Blood coursed hotly through his veins, and his pulse raced as he tugged on the dusky nylon stockings. The taut effect of the tissue-thin fabric on his legs was just as sensational to him as the tightness of his corset and gloves, and his erect penis beat the air with renewed vigor.
He drew down the elasticised garter straps and clipped them to the tops of the hose, they in turn stretching the sheer nylons upwards into inverted V’s. The sleek black nylons had made his legs shapely, devastating, completely feminine, and when he slipped the sling-back pumps on his feet, the six inch heels lengthened his legs, making them even more sensational.
Then Jeff turned his attention to the bra. When it was on the cups hung limply on his chest, but the falsies soon solved this problem. He practised walking in the unfamiliar stilt-heels. It was awkward at first, forcing him to walk in little mincing steps, but after fifteen minutes of walking around his bedroom, he had mastered the art sufficiently to venture forth.
The black satin maid’s uniform fitted his now completely feminine body like wet tissue paper. Putting the white cap and apron into a purse that he had purchased, Jeff left his apartment, ready as he ever would be … for action. What kind of action he couldn’t imagine.
Claire Vantassel was in a black mood. Her advertisement in the Times for a personal maid had gone unanswered for three days. “Times certainly have changed. Nowdays a girl would rather go on unemployment or relief before she’d be a personal maid to anyone,” she thought as she stormed back and forth in her bedroom, her floor-length black lace negligee flowing behind her, her huge breasts jiggling enticingly in the confines of her matching lace black longline bra.
She wouldn’t have been quite so upset if she had known that at that moment someone was approaching her posh apartment house in the east eighties, coming to apply for the job.
On the sidewalk outside, Jeff was getting a charge out of the effect he was having on the male onlookers as he passed by, his legs flashing in their sheathing of black nylon as they reflected the rays of the mid-day sun, the big, falsie-stuffed bra thrusting arrogantly at the front of his high-necked uniform. He almost stopped traffic. Cabbies honked their horns, truck drivers whistled.
As he approached a building under construction, Jeff noticed a group of hard-hats sitting along a high wood fence that ran along the sidwalk, eating their lunch. His tendency was to cross the street and avoid trouble, but he decided to continue on past them. If anyone could tell he was a fraud, it would be a group of close-inspecting, horny hard-hats.
Men stopped chewing, their mouths dropped open, as Jeff swivel-hipped his way by them, his spike-heels clicking on the sidewalk. A handsome, muscular blond worker rose and as Jeff passed by he pinched his rump, grinning, “How about it, baby? Ya got a date tonight?” Jeff turned and lowered his right fist almost to the sidewalk, then with all of the power in his strong arm he smashed the impudent worker on the point of his jaw, with an uppercut sending him flying into the board fence, where he crashed down in a heap, unconscious. The workers on that particular site were to talk of nothing else for the next few weeks other than the broad with the unbelievable punch.
Claire Vantassel was quite impressed with the lovely young woman who applied for the job. Perhaps she was a bit too lovely, a bit too sexually appealing. After all, she had a husband, and he was all male. She had better keep on eye on him. She had introduced herself as Bobette, and she had a delightful French accent. A bit throaty perhaps, but after all hadn’t every French chanteuse she had ever heard been on the throaty side?
To Jeff’s horror he found his manhood rising to a whopping erection as he drank in Mrs. Van-tassel’s incredible pulchritude, so devastatingly revealed by her close-fitting, black-lace negligee, black mesh stockings and long-line bra, her garter straps deliciously framing a massive black pelt that ran upwards almost to her navel.
Quickly he damped his purse over his groin.
She offered him a chair, and he sat down, his legs spread, his purse held firmly in his lap, for if he hadn’t it would have been dancing all over the place.
“Your duties actually will be very simple,” Mrs. Vantassel was saying. “You’11 tend to my wardrobe, see that everything is clean and pressed at all times. When I rise in the mornings I will tell you what I intend to wear.
You will lay it out on my bed and then assist me with my bath. Then you will help me dress.”
Jeff’s knees grew weak. He had to apply additional pressure on the purse or it would have flown to the ceiling.
The prospect of bathing this ravishing blonde creature, then dressing her, was a bit too much for him to take all at once.
Suddenly Jeff’s new employer took a pack of cigarettes off of her dressing table and tossed it into his lap, saying, “Give me a cigarette and light it, please.”
