Doing A Carol 43
Dear Diary.
Let’s set the scene.
The party was scheduled to start at 7pm, but Sara wanted me to be there earlier so that we could have a proper catch up before her guests were scheduled to arrive.
This will be great as I haven’t seen Sara for a few weeks so we will have lots to discuss, plus we do have tons of fun when we get together. To be honest, we are a bad influence on each other as we tend to regress back to our teenage years and become those noisy kids at the back of the classroom who used to cause so much havoc.
Jerry, on the other hand, sent a text to say that he was still in the City and would be late as his new client is rather demanding, so he would meet me at the party. That’s typical of him, work first, fun later. But his work does allow us to enjoy the comfortable lifestyle to which we are accustomed too. So I can’t be too angry with him, can I? Poor Jerry.
It’s now 6pm and I’m dressed up to the nines like some cheap hooker with my tight skirt half way up my neck and a blonde wig bubbling away like a big bag of vanilla candy floss gravitating around my head.
Along with forgoing my natural, though expensive Estée Lauder face covering in exchange for a make up creation that looked as if Cloppy The Clown had slapped his greasepaint all over my face with a rusty trowl, I’m now donned up in this ridiculous (although I do like the short skirt and the thin blouse as I may wear this again on one of my alternative nights out) creation.
And yes, I did look as if I could come across as an easy lay (well, for those of you who know my secret, I am, aren’t I?) So I guess the costume has fulfilled its job description, hasn’t it?
Saying that, my commitment to the look wasn’t truthfully one hundred percent perfect as I was still reluctant to compromise my skin routine by wearing some cheap fragrance, to which I may be allergic to.
And regardless of what state of dress I’m in, or not, I do have to keep up with some kind of false dignity (as I nowadays tend to hide my slutty side under various couture outfits, my signature fragrance, Chanel No 5, had to be worn. Though this was not just on my neck, but sprinkled on my maidens moss too, just in case her bloom was going to be put on show for her admirers and win a horticultural golden gilt award from her fragrant and neat presentation.
With my £600 Fendi clutch bag in hand, and forced to wear my trainers to drive in, instead of my ‘fuck me’ heels as they were a bit too high to tackle the foot pedals, I drove off to the next village where hidden behind her exclusive gated house, I could see a hive of activity taking place.
Having been buzzed in by a georgous looking young man clutching a clip board with a list of invited guests on it, I was shown to a parking spot on a mat of wooden slats which were placed to protect her front lawn.
‘Coo-ee,’ I heard a call from the front door as Sara waved me over. ‘Don’t you look sexy.’
‘Thank you,’ I carefully turned around on the graveled driveway to show off my efforts. ‘It’s something I pulled together at the last moment.’
We both laughed.
‘And don’t you look a vision too!’ I said.
‘I’m supposed to be one of the girls belonging to Madame Fifi. Do I pass?’
‘With flying colours!’
Sara fluffed up her hair like Mae West.
‘And is our mysterious hostress here yet? I’m dying to meet her,’ I asked.
‘No not yet. She’s going to make an appearance later. Now come in from the cold and tell me all about your Christmas. I want details.’
Sara grabbed my hand and led me through her hallway and out through a side door where the official party entrance was set up.
Sara giggled and pointed up to the sign [The Church Of The Short Satin Skirt] that hung above her large gate which led to the garden.
Instead of the usual wrought iron fortress, it was now decorated to look like a brown shabby church door protected by a pair of freestanding flamed medieval torches, standing either side like soldiers of the guards.
‘Ooh. This looks impressive,’ I said as the door opened.
‘Wait until you see inside.’
#DoingACarol ~TalesOfAHotwife #KinkyKlobber