needed tugging, the skirt moved up until the waistband was in the right position.

"Yes!" said Annabelle in triumph. Slowly and carefully, she got up off the floor, keeping her legs together, as she could feel that the skirt, which now past skin tight, and felt more like sub-epidermal, would not take much more abuse. She could see and had heard during the tugging that the front and two side seams were suffering under the strain.

When she was standing, she reached behind her for the zip and pulled; it resisted movement and, however much she breathed in, the zip would only move half an inch under the maximum pressure Annabelle dared put on it.

"What is going on? I am not that fat."

She walked, or it would more true to say minced, due to the tight skirt, over to the full length mirror attached to the bedroom door. The skirt pinioned her thighs together so that it felt like the fat squeezed out towards the front and back. It was still tight at her knees and to walk the only way she achieved forward motion was to rotate one leg in front of the other. At the mirror, she turned round and peered over her shoulder, mortified to find that the waistband of the skirt did not meet by at least six inches.

"Oh come on," she thought, "Nobody is that slim."

Thinking quickly, she decide to try and hide the gap using the jacket; remembering that she had seen some sort of thin top in the case. She went slowly over to find it. When she found the top, which was made of a blackish sheer stretch material, she immediately knew that there was now no way that she could wear her sensible pristine white Marks and Sparks bra underneath it.

Rapidly, she searched the case again for a bra; in a side pocket, she found a minuscule black bra with balcony half cups. She quickly removed her own bra, and tried on the black one. The bra was too small and lifted her breasts up high, thrusting them out so that they seemed to be presented on a plate. Even worse, it only just covered her nipples.

"I suppose it is better than my white... but only just."

Annabelle then put on the top, which fitted so tightly that it showed the little bit of fat around her midriff. Next the jacket: She picked it up and put her arms in the sleeves, which were tremendously tight. She kept on pushing, but could not get her hands past the lower sleeves. Rotating the sleeves round, she noticed the black zip running up the rear of the sleeves.

With some difficulty, she pulled her arms back up the sleeves (you try it) and then undid the zips. This time, the upper sleeves were still tight, but with more pressure, her hands popped out into the flapping lower sleeves.

"Why do these inner sleeves have to be so tight inside these gigantic puff shoulders?" she thought.

Moving and mincing back to the mirror, she studied herself in the jacket, and immediately worked out that it was not meant to worn open, as it hung terribly at all different angles, from her breast down to the peplum waist. But there was no way that Annabelle was going to close it as, like the skirt, there was a six inch gap between the two sides. She turned round again and viewed her rear. The 'other' woman must be a bit smaller, as the peplum of the jacket only just covered the waistband of the skirt, and a striking amount of flesh was visible between the gaps of the skirt zip.

"Maybe I can cover it up with a belt or something." S she minced back to the bed and the 'other' suitcase and started searching, feeling a bit flustered. As she hurriedly searched all the side pockets and found nothing, she reached up to the lid pocket and felt something solid inside it.

Undoing the catch she pulled out something rolled up, black, long and heavy, with what looked like shoe laces hanging from it. Annabelle slowly unrolled it and found a what she recognised as a corset. She had never seen one in the 'flesh' before, and was amazed at its heaviness and rigidity.

"So this is how 'she' manages to get into this suit?" she thought. "But I bet this thing hurts like hell when it's laced up tight enough to fasten this jacket and skirt."

With a sigh of resignation and she had very few, if any other options, Annabelle struggled out the jacket once more, rolled the sheer stretch top over up over her breasts, and then rolled down the top of the skirt - no way was she taking that off and picked up the corset. She first fully unrolled it and worked out which way was down (the garters were 'down). She quickly decided that the garters would show right through the tight skirt, and cut them off with the nail scissors from her purse.

She gingerly picked up the stiff and heavy item and wrapped it around her waist and swore when she saw that the front clips would not meet by many inches.

"This can't be right." she thought.

She examined the lacing, and quickly realised that she had to release all of the lacing back through the eyelets. When she had done this, she ended up with a ladder of lacing about five inches wide. She then wrapped it around her waist again and the clips almost met. Before fixing the front clips, she moved up and down until she thought it was in the right position with the flare at the bottom of the corset lying over her hips. When it was seated on her hips it looked OK, but she had nasty suspicion that the top was supposed to lie over the bottom of her ribs but it only reached to just under her ribs.

"Nothing I can do about it," she thought.

She began, or tried to begin to fasten the clips, she struggled and strained for a about minute, holding her breath in all the time, until she found the right angle and the clip fastened. Very much out breath, she sat on the bed and, even though the corset was not laced, it immediately fought back, pushing her back straight and digging into her ribs. Annabelle rapidly sat up straight to relieve the pressure.

She then swore again, "Damn, damn, damn!" and then went on to say to herself, "I will never get those boots on when I get the corset laced. I couldn't even bend down now."

Annabelle carefully stood up, undid the clips again, and lay the corset down, bending down slowly against the skirt's resistance, and using her hands, forced her first stocking foot into the pointed toe of the first boot. She carefully laced it as tight as she could, even though it increased the pressure on her cramped toes, reasoning that she would not get another chance once she put the corset back on. She tied a tight double bow and repeated the operation with the other boot. She then stood up carefully, remembering her first attempt, and managed to keep her balance, although the tight skirt did not give her much room to correct, as she tried to keep her weight centred between the postage stamp toe area and the needle-like stiletto heels.

When reasonably happy, she gingerly leant over to the bed, holding one hand back for balance, to pick up the corset, and wrapped it round her waist once more. She knew what to do now and, with a deep breath and some fumbling, fastened the first clip. This operation was now made harder, as now she could not bend over much for fear of loosing her balance, and her newly prominent breasts obscured her view of the corset clips. With little rests to catch her breath between each clips, she fastened all eight of them. When she had finished, she tapped the now- solid piece of metal that ran from her crotch to her ribs and it returned a dull heavy 'thunk'.

"Scarlett O'Hara would be proud of me," she thought wryly.

She fumbled behind and could not find the corset loops, and so slowly and careful of her balance, she forced one foot in front of the other against the skirt's resistance and moved back to the mirror. Turning once more, she peered over her shoulder, and located the two loops of lace which were pulled tight to the corset. She dug in her thumbs and was surprised how easy they came away, as they looked very tight. Rotating her hands away from her, she started to push the loops back, and as she did so, she felt the corset begin to tighten at her waist. When she had reached her arms full extension, she clamped off the laces at the corset with one hand, and examine the results, she was a bit perplexed - She had pulled out what seemed a lot lace, but the gap seemed just as big at the top and bottom and most reduced at her waist.

"I need it closed over my hips," she thought, "or I'll will never zip this skirt."

She then tried pulling the laces out with one hand, and pulling the slack out from the bottom with other; this worked well for several repeats until she did not have enough strength with one to pull out the lace. She then had to resort to using both hands to pull and, while she clamped off with one hand at the end of every of every outward stroke, she used the other to pull in the slack. As she did this, she felt the corset tightening all along its length with most of the pressure coming at the waist, making her breathing speed up, and her now eyeful bosom pant up and down like the heroine in a Mills and Boone bodice ripper story. Eventually, even with both hands, she could not pull any more; as she clamped off, she was dismayed to see that she still had at least three inches of gap left.

She tried tugging again, but did not have enough strength against the corset's tightness. What she needed was some help, but, as it was mid-morning, the hotel was silent and she would not even think about asking the man on the desk.

Annabelle was beginning to despair: three inches to go, the corset was hurting as it clamped around her waist and ribs, and only forty five minutes before she was due at the meeting.

"What am I going to do?" she thought, and then, as she staggered slightly, she brushed the door handle and the answer came. She hooked the laces over the handle and tottered away to take the tension, finding that by peering over shoulder and leaning against the lace, she could pull out the slack and tighten the corset. She continued to lean forward at a steep angle; struggling for purchase on the minuscule soles of the high heeled boots, and working her fingers quickly, the corset tightened. The pressure at her waist and ribs was becoming unbearable, but she had to ignore it, and continued anyway. The gap in the corset rapidly closed and her panting increased. At last the sides met all the way from her hips at the bottom of the corset to just above the waist.

She pulled herself vertically against the laces, steadied herself clamped them off with one hand, and turned back to the door, which was now over six feet away. Tottering slowly back to door, she felt a little faint, due to the rigid pressure of the corset. At the door, she unhooked the laces and then passed the ends around her waist several times to lose the excess, tying them off in bow at the small of her back.

Annabelle hoped she had done enough; she pulled down the stretch top over the corset and reached down and pulled the top of the skirt back up, feeling rather strange as she pulled the waistband not up to her waist as usual, but over the boning of the corset. Grasping the zipper, she started to pull - it was not easy but slowly it moved up to the waist band. The waistband itself still did not meet by at least an inch, and so she left the hooks free.

Standing tall and straight, as the corset gave her no other option, she went back over to the bed in an even more mincing walk. She could feel her hips moving excessively from side to side as she walked, but they did not seem to be attached to her anymore. Ignoring the strange feeling, which she surmised must be due to the tight corset, she tried to bend at the waist a little to pick up the suit jacket, but the corset would not let her bend at all. Quickly, instead, she bent at the knees and bobbed down and grabbed the jacket and then had to make several short steps to regain her balance.