Beyond Dreamscape Part 3 Best Served Cold
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Double Take, Part 3: Wet Dreams, Cold Blood free porn video
Episode Three: Wet Dreams, Cold Blood
It will come as no surprise to readers of the first two
episodes that Sandy and Ashley became lovers that summer.
As Ashley's leg grew strong again, they became almost
inseparable as their feelings for each other blossomed.
Ashley soon dismissed her personal trainer, spending hours
in the water with Sandy as her surfing became more and more
proficient. All the while, she was becoming increasingly
fascinated with Sandy's bold exploration of his feminine
side.
For Sandy, that summer was a dream of sex, surf and silk.
His pent-up longing for Ashley exploded into marathons of
lovemaking that left them both exhilarated, exhausted, and
yearning for more. When Sandy wasn't teaching Ashley how to
surf, he spent the days cruising up and down the coast with
Toby, who became the perfect beard as Sandy's presumed
boyfriend. The first time Toby saw Sandy in his powder blue
wetsuit, he had laughed himself silly, but soon they were
hanging out together like nothing had changed.
When Sandy and Ashley took a rare night off, Sandy and Toby
hung out together at surf bars. Toby kept the guys from
hitting on his friend while Sandy worked on his surfer girl
persona, becoming more and more comfortable with his role
as Pepper Reef. After months of practice, he was starting
to sound more and more like Ashley, and soon he fell into
using her voice full time. His hair was getting longer, and
bikini lines crisscrossed his tanned body, which was soft
and smooth from steady doses of licorice root and wild yam
cream.
For Toby, the most fun was when the three of them hung out
together. Accompanied by two identical knockouts, Toby was
the envy of every guy they came across, even though Sandy
and Ashley were constantly trying to fool Toby as to which
one was really the girl. He was a great sport about it, and
Ashley was soon angling to get him a bit part on Wet Girls.
As for Ashley, the truly magical days were the ones she
spent out on the town with Sandy, shopping for identical
outfits and recounting their adventures over long lunches
at sidewalk cafes on Melrose Street. Ashley delighted in
Sandy's acceptance of his new-found femininity, and she
amused herself by decorating his condo with the
unmistakable stamp of a woman. During their outings, they
disguised themselves with sunglasses and baseball caps,
turning heads everywhere they went. Sandy was the sister
she never had, and the boyfriend she always wanted.
The highlight of the summer came about when Ashley was
invited to take a screen test for a movie to be made by
Woody Allen in New York. It was a sensational part, and she
would be perfect for it. The timing was good, because
shooting on the picture was not set to begin until after
the completion of the second season of Wet Girls. But under
the terms of Ashley's studio contract, she was obligated to
take part in an awards ceremony in Beverly Hills the day of
her screen test.
After a night of exquisite sex, she went to work on Sandy.
He pretended to put up a fight, but in the end he agreed to
get gussied up and take her place. They spent days shopping
for the perfect outfit, and she even gave him a pedicure
before she pronounced that his feet were too gnarly for the
open-toed shoes she had intended to wear. Heels and
stockings it would have to be.
Sandy would need an escort for the big event, so Toby was
dragooned into the conspiracy. He agreed to go on the
condition that he would not have to wear a tie.
* * *
The day of the ceremony, Sandy had his hair and nails done
at a salon selected by Ashley, who was already on her way
to New York. He luxuriated with a long bubble bath in
Ashley's tub, shaving his legs while he tried to get in the
mood for Ashley's Hollywood gala.
He pampered himself with Ashley's lilac-scented
moisturizing cr?me before dressing up. First he put on a
one-piece body briefer that Ashley had selected for him. It
held his manhood snugly back between his legs, gave him a
waist like a wasp, and pushed up his pecs to create a hint
of cleavage. Ultra-sheer control-top pantyhose were next,
and when he tugged them on, his trapped penis was too bent
out of shape to enjoy it.
Then to Ashley's vanity, where he sat down on a little
bench and began to apply his makeup. After watching experts
make him over every day on the set of Wet Girls, he knew
what he was doing, and soon his pretty face had blushing
cheeks, smoky eyes, and rosebud lips. He put diamond studs
in his earlobes, fussed with his hair to get it just so,
dabbed some of Ashley's expensive perfume behind his ears
and knees, and headed for her closet.
The dress Ashley had finally settled on was a soft white
creation that kissed the tops of his knees with clouds of
rustling taffeta. He lowered it carefully over his perfect
hairdo before zipping and clasping it behind him. He
fastened a diamond pendant around his neck, and added a
diamond-studded Rolex watch, which Ashley had left for him.
Then he stepped into his white stilettos and minced his way
over to the full-length mirror on the back of her closet
door.
What Sandy saw took his breath away. The young woman in the
mirror slowly turned this way and that, sizing herself up
from head to toe with a critical eye. There was no doubt
about it. The blonde bombshell looking back at him was
Ashley Vaughn. He was in a daze as he dropped a lipstick,
hairbrush and Altoids into Ashley's little white clutch
purse, almost forgetting her house key.
If Sandy was surprised by his transformation, it was
nothing compared to Toby's reaction when he first laid eyes
on his old friend. The studio sent a limo to pick them up,
Ashley first and then her date. Sandy chatted with the
driver as they drove down Sunset Boulevard towards Malibu,
honing Ashley's voice to build up self-confidence. When
they arrived at Toby's shack, the driver got out and
knocked on the door. When he returned with Toby a few
minutes later, it was obvious that they had been arguing.
Toby was dressed in flip flops and a billabong shirt. It
was his best shirt, it was even clean, and he was wearing
long pants, but evidently the driver had told him his
attire was unacceptable, because Toby was muttering to
himself when he stuck his head into the limo.
"Whoa, get a load of this thing. Holy shit, look at you.
Dude!" Toby was open-mouthed as he took in the luxury of
his surroundings, and the appearance of his best friend.
Perched on a black leather settee in his white dress, his
diamonds sparkling and his silky legs shimmering, Sandy
Lane was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Sandy raised the glass barrier separating them from the
driver before he responded to Toby's outburst. "In the
first place, Mister, my name is Ashley, not Dude," he said
in Ashley's sweet voice. "You got that?"
Toby nodded his head. He couldn't take his eyes off Sandy's
legs.
"Next, you look like a bum. What kind of girl do you think
I am? Go back inside and put on a sport coat, at least."
"Uh, I don't have one."
Sandy knew he was telling the truth. He lowered the
partition and said to the driver, "Could you please take a
left up ahead and pull into that strip mall?" The driver
complied, and he drove slowly until Sandy told him to stop
in front of a Salvation Army thrift store that he and Toby
used to frequent.
"Get in there and find yourself a jacket. Some shoes would
be nice, too."
"Don't you want to help pick them out?"
"Ashley Vaughn wouldn't be caught dead in there."
Toby returned ten minutes later, carrying a shoebox and
wearing an electric blue blazer that appeared to be a
distant member of the polyester family. Sandy was doing a
slow burn as Toby opened the old shoebox and stuffed his
feet into a pair of maroon alligator wingtips. "What's
eating you?" Toby finally asked.
"I was a fool to ask you to do this," Sandy fumed. "You
look like a beach bum."
"I am a beach bum. And so were you, before you found your
inner woman. Who's shitting who?"
They rode in silence through Westwood towards the Beverly
Hilton, where the awards dinner was to take place. When
Sandy spoke again, he had a pleading look in his eyes. "I'm
sorry, Toby. I know I'm freaking out. Do you have any idea
what I had to go through to look like this?"
"I can't imagine."
"I spent two hours in a beauty salon this morning, and
another two hours putting myself together at Ashley's
place. My dick is numb, my feet are killing me, and in less
than an hour I've got to get up in front of a national
television audience and pretend that I'm a girl."
"You won't have any trouble, Dude."
"All it takes is one little slip-up, and Ashley will be
kicked off the series, and take me with her."
"What can I do to help?"
"Try treating me like a lady."
And so he did, holding Sandy's hand as he helped him out of
the limo, leading the way into the International Ballroom
with Sandy on his arm, pulling back Sandy's chair when they
sat down at their dinner table, and making sure that none
of the unattached guys got close enough to Sandy to do any
damage. With Toby running interference, Sandy was able to
pull off Ashley's assignment without a hitch, reading the
names of the nominees for some obscure award before
retreating back to their table.
And it turned out that Toby, with his bleached blonde hair
and golden tan, was a bit of a sensation himself, in stark
contrast to the dandies and wannabies who accompanied most
of the single women. While Sandy was up at the podium
reading Ashley's lines, three women slipped him notes with
their names and phone numbers.
* * *
It was all too perfect to last, of course. Come August,
they were back to the daily grind of scripts, makeup,
costumes, and more scripts. Toby had a few walk-on
appearances on Wet Girls, but he got bored hanging around
the set, and finally took off for the north shore of Oahu
for the big wave season. Sandy was devastated to see him
leave. Ashley consoled him as best she could, but she could
sense that he was beginning to miss the freedom he had
taken for granted when he was a guy. Their nights together
in Hollywood Hills and Redondo Beach became fewer and
farther in between, as they coped as best they could with
the pressures of a network series, the conflict between
their work and their relationship, and the added strain of
living in a twilight zone between lovers and sisters.
One day, Sandy returned to his condo after an exhausting
day of shooting and re-shooting a surfing scene in Malibu.
The waves were too small, and when they finally gave up and
called it a day, Sandy was blue and shivering. He stood
under a hot shower for ten minutes before he wrapped a
fleece-lined robe around himself and went into the kitchen
to heat up a can of soup. He dried his hair while it was
warming up, and sat down in front of his computer after he
wolfed it down.
Sandy subscribed to a web site for surfers. Through it he
vicariously enjoyed his vanished freedom, and kept in touch
with old friends and familiar places. He hadn't checked it
out in several days, so he scrolled through the new items
until he came across this:
SERVICES TOMORROW FOR TOBY GOODFIN: A waterman's memorial
ceremony will be held at Swami's tomorrow for Cardiff
legend Toby Goodfin, who was killed in a traffic accident
on the Pala Highway last week.
Sandy was sick to his stomach as he scoured the web for
more information. All he learned was that Toby Goodfin, age
25, died instantly after his Jeep Cherokee went over a
cliff and plummeted two hundred feet into a ravine on Oahu.
The services were scheduled for five o'clock the following
day in the surfing community of Cardiff-by-the-Sea, a few
hours south of Los Angeles.
Sandy was a zombie as he called Darla Palmer at home to
tell her he would not be coming in tomorrow. She remembered
Toby, told Sandy how sorry she was, and assured him that
they would rework the schedule to shoot around him. Then he
called Ashley, who burst into tears when he broke the news.
* * *
A beautiful girl in a black dress stood alone on Swami's
beach while over thirty surfers sat on their boards and
joined hands beyond the shore break, forming a circle fifty
yards offshore. She watched as they spread flowers on the
water, and said prayers for Toby Goodfin. She wanted to be
with them, but somehow she could not bring herself to put
on her powder blue wetsuit and hold hands with her old
friends while Toby's ashes were committed to the waves. So
she stood alone, her bare feet caked with wet sand as she
cried over her lost friend.
She was standing beside her Audi convertible in the parking
lot when the participants climbed up the steep steps and
started heading for their cars. Two of them started to
strap their surfboards onto the roof of the Toyota parked
next to her Audi, and she lowered her head to avoid making
eye contact with them. "Are you sure about this?" one of
them was saying.
"Damn sure. That was no accident." It was Brad Jeffries, a
surfer from Encinitas who had once traveled to Costa Rica
with Toby Goodfin and Sandy Lane.
The girl put on her sunglasses before she approached them.
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhear what you were
saying. How do you know it wasn't an accident?"
Brad looked her over as he fastened a bungie cord to his
surfboard. "Did you know Toby?"
"Yes. We were very close."
"Look, all I know is what I hear."
"What do you hear?"
"Everybody knew that Buster Cruz vowed to waste Toby and
some girl who trashed him this summer at Moondoggies in
Malibu. This guy I know was sitting next to Buster at a bar
on the north shore the night Toby went over the side on the
Pala Highway. When somebody came in and said that Toby
Goodfin just got killed, Buster had this shit-eating grin
on his face. You tell me."
* * *
That night, Sandy stopped at the Mission San Juan
Capistrano to pray for his lost friend, and to seek
forgiveness for what he had to do. In his black dress, he
looked like a sad young widow, in mourning for her lost
soulmate. In truth, he was mourning much more than a
missing friend. He was mourning his forsaken manhood.
How could he have let Toby get caught up in his kinky life?
Toby Goodfin was the sweetest, kindest person he had ever
met. He couldn't even bring himself to eat meat or fish.
And now he was dead at age twenty-five, all because Sandy
had to mouth off to Buster Cruz.
He looked down at himself in despair. What the hell am I
doing here, in a house of God, wearing a dress and
pretending to be a woman? How did I ever get so fucked up?
At that moment, all he wanted to do was drive to the
nearest beach, tear off his dress, and swim west until he
drowned. But he knew he couldn't do that. According to the
surfers he spoke to at Toby's funeral, Buster Cruz had
vowed to kill both Toby and Ashley. Sandy would never
forgive himself if anything happened to her. So he hung his
head in prayer, asking forgiveness once again for what he
had to do.
* * *
When Sandy told Ashley what he intended to do, she tried
desperately to talk him out of it. She begged him to go to
the police and tell them what he had learned. But the more
she tried, the more stubborn he became. Although he was
acting more and more like a woman, at the core he was still
a man, and he was determined to protect his woman and
redeem himself. She knew if she fought him on it, she was
likely to lose him forever.
Ashley got passed over for the part in New York, which only
added to the deep funk which hung over them as the
television season ground on. The long Thanksgiving weekend
was approaching, and Ashley was called on once again to
make a command performance for the network. This time she
had no excuse, and Sandy had his opportunity.
After shooting wrapped on Tuesday night, Sandy caught a
late flight to Honolulu. For the first time in his life, he
traveled to Hawaii without a quiver of surfboards. Instead,
he brought with him two suitcases. One was full of skirts,
dresses, lingerie and female incidentals. The other was
filled with contents from his storage locker in the Valley.
He checked into the Royal Hawaiian early Wednesday morning,
and spent part of that day in the back alleys of Honolulu,
dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, with a floppy hat pulled
down over his ears and a pair of over-sized sunglasses
covering most of his face. He was carrying a lot of cash,
but he looked like a man, and nobody hassled him. After he
managed to purchase what he was looking for, he returned to
the Royal Hawaiian and transformed himself back into a
woman.
* * *
Buster Cruz was sitting alone at his customary table at
Rosie's Caf? on the North Shore, eating a plate of
enchiladas, when she walked into the restaurant. She had
long dark hair, deep brown eyes, and if her miniskirt were
any shorter, she could have been arrested. Every guy in the
place was drooling as she walked over to Buster's table and
pulled back a chair. Without waiting for an invitation, she
sat down beside him and crossed her elegant legs.
"Are you Buster Cruz?" the stranger asked. She was all
business
"The one and only," he said. Buster was used to chicas
coming on to him, but this woman was in a whole different
league.
She produced a business card. "I represent a major
Hollywood studio. We're putting together a series to run
head-to-head against Wet Girls."
"That show sucks." Buster had come to learn that Ashley
Vaughn, the woman who humiliated him at Moondoggies, was in
the cast, and he had unfinished business with her.
"I know, but their ratings are obscene. We're looking for
some authentic surfers to put in our program."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. We've followed your career, and I've seen some
amazing footage of you surfing the Banzai Pipeline and
Maverick's. That's why I flew all the way out here. We want
you to star in our series." She pulled a contract out of
her shoulder bag and put it in front of him. "Shooting
starts in three weeks on the north shore. We're offering
you $500,000 for the first season, with participation."
Buster had enough experience with sponsors to know not to
accept her first offer. He flipped through the contract,
trying to conceal his excitement like a bad poker player.
"What's the name of the show?"
"It's going to be called Wet Dreams."
* * *
They agreed to meet the following evening at her suite at
the Halekulani. When he came to her door, she greeted him
dressed in a negligee. The lights were low, and a table for
two was set in the parlor, with flickering candles and an
ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne. Loud Hawaiian
music, with many drums, was playing on a stereo under the
television set. Her suite was on the first floor, and the
door to her terrace was shut with the curtains drawn.
"I hope my informality doesn't shock you," she said as she
closed the door behind him and bolted it shut. "I suppose
I've been in Hollywood too long."
"I can handle it," he said.
"Would you mind opening the champagne?"
"Why not?" Buster fumbled with the cork, trying to
concentrate as she spread out her negligee and sat down on
a pink loveseat. He found two fluted glasses and sat down
next to her, filling them each to overflowing.
She giggled as she picked up a napkin and wiped the
champagne off his pants. "It looks like you're going to
have to take these off to let them dry."
Buster started to unfasten his belt. She turned away from
him for a moment. "Darn these contact lenses," she said.
When she turned back to face him, his trousers were off,
and he wasn't wearing anything under them.
It took him a moment to realize that something had changed
about her. It was dark in the room, and at first he
couldn't put his finger on it. Then he realized. Her eyes
were no longer brown. Before he could say anything, she
reached up and pulled off her long brown wig, revealing a
layered blonde shag.
He recognized her instantly. "You little bitch, what is
this? Your idea of a joke?"
She pulled a snub-nosed Baretta out from between the seat
cushions and released the safety. Before Buster could
react, she pulled the trigger and shot off the head of his
penis. The shot was drowned out by the cascade of Hawaiian
drums coming from the stereo.
Buster fell to his knees in shock, bleeding profusely and
bellowing like a harpooned walrus. He looked up at her in a
rage as she crouched down beside him and pointed the gun at
his face. "That was for Toby Goodfin," she said. Then, in
Sandy Lane's voice, "This one's for me." She pulled the
trigger again and shot him through the nose. He recognized
his killer a spit second before the bullet entered his
brain.
She stood up and took off her negligee, revealing a string
bikini. After wiping her fingerprints off the hot gun that
Sandy Lane bought on the street the day before, she opened
the door to her terrace and disappeared into the night.
* * *
Sandy Lane took a red-eye back to Los Angeles that evening.
For the next two days, he kept a low profile, waiting for
the police to catch up with him, and hoping that Ashley
could provide the necessary cover.
They called Ashley's house on Sunday morning. An
investigation was being conducted into a homicide in
Hawaii. Ashley Vaughn's name had come up. Would she be able
to meet with Detective Halani of the Honolulu Police
Department that afternoon?
She was waiting for him when he arrived in the company of
an L.A.P.D. lieutenant at three o'clock on Sunday
afternoon. Detective Halani apologized for intruding on her
weekend, and introduced Lieutenant Goering, who was
assisting him with leads on the mainland.
She invited them into the small living room, and after they
seated themselves on a yellow sofa, she sat down across
from them on a matching loveseat. Dressed in white jeans
and a blue top, she looked every inch the Hollywood star,
and Lieutenant Goering asked her for an autograph for his
teenage daughter to break the ice. She excused herself to
fetch a poster of Pepper Reef on a surfboard, which she
signed with a personal message to the lieutenant's
daughter.
Finally Detective Halani cleared his throat and asked her
if she had ever met Buster Cruz. She screwed up her face
and thought fast. "I remember him. He was creeping me out
at Moondoggies last summer."
"Had you ever met him before?"
"Never."
"What happened that day at Moondoggies?"
Her mind raced. "I was hanging out with a guy I met at the
beach, and we were trying to leave when this big creep came
on to me. We trash talked a little, and then we left."
"We've spoken to a waitress who was there that day. She
said things got pretty ugly."
"She must not hang out with surfers much."
"Did you ever see Buster Cruz again?"
"Nope."
"How about the guy you were with? What was his name?"
"Toby. Toby Goodfin." She wiped a tear away from her eye.
"How well did you know him?"
"We were just friends."
"Did you ever see him again?"
"He died a few months ago. Why are you asking me about
him?" Another tear.
"Please, Miss Vaughn. If you will just bear with us for a
few more minutes, we'll be finished."
"We hung out a lot this summer, with other friends from the
beach. I got to meet a lot of surfers from Wet Girls, and
Toby was one of them."
Lieutenant Goering spoke again. "Did you just see him at
the beach?"
How much did they know? "One night I needed an escort for a
big do at the Beverly Hilton, and Toby volunteered. He
cleaned up real nice." She started to cry.
"I'm sorry," the detective said. "Do you need a minute?"
"I'll be okay."
Lieutenant Goering picked up the questioning. "Are you sure
you never saw Buster Cruz again?"
"Positive. What happened to him?"
"He was shot to death in a hotel room on Waikiki Thursday
night."
"Oh my."
"Do you have any idea who might have done this to him?"
"No. I only met him once in my life, but I'll say this. He
was a total asshole, and it doesn't surprise me that
somebody shot him."
"Did you know that he was implicated in the death of Toby
Goodfin?"
She gasped. "What do you mean? Toby died in a car
accident."
"Since Mr. Cruz's death, some witnesses have come forward
and told us that he was overheard threatening to kill you
and Toby Goodfin after your run-in with him in Malibu."
Her face turned white. "Kill us?"
"That's right. And we've reopened the investigation into
Toby Goodfin's death. It appears that it might not have
been an accident."
"What?"
"On closer examination, it seems that the brakes on his car
may have been tampered with."
She started to cry again, real sobs this time, and the men
waited until she composed herself. "I'm sorry," she said.
"This is all so unbelievable."
"Where were you on Thursday?" Detective Halani asked
gently.
"In New York."
"Can you prove that?"
She got up and walked over to the television set. There was
a tape sitting on top of the VCR next to it. She inserted
the tape, picked up the remote, and returned to her place
on the loveseat. They watched as the Macy's Thanksgiving
Parade came on the screen. There was Pepper Reef, riding
down Broadway in a vintage woody, waving gaily to the crowd
on Herald Square.
"I don't think we have any more questions," Lieutenant
Goering said as they got up to leave. "Talk about the
perfect alibi."
She showed them out, and then returned to the loveseat,
utterly drained of emotion. She sat there for a long time,
thinking about Sandy Lane. Would God forgive him for what
he had become?
She didn't hear the car in the driveway, and she looked up
in surprise when Ashley came in the front door, carrying a
suitcase in one hand and a winter coat in the other.
"You're home early. How was New York?"
To be continued?don't miss Part 4: Surf's Up, Nose Down
By the author of The Jessica Project.
Kaidence
- 22.02.2021
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