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We sat on a large chintzy sofa, and the strange thing was the body language. Still playing my role properly, I sat demurely, knees together, one foot tucked behind the other. Tony sat really close, legs touching, and from his manner, I knew he was relating to me more as a woman rather than plain old Tom. Tony is not normally a tactile person.He said "I think you really enjoyed yourself today, you look wonderful and are really very convincing." Then he said, "you should become Helen more often."That was the first time I had ever been referred to by a woman's name, I do not know where he got that particular name from, but I have now adopted it for my other self.Tony explained that he had to go, he needed to pick up his daughter. He also said that the girls were going to straighten things up, iron some of the outfits, and since they had drunk more than a few champagnes, intended to stay the night at the hotel, rather than risk driving.He leaned over, took my hand in his, and kissed me on. Facing us, she straddles the upward jet to stand on the foot control, causing four jets of unheated, freezing water to blast the snow from her body; it simply disappears in a welter of freezing spray which plasters her already soaking hair to her head, neck and shoulders. The torrent between her widely splayed legs finds its target too, making sure that no single speck of snow or ice from the tree can possibly remain.The torrent ceases. Dripping wet and shivering, she shakes her soaking hair from her eyes and turns her back to us, the freezing water dripping down her naked back, and she spreads her legs even further, and bending forward to present her most private parts to us, this time she literally stamps her bare foot on the control. This time the force of the jets almost knocks her off her feet but she bends even further forward to allow us an uninterrupted view as the freezing jets bounce off her soaking, gleaming flesh, the upward jet visibly forcing her cunt lips apart as the.
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‘With you being so very kind to me and with me having nothing to give you in return, I give you this,’ he said handing her a portrait that he drew of her face in pencil. A small 5 x 8 inch portrait drawing of her, she looked at the pencil sketch as if seeing her ghost. An understatement of description, the portrait was haunting. When did he draw this? She’s never seen this one before. He must have drawn it from memory. For him to draw this, she must always be on his mind. For him to draw this, she must haunt him in the way that this sketch now haunts. Her. As if she was looking at a black and white photograph secretly taken of her, the image looked exactly like her. Only more than the mere image of her, it was the look on her face that captured her interest. She didn’t remember herself ever having that look. Even though the image looked exactly like her and even though the portrait was of her, it was the look on her face that she didn’t recognize and that she never saw when looking.

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