Drenched

After three fantastic days camping with old friends, I faced the most miserable journey home. Yesterday evening the fine weather broke and having rained throughout the night and throughout today, I'm soaked, muddy and desperate for a lift. A good hitching place doesn't often have any shelter and this is no exception. I know I look a state and don't really blame those who'd rather not have me dripping in their car. But it's mid afternoon; I’ve had my thumb out for almost four hours and have travelled a measly 20 miles. 

The weather is getting worse and the chances of being seen, let alone getting a lift are becoming increasingly slim. Then, just as I’d given up hope, a pick-up truck begins to slow down and pull in. Even if he'd only take me a few miles I’d be happy to get out of the rain, but the miserable git put me in the back of his pick-up. Ten miles later he dropped me off at a remote roundabout. I wished I’d declined the lift when I realised the passing traffic at this location was near zero. 

The few cars that did pass weren't stopping, and if i knew the area I'd have walked to a better location. Unlike the traffic, the time slowly passed by and the rain lashed down rapidly.  I must have sat for a good two of three hours when a car not only appeared, but stopped.

A pretty woman a few years older than myself, possibly in her early twenties wound down the window and asked where I was going. I replied and not surprisingly, she wasn't going that far, but could take me up to junction 6; about 30 miles. “Well, if you're sure?” I replied half-heartedly, “I am in a bit of a state.” I added looking down at myself.

“Hop in... it's a bit of banger anyway.” she smiled, “Put your backpack in the boot.” she said, opening it remotely.

“Thanks for this.” I said as I climbed in the passenger seat. “I'm sorry about the state of me...” I added, drawing her attention my filthy clothing. “...my last lift was in the back of a builder's pick up.”


“It's not a great place to hitch from that... and it's not a great day for hitching either.” she replied. “Been anywhere nice?”

I told her about the three glorious days of sunny camping I’d enjoyed with my friends in Somerset before we chatted about this and that. After about twenty minutes she began hitting the steering wheel and cursing the car. “Oh don't do this to me now!” she spat.

“What's up?” I asked, observing some strange noises coming from the engine.

“It's a Ford which means Fucked Or Repair Daily... and I haven't repaired it today.” she replied. “Sorry but I'm gonna have to pull over.”

My heart sank. It still poured with rain and now I'm on the hard shoulder of the M5 in a car that won't go. “Have you got breakdown cover?” I asked. Fortunately she had and me being a nice bloke, offered to brave the rain and ring in the breakdown. “Well it makes sense... I'm drenched, you're dry, and if you go out there you'll be drenched too.”

“Oh thanks for that.” she smiled as I returned to the car, twice as wet as I was before.

“No worries, they said they'd be about an hour though.” I replied.

“They always say that and it's either twenty minutes or three hours.” she replied. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked as she removed a pack of rolling tobacco from her handbag.

“Not at all.” I replied. “I've got some of my own somewhere.” I added as I began routing through my pockets.

We chatted for seemingly hours as we waited for the breakdown van to arrive. The sun began to kiss the horizon and the prospect of hitching in the dark wasn't one I looked forward to. The truck eventually arrived and her car was beyond a road side repair. We sat in the back of the wagon whilst her car was being pulled onto the flat bed. I suggested being dropped of at the next service station so I could continue hitching. She suggested it was too dark and too late, and offered to put me up for the night. I declined the offer on the grounds that I could be an axe murderer, and that she'd been kind enough already.

“One hell of a night to break down.” the dripping mechanic said as he climbed in the driver's seat.

“Would it be possible to drop my friend at the next service station?” she asked.

“Sorry... I'm only allowed to drop people at the policy holder's address.” he replied before starting the engine.

“But I'm heading north mate, can't you drop me...”

“Sorry Lad.” he reiterated. “It's company policy.”

“Axe murderer or not, it looks like you're staying at my house.” she said with a smile.

My heart visibly sank. “Are you sure that's OK?” I asked.

“It's better than standing in the rain all night with your thumb out.” she replied. “You can have a shower, I’ll make you some food and you can set off in the morning.”

“Thanks.” I replied, feeling like I’d become a huge burden on her. She is after all putting up a complete stranger.

The truck drove through Worcester and out the other end into open countryside. Eventually she began giving the driver instructions and before long, we pulled on to a gravel driveway. “This is remote.” I observed as the truck pulled away. The only other house lights I could see were a good quarter of a mile or so way. “This is nice.” I said as I stepped in to the hallway and looked around.

“Thanks.” she replied. “It's only rented and being in the middle of nowhere, it's cheap.” she smiled. She followed my eyes around the walls before looking me up and down.

My filthy clothing stuck to me with a combination of mud, rain and cement dust. My damp hair hung limply on my shoulders and every movement delivered an aqueous squelch. I felt guilty for even being here in such a mucky and sodden state. She offered me a cup of tea which I gladly accepted. I followed her to the kitchen, removed my jacket and perched on a stool.

Within minutes she planted a cup of hot steaming tea in front of me which I received with a long satisfied sigh. I shuddered slightly as the mug's warmth penetrated my hands which lovingly embraced it. “Why don't you have a shower after that?” she suggested. “You're soaked to the skin.”

I looked at the sleeves of my top and my 'waterproof' jacket had clearly failed me. I made a cheap joke about Famous Army Stores before taking a large gulp of tea. Jumping into a hot shower and putting some dry clothes on is something I wanted to do sooner rather than later. “Yes a shower would be good.” I said before taking another gulp of tea. “I only hope my rucksack is more water resistant than my coat.” I added, glancing around and instantly realising that the worst has just happened.

I looked at her as a cupped hand rose up to her dropping jaw. “Ohhhhh.” she said with a deep sigh. “I didn’t think.” her eyelids dropped. “It's in the boot.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I didn't think either.”

She apologised before saying she'd find me something. “I'll put those in the wash and they'll be dry by morning.” she promised.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course.” she insisted. “Now... finish your tea, jump in the shower and I’ll put some food on... do you like pasta?”

“Sure.” I replied, wondering how the hell I was going to retrieve my bag from some random garage.

She took me to the bathroom and gave me brief instructions on using the shower. She placed a fluffy towel on the chair and hung a bathrobe on the back of the door. “Use whatever shampoo and stuff you want.” she smiled before leaving me alone.

It was only when I removed my clothes I realised just how filthy I was. “I'd better mop this.” I said to myself as I dripped onto her formerly white floor tiles. I stepped under the shower and finally began to feel normal again. I squeezed some shampoo into the palm of my hand before lathering my hair and rinsing it through. The hot torrent was bliss. A bliss that was broken by the door opening.

“I'll just put these in the wash.” her voice said.

“OK.” I replied. “sorry about the floor, I’ll clean it.” I promised as the door closed behind her. After I’d showered and dried myself I cleaned the muddy grime from the floor with toilet paper. I ran the towel though my longish hair once more before pulling on the bathrobe she'd left me. “Oh that's better.” I said as I entered the kitchen. “Thanks for that.”

“You're welcome.” she replied as she tended to a pan on the hob. “It suits you.” she smiled as she looked me up and down.

I looked down at myself. “Yeah it's a bit girlie. At least it's not pink or owt.” I thought. “Oh thanks.” I replied, camping it up a little.

She began chopping some herbs. “I'll find you something else in min.” she added.

“What are you making? It smells good.” I asked.

“Carbonara” she replied, “AKA Italian ham and eggs.” she added as she scraped the herbs into the dish and gave it a stir. She reduced the heat and said “Right, let's show you around and get you something to wear.”

She led me from the kitchen to the sitting room and pointed out the study beyond. Then she took me up the stairs, showed me a second bathroom, pointed out a small box room in which I’d be sleeping, then the 'guest' room, pointing out the stairs to the attic as we passed, and finally her room. Like many women's bedrooms, the wardrobe overflowed onto a shop rail full of clothes and a series of shelves held countless pairs of shoes. She opened a drawer and removed a couple of items. “Pants and vest.” she said as she tossed them on the bed.

“er...” I said, noticing their 'gender'.

“Best I can do I'm afraid.” she said, picking up the knickers. “They are 'boy' shorts.” she added.

Clearly it probably was the best she can do. I doubt she'd have a stash of y-fronts, 'just in case' I figured as I took then from her. I pulled them on whilst her back was turned.

“Guess that proves you're not an axe murderer.” she said jovially before opening her wardrobe. “Now I could be boring and dig you out an old pair of trackie bottoms... or you could try something a little more daring.”

“What do you mean?” I asked inquisitively.

“Have you worn a dress before?”

“Er... no.” I replied honestly.

“Skirt?”

“No.” I chuckled. “Why?”

“Just asking... I’ve never quite understood why men never wear anything nice.” She replied. “What about this?” she asked as she removed a frock and showed it to me.

“I'm sure it'd look great on you but...”

“Well I think it'd look pretty good on you too.” she replied in an 'I dare you' tone.

“I can't see it somehow.” I gulped. It was a nice enough frock; black with a ditsy print of little red flowers. “Didn't you say something about 'trackies'?” I reminded her.

She looked at the dress with puppy dog eyes before looking at me. “Oh but... this’ll look so much nicer and...” she looked down at my legs before slowly working her way back up to my eyes, “...you're slim, you've got nice hair, a nice face...” she smiled again at the dress, “and nobody would know... you might even like it... once it's on.”

“That's partly what I'm afraid of.” I gulped.

“And what else are you afraid of?” she asked.

I looked at the dress again and imagined what I’d look like in it. “Looking like a dick?” I replied.

She grinned at me and assured that I wouldn't look like 'a dick' before reiterating that men should be a little more adventurous in their clothing. “Go on, for me... let's call it your board & lodging for the night.”

I conceded. I don't know why. She trotted down to the kitchen to tend to the food. I reluctantly removed the bathrobe, pulled on the lace trimmed vest and pulled on the dress. “God!” I sighed as I looked at my reflection. The dress was nice enough but hanging on my body didn't really do it any justice. I turned this way and that in the mirror, humming and haring as I did so. It looked OK from the back... being the only angle my gender wasn't so clear. I gulped, made sure it was straight and reluctantly walked down to the kitchen.

“Hmmm look at you.” she said seductively.

I felt myself blush and forced a smile. “I'd have personally preferred the trackies but...” I looked down at myself and felt half naked. Two thirds of my legs were exposed, as were my arms, shoulders, upper back and much of my chest.

“But nothing... you look great.” she insisted. “turn around.”

I turned slowly in an anticlockwise direction. “I think this is the best angle.” I said looking over my shoulder at her.

“You've got lovely hair.” she said.

“Thanks.” I blushed, feeling it's damp ends with shy fingers. “It's a good job really.” I added in a dry northern accent as I looked down at my attire.

She poured a ladle of source over each plate of pasta. “It is.” she smiled before passing me a plate.

“Thanks.” I said as the smell of the food filled my nostrils. I followed her through to the lounge which had a small dining table by the window and a roaring fire going. “Oh this is posh!” I said, noticing the table was laid out with knives and forks, a bottle of wine a couple of glasses and even napkins.

“Thank you.” she said as she sat herself down. “Too posh for my scruffy old trakkies?” she added jovially.

I chuckled, blushed and scooped my dress beneath me before sitting. She poured us a glass of wine each and we toasted. “cheers.” we said in unison before taking a sip.

“I'm glad you didn't insist on taking me out to eat.” I quipped before placing a forkful of pasta between my teeth.

She giggled. “You'd pass with a bit of slap on and some padding.”

“You reckon?” I joked.

“I do.” she replied honestly.

“This food's fantastic.” I said, changing the subject. It worked, we spent the next twenty minutes talking about life, films, music, parents, childhood holidays, all sorts of things. We got on well and she was easy to speak to. She worked through an anecdote as I listened to the lashing rain outside. I was glad I hadn't tried to hitch home and was here instead, until I remembered I was wearing a dress.

“What?” she asked as I halted myself.

“Oh nothing... I was just thinking.”

“What about?” she asked.

I ordered my words in my head before replying. “I was just thinking how glad I am... not having to hitch home tonight...”

“Me too... you're good company Pete.” she said, raising her glass.

We toasted each other. “Then I remembered I was wearing a dress.” I added before taking a sip.

“And you wear it well.” she added. “How does it feel?”

“Er... it's comfy enough I guess.” I replied looking at my chest, shoulders, thin straps and arms. “I'm not used to ...” I mimed something, “...having nothing on my back and shoulders.”

“Are you warm enough?” she asked in a concerned voice.

“Yeah I'm fine... just a bit exposed.... it barely covers my lap.” I replied, glad there was an entire table hiding my legs.

“It's a good job you've got nice pins then isn't it?” she grinned as she leant to one side to peek below the table top.

“So do you do this often?” I light-heartedly asked, “Bring young men back home and dress them as girls?”

“No you're my first.” she replied. “But I might make a habit out of it.” she added before placing a final fork of food in her mouth.

I chuckled and insisted I did the washing up. She declined my offer but I insisted it was the least I could do. It felt weird standing at a sink wearing a little frock doing the dishes. Not unpleasant, just weird. I observed that my bare feet should have felt a little chilly on the stone tiles just before Sharon entered. “You OK with all that?” she asked.

“Yeah I'm fine.” I replied. “This floor's quite warm.”

“Yes... underfloor heating, it's a god send.”

“Is that what it is?” I asked, never having had first hand experience of it before. “I was wondering why my feet weren't starting to freeze.” I added, looking down at them and wiggling my toes.

“I'll get some socks or tights is you want?” she offered.

“Nah I'm fine.” I insisted, visualising myself wearing one or the other. I routed the last few bits of cutlery from the bottom of the sink before emptying the bowl. Of course a solitary tea spoon escaped which I swiftly recaptured from the torrent of dishwater that rapidly spiralled down the plughole. “There's always one!” I thought.

I dried my hands on a tea towel and returned to the sitting room. Sharon was stoking the fire. She'd relocated the wine glasses and the bottle to a coffee table between the sofa and the hearth. I sat down and asked which was my glass.

She turned and looked at each of the glasses in turn. “Yours is the one without the lipstick.” she smiled.

I picked it up and took a sip. “Thanks.”

“For the time being anyway.” she added suspiciously as she glanced across the coffee table.

I followed her eyes to what looked like a vanity case. I say what looked like a vanity case, but in fact I knew full well it was a vanity case. A case like that would contain nothing other than cosmetics. I gulped knowingly. “Oh.” I said.

“You game?” she asked.

I looked down at my dress and visualised the knickers and matching vest I wore beneath it. “In for a penny?” I suggested in a most reluctant tone.

“Well if you think you look good now, you're going to look gorgeous when I’ve finished.”

“You reckon?” I asked as she opened the case.

“Trust me, I'm a beautician.” she grinned.

“I thought you said you were a secretary for an accountant?” I reminded her.

“OK... an amateur beautician.” she smiled as she passed me a... thing.

“What's this?” I asked.

“It's a bit of an old pair of tights to keep your hair off your face.” she replied.

I struggled at first but with guidance, I got it in position. I then closed my eyes and let her begin. It was strangely relaxing as she dusted my face. Then she applied some eye-liner, which was less relaxing, in fact I flinched a couple of times. She then applied eye shadow and eye brow pencil, this was relaxing again, and finally she applied some lipstick. She smiled a satisfied smile when she'd finished. I asked if I could see. “Hmmm...” she pondered, “...after I’ve done your hair.”

“Oh you're giving me the works are you?” I asked.

“Well not quite 'the works'.” she replied. “The works would involve a bikini wax, pedicure, manicure, eyebrows shaped... that kind of thing.” she replied as she sat on the sofa behind me.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked, knowing she wielded some sort of appliance. “And more importantly, will it come out any time soon?”

“Just giving it a bit of body.” she replied, “...and yes, it'll wash out.” she reassured.

I sat patiently as she did my hair. It was even more relaxing than having my make-up done and part of me didn't want her to stop. But before long she did stop. I asked her if I could have a look, and she took me the large mirror in the hallway. “Oh my god Sharon you've turned me into a woman!” I exclaimed. She looked quite attractive in her little black dress with the ditsy print flowers. Her eyes looked bright and awake, her lips fresh... her hair full of body and life. She was me!

“No I haven't Pete.” she replied, shaking her head. “I've just proved to you that a good looking guy, such as yourself, can look just as good as us girls in a frock.”

“You reckon?” I replied, looking back at my reflection. “The only thing that gives me away is hairy legs and a flat chest.” I observed.

“Well we could soon sort that out.” she grinned.

“I'm not gonna shave my legs Sharon.” I stated.

“Oh.” she sulked. “Can I tempt you into a pair of tights instead?”

I rolled my eyes and said yes. Ten minutes later we were back in the sitting room. My legs clad not in tights, but hold-ups. They felt nice. Really smooth and sheer. We chatted and drank wine on the sofa, watched the fire roar and when she opened the second bottle, she asked if I smoked pot.

“Hell yes.” I replied. Half an hour later, slightly drunk and slightly stoned, I confessed that I was having a really really nice time. “I could have been stuck in the middle of nowhere in the rain.” I said, “but I'm here in front of this wonderful fire, having a wonderful time and... I even like this.” I added, taking hold of the hem of my frock. “I can't remember the last time I’ve enjoyed clothing so much!”

“Well being a bloke and confined to pants, pants or trousers, I'm surprised you've ever enjoyed clothing.” she stated.

I pondered her point, which was valid. “But there was this one t-shirt when I was a kid... with a skull on it.” I reminisced.

She chuckled before regaining her composure. “I'm glad you like it.” she said in all seriousness.

I imagined my make up as I felt my hair; once dank, now with loose curls. I looked at my frock and legs clad in barely black nylon. I cast my mind back to how I looked when Sharon picked me up. “A before and after photo would have been good.”

She chuckled. “I can certainly arrange an 'after' photo... if you want?”

I was tempted, but declined. “Nah somebody might find it.” I gulped.

“And they'd see the same beautiful man I'm looking at.” she said before moving in.

I don't know how long we kissed for but I'm glad we did. Her hands ran up my tights, her finger played with my shoulder straps. I worried about smudging my lipstick as we kissed ever more deeply. The kisses faded in to tender cuddle. “Will you sleep with me tonight?” she asked.

“Er...” I croaked. “Yeah... I... er....” I stammered.

“Good.” she replied. Her head lay on my chest. Her hand ran up and down the strap of my dress. “This feels nice.” she said.

“This'll be my first time.” I confessed.

“I know.” she replied. “I'll be gentle with you.”

Ten minutes later we were in an unbreakable embrace in front of the fire. She was naked. I wore only my vest and hold-ups and was covered in the dewy sweat of a new found experience. . “That was fantastic.” she whispered in my ear.

I was speechless, but agreed one hundred and ten percent. I had to say something, but didn't know what. I looked down at her perfect naked female body laying next to mine, clad in lace top stockings and a lace trimmed vest. My knickers are strewn somewhere and my dress is discarded on the sofa. “Does this make me a lesbian?” I quipped.

She chuckled, sat up and kissed me full on the lips. “I don't know Pete.” she ran her finger along my lacy strap. “but whatever it makes us, I like it.”

“Me too.” I replied, kissing her back. 






2 comments:

  1. I have just come across this story. Really enjoyable, I also like the fact that although it features petticoating. It is not negative. In fact is a very positive affirmation of good deeds. Pete is a lucky young man.

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    1. glad you like it... it's a re-write of the first fantasy i ever wrote, long before word processing made it easy. I'd call it simple cross-dressing rather than petticoating (which is a discipline).

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