Maid to Measure

by Sarah Forth

  B - More success

  I told them to get as much as they could from him but to be sure to get him out on the balcony at lunch time. Gloria had given the boys a leg show the day before and I had arranged for several of the older ones to get gifts of binoculars when they arrived at school that morning. To make sure, I put several of my lads in the flats above and next door to reinforce the goldfish bowl effect. It worked wonderfully. He was begging to be let back inside before the end of lunch time, promising to give us a bit more. Because we let him in before the end of the boys’ break with the constant threat that we could put him back outside again,, he did tell us just a bit more. And we still had the afternoon break, not to mention the end of school.

  Just before the afternoon break we put him out with a knock out drop and then put him back out on the balcony. But this time we unbuttoned his blouse so that his black leather bra’ was clearly visible and hitched his skirt up his legs, above his stocking tops. The boys put him out on the chair with his legs up on the table, one leg bent and the other out straight so that the red lacy slip was clearly visible, with just a hint of the white knickers showing, although they did give him the benefit of hiding the more secret part of him again. In the morning, the slip and knickers had been tucked under the waist band of the skirt but for the afternoon session, they made sure that the skirt did not hold either garment at all! So when the afternoon break started, just about every kid in the school was watching him and their comments were pretty ripe. And of course, they made enough noise to wake him.

  A - Complete humiliation

  I came too to find myself back on that balcony with the cheers and ribald shouts of those boys ringing around me. My blouse had been unbuttoned and my skirt pushed right up my legs. I couldn’t get it down without standing up so it took just a bit too long for comfort to make myself look less provocative. I rushed to the windows to see if I was locked out on the balcony and felt the first window being locked as I tried to open it. But the gorilla who locked it indicated that the other one was open. So I teetered along the balcony to the other door. And as I walked just that few yards I felt the slip and knickers sliding down my legs. The cheer from those boys as I staggered back into the room with my knickers round my ankles and the slip just about to join them was something I never want to hear again.

  I was so ashamed and humiliated, even more by my feeble reaction. Although I did regain some composure later, I know that I gave them even more clues in my anxiety not to be put out on the balcony again. So I kept feeding them ‘nearly true’ answers until the school was completely empty. They kept telling me how much the boys were going to enjoy my next performance - they had already seen my knickers so they would expect something better. Perhaps just a bra’ and knickers and a transparent negligee? Or even a bondage pose? Yes, they agreed. Next time it would be very pretty underwear and a very full skirt - the weather forecast was for strong breezes - and I could be tied standing near the edge of the balcony. The wind always seemed to gust upwards round that balcony.

  They seemed to have some sort of hot-line to B, checking every extra scrap I let slip, promising, threatening, greater humiliations from then on unless I co-operated. As time went by, and the memory of the day’s humiliation faded a little, I tried to obfuscate again, giving them false information which I knew would be very difficult to check, hoping to gain some respite by appearing to co-operate without giving too much away. There was something unconvincing about their threats - surely someone would investigate a woman being locked out on a balcony, or a transvestite exhibiting himself to a whole school full of boys. I had started to hope again, an emotion which B has taken great pains to obliterate. By about seven o’clock in the evening, one of them held me while the other gave me another jab and I passed out again.

  B - Diversion

  That day reinforced my certainty that we had found exactly the right way to deal with him. If it hadn’t been that it would have been something else - we would have found his weakest spot eventually. But I decided that the balcony was too risky - boys will talk and I didn’t want anyone taking too much notice. A lot of gossip about a bloke showing himself off to hundreds of boys would soon have come to the attention of the police, social workers, or worse still other newspaper reporters. This had to be handled discreetly, even if he had to think the opposite. So we moved him to another venue. And he had given us a lot of information, had given every impression of co-operating.

  So I was not at all pleased when I found out what a wild goose chase he had created for us. He was going to pay for that and Harry suggested the perfect punishment - a short trip to Amsterdam.

  A - The Cathouse

  My fabrications earned me a few days respite from their attentions, although they still wouldn’t let me have proper clothes - they said it was skirts and dresses or nothing so naturally I chose to remain naked. But I was going to be made to regret deceiving him.

  It was clear that he was furious when he found out how much time I had wasted. He was shouting and threatening, telling me that he would get even as well as getting the truth. And while he ranted, one of the guards seemed to have an idea, an idea which obviously appealed to all of them. The next morning, I found myself immobilised on a hospital type trolley being loaded aboard an air ambulance. We had been in the air for about half an hour when I got another jab and passed out again.

  When I next became aware of my surroundings I was fully dressed again. But this time I was dressed as a whore. Black fishnet stockings, a black skirt with a slit which reached right up my thigh, a bright red short sleeved blouse and a short fluffy blonde wig. I was tied in a chair in front of a set of mirrors so I could see exactly what they had done to me. Extreme make-up and ultra-high heels. The blouse was almost transparent and I could see the black and red bra’ around my chest and the short skirt had been pushed up almost to the tops of the stockings, revealing the red slip with its black lace edging. As I struggled against the ropes holding me to the chair, the black and red knickers were clearly visible. I could feel that my private parts were securely held between my legs, my penis pulled back between my legs underneath me, so this time there seemed no danger that I would ‘fall out’. And Harry, one of my tormentors, explained what was going to happen next. It was my own fault for telling such lies, he said.

  I had been transported to a brothel in Amsterdam, they told me. I had been dressed like this to encourage the customers. The thought that they might find ‘customers’ for me filled me with horror and it was as much as I could do to disguise those feelings so that they didn’t guess. They gave me a while to get used to what they had done and then came their ‘coup de grace’ - I was going to be put in the display window for all the filthy perverts in the street to see. I would have to sit on a stool in front of the window and attract customers for the girls. But if one of the clients wanted sex with a man instead, well, I would be the only man available. It was just up to me to look exactly like a woman so that none of the clients even suspected. And just to make sure that I really tried to attract their customers, I was given a target. Unless I attracted at least the average number of clients each hour, they would remove an item of clothing.

  They did give me a little time to get used to the idea. And they made it quite plain that it wasn’t information they wanted this time - B wanted me to suffer. I was introduced to the working girls who had been told that I was a transvestite who enjoyed being forced to dress as a whore. They giggled and teased and were particularly amused when they learned that I was going to relieve them of the need to sit in the window. It seemed that they all hated that more than providing the service they were employed for. So they made me parade for them in those awful heels, trying to encourage me to wiggle my bottom as I walked, grabbing at the hem of my skirt and lifting it so that they could see more of my knickers. Before I was put into the window, I was thoroughly inspected, my make-up adjusted until they were sure that I would gene
rate the right image, encourage the right clients. And one of them, who seemed rather more sympathetic than the others, spent several minutes instructing me in the most successful poses.

  It started in the late afternoon. I was made to sit on a stool in the alcove in front of the window when the drapes were drawn back and the girls were ready for work. It was like an old fashioned shop window, a sort of raised platform surrounded by a high partition draped with deep red curtains. Once I had been set up on the stool, the entrance to the alcove had been closed, and it sounded as if it has also been locked. I realised that as I sat on the stool, the skirt was gently sliding open, the slit revealing more and more of my leg. Every few minutes, I was obliged to hitch it back again in case my personal secret was revealed as well as the knickers. At first the street was quiet - just a few men passing, mostly taking little interest in me. But the Madame was not going to be satisfied unless I attracted at least her usual volume of custom - and let me know it through the partition. She instructed me to get off the stool and try walking about. ‘And let them see a bit of leg, you’re supposed to be an advertisement, not a deterrent.’ I got down off the stool as she instructed and took a few short steps, trying to maintain my balance on those extreme heels, trying to remember to swing my hips as I had been told. I had to maintain the illusion - the last thing I wanted was to be recognised as an imposter. I turned back to the stool and tried to sit elegantly, without revealing more than I wanted. I was aware of the quickening tempo of the street as the afternoon wore on. A man stopped in front of the window. I felt his eyes all over me. I knew that I had to encourage him to come inside, that the Madame would at least expect me to smile. It must have looked hideous, that nervous grimace which was all I could manage. But he stayed in front of the window and gestured at me to get up and stand closer to him. He was already so close, just the glass and a few feet between us. Somehow I made myself obey his instruction and stood in front of him. His face was level with my waist and he gestured again - he wanted me to hold my breasts. I forced myself to let my hands stroke up from my waist towards them, as the girls had instructed me, feeling the soft bouncy padding inside the brassiere. The action made me more than ever aware of the artificial nails which had been glued over my own, long and scarlet. And I was rewarded. I saw him turn and approach the door, heard the Madame welcome him as he entered and then direct one of the girls to attend to him. And soon there was another one. I had to pose and strut, feeling more exposed than if I were naked, knowing that I was just an exhibit but also aware that I had to keep up the illusion. I was so aware of the leers of the passing men. Groups of them would cluster round the window, pointing and sniggering. I managed to keep to the target they had set me for the first hour but the target for the next hour was higher. Again, I managed to reach the number but the third hour was a disaster; at least they told me that was and that the girls were almost idle. So, in the window, with men watching, the Madame and one of the bigger girls came into the window and dragged the slip from under the skirt. “Next time it will be the knickers. After that we start on the outer clothes!”

  The evening was worse. They took me back inside and dressed me in a very short leather skirt and a leather bustier. Then they fixed leather cuffs round my wrists and ankles and chained me up very close to the glass, facing the window. My legs and arms were spread wide so that I could hardly move. I didn’t dare to move anyway fearing that the artificial boobs would slip out from the bustier and reveal me as the imposter I was. And right in front of me, men were staring, pointing, making ribald remarks about me to each other, considering what they would do to me if they came in. It was shaming and frightening. It was my punishment for having misled him and I wondered how far he would take it. Would he really let them rape me as well?

  I had to stand there for hours. The men in the street hovered in front of me, enjoying the sight and taking advantage of my inability to avoid their stares. I had to move sometimes to relieve the cramps in my arms and legs and every struggle was watched appreciatively by the men outside. But the pose was obviously successful since a steady stream of clients came through the door, to be welcomed by the Madame and allocated to one or other of the girls.

  They did allow me a short respite around midnight. A chance to stretch my aching limbs and rub some life back into my hands, as well a very light salad with a glass of water. But then they prepareed me for my next ordeal. My clothes were changed again. I was not allowed to see exactly how they dressed me - I was blindfolded while they worked - but they told me, and gave me some idea by showing me my reflection when they were finished. This time I was to be almost fully dressed. A white bra’ and suspender belt and white knickers, although I was not allowed to see them until later. Pale tan stockings and white, high heeled sandals. They hd fixed a new set of artificial breasts to my chest which fitted over my shoulders and up to my neck. The join between them and my neck was covered with a black velvet choker which supported a large pearl at the front. The light cotton blouse had a scoop neckline which displayed the cleavage of the large false breasts and the darker coloured, prominent nipples were not disguised by the underwired bra’. The skirt was bright red but very light and I could see the lace edging of the light slip beneath it. They replaced the wig with another, with longer, darker, hair and retouched the make-up before letting me see the effect. I must confess that the effect was startling - I really did look like a rather well-endowed young woman, dressed for a summer day but willing to display some of her charms; her ample breasts in particular.

  I would have to perform in the window again. But this time I had different and at first incomprehensible instructions. Apparently there were two photo-electric beams just above the level of my head and at least once every two minutes I would have to break the beams with my hands. Every time I failed to break the beams would mean another hour in the window. If I performed adequately, I could be out of the window by two o’clock, but they could leave me there all night - and the next day. They gave me these instructions actually in the window, showing me where the beams were and stressing the importance of breaking both beams at once. I realised that the whole procedure was designed to ensure that I raised my arms above my head while standing in a particular part of the window but I did not guess their purpose until I had been in the window for several minutes.

  To begin with, it was easy. I had to stand, since they had removed the stool, but I was free from the straps and chains and I was dressed more decently than before. But as I walked about the window I became aware of the crowd of men gathering outside. They were crowded round the window with their noses pressed to the glass, clearly anticipating something which I had no knowledge of. I paraded for them, going through the performance as I had been instructed, unable to guess the cause of their excitement although it clearly involved me. I followed my instructions as closely as I was able, even standing in the middle of the window every few moments and raising my hands to break those beams. I suppose I had been there for about five minutes before I heard a switch being thrown and was aware of the low hum of an electric motor. But there was nothing else and I didn’t discover its purpose for another few minutes.

  It was very sudden when it happened. I was standing near the middle of the window when there was a sudden updraught of air. The light skirt and slip were almost instantly swept up above my waist, to the delight and approval of the crowd of men outside the window. As soon as I realised what was happening, I struggled to hold it down, managing at least to keep the front down by pressing my hands against my thighs. Then I realised that the mirror at the back of the window would give a perfect view from behind and I tried to control the skirt with one hand at the front and one at the back. That was when I heard the Madame telling me that the only way to switch off the fan was by breaking both beams. Eventually I managed to force myself to abandon the struggle to control the skirt and reach up to break the beams. As soon as I raised my hands, the skirt and slip flew up around my face. I pa
nicked and pushed it down again but knew that I would have to try again. The next attempt was a little more serious but although I broke the beams for an instant before renewing the struggle with the skirt, it did not switch off the fans. I needed to hold my hands in the beams for at least five seconds before the fans switched off. And in that time, the skirt sailed high above my waist, revealing all my secrets to the men crowded around the window. I could hear their delighted shouts of approval and their coarse comments and felt myself blushing scarlet with shame at having to give them sucha display. Not only was I shamed by having to give them this display but I guessed that there would soon be a demand for the services of the ‘man in the window’. Surely with all my underwear exposed and swept up by the draught, the men outside would see me for what I was. I have always despised homosexuals; they make me feel sick. The possibility of being molested by one of them appalled me. But I had become convinced that that was the purpose of this exercise - to make me reveal myself as a man dressed as a woman to attract a sexual partner. It seemed only a matter of time before I would be taken from the window and forced to submit to such an unspeakable experience.

  In the end, I was left in the window for only about half an hour. But I was so nauseated by the prospect of what would be in store for me when I was taken out that I was actually reluctant to leave. In the event, my fears were unfounded. None of the men outside had demanded sex with the transvestite prostitute exposing himself in the window; and when I was able to inspect their handiwork more closely, I could understand why. I stood in front of a mirror and lifted the skirt up to my waist. If I had been willing to risk turning my back on the spectators while I had been in the window, I might have understood before, by seeing what I now saw in the mirror there. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to position myself to break the beams in that position. So I was astounded by what I saw. The constraints that held my private parts so firmly were shaped on the outside to resemble those of a woman. The knickers were almost non-existent; just a slight hint of white lace covering, but not concealing, a little bush of imitation pubic hair and the outer shape of a woman’s pussy. From even a short distance, the effect was absolutely realistic. Had I known how perfect the disguise was in advance, I would have felt more secure in my imitation. But that was not part of their plan.