This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Love Across the Miles”
Smith and Logan, The Theatrical Outfitters of the Professional, are located in the older industrial part of Edinburgh. Their new building, once the hallowed space of the Niddrie Presbyterian Church, now has a bright red and black sign saying that it’s a theatrical costumier and that they have been in business since 1870.
Mary and Barbara walked into the hazy gloom from the brilliant sunshine of the mid-morning. For a moment or two they stood, uncertain, in the white-tiled lobby. Cracked brown linoleum covered the floor.
“Interesting,” Barbara said, a half smirk on her face.
“Wait and see. Appearances can be deceptive. Alison had a fantastic Mary Queen of Scots outfit from them. Amazing. It was wicked. So sexy she could hardly get any peace.”
“I can’t imagine Alison would want peace. I can’t imagine Alison wearing anything if she felt it would come between her and her piece.”
“Ho. Ho. You’re so funny. You know your trouble, Miss Misery Guts?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You need a good shag. A large juicy shag. A young man. A large well-hung young man.”
“Thank you for those kind words, Miss Know-All. Perhaps you should buy me a giant vibrator? King size. Amazon size.”
A young man came to the oak counter. He stood tall and his skin was tanned gold, bronze, silver. Fair as a Viking, his curls haloed his face. His body rippled under his thin cotton shirt. “Morning, ladies, can I help you?” His voice lilted with a strong Welsh accent.
“Ceruti and Smith. We have an appointment for a fitting . . . for a party.”
“Follow me.” They did as they were told and obediently trotted behind the young man’s tight bum into a narrow corridor.
Mary whispered aside, “You wait and see. Brass and black leather. I’ve seen through you. Behind that soft, cuddly exterior is an animal. You need to maim. A tiger. Or a leopard.”
“More like a tired lizard. You should have been a psychiatrist instead of being a dentist. Or a writer of horror stories. Fantasy, Madam.”
For over a month Mary had known what she wanted for the costume party. She had to have the full, black leather look. Executioner. Cruel. What was the point of getting dressed up if the dress-up personality was more or less the same as oneself?
They were in a hall where pulleys and racks hung from the ceiling. It seemed as if the ceiling was totally covered by robes and costumes lined up, in row upon row between the rafters like soldiers waiting for an order to charge. Men’s clothes on one side and women’s on the other. Under white dust-sheets draped over railings, Ancient Rome faced modern ballroom.
They both stood with their heads tilted up, fascinated by the array of clothes. In the thick air, dust motes shone in the colored light from the stained glass windows.
“And what were you ladies thinking of?”
Barbara glanced at Mary as if looking for some kind of approval before speaking. Mary made a face and said, “Well, I know what I want. Something in black leather. Executioner, perhaps. Tight. Hard yet silky. Fitting like a second skin.”
“Right. Just the thing for you. And what about the other young lady?” He faced Barbara.
“I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it. Not black leather I don’t think. For sure, not black leather. Never leather. Something soft, something white, perhaps an angel? Why did I say that? Angels on my mind. Yes, that’s it.” She pointed to an old print of an angel leaning on a windowsill. “The angel. And this being a church. That’s it.”
“Angel it is, then. Beauty and the Beast. Right. No difficulty, none at all.” He rubbed his hands together. “We have a lovely line in angels. The best in the whole of Europe. Our angels go everywhere. You will be the most angelic angel they have ever seen. The most angelic.
“Now, if you could come into the fitting room. I think we can fit you from stock. Both of you are . . . so slim and . . . well formed, so well formed. Lovely.”
They were in a large fitting room lined by mirrors. A chaise in dark brown leather was the only furniture. Hooks were set into the walls above the mirrors and a thick tartan carpet covered the floor from wall to wall. It was like a crypt, Mary thought, or a womb perhaps, yes, more like a womb.
The young man reappeared and asked if it was all right for him to take measurements as their fitting lady was off sick. Or would they rather take each other’s measurements? They both shook their heads and mumbled something along the lines that no, it was fine if he took the measurements. Barbara slipped off her skirt and blouse and stood in bra and pants. The fine black briefs accentuated the line and rise of her pubis. Mary examined her in the mirrors and yes, she did look . . . edible. The cheeks of her bum rose as if held in by elastic and her breasts were just covered by the tip of the heavy black lace bra. Mary sat in evident admiration, a half smile on her face. She shrugged. “Not bad, not bad at all.”
Barbara pirouetted as if to show herself off even more. The young man laughed and took her breast measurement, then her waist and then her hips. After each measurement he jotted numbers into a little notebook. He had an aroma of spice and all things nice, a rich smell. Barbara rolled her eyes at Mary over his head while he was down measuring the length of her legs, his fingers in her crotch. Mary winked. He seemed to make quite a meal of measuring.