Please note these pages were scanned and converted using OCR and some words and phrases may be inaccuarte. However also note that Timmy also indluges in creative useage of words!
Mnay thanks to DennyB for supplying me this missing piece of the jigsaw.
Timothy Reisling Betticut
The awful dress should have come with a warning, ‘Wear at your own risk’. Its halter bared me down to a traffic stopping flare in the front over a slim hobble skirt dropping just below my knees. In the back the thing came to just above my corset. On my legs, two black seamed stockings dropped to four inch ankle strapped pumps, and of course I wore tight, three quarter length gloves. But here’s the rub, so to speak. The entire outfit, gloves, dress, shoes was all the thinnest, most supple black leather! And four little locks (one each at my neck, waist and wrists) held the whole thing on until somebody used the key.
Who could believe I had to do it? That Cathy’d make me do it? Right, I signed the contract. Right it demanded I supply 48 hours of promotional time for each 12 months. Yes, it had been two years and she’d never requested help before. And of course I got $300 a day plus expenses for the promotion. I don’t resent promoting my books, in fact, I welcome the opportunity. But this condition is weird. Sick! Candi Liptz is my pen name. Yea, I signed it to the contract. But that’s because the Gothic Novel market is female and they expect their books to be written by women. Who’d buy a bodice buster from Timothy Reisling Betticut? How could I know that I’d have to make good on the promotional commitments – as Candi Liptz?
Both my agent and my lawyer said the thing’s iron clad. Cathy, as publisher of my series has every right to demand the appearance of Candi Liptz. She even has the right to specify the way I dress and act. Well, I knew that. Frankly, I thought if she ever did decide to use my promotional time, I’d get at least one new suit. God was I wrong. I’ve got an enormous new wardrobe, or at least Candi does.
When the letter came, it seemed a joke. “Dear Candi,” it said. “Since we have found such success with your line of erotic gothics, we’ve decided upon a special promotion this year at SEXPO/90 in San Francisco.” Can you believe something called SEXPO/90? Seems it’s, a West Coast convention of adult product manufactures. You know, everything from mega X rated videos to toys shaped like body parts normally kept where the sun don’t shine.
My novels are more vivid than the run of the genre. Their heroines really suffer before they’re finally declothed, defiled and sometimes defenestrated by someone big, dark and named Biff, Rex or Lance. Women love the things. They’ve been the cross-over hit of the last two years. All six were bigger than Liz Taylor in fat drag.
The girls in my stories go from punching bags to bondage bags, all in the finest fashion of whatever historical period strikes my fancy. A reviewer for Romper Girl Magazine called my books, “The Cultured Perils.” Neat! Each story involves a busty soubrette rebounding from a whimpy relationship when she meets tall-hunk-and-dour Rampo Lancaster (or some such wasp-cretin combination), falls helplessly in lust and spends eight to ten chapters trying to get over or under
him. Meantime he treats her like garden manure, until he’s finally forced to rescue her from some fantasy fate worse than death (normally involving tons of crinolines, gasp-making corsetry and miles of rope). The climax follows with everyone climaxing and all involved become ALL INVOLVED. Of course this rarely rumples her hair, clothes or lip gloss.
Those are the three “C’s”; Coif, Clothes and Cosmetics. It’s a hit when whole paragraph’s pass without rising above the “C’s” Level. I’m a single guy with a healthy love of female flesh. But more than one girl dumped me after sensing my research interest in going through her drawers equaled my passion to get into them. Most guys have to hide their cache of ‘Hustler’ or ‘Playboy’. Me, I got to keep dates away from my stash of ‘Cosmo’, ‘Glamour’ and ‘Modern Makeup’. A bummer.
Still, the pay’s great, six blockbusters in two years and Cathy’s a generous publisher. Candi’s books are making me wealthy, so this letter’s all the worse. Cathy wants her star writer to attend SEXPO/90, give a morning lecture, appear in a number of ‘scenes’ in the booth for autographing during the entire day and attend a publisher’s party after the show. According to the best legal advice I can get, Cathy can command Candi Liptz, the author, to appear. And should the fans see through my disguise, there’s a lot to lose.
So why, you ask, don’t we just hire someone to impersonate Candi Liptz? A nubile blond thing who will fill a pair of pumps a lot better than me? That’s a cosmic question. It seems that Cathy just wants the fun of having me do it. Cathy it appears is one doll who still likes to play with them. Plus she gets a thrill out of quivering on the edge. And this will definately be the edge. Perhaps it’s closer to say, she just likes to skirt an issue! For this kind of money, I might grumble, but I’m willing to be the issue she skirts.
I arrived in at 7pm, on Thursday for the Saturday show. And got a surprise at the airport. While we’d spoken before, I live in a little Pennsylvanian town – while Cathy’s a busy West Coast publisher. Somehow, I’d expected someone a little shorter, maybe even dumpier. As she requested, I’d sent some careful measurements ahead, so my thin 5’4″ frame couldn’t have been unexpected. But I know that my premature baldness and soft features probably had the same effect upon her as most girls, namely, none at all.
“Tim? Timothy Betticut?” A lilting, smoky voice inquired as I responded to the call to the limousine area.
“Cathy?” The smiling brunete was slim, at least two inches taller than me and simply elegant. She’d pulled her gleaming hair back tightly and large black squares set in gilded frames dangled from either ear. Her two piece dress seemed pure linen and a big fuchsia floral print lit up the black and white damask top with half length sleeves and a shallow V cut front. Its nipped waist fastened in double breasted buttons over a straight black skirt stopping at least an inch above her knee. Tall black vinyl pumps, showed off nice beige stockinged legs and black gloves to created an expensive look. With just the right touch of makeup, this was every curvy inch the successful female executive. She waited patiently while I finished my too long once-over.
“Shall I twirl for you Tim?” she asked with a little smile that seemed to appreciate my attention. Then she actually half pirouetted to giggle back at me over one shoulder, her hand dropping to perch upon an out thrust hip. She ‘was playing with my reflexive sexism and loving the blush that started somewhere high up on my head and dropped down like an express elevator.
“Like it?” She held the pose a few megaseconds. Speechless, I watched my employer poke her buns against the back of that tight black casing. “Good, I’m flattered,” she giggled another nifty little melody, took my arm and guided me toward the waiting limo. Inside, underway and into Corinth’s finest leather, I realized…. MY STUFF! My bag was still back at the airport.
Two days later, Saturday morning, early. Three of us ore riding in that limo once again, bound for the Civic Center and SEXPO/90. I never did get my suitcase. Seems Cathy shipped it right back along with a letter to Nancy, back home. Since Nancy’s been my agent for six years, she knew all about this mess I’d gotten into, and I guess she’s still giggling. I’ll get her for this. On the other hand, she’s also an attractive brunete herself, and I’ve wanted to hit on her for some time – hope this situation doesn’t spoil any possibility.
And what a situation. Cathy had her artists and makeup people happily at work for some time before I arrived. The past forty eight hours were rigorous rehearsals for my big impersonation. And I got to meet my principle coach, a guy named Clinton Crayle. Nice looking, Sandy haired fella, about my height and weight with a terrific smile and an easy personality. Seems he’s also among Cathy’s stable of writers and was going to promote some of his stuff at SEXP090. More importantly he was going to work on the moo8s’ of some of my settings (whatever that meant) and generally help me along.
Cathy also had an army of other coaches including; voice people, dance people and a hair and wig stylist. My sore calves feel like they’ve been strutting around in stilt heels for months. But we’ll find out how it’s all going to come off pretty soon.
Of course I tried to reason with Cathy. “Look don’t try to press empathy out of me,” she told me prettily that second day while I moaned my way through an intensive petticoat management course. “You’ve got thousands of fans, they want to see pretty Candi Liptz, and that’s it. Besides, you look terrific.”
Unfortunately, she was right. Her experts had made me into a frilly blond coquette. And my basic male flaws worked in favor of the masquerade. I was skinny, but when girdled, I got hour glassed. I was short, but heeled, I got leggy .and tiny. Underneath everything her dresser had attached two curious things that
I’d never heard of. Glued to my flat chest was an apparatus called “Wunda Breasts” that certainly were. Two mounds of bouncing, jiggling mass hung there, each ending in ripe, pert red nipples.
Down below, I got fitted into something called a “Limit Teater”. This thing somehow pulled my decent sized male apparatus in tight and comfortably. And it left a dummy hole, an imitation pussy that really accepted whatever might get
poked its way. Uncanny! Where does this kind of stuff come from? Corseted and panned (with a touch of hip and fanny padding) I’ve got the body a 26 year old bimbo would cry for. No matter what they hung on me, it hung good]
So this morning we’re off for the fair and Cathy’s giving me the final itinerary, “Eight O’clock, the lecture on The Romantic Novel,” she droned on. “You just stick to answering questions, and working with Clinton, you’ll be fine. Then at nine, we carry you to the booth for the first scene. Two O’clock we start the second, seven the third. We’re out by 9 and off to the party.”
“Party?” My head jacked around, blond curls spitting in all directions. “What party? You promised me I’d be outta here after this SEXP0/90 thing.”
The car took a small pothole, jiggling me around in my skirting, but I held her eye. “Oh, it’s just a small party at the comedy club for some of our better dealers. Derk Kerl will be there and I promised him. Come on Candi;’ she wiped a stray blond curl out of my eye with one of her long gloved fingernails. “Now we’ve gone to all this trouble. Don’t worry, you’ll be back in Pennsylvania by tomorrow.”
My eyes narrowed. In spite of all the indignities of the past two days, everything happened so quickly and there were so many supportive people in and out that I hadn’t had much time to react. But ever since I was roused this morning at five, the experiences were building up, So now, as I sat there under yards of casually cascading blond curls, peering through long false eyelashes, talking through sticky lips and rustling with every move, it was beginning to hit home. Very soon I was going to have to convincingly pass as a seductive girl for a lot of critical and probably horny porno fans. I was going to start the day lecturing them, and then signing their autographs in a series. of costumes I’d never even seen.
“Look Cathy. I had to agree on 56 hours. Well your time’s running out….”
“If you want to be strict about it Candi Honey, I’ve got you till Sunday at Sever.. But don’t worry, you’ll be on your way long before that. Now come on,” Cathy did that nifty giggle again. “You look so precious, don’t worry your pretty little head with all this stuff. You just have fun today.”
Easy for her to say. She was used to looking and feeling like a terrific woman. Once again, she’d found that fine line between sex appeal and professionalism in an extra pretty short sleeved two piece outfit. It’s vividly tinted blossoms bloomed on blue-violet cotton damask. It had a jewel necked top with front buttons and a yoked and pleated short skirt that was just slightly full. Today she wore 3″ black sling backed heels, another set of black gloves and a big brimmed black hat. Her makeup was simple and except for black button earrings, she wore no jewelery.
Me? Well, I was a Candy Striper. Right, kind of a joke as I mounted the stage for the morning lecture. “It’s your signature costume,” Cathy laughed as they zipped it on. There were a few extra crinolines under the extra full skirt, and it was a jumper over a frilly white blouse that came down to my wrists. With the high tap pumps I was all rustle and click as I swished to the microphone to address the three hundred people who’d come to hear me talk about “Creating A String of Perils”. Great topic eh? Cathy’s marketing department came up with it of course. Cathy and Clinton both mounted the podium with me, along with a guy who looked like an escapee from the Chippendales. The tall .handsome hunk toted a large black suitcase.
I was early, but someone had turned on the fans in the big room and they gently rustled my skirts and the floppy white apron that hung down my front. My skirt was full but fashionably short showing yards of pink stockinged leg.
“How does it feel to be dressed in, that costume in front of all these people?” The girl who asked the question looked too young to even get into a place like this, but apparently she’d hit on an area that appealed to a lot of the audience, many were poised to take notes.
“Well, uh. This costume’s an attention getter, and that’s the first rule of creating an effective heroine for a romance story. She’s got to be an attention getter.”
“But you’re not really addressing the question Dear,” Cathy insisted from behind me. “Why don’t you use your mastery of words and tell us exactly what you’ve got on there. Why you chose it. How, it feels and what you intended it to do. After all, that’s why women dress isn’t it? To have an effect?”
“Uh, what I’m wearing?”
“From inside out. Top to bottom. Go ahead Dear. It’ll be interesting to heal it from a pro.”
Expectant applause rippled through the room. These people wanted me to verbally strip down for them, or strip up as the case might be.
“Well, I’m tightly corseted and, er, it’s black, satin, and…
“Maybe it’d be a little more interesting,” Cathy interupted, “if you pointer out and outlined exactly what you’re talking about for the men in the audience who might not have our, er, familiarity with the equipment?”
A lot of the women in the audience tittered, but clearly my predicament was causing some excitement.
“Well, ummmm. My corset starts here,” I wrapped my index fingers around my upper hips. “And it stops up here.” I brought my fingers up to just above my busts. And of course there are two tight straps that create cleavage that you wouldn’t believe.” Again I gestured. “Next I’ve got long stockings,” I pulled up m) skirt a little to show off shiny pink hose. “Then I— I’ve black bikini panties.”
“Excuse me Ms. Liptz,” the young questioner interupted. “You’ve got your panties on over your garters?”
“Well, I… it’s easier when you have to use the facilities.” Everyone laughed.
“Then I’m wearing a slip with lots of tiers of dazzling white crinolines. See? And there are these high red heels, the white blouse and well this full red and white striped uniform that zippers,” I turned around “up the back. That’s it.”
“And how does it all feel Dear?” Cathy insisted.
“Very frilly and pretty and innocent,” I brightened. “Don’t I look innocent?
Again, there were some laughs and scattered applause. The audience was terrific.
“But what’s your point, Ms. Uptz? What does that outfit have to do with your books?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is the heroine of book five, Candy in the Castle where the little hospital candy striper meets the dashing new surgeon who mistreats her right up, until the last scenes. Doesn’t anyone remember Mona Witbrude?”
Again applause, this time more enthusiastic.
“Isn’t that the novel where Mona gets mixed up with the lesbian sorority who kidnap her and belt her up into all sorts of leather devices?” The question came from a grandmotherly type in the back of the room, but the majority begs to nod their heads and clap.
“Exactly, everyone,” again Cathy was interupting. “And that brings us to ou big surprise. If Candi will just ask for the leather apparatus piece by piece, welv( gotit all here, and you can watch just how uncomfortable it becomes to be zipped and belted into all of that stuff. in fact, Candi can describe it to you as it actually happens to her.” She nodded at Clinton who opened Mr. Chippendale’s big suitcase.
“WHAT? You want me to Uh, I’ve never Gulp!” Clinton came out
onto the stage with the case. Inside was a mound of leather and metal paraphernalia that I’d used in the book. But I’d created that stuff out of my imagination. My God! Cathy had it all made. Made for me!
“Well Candi dear? Shall we start?”
“Start?” 1 was dazed. “Yea, I can do that. Let’s, let’s My voice was
petering off. “….start.”
“Uh,” I was verjhesitanT. “First, maybe the spreader bar?” And in instants, Clinton had cuffed and locked my ankles about 32″ apart forcing me to grasp the mike for support. “Yoa, interesting. With my legs apart like this, I feel fantastically vulnerable, maybe a little shameless. Thank goodness for the full skirt. Imagine if it were tight?”
“And next Dear?” Cathy grinned at me.
“Well, let’s try the, uh…. Let’s try the collar.” Meaning seven inches of black thick leather that held my chin high. “Ohhh. 1 can’t bend my neck down nor
even move it from side to side. I’ve got to turn my whole body now to see either way.” Sensing her impatience I didn’t wait for Cathy’s next suggestion.
“Could I have the single glove next Clinton?” Ohhh it was tight. Both hands behind, stuffed into the shiny leather thing that zipped me up and forced my elbows to actually touch. “Wow! This thing’s so snug, and the way it attaches to my collar, I’ll never shrug out of it. But worst of all, golly! Look how it makes these breasts jut. This is shameful.” The crowd giggled at my whinings.
“And how about this. gag dear?” Cathy approached me. with a child’s red rubber ball on some sort of belt.
“Well, that’s not really necessary Cathy. We can show it to every one, but.., Now wait Cathy. Don’t. I said DUH EW AH. DUHHHHHHH!”
For the next ten minutes I twirled and curtsied, shook and jiggled at the audience’s direction. I also tried to answer yes or no questions about my books, my sex fife, even the modern political scene, all while packaged as a sexy blond candy striper, amply petticoated, annoyingly bound and strictly gagged. You can’t imagine how awful it was. But things got worse when Cathy directed the smiling Chipendale Hunk to swing me over his shoulder and humiliatingly bundle me -wriggling and squirming – down to the company booth on the main floor of SEXPO/90.
So much going on. At the main gates, ticket buyers were having their hands stamped with invisible ink so they could come and go. But the stompers were nervous looking women who were rubbing their tee shirt clad bust first onto stamp pads then down onto the waiting hands. The customers looked happy, the girls looked humiliated. What an awful job. How sore would their tender breasts be by the end of the day?
So many exhibits, maybe hundreds. Too much to grasp. I’m trundled through like a bag of petticoated grain over this shoulder. Of course I kick, scream and wriggle, but that just gets the attention Cathy hoped for. Hey, I recognize some of the outfits.
Executive Importers have- a display of live ladies who might not be – ladies that is. And Lee’s has some models showing off frilly new clothes. When we pass the Reflector booth it lodks like Mistress Toni’s there herself wearing some obviously versatile rubber stuff. John Harm leads no less than six of his stars in a sort of bondage parade, while Home of Milano shows a knockout video with matching live action going on right beside the screen. Could that be Barb Bare herself sitting next to Abbot illustrating everything? As you’d expect, there’s a mountain of leather mounded over the Centaur’s tables.
Our booth. Big. Crimson carpets, lots of metal and golden woods. Tasteful. Racks of little yellow magazines and my four color line of slick gothics fill the polished brass racks. On one side a changing room, framed blowups of kinky covers hang everywhere and to the other side a closet holding apparatus for various tableaus. But, if the competition for attention looked rough on the way in, suddenly it’s worse. Right across from us, the world famous Bill and Debbie have a major display of magazines, newspapers, books, videos and they’re setting up for live shows. Great garter belts! How do you compete with that? How?
“Lie here like this?” I ask, draping myself backward along the bed of the table.
“Right,” Clinton responds, pulling me upward along the black plastic lined padding until my head falls just over the top
“Not too tight, that leather cuff could chafe my ankle. There that’s better.” As he spread my legs and cuffed-them in place, I smoothed down the skirt of my new costume. This time I’m the heroine out of Mistress To Louis my French Revolution ripoff. It’s a nice gown. Clinging regency silk, in a gentle peach with an empire bodice, lots of cleavage, three quarter length skirt, white hose, court heeled slippers and of course my hair’s swept back and up by rows of pearls twined into the honey blond wig. It’s gotta be, to expose my neck to the guillotine! Yea, right. Clinton’s carefully strapping my to the narrow bed of this thing at the ankles, neck and wrists.
“But shouldn’t I be face down, Clint?” He was fastening the last of my wrist cuffs and turned his attention to the well known frame of the knife that he was rolling around my head
“if you want to be picky, sure. But, I think you’ll find this position’s a lot more interesting. Whew, your boobs, sure fall nicely to either side.
“You stinker, you know with my neck belted down this way, I can’t tell. Hey! Don’t get freshl”
“Just arranging them for maximum effect Candi. There. Now let’s wheel this in and lock it at the head of your bed. Fine.” My was poked through the hole with the entire thick dark wooden frame around it, kind of a stock effect. But there’s one whimsical touch. Cathy’s had me bound on my backl
And it suddenly dawned on me. I’m looking up at the blade with nothing to support my head but the tip of the basket lying under me. Damned uncomfortable. I hope this thing’s not operational, yuchl It sure looks authentic. My entire makeup’s been darkened and romanticized this time. Creamy green eyeshadow, thick. crimson lips, dark blusher and my plucked brows are a bit more arched, making for a quizical look
“Why you’re an inviation dear.” It was Cathy. “Here honey, in we go….”
“Umph!” A felt pen in my mouth? What’s. the pen for? Ah-hah! To autograph whatever’s held before my lips.
“Phhhtl” I spit the thing out. “No way Cathy. Why…. Ah hahl Hah Hah. No! Come on! STOP! Hah – hah – Heeeeeeeeee!” She was tickling the hell out of me. God it was awful. “Ewwmphl” The pen was back
I don’t dare drop the thing again. The first time I did, Cathy showed everyone how incredibly ticklish I am. Jeez it was awful. Bound and helpless with nothing but this thin material to protect me from her jabbing fingers.
“Candi, meet Ernie,” Clinton was standing there with a dull looking man. What‘s this guy want? “Wuh ah you cooing? Ehl Unhn coo ah. UHHHHHHNI” The bastard’s lowering his crotch into my face. Why isn’t Cathy stopping him. Shit. He wants me to autograph his chinos! Okay, just stop it you little asshole! Oh if only I could talk.
The guys have fallen in love with the crotch signature. I must have scribbled on two dozen. Something about a bound blond rubbing a felt point against their crotch seems to excite them. If I wasn’t the bound blond, I’d be right in line. Hell, this is terrible. Tied, madeup, frilly and HEYI Come gn Cathy. That little shmuck’s taking advantage. “AHY! STAR HIH! STAHPI I wriggled and fought, finally I spit out the damned pen. “Get your hands off my tits you shithead!”
I got it for that. Tickled literally pink. She let him tickle me until I complacently took the pen from out of the guy’s mouth! Meantime you can imagine where all these squirmings have brought the hem of my silky dress. And as,the hour passed I began to wonder how women really felt in the clothes society forced them into. It was easy for me to rig ’em out as an author. But were they always so aware of their bodies? Did they have to act like a piece of meat on a luncheon buffet like this, everyone pulling at his or her favorite piece?
Two hours later and I was in scene two. Well actually I was just a part of the scene. Clinton was no longer a man. Like me, he was now, Clair, the alter ego of one of his books. Seems he has a hapless detective who’s occasionally forced into feminine plights. So now, Clair, a dazzling redhead and Candi are working together. At least I’m off my back and out of bondage. But the whole thing’s still so humiliating, And in fact, I’m begininning to realize that girls’ clothing is bondage all by itelf. How do they put up with it?
We’re backup singers for a rock group, learning the choreography for our stage appearance. For the next hours we’ll public) a rehearse and rehearse our moves in these outrageous costumes. We’ve both got hair teased out to Mars. Clair’s a redhead, I’m still blond. Otherwise we’re identical. By describing him, I can imagine exactly what I look like.
Underneath he’s corseted and pantied. Long dark stage hose hai;g strictly from his garters. Everything’s black. Cowl collared, skin tight spandex top with three quarter sleeves, the tiniest little wisp of a silky skirt, reasonably full jut out at his hips. Black stilt strap-on heels and fingerless black gloves. Jut! That’s the word. His tits jut, his buns jut, his hips jut, his hair juts! And of course everything wriggles and jiggles with every bouncing move of the routine we go over and over. We turn, prance, bump and grind while mouthing the lyrics over and over. Each swish of our hips causes the skirts to wrap and wind high up. The crowd loves us. Cathy’s made us into an erotic number beyond belief. Just like the heroine of my; Suzette And The Rocker.
By the time we stop for dinner, ohhhhh. My legs and toes hurt so badly. Every jouncing move is a torture, but there are still hours left, another tableau and then that scary party before I hit the plane back East! Can I make it?
Scene Three is the most horrible so far. “Isn’t this a terrific idea?” Cathy wondered as she worked on us. “Why you guys are always putting your distressed damsel’s into the skimpiest little nothings while the guy seems to be elegantly and fully dressed. Surprise! There are other sexy alternatives, don’t you think?”
Clinton’s a man again. A man in a Speedo bathing suit and nothing more. He’s tied into a simple straight back chair at the waist and ankles. I’m in his lap, facing the other way! That’s right, I’m straddling him, my legs out on either side and my ankles lashed to the rear legs of the chair.
My dress is a pretty soft silk pastel print on cream ja quard. It’s two pieces, with a puffed sleeved tunic, ruched and buttoned on one side. The skirt’s pleated and if I was standing it would just skim my honey stockinged knees. I’m wearing little crocheted cream gloves, two large pearl plates on either ear and a string of fashionably long pearls. My hair’s pulled back into an expensive looking bun and over it is a big floppy cream straw hat with a silken flower. My pumps are four inches of classic PVC cream.
But I’m not standing, so this elegant blond girl’s got her skirt hi ked way up to allow her legs to straddle the man in the seat, putting her garters and belt on shameful display. A bright brass chain lock -s both of our waists snugly together and our wrists have been manacled behind either of our backs.
“Like it Dears?” Cathy did her girlish giggle for us as she pulled the last lashings a bit tighter. “You’d love to do that to the heroines of your books wouldn’t you?” She ran a gloved hand over my cheek. Well, the nice thing about being the boss, is you can sometimes get back just a little for all the poor damsels in distress you tough macho authors like to ink together. Have fun.”
She twirled on her heels and strutted off to the cashbox with her
Chipendale escort while we struggled together. In this position, we’re supposed to
continue our autographing chores and we’re holding onto felt pens. But there are a lot of problems.
“That damned hat, Candi,” Clinton whispers into my ear. “I can’t see anything. Can’t you move a little, or something. Ohhhh. Don’t wriggle.”
“Uh-Oh. Clinton. Now come on. What’s going on down there. Stop it! We’re both men. I can feel you! Clinton! Relax. Now calm down. Please Clinton. This is terribly embarrassing.”
“Damnit Candy. Your perfume’s terrific and all that rustling. I can’t get my body to take direction from my head. Ewwwwl Please. Don’t wriggle. You’re making it worse. CANDI! PLEASE!”
The two of us squirmed and struggled for three hours that way. Imagine. Here I was, all pinkened and softened and scented with my lustrous red lips just inches away from this guy’s mouth. And here he was squirming to see around the brim of that big floppy hat, and whenever he moved, I moved and I could feel him through his suit. And he could feel my bust rubbing against his bare chest and
every move I made rustled and whispered silk against silk. Yeow!
It took a couple of hours, but the inevitable happened. I sensed him start to pump and then a flood of warm, moist goo seeped through my panties and across my crotch. He pulled and squirmed and I felt so sorry for him, but even worse for myself. How would he ever get up with his soiled shorts so obvious and, My God! How I would blush when everyone saw what I’d caused? And all through it we signed book after book. It was terrible, and it wasn’t.
By ten O’clock we were out and at the Comedy Shop. Cathy was with her Chipendale, Clair and I were escorted by a guy named Derk Kerl, the biggest adult book dealer in the Dakotas. This man could have been part Indian. He could have been part bulldozer. BIG. Not fat, BIG! Tall, and muscular and dark and chisled and leather. LEATHER MAN! With fast black hair, and a mouth that said ‘mean’ without every speaking.
And against this study in macho, on either side sat the two pink ladies. Again we were a matching set, this time, of super romantic puffs. Our dresses were ‘the lightest pink with appliquéd taffeta bodices. They were bustle backed with taffeta bows and delicate netting fell over the pouted detached sleeves and their extravagant skirts which skimmed to our ankles. BUSTLE BACKED AND BOWED! As if my buns needed the extra emphasis. Elastic let us bare our shoulders way down to deeply crimsoned cleavage. Long net see-through gloves, pink stockings and three inch pumps finished the outfits. We both wore dangling pearl .pendant earrings and matching necklaces.
In this rig, with my delicate makeup, it’s humiliating to admit it, but all the rustling, all the scents, all the corseting made me feel and look very…. pretty. And Clair looked just as good. In the dim fight of the comedy club, our bright, light costumes made a brilliant entrance.. Everyone noticed the stud in leather and his twin prom queens. If they only knew just how queenly we really were
Hard to imagine that life could get worse than it was at SEXPO90. First the comedians came out, and the humor was blue. And since we were right down front, we took a lot of it as we cuddled in with Derk as directed.
“Key…. There are a couple of broads who really know how to hold their liquor (BARUMP – BARUMP)!”
“They look like earthy girls brother. So treat ‘em like dirt (Barump)!”
It was awful. We both squirmed and blushed and like beasts sensing tear, their jokes got worse.
“What’s her name?” A girl comic asked Derk, pointing at me.
“Hah! I’ll bet you call her Candi cause she makes your peanut brittle (BADA-BUMP)!”
And after the comics stopped, we had to dance with Derk. Dance with him! Me in these awful shoes, my toes burning after a day of stilt heeled torture, and in all of this satin, I was loud and bright and I reeked femininity. He loved it. Every dance one of us was out there, jiggling or snuggling against that leather clad mountain. Our only relief was when Cathy lead us to the girls’ room to repair our makeup and giggle at our condition.
Finally, last call. One more dance. Slow. He asks me. I float out onto the floor. he puts my hands around his neck. He looms down. So close. Oh nol NO! I look up and – I must have blushed like a thirteen year old getting her first kiss.
Back to the hotel. Now how to get home?
“Well,” funny, Cathy still didn’t look even a little tired as she went to my closet. “Since you’re stuff’s back in Pennsylvania, Candi, I bought you a little going away present….. THIS!”
An hour later I was in ‘THIS’ and boarding my plane at LAX. The awful dress should have come with a warning, ‘Wear at your own risk’. Its halter bared me down to a traffic stopping flare in the front over a slim hobble skirt dropping just below my knees. In the back the thing came to just above my corsete. On my legs, two black seamed stockings dropped to four inch ankle strapped pumps, and of course I wore tight, three quarter length gloves. But here’s the rub, so to speak. The entire outfit, gloves, dress, shoes was all the thinest, most supple black leather! And four little locks (one each at my neck, waist and wrists) held the whole thing on until somebody used the key.
“Come on Cathy, the plane’s going to board. I can’t get out of this thing now. PLEASE,” I pleaded. “Give me the keys. Please.”
Giggle, “I don’t have them Dear. That’s the last surprise. I sent them along back to Pennsylvania to your agent Nancy. See you next year.” She kissed me, pushed me gently toward the boarding gate and waved as I clicked and swayed off, a blond with wild teased hair, ultra tramp makeup, long golden earings, and the sexiest leather look imaginable. Each of my mincing steps caused my breasts to bob and ass to jiggle and men to clutch their chests.
As I settled between two guys who wouldn’t stop staring, I pondered the problems I faced this morning in Pennsylvania. How long till my quizzically plucked eyebrows grew back? How would Nancy react to my plight? In this dress she Sure would be able to see how little body hair I had left. Besides, how would I even contact her? There was no no money in my purse, just pounds of makeup, along with a limo ticket to Nancy’s firm. Would I tell the receptionist at my agent’s Office who I was? Would she know? If I didn’t tell her, would Cathy see me? Would I have to wait in the outer office in this teasing, tight get up? In my little town, girls have been arrested for less provocation than I’m putting out.
“What’re you drinkin’ Honey?” The big blond on my left was coming on. I was bound for a long flight home.