On The Run free porn video

On the Run (c) 2003 by Nom de Plume "Your first mistake was stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from me. Your second mistake was thinking you could get away with it." As I stood trembling before his desk, Mr. Atwater regarded me as if I were a bug on the windshield of his Lexus. "Do you have anything to say for yourself before I call the police?" Without thinking, I turned and bolted out of his office, past rows of startled secretaries and accountants, straight down the hall and through the door to the fire stairs. I took them three at a time, forty-two stories in all, and when I emerged through an emergency exit into the narrow alley behind our building, I was heaving with exertion. I forced myself to walk at a normal pace as I melted into the crowd of pedestrians on LaSalle Street, and I was able to flag down a cab as the sirens of approaching police cars pierced the autumn air. Returning to my apartment was out of the question. "Midway Airport," I told the driver, not really knowing where I intended to go. Just far away, fast. Thank God I'd stashed the embezzled money in a bank account opened the week before with an assumed name and phony identification. As a woman, of all things. It was just dumb luck that my girlfriend had persuaded me to dress up in her clothes for Halloween. She really got into it, and by the time she dragged me to a party thrown by some of her friends, I was actually passable. I kept her clothes until the next day, and that morning, I opened a bank account with a bogus Arizona driver's license that I scored over the Internet. As Victoria Ross, I worth over half a million dollars, if I could stay ahead of the law long enough to get my hands on it. Arizona...why not? I could start a new life there, far away from the Chicago winter. All I had to do was present myself at a local bank, transfer the loot, and keep a low profile. As my cab pulled up to the curb at Midway, I checked my wallet to make sure Victoria Ross's Arizona license and ATM card were safely tucked in an inside pocket. I paid the cabby and sprinted to the Southwest Airlines ticket counter. * * * MANHUNT HEATS UP FOR EMBEZZLER CHICAGO: The Federal Bureau of Investigation has intensified its search for Derek Buxton, the Chicago accountant who allegedly absconded from Eon Company with almost $600,000 last week. Buxton, 22, was last seen fleeing the office of Eon Chief Executive Officer Ronald Atwater after his elaborate scheme to pilfer funds from the mammoth insurance company's overnight deposit accounts was uncovered. He is described as 5'8" tall, with blue eyes, long brown hair and a slim build. A reward of $50,000 has been posted by Eon in return for information leading to his arrest. I returned the day-old issue of the Chicago Tribune to its place in the newspaper rack at Border's and tugged my Diamondbacks baseball cap lower over my face. The photograph which accompanied the article didn't do me justice, but it was close enough to convince me that the time had come to emerge from my cocoon as Victoria Ross. Otherwise, it was only a matter of time before a sharp-eyed policeman or newshound picked me out of a crowd. For the past week, I laid low at a cheap motel on the outskirts of Phoenix, paying in advance in cash and eating as little as possible while I plotted out my next moves. My weight was down almost 10 pounds, and my fingernails had grown out nicely, both necessary precursors to my transition. The previous afternoon was spent scouting out strip malls for the essentials I would need, riding buses only when absolutely necessary. The Arizona sun was a perfect excuse for the dark sunglasses and cap that concealed my features as I walked into my first objective, a large Walgreen's drug store. My total cash reserves were down to $200, so there was no margin for error. When my girlfriend made my over for Halloween, she had dressed me in a bulky sweater, a long skirt and dark opaque tights, which masked my body hair and boyish physique. There was no way I would be getting away with that this time. In a few hours, I would be nose to nose with a bank officer, opening an account in the name of Victoria Ross. I would have to look, and act, like a normal American girl. The alternative was ten to twenty years of being raped by enormous convicts in a federal prison. With that terrifying thought, I moved swiftly through the aisles. I had made a mental checklist during my bus ride, and I tried to remember everything as I started filling my basket. Double-edged razor and extra blades. Emery boards, nail polish remover and quick-dry nail polish. A hair brush and a supply of bobby pins and scrunchies. Shampoo, conditioner, and a good pair of scissors. Moisturizer. Foundation. Compact. What shade should I get? The choices were bewildering. I selected and rejected dozens of products before I threw some in my basket and continued to my next objective. The basket filled quickly. Sponges and brushes. Blusher. Eye shadow. Eye liner. Eyebrow pencil. Scented bubble bath. Women's deodorant. An inexpensive cologne. Lipstick and a few pairs of nylons. I was sure I had forgotten something, but I had already spent a small fortune, and there was an opening at one of the checkout counters. I dumped my haul in front of a startled checkout clerk and watched in utter humiliation through my dark sunglasses as she contorted her face while she rang up my purchases. I must have turned bright red as I peeled $100 out of my wallet and picked up my collection of shopping bags. "Have fun!" she said as I retreated from the store. I caught a bus back to my motel and stuffed my acquisitions into one of the cheap dresser drawers. I had $100 left to put together a complete woman's wardrobe. I could chance a trip to an ATM machine, but I was determined to minimize my risk of exposure until my disguise was in place and I was ready to move the loot. So I headed back out to a nearby Marshall's discount department store and tried to look casual as I wandered through the racks of women's clothing, not knowing what to expect. I was pleasantly surprised. A designer dress for $29. Panties, bra and a half slip for another $20. Clasp earrings and a fake gold necklace for $10. I even bought a matching scarf to accessorize my dress for $3. A black leather purse for $25. This time I had to stand in line at the checkout counter, and I studiously ignored the odd looks from the other customers and the clerk at the register as I paid for my purchases and headed back outside. It was almost noon, and the bright Arizona sun reminded me that I would need a pair of women's sunglasses as I walked through the strip mall to my final destination that morning: a Payless shoe store, where I found a pair of extra wide black skimmer flats for $10. For the last time, I endured the smirks from a cashier, then I was back outside and on my way to my motel room. The housekeepers had come and gone, and I carefully hung up my new dress and piled the rest of my purchases on the bed. Methodically, I began to cut off all of the price tags and remove the cosmetics from their sealed packages. I was reasonably certain about the sizes, having learned enough from my Halloween experience to know that I was a perfect size 16, and that my feet could squeeze into a woman's size 9 if I had tights or stockings on. The lingerie and pantyhose had been educated guesses, but they were less critical. More worrying was how to put on all of the makeup. My girlfriend had made me over while I watched, and I had been around girls long enough to have a rough idea of their techniques, but actually doing it to myself was going to take some trial and error. First things first, though. I picked up the bubble bath, razor and blades and brought them into the small, Spartan bathroom. While the tub slowly filled up, I lowered myself into it and tried to relax as I soaked myself in the swirling hot suds. Up until this point, my plan to access the money had all seemed like a fantastic game. Now, as I prepared myself for what lay ahead, the reality of the situation took hold. If I was to avoid spending the best years of my life in prison, I would have to remake myself completely, from the inside out. The next time I walked outside, I would have to appear, and act, like a completely different person. The next time I used my voice, I would have to talk, and sound, like someone else. The prospect, as I closed my eyes and let the hot water close over my head, was strangely liberating. The truth was, my life had been a series of disappointments, a nonstop succession of rejections and missed opportunities. An only child, my parents had divorced when I was young, and I had never been close to either of them. A loner as a boy, I made no lasting friendships, and my associates at work had either ignored me or been downright offensive. My successes with women were sadly limited, and even the girlfriend who made me over on Halloween had spent most of the evening flirting with another guy, making me feel ridiculous as I sat by myself in her clothing. All that was about to change, whether I liked it or not. Eighteen hundred miles away in Chicago, the FBI was undoubtedly hard at work. They would have gotten nowhere trying to glean information about my whereabouts from my co-workers or neighbors, but by now they must have inventoried the meager possessions in my studio apartment, and gotten their hands on my laptop computer. Without my password, my computer would normally have been impregnable, but it was only a matter of time before their specialists would have access to my files. And in particular, to the record of my acquisition of an Arizona drivers license in the name of Victoria Ross. When they put that together with the last use of my credit card, to purchase a ticket to Phoenix on Southwest Airlines, the trail would get very hot indeed. I loaded a blade into the heavy metal razor and took the plunge. I had never used an old-fashioned razor like this before, but my body was covered with thick, course hair, and I knew that my regular disposable razors would be no match for it. After the first painful nicks, I slowed to a deliberate pace, changing blades occasionally as I methodically worked my way up my calves. It was hard work, and by the time I was done shaving my legs, the water was full of clumps of hair, tinged a light pink from several painful cuts. I had better luck on my chest and arms, and as I worked my way up to my underarms, I was able to maneuver the razor around the awkward curves without further injury. At last I was finished, completely exhausted. Standing up to get out of the tub, I was surprised at how cool the air felt against my freshly denuded skin. While the water struggled to go down the drain, clogged by now with a ball of hair the size of a grapefruit, I returned to the bedroom and retrieved the shampoo and conditioner. I took a long, cool shower, rinsing the last of the hair off my body while I lathered and conditioned my shoulder-length hair. When I was finished, I wrapped a threadbare towel around my head in a turban, and examined myself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. It was amazing. With my body hair gone, all I had to do was tuck my penis between my legs, and I almost looked like a naked girl. A little makeup and padding, and I might just be able to pull this off. I gave my face a close shave, and lined up the cosmetics on the vanity. It took me over an hour to figure out how to put on my makeup. Halfway through, I realized that I had forgotten to purchase makeup remover, which complicated things a bit. More important, it drove home the reality that I was committed to this. My next shopping excursion would be as a woman. I had reached the point of no return. Fortunately, I had remembered to buy nail polish remover, which was a good thing. It seemed to take forever before I had a decent coat on my newly shaped nails. When they were finally presentable, I pulled the turban off my head and blow-dried my hair with the antiquated motel hair dryer. I brushed it until all of the tangles were gone, and then fussed with it for a long time before I had it the way I wanted it, pulled up high in the back with a scrunchie which matched my new blue dress. All the while, as I watched my slow transformation, I was struck by how feminine I was starting to become. My polished fingers seemed more petite as they flitted about their tasks, framing my face with bangs and spit curls. Although I had never been particularly handsome as a man, when I surveyed the finished product in the mirror, there was no denying that I was more attractive as a girl. But appearances were not enough. Could I actually play the part? A glance at the clock on the nightstand brought me back to reality. It was almost three o'clock! How long did the banks stay open? I surveyed the lingerie on the bedspread and took a deep breath. "Okay, Victoria," I said to myself, in as feminine a voice as I could muster. "Time to get dressed." I picked up my panties and stepped into them, pulling them up my now smooth legs. When I went to push my penis back between my legs, I noticed to my surprise that it was starting to stiffen, and it jumped to attention when I touched it. What the hell was going on? Up until that moment, this had all been work, hard work, as I struggled to cope with the everyday chores of being a woman. Without realizing it, I was careening towards a turning point in my life. I pulled my panties up to my waist and let them hold my penis tight against my flat stomach. Momentarily distracted by the challenge of attaching my bra, I struggled desperately to fasten it behind my back, finally twisting it around and hooking the snaps in front. After I turned it back around and tugged the straps over my arms, I filled the cups with wads of tissue. I tore open a package of pantyhose, and started back towards the bathroom to make sure I hadn't overdone the padding in my bra. What I saw in the mirror took my breath away. A beautiful girl, dressed only in her bra and panties, was staring at me, a pair of nylons in her dainty hands. Delicate lashes fluttered over her smoky blue eyes, while her mouth formed a cupid's bow which shot an arrow into my groin. My world was about to change forever. I moved a chair in front of the mirror, and with trembling fingers, I started to pull my stockings up my smooth legs. I had to reach down to straighten the seams against my toes before I began to ease them on, slowly, one leg at a time, being careful not to twist or tear the delicate nylon. The sensation of the silky fabric against my skin was electrifying. After I finally maneuvered them up to my waist, and did a quick knee- bend to draw them tight, I sat back down and stared at the girl in the mirror. My pulse was racing as she leaned forward and caressed her sleek legs with her elegant fingers. The spell was broken by my aching penis, held captive under control top pantyhose and panties. In a daze, I got up and stepped into my half slip, feeling the delicious fabric slide up against my stockings. The lacy hem rested just above the tops of my knees, making my legs look utterly feminine as they shimmered beneath it. My fingers were shaking again when I took my dress off its hanger and dropped it over my head. It was light blue, with little white checks, and it fell to my knees as I smoothed it into place. For some reason, the shoulder pads made my physique look more girlish, while the gathered waist accentuated my artificial bust line. When I reached behind my back to pull up the zipper, my dress rose up over my knees, revealing a froth of lacy slip. At the sight of this, I became intensely aroused, and my penis suddenly exploded. Stunned, I fell back onto the bed, lost in the throes of the most exquisite orgasm of my life. Finally it subsided, and my pleasure was quickly replaced by a profound sense of shame. What was happening to me? This was supposed to be a temporary disguise, not an alternative lifestyle. What was I...some kind of pervert? My God, could I be gay? "Get a grip on yourself," I heard myself saying. Then, in the feminine voice I had practiced earlier, "Come on, let's get going, girl." I staggered into the bathroom, lifted up my dress and slip, and pulled down my panties and hose, which were smeared with gobs of semen. I took a damp washcloth and cleaned myself off, dabbing my lingerie and stockings as I did so. Eventually, I pulled myself back together, and when I returned to the bedroom, I was all business. I stepped into my flats, finding them tight but wearable, and returned to the bathroom to fasten my earrings and necklace. I tied my scarf in a loose knot and positioned it primly on my neck. A spritz of cologne behind each ear, a little fussing with my hair, a fresh coat of lipstick, and I was filling up my purse like I had been doing it all of my life. Tissues, lipstick, compact, key to the motel room, a few dollars in change, my Arizona driver's license, and Victoria Ross's bank account information. I stood in front of the mirror and took a long look at myself. Victoria Ross was an attractive, conservatively dressed young woman, whose features matched the picture on the license which I had created with Adobe Photoshop. In fact, I had morphed a digital photo of myself with a picture of Jennifer Anniston to create the license, but the girl in the mirror now was all me. She slung her purse over her shoulder and practiced walking and moving like a girl, all the while talking to an imaginary bank officer in her newfound voice. "Hi, I'd like to open an account." "Hi, I'd like to open an account." It was now or never. Without allowing myself to think about the consequences of failure, I bolted out of the motel room and started to walk towards the bus stop. My slip made me shorten my strides, and I concentrated on taking short steps and swinging my hips slightly as I tried to adapt to my new persona. Although it was close to ninety degrees, it was a dry heat, and my legs felt comfortable in my stockings as a desert breeze ruffled my dress. I reached into my purse as I waited for the bus and took out the exact change. A bus appeared, I stepped on board, and dropped the coins into the receptacle as the driver said, "Afternoon, Miss." I forced a smile and took a seat near the back of the bus, nervously avoiding the glances from the other passengers. I was reasonably sure that none of them had detected anything unusual in my appearance, and I picked up a discarded newspaper from the floor of the bus and pretended to read it as we headed towards downtown Phoenix. The bank I had selected was in an upscale shopping and residential district close to the Arizona Biltmore. When the bus was a few blocks away, I pulled the cord and stepped off onto the hot sidewalk. I took my time as I got my bearings, trying to pull myself together while I walked slowly towards the bank. It was just before five o'clock when I entered the delightfully cool lobby and made my way to the elderly receptionist. "May I help you, Miss?" "Yes. I'd like to open an account." "Certainly. Please have a seat, it won't be a moment." I sat down in a soft leather chair, deftly tucking my dress beneath myself as I did so. I had rehearsed this in my mind a hundred times, but the strange sensations of wearing women's clothing were totally new to me. As I crossed my legs, I noticed with a twinge of alarm that the sweet feelings of arousal in my panties were starting to return. "Miss?" At first I didn't realize that the receptionist was calling to me. Snap out of it! I stood up and she pointed me towards a young man seated behind a mahogany desk, with a computer monitor and a neat stack of papers in front of him. He stood when I approached, and I grasped his strong hand awkwardly as he introduced himself. "I'm Brian Robbins. I understand you'd like to open an account with us." I sat down in front of his desk and smiled demurely. "That's right." Keep it short and sweet, I reminded myself, less chance of making an error that way. "I'm Victoria Ross." Brian was dressed in khakis, button down shirt and rep tie. His blazer was draped over the back of his chair. He was a little older than I was, and very good looking. "May I call you Victoria?" "Vicky is fine." "Are you new to Arizona, Vicky?" "Uh huh." "Where are you from?" "Chicago." "What kind of account would you like to open with us today?" "Checking and savings, I guess." Brian launched into a detailed explanation of the many fine account options available to me. Although it was after five o'clock, and some of the other bank officers were switching off their computers and clearing off their desks, he seemed totally unconcerned about the time. I screwed up my eyes and pretended to look confused. "You decide for me, okay? I just want to get started with something simple." "Sure, Vicky, we'll put you in our saver's plus and checking choice package. That way, you'll get an unlimited number of free checks if your combined account balance remains above $5,000, and our best available interest rate on your savings. How much were you planning on opening an account with?" "Five hundred thousand dollars," I smiled sweetly. A long pause. Brian looked around for a more senior officer, but the few that remained at their desks were all with other clients. He straightened his tie and played with the stack of papers on his desk. "Something wrong?" I asked him. "No, no...not at all. It's just that...excuse me, Miss Ross, let's get started on your application." I couldn't resist teasing him. "What happened to Vicky?" "Nothing, Miss Vicky...I mean, Miss Ross...I mean Vicky." Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead. "It's just that...I mean...." "Haven't you ever met a rich girl before?" That broke the ice, and he laughed with relief. "No, Vicky. Not as pretty as you are, anyway." Now it was my turn to laugh. How did girls laugh? I tried to giggle and it came out all right. "I declare, I think you're after my money, Mister Robbins." Brian blushed and pushed the first form across the desk to me. "If you'll just complete the spaces that I've highlighted in yellow, we can get your account opened this evening." Those were the words I wanted to hear. I had practiced writing in a girlish hand for hours in my motel room, and I methodically began filling out the forms, inserting false information about my name, place and date of birth, previous address (the same bogus address I had used to get my driver's license) and previous employment. I was later to learn that each of these little fabrications was a separate felony, punishable by five years in a federal prison. For my current address and phone number, I took a calculated risk. I had scoped out an upscale apartment complex in Scottsdale, and determined that it had vacancies. I used the listing for the rental office as my telephone number. If everything went as expected, I would be living there in a few days as Victoria Ross, and I could call the bank and give them a new phone number before they printed my checks. Brian raced me through the remaining forms, and after entering a few strokes onto his computer, he left me alone for a few minutes. This was the moment of truth. Would he reappear with a policeman in tow, to escort me to a holding cell until the FBI could arrange for my extradition to Illinois? Or had I managed to stay one step ahead of them? When he returned to his desk, the smile on his face told me that I was home free. "I wanted to make sure we could get you some temporary checks and an ATM card before you left this evening, and it will be no problem. Have you picked out the style of checks that you want?" I showed him my selection, pink checks with flowers around the border, and he smiled as he noted it in his computer. "Very pretty, just like you," he said lamely. Here I was, wearing a dress and nylons, being hit on by a guy who obviously found me attractive as a woman. For some reason, I felt like flirting back. Maybe it was because I had been cooped up with no human companionship in a dreary motel room, or maybe I was feeling a rush from the deception I was pulling off. "Are you sure you're not after my money?" I teased him. "No, I mean it," he said. "Here's my card. I'm not allowed to call you, I'd lose my job for sure, but if you want to get to know Phoenix, I'd love to show you the sights." I put his card into my purse along with my temporary checks and ATM card, and smiled at him as I got up to leave. "Thanks, Brian. Maybe I will." I shouldered my purse and headed for the door, a rich girl in a hurry. It was getting dark outside, and I had to make it back to my sleazy motel before the winos and derelicts claimed the streets. I would be no match for them dressed as I was. * * * After a restless night, I put in a call to Brian shortly after nine o'clock the next morning. I wanted to be a safe distance away when I got the answer to my question. I had to remind myself to adopt a girlish voice when he got on the phone. "This is Brian Robbins." "Hi. It's Vicky." "Hey! How you doing?" "Fine, thanks. I wanted to know if the wire went through." "Yep. Got confirmation about ten minutes ago. You now have $586,412.18 in your savings account. Want to celebrate tonight?" "Pushy boy! Would you ask me out if I wasn't rich?" "For sure." "We'll see, Brian. Thanks very much." I hung up and leaped off the bed, pumping the air with my fist. "Yes! Yes!" I shouted. I was rich! I was free! The sight of my dress hanging in the closet brought me back to reality. I was also a woman, for the foreseeable future. Until I could manufacture a new identity, I would have to establish myself as Victoria Ross. The very idea released a torrent of mixed emotions. When I got back to the motel the night before, exhausted from my masquerade, I tossed and turned for hours, trying to block out the erotic sensations I had experienced before I went out. Although I was ashamed of them, I was also becoming excited about the prospect of wearing women's clothing again. I surveyed my face in the bathroom mirror. There were tell-tale traces of the makeup I had managed to scrub off with soap and water before going to bed. My stockings and panties were still on the curtain rod above the tub, where I had hung them after trying as best I could to rinse off the dried cum stains. I made a mental note to add makeup remover and Woolite to my shopping list. Faint stubble was already growing back on my legs, so I drew the tub and swirled in more bubble bath. My disposable razor was adequate to the task this morning, and for the first time, I shaved my legs the way a woman does, slowly and carefully easing the razor over each one as I held them in turn above the bubbles. I shampooed and conditioned my hair in the tub this time, then toweled myself off and gave my face a close shave before starting in on my makeup. It took me a fraction of the time it had yesterday, and even less time to dry and brush my hair into a ponytail. I retrieved my panties and stockings and returned to the bedroom, once again pulling a chair in front of the full length mirror. My stomach was churning as I stepped into my panties, and I quickly fastened and stuffed my bra. I watched myself in the mirror as I slowly, lovingly slid my nylons up my freshly shaved legs. Once again, the sensation was delicious, and I could feel my penis beginning to pound as I eased my pantyhose higher and higher. This time, I stopped just in time and pulled down my panties, feeling my knees buckle as my semen jetted onto the mirror. The feelings of pleasure were so intense, I cried out like a girl having an orgasm. I stroked myself until my penis finally went limp, dripping occasionally onto the cheap carpeting as I fell back into the chair. Once again, I felt ashamed, but also more relaxed somehow, as if having an orgasm had temporarily emasculated me. I tucked my flaccid penis between my legs and straightened out my panties and hose. Now that my libido was sidelined, putting on my slip, dress and flats seemed almost natural. After I finished getting dressed, I sat down in front of the mirror and contemplated my reflection as I tried to get a grip on what was happening to me. For some reason, I was turned on by wearing women's clothing. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? A little kinky, maybe, but just harmless fun, right? I didn't really want to be a woman, and I was certainly not attracted to men. Could it be that I was really attracted to the woman I was becoming? Then why had I allowed myself to flirt with Brian? I practiced crossing my legs and sliding up my dress to reveal a glimpse of slip. God, it was happening again. I tried to ignore the sweet ache in my panties as I double-checked the contents of my purse and left my room for the last time. My makeup and other feminine essentials were crammed into a shopping bag. I wouldn't be needing the things I left behind. * * * I hopped off my bus and walked half a bock to my first destination, a Mazda dealer.? There were three or four Miatas in the parking lot, and I was examining the sticker on a red one when a salesman materialized. "Hello, little lady, can I help you?" He was about fifty, wearing a cowboy hat and boots and a string tie.? I smiled at him as I leaned against the red Miata.? "I like this one," I said.? "How much is it?" He squinted at the sticker and quoted me the price on it.? I pouted and said, "Aren't you supposed to give me a deal or something?" He laughed and said, "Little lady, we usually sell these cars for more than window." "Okay, well, thanks anyway," I said, and I started to walk away. "Now hold on, Miss, don't run away.? How soon were you thinking of buying a car." "This morning," I said over my shoulder. "Well now, why didn't you say so?? I can work with you." I turned around and returned to the car.? "I want two thousand dollars off the sticker price." He laughed again.? "Shoot, little lady, I can't do that.? I'll lose my job.? Come on inside, and we'll sit down and do some figuring, and I'll go to bat for you with my sales manager." "No, thanks." "How's that?" "I don't want to play games.? I want to buy this car, this morning, if you'll meet my price." "I told you, I can't do that." "Okay.? Bye!"? Once again I started to walk off. "Okay!? I'll go ask my manager.? He'll probably kill me, but let's give it a try." "I'll wait here." "Come again?" "Go inside and have your make pretend conversation, and if you're back within five minutes, you'll sell this car." With a shrug, he went inside the dealership.? I walked around the Mazda again, trying to imagine myself driving it, a pretty girl in a red convertible.? The salesman returned in a few minutes and said, "Good news.? I got him to take $1200 off the sticker, but that's it.? We haven't sold a Miata for that price all year." I knew that was a super deal.? "Thanks," I smiled sweetly.? "Can I drive it home now?" "Well, you'll have to pay for it first, honey.? How were you intending to finance it?" "Cash." "Let's go inside and do the paperwork." He escorted me to his cubicle, and offered me something to drink.? "Diet Pepsi," I said, and he buzzed the receptionist and asked her to bring me one while he started to fill in some forms. I gave him the same information I had given to Brian the day before. When he gave me the total price including sales tax, I opened up my temporary checkbook and started to fill out one of my pretty checks. After I handed it to him, he sat back in his chair, and let out a weary sigh. "Ah, a temporary check. How long have you been in Phoenix, Miss Ross?" "A week." He frowned at me. "We can't accept this check." I pulled Brian's card out of my purse and handed it to him. "Why don't you call my banker?" He studied the card, then picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Bob Eisen at Sun Devil Mazda. I have a little lady in my office who says she just opened an account with you. That's right, her name is Victoria Ross." He listened for a few seconds, then his face went white. "Thank you, sir. That would be great. The total amount is $21,815.42. I really appreciate it. Thanks again, sir." He handed me back the card, a big smile on his face once again. "Well, little lady, everything's going to be just fine. That's some banker you got there. He's going to stop by personally during his lunch hour with a cashier's check. The car will be prepped and ready to go in about an hour, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the lounge?" It suddenly dawned on me that I was wearing the same dress Brian had seen me in the night before. Wouldn't that make him suspicious? I gathered up my purse and shopping bag and said, "Thanks, but I have an errand to do. Be back around noon." I left before he could respond and walked out towards the bus stop. I had to wait for the next bus, and it was almost eleven thirty when I got off and hurried into the Marshall's. I was much less self-conscious, shopping for women's clothing while dressed as one, and soon I had picked out a slim black skirt and a pink short sleeve turtleneck which I tried on in the changing room. The skirt was shorter than my dress, and I had to remove my slip, but it looked terrific on me, and the sweater fit me perfectly. If the dress made me look feminine, this outfit made me look downright hot. I changed back into my dress, paid for the clothes with my new ATM card, and then returned to the changing room to put my new things on again. I remembered to switch the scrunchie on my ponytail with one of the other ones I had stuffed in my purse along with my extra pair of nylons, and I carefully folded up my dress and slip and placed them in my shopping bag. Then I was back outside, waiting for the bus. The next one came along a few minutes later, and I arrived back at the dealership to find Brian and the salesman standing outside next to my gleaming red convertible. The salesman did a double take when he saw me, but said nothing as Brian gave me a big smile. "Congratulations, Vicky, she's a beauty. Just the kind of car I pictured you in." The salesman opened the door for me and I sat behind the wheel, tugging my short skirt back down as I swung my legs onto the pedals. "Are you sure you know how to drive a stick shift?" he asked. "Yep." "The paperwork is in the glove box. Let me take you through some of the features." "Can you put the top down for me?" "Sure, honey, it's easy as pie." He told me to press down on the clutch, and after I turned on the ignition, he showed me how to unfasten the clasps. I watched as the canvas top folded neatly away. Brian stuck his head inside and smiled at me again. "Are you going to take me for a drive?" How could I say no? "Sure, big boy, hop in." He sat down in the passenger seat, and we both waved to the salesman as I shifted into gear and started down the driveway. Each time I put my foot on the clutch, my skirt inched up my thighs, and I could tell that Brian was staring at my legs as we cruised down the boulevard. "Thanks for coming to my rescue," I said above the breeze. "You didn't have to do that." "Are you kidding?" He reached over to switch on the radio, and his hand brushed my knee as he set the buttons on the best rock stations in Phoenix. "I'm a full service banker. Have time for lunch?" I didn't want to say yes, but after skipping dinner the night before, and not eating a decent meal in over a week, I was famished, and it would look odd to turn him down. "Sure, that would be nice." He gave me directions to a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away, and after parking my little car, I fumbled with the top before Brian took charge and fastened it back into place. He led me to an outside table, shaded by a market umbrella, and a waiter materialized as soon as we sat down. "Something to drink, Seniorita?" "Go ahead," Brian said. "I'll have a margarita." Why not? After a week in my dreary motel room, I needed to unwind. "Corona with lime for me," Brian said. Although my stomach was growling, I reminded myself that I was supposed to be a girl, so I just ordered a Mexican Caesar salad. I felt a pang of envy when Brian ordered a beef chimichanga. He tried to make small talk while we waited for our drinks. It was delightfully warm under the shade of the umbrella, and I just sat and tuned him out as he rambled on about this and that. When my margarita arrived, my first sip on an empty stomach hit me like the kick of a mule. I nibbled on a chip until I realized that Brian was staring at me. I took another sip and asked, "What's wrong?" "Nothing. I'm waiting for you to answer my question." "Sorry. Could you repeat it?" "God, I'd like to be a girl sometimes. Do you know how hard it is for a guy to ask a woman out and get a response like that?" Buddy, if you only knew. I reached forward and touched his hand. "I'm sorry, Brian, it's just that, well, I just got over a bad relationship, and I need some time to myself, that's all." "Is that why you moved to Phoenix?" "Yeah. Anyway, I thought you weren't allowed to date your customers." "I'm not. I'd probably get canned if my boss knew I asked you out." "But it's okay for us to have lunch, right?" "Sure. I just performed a valuable banking service for one of our best accounts." Our entrees arrived, and I forced myself to cut dainty forkfuls of lettuce while Brian wolfed down his chimichanga. My stomach must have shrunk, because I found myself getting full before I finished my plate. I was definitely feeling lightheaded from the effects of the margarita. "Look, Vicky, I'm sorry I came on to you like that," Brian said between gulps. "And I'm sorry about your breakup. All I can say is, the guy who let you get away must be a total idiot." I patted my lips with my napkin and smiled back at him. "Thanks for the lunch. I had a great time." Brian seemed to brighten, and after he paid the check, he walked me back to my car. I was still feeling a little woozy, and I was grateful when he asked if he could drive us back to the dealership. I needed some time to sober up before Victoria Ross rented her apartment. * * * "Can I help you?" The rental agent was young and pretty, and I had to remind myself who I was now. "I'm looking for a furnished apartment." "You're in luck. They're almost impossible to get, but we have two at the moment, a studio and a one bedroom." "How much is the one bedroom?" "$2000 a month, but it's a fantastic apartment. It overlooks the pool and tennis courts. Would you like to see it?" I nodded, and followed her out to a golf cart. I had to be careful with my skirt when I slid into the seat beside her, and hold on for dear life when we bounced over some speed bumps in the driveway. "It's on the first floor, so it has a private terrace that's much nicer than a balcony," she said over the whine of the electric motor as she pulled up in front of one of the low-rise buildings. I followed her down the hallway to the apartment, and when she opened the door, I could tell at once that it would be perfect. It had a bright kitchen with a small breakfast area and a pass-out counter, a smartly furnished living room, a large bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a stylish bathroom. Compared to this, my old apartment in Chicago looked like a flophouse. We walked out onto the terrace, which was beautifully landscaped and furnished with lounge chairs and a small eating area. The stucco walls were covered with bougainvillea, and sure enough, a sunken garden with a pool and tennis courts was visible in the distance. "There's a carport just outside that's reserved for this apartment," she said. "How soon can I move in?" "Today." * * * A few hours later, I returned from Fashion Square, laden down with shopping bags. My first serious excursion as a woman to an upscale mall had been a revelation. Although I started out looking for the bare essentials to tide me over until I could return to my male identity, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had tried on dozens of skirts and dresses, and bought most of them. I was leery about wearing anything that might make me look too masculine, so I steered away from pants and jeans, although I did buy a few pairs of shorts and some casual tops to wear around my apartment. I stocked up on lingerie and hosiery, including a few nightgowns, and I also came home with several pairs of shoes, from casual sandals to low-heeled pumps. I even bought some fashion jewelry and a woman's wristwatch, along with several new handbags and some other accessories. But my most daring purchase had been a one piece swimsuit, with a little skirt to help conceal my package, and a matching cover-up. I found the shopping bag with my final acquisition, a pair of realistic breast forms, the kind designed for mastectomy cases. They would be perfect under my swimsuit. Although my apartment was air conditioned, it was a hot afternoon, and I gratefully kicked off my shoes and peeled off my stockings before I busied myself with putting away my new things. When I was done, I pinned up my hair, put on my swimsuit and sandals, and headed out for the pool. It was deserted. I lowered myself into the water and began to swim laps, exaggerating my strokes to make them appear more graceful. The cool water felt wonderful against my shaved body, which slid through the water like never before. My heart-stopping confrontation with Mr. Atwater, and the traumatic days since, seemed to fade into distant memory as I relished the sensation. I was rich. I was free. I was starting a new life. * * * The next morning, after sleeping late, I sat out on the terrace in one of my new nightgowns with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Today was going to be a busy day: a trip to the grocery store to fill up my pantry, getting a telephone number, some more towels and linens, another trip to the drugstore for female essentials, and making an appointment for a haircut. My ponytail had gotten me by so far, but it was a pain, and I wanted something shorter. Besides, once I jettisoned Victoria Ross, I intended to cut my hair very short to distance myself from my old male appearance, and I assured myself that this was just an interim step. I also needed to make a quick trip to a local branch of my bank. My final stop would be to a computer superstore, so I could begin to work on my next identity. What to wear today? The night before, I had ducked out to a 7-11 for some provisions after my swim, attracting no odd looks in my cover-up and sandals. Still, I felt more confident when I decked myself out, as if the more feminine I made myself look, the less likely I was to be read. And my body was yearning for some forbidden arousal. I luxuriated in my new tub, a far cry from the grungy motel bathroom, before I went through the hair and makeup routine. My nails still looked reasonably good, although a trip to a nail salon was something I should add to my to-do list. I walked into my closet and sifted through the hangers, selecting and rejecting different outfits. Decision, decisions! I finally decided on a black pleated skit and a soft white top with short sleeves. I went with a one-piece body briefer which I hoped would give me more of a figure, and sure enough, the sweater clung to my new curves like it was made for me. "Sheer black pantyhose and my new heels should look good with this skirt," I said to myself, trying to get back into my feminine voice. My new stockings were more expensive than the drugstore variety, and I reveled in the feeling of sheer luxury as I slipped them on. My legs looked sleek and sexy, and they felt wonderful. As I zipped up my skirt, I noticed that I did not have a raging hard- on like the ones I had experienced while dressing up the past few days. Instead, I felt more of a glow, like the sweet feelings that precede an orgasm, and they intensified as I accessorized my outfit with a colorful scarf and some jewelry. I stepped into my heels and marveled at what they did for my legs as I minced in front of a full length mirror. Suddenly, the overwhelming feelings of arousal came back with a vengeance. I pressed my hands against my skirt and coaxed my penis through the layers of silky fabric until it shuddered in ecstasy. While feelings of relief and relaxation washed over me, the wet spot triggered an undercurrent of self-loathing from my tortured male ego. I tuned him out as I applied a flourish of fresh lipstick. I added it to the contents of my purse, and remembered to put on my delicate new wristwatch. Then Victoria Ross went out to start her busy day. * * * The telephone was ringing as I juggled my packages and tried to get my key in the door. I had a phone! I dropped everything and raced across the apartment to pick it up. "Hello?" "Is this Victoria Ross?" I was suddenly on guard. Could the FBI have tracked me down? "Who's calling please?" "How would you like to enjoy a fabulous weekend in Las Vegas?" "Just a minute...let me put my husband on the phone." Then, in my normal voice, "Fuck you, asshole! Never call here again!" I slammed down the phone. Fucking telemarketers! I returned to the packages strewn across the carpeting and put them all away. Then I sat down next to the phone, kicked off my heels, and stretched out on the sofa, flexing my aching toes in my nylons. I found Brian's card in my purse and punched in his number. He answered on the third ring. "Brian Robbins." "Hi. It's Vicky." "Hey! Can I call you right back? I'm with a customer." "That's okay, I just called to give you my new number, for the checks." I gave him my phone number and rang off. I had accomplished all of my objectives except buying the new computer, deciding to have my nails done instead. The irony of that wasn't lost on me as I admired my manicure. The computer would be the first step towards my re-emergence as a man, and the truth was, I was having too much fun right now to even think about that. Maybe I should stay like this for a while, just until things settled down. I was living in more luxury than I had ever known, and there were so many things about my new world to explore. The only problem was, I would have to explore them alone. Up until that point, I had been too stressed out to appreciate how lonely I was. At that moment, the telephone rang again. "Yes," I said in a firm voice. "Vicky?" It was Brian! "Hi. Sorry if I sounded rude. I just hung up on a timeshare salesman." He laughed. "You tell 'em, Vicky." There was a long pause. Finally, he said, "I'm returning your call." "Oh. I thought I told you, I was just calling to give you my new number. Obviously you got it." "Obviously. We'll take care of the checks. Listen, I must be a sucker for punishment, but I just scored two tickets to a Suns game tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like to go." I loved basketball. But a date? This was getting way out of hand. I mean, he was a nice guy, but come on! Still, if I didn't go, what would I do tonight? Sit home again in my apartment and watch TV? Besides, it wasn't like we were going someplace romantic. How much trouble could I get into at a basketball game? "Sure," I heard myself tell him. "Sounds like fun." "Really? That's great! I'll pick you up at seven, and we can grab a bite before the game, if that's all right." Why not? A girl had to eat. "Okay. Sounds nice." I gave him my apartment number, and glanced at my watch. I had about an hour to get ready! My hair and nails were perfect, but I would have to take a quick shower, then put on my makeup again. What should I wear? * * * The doorbell rang as I was zipping up my denim skirt. It was short, almost six inches above my knees, and I wore it with a peasant blouse that was tucked loosely into the waist. A yellow silk scarf was tied gaily around my neck. I tried to slip on my new pair of weejuns, but they wouldn't fit! So much for going bare legged tonight. I raced back to the dresser, shouted "Coming!" and tore open a pair of nude pantyhose. There were no erotic feelings this time as I tugged the nylons up my legs and lifted up my skirt to twist them around. I must have snagged them, because I noticed a small run on one of my legs, from just above my knee to my crotch. No time to change them! I slipped my feet into my shoes while I gave myself a final inspection in the mirror. With my new shag hairdo, I looked younger than before, and very cute, if I did say so myself. The doorbell rang again. "Coming!" I shouted once more, throwing lipstick, compact and keys into my new shoulder bag. As an after- thought, I added my new woman's wallet. When I opened the door, Brian gave me a double-take. "Wow. A new look. I really like it." "Thanks." He peered into my apartment. "Nice place. Well, we better go, or we'll miss the tip-off. I have a dinner reservation at a little Italian place nearby." He walked me to his car, an Acura Integra, and opened the door for me. I sat down as best I could in my short skirt, knowing that he was staring at my legs, just like I used to do when I helped girls into my car. Brian drove fast, but well, and I folded my hands in the lap of my skirt as I repeated to myself, over and over, "I'm a girl. I'm a girl." By the time we got to the restaurant, I was humming "I Feel Pretty" to myself. The valet opened the door, and I got out as gracefully as I could. I had to reach down onto the floor of the car to retrieve my shoulder bag, giving the valet and Brian a clear shot at my panties, and I saw them exchange smirks as I followed Brian into the restaurant. It was cool and dark, and the maitre'd led us to a quiet booth. Brian ordered a bottle of Pino Grigio, and we studied our menus in silence for a few minutes as our eyes adjusted to the light from a flickering candle. I looked over at Brian, who was concentrating on the fine print. He was extremely handsome. I had never been attracted to a man in my life, and I wasn't particularly attracted to him now, but for some strange reason it made me feel nice to be in the company of such a good-looking guy. It was the same with dating girls, I supposed. Let's hope things stayed that superficial. A waiter appeared, and after he recited the specials of the day, I ordered angel hair pasta with basil and tomatoes in olive oil. Brian ordered veal Marsalla and fettuccini alfredo, and once again I felt a pang of envy. No self-respecting girl would tuck into a meal like that on a date. Maybe I could wheedle a few bites out of him. We made small talk as we sipped our wine. I neatly deflected his questions about my background, turning the conversation back to him whenever I could. He seemed to enjoy it when I asked him questions about the sports he played, the music he liked and the places he had traveled to, then our dinners were served and we ate in silence as I tried not to make a pig out of myself with the thin pasta. Brian did offer me some of his dinner, but I thought the better of it, although once again I began to feel light-headed as I finished my second glass of wine. At least he was driving this time. The waiter offered coffee and deserts, which we declined, and we chatted about nothing in particular as we waited for the check. I was beginning to think my first date was going well when I felt Brian's hand on my leg. Thank God I had to wear pantyhose! I could feel my cock jump when Brian caressed my silky thigh. Gently but firmly, I took his hand and slid it back down to my knee. He seemed to content to leave it there, and I was so relieved, I let him. Brian pressed his head against mine. "You've got a run in your stocking," he whispered. "One of the dilemmas of being a woman." "I think it's sexy." So did I, when I was a guy, I thought ruefully. I looked down with chagrin when he squeezed my knee. On the run. * * * The excitement of the game was a blessed relief. The Bulls were in town, and I pretended to cheer for them, even though they were truly pathetic. We had great seats, which Brian had picked up for free when a senior officer at the bank had to give them up. He explained this to me in the car on the way back to my apartment, once again resting his hand on my silky knee. I was trying to figure out how I was going to get rid of him when I saw something strange. Two police cars were parked outside my apartment building. Stranger still, the lights seemed to be on in my apartment, and I was sure I hadn't left them on. Before Brian could stop, I asked him, "Where do you live?" "About a mile from here. Would you like to see my place?" he asked, never in a million years thinking I would accept. "Sure, why not?" Brian stepped on the gas and popped the clutch, and my head was thrown back as we sped out of the driveway. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire, I tried to calm myself as we drove towards his apartment. The law had found me, there was no way around it. How were they able to connect the dots? If they found out from my computer that Victoria Ross was my alter ego, it would only be a matter of time before they located the Chicago bank account where I stashed the money. Once the money was on the wire, they would follow the trail straight to the address I used to open my account. I closed my eyes and tried to think. The walls were closing in. It was a good thing I enjoyed being a girl, because I would be spending the next fifteen to twenty years as the plaything of a hardened criminal. I realized that Brian had parked the car. "Something wrong?" he asked me. I tried to act natural, natural as a girl. "No. I was just waiting for you to open my door. Is chivalry dead in Arizona?" Brian sprang out the door and raced around the back of his car. I gave him a good look at my thighs as I climbed out of his car, and put my arm through his as we walked up a flight of stairs to his apartment building. He opened the door, and led me to his apartment. I followed him inside. It was a typical bachelor pad, with a big screen TV, a monster stereo system, a leather coach and a matching recliner. An exercise machine and free weights took up a corner of the room. "Care for something to drink?" he asked me. My mind was racing. "Sure," I said, as I sat down on his recliner. Girls had used that move to frustrate me when I wanted to get them onto a couch. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs under my skirt. Brian opened a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. He perched on the edge of the couch as we pondered our next moves, like a mongoose and a cobra. "I like your place," I said to break the ice. "I'm thinking of buying a condo. It would be nice to have an extra room for my weights and stuff." I sipped my wine demurely. "Would you like to watch TV?" he asked. I was about to say yes when I stopped myself. What if the local news stations were carrying bulletins about the manhunt for a Chicago man masquerading as a woman? That would be sensational enough to merit team coverage. "How about some music instead?" I said. Brian liked that idea, and he put on some soft rock. "You know, Vicky, I'm really glad you came in to the bank on Monday." Was it a Monday? I couldn't even remember what day it was. If that was Monday, this must be, let's see...Wednesday. Nine days after my escape from Chicago. Who said the FBI was slipping? I emptied my glass, and Brian got up to pour me a fresh one. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get me drunk," I said with a smile. "Not hardly. It's scientifically proven that a woman's ability to enjoy sex is greatly depressed by alcohol. I should cut you off right now." It was such an outrageous line, I had to laugh in spite of myself. It was the kind of thing I would never dreamed of saying to a girl on a first date. Maybe that's why my sex life as a man had been such a disaster. It took real cajones to say something like that to a girl. "Are you always this pushy on a first date?" Brian went around behind the chair and rested his chin on top of my head. "Only when the girl is really hot." He turned my face gently with his hand, and kissed me. No tongue, just a soft kiss on the lips, and I kissed him back the same way. He reached down and took my hand. "Let's go to bed." I stood up unsteadily. "You were right about that wine," I said. "And there's another problem, scientifically speaking." "What's that?" "I'm having my period." "Ouch. Oh well, I'm game, if you are." ` "Yuck! That would make this a first date to remember, all right. I can see us in our golden years, harkening back to it." "Now we are getting ahead of ourselves," he laughed. "Seriously, I really like you, Vicky, and I want to see you again." "Who's stopping you?" He put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me again. I hugged him and felt his erection, hard with desire against my belly. "Goodness!" I said. "I guess you bring out the best in me." I made a calculated decision. The longer I stayed there, the more time I would have to come up with a plan, anything to get away from the stakeout back at my apartment. I reached down and stroked him through his trousers. He led me into the bedroom, and I pushed him down on the bed. He lay back as I unzipped his fly, and I took his enormous cock in my hands. There was no way I was going to give him a blow job, but a hand job I could handle. Then I had an inspiration, and I removed my silk scarf and wrapped it gently around his penis. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that it was my cock I was stroking. As I did so, I could feel my own penis struggling furiously against its silken restraints. Faster and faster, I stroked him, and although my penis was bent over double between my legs, I could feel it stiffen and start to pulse. We came simultaneously, Brian's cock spewing gobs of hot semen into my scarf as my own load gushed into my panties. I lay down beside him and we both stared at the ceiling for awhile. "Thanks," he said. "You do that real nice." "I've had years of practice," I felt like saying. Instead, I said, "Glad to be of service." I lifted one of my legs over his and started playing with the buttons on his shirt, making sure to keep his hands away from my chest, although my breast forms felt and looked like the real thing. "Even if we can't do it, we can still have some fun, right?" "Oh, baby, whatever you say," he whispered. His refraction time was remarkably quick, and before long I was pulling on his penis again, without the scarf this time, watching it grow and stiffen in my manicured fingers. Once again, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I was doing this to myself, and once again my body responded in kind. For the second time, we came together, and the pleasure was more intense this time for both of us. Three in a row was my personal best, and I was counting on Brian to be up to it. I needn't have worried. After he cleaned himself off and got us each another glass of wine, I pushed him back down and started teasing his cock with my stockinged foot. He groaned as his member grew hard once again, and once more I took him in my hand and pulled and jerked on him. It took much longer, of course, and I could see that he was gritting his teeth as another orgasm began to well up inside him. What the hell, he couldn't have much left in him... I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and took him into my mouth. I nibbled and sucked as he started to throb, and as I hoped, his sac was nearly dry. From someplace deep within me, I felt another orgasm coming, and although my penis stayed soft, a wicked glow spread between my legs. My panties were a soggy mess. I could tell that Brian was completely exhausted. As we lay there in silence, I tried to rationalize what had just happened. I told myself that I had to do it. Now I was safe from his advances until morning. A moan from Brian brought me back down to earth. "Oh baby, that was so good." "Almost as good as the real thing?" I asked, the double meaning lost on him. "Definitely. I always thought it would be a drag getting married and having to lay off sex when my wife was on the rag or pregnant. Will you marry me?" he said. I punched him on the arm. "You really know how to make a girl feel great," I said with a sigh. "Want to spend the night?" he said out of nowhere. Maybe he thought my period might mysteriously end before morning. "Sure, lover boy. I'll wear your pajamas and cook you some breakfast in the morning." * * * I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost three o'clock in the morning. For hours, I had snuggled next to Brian, dressed in his pajamas, trying to come up with a plan. His breathing was slow and regular, and I could tell he was dead to the world. Slipping out of bed, I crept into the living room.? Although my eyes had become adjusted to the pitch black apartment, I had to get down on my hands and knees and feel around the floor until I found Brian's free weights.? I picked up several, until I found one that weighed about 10 pounds.? I carried it back into the bedroom and made my way around the bed until I was standing directly over his sleeping body.? I lifted the dumbbell as high as I could and brought it down squarely on the back of Brian's head.? I held my breath as he groaned and twitched once, then he lay perfectly still.? I lowered my head and listened for breathing.? This was not supposed to be a murder.? To my relief, I heard labored breathing, and when I felt for his pulse, it was steady. I switched on the light by the side of the bed.? A thin trickle of blood was coming down the side of Brian's face from a cut above his hairline, but he was definitely alive.? I picked up my stockings from the floor next to the bed and used them to tie his hands tightly behind his back.? Then I balled up my panties, which were encrusted with dried semen, and stuffed them into Brian's half-open mouth.? His unconscious body had a gag reflex, and I waited until I was sure he was breathing normally through his nose before I looked around for something to tie up his legs.? I remembered that I was still wearing my bra, which was adequate to the task. Next, I found a pair of scissors in the kitchen and took them to my hair.? When it was chopped as close as I could get it, I started in on my head with Brian's electric razor.? Before long, my scalp was shaved smooth.? I took a hot shower, scrubbing off my makeup as best I could.? There was little chance Brian would have any nail polish remover, but after I dried myself off, I rummaged around in his drawers and found some turpentine, which did the job.? I cut my nails with Brian's clippers, and started trying on his clothes.? He was one or two sizes bigger than I was, and it took me some time to find a sweatshirt and jeans that looked all right.? His sneakers fit perfectly. I picked Brian's trousers off the floor and rummaged through his pockets until I found his wallet and keys. I took a hard look at his driver's license. Although our faces were not alike, our vital statistics and coloring were close enough, and with any luck my shaved head would seem to account for the difference between my appearance and his photograph. I combined the contents of my wallet into his, stuffed it into my jeans pocket, and had a last look around the apartment. The only thing left of Victoria Ross was a skirt, a blouse, a pair of weejuns, and a cum-stained scarf. I made sure Brian was sleeping comfortably, turned off all the lights, and headed out the door with his keys in my hand. It took me twenty minutes to drive to Sky Harbor. I made a brief detour past my apartment complex, where several police and unmarked cars were still clustered arou