£7 for a pair of new pyjamas hidden under a pile of other nightwear in my supermarkets men's department, quite a bargain. Ok, they may be gaudy shade of blue but my current ones are so full of mystery holes as I explained last week that really they were too good an offer to miss. I paid my money and skipped out of the store convinced a bargain was snatched from under their noses.
That was two weeks ago, this morning I stood looking in the mirror through that bleary eyed look you get first thing in the morning and wondered why I had grown a pair of breasts overnight. Sticking out from underneath my new pyjamas were two enormous knockers, I stood swaying not knowing if I should be in raptures as I'll have something to play with or crying that I'll have to start wearing a 38DD. Maybe I was still dreaming and this was some weird cross dressing hermaphrodite nightmare.
Puzzled I washed my face to brighten myself up a little and looked back in the mirror. They were gone, vanished, I was boobless. Whoa! What the hell? No matter how much I pressed my chest together I couldn't get them to appear again, I even twisted a nipple radio dial like trying to bring them back thinking maybe its like a secret inflation button that women don't tell men about but all to no avail. Bemused I walked back into the bedroom.
'What's with the breasts?' said Jayne.
Looking down my whoppers were back, my hands instinctively went to cup them and was met by thin air, it was then it dawned on me. I was wearing women's pyjamas. The top had been cut in such a way as to cup the breasts, not apparent when you slip them on but spend a night wriggling about in bed and the next morning they have pulled in such a way that they bellow up exactly where they are needed giving me at least the impression of a couple of fun puppies.
As you can see, it puckers nicely to cup delicately across the chest.
I checked the label, FM which I assume stands for female and the closer I looked at them the more I noticed it all looked a bit feminine, even down to, now don't laugh, the delicate bow around the waist. I can see you stifling a laugh, silly old Peter, how could you not know? How indeed, for the last two weeks I have been cavorting around Bunnyopolis at night and even answered the door dressed fruitily in my girly sleepover nightware to sign for a parcel, god knows what everybody thought but then again if I can talk about twenty uses for Shredded Wheat or write a sketch about armchair cowboy doctors then I suppose cross dressing no matter how accidental is probably par for the course. Only yesterday I found myself carefully glueing back together the shell of an egg and making a cream pie (don't laugh again! You lot really do have a one track mind) from plasticine, cotton wool and real jelly, life doesn't get any more exciting than this.
Do I carry on wearing them and put up with the lady lumps or buy a pair of fluffy slippers to go with them?
I don't know, I'll have a think about it after I have removed my makeup and took off my black patent six inch heels which are killing me. Now where are my keys, they must be in my handbag somewhere...
www.petersmithcollective.co.uk Home Of Foreverbunny and the Impossimals
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