8 comments/ 14795 views/ 3 favorites Dressmaker By: hoo_hoo_boo He often had regrets. "Come on, come on- speed it up! Faster, come on, you can do better!" The needle jumped so fast it was a blur. He shoved the fabric through and the stitches were approximately right. With more time it would be better, but she wanted him to be proficient. That was the word Vivienne used, and said eventually he'd get better, with the added benefit of speed. She told him she was a qualified dressmaker and in time he'd have all the skills. From that he could develop more and start doing men's clothes. Women's clothes are easier she told him. The first lesson was in making a skirt. It was simple. He was slow and Vivienne was impatient. From skirts he progressed to dresses. Getting the pattern was difficult, he had to draft it. She showed him how. He made a lot of dresses for her, each different in some way. As Vivienne said, some one had to be the model and he had no one else he could take into his confidence. Slowly his proficiency improved. The stitches were straighter and he was unpicking less. The dresses were becoming more sophisticated too. From frumpy sun dresses he progressed to doing little black dresses that molded to her body tightly. He learned how to put in the darts that accommodated her bust, and taper for her waist before flaring it out for her hips. Vivienne tried them all on and showed him where he'd failed in the craftsmanship and the elements of design. It was frustrating. Often, he wondered why he'd bought the sewing machine. He'd been shopping and wanted clear, crisp, cheerful colors, not clothes that, even in the stores, looked like they needed a good wash and could inspire a suicide. They were all so drab and uninteresting. Extremely frustrated, he drove home with nothing. On the way he passed a sewing machine shop, did a u turn and an hour later had his own sewing machine. It was fully electronic and portable- it wasn't the cheapest. He also paid for a course of lessons so he could use it. Unfortunately, there were no courses in making men's clothes, He hoped he could adapt after learning dressmaking. It all seemed so easy. Until he started. He was the only one in his class. Vivienne gave him so much attention he was embarrassed. She had many other students in other classes, but none were beginners like him. He was determined and took a lot of work home. It took a while for him to be comfortable with the lessons. Her constant attention and the warm press of her breasts on his back, as she showed him things, became familiar and welcome. His last dress was a little one. When she returned to the room wearing it, Vivienne was delighted and pirouetted in front of him. "Beautiful!" she told him and as she paraded before him she felt the fit and surveyed it for faults. She stopped and with a quick movement pulled her panties down and off. "It doesn't need panty lines!" she explained and continued to show him how he'd got the dress's architecture right. She bent forward and back and explored how right the fit was. When she squatted they both saw the dress ride up her thighs. She giggled. "Very sexy. I think it's important I keep my legs together," and in front of him Vivienne spread them. The little red dress rode further up her thighs, For a moment there was a flash of pink and manicured hair. "Very sexy," she said again and laughed, "A girl can easily show what she's got and it's so accidental." For the rest of the two hours she kept the dress on and her panties off. She teased and was provocative while they went into the elements of jacket and coat design. With a jacket in her lap she showed him glimpses of more than how the jacket was lined. As ever, the essence of style is tight measurements and she talked of how to add space for the clothes under the jacket. It was difficult concentrating on the prosaics while Vivienne sat in front and her legs opened and closed. It was apparent she shaved her labia and left a carefully managed thatch above. He had a feeling he was being tested. Dressmaking is very much about propriety and managing indiscretions. Jackets and coats are difficult. They can easily look frumpy. The elegance of a tight cut is limited by practicality. Padding is added sensitively. A woman looks wonderful with her shoulders squared a little but excessive padding looks terrible. No woman wants to look like a soldier. Elegant is the word and the dressmaker's endeavor, he was told. Coats are also expensive to make because the fabric costs a fortune. He was pleased to achieve proficiency and be able to move on. The contrast of dressmaking with his masculine, working world of shoveling sand and cement into a mixer and carting hods* of cement to the bricky was enormous. The ambience of the lessons was awkwardly comforting. It was never a bloody needle or the fucking thread and there was always a "duck on the pond"*. At his dressmaker's lessons he couldn't fart roof lifters or belch the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star". It required constant vigilance. His fingers had become a lot more nimble. His work mates saw him using hand cream along with gloves and were polite but concerned. His interest in dressmaking increased. The lessons and challenges of them were consuming. He had the constant thought of her long black hair tickling the back of his neck while her breasts moved across his back. She often showed him techniques. He shivered with the recollection. Her encouraging voice and generous smile were always with him. Her lithe body demonstrating the proficiency of his skill was enduring. She always told him, "It's not ours- it's yours. You made it." Thoughts of her generosity, honesty and dignity rolled around in his head continually. She often laughed and was frequently tough. She was beautiful. He loved the culture. It was a long way out of his league as a brick layer's laborer. Making trousers was challenging. He'd never thought so many things had to be considered. As with dresses the drop of the fabric had to be considered. Areas of reinforcement were important to provide sufficient wear from the item. He was interested in pockets and ensured the fabric for them was strong. As Vivienne demonstrated, their placement was important. She stood in front of him in her panties as he measured. He made many pairs of trousers and pants. For every pair he used the cloth tape measure and she showed him the manners of using the end with the long metal piece to measure her inner leg. She ensured he became familiar with the process. The panties she wore became increasingly brief and transparent. He never deviated from the tasks and methodology of dressmaking. She showed him the elements of cut, how elegance was important along with the freedom to be able to move while wearing it. Too often, she explained, trousers made it uncomfortable to do many things. One certainly wouldn't squat. He learned how to make a sturdy belt too that was appropriate for the pants. Vivienne was pleased with his progress and proficiency. After a few months she felt sufficiently secure in moving to the next challenge. When the bra making lessons started, Vivienne wanted to know how he would make one. He told her he'd get a pattern. She said, as a dressmaker, he should be able to draft his own. He sat as her fingers undid buttons and he watched as her shirt fell from her shoulders. She looked back at him and challenged him to look at the bra she was wearing. "This is a very good bra," she told him, and then went through the reasons as to why. Vivienne showed him how the cups were smooth and rounded without puckering, of how they hid her nipples and enhanced the shape of her breasts. For some time she talked about the cut, the engineering and so many things. She removed her bra and they looked at the inner surface of the cups. She showed him how to find pressure points by looking for the indents on her breasts. They worked on bras for a long time. They're difficult to make. Initially, Vivienne insisted he show her how he'd make one. He was embarrassed and shy. She laughed and helped when he put her breasts, one at a time, in a full bucket of water so the displaced water was caught in a bowl. From that they measured the volume and substituted the water with modeling clay to shape it appropriately. They stretched fabric over, pinned it into place and with a marking pen worked out where the seams were to be. She said it was the most comprehensive plan she'd seen and the finished bra was the best any student had made. He was very flattered with the praise. Vivienne also said she'd never had so much fun making a bra. When she tried it on she said it was almost perfect. Later, she removed it and they both carefully checked her breasts for pressure points. Then she showed him the correct way. He didn't like it as much and understood his method more. Vivienne thought it funny and said perhaps he should continue with it. They made many bras and her generosity in being his model was greatly appreciated. She once said, with a wry smile, her breasts had never been handled so much. He was embarrassed by the observation. The course was coming to an end and he wanted some way to show her his appreciation. He decided to make a complete outfit for her. It was challenging to decide what to make. He never imagined they'd make panties. Some times, in coordinating clothes, underwear needs to be integrated. Specific underwear is difficult to find. Vivienne started talking about the gusset. She lifted her dress to show him and went through the elements of the design. He was surprised when she slid them off to show him the construction and how to measure. It was very clinical and professional, particularly when they examined her skin for pressure points. Embarrassingly, his hands shook when he took her measurements. She shivered and spread her legs when he placed the cold tape measure on her bare skin. He made many pairs of panties. Initially they were conservative but with each their brevity increased as they experimented with the cut. He made G strings too and they were surprisingly difficult. Vivienne tried them all on and with each they went through the elements of cut, fit and design. His last lesson was much anticipated. He didn't want a last lesson. The dressmaking classes had been a lot of fun and he'd learned so much. He took the outfit he'd made for her at home. It was the most adventurous dress he'd made. They'd completed the course, there was nothing more Vivienne could teach him. She gave him his certificate and a very good reference. He gave her a polite kiss of thanks and his gift. Vivienne slowly read the card which thanked her for the excellent education he had received. She carefully unwrapped her gift. When she opened the box Vivienne was delighted. The little yellow dress was carefully wrapped. She held it up to see the gold mesh inserts and the daring cut. She looked at the matching jacket. There was a tear in her eye. Carefully she looked at the workmanship. He knew the color was adventurous. Few women could wear it, but with her olive skin she could. She looked at the top of the dress and the bra incorporated into it so inconspicuously. Obviously her cleavage would be very exposed. The gold mesh inserts demanded an all over tan and no panties. The hem was so high it would be a challenge. Vivienne weighed it in her hands. He watched her eyes dart over it, anxious that she approve. The silence was deafening. Slowly she raised her hands over her head. "Dress me," she whispered. She stood in front of him and raised her arms further to indicate he should start. He cautiously undid a button on her shirt. One by one he undid the buttons. With each she undid one of his. Slowly they unbuttoned each other and with her arms raised he pulled the shirt over her head. She took off his, stood and waited for him to take off her bra. He was close as he put his arms around her and with shaking hands fumbled at the hooks. Close enough that she undid his belt and jeans. It was surprising he was so slow removing her bra, he was almost as fast making one. As she felt the support being replaced by his cradling hands she stooped to push down his jeans and underwear. It was gratifying her guess was confirmed, he was generously endowed and she wrapped her hands around to feel the throb. Vivienne quickly pushed him back against the work bench next to the overlocker and he sat on it. With her hand on his chest she pushed him back and examined him. As he pulled off her belt she fell to her knees and took off his pants. He struggled to get her skirt off. His cock throbbed as she examined it, felt its warmth and hardness against her cheek. She gave it a stroke and another. Her skirt was tight. He had it unbuttoned but with her bending over it was locked in place. Vivienne looked at his testicles, large and rounded in their wicker of wrinkles. He was hairy with a tidy nest that seemed to ensure the comfort of the inhabitants. She watched as his penis dipped with his pulse. He tried to reach for her breasts but she backed away and gave his cock a few strokes. He tried to warn her with guttural grunts that had no words. She was beautiful, her breasts, sculpted with their large nipples, heaved with every breath. His cock felt so hot as it twitched. She stroked him again and suddenly he knew. He tried to stop it and squeezed his legs together tight. He tried to take her hand away. The one cradling his balls gave them a squeeze. He reached for that hand and she gave his cock another stroke. He didn't have enough hands. Another stroke and he came as his penis danced its bobs to the rhythm of his heart. The first shot laced her hair, the second went over her breasts and after, she sucked him out with her mouth. She giggled as she watched the beginning diminution and felt the rush of what she'd done. He was surprised, shocked and disappointed. He'd hoped for more than that and interpreted her actions as charitable. The humiliation of it. ************************************************** Two and a half months later he received an invitation to a Valentine's Day fashion parade. He was uncertain whether to go. He wondered whether he was invited genuinely or whether it was out of obligation. At the last moment his curiosity had to be satisfied and he went. Because he was uncertain of his welcome he was dressed for work, he didn't bother to ask for more of the day off. He was late. The people on the door wouldn't let him in and questioned how he obtained the pass. He was embarrassed he wasn't better dressed. It surprised him so many were dressed extremely well and he wondered whether it was for Valentine's Day or the fashion parade. It took a long time to get past the door. He stood at the back of the hall and watched. There were many women around him, dressed to impress with large proportions of their breasts exposed, and a few men, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. On the stage was a woman who was describing the dress of an awkwardly strutting model on the cat walk. The outfit was conservatively good, but not one he'd have made. It wasn't tight enough and lacked adventure. The description was carefully complimentary. More models in more dresses, they walked on to the stage, up the catwalk, gripped a chair and stood a moment, then walked back. He politely clapped his hands as, one by one, they made their way off stage. He thought the chair was very similar to the one he'd used at his tutorials. The audience was generous with its applause. The show was winding up. Then there was an announcement of some thing special to come, for Valentine's Day. The winner of the award for the best creations at the college for the year. The lady who was doing the announcements started talking of a student she had accepted more than two years ago. For the first time he could see the college principal. She said she had expected two lessons would be the limit, that he'd be discouraged and quit. There was a gasp when his gender was identified. She talked of how determined he was and how he'd been so quick to learn. He wasn't sure if it was him she was talking about. It must have been some one else as he'd never seen her. There was a gasp from the crowd. Entering the stage from the right a model walked. She was in a little red dress. He recognized it as his. It was exciting to see. He'd never seen the woman before, but she was confident as she made her way towards him. When she got to the chair the description of the dress finished and description of the underwear began. The model stripped off the dress, to the gasp of the audience, and with it in her hand she strutted around in his red underwear. He could see the fabric was sufficiently sheer there was little left to the imagination. There was a further gasp. He recognized the little yellow dress and jacket. Vivienne was on the stage wearing it. She looked confident and with a jaunty walk proceeded along the cat walk. She undid the buttons on the jacket half way along and a little further removed it to be held in her hand. Through the gold mesh panels he could see the sides of her breasts. The dress gave the impression it was cradling her breasts with the contradiction they could fall out at any moment. As she walked on the elevated catwalk, the dress barely protected her modesty. Her heels struck the catwalk and her breasts rippled. She was beautiful. When Vivienne got to the chair she sat in it with her legs elegantly crossed and began to talk about him. She told of how, when he arrived for his first lesson, with the brand new, never used, sewing machine, he knew nothing. She had thought he'd last for two lessons. He said he only wanted to make a pair of pants with big pockets. There was laughter from the audience. She told them of how he persevered and announced the little yellow dress was the winner of the year's medal of excellence. She called it "The Chrysalis" and declared it as being highly appropriate for Valentine's Day. Through the mesh every one could see there were no panties. The model who was wearing his red underwear returned. There was silence for a moment as everyone heard the high heels approach. "David. I need to see you." Vivienne made her plea as the woman in red held out her hand. With the help Vivienne climbed to stand on the chair. As she held her arms out to the sides the model in red took the tabs from the hem of the little yellow dress in her hand, turned and with the loud click of her high heels she strutted back along the cat walk to the stage and out behind the curtains. There were murmurs in the crowd as the audience watched the thread trail behind the loud heels of the model and the mesh panels unravelled. There was no looking back for reassurance as Vivienne's hips were revealed. There was silence in the hall with only the metronome of heels, as the mesh unravelled to show her waist. It continued to her ribs, one by one they came into view and suddenly, with a gasp from the crowd, the panels had unravelled and the remainder of the dress fell to the floor. Apart from her heels and elastic topped stockings Vivienne was naked. The silence was deafening. Then the clapping and cheering began while a few people exited the room in a huff. The model returned trailing the thread. When she was in front of Vivienne she held out her hand to return the thread. Vivienne took it and looked down to discover she was naked. She put her hand over her mouth and with eyes as big as saucers she theatrically conveyed her shock. The girl in red helped Vivienne down from the chair. They briefly tried to cover Vivienne with the thread but together demonstrated it was hopeless. The audience laughed with the antics. The model in red then put her finger over her mouth as though to think and after a few moments suddenly stripped off her bra and panties. Both then strutted, smiling, back to the stage and made their exit. As the crowd clapped, shouted and whistled, David left. He wished he had dressed properly. While he drove home he speculated about what the event meant. He arrived home to find three voicemail messages waiting for him. Dressmaker "David, I saw you there. I wish we had caught up." Hearing her voice again sent prickles over his back. "David, I have three women here who want you to make them a dress. Happy Valentine's Day, David." He could feel her breath and hair on his neck. "David, please call me as soon as you can. Fifteen more ladies want one. Please ring me." He could feel the soft press of her breasts against him and was almost in tears with the memory. He made himself coffee and drank as he thought. The phone rang again. He didn't answer it. He couldn't explain his two and a half month absence. He didn't know why. It had been difficult living duel lives, one of carrying hods of cement for the brick layer and the other in the atmosphere of Vivienne's sophistication. The easiest way was to go back to farting with the boys. He knew he lacked the sophistication to be attractive to her and he knew he had to get over her as fast as possible. He was shocked when she talked of him being a brick layer's laborer while on the catwalk at the fashion parade. It had been a carefully guarded secret. He slowly drank the coffee, made another and with his heart in his mouth he rang. She was so pleased when he said hello. Her relief was palpable. "How are you?" she asked. His response was hesitant and awkward. She changed to business, worried he'd hang up. "We have orders. Nineteen want dresses. Yellow dresses but not necessarily yellow. There is a lot of interest." She paused and waited for a response. "Red dresses are in demand too." She waited again but still there was no response. "Would you like to make lingerie?" she asked. "I didn't count the inquiries, there were too many." She could hear him fumbling for some thing to say. "Do you want to be busy?" she asked. There was silence for a time. "Yes." he said. "We need to talk." "Ok." "Meet me?" "When?" It was late, nearly two in the morning but he was in the car and on his way. They met at the college, in the classroom he'd seen so much of. His chair was missing but Vivienne was there. She gave him a nervous peck on the cheek in greeting. She offered coffee and he accepted. He went with her and found the mugs while she topped up the kettle. They leaned against the bench top, both anxious all would go well. "Wow," Vivienne exhaled. He looked at his feet and moved one a little. "What did you think of the fashion show," she asked. "I was surprised. I didn't expect my work to be shown." She smiled. "It was easily the best of the year." He blushed and changed to his other foot. "You were the only male student," she told him. "Initially we thought you'd be with us for two lessons. We thought you leaving would be disruptive. But you stayed. We found it difficult to put you in a class after that. What takes others six years took you two. Remarkable for some one who turned up with a brand new, unused sewing machine. You didn't even know how to thread the needle." They both smiled, David with embarrassment and Vivienne with pride. She poured the coffees and they went to the drafting table to sit. "I'm sorry about last time you were here," Vivienne said and looked at her hands, she was nervously wrapping her fingers around each other. He looked down at his hands and opened them as he spoke. "I'm the one who should apologize. I'm the one who left in a rush and didn't stay to talk. I've been embarrassed since and wanted to come and apologize but couldn't think of how." His speech was slow and hesitant. "I'm the one who was the problem. I'm so sorry." He was almost in tears. She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss in the forehead. He looked up at her and wanted to say something but couldn't. "You know you did very well at the fashion parade," she said. "You have so many orders- for little red dresses, little yellow dresses and lingerie. You know, you were a hit. This has been our best Valentine's Day ever." She reached out to him and took his hand. You have to make a choice. You can make dresses and underwear for people, or you can sell the patents for the little yellow dress to be made commercially and you get royalties, or you can do nothing." She looked at him, willing him to choose, and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. "Really?" he asked. He was looking at her, took her other hand in his and squeezed them both. "Yes," she said quietly. "Can I think about it?" he asked. She kissed his forehead again. "I'd like to enter your dresses in a much bigger fashion show. I want to get you a very good contract." She was rasping her finger nails over his forearms. As she leaned forward her breasts were full against her stretched bra. He looked at them for some time. She watched and gently pushed towards him. He reached to her and put his fingers under the front openings, as he had when a student. She felt his rough cement hands graze her nipples as he examined the cut. She could barely breathe. He reached to a button, then another and slowly he unbuttoned them all. With her shirt pushed back on her shoulders he looked at the bra. He reached around and gently unclasped it. His fingers went over her breasts slowly as he checked for pressure marks. He lifted her breasts in his hands and looked at her nipples, so big on their wrinkled areolas. Slowly he leaned forward and took her nipples, one by one, into his mouth and sucked them. She thrust her breasts towards him, her lungs so full she couldn't breathe easily. She put her hands on the sides of his face. Slowly she stood at the drafting table and he followed. He kissed her mouth and as she turned to sit he gently lifted her onto the table. The kiss was breathless as he sucked her lower lip into his mouth. She moaned. Slowly he kissed her face, her forehead, cheeks, eyes, down her chin and neck to her breasts. The kiss went around her nipples, one at a time before he sucked them deep into his mouth and she sighed. His lips traveled from her breast, to dance on her ribs and she giggled, as he unhooked her skirt. He started sucking her skin as his lips trailed on her stomach and his fingers lowered her zip. She lifted and he pushed her skirt down her legs. She sighed, her eyes closed- she couldn't bear to look. What a Valentine's Day! Already it was better than she'd dreamed to expect. His lips found her panties and went over them to suck her through them. She reached to pull them down but his hand stopped her. He sucked as he worked slowly down to the wet gusset and pushed her legs apart. She bent them and lowered her knees to the sides. The gusset was narrow and he licked the exposed parts of her labia. He didn't look up as he reached for scissors. She thrust her pussy at him and felt the cold steel as he cut her panties away. He didn't stop sucking as his lips slid seamlessly into her pussy and she moaned. He vacuumed her lips into his mouth and his tongue pushed them to his palate. She squirmed, held his head, wrapped his hair in her hands and pulled him deeper. She felt the heat of his breath and the pressure of his nose. The suction stopped. She could feel her labia retract and his tongue slowly, gently licked its way up her channel. She felt it, so smooth, and pushed herself towards him, impatient for more. The tongue continued and she wailed. So slow, frustrating and- she wailed again. She could feel him, his warmth, as he slowly progressed. She pulled at his hair, she was so ready for more, and suddenly his tongue touched her clitoris. She wrenched at his hair and slowly the broad flat of his tongue moved along until the tip of his tongue was there and in a quick move it reversed across her clitoris. With a jolt she jumped uncontrollably on the table and screamed. He held her to stop her falling as she soared with her clitoris in the warmth of his mouth. She felt his hands on her hips as she jittered on the table and screamed. Slowly the jitters lost their frequency and power, her breath regained coordination. She began to giggle and laugh. She pulled him close and ripped his shirt off with buttons flying over the room. She hooked her fingers under the waist of his jeans and slid a hand in to hold his swollen cock as she undid his belt and jeans. With them on the floor she pulled him by the hands to be beside her. They lay together, watched the glimmers of early morning light and hugged each other. Vivienne, with her legs open, her sex flooded and hot, waited. * Notes. *"Duck on the pond"- A phrase used to indicate the presence of a woman in the work area, mostly used in shearing sheds but used more widely too. It's an indication for the men to behave. *hod- Builder's light open trough on staff for carrying mortar etc,- Çoncise Oxford Dressmaking See "In the Beginning" for the first part. Now, a bit of background may be appropriate here. Before we ever met Trish and Claire, George and I had occasionally been in the situation where one of us had a girlfriend in the back of our car and the other was in the front with another. (Our car was a big old Hillman Minx, with a bench front seat and a steering-column gear stick, so this was really quite practical). Because of this, we weren’t all that bothered at seeing each other partly or completely undressed, nor indeed being within short range of each other while snogging, or even occasionally (if we got lucky) bonking. It turned out that Claire and Trish had a similar lack of concern about such things, as they’d been playing the field together for some time, and had even swapped fellers once or twice. So, on cold evenings in their house that winter, while all four of us might start by sitting round that old two-bar electric fire in their front room with a bottle of cheap Spanish wine, we’d often get into a snogging session without bothering to go off to our separate rooms. After all, it was likely to be bloody cold elsewhere in that house! Indeed, we sometimes ended up lying more or less side-by-side, shagging on the shag pile as you might say. If that meant that bodies occasionally touched each other ... well, nobody was really bothered. In fact, watching someone else having it off beside you while you’re similarly engaged can be quite a turn-on. So one evening, with both birds lying back stark naked, side by side in post-coital bliss - with their eyes shut - George and I happened to catch each other’s eyes, and somehow realised that we had the same thought in mind. Believe it or not, by dint of a lot of gymnastics involving a fair bit of massaging and stuff, we honestly managed to switch women without them noticing! You may not believe that can be done (I wouldn’t if someone was telling me, I must admit), but it really is true. I checked up on it a couple of years after the event, and Trish confirmed that she and Claire had talked about it later, and that at first neither of them realised that we’d pulled a switch on them. However, back to the moment. Trish opened her eyes quite soon. I was watching her myself, out of the corner of my eye, as I got going onto (and into) Claire. I was well turned on, of course, to say the least; but I was also more than a little unsure of what the reaction would be when the girls finally cottoned on. Well, I was looking at Trish when she opened her eyes. She twitched a bit, then raised her eyebrows as she suddenly clicked that it wasn’t me that was up her. But she just chuckled throatily, turned her head my way, raised her eyebrows in mock amazement and shot me a wicked grin, and then gave George a wink and a really sweet smile. Then she wrapped her legs around his bum, and pulled him into her so hard that I practically heard the thump! Meanwhile, Claire was blissfully unaware that George and I had swapped places - she always did like to screw with her eyes shut. Since this was in the first few weeks of our relationship and we were all still fairly new to each other, I suppose we didn’t really know our partners well enough for her to register the difference by anything specific that I did. George and I are about the same size, physique and hairiness, so she really didn’t have much to give her a clue unless she opened her eyes. In fact, it wasn’t till she had actually climaxed that she did so. And I have to say she wasn’t all that articulate: "Mmmm, that was nice, Geor... Oh! ... er, ... oh! Dave! Er, well, er, thank-you - er, ... well, it was still nice!" She did look a bit put out at first, but then she saw that all of us were chuckling at her not having noticed, and she joined in with the laughter. I wasn’t quite sure how she’d really taken the swap, since she had seemed a bit bothered, but my fears were put to rest over the next day or two. From that day on, she loosened up quite a bit with me, and started to be just as willing to kiss or caress me in passing as Trish always had been with George. I can tell you, it’s quite an interesting experience to be standing in a doorway and have two women come up behind you and each grope one of your bum cheeks. Or to be snogging with your girlfriend, and suddenly be goosed by another woman (or vice versa, for that matter ...) From then on, we swapped partners occasionally when the mood took us, although it was still (and always has continued to be) the exception rather than the rule. - o - A week or two later, on a bright late winter morning, George and Claire came into our room to discuss what we were all going to do that evening, while Trish and I were so enthusiastically "at it" that we didn’t even notice them coming in. And when we did, we certainly weren’t going to stop what we were enjoying doing just because we had an audience. After all, we were well enough used to doing it in company, so to speak! After that, it became quite common for one couple to pop into the other pair’s bedroom in the morning, and stand around or sit on the end of the bed for a chat. If the residents thereof were still having a good grope, or even occasionally bonking, it simply didn’t really seem to matter much. In fact, once it was clear that none of us were very bothered about it, we started to make a bit of a deliberate thing of this voyeurism, actively trying to catch each other "at it". And it became almost a point of honour, if the other couple sneaked in, for the ones still in bed to pretend not to notice, and to ... well, quite frankly to put on a bit of a show, trying to see just how obscene we could get. Once or twice this even ended up with both couples at it in the one bed, as the "visitors" got seriously turned on by the activities of the "hosts"! Still, after those first few weeks the accommodation did begin to feel a bit cramped, despite these "extra incentives" as you might call them. And George and I realised that we were still paying rent on the village house that we weren’t using. So after some discussion, it was decided that Trish would move out with me to our house in the village, while George moved in with Claire in town. We still went to all the same parties and still saw a lot of each other (in more ways than one); indeed, no party was complete if both George and I hadn’t had at least one good slow, smoochy, groping dance with the other’s partner. To this day, I suspect that some of our mutual friends thought we were some sort of a group marriage, we were so free and easy with each other. And in a way, I suppose we were; but we were starting to become two separate households, nonetheless. - o - One day the next year, as springtime came round, all four of us were over at George and Claire’s house again. So as to make room for more of George’s things, Trish was turning out some of her old stuff that she’d left in a couple of cupboards when she’d moved out with me. "Right, this old sack’s for the Oxfam shop!" she exclaimed, holding up the very warm (but very conservative) full-length dress that she’d worn to the flicks the night we first all got it together. The cut of the dress was very staid, and the material was nigh on as heavy as good-quality curtains; but it had a quite attractive Paisley sort of pattern, and a nice texture. "Hang on!" George said, his Yorkshire thriftiness coming to the fore, "You could make something of that instead of just chucking it!" He’s always had a bit of an artist’s eye for design (despite his background), so we listened as he explained his idea. What George suggested was that Trish should first unstitch and remove the sleeves of the dress, then cut away about four to six inches of it down each side, all the way from armpit to ankle. This would turn it into a sort of full-length tabard. Then she was to sew eyelets in up each side of the gaps to just below armpit level, and thread a long lace through them; the heavy weight of the fabric should make sure that it hung straight and didn’t reveal more of her than she wanted it to. Trish was a bit doubtful, but it wouldn’t cost much and it sounded as though the result might be interesting; so George and I went out and bought the eyelets and laces and Trish spent an hour or two on her sewing machine. The result, when she tried it on, was almost unrecognisable as the rather fuddy-duddy garment it had been previously. There were now three or four inches of Trish visible all the way down on each side, and suddenly it was one very sexy number. Trish cut the lace short on one side, around mid-thigh, so as to leave herself enough freedom to walk (and to flash a bit more leg - I haven’t mentioned it before, but her legs were and are two of her best features). But now it was done, we had to work out what she could do for underwear with it. This might surprise you, given what I’ve already told you about Trish’s tendency to exhibitionism, but she was still totally convinced that she was overweight; and she was reluctant to dress too daringly in public because of this. From an earlier private chat with Claire, I’d gathered that she (Trish, that is) had indeed been positively chubby until quite recently, and simply hadn’t realised how much her figure had improved. Well, you’ll remember that I mentioned thinking she was a bit on the plump side when I’d first spotted her that morning in the garden. But she’d already been losing weight then, and now her figure was really nice, although certainly she’d never be described as Twiggy-like. And, by the way, her figure is still pretty much the same as it was then, I’m glad to say! Her bust was perhaps a bit on the small side, but apparently it always had been, even when she was genuinely overweight; and myself, I always did prefer small firm titties to big soft ones. Still, even though Trish had been dieting (and more importantly exercising) quite successfully, she hadn’t yet regained her confidence in her own looks. Because of this insecurity, she tended to wear substantial "old-fashioned" undies (and rather conservative dresses, usually) when she went out in public. And this was despite the fact that the fashion of the day was for "invisible" undies and the natural look; very few girls would be seen dead wearing something which actually allowed you to see the lines of their underwear under their clothes. Now Claire, on the other hand, firmly categorised herself as "liberated", and went bra-less more or less all the time. Her tits, while a fair bit bigger than Trish’s, weren’t so large as to make this uncomfortable unless she was playing badminton or something; and in that case she’d wear a sport bra. And she thoroughly enjoyed the attention it brought her at other times - as per the original occasion when she’d carefully allowed me to see her knockers in the garden. (That had been quite deliberate, I knew by now). Basically, she picked up on the "liberated woman" thing very early, and emphatically interpreted it as meaning that women should not be restricted by male-designed clothing or the attitudes of a male-dominated society. She’d never quite had the nerve to wear a "topless" dress in public when that fashion had had its brief heyday a few years later, but she probably came close to it. Well, enough of the digressions. Back to "that dress". The trouble for Trish’s modesty was that it was very clear that she simply could not wear panties at all under it; they’d be very clearly visible at the sides, and would spoil the whole effect. And as for a bra ... she tried cutting the sides out of an old bra and sewing some sheer nylon from a good-quality pair of stockings into the gaps, so as to make it transparent at the sides, but this was a complete failure. The nylon stretched out of shape immediately, and went all worn-looking, becoming highly visible and equally inappropriate for the eye-catching nature of the dress. But Trish had far too much spirit to abandon the project now. I think she was also beginning to realise, if only from the number of times that we all told her so, that she really could get away with dressing quite a bit more daringly than she’d felt happy with in her plumper days. So, when she wore the remodelled dress to a party the next week, there was nothing whatever under it. Except Trish, of course. Talk about a turn-on! I could hardly keep my eyes - or my hands - off her! Now, although anyone looking closely at her dress could see that any underwear she might have on would have to be held on with Bostik, the material was still plenty heavy enough that you couldn’t actually see anything you shouldn’t. And because it was such heavy material, a bloke couldn’t even feel anything either. Well, not without groping her really blatantly while dancing, which would hardly be considered good manners. All of which meant that you couldn’t be absolutely sure that there wasn’t a bit of underwear somewhere under there, however cunningly it might be fastened. Which all added to the fascination, of course ... One guy at this party, a computer engineer from my office, followed Trish around with his tongue hanging out for a couple of hours or more that evening before he finally got up enough (Dutch) courage to come out and ask her. "Have you actually got anything at all on under that, Trish?" I don’t know quite what he expected as a reply (if anything - he was pissed out of his mind); but his jaw certainly dropped when Trish cheerfully replied, "That’s for me to know, and you to find out! - Come on, have a dance with me and see if you can tell." She promptly pulled him into a dance (he could just about stay on his feet with all the drink he’d had) and after they’d been bopping for a few seconds she looked at me over his shoulder and gave me that wicked wink of hers. Then, keeping her eyes locked on mine, she took his hands and placed them on her hips, right on the laced-up bits. Well, drunk or not, it didn’t take more than a couple of seconds for him to try it on. He made as if to slip his hands through the gaps in the laces, no doubt expecting her to slap his hands away - but to his surprise (and mine), Trish didn’t even try to stop him. On the contrary, she brought her own hands down and eased the laces slightly apart, so that his hands slipped straight through. The lucky sod now had two nice handfuls of her entirely bare bum! He almost collapsed on the spot! When she twirled away from him as the music changed a moment later, and swayed back to me, he was still shaking his head, crossing and uncrossing his eyes, looking for another beer and trying to decide whether he’d just had a brainstorm. A moment later, he collapsed into an armchair and was soon snoring heavily. Trish looked at me a bit nervously. "You didn’t mind me doing that, did you, Dave? I mean, don’t worry, I didn’t fancy him, especially in that condition - but I just couldn’t resist it! He’s so pissed he’ll never be able to remember if that really happened, or if he just fantasised it." Suddenly she looked just a bit worried. "Well, I hope he won’t, anyway!" She wasn’t all that sober herself, I realised. I think she must have been a bit nervier about the dress than I’d realised, and hit the booze a bit to give herself some courage - and then perhaps she’d lost a bit too much inhibition! I was about to tell her off in no uncertain fashion for letting a stranger grope her; but when I thought a moment, I realised to my surprise that I wasn’t actually upset at all; in fact I was rather turned on by the whole thing. Perhaps it was because she obviously didn’t really expect me to be seriously cross, or perhaps it was because I was already well used to her being groped by George on the dance floor while I felt Claire up; but when I thought about it, I really didn’t mind. Not in the slightest. Anyway, I told myself, she’d pulled away again before he could get more than a couple of handfuls of bum, so it didn’t matter much - did it? We went out on the floor and carried on dancing, and it took Trish no more than about five seconds to have my hands where the drunken engineer’s had been - but this time she stayed still while I moved them around to other more interesting places as well! The lights were pretty dim, so I was fairly sure nobody would see exactly what we were up to. Trish could hardly protest if I got fruity, after letting a virtual stranger grope her right in front of me. So by the end of that dance, she’d had her bum and boobs squeezed, her nipples twiddled and her pussy stroked to the point where my fingers were wet, all while we were dancing around on the open floor. Just as well that dress was heavy material - if it’d been any lighter, I think the damp patch would have been visible! I suppose that, in a way, that was the beginning of her slide into the seriously rampant exhibitionism that she’s into nowadays. Since I’d obviously been turned on rather than pissed off, she must have felt it would be OK to go a bit further in future. And the positive reactions that everyone had to that dress (one other girl even asked where she’d bought it) built on the start we’d made, helping her to get over her genuinely unjustified belief that she was "fat and plain". Over the next few weeks, although in day-to-day life and office dress she remained the soul of formal respectability, at parties and other informal events she started to emulate Claire’s styles - or even go farther than her sometimes. As I said, she had quite small, firm titties, and I’d been pestering her for some time to accept that she really didn’t need a bra for support. After all, this was the age of the "liberated woman", and it was now being seen as downright odd for a woman to be visibly wearing a bra at any time unless she (or her bust, I suppose) was over 50. The "pencil test" was the thing: if a girl could tuck a pencil under a boob and raise her arms above shoulder height without it falling out, then she might be considered still to need to wear a bra - otherwise, no way! And I have to say that ever since those days, I’ve found the sight of all the straps and buckles of women’s underwear rather unattractive and off-putting - give me the natural look any time. So Trish began to make a habit of not wearing a bra to parties and suchlike if her top wasn’t too transparent, and of wearing very tiny, semi-transparent or lacy ones when she was dressed lightly enough that she didn’t really quite dare to go without one altogether. - o - One evening, I took her out to a restaurant for a nice meal - actually it was for my birthday. She was wearing an almost transparent blouse and a tiny, sexy white lace bra that already allowed a touch of the darkness of her nipples to show through. As we finished the main course, I leaned over and asked her, as a special birthday treat for me, to take it off, so I could enjoy looking at her assets across the table. Rather to my surprise, after a moment’s consideration she said, "Oh, alright then, just for you, since it’s your birthday". She nipped off to the Ladies, and came back with her bra crumpled in her hand like a hankie. She slipped it to me under the table so I could pocket it, and I enjoyed the rest of the evening sitting opposite a woman whose tits were, quite honestly, pretty clearly visible under her almost see-through blouse. The situation must have started to get to her, too - her nipples went up like organ-stops, especially when our waiter couldn’t quite conceal how much he was enjoying the view! And from then on, she only wore a bra to the office, or if her tits were a bit tender around her period. At other times, she was completely "liberated". - o - She also wore that side-laced dress several more times to parties, and before long all our closer friends (the male ones, anyway) had had a dance with her wearing it, and she’d given almost all of them the chance to confirm that she didn’t wear anything under it. Through all this, funnily enough, it really didn’t bother me a bit that my bird was getting ogled - and willingly groped - by other men; in fact, I felt it was a sort of compliment on my good taste in women.