Lockdown! 19

Chapter 19

Reaching his destination, Paul looked out the bus window and sighed loudly. Pressing his short skirt down tight against his hairless thighs in an attempt not to show his pink panties to the teenage boys who had been staring at him the whole journey, Paul gingerly stood up.

“Hey sexy, where are ya going?” called out one of the young hoodlums as Paul looked straight ahead, ignoring the comment aimed in his direction.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Paul edged his way down the aisle on his wobbly legs. “Leave it out, Deano,” another boy cried out. “You need to pay a bird like this one if you wanna get any. Hey love, how about a blowy for a tenner? I’ll even treat you to a bag of chips after.”

Clutching his pink, heart-shaped bag close to his chest, Paul hurried as fast as he could down the steps of the bus in his troublesome shoes as a chorus of laughter erupted behind him.

Grateful to have escaped all the lewd and inappropriate comments, Paul felt a sense of relief as he watched the bus drive away. But it was short-lived, finding himself in an unfamiliar area of the city before glancing down at what he was wearing and shaking his curly blonde head.

Unzipped his embarrassing handbag with his shaky claw-like fingers, Paul rummaged for a moment before retrieving a little scrap of paper. On it was written an address, the address of Mrs Morris. Using the tips of his thumb and index fingers, like one of those claw-like devices you find in the prize machines at arcades. Paul clumsily flipped the paper over to once again study Veronica’s crudely drawn map.

It wasn’t too far to Mrs Morris' apartment building. Well, that would have been the case if he wasn’t wearing a pair of unstable, ridiculously tall pair of 6-inch platform pumps.

Thinking back to earlier in the evening, when he was presented with the awful outfit, Paul regretted not questioning things more. At the time, he had wanted more than anything to complain, but he was still pretending to take Veronica's pills every day. So what he did, instead, was grin like an idiot while Veronica helped him with his hair and makeup. Before slipping himself into an outrageously-short dress only to leave the safety of the apartment without even his phone.

Checking the map one last time, Paul took a deep breath and set off. It didn't take long before his leg muscles were burning. Every step was agony for the young man as his feet slipped around inside his towering shoes on the 500m journey from the bus stop.

What made things worse, the skimpily clad young man had no idea what to expect from the evening. All he knew was that after upsetting Mrs Morris in the salon, she had requested (as a sort of apology) that he join her for dinner at her apartment. And once again, with him still pretending to be a ditzy airhead. It’s not like he could argue back.

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For Paul, making it to the apartment building felt like a massive achievement, even if most people would have considered it to be nothing more than a gentle stroll.

Looking down at the paper in his hand, now a little crumpled thanks to his overzealous grip. Paul found a number and entered it into the intercom next to the door.

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he waited for about thirty seconds before starting to worry. Did she go out? Had he pressed the wrong number? What day was it?

He looked down to check the paper once more, only to jump as a loud buzzer startled him, almost knocking him off his feet. "Come in, Paula. 9th Floor. Take the lift on the left-hand side," Mrs Morris' voice rang out before abruptly ending.

Tottering into the building, Paul found the lift without issue. Feeling utterly exhausted and more than a little apprehensive about what was to come, he leaned against the back wall of the small metal box slowly as it ascended into the unknown.

Paul's beautifully made-up face was devoid of emotion as he stared across at mirrored doors opposite. He usually avoided mirrored surfaces like the plague. As with them came the harrowing, sickening feeling, deep in his gut as his mind tried to comprehend what he had become. But tonight, with the reflection of a scantily clad blonde-bombshell gazing back at him, he found it hard to turn away.

(See image 27)

The magnitude of the changes were hard for him to fathom. The only feature still familiar, being his baby blue eyes. Albeit, now accentuated by an array of blended pinks, peeking out from behind fluttery long lashes, dowsed in mascara, and fanning out in front of his vision.

The rest of his head framed by curled blond hair was now unrecognisable. Sported pencil-thin arched eyebrows, shiny inflated lips, and a smooth Botox-filled face slathered in makeup.

Looking down, it was just as shocking. In his youth, Paul had been quite a muscular guy. He played sports and worked out regularly. Granted, In the last few years, he'd let himself go a little, perhaps even getting a bit chubby, but even he had a hard time picturing what he used to look like now.

The pouting girl in the mirror, with her long tanned slender legs, perched atop a pair of nude fuck me pumps looked like a call girl. Her hourglass figure, highlighted by an extremely short A-line dress and short jacket, screamed desperation.

“Ok, deep breaths, Paul,” he told himself, watching as his padded chest rose and fell in the mirror. “You can get through this. It’s just one night. What’s the worst that can happen?”

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Grinning awkwardly as Mrs Morris told an old college story, Paul sat opposite her at the dining table with his knees squeezed tightly together.

Nodding his head every so often and accompanying it with a sort of grunting noise, he did his best to try and acknowledge that he was listening.

In truth, he had little interest in her long-winded stories with no punch line. He just wanted the night to end so he could go back to his room, take off his unbearably painful shoes, slip into his pyjamas, and forget the night had ever happened.

After Knocking back the last of his wine, Paul’s mind wandered for a second as he studied the lipstick stain he’d left on the rim of the glass.

“Paula! Earth to Paula! are you listening to me?” Mrs Morris announced, bringing him back to reality.

“Erm… no, I mean yes. Sorry. I just zoned out there for a moment,” Paul replied, living up to the ditzy persona most people expected of him for these days.

Mrs Morris rolled her eyes. “I asked if you enjoyed your food? You’ve hardly touched it?”

Glancing down at his plate, he realised what she was talking about. The large slice of lasagne he had been presented with earlier had barely been touched, and it wasn't because he didn't like the taste. Instead, it was his shapewear, compressing his waist forcefully inwards, combined with the nervous awkward atmosphere in the room that was stealing his appetite.

“Oh, yes! Sorry. It’s super delicious. I just feel a little tired. It’s been a really long day.” He answered, looking up and giving her his best puppy dog eyes.

“What about a small slice of lemon pie for dessert instead then?” Mrs Morris declared before standing up to gather up the plates. “I made it from scratch this afternoon.”

“Erm… No thank you, Mrs Morris. Thank you for inviting me over and everything but I think I’m just going to head home now and get some rest.” Paul replied, lowering his head into his shoulders while looking up at the intimidating woman.

Mrs Morris smiled back at him. “Please, I’ve told you this a thousand times. Call me Gwendoline. And I’ll let you head off soon but not just yet. I still haven’t had a chance to discuss with you the reason why I asked you over here tonight.”

“Here, let me get these plates out the way while you move over to the sofa.” She added, not taking no for an answer. "I'll open another bottle while I'm at it."

Alone in the eerily quiet room, Paul winced in pain as he stood up. Looking down, he wiggled his high-heeled feet, noting how they looked larger than usual and probably a little swollen.

It was a short trip over to the sofa but after taking so long to mince over, grimacing in pain with every tiny little step he took, Paul plonked himself down onto the end of the sofa just as Mrs Morris re-entered the room.

“Did you forget the Wine?” Paul asked, letting out a nervous giggle and attempting to and break the tension in the room.

“I haven’t forgotten anything!” The sour-faced woman announced. “I have an excellent memory, Paul!”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. But when it did, it was accompanied by Paul's jaw. “Whaaat! Umm… What did you just call me?”

“Your name!” Gwendoline Morris asserted. “Are you going to try and tell me that you are not Paul Gleeson? Twenty-four and unemployed. Currently living with his ex-girlfriend Veronica Miller, and two best friends, Kamsiyochukwu Yamoud and Timothy Lau”?

(See image 28)

He suddenly felt a rush of blood to his head as his whole body felt cold. “But… how? Why?” Paul gasped, feeling faint.

“Oh, I’ve known your true identity for a while now. Ever since the background checks came in,” Gwendoline replied. “And before you ask. Things have been, let's say, a little boring over the last year or so, and I was curious. After all, It’s not every day, three men walk into my office in drag and commit identity fraud!”

With his whole body now trembling, Paul placed his hands atop the minuscule skirt of his dress, riding up his thighs, and began to rock back and forth. “Are you going to call the police?” He muttered timidly.

There was a pause before Gwendoline Morris began to chuckle. Or more accurately, she released a loud sinister-sounding cackle that a witch would have been proud of, sending a shiver running through Paul’s effeminate frame. “The police? Of course not! If I wanted that, you would already be in jail. No, I have other plans for you, my little darling. Now, how about a slice of that lemon pie?”