The Red Panties Test Pt. 03

THE RED PANTIES TEST - PART 3

Dani Sweets

Waiting nervously in the alley, I was trying to look inconspicuous without being furtive. At a guess, I was failing miserably. I also couldn't help wondering what my wife Jillian might think if she knew I had an assignation with a young woman. Well, she'd be upset, obviously. She'd no doubt assume I was having an affair.

It was not exactly a comfort that the true purpose of the meeting might seem even worse to her.

There was a lot I wasn't telling my wife about right now. Since my brief but inglorious stint behind bars, she had seen the change in me: the loss of confidence, the lack of eating, the listlessness. And she could probably guess that I hadn't been treated well.

But I had never revealed the particular test I'd failed in prison, the one that had made me a sexual target and caused me to question my masculinity. Even if nothing had ended up happening bar a few insults and fondles.

I had thought I could just keep that one secret from Jillian. But now there were so many more. And I had been compelled to go further and start actively lying to her. For instance, about why, for weeks now, I had been keeping my body fully shaven.

I had told her it was because I was taking up cycling, in a bid to get fit again. It was the best I could come up with to explain a physical change that was impossible to conceal. To maintain the lie, I'd had to buy a bicycle, a helmet and a ludicrous amount of Lycra. And then pretend to ride off on journeys which in practice would usually end a few blocks away with me completely out of breath. I could only hope she wouldn't notice that I wasn't getting demonstrably fitter.

I was also dissembling about the nature of the work I was doing for her new stepfather. She thought I was helping Warren set up and manage his new building company. Well, I was certainly beginning to provide some personal assistance to him, but the duties involved were strictly clerical in nature. And my secretarial duties were very much secondary to cleaning and keeping house for him, a role I most certainly did not disclose.

Then, of course, there was the biggest secret of them all. That would be the way I looked when I was at the luxurious apartment that doubled as Warren's home office - or more specifically how he demanded I look and dress. Which was the reason for today's meeting.

Rechecking my watch, and shivering a little in the chilly air, I cursed myself for not waiting inside the lingerie shop, as opposed to outside its back door. But although I'd become a regular customer over the past weeks, I still didn't feel at all comfortable about shopping there. In fact, there was only one reason I'd returned at all: Trudie.

Strangely enough, I'd initially hoped never to see her more than once. On my very first visit to the store, she'd helped me choose the red panties that Warren insisted I wear for my first day of work. How he knew that was the item of clothing I'd been coerced into wearing in prison, I still had no idea. I could have asked - but I simply didn't dare.

The process of buying the panties, pretending they were for Jillian, was always going to be excruciating. But Trudie had made it more bearable by being so cheerfully helpful.

When I went back the following week, now under orders to get not just another pair of panties, but some stockings and suspenders, I had done so because the service had been good. But the last thing I wanted was to be seen by Trudie, or anyone else who might remember me from my first purchase. It was only when I looked through the window and saw no sign of her that I felt able to go in.

Unfortunately, it turned out she'd been out the back. I'd only been inside for thirty seconds when she emerged and made a beeline straight for me, her face lighting up with a smile of recognition. "Hello!" she called. "Lovely to see you again! What can we do for you this week?"

I groaned inside but forced a semblance of a smile onto my face. "Hi. I'm, um, looking for... stockings. With, you know, a suspender belt. And, ah, another pair of panties. Only..."

"Yes?" she prompted.

"They have to... I mean, they need to be... Look, I'm not sure about the style. Or, um, the colour. But they have to go with... well, with a maid's dress. Kind of a French maid thing, you know? Only... pink. The dress, I mean. Really... pink."

Pink, I thought, as opposed to the colour of my cheeks right now, which I knew must be bright red. They were certainly burning.

If Trudie was at all put out or amused by my display, she didn't show it. "A French maid dress? Nice! Yes, I'm sure we can help you with that. But it would be good to get an idea of what shade pink? Then I can help match things up properly."

She pointed out several different items, until I settled on a nightdress. It was at least close to the same colour as my recollection of the dress I'd so shamefully agreed to wear for my stepfather-in-law.

"Okay, great! Well, I'd definitely say white stockings. Wait now, I think we have... Oh yes, here we go, we have some really cute ones here, they have little pink ribbons on the top, they should go beautifully! What do you think?"

I nodded dutifully, trying but failing to meet her eye. Not missing a beat, she disappeared briefly and returned with a lacy white suspender belt and matching panties. As she held them up for inspection, I noticed that the panties were a thong style, with only flimsy scraps of material. But at this point I simply wanted to get out of the store and end this excruciating exercise. "Yes, they're great," I muttered.

"Wonderful! They'll look really good together, you know. Now, we just need a size. Okay if I just get a waist measurement?"

"Sure," I said automatically, then froze. "No, wait -" I tried to say as she strode off, but I struggled to get the words out. My throat was suddenly dry, and I felt the pit that seemed to have taken permanent refuge in my stomach open up yet again.

As the effervescent blonde returned with a tape measure, I waved my hands ineffectually. "I'm not... I mean, they're not..."

The smile remained, even as she crinkled her brow. "I'm sorry, so these aren't for you?"

Mercifully, she was keeping her voice down and the only other assistant was occupied with another customer. But even so, I looked around frantically to check that we weren't being overheard, before saying in a strangled voice: "No, I mean, why would you think that they are?"

She gave a little laugh. "Oh, we have guys coming in all the time to buy stuff for themselves! It's perfectly okay, you know, and we don't mind. As long as we have happy customers, right? But listen, if I have that wrong, and they're really for someone else..." She shrugged prettily.

"Well, I'm sorry, yes, you do have it wrong, these are for my wife you know!" The words were just sitting there, waiting to be spoken. But I was getting sick of lying. Or maybe I was just too tired and drained to keep up the pretence. Whatever the reason. I let out a long breath and said: "Sorry, yes, they're for me."

"Cool," she said, nodding happily and slipping the tape measure round my waist. As I completed the purchase there wasn't a trace of judgment in the way she treated me. Maybe she was really professional, or perhaps just a thoroughly decent person. Either way, I felt a surge of gratitude to her, which only increased after her final remark.

Leaning in close in a slightly conspiratorial way as she held the door open for me, she whispered: "Listen, if you come back again, I can't guarantee it, right? But if you want to... you know, try anything on? I'll see what I can do." She gave my arm a squeeze and despite my frazzled state, I couldn't help nodding and returning her smile as I left the store.

Over the ensuing weeks, I'd had at least one cause to take up Trudie on her offer. Warren seemed to have no compunction about supplying me clothes and shoes to wear - and he seemed to have my size down perfectly, though how I didn't know.

He had taken to having me dress in various versions of my maid's outfit while doing the cleaning, but then switching to office wear when acting as his secretary. That meant a succession of tight blouses and skirts that were getting progressively shorter, in inverse proportion to the height of the heels I was now being forced to wear.

But the one thing Warren expected me to supply myself was underwear. Getting me to buy lingerie each week was part of the way he controlled me. He never came out and ordered me to dress or shop the way he preferred. But he made very clear what he expected. And I was as worried about him ending my employment, and how that might be explained to my wife, as I was physically intimidated by his size.

I could afford the weekly purchases, not least with the amount Warren was paying me - a daily figure far in excess of what my duties really deserved. But each acquisition was cementing the hold he had on me - and further emphasised my unwillingness to defend my masculinity.

Where I needed Trudie's particular help was on my fourth visit. I'd been told to get myself a corset - one with suspenders for my stockings. Getting the size right was not so much the problem - it was more that I hadn't the faintest idea how to put one on.

Trudie waited until the store was quiet, then took me into one of the changerooms. "Okay Emile," she announced, handing me a black corset with a fearsome array of ties and hooks. "Here's what you need to know."

She gave me instructions on how to put the corset on, and then pull the laces tight. "I've left you some panties and stockings you can try on with it." She indicated a small pile of wispy items on the bench. "Just give a yell when you're ready and I'll come in and check how you've gone with the corset."

I looked at her dubiously. "You want me to... I mean, you'd be seeing me..."

She shrugged, the habitual smile still lighting up her face. "Well, you're the one who likes wearing girls' clothes, right? And honestly, it doesn't bother me. Look, if you're feeling shy, fair enough. But I can't really help you with a corset without seeing you in it. And it's gotta have the right accessories, you know?"

I hesitated, then nodded. While she was out, I changed into the clothes she'd left for me. The corset was a bit of a struggle, but I somehow managed it. I'd wondered if I would need a bra with it, since that was something Warren always insisted be part of any outfit I wore for him, but the corset Trudie had chosen for me turned out to have full cups at the top that covered my nipples, plus thin shoulder straps.

I attached the stockings to the suspenders at the bottom of the corset, a process with which I was becoming disturbingly familiar. Warren always required me to arrive wearing stockings underneath my male clothes, not just panties.

Since Jillian invariably insisted on giving me a lift around to his place, that meant the need for a very quick change while she was getting ready - and of course a nerve-wracking car trip while I waited for her to spot the tell-tale lines of my suspenders underneath my trousers.

To prepare myself, I had taken to practising quick changes at home while she was out - and then cramming my stockinged feet into a pair of her dressiest shoes in order to get used to walking in high heels.

The amount of time I was now spending in women's clothes was more than a little worrying. I kept trying to think of a way to get out of the mess that Warren had put me in. But even if my imagination created ways to escape, I was too scared to try any of them.

Which is why I had found myself now in the dressing room of a lingerie shop, adjusting the kind of sexy stockings that in my old life I might have fantasised about my wife wearing for me as a special treat. How things had changed...

Pulling on a pair of lace-trimmed bikini briefs to complete the underwear, I took care to tuck my cock away so that it couldn't be seen. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself, then called out to Trudie.

She came in, gave me a quick appraisal, then nodded in satisfaction. "That looks pretty good - fits you nicely. But you haven't tightened up those laces anywhere near tightly enough! Here, let me show you."

She tightened the laces, checked that I could still just about draw air into my lungs, then repeated the process a couple more times. When she was satisfied, she spun me around to face the changing room mirror and stood back. "What do you reckon?" she asked.

I stared at my reflection. While at Warren's, and even at home, I had studiously avoided looking at myself in women's clothes. Not completely of course. I had a good enough idea from just looking down how stockings looked on my shaven legs, or the way in which a bra and panties clung to my newly hairless torso. And I couldn't help getting glimpses of my appearance from the windows in the apartment (though never my house - I only ever dressed there behind closed curtains). But until now, I had avoided mirrors.

The figure looking back at me wasn't a woman. But it wasn't a man either. Not wearing those clothes. And even though the corset couldn't give me an hourglass figure, not with my hips being so narrow, it still narrowed my waist to a point where my shape was noticeably different. What was shocking though was how good my legs looked, especially when I turned around, rose up on my toes and then looked back over my shoulder.

"Wow," I murmured, impressed despite myself. Trudie gave a satisfied chuckle. "That good, huh? Don't ever say that your favourite clothing consultant doesn't know how to dress you to impress. Only the finest for monsieur! Or should I say mademoiselle..." The laugh turned into a giggle.

I blushed but couldn't help returning the smile. "They're lovely Trudie. Seriously, you're a gem - I can't thank you enough."

"That's okay doll, your trusty debit card will be all the reward I require..."

And so, the weeks had gone by with me making rather more visits to the store than were strictly necessary. But I had come to enjoy visiting Trudie and listening to her enthusiastic chatter about the items she sold and what she thought would look good on me. I was occasionally allowed to try on certain items even if I wasn't buying them, such as baby doll nighties and elegant lace robes. I enjoyed how they felt on my body, even as the idea of wearing such things continued to trouble me.

I even started meeting up with Trudie for coffee. Most of the time was spent with her educating me about the latest women's fashions, when she wasn't complaining about her current boyfriend.

For some reason she seemed to enjoy the idea of taking a novice crossdresser under her wing. I didn't tell her why I had taken to dressing up, and she was too polite to ask. But I could be pretty honest with her about how little I knew and indeed how nervous I was about the whole thing. I had even let her in on the fact that I had a wife at home who very definitely wouldn't understand what I was doing.

It was actually quite liberating to be so candid, to have someone to share what would otherwise have been a very lonely journey. Maybe I should have told Jillian. But again, I didn't dare. It was all too easy to imagine her going absolutely spare. Having been spared a marriage breakdown that had seemed all too likely after my brief imprisonment, I was desperate not to risk it further. So, Trudie became my trusted companion.

She even insisted that I should have a new name. "I can't call you Emile," she protested. "Not when you look so cute in lingerie! I mean, okay, it's Emile when you're... you know, like this." She gestured across the cafe table. Mercifully, she was keeping her voice low. "But if you're going to be a girl, you have to have a proper name."

I tried to dissuade her, then to change the conversation, but she wasn't having it. She quickly rejected Emily as "too obvious." After being called that in prison, there was no way I wanted it either - and besides, I already knew a couple of women with that name. Amanda, Sarah and a host of other possibilities were deemed too sensible. Candy and Tiffany sounded too much like strippers. Then Trudie snapped her fingers.

"I know! You like our French stuff, right? Especially those lovely peignoirs... And you already have kind of a French name." I glanced around anxiously to make sure nobody was listening, then nodded.

"All right then!" she said triumphantly. "How about Dominique?"

"Um, it's a nice name," I conceded. "I don't know though Trudie, really..."

But I'd given her all the encouragement she needed. From that moment on I was either Dominique or (more often) Nikki to her - at least whenever I was trying on clothes, or we were talking about them. It grated at first, but I became used to it.

And over time it even seemed to be a way of distinguishing the two distinct people I had somehow become. When I was with Trudie, or working for Warren, I thought of myself as Dominique - although I hadn't yet disclosed that name to my stepfather-in-law. The rest of the time, I was Emile.

Despite the growing bond between us, my relationship with Trudie remained resolutely platonic. She was certainly attractive, even if perhaps shorter and rounder than she would have liked - the latter the product of a sweet tooth that she could never seem to resist indulging. Quite apart from her engaging personality, she was young, pretty and the possessor of an impressive bust that she made little attempt to conceal.

Yet somehow it never occurred to me to lust after her, as I almost certainly would have done - even if only quietly and privately - if I'd met her before my fateful stint in prison.

She had clearly become a girlfriend. But just not the type of girlfriend I could ever have imagined having.

If Trudie and her desire to help me "find my inner girl" (as she endearingly put it) were occasionally a challenge, but mostly a source of support, the evolving relationship with my stepfather-in-law was something else again.

For the most part, the work I was doing for him was surprisingly tolerable - even enjoyable at times. After months of aimless sloth at home, it was actually a pleasure to do something useful. And importantly, I didn't have to think about anything - I simply did as I was told.

Looking back on my time as a lawyer, before the "career interruption" that had seen me jailed and then fired, I had always been at my happiest when operating under close supervision.

If I was asked to solve a problem that required some creativity or initiative, I was generally smart enough to do it. But I spent a lot of the time stressing about whether I was doing it right, or my superiors would be happy with the outcome. The simpler the task, the more I could just concentrate on being meticulous.

The fact then that Warren was giving me only menial tasks to perform, whether as a domestic servant or a secretary, didn't bother me. If anything, it was a relief that I could just concentrate on doing them properly. After the massive knock I had taken to my confidence, taking pride in doing simple jobs well was as much of a pleasant surprise as my burgeoning friendship with Trudie.

This was not to say that the work was all plain sailing. The days spent at Warren's apartment, which had now expanded to two or sometimes even three a week, could still be nerve wracking.

For one thing, I couldn't help learning a little about Warren's business interests and networks, from the typing, filing, diary management and travel arrangements that were now a routine part of my employment. And what I discovered raised a lot more questions than answers.

I had been told he was a building contractor who had sold off one business and was now establishing another. That much was certainly true. He was busy hiring staff for several mid-size projects, mostly involving the construction of commercial complexes on the outskirts of the city. These were in the process of completing development approvals and showed every sign of going ahead.