By now, I’d been working at “The Lingerie Emporium” for almost six months and was beginning to wonder if I’d still be kept on when that time was up. I rather hoped I would be. I’d got used to being a part of the team.
One morning, Mrs Ferguson called me in to her office and asked me to drive her to Sheffield so that she and I could look over some samples of lingerie a would-be supplier wanted to sell to her.
“Edna will need to be in the store, Anita can handle the post and I’d welcome your opinion on the quality of the finish and the stitching. Besides, I don’t like driving in Sheffield; I’d rather someone else did. You don’t mind do you?”
The factory wasn’t actually in Sheffield but on a small industrial estate some 5 miles outside.
The manager, a rather officious, moustachioed chap, greeted Joyce warmly but, when being introduced to me gave me a rather snivelling look.
“He’s an expert in ladies underwear is he?” he asked Mrs Ferguson, perhaps trying to be humorous but sounding dismissive: he looked at me as like I was a piece of dirt. Joyce ignored him or perhaps pretended not to hear.
As he showed us around the sewing-room floor, I noticed that, in the main, the machinists were making shirts and blouses: I took a finished shirt off a rack and had a good look at the stitching. The manager shot me a look of disapproval and snatched the shirt out of my hand and placed it back on the rack.
“It’s this way to the ladies underwear if you’d like to follow me.”
As I caught up with them I could see that the knickers were being made on basic, pedal-operated sewing-machines whereas the shirts and blouses were being made using the more advanced “serger” type, multi-spooled machines. This didn’t necessarily mean the knickers would be made to a lower standard, but they would be more prone to human error, the process being less automated than items made on a serger.
The manager handed Mrs Ferguson a pair of white briefs and she, after a quick glimpse, handed them on to me to inspect.
“And the trade price for these?” Mrs Ferguson asked.
The manager started reeling off some figures and going on about discounts and bulk orders. Mrs Ferguson simply nodded, taking in all he was saying but showing no sign of approval or otherwise.
“What do you think Robert?” she asked. The manager looked at me examining the gusset and feeling the edges and seemed disquieted by my inspection.
“Well Mrs Ferguson, the fabric looks as though it’s merely the off-cuts from the stuff left over from the blouse making and, look here…” I placed the briefs nearer to her and stretched the cloth hither-and-thither.
“See, the stitching is coming away. We’d have these returned as shoddy by our customers.”
The manager huffed and was about to try and mount a defence; make out a man of my age couldn’t (and shouldn’t perhaps) know anything about ladies’ briefs but I spoke again before he could muster his argument.
“Look here,” I now showed him the garment, “you’re using thread that’s too thin. You could get away with using it on shirt-buttons, but not on a gusset that gets continuous stretching, you need thicker cotton. Also, you should be using a closer stitch. I couldn’t possibly recommend we bought these. It looks like you’re manufacturing them on the cheap, simply to use up the fabric from your shirts and blouses”
The smile on Mrs Ferguson’s face as we drove back from the factory was plain to see. I knew she was one smart cookie for all her gentle, lady-like demeanour. I’d heard her dealing with people on the ‘phone: she always seemed to get her way. I doubt she’d have bought anything from that manufacturer even if I’d not accompanied her.
“I guessed they’d try and pass on low-grade stuff Robert, but I was keen to see just how well you were able to judge the quality; you didn’t let me down.”
“My grandma – and Mr. Holroyd- taught me well,” I allowed myself to brag.
“And do you know what particularly pleased me? You said “we” and “our” when referring to ‘The Lingerie Emporium’. You seem to have fitted in nicely Robert; you’ve done well these 6 months.”
The next day, she handed me a formal contract of employment which I signed. As I leant over the desk to put pen to paper, I could feel the delicious tug of the slim gusset of the pink panties I was wearing rubbing into my bottom as though to emphasise how at home I felt working there.
“I guess that properly makes you one of the girls now,” Joyce – Mrs Ferguson – joked.
How true that was!
It had been over 3 weeks since Anita had forced me into wearing panties to work and, true to her word, she’d not mentioned it to anyone else. I knew at some stage she would want to use her knowledge of my fetish to further embarrass me but not knowing what or when kind of added to my already heightened sense of both humiliation and excitement. I was on tenterhooks whenever she approached me when we were alone together.
It was early one Wednesday morning when she made her move – giving me the rest of the day to luxuriate over her half-revealed scheme.
“Here, Robert, take this. I bought it especially for you.”
I took the little box off her and placed it in my jacket pocket. It was “Immac” hair remover.
“I want you to use it to remove all the hair from your legs; you must buy more if that’s not enough. A week next Saturday, Mum’s going away at the weekend ’til the Monday. I want you to come to our house with your legs totally hairless – and your forearms too – got that? Totally smooth.”
“But why: what for?”
“You’ll find out. Just do as I say my little Roberta okay?”
I had to agree and nodded to show I understood and would obey.
“Oh, make sure you remove your pubic-hairs too. I don’t want to see the Amazon forest down there. Got that? You’ll love the treat I’ve got in store for you.”
I enjoyed the anticipation that’s for sure. You didn’t need to be Einstein to realise that having smooth legs was a prelude to being made to wear stockings. Shaving my pubic-hair clearly meant that she’d be making me wear more lingerie. Perhaps she might want us to have sex too. I’d not had sex since Angie finished with me and I was aching to show Anita just what a good lover I was, whether in stockings and knickers or in the nude.
Most evenings since starting at “The Lingerie Emporium”, I would go out for a 6 or 7 mile run trying to lose the extra weight I’d put on during my lazy year on the dole. I also had a heavy punch-bag hanging in the otherwise empty garage of my flat and I’d started training on this again. I was glad I had as I knew that when Anita saw me in the nude (or at least in my panties), she’d be impressed by my hard-trained, fit torso.
The great thing about jogging on one’s own is that it gives you a chance to mull over events; to analyse your life and where you’re at. So it was that, that evening after Anita gave me the “Immac”, I pondered events and just what was happening to me that I was now a pantie-wearing ladies’ underwear shop-worker who was taking orders from a younger woman.
By the time I’d covered about 4 miles of the endless uphill and downhill roads of the West Riding Pennine slopes, I’d reached a sort-of conclusion. I had no brothers or sisters, uncles or aunts and, since my grandparents died, no family whatsoever. So there was no one close to me who could reprove me or be ashamed by my cross-dressing, so why not enjoy the thrill the inner-me got from it? Furthermore, the friends I’d made at school and at Holroyd’s I hardly ever saw nowadays: I guess my new job caused me to isolate: to be a bit of a recluse, which in a way made my preparedness to accept my feminine side easier to do. I didn’t have to play the macho-man: I wasn’t hurting anyone.
If others wanted to only indulge in straight, text-book sex – then let them, but I didn’t have to follow suit. Besides, they probably all got-off to the sexual exploits of others depicted in ‘The News of the World’ and the like. Who were they to judge me for stepping out of the ‘vanilla’ spectrum?
I turned for home, satisfied that I should embrace my submissive, feminine side and not worry what anyone thought. Besides, why should anyone else bar Anita know of my fetish? There was though, one little doubt that was surfacing at the back of my mind; one little worm that was starting to stir and, no matter how I tried to suppress it, would still return when I thought deeply about my “submissive” personality. Would I get turned-on by total humiliation – that is, being made to dress as a sexy female and forced to suck a cock and take anal penetration?
A thought that once would have horrified me had now invaded my private imaginings. I tried to keep it hidden; locked in the back of my mind, but it kept seeping out. Was my new-found readiness to embrace the inner, feminine, submissive me really up for this? Was this part of my personality that was always present and would have surfaced eventually or had my close, regular contact with ladies’ undergarments fostered it?
I duly used the hair-remover to make my limbs as smooth as silk (they weren’t that hairy to begin with). Likewise, I shaved off all my pubic hair and removed as much as I could from my testicles. The satin panties I wore the next day felt extra sensuous. My sense of anticipation at what Anita had planned was at fever-pitch.
Edna and Anita lived in a large, four-bedroom detached house in a smart suburb; Edna had left the evening before. I’d been working on the Saturday morning of my date at Anita’s house, so I got a taxi from work to the house, my dick wriggling about in eager torment.
Anita answered the door and indicated for me to follow her by curling her index finger and waving me in.
She was wearing knee-high black leather boots, black stockings and a short one-piece black dress that succeeded in covering her pert bottom but not much else. My poor little pantie-clad dick was in turmoil.
“Come in Roberta. I hope you’ve shaved as requested. I’ve got a few treats lined up for you, but first, you’ve got to do as ordered. Understand?”
I nodded: my mouth too dry to even say “yes” let alone to disagree.
She led me in to the lounge where, spread out on a table, were a number of books with pens, pencils, notepads and suchlike.
“Now Roberta, I’ve been rather lazy recently and haven’t been keeping up with my work for University. Neither have I done my share of the housework which I’ve promised mum I’d do this weekend. So, while I crack on with this essay that I must finish, you can do the house work chores. How’s that for being an emancipated man?”
I first had to mow the large lawn and, on having done that to Anita’s satisfaction, was sent upstairs to have a shower. On completion, she called me to come downstairs just in my panties so that she could inspect my legs, arms and pubic area for hairs.
Satisfied, she then told me to go upstairs into the largest bedroom where she’d laid out the clothes I was to wear for performing my duties.
I re-appeared ten minutes later clad in black-seamed stockings and a pair of (I was informed) Edna’s white, lacy panties and matching suspender-belt together with a white long-line bra and black shiny high-heeled shoes which I just about managed to get into, having to fasten the straps up on the very end holes. My dick was having trouble keeping itself within the confines of the elastic on Edna’s panties: I was in heaven.
“Come over here and let me inspect you,” Anita ordered in a tone that brooked no dissent – not that I was going to.
“Not bad. Now, try these on and see if they fit.”
It was a white blouse and her old high-school gymslip. I struggled to put them on, not because they were too small but because I wasn’t used to doing the blouse buttons up on the opposite side. Anita gave me a hand.
“Make sure you can dress yourself unaided tomorrow or I’ll give you a good spanking,” she admonished me as she did all but the last buttons up on the blouse.
“Now, follow me and I’ll give you the rest of your chores.”
I had to empty the clothes out of the tumble drier and hang them out to dry. Put the dirty clothes in the washing machine for a wash and hand-wash her and Edna’s knickers and suchlike as per the instructions on the garments. Then I was to make her some lunch for her and finally, vacuum-clean and dust the bedrooms and clean the bathrooms and shower. If all was done to her satisfaction, I’d get a”special” reward.
Washing her and her mum’s smalls was no real problem for me; after all, I’d followed the hand-washing instructions for my own panties. I made sure I did a thorough vacuuming and cleaning as ordered and took great care in preparing Anita’s sandwiches (I even cut the crusts off).
Even now, after all these years, I still get a thrill remembering how gloriously exquisite it felt having to stretch up to peg out the panties on the washing line, knowing the hem of my gymslip had risen above my stocking tops, feeling the stretch of my suspenders and the gentle breeze about my panties. Anita didn’t say whether her next door neighbours were in, so the danger of me being seen by a stranger like this added to the frisson of embarrassment.
Anita ordered me to follow her up to her bedroom. This was it I reckoned – she’s going to let me make love to her.
She took of her teeny, lacy thong and gave it to me. I looked at her in confusion and then she gave me my order.
“Well done Roberta. You’ll make someone a lovely wife. Now, for your reward, you may lift your hem up, pull mum’s panties down and jerk off into my thong okay. Do it now.”
I was about to complain that I deserved more than this but it was clear from her look that it would do no good. I did as told as she watched; informing me I must not try and hide my wanking from her gaze.
I came in bucket loads and this delighted her.
“See. I told you you’d have a great time and you clearly have. Now, take them home with you – you can keep them as a memento if you want. Get here for 7:00 tomorrow as I’ll need to get you ready for going out in public.”
I could hardly sleep that night, wondering what treats Anita had planned for me.