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A Murder Misstery

By: thrillerauthor



When I rolled out of bed that fateful morning, I had no way of knowing that it would be my last day as Matt McCoy. After showering and dressing quickly (how I long for those days!) I bolted out the door for my train, looking forward to another manic day on the floor. Although I was one of the youngest traders at the Chicago exchange, I was becoming feared and respected for my cunning and balls...another detail which was soon to change. 

I grabbed a bagel and a cup of coffee at the station and wolfed them down on the train, absent-mindedly flipping through the Tribune. My heart stopped when I came to this article:

PROMINENT BROKER ARRESTED

CHICAGO -- Norman Wolf, CEO of Piranha and Wolf, has been charged by federal authorities with bilking thousands of elderly investors throughout Chicagoland. Wolf, who was taken into custody last night at his Lakeshore Drive home, proclaimed his innocence, maintaining that a rogue employee masterminded the scheme for his personal self-enrichment. Authorities declined to identify Wolf's alleged accomplice, stating only that their investigation was ongoing and additional arrests were expected.

My hands were shaking as I dropped the paper to the floor. When I questioned him about some questionable activities I'd come across working late one night, Norman Wolf had assured me that everything was on the up-and-up. He even took me out to lunch one day and involved me in some of his dealings. Now, I was convinced that he was setting me up, and that he would try to finger me to save his skin. 

Furtively, I glanced around the train, expecting to see policemen heading my way with guns drawn. But there were only the other passengers, either engrossed in their papers or asleep, as we pulled into Clybourn, the last stop before Chicago. If the cops were onto me, they'd be waiting at the end of the line. Without thinking, I vaulted over the passenger next to me and raced for the door, just making it out onto the platform before the train pulled away.

Shivering in the freezing February gloom, I tried desperately to think. Going back to my apartment was out of the question. Until I could figure out a way to clear myself, I'd have to lay low, keeping out of sight until the heat was off. Fortunately, I had no family or close friends in Chicago, only my girlfriend Tracy, a flight attendant who lived with two other girls in an apartment near O'Hare. I flipped open my cell phone and punched in her number. 

"Hello?" a groggy voice answered.

"Tracy, it's me."

"God, don't you know what time it is? I flew all night and I just got to sleep."

"Sorry, baby. Are your roommates there?"

"No, you didn't wake anyone else up. Just me, and I'm gonna hang up."

"Tracy, I'm in trouble and I need your help."

It took some doing, but after a long walk to Armitage I caught the "L" downtown and rode the Blue Line out to the Rosemont station, a few long blocks from Tracy's apartment. I don't know which of us was more frazzled when she finally let me in. Standing there in her robe without any makeup, even after working all night, she was a sight for sore eyes. 

"Thanks for taking me in," I said after a long hug. "Are you sure you want to harbor a fugitive?"

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?" she replied as she poured us each a cup of steaming black coffee. "Why not just turn yourself in? The FBI will believe you if you tell them the truth."

"You don't know Norman Wolf. All the way here I've been replaying little scenes at the office which didn't make sense to me before, but they do now. He was setting me up all along, Tracy."

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"I need a disguise and a place to stay until I can figure things out."

"You could stay here, I guess..."

"What about your roomies?"

"Cathy just left for training in Denver, and Ashley is on vacation till the end of the week."

"That works. Now all we need is to come up with a disguise, something that will enable me to move around until I can clear my name."

"Hmm..." Tracy walked around the room, surveying me with a critical eye. "Stand up and take off your jacket," she said, disappearing into the bedroom." I did as I was told, and she returned with a tape measure. "Raise your arms," she said, and I stood there while she drew the tape around my chest, then around my waist, then once more a little lower. "How tall are you?"

"Five nine."

"How much do you weigh?"

"One fifty."

"And your shoe size?"

"Nine."

"Perfect," she giggled. "Come with me." I followed her into the large walk-in closet that she shared with the other girls. It was crammed full of clothes, shoes and accessories. All of a sudden it hit me, and I backed out of the closet in a panic. "Come back here!"

"No way!" I trembled.

"Listen, mister, you asked me to help you come up with a disguise, and I did. You'll fit into my clothes, Cathy's feet are as big as yours, and Ashley has a wig in here somewhere that she used to wear on layovers."

"I'm not gonna dress up as a chick!"

"Why not? Are you afraid of what people might think?"

"Damn right!"

"Well, let's see how you look first. When I'm finished with you, I don't think anybody will be able to tell that you're really a guy."

"Yeah, right," I said nervously. Maybe that was what I was so afraid of, afraid that my masculinity might be threatened. Had I only known, I'm sure I would never have taken that first fateful step, but I was desperate, Tracy was sincerely trying to help me, and what choice did I have? 

"May I take that as a yes?"

I hung my head in resignation. "I guess we can try it," said with a sigh.

"Attagirl. Now, if this is gonna work we've gotta start from the skin out. Take off all your clothes."

"Okay, but what do you mean 'from the skin out'?" I asked as I unbuttoned my shirt.

"I mean this has gotta go," she said with a tug on my chest hair.

"Oh no, you don't!" I protested.

"Listen, silly, if you expect me to make you believable as a girl, you're gonna have to work with me."

"I'm sorry, Tracy, but I've changed my mind."

"Suit yourself," she said in a huff. "I'd just as soon go back to sleep anyway." She tossed my shirt at me, and I was buttoning it back up when the telephone rang. "Hello?" She shot me a hard glance. "Uh, no, I haven't seen him, why?" Her eyes widened. "Really! Wow, that's unbelievable, thanks for letting me know." She hung up and grabbed the TV remote.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

Tracy ignored me, flipping through the channels until she came to a local news station. We both stared speechless as my picture came up on the screen. "According to the FBI, Matt McCoy is suspected of masterminding a scheme to swindle thousands of elderly investors out of their life savings," a reporter was saying.

I felt sick to my stomach. "This can't be happening." 

"Just be thankful that you found out about it before you walked out of here," she said. "You knew this was coming down. Matt, are you sure you're telling me the truth?"

"Tracy, you've got to believe me!" I started to cry, and she took me into her arms.

"I'm here for you, baby," she whispered.

"I'm sorry I was so stupid. Please help me. I'll do anything you say."

The bathroom in Tracy's apartment was strewn with nylons hanging out to dry. They might be falling out of fashion, but not in an apartment shared by three flight attendants. Tracy wore pantyhose every day as part of her uniform, and soon I'd be wearing them too, I thought morosely as I shaved my legs in her bathtub. My arms too, then my chest and underarms, and finally Tracy came in to finish off my back. "You look buff," she said after I toweled myself off. 

"You mean you like me this way?" In spite of all I'd been through, I felt myself starting to stir. 

"You're just like a movie star," she purred. "Besides, I've always wanted to make love to a wanted fugitive." I chased her into the bedroom and we tumbled into bed. The feeling of our smooth bodies touching was incredibly arousing, and we went at with abandon. Tracy had always been a gentle lover, but today she was like a tigress, with some newfound power. "Wow," she sighed when we finally came up for air.

"Let's do it again," I said, even though my body was totally tapped out. I dreaded what was about to happen to me.

She teased my exhausted manhood. "Now that I've softened you up, we're going to turn you into a girl," she pronounced. "Come on, get out of bed. We have some serious work to do." With a sigh, I got up and we put on terrycloth bathrobes which she'd stolen from some hotels. After I shaved my face again, Tracy was all business. First she went to work with an emery board, smoothing and shaping my longish nails. Next, she tweezed my eyebrows, and when I yelped she told me to stop being such a baby. She helped me moisturize my tender skin, and then it was time to get me dressed.

"What am I going to try on?" I asked nervously.

"Let's start with one of my old uniforms. I used to be a little chubby before I met you, so it should fit just fine."

I cringed at the thought. "Don't you have something more casual?" 

"Listen, missy, I'm a working girl and my wardrobe is somewhat limited. Once we find out whether you're presentable, maybe we can do a little shopping, okay?" That shut me up, and I reluctantly followed her back into the closet. 

"Your hips are slim enough for you to wear my panties," she said matter-of-factly. I cringed when she handed me a lacy white pair, and I watched her smirk as I tugged them on. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it? This may seem a little strange," she said as she handed me one of her bras. I watched sullenly as she draped it over my chest and showed me how to fasten the clasps from behind. After Tracy stuffed the cups with some knee-highs, she pushed me over to her vanity and went to work on my makeup. I watched with alarm as she methodically feminized my face, leaving me with smoky eyes and pouting pink lips. 

Next came Ashley's wig, and the effect was shocking. One minute, I was a guy in a bra and panties, and the next, I was totally a girl. I could only gape and stare as Tracy gently styled my short blonde hair into a perky wedge. 

Tracy seemed mesmerized by her creation. "This is scary," she whispered.

"Tell me about it." How could it be so easy to erase my gender? I followed her back into the closet in a trance. 

"Okay, put this on first," she said, handing me a crisp white blouse. "Oh wait, I almost forgot." She left me standing there, surrounded by racks of skirts and dresses, contemplating my misfortune. When she returned she was holding a lacy white slip. "This will help to smooth you out," she said. "No, don't pull it over your head, you'll muss your hairdo. Step into it." 

Reluctantly, I did as I was instructed, and a shiver ran down my spine as the cool, silky fabric slid up my hairless body. "That's better, now put on your blouse." My hands were shaking, and I fumbled helplessly with the buttons until I realized that they were backwards from what I was used to. Eventually I figured them out, and although the blouse was a little tight around my shoulders, the last button left me with just enough room to breathe. 

"Time to put on your nylons," Tracy said with a snicker. 

"Do I have to? You never wear them when we go out."

"I do when I go to work. Besides, they'll make your legs look more feminine. Anyway, they're part of your uniform, so get with the program!" She handed me a pair of navy blue pantyhose and showed me how to ease them on, one leg at a time. After that, my blue skirt was almost an anti-climax, and I felt trapped when she zipped it up. 

There was a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, and I watched my reflection in dismay as Tracy lifted up my skirt and tugged down my blouse and slip. Then it was time to step into a pair of Cathy's low-heeled blue pumps, which just fit. "We'll practice walking around in them in a minute," Tracy said as she tied a silk scarf loosely around my neck. A blue jacket was next, and again it was a little tight around the shoulders but it buttoned up all right. 

"Almost done," Tracy said. I followed her over to the dresser, and stood there in her clothes while she tried some jewelry on me. "I can't remember who gave me these clip-ons," she said as she fussed with my earrings, and a simple gold necklace and an inexpensive woman's watch were next. Then she sat me down at her vanity and started to apply a coat of quick-dry polish to my nails. As I sat there, I looked down at my silken knees, peeking demurely under the hem of my slim skirt. Never in my life had I felt so helpless and confined.

When my nails were dry, we went back to the kitchen and Tracy made some more coffee. We sat there for a while, sipping our coffee in silence, while I gradually got used to the strange sensations of wearing women's clothing. "I can't believe how cute you look," Tracy marveled.

"Thanks, that's all I needed to hear."

"Take it as a compliment. If you looked like a guy in a dress, this disguise would never work. Now, if we can only do something with your voice, I really think you can pull it off."

"My voice?"

"Try talking a little softer, and raise your pitch a little." For the next half hour, we chatted like two girls as she worked on my voice. I was beginning to get the hang of it when the doorbell rang. 

Tracy saw the panic in my eyes. "Relax, it's probably just the lady next door. She waters the plants when we're all away. Sit still, you look totally like a girl now, it will be a good test for you." Before I could protest, Tracy got up and opened the door.

"FBI," a deep voice said. "Are you Tracy Flowers? Do you mind if we come in?" Tracy tried to slam the door but it was too late, and two middle-aged special agents in suits and ties entered the apartment. Tracy was beside herself, and I was worried that she might give me away. 

Sheer instinct for self- preservation took over. "Why don't you go change, Tracy? Can I get you guys some coffee?"

Tracy ran into the bedroom and slammed the door. "I'm sorry we barged in on her in her bathrobe," one of the agents stammered.

Keep it short and sweet, I reminded myself before I spoke. "That's okay, she's a big girl. How do you take your coffee?"

"Black for me."

"Nothing for me, thanks," the other agent said as he prowled around the apartment. "Do you live here?"

There was no time to think, so I just went with the flow. "Uh huh." I reached up into one of the cabinets for a mug, very aware that my skirt was riding up my legs, and after I filled it with coffee I offered it to the agent, trying to keep my gestures as feminine as possible.

"What's your name, sweetie?"

"Ashley." In her wig, I looked almost like her, not that they would know what she looked like anyway...keep your cool, girl, I told myself.

"Do you know Matt McCoy?"

"Tracy's boyfriend? I've met him, why?"

"Let's wait for your roommate." That was the opening I needed, and before they could stop me I walked over to the bedroom and closed the door firmly behind me. Tracy was sitting on the bed, still in her bathrobe, shaking with sobs. 

"Listen carefully," I whispered. "They think I'm Ashley." Her eyes widened. "You've got to play along. Quick, put on some clothes and when you come back, just tell them that you haven't seen or heard from Matt since yesterday. Got it?" She nodded dumbly. "Come on, Tracy, get with it!" 

When she finally got up to get dressed, I returned to face the agents. "She'll be here in a minute," I said breezily. "Some more coffee for you?"

"You must be a very good flight attendant." I ignored the sexist remark and sat down on the sofa. It occurred to me that the men were staring at my legs. I crossed them slowly and tugged at the hem of my skirt, waiting for them to make the next move. Just then Tracy opened the bedroom door, dressed in jeans and a hoodie. I gave her an encouraging wink, and she sat down beside me on the sofa.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, Miss Flowers, and thank you for your time. When is the last time you saw Matt McCoy?"

"Last Saturday."

"Where was that?"

"He took me to a movie, and then we came back here for a while."

"Have to spoken with him since?"

"No."

"Is that unusual?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, doesn't he call you on the phone sometimes?"

"It depends. He knows I travel a lot. I just got back from a trip this morning," she answered, trying to keep to the truth whenever she could. I felt so strange, sitting there in women's clothing, watching the men ogle my legs while Tracy described me like I wasn't in the room. I tugged my skirt down over my knees again and prayed that she wouldn't give me away.

"Were there any messages from him on your machine?"

"No."

"Do you know where he is right now?"

"Look, I'll be very honest with you," Tracy said as I held my breath. "One of my girlfriends called me a few hours ago and told me that Matt was wanted by the police. I saw his picture on TV."

"Was that news to you?"

"Yes! What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"Did you try to get in touch with him after you heard about it?"

"No! Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"What they're saying about him. Is he really a criminal?"

"We're really not at liberty to discuss our investigation." They handed Tracy their cards. "Please call us immediately if you hear from him. Thank you again for your cooperation."

Tracy got up to let them out. "And thank you, sweetie," the agent who had the coffee said to me before they left.

Tracy waited until they were well down the hall before bolting the door and collapsing next to me on the sofa in near hysterics. I couldn't tell whether she was laughing or crying, but the tears were real, and she hugged me close. When I tried to comfort her, she shushed me with a kiss, and the next thing I knew she was stroking my legs through my nylons. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever felt, and I started to lose control as she reached up my skirt and tugged down my pantyhose and panties...then she had her jeans off and she was straddling me, riding up and down, panting and yelping until we came together in an incredible rush.

Afterwards, I lay back in a daze, trying to come to grips with what was happening to me. I'd just had the best sex of my life, in woman's clothing, with my girlfriend on top. My lipstick was smeared all over her beautiful face, and our hairless legs were tangled up in my panties and stockings. When she finally rolled off me, I got unsteadily to me feet and began to pull myself together. "You've ruined my stockings," she pouted, pointing to a long run that ran from my toes to my waist. "Take 'em off, and I'll get you a fresh pair after we fix your makeup. You're a total mess!" A subtle shift in our relationship was occurring, although I was so distracted by my female trappings, I didn't notice it at the time.

After showing me how to put on a fresh coat of lipstick, Tracy handed me another pair of pantyhose, nude this time. It was humiliating to struggle with them under her watchful eye. When I finally got them on, she disappeared into the bathroom to shower and change. 

I stepped back into my heels and stared at myself for a long time in the full length mirror. Looking back at me was a pretty flight attendant with perky blonde hair and terrific legs. I turned this way and that, practicing ways to stand and move my hands to make myself look more feminine. The more I studied myself, the more convinced I became that Tracy was right: my disguise was perfect, and with a little practice there was no way anyone would detect that I was really a guy.

That brought me back to reality, and I was thinking of ways to get close to Norman Wolf when Tracy returned to the closet. She had zero makeup on, her hair was pulled back into a bun, and her bra and panties were soon covered by a thick sweater and baggy khakis. "Are you trying to look like a guy?" I asked as she pulled on a pair of trouser socks.


A Murder Misstery Aloft



© 2008 by Thrillerauthor

For those who came in late, Matt McCoy – now Madeline Moreau – is on the run for a crime he did not commit, and a murder which she did....after discovering a shocking secret about her past, Maddy spreads her wings, and more. 

The journey from St. Martin to Montreal, on a charter flight crammed with sunburned Canucks, was sheer penance. Stuck in a miserable coach seat between a snoring slob and a psychotic woman who talked my ear off, I endured a horrid meal featuring tough, tasteless chicken, a moldy bread roll and an undrinkable split of wine, serenaded by a screaming infant in the seat behind me. The worst part was having to climb over the slob in my skirt to stand in line for the stinking coach toilet...hoisting up my skirt and tugging down my panties and hose to straddle the pee-covered seat, I bemoaned my decision to become a woman.

Despite the wine and a sleeping pill, I couldn't even doze off as the endless hours droned on. Finally, after circling the airport for what seemed like an eternity, we were lucky to be able to land in a near blizzard on the frozen tundra. When I stepped outside the terminal to find a taxi, it was immediately apparent that my pathetic skirt, sweater and nylons would be no match for the brutal Canadian winter. I'd spent most of my life in Chicago, but not in a skirt, so the blast of frigid air took my breath away. Fortunately, the turbaned taxi driver heated his cab to 90 degrees, and it almost felt like I was back in the Caribbean as we made our way into downtown Montreal.

My hotel, which catered to road warriors and government types, was located in a tatty section of downtown Montreal, and my threadbare room was immediately depressing. Fortunately, Montreal is connected by a maze of underground shopping centers, and I was able to avoid the elements while I bought a sturdy woolen topcoat and a pair of calf-length leather boots, as well as gloves, a long scarf and a beret. I lingered at a little bistro over onion soup and red wine before I trudged through the snow to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. I asked the concierge to show me the agenda for the upcoming medical conference, and learned that Jacques would be presenting his paper in three days' time.

Wondering how to maintain my sanity until then, I decided to kill some time at an Internet café. As always, I began by Googling my old name to see if there was any news about Matt McCoy. Instead, I got the shock of my life when I found my father's obituary on the Chicago Tribune website:

Bradford T. McCoy, age 71, of Winnetka, IL. Beloved husband of Marie, nee Rickerson of Winnetka; dear father of Michael McCoy of Evanston, Mark McCoy of Barrington, and the late Matthew McCoy of Chicago; devoted grandfather of two; fond brother of Beatrice (the late Arnold) Foster of Fort Myers, FL. Retired owner and President of Great Lakes Industries. Vet U.S. Navy. Funeral Services 3 p.m. Monday, at the St. James Cathedral, 55 East Huron Street, Chicago IL. Burial private. 

Tears were streaming down my face as it slowly sunk in. My father and I had never been close, and my thoughts turned more towards my mother, widowed and facing the rest of her life alone. She was fortunate in that my two brothers and their families resided in the Chicago area. With chagrin, I realized that Matthew McCoy was a sad footnote to our family's history...at least my father's death notice didn't mention that his youngest son was wanted for embezzlement and murder before he fled the country and committed suicide disguised as a woman!

Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the need to be there with them. Impulsively, I logged onto on online travel site and searched for flights to Chicago, before I stopped myself. Returning to the United States would expose my bogus passport to the scrutiny of US immigration officials, and there was a good chance that it would be flagged as a forgery. Think, Maddy...what if I were to fly to the Canadian side of the border and cross into the USA unobtrusively? It didn't take me long to come up with a plan.

I wasn't sure how my family would react to me, but I was determined not to embarrass them, or myself. Returning to Montreal's subterranean shopping mecca, I searched until I found a tasteful black dress, black hose and simple pumps which were appropriately funereal. I also stocked up on some more cold weather clothes. Then it was back to my room for a restless night in my lumpy bed.

Early Sunday morning, without checking out of my dreary hotel, I packed my suitcase with my new dress, put on some wool slacks and a turtleneck sweater that I'd purchased the day before, and called for a taxi to take me back to the airport. All of the flights were delayed on account of the lingering winter storm, but I finally was able to fly from Montreal to Windsor by way of Toronto. It was early evening by the time I got in, which presented no problems since my chosen means of transport across the border was a courtesy bus from the Windsor Casino to downtown Detroit. Passport inspection was cursory, as I anticipated, but it was almost midnight by the time I found myself back in the United States.

Downtown Detroit is no place for a single woman, day or night, and I was fortunate to hail a roving taxi which took me to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. The last fight to Chicago was long gone, and I was too exhausted to search for an airport hotel, so I curled up in a plastic chair next to my suitcase and nodded off until the airport came to life on Monday morning. I'm sure I looked like death warmed over, but I was too groggy and grungy to care. After a chocolate croissant and a bracing cup of hot coffee at an airport Starbucks, I passed through security and boarded the 6:00 am flight to Chicago. Thanks to the time difference, I arrived into O'Hare a few minutes after I departed, Chicago time. 

How strange it felt to be back in Chicago, almost a year to the day since I'd dressed as a woman for the first time! What a roller coaster I'd been on, losing my identity, my sex, and now my father...I found myself scrutinizing the flight attendants as I walked through the crowded concourse, wondering what had become of Tracy, the girlfriend who had first set me on the path towards femininity. Trying not to think about the enormity of all that I'd been through, I checked into the airport Hilton, asked for noon wakeup call, set the clock radio as a backup alarm and collapsed into bed. 

* * *

"Okay, honey, time to play dress up again."

I switched off the electric train and reluctantly started up the basement stairs. "Oh Mom, do I gotta?"

"You know how much fun we have, please do it for me one more time, and I'll let you help me make a fudge cake and you can lick out the beaters."

That was incentive enough for me. Both of my brothers were still at school, my Dad was at work, so Mom and I were alone in the big old house, as usual. She gave me a big hug when I joined her in my bedroom, where my usual outfit was laid out on my bed: a frilly white blouse, pleated skirt and tights. First, Mom made me take off all my boy clothes and put on a pink robe before she braided my long hair into pigtails, which she tied with ribbons while humming to herself. Then there was the usual spat over the cotton panties and cami which she insisted that I wear under my girl's clothes. When I was finally dressed, she helped me squeeze my feet into a pair of Mary Jane's.

"Your feet are getting too big for these shoes," she sighed. "Oh well, since you're starting kindergarten next month, I suppose our dress-up games will have to come to an end. This will always be our little secret, honey. I promise that I'll never tell your father and brothers if you don't."

The very thought sent a chill down my spine. My older brothers were always teasing me about being a wimp, and I shuddered at what my father would do to me if he saw me in a dress. "Please don't tell anyone, Mommy," I begged her.

She gave me another hug. "I promise, honey. You are so sweet to be my little girl, even if it's only for a while. This will always be our secret," she repeated, then we were off to the kitchen to bake a cake.

* * *

At first I didn't know where I was, or even who I was...why was I listening to a Chicago radio station? I sat up with a start in the pitch dark room, and for a moment I thought I was back in my old apartment, being awakened by the 5:00 alarm for another manic day on the trading floor....

Grim realization slowly dawned after I opened the blackout curtains and switched off the radio. I was back to myself by the time the hotel operator called to inform me that it was noon, cheerfully adding that it was ten degrees outside before wishing me a pleasant day in Chicago. After a quick shower and shampoo, I unpacked my mourning clothes with feelings of dread and foreboding. Dressing as a woman was totally routine for me by now, but I was very nervous as I tried to get my eyeliner on right, and the brand new black pantyhose I bought to wear with my dress got a nasty run when I tugged them on! Fortunately I'd brought another pair, but they were nude and I worried whether they would be right for a funeral....

What the hell was I thinking! I was about to return from the dead and show myself as a woman to my family for the first time, on they day when they were burying my father, and I was worried about what shade of nylons I had on? I almost chickened out before I put on my wool coat, closed my suitcase and took the long walk down the hall to the elevator. After I checked out, the doorman hailed a taxi for me, and my stomach was churning all the way to downtown Chicago. Seeing the familiar landmarks once again made me ache for the life I'd left behind, and I could almost taste the flavors at my old haunts as we passed them by.

Which reminded me that I hadn't had anything to eat since I left Detroit. It would be half an hour before the memorial service, so I asked the driver to drop me off a block away from the cathedral, and started tugging my suitcase behind me on the crowded sidewalk. It was a bright clear day, windy and bitterly cold, so my legs were freezing by the time I entered a Corner Bakery across the street from St. James's. I found a seat by the window overlooking the street, and passed the time sipping hot coffee and munching on a blueberry muffin.

My seat afforded an excellent view of the entrance to the cathedral, and I recognized some familiar faces as the mourners started to arrive. Neighbors, business associates of my father, my Aunt Beatrice with one of my cousins...suddenly a stretch limo pulled up to the curb, and out stepped my mother, looking so much older than I remembered her, with one of my brothers on each arm. I pressed my hand against the plate glass window as if to reach out to them, trying to muster the courage to get up and join them...instead, I just sat there, rooted to my chair, ashamed of myself for all that I had put them through, and afraid to show them the person who I had become. 

Good thing! Further down the street, a gray sedan with two men in it caught my eye. One of them seemed to be using binoculars, and even at a distance they looked awfully familiar...of course! Mutt and Jeff, the FBI agents who had pursued me from Chicago to Barcelona, were staking out my father's funeral. Which could mean only one thing: they never bought my fake suicide, and they were still looking for me! 

I crouched down in my chair and tried to keep from hyperventilating. Thank God for my week knees, which were shaking under my dress. I would have been arrested the moment I stepped outside the Corner Bakery, in full view of my family, turning my father's funeral into a farce...and that would have been only the beginning. My trial would have been a media sensation, turning me into a freakish celebrity as the man who changed his sex to stay out of prison. By the time I got there, probably with a life sentence, the boys would have been waiting for me, and I'd have spent the rest of my life as the plaything of vicious criminals.

I blessed my decision to cross the border on a casino bus, wondering how I'd ever be able to make it back across to Canada, and France. The memorial service for my father was all but forgotten as I plotted my escape, and it wasn't until I saw the mourners begin to walk down the steps from the cathedral that I realized it was over. I felt ashamed and very, very sorry for myself as I watched my family, for the last time, hugging and kissing before they drifted off.

Then things happened very fast. As the crowd disbursed, the FBI agents gave up and pulled away. Then my brothers took leave of my mother to go their separate ways, leaving her all alone on the sidewalk to wait for the limo to take her back to Winnetka. The thought of her returning to spend the night as a widow in that big, lonely house broke my heart, and without thinking I threw on my coat, grabbed my purse and raced out the door of the bakery. Running as fast as I could in my high heels, I made it to her limo just as it was about to pull away, and I pounded on the windshield with both firsts before my mother rolled down her window. 

I will never forget the look on her stricken face when I stuck my head inside. "Mom, it's me," I said in a fierce whisper. "Please, let me in." Her eyes widened in recognition, the door opened, and I tumbled inside, falling into her arms before we both started bawling like babies. The chauffeur must have taken my suitcase and put it in the trunk before he closed the door and started driving towards the northern suburbs. 

Somehow I found the presence of mind to press the switch raising the glass partition between us and the chauffeur. "Is it really you?" Mom asked through her tears. She took a tissue out of her purse and gently wiped my face. "Your mascara is a mess, Matthew."

I took the tissue from her and returned the favor. "So is yours, Mom," I said, and my woman's voice temporarily threw her. She sat back in her seat and took a long, hard look at me. What must she be thinking, I remember asking myself as I self-consciously tugged my dress down over my knees. She studied me from head to toe, shaking her head in wonder. 

"At first I didn't know who you were," she said at last. "Then, when I realized that it was really you, I thought I was seeing a ghost. We all thought you were dead..." She started crying again. "I'm sorry, I've been through so much...."

Now it was my turn to try to comfort her. "Mom, I'm sorry I ran out on you like that. I didn't steal that money." How to tell her that I had, in fact, murdered the man who set me up? "I'm so sorry about Dad," I added quickly. 

"Your father never forgave you," she said dispassionately. "He was a wonderful man, but stubborn as a mule, and once you ran away, and we heard about what you'd done to yourself...." Her voice trailed away as she studied me once again. "Did you have a nose job?"

"Yes, among other things." It took her a moment to figure out what I meant. "I'm a woman now, Mom," I finally said.

If she was shocked, she didn't show it. "Thank God your father isn't here to see you," she sighed. "He never knew...." There was a faraway look in her eyes, and she pressed on before I could ask her what she meant. "Do you remember the dress-up games we used to play when you were little?"

So the dream I'd had that morning was real! Old, forgotten memories began to stir in the deepest recesses of my mind. "Tell me about them, Mom."

"I always wanted a daughter. Once your brothers were born, we thought our family was complete, and when we finally decided to have another child, I was praying for a little girl. I really thought you were one, too," she smiled, "back in those days you really didn't know until the baby was born, and then out you came! Your father was very happy, and of course I loved you with all my heart, but I must confess that I was very sad and disappointed...the doctors told me it was post partum depression, and in a way I suppose it was, only the reason was that you weren't a little girl!

"Your brothers were already in school by then, and as you know your father traveled constantly, so one day when we were the only ones in the house, I dressed you up as a girl. You were so precious! Your hair was still quite long, and I kept persuading your father to put off your fist haircut, although I'm sure he never knew that I secretly trimmed your bangs. I used to spend hours brushing and braiding it while you sat in my lap, all the while imagining that you were the daughter I always wanted. You had quite the wardrobe by the time you were four, I kept it all locked away in a cupboard when your father and brothers were home, but as soon as we were alone, I'd pick out the dress or skirt were going to wear, and help you with your slip, your tights...." She closed her eyes, lost in her memories. "We used to go everywhere together! To the museums in downtown Chicago, or shopping for dresses for you, although I always drove out to the Woodfield Mall so we wouldn't run into the neighbors." 

She opened her eyes, and there was a guilty expression on her face as she surveyed me once again. "You make a lovely woman. So many times I would look at you as you were growing up, and wonder what might have been...." I was hanging on every word as she revealed the secrets which explained so much. "Once you were old enough to go to kindergarten, I knew I had to put an end to my fantasy, and I promised you that it would always be our secret. By then, I could tell you were getting tired of it, and in a way I was happy that you forgot about your dolls and dresses and adapted so well to being a full-time boy. Until you made the newspapers," she said wryly, "I'd all but forgotten about it too, although I must say I wasn't entirely surprised when they said you ran away disguised as a girl." She leaned forward and took my hand. "I'm sorry for what I did to you, I know I was foolish and selfish, and looking at you now, I can't help but wonder if it's all my fault."

There was a look of infinite sadness in her eyes. I tried to imagine all that she'd just been through: the death of her husband, so soon after the loss of her youngest child, after he'd been branded a criminal and committed suicide, only to discover that he was really alive and living as a woman...these weren't life passages, these were bobsled runs! I was trying to think of the right words to say when Mom said them for me. "So I guess you have me to thank for your perfect disguise and getaway. Will you stay with me for a little while before you go?"

* * *

Once again I awakened in a strange bed, only this time my surroundings were familiar – my old room! I stretched in my nightgown and thought back over the incredible evening we'd spent together, sitting on the family room sofa and gabbing till midnight like mother and long-lost daughter, which in a sense I suppose we were. 

As if to prove to myself that it really happened, I reached over to the night table and looked at the photograph which Mom had given me the night before. It showed a little girl, in a velvet dress and white tights, sitting on Santa's lap. The back of the photo said that it had been taken at Marshall Fields. The little girl was me. 

There was a rap on my door, and Mom walked in, looking ten years younger, with a contented smile on her face. "Morning, sleepyhead!" she said as she drew back the curtains. "Breakfast will be ready in half an hour."

I quickly showered, washed and dried my hair, and returned to my room to get dressed. Soon I was bounding down the stairs in a kilt, turtleneck and tights, just the way I used to when I was her little girl, only now it was all for real. The smell of bacon and coffee was wonderful, and I busied myself with helping her set the table and pour the juice. Breakfast was delicious, and we sat down at the kitchen table, each lost in her own thoughts, as we lingered over our morning coffee. "My lawyer is coming over this morning," Mom finally broke the silence. "I need to sign some forms to probate your father's estate. Afterwards, I thought we might go downtown for a ladies' lunch."




A Murder Misstery Aloft



"Mom, there's something I need to tell you. Yesterday, I was planning to go to Dad's funeral, but I lost my nerve after I noticed that the FBI had it under surveillance."

"The FBI! I thought they thought you were dead."

"So did I, but it was the same two agents who chased after me in Europe." I'd told her all about my adventures the night before, and she asked me to describe them. When I did, she nodded knowingly.

"I've seen them hanging around Winnetka." She got up and peeked out the living room window. "There's no sign of them now, but the men you described have been around the neighborhood asking questions about you, and every so often I'll see one of them when I'm at the store or driving by. The nerve of them staking out your father's funeral!"

"I don't want to get you in trouble, Mom. Somehow I've got to get out of the country." 

"Where do you plan to go?"

"Montreal, then hopefully Paris." After our gabfest the night before, she knew all about Jacques, and it was clear that she disapproved of her daughter carrying on an affair with a married man. 

She bit her tongue while I helped her with the dishes, until she said, "Your brothers have encouraged me to take a long vacation. They think a round-the-world cruise or a safari would help me take my mind off all the sad memories here in Winnetka."

"That's a good idea, but won't it be awfully expensive for you to keep up this house while you're away."

"Honey, your father was very successful. He sold his business when his health started to deteriorate. Your mother is a very wealthy woman." 

Still, I was worried about the thought of her traveling alone. "Take it from me, international travel is very stressful since 911."

"Your father had some unused time on NetJets, its sort of a timeshare for private planes. I went with him on a few trips before he sold his business, it's very luxurious! There's enough time left for me to travel anywhere in the world, and as I recall, passports are a mere formality."

"Where are you planning to go?"

"The thought of a cruise without your father depresses me, and the last thing I want to do at my age is troop through a jungle full of wild animals. If I had a traveling companion, there is one place I've always wanted to visit. In fact, I might even buy a home there."

"Where is that, Mom?"

"Provence."

* * *

I crouched down on the floor of Mom's SUV as she backed out of the long, winding driveway, cringing as she shimmied over the snow-covered lawn a few times before she made it safely to the street. "The coast is clear," she said at length after checking the rear view mirror several times. 

I hauled myself up into the passenger seat and fussed with my skirt and slip, tugging them down over my nylons. Mom gave me a sympathetic smile and said, "It's amazing how well you've adapted to being a woman."

"It's all self-taught, Mom. I mean, I had a lot of help from Tracy in the very beginning, but that was only for a few days. Since then, I've been on my own, and there's been a lot of trial and error."

"Would you mind terribly if I gave you some tips, you know, just the little things that we women learn when we're growing up as girls and take for granted?"

I sat back in my chair and sighed. "Sure, Mom. Since I'm stuck like this for the rest of my life, I may as well get used to it."

"Methinks she doth protest too much."

"Huh?"

"Has it really been that hard on you, honey?"

"I don't know...to tell you the truth, the girl stuff has been the least of my problems. I mean, I've been on the lam for almost a year. Maybe in some ways, changing genders helped me take my mind off everything else I left behind. The only way for me to survive was to forget about who I was and get good at being a girl."

"That makes sense, and it helps to explain something that has puzzled me. Once you found yourself in Europe, couldn't you have just as easily disguised yourself as a man?"

"Don't think I haven't asked myself that question a thousand times, Mom. It wasn't till last night that I discovered the answer."

"You mean our dress up sessions when you were little...."

"From the moment that Tracy first helped me dress up in her clothes, we both knew that something scary was going on. I mean, I took to it so easily, Tracy couldn't believe how good I looked as a girl. Then, when I hooked up with Jacques in Paris, he told me that I was the most naturally feminine person he ever met. How's that for a shot to a guy's ego?"

"But you never came across as effeminate once I stopped...."

"Once you stopped dressing me up as a girl? I guess it was still there all along, buried down deep inside."

"What have I done?" 

"You saved my life, Mom. It's not the life I wanted for myself, but it's mine now, and I'm going to make the most of it."

"Oh Maddy, I'll do anything I can to make this up to you."

"Just help me get good at this. I promise I won't mind if you call me out on things I'm doing wrong, just as long as you understand that I'm a woman now. So if I want to shack up with Jacques..."

She shook her head and wiped away a tear. "I suppose I'm lucky I missed the teenage years." We rode in silence as she wove in and out of the traffic approaching Midway Airport, until she got to the exit for the General Aviation terminal. It was like another world: valet attendants greeted us and whisked away our suitcases while a uniformed attendant ushered us into a reception area that resembled the lobby of a private club. Mom gave our names and the tail number of our airplane to a pretty young woman behind the counter, who took our passports and handed them to yet another uniformed attendant, and the next thing I knew we were walking across the blustery tarmac towards a glistening private jet. Mom managed the stairs with ease, and I bounded up after her despite my heels. 

If I thought the terminal was impressive, the well-appointed cabin of our plane was downright luxurious. The handsome co-pilot greeted us with a cheerful, "Good evening ladies," and before I knew it I was sitting back in a plush leather chair with a flute of champagne in my hand. Mom sat facing me and showed me how to swivel and recline my chair. I gratefully kicked off my heels and flexed my aching toes, and once again Mom gave me that knowing smile of female sympathy as she watched me trying to get comfortable in my skirt.

"It's going to be a long flight. I'm going to change into a jogging suit as soon as we take off, did you bring something to sleep in?" she asked.

D'oh! "I don't think so, Mom...I mean, other than some flimsy nightgowns I got in St. Martin, and a long flannel one I bought in Montreal..."

"Well, you'll just have to sleep as you are. At least put a blanket over your legs so you'll be decent." I stuck out my tongue at her, thinking with chagrin about how after taking Europe by storm as a single female, I was reverting to being her little girl! 

All of a sudden we were rolling. Just like that, the pilots gunned the engines and we were rocketing down the runway. I didn't even have my seatbelt on! Mom watched with amusement as I searched desperately for it in the folds of my skirt, found both ends and snapped them shut moments before we lifted off. "I was just like you on my first flight with your father," Mom reminisced. 

"Did he really hate me that much?"

"Of course not, dear. Of course we didn't believe it when you were accused of embezzlement, but then when you were linked to the murder of your business partner, we were both devastated. It wasn't until they reported that you fled the country in women's clothing that he gave up on you, but he never really hated you. He was hurt, embarrassed, and very disappointed."

"Can I ask a question that's been bothering me a lot?"

"Of course."

"Could what I did have contributed to his death?"

"Of course not, honey! Oh, you poor thing...no, he was diagnosed with cancer shortly before all that happened, and he chose to keep it from you and your brothers as long as possible. He was a very proud man, and he didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. I suppose that's why he was so humiliated when you turned yourself into a woman...but in answer to your question, he never hated you, and shortly before he died he told me that the first thing he was going to do when he got to heaven was track you down and straighten you out!"

I wiped away a tear. "Thanks, Mom, that means a lot to me."

"Your father lived his life to the fullest," she said, looking around the sumptuous plane. "As he used to say, this is the only way to fly!"

As if on cue, the cute co-pilot sauntered back from the open cockpit door, and after pinning up a map showing our flight plan from Chicago to Paris, he asked us if we we'd like cocktails or wine before dinner. Mom selected a vintage chardonnay from the short wine list and retired to the lavatory in the back of the plane to change her clothes, leaving me to chat with the obviously interested hunk. "Are you sure it's okay for you to play bartender instead of helping to fly the plane?" I asked.

"Relax," he smiled. "The old man has everything under control, besides we've been on auto-pilot since the wheels went up. My name is Rick, by the way. You're welcome to come up and sit in my seat if you want to fly the plane for a while."

"Me, fly the plane?"

"Girls can do anything these days. While I'm playing flight attendant, you can play pilot."

"Why not?" I heard myself say, and in my stocking feet I followed him into the cramped cockpit, where the middle-aged captain greeted me with hearty hello. I hiked up my skirt and hopped into the empty right-hand seat, then Rick strapped me in and put a set of headphones on my ears. 

"Just don't touch anything, sweetheart," the captain said into his microphone. So much for flying the plane! I sat back awkwardly and watched as Rick pointed out the different instruments and reported on our flight speed, altitude and position. When he reached down to adjust one of the controls, his hand brushed against my knee, and it lingered there until Mom poked her head into the cockpit. 

"Good Lord, what are you doing up here!" 

"She's going a great job," Rick said. Then he disappeared into the cabin, with Mom two steps behind him. I looked down and realized that my skirt was clear up to my thighs, revealing a froth of lacy slip. When would I ever get used to these clothes? I tugged down my skirt and looked over at the captain, expecting to see him leering at me. Instead, was shocked to find him sound asleep in his seat! Sure enough, I could hear him snoring in my headphones.

I sensed someone coming up behind me. "Let me take these off your pretty little head," Rick said. 

"He's asleep!" I whispered.

"Don't worry," Rick smiled. "If anything goes wrong, there are enough alarms in here to wake the dead. Better for him to rest up for the landing."

"But we just took off," I said.

"I'll take it for awhile, now that I'm done playing flight attendant. Dinner is served. I'll be back for dessert," he added, and before I could figure out what he meant, he leaned over and kissed me smack on the lips. Instinctively, I kissed him back, a long, lingering kiss that lit a fire in my panties. I treated him to a sensational leg show when I climbed out of his seat, and as I made my way out of the cockpit I remembered what one of my old girlfriends used to do to drive me wild, so I flipped up my skirt to show him my behind. That ought to keep him awake for a while, I said to myself.

Mom was waiting for me with an amused expression on her face. "If I didn't know better, I could swear that you have an interest in that young man," she said between sips of chardonnay.

"He's cute," I replied as I surveyed the sumptuous meal which Rick had placed on the table by my seat: lobster salad, chicken marsala, and key lime pie. "Wow, he can cook, too!"

"I suppose I should approve. After all, he's not married, so far as we know...."

"Just because Jacques has a mistress doesn't make him a bad person. No self-respecting man in France can exist without one," I pronounced, reverting to Madeline's Parisian accent.

"Thank God I had your flyboy open another bottle of wine," Mom sighed as she drained her glass and pulled the second bottle of chardonnay out of the ice bucket. Other than the occasional toast at a family gathering, I had never seen her drink, and was a bit of a shock to watch her getting tipsy. Then again, after her husband's death and her son's sex change, it was a miracle that she wasn't an alcoholic. I held out my glass, and soon we were both feeling no pain as we curled up in the luxurious seats after our delicious dinner. Mom took a little plastic case from her purse and tossed back a prescription sleeping pill. "I know I'm not supposed to mix these with alcohol, but your father used to do it all the time on business, and otherwise I'll never get to sleep. Would you care for one?" 

For some reason, I declined, and before long Mom was sound asleep, with an eyeshade over her face and headphones pumping Montovani into her ears. I was sipping the last of the wine when Rick sauntered down the aisle from the cockpit. He knelt down beside me and took my face in his hands. "God, you're so beautiful," he said, then he kissed me again, a long, soulful kiss that started my toes tingling. I felt his hand sliding up my skirt, caressing my silky legs, and it took me a moment to realize that I was getting wet, a whole new sensation for me! Without a word, Rick took my hand and I followed him breathlessly towards the lavatory at the back of the plane. He opened the door, gently pushed me inside and closed and locked the door behind us. God, it was so cramped in there, there was barely room for us to move! 

Rick started kissing the back of my neck, and I heard him unfastening his belt and unzipping his trousers, which fell to the floor. Then he pressed me against the mirror above the tiny sink and pulled up the back of my skirt and slip. I felt my panties and hose being tugged down to my knees, then he started exploring me with his finger, which got me so excited I thought I was going to come right there. Then he grabbed my hips hard with both hands and pushed himself inside me. I gave a little gasp as he pumped away with abandon, snarling with lust while he reached under my top and played with my tits. I tried not to moan too loud but it was so hard, as he pumped me again and again, harder and harder. 

My eyes were glued to the mirror, and it was almost like an out-of-body experience, watching this total stranger, who last year might have been one of Matt's drinking buddies, and the girl who was now me clutching the front of her skirt and slip with both hands, her pink lips parted in ecstasy, her blonde hair damp with desire. When Rick told me he was about to come, it was almost an anticlimax when I felt him explode inside me. This was not a romantic seduction, it was an old-fashioned fucking, and even though I didn't come with him, it felt so damn good to have a man inside me! 

We stood there for a few minutes, panting from the exertion, before he pulled up his trousers, zipped himself up, and returned to the cockpit after mumbling a few forgettable words of endearment. I squatted down on the miniature toilet, my head resting in my hands while I waited for his jism to drip out of me. I felt so wicked! Eventually I pulled myself together as best I could in the little lavatory, struggling as I stuffed my tits back into my bra, untwisted my hose and panties and straightened my slip and skirt. 

With apprehension, I finally opened the door, wondering whether my mother might have discovered her daughter's dereliction. But she was still sound asleep, and I breathed a sign of relief as I wrapped a blanket around my legs and curled up in my seat. So much for becoming Momma's little girl! Well and truly fucked, I was soaring to new heights – as a fully frocked member of the mile high club. It took me a long time to fall into a restless sleep. 

By the author of The Jessica Project      



A Murder Misstery Epilogue



For those who came in late, Matt McCoy – now Madeline Moreau – is on the run for a crime he did not commit, and a murder which she did...after returning to Paris, Maddy confronts her demons as she reclaims her destiny with the man who turned her into a woman. 

I was on cloud nine all the way to the apartment, even my taxi driver commented on how radiant I looked! I tipped him handsomely and tripped up the stairs while he carried my suitcase into the lobby, where the doorman greeted me like a long-lost daughter. "Maison bienvenue," he beamed, and indeed it did feel like I was home - my second homecoming in less than forty-eight hours, although all things considered I preferred Paris to Winnetka.

It was wonderful unpacking my suitcase and putting away my things, for good this time. My cheap woolen coat and boots would be unbefitting the mistress of a prominent Paris physician, and I made a mental note to donate them to charity as I drew a bath and poured Mistral bain moussant into the steaming hot water. Luxuriating in the mountain of suds was heaven on earth, and I took my time shaving my deeply tanned legs. 

"Put on your prettiest dress," Jacques had commanded me. My white tulle confection wouldn't do in winter, and my slinky black dress would be inappropriate for luncheon...after I patted myself dry with a thirsty towel and wrapped another around my head into a turban, I rummaged through my closet until I spied the Burberrys dress that I'd picked up in London. Perfect! 

I thought back over all I'd learned from my mother as I went through the now-familiar rituals of styling and drying my hair, putting on my makeup and selecting my lingerie. No wonder I'd taken to being a woman so naturally, indeed it was a wonder that the feminization I'd experienced during my boyhood had stayed buried so deeply in my subconscious. I wondered if my inner woman would have found her way to the surface somehow, someway if I hadn't been forced to find her? 
"Don't ask, it's dangerous to know what end the gods will give you....Carpe diem!" I said to myself as I eased on an obscenely expensive pair of real silk stockings and snapped them into their garters. On my way back to the closet to get my dress, I stopped to admire my reflection in the full length mirror. The woman looking back at me had magnificent breasts, a perfect butt and long legs enhanced by her sexy black lingerie. Poor Madam Bochy!

My Burberrys check sheath dress was sleeveless with a straight skirt and a belted waist. I zipped it up in the back like I'd been doing this all my life, stepped into my Gucci stilettos and rummaged through my jewel box for just the right bling. A Hermes scarf, a spritz of L'Air Du Temps, and I was ready for the kill.


Another homecoming at Le Relais, where the maitre'd and two of the waiters hugged me before I was led to the booth that Jacques and I used to haunt. There he was, as debonair and distinguished as I remembered him...a touch more gray in his hair perhaps, and a few fine wrinkles framing his deep brown eyes, but at that moment to me he was the handsomest man in the world. Before I could speak, he said what I was thinking: "My God, how I missed you!" I slid in next to him before he could stand up, and gazed contentedly into his eyes while he took my hands. "Madeline, I'm...I'm...."

"Shut up and kiss me," I said, and he did, right there in the restaurant, to the applause of half the wait staff and some of the customers. It was a long, lingering kiss and I felt his hand playing with the hem of my dress under the booth, sliding up my delicious silken thigh, and coming to rest on the soft flesh at the top of my stocking. 

When we finally came up for air, I wiped a smudge of lipstick off his face with a linen napkin and sat back in the plush booth, the happiest woman in the world. "I missed you too," I said, and we just sat there and stared at each other until the sommelier broke the spell. Jacques ordered our usual champagne while I repaired the damage to my makeup. "I take it you're pleased with your creation?" The last time I'd seen him, we'd been on a manic dash from the hospital to the airport, and my mental state and adaptation to my sex change were very much in doubt.

"My dear Madeline, you have exceeded my every expectation. Against my better judgment, I allowed myself to become intimately involved with a patient, and the results have been spectacular. Clinically speaking, of course."

"Of course. Jacques, would it surprise you to learn that my mother secretly dressed me as a little girl and treated me as her daughter, until I was almost five years old?"

Jacques pondered the question, and answered it with one of his own. "And you didn't know this until recently?"

"Two days ago, I was reunited with my mother. Actually, I surprised her at my father's funeral, and once she got over the shock of seeing me alive, as a woman, she told me."

"Mon Dieu. It sounds like one of your dreadful American reality shows."

"Tell me about it! Except it really was kind of miraculous, I mean one minute she's a grieving widow, and the next minute her dead son turns up as her daughter...she blamed herself for screwing me up when I was little, until I told her that what she did to me wound up saving my life."

"Indeed. I'm sorry to hear about your father, Madeline."

"He disowned me before he died, and who can blame him? It's so sad that he went to his grave believing that I was a murderer who fled the USA in a dress...."

"And your mother?" Jacques asked gently.

"That's the miraculous part. It was like I was her missing daughter, suddenly found alive after all those years. We talked and talked, about everything, and she even helped me get out of the country. The FBI is still looking for me," I sighed.

A waiter materialized with our menus, and Jacques ordered my favorite entrée from memory. After we were alone, he took my hands again. "Madeline, you are safe here in Paris. Nobody knows about that apartment but you and me, and in a city of this size you can hide in plain sight indefinitely as a beautiful woman."

"Don't worry, Docteur. I'm not going anywhere."

After lunch, Jacques drove us to the apartment, and he bounded up the stairs after me like a teenager. As soon as we were in the door, our passions were unleashed, and for the third time in my life, I made love as a woman. Not with a ripped ballplayer, or a randy pilot, but with a mature, sensitive Frenchman who knew how to please every inch of my body. First he undressed me, slowly, tenderly, until all that was left was my garterbelt and silk stockings, and the velvet choker around my neck. Then I undressed him. His arousal was less intense than a younger man's, almost languid, and it took him much longer to rise to the occasion, which only intensified my anticipation and enjoyment. By the time he was ready to climax, I was out of my mind with desire, and when he finally came, he stopped thrusting and let me feel him pulsating deep inside me, which triggered my own simultaneous spasms of ecstasy. I will never forget the way it felt to be loved, expertly, by the man who had turned me into his woman.

Afterwards, we lay in each others' arms, smoking contentedly and sharing our innermost thoughts as we snuggled under the duvet. "Thank you," I said at one point.

"For what, cheri?"

"For making me your woman."

"It is I who should thank you."

"Why?"

"Do you remember the last thing I said to you that first night, at the Plaza Athenee?"

I closed my eyes and it all came back. "You told me when my body matched my psyche, you hoped you'd find the courage to fulfill your destiny." 

There was a long silence. We both knew what Jacques was thinking about: Madam Bochy. Should I put his mind at ease, assure him that I was content to be his mistress, and not wreck his marriage? Or should I go for the gold? 

This was no time for words. My body answered for me, in a wicked appeal to his limbic brain. Sliding down under the duvet, I took him into my mouth and sucked on him until I could feel him begin to stiffen. My sharp fingernails tormented his nipples until he moaned, then I climbed on top of him and gently guided him in, straddling him and sliding my legs over his shoulders so I could tease his ears with my silken toes. Up and down, in and out, slowly at first, then faster and faster...his breathing became shallower and shallower, and for a moment I thought he was going to have a heart attack until he cried out in ecstasy and his whole body shook with the throes of a shattering orgasm.

Panting from the exertion, I rolled off him and snuggled up against him again, entwining my silken legs in his. "When's the last time you made it twice like that?" I whispered, nibbling on his ear.

"Eons," he sighed. 

"Shall we go for three?" I giggled as I played with his exhausted manhood.

"My god, Madeline, do you want to put me in the hospital?"

I played with him some more, until I could feel him stirring once again. "I promise I'll visit you every day. After all, the last time I saw you, I was the one in the hospital," I purred, blowing into his ear. 

"You are incorrigible! I should have known this would happen when I turned a man into a woman...melding a man's libido with the body of a goddess was a terrible mistake. No wonder you strayed when I sent you alone to St. Martin." 

"You make me sound like the Bride of Frankenstein!" I pouted. Reaching into the nightstand drawer, I found the vibrator which Jacques had packed in my suitcase the day I left the hospital. I switched it on and zeroed in on his G-spot, a place which I knew only too well...Jacques groaned when the first waves of pleasure overwhelmed his resistance, and once again he grew hard in my practiced hands. When I felt him beginning to twitch, I pulled him on top of me and wrapped my silken legs around his neck. After he entered me once again, I jolted his aching balls with the vibrator until he finally reached the point of no return, and I joined him in a Never Neverland of exquisite pleasure as my own orgasm consumed me.

This time I kept him inside me as we slowly came down to earth. "I'm sorry I was a bad girl in St. Martin," I finally said.

"I've only myself to blame. Turning you loose in that tropical paradise was a recipe for infidelity. Tell me, was your lover...younger?"

"If you must know, he was a baseball player from the USA. It was just a one-night stand, Jacques. You are a much better lover than he'll ever be," I lied. That seemed to satisfy him, and of course I didn't tell Jacques about my tryst on the airplane that morning. Some things are best kept secret.

We must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is Jacques fumbling on the nightstand for his Cartier wristwatch. After he saw the time, he staggered out of bed, and I do mean staggered – the poor man could hardly stand up straight! I tucked a pillow under my chin and watched him struggle into his clothes, wondering what he must be thinking...

"What time is it?" I asked as he tied his tie.

"Almost six o'clock."

"Are you going back to the office?"

"No, thank God I cleared my schedule for the afternoon. My wife is expecting me, we're hosting a dinner party for some friends."

"That's nice, you worked up quite an appetite. I hope Madam Bochy isn't feeling amorous this evening," I couldn't resist saying.

"That, my dear girl, is the least of my problems." He bent over and kissed me on the forehead, and then he was gone.

I lay there with a satisfied smile for the longest time...round one to the Mistress! Eventually I wrapped a robe around my shoulders and made my way to the kitchen, where I fixed myself some leftover quiche from the freezer with a split of Chardonnay. I was on my second glass of wine when I decided to check my emails. 

There was nothing from Tracy, and I almost erased it before I realized that there was a message from Mom mixed in with all the junkmails and spam. My heart jumped when I saw it, and sank when I read it:

Maddy, I am back in Chicago where I was greeted at the airport by your FBI friends. They gave me the third degree about why I left the country and returned the same day. I'm not a very good liar, but I gave nothing away. Please be careful, since they know I went to Paris I'm sure they're looking for you there. Love, Mom

I pounded the keyboard with both hands in frustration. Would this never end? It was only a matter of time before the FBI retraced Mom's steps, determined who she traveled with and smoked out the forged passport that I'd used to travel with her. Damn! I felt terrible about getting her involved, although there was little chance that the FBI was about to prosecute a 70 year old widow for aiding and abetting her son/daughter. The problem was all mine, and unless I put some distance between myself and Paris it was only a matter of time before I got caught in the net and dragged Jacques down with me.

Think, Maddy...how could I get them off my tail, once and for all? I thought about heading to a country that didn't have an extradition treaty with the United States, but a quick web search ruled that out: I'd no intention of spending the rest of my life in Yemen, Chad...wait! Morocco was on that list. Morocco, the country that Matt McCoy had pretended to visit before he faked his death, only now it was obvious that the authorities hadn't bought it. 

I spent most of the night on the Internet, researching travel arrangements and visa requirements, as well as seedier websites specializing in phony identification documents. The sun was just coming up when the last details of my plan fell into place. After a long, hot bubble bath washed away the remnants of my sex marathon with Jacques, I dressed in a simple skirt and blouse and fixed myself an omelet and espresso. Then I retrieved the woolen coat and boots that had been destined for charity, and took the Metro to Montmartre. 

Later that morning, I returned to the apartment with my acquisitions: a forged French identity card in the name of Mayyada Mansoor, a long black wig, and an airline ticket to Casablanca in the name of Madeline Moreau. There was a message on my answering machine from Jacques, inquiring as to my availability for lunch at Le Relais. I really didn't have the time, and besides it was time to play a little hard to get, so I called his officious receptionist and when she told me the doctor was preoccupied with patients, I asked her to leave a message that I was unable to see him today. 

It took me longer than I anticipated to pack my suitcase, as I pondered the climatic and cultural requirements for a woman's wardrobe in Morocco, and I just had time to send this message to my mother's secure email address:

Mom, I'm so sorry that I dragged you into this! I have a plan to get them off my tail for good, you will get a phone call from me in a few days that they will probably be listening to, just go with the flow, okay? I love you and I miss you! Your daughter, Maddy

I didn't have time to change into something more stylish for my flight, although I did ditch the cheap coat and boots, which had been perfect for the back alleys of Montmartre, for my Burberry's trench coat and some comfortable Ferragamo flats. The doorman hailed me a taxi, and I beat the afternoon rush hour traffic and made it to Charles de Gaulle with enough spare time to score a Hermes scarf at the duty free to liven up my travel outfit, paid for with Madeline Moreau's French credit card.

I settled into my business class seat, kicked off my flats, and was just about to switch off the cell phone in my purse when it started to ring. It was Jacques. As always on this phone, we spoke exclusively in French, as I recall the conversation went something like this:

"Cheri, I missed you at lunch today!"

"Didn't the receptionist give you my message?"

"Yes, of course, is everything all right?"

"Couldn't be better, my love! How was your dinner party last night?"

"Deadly, as always. I couldn't stop thinking about you, all night...."

"If you talk in your sleep, don't mention my name."

He laughed heartily. "Madeline, what am I ever going to do with you?"

How about marrying me? I thought of saying. No, it was much too soon to say that, although now that the game was afoot, I liked my chances...keep your cool, girl! "The same thing you did to me last night, every night, for the rest of my life," I replied.

He sighed with contentment. "I must say, I surprised myself. Medically speaking, you are more efficient than Viagra!"

"You mean you didn't take one?" I asked in mock surprise.

"No cheri, last night I discovered the fountain of youth in your arms."

"You were a fountain, all right...Jacques, I can't talk much longer, and I wanted to let you know that I'm going out of town for a few days."

He was obviously disturbed. "But you just got back. Where are you going?"

"I'll let you know when I get there. Sorry to be so mysterious!"

"Really, Madeline, you must let me know these things," he said in exasperation.

The flight attendant announced that all cell phones had to be turned off, and I'm sure that Jacques heard the announcement. "Must go, au revoir!" I said and switched off my phone. Round two to the Mistress! I tucked my stockinged feet under my skirt and reveled in the sensation of being a pretty woman in love. 

The less said about my brief excursion to North Africa, the better. It's all a blur: clearing customs and immigration as Madeline Moreau, checking in to the Hyatt Regency, sleeping past noon, a room service breakfast, a foray to the old market where I purchased one item of women's clothing, and five minutes in the hotel sundry shop completed my whirlwind tour of Casablanca. At the sundry shop I purchased a postcard featuring the Old Medina and enough stamps to mail it to the United States. Once back in my room, I penned this note to Tracy:

Surprise! You probably thought I was dead. I've missed you. If you ever get to fly here, I'd love to see you, although being a woman in a Muslim country is not recommended for fun...love, Maddy

I hated myself for the turmoil my card would cause her, then again for all I knew she'd found somebody else. I was counting on the FBI reading it before she did. To make sure they picked up my trail, I placed a call from my hotel room before I left, dialing the old house in Winnetka from memory. One ring...two rings..."Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Maddy, where are you?"

"I'm back in Morocco."

"Morocco?" 

"Yep. It was so nice to see you in Chicago. I just wanted to apologize again for chickening out at Dad's funeral."

"That's all right, dear...."

"Mom, I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you."

She started to sniffle into the phone. Whether it was an act for the FBI, or genuine, even I couldn't be sure. "I'm just glad you're alive and well. Are you going to be there long?"

Perfect setup. "I'm afraid so, Mom. I just got back from Paris, but I was looking over my shoulder the whole time. Between Interpol and the white slave traders, I've got to watch my step."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think the feds bought my fake suicide, so I'm going to hunker down here for as long as I can, at least they can't extradite me. If you don't hear from me again, it will mean that I've been sold into slavery to some sicko sheik."

"Don't say things like that!"

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll stay one step ahead of them. I love you!"

"I love you too, dear."

I hung up before she could stray off message, and tried to figure out how to put on my new outfit. The drape was all wrong, and it did nothing for me! When I tucked my hair under my new wig to complete the look, the transformation from chic to nondescript was complete. With my forged French documents in hand, I caught a taxi to the airport and steeled myself for the short flight to Algiers.




A Murder Misstery Epilogue



The following morning, I awoke from a fitful sleep to see the rooftops of Paris peeking through thick gray clouds once again. This time I was not in a private jet, but rather a window seat in the last row of coach on a crowded airbus. Several of the women seated near me had already transformed themselves in the lavatories, shedding their burkas to reveal jeans and high heels, and adding lipstick and mascara to hit the streets of Paris running. I was more circumspect, waiting until the plane was almost empty before retrieving my suitcase from the overhead and making my way into the terminal, down the long corridor to passport control. If my Internet research held up, a French citizen returning from Algeria endured no formalities, and sure enough I was waved through. As soon as I found a ladies room, I removed my dreadful burka and wig and threw them in the trash, a chic chick once more.

When I switched on my cellphone in the taxi on the way back to the apartment, a message from Jacques was waiting. "Cheri, I suppose it would be too much to hope for, but if you are free for lunch today, please surprise me." The note of despair in his voice was encouraging, and I returned the call without delay. His receptionist instructed me to hold, and in a few seconds Jacques was on the line. Once again the conversation was in French, although I can translate it word for word:

"My darling, where have you been?"

"I'll tell you all about it when I see you."

"Le Relais at noon?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Please don't disappoint me. We have something important to discuss."

Could the Mistress be on the verge of Le Knockout?

Back in my apartment, I sent a quick email to my mother while the tub was filling with Mistral bain moussant:

You were perfect on the phone! I think we've seen the last of Mutt and Jeff. Don't forget about April in Paris! Love, Maddy

As I luxuriated in the soothing hot bubbles, the events of the past few days played back in my mind. With any luck, the FBI was already on the way to Morocco, where once again Matt McCoy's trail would go cold. How long would they search for me? When I didn't turn up, would they fall for the red herring that I'd been kidnapped as a sex slave? That was almost as plausible as disguising myself as a Muslim woman, taking the terrible risk of crossing the border into Algeria and returning to France in a burka. Anyway, with no extradition treaty between the United States and Morocco, it would be only a matter of time before they closed their file.

Now all that remained was to get Jacques to leave his wife and propose to me. I knew in my heart that he'd fallen for me hook, line and sinker, and all I had to do was reel him in. I suppose I should have felt guilty as I dusted my body with perfumed powder, slithered into my sexiest lingerie and stockings and selected a killer dress to wear for him, but he was clearly trapped in a sexless marriage, why not make an honest man out of him? "Carpe diem!" he'd said to me many times. I ignored Cicero's warning: "Don't ask, it's dangerous to know what end the gods will give you...."

Feeling supremely confident, I stepped into my stilettos and went outside. It was an unseasonably warm winter's day, and the morning clouds had given way to brilliant sunshine. A glance at my diamond watch indicated that I had plenty of time, so on a whim I decided to walk, even if my heels were killing me by the time I'd covered a few blocks. Just one of the joys of being a woman! I consoled myself as I made my way through the charming sidewalks of the Latin Quarter. 

The closer I got to Le Relais, the more I began having second thoughts about what I was doing with Jacques. He was a wonderful man, and I loved every minute I spent with him, but did I really want to break up his marriage? I had enough on my conscience...besides, he was so much older! What would life be like for us when he retired, could I endure watching him age gracefully? I was a beautiful young woman with $3,000,000 in her bank account! The last thing I needed was to be tied down....

My worries melted away when I saw him seated there, at our familiar table, with an anxious smile on his face. "You look spectacular," he said.

"Thanks to you," I said, brushing his nose with my finger. 

"Where were you, Madeline?" 

"Morocco and Algeria."

"You're joking!"

"Au contrare." Jacques sat enthralled as I related the message from my mother about the FBI, the plan I devised to foil them, and my return from North Africa in disguise. 

"As I've said many times, you never cease to surprise and delight me," he said, shaking his head. "Although I must say, I was less than delighted when you left."

The sommelier arrived with our customary champagne, and after he filled our glasses Jacques got straight to the point. "Madeline, I have to tell you something, and ask you something."

"Yes?" I asked after gulping down half my glass.

"My wife is leaving me."

"Oh dear, I hope it wasn't anything to do with me."

"Of course it has everything to do with you!"

"Does she know about me?"

"Not in so many words...Madeline, I'm a Frenchman, and I've had many mistresses, whom she has tolerated over the years, as most Frenchwomen do. But you are different."

"Well, that's stating the obvious," I said, a lame attempt to break the tension.

"That's not what I mean, Madeline. The difference is that I've fallen in love with you, deeply in love, and I cannot disguise it from her, any more than you can disguise your beauty."

"So she asked for the divorce?"

"It's all very civilized. There are no children, and the financial settlement will be extremely generous. I'm afraid this means that I will no longer be a wealthy man, and I will have to keep working for the foreseeable future."

"That doesn't sound so bad," I said hopefully, "if you like being a doctor."

"I love my work, and I would be bored to tears with retirement, but it's important for you to know these things, because now I must ask you that question."

I gave him my most encouraging smile as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a box from Cartier. "My dear Madeline, will you marry me?" he asked as he slipped the ring on my finger.

by the author of Skylord



A Murder Misstery Finis



For those who came in late, Matt McCoy -- now Madeline Moreau -- is on the run for a crime he did not commit, and a murder which she did....as the saga concludes, Maddy vows to end her life on the lam. By the author of The Jessica Project

"Jacques, when I saw Dr. Villiers, the name I gave him was Madison Monroe. Do you think we can trust him not to talk to the police?"

"How did you pay him?"

"Cash, under the table."

"Then you can trust him to keep quiet. He'd have problems of his own if the National Health System knew he was working off the books. Nevertheless, I'll have a word with him to make sure."

"While you're at it, could you ask him something else?" He blinked when I told him what I wanted. "I have my reasons," I assured him.

"It's somewhat bizarre, but I'll see what I can do." 

Jacques hailed a taxi, and he insisted on dropping me off at the apartment before returning to his office. We rode in silence, each of us preoccupied with our separate thoughts. Jacques may have been brooding over my macabre request, or the possible implications of our relationship on his medical license. I was primarily concerned with where I would be spending the night! When the taxi pulled over in front of the apartment, I put on a brave front. "Thanks for lunch! Don't call me on my cell phone again, okay? If the police are onto you, they'll have the record of all my calls. I'm going to have to get a new phone, when I do I'll let you know my new number." 

"Where are you going to go?"

"I can't live like this, Jacques. I need to put my old life behind me, once and for all."

"I'm worried about you."

"I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl." I kissed him hard on the lips and slipped away before I lost it. As soon as his taxi was out of sight, I brushed past the doorman and raced for the stairs. I took them two at a time, not an easy thing in a skirt and heels, determined to make it back to the apartment before I broke down.

The exertion of racing up the stairs had a calming effect, and by the time I got to the apartment, I had almost composed myself. Think, Maddy! When was the last time I used my cell phone? Wasn't it the night I left Marseilles, when I'd made my abbreviated call to Jacques from the train? Madison Monroe had disappeared from the face of the earth that night...now all I had to do was make sure her disappearance was permanent.

Once again, I sat down at the computer and watched my manicured fingers flit over the keyboard, searching the Internet for another escape route. Only this time, I was determined to travel in the style to which I'd become accustomed: no more couchettes for this girl! Soon I had come up with the outlines of a plan, and the details fell into place with surprising ease. Once I was sure where I was going, I packed my trusty Vuitton suitcase like a seasoned female traveler, put my new passport as well as my old one and a few other items in my purse, and called down to the doorman for a taxi to the Gare d'Austerlitz.

Just before I went out the door, the doorman called to inform me that a messenger had arrived with a package for me. I asked him to hold it for me downstairs. When I went to the lobby, he handed me a brown paper envelope about the size of a teacup. I tucked it into an outside pocket of my suitcase and got into my waiting taxi.

I asked the driver to stop and wait for me at a large electronics store a few blocks away from the station. There I purchased another throwaway cell phone, with a Paris prefix this time. I'd already crushed my old cell phone under a stiletto heel before I left the apartment. I also splurged on the latest, thinnest notebook computer with wireless Internet access.

When I got back into my taxi, I called Jacques' mobile number to try out my new phone. I got his voice mail and left this message: "Bonjour Jacques, je vous manque! Appelez-vous quand vous pouvez. Je t'aime, Madeline." Despite six months of self-instruction in Provence, my Berlitz French was still pitiful, but hopefully any prying ears would mistake Madeline for just the latest of Jacques' many mistresses. 

I asked the driver to make one more stop before he took me to the station: a branch office of Banque BNP Paribas, where I opened a new checking account in the name of Madeline Moreau. The account came with a credit card, which was essential, since my cash reserves were almost gone.

I had enough euros left to tip the driver generously when he dropped me off at the Gare d'Austerlitz. With my purse over one shoulder, and my new computer bag over the other, I tugged my suitcase into the colossal concourse, following the signs to the ticket office for the Elipsos Trenhotel. Using my new credit card, I reserved a Grand Class sleeping compartment on the Joan Miro to Barcelona, which was leaving in a few hours. Dinner was included with my fare, so although I was getting hungry, I killed some time browsing in the station bookstore, where I purchased a Michelin guide to Barcelona and a spent a long time studying a nautical chart of the western Mediterranean Sea.

I was so preoccupied that I almost missed my train! Fortunately, there were no check-in procedures before departure, as ticket control and passport checks were taken care of on boarding the train. There seemed to be an attendant for every passenger, and I was ushered with elaborate courtesy into my compartment, which in addition to a bed with crisp linens included a toilet, sink and shower. I was given a menu for the four course dinner which would be served by Wagon Lits in the dining car, and reserved a table for one at 10:00.

It was very sad to watch the lights of Paris fade away as my train streaked south towards Spain. I missed Jacques terribly, and I wondered if I would ever see our little love nest again? One way or another, I was determined to reclaim my destiny. I turned on a reading light, kicked off my heels and sat down at the little folding table by the picture window in my compartment. Then I reached into my purse for some stationery and envelopes that I'd taken from the Plaza Athenee, and carefully composed this letter, using a ballpoint pen with indelible ink:

Dearest Tracy,

I don't know where to begin. Since our night together in London I've thought a lot about what I've done. My life is so screwed up! I am a man, living as a woman, who can never come home. You asked me how can I live with myself? The answer is, I can't. I'm sorry for any hurt I caused you. Love,

Matt

I sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Tracy in Rosemont, put a French postage stamp on it, and put it back in my purse. I knew if I sent the letter, it would lay a heavy guilt trip on Tracy, but that was not my intention. Just then my cell phone rang. "Allo?"

"Madeline?" It was Jacques.

"Bonsoir, mon amour."

He picked up my cue and continued the conversation in French, asking me where I was. I told him I was in the south of France, technically true, and assured him that I missed him and wanted him in my bed again soon. Jacques played along perfectly, and rang off with a promise to call me tomorrow.

A glance at my diamond watch told me that I was late for dinner. I stepped back into my heels, grabbed my purse and made my way down the gently swaying corridor to the dining car. It was quite elegant, half-filled with well-dressed diners seated at intimate tables set with linen, crystal and silver. I was shown by a uniformed attendant to a table already occupied by a smartly dressed woman of about my age. 

I took the opposing chair and fumbled in my purse for a cigarette. She put down her Financial Times and lit one of her own. After we shared guilty smiles, she introduced herself as Gabrielle. Although I'd studied Spanish in high school and college, her Catalonian dialect was incomprehensible to me, and her French was as bad as mine, so we settled on English as a default language. I had to remind myself to dumb it down and speak with a French accent! 

"My name is Madeline," I told her. Although I was supremely confident in my passing ability by now, it occurred to me that this would be my first sustained conversation with a woman other than Tracy. How did girls talk to each other anyhow?

"I like your sweater," Gabrielle said. "So feminine. Did you get it in Paris?"

"No, in London, at Burberry's."

"Is that where you got your skirt?"

"Uh huh."

"Very nice." 

"Thanks." I glanced down and saw her foot sticking out from under the tablecloth. A Gucci pump was dangling from her stockinged toes. "Umm, those are cute shoes," I said lamely. 

"I hate them! Sheer torture if I walk more than a few meters," she confided. Our conversation continued along those momentous lines while we waited for a waiter to take our orders. Gabrielle was drinking Campari and bitter lemon, which looked light and refreshing, so I ordered one too. Our chatter continued over entrees, salads and much wine. It turned out that Gabrielle was a newly-licensed architect returning from an internship in Paris. I deflected her questions about my livelihood, and soon the conversation turned to the inevitable. "Do you have a boyfriend?" she asked me.

"Yes, his name is Jacques," I said with reflexive pride.

"What does he do?"

"He's a doctor in Paris."

"Excellent. Is he...older?"

"Yes."

"Are you in love?"

"Yes, except...he's married." I guess it was the wine talking. 

"Married men are much better. I'm so sick of the boys I'm seeing. All they want is to fuck, get pissed and watch football!"

Don't knock it, I thought sadly. Not so long ago, I would have been trying to figure out how to get into your pants. Now I'm sitting here in a skirt, talking to you about shoes and boyfriends.... 

We lingered over dessert and coffee. "How long are you staying in Barcelona?" Gabrielle asked.

"I'm not sure. Do you live there?"

"All my life. Where are you staying?"

"I thought I'd try the Hotel Arts. Is it nice?"

"Very! It's not too far from everything and right on the beach. Would you like to get together one night?" In my past life, I would have pounced on it. Now, I could only smile and tell her that might be fun. Maybe we could go clubbing and meet some cute guys, she said. On that distressing note, I stubbed out my last cigarette and wished her a good night.

It was past midnight by the time I returned to my posh compartment. I was feeling very sorry for myself as I peeled off my stockings and stepped out of my skirt. How my life had changed! I'd just spent two hours with a hot chick, but now that I was a eunuch, I'd felt nothing downstairs. All I could think of as I undressed myself was how much I missed being a man, and how like a woman I'd become. 

The feeling of my satin nightgown against my smooth skin was some consolation. What are you complaining about? You're free, you're rich, and you're going to have sex again someday, only as a beautiful woman. I pulled up the covers, rested my head on the soft pillow, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke to the first rays of sunlight peeking under the window shade. The Spanish countryside was baked to a golden brown, under a bright blue sky. I had a lot to do today, so I showered quickly, put on a little makeup, and selected my favorite sundress to wear with some comfortable espadrilles. Gabrielle was sitting at the same table in the dining car, and we passed the next few hours sharing girl talk over espressos and croissants. At one point I asked her to recommend the best place in Barcelona to find a cute swimsuit, and tried to stay with her as she critiqued the latest styles. We exchanged phone numbers and air kisses when it was time to return to our compartments to collect our things.

It was a short taxi ride to the Hotel Arts. As Gabrielle had assured me, it was well-located on an esplanade which connected the beach to a modern shopping and entertainment district along the Port Olimpic marina. I inspected and rejected two rooms before I settled on what I was looking for: a suite with a small lanai, on an upper floor, fronting directly on Barceloneta Beach.

As soon as I'd unpacked my things, I went out in search of a hardware store, where I purchased two ten liter buckets with snap-on lids. These I placed on the lanai. The rest of the morning I spent shopping for an oversize beach bag, several large bottles of spring water, and after I dropped these off in my room, my new swim suit. The shop recommended by Gabrielle was on Las Ramblas, which was a short taxi ride from my hotel. The bustling thoroughfare was full of life, lined with smart stores and restaurants. I lost myself in the crowd, savoring my freedom and the sheer enjoyment of being a pretty girl in a sundress on a sunny day. 

Eventually I came to the beachwear boutique, where for the first time since my transformation, I saw how my body looked in a woman's swimsuit. Not bad! Some of them made me look fat, and others accentuated various flaws, but eventually I found two modest one piece suits which hugged and highlighted all the right places, and a skimpy bikini that made me look downright hot. I bought several cover-ups and some sandals to go with them, along with a pair of oversize sunglasses and some girly ball caps which matched my swim suits. My final acquisition was a supply of tanning oils with minimal sunscreen. 

The shops were just closing for the afternoon siesta as I made my way back to the Hotel Arts. It was warm and sunny, a typical late summer's day on the Costa Brava, so I changed into one of my modest swim suits, filled my beach bag with water bottles and tanning oil, and headed for the beach. I tipped a beach attendant after he set me up with a chair and towels, and took my time applying tanning oil to my soft, smooth arms and legs. I pulled down the straps on my swimsuit and covered my back and shoulders as best I could.

After I'd strapped myself back up, I went straight to work. First I opened my water bottles and poured their contents completely into the golden sand. Then I carried them into the surf, wading out up to my waist before I bent over and filled each of them with Mediterranean sea water. After I screwed the tops back on the bottles, I put them in my beach bag and returned to my hotel room, where I poured them into one of the buckets on the lanai. By my mental calculation, it would take another ten trips or so to completely fill both buckets, so I returned to the beach and continued with my one-woman bucket brigade throughout the afternoon. Fortunately, the beach was crowded, and if anybody noticed the strange woman's comings and goings, they paid her no mind. By five o'clock, my shoulders aching and my back burned to a crisp, I'd filled both buckets almost to the brim. 

After that, I returned to my room, where I selected a small purse -- the type a woman tucks under her arm when she's wearing a summer dress -- and filled it with a compact, lipstick, some miscellaneous female junk, the letter which I'd composed to Tracy on the train, my boarding pass and ticket for the Tangier ferry, and Madison Monroe's passport. Then I dropped it into one of the buckets full of sea water and snapped the lid tightly shut.

My next task was more difficult. The package which had been delivered to my doorman the day before was still in an outside pocket of my suitcase. Carefully, I removed it from the brown paper envelope and removed the bubble wrapping which surrounded a clear plastic case. There they were, looking like two passed-over prunes. A little tear ran down my cheek as I removed them from the case and wrapped them in my cotton panties, a pathetic burial shroud for Matt McCoy's manhood. I wadded them tightly into the panties and sank them to the bottom of the other bucket. 

After a quick shower to rinse the sand off my exhausted body, I flung myself down on the bed like a rag doll. My sordid tasks had killed my appetite, and I was lying there disconsolately, contemplating my tan lines -- I'd always found them so sexy on a woman -- when my cell phone rang. "Allo?"

"Bonsoir, Cheri." It was Jacques. We spoke in French, using simple words and phrases, the language of lovers. I told him how much I missed him, and he asked me how I'd spent my day. When I told him about my new swim suits, he demanded a detailed description. I complained about my tan lines, which delighted him, and before I knew it, I was playing with myself while he whispered eroticisms into my ear. My neutered penis was unresponsive at first, but to my surprise I felt myself becoming aroused when I started to play with my breasts, which Jacques referred to lovingly as my grand tetons...then he told me to kiss my finger for him, and insert it into my derriere, which I did, arching my back in delight while my other hand continued to stroke my hardening nipples, until my whole body shivered as I succumbed to wave after wave of exquisite pleasure, my little penis twitching and dribbling like a forgotten bystander. 

I made Jacques promise to call me again at the same time tomorrow, and every night after that until I returned to Paris.

The next day, what was to become my routine for the next two weeks began with a room service breakfast at the table on my lanai. I requested that housekeeping make up my room first thing, and I smoked cigarettes and drank espresso on the lanai until the chambermaid had come and gone. Then I locked the lanai door and put on one of my conservative swimsuits for a day on the beach. The weather was predictably hot and sunny, and I took up my position near a lifeguard stand and began to observe the beach scene. It had a rhythm of its own, and gradually I became familiar with the characters and their routines. I noted when the scavengers came around to look for lost items, and which lifeguards were the most conscientious. Every day, my tan got deeper and deeper, and by the end of the first week I was as brown as a bean.

The only break in my routine was when I had lunch one day at an outdoor café on Las Ramblas with Gabrielle. She'd called to arrange a night on the town, but I'd declined, suggesting a ladies lunch instead. That was fine with her, and she told me to meet her at a little bistro the following day. I wore my chicest summer dress from Saint Tropez, and we spent a delightful afternoon sipping Sangria and sharing pizza topped with brie and walnuts. We were hit on several times, which annoyed Gabrielle as much as it amused me. There was a whole new world waiting for me, a world of girlfriends who shared a bond unlike anything experienced by guys, and a world of guys who were after the one thing that I didn't yet possess...

When we were finished our lunch, I asked her if she could teach me how to say a few words in Catalonian Spanish, the dialect of Barcelona. "What exactly is it you want to say?" she asked.

"Look at what I found in the water. It's a public disgrace! Shame on you!"

"Why would you want to say those things?" she asked.

"Oh, it's just a little joke I'm playing on a boy. Can you tell me how to say it?" She shrugged and taught me the words. I made her repeat them several times, writing it all down word for word and practicing my pronunciation until she assured me that I had it right.

On my way back to the Hotel Arts, I stopped at a shop on Las Ramblas to purchase a good pair of binoculars. Then it was back to the beach to continue my strange routine. Every night, after phone sex with Jacques and a room service dinner, I used my notebook computer to search the Internet for information about the corrosive effects of seawater. I never came up with anything conclusive as to cause and effect, so I would just have to go with my gut. Finally one morning, I decided that it was time.

After breakfast at my normal hour, I opened one of the buckets on the lanai and carefully fished out the remains of my purse, which looked more like a glob of muck than an expensive ladies' handbag. Perfect. I dropped it into a plastic hotel laundry bag, which in turn I put into my beach bag. After I'd settled myself on the beach at my usual place, I waited until a few minutes before the lifeguards got on duty before I put my beach bag on my shoulder and started to take a casual stroll along the beach. When I was right in front of the lifeguard stand, I quickly removed the laundry bag and deposited my water-logged purse on the shore, so that the gentle waves were just lapping it. I continued to saunter along the beach for a few minutes before I circled back behind the lifeguard stand and returned to my chair to see what happened.




A Murder Misstery Finis



As always, the conscientious lifeguard who had the first shift arrived promptly at ten. He made a quick survey of the beach in front of his station, and when he spotted something unusual in the sand, he hopped down and picked it up. I had my binoculars with me, and I watched surreptitiously as he peered inside my purse and started to extract something. Then he stopped and returned to his station, where he picked up the telephone and said something down the line.

It seemed to take forever before a jeep with police officers pulled up to the stand. I watched them put my purse into a large plastic bag and drive off. Then I rolled over onto my tummy, eased off my shoulder straps, and concentrated on my tan.

My routine changed the next morning. Instead of going to the beach after breakfast on the lanai, I remained there with a stack of local newspapers, trying to decipher the Catalonian print as best I could. I was just finishing the last of them when I observed a commotion on the beach. Picking up my binoculars, I observed two familiar-looking figures in suits and ties walking Nixon-like on the beach. Sure enough, it was the same two FBI agents who had interrogated me in Tracy's apartment, a lifetime ago. I watched in fascination as they talked to the lifeguard who had found my purse, writing in their notepads as he pointed to where he'd found it. They left soon afterwards, but about an hour later a low-flying helicopter began to search the waterfront, making lazy circles farther and farther out into the Mediterranean until eventually it disappeared.

It was time for my second act. Quickly I changed into my bikini, noting with smug satisfaction that it barely contained my breasts. God, I looked hotter than hell! Of course that was the whole idea...I tucked my blonde hair into a hot pink ball cap, put on my oversize sunglasses, and returned to the lanai to fetch my soggy panties. I rinsed them out in the seawater, making sure the sad remains of my manhood were no longer recognizable, before I tucked them into my bikini bottom and returned to the beach. 

I hung back until I made sure that the FBI agents were nowhere to be seen. Then I sauntered into the sea, gradually splashing my body until I was in up to my breasts. A glance up at the lifeguard on duty confirmed that the hot chick in the bikini was commanding his complete attention. I turned my ass towards him, pulled the panties out of the front of my suit, and started to squeal. "Ai...yi...yi...!" I shrieked over and over. The guard jumped down from his chair and sprinted towards me through the water, asking what was wrong.

I pointed at the blood-soaked panties floating in the water and repeated the lines that Gabrielle had taught me in Catalonian: "Look at what I found in the water. It's a public disgrace! Shame on you!" I waited to make sure he picked them up before I turned away and swam out to sea.

Once again, I retreated to my lanai to watch the show. Sure enough, it wasn't long before Mutt and Jeff returned to the beach in their suits to interrogate the lifeguard. No doubt they asked him a lot of questions about the woman who'd discovered my panties, but having been a guy once myself, I was confident that his description would begin and end with my tits.

I returned to Paris the next day, although I flew Air France this time. I was desperate to see Jacques again, and I knew I had done all that I could do in Barcelona. When he picked me up at the airport, Jacques was blown away by my tan, and after two weeks with Madame Bochy I could tell that he was hot and horny. Although neither of us had eaten, we went straight to the apartment, where I performed my first ever blowjob. It wasn't as bad as I expected. I almost enjoyed the sensation of stroking a robust cock again, even if it wasn't mine...when it was time to take him into my mouth, I had an incredible feeling of power over him, and when he was done, he told me that he loved me. I zipped him up, freshened my lipstick, and insisted that he prove it by taking me to the most expensive restaurant in Paris. 

For the next few days, I searched the Internet and newspapers for any developments in the manhunt for Matt McCoy. Finally, after three days, the story broke in the Chicago Tribune:

CROSSDRESSING FUGITIVE COMMITS SUICIDE 

CHICAGO -- A joint task force of the FBI, Interpol and the Chicago Police Department announced today that Matt McCoy, the Chicago securities dealer who has been the subject of an international manhunt, is believed to have drowned at sea. McCoy, who allegedly swindled millions from elderly investors, then murdered his co-conspirator and fled to Europe disguised as a woman, was last seen in Marseilles, where he boarded a ferry to Tangier using the name Madison Monroe. The task force declined to release more details, although sources within the CPD confirm that DNA taken from a hairbrush in McCoy's Chicago apartment provided a positive match with DNA found on a woman's undergarment which washed ashore on the Mediterranean coast of Spain. According to the same sources, McCoy's effects also included a purse containing a suicide note. Although badly deteriorated after several weeks under water, the note suggested that McCoy was despondent and had decided to take his life, presumably by jumping overboard somewhere off the coast of France. Although the manhunt for McCoy has been discontinued, an investigation continues against his former employer, and a fund has been established to help the elderly investors who lost their life savings.

Although I'd planned it down to the last detail, I couldn't believe that it was finally over! I should have been over the moon, but for some reason I felt a tremendous letdown. Maybe part of it was knowing that my friends and family, and especially Tracy, would go to their graves thinking that I'd killed myself disguised as a woman. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was much more than that. I re-read the article, and did a little Internet research into the fund which had been set up to compensate Norman Wolf's victims. They were the poorest of the poor, yet hard-working and conscientious enough to have tried to set something aside for their old age, and now they were facing utter ruin. 

I phoned my Swiss banker and inquired into the status of my account. Interest continued to pile on top of my stolen millions, and my balance was up to $3,100,000 and change. I instructed my banker to wire the $100,000 into my new account at Banque BNP Paribas. That should be enough to pay for my sex change operation, and to keep me in skirts and dresses when I was back in my heels. Before I allowed myself too much time to think about it, I told him to wire the rest as a unanimous contribution to the fund set up in Chicago. After all, it was their money...

When I hung up the phone, there were no regrets. I'd paid my price to society, and I had a lifetime as a beautiful woman to look forward to. If Jacques ever tired of me, I'd have to fall back on my wits and wiles as a woman. After all that I'd been through, I wasn't all that worried about my future.

By the author of The Jessica Project  



A Murder Misstery



"One of us has to wear the pants around here," she taunted me. "I thought I'd take you out to lunch, then maybe we can do a little shopping so you won't have to wear my clothes. How are you fixed for cash?"

"We got our bonuses in January, so I'm flush...uh oh!"

"What?"

"If the feds are looking for me, how am I going to get into my bank account?"

"Like any working girl, use your ATM to take out as much cash as you can every day."

"Hmm....they'll be watching my account, and once they see that I'm using an ATM machine in Rosemont, they'll be all over you."

"This is true...how about if you write a big check to me, only date it like a week ago, and I'll cash it for you?"

"I really don't want to get you in trouble, Tracy...say, does Ashley have any ID around here?"

"Clever girl! You do look an awful lot like her now. Let's see, she may have left her airline credential when she went on vacation, let me check." Sure enough, Ashley's photo ID was in a drawer of her nightstand, and it bore an uncanny resemblance to me in her wig. 

"Okay, only I'll have to go downtown to one of the big branches of my bank." I retrieved my wallet from the pile of guy clothes on the closet floor and found the blank check I always carried with me. After I made it out to Ashley in the amount of $5,000, I was about to stuff it into the pocket of my little blue jacket when Tracy started to laugh. "Girls don't carry their money like that, dear," she explained. She went into the closet and came back with a navy blue purse and one of her old wallets. "Here, let's set you up like a proper woman." Soon my purse was chock full female essentials like lipstick, a compact, a brush, tissues, and a nail file in addition to the wallet.

After Tracy put on a pair of sturdy shoes, a wool cap and a pea coat, she loaned me one of her uniform topcoats and a pair of women's gloves, and we were off. I was very self-conscious at first, and Tracy had to tell me to smile and act natural. "Stand up straight...stop staring at your feet!" she scolded me. When we stepped outside, the winter wind whipped my skirt and coat around my knees, and the frigid air cut through my stockings like a knife. "Now I know why you're wearing pants!" I groaned.

"Better get used to it, sweetheart. You look like a girl dressed like that, but I don't know how convincing you'd be in pants."

"Whatever," I sighed. My girlish voice was becoming a little more natural to me, and we bantered back and forth to take our minds off my troubles. 

"Hungry?" she asked me.

"Starving."

"Okay, let's find someplace where I can teach you how to eat like a girl."

It dawned on me that Tracy was acting more and more in charge, almost like she was the guy. "You're digging this, aren't you?" I asked.

"If you're asking me whether I'm happy that my boyfriend is on the ten most wanted list, the answer is no."

"But you are digging the fact that I have to act like a chick."

"I have to admit, it's been a blast so far. Watching you try to pretend you're a girl is a hoot, and you gotta admit, the sex was amazing."

Just thinking about it made me stir again, which was a very uncomfortable feeling. I closed my eyes and tried to forget about my manhood, trapped and throbbing in its silken prison. At least my tight skirt and heels made it impossible for me to walk like a man, and it was a struggle to keep up with Tracy.

We arrived at the Rosemont station, and I fished awkwardly through my purse for money to pay for our tickets to Chicago on the Blue Line. Fortunately, the station was almost deserted at that hour, and a train came along in a few minutes. As soon as we found our seats, I kicked off my heels and flexed my aching toes, which were cold under my stockings. Tracy smiled sympathetically before she closed her eyes to catch some sleep.

Instead of looking out for cops, I studied the faces of other passengers for any indication that they saw through my disguise, but once again everyone else was either reading or sleeping. As we rolled through the Chicago suburbs, I actually closed my eyes and nodded off for a few minutes. Without realizing it, I was getting more and more used to myself as a woman.

We woke up with a start when the train went underground for the final run into downtown Chicago, and soon we were making our way through the crowded concourse, looking for a place to eat. Nothing appealed to us, then Tracy had an inspiration and we rode up the escalator to State Street. Once again, I cursed my fate as the winter weather knifed through my nylons, and as we made our way towards Macy's, it occurred to me that I was the only person on the sidewalk, man or woman, showing any leg. "Look at me! I'm the only dumb-dumb in a dress!"

"Poor baby! We'll get you some tights and boots after lunch." 

Although we were both famished, I saw a branch office of my bank across the street, and I told Tracy to wait outside. She gave me a little kiss on the cheek for good luck after I instructed her to melt away in the crowd if I was apprehended. There was a long line waiting for tellers, but it moved quickly, and soon I was face to face with a young woman who scrutinized my check, then my ID, then me. "Do you have an account with us?" she inquired.

"No."

"It should be all right, since the check is drawn on one of our accounts. It's just that the amount is so large, I'll have to get an assistant vice president to approve it." My knees were shaking while we waited for an unctuous man to appear, but after he looked me over and glanced at my ID he scribbled his initials and the teller began counting out hundred dollar bills. As soon as she was through counting it all twice, I stuffed the wad into my purse and beat a hasty retreat. 

Tracy had a relieved smile on her face when I joined her outside. "Can we add forgery to your list of firsts today?" she asked.

I stuck out my tongue at her. "Better be nice to me if you want me to pay for lunch."

We crossed the street again and continued on our way towards Macy's, still thought of by Chicagoans as Marshall Fields. After we went through the revolving door into the vast department store, I gratefully unbuttoned my topcoat and peeled off my gloves. It was unnerving to see my manicured fingers again, just another reminder of my newfound femininity, and I got zapped with cologne by a girl in a white smock as we fought our way past the cosmetics counters.

The restaurant upstairs was a Chicago institution, and most of the lunch crowd was gone by then, so we were seated immediately. Tracy taught me how to drape my coat over the back of my chair, and she suggested that I visit the ladies room to repair what the wind had done to my wig. "Does it look funny?" I asked.

"No, you just look like a girl who's been through a force ten gale. Now you know why I wore this hat."

I had so much to learn about being a woman! 

Fifteen minutes later, I rejoined a very impatient Tracy at the table. "Where have you been?" she steamed.

"Well, let's see...first I had to wait for a stall..."

"You needed a stall to comb your hair?"

"Please...nature called, and after I scored a stall, it took me a while to figure out how to get my panties and pantyhose down far enough to sit down, while holding up my slip and skirt of course...what a hassle!"

"I hope everything came out all right," she said sarcastically.

"Yes, darling. It did take me forever to put everything back together, and then I went to work on my hair...it looked like a fright wig! I almost pulled it clear off my head, which would have been a little embarrassing, considering the crowd that was in there, although none of them had a clue. I think I'm beginning to get the hang of this. How do I look?" 

Tracy backed off. "You look like you've been a woman all your life," she said. "Believe me, I know girls who would kill to have your figure, and who knew that your face would paint up so pretty?"

I must have blushed, and once again I had the nagging feeling that I was getting way too good at this...what kind of a man was I? A waitress materialized before I could think of what to say, and we busied ourselves with the menus. I followed Tracy's lead and ordered a salad and iced tea, something a girl would have for lunch. When we were alone again, Tracy launched into her lesson. "Cut your food into little pieces...always ask for the dressing on the side...leave something on your plate..." On and on she went, schooling me on the ways of being a woman, from etiquette to fashion, even hygiene and how to watch my weight. It was so strange, sitting there with her like another girl, feeling more and more like I was becoming one. 

When we were through with our ladies' lunch, Tracy insisted on picking up the check, then she steered me back to State Street for the short walk to Filene's Basement. There, I was overwhelmed by the endless racks of skirts, tops and dresses, as well as accessories, lingerie and outerwear. We must have spent two hours trying outfits out on me, after I overcame a panic attack waiting for the sentry in the fitting room to give me a plastic number indicating the number of items I was carrying. Soon I was the proud owner of a complete woman's wardrobe: panties, bras, skirts and dresses, tights and tops, coats and sweaters, even a nightgown with a matching robe to sleep in. Just when I thought we were finished, Tracy dragged me to a Payless shoe store where I tried on and bought several pair of flats, heels and boots. 

Our final stop was Walgreen's, where Tracy helped me stock up on foundation, powder, eyeliner, nail polish, shadow, blush, lipstick and mascara, as well as an array of brushes of sponges and a cosmetics bag to put them in. 

I was totally exhausted by the time we made our way to the underground concourse to catch the Blue Line back to Rosemont. The train was crowded with commuters this time, but we were able to find two seats together, and once again I dozed off as we streaked through the gathering dusk. When we got to our stop, we buttoned up our coats and slogged our way back to back to Tracy's apartment, laden down with shopping bags, feeling exhausted, exhilarated, and slightly silly. Tracy uncorked a bottle of wine while I tried to find space for my new things in her crowded closet and dresser.

"We forgot to get me some bling," I said when I joined her in the kitchen. 

"What would you like, a diamond tiara?"

"No, it's just that you know, I hate to take your stuff...."

"Girlfriend, I'm just happy that you're not wearing my clothes. If you want to keep those trinkets you've got on, be my guest, although I do think you should have your ears pierced." I ignored the suggestion, not wanting to go there...it seemed so permanent! "We should put a ring on your finger, so the guys don't hit on you...."

"Sh'yea, right!"

"I'm serious, missy," Tracy said as she poured us each a glass of wine. "In case you don't know it, you are seriously hot, and I'm surprised you haven't been hit on already."

Tracy fixed us a salad, and then some pasta, while we gabbed through the night about girl stuff. After two bottles of wine, and some Ben and Jerry's ice cream, we were ready for bed. It felt great to take off my girl's clothes and cream off my makeup, and even better to slip into my nightgown and crawl into bed beside Tracy...that night we had the most glorious sex of our lives, taking turns pleasing each other, crying out in ecstasy as we each went to places we'd never been before.

When we were both sated, Tracy lit up a Benson & Hedges and we shared puffs contentedly. "That was amazing," she said. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything."

"Do you think I could pass as a guy?" That totally threw me. What kind of weird hang-up was this? Then again, who was I to talk? "I don't mean that I want to be a guy," she went on, "but seeing you like you were today makes me wonder whether I could pull it off like you."

Something told me there was more going on beneath the surface. "I don't know...I think you're too pretty."

"Thanks, but what if I had a fake mustache or something."

"Then you'd look like a fairy with a mustache. Is that what you want?"

"No!" she punched me in the arm. "I guess I'll have to content myself with being your lesbian lover." For some reason that turned us both on again, and we made slow, sweet love until our bodies were utterly spent.

The next morning, Tracy fixed breakfast while I shaved, bathed and dressed in one of my new outfits. I decided on my plaid kilt, turtleneck and tights, accessorized by a gold chain around my waist. After I pulled on my calf-length boots, I studied my reflection in the mirror. If anything, I looked more like a girl than yesterday. What in the world was happening to me?

"Let me see you," Tracy said when I sat down to breakfast. "Hmm...your makeup isn't bad, and your hair looks nice...wow, I love your kilt, it looks so cute with that sweater. You really should have been a girl, you know."

Once again, that nagging suggestion that I was getting way too good at this...I dismissed the thought and focused on the matters at hand. "When's your next flight?"

"I have to leave for the airport at six, why?"

"Because my plan is to lure Norman Wolf back here tonight to get the truth out of him. According to the paper, he just made bail, and if I know Norman, he'll be on Rush Street getting drunk."

"Lure him? What, are you gonna put on a cocktail dress and come on to him at a singles bar?"

"You got it...he's divorced, and he hangs out at Gibson's most nights when he's in Chicago."

"You go, girl...only what are you gonna do if he tries to get into your pants?"

Tracy and I spent the day shopping for a dress for me. It wasn't easy to find a slinky dress that looked good on my body, but eventually we found a little black number with spaghetti straps that made me look like I'd been poured into it. I splurged on some sexy lingerie, a clutch purse, strappy heels and some fashion jewelry, and we even found a fake fur at a thrift shop that looked like a million on me. 

Tracy surprised me with a trip to a nail salon, which left me with sharp red talons to use on Norman Wolf. Our last stop was a store which catered to mastectomy patients, where she helped me buy the most amazing set of silicone breast forms. I tried them on as soon as we got back to her place. I couldn't believe how they made me look so hot and feel so girly. 

Tracy liked them too, and before she got ready for work, she coaxed one last orgasm out of my bewildered body. By the time she was in her uniform, ready to leave for her flight, I was luxuriating in a bubble bath, psyching myself up for the night ahead.

"Good luck, girlfriend," she said with genuine concern. "Wish I could be there with you."

"You're the best, baby," I said from behind a wall of bubbles. "I couldn't have done this without you."

She reached down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Please be careful! Remember, you're only a girl." Then she was gone, and I wallowed in the tub for a long time, missing her as well as the man I used to be.

It was with real foreboding that I climbed out of the tub to prepare myself for the night head. After drying off and moisturizing, I took a long time with my makeup, adding a few flourishes for evening that Tracy had taught me. Before she left, she shampooed my wig, and I was freaked out by how ratty it looked before she brushed it out. Now, it looked better than ever, and in no time I'd styled it into a perky wedge. 

My new dress called for a strapless bra, and I felt forlorn as I tucked myself into my matching black panties. Sheer nude pantyhose were next, then a lacy black half slip, and finally my dress, which looked sensational on me. I was shaking with anticipation as I sat down on the bed to strap on my heels, then it was time for some bling and a shot of Tracy's expensive cologne. I stuffed my little purse with female essentials, and when I wrapped my fur around my shoulders, the look was complete. God, I looked hot in the full length mirror!

There was no way I was taking the subway in this outfit. I called for a cab, and soon I was sitting in the back of an overheated taxi, very aware of the sly glances from the driver in the rear view mirror. By now, my self-confidence was such that I knew he was looking at me as a woman, and my feelings of vulnerability intensified.

I tipped him handsomely when we pulled up to Gibson's. Although it was a bitterly cold night, Rush Street was full of life, and I caused quite a scene when I stepped out of the cab in my skimpy little dress. The crowd outside Gibson's parted and a guy opened the door for me, I handed my fur to the coat check girl, and after a quick trip to the ladies' room to check on my hair and makeup I was fighting for a place at the bar. 

There he was, right where I expected to find him, holding down a barstool with a Jack Daniels in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Norman Wolf looked a bit more disheveled than usual, and I watched with amusement as he hit on a cougar with zero success. Meanwhile I was having problems of my own, trying as nicely as I could to brush off lame pickup lines from two losers. 

Then the barstool next to Norman opened up, and I was on it in a flash, making an elaborate show of tugging at the hem of my dress after I climbed onto it. I totally ignored Norman at first, even though he was obviously staring at me. The moment of truth: even in his inebriated state in the dim light, would he make me as Matt McCoy? I wanted to have plenty of people around if that happened.

I reached into my purse for one of Tracy's cigarettes. When I started fumbling for my lighter, Norman whipped out his, and I gave him a sideways glance while he lit me up. "Thanks," I said, feeling a little buzz after I drew the sweet smoke into my lungs. 

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure, that would be nice."

Norman snapped his fingers at the bartender. "What will it be?" he asked me.

"A Cosmopolitan, please."

"A Cosmo for the little lady, and another Jack on the rocks for me," Norman ordered. I gave him a shy smile and waited for him to make the next move.

"Are you from Chicago?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I haven't seen you here before."

"I live in Rosemont. I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner tonight, but he had a last-minute conflict, and here I was, all dressed up with no place to go. So I decided to console myself with a drink before I went back to the burbs." My female voice was working for me, and the lies rolled easily off my tongue. 

"That's a shame," Norman said. "Why don't you have dinner with me?"

"I don't even know your name."

"It's Norman....and you are?"

"Ashley."

"Well then, now that we've been properly introduced, let's find ourselves a table." He pushed back his barstool and took my hand. It wasn't easy hopping down in my dress, and I'm sure Norman enjoyed the spectacle. He bulled his way through the crowd without waiting for me. Grudgingly, I had to admire his self-confidence as I tottered after him in my heels. By the time I caught up with him, he was bribing the maitre'd for the next table, and soon we were seated side-by-side in a cozy booth. 

When a waiter arrived with our drinks from the bar, Norman ordered two more before he turned his attention to the wine list. I'd been out with him once before, for lunch as a guy, and I remembered how he'd splurged on a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine. I couldn't wait to see how much he was going to spend on me.

I wasn't disappointed. "They have an exceptional Bordeaux if you feel like red meat tonight," he said.

"A filet would be nice."

"Done." I crossed my legs with a swish of nylon and gazed around the restaurant while Norman dealt with the sommelier and the waiter. It seemed that half the tables were occupied by middle-aged men with hot chicks. The waiter lit a candle on our table, but the light was still low, and I was sure that Norman had no idea that his chippie was really me.




A Murder Misstery



I reached into my purse for another cigarette. I waited expectantly for Norman to light it, and this time I touched his hand when he offered his lighter. "Thanks," I said. "Do you come here a lot?" 

"I'm one of their best customers. How do you think we got this table?"

Such an ass, I said to myself. "You must be important," I purred.

"And how about you, Ashley? What do you do?"

"I'm just a flight attendant."

"How nice," he said condescendingly. "You must meet some fascinating people."

"Oh sure, you meet a lot of nice cattle on the cattle car." I was beginning to feel more at ease, and I needed to loosen him up. He took another pull at his Jack Daniels and leaned closer to me. I felt his hand brush against my leg. Another long draw on my cigarette while I waited for his next move.

"You're much too intelligent and attractive to be stuck in a job you don't like," he slurred. 

God, you really must be drunk, I thought to myself, considering that the girl you're hitting on is really a guy trying to act like a total bimbo. The whole scene would have been comical if my situation weren't so desperate. Our wine and salads arrived, and while we engaged in small talk, I tried to remember Tracy's lessons on how to be ladylike.

Our steaks were presented with a flourish on sizzling platters, and my filet was so delicious I almost forgot who I was. Tiny bites! I had to remind myself, while Norman attacked his 16 oz. sirloin like a Rwandan refugee. Suddenly his face turned blue, and before I realized what was happening he started to pound on the table, gasping and clawing at his throat. He was choking on a piece of meat! Without thinking, I jumped up, ran around the booth and dragged him onto the floor. Then I reached down around his massive chest and grabbed him in the Heimlich maneuver. One sharp tug...another sharp tug...and then a piece of sirloin shot out of his mouth and he was able to breathe. 

I sat next to him on the floor, my dress up to my thighs, panting with exertion. Several waiters ran over to us offering to help, and one of them took my hand and lifted me back on my feet while Norman brushed them off. "I'm fine," he said with embarrassment.

"Thanks to your lady friend," a man at the next table said, and the whole restaurant burst into spontaneous applause. I did a little curtsey and resumed my seat. Our table top was a shambles, and the waiters swiftly replaced our tablecloth and salvaged what remained of our dinners. A new bottle of wine was produced compliments of the management, and we both sat there sipping in silence. I stole a glance at the compact in my purse to make sure my wig was still on straight, wondering if this episode had ruined my chances for tonight.

To the contrary, when Norman finally spoke, he sounded almost sincere. "Ashley, you just saved my life. I am totally indebted to you. How can I ever repay you?"

Half an hour later, we were cruising up Lakeshore Drive in Norman's Jaguar. Although my scheme had been to lure him to Tracy's apartment, when he suggested that we adjourn to his place for a nightcap, I jumped at the chance, although I was becoming more and more worried as we drove towards his building. If I'd gotten him alone at Tracy's place, I intended to knock him out with booze laced with sleeping pills, tie him up, and force a confession out of him when he came to. 

Now I had no plan, and in my little dress and heels I would be defenseless if he tried to take advantage of me. As if to confirm my worst fears, Norman's arm strayed over the console and squeezed one of my silky knees. "Thanks again for saving my life tonight, baby," he whispered. I fought my revulsion and allowed his hand to slide up my dress until it got dangerously close to my secret.

Finally I grasped his hand and gently but firmly guided it back onto the wheel. "Better watch your driving, you don't want the cops to stop you after all we've had to drink."

"Yes, dear," he teased me. "You really are my guardian angel tonight." Talk about clueless, I thought to myself. Norman deliberately jumped a light just to spook me, then he started pawing my legs again. Before I could protest, he pulled into a driveway and parked in his reserved spot in an underground garage. I lifted the visor and peeked at myself in the vanity mirror while he was walking around the car to open my door. The girl looking back at me in the mirror seemed very nervous. Then my door was open, and Norman was treated to a spectacular leg show as I scrambled out of my bucket seat.

He put his arm around me and guided me towards the elevators. We rode in silence to one of the upper floors of an exclusive high-rise. Nobody saw us enter the building, and when the elevator doors opened the hallway was deserted. I took his arm as we walked, unnerved by the clickety-clack of my high heels echoing down the marble corridor. His unit was at the very end, and after he unlocked the door he held it open for me without turning on the lights.

At first I thought that he was going to jump on me then and there, until I realized that he wanted the full impact of the view to hit me in the darkness. It was spectacular, a blaze of lights reflecting off the glistening shore of Lake Michigan. How many women had he used the same technique on, I wondered? While I was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, he turned on some music and soft lights. "How about a glass of champagne?" he asked, nuzzling me from behind as he slipped off my fur.

"Okay, after I powder my nose." He pointed towards a hall bathroom, and I made a beeline for it, locked the door behind me and grasped the vanity with both hands, shaking uncontrollably. What the hell was I doing here, in women's clothing, with a man who had already ruined my life? I looked up at myself in the mirror and saw a scared little girl who was in way over her head. The best I could hope for was to make my way back to the street without humiliating myself...then all I'd have to do was hail a cab, in a dress and heels, in downtown Chicago in the dark of night.

Maybe there was another way...I desperately tried to come up with a plan as I went through the motions of straightening my dress and stockings, brushing my hair, freshening my lipstick. The only thing I had going for me was the way I looked: the woman in the mirror was undeniably pretty, and Norman Wolf was already impaired from way too much alcohol. If I could keep up the façade long enough to find a weakness, maybe I could save myself. "You're a woman," I told my reflection in the mirror. "I'm a woman," she said back to me.

Norman was waiting for me on a cream leather sofa, two glasses of champagne bubbling on the glass coffee table. I leaned against the wall and unstrapped my heels, gratefully feeling the relief from walking across the plush carpet in my stocking feet. I sat down next to him and tucked my legs under my dress. He handed me a fluted glass of champagne, picked up his, and we clinked them together in a silent toast. "To Ashley," he said as an after-thought, "the woman who saved my life."

To Norman, the shit who wrecked mine, I thought to myself as I sipped my champagne. I got up from the sofa and retrieved a cigarette from my purse. Norman lit it for me, and I sat down demurely in a facing chair, playing hard to get. He drained his champagne in two gulps and topped me off before he poured himself another glass. How much more alcohol could he take before he passed out, I wondered?

As if to answer my question, Norman asked me if I'd like a tour of his condo. God, what a nightmare! I drained my glass and reluctantly got to my feet, pretending to be a little drunk to lower his guard. When we got to his study, I spied a heavy-duty safe behind an open closet door. An inspiration came to me. "What's my reward for saving your life?" I asked.

"Your reward?"

"The keys to your jag? Or maybe I'll just move in here with you...."

Being a guy, I figured that would throw him, and sure enough he responded the way I expected. "Sweetie, I owe you big time. Let me show you how generous I can be." I held my breath while he dialed the combination to his safe...there was a large brass paperweight on his desk, and I deftly picked it up and hid it behind my back. When he bent down to reach into the safe, I came up behind him and brought it down as hard as I could on the back of his ugly head. 

Norman collapsed into a heap on the floor. I stepped over him and started unloading the contents of his safe, looking for anything that might incriminate him and clear me. To my astonishment, all I found were thick envelopes stuffed with wads of cash, in large bills...hundreds of thousands of dollars, more like millions, which Norman must have stashed away over the years. 

I looked down at him, and for the first time I realized that something was wrong. Not only wasn't he moving, he didn't appear to be breathing, and his face had turned a deadly white. A quick check of his pulse confirmed the worst. I can honestly say that I felt no remorse, considering what he'd done to me. Instead, I felt sick to my stomach over what would happen to me when I was arrested for his murder. When word got out that I'd killed a man while dressed as a woman, I'd be fair game for the boys in prison. One way or another, my life as a man was over.

Or maybe not. Nobody had seen us enter his apartment. I glanced at my watch. It was well past midnight. Coolly, I looked around the study for something to hold the cash. An attaché case on the floor caught my eye, and I went to work stuffing it with thousands upon thousands of dollars. When it was full, I was barely able to snap it shut, and it weighed a ton. 

Okay, now for fingerprints...I used a towel from the powder room to methodically wipe down the paperweight, my champagne glass, and anything else I might have touched. While I was doing this, I was already planning my escape. I returned to Norman's corpse and fished his keys out of his trouser pocket. After a last look around, I strapped my heels back on, put on my fur, picked up my purse and the briefcase full of cash, and quietly let myself out.

Nobody saw me ride down the elevator to the garage and get into Norman's car. I drove carefully through the city streets to the JFK Expressway, and stayed well under the speed limit all the way to Rosemont. It was almost dawn when I pulled a ticket for the lot at Tracy's building, parked and locked Norman's car, and made my way to the apartment. A few early risers noticed the pretty girl coming home alone in her black dress, and a guy offered to help me with my heavy briefcase, but I waved him off politely and kept my cool until I was safely inside.

Then I lost it, totally. I fell to the floor, curled up and cried, shedding a woman's tears over what had become of me. Matt McCoy's only chance to clear his name had died with Norman Wolf. Now I was a murderer, a thief, and from the looks of things, I was going to have to become a woman. I was already a wanted man, and when they found Norman's body, they'd assume it was me who killed him. I'd be better off hiding out as a woman for as long as I could. Once they caught up with me, if I was lucky enough to avoid the death penalty, I'd spend the rest of my life getting raped in prison, so I was going to be a woman whether I liked it or not. Why not be a pretty, rich young woman? There were millions of dollars in that briefcase...could I really get away with it? 

"Let's go, girl," I said to myself with grim determination. First I hid the briefcase full of cash in the hall closet. Then, after removing my clothes, wig and makeup, I took a long, hot bath. After I shaved, put on a little makeup and my wig again, I dressed myself in a simple skirt and top. I was beginning to get used to the feel of women's clothes. Good thing, I thought sadly, since I'd be wearing them for the rest of my life. I was making toast and coffee when there was a sharp rap on the door.

Could the cops be onto me already? Maybe they found Norman's car! I pulled myself together and opened the door. It was the same two FBI agents who had questioned Tracy two days earlier! This time they didn't ask if they could come in, they just barged through the door and confronted me. "You weren't completely truthful with us the other day, were you, Ashley?" one of them said.

Some instinct saved me from blurting out what I'd done. Instead, I fell into the flight attendant's role that had worked for me last time, hoping to buy some time. "I don't know what you mean. Can I get you some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

I sat down on the sofa and wrapped my long skirt around my bare legs, a feminine gesture that didn't seem to impress the men. "Ashley, why didn't you tell us that Matt McCoy gave you a check for five thousand dollars last week?"

I was so relieved that they weren't accusing me of murder, I felt almost giddy. "Because Tracy was in the room."

"What do you mean?"

I gave a little sigh. "Tracy doesn't know that I've been seeing Matt."

"Why did he give you the money?"

"He forgot my birthday, and when I got mad he flipped open his checkbook and wrote me a check. I was so insulted, I wasn't even going to cash it."

"But you did cash it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"In fact, you cashed it the day before yesterday, after you learned that we were looking for him."

I lowered my head. "Yes," I nodded.

"Would you care to tell us why?"

I looked up at them defensively. "Things are tough for a working girl. I needed the money."

"Have you heard from him since we were here?"

I nodded my head again and started to sniffle. "Yes."

That got their attention. "When did you talk to him?"

"Matt called me after Tracy left for her trip, around six o'clock."

"What did he say?"

"He told me he's innocent."

"They all say that, Ashley. What else did he tell you?"

"Do I have to say?"

"You're in enough trouble already, Ashley. If you cooperate with us, we'll give you a pass for covering up for him yesterday. If you don't, we'll be going downtown for a longer conversation."

I shook my head sadly. "He told me he was going to lie low in California for a while. He really did tell me that he was innocent. He said he was set up by some guy named Norman."

The agents exchanged glances. "Did he say anything else?"

"Just that he loved me," I sniffled again.

"All right, Ashley. I want you to promise that you'll call us immediately if you hear from him again, and above all don't tell him what you just told us. Is that clear?"

"Definitely, I don't want Matt knowing that I told you anything."

"Did he say where in California?"

I screwed up my eyes like I was trying to remember. "I think he said San Francisco."

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell us?"

"That's all I know. I'm sorry I didn't say anything yesterday. Can I ask you a question?" I inquired as I got up to let them out.

"What?"

"Does Tracy have to know about this?"

They relented a bit. "We won't say anything to her about your relationship with Matt."

"Thanks." I opened the door for them, and waited for them to disappear down the hall before I closed the door, fell to the floor and curled up once again, wiping my tears with the folds of my skirt. My crying jag was shorter this time, and when I got back up, I was actually proud of myself. After all, I'd given the feds a bum steer that would have them combing San Francisco for me. Now all I had to do was head in the opposite direction.

I went to the nightstand where I'd found Ashley's airline credential and looked for her passport. Sure enough, she'd left it there, and her passport photo was the spitting image of me in her wig. I thought for a moment of all the trouble I was causing for Ashley. Between linking her to Matt McCoy's flight from justice and stealing her passport, I was doing quite a number on her. I resolved to leave $1,000 for her in the nightstand as a gesture of atonement.

Surely she wouldn't mind my borrowing one of her suitcases too! I found her airline-issue rolling bag and opened it up on the bed. It swallowed up my meager woman's wardrobe with room for more, but I decided not to steal any of the girls' clothes. My getaway outfit would be a wool jumper, nylons and flats. I threw the skirt and top I was wearing into the suitcase, put on my dress and stockings, and crammed my cosmetics bag into an outside pocket of Ashley's suitcase. My flats were almost comfortable compared to the heels I'd been wearing, and they made my feet look downright dainty. 

I put Ashley's passport in my purse, and got the briefcase out of the hall closet. I didn't take the time to count it, but I was sure there was well over a million dollars in hundred dollar bills in those envelopes. After taking out Ashley's grand and ten thousand in traveling money for me, I scattered the rest throughout Ashley's suitcase, burying the money with skirts, tops and lingerie. 

The last thing I did was sit down to write a note to Tracy. I sat at her kitchen table for the last time, wearing a dress, trying to think of how to say goodbye to the woman who had literally changed my life. Forty-eight hours ago, I was a brash young man with his whole life ahead of him. Now, because of Norman Wolf's treachery and my own stupidity, I was a hunted man. Thanks to Tracy, I had another chance, even if it meant living the rest of my life as a woman. How could I tell her how I felt without revealing too much, knowing that the FBI might get their hands on my letter?

I crumpled up several sheet of paper before I found the right words:

Dear Tracy,

By the time you read this I will be far away. I want you to know how much I love you for what you did for me. I'm afraid I wasn't very grateful at first, but I have gotten used to it and to tell you the truth, I kind of like myself this way. 

I've got to believe that the FBI will clear me some day. Maybe Norman Wolf will come clean and admit that he set me up. In the meantime I will be on the run, thinking of you, and the incredible time we had. 

Love,

Matt

PS - Please tell Ashley I'm sorry for any trouble I caused her, I left some money in her nightstand. 

I left the letter on her pillow, grabbed my purse and suitcase, and let myself out of the apartment. As an afterthought, I returned for the empty briefcase, which I tossed down the trash chute. Norman's car was where I left it, and with any luck his body was still undiscovered. I turned on the news during the short drive to O'Hare, but there was nothing about a murder on Lakeshore Drive. I left his car in the long-term parking lot, tossed the keys into a storm drain, and caught the shuttle bus to the international terminal.

Tugging Ashley's suitcase behind me, I entered the ultra-modern concourse with no destination in mind. The large departures board hanging from the ceiling indicated that the next flight out of the country was in ten minutes, to London. After that there was a flight to Hong Kong, and then one to Tokyo. I kept looking down the board until I found a flight to Zurich, leaving in two hours. Perfect. I walked up to the first class counter at Swissair and asked if they had any space available. Yes, I was told, there was one seat left in first class. I asked what the one-way fare would be. It was a small fortune, and I had to fish a wad of hundred dollar bills out of my purse to pay for it. The ticket agent gave Ashley's passport a long, hard look before issuing my boarding pass.

I knew that I was in for a gauntlet at security. A one-way ticket paid for with cash set off alarm bells, and there was nothing I could do but grin and bear it. I took my chances and checked my bag, reasoning that the risk of my money being discovered and stolen by a dishonest airline employee was preferable to the trouble it could cause me during secondary screening, and besides I had all my cosmetics to think of.




A Murder Misstery



As expected, I was singled out for a thorough search. A matronly employee took her time with a wand, feeling me up and down, but she didn't come near my package. I had to stand there for a long time in my stocking feet while they pawed through my purse, then I was on my way to the first class lounge. I indulged myself with some excellent champagne and brie, flipping through the Chicago papers for anything about Norman Wolf's murder. My flight was called, and I was just gathering up my purse when it made the evening news: 

"Norman Wolf, a prominent Chicago businessman, was found dead this afternoon in his luxurious condominium on Lakeshore Drive. A housekeeper discovered his body next to an open safe in his study. Wolf had not been missed at work, where he has been on leave of absence since his indictment for securities fraud. Police declined to speculate whether there was any connection between his death and the pending charges...."

Time to get out of the country! I hurried to my gate, where the last of the passengers were just boarding. The first class steward escorted me to my seat, and I was handed another glass of champagne as soon as I sat down.

A leather amenity kit full of crèmes and lotions, a pillow and blanket, and a menu and wine list soon followed. If this was the life of a female fugitive, I could get used to it! I snuggled into my enormous sleeper seat, more like a flying Barcalounger, and closed my eyes. By now I'd become so comfortable wearing women's clothing that I didn't mind the thought of sleeping in my dress. After 36 hours without any sleep, it wouldn't take long for me to drift into dreamland.

You would think I was in for a restless night, with blood on my hands and the law on my tail, but after an excellent dinner and too many glasses of wine, I was dead to the world. When I finally awakened, the cabin crew was already serving breakfast. I beat the crowd into the well-appointed lavatory and surveyed myself in the mirror. As I feared, stubble was peeking through my makeup. Fortunately, the lavatory was equipped with a nice array of amenities, including razors and shaving cream. Fifteen minutes later, my female face restored, I was ready for a bloody mary with breakfast. 

I gazed down at the snow-covered Alps as we made our final approach, calculating my next moves. As soon as we touched down, I shouldered my purse and braced myself for passport control. Ashley's passport worked for me again, and after an anxious wait, her suitcase emerged on the baggage carousel, I breezed through the Nothing to Declare line, and it was off to the U-bahn to central Zurich. 

Figuring that my days might be numbered, I splurged on a five star hotel by the lake, taking the best room available. As soon as I was safely inside my suite, I tore open Ashley's suitcase to see if the cash was still there. There they were, glorious bundles of green, submerged in a silky sea of skirts, lingerie, and stockings. I wept silently as I tallied them up...five hundred thousand...one million...two million...Norman Wolf had squirreled away over three million dollars, which now belonged to me, as long as I was willing to spend the rest of my life as a woman.

There are worse fates, I pondered after I shaved my legs in a long, hot bath. Luxuriating with a cup of room service espresso in my plush hotel bathrobe, I made a list of things to do, practicing how to write with a girlish hand:

1.Open bank account 

2.Find Internet café 

3.Look for news about NW 

4.email Tracy 

5.Web search re female hormones? 

I scratched out the last item...I knew I had to make some serious decisions about my future, but they could wait. To open my Swiss bank account, I put on my most conservative outfit: a crisp white blouse, pleated black skirt, heels and stockings. In no time, I'd stashed most of my blood money in a numbered account, and used the rest to score a hundred thousand euros in travelers checks, no questions asked. 

My spirits soaring, I found an Internet café and checked the Chicago Tribune website for news about the Wolf investigation. What I found wasn't good: Chicago police were looking for Matt McCoy in connection with Norman Wolf's murder. Also sought for questioning was the blonde woman seen having dinner with Wolf the night before his body was discovered.

Shaken, I checked my email address for messages. There was this from Tracy: 

"Where are you? The police met my flight today and grilled me about you. When I got home I found your note. Then I turned on the news and learned that Norman Wolf has been murdered. Please tell me you didn't have anything to do with it! PS -- Ashley got back today and she is really pissed. Did you take her passport too?"

I felt the noose tightening around my neck. How long did I have before the police made the connection between Matt McCoy's disappearance, the mysterious blonde who left Gibson's with Norman Wolf, and Ashley's missing passport? One thing was certain: as soon as Ashley reported her passport missing, it would be radioactive. I closed my eyes and desperately tried to think: a routine check with INS would tell the police about Ashley's flight to Zurich. How much time did I have before they came after me? 

I reckoned that the police and the FBI were monitoring Tracy's emails, so I sent her this:

"Can't believe Wolf is dead. How am I ever going to clear myself now? I'm in California, will stay here until I figure out what to do next. PS -- Needed photo ID to fly here, borrowed Ashley's passport, my bad" 

Using Ashley's passport at an airport would be like waving a red flag now, but I ought to be able to show it to railroad conductors at border crossings without leaving any trace. I spent the next few hours scouring the Internet for information about European trains and how to obtain a fake ID. Before leaving, I checked for emails again. Another message from Tracy:

"You're living as a girl in California? That is such a turn-on! I totally believe you're innocent. Lay low as long as you have to, Maddy. I'll be waiting for you. Love, Tracy PS -- Those FBI creeps were here today to talk to Ashley for some reason, they took one look at her and left"

Time to get out of Zurich! But only after I got back on the web to do some fast research about electrolysis and female hormones, which led me to the Gender Identity Clinic at the Free University of Amsterdam. There was no turning back now. Maddy, she called me...maybe the next time I saw Tracy, she'd have her lesbian lover.

Chancing a return to my hotel, I changed into my sweater and kilt and hurriedly packed Ashley's suitcase. I slipped out a side door without checking out, and caught a taxi to the Bahnhof, where I used travelers checks to book a first class sleeping compartment on the overnight express to Amsterdam. 

My train wasn't leaving for another hour and a half. I bought a mini electric shaver at the station arcade, which also featured a smart bistro. It occurred to me that I hadn't eaten since I got off the plane, and suddenly I was starving. I went into the bistro and asked for a table for one. For the first time in my life, I felt self-conscious about dining alone at a restaurant. Life was going to be so different for me now! 

In Europe, it is customary for singles to be paired off in restaurants, and I found myself seated across from a distinguished-looking man in a suit and tie. He put down his paper and smiled. I smiled back, and he introduced himself in English with a French accent. 

"I'm Maddy. How did you know I spoke English?" I asked in reply.

"American women are the most beautiful in the world. You are very beautiful, so I took a chance." I actually felt a little stirring in my panties. What in the world was happening to me? 

A waiter came, and I ordered quiche and a glass of white wine. My companion ordered steak frites with an expensive Bordeaux before he resumed his seduction. "Have you been in Zurich long?"

"I flew in this morning."

"If you look this way after a night without sleep, I can only imagine how beautiful you would be after a night in bed."

"Wouldn't you like to know," I replied. In spite of myself, I couldn't resist having a little fun with him. I took a cigarette out of my purse, and waited expectantly for him to light it. He didn't disappoint me, producing a Cartier lighter with a flourish. After he lit one of his own, we inhaled silently, regarding each other through the smoke like worthy adversaries in a chess match. 

"And where are you spending tonight?" he finally asked.

"I'm off to Amsterdam in an hour."

"Pity. I myself am returning to Paris." I found myself glancing at his left hand. His wedding band had been removed from his ring finger, but the well-worn groove was still evident. I wondered what he would have tried if I were on his train? And I wondered how I would have responded?

Our conversation petered out after that, although when we'd finished our dinners and wine he graciously stood up and kissed my hand. I must have been quite flustered, because he had to remind me that I had forgotten my purse. I thanked him profusely, and he gave me his business card before I left to catch my train. 

It was a long walk to the platform for the Amsterdam express. I felt a surge of excitement when I looked up at the crowded departures board. Berlin, Rome, Paris...this would be my life from now on, trying to stay one step ahead of the law, in high heels. The last passengers were just climbing aboard my train, and I was relieved to find that my compartment had already been turned down for the night. 

I kicked off my heels and stretched out on the cozy little bed, looking down at the sleek, silky legs under my skirt. Soon I would be growing my hair and breasts to go with them. When I left Chicago, my life as a man was behind me. By the time I left Amsterdam, a life of leisure as a wealthy woman would lie ahead, in Saint Tropez or sunny Spain. 

There was a rap on my door, and I opened it cautiously. It was only the conductor. I handed him my ticket and Ashley's passport, and locked the door for the night. The train was already rolling by the time I put on my nightgown and crawled under the covers. I closed my eyes and thought back over all that had changed, and the changes yet to come. It wasn't long before I succumbed to the rhythm of the rails, my slumbers spiced by forbidden dreams.

*

By the author of The Jessica Project