Now...

Steven Balfour stared down at Abigail Thompson through his aunt’s bedroom window. Abigail was on her knees weeding her garden. She used a plastic kneeling pad so that her knees didn’t get dirt and grass stains on them. This caused her shapely bottom to rear up, which in turn caused her skirt to ruck up around her thighs. Steven admired her buttocks clad in the tight black leather skirt, the backs of her legs sheathed in sheer stockings, the dark welts and back-seams visible even at this distance and he loved her that her feet were shod in black high-heels.

Even a lad of nineteen years thought it was incongruous that a woman would dress so provocatively to perform household chores, but Abigail Thomson always did. And Steven was glad she did.

His penis was sheathed in one of his aunt’s sheer stockings and he was slowly stroking himself, imagining himself doing all sorts of wicked things with Miz Thompson. In his fantasies she was trying to fight him off her as he pressed himself on her, but eventually she reluctantly let him take her. She wrapped those long stocking-sheathed legs around his bare flesh and encouraged him with little endearments as he fucked her. His cock buried deep inside her hot, wet vagina, which enveloped his hard cock and milked him of his seed. She kissed him passionately as she orgasmed under him.

Steven had found one of his aunt’s stockings laddered and discarded in the waste bin under the kitchen sink and had purloined it to add to his collection of stolen and discarded ladies intimates. He had come to his aunt’s bedroom hoping to find a pair of her soiled panties to sniff while he masturbated with her stocking but seeing Abigail Thompson bent over like that was too much of a treat not be taken advantage of. Being a virgin teenage boy he needed a constant supply of masturbatory fodder to fuel his imagination and more progressively Miz Thompson became that fodder. He thought about her constantly, almost as much as he thought about his aunt who herself was quite the looker.

The toe of the stocking pulled tightly on the rounded head of his penis suddenly bloomed a thick creamy gobbet of semen. Then ropes of his spend erupted from the delicate garment and spattered on the wooden floor as Steven groaned and held onto the windowsill with his free hand to stop himself collapsing with lecherous pleasure. He imagined that his semen was splashing on the back of Abigail Thompson’s legs instead of his aunt’s bedroom floor.

Abigail suddenly turned around and seemed to be looking up at him. Surely she couldn’t know what he was doing below the eye-line of the window sash? She seemed to be looking right though him with those beautiful green eyes enhanced with thick black eyeliner and mascara.

“Steven? Steven? Are you home?” he heard his aunt Beatrice call as she came through the front door.

“Shit!” Steven gasped.

Steven stepped away from the window and hurriedly dabbed at the creamy liquid oozing through the toe of the stocking with a wad of tissues he had bought to his aunt’s bedroom just for that purpose. He quickly took the stocking off his slowly deflating penis, tucked it away, a little uncomfortably as it was still semi-erect, and then bent down and cleaned up the mess he had made on the floor as best he could.

Then...

“You like wearing this shit don't you?” Barry Pinkerton said to Murray Reynolds

The two men were dressed as women.

The difference being that Barry looked like a boxer dressed in drag: poor makeup, ill fitting wig and poorly fitting clothes whereas Murray could easily pass as a woman; a very attractive and feminine woman.

“I can’t wait to get these confounded clothes off,” Barry whined.

Mary Reynolds sat still, smoothing out her skirt, straightening the hem.

“Jesus! You like this don’t you?” Barry looked disgustedly at Mary, which was the name Murray used when dressed as a woman.

“I don’t know, there’s something comforting and non-confrontational about it. I feel different, accepting I suppose,” Mary mused.

“Well there’s something faggy about it and if you stay dressed like that you might end up accepting things that you’d rather not,” Barry scoffed.

They were both finishing five-year sentences at the behest of Her Majesty's Prison Service, the last year of which they were serving in a minimum security reform facility far removed from Her Majesty’s Prison Chelmsford where they had done their hard time. Barry and Murray were determined to get out of prison in minimum time and volunteered for almost every elective extra-curricular activity in order to gain good behaviour credits.

When Murray had suggested they join the Amateur Dramatic Society, Barry had never dreamed that he would have to wear a dress. He was cast as an interfering old woman in the current production, whereas the lithe, handsome Murray was cast as an attractive femme fatale. Whereas Barry hated dressing as a woman, Murray found dressing enfemme delightful, sensual and exciting.

Murray had always had a penchant for women who wore sexy lingerie, stockings, sheer pantyhose and high heels. He liked his women to wear lots of makeup and coiffure their hair and every now and then he liked to slip into a pair of their panties and pantyhose. But the sheer delight that he felt when he fully dressed as a woman for the first time astounded him. He didn't just look like a woman, he felt like one.

Although not really required for the role Murray shaved away the sparse amount of hair from his body and legs. He shaped his eyebrows and grew his fingernails long. He practiced walking in high heels with feminine grace and became proficient at doing his own makeup. He even allowed the hairdresser to style his long wavy locks into a ladylike do with a fringe. He slicked it back when not dressed as a woman so as not appear too feminine.

Barry Pinkerton was savvy when it came to armed robbery but was a poor judge of character. He joked that Murray liked to dress like a woman but was not astute enough to realise that Murray actually adored dressing like a woman.

But there were others in the prison that did notice.

The producer of the play, doing minimum time for fraud and also the wardrobe and makeup supervisor, both gay men, noticed; and so did Robert Brinkley, a standover man and fixer, coming to the end of a two-year sentence.

“You look gorgeous today Mary,” Dale Grant, the wardrobe supervisor commented, stroking Mary's shoulder.

Dale had started to refer to Murray in his female character's name constantly and Murray had to admit that he liked it. It was Dale who had taught Mary how to make a gaff so that there was no unsightly bulge in her panties and to retract her testes into her inguinal canals and tuck her rather large penis, wrapped in her scrotum, under her perineum and tape it with cosmetic tape.

Dale had done some drag shows in his twenties, and although to him dressing enfemme was not sexually stimulating like it was for Mary, he was very adept at it and taught Mary everything he knew.

Robert Brinkley was only an extra in the play but he hung around the production far more than he needed to, lusting after Mary. Mary was too naive and enamoured with the thrill of dressing enfemme to notice.

“I think you have a suitor,” Dale chuckled, lightly patting Mary on the shoulder and pointing at Robert with his chin.

Mary paled. She loved feeling feminine whilst dressed like a woman and of course she enjoyed the sexual thrill of it but having sexual relations with a man? She hadn't really thought of it up until then. Whilst the thought of it didn't repel her, she didn't think she could. Although Mary was a femme fatale in the play, the play had been written so that there was no intimate physical contact, the prison authorities insisted.

Robert Brinkley had no respect for prison authorities or their rules. He leered at Mary, who was sitting on a bar stool on the set, her skirt high on her thighs displaying her long shapely legs sheathed in shimmering sheer hose, he admired her pretty face, red lipsticked lips, vivid green eyes enhanced with eyeliner and mascara. He was besotted.

Mary was walking back to the small office that was being used as a dressing room behind the improvised stage when Robert pulled her into the cleaner’s closet.

Mary feigned resistance at first but the truth was that Dale’s comments about Robert fancying her had planted the seed; piqued her interest so to speak. When Robert put his mouth on hers inside the dark, cramped and smelly storeroom she immediately realised then and there that this was what she secretly wanted.

It would be nice to portray a scene of romantic lovemaking for Mary’s first sexual encounter but it was far from it. Robert slid his tongue inside Mary’s mouth and she moaned and writhed in his grasp. She felt Robert’s swollen penis pressing against her and she fumbled with his flies and freed it. It was hot and throbbing in her soft hands and she felt little globules of pre-seminal fluid forming at the eye. She used the slippery secretions to lubricate Robert’s cock whilst she squeezed and stroked it.

Rather than being repulsed, she felt empowered. Robert mewed muffled groans in her mouth as she teased him, softly caressing his penis and then alternately stroking it hard and fast. He pushed on her shoulders and she guessed what he wanted, she had seen plenty of men fellating each other in the prison, they didn’t consider it to be homosexual behaviour, just a form of release. She was ready to taste her first penis but there was no way she was kneeling on the filthy floor of the cleaner’s closet so she bent over and tentatively lapped at the pulsing appendage that Robert was thrusting at her face. It banged on her cheek and then her chin until she eventually guided it into her red-lipsticked lips.

Robert wanted to turn on the light so he could watch the pretty transvestite suck his cock but it might draw unwanted attention to the closet, so he just watched her head bob up and down in the gloom and felt her tongue lapping at his glans while she used her lips on his shaft.

If masturbating Robert had made Mary feel powerful, fellating him made her feel omnipotent. She found that she actually liked sucking and slavering at his appendage, swallowing the precum while she held onto his thighs so as not to fall over in her high heels. She felt herself becoming uncomfortably erect and she reached into her satin panties and released her hardening cock, which when freed, tented her silky knickers.

Mary was wondering what Robert’s semen was going to taste like when he ejaculated, which she didn’t think would be too long by the way he was thrusting his cock into her mouth and sighing with pleasure.

She was caught totally unaware when he pulled his penis from her mouth, spun her around, eased the gusset of her panties aside and began to probe her buttocks with his cock.

“No! No! I’m not ready for that!” she lamented.

The wind was knocked out of her when his erect penis pierced her sphincter. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

“Take it out! It hurts, you fucker!” Mary hissed.

But Robert was not to be denied. He held Mary down while he rummaged around on the shelf and found a jar of Swarfega hand cream. He lubricated his shaft and nestled his cock back in Mary’s sphincter. She whined and wriggled trying to get free but her small frame was no match for Robert’s brute strength. But he took his time and slid his cock slowly into her, letting her get used to it as he eased it into her millimetre by millimetre.

Mary was surprised that the rather large fleshy protuberance that Robert was sliding into her didn’t really hurt now that it was lubricated and she had time for her tight anus to relax and accept the girth. There was a delightful tingling emanating from the nerves in her sphincter and a pleasant tightness around the walls of her anus. But the pure delight that radiated from her prostate gland when the head of Robert’s penis pressed against it was indescribably wonderful.

Mary rested one foot on the edge of the low-set, wall-mounted sink so that Robert had better access to her bottom. When he was all the way inside her and she felt his groin on her buttocks she sighed and wriggled her creamy globes to indicate that she was ready to be fucked.

It was short but sweet. A few long slow thrusts was all it took, Robert couldn’t repress his orgasm and when Mary felt his cock convulse and fill her anus with hot seed she ejaculted into her panties, Robert's glans pressing on her prostate causing her to writhe with pleasure.

The aftermath was rather awkward. Robert found a roll of paper towel and dabbed at her sphincter to absorb the torrent of semen when he withdrew. Then he tore off a few more sheets and stuffed them in Mary’s hand so she could wipe herself while he cleaned himself and zipped up.

Mary thought that she would be awash with self-loathing after her passion dissipated and the awful truth of what had just happened dawned on her. But on the contrary, she felt delightfully content. When Robert helped her down and spun her around and began to kiss her again she not only capitulated, she enthusiastically kissed him back.

Mary had uttered two coherent sentences during the whole encounter and Robert had said nothing. She did not count their cries of passion and grunts of gratification as conversation. He did speak coherently now.

“That was wonderful can we do it again soon?” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes we can. But not in this shithole, I’m going to come out of here smelling like Drano, Swarfega and disinfectant,” she whined, tucking and re-taping herself and adjusting her panties, which were uncomfortably sticky.

“I’ll find somewhere better. Somewhere comfortable and with light, I want to see your pretty face when we make love,” Robert held her close.

“What we just did was not making love,” Mary said petulantly.

“But it was nice though,” she couldn’t see his grin in the dark but she knew it was there.

She kissed him tenderly and then pushed him away.

“Wait a few minutes before you come out. And find somewhere better for next time,” she put a finger to his lips and opened the door a crack.

Seeing that the coast was clear she stepped out into the corridor and continued on her journey to the dressing room. She actually skipped a pace and smiled to herself.

Mary blushed with embarrassment when Dale whispered in her ear as he was helping her clean off her makeup.

“Who’s just been shagged then?” he grinned.

“That smeared lipstick, those bunched up panties, that untucked blouse and that smile on your face all tell the same story,” he smoothed her shoulder.

Mary couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“Ok sweetheart I’m not exactly sure what you got up to, but let me tell you a little about douching. It’s yucky but it’s necessary,” Dale began.

Robert Brinkley was a real villain, a standover man for Larry ‘The Loop’ Connelly. Robert collected outstanding debts for Larry and also didn’t mind a bit of armed robbery.

But Robert was smitten with Mary and he behaved like a besotted schoolboy around her once she had capitulated to his desires. He made the producer of the play an offer he couldn’t refuse and Robert and Mary were able to use the producer’s office, really a small stock room with a desk and chair, for their assignations. Robert obtained a mattress from a spare bunk and it became their love nest. The office could be locked from the inside and as the facility was minimum security with all of the inmates close to their release dates there were very few checks made on them by the guards.

Mary soon became very adept at being a transvestite sex object which was pretty much all she was to Robert whose lust was almost insatiable. She continued to work on her femininity and was at the stage where she could pass as a woman almost undetected by the time she was up for day release.

Being a low-risk prisoner Murray Reynolds was allowed out on day work release as the end of his sentence grew imminent. Barry Pinkerton had given Murray a few errands to attend to. Barry had no intention of going straight when he got out and he naturally assumed that neither did Murray. Connections had to made, jobs planned and more importantly, Murray had to check that the unrecovered gains from the crimes that they had gotten away with were still safe and sound.

Murray would have loved to spend some time outside the prison dressed as Mary and to go out in public as her, but it was too risky. He had a legitimate job that he had to do and his employer had strict regulations to abide by, which were supposed to ensure that Murray abided by the terms of his day release. Murray did have to clock on and off and spend most of his time working in the factory but his employer had been well bribed and allowed Murray to skive off to attend to Barry Pinkerton’s errands.

But Murray was also attending to his own errands. He didn’t want to be Murray any longer; he wanted to live as Mary full-time. Murray had done some research and self-diagnosed himself with gender dysphoria. He knew that there were varying degrees of dysphoria. Murray had an overwhelming desire to dress and be treated as a woman but was contented to be transsexual woman; at this stage he had no desire to undergo full sex reassignment surgery, in fact the thought repelled him.

He’d always had a strong desire to crossdress and had done so on many occasions in his life but he had never been fully transformed like he had been for the play, and when he presented himself as a woman it just felt right. Then there was the sex. Mary loved being the sexual plaything for Robert Brinkley but it also gave her a feeling of empowerment. Knowing that she could make a man desire her to the extent that he spent most of waking day thinking of her was very powerful. She had started out the submissive in their relationship but she had slowly changed roles and had become the instigator and predominant during sex. She topped from the bottom, as they say.

When Murray looked at himself in the mirror he didn’t see himself looking back. He saw a stranger. He wanted to see Mary’s reflection looking back at him, not Murray’s.

So Murray took steps and made arrangements so that he could live his life as a woman when he was finally released, drastic steps.

Now...

Beatrice dropped her keys on the hall table and struggled into the kitchen with the two bags of groceries she was carrying, putting them down on the kitchen bench.

She heard footsteps skittering on the wooden floors above her, the creak of a door opening and closing, and the padding of feet down the hallway. The creaking she heard was the door to her bedroom and Beatrice smiled to herself.

“You little bugger!” she whispered to herself.

Aunt Beatrice, as Steven Balfour knew, was no fool. She might be in her forties but she was savvy. She knew that her nephew was obsessed with sex, what nineteen-year-old lad wasn’t? She also strongly suspected that Steven was a virgin. He seldom went out and appeared to have no friends at all, male or female. At first she put this down to him having moved in with her just three months ago when her sister ran away with a married man leaving her son with nothing, but still expecting him to finish college or to get a job.

Beatrice had taken the boy in because she lived alone, had plenty of room, plenty of money, and to be honest, she felt sorry for him.

Steven was an introverted loner, a very handsome lad but content with his own company. He studied hard and helped out around the house, in fact he seemed reluctant to leave the house and sometimes got under her feet.

Then she began to notice things. Little things. Naughty things.

The silvery stains she sometimes found on her stockings that she had hung over the shower curtain-rail to dry. The musty wet patches in her satin and nylon knickers when she took them from the laundry basket to wash them. The stash of porn magazines under his mattress, all featuring mature women dressed in retro lingerie. She thought this odd as there was plenty of free pornography available on the internet, and one day while he was at school she checked the PC in his room.

Steven had not cleared his browsing history and Beatrice soon found that her nephew had quite the penchant for videos of attractive mature women dressed in lingerie or being fucked in their underwear. He liked to visit ‘mother and son’ sites, ‘mature women and teen’ pages and similar websites.

Further investigation revealed the plastic bag filled with panties, stockings, pantyhose and even a satin half-slip. All appeared to be stained with her nephew’s semen; some were disgustingly crusty. She recognised some of the hosiery that she had thrown out, even a pair of her own discarded knickers. She guessed the remainder of the lingerie had likely been pilfered from laundry baskets or snowdropped.

Beatrice knew that young men often developed fetishes, which continued on into adulthood: high heels, latex and rubber, leather and so on. Steven obviously had a fetish for hosiery, panties and lingerie, and a penchant for mature women.

“Interesting,” she had smiled to herself as she had logged off her nephew’s computer all those weeks ago.

She heard the door to Steven’s bedroom close and then lock as she made her way upstairs. She was careful not to snag her Christian Louboutin high heels on the stairway runner. Beatrice may have been approaching middle age but she still took care of herself and always dressed immaculately even if just going shopping on the high street.

She was wearing full makeup with dark eyes and bright-red lipstick; her brunette hair was coiffed in ringlets around her attractive face. Beatrice was dressed in a tight-fitting satin blouse that emphasised her large breasts, she had a little potbelly, not much, and it actually rounded out her figure. Her best feature, her long toned legs and tight buttocks, were sheathed in black lycra leggings. Underneath she wore flesh-toned sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose with no panties underneath. The pantyhose made it easier to slip in and out of her leggings, kept her legs a little warmer, and served the purpose of underwear. She eschewed panties when wearing leggings or tights because they created a visible panty line and spoiled the effect.

Beatrice found the door to her bedroom closed. She had left it ajar when she went out to run her errands. She entered the room and closed the door behind her, sliding the lock into place.

She instinctively knew that Steven had been in her room again, the faint musky odour of semen assailed her nostrils. She felt herself becoming a little wet. Beatrice strode over to her ensuite bathroom and inspected it closely. The stockings she had worn the day before were still hanging over the shower-rail and appeared untouched likewise the garments in her laundry bin.

When she came out of the bedroom she noticed a smear marring the sheen of the polished wooden floor by the window. She might not have noticed it but it was accentuated by the waning afternoon light. She walked over and studied it.

Whatever had caused the smudge had been hastily cleaned up and was quickly drying. Then she spied a small gobbet of glutinous white fluid. She smiled and bent down and scooped it up with her fingertip; she tentatively sniffed it and then bought it to her mouth and licked it off her finger.

Now she was definitely wet.

It was semen, fresh semen, her nephew’s semen, Steven’s semen.

She imagined him in her bedroom masturbating with her stockings or pantyhose, sniffing her knickers. She rubbed at her pubis as she imagined herself lying on the bed as he masturbated before her. She reached out and took his turgid manhood into her fingers; the nails painted bright red. Steven groaned as she squeezed him.

Beatrice pushed the fabric of her leggings and pantyhose into her quim and felt the heat of her sex as she rubbed at it.

Steven was shivering with lust as she began to stroke him.

“Fuck!” Beatrice gasped, frustrated as she tried to work on her vulva through the layers of lycra and nylon.

She put her hand inside her leggings but the waistband bit into her wrist.

“Fuck! Fuck!” her fantasy was melting away.

She yanked her leggings down her thighs bunching them at the top of her knees. Her legs buckled as she pushed two fingers into her cunt, parting her labia and thrumming her clitoris in its little hood. She had to hold onto the bedside table as waves of pleasure radiated from her sex. She poked two fingers into her vagina and caressed her clitoris with her thumb; the reek of her vaginal juices assailed her nose.

She tottered on her heels and collapsed to her knees when she orgasmed, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream.

In her fantasy Steven was ejaculating. Streams of scalding semen splashing on her legs, her belly and then her face.

“Oh my god!” she hissed through gritted teeth.

Beatrice pulled herself up onto the bed as her orgasm began to subside. She was breathing erratically and the scent of vaginal secretions had mingled with the vestige of Steven’s spend. The reek of it was nearly enough to make her want to start pleasuring herself all over again but she knew that she shouldn’t.

She glanced out the window.

Her peculiar neighbour, Miz Abigail Thompson, was staring up at her.

Then...

Mary was waiting for Robert Brinkley in the small office. She was lying on the mattress dressed only in her knickers, bra, suspender belt and panties, all red satin with black lace trim. Clipped to the suspenders were black, fifteen-denier, fully-fashioned stockings and her feet were shod in black high-heels. The only other garment she wore was a black see-through lace negligee. Her makeup and hair were perfect and her costume jewellery glimmered in the dim light of the single desk lamp.

Her costume for the play was neatly folded on a shelf. The prop department did not supply the lingerie she was wearing, Robert had bribed a guard to bring him in sexy lingerie and hosiery in Mary’s size.

When Robert came through the door he was hot for her as usual and she was hot for him. Mary knew that Robert had become infatuated with her. But Robert had no time for Murray Reynolds and went out of his way to avoid him but when Murray was transformed into Mary, Robert hardly let her out of his sight. She liked the power that she held over him, she also liked the sex because it was illicit and exciting and it made her feel feminine.

Robert shucked off his clothes, Mary opened her arms and Robert fell into them, lying on top of her, rubbing his cock against hers swathed in luxurious satin, kissing her passionately. She opened her mouth so he could put some tongue to her and felt herself becoming erect; she was not tucked or gaffed. She reached between their bodies and found him hard and ready and she squeezed him when she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

She knew that she could make him come just like that, but they had only a little time and she had no intention of wasting a perfectly good erection.

Mary pushed him off her and he whined; but only a little because he knew what she was going to do when they exchanged places and she straddled him, leaning down to kiss him.

She had douched and was pre-lubricated in anticipation of the afternoon’s circumstance. Robert probed at her panty-clad buttocks impatiently with his cock and Mary impetuously reached behind herself and guided him inside her panty crotch and nestled his glans in her sphincter. She held him down on the mattress to stop him thrusting and slowly impaled herself on his rampant organ until it was buried to the hilt inside her.

They hadn’t had sex for two days because the production did not rehearse over the weekend so Robert was impatient. Mary remained sitting on him, pressing down on his groin so that he was unable to thrust. She pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shh. Be patient lover. Let me do the work,” she smiled down at him.

Mary leaned forward and kissed him and began to slowly raise and lower her buttocks. She was really just pleasuring herself but Robert also reaped the benefits as she lifted herself up until just the glans of his penis was enveloped in the tight ring of her sphincter, which invoked a glorious tingling sensation. Then she lowered herself so that Robert’s cock was brutally buried all the way inside her, the shaft caressed by her firm anal walls and the bulbous head pressing on her prostate.

Neither was going to last long, which was just as well as Mary had very little time before she was required to be at rehearsals and he for work.

Robert held onto Mary by the hips and let her do all the work, building the tempo, squeezing his phallus with her anus. They were both panting and groaning and approaching release. Mary fell forward and kissed Robert passionately as he gripped her tight at the waist and spent himself inside her. Mary shuddered and ejaculated between their pressed bellies. The musky odour of semen wafted to their noses and they both smiled and kissed each other tenderly now that their lust was sated.

Mary allowed Robert a little post-coital after-play but her mind was already on the scene she would rehearse today. Robert whispered endearments into her ear and kissed and stroked her lovingly.

During their extended lovemaking sessions Robert had started to talk to Mary like she was his girlfriend, telling her his life story and how he had come to be imprisoned. She feigned interest but her ears picked up when he started talking about his boss, Larry ‘The Loop’ Connelly, and the small fortune that Larry had stored in a lockup under a railway overpass.

When Robert Brinkley wasn’t collecting debts or bonking heads for Larry Connelly, he was responsible for Larry’s security and the security of his property. Like most men smitten with a woman, Robert liked to brag. He told Mary about the cash and loot that Larry kept hidden away. Larry’s residence and office were continually raided and his books forensically audited by London’s finest, looking for any evidence they could find to put Larry away. For that reason Larry kept large amounts cash, stolen luxury vehicles and jewellery at various secret locations until he could truck the ill-gotten gains into Europe and dispose of it, washing the proceeds through his prestige used car lots.

The shipment was consolidated in the lockup under the railway overpass overnight before being loaded into a lorry that drove the loot into France through the Channel tunnel.

Whilst out on work release Murray scouted out the lockup and sure enough it appeared that Robert Brinkley was telling the truth. Murray also checked on Barry Pinkerton’s stash of ready cash too, it was held in a safe deposit box in a London bank. Both Barry and Murray had keys to the box.

“I’m worried about you Murray,” Barry Pinkerton said to him one day in the yard.

“I’ve seen you dressed as a woman and you seem to like it too much, you’re too convincing for it just to be a part in a play. There’s rumours going around about you too,” Barry drew on his cigarette.

“You're not turning into some sort of deviate noncer are you?” Barry said through gritted teeth.

“Far from it Barry; I’m using it to our advantage. You know that tosser Robert Brinkley?” Murray drew on his cigarette.

“Works for Larry the Loop. He’s coming up for work release the same time as me,” Barry’s replied, his interest piqued.

“I’m stringing him along. Milking him for information,” Murray went on.

“You're not milking him of anything else are you?” Barry chuckled bitterly.

“Barry. He’s told me where Larry’s lockup is, where he keeps his stash before he transships it into Europe. I’ve checked it out and it’s legit,” Murray whispered coarsely.

“Fuck me Murray, you have been a naughty boy while you’ve been outside,” Barry grinned.

“And I have a plan. It’s a little distasteful on my part but for you and the boys it’s just a simple blag. We take one of Larry’s big shipments. The fucking lot; the cash, the motors, the bling… whatever he’s got in that fucking lockup,” Murray grinned.

“And you're going to find out about the shipment from Robert Brinkley,” Barry chuckled.

“I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to ahem… distract our Bobby while you and the firm rob Larry the Loop of everything in that lockup.”

“And is Robert Brinkley going to grass on us? I don’t think so,” Murray continued.

“What’s he going to say? ‘Sorry Larry I was passing time with a transvestite ladyboy I met in prison while your shipment got nicked?’” Murray chuckled.

“Sounds like you have it all figured Murray. Just one thing. You’re not… you know… doing anything with him are you? You don’t actually like dressing like a girl and sucking cock?” Barry looked down at his boots.

“Course not Barry. It’s a means to an end. That tosser is infatuated with me when I’m dressed up as Mary so I’m stringing him along, using him,” Murray told a half-truth.

“All right then. Let’s sort out the details later,” Barry Pinkerton replied, but he was not really convinced that Murray was only dressing like a woman to organise a blag.

But when Barry thought about it in the cold light of day, what did he care if Murray liked to dress like a woman and take it up the wrong ‘un? There were far worse happenings in the world. Besides, it was a strange world out there now. There were gender benders everywhere and men were marrying men for fuck sake. Barry would stick to teenage girls, which were his preference. He liked ‘em young but legal, preferably dressed as schoolgirls or teenyboppers. ‘We all have our own peccadilloes’ he thought to himself.

Murray started making his own secret arrangements as soon as he was released from prison.

He acquired an extensive ladies wardrobe for himself and transformed into Mary every chance he could, but alone in his little bedsit at first. He desperately wanted to take Mary out on the town and wouldn’t have minded a little ‘rumpy-pumpy’ with a stranger or two at one of the venues he knew catered to transvestites and their admirers, but that could wait. If his plan came off he would be able to live full-time as a woman for as long as he wanted to. If it backfired he would be back in prison or worse.

There were a few errands that Murray could only undertake as his alter ego Mary. Mary was nervous but thrilled to be out and about in public and once she was confident that she could reasonably pass as a woman, she went to work.

Mary stood out the front of a dodgy looking dilapidated building in a back street of Moulsham. The alley was dark and strewn with abandoned shopping trolleys, junk food wrappers, empty beer cans and bottles, cigarette butts, and condom wrappers. The alley was obviously used by the local streetwalkers for their assignations.

Mary knocked on a door caked with fading and peeling blue paint. It was opened by the contact Murray had been given through a reliable source. He was a forger and counterfeiter by the name of John Benstead. John was married to a transsexual senior flight attendant named Candace Pops who worked for Goldwing Airlines. It was rumoured that she also did a little smuggling for a well-known gangster named Tony Carlotta.

John Benstead looked to be in his early sixties. His long blonde hair was thinning and greying but he was still tanned, muscular and handsome. He was wearing his usual attire, tight jeans and tighter T-shirt.

“You must be Mary,” he offered his hand and pulled her inside.

He checked both ways in the alley before he closed the door firmly behind him.

“I could move to better digs, it’s not like Candi and I can’t afford it but having my workshop in this dingy alley is a great cover that keeps the coppers away,” he smiled.

He might be operating out of the dodgiest area of Chelmsford but he had obviously spent a lot of money looking after himself and by the look of that tan, a lot of time in Spain or the Caribbean.

Mary looked around the warehouse. Inside it looked nothing like the outside. It was clinically spotless and all of the equipment was brand new.

“So what can I do for you Mary?” John took her coat and hung it on a mahogany coat rack.

Mary sat down on an expensive leather couch, folding her skirt under her and crossing her ankles.

“I know you work for Tony Carlotta but I know you also do freelance work,” Mary came straight to the point.

“I know that you have past experience providing false identity documents to men who wish to present as women, your good lady wife being a case in point before she went legit. I need a passport, a driver’s licence and some other documents that will identify me as a Miz Abigail Thompson.”

“I also need your absolute trust that you will keep my new identity secret. I will pay you in cash and once I have the documents you will never see me again,” Mary shifted a little nervously in the seat.

She reached into her handbag and took out Murray Reynolds’ passport.

John thumbed his way through the document.

“You wouldn’t believe this but you are the third trans woman I have helped switch identities. As you know it’s how I met my wife Candi,” John grinned.

“Also another woman named Valerie Swindon who I doubt you have ever met,” his smile widened.

“I only know of your wife and that’s only because we have similar business associates shall we say,” Mary smiled at him.

“Technology has come a long way since those days, both the security embedded in the documents and the technology I use to replicate it. I have to use an embedded microchip with your biometric data and the passport has to be for all intents and purposes a legal document,” John continued.

“Ok John. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. How much for the documents and your complete silence?” Mary gave him her best smile and allowed her skirt to ride up a little.

“Ten thousand pounds luv. And pull down your skirt, I love shagging trannies but there is no way I’m putting my relationship with Candi in jeopardy,” John’s smile disappeared.

“Done,” Mary rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a wad of cash and dropped it on the table.

“Use the same data as on my original documents except for my name and sex of course. The address on the driver’s licence won’t matter because I’m moving soon so I’ll update the address after I move,” Mary said.

“Why Abigail Thompson?” John asked.

“Why not? It’s a totally random name that came to me on my way here. No will ever connect it to my real name,” Mary made to get up off the couch.

John helped her up and then pulled her into his arms.

“You are very passable and absolutely stunning. If I was half my age and wasn’t married to Candi I’d be up you like a rat up a drain pipe,” he grinned.

“What makes you think I’d let you?” Mary grinned back at him.

“You're gagging for it luv,” John let go of her.

He took several photos of her wearing a black wig with his digital photography equipment and told her to collect the documents the following week, which she did.

Murray had taken twenty-five grand from Barry Pinkerton’s safe deposit box to help pay for his new identity documents. Dressed enfemme and using her new identity Mary opened bank accounts in the name of Abigail Thompson and then went searching for a place to live.

By the time Barry Pinkerton and Robert Brinkley were granted work release Murray Reynolds was ready to spend his last few days as a man before both Murray and Mary Reynolds disappeared off the face of the earth and Abigail Thompson emerged in the small neat little town of Brookhaven in Cornwall.

To be continued