A few hours later I sat in my office trying to concentrate on pulling together my marketing scheme for a new client who as about to import an environmentally friendly brand of coffee from Brazil.
I was almost entirely dressed in Diane's clothes, yet each item could pass for male apparel. Every time I moved some novel sensation reminded me of this humiliating truth. The corset restricted every breath. I was light-headed for lack of oxygen. Over it was a pearl colored shirt, which could pass for a man's shirt only on cursory examination. The shiny ice-blue tie (which was also Diane's) barely concealed a row of pleats where the buttons should be showing on a man's shirt. Because the shirt was sheer, Diane had persuaded me I needed to wear what she called a camisole under the shirt to hide the line of the corset. It's shimmery surface caressed my torso every time I shifted position.
Diane's brown slacks were a little loose around my butt, but thanks to the tightly laced corset they fit perfectly at my waistline, which itself was several inches higher than normal. The slacks accentuated this. I could not remove my sports jacket without revealing how my slacks flared out at the hips and thighs. It also served to conceal the two little hillocks formed in the front of my shirt by the cups of my corset.
The slacks were designed to come only to my ankles. When I sat or walked, they rode up and exposed the sheen of the sheer nylon knee socks Diane had insisted I wear to replace my day-old wool socks.