Springtime is for Lovers
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Springtime For Summers free porn video
Springtime for Summers
(c) 2002 by Nom de Plume
Anne Summers had always thought that Christmas would be the
worst time.
The death of her husband Patrick the preceding September
had been such a devastating shock, she had barely gone
through the motions that first December, in an effort to
create a semblance of joy for her three year old daughter
Lindy. In her fragile state, she had succumbed to the
smooth advances of her investment advisor, Andrew Nash, a
few weeks before Christmas, and for a time she even thought
she might be falling in love again.
Too soon, of course, and as it turned out, with the wrong
person. After the sensational murder of Nash by another
woman in his apartment, her grief had quickly turned to
rage, and she doubted if she would ever be able to love a
man again.
Now, two days before the anniversary of her marriage to
Patrick, she had plunged into the depths of depression, as
if the arrival of spring had never come. If it weren't for
Lindy, she might even have taken her own life, had she been
able to find the courage to do so. After seeing her
daughter off to school that morning, she sat listlessly in
her robe and slippers, oblivious to the warm sunlight
streaming through the high windows in her study.
Patrick had provided well for them, the insurance money
enabling Anne to pay cash for a small but smart townhouse
on Chicago's Gold Coast. The murder of Arnold Nash had been
fortuitous, as he was about to invest Patrick's entire
estate in highly speculative tech stocks. As Anne logged
onto her computer that morning, a quick scan of her
portfolio confirmed that she and Lindy were comfortably
secure.
Her screen chirped at her. "You have an instant message
from patricksummers. Would you like to accept?"
Anne's heart jumped to her throat. That was her husband's
old address. What kind of a cruel prank was this?
Warily, she typed, "Who is this?"
"Do you believe in the migration of souls?"
Anne felt paralyzed; wanting to believe it could be him,
knowing that it must be a hoax. She was about to log off
when her computer chirped again. "Don't go, Anne. Let me
prove who I am."
Still she sat glued to her screen, unable to lift her
fingers to terminate this insane conversation. Then another
message flashed across her screen. "Do you remember what
you told me the night before I married you?"
Oh God, who was this? There was nobody on earth who knew
that. Another message: "You told me something about
yourself, Anne, which required such courage. You thought
you had to tell me, and that it might turn me away, but it
just made me love you more."
She felt tears began to stream down her cheeks as she
lifted her hands, hesitated for a moment, and then typed,
"Patrick."
"Not any more, Anne."
"Who are you?"
"I have to meet you to explain."
***
Patricia Summers got up from her computer and gathered her
purse and shoulder bag. It was a beautiful spring day, and
she decided against carrying a raincoat. She was not due at
work for another forty-five minutes, and if she kept up a
steady pace, she would be able to walk the distance without
difficulty.
She had a spring in her step as she turned onto Michigan
Avenue and headed south, past the magnificent storefronts
and the planters of bright spring flowers. She was wearing
a blue cotton shirtdress, which flowed around her calves,
and white sox and sneakers over her pale hose. The uniform
of the working Chicago woman.
Pat needed the walk to think about her next move. For three
months following the murder of Arnold Nash, she had kept a
low profile, concentrating on mastering her new job as a
sales associate in the men's department at Marshall Fields
flagship downtown store. With one promotion already under
her belt, she had saved up enough money to lease a Honda
Civic, although she had not yet signed the papers.
She knew somehow that she was at a crossroads. She could
continue to make a little life for herself, secure in her
loneliness, or she could risk it all and try to reclaim
what was rightfully hers. The more she thought about it,
the more she realized that she really had no choice.
***
Anne paced around her townhouse, walking upstairs to her
bedroom, where she picked up a photo album from her
newlywed days, and then back downstairs to her study. As
she turned the pages of the album, she tried to tell
herself that it was impossible. And yet, as she looked at
Pat's smiling face in picture after picture, she felt sure
somehow that he was alive, and that she had connected with
him a few moments ago.
She closed the album and put it down on her desk. Tucked
into the corner of her blotter was a scrap of paper with
the name and phone number of Detective Frank Sturgess of
the New York Police Department. She hesitated, and then
picked it up and studied it. Finally, she reached for the
phone and dialed his number.
"Homicide, Sturgess."
"Detective Sturgess, this is Anne Summers. In Chicago."
"Mrs. Summers, how are you?"
"Fine. Do you remember talking to me a few months ago?"
"February it was, yes, I remember."
"You asked me to call you if anyone contacted me on behalf
of my husband."
"That's right. Have you been contacted?"
"Not exactly. Look, Detective, I need to ask you something.
You told me that a man named Pat was abducted in New York
last September. And that he might be using a different
identity now."
"That's right."
"Detective, tell me what happened."
"Pardon?"
"To the man. The man who was abducted. What happened to
him?"
She heard a deep sigh. "Mrs. Summers, what I'm about to
tell you is pretty rough. Do you think you can handle it?"
"Detective, I've been through a lot since September. I
think I can take it. Tell me what you know."
***
Pat looked at her watch and quickened her stride. Lost in
thought, she had missed a few lights, and she would have to
step up the pace to make it to Marshall Fields on time.
She brushed past two good-looking men, crossed against a
light, and ignored their catcalls as she left them behind.
It was still hard for her to think of herself as
attractive, although she could tell from the faces of the
man she passed in the street, and encountered in the store,
that she was.
Had she done the right thing, contacting Anne? Most
assuredly not, but she couldn't help herself. As their
anniversary day approached, she found herself unable to
take her mind off of Anne. Maybe it was simply spring
fever, after a brutal Chicago winter, but her sap was on
the rise, and after so many months of pain and isolation,
she desperately needed human contact. With the one person
who knew her best.
Had known her best, she corrected herself. When she was
Patrick Summers, before the mad Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener
had forcibly transformed him into a woman. How could she
even think about presenting herself to Anne now? For
months, she had vowed to let Patrick die a hero's death,
and leave Anne and their daughter to their memories of him.
Why couldn't she leave well enough alone, and let them get
on with their lives?
As her need to see them became stronger, she thought about
transforming herself back into a man. She had even gone so
far as to spirit men's clothing away from Marshall Fields,
and to try them on in her apartment. But it was hopeless.
The surgery and hormones had done their work. Even dressed
in men's clothing, she was unmistakable female.
***
Sturgess chose his words carefully. "On September 11th, a
man named Pat went to the Greenwich Village apartment of a
Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener, after responding to a personal
advertisement which, we believe, involved some kind of role
reversal study. Sometime that evening or the following
morning, Dr. Frankenwiener drugged this man, and subjected
him to medical experiments."
"What kind of experiments" Anne asked him.
"She castrated him, filled him full of female hormones, and
performed what is called sex reassignment surgery. She also
modified his face and his voice."
"Oh my God!"
That's all we know until December, when she was found dead
in her apartment, strangled by a nylon stocking. There was
no trace of the abducted man, whom we suspect was her
killer."
Anne sat in stunned silence. "Mrs. Summers?" he asked her
at length.
"Yes."
"Have you heard from him, or her?"
"No."
"Anyone who claims to have seen, uh, her?"
"No."
A throwaway question: "Did you know a man named Arnold
Nash?"
She gasped in surprise. "What does he have to do with
this?"
"Did you know him?"
"He was my financial advisor."
A long pause. "Mrs. Summers, I'd like to come to Chicago to
meet with you. Tomorrow."
***
Pat went to an Internet caf? during her lunch hour, and
sent the following message to Anne: "Do you remember the
place where we had our first date? Go there tonight at
eight o'clock. Wait for a woman with a red umbrella, and do
as she says. I love you. Pat."
The rest of the day was a blur, although sales records show
that she had a brilliant afternoon. When her shift ended at
six, she caught a taxi on State Street and was back in her
apartment in twenty minutes. For almost an hour, she sifted
through her closet, selecting and rejecting outfit after
outfit. What dress did a girl wear to meet her ex-wife?
Finally, she selected the black cocktail dress she had last
worn the night she murdered Arnold Nash. A quick shower,
and she was dressed and putting on her makeup. She thought
about changing into something simpler, but it was nearly
eight, and she didn't dare be late. She almost forgot her
red umbrella as she ran out of her apartment.
***
Her stomach churning, Anne sat alone at on outside table at
an Italian restaurant on a quiet corner off Rush Street.
She was shaking as she studied the passersby on the
sidewalk, looking in both directions for the person she had
married, and lost, and now might be coming back to her.
What would he be like? It was too fantastic, to horrific,
to imagine, and yet she found herself fascinated by the
prospect.
She missed Pat at first, and did a double-take when a
beautiful woman in a black dress hesitantly approached her
table. If it had not been for the rolled-up red umbrella in
her hand, she would not have recognized her. Anne stared in
astonishment as Pat pulled back the chair across the table
from her, smoothed her skirt behind her, and sat down self-
consciously.
They looked at each other in silence for some time, a sad
expression on Pat's face. Finally she spoke.
"You look wonderful, Anne."
"You look amazing."
"I thought you would be shocked to see me like this."
"I heard about what happened to you."
"You did? When?"
"This afternoon, from the New York Police Department."
Was this a trap? Pat looked around nervously.
"They're coming to see me tomorrow."
"Shit."
"Pat, tell me what happened."
"It doesn't matter now. I guess I should have known I
couldn't run forever. Oh Anne, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry? For what?"
"For letting this happen to me. For what it did to you and
Lindy. How is she?"
"She misses her Daddy."
Pat felt a tear in her eye. "I should never have come
back."
"Don't say that."
"I should have let you think I was dead, let you remember
me the way I was."
"But you couldn't do that, could you?"
"No," Pat said with a sad smile, "I couldn't do that. I
love you too much."
"Oh, Pat, I've missed you every day and every night. You're
not going anywhere. Ever again. I'm taking you home with
me. Right now."
Pat knew it was a mistake, but she was aching for Anne, and
she knew they had very little time. "Aren't you hungry?"
"I'll fix us something. Come on, Pat, walk me home."
***
Lindy was asleep when they got to the townhouse, and Anne
let Pat peek into her room and look at her for a minute.
Then they quietly closed the door and went into the
beautifully furnished living room.
"Nice place. I'll have to fake my death more often," Pat
said as Anne poured them each a glass of merlot. Anne sat
down next to her on the sofa, and each sipped her wine for
a few minutes before Anne spoke again.
"How do you like being a woman?"
"I hated it at first. Now, I'm kind of getting used to it."
"Do you miss being a man?"
"Sure I do. I miss the freedom. Most of all, I miss what I
could do with you."
Anne moved closer to Pat, and put her hand on her knee. Put
took it, and slid it up her thigh. The feeling of Anne's
delicate fingers on her silky leg was electrifying.
Anne put down her glass, and took Pat's face in her hands.
"I'm still your wife. Can you feel anything for me?"
Pat desperately wanted to. "I don't know. I want to try,
but I don't know how."
"I'll show you, silly."
***
Dressed in one of Anne's nightgowns, Pat lay in their old
bed next to Anne, who was snuggled up against her the way
she used to snuggle Patrick. The clock on the nightstand
read four o'clock. In the dim light, Pat could make out the
look of absolute contentment on Anne's beautiful face.
Pat closed her eyes and relished her memories. Anne had
been so tender, so loving, as she explored Pat's new body
with her soft fingers, kissing the new places in a knowing
way. Pat thought she could actually feel her nerve endings
spark as the long-dormant place between her legs came alive
again. She had not reached orgasm, but she had gotten off
the ground, and the thrill of bringing Anne to climax again
and again was even more satisfying.
She felt Anne stirring beside her, and she heard the drawer
on the nightstand slide open. Anne rolled over and rested
her chin on Pat's chest. "Do you remember Mr. Magic?" she
whispered. Her name for the vibrator, which Pat had used to
pleasure her after an occasional premature ejaculation.
Anne switched it on, and lovingly began to play with Pat's
breasts. It was incredibly arousing, and soon her nipples
were hard with desire. Anne lingered there, and then moved
Mr. Magic down towards Pat's bush. She twirled it around
the stump where Pat's penis had been fashioned into a
clitoris, and slowly began to insert the vibrator into
Pat's vagina. The pleasure was so intense, Pat started to
cry out. "Hush, you'll wake Lindy," Anne scolded her as Pat
felt wave after wave of passion sweep over her. When she
came, the spasms were so powerful, and lasted so long, that
Pat cried out again, tears of joy streaming down her face.
***
Pat waited in the bedroom while Anne got Lindy dressed and
saw her off to school. Then Anne returned to the bedroom
with a tray filled with coffee, juice and croissants, and
they both sat Injun-style on the bed in their nightgowns
while they had their breakfast.
"What time is this detective getting here?" Pat asked at
length.
"He said he'd be here around ten o'clock. Oh Pat, I'm so
sorry I called him. What's going to happen to you?"
"Nothing, if we play this right. He's never seen you
before, has he?"
"No. Why?"
"Because I am going to be you this morning. I can't ask you
to lie for me, and I don't think you'd be very good at it
anyway. I've got nothing to lose, so let's go for it."
"How can you be me?" Anne and Pat had similar coloring, and
each had blue eyes, but the resemblance ended there.
"Look at me, Anne. We're the same dress size now, aren't
we? I'll have to tie my hair back, and maybe I can borrow a
pair of your reading glasses if they're not too strong.
It's all a matter of attitude."
They showered together, shampooing each others' hair and
shaving each others' legs, and Anne showed Pat a little
trick with the hand-held shower which almost got her off
again. Then Anne helped Pat tie her hair back with a
scrunchie, and started handing her some lingerie. "What are
you going to wear?"
Pat disappeared into Anne's walk in closet, and emerged
with a navy blue dress that Patrick had always liked. As
she sat on a tuffet and began pulling on her nylons, Anne
said, "You look like you've been doing that all your life."
"I had to learn fast," Pat said lamely.
"Come on, Pat, did you really think I didn't know your
little secret?"
Pat blushed furiously and started to stammer.
"Pat, I knew you tried on some of my clothes sometimes, and
I even found your stash one day. And you really should have
been more careful with your computer. Those cookies are
like neon lights."
Pat hung her head. "And you still loved me?"
"I thought it was kind of cute, and figured that it was
better than having you chasing other women."
"And how about now?"
"Look at you, sitting there in my slip and stockings,
worried about whether I think you're a sissy! Oh Pat, I
love you, maybe even more without that male ego."
***
Detective Sturgess rang the doorbell at precisely ten
o'clock. He presented his identification to the woman who
opened the door, and introduced the man standing next to
him as Sergeant LaScala of the Chicago Police Department.
"I'm Anne Summers," she said to them. "Please come in." She
showed them into her living room and offered them coffee,
which they declined. She left them briefly to pour herself
a mug in the kitchen, then returned and sat down primly in
an oversized club chair, her coffee perched on her knees.
She took a sip, crossed her legs, and looked up at them
expectantly.
"Mrs. Summers, thank you for seeing us. Sergeant LaScala is
investigating the murder of Arnold Nash, but first I have a
few questions about your husband."
She said nothing.
"Mrs. Summers, if I may ask, why did you call me
yesterday?"
"I don't understand."
"I mean, what prompted you to call me, after so many
months. Did anyone try to contact you on behalf of your
husband?"
"No, as I told you yesterday. I don't know why I called you
really, except that tomorrow would have been our wedding
anniversary, and I suppose I was just reaching out for
anyone who might have any information about him. I'm sorry
if I troubled you."
"No trouble at all, Mrs. Summers," Sturgess responded
gently, while LaScala stared at her with a stony face. He
was fat, with a bad comb-over, and he looked decidedly
unpleasant.
"How long did you know Arnold Nash," LaScala asked her.
"We met in September, shortly after my husband's death. He
was recommended by one of my friends as someone who could
help us handle Patrick's estate. Invest it, I mean."
"And did you see him socially?"
"Yes, he asked me out a few times, and I finally began
seeing him in December."
"Did you become intimate?"
She shot him an angry glance, and then responded, "Yes,
Sergeant, eventually we did."
"And were you seeing him at the time of his death?"
"Yes, I was. I was expecting him here for dinner that
night. In fact, I called him that evening to ask where he
was, and he told me something had come up, and he couldn't
make it."
"Was that the last time you heard from him?"
"Yes, the next thing I knew was when his murder was
reported on the morning news." A little tear showed in her
eye. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but it's been a very difficult
year for me..."
LaScala was unmoved. "Have you ever met Patricia Exman?"
"The woman he was with? No, I had no idea he was even
seeing her." She blinked back a tear and looked down into
her coffee. "I had no idea he was seeing anybody else."
"Do you have any knowledge of her whereabouts today?"
She looked up, puzzled, and said, "No, Sergeant, I already
told you. I've never even met the woman."
Sturgess broke in. "Mrs. Summers, let me take you back over
something. Do you know a woman named Patricia Summers?"
She looked completely lost. "Patricia Summers? I knew all
of Pat's relatives, and so far as I know, there were no
Patricias."
"Did you know that your husband was a transvestite?"
She looked shocked. "What are you saying?"
"Mrs. Summers, the man who we believe murdered Dr.
Frankenwiener was responding to a personal advertisement
which she placed in a gay newspaper. She categorized him as
a crossdresser before she operated on him. This is a
picture of Dr. Frankenwiener. Have you ever seen her?"
Sturgess handed her a crime scene photo of a woman with
bulging eyes and a hideously distorted face. Raw red marks
were distinctly visible on her neck. After looking at the
photo, she handed it back to him with a frown. "Why are you
showing this to me?"
Sturgess had watched her carefully as she studied the
photo. "Because we believe, Mrs. Summers, that the man who
did this to her was your husband."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because shortly after Dr. Frankenwiener was murdered, a
woman named Patricia Summers turned up in Chicago. She
moved into a single room occupancy hotel, and took a job as
a waitress at a restaurant in Lincoln Park. I ask you
again, have you been contacted by anyone on behalf of your
husband?"
"No," she shouted, shaking with anger. "I still don't
believe it was him. But if it was, that means he's here in
Chicago, and he hasn't even told me he's alive. Oh God, it
can't be true." She broke down into hysterical sobs, and
Sturgess was visibly shaken.
"Mrs. Summers, we don't think he's still in Chicago. A few
days before Arnold Nash was murdered, this Patricia Summers
moved out of her hotel without leaving a forwarding
address, and the day of the murder, she quit her job as a
waitress. You haven't heard from her, and neither has
anyone else. I'm sorry, but we had to ask you these
questions."
She continued sobbing softly, looking up at both of them
with red eyes. "Do you really think he's alive?"
"We don't know, Mrs. Summers. We have two unsolved murders,
and a missing person on our hands. If you do hear from him,
or her, you must contact us. Sergeant LaScala will let you
know if there are any further developments."
She got up and started towards the door. They followed her,
and when she opened it, she showed them out without a word.
After she closed the door, she walked back into the living
room and collapsed onto the sofa.
Anne peered down cautiously from the upstairs landing. "Are
they gone?"
"They're gone," Pat said, kicking off her heels. "Your
shoes are too tight."
Anne sat down next to Pat and started to rub her toes
through her nylons. "We'll get you some new ones. I heard
all of that. What a performance!"
"I've had lots of practice."
"I don't understand one thing. They said Patricia Summers
disappeared in February."
"I figured the New York police might be looking for me, so
while I was working as a waitress, some of the other girls
showed me how to get false identity papers. They're mostly
Mexican, you know, and it's pretty easy. So when I rented
my apartment and started my job at Marshall Fields, I used
my new name."
She shook her head. "Who is this mystery woman?"
"Cassandra Straight. You can call me Cass."
Anne gave her a cross-eyed look. "Cass Straight. Yuck!
You'll always be Pat to me."
Just then the doorbell rang. "Oh no, it must Lindy, getting
dropped off from school. Pat, what do we tell her?"
"Let her in, please, Anne."
Anne opened the door, and their daughter skipped into the
townhouse. She stopped short when she saw Pat, and stared
at her for a moment. Then she cried out, "Daddy!" and ran
towards her.
Pat kneeled down and took Lindy into her arms, smothering
her with hugs and kisses. Finally Lindy pulled back and
studied her intently. "You look pretty, Daddy. Can we play
dress up every day?"
Lianne
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