A Murder Misstery

by Nom de Plume

 
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.

“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.

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.

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 crá¨mes 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.

* * *

I woke up with a start to polite but persistent tapping on the door of my first class sleeping compartment. “Zehn Minuten bis zur Amsterdam Centraal” a man was saying. After he repeated his warning in Dutch, I finally heard, “Ten minutes to Amsterdam.” I wrapped my robe around my shoulders, checked to make sure my wig was on straight, and cautiously opened the door a few inches to retrieve my passport. “Guten Morgan, Fraulein,” the conductor said.

“Thank you,” I stammered in a woman’s voice before I slammed the door. Ten minutes! A few days ago, that would have been do big deal for Matt McCoy, but how was Maddy ever going to get herself dressed and made up in ten minutes?

Relax Fraulein, I told the tousle-haired woman in the mirror. They’re not going to kick a first-class passenger off the train before she’s had time to make herself beautiful. You’re a rich bitch now, act like one! My cozy little compartment had its own toilet and sink, and soon my teeth were brushed, the stubble was gone from my face, and I was ready to transform myself into a woman once again.

The train was still lurching over the points approaching the station, do I decided to get dressed before putting on my makeup. Hmm…what does a girl wear to score a fake ID in the back streets of a notorious European city? Thanks to my girlfriend Tracy, my wardrobe was ultra-feminine, but I finally settled on a thin turtleneck sweater, a knee-length skirt, and since I’d be doing a lot of walking, my comfy flats. A peek through the curtains confirmed that it was gray and drizzly, much like the weather I’d left behind in Chicago, so my black trench coat would complete the look.

I put on a fresh pair of panties, filled a bra with my wonderful silicone breast forms, and sat down on the bed to ease on a pair of sheer black pantyhose. I was still fascinated by how sexy they made my legs look, and I had a pang of longing for the way Tracy used to tease and please me when I dressed this way…would I ever see her again? And if I ever did, would there be anything left of the man she used to love? With those morose thoughts, I pulled on my sweater, zipped up my skirt and stepped into my dainty shoes. I rummaged through my suitcase for a scarf and some jewelry, and by the time I was finished dressing we’d come to a stop. I was getting better and better at doing my makeup and styling my wig, so in no time at all a pretty young woman was towing her suitcase behind her through the bustling railroad station.

After quick stop at a station café for coffee and a Dutch breakfast that looked and tasted like an Egg McMuffin, I checked my suitcase and left the station, taking some time to get my bearings. Eventually I found a tram to my first stop, a wig store on Prinsengracht, a narrow street fronting on one of the canals. I got there a few minutes before they opened, and killed some time smoking a cigarette as I gazed out at the houseboats. My skirt and stockings were no match for the raw winter weather, and I stamped my feet in the cold as I waited impatiently for the shopkeeper to arrive.

When the door finally opened, I spent a few minutes looking around self-consciously before a middle-aged woman approached me. “Can I help you, miss?” she asked. Good thing everyone in Holland seemed to speak English!

“Yes, I need a good wig that will be easy to take care of and style.”

“I recommend one of our top-quality synthetics. Is there a particular style and color?”

“Yes. My natural hair is dark brown, and I want it much longer than this,” I said, pointing to my short blonde wig.

“Of course, if you will follow me to one of our private rooms, let me find you a wig cap and we can try some on.”

Even in the privacy of the booth she led me to, it was humiliating to remove my wig and sit before her with a man’s haircut in women’s clothing. Obviously she had seen it all before, and in no time she was back with an armful of mannequin heads, each featuring long brown hair. One after another, I let her try them on me, until she showed me one that looked and felt just right. The brunette looking back at me in the mirror was strikingly attractive, and her hair would be long enough to pull back into a ponytail when she was in a hurry. Most important, her hair was similar to the way mine used to look when I wore it long in college, so when I grew it out again, pictures of me in the wig would match the way I was going to be.

I paid for the wig with a travelers check and wore it out of the store, tossing Ashley’s borrowed blonde wig into the canal. Then I retraced my steps to the station, where I had spotted a shop specializing in passport photos. Twenty minutes later, I was riding on a different tram towards a seedy neighborhood frequented by foreign students, illegal émigrés, and assorted criminals. The address I’d found in an Internet chat room, where several satisfied customers had remarked about the proprietor’s skill and complete discretion. He must have been surprised when a wholesome-looking American girl knocked on the door of his upstairs flat, but his poker face revealed nothing until I got straight to the point.

“I need a passport.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“You are highly recommended, and I will pay whatever it takes.” That got his attention, and after he took a quick look behind me to make sure I wasn’t part of a sting operation, he let me into his shabby apartment. I scanned the tables and shelves piled high with print stock in various colors while he locked and bolted the door behind me.

He was still wary, so I pulled Ashley’s passport out of my purse and put my new photos next to it. “Do you do American passports?”

“It’s possible.”

“I need one, today, with this picture.”

“Today is out of the question.”

“What is your price?”

“Ten thousand euros.”

I knew from the chat room that he was asking considerably more than his going rate, but I didn’t flinch. “Only if I can have it today. Here is the name and address you are to use.” I handed him a slip of paper with the name Madison Monroe, an obscure porn star whose work I enjoyed, and a date and place of birth slightly different from my own. Then I put Ashley’s passport back in my purse and started counting out ten thousand euros in travelers checks.

“I only accept cash.”

“Fine. I’ll cash them myself and return this afternoon. Shall we say three o’clock?”

He nodded, and I waited for him to unbolt the door before I let myself out. Once again I retraced my steps to the station, only this time I went to the ticket office and booked a seat in the name of Maddy Monroe on the high-speed train leaving for Paris at 5:00. After I found a bank and cashed the travelers checks, I wandered the quaint streets of Amsterdam, looking for an out-of-the-way place for lunch. I finally selected a small Indonesian restaurant, where I ordered a rice dish with spicy condiments and a split of French Chardonnay.

This would be my life from now on, I reflected as I sipped my wine with a cigarette. Although I looked completely different now as a brunette, it was only a matter of time before the FBI picked up my trail in Zurich, and I wanted to keep a low profile until I was safely out of Amsterdam. My original impulse in coming to Amsterdam was to admit myself to a gender identity clinic, and begin therapy to turn myself into a woman, but I had a new plan now, and I wanted to put some time and distance between my old life and my new one before I took that fateful step. I was obviously passable as a woman the way I was, and with my new identity and appearance, there would be nothing to link me to the stolen passport I’d used to flee the USA as a blonde named Ashley.

After lunch, I killed some more time window shopping. The department stores were already full of spring fashions, and I found myself wondering what I would look like in a sundress and sandals…and what it would feel like to wear them. One thing was for certain: I’d had enough cold weather to last me a lifetime, and if I had to start my life over as a woman, it was going to be in a warm, sunny climate.

On an impulse, I went inside De Bijenkorf and rode the escalator up to the women’s department. There were racks of summer dresses, and before I knew it, I was in a fitting room trying one on. It was so cute on me! Only it looked strange with my black leather flats, and I’d need a purse to match my new sandals, and a necklace to go with my dress….An hour later, when I went back into the cold, I felt a little warmer thinking about the sundress and other girly things in my shopping bags. “You should have been a girl,” Tracy once told me. Maybe she was right after all!

When I went back outside, I started walking down the sidewalk when I experienced a sensation I’d never felt before. It was the pitter-patter of raindrops on the tops of my feet, coming right through my stockings. Just another of the many joys of being a woman….I went back to the department store and bought a ladies umbrella to protect my new hairdo. Then I found an electronics store for one more acquisition: a throwaway cell phone with a number that was good throughout Europe. I selected an ultra-slim model and prepaid for several months of airtime. I thought about trying to call Tracy, but I didn’t know whether my location could be traced, so I abandoned the thought for then.

At precisely 3:00, I knocked on the door of the forger’s flat. He admitted me immediately, and as soon as the door was closed he presented me with a flawless US passport featuring me with long brown hair, gender female. I complimented him on his handiwork, gave him his ten thousand euros, and let myself out. Ashley’s passport joined her wig in the canals of Amsterdam.

I made it back to the station with a few minutes to spare. After retrieving my suitcase from the left luggage room, I tore off Ashley’s old name tag and dropped it into a trashcan. When the FBI turned up in Amsterdam looking for Ashley, her trail would be stone cold. From now on, I was Maddy Monroe, and until the money ran out, Maddy was going to make the best of her new life.

The Thalys express to Paris featured cushy seats with drinks and dinner for first class passengers. After I selected my wine and entree, a steward came by with a selection of newspapers. I scoured the International Herald Tribune from cover to cover for any news about the Wolf murder investigation, but there was nothing. Dinner was excellent, and I must have dozed off afterwards, because the next thing I knew the four hour trip was almost over.

My seatmate was a preoccupied businessman who spent most of the time on his cell phone talking to his office, his wife and his mistress. I thought back to the distinguished Frenchman I’d shared a dinner table with the night before, at the Zurich train station. I removed his business card from my purse and studied it for the hundredth time. Dr. Jacques Bochy, endocrinologist…a doctor who specialized in hormones. I wondered how he’d react when I called him from Paris to make an appointment? He’d probably think I was stalking him. I put his card back in my purse and used my cell phone to reserve a suite at the Plaza Athenee, and a taxi to take me there from the Gare du Nord.

* * *

I slept until almost noon the following morning. It was my first night in a proper bed since I’d murdered Norman Wolf, and any lingering nightmares over what I’d done were snuffed out by jet lag and sheer exhaustion. I stretched lazily in the sumptuous bedding, enjoying the sensation of my satin nightgown against my smooth skin. It was annoying to notice a bit of stubble starting to grow back on my legs, so I threw off the duvet and started to draw a bath in the ornate tub, peppering the water with moisturizing salts provided by the hotel. I spent a long time luxuriating in the soft, hot suds before I tediously shaved my legs, arms, chest and underarms. As I patted myself dry with a thick cotton towel, I thought of the way Tracy shaved my back the day she transformed me in Chicago. Tracy always had my back…I missed her terribly as I made up my face the way she taught me. I wondered if she’d like me as a brunette? I admired myself in the mirror after I brushed my long brown hair, knowing that the answer would be yes.

I’d cranked up the heat before I got into the tub, and my suite was stifling by the time I got out of the bathroom. Sundress weather! I was curious to see how my new ensemble came together, so on a whim, after I put on a white bra and panties, I stepped into my summer dress and, with difficulty, zipped it up from behind. My new sandals were very cute and comfortable, although the need for a pedicure was immediately apparent. I fastened my mother-of-pearl necklace from behind, again with difficulty — how did girls put up with this stuff? — then I picked up my white purse and walked over to the full-length mirror on the closet door to see what I looked like.

I will never forget that moment. A striking brunette stared back at me in the mirror, with bare shoulders and long legs framed by her pretty little dress. She turned this way and that, mesmerized by how her dress flowed around her knees when she moved. I was almost in a trance, as the realization sunk in that this was really me. Not only did my dress look cute on me, the soft fabric felt wonderful swishing against my bare legs as I walked into the parlor of my suite. I practiced sitting down on the sofa and chairs, crossing my legs and smoothing my dress beneath me, becoming more and more comfortable with myself this way. What started out as a disguise was becoming much, much more….

Hunger pangs finally broke the spell. I turned down the heat and opened the curtains to let in the daylight, such as it was — Paris in February was as gloomy as the weather I’d left behind in Amsterdam. At least it wasn’t snowing like Chicago, I mused as I took off my sundress and rummaged through my suitcase for a gray wool dress and a pair of taupe pantyhose. Once again, I had that feeling of sinful luxury as I eased the delicate nylons up my freshly shaved legs, and I had to admit that my gnarly toes looked much better encased in stockings. I slid them into heels, swapped out my necklace for one in black and gold, and returned to the parlor to order breakfast from room service. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I switched on the TV and flipped through the stations until I came to CNN.

It didn’t take long for my world to come crashing down. “International manhunt for Chicago killer…” read the crawl at the bottom of the screen. A reporter was standing outside the railroad station in Amsterdam, describing the bizarre case of a man who disguised himself as a woman to flee the United States, after he allegedly murdered his former accomplice in a conspiracy to defraud elderly investors. Obviously the Chicago police and the FBI had connected the dots: Matt McCoy was suspected of using a stolen women’s passport to fly first class from O’Hare to Zurich, and Interpol confirmed that a woman with the same name traveled by train from Zurich to Amsterdam the following day.

Thank God I’d used my new identity get out of Amsterdam! There were only two people who might be able to help the police: the forger who created my passport — I had no worries about him talking to anyone — and the woman who sold me my wig. Even if she somehow heard about the investigation and told the police what I looked like now, there were millions of brunettes in Holland, and the odds of them tracking me down in Paris were infinitesimal.

Still, I was shaken when I heard the rap on my door. It was only the room service waiter with my breakfast. I tipped him well and tried to get something down, my stomach still churning from what I’d learned. Once again, I thought of Tracy: she would know by now that I’d lied to her about hiding out in California, and she probably suspected that I’d lied to her about everything else. Knowing that I was taking a terrible risk, I switched on my cell phone and started to punch in her number. Just before I got to the last digit, I stopped myself and put down the phone. If I was going to avoid spending the rest of my life in prison, I couldn’t make any silly, sentimental mistakes! The sooner I put Tracy and my life as a man behind me, the better my chances of survival.

As I munched on my croissant, I had an encouraging thought: now that the police were looking for me as a woman, I could just go back to being a guy, right? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the police would naturally assume that I had already abandoned my female disguise. So the best way to stay one step ahead of them would be to remain in dresses….I picked up my phone again, only this time I used it to call Dr. Jacques Bochy. His receptionist answered. “Halo?”

“Hello, my name is Maddy. I met the doctor in Zurich. Can I speak to him please?”

The receptionist was undoubtedly accustomed to the doctor’s philandering, for she put me through without delay. “Maddy, what a pleasant surprise!” Jacques said when he came on the line.

“Hi! You’ll never guess where I am,” I said with forced girlishness.

“Paris would be too much to hope for.”

“Yep! And I’m calling to make an appointment.”

“For medical reasons?”

“Well, it’s kinda personal…do you think you could see me today?”

“My appointments are booked weeks in advance, Maddy. However, I do happen to be free for dinner this evening.” I wasn’t expecting that…. “We can discuss whatever you like, in a quiet setting, and afterwards if you want to see me in my office, I’ll fit you in somehow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Plaza Athenee.”

“I’ll book a table at Le Relais at seven. Until then.” He hung up before I could reply.

I spent the day shopping for something to wear. The only thing I owned that was appropriate was the little black dress I’d worn the night I murdered Norman Wolf, and I didn’t feel quite right about wearing it again. I might have been a millionairess many times over, but the boutiques of Paris were frightfully expensive, and I couldn’t find anything that looked half as good on my rather unique physique. I did splurge on some glittery pantyhose and an exquisite French perfume, and I bit the bullet and had my ears pierced. It hurt more than I expected, and I was very aware of my new platinum studs as I shopped for a Vuitton suitcase to replace the worn out roller bag I stole from Ashley. By the time I paid for it and caught a taxi back to my hotel, it was time to get dressed for dinner.

Le Relais is a chic bistro which adjoins the Plaza Athenee. At a few minutes past seven, decked out in my little black dress, shimmering legs and strappy black heels, I showed up for my date with Jacques. He was standing at the bar, and he didn’t recognize me at first with my long brown hair. When he did, his face lit up with a big smile, and he took my hands and kissed me on both cheeks. “Maddy! You never cease to surprise and delight me!”

I’m sure I was blushing when I kissed him back, and I was at a loss for words after we were shown to a romantic booth in a quiet corner of the crowded bistro. He offered me a cigarette, which he lit with a flourish before lighting up one of his own. “Talk about surprises, I didn’t think doctors smoked anymore,” I said idotically.

“My dear Maddy, there are all kinds of doctors, just as there are all kinds of beautiful women. Take you, for example.”

“What about me?” I asked as I tried to perform a French inhale.

“Well, for one thing, in less than forty-eight hours you have completely changed your appearance, in a dramatic and exciting way. I love that in a woman!”

“That’s me, dramatic and exciting. I love this place,” I said, taking in the smart furnishings and the well-heeled customers.

“It suits you. You look fabulous in that dress.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing again. He had deep brown eyes, and a penetrating stare which seemed to go right through me. “I tried to find a new one today, but can you believe the boutiques of Paris didn’t have a dress I liked?”

“That says more about you than the boutiques of Paris, Maddy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He squeezed my hand. “That you are a unique and discriminating person.” The wine list arrived, and he ordered decisively before resuming our conversation. “That is one of the many things I find fascinating about you.”

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t even sure you would remember me.”

He chuckled softly. “To the contrary, how could I forget you?” The waiter returned with our wine, and Jacques waited until it was served before continuing. “As a doctor, I am trained in observation. Let’s add up what I have noticed so far: You are undeniably beautiful, with a very athletic physique, which I find attractive in a woman. Also you have a flair for style, take your hair for example, although you obviously must rely on wigs.” I started to choke on my wine. “Then there is the charming way you have of doing the little things that come naturally to most women. For example, when we said goodbye in Zurich, you forgot your purse. Very unusual.” I could feel the tears starting to run down my cheeks, wondering why he was subjecting me to this humiliation. Jacques saw them too, and he removed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wiped them away. “My darling Maddy,” he whispered, “please don’t be upset. Nobody in the world except a doctor trained in my specialty could possibly detect your secret.”

I tried to get up to leave. He gently but firmly sat me back down and spoke before I could protest. “Maddy, I have treated hundreds of men who wished to become women. Some of them have gone on to careers in the theatre, broadcasting, even modeling. I can say without exaggeration that you are the most innately feminine man I have ever met.” His words cut me like a knife, and the tears started again. “What fascinates me about you is your obvious unwillingness to accept this. It’s almost as if you are becoming a woman against your will, even though you must know, deep down, that it is your destiny.”

The waiter returned to take our orders. Perhaps he thought we were having a lovers’ quarrel, they way Jacque kept wiping the tears from my eyes, and he stood patiently while Jacques ordered for both of us. My head was spinning so fast that I couldn’t think about food, where I was or what I was doing. When we were alone again, Jacques pressed on. “By whatever chance, you have discovered this about yourself, and it terrifies you. Maddy, I don’t have to know why you are dressed as a woman. If you want me to help you fulfill you destiny, it is within my power to do so. Now, let’s enjoy our wine and dinner and talk about other things.”

I excused myself to go to the ladies room. My mascara was a mess, and I needed a few minutes alone to think. Okay, so Jacques had made me as a woman. After all, he was used to working with transsexuals. The same thing would have come out during a five minute consultation in his office. Instead, it happened to me while I was wearing a little black dress in a romantic restaurant! The end result was the same: I needed his help, and he seemed more than willing to provide it. Looking at myself in the mirror, at the beautiful woman I was in the process of becoming, I knew the real reason I was so upset: Jacques had confirmed my innermost fears about myself. Through a bizarre set of circumstances, I had unleashed my inner woman, and she was slowly but surely taking over my existence.

When I returned to our table, Jacques was patiently waiting for me, along with our entrees. “You look lovely,” he reassured me.

“Thank you. I’m so sorry for the way I reacted.” I lifted my fork and tasted my filet of sole. It was delicious.

“Nonsense,” he said between bites. “If you think you are emotional now, wait until I put you on hormones.”

I put down my fork and took his hand. “You are amazing. How did you know that’s what I wanted?”

He chuckled softly again. “It is my profession. I can write you a prescription tonight. After we finish our dinners, of course. Then there is the little matter of your physical examination, which I am technically required to perform.”

“Oh. Where do I go for that?”

“Your room at the Plaza Athenee will be perfectly satisfactory.”

After coffee and dessert, Jacques escorted me through the hotel lobby and up to my suite. He seemed impressed, and said so. “As I observed, you have a flair for style.”

I sat down nervously on the sofa. “Do you really have to examine me?”

“Relax, Maddy. There are many ways to examine the human body.”

I had no idea where this might be going, but I was curious to find out. I liked him, he seemed genuinely interested in helping, and I was intrigued by his interest in me. I unstrapped my heels and stretched out on the sofa, propping my glittering legs up on a pillow. “What did you have in mind?”

He sat down beside me on the sofa and gently stroked my legs through my nylons. I felt the same intense excitement I’d experienced when Tracy did that to me, only now I was with a man….he leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, softly at first, then again with surprising passion. After a moment’s hesitation, I responded the same way, drowning in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. Then he had my dress off my shoulders and he was slowly but surely pulling it down, down…I gasped when he tugged my pantyhose and panties to my knees, and we both stared as my penis sprang to attention. “Ooh la la!” Jacques exclaimed. He took it into his hands and stroked it tenderly. “Maddy,” he whispered, “depending on what I prescribe, this may no longer be possible. Are you sure you want that?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“I can put you on hormones which will enable you to develop luscious breasts, and for a time you may not be able to experience erections like this, but once your breasts have blossomed, it should be possible again. Is that what you really want?”

“Yes,” I groaned.

“Very well. Now you see why a physical examination was necessary.” He gave me a few expert tugs and I erupted onto my hairless chest, splattering my brassiere with gobs of hot semen. The waves of guilty pleasure quickly passed, and I felt embarrassed and ashamed while he wrote out my prescription, his manner suddenly quite clinical. I took the prescription from him, still lying half naked on the sofa, bewildered by his change in manner. “You see, Maddy, you are not the only one who has to deal with conflicting emotions,” he sighed. “I am happily married, yet I find myself hopelessly drawn towards a woman like you. Perhaps when your body has changed to match your psyche, I will find the courage to fulfill my destiny also. Until then, au revoir.” I lay there sobbing while he let himself out of my suite.

I was up early the next morning, determined to wash away my memories of the night before under a hot shower. After dressing quickly in a skirt, sweater and tights, with very little makeup, I practiced twisting my long brown hair into a ponytail. The resulting look was that of a casual young woman on the go, her inner demons hidden somewhere deep below.

A croissant and coffee at Le Relais brought back unpleasant memories. I couldn’t believe that I’d kissed a guy, and let him touch me down there. Then again, I had to admit to myself that the kiss was no different than kissing a girl, and it actually seemed natural to me when I was dressed this way. I reached into my purse for my prescription for female hormones. Once I started taking them, I’d be past the point of no return. Although if I was honest with myself, I had to admit that I was past that point already.

I asked the concierge to point me towards the nearest drug store. There I waited while Dr. Jacques Bochy’s prescription was filled. He’d written it to give me a good supply to start with, and I confirmed with the pharmacist that it was refillable anywhere in Europe. As soon as I was back in my suite, I gulped down the first pill and packed my new Vuitton suitcase. Then I was off in a taxi to Charles de Gaulle, where an airplane was waiting to take me to the sunshine.

* * *

Six months later, I woke as always to the sound of a distant rooster. I’d come to envy him, as my manhood slowly slipped away, and this morning was no exception. While he was getting his rocks off in the henhouse, I went through my now-familiar routines in the bathroom: shampooing my shoulder-length hair, shaving my legs in the tub, and putting on my makeup. After drying and brushing out my hair, I tucked my dwindling manhood into a pair of panties and fastened a bra around my burgeoning breasts. A glance out the window promised another warm, sunny day, so I put on the sundress I’d brought with me from Amsterdam, and padded barefoot into the kitchen of my villa in the hills of Provence.

I gazed out the kitchen window at the distant ribbon of Mediterranean Sea, just visible through the thick canopy of trees. If I’d intended to stay any longer, I would have asked the landlord to trim them back, but today was to be my last day in this little paradise, so I left them for the next tenant to deal with. When I moved in back in February, I’d made a list of ambitious projects to occupy my time here, and I looked at it sadly after I made my morning coffee. The only things I’d managed to grow weren’t in the garden: a full head of lustrous brown hair, and a proud pair of large, lovely breasts.

Even with my new figure, my weight was down ten pounds, and my expanding hips made my girlish waist look even smaller. Thanks to the hormones prescribed by Jacques, my skin was much softer and smoother, and after several sessions with an electrologist in Nice, my beard was a distant memory. My legs were tanned to a golden bronze, and I couldn’t remember that last time I’d worn stockings. With a sigh, I slipped into a pair of canvas espadrilles — much cuter on my feet than sandals — and made my way into a small office with the computer I’d purchased in Nice shortly after I moved in.

As always, I began by searching the Internet for news about the international manhunt for me. The Wolf murder was old news by now, and as far as I could tell, the authorities were still floundering in their attempts to pick up my trail. I wondered if they were still monitoring Tracy’s emails? Despite all the publicity, she stubbornly believed in my innocence, although my family had long ago disowned me.

Other than my daily trips to the market in Provence, my email correspondence with Tracy was my only form of human interaction. I longed to see her again, to show her what I’d become. She seemed fascinated by my veiled accounts of my transformation, and I remembered how turned on she’d been the first time she dressed me in her clothes. The sex we had that day was the best in my life, and I sadly tried to remember that last time I’d had an erection. I desperately longed to be with Tracy again, only not as sisters….I sent her a brief email confirming our upcoming plans, then I logged off and removed the hard drive from my computer.

It didn’t take long to pack my worldly possessions into my Vuitton suitcase. I’d weeded out most of my winter clothes by now, assembling a stylish wardrobe of summery outfits during occasional shopping forays on the Riviera. With my emerging curves, I was able to wear shorts and capris with confidence, but for some reason I felt more comfortable in skirts and dresses these days. After a long last look around the villa, I left the keys on the kitchen counter, closed the door behind me, and tossed my suitcase into the trunk of my bright red BMW convertible.

The drive to Monte Carlo was spectacular, on winding two-lane roads which hugged the rugged coastline. My little car handled them with ease, and I was able to enjoy the view with the wind in my hair. When I was sure no other cars were in sight, I tossed the hard drive deep into a glade. A pretty girl in the red convertible attracts plenty of attention from other drivers and pedestrians, something I’d never get used to.

After I crossed the border into Monaco, I pulled over to the side of the road to consult my Michelin guide. The hotel I was looking for was in the heart of Monte Carlo, and with the summer traffic, I was very late by the time I left my car with the valet and made my way into the lobby. The elegant Belle á‰poque hotel oozed with old money and glamour. Newly rich and newly female, I felt very out of place.

I tried to ignore the hungry leers from the men surrounding me on the elevator. At least none of them tried to pinch my ass through my sundress! When I got to the right floor, I took a moment in front of a gilded mirror to brush my hair and freshen my lipstick before I tapped on the appointed door.

“Maddy!” Jacques beamed when he opened the door. “Mon Dieu, fantastique!”

“Sorry I’m late. You look nice.” And he did, in his French blue shirt and paisley ascot. He couldn’t take his eyes off my chest, which made me very self-conscious. Better get used to it! “Is that professional interest?” I teased him as I took in my luxurious surroundings.

“But of course,” he smiled. “You are one of my medical triumphs.”

Jacques’ suite had a spectacular view of the marina. I walked over to the balcony and stared, mesmerized by the armada of enormous yachts lolling in the turquoise water. “Wow,” was all I could say.

“Wow,” he said back as he placed his hands on my bronzed shoulders. I broke free and sat down on an opulent loveseat, swooshing my dress over my knees with practiced grace. I reached into my purse waited for Jacques to light my offered cigarette.

“It was so nice of you to meet me here,” I said through a veil of smoke.

“Paris has been abandoned to the tourists, as always in August. I am vacationing en famille, so it was convenient for me to meet you on the Cote d’Azur, but I would have gone halfway around the world to see you again, Maddy.”

“You’re very sweet.” After months of self-absorption, I had become much more confident and familiar with my femininity. “How can I ever repay the man who turned me into a woman?”

“I’m sure we can think of something,” he replied smoothly. “Champagne?” he asked, popping open a bottle of Piper. I waited for the bubbles to subside before taking a dainty sip. “How are you feeling in your new body?” he probed.

“I’m getting used to it, except for one thing.”

He sat down next to me and took my hand. “What is that, my Cheri?”

“Remember when you asked me whether I wanted to…have erections again someday?”

He sat up straight, and when he replied, his manner was aloof, professional. “Is that what you really want?”

“Jacques, I owe you more than you will ever know.” He started to interrupt, but I held up my hand. “It’s not the hormones. It’s what you said to me that night. For the first time in my life, someone asked me what I really wanted. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I think I know. Only it may not be what you expect.”

He studied me curiously after he refilled our champagne glasses. “There are two possibilities,” he said at length. “Do you know what they are?”

“The first is that I decide to go all the way with this, become your mistress, and live a life of great beauty in France.”

“Don’t think that fantasy hasn’t occurred to me, every day and night, since we parted in Paris. But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“No, Jacques, it isn’t.”

“Is it another man, or a woman?”

“A woman, someone who knew me from before. In fact, she’s the one who first got me into this, and she loves me this way. I want to be able to love her back, Jacques. Can you help me?”

“Of course,” he said with a forced smile. “In a way, I’m relieved. My behavior towards you has been unforgivable.” I tried to cut him off. “I should never have allowed myself to become involved with a patient. It’s just that you are so damned beautiful…and vulnerable too, at least you were that night we met. But not any more.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You are the most wonderful man.”

He pulled a pad out of his pocket and started writing a prescription. “You’ll forgive me if we dispense with the physical examination this time,” he said dryly. “I am putting you on a much lower dosage of estrogen, a maintenance formula, which will enable you to regain a sufficient level of potency, although most of your problems are in your head. There is no reason why you can’t father a child, if you wish.” I started to stammer my thanks, but he cut me off. “Take this and go, quickly, before I change my mind and beg you to stay.”

I put the prescription in my purse and ran out the door, without looking back. Tears were streaming down my face as I drove towards Nice. I’d just thrown away my chance to be the pampered mistress of a prominent physician in Paris, who loved me, and who understood me better than anyone else in the world. I wiped away my tears and reminded myself that there was one other person who knew me even better, and who loved me even more. If what Jacques told me was true, I might even be able to love her again.

After I returned my BMW to the leasing office in Nice, I asked if someone could give me a lift to the airport. Three different guys volunteered to take the pretty girl for a drive.

By now I’d moved some of my Swiss funds into a French bank account in the name of Madison Monroe. Using one of my new credit cards, I’d booked a seat in business class on the evening British Airways flight to London. My forged passport worked flawlessly once again, and after I checked my suitcase and went through passport control, I killed an hour in the Executive Club prowling the Internet. My encrypted email messages to Tracy linked to a chat room that we used to exchange vital information, and I wanted to make sure there was no last-minute change in plans. Before I logged off, I checked the weather in London. To my dismay, I learned that it was going to be unseasonably cold, with frequent showers.

The flight to Heathrow was uneventful. I was watching my weight to keep my girlish figure, although I indulged in a split of wine with dinner to calm my nerves. I knew I was taking a terrible risk by leaving my lair, and I felt very vulnerable and exposed in my skimpy little dress. It was cool on the plane, so I wrapped myself up in an airline blanket and fell into a restless sleep.

If I thought it was cool on the plane, it was downright cold when we got to London. Rain lashed my window while we taxied to our gate, and as soon I’d passed through customs and immigration and gotten into the taxi rank, I knew that my suitcase full of summer skirts and dresses would be tragic in the English weather. I’m sure the other passengers waiting for their taxis enjoyed the spectacle of the half naked woman pawing through her suitcase for something to put on. I found a thin cardigan sweater, the warmest thing I owned, and draped it over my shivering shoulders.

My hotel was in Knightsbridge. I turned in as soon as I got to my room, and I slept until mid-morning. The skies were blessedly clear, although BBC forecast chilly weather and intermittent showers, so I dressed hastily in capris and my sweater, then I placed a quick call to my bank in Zurich before I walked the few short blocks to Brompton Road. Thanks to the miracle of compound interest, my balance had increased by over $100,000, and I transferred most if it into my French account.

Good thing, I’d need it! One of the things I almost enjoyed about being a woman was the opportunity to wear the cute clothes that I used to like on chicks. I always had a thing for Burberrys, and before I knew it I was trying on wool skirts and dresses in their trademark plaid. A few thousand pounds later, wearing my new Burberrys trench coat, I was in a taxi back to my hotel, surrounded by shopping bags full of tights, sweaters, purses and shoes to complete my ensembles.

Girlish figure or no, I treated myself to an English breakfast at the hotel restaurant, and then I found a pharmacy to fill my new prescription. While I was waiting, I filled a shopping basket with cosmetics, moisturizing lotions, and hair accessories before returning to my room to prepare myself for what was to come. First I shampooed and conditioned my long brown hair. Then a bubble bath and a full body shave, which were becoming much less frequent since the hormones took over. Lingering in the tub, I thought back to Jacques’ final words to me: “most of your problems are in your head…” While I soaped what was left of myself in the tub, I wondered I would ever be able to love a woman again?

It hardly seemed possible as I dressed myself for the day ahead. My full, round breasts welcomed the caress of a silky black brassiere, and my newly-rounded hips fit snugly into my matching panties. Then I removed the towel from my hair and patiently dried and styled it with my new butterfly clips. Sheer black thigh high stockings were next — I’d almost forgotten how wonderful hose felt on my legs, and I eased them on lovingly. A black cashmere turtleneck sweater, a lacy half slip, my plaid Burberrys skirt, and black pumps with gold stirrups completed my outfit.

Looking at the beautiful woman in the full-length mirror, I knew that both Tracy and Jacques were right: I should have been a girl…this was my destiny. After a glance at the clock on the nightstand, I hurriedly put on my jewelry and cologne, organized my purse, and let myself out.

Half an hour later, I was sitting in the lobby of a bustling commercial hotel when a convoy of flight attendants came through the revolving door. There she was, pulling her suitcase, wearing the same navy blue topcoat that I’d borrowed from her that first day, a lifetime ago. I buried my nose in the Evening Standard and waited until she’d checked in and received her key. After I made sure she wasn’t being followed, I got up and fell in behind her as she stood in line at the crowded elevators.

As prearranged, I said nothing until we were alone in the corridor outside her room. “Tracy,” I said in Matt’s old voice. She spun around on her heel, and at first she didn’t recognize me.

“Oh…my…God!” she gasped as she rushed into my arms. Our breasts pressed together, and she momentarily pulled away, a look of astonishment on her beautiful face. “Is that really you?”

“Yes,” I said ruefully. “It’s really me, Tracy.”

She took me into her arms and hugged me again. I took the key from her quivering hand and opened the door. We tumbled into her room, still locked in an embrace, pawing at each other as we fell onto the bed. I kissed her deeply, and she moaned in response, her fingers caressing my silky hair. “Oh Matt…Maddy…I missed you so much!”

“I love you, Tracy,” I whispered into her ear.

“I love you too, baby,” she panted as she tore at my clothes. I felt her hands probing under my skirt, then she was feeling my breasts through my sweater, and pretty soon she was tugging it over my head. I lay back passively and let her explore my new body, sharing in her wonder at what had become of me. When she finally unsnapped my bra, her eyes were fierce with desire, and when she teased my tender nipples with her teeth, for the first time in memory I felt a stirring below my waist. The wonderful glow intensified when she eased my panties down to my knees, although my penis could only tremble softly when she took it into her mouth. I thought back to the words Jacques had spoken to me…it’s mostly in your head…and to my wonderment, I felt myself beginning to stiffen as she sucked on me while she caressed my silky stockings. From deep within my body, the beginnings of an orgasm began to grow, softly at first, then suddenly with an urgency that took us both by surprise. Tears filled my eyes when the first delightful spasms shook my body, and I cried out again and again as the sweet waves of ecstasy went on and on.

When it was finally over, I sat up and peeled off my stockings. Tracy could only stare at my beautiful body, still in awe over what was happening. I kissed her gently on the lips, and then I started in on her, feeling a strange familiarity as I gently removed her skirt, her lingerie, her stockings…when I caressed her breasts, it was with newfound bliss, and to my complete surprise, I felt myself stiffening again. Tracy felt it too, and we stared at each other in wonder as she guided me into her, bucking her hips to the once forgotten thrusting, our nipples throwing off sparks as our breasts brushed together. My body responding with unbridled joy as I found what I thought I had lost forever, until we both surrendered to shattering, simultaneous orgasms.

When our love and lust were completely consumed, we lay side by side for a long time, lost in our separate thoughts. Tracy finally broke the silence.

“Just when I thought I might be gay.”

“Just when I thought I might be a woman.”

“Just promise me you’ll stay this way.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any choice.”

“When are you coming back to clear your name?”

It was the question I’d been dreading. “Tracy, I have to tell you something.”

Her voice became guarded. “What is it?”

“I lied to you.”

“About what?”

“About that night with Norman Wolf. Tracy, he really did set me up. But when I went to his apartment that night, there was an accident. I never meant to do it, but I killed him.”

She didn’t respond for a long time as it slowly sank in. “When are you going to turn yourself in?” she asked at length.

“I can’t, Tracy. They’ll never believe that it was really an accident.”

“How do I know whether to believe you now? My God, you killed a man! How can you live with yourself?”

How could I begin to explain what it was like, throwing away my identity, my family, even my manhood…looking over my shoulder every day, one small mistake away from spending the rest of my life in an Illinois prison?

“If you keep running, you can never go back home…how are you going to support yourself?”

No one in the world knew the answer to that question but me. Norman Wolf had covered up his crimes brilliantly, and the contents of his safe were an unsolved mystery. And I didn’t want Tracy to know. How could I ever be sure of her love if it came with the knowledge of my hidden millions? I bit my tongue and remained silent.

“I just can’t believe you think you’re going to get away with it. Do you know how many times I’ve spotted the FBI or the cops watching me, wondering if they were tapping my phone or opening my mail? I just can’t live like this, Matt.”

“What are you saying, Tracy?”

“Go! Get out, dammit, before I call the police myself. You frighten me….” Her voice trailed off in fits of sobbing, before she got up and slammed the bathroom door behind her.

When she finally returned, I was almost dressed. She watched silently as I slipped my stockings back on and stepped into my heels. I started to say something, but she cut me off. “I just can’t believe that you did this to me. It was one thing to ask me to help you, but to expect me to help you get away with murder?” Her sobs started again, and I let myself out without saying goodbye.

Terry’s recriminations were ringing in my ears as I took the long way back to my hotel. It was raining again, but I didn’t take out my umbrella. I buried my hands in the pockets of my trench coat and stared at my feet, like I did the first time I went out with Tracy as a woman, feeling utterly miserable and very alone.

I pulled myself together after I got back to my room. Packing quickly, I called for my bill and a taxi to Waterloo Station, were the last Eurostar to Paris would soon be boarding.

After I bought my ticket, I showed my passport to the French border police, passed through the security line, and found my seat in one of the first class carriages. As I picked at my meal, I thought back despondently over my disastrous rendezvous with Tracy. If only I’d kept my big mouth shut! But the more I thought about it, the more I knew that I had to tell her the truth if there was to be any future for us, and in a way I was relieved at the finality of it all. With the last of my testosterone sapped by our incredible lovemaking, the woman deep within me was asserting herself once again, and she knew what she wanted.

Coolly, I recounted what I’d conveyed to Tracy about my whereabouts. All she knew was that I was living in Europe and using the name Maddy. Of course she also knew that I’d grown my hair and developed breasts, but she knew nothing about my fake identification, the full name I was using, or the fortune stashed away in my Swiss bank account. I didn’t think she’d turn on me, but even if she did, it would only lead the authorities on another wild goose chase, in London this time.

I closed my eyes and replayed our lovemaking once again. It was wonderful, amazing…but I had to be honest with myself. Kissing Tracy had been less exciting than kissing Jacques, which seemed strangely natural to me now. There was something tantalizing about being the passive one, yielding willingly to his passion, and I wondered what it would be like to give myself to him completely.…

My reverie was shattered when we shot past a Eurostar racing in the opposite direction, each of us moving at almost 200 miles per hour through the French countryside. Less than three hours after we left London, we were pulling into the Gare du Nord. I took a taxi to the Plaza Athenee once again, and asked if the same suite was available. It was.

The nasty weather followed me across the channel. I waited until nine o’clock before calling Dr. Bochy’s office. His officious receptionist answered at once. “Halo?”

“This is Maddy Monroe. Is the doctor in?”

“No Mademoiselle, he is still on holiday.”

“There is a problem with a prescription he gave me. Can you please ask him to call me at his earliest convenience?”

“What sort of problem?”

“Please just give him the message. It’s urgent.” I gave her the number of my suite at the Plaza Athenee and rang off.

I was trying to decide what to wear when the telephone rang. “Maddy,” Jacques said. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“Waiting for you.”

“According to my office, there is a problem with your new prescription.”

“I lied.”

“I see…what about your lady friend?”

“I’m afraid she lost out to your fantasy woman.”

“Hmm…this is serious. Fortunately I can return to Paris this afternoon, and this time a physical examination will definitely be necessary.”

“Le Relais at seven?”

“Until then.”

This time the boutiques of Paris didn’t disappoint me. When I entered the packed bistro a few minutes past seven, I turned the heads of half the men in the room. Jacques was waiting for me at the same romantic booth, and he beamed at the sight of me in my frilly white confection. “You look sensational!”

“Do you like my new dress?” I did a little twirl before I sat down beside him in a froth of tulle. “I bought it just for you.”

“I adore it on you.” He kissed my hand, lingering a few inches away from my breasts, which were barely contained by my halter top.

“I’m up here,” I teased him. For once, he was the one who blushed, and we shared a moment of silent contentment after he lit our cigarettes. “I hope you didn’t end your vacation just for me.”

“Duty calls. Madame Bochy was prevailed upon by her mother to stay in Monte Carlo for another week,” he winked conspiratorially.

Jacques must have ordered champagne before I came in, and I offered a toast after our glasses were filled. “To your mother-in-law,” I said with a sly grin.

“How appropriate… they use this champagne to christen battleships.” We laughed at our silly jokes as we drank, staring at each other over the rims of our glasses. “Tell me Maddy,” he asked at length, “what made you come back?”

I felt totally at ease with Jacques, so I bared my soul to him. “When I was a man, sex was the most important thing in the world to me. The day after I told you goodbye forever, I had it once again. Don’t get me wrong, it was wonderful, but afterwards….”

“Go on, Maddy.”

“That’s not what I want any more.”

“And what is it that you want, Maddy?”

“I want it all, Jacques. If I have to live the rest of my life as a woman, I don’t want to be half a man. I want you to make me into your woman.” There, I’d said it! I started to sniffle, and Jacques produced his handkerchief once again. The wait staff at Le Relais must have thought he was a brute. “I’m sorry, Jacques, I’m so screwed up!”

“To the contrary, you are the most insightful person I have ever met, man or woman. When I think of your metamorphosis during those lonely months in your cocoon in Provence…it is time to spread your wings, my little butterfly.” He lifted my chin and pressed his lips against mine. The world stopped as we lost ourselves in a French kiss, exploring each other like we were the only two people in the world. I pressed my legs against his, and when he touched my naked knees, I slid his hand closer and closer to my forsaken jewels….

When at last we opened our eyes, a waiter was standing by our table, regarding us with amusement. Once again, Jacques ordered for both of us, and when he spoke to me again, he was very much the man in charge. “We’ve much to do. Tomorrow morning, I will refer you to a gifted surgeon who has performed many miracles for my patients.” I must have looked startled, because he quickly added, “Don’t worry, Cheri. There is a mandatory waiting period, during which you will be required to live completely as a woman under my care. In the afternoon, I will show you a furnished apartment in the 5th Arrondissement that was recently vacated by an acquaintance of mine….”

“I don’t need a gilded cage, Jacques. There are some things about me that you should know….”

He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “I have never understood the American mania for ‘closure’. Whatever demons pursued you into my world are hereby pronounced dead on arrival in Paris. Carpe diem.”

I yielded to him with a girlish shrug. “I’m going to have to learn French.”

“Actually, it’s Latin, from a poem by Horace. He recited it from memory:

Don’t ask, it’s dangerous to know what end the gods will give you Better just to deal with whatever comes your way Whether you’ll see many more winters Or whether the last one is now pelting the shore with the waves Be wise, drink your wine, scale back your long hopes to the moment Even as we speak, jealous time is running away from us Seize the day, trusting little in the future.”

* * *

* * *

I stood outside the door while Jacques made a quick survey of the apartment. Apparently it hadn’t been occupied in several weeks, and with the return of the summer heat, it must have been very stuffy, because I could hear him drawing back curtains and opening windows. When he returned, he was perspiring slightly, and he took a moment to mop his forehead with his silk handkerchief before he surprised me by lifting me off my feet and carrying me over the threshold.

I let him kiss me gently on the lips before he put me down. After the night we’d spent together in the bedroom of my suite at the Plaza Athenee, it was feeling quite natural to respond to him as a woman, and we lingered over another kiss before he showed me around my new surroundings. “In the morning, the sunlight is marvelous,” he was saying, “and you can just see the spires of Notre Dame from this window.” I stood next to him, looking out over the expanse of tiled rooftops towards the Seine, listening to the cacophony of traffic in the Latin Quarter. I could afford to live anywhere I wanted, but how could I top this? I followed him through the elegantly furnished parlor into the charming boudoir, where an imposing Louis XVI bed promised endless delights to come….

I thought back to the night we’d just spent together, my first as a woman. Jacques had been so gentle, patiently probing the new erotic hotspots on my trembling body, sensing when to linger and when to push…he’d lovingly undressed me before we slid under the duvet, and after he rolled me onto my tummy, I surrendered completely when he eased himself into my quivering ass. At first I thought I was going to burst, but his hot breath whispered encouragement as he nuzzled my ear. Once I knew that he was inside me, my resistance yielded to his steady advances, and I reveled to sublime jolts each time he poked my prostate. While one hand kneaded my nubile breasts, and the other stroked my whimpering cock, he eased himself in and out, in and out, until we both came in a rush of exquisite pleasure.

I’d lain there, weeping softly, after he popped out and went into the bathroom to take a quick shower. My feelings of shame and remorse were tempered by the knowledge that my fate would have been the same had I turned myself in. Only then, instead of enjoying the tender mercies of a gentle lover in Paris, I would have been taking it up the ass from hardened criminals at the Menard Correctional Facility.

* * *

After Jacques left me, I occupied the rest of the day becoming familiar with my new surroundings. It didn’t take me long to unpack my Vuitton suitcase, and it seemed strangely permanent to put away my lingerie and stockings in dresser drawers. My wardrobe may have been meager, but everything I had was very chic: summer skirts and dresses from Saint Tropez, the latest fall fashions from Knightsbridge, and my one Paris original, which I carefully hung in the bedroom closet. Although the apartment was in a historic building and filled with antiques, it was equipped with modern conveniences, and I was pleased to discover a state-of-the-art microwave and espresso machine in the kitchen, as well as a personal computer in an alcove off the parlor.

I was wearing my favorite sundress from De Bijenkorf in Amsterdam, which would be perfect for a late summer afternoon, but I noticed a few clouds gathering in the distance, so I tied a cashmere sweater around my neck before I stepped into a cute pair of ballet flats for my first foray into the Latin Quarter. During my six months in Provence, I’d become used to daily trips to town for the fresh breads and produce that are the staple of French cuisine. I was inspecting the lettuce at a local market when my cell phone rang in my purse. “Hello?” I answered after I fished it out.

“Maddy, where are you? I tried calling you at the apartment.” It was Jacques.

“Shopping.”

“But of course, how like a woman…I was calling to make arrangements for dinner.”

“That’s very sweet, Jacques, but I’ve already planned our menu for tonight.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not used to cooking for two, so I can’t make any promises, but I don’t think you’ll go home hungry. Appetizers will be served promptly at seven.”

“You never cease to surprise and delight me!”

“Just bring the wine, okay?”

“Rouge or blanc?”

“Better make it one of each.” I rang off and put my phone back in my purse. Then I busied myself with the womanly task of planning a romantic dinner for my man.

* * *

Jacques arrived precisely at seven, damn him! I was still fussing with the place settings, and I hadn’t had time to put the camembert in the microwave. “Let yourself in,” I shouted on my way to the bedroom. I heard him opening the door and inspecting the kitchen while I hurriedly brushed my hair and touched up my makeup. Then I took a deep breath to compose myself before I waltzed serenely into the parlor. “I guess the custom of being fashionably late didn’t originate in France,” I pouted.

“To the contrary, punctuality is a dying art in Paris, except when a beautiful woman is involved,” he said as he opened a bottle of Chardonnay. The microwave beeped, and I took a moment to put on a pinafore apron, tying it behind my back while Jacques looked on with amusement. “Surely you didn’t find that here?” he asked.

“Are you kidding? When was the last time one of your kept women cooked you a meal?” I taunted him.

“This is a first,” he acknowledged as he opened the other bottle of wine with a flourish. “Voila! My work is done here.”

“Men!” I placed a platter of melted camembert with slices of baguette on the coffee table and sat down next to Jacques, self-consciously playing with the hem of my apron while I waited for him to pour the wine. The crystal in the apartment was baccarat, and after we clinked our glasses I drained half of mine in one unladylike swig.

“Tell me, Maddy, what possessed you to do this?” Jacques asked as he refilled my glass.

“There are some things we need to discuss, and not in a crowded restaurant.” That morning, Jacques had placed a call to Dr. Villiers, a colleague who specialized in sexual reassignment surgery. I had an appointment with him the following morning, and I wanted to know what I was getting into. “What’s going to happen tomorrow morning?”

“Dr. Villiers will conduct a more traditional physical examination than I’ve performed on you,” Jacques chuckled. “He will assess the progress of your feminization, and establish a schedule for your surgery.”

“What exactly would that involve?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Maddy, I have observed the procedure many times. The technical aspects aren’t for the squeamish. Are you sure you want to talk about this before we eat?”

I nodded as I drained my glass. Jacques refilled it once again while I nervously nibbled on a slice of bread and cheese.

“Very well,” he sighed. “After your testicles are removed, the remnants of your scrotum will be used to create the labia for your vagina. The vagina itself will be lined with the skin from your penis after it is amputated, and the stump will be reconstructed into a clitoris. And of course, your urethra will be redirected to enable you to urinate like a woman.” I felt the bile beginning to rise in my stomach. “The recovery process takes several weeks, and is frankly very painful because of the necessity to dilate your new vagina regularly to keep it from closing up….”

I bolted out of the parlor towards the boudoir. Before I could make it into the bathroom, I threw up into the folds of my pinafore.

* * *

Jacques’ belated efforts to salvage our dinner were to no avail. After a restless night alone in my new bed, I felt almost human when I awoke before dawn. I was famished after going without dinner, so I wrapped my robe around my nightgown and fixed myself an omelet and a double espresso.

Listlessly, I sat down at the computer and booted it up. Before I went on the Internet to do some research on sex change surgery, I decided to check my emails, on the off-chance that there might be messages from my old life. To my surprise, there were two from Tracy. My heart sank as I read the first one:

Maddy, I’m still mad at you for lying to me about what you did to Norman Wolf, although I’m willing to believe that it was an accident. I’m sorry I lost it after you told me, I was hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, and I realize now how hard it must have been for you to tell me, and what you must be going through. I’m worried about you, although from your clothes and jewelry it looks like you aren’t exactly starving. Please be careful, I still think you should turn yourself in, Tracy PS — I like you as a brunette

Silly, stupid bitch! I had to assume that the FBI and the police were still monitoring her emails. Not only had she pinned me to the wall as Norman Wolf’s killer, her catty comments about my expensive clothes and jewelry might even have tipped them off about my stolen millions. Not only that, she’d alerted the authorities to the fact that I was still disguised as a woman, down to the color of my hair…the last thing I needed now was to make this permanent!

I looked down in dismay at my heaving breasts. Short of a double mastectomy, I was stuck this way, in fact I’d become reconciled to spending the rest of my life as a woman. Would it even be possible to change back? And did I really want to give up my relationship with Jacques?

If Tracy’s first email threw me, her second was like a kick in the head:

It’s me again, back in Chicago, just wanted to let you know that I went to Burberry’s before I left for the airport, I asked them to show me that outfit you had on, they are still talking about the rich American girl who bought out the store! Missing you, Tracy

Damn her! My hands were shaking as I scrolled up to my inbox to see what time her message was sent. Yesterday, at 6:41 pm Chicago time...the middle of the night in London. Assuming the FBI was already on it, they’d have alerted Scotland Yard by now to question the staff at Burberry’s about the mysterious brunette who went on a shopping spree. From there, it wouldn’t take long for them to uncover my French credit card in the name of Madison Monroe, which would lead them directly to me here, in Paris, since I’d used that card, and my bogus passport, to take the train from London to Paris three days earlier.

How much time did I have? It was almost nine o’clock in Paris, only eight o’clock in London, so the shops wouldn’t be open for another few hours, and with any luck the authorities would start at the flagship Burberry’s in Haymarket before they fanned out to the other branches. First things first: using the telephone in the apartment, I placed a call to Jacques’ office. His receptionist put me through immediately.

“Jacques, I’m sorry for the way I behaved last night,” I said.

“Maddy, the fault is all mine. I should never have gone into such appalling detail before dinner.”

“Let’s just say your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

“Touche. How are you feeling this morning.”

“Much better. Jacques, I’m sorry for the short notice, but could you please cancel my appointment with Dr. Villiers?”

“Completely understandable under the circumstances.”

“Darling, I have to leave Paris for a few days, and I didn’t want you to think I was running out on you. I’m going to leave some clothes in the apartment if that’s okay.”

“But of course, it is your home now, Cheri. Where are you going?”

“I’m really not sure…sorry to be so mysterious, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I love you!”

“Je t’aime.”

I used some precious time searching the Internet for travel information before I hopped into the shower. No luxurious bubble bath this morning! I shaved my legs standing up, and didn’t bother to wash my hair. Just like a regular girl, I told myself. Soon I was dressed in a simple skirt and top, with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a smidge of eye liner and lippy. I quickly packed my suitcase, leaving out the incriminating clothes from London. All the while, I was searching my memory, trying to remember each time I’d used my new credit card and Madison Monroe’s passport. By the time I left the apartment, I’d worked out the beginnings of a plan.

First I hailed a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, where I used Madison Monroe’s credit card to buy a ticket in first class on the next TGV express to Marseilles. I also used my credit card at the station bookstore, where I purchase several travel guides to Tangier, Casablanca and Morocco. Also before we left, I spent some time at a travel agency next to the station, asking a lot of questions before booking passage on a ferry that same evening from Marseilles to Tangier. The last thing I did was to exchange all of my remaining travelers checks for cash.

The crack train took three hours to race from Paris to Marseilles. The scenery through the south of France was magnificent, but I was preoccupied with other things. After we arrived in the sweltering port city, I checked my suitcase with the concierge at a hotel near the station. Then I treated myself to an expensive lunch at the hotel restaurant, once again using my credit card, before I made my way to the wharf where the ferries departed for Tangier. Boarding would begin in about an hour, I was told. After I stopped at a souvenir shop to buy a beret and sunglasses, I found an Internet café near the terminal, where I sent Tracy this message:

Tracy, I was so happy to hear from you! Sorry it took so long to respond, I am on my way to Casablanca. How many times did we watch that movie together? Been thinking a lot about what you told me, now I need some time to decide where I go from here. All my love, Maddy

Au revoir, Terry, I said to myself on the way back to the wharf. She was nothing but trouble for me now…Terry may have showed me now to be a girl, but Jacques had shown me how to be a woman!

As soon as the ferry started boarding, I presented my passport and ticket to the purser and took a place at the rail. Before long the gangway was crowded with an onslaught of passengers, a surging mix of Europe and the Muslim world. Amidst the bustle and babble, nobody noticed a pretty girl sauntering against the tide of humanity and slipping away from the wharf. Nor did they see her adding the shredded remains of a credit card to the polluted waters of the harbor.

I returned to the hotel, collected my suitcase and tugged it back to the station. Wearing my new beret and sunglasses, I paid cash for a seat in second class on a train departing from Marseilles that evening. Eventually, we would wind up in Paris. It would be a long and miserable night for a millionairess!

I called Jacques just before we left. It sounded like he was in the middle of something…dinner with another woman perhaps? He told me to wait a moment before he asked, “Where are you?”

“Still in France. Jacques, I have a huge favor to ask. Could you loan me a car for a few days?”

“Madame Bochy is in Monte Carlo, you are welcome to use her Mercedes.”

“Great! Can I pick it up tomorrow morning?”

“Of course. I’ll bring it by your apartment, just ask the doorman for the keys. I must go, au revoir.” He hung up before I could say goodbye.

I brooded over his abrupt signoff as the train pulled out of the station. How like a woman I’d become! I tried to put him out of my mind, working through the details of my plan once again. Now that I had a car to cross the border, everything had fallen into place perfectly. My passport would be worthless to me now, flagged as a forgery at airports and border crossings, but it was perfectly safe for me to travel within France, and a woman in a Mercedes with Paris plates was unlikely to have to produce her passport while driving between countries in the EU.

The train was packed with vacationers returning home to Paris from the south of France. Fortunately, I’d been able to reserve a couchette, which meant that I’d be sharing a cramped compartment with five other passengers, both male and female, each of us spending the night on a foam slab with a blanket and pillow and zero privacy.

Needless to say, I was somewhat self-conscious when I came face-to-face with my fellow travelers. They were obviously more accustomed to life in second class than I was: to my dismay, I noticed that my bunk was on top, which meant I’d have to climb over two of them to turn in. The lower bunk on my side of the compartment was occupied by a young man who was already asleep, but the middle bunk was taken by an elderly Frenchman who couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I tried as best I could to be ladylike as I put my foot on his bed and climbed up to the top bunk in my skirt. What a hassle!

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to get some sleep, but it was impossible. Tossing and turning, I went over my escape plan once again. By now, the authorities would have identified Madison Monroe as the woman who spent thousands of pounds at Burberry’s, and a routine check with her credit card company would send them chasing after her in North Africa. However, it was her past movements that most concerned me: once again, I painstakingly went over the trail I’d left since I arrived in Europe. Madison Monroe had surfaced in Amsterdam in February, coinciding with the date and place where Ashley’s trail went cold. From there she traveled to Paris, and after a brief stay she flew on to Nice, where she rented a villa in Provence and rented a car for six months before flying to London. Then back to Paris again, on her way to Tangier….there was nothing to connect me with the apartment in Paris, and I blessed Jacques for convincing me to stay there. Yes, I’d thought of everything, and by this time tomorrow I would be in the clear. There was one little detail that I was unaware of, but it would become apparent soon enough…

Eventually I must have fallen asleep, because I was awakened by the sounds of my coachmates getting up and dressed. I’d taken off my skirt and top and folded them carefully under my pillow. There was nothing for it but to climb back down in my bra and panties to get myself dressed. The lecherous old man on the bunk below me enjoyed the spectacle of my jiggling breasts as I hopped down, pulled on my top and hurriedly stepped into my skirt. At least I didn’t have to worry about a bulge in my panties giving me away — the hormones had taken care of that. I found my shoes somehow and got into the long line for a lavatory. Being a woman was an incredible hassle, but not being a rich woman was a total bitch!

Eventually I pulled myself together and staggered into the crowded dining car, where I waited in another line for a table to share. There was no romantic rendezvous with a distinguished doctor this time, only two elderly women who glowered at me as I nibbled on my croissant and sipped my coffee. I sullenly ignored them as we rolled through the suburbs of Paris, only returning to my compartment to collect my suitcase when it was time to get off the train.

Fighting my way through the crowded station with my suitcase in tow, I’d never felt so grungy in my life. To add to my misery, it was raining in Paris, and it took me forever to hail a cab to my apartment. How I missed my Burberry’s trench coat! I took the precaution of having the taxi drop me off a few blocks away, so I was soaked to the skin by the time I dragged myself to my door. The doorman greeted me with pity. “Mademoiselle, I have some keys for you,” he said.

My heart soared at the news. He was kind enough to bring the car around for me, and soon I was crawling through the rush hour traffic in the warmth and luxury of a Mercedes. Things were looking up! Eventually I was able to cut against the traffic and start making good time on the motorway north, towards the Low Countries.

It was late morning when I pulled off the expressway and motored into Lille. I had two objectives: a beauty salon, and a passport photo shop. It took me a while to find a salon where someone spoke English — any mistake in translation could be a calamity. Finally a girl understood when I told her the look I wanted, and I surrendered myself to her care. After my sleepless night, I dozed off in her chair as she expertly shampooed, cut, died and dried my hair into a perky blonde wedge that made me look like Ashley once again. I was very relieved when I woke up — it made me look so cute! I tipped her generously, and she pointed me towards a photo shop on the way out.

After a quick bite to eat at a local café, I was back on the motorway, heading north once again. The Belgian border presented no obstacle, and I was able to make it over the border into The Netherlands before dark. I pulled off the expressway in Utrecht, where I settled on an obscure hotel — all I requested was a room with a bath! I soaked forever, washing away my memories of the dismal night on the train, then put on a dress, heels and stockings to dine alone in the stuffy restaurant. I didn’t mind getting dressed up: it felt wonderful to be a wealthy woman again, and I couldn’t help but notice how much more attention I got as a blonde.

I was up early the next morning, feeling thoroughly refreshed. My new hairdo was a breeze to style, and I thoroughly loved my new look. I wore the same dress to the breakfast room, turning the heads of the same men who had ogled me the night before, but none of them were as brash as Jacques. Soon I was back in his wife’s Mercedes for the short drive to Amsterdam. It was just after nine o’clock when I knocked on the door of my forger friend.

He greeted me with the same suspicion, and he didn’t know who I was until I asked him if he remembered Madison Monroe. He recognized me at once, and soon we were negotiating the terms of our next transaction. “I need a French passport this time.” I gave him my new photos, and a sheet of paper with a new name and address. Once again, I offered to pay a premium for same day service, and once again he didn’t disappoint me. I killed a few hours at the Van Gogh museum, treated myself to another Indonesian lunch, and collected my new passport in time to beat the traffic out of Amsterdam.

My spirits were soaring during the drive back to Paris. It was very late when I finally pulled up to my apartment building. I left the keys with the doorman, rode the lift up to my floor, and collapsed into bed as soon as I took off my dress and put on my nightgown.

* * *

I slept until almost noon. It was a crisp sunny day, and I felt safe laying out a Burberry’s skirt and cashmere sweater to wear for the day. I tossed a bra, panties, and tights on the bed and returned the remaining contents of my suitcase to my dresser drawers and closet,

After a long, luxurious bubble bath, I put a robe over my bra and panties and went to the kitchen to fix myself breakfast. I was just ladling some scrambled eggs onto my plate when the telephone rang. It was Jacques.

“Maddy, I’m so glad you are back. Madame Bochy is returning this evening, and I would have had to invent a clever excuse about her Mercedes.”

“Well, you’re in the clear. I guess this means you won’t be coming over for dinner tonight,” I said peevishly.

“I’m afraid not.” He seemed preoccupied, and I sensed that something was seriously wrong. “Maddy, I have a waiting room full of patients. I’ll call you tonight.”

Maybe he was pulling back because of my reluctance to take the next step? “Before you go, can you give me Dr. Villier’s number?” I asked impulsively. I jotted it down in my now girlish handwriting, and after a moment’s hesitation, I called the number. The surgeon would know me as Maddy Monroe, so I used that name when I called his office. I was in luck: he’d just had a cancellation, if I could come to his office immediately, he could squeeze me in.

There wasn’t time to think about the enormity of what I was doing. Still dressed in my Burberry’s ensemble, I went downstairs and the doorman hailed me a taxi to Dr. Villier’s office. When I presented myself to the receptionist, I was asked for my French national insurance card. I explained in broken French that I would be paying in cash and that I’d been referred by Dr. Bochy, which did the trick.

After I was ushered into an examination room, a nurse instructed me to strip down to my bra and panties, and she returned a few minutes later to take a blood and urine sample. After she left, I sat awkwardly on an examination table for a long time until a kindly looking man with gray hair and stooped shoulders entered the room. He introduced himself as Dr. Villiers, and his physical examination was quite complete. He lingered over my breasts before he poked and prodded my pitiful privates. He read my chart carefully before clearing his voice. “Your health is excellent,” he began, “although your hormone levels show an elevated level of testosterone in your blood, which is perfectly normal at this stage. Even though your testicles have atrophied considerably, they are still impeding your development into a woman.”

“Could I ever go back to being a man?”

“Highly doubtful,” he said dismissively. “Chemically speaking, your body is much like that of my female patients who wish to change their sex. If Dr. Bochy were to put you an aggressive program of testosterone therapy, you might regain some of the secondary sex characteristics of a man, and of course we could always remove your breasts.” I suppose I wasn’t surprised, but each word was like a nail in the coffin of Matt McCoy. “Is that what you want?” Dr. Villiers asked impatiently.

“No,” I heard myself say.

“It’s too soon for us to perform sexual reassignment surgery. As Dr. Bcchy has doubtless explained, there is a mandatory waiting period. However, if you wish, I can make sure that your testicles stop interfering with your continued development into a woman.”

“How would you do that?”

“By removing them. There is a routine out-patient procedure called a bilateral orchidectomy, which I can perform here in my office.”

My head was spinning. Once my balls were gone, there would be no turning back…but according to the doctor, I was too far gone already. Maybe if I took the plunge, I could hold onto Jacques. “How soon can you do it?”

“We can do it today,” Dr. Villiers said.

The rest of that day is a blur. I remember a nurse prepping me, and the doctor administering a local anesthesia. After I was numb, he made a single incision in my scrotum and pushed my shrunken balls through the opening. When I heard two distinct snips, Matt McCoy’s manhood was medical waste. Tears were running down my cheeks as Dr. Villiers stitched me up. When it was over, I looked down with dread, but all I remember seeing was my empty sac with a bandage on it. Other than a dull ache from where my balls used to be, there was no pain, only a profound sense of loss and despair. Somehow I managed to dress myself, and climb into a waiting taxi. I went to bed as soon as I got back to the apartment, and cried myself to sleep.

I was feeling almost normal the next morning, a little stiff and sore but there was no pain to speak of. I was famished after skipping dinner, my emotions were a mess, and I didn’t seem to have any energy. It was an effort just to sit down at the computer and boot it up. I was about to get on the Internet to do some research on the after-effects of castration when the telephone rang. It was Jacques.

“Maddy, how are you? I spoke to Dr. Villiers this morning, and he told me what he’d done. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess.” Maybe it was my highly emotional state, but I could tell that there was still something wrong. What had I done?

“Maddy, I need to see you, today. It’s rather important.” My heart sank — how could he dump me after what I’d just been through? Reluctantly, I agreed to meet him at Le Relais at noon, and spent the rest of the morning moping around the apartment. When I finally got myself dressed, my panties fit a little better, although I was still stiff and sore, and it was an effort to bend over to ease up my stockings. What had I done?

After I was finished dressing, I took a long look at myself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. From my blonde head to my silky toes, I was a beautiful woman. All for nothing! With a sigh, I stepped into my heels, wrapped a gold chain around my waspish waist, and went off to face my fate.

As always, Jacques was waiting for me in the same romantic booth. He did a double take when he saw my hair. “Stunning!” he exclaimed. “It reminds me of the magical night when we met.”

That didn’t sound like someone who was about to dump me. Still, my heart was beating hard beneath my breasts, and I waited cautiously for him to open up to me.

“You should have called me before you went into surgery,” he said. “I would have been there for you.”

“You sounded very busy.”

He sensed my discomfort, and went straight to the point. “Last night when you called, I was in the middle of a very awkward conversation. Two gentlemen whom I believe you Americans refer to as ‘the feds’ came to my home, asking some very direct questions. About you.”

I felt sick to my stomach. God, please don’t let me throw up in front of Jacques again! He motioned to the waiter for a glass of water, and waited until I gulped it down before continuing. “First, let me ask you a direct question: that second prescription that I gave you in Monte Carlo last week…did you ever fill it?”

“No. After our night together in the Plaza Athenee, I flushed it down the toilet.”

“Thank God!” he sighed with relief.

“Why is that so important?”

“Because of what I told the agents last night. They’d come to ask me about a prescription I wrote for a…person using the name Madison Monroe back in February.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I write hundreds of prescriptions every month, and I have no recollection of anyone using that name. They showed me a crude sketch, obviously drawn by a police artist, that was actually quite a charming likeness of you, although as a brunette with long hair. Still, I was of no help to them, and of course there are no records of a patient by that name in my files.”

“Why did you ask me about the new prescription?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They were able to trace you back to me from the prescription I wrote for you in February. By lying to them, I set myself up for perjury if they could show that I wrote another prescription to the same person a few days ago.”

“Jacques, I owe you an explanation….” He tried to cut me off, but I wouldn’t let him. My words tumbling together, I told him everything about myself. He seemed intrigued by my account of my unwanted transformation, and if my halting description of Norman Wolf’s murder bothered him, he didn’t show it. When I told him about my escape to Amsterdam, and my subsequent efforts to cover my tracks, he was genuinely impressed.

“You fascinate me,” he said when I was finished. “What is your new name?”

“Madeline Moreau,” I said shyly.

“Enchanteurs! It all reminds me of the story of the Chevalier D’Eon, a French nobleman who disguised himself as a woman to spy for the king. Eventually, his treachery was unmasked, and he was compelled to spend the rest of his life as a woman.”

“I didn’t do this for king and country, Jacques. I did it for you.” After the emotional roller coaster I’d just been on, it wasn’t surprising when I totally lost it, bawling like a baby while he held me in his arms.

“Really, Madeline,” Jacques said as he dabbed my tears once again, “I’m going to have to stop taking you to Le Relais before the staff has me arrested for abusing a woman.”

“Nothing doing, Monsieur,” I said through my tears. “What can I do to save your reputation? How about a blow job under the table?” At that moment I might have done it, I was so in love with this wonderful man who had risked everything to save me.

“I’m afraid that would be a blow to both of our reputations,” he laughed. We bantered back and forth like two lovesick teenagers, sharing a bottle of wine and each others’ entrees, both of us wanting the moment to last forever. Finally, with a glance at his watch, he told me it was past time for him to return to his office.

“Madeline,” he said seriously while we waited for the check, “it would probably be wise for us to lie low for the next few weeks. I’m not sure those fellows from the FBI bought my story, and I could never live with myself if I helped them find you.”

I knew he was right, but my heart ached at the prospect. Now that my manhood was gone forever, I was ready to embrace my life as a woman, as his woman. “I understand, Jacques. Do you think I should leave Paris?”

“That would probably be a good idea. Depending on how thorough these people are, if they trace my calls it could lead them to the apartment.” I nodded in agreement, already thinking ahead to my next moves.

“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.

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 bloodstained 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.