Mission Impossible 2

It was a Wednesday at 12.05 when I left the office; 12.22 by the time I climbed into the black cab: 12.51 when I climbed out at the club.
I flashed my gold membership card at the beautiful Indian receptionist. She looked at me twice, then, peered at the image on the card.
“Hello, Madam. Thank you, madam.”
I turned and walked to the member’s only door, conscious of the amused look on her narrow face.

My digital watch said 13.33 by the time I pulled the blonde wig over my short auburn hair and viewed the result.
It had taken three weeks of careful planning and almost daily practice, but so far everything was going to plan.

The new hair style hadn’t gone down well at home. He wasn’t the type of man who’d say, “that’s very nice darling,” if he thought otherwise. So he didn’t say anything at all, other than, “New hair cut?” But I could feel the disappointment pouring out of his eyes.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my wife with the long hair?”

That night I gave him a compensatory blowjob. For some reason I felt I owed him something; proof that shorter hair didn’t make me any less of a woman – any less his wife. He tried tugging on it as he took me from behind, gave up and smacked me hard on the ass, harder than he ever had before. I understood.

He would have understood the need, if I could have told him why. But the reason would have killed him.
I’d loved my long hair. There had been almost a physical pain, as the hairdresser took the scissors and began hacking it away, holding up the long strands before laying them on a little trestle.
After the washing and the styling, my neck looked even longer, my ears more visible.

“How do you like it?” she’d asked.
“Perfect,” I replied.
She didn’t ask, perfect for what? Perfect if you wanted to look like a tall, beautiful, transvestite rent-boy.
My next stop had been the wig maker, and then the shop where they sold stage make-up.

I put on the tinted glasses. The clock on the wall said 13.37.
The receptionist was busy with some other people, so she didn’t look my way as I stepped out and headed for the exit.
The hire car was where I’d told Christian to leave it, the key on top of the driver’s side front wheel.

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