The Key

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

The Key

ISBN # 978-1-78184-402-1

©Copyright Geraldine O’Hara 2013

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2013

Edited by Stacey Birkel

Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

Warning:

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Total-e-burning
and a
sexometer
of
2.

This story contains 61 pages, additionally there is also a
free excerpt
at the end of the book containing 8 pages.

THE KEY

Geraldine O’Hara

How can a pair of stockings, a PVC corset and a set of high heels make me change so drastically?

On a mad whim, I purchased a pair of fishnet stockings from my local newsagents. After putting them on and instantly changing from Plain Jane Smith into someone totally different, I ordered one hundred pairs online. And a PVC corset. And a set of mile-high heels.

Chantal Rossi was born. French, confident, sexy and wanton—this side of me was nothing like the woman I’d been before those sassy clothes had touched my body. I wanted sex, but the problem was I didn’t know where to go and get it. Nightclubs and pubs didn’t appeal. Nor did an online dating agency. But trawling the newspaper and seeing the wanted ads was a whole other story…

After arranging to meet with a stranger, I slid on my saucy clothes and prepared myself for the journey of a lifetime—to become the key that fitted into his lock. Or, more to the point, to make sure his key fitted into
my
lock…

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Indesit: Indesit Company

Chat!
magazine: IPC Media Group

Guinness: Diageo

Rolodex: Newell Rubbermaid

eBay: eBay, Inc.

Heinz: H.J. Heinz Company

Darjeeling: Tea Board of India

Tiffany: Tiffany Studios

L’Oréal: The L’ Oréal Group

Sainsbury’s: J Sainbury plc

Bambi: The Walt Disney Company

Ford Fiesta: Ford Motor Corporation

Chapter One

It was the stockings that had done it. Fishnet. Nice thick seam up the back of each leg. They’d turned me into another woman. When I’d worn the first pair I’d acquired from the little newsagents down the road…wanton, deliriously delicious, that’s how I’d felt. I’d then bought one hundred pairs from eBay. They came this morning in a plain brown box—and why wouldn’t they? I supposed it was guilt that had me thinking they’d have been delivered in a bright pink affair that had a flashing neon sign jutting from the top that read
Singleton has a thing about kinky clothing
.

My online shopping hadn’t stopped at the stockings, either. No, I’d chosen a PVC get-up, all shiny material and silver eyelets, whip-thin laces up the centre of the bodice, too. I hadn’t gone online to buy anything of the sort, so seeing it then finding myself putting it into my virtual basket had been a shock. Oh, and a pair of black stilettos a mile high with a bright pink sole—I’d dumped those into my basket too, selecting my size and width as though I were only buying flip-flops or furry winter boots. Dressed to impress, that’s what I’d been. Which was where my obsession had begun. Now I had to find a man to wear them for.

I pondered on how I’d go about this task. I didn’t like going to the pub by myself, didn’t fancy joining some group or other at the local community centre that meant I’d have to say, “Hi, my name is Jane, and I can’t find a man for love nor money.” Enrolling in a dating agency didn’t appeal either. However, the latter got me thinking and had me going back to the newsagents after work, where I purchased several daily rags. I stuffed them into my bag as if they were another guilty secret, although why I did that I had no idea. Jeans, a fluffy pink sweater that, okay, showed a bit of cleavage, and my little black pumps would hardly give anyone the impression I was a sexy vamp and using the newspapers for anything other than catching up on the latest goings-on. People bought newspapers all the time. Except I had them because I needed to trawl the wanted ads. For men. Oh, God, I was embarking on such a vixenish journey, throwing caution to the proverbial winds, and it felt bloody good.

I left the shop and walked down the busy street, shifting my eyes left and right, watching the crowd as though
I
had a neon sign on my head much like I’d imagined the stocking box would have had.
Singleton has newspapers with a view to getting sausages inside her muffin.
I blushed at my thought, convinced a man coming towards me with a black bowler hat perched on his large head was the type who would place such an advertisement. He appeared to have no hair, going by the absence of sideburns, and his somewhat fleshy jowls and wrinkles gave me the idea that he was older than Lobb Mountain—a grass-covered protrusion in the local park that wasn’t exactly a mountain but a small hill. As a kid I’d torn up and down it in a manic fashion, rolling too. Once, I’d tumbled over into dog shit and my mother had had the unfortunate task of washing it out of my long, wire-wool hair.

Those had been the days…

And now look at me. Climbing an entirely different hill—that of my thirties, still single, still unable to find the right man made just for me.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Bowler Hat shuffled closer, studying my cleavage as he passed. I wouldn’t have minded, but he’d licked his lips. It had my stomach churning and me asking myself whether I was destined to have older men leering at me for the rest of my life instead of the hunk-o-matics I so craved.

As I approached my flat in a side road off High Street, my neighbour, whom I secretly called Mr Big Bollocks, raised a hand while tending to his front garden. He always seemed to have a swollen groin area and be pulling up weeds. I often wondered whether he replanted the ones he’d already removed in order to appear as though he was constantly gardening. I suspected he had the times of my comings and goings firmly imprinted in his mind because when I was inside my flat, he was never out with his trusty trowel.

“Nice afternoon,” he said, nodding, waving that mud-encrusted trowel like it was a medieval spear and he a warrior.

I smiled, agreed that yes, it was and walked past pondering on whether he had ever been married. In my estimation he was in his thirties, an average-looking chap with mousy brown hair, blue eyes and a bit of a square jaw. Nice enough, but not for me. Not my bag, as they say. But what did it matter
what
my bag was? I couldn’t afford to be choosy, yet I was anyway.

Knowing he was staring at my arse, I tried to walk in a non-sexy way—nothing like how I’d sauntered around my bedroom in my heels and stockings this morning. That walk belonged to…

Hmm, should I choose myself a snazzy new name to go with my siren-like persona?

I climbed the outside steps to my front door—second-storey flat for me—mulling over names that might suit a sex-crazy woman. Well, I’d be sex-crazy once I had my outfit on again at any rate. My real name—plain old Jane Smith—was hardly one that I wanted to hand out willy-nilly when responding to the wanted ads. I rolled a few around in my head—Rachel Redlips, Jenny Big-Jugs, Susan Sexpot—then tossed them out in disgust. I wasn’t taking myself seriously—and this was serious business. I mean, starting a new journey always was, wasn’t it? One had to be prepared for all eventualities, and falling at the first hurdle wasn’t an option.

I slid my key into the lock and let myself in, tossing my bag onto my rather tired-looking, royal blue velvet sofa on my way through to the kitchen. Tea didn’t appeal—after all, I needed to get into role—so a glass of wine would better suit the task at hand. I poured, left the cork out so the rest of the red stuff could breathe, then took a large gulp to give myself a buzz. It went down far too easily, and before I knew it I’d finished the whole glass with no sexy new names forthcoming.

I stared at the bottle, contemplating just one more serving. The label proclaimed the drink to have been made in France. That was an idea. A French name would not only sound sexy but mysterious too. Chantal Rossi?

I splashed another goodly amount of wine into my glass then took it and the bottle into the living room. Plonking myself on the sofa beside my bag, wine bottle on the coffee table, the drink in the glass threatening to leap out and stain my sweater, I stared ahead at the TV. Saw my reflection and decided I looked sad and lonely. Perhaps desperate. After a sigh or two—or it might have been five, I wasn’t too sure—I opened my bag, pulled out the newspapers and put them in a pile on my lap. I’d gone for the locals. Stood to reason I would have—no good poking through the nationals for what I had in mind. Travelling far and wide wasn’t something I was prepared to do. Not yet, anyway.

Thumbing through the first one and drinking more wine, I found the wanted page. Lots of people after all manner of odd things. A pipe for an Indesit washing machine. An indoor TV aerial with a plastic square top so it could be made to look like a spaceship for a kid’s school project—too much information? A set of old-fashioned lampshades for landscape purposes. I shook my head, briefly wondered about the workings of the human mind, and realised I wouldn’t find what I needed there. I turned the page.

Ah. There they were.

Man seeks man with GSOH. Woman looking for man to fill lonely nights with intelligent conversation. Man needed for alternative liaisons with a view to perm relationship. Alternative? Was that some kind of code for kinky? I’d have to watch out for that. I wasn’t sure if I could handle anything off-the-wall.

But Chantal Rossi might be able to.

Hmm, there was that. Chantal Rossi could well be into all manner of rampant rendezvous given half the chance. I needed to know for sure before I proceeded any further. Quickly, in case I changed my mind, I slid the pages off my lap and onto the sofa, put my glass on yesterday’s issue of
Chat!
magazine, the base covering the words
I had a thirst for an orgy!
then made my way to my bedroom.