“No...” whispered Luke. “I don’t like it...”

But he did like it. He looked at the collar and then Tracy put it on him, ruffling his hair and caressing behind his ear like he was a pet. It was demeaning. Emasculating. Belittling. The sharp points of his nipples and the almost transparent from moisture crotch of his panties was clear to see. Tracy gripped the waste band of his panties and the pressure on his crotch made him inhale. “Best get out of this clothes,” she said.

Luke’s hand was still at his collar. There were words there, words he could not read. “What does it say?”

“esSEX...” Tracy said with a grin.

Luke rolled his eyes. He’d once pointed out that Tracy’s name was synonymous with the Essex Girl stereotype of an unintelligent and promiscuous woman. He’d tried to get the nickname of Essex to stick with their friends and he often referred to her as his Essex Girl... with a silent E. She’d rankled under the nickname and had told him as much but he’d continued with the stupid joke for years, suggesting she dye her hair, get breast implants and use fake tan. Now it seemed that the joke was finally on him.

Luke considered the stereotype. It was a variation of the dumb blonde/bimbo persona, with references to the Estuary English accent, white stiletto heels, mini skirts, silicone-augmented breasts, peroxide blonde hair, over-indulgent use of fake tan (lending an orange appearance), promiscuity, loud verbal vulgarity and socialising at downmarket nightclubs.

“What did you do to my breasts?” He asked, suspecting that they might grow to look like silicon enhanced monsters on his petite form. Was he going to turn orange like an Oompa Loompa? Was his hair going to go peroxide blonde? Or was he worrying pointlessly?

Tracy patted his cheek. “We’ll see pet.”