for me. ‘Yes.’
‘But surely you could . . .?’
‘Pick anyone up?’ she finished again. ‘Probably. But I like paying for it. Puts the shoe on the other foot, if you know what I mean, and then I don’t need to worry about all the other bullshit.’
I could certainly see the appeal. At that moment, or indeed at almost any other moment, I would have killed for a guilt-free, complication-free, painless fuck.
‘Do you have any plans tonight?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Good. I’m taking you out.’
I protested that I wasn’t in the mood and didn’t have any suitable clothes to wear or any money. Besides which, I hate nightclubs, full of young girls batting their fake lashes for a free drink and seedy men trying to cop a feel.
‘It’ll take your mind off it. I’m paying. I have an outfit for you. And this place is different. You’ll love it.’
A few hours later, I was standing aboard a large boat moored on the Thames that doubled as a fetish-themed nightclub once a month over the autumn.
‘What exactly does that mean, “fetish”?’ I asked Charlotte nervously.
‘Oh, nothing really,’ she said. ‘The people just wear fewer clothes, but like they mean it. And they’re friendlier.’
She grinned and told me to relax in a manner that suggested I do exactly the opposite.
I was now dressed in a pale-blue boned corset, frilly knickers and stockings with a blue seam running down the back of my legs from thigh to ankle to meet a pair of silver heels. Charlotte had teased my hair into a thick mass of curls, doubling the already large volume of my red locks, and had then balanced a top hat on my crown at a jaunty angle. She had lined my eyelids carefully with liquid eyeliner, thick and dark, painted my lips a vivid, glossy red and stuck a little silver glitter to my cheeks with Vaseline. The corset was a couple of inches too big and had to be cinched all the way in to tighten round my waist, and the shoes were a touch small, making it difficult to walk, but the effect overall, I hoped, was pleasing.
‘Wow,’ said Charlotte, looking me up and down once she’d finished decking me out in all her finery. ‘You look hot.’
I moved awkwardly over to her mirror. Damn, my feet were going to hurt by the end of the night. The shoes were pinching already.
I was pleased to see that I couldn’t disagree with Charlotte’s description, though I wouldn’t say so aloud, obeying the presumed rules of behaviour and putting on a show of modesty. The girl in the mirror didn’t really look like me. More like a rebellious older sister in a burlesque costume. The corset, though loose-fitting, forced me to stand straighter, and though I was inwardly nervous about leaving the apartment like this, in my new skin, I guessed I would look confident, my shoulders back and throat bared, like a dancer.
Charlotte had stripped off completely in front of me and rubbed her body with lube, before asking for my help to shimmy into a tiny bright-yellow rubber dress with two red lightning bolts running up either side of her waist. The dress was cut low at the front, so that nearly all of her plump breasts and a tantalising hint of her nipples were visible, pressed tightly against the scooped neck. The lube was cinnamon-flavoured, and for a moment I had been tempted to give her a lick. I noticed that she didn’t wear any knickers, although the dress barely covered her arse.
Charlotte was brazen, that was for sure, but I admired her confidence and, after a day spent in her company, was beginning to get used to it. She was one of the few people I knew who did exactly what she liked without giving a damn what anyone else thought.
In my too-small five-inch heels and Charlotte in her enormous red platforms, we’d had to cling on to each other’s arms, giggling, as we tentatively scooted down the steep metal ramp and onto the boat.
‘Don’t worry,’ Charlotte said, ‘you’ll be on your back
‘But surely you could . . .?’
‘Pick anyone up?’ she finished again. ‘Probably. But I like paying for it. Puts the shoe on the other foot, if you know what I mean, and then I don’t need to worry about all the other bullshit.’
I could certainly see the appeal. At that moment, or indeed at almost any other moment, I would have killed for a guilt-free, complication-free, painless fuck.
‘Do you have any plans tonight?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Good. I’m taking you out.’
I protested that I wasn’t in the mood and didn’t have any suitable clothes to wear or any money. Besides which, I hate nightclubs, full of young girls batting their fake lashes for a free drink and seedy men trying to cop a feel.
‘It’ll take your mind off it. I’m paying. I have an outfit for you. And this place is different. You’ll love it.’
A few hours later, I was standing aboard a large boat moored on the Thames that doubled as a fetish-themed nightclub once a month over the autumn.
‘What exactly does that mean, “fetish”?’ I asked Charlotte nervously.
‘Oh, nothing really,’ she said. ‘The people just wear fewer clothes, but like they mean it. And they’re friendlier.’
She grinned and told me to relax in a manner that suggested I do exactly the opposite.
I was now dressed in a pale-blue boned corset, frilly knickers and stockings with a blue seam running down the back of my legs from thigh to ankle to meet a pair of silver heels. Charlotte had teased my hair into a thick mass of curls, doubling the already large volume of my red locks, and had then balanced a top hat on my crown at a jaunty angle. She had lined my eyelids carefully with liquid eyeliner, thick and dark, painted my lips a vivid, glossy red and stuck a little silver glitter to my cheeks with Vaseline. The corset was a couple of inches too big and had to be cinched all the way in to tighten round my waist, and the shoes were a touch small, making it difficult to walk, but the effect overall, I hoped, was pleasing.
‘Wow,’ said Charlotte, looking me up and down once she’d finished decking me out in all her finery. ‘You look hot.’
I moved awkwardly over to her mirror. Damn, my feet were going to hurt by the end of the night. The shoes were pinching already.
I was pleased to see that I couldn’t disagree with Charlotte’s description, though I wouldn’t say so aloud, obeying the presumed rules of behaviour and putting on a show of modesty. The girl in the mirror didn’t really look like me. More like a rebellious older sister in a burlesque costume. The corset, though loose-fitting, forced me to stand straighter, and though I was inwardly nervous about leaving the apartment like this, in my new skin, I guessed I would look confident, my shoulders back and throat bared, like a dancer.
Charlotte had stripped off completely in front of me and rubbed her body with lube, before asking for my help to shimmy into a tiny bright-yellow rubber dress with two red lightning bolts running up either side of her waist. The dress was cut low at the front, so that nearly all of her plump breasts and a tantalising hint of her nipples were visible, pressed tightly against the scooped neck. The lube was cinnamon-flavoured, and for a moment I had been tempted to give her a lick. I noticed that she didn’t wear any knickers, although the dress barely covered her arse.
Charlotte was brazen, that was for sure, but I admired her confidence and, after a day spent in her company, was beginning to get used to it. She was one of the few people I knew who did exactly what she liked without giving a damn what anyone else thought.
In my too-small five-inch heels and Charlotte in her enormous red platforms, we’d had to cling on to each other’s arms, giggling, as we tentatively scooted down the steep metal ramp and onto the boat.
‘Don’t worry,’ Charlotte said, ‘you’ll be on your back
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