One

This time, Samantha announced her arrival by knocking on the door after she opened it. “Good morning, Sandy. Did you sleep well?” She bent down to pick something up from the carpet. “How did this thing get here?”

Sandy looked at her through bleary eyes. He felt drained, and his body ached as if he had the flu.

“How did what thing get where?” he croaked.

She held up a large black feather. “I think it’s from one of those rooks from around here,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Nasty birds.”

“Show me,” he said, yawning, and Sam handed him the feather. “Yes, it’s from a rook. They’re not nasty at all, Sam. They’re smart.” He paused. “Well, smart for a bird, at least. Some people believe they act as messengers between worlds. They’re supposed to signify that a change is on the way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not you too. Lady Eleanor was always banging on about them. They give me the willies. What’s that rhyme? One for sorrow, two for joy, and all that?”

“That's about magpies, Sam. Same family, different bird. Rooks, crows, ravens, magpies, jays. They’re all from the same family.”

Sam looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know so much about them, anyway?”

Sandy summoned a grin. “I was a twitcher, Sam.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “You were a what?”

“Hardcore birdwatcher, Sam.”

Sam still regarded him suspiciously. “I thought it was some kind of illness.”

“Some people would say it is. Anyway, where do you find the feather?”

“Here on the carpet,” she pointed towards the window. “How odd is that?”

“Maybe it blew in through the window?”

“Can't have,” she said. “The window’s closed. That reminds me, Lady Eleanor had a painting made of one of them. It’s in the drawing room if you can find it. Give me the feather, and I’ll throw it out.”

Sandy held on to it. “No. I’ll keep it. I like it.”

Samantha wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Whatever. It’s strange how it got in here.”

Sandy’s brain had woken up at last, and he remembered something about a bird in his dream last night. He was sure that last night had been a dream. He shuddered at the memory. It couldn’t have been anything else, surely?

Samantha peered at him. “Anyway, you look worn out this morning.”

“I had a nightmare last night. You were in it.”

Samantha frowned at him and stood with her hands on her hips. “Let me get this straight. I was in your nightmare? And after all I’ve done for you. Really!”

Sandy groaned and fell back on the bed. “No, no. I didn't mean it like that. You have been an angel.”

“Mm-hmm, nice save. Come on, it’s not a good day out there.” She threw back the curtains to reveal rain lashing at the windows. He fell back onto the bed. “I wanted to go for a swim.”

Samantha smirked. “Adam won’t be there today, you know.”

Sandy ignored her. He wasn’t in the mood after last night.

“What’s up with you?” She said.

“Told you. Nightmare.”

“Alright, little Miss Grumpy. Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Bad news first.” It suited his mood this morning.

“The storm last night washed away the bridge over the Dead River, so it seems we’re cut off for at least a day or two.” He remembered the taxi crossing a narrow wooden bridge the day he had arrived.

“Oh, so I guess the storm caused the power cut last night,” he said, yawning.

“Power cut?” Samantha frowned. “What power cut?”

“The one last night. The lights went off in here for a while during the storm.”

“There wasn’t a power cut. If there had been one, the generator would have kicked in, but it didn’t.” Her words sent a chill crawling up his back. If there hadn’t been a power cut, why had the lights gone out?

“Anyway,” she went on, “The good news is that Sir Robert’s PA told Mhairi that he will be back here soon, maybe in a couple of days.” Sandy’s mood lifted straight away at the thought of seeing Overstrand again. However, she went on. “But because the bridge is down, the engineer can't get here to mend the washing machine.”

“Oh, so my clothes are still stuck?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so. But don’t worry. I have a plan.”

Sandy groaned again. “Don’t tell me—”

“Admit it. You loved yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, then. Have your shower, and I’ll come back.”

“What do you have in mind?” He asked, anxious about what she might have in mind.

“Good things come to those who wait,” was all she said. Despite his uneasiness, Sandy also felt a ripple of excitement. Maybe the bridge being down wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Come on, get out of bed. We haven’t got all day.” She pulled back the duvet. “Oh my, you look gorgeous in that nightdress, girl.” He had put it on when he went back to bed. “Your legs are fabulous. Mind you, they’d look even better in stockings.” He blushed, but he tingled with pleasure at the idea.

He made sure to lock the bathroom door to keep Samantha from barging in, and he took his time in the shower, using the jasmine-scented gel he had come to love. He took extra time to moisturise, enjoying how smooth it left his skin. When he emerged from the shower, Samantha was nowhere to be seen, but she had laid out some clothes for him.

Two

On top lay a pair of white lace knickers. Victoria's Secret, this time. He picked them up and turned them over in his trembling fingers, wondering whether they would fit. He giggled, knowing there was only one way to find out. Without hesitation, he drew them slowly up his legs, relishing the soft kiss of the lace until they nestled around him, making him shiver with delight.

He turned to the clothes on the bed. There was a white blouse of some kind, along with a pair of light-blue shorts. They looked so pretty and feminine, and the thought of wearing them sent goosebumps down his spine. Despite how yesterday had gone, he still worried about what the others would think.

There’s only Sam, Mhairi, and Allegra here, he told himself, and they don’t seem to mind what he wears. I’ll try it on, he told himself, and if I don't like it, I can always take it off. He carried the outfit to the full-length mirror in the dressing room. He stood for a few moments, looking at his reflection, wearing only the knickers. They were small but just about covered him, and he watched in the mirror as he slid his hands around his bum, then up his chest, until his fingers brushed his nipples, and a soft moan escaped his lips.

That's enough, he told himself, reluctantly opening his eyes and picking up the shorts. He quickly pulled them on to find they were a perfect fit. The blouse was fiddly at first, but once he had turned it the right way round, he manoeuvred it over his head. He struggled with the thin straps, which fastened behind his neck, leaving his back exposed. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and his eyes widened in surprise. The top had a revealing V-neck that ended at his midriff, where an elasticated band made the fabric flare out, leaving some of his tummy bare. The shorts fitted tightly, and he thought they shaped his bum beautifully. As he admired himself in the mirror, he heard a soft whistle behind him. Samantha stood by the door watching him.

“You look so cute in that. I knew it would suit you.”

“Bloody hell, Sam. Stop creeping up on me.” A thought struck him. “Er, how long have you been there?”

“Long enough.” She winked, and he felt himself redden.

“Do I look alright, Sam?”

To his surprise, she kissed him on the cheek. “You look beautiful. But there is something that will make it even better. Close your eyes and trust me.”

“What are you going to do?”

She touched a finger to his lips and said, “Shh. You will love it. Have I been wrong so far?” He shook his head. “Then close your eyes for me. Hold still and don't move your lips.” A few seconds later, something slid across his top lip, then his bottom lip. “You can open your eyes now.”

Opening his eyes, he saw Samantha holding a lipstick. “Oh,” he said, licking his lips and feeling the slickness of lipstick for the first time in a long time.

“Don’t do that. You’ll smudge it. Hold still while I do it again.” She reapplied the lipstick and showed him the tip. “It’s Chanel Darling Pink. Lady Eleanor loved it. It looks perfect on you.” She produced a small mirror and held it up for Sandy to see. He loved how the lipstick emphasised the shape of his lips. Turning back to Samantha, he said, “Oh, Sam. I can't wear this.” He looked back into the mirror and whispered almost to himself, “Can I?”

“Of course you can. It's your colour, Sandy.”

“No, I mean…should I?”

Samantha whispered, “Don’t worry about what anybody else thinks. What's the thing Sir Robert says, ‘Don’t stop breaking other people's rules’? If you like it, then yes, you should.”

Sandy put his arms around Samantha and hugged her. "Sam, you are wonderful. Thank you so much.”

Samantha whispered into his ear, “Oh, Sandy. We’ve only just begun.”

Three

Sandy remembered Samantha talking about a painting of a rook that Lady Eleanor commissioned. It seemed an odd subject to choose, but after breakfast, he decided to take a look before starting work on the diary. In the drawing room, he examined each picture in turn, unable to find anything that resembled a rook, until he reached the painting above the fireplace. It showed a beautiful woman in profile, exquisitely painted, her black hair spread behind her, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. There was a hint of a smile on her lips, as if she had caught sight of her lover on his way home. He studied it for a few minutes but couldn't see anything else. It was a striking painting, but this can’t be it, he thought.

Disappointed, he was about to turn away when he blinked and looked back at the picture. What had Samantha said? ‘If you can find it.” Suddenly, his focus shifted, and like one of those Magic Eye pictures, he was astonished to see the feathers of a bird’s body and tail hidden in the woman’s long black hair. The woman's nose became the bird’s beak, and her pale green eye became the eye of what was now obviously a rook. The artist had been so clever that you wouldn't see it unless you knew what to look for.

He stepped back, the bird even clearer to him now, and he wondered what Lady Eleanor had meant it to signify. It was a clever trick, but did it have a deeper meaning, or was the painting simply a playful artistic joke obvious only to those in on the joke?

How strange it was that the woman in the picture, the birds in the garden, those in his dream, and indeed Sandy himself all had green eyes. He wondered whether rooks could have green eyes. Was it a mutation among the local rooks?

As he peered more closely at the picture, he noticed the artist had added something in tiny letters, almost hidden in the woman’s hair or the bird’s feathers, depending on how he looked at the painting. He traced it with his finger, and the hairs on his neck stood up as he read ‘And death shall have no dominion.’ He shivered. It was the same line on her headstone.

Did it hold any profound meaning for Lady Eleanor and Sir Robert? After all, she had included it in the painting, and it must have been Sir Robert who placed it on her headstone. Sandy shook his head. Was it simply a phrase from a favourite poem, with no deeper or hidden meaning? Yet it moved him nonetheless.

He sat and stared at the painting for a while longer, thinking about the woman who had commissioned it. He still held the feather, turning it over in his fingers as he studied the painting, hoping it would help him understand Eleanor. He was finding it hard to form a clear image of her, yet he still felt a connection with her, and she remained a mystery. He had googled her, but there was precious little to be found online. She had guarded her privacy carefully and always stayed in the background, leaving the limelight to Overstrand. But it looked like someone, presumably Overstrand, had scrubbed the internet of any image of her. The rich can buy privacy, he thought, even online.

The rich would have ways of doing that, but why would Overstrand want to? From what he knew about Overstrand, Sandy believed he had loved his wife. Yet he had put all the pictures of her in the house into storage and seemingly removed her from the internet. It seemed such a strange thing to do. Still, he thought, it wasn’t his problem.

Sandy stood up and almost fell off the wedges he was wearing. It was a sharp reminder of what was happening to him. Only a few days ago, he had arrived at Wychwood, eager to begin work on the diary’s translation. And now? He was wearing the clothes that had belonged to Overstrand’s dead wife, even though they were brand new and unworn, as Samantha kept insisting

Four

Sandy heard a clock somewhere in the house strike midday just as his phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from Overstrand. Sandy panicked. He couldn’t let Overstrand see what he was wearing, so he made sure only his face was visible on the screen. From what Sandy could see in the background, he was calling from his office.

“Hi Sandy, how are you?”

“I’m well, Robert, thank you.”

“How’s progress on the diary?”

“It’s going well. I’ve come across something I didn’t expect. After Tintoretto painted her portrait, she helped pay for it by sleeping with him several times, which she describes in lurid detail, including the size of his manhood.”

Overstrand laughed. “Tintoretto? That’s wonderful. That will stir things up. I can’t wait to hear more, but I wanted to warn you that you will have company soon. You remember Annabelle?”

“Yes, of course.” How could he forget Annabelle, he thought.

“Well, for reasons she can explain, she and her wife, Fleur, need somewhere private for a day or two. I’ve told them they can stay at Wychwood. I’m sure they’ll keep out of your way. I hope that’s not a problem for you.”

“Of course not, Robert. I look forward to seeing them.” Sandy thought it was sweet of him to ask. It was Overstrand’s house after all.

“They’ll arrive in the helicopter this afternoon. I understand the bridge is still not fixed.”

“Yes, we’re still cut off.”

“That's not a problem, is it?”

“No, no, not at all.” Shit, he thought, he would have to find some different clothes. “By the way, does Mhairi know they’re coming?”

“Yes, I told her before I called you. Sorry, I have to dash. The Prime Minister is on hold to speak to me. She wants a favour, which means I get at least three in return. By the way, have you done something to your lips? Got to go. See you soon.”

The line went dead, and Sandy froze in horror. He had forgotten about the lip gloss Samantha had applied, and at that moment, he heard the sound of a helicopter circling overhead.

Fuck, he thought. Overstrand had said this afternoon, not right now. He ran to the window in time to see the helicopter land. Annabelle stepped down from the helicopter, remembering to duck this time, followed by a tall, shaven-headed Black woman wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and cowboy boots. That must be Fleur, he thought, Annabelle’s wife. They walked hand in hand to meet Mhairi, who was waiting for them on the lawn.

Sandy dashed out of the library, shouting, “Sam! Sam! Sam!”

Her head appeared from behind the kitchen door. “Where’s the fire?” she asked.

“Fire? What fire? There’s no fire,” spluttered Sandy.

“Calm down. If we’re not on fire, what’s all the shouting about?”

“But Annabelle and her wife are here.” He was close to a panic attack.

“Yes, I know. So, what's the problem?” She said, as if talking to a five-year-old with a sugar rush.

“This is the problem.” He gestured down at what he was wearing. “They can’t see me like this.”

“Mm-hmm, I see your point.”

“Thank you,” Sandy said sarcastically. “What can we do about it?”

“I agree it's a bit casual to receive guests. We can get you into something more formal. Perhaps a skirt or a dress. Oh, I know exactly the thing.”

“Noooo! I can’t meet Annabelle like this.” He almost stamped his foot but glared at Samantha instead. “Or in a dress. Where are my clothes? I mean the ones I came with.”

Samantha frowned. “I was going to tell you later. I’m pleased to say we got the washing machine going at last.”

Sandy groaned. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

Samantha said almost gleefully, “Because your clothes have been in there so long, the water has ruined them.”

Sandy’s blood ran cold. “I will have to hide. I can't meet them like this.”

“Why not?” Samantha said.

“Why not? Why not? Because Annabelle will tell Sir Robert, and he will fire me, and I will never get another job…” His voice tailed off, and he felt tears prick his eyes.

Samantha wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. “Sandy, that's not going to happen. You need to trust me on this. We will tell Annabelle and Fleur the truth.”

Sandy turned pale. “You can’t tell them the truth, for God’s sake.”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “I mean that because your clothes were ruined, and because the bridge is down, you haven't been able to get out to buy more.”

“Oh. I suppose that would work,” he said, panic subsiding. “But what will I wear?”

 “I’ll sort out something for you. Maybe not a dress this time, but I have something in mind. I promise you neither Annabelle nor Fleur will bat an eyelid.”

“Can’t I just stay in my room?” He pleaded.

“No, because in Sir Robert’s absence, you are the host for any guests at Wychwood. That’s what he said to Mhairi when he told her they were coming. You don’t want to let him down, do you?”

Sandy stared at her. “Me? The host?”

“That's what he told Mhairi. It makes sense. You’re his representative while he’s not here.”

“Oh, God. I’m not sure I can do it, Sam.” Sandy felt astonished yet thrilled by what Sir Robert had said.

“Of course you can. Mhairi and I will support you. All you have to do is look after your guests. Come with me while Mhairi gets them settled in their apartment.”

He followed Samantha upstairs and into the dressing room. “Get out of that outfit while I find something.” She rummaged through a rack of outfits until she exclaimed, “Ah, there you are. Yes, this will be perfect.”

For the umpteenth time, he wondered how he had let himself get into this. Samantha turned back to find him still in the top and trousers.

“Come on, hurry up. We haven’t got much time.” In a daze, he took off the top, and as he bent over to pull them down, he heard her giggle as his knickers slipped down as well, revealing his naked bum. “Take them off, too. I’ve got some fresh underwear here as well.”

He slid the knickers off and stood naked in front of Samantha. Strangely, he didn't feel embarrassed. He had grown used to her seeing him almost naked, so he didn't feel awkward. She handed him a pair of black lace knickers, and he slid them up his legs. They were high-waisted and stretched deliciously across his bum.

“La Perla,” said Samantha. “They make your bum look fabulous.”

”Oh,” he said, looking down. “They don’t conceal much.”

She grinned wickedly. ”That’s the whole point. It’s a good job you got rid of all that nasty hair down there.”

It was true that he loved how smooth his skin felt after shaving his pubic hair, and it made wearing the knickers so much more thrilling. Samantha produced something she had been holding behind her back and said, “Turn around, and I’ll help you on with this.”

“What is it?”

“I said, turn around and put your hands in the air. Quickly, we haven’t got much time.”

His submissive nature kicked in, and he did as he was told. He felt Samantha slide something over his arms and shoulders. In the mirror, he could see it was a cream-silk, sleeveless, V-necked blouse with long ribbons of fabric trailing down the front. Before he could ask what they were, Samantha handed him a pair of black leather trousers and said, “Get these on, and I’ll sort out some shoes for you.”

The leather was soft and supple, and they slid easily up his legs. They felt wonderful against his skin, and he could feel them tight around his backside. Samantha returned, carrying a pair of black ankle boots with spiked heels and bright red soles, and dropped to her knees before him. He looked down as she picked up one foot and slid it into the boot

“Put your hand on my shoulder while I do the other one,” she said. Sandy did so, and she slipped the boot onto his other foot. Samantha stood up, and Sandy had to grab her as he wobbled a bit.

“Oh my God, Sam, I don’t know if I can manage these.”

She gave him a side-eye look. “Somehow I think this isn’t the first time you’ve worn heels like these. Besides, the ankle boots will give you more support.”

He felt his face flush as it was true. He had worn heels this high in the fetish club, and he had loved them.

“Okay, take a few steps. Stand up straight, put your heel down first and don’t look down. Take shorter steps and place one foot directly in front of the other. Hold my shoulder if you want.”

He held Samantha’s shoulder at first, but it was a bit like riding a bike. You might wobble a bit, but once you learn, you never forget. He quickly got his balance and felt steady enough to take his hand off her.

“Told you so,” said Samantha, a knowing grin on her face. “Now, stand still, I need to finish the blouse.” She stood in front of Sandy and took hold of the two hanging ribbons, and with a couple of quick hand movements, tied a perfect bow. She stood aside, and Sandy saw himself in the mirror.

Samantha grinned. “I told you it was nothing to worry about, didn't I? Just a shirt, trousers and shoes.”

Except that the shirt was a sleeveless silk blouse with a pussy bow, the trousers were tight black leather, and the shoes were three-inch-high Louboutin black ankle boots.

“Oh my…” he managed to say.

“I told you I would find you something suitable, didn't I?” Samantha looked extremely pleased with herself. “Let me touch up your lips before you go.“ Samantha produced a lip gloss and quickly covered Sandy’s lips. “There,” she said, “That's much better. You are going to have to do that for yourself, mind you.”

She turned him back to face the mirror, and he was shocked, but also delighted, to see how much shinier his lips were with the lip gloss. He studied his reflection for a few minutes, trying to decide something.

He turned to Samantha and whispered, “Can I do this, Sam?”

“Of course you can, sweetie. You were born for this. Now go and greet your guests,” she said. He turned to leave, but Samantha grabbed his arm. “Wait, there's something I forgot.” She rushed into the bedroom and returned a few seconds later carrying something. “Give me your hand,” she said, and he felt something slide over his hand. “Tsk,” Samantha said, “We have got to do something about your nails.” He looked down to see a silver bracelet dangling from his wrist. It sparkled and glinted in the light, and it looked beautiful, he thought. He felt his eyes moisten as he turned to her and said softly, “Thank you, Sam.”Samantha kissed his cheek and said, “Knock 'em dead, girl.”

Five

Sandy walked to the kitchen to find Mhairi and Allegra preparing lunch. Allegra clapped when she saw him, and Mhairi said, “I’ve told your guests that we’ve had a problem with the washing machine and that you’re wearing something we let you borrow. I’ve settled them in a guest suite, and they are having drinks in the drawing room. I suggest lunch at half past one in the dining room and dinner at seven.”

“Oh, perfect, Mhairi. Thank you.” He hesitated before asking her, “Tell me, do I look all right? Please be honest with me.”

Pursing her lips, she looked him up and down. “Yes, that is perfectly acceptable for receiving guests in the daytime. However, you will need something more formal for dinner tonight, and I will ask Samantha to prepare something suitable. Now, go and look after your guests.”

He was too flustered to pay attention to what Mhairi had said, and it wouldn’t be until some time later that he would discover what she meant by ‘something more formal’. Right now, all he could think about was taking care of the guests. Of course, they weren’t really his guests, but he felt Overstrand had given him the responsibility, and he didn't want to let him down. He reached the door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open. He thought back to the first time he had met Annabelle in this room a few days ago, and today she was in the same place on the same sofa. This time Annabelle stood up and, to his surprise, kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s lovely to see you again, Sandy,” she said. “You look wonderful.”

“Do you really think so, Annabelle? I’m not sure.”

Annabelle looked him up and down and said, “You know I was wrong about you.”

Puzzled, Sandy said, “Wrong? How so?”

“I thought you were pretty, but you’re gorgeous.”

Before Sandy could say anything, Fleur strode into the room wearing a white, button-down man’s shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of men’s loafers. She stood a head taller than both Sandy and Annabelle and had the kind of physique only regular gym sessions could produce. Sandy suddenly pictured her as one of the Kingdom Guards from Black Panther. She was dazzling, he thought, and would inevitably dominate any room she entered. He felt more than a little overawed by her. Annabelle quickly took Fleur’s hand.

“Sandy, meet my wife, Fleur." Fleur held out her hand to shake Sandy’s. Her grip was unexpectedly firm, and Sandy winced as she squeezed his hand.

“Delighted to meet you, Sandy,” she said, in an American accent.

“You’re American,“ blurted Sandy, immediately feeling foolish.

“Guilty as charged, Sandy,” laughed Fleur. “I was born and raised in Alabama. And no, I didn't vote for the Mango Mussolini.” She tilted her head. “It's the first question everyone here asks me.” Sandy saw anger flash in her eyes. “Barbarians have taken over my country, but I don't want to talk about them any more today. I’m here to escape.”

Annabelle broke the awkward silence that followed. “Fleur, Sandy’s working on one of Robert’s Venice projects.”

Fleur’s face lit up. “Oh my God, I really want to visit Venice. It looks beautiful, but this one…” She turned to Annabelle and pulled a face. “…only ever tells me how awful it is there. Please tell me she’s wrong.”

Sandy grinned, delighted to join in. “Fleur, pay no attention to her. Venice is, without doubt, the most beautiful city on earth. There is nowhere else that comes anywhere near.”

Annabelle huffed. “Sandy, you and Robert are in a cult, so neither of you can be trusted to tell the truth. Speaking of Robert,” her face darkened as she said, “Did he tell you why we’re here?”

Sandy looked from Annabelle to Fleur. “No. He said you might tell me. But you don’t have to.”

Annabelle gave Fleur a questioning glance, who nodded. Annabelle said, “No, you should know.”

They sat on the sofas, with Fleur and Annabelle side by side on one, holding hands, and Sandy facing them on another. Sandy thought Annabelle was unusually nervous and kept glancing at Fleur. She cleared her throat and began to speak. “As you can imagine, there are many fans of my TV show, and the vast majority are lovely.” She paused and looked at Fleur, who squeezed her hand. “However, there are some who, how shall we call it, become too invested in the show. They can be a little flaky, but they generally mean no harm. We also get haters who post vile stuff about the show and sometimes about me. It’s an unpleasant part of being a woman in the media. Someone is stalking me online and in real life. What’s worse, they have been making death threats against Fleur.”

She paused to look at Fleur, who was scowling ferociously. “And last week, the police told us about a credible threat from the person making the threats, well, she—” Sandy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, we think it’s a she who plans to kidnap and kill Fleur. The police are going to arrest her tomorrow, so they want us out of the way, somewhere safe. Robert offered to put us up here until we’re in the clear. Hopefully, it will only be a couple of days.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” said Sandy. “It must be terrifying for you both. Why is she doing it?”

Annabelle was about to answer when Fleur cut in. “She’s infatuated with Annabelle and wants me out of the way. The nut job believes that getting rid of me would leave her free to be with Annabelle. She has been stalking Annabelle for the past year, although her delusion seems to have worsened in the last few months. She sent a black Barbie doll with the head cut off to Annabelle’s office last week. She’s clearly psychotic, but she’s also clever enough to have evaded the police so far.”

“She must be insane,” Sandy said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Surely she can’t believe that would happen. It must be so frightening.”

“Crazy is what crazy does,” said Fleur. “But I will not stand by and let some psychopath intimidate us. The police had better find her and take her out if necessary. I carry a gun in the US, but not here, unfortunately. We asked for a Taser, but your police refused. Even pepper spray is illegal here. Although we both have one, that's all.”

Sandy noticed Annabelle throw a nervous glance at Fleur and had the clear impression that Fleur was the dominant partner. Sandy was amused to see the normally uber-confident Annabelle being so deferential.

At that moment, Mhairi appeared at the door and announced that lunch was ready in the dining room. Sandy sat at the head of the table, with Annabelle and Fleur on either side. He felt a little giddy in the seat usually taken by Overstrand, and he hoped he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. As Samantha began to serve lunch, Sandy turned to Fleur. “Fleur, I’m sorry, I don't know what you do.”

“I’m a lawyer, Sandy. Mostly media work. Trying to stop the Tech Bros from ripping everyone off. I’m also Annabelle’s agent. I’ve done a few things for Sir Robert as well.” She spoke with a soft Southern drawl, but beneath it, Sandy sensed a steely edge. He supposed that was essential for a lawyer in her world.

“How did you meet each other?”

“I was in LA on an assignment,” Annabelle said. “We met one night in a lesbian bar. We’d both gone there with other people, but somehow we hooked up, ditched the others, and went back to my hotel together. Delightfully sordid. We got married a year later. We didn’t make a big thing of it because it's really none of anyone else’s business.

Lunch passed quickly as Annabelle shared behind-the-scenes stories from her television show, making Sandy almost cry with laughter. Fleur chipped in with some of her own anecdotes about the cutthroat media world she worked in. Samantha was serving, and Sandy thought she was trying to flirt with Annabelle, getting very close to her as she poured the wine and smiling at her a little too obviously. Annabelle was playing up to it and even touched Samantha’s wrist when she asked for more wine. Fleur didn't miss it either, frowning at both Samantha and Annabelle. Sandy remembered Annabelle saying how jealous Fleur was, so he might need to tell Samantha to tone it down a bit.

It wasn’t long before Fleur said she wanted to take a rest. As she said this, she shot a sideways glance at Annabelle, which made Sandy think Fleur was reacting to Samantha’s flirting. Sandy’s imagination ran riot with what might happen to Annabelle when Fleur got her back to their room. Sandy declared she should get back to the diary, and they parted, agreeing to meet for drinks before dinner.

Sandy returned to the library, but after a few minutes, her attention strayed to what Annabelle had said about her stalker. She couldn’t imagine how scared she would be to have to deal with something like that. But at least it seemed there would be an end to it soon. She sighed, her concentration broken, and she decided to treat herself to an afternoon off to rest and catch up on some reading. Inevitably, perhaps, after the day she’d experienced, Sandy fell asleep with her book in hand, only to wake when Samantha shook her shoulder.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to get pretty.” Samantha whispered.Six

Sandy took a quick shower and returned to the bedroom wearing a bathrobe.

Samantha appeared from the dressing room, holding something behind her back. “I think you’re ready for this,” she said.

“Ready for what?” Sandy said, already suspicious.

“Close your eyes first,” Samantha said. Sandy closed his eyes and felt Samantha step in front of him, pressing something against him. She guided his fingers to grasp something soft at shoulder height. “Open your eyes now.”

Sandy blinked open his eyes and stared at the mirror. His mouth dropped open as he saw the dress she was holding. It was the colour of Scottish thistles in full bloom, with cap sleeves, a belt at the waist and a mid-length skirt

“Sam, I can’t wear that,” he squeaked.

“Why not?” demanded Samantha.

“Because it’s a dress, Sam.”

“Honestly, Sandy. Do you think it's so much different from what you have been wearing?”

The now all too familiar debate kicked off in his mind. Could he wear it? Should he wear it? Did he want to wear it?

Samantha recognised that he needed a gentle push and moved around behind him.

“Doesn’t it look pretty? It will be stunning on you,” she cooed.

She saw his eyes widen and sparkle as he looked at the reflection. One last shove, she thought and whispered in his ear, “Tell me you’ve never worn a dress before, and I’ll call you a liar, sweetie.”

He blushed the same colour as his hair. “Hah, busted,” crowed Sam.

Sandy caught sight of the label on the dress. “Oh, no,” he said. “I can't wear it.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because it’s Oscar de la Renta.”

Samantha glared at him. “Not good enough for you, princess?”

“No, it's too bloody expensive. It must have cost thousands.” Sandy said in exasperation.

“Sandy, sweetie. The price doesn’t matter. It’s who wears it that makes the difference. It's a stunning dress, and it will look gorgeous on you. Have I been wrong so far?”

He hesitated, torn between wanting to wear the dress and the fear of looking like a fool in it.

Suddenly realising what lay behind Sandy’s reluctance, Samantha said, “I know you’ll rock this frock, but I’ll make a deal with you. Try it on; if you still feel the same, we’ll try something else. But if you do want to wear it, we’ll go for gold and make you look fabulous. Deal? Come on, I promise you won’t regret it.”

Sandy’s resistance was crumbling, but he still wasn’t convinced. With his head down and his voice trembling, he said, “I don't want Annabelle and Fleur to laugh at me.”

Samantha wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Sandy, I would never, ever let that happen. You must believe me.”

 He tried to return the dress to Samantha, but she pushed his hands away and asked, “Did either Annabelle or Fleur say anything about what you wore for lunch?”

”No,” he admitted. Sandy took another look in the mirror, and once again, his willpower deserted him. “I'll give it a try, but if I don't like it…”

”Okay,” said Samantha. “Let's get you into this. First of all, what are your legs like?”

”What? My legs? I’ve got two of them. What do you mean?”

Samantha rolled her eyes. ”Have you shaved them recently?” she said patiently.

”Um, no. Why should I?”

“Because there’s nothing worse than hairy legs in stockings. Let's have a look then.”

“Look? At what?” he spluttered.

“God help me,” she sighed. “Show me your legs.”

Sandy pushed one leg through the front of the robe, and Samantha ran her fingers down his leg, sending goosebumps along his spine. “Mmm, not too bad, but go and shave them and moisturise. We can give you a wax sometime. Mhairi loves doing that.”

Why was he not surprised by that? He was sure Mhairi would enjoy ripping the hair from his legs.

“You want me to wear stockings?” he sounded shocked, yet the thought thrilled him.

Samantha sighed. “It’s not what I want; it’s whether you want to wear them. That’s the point.” She saw the uncertainty in his eyes. “Hmm, I suppose you could wear tights instead, but they’re real passion-killers. I can’t stand them. I always wear stockings.” She hitched up the hem of her uniform to reveal the welt at the top of her stockings. She grabbed Sandy’s hand and slid it over her stockinged thigh. “Doesn’t that feel wonderful?”

His mouth went suddenly dry, and he swallowed as his fingertips slipped across the nylon. Samantha saw the look on his face and knew she had him. He was on the hook, and as usual, she had seen what he needed to nudge him along. Bringing her mouth to his ear, she whispered, “There’s nothing like the feel of a lover's hands sliding across your stockings on their way up your legs.” She felt him tremble, pulled his hand away, adjusted her dress, and, with a look like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, said, “Go and shave your legs, and I’ll get things ready for you.”

Like an automaton, Sandy walked to the bathroom, picked up the razor and shaving cream, stepped into the shower, and began to shave his legs.Eight

Sandy’s knees were shaking as he walked into the drawing room. He paused with his hand on the door handle before entering, his heart fluttering. He thought about turning and running back to the apartment to hide, remembering the fear and excitement that had enveloped him when he stood before the mirror in the dress he now wore. Of course, he had worn dresses before, but not one as beautiful as this.

He felt the tug of the stockings on the suspender belt beneath the dress. The heels pinched, but he loved how they enhanced his walk and posture. Samantha had done his make-up, and when he looked in the mirror, he had to hold on to her in surprise and delight. Even so, he almost panicked and wanted to tell Samantha he couldn’t go through with it. She told him it was going to be all right and to breathe deeply and relax.

Easy for you to say, he had told her, but she gave him a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. Knock ’em dead, she had said, and sent him off to face Annabelle and Fleur.

In the drawing room, Annabelle was on her own, intent on her phone. She looked up, and Sandy caught a look of astonishment on her face. She stood up and said, “Oh, sweet Jesus. You look like—I mean, you look stunning, Sandy.”

Sandy blushed and mumbled, “Honestly? You really think so?”

“Oh, yes. No doubt about it.” Annabelle hugged him, and he felt her breasts push against his chest, making him catch his breath.

“Annabelle, what were you going to say? Something about me looking like…”

“Oh, I was going to say in that dress, you look like you could be on a catwalk.”

For some strange reason, Sandy didn’t believe her, but he let it slide, because at that moment, Fleur walked into the room, catching them embracing.

“Am I interrupting something?” She was smiling as she said it, but something in her voice made Sandy remember Annabelle’s remark that Fleur could be very jealous. But, she can’t be jealous of me, thought Sandy.

Annabelle grabbed Fleur’s hand. ”I was just telling Sandy how gorgeous she looks. Don’t you think so?”

Fleur’s eyes flicked up and down Sandy with a look that gave him goosebumps. ” Yes, babe. I think she looks delicious.”

Sandy thought it was an odd thing to say, but his heart had fluttered when Fleur said she, not he. His nerves were rapidly subsiding at the two women's reactions. They carried on as if he were one of them. Samantha had slipped in behind them unnoticed and overheard Fleur. She smirked at Sandy before saying, “Would your guests like something to drink before dinner?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He turned to Annabelle and Fleur. “I’m so sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. What would you like to drink?”

Annabelle and Fleur both asked for vodka martinis, making Sandy shudder at the memory of the last time he had drunk one.

“And a gin and tonic for madam?” asked Samantha.

“Yes, please, Samantha,” he said without thinking. Wait, did she just say madam? He looked at Annabelle and Fleur, and they didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Cin cin,” said Fleur, clinking glasses first with Annabelle, then Sandy. ”What’s the toast?” she asked. Annabelle grinned and said, “To Sandy, may her dreams come true.”

Sandy joined in the toast, but as Annabelle and Fleur began discussing what they would do once the stalker had been arrested, Sandy’s mind drifted. What exactly were his dreams? Not the wild ones he had since arriving at Wychwood, but what did he want to do with his life? He was having a wonderful time at Wychwood, but he knew it would end. What would happen then? He wanted to live in Venice, but that could only be a pipe dream. There was no way he could afford it

Overstrand’s offer to translate the diary had given him a reprieve from having to think about what he wanted to do and, if truth be told, who he wanted to be. He had arrived at Wychwood aimlessly, looking for something: a path? a future? a meaning? a purpose? Had he found it?

“Sandy!” Annabelle’s voice made him jump. “You looked a million miles away. Are you okay?” She and Fleur were looking at him expectantly.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, sorry, Annabelle. What were you talking about?”

“Fleur asked when you will finish the diary?”

“Oh, truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve made good progress, but there’s still a lot to do before I finish. A couple of months, at least I would say.”

Fleur looked straight at him and asked, “And are you enjoying being here at Wychwood?”

Sandy froze for a moment. The question seemed straightforward, but he felt Fleur was asking for more than a polite enquiry. He glanced at Annabelle, who was also watching him, her wine glass poised, awaiting his answer. Once more, since he had been here, he felt a great deal rested on his answer

“Um, yes. I’m having a great time. Everyone here has been so kind, and Wychwood is a wonderful place to focus on the diary. No distractions.”

Fleur’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “No distractions at all?”

Sandy couldn’t stop the blush creeping across his face. “Well, I admit, I’ve been having some crazy dreams while I’ve been here.”

Fleur locked eyes with him. “Good dreams?”

Sandy gulped. “Mostly, and a couple of really wild ones. I think it must be because I’m sleeping in a new place.”

“Mmm, that normally wears off after a day or two, doesn’t it?” Fleur’s eyes were still unblinkingly fixed on his. “And you’re okay with the changes?”

“Changes?” Fleur’s eyes flicked up and down Sandy, her meaning obvious

Sandy felt himself nodding slowly as his mouth had suddenly dried up, and he could barely speak

Annabelle laid her hand gently on Sandy’s arm. “That’s lovely to hear, Sandy. I think you’ve found out something about yourself tonight. Come on, let’s drink Robert’s cellar dry. He would want us to celebrate.”

Celebrate? Celebrate what, thought Sandy. Then, with a clarity that shocked him, he realised tonight was what everything had been leading up to. He was wearing a dress, make-up, stockings, heels - and he loved it. He didn’t understand how or why it had happened, but with a rush that overwhelmed him, he realised he had found himself

A smile spread slowly across his face, and Annabelle caught his eye and winked. They didn’t drink the cellar dry that evening, but they made a dent in it before they finally staggered off to bedTen

Sandy arrived at the pool to find Annabelle and Fleur already in the hot tub. The water covered them up to their necks, but even so, he could tell they were topless. Each held a champagne flute and two bottles of Krug champagne nestled in an ice bucket.

“Come on, Sandy. Get in. We’ve been waiting for you,” said Annabelle, making space between her and Fleur.

Sandy shrugged the robe from his shoulders, revealing the tiny bikini he had taken from the dressing room.

“Mmm, cute little bulge,” giggled Fleur, who reached up to stroke it.

Blushing furiously, Sandy batted her hand away and slid into the water between the two women: Annabelle to his right, and Fleur on his left. Annabelle reached for the ice bucket to grab a bottle and poured a glass for Sandy before topping up her and Fleur’s glasses. As she stretched for the bottle, Sandy saw her breasts emerge from the water. They were small, but her nipples were erect, and Sandy had a sudden desire to suck them, and could almost feel them hardening between his lips.

He wondered what it would be like to have breasts like Annabelle’s and to have someone play with them. He looked down at his chest and, to his amazement, he saw a pair of small, puffy breasts with prominent nipples. He stared at them in wonder and couldn’t stop himself from stroking them with his fingers, and shivered as the nipples stiffened.

“Cute little tits, too,” said Anabelle, brushing away his hand and replacing it with her own. Sandy felt his nipple tingle as Annabelle brushed her fingers across it, as Fleur’s hand found his other breast. Annabelle was gentle, stroking and caressing, but Fleur was rougher. Her fingers pulled and pinched, making him close his eyes and throw back his head, and a moan escaped from his throat as pleasure flowed like electric shocks from his nipples through the rest of his body. They continued to torment his nipples, trapping him in a cycle of pleasure and pain, making him wriggle and writhe between them.

“Open your eyes,” Annabelle ordered, and he snapped his eyes open to see Fleur and Annabelle kissing each other, their tongues fencing with each other, before Annabelle sucked Fleur’s tongue between her lips. Sandy stared, wide-eyed as the two women kissed and tongued each other inches in front of his eyes, until Fleur broke the kiss and pulled his head forward to meet her lips. She thrust her tongue through Sandy’s lips into his mouth, holding his head with her hands so he couldn’t pull away. He felt her small breasts pressing against his, and she easily held him in place as she subdued him with her tongue, which felt as long and as slippery as an eel in his mouth. He was helpless, overwhelmed by her assault, as she relentlessly took possession of him, and he willingly submitted to her, while Annabelle lapped at his neck with long, slow cat-like strokes of her tongue. Annabelle took his hands and guided them to Fleur’s breasts, and he sucked in a breath as he found small silver bars piercing her nipples.

“Play with them,” Fleur ordered. “Hard.”

He tentatively pulled on one nipple. “Harder,” Fleur commanded, a sound like a warning growl from a panther. Sandy twisted and pulled on the silver bars so hard she was scared she would rip them out, but Fleur didn't pull away, so he did it again, and again, and again, until his fingers were aching. She began to pant, gulping air as he twisted her nipples until she threw back her head and came howling like a banshee.

Annabelle grabbed his hand and slid two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking and licking them until they were slick with her saliva. She let them slip out of her mouth, and holding his wrist, she opened her legs and pushed his two fingers into her pussy. Sandy was frozen, unsure of what to do, until Annabelle began to move her hips against his fingers. He began to respond, pushing his fingers in as she moved her hips forward. She pulled Sandy’s head onto her breasts, and his lips found a nipple, and he nipped it between his teeth, hearing her hiss in response. She thrust and ground herself against his hand faster and faster until she raked her nails down his back as her body shuddered, and she came with a scream.

“Your turn now,” said Fleur, standing up in the hot tub, her wet body glistening. Annabelle stood beside her, and between them, they hoisted Sandy onto the edge of the hot tub, his legs dangling into the water. He was trembling, with fear or excitement, he didn’t know or care. Annabelle pulled down the bikini pants he was wearing and dropped them into the tub. Sandy gazed down in bewilderment at his groin, because where he expected his cock and balls to be was flat, smooth skin with wispy ginger pubic hair. What the fuck? He slid his hand down to where his cock should be and felt nothing, but then his fingers found something that shouldn’t be there. Beneath his fingers were fleshy folds of skin, and between them, he could feel an opening, and suddenly, everything made sense. He now had a vagina instead of a penis, but he didn’t have time to wonder about how this had happened, because her heard Fleur order Annabelle, “Make her wet for me.”

Who was she talking about, wondered Sandy. The answer came when Fleur pushed him flat on his back, while Annabelle knelt in the tub and pushed Sandy’s legs apart. She locked eyes with his, and her head dipped down between his thighs. Annabelle’s tongue slipped through his pussy lips, and Sandy felt her gently kiss the inside of first one thigh, then the other, moving higher each time. The first long, slow stroke of her tongue on his pussy made him jump, as if every nerve in his body had fired at once.

“She’s ready for you,” said Annabelle, and stood aside to reveal Fleur standing behind her. Sandy’s eyes bulged as he saw a fully erect penis jutting from Fleur’s groin. It pointed upwards, long, thick, and heavy. Sandy had seen many, many cocks before, but never one this beautiful. He stretched out his hand to touch it, unwilling to believe it was real. His fingers touched the tip, and it felt hot. This was no cold plastic dildo; it was skin and tissue engorged with blood, pulsing in his hand.

Fleur bounced her cock against his pussy lips a few times, making him ache for her to enter him. She pulled back and then pushed herself deep inside him, forcing his head backwards as his mind erupted in a kaleidoscope of colours